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“You know,” John says, all casual. “It’s been a few days.”
They’re in their meager living quarters, in a rare moment of solitude. It’s not quite peaceful, given the music still roaring from the club, but it’s as close as they get, these days. Stu and George have gone out with Astrid and Klaus, and Pete disappeared off into nowhere, so it’s just the two of them now, crammed into Paul’s bunk.
Paul’s writing in his little notebook, trying to work the beginning of a new song into their next show. John’s at the far end of the bed, feet piled ungracefully in Paul’s lap. He’s wearing his glasses for once as he pretends to read a German magazine and pretends not to be rubbing his heel back and forth along Paul’s inner thigh.
And—it has been a few days. Six, to be exact.
Six days since the first time Paul jabbed himself in the thigh—crouched in the men’s toilets backstage, John watching like a hawk to make sure he didn’t faint. He’d got Paul a drink, after, then made sure he bent the needle against the wall and tossed it into the rubbish with the syringe.
John is up to something, though, so Paul pretends he’s got no idea what he’s after.
“Hm?” he says, and doesn’t look up.
John flips the page in his magazine and turns it sideways, as if it will stop being in German that way round. “Since your shot,” he says. “And I was just wondering if you had noticed anything…different.”
One shot hasn’t changed much yet, but there’s been a few things. He’s been desperately hungry in the last week, the pubescent boy appetite he’d missed out on years ago hitting him now in full swing. A few days ago, he and George nicked a meat pie from a shop, running as far as they could until they figured they were safe to stop and eat.
He’s been more confident, too. John said it, and he can feel it. He certainly doesn’t look any more like a bloke than he did a week ago, but he knows he will soon enough. If they ever make it back to Liverpool, no one, not even Jim, will be able to deny it.
Most of all, though, he’s been randy. Really fucking randy.
John would know. Paul’s been all over him in the last week, when he can be. But they’ve been booked for extra shows—Paul’s pay going towards his new medicine—so they’ve been even busier than usual. They’ve barely had the time or energy to go out drinking, never mind get much farther than some necking in their beds before passing out.
All that means that his newfound sex drive has had nowhere to go, and boy, is he feeling it.
“I’ve been hungry,” he says instead. Since John knows about all that anyway.
Obviously, it’s not what John was looking for. He gives Paul a long, hard look over the rims of his glasses.
“Well, I have!” Paul protests.
John makes a face at him. “I know that much! You’ve been begging for scraps like a starving dog, haven’t you?” He shuts his magazine, and says, low: “I was thinking something more physical.”
Paul makes an overdone face of confusion. “Physical, Johnny?”
“You know what I mean,” John says, and looks pointedly at Paul’s crotch. “Physical. Corporeal.” He flexes his foot, nudging farther between Paul’s legs. “Of the flesh.”
Paul has never been hard in the traditional sense, never went through male puberty until now, but as of late he’s understood how just a stiff breeze could set a lad off. Everything recently has got him going, from girls in the Reeperbahn to Stu’s bloody bass playing to John obnoxiously planting his feet in Paul’s lap.
The way John’s looking at him right now is no different. It stirs something exciting in him, and he shifts his hips forward, leaning into the pressure of the ball of John’s foot.
Paul’s eyes go wide, feigning realization. “Oh!” he says, fluttering his lashes. “Oh, you mean…”
John flexes his ankle, grinding into Paul over his trousers, and Paul’s legs fall open.
“Y’know,” Paul continues, tapping his chin in mock contemplation. “I’m really not sure. Guess you’ll just have to come and see for yourself.”
“Will I now,” John says, and drops the magazine off the side of the bunk. He clambers up to Paul, and Paul scoots down until his head is on the ratty pillow. John’s put his glasses down somewhere, and he’s dropped the seductive act to grin stupidly down at Paul.
“C’mere,” Paul says, and pulls him down for a kiss. John kisses back for a moment, but when Paul tilts his head to kiss deeper, he pulls away.
“You—” he taps Paul’s nose, making him blink, “—are hindering the investigation.”
“Right,” Paul says. “Of course. Lead the way, then.”
John trails his hand down Paul’s chest, taking his sweet time for someone meant to be investigating a bit further down. He brushes over Paul’s stomach, then sits back on his heels to undo the front of Paul’s trousers. His hands are so, so close to where Paul wants them to be.
John motions for Paul to lift his hips up, and tugs the trousers down partway.
He can’t seem to resist Paul, though, and leans forward again to kiss along his neck. Frustratingly, with the exception of a steady hand on Paul’s side, he neglects to touch anywhere further south.
Paul tries to rock his hips up, but he can’t, because his stupid bloody trousers are half-way down his thighs and keeping him from parting his legs. He eventually gets his hand off of John for long enough to push them down past his knees, which affords him enough room to kick them off with a grunt.
John pulls back, finally, and takes a good look at Paul in his briefs. He presses a hand firmly against Paul, the harsh breath it pulls from him only spurring him on.
“Sensitive,” Paul says, wincing. It almost feels like too much, even over his clothes, but he wants more.
John can clearly tell as much, because he presses his fingers and then palm down like a ripple, rocking his hand back and forth into Paul. Paul sighs, and John keeps it up, bringing his other hand to Paul’s waistband.
“Paul,” he says. “I want to see it. I want to—can I?”
“Yeah,” Paul breathes, and John pulls down his briefs. He pulls them all the way off, instead of leaving them bunched around Paul’s knees like the trousers, and shimmies down the bed to be between Paul’s open legs.
John eases Paul’s legs further apart, presses down on his knees, and plants a teasing kiss low on his inner thigh. And then another, just above it, and another—making his way towards where Paul wants him.
John slows down, if it’s even possible, as he gets higher up. Infuriatingly, he takes his time to suck gently at Paul’s thigh, lightly scraping his teeth over the skin.
“Investigating, huh?” Paul says, a bit breathless.
“Y’have to be very thorough,” says John, and moves across to his other leg.
It’s not fast enough, and Paul lets out a frustrated groan at the teasing. He brings his hand down to touch himself, to relieve some of the ache he’s been feeling all night. All week.
John snatches him by the wrist.
“Ah-ah-ah,” he tuts, firmly placing Paul’s hand down by his side. “Patience.”
Paul writhes, hips bucking up, desperate for some kind of stimulation. “I’m—I’m trying to be patient, God, Johnny, just—”
He can feel himself clenching now, ready and desperate to be touched. John is high up on his thigh now, so close to where he wants him. Where he needs him.
“Alright,” John says. “Now we’ve got you all worked up, I’ll—”
“Yes,” Paul breathes, “John, please—”
John spreads him apart with one hand, and the slight puff of breath as he lowers his head makes Paul shiver. He closes his eyes, ready to feel John’s mouth on him.
He doesn’t.
He rolls his hips—maybe John will get the message of get on with it already—and still doesn’t.
He cracks an eye open to see John grinning up at him like the devil.
“You—” he splutters. “You fucking tease!”
John leers at him. “The scientific process comes first,” he says.
But I want to come, Paul thinks miserably. He rolls his hips up again, trying to tempt John into giving him the attention he needs. But John just puts his hand on Paul’s hip, holding him down.
After a moment of frustration for Paul, John finally speaks up. “It looks different.”
Now Paul’s curious. He lifts his head to look skeptically at John. “Does it?”
His—his clit feels different to him, in the days since his shot. (Or should he call it his prick? He knows from other lads like him that the shots would make it bigger, into something of a prick.) (It’s just, he doesn’t know when he should start calling it that, really. It’s probably still a clit. Right?)
Privately, he feels like maybe it’s a little bigger, though maybe not so much that someone else would notice. But John did.
John brings his other hand up and firmly presses either side of his folds, spreading them and exposing the area further. Paul whines at it, then presses his head back into the pillow, trying not to arch his back as John blows a light breath onto him. It’s so much, John down there, his face so close, and all Paul can think of is John’s mouth on him.
John lifts his head. “Not by much, but it’s… swollen, like. Proper hard. Pushes out a bit more.” He takes a deep breath. “Can I—?”
Paul nods, desperate, and John finally, finally drops his head down to mouth at Paul.
It’s good, immediately. It’s really good. John’s tongue is flicking back and forth, back and forth. He sucks just a little bit, and Paul squirms.
As good as it is, it’s not enough. He wants more. He brings his left hand down to John’s head, and tangles it in his hair. Presses down lightly, so John stays where he needs him.
John starts doing some circular motion with his tongue, and Paul throws his other arm up over his face, so he doesn’t have to see anything. All he can feel is John’s mouth on him and John’s hair in his hand; all he can hear are the little grunts John is making and the wet sounds from his mouth. He grinds upwards into John’s face, chasing the feeling.
John lets Paul suffocate him for a short while, but then he finally breaks away to gasp, “Give a lad a chance to breathe, Macca.”
Paul doesn’t say anything, just pants, and John looks up at him, mouth and chin wet.
“Eager, aren’t you?”
Paul groans, forearm still shielding his eyes. “‘Course I’m bloody eager. Haven’t gotten any all week. And I’ve been so—fuckin’—randy.” He thumps the side of the cot to punctuate his last three words.
John grins up at him. “Ah, the good ol’ days of the teenage sex drive,” he says, which is big talk for someone who was just pretending to check up on Paul in order to get his end away. “I remember them fondly.”
Paul makes to shove John away. “I’ll just get myself off then, if you’re going to be such a bastard.”
John waggles his eyebrows at him in response, and then dips his head back down to lick at him, slow and long.
Paul’s arse clenches and he rocks his hips up, over and over again. “Oh, that’s,” he says, mindless. “That’s good, that’s, that’s, more, God, more—”
John gives him more. He sucks harder and swipes a finger through the wetness between Paul’s legs.
Then John pulls his head back, and Paul’s hips chase him. He whines at the loss.
“You’re all right,” John says, and wets his fingers. Paul’s mouth waters.
He presses his thumb on the head of Paul’s clit. Something in his chest tightens, and then John starts to rub it in circles, and—
Paul kicks him off.
He doesn’t mean to—he wasn’t even expecting it to feel like that. His heart is pounding, like he’d been running from something. He thought it would feel good. It usually feels good.
“Shit,” he says, scrambling to sit up. “Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean t—”
“Paul,” John soothes. “’M all right. You just got me in the shoulder, is all. Are you—did I hurt you?”
It didn’t hurt, but it felt raw and uncomfortable and exposed. And bad. Like skinning your knee, and touching the scraped part.
Paul winces at the thought. “No, it just—it’s sensitive. The tip of it. Of my, uh. It was too much.” He frowns, at that. “But it was fine earlier, when you were, uh. With your tongue.”
John sticks his tongue out and wiggles it around. “Thothteh,” he says.
Paul huffs out a bit of a laugh at that, mostly relieved John isn’t upset.
Speaking more normally, John says: “Tongue’s softer, I reckon.” He raises his eyebrows. “And wetter, too.”
Paul flushes, and he pulls John towards him, hauling him back in for a kiss. John lets him. Paul gets a hand between them, rubbing lightly at John’s hard-on, and John starts kissing back with intent.
They snog until John starts to get a little bitey, and Paul pushes him off a bit. “You trying to get my attention?”
“Do you, uh,” John says, running a hand up Paul’s side. “D’you wanna try again.”
That has Paul laughing as he lies back. “Who’s eager now, huh?”
They discover that John’s hands are actually still quite nice, as long as he’s not touching it head-on. John rubs at the top of it through its hood; Paul tries and succeeds to not kick John another time. Within minutes, they’re back to a better version of where they were at before, and Paul’s hips are jerking off the mattress with the sensation every time John sucks at him.
It’s still not enough.
It would’ve been more than enough, a week ago, it’s just—it’s different. He’s desperate. He needs more.
He says as much, or tries to. John seems to get the message, though, because his thumb and forefinger replace his mouth as he pulls back to say, “Not enough?”
“Yeah,” says Paul. “Need more, I—yeah—more.” Deliriously, he thinks he might let John fuck him. Like, actually fuck him.
“What d’you want me to do?” John looks serious. He looks like he would do whatever Paul wants.
Looking at him is too much, so Paul tosses his head back, stares at the weird stain in the ceiling. “I think.” The stain doesn’t move. “I think if you put your fingers in me.”
“My—are y’sure?” John says. He sounds like he might want to. “Christ, really?”
Paul doesn’t usually let John—he doesn’t usually let anyone put anything in there. Once or twice, it’s felt good, but it usually just makes him feel like a girl.
On the other hand—how bad could it be, right now? And he’s been feeling confident, and he’s been feeling not like a girl. And he wants more.
“’Course I’m sure,” he says. He doesn’t want John to think he’s gonna get kicked again, so he adds: “I’ll be fine. I want it. John, please.” He plays up the desperation in his voice a bit.
“Fuck,” John breathes, and teases his forefinger around Paul’s hole. Paul tenses up for a moment, then John replaces his mouth and Paul’s legs fall back open with a sigh.
Paul clenches a bit around John’s finger when he pushes it in, but he breathes through it, and takes the second one more easily.
“Y’look really good like this,” John says, his two fingers rocking into that spot inside Paul. Paul’s eyes are screwed shut.
He’s breathing hard and can’t manage to get anything out but a rather embarrassing whine, but John goes on anyway. “Spread out for me like this, lettin’ me fuck you. So hard for me.” He punctuates this by sucking at Paul again. He’s moving his tongue up and down it, as if it’s a real prick—Paul writhes.
John picks up the pace with his hand. Muffled, he says, “Yea’? Y’onna come, Paul?”
Paul answers him with a few erratic thrusts towards John. If he could really fuck John’s mouth, he would, God, he would.
He can feel his orgasm coming on, the charge of it building all along his skin. He’s almost there, just needing one more thing to send him over the edge, and then John changes up the rhythm of his fingers.
That does it, and Paul comes, pulling John impossibly closer into him as he presses into Paul with a steady one-two, one-two, one-two.
Finally, his body relaxes, and his hips settle back on the mattress. Heart still racing, he sighs.
John’s hand slows, and Paul, near delirious with desire, grabs John’s wrist to keep him inside.
“Fuck,” John says. “Didn’t you just—”
“Yeah.” Paul rolls his hips, feels John’s fingers twitch inside him. “Again.”
“Fuck,” John says again, and Paul realizes all of a sudden he’s been pretty well neglecting John aside from a bit of groping as they kissed earlier.
And it’s not like that made him feel like a girl, just now. Barely even thought of it. He could let John—
Two birds with one stone, and all that.
He tugs at John’s shirt. John seems a bit confused by the change in plans, but shuffles back up the bed anyways. He wipes his fingers off on the inside of Paul’s thigh, making him shiver a bit.
“Thought you—” John starts. Paul cuts him off with a kiss. He uses the distraction to snake his hand down between them, managing to unzip John’s jeans. He rubs up and down John’s hard cock through his pants. John whines into his mouth.
Paul pulls back. “Yeah, thought as much. Look—”
“Paul, can I—”
“Look,” Paul says again, firm, and John stops talking. “D’you want to fuck me?”
“What? You—” John closes his eyes. “I do, if you—if you want. Don’t you—are you sure?”
Paul’s terrified of getting pregnant, of course. He’d kill John. Or himself. They don’t have condoms, because they don’t need them, because he doesn’t let John do this. Maybe they should do this more. Maybe he should get some—but it’s fine. Just this one time, it’ll be fine.
“Yeah, fuck,” he says. “I’m sure. ’M sure, John, just don’t come in me, ’cause we can’t—I can’t—”
“’Course,” says John, which doesn’t inspire a great deal of confidence. He must see Paul’s hesitation, because he adds: “I’ll pull out, Paul. I will. Promise.”
He leans down to kiss Paul again, and Paul says, “You fucking better.” John nods, serious.
They fumble with John’s jeans, but he eventually manages to kick them off all the way. Paul gets a hand down the front of John’s pants before John can get them off all the way, which thoroughly distracts him, groaning and bucking his hips into Paul’s hand.
After a moment John seems to recall the end goal of this whole endeavor and reluctantly says “C’mon, off,” moving away to pull down his own pants. He’s still wearing his shirt—both of them are—which Paul finds rather hot, and he draws John back in for another kiss.
He’s going for John’s cock again when John mutters against his lips: “I’m not gonna get the chance to fuck you if you keep that up.”
“See if I ever touch your cock again,” Paul teases, but he drops his hand, lets John take a beat to get situated. He sits back on his haunches between Paul’s legs, spreads them out a bit more. Lines himself up in front of Paul’s hole.
“Okay,” John says, after a moment. “I’m ready. Are you ready?”
Paul takes a deep breath, nods. “I’m ready, just—oh.”
The feeling is strange at first, like it was with John’s fingers. Paul doesn’t really make a habit of putting anything up there, so it feels weird to have something inside of him. He feels full, in a way he’s not accustomed to.
Initially, it really isn’t the most arousing thing, but then John starts moving, rocking into him with shallow little thrusts and gasps.
And then John picks up the pace, and gets a hand between them, works open Paul’s folds. And he takes Paul’s clit—his—he takes Paul in his hand, between his fingers, and rubs—strokes him up and down, slowly. He recognizes the motion, a facsimile of John wanking himself. He bucks his hips into it, pushing John deeper into him.
“You like that?” John says, almost in awe. “D’you like me stroking your…”
He trails off, as if he’s not sure of the right word. He wouldn’t be—Paul’s expressed occasional disdain for female terms for his anatomy, but never really verbalized a preference.
“Cock,” Paul breathes, because it is, isn’t it? “My cock. Yeah. I do.”
“Your cock,” John echoes. His breath is shaky. “Yeah.” He keeps stroking, just out of time with his thrusts, so Paul doesn’t have a moment to recover.
They should be doing this more often, Paul thinks. They should have been doing this the whole time. He can’t quite remember why they haven’t been.
The thing is, he doesn’t feel like a girl at all right now. He feels like a bloke. Even with John inside him right now, God, he feels like a bloke, because John’s hand is moving frantically on his cock, and John’s moaning his name, his real, proper boy name, Paul.
“Paul,” John moans again. He reconfigures a bit, leans forward, over Paul. Props himself up on only his elbows so their bodies are flush to each other. He loses the rhythm a bit in the process, and his hand is too busy now in Paul’s hair to be on Paul’s cock. It’s okay, though, because once he’s settled he starts fucking into Paul even harder than before, drawing these little gasps out of him that he knows are getting John going even more.
“John,” he says, and it probably turns into a whine at the end. Their lips are almost touching, but Paul’s too close to the edge to be able to kiss him. “Johnny, I—”
“Christ, Paul, y’feel so good,” John babbles. Paul feels it building again, starts meeting John’s hips thrust for thrust. “So hot, and your cock, in my hand, in my mouth, God, I’d suck your cock again, if you let me.”
Paul would let him, he really would. He thinks of John, lips wrapped around his cock, mouthing gently at the tip of it. He comes, clenching around John, who stammers out an “Oh, oh,” before pulling out of Paul. For a moment Paul wants to goad him into putting it back in, but then John’s hand is on the base of his cock and he remembers why they’re doing this.
Ridiculously, he thinks, I want to come in John. He imagines it, pushing firmly into him, John moaning beneath him, Paul filling him up.
“Yeah, Paul,” he hears John say, “please, in me,” and he realizes he’s said some of that out loud. But John clearly likes it, panting into Paul’s collarbone as he fists his cock. Paul can’t help but lean forward a bit to kiss the top of John’s head. He reaches down, batting John’s hand out of the way and picking up the pace on John’s cock.
“You like that?” he murmurs. “You want me to fuck you?”
“Yes, Paul, please,” John gasps. He comes, spilling on Paul’s hip, and low on his stomach.
Paul’s shirt, while still on, was rucked up a bit earlier, and thankfully avoids the worst of the mess.
John collapses on Paul a bit, breathing hard. “Yeah,” Paul says.
He can’t do much with John pinning him down like this, so he brings a hand up to John’s hair, twirling one of the longer strands around his finger.
“Mnnnnnh,” John says at that, and rolls over, then wrinkles his nose when he feels the wet spot now on both of them. He gropes around the bed dramatically, like his arm weighs a million pounds, reaching around for something to wipe off with. He finds his pants, still somehow on the bed.
Once he’s done cleaning himself off, he leans over to Paul, and wipes him down a bit too. “Thanks,” Paul says drily. John tosses it off the end of the bed.
“Y’still want more?” John asks, despite looking for all the world like he’s seconds away from nodding off. Paul is pretty sure he’s close behind.
Paul laughs a bit, and pulls John closer into him. “Think you wrung me dry.” John’s eyes fall closed. “Wrung yourself dry, too.”
“Nah,” John says, as he curls into Paul. “Could go one more round, me.”
They’re both asleep in minutes.
—
Paul blinks awake to the darkness of their room and distant snores. He feels good, really good, and nuzzles his face into John, who he seems to be wrapped around.
He feels John’s hand under his shirt, rubbing up and down his side, and sighs into his neck. Only then does he notice his own movements—slow, lazy thrusts against John’s thigh.
He picks his head up to look at John.
“Fuck,” he whispers. “’M sorry. Was asleep. Didn’t—“
John says something, too slurred and sleepy for Paul to properly hear. Paul drops his head back to the pillow and makes a questioning noise.
“Keep going,” John says, low. “Feels good?”
He starts moving more, grinding his hips in circles against John’s thigh. He knows he should keep it down, but he’s breathing heavily, and it’s hard to stay quiet. “Yeah, John,” he says, “yeah, fuck, ’s good.”
Last week, he probably wouldn’t have been able to get off on this alone, the layers of clothing not direct enough stimulation. But he’s discovering new things about his body every day, and right now, fucking John’s thigh is really doing it for him.
He’s close now, panting open-mouthed into John’s neck. John shifts a bit, gets his hand in Paul’s hair, scrapes his nails over Paul’s scalp. That does him in. He comes, clenching his legs around John’s.
John keeps petting his hair as he shakes through it. “There you go, baby,” he whispers. “That’s it.” It has him pressing his face into John’s neck and whining, loud.
He keeps grinding even after he’s come, not wanting to let go of the feeling. When he finally starts to slow down, John tilts his head to the side to pull Paul in for a kiss.
Paul kisses him back, hard. John’s lips part easily, and his head falls back, letting Paul snog him insistently. They kiss like that for a while, John letting Paul press him back into the pillow, until John finally pulls back.
“Christ, you’re insatiable,” he mutters, knocking his forehead against Paul’s. “Are y’always gonna be this randy? I dunno if I can keep up.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be the one with all the stamina?” Paul teases. “Whatever happened to nine in a row?”
John flops back against the pillow. “Well, ’m not the one jabbing himself with hormones. You’ve got a leg up on me now.”
Paul snorts, and hooks his leg back over John’s to make his point. “Do I now.”
“Yeah, yeah,” John mutters, still sounding tired. “Very funny. Y’gonna start humping my leg in your sleep all the time?”
“Next shot’s tomorrow,” says Paul, and kisses him again. Closed-mouthed this time, so it doesn’t lead to anything more. “We’ll have to see.”