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Paul genuinely, really, truly liked John.
He really liked John. Loved him, too, despite it being rather early to declare it. He loved the way John would speak with brutal honesty and loved the way he softened his tone when he realised he’d gone too far. He loved the sheepishness with which John offered his affection, the thoughtfulness he stuck into expressing it, and he loved the blatant neediness with which he demanded it, too. He loved his insecurity and how he covered it up with a cocky demeanour, and he loved his fierce-yet-barely-noticeable loyalty to those he deemed good enough to befriend. He loved his smile, his nose, his eyes, his skin, and the burst of freckles that spread over his shoulders whenever he spent time in the sun.
There was just something about John that made him unbelievably lovable. And Paul, who’d both always been quick to love and hold dear, didn’t stand a bloody chance.
“Macca’s Biennial Lennon-Mania”, as George had oh-so-aptly put it, may have had a hand in the swiftness with which Paul fell. He’d been so infatuated at the time already, after all - had spent his days observing and staring and day-dreaming about dates he was certain would never happen. But then they did, and the tiny pedestal Paul had put John on at the time had all but vanished after their first full day spent together, broken into tiny little bits by John’s crude language, hysterical cackles, and overall lack of attentiveness. Soberness, Paul learnt, made John harsher than the drink did: he got too shy to be outright, too confident to be soft.
Fortunately to their hearts, the protective outer layer John built over years of being disappointed by those he loved crumbled surprisingly fast after a mere two weeks of non-stop texting, calling, and meeting up. And Paul, despite the rude awakening that actually spending time with John Lennon had brought, wasn’t surprised that his fondness only grew in size.
So yes, after only a month or two of dating, Paul McCartney was fairly sure he loved every little bit of John’s being to no end.
Even John’s, at times, rather annoying habit of making sure he was alright.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Are you? Are you sure? Really?”
“Yes.”
“...are you?”
“Yes, Johnny,” Paul sighed, putting a careful hand on John’s knee and sending him a smile he hoped was reassuring. “I’m absolutely, completely, unbelievably sure that I want you to stick yer dick up my bum.”
His boyfriend was in front of him, on his knees, naked as the day he’d been born. The only thing he was wearing was the concerned expression pinching his face together. It was a good look on him - bloody everything was a good look on John, as far as Paul was concerned - but Paul didn’t want it there now. Especially not now, considering Paul, too, was currently as naked as the day he’d been born, in John’s bed, and sporting a softening stiffy.
John also audibly choked, because apparently Paul’s stellar attempts at dirty talk did those things to him. “Don’t say it like that.”
“What?” Paul offered him a crooked smile; John wrinkled his nose in retaliation. “You don’t want me to say I want ye to stick your dick-”
“Paul,” John coughed, cheeks adorably flushed, “please.”
“Please, what?”
“It’s- it’s crude,” John mumbled. “An’ I-”
Paul tapped his nose with his index finger, laughing a little bit. His boyfriend was adorable. “You’re always crude, git.”
“You say it like we’re about to fuck.”
“Aren’t we?”
“No! I- no.” He fumbled with the tiny bottle of lube in his hands, opening and closing the lid with sharp clacks. “We’re gonna have penetrative sex. ‘S not the same. Fuckin’ is just- it’s just horny, y’know? Sex is more- I dunno-”
Paul did. He knew what John meant, because he’d figured it out over the weeks: John didn’t just fuck. He had sex, or he made love, and quick and casual or afraid-it-wouldn’t-last meant quick handjobs in bathroom stalls and swift, intense blowies in the bedroom. Penetrative sex meant emotions and feelings, cuddling and hours upon hours of going slow, of basking in it all. It was so sweet it made Paul’s heart swell over with love, big and stifling enough to nearly drown in it all.
Still, that didn’t mean he couldn’t tease.
“I don’t either,” Paul said, trying his best to suppress the giggle bubbling up in his throat. “Please do explain it thoroughly to me.”
John shot him a glare. “It’s romantic, like. Sex is romantic. With romance. Which we’ll be doin’, ‘cos we’re dating.”
“Are we?”
His boyfriend abruptly stopped click-clacking the lid of the lube and honest to God whined. Paul’s dick proceeded to twitch. This wasn’t particularly odd, really; he liked to hear John whine, especially in a sex kinda way. John being needy for anything was his kink - God, he’d been corrupted. “Paul!”
He shuffled closer with a grin, wrapping his legs loosely around John’s waist. Their dicks nearly touched. If he hadn’t been so unbelievably eager to get buggered, he’d have picked up his own to start a sword fight. Alas, the horny wins. “Takin’ the piss, baby. I know we’re dating.”
“You better,” John mumbled, and he started fiddling with the lube’s lid again. “We’re fuckin’ dating. No take-backsies.” A pause. “Unless you, like, get irrevocably repulsed by me. Or somethin’. Might happen-”
“You’re a twat,” Paul sighed, affectionately.
“I still want you to be sure.” He furrowed his furry eyebrows, eyes serious. Paul craved to smooth out the wrinkle in John’s forehead with his mouth. “I just- I don’t want you to do somethin’ you don’t actually wanna do.”
A wave of fondness washed over him, so intense it was nearly suffocating; he had to place his hands fully on both of John’s knees for support, or he would’ve keeled over. “John,” he said slowly, making sure his smile was confident and loving, “I’m completely sure I want you to do this. I want you to open me up with those pretty fingers of yours, put a god-fuck-ton of lube on your dick and my hole, and bugger me ‘til kingdom come. Or the both of us, whichever will happen first.”
John stared at him in complete, and perhaps a bit baffled, silence for a moment, before he fully realised what Paul’d said, and an intense blush spread from his cheeks down to his chest. The anxious fumbling intensified despite the tiny, rather satisfied smile appearing in tandem with the blush, and then he muttered an “okay” with a voice so tiny and unsure Paul’s stomach did backflips. It was cute, really, truly adorable, and it was for that reason and many, many others that Paul reached out, squished his boyfriend’s face in between his hands, and kissed him.
“Are you sure?”
The surprised little blink John offered him told Paul that John hadn’t been expecting that question, and a brief spark of anger rushed through him. He’d love to give a stern talking to or bruised cheekbone to the person who made John believe that the one on top shouldn’t be the one to give full consent as well, but perhaps horniness made him violent.
John didn’t seem to notice Paul’s short moment of inner turmoil and merely frowned at him, like he was confused. “‘Course I am,” he grunted, looking minutes away from rolling his eyes in frustration. Then, softer: “I don’t wanna hurt you.”
Oh.
Warmth replaced the fiercy hotness of anger in less than a second. Paul wanted to kiss his boy all over. “You won’t, Johnny, really,” he muttered, brushed his fingers over the planes of John’s chest, rubbed the flat of his thumb over a pebbled nipple, placed a kiss on the corner of John’s mouth. It quirked up into a smile as he did so, and he teasingly ran his tongue over John’s bottom lip. “We’ve prepared. We’ve researched, we’ve got the bloody lube, neither of us are allergic to silicon, both of us were tested and there’s nothing wrong, you know you gotta finger me open first, and I know you’ll go slow. It’ll be fine.”
“Well,” John rumbled, but he was still smiling, “was kinda hopin’ it’d be better than fine, actually.”
“Good,” Paul said, “it better,” and he dragged John in for another kiss.
A lot less brief this time: more intimate. He didn’t want to rush into things, didn’t want to haste John too much, but his dick really was softening at an appalling rate and he felt like something should be done about that. That something being, of course, all the blood in his body once again gathering over there. It’d be grand, really, if that happened, because that usually resulted in grand things, like orgasms. Paul liked orgasms. He mainly liked them when John was the one to give those to him, of course, but Paul also liked orgasms in general. He just hoped that John would give him one.
John’s mouth was soft despite his lips being a little bit chapped, but Paul didn’t mind that all that much. He really didn’t, considering John’s fumbly, beautiful hands had apparently dropped the lube and were currently groping Paul’s bum like their lives depended on it, and John’s gorgeous, pink, skilled tongue was currently working its way into Paul’s mouth. He tasted like mint toothpaste, sharp and sweet and fresh; Paul sighed through his nose in bliss.
He felt himself being pushed onto his back. John’s hands travelled again, from his bum to his sides to his thighs, movements firm and sure enough for it not to tickle all that much. And, as John’s right hand finally wrapped around Paul’s hardening dick, John’s mouth briefly released Paul’s for air before descending on a spot under his jaw that would make him twitch like mad. Paul sighed again, though this one was vocalised. It sounded more like a moan, really, and judging by the way John’s hand tightened on his dick, John liked that.
He squirmed, feeling the orgasm building. They hadn’t discussed this in particular, making him come before the actual penetration. He was perfectly aware that some people didn’t or couldn’t feel pleasure when having anal for the first time, and though he’d fingered himself before to the thought of John doing that, obviously, he hadn’t a clue on what he would feel when John would be with him. It was exciting more so than nerve-wracking and his breathing quickened as the knot in his lower belly continued to build and threatened to unravel.
Then John’s hand slid off Paul’s dick, fingertips brushing his balls, before he carefully yet determinedly dusted his index finger over Paul’s hole.
“Ready?” John’s voice was low, gravelly, as he stroked and teased and tickled. Paul pressed the back of his head into the pillow, stretched out his hand and dug his fingers into the soft cotton of the mattress cover, before he nodded violently and breathed out a tiny, “Yes.”
It went quickly, then, but not quick enough. John fumbled for the lube, feeling around without lifting his head from Paul’s neck. He felt smooth, chilly plastic press against his bare hip and then calloused fingertips dragging over the soft skin there as John’s hand closed around the bottle. The sad thing was that John almost fully stopped touching him to open the bottle and squirt the gooey liquid all over his hand; Paul could only feel the tip of John’s dick brushing his crotch, leaking. It wasn’t enough.
“You better get on with it,” Paul ground out as John took his time slicking up his fingers, trying to sound as grumpy as he possibly could. “I’ve completely washed meself for this, okay? Not just general scrub, but deep cleanin’, like. Deep. Was occupyin’ the loo for ages, deep. So you better stick somethin’ up there, or I swear to fuckin’ God, Lennon, I’ll- oh.”
There was a finger up his arse. An actual John Lennon finger, long and slender and starting to wiggle. “That alright?”
John was quite obviously being careful, going as slow as he possibly could go, and it felt nice. Very nice. So nice, in fact, that Paul could do little else but sigh in agreement and push himself down on John’s finger just to indicate that he’d like some more. And with a soft little laugh, John complied.
That one finger moved and moved and then turned into two, scissoring him open slowly, carefully, delightfully. It was more stimulating than Paul thought it would be. Though it might have been just the prospect of a good orgasm in the near future, he couldn’t stop moving to feel more, take more. It was both awful and amazing.
John leaned forward. His breath was both hot and cold on the sensitive, slick skin of Paul’s cock, and he placed a gentle kiss right at the base; Paul’s entire body jerked. Jesus Christ- “You’ll tell me if you want me to stop, won’t you?”
“Do- do not,” he breathed, “don’t stop. I’ll- I’ll-”
John added another finger, continued to work him open. The burn would have made him wince, had John not added even more lube to his hand before doing so, and had John not mouthed the head of his cock as some sort of amazing apology he should totally, absolutely use more often. Paul sighed out a blissful, “Yes,” sinking back on John’s twin sleeper, twitching when John poked out his tongue to taste; they hadn’t discussed anything on the topic of oral sex, but the surprise wasn’t met with negativity. Paul, of course, told him as such.
“The blowie is very welcome,” he babbled, breath stuttering out of him at a monotone, nearly silent staccato. “Very good, too, Johnny, thank you, but I thought we’re here for just butt stuff and- oh, fuu-”
John took him fully like the goddamn champ he was, hollowing out his cheeks and sliding up, sucking and licking at the tip before taking him again. As his fingers continued to do their merry little thing in Paul’s arsehole, the knot of an impending orgasm twisted itself back into shape, slowly increasing in size. It was awesome, it was grand, it was amazing, and Paul’s eyes rolled back when John allowed his bottom front teeth to carefully drag over the sensitive skin of his cock.
Perhaps it was the tempting proximity of coming or perhaps it was that he never wanted the feeling to stop, but when John lifted his head and tugged himself loose from Paul’s dick with a comically audible pop, Paul was incredibly, unbelievably disappointed. He made it obvious, too, whining and wiggling and pushing back on John’s fingers until John took pity on him and added a third, lube-coated finger with a snicker and a soft kiss to Paul’s hipbone.
“I just want you to feel good, bunny,” John murmured, voice so rough and raw that it sent a shiver down Paul’s spine. “And you do, don’t you? Such a good lad, aren’t you?”
The lack of stimulation on his dick didn’t do much to dissipate the knot in his lower belly, as the added third finger gave it more than enough pleasure to continue growing slowly. He could barely talk at this point, resigning himself to the fact that his affirmation would be nothing more than a desperate, filthy little moan. Though that would usually make him blush uncontrollably, he didn’t have the energy to be embarrassed about his complete lack of self-control: he’d have plenty of opportunity to hide away from reality after John’d fucked him into oblivion. And to be fair, trusting John’s ability in being Good At The Sex, he’d fuck the embarrassment out of him as well.
No, wait, not fuck. He’d thrust, probably, make love or some adorably sappy shit like that, slow and torturous and sickeningly sweet, and Paul would enjoy it all the same.
John’s fingers slid out of his hole both too quickly and too slowly, and Paul suddenly realised what would be happening next. A dick up his arse instead of fingers, which would make this situation even more real. His heartbeat quickened as he heard John slick everything up some more, and then-
He bit down on his lip, pushing down as John pushed in, slowly and carefully; his breathing grew deeper as he accommodated to the rather welcome intrusion. It burned a little, despite the rigorous fingering that’d gone on before and the decent amount of lube John’d used, and it bordered on unpleasant. He wouldn’t say so, of course, because then John would pull out quicker than George out of situations where someone almost touched his beautiful hair, and that wasn’t what he wanted, exactly.
No, Paul was quite certain he wanted John to fuck him into the mattress. Like, yesterday, preferably, but John was an absolute quivering pussy who was scared to hurt him. Which was sickeningly adorable, okay, fine, but Paul was a horny teenage boy and dicks were magic. They were magic to touch, magic to play with, and magic to suck on, and he’d heard that they were also magic to have inside of you. Hence, the “dearest Johnny, please do Sex Me Up so well I’ll see stars” thing, because dicks are magic and dear fucking God, he’d been daydreaming about this for ages.
John bottomed out with a low little grunt and Paul produced a soft little gasp. The lube provided them with enough glide for a very low discomfort level, and besides that, Paul reckoned he rather liked feeling so full. He was getting ready to say just that, that it felt nice and cosy and “hey, Lennon, you’ve got a zit next to yer brow” but then John shifted just a little bit and a spark travelled from his arse through his entire body. His back arched, his dick twitched, and suddenly he was unable to form words with his mouth. Instead, he produced a highly intelligent sounding “hnnnnnhhhHHHHH”, which really spoke louder than any coherent sentence he possibly could’ve said.
John froze in place and lifted one hand to dust his fingertips over Paul’s cheek. It tickled terribly, because Paul was ticklish, fuck you for doing that John, now fuck me, and said with that godawful, way too sweet and concerned voice of his: “You okay?”
“Yes,” he replied through gritted teeth, and he wiggled just ever so slightly. Another spark; he inhaled sharply through his nose, squeezed his eyes shut, and locked his ankles around John’s waist. “Please move.”
With a small, “Okay,” John did just that. He moved.
And by God, did he move.
Fingering had felt good. It’d felt great, really. So perhaps Paul was just particularly sensitive down there, or perhaps John had somehow managed to find Paul’s Perfect Prostate without intensely searching for it, because that minor slide of out-and-in was better than fingering. It was the best feeling ever, and of all time, and he wanted to feel it forever. Pleasure was everywhere, pulsing through his limbs and making his dick leak like a fucking fuse; it would be only natural, then, that Paul wanted more.
“More,” he grunted out, because he was fantastic at vocalising his wants and needs. And currently his wants and needs mainly revolved around John’s dick in his arse, said dick moving, and the delicious, nearly blinding feeling of pleasure that came with it. “Johnny, please-”
He moved again. And again. Slowly at first, pulling out almost in full before burying himself back in, but he was moving, and it was great. Paul groaned, low and throaty, and tightly wrapped his arms around John’s shoulders before dragging him down into a sloppy, grateful kiss. John sighed into it and Paul could feel the nervous tension in his boyfriend’s back dissolve, but the thrusting didn’t falter at all. Rather, just as John quite filthily licked into his mouth, he sped up his movements; and as John moved, Paul moved with, slowly starting to meet him with every thrust instead of laying there like some limp rag.
John sucked happily on his bottom lip one last time before he moved again, burying his face into Paul’s neck and nibbling on the sensitive skin there. He didn’t seem to mind it one bit when Paul tightened his limbs around both his hips and shoulders, continued to steadily and thoroughly push himself in and out. The tempo was nearly overwhelming in that lovely, twitching, can’t-think-of-much-else-but- this kind of way. Someone was making breathy, soft, high-pitched moans, and he was pretty sure he was the culprit. Not that he minded, anyway, because John was grunting as he nibbled on Paul’s neck, sounding near-desperation.
“Don’t think I’m gonna last long,” he groaned, and it was sexy, because everything John did was sexy but also because they were having sex. Obviously. Paul bit his earlobe because he could, and John’s hips stuttered. “M-much longer, yeah, not much longer-”
Paul cut him off with a whiny moan, dug his heels in John’s lower back, and urged him to go faster. He didn’t mind the prospect of John coming soon ( “To theatres near you,” his mental George said, which was awful, because George should not be in his head during sex. Jesus Christ) at all. In fact, he was becoming rather desperate to come himself. His dick ached and twitched and leaked with every thrust, and whenever the tip brushed the soft skin of John’s belly, sparks travelled from his crotch to the tips of his fingers. There was a constant thrum of pleasure right under his skin, an amazing, growing, tight coil of nerves in his lower belly; he wanted relief, craved the satisfaction that came after an orgasm.
With another grunt, John put his full weight on one elbow, shoved his still slick hand downwards, and curled his fingers around Paul’s dick. The thrusting, yet again, didn’t falter, but now paired with the firm, confident strokes of John’s hand on him. He cried out, twitched, and when John brushed his thumb over the head, the knot snapped.
He was pretty sure he went blind there for a second; his vision was black, though he knew his eyes had been open moments before. His entire body quivered, tingled, and pulsed, his back arched, and his blunt nails dug into John’s back. And though he could feel his own come hit his stomach, and could feel John’s hips stutter before stilling, he could honestly say he wasn’t quite there.
This was curious. Or he would find it curious, really, as soon as he could think again. He’d never experienced that, had never come so hard and intensely that he briefly was unable to use his eyes, brain, and body. To be fair, he’d never come on a dick before, either, which might’ve been part of the reason for this odd - yet amazing - happenstance.
By the time John’d pulled out and then dropped himself on top of him with his full weight, breathing heavily in his neck, Paul finally regained some control over his limbs. He blinked slowly as he came to, twisting the soft hair in the nape of John’s neck with the fingers of his one hand, and brushing over John’s back with the other. It was sticky with sweat, and he was quite certain his skin felt the exact same. To him, at least, it did.
“This was amazing, but I’m gonna be sore all over tomorrow,” John panted. The fingers of his left hand flexed and relaxed against Paul’s shoulder, as if he was contemplating holding on to it but was too tired to do so. “Haven’t had a workout like that in bloody ages-”
“And it was grand,” he replied hoarsely, placing a kiss on John’s damp temple with a tiny smile. Tiny, because any bigger would be too exhausting. “We should do that again.”
“Now?” John lifted his head from Paul’s neck, squinted at him. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were glassy, and it looked like it took a great effort to not immediately drop back to where Paul’s shoulder met his neck. “I- now? I’m up to doin’ this again, but I’m afraid even my libido an’ stamina aren’t that good, bunny. Can you give me some time to breathe?”
“Not now,” he soothed, leaning forward a little bit to kiss John’s forehead, “but later. We should do this again later. When you’re alive again. Often, too, ‘cos it’ll get you ripped.”
With a snort, John settled back, mouthing lazily at Paul’s pulse point. “I’m very alive, just tired. And already ripped, y’know, there’s a six pack somewhere underneath that pasty pale skin o’ mine.”
“You’ve got biceps and thighs to die for.”
John bit down and Paul giggled; satisfied, John nuzzled a little closer. “Good.”
They both fell silent as they relaxed and breathed each other in. Paul closed his eyes, unable to stop smiling; John finally placed his hand on Paul’s shoulder, just touching. He felt satisfied and lazy, like a cat basking in the warmth of a sunlit room, and dug his nose into John’s hair. This nearly triumphed an orgasm itself. Not that it actually did, but it was close.
John broke the silence. “How did I do?” he asked, voice muffled, sighing when Paul scratched his nails over his scalp. “Hope it was better than fine ‘n all.”
“It was great, Johnny,” Paul murmured in reply. “ You were great. Came so hard I lost sight. Literally. Couldn’t see for a second, like. You did real well.”
“I better have,” John grunted into his neck. “I’m fuckin’ bathing in sweat. It’s disgusting.”
“Need me to lick it off?”
A pause. Then, slowly, John lifted his head again. He was smiling. “That’s actually really tempting, but I think I’d like an actual bath, not a tongue bath.”
“We could fuck in the shower.”
“I-” John’s eyes widened comically and his cheeks, that had slowly started to lose the colour that came with exertion, reddened yet again. “Paul!”
“You holdin’ me up against the wall,” he sighed, running his fingers through John’s hair, “pounding into me-”
“I’m aching at the thought,” John giggled. “Literally aching, negatively. My muscles hurt at the idea that I’m gonna have to hold you up against a wet, slippery wall and my head hurts at the idea of falling and you crackin’ yer head open, or something.”
Paul cradled his head between his hands and kissed him slowly, catching his bottom lip and sucking it into his mouth. John’s breathing audibly hitched. He let it happen, though, kissing back at his own leisure and sometimes swiping teasingly with his tongue. Paul could feel John’s growing excitement slowly hardening against his hip; with a satisfied feeling blooming his chest, he pulled back, relishing in the needy little whine coming from his boyfriend.
“Let’s fuck in the bath instead. I’ll ride you. You draw the bath, I’ll bring the lube.”
And John, eyes and grin widening, blush travelling unbelievably fast down to his chest, scrambled towards the bathroom.
Yeah, Paul loved probably everything about John. But his libido? At the moment, probably the most.