With A Little Luck

• Words - 1,169 (hehe)
• Paul McCartney x Reader
• Absolute fluff. Pretty much candyfloss at this point.

Yet again I’m hitting out with something that I wrote in my notes and never read over so uhhh, enjoy and ignore the mistakes. Or point them out to me and I’ll fix them. Who knows. All I know is that I’m lazy, anyways, enjoy. And s/o to @mcrvellouslystcrk who asked me to tag them in Paul fics so I wrote a Paul fic. Peace nd Love nd all that

Whether it be immense glamour or relaxed slobbery, He would be hard pressed to find fault in you, he thought to himself

Naturally, he adored it when you were dolled up. Stood in a tight gown; silk fabric hugging your skin, face illuminated by the flashes of cameras, of course none brighter than your smile.

Or in one of his t shirts, legs bare and spots scattered across your face like constellations in the night sky. When he was lucky enough to see you like this, it was usually with Martha curled by your side, her head in your lap as you read contentedly. When he would try and lean in to place a gentle kiss on your cheek, Martha would bark grumpily at the disturbance, and Paul would pout.

‘She’s my dog!’

‘Not anymore.’ You would laugh, as your hand came down to ruffle her fur.

Despite his exclusion, He always warmed up from head to toe when he saw his girls together.

But even better - when you wore nothing. Your sweaty body underneath his, pupils blown and mouth slightly open, making the sweetest sounds, your soft hands tightly gripping him as he found the deepest spot inside you.

Perhaps that was his favourite, because it was reserved for only him.

He was selfish like that, when it came to you. Like a toddler with their toys. He was extremely unwilling to share you, which became a running joke when you visited the studio. George would make sure to greet you first with a smile and a nice long hug - just long enough to rile Paul up. Then it was Ringo’s turn, who made sure to take his time asking how you were and sharing stories of his own. At this point, Paul could usually take no more and had dragged you into his lap, arms wrapped tight around your torso and head nestled into your back. It was from this position John usually spoke to you, about books, music, Julian, all the while ignoring the whiney McCartney behind you. John was a talented man, musically, intellectually and especially when it came to ignoring Paul.

Things had been tense in the studio lately. Creatively, the four were starting to disagree, to differentiate, to pursue new styles. Although there had been no real trouble, the power dynamic was shifting, the drugs were causing arguments, and the pressure of the new film was mounting. Paul found himself more stressed than ever, and at the end of the day. John, George and Ringo all had wives to go home to. Families. Which is what he longed for really.

It was John that inspired him. You’d not long left, leaving them to work out the kinks on one of Paul’s songs, a pleasant little piece about their hometown. You’d brought sandwiches for them all, and though he appreciated the gesture, Paul had no appetite. He waited for you to leave before he threw his over to George, who began to eat them without hesitation. Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder. His other musical half was squinting at him (probably because he’d forgotten his glasses) with a smirk.

‘Would you quit moping Macca. We’re all getting fed up with all that pretty pouting of yours.’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Paul replied haughtily, nose in the air as he carried on aimlessly pressing the keys of his piano.

‘Oh I think you do mate, Come on. Put on your big boy pants and make ‘er a McCartney’

Paul began to sputter ‘I…you…ah…I do-‘

John crumbled into laughter, as did the other two, as if they were all in on a joke at Paul’s expense.

Once he had regained composure, Paul began to seriously consider Johns words. He didn’t often pay much attention to John’s advice, After all, he spent more time cleaning up Johns messes than anyone else on this world, but this time… maybe… just maybe he had a point. That afternoon, he left early to go and buy a ring.

He wrestled with himself on how to do it.

A romantic dinner? A spontaneous trip abroad? He pushed the key in the door as he mused over and over.

‘You’re home early?’ You smiled, jumping into the hallway. Your face was red, and the house was unusually warm. Specks of flour dusted your hair and there was a dusting of sugar on your lips. A record crackled in the background and he could hear the pater ring of Martha’s paws in the kitchen.

‘Had to pick something up. You look like you’ve been busy,’ He remarked, ruffling the flour out of your hair.

Your cheeks reddened even more, this time with embarrassment.

‘Oh well, eh, you see. I was sorting through the bookshelf and I sort of found a recipe book, and well I looked in it and it was your mums and I was flicking through it and on one of the pages it said Paul’s favourite and so I thought…’ You looked up at him with big eyes and his heart swelled. The ring began to feel like a dead weight in his pocket and he broke out into the grin of his life.

You were unreal. So effortlessly kind and beautiful, he didn’t think a person as wonderful as you could even exist, let alone, love him. And the fact you were nervous about doing the kindest thing anyone had ever done for him made you even more endearing.

You were still staring, trying to gage his reaction and he stepped towards you, closing the gap and holding your face between his hands. He leaned in, softly looking down at you through his long lashes.

‘Marry me.’

‘Wha-‘ he interrupted you with a kiss, firm and passionate, as if it were the last kiss you two would ever share. He needed you to know how sincerely he felt.

‘Please. Be the next Mrs McCartney.’

You were speechless.

‘I… Of course! Of course I will!’ You stepped up to kiss him, and he removed one of his hands to reach down and fumble in his pocket, pulling out the little box.

You broke apart and he dropped to his knees.

‘Mum would’ve loved you,’ he smiled, though his throat was tight and he was at risk of letting a tear or two slip out. ‘Not as much as I love you. And now I promise I always will.’

He slid the ring onto your finger, an emerald encased in diamonds supported by an elegant silver band. You stood still, overwhelmed. Surely life couldn’t be this good? The pair of you were stood, smiling goofily at one another, hands intertwined.

As you stared at the Beatle, arguably the most sought after man in the world, you thought to yourself, I’m the luckiest woman in the world.

As he stared at you, the most beautiful person he had ever had the privilege to know, he thought to himself, I’m the luckiest man in the world.