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“Such a filthy whore.”
John didn’t necessarily plan to drag his bandmate into an alley and fuck him, but four drinks and a perhaps unnecessary prellie later, here he is: buried to the hilt inside his mate George. George, who after a sip or two of any alcohol will do basically anything you ask of him. Not that he wouldn’t do that normally for John– and that’s the beauty of it, really. The kid actually enjoys what John throws at him.
“Please, Johnny, please!” He begs, pushing back like he can somehow get plowed harder. John grabs his head and shoves his face against the dirty wall.
“Bet you love being out here, don’t you? Getting buggered in this disgusting place, where anybody could see you.” John readjusts his stance so that he can attack at another angle. “You want everyone to see how much you need it.”
George sobs, reaching down to wank himself. John won’t have any of that. He grabs both his wrists harshly, pulling them back until George is arched up against him.
“You think you deserve to get off, you little slut?” George’s breathy moans become ragged as he’s relentlessly pounded from behind. “You’re here for my pleasure and mine alone. Don’t forget that, son.”
George gasps as John hits somewhere deep inside of him. “S-sorry,” he says, and it hardly even sounds like a word. John grins.
“Air’s so cold out here, must be freezing your poor little pecker.” He twists George’s arms up behind him and pulls him against his chest, effectively trapping them between their bodies. “Meanwhile, mine’s all nice and warm inside your tight fucking arse.”
“Fff– ahh…” The lad can’t even seem to form coherent words anymore. His knees are trembling like a foal’s. He shivers a bit, and John takes pity on him, wrapping a strong arm around his chest.
“Tell me how much you love it,” he whispers in his ear, never slowing his rhythm. “Tell me how much you love being fucked in the arse by me.”
“I–I…” George trails off, throwing his head back against John’s shoulder. John uses his free hand to smack his bum harshly, and George yelps.
“Say it, George.”
“I l-love… fuck! I love you f-fucking me in the arse…” he sputters out, entire body shaking like a leaf. John bites down on the spot where his shoulder meets his neck, just to see the boy cry out.
“Who do you belong to, George?” He demands, feeling his climax approaching.
“I-I’m yours, Johnny!” George gasps out, tears streaming down his face. John grins wolfishly.
“That’s right. All mine,” he says, and with one final thrust, he releases himself inside of George, pressing him up against the wall with full force until he’s fully spent. He stays there while he comes down from it, breath slowly returning back to normal.
“Erm… John,” George says, slightly muffled by the brick wall he’s still smushed against.
“Mm, ta, Haz. Needed that.” John releases him, watching the young guitarist stabilize himself. “Good?”
“I– um…” George stutters and looks at him helplessly. John sighs and shakes his head, ruffling the boy’s hair.
“I’m off, then. Tell the boys I won’t be back til tomorrow’s show.”
And with that, he’s gone, leaving George with his pants down in the cold, dick still achingly hard.
It takes much longer than it normally would for George to make it back up to their room in the dirty theater. He’s got a lot going against him: his drunkenness, the… god, the pain in his arse, the hard-on that refuses to go away, and worst of all, the crushing sense of emptiness that comes down on him as soon as John’s out of sight.
Fuck, why did he do that? Why did he let that happen? Why did he say those things?
It’s all terrible, because really, George doesn’t regret it. It felt good, just to let go and be roughed up a bit. It released some sort of primal energy that performing on stage just doesn’t really allow for anymore. They’re at the Top Ten Club now– no more raunchy foolin’ in front of the audience if they want to keep their jobs.
And yet, even if George enjoyed it, he’d still liked to have come. Whatever, nothing three minutes in a loo stall can’t fix.
As he splashes water on his face in the men's room, he recognizes how fucking rude that was of John, to leave him there like that. Which makes him chuckle, because what does that make the rest of what John did? Oh, the irony of it all.
He stumbles up the stairs. Crashes a bit too loudly into the room. Falls face-first onto the bottom bunk that he’s been so graciously allowed.
“-orge. George?”
His eyes flutter shut. Maybe if he pretends to be asleep– or dead– he’ll be allowed some peace and quiet.
“George!”
George grumbles and opens his eyes, lifting his head up slightly to see a miffed Paul McCartney staring down at him.
“You’re in my bed, y’know,” Paul says, crossing his arms.
“Feck off,” George says, burying his face back in the pillow.
“Oi! Just because you’re three sheets to the wind doesn’t mean–” he stops abruptly, and the next time he speaks, it’s right into George’s ear. “Fuck, Geo, what’s this?”
George flinches when feels his hand, shockingly warm, graze the bite mark on his neck.
“Nothing. Go ‘way.”
“George, what happened?” Paul demands. George sighs. Of course he won’t let up, the mother.
“‘M fine. Just tired. Please let me sleep.” Getting tired of being on his front and talking into the pillow, he rolls onto his back, throwing his arms up over his head. Paul gasps.
“Christ, what happened to your wrists?!” He jumps on the bed, displacing George a little as he scrambles on top of him.
“Paul-”
“Who did this to you?!” Paul takes his hands, examining his– indeed, rather deeply bruised– wrists. Must’ve been when John… George stops that train of thought before it starts, not wanting to get hard again in front of his best friend.
“I, uh…” He might brush the hickey off as some bird who got too excited, but the marks on his wrist are distinctly hand-print-shaped. Red and purple and ugly. George feels suddenly upset at seeing them.
“Oh… Georgie…” Paul backs down a bit, looking at George with blatant concern. “You okay, love?”
And that’s when the dam breaks. George tries to swallow them, but the tears just keep coming. He doesn’t understand– what they did felt so good, why is he crying over it?
“Geo!” Paul cries, instantly gathering George in his arms. As he’s rocked and soothed, a large hand petting his head and holding him to a warm chest, George realizes that this is what was missing. Even more than the actual getting off part, he just needed someone to hold him, whisper softly to him and reassure him. However pathetic that is, George doesn’t care anymore. In this fucked up scenario, he doesn’t care to take in other peoples’ opinions.
“S-stay, Paulie?” He whispers, half hoping Paul won’t hear him and will just come to the conclusion that it’s what George needs on his own. But no such luck.
“Yeah… yeah, I’ll stay with you, Georgie,” Paul says, depositing George gingerly onto the bed and squeezing in next to him. George, distanced from any semblance of shame at this point, nuzzles up underneath his friend’s chin, sniffling into his clavicle like a child who’s just scraped his knee. Paul coos and brings the thin comforter up around them, pressing a tender kiss to his forehead. George whimpers softly.
“You’re gonna tell me what happened to you in the morning, Geo. I’m awfully troubled by this, you know.” He sighs, running a hand through George’s hair. “But just rest for now. I think you need it.”
George hums into his naked chest, closing his eyes. “Thanks, Paul.”
He feels Paul smile into his hair. He wraps his arms securely around George, cocooning him in a protective embrace. Yes, this is exactly what George needs.
“Anytime, love.”