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John and Yoko had crashed their car in Scotland at the beginning of July. The recording sessions for what would become Abbey Road had started on the same day, yet the band had decided to start without John’s presence. The two stayed in a Scottish hospital for a few days, to recuperate.
Just over a week after the accident, as Paul arrived at the studio, some Apple people were assembling a bed for Yoko. They even set up a mic, so she could contribute whenever she wanted. Paul told himself that he didn’t mind. (That’s what he would tell everyone else too, if they asked — he knew everyone was always looking in his direction, waiting for for the moment he would finally break. He wouldn't.) He was excited at the prospect of recording with John again. On the other hand, he knew that the mood could possibly become extremely sour too. George didn’t like Yoko one bit, and he had made sure everybody was aware of that.
The previous week of recording with just George and Ringo had been a lot of fun, and Paul hoped it would stay that way. They had all been a bit afraid of John returning, so Paul could only pray that the music would make them get along.
When the king and queen themselves walked in, the band had been in the process of recording Maxwell’s Silver Hammer. John was kind of looking like Jesus, with his long hair and white clothes, and Yoko was being carried by the ambulance drivers and then laid down on the bed. John joined her, and Yoko took off her shoes immediately, getting cozy.
But there wasn’t much music on John’s part. He kept silent for days, uselessly sitting next to Yoko on the bed and not playing a single instrument. It was absurd. Every day Paul hoped he would join in, maybe grab some maracas, or even a triangle, if nothing else. He thought about inviting him, asking him to pick up a guitar. Maybe John was waiting for him to ask? Paul, not wanting to appear too eager, chose to keep silent. Just suck it up, swallow, get on with it. This was probably one of John’s weird, unpredictable moods. This was some strange stand-off about who was going to be the first to acknowledge the absurdity of the situation. And even though Paul was kind of desperate to record, he was stubborn as well.
Paul's irritation was growing, though. He wasn’t sure how much more he would be able to endure. He was starting to grow tired of the heroin being delivered directly to the studio, followed by the happy couple spacing out and screeching through their recordings, or otherwise their malicious stares and whispering and commanding…
Paul guessed he too was to blame for the horrible band dynamics. He wasn’t talking to John much. Paul had a wife and a baby on the way, and some other projects on the side. Besides, Yoko was the one babysitting John now. They seemed happy enough, and it seemed pretty obvious to Paul that he was being replaced, so he felt he had to respect her presence. He knew John wanted to be with her all the time, so he let him. Let him? Well, John was just John, and nothing would ever make him change his mind, you know. John had decided Yoko was the answer. It was best to just let him do whatever.
Nonetheless, it stung. He still felt jealous of her and blamed her presence for the sour mood. He would never say it out loud, but he despised the woman’s presence. In fact, he hated John for letting her come between them.
Creatively on fire, Paul just continued to write songs and bring them into the studio, like he’d always done. They’d all agreed to make one last album together, and see from there. But at the moment, he wasn’t sure whether they’d even make it to the end. Implying that the current atmosphere in the studio was a toxic one, would be an understatement. Multiple engineers refused to work with them. Luckily, they had been able to capture George Martin.
Paul looked around, his droopy eyes sad and tired and heavy. George was yelling at Yoko, cursing at her, yelling something about biscuits or whatever. John was talking back at him. Ringo looked straight depressed, sitting behind his drumset. An exhausted George Martin was rubbing his eyes in the booth.
(2 weeks later)
“Alright, lads, I wrote a new one,” John announced cheerily, entering the studio one afternoon with his guitar. Paul’s eyes lit up. John noticed and grinned at him, although a bit hesitantly. “Another Lennon original in the making!”
Fucking finally, Paul thought excitedly, and John started playing, with Yoko still grabbing his arm, as if she needed it to stay afloat. Paul diverted his eyes.
When John was done playing, he looked up at the others, expectantly, but proudly.
“That’s not yours, I’ve heard that one before,” George sneered, “it’s Chuck Berry’s.”
“Bollocks, you’re right.. forget it- “, John started, but then Paul impulsively jumped in, not wanting to let this opportunity of John finally coming up with a song go.
“No, no, it’s good! Maybe we can just spice it up a bit, y’know? How about- “ He tapped his foot in a slower tempo, coming up with a groovy bass line. Ringo joined in, and soon they were all jamming together.
They all were delighted for the rest of the day, working on the song together, like they had always done with the first records. They didn’t even need to separate themselves into different studios.
Paul could breathe for a bit, now that the others were coming up with ideas as well. It felt good not having to be the one spurring them on, at least for a while. He didn’t want to be too overbearing, and that went much easier when the others — John especially — showed some motivation too. Even George was smiling - which was a rare occurrence, these days.
It was a good session. Paul and John were able to look each other in the eyes again, even though Yoko was still sitting right next to him. Paul tried to ignore her, his focus on John’s expression. Tried to ignore the woman’s arms encircling his songwriting partner.
Paul had missed this, had missed John. Maybe he should try harder to keep him around, keep him interested in something other than Yoko. He wasn’t sure what had caused this sudden surge of motivation in John, but he knew he had to keep this up. He couldn’t lose him.
John
At first, John had been deeply insecure, afraid to start the new album. As a result, he stayed in the Scottish hospital with Yoko for days. He had been terrified to show up at EMI, not having written even a single song, yet he was also angry and hurt they had started without him. He wouldn’t lash out at them for it, though. He had decided he didn’t need the Beatles anymore. That’s what he kept repeating to himself, an Yoko helped him repeat it. Cynthia had once told the biographer he needed the Beatles more than they needed him. Not true, not anymore. He had Yoko now. New wife, new life, all that. Beatles came second, now.
When he finally arrived at the studio, a week after his bandmates had started recording, he stuck to Yoko’s side in the bed for days, observing his own band making a record. The couple was constantly talking and whispering. John was snapping at anyone who appeared to be criticising them, throwing around venomous looks and squinting dangerously.
Do they even need me anymore? John thought bitterly, uselessly lying on the bed next to his lover, as Paul was going on and on to George Martin about some kind of orchestra thing. To be honest, John had expected an invitation by now — even a passive-aggressive one from George would’ve been fine. He had been waiting for any band member to express their need for him. Especially Paul. Did Paul still need him? He seemed to be fine on his own, writing hit after hit, hardly ever asking for any input. There was no space for other Beatles anymore. George was constantly fighting for some say in the arrangements; something John was just too tired for. Luckily John didn’t need them anymore, either, he thought, while grabbing Yoko’s hand a bit tighter.
John’s insecurity was at an all-time high. He felt he had always been good at hiding it (with antagonism), at least from his normal friends. However, he had thought Paul would’ve been able to see right through it. Perhaps he did see right through it? John hoped he didn’t — or maybe he hoped he did, he wasn’t sure.
He had caught Paul glimpsing in his direction a few times, but wasn’t able to interpret the looks. It was like a challenge to them; who’s going to speak up first? I’m still in control, John thought, or rather hoped. Staying in bed had seemed the best solution to him. He was too afraid to pick up a guitar, but he knew he seemed to have it under control; him doing something unconventional like sitting in a bed in the middle of the studio without mentioning anything. It was his power move, and now it was Paul’s move. But he never did fall for John’s provocations, to his great annoyance.
He decided it had been enough after a few days. If Paul wouldn’t reach out to him, John would. The stubborn bastard. He had written a song the evening before, and had decided to bring it into the studio, striding in with his guitar, talking loudly and immediately grabbing everyone’s attention. Now or never, he thought, and started playing. Yes, this was how it was supposed to be. Now he really felt in control again, it was his band after all. And Paul seemed to dig it as well. John instantly felt the song develop into something exponentially better with Paul’s contributions; he finally got a taste again of what their partnership used to be like. No wonder he hadn’t been able to write. It was refreshing. He had to keep this going — for now, at least.
Paul
Not every day was all sunshine, though.
While the group was recording She’s So Heavy, the producers and engineers had taken a break, leaving John, his wife and the other Beatles in the recording studio. John was fooling around with the Moog synthesizer, stacking up more and more horrible, dystopian-sounding noises.
Paul was sitting on a chair in the corner, looking moderately miserable. He had been having a rough day already; Linda was visiting her family in the US, and Paul had been all alone in his big house, drinking the night away. It wasn’t fun-drinking anymore; it was lonely-old-man-drinking, and even though Paul was aware of that, it was still better than facing the storm going on inside his overworked head. Right now, that synthesizer wasn’t helping with his hangover, either.
The sound grew, and Paul scrunched his nose, annoyed at the atrocious cacophony he knew John would insist using on the record. So he patted his pockets, pulled out a spliff and lit it, trying to mitigate the increasingly annoying feeling in his gut, head, wherever. John turned his head around for a second, noticing, before moving his attention back to the keys. Paul would’ve given him a drag if he had asked for it. He never asked anymore.
Despite his frustration, Paul wanted to let John explore all the keys, dials and buttons on the instrument for a bit. It did sound rather experimental, and Paul supposed that was a good thing. Convention-defying Beatles and all that stuff. This isn't any different from experimenting with tape loops, he tried to convince himself, taking deep breaths. What was his Maharishi-mantra again? He took another drag on the spliff, but the hazy high had been counterproductive, really. Soon, the sounds were too much for his foggy brain.
No, I’ve changed my mind, this is horrible, he thought, nearly groaning and pulling his hair as the sound grew again.
Yoko whispered something in John’s ear, gave him a quick kiss and exited the studio, probably leaving for the restroom, or to go get some food. Or heroin, Paul speculated silently, bitterly.
Paul had previously been completely occupied with attempting to contain his displeasure, burying his face in his hands, so much so that he hadn’t noticed that the others had left the studio as well before he lifted his gaze again. He was alone with John now.
He was alone with John.
How long ago had that been?
Paul thought about their trip to New York City back in May of ’68. He had wanted to be alone with John, then. Neil, Mal, George and Ringo had noticed that John was on the verge of a mental breakdown, and they had known for sure that some alone-time (in the form of a promotional trip for Apple) with Paul would solve it. Paul had agreed, had even looked forward to it. The trip was so exciting, though. And he had supposed he could always be alone with John back in England. He didn’t even understand why John was sulking all the time, when he could get everything he wanted. Why couldn’t he just shake out of it, have some fun? Thus, Paul had chosen to hang out with various friends from the previous times he visited; going on boat rides, shagging anything available, even inviting the Lovely Linda to join them in the cab to the airport. But only in retrospect had he realised he had lost the chance to patch things up with his bandmate, for the moment they were back on English soil, a wild Yoko had appeared. It had been too late—
Paul’s thoughts went back to the present, and he was wildly aware of either everyone else’s absence, or John’s presence. He had a slightly panicky feeling. He felt he had to do something, his instincts screaming at him, but he was glued to the seat, kind of clutching the armrests, trying to keep his composure. Fuck, he shouldn’t have smoked that dope; it was fogging up his sanity. Why was he reacting this viscerally? Nothing had happened, what was he even reacting to? John was alone with him for the first time in months; there was nothing to hide now, with no other parties present. He could do now what he hadn’t done in New York. What could he do, though? He had to do something… God, a few years ago this would’ve been so much easier. Perhaps he should just follow his gut? He supposed he felt angry at John, for intensifying his hangover with the Moog, for the ridiculous idea of installing a bed in the studio, for never taking responsibility for neither their music nor their future anymore, for not trusting him anymore, for pushing him away…
Before he could come up with any productive ideas of what to do next, the scraping of John’s throat startled him out of his thoughts.
John
“So, what do you think?” John asked, rather excited after producing the strain of abhorrent (but cutting-edge?) noises like a madman. They should definitely use this on the record; all he needed was his songwriting partner’s blessing.
John turned to the man sitting behind him, who was chewing his thumb and frowning at nothing in particular. John assumed Paul must’ve been lost in thought, and he seemed tense as well. John looked around and realised they were alone, and he knew Paul was aware of it too. He hadn’t gotten an answer though, so he scraped his throat. Paul looked up, slightly startled.
“Wha’?” Paul sheepishly replied, after several seconds of wide-eyed-Paul-staring.
“The sounds,” John reiterated. “Sounds good, doesn’t’t?”
They kept staring at each other, a bit on edge. The mood was a bit awkward.
Then Paul frowned, sitting still, his expression the only thing changing.
“No,” he said, silently but steadily.
John’s cheerful expression turned to one of surprise. Sure, Paul had been bossy around the studio countless times before, but he had kept quiet during this session. John had assumed things were alright today. Paul had been very supportive in general as well, ever since John had picked up his guitar again. And John had supported him in turn. They weren’t as buddy-buddy as in the early days, sure, but he had swallowed enough takes of the fucking hammer song for it to be considered ‘supportive.’
“No, it’s shit, and it doesn’t sound ‘Beatles’ at all…”
Now John was frowning as well. He felt anger coming up like bile. Yoko wasn’t around; he couldn’t hide behind anything. They were alone, and Paul — the guy whose opinion had always mattered the most — had insulted his artistic taste. Also, why could they never agree anymore? Why was every decision with Paul so difficult now? He felt exposed and vulnerable for the first time since May, even behind his glasses and long, greasy strands of hair. So, he instinctively did what he had always done; lash out, retaliate, like a wounded animal.
“Yeah? That’s what you really think, Paul?! What’s ‘BEATLES’ sound like, then? Granny fucking shit muzak?! Because ever since we started recording, you’ve come up with nothing but whiny “d-don’t leave me J-Johnny”-ballads, and don’t even get me started on that fucking silver hammer shite!”
John stood up, striding through the studio in Paul’s direction. He was seething. Anger was easy, John knew how to do Anger. But Paul furiously stood up as well, clenching his fists. John could see his face, the naked anger, and it made him think of the young and crude boy in Hamburg; him tackling Stu on stage, uncoordinatedly trying to smash his face in.
He thought of every disapproving look Paul had ever thrown anyone, piling up and piling and piling, until it all burst out. Paul was supposed to be the one in control, always polite and keeping his composure, not letting anyone get too close. John had even been jealous of that — the ability to go on and on unaffected, always. But right in this moment, it seemed the wall Paul’d steadily built around himself would explode into a million fucking pieces. John had wanted for Paul to show himself to him, to show he cared, to react to him again. This was it. John was happy to get any emotion from Paul; if anger was that emotion, so be it. Though this was dangerous territory. Out of the ordinary. This was no Hamburg fight.
Now there’s nothing to control the damage anymore, John thought. It seemed it would all end in anger and resentment. This is it. And it only made him angrier. He was shaking with both fury and fear at the impending doom of their career and companionship.
Paul wasn’t doing much better than him.
“I’ve had enough of it, John! I’m sick and tired of you, coming into the studio with that Japanese fucking tart of yours, both drugged out of your mind! And then, when you FINALLY BRING IN A SONG,” Paul was actually shouting now, pushing John’s shoulders repeatedly; he appeared much taller and stronger than John remembered, “IT’S NOT EVEN HALF DECENT, so you decide to COMPLETELY MUCK UP THE WHOLE BLEEDING RECORD WITH YOUR SO-CALLED AVANT-GARDE RUBBISH, AND THEN YOU ASK ME, GRINNING LIKE EVERYTHING IS FINE, IF IT’S GOOD?! GOD FUCKING- IT’S SHITE, JOHN!! SHITE—‘
John punched him then, right in the jaw. Paul recoiled.
Immediately aware of what he had done, he looked at his fist, his mind suddenly clear as ever. I’d never punch him, he thought. I would never, ever. Why did I do that?
But Paul was everything but clear. John, who wasn’t paying attention, suddenly felt his little mate grabbing the fabric of his shirt, and was knocked over. His head hit the wooden floor, hard. John hissed and flinched, turning his head and raising his arms, pathetically trying to defend himself.
He was expecting a punch, but nothing came.
He warily looked up at Paul. The man looked absolutely enraged still, panting heavily. One of his hands was in the air, balled up in a fist, ready to come flying down.
But it didn’t.
John felt Paul relax a bit, but he was still grabbing onto his shirt, still straddling him on the floor. He tried to read his expression, but found that he couldn’t really. He looked wild, just wild.
Evaluating the situation, John guessed this was an overreaction on Paul’s part. Although, John had thrown the first punch. Some critique about his playing had quickly spiralled into their first physical fight. This was not just an argument over musical taste, though; this was about the big pile in Paul’s brain, and the one in John’s as well. The last drop, the cherry on top; the toppermost of the poppermost. It was bound to explode at some point; it did the very moment they found themselves alone in a room together. For months, John had been scared Paul didn’t like him anymore, and as soon as they were alone, he had pinned him to the floor. John had to admit their relationship had never been a casual one.
They were both breathing heavily. John had previously forgotten about Paul’s stoned state, now looking up in his bloodshot eyes. He couldn’t look away. Paul glanced at his lips.
Now or never.
Before either knew what was going on, John pulled Paul down, locking their lips together. Paul froze for a few seconds, humming in anger and surprise, but then melted into the kiss as well. It was messy and uncoordinated. Paul didn’t care. He grabbed John’s shirt tighter, still mad, harshly sinking his teeth into the other’s lip, making John groan. Then he pulled him up and slid his hands behind John’s back and neck, pressing him up against him.
John licked along Paul’s lips. Paul moaned, he moaned, and immediately opened up for him, giving him access to his perfect mouth. John thought: Why were we angry again? and then shamelessly and vulgarly licked into Paul’s mouth, licking his teeth, his tongue; eagerly exploring the mouth he’d longingly stared at for years and years.
He should’ve realised years ago that this was the best way to communicate with Paul. He knew they couldn’t verbally, and he knew they needed proximity in order for their companionship to flourish; it was required for their telepathic connection to remain. It seemed like they were making up for the months of barely ever touching, right here and now on the floor, by trying to pull each other impossibly closer.
He knew Paul loved sex. He knew he loved Paul. He knew they hadn’t been properly communicating. John had expected Paul to read his mind, but the latter had never seemed to get it. It finally occurred to John, it seemed so obvious now: Sex was the way. Sex was how to ensnare Paul, or rather how to get through to him. Moreover, the guy looked like a bloody walking wet dream every single day, and John hadn’t properly touched him since Paris.
Paul ground down, and John realised Paul was hard. He moaned into the kiss, sliding his hands from Paul’s back to his arse, kneading it firmly. Paul let out a satisfied noise through his nose, licking into John’s warm mouth, sucking his tongue. He ground down his hips again, while John pulled Paul down against him, and they moaned in unison. Paul tangled his fingers into John’s hair.
Then Paul’s eyes sprang open. He let go of John’s mouth, muttering an anxious but breathless “fuck” and quickly rolling backwards off his lap, leaning back into a sitting position on the floor, wiping his mouth and looking at the door behind him.
“Fuck, John, anyone could have walked in! You idiot! You fucking tosser!”
John sat up as well and grinned at the left-over anger in his partner. He noticed the man’s heavy breathing, lidded eyes, red cheeks, and prominent hard-on pressing up against his zipper. Christ.
Anger wasn’t the only sentiment that had bursted out the moment they were alone.
John stood up and awkwardly waggled to the door, adjusting his pants. He locked it, as an indication to Paul that this was far from over. He locked the other doors as well; the one at the other side of the studio and the door to the production booth at the top of the stairs.
When he walked down, he saw Paul sitting on the bed that was brought in for Yoko, legs off the side and leaning back with a knowing, competitive smirk. He saw John watching and started palming himself through his trousers, throwing his head back, grinning.
John nearly growled at the sight. He rushed to the bed, kicking off his shoes and diving in. He pushed Paul down on the bed previously intended for accommodating his injured wife, crashing their lips together again. Paul groaned in turn, contently.
Soon they were rubbing against each other again like teenagers. John’s knee slid between the other’s legs, pressing down and making the other softly whimper. God, he was so sensitive, but at the same time he was relentlessly coaxing John in, playing him; Paul knew exactly how to get what he wanted, and right now he had decided that he wanted his estranged best mate to please please him in Yoko’s sheets, of all places.
John quickly sat up to remove his stained shirt, haphazardly throwing the thing somewhere on the floor. He bent back down, repeatedly smacking his and Paul’s lips together, occasionally moving to his jaw and neck, and started to pop open the buttons on Paul’s shirt, slowly revealing more and more of his chest. He threw the shirt on the floor as well, his hands attaching themselves to Paul’s torso again, magnetic. While sucking a few love bites on his collarbones, he slowly felt Paul up, getting lost in the softness of his chest end belly.
He sat up and seated himself in Paul’s lap, his hands still roaming over Paul’s upper body. He had gained a bit of weight, now that Linda was keeping his fridge fully stacked, probably cooking him a nice meal every evening. He shoved the thought of Linda out of his brain, didn’t want to think about that at the moment.
Paul had matured, yet he also looked soft, was soft, in all the right places. John carefully observed the freckles on his shoulders, his pink nipples and the sparse black hairs on his chest. His chest was soft, not like a bird’s, but still very soft and deliciously kneadable. He looked down. The man had gained a bit of fat around his abdomen as well, but in a very good way. A happy trail guided John’s sight down to the tent in his trousers. John’s mouth watered at the sight.
He wasn’t the scrawny young man from Hamburg anymore. George still was, but not Paul. Paul’s skin was soft and creamy, but now he was more muscular as well, probably from all the handy work he had been doing at his house, building furniture and all that. He still had those lovely curves, though, around his hips and thighs. His bum had increased in volume as well. John recalled the recording of their previous album at Savile Row back in January; Paul bending over the Blüthner like that, showing off his magnificent backside. Lord.
Meanwhile Paul was just as lost in John’s body, tracing his fingers over his slightly protruding ribs. John looked down at the wandering hands that were curling around his own waist, then sliding over his ribs again. He had lost a lot of weight since ’66. He lost weight, Paul gained weight, as if one’s body fat had flowed over into the other’s body, as if they were still in sync; flowing into each other like they had months before, tripping on the carpet at Paul’s Cavendish residence.
Paul, who was suddenly aware of dreamily getting lost in thought and touch, looked up at John and grinned sheepishly. John grinned back and resumed the caressing, making Paul drop his hands and sigh out contently; he loved to be fussed over, John knew, but birds and groupies rarely did that sort of thing. Linda probably did, though, which might be why he had instantly been so smitten with her.
They were taking their time exploring now. Paul’s long dark brown hair lay on the sheets, like a halo around his head. So gorgeous.
John snickered.
“You look like a lesbian,” he muttered, squeezing Paul’s chest with both hands. Paul lifted his head and playfully scowled at him, firmly stabbing his pointer finger into John’s side, making him flinch and squeak out.
Paul pulled John down to shut him up, taking his mouth. John hummed happily, raking his fingers through Paul’s hair.
The kiss quickly became heated once more, both men wanting to get off with increased urgency. John moved his fingertips over Paul’s chest, drawing circles around his right nipple, then lightly tweaking it. Paul whimpered, and John delightedly moved his head down, latching on.
Paul whimpered again, louder this time, squirming under John’s doing. He put his hand on the back of John’s head, pushing him down even further.
“Yeah, suck my tits, Johnny..”, he murmured breathlessly, probably trying to hold his laughter, only just loud enough for John to pick up on it. This man would be the death of him.
John’s teeth grazed the sensitive pink nub, and he bit down, making Paul cry out. Then he switched to the other one, giving it the same treatment. He proceeded to shower all of the man’s upper body with wet kisses, nibbling on the flesh of his abdomen and chest.
When Paul decided he had had enough of that, he pulled him up once more, giving him a quick kiss, then turning to kissing and sucking John’s neck, his jaw, his earlobes and his neck again.
John’s hands went down, popping the button of Paul’s trousers and pulling the zipper down. Paul detached his lips from John’s jaw with a gasp at the sudden relief of pressure. When he noticed John swallowing nervously, his hands lingering around Paul’s hips in doubt, he grabbed John’s hand and roughly shoved it down his tented pants. Yes, John, I’m sure, I want this.
They moaned in each other mouths at the contact, skin on skin. John encircled Paul’s shaft, giving it a few strokes and feeling it twitch in his hand. But it wasn’t enough.
John sat up, and as if they could read each other’s minds, they simultaneously (and still with a sense of urgency) started to remove the rest of their clothing until they were completely naked. While removing his trousers, John noticed the rumpled state of the sheets. This was so wrong, shagging his mate in his injured spouse’s bed, but John found he couldn’t care less. If anything, he was glad the songwriting partners didn’t have to do it on the floor, or in the loo. Some of his wife’s things were lying next to the pillow; some books, jewellery… John shoved them on the floor to make space.
They were both sitting up now, and with his erection poking out from between his thighs, Paul tried to take John’s mouth again. But before he could, John roughly pushed him down on the bed. John grabbed Paul’s ankles to open his legs, leant down and started kissing the insides of his delicious thighs. And Paul let out the most delicious sounds, failing in his clear attempt to stifle them. John’s mouth moved closer and closer to the stiffness, kissing the flesh of his thighs— which were trembling in his grip already, probably from anticipation— and leaving behind a trail of saliva. He then took a hold of Paul’s member, wetly kissing the pink tip.
“Fuck, John baby,” Paul strained, bucking his hips and gripping the sheets with both hands. Their gazes locked. John stared into Paul’s hazel eyes, pupils dark and blown with lust. He proceeded to lightly stroke the shaft, teasing him. Paul breathed out heavily, a drop of precum sliding down.
John moved in again, experimentally licking into his slit to have a taste, making the other man thrash around on the bed, whimpering. He pointed his tongue and circled the head a few times, unleashing various choked up, garbled sounds from the man under him.
They were being a bit filthy, not holding back, which was a bit surprising to John. They went from almost not speaking to this. It was like they had made a silent agreement not to say anything, not to comment on whatever border they were definitely crossing. We’ll worry about that later, much later, never even.
John gently cupped his balls, taking the shaft into his mouth, immediately hollowing out his cheeks.
That was too much for the poor lad. He cried out mindlessly, thrusting up into John’s mouth, making him gag, yelling “Sorry!”, yet not being able to hold back. John pressed Paul’s hips back down onto the mattress, making the other whine, and resumed slurping, taking in most of his mate’s cock, until he could feel pubic hair tickling his nose. He swallowed around him, moaning at the salty taste, sending vibrations through Paul’s spine and causing him to shiver violently.
Suddenly John was yanked off by his auburn locks, and he looked up at Paul. The man's eyes were scrunched shut in concentration, trying to catch his breath. It was silent for a moment.
“Don’t wanna finish yet?” John asked him, delicately stroking his calf. Paul nodded, biting his lip, his member moist and twitching against the air.
He breathed out, opened his hazel eyes that were filled with lust, and gazed right into John’s.
“I had different ideas, actually.”
Before John could ask further, Paul had taken the older man’s right wrist and sucked two of his fingers into his mouth. John moaned at the sight. That sinful mouth, he must really like my hands. Paul took them deeper, holding eye contact with John and gagging slightly when they hit the back of his throat. Next, he released the fingers with a plop, swallowed thickly, and guided them to his entrance, still holding him by the wrist.
John’s eyes went wide.
“W- Paul.. you sure?”
“Yes! Now get on with—“
Paul paused, creased his brows and huffed in annoyance, before suddenly realising that John might not be on board with this. Paul changed his demeanour, loosening his grip on the man’s wrist. With a little more care, he offered: “If you’re okay with it, y’know, we don’t have to..”
John was surprised at Paul’s concern, and he couldn’t help but smile with fondness. Though, he promptly decided to indulge his partner in his initial request to get on with it. It hadn’t been John’s first intent to be a tease, but slightly amused at Paul’s impatience, he lightly circled the rim, making the man squirm, replying:
“Oh, I’m okay with anything..”
He had had anal sex with Yoko and several other women before, so he knew what to do - kind of. She looked like a bloke, after all, which is why John liked her in the first place. Brian had been there as well, of course, on their trip to Barcelona in ’63. John had asked him about it then, out of curiosity, though Brian had told him he ‘didn’t like to do that sort of thing’.
But Paul? Was he… John knew Paul wasn’t into blokes. He had thought Paul wasn’t very sexually adventurous, at least not with Jane. He’d fucked loads, but he had always seemed kind of conservative about it in a way, taking the lead and not really.. As far as he knew…? Maybe Linda…
“Have you done this before?” John asked him, grabbing Paul’s thigh with his free hand, opening up his legs a bit further and getting more comfortable. Paul scrunched his nose in annoyance and impatiently pushed his hips down onto John’s digits.
“Fuckin- Yeah, I know what to do!”
John held still for a moment, still surprised. And then he really got on with it, afraid his mate would change his mind about all this once he remembered his wife at home.
He slowly inserted his finger, letting Paul adjust to the intrusion. The latter was resting his head on the mattress, taking deep breaths to try and relax. John’s thumb was soothingly drawing circles on the inside of his thigh, disturbing the little black hairs. He soon added another finger, exploring this new-found territory. Paul’s brows were creased in concentration.
“Relax, baby,” he told the lad, who kept his eyes closed and nodded trustingly. John pulled his fingers almost all the way out, drawing little circles. Paul let out tiny gasps. Then John pushed in again, curling his fingers, making Paul gasp out again, louder this time, cursing under his breath.
John was so, so fond of him. He couldn’t believe Paul was letting him do this. If he wanted to, Paul could have anyone in the world, yet here he was. John suddenly wished Paul was the one topping him, pleasing him, fussing over him, showing him that he still loved him…
John avoided his prostate for a while, resulting in Paul impatiently huffing and squirming again, John trying to get him needy for him. Paul tried to angle his hips to get some more pleasure in the place he most wanted it.
John then swiftly grabbed the man’s thigh, attacking the spot head on. Paul couldn’t help but let out a wanton moan, grabbing John by the shoulders to pull him closer. John was enjoying the show, very much enjoying it. He kept massaging the same spot while a trembling Paul struggled to stifle moans and whimpers, trying to keep from being too loud, but absolutely failing to do so.
John placed a wet kiss in the sensitive spot under Paul’s ear.
“Don’t hold back, I love the noises you make. You look so cute, falling apart on my fingers,” John teased, then added a third finger, continuously pressing down into the spot, releasing another choked moan from the man under him. He put his other hand on Paul’s cheek, kissing him briefly, then looking down at his face again, which was blushing and scrunched in pleasure. “That’s it, you really want it badly, don’t you princess?”
Suddenly, John felt Paul firmly grabbing onto his wrist, snatching it away from his hole. In an instance he had John pinned down under him, again, straddling his legs. John tried to roll them over to their previous position, but failed, surprised at the McCartney-strength.
Fuck, he thought. John should’ve realised that this Paul wasn’t the skinny Liverpool boy anymore. On the contrary; he was the sturdy one now, and John the scrawny one. He should have known that those strong hairy arms were capable of absolutely dominating him.
Paul pulled both of John’s wrists above his head, pinning him down with his right hand. Then he used his left hand to grab John’s face, making sure he couldn’t move his eyes away from the man’s own. Paul’s face was only inches away from his, to make sure John was looking him in the eye.
“I’m not your fucking princess, John. We both know I never was, understand?” Paul hissed, keeping a steady grip on John’s face while he nodded sheepishly. Paul smirked sadistically, releasing his face but not his wrists. He then clumsily reached into the pocket of his trousers on the floor and grabbed some tube of lotion, which he normally used for the callouses on his fingertips. He got a hold of his mate’s prick, coating it in the substance.
John gasped heavily, thrashing in Paul’s hold, but the latter did not relent. John had been so lost in his partner’s pleasure before that he hadn’t noticed how much he was aching for friction himself.
“You’re gonna fuck me now,” Paul breathed out, determined, while angling John’s throbber under his arse, “not only because I deserve it - which I do,” he sunk down, John’s eyes rolling back with the feeling of the delicious warmth hugging him, “but also because you need it, Johnny, you really crave this arse, don’t you? I can tell, y’know.”
John moaned in confusion, torn between feelings of panic and want. He wanted to keep up his rebellious appearance, wanted to show him who was really in charge (of the band?) (which he secretly knew wasn’t always him). Yet at the same time, John desired to be ravished by his beautiful soulmate. Paul was right. He needed him, so much, I need you so bad it’s driving me mad it’s driving me mad.
“Tell me, Johnny-boy,” Paul was stroking his chest with both hands now, teasing his nipples while leaning forward until their noses brushed. John could feel his hot breath on his lips when he spoke, a little strained from the intrusion in his arse. “Do you think you deserve this ass? Are you gonna be good for me?” One of Paul’s hands slid into John’s hair, pulling harshly. John hissed at the painful but delicious feeling.
John took notice of Paul’s vindictive smirk and smirked too. Paul was getting off on being the one in control, and he wanted the other to reply submissively to his filthy remarks. John knew what his partner wanted to hear, but he wouldn’t let up that easily. This wasn’t over. John kind of wanted to give in. They were finally really interacting for the first time in months, and John was so, so grateful. This confirmed that their bond was unbreakable, that they were able to be away from each other without it deteriorating. They were still Paul-and-John, no matter what. But he wouldn’t give in, not like this, because they were Paul and John; giving in would be uncharacteristic. He was still John Lennon, the snarky one, the rocker. And thus,
“Sod off,” he grumbled, followed by a futile attempt to get Paul to start moving by grabbing his hips, at which point the latter’s hands moved to his flushed nubs again, all of a sudden pulling and twisting harshly.
John squealed out, grabbing Paul’s biceps: “Jesus CHr- Yes, okay, please! I’ll be good! Fuck-!”
Satisfied with John’s reaction, Paul let go, sympathetically caressing the now angry and sensitive protrusions on his chest. Paul took a deep breath and started to move his hips in little circles, placing his outstretched arms on John’s torso to steady himself. John moaned at the sight, grabbing the other by the hips but letting him pick the tempo.
He stretched out a hand to gently hold Paul’s flushed cheek. He leaned into the touch, taking a hand off John’s abdomen to lovingly pat the arm holding his face. Then Paul leaned down again, kissing his mate’s lips, softly but passionately. They kept sliding their lips together, Paul keeping up the lazy rhythm with John guiding him by the hips.
They had never been this loving to one another, caressing and stroking like lovers did. John remembered the fight they had only moments ago, and was grateful this hadn’t turned into a hate-fuck. Even though they seemed to have forgotten for a while, they did love each other. They told the press constantly, and they used to tell each other sometimes. Drunkenly weeping, that one night on tour.
John was a jealous guy, lashing out and falling into depressions whenever he felt abandoned by the people he loved. He always adored the touring, having the lads for himself constantly. He hadn’t been able to handle it when Paul had decided to stay in the city while he himself moved to the suburbs. But ’67 was good, when he was staying with Paul at Cavendish, constantly tripping and spacing out while writing ground-breaking tunes. The closer he was to Paul, the better. He just needed to keep him close, keep him in his lap like this, and all would be fine. This was the final destination, the furthest they could take their relationship, the closest they could ever be, and John just had to keep him here. Paul belongs here, John thought, in my arms with my prick up his arse.
However, he needed to know if Paul felt the same way, if this was enough for him as well. Did the sex mean that Paul was ready to be John’s ‘everything’? Was he prepared to be his partner in every way, the way Yoko was?
John pulled Paul closer, whose cock was trapped between their slick bodies. Paul melted into his embrace, putting his arms around John’s neck to be as close as possible. Christ, he was really taking his time again, still lazily moving his hips, obscenely licking into John’s mouth.
“Paul- please..” John removed his mouth from Paul’s, desperate for more friction. “Fuck, Paul, will you—“ Paul opened his eyes, staring into John’s eyes, breathing the same air.
He then sat up, answering John’s semi-silent, incoherent prayers, placing his hands on John’s shoulders as leverage. He looked almost animalistic, ready to devour John, staring heatedly into his friend’s eyes, pupils blown. John wondered if he himself wore the same expression.
Paul moved his hips faster, harder, pulling a drawn-out groan from the bottom of John’s lungs. Paul’s breathing quickened, his lips forming a perfect ‘o’, lightly moaning every few thrusts and letting out little gasps. He hummed in pleasure and looked down at John, licking his lips.
“Like this?” he whispered, his breath hitching. “You like that?” He added, and John answered him with another groan.
Paul kept riding John vigorously, lifting himself up and down in a quick pace, his thighs probably burning from the exertion.
When John placed his big hands on Paul’s asscheeks, thrusting up into the tight heat, the last of Paul’s composure fell away - if he had had anything left before. John knew the man wouldn’t last much longer, his bounces growing more and more erratic.
“Oh, John, fuck yes, just like that, right there- there- th- please don’t stop..” Paul was rambling incoherently now. His back arched, providing an even better angle in John’s lap. His head fell back, grinning in pleasure. Then he let out a loud moan, his little mouth falling open.
“‘m so close," Paul warned in a strained voice, breathlessly. “Fuck, John, I’m—“
CLANG!
The boys heard a noise in the hallway, the loud sound of a door falling shut echoing through the corridor. Startled, they grabbed at each other, both of them sporting comically large eyes. Fuck. John mentally cursed himself; of course the others would come back at any moment! Paul stopped every movement to listen. They kept completely still, desperately trying to regulate their breathing. Then they both went rigid when they heard someone jiggle the handle on the door. FUCK.
The doorhandles jiggled again. Someone was pulling at the door. The person outside probably thought something was blocking it, not understanding why it would be locked.
“John?”
Yoko’s voice floated into the studio. John stiffened under Paul, completely panicking. Fuck fuck fuck! How would they explain this? He looked up at a stunned Paul, who appeared completely fucked-out: red cheeks, disheveled hair, his bloodshot eyes blown with lust. Naked. And John’s cock was still buried deep inside him. Shit! John tried to push him off, put Paul didn’t relent, shushing him and quickly grabbing his wrists, like he had done before.
Some other voices joined Yoko’s behind the door, murmuring. Someone was pulling the door handle again, to no avail.
“John, I think the door’s blocked, can you… John, are you in there? Paul?”
John gazed at the door, but before he could answer, two strong hands were covering his mouth. A surprised John looked back up at Paul, who looked wide-eyed and almost deranged, mouthing: NOT A WORD.
John nodded, his mouth still covered by the beautiful set of hands. Paul started to languidly ride him again. He let go of John’s mouth, hugging his arms around Paul’s neck. He buried his face in the crook between John’s neck and shoulder, really trying to stifle the noises this time.
John knew he was having a hard time. Paul had always been very vocal in bed, he knew from the Hamburg days (and from the last half hour), so John stroked his shoulder blades in empathy.
After a few seconds, Paul’s rhythm grew more and more furious again, unabashedly chasing his orgasm. And John wasn’t that far off, either; the knot in his abdomen tightening.
At the same time, people were still trying at the door, probably not even sure whether there were people in the studio at all. For all they knew, Paul and John had gone home, or were in the canteen, or anywhere else. They had no idea. But they still kept trying to come in. George’s guitar was standing in the corner, Richie’s jacket hanging over a chair. Their producer’s jacket as well… They wouldn’t leave without those.
The two would’ve had plenty of time to make themselves look presentable again, even with their flushed faces and wrinkled shirts… It felt so good, though. Neither of them wanted to stop, not even when George called their names as well. So John just let Paul continue. Weirdly enough, he didn’t seem to mind their precarious situation at all, not even a bit. Meanwhile, John was praying that George Martin had left his keys in the studio
“Paul—“ John started whispering in Paul’s ear.
“I don’t care, John!” Paul cut him off, whispering desperately. “I really don’t, just… fuck… just keep going, please..” His voice was strained and needy; he was so close.
John pulled Paul’s face from his neck by the hair, forcing him to look at him. The poor lad looked miles away, completely lost in pleasure; John could’ve sworn he was even drooling a bit. He didn’t need more convincing; John smiled and started to thrust up again, meeting Paul’s bounces. He grabbed the younger lad’s angrily leaking cock, stroking him in time with his thrusts, and felt him constricting around his prick in turn. Paul’s brows creased, his gasping mouth agape, while John’s hips were snapping up into the man repeatedly.
It doesn’t matter, it really doesn’t, let them all watch, John thought. I love him, so much. Love him, love him…
“Don’t leave me again,” John urgently strained, grabbing his partner tighter.
“I won’t, luv, never,” the other panted, “never..”
Paul kept violently fucking himself on John, harder and harder, losing his rhythm. They both got closer and closer, almost there, just like that, yes, fuck, Paul…
People kept trying to unlock the door, not succeeding. But they would eventually, probably. They could hear keys rattling in the hallway already.
McCartney and Lennon grinned maniacally, breathing heavily, searching and finding themselves in each others eyes, holding each other’s faces with both hands as they came to the brink of ecstasy. It really didn’t matter, to either of them. It was John and Paul against the rest of the world, forever.
Paul sped up even more and pressed his forehead against John’s.
“Don’t stop! Don’t stop, don’t stop—“ Paul whispered over and over again, his pleading growing louder and more desperate with each thrust.
So John didn’t.