Chapter Text
New York City, February 1982
John Lennon was teetering on the edge of wakefulness, floating along on that narrow precipice just before his mad dreams abruptly ended and his eyes lazily opened to another new day in his new queer life. His thick eyelashes fluttered against the fleshy hollows above his cheekbones, his eyes darting rapidly behind his closed eyelids… and then his restless lash feathers slowly quieted, as his brain tried to steal a few more moments of deep sleep.
At the moment when he had nearly drifted back into oblivion, curled up on his side under the bed covers on top of their king-sized hotel mattress, John’s lover began fondling him from behind, stirring the incurable insomniac from his precious slumber. First, there came that familiar hairy warmth pushing up against and then in between John’s legs. Then another lean, furry leg draped itself up and over him, enveloping and squeezing John’s thick thigh tightly. With a smirk, John narrowly opened his brown eyes, squinting at the harsh morning brightness streaming in through the window, and waited.
It wouldn’t take long. Never did.
A few seconds later, Paul wrapped his left arm possessively around John’s bare waist, pulling himself even closer with a soft sigh, still clutching John’s smooth, freckled muscles between his own wooly legs. He nuzzled his face against the soft skin below John’s shoulder blades, as he rubbed his legs up and down the length of his partner’s stocky limb, curling and stretching his toes in satiated pleasure. Then, as John knew would happen, Paul snuggled even closer to him, pressing his twitching boner and toasty ball bag hard against boxers that covered the bottom curve of John’s arse cheek, grinding back and forth with a muffled moan into John’s back.
Paul was a morning groper, even more so after a long night of exhausting, delicious lovemaking… over several different pieces of furniture in their sumptuous suite at the exclusive Manhattan hotel.
“Mmm… Johnny.”
John chuckled low under his breath, and intertwined the stocky fingers of his left hand through Paul’s graceful ones that were resting on John’s firm abdomen.
“Barging in on my beauty rest then, are ya?” John turned his head around, even though he knew that he wouldn’t be able to see Paul’s adorable, well-fucked face since it was burrowed low in the hollow of John’s spine. “Morning, Paul.”
“Mmm… morning, luv. I still can’t… shit, this is fuckin’ real, isn’t it?” A still half-asleep groper on this bright morning, Paul squeezed John’s hand tighter, as he pressed his stiff prick against John’s body harder. It seemed he couldn’t get close enough.
“We jumped off the queer diving board into the deep end, Macca. Fuckin’ head first.”
“Yeah, we did.” Paul mumbled, gradually waking up, and massaged his nose against the rocky vertebrae of John’s backbone. “No regrets, John?”
“Not a single fucking one, baby. You’re good, right?”
“Bloody perfect. I’ve never been happier in me whole life.” Paul hummed the last few words affectionately into John’s warm skin.
Fuck, they’d have to go public soon. Make a statement or declaration or something. They couldn’t stay unseen in the shadows, hiding out in some nowhere corner of Scotland for much longer. And Paul was anxious to get back to the studio… a real fucking recording studio, not the makeshift hodgepodge of equipment they’d slapped together at their rented cottage.
Christ, everyone had worked hard to keep their reunion under the press radar for more than a year now… even the ex-wives hadn’t squawked to the tabloids. That was a bloody miracle… and the payoff of outrageously generous divorce settlements and expensive solicitors concocting legally binding gag orders.
This trip to New York together was fucking dangerous. He and John both knew it, but Sean needed at least some time with his mother. And a week’s visit with her son might ensure that she kept her manipulative mouth shut. Fuck. No doubt McCartney and Lennon would be spotted together at some point on this brief American holiday, walking through the hotel lobby or in a restaurant or somewhere. The shit would hit the fan. Soon.
But hell, they’d fucking done it.
Almost.
John grunted and rolled over on his back and sat up, tugging Paul’s head by his short, thick locks, pulling him back down to gently rest on Lennon’s hairless chest. Despite the shift in positions, Paul wouldn’t relax his vise-grip on John’s thigh, as the younger man traced the fingertips of his left hand over John’s creamy stomach in random patterns, crooning some old tune mindlessly.
“So what’s on our schedule for today, captain?” John groaned with a loving snort, raking his hand through his own messy bed hair.
“Captain? Shit, ya must be in love.”
John bent down and kissed the top of Paul’s dark, ruffled hair, inhaling his post-fuck musky scent.
“That I am. So, what do you have planned for us, darling?”
“Nothing. Thought we’d spend the day in bed.” Paul sucked on one of John’s small nipples, murmuring as he rolled the hard nub between his soft lips.
“Though…”
John opened one eye, arching his brow in amusement, waiting for his partner to spill the details of his latest scheme.
“We could look at another flat if you’re game. That realtor twit’s arranged for us to see a place uptown this evening before dinner. Says this one is spot on, with everything I asked him for. Perfect for when we’re in New York.”
“S’long as there’s a bog to shit in and a place to fuck your sweet arse, I’ll be good with whatever you fancy, Paul.” John winked and grinned and closed his eyes as he leaned back against the headboard, his features relaxed and content. Propping himself up on one elbow, Paul lifted his head off John’s chest and glanced up, mesmerized by how fit and healthy John was now… even the freckles sprinkled across John’s tanned, high cheekbones, souvenirs from their recent beach holiday with the kids, seemed to radiate with happiness.
Captivated and completely besotted, Paul reached up and grabbed a fistful of John’s curls, pulling him down towards his luscious, open mouth.
“Oi… brush yer teeth first, will ya?”
“What ‘bout you?”
“I’m not the one with mornin’ dragon breath, Paul. Wash out that pretty, nasty mouth of yers for me.”
Paul grumbled a muffled profanity and pushed himself up off the mattress, flinging the covers off his naked trim body with bitchy annoyance. “This is fucking rubbish, Lennon!”
“Go on now. I’ll wait.” Licking his lips, John crossed his arms and watched Paul’s round, bare bum swagger over to the posh hotel loo. From behind the half-shut door, he heard Paul turn on the sink faucet, followed by the splashing sounds of a steady, strong stream of urine hitting the toilet water.
“Still pisses like a bloody race horse.” John chuckled to himself.
John closed his eyes again, remembering the night before…
The sight of Paul’s beautiful mouth twisted in lustful determination… with that Elvis snarl curling his upper lip, drops of perspiration falling off the tip of his nose…
The sight of his lover’s arse impaling furiously up and down on John’s steady, steel erection.
John opened his eyes and looked over at the sofa in the hotel suite where they had fucked hours earlier; John had been seated passively on the couch, Paul on his knees, squatting over John’s hard on, faced away from John and hunched forward in blinding ecstasy, grabbing onto John’s knees for leverage and pounding himself ferociously on John’s piston.
Paul fuck-me-harder McCartney was the best goddamn lover Lennon had ever bedded. Or ever imagined, for that matter. And with John’s filthy, creative imagination, that was saying a lot.
John closed his eyes again, recalling with a snort the angry protest that Paul growled when John clamped his hands on Paul’s hips and pull him back and down onto his lap in one hard move, stopping his partner’s violent, hungry hole drives onto John’s cock.
“No… shit, no. Fuck, John… I’m so fuckin’ close…”
“Hush, baby.” John had whispered affectionately, kissing Paul’s soaked, trembling neck, rivers of sweat pouring down from his dark hair. They sat there, motionless, John filling Paul’s tightness to the hilt, Paul’s insides burning with unreleased need.
“Please, Johnny… lemme please move, luv. I’m… I’m fuckin’ right there…”
“Quiet.” With one hand firmly holding his hips down, John wrapped an arm around Paul’s torso and pulled him down further and back against his chest, running his hand over his lover’s hot, drenched skin. “We’re not rushing this. We’ve all night.” Paul had worked himself up into a delirious shagging fury… impatient nit.
Fisting a clump of Paul’s soaked locks, John sharply bent Paul’s head back over his shoulder and kissed his wet, plump cheek, murmuring softly into his right ear.
“I’m not a fucking sex toy, Macca. Ease up, ya horny bastard, before you break me prick.”
Eyes shut tight, lips parted and panting, Paul groaned again in frustration at not being able to move… not be able to explode from the intense friction of John’s cock slamming over and over against his tingling prostate. Just stuck there, on the edge of release, not allowed to fall over the cliff.
“Mmm… gimme yer hand.”
Paul wasn’t about to disobey… he’d do fucking anything John demanded at that point to empty his painfully full balls. John brought Paul’s hand up to his own mouth and sucked on all those long, talented fingers, then licked Paul’s palm until it was slippery with saliva.
“Now stroke yerself for me, slowly.”
“Fuck, John…”
“Slowly. I wanna enjoy you getting yerself off for a bit.” Paul let out a moan from the back of his throat that sounded a fuck lot like a kitten’s whimper. As ordered, he gripped his slender fingers around his shaft and began to slide and twist his palm up and down his own aching throbber, as John watched, still holding Paul’s hips down hard and teasingly motionless on his thick cock. Paul tried to squirm; John gave him a tender but firm warning bite on his shoulder. Paul cried out John’s name, making the filthiest wail out of that one sacred syllable.
Fucking hell… that moment was exquisitely sweet. John smiled, satisfied and still aching inside from his own turn last evening… down on all fours on the floor in front of the sofa, acquiescing to Paul’s cowboy fantasies. Give and take, after all.
If only they’d brought the fucking hat.
Suddenly, the phone on the side table rang loudly, jarring Lennon out of his mouthwatering, lustful memories.
It was too early for bleeding phone call! But it might be Sean, so John snapped back to the present. He leaned over and lifted the receiver to his ear.
“Hello?”
“John! It’s you, right? I heard a rumor that you were in town.”
“Who the fuck is this?”
“It’s Jann.”
“Come again?”
“Jann Wenner… from Rolling Stone.”
For shit’s sake!
Just as John began to speak, Paul strolled back out into the hotel bedroom stark naked, a sudsy toothbrush dangling out of his mouth, an eyebrow cocked in curiosity. From the look on John’s face, he could tell that the call was an uninvited shit of an intrusion.
“Oh, hello. How the hell did you know I was in New York?” Throwing a sideways, annoyed glare at Paul, John’s razor-sharp tone had a lethal edge to it.
“The wife and kids bumped into Yoko and Sean at the park zoo yesterday. She gave us your hotel contact. Said you’d be here in town until Saturday.”
“Did she then?” Paul saw John mouth twist into a lion’s snarl. He quickly jerked the toothbrush out of his mouth, a stream of white frothy spit running down his chin. Silently he mouthed, “Who is that?” to his furious lover.
“So, how are you, John? Listen, I’m sorry about the divorce and everything.”
“Yeah right, mate. Hold on a mo, will ya?” With a hushed curse, John forcefully shoved the receiver under a plush pillow.
“It’s fucking Wenner from Rolling Stone. Ran into Sean and the ex somewhere, and now he knows I’m in New York… nosy fucking prick.”
Paul spat the toothpaste goo out of his mouth into a washcloth and, to John’s surprise, bent over with a laugh.
“Jann fucking Wenner, the famous and greatest of all the Lennon arse-kissers?”
John shook his head and winked. “You’re the greatest Lennon’s arse kisser, darling.”
“Well, true… but is he still me most devoted cunt of a fan?”
“Oh, he loves your old bubblegum shit, Macca. Has all yer records.” John snorted back, delighted at Paul’s playful, bitchy reaction. And then John saw it. That bright spark in Paul’s beautiful eyes… that indescribable, wicked Macca twinkle. Paul purposefully strode over to the bed and straddled his furry nakedness over John’s hips. He lifted John’s chin with his forefinger and kissed him hard, snaking his tongue between John’s lips before pulling back with a naughty sneer.
“Better?”
“Mmm… much better, baby. Bloody delicious, in fact.”
Wrapping his arms around Paul’s bare shoulders, John pulled him down for another deep, noisy snog.
“So, Macca… what should I tell the fucking twat?”
“Ask him for an interview… this afternoon. Tell him he’ll get an exclusive, once-in-a-lifetime scoop. Get his greedy press knickers all filthy wet. He fancies you, you know?”
It took John a few moments to recover from his hysterics. No one made Lennon laugh like Paul always had.
“Yer serious? I’m not fucking saying that, Paul. Why on earth would I want to give an interview? I thought we were mucking and fucking about in bed for the day.”
“Change of plans. Time to go public, Johnny boy. Today. S’gonna happen anyroad… now that the press knows you’re in New York.” Paul leaned down, resting his forehead against John’s, lowering his voice to a seductive whisper.
“Since we’ve got to do it sometime, let’s do it on our terms, right? And at least we can have a fucking giggle while we’re announcing our queerness to the world.” Paul then gently sucked on John’s lower lip, moaning with devotion before he spoke again.
“Listen, John… I want that Wenner prick to kiss and faun over my pretty arse for once. Make the prat squirm. And hey… we’ll get the cover shot, I expect.”
John closed his eyes with a deep sigh. McCartney was fucking right… again. “What about our families? And George and Ritch and…?”
Paul pushed his calloused thumb pad against John’s thin lips, silencing him.
“I’ll ring them up now. Let everyone know what’s gonna happen beforehand.”
“Bloody Christ, Paul.”
“John… it’s time.”