[The Beatles] Fic: (Ain't No Cure For The) Summertime Blues
Title: (Ain't No Cure For The) Summertime Blues
Pairing: John/Paul
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~3000
Summary: The summer of 1959, scorching from April to September, set records still unbroken for English summer heat. John and Paul are bloody sick of it.
Notes: This is for tini_91 because I promised. It's not exactly plot-heavy.
"I'm not bloody cut out for this," John said. Above him, Paul's bedroom ceiling reflected the sun-haze of the day back at him, the bright little room filled out to its corners with heat. He could feel the sweat settling in the hollow at the base of his back, sticking his t-shirt to his skin. John liked a good summer well enough, but it was August, and it seemed to have been midsummer since April.
"Shouldn't wear so much black, then," said Paul. His voice sounded dull, lethargic. John wondered briefly if it had actually got a bit deeper of late, too, since he'd turned seventeen, or if that was just the laziness. Pulling himself up onto his elbow, John peered over the edge of the bed and shoved a hand through his hair, pushing up the front where the wax had unhelpfully softened.
Paul was lying spread-eagled on the floor like a corpse. John hardly blamed him. It was difficult to be alive in this weather, especially when you were from Liverpool and mostly brought up to believe hot weather was legendary, like the Loch Ness Monster. Your auntie might have a friend who'd claim to have seen it, but you knew it was all probably bollocks. In jeans and a white t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up, Paul looked like the clean-cut teenaged hero of some American film, except for the sweat that shimmered on his face and throat. People didn't sweat in made-up places like America.
"Hoy," John said, and reached a long arm to prod Paul in the shoulder with one finger.
"What," Paul muttered, not moving. A bead of sweat made its way down the line of his jaw (definitely cleaner and sharper recently) and John tracked it with his eyes. If only it wasn't so fucking hot outside. And inside. And everywhere.
"Your dad out all day?"
Paul shrugged one shoulder. "Till five-ish, as usual. Why?" He shifted a little, hips lifting, settling again. The motion dragged the hem of his t-shirt damply up over one hipbone, and John shivered. Bugger the heat; there was only one thing worth doing on an August afternoon when your brain was running too slowly for anything more productive.
"All right," he said, "Come up here." His fingers tracked their way up Paul's arm, hooked in the neck of his t-shirt and tugged, and Paul did open his eyes then. The irises, always unpredictable, looked hotly green.
"What for?"
John raised one eyebrow, and Paul laughed.
"You must be joking. Too bloody hot, Johnny."
John shrugged. "Take your kit off, then."
The smile froze on Paul's face, then shifted, turning curious and dirty. That look on Paul's little angel face always made John's heart beat faster, his stomach tugging hot and proud, and this time was no exception.
"Oh, really?" With an effort, Paul pulled himself up onto his knees, then grabbed the edge of the bed and dragged himself to his feet. Grinning, John scooted back on the bed and swung his legs over the edge so he was half-sitting, half-reclined on his elbows. Nothing was better than knowing you'd sparked something in Paul, that deeply-buried rebellious streak.
"You're talking like I'd suggested something filthy, Macca." John's voice was light, but his eyes were dark on Paul's and Paul smirked in answer.
"Nah, it's boiling in here, isn't it?" Paul's hands went to the hem of his t-shirt, fingers curling under it. Paul always undressed like that, arms crossed over his torso ready to peel the thing off elegantly, like a girl. As Paul started to lift, the cotton pulling away damply from his skin, John had to admit it made a better show than the way John did it, grabbing his shirt by the scruff of the neck and hauling it off over his head in fistfuls. Paul's way looked like a striptease, his eyes still warm and amused on John's as he uncovered stomach, then chest, then the shallow place between his pectoral muscles where the sweat had collected. Unconsciously, John caught his breath, and Paul took the opportunity to pull the shirt up over his head. It dangled loosely from his fingers for a moment before he let go, and John swallowed hard. He might have felt more ashamed of the growing tightness of his jeans, except that he was crotch-level with Paul in this position, and he could see he wasn't alone.
They did this, sometimes. Teasing, horsing around, whatever. It wasn't as if there was anything girly about Paul like this, standing over John narrow-hipped and broad-shouldered in his blue jeans. But that wasn't the point. It was sexy, the casualness of it, the way John could just say, "Hey," and put a hand on Paul's thigh and they could get off. You couldn't do that with a girl. Getting off with a lass required more forward planning and perseverance than a bloody polar exhibition. And then there was...this.
"You gonna dance for me or what?" John drawled, teasing. His hand lay idly on his inner thigh, not touching, quite. Not yet.
Paul smirked. "Why, is that what you fancy?" Paul's hands went to his hips, thumbs tucking under the waistband of his jeans just below the navel. He swung his hips, slowly, and John had to admit there was a certain grace to it, the languid circling.
"Well," John said, "it'd solve the problem of it being too bloody hot to touch each other, wouldn't it?"
Paul arched an eyebrow. "No hands on the dancers?" He rolled his hips again, back arching. and his thumb slid between the button of his jeans and its buttonhole, popping it open. Immediately, John felt a rush of saliva under his tongue, and Paul smirked, as if he'd noticed. "Let's see how long you can stick to that, Lennon."
"I can stick to it fine," John retorted, sneering. Paul smirked at him, tip of his tongue caught between his teeth.
"Good," he said lightly, and slowly began to draw down the zip.
It wasn't as if there was anything mysterious or exciting about Paul's dick. John had seen it a hundred times before, both soft and otherwise, and anyway, this wasn't even Paul's dick he could see now, pushing at the teeth of the zip as Paul splayed it slowly open. It was just Paul's ordinary boring blue underwear with a giveaway bulge in it, growing as John watched. So it hardly made sense that John was breathing shallowly by the time both sides of the zip were spread open against Paul's pelvis, but there it was.
"You're sweating, Johnny." Paul's fingers brushed the back of John's neck, then flattened there, trailed up the nape, settled at the base of John's skull. The touch made John shiver, a fierce, sudden tremor down his spine.
"What happened to no touching?" John's tongue felt thick and slow in his mouth.
"Hmm." Paul's hand slipped down the back of John's neck and over his shoulder, then traced a meandering line down his chest. "I said you couldn't touch me. Never mentioned the other way round. Arms up."
The order was delivered so nonchalantly that John barely realised he'd obeyed it until his vision was blinkered by the black cotton of his t-shirt as Paul pulled it up and over his head. Without it, although the air was sludgy and still, things felt a little more bearable.
"That's better," Paul said, tossing the shirt to one side, and John blinked up at him. His glasses were askew, but before he could reach to straighten them, Paul had done it for him, a gentle little one-fingered nudge. God, John liked him like this. Cocky and flushed, with that smirk on his face that wasn't his charming love-me smile but had, instead, an effect all its own. Unthinking, John reached out to take hold of Paul's waist, but Paul ducked away before his fingers could firm their grip, shaking his head.
"What did I say?" He looked at John archly. "Put your hands on your thighs."
"Bossy, aren't you?" John did his best to sound indignant, but he doubted he was succeeding very well. He was fully hard, now, straining against the zip of his too-tight black jeans, and that tone in Paul's voice only stirred him further. He settled his hands, palms damp, on his thighs where the muscle was taut with want. Paul smiled, hooked his thumbs into the belt-loops of his jeans, and tugged.
Drainies weren't exactly the best garment for this kind of activity, but John didn't care. He didn't think Paul cared much either, judging by the heavy-lidded look on his face, the way his full lower lip was caught between his teeth. His hips swayed from side to side, the motion mesmeric, distracting John from any awkwardness in the way Paul tugged the tight fabric down over his hipbones, down to the tops of his thighs. Somewhere along the way, the denim caught on the cotton beneath, dragged it down two inches, and they both caught their breath at that.
"Turn around," John said hoarsely.
Paul threw him a strange look, half-laughing. "What?" He had paused, one thumb idly rubbing up and down the flat of his stomach, adjacent to the clear line of his cock distending his shorts. John swallowed hard, dragging his eyes away, up to Paul's face.
"Turn around," he repeated. "While you take 'em off, turn around. Indulge me."
After a moment, Paul seemed to get it. He turned, and John's hands twitched on his thighs, aching to touch. Paul had the most incredibly perfect arse, John had always thought, long before the thought had been able to pass through his head unquestioned. Round and firm and God, John wanted to rip the stupid shorts right off it. But he was content to wait, listening to the roughening of Paul's breathing as he pushed the unyielding denim down below the curve of his arse, bent slightly to peel it down his legs. Kicked it away. When he had straightened again, he half-turned, eyeing John over his shoulder as he circled his hips and pushed his thumbs into his waistband, and John laughed.
"You're getting off on this, aren't you, you tart?"
Isn't that the point? said Paul's expression, but his mouth said, "Bloody hot in here, John. Makes sense to strip off." Then a wink, and they both laughed.
"C'mere," John said, soft now, and Paul turned. One of the things John loved best about Paul aroused was the way the pink flush ran all the way down his chest, that porcelain-pale skin concealing nothing. It was sexy. He could admit it. When Paul's hands went to John's thighs, covering his own, John's breath caught, and Paul only smiled at him, his face very close, as he shoved the thighs apart.
"All right," Paul said, low, "hands on the bed, now. Keep 'em there till I say."
John was past resisting, now. Besides, he wanted to know what Paul was planning; he bit his lip, hips jerking, when Paul lifted one long leg and without a word, straddled John's thigh, not quite touching, one arm curling around John's neck.
"Bloody hell," John muttered, strained. Paul grinned at him, rocked his hips. His thumb ran up the line of John's jaw, and then he was ducking his head, breathing in the hollow of John's throat, nuzzling at his neck.
John's head fell back. Fucking hell. So much for combating the heat; he was sweating right through his jeans, now, hips arching off the bed despite himself, fingers clenching and unclenching in the mattress with the urge to just grab Paul, take hold of him, haul him down so they could rut together and come. But Paul was good at this, somehow, one hand trailing across John's chest, down over his stomach, along his thigh, and his mouth a slow tease in the curve of John's neck, all hot breath and half-kisses.
"Ah, Christ," John spat finally, when he couldn't take it any more, "d'you not go all the way, or have I got to pay you for that?"
Paul laughed, the sound of it ragged and low. He stepped back, and John felt every fibre in his body protesting, pulled towards Paul like a magnet towards its true north.
"Oh yes," Paul said, "I think I'll have to charge you."
If he was attempting grace, it was slightly ruined by the way his fingers shook as he peeled down his shorts, but John hardly noticed. He was too taken up with the way Paul breathed out, hard and shaky, and the way his dick jutted out from his body and the way he moved, hips swaying as he stepped up close to John and cupped his head.
"Yeah?" For a second, Paul's voice was his own, tentative and teenaged. John was level with his stomach, close enough to smell the raw musk of Paul's arousal, the clean sweat of his body, and the back of his jaw ached with wanting it.
"Hell, yes," he said, reaching up to cup Paul's arse, tugging Paul closer so roughly that he staggered and had to steady himself on John's shoulders. Half-consciously, he nuzzled at the shaft of Paul's dick, rubbed his face against it, and Paul moaned, head falling back.
Hell, yes John thought again, and took Paul into his mouth.
They hadn't been doing this for long, not this part. But girls didn't like to do this, wouldn't do it, mostly. You'd easier convince a lass to let you in between her legs than to put her mouth on your cock, most of the time. John wasn't sure why, though. The sounds Paul made were enough alone to make this worthwhile, the way he clutched at John's hair and rocked his hips and whimpered. John sucked at him, worked his mouth as far down as he could get without gagging and then pulled off slowly, tonguing at the head just to feel the way it made Paul shake.
"Oh, God," Paul was saying, breathless, thighs trembling, and John clutched at him harder, now, supporting as much of Paul's weight as he could take. He could feel that Paul was close, fattening in his mouth, precome smearing wetly against John's cheek as he took Paul in. Then a sharp cry, Paul's fingernails digging into John's shoulders, and he was coming, fierce and sudden. John pulled back sharply, swallowed. That was the quickest way to get rid of it, which was what you wanted, after all.
When he looked up, Paul was swaying above him, hair sticking sweatily to his forehead and eyes glazed. John grinned up at him, allowing himself finally, finally, to press the heel of his hand against the pressure between his legs.
"Payment enough?" he asked, and Paul managed a smile, lazy, dreamy.
"God, yeah. Thanks, John."
John shook his head. "S'nowt. Here, lie down."
Paul let himself be helped, spread out on the bed, all long-limbed and bare. The sight of him like that made John shiver, fingers slipping on his buttons as he yanked open his own jeans, shoving them and his underwear down over his hips in one sharp motion.
"What'd you want," Paul murmured, lifting one lax arm.
"Same, please, barman." John tossed Paul a wink as he climbed onto the narrow little bed and knee-walked up the length of Paul's body. At his shoulders, he reached a hand under Paul's head, lifting him, and Paul groaned slightly, left hand still shaking as it came up to cradle John's dick.
"'s hard from this angle," Paul complained lazily, but John shook his head and cupped Paul's jaw, nudging the slick crown of his dick against the slack swell of Paul's lower lip.
"Easier for you, if you're tired out, Paul. Just let me."
Paul let him. His eyes fluttered shut, lips parting at John's guidance, and God, this was exactly what John had needed. He was so turned on his body burned with it, muscles tight in his stomach and thighs, and Paul was so open like this, lax in the wake of his orgasm, that John could thrust almost into his throat and all Paul did was moan. It took a few thrusts, John's hand clenched in Paul's hair, before Paul began to properly suck at him, tonguing at him as John rocked back and forth into Paul's mouth, but he was so close it didn't even matter, so ready. John was panting, back arching; he clutched too-hard at Paul's hair and Paul made a wet groaning sound and that was all John needed.
"Fuckin' hell --"
A last series of thrusts, staccato, and Paul moaned again and it was suddenly so good, John coming and coming with that hot black thrill rising in him at the sight of it, spilling from Paul's little pink mouth where he couldn't keep it in.
As soon as he could breathe again, John moved. His legs felt like dead weights, but he couldn't stay in that position without hurting Paul, and anyway, he needed to lie down. On this tiny little bed, that meant lying almost on top of Paul, but Paul made a soft contented sound as John lay down that almost made up for the stickiness of their arms and hips pressing together, the unwarranted heat.
"That was good," Paul said, after a long quiet moment, and John laughed. He turned his head on the pillow, and Paul was grinning back at him. John felt suddenly, intensely fond of him.
"Yeah," John said, laughing.
Beyond them, the rest of the house was quiet. Outside, the street seemed muted by the sludgy heat. John pushed his foot against Paul's and remarked, "Still bloody hot though."
"Oh well," Paul said, and squeezed John's thigh. "Tell you what -- I'll run the bath. Bet we can both fit, if we're creative."
"Another Lennon/McCartney original," John said, and stood up. "You're on."
***
Pairing: John/Paul
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~3000
Summary: The summer of 1959, scorching from April to September, set records still unbroken for English summer heat. John and Paul are bloody sick of it.
Notes: This is for tini_91 because I promised. It's not exactly plot-heavy.
"I'm not bloody cut out for this," John said. Above him, Paul's bedroom ceiling reflected the sun-haze of the day back at him, the bright little room filled out to its corners with heat. He could feel the sweat settling in the hollow at the base of his back, sticking his t-shirt to his skin. John liked a good summer well enough, but it was August, and it seemed to have been midsummer since April.
"Shouldn't wear so much black, then," said Paul. His voice sounded dull, lethargic. John wondered briefly if it had actually got a bit deeper of late, too, since he'd turned seventeen, or if that was just the laziness. Pulling himself up onto his elbow, John peered over the edge of the bed and shoved a hand through his hair, pushing up the front where the wax had unhelpfully softened.
Paul was lying spread-eagled on the floor like a corpse. John hardly blamed him. It was difficult to be alive in this weather, especially when you were from Liverpool and mostly brought up to believe hot weather was legendary, like the Loch Ness Monster. Your auntie might have a friend who'd claim to have seen it, but you knew it was all probably bollocks. In jeans and a white t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up, Paul looked like the clean-cut teenaged hero of some American film, except for the sweat that shimmered on his face and throat. People didn't sweat in made-up places like America.
"Hoy," John said, and reached a long arm to prod Paul in the shoulder with one finger.
"What," Paul muttered, not moving. A bead of sweat made its way down the line of his jaw (definitely cleaner and sharper recently) and John tracked it with his eyes. If only it wasn't so fucking hot outside. And inside. And everywhere.
"Your dad out all day?"
Paul shrugged one shoulder. "Till five-ish, as usual. Why?" He shifted a little, hips lifting, settling again. The motion dragged the hem of his t-shirt damply up over one hipbone, and John shivered. Bugger the heat; there was only one thing worth doing on an August afternoon when your brain was running too slowly for anything more productive.
"All right," he said, "Come up here." His fingers tracked their way up Paul's arm, hooked in the neck of his t-shirt and tugged, and Paul did open his eyes then. The irises, always unpredictable, looked hotly green.
"What for?"
John raised one eyebrow, and Paul laughed.
"You must be joking. Too bloody hot, Johnny."
John shrugged. "Take your kit off, then."
The smile froze on Paul's face, then shifted, turning curious and dirty. That look on Paul's little angel face always made John's heart beat faster, his stomach tugging hot and proud, and this time was no exception.
"Oh, really?" With an effort, Paul pulled himself up onto his knees, then grabbed the edge of the bed and dragged himself to his feet. Grinning, John scooted back on the bed and swung his legs over the edge so he was half-sitting, half-reclined on his elbows. Nothing was better than knowing you'd sparked something in Paul, that deeply-buried rebellious streak.
"You're talking like I'd suggested something filthy, Macca." John's voice was light, but his eyes were dark on Paul's and Paul smirked in answer.
"Nah, it's boiling in here, isn't it?" Paul's hands went to the hem of his t-shirt, fingers curling under it. Paul always undressed like that, arms crossed over his torso ready to peel the thing off elegantly, like a girl. As Paul started to lift, the cotton pulling away damply from his skin, John had to admit it made a better show than the way John did it, grabbing his shirt by the scruff of the neck and hauling it off over his head in fistfuls. Paul's way looked like a striptease, his eyes still warm and amused on John's as he uncovered stomach, then chest, then the shallow place between his pectoral muscles where the sweat had collected. Unconsciously, John caught his breath, and Paul took the opportunity to pull the shirt up over his head. It dangled loosely from his fingers for a moment before he let go, and John swallowed hard. He might have felt more ashamed of the growing tightness of his jeans, except that he was crotch-level with Paul in this position, and he could see he wasn't alone.
They did this, sometimes. Teasing, horsing around, whatever. It wasn't as if there was anything girly about Paul like this, standing over John narrow-hipped and broad-shouldered in his blue jeans. But that wasn't the point. It was sexy, the casualness of it, the way John could just say, "Hey," and put a hand on Paul's thigh and they could get off. You couldn't do that with a girl. Getting off with a lass required more forward planning and perseverance than a bloody polar exhibition. And then there was...this.
"You gonna dance for me or what?" John drawled, teasing. His hand lay idly on his inner thigh, not touching, quite. Not yet.
Paul smirked. "Why, is that what you fancy?" Paul's hands went to his hips, thumbs tucking under the waistband of his jeans just below the navel. He swung his hips, slowly, and John had to admit there was a certain grace to it, the languid circling.
"Well," John said, "it'd solve the problem of it being too bloody hot to touch each other, wouldn't it?"
Paul arched an eyebrow. "No hands on the dancers?" He rolled his hips again, back arching. and his thumb slid between the button of his jeans and its buttonhole, popping it open. Immediately, John felt a rush of saliva under his tongue, and Paul smirked, as if he'd noticed. "Let's see how long you can stick to that, Lennon."
"I can stick to it fine," John retorted, sneering. Paul smirked at him, tip of his tongue caught between his teeth.
"Good," he said lightly, and slowly began to draw down the zip.
It wasn't as if there was anything mysterious or exciting about Paul's dick. John had seen it a hundred times before, both soft and otherwise, and anyway, this wasn't even Paul's dick he could see now, pushing at the teeth of the zip as Paul splayed it slowly open. It was just Paul's ordinary boring blue underwear with a giveaway bulge in it, growing as John watched. So it hardly made sense that John was breathing shallowly by the time both sides of the zip were spread open against Paul's pelvis, but there it was.
"You're sweating, Johnny." Paul's fingers brushed the back of John's neck, then flattened there, trailed up the nape, settled at the base of John's skull. The touch made John shiver, a fierce, sudden tremor down his spine.
"What happened to no touching?" John's tongue felt thick and slow in his mouth.
"Hmm." Paul's hand slipped down the back of John's neck and over his shoulder, then traced a meandering line down his chest. "I said you couldn't touch me. Never mentioned the other way round. Arms up."
The order was delivered so nonchalantly that John barely realised he'd obeyed it until his vision was blinkered by the black cotton of his t-shirt as Paul pulled it up and over his head. Without it, although the air was sludgy and still, things felt a little more bearable.
"That's better," Paul said, tossing the shirt to one side, and John blinked up at him. His glasses were askew, but before he could reach to straighten them, Paul had done it for him, a gentle little one-fingered nudge. God, John liked him like this. Cocky and flushed, with that smirk on his face that wasn't his charming love-me smile but had, instead, an effect all its own. Unthinking, John reached out to take hold of Paul's waist, but Paul ducked away before his fingers could firm their grip, shaking his head.
"What did I say?" He looked at John archly. "Put your hands on your thighs."
"Bossy, aren't you?" John did his best to sound indignant, but he doubted he was succeeding very well. He was fully hard, now, straining against the zip of his too-tight black jeans, and that tone in Paul's voice only stirred him further. He settled his hands, palms damp, on his thighs where the muscle was taut with want. Paul smiled, hooked his thumbs into the belt-loops of his jeans, and tugged.
Drainies weren't exactly the best garment for this kind of activity, but John didn't care. He didn't think Paul cared much either, judging by the heavy-lidded look on his face, the way his full lower lip was caught between his teeth. His hips swayed from side to side, the motion mesmeric, distracting John from any awkwardness in the way Paul tugged the tight fabric down over his hipbones, down to the tops of his thighs. Somewhere along the way, the denim caught on the cotton beneath, dragged it down two inches, and they both caught their breath at that.
"Turn around," John said hoarsely.
Paul threw him a strange look, half-laughing. "What?" He had paused, one thumb idly rubbing up and down the flat of his stomach, adjacent to the clear line of his cock distending his shorts. John swallowed hard, dragging his eyes away, up to Paul's face.
"Turn around," he repeated. "While you take 'em off, turn around. Indulge me."
After a moment, Paul seemed to get it. He turned, and John's hands twitched on his thighs, aching to touch. Paul had the most incredibly perfect arse, John had always thought, long before the thought had been able to pass through his head unquestioned. Round and firm and God, John wanted to rip the stupid shorts right off it. But he was content to wait, listening to the roughening of Paul's breathing as he pushed the unyielding denim down below the curve of his arse, bent slightly to peel it down his legs. Kicked it away. When he had straightened again, he half-turned, eyeing John over his shoulder as he circled his hips and pushed his thumbs into his waistband, and John laughed.
"You're getting off on this, aren't you, you tart?"
Isn't that the point? said Paul's expression, but his mouth said, "Bloody hot in here, John. Makes sense to strip off." Then a wink, and they both laughed.
"C'mere," John said, soft now, and Paul turned. One of the things John loved best about Paul aroused was the way the pink flush ran all the way down his chest, that porcelain-pale skin concealing nothing. It was sexy. He could admit it. When Paul's hands went to John's thighs, covering his own, John's breath caught, and Paul only smiled at him, his face very close, as he shoved the thighs apart.
"All right," Paul said, low, "hands on the bed, now. Keep 'em there till I say."
John was past resisting, now. Besides, he wanted to know what Paul was planning; he bit his lip, hips jerking, when Paul lifted one long leg and without a word, straddled John's thigh, not quite touching, one arm curling around John's neck.
"Bloody hell," John muttered, strained. Paul grinned at him, rocked his hips. His thumb ran up the line of John's jaw, and then he was ducking his head, breathing in the hollow of John's throat, nuzzling at his neck.
John's head fell back. Fucking hell. So much for combating the heat; he was sweating right through his jeans, now, hips arching off the bed despite himself, fingers clenching and unclenching in the mattress with the urge to just grab Paul, take hold of him, haul him down so they could rut together and come. But Paul was good at this, somehow, one hand trailing across John's chest, down over his stomach, along his thigh, and his mouth a slow tease in the curve of John's neck, all hot breath and half-kisses.
"Ah, Christ," John spat finally, when he couldn't take it any more, "d'you not go all the way, or have I got to pay you for that?"
Paul laughed, the sound of it ragged and low. He stepped back, and John felt every fibre in his body protesting, pulled towards Paul like a magnet towards its true north.
"Oh yes," Paul said, "I think I'll have to charge you."
If he was attempting grace, it was slightly ruined by the way his fingers shook as he peeled down his shorts, but John hardly noticed. He was too taken up with the way Paul breathed out, hard and shaky, and the way his dick jutted out from his body and the way he moved, hips swaying as he stepped up close to John and cupped his head.
"Yeah?" For a second, Paul's voice was his own, tentative and teenaged. John was level with his stomach, close enough to smell the raw musk of Paul's arousal, the clean sweat of his body, and the back of his jaw ached with wanting it.
"Hell, yes," he said, reaching up to cup Paul's arse, tugging Paul closer so roughly that he staggered and had to steady himself on John's shoulders. Half-consciously, he nuzzled at the shaft of Paul's dick, rubbed his face against it, and Paul moaned, head falling back.
Hell, yes John thought again, and took Paul into his mouth.
They hadn't been doing this for long, not this part. But girls didn't like to do this, wouldn't do it, mostly. You'd easier convince a lass to let you in between her legs than to put her mouth on your cock, most of the time. John wasn't sure why, though. The sounds Paul made were enough alone to make this worthwhile, the way he clutched at John's hair and rocked his hips and whimpered. John sucked at him, worked his mouth as far down as he could get without gagging and then pulled off slowly, tonguing at the head just to feel the way it made Paul shake.
"Oh, God," Paul was saying, breathless, thighs trembling, and John clutched at him harder, now, supporting as much of Paul's weight as he could take. He could feel that Paul was close, fattening in his mouth, precome smearing wetly against John's cheek as he took Paul in. Then a sharp cry, Paul's fingernails digging into John's shoulders, and he was coming, fierce and sudden. John pulled back sharply, swallowed. That was the quickest way to get rid of it, which was what you wanted, after all.
When he looked up, Paul was swaying above him, hair sticking sweatily to his forehead and eyes glazed. John grinned up at him, allowing himself finally, finally, to press the heel of his hand against the pressure between his legs.
"Payment enough?" he asked, and Paul managed a smile, lazy, dreamy.
"God, yeah. Thanks, John."
John shook his head. "S'nowt. Here, lie down."
Paul let himself be helped, spread out on the bed, all long-limbed and bare. The sight of him like that made John shiver, fingers slipping on his buttons as he yanked open his own jeans, shoving them and his underwear down over his hips in one sharp motion.
"What'd you want," Paul murmured, lifting one lax arm.
"Same, please, barman." John tossed Paul a wink as he climbed onto the narrow little bed and knee-walked up the length of Paul's body. At his shoulders, he reached a hand under Paul's head, lifting him, and Paul groaned slightly, left hand still shaking as it came up to cradle John's dick.
"'s hard from this angle," Paul complained lazily, but John shook his head and cupped Paul's jaw, nudging the slick crown of his dick against the slack swell of Paul's lower lip.
"Easier for you, if you're tired out, Paul. Just let me."
Paul let him. His eyes fluttered shut, lips parting at John's guidance, and God, this was exactly what John had needed. He was so turned on his body burned with it, muscles tight in his stomach and thighs, and Paul was so open like this, lax in the wake of his orgasm, that John could thrust almost into his throat and all Paul did was moan. It took a few thrusts, John's hand clenched in Paul's hair, before Paul began to properly suck at him, tonguing at him as John rocked back and forth into Paul's mouth, but he was so close it didn't even matter, so ready. John was panting, back arching; he clutched too-hard at Paul's hair and Paul made a wet groaning sound and that was all John needed.
"Fuckin' hell --"
A last series of thrusts, staccato, and Paul moaned again and it was suddenly so good, John coming and coming with that hot black thrill rising in him at the sight of it, spilling from Paul's little pink mouth where he couldn't keep it in.
As soon as he could breathe again, John moved. His legs felt like dead weights, but he couldn't stay in that position without hurting Paul, and anyway, he needed to lie down. On this tiny little bed, that meant lying almost on top of Paul, but Paul made a soft contented sound as John lay down that almost made up for the stickiness of their arms and hips pressing together, the unwarranted heat.
"That was good," Paul said, after a long quiet moment, and John laughed. He turned his head on the pillow, and Paul was grinning back at him. John felt suddenly, intensely fond of him.
"Yeah," John said, laughing.
Beyond them, the rest of the house was quiet. Outside, the street seemed muted by the sludgy heat. John pushed his foot against Paul's and remarked, "Still bloody hot though."
"Oh well," Paul said, and squeezed John's thigh. "Tell you what -- I'll run the bath. Bet we can both fit, if we're creative."
"Another Lennon/McCartney original," John said, and stood up. "You're on."
***