zzzsleeptalker (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
zzzsleeptalker) wrote2020-12-16 12:59 pm
zzzsleeptalker) wrote2020-12-16 12:59 pm
Entry tags:
3 / 3 (2008-09 version)
NO MORE SITUATIONS PART 3 / 3
Pairing: John / Paul
Rating: NC17 (for Part 3)
Setting: Hamburg 1961
Summary: The day after an awkward night.
Word Count: 3,926
Pt 1 | Pt 2 | Pt 3
“Are you fuckin around?” John had drawn back slightly. A frown pinched his brows. “Hey?”
Paul stared at him, found his eyes drawn to his mouth. He looked away in near-terror when he felt John stiffen, knowing he’d noticed. He disentangled himself from John’s hands and went and sat on the bed. There was a long pause, then John crossed the floorboards and the mattress dipped as he sat down next to Paul.
Paul rested his knuckles against his mouth, pressing down with the weight of his skull. He thought mechanically that he must be horribly drunk after all. He slid John a side-long glance. John sat very still, his head slightly inclined, his gaze cool, heavy-lidded.
“Let’s go back down,” Paul said from behind his hand. He moved to push himself up, doing it woodenly, just wanting to be out of the room, away, anywhere else.
“Oh no, no.” There was a tremor in John’s voice, grown nasal with amusement. “You want to have a go then?” He shifted forward and took hold of Paul’s arm.
Paul pushed him off. “Leave it.”
“You did it! You’re the one that –” John was laughing now, heavy breaths. He grabbed Paul again, his fingers assuming a biting grip over the soft flesh of his underarm. John laid a hand on the back of Paul’s neck, drawing him straining closer. “Come on.” Gusting laughter against Paul’s mouth.
“For fuck’s sake –” cheeks burning, Paul shoved at John, his hands fisting in his shirt, balling the fabric that was damp with sweat, feeling John’s chest hot underneath. Their arms struggled at odd angles between them, Paul straightening, John bowed and straining to draw him near, a mocking, hard-boned embrace, it looked like a playground fight. Fixing his hold, John planted his hand again more firmly. Paul ducked his head, squirming, his flesh reddening under the stubborn pinch of John’s fingers. He grunted, his anger growing, he shoved at John, his knuckles white, fingers locked in his shirt, drawing the collar roughly taut from John’s neck.
The tension ceased abruptly as John shoved him backwards. Paul’s back hit the mattress and John was on top of him, grabbing him thick by the hair at his crown, holding his head down with sudden savagery, bending over him. He wasn’t laughing, his expression was suddenly stiff and closed. Paul twisted under him, his legs jerking. John bent low over him and brought their mouths together in a formless crush. They held rigid like that, breathing hard through their noses. Paul felt the blunt pain of it, John’s mouth sealed against his bruised lip.
John was making a point, he knew. It was clear between them this way. John didn’t want a proper fight. He could mock him mercilessly with this.
John drew back and sat hunched over him.
Paul lay panting, searching for words. Instead he took an awkward swing at John. John caught his arm and struggled with him for some strained seconds before pinning his wrist with a thump on the mattress.
“Alright,” John said unsteadily.
“Get the fuck off.” Paul’s voice was reedy.
“Alright,” John said again, speaking low. Their faces still close. John breathed open-mouthed, shakily, he lay bent and heavy on top of Paul. He let go of Paul’s hair and slid his palm down to rest beside Paul’s head. His brows were furrowed, his slender face was tense, lashes showing black against his skin as he blinked. He considered Paul solemnly, his eyes lowering to Paul’s mouth. He bent his head again haltingly.
Paul kept very still as John kissed him. It wasn’t a fight anymore. John mouthed his upper lip. They barely breathed. Their noses bumped as John tilted his head aside. Paul shifted slightly under him, trying to comprehend what was happening. John wet his lips, returning warm and moist. It was different, fast sliding into something utterly unknown. He sucked Paul’s lower lip. Paul’s eyes fluttered shut. He found himself lifting his mouth warily in reply, answering John with his lips. John’s breath puffed against this cheek. Their lips were damp, coming together again, bumping, flushing and pained with the lightness of their touches.
Paul tasted John’s skin, darting with his tongue. John’s fingers on his jaw. Paul opening his lips in invitation. The tip of John’s tongue breached him for a fleeting second. John pulled back. The strangeness of it hit Paul hard then, with John’s face above him so familiar and so strange.
Sitting on the beds, face-to-face, guitars on their laps, John with a notepad wedged between his guitar and his thigh, they watch each the other’s faces distractedly as they feel out a melody.
Paul’s chest was tight, he strained to speak, break the silence, feeling ridiculous, terrified.
Split open and sensuous.
Pulling the door open. Drizzle coming down, the light purplish in the garden, the air smelling of damp soil. John stands with his back to him, shoulders squared beneath his jacket. He’s brought his guitar case, holds the head of the case loosely, the base of it resting on the toe of his boot. His hair is gelled, black and shining with it. He turns, brows raised, lips crooked in an ironic smile. Paul moves aside to let him in. John catches up the guitar case by its handle, climbs the step, his dark eyes fixed on Paul, his smile softened, lingering. It’s new between them, shy pleasure at seeing each other. Paul’s got his jotter and an old Cadbury’s tin full of papers waiting on top of the piano in the sitting room. He’s only showing John the good stuff. He wants to show off a bit. Still, he’s nervous as he closes the door and turns.
John’s a dark figure standing expectant beside him in the dim hallway.
Paul lifted his chin, blinking slow, as if drugged. He parted his lips, flushing under John’s gaze. He wanted John to kiss him again. He licked his lips. His eyes fell closed at John’s mouth returning to his, he shivered as their tongues met, stroking slow. They parted, Paul felt every hot breath against his moist lips. Angling close, rolling together at the mouth again, again, John thrusting greedily into him. John’s hand ran down Paul’s side, catching the edge of his shirt, easing beneath, laying his palm over hot skin.
Done practicing in the rooms next door. Pushing through the knot of people at the entrance to the dance hall, he finds it packed out. He searches the faces, searching for her, he thinks he sees her wheeling with a lad, laughing, her blonde hair jumps as she dances. He’s furious. He convinces himself of it as he starts forward. He’s got it all on the tip of his tongue, what he’ll say. He’ll go for the guy if he has to. He’ll drag her out the club. Fuck the gig.
He’s lost sight of her.
John’s got him by the shoulder. He’s close, laughing into Paul’s ear, slapping him on the cheek, jeering. Paul forces a smile. He lets it go. Follows John reluctantly back through the crowd. It’s cool out in the hallway. John’s in high spirits, jibing him, striding ahead, leading the way. They go to the loos, smoke with the others. John combs his hair in the mirror, still taking the mickey, drawing the rest of them in. Paul leans against the sink and tries to laugh it off. He’s strangely angry, nervous under all of it. He looks at John’s smirking face in the mirror. He’s as good as John. He won’t be bested.
Paul broke panting from John’s mouth. John’s thigh was solid and nudging between his legs.
Paul’s body strove upwards under the heat and weight of John, rubbing mindlessly against him. John kissed him again while his hips rolled, lazy, ripe thrusts. Paul’s legs tangled with John’s, he felt the flex of calf muscle through warm denim. He pressed his hand unsteadily to the back of John’s neck, raked splayed fingers slowly up the curve of his skull, feeling John’s hair rich and heavy with sweat between his fingers, he was dimly sobered his own impulse, stunned by the of intimacy the caress. He shuddered insensibly as John took his mouth, his tongue riding in and out between his blushing wet lips.
Paul fell distractedly out of the dance, shifting, panting. He felt laden and hot, each press of
John’s body drawing an answering rise in him. He was aroused, a sweet ache that tightened his balls, brought the length of his dick out stiff. He lifted his head, tried to brace himself up on his elbow, hazily panicked, fearful of discovery, even as John’s lips pressed damp and searing along his cheek and his hand traveled down Paul’s side, kneading his hip through his jeans. Girls didn’t touch like this, not this blunt, knowing touch.
Paul realised he must have widened his legs because all at once John was laying up flush against him. Paul hissed as his dick was squeezed with the contact. John’s lips moved down the crook of his neck and Paul’s breathing shook loud in his own ears, he tried to quiet himself, but his senses were full of John, he was arching up for him, every thrust of his body, his crotch rubbing Paul’s, pinching his dick, trapped and aching under tight denim.
Paul’s pulse throbbed in his ears. The bedsprings creaked with the roll of their bodies, their unsettled breaths melding. A strained groan escaped Paul and he turned his face aside in embarrassment, part of him almost expecting John to laugh, but instead he felt a tremor run through the other’s body, then John was kissing his mouth, demanding, the rhythm of his body swelling, his hands pushing restlessly at Paul’s clothing. Paul felt at once the same frustration, he wanted to be out of the clinging layers, he wanted his skin touched. His dick pulsed at the thought of John, naked, settled between his legs, even as he was shaken by it.
“John –” He ground his hips forward, needy, his hands crushed between them, feeling for the button on John’s jeans.
John muttered low and appreciative. He took hold Paul’s wrist and guided his hand. Paul’s fingers slid over stiff denim. John let him go with a shuddering breath. Paul knew at once the hard line of John’s erection through the material. His hand was unsteady as he rubbed his palm over the bulge of him, curling his fingers. John’s eyes slid closed, a frown pinching his brow. He let his head drop slowly, flattening his nose against Paul’s cheek, his hair falling into Paul’s eyes. He thrust his hips sharply into his hand. Paul tightened his grip, stroking.
“I –” John grunted. Fumbled against Paul’s arm, trying to push his hand away. Paul recognised the warning, felt it in the leap of John’s hips. John was panting, grasping at his wrist. Feeling perverse, powerful, Paul gripped him more firmly. He watched John’s face with fascination as he tossed his head, his features drawn, as if pained. Paul squeezed rhythmically and John abandoned the struggle with a reedy groan, thrusting desperately. He pressed his face into Paul’s neck. His body convulsed forward, bowed against Paul.
The spasms that shook his hips and torso eased. He half-raised himself on one crooked arm, pausing like that with his head still lowered, rubbing and butting his face and forehead against the side of Paul’s neck, recovering himself. Paul stared at uneven ceiling.
When John raised himself up, his eyes were downcast, hidden behind the dark tangled of hair spilling down his forehead. Paul's eyes flew along the sharp line of his jaw, searchingly across his face, trying to discern the feeling there. John crawled awkwardly off him, rising up onto his knees and clambering heavy-limbed over him. Paul had to shift over to make room on the narrow mattress for John to sit on the edge.
The flat, rumbling thump of music filtered back into Paul’s ears, as if someone had thrown up the volume on a speaker, but the noise was boxed off and strangled, the bass drum hammering detached and interminable. Paul wondered how long the song had been playing, felt a rush of irritation. The room was uncomfortably hot, the light from the lamp on the nightstand weak and yellowish, glowing dully along the sensuous swells of the two guitars that rested against John’s bed. The bed’s spindly brass footboard cast wiry shadows up the wall like bars on a cage.
Paul was conscious of John’s body, he was wired and pulsing. He shifted to rest on his elbow, his gaze fixed on John, the back of his head. John had one hand raised, seemed to be rubbing his face, raking his hair back from his brow. Paul swallowed down his unsteady breathing, tried to clear his head, but watching John only added to his distraction. He was flushed and undone, trembling for more. His lips stung deliciously, his dick was aching and full.
John rose suddenly from the bed and crossed the room.
“Wait –” Paul started to push himself up, without having any idea of what he planned to do or say, but when John reached the door, he didn’t leave as Paul had expected. He wrenched the door open, stuck his head out, looked around, then closed it again sharply.
“Anyone could have come in.” His shoulders shifted and Paul could tell he was struggling with the old brass tower bolt on the door. He worked the lock roughly, then turned, wiping his hands on the sides of his jeans, grimacing. He flared suddenly, “What the fuck would you have done?”
Paul’s tongue felt thick and heavy in his mouth. John stepped up to the foot of the bed. He braced his arm against the white plaster wall, stood slightly bent under the slope of the ceiling.
“You’ve no fucking clue, have you?” His lips were pressed tight and bloodless. “How pissed are you?”
“What?” Paul said. He was warm and keenly frustrated. Feeling exposed, he pushed himself into an uncomfortable sitting position, wincing and pulling at his jeans.
"We’re both a bit shitfaced." John twisted his head aside, glaring about the room. "I mean, half a bottle of whisky –"
Paul shook his head. “So what?”
“Well what the fuck else do you want me to say?” John voice rose sharply. He was embarrassed, Paul knew, and his embarrassment seemed to colour everything. Paul shifted on the bed, trying to arrange his hands on his lap, trying to hide his arousal. He could feel John staring at him and reddened self-consciously, hating himself for it. John straightened.
The movement made Paul look up. He met John’s gaze defensively, locking eyes, like he was answering a challenge. John’s lips parted to speak, but for a long moment he was silent, standing quite still, his eyes glinting faintly as he regarded Paul. When he did speak, his voice was low, roughened with something approaching surprise.
“You look...” He stepped away from the wall and came to Paul, pausing by the bed before bending to sit.
“What?” Paul raked a hand through his hair and turned his head aside nervously. John touched his shoulder, took a hold of his chin and guided him, pressing kisses firm to his lips.
Paul huffed a breath of relief and opened under the wet roll of John’s tongue. Their tongues met, supple and struggling. Paul’s fingers moved up the front of John’s shirt, tightening fitfully, a noise sighing from his throat, soft and inviting, encouraging. He was too far gone to hold off, and then John’s hand was on his thigh, easing up the inside of his leg.
“Do you want –?” John broke off breathlessly, the implications of the unfinished offer hanging thick between them. Paul’s eyelids were heavy, fluttering drowsily with every rub of John’s hand, up and down his thigh, moving closer to his groin with each pass. He splayed his legs, his knee bumping John’s once, then sharply again as John grasped his erection suddenly, shaping him under his palm. Paul gasped, his lips forming a slack O, he bowed his head, his cheek hot against John’s, turning his face into John’s neck, breathing raggedly, the smell of John connecting with the strong fingers kneading his dick.
John moved against him, motioning him onto his back, Paul reclined on his elbows, stretched, trembling muscles along his stomach jumping as John kept cupping and rubbing his dick. He felt vulnerable laying down like this, legs splayed, fingers curled uselessly on the sheets. He pushed himself up again uncertainly, clumsy and restless. John laid a hand over his collar bone, encouraging him down while he settled himself crouching on the mattress, braced over Paul. Paul lifted his face, kissed John, a little roughly, bumping his lower lip bluntly with his teeth. John reciprocated distractedly, his hands busy working the button on Paul’s jeans. Fired with arousal, half-terrified at John bearing down on him, Paul bucked fitfully under him, resisting until he felt John’s hand easing into his jeans.
Paul withdrew, panting, laying on his elbows in tense surrender. John stared down at him, the dark weight of the look feeling like another kiss. Paul swallowed dryly, fighting to keep his expression under control. His scalp tingled with sweat, his cheeks and throat flushed hot. John’s fingers were faltering, moving with curiosity between his jeans and his peaked briefs, curling lower, molding the swell of Paul’s balls, stroking up again along the jutting shaft. His thumb grazed the head of Paul’s dick through the cotton, Paul bit his lip and lifted his chin in restraint as the material clung damp to him. His hips were rolling into John’s touch. In a rush of frustration, he pushed at his jeans, wrestling them clumsily down his hips. John’s fingers hooked his briefs before he had the chance. His dick was free, springing stiff on his belly. He felt swollen, painfully ripe. John stared at him, taking in the dark thatch of hair at the base of his dick, the blushing, ready length of him. Paul felt a stab of panic – there was silence save for their heavy breathing. John swallowed, his eyes raking along Paul’s prone body. He raised an unsteady hand to his mouth, spat into his palm, reached for him. His hand was hot and firm, gliding slick down Paul’s shaft. He started pumping him.
Paul moaning richly, arching, drawn to the tip of himself, his hips leaped, at once frantic. He was fucking that strong hand. He forced his eyes open, watched John’s fist riding up and down him, mastering him. His gaze rose and locked with John’s.
“Come on then,” John said, the light in his eyes an open challenge, acute and expectant.
Paul tossed his head, his whole body rising and bucking as John squeezed him, milking his shaft. “Come on.” John’s voice was a low mutter drawn from the back of his throat, spurring Paul on, demanding everything he had. With a shuddering cry, Paul gave it to him. He erupted, spilling himself with trembling, pulsing abandon.
Someone was hammering on the door.
Paul jerked violently, torn raw from the easing grip of orgasm, he tried to sit up. John was still kneeling between his legs. His hot hand released Paul. They sat frozen for a beat. John twisted at the waist, looking over his shoulder.
“What?” He lost his balance, planted his hand near Paul’s hip, the mattress dipping with a muffled creak of springs. They waited, barely breathing. Paul glanced from the door to John.
John turned his head slowly. His profile was tense and pointed. He frowned, staring at the far wall, his eyes unfocused.
“John?” It sounded like Pete.
“What?”
“They want us back on.”
John and Paul exchanged a look. The rigid set of John’s shoulders eased fractionally. “Fuck off,” he said, pausing long enough to swallow. His voice was less strained when he resumed: “What about The Jays?”
“I don’t know. But Eckhorn’s about to have a right paddy.”
“Tell him he can fuck off.”
Pete’s grunt of frustration could be heard through the door. “Look, will you just finish up and come down?”
“If you give us a fuckin chance.”
Pete muttered something, then his footfalls retreated from the door, thumped receding down the staircase. The room was quiet. At some point the music downstairs had stopped.
John moved off of Paul and collapsed on his side with a groan. Paul pulled up his briefs and jeans, his hands unsteady, his head still reeling. Sitting up, he straightened his shirt, ignoring the wet smears down his chest. He rubbed his eyes, blinking, pressed a hand to his cheeks, to the back of his neck. He felt shaky, like he was coming down off a fever, but the laxness in his limbs was sensuous, his body slow and sated. He pushed himself to his feet and stepped heavily over to the window. Unlatching it, he leant forward to draw hungry breaths of the cool night air stirring against his burning skin.
He glanced around at the sound of a match flaring. John had shifted up the bed and was resting against the headboard, a mauled crush of pillows at his back, his legs crossed loose at the ankle. He flicked a spent match onto the floor and tore another from the matchbook he was holding. Watching him, Paul saw that he had no cigarettes, but he snapped the next match alight with deliberate care, shielding it with the curve of his fingers. He watched the flame, his eyes lifting for a moment to meet Paul’s. Paul felt a shock run through him, a dull ache.
“I’ll go have a wash,” he said, his voice dry and thick. “If they want us again…”
The flame had eaten its way along the match and was almost at John’s fingertips. He brought it to his lips and puffed the flame out, the charred stick sending up a thin spiral of smoke. Paul braced his hands behind him on the little window ledge. The breeze ghosted along the backs of his arms. John worked another match from the book. He held the head braced to light. Paul pushed himself away from the window and started for the door. He drew the bolt back, his neck prickling, feeling John was watching him.
“Gonna go back down then?”
Paul turned at the question. John’s eyes glinted blackly at him. Paul straightened, shook his head wordlessly, his gaze drifting to where the guitars still rested against John’s bed. The ripe curves of the instruments caught the glow of the bedside lamp’s feeble bulb. The fingers of Paul’s right hand twitched and he thumbed the calloused pads out of habit. He
thought of the crowd waiting downstairs, the dance floor of restless bodies, the faces upturned and expectant. Climbing the steps, the weight of his bass familiar on his shoulders. The crackle and spit of the amp. The bleaching glare of lights, glinting off the mic. And John beside him. Dark, ready amusement lurking in his crooked smile. An unwavering challenge in his appraising gaze.
“Hey?” John’s voice drew him back. Paul stared about the cramped little room, feeling roused, electrified, like no space could hold him.
He lifted his chin, smiling thinly. “I will if you do.”
***
Pt 1 | Pt 2 | Pt 3
Pairing: John / Paul
Rating: NC17 (for Part 3)
Setting: Hamburg 1961
Summary: The day after an awkward night.
Word Count: 3,926
Pt 1 | Pt 2 | Pt 3
“Are you fuckin around?” John had drawn back slightly. A frown pinched his brows. “Hey?”
Paul stared at him, found his eyes drawn to his mouth. He looked away in near-terror when he felt John stiffen, knowing he’d noticed. He disentangled himself from John’s hands and went and sat on the bed. There was a long pause, then John crossed the floorboards and the mattress dipped as he sat down next to Paul.
Paul rested his knuckles against his mouth, pressing down with the weight of his skull. He thought mechanically that he must be horribly drunk after all. He slid John a side-long glance. John sat very still, his head slightly inclined, his gaze cool, heavy-lidded.
“Let’s go back down,” Paul said from behind his hand. He moved to push himself up, doing it woodenly, just wanting to be out of the room, away, anywhere else.
“Oh no, no.” There was a tremor in John’s voice, grown nasal with amusement. “You want to have a go then?” He shifted forward and took hold of Paul’s arm.
Paul pushed him off. “Leave it.”
“You did it! You’re the one that –” John was laughing now, heavy breaths. He grabbed Paul again, his fingers assuming a biting grip over the soft flesh of his underarm. John laid a hand on the back of Paul’s neck, drawing him straining closer. “Come on.” Gusting laughter against Paul’s mouth.
“For fuck’s sake –” cheeks burning, Paul shoved at John, his hands fisting in his shirt, balling the fabric that was damp with sweat, feeling John’s chest hot underneath. Their arms struggled at odd angles between them, Paul straightening, John bowed and straining to draw him near, a mocking, hard-boned embrace, it looked like a playground fight. Fixing his hold, John planted his hand again more firmly. Paul ducked his head, squirming, his flesh reddening under the stubborn pinch of John’s fingers. He grunted, his anger growing, he shoved at John, his knuckles white, fingers locked in his shirt, drawing the collar roughly taut from John’s neck.
The tension ceased abruptly as John shoved him backwards. Paul’s back hit the mattress and John was on top of him, grabbing him thick by the hair at his crown, holding his head down with sudden savagery, bending over him. He wasn’t laughing, his expression was suddenly stiff and closed. Paul twisted under him, his legs jerking. John bent low over him and brought their mouths together in a formless crush. They held rigid like that, breathing hard through their noses. Paul felt the blunt pain of it, John’s mouth sealed against his bruised lip.
John was making a point, he knew. It was clear between them this way. John didn’t want a proper fight. He could mock him mercilessly with this.
John drew back and sat hunched over him.
Paul lay panting, searching for words. Instead he took an awkward swing at John. John caught his arm and struggled with him for some strained seconds before pinning his wrist with a thump on the mattress.
“Alright,” John said unsteadily.
“Get the fuck off.” Paul’s voice was reedy.
“Alright,” John said again, speaking low. Their faces still close. John breathed open-mouthed, shakily, he lay bent and heavy on top of Paul. He let go of Paul’s hair and slid his palm down to rest beside Paul’s head. His brows were furrowed, his slender face was tense, lashes showing black against his skin as he blinked. He considered Paul solemnly, his eyes lowering to Paul’s mouth. He bent his head again haltingly.
Paul kept very still as John kissed him. It wasn’t a fight anymore. John mouthed his upper lip. They barely breathed. Their noses bumped as John tilted his head aside. Paul shifted slightly under him, trying to comprehend what was happening. John wet his lips, returning warm and moist. It was different, fast sliding into something utterly unknown. He sucked Paul’s lower lip. Paul’s eyes fluttered shut. He found himself lifting his mouth warily in reply, answering John with his lips. John’s breath puffed against this cheek. Their lips were damp, coming together again, bumping, flushing and pained with the lightness of their touches.
Paul tasted John’s skin, darting with his tongue. John’s fingers on his jaw. Paul opening his lips in invitation. The tip of John’s tongue breached him for a fleeting second. John pulled back. The strangeness of it hit Paul hard then, with John’s face above him so familiar and so strange.
Sitting on the beds, face-to-face, guitars on their laps, John with a notepad wedged between his guitar and his thigh, they watch each the other’s faces distractedly as they feel out a melody.
Paul’s chest was tight, he strained to speak, break the silence, feeling ridiculous, terrified.
Split open and sensuous.
Pulling the door open. Drizzle coming down, the light purplish in the garden, the air smelling of damp soil. John stands with his back to him, shoulders squared beneath his jacket. He’s brought his guitar case, holds the head of the case loosely, the base of it resting on the toe of his boot. His hair is gelled, black and shining with it. He turns, brows raised, lips crooked in an ironic smile. Paul moves aside to let him in. John catches up the guitar case by its handle, climbs the step, his dark eyes fixed on Paul, his smile softened, lingering. It’s new between them, shy pleasure at seeing each other. Paul’s got his jotter and an old Cadbury’s tin full of papers waiting on top of the piano in the sitting room. He’s only showing John the good stuff. He wants to show off a bit. Still, he’s nervous as he closes the door and turns.
John’s a dark figure standing expectant beside him in the dim hallway.
Paul lifted his chin, blinking slow, as if drugged. He parted his lips, flushing under John’s gaze. He wanted John to kiss him again. He licked his lips. His eyes fell closed at John’s mouth returning to his, he shivered as their tongues met, stroking slow. They parted, Paul felt every hot breath against his moist lips. Angling close, rolling together at the mouth again, again, John thrusting greedily into him. John’s hand ran down Paul’s side, catching the edge of his shirt, easing beneath, laying his palm over hot skin.
Done practicing in the rooms next door. Pushing through the knot of people at the entrance to the dance hall, he finds it packed out. He searches the faces, searching for her, he thinks he sees her wheeling with a lad, laughing, her blonde hair jumps as she dances. He’s furious. He convinces himself of it as he starts forward. He’s got it all on the tip of his tongue, what he’ll say. He’ll go for the guy if he has to. He’ll drag her out the club. Fuck the gig.
He’s lost sight of her.
John’s got him by the shoulder. He’s close, laughing into Paul’s ear, slapping him on the cheek, jeering. Paul forces a smile. He lets it go. Follows John reluctantly back through the crowd. It’s cool out in the hallway. John’s in high spirits, jibing him, striding ahead, leading the way. They go to the loos, smoke with the others. John combs his hair in the mirror, still taking the mickey, drawing the rest of them in. Paul leans against the sink and tries to laugh it off. He’s strangely angry, nervous under all of it. He looks at John’s smirking face in the mirror. He’s as good as John. He won’t be bested.
Paul broke panting from John’s mouth. John’s thigh was solid and nudging between his legs.
Paul’s body strove upwards under the heat and weight of John, rubbing mindlessly against him. John kissed him again while his hips rolled, lazy, ripe thrusts. Paul’s legs tangled with John’s, he felt the flex of calf muscle through warm denim. He pressed his hand unsteadily to the back of John’s neck, raked splayed fingers slowly up the curve of his skull, feeling John’s hair rich and heavy with sweat between his fingers, he was dimly sobered his own impulse, stunned by the of intimacy the caress. He shuddered insensibly as John took his mouth, his tongue riding in and out between his blushing wet lips.
Paul fell distractedly out of the dance, shifting, panting. He felt laden and hot, each press of
John’s body drawing an answering rise in him. He was aroused, a sweet ache that tightened his balls, brought the length of his dick out stiff. He lifted his head, tried to brace himself up on his elbow, hazily panicked, fearful of discovery, even as John’s lips pressed damp and searing along his cheek and his hand traveled down Paul’s side, kneading his hip through his jeans. Girls didn’t touch like this, not this blunt, knowing touch.
Paul realised he must have widened his legs because all at once John was laying up flush against him. Paul hissed as his dick was squeezed with the contact. John’s lips moved down the crook of his neck and Paul’s breathing shook loud in his own ears, he tried to quiet himself, but his senses were full of John, he was arching up for him, every thrust of his body, his crotch rubbing Paul’s, pinching his dick, trapped and aching under tight denim.
Paul’s pulse throbbed in his ears. The bedsprings creaked with the roll of their bodies, their unsettled breaths melding. A strained groan escaped Paul and he turned his face aside in embarrassment, part of him almost expecting John to laugh, but instead he felt a tremor run through the other’s body, then John was kissing his mouth, demanding, the rhythm of his body swelling, his hands pushing restlessly at Paul’s clothing. Paul felt at once the same frustration, he wanted to be out of the clinging layers, he wanted his skin touched. His dick pulsed at the thought of John, naked, settled between his legs, even as he was shaken by it.
“John –” He ground his hips forward, needy, his hands crushed between them, feeling for the button on John’s jeans.
John muttered low and appreciative. He took hold Paul’s wrist and guided his hand. Paul’s fingers slid over stiff denim. John let him go with a shuddering breath. Paul knew at once the hard line of John’s erection through the material. His hand was unsteady as he rubbed his palm over the bulge of him, curling his fingers. John’s eyes slid closed, a frown pinching his brow. He let his head drop slowly, flattening his nose against Paul’s cheek, his hair falling into Paul’s eyes. He thrust his hips sharply into his hand. Paul tightened his grip, stroking.
“I –” John grunted. Fumbled against Paul’s arm, trying to push his hand away. Paul recognised the warning, felt it in the leap of John’s hips. John was panting, grasping at his wrist. Feeling perverse, powerful, Paul gripped him more firmly. He watched John’s face with fascination as he tossed his head, his features drawn, as if pained. Paul squeezed rhythmically and John abandoned the struggle with a reedy groan, thrusting desperately. He pressed his face into Paul’s neck. His body convulsed forward, bowed against Paul.
The spasms that shook his hips and torso eased. He half-raised himself on one crooked arm, pausing like that with his head still lowered, rubbing and butting his face and forehead against the side of Paul’s neck, recovering himself. Paul stared at uneven ceiling.
When John raised himself up, his eyes were downcast, hidden behind the dark tangled of hair spilling down his forehead. Paul's eyes flew along the sharp line of his jaw, searchingly across his face, trying to discern the feeling there. John crawled awkwardly off him, rising up onto his knees and clambering heavy-limbed over him. Paul had to shift over to make room on the narrow mattress for John to sit on the edge.
The flat, rumbling thump of music filtered back into Paul’s ears, as if someone had thrown up the volume on a speaker, but the noise was boxed off and strangled, the bass drum hammering detached and interminable. Paul wondered how long the song had been playing, felt a rush of irritation. The room was uncomfortably hot, the light from the lamp on the nightstand weak and yellowish, glowing dully along the sensuous swells of the two guitars that rested against John’s bed. The bed’s spindly brass footboard cast wiry shadows up the wall like bars on a cage.
Paul was conscious of John’s body, he was wired and pulsing. He shifted to rest on his elbow, his gaze fixed on John, the back of his head. John had one hand raised, seemed to be rubbing his face, raking his hair back from his brow. Paul swallowed down his unsteady breathing, tried to clear his head, but watching John only added to his distraction. He was flushed and undone, trembling for more. His lips stung deliciously, his dick was aching and full.
John rose suddenly from the bed and crossed the room.
“Wait –” Paul started to push himself up, without having any idea of what he planned to do or say, but when John reached the door, he didn’t leave as Paul had expected. He wrenched the door open, stuck his head out, looked around, then closed it again sharply.
“Anyone could have come in.” His shoulders shifted and Paul could tell he was struggling with the old brass tower bolt on the door. He worked the lock roughly, then turned, wiping his hands on the sides of his jeans, grimacing. He flared suddenly, “What the fuck would you have done?”
Paul’s tongue felt thick and heavy in his mouth. John stepped up to the foot of the bed. He braced his arm against the white plaster wall, stood slightly bent under the slope of the ceiling.
“You’ve no fucking clue, have you?” His lips were pressed tight and bloodless. “How pissed are you?”
“What?” Paul said. He was warm and keenly frustrated. Feeling exposed, he pushed himself into an uncomfortable sitting position, wincing and pulling at his jeans.
"We’re both a bit shitfaced." John twisted his head aside, glaring about the room. "I mean, half a bottle of whisky –"
Paul shook his head. “So what?”
“Well what the fuck else do you want me to say?” John voice rose sharply. He was embarrassed, Paul knew, and his embarrassment seemed to colour everything. Paul shifted on the bed, trying to arrange his hands on his lap, trying to hide his arousal. He could feel John staring at him and reddened self-consciously, hating himself for it. John straightened.
The movement made Paul look up. He met John’s gaze defensively, locking eyes, like he was answering a challenge. John’s lips parted to speak, but for a long moment he was silent, standing quite still, his eyes glinting faintly as he regarded Paul. When he did speak, his voice was low, roughened with something approaching surprise.
“You look...” He stepped away from the wall and came to Paul, pausing by the bed before bending to sit.
“What?” Paul raked a hand through his hair and turned his head aside nervously. John touched his shoulder, took a hold of his chin and guided him, pressing kisses firm to his lips.
Paul huffed a breath of relief and opened under the wet roll of John’s tongue. Their tongues met, supple and struggling. Paul’s fingers moved up the front of John’s shirt, tightening fitfully, a noise sighing from his throat, soft and inviting, encouraging. He was too far gone to hold off, and then John’s hand was on his thigh, easing up the inside of his leg.
“Do you want –?” John broke off breathlessly, the implications of the unfinished offer hanging thick between them. Paul’s eyelids were heavy, fluttering drowsily with every rub of John’s hand, up and down his thigh, moving closer to his groin with each pass. He splayed his legs, his knee bumping John’s once, then sharply again as John grasped his erection suddenly, shaping him under his palm. Paul gasped, his lips forming a slack O, he bowed his head, his cheek hot against John’s, turning his face into John’s neck, breathing raggedly, the smell of John connecting with the strong fingers kneading his dick.
John moved against him, motioning him onto his back, Paul reclined on his elbows, stretched, trembling muscles along his stomach jumping as John kept cupping and rubbing his dick. He felt vulnerable laying down like this, legs splayed, fingers curled uselessly on the sheets. He pushed himself up again uncertainly, clumsy and restless. John laid a hand over his collar bone, encouraging him down while he settled himself crouching on the mattress, braced over Paul. Paul lifted his face, kissed John, a little roughly, bumping his lower lip bluntly with his teeth. John reciprocated distractedly, his hands busy working the button on Paul’s jeans. Fired with arousal, half-terrified at John bearing down on him, Paul bucked fitfully under him, resisting until he felt John’s hand easing into his jeans.
Paul withdrew, panting, laying on his elbows in tense surrender. John stared down at him, the dark weight of the look feeling like another kiss. Paul swallowed dryly, fighting to keep his expression under control. His scalp tingled with sweat, his cheeks and throat flushed hot. John’s fingers were faltering, moving with curiosity between his jeans and his peaked briefs, curling lower, molding the swell of Paul’s balls, stroking up again along the jutting shaft. His thumb grazed the head of Paul’s dick through the cotton, Paul bit his lip and lifted his chin in restraint as the material clung damp to him. His hips were rolling into John’s touch. In a rush of frustration, he pushed at his jeans, wrestling them clumsily down his hips. John’s fingers hooked his briefs before he had the chance. His dick was free, springing stiff on his belly. He felt swollen, painfully ripe. John stared at him, taking in the dark thatch of hair at the base of his dick, the blushing, ready length of him. Paul felt a stab of panic – there was silence save for their heavy breathing. John swallowed, his eyes raking along Paul’s prone body. He raised an unsteady hand to his mouth, spat into his palm, reached for him. His hand was hot and firm, gliding slick down Paul’s shaft. He started pumping him.
Paul moaning richly, arching, drawn to the tip of himself, his hips leaped, at once frantic. He was fucking that strong hand. He forced his eyes open, watched John’s fist riding up and down him, mastering him. His gaze rose and locked with John’s.
“Come on then,” John said, the light in his eyes an open challenge, acute and expectant.
Paul tossed his head, his whole body rising and bucking as John squeezed him, milking his shaft. “Come on.” John’s voice was a low mutter drawn from the back of his throat, spurring Paul on, demanding everything he had. With a shuddering cry, Paul gave it to him. He erupted, spilling himself with trembling, pulsing abandon.
Someone was hammering on the door.
Paul jerked violently, torn raw from the easing grip of orgasm, he tried to sit up. John was still kneeling between his legs. His hot hand released Paul. They sat frozen for a beat. John twisted at the waist, looking over his shoulder.
“What?” He lost his balance, planted his hand near Paul’s hip, the mattress dipping with a muffled creak of springs. They waited, barely breathing. Paul glanced from the door to John.
John turned his head slowly. His profile was tense and pointed. He frowned, staring at the far wall, his eyes unfocused.
“John?” It sounded like Pete.
“What?”
“They want us back on.”
John and Paul exchanged a look. The rigid set of John’s shoulders eased fractionally. “Fuck off,” he said, pausing long enough to swallow. His voice was less strained when he resumed: “What about The Jays?”
“I don’t know. But Eckhorn’s about to have a right paddy.”
“Tell him he can fuck off.”
Pete’s grunt of frustration could be heard through the door. “Look, will you just finish up and come down?”
“If you give us a fuckin chance.”
Pete muttered something, then his footfalls retreated from the door, thumped receding down the staircase. The room was quiet. At some point the music downstairs had stopped.
John moved off of Paul and collapsed on his side with a groan. Paul pulled up his briefs and jeans, his hands unsteady, his head still reeling. Sitting up, he straightened his shirt, ignoring the wet smears down his chest. He rubbed his eyes, blinking, pressed a hand to his cheeks, to the back of his neck. He felt shaky, like he was coming down off a fever, but the laxness in his limbs was sensuous, his body slow and sated. He pushed himself to his feet and stepped heavily over to the window. Unlatching it, he leant forward to draw hungry breaths of the cool night air stirring against his burning skin.
He glanced around at the sound of a match flaring. John had shifted up the bed and was resting against the headboard, a mauled crush of pillows at his back, his legs crossed loose at the ankle. He flicked a spent match onto the floor and tore another from the matchbook he was holding. Watching him, Paul saw that he had no cigarettes, but he snapped the next match alight with deliberate care, shielding it with the curve of his fingers. He watched the flame, his eyes lifting for a moment to meet Paul’s. Paul felt a shock run through him, a dull ache.
“I’ll go have a wash,” he said, his voice dry and thick. “If they want us again…”
The flame had eaten its way along the match and was almost at John’s fingertips. He brought it to his lips and puffed the flame out, the charred stick sending up a thin spiral of smoke. Paul braced his hands behind him on the little window ledge. The breeze ghosted along the backs of his arms. John worked another match from the book. He held the head braced to light. Paul pushed himself away from the window and started for the door. He drew the bolt back, his neck prickling, feeling John was watching him.
“Gonna go back down then?”
Paul turned at the question. John’s eyes glinted blackly at him. Paul straightened, shook his head wordlessly, his gaze drifting to where the guitars still rested against John’s bed. The ripe curves of the instruments caught the glow of the bedside lamp’s feeble bulb. The fingers of Paul’s right hand twitched and he thumbed the calloused pads out of habit. He
thought of the crowd waiting downstairs, the dance floor of restless bodies, the faces upturned and expectant. Climbing the steps, the weight of his bass familiar on his shoulders. The crackle and spit of the amp. The bleaching glare of lights, glinting off the mic. And John beside him. Dark, ready amusement lurking in his crooked smile. An unwavering challenge in his appraising gaze.
“Hey?” John’s voice drew him back. Paul stared about the cramped little room, feeling roused, electrified, like no space could hold him.
He lifted his chin, smiling thinly. “I will if you do.”
Pt 1 | Pt 2 | Pt 3