Category: Real People/Musician slash - M/M
Pairing: Beatles - John/Paul
Rating: NC-17 (sex, bad language, all around naughtiness)
Disclaimer: This is fantasy, fun and written with love. How
much more can I disclaim than that?

TITLE: WORDS OF LOVE by mako

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He was supposed to be the cautious one.

Or the Cute One, take your pick, but at that moment Paul
McCartney was feeling decidedly uncute, as well as foolhardy.
It'd been a hellish flight from Miami and whatever backwater
Midwestern town they were in that day was as grey and dismal
as the 'Pool ever was.

Hard to imagine that, in the land of milk and honey yet.

Right. The land of milk and honey, his ass. America was all
right McCartney supposed, but it was also stodgy, highly
unfashionable and often, just downright grotty. What he'd
give for a few minutes in London: a quiet pint in a downtown
pub, maybe a game of darts to follow minus the howling birds.

McCartney took a long drag on his cigarette, wondering
vaguely if he should quit. He'd noticed his voice was
changing lately, whether it was from the smokes or the
screaming that now passed for singing at their concerts, he
wasn't sure. But whatever it was, the change wasn't good.

Paul worried about things like that, unlike John who'd smoke
five at a time if he could, down a fifth of scotch, stumble
on-stage and scream until you'd swear his vocal chords were
ripping in two. Once, in a recording session for "Twist and
Shout" they almost did tear in half, much to McCartney's
horror.

He didn't believe it at first, that the madman had sang
himself out of a voice, but Lennon's nearly inaudible croaks
had convinced him otherwise quickly enough.

He spent hours upon hours making John tea afterwards, boiling
water, squeezing lemons and spooning honey while John laughed
noiselessly, his voice, for all intents and purposes, gone.

"It's not funny, Lennon," McCartney groused, trying to hide
his fear. What if John couldn't sing again? What if all
their hard work, years upon years of starving and struggling,
playing shitholes and killing themselves was to suddenly
become meaningless, all because EMI needed a stupid single
NOW versus a day from now. "What are we going to do if you
blew yer voice out?"

Lennon shrugged, his eyes narrowly amused.

"Seriously, what would we do?" McCartney demanded angrily.
Watched as John picked up a pencil, wrote something on the
back of their set list and slid it toward him.

He stared down at the chicken scrawl, amazed. "Then go it
without me." he read.

//Go it without John?// Shaking his head, McCartney picked up
the scrap and ripped it into a pile of confetti. "You're
fucking daft, you know that? Drink your fucking tea and shut
up."

Another silent laugh and a quick fumble for more smokes.

McCartney snatched the pack from him. "No," he said gravely.
"Not until you get yer throat back."

The amusement left Lennon's eyes. Deliberately, he plucked
the pack from McCartney's hand, shook a cigarette loose and
lit it with all the finesse of a condemned man before a
firing squad, as if daring McCartney to stop him.

"What part of "no" don't you understand?" McCartney towered
over him, hands on hips, expression dark. He tore the
cigarette out from between Lennon's lips and tossed it aside.
"The "n" or the "o"?"

If Lennon's face was any indicator of his emotions, rage was
the pick of the moment. Furiously, he leapt up from his
chair and shoved Paul's shoulders in defiance, eyes blazing.

Nonplussed, McCartney shoved him back ... hard. For all his
"cuteness" he'd been a man even the Teddys didn't like
dealing with in the old days, his sweet face belying the
truly foul temper beneath.

Lennon mouthed something obscene and McCartney shoved him
again, just for good measure. John's razor-sharp tongue was
his real weapon and without it, there wasn't too much to be
frightened of. "What, Lennon? What you gonna do?" McCartney
taunted, rather enjoying John's red-faced attempts to yell.

If nothing else will teach him to conserve his voice ...

"Come on, what you gonna do? I can't heee-aaa-rrr you,"
McCartney taunted. "Come 'ead Johnny, say something." He
batted his lashes. "Say something mean, big boy."

Lennon blinked once, then, as usual, his mood did a one-
eighty. He began to shake with soundless laughter, falling
back into the chair clutching his sides. Middle fingers
raised, he gave McCartney one last salute before returning to
his cold tea, cigarettes forgotten.

"Asshole," said McCartney affectionately. "Let me pour you a
fresh cuppa." He reached for the teacup, found Lennon's hand
instead and their eyes met, and held, for what seemed like
eternity.

Silence, more powerful than any sound, and McCartney's world
shifted to a place where words were meaningless. He watched,
partly fascinated, partly terrified, as Lennon brought his
hand to his cheek and leaned into it, eyes closed.

Stubble against his knuckles, and McCartney felt his knees
weaken. It was nothing he repeated to himself desperately
... silently. Johnny's tired, he's scared too, that's all.
I'd be scared if I couldn't talk anymore, Paul thought
frantically and that's I won't pull away. He needs a bit of
comfort and that's why we're mates, isn't it?

Isn't it?

A soft kiss against his palm and the world tilted again, this
time toward something more primal, hotter than sun.
McCartney's mouth opened, he tried to speak and found his own
voice had become lost in the void. He couldn't talk, he
couldn't move, not even when Lennon rose and took him by the
shoulders again but this time with entirely different intent.

He didn't pull away from John's advances, he didn't know why,
and it was the right choice. The lips that met his were warm
and perfect, tasting of sweet tea, tobacco and something that
was purely John himself.

A soft kiss, child-like even, until the heat grew and Paul
opened himself up to his partner, his best mate, with
abandon.

Tongues touching, bodies entwined and luckily, the studio
wall was sturdy, holding them both up, even when Lennon
shoved him against it with serious force.

Part of McCartney's brain rebelled, if only for the fact that
they might get caught any moment and seeing George Martin's
horrified face at that moment was possibly the last thing he
wanted.

The very last thing.

A sly finger trailed along his hard-on and McCartney lost
track of his surroundings, moaning Lennon's name, trying to
squirm away to no avail. It was shocking, this passion of
John's, innocent and depraved all at once -- just like the
man himself.

Lennon didn't make a sound, he simply fell to his knees,
hands working busily at McCartney's slacks, deftly yanking
the zipper down and pulling any untoward obstacles away. A
cock sprung forth, aching, flushed deep red, wet at its tip.

Paul shook his head, slowly, unwilling to say "no," still not
sure if his mind wanted to continue, no matter what his body
said, but Lennon ignored him and with amazing gentleness,
touched him with his tongue. Just the tiniest flick of
warmth, pressure and McCartney bucked forward, all denials
forgotten.

A long lick against the throbbing vein beneath and he grabbed
John's head, forcing him forward, ashamed and aroused beyond
all imagining.

To his surprise, Lennon didn't put up a struggle, he merely
croaked a chuckle before swallowing McCartney's cock down
whole, a long, lovely sliding suck, so unbelievably hot and
wet and wonderful.

McCartney bit his lip, hard, tasting the copper of blood on
his tongue. It was either that or scream and with the others
less than a few yards away ...

Fear then, but that only made it hotter and he groaned,
watching himself slide out of Lennon's mouth, amazed at the
hazel eyes staring up at him, filled with a strange mixture
of triumph, lust ... and love.

It was enough, more than enough, and the lightning hit at the
base of his spine, forcing his hips forward and McCartney
came with abandon, hardly knowing what had overcome him,
except for the fact that it felt better than just about
anything he'd known up to that point in his life.

Better than booze, birds ... and as good as music itself.

John rose slowly to his feet, tucking Paul back into his
pants with surprising care, zipping and straightening, as if
readying him for a show.

So many times he'd felt those hands on him -- in friendship,
in anger -- but they trailed fire now, and McCartney wondered
what came next. Should he try to reciprocate, and how?
Perhaps fall to his knees and attempt to repeat the pleasure,
or what about his hands, or maybe ...

All thoughts disappeared as Lennon's lips took his, tasting
of salt and the sea, and voices sounded just outside the
studio door. George's maybe, his bored nasal Scouser louder
than Martin's refined Southern tones, or maybe it was
Ritchie, but whoever it was McCartney pulled away from the
kiss quickly, feeling his cheeks flush hotly above a collar
that was suddenly five sizes too tight.

"How is it then?" asked Martin, stepping into the room and
examining John distantly, as if he were a medical specimen.
"Nothing damaged permanently I hope."

John shook his head, smiling beatifically. Nudged McCartney
with a sharp elbow and he coughed before answering. "I think
he'll be all right. Needs a few days off, tho'."

"Don't we all," muttered Ritchie, flopping into a plastic
chair, rubbing his face. He groped for the cigarette pack
and waved it around. "Fag, anyone?"

Another elbow in his side, and McCartney shook his head,
growing redder. "No thanks. And none for him either," he
said, nodding toward Lennon. "He's had enough mouth action
for today."

Lennon glanced sideways at him, and they both burst out
laughing, ignoring the confused eyes all around them.

And that's how it had ended, that day.

But now, nearly six months later, in that dismal Midwestern
backwater, on a cold, gloomy day, McCartney was about to once
again throw caution to the wind. To hell with things that
were bad for you, to hell with what might get you into
trouble, and he knocked deliberately on the door that
separated John's hotel room from his.

It opened immediately, and Lennon's eyes met his with the
same amused abandon he'd always remembered, and loved so
well. "Yeah? What's up Paulie?"

"Your turn," was all he said, before throwing caution to the
wind, and taking Lennon's mouth beneath his own, shoving him
toward the warm bed, without a backwards glance.

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the end

Feedback is very welcome,
flames are used for marshmallows.
Thanks, mako at: [email protected]