quiprofanfics (quiprofanfics) wrote,

A Hard Night's Sleep

Title: A Hard Night’s Sleep
Author: quietprofanity
Fandom: The Beatles
Pairings: John/Paul, mentions of past John/Stu and John/Brian.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. It does not represent true events and no libel or defamation is intended.
Warnings: RPS. Explicit m/m sex. Semi-drunk sex (not dubcon, though). Comedic violence. Language. Bullshit 1960s internalized homophobia.
Summary: Following a party, Paul grudgingly brings a drunken John back to his bedroom, but John won’t let him sleep.


It looked bad, perhaps, with John in his bed and all, but one must understand that there were extenuating circumstances.

Paul could have returned John to his room after they’d left the night’s “festivities,” which were being held in preparation for tomorrow’s concert at Comiskey Park. After a few hours at the party John was too pissed to stand up on his own, let alone find his way back to bed. But John’s room was in Ringo’s suite, and Ringo had returned an hour earlier than Paul and John with a bird and … well, there were some things you just didn’t interrupt, weren’t there?

So Paul brought John back to his own room, leaving George with Brian and the road crew. Paul hadn’t been happy about it. Having a few pints was one thing. Getting pissed out of your head was another. To do it so close to a concert struck him as irresponsible. True, John was often able to pull himself together before a show no matter what had happened the night before. Still, it bothered him.

“Our fans have paid a lot of money to see us,” Paul said as he stood in front of the closet’s mirror. He loosened his tie and slipped out of his suit jacket, his eyes locked on the reflection of John sitting on the edge of the room’s only bed. “They’re our supporters. We owe it to them to be at our best.”

“I don’t owe them shit,” John slurred. “I’m John Fucking Lennon! They should be glad to see me at all. They wouldn’t know if we were crap, anyway. They can’t hear anything over their stupid screaming.” He had both hands gripped onto his right shoe, squinted at it like he forgot how it worked before pulling it off. Then, exhausted by the effort, he let himself fall back on the bed.

Paul shook his head but said nothing. He figured this wasn’t the time to revive that old argument. “Staying there, then?” he asked.

John groaned something that Paul wasn’t sure was a word or not. As Paul unbuttoned his dress shirt, he watched John in the mirror. John had already shed his jacket and belt, and now fumbled with his pants. When he got them open and off, he threw them in a lump on the floor. He then crawled toward the top of the bed and groaned again as he shoved his face into the pillow.

Well, that was a little better, Paul thought as he removed his own trousers. He wasn’t looking forward to the night. He and John had slept in far more uncomfortable places – the back of a bus bouncing along unpaved roads in the middle of the night came to mind – and (Paul had assured himself many times) there was nothing queer about sleeping next to a man. Still, he wasn’t looking forward to lying next to one who smelled like a brewery. He thought for a moment about sleeping on the floor, or even popping over into George’s empty room, but he’d want to ask before he did the latter and well, this bed was his, wasn’t it?

So, wearing his briefs and an undershirt, he slipped under the covers and settled down to rest, hoping for a peaceful night as John breathed heavily beside him.


The first time he woke up was twenty minutes later, when John slapped him across the face.

The hit had been so hard Paul woke up instantly, crying, “Ahh!” and sitting up in bed. He was ready to give John a tongue-lashing until he looked down at him.

John hadn’t moved much from his former position. He lay on his stomach, his right hand hanging over the bed, his left – the one that had slapped Paul – now resting in Paul’s lap. He was still asleep.

Paul groaned and moved John’s left hand to over John’s head. Oh well, nothing to be done about accidents. Paul lay back down and returned to sleep.

Five minutes later John hit him again.

“What the hell?” Paul muttered. He moved John’s arm down by his side, then slipped back into unconsciousness.

The third slap was hard enough to rattle his ears.

“Jesus Christ!”

Clearly, greater measures needed to be taken. Paul stood on his knees and wrapped his arms around John, attempting to move him onto his side. It didn’t work so well at first. John’s shirt made Paul’s grip on his torso slippery. All he succeeded in doing was bunching up John’s shirt underneath his arms. Paul took hold of John’s bare chest instead and pulled him up and onto his left side, then positioned John’s arms in front of him. John still slept soundly.

“That should do it,” Paul said to himself as he closed his eyes.

When Paul woke up again, his nose aching, he found himself staring through the blurry web of John’s fingers. Paul pushed John’s hand away and looked over to find John had slipped onto his back.

Paul picked up his watch from the nightstand, squinted at in the dark: half-past three in the morning. Five hours before they had to start out and he was still so exhausted from the trip up from Houston. He was never going to get any sleep this way. Fuck this, he thought. George had to be back by now. Maybe he could lend him a side of the bed. Or perhaps things at Ringo’s had quieted down and he could take John’s room. He was just readying to push himself up when John turned onto his right side and grabbed him. Paul’s breath was forced out with an “unf!” as John pulled him close, nestled him against his chest.

John was hugging him.

“You’re full of mixed signals, aren’t you?” Paul grumbled. Part of him wanted to shove John off, but in all honesty Paul’s anger had already begun to fade. That’s how all of them were like with each other, anyway: quick to squabble yet equally quick to forgive.

Besides, he thought – and even though he was only thinking to himself he was careful to choose the words delicately – he’d always been the one with a romantic streak. That John, his best friend, wanted to embrace him and sleep so close to him … well, it touched him. It made him feel a little special, to have a friend who wanted that.

Although, he reminded himself, John was so out of it he was probably just be dreaming of Cynthia or some other random bird …

Oh well. Paul rested the side of his head against John’s forehead and let his eyes droop closed. He tried to ignore the weird, awkward excitement humming beneath the surface of his skin. He was being ridiculous. It’s not like John had never hugged him before. He fell asleep, comfortable and calm.

Then John hit him again.

Paul pushed himself out of John’s grasp as he awoke, throwing up his hands, trying not to scream in frustration. That was it. He was gone. He was going right now. He needed to fucking sleep. And … and …

Did he just hear John snort?

Paul switched on the light. John lay stomach-down on the bed, his face turned toward Paul. John had involuntarily scrunched his closed eyes tighter when the light came on, and now his lips were pressed tightly together, as if he were struggling not to smile.

Paul could feel his anger bubbling in his stomach. “John,” he growled, drawing out the “o” to three syllables.

John snorted again. This time he couldn’t hide the smile.

Paul pulled his legs out from underneath the covers. Then, using both his feet, he kicked John hard, launching him out of the bed.

John cried out in pain as he hit the floor. Then a muffled voice – not John’s, it sounded vaguely like George but he couldn’t be sure – yelled, “What on earth was that?” Paul ignored both of them. He pulled the covers over the top of his head, like a hood, and curled up his right side, against the edge of the bed.

The bed underneath Paul buckled with a loud squeak of springs as John leaped on top of it. Before he could react, John ripped the blanket off Paul. Then John tackled him.

John landed on Paul’s chest. He grabbed Paul’s wrists, aiming to pin Paul to the bed. Paul yanked them away before he could, then his hands caught John’s face, pushed back as John continued to lunge and grasp for him. After a few moments of this stalemate, Paul realized John’s mouth had twisted into a wicked grin. Then John started to laugh

“You fucking tosser,” Paul growled. “Were you even drunk?”

John was still laughing. He gripped his hands around Paul’s forearms. “You’re such a girl.” John smiled and spoke again in his high-pitched, mocking voice, “Oh! Little Paulie McCartney. Sleepy little baby. Gets a few little taps and he flails about like a whiny tit.”

Paul poked John in the eye.

When John drew back, his hands covering his face, Paul grappled for him. They struggled against each other, the springs creaking beneath them as they rolled about on the bed, broke apart and then attacked each other again. They tore at each other’s clothes. Their legs tangled and slipped on each other’s exposed skin. Finally, Paul found an opening. He’d managed to get behind John, pin him stomach-down on the bed. Paul then grabbed onto John’s arm and twisted it behind his back.

John groaned, pulled against Paul’s grip, but Paul had him firm.

“Who’s flailing about like a whiny tit, now?” Paul asked.

“Right, right, fine,” John said. “You win.”

Paul let him go. John groaned as he pushed himself onto his knees. Then he tackled Paul again, knocking him to the bed. Paul lay horizontally across it, his head nearly off the bed as John got on top of him.

“John!” Paul thrashed against him. “John, that’s not fair!”

John gripped Paul’s jaw, chuckled. “Sucker,” he said. Then he leaned forward and pushed his tongue down Paul’s throat.

At first, Paul froze underneath John, too shocked to do anything but let John do as he wished. Then the feeling of it all came upon him, like his sense of touch was a radio that had been suddenly cranked to its highest volume: the flesh of John’s thighs, John’s lips sucking against his own, John’s fingers running through his hair. He tasted like liquor. He smelled like sweat. He was all over him, in every one of his senses, and Paul’s body reacted before he could remind it to stop.

Then the door opened.

John, startled, immediately pulled himself away from Paul, sat up on his belly. Paul pulled his legs as close as he could to his body, hoping they hid his arousal from whoever was there.

George stood in the doorway – naked except for a pair of boxers, a wince on his face and an arm raised over his eyes. He looked like the light had blinded him, and Paul hoped it had. George lowered his arm, blinked, then stared at the two of them.

When George spoke it was like his mouth had only half-remembered how to make words. “What … what the hell are you two doing?”

“Fighting,” Paul answered quickly.

John scoffed, then laughed. “Something like that.”

Paul shoved John in the shoulder for the comment. John slapped him in the face back.

George just looked at them again, his eyes scanning their entangled bodies as if he wasn’t sure he believed them.

“Right,” George finally muttered after an agonizing sixty seconds. “I don’t care. You’re both too loud. Stop it. I’m trying to sleep.”

“All right,” Paul said.

George groaned as he closed the door.

John chuckled. “He’s worse than you, he is.”

“Get the fuck off me.”

John did. Paul crawled to his side of the bed, bunched up in a fetal position. That had been humiliating, and remained all the more so since his erection still hadn’t gone away. As John lay down beside him, Paul tried not to think too hard about why it hadn’t. Pavlovian response, he eventually decided. His body reacted as if he’d been kissing a girl, that’s all. You shag so many women it’s bound to happen eventually. Paul closed his eyes.

“Paul?” John asked.

“Shut up,” Paul said, scrunching further in on himself. “You’re an ass. I don’t want to hear your voice for the rest of the night.”

For a moment, the room was quiet. Then Paul felt John move beside him. John was almost spooned against his back, so close Paul could feel the heat of his body. John ran a finger along Paul’s neck, making Paul shudder. Despite his anger and discomfort with the way John was acting, Paul felt his cock twitch. John tapped a finger against the base of Paul’s skull.

“Paul,” John sang. “Paul, Paul, don’t be mad at me, Paul.”

“Stop it,” Paul said through gritted teeth.

John did not stop. “Paul, Paul. Takes me to bed and gives me no attention. He’s a swine, he is, Paul.”

Paul felt an uncomfortable excitement at the implications of that. “I seem to remember kicking you out of bed, too.”

John laughed. He removed his hand from Paul’s neck, stroked his hair. “I like your hair better like this, all messed up. You comb it too much, preening about like a great, stupid peacock. It’s disgusting.”

Paul sighed. He opened his eyes. “John, what do you want?”

John closed the space between them. Paul felt a part of John, hard and insistent, pressing against him.

Paul tried to push himself away, but John grabbed his chest, held him close. “You can’t be –!”

“Shhh! George said to be quiet,” John nuzzled against Paul’s neck. Then he started to kiss his neck, his shoulders. The hand holding Paul explored his chest, moving under his shirt, then up again. Paul felt like he should be punching John in the face, just on principle, but his touches felt like a calming, sleepy drug. He wanted to get lost in them.

“It’s not so difficult, is it?” John whispered in his ear. John’s fingers were on his stomach now, edging along the top of his underpants. “Like when we back with the Quarrymen. All of us together, tossing ourselves off and looking at pictures of birds. Or fucking women in the same room. You wouldn’t call that queer, would you?”

Paul exhaled the breath he’d been holding in. He leaned his head back against John’s body, his mind flooded with the memories John was conjuring, basking in the undercurrents of them that he normally was loath to acknowledge.

“And it’s fine for you, isn’t it?” John asked. “You’re not married. You go home to your posh girlfriend’s mother’s house, smelling like another bird’s cunt. Does she taste them on your cock, Paulie?”

That was going too far. His arousal was replaced by a hot rage. “John …”

“High life for you, isn’t it? Bet you thank God every day you’re not like me, eh? Bet you’re glad it was Dot and not Cyn who couldn’t keep her baby.”

Paul elbowed John in the stomach. As John doubled over, Paul spun around, grasped John by the shirt and slammed him against the bed.

John gaped. It was the first time during the night that stupid grin was off his face. “Jesus, Paul!”

“You shut up!” Paul said, his voice a harsh whisper. “Listen to me. I don’t know what your game is, but if this is some way to air your fucking resentments, or to get back at Cyn or – Jesus Christ I hope not, Jules – I won’t be a part of it.”

John suddenly looked sad, his eyes wide with hurt. “No,” he said. “No, it’s … it’s not about them. I … Christ, I don’t know. Paul, I just say things sometimes. You know that.”

Paul let him go. He felt very tired. John grabbed onto his left wrist.

“I just say things,” John repeated. He sat up on the bed, buried his forehead in Paul’s left shoulder.

Paul lifted his right hand, then paused. He wondered if he should touch John like a friend or a lover. Then he decided the question was stupid. He placed his right hand on John’s back, stroked it.

“Why are you doing this?” Paul wasn’t sure why he asked that. He himself had no idea why he was considering agreeing. He wasn’t queer. For the most part the idea of shagging blokes struck him as disgusting – that weirdness with his old bandmates or, hell, even the sort of infectious, exciting feeling that often flowed through him onstage, connected him to John and even George and Ringo, aside. Yet that feeling, that image of himself as some force on stage, seductive and beautiful, together with his mates in harmony as those women and girls screamed for them, seemed very close to his heart right now. It simmered under the surface of his chest as he held John in his arms.

“Do I need a reason?” John finally asked, his voice bitter and defensive. “I want to. I fuck so many women who I forget an hour later, and I barely know why except that they’re willing and I can. So do you. But we can’t mess about? It needs to be some grand romance? Why? So you can put in a song?”

“Every song I write is for you,” Paul said, the words coming out of his mouth before he thought about them. John raised his head, looked in his eyes. “Well, not … They’re not all about you. Most of them aren’t, but … but you’re the one I want to impress. You’re the one whose opinion matters the most. You know that, though.”

John nodded, very slowly. “Yeah …” His face hardened. “Jesus. You’ve got to make everything all moon and June and sunshine. Can’t just have a shag, you sissy.”

They kissed. This time Paul kissed back, tongue eagerly exploring John’s mouth, memorizing the taste of his lips. It felt good. Better than before. It wasn’t quite like kissing a woman (most women didn’t wash their mouth in hops, for one thing). It didn’t even necessarily turn him on as much as kissing Jane. Yet, kissing John, he felt like something long-suppressed was being released, like a years-long itch had finally been scratched. A feeling of relief, of satiation, washed over him.

When they stopped, Paul started to unbutton John’s shirt, fingers trembling as he did so. He wasn’t moving as fast as he liked, and John must have thought so too because eventually he just ripped it off. John then reached for Paul. His hands wormed beneath his undershirt, ran along Paul’s sides as he pulled it off. He was equally deft dispensing with Paul’s underpants, and Paul realized he’d hesitated in reaching for John’s. John removed them for him.

As John met Paul’s mouth again, pushed him to the bed, Paul realized that despite his wealth of experience he felt out of his depth. Paul moved his hands aimlessly around John’s back, not knowing what to grab for and what to do next. Meanwhile, John’s hands, John’s mouth, were sure. He moved around Paul’s body like Paul would move around a woman’s, kissing and stroking his shoulders, his chest, like he knew how to take what he wanted.

He’s done this before, Paul realized as he struggled to echo John’s movements, copied what John did back to him. In of itself, this wasn’t so surprising. He’d heard Pauline’s claims about John and Stu. (God, he hated thinking about Stu. And he hated that he hated thinking about Stu, because he’d fucked that up so terribly and it ended in the worst way possible, yet it could still drive spikes of jealousy through his heart. Paul didn’t like to be reminded of how terrible he could be). Then there was John’s trip to Barcelona with Brian and … well, nobody had said anything but they all knew, didn’t they?

Yet seeing evidence of it was different from knowing, and being in it with John was much, much different. For the past eight years, John was the one he wanted to impress. John was the one he wanted to match step for step, then surpass, only to be beaten and challenged again. He delighted in being John’s equal in all things, and now – when they came together as one like this – he wasn’t. He’d suddenly wished he’d given into that strange, fleeting urge he’d once had years ago to ask George to follow him into a Hamburg alleyway. Or that he’d been a little more forceful in his interactions with Brian. One night, one time, with another man. A blowjob. A kiss. Something. God, he knew it was fucked up, but he hated to feel so inferior.

John’s mouth was at his stomach, was moving lower. Paul was fully hard, and he could feel the tip of his cock dampen with pre-come as he thought of what John surely wanted to do next. Paul closed his eyes, anticipating the feeling of John’s mouth around his cock. And yet …

“No,” he whispered. “John, don’t.”

John stopped, looked up at him.

“Whatever you do to me I want to do to you,” Paul said.

John smirked, but said nothing. He crawled up to meet Paul in a kiss again, nestled down at his left side. As Paul kissed him back, John took Paul’s left hand, wrapped it around his cock. Paul breathed heavily – simultaneously excited and disgusted at the feel of touching another man’s cock. Then Paul bit back a gasp and John took him in hand.

They lay together like that for awhile, stroking each other. It felt good. Pleasant, even. It didn’t feel so different from having a wank. Only it was John’s cock he was touching, and he could stare at John’s face as he did it, watch John’s eyes roll back in his head, his open, panting mouth.

Paul’s lingering reservations were melting like snow. He rocked his hips forward, thrusting into John’s palm as he continued to stroke. Only he still wanted more. He reached his free hand around John’s neck, drew him close enough that their dicks were touching. John kept his hold on Paul’s cock, rubbed it against his own. Paul moaned. It felt so good, the soft skin of John’s penis a delicious contrast to his rough, callused fingers.

“You like that?” John asked. “You like my cock?”

It felt like baiting, but Paul ignored it. “Yeah … Yeah, I like it.”

John released Paul’s cock, pushed Paul onto his back. Then he got between Paul’s legs.

“What are you doing?” Paul asked.

“Oh, don’t start crying. I’m not going to breach your precious arse.”

Paul frowned. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Ah?” John leaned over Paul, planting his hands on either side of Paul’s head. “So you want it like that, then?”

Paul looked up at John, drank in the sight of his hair, damp with the beginnings of sweat, framing his face. “If that’s what you want, I want to go first,” Paul said.

“And why’s that?”

“I don’t trust you to return the favor.”

John laughed. Paul could feel a smile curling his mouth, too. Then John closed the distance between them, gave Paul another kiss. Paul locked his arms around John’s back. As John broke the kiss, he pressed his groin against Paul’s, began to rut against him with slow, rhythmic thrusts. Paul leaned his head back against the pillow, moaned as he felt John’s penis pressed and rubbing against his own. God, that felt good.

“Fair enough,” John said. “You’re always much more fun when you don’t have something stuck up your ass, anyway.”

“Cunt,” Paul said, but he was enjoying himself too much to be truly angry. He ran his hands up along John’s back, gripped onto John’s shoulders. When he had a firm hold, Paul began to thrust back.

The two of them worked like that for some time, moving together yet against each other. It was hard for Paul to keep up the pace, thrusting upward and pinned underneath John. He probably could have laid back and let John do all the work, but he preferred it this way, liked being able to be this close, to feel John’s entire body. Even though they weren’t inside each other, they felt together, equal.

It was a tentative illusion, one that cracked whenever Paul could feel his energy temporarily faltering, or when John did something slightly different. When John broke the fucking to kiss Paul, to stroke down his back and fondle his ass, Paul moved his own hands to John’s. Paul enjoyed the feeling of it, liked touching John this way, yet he was frustrated he hadn’t thought to do it on his own.

Then once, despite the pleasure he felt, the full weight of what they were doing hit him. I’m fucking John, he thought. I’m having a one-night stand with my best friend of eight years in a hotel room. George is right next door. Ringo and Brian and the rest of them aren’t far away. When I wake up, John and I will get on stage and pretend none of this ever happened.

Those thoughts didn’t feel like they belonged to him. This whole thing didn’t feel like something he could do. Yet he’d needed little urging to succumb. He wondered what people would think, wondered what this said about him or about his friendship with John that it could be reduced to this. Although, perhaps it didn’t truly matter. They wouldn’t know. And he was in the business of keeping so many secrets, of hiding his and others’ affairs. One more affair – an affair with John, an affair with one of the most important people in the world to him, just an affair – didn’t amount to much.

Something about that struck him as sad. He kissed John again, concentrated so hard on how it felt until the sadness – along with the images of Brian and Stu that came to his mind – was buried and all he could feel was John’s mouth.

John let out a long moan, and went tense against Paul’s skin. He shook off Paul’s grip, pinned his wrists on either side of him and started fucking against him rapidly. Paul wanted to protest, but when John’s breath came out in short, desperate gasps, Paul realized the end was near for him. Paul arched up against John, and John came across his stomach.

When John was spent, Paul gripped a hand around his own cock. He stroked quickly, eager to finish himself off. John lay at Paul’s side, ran his fingers down Paul’s come-stained stomach. Paul was so close, his brain scrambled with heat and the driving need to orgasm. So he didn’t even protest when John pushed two fingers, now coated with semen, into Paul’s mouth. He just sucked eagerly, swallowing the salty, bitter liquid until he could taste John’s flesh. And then he came.

Despite Paul’s earlier accusation that John wouldn’t return any favors, John put up no resistance when Paul raised his fingers to John's mouth. (The love you get is equal to the love you give, Paul thought randomly.) When Paul’s fingers were clean, John gripped onto Paul’s hand, removed the fingers from his mouth and gave them a quick kiss.

Paul wondered if, now that this was done, John would pull away from him. He wondered if they’d pass the night on the most extreme sides of the bed, already eager to forget. But John instead wrapped an arm around Paul, curled up close to him. Paul leaned into the embrace, grateful.

Paul had no illusions that this would change anything. John was married with a child. Paul had Jane. And Paul also had no wish for this to change anything. He knew how Brian lived, and he didn’t want that misery. (For a moment Paul felt extremely pathetic. They had a bit of fun. For Brian, it was all he wanted. He hoped John had been nice to him.)

Paul turned back his head to glance at his watch. Two hours. Two hours together and then they would have to pretend. Paul tried to stay awake, to remain conscious as John lay next to him. At one point he even slapped himself in the face, and then laughed when he realized what he had done. But, eventually, he just closed his eyes.

The End.
Tags: fandom: beatles, pairing: john lennon/paul mccartney, rpf, slash, teh pr0n
  • Post a new comment


    Anonymous comments are disabled in this journal

    default userpic

    Your IP address will be recorded 

← Ctrl ← Alt
Ctrl → Alt →
← Ctrl ← Alt
Ctrl → Alt →