{"@attributes":{"version":"2.0"},"channel":{"title":"if your life is burning well,","link":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/","description":"if your life is burning well, - LiveJournal.com","lastBuildDate":"Wed, 23 Jul 2014 09:35:49 GMT","generator":"LiveJournal \/ LiveJournal.com","copyright":"NOINDEX","image":{"url":"https:\/\/l-userpic.livejournal.com\/95877641\/20923822","title":"if your life is burning well,","link":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/","width":"100","height":"100"},"item":[{"guid":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/174860.html","pubDate":"Wed, 23 Jul 2014 09:35:49 GMT","title":"[ficlet] Moonrakers (Holmes\/Watson, soft R) ","author":"obstinatrix","link":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/174860.html","description":"For <\/a>come_at_once<\/b><\/a><\/span>.

Title<\/b>: Moonrakers
Pairing<\/b>: Holmes\/Watson (canon)
Rating<\/b>: soft R ??
Summary<\/b> The prompt was: \"And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon.\" Life is slow on the Cornish coast, where Holmes and Watson spend their summers in retirement.



\"And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,\"
--Edward Lear

Old bones are grateful for a warm evening. Once upon a time, when I was lithe and young and brown, the heat was nothing but an irritation, prickling under my cuffs and collar, suffocating in the Afghan dusk. Now, I think I might welcome such a climate. Cornwall is a beautiful county, medieval in its majesty, but it is England, after all, and warm only twenty days out of the year.

Still, we put those days to good use. The cottage is mine, in deed at least, purchased for our summer use, but to all intents and purposes, it is ours, a home bought for us both. Behind the cottage, beyond the beehives and the kitchen gardens, our gate opens almost directly onto the dunes, a sandy little path leading down to the pebbled beach. During the day, one expects to see children there with their nets, men with their trouser-bottoms rolled up, wading in the shallows. In the dark, though, the cove is ours, and ours alone. On a clear night, the water seems to swallow the moon, its great gilded face rippling gently, and Holmes's slender hand fears nothing in reaching for mine, our fingers interlaced as we gaze at the endless sea.

\"What a beautiful evening, Holmes,\" I say. He squeezes my hand. \"I feel as if we ought to go plodging.\"

\"Plodging<\/i>.\" He snorts, but when he turns to me, his eyes are fond, glittering silver in the darkness. \"Really, Watson, do I ask too much in prevailing upon you to speak English?\"

This is an old argument, enacted now almost as a private joke, and I gamely play along. \"English<\/i>? Honestly. Just because you suthruns have forgotten the best of our great old English words, doesn't mean I should let my vocabulary sink to your level.\"

Holmes laughs, and all at once the sound of it is dirty, setting the nape of my neck a-prickle. \"Oh, my dear doctor. And here I thought that sinking to my level<\/i> was precisely what you loved best.\"

All these years together, and still a word from him -- a look -- can shorten my breath, make my heart stutter in my chest. He smiles at me, and my hand moves almost of its own accord to cup the back of his neck, his silvering hair curling soft against my fingers. He exhales, closing his eyes, and I read the signal with the ease of long practice, an old soldier.

It is thrilling to kiss him like this, the scant breeze carding through our hair, the fresh scent of the sea fret in our nostrils, and know that were anyone to happen by, they would see us openly, Sherlock Holmes supplicant in my arms, his mouth soft and eager for my tongue. Nobody will come, but still, the thought of it makes me clutch at him more fervently, pull him against me until he groans and ruts his tongue against mine, thumbnails scraping at the tendons in my throat, drawing out my shivers.

Forty years ago, this would have been more than we could take. How could I forget how readily his cockstand would harden against my hip, how the muscle in his long thighs tautened, his hands wandering fretfully. Forty years ago, I would have had him on his back in the sand by now, his clothes torn asunder and his thighs spread, fucking the moans from him with my fingers, with my tongue. I used to tear his pleasure from him twice in an hour in those days, taking him apart with my mouth until he was pliant and boneless before I even breached him with my prick. We were young blood, hot and restless for each other, every night a secret feast of frantic touches and animalistic rutting.

Now, though. Now, we have both of us learned the value of patience, the beauty of a slow dalliance under the moon. Holmes's fingers trace my features slowly, and I let myself palm his back, his shoulders, feeling the shift of muscle under my hands. When at last he breaks from my mouth, his lips are flushed and kiss-bitten, his pupils blown black into the silver irises.

\"Watson,\" he murmurs. Later, I think, I will lead him by the hand back to the house, lay him down gently on our bed and kiss the long line of his throat, bite at his nipples. Later, I will undress him slowly, and learn him for the thousandth time with my mouth and hands, until he is hard and tense and shivering, thighs fallen open and hips lifting from the mattress, begging my touch. Later, I will ready him slowly, and kiss him slowly, and fuck him slowly until he is nothing but his pleasure, because the older we get, the clearer it seems that we have all the time in the world.

For now, though, his beloved face is as beautiful as ever in the moonlight, and his thumb makes me gasp when he traces it across the sensitised curve of my lower lip, dipping just slightly inside to tease at the wetness.

\"Watson,\" he murmurs, low, \"kiss me again.\"

After all these years, just as always, his wish is my command.","comments":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/174860.html?view=comments#comments","category":["holmes\/watson","fic"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/167964.html","pubDate":"Sat, 02 Nov 2013 23:36:16 GMT","title":"Fic fragment (Dean\/Castiel, AU) ","author":"obstinatrix","link":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/167964.html","description":"I was just poking through my Google Drive and found this. It was the beginning of a Dean\/Castiel AU I was going to write for DCBB a couple of years ago, based on the film The Awakening<\/i>. I thought I might as well post it here. :) I still think it was a good idea.



Memento Mori

\"Whatever you do,\" said Madame Eutrec, as her hands shook against the tabletop, \"do not turn around. \"Do not suffer, children, the loss of Orpheus!\"

In the center of the table, the bell jar began to quiver finely. Beneath it, the mementos of the dead -- a father's watch; a locket; a child's blonde curl -- trembled too within their protective circles of white chalk, but the borders held. Around the table, three women and two men clutched tightly to each other's hands, breathing as one.

Then, suddenly, the clear sound of a bell rang out and the shivering of the table fell quiet in its wake. Madame Eutrec called out, \"Anna?\" The company was silent. When Madame Eutrec's voice emerged next, it was higher-pitched, strained. \"Mama?\"

A whisper of movement in the curved glass of the bell jar caught all their attention at once. All eyes turned toward the reflection as it loomed larger: the unmistakable shape of a fair-haired child, a little girl in a light-colored dress. Anna, immediately in front of the jar, caught her breath sharply. \"Frances?\" Her voice quavered. \"Is that you? Frances! Mama's here -- Frances, don't leave me --\"

Her body twitched in the chair; the warring desires within her to turn toward the phantom of her child and to keep her eyes front as the medium had directed were plain to see. The older man to her left reached across and stabilized her with one bracing arm. \"Don't turn around!\"

She nodded shakily. The child stepped closer still, and Anna began to sob. \"Frances -- Frances, if you can hear me...\"

When the door burst open it was, to Dean Winchester's mind, not a moment too soon. His mouth curled in sympathy and disgust, and he leaped out of his chair to lay hands on the supposed phantom's shoulders. \"Ma'am, I assure you, your daughter can't hear you.\"

The lights flickered on to reveal three uniformed members of the New York Police Department and the furious face of a young boy, ridiculous now above the collar of the frock with his wig dangling from Dean's fingers. Anna's eyes widened, mouth open. She seemed at a loss for words, but Madame Eutrec at the head of the table did not suffer from the same affliction.

\"I know you,\" she accused, as two policemen hauled her up out of her chair. \"You and your book<\/i> and your expos\u00e9s. Don't think you're going to get away unscathed, Winchester. The truth will find you!\"

Dean snorted, raising his eyes to Anna's. \"Yeah, I don't think this room's had any acquaintance with the truth for a good while.\" Bending, he retrieved his hat from the tabletop, set it on his head and tipped it to Anna courteously. \"Ma'am, I gotta be on my way, but these nice policemen'll make sure you get your money back, you hear? Watch out more carefully for charlatans next time. Here's a hint.\" He leaned in conspiratorially. \"They're all charlatans. All this stuff? Bunkum.\"

\"Thanks, Mr Winchester,\" cut in one of the policemen, laying a hand on Anna's arm. \"We'll take it from here. Will you make a statement?\"

\"Of course.\" Dean straightened the placket of his waistcoat and smiled. \"Always happy to help.\"

**<\/center>

\"Back, are you?\" Bobby observed. He was giving the hall table a very disapproving look, as if it had personally offended him. \"How's the crime fighting going?\"

\"Great,\" Dean said flatly, unbuttoning his coat one-handed. An unruly stack of letters sat on the table by Bobby's hand. \"Those for me?\"

\"Every last man Jack of 'em,\" Bobby grunted, \"except this bill. You're going to make enemies this way, son.\"

Dean shrugged, taking the first envelope off the pile and turning it to inspect the back. No return address. \"Don't exactly want friends like these people, Bobby.\"

\"Hmm.\" Bobby eyed him darkly. \"Don't exactly want friends at all, from what I can see. Christ, boy, when I was your age, I had a wife and a kid on the way.\"

Dean shifted uncomfortably. He hated this conversation, and Bobby liked to have it far too frequently. \"I'm thirty!\"

\"I know,\" Bobby said, one eyebrow arched. \"I'm going back to my book. Dinner's in half an hour. Don't be late down.\"

**<\/center>

Dean had barely gotten his jacket and waistcoat off before he heard the insistent jangling of bells start up, demanding his attention. At first, he thought it was dinner come far too early, and he cursed under his breath, but did not hurry as he tugged off his collar and tie. Then the housemaid knocked timidly on the door of his study -- \"Mr Winchester? Sir?\"-- and he realized his mistake. It was not the dinner bell he heard, but the doorbell.

He was in shirtsleeves, hardly fit to receive visitors, but he hesitated only a second before he called back, \"Yes, Sarah, who is it?\" Anyone who chose to show up at this ridiculously inconvenient hour could just put up with Dean's bare throat and mussed shirt.

The door opened a fraction and Sarah put her head in. \"It's a gentleman to see you, sir.\" The look on her face left Dean in no doubt as to her opinion on his state of undress. \"Should I ask him to wait?\"

\"No,\" Dean said firmly, \"He wants to see me, he can see me now. Send him in.\"

Sarah's brows drew together slightly. \"But --\"

\"Send him in. Please.\"

Sarah pursed her lips, but Dean held fast until, at length, she pulled back and closed the door. Satisfied, Dean sat down on the edge of the settee and then, as a final tiny gesture of defiance, unbuttoned his cuffs. Five thirty was a ridiculous time for visiting.

Another brief knock, and then the door opened to Sarah's voice. \"Mr Milton.\"

The man who subsequently entered was rather tall, perhaps six feet, but there was something about him -- his slightly shabby suit, perhaps; the nervous hunch to his shoulders or the uncertain twist of his mouth -- that made him look smaller, a country boy out of place in a big city. His eyes, vividly blue, were never still, flickering from Dean's face to his shoes to the window before recommencing the whole cycle again. His hands, held in front of him almost protectively, were long-fingered and fine, marking him out as a member of the professional classes. One of them clutched the handle of a briefcase. In the other rested a copy of Seeing Through Ghosts, by D. Winchester<\/i>. Mr Milton was, as far as Dean could see, bumpkinish, unremarkable and currently inconvenient, and Dean's primary thought was to dispatch him as swiftly as possible.

Biting back a sigh, he held out a hand for the book. \"Who should I make it out to?\"

Milton blinked. \"I beg your pardon?\"

Dean rubbed an irritable hand across his eyes. \"Look, I'm glad you enjoyed my book, but it's been a long day, and I --\"

\"I didn't, actually.\"

Dean rattled to a halt mid-flow and fixed Milton with a look, but Milton only continued to regard him mildly, his posture upright, almost soldierly. \"Excuse me?\"

\"I said,\" Milton explained calmly, \"I didn't enjoy your book all that much, actually. It was all a little too...certain. But now that I've met you, perhaps I'm beginning to understand why.\"

Dean crossed his arms over his chest and frowned. \"What's that supposed to mean?\"

Milton raised one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. \"I'm a history teacher at a boys' boarding school out in the country, twenty miles upstate from here. We've both read your book, the matron and I, and we thought -- well. We'd like to engage your services.\"

Dean blinked. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but not...this. He gestured vaguely in the direction of the low sofa. \"All right, Mr Milton -- take a seat, please. Uh. My -- my services?\"

Milton raised a careful eyebrow, setting down the book on the cushion beside him as he sat. \"You are a ghost hunter as well as an author, correct?\"

Dean smiled wryly. \"In a manner of speaking. You can't really hunt what doesn't exist.\"

\"And isn't that the rub?\" Reaching for the briefcase now between his feet, Milton opened it. \"We're pretty sure we have one that does.\"

This was a first. Dean leaned back in his own chair and crossed his legs sceptically. \"Oh yes? And you want...what? To prove me wrong?\"

\"Not at all. If anything, I'd be most grateful to you if you could prove me<\/i> wrong.\" From the briefcase, Milton took what appeared to be a set of photographs, which he laid face-down on the cushion. \"The school where I teach hasn't always been a school. It used to be a private house. Apparently, some twenty years ago, a boy was killed there.\"

\"Apparently?\" Dean reached for his cigarettes. \"You don't know? Who was the kid? Who killed him?\"

\"There's no proper record,\" Milton said, unperturbed. \"It was an important family in an isolated country house; things were hushed up. It's perfectly possible that a boy did die there.\"

\"Possible, but ultimately gossip, is that it? You've come all this way to see me about a rumor.\" He offered his cigarette case. \"You smoke?\"

\"No, thank you. No, Mr Winchester, I'm not here about a rumour. Actually, I'm here about another death -- one of our boys, three weeks ago. Sadly, there isn't any doubt about that one.\" Fumbling in his briefcase, Milton withdrew a folded newspaper, which he proffered in one hand. \"The day before Andrew died, he went to see the headmaster to tell him he'd seen a ghost. He was petrified -- shaking with it, and this was a good boy, Mr Winchester. Not a troublemaker, not a liar.\"

\"But,\" Dean cut in, \"a kid with this idea pre-planted in his head, am I right? Does everyone up at the school know about this rumor?\"

Milton's face twisted, half-amused. \"It's kind of hard to keep secret, unfortunately, without raising further questions in the attempt.\"

\"What do you mean?\"

\"Well -- here.\" Milton turned over the first of the pile of photographs. \"This picture was taken eighteen years ago.\"

The photograph showed a group of boys in two neat rows, posing in front of an ornate country house. At the extreme left of the backmost row, the phantom outline of an additional boy could be seen. To the unpractised eye, the figure might have looked like a ghost attempting to claim a place among his peers to which he was no longer entitled -- but Dean's was not an unpractised eye. Laughing shortly, he pushed the photograph back toward Milton and shook his head.

\"Are you kidding me? Classic old school prank. When the photographer starts the exposure, one of the boys runs from one end of the line to the other so he'll appear in both positions. If you don't hold still the full ten seconds, this is what you get.\" Dean shrugged. \"Is that all?\"

\"No,\" Milton replied quietly. \"I'm a schoolmaster, Mr Winchester; I'm well aware of the common pranks. That was 1890. Here's 1891 --\" Milton passed another photograph -- \"'92, '93, '94.\" A further three. In each, the rows of boys grew successively longer, but still, in each, the partly-exposed figure reappeared on the extreme left of the picture. \"Mr Winchester, I grant that a boy could run the length of the line -- even, at a stretch, this line --\" he tapped the most recent photograph \"-- in the time it takes a photographer to pan the length of the building. But look at this one, taken last month. All the boys are accounted for, as they are in all of these. So how did a boy get there?\"

Dean frowned. In this picture, unlike all its companions, there was no phantom boy at the end of the row. But there, next to the pad of Milton's long finger, was the distinct shape of a child's head and shoulders, looking out of a second floor window. It was, undeniably, eerie. Still -- \"It wouldn't be a difficult effect to achieve, Mr Milton.\"

\"Everybody was accounted for.\"

\"How can I be sure of that?\"

Milton laughed, short and harsh. \"Well, Mr Winchester, my<\/i> problem is that all the boys at school are sure of that, whether you are or not. And you can imagine what that means. They're terrified. There've been other sightings, not just these pictures, not just Andrew. Look, I know you're a very busy man. But these boys...many of them are practically orphans.\" Milton paused, as if remembering himself. \"And I don't just say that because of your circumstances.\"

Dean's brows drew together. \"Why say it, then?\"

\"It doesn't matter.\" Milton sighed. \"It's coming up to vacation time; the boys will all be home within a week. I just want them to feel safe again. Do you understand that? I don't need you to catch a ghost. God knows I'd rather you didn't. I just want you to come and lay out all your instruments and your traps, make your recordings, do your crazy science. I want you to prove to them that we've investigated every avenue open to the ghost-catcher, and caught nothing. I want you to convince them, once and for all, that there's nothing to catch. Then, maybe, we can go back to normal.\"

Dean leaned back in his chair and surveyed Milton assessingly. Ten minutes ago, he'd had every intention of pushing this man out of the room as quickly as possible, the quicker to get downstairs to his dinner. Now, though -- now, he wasn't so sure. There was something plaintive in Milton's face that tugged at Dean's emotions unfairly, and moreover, he was so damn rational<\/i>. Dean was a busy man, but he wasn't too busy to prevent another ten year old from killing himself unnecessarily over a fear of what didn't exist. He held out his hand. \"All right, Mr Milton, I take your point. I'll come.\"

\"Thank you.\" Milton's hand seized Dean's in a sure, firm grip. \"The journey's a bit of a nuisance, but it isn't far, not really. We can't pay much, Mr Winchester, but...\"

\"Thrill of the chase,\" Dean said generously, and smiled. \"Call me Dean.\"

\"Castiel.\" Opening his briefcase again, Milton began piling his papers and photographs back into it. \"I have rooms in town tonight, but if you could come back with me in the morning, I'd be most grateful.\"

\"Absolutely,\" Dean said, standing up to show his visitor out. \"I'll dig out my kit -- throw the whole shebang at it, that's the way to impress little boys.\"

Castiel laughed, the corners of his mouth pulling upward properly for the first time. \"It is indeed,\" he said. \"It is indeed.\"

**<\/center>

\"Wow,\" Dean said, in a tone that wavered between horror and awe. \"This place is a real old pile of bricks, that's for damn sure.\"

\"You can say that again,\" Castiel said, smiling a little as he pushed open the big wrought iron gate that kept the school grounds cordoned off from the world. \"It gets a little drafty.\"

\"I'll bet,\" Dean said, wonderingly. Gravel crunched under his feet as he moved forward into the courtyard, but he barely noticed it. His head was tipped back, neck craned upward to take in the magnificent picture the old house made, the cut
of it starkly Mother Country with its granite roof and crenellations, all unforgiving angles against the grey-white sky. \"What a place to be a kid in.\"

Holy Rood School for Boys stood miles from anywhere, its stately shape the only blot on an endless expanse of north country grassland. From the front door, a double staircase swept downward; when Dean lowered his head, he saw that there were boys peering at him over the railings, their bare legs skinny and pale beneath their little Eton suits.

\"Dean.\" Castiel's hand at his elbow shook him back to earth. \"This is Mrs Harvelle, our school nurse. She's the real fan of your book. It was on her advice that I went to see you.\"

At the bottom of the nearest stair stood a woman, perhaps forty-five but looking well for it, her hand outstretched and a smile on her face. It was a good face, not pretty, but handsome in a way that must have been devastating in youth and was still compelling now. Her dark hair, swept up into a knot at the back of her head, was streaked with grey. A little brown-haired boy, with almond-shaped, leonine eyes, clung to her skirts and looked up at Dean reverently.

\"Mr Winchester,\" she said, squeezing his hand. \"I'm Ellen to you, please.\"

She was all warmth, motherly over an undercoat of battle axe, and Dean smiled, liking her immediately (even if she was a superstitious bumpkin, which somehow didn't fit). \"Ellen, then. I'm Dean. Hi.\" The boy at Ellen's side was still staring, and Dean turned to smile down at him. \"And who's this?\"

The boy blinked, as if startled to be addressed, but then a quick smile spread over his little upturned face, bringing dimples with it. \"Sam,\" he said. \"I'm Sam.\"","comments":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/167964.html?view=comments#comments","category":["pairing: dean\/cas","fic","spn"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/167141.html","pubDate":"Fri, 11 Oct 2013 21:31:04 GMT","author":"obstinatrix","link":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/167141.html","description":"I WANT TO DO NANOWRIMO BUT I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT TO DO.

I want it to be something gay. That is the entirety of my idea.","comments":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/167141.html?view=comments#comments","category":"not a fanwork"},{"guid":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/161733.html","pubDate":"Sun, 23 Jun 2013 13:27:02 GMT","title":"[The Beatles] Fic: Backwards Traveller [13\/13], John\/Paul (PG-13)","author":"obstinatrix","link":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/161733.html","description":"Title<\/b>: Backwards Traveller
Rating<\/b>: PG-13
Pairing<\/b>: John\/Paul
Authors<\/b>: <\/a>tini_91<\/b><\/a><\/span> and <\/a>obstinatrix<\/b><\/a><\/span>
Summary\/Notes<\/b>: New York in the late 70s feels like a world away from Europe almost two decades earlier, but when John settles down to write some more of his short 'fiction', he finds that, frankly, he misses Paris. This is 1961, in retrospective.



\"Happy birthday, John.\"

\"Ta, love,\" John smiled back before he took his birthday gift from Paul --a rather impressive hamburger -- and took a bite from it. He hummed his contentment as he chewed on it and watched with attentive eyes as Paul sat down slowly, wincing slightly as he was finally seated.

\"You all right?\" John mumbled and there was a look of concern on his face that touched Paul.

\"Yeah, don't worry. How's the burger?\" Paul asked and took a sip from his banana milkshake.

\"Very good. Best birthday present I've ever had.\"

\"Oh really?\" Arching his eyebrows at John, Paul leaned forward on the table with his elbow resting on it and his hand supporting his head.

John smiled back at him and reached out to graze his knuckles briefly across Paul's cheek. \"You know what I mean, Paul.\"

The other merely closed his eyes briefly at the contact and nodded.

They continued to eat in silence -- Paul watching John happily munching away his burger while he sipped on his Coke. His eyes briefly flickered to the other people that surrounded their table, some couples amongst them. When he witnessed a sweet kiss shared by one of the couples, Paul looked back to John, and stated matter-of-factly, \"I think I love you, John.\"

With burger poised halfway between his plate and his mouth, John hesitated for a moment at those words, but only a moment. Paul's face, when John glanced up at it, was calm, frankly open. Earnest, certainly, but nothing about it shot panic into John's heart; nothing in what Paul had thrown out so casually, after all, could be more earth-shattering than the way it had felt last night when John had lost himself in the heat of Paul's body, the completeness of Paul's trust. Thinking about it, he realised that he had known then what Paul had just told him: it was in Paul's face, in the way Paul's barriers had all fallen down with only the slightest protest. Moreover, when he rolled the thought over in his head -- Paul loves me...I love Paul..<\/i>.-- it no longer felt jarring or strange. It had been a truth for a long time, just recently uncovered, but not new. Things didn't have to change for them. Their lives, and careers, were just beginning. Cyn had always known how invested John was in Paul; he'd been that way as long as he'd known her, and this was barely different. Paul by his side was all John needed. Nobody had ever understood them. They'd never let anyone into their secrets. This was only one more.

\"I should hope so,\" John threw back after a second, smiling at Paul as he set the burger down again and reached for his napkin. \"What kind of tart would you be if you let just anyone bugger you, Macca?\"

Paul coloured immediately, and John found himself deeply endeared by it.

\"John,\" Paul hissed, glancing around the little diner as if he expected his dad to walk in any moment with a frown and a newspaper to administer a beating with.

\"Well,\" John said, and sat back in his chair. Then, nonchalantly, \"Course I do too, Paul.\"

Paul's face shifted immediately at that, his eyes turning shrewd and alert. \"Do what?\" he nudged. Typical Macca. John almost rolled his eyes, but stopped himself just in time and caught Paul's foot between both of his instead, squeezing it firmly under the table. Anything Paul could say, after all, he could say too. John wasn't about to be outdone.

\"Love you,\" he said, firm and blunt, and then cleared his throat. \"You got any ketchup left? I've run out.\"

\"Anything for the birthday boy,\" Paul said. He smiled beatifically as he passed the little sauce-filled tub, and John heard in the words the echo of what he really meant: anything for you.<\/i>

***<\/center>

When John went back to his room, he was lost in thought, eyebrows tightly knit as he reflected on this particular memory. It was a beautiful memory, but that was exactly why his chest hurt to think of it now, that peak of bright hope before all the tumults that had followed. He almost didn't hear the phone ring and quickly hurried over to it, wondering at the back of his mind where Yoko was as he picked up the receiver.

\u201cHello..?\u201d he asked, careful and slightly sceptical. It was past ten in the evening, almost eleven and usually he never received any phone calls at this time of the day. Not without having Yoko answer them first, anyway.

However, nothing came. John could hear a bit of breathing and just when he was about to say something, he suddenly heard a melody. Quite a well-known at that, too.

\u201cIs this some sick joke?\u201d he groused, \u201cWho the hell is there?\u201d

But no answer. From the other end of the line, John could only hear a man with an Italian voice singing, \u201cOh this is the night, it's a beautiful night, and we call it bella notte.\u201d

John frowned, feeling his heart tighten. \u201cAlright, enough. I'll hang up.\u201d

And then, then there was suddenly a cough and a light, sleepy giggle, the music stopped playing and John heard a tired voice saying his name.

\u201cJohnny? It's me.\u201d

\u201cPaul? What the--? What the fuck are you doing<\/i>?\u201d John looked briefly at his watch. \u201cIt's fucking half past three in the morning for you! Why aren't you in bed?\u201d

He was ranting, he knew it. Instead of feeling happy or excited that Paul called him, John couldn't help but feel angry that Paul called him that late. Late for Paul, that was, not for John. It was irrational, but there it was. Paul didn't have the right to call John up at all hours, not any more. He had forfeited that right, and thinking about that, after all his days and nights reminiscing about that long-ago Paul with whom he'd shared everything, was what hurt John most.

\"Couldn't sleep,\" Paul said, after a moment. That unexpectedly deep voice, made rough by the late hour. John remembered that voice, saying sweet sleepy things across the pillow. In Paris, and after. John could just picture Paul, softly hooded eyes and his five o'clock shadow dark on his cheeks.

Sternly, John shook his head, shaking the image away. That was all long ago now. His reminiscing had been making him soft.

\"You couldn't sleep, so you called me? What do you want, Paul?\"

A pause, and then a snatch of that damn giggle again. John sighed, partly at the little wave of fondness that skittered through him at the sound.

\"Are you pissed?\" he demanded.

\"No!\" Paul retorted, indignant. Then, \"I had a bit of wine a while ago...but that was hours and hours, it's worn off now.\"

\"I forgot alcohol gives you insomnia sometimes,\" John said. \"Stead of passing out like a decent human being, you get all scratchy-eyed and whiny.\"

Paul laughed softly. \"Surprised you remembered that.\"

\"I'm like an elephant, me,\" John said. \"Never forget a thing.\"

He'd meant it to come out a little ominously, but Paul only laughed again, and John knew he hadn't quite hit the right tone. It was too hard. He'd been feeling horribly fond of Paul this past week, and although he knew it was practically a different Paul entirely, a different world, the man on the other end of the phone still sounded infuriatingly like the boy who'd sucked bruises into John's neck and panted his name.

Fuck. John couldn't think about that now, not with Paul, real Paul, no-longer-his Paul, on the other end of the phone. He tamped down the little flare of heat at the memory and cleared his throat.

\"Been remembering lots of things lately.\"

Why did he say that? Bloody hell.

But he could hear the smile in Paul's voice. \"Oh, yeah?\" If it had been anyone else, John would have said he sounded almost flirtatious now. But this was Paul, he always sounded like that. Couldn't bloody help it, it seemed.

Still, John had burned his boats now, might as well go on. \"Yeah,\" he said. \"Remember Paris?\"

There was a short pause \u2013 John could hear Paul inhaling sharply, briefly \u2013 and then Paul said in a soft, tentative voice, \u201cHow could I ever forget that?\u201d

John nodded with a soft hum, feeling slightly pleased with that answer. \u201cAnyway, I --\u201d

\u201cActually,\u201d Paul interrupted him, his voice turning into a mumble as he continued, \u201cBeen thinking about it as well...\u201d

\u201cWhen?\u201d John asked and he cursed himself for letting his curiosity show. Paul, though, didn't seem to notice it or acknowledge it, which John was quite thankful for.

\u201cIn fact... this evening. Or, well...\u201d And now Paul let out a small embarrassed laugh. John could picture so well how he was probably scratching his nose right now. \u201cI dreamed of it.\u201d

John breathed out softly. \u201cAnd?\u201d

\u201cAnd, you know, I\u2014I missed you. S'all. I just... miss you.\u201d

In that moment, John was glad Paul wasn't able to see his grin. The embarrassment in the other's voice was more than evident, though, and for a moment John felt like he was twenty-one again and trying to deal with a flustered Paul as he stumbled through their very first, terrible attempt at phone sex.

Not that there was any reason for him to be thinking of that right now, except that, now that the thought was in his mind, he found himself laughing softly at the memory.

\"What's funny?\" Paul demanded, sounding slightly affronted, and John realised belatedly how ill-timed that laughter might have been.

\"Oh -- nothing,\" he said quickly. \"I wasn't...I wasn't laughing at you, Paul.\" A pause, and then -- might as well out with it -- \"I miss you too. Especially when I get to thinking about things, y'know. How stuff used to be.\"

\"Like what?\" The trepidation had fallen out of Paul's voice now, to be replaced by an obvious curiosity, tentative and warm. \"What were you laughing at just then, eh?\"

John bit his lip on a grin. \"Remember when we'd just come home?\"

Paul snorted. \"You avoided me for a week.\"

\"You<\/i> avoided me<\/i>, you mean,\" John protested.

\"We avoided each other,\" Paul said diplomatically, which made John smile more. Typical Paul.

\"Then I rang you and you stuttered down the phone for ten minutes like a broken record.\"

\"Well!\" Paul was waking up, now, John could tell, his voice more animated, no longer slurry with sleep. \"That's because you tried to give me a dirty phone call when I was standing in the kitchen with Dad's tea-plate in my hand. Didn't expect it, did I?\"

Paul's outrage was almost as entertaining as the memory. He'd never quite forgiven John for that. \"Aw, you were cute, though. Worst phone sex I've ever had.\"

\"I got better,\" Paul shot back, darkly, and John felt the impact of the words thunder through him in inappropriate, impossible ways.

\"Yeah,\" he said, slightly shakily, \"you did.\"

Maybe it was the way John's voice had unintentionally changed but he could hear how Paul sucked in the air rather harshly as he realised that they were entering dangerous territory.

\u201cYou, too, Johnny,\u201d he replied after a short moment, \u201cAlthough you were always quite gifted with that mouth of yours.\u201d

That had John laughing. \u201cI know that you appreciated it, Paul. In any way possible, right?\u201d

The other had joined John\u2019s laughter, even though there was a hint of remorse in it. \u201cYou know I did, love.\u201d There was something left unsaid between them that hung in the air, had John waiting and hoping for something<\/i> but both men were apparently too afraid of it. Just when John was thinking he should send Paul back to bed and say goodnight to him, the latter suddenly blurted out, \u201cI want to see you again, John.\u201d

\u201c\u2026What?\u201d

Paul sighed and repeated in a softer, calmer voice, \u201cI said I want to see you again. I can\u2019t fucking believe that my best friend lives at the other end of the world and that I only ever get to see you in newspapers or on the bloody telly. I\u2019m sick of it, to be frank\u2026\u201d

\u201cWell,\u201d John cleared his throat, the feeling of embarrassment washing over him, \u201cWhat do you want me to say, Paul? I have a toddler here at home, and a wife who\u2019s absent for most of the time.\u201d He didn\u2019t want to sound that harsh, though, and so he quickly added with a wry smile, \u201cI guess that\u2019s what Cyn felt like back then.\u201d

He could hear Paul\u2019s slightly uneasy chuckle at that, and when he spoke again, he sounded sadder than before.

\u201cI was just saying, John. It\u2019s not as if I could do anything about it, anyway. I\u2019ve asked you often enough to meet up again, so\u2026\u201d

\u201cI want to.\u201d John cut in quickly, the words tumbling out of his mouth.

\u201cWant what?\u201d

\u201cMeet up. With you. See you.\u201d

For a moment, there was an anxious silence on both sides of the line. John could hear Paul's breathing, the hesitancy in it. His heart was beating very fast. Things had ended a little unceremoniously with Paul the last time they'd seen each other in person, John knew that. And he knew, too, what it must have cost Paul to even suggest meeting again, after that. He silently thanked whatever powers the universe might hold for the fact that Paul was braver than he was.

\"The last time...\" Paul began, tentatively, and John leapt in, wanting to make this as easy for Paul as possible.

\"I didn't mean what you thought I meant, you know. I didn't mean never come back<\/i>, you daft git. It was just -- the baby, and I'd had a long day, and...\" John sighed. \"I thought everything would've blown over by now. The distance stuff.\"

\"You thought the Atlantic Ocean would've blown over by now?\" The laughter in Paul's voice was evident, and John's chest thudded with relief. \"Yeah, I'm pretty sick of it, myself. Think we could do without it.\"

\"Shut up,\" John said, but he didn't mean it really. This, this<\/i> was his Paul, this was JohnandPaul, this was them<\/i>. Fuck, what had they done? Why had they wasted all this time? \"Will you -- will you be over here any time soon, d'you think?\"

\"I'm sure I will be,\" Paul said easily. \"I often am, for business reasons, as you know. You're not still having trouble with immigration, are you?\"

John hesitated. \"No, but --\"

\"But Yoko,\" Paul finished for him, and sighed. There was a little pause; John could hear Paul holding himself back from some comment, and equal parts of him feared and yearned for him to say it. But Paul was too diplomatic for that; he moved on: \"That's all right. Look, John, I'll have a look in the morning, and then I'll ring you up and we can have a chat about it. Yeah?\"

\"I'll ring you,\" John said quickly. The last thing he wanted was to mysteriously lose this telephone call to Yoko's machinations. \"And yeah, I'd -- I'd like that, Paul.\" Already, John could feel his chest lightening. This wasn't, should not have been, a huge thing, chatting on the phone with an old friend, but Paul was more than that, meant more than that, and this felt enormous. \"Now, shouldn't you be getting back to your bed, you silly bugger?\"

\"Yeah,\" Paul said softly, and then paused.

\"What?\" John prompted, after a long moment. He felt sure Paul had been going to say something else.

\"Nothing,\" Paul said, and this time his voice was unguarded as John hadn't heard it in a long time -- as John remembered it from once upon a time. \"Just didn't want to hang up just yet, that's all. Night, Johnny.\"

\"Night, Paul. Sleep tight.\" And, decisively, John made himself hang up the receiver.

Earlier, when John had picked up the phone, there had been an aching sense of loss in him, even under all the sweet memories, at the thought of Paul. Now, as he headed to bed, his heart felt lighter. Yes, they had lost a lot of themselves. Thrown a lot away, even. But maybe, John thought, as he turned back the covers, something of it could be clawed back. It wasn't too late.

My best friend<\/i>, Paul had said.

John was smiling as he fell asleep, buoyed by the promise of hope.

<\/a>","comments":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/161733.html?view=comments#comments","category":["the beatles","pairing: john\/paul","fic","backwards traveller"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/161166.html","pubDate":"Thu, 20 Jun 2013 10:07:33 GMT","title":"[The Beatles] Fic: (Ain't No Cure For The) Summertime Blues","author":"obstinatrix","link":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/161166.html","description":"Title<\/b>: (Ain't No Cure For The) Summertime Blues
Pairing<\/b>: John\/Paul
Rating<\/b>: NC-17
Word Count<\/b>: ~3000
Summary<\/b>: The summer of 1959, scorching from April to September, set records still unbroken for English summer heat. John and Paul are bloody sick of it.
Notes<\/b>: This is for <\/a>tini_91<\/b><\/a><\/span> because I promised. It's not exactly plot-heavy.



\"I'm not bloody cut out for this,\" John said. Above him, Paul's bedroom ceiling reflected the sun-haze of the day back at him, the bright little room filled out to its corners with heat. He could feel the sweat settling in the hollow at the base of his back, sticking his t-shirt to his skin. John liked a good summer well enough, but it was August, and it seemed to have been midsummer since April.

\"Shouldn't wear so much black, then,\" said Paul. His voice sounded dull, lethargic. John wondered briefly if it had actually got a bit deeper of late, too, since he'd turned seventeen, or if that was just the laziness. Pulling himself up onto his elbow, John peered over the edge of the bed and shoved a hand through his hair, pushing up the front where the wax had unhelpfully softened.

Paul was lying spread-eagled on the floor like a corpse. John hardly blamed him. It was difficult to be alive in this weather, especially when you were from Liverpool and mostly brought up to believe hot weather was legendary, like the Loch Ness Monster. Your auntie might have a friend who'd claim to have seen it, but you knew it was all probably bollocks. In jeans and a white t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up, Paul looked like the clean-cut teenaged hero of some American film, except for the sweat that shimmered on his face and throat. People didn't sweat in made-up places like America.

\"Hoy,\" John said, and reached a long arm to prod Paul in the shoulder with one finger.

\"What,\" Paul muttered, not moving. A bead of sweat made its way down the line of his jaw (definitely cleaner and sharper recently) and John tracked it with his eyes. If only it wasn't so fucking<\/i> hot outside. And inside. And everywhere.

\"Your dad out all day?\"

Paul shrugged one shoulder. \"Till five-ish, as usual. Why?\" He shifted a little, hips lifting, settling again. The motion dragged the hem of his t-shirt damply up over one hipbone, and John shivered. Bugger the heat; there was only one thing worth doing on an August afternoon when your brain was running too slowly for anything more productive.

\"All right,\" he said, \"Come up here.\" His fingers tracked their way up Paul's arm, hooked in the neck of his t-shirt and tugged, and Paul did open his eyes then. The irises, always unpredictable, looked hotly green.

\"What for?\"

John raised one eyebrow, and Paul laughed.

\"You must be joking. Too bloody hot, Johnny.\"

John shrugged. \"Take your kit off, then.\"

The smile froze on Paul's face, then shifted, turning curious and dirty. That look on Paul's little angel face always made John's heart beat faster, his stomach tugging hot and proud, and this time was no exception.

\"Oh, really?\" With an effort, Paul pulled himself up onto his knees, then grabbed the edge of the bed and dragged himself to his feet. Grinning, John scooted back on the bed and swung his legs over the edge so he was half-sitting, half-reclined on his elbows. Nothing was better than knowing you'd sparked something in Paul, that deeply-buried rebellious streak.

\"You're talking like I'd suggested something filthy, Macca.\" John's voice was light, but his eyes were dark on Paul's and Paul smirked in answer.

\"Nah, it's boiling in here, isn't it?\" Paul's hands went to the hem of his t-shirt, fingers curling under it. Paul always undressed like that, arms crossed over his torso ready to peel the thing off elegantly, like a girl. As Paul started to lift, the cotton pulling away damply from his skin, John had to admit it made a better show than the way John did it, grabbing his shirt by the scruff of the neck and hauling it off over his head in fistfuls. Paul's way looked like a striptease, his eyes still warm and amused on John's as he uncovered stomach, then chest, then the shallow place between his pectoral muscles where the sweat had collected. Unconsciously, John caught his breath, and Paul took the opportunity to pull the shirt up over his head. It dangled loosely from his fingers for a moment before he let go, and John swallowed hard. He might have felt more ashamed of the growing tightness of his jeans, except that he was crotch-level with Paul in this position, and he could see he wasn't alone.

They did this, sometimes. Teasing, horsing around, whatever. It wasn't as if there was anything girly about Paul like this, standing over John narrow-hipped and broad-shouldered in his blue jeans. But that wasn't the point. It was sexy, the casualness of it, the way John could just say, \"Hey,\" and put a hand on Paul's thigh and they could get off. You couldn't do that with a girl. Getting off with a lass required more forward planning and perseverance than a bloody polar exhibition. And then there was...this.

\"You gonna dance for me or what?\" John drawled, teasing. His hand lay idly on his inner thigh, not touching, quite. Not yet.

Paul smirked. \"Why, is that what you fancy?\" Paul's hands went to his hips, thumbs tucking under the waistband of his jeans just below the navel. He swung his hips, slowly, and John had to admit there was a certain grace to it, the languid circling.

\"Well,\" John said, \"it'd solve the problem of it being too bloody hot to touch each other, wouldn't it?\"

Paul arched an eyebrow. \"No hands on the dancers?\" He rolled his hips again, back arching. and his thumb slid between the button of his jeans and its buttonhole, popping it open. Immediately, John felt a rush of saliva under his tongue, and Paul smirked, as if he'd noticed. \"Let's see how long you can stick to that<\/i>, Lennon.\"

\"I can stick to it fine,\" John retorted, sneering. Paul smirked at him, tip of his tongue caught between his teeth.

\"Good,\" he said lightly, and slowly began to draw down the zip.

It wasn't as if there was anything mysterious or exciting about Paul's dick. John had seen it a hundred times before, both soft and otherwise, and anyway, this wasn't even Paul's dick he could see now, pushing at the teeth of the zip as Paul splayed it slowly open. It was just Paul's ordinary boring blue underwear with a giveaway bulge in it, growing as John watched. So it hardly made sense that John was breathing shallowly by the time both sides of the zip were spread open against Paul's pelvis, but there it was.

\"You're sweating, Johnny.\" Paul's fingers brushed the back of John's neck, then flattened there, trailed up the nape, settled at the base of John's skull. The touch made John shiver, a fierce, sudden tremor down his spine.

\"What happened to no touching?\" John's tongue felt thick and slow in his mouth.

\"Hmm.\" Paul's hand slipped down the back of John's neck and over his shoulder, then traced a meandering line down his chest. \"I said you couldn't touch me<\/i>. Never mentioned the other way round. Arms up.\"

The order was delivered so nonchalantly that John barely realised he'd obeyed it until his vision was blinkered by the black cotton of his t-shirt as Paul pulled it up and over his head. Without it, although the air was sludgy and still, things felt a little more bearable.

\"That's better,\" Paul said, tossing the shirt to one side, and John blinked up at him. His glasses were askew, but before he could reach to straighten them, Paul had done it for him, a gentle little one-fingered nudge. God, John liked him like this. Cocky and flushed, with that smirk on his face that wasn't his charming love-me smile but had, instead, an effect all its own. Unthinking, John reached out to take hold of Paul's waist, but Paul ducked away before his fingers could firm their grip, shaking his head.

\"What did I say?\" He looked at John archly. \"Put your hands on your thighs.\"

\"Bossy, aren't you?\" John did his best to sound indignant, but he doubted he was succeeding very well. He was fully hard, now, straining against the zip of his too-tight black jeans, and that tone in Paul's voice only stirred him further. He settled his hands, palms damp, on his thighs where the muscle was taut with want. Paul smiled, hooked his thumbs into the belt-loops of his jeans, and tugged.

Drainies weren't exactly the best garment for this kind of activity, but John didn't care. He didn't think Paul cared much either, judging by the heavy-lidded look on his face, the way his full lower lip was caught between his teeth. His hips swayed from side to side, the motion mesmeric, distracting John from any awkwardness in the way Paul tugged the tight fabric down over his hipbones, down to the tops of his thighs. Somewhere along the way, the denim caught on the cotton beneath, dragged it down two inches, and they both caught their breath at that.

\"Turn around,\" John said hoarsely.

Paul threw him a strange look, half-laughing. \"What?\" He had paused, one thumb idly rubbing up and down the flat of his stomach, adjacent to the clear line of his cock distending his shorts. John swallowed hard, dragging his eyes away, up to Paul's face.

\"Turn around,\" he repeated. \"While you take 'em off, turn around. Indulge me.\"

After a moment, Paul seemed to get it. He turned, and John's hands twitched on his thighs, aching to touch. Paul had the most incredibly perfect arse, John had always thought, long before the thought had been able to pass through his head unquestioned. Round and firm and God, John wanted to rip the stupid shorts right off it. But he was content to wait, listening to the roughening of Paul's breathing as he pushed the unyielding denim down below the curve of his arse, bent slightly to peel it down his legs. Kicked it away. When he had straightened again, he half-turned, eyeing John over his shoulder as he circled his hips and pushed his thumbs into his waistband, and John laughed.

\"You're getting off on this, aren't you, you tart?\"

Isn't that the point?<\/i> said Paul's expression, but his mouth said, \"Bloody hot in here, John. Makes sense to strip off.\" Then a wink, and they both laughed.

\"C'mere,\" John said, soft now, and Paul turned. One of the things John loved best about Paul aroused was the way the pink flush ran all the way down his chest, that porcelain-pale skin concealing nothing. It was sexy. He could admit it. When Paul's hands went to John's thighs, covering his own, John's breath caught, and Paul only smiled at him, his face very close, as he shoved the thighs apart.

\"All right,\" Paul said, low, \"hands on the bed, now. Keep 'em there till I say.\"

John was past resisting, now. Besides, he wanted to know what Paul was planning; he bit his lip, hips jerking, when Paul lifted one long leg and without a word, straddled John's thigh, not quite touching, one arm curling around John's neck.

\"Bloody hell,\" John muttered, strained. Paul grinned at him, rocked his hips. His thumb ran up the line of John's jaw, and then he was ducking his head, breathing in the hollow of John's throat, nuzzling at his neck.

John's head fell back. Fucking hell<\/i>. So much for combating the heat; he was sweating right through his jeans, now, hips arching off the bed despite himself, fingers clenching and unclenching in the mattress with the urge to just grab Paul, take hold of him, haul him down so they could rut together and come. But Paul was good at this, somehow, one hand trailing across John's chest, down over his stomach, along his thigh, and his mouth a slow tease in the curve of John's neck, all hot breath and half-kisses.

\"Ah, Christ,\" John spat finally, when he couldn't take it any more, \"d'you not go all the way, or have I got to pay you for that?\"

Paul laughed, the sound of it ragged and low. He stepped back, and John felt every fibre in his body protesting, pulled towards Paul like a magnet towards its true north.

\"Oh yes,\" Paul said, \"I think I'll have to charge you.\"

If he was attempting grace, it was slightly ruined by the way his fingers shook as he peeled down his shorts, but John hardly noticed. He was too taken up with the way Paul breathed out, hard and shaky, and the way his dick jutted out from his body and the way he moved, hips swaying as he stepped up close to John and cupped his head.

\"Yeah?\" For a second, Paul's voice was his own, tentative and teenaged. John was level with his stomach, close enough to smell the raw musk of Paul's arousal, the clean sweat of his body, and the back of his jaw ached with wanting it.

\"Hell, yes,\" he said, reaching up to cup Paul's arse, tugging Paul closer so roughly that he staggered and had to steady himself on John's shoulders. Half-consciously, he nuzzled at the shaft of Paul's dick, rubbed his face against it, and Paul moaned, head falling back.

Hell, yes<\/i> John thought again, and took Paul into his mouth.

They hadn't been doing this for long, not this part. But girls didn't like to do this, wouldn't<\/i> do it, mostly. You'd easier convince a lass to let you in between her legs than to put her mouth on your cock, most of the time. John wasn't sure why, though. The sounds Paul made were enough alone to make this worthwhile, the way he clutched at John's hair and rocked his hips and whimpered. John sucked at him, worked his mouth as far down as he could get without gagging and then pulled off slowly, tonguing at the head just to feel the way it made Paul shake.

\"Oh, God,\" Paul was saying, breathless, thighs trembling, and John clutched at him harder, now, supporting as much of Paul's weight as he could take. He could feel that Paul was close, fattening in his mouth, precome smearing wetly against John's cheek as he took Paul in. Then a sharp cry, Paul's fingernails digging into John's shoulders, and he was coming, fierce and sudden. John pulled back sharply, swallowed. That was the quickest way to get rid of it, which was what you wanted, after all.

When he looked up, Paul was swaying above him, hair sticking sweatily to his forehead and eyes glazed. John grinned up at him, allowing himself finally, finally, to press the heel of his hand against the pressure between his legs.

\"Payment enough?\" he asked, and Paul managed a smile, lazy, dreamy.

\"God, yeah. Thanks, John.\"

John shook his head. \"S'nowt. Here, lie down.\"

Paul let himself be helped, spread out on the bed, all long-limbed and bare. The sight of him like that made John shiver, fingers slipping on his buttons as he yanked open his own jeans, shoving them and his underwear down over his hips in one sharp motion.

\"What'd you want,\" Paul murmured, lifting one lax arm.

\"Same, please, barman.\" John tossed Paul a wink as he climbed onto the narrow little bed and knee-walked up the length of Paul's body. At his shoulders, he reached a hand under Paul's head, lifting him, and Paul groaned slightly, left hand still shaking as it came up to cradle John's dick.

\"'s hard from this angle,\" Paul complained lazily, but John shook his head and cupped Paul's jaw, nudging the slick crown of his dick against the slack swell of Paul's lower lip.

\"Easier for you, if you're tired out, Paul. Just let me.\"

Paul let him. His eyes fluttered shut, lips parting at John's guidance, and God, this was exactly what John had needed. He was so turned on his body burned with it, muscles tight in his stomach and thighs, and Paul was so open like this, lax in the wake of his orgasm, that John could thrust almost into his throat and all Paul did was moan. It took a few thrusts, John's hand clenched in Paul's hair, before Paul began to properly suck at him, tonguing at him as John rocked back and forth into Paul's mouth, but he was so close it didn't even matter, so ready. John was panting, back arching; he clutched too-hard at Paul's hair and Paul made a wet groaning sound and that was all John needed.

\"Fuckin' hell --\"

A last series of thrusts, staccato, and Paul moaned again and it was suddenly so good, John coming and coming with that hot black thrill rising in him at the sight of it, spilling from Paul's little pink mouth where he couldn't keep it in.

As soon as he could breathe again, John moved. His legs felt like dead weights, but he couldn't stay in that position without hurting Paul, and anyway, he needed to lie down. On this tiny little bed, that meant lying almost on top of Paul, but Paul made a soft contented sound as John lay down that almost made up for the stickiness of their arms and hips pressing together, the unwarranted heat.

\"That was good,\" Paul said, after a long quiet moment, and John laughed. He turned his head on the pillow, and Paul was grinning back at him. John felt suddenly, intensely fond of him.

\"Yeah,\" John said, laughing.

Beyond them, the rest of the house was quiet. Outside, the street seemed muted by the sludgy heat. John pushed his foot against Paul's and remarked, \"Still bloody hot though.\"

\"Oh well,\" Paul said, and squeezed John's thigh. \"Tell you what -- I'll run the bath. Bet we can both fit, if we're creative.\"

\"Another Lennon\/McCartney original,\" John said, and stood up. \"You're on.\"

***","comments":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/161166.html?view=comments#comments","category":["the beatles","rating: nc-17","pairing: john\/paul","fic"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/160852.html","pubDate":"Fri, 14 Jun 2013 09:06:56 GMT","title":"[The Beatles] Fic: Backwards Traveller (12\/13)","author":"obstinatrix","link":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/160852.html","description":"Title<\/b>: Backwards Traveller
Rating<\/b>: NC-17
Pairing<\/b>: John\/Paul
Authors<\/b>: <\/a>tini_91<\/b><\/a><\/span> and <\/a>obstinatrix<\/b><\/a><\/span>
Summary\/Notes<\/b>: New York in the late 70s feels like a world away from Europe almost two decades earlier, but when John settles down to write some more of his short 'fiction', he finds that, frankly, he misses Paris. This is 1961, in retrospective.
Warnings<\/b>: This chapter a) is very long and b) contains some extremely explicit sex, so if you wanted to skip and wait for the final part, you wouldn't have missed much plot-wise. ;)




\"You do<\/i> know that my birthday's tomorrow, right?\"

Paul chuckled at that. \"'Course I do. I'm your best mate after all, aren't I?\"

\"Well<\/i>.\"

\"Shut up, love.\" And with that, Paul leaned in and pressed his lips chastely against John's.

Somehow, ever since they had arrived here in Paris, and ever since they had started doing things<\/i>, they had become swiftly more and more used to it, as if they had been doing it for years. It felt natural, kissing John. The oddness that should have been there, the wrongness, had somehow got lost. Paul shivered at the way John lightly trailed his tongue along Paul's bottom lip and coaxed his mouth open. Once they were kissing properly, John reached up to grab Paul's neck, his fingertips lightly drawing circles on Paul's sensitive skin.

After a while, Paul withdrew from the kiss, panting slightly.

\"Fuck, I'm nervous about this, John. What if those two old poofters were wrong with this lube stuff and just taking the piss?\"

\"It'll be all right, Paul, don't worry.\"

They had agreed that John would be the one on top, that he'd be the one to take Paul. \"I'm older,\" had formed the larger part of John's argument, and as ever, it trumped most protests. At first Paul had of course put up resistance, and had quarrelled with John about it a couple of times, but in the end -- if he was being honest with himself -- he had thought about it often enough, anyway. The protest had only happened for his honour's sake, and nothing else. Also, it would be John's birthday soon, so who was he to spoil it for his friend?

Still, though, the anxiety niggled at the back of Paul's mind. This was -- this was big<\/i>, this was. It felt different. John had assured him that it wasn't, really; in his typical Lennonesque way, he had been able to provide a ready answer for all of Paul's concerns. That was John, always, although Paul knew it was more than a little his fault for being so corruptible. We're not like this, John<\/i>, Paul had said, to which John had pointed out that they'd not been queer earlier, either, but all the other stuff had still felt good -- \"and queers aren't special people with biologically different arseholes, you know, Paul. If it feels nice, it's gonna feel nice -- the end. You know?\" And Paul had agreed, because that was all very logical, but the thing he couldn't quite bring himself to say was that this, unlike everything else, felt like it would really mean something -- and, worse, Paul didn't want to put this to John because he thought John would undoubtedly say 'don't be daft, it doesn't mean anything'. And Paul, for whatever conflicted reason, did not want to hear that from John.

Stop being such a girl<\/i>, he chided himself sternly. It's just sex. It's just John.<\/i>

It was the second thing, more than the first, that made Paul relax, breathing steadily, long slow breaths.

\"All right?\" John asked him, uncharacteristically gentle. \"Look -- we don't have to do it right now, you know. We can work up to it.\"

That sounded better. If Paul didn't have to think about it as a great looming eventuality, maybe he'd be able to let the other part of himself, the part that rather wanted the solid weight of John on top of him, take over.

\"Just kiss me, eh?\" He tugged at John's collar and John laughed, not cruelly.

\"Of course, love. I think I can manage that.\"

He leaned in. Paul leaned up, tilting his chin, and then their mouths met and clung, John's lips giving softly against Paul's own. After a few soft kisses, the next ones were deeper, lips working more insistently against each other, until John broke away, breathless, pushing at Paul's clavicle.

\"Haven't shaved, I see, McCartney. Come on, lie down.\"

\"Shut up,\" Paul said, but he let himself be pushed, went down easily onto his back on the little bed. Above him, John smiled, one hand creeping out to brush Paul's cheek with an unusual gentleness, and then he settled himself down over Paul, half on top of him, one leg thrown over Paul's thigh.

\"C'mere,\" John said, turning Paul's face to his. Another kiss, and this time John didn't hesitate, didn't confine himself to brief brushes of mouths. His tongue slid wetly against Paul's and Paul groaned, arching his back involuntarily. If John would only go on kissing him like this, he thought he could do anything for him. He'd never met a lass who kissed as well as John.

Eventually, John slid a hand down, along Paul's body, and cupped him gently through his trousers. It wasn't needy or anything, just a friendly grope to encourage Paul a bit. He sighed and pressed himself up slightly against the palm of John's hand, before he put his own hand over John's and applied pressure to it. Paul could feel John's lips curving up into a smile, and when John squeezed and rubbed him gently, Paul smiled, too.

They took their time with getting undressed and approaching their 'goal' for the day. Paul was still tense, still a bit nervous at the back of his mind, and John, unusually sweet with him, did everything to take Paul's mind off what they were going to do. When they undressed, they undressed one another, and somehow, it was better in a strange way than it had been with girls before. Maybe because they were taking their time, unworried by the possibility of a sudden parental intrusion. With random girls, or even some of their girlfriends, it was always rather quick unless they felt a bit more affectionate than usual. But with John, whom Paul knew better than any other person, there was a familiarity about it that made it feel like a coming-together, as if they had been made for this.

Usually, Paul would have cringed at that thought -- soft as it was and so very queer -- but not now. Not as John carefully took off Paul's shirt and kissed his neck and made those pleased little sounds. If wanting this made him a nancy boy, well, then he couldn't care less at the moment.

\"Maybe we should've had a bit more beer,\" Paul ventured, made slightly nervous by the shift in atmosphere, the strange new warmth that curled around them as John kissed his throat, the hollow of his clavicle.

When John glanced up, though, he only shook his head once, firmly, and his eyes were warm and certain. \"Nah. Don't want to be drunk for this, Paul.\" Softly, he pressed his mouth to Paul's nipple, mouthed at it a little, but it wasn't the sensation that made Paul gasp so much as the way John held his eyes, as if he'd decided, now that they'd come this far, that any kind of nervousness could just go to hell. As if they'd jumped off the bridge now, and could do nothing other than just fucking swim when they hit the water. \"I want to see you.\"

\"Jesus Christ, John.\" Paul sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, hand twisting into John's hair, gripping it tightly.

Evidently, John was encouraged by the gesture, because his head dipped again and then his mouth was warm and wet around Paul's nipple, sucking at it, and then, just when Paul was beginning to feel slightly as if John had been possessed by some unfamiliar gentle creature, nipping at it with his teeth. Paul scrambled for John's shirt, still hanging loosely off his shoulders, resisting the urge to arch up against John's mouth.

\"Let me just,\" he managed, \"can I --\" He could only manage fragments of sentences with John's mouth working him like that, tugging at him. It was as if all the sensation in his body had been drawn to that one point, surging up under John's mouth, and it was all Paul could do to bite back a moan as he shoved the cotton off John's shoulders, feeling them warm and smooth and bare under Paul's palms. Girls didn't feel like this, didn't touch like this, so blunt and sure. Often enough, Paul had admired the breadth of John's shoulders from across the stage, but even since they'd been here, in Paris, he'd felt not quite able to touch, to explore. Now he could do anything he wanted; now he could feel the shift of John's muscles under his skin, bite at the smoothness until there were red marks. Except that John had shifted his mouth lower, now, licking a wet trail towards Paul's navel, and Paul suddenly couldn't concentrate on anything but that, the muscles in his thighs jerking in anticipation.

It took all of Paul's willpower to bite back the moan that wanted to escape him. Instead, he took a deep breath, swallowed, and then reached out to cup John's cheek.

\"Johnny?\" he said, softly, and John looked up at him, grinning as he gave the sensitive skin right below Paul's navel a brief lick. Curse that Lennon. \"John,\" Paul tried again, flicking his tongue over his lips, \"I--What... What do you want to do now?\"

He wasn't really sure himself what exactly he was hoping for but seeing John so close to his abdomen, feeling his weight against him, and his warm breath ghosting over his skin... It surely gave him some ideas what could happen next.

\"What do you mean?\" John asked and continued to kiss Paul's stomach, licking and nibbling at it, heedless of Paul's gasps and squirms in response.

\"Are you--?\" And Paul didn't even need to finish the question. Something very close to fear crossed John's features briefly, before he managed to compose himself. Paul could see that John was contemplating the answer, but nothing came, only John's hands decisively unzipping Paul's trousers and peeling them down his thighs.

\"John...?\"

\"Just wait and see, alright, Macca?\" John sighed as he carelessly dropped Paul's trousers on the floor. Then, he leaned forward and gave Paul a brief kiss, his voice low when he spoke. \"I have no idea what I'll do. Let's just see what happens, okay?\"

\"Okay.\" Paul nodded, and John kissed him again before reapplying himself to his task, mouthing at the fine skin of Paul's abdomen.

In the meantime, Paul had lain down again with his eyes closed. He knew he was moaning feebly as John stroked his inner thighs and circled his navel with his tongue, but somehow it was impossible to stop. Blindly, he reached out to pet John's hair, but found it unexpectedly much lower than he had expected it -- and then he felt something hot and damp pressing against his clothed dick, and opened his eyes to see John dragging his parted lips tentatively along Paul's hardening erection.

\"John, I--\"

\"Shut up, Paul, or you'll ruin it.\" John shot him a brief look, and only now did Paul notice how pink John's cheeks were.

Ruining things at this juncture was the last thing Paul wanted, so he nodded tightly and murmured acquiescence, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to close his eyes again. There was something hotly, wrongly thrilling about the sight of John like this, crouched between Paul's legs, mouthing gently at the straining line of Paul's erection. Often enough, Paul had seen that mouth curled in a sneer or doling out sarcastic remarks, but now it was only soft, hesitant, as it shaped the spine of Paul's cock. Transfixed, his chest heaving shallowly with his breaths, Paul pulled himself up on his elbows, feeling himself harden further with anticipation as John's mouth moved upward. Then, a shift, and John's lips were pressed hard and closed to the head of Paul's dick where the fabric was wet with anticipatory precome.

\"John!\" Paul spat the word like a bullet, more surprise than anything, and then John hummed softly against him and Paul could barely breathe.

\"John,\" he murmured again, hands finding John's shoulders, carding up through his soft hair, slightly damp now with sweat. He felt unhinged, suddenly, his thighs trembling, aching to press up against John's mouth, but John was taking his time, uncertain, and Paul knew that a wrong move might make him stop.

\"Sshhh,\" John admonished, softly. Then, a dampness, and pressure; Paul bit his lip at the sight of John pushing the flat of his tongue against the head of Paul's cock, right on the sensitive slit. John's dick, Paul had noticed with fascination, you had to draw back the foreskin before you could even see that, but Paul was smooth and cut and John's tongue felt like an electric shock as it touched him there.

\"Oh, Jesus,\" Paul gasped out, tugging at John's hair, and then he was arching his back, lifting his hips; couldn't help it any more. \"John, please -- oh --\"

John sucked at him. Paul heard, rather than saw, the harsh breath John drew in first, the way he closed his eyes as if to block out the last of his fear and reservations, but he was sucking hard through the cotton of Paul's underwear, head tilted to take him in almost sideways-on, and it wasn't as immediate a feeling as when girls had sucked him bare but it was John, John with Paul's dick mostly in his mouth and that made it better than anything.

At this point, anything that might have come out of Paul's mouth would have been incoherent. With an effort, he fought his hips down again, trying to keep still, and tangled one hand in his own hair -- anything not to grab John too hard, push him too far. But John was sucking at him steadily now, making Paul shiver, his dick jerking. Then John's thumbs hooked in the waistband of Paul's underwear and Paul couldn't help but moan, more at the idea than anything.

\"All right, Macca,\" John chided him, glancing up. But his mouth was curving in a smile and his voice was hoarse and hot, as if he liked this. As if he liked sucking Paul's dick like a girl or a queer and that idea shouldn't have made Paul hot all over, but it did, oh Christ, it fucking did.

\"Yeah,\" Paul said faintly, unable to take his eyes off John's hands tugging Paul's shorts down over his arse, tossing them aside. John's face as it moved close again. Then John nuzzled him, rubbed the bridge of his beautiful nose against the spine of Paul's dick and when he lifted his head again, there was a smear of precome shimmering on his cheek. \"Fucking hell,\" Paul said, faintly, and John grinned at him, suddenly manic and pleased, though his cheeks were still pink.

\"Mad, eh?\" John said with a wink, and Paul would have answered him, except that now John was sucking the naked crown of Paul's cock into his mouth and all Paul could do was collapse onto his back on the bed and yell John's name.

John squeezed Paul's thighs once, hard, reminding him to keep it quiet. Paul was panting, his face flushed, and all he could manage was to give John a weak, apologetic smile in return as he reached out to run his fingers gently through John's hair. John responded with a soft lick across the tip of Paul's cock before he took him into his mouth again and kept on sucking lightly until Paul was squirming and begging for more. It took John a couple of tries and a good amount of bravery to actually lower his mouth slowly onto Paul's dick and bob his head, but the sounds Paul made, and the way he tugged lightly at John's hair while the other hand was blindly grasping the bedsheets, were actually worth it.

It didn't take long, though, before Paul's thighs began to tremble, heat pooling in his abdomen, and he let go of John's hair. This wasn't a good sign. A part of him didn't want to come just yet, not when this was going to be their first real time together. Paul wanted to stay aroused while John fucked him and he wasn't sure if he could be once it came down to actual fucking.

\"John... Stop. Please,\" he managed to rasp out, breathing heavily through his nostrils, \"I'm too close.\"

John was breathing hard, too, somewhat to Paul's surprise and gratification. It didn't exactly help with his situation to see John that way, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks and fingers fluttering against Paul's hips as he worked his mouth up and down Paul's cock in wet, steady strokes. At Paul's urgings, John hesitated for a second, drawing his mouth up to the tip of Paul until the slick crown of him was just barely resting against John's lower lip. But then John's eyes flashed mischievously, defiantly, and Paul realised, with a mixture of lust and panic, that the hesitation was only momentary.

John sucked him down again, and the descent of his mouth was smoother, this time, more practised. John was learning his way around this, Paul could tell; he felt himself nudge up against the back of John's mouth this time, the soft fleshy place where his throat began, and John coughed slightly, but didn't gag; only pressed his tongue hard to the underside of Paul's cock and drew off again -- and then back. God, but he was getting good at this. Good already, because it was John, his reddish hair fallen forward over his face and his beautiful hands clutching Paul to him as he worked, but that wasn't all that was making Paul shiver, all the sensation in his body arrowing down to the place between his legs where John's mouth was taking him apart.

\"John,\" he protested, but it was weak, now. He tugged at John's hair, this time to yank him off, rather than pull him closer, but John only laughed, the sound still distinct around his mouthful of cock, and clung on harder, knuckles whitening as he began to move faster. His hands shifted, flexing, encouraging, and Paul could hardly help the way he began to move as they suggested, his hips lifting to meet John's mouth in a slow undulation that became a steady roll.

\"John,\" Paul whispered, but it wasn't a protest now, not any more. He had forgotten that. Why had he not wanted to come? He wanted it now, with a fierce urgency; wanted to come down John's throat, or on his face, whatever John would allow, and then he would get hard again just from the thought of it and John would fuck him, the way he was fucking John's mouth now and --

It hit him all at once, a cry breaking out of him as he started to come, pulsing once in John's mouth and then, when John had pulled away sputtering (\"Bloody hell, Macca!\") the rest of it spurting over the side of John's face, the hollow of his neck.

\"I'm sorry,\" Paul managed, breathless, but he wasn't really sorry, not exactly. His whole body was buzzing, and John looked...

Their eyes met, and Paul could feel his cock twitching, its youthful eagerness too intense to be dispelled by one orgasm alone.

\"I'm not going to say that it's okay,\" John said, but he was smiling -- even though it was weak.

However, Paul still reached out for him, mumbling, \"Come here, love,\" which would have usually made him cringe or feel embarrassed at least, but not now. John didn't seem to mind either, seeing as how he crawled on top of Paul and captured his lips instantly in a greedy kiss. But it didn't last long. Paul withdrew gently from the kiss before he smiled at John and leaned in, his tongue flicking briefly across John's jaw and licking off the mess he had made.

Truth be told, Paul had been curious about what it might feel like, to do this, but when he licked it off John's cheek with soft strokes of his tongue, he almost regretted it. The taste was awful, and yet, when he noticed the astonished look on the other's face, eyes clouded and cheeks pink, Paul continued with the soft licks and gentle kisses.

\"Better now?\" he murmured and rubbed his nose against John's. John hummed in reply, pecking Paul's lips once more.

\"Lie down, love. I'll be right back.\" And with that, John got up from the bed to rummage through his clothes.

\"What are you looking for?\" Paul asked, head turned on the pillow, facing John, while he absent-mindedly trailed his fingertips along his chest.

\"Handkerchief,\" John replied and Paul smiled at that.

\"I said I was sorry,\" he said, \"Now come back, Johnny.\"

John clicked his tongue, chiding him. \"My, my! Such impatience from a nice young man like you, Macca!\"

When John crawled back onto their bed, Paul noticed -- not quite without worry -- that John carried not only the tube of lube they had bought earlier, but also the little sex toy.


\"What are you going to do with that?\" Paul tried to keep the nervousness out of his voice, but he wasn't sure how far he succeeded. He pulled himself up onto his elbows and his eyebrows drew together unconsciously as he watched John clamber back into position between Paul's legs, gently easing them further apart to make room.

\"What do you think?\" John asked, raising his eyebrows suggestively as he fumbled with the cap on the bottle of lube.

\"I've no idea,\" Paul shot back, honestly. \"I thought you only nicked it for a laugh.\"

\"Well,\" John said, drizzling lube nonchalantly onto his fingers, \"I did, at the time, but I've had an idea. Here, spread, love.\"

John's tone was so casual that Paul found himself spreading his thighs without thinking, his mind still too busy with its other concern -- the little string of beads -- to register the connection between it and the order he had just unthinkingly obeyed. Then John's fingers crept up between Paul's legs, the slick tip of the index finger rubbing lightly over the clenched muscle of Paul's arsehole, and the connection came flooding back.

\"Christ!\" Paul clutched at the bedsheet two-handed, his legs jerking.

\"All right?\" John looked up at him wide-eyed, earnest. His finger was moving in slow circles, applying a little pressure, but not quite enough to breach the muscle -- just enough to tease it. Paul swallowed, trying to process the strange new sensations.

\"Yeah,\" he said, \"yeah, it -- feels nice, actually.\" And it did, nothing about it demanding or frightening, just the slow tease of John's finger coaxing Paul's body to relax. John smiled.

\"Good,\" he said, \"maybe those old queers were onto something after all.\"

A push, and John, Paul realised to his shock, was inside. Only to the first knuckle, but there had been no pain, even if the feeling wasn't so much pleasant as just odd. Paul frowned slightly, shifting his weight, and John shushed him, pushing his finger as far into Paul as it would go, then withdrawing and working his way back in with a second slicked finger. \"Still okay?\"

\"Yeah,\" Paul murmured, trying to make himself relax. John was moving his fingers slowly in and out, now, rotating them in the tight clench of Paul's body and then pulling out almost to the tips, and Paul could feel himself relaxing. It didn't feel amazing, or anything, but Paul thought he could see where the potential might lie.

\"Good,\" John said, again, and then, \"Let me try something.\"

Paul's immediate reaction to that was panic. Certainly, things were okay so far, but John's brilliant schemes had ended in disaster enough times in the past that Paul was wary. His hand went immediately to John's wrist, but John was still moving his fingers slowly, thrusting them smoothly in and out, and the sensation was becoming distracting enough that Paul somehow wasn't quick enough to stop John when he slid his fingers out entirely and replaced them with the first, small bead on the string. It wasn't string, exactly, not as such, but something stiffer than that, and Paul gasped as he felt a second bead slip easily through the ring of muscle to be swallowed up by his body. Then a third, and John was still going.

\"John,\" Paul gasped. He could feel sweat breaking out on his skin, now, his cock beginning to fill again. The expression on John's face was one of intense concentration as he fed the beads in, slowly...slowly.

\"All right, love,\" John said. Perhaps half of the beads were inside Paul's body, now; he could feel a strange fullness gathering, and with each new bead, the distribution of those already inside him shifted, which was an interesting sensation. Then John pushed in another bead, a larger one, and Paul --

\"Oh!\" He clutched at the sheets. Now the beads inside of him were pressing against something, something that made Paul's heart beat fast and his dick jump. John's face broke out immediately in a grin.

\"Yeah?\" Another bead went in, and Paul groaned and shifted his hips on the mattress. \"Is it doing something?\"

\"God, yeah,\" Paul panted, lifting his hips a little. \"Dunno what, but -- keep goin', John, please.\"

John complied immediately. With a swift careful movement, he pushed the last two beads into Paul and Paul gasped at that, his hips going immediately still.

\"Paul?\" John asked quietly, \"Is it still okay?\"

Paul's breathing had become shallow, his eyes closed and his lips parted. With his eyebrows knitted together, he nodded slowly and swallowed. \"Yeah,\" he eventually rasped out, \"I-It's okay. It's... It's good.\"

And how good it was. Paul would never have expected it. That toy had looked to him like a torture instrument, but now... But now it was teasing some strange spot inside him that had his cock getting hard again. Unfortunately, there wasn't enough pressure for Paul to feel more and so he tried to wriggle around a little but it was futile. Frustrated noises escaped him and when he heard John cursing silently, he opened his eyes to find John staring at him with dark eyes.

Gently, John pulled the string back and Paul almost instantly replied with a small whimper. John's hand stilled when Paul grasped his wrist.

\"No. Don't.\"

\"Why?\" John frowned at him, but smiling nevertheless.

With pink cheeks, Paul avoided his eyes as he spoke, \"It's just -- It feels good. I don't want it to be over just yet.\"

\"Silly tart,\" John smiled as he leaned forward and kissed Paul. \"Shut up and enjoy it.\" And while he said this, he slowly, teasingly removed one bead after another while Paul moaned into the kiss, lifting his hips up of his own accord.

\"God, Macca,\" John breathed, sounding openly fascinated, \"you're getting off bloody hard on this, aren't you?\"

\"Shut up,\" Paul tried to say, but John chose just the right moment to slip the next bead past the sensitive entrance to his body and so it came out as a broken little moan, giving Paul away.

\"That's okay,\" John told him. His voice was a little ragged too, and when Paul managed to open his eyes fully again, he could see that John was aching hard. \"You're meant to like it. I'm glad you like it. Then maybe you'll like...\"

He trailed off, and his sudden shyness, the pink on his cheeks, made Paul bold. \"The other, eh?\" he teased gently, and lifted a hand to push at the straining bulge in John's jeans which, by some oversight, were still on. \"Come on, Johnny. Feel all empty now.\"

\"Christ.\" John closed his eyes for a second, as if gathering himself. Then he tugged, jerking the last few beads out of Paul in a way that made Paul arch and whimper, clutching at John's arms. \"All right, give me a sec -- I better, um...\"

His hands, Paul noticed, were shaking as they unzipped and shoved and wrestled jeans and underwear down and off, and then Paul could see John's dick, thick and ready and wet at the tip. So ready Paul could smell the dark musk of him, and his whole body roiled with sudden want.

\"Come on,\" he urged, and spread his thighs a little wider, canting his hips up, \"Before I come to me senses.\"

John's shaking hands meant the amount of lube that ended up on his cock was probably excessive, but Paul didn't mind that, even when John's hands found Paul's thighs and tugged him close, still slippery. John's eyebrows were furrowed with concentration, and the blunt head of his cock pressed against Paul felt bigger than fingers, bigger than beads. But Paul's body twitched, wanting it; he remembered the size of the largest bead, at least as big as John, and breathed out slowly, relaxing.

\"Come on,\" he whispered, and pushed down, shoving himself onto the tip of John's cock, urging. \"Are we going to fucking shag or aren't we?\"

\"Bloody hell,\" John muttered under his breath, and then with a gasp like a swimmer breaking surface, began to push in, slowly, slowly, until all of him was inside.

***

Suddenly, a shrill cry yanked John out of his thoughts. He very nearly jumped out of his chair, but then he realised that his son was crying, and he got up, cursing softly under his breath.

\u201cYoko?\u201d he shouted, but no answer came. Sean's screaming only got louder, though, and so John yelled once more, \u201cYoko<\/i>!\u201d

\u201cDaddy...?\u201d Sean whimpered from his room, his fragile little voice breaking from his uncontrollable sobbing.

\u201cI'm coming,\u201d John sighed and quickly walked over to his child's bedroom. \u201cDaddy's here, love. Did you have a nightmare?\u201d

As soon as John had sat down on Sean's tiny bed, the boy quickly crawled into his lap and buried his wet face in his father's chest, holding on tight to his shirt as he continued to cry softly.

\u201cMonsters,\u201d he barely managed to stammer out as if he was too afraid they might come back at the mention of them.

\u201cWhere?\u201d John probed gently, caressing the back of Sean's soft head.

\u201cU--under the bed.\u201d

\u201cAlright, let me take a look.\u201d

John gently put his son back down onto the mattress before he moved to kneel next to the bed.

\u201cDaddy, no!\u201d the toddler cried when John bowed his head and looked underneath the bed, but John only smiled at that. He found one of Sean's old action figures and took it.

\u201cI guess Superman wanted to play a trick on you!\u201d he grinned up at Sean as he waved the figure in front of his son's face. Sean grabbed it immediately and pressed it to his body.

\u201cNo,\u201d he pouted, \u201cSuperman is good.\u201d

\u201cWell, then the monster's gone, Sean. He's on the run.\u201d John leaned forward and kissed his son's forehead. \u201cAnd your daddy's here to protect you. Now go back to sleep.\u201d

The boy eyed John with a still slightly scared look on his face but when John promised him to leave the door open and the light in the hall switched on, he seemed to relax and lay down again with Superman neatly squished up his small body.

John gave a soft smile before he left. What would Paul say if he could see him now?

***","comments":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/160852.html?view=comments#comments","category":["the beatles","pairing: john\/paul","fic","backwards traveller"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/160352.html","pubDate":"Thu, 06 Jun 2013 22:34:42 GMT","title":"[The Beatles] Fic: Backward Traveller (11\/?)","author":"obstinatrix","link":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/160352.html","description":"Title<\/b>: Backwards Traveller
Rating<\/b>: R, by implication.
Pairing<\/b>: John\/Paul
Authors<\/b>: <\/a>tini_91<\/b><\/a><\/span> and <\/a>obstinatrix<\/b><\/a><\/span>
Summary\/Notes<\/b>: New York in the late 70s feels like a world away from Europe almost two decades earlier, but when John settles down to write some more of his short 'fiction', he finds that, frankly, he misses Paris. This is 1961, in retrospective. We were also quite inspired by this clip<\/a>, where John talks about being inspired by the romance of Paris.





After the meal, Jasper and Pascal walked with them for a couple of streets, until a shop with shuttered windows hove into view and Jasper indicated, coughing discreetly. \"You should find all you need in there. Good luck, boys, in whatever you do.\"

\"Ta,\" Paul smiled weakly with a nod. He could already feel John's stare burning a hole into the back of his head. Once Jasper and Pascal had left, Paul took a deep breath, deliberately resisting turning around.

\"So,\" he heard John say, the sound of his voice shifting up close behind Paul,\"What was that all about?\"

\"Hm?\" Paul turned around, face conspicuously arranged into an expression of innocence, eyebrows raised at John.

\"You know what I mean. What is it with that shop?\"

\"Oh, that...\" Paul chewed on his lip, feeling somehow guilty for no real reason at all. It was silly of him, of course he should be able to speak openly with John about it but he was too afraid of giving the wrong impression. With his hands shoved into his pockets, he started to walk slowly towards the shop.

But John was not to be dissuaded. \"Yeah? I'm listening,\" John probed, bumping his shoulder gently against Paul's. Paul only sighed.

\"Come on, John, do you want me to fucking spell it for you or what?\"

\"Why are you so touchy now?\"

\"Well, you know,\" Paul shrugged, avoiding John's frown, \"What those two blokes talked about... I-It got me thinking. That's all.\"

John raised his eyebrows. \"Always dangerous.\"

\"Shut up, you,\" Paul muttered, but his protest was half-hearted. He furrowed his brows, wondering if it might be easier just to drag John inside so he could work things out for himself when he saw where they were. But John was still eyeing him curiously, not quite following Paul's lead, and Paul sighed. \"Look, they just said you could get...stuff here, okay? And I thought...\" Paul bit his lip, then pushed on truthfully, \"I thought it'd be better to have stuff and not use it, than suddenly find we needed some and not have any.\"

John stopped moving abruptly, and Paul felt himself colour more fiercely under John's scrutiny. \"Stuff<\/i>?\"

Paul cleared his throat. \"Yeah.\"

\"You mean, like -- stuff<\/i>, in case I'm seized by the sudden mad compulsion to bugger you up the arse?\"

\"John<\/i>.\" Paul suddenly found that he couldn't raise his eyes from the ground. John sounded scathing, almost. Paul wanted to disappear into the earth, but unfortunately he'd now gone too far to back out without scrabbling a bit. \"Look, it's just, I know we don't intend<\/i> to, but...\"

\"We're not queer,\" John said, in the sort of reasonable tone you might use in explaining the laws of physics to a backward child.

\"Yeah, well,\" Paul threw back, suddenly irritated, \"we've already accidentally snogged and accidentally wanked and accidentally held hands and God knows what else while not being queer, John, I'm just saying. It's not that it --\" He sighed, but John's expression -- which had changed from something shuttered, guarded, to something almost encouraging in its blatant curiosity to hear what Paul had to say -- spurred him on. \"It's not that it has to mean<\/i> anything in particular, I know we're just mucking about because it...because it feels good. But other stuff might feel good too, that's all.\" Paul shrugged. \"We don't have to.\"

\"We just...might want to,\" John said slowly, and Paul hastily nodded.

\"Yeah. And there might be some other stuff in there to get a laugh out of.\" He grinned at John, who grinned back and, after a second's hesitation, slipped his hand into Paul's again.

\"Come 'ead, then, nancy-boy.\"

\"Says the bloke holding my hand,\" Paul muttered, but he wasn't really upset. If anything, he was thrilling with relief at having escaped the awkward situation unscathed. As they pushed open the door and entered the shop, Paul's heart was pounding, but the warmth of John's hand in his was a reassuring anchor to hold onto.

The shop itself seemed rather old-fashioned in the strangest way possible. Faded posters with nude ladies drawn on them adorned the walls, and neither John nor Paul would have thought that a sex shop could look that tame<\/i>. There wasn't anything tawdry or gaudy about it, no flashy neon lights to give the Hamburg porno atmosphere they were so much more familiar with. Behind the counter was a middle-aged woman, who glanced at them briefly over the rim of her thick glasses as they walked in before she averted her gaze to continue reading her book. As they started to look around, Paul couldn't help but think how discreet everything here was. If it hadn't been for the various sex toys on the shelves, it might almost have been a green grocer's.

\"Hey, look at that!\" John suddenly called out in a hushed whisper and when Paul looked at him, John was holding up a magazine with a pin-up girl on it, a wide grin plastered on his face.

\"So? Don't act as if you've never seen a naughty magazine, John.\"

\"Don't be daft,\" John rolled his eyes. \"Take a closer look. It's in English<\/i>.\"

\"Mmm, didn't know you were interested in reading the articles,\" Paul laughed quietly, earning a scowl from his friend.

\"Shut up. I just thought it's great to find international magazines here, s'all,\" John muttered as he flicked through the pages.

Paul walked up close behind John to look over his shoulder for a while as they both scanned through the issue. Soon enough, his interest had been stirred up as well, and so he reached for a few magazines and looked through them.

\"What language is that?\" John asked, peering across at what Paul had in his hands.

\"Italian? Spanish? I don't know.\"

\"It's all the same anyway, isn't it?\"

Paul smiled and put the magazine away before reaching for the next. They giggled quietly at the centrefold, then fell immediately silent when they noticed that the woman behind the counter was watching them. It didn't take long, though, before they started to laugh quietly again.

\"Come on, let's play something. Whoever laughs first, loses!\" John then suddenly proposed with a mischievous glimmer in his eyes.

\"And what do you want to play?\"

\"Porn ping-pong!\"

Paul only looked at John in disbelief. \"What?\"

\"We read out the headlines of those magazines to each other and see who starts laughing first.\" John waggled his eyebrows.

Paul pursed his lips, glanced briefly at the magazines again, before he answered, \"And what will the winner get?\"

\"Nothing up his arse, that's for sure.\"

\"John<\/i>!\"

\"Well<\/i>.\" John was pink, but grinning, and he flashed Paul a wink in response to Paul's expression of outrage. Paul fought down the little impulse inside that said he might not particularly mind being...well...because of course he should<\/i>,he should<\/i> mind; he was a lad after all, and a proper lad, not some Hamburg queer. It was just this place making him mental. But the look on John's face made his chest twist confusingly and he dragged his eyes away, looking down at the racks of dirty magazines.

\"Fine,\" he muttered, grabbing for the nearest one. \"You're on.\"

\"Oh, you think you can take me, McCartney?\" The way John wiggled his eyebrows at that was pointed and deliberate and Paul bit his tongue, flushing scarlet.

\"Fuck off, John.\" He fumbled open the nearest magazine and held it up with a flourish. \"Look at this -- Bosom Friends<\/i>, indeed.\" A number of beautiful women hung all over each other in the picture, their ample breasts pressed against each other in ways that made Paul feel slightly squirmy inside. From the look on John's face, the picture spread was having the same effect on him.

\"What about this one,\" John said, not to be outdone as he grabbed for the nearest magazine. \"Cock Fighting<\/i>?\"

\"Looks a bit queer,\" Paul muttered, ignoring the flush of heat in his abdomen, and John glanced down, embarrassed.

\"Bloody hell.\"

They both stared, transfixed. Paul could tell by the shift in atmosphere that both meant to look away, but something about the picture was as compelling as it was awful, the two (scarily large) dicks sliding together against their owners' flat stomachs, the two masculine mouths interlocked. Paul cleared his throat, feeling his trousers growing tight.

\"Well,\" John said, trying for levity, \"they don't look like they're doing anything very complex. C minus, we've done that.\"

Paul tried hard to contain his expression at that remark and deliberately ignored John's smirk. He merely cleared his throat, pointedly, and reached for another magazine, already grinning at the title as he read it out, \"Breakfast on Tiffany<\/i>.\"

A stifled grunt came from John, whose hand had flown immediately to his mouth and he looked away, his whole body trembling.

\"Are you laughing, Lennon?\" Paul quirked an eyebrow, smiling. \"You know, this is a competition<\/i>.\"

\"Fuck off,\" John coughed, barely able to cover up his grin, \"I'm next.\" With his brows furrowed in determination, he reached for the next magazine and adjusted his glasses as he looked at Paul and said with a dead serious voice, \"Breast Side Story<\/i>.\"

The other couldn't help himself; a small, pitiful noise escaped his tightly sealed lips while he did his best to keep the corners of his mouth down. Taking a deep breath, Paul eventually asked, \"And what's up next? My Bare Lady<\/i>?\"

That was what John finally cracked up, and Paul smiled to himself, feeling satisfied.

\"Come on,\" he said, \"Let's look at the rest, yeah?\" He reached out for the magazines John was still holding, but John quickly jerked his arm away.

\"Wait.\"

\"What for?\"

\"I just...\" John fell silent as he looked from Paul to the magazines he was holding. \"I'm... I--I just want to have a look at -- you know<\/i>,\" he stammered and put the queer magazine on top of his pile.

That stammer from John was uncharacteristic, and Paul couldn't bite back a grin, noticing it. \"Are you nervous<\/i>, Johnny?\" he prodded, unable to resist.

John scowled. \"Nervous about what? We haven't set our minds on anything.\"

\"Not yet,\" Paul said. He was a bit pink in the cheeks himself, but the look on John's face was too good not to push it. \"Maybe you'll be overwhelmed with ideas if you go picking through that thing.\"

\"Well,\" John said, rolling the magazine up, \"in that case, maybe you better go and find what we came in here for. Just in case.\"

\"Oh, and what was that?\"

John raised one eyebrow significantly. \"You're the one who was talking to the poofter Frenchies about it. You know, 'for an easy slide...'\" John began making an obscene pistoning motion with one fist, and Paul coloured.

\"You want me to just go and ask the woman, or what?\" he demanded.

\"No need for that, I'll ask.\" John cleared his throat, then put on one of his deliberate camp voices. \"Please, miss, I've got a little pansy boy here needs buggering up the arse --\"

\"John<\/i>!\" Paul clamped a hand over John's mouth, but not before the woman behind the counter had looked up at them, her eyebrows drawn together sternly. For a woman in a sex shop, she looked an awful lot like a prissy librarian, Paul thought.

\"Qu'est-ce que vous cherchez?\" she groused with a glare at Paul, then looked at John with a face that clearly said how dare they interrupt her<\/i>?

\"Uhm, nous-- Er--\" Paul's mouth opened and closed repeatedly as he tried to think of a way to explain what exactly they needed.

\"Mon ami et moi,\" John suddenly piped up as soon as he managed to fight off Paul's hand on his mouth, \"nous--\" He glanced at his friend, who only shrugged his shoulders. \"Oh fucking hell,\" he grunted, \"We want bloody lube, madame! Do you know what it is?Lube<\/i>?\"

The woman's frown only deepened, her nostrils flaring slightly. She really was starting to get annoyed at them, it seemed.

\"Lube?\" John repeated and then motioned unequivocal gestures with his hands, causing not only Paul but the woman, too, to redden slightly, although Paul suspected the woman was more irritated than embarrassed.

\"Lubrifiant?\" she asked hesitantly.

\"Yes! Oui<\/i>! Praise the Lord, she got it!\"

With another pointed look, she got up from her chair and disappeared into the back of the shop, giving Paul enough time to pinch John's arm.

\"What was that?\"

\"What?\" John asked, mildly irritated at the other for hurting his bicep for no real reason at all. \"I explained to her what we want!\"

\"Well, yeah, and you said I was your boyfriend!\"

\"I did not,\" John protested. \"I said 'friend'.\"

\"You said ami<\/i> and friend is -- or is it the other way -- oh, whatever.\" Paul crossed his arms, frowning. \"It can<\/i> mean 'boyfriend', what you said. I bet she bloody took it that way.\"

\"You mean because we're in a sex shop buying lube? Yeah, Paul, you know what, I wouldn't be surprised if she did.\" John rolled his eyes. \"I repeat, she's gone to get the fucking lube<\/i> and you're worried in case she thinks we're boyfriends? What the bloody hell else could we want it for?\"

\"Well...\" Paul trailed off. \"But it's, not, like...\"

\"Just a shag between friends?\" John was pink, but he grinned wryly at Paul and reached out to squeeze his wrist. \"Look, it's okay. I know what you mean, but it's just -- just easier to make it simple for other folk, you know?\"

Not easier if they were<\/i> boyfriends, Paul noticed. Not that he wanted them to be, or anything. That would be stupid. John was just John. But perhaps it was simpler, in this strange city, to put things bluntly, even if they weren't -- quite -- meant. \"Okay,\" he said, and John smiled at him.

\"Okay, good. Now, let's get the stuff and get out of here so we can go and wrestle for dominance.\"

\"Dominance<\/i>?\" Paul very nearly squeaked.

John waved his hand dismissively. \"Well, you know.\"

\"You're bloody unbelievable, you know that?\" Paul shook his head, but then, suddenly, a thought occurred to him. There was quite a possibility that John might, on whatever level, want this too -- or at least be considering the issue. Paul didn't hear John's reply -- he only smiled slightly to himself at that realisation. And when John suddenly flipped his nose, he looked up with a frown.

\"I'm talking to you, son. Are you even listening to me?\" John asked, but before he could continue, he was cut off by the French cashier, who chose that moment to come back into the front room.

They dutifully paid for the lube -- they even had the decency to blush, and Paul avoided the woman's knowing look -- and they both would have left the shop immediately, if the compartment of sex toys hadn't caught John's eye.

He flashed a grin at Paul, eyebrows waggling suggestively. And Paul's mouth dropped open.

\"John. No.\"

\"Come on! Let's have another laugh!\"

\"No<\/i>.\"

\"Aw, come on, Paul. Don't be such a little nance.\" John raised his eyebrows and grinned and Paul sighed theatrically, shoving John hard for good measure.

\"You're one to talk. You want to go and look at bloody -- sex instruments and you're calling me a nance?\"

\"I bloody well am,\" John said unrepentantly. \"Come on, look, just for a laugh. Here --\" His hand seized around Paul's forearm and tugged, and Paul found himself powerless to resist. The display soon loomed up in front of them, stacked with a wild-looking array of what appeared to be torture devices. Cuff-like leather things were what Paul noticed first, made for wrists and ankles and necks, and then some complex looking harnesses whose purposes he couldn't identify at all. Then, further down --

\"What the fuck are these?\" John's voice was low, as if in fear of the cashier shushing them, but it was cracking with amusement. Paul tore his eyes away from what looked like a large rubber penis (of intimidating size) to see what John was pointing at.

\"Huh.\" Paul bit his lip and peered at the thing. It looked, from this distance, like a string of faux-pearls, gradually increasing in size from very small to about the size of a plum stone. A ring was attached after the largest plastic bead. \"Looks like a necklace.\"

\"Yeah.\" John snorted a laugh through his teeth. \"Very much doubt it is though. Here, missus!\" John waved the string of beads in the air and Paul darted forward immediately to clap a hand over his mouth.

\"John!\"

\"All right, all right.\" John winked at him, and then, after a second's deliberation, slipped the string of beads neatly into his pocket. \"Tell you what, we can find out what they're for on our own time, eh?\"

He sauntered off towards the door, whistling, leaving Paul with no option but to follow.

**

\"Daddy!\"\u00a0

John jerked, the pen slipping from his hand. Not that he'd been writing anything of value, but it was always nice to doodle idly as he...reminisced. He cleared his throat. His recollections had just been getting to the, uh, the good part, and now here was his little boy pawing at his legs. John fought back a little wave of irritation. He'd been trying so hard to be a better father this time around, didn't want to snap at Sean, but\u00a0seriously?\u00a0

\"What, pet?\" John muttered, trying not to sound too disinterested.\u00a0

\"Teatime,\" Sean said, beaming up at John beatifically. John sighed. He loved his son, but one moment, he'd been back in Paris with Paul and their youthful dreams, and now here he was being called to go and eat rice with rice with his wife who barely touched him any more. It all seemed a bit disheartening.

\"Is it really that late?\" John sighed and reached out to ruffle Sean's hair. Sean giggled, looking up at John with wide dark eyes.

\"Mommy told me to tell you.\"

\"All right.\" John smiled wryly at his son and leaned forward to kiss the top of his head. \"Tell her I'll come in a minute, will you?\" As much as John had hoped that Sean might just leave him alone for five more minutes, the child gave him a strange look, shifting his weight impatiently from one leg to another.

\"Daddy?\"

\"Please, love,\" John said with a gentle voice, trying hard not to let his irritation show, \"Daddy's working here. I'll join you two in a few minutes.\"

\"Okay.\" Sean nodded slowly and popped his thumb back into his mouth before he reluctantly left the room. John could see from the way his shoulders fell that his son was just a little disappointed. And yet, although John felt a pang in his chest at the sight, he told himself he could make it up to Sean later. Not now, not when all he wanted to do was to slip back into the warmth of his most favourite memory.

The night before his birthday.

***","comments":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/160352.html?view=comments#comments","category":["the beatles","pairing: john\/paul","fic","backwards traveller"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/160003.html","pubDate":"Mon, 03 Jun 2013 21:27:58 GMT","title":"[The Beatles] Fic: Backwards Traveller [10\/?], John\/Paul (R)","author":"obstinatrix","link":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/160003.html","description":"Title<\/b>: Backwards Traveller
Rating<\/b>: R, by implication.
Pairing<\/b>: John\/Paul
Authors<\/b>: <\/a>tini_91<\/b><\/a><\/span> and <\/a>obstinatrix<\/b><\/a><\/span>
Summary\/Notes<\/b>: New York in the late 70s feels like a world away from Europe almost two decades earlier, but when John settles down to write some more of his short 'fiction', he finds that, frankly, he misses Paris. This is 1961, in retrospective. We were also quite inspired by this clip<\/a>, where John talks about being inspired by the romance of Paris.




Once they were outside, it didn't take them long to find the naughty part<\/i> of Montmartre, which was called Pigalle -- they had already been here, after all, although it had been by accident the first time. Now, in the daylight, the streets were thronging with tourists of all sorts. The boys felt a wave of familiarity was over them at the sight. Hamburg was almost exactly the same: tourists, sex shops, strip clubs. Everything was the same. Except for the people holding hands in public with apparent unconcern, most of whom would never have dared to do so in Germany. While John stared at the occasional male or even female couple, Paul only ducked his head, cheeks pink.

\"And I thought the corner where our hotel is was bad,\" John laughed softly to himself and glanced at Paul. His laughter stopped quickly. \"Are you all right?\"

\"What?\" Paul looked up at him, clearing his throat. \"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. I just...\" He glanced around with a small shrug. \"I just wonder why the fuck nobody here seems to be afraid of, you know...\" He pointed at John's hand, swallowing. \"Holding hands. I still can't wrap my head around it.\"

\"Well, I'm afraid there's only one thing we can do then, Paul.\" John sighed dramatically, which was Paul's cue to prompt him.

\"...Yes?\"

With a dead serious look on his face, John took Paul's hand and linked their fingers. \"We have to try it ourselves. So far we've only done it when it was dark. Let's get a bit braver, yeah?\"

\"You're a loony, John Winston.\"

\"Quite the contrary,\" John declared loftily, \"I'm a brave warrior, young Paulstram. Bold Sir Winston, crusading for good --\"

\"Oh, shut up,\" Paul said, laughing, but he squeezed John's hand a little and enjoyed the way it made John's smile get even wider, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

\"Come on,\" John said, \"I don't know about you, but I'm hungry. Let's go and see if we can get breakfast -- lunch -- whatever it is in one of these little places. Eavesdrop on the locals.\"

\"They'll be speaking French,\" Paul pointed out sensibly.

John waved a dismissive hand. \"Something as trifling as that will not hold back Bold Sir Winston,\" he said, tugging Paul into a nearby establishment that looked like a cross between a caf\u00c3\u00a9 and a bar, with little round tables and a long counter where it seemed that alcohol was available all day.

As it turned out, they didn't get to do much eavesdropping. John and Paul had barely sat down, having released each other's hands politely as they entered the caf\u00c3\u00a9, when they noticed that an older gentleman to their left was eyeing them with interest.

\"Hey.\" John nudged the side of Paul's foot with his own. \"We've got company.\"

Paul looked over, trying to be subtle, but he must have been more obvious than he'd intended, because the man caught his eye immediately and grinned.

Blushing, Paul tore his eyes away, but it was too late. The man whispered something to his companion, and then they were both looking over, expressions of something like amusement on their handsome faces.

\"John,\" Paul muttered anxiously, and John's brows pulled together at once.

\"Here,\" he demanded, \"what do you two think you're staring at? We've got as much right to be here as you, you know.\"

\"Oh,\" said the first man, in near-perfect English, \"I can see that, my dears.\"

Paul blinked. \"I beg your pardon?\"

The second man laughed. \"Well,\" he said, gesturing. \"You know.\"

John raised an eyebrow rather belligerently. \"Sorry, I don't think we do.\"

Undoubtedly he had meant to come off as threatening, but his attitude immediately sent both Frenchmen into gales of laughter.

\"My dears,\" said the first man, \"if you didn't want people to know about your relationship, it is advisable not to hold hands in the street, non<\/i>? English boys, so I hear, do not do that unless they...as you say...have a right to be here.\" He waved his arms expansively. \"In this...special caf\u00c3\u00a9.\"

John shot Paul a side-glance; the latter shifted nervously his weight in his chair.

\"So what?\" John eventually retorted, \"Maybe we don't want to hide anything away, huh? Everyone else here seems happy to walk around with everything on show.\" He ignored Paul's hand squeezing his arm and his urgently hushed, \"John, stop it.\"

The two men only looked each other with wide grins, shaking their heads. \"Well,\" said the first man, \"in England, you have the police to fear, non<\/i>? But here in France, there is nothing the law can do. Since the code Napoleon<\/i>, you know. People can frown, but...\" He spread his hands expansively, and the second man smiled.

\"Here,\" he said, kindly, \"we are not illegal.\"

John was so surprised by this pronouncement that for a moment he could only blink. The Frenchmen seized upon his hesitation.

\"May we join you?\" the first one asked, but that his question was a mere formality was made obvious enough when he got up and walked over to the boys' table, closely followed by his companion.

\"What the-- no!\" John glared, but it was too late. The Frenchmen sat down with their drinks on the unoccupied chairs and eyed John and Paul with amusement written all over their faces.

\"I'm Jasper,\" the first one said, adjusting his spectacles. \"And this is Pascal.\"

\"Pleased to meet you,\" Pascal smiled. His English sounded worse than Jasper's, had a thicker French accent. He looked a bit nervous as well, which was a small comfort to Paul who had subconsciously inched closer to John and sat now with his leg pressed up firmly against John's, their hips almost connecting.

John was equally uncertain, but he introduced himself, anyway. \"John. And this is Paul,\" he muttered reluctantly.

Jasper, meanwhile, didn't seem remotely put off by the boys' shifting closer together, Paul's nerves or John's defensiveness. He simply smiled and took out a silver cigarette case from his pocket, flipping it open neatly to reveal a row of white tabs. \"Cigarette?\" He held it out.

Paul glanced at John, who was eyeing the case warily. After a moment, he evidently decided that the peace offering was worth accepting, at least for the free fag. \"Thanks,\" he said, his tone still sullen but less aggressive than before. He took two cigarettes, and handed one to Paul.

Paul fumbled in his pocket for his lighter, but Pascal beat him to it, smiling a little as he held out the flickering flame. From close up, Paul could see that he was about fifty, very well put together and well dressed, with dark hair greying at the temples. As the boys leaned in to light their cigarettes, Jasper cleared his throat.

\"So,\" he said, \"is it your first time?\"

John paused, eyeing the other man a little suspiciously. \"First time in Paris, or do you mean something else?\"

Jasper laughed, pushing his hair back with one elegant hand. He wore it longish, French fashion, and though it was largely grey, Paul supposed it must once have been reddish brown, from the streaks that remained. \"You are very suspicious,\" the man said airily. \"But perhaps you are right to be. It is<\/i> your first time, isn't it?\" He paused, glancing between them. \"Being with another boy?\"

John almost choked on an inhalation of smoke, taking the cigarette abruptly from his mouth and coughing into his hand. \"I -- \"

\"Sssh, John,\" Paul broke in, laying a hand on his back. To Jasper, he said, \"Sorry, monsieur. It's just, we're not -- we don't...\" He shrugged. \"We don't really want to talk about it.\"

\"I understand your type,\" Jasper said, sitting back in his chair, \"but you know...\"

\"Jasper,\" Pascal broke in, his tone cautionary.

\"All right, my dear.\" Jasper squeezed his partner's hand briefly, and then said to Paul, \"We will leave you alone, or talk about other things. But if there is anything you would like to know, we are here. We should help each other, you know. Nobody else will.\"

Paul swallowed. He wasn't sure whether he could trust these two strangers, and as for John, he seemed just as unconvinced as he was. It was quite a private issue after all, so who were these two strangers to talk to them about it?

\"Well, I don't know,\" he shrugged, his hand still drawing soothing circles on John's back, \"I mean, I -- we, we don't really know what... we...\" He trailed off and gave John a worried look. John sighed deeply and reached for Paul's hand. Now that these two strangers had apparently already figured out what was going on with him and Paul -- even though they weren't sure themselves -- they might as well hold hands, if only for the comfort if afforded.

Pascal smiled softly at them, as if he had noted their unease. \"Maybe you have noticed that we two are also together,\" he said hesitantly, \"and it was difficult for us to stay together. But it was worth it, wasn't it?\" He looked at Jasper, apparently for confirmation, to be rewarded only with a scrunch of Jasper's nose and a small sound of affected disinterest. At Pascal's frown, though, Jasper winked and grinned.

\"The thing is, John and Paul, we didn't have anybody to give us any advice about how to handle this, this...\" Jasper waved his hand as he searched for the right word.

\"Bloke-on-bloke business?\" John offered with a hint of a smile.

Jasper pointed at him with a grin and raised eyebrows. \"Exactly. Bloke-on-bloke. I mean, I remember our first time together,\" He waggled his eyebrows at Pascal who, by now, had turned his face away, as if to conceal his slight embarrassment \"And it was awful. Really.\"

\"I couldn't sit for days, and I hated him for a while.\" Pascal suddenly cut in. When he noticed the look Jasper was giving him, he smiled sheepishly. \"What?\"

\"So dramatic.\"

John and Paul glanced at each other. They didn't know what to think of this odd pair, but in a way, it was a small comfort that these two seemed to be so casual with each other, so normal<\/i> like any other couple.

\"Can I ask you a question?\" Jasper then asked and took a drag from his cigarette.

John nodded. \"Sure.\"

\"Have you two already...? You know.\" He made some vague gestures with his hands. When the two boys registered his meaning, their expressions instantly transforming to display their mortification, Jasper only laughed roaringly.

\"It's nothing to be embarrassed about, you know,\" Pascal said softly. \"Sorry about him, he...\"

\"He what?\" Jasper demanded.

\"You know what,\" Pascal told him firmly. \"But...\" He smiled at Paul. \"If you do want to ask anything, you may. It can be wonderful if you do it properly, but if you do it wrong...\"

Paul tried hard not to flinch at the thought. It occurred to him that Pascal was addressing him directly, as if he thought there was an accord between them -- as if it was obvious that Paul would be the one to take the, what, the girl's<\/i> position the way that apparently Pascal had done. Paul wasn't sure how he felt about that. He and John had not discussed that sort of sex at all. They hadn't even had sex of any sort with their clothes entirely off. And yet here was some French bloke suggesting Paul surrender his virgin arse to John's probing, and part of Paul was appropriately a little offended and a little afraid. But...there was another part of him that wasn't. He allowed himself to think about it for a second, John on top of him, hair falling in his eyes, and shivered.

Next to him, John warily caught his eye. \"Look,\" he said hesitantly, \"we haven't decided -- I mean, me and Paul, we might not, y'know. Blokes don't have<\/i> to do that.\"

\"Quite right,\" Jasper said affably, stubbing out his cigarette.

\"I mean, we're talking about buggery here,\" John went on aggressively, and Paul saw at once what he was doing -- everything about his attitude was defensive, afraid. Perhaps he was afraid of the whole idea of that sort of permanence; perhaps he was afraid of presuming. Perhaps he, too, was thinking about being...underneath, and it scared him. Either way, there was something<\/i>.

\"John,\" Paul said gently, \"it's okay, y'know.\"

\"And so is the, what did you call it, the buggery, if you feel like it,\" Pascal said, shrugging. \"So long as you don't try to do it dry. Two small pieces of advice, that you may take or leave, but I will give them anyway: fingers before cocks, my dears, and make sure you have something slick.\"

There was a loud clatter as Paul accidentally bumped his knee off the table in his sudden flush of embarrassment, cheeks going pink. Beside him, John had half-covered his face with his hand, and was pointedly avoiding Pascal's gaze.

A moment of silence passed during which Jasper just looked from Pascal to the boys, and then back again. At length, he took a slow drag from his cigarette, muttering around it, \"And you apologise for me<\/i> while you scare those two to death.\"

\"I'm sorry,\" Pascal said meekly.

On the other side of the table, John and Paul were frozen in attitudes of matching embarrassment, their eyes averted from each other and from the Frenchmen. But Jasper was not one to allow himself to be avoided. \"Listen,\" he said pointedly, leaning forward. When the two boys both reluctantly looked up at him, he gave them his friendliest smile. \"Nobody's forcing<\/i> you to do it that way, all right? It took Pascal and I long enough as well. It can feel -- how do you say? -- fucking wonderful<\/i>, but if you're not comfortable, then don't try it or else it'll go terribly wrong.\"

John let out a small cough, trying hard to cover up his awkwardness. \"Right,\" he muttered, \"Uh, thanks a lot. I suppose.\" He shot a glance at Paul, whose cheeks were still determinedly pink. His head was ducked, his gaze fixed on their intertwined hands. Gently, John squeezed Paul's fingers, and was gratified when Paul glanced up, meeting his eyes. Despite his nervousness, John managed a smile, which Paul returned tentatively.

\"Anything else you want to tell us?\" Paul ventured after a moment, John's hand clasped firmly in his.

\"Oh, I think that should keep you going for now, shouldn't it?\" Jasper smiled beneficently. \"Especially since you, as you say, might not be interested in that anyway. Which is fine, I am sure you can work the other things out without my help. For now...\" He peered down at the menu -- \"I think it is time for lunch, don't you? What'll you have, boys? On me.\"

Half an hour later, with a hamburger and chips inside him, Paul felt a lot more comfortable about the whole affair. Every so often, he would still catch Jasper's eye and feel himself blushing furiously, but John was now having an animated conversation with Pascal about the Frenchman's calligraphy work, and his more relaxed attitude went a long way towards putting Paul at his ease.

From time to time, both Paul and Jasper offered contributions to the conversation, but as time went on, Paul found himself saying less and less, and thinking more and more. It was true that he and John had never talked about what this, any of this, was, but...if they were to continue with it, it made sense to be prepared for all eventualities. And, Paul thought shrewdly, this sort of opportunity might not present itself very often. And although the idea of doing that with John frightened him -- a fear of how it might feel, and worse, of what it might make him if it felt good -- the image kept returning to him, of John above him, owning him. The two of them joined together as closely as it was possible to get. Paul felt his body flush, and cleared his throat.

To his left, John and Pascal were still talking. Very quietly, Paul leaned across the table and asked Jasper, \"If we were to...y'know. That. You said make it slick. Where can you get the, um...\"

Jasper laughed softly. \"I will show you after. There are shops around here that will sell it cheaply, lots of it -- and you will need<\/i> lots, do you hear me? Especially to start.\"

He winked, which only set Paul blushing again. When he leaned back in his chair, though, and noticed John looking at him, the blush only deepened. He met John's eyes, raising his eyebrows slightly in question, but John said nothing -- only smiled a little and returned to his conversation, but under the table, his foot pressed against Paul's, a deliberate, reassuring push.","comments":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/160003.html?view=comments#comments","category":["pairing: john\/paul","fic","backwards traveller"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/159708.html","pubDate":"Fri, 31 May 2013 15:36:26 GMT","title":"[The Beatles] Fic: Backwards Traveller [9\/?], John\/Paul (NC-17)","author":"obstinatrix","link":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/159708.html","description":"Title<\/b>: Backwards Traveller
Rating<\/b>: NC-17 (this chapter)
Pairing<\/b>: John\/Paul
Authors<\/b>: <\/a>tini_91<\/b><\/a><\/span> and <\/a>obstinatrix<\/b><\/a><\/span>
Summary\/Notes<\/b>: Fair warning, this chapter is unadulterated smut. :)



By the time they were halfway back to the hotel, Paul felt John's fingers brushing against the inside of his wrist. Heart pounding in his throat, he very carefully, gently turned his hand, rubbing back against John's, until their palms slid together, fingers tangling. It was getting dark now, and the street was deserted. Paul swallowed hard and murmured, without daring to look at John, \"I dunno about you, but I'm ready for bed.\"

John's fingers shifted slightly, his index finger rubbing a slow circle in the centre of Paul's palm that made him shiver all the way across his shoulders. \"Yeah,\" John said, very softly, \"me too.\"

The hotel, when they reached it, was as quiet as the street below. They made it up the stairs to their room in record time, depositing their jackets and shoes near the door and then moving, as if by silent mutual agreement, towards the bathroom together to brush teeth and wash faces, preparing for bed with uncharacteristic decisiveness. By the time Paul came to shrugging out of his shirt and trousers, he could feel that his breath was coming quick and shallow, his heart racing. On the other side of the bed, John was undressing too. When he got down to his undershorts and t-shirt, Paul only had a moment to notice how smooth and pale his thighs were before John tugged the covers back and dived into the bed like a cannonball.

\"What?\" he demanded, when Paul eyed him in bemusement.

\"Nowt,\" Paul said, but in truth, he was grateful to John for having broken the strange air of anticipation that had been hanging over both of them. When he slid into the bed himself, he rolled easily onto his side to face John, and John grinned back at him, tucking one hand under the pillow and bringing his knees up so they bumped against Paul's.

\"Comfortable?\" John asked. He shifted, not pointedly, but enough that Paul was very conscious of the press of John's bare leg to his, his bare feet brushing Paul's own.

Paul swallowed. \"Nearly,\" he said, and then, as matter-of-factly as possible, nudged his knee in between John's so their legs were locked neatly together, warm and close.

\"Better now?\" John smiled and shifted a bit closer. His hand sneaked shyly over to Paul's, covering it and giving it a gentle squeeze.

\"Much better,\" Paul smiled back, breathing a sigh of relief when John's thumb began to trace tiny circles on his hand.

It was silly, really, to blush at these simple gestures -- holding hands and innocent cuddling in bed -- since only yesterday they had done far worse things than that. This, this was just children's stuff, tame affectionate touches. However, as insignificant as they were, compared to snogging and having sex, they meant just as much to them, maybe even more. What made the small gestures frightening was what they indicated: that it wasn't all about sex; it was more than that. As for Paul, he was slightly afraid to think about what exactly this meant and what that made him, but when he caught a glimpse of John's smile in the dim moonlight from outside, the perfect white flash of his teeth, he quickly forgot about his worries.

\"Come here,\" he murmured and hooked an arm around John's middle, drawing him into an embrace. John didn't hesitate, going along immediately with Paul's movements and allowing himself be pulled into a hug. His smile half-teasing, he rubbed his nose against Paul's and couldn't resist the temptation to brush their lips together.

\"Mmm.\" Paul laughed softly in his throat and pressed back into John's kiss. Their lips pressed dryly, chastely together, once, twice, a third time. Then Paul felt John murmur, shifting slightly so their bodies were closer together, and John tilted his head, mouthing at Paul's lips with his own slightly parted. It would have been exactly what Paul wanted at this moment, except --

\"Ow, John.\" He reached up blindly between them to tug John's glasses off his nose. \"Get rid of these first, eh?\"

\"Oops.\" John grinned back at him a little shyly in the dark. \"Sorry, forgot.\" He folded the spectacles and set them down on the nightstand. \"What's the old rhyme -- 'Boys don't make passes at blokes who wear glasses'?\"

Paul felt himself blush. \"That's not the rhyme,\" he said primly, \"and anyway this isn't a pass<\/i>.\"

Even in the dark, Paul could feel<\/i> John raising his eyebrows. \"Oh, really?\" He leaned in again and nipped at Paul's lower lip, catching it between his teeth very gently, but still unexpectedly enough that Paul's breath caught. \"Maybe we're just being too subtle.\" Closing his eyes, John nuzzled his nose against Paul's, rubbed their cheeks together. \"Come on, Paul. Give us a kiss.\"

\"All right, all right,\" Paul grumbled, smiling nevertheless, \"Impatient git.\"

He tilted his head just a bit until he could feel John's lips brushing his, and parted them immediately. It was a funny thing, really. He felt like a dirty little teenager with no experience all over again. He knew he was too eager for John to properly kiss him, but given how eager John was himself, his tongue darting out and taking a first taste from Paul's lips, it was okay to be like this. It was okay for him, for both of them to feel clumsy and embarrassed, yet eager and excited about it. This was new, despite their familiarity with each other, but, in a way, that was exactly what made it so special. They knew each other inside and out. Taking things to a new level only seemed, in this moment, the logical thing to do. Paul reached up to cup the back of John's head as he deepened the kiss, and John made a pleased sound at the back of his throat. His hands began to roam down the plain of Paul's back, the knobs of his spine, until one of them settled somewhat hesitantly on the small of his back, barely touching the cure of his backside.

\"It's okay, Johnny,\" Paul whispered with a shy smile. He gave John another peck on his lips as he reached around and took John's hand, moving it down further until John was cupping him properly. \"You can touch me. It's okay.\"

John seemed to freeze for a second, body tensing, before he relaxed again, his fingers shifting reflexively against Paul through the thin fabric of his undershorts. His hand was warm, and when John gathered the courage to squeeze gently, then run his hand gently up a little and back down, Paul shivered, rocking against him involuntarily.

\"Paul.\" John sounded breathless now, and his hand moved with a little more certainty, stroking up to the bare skin of Paul's waist beneath his t-shirt and then back down again over the curve of his arse to his upper thigh, over and over in broad, firm strokes. Paul couldn't help but push closer, his own hands slipping under John's shirt and mapping the warm plain of his back, sliding up the dip of his spine.

It wasn't -- it wasn't as if this was sex<\/i>, not exactly, and Paul knew it, but there was still something ridiculously, hotly exciting about it that he barely ever felt with girls any more, the thrill of something new. John's mouth slid wetly against his, the insides of his lips smooth and gentle as they sucked on Paul's upper lip, then his lower, and when Paul felt the sharp nip of John's teeth again, he couldn't help but groan, shoving his hips against John's.

\"Fuck,\" he murmured against John's mouth, and the hand under John's shirt slid up, up to curve over the bare line of John's strong shoulder, holding him steady. His other hand tracked over the shirt, into John's hair, and both of John's hands were on Paul's arse now, hauling their bodies flush together where it counted. Paul panted, listening to the tight little sounds of John's breathing. They kissed again, harder this time, formlessly, and John pulled, hard enough that a wild shock tore through Paul's body at the contact, the unmistakable heat of John's cock against his through two thin layers of cotton.

Paul's fingers fluttered in John's hair, shifted down to cup the warm nape of his neck as he rolled his hips against John's, his whole body hot with want. John's mouth was sweet and urgent against his, John's tongue stroking his own. Paul couldn't remember the last time a kiss had felt like this.

He felt dizzy, high<\/i>, as John kissed him and they ground their clothed cocks together, but it was the best feeling in the world. His skin tingled where John touched him and the urgency behind their kiss, which grew ever deeper and more frantic, left him breathless. With a small groan, he pressed his thigh against John's body and John rocked back against it without hesitation.

\"Please, Macca,\" he whispered into the kiss, low and insistent. Paul wasn't exactly sure what please<\/i> meant, but he rocked harder against John anyway, breaking the kiss to get air. John took the opportunity to graze his teeth along Paul's neck and then to suck at it, the tip of his tongue caressing the tender skin while Paul shivered against him.

Briefly, the thought of rolling onto his back and letting John between his legs crossed Paul's mind, but he quickly chased it away. He wasn't sure if he wanted that, if he could do that now. At the moment, he was fine with lying on his side and grinding against John. Like this, it felt somehow more as if they were still equals.

\"Paul,\" John murmured, nuzzling into the hollow of Paul's throat. The sensation of his late-evening stubble, scraping against the fine skin, was as intense as it was alien, making Paul whimper and clutch at John's shoulders even before John opened his mouth to suck gently at Paul's skin. Then -- then it was better; he felt himself bucking involuntarily against the shallow of John's pelvis, hooking his ankle around the back of John's calf to lock their bodies tighter together, seeking more friction. John's mouth was hot and clever and Paul could feel the blood rising up under the skin in the shape of John's bite.

There would be a bruise there tomorrow, Paul realised, and the thought made his blood thump excitedly, thinking of it, John's mark in the hollow of his throat. Walking around with John's lovebite on him, as if John had claimed him.

\"God,\" Paul muttered breathlessly, and then he was fisting his hand in John's newly-shorn hair, tugging him back so his neck arched, long and pale. He dived in without thinking, finding his own place under the shelf of John's jaw and sucking, loving the way John jerked and thrashed against him.

\"Jesus Christ,\" John said, hands going to Paul's hips, pulling him in tighter, if that were even possible. \"God, yeah, keep going -- please --\" He pinned Paul still, rutted up fiercely against him, and Paul felt a harsh cry rising up in his throat at the sudden intensity, the hot line of John's dick rubbing directly against his own.

If they had been braver, one of them would have eventually made to get rid of their boxers. Paul wasn't that brave, though. All the while he was grinding against John's erection and sucking on his neck, determined to leave his own mark there, Paul was waiting for it, waiting for John to make the move and get rid of that last bloody layer of cloth. But nothing came, and Paul found that he wasn't too disappointed. He was actually quite relieved, if he was honest. They were taking things slow -- for a certain measure of 'slow' that involved rubbing their cocks against one another with their tongues down each other's throats -- and that was another part of what Paul liked about John. He understood.

\"Come on, John,\" he rasped as he peppered John's mouth with tiny desperate kisses, \"Come for me, love.\"

And that was all John needed at that moment to be pushed over the edge. With a curse and a hard kiss that had Paul almost dizzy from pleasure, he tightened his hold on Paul's arse and pulled him firmly close as John's own hips snapped forward. John's movements were frantic and became more unfocused the closer he got to his orgasm. When it finally happened, he sucked hard on Paul's tongue, body convulsing, and Paul felt his mind unhinge.

He'd never felt another boy come. He'd never thought he'd want to, either, but there was something about it, feeling the way John twitched and pulsed and spurted between their bodies, that made Paul groan and buck and catch his breath, fingernails digging into John's back, raking down it where a fine sweat had broken out.

\"John,\" he panted, \"John,\" and his hips rocked forward spasmodically, rutting fast and hard and firmer now against John's softening cock.

\"Sssh,\" John murmured, gasping for breath. His cheeks were flushed and his voice was thready, but Paul felt his mouth slackly on his jaw, then mouthing at the corner of Paul's lips. \"Come on, love, here -- here --\"

John tugged, hand still firm on Paul's arse, and they went over like that, John onto his back and Paul flat on top of him and oh, fuck<\/i> --

\"Oh,\" Paul panted, shocked by the sudden pleasure of it, the new contact, the way his dick slid so easily in the groove of John's pelvis, rutting against his hipbone as he thrust down against him. \"God -- please --\"

\"Sssh,\" John hushed him again, as Paul's thrusts grew faster, more erratic, and then his hand was in Paul's hair and he was mashing their mouths together, nipping at Paul's lower lip as Paul jerked and fucked forward and came.

The last time they'd come together, just wanking, it had been good, but this was incredible, the deep fierce pulses of it that felt torn right out of the core of Paul as he shivered and shook, spilling so much that it began to seep through the fabric of his shorts. For a brief, wild moment, he wished he could have come all over John's stomach, bare where his shirt had ridden up. Then another wave of pleasure caught him, and he couldn't think of anything any more until it had gone, left him breathless and boneless, and he collapsed onto John, face tucked into the curve of his throat.

Dimly, Paul registered how John kissed his forehead and caressed his side as he held him, strong arms wrapped around him, holding him securely. Paul couldn't have been happier. He planted light kisses to John's neck and nuzzled his jaw briefly before he lifted himself up, earning a questioning look from the other boy.

\"Got to get these off,\" he said with a sheepish smile as he pointed at his boxers. \"It's fucking disgusting otherwise, isn't it?\"

\"Mhm, the disadvantages of being male,\" John agreed, chuckling, and watched Paul with unabashed interest. Paul blushed slightly as he took off his sticky underwear and threw it onto the little pile of his worn clothes. When he lay down again, John gave him a funny look.

\"What?\"

\"Aren't you going to put on a new pair?\"

\"No.\" Paul smiled and buried one half of his face in their pillow.

John laughed. \"Dirty bastard,\" he muttered, but took his boxers off as well, dropping them carelessly on the ground next to their bed.

\"Now who's being dirty?\" Paul interjected.

\"Shut it, Macca. Never said I was clean, did I?\" John chided him in a mock-serious tone and lay down again. Immediately, he pulled Paul back into his arms.

It was nice, lying together like this. John's skin was warm and a little damp, the sex-flush cooling slowly until they were both breathing steadily, curled nakedly into each other. All the angles and planes and curves of their bodies seemed to fit together as if they had been made a matched set, John's broad chest the perfect pillow for Paul's head. Paul felt good like this. He felt loved<\/i>.

It was probably lucky that he was too comfortable to say anything before he fell asleep, the gentle motions of John's chest lulling him under.

**

The next day, they slept late. It must have been noon by the time Paul blinked lazily into awareness, the light slanting yellow across the bed. Beneath him, John was still asleep, but as Paul made to carefully get up, John shifted and murmured, clutching at Paul's back.

\"Oy,\" Paul said firmly, \"let me up.\"

\"Timezit?\" John demanded, blinking.

\"Late, probably,\" Paul said, squeezing John's outstretched hand as he slipped out of the bed. \"Come on, lazybones, I want to go for a bit of an explore. We've done beautiful Paris, how about we do real Paris?\"

John snorted. \"You what?\"

Paul shrugged his shoulders and reached for his jeans. His utterly ruined undershorts from last night were still on top of them, and Paul tried not to blush as he kicked them aside. \"Well, y'know. This area.\"

\"You mean seedy<\/i> Paris,\" John said with a leer, sitting up. Paul pursed his lips at that look on John's face, but at least he looked more eager to actually get out of bed.

\"Well,\" Paul protested, and John laughed.

\"No, love, I like your thinking. Let's go and mooch around the red light district, eh, see what weird places we can find. We fit in with the weird lot, usually.\"

\"We're not weird,\" Paul muttered under his breath, and John smiled at him as he stood and stretched, apparently unconcerned about his nakedness.

\"No, we're not,\" he said, ruffling Paul's hair.

Paul only slapped John's hand away from his hair with a roll of his eyes and a poorly concealed smile.

***","comments":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/159708.html?view=comments#comments","category":["the beatles","pairing: john\/paul","fic","backwards traveller"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/159371.html","pubDate":"Tue, 28 May 2013 10:45:15 GMT","title":"[The Beatles] Fic: Backwards Traveller [8\/?], John\/Paul (PG-13)","author":"obstinatrix","link":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/159371.html","description":"Title<\/b>: Backwards Traveller
Rating<\/b>: PG-13 (this chapter)
Pairing<\/b>: John\/Paul
Authors<\/b>: <\/a>tini_91<\/b><\/a><\/span> and <\/a>obstinatrix<\/b><\/a><\/span>
Summary\/Notes<\/b>: New York in the late 70s feels like a world away from Europe almost two decades earlier, but when John settles down to write some more of his short 'fiction', he finds that, frankly, he misses Paris. This is 1961, in retrospective.



Outside, it wasn't particularly sunny as John had hoped but he found that he didn't mind in the slightest. He felt warm and happy and if he wanted to know why, he only needed to look to his left -- where Paul was walking right next to him, occasionally bumping his shoulder against John's with a bright smile that made up for the lack of sun. They easily found a place to eat at before they set off to find J\u00fcrgen and see if he was free. And while they were eating, they hardly noticed the looks they received from the girls that happened to pass them or who sat at other tables. Eventually, though, Paul looked up from his meal, chewing slowly as his eyes focused in on something beyond John.

\"Oy, do you feel something burn into your skull?\" he asked, tossing John a secretive little grin before he took another forkful and shoved it into his mouth.

\"Huh?\" John only looked at him in confusion, eyebrows knit. \"What are you talking about, son?\"

\"Those girls over there,\" Paul said and pointed with his fork at the table behind John. \"They're watching us. Or, well, they're staring at you<\/i>, Johnny.\"

\"Are you serious?\"

Paul nodded, chewing in silence.

\"Are they good-looking?\"

\"Well, better than what you'd find home in Liverpool, definitely.\" The corners of Paul's mouth curved up into a half-hearted smile but he lowered his head again and poked listlessly at his salad with his fork.

John watched him as he wondered what that sudden change in Paul's behaviour was all about, chewing slowly. \"Well,\" he sniffed with a shrug of his shoulders, \"I don't really care. I'm not here to pick up birds, am I?\"

When Paul glanced up at him, he leaned a bit forward with a smile that one would probably describe as flirtatious. \"Birds are ten a penny, Macca, but holidays with my best mate? Who knows when the next time will be that we get to go to a city like this without anybody else, hm?\"

Paul didn't say anything but from the way he quickly took his glass and tried to hide his smile, John could tell that the other was pleased with his answer.

It wasn't -- and John had been quite careful to make sure of this -- that he wasn't still attracted<\/i> to birds. Of course, the leggy French girls with their long hair and neat waists still made him tingle when he turned his attention to them deliberately. He was still a red-blooded young man, after all. It was just that the urgency had gone out of it, somehow; it was a case of deliberately directing himself to look at them, just to check he still wanted to. Girls were great, their curves and pretty faces were lovely, but they were familiar, ordinary. Paul's flirtatious glances, on the other hand, and the giddy feeling he got at the thought of even so much as holding his hand - these things were new, even if Paul himself was familiar.

It wasn't, John thought to himself as they finished their meals and ambled off companionably down the boulevard, just a case of the thrill of the unknown, either. Paul wasn't<\/i> unknown, and that was part of the joy of it. John could be himself with Paul, not have to worry about anything except what felt good, what might be fun. Part of that was probably only due to the permissiveness of this city, its romantic architecture and general air of openness towards physical affection. But most of it was just them, just him and Paul. It was only that it had taken this trip to show them how deep their connection really was.

***

Notre Dame was imposing, all Gothic turrets against the skyline, and dark inside, as if the windows hadn't been cleaned in some time. John had just wrinkled up his nose to complain about it when he felt Paul slip a hand slyly into his, squeezing gently.

\"Should you be doing that,\" John asked, nudging him, \"in a House of God, eh?\"

Paul laughed softly. \"Nobody's gonna see, are they? It's pitch black in here.\"

\"When lightning hits the steeple, we'll know who to blame, son,\" John said wryly, but he squeezed Paul's hand back all the same, and they wandered around the rest of the cathedral together, fingers interlaced. It was out of tourist season, and the place was mainly deserted, but for the statues and crypts and tattered flags from foreign battlefields, all of which made the building rather more interesting to the two boys than it might otherwise have been. But the feeling of Paul's hand so easily tangled with his -- in public, no less -- was more interesting to John than any battle standard once carried by Napoleon. He wanted all sorts of things he couldn't put names to, but that was all right. There was no rush. They could figure everything out together.

***

Later that day, John and Paul met up with J\u00fcrgen again. It was at a small cosy-looking outdoor caf\u00e9 in the Latin quarter of Paris and it all looked a bit different from cheerfully down-at-heel Montmartre. Just a tiny bit nicer, here in the university quarter where there were students everywhere, theatres, book shops and other establishments that guaranteed a good time for young people.

After they had ordered their drinks and lunch, J\u00fcrgen told them about his studies in Paris and how different it all was from Germany, especially his life as a student.

\"You can't imagine how free I feel in this city!\" he grinned at the two boys, looking like the happiest man on earth.

\"Oh, to me it's quite obvious, isn't it, Paul?\" John waggled his eyebrows in Paul's direction, feeling warmly gratified when Paul laughed and nodded.

\"And, have you already managed to pick up a girl?\" Paul asked as he reached for his drink and took a sip from it.

J\u00fcrgen's grin only widened. \"Oh I have.\"

\"And? What's she like?\"

\"You'll see yourself. In fact she'll join us. She should be here soon.\"

When John and Paul only looked at each other with their eyebrows raised, seemingly impressed, J\u00fcrgen laughed.

Only ten minutes later, a beautiful curvy woman with long black hair approached them, her hips swaying from side to side in an almost hypnotising way. The look on J\u00fcrgen's face was unmistakably pride in its purest form. Her name was Alice, and as nice as she looked and as nice her name sounded -- she was anything but nice. Alice was a bitch, actually. As soon as she had arrived at their table, her face immediately fell, turning into a somewhat disgusted grimace as she scrutinised John and Paul. It was the sort of look one might turn on an unexpected invasion of insects into an otherwise pristine room. The way she yelled at J\u00fcrgen after he had introduced her to John and Paul only confirmed their suspicions about her.

John leaned in towards Paul, shielding his mouth as he whispered into Paul's ear, \"What a cunt.\"

Gesticulating wildly, Alice put on a show which amused the two boys to no end while J\u00fcrgen got more and more distraught.

\"C'est fini!\" yelled Alice at last and tossed her long hair before she turned around on her heel and teetered away.

A moment of silence passed until Paul ventured, \"Did she just break up with you?\"

\"I don't know. I guess I'll find out soon,\" J\u00fcrgen sighed and rubbed his neck.

John and Paul shared a pitying look which was John's cue to light up the mood. \"Oy, J\u00fcrgen. Do you think you can get us a fancy hair cut like yours?\"

While J\u00fcrgen looked up at John with a slight smile, Paul only stared at him in shock.

\"Are you kidding?\" Paul demanded.

John shrugged. \"Nobody's going for the rocker look around here, are they? Apparently we look dead common.\"

\"Oh, I like you boys as rockers,\" J\u00fcrgen interjected, and Paul nodded vehemently.

\"Thank you! Anyway, we are<\/i> dead common. What's wrong with that?\"

John shrugged. \"I'm just saying, Paul. Got to move with the times, haven't you? Anyway, looks like it might be a lot less fuss, that haircut.\" He indicated the soft fringe of hair J\u00fcrgen wore across his forehead, devoid of all the greases and creams that went into keeping their rocker quiffs intact. \"Yours has always been too soft to stand up properly as it is. Your hair, I mean,\" John added slyly, with a grin.

Paul went immediately pink, his hands going to his hair. \"John<\/i>,\" he said, in a cautionary tone, but John could see there was more than embarrassment behind his blush. He laughed.

\"Come on, love, it'll be good. We'll go home to Liddypool and start a new trend, what do you say?\"

\"What if it looks shit?\" Paul demanded.

John shrugged. \"You can blame it on me. And anyway, if it looks shit we can always just comb it up again with a shitload of Brylcreem, can't we?\"

Paul sighed in defeat. \"J\u00fcrgen?\"

\"I have never cut hair before,\" J\u00fcrgen confessed, \"but I have seen it done. If you are sure about this, boys...\"

\"We're sure,\" John cut in firmly, and J\u00fcrgen smiled.

\"Then I will give it a try.\"

***

After their last experience at J\u00fcrgen's boarding house, they were particularly careful to be quiet as they went up the stairs. Once in the room, J\u00fcrgen got out a wooden chair and an old towel, which he brandished like a bullfighter waving a red flag. \"Who goes first?\"

\"John,\" Paul said immediately, throwing John a suspicious look.

John rolled his eyes and sat down in the chair without protest, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it aside. \"Was my idea, wasn't it? I don't mind.\" He reached up to touch his hair, fingers coming into contact with the grease that held it in place, and frowned. \"Should I duck it under the sink first?\"

\"That would probably be helpful,\" J\u00fcrgen said with a little smile.

Five minutes and a blast of cold water later, John was back in the chair again, his hair rinsed and towelled dry. J\u00fcrgen approached with a pair of scissors and a comb, and at the flash of silver, John felt, for a second, his first flush of anxiety about this idea.

\"Be careful, eh?\"

\"Don't worry,\" J\u00fcrgen told him, \"you will still have two whole ears when I finish.\" He set the comb against John's scalp and began gently combing the damp hair into place. \"I promise.\"

Snip, snip, snip.<\/i>

Paul watched John with big eyes while J\u00fcrgen tried to cut his hair as best he could. John smiled at Paul expectantly. \"You look scared, Macca.\"

\"I'm just trying to imagine what it'll look like when it's done,\" Paul mumbled, eyebrows creased in mild worry.

\"Of course it'll look good, Paul. Stop acting like a bird.\" John winked at him before he closed his eyes when J\u00fcrgen started to cut his fringe. Paul only nibbled nervously on his thumb, hating the fact that John had dragged him into something again that might end horribly for both of them.

However, when J\u00fcrgen was finished, Paul was pleasantly surprised.

\"How do I look?\" John asked, running his fingers through his new hair cut over and over again. His hair looked so soft. Paul wanted to reach out and touch it.

\"Great,\" he said, walking over to his friend, reaching out and running his fingertips lightly across John's hair, \"It looks good, Johnny.\"

\"Told you so,\" was John's smug reply. \"Let me get up so I can take a look at it in the bathroom, love.\"

Paul obediently stepped aside as John got up and shoved his way past Paul. As he passed him, he patted Paul's side and let his hand graze lightly across Paul's stomach. Luckily, their German friend didn't seem to notice that small affectionate gesture as he was crouched on the floor, sweeping up John's hair.

\"Come on, Paul, take a seat. You're next.\" J\u00fcrgen laughed once he got up, and Paul sighed heavily, muttering silent curses in an extra thick accent just in case J\u00fcrgen understood any of those swear words.

Paul had always taken good care of his hair. He loved his DA which he had groomed under the most difficult circumstances at home, with his dad threatening him to cut his hair like a proper young man or he would throw him out. Paul had fought for it, just like he had fought for his tight drainies, his leather jacket and his friendship with John. And now he was supposed to let go of one of his most beloved aspects of his self-image? It didn't seem fair to him, but then John had survived it, and he looked good. Not only good, but good in a new way that Paul hadn't thought possible. Paul had taken the opportunity to quickly wash his hair when John's was being cut, and when J\u00fcrgen started to cut off Paul's hair now, he just took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Childishly, he felt somehow that if he didn't see it, it wasn't real.

It was over quicker than he'd expected. And he wouldn't have thought that he would feel so naked with his new hair.

\"Fucking hell, you look bloody grand!\" John's voice suddenly boomed up from the bathroom and when Paul opened his eyes, he saw his friend standing at the door frame, leaning against it with his arms crossed in front of his chest and smiling that smile that had Paul blushing within a split-second.

\"Really?\" Paul lifted his hands self-consciously to his hair. It felt -- there was no other word for it -- weird<\/i>, all soft and fine under his fingers, like a girl's. Despite John's sincere expression of appreciation, Paul felt a sliver of concern. \"You sure it doesn't make me look soft?\"

John shrugged languidly. \"Why, do you think mine makes me<\/i> look soft?\"

\"No!\" Paul shot back immediately, and it honestly didn't -- John looked, if anything, more grown up with his new hair, edgier. The era of the DA was on its way out, and the new hair cut made John look as if he was riding the wave of something new and interesting, the look of the new decade. But that was John. John could carry anything off. Paul had wished often enough for shoulders like his, or a nose like his, or a swagger like his. John didn't have to worry that much about looking soft. But Paul...

\"Seriously, Paul,\" John cut in, as if he could read Paul's thoughts, \"it doesn't make you look like a bird or owt. Well --\" He paused, grinning -- \"No more than usual, anyway. Come and look.\"

\"Shut up,\" Paul mumbled automatically, but he got up obligingly and followed John into the bathroom.

\"See,\" John said, his voice soft as he positioned Paul in front of the mirror, hands on his shoulders. \"We match. Don't you like it?\"

\"We already matched before,\" Paul muttered, but -- to his great relief -- he did<\/i> quite like it. J\u00fcrgen had done a good job for someone who'd never cut hair before. Curiously enough, Paul felt suddenly more himself like this than he ever had with the carefully constructed DA he'd been so proud of. Meeting John's eyes in the mirror, he smiled slightly. \"Yeah. It's good.\"

John smiled back, and his hands slipped from Paul's shoulders to his waist, creeping around to his hips. Paul could feel that the movement was unintentional, but when John stepped a little closer, breath warm on the back of Paul's neck, Paul couldn't help but gasp a little, eyes closing. Behind him, John breathed, \"Paul,\" and pressed his lips gently to the nape of Paul's neck.

Not here<\/i> was on the tip of Paul's tongue, but then John kissed him again, properly this time, mouth half open, and a shudder raked through Paul's body from his neck to his toes. He clutched at John's hands, holding them in place, and tipped his head back slightly. As if encouraged, John's mouth shifted to the base of Paul's jaw, the soft place below his ear, and then he was tilting his head and Paul turned to meet him, catching his mouth in a soft, slow kiss.

When John pulled away, he met Paul's eyes again in the mirror, and both of them looked flushed, bright-eyed. \"See,\" John said, in a slightly rough voice, \"we look good, don't we, love?\"

Paul knew he wasn't talking about the hair any more. He smiled, and squeezed John's hands before he stepped away. \"Yeah,\" he said, \"we do.\"

**

\"I didn't know French food could be that good!\" John sighed happily when he, Paul and J\u00fcrgen stepped out of the restaurant. He patted his stomach, giving Paul a wide grin. Paul looked just as contented.

\"And it wasn't even expensive,\" Paul added, zipping up his jacket.

J\u00fcrgen smiled at his friends, obviously pleased. \"Told you so. It's not all just frog legs and snails,\" he said with a wink. \"Do you want to go home now or can I show you one of my favourite places here in Paris?\"

The boys looked at each other and shrugged.

\"An after-dinner walk won't hurt, will it, John?\" Paul smirked at John's eye-roll. He could read him like a book, and right now it was more than clear to him that John would rather go back to their hotel and maybe even sleep like an old man.

\"Suppose so,\" he grumbled but followed J\u00fcrgen without further ado, except for a tiny poke in Paul's ribs.

Dusk was slowly setting in when they arrived a while later, and John and Paul could understand why J\u00fcrgen loved this place so much -- the Parisian opera was really a sight to behold. They didn't have buildings like that in Liverpool nor had they seen such architecture in dirty old Hamburg. This was something else, and with the red and orange coloured sky on this clear day, it looked even more magnificent still.

\"Do you like it?\" J\u00fcrgen asked after a little moment of silence, even though he could surely see the answer on their faces already.

\"It's bloody terrific,\" Paul replied with a smile. \"Don't you think, Johnny?\"

But John only stared back at Paul, the corners of his mouth twitching, and before Paul was given the chance to recognise the mischievous glimmer in the other's eyes, John put one hand on his chest, thrust out the other towards Paul and began to sing in a thick Italian accent -- \"Oh, this is the night, it's a beautiful night, and we call it bella notteee<\/i>!\"

Usually, Paul would have just laughed or rolled his eyes at him or felt embarrassed, but this was Paris and he recognised that song instantly -- he and Mike used to sing it as children, calling themselves the Nerk Twins before he and John requisitioned that moniker for themselves. It also came in handy that Paul loved this Disney song, just as much as John did.

Without thinking twice, he mimicked John's pose and joined in, \"Look at the skies, they have stars in their eyes on this lovely bella notte<\/i>.\"

They both pretended that they were serenading J\u00fcrgen, who was visibly on the verge of dying of embarrassment while people around them were giving them funny looks. At this very moment, though, they couldn't have cared less. It was a foreign city, nobody apart from their German friend knew them and they were just so fucking<\/i> happy at this very moment that singing some corny Disney song about love seemed to be the only appropriate thing to do. Eventually, they ended up dancing like madmen around and with each other and J\u00fcrgen couldn't help himself; he took a few pictures of them with Paul's camera and let them entertain themselves with acting like clowns or fake lovers or whatever they were trying to be.

\"Hey, if those come out good,\" John said, panting, as he stumbled over to J\u00fcrgen after the final notes of their song had died away, \"make sure you send us copies, eh?\"

\"We'll need 'em for advertising,\" Paul chimed in gravely, nodding as he caught up to John, but the gleam in his eye betrayed him, especially when John glanced sidelong at him and they both collapsed in laughter again.

\"Advertising or not,\" J\u00fcrgen said, smiling, \"They are on Paul's camera,\" he reminded them, holding it out. \"But there are others, from the other day, which I will send if you like. You will be in the same place, in Liverpool, I presume?\"

\"Yeah,\" John said, after a minute, but Paul caught the hesitation. He didn't blame John. In the Parisian evening, with the sky turning colours all around them and the gorgeous domed roofs of the city silhouetted against it, the prospect of going back to dreary old Liverpool was not an appealing one. Nor, he had to admit, was the prospect of returning to their old selves, the ones who didn't hold each other's hands or touch like -- like they'd been doing. When they went home, they would have to talk about it. All Paul wanted for now was to take John's hand and dance off with him around this strange and beautiful city as if he hadn't a care in the world.

Still, they had time. They wouldn't have to go back for a while yet.

\"Well,\" Paul said, looking at John, \"it's getting a bit late. Thanks for showing us this place, though, J\u00fcrgen, mate. We really appreciate it. It was really worth seeing.\"

As if he had caught on to Paul's intention, John nodded and chimed in, \"Yeah, cracking view. Sorry for the, uh...\"

\"The singing?\" J\u00fcrgen waved a hand. \"I should have known to expect it.\" He inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement. \"Goodnight, then. I'm sure I will see you again before you go.\"","comments":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/159371.html?view=comments#comments","category":["the beatles","pairing: john\/paul","fic","backwards traveller"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/159002.html","pubDate":"Sat, 25 May 2013 22:10:53 GMT","title":"[The Beatles] Fic: Backwards Traveller [7\/?], John\/Paul (PG-13)","author":"obstinatrix","link":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/159002.html","description":"Title<\/b>: Backwards Traveller
Rating<\/b>: NC-17! Um, soft NC-17, but yes.
Pairing<\/b>: John\/Paul
Authors<\/b>: <\/a>tini_91<\/b><\/a><\/span> and <\/a>obstinatrix<\/b><\/a><\/span>
Summary\/Notes<\/b>: New York in the late 70s feels like a world away from Europe almost two decades earlier, but when John settles down to write some more of his short 'fiction', he finds that, frankly, he misses Paris. This is 1961, in retrospective. We were also quite inspired by this clip<\/a>, where John talks about being inspired by the romance of Paris.



Waking up the next morning was far more pleasant than it had been for the past few days. They came to consciousness slowly, Paul's head tucked underneath John's chin, his nose pressed against John's collarbone, their legs were entangled and their arms wrapped around one another. The air in their room was slightly chilly thanks to the poor heating system, but the upside of the chill was how much better it made it to wake up in the arms of someone else, warm and cosy.

\"Mornin', Macca,\" John whispered when he felt Paul stirring in his arms. Paul made a small noise when he, too, woke up and he pressed his face further into John's chest, deliberately ignoring the fact that it was time to wake up. \"Come on now, you don't want to waste the entire day in bed, do you?\" John prodded, tickling Paul's side lightly. Paul's body began to shake and squirm like jelly.

\"Okay, okay, stop it,\" he sighed and lifted up his face to look at John, all sleepy smiles and pillow creases on his cheek.

John stopped tickling, but the smile on his face didn't go anywhere. He felt as if he'd been taken over by the warm, pleased feeling that coursed through him like sunshine in his blood at the sight of Paul tucked up against him, his dark hair wild and tousled from sleep. John couldn't resist reaching out to touch it, smoothing it back into place, and that only made Paul smile a little more, closing his eyes and arching into the touch like a cat.

\"If this is supposed to make me want to get up,\" Paul murmured, without opening his eyes, \"it's not working.\" He pushed his head against John's palm and John laughed, stroking down to the base of Paul's skull where the hair was soft and thick.

\"I suppose,\" John said, pretending to think hard about it, \"we could always stay here for a little bit. Just until it warms up a bit.\"

\"That might be a good idea.\" Paul opened his eyes, laid his head back down on the pillow. They were very close, now, noses touching. Paul's eyes were green-brown-hazel-blue, some fascinating confusion of colours, and his lashes were far longer than any lad had a right to. John couldn't help but lean in to kiss him.

Obviously, this was what Paul had been waiting for, to judge by the way he parted his lips immediately to receive John, hand creeping up into John's hair. Spurred on by Paul's eagerness, John let his tongue trace the seam of Paul's lips, slipping inside, and Paul whimpered, fingers clenching against the back of John's neck.

In the new light of morning, it got deep quickly, Paul's jaw going wide against John's as their tongues met, then slipped away from each other to trace the insides of mouths, the shapes of teeth. John's arms tightened reflexively around Paul and it seemed that the heat of the night before had not gone away entirely, but only quieted for a while. Now, as Paul sucked on his tongue, John could feel himself aching again, hips trembling with the need to move. He wanted -- God, he wanted to push forward, rut against Paul; wanted to drag Paul against him and grind their dicks together until they came. The image of it came to John so strongly that its clarity shocked him, even while it made his breath catch against Paul's mouth. He didn't want to frighten Paul, didn't want to push too far. Didn't know what was allowed, but this...this wasn't enough.

He broke away, panting. \"Fuck.\"

Paul's breathy laugh came as a relief. \"Yeah.\" His mouth was red from kissing, eyes hot and dark.

\"You realise,\" John said, \"I haven't got off since we fucking got here, so you want to be careful snogging me like that, Macca. Just to warn you.\"

Paul hesitated, breath catching. John didn't miss the brief flicker of his eyes downward, the way his breath seemed to come faster afterwards. \"You all worked up, love?\"

\"Don't fuckin' pretend you're not.\" This wasn't entirely foreign territory to them. They'd had similar conversations. It was just that they had never been prompted, in the past, by the heat of each other's mouths. \"You want to, um.\" John swallowed. \"Let's have a toss off, or we'll not be able to go anywhere without getting arrested.\"

Paul bit his lip. John's heart was pounding in his throat, but Paul was breathing hard too, cheeks flushing, so it was all right. Then his hand slipped down under the blankets, and John could hardly bite back a groan.

\"Better shove the blankets off, then,\" Paul said, low, \"or we might get stuff on 'em.\"

\"Trousers too,\" John said, feeling suddenly brave, and Paul nodded jerkily.

\"Trousers too.\"

They kicked the blankets onto the floor, fumbled out of their trousers, and then Paul's thumbs slipped into the waistband of his undershorts and John forgot how to breathe. He could see the ridge of Paul's dick straining at the cotton, and though he'd seen it before, he'd never really looked<\/i> like this; never watched as Paul peeled his underwear down to free his cock. John caught his breath, forced his eyes away and wriggled out of his own underwear, suddenly hot all over. Sweat prickled between his shoulder blades.

\"Fuck,\" he muttered, \"I really, really<\/i> need a fucking wank.\"

Laughing breathlessly, Paul nudged his nose against John's. \"I can tell,\" he said, panting softly.

From the corner of his eye, John could see the motion of Paul's hand, a flick of his wrist, and with a groan he began to work on himself, hips stuttering forward. He cursed underneath his breath when he noticed that he was watching Paul and hoped in earnest that his friend hadn't noticed. When Paul whimpered slightly in his throat, though, John couldn't help but glance over, taking in the sight of Paul with his lower lip caught between his teeth, eyes upon John's hand as it slowly stroked his dick.

\"John, please,\" Paul urged, voice cracking as he inched closer to John, \"Please...\"

John looked back at him, and for the first time, he was taken aback by the look on his friend's face, how he stared at him with those bedroom eyes that usually only girls got to see, his parted lips, flushed cheeks. How could he refuse? With his free hand, John took Paul's chin and guided him in for a kiss which was immediately of that urgent, desperate kind that had both boys wanting to crawl into each other\u2019s skin in order to get closer. Their hands began stroking faster, hips moved of their own accord and with the increase in friction, their hands began to graze more and more frequently against each other, sparking in John's dick with every brush of skin.

They weren't going to last long, that much was obvious. John couldn't remember the last time he'd gone this long without at least tossing himself off, which would have made him frustrated enough, but doing it like this -- after all their looks and touches, the hot, confusing kisses -- John felt himself abruptly on the edge, breathless with it. The kiss got sloppier with every motion of their hands, mouths sliding slack and frantic against each other, tongues rubbing, until they were barely kissing any more at all. Paul bit at John's mouth, knuckles bumping against John's wrist, and John moaned, shoved his tongue against Paul's until they were licking at each other. It was messy and wet and with a girl, John might have been embarrassed by his eagerness, but Paul wasn't a girl. Paul was just Paul, smelling of clean laundry and leather and boy-sweat and John felt almost drunk with it.

He didn't know what made him open his eyes. It was as if somehow, suddenly, he just had to see<\/i>. Paul's hand was jostling against his now with every stroke, the bed shifting as they rocked their hips, and when John looked down, he couldn't hold back a curse, heat ripping through him.

\"Fuck, Paul,\" he panted into Paul's open mouth. \"Jesus Christ.\"

They were so fucking close. John bit his lip, chest aching and thighs trembling with need, just watching the way Paul's hand sped up and down the sticky shaft of his dick, the head of it shiny with precome. Paul's knuckles were skimming John's with every stroke, now, and the crowns of their dicks leaned almost together, close enough that John couldn't resist bucking his hips slightly, just to see. Just to feel<\/i>.

When they brushed, it was like an electric shock. Paul's cock was hot and fine-skinned and strange where it nudged against John's, and John was suddenly seized by the desire to see how it might feel to rub them together, wank them together in one hand, but it was too late for that now. Paul was moaning, body shivering, hand moving faster and faster. John had heard him sound like that often enough before, but now it was for him; now, when Paul shuddered, legs snapping straight, it hit John like a freight train: Paul was about to come all over him, all over his hand and his stomach and his fucking dick<\/i>, and he was going to do it because of John.

When Paul's orgasm hit him, it was better, so much better than John could have imagined. The way Paul melted against his mouth, the strokes of his tongue getting slower but firmer as if he was trying to hold on to something. And when John felt Paul's hot, sticky release covering his fingers and tip of his own cock, he couldn't hold it back much longer anyway, even if he had wanted to. Paul sucked the groan from John's lips when he began to come in long pulses. He felt dizzy, barely registering how Paul hooked a leg around his waist, had shifted closer. As John struggled for breath, Paul kissed him; continued to kiss him until he had calmed down, their lips touching softly, innocently yet again. Without hesitation, John wrapped his arms around Paul and shoved a leg between Paul's thighs, squeezed him in his arms.

\"I don't want to move,\" he murmured against Paul's mouth, feeling the perfect lips curve up into a smile.

\"Me neither,\" Paul sighed and broke the kiss to look at John. \"But we have to, eventually. Scrub up and get something to eat, yeah?\" When John didn't look convinced at all, Paul added, brushing his nose against John's, \"Maybe J\u00fcrgen is free, too, and he could show us around a bit more. I don't feel like I've seen everything yet.\"

\"I bet you haven't,\" John retorted with a lecherous smirk which had Paul blushing.

\"Shut up,\" he said, slipping out of the bed. The t-shirt he'd slept in pooled around his waist, soft against his thighs, but there was still something rather obscene about him like that, his long legs bare and the curve of his arse just visible below the hem of the shirt when he stood. John swallowed.

\"Fine,\" he said, getting up too. After a second's hesitation, he grabbed the hem of his shirt and hauled it off over his head before he had time to get worried about it. They couldn't get washed with their bloody clothes on, even if it felt suddenly embarrassing (and thrilling, and dangerous) to be naked around each other. Tossing the shirt aside, he moved towards the little bathroom that adjoined their sleeping quarters. \"Come on, then, slowcoach.\"

Somewhere between the bed and the bathroom, Paul got rid of his shirt too, and John felt himself blushing as he caught sight of the other boy out of the corner of his eye, the long curves and angles of him. In his peripheral vision, John could just see the shape of Paul's dick soft between his thighs and the drying smears of come across his abdomen, and the realisation that this was what he was looking at made him red to the tips of his ears. Earlier, they'd been unashamedly panting into each other's mouths as they stroked themselves off, and now just being next to Paul, naked, was too much. It didn't make any sense, but John forced himself to keep his eyes front as he reached for the soap, made a lather on his sponge and started scrubbing himself.

\"Are we not --\" Paul's voice was shy. \"Are we not going to get in the bath, then?\"

The image rolled into John's mind unbidden: the two of them, limbs entangled under the water, kissing and kissing and kissing. With a shiver, he pushed it away, feeling his satiated cock give a valiant little twitch at the thought.

\"Nah,\" he said, trying to keep his voice steady. \"Want to be quick, don't we, or it'll be past lunchtime by the time we get outside.\" He threw Paul a grin as he scrubbed the sponge over his belly and down between his legs, keeping his movements as brusque and businesslike as possible. \"Won't it?\"

\"Eh?\" Paul blinked, and it occurred to John suddenly, with a fresh rush of shame and warmth, that Paul had been staring fixedly at John's body as if it was something interesting, lost in it. Now he was as pink as John was, his movements nervous as he reached past John for his own sponge. When he stretched, every muscle in his body stretched too in a way that John had never paused to notice before. The curve of his arse was too inviting to ignore, embarrassment or not.

\"Oy, I know I'm distracting, but...\" Grabbing a towel from the rail, he snapped it briefly at Paul's backside and laughed at Paul's yelp. But the boyish gesture seemed to dispel the tension at least a little, as Paul darted a hand out immediately to deliver a stinging slap to John's hip.

\"I'll show you distracting, Lennon,\" he said menacingly.

\"If that was supposed to be a threat...\" John said pointedly, feeling daring as he raised his eyebrows at Paul and grinned.

\"Fuck you,\" Paul muttered, turning his attentions to his own sticky stomach and thighs, the sponge now fully lathered up.

John bit back the (probably unwise) response that was on the tip of his tongue and said, instead, \"Come on, finish up. I want to see things while the sun's out.\"

The place on his hip -- his thigh, really -- where Paul had smacked him felt raised and hot, tingling. John did his best to ignore it as he moved back out into the main room and began tugging on his clothes. Everything about Paul felt suddenly, hotly arousing, even things that had no right to be. He was going mad. And it felt brilliant<\/i>.

***","comments":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/159002.html?view=comments#comments","category":["the beatles","pairing: john\/paul","fic","backwards traveller"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/158966.html","pubDate":"Tue, 21 May 2013 20:53:48 GMT","title":"[The Beatles] Fic: Backwards Traveller [6\/?], John\/Paul (PG-13)","author":"obstinatrix","link":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/158966.html","description":"Title<\/b>: Backwards Traveller
Rating<\/b>: Eventual NC-17, this chapter PG-13
Pairing<\/b>: John\/Paul
Authors<\/b>: <\/a>tini_91<\/b><\/a><\/span> and <\/a>obstinatrix<\/b><\/a><\/span>
Summary\/Notes<\/b>: New York in the late 70s feels like a world away from Europe almost two decades earlier, but when John settles down to write some more of his short 'fiction', he finds that, frankly, he misses Paris. This is 1961, in retrospective. We were also quite inspired by this clip<\/a>, where John talks about being inspired by the romance of Paris.





Paul kept staring at the door for a few more seconds, not able to believe what had just happened. He swallowed hard, flexed the muscles in his hands and walked over to the bed. Sitting down on it, he breathed out slowly, staring into space.

What on earth just happened?<\/i>

He knew he needed to look for something else to do, needed to distract himself or he would end up worrying too much. And so he began to fix his own trousers while he tried hard not to think about the way John's face had been twisted in anger and confusion as he left the room, how easily he had pushed Paul away even though it had been him<\/i> who had made advances in the first place. Paul still couldn't wrap his mind around that either. Of course he knew what had been going on between them before, and he was aware of how much it seemed to strain their relationship and how it made them act like bloody idiots around each other. But still...

When he was done -- this time it had taken him twice as long to sew the trousers -- it was slowly getting dark outside. Paul couldn't help but wonder what John was doing now. It was difficult not to panic about it, especially since they were in a foreign city, all on their own. His fingernails suffered a lot from the nervous nibbling, though. What Paul hated the most was that he couldn't even leave the hotel room and take a walk himself and get some fresh air. John had basically forced him to stay here, since he had the keys. The later it got, the hungrier he got as well. Curse that bloody Lennon for leaving him all alone in a hotel room in a foreign city. Paul could feel himself getting more and more upset about this whole thing. If only he had something to do.

In the end, he got into his pyjamas, stomach roaring loudly, and slid into his bed.

*

Meanwhile, John was on his way back to their hotel. In the hours that he had been out, he had been running around aimlessly through Montmartre and had mostly spent his time sitting on a bench and watching people pass him by. It was always easier to turn off your mind when there were people there to distract you. And while he had been sitting there, smoking cigarette after cigarette, he had replayed over and over again what had happened between himself and Paul in their room. He knew it had been his fault this time. He knew he had acted like a right arse and that Paul didn't deserve any of his anger. But at that moment, John had been too scared of what he might have turned into ever since Paul had given him those drunken kisses a few days ago.

He wasn't supposed to think of Paul in that way<\/i>, was he?

There was one incident, though, that had made John feel better about himself and his possible-queer-feelings for his best mate: a quick kiss spotted between two blokes right in front of John in the park. It had made him feel less lonely with his thoughts and new feelings, and when the sun had begun to set, John had at last noticed how late it actually was. Feeling terribly guilty for having left Paul all alone in their hotel room, he quickly bought some sandwiches for them to eat -- he was starving and poor Paul surely was, too -- and set about hurrying back to their room.

If John was honest with himself, he was really fucking scared about what might happen now. He was worried that Paul would be royally pissed off at him and would want to go back home as soon as possible. Or even worse -- he had left already and was now lost in this city and probably already dead, lying in some corner where nobody would really notice him.

Taking a deep breath, he turned the doorknob of their room, testing if it was locked. Once he stepped inside, he squinted his eyes at the darkness.

\"Paul..?\" he asked, cautious, and closed the door silently.

\"Leave me alone,\" came the quiet reply, voice muffled either by a pillow or the blanket.

John cleared his throat as he walked to their bed, feeling all of a sudden sheepish, stupid. \"I, uh, I brought something to eat,\" he said as he fumbled with the handles of the plastic bag. \"I figured you might be hungry...\"

He could see the body beneath the blanket moving around until Paul's head appeared and he sat up, reaching for the lamp to switch it on. John flinched at the light but nothing prepared him for the hardened look on Paul's face, hurt visible in his eyes nevertheless.

\"Have you figured your shit out, John? Or are you going to fuck off again now that you've been kind enough to bring me something to eat, huh?\"

\"I'm sorry, Paul,\" was John's meek reply. He sat down on the edge of their bed, reached into the bag and handed Paul his sandwich. Paul took it without another comment. \"I just... I don't know what happened earlier, okay? I know I'm a stupid fuck but I needed some time to think, and I...\"

\"And I what?\"

John only shrugged. \"I don't know.\" He gave Paul a small crooked smile, and Paul breathed out deeply, making it obvious how exasperated he was.

But instead of telling John how much of a stupid bastard he was, Paul moved a bit, scooted closer to John and took his hand.

\"Is this okay?\" he asked quietly, to which John nodded. Then Paul linked their fingers, giving John's hand a small squeeze. \"What about this?\"

John nodded again.

It was more than okay. John couldn't have explained the huge sense of relief that washed through him as Paul's slim hand closed around his own, but it was massive, intense. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but it hadn't been this; he hadn't dared to anticipate anything less than an argument. But now, sitting on the bed with Paul, their hands interlinked, John could feel that fluttering sensation rising in his chest again, the same mad butterflies he'd felt earlier when he'd pressed his silly kiss to Paul's forehead. Only now, it didn't seem so bad, if Paul was happy to sit this way too, a grateful little smile curving his pink mouth.

Yeah, it was still a fucking sissy thing to do, or it would have been in Liverpool. John was under no illusions about that. But this was Paris, and Paul was obviously as curiously twisted up inside as John was. A problem shared was a problem halved. A problem ignored, or dismissed, stopped being a problem at all -- at least, for the time being.

They ate their sandwiches in a companionable silence, one-handed. Daft, really; it was bloody stupid to try and eat a sandwich this size with one hand, but anything else would have meant relinquishing his hold on Paul, and John wasn't ready to do that yet. Not when it might be hard to go back to after. When the sandwiches were gone, John set the paper from his down on the floor and looked at Paul. Their fingers were still interlaced, Paul's a little slimmer than John's, but just as long. Their hands, John noticed dully, locked together perfectly.

\"Paul,\" John said, softly, when the moment began to feel as if it was dragging on too long in silence. \"I --\"

\"Sshh.\" Paul cut him off. Gently, he began to disentangle his hand from John's, and on impulse, John squeezed it tighter, but Paul only laughed and lifted his other hand, taking hold of John's shoulder. \"It's all right, I'm not going anywhere in my pyjamas, am I? Just...c'mere.\"

His free hand found the back of John's neck above his collar. His fingers were cool and gentle and John felt a shiver skip down his spine in the aftermath of the touch. Then Paul was tugging, just slightly, and John realised what he wanted. He leaned in towards him blindly, letting his arms settle easily around Paul's waist. Paul's head fitted neatly between John's jaw and his shoulder, and John let himself close his eyes, inhaling the scent of Paul's hair.

\"Feels nice,\" John breathed out after a while. Paul hummed in reply, his voice resonating throughout John's body, making him feel warm from inside out.

Of course they had hugged before but never like this. The Usual Hug that John and Paul would share was always a quick embrace, a pat on the back, and that was it. This hug now, though, was something else. Paul had never stuffed his face like that into the crook of John's neck before, and John had never even dreamed of burying his nose in Paul's dark hair and greedily inhaling his scent. The Usual Hug lasted two seconds; this hug couldn't last long enough.

Soon enough John began to run his hand along Paul's spine, down and up again, stroking him in a hesitant, shy fashion that was completely unfamiliar. Paul released a soft sigh against his neck, his body relaxing instantly into the touch. After a while, he nuzzled his nose along John's neck.

\"That nice, too?\" he asked with a thick voice. Thank God John wasn't the only one with a lump in his throat.

\"Yeah,\" he replied and began to run his nose along the soft skin behind Paul's ear. \"Very nice.\"

When Paul pulled away, John felt a sting of disappointment. Hugging was good. Touching<\/i> was good.

\"Do you want to go out, love?\" It was a reluctant question and silently he prayed that Paul would say no.

Paul only shook his head with a widening smile.

\"Are you all right?\" John ventured.

\"Now I am.\" And that was all Paul needed to say, really, to make John feel like the luckiest bastard ever -- a feeling that only grew when Paul lay down again and pulled John gently with him. \"This is much better,\" he whispered. \"Turn the lights off, please.\"

Obediently, John did as he was told and once he turned back to his friend, Paul pulled the blanket over both of them. Instantly, they moved closer towards one another until their noses were nearly touching. Neither of them was sure how far they could go, were allowed to go. Slowly, John slid an arm around Paul's middle, eyebrows raised as if to ask \"Can I?\" Paul smiled with a nod and put his arm around John as well, his fingertips tracing small circles between his shoulder blades.

The only sound they were able to hear was their own shallow breathing and the few noises that came from the street below them. Apparently it was a busy night out there, and under different circumstances, both boys would have certainly gone out. But now that they were so close to each other with a completely new perspective on their relationship, neither of them was too anxious to indulge in the late night activities that this Parisian quarter offered them.

Of course the tension between them became unbearable at some point; wondering who would make the first step was wasted time. Eventually, John had had enough and he moved his hand on Paul's back up to cup his cheek, breathing out, \"All right?\", asking for permission. When Paul whispered back \"All right\", smiling, John leaned in and Paul met him half-way. Their lips touched lightly, shyly, the way children might kiss, as if afraid of the possible consequences if it went beyond chasteness.

For a long moment, chaste was all it was. John's thumb shifted on Paul's cheek, tracing the soft curve of it, but their lips barely moved against each other. It was so quiet in the little room that John could hear Paul's breathing, shallow and uncertain through his nose. Gently, John mouthed at the swell of Paul's lower lip, their lips still barely parted, and when he felt an answering pressure -- the slight motion of Paul's mouth responding to his -- it was as if his whole body had been doused in sudden heat, and he found himself wondering, dazedly, how this almost-kiss with Paul could affect him in a way that some full-on fucks with girls had never done.

It was crazy, but at this moment, it felt as if that was okay. John felt<\/i> crazy, so it was fitting.

The other night, it had been more than this, Paul's tongue wet and soft as it flickered over John's, but they had been drunk then, high on liquid courage. Now they were only Paul and John, two boys in a bed together, and John could feel the thrill of fear in Paul, the anticipation in the taut line of his spine. Carefully, John ran his palm down the centre of Paul's back, gentling him.

\"Paul,\" he murmured, and Paul's mouth opened half-consciously, gasping in a breath.

\"Ssshhh,\" John said, with a certainty he did not feel, and pressed his mouth more firmly to Paul's.

This time, it wasn't quite so innocent a kiss. John tilted his head, angling Paul's with the hand on his cheek so their mouths slanted together, and Paul shuddered in John's arms as their lips met, sealed together. It was still dry, careful, slow, but they were moving against each other now, John nudging Paul's lips apart over and over, Paul pushing back. Eventually, it became a sort of dance, a courtship; John's lips teasing at Paul's just to feel the sweet give of them as Paul teased back. Then -- John couldn't have said how, exactly -- but somewhere along the line, Paul's hand skittered across the nape of John's neck and John moaned reflexively, the brief brush of fingertips sending a hot rush all through him, prickling across the whole surface of his skin.

That did it. Helplessly, pointlessly, Paul moaned back, a thready whimper of a thing, and then they were kissing harder, not faster<\/i> but more deeply, mouths opening wider against each other until the tip of John's tongue caught the wet inside of Paul's lower lip, then returned to it consciously when Paul shivered. Tentatively, Paul's tongue ventured to trace the edge of John's, toying with the tip of it, and it felt so good it was ridiculous, completely out of all proportion. Abruptly, John realised he was hard, so fucking hard; even as he drew back to suck, firmly now, at the perfect bow of Paul's upper lip, he knew this had to go one way or the other: forward or back.

His hand hovered at Paul's waist, but he wasn't, in this moment, brave enough. Carefully, he slowed the kiss, turning it stroke by stroke back into something gentle, closed-mouthed, innocent. Paul seemed to recognise John's intentions, for he did not protest when John eventually stilled, until the two of them were only lying together on the pillow, foreheads touching, lips still brushing, cheeks flushed.

\"Night,\" John said hoarsely, although his dick was a ripe ache between his legs and he wanted nothing more than to roll over and rut against the mattress, just to get it out. Fuck, but he needed Paul -- no -- needed a bloody wank<\/i>, that was all.

From the flush on Paul's cheeks and the wideness of his eyes in the dark, Paul looked to be in a similar state, but it was harder to say these things to your mate than it should have been, John reckoned, even after all the times they'd tossed off together in bedrooms, in grotty little rooms in Hamburg clubs. Then, it had always been about girls. This time...this time, it wouldn't be.

\"Night, John,\" Paul said, and closed his eyes.

It was a very long time before John managed to fall asleep.

**","comments":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/158966.html?view=comments#comments","category":["the beatles","pairing: john\/paul","fic","backwards traveller"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/158507.html","pubDate":"Sun, 19 May 2013 13:16:37 GMT","title":"[The Beatles] Fic: Backwards Traveller [5\/?], John\/Paul (PG-13)","author":"obstinatrix","link":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/158507.html","description":"Title<\/b>: Backwards Traveller
Rating<\/b>: Eventual NC-17, this chapter PG-13
Pairing<\/b>: John\/Paul
Authors<\/b>: <\/a>tini_91<\/b><\/a><\/span> and <\/a>obstinatrix<\/b><\/a><\/span>
Summary\/Notes<\/b>: New York in the late 70s feels like a world away from Europe almost two decades earlier, but when John settles down to write some more of his short 'fiction', he finds that, frankly, he misses Paris. This is 1961, in retrospective. We were also quite inspired by this clip<\/a>, where John talks about being inspired by the romance of Paris.




J\u00fcrgen had all kinds of ideas about Paris as a tourist centre and what-not. John hadn't been that interested before, but now it seemed important to have distractions, so he smiled brightly when they found their friend, and happily let him lead them to places like St. Chapelle and the imposing structure of the Louvre. As long as J\u00fcrgen was there, John and Paul didn't quite have to look at each other, and it seemed to make things easier. Or so John hoped.

Three more days passed like this -- occasional meet-ups with J\u00fcrgen whenever he was free, and avoiding each other as best as they could without being impolite while they were alone. Their conversation mainly revolved around their friends and Cyn and Dot at home. Paul even happily chatted away about Stuart and the likelihood that they would see him again next time they were in Hamburg, and John voluntarily talked about Paul's father, despite the Serious Concerns he'd expressed at the idea of his precious boy going away on hols with That Lennon.

\"Do you think he's already wondering whether you've got yourself killed?\" John asked with a grin, taking a sip from his Coke. They were eating lunch at a small bistro, sitting outside and enjoying the late autumn sun.

\"Probably, yeah,\" Paul grinned around his straw. \"But you know he'll blame you for anything bad that happens to me here, don't you?\"

\"Aye, but it can't be much worse than some of the things I've been blamed for in the past. I think he's still cross with me about the fags.\"

\"Mhm,\" Paul hummed, sucking in some more of the milkshake through the straw. \"I'll have to watch out with you, Johnny, or you'll wear me down completely.\"

John blinked back at him, momentarily quietened, and, mentally replaying the comment in his mind, Paul heard the unintended suggestiveness in it. They both began to blush lightly at his words and quickly ducked their heads. Suddenly, their meals were so much more interesting to look at.

\"It's this city that's wearing us down,\" John muttered, after a pause that felt aeons long. \"Everybody in their flappy trousers and their floppy hair -- can't get a bird to so much as look at you if you're not dressed like a starving artist.\"

\"Well,\" Paul said, seizing upon the topic of conversation gratefully, \"I think it's the fashion to look like you live in a garret, anyway.\"

\"Maybe we should look into it,\" John suggested, draining the last of his Coke. \"Ask someone where they got all their gear, y'know. Sometimes you've got to blend in to get anywhere, eh?\"

And so, it was a mission. The game was on. After the waitress had taken their money and their empty plates, the two boys set off down the boulevard in search of wherever the fashionable accoutrements came from. They didn't have to walk long before they came upon a young man with his hair cut much like J\u00fcrgen's, soft and flat across his forehead, and whose trousers were so wide as to look almost like a skirt from behind.

\"Oy,\" John said, and then cleared his throat, remembering himself. \"Er...excusez-moi? Le pantalon?\" He gesticulated vaguely in the air, drawing wide shapes around his own legs with his hands. \"Ou avez-vous l'achet\u00e9?\"

The French boy looked as if he was trying not to laugh -- at John's execrable accent, Paul could only presume -- but he seemed to get the gist of what was being asked of him, for he pointed, and returned, half in English, \"There is a little magasin<\/i> -- down there. Voila!\"

\"You heard the man,\" John said, and together they took off in the direction indicated.

The trousers themselves, once they were in the vicinity, did not take much finding. A little more gesticulating on John's part, and they had a pair each in a brown paper bag which John clutched under his arm like a prized possession.

\"Come on,\" he said, suppressing a grin, \"let's go back to the hotel and try them on. You can tell me if I look like an artiste<\/i> yet.\"

***

Their initial excitement over their new clothes wore off slightly once they were in their hotel room again and wanted to try their trousers on. Fleeing to the bathroom seemed excessive, given the various states of undress they had seen each other in before, but now everything felt heavy and awkward.

While Paul stood in one corner of the room, his back to John, John stood at the other end. Both were well aware of how idiotically they were behaving but this was still better than staring at one another while they were half-naked. Things were already awkward and strained enough.

Eventually, Paul turned around with a frustrated sigh. \"John, they're fucking awful.\"

John snorted a laugh; Paul smiled. And quite unexpectedly, the elephant in the room seemed to have disappeared. For the time being, at least.

\"I know, right?\" John laughed as he turned around, fly still undone. \"They're all flappy at the hems.\"

\"And too tight around your arse,\" Paul added with a frown as he looked down at himself and tried to pull a little at the cloth on his backside, without much luck. \"Christ, I don't know how men here can even walk in them without falling over every six feet.\"

As Paul turned around to show what he was talking about, John cleared his throat uncomfortably. The thought that came to mind was Well, I like it<\/i>, which didn't seem as if it would go down well. Instead he grunted in reply, nodding solemnly.

\"At least you can still pull them off, Paul,\" he said instead. \"Look at me, though. My legs look like fucking hams.\"

Paul clicked his tongue, shaking his head. \"I didn't know you were so vain, John.\" He walked over to his friend and knelt down in front of him, pulling a bit at the ankles of John's trousers and making little considering sounds every now and then. \"Your legs look fine,\" he said eventually, looking up at John. \"But we need to alter these bloody trouser legs before we can go out in them.\"

\"Er, how? We haven't really got the dosh to get them altered, love.\"

\"Well...\" With a grunt, Paul got up and ran a hand through his hair. \"I could change them. We only need to buy a sewing kit and I'll do it.\"

\"What would I be without you, eh?\" John rolled his eyes with a smirk and zipped himself up.

\"A hopeless case,\" Paul smiled back and took their jackets, pressing John's against his chest before he walked out of their room.

**


It was unfortunate that 'sewing kit' was not among the words of French John remembered from school, but on the other hand, it was quite entertaining to watch Paul attempt to convey the idea by means of crude mime in the first likely-looking shop they came across. They had found somewhere that looked like it might stock such things only a couple of streets from the hotel, but still, John felt awkward, soft, in his wide-legged trousers. He was glad to see that Paul was apparently better at miming than he was at French, the shop assistant making a triumphal sound of understanding and scurrying away to fetch the desired item.

\"Thank God for that,\" John muttered as they strode out of the shop, purchase completed. \"I feel like I'm wearing a fuckin' skirt, here. We must look like right sissies.\"

\"Everyone's wearing them here,\" Paul reminded him, although he conceded, \"They do swish though, don't they? Getting all tangled up between my feet when I move.\"

\"Good thing I've got a little housewife with me to fix 'em up, then, isn't it?\" John elbowed Paul in the side, feeling, for a moment, the old casual camaraderie, the ability to touch Paul whenever he wanted to and not want to touch him in ways he shouldn't.

Then Paul smiled back, and John felt himself wanting stupidly to put an arm around his waist, and the moment was gone. Jesus fucking Christ.

In the hotel room, Paul took charge, directing John down onto the narrow little bed as he opened the sewing kit. \"Sit.\"

\"Here?\"

Paul shrugged. \"Nowhere else, is there? Just -- hang on --\" Paul perched on the edge of the bed and patted his thigh. \"Put your foot in my lap and I'll pin up this leg, then we can swap over and I'll do the other one.\"

\"Have you ever done this before?\" John asked with one eyebrow arched as he put his foot into Paul's lap, who ran a fingertip along the seam and took a closer look at it.

\"Not a whole job like this,\" Paul confessed with a little smile, \"But there's always a first time, isn't there?\"

With a grunt and a roll of his eyes, John decided to keep quiet and let Paul do his work. He didn't want him to mess it up, after all.

The minutes ticked away and John watched with vague fascination how quick and nimble Paul's fingers were, how he effortlessly cut open the seam and took measure so that the trouser leg was now fitting snugly against John's leg without being too tight. He was more than careful not to accidentally hurt John with the scissors or the needles. When it was time for Paul to take care of the second leg, he moved from the bed down onto the floor, and continued his work. Soon enough it was time for John to take off his trousers so Paul could continue fixing them properly. At that moment, John could have sworn that Paul's cheeks were slightly pink, but Paul had turned his head away, making it difficult to be sure. It took Paul quite a while to finish up the trousers, but Paul didn't seem annoyed at having to do it. John, for his part, didn't particularly mind watching.

When it was time to try them on again, Paul knelt before John and tugged a bit at the newly stitched hem of each trouser leg, looking up at John with questioning eyes. \"Not too tight?\"

John sat down on the bed, testing, and when the seams held, Paul beamed at him, proud of his work. All John had wanted to say at that moment was thank you<\/i>. But something in Paul's relieved expression had him leaning forward instead, made him cup his friends face.

\"Johnny?\" Paul asked, voice weak and eyebrows knit in worry.

But John only leaned in and pressed his lips gently to Paul's forehead. The other tensed up instantly, not daring to move.

\"John...?\" Paul repeated, this time even lower and it was the tone of Paul's voice that snapped John back into reality.

He quickly jerked away from the other boy and stared at him with wide eyes, his shock at his own actions written all over his face.

\"Are you okay...?\" Gently, Paul placed a hand upon John's knee as he leaned in towards him, and John couldn't stand looking into those big eyes that watched him so attentively.

Christ, when had he come over so bloody queer all of a sudden? He'd sat with Paul in countless tiny rooms, on countless tiny beds, even, and never had this sort of a reaction to Paul's hand on him, Paul's soft face and softer mouth. Fuck, and John knew just how soft it really was, now, didn't he? That was the problem; that was what was behind all this. Paul had bloody kissed him, pissed out of his head, and now it was little more than a blur to Paul, but to John it was becoming uncomfortably more with every day that passed.

\"Leave it, Paul.\" He didn't mean to be curt, but his heart felt thunderous in his chest as he jerked away from Paul's hand and stood. The look of hurt on Paul's face made John's chest twist, but that was all the more bloody reason, wasn't it -- to get away? He couldn't stay here with Paul, not when every fibre of his body was still straining towards him, his lips tingling where they'd touched Paul's skin, craving more of him.

Fucking hell. John had to get out now, clear his head before this got any more out of control. They'd just been cooped up, that was all, and John had been over thinking and all he needed --

\"John, what the hell's the matter?\" Paul was getting up too, now, reaching for John's arm, and that was it; John needed to be alone to figure this out and he wasn't going to get that, apparently, as long as he was in the hotel with Paul.

He took a step back, made a grab for his jacket. \"Lay off me, Macca, all right?\"

He made for the door. Behind him, Paul's voice became more strident, confused: \"What the -- where are you going?\"

He hated leaving Paul like this; wasn't Paul's fault after all...except for the parts that were his fault, except for that bleeding kiss that fucked him up in the first place. If John had to go and walk this out of his system, well, Paul could bloody well just sit and stew about what was going on.

\"Out,\" John said firmly, \"just -- out, all right?\" And he slammed the door as he left.

***","comments":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/158507.html?view=comments#comments","category":["the beatles","pairing: john\/paul","fic","backwards traveller"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/158244.html","pubDate":"Tue, 14 May 2013 22:18:03 GMT","title":"[The Beatles] Fic: Backwards Traveller [4\/?], John\/Paul (PG-13)","author":"obstinatrix","link":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/158244.html","description":"Title<\/b>: Backwards Traveller
Rating<\/b>: Eventual NC-17, this chapter PG-13
Pairing<\/b>: John\/Paul
Authors<\/b>: <\/a>tini_91<\/b><\/a><\/span> and <\/a>obstinatrix<\/b><\/a><\/span>
Summary\/Notes<\/b>: New York in the late 70s feels like a world away from Europe almost two decades earlier, but when John settles down to write some more of his short 'fiction', he finds that, frankly, he misses Paris. This is 1961, in retrospective. We were also quite inspired by this clip<\/a>, where John talks about being inspired by the romance of Paris. This is just a short little bit. :)




If it hadn't been for John, Paul would never have been able to get back to their hotel room, especially not without any bruises. Walking home proved to be a bigger challenge than either boy would have expected. John, shoulders braced against the weight of Paul leaning heavily upon him, practically carried him most of the way. Whenever they passed a couple in the street in the act of holding hands or sneaking a kiss, Paul loudly declared that John was his. John wasn't sure what he might have meant at that point. Eventually, he hissed at Paul to shut up, but Paul only looked back at him with his big doe eyes and a stupid grin.

\"Isn't it true, Johnny? You're mine... And I'm yours, yeah?\"

\"Best mates, yes,\" John emphasised with a grumble, tightening his hold around Paul's waist when he felt his grasp beginning to slip. \"Come on, son, get a grip. We're almost there.\"

\"M'trying,\" Paul whined. The rest of the way back, he relentlessly continued to tell John that they were best friends, always would be; how much John meant to Paul. Comments like \"Fuck Stuart Cuntcliffe,\" peppered the conversation at regular intervals.

John only sighed in relief when he finally could open the door to their hotel room and put Paul to bed -- which proved to be a terrible struggle. Paul was hardly able to stand upright, flopping down onto the mattress almost immediately and leaving John to the task of yanking Paul's tight drainies off him, an operation that always felt not unlike peeling a banana. After Paul had, with an effort, skinned out of his jumper and t-shirt, John handed him his pyjamas, grousing, \"This is worse than babysitting Jacqui and Julia.\"

\"You love them,\" Paul protested loudly, flapping a hand about on the mattress.

It took all the strength John had not to roll his eyes. \"Yes, Paul. Now, come on, love, get these on.\" Taking the pyjama shirt from Paul's limp hands, John began stuffing Paul's arms into it as if he were dressing a doll. Paul certainly seemed to have no intention of actually putting the thing on himself.

\"You love me<\/i>,\" Paul declared, rather triumphantly, and beamed at John.

\"Jesus Christ,\" John muttered through his teeth. Paul could be an impossible drunk, all smiles and overloud voice, but he'd never been quite so openly demonstrative in the past. Reminding himself that Paul didn't know what he was doing, could hardly tell his arse from his elbow at the moment and wasn't to be blamed, John said, \"That's right, mate. Now pull these up, c'mon.\" He slapped Paul's thigh and Paul giggled, but obediently hauled his pyjama bottoms up another couple of inches from where John had decorously left them just above his knees. When they were clinging precariously to his hipbones, Paul flopped onto his side abruptly on the bed and closed his eyes, as if to go immediately to sleep.

\"Oh, no you don't.\" John was more than a little drunk himself, but Paul was fucking out of it<\/i>. If he let Paul pass out on top of the covers like this, they'd both end up kipping in the cold all night and then Paul would complain in the morning, not to mention they'd probably have frozen their bollocks off by then. \"Here.\" John dragged the blankets out from underneath Paul's body, manhandled him further towards one side of the mattress and then covered him with the bedclothes. \"Now go to sleep.\"

\"Sleep with<\/i> me,\" Paul protested, although his eyes were closed already.

\"Aye, in a second,\" John reassured him, as he got into his own pyjamas. \"Move your fat arse.\"

Paul hummed against the pillow and, when John slipped under the covers to bracket the curve of Paul's body, Paul's hand groped blindly behind himself for John's arm, pulling it around himself. When Paul's fingers slipped between John's, John told himself it was just the drink, and there was no point in arguing when they'd be asleep in a few minutes anyway. The fact that it also felt quite nice was just a product of the fact that John was quite drunk, too.

\"G'night, Paul,\" he said against Paul's shoulder, as he closed his eyes.

\"Mmm,\" Paul said, or something like it. His fingers twitched in John's, squeezing, and then were still for a moment. But just as John could feel himself on the edge of sleep, Paul withdrew his hand and squirmed around, fussing about as if to get comfortable. John sighed. Paul always did faff around a lot before he decided he was comfortable enough to sleep -- John had hoped the alcohol might have put paid to that, but apparently not.

\"Better?\" John muttered pointedly, when Paul had finally settled with his hand under his cheek and his face almost touching John's on the narrow pillow.

\"Yeah,\" Paul said. It was too dark to see his face properly, but John could feel him smiling all the same; could just make out the white line of his teeth. \"Goodnight, Johnny.\"

And then Paul leaned in. Not quickly, certainly not too fast for John to have moved away, but as Paul's mouth sought his again, John felt immobilised, breath catching in his throat. Paul's mouth gave softly against John's own, scratch of stubble just detectable above the curve of his lip, and John couldn't help but part his lips unconsciously, letting Paul closer. Paul made a pleased sound in his throat, kissed John again -- and again. Then his tongue brushed against John's, wet and tentative and John felt a shudder rip through him from head to toe. He yanked his mouth back, blinking, but Paul seemed not to have noticed his alarm.

\"Sleep tight,\" Paul said, and closed his eyes.

John's mind, as best as it could what with all the beer it was fighting against, was whirling. Paul was -- this<\/i> was -- they'd been drunk together on plenty of occasions and never ended up like this. Of course, Paris was a weird place, a sort of catalyst, John didn't doubt, but the fact remained that his body was warm all over and his blood felt thick and slow, pounding all over his body, because of Paul. Paul, his best mate; Paul, some other lad. John swallowed.

\"Paul?\" he ventured, cautiously.

But Paul, it seemed, was already asleep, and part of John, as he closed his eyes, was almost relieved not to have to confront this now; relieved that there would be time to reconsider. But as he drifted off, John found himself wondering how much of tonight Paul would even remember -- and worse, how much John would.

***

Exhaling slowly, John frowned a little as he woke up, feeling rays of sunshine tickle his eyelashes. When he opened his eyes, he found himself face to face with Paul, who was blinking sleepily back at him, rubbing one of his eyes with the heel of his hand.

\"Mornin'...\" Paul mumbled, attempting a smile.

John found himself smiling back before the memories of last night suddenly came crushing down on him and something strange overcame him. He inched a bit away from Paul, as well as he could within the limited space of their bed, while Paul watched him with a bemused smile, eyebrows arched. That look only made John recoil even more, a shiver running down his spine, and he sat up quickly. Looking anywhere but at Paul, fingers combing through his hair, he cleared his throat. \"Did you sleep well?\"

\"I -- uh...Y-yeah, I suppose so. Didn't really notice anything...\" John could see the very moment at which Paul realised what he had done last night. It would have been almost comical, the way his eyes widened and the way his mouth shaped a little pink 'o', and John would have laughed at him under different circumstances, but right now, they both fell into a brief awkward silence, not looking at each other until Paul coughed a little.

\"Did you sleep well, too?\" he asked cautiously, scratching his arm as he shot John a shy glance.

\"Yeah, slept like a baby.\" John smiled back, that kind of tight-lipped smile that only showed all too well that he didn't feel like smiling at all. With an exaggerated, \"All right then!\" he got up from the bed and quickly collected his clothes, feeling Paul's intent look burning into his neck. \"I'll go to the bathroom first, okay?\"

Paul nodded at him, still sitting in bed. \"Okay,\" he replied quietly, and John could have sworn that he breathed a sigh of relief when he realised they weren't going to talk about what had happened the night before.

When John emerged from the bathroom fifteen minutes later -- hair combed, body hastily scrubbed, clothes on -- he felt more himself, more composed, as if the act of tidying himself up had had some effect on the state of his nerves as well. It was all going wonderfully -- he was just congratulating himself on having moved beyond the strange awkward feeling -- until he spotted Paul, perched on the end of the bed in his trousers and boots, shirt clutched in his two hands and his torso bare.

The awkwardness of the situation was clearly not lost on Paul. His little smile was strained as he said, \"My turn, then?\" and got up, moving past John so quickly he almost blurred as he disappeared into the bathroom and slammed the door.

Shaken, John sat down hard on the bed Paul had just vacated, running his hands through his hair. Christ, he needed to get a hold of himself. It wasn't as if he and Paul hadn't seen each other in every state of undress there was; it wasn't as if it should matter<\/i>, for fuck's sake, just because they'd drunkenly had their tongues in each other's mouths. For a second<\/i>. They were still mates, still two lads, and there was nothing about Paul's naked body to draw John's interest any road. They just had to get back to normal, and stop thinking about this, and move the hell on.

In this spirit, John was rather short with Paul when he came out of the bathroom a few minutes later, hair damp and t-shirt slightly askew at the neck.

\"We told J\u00fcrgen we'd meet him, remember?\" he said, picking up his coat and tossing Paul's across the room for its owner to catch. \"So we'd best be going.\"

***","comments":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/158244.html?view=comments#comments","category":["the beatles","pairing: john\/paul","fic","backwards traveller"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/158138.html","pubDate":"Sun, 12 May 2013 22:04:52 GMT","title":"[The Beatles] Fic: Backwards Traveller [3\/?], John\/Paul (PG-13)","author":"obstinatrix","link":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/158138.html","description":"Title<\/b>: Backwards Traveller
Rating<\/b>: Eventual NC-17, this chapter PG-13
Pairing<\/b>: John\/Paul
Authors<\/b>: <\/a>tini_91<\/b><\/a><\/span> and <\/a>obstinatrix<\/b><\/a><\/span>
Summary\/Notes<\/b>: New York in the late 70s feels like a world away from Europe almost two decades earlier, but when John settles down to write some more of his short 'fiction', he finds that, frankly, he misses Paris. This is 1961, in retrospective. We were also quite inspired by this clip<\/a>, where John talks about being inspired by the romance of Paris.




Somehow, five minutes had turned into two and a half hours, and when Paul woke up, it was only because John was gently poking his cheek. Furrowing his brows in mild irritation, Paul grunted in reply and burrowed deeper into the pillow.

\"Wake up, Paul,\" he heard John saying softly as he poked his cheek once more. It wasn't until he opened his eyes that Paul realised how close John's face was or the entangled position they were lying in - Paul's arms around John's middle, one leg tucked between John's thighs. Apparently, John was feeling equally aware of the embarrassing snugness of their position, to judge by the light blush that stained his cheeks.

\"What time is it?\" Paul asked, voice slightly raspy. He figured it was better not to mention their sleeping positions.

John craned his neck as he reached over Paul for his watch and glasses on their bedside table. \"Half past six,\" he said. \"Christ, it got late quick, didn't it?\"

\"Mh-hm,\" Paul agreed. He didn't know why he hadn't untangled himself from John, and surprisingly, it seemed as if John didn't want to give up on it quite yet either. Once he had put the watch back on the table, he slipped his arm underneath their shared blanket and put it around Paul.

\"I'm cold,\" he quickly clarified, and Paul smiled back at him.

\"It is a bit chilly,\" he agreed affably. He didn't really want to think too much about why he was so ready to agree if it meant they could stay in this warm cocoon a little longer, but he was.

\"That's what comes of being born in October, I suppose,\" John declared, yawning. His arm felt sturdy and comfortable around Paul's body, and Paul snuggled unconsciously closer into the embrace.

\"Bad timing on your part, really. Should've come out in August or something instead.\"

\"Wasn't ready yet, was I?\" The rim of John's spectacles was digging slightly into Paul's cheek as he shifted, but Paul couldn't bring himself to complain. John might pull back then, and this was so unusually comfortable. \"Greatness like this takes time, son.\"

\"Oh, aye.\" But Paul was smiling. \"Does your greatness have any plans for the evening?\"

\"Late enough to go out, now, isn't it?\" John pointed out. \"Could see what Montmartre has to offer by way of birds? I could do with a good shag, I can tell you that.\"

John shifted slightly, his body slim and warm in Paul's arms, and Paul felt a mildly disturbing frisson of heat in his abdomen. \"Yeah,\" he conceded quickly, \"me as well. Definitely.\"

\"Mmm, I know,\" John said, \"You were the one who spotted those whores first the other day, weren't you?\"

Paul could hear the teasing smile in John's voice, expecting Paul to groan or make some other sign of annoyance. But instead, Paul only grinned back, nudging John's foot with his. \"Ah, come on, John, it's not as if you'd say no to them if they offered you a free shag. It's not my fault you've got the eyesight of a bleedin' mole; course I spotted them first.\"

\"If they<\/i> offer me<\/i> a free shag, you can be bloody sure there's something wrong about it, son.\" John scrunched up his nose, causing Paul to laugh softly. \"They've probably got some nasty disease and want to drag you down as well so you can face living hell together.\"

\"Right, and then you'll live happily ever after, eh?\"

\"Yeah. You, your wife and your lovely pet crabs.\"

\"Mmm, sounds like heaven.\" John was grinning, and Paul couldn't help but grin back. Only now Paul became aware of John's hand on his back, between his shoulder blades, and how it was drawing slow, lazy circles.

Paul's eyes sought out John's face, his smile suddenly catching, holding oddly. John was looking back at him, smiling too, but the silence between them stretched on just a second too long, John's hand still moving slowly, and when Paul finally cleared his throat, he could hear the stupid bloody quiver in his voice. \"Wish it wasn't so bloody cold out there, though.\"

\"Hardly want to get up, do you?\" John tossed back affably, and Paul relaxed, relieved at the unconcern in John's voice, smoothing over the brief moment of awkwardness. \"Shame we can't just order a couple of girls on the telephone, so we wouldn't have to get out of bed.\"

\"One day,\" Paul said firmly, \"when we're famous. Then we'll never have to get out of bed just to get shagged again.\"

\"Pity today isn't that day.\" John wiggled his eyebrows, his cold fingers teasing at the hem of Paul's shirt, and Paul's eyes widened, both feet shooting out on instinct to kick John wherever was convenient.

\"Oy, don't you fucking -- John<\/i> --\"

\"Ooh, he's after me precious treasures!\" John bemoaned in his best camp falsetto, pouncing on Paul two-handed, tickling. Paul batted him off as best he could and slid out from under the covers into the chilly air of the bedroom, still bent half double and giggling.

\"You're a fucking menace, you know that?\"

\"Got you out of bed, didn't it?\" John smirked and tossed the covers back. \"Right. Outside kit on, and let's find the nearest bar to warm up with a few beers first, what do you say?\"

\"Sounds good,\" Paul said, hopping on one leg as he hauled his skintight drainies back on. \"There's got to be somewhere nice around here.\"

**

As it turned out, there looked to be quite a lot of nice places, for a certain value of 'nice'. John and Paul, after all their months on the Reeperbahn, were used to more flashing lights and gaudiness; this place had a sort of artistic seediness that appealed to them, smoke drifting out of the darkened doors of bar after bar along the main street.

\"That one?\" Paul nodded towards a dimly lit bar that looked more like a restaurant than anything else. But John only shrugged his shoulders, mumbling \"Sure,\" and pushed Paul towards the entrance.

When they were inside, John squinted his eyes while Paul looked around, trying to find a free table. He nudged John's side once he had spotted a corner and beckoned the other to follow him.

With much reluctance, John took out his glasses when he was finally seated across from Paul next to a window. They had a good view of the street and were even able to spot the basilica in the distance.

\"S'nice,\" John ventured after a while, shrugging out of his jacket.

\"Yeah, it's marvellous, isn't it?\" Paul smiled back at him before he looked out of the window again, eyes absent-mindedly tracking the various passers-by on the pavement outside.

\"Hopefully the French birds are just as grand.\" John waggled his eyebrows, earning a slight chuckle and a headshake from Paul.

Not even five minutes passed before a waitress approached. Somehow, despite the woman's broken English and John's terrible French, they managed to order two beers, but just when John was about to make an attempt at flirting with her, something distracted the girl's attention -- a couple newly arrived at the entrance -- and she lifted her arm, ushering a colleague in their direction. And that was the moment when John's features slipped and Paul's eyes widened in surprise.

As soon as the waitress left them alone, John leaned over to Paul and hissed, \"Did you fucking see that? She's got a bleedin' jungle underneath her armpits!\"

\"John, shut up!\" But Paul was still craning his neck to follow the waitress as she walked off, the shadow beneath the pale curve of her arm drawing his eyes. \"It's just -- French, I s'pose.\"

\"It's weird,\" John said, wrinkling his nose, although Paul couldn't help but notice that he was still watching the girl's arse as she retreated to the kitchen, the sway of her waist in her neat little frock.

\"Well...it's natural, isn't it?\" Paul pointed out, playing devil's advocate, and there did seem something strangely fascinating about it here, in Paris, whereas in Liverpool it would just have seemed uncouth. Here, it made him uncomfortable, but not altogether in a bad way.

\"I hope the prozzies shave,\" John declared, unrelenting. \"Birds should have hair between their legs and on their heads and that's all.\"

\"So nice of you to decide for them,\" Paul said. He wondered whether this was how most girls in France went about things, dark and untamed under their clothes. He wasn't sure whether the thought left him more excited or disgusted. It was some strange combination of the two. He himself had been embarrassed when he entered puberty and developed a veritable forest on his arms and legs, his dark hair and pale skin conspiring against him. John, meanwhile, looked almost hairless naked, slim and pale and --

God, why was Paul thinking about this? John's smooth chest, the brown-gold hair on his arms and sparse on his thighs...these were not things Paul ought to have been contemplating in a fucking Parisian nightclub. Jungle under her arms or not, a girl was a girl.

All the while, he had been staring at John as he continued to ramble on about women and armpit hair in general. It wasn't until John muttered, fag lit up and dangling from the corner of his mouth, \"You might as well shag a bloke as a girl like that. I mean, what's the fuckin' point? If you want hairy armpits, you might as well fool around with someone with a dick.\"

\"You what?\" Paul blinked, not trusting his ears.

John gave him a funny look in return, exhaling the smoke slowly through his parted lips. \"I said I'd rather shag a bloke than fuck a bird with a carpet underneath her arms.\" And then he added more hesitantly, \"Wouldn't you?\"

\"I... I...\" Lost for words, Paul looked around, anywhere but at John, feeling the blood rushing up to his face. If only he hadn't thought of John's smooth, hairless skin. \"Maybe,\" he said quietly after a while. Thankfully, John let the topic rest, seemingly, as he only looked at Paul pensively, eventually turning his head to look out of the window with a soft sigh.

God, but Paul wished John hadn't said that. Before, his thoughts had been idle, in passing, but now John had voiced them and Paul found his own mind tripping back to the way John's mouth looked, soft and parted as he tracked the movements of people in and out of the restaurant, or the way he held his head, the line of his jaw. Things, in short, that he wouldn't have thought twice about before, but --

Fuck John, anyway. Paul cleared his throat and kicked his foot against John's ankle. \"Oy.\"

\"Mmm?\" John shot a curious glance back Paul's way. \"What was that for? Getting violent in your old age?\"

\"No, I just --\" Paul shook his head and looked over in the direction of the street. \"I don't know if this is the right kind of place, you know?\"

\"For what?\" John raised an eyebrow. \"Shaggable birds? Look over there, son.\" He nodded his head in the direction of the dance floor.

In the centre of the restaurant, there was a little hollowed-out space where a few tables had been pushed aside to make room -- not much room, but enough for a few couples to dance in. In the middle of it, two very lovely girls were dancing with each other, all long bare legs and carefully demarcated brows. Their hands were dainty on each other's waists, and Paul could feel himself grinning as he looked back to John.

\"Look like they could do with some male company, don't they?\" John remarked, smirking. \"We should go over and be gentlemen, Paulie. Entertain them while we're waiting for our stuff to come.\"

Relief crossed Paul's features and he followed suit when John got up, combing his hair back and fixing his clothes as they slowly made their way over to the girls. They briefly looked over, and when they returned Paul's hesitant smile, all thoughts of John's mouth and body he might have had previously flew out of the window. He was as straight as an arrow. So was John. These girls just proved it.

\"Bonjour, ladies,\" John grinned as he approached them, voice smooth and flirtatious. \"Can I get you a drink?\"

The two girls looked back at him in slight confusion. \"Nous ne parlons pas Anglais,\" one of them said, shrugging helplessly.

John glanced at Paul as if to ask what to do now, and Paul, working on impulse, began to make wild gestures, indicating -- or so he hoped -- that he and John would very much like to buy the girls a drink and get to know them better. At first, it seemed to be working, since the two girls started to giggle -- probably because of the weird faces Paul pulled -- but when they linked hands and politely shook their heads, the two boys were dumbfounded.

\"Pourquoi?\" John asked, trying hard not to sound too desperate. He understood, though, when one girl lifted the other's hand up to her mouth and kissed it. \"Oh.\"

\"Oh?\" The penny might have dropped for John, but Paul was still more than a little confused. \"We c --\"

\"Paul,\" John said pointedly, cutting him off as he took hold of Paul's elbow and steered him away from the two girls, \"I don't think they've got much interest, son.\"

\"But why?\" Paul furrowed his brow. \"Is it our hair, d'you think? We have been getting some funny looks since we got here, you know.\"

\"Not because of our hair, you nit,\" John said, \"although you might have a point there, but --\" He sighed exasperatedly and gestured back towards the girls. \"Look at them.\"

Paul looked. The two girls had resumed dancing together, their arms around each other. For a moment, Paul remained unenlightened -- it was common enough to see girls dancing together in clubs, especially if there were more girls than lads in the population that night -- but then the taller girl's hand shifted tellingly down over the curve of the other's backside through her dress, and Paul looked away immediately, cheeks flushing. \"Shit.\"

\"Got it now?\" Back at their table now, John sat down and gestured for Paul to do the same.

\"They don't look like...\" Paul trailed off, biting his lip. John shrugged.

\"Everyone in this bleedin' city's beautiful, far as I can see. Anyway it's not like we know many to compare. I suppose you get a lot in arty districts, don't you? Seems to run in artistic circles, you know...bein' queer.\"

John had ducked his head and was fumbling for his cigarettes, but Paul couldn't help but think there was a little bit of discomfort in John's face now, the same way that there was in his own. They were artistic types, after all, weren't they? But they had seen a lot of it, a lot more than usual, in places where artists and musicians and whatnot hung out. Shadows of Paul's earlier thoughts crept back over him, and Paul shook them away. \"Remember ol' Royston Ellis?\" he ventured.

John laughed shortly. \"Yeah, full of shit, he was. Come on, son, never mind, eh?\" He smoothed his hair back one-handed and cleared his throat. \"We'll eat a bit, and knock a few pints back, and then try somewhere else.\"

But somehow their beer didn't taste as good any more, and neither did their meal, which arrived shortly after they had got back to their table. The thoughts in Paul's head were simply too distracting. It didn't take him long before he lost his appetite and solely concentrated on drinking.

\"You don't want that any more?\" John asked with his mouth full, pointing with his fork at Paul's half-eaten plate.

\"No, you can have it.\" With a sigh, Paul pushed his dish towards John who looked at him with a frown.

\"Everything okay?\" The tone of his voice was hesitant, which made Paul look up at him.

\"Yeah, why?\"

\"Dunno. You tell me. You seem a bit off, s'all...\"

\"I'm fine,\" Paul insisted and emptied his beer. \"Can I have another one?\"

John glanced from the empty beer glass to Paul's face, looking slightly sceptical. \"What happened to trying somewhere else for talent?\"

Paul shrugged. \"It's warm in here. Anyway, if we can have a couple more before we go, we'll be braver at pulling 'em, won't we?\"

\"Like you ever have a problem with that,\" John snorted, but he flagged down the waitress dutifully. \"Um. Deux bieres? Encore?\"

\"I don't think that was right,\" Paul said, laughing a little. \"The look on her face...\"

\"Oh, shut up, it's better than your lousy French, isn't it, eh?\" John sat back in his chair and drained the last of his own beer. \"One more. Then we'll go.\"

***

Three beers later found them still at the same little table, although their attitudes were rather sloppier now, legs loosely wide and John's hands gesticulating wildly as he recounted some tale of idiocy in Hamburg, while Paul giggled to himself, chin in hand. John was funny when he was impassioned. Or perhaps it was just that he was funny when Paul was drunk. Either way, John seemed very funny right now, and Paul felt warm and buzzing from the beer and he suddenly loved John very much. John was a good friend. John was his best<\/i> friend, and all at once it seemed important to tell him so.

\"We're best mates, aren't we, Johnny?\" Paul broke in over whatever John was saying.

John didn't seem terribly upset at being interrupted. He smiled back, eyes a bit dreamy behind his glasses. \"Yeah, I reckon we are.\"

\"'nother beer?\" It was getting a bit late to be trying to pick up lasses, and maybe...just maybe...they were getting a bit drunk, too, but Paul felt he wasn't all that bothered after all, now. Beer seemed a better idea.

\"Grand idea, Macca. I'll go and get us some.\"

With a wink, John got up and disappeared in the small crowd of people in front of the bar. Paul watched him with a slightly dim-witted smile, head still propped up on his hand. Drowsiness was slowly kicking in and Paul began to wonder if he would be able to walk back to their hotel at all. Right now, he didn't feel like moving. John would probably have to drag him to bed, just like he had done so many times before.

\"Jesus,\" he cursed under his breath as he realised his own choice of words in his thoughts.

He wouldn't drag you to bed. He'd only bring you home. Like a mate.<\/i>

From the corner of his eye, he noticed that the two girls from earlier had just left the bar and were outside on the street, where they paused, apparently to kiss each other goodnight. Maybe it was Paul's sick fascination and curiosity, maybe it was pure horror, but he watched them attentively all the while, the background noises and other people slowly fading out from his attention. An elbow nudging his shoulder snapped him back to reality.

\"Anything interesting out there?\" John grinned down at him as he handed Paul his beer.

Paul tore his eyes away guiltily. He wasn't sure why he should feel guilty -- he wasn't intruding on anything private, after all; or if it was private, then they shouldn't have been at it in the bloody street. But it looked<\/i> very private, the way the girls' mouths lingered on each other, everything about it strange and yet oddly complementary. They made dirty postcards of stuff like that, Paul knew well enough that plenty of men were into it. He'd just never had the opportunity to judge this for himself before, and it made him feel...strange. Somehow, he didn't want John to see it; was afraid of what might happen if he did.

Apparently, though, he was too late.

\"Bloody hell,\" John said, sounding rather awed as he set the beers down and peered out into the street.

\"I know,\" Paul started to say, but then John broke in: \"Look, our mademoiselles have got boyfriends after all, eh?\"

Paul looked over to see what he was talking about -- and immediately wished he hadn't.

Christ, it was even worse now. The girls had been joined by a couple of boys with the longish hair and wide trousers they'd seen a lot of in Paris. It would have been humiliating enough to see the boys begin kissing the girls, indicating that their disinterest in Paul and John had actually been to do with their out-of-place hair and clothes after all. But Paul would rather have seen that than this: the way the two boys leaned in easily towards each other, arms encircling each other's shoulders, mouths meeting. It wasn't a soft kiss, either, the friendly sort the French exchanged in greeting. It was a proper kiss, open-mouthed, and as Paul watched, he could see the shine of the lamplight on the wetness of their tongues, meeting between their lips. It was a lovers' kiss, two fucking lads<\/i>, in the street<\/i>, where anyone could see. As if they had no shame.

The pit of Paul's stomach felt suddenly full of butterflies. He couldn't look at John. He turned quickly and picked up his beer instead, heart pounding.

\"Interesting nightlife around here,\" John commented, pulling his chair a little closer to Paul's. \"Always snogging each other's faces off all over the shop, aren't they, French people?\"

\"I...yeah,\" Paul said, feeling strained. John nodded and took a sip of his beer.

\"More over there, look.\" He pointed, and Paul was relieved to see a boy and a girl standing under a tree, engaged in a passionate tryst.

\"Seen worse in Hamburg,\" he pointed out, and John laughed.

\"Aye, but it's different, here. Romantic, if you know what I mean.\"

And, stupid as it sounded, Paul did.

\"Christ, those two blokes are still going at it.\" John chuckled into his beer. Inching his chair closer, he put an arm around Paul and leaned back with a sigh. Paul only swallowed hard.

\"Well, if they like it...\" Paul said quietly, trailing off with a wave of his hand.

John hummed in reply, and somehow Paul could feel the vibration of it resonating through John's body to his own. He shifted a bit underneath John's arm, not quite sure whether to lean in further against his friend or to shrug him off. The decision was taken from Paul when John put his glass back on the table and leaned into Paul, getting into a more comfortable position. They stayed like this for quite a while, each of them lost in their own little world. Paul dimly registered that John's fingers were pressing gently into his bicep, then moved in small caresses -- just like when they had been in bed earlier. Without a word, he emptied his beer in a few gulps, wiped his mouth and allowed himself to lean into John completely. With a numb mind like this, practically paralysed, he tended to lose all inhibition. But John didn't mind. Neither did he drop some witty remark when Paul leaned his head onto John's shoulder and closed his eyes.

\"Just give me five minutes,\" he mumbled, voice almost sleepy, \"just need to rest my eyes for a while.\"

The soft chuckle in John's chest caused a warm, comforting feeling which spread throughout Paul's body. \"You lightweight,\" John murmured in a teasing tone against the side of his head, \"Always been one.\"

\"Shut up, John.\"

Surprisingly, he did. The street was not quiet at this time of night, but there was something soothing about the low buzz of music and foreign chatter, and Paul found himself dozing off in the shelter of John's arm. When he blinked awake, John was half-laughing at him, giving him a quietly amused sidelong glance, but he hadn't moved. The motions of his chest as he breathed were still palpable against Paul's body, lulling, reassuring even while something about the closeness made Paul thrill even under the haze of drunkenness.

\"Do you need to be put to bed, princess?\" John teased, nudging Paul with his shoulder.

Paul blinked, feeling things out. He didn't feel so sleepy any more; his brief doze seemed to have taken the edge off the overwhelming pull towards unconsciousness. He turned his head, frowning slightly. \"How long was I asleep?\"

\"Just five minutes or so,\" John assured him. \"Don't worry, mate, I had plenty to occupy me, didn't I?\" He laughed and nodded towards the street. \"City of Love, eh?\"

Paul turned his head and looked. There were more boys, now; two tall figures could be seen in the circle of light that spilled out beneath a nearby lamppost, the taller of the two steadying his companion's jaw as they kissed. The original couple had slipped away into the shadows of Montmartre, but when Paul forced his eyes to focus, he found he could detect more pairs, holding hands, leaning together against walls. Probably, John couldn't even see so far without his glasses. The discomfort that Paul had felt before seemed to have melted away, either because of tiredness or the beer or the hour, he couldn't say, but it looked...idyllic. Still odd, but in the way that all foreign cities are odd: strange, but in its place, right. John's breath was warm against the side of Paul's face. In the distance, the taller boy pulled his friend closer beneath the lamp post and Paul heard himself make a tiny sound, turned his face unconsciously.

\"John.\"

It wasn't a kiss, not exactly. Just a rolling into each other, Paul's parted lips bumping against John's and John's clinging for a moment, parting again, closing. John's mouth was softer than Paul had expected -- if he'd expected anything.

\"Whoa, Paul.\" John's hands settled on Paul's shoulders, holding him off, and Paul felt a little wave of disappointment. John wasn't disgusted, Paul could tell as much. The resistance had not been immediate, it wasn't violent, Paul was still leaning against John's chest and he couldn't see, now, why they shouldn't do what everybody else was doing. Unthinking, he moved towards John again, but John stood them both up forcibly, hooked his arm around Paul's waist, and Paul found, now asked to stand on his feet, that he was drunker than he'd thought.

\"Shit,\" he murmured, swaying against John, \"'m a bit fuckin' pissed.\"

\"Too right, son,\" John said, rolling his eyes. His face was a little pink. It was probably the beer. \"Come on. Let's get you home.\"

***

John took his glasses off and set them down on the desk, smiling wryly to himself as he rubbed at the bridge of his nose. Paul had always been such a fucking lightweight, bloody shameful for a lad with such thoroughly Irish roots. Was he still? Before Paris, there'd usually been somebody else around when they'd got drunk together, Stu or George or one of the Petes or all of them at once. This night was the first time John had realised quite how...affectionate<\/i> Paul could get when even the slightest bit intoxicated.

What had seemed very much endearing to John at first, had proven to be a problem for both Paul and him in later years. If John wasn't careful, and Paul had drunk more than usual on tour or at parties where all of the music business's fucking royalty had been around, Paul would sometimes try to sneak kisses whilst giggling like a teenage girl.

With a shake of his head, John recalled one time, must have been during their first America tour (Cyn had already gone to bed), when Paul had crawled into John's lap and rested his head on his shoulder while the others stared at them in amusement. Only Brian had eyed them with an arched eyebrow, but John had saved the situation by putting on his granny voice and rocking Paul back and forth like a child.

Would Paul still act that way, John wondered, with enough alcohol in him? He was all grown up now, after all, with fifty million children and 500 albums -- or was it the other way round? Not that John was ever likely to get Paul into a situation like that ever again. The more time passed, the more uncomfortably aware he was that this was his own fault.

Sighing, he pushed his chair back and tried to put the thought of it out of his mind. He'd felt Paul's drunken caresses for the last time. There was no sense in dwelling on it.

**","comments":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/158138.html?view=comments#comments","category":["the beatles","pairing: john\/paul","fic","backwards traveller"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/157848.html","pubDate":"Fri, 10 May 2013 22:29:17 GMT","title":"[The Beatles] Fic: Backwards Traveller [2\/?], John\/Paul (PG-13)","author":"obstinatrix","link":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/157848.html","description":"Title<\/b>: Backwards Traveller
Rating<\/b>: Eventual NC-17, this chapter PG-13
Pairing<\/b>: John\/Paul
Authors<\/b>: <\/a>tini_91<\/b><\/a><\/span> and <\/a>obstinatrix<\/b><\/a><\/span>
Summary\/Notes<\/b>: New York in the late 70s feels like a world away from Europe almost two decades earlier, but when John settles down to write some more of his short 'fiction', he finds that, frankly, he misses Paris. This is 1961, in retrospective. We were also quite inspired by this clip<\/a>, where John talks about being inspired by the romance of Paris.



It was easier said than done to find something to eat. With loudly grumbling stomachs they went through the streets, and somehow, they didn't see a single place anywhere that looked as if it served a proper breakfast. Only tiny caf\u00e9s once in a while, and they all looked as if they only served minuscule cups of coffee at extortionate prices.

John sighed in frustration as he dragged Paul from street to street, now more guided by his nose than his other senses.

Suddenly, Paul piped up from behind, \"I smell bread!\", and John stopped in his tracks.

Not far away was a shop with a sign that read 'Boulangerie et P\u00e2tisserie' and, guided by the few bits of French that John could<\/i> remember, he grinned at Paul and dragged by him the elbow over to the bakery. They both nearly drooled at the sight of freshly baked baguettes, croissants, cakes and other delicious things. Paul blushed deeply when all of a sudden his own stomach seemed to be emitting enough noise to fill the entire street.

\"Glad now that I dragged you out of bed for breakfast?\" John sneered at him. Paul only sighed in defeat.

Somehow - neither of them was quite sure how<\/i> with their broken bits of shitty French - they managed to buy exactly the food they wanted, and were now sitting on the stairs close to the Sacr\u00e9-C\u0153ur basilica, enjoying the view of the city on this fairly sunny day.

\"God, it's beautiful, isn't it?\" Paul's voice broke the silence after a long moment of nothing but quietude as they ate their long-sought-after breakfast, blinking into the growing sunlight.

\"Yeah.\" Ordinarily, John might have protested this sort of discussion, but something about this city was making him soft, its gilded edges making him want to admit to things like architectural beauty and a subtle edge of romance, overlaying everything like a curtain. \"What shall we look at, do you think?\" He cleared his throat. \"I mean, if we're only going to be here a couple of days.\"

\"Bed's comfortable, isn't it?\" Paul said shrewdly, reading John's tone too easily, and John shrugged, mulching the last of the pastry between his finger and thumb.

\"It's all right. But Christ, look at this place. There's too much to see in one day, Paul. The Eiffel Tower, Sacre-Coeur, Des Invalides, the Pont St. Michel...\" John spread his hands expansively, apparently genuinely infected by the spirit of Paris and all its tourist sites. \"Where shall we start?\"

\"The Left Bank,\" Paul said decisively, after a moment, wiping his hands on his trousers and standing up. \"Bet there are our kind of people there, eh?\"

\"Bet there are,\" John said, enthused, standing too. \"Come on, then. Let's go and see what they've got for an art scene in this place.\"

It didn't take the two boys long to admit defeat after walking around aimlessly for an hour, hoping to find a tourist attraction by accident. And even though John had to be careful with his money, he still gave in to Paul's pleas to buy a tourist map. Once they had managed to find out where exactly they were, it didn't take them long to explore the area around Montmartre, both feeling motivated and adventurous enough to take the Metro in order to get to the Eiffel Tower. Once they had arrived, the sight of the building was simply breath-taking -- as reluctant as either of them might have been to admit the fact.

As they walked underneath it, Paul suddenly stopped and got out his brother's camera. \"John?\" he called out and lifted the camera up to his face. When John turned around with a questioning look on his face, Paul took a picture, smiling when his companion rolled his eyes at him.

\"Come on, Macca, I'm getting hungry.\"

\"Again?\" Paul arched his eyebrows at John as he put away the camera and quickly caught up with his friend's walking pace.

\"Well,\" John scoffed, \"We've been out for how long? How little did we eat? I'm still growing, Paul, I need to eat or else I'll die.\"

\"The question is in which direction you'll grow,\" Paul smirked, earning a punch to the shoulder for that comment.

\"Shut up, or I'll send you home.\"

\"You would not,\" Paul said, shoving both hands into his pockets and lifting his head airily as they moved away from the monumental structure of the Tower, leaving it behind them.

\"How can you be so sure?\" John demanded, nudging Paul hard with his elbow.

\"Why'd you ask me,\" Paul shot back, \"if it wasn't 'cause you wanted to see Paris with me?\"

That remark earned him a sharp look from John. But it was true enough -- there were plenty of other people John might have asked: Cynthia, or Stuart. But here he was in Paris, spending his money on a holiday with Paul. Both of them knew that this meant something<\/i>.

\"Well,\" John said carefully, \"I knew you'd appreciate it properly, all right? But don't give me any reason to think I made a bad choice, you hear me?\"

His gruffness was deliberate and overplayed, though, and Paul grinned at him, nudging him back so their elbows brushed. Ahead of them -- all around them -- other pairs of boys, with their strange long hair and their wide-bottomed trousers, were ambling down the boulevard, engaged in their own conversations but all doing the same thing, and there was something oddly companionable about it. Without pausing to think too much, Paul pulled a hand out of his pocket and hooked his arm through John's in imitation of the way the French lads were walking.

John huffed a laugh. \"Who d'you think you are, Sherlock Holmes?\" But he didn't pull his arm away, and Paul allowed himself a moment of warm pride at that, the feeling of John's arm tucked firmly through his, demarcating the two of them as a pair.

*

In this fashion, they made their way back to the Left Bank. J\u00fcrgen, as well as the tourist map, had told them that this was the artistic centre of Paris, the sort of place where things were really going on. This included food: caf\u00e9 followed caf\u00e9, with little chairs and tables spilling out onto the pavement.

\"All very Continental,\" John observed brightly. \"Shall we just pick one?\"

\"This'll do, won't it?\" Paul said, indicating the nearest little caf\u00e9. When John didn't resist, he pulled him over towards it, and the two of them settled at one of the outer tables, right in the midst of things.

While Paul looked around, observing their surroundings, John took the menu card and flicked listlessly through it, squinting his eyes at the tiny letters. After a few minutes, though, he gave up with a small frustrated sigh and handed Paul the card without saying another word.

\"Shall I?\" Paul took the card with raised eyebrows, immediately understanding that John wasn't really able to read anything without his glasses. Shaking his head with a sigh, Paul read through the list, but try as he might, he couldn't understand a single word.

\"Well, read it out to me,\" John suggested and moved closer with his chair in order to look at the card as well, despite his poor vision.

\"You know I can't speak French,\" Paul replied, then added, \"Why don't you get out your glasses?\"

\"Are you crazy?\" John hissed, \"Have you seen those girls two tables away from us? What would they say if they saw me with my fucking four eyes?\"

Paul glanced over his shoulder, and John was right. Not far away from them were two girls, two remarkably pretty girls, not like those lasses up in Liverpool that he was used to, but proper French women. And he couldn't help himself, he was reminded of his dream with the two girls from which John had woken him.

\"Now let's see if we can find something edible on that card, and see if we're lucky.\" John smirked at Paul who mirrored his grin when he noticed that the two girls were looking over to them.

\"Well,\" Paul said, peering at the menu, \"I presume 'le hamburger' is what it sounds like. What do you think?\"

\"Does it come avec frites<\/i>?\" John asked.

The girls were glancing over at them. Paul forced his attention back to the menu. \"What? Oh -- yep.\"

\"Sounds like a plan, then.\" John lifted a hand and clicked his fingers dramatically. \"Gar\u00e7on!\"

The waiter, apparently used to being addressed in this fashion, hurried over, and John gave the order in what sounded pretty impressive French, as far as Paul could tell.

\"What was that other thing you asked for?\" Paul asked, when the waiter had flipped his notepad closed and hurried off.

\"Hmm?\" Now it was John who was distracted by the girls, staring at them unsubtly with his chin propped on his hand. For a second, Paul actually felt mildly irritated, and then wondered why. Part of the attraction of Paris was the beautiful women, after all.

\"You asked for something else, I thought,\" he clarified. \"At the end.\"

\"Oh, that.\" John grinned at Paul rather lasciviously and settled back in his chair. \"Surprise for you, son. You'll see.\"

The surprise turned out to be, to Paul's very great delight, milkshakes. Paul couldn't recall seeing anything that looked like 'milkshake' on the menu, but the two frothing glasses that came to the table in advance of the food told their own story.

\"Milkshakes?\" Paul laughed, and John couldn't help himself but smile at Paul's joy when the waiter put down the two big glasses on their table. \"How come?\" he added when they were alone again and he took his glass, putting the straw between his plump lips and eyeing John curiously as he began sucking on his straw.

John blinked, having momentarily forgotten what he wanted to say. \"I... Er...\" He scratched his slightly pink cheek and reached for his own milkshake, taking a shy sip from it before he mumbled, \"I felt like it. Cravings, you know.\"

Paul hummed happily in reply, licking his lips when he put down the glass. \"Well, thanks a lot, Johnny... Let's hope the burgers are just as good.\"

They ate in silence, devouring their meals quickly and only looked up every few minutes to smile at each other in mutual contentment. John almost dropped his burger, though, when Paul reached out with a napkin and wiped something off his cheek.

\"Ketchup,\" he clarified, still chewing with his mouth full.

The giggle coming from the girls next to them only caused John to mumble something into his burger which sounded a lot like, \"Thanks, mother.\"

Paul went immediately pink. In his excitement over the milkshakes, and the general atmosphere of being here with John in this little artsy caf\u00e9 on the bloody Parisian Left Bank, he had actually forgotten about the girls. He put his napkin down swiftly and crossed his hands in his lap.

\"Sorry.\"

\"Yeah, you should be.\" John rolled his eyes. \"They probably think we're a pair of bloody great poofs now.\"

\"It was just ketchup,\" Paul said. He could feel the tips of his ears going pink. He reached for his milkshake more as a distraction than anything, sucking hard and very deliberately at the straw to avoid having to look up at John's face. And it really was a good milkshake, thick and sweet and tasting of actual proper banana, not that weird Banana Flavouring they sometimes put in things.

\"John?\" he ventured, after a minute, lifting his head and wiping the back of his hand across his mouth where some of the creamy froth had escaped. John was looking at him oddly, fixedly. Paul waved a hand in front of John's face. \"John<\/i>.\"

\"Yes, I'm not that blind, I can see you,\" John said curtly, but Paul didn't miss the second's hesitation that betrayed his distraction. \"Come on -- shall we go?\"

Paul frowned slightly. \"But what about...\" He nodded in the direction of the neighbouring table where the two girls were still sitting. Paul could feel their attention on the back of his neck.

\"Nah,\" John waved his hand dismissively, nose scrunched up. \"I'm sure we'll find better than that.\" Not minding Paul's puzzled look, he took out his glasses from his jacket pocket and put them on.

Frowning at John's sudden change of mind, Paul finished his milkshake. When John paid the bill, Paul let out a deep sigh as he glanced longingly at the girls a final time before John whacked the back of his head with the map and beckoned him to follow him.

\"Why the hurry?\" Paul asked after a moment of silence as they walked down the street.

John just merely shrugged. \"Dunno. I'm tired. I don't feel like bloody chatting up anyone now who doesn't even understand a fucking thing I'm saying.\"

\"You never complained about that in Hamburg, though.\"

\"Give it a rest, Paul, okay?\" John growled, \"You'll get your bloody shag, don't worry.\"

As for Paul, he only clicked his tongue in slight annoyance. He hated it when John got into one of his foul moods, and often enough, Paul couldn't even say why John was suddenly acting like that. Just like now.

\"Do you want to go back to our hotel, then?\" he asked cautiously, hoping that John wouldn't snap at him again. \"Take a nap?\"

\"A nap?\" John demanded, brow creasing irritably. \"I know I'm going to be twenty-one, son, but you needn't condemn me to the scrap heap just yet, you know.\"

Paul rolled his eyes. \"You just seemed --\"

\"What?\" John threw him a look, and Paul shrugged.

\"Nothing. It's fine if you're not tired, but I want to get changed now anyway -- I've got milkshake on my sleeve somehow, look.\" He indicated a very tiny pale smear on his cuff, and John snorted through his nose.

\"Fine then,\" he conceded. \"I suppose we can go back and then work out what we want to do next without having to faff around making a decision in the street.\"

To Paul's relief, John then set a course for their hotel without comment. When they reached the room, he threw himself down onto the bed, and Paul took the opportunity to slip into the tiny bathroom. \"Back in a sec,\" he called.

\"Aye, whatever.\" John waved a dismissive hand.

When Paul emerged five minutes later, he was somehow not surprised at all to find John asleep. His shoes and jacket were in a little pile on the floor, and John was curled up on his side with a hand under his face, glasses still on and pushed askew by the position. When John got like this, there was often nothing that would fix it but a bit of a kip, and Paul knew John wasn't averse to sleeping in the afternoon, whatever he might say.

After the excitement of the morning, Paul felt more than a little sleepy himself, he realised slowly. Part of it was probably just the suggestion of John lying there, face smooth in repose, but still. Carefully, Paul leaned over to take John's glasses off his nose and set them on the nightstand. Then, still moving cautiously, he shucked his jacket and boots and climbed gingerly onto the bed, curling his body in the same direction as John's, a couple of inches of air between John's back and Paul's front.

\"Just five minutes,\" Paul told himself, closing his eyes.

***

<\/a>","comments":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/157848.html?view=comments#comments","category":["the beatles","pairing: john\/paul","backwards traveller"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/157687.html","pubDate":"Wed, 08 May 2013 22:09:34 GMT","title":"[The Beatles] Fic: Backwards Traveller [1\/?], John\/Paul (PG-13)","author":"obstinatrix","link":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/157687.html","description":"Title<\/b>: Backwards Traveller
Rating<\/b>: Eventual NC-17, this chapter PG-13
Pairing<\/b>: John\/Paul
Authors<\/b>: <\/a>tini_91<\/b><\/a><\/span> and <\/a>obstinatrix<\/b><\/a><\/span>
Summary\/Notes<\/b>: New York in the late 70s feels like a world away from Europe almost two decades earlier, but when John settles down to write some more of his short 'fiction', he finds that, frankly, he misses Paris. This is 1961, in retrospective. The entire fic is about 40,000 words; this part is about 3,000. The beginning is an extract from Skywriting By Word of Mouth<\/i>. We were also quite inspired by this clip<\/a>, where John talks about being inspired by the romance of Paris.



Come too quickly. Stop. Try again. Stop. Am waiting in Paris. Stop me if you\u2019ve heard it. Stop. Stuff yourself with artichokes and live. Stop. Don\u2019t stop. Stop.<\/i>


The Boulevard Saint-Germaine shone in all its springbok glory as he stepped lightly on some French loafers toward the waiting arms of Comrade Amie. \u201cTootie Frootie,\u201d he gasped, inhaling the fragrance of her hairs in her nostrils. She greeted him warmly with a cold. \u201cYou haven\u2019t changed une bit, you ould bastarde!\u201d She frenched him round the neck.

A flood of memories drowned him in a pool of sweat. \u201cYou taste bon, mon cher!\u201d she exclamationed. \u201cI can\u2019t wait to get my fingures in your croutons!\u201d said he. \u201cOH you naughty man, you\u2019ll never change,\u201d she laughed, eyeing his pants.

\u201cFor you, my dear,\u201d he said, \u201cI\u2019d change address.\u201d He gripped her by the pound and headed for the wrong bank.

\u201cThere\u2019s too much about underwear and sweat for my liking,\u201d he thought to himself. \u201cLove is never having to pull yourself together,\u201d she said quite suddenly. \u201cLove is never having to pull yourself off,\u201d he replied in a lighter vein.


***

John put down the pencil with a small sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose as he contemplated once more how to continue this story. Strewn across the entire surface of the table before him were photographs, all of them in black and white. He picked one up and smiled a little as he looked at the two young men in the picture: one of them just turned 21, the other two years younger still. If Yoko had been around, John would have never dared to take out the box of photographs that he had hidden in the back of his wardrobe. However, since she had gone out and he was on his own, he had taken the opportunity to revel in his most favourite memory -- his holiday with Paul in Paris.

The picture of him and Paul, taken by some stranger they had politely asked, showed them in all their teddy-boy-ish glory, one day before J\u00fcrgen had cut off their hair and had given them the infamous moptops. Paul had his arm around John's shoulders and was beaming at the camera; John had his arm slung around Paul's middle, hand placed possessively on his hip while he grimaced at the camera. The longer John stared at the picture, the more he was convinced he could hear Paul's laughter faintly, feel his warm body pressed against his and how it shook with each drunk giggle. If he focused his concentration, John thought he could even smell the slightly chilly evening air, mixed with the familiar smell of Paul's cologne.

With a dull ache in his chest, John put down the photograph and looked out of the window, releasing a deep, longing sigh.

***

They had meant to go all the way to Spain. That had been the original plan, anyway, when John had first approached Paul with his fistful of pound notes and ideas, ready to travel the world. Paul had been overwhelmed, John remembered, by the fact that John had come to him with this proposal and not Cynthia, or Stu. The look of shocked delight, of pride, in his eyes had warmed John from the inside out. Whether Paul knew it yet or not, he had already become John's favourite person, and, coming into such riches, it would never have occurred to him to share them with anyone but Paul.

They made their way across the Channel easily enough. They'd hitchhiked plenty before; Paul especially was well practised in the art. But when they had come to Paris, with its gilt roofs and Gothic arches, a strange sensation had come over John, a sort of romantic inclination that made him loath to leave again. Spain was a worthy aim, certainly, but Paris...from the look in Paul's face, it was obvious that he had been equally affected, his expression rapt. But neither had known how to suggest to the other that onward travel was not a necessity, until they had come upon J\u00fcrgen Vollmer quite by accident in the street.

They'd known he was in Paris, of course, but they'd made no arrangements, so it was quite a shock to see his familiar face in a public square. He looked like any other young artist, while John and Paul were still decked out like rockers, their leathers and ducktails incongruous amidst the Parisian youths with their soft hair and wide trousers. But J\u00fcrgen had approached them immediately, suggested they stay with him -- he had a spare mattress, he said, and though they weren't allowed up to his room during the night, they could wait and sneak up later, he was sure.

\"If you don't mind sharing?\" J\u00fcrgen said. John glanced at Paul, caught his eyes. They had shared beds a thousand times. It was nothing, even if there was something in the air of this city that made John look at his friend a little differently, look at the world a little differently.

\"We don't mind,\" Paul said. \"That's grand of you to offer -- thanks, J\u00fcrgen.\" He was speaking to J\u00fcrgen, but his eyes were still on John. John swallowed and nodded. A hundred pounds would only go so far.

\"Yeah, thanks a lot, son.\"

***

Too afraid of the wrath of his landlady, the patron of his student quarter and keeper of rules, J\u00fcrgen and the two boys waited until it was long past ten o'clock in the evening before they eventually decided to go to his, having spent the day out in Paris and at J\u00fcrgen's favourite places. All three of them were exhausted when they finally arrived. While John complained about his aching feet and the estimated amount of blisters he might have accrued, Paul shushed him every five seconds and barely managed to suppress his yawns. J\u00fcrgen only smiled at them in sympathy as he took out his keys and pressed a finger to his lips, reminding them to be quiet from now on.

Going strictly by the book, J\u00fcrgen was not technically allowed overnight guests, of any sort. But they were friends and what kind of monster would he have been if he had denied them at least one night on a mattress? The fact that it was technically a single mattress didn't bother either of the boys.

After all, they'd slept on single mattresses countless times before. John's own little bed at Mendips had accommodated both of them more times than he could count, Paul squidged up close into the cradle of John's body in order to stay on the mattress and John's arm wrapped tightly around Paul's waist out of pure necessity. Paul's bed at Forthlin Road was even smaller. Single mattresses did not present a problem. Being close to Paul wasn't something John had ever been upset by.

They took the stairs carefully, quietly. J\u00fcrgen turned to warn them with his eyebrows to be quiet -- but when a door suddenly flew open lower down the stair, it seemed that the landlady had ears like a cat, despite their best efforts. A volley of yelling started up in French, and Paul clutched at John's sleeve, staring at him round-eyed.

\"Shit,\" J\u00fcrgen cursed, and then, as the madame appeared, donned his best disarming smile and began his best attempts to placate her. \"Madame, je --\"

John and Paul, meanwhile, took their opportunity and fled, hurtling down the stairs in their noisy rocker boots and clutching at each other's sleeves as they sped out of the door and into the street again.

Outside, they breathed in deeply, gulping for air. Paul leaned against the wall of the building. John sat down on the pavement.

\"Great. Just fucking great,\" he muttered, \"What the fuck are we supposed to do now? I don't want to bloody sleep outside on the streets like a fucking homeless imbecile!\"

As John rambled on, Paul merely stared back at him with a blank expression. And then, suddenly, he broke out into a fit of hysterical giggles, at which the corners of John's mouth twitched as well. Moments later, he too was laughing.

\"Get up,\" Paul giggled, holding out a hand for John, \"We'll find a place to stay, don't worry.\"

John took Paul's offered hand, and as soon as he stood, he brushed off the dirt from his trousers. \"Can't afford anything fancy anyway if we want to get anywhere on this dosh, love.\"

\"I know,\" Paul sighed.

They set off. A moment later, John suddenly stopped in his tracks at the unmistakable sensation of a hand touching his behind. \"Having fun there, Macca?\" he asked, widening his eyes at his companion, who stared back at him with red cheeks.

\"Shut up, John, you've got dirt on your arse.\"

\"Oh, I'd have said the same.\" With a wink at Paul and a small shake of his head, he let Paul clean his trousers to his satisfaction.

\"I don't get why you have to wear white trousers, anyway,\" Paul said once they had continued walking, hitching up his backpack, \"You see it easily when they get dirty. And since it's you, it's only a matter of time until they're all messed up.\"

\"They bring out my eyes,\" was all John retorted, his tone clearly indicative of his desire to curtail the conversation as he looked around, hoping to find a suitable hotel soon.

After another half an hour of aimless walking around through deserted Paris streets, John was suddenly stopped by Paul's arm across his chest.

\"Oi, hold on!\" Paul whispered.

John only frowned at him. \"What the fuck's wrong with you?!\"

\"Are these prostitutes?\" Paul nodded at the small group of women at the next street corner while a smile began to grow on his lips.

\"I don't know why you're so excited about it if they are,\" John pointed out. \"This isn't Hamburg, you know. You'll probably actually have to pay them.\"

Paul threw him a look. \"With a face like this?\"

\"It's Paris, darling<\/i>,\" John said, enunciating pointedly. \"Tell you what, though -- why don't you go and work the other street corner for half an hour, make a few bob with that pretty mouth of yours? Might have enough left over to get a better hotel room that way, too.\"

\"Shut up, John,\" Paul said, but he was blushing furiously now. He'd been made that sort of offer more times than he wanted to remember when they were in Hamburg, and it had always made him uncomfortable, even while the others roared with laughter about it. \"Come on, then, let's just go and find somewhere to kip.\"

\"We could always try some bars, see if we can pull a few birds for free?\" John suggested, jabbing his thumb back the way they came.

\"In the dark, at this time of night, in a city we don't know?\" Paul snorted. \"Don't think so, son. We've just got to find the rough end of town and get somewhere cheap, just for now. We can move on tomorrow if we fancy it, but if you think a hundred quid isn't much for a holiday, I dread to think how you'd feel about whatever you'll have left if we have to sleep in the street. Paris is rife with pickpockets, you know.\"

\"Your dad tell you that?\" John teased, but he began to move in the direction Paul indicated all the same, moving towards the narrower streets, the more closely crowded buildings. \"It'll be all right. We'll find somewhere.\"

The first reasonably priced place they found was in Montmartre, where the dome of the cathedral loomed large against the sky. In fact, it was so reasonably priced that Paul almost dreaded to see inside. When the room proved clean and the bed comfortable, he was more than a little pleasantly surprised.

While Paul was busy scrutinising every corner of the room, still not believing that the possibility of meeting a relative of the Fiendish Thingy had been reduced down to zero, John unceremoniously dropped his bag on the floor before he slumped down onto the tiny bed. The noise of relief he made, face buried in the pillow, sounded to Paul like a dying animal, and when he turned around, he clicked his tongue, nudging John's foot with his.

\u201cOi, get up, John.\u201d

\u201cLeave me be,\u201d John grumbled as he snuggled further into the pillow.

Paul sighed in exasperation, rolling his eyes. There was no use in trying to get John moving when he was like that. Even though Paul wasn't sure for how long they would stay here in the end, he still unpacked his bag, not wanting his clothes to look more rumpled than they already were. Humming a tune softly to himself, he failed to notice that John had turned around in the meantime and was watching him through lazy eyes.

\u201cSuch a good housewife,\u201d he remarked after a while, causing Paul to nearly jump out of his skin in surprise.

\u201cI thought you were sleeping!\u201d Paul frowned at him as he put away the rest of his clothes into the tiny wardrobe.

\u201cWell, you shouldn't think then, love.\u201d John waggled his eyebrows with a grin. He looked over to his bag and made a small sound of disgust. Not even Brigitte Bardot could have made him unpack that thing just then. \u201cCome to bed, Paul. It's late, and I want to sleep already.\u201d

Paul sighed heavily. God, he wanted to sleep too. But there was only the one bed in the room -- there wouldn't have been room for another -- and John was currently occupying at least eighty percent of its tiny surface, spreadeagled across the mattress like a starfish with all his clothes still on.

\"Well, shove over, then,\" Paul said, pushing at John's hip with one hand for emphasis. \"And take your bloody shoes off at least. I intend to get under the covers and I can't do that with you pinning them down under your bloody great bulk. Gets cold in October, you know.\"

\"You just want to get me out of my clothes,\" John leered, but he shuffled onto his side anyway and kicked off his boots, then popped the button on his jeans and wriggled out of them, not without difficulty. Drainies clung like a second skin, and while you practically had to lie down to get them on, it wasn't exactly easy to get them off in that position.

The thought skipped across Paul's mind that it'd probably be hell trying to drag them off someone for a fuck. Not that this was something he had to worry about, obviously. He cleared his throat, shook his head as if it could dispel the thought, and skinned out of his own jeans and boots, lifting the corner of the coverlet and squirming in the second John had moved over enough that it was possible.

\"Oh, that's better,\" John said, pressing his foot against Paul's calf. Paul hissed and slapped at John's arm, whole body jerking convulsively.

\"Bloody cold, you arsehole,\" he protested, and John sniggered. Sometimes John could be like this when they shared a bed, wriggling around just to be annoying and starting kicking matches under the blankets. Luckily, he didn't seem to have the heart for it tonight, and was quietening down, one arm going unconsciously around Paul's waist simply because there was nowhere else to put it.

\"God, this is actually a pretty comfortable bed,\" Paul had to admit. He closed his eyes. Yes, he could definitely get used to this.

\"Told you,\" John said. His voice was sleepy and the weight of his arm was familiar, reassuring over Paul's waist. Paul could feel himself dropping off.

\"Night, John,\" he started to say, but somewhere in the middle of it, the long days of hitchhiking caught up with him, and he fell asleep.

***

It was such a nice dream, really. A blonde and a brunette bird sitting on either side of him, one of them kissing his neck, the other kissing his lips, her mouth soft and pliant against his. Only the sound of those girls' voices startled him a bit, but he didn't mind as long as the kisses and caresses continued being so good. But then the blonde girl suddenly disappeared and the brunette one turned into a red head and somehow, her face looked all of a sudden so familiar to him.

\"Wake up, you tit.\"

No, that voice certainly didn't fit the lovely girl. Still, Paul took a moment to look at her, and she started to look more and more like a friend...

\"I said wake up!\"

Paul yelped when the girl pinched his nose, hard, and he was faced with John who was only inches away from him, eyes filled with amusement.

\"Had a nice dream?\" he asked, rolling off his friend and nodding at the obvious bulge in Paul's boxers.

\"Sod off,\" Paul coughed in embarrassment, burying his face in the pillow and turning his body in order to hide away his erection, earning a tsk<\/i> from John.

\"If you need a wank, then do it now and do it quick. I'm hungry.\"

\"I hate you,\" Paul whined and pulled the blanket over his head.

John only chuckled, smiling fondly down at Paul as he patted his side. \"No, you don't.\"

John was right, of course. It was just that -- well -- John was two years older than him, almost, and those two years meant something when it came to the whole embarrassing morning wood scenario. When they'd been sixteen and seventeen, waking up meant having your awkward stiffy pressed to your friend's thigh and just clearing your throat and blushing and getting on with it, because he'd have one too. But now John was all grown up and superior<\/i> and could share a bed with Paul, apparently, without his body confusing the warm, angular boyish body with something soft and curvy that could be fucked. Which left Paul all awkward on his own, and that was far worse.

\"Are you not getting up?\" John snapped his jeans against the curve of Paul's arse, preparatory to putting them back on.

Paul groaned. \"Can you give us a bit of privacy, John, just for a second?\"

\"Nothing I've not seen before,\" John remarked airily, shuffling into his jeans. \"Come 'ead, Paul, it'll go away. Just think, we've got the whole day to scout out the city, we can find you some action for that by this evening. Save it up, eh?\"

\"Git,\" Paul muttered, blushing scarlet, but he hauled himself out of bed anyway and shuffled across the carpet half bent over, looking for his trousers and thinking hard about mouldy bread and wrinkly tits and other erection-killing horrors. It worked, sort of -- enough that he could actually pull his jeans up over his dick without doing himself an injury, anyway, although the way John was smirking at him as he shrugged on a clean shirt wasn't exactly helping. Paul was still young enough that anything warm and naked sort of got him going a bit when he was already mostly there.

Oh, fuck, he had to stop thinking<\/i> about it. He straightened his t-shirt with a flourish and reached for his jacket. \"Right,\" he said, waving a hand in the general direction of the door, \"Food, I think you said?\"

<\/a>","comments":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/157687.html?view=comments#comments","category":["the beatles","pairing: john\/paul","rating: pg-13","fic","backwards traveller"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/155971.html","pubDate":"Wed, 20 Mar 2013 22:08:18 GMT","title":"[CW RPF} Fic: Something Borrowed (J2, NC-17)","author":"obstinatrix","link":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/155971.html","description":"Title<\/b>: Something Borrowed
Pairing<\/b>: J2 (implied JDM\/Jared, JDM\/Jensen)
Rating<\/b>: NC-17
Words<\/b>: ~2,000
Summary<\/b>: Ever since JD Morgan moved into Arundel Heights, the whole town has known about his...special parties. Not everyone knows about his special boy. Written for <\/a>salt_burn_porn<\/b><\/a><\/span>.
Warnings\/Promises<\/b>: I feel like there should be lots but I'm having trouble articulating. Ummmm, infidelity kink? Mild BDSM?



Everybody knew about Jeff Morgan's parties. Everybody<\/i>: clean cut high school seniors in letter jackets, young mothers with little kids, old ladies with their faces laced tight in disapproval as they gossiped in the corner store. A guy like Jeff Morgan couldn't just up and move into a mansion like Arundel Heights in a little town like this, and then start throwing parties like that<\/i>, without everyone eyeing him like he was Howard freakin' Hughes (near the end).

Jared, though. Not everybody knew about Jared.

This was Jensen's second trip to the Heights, and although he'd known for a while that Jeff was actually not a crazed weirdo, but a pretty hot ex-army dude with a salt and pepper beard and an ass that didn't quit, he'd only just found out about the boy. Jeff's boy.

\"You can borrow him,\" Jeff said, voice low and rough in Jensen's ear, \"if you want.\" He took a long drag on the burnt-down spiff between his fingers, then blew out the smoke in a curling plume. \"That's what he likes.\"

\"Is that what you like?\" Jensen asked him, as Jeff inhaled again.

For answer, Jeff just caught Jensen's jaw, turned it, pressed their lips together. Exhaled. His mouth had the familiar green-tea taste of good weed, tongue slow and clever as it crept into Jensen's mouth, and Jensen knew without doubt that the answer to his question was yes.<\/i>

*

Arundel Heights was a sprawling warren of a place, built more like a fancy boarding school than a private residence. Jeff led Jensen to Jared's room by the hand, and though Jeff tried to keep track of their twists and turns, the staircases they took, by the time they reached it he had no fucking clue where they were, other than in the very bowels of the house.

\"Baby,\" Jeff said, voice soft, as he opened the door, \"Jared, baby, you decent? I brought you a visitor.\"

The room was dimly-lit when Jensen peered hesitantly inside, heart pounding, but the small lamp by the bed was enough to illuminate the long-limbed figure sprawled on it, all tawny golden skin. At Jeff's words, the figure shifted, and a voice returned, \"Hey, Jeff.\"

\"You all right, boy?\"

The boy -- Jared, Jensen reminded himself -- nodded; leaning a little further into the room, Jensen saw now that he was blindfold, naked but for a pair of black boxer-briefs that concealed nothing. \"Thanks, Jeff.\"

\"No problem, sweetheart.\" Jeff's hand fell heavy on Jensen's shoulder, and his voice dropped as he murmured into Jensen's ear, \"All yours, kiddo, but no permanent damage, you hear me? Don't break the skin.\"

\"Dude, I wouldn't --\" Jensen broke in immediately, but Jeff shushed him, finger to lips.

\"Keep him guessing,\" he said, his eyes warm, \"and you'll keep him happy. I'll come back later to get you.\"

When the door closed behind him, Jensen felt the slam of it resonate all through him, holding him still, petrified. He wasn't sure what the hell he'd expected, but it hadn't been this. Sure, the boy was a fine fucking specimen all right, six and a half feet if he was anything, all lithe muscle. But Jensen wasn't used to this kind of scene -- swinging was one thing, but this -- this was...

On the bed, the boy pushed himself up from the pillows, held out a hand like a blind man, palm up. \"Well?\" he said, imperious as a Maharajah. \"You just gonna stand there, or are we gonna fuck?\"

The tone of his voice shot jagged through Jensen's chest like shrapnel, leaving a fierce, knotted ache behind. Clearly, he'd done this a thousand times before; maybe he'd done it already today, even. For some reason, the thought made Jensen's stomach dip hotly, propelling him a step towards the bed, and another. Jared's dark hair was shaggy, longish, curling behind his ears. Jensen didn't know he meant to reach for it until he'd already done it, fisting his hand in the thick of it at the base of Jared's skull and tugging.

\"Mmm, more like it,\" Jared told him, tongue catching briefly between white teeth as he grinned. The tendon pulled long in his throat with his head at this angle, crying out to be bitten. He looked cocky, like he thought he was king of this little palace, and Jensen remembered what Jeff had said: don't break the skin.<\/i>

Abruptly, he twisted his wrist, jerking the hair in his fist; let go and smacked the boy hard across the side of the face. \"Who the hell said you got to tell me what to do?\"

The hitch in Jared's breath told Jensen immediately that his instinct had been right; this was what the boy wanted, clearly. Hell, of course<\/i> he did; he was Jeff Morgan's fucking kept boy, whored out to all and sundry 'cause he liked<\/i> it. This wasn't a kid who wanted to be in control, cocky little shit or not. He wanted breaking down, and now, seeing the way his bare chest heaved, the hot bloom of blood in his cheek, Jensen thought he could do that. His cock, swelling in his pants, seemed to agree.

\"Take those off,\" Jensen said.

He didn't really have to specify further than that. There wasn't much ambiguity about it when the kid was already in nothing but underwear, and Jared's thumbs went to his waistband immediately, shoving his shorts down over the jut of his cock, down his strong thighs. Kicking them off. Jensen swallowed at the sight, the fat dick red against the shallow dip of Jared's stomach, its tip slick. He felt his own cock fatten further, reached for Jared's hair again. Now he thought he saw why Jeff (and of course it would be up to Jeff) kept it long.

\"Come on, then,\" Jensen said, low. \"Suck my dick.\"

Jared moved like a whore, a good one, Jensen'd give him that. He'd seen plenty, in LA in '71 when everyone was stumbling drunk into the new decade, long-legged boys with their sure mouths and too-wide eyes. He couldn't see Jared's eyes, but he could see from the way he handled Jensen's belt, yanked it open, fisted his dick, that he'd done this a lot, efficient and quick. There was more than efficiency, though, in the way Jared leaned forward blindly to press his face to the bared spine of Jensen's cock, the way he parted his lips over the head, sucking at the crown for a moment before pushing on. The way his breath caught. Jared loved this, Jensen recognised dimly, through the flare of pleasure. Jared's mouth opened easily, sheathing Jensen's dick almost into his throat in one downward push, and it was instinct alone that made Jensen push at the base of his skull, shove him down, yank him back up again.

\"That's it, sweetheart,\" Jensen told him, hips starting up a steady, incremental motion back and forth over Jared's wet tongue, into his mouth. \"That's it, baby. You want to be treated like a back-alley prostitute, you better be a fuckin' good one, you hear me?\"

Christ, but he was<\/i> good. His mouth was hot and wet and clever, tongue finding all the right spots, licking up the underside of Jensen's dick and then nudging at the place below the ridge that made his thighs spasm hotly. He knew just how to suck, how to hold his breath as Jensen pulled him up, how to bob his head; knew how to open his throat and swallow so the muscles fluttered around the tip of Jensen's cock at just the right moment, and fuck --

\"Enough.\" Jensen was panting, close, and Jared was breathing heavily too when Jensen hauled him up and off, shoved him backward onto the bed. His pink mouth was shiny with precome and spit and part of Jensen wanted just to thrust right back in between his lips, fuck him till he came all over the kid's face. But the rest of him -- the rest of him remembered the way Jared's pretty mouth shaped the word fuck<\/i>. The rest of him wanted to have Jared, while he could, in every way that was allowed.

\"Wanna fuck you,\" Jensen said shortly, kicking off his shoes, then stepping out of the tangle of his pants and undershorts. \"Get yourself ready.\"

\"No need,\" Jared said, and Jensen's breath caught again on a low groan as the kid spread his thighs to show the square base of a plug between, holding him open.

\"Jesus Christ,\" he said, throat dry. Then, in a rush of daring, \"Get on your hands and knees for me, Jared. Let me see you.\"

The plug, when Jensen got hold of the base, came out easily, the plastic slick with lube, and there was Jared pink and already wet for him, Jesus<\/i>. Jensen's fingers found his hips, steadying himself; he thrust home in one slow, firm stroke that made Jared's back arch and Jensen's own body clench up everywhere at the shock of it, the sheer blazing heat.

\"C'mon,\" he panted, fingers digging hard into Jared's hips, \"c'mon, kid, you wanna get fucked or not?\"

Jared groaned, shoved back, and that was it, that was all Jensen needed. He was already close, coiled up like a tensed spring, and the rhythm was easy enough to fall into, Jared pushing firmly back against him as he thrust forward, Jared's low groans and the catlike arch of his back amping up the hot pressure between Jensen's legs.

\"Fuckin' Christ,\" Jensen ground out, hand curving around to press at the flat of Jared's abdomen, to encircle the fat length of his dick, \"fuckin' Christ, Jared. Come on, kid.\" His hand slid wetly up and down Jared's cock, jacking him sticky-slick and rough. \"Fuckin' get there, I know you can. I know you love this.\"

He felt it from the inside first when Jared started to come, his muscles clenching. Then Jared cried out, hard and hoarse, and started to spurt in deep pulses, over Jensen's still-moving fist, over the bed beneath them. Jensen's own rhythm had gone sloppy now, his thrusts erratic, but if Jared had felt good before he felt unbearably so with his body rippling around Jensen's cock and Jensen -- Jensen --

\"Fuckin' hell,\" Jensen spat, releasing Jared's dick to take hold of him again with both hands, pounding into him as hard now as he could get, practically hauling Jared back onto his cock. He shoved home, hard and deep as he could, and that was enough; he squeezed his eyes closed as he started to come, filling Jared up, getting his use out of him. Mess could always be cleaned away and the borrowed thing returned good as new, after all.

After, they didn't speak. Jared didn't even move except to collapse onto his front on the bed, roll onto his side. Jensen wiped himself awkwardly, heart still pounding. Dragged his clothes back on. Stumbled out of the room.

Jeff was there waiting for him, heavy-lidded as he glanced at Jensen sidelong, held out the remains of a new joint.

\"Good 'un, isn't he?\" he said, as if remarking on a new car or a favourite horse.

Jensen swallowed hard and took the joint. \"I need a shower.\"

\"That makes two of us,\" said Jeff, and grinned.","comments":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/155971.html?view=comments#comments","category":["cw rpf","fic","jensen\/jared","spn"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/152197.html","pubDate":"Mon, 14 Jan 2013 23:12:59 GMT","title":"Fic: Exception (Harry\/Zayn, NC-17)","author":"obstinatrix","link":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/152197.html","description":"Fic<\/b>: Exception
Fandom<\/b>: One Direction
Pairing<\/b>: Harry\/Zayn
Rating<\/b>: NC-17
Summary<\/b>: Zayn admits during drunken Truth or Dare that Perrie has given him an exceptions list - people he's allowed to fuck without asking her - and the only four people on it are the rest of the band. Harry is intrigued and wants to know if Zayn would exercise that right.
Notes<\/b>: Prompt by, and subsequent fic written for, <\/a>lazy_daze<\/b><\/a><\/span>.



They don't do this all the time, or anything. It's not like they're kids<\/i>. It's just that sometimes, holed up together in a hotel room somewhere after the latest show of many, when one city has long since begun to bleed into the next, there's...not much else to do. Sometimes, when Paul has come in for the second time and told them to get away from the windows 'cause their fans are going mental in the car park, it's nice to resort to piling all together in the central room of their suite and at least pretending<\/i> to be normal.

Like, it isn't<\/i>, still, not quite. For one thing, there'd never be this total absence of girls at the sort of late-night uni party they're all missing out on right now, in favour of little things like international fame and adulation. But it's getting there, something nostalgic and reassuring about it when Harry hitches his blanket up around his waist and says, wide mouth quirking at the corners, \"So -- truth or dare?\" His eyes flash wickedly, seeking out their target. \"Liam?\"

Liam's always good for a laugh with this. Not as much these days -- used to be far easier to make him blush -- but even still, it's a running joke that he'll always say 'truth' and always give a boring-as-shite answer to whatever he's asked, even the first time. It's expected. Liam always goes for truth, and Niall, when it gets to his turn, will always<\/i> say 'dare', and then manfully eat curry powder or stick his bare arse out the window, anything. Nialler's fucking mad. It isn't till they get to Louis that things start to get less predictable, because Louis can go either way, depending on his mood; some nights will say anything and mean it, and sometimes will duck his head and avoid the question.

Then there's Harry, and Harry is -- well. Zayn doesn't want to think about that too hard. He's thought a lot of stuff about Harry lately that's bubbled up out of nowhere sometime in the last year, somewhere between the time they shared a fangirl in a London flat and the time Zayn fell asleep in Harry's bed, fully clothed, and woke up tingling and oddly shy. Things've all gone a bit weird with Harry lately, and it wouldn't have been such a big thing if it hadn't been for -- for what Perrie'd said, of all people, the last time they were together. Christ, Perrie. Fucking blunt, big-mouthed Geordie girls; they'll come out with anything and plant it in your head like a seed just waiting to sprout and get in the way.

Zayn doesn't mean to let the seed come up, or anything, but when Louis asks him, \"Truth or dare?\" he says \"Dare\" anyway, just to be safe, and sticks his hand in the toilet bowl without complaint.

\"Bloody waste of a dare,\" Niall says, but Zayn just shrugs.

\"Blame Lou,\" he says. \"Truth or dare, Haz?\"

By the time the game gets round to Zayn again, though, things have all gone a bit sideways -- Louis included. They'd started off with most of a bottle of vodka; now there's maybe half left, and Louis is waving his cracked blue tumbler in the air, demanding, \"Barman! Hey, barman!\"

\"All right,\" Liam soothes him, unscrewing the lid to top him up, \"hold your horses, God.\"

Louis makes a pleased little kittenish sound as he lifts his cup again, and as Zayn watches him, chest swelling fondly, he realises how drunk he is himself, suddenly, everything going a bit blurry at the edges. God, he loves Lou, his sweet little scrunchy-nosed faces and the way Liam's fussing him like someone's maiden aunt.

God, yeah, he really must<\/i> be drunk.

This time round, he's disinclined to get up and go anywhere, do anything; doesn't really want to risk having to. When Lou pops the question, Zayn says \"Truth?\" without really thinking about it, and only realises his mistake when Harry grins evilly and cuts in, before Louis can speak, \"Lou, have you got a good one or can I jump in?\"

Louis just waves one hand, and Zayn feels his stomach clench as Harry's smile widens further, as he leans across the circle and says, \"So, Zed-man. Would you ever cheat on your Perrie?\"

Fuck, how does Harry do<\/i> it? This is what Zayn's been struggling with for months, now; how the bloody hell Harry can always know the wrong (right) thing to say and say<\/i> it; how he can always move just the right way to make Zayn seize up and flush all over. Zayn's got half a mind to lie, or give a one-word answer that explains nothing, but that would be against the rules, wouldn't it? And something in Harry's face forbids cheating.

He knocks back the rest of the vodka in his tumbler, sets it down before answering, the hot clean burn of it searing his throat. \"Well,\" he says, \"I wouldn't go outside our arrangement, mate, no.\"

Harry's on that like a shot, of course. Zayn hadn't expected anything else, but it's still frightening, almost, the way Harry leans in and says, \"Oh? Arrangement?\" It's not entirely a bad sort of frightening, though, with the wide neck of Harry's t-shirt slipping off one shoulder and his full attention fixed on Zayn's face.

Zayn could still cry off, tell Harry he's had his question and<\/i> his answer, thanks, but something in him doesn't want to. The others are watching him close, now, too, and he tries for nonchalance as he shrugs his shoulders and says, \"Yeah, you know. The exceptions list.\"

Everyone hoots with laughter at that, Niall loudest of all. It's a relief, cutting through the weird tension that'd been settling into Zayn's shoulders, so when Niall demands, \"Who's on your fuckin' exceptions list, then?\" it's somehow not difficult to laugh and toss back, \"Rest of 1D. No, serious,\" and everyone just laughs harder, like they think he's kidding. Zayn's smiling too, slightly off-kilter with drink, and the knot in the pit of his stomach is beginning to unclench until he glances left and sees the look on Harry's face, the curl of his smile that's not amused like the others, but something else.

Intrigue? Nah, Zayn's imagining that, wishful thinking. Brought on by the way Perrie had laughed and tossed her head as she rode him, told him they'd be pretty together, the two of them, and wasn't Harry \ufefftall? \ufeffPerrie liked a big lad.

Zayn shivers suddenly, abruptly, and reaches for the vodka bottle. \"Right,\" he says, \"bored with this game now. Let's do Star Wars<\/i> shots.\"

*

It's not a party night, not exactly. There's stuff to do in the morning, places to be, and Louis was zonked from the moment they got back to the room, blatantly so. They're just trying to pass the time, and by the time they're half an hour into their drinking game it feels like a natural end to the evening has been reached, Louis asleep on Liam's shoulder and Niall drooping, uncharacteristically quiet, against one corner of the settee.

\"I'm gonna take,\" Liam says, gesturing, \"these two -- if you --?\" He trails off, eyebrows raised, and Harry nods, flipping off the telly immediately and standing up. It doesn't escape Zayn's notice, watching the precision of his movements, that Harry doesn't seem to be half as drunk even as Liam is.

\"Need any help, mate?\" Harry asks. Louis and Liam are in the room next door. Niall's on his own this time, across the corridor, but Zayn supposes he'll just end up in bed with the L's, in all probability, the state he's in.

\"You're all right,\" Liam says, shaking his head. His supporting arm shifts around Louis's chest, and Louis makes a snuffly little sound against Liam's shoulder. Zayn bites back a laugh.
\"Night, guys,\" he says, and Niall shoots back melodically, \"Gooooood night, lads. Don't do anythin' I wouldn't do, all right?\"

The words hang in the air after the door has closed behind the other three, and Zayn couldn't say why, but they feel a little like a challenge.

Harry disappears into the bathroom -- Zayn can hear him faffing around, turning the taps on, brushing his teeth. Should do that an' all, Zayn thinks dimly, but the idea of getting all his stuff out of the relevant bag and actually doing these things all feels like too much effort when there's a bed right here, big and soft and cool when he flops back onto it, rubbing his cheek against the pillow. It's the bed Harry bagsied when they checked in this afternoon, but fuck that; Harry's still upright, so he's got one up on Zayn on that score. He can bloody well walk another couple of feet and get in the other bed. Hopefully right at the far side of it so Zayn can attempt a crafty wank under the covers once they've put the lights out. Idly, he spreads his legs, feels the denim catching on the smoothness of the sheets, then pulls them back together again. It's just exacerbating the slight heat in his groin, a bad idea, really, but his head is light with vodka and loose with having been awake too many hours, and then -- then there'd been Harry's collarbones showing stark and pale and licked with sweat, and Harry's -- fuck. Fuck<\/i> Harry.

\"Oy, bed-snatcher!\"

He's not expecting the way the mattress bounces as Harry launches himself onto it, and he grips at the sheets hectically, scowls up at Harry's laughing face. \"What.\"

\"I picked this one earlier fair and square, that's what.\" Harry prods him soundly in the breastbone, then shakes him by the shoulder. \"I'll just take it back when you go and brush your teeth, so you may as well just give it up, you know.\"

That's a challenge if Zayn's ever heard one, Harry's eyes bright and close and his hair all stuck to his face at the temples. He's awfully close, smelling mintily of toothpaste over the suggestion of new sweat, and suddenly Zayn there's more than one reason Zayn doesn't want to move. The heat in his groin pounds. He says, \"Well, I'm not going to brush 'em, am I? So put that in your pipe and smoke it.\"

For a second, Harry just -- just looks<\/i> at him, before he flops over abruptly onto his back on the bed and just starts laughing and laughing. It goes on and on, and Harry must be drunker than Zayn had been starting to think, because it wasn't that<\/i> fucking funny and Harry's got both hands on his stomach, now, like Zayn had told the most hilarious joke in the whole world. Somewhere along the line, Zayn starts laughing as well, it's so infectious, Harry rocking the whole bed with his giggles.

\"All right,\" Zayn says after a bit, when his face has started to hurt weirdly, too many hours of grinning. Harry's very close to him now, his arm pressed to Zayn's from shoulder to elbow, and it's making Zayn's blood sing giddily, his heart race. He pulls himself up and leans over Harry, paws at his arm. \"All right, not that<\/i> funny, come on.\"

Harry snorts and kicks and the bed shakes, and Zayn's hand comes down in the centre of Harry's chest, flat and a little damp. Beneath his palm, Harry feels overheated through the thin single layer of his t-shirt, and Zayn doesn't mean to look at his mouth but it, it's fuckin' difficult not to from this close, really. Harry's all mouth and hair; that was Zayn's first impression of him ever, and even now that he's half-hard against the bed and thrilling to the smell of Harry's soap, he's still...just...

\"Fuck,\" Zayn says, pushing his fingers in, trying to get up.

Harry's too quick for him, hand closing around Zayn's wrist and pinning it there, right where it is. He's not laughing now, Zayn notices, dazed; now he's just looking at Zayn, and looking, and looking. Zayn can't remember the last time he saw Harry look this serious about anything, and this is just the two of them sprawled on one bed after a drunken lads' night in; it's weird<\/i>.

But then Harry says, \"So, your exceptions list,\" and the feeling in Zayn's gut that says weird<\/i> shifts readily right back into turned-on<\/i> with more than a dash of absolutely fucking bricking it<\/i>.

\"Yeah,\" Zayn says tightly. Says<\/i> might be overstating it. It's just this little puff of breath, hardly a word, even, and Harry has gone properly still beneath him on the bed, chest going up and down under Zayn's hand.

Slowly, Harry lifts one hand. Zayn sees him do it -- watches<\/i> him do it, can't not with the position they're in, but it's still a shock when the hand curls lightly against Zayn's shoulder, barely touching. When Harry takes a breath and the hand slides upward to cup the nape of Zayn's neck, Zayn shudders<\/i>, whole body convulsing, and it's pathetic, but it makes Harry gasp and grip harder, part his lips.

\"Zayn,\" Harry says, pulling, hips lifting slightly, and Zayn goes, lets himself be urged downward, grips Harry's shoulders in both hands. Harry's on the exceptions list, after all. If Zayn's honest with himself, Harry's the reason the exceptions list exists<\/i>, so this is okay. Fuck, this is -- this is way, way more than okay.

Harry's mouth is soft. It's always looked<\/i> soft, but this is more than looking; this is the soft give of it under Zayn's and the dampness of it parting around Zayn's lower lip, catching briefly, then again. It's late, and Harry's a bit of a five-o'clock matinee idol by now, but the sandpaper drag of his stubble against Zayn's just makes his full lips and hot tongue, when it comes out tentatively to find Zayn's, feel softer, smoother, better<\/i>. Harry's hand is broad and flat between Zayn's shoulderblades, fingers curling and uncurling reflexively, and Zayn shifts over without even thinking about it until his thighs slot between Harry's, their legs tangling and Zayn's weight full on Harry's chest. Harry makes a broken little sound in his throat, opens his mouth. Zayn groans softly, head spinning, and licks along the insides of Harry's teeth, rubs his tongue against Harry's soft and flat until Harry's groaning too, hips shoving restlessly up against Zayn's.

If someone had told Zayn when they'd come up to their room that they'd be finishing the night like this, mouths slanted wetly over each other and hips pulled flush, Zayn would have -- well. Zayn would've been uncomfortably turned on, probably, and left it at that. Harry's had this effect on him for months, now, but he'd never quite let himself think Harry might be into it too, certainly not as into it as he seems to be, hitching his hips up against Zayn's and clutching fiercely at the back of his shirt. His tongue is rubbing slickly over Zayn's, crooking up to push at his soft palate, and when Zayn shifts his legs a fraction, the next shift of Harry's hips brings them fully together, the fat bulge of Harry's erection slotted neatly into the notch of Zayn's pelvis. It's hot<\/i>, Harry panting ragged into Zayn's mouth, fingers digging in, and Zayn grabs for Harry's waist without thinking, braces his knee against the mattress and ruts down, going for whatever friction he can get.

\"Christ, Zayn!\" Harry gets out, jerking his mouth away as his head tips back, and, fuck, yeah; Zayn's blood does a giddy skip in his veins and he fucks down again, and again, until Harry reaches up and takes hold of him bodily, muscles bunching in his bare forearms as his hands make fists around Zayn's hips.

Even half-immobilised, it's an effort to fall still. Zayn's panting, heart pounding a furious tarantella in the hollow of his throat, and everything in him is screaming to rut down again against Harry, get himself off that way, come inside his trousers against the hard line of Harry's thigh. But then Harry's thumb slides, tentative, from Zayn's hipbone to the centre of his stomach, the underside of his navel, and all at once Zayn's gasping, shivering. Harry traces the edge of a button, and that's it, signal enough, promise of more<\/i>; Zayn gets both his own hands between them in seconds and starts fumbling with Harry's jeans, stupid fucking tight things caught on even his boyish hips and

\"Fuck!\" he spits in frustration, flinging himself off Harry and onto his back, hauling at his jeans and underwear together.

\"Knew this was a daft fashion,\" Harry mutters, flashing Zayn a grin, and then he's whipping his t-shirt up over his head and Zayn feels all the blood in his body rush to his dick, sudden and absolute.

\"I'll show you daft,\" Zayn says, nonsensically. He kicks his tangle of clothes off his ankles, struggles out of his t-shirt, and by the time it's disappeared off the side of the bed, Harry is naked too, long lithe stretch of him on the dark sheets, broadening shoulders and narrow little hips, legs for miles and dick curved fatly up towards his flat belly. He looks edible<\/i>, sweat glistening, showing up all the angles and planes of him and Zayn wants him with a sudden fierce want that surges up in him like nausea or tears, that makes him feel like his head's about to come off if he can't be all over Harry right now<\/i>, right this fucking minute.

\"Jesus,\" he mutters, and moves. Harry's ready for him when he re-settles himself on top of him, legs tangling bare through Harry's, hands threading into the sweat-damp thickness of his hair. Harry hums softly in his throat, tips his head up, chin-first, and just like that, they're kissing again, hard and wet and deep. Zayn's shifting, rocking, hips driving down into Zayn's and if it was good before, it's amazing<\/i> like this, the two of them hot and smooth and naked together, the sticky head of Harry's dick catching at the crux of Zayn's thigh as they move, Harry's abdomen flat and hard for Zayn to rut against.

\"You gonna,\" Harry pants, and the thought suddenly hits Zayn that if Harry can still talk, something's wrong. He clutches at Harry's thighs, pushes them wider, settles himself more fully between them, and their balls are shifting against each other with every thrust of their hips, now, the coarse hair between Harry's legs rasping gloriously against Zayn's cock. Zayn ducks his head, bites at Harry's throat, and Harry pants, harsh and hot; clutches at the back of Zayn's skull, fingers firm and desperate.

\"C'mon,\" he says, hot in the curve of Harry's neck; puts his mouth to the place where his teeth had been and sucks until the blood surges up in the shape of his mouth, blossoming dark under the skin. Beneath him, Harry cries out, hips bucking, and it's fucking furious<\/i> now, Harry's cock sliding like hot silk against Zayn's, and Zayn could come like this, just a few more strokes, but he has to, God, it's taken so long to get Harry in his bed like this and he has to feel<\/i> -- just --

He gets one hand between them, wraps it around the fat, straining length of Harry's dick. Harry's breath punches out of him, shuddering, this little whine emerging against the shell of Zayn's ear, and Zayn groans, bites his lip. \"Fuck,\" he manages, the word choked out, and he's still moving, leaking slick all over the inside of Harry's thigh as he rocks against him, faster now, harder. Harry's smooth and strange-familiar in his hand, hot, gorgeous; Zayn can smell him from here, the dark, clean tang of him, and one of these days, he realises, he wants that in his mouth, wants to swallow Harry down and suck him dry. Now, though, Harry's pulsing in his hand, pistoning sticky-slick through the tunnel of Zayn's fist and, God, precome pearling up out of his slit when Zayn presses his thumb there, the pad of it glancing over Harry's crown.

\"Zayn,\" Harry says, and he's, fuck, he's talking again, is he, even though his thighs are trembling around Zayn's now and there's sweat between them, sweat all over them, everywhere. Zayn moves impulsively, crams his mouth down on Harry's, and then Harry's lips are closed around Zayn's tongue and he's shuddering, tensing, buckling under Zayn's weight as he comes all over his fist. It works its way out of him in deep, wrecked pulses, in a low cry that breaks out of the back of Harry's throat, and it's more than Zayn can take. He wanted to last, maybe, for the first time, but there's too much vodka in both of them for that and Harry is so fucking, so<\/i> fucking hot.

\"Are you gonna,\" Harry pants, hot and breathless in Zayn's ear, \"you gonna tell Perrie what you did to me?\"

\"Fuckin' hell -- <\/i>\"

He hadn't even realised he was so close, riding the edge, but those words in Harry's mouth are enough to shove him over the edge, slicing through him like a knife-edge so he torques and shudders and groans, hips bucking. Harry's own hand moves slackly between them, still lax from orgasm as it encircles Zayn's length, but it's enough, just that unfamiliar touch enough to get Zayn shivering as he comes, hot white spurt after spurt streaking Harry's stomach.

\"Yeah,\" Harry coaxes, squeezing, \"yeah, c'mon, fuck, yeah,\" and Zayn feels a final dribble of come work its way down the outside of Harry's fist, smearing between them. When, at length, he stills, the outsides of Harry's thighs, clamped around Zayn's hips, are wet with their sweat, but Harry's chest has stopped heaving, and his arms come up readily to encircle Zayn's shoulders, coaxing him down.

After a minute, Harry says, \"So is that a 'yes'?\" and Zayn half-laughs as he paws through the mess of his post-orgasm mind to remember what the question was.

\"Oh, yeah,\" he says, nuzzling into the curve of Harry's throat, \"definitely.\" Alcohol and sex have made him stupid, and he adds, \"She'll be so fuckin' turned on, Haz, you've got no idea.\"

Harry laughs. Something about the way he pauses makes Zayn expect some smart comment, some suggestion, but in the end all Harry says is \"Lucky boy,\" stroking the hair back from Zayn's ear, and Zayn supposes he's knackered too, the evening taking its toll on him.

\"Lucky boy,\" he agrees, lips mouthing the line of Harry's clavicle, and feels the truth of it in every cell of his body.

*

<\/a>

text on AO3<\/a> (seems to be where the party is)","comments":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/152197.html?view=comments#comments","category":["rpf","fic","pairing: harry\/zayn","one direction"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/151411.html","pubDate":"Tue, 08 Jan 2013 23:54:45 GMT","title":"Fic: the touch of a velvet hand (NC-17, J\/P, yes again, yes I'm sorry)","author":"obstinatrix","link":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/151411.html","description":"Fic<\/b>: the touch of a velvet hand
Fandom<\/b>: The Beatles
Pairing<\/b>: John\/Paul
Rating<\/b>: NC-17
Word count<\/b>: ~3000
Summary<\/b>: Paul has an interesting dream and accidentally (sort of) tells John about it. Things ensue. For <\/a>tini_91<\/b><\/a><\/span> because it is her birthday and she is an evil enabler. Happy birthday, bb. :)
Warnings<\/b>: Feminisation kink; het...sort of? Sorry. In general. Sorry.




\"Let me,\" John says. His voice is low and breathless and his hand is sliding flat up Paul's thigh, fingertips wrapping around it easily, kneading. \"I can make you feel so good, sweetheart; I promise. Let me.\"

His fingers drift a little higher, smoothing over the pale expanse of fine skin between Paul's knee and the crux of his legs, and it crosses Paul's mind, for a last second of rationality, that this is what John says, probably, to all the girls; that this is just John seducing him.

But then John's fingers brush him through his knickers, sending a sharp thrill curling up Paul's spine, and that puts the tin hat on Paul's logic. His thighs fall open. There's no question any more. He's wet, the cotton hot and damp when John flattens his hand there, and then John is gripping him like he owns him, palming him firm and knowing, and of course if Paul has a cunt he's going to let John lick it, feel that pink mouth lapping at him. Why<\/i> he has a cunt is unclear, but it feels quite natural; makes him feel split-open and aching and hot in the way proximity to John has done for some time. He's not a girl, not exactly -- is still just Paul, just himself -- but his hips are subtly rounded when John slides his hands up them to work the knickers off him, and his chest is soft and full beneath the dress, where John has had his hands already. Paul doesn't know what he is, except some heated distillation of want with his thighs splayed around John's body, pelvis canting upward as John trails two fingers through his slickness, pushes them inside him and rubs at Paul with the pad of his thumb.

\"I'm gonna put my tongue here,\" John promises, thumb working at Paul in tight little circles, and Paul groans, imagining it, John opening him up and licking wetly along the cleft of him. \"Let me,\" John says, low, and Paul can think of no earthly reason to resist.

Paul doesn't know what he is, other than dreaming, dreaming, but he knows what John is; who John is. His chest hitches with his breaths as John fucks him with his fingers, and when John lifts him, reversing their positions so that Paul is half-straddling John's chest, Paul lets him, loving the sensation of weightlessness, the ease with which John is able to manhandle him.

\"Come here,\" John tells him, gripping the meat of Paul's thighs and hefting him closer. \"God, Paul, I love the way you smell. Come on, babe.\" Another tug, and Paul is gripping the headboard with both hands, pulse pounding wildly between his legs as John licks lazily at his inner thigh, presses a kiss to the wet line his tongue has traced. \"Come on, sit on my face.\"

John tugs again, this time sharply downward, and Paul gives in. The first touch of John's tongue is electric, a flat, hard, slow upward stroke, and Paul hears himself cry out; feels himself convulse. John makes a soft sound against him, gratified. His tongue flicks and curls, now soft, now hard and teasing; then John is sucking and the details of the situation begin to melt in Paul's mind as heat surges through him. Below him, John's eyes are closed as if in worship, his hair spread fox-coloured on the pillow. Paul bites his lip, rocks his hips, riding John's tongue, and John moans, digs his fingers into Paul's thighs, hauling him closer. God, but John is good at this, his little noises of contentment vibrating up through Paul's body, and suddenly Paul is close, so close, circling the abyss. Blindly, he lets one hand slip from the headboard and fist in John's hair, holding him still as he fucks forward, onto him and into him, searching for something, something ---<\/i> just --

He wakes up with a jolt, sudden and absolute. He's achingly hard, so much so that for a second he thinks that was all that jerked him from sleep, his dick trapped between his body and the mattress and leaking a spot of precome through his pyjamas.

Then John shoves him again, flat of his hand pushing at Paul's hip. His thumb is on Paul's hot bare skin where his shirt has ridden up and the flash of mortification that rolls through Paul is tinged darkly with something else, something sharp and hungry and needing.

\"If you wanted a wank,\" John mutters grumpily, \"you should have just fucking had one, then you wouldn't have been shaking the whole bleedin' bed with your dirty dreams.\"

Dirty dreams indeed. Memory surges back to Paul in fragments: John's eyelashes shadowed on his cheekbones as he nosed up between Paul's legs; John's big hands strong on Paul's thighs; John's clever tongue. \"Shut up, John,\" Paul tries to say, his cheeks heating, but the words squeak their way out. John's hand is still on Paul's hip and, despite his embarrassment, Paul can't seem to stop himself rolling forward into the mattress, just slightly, crushing himself against it as if it might bring him some relief.

Fat chance, with John around. Even in the dark hotel room, Paul catches the flash of John's teeth as he grins -- hell, he can feel<\/i> him smiling, boyishly gleeful. \"Aw, Paulie,\" John teases, \"those dreams were<\/i> dirty, weren't they, eh? What were you dreaming about?\" John shakes him, thumb hooking under the spur of Paul's hipbone in a way that sends shivers darting down the vee of his pelvis, and Paul bites his lip. Relentless, John prompts, \"Blonde with big tits, was it? So predictable, Macca.\"

Paul stills, clenching his knees against the urge to rut against the mattress, body aching to finish what it's begun and oddly, insistently driven by the sound of John's voice. Of course he's noticed before that it's a nice voice, a soft voice, but it's never caught at the base of his spine the way it's doing now -- never twisted him up inside the way it does when John leans forward after a beat and says, sounding suddenly curious, \"Or aren't you? Not Brigitte tonight, eh?\" The hand on Paul's hip shifts, palms the small of his back where sweat has collected in the dip of his spine, and that's it, breaking point for Paul's willpower. His pelvis jackknifes forward, breath pushing out of him harshly.

\"No,\" he pants, feeling suddenly, drunkenly reckless, \"not -- not tonight.\"

He doesn't miss the way John's hand shifts, as if it's pushing, urging Paul down again by the upper curve of his backside when his hips lift. John's voice, when it comes again, sounds changed, darker. \"What kind of bird, then?\" John says, and his palm flexes against Paul's arse. The mattress comes up to meet him, sweet pressure on his pounding dick, and Paul bites his lip, all the blood diverted from his brain and its sense of reason.

\"I think,\" Paul says, cheek pressed hot and damp to the pillow as John coaxes him down against the sheets, \"I was -- I<\/i> was the girl. And --\"

John's hand falters, slips lower and flattens on Paul's backside, the feel of it heavy and half-accidental. \"And?\"

Paul rubs his face reflexively against the pillowcase, heat spiking at his groin. \"And -- and you were there. I think.\" Paul swallows. The back of his throat feels like cotton. \"I was with you.\"

He feels John tense, but it doesn't prepare him for the adrenaline rush that claws at him, fluttering in his stomach, when John turns him over abruptly, two-handed. He's on his back before he knows the reason why, and if the loss of pressure on his cock is near-painful, the dangerous look on John's face almost makes up for it, the faint light from the window glancing off the wet insides of John's parted lips. \"John,\" Paul manages, winded, but John cuts him off with a palm pressed between Paul's legs, frank and final, no more plausible deniability. Paul remembers that move from the dream, John squeezing him through cloth, and he says, feeling dizzy and crazed, \"Yeah, you -- you did that.\" Impossibly, he feels himself swell further against John's hand, fattening under his palm.

\"Christ,\" John says. He looks dazed, manic, his mouth soft and open and his eyes bright and dazzled. Paul doesn't know what he's doing; doesn't know what they're<\/i> doing, but it's too late to stop now. John's braced over him, staring down at the bulge in Paul's pyjamas where his prick is pressing out the fabric, and Paul's already almost shivering with want before John says, \"Did you let me rub your cunt, baby?\" He palms the firm ridge of cock, heel of his hand grinding down. \"Like this?\"

\"Shit<\/i>.\" The word comes out like a sob. He can feel new precome shoving its way out of him, smearing under John's hand, and Jesus Christ, this has gone too far to chicken out now, if Paul even could. He reaches up, clutches at the back of John's neck, and realises when John stumbles closer that he's panting almost as hard as Paul is, now, his hand still rocking incrementally between Paul's thighs. \"Yeah,\" Paul tells him, breathless, \"yeah, and you -- \" He catches his breath on a shudder, jerks his hips up against John's palm as John squeezes him, hectic and without warning. \"You were licking me, you wanted me to let you...you...\"

John's hand slips, presses down harder, and his voice when it comes is strained and incredulous, cracking with want. \"Jesus wept<\/i>,\" he says, and it's gratifying, terrifying, like the way John's fingers start clawing blindly at the waistband of Paul's pyjama trousers and his briefs beneath, hauling them indelicately down his thighs. \"Fucking Christ, and you did, didn't you? You little slut, you let me. Like this?\" John's fingers are shaking when they curl around Paul, the naked length of him slick with sweat and his own wetness, shoved out of him by the sweet ripe ache that's taken him over. Paul moans, head falling back, and John's shoulders are shaking too as he ducks his head and swipes his tongue, catlike, over the sticky crown of Paul's dick. \"Like this?\"

Like before, like he'd dreamed, it's electric, the soft flat of John's tongue and then the sharper jolt when he points it, wiggling the tip into the slit of Paul's dick where he's pearling up wet. Paul cries out, unable to stop himself; grips John's hair in one hand, feeling it sweaty and rich between his fingers. John groans against him, grasping for a good deep breath, and then the whole head of Paul's dick is slipping between his parted lips, smearing slick against the silken inside of John's cheek. Paul opens his mouth to say something, anything, but his stomach has tautened up with the feeling and the knots seem to go all the way up, holding him down, holding his tongue. It's all he can do to fuck up with his hips and whimper, clutching at John's hair like a lifeline.

He's close, been so damn close all along, and John is frenetic, unpractised but eager as he sucks at the crown of Paul's cock, pulling back after a moment to rub his parted lips breathlessly over the tip of it. \"God,\" John says, and then his two hands are working uselessly again at Paul's clothes, dragging them further down his legs. Dimly, Paul registers what is needed of him, and he spreads his knees a little once the fabric is below them, kicking it off in a tangle when John's worked it low enough. Then John presses his knuckles behind the heavy swell of Paul's bollocks, deep and hard, and Paul cries out again, legs jerking spasmodically.

\"Did you let me do this, darlin'?\" John asks him, in a voice rough and hot as good whisky. \"Rub you between your legs? Spread you open?\" John palms at his thighs, pushes them apart, pushes them back until Paul's knees are suddenly up by his chest, his whole pelvis canted up towards John's face. \"Christ, I'd lick your little cunt like a shot, Paul, if you let me. Fuck you with my tongue. Can I?\" John leans in, shouldering Paul's thighs wider still; he rubs his face bluntly between Paul's legs, nosing at his perineum, sucking at the skin until Paul is shivering, muscles in his thighs leaping wildly.

\"Fuck, yes,\" Paul spits, as if the question even makes any sense -- as if there's anything he wouldn't<\/i> let John do in this moment. \"Johnny, please, do it -- please --\"

He's barely conscious of John's tongue on him, pushing at him, tracing the rim of his arsehole, before the overdue rush of orgasm crashes over him like a breaker, pushing fatly up his prick in sludgy waves of heat. His legs shiver and jerk, but John holds them fast, pinning them apart as he shoves his tongue past the tight ring of muscle, wet and hard and eager. As if from a distance, Paul hears himself shouting weakly; he's coming fucking everywhere, over his own abdomen and in John's hair, but John is rutting against the mattress now as he thrusts his tongue into Paul, working him open. Aftershocks ripple through Paul like little waves. After a long second catching his breath, he grasps for John's shoulders, tugs. John is still moving spasmodically, hips going, and this may be strange and new but friends don't let friends hump mattresses to their completion when there's another option; especially when they've just done -- whatever that<\/i> was.

\"Johnny,\" Paul manages. His voice sounds gritty, folksy, like he's just smoked eighteen fags in a row or belted out screamer after screamer all night in some Liverpool dive bar. \"Here -- c'mere --\"

It's not until John's mouth finds his, wet and slack and hot, that Paul realises, dream or otherwise, this is the first time they've kissed. Even after all that, John's hair sticky with Paul's come and Paul's muscles spent from John's ministrations, this is the first time John's tongue has found its way cautiously into Paul's mouth, tracing the shapes of his teeth. Paul breathes out hard through his nose, licks at John's soft palate. Over him, beside him, John is pressing himself against Paul's bare hip, and Paul pushes a hand down blindly into John's pyjamas, seeking bare skin.

\"Shit,\" John mutters, breaking the kiss as Paul takes hold of him, starts jacking him wet and fast. \"Shit, shit -- yeah, go on, harder.\"

It should be surreal, the feeling of another man's prick in his hand, unfamiliar ridge of foreskin moving stickily back and forth over the wet head, but somehow, it isn't really. Somehow, it's just John, John panting hotly against Paul's mouth and John fucking slickly through the tunnel of Paul's fist and, oh, and John coming hot and sudden over Paul's wrist, stilling at the crest of a thrust as he spurts. Afterwards, Paul goes on holding him for a long moment; can't seem to let go, although John is wet and softening in his hand. John's breath is jagged and warm on his mouth, against his cheek. He doesn't protest. Paul, the blood now actually flowing to his brain again, hasn't the faintest idea what's just happened here, but John isn't protesting, and that's something. Paul's body certainly isn't protesting either.

Five minutes pass before John pulls back, eyes finding Paul's in the half-light. Looking back at him, Paul feels his stomach clench, suddenly apprehensive, and when John opens his mouth to speak, the feeling intensifies, twisting his guts. The fuck was that?<\/i> he hears John saying. What the hell do you think you're doing?<\/i>

But when John speaks, what he says is, \"Did I fuck you?\" and Paul's breath hitches. His throat feels used and dry, almost sticky.

\"What?\" he croaks weakly.

John clarifies, \"In the dream. Did I fuck you?\" His voice is stronger now, eyes clear and searching on Paul's face. Intent. Paul is too entirely fucked-out to get hard again for a while, but even still, that look makes his whole body thrill.

\"No,\" he says, carefully, but his pulse is pounding under his skin, now, everywhere. On his thighs, on his hips, he fancies he can feel John's fingerprints. He wants to feel them, he thinks suddenly, recklessly, on his throat, on his arms, on his back. He says, \"But I'd let you.\"

A muscle jumps in John's jaw, by the tendon in his throat. \"In your dreams?\" he asks, thin and guarded. He looks, Paul thinks, beautiful, suddenly uncertain, and Paul's fingers wrap around John's wrist without thinking; lift it so that Paul can brush his mouth against the heel of John's palm.

\"No,\" Paul says, softly, \"straight up. Anywhere.\"

It's too dark to see John's closed-mouthed, giddy smile, but Paul feels it all over his body, marking him like fingerprints. Next time.<\/i>","comments":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/151411.html?view=comments#comments","category":["the beatles","rating: nc-17","pairing: john\/paul","fic"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/150810.html","pubDate":"Thu, 03 Jan 2013 00:38:57 GMT","title":"Fic: Out (John\/Paul, PG-13, 2\/2) ","author":"obstinatrix","link":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/150810.html","description":"This is the second part of this<\/a> fic. It's not exactly a fic inasmuch as it's a really (really really) long script-style dialogue of an appearance on Parkinson<\/i>. I decided that if you were going to go and talk to someone on British TV in the 80s about your suddenly outed queerness, it would be Parky. ;) Again, a repost for archiving, please ignore. ARCHIVING PURPOSES.<\/b>

Utter self-indulgence, and obviously AU.

Fic<\/b>: Out: Parkinson, 81<\/i>
Rating<\/b>: PG-13
Pairing<\/b>: John\/Paul



Parkinson:<\/b> John -- Paul. [handshakes all round] Nice to see you again.
Paul:<\/b> You too, Michael.
John:<\/b> Thanks for having us.
Parkinson:<\/b> I think every journalist in the country's clamouring to have the two of you at the moment!
John:<\/b> Ho. Well. The phone has been ringing a bit.
Paul:<\/b> Madness.
Parkinson:<\/b> Indeed. We're meeting today under quite radically different circumstances to the last time you were in, Paul. Then it was all, kids this, being a dad that, and now...
Paul:<\/b> I'm still a dad, Michael, believe it or not. Still got kids.
John:<\/b> And they're definitely his, too.
Parkinson:<\/b> How do you manage that, then? You've got sole custody of your youngest, John, is that right?
John:<\/b> Yeah -- well, he lives with us full time. Paul's kids live with Linda during the week in the school year, but we get them at weekends and for the hols.
Parkinson:<\/b> You seem quite comfortable with that -- you know -- that couply 'we'.
Paul:<\/b> Well, we didn't just wake up last week and decide we were mad for each other, you know. It's been a while, on and off.
John:<\/b> Mostly on, really.
Paul:<\/b> Mostly on, yeah, in a sense, at least. We've been a 'we' for quite a long time. [laughs] As you could probably tell from that picture.
Parkinson:<\/b> Ah, yes, the picture.
John:<\/b> What brought us all together here today, and all that. Thanks for that, by the way, whoever sent it in. [two thumbs up to the camera] Thanks for that.
Parkinson:<\/b> I don't think there's anyone left in the world who hasn't seen that photo now.
Paul:<\/b> My kids haven't.
Parkinson:<\/b> But they know about the two of you, of course?
John:<\/b> Course they bloody do. We're not gonna move all me clothes next door when they come up, pretend Uncle John sleeps on the settee or whatever. Anyway, Sean's with us all the time. It'd be a constant charade. Right palaver.
Paul:<\/b> And we didn't see any need for that. We're not doing anything wrong. It's not something horrible we feel like we have to keep hidden.
Parkinson:<\/b> What about from the public, though? Would you have kept it hidden from everyone else, if that picture hadn't come out?
John:<\/b> Well, it's not exactly their business the way it's our kids' business, is it?
Paul:<\/b> But we were going to come clean about it, sooner or later. Just, in our own time, y'know.
John:<\/b> So we could hold hands in Hyde Park.
Paul:<\/b> So we could, yeah, hold hands in Hyde Park. But to tell you the truth, we sort of thought most people must have guessed anyway, surely.
John:<\/b> The bloke at our corner shop's been wise to us for months.
Paul:<\/b> But apparently it's come as a total shock to the rest of the country.
Parkinson:<\/b> Well, you were both quite renowned Lotharios in your day.
John:<\/b> \"In our day\"? Thanks!
Parkinson:<\/b> In the Beatles era, John. If you bed a few hundred girls, it does sort of keep people's minds from leaping to the conclusion that you must have got divorced because you're gay.
Paul:<\/b> We're not gay.
John:<\/b> We're just as not-gay as we've ever been, Michael.
Parkinson:<\/b> How would you label yourselves, then?
John:<\/b> With a stencil.
Paul:<\/b> [smiles at him sidelong] Yeah, you know, we never have, really. We like girls, still like 'em just as much as any married bloke still appreciates a pretty lady. But obviously we fancy each other like blazes, you might've worked out.
John:<\/b> [affects a wistful Lennon silly voice] Even after all these years.
Paul:<\/b> Yeah, even though I'm not pretty any more. That's love.
John:<\/b> You're still pretty. Isn't he pretty?
Parkinson:<\/b> You don't look forty, that's for sure.
Paul:<\/b> Well, thank God for that -- I'm only thirty-nine!
Parkinson:<\/b> Oh, I beg your pardon!
[laughter]
John:<\/b> I'm forty-one, bloody hell. How old do I look?
Parkinson:<\/b> Oh...twenty-five.
John:<\/b> Twenty-five, I'll take it.
Parkinson:<\/b> Peace-offering. So, would you say you were both, what is it -- bisexual, then?
John:<\/b> If we must.
Paul:<\/b> Yes. I mean, like he says, we don't really like to label ourselves, but that's the closest that, er. Yeah. I don't...I mean, I really don't want people to think my marriage to Linda was a sham and I was secretly gay all along and all that rubbish. As soon as it came out about me and John, that started up, that 'secret gay' business, and I just thought, \"Oh, God.\"
John:<\/b> If it were true, that'd be one thing.
Paul:<\/b> Right. It's not that being called gay is offensive in principle.
John:<\/b> Any more. We'd have thought so in the sixties.
Paul:<\/b> It's just I don't want people to think I didn't really love Linda; I did. I do<\/i>, she's a cracker. But John's it for me. I fell arse-over-tit for him at fifteen. Linda always knew that.
Parkinson:<\/b> She married you, knowing about you and John?
Paul:<\/b> Yeah. I mean, we were...that was one of our 'off' periods, Yoko and all that, but Linda knew. She couldn't have missed it, even if I hadn't told her. I fell to pieces a bit when he left.
John:<\/b> A bit. [takes Paul's hand and squeezes it]
Paul:<\/b> [smiles at him]
Parkinson:<\/b> So you got together when you were fifteen, Paul? Was that the year you met?
John:<\/b> We met in '57. I think it must have been '59 before we, uh... [interlaces the fingers of his left hand with his right and looks at Paul]
Paul:<\/b> Meshed.
John:<\/b> Meshed, aye. Carnally meshed. But I was arse-over-tit for him in '57 an' all, not that I'd have admitted it.
Paul:<\/b> You couldn't even admit these things to yourself in those days, especially not in Liverpool. I'm sure you know, Michael.
Parkinson:<\/b> It's grim up north.
Paul:<\/b> Yeah, and it was really<\/i> grim then. I remember having all these...funny feelings about John and I just thought, \"God, I don't want to have to be a sad old poofter. Me dad'll kill me.\"
John:<\/b> I was brought up by me auntie, mostly. I think she thinks the whole Yoko debacle was a carefully orchestrated scheme on my part to make the idea of me and Paul together more palatable to her. Preferable to the alternative, if nothing else, all that.
Parkinson:<\/b> Is that what she thinks?
John:<\/b> Aye, she's said as much. She's come round to Paul, you see. She used to think he was rough as the roads.
Paul:<\/b> [laughing]
John:<\/b> They used to discuss me. When I was away.
Paul:<\/b> Well, she had to discuss you with someone.
Parkinson:<\/b> Both your parents have passed away, Paul, is that right?
Paul:<\/b> Yeah, me mum when I was a kid, an' me dad died in '75.
John:<\/b> Paul wouldn't have been acknowledging this if he hadn't.
Paul:<\/b> I would!
John:<\/b> You would not. You'd have been petrified of gettin' a clip round the ear.
Paul:<\/b> \"The picture's a fake, honest!\" [laughs] Well. Yeah, me dad would never have understood.
John:<\/b> He probably suspected it anyway, I bet. Probably thought you were shagging Groovy Bob, all them presents he got you.
Parkinson:<\/b> Have either of you ever had a relationship with another man? Other than each other, obviously.
Paul:<\/b> Er...
John:<\/b> Not a relationship, no.
Paul:<\/b> There's been...a little bit of how's-your-father, speaking for both of us. But we always went for girls first. It was easier, for one.
John:<\/b> And for another, why would I want another bloke over Paul?
Parkinson:<\/b> George -- Harrison -- said, when this came out, that he'd been surprised about it for 'about a month in 1959.
Paul:<\/b> ...yes...
John:<\/b> Jealous, more like.
Paul:<\/b> Oh, he was not.
John:<\/b> I don't mean of the...uh...
Paul:<\/b> Sex.
John:<\/b> Sex. Can I say sex?
Parkinson:<\/b> You may.
John:<\/b> Wahey! Sex. [clears throat] No, I was going to say, not that he was jealous of the sex, like. But him and Paul, they were inseparable back then, y'see. He found us out. But I think he would've forgiven Paul anything in them days.
Paul:<\/b> No, it was only because it was with you. You were Mr Cool. John, we all wanted to be in with John. I think if I'd been caught with some other lad, there'd have been hell to pay, but goin' bent for John was understandable.
Parkinson:<\/b> You were in love, were you? When it got physical?
John:<\/b> Yes. That was the worst part, you know.
Parkinson:<\/b> How so?
John:<\/b> Well, I could've just ignored it otherwise, couldn't I? But me and Paul -- it's just always been different with him. Everything's better. I wanted to be with him all the time.
Paul:<\/b> We'd sag off school to be together. And stay up dead late in each other's bedrooms, listening to records and playing our guitars and that.
John:<\/b> I think we'd been having an affair for at least a year before we worked out it was one, to tell you the truth. \"Oh, dearie me! I've been courting Paul behind me own back!\"
Paul:<\/b> [looking at John] I wanted to touch your hair; I remember that. I got obsessed with it.
John:<\/b> Och, Paul, we're trying to conduct a serious interview here about our homosexual liaisons, and there you go nancying it up. Typical.
Paul:<\/b> [to Michael] John once nicked one of my gloves and kept it. For twenty-five years.
John:<\/b> Below the belt, Macca.
Paul:<\/b> [smirks]
Parkinson:<\/b> So at what point did you become a couple, properly?
Paul:<\/b> Like we say, sometimes in '59. But we didn't think of it like that, exactly. Didn't dare, really.
John:<\/b> By the time we went to Hamburg, we were 'in a physical relationship', as the papers say.
Paul:<\/b> As opposed to a virtual one.
John:<\/b> Despite Paul's artificial intelligence.
Paul:<\/b> Shut up, you. [flicks the back of John's hand] But we weren't exclusive, ever. We both expected to marry women, because we could, you know -- we weren't queers. In those days it was either\/or. People didn't know one person could have the capacity to fall for either.
John:<\/b> People still don't, much. But yeah, and then we went on for a bit and Julian came, and after that it was settled that me an' him would be the sort of unofficial relationship, y'see. Even though the, you know, the feeling<\/i> was greater.
Paul:<\/b> that was just how it had to be, we thought.
John:<\/b> Different now.
Paul:<\/b> Yeah. But I only sort of let myself think, \"no, you know, I want me and John to be official, maybe; I want us to be each other's...first port of call,\" all that, when we realised the band was breaking up.
John:<\/b> Yeah, and I thought you were gonna leave me for Linda.
Paul:<\/b> God, this is all maudlin lovers-at-cross-purposes mush, isn't it?
Parkinson:<\/b> No, no!
John:<\/b> Aye, it is. Never mind. It all worked out in the end, didn't it? [smiles at the camera]
Paul:<\/b> Now you can cut to a music video of us floating around together looking domestic.
John:<\/b> Soon as we've made one.
Parkinson:<\/b> You are recording together again, aren't you?
John:<\/b> Yes. Since all this, we've been thinking maybe we should put That Picture on the cover. [laughs]
Paul:<\/b> But I don't think we want it to have to go out in brown paper.
John:<\/b> Bad associations.
Paul:<\/b> There will be a record, though.
John:<\/b> And they'll probably call it a Beatles record, even though it won't be one. Same as they've been calling me a poof, even though I'm not one.
Paul:<\/b> And actually, you know -- can I say something?
Parkinson:<\/b> Certainly.
Paul:<\/b> Right, I just -- really, we're kidding about putting something raunchy on the cover because, you know, that isn't us; we're not what everyone thinks queer people, not-straight people, are like. Catsuits and glittery eyeshadow and whatnot. That idea's an improvement on what people thought of them when we were kids, but it's still not...it's not much for a teenager to look at and think, oh, yeah, that's me. And at the moment that association is all anyone can think about, isn't it? Lennon and McCartney, queers.
Parkinson:<\/b> Teenagers looking at you...that's -- you've probably noticed that's something the, uh, the Daily Mail and others have been talking about. You don't think there's anything to the idea that you and John being out in public together will 'warp young minds'?
John:<\/b> Weren't worried about that when they leaked that photo, were they?
Paul:<\/b> [laughs]
John:<\/b> Yeah, I dunno. You know what they're like, Michael. They're worried it'll make kids queer, seein' us. Well, in our day nobody talked about it at all unless they were on about some kid bein' a batty-boy and how they were gonna kick his head in, and coming from that, we still...you know. Out of that, we fell in love with each other. Kids who're queer will still be queer, even without any positive reinforcement in that direction. We'd rather those kids saw some queers like me and Paul, couple of middle-aged blokes on a farm, instead of just hearing what we heard growing up and taking till they're forty to actually be able to be with the person they want to be with.
Parkinson:<\/b> Attitudes have changed a lot...
John:<\/b> Obviously, since we didn't get a brick through the window. Or a load of townsfolk with pitchforks. [mimes angry townspeople forking Paul in the shoulder]
Paul:<\/b> But we're still hearing concerns that me and him are 'normalising' homosexuality now and that's bad. Apparently.
John:<\/b> It seems. First time I've ever been accused of being normal, I tell you.
Parkinson:<\/b> Will<\/i> this normalise homosexuality, do you think? You two, very prominent public figures, being known to be a couple?
John:<\/b> Well, of course it's normalising it. It's just us, being a couple and also just being, you know, as normal as we ever get. Queers are<\/i> normal. Kids are comin' round to this whether the Daily Mail likes it or not, and if we're part of that, well...good. Everyone's normal. We've been saying that for years.
Paul:<\/b> And the more normal queer blokes seem, the less people will fuss about it, y'know. I think it's good for gay kids to see us biffing about with the kids. Not a sequin in sight.
John:<\/b> Not that we care if people want to have sequins. We've seen it all. But me and him...
Paul:<\/b> Just a couple of Scousers. [smiles]
Parkinson:<\/b> You're not against all that, then -- the drag queens and sequins sort of movement?
John:<\/b> God, no. We're not against<\/i> anything; I've lost count of how many times we've tried to say this.
Paul:<\/b> Except people nicking stuff and killing each other, obviously. But social mores...
John:<\/b> Social bullshit. Sorry, BBC. Social rubbish. We know lots of very gllittery people and that's fine. They like that, it's them. And they had to do that, didn't they, in the beginning, to get any attention at all? We're just saying...
Paul:<\/b> It's not everybody.
John:<\/b> Right. I mean, really, I think the public likes to have a good moan about homoSEXuals --
Paul:<\/b> HomoSEXuals, mind --
John:<\/b> -- shoving their filthy lifestyle down the collective public throat, etc etc; oh, and here's this picture of Lennon and McCartney buggering each other. Look at 'em shoving it right in your face, their private photos! But really, they want people to only see that kind of...
Paul:<\/b> Queerness.
John:<\/b> Queerness, exactly. Because if all the public sees of not-straight people is blokes in glittery catsuits jumping out of cakes and licking each other --
Paul:<\/b> Not an illustration from life, by the way.
John:<\/b> -- then they can say, look, these guys are depraved, they're fucking weirdos!
Paul:<\/b> Can you say fucking?
Parkinson:<\/b> We'll edit it out.
Paul:<\/b> Oh, good. Well, he's right, anyway. It's been a fortnight, and they've already gone from being scandalised 'cause we're weirdos to being offended and terrified that we're not, actually.
John:<\/b> We haven't been secretly wearing sparkles under our clothes the whole time.
Paul:<\/b> No, we've just been us, and we're still us. But...more. And I mean, the glittery business, pride marches and whatnot, people hate<\/i> that. They say, 'how can they expect to be treated like normal people if they act like that?' But we had to, to get noticed. Black rights rallies, it's obvious who's part of the minority and what minority they're representing, but in our case we were a sort of silent minority and we had to be noisy or it'd have got nowhere.
John:<\/b> And after all that complaining about abnormal folk doing marches with flags, now they're complaining because they don't like having to see these ordinary blokes as suddenly the most prominent queers in Britain. 'Cause now they're thinking, God, I couldn't have spotted those two in a crowd! Now we're hiding, we're this lurking plague that could be anywhere and they wouldn't know.
Paul:<\/b> Scary.
Parkinson:<\/b> Don't think I haven't noticed you saying 'we', there.
Paul:<\/b> Well...if you're not straight, you're the other, aren't you?
John:<\/b> You suck just one cock...
Paul:<\/b> But we're pretty normal. Everything's gone potty round us, but we're just business as usual, like we've been for the past year.
John:<\/b> Everybody's normal, anyway.
Paul:<\/b> Even weird people.
John:<\/b> Especially weird people.
Parkinson:<\/b> Is that what your kids think?
John:<\/b> Kids've got no reason to think anything's a bit funny unless someone tells them so.
Paul:<\/b> I'm amazed this hadn't actually come out already at school from one of them. Daddy and Uncle John have a huuuuuge bed --
John:<\/b> With a mirror over it.
Paul:<\/b> Not really.
John:<\/b> Not really.
Parkinson:<\/b> Amazing indeed. Well, thank you both for giving us this first interview since the revelations, lads, and best of luck with what's to come.
John:<\/b> Thanks.
Paul:<\/b> Thank you.
Parkinson:<\/b> Ladies and gentlemen: John Lennon, Paul McCartney.
John:<\/b> Or the McLens, if you're lazy.
[handshakes]","comments":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/150810.html?view=comments#comments","category":["pairing: john\/paul","fic"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/150740.html","pubDate":"Thu, 03 Jan 2013 00:35:06 GMT","title":"Fic: Out (John\/Paul, R, 1\/2)","author":"obstinatrix","link":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/150740.html","description":"I posted this directly to a community late last year, but my OCD demands I post it on my LJ. ARCHIVING PURPOSES, PLEASE IGNORE.<\/b> I think everyone who might have wanted to read this has already done so.

Fic<\/b>: Out
Rating<\/b>: R
Summary<\/b>: It's 1981. John and Paul are living an improbably idyllic life at the McCartney farm in Scotland...until a certain photograph makes its way to the press. AU, obv.



The phone rang at six on an April Saturday morning, shrill and insistent on the bedside table. Paul, yawning, stretched across the indistinct lump of John under the covers to snatch it from its cradle, noting the red digits on the alarm clock and hoping to God somebody hadn't died. Six o'clock on a Saturday never spelled anything but trouble.

\"Yes, hello?\" Paul's voice pulled raggedly at the back of his throat, thick with sleep. Beside him, John shifted a little, grumbling, and Paul laid a comforting hand on the crest of duvet where his hip must be.

\"Hi, Paul,\" Ringo said, and Paul's heart clenched in his chest. The last time Ringo had rung him up at this sort of time, it'd been to tell him that John was lying in intensive care with a tube sucking the fluids out of his chest cavity.

Suddenly wide awake, Paul clutched at the phone reflexively and pulled himself a little further upright. \"Richie. Are you all right -- is everyone all right? What's --\"

\"No, no, nothin' like that,\" Ringo cut him off, but there was an undercurrent in his voice that was almost apologetic. The welter of apprehension in Paul's stomach settled into something wary and distrustful.

\"You of all people wouldn't ring John an' me at six in the morning unless something was up,\" he said. \"Come on, then, nobody's dead -- what is it?\"

Ringo sighed. \"Look, I...I wanted to get to you before you saw the news. I've had a reporter on the phone already, 'spect you'll have a few within the hour. It's...\"

\"What,\" Paul said flatly.

\"You might want to ring Linda,\" Ringo went on, in the same apologetic tone, \"tell her to keep the kids away from the papers and the telly until, er, further notice. They've got hold of a picture --\"

\"Oh, buggering fuck,\" said Paul.

\"Mmmmffff's goin' on?\" John grunted, rolling over and blinking tired eyes accusingly in Paul's direction.

Paul stilled him with an upraised finger and said, into the phone, \"What's it a picture of, have you seen it?\"

\"If you want to know exactly how buggered you are and what chance you've got of talking your way out of it,\" Ringo said gently, \"then I'm afraid the answers are 'completely' and 'nil', mate. Sorry.\"

\"Great,\" Paul said, rubbing the heel of one hand wearily over his eyes.

\"The fuck's happened?\" John demanded, sitting up and reaching for the phone. Paul cradled it protectively against his ear.

\"It's Rings. Apparently there's a photograph that's made its way to the press. I'm assuming it's already been in the news in the States, has it?\"

\"Yep,\" confessed Ringo.

\"Yep,\" Paul relayed.

\"Buggering fuck,\" said John.

Paul smiled wanly. \"Quite.\"

\"Well,\" Ringo said, in his most reasonable tone, \"look at it this way: you were planning on going public anyway, weren't you? And this's saved you the bother of thinking about what to say.\"

John shifted around and tugged at the phone until it was poised between both of their ears. Paul flashed him a glance and sighed. \"Yeah, I know. I just didn't especially want pictures of my bits all over the international media.\" He flicked John's bare shoulder. \"Unlike some<\/i> people.\"

\"There was a box,\" Ringo said helpfully. \"You know, one of them little black 'censored' boxes. Over the naughty parts.\"

\"Hurrah,\" John said dryly. But he wrapped an arm around Paul's shoulders and gave him a reassuring squeeze. \"Oh, well. What can you do, I suppose.\"

\"Sue the bastards,\" Paul said bitterly, but he knew John and Ringo were right. There wasn't anything they could do, and they had<\/i> meant...

\"God knows where the fuckin' thing came from in the first place,\" Ringo said, cutting into his thoughts. \"Looks like about '64, '65? Using the John's Hair chronological gauge, naturally.\"

John snorted. \"Amazed nothing's come out before now, really. Jane took 'em.\"

\"Jane?\"

Paul pushed a hand through his sleep-mussed hair and sighed. \"Yeah, she took a whole set. Then they all disappeared -- we reckon with that fan who came in through the window.\"

\"Shit,\" said Ringo.

\"Yeah. Held our breath for weeks after that one, didn't we, Paul?\" John leaned over and patted the nightstand until he located his spectacles, then put them on. \"Least it was now and not when it still carried a prison term, at least.\"

\"That's the spirit,\" Ringo said. \"All right, well. I've got to get to bed, but I thought you should know. What do I tell the press?\"

\"Whatever you like, son,\" John said, waving one hand expansively. \"Doesn't matter now, really. Say 'no comment' or say the picture isn't a fake, if you want. We're going to have to acknowledge it, so.\" He shrugged. \"That's that.\"

He seemed oddly calm. Paul looked at John sidelong, the strong line of his nose and his face still soft from sleep. The resigned set of his shoulders was, as ever, stabilising, John like a defiant bulwark between Paul and the world (especially now that Paul had managed to get some meat back on him). The idea of a picture like that<\/i> -- something that should have stayed private -- gone public without permission still made Paul's stomach churn with embarrassment, but John was right. Resignation was the only approach.

\"That's that,\" he echoed, sensing his cue to speak. \"Thanks, Rich. Night, then.\"

\"Good luck,\" Ringo said, and hung up.

John settled the phone back in its cradle and looked at Paul, wry little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. \"Well,\" he said, \"that's the line freed up. Expecting the shit to hit the fan in five...four...\"

\"Oh, shut up,\" Paul said, and lurched across the tangled mess of bedclothes to press a rough kiss to John's mouth. \"I feel like I'm gonna be sick. Take my fucking mind off it, why don't you?\"

\"Paul McCartney, perennial romantic,\" John said, teasing. \"Aren't you going to sing me a song about it first?\"

\"I'll make you<\/i> sing,\" Paul muttered darkly, and then very romantically stuck his hand down John's pyjama bottoms.

**

They were just getting to the good part -- the fist of foreboding all but shoved out of the pit of Paul's stomach by the sensation of John's fingers working him from the inside -- when the phone rang again.

\"Leave it,\" Paul hissed.

But John was already moving, wiggling his eyebrows at Paul as he snatched up the receiver in his unoccupied hand. \"Yes, hello, what do you want?\"

Paul groaned and pulled a pillow over his face. It didn't quite block out the indistinct irate noises coming from the phone, though, their cadences familiar even as inchoate sounds. \"Is that George?\" he mumbled into the pillow.

\"Paul says good morning,\" John said, discreetly withdrawing his hand from between Paul's legs. As if he actually had some<\/i> shame left. \"No, we haven't. No, I know. Well, you should have gone to bed earlier.\"

More inchoate noises.

Then John: \"Oh, they've been saying it about you for years, son. Comes of going out wearing your own face on a shirt under them Village People dungarees.\"

Paul smothered a laugh in the pillow, then reluctantly set it aside. \"What's happened?\"

\"Don't worry about it,\" John said into the phone, \"'s just Paul.\" A pause. \"No, seriously, it's all right. We don't care, honest. We were just waiting around to be rung up, but we might as well ring them first at this point, really.\"

\"Give it here,\" Paul demanded, holding out a hand for the phone.

John passed it, throwing Paul a wink. Paul made a face at him and took the phone.

\"Morning,\" said George, slow and dry as ever. Paul smiled.

\"Morning, George. What happened?\"

George snorted. \"Someone woke me up at the crack of bleedin' dawn, that's what happened, isn't it? Was I shocked to hear me ex-bandmates were involved in a homoSEXual relationship?\"

Paul laughed. \"Always say it like that, don't they?\"

\"Because that's all you do, naturally,\" George said, \"always at it. Filthy. Anyway, I told 'em I was shocked for about a month in 1959 or something and hung up. Thought I'd better ring to tell you I hadn't, you know. Denied it.\" A yawn echoed over the line. \"Barely awake, y'see.\"

\"Yeah, it's all right,\" Paul said. \"Ringo's already been on. We haven't seen it yet, but...\" He shrugged. \"What can you do?\"

\"We should go on Parky,\" said John loudly.

\"Oh, aye,\" George said. \"That'd be grand. Take the littl'un, come over all domestic.\"

\"He's still asleep next door, bless him.\" Paul sighed and glanced half-consciously at his bedside table. His address book was in the top drawer, with all their pet journalists in it. The media had been largely on their side since John had left Yoko and won custody of Sean, but Paul couldn't imagine how they'd react to this. There had been general confusion over his amicable divorce from Linda; it was common knowledge that he and John had moved in together. It couldn't really be coming as a huge surprise, could it? Really<\/i>?

\"It'll be fine,\" John cut in firmly, as if he could hear Paul's thoughts. He took the phone from Paul's fingers. \"Sorry they woke you up, Georgie. Might want to unplug the phone if you're wanting any more kip.\"

\"The other line's probably ringing off the hook,\" Paul observed when John had put the phone down. \"And the agency...\"

He trailed off. John leaped out of bed purposefully and pulled open a drawer, rifling through it for a shirt.

\"Come on,\" he said, \"wrap the bairn in a blanket and we'll pop down and get a paper. Might as well know what we're dealing with before we ring the ravening hordes about it.\"

****

They spread the newspaper on the dining room table and stared down at it, one man at each corner like two generals surveying a tactical map. The photograph was not, thank Christ, on the front page -- after all, people wouldn't want their kids seeing it and getting any horrible ideas. But the atmosphere in the corner shop had still been more than awkward, John and Paul unshaven and mostly in yesterday's clothes, Sean (really too big to be carried) in a blanket in Paul's arms and John staring down the shopkeeper as he threw the paper onto the counter like a gauntlet.

The man had said nothing. They had said nothing back. Now, with the blown-up photograph looking back at them from their dining room table, Paul could only feel grateful they didn't have a more confrontational local newsagent.

\"It's not that<\/i> bad,\" John said, after a minute.

He was right. In the grand scheme of things, at least, Paul had to admit that it could have been worse. There had been photographs in this set depicting acts most of the British public had probably never even heard of, let alone considered doing. What was in the paper, next to some of the things Paul remembered from that day, was pure vanilla. Paul was on his back on the bed, both legs upraised and John cradled between. His heels dug into the small of John's back, ankles locked around his waist. A stark black box was incongruously superimposed over where Paul's dick lay hard against his belly. The two of them were kissing, eyes closed, Paul's hands in John's thick soft hair. Somehow, that fact comforted Paul. He was glad that the picture showed them kissing, entangled on the bed. In a way, it seemed more intimate than any of the other dirty things the photo could have shown, the deepest invasion of privacy, and yet, Paul thought, he preferred that to a misrepresentation, a picture that seemed to show them rutting mindlessly instead of...instead of this. Making love.

Rotten corny old phrase, that was, but Paul couldn't think of a better one.

\"It's a good picture,\" Paul said slowly, after a moment, and John smiled at him. His hand came out to grip the nape of Paul's neck, squeezing it firmly.

\"We look happy,\" John said.

On the settee, Sean, face barely visible above the roll of blanket, snuffled in his sleep and shifted. Paul laughed, slid his arm around John's waist. Substantial again, now, like the old days, John all solidity and strength beneath his sweater. Paul kissed John's mouth, a little clinging kiss. \"We are<\/i> happy.\"

\"I know,\" John said, and kissed him back. \"Remember that if it gets bad, okay?\"

\"I will,\" Paul told him. \"Promise.\"

***

They carefully didn't read what the paper said to go along with the picture. They didn't buy any more papers, either, but that didn't keep them from the calls (one from The Times<\/i> before John had even closed the paper, and another, very anxious, from their agent).

John told The Times<\/i>, in strident tones, that yes, the picture was bloody obviously real and yes, they were buggering each other and no, he didn't have anything else to add. Paul laughed into his teacup at the way John's hand went defiantly to his hip on instinct, even when the person he was talking to couldn't see. It felt surreal, somehow, the whole morning, like a dream, or a nightmare. But it wasn't nightmarish<\/i>, not really. It was just odd<\/i>, the idea that the whole world was now so fascinated by something that had been a fact of life to them for years. John had fallen asleep against Paul with his specs still on the night before, after Paul had told him off for getting toast crumbs in the bed. If Paul were to tell that to The Times<\/i>, it would be A Story.

It was just all very weird.

He waited until ten to ring Linda, for courtesy's sake. She picked up on the second ring and said, before Paul had even opened his mouth, \"Hey, baby. How are you two holding up?\"

Paul huffed out a relieved breath. \"Oh, God, Linda. Don't let the kids see the papers, will you?\"

\"Are you kidding? They don't want to see that. I could have taken a way better picture.\"

Paul laughed. \"Oh, it's -- it's not that bad.\"

\"No, you look pretty,\" Linda said lightly. Then, \"Seriously, though, Paul. Anyone asks me in the future why I let you go without a fight, all I'll have to do is show them that picture. The way you're holding each other. I always knew how the two of you were.\"

\"I know,\" Paul said, throat suddenly a bit thick. \"Yeah, I...I thought that. I'm glad it's not...\"

He trailed off. Linda picked up, gently, \"It was gonna happen sometime, wasn't it? I thought you guys were planning on an announcement.\"

\"Yeah, we were. Just got undercut, I guess.\" Paul rubbed at his face. \"God knows who leaked the damn thing, but I bet they got paid well for it.\"

\"Well,\" Linda said firmly, \"capitalise. If you want any photographs taken for a coming-out spread, you know who to call.\"

\"The 'bolting-the-stable-door photoshoot,\" Paul said wryly, and laughed. \"All right. Thanks, Lin. You're a star.\"

\"Bye for now, duckie.\"

\"Bye,\" said Paul, and hung up.

John crept up to him, catlike, from behind and slid his arms around Paul's waist. \"All right?\" He kissed the side of Paul's face. He smelt like tobacco and mint imperials.

\"Yeah,\" Paul said, leaning back against him. \"The sooner we get this over with, the sooner I can hold your hand in Hyde Park, eh?\"

\"Soppy git,\" John said, \"we've never bloody held hands<\/i>.\" But Paul could hear in his voice that he was pleased. \"I'm going to hold you to that.\"

Paul turned his head and smiled. \"Deal.\"

***

END PART ONE

PART TWO<\/a>

<\/a>","comments":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/150740.html?view=comments#comments","category":["pairing: john\/paul","fic"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/150259.html","pubDate":"Fri, 28 Dec 2012 23:49:25 GMT","title":"ficlet: Some Kind of Happiness ","author":"obstinatrix","link":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/150259.html","description":"Do not be misled by the title, the entire concept behind this ficlet is not really happy times. Is it, <\/a>tini_91<\/b><\/a><\/span>? ;)

Some Kind of Happiness, ~1k, John\/Paul, PG if anything<\/b>. For <\/a>tini_91<\/b><\/a><\/span>, who wanted heavenly reunions. :)? SORRY FOR THE UNFORGIVABLY SACCHARINE NATURE OF THIS FICLET, but they are at least not actually on a cloud playing harps, so there's that. Also, I think every possible other personage crept into this fic with the exception of Ringo, who is known to be immortal.



It must have been close to three o'clock in the morning when Paul woke up. Usually, especially of late, he'd had a disinclination to get out of bed in the middle of the night if he could possibly help it; his back ached with all the fidgeting around and the floorboards were always cold underfoot. But on this particular morning, for some reason, it didn't occur to him to wait. He wanted -- he needed to get up, and so up he got.

He padded out of his bedroom and down the upper hallway of the house. It took him until the top of the stairs to notice that the floor didn't feel cold at all -- in fact, the floor didn't really feel like much of anything, and neither did his achey old back. It took him until almost the bottom of the stairwell to realise he was stepping off into the front hall at 20 Forthlin Road, when he could have sworn he'd woken up in Cavendish Avenue, in bed with his lovely wife.

Or perhaps he was mistaken? A sudden sense of vagueness overtook him, which, even these days, was uncharacteristic. What had he got out of bed for, anyway? He took another step, and another. With each step, it seemed to matter less, the knowing. Understanding. His bare feet looked pale and bony against the floor, the flannel of his striped pyjamas tickling his ankle bone where he'd grown an inch or two too tall for them.

Christ, when had he last worn these pyjamas? His mum had bought them, he remembered now, for Christmas one year, the last year. And yet the kitchen, when Paul peeped in -- the little kitchen at Forthlin Road, with its tiny stove and shelves full of pots and pans -- had a lived-in neatness to it that hadn't been there when there were only a load of blokes messing about in there, muddling through as best they could. Had there been a last Christmas? Last before what?

Paul couldn't recall. In the dim light that filtered through the window, Paul made out the shape of a covered dish on the table, the sort mum kept leftovers in after a big meal. Yes, George had stayed for tea, Paul remembered now. George had stayed for tea and Linda had made macaroons, and complained good-naturedly about the ink stains on George's shirtcuffs.

Paul stopped, hesitant, hand outstretched towards the table. Could that be right? It seemed off, somehow; something was a muddle. He scrunched up his face, trying to remember. Where had he been going? Why was he out of bed so late? Dad was strict about curfew; Paul was going to catch what for. Perhaps he'd left his homework in the pantry again.

\"Oh, stuff your homework,\" came a familiar voice out of the darkness, a little scoffing, a little fond. \"And stop thinking so much; you'll strain something, Macca.\"

John stepped forward, the light glinting off the lenses of his glasses, and for a second they shone like coins, little round moon-spectacles, before John turned and they resolved themselves into his heavy, Buddy Holly frames. Paul didn't know what the hell John was doing in their kitchen (in all his clothes at this time of night, and yet without his hair quiffed up), but it somehow seemed perfectly natural and expected that he should be there. Paul laughed slightly, reached a hand out for him. He didn't know why he was doing that, either, but it, too, seemed natural.

\"Trust you,\" he said, \"to wear your damn glasses at night, when even us seeing folk can't see.\"

\"Famous first words,\" John said, mouth quirking up at the corners. He had a good smile, John; Paul'd always liked it. It dazzled and beguiled and made the angular face into something beautiful. Paul wanted to touch it.

\"Go on then, you daft clot,\" John told him, as if he'd heard, and Paul didn't bother to query why as he stepped up close, cupped John's jaw between both his hands. He was still too busy thinking about John's prior comment.

\"First words?\" He leaned up, just slightly, to kiss John's mouth. Why was he leaning up? John was an inch or so taller than him. It seemed off, Paul thought; something was wrong.

\"Oh, curse your eye for detail,\" John muttered under his breath, shrinking. That was better. Paul kissed him again while he waited and John let him, pushed Paul's hair back from his face. He tasted of toothpaste and stolen tobacco and kisses snatched behind the Inny where they'd gone so many times, long ago, not yet. In Paul's head. In John's.

\"What's wrong with my first words?\" Paul pressed, pulling back, and John laughed and shrugged his shoulders, broad and bony where his teenage frame had yet to quite fill them out.

\"Nothing, lover. Could've been worse. George asked me if I'd seen his tin opener.\"

\"Obviously he'd reached enlightenment,\" Paul joked, then wondered why he had. Then forgot again. Then -- \"John?\"

\"What, pet?\" John's mouth was at his temple, on his cheek, soft little kisses. John never kissed him in the kitchen like this, did he? With his mum upstairs...Paul tried to picture them together, failed, wondered why. Remembered.

\"John,\" he said, more urgently. A shaft of understanding opened up in his mind like a skylight, and a new slew of images muddled in. His mum, cycling home on her bicycle in the snow. Linda, up to her elbows in flour; Linda much older with her yellow hair cropped. John, fatter, thinner, with long hair, with truly unforgivable mutton chip sideboards, with a fringe swept across his forehead like a fall of autumn leaves. \"Is this...?\"

\"Ssssh, hey,\" John said. He kissed Paul again, and this time there was something a little urgent in it, as if he thought Paul might remember something else in a minute and stop him. As if Paul could. John's hands gripped him at the waist, and Paul remembered those hands on his bare skin, everywhere.

\"Don't try too hard to make sense of it,\" John said. \"It's like Wonderland down here, man. Jam yesterday, jam tomorrow, looking glass people and rocking horse pies, but if you just let it flow, it's good, babe, little bits of everything, anything you want. It's...\"

\"Home,\" Paul said, in a sudden flush of understanding, and kissed John on the mouth. \"One way or another.\"","comments":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/150259.html?view=comments#comments","category":["rating: pg","the beatles","pairing: john\/paul","fic"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/149782.html","pubDate":"Fri, 28 Dec 2012 00:19:41 GMT","title":"Fic: Your Silhouette When The Sunlight Dims (Adrianne\/Genevieve, NC-17)","author":"obstinatrix","link":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/149782.html","description":"Title<\/b>: Your Silhouette When The Sunlight Dims
Pairing<\/b>: Adrianne\/Genevieve
Rating<\/b>: NC-17
Word Count<\/b>: ~3,000
Summary<\/b>: In which Adrianne is a one-eyed, crossdressing lesbian vampire who plays the best damn jazz piano in New Orleans, and Genevieve is her kind of girl.
Notes<\/b>: For <\/a>architeuthis<\/b><\/a><\/span>, for <\/a>spn_j2_xmas<\/b><\/a><\/span>. I totally failed to use any of your actual prompts, but this somehow came into my head after reading your 'likes' (among them monsters, interspecies porn, AUs, spec fiction, pulp tropes, biting, first times). Not sure you intended any of these things to culminate in anything like this, but there you are. My apologies. :)



Jazz had been young when Adrianne was, the first time. Now it was aged and smokey as good whiskey; now it dripped off her fingers like molasses off a sharp knife, rich in the cavernous darkness of the club. On the stage, the dancer in her red dress swayed with the movements of Adrianne's fingers, her hair a dark spill down the arch of her back. She was new, the dancer. Genevieve, though she didn't look French to Adrianne. But there were a lot of French names here.

The set wasn't planned. They never were. That was the benefit of playing at the same little hole-in-the-wall stripclub every night for fifteen years: the boss soon forgot about telling you what to do. Adrianne played as it came to her, and the dancer was hers to command, under her spell. Some of them, more used to dancing to mix tapes in seedier places where the lights glowed sodium pink, didn't know how to move like that, but this girl was good at it. Adrianne leaned back on her stool and watched through her eyelashes, feeling the low pull of appreciation in her gut. A brown-sugar trill in the bass, and Genevieve followed it effortlessly, dress slipping off her shoulders, pooling at her feet. Quietly, but with the pervasive insistence of a low vibrato, the craving set in.

The strippers didn't go all the way here. It wasn't that type of club. Genevieve stripped to her panties (red) and the tassels sparkling at her nipples, and that was it, time for more booze and big band music from the record player. If people wanted a full-on show, there were plenty of other places to get that in this town. The charm of this bar was its burlesque 30s quaintness, and Adrianne knew she was a part of that too, the sharp-suited pianist with her trilby pulled down low over her eyes.

Well. Eye. She'd worn the patch so long now it was easy to forget it was there. She supposed other people didn't forget so easily.

Genevieve had certainly looked at it with interest when they'd met -- a long stare, and then a blink and a blush as she pulled away. That could have meant anything: fascination; appreciation; intrigue. Revulsion. Adrianne had gotten all this and more from dancers over the years, and Genevieve, with her porcelain-doll face and coal-black eyes, was difficult to read. Adrianne wondered if she knew; if her silver pupils had escaped Genevieve's notice in the gloom of the club. People could tell, usually; could sense it, especially people who'd caught Adrianne's attention the way this girl had, with her soft hair and long limbs and nacreous, warmed ivory skin. But she wasn't from around here. Maybe she glanced at Adrianne the way she did for other reasons. Maybe she was just into girls.

Adrianne's mouth quirked at the thought. Hey, at least it'd be something new.

She never stayed all night. That wasn't her remit, and though a night job was kind of a necessity for her, it was also kind of necessary to leave time to get some dinner, and to get a hit, which was sometimes, but not always, the same thing. The strippers did eight till midnight, on and off, and when Genevieve had quit the stage to a chorus of cheers, Adrianne pushed back her stool and popped her knuckles, yawning. The pit of her stomach was beginning to yawn, now, too. She wasn't sure she had the patience for a real hunt, something satisfying. There was always convenience store stuff, which, while categorically shitty by comparison, would do.

She was still debating when she slipped out into the alleyway, fumbling for a cigarette. She knew there were other people there -- the tingling at the back of her neck told her so before she even got the door open -- but she was distracted and a little tired and it wasn't till she turned and saw that face that she realised the other person was Genevieve.

\"Oh,\" Adrianne said around the end of the cigarette. A thrill moved through her pleasantly, thick and dark and hot. \"Hi. You lost?\"

In her street clothes, Genevieve looked different. Adrianne wouldn't have pinned her for the leather-and-jeans sort, watching her all sinuous curves on the stage, but it looked good on her, her soft dark hair accentuating, by contrast, the defiant cut of her jaw and the wry arches of her eyebrows. She moved forward slightly, out of the darkness, and Adrianne saw the cigarette in her hand too, the end of it glowing redly; saw the quirk of her smile. Not the innocent Adrianne had expected, maybe.

But then, the girl was a fucking stripper. Adrianne was a little old-fashioned in these things, she supposed. Change was hard -- hence the little retro bar.

\"I'm not lost,\" Genevieve said. Dark brown voice that curled right down Adrianne's spine, even before Genevieve added, \"I was waiting for you.\"

\"For me?\" A vein ran thin and blue up the line of Genevieve's throat, snaking up out of her collar to the underside of her jaw. Saliva pulsed under Adrianne's tongue, gums tingling, and she tore her eyes away from Genevieve's neck, praying her fangs would stay where they fucking belonged until she was good and ready for them. \"Did you have a request, or something?\"

She was playing coy now. It was obvious that Genevieve had wanted something other than to chit-chat about the set. The only problem was, Adrianne couldn't be sure how streetwise she really was -- hell, how streetwise you could even get up in Montana or wherever the hell she'd come from, where the vamp population was negligible.

\"I was wondering,\" Genevieve said smoothly, \"if you wanted to get some dinner?\"

Anywhere else, that would have been direct enough. The way Genevieve was looking at her, under her lashes while she twirled a single piece of hair between thumb and forefinger, would have answered all Adrianne's questions a century ago: this girl knew what she liked, and she liked what she saw. But now it was still only half an answer, and much as Adrianne would have loved to take this girl up on her offer, whether or not she knew what she was letting herself in for, she'd been around the block long enough to know that wasn't smart or fair. Slowly -- fighting the heady rush of blood up the back of her throat, the shiver under her skin -- Adrianne reached out and stilled Genevieve's hand where it fiddled with her lock of dark hair. The chill of her fingers should be palpable enough, but just in case, she parted her lips a little, turning toward the streetlamp so the girl could see the shine on the fangs now cresting out of Adrianne's gums, above her human incisors.

\"I could go for some dinner,\" Adrianne said carefully, \"but I don't really do pizza these days.\" Anticipation swelled in the pit of her stomach, and the fangs settled into place with a sweetly satisfying snick<\/i>. \"You dig?\"

This was it, always, the moment of truth. The girls weren't usually so damn direct, and so usually, Adrianne didn't get to be either, but the sensation was the same, the breathless swoop in her gut like missing a step going down. It seemed like an age before Genevieve's mouth curled, dirty little upward quirk at one corner, and Adrianne let her breath out through a grin right as the girl said, \"I dig. I think I can make you a better offer.\" Whisper-quick, her hand slid from beneath Adrianne's, brushed the unguarded curve of her lower lip. \"And I'm Gen, by the way. Genevieve's a nice girl.\"

\"And to think,\" Adrianne said, \"I was just gonna ask what a nice girl like you was doing in a place like this. But I guess I was mistaken.\"

\"And if you were a dude, I'd call you a total misogynist too,\" Gen said, taking the hat off Adrianne's head and cramming it onto her own. \"But since you're a hot chick, I guess I'll let it pass. You got a place we can go?\"

Christ, girls like this didn't swing by often enough. \"You bet,\" Adrianne said, and took her hand. \"Come on.\" Without the hat, she knew, the glare of the streetlamp would be full in her one good eye, showing its telltale twist of silver, but it didn't really matter now. \"I'm starving.\"

Adrianne had, for the past twenty-three years, lived in the lower two floors of a townhouse two streets away. It was a nice place in a shady street, so the floor that was ground level was usable in daytime except in blazing sunshine, and the basement part was more like a photographer's studio than a crypt. Adrianne was pretty damn proud of it, but Gen didn't seem too interested in the decor as she stumbled through the front door and grasped the lapels of Adrianne's jacket, hauling her close.

\"Okay,\" she said, low, and the tone of her voice sang through Adrianne from her shoulders to the soles of her feet, pulsing between her thighs. \"C'mon babe, I'm ready. Go to town.\"

She tipped her head, gathering up her dark hair in one hand and shoving it aside, and Adrianne's breath caught at the sight of her uncovered neck. Everywhere -- in the soft place below the bolt of her jaw; behind her ear; in the hollow between tendon and clavicle -- the shadows of sealed-up puncture marks could be discerned, some more clearly than others. Over the tendon in Gen's throat, Adrianne now saw, where the vein pounded most obviously, there was a blunted dark mark, as if from repeated abuse. This girl -- God...

\"I need it,\" Gen said, insistent, and reached up to cup the back of Adrianne's head, urging her down. \"Can't you read the label?\"

Genevieve's free hand fumbled for the neck of her shirt, pulling it aside, and Adrianne saw, there below the line of her collarbone, something she'd never noticed from her place behind the piano, even with Genevieve bare and pale and proud. There, black on warmed-ivory skin, was inked a little old-fashioned note tag and, within it, the instruction: \"DRINK ME.\"

Heat spiked in Adrianne like a fever, and her hand grasped at Genevieve's hair unconsciously, tugging too hard. \"Fuck,\" she said, breathless, and leaned in.

It wasn't unusual for them to like it. Hell, they usually did, by the end, even if it was their first time and Adrianne'd coaxed them into it; but this -- she'd never had anything like this. Gen's head fell back, neck arching, the moment Adrianne's teeth grazed her skin; by the time they sank home, she was panting, clutching at Adrianne's shoulders, her hair.

\"Yeah, God,\" Adrianne heard through the rising red mist of the feeding frenzy, and then Gen's thigh was rubbing against hers, Gen's ankle hooking around the back of her calf. Adrianne breathed through her nose, angled herself in closer so Gen was flat to the hallway wall, and then she was sucking harder, drinking her down, and Gen was moaning, keening, grasping for Adrianne's free hand and pressing it flat between the crux of her thighs. Even through denim, Adrianne could feel her heat. When she raised her head, mouth wet and full of warmth and her body rushing with vigour, Genevieve's eyes were wild and dark, her pale face flushed.

\"Firecracker, huh?\" Adrianne managed, and Gen half-laughed, then went for her zipper and got it undone; shoved jeans and panties together down to mid-thigh. Her hipbones crested up like spurs out of the dark triangle of her pubic hair, and the smell of her hit Adrianne immediately, like good damp earth. She didn't need any urging to return her hand to the warm place between Gen's legs, tracing the line of her two-fingered till she parted to the touch, Adrianne sinking into wetness.

Gen bit her lip, splayed her thighs a little further, pelvis tilting toward Adrianne's hand. \"Could say that,\" she said, and her voice was more than a little strained. \"Would you -- oh --\"

\"Like that?\" Adrianne crooked two fingers inside of her, cleaving her easy as a knife through hot butter. Her thumb found the nub of Gen's clit, circled it, and a shiver ran up the back of Adrianne's own thighs at the way Gen clenched around her, muscles squeezing powerfully.

\"Yeah,\" Gen said, and lifted her face blindly to Adrianne's, mouth pink and half-open. \"Fuck, yeah. Fuck me. Kiss me.\"

They didn't always allow this, either, the kissing. Some old prejudice rooted in half-remembered myths and muddled-up AIDS paranoia; like you could catch vampirism like a cold. But Gen sucked on Adrianne's tongue, licked the blood from her teeth. When Adrianne, tentative, scraped at the inside of her lower lip, Gen only moaned, and Adrianne, breath catching, bit down reflexively, sucking. Around her fingers, Gen spasmed and clutched, and Adrianne pumped faster, rubbed harder, sucked till her head spun. A girl like Gen, wildcat-eager and biting Adrianne right back, would have been intoxicating even before, but with the new blood rushing to her heart, to her clit, Adrianne felt half-crazy, utterly drunk on her.

\"Come on, babe,\" she panted against Gen's mouth, thumb working quicker as Gen broke the kiss on a breathless cry, half-inhaled. \"Come on, God, Jesus Christ, you're fantastic --\"

\"Shit!\" Gen's fingernails, filed and painted, sank home, breaking skin as she spasmed and jerked and came, muscles rippling around Adrianne's fingers till she felt they might break. There was blood pearling at the corners of her lips, and when she opened her eyes in the dim light of the hallway, they almost, for a half-second, looked silver. Adrianne heard herself groan before she knew she was doing it.

\"Can you,\" she said, taking Gen by the wrist, but Gen was faster, wiping the back of one hand across her mouth as she went to her knees, steering Adrianne backward by the hips.

\"Let me,\" Gen was saying, as she got Adrianne's pants open, pulled them down until they pooled at her ankles with her underwear still inside them. \"Girls like you, the taste of you -- I gotta -- \"

Gen's hands were small, but they were strong as they urged Adrianne's thighs open, pushed one knee up and back until she could shoulder in between, rubbing her face against Adrianne where she was wet. One blunt rub of smooth cheek against Adrianne's slit, and then Gen was licking her, spreading her with her thumbs until she could get her mouth around Adrianne's clit, and God, Adrianne had been on a knife-edge just from feeling Gen clamp around her, but now --

\"Motherfucker<\/i>!\" She threw her head back hard against the plaster, clutching Gen's dark hair in fistfuls, and Gen only sucked her harder as she shuddered; fucked two fingers into Adrianne so she could clamp down around them as she came like she hadn't come in fucking years<\/i>.

\"Oh, yeah,\" Gen breathed, sitting back on her heels to watch as Adrianne fought for breath. Her fingers still moved lazily in and out of Adrianne's cunt, and she looked, rumpled and fucked-out and debauched on the floor of Adrianne's front hallway, like a saint in an Italian fresco, but one brought low. Girls didn't usually want to play twice with fire, but Adrianne had a feeling this one might be different.

She stilled Gen's hand gently, wrapping fingers around the fine bones of her wrist. They both knew she could have snapped them as soon as thinking, but when Gen caught Adrianne's eyes, she was smiling. It was good to know that everyone knew...everything...and could still smile.

\"Hey,\" Adrianne said, and tugged until Genevieve stood. Her fingers glistened wetly and Adrianne drew them into her mouth unthinking, curled her tongue around them. The mercury flavour of herself was still a little unfamiliar. Obviously it was an acquired taste.

Gen raised her eyebrows, smiled. \"Hey yourself.\"

Adrianne took a breath, deliberating, and then said, \"If you wanted, you know...actual sustenance, I can order you a pizza. If you were interested in staying for dessert?\"

Gen's smile turned pleased, enough that her eyes crinkled. \"I never refuse dessert.\"

Yeah, Gen was... exactly<\/i> Adrianne's kind of girl.","comments":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/149782.html?view=comments#comments","category":["adrianne\/gen","rating: nc-17","femslash","genevieve","fic","adrianne palicki"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/148556.html","pubDate":"Wed, 05 Dec 2012 22:52:27 GMT","title":"This is a kaftan picspam post. No, straight up. ","author":"obstinatrix","link":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/148556.html","description":"<\/a>majestic_shriek<\/b><\/a><\/span> and I are sort of into that matched pair of kaftans with the flowery embroidery that Paul wore everywhere<\/i> in 1967-68. Clearly Paul was pretty into them too. Um.

Well, we never claimed to be anything but horribly overzealous about things that are ridiculous, so without further ado, here is a kaftan picspam post, divided into sections, which I have lj-cut separately for the entertainment of anybody else who might happen to be in Paul's Kaftan fandom. We are a small, but enthusiastic bunch.



PAUL IN THE KAFTAN (BLUE)



















<\/a>



PAUL IN THE KAFTAN (PEACH)

















<\/a>



PAUL IN THE KAFTAN (B\/W PICTURES, ERGO COLOUR OF KAFTAN NOT OBVIOUS WITHOUT RESORT TO CONTEXTUAL DATA)





This kaftan is one of the great loves of my life, thought Paul. It must be immortalised!







Jagger is captivated by the beauty of the kaftan.















<\/a>



JOHN IN THE KAFTAN (AS ABOVE)



JOHN'S SIDEBOARDS. RINGO'S FEETIES. But most importantly: kaftan. On John. \\o\/





<\/a>



QUERY - KAFTAN?







<\/a>



THEORIES ABOUT WHY JOHN IS WEARING THE KAFTAN(S)

- HE PICKED IT UP OFF PAUL'S BEDROOM FLOOR
- \u2026??

<\/a>

And there you have it. Shortly to be followed by: 'George, not those sandals AGAIN'; 'This yellow shirt is so horrible we simply must pass it round'; 'CROCHETED WAISTCOATS ARE COOL'; 'John is wearing the Technicolour Dreamcoat outside again, officer' and 'Whose brown jacket is this anyway?'

Not really.

I hope.","comments":"https:\/\/obstinatrix.livejournal.com\/148556.html?view=comments#comments","category":["the beatles","i am a crazy person"]}]}}