WARNING: this chapter contains themes of a sexual nature. Read at your own peril.
... ... ...
When the sun finally filtered through the hastily drawn curtains, drowning everything in its bright, basking glow, Paul's hazy eyes blinked open. He quickly shut them when the light stung his sensitive orbs like hot embers. He curled further into his duvet instinctively when the cold nibbled at his naked toes, and he let out a muffled groan. Outside his door, travelling across the floorboards, were footsteps: to whom they belonged, he did not know.
After burrowing himself in his brilliantly white bedsheets, the bassist quickly recalled the previous events of his near accident and his lustful late-night escapades. He squirmed, disgusted and thoroughly confused with himself, further into his own self-pity and misery until he felt the uncomfortable sensation of not being able to breathe properly strain his lungs. He poked his head out of the cover once again, lacklustre in optimism to move from the bed, or to eat, or drink- unless it was something alcoholic- or to do anything apart from wallow.
He thought long and hard, until his brain felt like it would melt out of his ears: 'What was the point?'
The bassist blinked blankly, hazel eyes lost in the ivory wallpaper, like an empty canvas, across from him.
The last time he felt this bad was after his mother died. Other than obsessively tinker with his guitar, as a teenager Paul used to lie in bed and try to think up all the answers to a thousand different questions: some of them he still didn't have the answer to.
The bassist closed his eyes again, tiredly, just when he heard a knock on the door. He made sure to cover his naked body before mumbling the person in.
The door opened, and in walked Ringo. He was dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, hair washed and combed, face clean and shaven, though his eyes still carried the weight of a thousand sorrows.
He tried to smile weakly. "John's makin' breakfast if you want some,"
Paul's brow wrinkled in gentle puzzlement, though his stomach gurgled painfully at the thought of food. "John?"
"Yeah," said the drummer, "I'm surprised too. He said he wanted to be useful; I'm sure it can't go too badly." The man let out a nervous, breezy chuckle, his mannerisms resembling a fretting animal about to tread on thin ice.
The bassist blinked before propping himself up using his elbows. "Okay... I'll be down in five minutes." He said. Ringo nodded quietly and shut the door on his way out.
After his mind blinded him with glimpses of the night's previous events like clips from a film reel, the doe-eyed man gathered himself up out of bed, put on his underwear, and pulled on a pair of fitted, brown trousers. After sliding on a belt, Paul padded over to his wardrobe and ran his hands over the different shirts he owned. His fingers stopped when they graced the slightly wrinkled, white shirt he wore last night, his digits curling around the material. Closing his eyes, he brought his face close to the cloth, burying his girlish nose into the fabric and inhaling deeply: cigarettes, cologne, John; the scent was so inviting and familiar that Paul felt like melting into the shirt and embracing it. He pulled his face away and sighed tiredly, finally plucking a tight, ivory tee from the wardrobe and grabbing a navy jumper over the top to shield himself from the nippy air.
Paul finally kicked on his shoes and made his way to the bathroom, eyes low and groggy from the lack of sleep. At first glance in the mirror, the bassist wanted to grimace; his dark hair was kinked and stuck in three different positions, while his hazel orbs were small and madly bloodshot. Comparable to melting candle wax, the bassist had a droopy expression: a man old before his time.
Sighing dejectedly, Paul brushed his teeth and splashed his face with cold water. He raked a damp comb through his dark hair and then dried it lightly with a towel. He tried to get the feeling of John off his skin, scrubbing at his hands as he washed them. Dirty. His hands were dirty. His mind was dirty. He felt filthy, but he wanted John to touch him again.
John was his friend. He had wanked over the image his best friend. He was disgusting; Paul had never felt so disturbed in his life.
But were they really friends? Friends didn't snog each other, did they? He hadn't kissed George, he hadn't kissed Ringo either, and they were Paul's best friends. Maybe John was more than a regular friend. Maybe he wasn't a friend at all, but something else.
Paul shook his head. Things were all so mixed up, he didn't know what to believe. He took one last bitter glance in the mirror and made his way downstairs, his ears catching snippets of heated conversation, his nose crinkling with the scent of something burnt.
He hoped it would be reminiscent of the days before all of this: a fry up on the go, the radio on, the newspaper forgotten on the side, as the four of them sat around the table and laughed and wolfed down their food, ready for the day ahead.
He hoped, when he walked into the kitchen, that George wasn't scolding John for burning the eggs, and Ringo wasn't trying to waft away the smoke hopelessly from the pan.
"-Fuck... John, you're gonna end up gettin' us all killed,"
"I forgot-"
"You forgot? Of course: you always forget. What did I expect?"
"George, give it a rest will you?"
"Oh, come on Ringo, you know; you leave 'im alone for one minute and he nearly starts a fire, Jesus fuckin' Christ."
"Well 'e didn't so will you just wind your neck in about it now?"
"I'll bloody wind your neck in if you keep talkin' to me like that, Rings."
"Watch your mouth, softlad."
From his position in the living room, pensive and wishing for the ground to swallow him up, Paul could see the growing tension smoke up in the kitchen like the burnt food John had prepared. Ringo, usually slow to anger, looked far too tired to be dealing with anything else right then, a weight comparable to the world on his shoulders. His wits were at their end, his soft, azure eyes hard and grating.
George- now a tall, wallowing drink of a man- had smouldering orbs like burning cigarettes. Paul was at least thankful that the youngest had passion in those eyes, even if it was only a shred. Because of his sunken face, his teeth and eyes appeared too big for his head, his dark mop of hair making him shudder under its weight. He stared at Ringo from across the kitchen with ire. Paul felt almost afraid to go near him.
John was now sat miserably at the kitchen table with a burning cigarette in his fingers. His russet eyes were vacant and hollow, nothing inside. The ash from the tobacco cylinder built and built until it fluttered down and landed on the back of John's hand, but the man failed to notice.
"Lads," Paul said tentatively, standing awkwardly in the living room, "what's the fuss?"
Two pairs of eyes, one pair shockingly blue and the other a fiery brown, looked into Paul. The bassist felt his chest become slightly tight all of a sudden. Their orbs were a mixture of many emotions: anger, hopelessness, confusion. Paul wondered if they'd heard him last night. He hoped John hadn't told them about their kiss.
George muttered, "Ringo's bein' a knob."
The eldest rolled his eyes sourly. "George is bein' fussy 'cause John accidentally burnt his eggs."
Paul's eyes flickered over to John, silent and still, and back to his two other bandmates. "It's no biggie, Harrison," he said, "Look, how about I make you some more-"
"No," the youngest interrupted rather solemnly, "it doesn't matter; I've lost my appetite." He glanced from face to face and edged around the table, mincing his way past Paul without looking at him, and trudged upstairs.
The drummer's orbs darkened as he went back to trying to scrape the burnt food from the pan.
"What's his problem?" Paul pondered, small mouth agape in puzzlement. He took a chair next to John and eyed him carefully.
Ringo shook his head, the furrowed brow of a man with little patience left. "No idea; I guess he's just in a bad mood."
The talking between the bassist and the drummer fizzled out dryly as time ticked on. John had burnt through two more cigarettes, and by this point looked a little grey from all the smoke. His hand, however, had stopped trembling. Paul longed to hold it, judging it lonesome resting on the tablecloth idly, ash dusting over the porcelain skin and blue veins like snowfall. John's vacant, chocolate eyes said everything, and yet nothing at all.
"Sleep well, John?" Asked Paul half-heartedly. He tried to catch the older man's eye with one of his dazzling smiles but it proved fruitless.
John brought the last murmurs of the smoke to his lips. He smudged it out in the ash tray like he was squashing a bug, dark orbs transfixed when the cherry dissipated into the glass. Slowly, he brought his heavy gaze up to Paul's face and, with hollow bones, his jaw as sharp as a knife, he let the words roll off his lips, but quiet enough so Ringo couldn't hear. "I dreamt of you last night." He whispered, tone suddenly gaining a slight smoothness that Paul couldn't help but find alluring.
The younger man's eyebrows raised in hopeful suspicion. He cast a careful eye over to the drummer, who was focused on his task, before drifting his gaze back to the rhythm guitarist. He wanted to gush over John, knowing that the older man's subconscious had cared enough to let him into John's mind, but remained poignant. "Tell me later," he said. It took almost all of his self-control to keep it together, as he stood up from the table with shaky legs. Off, like a slinky panther, he went towards the door.
Ringo's confused voice called fruitlessly. "Aren't you 'avin brekkie?" He asked, looking up from the frying pan.
Paul turned at the door and smiled slightly, his eyes taking in John's lanky form at the table, and shook his head. "No, I ain't hungry." Then, he disappeared.
The drummer sighed, returning to scrubbing the pan tiredly, "Isn't anyone bloody hungry in this house?"
... ... ...
"Okay, John, what I want you to do is tell me what the following images are and say them aloud, so we can all hear it. Do you think you can do that for me?"
The rhythm guitarist suddenly found himself sitting in an office. When he looked down, he noticed that one of his shoe laces were untied, and he was wearing brown cord trousers. He had a jumper on. It was black. He didn't remember getting dressed.
"John?"
He looked up. Faces. He recognised Paul first, then Brian, then Mimi. There was another man... what was his name? Doctor... Doctor Rigby? No- he remembered Doctor Rigby was a lady. This man was Doctor... Doctor-
"Maybe we should do this exercise another day; John seems to be unable to respond-"
"No, no," Paul said, "He can do it, can't you, Johnny?"
If he could just get his bloody bearings together, he would be fine! Brian was touching his shoulder now. John felt the cold from the manager's hand travel through his body and send waves of goosebumps across his skin. He shuddered a little.
"You alright, my lad?" Brian asked. His blue eyes rippled like pools of despair.
John finally felt his throat crackle to life. "Fine..." he responded, "What do I need to do?"
The doctor lifted up some cards. He held it in front of John and said, "Tell me what these are."
The man raised an eyebrow. "That's it?"
Smiling, the doctor nodded. "That's it. Ready for the first one?"
John hummed in agreement. The first card was shown. He knew it. "Rat."
"Yes, well done."
This was easy! He could do this without a problem, it was a cake walk. The next card was shown. "Chair."
"Correct."
"Plane."
"Well done."
"Motor- No... bicycle"
"Correct, keep it up."
"C-Cat?"
"Yes."
"House."
"Correct, here's the last one."
John blinked. "I... I don't know..."
"Just try to guess, it's okay."
"C...Car?"
"Well done, John. That wasn't so bad was it?"
The musician didn't reply, instead he looked down at his shoes again with flushed cheeks, rosy with humiliation. The doctor put the cards back in his desk draw and looked back at John again.
"How have you been coping without the Phenelzine, John? Better? Worse?"
Paul spoke for him. "He hasn't had an outburst in a while... but I guess you could say he's been more down than usual."
The doctor hummed quietly, his grey eyes hardening a little with clinical intrigue. "How are the delusions? The hallucinations?"
It was quiet, almost deafening, until Brian's chalky voice filtered through the air. "Doctor Rigby says they're getting worse..."
"I see," said the professional quietly, tentatively, as he tucked his palm under his chin for a moment as his mind raced. The room went quiet and cold, like Winter had descended upon them all of a sudden, and then the doctor spoke again. "Well the way I see it, there are two ways we can go about doing this."
Paul's doe eyes brightened in intrigue. "What are they?"
"There's a new drug, French, imported from America called Chlorpromazine- or Thorazine, as it's more commonly known." The doctor rested his hands on the table again, eyes trained on John's tense form in the chair. "From research, it's proven effective for the treatment of psychosis."
Mimi grimaced. "Is it safe?"
"Yes, of course. Although there is an alternative option if you aren't comfortable with the first."
"Go on," Brian pushed nervously.
The doctor looked pensive. "The other option is to have John stay at a care centre for specialist treatment." His clinical eyes scanned everyone in the room before resting on John, who still gazed at the floor blankly.
The room was silent, before Paul uttered, "Absolutely not," with quiet anguish.
John's brown orbs flickered to Paul briefly before melting back to his shoes.
"Without proper treatment," the doctor continued carefully, "John's condition could worsen. More serious complications from his brain injury could go unnoticed-"
"But it's only a closed fracture, isn't it?" Interrupted Paul.
The practitioner closed his eyes briefly and sighed. Much like the rest of the people in the room, he also looked weighed down with fatigue. "Yes, that is true, however there may be swelling or a tumour that could develop: we have no way of knowing such things."
The bassist looked crestfallen. "Well... well is there anythin' we can do to stop it?"
"A healthy diet, exercise, educational training to stimulate the brain... maybe cut down on the cigarettes too. And be sure John takes the new medication." Advised the doctor.
"Excuse me, Doctor Robert," Brian started gently, "I believe the last time you prescribed John medication, it induced... mania. Will that happen with this new one?"
"John appeared to have suffered an adverse reaction to the Phenelzine, which I will admit is not very common but it does happen from time to time." Said Doctor Robert, strolling over to his medicine cabinet in the corner of the room. "However, Thorazine soothes the patient, creating more of a sedate result, if you will: mania is not a common side effect."
Paul grumbled quietly. "That's what you said last time."
The practitioner slid open the cabinet and from it he plucked a brown bottle, made of russet glass that shimmered when the sunlight caressed it with its warm rays. The doctor sat back down at his desk and passed it over to Brian generously.
"The medication shouldn't interfere with the sleeping pills I prescribed. In fact, the Thorazine may make John feel rather drowsy, so the sleeping tablets are not always needed."
The manager's lips tightened considerably. He nodded, unable to trust his shaking voice, and clutched the bottle with a tense hand.
Doctor Robert smiled thinly. "I believe one pill a day should be enough. When the prescription runs out, or if there are any problems, call me."
Everyone, apart from the rhythm guitarist, muttered a hasty response as they gathered themselves together and left. John was ushered out by Paul, who had a firm hand touching his shoulder. He looked up at the bassist as they travelled down the corridor back to the car.
"I think this is the end, ain't it?" John mumbled.
Paul blinked, slightly horrified by John's sudden morbidity. "End of what?" He asked with a hushed tone.
The older man stared deep into Paul's watery, hazel eyes, mad and bleak, like a man drawing his last breath. "The end of us- the end of me."
Paul's grip tightened around John's shoulder so much that he felt the rhythm guitarist squirm. "Don't ever say that." He breathed with severity. "Don't you ever fuckin' say that."
The two men fell silent as they trudged back to the car.
... ... ...
One last day of freedom.
One last day of sweet, sober lucidity, before he had to take his meds.
Brian had decided John would start the Thorazine the next day, meaning the rhythm guitarist only had hours before his psychological demise.
He wasn't supposed to be on medication: he was a rock star. The only pills he should have been taking were ones that kept him up all night, not ones that left him dribbling down his chin.
So as a celebration before his soon-ending freedom, John thought it was only right to get absolutely fucking hammered.
He was on his bedroom floor, bottle of Bicardi in one hand, joint in the other. His jumper had been shed, his belt discarded halfway across the room, one of his shoes somehow ending up on top of the wardrobe. He had discovered Ringo's stash of kush when he had drunkenly stumbled into his room and ended up looting the sock draw, looking for the 'special magazines' he heard the drummer whispering to George about in the kitchen. Needless to say, as well as itching for a drink, John was also itching for some action.
Like a foal learning to walk on shaky legs, the rhythm guitarist dragged himself up from the carpet and held himself upright using his bed post. Breathing heavily, he swayed over to the door and pulled it open.
"I need a piss," he mumbled.
The corridor wobbled around him, the marijuana and the vodka blurring the thin line between reality and the imaginary, as the man stumbled over his own feet and nearly crash-landed head first into the wall, but saved himself just in time by using his hands to hold his weary body up.
It proved difficult, but John had successfully made his way to the loo: now he just had to piss...
After nearly decorating the walls, the rhythm guitarist wobbled out of the bathroom and was about to stumble back to his boudoir before he heard quiet talking coming from Paul's bedroom. In his hazy state, the rhythm guitarist rattled open the door and collapsed through, sprawling out on the bassist's carpet.
The younger man had wide eyes. "Uh, Mike... I have to go." He breathed, before putting the phone back on the cradle and rushing over to his bandmate, who was giggling to himself quietly on the floor.
"If I fell in love with you, would you.. you promise to be true," John sang giddily, as Paul hoisted him from the ground and helped shuffle him over to the bed.
"What's got into you," Paul mumbled. He tried to get the man to lay down but the rhythm guitarist was trying to grasp onto the bassist sloppily. "John, let go, you need to sleep it off."
"I'm jus'... doin' me!" Lennon hiccuped. He grabbed Paul's hand and started drunkenly nuzzling it across his sunken cheeks. "You're... you're so soft, Paul."
Paul tried pulling away weakly, confused as to whether he wanted this to happen or not. He knelt down in front of John, looking up at him. "Drinking doesn't solve shit." He tried to drill through John's hazy orbs with his own sober ones as he put a warm hand on John's knee. "It's pointless. It don't help nothin', you hear me?"
John narrowed his expression in anguish. "Then why do you do it!" He growled. He wobbled slightly on the bed but remained reasonably lucid when he focused on Paul's grounding touch.
"Because I'm a dumb fucking bastard, John, and it hurts me. You're smarter than I am! You don't need to do this to feel whole again." He assured.
John's narrow eyes quickly melted into ones of sultry intent. He used his hands to clutch Paul's shirt collar. "I know what'll make us feel whole again, Paulie." He grinned wickedly, as he started running his palms up and down Paul's chest.
The bassist grimaced, trying to stand up but feeling John's gropes become fuelled with desire and desperation. "No, John," he scolded lightly, "you're drunk."
"So what if I am?" The rhythm guitarist slurred, "I want to know how it feels to be needed again." His eyes shifted up and down Paul's slender figure seductively and he pulled the younger man closer.
Paul didn't respond. His breathing had suddenly become heavy and ragged, his eyes watery. He felt goosebumps spread across his skin in rapid-fire quickness. He found his hand on John's knee moving up his thigh and dangerously close to the older man's package.
"Besides," John purred, "I heard you moaning my name last night."
Paul froze immediately, wide eyes staring through the other man. Neither of them spoke for a moment, until McCartney whispered. "I don't know what I want."
John appeared to have sobered for a brief moment, brown eyes gaining a clarity. "I think... I think I want you." He responded just as hushed.
The bassist breathed. "I... I think I want you too."
Both men chortled nervously, John's alcoholic smell wafting through the air. Paul stopped laughing for a moment and stared into John's eyes like he was staring at the night sky; the rhythm guitarist had lost some of the lucidity in those dark, rippling pools- due to the alcohol as well as the injury- but they still held a craving desire that burned with the heat of a thousand Sun's.
"I hope I didn't scare you," the bassist murmured, "when you heard me... you know..." he smiled sheepishly.
John gave a drunken grin. "I liked it." He brought his face closer to Paul's until their noses were mere inches apart. "It made me... me d-dream about you," he slurred a little. Paul's grip on his thigh tightened to try and keep him awake.
Paul smiled with small, plump lips. "What was I doin' in the dream?"
The rhythm guitarist giggled bashfully, averting his eyes for a moment. "We were in a... a..." he furrowed his brow. "What's the word?"
"Car? Boat? Plane-"
"Plane! Tha's it! Me an' you were in a plane, and the sky was green, and the clouds... the clouds, Paul! They were p-purple, of all things, an' we were in this plane an' we were kissin' each other an' holdin' each other an'-"
"John," the bassist chuckled, "slow down, will ye'?"
"-then the dream ended an' I was all sticky when I woke up, y'know." John had his hands on Paul's shoulders in a tight grasp. "You do things to me, you know that, Paulie."
Paul felt the heat rise to his cheeks. He breathed heavily. "Do I?"
The older man lowered his voice. Perhaps it was the alcohol talking, Paul thought, that was making John so sincere. His brown eyes seemed to hold the whole world in them. "Y'know," he hiccuped dreamily, "through all this crazy, fucked up bullshite, I still 'member that night in '58 on that bench." Paul eyes stared up at the man like a child in wonder. John ran his hand through the bassist's raven locks and touseled them pleasantly. "Clear as day."
Paul could feel the heat from both of their bodies elope them in a warm cocoon of oblivion to the outside world. He squeezed John's thigh again and relished when John ran his hands through his hair again, the touch electric, sending sparks all over his body. John, the herbal smell of blow hanging onto his clothes like a spirit, hummed at each touch of the bassist's dark follicles.
The doe-eyed lad could have stayed in that moment forever, careless and safe: he was in the longing arms of his favourite person. When he felt those magnetic fingers cease massaging his skull, he looked up quietly to see John staring down at him.
"Paul..." he breathed, his voice laden with husk, "can I... can I kiss you?"
The bassist felt his heart stop for a moment, the butterflies in his stomach multiplying at an alarming rate. His breathing hitched, his mouth hanging open a little. "I... okay," he whispered.
He closed his eyes when he felt John's presence gravitate towards him, the warmth grow stronger, the scent invading his nostrils and tickling his senses. Their lips connected tentatively. John had Paul's shoulders in his grasping hands, their bodies touching, moving against each other like stones skimming a stream. Paul moved his hands to the small of the older man's back and ran his fingers, trying to find a surface to cling on, caressing the countenance of John's bear physique as if touching a work of art. It was not long before the two men had ended up on the bed, John pushing Paul down on the sheets hastily, his lips still working Paul's feverishly. The rhythm guitarist moaned and breathed against the bassist's mouth and neck, planting a bevy of delicate kisses on his pale skin. John's coarse hands had started shakily trying to tug Paul's jumper off of him, until finally Paul removed his jumper and his t-shirt himself and cast them across the room quickly. They melted into each other once again.
Paul's hazel eyes popped open when he felt a bulge touch his thigh. Through the mop of John's auburn hair that tickled the bassist's forehead, the doe-eyed musician saw one of John's hands cup his package through his trousers, trying to undo his fly. Paul pushed John gently away for a second.
The bassist tried to catch his breath. "Are we...?"
John looked to be in the same position as Paul, his brow slightly furrowing. "I... I don't know. I'm sorry; I pushed you too much-"
"No, it's not that," Paul said reassuringly, "it's just that I've never been with a bloke before, y'know."
"Well... are you, y'know, in the mood?"
Paul blinked. Was something else going to happen here? The bassist felt the butterflies in his stomach whirl until he felt a little ill. "Um, I-I suppose. I mean, what do you wanna do?"
The rhythm guitarist looked bashful. "I just wanna make you feel g-good, Paul." He curled his fingers around Paul's gently.
The two men sat on the bed quietly for a moment. Paul speculated. "I don't want to make you do anythin' you don't want to. You're drunk after all, John; I don't wanna take advantage of ye'." His hazel eyes shifted to the carpet.
Suddenly, John was on the floor in front of him. "No, Paul, I want this to 'appen, I've wanted it for months... maybe even years. Even touchin' you makes me happy." He rubbed Paul's knees with his big hands. "I want to make you feel good. I wanna know if y-you're okay with this though."
The bassist felt his heart race. He wanted to know John- know everything about him. He wanted to know John's body: Paul felt compelled.
But he didn't want this to change them. He felt terror strike him in the heart when he thought about the consequences of exploring his sexuality, his boundaries with his best friend. Being gay was illegal: he'd seen Brian come into the studio with a new bruise or a bust lip or a black eye far too many times to realise that being a homosexual was more than frowned upon.
But Paul was certainly not gay; he liked women, he liked their bodies, but he also liked John. John made him feel that nothing else in the world mattered. John made him feel safe. He knew things had definitely changed when John was in the accident, and that it was his duty to care for his soul mate. He sometimes found himself longingly wishing John hadn't been left brain damaged but there was nothing none of them could do about that.
"Paul?" John shook him gently, eyes dark with a small desperation inside them.
Paul swallowed. Change could be good. He breathed. "I'm okay. I want you to."
The older man gave a frayed smile. His eyes quickly shifted over to Paul's crotch before him. "M-May I?" He asked.
The younger man nodded, and he felt the zip of his trousers loosen, his belt discarded somewhere behind them. Paul let his eyes close for a brief moment as John slid the man's underwear down his thighs and dropped them to his ankles. There was a pause, and in that moment Paul felt the weight of the world press against his chest in fear.
John's voice was low, shaky. "You're... beautiful."
A kiss. One kiss sent shivers racing up and down Paul's spine as he exhaled deeply and let John's delicate mouth massage his semi. Slowly, carefully, John used his tongue to swirl around the head of Paul's member, as he used his coarse hands to grasp the bassist's slim, hairy thighs. Paul gasped a little when John sucked for a second and the man took his mouth away quickly.
His chocolate eyes were alight in concern. "Did I hurt you?"
"No," Paul breathed heavily, "no, that felt good."
John grinned devilishly and wrapped his lips around Paul's bubbling manhood once again, now fully erect. The bassist moaned as John took his length into his mouth hungrily. The combination of his tongue and his powerful sucks made Paul roll his eyes back in pleasure, his hands finding their way into John's shaggy, auburn hair and coil.
"Oh, God, John," the bassist groaned quietly.
The rhythm guitarist obediently and feverishly circled his silver tongue around the head of Paul's throbbing cock, moaning every so often as if he was dining on his last meal. His eyes burnt through Paul's, filling the bassist head to toe with erotica. John felt his own manhood swell painfully with neglect but he worked Paul's dick with gusto.
"Fuck, oh fuck," Paul writhed, pulling John's hair tighter. He felt his member pulse powerfully, the pleasure burning through him like wildfire. His orgasm was closer than he wanted it to be, but he needed release. He looked down at John with foggy, lustful eyes, cheeks plump and rosy with electricity.
John sensed Paul was close and so sped up, his mouth working faster than it ever had, his tongue in a frenzy; that taste of the bassist made him ache with longing. Feverishly, the rhythm guitarist gave one long last suck and removed his mouth in time for Paul's seed to spill out from him, as the younger man throttled a little in overwhelming pleasure, his hazel eyes disappearing under his eyelids.
"John..." he breathed, finally regaining his composure, "that was amazing."
The older man smiled at his Paul with cloudy orbs. "Did it make you feel good?"
"Oh, God," Paul grinned, "it made me feel fuckin' great." He moved his trembling hand over to John's thigh when the rhythm guitarist climbed onto the bed. "I don't know how I'm gonna top that."
John's voice quietened, his lips pressing once again to Paul's neck. "You could do anythin' to me and I'd love it." He felt Paul's hands press against his bare chest and push him back against the pillows, his hazel orbs suddenly glowing with seductive intent.
"I've been waiting to do this," he purred, tugging down the zipper on John's trousers.
... ... ...
(Hello guys and gals and everyone in between!
I apologise sincerely for the long wait, school has been hectic and I've been in a bit of a funk lately which makes me unmotivated to write but I pushed through!
I hope you all enjoyed this chapter. There will be more as soon as I finish writing, don't fret.
To the anonymous Guest reviewer... I'm sorry I kept you without an update and I appreciate your enthusiasm for my story. Sometimes it takes me a while to write these chapters to a decent quality, especially when I make them extra long. I'm writing as fast as I can, please be patient. Thank you for your reviews, nevertheless. :-)
Also thank you to my good friend nij2401 who supports me a lot through this story! They're a great writer, so please give them some love.
Anyway, that's enough of me. I'll see you soon!
Lots of love,
omgringo)