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John attempts a half-hearted riff on his guitar, but he loses interest in it halfway through, and lets it peter out into nothing. A bit useless, anyway.
He glances at Paul still carrying on on the piano, slipping into the jaunty chords of his section, though not singing, anymore, since they've nailed those parts down.
John tries to join in too. He ignores whatever Paul’s playing, and gives the end of the song a go himself, but as he tries to follow the flow of the song into something, he feels his mind fizzling out into white noise, whatever idea he might’ve been heading towards, lost to the edges of his mind.
John sighs. “You getting anywhere with this?”
Paul hums a response that’s mostly just him acknowledging that he heard words coming out of John’s mouth, though not necessarily that he processed them in his brain to form any sort of sentence.
They had a productive enough afternoon, anyroad: John tired of looking at his verses, handing them over to Paul so he could do something. Paul offering back his little morning routine middle-eight, with a sort of bashful excitement that John picked up on with laser-focused precision; the kind of diffidence John sometimes forgot Paul was capable of, what with his cocksure reign over London, these days. But Paul had liked John’s bit a lot, and that had given John such embarrassing gratification, that he didn’t feel inclined to call Paul on it, in the end. And Paul’s bit was good, too. Different, but that made the song weirder, and John wanted weird.
It made the song good—or, almost good.
John’s lost the thread of it, now, though—that concentrated pull of songwriting drifting away from him the longer he thought about it. Paul’s still in it, though.
Paul tries the transition again, slowing down the tempo in languid flourishes to get from his song back to John’s. It sounds wrong, and John knows that Paul knows it sounds wrong, but Paul keeps going, humming John’s tune absently; a mild frown on his face as he tries to work out where he misstepped.
“Smoke break?” John says.
Paul doesn’t say anything, ending John’s verse and starting the song again from the beginning. Hearing it bothers John, distantly. They need a fucking good ending for it. Like it is now, it sounds twee. Anticlimactic. Fucking boring.
John plays along, half a step behind Paul on each note, mostly to annoy him into answering.
Paul says, “Might work better if you tuned your instrument properly.”
“I’m trying to be experimental, Mr Avant-garde,” John shoots back. He gets a rewarding little smile out of Paul, at that, despite the fact that they both know he meant it a little mean-spirited. Always likes the validation of being in on something, does Paul.
John plays along with him up until the transition to Paul’s part, and lets it go, Paul trying some alternative melody for the transition that doesn’t work either, like Sisyphus and his fucking boulder. Paul makes a displeased sound, but carries on, determined.
John watches him for a moment. He’s almost a caricature of something, in his lilac floral shirt and his bright yellow corduroy trousers. The moustache making him look both like a boy playing dress up, and a ringmaster at the circus. Paul’s fingers dance prettily along the keys—his playing always a little pretty, honed to perfection for a million aunties to coo over. He bites his bottom lip in concentration, John, just part of the furniture, for all that Paul’s aware of his presence. John doesn’t mind it so much like this—being ignored.
He can see the music leading Paul away, and sits there and letting it, curious to see if something might happen. If he can catch the flash of lightning when it hits.
It’s not like Paul playing for other people. There was a time, maybe, when he was performative for John. But he’s not anymore; comfortable around John in a way that flutters heavily in John’s stomach when he notices the evidence of it. There’s something oddly affecting about Paul being the purest version of himself in front of him. Nobody truly knows Paul like this—it’s reserved for him .
Sometimes, the knowledge excites John so much it makes him want to announce it somehow: put it up on a billboard so all of swinging London hears.
Paul closes his eyes, leaning back, his body stretching from where his hands continue seamlessly on the keys. He’s floating in the melody, now—his mouth hanging open like he’s in ecstasy.
John licks his lips, setting aside his guitar, not sure yet what he means to do now, but enthralled enough with watching Paul that he knows he means to do something.
In the beginning, before John had gotten used to Paul, half the fun of writing with him was that Paul always came out of it looking a bit fucked out and sated. Breathing out a little roughly, with that obscene flush in his cheeks when he came back down from wherever he went, carrying a perfect little tune in the synapses of his fingers, looking at John, joyful and alive. Looking at John like wanted John to be a part of the feeling with him.
It had driven John insane for a long enough chunk of his youth to be, honestly, kind of embarrassing. John used to picture that look when he tossed himself off as a teenager, biting the pillow as he came messy and explosive in his fist.
Before he learned there were ways to get Paul looking like that that didn’t require music at all.
John lets his gaze follow the enticing lines of Paul’s neck—long and lean like an elegant gazelle—leading to a hint of collarbone, peeking out from the V of his shirt, top button open, naturally.
It’s absurd really, being gifted this version of Paul at 16. Enough to warp a man’s brain, that is. John didn’t even have to do anything for it. Paul offered it up with an eager smile and a few guitar chords, and he’s still here trying to mash their songs, their names, their minds together. Still reacting like it turns him on.
The thought of it stirs in John’s navel, equal parts heavy and smug.
And well, there’s something for him to do—turning Paul on.
John shuffles on his knees to Paul’s parted legs, Paul still too lost in the music to notice him. He puts a hand around the warm skin of Paul’s naked ankle, and rests his cheek against Paul’s knee—watching every minuscule hint of reaction that brings out of Paul. Paul’s head tilts forward, slightly. He keeps playing—it takes a lot to distract him, even for someone as adept to it as John—but he’s alert now, present in his body, aware that John is doing something, though not yet willing to deem it more important than the music.
John puts his other hand on the inside of Paul’s thigh—close, but not yet on target. He listens to Paul’s playing for a moment and copies him, pressing his fingers into Paul’s thigh like he’s playing along, too. That finally gets an amused huff out of Paul. He doesn’t look down yet but John can feel his awareness. He flattens his hand on Paul’s thigh. Slides it up slowly in a warm, triumphant caress.
The playing stops.
“John,” Paul says, a mild sternness in his voice that makes John giddy—one of those reactions he always has to Paul that he's never arsed to examine too carefully.
John looks up at him, under his lashes. He’s not as good at it as Paul is—he can’t imagine anyone on earth who is—but Paul still raises his eyebrows a little, amused.
“Don’t stop now, son. Song’s not finished yet,” John says.
“Oh, concerned about that, are you?” Paul mutters back, but there’s a smiling curve to his mouth.
“Aye, course I am,” John says, and presses his own smile against Paul’s inseam. Follows it with his nose, to the warm burrow between his legs. He feel’s Paul’s calf flex, where he still has a loose grip around Paul’s leg. John turns his head and mouths at the hardening line of Paul’s cock. Beneath the fabric of Paul’s trousers, he feels it swell—stiff and delicious—against his cheek.
“ John ,” Paul says again, breathier this time. John feels a hand land on the crown of his head.
He pulls off and looks up to find Paul looking at him, his eyes dark and his cheeks rosy.
“Keep playing,” John says, his voice coming out low and intent. Authoritative in a way that makes Paul balk, usually, but Paul only takes a deep, steadying breath through his nose, licking his lips as he does.
“You going to listen?” Paul asks, and there’s something in his voice—an odd, excited strain. Aroused by the idea of it.
John grins up at him—almost laughs. Yeah, no shit he likes that idea.
“Well, we’re writing, aren’t we? Need to let you know if it sounds alright,” John says.
Paul’s eyes crinkle up into a tiny, pleased smile. He swallows and looks away. Moving his hand away from John’s hair, and settling on the keys again, starting the song over from the beginning. There's intent behind his playing now—a certain excitement that wasn't there with his idle attempts at a transition.
John listens to the confident melody of the song, and begins to unbutton Paul’s trousers.
Paul—to his credit—plays on faultlessly, even as John grips his prick, and pulls it out. John glances up at him as he gives him a couple of loose strokes. He can feel the tension thrumming in Paul’s body; his thighs—bracketing John—tensing from the pressure of playing on unimpeded. His Adam’s apple bobs with a gulp, but he carries on, smooth as you like. Could have him playing in orchestras with fortitude like that.
“That’s it,” John murmurs to him. “Just like that. You’ll get it.”
John darts his tongue out, giving Paul’s shaft a few absent kitten licks. He gives Paul a second to balance himself, listening to his quiet sigh melting in between the notes of John’s song. John waits him out, mouthing his way up the side of Paul’s cock slowly and gently, as Paul builds to the switch between their songs. Paul’s playing loses some of its floaty quality—a harsher press on the keys—but his tempo holds. And only as he plays out the last lines of John’s part, does John take him into his mouth.
Paul fumbles on the first chords, something flat and discordant ringing out. He saves it on the next bar—keeps on with an admirable sense of rhythm—but there’s a tightness to his playing, that shouldn’t be there. It’s taking him effort to keep it together, now. The knowledge sends a red-hot thrill through John’s veins.
John slides his mouth, up and down Paul’s cock, following the rhythm of the music, getting Paul wound up like he knew it would, Paul’s muscles going taut, and his breathing growing laboured.
It's more intense with the music. This. Them.
It feels, sometimes, as though Paul’s obsession with John waxes and wanes—sought after as he is by London’s ponciest cunts. But his obsession with music, that’s solid. Unshakeable. The blitz could be raining down around them, and Paul might miss it if he had a piano at his fingertips. John’s never had any illusions about Paul’s greatest love in this world.
But it’s the heat of his mouth making Paul’s chords shake, and fuck if that doesn’t make him feel a bit deranged.
There’s always a moment, when they do this—a hitch in Paul’s breath, signifying that his attention has finally left everything else in the world, and become entirely John’s—that lights something up inside John, as if his chest might explode from too much something . Fondness, and desire, and—
John pulls up, sucking at the head of Paul’s cock, savouring the salty taste of sweat and skin, and the weird tang of precum, as he laps it up with the tip of his tongue.
Paul fingers trip back into John’s part of the song, not even bothering with the pretence of finding a transition to bridge them together. He makes some choked off sound—a suppressed moan; repeats a note, from the tremble in his hands, like a record skipping. John feels that something unspool inside him, shifting the weight of his desire—the feeling ballooning inside his ribs. Swelling in his cock.
He pulls off Paul’s cock, ducking under Paul’s outstretched arms, and looping behind him, quickly.
“Keep going,” he directs, laying his hands firmly on Paul’s hips, and pushing him forward as much as he can without knocking him off the piano bench completely. He sits on the bench, his thighs bracketing Paul’s, his crotch pressed to the round curve of Paul’s clothed arse.
“Love the way you play,” John breathes hotly into his ear, snaking an arm around Paul’s waist to touch Paul, as he grinds his hips into him.
Paul shivers at the compliment—John figured he would—then leans back, melting into John’s chest with a sigh, pushing himself more firmly against the hard line of John’s cock. His notes grow softer, his hands stretching now to reach the keys properly, the black keys ringing out faint and ghostly, every other chord.
John kisses Paul’s neck, sucking at the skin under Paul’s earlobe, for a moment.
“Used to toss off to it, you know. You, writing,” he tells him, squeezing Paul at the base of his cock. Paul’s playing falters, his hands shaking too much to hold anything now. John can feel him quivering, feverish, against him.
“You ever do that?” John whispers hotly into his ear, sliding his hand up and down Paul’s cock, keeping his pace infuriatingly slow. “I bet you did.”
Paul takes a deep, panting breath, fumbling his fingers on several haphazard notes, as John’s hand slides over the tip of his cock and back again.
John closes his eyes for a moment; focuses on the sound of the dissonant melody, and Paul’s haggard breath, and the dizzying heat that sparks through his body when he presses his erection to the soft meat of Paul’s arse.
“Yeah,” Paul sighs out, quietly. John doesn’t know if it’s simply encouragement, or an answer to his question, but he gets a thrilling image of the latter—Paul wanking furiously to that old notebook of songs they used to have, their writing all cobbled together, one line John’s, one line Paul’s.
“You ever come to our music, Paulie?”
He smears his thumb through the precum beading at the head of Paul’s cock. The playing halts, abruptly—Paul’s head lolling back on John’s shoulder with a needy whine, as his hands slide limply off the keys.
John catches Paul’s left hand before it can fall away completely—presses it gently back in place, Paul playing a weak G with his finger—all while carrying on stroking him with his right. Paul tries to pick up the song again, but John sucks at the spot where his jaw meets his neck, and Paul loses it instantly, with a hissed out, “ Fuck .”
“Keep going, come on,” John encourages, sweetly, his own voice coming out a little wobbly. A little desperate.
He rolls his hips frantically into Paul’s backside. He feels too hot in his clothes—the layers of fabric between his dick and Paul’s arse, as thick as cinderblocks, for all the relief he’s getting.
There’s just something about being able to hear it, note by note—Paul’s desire and need poured into a song. Made tangible by a broken melody. Each fumbled chord turning him on, more and more. Just further proof that it’s real. That Paul wants him so much he can’t think, and he can’t move, and he can’t even play .
“Should’ve recorded this,” John whispers. “Made it part of the song.”
And the more he thinks about it the, the more delirious it makes him; blending their songs with this—the physical manifestation of all those shared harmonies. The music they made alone, crescendoing into the music they can make together. Lennon-McCartney at it’s fucking realest.
“All those people hearing how badly you need me stuffed up your arse,” John says with a harsh sigh.
Paul’s hips cant a eagerly into his fist, capped off with a mild grunt.
“Straight to number one that one,” John continues, imagining it—all those delusional girls listening to the way Paul whines on his cock. “Best thing we’ve ever written.”
Paul says, “What use is the song if you’re all talk?”
Then, with the bend of his spine, he pushes back keenly between John’s legs, pressing hard into John’s prick.
John’s beguiled laugh gets lost in a moan. He leans his forehead to the back of Paul’s shoulder, catching his breath. He gets lost in the sensations for a moment: the determined roll of Paul’s hips, and the uncomfortable drip of sweat at his own back; on his brow.
Paul let’s go of the piano, turning his head over his shoulder as far as he can get; knotting his fingers through John’s sweat-damp hair, instead, and pulling him in for a kiss.
The angle’s bad—Paul all twisted up, but still not close enough to get a good taste of him. There’s a brief brush of tongues, and clash of teeth—a half-second where John has moustache in his mouth—before Paul pulls away, releasing some choked off, frustrated sound from the back of his throat.
“John,” Paul pleads, helplessly.
John mumbles out breathy promises— yeah, yeah— whatever Paul wants, Christ.
He pushes Paul forward—off him, off the bench—and Paul goes immediately, turning around to face John, shoving his unbuttoned trousers down until they’re knotted around his ankles. John surges up to kiss him, biting lightly at Paul’s bottom lip, as Paul whimpers. He runs his hands over the bare skin of Paul’s thighs, the contrast of soft skin and coarse hair making him feel wild, primal desire winding its way around his stomach.
Paul fumbles at John’s trousers, about as useless as he was playing the piano. They manage to find their way around John’s zip together, John kicking his trousers and underwear off his feet, while simultaneously pushing Paul into the keys, behind him.
It rings out, loud this time—the press of their combined bodies stronger than Paul’s hands teetering on the edge of the piano.
“ Yeah ,” Paul hisses, emphatic, and frantically pulls at John’s hips, trying to manoeuvre himself onto the piano, his efforts tripping out, as predictable as a jazz riff.
It’s not the most ideal place. There’s hardly enough space for Paul to perch. It’s probably not even comfortable for him, and far too much work for John, except—
Paul’s hands slam on the high keys, as he tries to lift himself into position for John, and fuck, fuck—
John can’t keep his mouth off Paul’s neck, he’s so desperate for him—any heat, any taste; his hands shaking as he bends Paul’s leg up, folds him in half, tries to keep Paul from collapsing off the damn thing.
He licks his fingers, and gives Paul’s cocks a few quick tugs, lathering his hand in Paul’s precum, before reaching down to circle his hole.
Paul moans, rolling his hips to get closer to the sensation, pulling John into him by the scruff of his shirt-collar. John breaches him with two fingers, and feels Paul’s clumped, sweaty fringe press against his sternum, Paul’s hum of pleasure vibrating through his ribs.
They’ve been at this enough, recently, that it doesn’t take much to get either one of them ready to go. But Paul likes the pretence with the fingers because he likes John’s hands—something John learned when, in a rare show of genuine vulnerability, Paul blurted the request out to him, red-cheeked and mortified, as John was lining up to go cock-first. John’s happy enough to oblige. No greater turn on than getting Paul’s body buzzing; the electric heat of his arousal almost infectious, what with the way his body basically begs for it, when he's too randy to keep track of himself.
Paul writhes against John’s hand, each shift of his body re-animating the keys he’s pressed against; soft, aborted notes spasming out in a jarring melody, contrasting with Paul’s lovely moans. There’s your fucking experimental music, John thinks.
“D’you reckon Brian Wilson’s ever tried this?” John says, and Paul chokes out a breathless laugh.
“God only knows,” he gasps out, smiling at John, flushed and glowing from sex and sweat, and really there’s not much John can do for that but smother his answering huff of laughter into Paul’s mouth.
Paul’s hand trails up into the hair at the back of his head, pulling just enough to spark through John’s scalp. John gets lost in it, fucking Paul with his fingers and letting Paul stuff his tongue in his mouth. He can feel Paul’s heart going rabbit-quick, under the shirts both of them were too eager to take off.
John puts another finger in, aiming for that spot inside Paul that he knows as well as he knows every chord Paul’s taught him. Paul breaks away from their kiss with a gasp, and John thunders his hand in and out a couple more times, just to feel Paul squirm helplessly around his fingers.
Between panting breaths, Paul huffs, impatiently: “Been ready for ages, you know.”
John bites back his smug smile; he always liked it when found a way to make Paul ask for things instead of just giving them to him.
“Need to make sure me instrument’s all tuned up,” John tease, primly. “I’m told it helps with the song.”
Paul pulls his free hand off the piano, and gives John’s, so far, neglected cock a languorous pull. It has the desired effect, firing through John’s bones, making his mind falter and his blood boil, his entire body keening for it. He lags forward, his punishing pace inside Paul's hole halting, abruptly.
“I’m tuned,” Paul murmurs, his breath steaming against John’s temple. “Play me.”
John’s nodding yes before his brain’s even caught up. Paul’s hand, in his hair, slides until it’s his whole arm wrapped around John’s head. He uses his leverage to pull John’s down, kissing him behind the ear, still wanking him with his left hand. Leading John to his hole. John has to admit he makes a fair point.
He hadn’t been aware of how hard he was, but now that he’s noticed, it seems to ache through his abdomen—need so hot he feels as though he might explode from it.
He takes hold of Paul’s hips; pushes at the meat of Paul’s thigh, pressing his bent leg up, and up, till Paul’s perfectly contorted on top of the piano, and then he sheaths himself in Paul.
Paul’s hands drop back to the keys with a slam—flats and sharps complementing his pretty choirboy voice, as he cries out in relief.
John melts at the sudden pleasure of it. He rolls his hips into Paul, savouring every push and pull. It always feels good, but every time, he’s a bit enchanted with just how good it is. It doesn't matter how many times he's been inside Paul, it never loses its novelty. Does the opposite actually. The more of it he gets, the deeper he wants to go, like he could find a way to plant some part of himself inside Paul—tie themselves together like they did their names. The worst part of it is sometimes Paul looks at him he might—
Like he would let—
Paul angles his hips up to meet him—as much as he can, when he’s bent and trapped between the piano and John. His movements only exacerbate the piano’s chaotic sounds, shifting in dynamics with Paul’s movements and the thrust of John’s hips.
Paul moans—closing his eyes, and leaning back, like it was torn out of his body. “That’s it,” he breathes, moving his hand on the keys, again—something like a B-sharp coming out instead of the half-formed D from before. Paul moans again, and John realises— Jesus— he’s getting turned on the piano .
“Faster,” Paul says, eyes still closed. “Needs to get faster.”
He’s a fucking sight, leant back like that. Like he’s on display: his eyes closed, and his mouth red from kissing, his hair and shirt disheveled—a crude fucking state. And that look on his face. Like earlier. Like he’s thinking about John’s song while he’s getting fucked.
You going to listen? he’d said.
Yeah, he’d said, climbing atop the piano for John to—
Play me, he’d said.
John feels it—that ineffable thing between them. Music. He’s with Paul again. He’s there, and they’re discovering something they can only discover together, and when they bring it back it’s going to have their alchemy baked into every note. It’s going to sound like—
It needs to sound like—
John takes hold of Paul’s cock, standing hard and red between them. Paul gasps out a strangled moan, his arse playing a peal of orderless notes, as his back arches in pleasure.
John leans forward to kiss his neck, feels Paul's vocal cords vibrating against his lips, every time Paul makes a sound.
“Louder, too,” John says, scraping his teeth lightly down to Paul’s collarbone. “Needs to be—”
“Yeah,” Paul agrees, instantly.
And it stirs in John too, a groan spilling out of him against Paul’s skin. He gets lost in it for a moment, fucking to an idea of a sound in his head—in their heads. He imagines doing this in the studio; imagines sitting at the mixing desk, listening to their harmonising moans, and their messy notes, ringing out to the rhythm of his hips. And fuck, maybe they can mix it like that too—turnabout: Paul fucking John hard into the dials of the mixing desk.
John wonders for a split second, why they’ve never tried it like this before, but it almost makes him laugh. Haven’t they? Just because they’re usually fucking with a pair of guitars between them, doesn’t mean it’s anything less than fucking, does it?
Like he’s thinking the same thing, Paul says, “I did, you know. Our songs— Ah!”
His chest heaves, rapidly, as he tries to keep himself together enough to speak.
“Your hands. I used to—” Paul babbles, helplessly. “You looking at me.”
He whimpers, like just the thought of it alone would be enough to bring him over the edge. He’s trembling—the piano notes playing a manic tremolo, every time he shifts his weight.
John lifts his head to look at him—eyeball to eyeball.
“Yeah,” Paul whines, his voice high like John can’t reach, and so, so lovely. Paul lifts his hands off the piano; leaves his body in John’s hands, and cups John’s face, instead, gently between his shaking hands. John leans in to kiss him hard, fucking him hard and fast, swallowing Paul’s cries—the differentiation of the notes lost to the forceful jerk of his and Paul’s hips.
Paul’s so wired that no part of him seems to be able to still. He’s teetering on the threshold. Any second now, he’ll crescendo. All that build up and—
Oh, that’s it.
John pulls away, pulling out of him. Some lost, anguished sound breaks out from the back of Paul’s throat, his hands—still on John’s cheeks—tensing, hard, to pull him back. John leans in to kiss him, again, running a soothing hand down his sides.
“No. I’ve got it. We’ve got it,” John mumbles out, gentle, coaxing Paul around, and bending his pliable body over the piano, Paul’s cock brushing the keys. He pushes into Paul again, not wasting a second now, because they have it.
With this angle, he gets deep in Paul—Paul gasping and sighing, as John hammers into his prostate.
“That’s it, love. That’s the song,” John says, taking hold of Paul’s cock, and holding it right, so that it presses and slides against the keys. “Then, one last chord.”
“ Fuck, ” Paul hisses. John sees his head tilt down, his fist clenching, like when he’s ready to go and trying to stave it off for just a few seconds more; the slide of his cock making music sing out, as frantically as John feels.
John slides a hand up Paul’s back, and grasps the back of his neck, pulling him up so Paul is standing, flush against him.
“Do you hear it?” John breathes, the question stuttering out of him, husky and fraught.
“Yeah,” Paul says, his voice wavering. “ Yeah, ” cried out high and sweet, and then, he comes all over the keys.
John follows him, right after—Paul’s voice and something like E-major echoing in his head as his vision whites out. He comes, buried deep inside Paul, with a guttural shout, his hips still moving with the aftershocks, like a reflex, Paul sighing out soft, breathy sounds, every time he pushes in.
Paul collapses over the piano, and John lands right on top of him, feeling the rise and fall of Paul’s sweat-damp back, against his cheek. Our breathing’s in sync, he thinks, distantly amused.
They stay like that for a few minutes, John growing soft inside Paul as they catch their breaths. When he thinks he has enough strength to hold himself up, John pulls out of him and stands up properly. Paul stays there for a second, still breathing a little hard, with John’s semen dripping down the back of his thigh.
John feels a little bad—in a smug sort of way. His fondness alighting something indulgent and daft in him. Makes him want to wash Paul’s body clean and kiss every milky patch of his skin—like when he gives it good to Cyn, and he comes out of it wanting to look after her; thinking I’m being a proper husband.
He pulls Paul up, gently, but Paul’s legs are still weak, and he stumbles back into John, the both of them landing on the piano bench—Paul’s knee hooked over John’s thigh.
John watches him breathe, taking in the lovely pink flush, fading up from the lilac of his shirt: up his neck, and flowering in his cheeks like he’s a cherub. Paul looks back, from the corner of his eye. His princess-pink cheeks, swell with his smile, and John feels himself smiling back, the two of them just sitting there grinning at each other all stupid.
John feels so fond he has to look away, lest he go blurting out any of the insane things Paul makes him feel in moments like this. He looks at the piano instead, following the glistening trail of Paul’s mess, with his eyes. He reaches out, half-smearing his fingers on some of the keys where Paul’s spunk landed—the full E-major chord it made, ringing out into Paul’s quiet music room.
“D’you reckon I’ll have to pay extra to get that cleaned?” Paul asks, lightly.
John snorts. He wipes at the keys, intently, and brings it to his mouth. “I’ll clean it up for you, love,” he says, before dipping his head to suck Paul’s cum off his fingers, watching Paul watch him—his mouth slightly parted, his eyes wide and rapt.
John pulls his fingers out with teasing little sucking sound, and says, “You like that, you pervert?”
Paul closes his mouth and looks away with a swallow, regaining himself with little dignity. He shrugs lazily, at John.
“Your idea.”
John laughs, making Paul turn back—curious about the joke, despite himself.
John puts a hand on Paul’s knee over his thigh, and pushes himself into Paul’s space, leaning close. And then, while hovering over Paul’s waiting lips, he says, “I believe they call it a Lennon-McCartney original.”