#mclennon sandwich | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

kalypsichor · 4 years

Text

two of us [ paul mccartney x reader x john lennon ]

summary: Nothing could have prepared Paul for what he sees when he opens the door. There are papers all over the floor, as though someone had swept them all off in a hurry. But that’s not what catches his eye. It’s the sight of you, bent over the desk so prettily on your elbows while John fucks you from behind.

prompt: ok i loved your story BUT what if professor mccartney DID walk in on them ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) warnings: threeway, oral sex, s e x, some spanking, professor kinks galore, little bit of voyeurism

well. here’s the mclennon sandwich y’all asked for. part two of this

Something is… off with John.

Paul has never seen his boyfriend so distracted. When they go out for lunch, Paul has to repeat what says two or three times before John snaps out of it and actually listens. And, not to toot his own horn, but Paul is pretty charismatic. It’s why so many bright-eyed freshmen flock to his art history classes, hoping to get a hour just listening to his voice, ogling his pretty smile… only to shuffle out with failing marks. Paul’s class is hard and he’s not afraid to be upfront about it—it’s not his fault if the students are too busy daydreaming about his eyes to listen.

Anyway, the point is that something has been on John’s mind. Paul is determined to figure it out, especially because whenever he tries bringing it up, John gets almost… flustered. And John Lennon does not do flustered. He’s usually the one making others blush. Together, they’re quite the pair.

It’s probably one of the other professors, Paul thinks. They have an open relationship, so Paul doesn’t mind. He just wishes John would tell him who it is that’s got his head in the clouds.

So, naturally, he decides to confront John about it. Paul calls his boyfriend after class and they agree to meet in John’s office before going out for the night.

It’s a Friday night, so any reasonable student would be out getting plastered for the weekend, not visiting professors for office hours. The halls are quiet, dark, dimly illuminated by the dying rays of sunlight outside. Paul’s footsteps echo rather loudly off the tiles as he walks towards the English wing. They’re the only sound in the building. Even the other professors have left, either to get a head start on grading essays or to do some of their own drinking, but he knows John has his office hours for another half hour. Putting them on a Friday afternoon is a rather stupid idea, though, since no one in their right mind would choose Thoreau or Austen over Dan’s Sports Bar. Or, so he thinks… until he nears John’s office.

He almost doesn’t hear it at first, but there’s definitely some noise coming from behind the door. Did John schedule a student appointment right before their own meeting? Paul can’t quite make out what it is, though, so he chances the doorknob. It’s not locked.

Nothing could have prepared Paul for what he sees when he opens the door.

There are papers all over the floor, as though someone had swept them all off in a hurry. But that’s not what catches his eye. It’s the sight of you, bent over the desk so prettily on your elbows while John fucks you from behind.

You don’t even notice the intruder at first. Your eyes are screwed shut, mouth falling open in little gasps and moans that go straight to Paul’s groin. John, though, sees Paul almost immediately.

“Hello, Paul.” John’s voice is a little strained, and the sound of it sends your head snapping up and gaping at the man standing at the doorway. “Or, is it Professor McCartney for you, sweetheart?”

John doesn’t even let up his pace so you can barely respond, the feeling of his cock slamming into you almost too much to bear. You should be embarrassed, should be trying to cover up or push Professor Lennon away, but something about the other teacher watching as you get fucked into the desk unravels a hot spool of arousal in your stomach.

“Pro-Professor!” It comes out more of a sigh, one that makes Paul’s grip on the door tighten. “I didn’t-didn’t see- fuck, John.”

Paul shuts the door behind him and steps closer, watching your eyes widen at his motions. Something about the situation settles deep in his stomach and becomes almost… normal. “She calls you John?”

“Only ‘cus I asked her to.” John buries himself deep into your cunt and stills for a moment, catching his breath. It makes you whine and push your hips back, begging for some friction. “You should’ve heard her the first time, Paul. Loved callin’ me Professor Lennon… think it turns her on. Doesn’t it?” John slaps your ass and you whine, nodding your head.

“Pretty little thing,” Paul murmurs. He walks up to the desk until he’s standing right over you and reaches out to cup your face. You lean into the touch, cheeks flushing a pretty pink, and when Paul presses his thumb to your lips they fall open willingly. He can’t help groaning as you suck on his finger, eyes searching his almost like they're looking for approval.

“She takes cock so well,” John says, smirking at the way his boyfriend is completely mesmerized by your mouth. When he starts making shallow thrusts, just pulling out an inch before rocking back into your warm cunt, Paul’s eyes snap to his with a heat he’s never seen before. “Can you take Professor McCartney too, hm? Let him fuck into your pretty mouth while I fuck your pretty pussy?”

You whine almost embarrassingly loud at the thought of both men filling you up. John slaps your ass again and then soothes the red mark with gentle fingers.

“Got to hear you say it, darling.”

It takes you a second, but you gasp out your response.

“Please, please- wanna suck you off, Professor McCar-ah, ah, John!”

You don’t manage to finish your sentence but Paul takes it and unbuckles his slacks. He doesn’t even bother kicking off his pants, just pulls his aching hard cock out of his briefs and rests it against your lips. They part for him easily and Paul’s eyes roll back at the feeling of your warm mouth engulfing his length. When he hits the back of your throat, he stills a moment before pulling out again and then sliding back in. Paul fucks into your mouth at a leisurely pace which is soon matched by John, who takes his cue to start fucking your cunt in earnest now.

The almost rhythmic sound of grunts and skin slapping on skin fills the office and turns you on so much it almost hurts. If it wasn’t for John’s hips drilling you into the desk, your legs would probably give out. There’s just something about the two professors filling you up on both ends, something about how filthy the situation is, that ramps up your orgasm almost alarmingly quickly. Tendrils of ecstasy roll through your body, from John’s cock hitting your sweet spot with every thrust to the ache of Paul driving his length in and out of your mouth. John starts speeding up, fucking you at a brutal pace with both hands leaving even harder imprints in your hips, and Paul matches him, tightening his grip in your hair. It’s so much, it’s too much, this tingling that’s sweeping from your cunt to the tips of your fingers that are grasping so hard at the edge of the desk, just trying to hold on.

You come with a high-pitched moan, muffled around Paul’s cock, and John follows right behind you, hips stilling as he comes into your still pulsing cunt. You fall onto the desk bonelessly, so tired that you don’t even notice when John slips out and tosses his condom into the bin.

The feeling of fingers probing at your still dripping folds draws a whine from you. You’re still sensitive from just orgasming. But these fingers are different from John’s, softer.

Paul brings his hand to his lips, humming around the taste of your juices. And then you’re gasping, a shudder wracking your body at the feeling of Paul’s blunt tip nudging your entrance. Your cunt is still aching but you already want more, already want to be filled again.

“Well, come on, darling. I think it’s my turn.”

#john lennon x reader smut #paul mccartney x reader smut #mclennon x reader #mclennon sandwich #beatles smut #kalwrites #🥪#professor au

293 notes · View notes

pfenniged · 3 years

Text

Casual reminder that the best depiction of Lennon/McCartney was in “Two of Us” (2000) which is a made for TV movie with the budget of a cheese sandwich and literally got a shout-out from Paul for basically being the best depiction of him and John and the more over-the-top and ridiculous these budgets get for these shitty Beatles movies lest producers forget that this is literally the best movie despite the actors looking nothing like them yet playing them to a tee

#cheese sandwich movie wins #always #The Beatles #Two of Us #classic rock #mclennon

147 notes · View notes

wereonourwayhome · 2 years

Text

i hate that im genuinely considering writing band polycule fic!!!

#fell asleep thinking about george being the filling in a mclennon sandwich #and now i can't stop doing thought crimes on mr harrison #it feels unfair he deserves the chance to escape jdhfgh

3 notes · View notes

ourladylennon · 3 years

Note

I once dreamt I woke up in bed between John and Paul and they woke up and freaked out like 'AHHH WTF ARE YOU DOING IN OUR BED!' 'AHHH SHE'S GONNA TELL THE PRESS THAT WE'RE BOYFRIENDS!' And then I was a spirot floating above the bed and they were like 'AHHH SHE TELEPORTED AWAY!' 'AHH IT WAS A GHOST!' It was nice before they woke up just snuggling between them but it was pure chaos when they woke. It felt so real I thought I'd gone back in time.

Lmfaoooo that's pure chaotic and honestly I'd expect nothing less 😅 I'm over here trying to picture which one of them would be the bigger scaredy cat over a ghost and I can feel that it would be John, further cuddling into boyfriend Paul for protection. Sksksk babies

#where can i order a mclennon sandwich #my dreams would come true #all i ever wanted was to be smashed between these two devilish handsome bastards #UGH #asks

6 notes · View notes

bambi-kinos · 2 years

Text

I’M WORKING ON THE PROMPT REQUESTS I SWEAR I just got sidetracked by the McLennon discord. Tree Commander asked me a very important question about Paul and how he might approach gender and gender expression if he were a 21st century man in our age cohort. Responses, thoughts, feedback etc. welcome.

as usual this is something I ask because of something you just reblogged @Admin but if paul was in his 20s now, how do you think he'd approach gender, most specifically when fans and interviewers said he was the girl of the group or as pretty as a girl or whatever.

Answer:

for paul, well

i think that he always kind of knew he was attractive and cute, and he knew he could get away with certain things as a result? which i think is part of his charming routine, he was a cute kid who grew up into a very pretty young man who could have cross dressed with relative ease.

and i think he even was grown up enough not to resent home making duties -- in fact he seems to idealize them because that's what his Mum did and if it was good enough for her then it's good enough for him, yknow....

I've seen some comments imply that he was a bit defensive about how feminine his looks were as a young man but then I think he soothed that by being a man about town and doing Manly Things like sleeping with a lot of women, so clearly he had ways to self soothe with regards to that.

with Paul I think its a little harder to quantify that attitude actually because I don't think he displays too many of the stereotypical attitudes that even some cis guys today display towards gender, gender roles, gender expression, cis vs trans and all that. like, he did some ways (he wanted a wife and kids specifically with John on the side) but then in other more radical ways he didn't at all.

Like I don't have the sense that he resented taking over what was essentially the female role in domestic life when he lived with his dad and brother. Maybe because he had 2 working parents he didn't get the impression that women were "supposed to be" home makers so his household had a surprisingly modern set up from the start. his mother couldn't do the laundry bc she was at work all day hence the role went to Paul. Jim was the one who cooked so it didn't bother Paul to learn it as "women's work" bc obviously its not women's work me Da' cooks, I learned from him.... etc.

So in a way I think Paul was primed to jump straight into modern attitudes about gender and gender roles and even gender expression to a certain extent. not that he hasn't been Problematic or Off Color in the past but his brain did not break when Linda wanted to take photographs for a living. I always thought his argument with Jane Asher's potential role as a wife and mom was a lot more about fulfilling Paul's want to give his kids a good home life more than anything else

and then we get into the stuff with John and that was....like everything else aside there was almost a gendered set up to a certain degree. other McLennon blogs have commented that John treated Paul like his girlfriend and the thing is they're right?

Paul fixed John's clothes for him. Paul took care of John emotionally (when he could, not that it was enough for John.) Paul cooked for John on occasion, I'm certain. I recently reblogged that conversation with the toast where Paul was convincing John to wear a white jacket to performances, and the thing is--

I had a conversation like that once with my boyfriend. I made him a sandwich but the point is the food is a distraction tactic, you use it to soften your boyfriend and coax him over to your side of things. Like its a very feminine tactic and I just, the image of Paul puttering around the kitchen buttering toast for his new boyfriend and feeding his gang, wow. That's an image, and the way Paul stood up to him and the way he talked to him.

Like it was all John-centric, he could only have that relationship with John. And to this day Paul says its "close friends" but that's not close friends. That's what you do when you have a boyfriend that doesn't want to wear a suit to his best friend's wedding so you have to convince him its a good idea.

So in that sense Paul's relationships with other people and John especially I think were already heavily "gendered" (if thats even the right description) with Paul in what we think of as a feminine and submissive role using subtle tactics and approaches to get what he wants as opposed to John's forthright bluster, which is unmistakably masculine.

otoh i think Paul is secure in his like, masculinity. he likes being a man, he is a man. he doesn't worry about whether he's too feminine or not or else he'd train himself not to do certain things. etc.

so a modern day 21st century Paul....he might actually not be that interesting because he'd already be "with it" on 21st century norms. like christ he's the only Beatle that didn't hit his wife as far as we know.

but i think a 21st century Paul would be relatively the same. probably more at ease with being bisexual tbh. definitely living openly with John. Still very secretive about their private life but he is a very private person so that tracks.

honestly I think the biggest difference is that he and John would do more kinky fetishy role play stuff in bed to take advantage of that dynamic.

iirc you and i talked about maybe Paul may have liked that in a fetishy way anyway, playing house with John in Paris and acting like John's girlfriend. Not his boyfriend. His girlfriend with all the expectations that carries.

like the impression I get of Paul is again, he's got dueling beliefs about certain things, and I think gender roles and gender expression would be a part of that. he wanted a wife to have kids with but he was okay with her having a job and stuff. He likes being a man but he also liked being John's homemaker.

also keep thinking about paris, and how they got those pants that were way too big around the bottom so paul brought them in in their little hotel room with one bed paul was sewing the image that gives

me: he wouldn't have done it for anyone else. like in some ways john was very much a "typical" male in that he was quite helpless on his own and felt like he needed someone to take care of him. (even though he also couldn't change a spark plug for shit either.) and Paul wanted to be that for him. he embraced it.

#paul mccartney #john lennon #mclennon #my meta #talktalktalk

13 notes · View notes

myukulelegentlyweeps · 4 years

Note

33 25 15 UwU

15: if you could have a threesome with two of the boys, who would they be?

Again, not easy to answer. A McLennon sandwich sounds good though, particularly because if I had George I don’t think I would want to share him with anybody else.

25: beatle you’d have a one night stand with?

Like I said, one night stands are not my jam ; but I guess Paul, I get horny for him every so often, he’s reportedly good at it and out of the four lads he seems like he would be the nicest about it all

33: what would you do to see the boys in concert?

depends on the type of concert. You couldn’t even hear them over the screams in 64. If I had to sleep with a producer in order to be on the roof I definitely would, just because there would be closer contact with them. Also, the concerts in pubs in the early days, sign me up! I would sell my soul to dance tipsily to those bops

#the beatles #asks #thank you for the ask!#george harrison #john lennon #ringo starr #paul mccartney #classic rock

11 notes · View notes

lovely-rita-meter-maidd · 4 years

Note

aaHh #5 for mclennon please 🙏

“What are ya doin’?”

Paul looks over at John and smiles, his eyes crinkling around the edges making John chuckle.

“I’m makin’ lunch,” Paul replies, and John crosses his arms as he moves to look over Paul’s shoulder. There’s half a sandwich in the making, but the smell of it makes John’s nose shrivel up and he steps away.

“What, you decided to add the whole bottle of vinegar to it?”

Paul laughs and continues his work as John makes a disgusted noise behind him.

“What’s on it?”

“Cheese,” Paul replies, only he looks over his shoulder after a moment of silence to see John looking back at him sceptically.

“With what?”

“...pickle.”

John makes a fake gagging noise and Paul goes to swat him with the tea towel.

“It’s nice,” Paul says, putting the tea towel back down the cut his sandwich in two.

“No. You smell like the chippy.”

Paul only sticks his tongue out before putting his sandwich on a plate ready to eat. He turns to John, ready to pull him into a hug, only John stops him with a disapproving hand on his chest.

“Wash your hands, then hug me.”

“Yer a prick,” Paul replies, but he doesn’t move.

“Maybe so. But at least I don’t eat foods made in hell.”

“Yer so over dramatic Lennon,” Paul replies, and John doesn’t notice Paul’s arm snaking backwards onto the counter until there’s half a sandwich being shoved into his face.

“Eat it,” Paul shouts.

“Never,” John shrieks, shielding his mouth with his hands causing the sandwich to smush against his palm. Paul giggles and John pokes him in the ribs causing him to pull back with a gasp.

“You disgust me,” John says, and Paul only replies by obscenely biting into the mauled sandwich, laughing loudly as John grimaces.

“And ya stink, Macca. Maybe you should shower.”

Paul finishes his sandwich and puts his finger on John’s cheek.

“You don’t smell any better,” he says, and John lifts an eyebrow as Paul smirks at him.

“Maybe ya should join me.”

#mclennon #fluff #the beatles #the beatles fanfiction #mclennon oneshot #prompt list 4

12 notes · View notes

kalypsichor · 4 years

Text

ménage à trois [ paul mccartney x reader x john lennon ]

summary: There’s only one bed and none of you speak French.

prompt: k hear me out mclennon sandwich BUT ITS ON THE PARIS TRIP SO IS JUST YOU THREE IN THE TINIEST BEDROOM + a request for reader’s wet dreams waking paul up warnings: this is a threesome babey 🥪🥪🥪

masterlist

guess who’s never had a threesome? me. guess who accidentally drank a shit ton of coffee and didn’t go to bed till six am writing this?? also me. i’d appreciate any feedback y’all have bc @spaceyantique beta’d this for me like a darling but my illiteracy knows no bounds

There’s only one bed and none of you speak French.

Paul tries, but between his wild hand gestures and the receptionist’s increasingly confused looks, he’s getting nowhere. John more or less just flirts with her. You tolerate about five minutes of it before dragging them away from the front desk.

“Sorry,” you offer to the receptionist, and you’re pretty sure it’s the first word she’s understood in the whole exchange.

The three of you stand at the foot of the bed for a bit and just. Stare at it. The hotel room is long but narrow, with the bed at the very end of it literally touching three walls. Whoever designed it was obviously at the end of his wits. The bed would be roomy for one person, cozy for two, but three? That’s pushing it. Still, there’s not even a couch in the room, so when you all look at each other it’s with a wordless understanding.

“I sleep on the right,” John says. He claims his spot as such and immediately stretches out, not even taking off his shoes. You wrinkle your nose but choose not to say anything. Paul wrinkles his nose and does.

“Don’t be disgusting, John.” Paul toes off his boots and clambers onto the left side. “There’s a lady present.”

John grins and twists around, dangling his feet in Paul’s face. “Talking about yourself in the third person, eh?”

You’ve locked the bathroom door by the time they start fighting but the walls are thin. There’s a thump and a shrill screech. Laughter. More shouting. Your reflection frowns back at you, eyes tired and hair a mess, and you take your time showering. In true European fashion, it’s a tiny, miserable affair. Your elbows keep knocking into the walls. The water runs cold before you even finish shampooing. It’s a mad dash to put on your pajamas before you freeze your tits off—except even that goes awry when you realize you forgot to pack them. The only things you can find are a soft tee shirt and shorts, which are a bit shorter than you’d like to be wearing but will have to do.

To top it all off, when you step out of the bathroom, they’re still lobbing shoes and insults.

“Boys, please! It’s one in the morning!” Two pairs of eyes flicker to the clock on the wall, then back at you. “Can you at least pretend to be adults?”

Paul has the decency to look a little scolded. John, on the other hand, leers at you.

“I think someone cut a few centimeters off your shorts, love. Not that I’m complaining.” He winks and you decidedly push down the fluttering in your stomach.

All in all, it takes another hour for the three of you to get to bed. Paul insists on showering first, which leads to another argument that takes five matches of rock-paper-scissors to be resolved.

(Paul gets the first one. John calls a two out of three and wins that. Paul calls a three out of five and wins that. John accuses him of cheating and gets called a sore loser. You end up shoving Paul into the bathroom while John is looking for another shoe to throw.)

If your mother knew you were squeezing into a bed with two boys, she’d throw a fit. Especially if she knew that you couldn’t stop thinking about how rosy Paul’s cheeks looked when he stepped out of the shower, or the fact that John is bloody shirtless. No, it’s best that none of this gets back to your folks at home.

“Comfortable?” John asks. Both boys are facing outwards and you’re lying on your back, trying to ignore the warm bodies on either side of you.

Paul shifts his arm and nearly elbows you in the boobs. “I feel like a sardine,” he says.

“Try sleeping in the middle,” you retort. “It’s like being in a sandwich.”

That earns a laugh from John, which turns into a contagious yawn.

“We should go to bed,” someone says, but you’re already drifting off.

***

John’s a pretty heavy sleeper, so when he wakes up and it’s still dark out he’s very confused.

He’s also a lot warmer. Sometime in the night, John had turned and pulled you flush against his chest. His nose is pressed into your hair, one leg thrown over your hip. John rather likes the feeling of cuddling so close, but he knows it’s not the most appropriate position. He goes to move when he hears a quiet noise.

“John…”

… oh. So that’s what woke him up.

You’re moaning, soft little sighs and whimpers that go straight to John’s cock. You’re having a wet dream… about him. He wants to pull away, knows that this is wrong, but then you’re grinding against him and all thoughts fly out the window. John’s hips find yours and he has to bite his lip to keep from groaning. God, he’s rutting against you like a teenager but it feels so good he can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed.

“John?”

John’s eyes snap open and he freezes. Your voice is different, clearer. You’re awake now. It’s like a cold bucket of water has been dumped over his head and he jolts away from you.

“Sorry, I didn’t—“

His apology cuts off because you’re suddenly moving, pushing back into him. The soft curve of your ass presses right against John’s cock. All the air in his lungs rushes out and he gasps out your name.

“Is—is this okay?” he asks. He wants to make sure, needs to.

“Yes,” you reply. It’s more of a plea, and it’s all John needs to start moving again.

The hand that’s on your stomach trails down and slips under the waistband of your panties. John groans when his fingers find your slick folds.

“Fuck, you’re soaked.” John rocks his hips into yours. Your hair is still damp from showering and when he breathes in, the scent—lavender—sends a rush of arousal through him. “Were you dreaming about me?”

You can only whine in response because John is slipping a finger into your cunt. His thumb finds your clit, rubs gentle circles that send flames of pleasure licking up your body. It’s already so much, too much, not enough.

“Didn’t know you were such a filthy girl,” John growls and you arch into his touch. “What was it about, hm? Were you dreaming about this? About getting fingered while Paul is sleeping right there?” His words tear a gasp from your lips. “You’re gonna have to be quiet or you’ll wake him up, birdie. Unless that’s what you want…”

“It’s a little too late for that.”

John can’t see very far, but he doesn’t need to in order to make out Paul’s face on the other side of you. His pupils are blown wide, eyes trained on John’s hand still moving under your clothes. And John… likes it. Being watched. It should be weird, should feel wrong because Paul’s his best mate, but then his eyes find John’s and the hungry look in them tears a hot blaze of arousal through him.

Somehow, his voice is steady when he speaks. “You want a taste?”

Paul’s mouth falls open and he nods. Without a second thought, John pulls his hand from your pussy and lifts it to Paul’s lips.

The sight of Paul licking your juices from John’s fingers is quite possibly the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.

Second only to the look on Paul’s face when you hesitantly wrap your hand around his cock and start jerking him off.

“Fuck,” he groans. His eyes flutter closed, head tips back and bares the curve of his neck. John wants nothing more than to bite into it, to mark Paul, but you beat him to it. And John, who’s never liked feeling left out, lets his hand drift back down to you. This time, he curls two fingers into your cunt. You clench around him and your grip involuntarily tightens on Paul, whose hips jerk forward at the feeling.

God, how John wishes he could see your face. You’re sure to be so pretty, cheeks flushed, lips parted around gasps, eyes watching Paul’s cock in your hand. Still, he can hear the noises you’re making, and that’s almost just as good.

It’s not the most comfortable position, really. Your wrist feels awkward at this angle, with Paul being so close to you. And John keeps breathing in some of your hair. But the intimacy, the heat, the rush of adrenaline makes all that fade away. The filthy sound of John thrusting his fingers in and out of your cunt, Paul’s high, almost feminine sighs. John’s grunts as he rocks against your body, breathe hot on the nape of your neck.

Paul gasps something unintelligible but you know what he’s trying to say. You start pumping him even faster, letting the sound of his cries spur you on. You want to taste them, you think, and it doesn’t make sense but you lean forward anyway and capture Paul’s lips in yours.

The movement changes your angle. John’s fingers curl against something in you that burns white hot, electric in your veins. His thumb presses into your clit and then you’re cumming, moans falling from your lips to Paul’s as he follows you over the edge.

“Fucking hell,” Paul breathes.

You can only nod. Your mind is still floating somewhere in the stratosphere. You can’t remember the last time you felt like this, both high and irrevocably grounded, pressed tight between two bodies thrumming with warmth.

“I’m gonna… clean up a bit,” you mumble when you’ve caught your breath. While you stumble off towards the bathroom, Paul reaches and finds John’s face in the dark.

Despite the fact that he’s just had a threesome, John suddenly feels shy. It’s intimate in a different way, how Paul’s fingers trace the bridge of his nose, outline the curve of his lips. And when you come back, weight dipping the mattress slightly, the warmth of your body settling behind him is so gentle that John is scared he’s only imagining it.

Paul doesn’t say anything, just pulls John forward and kisses him. It’s a chaste brush of the lips, but combined with the feeling of you nipping at his bare shoulder sets John’s nerves ablaze.

“I—“

You shush him and run a hand down his spine, thumbing the waistband of his joggers. “Just relax, John. It’s okay.”

Whether it’s your words or the soothing touch, John’s body almost melts, curving into yours. At the same time, his lips seek out Paul, who pulls back with a glint in his eyes.

“You haven’t even come yet, have you?” Paul asks, though he already knows the answer.

“Does it fucking look like I have?” John grumbles. Your hand trails across his waist and cups his erection and suddenly John can’t come up with anything witty anymore. He keens and bucks into the touch.

“So this is what it takes to get you to shut up.” You giggle when John’s attempt at protesting is muffled by Paul’s mouth.

“Guess we should do this more often, then.”

#john lennon x reader smut #paul mccartney x reader smut #beatles fanfic #beatles x reader smut #mclennon x reader #kalwrites #the sandwich strikes again #more filth for y'all #🥪

315 notes · View notes

chut-je-dors · 7 years

Photo

First drawn on iPad, then at the halfway of the colouring process I moved to work on the computer. I’m a sucker for mermaid!aus, so of course I needed one for McLennon. I only used watercolour brushes + a crayon brush, and topped it with a watercolour texture in the background. Read more for the 2300 word story that I wrote to accompany this!

Paulos, the youngest son of King Triton, is forbidden from going on land. Ever since the kingdom of Atlantis lost its queen, Mary, to a mysterious disease, King Triton has strictly refused from letting anyone ashore. There is nothing else that Paulos wants, though, his curiosity too strong.

After a vicious fight with his father, once again about this same subject, Paulos runs into a merwitch. She suggests that he goes on land, without telling anyone.

“What your father does not know, will not hurt him, my boy.”

Paulos follows the tug in his heart and rises from the sea, scrambles on a shore in the middle of a night. Mermagic, something that other merpeople possess more strongly than others, allows his tail to transform into legs. He stumbles his way over to the nearest city, fascinated and curious about the new world.

Three days later he returns to the sea; and there he is met by the seawitch, who tells him that the kingdom thinks Paulos ran away, and that King Triton has died from grief -something not entirely unusual for merpeople.

“You cannot return to the sea,” she tells him. “Do not even set a foot in the water.”

Paulos, shocked and mortified, turns and does not look back.

Paulos meets someone after having spent a week on the streets, mourning, his life crumbled down. The boy throws him a sandwich with a smile on his face, and takes Paulos to his place. Paulos cannot speak English, but little by little, he learns. He learns about the boy, John, as well. He wants to learn more.

“What is your name, then?” John asks, curiosity embedded into his expression. Paulos thinks, not able to pronounce his real name with the letters of humans.

He searches for the right word.

“Pa-Paol-” he grimaces, and John laughs.

“Paul?” he asks, and Paulos stops trying, and smiles, nods. It’s good enough, and John looks so happy when he says it, finally able to call him by his name.

Paulos becomes Paul.

They have a large circle of friends -John, mainly, and he pulls Paul in. Two years have passed, and Paul feels at home with John. He is afraid, as well.

The soul of merpeople is set to break in two before they are born. The two pieces of one soul are meant to be together again, and thus, a merman only loves once, and only wants for one. That is how Lord Poseidon, Paul’s grandfather, decided when the first merman, King Triton, was born. A merman, or a mermaid, can wait for their other half for centuries. Some are born at the same time, more often one has to wait. King Triton waited for Queen Mary for thousands of years.

Paul knows that John is his other half.

He is afraid, because it is not right for his Chosen one to be human. But he loves John, and wants John.

But John is human, and humans do not have Chosen ones.

Paul’s friends decide to play a prank on him. Paul does not swim, because his legs become a tail once he is under water. He always stays ashore, listening to music and reading a book, when the others swim.

His friends grab him, and despite him screaming, terror entering his voice, they carry him into water.

“He’s afraid of water, you idiots!” John is shouting, further away from everyone else. Paul is thrown into the water, and he sinks.

“C’mon, it’s barely three feet deep there,” someone says.

“How isn’t he up already?” another wonders.

Paul comes up, gasping, splashing, and his silvery tail is visible to everyone when he tries to get away from the water in panic. Shocked sounds are heard everywhere, but Paul does not care. Because-

The water rises and King Triton is hovering above them, water holding him up. The air crackles around him, the trident in his hand glowing blue light.

“You have betrayed your people,” King Triton says, and Paul is shaking, trying to get back to the shore. Everyone else is running away, except John, who dashes forward, towards Paul. He shouts Paul’s name, and water slides tightly around Paul, lifts him up, choking him.

“You have betrayed me,” King Triton thunders, and Paul tries to get away from the water’s magic grip in vain. He cannot understand what has happened- how did everything come to pass. His father is still alive.

John’s feet touch the water, and he starts to wade through it to where Paul is hanging in the air. He calls Paul’s name, panic etched into his voice, shock and fear in his expression.

Paul shouts at him, to stay away, to run. Paul cannot lose him, not like he can himself. John is important; not like Paul who has managed to destroy everything he held dear in this world. King Triton thinks he abandoned merpeople- but instead of dying from grief, he has lost his sensible mind. Paul prays to Lord Poseidon that his father could find himself again.

King Triton looks at John with storm and lightning in his eyes, points the trident at him, and John comes to a full stop.

“You will feel the pain that I have from you abandoning merpeople. It is all the fault of humans, in the end.”

Water pours out of John’s mouth, and he chokes, coughs, more water coming out. He cannot breathe, and he brings hands to his chest. He is drowning, standing knee-high in the sea, and Paul loses himself.

He screams, and writhes, and his body jerks when a sob comes through. He sobs out John’s name, and tears run down his cheeks when he looks at John fighting, water filling the man’s lungs from inside.

Paul drops to the sea, and without thinking, he dashes towards John, grabs him, and pulls them to the shore. John waves on his feet, falls down and then vomits, water pouring out.

Paul sobs, and holds him, his tail turning into legs again, and looks up at his father.

The King looks at him with a strange expression, the swirl of water that holds him up becomes less powerful, lowering him slightly.

“He is your Chosen one,” he says, and Paul nods, cries, holds John tighter when the other’s body jerks with his coughs. There is no water anymore inside of him -it disappeared, just like Paul’s restraints as well.

King Triton’s expression is, for one second, defeated. Then it hardens and he looks at Paul, the storm back in his clear blue eyes.

“If you, or he, ever touch the sea, you will be locked under Atlantis for the rest of all time, and he will drown.”

And he leaves, and Paul sobs against John, and John puts a hand on his back and coughs one last time, sounding exhausted.

“You have a lot to explain,” he says, and Paul cries even harder.

Merpeople do not cry. Sadness, for them, becomes physical pain, but they do not cry.

Paul does not know what he is, anymore.

He wipes out the memory of almost everyone at the shore. He is skilled enough in mermagic, and possesses an indescribable amount of power. He is a direct descendant of Lord Poseidon, a god, and one day the trident might have been his.

Not anymore.

They leave the shore, he, John, and a couple of friends that deserve to know. Otherwise all this could happen again. Paul tells them everything -except for John being his Chosen one.

They take it fairly well. After three hours John is able to crack a joke or few about Paul being technically a fish. Paul is in a silent shock, and he doubts it will leave in a moment.

A year passes, and John suggests they move to London. He has got a job offer from a record shop. Paul goes wherever John does, and so they leave Liverpool. John’s aunt Mimi hates them for doing that, and vows to never talk to John again for abandoning her. Paul wonders how different their families can be, and at the same time so similar.

Paul gets a job from the London Zoo. His ability to work with sea animals is astounding, and he is happy there. The fish call him Prince Paulos, because every sea creature can see who he is. He has said that he is not a prince anymore, but the fish feel more comfortable in their captivity when he allows them to call him like that.

John cooks chocolate cake every Sunday, and gets better and better with it. Paul loves those cakes, and loves human food, since merpeople mostly eat seaweeds and other plants. Those have always tasted bland, especially now that Paul has got to know the joy called spicy food.

Life is good, since they do not dwell in the past, and do not think of the future. Sometimes John looks at Paul with such a fond gaze that Paul wonders whether John could love him back. It is illegal in the human world, though, two men together. So Paul does nothing, and enjoys life as well as he can.

John gets a letter from America. It is from his father, who left him and his mother when he was not even born yet. Alfred writes that he is dying, and wants to see John once before he goes.

Paul makes the decision for John, and reserves two tickets on a ship.

“But what if your father-” John tries when Paul is packing, doing John’s work for him as well.

“Don’t be daft,” Paul says cheerfully, although he feels slightly weak in the stomach. “Technically we’re not in the water.”

John just looks worried, his fingers curling into fists.

Paul loves being on the sea. He stands on the deck with the wind hitting his scandalously long hair. It is a regular haircut for a merman, but amongst humans it was met with wide eyes and scowls. John quickly took it from him, though, and it became a running joke between them. The fish hair, John would say at the barber, and then laugh at his confused expression.

The first half of the journey goes well. Paul gets more and more nervous as they approach Atlantis. He knows that his father cannot find him as long as he does not touch the water, and then as well he has a chance of cheating a bit. He knows mermagic, which will be used to capture him, and he knows how to defend himself. He used to be His Royal Highness, Prince Paulos of Atlantis and the Seven Seas; he knows how to stand for himself, and for others as well.

One evening Paul is in the cabin he and John share, reading a book. The ship tilts, completely out of nowhere, and Paul almost falls off the bed. He manages to keep himself in, and looks up, alarmed.

Then the bells start ringing, and he knows that things are going bad.

He remembers John mentioning of going for a smoke. He lets out a small, terrified sound, and rushes to his feet, scrambling to get out of the suddenly strongly waving room. He runs up on the deck as fast as he can, avoiding other people, and pushes out through a doorway.

The storm is bigger than what he’s ever seen before. The waves are huge, raising up so high that they could even reach the deck. The ship is making its way through them steadily, but people are trying to get inside as quickly as they can, yelling at each other.

Paul spots John, coming towards the stairs with his hand on the rail, and then a wave comes.

Paul watches how John’s eyes widen before water falls upon him. Paul shouts, dashes forward, people are screaming. The wave withdraws lazily, and Paul’s heart falls down into the pit of his stomach.

The deck is empty; John is not there.

Paul turns to look at the sea and does not hesitate for a second.

He runs forward, ignores somebody shouting ‘stop him!’ and jumps over the rail.

He meets the water with a deep inhale, feels his legs pull together and his clothes disappear with the mermagic taking over, and he opens his eyes.

John is going down. He is unconscious, and the water is pulling him towards the darkness that is not dark to Paul. The current is strange, and certainly not one that should be here at this time of the year, but Paul ignores it in the favour of concentrating on John. He needs to get his love on the surface before it is too late; if John dies, Paul has nothing left, and he will go as well.

He swims after John, heart thudding against his chest. They are way too deep -Paul knows he cannot get up in time. His fingers close around John’s wrist and he pulls, looking up. The surface is too far away.

“Come on,” he calls out to John, just for the comfort. He takes John into his arms and starts swimming up, against the current, John lifeless in his hands.

Paul knows he cannot make it. John has been under water too long already.

He looks at John’s face, at his beautiful features, and his stomach turns into knots.

He cannot lose John.

The words come from deep within, a spell that he did not even know existed pours out. He holds John against him, and something golden lights up. Paul feels the familiar pull of mermagic in his heart and he shouts the last words breathlessly, and there is a silver flash of light that blinds Paul momentarily, and then he looks up.

John is floating above him, still unconscious, his body curling backwards. Paul looks at him, and- looks again.

John’s tail is the most beautiful he’s ever seen.

63 notes · View notes

celebratorypenguin · 7 years

Text

Fic: The Places Where You Bend

Rating: R for language, sexual situations, and aggressive behavior McLennon

Summary: It’s 1967, all hell is breaking loose, and Paul doesn’t know if he can do this anymore.

The Places Where You Bend

***

October, 1967

***

No power outage, no technician strike, nothing short of an earthquake, could bring the recording studios of EMI to quite as complete a standstill as one John Lennon in full strop.

John stood beneath his microphone, glasses askew, tie long-gone, shirt unbuttoned to the navel. His right hand held a crumpled lyric sheet; his left was holding the neck of his guitar far too loosely for safety. "Take the damn pop filter off," he yelled in the direction of the control room. "I want the consonants to explode!"

George Martin's voice came over the intercom, the weary schoolmaster explaining a rule to a truculent little boy. "We've been over this, John. The input capacity simply can't contain it, and you'll get clipping--"

"Which is what I want in the first place," interjected John.

"You'll get clipping, and distortion, which I know you also want, but you have to trust me to find a different way that won't wreck the control board."

"I don't need a different fucking way, I need for you to make THIS way work!" From his vantage point at the piano, Paul could see John's entire body quivering, tightly-wound. "Or else we need a different studio!"

"Johnny, stop, please," Paul murmured. He wanted to be anywhere on the planet except where he was, especially when John was in Full Bastard Mode.

"You don't know what the hell I want, Paul, not with your moon-June-spoon-loon-Hello-Goodbye granny shit, so stay out of it!"

"John," Ringo said quietly. He was halfway hidden by the screen around his drum kit, making his eyes, large and round with distress, even more piercing than usual.

"Oh, what is it YOU want?" John demanded, turning on Ringo. "Your opinion, from the very back of the room, is exactly what we don't need right now."

"John!" Louder, more forceful, this time from George, who looked up from his guitar with his brow angrily furrowed. "Stop it."

"Don't," John began, completely balling up the lyric sheet as he pointed a thin finger at George, "don't you dare start in on me. This is my song and I know how it's supposed to sound, and it's THEIR job to make it sound like that."

"So contradicting the only people in the room who know how this equipment works is your great idea?" George tossed his head and blew a stray lock of hair out of his eyes. "You're going to scream at them and insult them until you get your way?"

"Fuck you!" shouted John as he waved the Epiphone toward George. It grazed the leg of a nearby stool and flew out of his hand, landing on the floor with a sickening crack.

George was up in a flash, rushing to the guitar as if it were a child in peril. "Oh, fuck," George mumbled, his lean fingers running over the body of the instrument. "Fuck, John."

John stood still. His face, which had been an angry red, drained to a sickly greenish-white. Ringo stood up. "I think he's gonna--" He didn't have time to finish his warning before John ran to the trash can and started retching over it.

"Down," Paul said softly, coming up behind John and pressing on his shoulder so that he ended up kneeling in front of the trash can. Paul crouched behind him with one hand holding John's glasses in place and the other rubbing slow circles on his back as John gagged and spat up a clear, sickly-sour-smelling fluid.

George choked a little as the stench wafted over to him but continued examining John's guitar. Ringo covered his face with his jacket and leaned against the wall behind his drum kit.

"Is he going to be all right?" George Martin's disembodied voice held more concern and affection than anyone would have expected, given John's outburst.

"Yeah," Paul answered, not taking his eyes off of John.

"What brought all this on?" asked Ringo, who was pointedly looking away from where John was vomiting.

"He had a really bad trip last night and hasn't put anything in himself besides coffee and ciggies." Paul sighed, remembering how John had nearly bitten his head off for suggesting that a sandwich might not be the worst idea in the world.

Finished at last, John rocked back on his heels and wiped his mouth with his sleeve while Paul held his body upright. "I'm in the fucking room, you know."

"It'd have been hard to miss," George said drily, "between the tantrum and trying to use your guitar as a cricket bat. You've bent the tailpiece good and proper, and the neck needs to be reset. I don't see anything seriously broken on the body itself. This time," he added. "Try it again, and you'll need a whole new guitar."

John blinked short-sightedly and sighed. "I'm sorry," he muttered. Paul prodded him in the ribs and inclined his head toward the control room. "Sorry," John repeated. "I've had a shit day and now it's a shit night. We'd better knock off for now, all right?"

"Yes, I think that's best," George Martin assented. "Paul, will you lock up, and then see that John gets home in one piece?"

That had always been Brian's job, making sure someone was on John-sitting duty. But Brian was dead, the boys were adrift, and the day-to-day tasks had fallen on George Martin's shoulders.

Paul dragged John to his feet. "We'll just go to mine. It's closer." He peered into John's pale, sweaty face. "If you puke in my car, though, I'm tossing you out into the road. Preferably in front of a bus."

"Here, hold up a sec." Ringo loped over to them. He fished in his pocket for a moment before coming up with some wrapped pieces of candy. "Sherbet Lemons. Zak gets carsick and these are the only things that help," he said, offering the sweets to John.

"Ta, Ritchie," was all John said as he unwrapped a candy and popped it in his mouth, but Ringo seemed satisfied. He gave John a playful punch in the arm.

"Go sleep it off, wouldya? You're impossible when you're coming off the stuff."

John's lips were set in a tight line. He nodded at George, who was packing John's guitar gently in its case. "I'll see to this," George said gruffly as he followed Ringo. As the door closed, they could hear him mutter, "Never thought I'd live to feel sorry for our Paul."

"Fuck," John groaned. "Let's get out of here."

"No." Paul folded his arms and stared John down. "Not until you tell me what the hell's going on with you. Snapping at the engineers? Slinging your guitar at George? Picking a fight with RINGO, of all people?"

"Yeah. Like you said, last night was a rough trip." John covered his eyes with his hand.

"Don't fucking hide from me, John!" Paul snapped, grabbing John's wrist and wrenching his arm downward. "If you want to put your two cents' in on my music the way you always have, that's fine, but you're not gonna call it names in front of George Martin and you're sure as FUCK not gonna do it in front of Ringo and George, is that clear?"

"Since when do you get to give ME orders?" spat John.

"Since no one else has the nerve to say two words to you! Since no one does anything but run around like chickens with their heads cut off since the day Brian--"

"Don't you bring Brian into this!" John stood toe-to-toe with Paul and twisted his arm free from Paul's grasp. Red finger-marks stood out against the light skin. "This has nothing to do with him!"

"It has everything to do with him!" Paul's voice was strident, even in the muted acoustics of the studio. "You were always his little golden boy and he was twisted around your little finger--"

"And you resented him for not falling for the McCharmly allure!"

"--from the moment he whisked you off to Spain!"

Paul heard himself screaming those last words, his heart hammering as he spat verbal venom out of frustration and grief and, yes, even jealousy. He knew John was aware of every single emotion coursing through him, so he wasn't surprised at all when John spoke again in a teasing sing-song.

"I tried whisking you off to Spain, but we didn't make it there." John leaned forward, breathing hard, and rested his forehead against Paul's. His eyes sparkled with mischief. "You've been jealous? All these years?"

"Piss off, Lennon," growled Paul, acutely aware that he was becoming aroused.

"Jesus, I can't believe you! Do you know why I went with him?"

"I can fucking GUESS!" Paul shoved John in the chest, backing him up to the piano. Touching John always sparked something deep and dangerous inside of him. "So you could get everything you wanted, the hell with the rest of us."

John stumbled slightly and half-sat on the keyboard. Paul ground against him, too hard to be pleasurable for either of them. "I was trying to make sure we stayed Brian's top priorities," John said quickly, his sour breath puffing against Paul's face. "He fancied me. He liked rough trade, Paul, you knew that about him from the get-go. And I'm as rough as they come." He looked away. "You always knew that, too. You had bruises for a week after...after the night Brian died."

Fresh anger coursed through Paul at the memory of that night. John's hands, heavy and insistent on his thighs, had left purple marks that hurt almost enough to dull the pain and shock of the awful news.

Paul ground against John again, wanting to relieve the pressure in his groin, and if that meant jamming John's ass further into the sharp edge of the keyboard, so be it.

"That's right, Paul, you can take out your frustrations on me. You could treat me the way Brian liked to be treated, slap me around the way you think I deserve." John suggested. At Paul's horrified glance, he added, "You know damn well that I don't mind a bit of rough. Now and again. As long as the marks don't show."

Paul really, really did not want to know about that.

"And right now," continued John, "you're angry enough to do it."

"Maybe I am precisely that angry." Paul tried to sound convincing but his mind's eye was showing a Technicolor film of John splayed naked across the piano, begging to be fucked, and that ruined any chance of his voice conveying any toughness.

John pulled out another piece of candy from his pocket and tried to unwrap it. His fingers shook enough that he fumbled ineffectually with the paper. "Fuck. You open it."

"Why the hell should I?"

"Because I'm bloody well going to kiss you and my mouth smells like a sewer."

"You just think you're gonna kiss me," Paul panted, his hips moving rhythmically against John's. "I don't wanna kiss a bastard like you."

"Sure, you do, you're just too scared to admit it."

Paul lunged forward. Surprised, John dropped the candy and stepped on it with his heel when he overbalanced and began falling backward. His ass landed squarely on the keyboard and created a loud tone cluster. Paul's head snapped up, his eyes widening as his brain shook and cleared itself like an Etch-a-Sketch.

"You wanker, you're figuring out what notes my bum just played," John teased.

Paul flushed, caught in the act, and he started to laugh. His anger dissipated but there was a knife's edge of hysteria in his voice. He clutched John's shirt as the laughter became harsher, threatening to become sobs.

Straightening up, John let Paul lean into him. "Hey, it's all right, it's all right," he soothed. When Paul looked into John's eyes, he saw so much regret and embarrassment in them that he wondered if hearts really could shatter.

"I don't know how much longer," Paul began, then he had to stop and clear his throat. "I don't know how much longer I can keep doing this thing, trying to keep the band together, trying to keep YOU together. It's too damn hard." His knees didn't hold him up very well at this angle and he slid down to the piano bench, tugging John's sleeve until they were side by side.

"We've made a right dog's breakfast of our lives," John declared as he slipped his fingers between Paul's.

"That, we have."

"Whatever the opposite of 'toppermost of the poppermost' might be, we're in it up to our asses."

Paul let out a little sniff of a laugh. "I've tried and tried to figure it all out, but I'm not even sure what the question is, anymore."

"I often wonder that, myself," admitted John. "I wonder how we could go from aspiring musicians in Liverpool to rich, pokers-up-the-butt assholes flinging guitars at each other. How in the name of bleedin' Jesus did we get to this point, Paul?"

Unable to speak, Paul just shrugged. John turned to him and took both his hands. "It wasn't an easy question, you know. I deserve an answer. We all do."

Paul looked at the floor, at his knees, anywhere but John's penetrating brown eyes. He could feel the center of his world, the John-and-Paul of it, collapsing in on itself. "I don't know how. All I know is that I'm scared, John, I'm fucking terrified!"

John lowered his glasses to the end of his nose and peeked over the gold rims until Paul met his gaze. "It's only me, Macca," he said with a rueful half-smile.

Paul took a steadying breath. "But which 'you' are you tonight?" John, who was shading his eyes with one hand, did not answer. "John, are you falling asleep?"

"Not hardly," John said, turning slightly toward Paul. His eyes were red and wet with unshed tears. "The lights in here are too fucking bright, is all."

Sighing, Paul put his hand over John's heart, concerned by its unsteady, quick thrumming. "Just how bad was that trip last night, anyway?"

"Bad enough. I still feel like shit tonight. And then to get into those stupid fights..." He shook his head. "Maybe I'm just hopelessly fucked up." He started to put his glasses back on properly, then gave up and let them stay halfway up his nose. "Maybe you should just punch my hard fucking head into the concrete."

With a heavy heart and trembling fingers, Paul reached for John's wrist, gently this time, and placed a soft kiss at the pulse. He rolled John's sleeve up above the elbow and traced the veins at the crook. First he used his fingers, then he leaned over and licked in the same spot.

"Paul." Paul shuddered at the sheer carnality of his name when John exhaled it with such fondness. "What're you doing?"

"I don't care about your hard head," Paul whispered. "I like these places better. The places where you bend, where your skin is soft." His breath caught painfully in his throat. "Where you can still let me in."

John nodded, then kissed Paul on the forehead and let his lips linger there as he whispered, "Take me home, Paulie. We can let each other in."

They helped each other up and prepared to leave the studio, John taking the offensive trash can out into the hallway while Paul fiddled with the lock on the door. He thought about taking his guitar and bass home but decided against it. He wanted to give John his full attention tonight, give him all his love and devotion.

Because nowadays, Paul told himself as he turned out the lights, you never knew if there'd be another chance.

*** END ***

#McLennon fic #McLennon

7 notes · View notes

if-you-fan-a-fire · 5 years

Photo

“Staged Real Party But Patrol Ended Fun - Fined Today,” Border Cities Star. April 24, 1919. Page 03. --- Six men and two women staged a real old time party at 21 Sandwich street west, Wednesday night, with the result that they landed in the cells and were fined in police court, Thursday morning on charges of being intoxicated. The two women, Mary Forst and Margaret Russel, paid $16.50 each, and the men. Thomas Stinoff, George Fryer, James McLennon, Robert Miller, John Campbell and Joseph Farrington, paid $11.50 each. Two quart bottles, which had contained liquor, were found in the dining-room.

#windsor #public intoxication #a real rager #prohibition #prohibition in ontario #ontario temperance act #alcohol transportation #illegal whiskey #mixed company #police cells #police court #sandwich #history of crime and punishment in csnada #crime and punishment in canada

0 notes

imaginebeatles · 7 years

Text

Poetry Nights | Chapter 1: In which an art student meets a poet

Pairing: John/Paul

Rating: PG-13

Set in: Modern AU

Summary: 21-year-old Paul McCartney, who has recovered from a breakdown due to stress and his mother’s unexpected death, has recently moved to London where he now rents a cheap flat with his friend George. Having needed to give up his medicine studies, he has decided to start over and go to art college instead where he meets the rude and troublesome John Lennon, a young poet, who, much to Paul’s dismay, also happens to be his neighbour.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Beatles and this is fictional. I do not make money off this.

Author’s note: First part of my entry for the McLennon Big Bang! It’s kind of late, but well... it’s here. Before anyone’s going to ask, I’ll be posting A&O every Monday as well, so don’t worry. There is no fixed schedule for this one. I’ll just post a chapter whenever it’s finished. I’m probably not going to be able to finish this on time (there will be seven chapter), but we’ll deal with that when we come it. Also, look at this gorgeous moodboard @fabpaul made for this fic!

Author’s note 2: It’s been a while since I lasted posted something, and I’m really nervous about this. I hope you guys are going to like this. Like I said, there are going to be 7 chapter in total. Please let me know what you think! You can also read it on AO3.

Although he had not initially intended to spend his first weeks as an art student at the library, it was where he most often found himself after his classes and during his free mornings and afternoons. Because the semester had only just started, the library was practically empty most of the time, save for the occasional over-enthusiastic, over-ambitious student who was already cramming for tests that were still weeks if not months away, and writing essays about topics that had not even been properly discussed yet in class, sitting with their noses buried in books with such flimsy paper, that it looked like it would tear if handled in any way but with the utmost care. There was something “uncool about spending all your days at the university library, making time-tables, revising notes, studying texts, writing essays, and cramming for exams, that made most people want to stay away from such places as much as possible, not wanting to be considered “one of those people”. Paul would have done the same, that is, if he had cared at all about what was and was not considered “cool”, which obviously he didn’t. Not one bit. At all.

Truth be told, he enjoyed the library. It was quiet, peaceful, filled up to the ceiling with books containing fascinating information about curious topics and ideas he did not yet know about, there was free Wi-Fi, plenty of spots to plug in your phone or computer when needed, and, most importantly, no one to bother you by asking annoying questions or playing Guitar Hero at an ungodly volume, while stuffing their face full with potato crisps and diet coke, wearing nothing but a pair of plain, light blue boxers that looked suspiciously similar to a pair you owned yourself and would burn the next time you saw them. On the second floor they had opened a coffee corner where you could grab a cup of tea, coffee, or hot chocolate, along with some (cheap!) sandwiches, cookies, and other snacks (they even had vegan options), of which Paul took full advantage. They had also put down a couple of old battered couches for people to sit on, and honestly Paul could not imagine why anyone would want to spend their days anywhere else, except when they did have normal roommates with at least a sense of common decency.

At the moment he was sitting at a table on the third floor, rearranging his time-schedule in order to fit in his morning classes as well as his first assignments and regular homework, while still leaving him time to go on a forty-minute run every morning through the park that was not even five minutes away from the flat he and George shared. He had his new MacBook Air – a present from his father – open in front of him and had his wireless earphones – sadly not a present, but an expensive impulse buy he had yet to regret – planted firmly in his ears in the hope to block out all the outside noise as he listened to The Kinks singing Strangers directly into his ear, a memento from his and George’s first traditional movie night that would happen every Friday evening for the coming three years that they would be living together. They had watched The Darjeeling Limited, the perfect combination of comedy and drama with a nice aesthetic and good music, and just weird enough to be highly enjoyable and intriguing. It had been George’s pick, which meant Paul was allowed to choose the next one, which just had to be The Dead Poets Society – he was already looking forward to it – after which he was going to make George watch The Graduate because he hadn’t seen it and that, in Paul’s eyes, was a cultural sin if there ever was one.

A couple of rapid taps on his arm alerted him of his neighbour, who was sitting opposite him, drinking tea and stealing some of his veggie crisps as she revised her class notes on the fundamentals of dramatic text. She was a great girl, really. Stunning, with fair skin, long copper hair that cascaded down over her narrow shoulders – a shade that matched the colour of her painted lips – and kind blue eyes that shone brightly beneath her fringe that was bordering on the edge of being too long. But she was clever and funny too, with a mouth that was fouler than what he had initially expected, and a confidence that would have made Paul believe she was a professor rather than a first-year student, if it wasn’t for the fact that she was far too young to be one, being not yet nineteen. She was a great friend.

“I’m going out for a smoke and get myself another cup of tea. D’you want anything?” she asked as she stood up from her seat, fumbling around in her bag in search for her phone, cigarettes and lighter, and cursing at herself when she couldn’t find the latter. Paul, realising he had been staring, declined and offered her his own lighter, which he took from the pocket of his denim jacket.

“Thanks. I’ll be right back. Mind my bag, yeah?” She didn’t wait for Paul to nod or reply, and turned around and started heading towards the stairs, her heels clacking rhythmically on the synthetic floor as she went. Sighing, Paul reached for his own phone and checked his messages. Apart from a text from George asking him if he could swing by the store for some milk before he went home – they had run out again – there was nothing. It wasn’t so much that he was expecting something, but he had hoped to see at least one message from Dot, not having heard from her for a few days. The number of messages that normally went between them had started to decrease more and more over the last couple of weeks, especially since he had moved to London for his studies, which would usually warrant more messages. The thing was, though, that he wasn’t sure if he truly missed her. George said they needed some time to work it out, but lately he was feeling less and less certain of that, which made him feel even worse for not talking to her more often like he should.

Putting away his phone, he turned back to his time schedule and made some minor changes to is as he finished his tea, before he decided to do some reading for the following week, hoping that if he could get most of it done today, he would have the weekend off to relax and do something fun. George wanted to go out and live the student life like it was supposed to be lived according to every single movie in existence; so, naturally, Paul hadn’t been able to say no to that, being in the mood for getting drunk and enjoying the tantalising sight of hot boys and girls in sexy, tight outfits, even if he could not touch. Some harmless flirting was always fun.

He had barely gotten through the first two sections, however, or the peace and quiet that surrounded him was rudely broken by some loud shouts and laughter, which he could hear even through the music that was still blasting in his ears. Annoyed, he took out his earphones and glanced up to see a skinny lad – a little older than himself, but shorter and more fragile-looking – being slammed into a wall, laughing loudly as he struggled to hold onto a stack of papers he was holding in his arms. Some of the papers slipped from his grip anyway, despite the boy’s best efforts, and landed scattered on the floor. He shouted something at where he had emerged from, and knelt down to pick up the papers again as he wiped some tears from his eyes, which were covered by a pair of tinted sunglasses.

Not long after a second guy appeared from that same direction. He was taller and tough-looking, wearing a pair of tight black jeans, the ends of which he had flipped over once, a green plaid shirt with a leather jacket – faux leather, Paul hoped – and brown boots. He had a pair of glasses on his nose that reminded Paul of those Buddy Holly used to wear, and his brown hair had been styled into a tousled quiff, both of which, under any other circumstance but this one, he would have found incredibly attractive. He was laughing loudly as well and pushed at the smaller lad’s shoulder, causing him to lose his balance and fall down again, the paper slipping from his fingers once more.

Rolling his eyes at them, he turned up the volume on his computer and went back to work, but found it had become increasingly more difficult to concentrate on the words he was supposed to be reading, the sentences being too long and containing too many complex words, that he found his thoughts drifting away and his eyes towards the two men who were still causing trouble on the other side of the room. He considered telling them to be quiet, but decided not to, knowing these types of guys from when he had still been a teenager in Liverpool, where he had had to deal with guys like this on a regular basis in school. They thought they were too cool for anything and better than everyone else, and there was nothing you could say or do that would not end with either you running away or being punched in the eye. Being bisexual hadn’t much helped in school either, and he preferred to stay away from them now, not wanting a repeat of last time.

The curious thing was, though, that rather than being disruptive for the sake of being disruptive, these guys did seem to be doing something, namely bothering people and handing them those papers the lad with the sunglasses was holding in his arms, most of which were rather creased at this point, but neither of them seemed to care. They also laid some of the sheets on empty tables and in stacks between books on the bookshelves, which made Paul curious to know what they said. The two guys, on the other hand, did not seem to take any note of him, so Paul kept to watching them silently, hoping they would not spot him. Especially the taller guy, who had a pair of thighs that made it extremely difficult not to stare at him. He shouldn’t. He had a girlfriend.

“Chocolate cookies were twenty percent off, so I got you one as well,” a voice suddenly spoke next to him, making him jump in his seat and quickly look away from the two guys who were bothering a couple of girls a few tables away from him, and glanced up, only to be hit in the face by said chocolate cookie that had been thrown his way.

“Thanks…” he muttered in reply, half annoyed, half grateful, “you could’ve just given it to me, though, Jane, but injuring me works fine too, I guess.”

“Don’t be such a baby and accept the free food, will you,” she replied and sat back down on the chair opposite him. She smirked when Paul did as she had said without another word and began to eagerly take it out of the packaging; he harboured a deep love for anything chocolate that was too strong to be denied.

“Jane?” he asked after a few seconds, pausing from munching on his chocolate cookie, “do you know those guys?” He pointed at the two men who were still talking to the same two girls, one of whom looked intrigued, while her friend had turned away to try to read her book again. She couldn’t, however, as the taller lad with the quiff was now poking her book, while the other chuckled, but tried to get him to stop. Jane groaned in annoyance as she caught sight of them.

“You know them?”

She moaned, but nodded. “You get to know them soon enough. They’re kind of hard to ignore. Well, John is. Stuart – the one with the sunglasses – he isn’t that bad, really. He’s quite sweet when you catch him alone, artistically talented too, and his girlfriend, Astrid her name is, is a nice enough girl, but when he’s with John…” She shook her head and turned to glance over her shoulder to look at them. “I don’t even know what they’re doing here! Probably just trying to cause trouble again as always – John! Leave them girls alone!” She shouted that last directly at the two men, who looked up in confusion before a flicker of recognition flashed across the taller guy’s – John, Paul now knew – face and a grin spread across his lips.

“Miss Asher! My beautiful water nymph! What are you in the library for? Classes have barely even started yet!” he cried out, in a tone that was a little too melodramatic to be truly funny, but Paul could not help the grin that involuntarily appeared on his own lips. The guy jumped off from the table he had been sitting on and nudged his friend to tell him to follow him, that same mischievous grin still on his lips.

“Don’t bother with the niceties, Lennon. They won’t work, as you well know. And some of us do actually work hard, in case you didn’t know. Which begs the question what you are doing here,” Jane called back at him, as she watched them come over.

“Ah! That’s where you are mistaken, my dear. I value my studies highly. Just not in Nerd Central,” John replied with a charming wink when he was close enough and turned to look at Paul, who was watching him with interest, wondering where Jane would know a guy like him from. He did not appear to be anyone whom Jane or her friends would be acquaintances with. And what was this “water nymph” business? “But never mind that,” John continued after a brief moment of silence, “who is this handsome guy you’ve brought along, eh? New boyfriend?”

“I’m Paul. And we’re just good friends,” he quickly brought in before Jane could answer for him. He really was handsome, though, with almond-shaped eyes that shone darkly from under his thick-rimmed glasses, a strong jaw, and an aquiline nose. His hair, Paul now saw, was more auburn than brown and had a reddish shine to it as the light hit it, making it hard for him to look away.

“Good. I’m John. This is Stu,” he nodded at his friend and paused for a moment as he took a second to look his new acquaintance up and down, as if unsure how to place him. “You look familiar. Those eyes… they’re quite distinct.”

“Impossible. I just moved here a few weeks ago. I’m a first year.”

“You don’t look like a first year. Couldn’t you find the door or something?” John said with a jeering laugh, but Paul wasn’t so easily intimidated and cocked his head at him as he leaned back in his chair, trying to assert some dominance, which made the other’s eyes flash dangerously.

“Studied medicine before this, actually,” he explained calmly, “back in Liverpool. I quit during my first year, took a gap year afterwards, and now here I am.”

“Why? Subject too hard for you, pretty boy?”

“No. I found out that if I became a doctor, I’d be bound by oath to help stupid pricks like yourself as well, and thought I’d do more good for this world if I didn’t.”

“Oh, kitty’s got claws, doesn’t she?” John crooned and Paul started at his words, feeling a flush creep up to his cheeks, which he fought to repress. Before he could come up with a good comeback, however, Jane had mingled between them again.

“Do you want anything, Lennon? If not you might as well just leave,” she said, and John tutted at her in disapproval, but kept his eyes firmly onto Paul’s, looking at him with a gaze so intense, it made Paul squirm in his seat. He refused, however, to look away.

“Don’t worry, Miss Asher. We don’t plan on staying. Me and Stu here were simply giving out some flyers to advertise our monthly poetry night. You two want to come?” As he said this, reached for the stack of papers in his friend’s arms and laid two of them down on the table for them. Curious, Paul took one, while Jane ignored hers.

“You already know my answer, Lennon,” she said and John nodded with another one of his dramatic sighs.

“And it will not be the same without you, my dear, as you well know. How about you then, Doctor Big Eyes?” he asked, turning once more to Paul, who had been reading the flyer.

“You’re a poet?” he asked instead of answering, ignoring the uncreative insult. John nodded as he bowed to him.

“John Winston Lennon, your most humble and ingenious juggler of words, at your service,” he said in a not-so-humble tone of voice. Paul ignored him and looked back at the flyer in his hand. Although the design was rather cliché, with a vintage mic on the front and a red theatre curtain in the background and the usual cursive font, it looked pretty well-made. At the bottom of the flyer he could see John’s and Stuart’s names in bold cursive letters, as well as two others he had never heard of.

“You don’t look like a poet,” he remarked, throwing the man’s own words back at him, as he glanced up at him and awaited his reaction. Sure enough, his lips twitched in annoyance and his hands bawled up into fists, but he failed to look truly intimidating.

“Well? Are you coming or not?” John asked through gritted teeth, clearly ticked off by his talking back at him. “It’s this coming Thursday evening from 8 till 11 at the café next door to here. You can either listen or perform your own stuff, if you even have any. There’s cheap booze as well.”

Paul shrugged as he offered him his flyer back. “Couldn’t even if I wanted to,” he said as if that explained everything, and turned back to his book which still lay open in front of him, hoping the guy would leave. It was probably for the best the guy proved to be a total dick, though it would have been nice to meet a hot guy who didn’t act like a jerk of once. He supposed George was right, his taste in men was despicable, and he shouldn’t make that same mistake again. To his luck, John did as he had hoped and snatched the flyer from his hand, before turning around to leave, grabbing his friend by his wrist to drag him with him.

“Think it over sometime, Paul. Maybe you’ll change your mind. See you around, Miss Asher,” John grumbled bitterly and with that, the two men left, heading straight towards the stairs, which they hurriedly descended.

“Is he always like that?” Paul asked once he was certain the two men were out of earshot, keeping his eyes on them for a second longer, before he turned to Jane who was looking at him thoughtfully, one eyebrow raised.

“No,” she said after a moment of consideration, “normally he’s worse.”

The troublesome poet remained on his mind for the rest of the afternoon, despite Paul’s best efforts to forget about him and do his reading like he was supposed to. The thought of him even followed him into the supermarket and onto the bus home, leaving him restless. He didn’t know why but for some reason he was doomed to only find guys attractive who were total assholes, and John Lennon was one of them, it seemed. He was terribly good-looking, and Paul could always appreciate a guy who wrote poetry or did anything artistic like that – he wrote songs himself, which he considered a type of poetry in itself, so it would have been great to have someone with whom he could share that passion – but, of course, the guy had to be an utter douchebag. It was a curse and terribly unfair.

As he mulled over his tragic fate in his mind, he climbed up the stairs to the fourth floor where his and George’s flat was situated, the lift being out of order again, as it always seemed to be. The shopping bag felt heavy in his hand, having bought not only the requested milk (two cartons, mind you), but also some frozen veggies, a couple of bagels, and two bottles of apple cider, as well as a package of jelly beans for George, having figured he might as well, and he felt a great sense of relief once he finally reached the right floor. Taking his keys out of his schoolbag, he momentarily put both bags down and opened the door to his flat, where he was greeted by the unpleasant smell of old pizza and beer, as well as some loud and obscene curses, which told Paul the gaming tournament hadn’t yet ended. Sighing, he heaved the bags inside and kicked the door shut before making his way into the living room where his suspicions were confirmed as he saw George and his friend Ringo sit on the edge of the couch, playing Mario Cart. At least now they were dressed, which Paul considered a blessing. Ringo appeared to be winning, having a smug and relaxed grin on his face, his bright blue eyes twinkling in delight, while George only cursed at the screen and called out various colourful profanities as he once again drove over a banana peel.

“I see you guys are having fun,” Paul muttered as he put his schoolbag down on the floor and reached into the shopping bag to get out the jelly beans which he threw into his friend’s lap, who cried out in joy.

“Jelly Beans! Thanks, Paul! You’re the best- Oh fuck!” Hastily, he turned back to the race, where he had just knocked into a wall, causing Ringo to burst out laughing as he easily manoeuvred past the last of the obstacles and crossed the finish line first, much to George’s frustration, who looked like he was about ready to throw his controller out of the window.

“I hate you!” he grumbled at Ringo, and punched him in the stomach in revenge, causing the poor man to double over, though he kept on laughing, seeming okay.

“Rematch? I’ll even let you pick the track,” Ringo suggested, and George narrowed his eyes at him, but gave in anyway and ripped the package of jelly beans open. He muttered something about needing something extra to help him along, and stuffed a couple into his mouth.

“Don’t eat too many, Geo! I’ll be making dinner soon! Richie, you’re having dinner with us, right?” Paul warned as he began to kick off his shoes while checking his phone for any messages from Dot, but when George grumbled something inaudible back, he knew it was already too late.

“Don’t worry, Paul. I don’t think you can overeat when your stomach has been replaced by a black hole,” Ringo said, laughing, which he quickly regretted when George hit him again. He, once again, doubled over again and gripped his stomach, while George continued to munch on his jelly beans. “I was going to let you win, you git, but now you can go fuck yourself for all I care. I’ll come help you later, Paul. First, I need to ride George off the fucking Rainbow Road.”

“What?! You said I could choose! I suck at Rainbow Road!”

“Exactly,” he concluded and with that he selected said track, just to spite him. Paul chuckled at their bickering, and, shaking his head, grabbed the groceries and started to make his way to the kitchen to prepare dinner. He was in the need for some good food, which at the moment meant some simple pasta with tomato sauce, because it was easy and quick to make and not too expensive, which were the three crucial ingredients of good food when you were a poor student living away from home, who spend way too much money on other things, such as clothes and pretty editions of books and LPs. Besides, pasta was simply delicious and no one could tell him otherwise.

Once he had put the groceries away, washed his hands and got some water boiling for the pasta – a mixture of penne and fusilli because they didn’t have enough of one kind – Ringo, who had once again been victorious, judging by the angry shouts coming from the living room, came into the kitchen to help. Paul made him cut up the onions, tomatoes and other veggies, while he himself made the sauce and grated some cheese to go on top. They had almost finished when George came in, a couple of jelly beans stuffed in his mouth and a piece of paper in his hand.

“Macca? What’s this?” he asked, waving it around above his head to catch his attention. Paul frowned when his eyes landed on the flyer, recognising it immediately.

“How did you get that?”

“It was sticking out of your bag. I’ve heard about these poetry nights. They’re pretty good, or so they say. Are you going?”

“No. Some asshole gave me one, which I handed back, damn him! He must have secretly put it in my bag when I didn’t notice. Ugh!” Paul took the flyer from his friend, which he crumpled up and unceremoniously threw into the bin.

“But I thought you liked pretentious shit like this. You know, listening to snobby, edgy, emo kids reciting their amateur existentialist poetry and all that. If you don’t have anyone to bring along…” George offered, staring at his friend, as if unable to belief he would say ‘no’ to anything like this.

“It’s not always like that, George. There’s some stuff that’s really good! And it’d be fun to go, but not if it means running into that guy again. You wouldn’t say this if you had been there, you know. The guy was a real asshole and I already told him I wouldn’t come, so who knows what he’d think or say when I’d show up anyway! He’s bound to be there…”

“Who cares!”

“Well, I’m not going to let him have that satisfaction!”

“You’re seriously going to let this guy ruin a fun evening for you? That doesn’t sound like you. So what if he’s there?! You don’t have to talk to him, do you? And if he does start bothering you, just tell him to stuff it! Besides, it’d be good for you to do something fun and relaxing and go out for once. Even Dr Collins told you so, remember?”

“I don’t need some shrink to tell me when I should and shouldn’t be having fun, Geo. Besides, Dot and I always meet on skype Thursday evening, so I couldn’t go even if I wanted to. Let’s just forget about it, okay. Dinner is ready,” Paul concluded and with that the conversation had ended. The three of them all got their food and George made sure to grab them all something to drink, before they headed back into the living room and took a seat on the couch. Ringo let George pick something for them all to watch, which Paul supposed was reconciliation for having beaten him so often at Mario Kart and whatever other games they had played that day, and soon they were watching telly and having their dinner while George and Ringo spoke about all sorts of things, such as George’s new super-hot girlfriend, Pattie.

Paul mostly kept out of the conversation and sat quietly on the other side of the couch, staring at his food as he ate, not feeling in the mood for any social interaction all of a sudden, which happened from time to time. The telly was loud, but he ignored it, and thought about Dot. What was she doing? Why wasn’t she texting him? Did she still look as pretty as she had done when she had wished him goodbye at the train station? Was she happy? Was she waiting for a message as well? Should he text her? Or was she busy with other things? Did she have someone else? Shaking the thought of her from his mind, he instead forced himself to talk to his friends, needing the distraction.

“Hey, Geo? Did you manage to talk to our neighbour yet?” he asked once George and Ringo stopped talking for a moment. He couldn’t have chosen a better topic, for as soon as the word ‘neighbour’ passed his lips, George sat up and went off into a tantrum, that made Paul grin in amusement.

“No! The bastard has been out all day! Or he won’t open up, which would make it even worse! Like, I’m starting to doubt there’s even anyone living there, to be honest. Who is out that many times a day?! It’s ridiculous! But of course, for some reason he does manage to find the time to steal from us! Fucking bastard,” he grumbled, and angrily pricked some pasta onto his fork to get some of that frustration out of his system, which made Paul feel somewhat relieved their neighbour wasn’t home right now with his friend being in a mood like this.

“Wait someone has been stealing for you guys?” Ringo asked, eyes wide in surprise. Paul opened his mouth to explain, but before he could, George had thrown down his fork and was already talking at a speed that made it hard for the other two of follow what he was talking about.

“Yes! Someone has been stealing our internet. I am certain of it, because our connection has been incredibly slow lately and when I looked at the device list of our router, I saw some unknown device on it – dirty name, of course. Me and Paul have been asking people about it for over a week now, and we still haven’t found the guy! The only person left is our neighbour, but he never seems to be home, which I think is highly suspicious!”

“He is like a ghost. All we hear is music coming through the walls at ungodly hours. A bang or two is usually enough to get him to shut up, though, but he never answers the door. George sees that as an admittance of guilt,” Paul brought in with some intense nodding on George’s part. Ringo, however, didn’t seem to impressed by the serious crime that was being committed right under their noses.

“So? Just change your password,” he suggested and Paul grinned at him as he shook his head.

“We’ve tried that.”

“Multiple times,” George added, “it’s like he can read my mind or something!”

“Well? Who is your neighbour?” Ringo asked and both Paul and George shrugged.

“We’ve never seen him. According to the neighbours it’s a guy, but they’ve never spoken to him. Descriptions don’t go much further than that. They’ve only even seen him in the dark when he comes home.”

“We might need to call the landlord if he hasn’t been seen by the end of the week. Before something starts to smell, you know,” Paul suggested and George agreed with a voice that sounded a little too excited about the prospect, while Ringo only chuckled, muttering something about them having wild imaginations, which Paul couldn’t deny.

#mclennon big bang #mclnbb #fanfiction #beatles fanfiction #BEATLES SLASH #mclennon fanfiction #McLennon #johnxpaul #john #paul #au #pg-13 #Poetry Nights

102 notes · View notes