Work Text:
A loud whine rang out throughout the small London flat.
Here he was, the great Paul McCartney, getting absolutely fucked silly against John Lennon's leather couch, not caring who the hell he was waking up. His mind was completely blank, except for the absolutely filthy thoughts racing through his mind as John snapped his hips into Paul's arse. His mind was less of an artistic and creative complex of thoughts, and more like one of John's filthy sex poems he wrote in hamburg. Who knew such a pretty face like his, held the filthiest thoughts.
Paul gripped onto John's back as he felt John pound into that spot of his over, and over, and over again. Each thrust felt like the first, causing his stomach to burn with the intense heat of arousal. With each thrust, Paul would let out a gasp accompanied with a whine. He sounded so fucking pretty, much prettier than any song he ever sang.
"Oh f-fuck!" Paul sobbed as John picked up the pace, absolutely nailing the boy to the couch. He wondered if his imprint would still be there the next day. All Paul wanted was for John to go faster, and faster, and faster. God, he couldn't get enough. It was like he was an addict, and John was his drug.
"Harder, oh f-fuck harder!" Paul cried out, loving how John fucked him like a hungry and vicious predator. "Ah! Ah! Ah fuck please!" The only things leaving Paul's mouth were either moans or profanities. John didn't seem to mind thank god. Neither did the neighbors apparently. But then again, who in their right mind would pass up the opportunity to listen to Paul McCartney's moans and whimpers?
Paul's breathing somehow seemed to get faster than it already was. He could feel his orgasm coming, and it was coming fast. Everything happened so quickly. The room became too bright, the sounds too loud, the pleasure too intense. Paul screamed as he came all over his torso, nails digging into John's back. He soon felt John fill him up with his own semen, and Paul could have sworn he came even more.
Paul was now collapsed on the couch, absolutely reeking of sweat and sex. John had collapsed onto the floor besides him, panting hard. Paul looked absolutely ruined. Cum was leaking out of his arse and onto the expensive couch cushions below him. His stomach was coated in the sticky substance as well. His face was bright red and sweaty, with his hair sticking to his forehead. God, he looked fucking divine.
John let out a tired chuckle before he lit a up a cigarette, taking a long drag before exhaling. "Lets hope we can come up with a good excuse to tell the neighbors."
Paul gave a tired giggle, a tired and dopey grin spreading across his face. "Let's not worry about that right now. Do ye have enough strength to carry me to bed?"