Band On the Run Ch. 5: Whisky in the Jar
I'm FINALLY back! And I keep having to cut the chapters into smaller peices so I can post sometime this month! Epic fail, me. sorry for the delay but I'm MOVING! So be forwarned--I don't know if computers even WORK in Newburgh, Indiana >:( ANYWHORE, this is a flashback chapter! It's right after the end of chapter one! AND THERE'S SEXY TIMES!
Previous chapters: Ch1 Ch2 Ch3 Ch4
Title: "Band on the Run Ch. 5"
Author: Darth Viye
Pairings: John/George + implied John/ Paul & John/Brian
Rating: NC-17
Timeframe: AU
Summary: The Beatles are among the most feared gangs in the nation, but there are some crimes that they did not commit...
Warnings: Language, graphic M/M sex, implied violence, blood, shameless song plugging
as is custom, here's the general gist of what Brian's house looks like cause I do a shit job of describing it :( Not actually his house, by the way.
Anyhow, you know the drill, read, comment, blah blah GO READ IT NOW >:(
~Two years ago~
The horse’s pace was steady, her steps not quite slow, but calm nonetheless. Like John, she knew that the hard part was over. It wasn’t yet time to let one’s guard down, but there was no need for stress. The last town’s limits were nearly three hours past, and the next’s another half hour ahead. John’s thoughts wandered wherever they pleased in the hot summer sun, sidling easily through his mind like the little whiffs of smoky-brown dust that Paul’s horse kicked up as he rode at the head of the party.
Paul, thought John. God damn you, Paul. Except, how could any god have damned a man like Paul? The way the buttery sun glinted off his neat, soft black hair and polished his smooth, pristine skin so that it looked like tan-white marble; this could not have been bestowed on a damned man.
So, John amended, God fucking damn me.
“John,” said Paul’s voice. It sliced cleanly through his reverie and tugged him back to Planet -Fucking-Earth with a painful thump. John flushed very slightly and gave the leather reins a flick, catching up to ride beside Paul. Paul didn’t look at him, but resumed speaking to Brian, whose dappled-grey steed was by far the most docile of the lot.
“…and I made sure they didn’t get too good of pictures, just like you asked,” Brian was saying. “They’ll have to rely on witnesses for identification, but I’m sure you boys took care of that on your own.” John ducked as he rode under one of the sparse, dead trees whose branches waved stiffly in a faint wind. Paul smirked ever so slightly, his pretty mouth twisting minutely.
“Oh yeah,” he replied coolly, “the survivors should be too traumatized to have a good memory of us.”
George piped up from behind John. “And even ones with like, photographic memories should develop a good enough fear,” he said, “Maybe even a bit of a Boogey-man complex.” John could hear the little grin in George’s voice and reminded himself never to get on his bad side (Johnny, the boy can and will FUCK. YOU. UP). Paul was chuckling softly.
“Who knows, Georgie; maybe if you’re a good boy, you can go back and play,” he quipped. Paul finally looked at John, making his heart not so much leap as twitch in upon itself like an embarrassed bird (“No Paulie, don’t look, I’m not dressed!”)
“Not a bad haul, eh?” John grinned, thinking of Mister and Missus Stanley-The-Politician.
“How much did you get off the register, d’you think,” he asked. Paul’s slender fingers had wandered down to toy absent-mindedly with the bag tied to his elegantly crafted saddle. There was quite a bit of blood on them.
“Oh, I’m not sure,” Paul replied lazily, “Maybe five hundred, a thousand if we’re lucky.” He snorted through his perfect, aquiline nose. “Fuckin’ shit town. How much’d you get?” John shrugged.
“Dunno. A lotta cheap shit but it looks real enough to sell. But George got ten grand at least off the crowd.” Paul nodded, grinned.
“More than Mick fuckin’ Jagger’s lot last week in Denton.” A short pause in which John looked around at the unchanging scenery of yellow-white sand and a hard-packed dusty road, baking beneath achingly blue sky. Then Paul spoke again.
“That was a good gig, though. Not a chord out of place.” John’s heart leapt. “And,” continued Paul, to George this time, “I liked that thing you did…With the fuse? The bomb planted right on the sides of the limits? I liked that.”
“Ta,” replied George. He seemed almost bored. How the Hell could anyone be bored when Paul praised them? John wondered momentarily if Harrison really was a vampire, some kind of inhuman creature. But then he remembered the blinding fucking sunlight surrounding them. Dumbass, he thought.
Brian cleared his throat. Paul looked at him with arched brows, steering his shaggy mount a little to the left around a large boulder.
“You cut it pretty fine there at the end, Paul,” said Brian, “I didn’t think you’d make it.” Paul snorted, his brows creasing for a moment.
“Of course I made it, Eppy,” he scoffed, “How do you think we got this far? Luck?” Paul rolled his beautiful hazel eyes. “It’s skill, Eppy, that makes us great. Skill separates us from the dead guys, and the guys in jail, and all that other shit they get into.” Brian nodded, smiling slightly. His warm brown eyes twinkled ever so slightly as they fell upon John. He pretended not to notice, not wanting to face that kind of emotion just now.
“I know,” said Brian, “That’s why I’m still here and not with…‘them’.” He sighed.
“You’ll be staying at my home in town,” he said, attempting to brush dust off his shirt, an action more out of habit than anything else. “I feel it’s the best place for you right now, given your…state of dress at present.” John saw his eyes wandering over the blood streaked over John’s and George’s clothing; the back of Paul’s shirt was totally saturated in it. Paul seemed wary of the prospect of settling down, even just for a night or two.
“I take it there’s a back door?” John’s heart wrenched unpleasantly as he saw the hazel of Paul’s eyes harden and chill beneath the long lashes. His horse stumbled and he started. Paul didn’t notice.
“I don’t think it’s too wise to ride through town in broad daylight given our ‘state of dress’, as you put it,” Paul stated, his voice chilly. Brian nodded quickly. “Oh yes, of course. To do so would be madness, I’m sure.” He diverted, dodging Paul’s cold mistrust. “I’ve set up separate rooms for you all.” He laughed slightly, nervously, “I’m sure you prefer not to all be crammed into a single guestroom for a few days.” Brain’s eyes flicked back to John for a second. He looked into them for a moment and quickly looked away, but knowing that Paul had seen. Paul’s eyes narrowed for a fraction of a second, his boyish face deadly.
“How very queer of you. I would’ve thought you’d have taken the opportunity, Eppy-I’m sure you’d have loved to be ‘crammed in’ with Johnny.” The barb was like a sharp slap to Brian, and it showed on his face. His composure slipped as he flushed vividly, looking down and away. John cringed mentally as he saw Brian’s knuckles go white on the reins. Dammit, Eppy, don’t be so sensitive. He doesn’t mean it, you know. He didn’t say it aloud. He knew it was a lie.
Silence fell awkwardly, like a child slipping on ice. Someone coughed, and John watched-or rather, tried not to watch-Paul. Or Paul’s ass. Mostly Paul’s ass. And what a fine one it is, too.
Paul pulled up to the head of the pack once more, and Ringo took his place beside Brian. His large blue eyes were kind, warm despite the sadness deep down inside them. He leaned in to murmur reassuringly to Brian. John didn’t quite hear, but Brian perked up a little. Goddammit Ringo, if you promised him sexual favors from me, I will shove that rifle so far up your ass…
Ringo began humming, then whistling. After a minute, he seemed to think “fuck it”, and began to sing. John perked as he recognized the tune.
“As I was goin’ over the far-famed Kerry mountains,
I met with Captain Ferrel and his money he was countin’ ”
George joined in. “ I first produced me pistol
An’ I then produced me rapier,
Said ‘stand and deliver’ for he were a bold deceiver”
John grinned and joined the chorus enthusiastically. “Mush-a ring dumma do dumma da
Wak fal me daddy-o
Wak fal me daddy-o, there’s whisky in the jar… “
John laughed aloud at the fitting nature of the old song. “I counted out his money, and it made a pretty penny/ I put it in me pocket an’ I took it home to Jenny…”
…………………………………………………………………………………………………..
Brian’s town, Calista, was structured, if somewhat small. The streets were well-kept and the architecture functional but stylish. John could see, even from the deserted side streets they rode down, the elegance of the tall buildings that were probably offices. He felt oddly dwarfed by them.
Paul seemed to be more on edge than usual, a feeling that seemed to grow the deeper into town they went. He sat stiff on his horse, and even from behind John could see the tiny, jerky, side-to-side movements of his head as his eyes constantly roved over their surroundings. The neatly-clipped-and bloody-nails of his left hand drummed ever so slightly on the metal jacket of his Uzzi.
Brian lead the party down winding backstreets, through dim alleys and even a tunnel, drawing them away from the beaten path and into silence. The only sounds besides the muffled bustle of population far in the background were the echoes of their horses’ hooves and the occasional tinny radio broadcast or television program from inside a home bordering the alleys. John’s skin crawled at the strained noiselessness. After what seemed an hour, Brian veered suddenly to the right, and John, following, yelped as bright, bright sunlight poked him ferociously in the eyes.
When he could see again, he was looking at the rear entrance of a large, almost Edwardian house. Just inside the black, wrought-iron gate was an extensive garden. The jasmine plant seemed to be Hell-bent on conquering the entire house, as its deep green snarl of vines and white blossoms was well on the way to claiming the entirety of the back wall and fence.
“Welcome to the Epstein residence,” Brian stated. John grinned, and Ringo let out an exaggerated sigh of relief.
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
Brian’s house, on entry, turned out to be exactly as grand as it had first appeared. The décor was high-class and elegant, but mercifully conservative. Just like Brian. As soon as John’s, Paul’s, George’s, and Ringo’s respective bags had been dropped where Brian indicated, they had sauntered upstairs to change out of their dusty clothes. Not that there was anything wrong with dirt, John had pointed out, but this shit was fucking abrasive after it absorbed moisture.
The room Eppy had pointed out as John’s was dimly-lit by light filtering in from behind a long, sheer blue curtain. The furnishings were sparse, as John liked, and handsomely carved of dark wood. John at once noticed the set of clothing that Brian had laid out. He grinned to himself, imagining the tall man picking out the garments and wondering aloud which would make his arse look the best. John chortled as an imaginary Paul burst in on Imaginary-Brian and proceeded to kick the shit out of him in a jealous rage. John coughed, having inhaled road-dust. He coughed again, pulling off his shirt and looking for the shower. He found it through a pretty wood door next to the dresser.
The bathroom’s light blue tiles were cool on his bare feet, a pleasant sensation in mid-summer. John sighed as he stripped off his dusty, bloody clothing; the garments emitted little puffs of the damned powder as they hit the floor. He turned the water on, adjusting the spray to a cool kind of half-warmth. And god, it felt good as he stepped in, feeling the infernal heat soak away and drain away with the brown-tinged water around his feet. He sighed contentedly, dropping his head to let the water soak into his hair. The bathroom door opened. John grinned slyly, listening to the rustle of garments being tossed aside. A hand opened the shower door behind him, and a body stepped into the cool rain with a sigh akin to John’s. Hands slid up John’s thighs, making him hard already, and he looked down, inspecting them to speculate on their owner. They were long and elegant, but more tanned than Paul. One hand disappeared, and the other slid smoothly from his arse to the back of his neck, pushing him forward with his hands braced on the tiles before him. Foreign fingers, coated with what felt like soap, pushed lightly at his entrance. John sighed, relaxing and allowing them to penetrate him.
“You look so good wet,” George whispered in his ear. John chuckled and then sighed as the taller man began to nip gently at his neck. John turned his head, wanting or maybe needing to see. George was as gorgeous as ever; maybe more so with water making his smooth flesh gleam. John moaned as George’s hand began to stroke him. He turned back, resting his forehead on the cool, wet tiled wall.
“You’re d-dir-ect toda-ay,” John gasped, squirming under surgeon’s hands. The fingers inside him twisted, scissored, and John gasped and bucked back.
“God yes,” he gasped, “Oh fuck George yes.” He heard George groan behind him as he withdrew. Then pressure, so much bigger, so much pressure-and then ecstasy. John arched, shoved his hips back, hard, impaling himself deeper on George’s cock.
“F-fuck -- fuck - fuuuuckyeah,” he growled, his teeth clenched and water running into his mouth, “God you’re so f-fuckin good…”
George’s thrusts were hard, fast, merciless; everything John loved in himself. Heh, he thought, one of the few fragments of reason that he managed to cling to, In myself. Dirty.
“Oh God do that again!” George shifted, aiming inside him, and oh Jesus, began slamming into a spot that made John’s eyes roll. “Je-sus christ, George gonna come,” he moaned through clenched teeth, “Christ!”
George moaned long and low, John felt his arms wrap around his waist. George’s hands were jerking as he yanked John flush against his body, lay into him while he pounded on. George spasmed, sped up, and then tensed, buried fully in John’s ass, shooting his seed deep inside. And then at once John was coming, half-screaming into George’s mouth and digging his nails into the slender arms around him, spilling himself over the hand pumping him. It didn’t stay, but was immediately pounded away by cool, clear water. George pulled out and John let out a long-held breath; one that he hadn’t noticed he was holding. The sensation of fullness removed from his body made him sag, lean against the mosaic as he had no strength to stand. His breaths were still heavy even as George placed a very soft kiss on the back of his neck, and then disappeared from John’s small, exhausted world. John touched the spot, wondering if the kiss was still there, like a signature, wondering if he could feel it clinging to his wet skin as he shut off the water, dried himself with the towel that had been set out. He always does that, he mused, stumbling back into the now twilit bedroom, Why does he always do that?
A voice in his head answered, Probably just marking his territory, like Paul.
A softer, meeker voice murmured,
Maybe he loves you.
Previous chapters: Ch1 Ch2 Ch3 Ch4
Title: "Band on the Run Ch. 5"
Author: Darth Viye
Pairings: John/George + implied John/ Paul & John/Brian
Rating: NC-17
Timeframe: AU
Summary: The Beatles are among the most feared gangs in the nation, but there are some crimes that they did not commit...
Warnings: Language, graphic M/M sex, implied violence, blood, shameless song plugging
as is custom, here's the general gist of what Brian's house looks like cause I do a shit job of describing it :( Not actually his house, by the way.
Anyhow, you know the drill, read, comment, blah blah GO READ IT NOW >:(
~Two years ago~
The horse’s pace was steady, her steps not quite slow, but calm nonetheless. Like John, she knew that the hard part was over. It wasn’t yet time to let one’s guard down, but there was no need for stress. The last town’s limits were nearly three hours past, and the next’s another half hour ahead. John’s thoughts wandered wherever they pleased in the hot summer sun, sidling easily through his mind like the little whiffs of smoky-brown dust that Paul’s horse kicked up as he rode at the head of the party.
Paul, thought John. God damn you, Paul. Except, how could any god have damned a man like Paul? The way the buttery sun glinted off his neat, soft black hair and polished his smooth, pristine skin so that it looked like tan-white marble; this could not have been bestowed on a damned man.
So, John amended, God fucking damn me.
“John,” said Paul’s voice. It sliced cleanly through his reverie and tugged him back to Planet -Fucking-Earth with a painful thump. John flushed very slightly and gave the leather reins a flick, catching up to ride beside Paul. Paul didn’t look at him, but resumed speaking to Brian, whose dappled-grey steed was by far the most docile of the lot.
“…and I made sure they didn’t get too good of pictures, just like you asked,” Brian was saying. “They’ll have to rely on witnesses for identification, but I’m sure you boys took care of that on your own.” John ducked as he rode under one of the sparse, dead trees whose branches waved stiffly in a faint wind. Paul smirked ever so slightly, his pretty mouth twisting minutely.
“Oh yeah,” he replied coolly, “the survivors should be too traumatized to have a good memory of us.”
George piped up from behind John. “And even ones with like, photographic memories should develop a good enough fear,” he said, “Maybe even a bit of a Boogey-man complex.” John could hear the little grin in George’s voice and reminded himself never to get on his bad side (Johnny, the boy can and will FUCK. YOU. UP). Paul was chuckling softly.
“Who knows, Georgie; maybe if you’re a good boy, you can go back and play,” he quipped. Paul finally looked at John, making his heart not so much leap as twitch in upon itself like an embarrassed bird (“No Paulie, don’t look, I’m not dressed!”)
“Not a bad haul, eh?” John grinned, thinking of Mister and Missus Stanley-The-Politician.
“How much did you get off the register, d’you think,” he asked. Paul’s slender fingers had wandered down to toy absent-mindedly with the bag tied to his elegantly crafted saddle. There was quite a bit of blood on them.
“Oh, I’m not sure,” Paul replied lazily, “Maybe five hundred, a thousand if we’re lucky.” He snorted through his perfect, aquiline nose. “Fuckin’ shit town. How much’d you get?” John shrugged.
“Dunno. A lotta cheap shit but it looks real enough to sell. But George got ten grand at least off the crowd.” Paul nodded, grinned.
“More than Mick fuckin’ Jagger’s lot last week in Denton.” A short pause in which John looked around at the unchanging scenery of yellow-white sand and a hard-packed dusty road, baking beneath achingly blue sky. Then Paul spoke again.
“That was a good gig, though. Not a chord out of place.” John’s heart leapt. “And,” continued Paul, to George this time, “I liked that thing you did…With the fuse? The bomb planted right on the sides of the limits? I liked that.”
“Ta,” replied George. He seemed almost bored. How the Hell could anyone be bored when Paul praised them? John wondered momentarily if Harrison really was a vampire, some kind of inhuman creature. But then he remembered the blinding fucking sunlight surrounding them. Dumbass, he thought.
Brian cleared his throat. Paul looked at him with arched brows, steering his shaggy mount a little to the left around a large boulder.
“You cut it pretty fine there at the end, Paul,” said Brian, “I didn’t think you’d make it.” Paul snorted, his brows creasing for a moment.
“Of course I made it, Eppy,” he scoffed, “How do you think we got this far? Luck?” Paul rolled his beautiful hazel eyes. “It’s skill, Eppy, that makes us great. Skill separates us from the dead guys, and the guys in jail, and all that other shit they get into.” Brian nodded, smiling slightly. His warm brown eyes twinkled ever so slightly as they fell upon John. He pretended not to notice, not wanting to face that kind of emotion just now.
“I know,” said Brian, “That’s why I’m still here and not with…‘them’.” He sighed.
“You’ll be staying at my home in town,” he said, attempting to brush dust off his shirt, an action more out of habit than anything else. “I feel it’s the best place for you right now, given your…state of dress at present.” John saw his eyes wandering over the blood streaked over John’s and George’s clothing; the back of Paul’s shirt was totally saturated in it. Paul seemed wary of the prospect of settling down, even just for a night or two.
“I take it there’s a back door?” John’s heart wrenched unpleasantly as he saw the hazel of Paul’s eyes harden and chill beneath the long lashes. His horse stumbled and he started. Paul didn’t notice.
“I don’t think it’s too wise to ride through town in broad daylight given our ‘state of dress’, as you put it,” Paul stated, his voice chilly. Brian nodded quickly. “Oh yes, of course. To do so would be madness, I’m sure.” He diverted, dodging Paul’s cold mistrust. “I’ve set up separate rooms for you all.” He laughed slightly, nervously, “I’m sure you prefer not to all be crammed into a single guestroom for a few days.” Brain’s eyes flicked back to John for a second. He looked into them for a moment and quickly looked away, but knowing that Paul had seen. Paul’s eyes narrowed for a fraction of a second, his boyish face deadly.
“How very queer of you. I would’ve thought you’d have taken the opportunity, Eppy-I’m sure you’d have loved to be ‘crammed in’ with Johnny.” The barb was like a sharp slap to Brian, and it showed on his face. His composure slipped as he flushed vividly, looking down and away. John cringed mentally as he saw Brian’s knuckles go white on the reins. Dammit, Eppy, don’t be so sensitive. He doesn’t mean it, you know. He didn’t say it aloud. He knew it was a lie.
Silence fell awkwardly, like a child slipping on ice. Someone coughed, and John watched-or rather, tried not to watch-Paul. Or Paul’s ass. Mostly Paul’s ass. And what a fine one it is, too.
Paul pulled up to the head of the pack once more, and Ringo took his place beside Brian. His large blue eyes were kind, warm despite the sadness deep down inside them. He leaned in to murmur reassuringly to Brian. John didn’t quite hear, but Brian perked up a little. Goddammit Ringo, if you promised him sexual favors from me, I will shove that rifle so far up your ass…
Ringo began humming, then whistling. After a minute, he seemed to think “fuck it”, and began to sing. John perked as he recognized the tune.
“As I was goin’ over the far-famed Kerry mountains,
I met with Captain Ferrel and his money he was countin’ ”
George joined in. “ I first produced me pistol
An’ I then produced me rapier,
Said ‘stand and deliver’ for he were a bold deceiver”
John grinned and joined the chorus enthusiastically. “Mush-a ring dumma do dumma da
Wak fal me daddy-o
Wak fal me daddy-o, there’s whisky in the jar… “
John laughed aloud at the fitting nature of the old song. “I counted out his money, and it made a pretty penny/ I put it in me pocket an’ I took it home to Jenny…”
…………………………………………………………………………………………………..
Brian’s town, Calista, was structured, if somewhat small. The streets were well-kept and the architecture functional but stylish. John could see, even from the deserted side streets they rode down, the elegance of the tall buildings that were probably offices. He felt oddly dwarfed by them.
Paul seemed to be more on edge than usual, a feeling that seemed to grow the deeper into town they went. He sat stiff on his horse, and even from behind John could see the tiny, jerky, side-to-side movements of his head as his eyes constantly roved over their surroundings. The neatly-clipped-and bloody-nails of his left hand drummed ever so slightly on the metal jacket of his Uzzi.
Brian lead the party down winding backstreets, through dim alleys and even a tunnel, drawing them away from the beaten path and into silence. The only sounds besides the muffled bustle of population far in the background were the echoes of their horses’ hooves and the occasional tinny radio broadcast or television program from inside a home bordering the alleys. John’s skin crawled at the strained noiselessness. After what seemed an hour, Brian veered suddenly to the right, and John, following, yelped as bright, bright sunlight poked him ferociously in the eyes.
When he could see again, he was looking at the rear entrance of a large, almost Edwardian house. Just inside the black, wrought-iron gate was an extensive garden. The jasmine plant seemed to be Hell-bent on conquering the entire house, as its deep green snarl of vines and white blossoms was well on the way to claiming the entirety of the back wall and fence.
“Welcome to the Epstein residence,” Brian stated. John grinned, and Ringo let out an exaggerated sigh of relief.
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
Brian’s house, on entry, turned out to be exactly as grand as it had first appeared. The décor was high-class and elegant, but mercifully conservative. Just like Brian. As soon as John’s, Paul’s, George’s, and Ringo’s respective bags had been dropped where Brian indicated, they had sauntered upstairs to change out of their dusty clothes. Not that there was anything wrong with dirt, John had pointed out, but this shit was fucking abrasive after it absorbed moisture.
The room Eppy had pointed out as John’s was dimly-lit by light filtering in from behind a long, sheer blue curtain. The furnishings were sparse, as John liked, and handsomely carved of dark wood. John at once noticed the set of clothing that Brian had laid out. He grinned to himself, imagining the tall man picking out the garments and wondering aloud which would make his arse look the best. John chortled as an imaginary Paul burst in on Imaginary-Brian and proceeded to kick the shit out of him in a jealous rage. John coughed, having inhaled road-dust. He coughed again, pulling off his shirt and looking for the shower. He found it through a pretty wood door next to the dresser.
The bathroom’s light blue tiles were cool on his bare feet, a pleasant sensation in mid-summer. John sighed as he stripped off his dusty, bloody clothing; the garments emitted little puffs of the damned powder as they hit the floor. He turned the water on, adjusting the spray to a cool kind of half-warmth. And god, it felt good as he stepped in, feeling the infernal heat soak away and drain away with the brown-tinged water around his feet. He sighed contentedly, dropping his head to let the water soak into his hair. The bathroom door opened. John grinned slyly, listening to the rustle of garments being tossed aside. A hand opened the shower door behind him, and a body stepped into the cool rain with a sigh akin to John’s. Hands slid up John’s thighs, making him hard already, and he looked down, inspecting them to speculate on their owner. They were long and elegant, but more tanned than Paul. One hand disappeared, and the other slid smoothly from his arse to the back of his neck, pushing him forward with his hands braced on the tiles before him. Foreign fingers, coated with what felt like soap, pushed lightly at his entrance. John sighed, relaxing and allowing them to penetrate him.
“You look so good wet,” George whispered in his ear. John chuckled and then sighed as the taller man began to nip gently at his neck. John turned his head, wanting or maybe needing to see. George was as gorgeous as ever; maybe more so with water making his smooth flesh gleam. John moaned as George’s hand began to stroke him. He turned back, resting his forehead on the cool, wet tiled wall.
“You’re d-dir-ect toda-ay,” John gasped, squirming under surgeon’s hands. The fingers inside him twisted, scissored, and John gasped and bucked back.
“God yes,” he gasped, “Oh fuck George yes.” He heard George groan behind him as he withdrew. Then pressure, so much bigger, so much pressure-and then ecstasy. John arched, shoved his hips back, hard, impaling himself deeper on George’s cock.
“F-fuck -- fuck - fuuuuckyeah,” he growled, his teeth clenched and water running into his mouth, “God you’re so f-fuckin good…”
George’s thrusts were hard, fast, merciless; everything John loved in himself. Heh, he thought, one of the few fragments of reason that he managed to cling to, In myself. Dirty.
“Oh God do that again!” George shifted, aiming inside him, and oh Jesus, began slamming into a spot that made John’s eyes roll. “Je-sus christ, George gonna come,” he moaned through clenched teeth, “Christ!”
George moaned long and low, John felt his arms wrap around his waist. George’s hands were jerking as he yanked John flush against his body, lay into him while he pounded on. George spasmed, sped up, and then tensed, buried fully in John’s ass, shooting his seed deep inside. And then at once John was coming, half-screaming into George’s mouth and digging his nails into the slender arms around him, spilling himself over the hand pumping him. It didn’t stay, but was immediately pounded away by cool, clear water. George pulled out and John let out a long-held breath; one that he hadn’t noticed he was holding. The sensation of fullness removed from his body made him sag, lean against the mosaic as he had no strength to stand. His breaths were still heavy even as George placed a very soft kiss on the back of his neck, and then disappeared from John’s small, exhausted world. John touched the spot, wondering if the kiss was still there, like a signature, wondering if he could feel it clinging to his wet skin as he shut off the water, dried himself with the towel that had been set out. He always does that, he mused, stumbling back into the now twilit bedroom, Why does he always do that?
A voice in his head answered, Probably just marking his territory, like Paul.
A softer, meeker voice murmured,
Maybe he loves you.