Beatle fic
Title: Trussed
Author: hb_princess
Fandom: Beatles
Pairing: John/Paul
Warnings: Pushy!Bottom!Paul, discourteous use of neckties, and gratuitous threats of “that Montavani rubbish.”
Rating: NC-17. Just to be safe
Disclaimer: I don’t own the Beatles. But, man, do they own me.
Summary: John looks for a little friendly revenge, and gets a reaction he didn’t expect.
Notes: This is a sequel of sorts to oh_johnny's BRUTALLY hot "The Dream." Which is just...gah.
***
It was going so right, right up until John blew it.
So right, so intense, the way it always was when they’d been too long apart, when they’d resisted the constant temptation as long as possible and their passion would explode. Tour over, flight over, Brian’s tedious but well-meaning glad-to-be-back party over, they saw their chance. A simple lie to Cyn, one that didn’t make him feel nearly as guilty as it seemed to make Paul - but John would soon take the edge off that - then back to Paul’s posh new house. St. John’s Wood. Home of solicitors and doctors and brokers, respectable types all, but open-minded enough to accept the handsome young musician with the impeccable manners and the winning schoolboy smile. Respectable types who would be apoplectic if they knew what their resident celebrity was getting up to in his posh new house with his oldest, closest male friend.
Up against the wall, taking turns, first John, then Paul. Mouths desperate, biting and sloppy, kisses demanded between urgent gasps of pleasure. Hands sliding, ripping, gripping, asking and granting. Jesus, it had been so long. Why had it been so long?
It was going so bloody right. John wasn’t even sure who pushed who or how they got over to and onto the bed, but they got there, still kissing, still stripping, clothes flying all over the fucking place. Then they were naked and rolling again, taking turns again, fighting for dominance out of sheer force of habit. Then John found himself on top, Paul telling him to move, get off, stop, and not meaning a bloody word of it, and somehow John had something in his hand that turned out to be his tie - or maybe it was Paul’s, who knew, Brian dressed them like fucking quadruplets most of the time, maybe it was some weird fag fetish or something - and the memory of their last time together hit him, hot and dirty and good, and with it, what seemed like an inspiration.
He shifted up and grabbed Paul’s wrists and pushed them together, up over his head, not roughly, but firmly. He was winding the tie around a second time before Paul seemed to catch on that they weren’t grinding and wrestling and eating each others’ faces any more, that this was something new.
“Jesus, now what the hell are you doing?” Craning his neck. Arching up a little to see, and oh, John liked that, the movement beneath him and the gorgeous taut line of Paul’s jaw and throat. The supplication in that pose. The surrender.
“Turnabout is fair play, my son,” John intoned, securing the tie to the headboard. Wrought-iron. Very handy. Thank you, Macca. “Or foreplay, or whatever it is.”
“‘Turn…’?” Paul echoed faintly. He seemed awfully slow on the uptake tonight, twisting his wrists against the bonds sluggishly, tentatively. “What the fuck? John, you bloody - let me go!”
John shook his head very sadly. “I don’t think so, love. I seem to recall someone tied to the bed last time we fucked, and I seem to recall it was me. Now it’s your turn.”
“John-”
John ran a leisurely hand down Paul’s arm, along his side, over his belly, just barely grazing his cock. “I also seem to recall, Mr. McCartney, you ordering me about. Making me suck you off, making me say, ‘please’ - and you know how much I hate to say ‘please’ - and just, y’know, sort of teasing the living fuck out of me.”
A slight squeeze, just to punctuate the point. Little Macca responded, though not as enthusiastically as usual. John frowned. Little Macca didn’t seem nearly as hard as it’d been when they hit the mattress. Maybe he was losing his touch? Maybe his hands were cold? Maybe-
“John. Let me go.”
A whisper. Just a whisper, but there was something in it that snapped John out of his playful daze, something strained, something wrong. He looked up. Paul’s face was very calm, very composed, but he was dead pale, and the only emotion in his eyes was so startling that John didn’t recognize it at first. Fear. Real, stark fear - maybe even terror? - that he was clearly just barely holding at bay.
John went cold. Shock, first; rage waiting; he could feel it, a dull pulsing off in the wings.
Paul was afraid of this.
Paul was afraid of this even with him.
“John, I said let me go,” and only John, who knew that voice so well, would have caught the slight tremor in it now. Paul swallowed and said it again. “John, please-”
And that was as far as he got, because John was pulling savagely at the strip holding his wrists, untying the knots, yanking the thin silk free with a snap that left a burn. Paul winced.
“Jesus, John, watch it! I don’t need…What are you doing?”
“You seem to be having some trouble connecting tonight, Macca,” John said, standing, moving, grabbing clothes, dressing awkwardly as he went. “Maybe you smoked too much grass at Brian’s. What the fuck does it look like I’m doing?”
“It looks like you’re leaving.”
“It looks like you’re right.” John yanked on his shirt and started jabbing buttons through holes. “But, then, you’re always right, aren’t you, Paul? It’s what you do.”
A flash of anger, there and gone. Paul sat up abruptly. “You don’t have to leave, for Christ’s sake.”
“No point in staying.”
The anger came back, defensive, slightly incredulous. “You’re fucking running away because I won’t let you tie me to the bed? How fucking childish is that? How fucking crazy is that?”
John fell into an armchair and reached for his shoes.
Paul ran a restless hand through his hair. “John, I…I just…I don’t like…I can’t DO that, all right? I just…can’t. It’s not you, John, it’s me, it’s some thing with me-”
And it was exactly the wrong thing to say, and John’s rage rushed through him until he felt nearly ill with it. Because it was him, goddammit, it was John…and for Paul, that should have been enough.
Shoes tied, he stood.
“You’d do it if you had a good enough reason though, wouldn’t you, Paul? If there was some money in it, maybe, or attention, or inspiration…maybe not even a whole song, maybe just a groovy chord change or a nice little lick. You’d do it then, son, and with your prettiest smile on, too, so long as there was something in it for Paul.”
Paul said nothing. He had that look on his face, a look that made John actually hate him sometimes, that wary oh-Johnny’s-going-off-again-let’s-humor-him look. Add uncomprehending to the mix tonight-and who the fuck did he think he was fooling? He knew damn well what John was saying. He just refused to see it. It was uncanny, Paul’s ability to recognize only what he liked in any given situation and diligently disregard the rest.
“You’d do it if one of your fucking crowd” - John sneered the word - “asked you to. If Dunbar or that fucking ass-bandit Bob Fraser wanted you to play, brother, you’d play. You’d lie back and let that queer tie you in fucking knots if he wanted. Suck you off or fuck you or snort a line off your dick if that’s what gets him off, and you’d let him. All in the name of art or whatever the fuck it is. No! I can see it, Paul, really. A Groovy Bob happening. Live Beatle In Bondage. The Cute One Comes.” A jagged laugh. “You’re such a whore, Paul, you know? A fame-whore or worship-whore or some…other fucking thing. Maybe you’re just a Paul-whore. A Paul-junkie.”
“Shut it, John.” Biting, furious - but his face was oddly serene. It only fed John’s rage.
“Why won’t you do acid with me, Paul?”
A start; a frown. “What?”
“You do drugs, real fucking illegal fucking drugs, with that lot, with that Fraser and them. You put that shit up your nose with a bunch of fucking parasites you hardly fucking know, but you won’t drop a fucking tab with me. With ME, Paul. Do you even see how fucking twisted that is?”
Paul actually flinched, and John’s chest went tight. Oh, and now he would be all with the eyes, the big fucking gorgeous hurt-puppy eyes, wounded and brimming, trying to make him feel guilty, trying to make him feel like horseshit just for telling the truth. Well, sod it. It wouldn’t work this time. Paul had fucked this up, Paul and his hang-ups. John was not some groupie; John would be hostage to neither sex nor sentiment. John would-
“Get out of my house, John,” Paul said then, quite clearly and quite coldly, and his eyes were as hard as his voice.
And even colder.
***
So John got out of his house. Out of Mi-fucking-Lord McCharmly’s house, and barely resisting the urge to break something truly valuable on the way, a vase or a sculpture or a painting. Maybe even that stupid fucking Magritte. That stupid fucking apple. It was ugly and pointless and it was more of Groovy-fucking-Bob again, and John would have given his next five A-sides to put a foot right through the fucking thing once and for all.
He would have given more to put a foot through Groovy Bob.
The fangirls hadn’t snagged Paul’s new address yet; he escaped unaccosted and started walking, anonymous in the dark. He walked blocks with no idea where he was going to, thinking in the back of his head he’d stop at a phone kiosk and ring up his chauffeur or maybe just a lorry, and by the time he found himself standing outside 3 Abbey Road, he had the beginnings of a song.
Well, no better place to have them, he thought, and let himself in.
***
Within an hour or so, he had the whole thing.
He’s a real nowhere man
Sitting in his nowhere land
Making all his nowhere plans for nobody
Doesn’t have a point of view
Knows not where he’s going to
Isn’t he a bit like you and me?
He scribbled the lyrics on the back of a grease-spattered menu and laid down a half-assed demo, just his voice and acoustic guitar. Not much to go on, just listening to the playback, but he thought it was good. No. He knew it was good. And he suspected that once Mr. Martin and the other Beatles got their guitars and drums and voices and all their other magic on it, it might be great.
Nowhere man, please listen
You don’t know what you’re missing
Nowhere man
The world is at your command
John lit a cigarette off the smoldering stub of another and sang the lines softly back to himself.
He’s as blind as he can be
Just sees what he wants to see
Nowhere man, can you see me at all?
And how was it that so many of his songs started out being about him and ended up being about Paul? Christ, were they that inseparable?
Nowhere man, don’t worry
Take your time, don’t hurry
Leave it all
Till somebody else lends you a hand
Somebody else. Oh, so coy, Lennon. Very clever, you are. And since when was he “somebody else” in his own fucking song?
Not that coyness mattered, of course. Paul wouldn’t get it. Wouldn’t see it. Just sees what he wants to see…No, Paul would never guess in a million years that he was the nowhere man. No one would. Paul had the world by the proverbial ass; Paul was the sexy sybarite, Pop’s prettiest Pied Piper, blithe, beautiful, winking at life and love. John was the troubled one, the lost one; John was the tortured poet, the voice of brutal truth, cynical and misanthropic, but also (everyone just knew, deep down) lonely as a cloud, or some such fucking thing. By unspoken agreement, these were the roles they played, and Paul, at least, had his smoothed and buffed and polished until it gleamed, perfect and splinter-free. But the world didn’t know the real them. Didn’t know how they saw each other. Didn’t know what they were when they were together.
He wondered if Paul knew how much that public Paul paled in comparison to the darker, hungrier, more nuanced creature John Lennon had discovered and nurtured and coaxed forth. He wondered if Paul preferred the role. He wondered if Paul even knew which Paul was real.
John smoked his cigarette and wished he had something stronger. A joint would be nice, though some Scotch would do. Even weak, cheap Scotch. With too much ice.
He was still so angry, that was the thing. Worse, some of it was for himself - he felt foolish now, remembering his outburst, the insults and bizarre accusations he’d hurled. He didn’t know then or now where half of that had come from - but that was the way he fought, the way he’d always done. Whatever came into his mind he said, no matter how hurtful it was, no matter how irrational or unfair or untrue.
John smoked his cigarette and wished he had some acid.
Why won’t you do acid with me, Paul?
John knew he was a jealous guy, no less with regard to Paul than anything else, but he didn’t think that was what this was about. Or all that it was about. He didn’t mind if Paul had other friends, other interests, his own life. He envied Paul his bachelor freedom, certainly, but it wasn’t keeping him awake at night or anything. He knew Paul slept around, but so did he. Wasn’t cheating. They had an understanding; they had their reasons. John was an anguished artist desperately trying to escape his stultifying suburban existence, while Paul...well, Paul, God love him, was just a slut. “When Paul gets bored, his dick gets twitchy,” Peter Brown had once said, and even though John thought Peter Brown was a poncy honked-out two-faced bag of shit, he couldn’t argue with that. “Paul would fuck a tree if it moved,” was Maureen Cleave’s take on The Cute One, and John couldn’t argue with that, either, but he honestly didn’t care. Paul could hump trees or girls or German-fucking-Shepherds for all it mattered to John, so long as Paul always came back to him.
Why wouldn’t Paul do acid with him? Why didn’t Paul trust him? What was he so fucking afraid of?
(Nowhere man, can you see me at all?)
Paul’s fear. That was what had really set him off. If Paul had laughed and tried to bluff his way out of it, or even just flat-out refused, John would have been irritated, but not enraged. But the fear - the lack of trust - had hit him like a slap. Had made him feel sleazy in a way all the screwing and sucking and kissing and groping going back to time-out-of-fucking-mind never had. The fear had made him feel like a, a fucking rapist, or something. Like a stranger.
And when Paul said, “It’s not you, John,” how he’d wanted to grab his lover/partner/rival/savior and shake him and scream, But it IS me, you daft twat! It is me, and you should trust me enough to do anything with me, anything at all, because I’d never fucking hurt you, I’d fucking die before I’d ever hurt you, and how is it that you still don’t understand that?
Sometimes John wondered if Paul understood anything he couldn’t count or fuck or play.
Doesn’t have a point of view
Knows not where he’s going to
Isn’t he a bit like you and me?
Fuck it, he decided, suddenly exhausted. He’d had enough crazy self-doubting headshit for one night. He was going home. He crushed out his cigarette and turned off the equipment and the lights, leaving the new song on the table with the rest of the trash.
***
It was still there a week later, and of course Paul found it right off.
Late for nearly everything else, Paul was always first to the studio. None of the Beatles was truly a morning person - Hamburg had pretty much fucked up their inner clocks forever - but Paul was the closest thing to it they had. John suspected this was nothing but more vanity on Paul's part; no doubt he considered it his daily duty to expose as many people to his genial gorgeousness as possible.
John heard it as soon as he opened the door. He didn’t register it at first, though the tune had been playing in his head almost constantly since he’d written it. Paul was at the piano, picking out the melody, singing softly along with the playback. John was irritated, immediately and unreasonably. The song was supposed to be angry and chastising and scathing and brutal, but in Paul’s voice, it was plaintive, a lament, loving and lost.
When he felt the eyes on him, Paul stopped singing and swung around on the bench. He looked fresh and brisk and fabulous as always, and John’s irritation increased. All right, maybe Sir Shallow McShithead hadn’t been losing any sleep over their fight, but could he at least have the fucking decency to look a little out-of sorts? John wasn’t asking for much. Maybe some dark circles under his eyes, maybe a single fucking hair out of place…Christ, even his tie was perfect-and why was he wearing a fucking suit to the studio anyway?
Must have a hot date after, he thought, and the dismal turn in his guts made him realize he was still furious with Paul.
“’lo, John.” Cautious, but friendly enough. “You’re in early.”
John grunted and shrugged off his coat.
Paul sighed. “So. Are we Not Talking this morning, or just Not Talking To Paul?”
“Since you’re the only one here, what’s the difference?”
Paul looked down at the piano. “You’ve been ducking my calls.”
John just shrugged again. “Busy.”
“Obviously.” Paul kept his gaze on the piano. “When did you write this?”
“A week ago.” John stared at him until he looked up, wanting his eyes. “A week ago Friday.”
“Really?”
“You’re surprised?”
“Yeah, actually. You were so …y’know. Upset. I could never write something this good upset.”
Yes, Paul, it’s bloody amazing, isn’t it? Someone can actually do something you can’t. “You like it, then.”
“’Course I like it. It’s fucking gorgeous.”
John’s temper flared. It isn’t gorgeous! he wanted to shout. It isn’t pretty and it isn’t nice and it isn’t a fucking lullaby…"It’s you, Paul,” he spat without thinking. He closed the short distance between them and threw himself down, straddling the piano bench to face his partner. “It’s you, can’t you bloody read? The whole fucking song is about you.”
“Me?”
John nodded.
“I’m the Nowhere Man?”
“Yes.”
Paul looked at the piano again, at the tatty lyric sheet propped there, then back up at John. A slow smile was spreading across his face, surprised, delighted, as if John had given him a marvelous and unexpected gift. Instantly, John’s anger became astonishment.
“What the hell are you so happy about? It’s not a love song, for Christ’s sake!”
“No…no, but it’s a great song. One of your best, I think.”
“It’s a ripper, Macca! My own personal rant on Groovy Paul.”
“Mmm. That’s not how it sounds, though. It sounds like a plea…or maybe a warning.” The smile again. “Sounds like maybe…maybe you’re worried about me. Or us.”
John just stared at him. He was vaguely aware that his mouth was hanging open and he was vaguely aware that he should fix that, because he probably looked like a bloody retard or something, but he couldn’t seem to manage it at the moment. He was too shocked and too annoyed and against all reason too charmed…honest to Christ, only Paul could even think like this. Could see things like this, could find a caress in a stinging slap. Only Paul…
John leaned forward and kissed him. It was hard and long and wet and good and he thought maybe they made up somewhere in the middle of it, because Paul was returning the kiss with just as much heat, and Paul didn’t kiss him like that when he was pissed off at him; when Paul was feeling bitchy, he kissed like a high-class rent-boy, skilled and practiced and very, very cold.
“I take it I’m forgiven, then?” Paul asked, when John finally let him have his mouth back.
“We’ll see.” A pause. “Cyn and Jules are away this week. Off visiting the aunties, or something.”
Paul nodded. “Well. Well, that’s…that’s gear, isn’t it? I mean, aunties need visiting, don’t they?”
“From time to time.”
“Funny thing is, Jane’s away this whole month. On tour. You know.”
“You don’t say.”
“I just did.”
“Nice girl, that Jane. Fab little actress, too. She should tour more often.”
“I think so, too.”
“Just to, y’know, keep herself sharp.”
“’Course.”
John took a deep breath. “So you’re all by your onesome tonight.”
Paul smiled again. This one was THE smile, the sexy, sideways smirk that had been putting girls on their backs for him since he’d dropped his last ounce of baby fat, and suddenly John needed that deep breath. “Only if I want to be.”
“I don’t think you want to be,” John managed as calmly as possible.
“No?”
“No. I think you’d like some company.”
“Well. All right, then. If you say so, I s’pose it must be true.”
“Yeah?”
“Sure. Yeah. I trust you.”
Startled, John pulled back to look at him more closely. The do-me-baby smirk was gone, and John didn’t think they were just flirting anymore, but with Paul…“You better mean that, Paul. Don’t fucking say it if you don’t m-”
“I mean it, John.” Soft. Serious. Deliberate. Then, almost an afterthought: “Asshole.”
John cracked up. Paul kissed him again right in the middle of it, and John registered dimly that Paul’s kiss matched his tone, serious and resolute, saying everything that John needed him to say without saying much of anything at all. The kiss built and built and now there was contact and pressure and delicious friction, and there were hands, oh, their hands were fucking everywhere, and-
Fuck. The others were coming; he could hear their mingled laughter and the snap of a cigarette lighter, undoubtedly George’s, in the hall. And did they know he and Paul occasionally shagged each other stupid? Yes. Did that mean they wanted to watch? Er - probably not.
“Later, then,” he breathed in Paul’s ear, and slid away from him, thinking this was going to be the longest bloody day of his life.
***
It was going so right, and this time John was not going to blow it.
So right, so intense, the way it always was when they’d been too long apart. The day’s recording had been hell, just as interminable as John had expected, but now he thought it might have been worth it just to have Paul clawing the clothes off him like this. Up against the wall, taking turns, just like before, and this time the urgency had the darker tang of make-up sex, their recent anger fueling the desire between them.
It was going so bloody right, and just when John was sure it couldn’t get much better or hotter or wilder, suddenly Paul was on the bed, naked beneath him, willingly beneath him, and Paul had something in his hand that looked like a tie, his tie, and he was offering it to John, and he-
Wait. His tie?
John’s stomach gave a funny little jump. Paul stared back at him, calmly enough, but John couldn’t read a thing in his eyes.
“Shit, Paul…you don’t…you don’t have to do this.” And he wanted to mean it, but of course it was a lie, and of course Paul knew it. Paul always knew, everything; how could John have ever doubted that, even for a moment?
Paul snickered. “Didn’t you wonder why I wore a suit today?”
John cleared his throat, trying to laugh, not quite making it. “Thought you had a hot date.”
“I do.” He raised his arms above his head, stretching a bit until his wrists touched the cool metal of the bed frame. The expression on his face said he felt distinctly foolish in such a pose, but he didn’t look foolish. He looked absolutely fucking edible. “Go on, John. It’s okay. Just…do it.”
“Paul-”
“Go on.”
It was easier said than done; John was nervous and eager and very aroused, and his hands shook so badly he could scarcely manage the knot. There was a high-wired trembling running all through Paul as well, but it wasn’t the sexy quiver he felt in himself. He thought maybe Paul was still very afraid of this; thought maybe Paul’s trust in him was the only thing stronger than the fear, the only thing keeping him on the bed at all-and he hated himself a little when that thought excited him even more.
When Paul’s hands were tied, John got up and stripped off the rest of his own clothes, and then stood there, uncharacteristically hesitant. He realized he didn’t have a clue what to do. He felt more nervous with the control he’d demanded now in his hands than he had when he was the one tied to the bed. What had Paul done to him? He could hardly remember; it was most of it a lovely blur. A lot of teasing, yeah, and a lot of kissing, and a lot of caressing everywhere but where he’d really, really wanted it…
Well, all right then. He could do all of that, too. Wasn’t anything he hadn’t done to Paul dozens of times before. Still…
He looked down at the bed again. God, Paul was just so fucking beautiful like this…John hoped he’d be able to last long enough to make it worth his lover’s while. John wanted to make him crazy, as wild as Paul had made him; wanted to shatter his control and take him so high that he wouldn’t care, that he would want it shattered, that he’d want all of this just as much as John did.
Well. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
John stretched out beside him and began stroking him, nothing very erotic, just fingertips grazing his chest and belly. Paul shifted a bit but gave no other reaction. John paused. He had discovered early on that, for all his delicate looks, Paul didn’t really enjoy gentle love-making; be it pitching or catching, he liked a little weight, he liked a little speed, he liked a little force…he liked an edge. Touching him in this fashion would likely annoy him long before it ever aroused him.
An evil smile crossed John’s face. Yes, this would probably annoy the shit out of Paul, wouldn’t it? And this was teasing, after all. And if he went a little lower, but just kept his caresses really light and feathery like this, Paul would probably--
“Will you stop that?” Paul demanded, a bit breathlessly. His shifting was more pronounced now, restless, automatic. “Either touch me or don’t, but stop that baby shit. It tickles.”
John smothered a laugh. “Was that an order, Macca?”
“Yes. You know I don’t like-Oww!” Paul lifted his head as high as he could and looked at him, wide-eyed. “You bit me!”
John gave the injured nipple a soothing lick. “That’s right! I did! Who's a clever little lad, then?" Another lick, slower, firmer; Paul shivered and briefly closed his eyes. “Want me to do it again?”
“No! I…oh…no, I don’t like…mm…you to…”
“Are you sure?” John sucked the nipple, hard, making him jump. “’Cause you did seem to like it, you know. Little Macca gave me a poke.”
Paul lifted his head again and glared at him.
“’Course, Little Macca starts poking when the wind blows, so that’s no test. But if you did like it…” Suck. “…I could fancy…” Suck. “…another taste.”
Paul groaned and fell back on the pillow. He was nearly panting, and John was amazed and amused at his reaction. Obviously, Paul had quite a kink for this, and obviously John had been an idiot, neglecting a source of incredible sexual pleasure for both of them for years, and obviously, they had a lot of lost time to make up for…
So John bit him again.
“Fuck!” Paul twisted violently beneath him, nearly throwing him to the floor.
“Yeah, we’ll get to that,” John agreed. “But only if you’re a good boy.” He slid his open mouth across Paul’s chest, licking and suckling the other, neglected nipple as roughly he had its twin. Paul closed his eyes again, tensed and shaking, visibly bracing himself for something.
“Jesus, John, just do it, just…”
“Do what, love?” John nibbled.
“Just…oh, God…just…”
“Just what, love?” John nipped.
“Yes, that…no, harder!…goddammit, John, please!”
“Please what, love?” John tugged.
“JUST BITE ME, YOU FUCKING SADISTIC PRICK!”
John grinned again. You had to give the boy credit - he knew what he wanted and he wasn’t afraid to ask for it. Demand it, even. Flat on his back and pretty much defenseless, Paul was still trying to run the show.
Which left John no choice at all, really.
“No,” he said, and, ignoring Paul’s outraged protests (but enjoying his struggles immensely), went back to touching him instead - maddening, barely-there caresses all over his body, following hand with mouth. Oh, and it was lovely, this was, even better than he’d imagined it. Belly, chest, thighs, ass… Such lovely smooth skin Paul had, every inch of him, and it felt all the softer flowing under his guitar-roughened hands. Flowing and flushing and starting to gleam with a light clean sweat and rising in delicious goosebumps here and there, depending on how hard or how soft or how intimately John touched him.
It was like playing an instrument, he realized. More precisely, it was like learning an instrument, getting the feel for it, delighting in the exploration, the building knowledge, the sheer adventure of it. He wasn’t discovering anything new here; this body was as familiar as his own, yet he was learning it in a whole new way, and the artist in him was enthralled. And the power! That was a thrill in and of itself; he felt drugged with it, giddy and savage and tender all at once, high on the idea that he could do whatever he pleased to Paul and Paul could not stop him. And on the knowledge that Paul had given him this power willingly, in spite of his fear and against every instinct he owned.
He was so absorbed in his task that he didn’t notice precisely when the demands and threats became pleas, when the obscenities and insults dissolved into sounds, just sounds, dirty and mindless and needy and hot. By the time he was not-quite-nuzzling Paul’s prick and not-quite-chewing his thighs and just-barely-fondling his balls, Paul was producing only an occasional word -there and fuck and yes and more - in the tapestry of sighs and groans and shallow, urgent gasps.
Only when John began not-quite-licking his cock did Paul manage something resembling a coherent sentence. “Jesus…Johnny…please...for Christ’s sake…"
“Eh?” John left off and looked up, the picture of innocence. “Something on your mind, love?”
Paul arched off the bed with a frustrated snarl. “It’s not a fucking ice-lolly, Lennon! Just suck me!”
John just looked at him.
Paul groaned. “Please?”
“That’s better.” John lowered his head again and took him deep, sucking as hard as he could, relishing Paul’s low cry, the way his thighs tensed and his head fell back and the helpless surge of his hips. There was power in this act as well, power in the pleasure only he could deny or grant, and he got a bit lost in it, and he almost let it get away from him, almost took Paul (and himself) too far to pull back. And almost didn’t care.
It was the growl that stopped him. It was nearly lost in the other, almost frantic noises Paul was making, but John caught it. As always, it sent a shiver down his spine. He loved Paul’s growl, just fucking loved it. It had shocked the shit out of him the first time-well, who would ever guess, looking at that angel face? But there it was, it was real, and it was so sexy and it was endearing and it was secret…Their secret. His. Some undeniable instinct told John that no one else drew that sound from Paul, ever; something told him that it was his and his alone.
But it also meant Paul was close. Too close, and while John could revel in his ownership later, he wanted to end this night inside his lover. So he stopped.
And Paul started.
“You fucking-you crazy-you bloody fucking bastard-" He was wild, absolutely wild; his eyes promised pain, death, dismemberment, crappy middle eights and corny granny songs for the rest of their professional lives. “When I get my fucking hands on you-"
John slid up his body and hushed him with a hard kiss. Oh, and it was so good, sexier than anything they’d done tonight, their bodies flush, their erections crushed and rubbing together between them. John kissed him until the muffled curses and imprecations melted away again, until he was getting just the sounds he wanted, all the lovely sounds and, oh, there it was again, that one particular sound…
He backed off, moving his body away from Paul’s, reaching blindly into the bedside drawer for the oil. Messy stuff it was, but it was lovely, warm and rich and (knowing Paul) probably custom-made or something, and it felt like silk.
Anyway, they weren’t his sheets.
He prepared Paul slowly, and he prepared himself slowly, and he entered him slowly, and obviously it was all too slowly for Paul’s liking, given the impatient hiss that escaped him, the muttered “come on, come on, come on,” and the way he was grinding himself against John, trying to take him deeper. But John wasn’t teasing now. He was so close himself, so hard he ached, and if he didn’t force himself to go slowly, he would hurt Paul, he would rip into him and take what he wanted in pounding, furious strokes, and he would destroy everything he had built so carefully between them tonight.
But Paul, clearly, had other ideas. It seemed Paul didn’t want tender kisses and languid, easy thrusts and a careful hand pulling and stroking him. Paul wanted it the way Paul always wanted it, rough and sweaty and snarling and driving…and Paul, being Paul, had a way of getting what he wanted. Especially from John Lennon.
“Fuck me already, Johnny, Jesus Christ, just fuck me-”
It was a plea but also a challenge, and as far gone as he was, it was all John needed to push him over the edge. His body made the decision for him, moving harder, moving faster, pushing deeper. Paul matched him perfectly, thrust for thrust, their bodies finding the same instinctive harmony their voices had so many times, and when they came, shuddering and gasping into each others’ mouths, it was so precisely together that John couldn’t tell if it was his own climax tearing through him or Paul’s.
A double-orgasm, he thought dazedly. An orgasm-squared. Wow, how fucked-up is that?
And collapsed.
He might have actually fallen asleep right there, on Paul, and in him - and wouldn’t that have been some fun, watching Paul try to explain this little scene to Rosie in the morning - if Paul didn’t start squirming beneath him. “Er, John?”
John kept his face buried in Paul’s neck. Jesus, he always smelled so good, even sweaty, why was that?
Paul wriggled again, more insistently. “Hullo, John? Did you, like, die up there?”
John lifted his head reluctantly. “What?”
“You’re crushing me.”
“I’m not, you know.” John nuzzled his throat. “I’m cuddling you.”
“Cuddle me from over there, then. You’re bloody heavy.”
“I thought you liked to cuddle.”
“I like…breathing…more.” He actually bucked up this time, trying to throw John off - an unfortunate move, given that they were still connected - and hissed. “Shit! And while you’re at it, I’d like my ass back, too.”
“Prima donna,” John grumbled, but he chuckled and rolled off to the side, keeping his arm across Paul’s belly, kissing his sweaty chest, idly stroking his thigh. He wasn’t horny anymore, Christ, no; he just wanted Paul as close as physically possible. “Anything else I can do for you, Your Majesty?”
“You mean you can do more?” Paul asked, and the blatant hunger in his face made John laugh out loud. It was just so Paul. Thanks, the inch was lovely, mate, now can I have the mile?
“You randy little sod, you mean that wasn’t enough?”
Paul stretched like a drowsy cat. “Don’t fish, Johnny,” he drawled softly. “You know it was fucking fantastic.”
“And here I thought it was fantastic fucking.”
“I could use a smoke, though.”
“Me, too.”
“There’s a pack on the table there.”
John rolled over and looked, then rolled back. “There is,” he confirmed.
“You could light us up.”
“I could.”
“’Course, wouldn’t do me much good…you know…seeing’s how I’m still tied to the bed here and all.”
John shrugged. “You haven’t asked me to untie you, Paul.”
“No, I haven’t,” Paul agreed seriously, almost gravely, and John’s mouth went dry.
“And if I decided to just…just keep you like this? Maybe have another go at you later on? Maybe take a few naughty pictures for 16! and TigerBeat? Maybe torture you with feather dusters and whipped cream and endless Mantovani records?”
“Whatever you want, John, it’s all right with me.”
Whatever you want…and was he kidding? After that, John wanted to sweep him up and kiss him cross-eyed. Wanted to hold him close and whisper sappy, flowery endearments. Wanted to write paeans to his beauty and warmth and charm and sing them out the window. Wanted to say thank you for this and I love you for this and you don’t know how much I needed this. But of course he could do none of those things. It just wasn’t their way.
Instead, he untied Paul’s hands and grabbed Paul’s cigarettes from the nightstand and shot a pair from the pack, lighting both of them at once, the way he’d seen it done in an old movie. He handed one to Paul and they smoked in silence for a few moments, until John thought of something and started laughing again.
Paul gave him a questioning smile.
“‘It’s not a fucking ice-lolly, Lennon!’” John mimicked, still snickering. “Oh, Christ, that was a good one, Macca. Really. You should put that one in a song. ‘Baby, you can suck my dick...don’t treat it like it’s on a stick…’”
That got them both going, and they collapsed together, giggling like mad schoolboys.
“Yeah, well,” Paul managed finally, “I’ve heard you rip off some good ones in the heat of the moment yourself.”
“Nothing that good.”
“You called me ‘sweetie’ once.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“I’ve never called anyone sweetie, McCartney. Not ever in my entire life.”
“You did, though. It was the first time we ever…well. You know. Did this. And you wanted me to come, and you were saying, ‘Come on, Paulie, come on, love, come on, sweetie, come for me’…” He grinned. “So I did.”
John rose up on an elbow and looked down at him in disbelief. “You remember all that?”
“Yeah, well…the way you were chanting…It was sort of musical. Got stuck in me head.”
“Catchy, was it? Had a good beat?”
“The best.”
He leered; John kissed it away. “Can I sleep here tonight?” he asked abruptly.
“Yeah, I...of course. Where else?”
“Rosie…?”
“Rosie’s off tomorrow.”
They crushed out their cigarettes and turned off the lights, burrowing under the covers.
“John?”
“Yes, Paul?”
“Do you have any acid?”
John rolled his eyes. “Yeah, of course, Paul. It’s concealed about me person.”
“Oh.”
“Why?”
“I just thought…I don’t know…” John felt him shrug. “If you still wanted me to do it with you…I’d…we’d…we could do it now.”
He sounded odd, shy and almost forlorn, and John chuckled and drew him close.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. You. You’re adorable when you’re humble.”
Paul punched his arm. “Prick.”
“No. Arm.” John stroked his back, found his mouth in the darkness, kissed him again. “Now shut your gob and go to sleep. We’ll talk about…the other tomorrow.”
“Yeah, all right.” He sounded half asleep already. “I just thought”-yawn-“if you…you know…needed that from me…”
The words trailed off on a sleepy sigh; the warm body relaxed completely into his, and John pulled him even closer, hiding a smile in the soft black hair. Thinking Sweetie, I have what I need right here.
Author: hb_princess
Fandom: Beatles
Pairing: John/Paul
Warnings: Pushy!Bottom!Paul, discourteous use of neckties, and gratuitous threats of “that Montavani rubbish.”
Rating: NC-17. Just to be safe
Disclaimer: I don’t own the Beatles. But, man, do they own me.
Summary: John looks for a little friendly revenge, and gets a reaction he didn’t expect.
Notes: This is a sequel of sorts to oh_johnny's BRUTALLY hot "The Dream." Which is just...gah.
***
It was going so right, right up until John blew it.
So right, so intense, the way it always was when they’d been too long apart, when they’d resisted the constant temptation as long as possible and their passion would explode. Tour over, flight over, Brian’s tedious but well-meaning glad-to-be-back party over, they saw their chance. A simple lie to Cyn, one that didn’t make him feel nearly as guilty as it seemed to make Paul - but John would soon take the edge off that - then back to Paul’s posh new house. St. John’s Wood. Home of solicitors and doctors and brokers, respectable types all, but open-minded enough to accept the handsome young musician with the impeccable manners and the winning schoolboy smile. Respectable types who would be apoplectic if they knew what their resident celebrity was getting up to in his posh new house with his oldest, closest male friend.
Up against the wall, taking turns, first John, then Paul. Mouths desperate, biting and sloppy, kisses demanded between urgent gasps of pleasure. Hands sliding, ripping, gripping, asking and granting. Jesus, it had been so long. Why had it been so long?
It was going so bloody right. John wasn’t even sure who pushed who or how they got over to and onto the bed, but they got there, still kissing, still stripping, clothes flying all over the fucking place. Then they were naked and rolling again, taking turns again, fighting for dominance out of sheer force of habit. Then John found himself on top, Paul telling him to move, get off, stop, and not meaning a bloody word of it, and somehow John had something in his hand that turned out to be his tie - or maybe it was Paul’s, who knew, Brian dressed them like fucking quadruplets most of the time, maybe it was some weird fag fetish or something - and the memory of their last time together hit him, hot and dirty and good, and with it, what seemed like an inspiration.
He shifted up and grabbed Paul’s wrists and pushed them together, up over his head, not roughly, but firmly. He was winding the tie around a second time before Paul seemed to catch on that they weren’t grinding and wrestling and eating each others’ faces any more, that this was something new.
“Jesus, now what the hell are you doing?” Craning his neck. Arching up a little to see, and oh, John liked that, the movement beneath him and the gorgeous taut line of Paul’s jaw and throat. The supplication in that pose. The surrender.
“Turnabout is fair play, my son,” John intoned, securing the tie to the headboard. Wrought-iron. Very handy. Thank you, Macca. “Or foreplay, or whatever it is.”
“‘Turn…’?” Paul echoed faintly. He seemed awfully slow on the uptake tonight, twisting his wrists against the bonds sluggishly, tentatively. “What the fuck? John, you bloody - let me go!”
John shook his head very sadly. “I don’t think so, love. I seem to recall someone tied to the bed last time we fucked, and I seem to recall it was me. Now it’s your turn.”
“John-”
John ran a leisurely hand down Paul’s arm, along his side, over his belly, just barely grazing his cock. “I also seem to recall, Mr. McCartney, you ordering me about. Making me suck you off, making me say, ‘please’ - and you know how much I hate to say ‘please’ - and just, y’know, sort of teasing the living fuck out of me.”
A slight squeeze, just to punctuate the point. Little Macca responded, though not as enthusiastically as usual. John frowned. Little Macca didn’t seem nearly as hard as it’d been when they hit the mattress. Maybe he was losing his touch? Maybe his hands were cold? Maybe-
“John. Let me go.”
A whisper. Just a whisper, but there was something in it that snapped John out of his playful daze, something strained, something wrong. He looked up. Paul’s face was very calm, very composed, but he was dead pale, and the only emotion in his eyes was so startling that John didn’t recognize it at first. Fear. Real, stark fear - maybe even terror? - that he was clearly just barely holding at bay.
John went cold. Shock, first; rage waiting; he could feel it, a dull pulsing off in the wings.
Paul was afraid of this.
Paul was afraid of this even with him.
“John, I said let me go,” and only John, who knew that voice so well, would have caught the slight tremor in it now. Paul swallowed and said it again. “John, please-”
And that was as far as he got, because John was pulling savagely at the strip holding his wrists, untying the knots, yanking the thin silk free with a snap that left a burn. Paul winced.
“Jesus, John, watch it! I don’t need…What are you doing?”
“You seem to be having some trouble connecting tonight, Macca,” John said, standing, moving, grabbing clothes, dressing awkwardly as he went. “Maybe you smoked too much grass at Brian’s. What the fuck does it look like I’m doing?”
“It looks like you’re leaving.”
“It looks like you’re right.” John yanked on his shirt and started jabbing buttons through holes. “But, then, you’re always right, aren’t you, Paul? It’s what you do.”
A flash of anger, there and gone. Paul sat up abruptly. “You don’t have to leave, for Christ’s sake.”
“No point in staying.”
The anger came back, defensive, slightly incredulous. “You’re fucking running away because I won’t let you tie me to the bed? How fucking childish is that? How fucking crazy is that?”
John fell into an armchair and reached for his shoes.
Paul ran a restless hand through his hair. “John, I…I just…I don’t like…I can’t DO that, all right? I just…can’t. It’s not you, John, it’s me, it’s some thing with me-”
And it was exactly the wrong thing to say, and John’s rage rushed through him until he felt nearly ill with it. Because it was him, goddammit, it was John…and for Paul, that should have been enough.
Shoes tied, he stood.
“You’d do it if you had a good enough reason though, wouldn’t you, Paul? If there was some money in it, maybe, or attention, or inspiration…maybe not even a whole song, maybe just a groovy chord change or a nice little lick. You’d do it then, son, and with your prettiest smile on, too, so long as there was something in it for Paul.”
Paul said nothing. He had that look on his face, a look that made John actually hate him sometimes, that wary oh-Johnny’s-going-off-again-let’s-humor-him look. Add uncomprehending to the mix tonight-and who the fuck did he think he was fooling? He knew damn well what John was saying. He just refused to see it. It was uncanny, Paul’s ability to recognize only what he liked in any given situation and diligently disregard the rest.
“You’d do it if one of your fucking crowd” - John sneered the word - “asked you to. If Dunbar or that fucking ass-bandit Bob Fraser wanted you to play, brother, you’d play. You’d lie back and let that queer tie you in fucking knots if he wanted. Suck you off or fuck you or snort a line off your dick if that’s what gets him off, and you’d let him. All in the name of art or whatever the fuck it is. No! I can see it, Paul, really. A Groovy Bob happening. Live Beatle In Bondage. The Cute One Comes.” A jagged laugh. “You’re such a whore, Paul, you know? A fame-whore or worship-whore or some…other fucking thing. Maybe you’re just a Paul-whore. A Paul-junkie.”
“Shut it, John.” Biting, furious - but his face was oddly serene. It only fed John’s rage.
“Why won’t you do acid with me, Paul?”
A start; a frown. “What?”
“You do drugs, real fucking illegal fucking drugs, with that lot, with that Fraser and them. You put that shit up your nose with a bunch of fucking parasites you hardly fucking know, but you won’t drop a fucking tab with me. With ME, Paul. Do you even see how fucking twisted that is?”
Paul actually flinched, and John’s chest went tight. Oh, and now he would be all with the eyes, the big fucking gorgeous hurt-puppy eyes, wounded and brimming, trying to make him feel guilty, trying to make him feel like horseshit just for telling the truth. Well, sod it. It wouldn’t work this time. Paul had fucked this up, Paul and his hang-ups. John was not some groupie; John would be hostage to neither sex nor sentiment. John would-
“Get out of my house, John,” Paul said then, quite clearly and quite coldly, and his eyes were as hard as his voice.
And even colder.
***
So John got out of his house. Out of Mi-fucking-Lord McCharmly’s house, and barely resisting the urge to break something truly valuable on the way, a vase or a sculpture or a painting. Maybe even that stupid fucking Magritte. That stupid fucking apple. It was ugly and pointless and it was more of Groovy-fucking-Bob again, and John would have given his next five A-sides to put a foot right through the fucking thing once and for all.
He would have given more to put a foot through Groovy Bob.
The fangirls hadn’t snagged Paul’s new address yet; he escaped unaccosted and started walking, anonymous in the dark. He walked blocks with no idea where he was going to, thinking in the back of his head he’d stop at a phone kiosk and ring up his chauffeur or maybe just a lorry, and by the time he found himself standing outside 3 Abbey Road, he had the beginnings of a song.
Well, no better place to have them, he thought, and let himself in.
***
Within an hour or so, he had the whole thing.
He’s a real nowhere man
Sitting in his nowhere land
Making all his nowhere plans for nobody
Doesn’t have a point of view
Knows not where he’s going to
Isn’t he a bit like you and me?
He scribbled the lyrics on the back of a grease-spattered menu and laid down a half-assed demo, just his voice and acoustic guitar. Not much to go on, just listening to the playback, but he thought it was good. No. He knew it was good. And he suspected that once Mr. Martin and the other Beatles got their guitars and drums and voices and all their other magic on it, it might be great.
Nowhere man, please listen
You don’t know what you’re missing
Nowhere man
The world is at your command
John lit a cigarette off the smoldering stub of another and sang the lines softly back to himself.
He’s as blind as he can be
Just sees what he wants to see
Nowhere man, can you see me at all?
And how was it that so many of his songs started out being about him and ended up being about Paul? Christ, were they that inseparable?
Nowhere man, don’t worry
Take your time, don’t hurry
Leave it all
Till somebody else lends you a hand
Somebody else. Oh, so coy, Lennon. Very clever, you are. And since when was he “somebody else” in his own fucking song?
Not that coyness mattered, of course. Paul wouldn’t get it. Wouldn’t see it. Just sees what he wants to see…No, Paul would never guess in a million years that he was the nowhere man. No one would. Paul had the world by the proverbial ass; Paul was the sexy sybarite, Pop’s prettiest Pied Piper, blithe, beautiful, winking at life and love. John was the troubled one, the lost one; John was the tortured poet, the voice of brutal truth, cynical and misanthropic, but also (everyone just knew, deep down) lonely as a cloud, or some such fucking thing. By unspoken agreement, these were the roles they played, and Paul, at least, had his smoothed and buffed and polished until it gleamed, perfect and splinter-free. But the world didn’t know the real them. Didn’t know how they saw each other. Didn’t know what they were when they were together.
He wondered if Paul knew how much that public Paul paled in comparison to the darker, hungrier, more nuanced creature John Lennon had discovered and nurtured and coaxed forth. He wondered if Paul preferred the role. He wondered if Paul even knew which Paul was real.
John smoked his cigarette and wished he had something stronger. A joint would be nice, though some Scotch would do. Even weak, cheap Scotch. With too much ice.
He was still so angry, that was the thing. Worse, some of it was for himself - he felt foolish now, remembering his outburst, the insults and bizarre accusations he’d hurled. He didn’t know then or now where half of that had come from - but that was the way he fought, the way he’d always done. Whatever came into his mind he said, no matter how hurtful it was, no matter how irrational or unfair or untrue.
John smoked his cigarette and wished he had some acid.
Why won’t you do acid with me, Paul?
John knew he was a jealous guy, no less with regard to Paul than anything else, but he didn’t think that was what this was about. Or all that it was about. He didn’t mind if Paul had other friends, other interests, his own life. He envied Paul his bachelor freedom, certainly, but it wasn’t keeping him awake at night or anything. He knew Paul slept around, but so did he. Wasn’t cheating. They had an understanding; they had their reasons. John was an anguished artist desperately trying to escape his stultifying suburban existence, while Paul...well, Paul, God love him, was just a slut. “When Paul gets bored, his dick gets twitchy,” Peter Brown had once said, and even though John thought Peter Brown was a poncy honked-out two-faced bag of shit, he couldn’t argue with that. “Paul would fuck a tree if it moved,” was Maureen Cleave’s take on The Cute One, and John couldn’t argue with that, either, but he honestly didn’t care. Paul could hump trees or girls or German-fucking-Shepherds for all it mattered to John, so long as Paul always came back to him.
Why wouldn’t Paul do acid with him? Why didn’t Paul trust him? What was he so fucking afraid of?
(Nowhere man, can you see me at all?)
Paul’s fear. That was what had really set him off. If Paul had laughed and tried to bluff his way out of it, or even just flat-out refused, John would have been irritated, but not enraged. But the fear - the lack of trust - had hit him like a slap. Had made him feel sleazy in a way all the screwing and sucking and kissing and groping going back to time-out-of-fucking-mind never had. The fear had made him feel like a, a fucking rapist, or something. Like a stranger.
And when Paul said, “It’s not you, John,” how he’d wanted to grab his lover/partner/rival/savior and shake him and scream, But it IS me, you daft twat! It is me, and you should trust me enough to do anything with me, anything at all, because I’d never fucking hurt you, I’d fucking die before I’d ever hurt you, and how is it that you still don’t understand that?
Sometimes John wondered if Paul understood anything he couldn’t count or fuck or play.
Doesn’t have a point of view
Knows not where he’s going to
Isn’t he a bit like you and me?
Fuck it, he decided, suddenly exhausted. He’d had enough crazy self-doubting headshit for one night. He was going home. He crushed out his cigarette and turned off the equipment and the lights, leaving the new song on the table with the rest of the trash.
***
It was still there a week later, and of course Paul found it right off.
Late for nearly everything else, Paul was always first to the studio. None of the Beatles was truly a morning person - Hamburg had pretty much fucked up their inner clocks forever - but Paul was the closest thing to it they had. John suspected this was nothing but more vanity on Paul's part; no doubt he considered it his daily duty to expose as many people to his genial gorgeousness as possible.
John heard it as soon as he opened the door. He didn’t register it at first, though the tune had been playing in his head almost constantly since he’d written it. Paul was at the piano, picking out the melody, singing softly along with the playback. John was irritated, immediately and unreasonably. The song was supposed to be angry and chastising and scathing and brutal, but in Paul’s voice, it was plaintive, a lament, loving and lost.
When he felt the eyes on him, Paul stopped singing and swung around on the bench. He looked fresh and brisk and fabulous as always, and John’s irritation increased. All right, maybe Sir Shallow McShithead hadn’t been losing any sleep over their fight, but could he at least have the fucking decency to look a little out-of sorts? John wasn’t asking for much. Maybe some dark circles under his eyes, maybe a single fucking hair out of place…Christ, even his tie was perfect-and why was he wearing a fucking suit to the studio anyway?
Must have a hot date after, he thought, and the dismal turn in his guts made him realize he was still furious with Paul.
“’lo, John.” Cautious, but friendly enough. “You’re in early.”
John grunted and shrugged off his coat.
Paul sighed. “So. Are we Not Talking this morning, or just Not Talking To Paul?”
“Since you’re the only one here, what’s the difference?”
Paul looked down at the piano. “You’ve been ducking my calls.”
John just shrugged again. “Busy.”
“Obviously.” Paul kept his gaze on the piano. “When did you write this?”
“A week ago.” John stared at him until he looked up, wanting his eyes. “A week ago Friday.”
“Really?”
“You’re surprised?”
“Yeah, actually. You were so …y’know. Upset. I could never write something this good upset.”
Yes, Paul, it’s bloody amazing, isn’t it? Someone can actually do something you can’t. “You like it, then.”
“’Course I like it. It’s fucking gorgeous.”
John’s temper flared. It isn’t gorgeous! he wanted to shout. It isn’t pretty and it isn’t nice and it isn’t a fucking lullaby…"It’s you, Paul,” he spat without thinking. He closed the short distance between them and threw himself down, straddling the piano bench to face his partner. “It’s you, can’t you bloody read? The whole fucking song is about you.”
“Me?”
John nodded.
“I’m the Nowhere Man?”
“Yes.”
Paul looked at the piano again, at the tatty lyric sheet propped there, then back up at John. A slow smile was spreading across his face, surprised, delighted, as if John had given him a marvelous and unexpected gift. Instantly, John’s anger became astonishment.
“What the hell are you so happy about? It’s not a love song, for Christ’s sake!”
“No…no, but it’s a great song. One of your best, I think.”
“It’s a ripper, Macca! My own personal rant on Groovy Paul.”
“Mmm. That’s not how it sounds, though. It sounds like a plea…or maybe a warning.” The smile again. “Sounds like maybe…maybe you’re worried about me. Or us.”
John just stared at him. He was vaguely aware that his mouth was hanging open and he was vaguely aware that he should fix that, because he probably looked like a bloody retard or something, but he couldn’t seem to manage it at the moment. He was too shocked and too annoyed and against all reason too charmed…honest to Christ, only Paul could even think like this. Could see things like this, could find a caress in a stinging slap. Only Paul…
John leaned forward and kissed him. It was hard and long and wet and good and he thought maybe they made up somewhere in the middle of it, because Paul was returning the kiss with just as much heat, and Paul didn’t kiss him like that when he was pissed off at him; when Paul was feeling bitchy, he kissed like a high-class rent-boy, skilled and practiced and very, very cold.
“I take it I’m forgiven, then?” Paul asked, when John finally let him have his mouth back.
“We’ll see.” A pause. “Cyn and Jules are away this week. Off visiting the aunties, or something.”
Paul nodded. “Well. Well, that’s…that’s gear, isn’t it? I mean, aunties need visiting, don’t they?”
“From time to time.”
“Funny thing is, Jane’s away this whole month. On tour. You know.”
“You don’t say.”
“I just did.”
“Nice girl, that Jane. Fab little actress, too. She should tour more often.”
“I think so, too.”
“Just to, y’know, keep herself sharp.”
“’Course.”
John took a deep breath. “So you’re all by your onesome tonight.”
Paul smiled again. This one was THE smile, the sexy, sideways smirk that had been putting girls on their backs for him since he’d dropped his last ounce of baby fat, and suddenly John needed that deep breath. “Only if I want to be.”
“I don’t think you want to be,” John managed as calmly as possible.
“No?”
“No. I think you’d like some company.”
“Well. All right, then. If you say so, I s’pose it must be true.”
“Yeah?”
“Sure. Yeah. I trust you.”
Startled, John pulled back to look at him more closely. The do-me-baby smirk was gone, and John didn’t think they were just flirting anymore, but with Paul…“You better mean that, Paul. Don’t fucking say it if you don’t m-”
“I mean it, John.” Soft. Serious. Deliberate. Then, almost an afterthought: “Asshole.”
John cracked up. Paul kissed him again right in the middle of it, and John registered dimly that Paul’s kiss matched his tone, serious and resolute, saying everything that John needed him to say without saying much of anything at all. The kiss built and built and now there was contact and pressure and delicious friction, and there were hands, oh, their hands were fucking everywhere, and-
Fuck. The others were coming; he could hear their mingled laughter and the snap of a cigarette lighter, undoubtedly George’s, in the hall. And did they know he and Paul occasionally shagged each other stupid? Yes. Did that mean they wanted to watch? Er - probably not.
“Later, then,” he breathed in Paul’s ear, and slid away from him, thinking this was going to be the longest bloody day of his life.
***
It was going so right, and this time John was not going to blow it.
So right, so intense, the way it always was when they’d been too long apart. The day’s recording had been hell, just as interminable as John had expected, but now he thought it might have been worth it just to have Paul clawing the clothes off him like this. Up against the wall, taking turns, just like before, and this time the urgency had the darker tang of make-up sex, their recent anger fueling the desire between them.
It was going so bloody right, and just when John was sure it couldn’t get much better or hotter or wilder, suddenly Paul was on the bed, naked beneath him, willingly beneath him, and Paul had something in his hand that looked like a tie, his tie, and he was offering it to John, and he-
Wait. His tie?
John’s stomach gave a funny little jump. Paul stared back at him, calmly enough, but John couldn’t read a thing in his eyes.
“Shit, Paul…you don’t…you don’t have to do this.” And he wanted to mean it, but of course it was a lie, and of course Paul knew it. Paul always knew, everything; how could John have ever doubted that, even for a moment?
Paul snickered. “Didn’t you wonder why I wore a suit today?”
John cleared his throat, trying to laugh, not quite making it. “Thought you had a hot date.”
“I do.” He raised his arms above his head, stretching a bit until his wrists touched the cool metal of the bed frame. The expression on his face said he felt distinctly foolish in such a pose, but he didn’t look foolish. He looked absolutely fucking edible. “Go on, John. It’s okay. Just…do it.”
“Paul-”
“Go on.”
It was easier said than done; John was nervous and eager and very aroused, and his hands shook so badly he could scarcely manage the knot. There was a high-wired trembling running all through Paul as well, but it wasn’t the sexy quiver he felt in himself. He thought maybe Paul was still very afraid of this; thought maybe Paul’s trust in him was the only thing stronger than the fear, the only thing keeping him on the bed at all-and he hated himself a little when that thought excited him even more.
When Paul’s hands were tied, John got up and stripped off the rest of his own clothes, and then stood there, uncharacteristically hesitant. He realized he didn’t have a clue what to do. He felt more nervous with the control he’d demanded now in his hands than he had when he was the one tied to the bed. What had Paul done to him? He could hardly remember; it was most of it a lovely blur. A lot of teasing, yeah, and a lot of kissing, and a lot of caressing everywhere but where he’d really, really wanted it…
Well, all right then. He could do all of that, too. Wasn’t anything he hadn’t done to Paul dozens of times before. Still…
He looked down at the bed again. God, Paul was just so fucking beautiful like this…John hoped he’d be able to last long enough to make it worth his lover’s while. John wanted to make him crazy, as wild as Paul had made him; wanted to shatter his control and take him so high that he wouldn’t care, that he would want it shattered, that he’d want all of this just as much as John did.
Well. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
John stretched out beside him and began stroking him, nothing very erotic, just fingertips grazing his chest and belly. Paul shifted a bit but gave no other reaction. John paused. He had discovered early on that, for all his delicate looks, Paul didn’t really enjoy gentle love-making; be it pitching or catching, he liked a little weight, he liked a little speed, he liked a little force…he liked an edge. Touching him in this fashion would likely annoy him long before it ever aroused him.
An evil smile crossed John’s face. Yes, this would probably annoy the shit out of Paul, wouldn’t it? And this was teasing, after all. And if he went a little lower, but just kept his caresses really light and feathery like this, Paul would probably--
“Will you stop that?” Paul demanded, a bit breathlessly. His shifting was more pronounced now, restless, automatic. “Either touch me or don’t, but stop that baby shit. It tickles.”
John smothered a laugh. “Was that an order, Macca?”
“Yes. You know I don’t like-Oww!” Paul lifted his head as high as he could and looked at him, wide-eyed. “You bit me!”
John gave the injured nipple a soothing lick. “That’s right! I did! Who's a clever little lad, then?" Another lick, slower, firmer; Paul shivered and briefly closed his eyes. “Want me to do it again?”
“No! I…oh…no, I don’t like…mm…you to…”
“Are you sure?” John sucked the nipple, hard, making him jump. “’Cause you did seem to like it, you know. Little Macca gave me a poke.”
Paul lifted his head again and glared at him.
“’Course, Little Macca starts poking when the wind blows, so that’s no test. But if you did like it…” Suck. “…I could fancy…” Suck. “…another taste.”
Paul groaned and fell back on the pillow. He was nearly panting, and John was amazed and amused at his reaction. Obviously, Paul had quite a kink for this, and obviously John had been an idiot, neglecting a source of incredible sexual pleasure for both of them for years, and obviously, they had a lot of lost time to make up for…
So John bit him again.
“Fuck!” Paul twisted violently beneath him, nearly throwing him to the floor.
“Yeah, we’ll get to that,” John agreed. “But only if you’re a good boy.” He slid his open mouth across Paul’s chest, licking and suckling the other, neglected nipple as roughly he had its twin. Paul closed his eyes again, tensed and shaking, visibly bracing himself for something.
“Jesus, John, just do it, just…”
“Do what, love?” John nibbled.
“Just…oh, God…just…”
“Just what, love?” John nipped.
“Yes, that…no, harder!…goddammit, John, please!”
“Please what, love?” John tugged.
“JUST BITE ME, YOU FUCKING SADISTIC PRICK!”
John grinned again. You had to give the boy credit - he knew what he wanted and he wasn’t afraid to ask for it. Demand it, even. Flat on his back and pretty much defenseless, Paul was still trying to run the show.
Which left John no choice at all, really.
“No,” he said, and, ignoring Paul’s outraged protests (but enjoying his struggles immensely), went back to touching him instead - maddening, barely-there caresses all over his body, following hand with mouth. Oh, and it was lovely, this was, even better than he’d imagined it. Belly, chest, thighs, ass… Such lovely smooth skin Paul had, every inch of him, and it felt all the softer flowing under his guitar-roughened hands. Flowing and flushing and starting to gleam with a light clean sweat and rising in delicious goosebumps here and there, depending on how hard or how soft or how intimately John touched him.
It was like playing an instrument, he realized. More precisely, it was like learning an instrument, getting the feel for it, delighting in the exploration, the building knowledge, the sheer adventure of it. He wasn’t discovering anything new here; this body was as familiar as his own, yet he was learning it in a whole new way, and the artist in him was enthralled. And the power! That was a thrill in and of itself; he felt drugged with it, giddy and savage and tender all at once, high on the idea that he could do whatever he pleased to Paul and Paul could not stop him. And on the knowledge that Paul had given him this power willingly, in spite of his fear and against every instinct he owned.
He was so absorbed in his task that he didn’t notice precisely when the demands and threats became pleas, when the obscenities and insults dissolved into sounds, just sounds, dirty and mindless and needy and hot. By the time he was not-quite-nuzzling Paul’s prick and not-quite-chewing his thighs and just-barely-fondling his balls, Paul was producing only an occasional word -there and fuck and yes and more - in the tapestry of sighs and groans and shallow, urgent gasps.
Only when John began not-quite-licking his cock did Paul manage something resembling a coherent sentence. “Jesus…Johnny…please...for Christ’s sake…"
“Eh?” John left off and looked up, the picture of innocence. “Something on your mind, love?”
Paul arched off the bed with a frustrated snarl. “It’s not a fucking ice-lolly, Lennon! Just suck me!”
John just looked at him.
Paul groaned. “Please?”
“That’s better.” John lowered his head again and took him deep, sucking as hard as he could, relishing Paul’s low cry, the way his thighs tensed and his head fell back and the helpless surge of his hips. There was power in this act as well, power in the pleasure only he could deny or grant, and he got a bit lost in it, and he almost let it get away from him, almost took Paul (and himself) too far to pull back. And almost didn’t care.
It was the growl that stopped him. It was nearly lost in the other, almost frantic noises Paul was making, but John caught it. As always, it sent a shiver down his spine. He loved Paul’s growl, just fucking loved it. It had shocked the shit out of him the first time-well, who would ever guess, looking at that angel face? But there it was, it was real, and it was so sexy and it was endearing and it was secret…Their secret. His. Some undeniable instinct told John that no one else drew that sound from Paul, ever; something told him that it was his and his alone.
But it also meant Paul was close. Too close, and while John could revel in his ownership later, he wanted to end this night inside his lover. So he stopped.
And Paul started.
“You fucking-you crazy-you bloody fucking bastard-" He was wild, absolutely wild; his eyes promised pain, death, dismemberment, crappy middle eights and corny granny songs for the rest of their professional lives. “When I get my fucking hands on you-"
John slid up his body and hushed him with a hard kiss. Oh, and it was so good, sexier than anything they’d done tonight, their bodies flush, their erections crushed and rubbing together between them. John kissed him until the muffled curses and imprecations melted away again, until he was getting just the sounds he wanted, all the lovely sounds and, oh, there it was again, that one particular sound…
He backed off, moving his body away from Paul’s, reaching blindly into the bedside drawer for the oil. Messy stuff it was, but it was lovely, warm and rich and (knowing Paul) probably custom-made or something, and it felt like silk.
Anyway, they weren’t his sheets.
He prepared Paul slowly, and he prepared himself slowly, and he entered him slowly, and obviously it was all too slowly for Paul’s liking, given the impatient hiss that escaped him, the muttered “come on, come on, come on,” and the way he was grinding himself against John, trying to take him deeper. But John wasn’t teasing now. He was so close himself, so hard he ached, and if he didn’t force himself to go slowly, he would hurt Paul, he would rip into him and take what he wanted in pounding, furious strokes, and he would destroy everything he had built so carefully between them tonight.
But Paul, clearly, had other ideas. It seemed Paul didn’t want tender kisses and languid, easy thrusts and a careful hand pulling and stroking him. Paul wanted it the way Paul always wanted it, rough and sweaty and snarling and driving…and Paul, being Paul, had a way of getting what he wanted. Especially from John Lennon.
“Fuck me already, Johnny, Jesus Christ, just fuck me-”
It was a plea but also a challenge, and as far gone as he was, it was all John needed to push him over the edge. His body made the decision for him, moving harder, moving faster, pushing deeper. Paul matched him perfectly, thrust for thrust, their bodies finding the same instinctive harmony their voices had so many times, and when they came, shuddering and gasping into each others’ mouths, it was so precisely together that John couldn’t tell if it was his own climax tearing through him or Paul’s.
A double-orgasm, he thought dazedly. An orgasm-squared. Wow, how fucked-up is that?
And collapsed.
He might have actually fallen asleep right there, on Paul, and in him - and wouldn’t that have been some fun, watching Paul try to explain this little scene to Rosie in the morning - if Paul didn’t start squirming beneath him. “Er, John?”
John kept his face buried in Paul’s neck. Jesus, he always smelled so good, even sweaty, why was that?
Paul wriggled again, more insistently. “Hullo, John? Did you, like, die up there?”
John lifted his head reluctantly. “What?”
“You’re crushing me.”
“I’m not, you know.” John nuzzled his throat. “I’m cuddling you.”
“Cuddle me from over there, then. You’re bloody heavy.”
“I thought you liked to cuddle.”
“I like…breathing…more.” He actually bucked up this time, trying to throw John off - an unfortunate move, given that they were still connected - and hissed. “Shit! And while you’re at it, I’d like my ass back, too.”
“Prima donna,” John grumbled, but he chuckled and rolled off to the side, keeping his arm across Paul’s belly, kissing his sweaty chest, idly stroking his thigh. He wasn’t horny anymore, Christ, no; he just wanted Paul as close as physically possible. “Anything else I can do for you, Your Majesty?”
“You mean you can do more?” Paul asked, and the blatant hunger in his face made John laugh out loud. It was just so Paul. Thanks, the inch was lovely, mate, now can I have the mile?
“You randy little sod, you mean that wasn’t enough?”
Paul stretched like a drowsy cat. “Don’t fish, Johnny,” he drawled softly. “You know it was fucking fantastic.”
“And here I thought it was fantastic fucking.”
“I could use a smoke, though.”
“Me, too.”
“There’s a pack on the table there.”
John rolled over and looked, then rolled back. “There is,” he confirmed.
“You could light us up.”
“I could.”
“’Course, wouldn’t do me much good…you know…seeing’s how I’m still tied to the bed here and all.”
John shrugged. “You haven’t asked me to untie you, Paul.”
“No, I haven’t,” Paul agreed seriously, almost gravely, and John’s mouth went dry.
“And if I decided to just…just keep you like this? Maybe have another go at you later on? Maybe take a few naughty pictures for 16! and TigerBeat? Maybe torture you with feather dusters and whipped cream and endless Mantovani records?”
“Whatever you want, John, it’s all right with me.”
Whatever you want…and was he kidding? After that, John wanted to sweep him up and kiss him cross-eyed. Wanted to hold him close and whisper sappy, flowery endearments. Wanted to write paeans to his beauty and warmth and charm and sing them out the window. Wanted to say thank you for this and I love you for this and you don’t know how much I needed this. But of course he could do none of those things. It just wasn’t their way.
Instead, he untied Paul’s hands and grabbed Paul’s cigarettes from the nightstand and shot a pair from the pack, lighting both of them at once, the way he’d seen it done in an old movie. He handed one to Paul and they smoked in silence for a few moments, until John thought of something and started laughing again.
Paul gave him a questioning smile.
“‘It’s not a fucking ice-lolly, Lennon!’” John mimicked, still snickering. “Oh, Christ, that was a good one, Macca. Really. You should put that one in a song. ‘Baby, you can suck my dick...don’t treat it like it’s on a stick…’”
That got them both going, and they collapsed together, giggling like mad schoolboys.
“Yeah, well,” Paul managed finally, “I’ve heard you rip off some good ones in the heat of the moment yourself.”
“Nothing that good.”
“You called me ‘sweetie’ once.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“I’ve never called anyone sweetie, McCartney. Not ever in my entire life.”
“You did, though. It was the first time we ever…well. You know. Did this. And you wanted me to come, and you were saying, ‘Come on, Paulie, come on, love, come on, sweetie, come for me’…” He grinned. “So I did.”
John rose up on an elbow and looked down at him in disbelief. “You remember all that?”
“Yeah, well…the way you were chanting…It was sort of musical. Got stuck in me head.”
“Catchy, was it? Had a good beat?”
“The best.”
He leered; John kissed it away. “Can I sleep here tonight?” he asked abruptly.
“Yeah, I...of course. Where else?”
“Rosie…?”
“Rosie’s off tomorrow.”
They crushed out their cigarettes and turned off the lights, burrowing under the covers.
“John?”
“Yes, Paul?”
“Do you have any acid?”
John rolled his eyes. “Yeah, of course, Paul. It’s concealed about me person.”
“Oh.”
“Why?”
“I just thought…I don’t know…” John felt him shrug. “If you still wanted me to do it with you…I’d…we’d…we could do it now.”
He sounded odd, shy and almost forlorn, and John chuckled and drew him close.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. You. You’re adorable when you’re humble.”
Paul punched his arm. “Prick.”
“No. Arm.” John stroked his back, found his mouth in the darkness, kissed him again. “Now shut your gob and go to sleep. We’ll talk about…the other tomorrow.”
“Yeah, all right.” He sounded half asleep already. “I just thought”-yawn-“if you…you know…needed that from me…”
The words trailed off on a sleepy sigh; the warm body relaxed completely into his, and John pulled him even closer, hiding a smile in the soft black hair. Thinking Sweetie, I have what I need right here.