The Sun Shines Down on Both of Us [Chapter Six]
Title: The Sun Shines Down on Both of Us [Chapter Six]
Author: Corleoned (Me, obviously >.>)
Pairings: John/ George, J/R, G/R
Rating: R
Timeframe: In the last months of the First World War, starting early August 1918 in France, and progressing to the end of the war.
Summary: Newly promoted Captain George Harrison, an aged eighteen interrogation officer previously posted in The Ottoman Empire and India in the East, has been sent to The Western Front for the final push. A series of events following him in the last few months of the war.
Warnings: Rape.
A/N: I apologize for any discrepancies timewise and historically. They obviously were not meant. Also, I have nothing but respect for the soldiers who lost their lives on both sides of the war, and I hope my writing reflects that. Additionally, I had no beta for the prologue/ this chapter, so all mistakes are mine. Sorry in advance >.>
Disclaimer: I do not own The Beatles, just fluff. (I do however, claim George Harrison x3)
(Historical Notes: None really.)
Prologue: community.livejournal.com/beatlesslash/885281.html#cutid1
Chapter One: community.livejournal.com/beatlesslash/885605.html#cutid1
Chapter Two: community.livejournal.com/beatlesslash/887477.html#cutid1
Chapter Three: community.livejournal.com/beatlesslash/889578.html#cutid1
Chapter Four: community.livejournal.com/beatlesslash/900394.html#cutid1
Chapter Five: community.livejournal.com/beatlesslash/902648.html#cutid1
'The Pain of the mind is worse than the pain of the body'-Publilius Syrus
1910: England:
A young George Harrison lays his head lightly on his desk, eyes fixed dead ahead at the man in front of him. He scratched a prominant ear cantankerously and rests his head on his hands, watching the man move slowly along the blackboard, writing out equations and mathematical notations that George should be paying attention to, but isn't. Instead, he focused on the man in front of him. Blonde hair, a strikingly sharp face, angular body in a seemingly ill-fitting suit. He watched the muscles under his shirt ripple with each movement across the blackboard. George doubted any clothes could do him justice, and blushed immediately at the improper thoughts. He shouldn't be thinking this way, not about boys. Not even about girls, lest he knew them. He didn't worry about girls though. He never thought of them that way.
A note suddenly landed on his desk. He looked around, before opening it quickly. It could be anything...
He read the dark word on the page, a mixture of pain and anger flitting across his face before he replaced it with a stony moodiness. The boys sniggered around him, as the ball rang and they all rushed past him, beating him on the back of the head with their schoolbags as George remained in his seat, afraid of the rush and the noise passing him. Afraid of humans in general.
'George?' A voice said softly. He knew the voice, but he couldn't bare to look at the face that matched.
'You alright, lad?'
'Y-Yessir. I'm fine,' George sniffled, obviously for the life of him, not fine.
'Alright. If there's anything wrong, just let me know, alright? You're a credit to the country, lad. Good little English boy,' the heavenly voice said, as a pair of lips reached his forehead and stroked back his hair.
And just as swiftly, he was gone, leaving George staring down at the crumpled ugly piece of paper in his fist and wondered if it was really true, if he really was a...
'QUEER.'
1914: Germany:
The harsh voice grated John's ears as he stared passively out the stone window onto the cold and seemingly lonely mountains below.
'QUEER,' the voice yelled, smacking the back of John's head as a pair of lips raped his mouth. The mouth pulled off immediately, John seemingly unresponsive to the attack.
'Now, repeat it again,' the voice snarled, smacking John's back with a crop. John shuddered but managed to keep his mouth in a straight line.
'Freudian analysis shows us that cigarettes and cigars are a sign of penis compensation,' John spat, feeling the knife strapped to his right leg cut into his skin, making him bleed. It was worth the blood, to see what he'd see in a few moments. Eight fucking years. Eight fucking years, gone in an instant.
'And you were caught smoking, weren't you, you little prince? You little bloody fucking queer?'
John smirked in spite of himself. He made it so easy, nowadays. He'd just give him what he wanted.
'Well, you smoke all the time. And it's for a good reason,' he cackled, leaning back in his chair as the body attacked him, ramming his head into the floor and gathering his arms behind his back as John hear the unzipping of pants and the grunt as the zipper got stuck. He laughed in spite of himself, before kicking out a back leg and grabbing the knife from his boot. Holding it high over his head as he straddled the body, John stabbed into it furiously, feeling the hard-on beneath him wane as he slashed and smashed as much as he could, blood flowing from the body in sticky licorisce streams.
'THIS IS HOW MUCH YOU FUCKING NEED FUCKING!?' John screamed, before a final slice knocked the head clear off the body.
He stood, panting, drenched in blood as his aunt came in, screaming at the sight and holding the doorframe to keep from fainting.
'Queer,' John spat, before pulling off the body and dusting himself off. He stared at his aunt, and couldn't help but smile calmly at her expression of horror.
'Well, auntie, how's about I join the army?'
1918: France:
The men stared at each other, stories told. Nothing more else to say.
Except...
'My life was harder.' John said suddenly, still holding George's body in his hands.
'You can't compare lives, you idiot,' George snorts, smacking John on the head.
'I can when it's true,' John replied, firing up and removing his hands from George's sides.
George remains silent, hoping John'll leave it, but knowing he won't.
John's eyes narrowed slightly,'Did you lie to me? Did you let that prof kiss you?'
George withdrew immediately, crawling as far away as he could in the small space. 'Why would I? I told you the truth.'
'Oh, I'm sure you did. I'm sure I was your cherry-popper, wasn't I?'
'Why are you doing this?' George said weakly, sneaking back towards him and running his hands over John's face before John smacked them away contemptously. George stared at him, anger building.
'Cor, I'm not him, don't you dare put me next to him.'
'Well, you're as good as him aren't you? You're English, anyhow.'
'Don't you FUCKING dare say that,' George trembled with rage, kissing John harshly, biting his tongue. John pulled him tighter, running his hands down his side.
He stared, before laughing lowly, 'Like to see you angry.'
George stopped immediately, pulling back and staring at John increudiously. 'You sick fuck,' he snickered. You had to learn how the laugh at things in the trench.
John rolled over, shaking with hysterics as George hits him uselessly with his fists, laughing as John pulls him underneath him.
'A sick fuck? Yes please.' John drawled, smirking and nuzzling George's hair lightly. 'Hope you don't have lice, pretty boy.'
George grabbed the whip strapped to John's side and holds it up innocently.
John stared back at him. 'My, you learn well. Would you like to be my sick fuck?' He kissed George heavily, tonguing him roughly as he pulled him up and slams him against the wall.
George mumbled, 'Wait, wait. What time is it?'
He fumbled for his pocketwatch, checking the time and rolling off the wall, limping towards the door. 'Got to check on the troops. We've got eight hours after that.'
John groaned, and collapsed against the wall melodramatically, 'You're killing me, Georg-e. Killin' me.'
George smirked, 'That's my intention.' He sets his cap on his head and pulled it down, straightening his uniform and brushing off his sleeves.
John stared as though he was Ares himself. 'God, you look good in a uniform.'
George remained unruffled, responding dryly, 'Well, we all have to wear one. I'll leave you with Starkley.'
John groaned in protest, a highly unofficial sound.
George rolled his eyes in response, 'What do you expect? Someone'll suspect if I leave you all alone. I'll see you when I see you.'
John walked behind him, using the wall as support and breathed heavily in his neck and ear. 'Not if I see you first.'
George shivered at the mouth on his ear, 'Don't leave here. Please.'
Without another word, he grabbed his rifle, strapped it to his back, and walked out the partly destroyed door into the bombs and the deafening sound he hated.
John looked around. The boy was trusting him with a lot. He weighed the options of escape.
No, he wouldn't dissappoint. Not this time.
Two minutes later, Private Starkley made his way in, a gun obviously placed in his pocket as he instinctively brushed it, soothing his shaken nerves as he stared at the dark force in front of him.
'I'm not going to both to shoot you, private. If I wanted to kill you I would have done it already,' John said, not even bothering to look up as he traced some initials in the dirt floor of the bunker.
Starkley looked slightly frightened, and immediately stopped stroking the gun, saying cautiously, 'Well, Captain Harrison said I could trust you.'
John looked at him, amused. 'Yeah you can. At ease, private.'
Starkley relaxed, leaning on the wall and grabbing a fag from the side of his helmet, offering one to John warily. The man took it, and they both smoked quietly for a few moments.
Then John thought of something. It was so obvious. And it could be fun.
'So, you... like Captain Harrison?
Starkley looked taken off-guard, 'Yeah.'
'Like him alot, do you?'
'Well, yeah. Like a brother.'
'Like a brother...a brother you'd like to fuck?' John breathed, running his hand up Starkley's pant leg, into the inner thigh as he scootched closer. 'Imagine your lips on his, him jerking you off.... you'd like that, wouldn't you?'
'No, no...' Starkley murmured, pushing his hips forward....
George walked in as John immediately removed his hands and returning them to his side as if nothing happened, Ringo's eyes still bugging out of his head.
George frowned at him, wiping his gun free of blood with a rag. 'What happened to you, Ritchie? Looks like you just got buggered.'
John grins slightly, hiding his face by taking another suck of his fag.
Starkley muttered an inaudible response and brushed past George in the tight space, hips rubbing against each other as they passed. George set his jaw out until the private left, before closing the door and pausing, before turning to John, a strange expression on his face.
'Did Ritchie have a hard-on?'
Author: Corleoned (Me, obviously >.>)
Pairings: John/ George, J/R, G/R
Rating: R
Timeframe: In the last months of the First World War, starting early August 1918 in France, and progressing to the end of the war.
Summary: Newly promoted Captain George Harrison, an aged eighteen interrogation officer previously posted in The Ottoman Empire and India in the East, has been sent to The Western Front for the final push. A series of events following him in the last few months of the war.
Warnings: Rape.
A/N: I apologize for any discrepancies timewise and historically. They obviously were not meant. Also, I have nothing but respect for the soldiers who lost their lives on both sides of the war, and I hope my writing reflects that. Additionally, I had no beta for the prologue/ this chapter, so all mistakes are mine. Sorry in advance >.>
Disclaimer: I do not own The Beatles, just fluff. (I do however, claim George Harrison x3)
(Historical Notes: None really.)
Prologue: community.livejournal.com/beatlesslash/885281.html#cutid1
Chapter One: community.livejournal.com/beatlesslash/885605.html#cutid1
Chapter Two: community.livejournal.com/beatlesslash/887477.html#cutid1
Chapter Three: community.livejournal.com/beatlesslash/889578.html#cutid1
Chapter Four: community.livejournal.com/beatlesslash/900394.html#cutid1
Chapter Five: community.livejournal.com/beatlesslash/902648.html#cutid1
'The Pain of the mind is worse than the pain of the body'-Publilius Syrus
1910: England:
A young George Harrison lays his head lightly on his desk, eyes fixed dead ahead at the man in front of him. He scratched a prominant ear cantankerously and rests his head on his hands, watching the man move slowly along the blackboard, writing out equations and mathematical notations that George should be paying attention to, but isn't. Instead, he focused on the man in front of him. Blonde hair, a strikingly sharp face, angular body in a seemingly ill-fitting suit. He watched the muscles under his shirt ripple with each movement across the blackboard. George doubted any clothes could do him justice, and blushed immediately at the improper thoughts. He shouldn't be thinking this way, not about boys. Not even about girls, lest he knew them. He didn't worry about girls though. He never thought of them that way.
A note suddenly landed on his desk. He looked around, before opening it quickly. It could be anything...
He read the dark word on the page, a mixture of pain and anger flitting across his face before he replaced it with a stony moodiness. The boys sniggered around him, as the ball rang and they all rushed past him, beating him on the back of the head with their schoolbags as George remained in his seat, afraid of the rush and the noise passing him. Afraid of humans in general.
'George?' A voice said softly. He knew the voice, but he couldn't bare to look at the face that matched.
'You alright, lad?'
'Y-Yessir. I'm fine,' George sniffled, obviously for the life of him, not fine.
'Alright. If there's anything wrong, just let me know, alright? You're a credit to the country, lad. Good little English boy,' the heavenly voice said, as a pair of lips reached his forehead and stroked back his hair.
And just as swiftly, he was gone, leaving George staring down at the crumpled ugly piece of paper in his fist and wondered if it was really true, if he really was a...
'QUEER.'
1914: Germany:
The harsh voice grated John's ears as he stared passively out the stone window onto the cold and seemingly lonely mountains below.
'QUEER,' the voice yelled, smacking the back of John's head as a pair of lips raped his mouth. The mouth pulled off immediately, John seemingly unresponsive to the attack.
'Now, repeat it again,' the voice snarled, smacking John's back with a crop. John shuddered but managed to keep his mouth in a straight line.
'Freudian analysis shows us that cigarettes and cigars are a sign of penis compensation,' John spat, feeling the knife strapped to his right leg cut into his skin, making him bleed. It was worth the blood, to see what he'd see in a few moments. Eight fucking years. Eight fucking years, gone in an instant.
'And you were caught smoking, weren't you, you little prince? You little bloody fucking queer?'
John smirked in spite of himself. He made it so easy, nowadays. He'd just give him what he wanted.
'Well, you smoke all the time. And it's for a good reason,' he cackled, leaning back in his chair as the body attacked him, ramming his head into the floor and gathering his arms behind his back as John hear the unzipping of pants and the grunt as the zipper got stuck. He laughed in spite of himself, before kicking out a back leg and grabbing the knife from his boot. Holding it high over his head as he straddled the body, John stabbed into it furiously, feeling the hard-on beneath him wane as he slashed and smashed as much as he could, blood flowing from the body in sticky licorisce streams.
'THIS IS HOW MUCH YOU FUCKING NEED FUCKING!?' John screamed, before a final slice knocked the head clear off the body.
He stood, panting, drenched in blood as his aunt came in, screaming at the sight and holding the doorframe to keep from fainting.
'Queer,' John spat, before pulling off the body and dusting himself off. He stared at his aunt, and couldn't help but smile calmly at her expression of horror.
'Well, auntie, how's about I join the army?'
1918: France:
The men stared at each other, stories told. Nothing more else to say.
Except...
'My life was harder.' John said suddenly, still holding George's body in his hands.
'You can't compare lives, you idiot,' George snorts, smacking John on the head.
'I can when it's true,' John replied, firing up and removing his hands from George's sides.
George remains silent, hoping John'll leave it, but knowing he won't.
John's eyes narrowed slightly,'Did you lie to me? Did you let that prof kiss you?'
George withdrew immediately, crawling as far away as he could in the small space. 'Why would I? I told you the truth.'
'Oh, I'm sure you did. I'm sure I was your cherry-popper, wasn't I?'
'Why are you doing this?' George said weakly, sneaking back towards him and running his hands over John's face before John smacked them away contemptously. George stared at him, anger building.
'Cor, I'm not him, don't you dare put me next to him.'
'Well, you're as good as him aren't you? You're English, anyhow.'
'Don't you FUCKING dare say that,' George trembled with rage, kissing John harshly, biting his tongue. John pulled him tighter, running his hands down his side.
He stared, before laughing lowly, 'Like to see you angry.'
George stopped immediately, pulling back and staring at John increudiously. 'You sick fuck,' he snickered. You had to learn how the laugh at things in the trench.
John rolled over, shaking with hysterics as George hits him uselessly with his fists, laughing as John pulls him underneath him.
'A sick fuck? Yes please.' John drawled, smirking and nuzzling George's hair lightly. 'Hope you don't have lice, pretty boy.'
George grabbed the whip strapped to John's side and holds it up innocently.
John stared back at him. 'My, you learn well. Would you like to be my sick fuck?' He kissed George heavily, tonguing him roughly as he pulled him up and slams him against the wall.
George mumbled, 'Wait, wait. What time is it?'
He fumbled for his pocketwatch, checking the time and rolling off the wall, limping towards the door. 'Got to check on the troops. We've got eight hours after that.'
John groaned, and collapsed against the wall melodramatically, 'You're killing me, Georg-e. Killin' me.'
George smirked, 'That's my intention.' He sets his cap on his head and pulled it down, straightening his uniform and brushing off his sleeves.
John stared as though he was Ares himself. 'God, you look good in a uniform.'
George remained unruffled, responding dryly, 'Well, we all have to wear one. I'll leave you with Starkley.'
John groaned in protest, a highly unofficial sound.
George rolled his eyes in response, 'What do you expect? Someone'll suspect if I leave you all alone. I'll see you when I see you.'
John walked behind him, using the wall as support and breathed heavily in his neck and ear. 'Not if I see you first.'
George shivered at the mouth on his ear, 'Don't leave here. Please.'
Without another word, he grabbed his rifle, strapped it to his back, and walked out the partly destroyed door into the bombs and the deafening sound he hated.
John looked around. The boy was trusting him with a lot. He weighed the options of escape.
No, he wouldn't dissappoint. Not this time.
Two minutes later, Private Starkley made his way in, a gun obviously placed in his pocket as he instinctively brushed it, soothing his shaken nerves as he stared at the dark force in front of him.
'I'm not going to both to shoot you, private. If I wanted to kill you I would have done it already,' John said, not even bothering to look up as he traced some initials in the dirt floor of the bunker.
Starkley looked slightly frightened, and immediately stopped stroking the gun, saying cautiously, 'Well, Captain Harrison said I could trust you.'
John looked at him, amused. 'Yeah you can. At ease, private.'
Starkley relaxed, leaning on the wall and grabbing a fag from the side of his helmet, offering one to John warily. The man took it, and they both smoked quietly for a few moments.
Then John thought of something. It was so obvious. And it could be fun.
'So, you... like Captain Harrison?
Starkley looked taken off-guard, 'Yeah.'
'Like him alot, do you?'
'Well, yeah. Like a brother.'
'Like a brother...a brother you'd like to fuck?' John breathed, running his hand up Starkley's pant leg, into the inner thigh as he scootched closer. 'Imagine your lips on his, him jerking you off.... you'd like that, wouldn't you?'
'No, no...' Starkley murmured, pushing his hips forward....
George walked in as John immediately removed his hands and returning them to his side as if nothing happened, Ringo's eyes still bugging out of his head.
George frowned at him, wiping his gun free of blood with a rag. 'What happened to you, Ritchie? Looks like you just got buggered.'
John grins slightly, hiding his face by taking another suck of his fag.
Starkley muttered an inaudible response and brushed past George in the tight space, hips rubbing against each other as they passed. George set his jaw out until the private left, before closing the door and pausing, before turning to John, a strange expression on his face.
'Did Ritchie have a hard-on?'