Rating: NC-17; sex and the accompanying four-letter words
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction
Author's Notes Set kinda-sorta after India, before John and Yoko become JohnandYoko. Inspired in part by a story I've seen told here about John and Paul fighting and John stopping to pull down his glasses and say, "It's only me, Paul." No idea whether it's true or not, but I trust you all to do your research and it's a great story :-)
The door slammed behind John as he stormed into the studio. He’d been in a bad mood to begin with, but Paul hanging up on him had pushed him over the line from bad to foul and he was determined to have it out with Paul once and for all.
“Where the fuck are you, McCartney?” he yelled.
The door to the loo opened and Paul emerged, wiping his hands dry.
“There you are, you miserable shit. What do you mean, hanging up on me like that?”
“Give over, John. I don’t want to talk about this any more.”
“I don’t give a fuck what you want. We’re going to deal with this. You’re trying to take over as leader of this group and you can just get that idea out of that tiny little brain of yours. This is my group. Always has been. Always fucking will be.”
“Then where the fuck were you today?” Paul yelled back, “Where were you when we had to sort out the dubbing? Where were you when the second track mysteriously got buggered up and we had to figure out what to keep and what to get rid of? Where the fuck were you when we needed you? No, don’t fucking answer. I know exactly where you were. You were sniffing around that poxy Japanese bint, nose up her skirt like you were digging for truffles.”
“Leave Yoko out of this, Paul. I’m warning you.”
“It’s come to something, John, when you’d let a whiff of pussy keep you out of the studio. Some leader,” Paul snorted in disgust.
He went to push past John, shoving a little harder than he’d intended. John pushed him back and suddenly the two of them were in a scrum, shoving and cursing at each other. Paul let fly with his fist. John ducked and grabbed both of Paul’s arms, shoving him up against the wall. Paul pushed back, muscle straining against muscle, so that they stood in the middle of the room, arms held above their heads, giving no quarter, chest to chest, nose to nose.
“It’s me, Paul. Just me,” John said, quietly.
Paul glared at him for a moment then kissed him, hard, fierce, tongue demanding entrance. John kissed back, the two of them dueling now with tongues instead of words, arms still held above them, muscles taut. Just as suddenly as they’d started, they broke the kiss.
“Jesus,” John panted.
“It’s been a long time.”
“You heard me, John. Take me. Like you used to. Take me like you can’t get enough. Like you want me more than anything in the world. Fucking take me like it’s the last fucking time.”
“I know, John. I know you love her. I know you want her. I know you don’t want me any more. I know it’s over. It’s been over for a long time. But Jesus Fucking Christ, I want you so bad I can’t see straight. So bend me over that piano bench and fuck me senseless.”
John growled as he dropped Paul’s arms. He kissed him, pushing him back up against the wall as he did so. His hands fumbled with Paul’s shirt, his belt, his jeans. He broke the kiss when Paul finally stood naked in front of him, pulling back to look at Paul’s body, eyes raking the well-remembered form. He buried his teeth in Paul’s neck as he took his hard-on in his hands, hearing Paul moan as he stroked him. Paul, head back against the wall, back arched, reached for John’s clothes in turn, pulling at whatever he could reach, hips beginning to move as he pumped into John’s fist.
John broke away from him, leaving Paul breathless against the wall as he disappeared into the bathroom looking for lube. Returning with a bottle of lotion he took off what remained of his clothes then pulled Paul back against him.
“Not over the piano bench,” he said softly in Paul’s ear, “This has nothing to do with music, with Beatles. This is you and me. Only you and me.”
So saying he span Paul around so that he faced the wall. He prepared them both, then, teeth raking Paul’s shoulder, entered him, hard and deep.
“John! Oh fuck, John,” groaned Paul.
“Come on, baby. Take it. Take it all.”
“Fuck. John. Fuck me.”
“Yes. Come on, deeper, come on.”
“Just for you. All for…you…fuck you. Gonna fuck…you.”
“Jesus, yes. Harder…please…more…please…John.”
“Yes baby…my…mine…my baby…God…tight…”
“Jesus, Paul! I’m…coming…Paul…now…God…”
They panted and moaned and cried out. They swore, they groaned, they pushed against each other. They fucked like they hadn’t fucked in years and when they came they sobbed out the words that they never said, the words that would linger in their ears, words of joy, of love, of ecstasy.
And when it was over they stood naked together, holding on, knowing it was the last time, kissing away tears and sorrow, anger and hate.
And then, because this was the way things were now, John got dressed and went to find Yoko and Paul went back to the booth to work, alone, late into the night.