Archive of Our Own ^beta

Stuart didn't think that when he dragged Paul into an empty room, pushed him against the wall and told him, "Suck my dick, slut," that he'd actually do it. He'd assumed that even though John told him he would do exactly as told that he wouldn't listen to him, that he only did that for John; obviously, John was right. 

And holy shit. 

He now had his dick in Paul's hot, wet mouth. 

It hardly seemed real, the way Paul's tongue would swirl around his head and then his lips would reach all the way down to the base, stretching this pretty red mouth around him; he even looked up at him as he did so, wide, innocent looking eyes staring up at him as he sucked his cock.

It was a hot sight, indeed. 

When he's come back to reality, come back from thinking holy fuck, this is happening, he found himself threading his hands through Paul's hair, bucking his hips into his mouth fervently. He fucked Paul's mouth until he came down his throat. 

The younger choked a little but swallowed nonetheless, wiping some of the excess semen which had dribbled down his chin on his leather jacket's sleeve. 

"Holy fucking shit, McCartney, you're a slut."

This was the last thing Stu said, before laughing and zipping himself up, leaving the room. 

-

It was after a show a week later when Stuart approached Paul again, smirking in a way that said 'you, me, empty room, right now', Paul knew instantly what he had meant. And they did go to a spare room. Paul sucked his dick again, it feeling just as good as the last time, if not even better, and he'd come down the younger's throat again, this time he swallowed all of it with skill. 

Stu had gotten hard again a few minutes later, especially with the way Paul had swallowed all of his load like it was no big deal, like he was used to it. 

Perhaps he was, really. Used to it.

Stu had seen John, quiet often, leave a room, and then Paul leave a few minutes later, cheeks red and lips looking raw and a little bruised. Occasionally, George and maybe, maybe sometimes Pete. 

Paul sucked him off again as soon as he saw the second erection Stuart was sporting, dick so goddamn inviting that he just had to put his mouth on it and feel the hot stream of come fill his mouth. He hollowed his cheeks and bobbed his head up and down on the older's cock, skillfully pressing his tongue down on the slit and then twirling it around the sides of his head. It felt bloody good, much better than the birds that had sucked him off in the past; Paul wasn't just some common whore on Hamburg streets, he was Paul.

And with that thought and the wonderful imagery, he came again. 

-

He never objected to it, never had a problem with it, he just automatically dropped to his knees. 

Just like that. 

Whether it be after an argument, he'd still comply, or after an extremely tiring show, he'd still comply. Paul McCartney was always willing to suck Stuart's cock, no matter how much they hated each other and no matter how much they fought over the attention of John.

-

Paul was crying, tears falling down his cheeks, red with anger and shame and everything in between. His lip was trembling as he tried to keep his tears at bay, yet more and more fell the more he tried to stop them, and every time he opened his mouth to say something he choked up and couldn’t speak, breath hitching. He felt so exposed and vulnerable like this, in front of Stuart Sutcliffe, who had just gotten what he’d wanted by making him cry.

He finally found his voice after a silent moment, high and stuttering, “Fuck you, you dick!” And he launched at him, landing a punch on his left cheek, having swung at him without realising; he could hardly understand his actions or stop them, so he just let it open. All his fear and insecurities and anger and lust and all those emotions came out in the punch that followed. He let out a sigh of relief as he felt these emotions leaving him, making him feel normal.

He soon could take in the stinging feeling somewhere on his own face, his right cheek, left cheek, nose. He was on the floor, now, Stu on top of him, fists coming down against his face in rage. In the haze Paul found himself in, he could barely feel it, and instead of punching him back or pushing him away, he let himself close his eyes and lay there, still. He still felt relieved.

Then the weight on him was gone, and he opened one of his eyes, staring up at the older, once again, noticing that he’d got in quite a few good punches judging by the bruises that had been left.

Stu spat out some blood onto the ground before pulling Paul up so he was standing upright, pushing him against the wall and kissing him fiercely, a thigh shoving itself between Paul’s own and rutting up against his clothed dick. The two moaned and grasped onto each other's hair to pull the other closer, biting at each other's necks desperately as soon as the kiss was over.

Paul’s back arched into Stuart’s touch as the older rubbed one of his nipples through his shirt, snickering at the reaction he got. He realised that while Paul always pleasured him with his mouth, he’d never been there to see Paul unravel and get completely lost in pleasure underneath him - he longed to see that, to make him lose complete control of himself.

“Stu- fuck- Stu,” Paul whimpered against his lips as he leaned in for another kiss, letting his eyes flutter closed when the older’s tongue pushed past his lips and into his mouth, claiming it.

Then Stuart was gone.

He widened his eyes, spluttered for a moment, then just left.

He avoided Paul for weeks, choosing to stay on the other side of the stage to him when they played shows, always dragging John away with him whenever Paul would walk into the same bar as him. He even started staying at random bird’s apartments instead of sleeping in the same room as the younger, as they’d done since arriving at Hamburg.

-

“Who the fuck is it?” Stu called out as he heard someone knocking on the door of the apartment he was staying at. Some girl had invited him to stay the night when he’d explained his circumstances. He flinched and looked to his side, making sure he’d not woken her up, otherwise that would be very rude. He checked the time. Two AM.

Groaning, he got out of bed. Three more knocks came to the door.

He pulled on some jeans and an ill-fitting shirt, venturing to the door, irritated. Another knock.

He opened it up after a moment and groaned again, seeing who he hoped it wouldn’t be: Paul McCartney.

Paul had tear streaks on his red cheeks, bottom lip wobbling as it had done that night a few weeks ago, bringing back memories to Stuart, who frowned. His body was trembling as he wasn’t wearing a jacket but he seemed like he didn’t care, hunched a little and his breathing quick, uneven, fearful.

“What do you want?” Stu asked, getting straight to the point. His eyes wandered down Paul’s body until they stopped at his crotch. He shook his head a little and looked back up.

Maybe he misses me, he thought, almost chuckling to himself, but refrained, he’s been crying. 

The younger man outstretched a hand and pulled Stuart out of the apartment and out into the cold night, closing the door and pushing him against the wall. He looked around warily before kissing Stuart on the lips, deep and long, longing for him; lustful. He dropped to his knees and Stu wondered why he hadn’t stopped him or how the hell his knees didn’t hurt every time he did that-

His trousers and underwear were pulled down and his cock was suddenly in the younger’s mouth again, like all those other times, but this time was full of much more emotion and meaning. His movements were jerky and unsure, catching him off guard at times, but Stu ultimately let himself enjoy it: it’d probably be the last time, since he had been ignoring Paul for ages. He had to be mad at him, right?

For a second, he forgot that Paul had been crying, that he’d been upset.

Once they’d done, Paul stood up, blush covering his cheeks as he averted his eyes to the dirty ground as Stuart pulled up his trousers. He muttered something Stu didn’t hear and didn’t repeat it until he felt a hand on his shoulder, startling him. Stu looked at him intensely and pulled him in for a hug, wrapping his warm body around the younger’s cold body; though they were both wearing ultimately the same thing, trousers and a shirt, Paul was much colder, having been outside for a while.

“Why did you ignore me?”

Paul’s hands fisted into his shirt, holding onto him for dear life, like Stu was his only lifeline, the only one he could depend on. Of course, he couldn’t.

He wished he could. He really did.

But Stu wasn’t queer-

“I’m not queer, Paul.”

“Sure, I- I know that.”

Paul pulled away from the hug and turned to leave but a hand grabbing onto his stopped him, pulling him back into the embrace he never really wanted to leave.

“I ignored you because, well, no, I’m not queer, but you make it so hard, Paul. So hard to think when I’m around you, y’know, you’re makin’ me queer.”

Paul had never felt more relieved in his life as he giggled softly, watching the air escape his lips in little puffs of smoke from the cold night. His hand squeezed Stu’s, “So you don’t hate me?”

“‘Course not, Paul. Quite the contrary, really.”