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“I just don’t see where he gets off, calling you pretty boy,” John says. Based on the fact that he hasn’t stopped talking about Ali since they left the photo op, Paul’s beginning to suspect that John is not actually as unimpressed as he’s claiming.
None of them knew the first thing about boxing, going into the meetup—they still don’t—but everyone was saying Ali was going to lose in the match against Liston. They weren’t expecting him to make much of an impression. But then he was tall.
In fact, he was almost a full head taller than any of them. He had strong, classically masculine features, and then these big, disarming brown eyes under the firm set of his brows. The strength of him was obvious in his broad shoulders, his firm thighs—but also in the way he moved, the sureness in each step he took. They got a few pictures with Ali in his boxing get-up, and in the crowded, muggy room, his bared torso glistened faintly with sweat, on the crests of his chest, along the ridge between his abs, leading into his shorts. Immediately, with a wordless unanimity Paul would be hard pressed to explain, none of them could help but do exactly what he said.
They lay on the floor for him, chorused that he was the greatest. Paul would’ve been embarrassed by how he was acting, if there hadn’t been three other people acting the same way, if it wasn’t the only natural response for anyone to have.
But apparently it’s not so simple, for John. “Who does he think he is, anyway? Swaggering round like that. He’s no tougher than us.”
Paul smiles. “Really? How many heavyweight championships ‘ve you been in?”
“Alright, fine, but that doesn’t mean he has to be such a prick. I mean, seriously, pretty boy. The fuck is he, to talk to ye like that?”
Actually Paul doesn’t really mind much, when these big-man types call him pretty boy. Ali definitely isn’t the first. With time, Paul’s even grown to get a kick out of it. He likes the idea of these pent-up manly-men getting all worked up about him, scrambling for an insult, but then being unable to get past his looks. He should bat his eyelashes at them, one of these days, get them really pissed off.
Somehow, though, he thinks this might not be the right time to share these feelings with John.
“It’s unprofessional, really,” he’s saying from beside Paul. They’ve made it to the hotel elevator now, and Paul leans forward to press the button for their floor, a slightly-obvious ploy to conceal his smile. “He doesn’t know you. And we’re meant to be promoting each other’s work. He just wants to push us down, make himself look bigger.”
“Y’know, John, I don’t think it’s that complicated. And it doesn’t actually bother me.”
John huffs, crosses his arms. “Right. What, are you into him?”
“Aren’t you?”
“That’s not the point,” John says, and the flush on his skin could be from indignation, or it could be from embarrassment. “It’s just: pretty. I mean, the nerve of him. And it doesn’t even make sense, t’ call a man that.”
Paul admires the confidence with which John is ignoring all the times he’s called Paul pretty himself. Moaning it into his neck, or gasping it as he watched Paul’s lips wrap around his fingers.
“It doesn’t make sense?” Paul asks. John is too distressed to hear the gentle coaxing in the question, and so it doesn’t come off as condescending.
“It’s not a word for a man, is it?” John replies. “‘Cause it means, sort of—you know—soft. I dunno. It just doesn’t make sense.”
“You know I think you’re pretty, right?”
The elevator doors open, but John just stares at him for a second, frowning, before he walks out. “Shut up,” he says. Paul holds back his laugh.
They’re quiet as they walk to their room, John staring moodily down at his feet. Paul can practically feel his mind turning beside him, stormclouds swirling and snarling around themselves.
Paul gets to the room first, but he doesn’t make it very far inside before John hooks a finger into his belt loop, pulls him close. He winds his arms around Paul’s waist, tilts up his chin, angling for a kiss.
Paul smiles, hangs his arms off John’s shoulders, and kisses him slow. It makes John breathe out through his nose, and he gathers Paul up into himself, pressing their bodies together from the chest down. Paul opens his mouth for him, lets John taste him. He makes a small, contented sound in the back of his throat when John brushes the flat of their tongues together.
The sound sets something off in John, and one of his hands comes up to cup Paul’s cheek. He brings their lips together again and again, heated, now, urgent with want. He curls his fingers into Paul’s hair, pulls at his strands, and he says, “He can’t fucking talk to you like that.” He ducks down to the side of Paul’s neck. “You’re not fucking his,” he continues, biting Paul’s skin. “You’re mine,” he says, a whisper that’s almost a growl. He sucks at Paul’s earlobe, takes it between his teeth. “Aren’t you mine, Paul?”
Paul gasps, breathless at the feeling of John’s teeth on his ear. His arms wrap around John’s shoulders, clutching him that much closer, and he says, “God, yeah. ‘M yours, Johnny. I’m all yours.”
He cants his hips up, so John can feel where he’s worked up already. But he turns his head to capture John’s lips again, lingering on his kisses, slowing them down. He brushes the side of his nose along John’s, cards his fingers through his hair. Presses a soft kiss to his cheekbone, his temple. And he leans back, just to observe the quiet drama of John’s eyes opening.
The need in his expression, the parted, waiting lips. The brown, feathery lashes, fluttering gently. The swoop in Paul’s stomach when they make eye contact. “Hi,” says Paul.
John smiles. “Hi,” he says, and leans back in.
John’s hands spread out on Paul’s back, running over his shirt up to his shoulders. He breathes in like he wants to take Paul into his lungs. There’s a restrained sort of urgency in his kisses, gathering up everything Paul gives him, greedy.
“You know, I meant what I said before,” Paul says, pulling back just a hair’s breadth. He nips at John’s bottom lip, just for the joy of it. “I do think you’re pretty.”
John rolls his eyes, playful. He shakes his head a bit, already leaning back in. “Pretty’s different,” he says, and kisses Paul. “Pretty’s like you.”
Paul lets his stomach flutter at the words, revelling in it as John kisses him. But then, “I still mean it,” he says. He leaves an open-mouthed kiss on the join of John’s shoulder and neck.
“It’s OK, Paul,” says John. “Just leave it.”
Heedlessly, Paul goes on. “Like today,” he says. “Y’know, when you were shaving, and I was taking all those pictures of you.” He kisses along John’s jaw. “I love the way you look in the morning,” he says, working open John’s belt. “All yer edges sort of softened. And I like the look in your eyes when your guard is down like that.”
John huffs out a breath, and he snakes a hand into Paul’s hair to bring their lips together hard, kissing him deep and long. Paul sinks into it, shivers when he feels John’s tongue running along the back of his teeth. Stilling John with a hand at the side of his face, he sucks on his tongue, over and over until John whines, and he pulls away again.
Out of breath now, he goes on, undoing John’s fly. “Or the other day,” he says, leaning back to let John step out of his trousers. “You had your guitar out, you were writing, an’ I could see you thinking. Lost in your own head, sort of, and you had your glasses on, and…” Pulse picking up, he takes John by the waist, kisses him messy and languid. “God,” he says. “There was this pot of flowers beside you, and you were just…” He breathes against John’s mouth for a beat. Kisses him once, pensive. “Pretty,” he concludes.
His hand ghosts its way down John’s body, tracing gently along his side. “I like lookin’ at you,” he whispers, cupping John’s cock over his briefs. It makes John moan, high in his throat, and he tips his head back when Paul kisses him again, lips pliant beneath his.
Paul tugs at John’s bottom lip with his teeth, making him gasp, then he smooths his tongue over the tender flesh. “Christ,” John says. “What d’you do to make me this fuckin’ insane?”
Paul smiles, and smoothes a hand over John’s hair, kissing him again. He pinches the soft skin of John’s hip gently between two fingers. “Lie down, yeah?”
John can be a stubborn cunt when he wants to. But deep down all he really wants is someone who can meet him at his level—who pushes back, pushes harder. Pushes him down and pushes all the thoughts from his head.
He nods against Paul’s lips. He’s so easy, if you know how to work him.
They step apart enough for John to stumble over to the bed, but Paul doesn’t follow him, instead walking levelly to the armchairs by the window.
His pulse beats hard in his neck, a rush of nerves jolting through his system. But he stares out at the city, uncaps a bottle of water. Pours himself a glass.
“Paul?” comes John’s voice from behind him. When Paul turns around, he keeps his expression innocent, outwardly oblivious to what John’s asking.
It takes some effort to maintain his composure when he catches sight of John spread out on the bed for him. He lies back with his knees at the edge of the mattress, feet brushing the floor. It makes his back arch just a touch, so his chest presses up into his white T-shirt. There’s a sliver of skin showing between this and his jocks, and Paul longs to run his fingers along it, run his tongue along it. And then below, his cock makes a full, proud outline in his briefs.
And John’s expression. There’s something expectant around his eyes, a confused, or gently concerned pinch to his brows, and it makes Paul want to climb over him, shove his cock in his mouth.
But he stops himself, by some miracle. “Oh,” Paul says lightly, “here,” and he fishes the lube out of his toiletries, tossing it on the bed beside John.
He waits for John to give him a puzzled look before explaining. He sits in the armchair, one ankle resting on his other knee. “Thought you could toss off for me,” he says. “You look so good like that, so pretty with the way that shirt hangs on you. I love you in white.” He licks his lips, and watches as John’s lashes flutter. “Wanna look at you.”
“Oh,” John says under his breath, and he closes his eyes, hand flying down to stroke himself over his jocks like he can’t help it.
“That’s it, baby,” Paul says. “Look so hot with your legs spread like that. I love your thighs. ‘S hard not to wanna crawl into your lap sometimes.” He sips from his water, and says, “Lift up your shirt for me. I wanna see.”
Without raising his torso, John tugs at the hem of his T-shirt ‘til it gets caught on his armpits, arching into his own hand as he flicks his thumb over a nipple.
The sight makes Paul’s cock throb hard in his pants. “God, that’s gorgeous,” he says, and the words make John curl into himself, tugging on his nipple and moaning.
It’s taking everything Paul has not to touch his aching cock, but he makes himself wait, one hand on the chair’s armrest and the other wrapped around his glass of water. He’s watched John get off before, back when they’d play those wanking games as kids, but it was never like this. It was always furtive glances stolen half-unconsciously—a flash of John’s flushed cock in his hand, a flash of his Adam’s apple, a flash of come on his thighs. Paul was always embarrassed that he was someone who wanted to look at that. He didn’t know, then, that John was looking at him, too.
They’re a world away from that now, a different time in their lives, a different continent. It changes everything, for John to know that Paul is looking.
Paul can practically see John’s awareness of being watched fizzling like static on his skin, thrilling through him like an electric current. He keeps his eyes shut tight, but he’s already gasping with every word from Paul’s lips, moaning when his thumb sweeps over the head of his cock. Paul brings index finger into the corner of his mouth, the hunger for John flooding through him.
“Why don’t you take your jocks off?” Paul says, tone sounding lewd even to himself, and John sighs with relief.
He curls his knees up over his body, and his cock bobs between his legs when he slides his briefs over his hips. He squirts a drop of lube into his palm, hurriedly, and keens when he finally gets a hand on himself, working his cock in brisk, firm strokes. “Fuck, Christ,” John says, and he brings an arm up to his face, hiding his eyes in his forearm. He’s the most enticing thing Paul could ever imagine.
Paul’s gaze travels greedily from John’s prick, shining with lube, up to his trembling stomach, to the twin pink furls of his nipples, and the dark hair at his armpit, the delicate muscles flexing in his arms. “God, look at you,” Paul says. “You’re so fucking pretty, baby. Here, turn towards me, bring your feet up on the bed. Wanna see all of you.”
The instruction knocks a harsh breath out of John’s chest. But he obeys almost at once, leaning up on his elbows and shifting awkwardly so his knees hang off the side of the bed closest to Paul.
He lies back again, then, and he spends a second just breathing, spurring himself on, maybe. Before he pulls his heels up to sit just below his hips, knees spreading out to either side of him.
Paul’s mouth waters at the sight. John’s cock sits flushed and leaking in his big hand, foreskin dragging over the rosy head of it with each urgent tug. But, from this angle, Paul also has a view of his downy nest of pubic hair, where it curves down around his shaft, and the sweet round sac of his balls, and his cheeks where they press together on top of the sheets, plush thighs arcing out on either side. John’s face is flushed in soft pink patches, partly from embarrassment and partly from arousal. It makes Paul’s cock stir. “Fuck, look at your arse,” he says. “Looks so sweet pushed against the bed like that.”
Paul watches as John’s toes curl with the compliment. It’s a miracle, almost too good to be true, seeing John like this. Having him as this pretty little thing arranged on soft sheets for Paul’s viewing pleasure. It’s all too much for him—Paul has to take off his trousers, at least to give his prick a bit of room to breathe.
The clink of his belt makes John hesitate for a beat, before he places the sound, and his hand picks up its pace, working his cock in frantic strokes. He moans, tipping his head back, his Adam’s apple straining out of the long column of his throat.
“Jesus,” Paul says. “Y’look so sexy like that, John, you don’t even know. The sounds you make. So pretty.”
With a gasp, John suddenly lets go of his cock, and he clutches at the meat of his thigh, nails digging in—Paul can see the round indentations his fingers make on his flesh. “Fuck,” John says. “Fuck, sorry, just need a second. Want to, um. Wanna save it.”
Paul’s cock throbs. “‘Course,” he says. “You’ll have to wait for me to get my hands on you, won’t you?”
John’s chest rises and falls with his breaths. He bites his lip, and nods, wordless.
Fed up with waiting, Paul gets up from his chair, shucking his shirt as he goes, and all but pounces over John on the bed. He ends up on all fours on top of him, keeping his body lifted up above John’s, but leaning down for a few deep, heated kisses. He draws back enough to help pull John’s shirt off his shoulders, and tweaks one of John’s nipples between two fingers. “Fucking love your little tits, babe.”
John sighs, and cranes his head up for a kiss, and Paul can’t help but oblige. He takes John’s jaw in one of his hands, holds him where he wants him, fucking his tongue into his mouth as John moans.
They get lost in each other for some undeterminable period of time, kissing and tasting and biting. Then, “C’mon,” Paul says, “Move up for me, lie down properly.”
Docile as ever, John scrambles up the bed until his head rests on two of the hotel’s big, fluffy pillows. Paul peels his jocks off, then crawls up high enough on the mattress to lean a hand on the headboard. Feeling John’s eyes on him, he brings a leg over to straddle his chest, knees tucked into John’s armpits.
John pants beneath him, mouth opening eagerly, tongue peeking out enough to let Paul rub his cock bluntly against it. John moans at the first taste of him, eyes closing and hands coming up to Paul’s waist, stroking the skin there. And it’s not the best angle, but Paul can’t resist, he slips his cock properly into John’s mouth, rubbing up against his cheek, his tongue. John’s lips come around him almost at once, sucking on the tip and not much more, but it makes Paul’s head fall back, “Fuck, yeah, honey.”
Between John’s spit and his own precome, Paul’s slick enough for a smooth slide when he takes himself in his own hand. He tugs at his shaft, and leans his hips forward, enough to let John lick and suck at his balls. It’s a dizzying torrent of sensation: his own hand on his cock, and the kittenish licks of John’s hot tongue, and John’s callused fingers at his waist, reverential.
He could easily, happily come like this. But when he looks down at John’s messy hair, his sweet, closed eyes, Paul decides he still wants to get on top of him.
Panting, he says, “Fuck, that feels amazing. You’re so good. Should I let you fuck me, Johnny?”
It makes John blink his eyes open, an expression of open want on his features as he nods, tongue still working. “Uh-huh,” he says, voice muffled.
“Yeah?” asks Paul, teasing. “You gonna give it to me good?”
John nods again, urgent, and pulls back enough to say, “Please, Paul.”
Paul smiles, cards a hand through John’s hair. He’s so keyed up, it’s delicious. “Well, alright, then.”
He and John do this often enough that they’re adjusted to it—neither of them takes much preparation. Paul just squirts a bit more lube into his hand and gives John’s shaft a few strokes, slicking him up. He looks up at John’s face when he lines his cock up at his entrance, and the expression he wears is a heated, salacious version of that one look he gives Paul sometimes, like he’s the best thing John’s ever seen, like he would do anything for him. It makes Paul feel completely desperate, mad with power.
He closes his eyes as he sinks down on John’s cock, feeling him slide against his walls, slow and hot, until he’s filling Paul up completely. John gives a low, breathless moan beneath him, something like, “Oh, fuck, fuck.”
Paul takes a few seconds, then, just to breathe, just to savour the ache and stretch and the feeling of fullness. He opens his eyes, makes eye contact with John. The agonised pleasure on his face must be mirrored in Paul’s, too, because they both laugh, lightly, at how worked up they are.
Paul smoothes the hair out of John’s face with his thumb, and, as he starts moving, slips a finger into John’s mouth. His thin pink lips wrap around it, sucking him, and he hums when Paul strokes his tongue. “Fuck, yeah, that’s it,” Paul says, mind snagging on the feel of John moving inside him. “Y’feel so good, John.”
Expression twisting with pleasure, Paul bounces himself on John’s cock, the drag and slide and the perfect fit of him making his head tip back, pleasure flooding through him. There’s no way to say so without it sounding like a line, but he really does love John’s cock. He likes the sight of it, and likes touching it, likes getting it inside himself whenever he can. He spreads his own cheeks with his hands, a wanton bid to take more of it.
When his thighs get tired after a minute, Paul repositions, sitting forward with his weight leaning on his hands. He moans when the new angle makes John’s cock drag against his prostate, over and over with every downthrust of his hips. He closes his eyes, and works himself down harder, takes his cock in his hand, giving himself a few luxurious strokes. When John taps and tugs at his wrist, he lets him guide his hand around his throat, Adam’s apple nestling into the cradle of Paul’s palm.
Paul stares at it openly as he rolls his hips on John’s cock. The pink inside of John’s mouth, his light brown eyes hooded nearly shut with lust. With his free hand, he drags his thumbnail over John’s nipple, and he feels his hips snap up into Paul’s body. “God, such a gorgeous little thing, aren’t you? Should see yourself. Mouth’s hanging open, sweetheart.”
John doesn’t close it, but only moans, a hot stripe of humiliation in it. Paul's cock stirs, and he feels delightfully filthy as he works his hips faster and faster, shamelessly desperate now. He gives himself another moment just to gaze down at his hand around John’s throat, before letting go, letting John breathe in with a gasp.
He sits upright, then, stilling his hips, and without needing to be told John’s hands come to his arse, feet leveraged on the bed to fuck up into him in quick, frantic thrusts. The feel of John deep inside him, hitting his prostate with every thrust, make Paul clench around him, humming, and John moans brokenly in response. “Oh fuck, Paul. ‘M close, I’m so close.”
“Oh,” says Paul, taking his cock in his hand again. “God, that’s it, yeah. Come for me, baby, come in me, fuck.”
With three deep thrusts, John does, hips stuttering and voice rising in a series of lewd moans. Paul lets him fuck up into his body until his thrusts grow weak, body spent, cock softening inside him.
Paul takes a few deep breaths, then, shivering when he feels John’s come leak out of him. With John still trembling from his orgasm, eyes closed and beatific, Paul lifts himself up and off of him, moaning at the long drag of John's cock leaving his body. Every sensation feels absurdly magnified, overwhelming. His eyes squeeze closed as he begins stroking himself in frantic tugs, and he keens when he feels John's fingers on his skin, squeezing his arse in both hands. One of John's hands comes to his cock, and Paul lets him take over, working him in brisk, firm strokes. When Paul opens his eyes to watch, John's expression is so fucking wrecked that it makes the tension gather in his balls, and he says, “Fuck,” on a high, breathy moan. It only takes two or three more tugs after that, and then he's coming in long ropes over John’s chest and stomach, staring in his warm, pretty eyes as he finishes.
When it’s over, he curls forward onto John’s body, careless of the mess between them. He rolls onto his side, after he’s caught his breath, and tangles their legs together. He lets John pull him into a kiss.
They stay like that, kissing and breathing together for a long, happy minute. It’s John who pulls back first, with a sleepy sigh, head falling limp on his pillow. Paul strokes a hand gently along the soft skin of his thigh, watching him doze.
He doesn’t know why his mind drifts to the first months of their friendship, sometimes, in moments like this. John’s teenaged face, rounder then, and his incredible, Teddy-ish hair, his sideboards. Paul was crazy about him, climbing the walls with desire. Wanking to thoughts of his cool squint and his leather jacket. If that soft little kid knew what we do together now, Paul thinks.
He bites his lip. He doesn’t want to disturb John, but it’s like the words are climbing up his throat on their own, uncontrollable.
“Ye really are the fittest man I know,” he says softly. “More than Ali. Or anyone, really.”
John’s eyes blink open. He rolls his eyes, smiling. “You’re not getting another round out of me, you realise, not ‘til I’ve had a good kip.”
Paul laughs, snuggling in closer to John’s body. But he insists, “I mean it. I dunno how to explain it. It’s like…”
The embarrassment rises up in him, but he pushes it down. “I was so mad about you, soon as I laid eyes on you. ‘Ve been into you for so long…” He laughs. “Sort of, you’re the sexiest thing I can conceive of. Can’t imagine wanting anyone as much as I want you.” With a joking grin, he continues, “You’ve ruined me, y’know.”
John laughs, and drops a chaste kiss on his lips. “Good,” he says, playfully smug. “‘S how I want you.”
Paul lets him kiss his temple, the corner of his mouth. But he draws back after a minute, wanting another look at him. Traces his thumb over John’s eyebrow, the soft skin beneath his eye.
He’s always loved them, John’s eyes. There’s something soft about the shape of them—and vulnerable, and clever, and kind, and everything Paul loves about him. Paul’s gaze travels over his feathery brows. His smooth, still-flushed cheeks. The delicate swoop of his mouth. He doesn’t call him pretty again, sensing that John’s moved on from the issue in his head. But he could.