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[personal profile] obstinatrix
Title: Backwards Traveller
Rating: NC-17! Um, soft NC-17, but yes.
Pairing: John/Paul
Authors: [livejournal.com profile] tini_91 and [livejournal.com profile] obstinatrix
Summary/Notes: New York in the late 70s feels like a world away from Europe almost two decades earlier, but when John settles down to write some more of his short 'fiction', he finds that, frankly, he misses Paris. This is 1961, in retrospective. We were also quite inspired by this clip, where John talks about being inspired by the romance of Paris.



Waking up the next morning was far more pleasant than it had been for the past few days. They came to consciousness slowly, Paul's head tucked underneath John's chin, his nose pressed against John's collarbone, their legs were entangled and their arms wrapped around one another. The air in their room was slightly chilly thanks to the poor heating system, but the upside of the chill was how much better it made it to wake up in the arms of someone else, warm and cosy.

"Mornin', Macca," John whispered when he felt Paul stirring in his arms. Paul made a small noise when he, too, woke up and he pressed his face further into John's chest, deliberately ignoring the fact that it was time to wake up. "Come on now, you don't want to waste the entire day in bed, do you?" John prodded, tickling Paul's side lightly. Paul's body began to shake and squirm like jelly.

"Okay, okay, stop it," he sighed and lifted up his face to look at John, all sleepy smiles and pillow creases on his cheek.

John stopped tickling, but the smile on his face didn't go anywhere. He felt as if he'd been taken over by the warm, pleased feeling that coursed through him like sunshine in his blood at the sight of Paul tucked up against him, his dark hair wild and tousled from sleep. John couldn't resist reaching out to touch it, smoothing it back into place, and that only made Paul smile a little more, closing his eyes and arching into the touch like a cat.

"If this is supposed to make me want to get up," Paul murmured, without opening his eyes, "it's not working." He pushed his head against John's palm and John laughed, stroking down to the base of Paul's skull where the hair was soft and thick.

"I suppose," John said, pretending to think hard about it, "we could always stay here for a little bit. Just until it warms up a bit."

"That might be a good idea." Paul opened his eyes, laid his head back down on the pillow. They were very close, now, noses touching. Paul's eyes were green-brown-hazel-blue, some fascinating confusion of colours, and his lashes were far longer than any lad had a right to. John couldn't help but lean in to kiss him.

Obviously, this was what Paul had been waiting for, to judge by the way he parted his lips immediately to receive John, hand creeping up into John's hair. Spurred on by Paul's eagerness, John let his tongue trace the seam of Paul's lips, slipping inside, and Paul whimpered, fingers clenching against the back of John's neck.

In the new light of morning, it got deep quickly, Paul's jaw going wide against John's as their tongues met, then slipped away from each other to trace the insides of mouths, the shapes of teeth. John's arms tightened reflexively around Paul and it seemed that the heat of the night before had not gone away entirely, but only quieted for a while. Now, as Paul sucked on his tongue, John could feel himself aching again, hips trembling with the need to move. He wanted -- God, he wanted to push forward, rut against Paul; wanted to drag Paul against him and grind their dicks together until they came. The image of it came to John so strongly that its clarity shocked him, even while it made his breath catch against Paul's mouth. He didn't want to frighten Paul, didn't want to push too far. Didn't know what was allowed, but this...this wasn't enough.

He broke away, panting. "Fuck."

Paul's breathy laugh came as a relief. "Yeah." His mouth was red from kissing, eyes hot and dark.

"You realise," John said, "I haven't got off since we fucking got here, so you want to be careful snogging me like that, Macca. Just to warn you."

Paul hesitated, breath catching. John didn't miss the brief flicker of his eyes downward, the way his breath seemed to come faster afterwards. "You all worked up, love?"

"Don't fuckin' pretend you're not." This wasn't entirely foreign territory to them. They'd had similar conversations. It was just that they had never been prompted, in the past, by the heat of each other's mouths. "You want to, um." John swallowed. "Let's have a toss off, or we'll not be able to go anywhere without getting arrested."

Paul bit his lip. John's heart was pounding in his throat, but Paul was breathing hard too, cheeks flushing, so it was all right. Then his hand slipped down under the blankets, and John could hardly bite back a groan.

"Better shove the blankets off, then," Paul said, low, "or we might get stuff on 'em."

"Trousers too," John said, feeling suddenly brave, and Paul nodded jerkily.

"Trousers too."

They kicked the blankets onto the floor, fumbled out of their trousers, and then Paul's thumbs slipped into the waistband of his undershorts and John forgot how to breathe. He could see the ridge of Paul's dick straining at the cotton, and though he'd seen it before, he'd never really looked like this; never watched as Paul peeled his underwear down to free his cock. John caught his breath, forced his eyes away and wriggled out of his own underwear, suddenly hot all over. Sweat prickled between his shoulder blades.

"Fuck," he muttered, "I really, really need a fucking wank."

Laughing breathlessly, Paul nudged his nose against John's. "I can tell," he said, panting softly.

From the corner of his eye, John could see the motion of Paul's hand, a flick of his wrist, and with a groan he began to work on himself, hips stuttering forward. He cursed underneath his breath when he noticed that he was watching Paul and hoped in earnest that his friend hadn't noticed. When Paul whimpered slightly in his throat, though, John couldn't help but glance over, taking in the sight of Paul with his lower lip caught between his teeth, eyes upon John's hand as it slowly stroked his dick.

"John, please," Paul urged, voice cracking as he inched closer to John, "Please..."

John looked back at him, and for the first time, he was taken aback by the look on his friend's face, how he stared at him with those bedroom eyes that usually only girls got to see, his parted lips, flushed cheeks. How could he refuse? With his free hand, John took Paul's chin and guided him in for a kiss which was immediately of that urgent, desperate kind that had both boys wanting to crawl into each other’s skin in order to get closer. Their hands began stroking faster, hips moved of their own accord and with the increase in friction, their hands began to graze more and more frequently against each other, sparking in John's dick with every brush of skin.

They weren't going to last long, that much was obvious. John couldn't remember the last time he'd gone this long without at least tossing himself off, which would have made him frustrated enough, but doing it like this -- after all their looks and touches, the hot, confusing kisses -- John felt himself abruptly on the edge, breathless with it. The kiss got sloppier with every motion of their hands, mouths sliding slack and frantic against each other, tongues rubbing, until they were barely kissing any more at all. Paul bit at John's mouth, knuckles bumping against John's wrist, and John moaned, shoved his tongue against Paul's until they were licking at each other. It was messy and wet and with a girl, John might have been embarrassed by his eagerness, but Paul wasn't a girl. Paul was just Paul, smelling of clean laundry and leather and boy-sweat and John felt almost drunk with it.

He didn't know what made him open his eyes. It was as if somehow, suddenly, he just had to see. Paul's hand was jostling against his now with every stroke, the bed shifting as they rocked their hips, and when John looked down, he couldn't hold back a curse, heat ripping through him.

"Fuck, Paul," he panted into Paul's open mouth. "Jesus Christ."

They were so fucking close. John bit his lip, chest aching and thighs trembling with need, just watching the way Paul's hand sped up and down the sticky shaft of his dick, the head of it shiny with precome. Paul's knuckles were skimming John's with every stroke, now, and the crowns of their dicks leaned almost together, close enough that John couldn't resist bucking his hips slightly, just to see. Just to feel.

When they brushed, it was like an electric shock. Paul's cock was hot and fine-skinned and strange where it nudged against John's, and John was suddenly seized by the desire to see how it might feel to rub them together, wank them together in one hand, but it was too late for that now. Paul was moaning, body shivering, hand moving faster and faster. John had heard him sound like that often enough before, but now it was for him; now, when Paul shuddered, legs snapping straight, it hit John like a freight train: Paul was about to come all over him, all over his hand and his stomach and his fucking dick, and he was going to do it because of John.

When Paul's orgasm hit him, it was better, so much better than John could have imagined. The way Paul melted against his mouth, the strokes of his tongue getting slower but firmer as if he was trying to hold on to something. And when John felt Paul's hot, sticky release covering his fingers and tip of his own cock, he couldn't hold it back much longer anyway, even if he had wanted to. Paul sucked the groan from John's lips when he began to come in long pulses. He felt dizzy, barely registering how Paul hooked a leg around his waist, had shifted closer. As John struggled for breath, Paul kissed him; continued to kiss him until he had calmed down, their lips touching softly, innocently yet again. Without hesitation, John wrapped his arms around Paul and shoved a leg between Paul's thighs, squeezed him in his arms.

"I don't want to move," he murmured against Paul's mouth, feeling the perfect lips curve up into a smile.

"Me neither," Paul sighed and broke the kiss to look at John. "But we have to, eventually. Scrub up and get something to eat, yeah?" When John didn't look convinced at all, Paul added, brushing his nose against John's, "Maybe Jürgen is free, too, and he could show us around a bit more. I don't feel like I've seen everything yet."

"I bet you haven't," John retorted with a lecherous smirk which had Paul blushing.

"Shut up," he said, slipping out of the bed. The t-shirt he'd slept in pooled around his waist, soft against his thighs, but there was still something rather obscene about him like that, his long legs bare and the curve of his arse just visible below the hem of the shirt when he stood. John swallowed.

"Fine," he said, getting up too. After a second's hesitation, he grabbed the hem of his shirt and hauled it off over his head before he had time to get worried about it. They couldn't get washed with their bloody clothes on, even if it felt suddenly embarrassing (and thrilling, and dangerous) to be naked around each other. Tossing the shirt aside, he moved towards the little bathroom that adjoined their sleeping quarters. "Come on, then, slowcoach."

Somewhere between the bed and the bathroom, Paul got rid of his shirt too, and John felt himself blushing as he caught sight of the other boy out of the corner of his eye, the long curves and angles of him. In his peripheral vision, John could just see the shape of Paul's dick soft between his thighs and the drying smears of come across his abdomen, and the realisation that this was what he was looking at made him red to the tips of his ears. Earlier, they'd been unashamedly panting into each other's mouths as they stroked themselves off, and now just being next to Paul, naked, was too much. It didn't make any sense, but John forced himself to keep his eyes front as he reached for the soap, made a lather on his sponge and started scrubbing himself.

"Are we not --" Paul's voice was shy. "Are we not going to get in the bath, then?"

The image rolled into John's mind unbidden: the two of them, limbs entangled under the water, kissing and kissing and kissing. With a shiver, he pushed it away, feeling his satiated cock give a valiant little twitch at the thought.

"Nah," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. "Want to be quick, don't we, or it'll be past lunchtime by the time we get outside." He threw Paul a grin as he scrubbed the sponge over his belly and down between his legs, keeping his movements as brusque and businesslike as possible. "Won't it?"

"Eh?" Paul blinked, and it occurred to John suddenly, with a fresh rush of shame and warmth, that Paul had been staring fixedly at John's body as if it was something interesting, lost in it. Now he was as pink as John was, his movements nervous as he reached past John for his own sponge. When he stretched, every muscle in his body stretched too in a way that John had never paused to notice before. The curve of his arse was too inviting to ignore, embarrassment or not.

"Oy, I know I'm distracting, but..." Grabbing a towel from the rail, he snapped it briefly at Paul's backside and laughed at Paul's yelp. But the boyish gesture seemed to dispel the tension at least a little, as Paul darted a hand out immediately to deliver a stinging slap to John's hip.

"I'll show you distracting, Lennon," he said menacingly.

"If that was supposed to be a threat..." John said pointedly, feeling daring as he raised his eyebrows at Paul and grinned.

"Fuck you," Paul muttered, turning his attentions to his own sticky stomach and thighs, the sponge now fully lathered up.

John bit back the (probably unwise) response that was on the tip of his tongue and said, instead, "Come on, finish up. I want to see things while the sun's out."

The place on his hip -- his thigh, really -- where Paul had smacked him felt raised and hot, tingling. John did his best to ignore it as he moved back out into the main room and began tugging on his clothes. Everything about Paul felt suddenly, hotly arousing, even things that had no right to be. He was going mad. And it felt brilliant.

***
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