baby, it’s all relative

by moeexyz

Summary:

From the kink meme prompt: John hates Jim, Jim hates John. So John is a bit pleased when Paul calls him daddy in bed.

Notes:

sigmund freud/jesse pinkman "he can't keep getting away with it" meme dot jpeg.

title from thumbs by lucy dacus :)

 

Paul shows up late to their show. He makes it to the Jacaranda by the skin of his teeth, just as some fragile, spiteful thing in John is gearing up to lash out at anyone who'll listen that they don't need the bastard anyway. It's unlike Paul to be late, which makes it annoying enough, considering how much he'd whine about it if it were any of the rest of them, but then he has the gall to say it's because he was doing something for his dad. 

Paul's just gone 18. He's shot up just in time for it too, inching past John while John wasn't looking, his baby fat stretching neatly across his jawline, and his shoulders broadening into a sturdy figure. A man by all accounts, except for Jim McCartney's. 

"Aren't you a bit old to be running around doing daddy's bidding?" And it's a testament to John's general indignation with Jim McCartney that, for once, Paul isn't being referred to as a baby.

Paul doesn't look at John as he tunes up, quickly, knowing he's in the wrong but being too Paul to admit it. "Well, there’s not much I can do about it, is there?," is his lacklustre excuse.

Ignore him. He's a fucking old man, John thinks, but he doesn't say it. It's an argument they've cycled through with frequency, especially more recently, as Jim's influence over Paul's life's gotten more pointless. It always ends the same: Paul hums and haws, and then he gives in to whatever John wants. But—crucially—he won't give in if John doesn't let him hum and haw.

Instead, John says, "Well, when you're here, I'm your daddy."

He only means it as a flippant joke—to ease them into performing together in a minute—but then, Paul flushes so deliciously. Pink blooms rapidly up his neck, splashing life into his cheeks, like he's a virgin maiden in a renaissance painting, and John knows that reaction; the embarrassed flutter of Paul's lashes; the tense twitch of Paul's fingers.

"D'you like that, you dirty bugger?" John says, gleefully.

Paul studiously ignores him.

"Shall we get on with it then?" He asks the room at large, all authoritative like he's not the reason they're late. He doesn't meet John's eyes. John lets him get away with it. Paul's misguided sense of pride is only going to make it more fun when John gets to him later.

 

--

 

They don't really talk about this sort of stuff. It would involve acknowledging that they do it at all, which Paul's never been keen on, and John's not stupid enough to press. If it ain't broke, and all that shite. But there is somewhat of a system to it. The way it usually goes is: one of them pushes some boundary, and then that's just a new thing they do together, now. It's like teaching each other new chords, only the reward’s a bit better.

John follows the system: 

He has Paul's cock in his hand, and Paul naked and wanting on his mattress, so he leans up to breathe against the shell of Paul's ear, and says, "D'you like it when daddy does that for you?" 

Paul's already all riled up, but the question makes his whole body twitch; that flush from earlier creeping up again, only better this time because Paul's naked, so John can watch it spread all over him—a topographic map of Paul's vulgar desires. 

"Jesus, John," Paul says, aiming for disapproving, and missing the mark by a mile, his voice wrought with reluctant intrigue.

Paul's not that far from climax already, writhing at every pump of John's hand, gasping out shaky breaths against John's skin. He's all tuned up. All John has to do is play him.

John loosens the round grip of his fist, hovering around Paul's hard prick, but not really touching it. Paul makes a surprised gasping noise in protest. His body shakes a moment, from the sudden stop, all keyed up with nowhere to go.

"Do you want to come, Paulie?" John asks, conversationally.

"Wha—?" Paul sighs, not quite getting it yet, looking down at John's floating hand in confusion.

"Do you want daddy to finish you off?"

Paul's hips twitch, looking for some sort of friction. The tip of his cock, bumps against the palm of John's hand, but John moves it away quickly as Paul releases a choked off grunt. John gets a satisfying thrill in his stomach out of that. Paul could just do it himself if he really wanted to. But he doesn't. It's John's hand he wants finish in.

"John," Paul says, a desperate annoyance lacing his tone. He looks up at John, with a frown, his eyes dark and hungry. John pets his hair. It only makes Paul's body squirm more, the sensation pleasing, but not correct. He grips John's wrist tightly, his fingernails digging into John's skin—a silent request, or maybe a warning, betrayed by how needy it is. Get on with it, it says.

"Ask me," John tells him.

"Please," Paul hisses out instantly. It's so delightfully eager that it almost makes John laugh. He could get anything out of Paul like this. Fortunately for Paul, he only wants to make Paul feel good.

"Please, what?"

"Please," Paul says again, high and anguished.

For a second, John thinks maybe Paul's stubbornness really is that strong. He watches Paul squirm again, his hips searching out for something—anything—precome dribbling down his cock, and making him twitch more. He's practically shaking with need, biting his lip as if to keep himself from crying out. He's a filthy sight, spread out like that. John's almost willing to give in, just to feel the gratification of Paul crying out his name. But then, he's only trying to make it better for Paul.

He runs a hand over Paul's abdomen, and Paul groans loudly, his eyes scrunching closed.

"Please, daddy," He says, his voice breathy, and raw, and utterly obscene. Tops if off with a gasp of pleasure, like just saying it did something for him. There you are, John thinks. 

John grips him again, and without him having to move at all, Paul starts fucking himself with John's hand, his hips pistoning rabidly up into the tunnel of John's fist. Paul moans, his hands scrabbling at John's back, for some sort of leverage. John uses his other hand to hold Paul steady as Paul's whole body curls in on itself, from the pleasure of it.

"Yes, daddy, please, fuck, so good, daddy," Paul mumbles out, as if unable to stop now that John's made him unlock the door, the words tripping out of him between loud, and melodic moans. John can feel the moisture of Paul's breath against his naked chest. Paul grasps at John, pulling him closer, as if he can't stand to have a single point where they're not touching; the air between them steaming hot, making John sweat against Paul's sticky skin. John mouths wet kisses at Paul's neck, only making Paul moan more, the rhythm of his thrusting hips faltering from all the stimulation.

"Gonna— I'm—" Paul stutters out, breathless.

John sits up to watch him. Paul's mouth hangs open in an inviting O, panting for breath. There's sweat pooling at the divot of his neck. His body trembles in anticipation, like the rattle of planes before a bomb goes off. God, John could always make Paul feel this good, if Paul would only ever ask for what he wants.

"Go on," John murmurs. "Come for daddy."

Paul cries out, his face contorting into some filthy show of agony. He spurts like a fountain, streaks of white landing over John's fingers, and back down into Paul's pubic hair and over his shaking thighs. John's never seen him so wrought from an orgasm before. Paul lets out one final sigh, as his shoulder land unceremoniously back onto John's mattress. 

John waits, watching Paul shiver from the comedown, his expression softening from agonised pleasure to something more serene. When he opens his eyes, they're direct and hot, the look he gives when he's about to do something John knows he's really gonna like. John grins smugly at him. Paul pulls him in for a forceful kiss, his tongue pressing hot and firm into John's mouth; making some soft sound in the back of his throat when John's hands cups his jaw.

"Arsehole," Paul whispers, as he pulls back for a breath.

John laughs. "Good boy," He says. Paul's body twitches against him in response. Christ, John thinks.

 

--

 

John bumps into Mike on his way to Forthlin Road. They've another show tonight, and he and Paul are halfway through a little rocker they're hoping to test out on an audience soon, so John wants to see him before the gig.

"Alright, Johnny?" Mike greets him, camera swinging from his neck. "You heading up to see our kid?"

The fact that he's asking is odd enough on its own—it's not like John would have any other reason for banging about Allerton—but there's a twitchiness to Mike that makes John still.

"Yeah, why?"

Mike scratches at his brow—a nervous tic John recognises from Paul. "Maybe wait outside for him?" Mike says, like he's not sure if that's something he can ask of John. 

"Jim at him again?" It's not like Paul hasn't made similar requests, hundreds of time.

"Been at him since yesterday, actually," Mike says, grimacing a little—the pity for his older brother, unsettling John a bit. Must be a bad one, if even Mike's upset. "They were in the middle of a row when I left." There's an unhappy stiffness to him. John wonders if he even has plans or if he was just hoping to get away from them. He feels a bit sorry for Mike. Paul's bitchy enough as it is. John can't imagine having to deal with the both of them. 

"I shan't disturb," John says. He crosses himself dramatically, as if promising his priest, mostly to get a smile out of the lad. Mike laughs, his trepidation melting easily. He's the image of dearly departed Mary McCartney, but his laugh sounds like Paul's, and it makes John feel fond of him for a moment. He doesn't even call him cheeky when Mike asks to bum a ciggie, before continuing on his departure. 

John doesn't see anything from Paul's front room window. He sneaks around back and catches the faint sound of raised voices—kitchen then. He figures he's alright to climb up the drainpipe, and wait in Paul's room. Might be a nice surprise after having to deal with Jim's nagging. He leaves his guitar sitting by Paul's bins, and climbs up, already practised enough in doing it, that he can clamber in quietly enough, though it hardly seems to matter. Mike wasn't exaggerating. John can hear the hard anger in Jim's voice, even muffled through the bathroom door. 

He opens it a crack to check if it's safe to sneak to Paul's room, and catches Jim mid-sentence.

"—child anymore. I shouldn't be here, having to tell you—"

"I said I'd do it, didn't I?" Paul snaps. John winces. He's always pro snapping at Jim, but he can't imagine it'll help. There's a childish impatience in Paul's voice. John figures it's a point he's already made, not that Jim cares.

"You're too old to be having a fit about your responsibilities," Jim says, a sternness to him that makes John's skin crawl. He's never seen anyone talk to Paul like that and get what they want. Paul chafes at authority. John doesn't know why Jim hasn't figured that one out yet. He's only the lad's bloody father.

Paul mutters something, too quiet for John to hear, but insolent enough that it sets Jim off again.

"And watch your language! You'll have Mike copying you next, thinking it's alright to yell about the house."

"He's his own bloody person," Paul says, indignant.

John figures they've probably already cycled through every point of contention between them and back again, if they're jumping from topic to topic like that. Now they're just yelling because they're still angry.

"He's a child," Jim says.

"He's older than I was when—"

"Watch yourself!" Jim shouts, louder and sharper than John's ever heard him, and it sends a chill through John. He's only ever caught the precarious tension between them in the aftermath of their fights; the both of them too polite to bring it out in front of guests—even the likes of John. Paul's bitched about it enough for John to know that Jim can be mean, but he's never witnessed it.

He's never heard Paul's side of these arguments, either. Paul's so fucking stubborn. It hadn't occurred to John that Paul might provoke Jim just as much, but it feels obvious now. It's not like John pulls punches when Mimi's on him. But there's a self-preservation to fights like these, that Paul seems to be ignoring, and it churns in John's stomach. Paul's usually so measured, which is how John knows that the fights he's had with Paul have never hurt him half as much as fighting with Jim does. Here, Paul reacts like a caged animal.

"And what example are you setting?" Paul spits. It makes some weight settle in John's chest. He thinks of all the times Paul's stepped in before John could run his mouth off and get himself pummelled at the pub. Shut up, Paul, he thinks, but it's futile. Their odd brand of telepathy never works when it comes to his dad.

"I learned it all from you, didn't I? Old Jim Mac stumbling home in all hours 'cause you were out gambling, and I'm the one wasting my—" 

He's cut off by the sound of impact, and John's breath knocks out of him as if it happened to him. He knows what a smack sounds like. He can feel his own blood pulsing, a hot anger pressing in on him suddenly, stealing the air from his lungs. He has an impulse to go down there and batter Jim himself, but the fight doesn't even stop long enough for him to consider it properly.

"Don't speak to me like that. This is still my house. You are still under my roof," Jim says.

"Why don't you just kick me out then if you hate me so much?" Paul says, and it's so, so cold. It's as emotionless as he's ever heard Paul, but for some reason, it makes something climb up John's throat and sit there, building an aching pressure behind his eyes. A hurt he can't place. He doesn't know why. Paul doesn't sound like he cares at all. 

There's a long silence, and for one horrifying moment, John wonders if he's going to hear Paul's father admit it's really true. But then Jim sighs—a weary, tragic sound. "I don't hate you, son," Jim says, so quiet John almost doesn't catch it. 

John feels nauseous. He feels a sudden, desperation to get away. He doesn't want to hear this. He doesn't think he can stand to listen to whatever platitude Jim's about to feed Paul, and worse even, listen to Paul give in. There's a sick fury bubbling inside him, and he knows he's on the verge of some wild emotional response he can't predict. Something about seeing the McCartneys so raw with each other—so antithetical to how either of them behave in front of him.

John climbs back down the drainpipe. He takes his guitar to the corner for Forthlin, and chain-smokes his way through three cigarettes until his hands stop shaking. Midway through his fourth, he hears Paul's voice calling out to him, same as Mike: "Alright, Johnny?" 

When John looks at him, he's as normal as ever; guitar slung on his back; his big eyes curious but fond when they look at John. The inherent cheeriness of him, spilling throug in his half-formed smile, as if only the sight of John brought it out of him. John would almost believe he'd imagined it all, but Paul's right cheekbone is ever so slightly pinker than the rest of his face. Seeing it makes all of John's volatile feelings curdle in his stomach again. He feels clashing urges within him, to pull Paul into his arms, and squeeze, just to know everything's still in the right place; to shout at him—why do you put up with it?

"Why didn't you come up?" Paul asks, oblivious. 

John clears his throat from the scratchiness all the tobacco left behind. "Mike said Big Macca's on one," John says.

Paul bites at his lip and looks somewhere over John's shoulder. John's about to ask if he's alright, but Paul interrupts the impulse.

"Think it'll be a good one tonight, yeah?" And when he brings his gaze back to John, there's a fiery hunger in him. A desperation John always attributed to the music, or—in more self-absorbed moments—to himself. But there's an edge there, that he's only now recognising as quiet defiance, couched in Paul's usual optimism.

All of John's anger melts into something else entirely—a weighty warmth fluttering under his ribs. If Paul asked right now, John'd give him anything. John would whisk him away from Forthlin Road, and Liverpool, and go with him anywhere he wanted. He'd smash Jim's face in, if Paul only asked. But then, Paul's already asked him for all he needs.

"Yeah," John agrees.

Paul's face splits into an easy grin. John's heart knocks about all his internal organs for a bit. 

"To the toppermost, Johnny," Paul says, bumping John's shoulder.

 

--

 

As they're packing away their instruments after the show, Stu asks, "Who's doing pints?" 

It's a redundant question. Unless George's Mam has made him dinner, they usually all are. But then, Paul says, "Not us. John's coming back to mine." Which is certainly not something John remembers agreeing to.

John glances at Paul, to discern where this is going, but Paul's not looking. Too busy packing his guitar away. A sense of deliberate detachment to him. 

Stu throws John a dubious look, but something protective settles over John, and he says, with a casual shrug, "Got a song to finish."

Stu loses interest, turning to George to coax him out instead. 

John turns back to Paul who's looking at him this time, his eyes intense, and intent. John feels it tingle up his spine.

 

--

 

Paul's not quiet when they come in, and it gives John a ludicrous thrill.

Paul told him once—when John was having a go at him about being so weak against Jim's nagging control—that he used to tear at the curtains to get back at his dad, when he was a child. John hadn't known what to say to that. It sounded so utterly useless to him, in the grand scheme of things. What use was getting revenge if his dad wasn't even aware of it? If Jim suffered nothing in return? John's mind kept getting stuck on the pathetic mental image of little Paul, softer and more babyish than he is now, grasping for the only rebellion he could get away with without making it worse.

But seeing the reckless light in Paul's eyes as he stomps unquietly up the stairs, John thinks he might finally understand what it was Paul got out of the curtains. He hopes Jim hears them; hopes he gets a chance to give Jim what he really deserves. Or maybe get to see Paul do it. He follows along, helplessly rapt, ready to follow Paul into the jaws of death, if that's where Paul decides to lead him tonight.

As soon as the bedroom door closes, Paul is on him, shoving John back against the wood, and kissing him, his hands pulling at the hem of John's shirt, yanking it over John's head in a flash. It hits John by surprise. They've never done this sort of thing while Jim was in the house—Paul completely ignored him the one time John dared get suggestive in that direction. 

Paul pulls him from the door, and pushes him towards the bed, tugging at his own t-shirt as John lands unceremoniously on Paul's mattress. John's barely stopped bouncing, before Paul's pulling at his drainies. They hadn't even had a chance to turn the light on, with Paul's determined urgency. There's something delightfully manic about him, lit up like he's still on stage, belting out Long Tall Sally. It's thrilling, and enticing, and not how Paul normally acts at home at all, which makes John feel an odd sense of obligation. He does his best to swallow down his own adrenaline-fuelled arousal for a moment, and says, "Paul."

Paul's somehow managed to get on his knees, in between John's legs, while John was forcefully fighting his own bad judgement. He's precariously close to John's half-hard bulge, and John tries not to be too aware of it, as he asks, "You alright?"

Paul blinks up at him as though he doesn't understand the question.

"Don't you want this?" He asks. There's an infuriating innocence to him, like there's no other reason not to, except for what John does or doesn't want. John doesn't want to say the quiet part out loud, but he feels like one of them should. This is why it's better when Paul's the one playing the role of common sense between them. John doesn't have the self control for this. 

"Yeah, but your da—"

And then Paul says: "Thought when I'm with you, you're my daddy."

It knocks the air out of John, shooting an eager heat right to his prick. He doesn't know whether to laugh or kiss Paul. A seldom-heard, logical voice within him manages to break through his randiness and say, Christ, but Paul's fucked in the head.

John feels some helpless affection for Paul. Paul blinks up at him expectantly. The shadows of Paul's dark bedroom make him look as doe-eyed as a fresh Hollywood starlet. The only light is the moonlight filtering it through Paul's lace curtains, landing right on Paul's cheek. Fuck it, John thinks. This is better than beating the shit out of Jim anyway.

"Yeah," John breathes, and Paul grins. He leans in to mouth at the bulge in John's underwear. The hot, wet feeling of it is brief and limited, but it still sparks through John's nervous system. Sets his body buzzing like a live-wire.

Paul pulls back an inch, his breath over the wet spot only making it feel sharper on John’s skin.

"That good?" Paul asks, his voice a lewd whisper.

"Yeah," John says. Whatever it takes to keep Paul going.

Paul hesitates a moment, nuzzling lightly into John's bulge—a fleeting tease—then looking up at him again, through those comically coquettish lashes of his. "I'm a good boy for you, aren't I, daddy?"

John doesn't know how he's meant to survive this. Paul's coy, but he's not being playful about it. There's an earnestness in his voice that swoops low in John's abdomen, alighting something intense and possessive inside himself. Paul's not asking, for the sake of turning John on. He needs to hear it. And fuck, he is good. It's incredible what Paul can achieve with enough encouragement. Good at everything, Paul is.

John cups Paul's cheek, and Paul's lashes flutter gently from the touch. "You're fucking perfect," John whispers, and leans down to press his lips against Paul's soft mouth. Paul squeezes at his ankles. He can feel Paul taking a deep breath, overwhelmed and turned on by John's response. His kiss is both greedy and demure somehow. His tongue teasing, kittenish, against John's.

Paul's lips glisten in the faint light, when John pulls away. John runs his thumb over the moist pillow of Paul's bottom lip; dips it into the wet heat of Paul's mouth, and Paul sucks. The sensation travels in John's body, sparking through his bloodstream like a chemical reaction, filling his cock out where it sits, needy and neglected, in his underwear.

The sight of Paul, so suggestive and lewd, makes John dizzy, like there's been a sudden drop in the atmospheric pressure. The air around them, suddenly too thick to slip easily into his lungs. Settling heavy over his skin like the scorching air around a fire.

"Show me," John says, his voice coming out low and rough from the effort it takes to get it out. "Show daddy how good you can be." 

Paul smiles, like having the opportunity to please John pleases him. He hooks his fingers in the waistband of John's boxers and pulls. He doesn't hesitate, taking John into his mouth eagerly, as if he were hungry for it. Halfway down John's shaft, he pauses, turning his eye back up to John, and John realises, with a shaky skip of his heart, what it is Paul's inviting him to do. John slides his hips forward with agonising care, seeing how far he can go before it's too much for Paul; feels Paul squeeze at his legs when he hits Paul's limit. 

John buries his fingers in Paul's hair to hold him still, and then he moves. He takes it slow at first, not trusting himself to not get lost in the sensation of Paul's embracing mouth. Paul's so fucking inviting, his perfect mouth hot on John's prick, lapping it up like he'd been thirsting for it. He can feel Paul trying to open up for him. Paul's tongue presses against the hardness of him, and Paul sucks at John's tip, whenever he pulls out. Paul's thumbs, on John's calves, rub small, encouraging circles into John’s skin. 

John slowly lets himself pick up speed, fucking more forcefully into Paul's mouth. Paul's spit starts to dribble out with John's thrusts, making his lips shiny and wet. But Paul makes no protest. Paul—fucking hell—moans, the deeper John pushes into him.

Between desperately whispered obscenities, John manages to give Paul what he needs. "So fucking good, Paul. Taking it so well. Look at you. You want it so much, don't you? Want to be good for me." Paul keeps making delectable, low-pitched noises at John's encouragement—the sound vibrating right through John's cock, and into his bones. John can hardly keep track of what he's saying, mumbling out every stray thought. It's so fucking good—the obscene wet sounds of Paul's mouth, and Paul's unflinching enthusiasm, and the utter perversion of it; Paul, full of him; Paul choking his moans onto John's cock just to keep the rest of the house from hearing. John almost wants them to. He wants Jim to wonder, and he wants Jim to know. Paul's his. If Jim can't look after him, then John will.

He hears the sound of a zipper, and hears Paul palm away at himself beneath him, Paul's breathing growing more laboured. The fact that John's cock in his mouth is enough to turn Paul on, only makes the wild electricity of John's skin burn hotter and brighter. Makes him buck helplessly into Paul's waiting mouth. 

"Shit, sorry, fuck," John hisses, but Paul's remaining hand—still on John's leg—only tightens, and then Paul pushes deeper, his eyes watering from the strain, his nose almost in John's pubic hair. John sighs out a strangled, "Fuck, Paul." 

He feels himself hitting the back of Paul's throat, and it's all it takes. John yanks at him, pulling Paul off, as he spurts everywhere, white streaks mixed with Paul’s sticky spit, hanging from Paul's mouth and chin—looking utterly debauched. Paul doesn't wait around for John to catch his breath. Only wipes at his face with the open palm of his hand, and then wraps it around his pink, hard cock. Using John's cum—Jesus.

Paul lies back on the carpet, tossing himself off, furiously. "Please," he says—a broken off, keening noise, his breaths coming out in quick, desperate huffs. "Please, daddy. I need—" He breaks off with a quiet whimper, mumbling “oh, fuck” to himself.

John stretches out on the floor, next to Paul, knocking Paul's hand away and taking over. Paul lets out a half-relieved oh when he feels John's grip on him. His hips cant up to meet John's pumping fist. Fucking into John's hand again. Without Paul holding himself back, it's even more delicious than last time. Paul needy for him, and finally welcoming John to see it.

"Tell me what you need," John says.

"I need to— I need to finish," Paul chokes out.

John pets his free hand over Paul's hair, kissing Paul's naked shoulder. "Ask me."

Paul whines in pleasure, as if the thought alone makes him feel good. "Please finish me, daddy."

John curls up over him, and wraps his mouth around the tip of Paul's dick.

Paul moans, unable to mute it down. He writhes up and down into John's mouth, babbling helplessly. "Oh, fuck yes, daddy, please." And then Paul's pulling John's hair, and spilling hot and salty into John's mouth. 

John swallows it down as he pulls off. Paul's hand slips out of his hair and down his back, like Paul's lost the strength to hold on, but doesn't quite want to stop touching him. John lies down next to him as Paul comes down from his orgasm. He presses himself so they're shoulder to shoulder, and listens to Paul's breath even out.

After a while, Paul asks, voice muted, "D'you reckon anyone heard that?"

John was truly too out of it to be aware of anything outside of Paul's tiny bedroom. "Did you want anyone to?" He asks Paul, turning his head to look at him. Paul frowns at his ceiling, suffering a seldom-seen moment of introspection, apparently. Can't have that, John thinks. He bites Paul's shoulder.

"Oi," Paul hisses, flinching away.

John gives him a cheeky grin, and it makes Paul smile, his flushed cheeks shiny under the faint light. The red on Paul's cheekbone from earlier is lost to it now. John cups a hand over Paul’s cheek, rubbing his thumb lightly over where it was.

John wants to say Jim's a cunt, but Paul will only say something useless like he's still my dad though, isn't he? And John doesn't want to undo the power of tonight's strange rebellion. He's happy to simply play the role of curtains if that's what Paul needs him to do. 

Paul squirms away from John's touch, hiding his face in John's neck and biting him back, lightly. John buries his fingers in the hair at the back of Paul's head, and Paul returns the tenderness by kissing the spot he just bit.

"Let's get you to bed, then," John murmurs.

 

--

 

In the morning, Paul offers to make him breakfast with a casualness in his voice that only speaks to how much he wants John to stay, so John does. John's never been given so much leeway in the McCartney house. Usually if he stays the night, Paul's rushing him out before his dad's up, or they're sneaking about while his dad's at work. 

Without the usual urgency, he gets to bask, a little, in Paul's domesticity. Paul puts him on tea duty in the kitchen. When John purposely bumps into him, reaching across his chest for the teabags, Paul giggles childishly, then mimes hitting him with the frying pan, until John shifts back again. John likes the ease of it, Paul all settled at his stove. He watches Paul scramble some eggs. 

"What?" Paul asks without looking up from his cooking, but there's an amused smile on his face, his cheek dimpling a bit.

John doesn't know what. He's glad he's here. He's glad Paul wants him here.

"Can I've a bit of that?" He says, just to get in Paul's space again, reaching for the pan. Paul swats him away, easily.

"Shove over, or I'll give yours to Mike," he says, laughter woven through his voice, betraying his sternness.

John turns around, intending to go sit at the kitchen table and wait, but he catches the tall frame of Jim McCartney watching them from the doorway, paper in hand, and it stops him short.

"Morning, Jim," John announces brightly. Next to him, Paul doesn't react. Cool as a fucking glacier, is Paul.

"John," Jim says flatly. He takes the seat furthest from the two of them at the table.

"Eggs, Da?" Paul calls out.

"Alright," Jim says as he opens the paper. John pushes away from Paul and sits opposite him. Jim throws him a wary glance over the politics section. John smiles, saccharine sweet. There's a twitch to Jim's brow, same as Paul does when he's unimpressed. Jim's eyes drift to Paul's back. 

"Bit early for John to be 'round, no?" He asks Paul. What he means is John shouldn't be around at all, but that's something he and Paul pretend isn't a rule whenever John's actually here—Jim, unwilling to admit he has no control over Paul, and Paul ashamed at getting caught doing something he shouldn't. If they don't acknowledge it, then neither has to confront it. Like obstinate father, like delusional son.

Without turning, Paul says, "Well, John stayed over." John feels a sense of triumph blooming in his chest. 

It's almost amusing, the war of attrition they fall into when it's not just the McCartneys in the house. If it keeps Jim from belting Paul, John will stay forever. Let Jim shove him out with his own bloody hands, if he even can, the old fuck.

"Very hospitable, Paul is," John says with a smug smile. Jim's glance bounces back to John, his eyes betraying nothing of his thoughts.

Go on, John thinks. Say something. Let me kill you, you stupid bastard.

Jim folds the paper down, revealing his usual downturned lip. "Writing, were you?" He asks, like he's making polite chit chat.

Your son had my prick in his mouth and called me daddy, John thinks; hopes Jim hears it on some level—some prickle on the back of his neck. Out loud, John says, "a bit, yeah. Making each other sing, and that."

Paul plops a plate loudly down in front of Jim. Jim's attention slips away from John just like that, as if he's not worth the dirt on the heel of Jim's boot. "Paul, did you—" 

"Yes. I did it before the show," Paul says, turning back to grab the plates he made for him and John. There's an edge to his voice—not quite as vicious as it had been when John listened in on their fight, but certainly in the range of it. Same key and all that.

Paul slides John's plate in front of him, and John says, "He's a good boy, our Paul. Always does as he's told." 

McCartneys Junior and Senior give him identical disapproving looks. Paul's knowing, and Jim's suspicious—as if searching for the joke he knows must be hidden amongst John's words. John doesn't give a fuck about Jim though. He sticks his tongue in his gum and makes a face at Paul. Paul huffs a laugh despite himself, sliding into the seat perpendicular to John and Jim's face-off. When John looks back at Jim, he's watching Paul. There's a thoughtful expression on his face, though, like Paul, Jim's managed to shutter away any hint of what the actual thought may be. It's strange how alike they can be, considering Jim's such a fucking drag.

John looks at Paul too, trying, for a moment, to imagine him from his father's eyes. He can't quite manage it. Can only see Paul the way he always does. Paul's hair is soft, and bed-worn—stray tufts falling haphazardly over his forehead. He's a morning person, Paul. There's a cheeriness to him at this hour that would be annoying if it weren't so infectious. John wants to ruffle his hair, and kiss his plump little mouth, and burrow himself under Paul's skin. In lieu of all that, John stretches his leg out under the table, until his ankle's touching Paul's. Without missing a beat, Paul hooks his feet under John's, trapping him there, smiling softly down at his eggs.

I win, John thinks, and hopes Jim hears it.

 

 

Notes:

ngl, this one's teetering on the threshold of what i am willing to post with my (online) name on it. i don't even like daddy kink, i just like the idea of paul liking it. 😩

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Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of baby, it's all relative 'verse