Work Text:
His porcelain skin, big doe eyes, plump pink lips, and jet black hair. John thought he was more beautiful than any woman he knew. His black haired soulmate, the one that was born and made for him. Two sides of the same coin, Lennon-Mccartney, they were one together.
John wanted Paul like mad; He wanted him like how lungs need air, How a starving animal needs prey; He wanted Paul more than life itself.
It was difficult, John had a family. Paul had his little girlfriend. But monogamy had never been a strict rule for either of them. They would cycle through girls, they lined up for them, they were disposable.
They would fall in the same bed with different broads, sheets strewn across the mattress as they had their way with those women. John would watch the sweat drops roll down his face and stuttering of his hips as he fucked into the cunt of a faceless girl he would forget the name of the moment he came.
When John was younger, he would watch Paul stroking himself, panting heavily, probably thinking of Brigitte Bardot bouncing on his cock in the dark of their bedrooms. John would keep his eyes on him, feeling the thrill and depravity of getting off to his best friend.
He wanted those eyes to look at him, to gaze upon his soul and pierce his very being. Paul’s eyes were kaleidoscopes of greens and browns; John stared in and out of Paul for hours and hours on lsd, seeing the universe morph and find itself in the shape and form of the only person John would do anything for.
Eyes, the eyes that would follow Paul. The delusional girls who believed they had a chance with “The Cute Beatle”. Even men wanted a go with the pretty boy they saw on posters, on their tv and the melodic voice on their radio. Eyes that couldn’t see through the image that Paul so carefully curated and upheld. They were deceived and led astray by his beauty, they didn’t know how utterly obsessed the man was with himself or how controlling Paul could be. John did get agitated at times, but at the same time he fell for his looks.
John would worship Paul at his knees if he could. A god among men, a modern day Adonis and hell, even an Aphrodite. He was a beauty incarnate. He wanted to build cathedrals and kneel in front of the altar for his religion.
Lips, he wanted to hear his name slip from those plush, pink lips of his. He loved to see his bunny teeth biting his bottom lip until it was swollen and until he couldn’t hold in his moans. He wanted to devour Paul whole.
He wanted him like mad. When John falls into bed with Paul, he kisses him like he’s the cure to all of his woes and ailments. He kisses him until his lungs beg and heave for air.
Those eyes, long eyelashes fluttering at him. Those lips, red and wet with their saliva, begging to be kissed and bitten until they bruised. The expanse of pale skin that John wanted to turn into shades of purple.
His hands are around his throat, he could squeeze Paul’s throat until his windpipes are crushed; Though he couldn’t listen to his lovely singing of his anymore if he did so.
Paul fingers dance against the bulging veins on John’s hands. Mouth slightly agape, but he seems aroused? He’s panting, trembling with a debauched desire and realization of how he craves this violence.
“John, I always thought you had beautiful hands.” He says, he smiles as he does. His voice is shaking, it's not from fear.
Paul wanted his hands on him, in him, near him at all times. He kisses the callouses on John’s fingertips from playing guitar. He grazes his lips against the palms of his hands. Paul never admitted it outloud, but he was mesmerized by how John’s veins flexed and moved with every strum of a chord.
They were both stripped naked, bare and exposed to only each other. They’ve seen each other nude before, but here it was different. John had imagined having Paul underneath him in various scenarios and fantasies. He had masturbated to this idea more times than he could count.
He wanted Paul in every way, if Paul wanted to be the one fucking John in the arse he would allow it. John would accept anything Paul gave to him.
John kisses his arms, feeling the soft hairs growing on Paul’s forearms. His fingertips dance across Paul’s chest and stomach, feeling his abodemen muscles taut.
He takes Paul into his mouth, not caring when his prick hits the back of John’s throat and the tears that sting at the edges of his eyes. John relished the obscene sounds Paul made, drinking in his moans like ambrosia.
John crawls over Paul, a predator stalking his prey.
Or maybe it was the opposite, John the prey walking into the jaws of a wolf.
Paul his god, and John the sacrificial the lamb.
Beautiful, Beautiful, Lovely Paul.
His dainty fingers that grasp at John’s hair, his nails that scratch and dig into his back. John was going to give his everything to Paul, his whole body to the man that was his reason for living.
“John, oh darling, why don’t you look at me”
Only if John had his glasses, even up close Paul was a blur of colors. He tried to memorize his face from when he would actually wear them.
“Darling.”
Kaleidoscopes of color filled his vision. Eyes that pierced into him like knives. Hazel eyes with the specs of brown and green mixed together like the sea. He was drowning in them, falling deeper and deeper.
They appeared across pale skin, staring and staring.
Paul looked like he was asleep, his eyes closed. So why did John feel the gaze of a hundred more?
He wanted to see only Paul’s face. He wanted to see those big doe eyes look at him lovingly.
Soft palms come to touch John’s face, two lips meet each other in a passionate kiss. They’re kissing until they are no longer two seperate people, they are melting into one another, melding and fusing into one entity.
Paul’s eyes John used to see.
John’s ears Paul used to hear.
The hand John touches Paul with, Paul uses to touch John.
John Lennon and Paul McCartney.
Lennon-McCartney.
LennonMcCartney.
They were born for each other, born to be one another.