Fic: the touch of a velvet hand (NC-17, J/P, yes again, yes I'm sorry)
Fic: the touch of a velvet hand
Fandom: The Beatles
Pairing: John/Paul
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ~3000
Summary: Paul has an interesting dream and accidentally (sort of) tells John about it. Things ensue. For tini_91 because it is her birthday and she is an evil enabler. Happy birthday, bb. :)
Warnings: Feminisation kink; het...sort of? Sorry. In general. Sorry.
"Let me," John says. His voice is low and breathless and his hand is sliding flat up Paul's thigh, fingertips wrapping around it easily, kneading. "I can make you feel so good, sweetheart; I promise. Let me."
His fingers drift a little higher, smoothing over the pale expanse of fine skin between Paul's knee and the crux of his legs, and it crosses Paul's mind, for a last second of rationality, that this is what John says, probably, to all the girls; that this is just John seducing him.
But then John's fingers brush him through his knickers, sending a sharp thrill curling up Paul's spine, and that puts the tin hat on Paul's logic. His thighs fall open. There's no question any more. He's wet, the cotton hot and damp when John flattens his hand there, and then John is gripping him like he owns him, palming him firm and knowing, and of course if Paul has a cunt he's going to let John lick it, feel that pink mouth lapping at him. Why he has a cunt is unclear, but it feels quite natural; makes him feel split-open and aching and hot in the way proximity to John has done for some time. He's not a girl, not exactly -- is still just Paul, just himself -- but his hips are subtly rounded when John slides his hands up them to work the knickers off him, and his chest is soft and full beneath the dress, where John has had his hands already. Paul doesn't know what he is, except some heated distillation of want with his thighs splayed around John's body, pelvis canting upward as John trails two fingers through his slickness, pushes them inside him and rubs at Paul with the pad of his thumb.
"I'm gonna put my tongue here," John promises, thumb working at Paul in tight little circles, and Paul groans, imagining it, John opening him up and licking wetly along the cleft of him. "Let me," John says, low, and Paul can think of no earthly reason to resist.
Paul doesn't know what he is, other than dreaming, dreaming, but he knows what John is; who John is. His chest hitches with his breaths as John fucks him with his fingers, and when John lifts him, reversing their positions so that Paul is half-straddling John's chest, Paul lets him, loving the sensation of weightlessness, the ease with which John is able to manhandle him.
"Come here," John tells him, gripping the meat of Paul's thighs and hefting him closer. "God, Paul, I love the way you smell. Come on, babe." Another tug, and Paul is gripping the headboard with both hands, pulse pounding wildly between his legs as John licks lazily at his inner thigh, presses a kiss to the wet line his tongue has traced. "Come on, sit on my face."
John tugs again, this time sharply downward, and Paul gives in. The first touch of John's tongue is electric, a flat, hard, slow upward stroke, and Paul hears himself cry out; feels himself convulse. John makes a soft sound against him, gratified. His tongue flicks and curls, now soft, now hard and teasing; then John is sucking and the details of the situation begin to melt in Paul's mind as heat surges through him. Below him, John's eyes are closed as if in worship, his hair spread fox-coloured on the pillow. Paul bites his lip, rocks his hips, riding John's tongue, and John moans, digs his fingers into Paul's thighs, hauling him closer. God, but John is good at this, his little noises of contentment vibrating up through Paul's body, and suddenly Paul is close, so close, circling the abyss. Blindly, he lets one hand slip from the headboard and fist in John's hair, holding him still as he fucks forward, onto him and into him, searching for something, something --- just --
He wakes up with a jolt, sudden and absolute. He's achingly hard, so much so that for a second he thinks that was all that jerked him from sleep, his dick trapped between his body and the mattress and leaking a spot of precome through his pyjamas.
Then John shoves him again, flat of his hand pushing at Paul's hip. His thumb is on Paul's hot bare skin where his shirt has ridden up and the flash of mortification that rolls through Paul is tinged darkly with something else, something sharp and hungry and needing.
"If you wanted a wank," John mutters grumpily, "you should have just fucking had one, then you wouldn't have been shaking the whole bleedin' bed with your dirty dreams."
Dirty dreams indeed. Memory surges back to Paul in fragments: John's eyelashes shadowed on his cheekbones as he nosed up between Paul's legs; John's big hands strong on Paul's thighs; John's clever tongue. "Shut up, John," Paul tries to say, his cheeks heating, but the words squeak their way out. John's hand is still on Paul's hip and, despite his embarrassment, Paul can't seem to stop himself rolling forward into the mattress, just slightly, crushing himself against it as if it might bring him some relief.
Fat chance, with John around. Even in the dark hotel room, Paul catches the flash of John's teeth as he grins -- hell, he can feel him smiling, boyishly gleeful. "Aw, Paulie," John teases, "those dreams were dirty, weren't they, eh? What were you dreaming about?" John shakes him, thumb hooking under the spur of Paul's hipbone in a way that sends shivers darting down the vee of his pelvis, and Paul bites his lip. Relentless, John prompts, "Blonde with big tits, was it? So predictable, Macca."
Paul stills, clenching his knees against the urge to rut against the mattress, body aching to finish what it's begun and oddly, insistently driven by the sound of John's voice. Of course he's noticed before that it's a nice voice, a soft voice, but it's never caught at the base of his spine the way it's doing now -- never twisted him up inside the way it does when John leans forward after a beat and says, sounding suddenly curious, "Or aren't you? Not Brigitte tonight, eh?" The hand on Paul's hip shifts, palms the small of his back where sweat has collected in the dip of his spine, and that's it, breaking point for Paul's willpower. His pelvis jackknifes forward, breath pushing out of him harshly.
"No," he pants, feeling suddenly, drunkenly reckless, "not -- not tonight."
He doesn't miss the way John's hand shifts, as if it's pushing, urging Paul down again by the upper curve of his backside when his hips lift. John's voice, when it comes again, sounds changed, darker. "What kind of bird, then?" John says, and his palm flexes against Paul's arse. The mattress comes up to meet him, sweet pressure on his pounding dick, and Paul bites his lip, all the blood diverted from his brain and its sense of reason.
"I think," Paul says, cheek pressed hot and damp to the pillow as John coaxes him down against the sheets, "I was -- I was the girl. And --"
John's hand falters, slips lower and flattens on Paul's backside, the feel of it heavy and half-accidental. "And?"
Paul rubs his face reflexively against the pillowcase, heat spiking at his groin. "And -- and you were there. I think." Paul swallows. The back of his throat feels like cotton. "I was with you."
He feels John tense, but it doesn't prepare him for the adrenaline rush that claws at him, fluttering in his stomach, when John turns him over abruptly, two-handed. He's on his back before he knows the reason why, and if the loss of pressure on his cock is near-painful, the dangerous look on John's face almost makes up for it, the faint light from the window glancing off the wet insides of John's parted lips. "John," Paul manages, winded, but John cuts him off with a palm pressed between Paul's legs, frank and final, no more plausible deniability. Paul remembers that move from the dream, John squeezing him through cloth, and he says, feeling dizzy and crazed, "Yeah, you -- you did that." Impossibly, he feels himself swell further against John's hand, fattening under his palm.
"Christ," John says. He looks dazed, manic, his mouth soft and open and his eyes bright and dazzled. Paul doesn't know what he's doing; doesn't know what they're doing, but it's too late to stop now. John's braced over him, staring down at the bulge in Paul's pyjamas where his prick is pressing out the fabric, and Paul's already almost shivering with want before John says, "Did you let me rub your cunt, baby?" He palms the firm ridge of cock, heel of his hand grinding down. "Like this?"
"Shit." The word comes out like a sob. He can feel new precome shoving its way out of him, smearing under John's hand, and Jesus Christ, this has gone too far to chicken out now, if Paul even could. He reaches up, clutches at the back of John's neck, and realises when John stumbles closer that he's panting almost as hard as Paul is, now, his hand still rocking incrementally between Paul's thighs. "Yeah," Paul tells him, breathless, "yeah, and you -- " He catches his breath on a shudder, jerks his hips up against John's palm as John squeezes him, hectic and without warning. "You were licking me, you wanted me to let you...you..."
John's hand slips, presses down harder, and his voice when it comes is strained and incredulous, cracking with want. "Jesus wept," he says, and it's gratifying, terrifying, like the way John's fingers start clawing blindly at the waistband of Paul's pyjama trousers and his briefs beneath, hauling them indelicately down his thighs. "Fucking Christ, and you did, didn't you? You little slut, you let me. Like this?" John's fingers are shaking when they curl around Paul, the naked length of him slick with sweat and his own wetness, shoved out of him by the sweet ripe ache that's taken him over. Paul moans, head falling back, and John's shoulders are shaking too as he ducks his head and swipes his tongue, catlike, over the sticky crown of Paul's dick. "Like this?"
Like before, like he'd dreamed, it's electric, the soft flat of John's tongue and then the sharper jolt when he points it, wiggling the tip into the slit of Paul's dick where he's pearling up wet. Paul cries out, unable to stop himself; grips John's hair in one hand, feeling it sweaty and rich between his fingers. John groans against him, grasping for a good deep breath, and then the whole head of Paul's dick is slipping between his parted lips, smearing slick against the silken inside of John's cheek. Paul opens his mouth to say something, anything, but his stomach has tautened up with the feeling and the knots seem to go all the way up, holding him down, holding his tongue. It's all he can do to fuck up with his hips and whimper, clutching at John's hair like a lifeline.
He's close, been so damn close all along, and John is frenetic, unpractised but eager as he sucks at the crown of Paul's cock, pulling back after a moment to rub his parted lips breathlessly over the tip of it. "God," John says, and then his two hands are working uselessly again at Paul's clothes, dragging them further down his legs. Dimly, Paul registers what is needed of him, and he spreads his knees a little once the fabric is below them, kicking it off in a tangle when John's worked it low enough. Then John presses his knuckles behind the heavy swell of Paul's bollocks, deep and hard, and Paul cries out again, legs jerking spasmodically.
"Did you let me do this, darlin'?" John asks him, in a voice rough and hot as good whisky. "Rub you between your legs? Spread you open?" John palms at his thighs, pushes them apart, pushes them back until Paul's knees are suddenly up by his chest, his whole pelvis canted up towards John's face. "Christ, I'd lick your little cunt like a shot, Paul, if you let me. Fuck you with my tongue. Can I?" John leans in, shouldering Paul's thighs wider still; he rubs his face bluntly between Paul's legs, nosing at his perineum, sucking at the skin until Paul is shivering, muscles in his thighs leaping wildly.
"Fuck, yes," Paul spits, as if the question even makes any sense -- as if there's anything he wouldn't let John do in this moment. "Johnny, please, do it -- please --"
He's barely conscious of John's tongue on him, pushing at him, tracing the rim of his arsehole, before the overdue rush of orgasm crashes over him like a breaker, pushing fatly up his prick in sludgy waves of heat. His legs shiver and jerk, but John holds them fast, pinning them apart as he shoves his tongue past the tight ring of muscle, wet and hard and eager. As if from a distance, Paul hears himself shouting weakly; he's coming fucking everywhere, over his own abdomen and in John's hair, but John is rutting against the mattress now as he thrusts his tongue into Paul, working him open. Aftershocks ripple through Paul like little waves. After a long second catching his breath, he grasps for John's shoulders, tugs. John is still moving spasmodically, hips going, and this may be strange and new but friends don't let friends hump mattresses to their completion when there's another option; especially when they've just done -- whatever that was.
"Johnny," Paul manages. His voice sounds gritty, folksy, like he's just smoked eighteen fags in a row or belted out screamer after screamer all night in some Liverpool dive bar. "Here -- c'mere --"
It's not until John's mouth finds his, wet and slack and hot, that Paul realises, dream or otherwise, this is the first time they've kissed. Even after all that, John's hair sticky with Paul's come and Paul's muscles spent from John's ministrations, this is the first time John's tongue has found its way cautiously into Paul's mouth, tracing the shapes of his teeth. Paul breathes out hard through his nose, licks at John's soft palate. Over him, beside him, John is pressing himself against Paul's bare hip, and Paul pushes a hand down blindly into John's pyjamas, seeking bare skin.
"Shit," John mutters, breaking the kiss as Paul takes hold of him, starts jacking him wet and fast. "Shit, shit -- yeah, go on, harder."
It should be surreal, the feeling of another man's prick in his hand, unfamiliar ridge of foreskin moving stickily back and forth over the wet head, but somehow, it isn't really. Somehow, it's just John, John panting hotly against Paul's mouth and John fucking slickly through the tunnel of Paul's fist and, oh, and John coming hot and sudden over Paul's wrist, stilling at the crest of a thrust as he spurts. Afterwards, Paul goes on holding him for a long moment; can't seem to let go, although John is wet and softening in his hand. John's breath is jagged and warm on his mouth, against his cheek. He doesn't protest. Paul, the blood now actually flowing to his brain again, hasn't the faintest idea what's just happened here, but John isn't protesting, and that's something. Paul's body certainly isn't protesting either.
Five minutes pass before John pulls back, eyes finding Paul's in the half-light. Looking back at him, Paul feels his stomach clench, suddenly apprehensive, and when John opens his mouth to speak, the feeling intensifies, twisting his guts. The fuck was that? he hears John saying. What the hell do you think you're doing?
But when John speaks, what he says is, "Did I fuck you?" and Paul's breath hitches. His throat feels used and dry, almost sticky.
"What?" he croaks weakly.
John clarifies, "In the dream. Did I fuck you?" His voice is stronger now, eyes clear and searching on Paul's face. Intent. Paul is too entirely fucked-out to get hard again for a while, but even still, that look makes his whole body thrill.
"No," he says, carefully, but his pulse is pounding under his skin, now, everywhere. On his thighs, on his hips, he fancies he can feel John's fingerprints. He wants to feel them, he thinks suddenly, recklessly, on his throat, on his arms, on his back. He says, "But I'd let you."
A muscle jumps in John's jaw, by the tendon in his throat. "In your dreams?" he asks, thin and guarded. He looks, Paul thinks, beautiful, suddenly uncertain, and Paul's fingers wrap around John's wrist without thinking; lift it so that Paul can brush his mouth against the heel of John's palm.
"No," Paul says, softly, "straight up. Anywhere."
It's too dark to see John's closed-mouthed, giddy smile, but Paul feels it all over his body, marking him like fingerprints. Next time.
Fandom: The Beatles
Pairing: John/Paul
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ~3000
Summary: Paul has an interesting dream and accidentally (sort of) tells John about it. Things ensue. For tini_91 because it is her birthday and she is an evil enabler. Happy birthday, bb. :)
Warnings: Feminisation kink; het...sort of? Sorry. In general. Sorry.
"Let me," John says. His voice is low and breathless and his hand is sliding flat up Paul's thigh, fingertips wrapping around it easily, kneading. "I can make you feel so good, sweetheart; I promise. Let me."
His fingers drift a little higher, smoothing over the pale expanse of fine skin between Paul's knee and the crux of his legs, and it crosses Paul's mind, for a last second of rationality, that this is what John says, probably, to all the girls; that this is just John seducing him.
But then John's fingers brush him through his knickers, sending a sharp thrill curling up Paul's spine, and that puts the tin hat on Paul's logic. His thighs fall open. There's no question any more. He's wet, the cotton hot and damp when John flattens his hand there, and then John is gripping him like he owns him, palming him firm and knowing, and of course if Paul has a cunt he's going to let John lick it, feel that pink mouth lapping at him. Why he has a cunt is unclear, but it feels quite natural; makes him feel split-open and aching and hot in the way proximity to John has done for some time. He's not a girl, not exactly -- is still just Paul, just himself -- but his hips are subtly rounded when John slides his hands up them to work the knickers off him, and his chest is soft and full beneath the dress, where John has had his hands already. Paul doesn't know what he is, except some heated distillation of want with his thighs splayed around John's body, pelvis canting upward as John trails two fingers through his slickness, pushes them inside him and rubs at Paul with the pad of his thumb.
"I'm gonna put my tongue here," John promises, thumb working at Paul in tight little circles, and Paul groans, imagining it, John opening him up and licking wetly along the cleft of him. "Let me," John says, low, and Paul can think of no earthly reason to resist.
Paul doesn't know what he is, other than dreaming, dreaming, but he knows what John is; who John is. His chest hitches with his breaths as John fucks him with his fingers, and when John lifts him, reversing their positions so that Paul is half-straddling John's chest, Paul lets him, loving the sensation of weightlessness, the ease with which John is able to manhandle him.
"Come here," John tells him, gripping the meat of Paul's thighs and hefting him closer. "God, Paul, I love the way you smell. Come on, babe." Another tug, and Paul is gripping the headboard with both hands, pulse pounding wildly between his legs as John licks lazily at his inner thigh, presses a kiss to the wet line his tongue has traced. "Come on, sit on my face."
John tugs again, this time sharply downward, and Paul gives in. The first touch of John's tongue is electric, a flat, hard, slow upward stroke, and Paul hears himself cry out; feels himself convulse. John makes a soft sound against him, gratified. His tongue flicks and curls, now soft, now hard and teasing; then John is sucking and the details of the situation begin to melt in Paul's mind as heat surges through him. Below him, John's eyes are closed as if in worship, his hair spread fox-coloured on the pillow. Paul bites his lip, rocks his hips, riding John's tongue, and John moans, digs his fingers into Paul's thighs, hauling him closer. God, but John is good at this, his little noises of contentment vibrating up through Paul's body, and suddenly Paul is close, so close, circling the abyss. Blindly, he lets one hand slip from the headboard and fist in John's hair, holding him still as he fucks forward, onto him and into him, searching for something, something --- just --
He wakes up with a jolt, sudden and absolute. He's achingly hard, so much so that for a second he thinks that was all that jerked him from sleep, his dick trapped between his body and the mattress and leaking a spot of precome through his pyjamas.
Then John shoves him again, flat of his hand pushing at Paul's hip. His thumb is on Paul's hot bare skin where his shirt has ridden up and the flash of mortification that rolls through Paul is tinged darkly with something else, something sharp and hungry and needing.
"If you wanted a wank," John mutters grumpily, "you should have just fucking had one, then you wouldn't have been shaking the whole bleedin' bed with your dirty dreams."
Dirty dreams indeed. Memory surges back to Paul in fragments: John's eyelashes shadowed on his cheekbones as he nosed up between Paul's legs; John's big hands strong on Paul's thighs; John's clever tongue. "Shut up, John," Paul tries to say, his cheeks heating, but the words squeak their way out. John's hand is still on Paul's hip and, despite his embarrassment, Paul can't seem to stop himself rolling forward into the mattress, just slightly, crushing himself against it as if it might bring him some relief.
Fat chance, with John around. Even in the dark hotel room, Paul catches the flash of John's teeth as he grins -- hell, he can feel him smiling, boyishly gleeful. "Aw, Paulie," John teases, "those dreams were dirty, weren't they, eh? What were you dreaming about?" John shakes him, thumb hooking under the spur of Paul's hipbone in a way that sends shivers darting down the vee of his pelvis, and Paul bites his lip. Relentless, John prompts, "Blonde with big tits, was it? So predictable, Macca."
Paul stills, clenching his knees against the urge to rut against the mattress, body aching to finish what it's begun and oddly, insistently driven by the sound of John's voice. Of course he's noticed before that it's a nice voice, a soft voice, but it's never caught at the base of his spine the way it's doing now -- never twisted him up inside the way it does when John leans forward after a beat and says, sounding suddenly curious, "Or aren't you? Not Brigitte tonight, eh?" The hand on Paul's hip shifts, palms the small of his back where sweat has collected in the dip of his spine, and that's it, breaking point for Paul's willpower. His pelvis jackknifes forward, breath pushing out of him harshly.
"No," he pants, feeling suddenly, drunkenly reckless, "not -- not tonight."
He doesn't miss the way John's hand shifts, as if it's pushing, urging Paul down again by the upper curve of his backside when his hips lift. John's voice, when it comes again, sounds changed, darker. "What kind of bird, then?" John says, and his palm flexes against Paul's arse. The mattress comes up to meet him, sweet pressure on his pounding dick, and Paul bites his lip, all the blood diverted from his brain and its sense of reason.
"I think," Paul says, cheek pressed hot and damp to the pillow as John coaxes him down against the sheets, "I was -- I was the girl. And --"
John's hand falters, slips lower and flattens on Paul's backside, the feel of it heavy and half-accidental. "And?"
Paul rubs his face reflexively against the pillowcase, heat spiking at his groin. "And -- and you were there. I think." Paul swallows. The back of his throat feels like cotton. "I was with you."
He feels John tense, but it doesn't prepare him for the adrenaline rush that claws at him, fluttering in his stomach, when John turns him over abruptly, two-handed. He's on his back before he knows the reason why, and if the loss of pressure on his cock is near-painful, the dangerous look on John's face almost makes up for it, the faint light from the window glancing off the wet insides of John's parted lips. "John," Paul manages, winded, but John cuts him off with a palm pressed between Paul's legs, frank and final, no more plausible deniability. Paul remembers that move from the dream, John squeezing him through cloth, and he says, feeling dizzy and crazed, "Yeah, you -- you did that." Impossibly, he feels himself swell further against John's hand, fattening under his palm.
"Christ," John says. He looks dazed, manic, his mouth soft and open and his eyes bright and dazzled. Paul doesn't know what he's doing; doesn't know what they're doing, but it's too late to stop now. John's braced over him, staring down at the bulge in Paul's pyjamas where his prick is pressing out the fabric, and Paul's already almost shivering with want before John says, "Did you let me rub your cunt, baby?" He palms the firm ridge of cock, heel of his hand grinding down. "Like this?"
"Shit." The word comes out like a sob. He can feel new precome shoving its way out of him, smearing under John's hand, and Jesus Christ, this has gone too far to chicken out now, if Paul even could. He reaches up, clutches at the back of John's neck, and realises when John stumbles closer that he's panting almost as hard as Paul is, now, his hand still rocking incrementally between Paul's thighs. "Yeah," Paul tells him, breathless, "yeah, and you -- " He catches his breath on a shudder, jerks his hips up against John's palm as John squeezes him, hectic and without warning. "You were licking me, you wanted me to let you...you..."
John's hand slips, presses down harder, and his voice when it comes is strained and incredulous, cracking with want. "Jesus wept," he says, and it's gratifying, terrifying, like the way John's fingers start clawing blindly at the waistband of Paul's pyjama trousers and his briefs beneath, hauling them indelicately down his thighs. "Fucking Christ, and you did, didn't you? You little slut, you let me. Like this?" John's fingers are shaking when they curl around Paul, the naked length of him slick with sweat and his own wetness, shoved out of him by the sweet ripe ache that's taken him over. Paul moans, head falling back, and John's shoulders are shaking too as he ducks his head and swipes his tongue, catlike, over the sticky crown of Paul's dick. "Like this?"
Like before, like he'd dreamed, it's electric, the soft flat of John's tongue and then the sharper jolt when he points it, wiggling the tip into the slit of Paul's dick where he's pearling up wet. Paul cries out, unable to stop himself; grips John's hair in one hand, feeling it sweaty and rich between his fingers. John groans against him, grasping for a good deep breath, and then the whole head of Paul's dick is slipping between his parted lips, smearing slick against the silken inside of John's cheek. Paul opens his mouth to say something, anything, but his stomach has tautened up with the feeling and the knots seem to go all the way up, holding him down, holding his tongue. It's all he can do to fuck up with his hips and whimper, clutching at John's hair like a lifeline.
He's close, been so damn close all along, and John is frenetic, unpractised but eager as he sucks at the crown of Paul's cock, pulling back after a moment to rub his parted lips breathlessly over the tip of it. "God," John says, and then his two hands are working uselessly again at Paul's clothes, dragging them further down his legs. Dimly, Paul registers what is needed of him, and he spreads his knees a little once the fabric is below them, kicking it off in a tangle when John's worked it low enough. Then John presses his knuckles behind the heavy swell of Paul's bollocks, deep and hard, and Paul cries out again, legs jerking spasmodically.
"Did you let me do this, darlin'?" John asks him, in a voice rough and hot as good whisky. "Rub you between your legs? Spread you open?" John palms at his thighs, pushes them apart, pushes them back until Paul's knees are suddenly up by his chest, his whole pelvis canted up towards John's face. "Christ, I'd lick your little cunt like a shot, Paul, if you let me. Fuck you with my tongue. Can I?" John leans in, shouldering Paul's thighs wider still; he rubs his face bluntly between Paul's legs, nosing at his perineum, sucking at the skin until Paul is shivering, muscles in his thighs leaping wildly.
"Fuck, yes," Paul spits, as if the question even makes any sense -- as if there's anything he wouldn't let John do in this moment. "Johnny, please, do it -- please --"
He's barely conscious of John's tongue on him, pushing at him, tracing the rim of his arsehole, before the overdue rush of orgasm crashes over him like a breaker, pushing fatly up his prick in sludgy waves of heat. His legs shiver and jerk, but John holds them fast, pinning them apart as he shoves his tongue past the tight ring of muscle, wet and hard and eager. As if from a distance, Paul hears himself shouting weakly; he's coming fucking everywhere, over his own abdomen and in John's hair, but John is rutting against the mattress now as he thrusts his tongue into Paul, working him open. Aftershocks ripple through Paul like little waves. After a long second catching his breath, he grasps for John's shoulders, tugs. John is still moving spasmodically, hips going, and this may be strange and new but friends don't let friends hump mattresses to their completion when there's another option; especially when they've just done -- whatever that was.
"Johnny," Paul manages. His voice sounds gritty, folksy, like he's just smoked eighteen fags in a row or belted out screamer after screamer all night in some Liverpool dive bar. "Here -- c'mere --"
It's not until John's mouth finds his, wet and slack and hot, that Paul realises, dream or otherwise, this is the first time they've kissed. Even after all that, John's hair sticky with Paul's come and Paul's muscles spent from John's ministrations, this is the first time John's tongue has found its way cautiously into Paul's mouth, tracing the shapes of his teeth. Paul breathes out hard through his nose, licks at John's soft palate. Over him, beside him, John is pressing himself against Paul's bare hip, and Paul pushes a hand down blindly into John's pyjamas, seeking bare skin.
"Shit," John mutters, breaking the kiss as Paul takes hold of him, starts jacking him wet and fast. "Shit, shit -- yeah, go on, harder."
It should be surreal, the feeling of another man's prick in his hand, unfamiliar ridge of foreskin moving stickily back and forth over the wet head, but somehow, it isn't really. Somehow, it's just John, John panting hotly against Paul's mouth and John fucking slickly through the tunnel of Paul's fist and, oh, and John coming hot and sudden over Paul's wrist, stilling at the crest of a thrust as he spurts. Afterwards, Paul goes on holding him for a long moment; can't seem to let go, although John is wet and softening in his hand. John's breath is jagged and warm on his mouth, against his cheek. He doesn't protest. Paul, the blood now actually flowing to his brain again, hasn't the faintest idea what's just happened here, but John isn't protesting, and that's something. Paul's body certainly isn't protesting either.
Five minutes pass before John pulls back, eyes finding Paul's in the half-light. Looking back at him, Paul feels his stomach clench, suddenly apprehensive, and when John opens his mouth to speak, the feeling intensifies, twisting his guts. The fuck was that? he hears John saying. What the hell do you think you're doing?
But when John speaks, what he says is, "Did I fuck you?" and Paul's breath hitches. His throat feels used and dry, almost sticky.
"What?" he croaks weakly.
John clarifies, "In the dream. Did I fuck you?" His voice is stronger now, eyes clear and searching on Paul's face. Intent. Paul is too entirely fucked-out to get hard again for a while, but even still, that look makes his whole body thrill.
"No," he says, carefully, but his pulse is pounding under his skin, now, everywhere. On his thighs, on his hips, he fancies he can feel John's fingerprints. He wants to feel them, he thinks suddenly, recklessly, on his throat, on his arms, on his back. He says, "But I'd let you."
A muscle jumps in John's jaw, by the tendon in his throat. "In your dreams?" he asks, thin and guarded. He looks, Paul thinks, beautiful, suddenly uncertain, and Paul's fingers wrap around John's wrist without thinking; lift it so that Paul can brush his mouth against the heel of John's palm.
"No," Paul says, softly, "straight up. Anywhere."
It's too dark to see John's closed-mouthed, giddy smile, but Paul feels it all over his body, marking him like fingerprints. Next time.