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Paul’s pulse is quick under John’s fingers as he yanks him by the wrist and pulls him through the doorway of their dressing room.
The door slams shut behind them as he swings Paul around and presses him up against it. John’s mouth is on him immediately, hands snapping open his suit jacket and tugging down his collar to press hot open-mouth kisses to the exposed skin of his neck.
“Jesus, John,” Paul laughs, craning his neck to give him better access, “What’s gotten into you all of a sudden?”
“You looked so good on camera, love,” John whispers, trailing his lips down the tantalizing expanse of him, the curve of his Adam’s apple, which bobbed at the feeling. “Can’t help meself when you’re playing like that. Could hardly wait to take that bloody suit off.”
Paul opens his mouth to respond, but John cuts him off with a needy, bruising kiss, hands planted firmly in his mop of dark hair. Visibly swallowing his comments he kisses back, meeting John’s lips with just as much teeth and tongue as he’s received. It’s heady and wet and absolutely filthy, all pretenses of tenderness dropped in favor of lust—the tang of Paul’s cigarettes and sweat on his tongue, his lips, the breath that mixed with his own. John feels a bit woozy with it.
Urgency and the threat of being walked in on nonetheless hurries him along; John’s wandering hands sink lower, unbuckling Paul’s belt with practiced ease and reaching down into his briefs. John smirks against his lips, pulling back and raising an eyebrow. A surge of self-satisfaction runs through him.
“Excited, are we?”
“Oh, shut it.”
“Not a word, not a word, Macca,” John chirps, then wraps his hand around him.
Paul’s breath catches at the contact, his pretty lips parted as his hips jerk into John’s hand. He's always so gorgeous like this, all pliant and needy under him—needy as a groupie and gasping like one, too. John spreads his thumb over the tip, dragging his hand through the wetness starting to gather there and stroking up and down Paul’s shaft.
“Yeah, just like that,” Paul breathes, melting into the feeling as John’s movements pick up pace. “C’mon, faster, Johnny…”
God, the sight of him alone is nearly enough to make a man come in his pants; all fluttering eyelashes and rosy cheeks like a doll. He grinds his hips desperately against Paul’s thighs as he tosses him off, a low groan tearing from his own throat.
“So fuckin’ pretty like this, Paul,” John sighs, his voice taking on a ragged quality as he buries his head in Paul’s shoulder.
Paul returns the favor from earlier and kisses down the side of his neck, growing more and more intense as John’s hand keeps working. He nips experimentally at the skin, and John whines at the feeling.
“You like that?” Paul says against his neck. His hot breath feels like a brand against John’s skin as he slowly licks up the shelf of his jaw. Shivers run through John’s body, his nerves standing on end.
“Fuck yeah,” John moans, heedless of all the people surrounding them just outside the door. His hand on Paul stutters as his own cock twitches in his trousers. Of course Paul notices, the smug bastard, and latches onto John’s neck with even more gusto than before, pulling down his collar to suck harshly at the patch of skin. If Paul is skilled with his hands he’s a bloody magician with his mouth. John shudders, swallowing an embarrassing noise.
Then Paul bites down hard on his already tender neck. A bolt of pain shoots down his spine, a deliciously sharp counterpoint to the hazy pleasure. It’s almost overwhelmingly good, and John, mortifyingly, moans and very nearly comes in his pants.
They almost never leave any visible love bites or bruises—Brian would have their heads—but the idea of being marked up isn’t anything new to him. Typically, though, he's the one who does it to Paul; the ghosts of thumbprints on his hips, bruises marring his sinfully long legs. Small things, easily faded and covered. Nibbles here and there. Not bite marks.
John’s never been the recipient of anything like this, not even back in Hamburg where the working girls would do anything for a few extra Deutschmarks. But he’s also never gotten so worked up over a simple handy.
They both freeze. John pulls back to see the hint of a satisfied smile tugging at Paul’s lips.
“You’re a menace,” he manages. His cheeks feel warm.
“I dunno what you’re talking about.”
Paul is the picture of innocence if not for the smug look in his eye, and cants his hips forwards, tearing a groan out of the both of them. He's infuriatingly pretty in his cockiness, and John is just about ready to press Paul up against the dressing table and thoroughly defile the entire dressing room, Beatle obligations be damned.
Unfortunately those plans are ruined by a sharp knock at the door he has Paul up against. Both of them startle and scramble apart.
“Fuck,” John hisses. Paul was just in his arms, hard and wanting—somebody had better be on fire or actively dying to warrant an interruption now of all times.
“Are there any Beatles around?” comes a dry voice from beyond the door—George.
“I think you just missed ‘em. Rotten luck, that,” John says, trying for cheeky and landing on short.
“Shame. Well, if you see any make sure to tell them that Mr. Epstein’s about to lose his head looking for them.”
“We’ll be down in a mo, we just got held up with some girls,” Paul says, shooting John an apologetic look.
“Right, well. Make yourselves decent and I’ll tell the others you're, uh, coming,” George says, dry amusement lacing his words. Of course he finds it funny. John ought to burst in singing Besame Mucho the next time he has a girl in his room.
As George’s footsteps disappear down the hall, John releases his hold on Paul’s shoulders, letting his head fall against the door in frustration.
“If I knew that being a Beatle meant that I wouldn’t have time to get off, I’d have stayed back in Liverpool and just married some old toff,” John huffs.
“Ah, but you’d miss me,” Paul says, playing with John's lapels.
“Your arse, maybe. Could take or leave everything else.”
“Charming as ever, Johnny," he chuckles, pulling him in close again. "Now come 'ed, let's finish up before the others come looking."
It's dead lucky they've mastered the art of the quickie, John thinks.
John spends the rest of their day distracted.
Not because of their earlier interruption, or even the bone-deep exhaustion that doing press instills in him, but because of Paul. It's ridiculous, really, and makes him feel like a randy teenager again, messing up his chords on purpose so Paul would end band practice and take him home—except this time it's worse, because he isn't doing it on purpose.
All he can think about is the teeth marks under his shirt collar, brushing up against the stiff fabric every time he turns his head, unbeknownst to everyone but the two of them. It's maddening, it's absolutely maddening, and he can't stop thinking about it. Go on and take a crack at this one, Freud.
The last straw comes when they finally return to the hotel, and John finally gets a proper look at himself in the bathroom mirror.
“Fucking hell, Paul."
“Hm?” Paul looks up from undoing his tie. “What is it?”
“I look like I’ve been screwing Dracula.”
Paul’s head appears in the doorway, amused. “What are you on about?”
John turns to him and pulls down his collar, watching as Paul’s eyes widen. An angry bruise sits on the crook of his neck, surrounded by a set of deep red indentations—the shape of Paul’s teeth, pressed into John’s skin like a stamp of ownership.
“Jesus,” Paul says, wincing. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to do it that hard.”
John rolls his eyes. “I’m not a princess, Paul, I’m alright.”
He runs a finger lightly over the bruise, tracing the tender skin. If Paul had gone just a bit higher, John wouldn’t have been able to hide it. Everyone would know exactly what they’d been up to that afternoon, and who had staked his claim on him. A shiver rolls down his spine at the idea of it. It’s fucked how much it sends a thrill through him; the idea of walking around with a massive hickey high on his neck like a teenager should seem ridiculous, not turn him on. And yet, here he is, popping a stiffy over it.
“John?” Paul says, taking him out of his thoughts. John pulls his shirt back up, turning to face him. He chews on his lip, expression carefully neutral as he meets John’s eye.
“Hm?”
“Did you like it when I did that?”
“Did what?”
“When I bit you. You seemed to enjoy it, is all.”
John purses his lips in lieu of a response. Of course not, don’t be soft, some part of his brain wants to say. It would be the easiest thing in the world to lie, to cuff him on the shoulder and tell him that no, he doesn’t like being gnawed on like a roast ham, thanks, and leave it at that. He doesn’t.
Instead, he says, “S’pose I did.”
Paul stares, swallowing. “Yeah?”
John nods, feeling the weight of self-consciousness bearing down on him. He’s further than anyone from being a prude, but the idea of admitting he enjoys something as…debasing as being bitten and marked pricks at his ego. He hates how pathetic it sounds, but there’s no denying that humiliating display from earlier—or the way it makes his jeans tighten uncomfortably.
Paul’s still worrying his lip while he leans up against the doorframe, a doe-eyed James Dean in his dark suit. His eyes are appraising, and John suddenly feels like a bug under a microscope. A flash of irritation hits him.
“What?” John snaps, the minute of silence having felt like an hour. “Are you going to move out of the way so I can get to bed or are you just going to—mph!”
Paul’s lips are crashing into his before John can finish his sentence. They have never been particularly delicate with their affections but this is another beast entirely; Paul kisses him like he’s trying to devour him whole. John’s brain stutters, prior hangups lost to Paul, Paul, Paul and finishing what they started earlier. He’s always had that effect on John, the droopy-eyed bastard. Tearing his armor off like it's nothing.
“Let me have you?” Paul breathes, and John’s breath catches in his throat.
He has John against the bathroom counter, a complete reversal of their roles from earlier. His eyes are dark, and John knows Paul well enough to recognize his arousal on his face, but there’s something else there—more like hunger than desire. It’s the antithesis of the Cute Beatle that grins up at him in the papers, a visible crack in his aloof facade, and John needs to see it broken entirely.
“Fuck yes,” is all John says before Paul’s pulling him by the wrist to the bed. The backs of his knees hit the mattress and John goes down easily, falling back against the hotel linens with Paul leering over him.
“I’ve been thinking about it all day,” he says, tracing a finger around the tender bruise he made earlier and making John gasp quietly. “Finishing what we started.”
He doesn’t waste any time—he grabs hold of John’s tie and tugs him closer, eyes burning into his own. A crack of the proverbial whip he held over him.
“How do you want it?” Paul whispers, still trailing his fingers over John’s neck. John shivers and swallows his pride.
“Hard,” John says, somehow managing to keep his voice firm. He puts a hand over the soft area below his jaw. “Here.”
Paul’s eyebrows shoot up a fraction. “If I do it that high up you won’t be able to cover it. Everyone’ll see it.”
John takes a deep breath and nods, not breaking eye contact. He’s probably fucked in the head for wanting this, he knows it, but he can’t bring himself to stop while Paul’s on top of him, turned on and best of all, offering.
“I want them to,” he says quietly.
Paul stares at him, astonished, for what feels like six months. Christ, just get on with it, he thinks, unwilling to sit with what he’s admitted to and half-afraid of Paul getting up and leaving.
“Jesus fuck,” Paul eventually mutters, and kisses him again.
He nips at John’s bottom lip, presses his tongue into him, explores his mouth like he’s one of his drunken Hamburg conquests, and John is almost convinced that he’s knocked out on his mattress back at Mendips. Paul’s no Virgin Mary, but John’s never seen him so fucking eager for it.
“You’re really into this, aren’t you,” John gets out between sloppy kisses, admittedly equally eager, “A real deviant, you are.”
“What does that make you, then?” Paul chuckles darkly, pulling away just enough that his lips still ghost against John’s. “Wanting everyone to see what I do to you. Getting off on me marking you up.”
He grinds his hips down, and John moans against his mouth, his hips bucking up of their own accord. Even with their clothes still on John can tell that Paul’s just as achingly hard as he is. He tries to thrust upwards, desperate for more friction, but Paul’s hands dart to his waist to hold him down. The exercise of power over him goes straight to John’s cock, and he squirms under Paul’s hold.
“Paul,” John groans, trying to arch his body into Paul’s.
“You like it when I hold you down, Johnny?” he says, leering down at him like the cat who got the canary. The hands on John's waist snake up to his wrists, pulling them above his head. “I could tie you to the bed next time, really make you squirm for it.”
Now that’s a mental image—tied up and at Paul’s mercy, letting him do as he pleases. John’s hips snap up again. “Fuck—now you’re just being unfair.”
Paul just grins devilishly at him, releasing his wrists and sitting up to finally get them both out of their trousers. The relief of being free of his too-tight briefs lasts only a moment before Paul leans down and slowly licks him from base to tip, staring heatedly at him through his eyelashes.
John whines, clawing at the sheets. It's nearly too much of a tease in the state he's already in.
"You look incredible like this," Paul says, trailing his hands down John's taut body.
“Come on, Paul,” John says, desperate even to his own ears.
"Patience," Paul tuts, then leans back up and latches on to John’s neck with his mouth, straddling his legs. He gets right to it, sucking harshly on the patch of skin under his jaw, circling his tongue and nibbling the sore skin. It's almost unbearable, being attended to like this. John's cock throbs against his stomach, and he can’t remember the last time he’s been so stupidly turned on.
Paul teasingly drags his teeth down his neck, staring half-lidded at John through his thick dark lashes, and it’s fucking unfair how lovely he looks even while doing something so debauched. Not breaking eye contact, Paul nips at him teasingly.
John grabs at Paul’s hair, keeping him there. “Do it,” he gasps.
Paul nods and bites down nearly hard enough to break skin, eliciting a loud, drawn-out moan from John before he can even properly process it. His teeth press hard into John’s neck, sure to bruise and leave a mark even clearer than the last one as he sucks on the skin. The pain dances on the edge of too much, and it should be awful, but it just isn’t, it’s so fucking good he feels dizzy with it.
“I bet all those girls’ll stay away,” Paul says lowly, licking at the fresh bite mark to emphasize his words. John’s whole body jerks at the sensation. “Now that everyone can see you're spoken for.”
Paul pauses, moving back down the taut line of John's body to press a kiss to the head of John's cock, teasing. "Well, is that what you want, John?"
Possessiveness is a trait he rarely sees in Paul—usually that’s John’s territory—but it’s crystal clear in the covetous edge to his voice, the hands reaching up to grasp at his own. Those hazel eyes are still boring into him, Paul leering like he wants to ravage him, and John wants. He starts speaking before he even realizes what he's saying.
"Yes," John moans. "Mark me up, I don't care who sees it, please."
His eyes darken and then Paul's mouth is back between John's open legs, sucking wet kisses up the sensitive skin of his inner thighs.
"Love your thighs, John," he murmurs, raking his hands up the hairy planes of his legs almost reverentially. "So thick and beautiful—I'd fuck them anytime."
John just moans, overwhelmed and hiding his burning face under his arm while Paul bites and sucks his way down his body.
Paul eventually pulls away, satisfied with the myriad bruises that will no doubt appear on John's skin. Leaning forward he mouths at John's shaft, before taking the head in his mouth. The sudden wet heat shocks a yelp out of John, and Paul scratches his nails harshly into his hips as his mouth takes him apart, sharp notes of pain and pleasure reverberating through him like dissonant chords on a piano. It's even more incredible than it usually is, the contrasting sensations sending him sky high. He's fucking fantastic at it, always has been, and goes down on John with practiced ease, humming around his cock and leaving him writhing underneath him.
John's eyes squeeze shut at the feeling, too much but not quite enough, but then Paul's suddenly pulling off. He whines at the loss, frustrated—he'd been so close.
"Why'd you—oh, fuck."
John cuts himself short when Paul reaches for the bedside table and pulls out one of the bottles of lube they'd packed for tour. He swallows as Paul squirts a liberal amount onto his hands, warming it up. All this teasing has him worked up enough already, but Paul seems intent on dragging this out as long as possible.
"Let me know if it's too much," Paul says, seemingly reading his mind. "Can't have you coming too early."
It's almost—no, it is patronizing, the way he's treating him, but John can't bring himself to care, not when he has Paul's sole attention, not when it feels so safe to indulge in it. Christ, he feels like he's losing it, letting him do this, but it's somehow more grounding than ever.
John lets out a shaky breath and nods. Slicking his hands up, Paul leans back down to circle a finger against John's rim before slowly sinking inside. The pressure makes John squirm with want, craving more.
"Don't worry," Paul says lowly, ducking his head to suck at John's hipbone, "I'll give you all the attention you want, love."
Paul slides another finger into John and curves them upwards, tearing pitchy moans out of John's mouth as he rubs against his prostate once, twice. He rests his head in the crook of John's hip, kissing his way up the sparse hair leading to his cock as he slowly and methodically opens John up. It's almost excruciating in its slowness, every drag of Paul's long guitar-calloused fingers teasing John back towards desperation embarrassingly quickly.
"Oh god," John pants, arching up to meet Paul's movements. "Fuck me already."
"Ask nicely?" Paul smirks, crooking his fingers up again. John grips the sheets like a lifeline, whining at the stimulation.
"Please fuck me," he says immediately. Pride completely tossed away in favor of his need for Paul to pin him down and have his way with him until all those pesky insecurities disappear. "I'll do anythin' you want, just fuck me, Paulie."
Paul groans at that, his flushed, sweaty face mirroring what John's own probably looks like. "Christ, John."
John's world narrows to the feeling of Paul manhandling him, turning him onto his stomach and pulling his hips up, pressing his leaking cock against his hole. Anticipation burns low in his stomach.
Paul slides inside him in one quick thrust, the burn of the too-fast stretch earning a broken-off moan from John. He barely gives him time to adjust before he's pulling out to the tip and then slamming back in, fucking him fast and hard.
"Oh fuck!" he moans, burying his head in the sheets.
"'S this what you wanted, Johnny?" comes Paul's strained voice in his ear, right as he angles himself to drag against his swollen prostate.
"Yes, oh fuck, harder," John babbles.
Grabbing his hips, Paul somehow sets an even more brutal pace that has John seeing stars every time his cock drags against his prostate. His entire lower half is going to be sore tomorrow, he knows it, but he can't find it in himself to care, not when Paul's being so deliciously rough. His hands roam John's body like he's mapping out the stars on his hipbones, digging sharply into the softness there. It's incredible, and as Paul fucks him closer and closer towards the edge, John realizes one thing, with complete and startling clarity: he still needs more, and he knows exactly what.
"Bite me again," he chokes out. The words pour out of his mouth with no filter as he chases an even greater high.
Paul's dick twitches inside John, clearly interested in the idea, and the both of them shudder. "I don't wanna hurt you, I dunno if right now I can control how hard—"
"I want it to hurt, please," he whines, desire sparking deep in his chest. It's all the encouragement Paul needs, if the way he groans and picks up the pace is any indicator.
"Fuck—you're—achin'—for it, aren't ye," Paul says between thrusts and the sloppy kisses he sucks onto John's collarbone. "Want everyone to know who you belong to."
"Yes, do it, c'mon, I need it," John begs.
Not slowing his thrusts Paul threads a hand into John's hair and pulls, yanking his head back in a way that punches a soft moan from his lungs. He licks a stripe up the pale skin of his neck and tugs John into a backwards kiss that's little more than a wet slide of their mouths.
"You're mine, Johnny, all mine," Paul murmurs, then finally, finally grants John's wish and sinks his teeth hard into his shoulder.
If the pain was wonderful earlier it's utterly rapturous now. Paul's teeth press hard enough to draw blood, pain-pleasure spiking through him with such white-hot intensity that he loses himself completely, moaning and clenching his muscles while Paul fucks into him with abandon. A hand reaches around his cock and it's over.
"I'm—fucking—oh god, Paul—" is all John manages before he comes totally undone, writhing underneath Paul as waves of mind-melting ecstasy crash into him and destroy any semblance of thought he still had.
He's distantly aware of Paul saying filthy things into his ear as he rides it out, fucking him through it. At some point he hears Paul swear, and whines when he feels the telltale warmth spill inside him, but he's too fucked-out to process much beyond that. They both collapse in a sweaty, boneless heap. It's minutes before John feels ready to even speak, his mind and body both turned to mush in the afterglow. All he can think, as they slowly come back down to Earth, is how ridiculously good it had been to stop being John The Beatle, and just be Paul's.
"Alright?" eventually comes Paul's voice from above him, taking him out of his reverie. He still sounds breathless, like he's just finished running a marathon. A hand comes up to gently brush John's sweaty fringe out of his eyes. John blinks, gathering his thoughts.
"Better than alright. Ye wrung me out like a dishrag, son. I'll never be able to come again."
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, now," Paul says, chuckling when it earns him a thump on the arm. He pauses, eyes widening a fraction as they pass over him. "Hold on, you're bleeding."
He lets Paul dote on him, sitting on the edge of the bed while he rummages through the bathroom cabinet for a first aid kit. John swallows at the sight of himself in the wardrobe's mirror—it looks like he's been attacked. The worst is the last one, the only one to have broken the skin, right where his neck met his shoulder. The one that made you come, you pervert, his brain so helpfully supplies. Tiny droplets of blood leak out of the angry red indentations where Paul's incisors went too deep and pierced his skin. Jesus.
"Right, this'll sting," Paul says, kneeling in front of him with a tiny bottle of spray antiseptic. John scoffs.
"Can't sting any worse than you taking a chunk out of my neck, but ta for the warning."
Paul rolls his eyes and gets to work disinfecting and dabbing away at the wound with a piece of tissue. It's oddly comforting in how familiar it is—Paul patching him up in old Jim's bathroom, Paul patching him up in an alley behind some dingy club on the Reeperbahn. It should bruise his ego, letting another bloke, letting Paul, mother him the way he does, but John's never really minded it. Loves it, really; the feeling of absolute safety that comes with being taken care of like that. Not that he'd ever say it out loud.
He supposes what they've just done is some form of that, in its own strange, backwards way. They both wince when Paul dabs at the worst of the bite.
"Sorry," he mutters sheepishly. "I didn't go too far, did I?"
"No," John says. "I'm the one who told you to do it, anyway."
As Paul tends to him, the full weight of what they did—what John did—minutes ago starts to seep in. He'd begged Paul to make it hurt, came from it even. The embarrassment of it is second only to the desire to do it again, and the thought makes arousal burn shamefully in his chest.
John averts his eyes from Paul's delicate handiwork. "It's fucked in the head, isn't it."
Paul cracks the tiniest of smiles up at him as he bandages him up. He reaches for John's hand, gently interlacing their fingers and giving a reassuring squeeze that tells John all he needs to know about Paul's feelings towards the matter.
"It was good though," he says with a shrug.
"Yeah," John sighs. He can't lie, not when he was so recently writhing and moaning for it. Not that he wants to lie, not at this point. "Really, really fucking good."
"Ah, boys! There you are. I was just about to phone your room," Brian says, smiling kindly at John and Paul as they settle in at the hotel dining area, where he and the other two Beatles are having their morning tea. "Sleep in a bit late?"
"Something like that," Paul responds, amicable as ever. "All these time zones really mess with your head."
Paul engages Brian in some sort of small talk, which ends up being a small blessing, because the second John sits down on the hard wooden chair he winces. He was right about being sore, apparently. George's gaze meets his own with amusement, clearly noticing.
"Eventful evening, then?" George muses, raising an eyebrow as he takes a sip of his tea.
They aren't going to be able to put one over on him—he's walked in on them in too many different hotel rooms and shared bunks and storage closets to think they had been up to anything last night but screwing each other's brains out. Oh, well. If he wants to comment on it, then John figures it's George's own fault if he learns a thing or two he rather wouldn't about his mates.
"Could say that," John smirks. He pointedly unbuttons his collar—his highest one, of course—and stretches, craning his neck. "Hot today, innit Georgie?"
George's amused expression immediately falls, replaced with something between disgust and morbid fascination. "Fucking hell. You two are insane."
Ringo looks over and whistles. "Damn. I didn't know our Paul had it in him."
"Seems he had it in John, at least," George says, earning himself a cuff on the shoulder.
"What are you three talking about?" Brian asks, turning away from Paul at the noise. His eyes fall to John's neck and he lets out a deeply long-suffering sigh. "Lord, John, what have you done?"
"Ask McCartney," Ringo says.
John had expected that, for all his talk last night, Paul would flush and promise it wouldn't happen again, smoothing everything over with Brian like the perfect PR prince he is. To his utter surprise, though, he doesn't.
"Sorry," is all Paul says, shrugging irreverently. "Got a bit carried away, I s'pose."
Cheeky sod. John grins, feeling a rush of fondness for him.
Brian huffs, rubbing his temples. "Honestly, you two. Well, see that it doesn't happen again. I suppose you'll have to perform in your black jumpers for the next few shows. And John, you'll need to be covered or made up before any public appearances, understood?"
"'Course," John says, cartoonishly crossing his heart. "Cross me eye and hope to fly."
His antics earn a fond eye-roll from their manager, and with a well-timed mention of their schedule from Ringo, everyone returns to their conversations, done with the two of them and their shit. Everyone except for Paul, who nudges him with his foot under the table.
When he looks over, Paul, chin balanced on his hand, smiles devilishly at him. The look on his face is self-satisfied as all hell.
John can't wait to see it again.