Quickie Fic!
Hallo all! At the request of the divine whatsherass, magicaltrevor and I are bringing you a fun bit of fluff for your perusal. Just as a quick note, this fic was written in about two days between our respective classes in an attempt to get it finished before whatsherass sets off for England. It's a world record for us! But be warned, this isn't deep, profound, improving, or even full of sex. It is, however, Very Silly. And kind of sweet. And chock-full of nakedidity! Woohoo!
Title: The Morning After [hey, it was short notice]
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: P/J
Word Count: 1502
Warnings: Naked! Oh no!
Disclaimer: The story is ours. The boys are not. Boohoo.
It occurred to Paul sometime in the wee hours of the afternoon that breathing through a noseful of John’s hair might not be conducive to sleep. It must have been a fairly recent development, though, considering that it had been-he rolled his eyes around to peer at the bedside clock-lots of hours since he’d last opened his eyes, and he certainly didn’t remember any hair-related problems in the interim. In fact…he didn’t precisely remember why on earth he’d have his face buried in John’s hair at all, or why his arm would be wrapped around John’s waist as it so manifestly was, or why his morning erection would be nestled so comfortably between John’s…oh. John’s very bare… and him very bare as well…oh. Well, he thought, just a trifle hysterically, wasn’t this an interesting development?
He wrinkled his nose, trying to clear it of hairs without awakening their owner with any stray snorting. Waking John, he knew, would probably result in something Very Awkward, possibly revolving around the bareness of them both, and it behooved him to somehow fix the situation before it left the realm of being awkward, and turned into something Extremely Embarrassing, or worse yet, Publicly Humiliating, which Paul knew John could easily make it, should the notion strike him. No, the best thing would be to extract himself from this…position as quickly and quietly as possible, and then set about trying to pretend it never happened, because if he couldn’t remember how it came about, chances were that John wouldn’t either. Although, now that he thought about it, he did recall something about a lot of whisky, and giggling, and a dream that could only be described as Highly Inappropriate, except, he realized with a sinking feeling that grew stronger by the second, he wasn’t so sure that it had been a dream after all. Oh. Oh bloody hell.
Did he…had they…and what would the guys say, or would the guys even know, and what would John say, because surely he wouldn’t allow Paul to do anything that he didn’t want, or would he, or had he been drunk enough to not know too, or-shut up! He willed himself a measure of calm, taking deep breaths, and noticed vaguely that John must have changed shampoos, because this floral scent wasn’t his usual. Quite pleasant, really, and he could feel his heart rate slowing, his blood resuming its usual speed through his system, although his erection didn’t seem to be going away, which meant that things were still potentially Very Awkward, not to mention increasingly uncomfortable as his penis registered that it was, in fact, in contact with something warm and Not Itself, and clamored for attention.
Right, thought Paul, time to move, time to find a pair of pants and keep things from getting Awkward. Except that he hadn’t expected the careful shifting of his arm to be met with a restraining hand, and the moment he tried to slide away, John muttered a sleepy protest and snuggled back into the curve of his stomach, which created a good deal of unnecessary friction, and he wasn’t just uncomfortable now, he was becoming downright desperate, because John’s skin was much softer than he’d thought possible, and that wriggle had made his penis jump for joy, and not a single one of the dire threats he thought at it made the least bit of difference as far as it was concerned. This, Paul thought, was unbelievable.
Not that he didn’t like John. He did. Really. He also understood why, given the chance, someone would jump at the opportunity to do what his penis so obviously wanted to do. John wasn’t ugly. He was, Paul reflected, pretty nice looking in his own way-sharp nose, good cheekbones, good complexion. His hair was almost red sometimes, when the light caught it. And he really had lovely eyes, the color of good whisky when he was happy, and darker, browner when he was sad or angry. But that didn’t mean that Paul was Interested. Not at all. Just because he appreciated the aesthetic appeal of John’s collarbones, or noticed how utterly graceful the arc of his spine felt as it pressed against his chest, or…or anything. It was maddening, he decided, the way certain bits of his anatomy would take perfectly platonic observations and turn them into trouble. Big trouble.
Okay. He could be calm about this. After all, John was equally as nude and he was sound asleep, not wide awake and panicking like Paul. It was only fair that Paul should also be able to sleep through the Very Awkward as well. He would just will himself to relax, that’s all. Yep. He’d just lie here and let John deal with the consequences. It’d serve him right, anyway.
But it was quiet, and the silence just seemed to accent his position, and Paul became aware of John’s deep, even breathing. In and out, in and out: he couldn’t concentrate on anything else. Warm, alive, natural-God, John’s skin was soft. Paul suddenly noticed how stiflingly hot he was. He could practically see steam rise from the crook of his arm where it touched John’s skin. Or was he just…oh, god, he was blushing. He blushed even harder as he realized this, and the embarrassment deepened the heat even more. Great. Now he was sweating. Sweating, flushed, bedraggled, and his erection was pressed quite firmly against his best friend’s backside. He decided relaxation was not an option.
John shifted again and Paul gritted his teeth against the now-painful tension in his groin. Christ, he was hard. He certainly didn’t want to dwell on the implications of this. Surely it was normal. Yes. Perfectly Normal, he told himself firmly. He would just get up, get a shower, get dressed and not worry about the normality of the situation. He worked diligently to free his arm from John’s grip, and was, at long last, successful. His attempts at subtly sliding himself backwards also met with success, though he had a moment of raw panic when John gave a heavy snoring breath and scooted toward him again, mumbling something like “S’ cold.” This, Paul thought, was Not Fun, even though he was getting pretty good at this sheet-bound osmosis deal, and he’d have to make a mental note of it, just in case he ever needed to employ it again. Oh please let me not ever need it again, he begged whatever deities that might have been listening as he finally oozed out from under the covers and onto the wonderful, glorious floor.
He lay there for a moment, listening for any signs of wakefulness from the bed. Silence. He raised himself up to peek over the mattress edge. Stillness. Right, he thought, standing as quietly as he could. Time for that shower. He turned around and-
“Where you goin’, Macca?”
Paul froze. Very slowly he turned his head to look over his shoulder, careful to keep his front, and the more active bits of his anatomy facing away from the bed.
John was sitting up, sporting rumpled hair, a sleepy smile, and a masterful morning erection of his own.
“Er,” said Paul. John’s eyebrows rose in silent question, and before Paul knew it, he was spouting every mangled excuse he could think of.
“I’m sorry! I mean, not that we did anything, like, or that I wanted anything, ‘cause I really don’t remember, but you-I-we-” Here Paul saw John’s gaze travel down his body, and he realized that he’d turned around somewhere during his speech, and John’s gaze focused precisely where Paul least wanted it to. In spite of himself, Paul looked down as well-still going strong!-and then immediately back into John’s eyes, puzzled at the look he saw. The judgment he’d expected wasn’t there. John certainly didn’t seem panicky either, and Paul noticed in the silence that his own breathing was too quick, and he tried to slow it.
“So…you don’t love me, then?”
Paul had never been less certain whether John was kidding. He was still wearing that sleepy look, for chrissake, and it was utterly unreadable.
“No!” he said. “I mean yes! I mean…you know what I mean!”
John smiled.
“Yeah. I expect I do.”
Ah. Well. Paul stood there, still staring at John. John sat there, smiling serenely.
“So…” said Paul.
“So.” John agreed helpfully.
“So…d’you want…” Paul asked, somewhat desperate. John sighed.
“C’mere, then.”
Paul went. John reached out and grabbed his hand, and he clutched it gratefully.
“Come to bed, Macca.”
Paul looked at him. He was rumpled and naked and rosy with sleep, and his eyes were smiling like a glass of whisky after a hard day, and Paul decided that whisky was nice. Things only got awkward the morning after when you became sober again. Who needs sobriety anyway, he thought with giddy relief.
Delighted with this reasoning, he grinned at John and hopped into bed.
Title: The Morning After [hey, it was short notice]
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: P/J
Word Count: 1502
Warnings: Naked! Oh no!
Disclaimer: The story is ours. The boys are not. Boohoo.
It occurred to Paul sometime in the wee hours of the afternoon that breathing through a noseful of John’s hair might not be conducive to sleep. It must have been a fairly recent development, though, considering that it had been-he rolled his eyes around to peer at the bedside clock-lots of hours since he’d last opened his eyes, and he certainly didn’t remember any hair-related problems in the interim. In fact…he didn’t precisely remember why on earth he’d have his face buried in John’s hair at all, or why his arm would be wrapped around John’s waist as it so manifestly was, or why his morning erection would be nestled so comfortably between John’s…oh. John’s very bare… and him very bare as well…oh. Well, he thought, just a trifle hysterically, wasn’t this an interesting development?
He wrinkled his nose, trying to clear it of hairs without awakening their owner with any stray snorting. Waking John, he knew, would probably result in something Very Awkward, possibly revolving around the bareness of them both, and it behooved him to somehow fix the situation before it left the realm of being awkward, and turned into something Extremely Embarrassing, or worse yet, Publicly Humiliating, which Paul knew John could easily make it, should the notion strike him. No, the best thing would be to extract himself from this…position as quickly and quietly as possible, and then set about trying to pretend it never happened, because if he couldn’t remember how it came about, chances were that John wouldn’t either. Although, now that he thought about it, he did recall something about a lot of whisky, and giggling, and a dream that could only be described as Highly Inappropriate, except, he realized with a sinking feeling that grew stronger by the second, he wasn’t so sure that it had been a dream after all. Oh. Oh bloody hell.
Did he…had they…and what would the guys say, or would the guys even know, and what would John say, because surely he wouldn’t allow Paul to do anything that he didn’t want, or would he, or had he been drunk enough to not know too, or-shut up! He willed himself a measure of calm, taking deep breaths, and noticed vaguely that John must have changed shampoos, because this floral scent wasn’t his usual. Quite pleasant, really, and he could feel his heart rate slowing, his blood resuming its usual speed through his system, although his erection didn’t seem to be going away, which meant that things were still potentially Very Awkward, not to mention increasingly uncomfortable as his penis registered that it was, in fact, in contact with something warm and Not Itself, and clamored for attention.
Right, thought Paul, time to move, time to find a pair of pants and keep things from getting Awkward. Except that he hadn’t expected the careful shifting of his arm to be met with a restraining hand, and the moment he tried to slide away, John muttered a sleepy protest and snuggled back into the curve of his stomach, which created a good deal of unnecessary friction, and he wasn’t just uncomfortable now, he was becoming downright desperate, because John’s skin was much softer than he’d thought possible, and that wriggle had made his penis jump for joy, and not a single one of the dire threats he thought at it made the least bit of difference as far as it was concerned. This, Paul thought, was unbelievable.
Not that he didn’t like John. He did. Really. He also understood why, given the chance, someone would jump at the opportunity to do what his penis so obviously wanted to do. John wasn’t ugly. He was, Paul reflected, pretty nice looking in his own way-sharp nose, good cheekbones, good complexion. His hair was almost red sometimes, when the light caught it. And he really had lovely eyes, the color of good whisky when he was happy, and darker, browner when he was sad or angry. But that didn’t mean that Paul was Interested. Not at all. Just because he appreciated the aesthetic appeal of John’s collarbones, or noticed how utterly graceful the arc of his spine felt as it pressed against his chest, or…or anything. It was maddening, he decided, the way certain bits of his anatomy would take perfectly platonic observations and turn them into trouble. Big trouble.
Okay. He could be calm about this. After all, John was equally as nude and he was sound asleep, not wide awake and panicking like Paul. It was only fair that Paul should also be able to sleep through the Very Awkward as well. He would just will himself to relax, that’s all. Yep. He’d just lie here and let John deal with the consequences. It’d serve him right, anyway.
But it was quiet, and the silence just seemed to accent his position, and Paul became aware of John’s deep, even breathing. In and out, in and out: he couldn’t concentrate on anything else. Warm, alive, natural-God, John’s skin was soft. Paul suddenly noticed how stiflingly hot he was. He could practically see steam rise from the crook of his arm where it touched John’s skin. Or was he just…oh, god, he was blushing. He blushed even harder as he realized this, and the embarrassment deepened the heat even more. Great. Now he was sweating. Sweating, flushed, bedraggled, and his erection was pressed quite firmly against his best friend’s backside. He decided relaxation was not an option.
John shifted again and Paul gritted his teeth against the now-painful tension in his groin. Christ, he was hard. He certainly didn’t want to dwell on the implications of this. Surely it was normal. Yes. Perfectly Normal, he told himself firmly. He would just get up, get a shower, get dressed and not worry about the normality of the situation. He worked diligently to free his arm from John’s grip, and was, at long last, successful. His attempts at subtly sliding himself backwards also met with success, though he had a moment of raw panic when John gave a heavy snoring breath and scooted toward him again, mumbling something like “S’ cold.” This, Paul thought, was Not Fun, even though he was getting pretty good at this sheet-bound osmosis deal, and he’d have to make a mental note of it, just in case he ever needed to employ it again. Oh please let me not ever need it again, he begged whatever deities that might have been listening as he finally oozed out from under the covers and onto the wonderful, glorious floor.
He lay there for a moment, listening for any signs of wakefulness from the bed. Silence. He raised himself up to peek over the mattress edge. Stillness. Right, he thought, standing as quietly as he could. Time for that shower. He turned around and-
“Where you goin’, Macca?”
Paul froze. Very slowly he turned his head to look over his shoulder, careful to keep his front, and the more active bits of his anatomy facing away from the bed.
John was sitting up, sporting rumpled hair, a sleepy smile, and a masterful morning erection of his own.
“Er,” said Paul. John’s eyebrows rose in silent question, and before Paul knew it, he was spouting every mangled excuse he could think of.
“I’m sorry! I mean, not that we did anything, like, or that I wanted anything, ‘cause I really don’t remember, but you-I-we-” Here Paul saw John’s gaze travel down his body, and he realized that he’d turned around somewhere during his speech, and John’s gaze focused precisely where Paul least wanted it to. In spite of himself, Paul looked down as well-still going strong!-and then immediately back into John’s eyes, puzzled at the look he saw. The judgment he’d expected wasn’t there. John certainly didn’t seem panicky either, and Paul noticed in the silence that his own breathing was too quick, and he tried to slow it.
“So…you don’t love me, then?”
Paul had never been less certain whether John was kidding. He was still wearing that sleepy look, for chrissake, and it was utterly unreadable.
“No!” he said. “I mean yes! I mean…you know what I mean!”
John smiled.
“Yeah. I expect I do.”
Ah. Well. Paul stood there, still staring at John. John sat there, smiling serenely.
“So…” said Paul.
“So.” John agreed helpfully.
“So…d’you want…” Paul asked, somewhat desperate. John sighed.
“C’mere, then.”
Paul went. John reached out and grabbed his hand, and he clutched it gratefully.
“Come to bed, Macca.”
Paul looked at him. He was rumpled and naked and rosy with sleep, and his eyes were smiling like a glass of whisky after a hard day, and Paul decided that whisky was nice. Things only got awkward the morning after when you became sober again. Who needs sobriety anyway, he thought with giddy relief.
Delighted with this reasoning, he grinned at John and hopped into bed.