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December 8th, 1980

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Paul opened his eyes, and all he could see was darkness.

It took a moment for him to remember where he was—and who he was with. He was lying on a rather soft bed in a hotel room, the duvet heavy over his body, his bare arm draped over the soundly sleeping body of John Lennon. As the soft sound of John breathing came to his attention, a pang of guilt slowly began to form in his gut.

He always despised the post-coital aspect of their rendezvous. Wrongfulness and even regret overwhelmed him whenever he'd awake after a shag with John, whereas in the act of it all, it was easy for him to forget about Linda and his children and focus on his lover. He loved them all, he really did, but John was something else—something he needed, something he craved. He wanted to laugh with him and kiss him and punch him and fuck him all at once, and doing any number of those things gave him a high that no drug ever did.

As much as he would've hated to admit, Paul was addicted—no, beyond addicted—to John Lennon.

He was beyond addicted to the way John spoke, his voice when he sang, and the sound of his desperate grunts when he came. He longed for his gentle touch, his striking features, his charm and wit and charisma.

He knew he could write an awfully good song about it, but there was no way he could do so without making it too revealing. He wouldn't have sacrificed every relationship he had and his image as a whole just to make a few discrete quips about the way John's thick cock felt in his ass.

Or perhaps he would've, if John had asked politely. He would've done anything to please John, to earn his praise and affection. He would've let himself be used by the older man any day, and it almost disgusted him. Almost. However, when John quietly awoke and turned over to face Paul, disgust was the absolute last thing he felt.

He stared into John's eyes, which were free of the glasses that usually adorned them. He rather enjoyed being able to look at John's face without the pesky frames in the way. Paul slowly reached up, his hand gingerly cupping John's cheek. The greying stubble prickled his skin.

"I've missed you." He whispered, shuffling a bit closer to the warm body beside him, deliberately intertwining their long legs together. John made a short, soft humming sound, clearly content. "I was only sleepin'." He commented, his sleep-ridden voice slightly raspy. Paul shook his head as best as he could while it rested on the pillow. "Doesn't matter. I always miss you." He admitted. John just gave a small, sweet grin—the kind only Paul and Yoko ever got to see—and leaned in to press a chaste kiss to Paul's nose. It was short and quick and Paul yearned for more. "Like me too much?" John teased, and Paul felt his lover's hand snake along his own pale and bare waist. He relaxed into John's soft touch, and brushed his knuckles along John's cheek, admiring it's slight rosiness.

"Love you too much." He mused, his voice light and airy. Although his words were innocent and endearing, he immediately tensed up after they escaped his lips, his hand on John's face going rigid.

He had never said those words to John before, never admitted his deep love. It was almost silly, as he had been loving John for far too long, and he was sure that John already knew—he'd be daft not to have noticed—but Paul was still embarrassed that he let it slip, still slightly frightened that his confession would be the beginning of the end. However, the words had come out almost automatically, without thought. He couldn't have stopped himself from saying it. His cheeks grew red with hot, rushing blood as he studied John's face and waited with bated breath for a reaction of any kind.

All John did was grin wider and swiftly reach under the duvet to pinch one of Paul's pink nipples, which elicited a rather surprised gasp from the bassist. It certainly hadn't been the reaction that Paul had expected—he couldn't complain, though, as it was a more favourable one.

"John," he began, trying to sound pressing, but the voice that passed through his lips had obvious undertones of desperation and need. John, still silent, still grinning toothily with a glint of seduction stirring in his eyes, leaned in to give Paul another kiss, this time on the lips, hard and rough and needy. Paul, not bothering to remember what he was about to say, gladly complied, kissing back with equal force, nipping at John's lower lip as John smacked and kicked the duvet off of them both. They both were still stark naked from the fuck they had before they fell asleep, and John ran his hands up and down Paul's waist and hips as he continued to fiercely kiss Paul.

Once he pulled away, he immediately rolled over, propping himself up over Paul, his hands on either side of his lover's head. Paul turned as well, twisting to lay on his back, looking up at him with dilated pupils, his pink lips parted and his breathing slightly audible. "Legs up, sweetheart." John ordered, sounding soft and gentle. Paul complied, lifting his legs and bending them over John's shoulders when he moved inbetween them and kneeled. His pale skin felt warm on John's, who leaned down to press light, teasing kisses on the inside of his thighs, eliciting breathy mewls from Paul. As John worshipped his stunning legs, Paul grabbed the pillow that John had slept on, lifting his ass and sliding it under himself, earning a pleased hum from John.

John kept kissing higher up Paul's thigh until he reached his ass, then without hesitation, began to slowly lick at Paul's hole. The same stubble that was scratching lightly at Paul's hand minutes before was rubbing against the tender skin at his ass and thighs, prickling him softly and almost pleasurably. Paul moaned, practically dripping with need and want, his voice music to John's ears as he dragged his wet tongue over and around Paul's opening. He proceeded to slowly press his tongue into Paul, thrusting it in and out as his eyes pierced into Paul's, content with watching him writhe. Small moans continued to pour from Paul's mouth, and he reached down to fist a hand in John's chestnut hair, pressing him into his ass ever so slightly.

John worked Paul open with his tongue for a few more moments before pulling away. In a flash, he reached over to snatch a small tube of lube from the nightstand, applying it to his fingers, then pressing one into Paul. John spread him out, then added another finger, scissoring the two digits. Absolutely loving the sounds that Paul made (as he always did, naturally), he added a third finger, thrusting the three in and out a few more times before pulling them all out, leaving Paul feeling empty. He took a few moments to apply some lube to his own cock, doing so as fast as he could, favouring the feeling of being inside Paul more so than fucking his own hands. He threw the bottle off to the side before quickly shuffling upward so his hips were in line with Paul's ass. He leaned over, pressing his forehead to Paul's, their eyes locking as John guided his thick cock into him, and in that moment, all Paul's worries over confessing his love to John seemed so far away.

Ecstasy and a tinge of pain flooded Paul's senses when John pressed further into him, just like it always did. Every time John fucked Paul, it felt like the very first time all over again, and Paul loved it. "Johnny..." He whispered, begging for more.

John bottomed out inside Paul, and they both let out moans, Paul's being slightly deeper. John, encouraged by Paul's heavenly sounds, proceeded to thrust into him, slowly at first. The slight burn that Paul felt when John had entered was fading, being replaced by pleasure. John was teetering on the line of agonizing teasing and a regular pace, and Paul grabbed fistfuls of the bedsheets, staring up at John and watching him grunt in pleasure.

"Love fuckin' you like this, Paulie. So fuckin' sexy, wanna fuck you 'til you can't walk." John said, low and guttural and wantonly. Paul whimpered at his words, craning his neck upwards to kiss John, feeling his stubble rubbing against his own cheek and chin. John kissed back with double the force, nipping at Paul's lips as he did so, and fucked into him faster.

Paul groaned against John's lips, his hole tight and warm around John's cock. He moved his hands to wrap them around John's upper back, pulling him in closer. He ached for contact, and craved being close to John.

"Yeah, yeah..." Paul whispered, his breath warm on John's cheek. John kept moaning lowly, his eyes closed as he thrusted, speeding up in small inclines. Paul loved it, fucking loved it, but he wanted more, more, more—and he knew just how to get it.

"You can do better, right?" He hissed into John's ear, his words snarky. John immediately froze, and Paul grinned devilishly, satisfied with his reaction. Before John could speak, he continued. "If you can't fuck me like a man, I'll find someone else to." He added, his tone laced with a cold bite.

Without hesitating a second longer, John pulled out fully and thrusted back in Paul's ass, hard and deep, and it was everything that Paul wanted. A strangled and loud moan pushed past his lips, and John continued to thrust with power, extremely satisfied with Paul's reaction.

"You're such a fuckin' whore, Paul. Such a dirty, slutty, needy fuckin' whore. Go on and spread yourself for other men, see if I care. They won't be half as good as me." John snarled as he thrusted into Paul with force, causing the bed to slam into the wall each time his hips snapped forward.

Paul moaned and whimpered and mewled louder, his fingernails digging into John's back, leaving marks that he secretly hoped Yoko would see. John, however, seemed to know what he was trying to pull, and he leaned over further to bite hard into Paul's neck. The taller man gasped at the sudden burst of pain, the beginnings of an orgasm starting to spark in his lower gut. He knew he'd have to try damn hard to hide the mark from Linda.

"Fuckin' cunt!" He hissed between low moans, and John's right hand snaked down his stomach, stopping just above his rock hard cock.

"Say that again, Paulie. Dare you to." He challenged, unable to stop a moan from escaping his own thin lips. Paul looked up at him with seemingly innocent eyes, his eyebrows raised. "Yer a cunt." He said rather snidely, and with that, John thrusted into him harder than ever before while beginning to tease the head of Paul's dick using his clever fingertips, slamming into his prostate and causing jolts of pleasure to shoot through Paul.

"Oh, god! Oh, fuck!" He screamed, his body shuddering in pure, unadulterated pleasure. His moan was deafening, and although moments before he was just beginning to reach the point of coming, John's powerful thrust combined with the hand on his cock pushed him right to the edge. One more deep thrust, one more brush of John's dick against his prostate caused him to come immediately, shooting all over his stomach, John's stomach, and John's hand alike.

John continued to fuck him through the aftershocks of his orgasm, and Paul moaned softly all the way through it—but John didn't stop thrusting when Paul's climax had completely died down. He continued to thrust into Paul, hard and fast and hungrily, grunting and moaning more than ever.

Paul was thoroughly overstimulated, his now soft cock beginning to ache and his prostate throbbing with pleasure and a stir of uncomfortableness. John had done this before—Paul had come too early once, and John fucked him steadily until he orgasmed again—and although Paul would never say, it turned him on immensely. He knew that John was close, though, and he wouldn't last long enough to make Paul climax a second time. Despite knowing this, the intense mix of pleasure and overstimulation was hard to bare without verbal expression.

"John—I can't—oh god!" He began, his voice strangled and breathy. His moans were almost as loud as they were when he was coming, except they were whinier now, higher in pitch. John grunted again, his eyes burning into Paul's. Suddenly, his hips erratically snapped forward, and all Paul could feel was John's warm cum flooding his used hole. He relished John's moans like it was the last time he'd ever hear them.

Just as John finished coming, he leaned in, still panting, his mouth hovering above Paul's ear.

"I love you, too, you stupid git. I'll love you when you're old and grey and even grumpier than you are now. I'll love you 'til the day I die." John confessed, his words sweet. Paul stared up at John silently with big and near-sad eyes, reaching over to intertwine their slender hands.

"Don't say that, Johnny. Don't wanna hear about you dying. S'a long ways away." He muttered, pressing a light kiss to John's lips. When he pulled away, John grinned all silly.

"Well, it bloody better be."


On the same day, Paul received a call. He was told that John had been shot. Killed.

He hadn't believed it at first—he didn't want to—but when he realized the reality of it all, he threw his telephone against the wall and dropped to his knees and screamed and cried and punched the floor until his knuckles ached.

John—his John, John the fucking legend, the genius, the asshole, the man he had confessed his love to not even 24 hours before that very moment—was gone. It was so hard to believe, yet so painstakingly true, and nobody knew it better than Paul McCartney, the man who gave his heart away to John in 1957 and never got it back.

Funnily enough, even though he had loved Dot and Jane and Linda, even though he fucked countless girls and never saw any of them again, his heart was always with John.

Yet, as he sobbed and cursed and shouted at God and the man who shot him, shouted at no one in particular, he never found out if it was the same with John—if John had always been his, too.

Now, he could never know, and all he could hold onto until his own death were those thirty words that John had uttered to him in the darkness of a hotel room, the thirty words of confession and love and longing.

So in the end, Paul was wrong. John's death wasn't indeed a 'long ways away'. It was all too sudden, too close, too soon—but at least John was right.

At least John loved Paul until the day he died.