Chapter Text
He was soft—pale skin covered by the dark fuzz of hair which decorated his forearms and thighs. He was truly no girl, not as slim or skinny but hell was he as soft as one. The chub of his pale stomach was incredibly soft just like the hair that ran from his belly button down underneath his briefs.
Each breath of a whine that escaped his lips coaxed a groan out of the older lad—he was simply irresistible. His face was flushed, hair tousled against the floor where he lied. Bangs gathering in a bunch at his forehead from the sweat.
His plump lips were slightly parted, mouthing nonsense before being interrupted by his own irresistible noises. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut—lashes fluttering.
He was simply beautiful, a sight John could take in for hours without getting bored.
John remembered rutting his own frustratedly hard prick against the floor as he lied upon Paul, squeezing his warm fluids out.
John now lie in bed, eyes closed shut as he painted a picture of the memory in his head, his hands slipping down his pajama pants and underneath his briefs.
His mind wandered back to Paul, him sitting in his living room armchair, left leg crossed over the right
God, were his legs gorgeous.
His long, slender calves were held up by his thick thighs that enhanced the features of his ass rather well. His trousers were tight, a brown belt securing his dress shirt tightly underneath. His waist was slim—one of his many feminine features.
If John wasn’t standing so close, he’d be quick to assume Paul was nothing but another bird.
John pulled his prick out of his briefs—the head altering for its usual pink appearance, to an irritated deep red. His tip glistened with precum, full of want.
He groaned as he eyed his large hands stroke himself gently, imagining his hands were Paul’s.
Paul’s hands were soft. Long slender fingers with precise calluses, unlike John’s which trailed from the tip of his fingers all the way to the sides of them.
Almost everything about Paul was perfect, his downturned eyes decorated by long luscious lashes, his pale skin that would easily fluster pink, his plump pink lips that would turn white under his bunny teeth as he bit them to subdue his whines.
God, he was something.
John’s thighs began to twitch as he continued stroking himself, thumb rubbing over the slit of his cock, rubbing the precum along his shaft. He tried to hold his moans in as Mimi was in the room just aside from him.
Sure, he lived in a lower-middle-class home but the walls were thin as paper.
He pulled his shirt up and between his front teeth, thick glasses slipping down his nose which was decorated in a thin layer of cold sweat. He continued pumping himself, slowly increasing the speed before he felt his release jump out of him.
He pumped himself through his climax—head thrown back into the pillow as his eyes shut. His breath was unsteady, coming out as an animalistic groan he was almost sure slipped through the crack of his door.
His prick now lie soft against his stomach, his spunk glistening in the moonlight that seeped in from his sheer curtains.
‘Am I a fucking queer?’
John lied still for a long moment, thoughts rushing back in and forth in his head.
How was he to look at Paul tomorrow? How could he even sit with him for a bloody study session without his prick going all hard on him and ratting his behavior out?
Was he a queer?
John had been with girls before, of course he has. A quick shag after a long gig with some bird who’d give him fuck-me eyes as he’d strum the strings of his guitar
He liked girls. Liked their slim waists and soft breasts, their quiet squeaks as he’d insert his thick fingers in between their sopping folds. He’d loved feeling how wet a girl would get just from the sight of him. He was full of himself and he knew it
Girls liked him—they wanted him, and he’d reciprocate of course. He’d never turn down a shag. But Paul, Paul was not some simple shag. John wouldn’t have to convince girls to entertain him, he wouldn’t have to give his time to any of them to alter their thoughts of him—he’d never bother if that was the case.
But he wanted Paul to want him—wanted him to need him.
He’d cleaned himself, tucking his cock back into his trousers before throwing himself back onto the bed
He’d think about it some other time
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It’d been two days since Paul had seen John. A part of him was glad that was the case, but another part of him wanted to see him dearly.
He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to tell Lennon off—shout some grimy insult at him for touching him even regardless of whether Paul reciprocated or not.
John wasn’t rough—he was rushed, but not rough. Paul knew if he’d tell him off right at the moment he would’ve stopped. Hell if not, Paul would easily gain the upper hand and shoved him off.
Regardless of their situation, they were to meet with the rest of the lads for a group session—practicing as they spoke matters of upcoming events.
Whether or not John wanted to participate in the tutor sessions wasn’t something that Paul could control, but the band was another thing.
Paul sat on at an empty corner seat on the second floor of the trolly, pulling out a smoke and lighting it with his matchbook. He sighed a breath of smoke out, glancing into the window, seeing his reflection.
His hair was disheveled, curling in all different directions. His mind was so occupied by yesterday’s events that he was kept up late—waking up in a rush. He couldn’t help but smile which was followed by the short breath of a giggle.
He’d looked a mess!
Through his peripheral he’d seen a boy near his seat, hesitating before asking, “What’s so funny..?” He’d looked utterly confused, as Paul seemed to be laughing at nothing.
The boy was slim, tall and skinny. He looked young. Paul had a mean baby face himself but my did this boy look like a grade schooler!
“Ah, my reflection! Hair’s just a mess today, it is.” Paul replied, ruffling his bangs
The boy sat aside him, “You got a smoke?” He smiled. His teeth were big, canines turned downward into a sharp fang-like shape.
“A smoke? For you?” Paul’s face contorted in confusion “What are you a year 7?” He arched his brow
“I’m a year 9.” He’d sigh as his smile faltered “Year 9 where?” Paul laughed, handing him a smoke
“‘Go to Liverpool inst’, seen you around, I have. Names George, George Harrison.” He smiled once more, taking the smoke and placing it into his mouth
Paul had lit a match, bringing it to the boys mouth as he leaned in, “Paul McCartney.” He’d respond before shaking the flame out of the match
Turns out this George Harrison is as appreciative of rock and roll as Paul just so happened to be.
The two boys talked about music and instruments, slowly slipping some personal stories and jokes in as the conversation progressed.
They spoke to each other as if they knew one another for years. Though George was roughly a year younger than Paul, the connection was instant.
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Before meeting with the lads, Paul decided to follow George home—George having said he dabbled in playing guitar after Paul mentioned it. George was partially self taught—records occupying his time as he’d practice licks on the guitar. His acoustic was rather cheap and slightly scratched but it was something
Paul sat on George’s bed after having greeted his mother, he’d quite the lively family—none really music related but they supported his talent and appreciation for the art.
“Alright, anything you’d like to hear?” George smiled, extremely giddy as he hung the strap on his guitar over his shoulders?
“Nah, have a go at anything.” Paul laughed, waving the request off
Then on George had gone, strumming into “Raunchy” an instrumental number by Bill Justis. Paul sat back in awe, watching the small boy strum away at the guitar that rested quite large against his ribs. He was a talent for sure, there were no other words for it
He’d bounce his head, his gelled hair glistening in the cheap light that hung low in his room. Riff for riff, he’d played so comically well Paul couldn’t help but wonder how long it took him to learn the song.
George smiled at him as he finished, strumming one more before his hand jumped out infront of him as he posed. Paul would laugh at that, “What’d you think?” George asked, pulling the guitar off
“Well I thought it was just lovely, my sweet Georgie!” George’s mother slipped her head into the doorway before rushing away. Paul lied back onto the younger boys bed, head thrown back as he laughed harder, “No really Georgie, you’ve a serious talent on your hands!” Paul finally calmed his laughter, sitting up as he gave George a more serious look.
“Ey, I’ve just so happened to get me self into a band,” Paul said, head jerking into the direction of George’s guitar “I should seriously introduce you.”
With that, George’s eyes lightened a million times brighter than his youthful eyes would originally appear, such a funny lad Paul’d thought.