Orange Collision

[macca44552]

Title: Orange Collision

Pairings: John/Paul, George/Ringo   Equal time for both pairings
Rating: NC-17

Warnings: sexual situations, drug and alcohol use, language, distressing situations

Summary: En route to Los Angeles, a storm diverts the Beatles to an uncharted island in the middle of the Pacific. Finding themselves among the few survivors, romantic tension flares up as they try desperately to find a way home. Meanwhile, some peculiar events occur that lead them all to fear for their sanity...

A/N: I really wanted some practice writing situation-based conflict as opposed to character-based conflict (even though the main theme in this story is still going to involve character-based conflict). Also, this story is very Lost-esque, but obviously it has a different plot. There are just some similar themes.

A/N 2: Oh man. This chapter, oh man. Hahaha. *dies*

Disclaimer: I don’t own The Beatles, nor do I claim to. This is a fictional story and is not written to be libelous.

Previous Chapters


Chapter 30 (Day 48)

John rather enjoyed life when Paul had his mouth latched onto his neck.

Of course, John usually enjoyed life whenever there was a mouth on him, so that wasn’t necessarily saying much. Still, he was enamored with the way that Paul would alternate between biting and licking, and he’d never bite with the same roughness or lick with the same vigor-he’d drive him mad, he would, with his slutty alterations. And John would try not to be sucked up into it all, try not to let his head loll backwards on the fucking bark and not let Paul get the best of him but, fuck, if there ever existed an impossible task…

A bite to his ear had him groaning. Paul’s sharp intake of breath had him throbbing. John ran his hands up and down his sides before stopping to roughly fist the hem of his shirt. His hands were right above Paul’s pants, he could feel the skin beneath his shirt. Judging by the way that Paul twitched and mumbled stupidly whenever his hands made contact with his skin, he could easily discern that he was pretty sensitive there. And, fuck, John just wanted to rip the bloody thing off entirely, send the shirt flying into the trees, but he wasn’t going to be the first one to reach that level of desperation and queerness. All they had done so far was grind against every tree that had crossed their path. Not like John was complaining, fuck, things with Paul were border-lining on mind-blowingly fantastic, but he wouldn’t mind trying something different. He wouldn’t mind feeling more skin…

“Jesus,” John ground out when Paul roughly connected their hips. They met for another kiss, sloppy and ever-so-slightly forced, since it was obvious that Paul was barely able to concentrate on anything other than humping John into a tree.

John had one hand nestled in Paul’s hair, scratching and pulling at the scalp, which Paul McKinky seemed to appreciate, and the other hand in a vice-grip around Paul’s hip, urging him with a growl to pick up the motherfucking pace. Complying, Paul bit his lip and forced him harder into the tree, dislodging their lips wetly and growling into his neck.

He was panting, sweat was building at his brow. He bit the inside of his mouth accidentally at one point and he let out a sharp ‘ow’ but Paul either ignored it or didn’t hear, which would have pissed him off immensely if it weren’t for the fact that life was a blur and conscious thought was rapidly decreasing. His other hand grabbed at Paul’s free hip and he thrusted back as good as he was getting it, making a less than coherent noise come out of Macca’s mouth, sending more earthquakes down his body. It was getting close-that point where the world closed in on a single moment. His skin was prickling and his body flushed hot, he was sweating everywhere but that hardly mattered because Paul was making those noises and he was making similar noises and it felt so fucking good every time he applied pressure right there.

He was kissing Paul’s neck, didn’t know how he got there, when it all came exploding around him. His body was enveloped in heat, enveloped in white fucking bliss and he stood there when it was over and tried to blink the spots away, tried stop his mouth from hanging open stupidly, tried to crane his neck so he could see what Paul looked like when everything was exploding for him. But he could feel it instead, Paul gripped his shirt and dug his nails into his side and bit his ear in a rather painful way and howled and twitched against his skin.

Speaking of his skin, he was pretty certain that by the end of the day he was no longer going to have any.

“Paul,” John said, his voice coming out raspier than he’d like.

“Mmhm?”

“You should probably…you know…stop humping me against a tree. People are starting to ask questions.”

“No they’re not,” Paul scoffed, face still buried in his neck. John blocked the impulse to pet his hair.

“Yeah they are! Every fucking time I take off me shirt George is like, ‘hey John, why have you got those marks on your back?’” he used a high-pitched nasally tone to simulate George’s voice, “And what the fuck am I supposed to say? ‘Oh Paul and I have just been rutting up against a tree every hour or so, how do you think I spend my fucking time?’” John was chuckling by the end of that, drawn out by Paul giggling hysterically into his neck.

“Yeah but I like it when you’re against a tree,” Paul said, proving his point by leaving a kiss on his neck. John let out a short breath and tried to blink away the arousal wave. Fuck, his dick couldn’t handle Paul saying something like that.

“Yeah well…I like having skin,” John settled on saying after a moment of mental yoga. Paul chuckled and backed away from him, running his hands through his hair and pressing the wrinkles out of his shirt. John never tired of seeing him like this, his eyes were dark, his face flushed, his hair a mess atop that stupid, pleased grin.  A grin that he put on Paul’s face, he would remind himself daily.

Wincing, John walked away from the tree, swearing at the stinging pain. He twisted his arm around and felt his back, trying to discern if there was any blood. He frowned when he discovered that there were a few open cuts.

“Fuck. Next time you’re going up against the tree.”

Paul rolled his eyes as if that was the stupidest idea that had ever been uttered. Then his eyes lit up and he licked his lips, “You know…we should find a place. Somewhere we can go when we want to do…this.”

“Oh I’m fine, thanks for asking,” John said sardonically and Paul crossed his arms.

“Do you need to see Jessica?” he grinned, humoring him. John grinned back.

“It’s just a few cuts, Paul. I don’t need a fucking cast.”

They chuckled and Paul continued, “No but…seriously. We should find a place. Like what Tucker has! And we can…you know…er…set up something. Like a few blankets or-”

“Oh,” John smirked and Paul rolled his eyes immediately, “Like a Sex Den.”

Paul sputtered, “No! Not a… not that.”

“Well what else would you call a place that we go to get off? We can call it a Sex Cove if you’d like.”

“Or,” Paul flushed, “We could not call it anything.”

“Too boring.”

Paul chuckled shortly, “Okay, let’s just…drop the idea and head back.”

“No, no I like the idea. I like it so much that I want to name it. Sex Den.”

“No.”

“How about John and Paul’s Place of Sexual Abandonment?” John continued, enjoying the fact that Paul was so red that he could have been mistaken for an overgrown berry.  He laughed childishly, following after Paul once he had stalked off, “Oh come on Paul. Just say it: Sex Den.”

“No. We are not calling it…no!”

“Come on, I thought you did well in school? It’s a simple phrase. I can write up a pronunciation guide if you’d like.”

Abruptly, Paul turned and grabbed him, pressing their lips together in a short, pointed kiss. John barely had his arms up to pull him closer before his lips were gone, “We’re not naming it,” he said.

John sighed and Paul smiled victoriously, “Fine. You’re such a woman.”

And with that, they headed back.

“Where’s George?” Ringo asked as he lifted his head from the pillow and wiped the sleep out of his eyes. John snorted and continued fiddling with his guitar.

“I suspect he’s over with Brian. Haven’t you heard? They’re best mates now.”

Ringo blinked, “Wait…what?”

“Oh yeah”, John explained dramatically, strumming the B minor, “George slept at Brian’s the other night.”

“Oh,” Ringo said, turning to look through his luggage. John watched him curiously.

“Wouldn’t be surprised if he’s moved into his hut by the end of the week.”

Ringo didn’t say anything, just took out his toothbrush and continued shuffling through his things to find the paste.

“Don’t worry, Rings. I suspect he’s only doing it to make you jealous.”

Now Ringo actually laughed at that, smiling and shaking his head, “He’s keeping Brian company. We should all be doing the same, in fact.”

“It goes both ways, son. He can see us if he wants,” John snapped, “And, you know, I wasn’t aware that keeping someone company involved crawling under the blankets with them in the dead of night,” he said wistfully, finger-picking an A chord.

Ringo laughed harder, “How do you know all this anyway?”

“Because the fucker stepped on me the other night as he was leaving,” John frowned, “It took ages to fall asleep after that. Oh, and he told me.”

“George told you?”

“Yeah, I saw him coming out of Brian’s hut that morning and I asked if he slept there. And he said yes. Communication is a wonderful thing Ringo,” John smirked and Ringo turned away, resuming his toothpaste search.

“Are you trying to make a point?”

“Sometimes a knee is not just a knee.”

“What!?”

“Just fucking with you,” John smirked as Ringo chuckled and turned away. It was hard being all-knowing, superior. He had landed himself in this situation after seeing Ringo and George flirt obnoxiously whilst he had been trying to watch a quality episode of the Three Stooges. Well, it was mostly George flirting, ogling  Ringo like he had diamonds coming out of his fucking scrotum, but that hardly mattered, because ever since John had gotten a solid, firm understanding that George was actually queer for Ringo, well, how the fuck was he supposed to have let that information go? He had to keep watch on them, it was his duty. Though he was extremely annoyed that he didn’t know the current state of their affairs. He knew that they had been off with each other for awhile, then Tucker had caught them tossing each other off, and now it appeared as though George was testing Ringo’s affections. And John didn’t blame him-he’d constantly put up tests if he was with someone as clueless as Ringo.

But, fuck, Ringo’s cluelessness was so incredibly entertaining.

“We’re almost out of toothpaste,” Ringo frowned, holding up an empty bottle.

“What? Thought we had another-oh,” John sighed with annoyance, realization coming over him in the form of a selfish git with too-long eyelashes. He put the guitar down, “Be right back.”

He spotted him right away. Paul was brushing his teeth by the water, the sun casting his slim shadow all the way to the entrance of the hut. John followed it with his hands in his pockets, his eyes taking in the sight of Paul standing in front of the ocean with his clothing whipping about in the breeze.

“Hello,” John drawled, standing next to him. Paul looked over and before he could do anything, John grabbed the toothbrush out of his mouth and stuck it in his own, loving the surprised look on Paul’s face as a glob of toothpaste dribbled down his chin.

“Hey!” he exclaimed after spitting the toothpaste out of his mouth and wiping his chin with the end of his shirt, giving John a grand view of his stomach, “Do you mind?!”

“Acfully I do,” John didn’t bother being polite, just spit toothpaste everywhere as he talked. Paul grimaced and John continued to clean his teeth with his brush, “Yoor used toofpaste tastes like piff.”

“Here’s a thought-you could just use your own brush.”

John bent over and spit out the paste, grabbing a handful of water and swirling it around in his mouth before spitting that out as well. He turned to Paul, “I could, but you use enough for both of us.”

“No I don’t,” he argued.

“I’ve seen you, Paul! You squeeze out enough for your whole fucking body.”

“That’s because you lot don’t know how to use it properly! You’re supposed to squeeze from the bottom, not from the middle,” Paul said, demonstrating his brilliant ways with the tube of paste, “So I have to fix that and some of it squirts out and I end up putting the rest on my toothbrush.”

“Oh so it’s our fault,” John rolled his eyes, “Don’t give me that bullshite.”

He stared at him until Paul eventually broke under his gaze. He sighed, looked away and scratched the side of his nose, “Alright…well. I dunno what’s wrong with having clean teeth.”

John’s mouth twitched and he reached forward and grabbed the toothpaste, “What’s wrong with it is that we don’t have enough toothpaste for you to be bathing yourself with it. Just use enough so that your teeth don’t rot through your skull and you’ll be fine.”

“What about the extra luggage?” Paul asked, licking his lips, “There’s got to be some toothpaste in there.”

It was a smart enough idea, so they walked to the edge of the forest and sorted through the piles of suitcases. He separated the suitcases as best as he could before he dug through them spastically, whipping clothing, books, and any other irrelevant objects out of his path. Paul did the same, and they were making fair progress until Tosser came over and distracted them.

“What are you doing?” he asked, holding an empty fishing net.

“Looking for panties,” John grinned, holding up the pair of black, lacy underwear that he had found moments prior. They were small, so they must have been dragged across a rather slim bird…probably blonde. Probably with nice, bouncy tits. And nipples. Round, pink nipples that would get hard just as soon as he’d rub his thumb across them…

He stirred instantly. Mother of Christ did he miss women.

Tosser ignored the seedy look on his face, “How productive.”

Paul stuck his head up, “We’re actually looking for toothpaste,” he addressed Tosser before looking at John and snatching the panties out of his hands, “Give me those.”

He smirked when he saw Paul surreptitiously stick the underwear in his pocket. Oh the little…

“Oh, I saw some the other day,” Tosser said, bending over and fingering through one of the suitcases, “You know, we really should organize all of this. There are probably a lot of useful clothes and supplies in here. It’s not very respectful, but we could use all the supplies we can find until we get off this place. Ah ha! Here it is,” he held up a full bottle of toothpaste, handing it over to Paul.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Yeah, couldn’t do it without you Tosser,” John added, the old man rolled his eyes.

“Hey, Jack!” it was Jessica, coming up to him with her hair blowing in her mouth. John wondered if she’d ever wear sexy laced panties. Probably not.

“Yeah?”

“Where’s the other fishing net? The one that Mal uses?”

“Oh,” Tosser said, eyebrows raised, “It’s over by my hut. Why?”

She released a small smile, “Because you need a new fishing partner, don’t you? At least until Mal comes back.”

He shook his head, “No, no. That’s okay. You don’t have to…”

“I’m not asking your permission,” she said, walking up to him. Tosser’s cheeks flushed when she put a hand on his shoulder, “Now come on! If we hurry we can catch some before dinner.”

She turned and walked away. John watched as Tosser's eyes followed her down the beach, the color still on his cheeks.

John almost started laughing hysterically. Oh fuck. Life was brilliant.

Tosser turned and saw that he was staring. Awkwardly, he cleared his throat and walked away, sending John into hysterics.

“What are you on about?” Paul asked, throwing the toothpaste between his hands.

“Nothing.” No way was he going to tell anyone about this yet. He had to confirm first.

“Okay. Well did you want to look for something else or-”

“Or take back the panties you stole?” he held out his hand, “Give us the merchandise.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Paul said in a cursory manner, smiling broadly. John restrained the urge to jump on him.

“Gonna be like that, yeah? Well it doesn’t matter. I’ll just find a better pair of knickers.” He turned towards the luggage and pretended to look through it, keeping his eyes on Paul, who was busy slapping his pocket and whistling innocently. The fucker…

As he envisioned shoving Paul into the ground and sticking the underwear down his throat, John’s eyes were drawn to a knapsack sitting on top of the luggage. It looked like the bag that Paul had taken with him when he had gone to look for Nicole-why was it here? He grabbed it.

“Isn’t this yours?” he questioned, unzipping the bag and fingering through the contents.

Paul suddenly looked nervous for some reason, “Yes...well…it’s not all mine…”

Oh. Oh fuck yes. John started laughing hysterically, his sides about to split, his eyes about to pop out of his skull and roll into the sand. He pulled out a blue, sequined shirt and laughed harder at Paul’s horrified expression.

“What…is this?!” he breathed, still unable to see past the tears in his eyes. Paul grabbed the shirt and threw it back in the luggage.

“It wasn’t anything. I came here and packed my bag in the dead of night-I didn’t see what I was grabbing!”

“How the fuck could you not see this?” John grabbed the shirt again, holding it high over his head, “All we have to do is hang this up on a tree and rescue will be here before the end of the hour!”

Paul sighed, “I didn’t mean to pick out that shirt. I was in a rush! I wanted to hurry and find Nicole!”

“You certainly would have found her if you were wearing this,” John drawled and Paul rolled his eyes, “Wait, did you actually wear this? Did Ringo see you!?”

Paul walked away. John followed him, howling into the wind, “You did! You fucking wore this!”

“Look, I fell in the water, alright?” Paul admitted, blinking against the wind, “I didn’t have anything else to wear…and I was cold…”

“Jesus Christ,” John smiled holding the shirt open, seeing how the red sequins formed a queer little flower in the middle. Oh fuck, picturing Paul wearing this was too much; Ringo was one fortunate bastard. He wondered if the same bird who owned the lacy knickers would wear this…

And then he had the most brilliant idea that he had ever had.

“Are you done taking the piss yet?” Paul asked, crossing his arms in irritation, “Or would you like me to clear my schedule?”

John slowly lowered the shirt, smiling devilishly, letting all of his teeth show, “How about we make a bet?”

This would hook him, he knew it would. Paul was never one to refuse a bet with him, and this was the perfect way to get him to do what he wanted. Oh yes.

Paul raised his brows, “What?”

He was chuckling in anticipation. He had to start with something simple, “How about we make a bet to see who can be the first to run from one end of the beach to the other and back?”

“Like a race, you mean?”

“Yes, like a race,” John couldn’t drop the smile and Paul’s suspicious looks were making it exceptionally more difficult to keep a straight face.

“And the winner…?”

“The winner…gets to see what happens to the loser.”

“And what happens to the loser?” he asked but he already knew what would happen, judging by the way his eyes were flicking to the shirt in John’s hands, paranoia all over his face.

“The loser has to wear this,” John held up the shirt, took in the way Paul’s eyes widened, “And the knickers that you’ve currently stashed away in your pocket.”

Paul’s mouth dropped. He shook his head, “No. No. Fuck no.”

“Not so confident about your running skills, then?” John sneered. Paul crossed his arms.

“No, it’s not that. It’s just…fucked up!”

“It’s a race, Paul. A simple race.”

“Yeah, but we’ll be racing for no reason!” Paul shouted, “Who’s to say that I want to see you wearing that anyway?”

John flushed angrily, “Well you won’t have to worry about that since I’m not gonna be the one losing the race.”

Paul bit the fingernail on his thumb, “It’s stupid. Pick something else to race for!”

“Or someone else,” John scowled, “I’m sure George wouldn’t pussy out of it.”

John knocked into him as he walked away, muttering under his breath and clenching his fists. Paul followed him.

“Actually, I bet George would pussy out if it. Worse than me, in fact.”

“Oh really? But he doesn’t have the pussy to back him up.”

Paul grabbed his arm and spun him around, “Don’t be stupid. You know I’m the only one you’ll probably ever convince to run a race and see my mate put on lacy knickers.”

He raised his eyebrows, “Does that mean you’ll do it?”

Paul sighed and ran a hand down his face, clutching his fringe and fluffing it back, “Only if the loser doesn’t have to… publicly wear the knickers. Only if it’s just between you and me.”

He smiled victoriously; he knew that Paul would have agreed eventually, “Now why would I want anyone else to see you wearing them?”

“Actually you’re the one who’s going to be wearing them,” he smirked, poking his chest.

“You poor, delusional git. There’s no way you’re going to win.”

“Well we’ll just have to see, yeah?”

John laughed, “We’ll see.”

And really, he was already picturing Paul wearing those panties.

“So what are you two racing for again?” Ringo asked as he stuck a stick in the sand.

Smirking, John responded, “Just for the proof that I’m a better runner.”

“Piss off,” Paul responded, showing off by running in place. He looked hysterical-in addition to his shorts he had found a headband in the luggage, so it was currently fastened on his head in a way that made his hair stick up in all sorts of odd directions. Not only that, but his shirt was knotted in the middle, allowing his stomach to ‘breathe’, as he had put it. But he wasn’t the only one who had donned the athletic look, no, John wasn’t about to be shown up. He had on a pair of shorts as well-nice ones with a stripe down the side-but, since he couldn’t find another headband, he had just tied one of Ringo’s shirts around his head.

“You two are mental,” George breathed, “I’m already tired just from walking there and back!”

“Sounds like you need to get more exercise, son,” John drawled, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Yeah, sounds like you and Paul should be racing for something more than your egos.”

“I still don’t know why I’m not allowed to run,” Ringo frowned, intentionally making it exaggerated and comical. Paul laughed.

“Next time, Rings. Promise.”

“Yeah, now it’s just between me and Paul,” John leered at him and Paul turned away with a smile. Oh fuck, he couldn’t wait until he had Paul in front of him…strutting about in that clothing…

On the other hand, he could wait for this race-it did look bloody far. And they’d be running in the sand-without shoes, a condition that Ringo had added-which would make it about ten times worse. But, fuck, he couldn’t lose. He was not going to lose and then have to suffer with Paul beaming at him all victorious and stupid and all ‘I told you I would win!’

“Okay,” George said, gaining his attention, “That stick over there by the plane is where you stop.” As much as John squinted, he couldn’t see the stick that he was talking about. “And then you’ve got to run around the plane and come all the way back.”

“We might need a flag for this,” John mumbled, trying to ignore the way his stomach dropped at the prospect of this race. Why hadn’t he picked something else? “Ringo, take off your shirt and wave it around.”

Before Ringo could respond beyond laughing, Paul had shrugged off his shirt and thrown it at him, rubbing his arms coolly, “Let’s just get this over with.”

John stared. Fuck, he was hairy. And it wasn’t so bad. Jesus.

“Ready John?” Ringo barked. John tore his eyes away from Macca and backed up behind the stick. It was daunting up ahead, he was regretting this already. If Paul was concerned then he didn’t show it, just stared in front of him, digging his feet into the sand, looking about ready to kill. Fuck, he didn’t want to lose. John matched his pose.

“No giving up halfway through!” George warned, “I don’t want to have to drag you two back to the hut.”

“Just get out of the way,” he demanded. His heart was already racing. He willed it to calm down. Bloody hell, at this rate it was going to explode in his chest before he even started the motherfucking race.

“No cheating,” Paul said silkily, smiling at him. John was two seconds away from canceling the race and just suggesting that they fuck instead.

He smirked, “I will.”

“Okay!” Ringo shouted, standing in front of them with his arms raised, a large smile on his face, looking as if he were born to do this sort of thing, “Ready. Set. Go!”

Ringo’s arms hadn’t even reached his sides before John had passed him in a blur, sand whipping around his body.

Fuck, it was hard to run in the sand. He could barely get any sort of speed without sinking and nearly falling over like a ponce. He could hear George’s laughter behind him, it was echoing around in his head, the soundtrack of his inevitable loss, and he just wanted to turn around and strangle him, but Paul was already ahead and that wouldn’t do him any good.

Well, the one advantage of Paul being ahead of him was that he could see him struggling just as miserably as he was, and that would provide his mental entertainment for years to come. But, aside from losing, the bad thing about having Paul ahead of him was that he was kicking sand in his face, making him cough and blink and wipe it out of his eyes with furious swipes.

“Paul, fuck off! Stop kicking sand at me!” he gasped, barely able to breathe.

Paul said something, he couldn’t hear what, but suddenly sand was no longer flying in his eyes and he wiped the last of it away to see that the sneaky fucker was running downwards at an angle. He stared for a minute before he realized what he was doing-he was running towards the water…towards the firmer sand.

If John could have swore without gasping like an idiot than he would have. He bit his lip and ran in Paul’s direction, closing his eyes furiously and trying to ignore the fact that his sides were already starting to cramp up and his lungs felt like they were on fire and, fuck, he was going to die.

“Oh what’s this all about?” Tucker howled as he passed him and John didn’t even have the energy to give him the middle finger. He caught up to Paul and his legs stopped their furious tingling when he pounded on the more solid ground. It was all well and good, except there were motherfucking shells and rocks and crabs and every fucking sharp object on the bloody planet digging into his feet.

Fuck Ringo for suggesting that they do this without shoes. As soon as he finished this fucking thing he was going to grab his shoe and beat Ringo to death with it.

He swore out loud but didn’t slow down his pace. Unlike Paul, who was cautiously trying to avoid the shells. John struggled and finally was able to meet him shoulder to shoulder as they passed Jessica’s hut. He could see the stick now. George said he had to stop in front of it or something. Perhaps he should just ignore that part.

Paul looked over at him, his eyes wide when he realized that they were neck and neck. He was panting just as loudly as John was, and that made him feel slightly horrible as he lunged to the side and knocked Paul on the ground.

“Told you…I’d…cheat…” he gasped feebly. Paul yelled out in pain and John didn’t stop to help him. He’d be alright. After all, John had to withstand tree burns every time Paul felt like rutting him into a fucking tree. He could handle this.

He decided to circle around the wrecked plane, as it was the quickest way to reach the stick.  Annoying, it was, because he had to watch the ground as to not get any errant plane bits lodged in his foot-he was pretty certain about twenty fucking shells were lodged up there already. Fuck, the things he’d do to get Paul to put on lady knickers.

It was getting hot, Jesus. His mouth was dry and he was sweating so much that it would have been possible for every person on the planet to gather around him and have a nice, full glass of his fucking sweat. He untied the shirt from around his head and tossed it away, saw that it landed in the ashy, dirty plane. Oh well, Ringo wouldn’t miss it.

“Jeom!” he barked as his weight was suddenly doubled and he was thrown on the ground, his face landing harshly in the sand. Paul was breathing in his ear. Lucky him, John didn’t even have any air in his chest, he was dying. He rolled and threw Paul off of him, stared at the sun and gasped desperately and loudly. Paul was panting, staring, breaths tickling in his ear.

Everything was tingling. His lungs were going to cave in, he was sweating madly, he was going mad.

“Fuck…why did you…?”

He heard Paul swallow audibly. It was loud and thick, sounded like he had swallowed a rock. They stared at each other for a few seconds, breathing loudly in each other’s faces, until Paul sat up and crawled on top of him, straddling him. It looked like it had taken an enormous amount of effort. But, fuck, it was too hot, too humid for Paul to be sitting on top of him. As he was about to push him off, Paul pulled out the black panties from his pocket.

John stared, his mouth was open stupidly. Still breathing heavily, Paul turned them over so that he held the crotch in his hand and he brought it up to John’s nose. He sniffed.

“They smell, don’t they?” Paul said, his face was red, eyes hard, chest heaving. Christ, it was instantaneous. All the blood that had been burning through his body was now burning in his dick and, judging by the sordid look in Paul’s eyes, this had happened to him already. Good thing the plane was obstructing them from view.

“A bit yeah,” he sniffed again. He took the panties out of Paul’s hands, “You know, whoever these belonged to, she’s dead now.”

“Don’t ruin it,” Paul warned, adjusting himself so that he was rocking against him. John’s eyes rolled to the back of his head. Jesus, he didn’t think he could handle this right now.

“I want you to wear them,” John groaned, grabbing Paul’s hips. He was still too tired to thrust against him, but he didn’t mind Paul doing all the work.

“I know,” he responded, kissing him briefly before gasping into his neck. John moaned, his sense of self disappearing.

“Not just for…humiliation reasons,” he mumbled hoarsely, not really registering what he had just said, grabbing Paul’s hips and driving him down even harder.

Paul growled, “I know.”

John blinked. Paul had moved off of him. They were on their sides, John’s hands were still digging into Paul’s hips. Paul was licking his lips, pulling down John’s zipper, putting his hand inside and stroking him.

“Mother of fuck fuck,” John swore. Paul was still panting too, and it made John’s stomach tighten and his mouth go dry and his dick twitch erratically. He reached out and touched Paul’s chest, intending to clench his shirt like he had always done, but was submerged in the hot reminder that Paul wasn’t wearing a shirt.

His eyes popped open and he paused, not really sure what to do. But Paul was still panting and his eyes were lidded and he moved closer so John lunged forward and grabbed and stroked his skin, pulling at the hairs in the way that he liked, hearing Paul gasp and groan with his eyes shut and his tongue between his teeth.

John went further still, he kissed Paul’s neck and worked his way down his chest, licking and biting his nipples, twisting and yanking them until they were red against his white chest. Paul growled loudly and tugged and pulled him viciously, John’s mouth falling slack as he proceeded to pant even harder. He couldn’t trail his mouth down any lower without making it difficult for Paul to continue stroking him, so he moved his head away. Paul grabbed his shorts and pulled them so that he was completely free, the air hitting him in a way that made his head fall back and his stomach tighten.

His eyes were closed so he couldn’t see that Paul had grabbed the knickers. But he could feel it when they were suddenly rubbing against him and his eyes snapped open to see the underwear wrapped around Paul’s hand, moving up and down, up and down.

Words that probably didn’t exist within the English language left his mouth in a tumble. The friction, the roughness of the lace, the pressure of his hand. Paul was looking at him intensely because he knew that this was the breaking point, because he knew what was going to happen. And John’s mind filled in the blanks of this gesture-pictured him coming and Paul wearing the soiled knickers, knickers that he had soiled…

And it was all over. He covered his face with his arm and came,  clenching his toes in the sand and thrusting until there was nothing left; he felt like it had gone on for ages. He fell back on the sand and panted louder than before, the sun spilling and spinning around him.

Paul stood up and John’s eyes crossed at the sudden movement. His mind was slow, he was confused.

With a smile that made John’s chest constrict, Paul stuffed the wet underwear in his pocket.

“You’re not going anywhere right? Shall I tell Ringo that you said hello?” Paul smirked. John just stared, couldn’t wipe Paul’s manipulative expression out of his mind.

“You…are a fucking cunt,” he smiled, Paul winking in response, “And you’re not running anywhere with your dick hanging out.”

Looking down, Paul quickly adjusted his erection so it was less dramatic. John pictured him running up the finish line, his dick wagging around, poor Ringo crying at the sight.

“See you!”

Paul turned and ran away as John shouted, “I’m not wearing the knickers!”

“I know!” Paul yelled before his footsteps became too distant and he was gone, John sinking into the sand, a bag full of lead.

He scratched his chest for the millionth time, growling in aggravation, “This shirt is fucking annoying,” he complained as he picked off another sequin and tossed it to the ground. The flower was beginning to look more like an amorphous blob.

“Don’t complain. I won,” Paul urged in a sing-song voice, weaving through the trees easily. John snorted.

“Won? More like cheated your way to a false victory.”

“You cheated first,” Paul wagged a finger at him and John gave him a finger in return.

“Where are we going anyway?”

“You’ll see,” Paul shouted over his shoulder. And, indeed, he did see.

After a few minutes he was brought to a place surrounded by thick trees, the ground covered with a large blanket and two pillows. There was a bush nearby that was full of red berries, two bottles of water laid on the ground next to it.

He hoped his jaw didn’t drop too noticeably. Fuck, Paul had done all this? For him-for them?

Heart thumping in his chest, he looked over at Paul incredulously, but he was just standing there, picking at his nails and looking at the ground, a casual shrug of the shoulders.

“When did you do this?” he asked.

“A day or two ago. Before you woke up,” he said, turning to look at him, “It didn’t take long…or anything. Just thought I’d…you know.”

“Well this is rather romantic of you,” John said just to see Paul flush and roll his eyes, “You’ve made us a Sex Den.”

He growled and shook his head, "I did not...I just thought you’d like your back to heal some.”

“I like it,” John clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth and collapsed onto the blanket, ramming his head into a pillow, “It’s a very nice Sex Den.”

Paul laughed and crawled on the blanket, stealing John’s pillow and putting it under his head, “I can put it all back if you’d like.”

“Just say it Paul,” John said, ignoring the other pillow laying right next to him and putting his head on Paul’s, “Sex Den.”

He sighed and rolled his eyes, “Fine. It’s a Sex Den. Are you happy now?”

John giggled stupidly, Paul doing the same, “Okay, okay. Now say that it’s John and Paul’s Sex Den.”

“No,” he responded, leaning in to kiss him.

As he wrapped his arms around him and their bodies met flush in the center, John decided that he’d let that one slide.

To be continued…