Band On the Run, Ch. 2: "Stars"
I'm back (finally)! And look! I bring good tidings of comfort and joy--and a SEX SCENE!
Title: "Band on the Run Ch. 2"
Author: Darth Viye
Pairings: John/ Paul + implied John/George, John/Stu, and John/Pete
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, VERY graphic M/M sex, violence, overt poetic-ness
P.S.: Please review! Your comments made this all worth the long hours and eminent carpal tunnel!
And they make Crazy!Paul preen ever so prettily. :)
Before I start, I want to share the pic that inspired part of this chapter (you'll know which part):
One-hundered seventy-seven seconds…John counted inside his buzzing head, more to keep himself occupied than to tell actual time. How many minutes was that? Fuck it, he thought, math’s a soft subject anyway. John flicked his dog-end out of the cracked door and watched the faint glow disappear into the night like a dying firefly.
He felt eyes on him, heard breathing that was too loud to be sleep. Whether it was George or Ringo, he didn’t give a shit; John needed solitude. He knew, at least, that they could take hints, so he simply stood quietly, swaying as his vision darkened and blurred from standing so suddenly after sitting so long. John’s booted feet made little noise on the metal floors as he slipped the door open just wide enough to get through. Sleeping around on Paul made one’s steps light. He slid the hatch slowly as not to make too much sound, squeezing through and easing it shut behind him. The dark leather encasing his lean body was only thick enough to break the initial winds but not provide any warmth, so John scurried along the link between cars, fighting the urge to look down and see the ground sliding maddeningly beneath him. John glanced up, suspended in the middle with a hand on either car. He froze, staring at the vast panorama above. The cloudless sky was practically sagging with stars, each one a tiny diamond point against dark, blue-brown velvet; each one trying and failing to outshine the distressingly beautiful moon’s glamorous halo. John was, for once, thankful for the thick Buddy-Holly glasses that rested on the bridge of his hooked nose. Otherwise this would all just be a blur. He stared for what seemed an hour, before the wind soared suddenly against him, its biting chill sweeping over his sore body as it roared between the thick trees with a high, enraged shriek.
John was still for a moment, finding the stars that were friendly among the mass of jewel-bright strangers, sprayed across the sky like the freckles on his shoulders. He found Julia first. Spica, the brightest star in Virgo, had seemed like the right one for her. To the north was Stu; a bright yellowish star. Not too far was Brian-the North Star. He was in death as he had been in life; the blazing, white-knight guide to a lost boy whose mouth said No and whose “mate” said Yes. He felt his eyes burn but was given no time to react, because the wind hurled another blinding gust straight into his face like an admonitory slap.
John could take a hint. He wrenched the door to the empty car in front of his open and dived inside, slamming the door and not giving a fuck if Ringo woke up anymore. George could knock anybody out in a flash with one of those odd powders he concocted. The chemist of the group was damn menacing when he said he could whip up a patch that made one’s dick turn green and fall off.
John took a minute to survey his new surroundings, not surprised at all to see that this car was mostly the same as the one he had just left, except for the faint whisper of ancient musk in the air and the small, square windows set high on the rusty walls. This car had probably been used to house horses but now, like the rest of the train, it would never hold another passenger other than the driver and whatever stowaways besides the Beatles (this was the bandits’ collective name) had hopped aboard. This was the final journey the rust-bucket would ever make. Sad, really, how something could simply be thrown away to rot into oblivion when its usefulness no longer outweighed the cost of its repair.
John was reaching into his jacket pocket for another smoke when he heard a throat clear behind him. He whipped around so hard and fast that he lost his footing on the damp, wilted film whose ancestors might have been hay and feed that coated the floor. He tumbled down with a loud, tinny TANG. John hoped to whatever miserable God that was bored enough to deal with him that he wouldn’t cut himself on a nail or something. George would bitch for a month if he had to treat Tetanus again. Then again, Tetanus seemed a more inviting prospect in comparison to the owner of the freshly cleared throat.
Paul McCartney’s face showed nothing apart from cold, calculating contempt in the shockingly bright light from the window. He was crouching back on his heels in front of the door, staring levelly at John with those droopy, hazel-green eyes that, on any other person, would look warm just by construction. Paul’s thick crop of black hair fell against his long lashes in a scruffy-yet-elegant tumble when the shadowed man raised his perfectly arching eyebrows at John’s total lack of movement. He had been frozen in place when he saw Paul, trying to gauge his mood. Paul’s clasped hands remained between his knees as ne nodded at the fallen pack of cigarettes.
“Give us a smoke, eh?” It was not a question but an order, and John felt no reason not to obey. He stood, ignoring the throbbing hands that had broken his fall, and picked up the pack. He walked on shaky legs to where Paul squatted expectantly and offered up one of the long, white-paper tubes of numbness. Paul took it, his cold hand brushing John’s for an instant, and clenched it between his teeth as John fumbled for a light. He struck the match and leaned down to ignite the end, reverently watching Paul take a long drag on the fag with his eyes falling closed. He blew out a smoke ring, grinned half-heartedly…And struck.
Paul’s strong hand darted out and grabbed John by the collar of his worn, black shirt. John yelped and fell to his knees as Paul jerked, hard.
“I saw that shit, you little bastard,” he hissed in John’s ear, “Little fuckin’ faggot.” John was too scared to speak as Paul shoved him onto his back and dived on top of him with a knee between his legs. John felt himself react to Paul’s closeness in spite of himself. Paul’s right hand snapped up and pinned John’s hands above his head as his left hand flipped open his switchknife.
John stiffened beneath him.”Paul…” McCartney flipped the knife once, twice, three times, spinning it and catching it, and John’s eyes couldn’t help but follow its gleaming dance.
“Hey man, n-now come on Paul, be r-reasonable, Paul, please-” he didn’t even realize that he was rambling until Paul backhanded him. “Or what, you gonna fuckin’ cry again?” John clenched his teeth, trapping the retort that rose like bile in his throat. It would only ensure that he got cut up.
Paul’s elegant hand dragged the very tip of the knife flat along John’s cheek; the bespectacled man twitched as he felt it nick the skin for an instant. The knife felt like a drop of cold water as it continued its progress down his face to his lip, turning and pressing flat as John licked the dull side slowly, as teasingly as he dared with Paul. He watched Paul’s pretty face go from that blank, cold expression to one of utter lust. Then, they were upright, Paul was tossing him roughly against the opposite wall and slamming John’s shaking hands up above his head.
Paul ran his tongue up John’s neck, definitely feeling his racing pulse throbbing frantically. John twitched as he felt Paul’s teeth form a painful ring around the spot, digging into the skin just as his hardness dug into John’s arse through material that had grown too old to be black. I wonder if he gets off on knowing he’s got my life between his teeth.
“Paul…” moaned John, and he gasped as Paul’s hands tightened painfully on his wrists and he was pressed down farther into the wall. He felt the rust flakes crumble from the spots he touched and squeezed his eyes shut against them, seeing stars pop behind his lids and mentally proclaiming them to be cousins of those that had been splattered across the heavens. He turned his head to look back at Paul, who had stopped work on his bruised neck. Paul’s eyes held three parts lust and one part rage-a very dangerous combination.
“You know, your eyes are still bloody, Johnny,” hissed Paul with his lips brushing against John’s own trembling pair. “Missing your…” He nipped lightly at John’s lower lip, “…girlfriend?” John’s mind went hot as he bared his teeth and tried to wrench free; “It wasn’t like that with-” Paul jerked hard on John’s tawny hair with a bark of “Shut up!” He bit roughly at John’s ear, growling. “You’re mine, get it? You don’t go weak for nobody but me, you little slut, even if you still got their cock in that filthy mouth of yours.” John made a noise between a grunt and a snarl, pulling halfheartedly at Paul’s bruising hands. He knew he was too far gone as Paul’s left hand undid his trousers and bared his arse to their bleak, two-man world of rust and sex.
“You’re gonna cry like a bird, then you gonna get fucked like a bird.” Paul’s fingers slid into him, fucking him roughly, prepping him with only a little spit so he wouldn’t tear too badly. “Like that, yeh cunt?” hissed Paul as John snapped back onto his fingers with a strangled whine. “Yeah, Paul…” He had learned to ignore, even embrace the pain that Paul usually brought. The fingers twisted impossibly and hit his prostate. He yelled out in spite of himself, biting his lip as Paul released his wrists and pulled out to free himself. He heard Paul spit into his hand and the resulting quiet groan as he rubbed himself. John remained with his hands braced against the ridges of the neglected, rusty wall as McCartney’s roughly calloused hands gripped his hips. He hung his head, moaning at the moon-painted floor when he felt invading hardness penetrate him.
It hurt a lot without proper lube like George had. John knew that Paul knew it, too, as his first few thrusts were shallow and contained some semblance of caution. John squirmed back onto Paul’s hips, panting with his mouth hanging open and brief, choked cries spurting from his throat. The greedy hands behind him clutched at his ass and tugged him back harder, making their beautiful owner grunt and jerk. “Uuh, just like a bird, you are,” he grunted, and John could hear the leer in his voice over the rising volume of his own cries. Paul jerked him back as he thrust violently into John’s prostate, forcing a half-scream from John as he writhed beneath Paul, hands releasing the wall. John’s hands instead clutched at the floor as he felt himself fall to his knees with Paul, who simply jerked his legs open wider and placed a hand on the back of John’s freckle-strewn neck, forcing his head down. He braced his elbows against the rough car floor, clutching at his hair and screaming into his arms while Paul laid waste to his arse and his dignity. The Conqueror slapped his ass and ordered him again to be silent. John clamped a hand over his mouth to muffle the sounds that he could not control, nails digging into his cheek when Paul hit his prostate again sending spasms through his bony body.
Paul was going to come, John could tell by the way he increased his intensity, tearing in and out of John as he would his knife through John’s flesh had he refused him. He grasped John’s hardness, angling his hips in what John knew to be his killing stroke, and stabbed himself hilt-deep into the one unearthly bulls-eye within a bulls-eye inside of John. A sweeping surge of agonizing, blinding ecstasy erupted over him in a burning black flood, forcing John’s eyes wide as he bit down on his hand against the rampant scream that tore through his throat and left a raw trail in its wake. He convulsed, clenching impossibly around Paul and making him spasm and shoot himself inside John before slumping with a hand braced flat on the floor beside his twitching head. John felt himself shaking as he calmed, breathing slowing, and removed his bleeding hand from his mouth. He groaned weakly as Paul pulled out of him and rolled him over one-handed. John watched Paul tuck himself away through half-lidded eyes, staring reverently at the boyish man. Paul held his cum-dripping hand up to John’s mouth; John knew, of course, what he wanted. He cupped Paul’s slender wrist and quietly cleaned the hand with his tongue-first the fingers, then the rough palm. McCartney withdrew his hand with a businesslike snap, smirking at John’s silent protests. John mentally kicked himself in whatever body part most likely controlled faggotry.
“You like that taste, don’t you Johnny,” said Paul, straightening up as John righted his clothes. “No wonder you just can’t stick to one fuckin’ cock.” John said nothing, his face burning. He sat up but knew better than to turn away, to show his back to the pretty man with his long lashes and long memory and short fuse. He couldn’t hold back the gripe that snuck out from between his lips.
“I think you tore me.” Paul, however, turned and walked to the door leading to the next car, which was probably just as empty and rusted. The cum splattered against the floor just to John’s left was probably the first lubricating this car had had in years. Paul’s lovely little mouth twisted into the mockery of a comforting smile, spewing the mockery of a comforting comment as he turned with a hand on the hatch.
“Well, at least now you can give little Georgie another excuse to put his fingers up your tight little arse. I’m sure he’ll love that.” In a flash and a slam, he was gone.
John took his head between his hands, resting his forehead on his knees. His mind throbbed dully, muddy from the exhaustion of Paul’s want. What really irked him was that Paul was right. George had repaired him in the past-his remedies never failed. Harrison would also, more than likely, demand payment in the form of help relieving the hard-on he would develop in the process. John sank weakly into a prone position, his body feeling as though it were deflating. He rolled onto his side, staring at a red-rusted wall that the ravishing moonlight had painted a dark blue. His eyes were hot with lingering tears, mocking his strength with their persistence.
John’s own snarling voice whispered inside his mind; ‘Paul’s a fuckin’ loon. He’s a psycho, and you’re pathetic.’ John clenched his eyes shut, mentally slapping down the voice. ‘Shut up, I love him.’
The voice laughed. ‘ He wants you-hell, he owns you. But he will never, never love you. He’s not even fucking capable of love. Stu loved you, though, didn’t he?’
He ground a hand against his eyes, willing the voice to shut up. ‘Stu’s dead, and he loved Astrid more anyway. Brian loved me, and he’s dead, too. Maybe it’s fucking good that Paul doesn’t!’
The voice was cool, almost casual. ‘And Pete?’ John twitched. No. ‘Oh Hell no, Don’t even-’
‘Why not? I mean, he-’
‘I’m warning you!’
‘-must have-’
‘I mean it, don’t even!’
‘Or what?’
Now it was Pete’s voice, and-fuck, no, STOP! He’d heard that one phrase before from him.
A single, burning drop rolled across his hooked nose and dripped onto the dank floor with a faint pat. He did nothing to stop it, staring into an invisible space. John’s own snide voice was back again.
‘He must’ve loved you in some twisted way, wanting-’ John blotted the voice out with a kick to the wall. The thunderclap of vibrating metal rang out like a gong, buffeting back the tormenting voice. John didn’t want to hear any more, so he gave up one of his battles.
Exhaustion laid two ethereal fingers on his eyelids, easing them closed. His mind began to travel, floating far away, hopefully to a place without pain. Maybe to a place where there were stars.
No such luck, as his memories painted his dreams red with blood and gray with gunsmoke. Inhumane noise-static, guns blasting, shrieks, the din of a thousand evil memories- filled his ears. Even through the onslaught of screams, he could still hear the memory of his own.
Title: "Band on the Run Ch. 2"
Author: Darth Viye
Pairings: John/ Paul + implied John/George, John/Stu, and John/Pete
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, VERY graphic M/M sex, violence, overt poetic-ness
P.S.: Please review! Your comments made this all worth the long hours and eminent carpal tunnel!
And they make Crazy!Paul preen ever so prettily. :)
Before I start, I want to share the pic that inspired part of this chapter (you'll know which part):
One-hundered seventy-seven seconds…John counted inside his buzzing head, more to keep himself occupied than to tell actual time. How many minutes was that? Fuck it, he thought, math’s a soft subject anyway. John flicked his dog-end out of the cracked door and watched the faint glow disappear into the night like a dying firefly.
He felt eyes on him, heard breathing that was too loud to be sleep. Whether it was George or Ringo, he didn’t give a shit; John needed solitude. He knew, at least, that they could take hints, so he simply stood quietly, swaying as his vision darkened and blurred from standing so suddenly after sitting so long. John’s booted feet made little noise on the metal floors as he slipped the door open just wide enough to get through. Sleeping around on Paul made one’s steps light. He slid the hatch slowly as not to make too much sound, squeezing through and easing it shut behind him. The dark leather encasing his lean body was only thick enough to break the initial winds but not provide any warmth, so John scurried along the link between cars, fighting the urge to look down and see the ground sliding maddeningly beneath him. John glanced up, suspended in the middle with a hand on either car. He froze, staring at the vast panorama above. The cloudless sky was practically sagging with stars, each one a tiny diamond point against dark, blue-brown velvet; each one trying and failing to outshine the distressingly beautiful moon’s glamorous halo. John was, for once, thankful for the thick Buddy-Holly glasses that rested on the bridge of his hooked nose. Otherwise this would all just be a blur. He stared for what seemed an hour, before the wind soared suddenly against him, its biting chill sweeping over his sore body as it roared between the thick trees with a high, enraged shriek.
John was still for a moment, finding the stars that were friendly among the mass of jewel-bright strangers, sprayed across the sky like the freckles on his shoulders. He found Julia first. Spica, the brightest star in Virgo, had seemed like the right one for her. To the north was Stu; a bright yellowish star. Not too far was Brian-the North Star. He was in death as he had been in life; the blazing, white-knight guide to a lost boy whose mouth said No and whose “mate” said Yes. He felt his eyes burn but was given no time to react, because the wind hurled another blinding gust straight into his face like an admonitory slap.
John could take a hint. He wrenched the door to the empty car in front of his open and dived inside, slamming the door and not giving a fuck if Ringo woke up anymore. George could knock anybody out in a flash with one of those odd powders he concocted. The chemist of the group was damn menacing when he said he could whip up a patch that made one’s dick turn green and fall off.
John took a minute to survey his new surroundings, not surprised at all to see that this car was mostly the same as the one he had just left, except for the faint whisper of ancient musk in the air and the small, square windows set high on the rusty walls. This car had probably been used to house horses but now, like the rest of the train, it would never hold another passenger other than the driver and whatever stowaways besides the Beatles (this was the bandits’ collective name) had hopped aboard. This was the final journey the rust-bucket would ever make. Sad, really, how something could simply be thrown away to rot into oblivion when its usefulness no longer outweighed the cost of its repair.
John was reaching into his jacket pocket for another smoke when he heard a throat clear behind him. He whipped around so hard and fast that he lost his footing on the damp, wilted film whose ancestors might have been hay and feed that coated the floor. He tumbled down with a loud, tinny TANG. John hoped to whatever miserable God that was bored enough to deal with him that he wouldn’t cut himself on a nail or something. George would bitch for a month if he had to treat Tetanus again. Then again, Tetanus seemed a more inviting prospect in comparison to the owner of the freshly cleared throat.
Paul McCartney’s face showed nothing apart from cold, calculating contempt in the shockingly bright light from the window. He was crouching back on his heels in front of the door, staring levelly at John with those droopy, hazel-green eyes that, on any other person, would look warm just by construction. Paul’s thick crop of black hair fell against his long lashes in a scruffy-yet-elegant tumble when the shadowed man raised his perfectly arching eyebrows at John’s total lack of movement. He had been frozen in place when he saw Paul, trying to gauge his mood. Paul’s clasped hands remained between his knees as ne nodded at the fallen pack of cigarettes.
“Give us a smoke, eh?” It was not a question but an order, and John felt no reason not to obey. He stood, ignoring the throbbing hands that had broken his fall, and picked up the pack. He walked on shaky legs to where Paul squatted expectantly and offered up one of the long, white-paper tubes of numbness. Paul took it, his cold hand brushing John’s for an instant, and clenched it between his teeth as John fumbled for a light. He struck the match and leaned down to ignite the end, reverently watching Paul take a long drag on the fag with his eyes falling closed. He blew out a smoke ring, grinned half-heartedly…And struck.
Paul’s strong hand darted out and grabbed John by the collar of his worn, black shirt. John yelped and fell to his knees as Paul jerked, hard.
“I saw that shit, you little bastard,” he hissed in John’s ear, “Little fuckin’ faggot.” John was too scared to speak as Paul shoved him onto his back and dived on top of him with a knee between his legs. John felt himself react to Paul’s closeness in spite of himself. Paul’s right hand snapped up and pinned John’s hands above his head as his left hand flipped open his switchknife.
John stiffened beneath him.”Paul…” McCartney flipped the knife once, twice, three times, spinning it and catching it, and John’s eyes couldn’t help but follow its gleaming dance.
“Hey man, n-now come on Paul, be r-reasonable, Paul, please-” he didn’t even realize that he was rambling until Paul backhanded him. “Or what, you gonna fuckin’ cry again?” John clenched his teeth, trapping the retort that rose like bile in his throat. It would only ensure that he got cut up.
Paul’s elegant hand dragged the very tip of the knife flat along John’s cheek; the bespectacled man twitched as he felt it nick the skin for an instant. The knife felt like a drop of cold water as it continued its progress down his face to his lip, turning and pressing flat as John licked the dull side slowly, as teasingly as he dared with Paul. He watched Paul’s pretty face go from that blank, cold expression to one of utter lust. Then, they were upright, Paul was tossing him roughly against the opposite wall and slamming John’s shaking hands up above his head.
Paul ran his tongue up John’s neck, definitely feeling his racing pulse throbbing frantically. John twitched as he felt Paul’s teeth form a painful ring around the spot, digging into the skin just as his hardness dug into John’s arse through material that had grown too old to be black. I wonder if he gets off on knowing he’s got my life between his teeth.
“Paul…” moaned John, and he gasped as Paul’s hands tightened painfully on his wrists and he was pressed down farther into the wall. He felt the rust flakes crumble from the spots he touched and squeezed his eyes shut against them, seeing stars pop behind his lids and mentally proclaiming them to be cousins of those that had been splattered across the heavens. He turned his head to look back at Paul, who had stopped work on his bruised neck. Paul’s eyes held three parts lust and one part rage-a very dangerous combination.
“You know, your eyes are still bloody, Johnny,” hissed Paul with his lips brushing against John’s own trembling pair. “Missing your…” He nipped lightly at John’s lower lip, “…girlfriend?” John’s mind went hot as he bared his teeth and tried to wrench free; “It wasn’t like that with-” Paul jerked hard on John’s tawny hair with a bark of “Shut up!” He bit roughly at John’s ear, growling. “You’re mine, get it? You don’t go weak for nobody but me, you little slut, even if you still got their cock in that filthy mouth of yours.” John made a noise between a grunt and a snarl, pulling halfheartedly at Paul’s bruising hands. He knew he was too far gone as Paul’s left hand undid his trousers and bared his arse to their bleak, two-man world of rust and sex.
“You’re gonna cry like a bird, then you gonna get fucked like a bird.” Paul’s fingers slid into him, fucking him roughly, prepping him with only a little spit so he wouldn’t tear too badly. “Like that, yeh cunt?” hissed Paul as John snapped back onto his fingers with a strangled whine. “Yeah, Paul…” He had learned to ignore, even embrace the pain that Paul usually brought. The fingers twisted impossibly and hit his prostate. He yelled out in spite of himself, biting his lip as Paul released his wrists and pulled out to free himself. He heard Paul spit into his hand and the resulting quiet groan as he rubbed himself. John remained with his hands braced against the ridges of the neglected, rusty wall as McCartney’s roughly calloused hands gripped his hips. He hung his head, moaning at the moon-painted floor when he felt invading hardness penetrate him.
It hurt a lot without proper lube like George had. John knew that Paul knew it, too, as his first few thrusts were shallow and contained some semblance of caution. John squirmed back onto Paul’s hips, panting with his mouth hanging open and brief, choked cries spurting from his throat. The greedy hands behind him clutched at his ass and tugged him back harder, making their beautiful owner grunt and jerk. “Uuh, just like a bird, you are,” he grunted, and John could hear the leer in his voice over the rising volume of his own cries. Paul jerked him back as he thrust violently into John’s prostate, forcing a half-scream from John as he writhed beneath Paul, hands releasing the wall. John’s hands instead clutched at the floor as he felt himself fall to his knees with Paul, who simply jerked his legs open wider and placed a hand on the back of John’s freckle-strewn neck, forcing his head down. He braced his elbows against the rough car floor, clutching at his hair and screaming into his arms while Paul laid waste to his arse and his dignity. The Conqueror slapped his ass and ordered him again to be silent. John clamped a hand over his mouth to muffle the sounds that he could not control, nails digging into his cheek when Paul hit his prostate again sending spasms through his bony body.
Paul was going to come, John could tell by the way he increased his intensity, tearing in and out of John as he would his knife through John’s flesh had he refused him. He grasped John’s hardness, angling his hips in what John knew to be his killing stroke, and stabbed himself hilt-deep into the one unearthly bulls-eye within a bulls-eye inside of John. A sweeping surge of agonizing, blinding ecstasy erupted over him in a burning black flood, forcing John’s eyes wide as he bit down on his hand against the rampant scream that tore through his throat and left a raw trail in its wake. He convulsed, clenching impossibly around Paul and making him spasm and shoot himself inside John before slumping with a hand braced flat on the floor beside his twitching head. John felt himself shaking as he calmed, breathing slowing, and removed his bleeding hand from his mouth. He groaned weakly as Paul pulled out of him and rolled him over one-handed. John watched Paul tuck himself away through half-lidded eyes, staring reverently at the boyish man. Paul held his cum-dripping hand up to John’s mouth; John knew, of course, what he wanted. He cupped Paul’s slender wrist and quietly cleaned the hand with his tongue-first the fingers, then the rough palm. McCartney withdrew his hand with a businesslike snap, smirking at John’s silent protests. John mentally kicked himself in whatever body part most likely controlled faggotry.
“You like that taste, don’t you Johnny,” said Paul, straightening up as John righted his clothes. “No wonder you just can’t stick to one fuckin’ cock.” John said nothing, his face burning. He sat up but knew better than to turn away, to show his back to the pretty man with his long lashes and long memory and short fuse. He couldn’t hold back the gripe that snuck out from between his lips.
“I think you tore me.” Paul, however, turned and walked to the door leading to the next car, which was probably just as empty and rusted. The cum splattered against the floor just to John’s left was probably the first lubricating this car had had in years. Paul’s lovely little mouth twisted into the mockery of a comforting smile, spewing the mockery of a comforting comment as he turned with a hand on the hatch.
“Well, at least now you can give little Georgie another excuse to put his fingers up your tight little arse. I’m sure he’ll love that.” In a flash and a slam, he was gone.
John took his head between his hands, resting his forehead on his knees. His mind throbbed dully, muddy from the exhaustion of Paul’s want. What really irked him was that Paul was right. George had repaired him in the past-his remedies never failed. Harrison would also, more than likely, demand payment in the form of help relieving the hard-on he would develop in the process. John sank weakly into a prone position, his body feeling as though it were deflating. He rolled onto his side, staring at a red-rusted wall that the ravishing moonlight had painted a dark blue. His eyes were hot with lingering tears, mocking his strength with their persistence.
John’s own snarling voice whispered inside his mind; ‘Paul’s a fuckin’ loon. He’s a psycho, and you’re pathetic.’ John clenched his eyes shut, mentally slapping down the voice. ‘Shut up, I love him.’
The voice laughed. ‘ He wants you-hell, he owns you. But he will never, never love you. He’s not even fucking capable of love. Stu loved you, though, didn’t he?’
He ground a hand against his eyes, willing the voice to shut up. ‘Stu’s dead, and he loved Astrid more anyway. Brian loved me, and he’s dead, too. Maybe it’s fucking good that Paul doesn’t!’
The voice was cool, almost casual. ‘And Pete?’ John twitched. No. ‘Oh Hell no, Don’t even-’
‘Why not? I mean, he-’
‘I’m warning you!’
‘-must have-’
‘I mean it, don’t even!’
‘Or what?’
Now it was Pete’s voice, and-fuck, no, STOP! He’d heard that one phrase before from him.
A single, burning drop rolled across his hooked nose and dripped onto the dank floor with a faint pat. He did nothing to stop it, staring into an invisible space. John’s own snide voice was back again.
‘He must’ve loved you in some twisted way, wanting-’ John blotted the voice out with a kick to the wall. The thunderclap of vibrating metal rang out like a gong, buffeting back the tormenting voice. John didn’t want to hear any more, so he gave up one of his battles.
Exhaustion laid two ethereal fingers on his eyelids, easing them closed. His mind began to travel, floating far away, hopefully to a place without pain. Maybe to a place where there were stars.
No such luck, as his memories painted his dreams red with blood and gray with gunsmoke. Inhumane noise-static, guns blasting, shrieks, the din of a thousand evil memories- filled his ears. Even through the onslaught of screams, he could still hear the memory of his own.