Chapter Text
“Do you want to take Martha for a walk?”
John looked up from his book and saw Paul standing beside his couch, wearing a crooked smile that was eager to get outside. They’d started walking Martha together regularly every day, ever since he’s been living with Paul. At first, he refused multiple times because he hated any physical activity, walking a dog included. But Paul managed to entice John with the homemade blueberry muffins he began to love.
I’ll make you those muffins you love, John. Only if you come with me for a walk with Martha.
John groaned in defeat, knowing that was the only way he’d get those muffins. “Fine, Macca. Only because of those soddin muffins. And don’t you dare ask me to pick up her shit.”
Paul chuckled. “You don’t even pick up your own shit. Why would I ask you?”
John feigned a frown and grabbed the nearest pillow and threw it at him, then ran after him all throughout the house. Long story short — John lost his breath and fell to the ground. Paul ran back to him and started laughing at him.
John’s smile faded when he took himself out of the memory. “Why not?” he replied, shrugging. “I suppose those muffins aren’t in question?”
Paul squinted his eyes at his friend, pursing his lips, contemplating whether or not he should bust his ass in the kitchen for a few muffins just to please John. Though, it did bring him a little satisfaction when he watched John bite into one of his muffins. John would always let out these moans which were adorable. For some reason, Paul could have those noises on replay for hours.
“Perhaps,” he finally answered. “I’ll see how well you walk her, then I’ll decide.”
John huffed, then he slowly stood up from the armchair and stood close to Paul, not taking his eyes off of him. “So what you’re saying is if I’m good, then you’ll make me blueberry muffins.”
Their eyes sunk into each other like they were trying to read each other’s minds. It was amazing how deeply they could feel each other’s souls. They both felt it. They didn’t need to even say anything.
“—A good boy,” he corrected.
Ever since they started living with each other, they got closer. All this time together, they soon realized how much they grew apart and missed each other. Somehow it resembled how they were when they first became friends in the late fifties, always hanging out with each other, writing and creating, even sleeping in the same bed sometimes. The closeness they both developed created a tension between them—a sexual tension as well. They’d feed off of it, teasing each other with words, actions, or simply staring until they could peel off one another’s clothes with their imagination. But, they never talked about it, never confronted it. How could they?
“Didn’t know I was a fucking dog,” John retorted with a front full of confidence, but deep down, his knees felt weak, feeling like he could collapse into Paul’s arms.
“Like I said, you never pick up your shit.”
They both stared down at each other, deep in each other’s eyes until they both started laughing.
“You fuckin git, Lennon.” Paul grabbed the leash and headed for Martha. “Let’s go.”
As they walked Martha, they could see some photographers on the opposite side of the road, snapping photos of them together. Most of the time they would simply ignore them because it didn’t bother them much. But some of the time, they would have little conversations between them about the cameramen.
“What do you think the headline will be this time?” John asked Paul.
Paul shrugged as his eyes were focused on Martha. “John Lennon and Paul McCartney, newlyweds, have been seen walking their dog, Martha Lennon-McCartney after their honeymoon.”
“Where was our honeymoon, then?” asked John, trying hard to not laugh in front of the photographers, not wanting to give them that sight.
“New York City,” teased Paul, waiting for what John had to say, already knowing he would contest the idea of any trip to the States.
“Oh for fuck’s sake, are you serious? Why not Paris?”
Paul chuckled, quickly meeting John’s gaze. “Paris? We haven’t been to Paris in years, haven’t we?”
The memories of Paris came back to both of them. Hitchhiking all the way to Paris was a trip in itself. Throwing their belongings in the back of a stranger’s pickup truck, hoping and praying to God that the driver wouldn’t rob them, leaving them on the side of the road. Luckily, none of that happened.
“We haven’t,” John agreed. “Do you reckon we’ll revisit our city one of these days?”
Paul hummed, wanting to say yes. The memory of ordering tens and tens of banana milkshakes ran through his head. Sitting in the same diner, running through each milkshake like there was no tomorrow, even slurping obnoxiously when he got to the bottom of the glass cup. He wondered how he never ran John dry of his money. He also wondered why John continued to buy him those milkshakes.
“I reckon we will,” observed Paul. “Perhaps we can even get a bigger hotel room. Two beds, maybe.”
When they were in Paris, they’d get the cheapest and smallest room, usually leaving them with no choice but to sleep in the twin bed together. It wasn’t too bad since they’d been to Hamburg the year before, and the sleeping situations were far worse. So, sleeping in the same comfortable bed was nothing. Paul remembers laying so close to John during the night he could feel and hear his soft snores against the back of his ear. A distinct memory he loved to think about often.
“I liked one bed,” John teased. “How else am I supposed to rub one out against you?”
Paul’s mouth gaped open in surprise because John joked about something so obscene in public. But it was John, he shouldn’t have been so shocked by his remark.
“Suppose you’ll have to use your fuckin hand, John.”
John groaned, rolling his eyes. “But you’ll get me off faster, Macca.”
“You’re bloody insufferable.” Paul shoved John into a building’s wall to subside his annoyance. When he heard him wail from the collision, he smiled to himself, satisfied.
“You love it.”
Paul sighed because he did love it. Every time John annoyed him, he enjoyed it, because that’s how he always was, just a friend trying to beg for his attention most of the time. And when he did attend to John, he’d get a laugh out of it.
“I do,” he finally replied.
——
“Here.”
Paul obeyed and leaned into John so he could light up his smoke, muttering a thank you after. After walking Martha and writing a few tunes, they decided to relax and unwind on flimsy chairs in the backyard of Cavendish. It was that time of night when the stars were shining through the dark sky.
“Suppose we’re going to the studio tomorrow…” John muttered, obviously annoyed at the thought of having to show up anywhere dressed and ready for work.
Paul spat out a chuckle. “Of course, you lazy arse. I’m going to have to wake you up, aren't I?”
“I’m hard to wake up in the mornings.” John blew out a puff of smoke, then looked over at Paul with a mischievous grin. “Reckon you can wake me up with a handjob, love.”
“I’ve no interest in that, John.” Paul sighed, leaning back into his chair. He looked over at John because he still felt his eyes burning into his skin. “Got a good look at me, Lenny? Too bad you don’t have a camera. Could use pictures of me when you wank later tonight.”
John studied Paul for a second more, then hummed in response. “I’ve got a good memory.”
“Really?”
John nodded, confident.
“Right…” Paul trailed off, trying to think of something to quiz him on. “Tell me what name you called out when we were all masturbating in that one room together years back.”
John chuckled as if that memory was buried deep and suddenly came to the surface, replaying in his head. “Winston Churchill! But If I remember correctly, Hazza came the second I called out his name.”
Paul smiled, holding back a laugh for the sake of his mate. “Probably right, you.”
“Do you want to know something?”
Paul turned his head, eyeing up John as he puckered his lips in thought, wondering if that mysterious tone was something he should be cautious of. “What?” He finally asked. He was still hesitant.
“When we used to wank together…” John paused, his eyes looked conflicted, pondering if he should continue or not. “I would look over at you. The sight of you fucking your hand helped me come faster.”
Paul wasn’t sure if it was because he was just high or hallucinating from the smoke, but he didn’t hear anything morally wrong with what John said. Instead, he felt warm vibrations crawl up his legs and thighs, right into his cock. John’s confession made him tilt his head back in wonder, trying to imagine his best friend tugging at his cock, coming because of him.
Whatthefuck.
Paul looked down. He was getting hard, so he crossed his legs to subside his arousal.
“Fuckin queer,” muttered Paul. It was a vague response, but he had no idea what else to say.
John leaned closer to Paul, his voice deeper than before. “Do you like the idea of me coming to you? Me looking at you, seeing your pretty face, pretty legs, getting me worked up, coming all over my hand, making such a mess?”
“Johnny…” Paul wasn’t sure what was happening, but the sensation building up in his cock wasn’t making it easier to not make any noises. “Stop talking,” he whined as his head yearned against the chair, shutting his eyes as he tried to regulate his breathing.
“What if I crept over to you, hm? What if I started blowin you? Wrapping my mouth over your cock, sucking until you couldn’t feel a fucking thing anymore, waiting for you to come into my mouth. Would you like that, Paul? Your best mate blowin you?”
Paul winced, he needed friction. He uncrossed his legs and brought his hand to his crotch, rubbing against it, moaning as he felt relief.
“That’s it, Paul,” John cooed. “Fuck yourself against your hand. You look so—”
“—Paul?”
Paul, startled, jolted up from his seat, his head so cloudy he didn’t even realize what he was doing. Then he looked over his shoulder to see John standing at the entrance of the back door and not sitting in the chair next to him.
Was he imagining all of that? Fuckin hell. Paul sighed, running his fingers through his hair to try to relax, but he looked down at his crotch to see that he was actually hard. His eyebrows furrowed. Hard? Because of John? The thought of John talking to him dirty got him hard?
“Did we smoke something earlier?” Paul blurted, feeling worried, but thought that the worry would cease if he knew they smoked something earlier like weed. Then that would explain the outrageous hallucinations and feelings.
John shook his head. “No. Did you want to?”
“No,” he blurted, his voice stern, “I just—I want to go to bed.”
John shrugged. “Alright. Sleep tight then, Macca,” he replied, closing the door after he headed back inside.
“What’s wrong with me?” Paul asked himself quietly, leaning back into his chair, wanting to forget about what just happened. Then he remembered his boner, muttering shit to himself.
A cold shower would do for the moment.
——
Paul’s eyes slowly fluttered open when he felt weight on his body. Through his blurry vision he could see someone crawling towards him. He squinted and tilted his head in confusion, wondering who the hell was in his room when the sun was barely rising. “John?!” He shouted quietly in his groggy voice. “Wh-What are you doing, man?”
Once Paul rubbed his eyes for a few seconds, he could see his friend having a seductive grin on his face, like he knew all of his life’s secrets. “John love, what are you on?”
“You…” he whispered, “just you…”
Paul sighed, looking away for a second, then lifted his head back to John. John’s grin, voice, and lack of clothing made him believe that he was trying to blow him before the sun got up.
“John. Go back to your room,” he begged, his voice shaky, because he knew in this situation he wouldn’t win that argument.
“This is my room.”
Paul dryly laughed, feeling a little strained in the throat. “It’s not, John. It’s downstairs. Now…” He trailed off, finding himself losing sanity as his eyes lingered on John’s body. He shamelessly glossed over his pale chest and his underwear that clung to him, exposing his thighs. He was getting that same feeling he did last night. He felt himself succumb to the man that was his John.
“Go away…”
“I don’t think I will,” retorted John, chuckling as he pulled the covers off of Paul, revealing the half-naked man, grinning even wider when he saw all of him like he were a full-course meal. John licked his lips, guiding his hands above the surface of Paul’s legs, his eyes and hands relishing the feeling and sight of his skin. “You look fuckin delicious, Paul,” he murmured.
“You’re blind as a bat,” Paul panted. “You can’t see shit.”
John smirked. “I can see that you're hard.”
Paul shook his head, deciding to be stubborn. “Not without your glasses.”
“Okay,” John challenged. His fingers got closer and closer to Paul’s crotch. “Suppose I can feel then?”
Paul was quick to protest but moaned with his head leaning back as John palmed him through his underwear. He jerked into John’s hand without question, just wanting to feel some sort of warmth against his cock, needing to feel some release. As he kept fucking John’s palm, he kept calling out his name, John. John. John. John, crying out for him.
“Tell me what you want,” John demanded.
“I-I want—fuck.” Paul’s eyes shut close on him, but opened his mouth to speak again. “Suck me off…”
John chuckled. “Suck you off? Naughty boy, you are.”
“Fuck off—” Paul’s sentence was cut off with a moan, gripping his sheets as he melted into the feeling of John’s warm mouth wrapped around his cock. He couldn’t believe this was happening. He lifted his head to see John’s head moving up and then down, while his hand was gripped below his mouth, guiding his movements. Paul shut his eyes, arching his back as his mind focused on the pleasure John was feeding him with his tongue.
A little ‘plop’ noise made Paul look up and see John licking his lips with his eyes on him.
“Why’d you stop?” asked Paul.
John shrugged. “Because you're dreaming.”
“What?”
“You’re dreaming, Paul. Wake up.”
“What? John, you’re fucking with me—”
Paul shot up in sweat, his heart rate was through the roof, then he looked up to see John who was hovering over him with an expression that said you look like you experienced death and came back to life.
“Alright there?” John looked at him, concerned, but didn’t know what else to say other than that.
“Why are you in here?” Paul asked, disregarding John’s concern.
John scoffed. “Maybe because you were saying my name a bunch of fuckin times in your sleep. I was trying to wake you up. What were you dreaming about anyway?”
What was he dreaming about? Paul would never explain to John what he dreamt about. A dream that basically entails his best mate sucking his cock until his toes curled under the sheets. Paul couldn’t believe he even dreamed about that. Twice as well. It was quite annoying to have dreams like that because it made him question everything in his life. In his dreams, he was attracted to and wanted John. He craved him, needed him to do things to him to make him feel good. He never needed John in that way, never thought he would ever think of him in that way.
“You had me at erm… gunpoint. Trying to blow me fuckin head off.” That’s all Paul could come up with in a matter of seconds.
John nodded, unsure if he believed that answer or not. “Well, I should’ve pulled the trigger then, hm? Put you out of your misery?”
Paul was never more thankful for John’s stupid banter because it made him feel normal like nothing unusual was happening. He was able to let himself get comfortable again, smiling, chuckling too. “Maybe, Lennon. Maybe.”
John walked over to the bedroom door, heading out, but before he did, he turned his head to Paul again. “Do you have a pain or death kink?”
“Wha— Why would you think that?” Paul laughed.
John’s eyes averted to Paul’s crotch, making him look as well. Shit. Paul was hard. Most likely from the dream. He looked back up at John, a little embarrassed because he didn’t know how to explain that.
“We’ve all got things fucked up about ourselves,” John teased, winking at Paul before closing the door.
Paul sighed, laying back on his bed. That’s when his hand slipped down under the sheets and into his underwear, taking a hold of his cock which was hard, harder than it’s ever been. And as he tugged up and down, allowing his mind to take him anywhere, it took him to John. Paul thought back to his morning voice, so low and raspy, that nasal voice he grew accustomed to over the years. John was shirtless, his smooth chest on display which Paul would love to run his fingers over. Then his plaid bottoms that fit snugly around his hips, edging right above the curve of his ass. Paul called out John’s name in a low whisper, moaning as he jacked off to the thought of his friend. The thought of touching, kissing—fucking him?
When he finished, his hand was covered in his come. Then John came into his mind again.
What was wrong with him?
Sure, they’d tease each other in sexual manners sometimes, but it was good and fun. Maybe sometimes Paul thought of John in certain ways before, but he’d always brush them away because it wasn't them, it wasn’t him. But, God, did those dreams feel amazing, felt so real too, and made him want to actually feel John like that.
But… that would never happen.