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sodalitefully · 4 years

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Santa Slash is coming to town...

This fic is the Christmas-themed spiritual successor to my Easter Bunny AU. Special thanks to @slashscowboyboots for supporting all my holiday nonsense!

Four snapshots from Slash’s Christmas prep marathon through the years:

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Jingle bells.

Fucking jingle bells.

There were FIFTEEN of them on the stupid-fucking-candy-colored costume he had to wear at this godforsaken excuse for a seasonal job. “Earn some extra cash,” they said. “It’s easy, you barely have to do anything,” they said. "You'll be perfect, you already look the part!" they said.

"They are about to find a size-ten jingle-toed bootie up their ass,” Axl said – to himself, as he rushed into the storage room turned "dressing room" and buttoned up his itchy red and green vest with one hand while sipping an Orange Julius from the food court with the other.

“Hey, Axl! You’re barely late today, awesome!”

And then there was this weirdo.

Axl could not for the life of him explain why a shopping mall in Indiana elected to hire a skinny dude in his 20s with a dark complexion and a nose ring to portray Saint Nick himself, but whatever the reason, Axl was stuck working with this fruitcake until Christmas Day. Sure Slash was nice enough (oh yeah, and his name was Slash, or at least that's how he introduced himself without offering any explanation or even a last name), but he was way too enthusiastic about getting paid minimum wage to let strange kids sit in his lap at a grimy old shopping mall.

Uh, not in a weird way, Slash was good with the kids, really. But sometimes... it seemed like he was taking his role a little too seriously.

"How come you don't have a beard?" the first customer of Axl's shift, a little girl in a Tweety bird sweater and blonde pigtails, asked suspiciously.

"That's a good question,” Slash said, scratching at his bare chin. The neck of his Motörhead Beyond the Threshold of Pain Tour T-shirt was visible over the faux fur collar of the Santa costume, and his shiny black boots clearly came from a military surplus store. “I get asked that a lot but the truth is, it just isn't a flattering look, trust me. I tried it once, and the elves could barely look at me in the eye." To Axl’s incredulity, the girl actually accepted that answer. "Now tell me, what would you like for Christmas this year, sweetheart?"

As usual, Axl tuned out at this point. Fake a smile for the overprotective parents, take the painfully awkward commemorative photograph, try not to look like he would rather die than hear Slash try to gently explain that Santa will probably not be delivering a pony this year one more damn time, rinse and repeat – until about an hour later, when the unthinkable happened.

The less said about about the incident, the better. Suffice to say, one of the darling angels tossed his Christmas cookies, and some of the resulting mess wound up soaking into the front of Axl’s elf costume. As if he needed another reason to hate his job; this was just adding insult on top of injury (that is, the injury to Axl’s pride as a result of being forced to wear the most ridiculous-looking costume he’s ever had the misfortune of laying eyes on).

“That’s it. I quit.” He grabbed the elf cap off his head and slammed it on the ground, then stormed through the exit gate past the sign wishing customers a "Holly Jolly Holiday Season," the bells on his costume ringing merrily as he stomped his feet.

“Hey, wait!”

“No,” Axl growled, but he did turn around to look back at Slash, still sitting in the plastic candy-cane throne unbothered by the mess or the sniffling child now mostly placated by a peppermint candy. "What."

Slash offered him a bright, beguiling smile.

"What do you want for Christmas, Axl?"

-----

Nothing said "holiday cheer" like wandering the tinsel-adorned labyrinth that was a Walmart superstore a week before Christmas, with Paul McCartney's "Wonderful Christmastime" echoing through the tinny PA system and surrounded by other last-minute vultures hopelessly scavenging the picked-over aisles.

In Izzy's defense, he actually finished all his shopping early this year, for once. But then his two little brothers begged him to drive them around town to find the perfect gift for a girl at school that they apparently both had a crush on, and like a fool he agreed.

He was regretting it now. Anything would be better than subjecting himself to nearly an hour of top-40 Christmas music. The jingle bells were jingling, the carolers were caroling, the B-list pop stars were spitting out god-awful covers of Christmas classics, and don’t even get him started on the commercials.

He wasn't about to walk around in public with his fingers shoved in his ears (at least, he wasn't that desperate yet), but he did squeeze his eyes shut and pinch the bridge of his nose, trying to force himself to relax. Just take deep breaths and think of The Rolling Stones...

"Hey, uh, you doing okay?"

Izzy opened his eyes reluctantly. In front of him was a young man wearing a concerned expression and a Santa hat, stuffed onto a massive pile of dark curls.

"I'm fine. Just finding out if it's possible to die from overexposure to Christmas music."

"Ahhh." The man nodded in understanding. "It's not, unfortunately. I've tested it, trust me."

"Do you work here or something?" Izzy asked. A leather jacket and ripped jeans didn't look like an employee uniform, but his hat matched the store decor and he didn't have a cart or shopping basket.

"No, I'm actually a seasonal distributor. Just checking in to make sure everything's in place before that last holiday rush, you know? Shit always gets crazy at the last minute."

"Tell me about it," Izzy responded, as if he knew a thing about marketing as a cynical 16-year-old. But he had first-hand experience with last-minute crises, and as if to prove it, his brothers came running up to him at that moment.

"Jeff! We can't find anything good, what should we do?"

"What's the problem?" the stranger in a Santa hat asked, looking genuinely concerned.

"We don't know what present to get for a girl at school," the boys explained.

"Hmm..." He tapped at his chin. "Why don't you just – oh wait, you're underage. Well, how about you bake her some cookies or something? That's what everyone does for me and I have no complaints."

Desperate to remove himself from this musical hell, Izzy jumped on the idea. "Yeah, you could do sugar cookies! And decorate them like horses, she likes horses right?” The boys had only mentioned that a dozen times; Izzy was starting to wonder if this girl even had any other personality traits.

To his relief, a spark lit up in his brothers' eyes. Cookies were a perfect idea, and suddenly they were dragging him away to look at cookie cutters and sprinkles.

Izzy turned around to shoot the helpful stranger a grateful look, but when he looked back, the man had disappeared with no trace, leaving not even a furry white pompom behind.

-----

Slash glanced out the window and grimaced – it was cold as a witch’s big bouncy tit outside, nothing but snow and ice as far as the eye could see. He pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders and took another swig of hot Irish coffee. Damn the North Pole, there was a reason he took his summer vacations in Malibu.

But despite the miserable work conditions, Slash was nothing if not dedicated to his job. In front of him was a sack overflowing not with toys but with the most recent letters to Santa, straight from the North Pole's post office. With Christmas only a few days away, his daunting task was to go through the whole mountain of letters as quickly as possibly in order to take their special requests into consideration before it was time to start loading up the sleigh.

Well, there was no time like the present to get started. Slash stretched his back and got comfortable in his coziest armchair (by throwing his legs over one armrest and slouching until his head rested on the other), absentmindedly tapping the end of his peppermint stick on the edge of an ashtray. He grimaced when he brought the stick back to his lips and realized his mistake.

With a sigh, he dropped the peppermint stick back in the ashtray already full of cigarette butts and ruined candies, and unfolded the first letter. In barely legible green marker, the message read:

Dear Santa Claus,

My name is Steven and I'm 5 years old. Please give me a skateboard for Christmas. My brother has one and he won't let me borrow it to learn tricks.

Hmmm. Five years old was a little young for a skateboard. Knowing Steven, he'd probably knock his teeth out by New Year's...

...Slash shrugged. Why not? All things considered, he would have killed for a skateboard when he was five, so who was he to say no?

-----

Duff was seven years old when his older brothers cornered him in the backyard and gleefully informed him that Santa Claus was a fraud. It was all a lie made up by parents to convince their children to behave during the year, they explained, and the toys were made on factory lines not by magical elves. Their mother gave them a hell of a scolding afterwards but it was too late, the deed could not be undone.

He tried to play it cool, but the truth was, Duff was very distraught as Christmas Eve inched closer. Could his siblings be right? He didn't want to believe it, but if he was being honest with himself, he'd suspected as much for some time. He braced himself to accept the hard truth come Christmas Eve – but only if he was presented with definitive proof.

When the fateful night finally came, Duff and two of his brothers laid out their sleeping bags behind the couch, where they'd be hidden from view if anyone tried to approach the Christmas tree. They all swore not to fall asleep, not even for a second until Christmas morning... And it wasn't until his brother started snoring that Duff realized he was the only one still awake and silently anticipating the moment of truth.

It was imperative, of course, that he stayed hidden and didn't make a sound, or else risk giving their plot away. But... it was past midnight, dinner was hours ago and Duff's empty stomach was starting to distract him from the task at hand. He couldn't stop thinking about all the food he would get to eat with his family on Christmas Day: the glazed ham, mashed potatoes, apple pie and Christmas cookies...

In the dim light, Duff could just barely make out the plate of cookies for Santa, waiting in front of the tree. The cookies were still there untouched, all six of them... Surely no one would notice if Duff ate just one?

He tiptoed over his sleeping siblings, as silent as the snow falling outside, making his way around the sofa to the plate on the coffee table. But just as he reached out to pluck a gingerbread man from the assortment, he saw a shadow of movement out of the corner of his eye. There, beside the Christmas tree in the flickering glow of multicolored string lights, was a mysterious figure in a fur-lined coat and a red cap.

Duff stared at the intruder, slack-jawed. The cookie clattered back onto the dish, and at the noise the stranger whirled around to face him.

"Duff! What are you doing still awake?" he demanded. Duff took a breath to answer – or more likely to ask how the man knew his name – but before he could, the man peered over the couch, narrowed his eyes and frowned. "Oh I see what this is. You thought you would catch your parents pretending to be me!" he accused. "Well, here's the real truth: adults are always wrong and you should never do what they say!"

The man – could he really be Santa Claus? – he planted his leather-gloved hands on his hips as he scolded Duff. "And don't even get me started on teenagers..." he griped, casting a stare over Duff's shoulder where his older brother's leg was sticking out from behind the couch, tangled in a blanket.

Tears started to well up in Duff's eyes.

"Please still give them Christmas presents! I know they said they don't believe in you, but they've been good, I promise!" he begged. Santa's expression softened.

"Aw, I know, kid. I promise they'll still get their presents, alright? Let me just finish up here and then maybe you can help me out with those cookies, sound good?"

Placated, Duff sniffled and nodded, scrubbing his eyes with his sleeve. He hopped onto the sofa, swinging his feet and watching with awe as Santa pulled beautifully wrapped gifts out of seemingly nowhere and stacked them around the tree, one after another until all eight of the McKagan children were represented. He took a step back to take in his handiwork, made a few minor adjustments, then turned back to Duff: “Voila! That’s the magic of Christmas. Now pass me that plate, would you?”

Santa sat down next to Duff and propped his boots up on the coffee table. When Duff held out the plate of cookies, he selected one decorated to look like Santa Claus, white beard and all, and promptly bit its head off.

“I love my job, but delivering presents is exhausting,” he sighed, accepting a glass of milk from Duff’s outstretched hand. “I’ve already covered Asia, Africa, Europe, and most of the Americas, so I’d say I’m due for a break. Cheers, Duff.” He held up his glass and Duff tapped it with his half-eaten cookie.

“To a merry Christmas and a happy New Year!”

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#which sounds better:#santa slash or slash claus?#what do yall eat on christmas? i realized while writing this that i have no idea what people normally have #sodafics #guns n roses #gnr #guns and roses #slash #saul hudson #axl rose #izzy stradlin #steven adler #duff mckagan #gnr fanfic #christmas

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mithranqueersmusings · 4 years

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Before This Dance Is Through I

Chapter: 1/16

Rating: T

Summary: Ringo's being going through a dry spell for the last year or so and when he regretfully tells his best friend John, he insists on taking them to an all-male strip club for some "fun". Ringo isn't sure whether it's the alcohol, his desperation or a mixture of the two but he thinks he might be falling in love with a stripper.

Tags: AU - Strippers, Modern Setting, Smut, Slow Burn

Pairings: George Harrison/Ringo Starr, John Lennon/Paul McCartney

AO3 link here / Fic masterlist here

It had been over a year since Ringo had sex, but the only thing worse than that was telling his best friend John drunkenly one night. John never seemed to have any trouble finding someone to sleep with, it was like second nature to him, but still neither of them seemed to be making any progress in the relationship department. Ringo had never been a massive fan of one night stands, but at this point he'd take anything he could get; John on the other hand seemed to prefer them, the amount of notifications he got on his phone from Grindr or Tinder, or whatever new app he was trying out, was astounding. In general John was more open - and obvious - about his sexuality, sporting a pin that read 'sword swallower' almost every time they went out. Ringo wasn't ashamed to be gay, that was far from the truth, but he just never seemed to align with the more flamboyant expression that a lot of gay men tended to follow. Despite all this, it didn't stop him from allowing John to drag him out to Pride every year covered in glitter and cheap boas, or to a gay club every other weekend, or in tonight's strange case: a strip club.

The two of them tried to meet up at least once a week to have a catch-up and tonight was one of those nights, it had started with dinner at Ringo's place but ended up - as it often did - at the pub. John was very open about his sex life, Ringo didn't particularly mind but recently it had been bothering him since he had no stories of his own to share. It was difficult to pinpoint exactly why it had been so long, it seemed like in the blink of an eye a few months had turned into over a year. He was just always so busy with work and when he wasn't working he was either sleeping or with John, there was just no room for another person; although his bed did feel incredibly empty. Ringo knew that all it would take would be to follow John's confident lead, to get dressed up - or down - and to seek somebody out in the club, or even try one of his "dating" apps, but as he got older Ringo just didn't feel incredibly comfortable doing that. He had begged John to not drag them out to a club that night, which he begrudgingly agreed to, but it then lead to the dreaded question.

"Well how long has it been since..." John finished the sentence with a raise of his eyebrow.

"Since what?" Ringo chuckled nervously behind his drink.

"Since you had a good shag." John widened his eyes dramatically, stretching his neck forward.

"Erm... Not that long." Ringo mumbled then desperately took a sip of his beer.

"Jesus, that long?" John tutted and leaned back in his chair "Why didn't you tell me? I could've set you up with someone."

"No offence but I'm not massively interested in your 'friends'." Ringo bent his first two fingers to make air quotes.

"There you go again talking about 'interested in', it's just sex Ringo!" John raised his voice a little, a telltale sign he was getting drunk.

"Keep your voice down, Jesus." Ringo hissed "I'm just sick of all the meaningless sex, alright?"

"You say meaningless like it's a bad word." John chuckled then sighed when he saw Ringo's disapproving look "Fine, fine. But that doesn't mean we still can't have some fun tonight."

"No, John. I am not in the mood for a club tonight." Ringo said plainly.

"I didn't say anything about a club." John grinned in his signature way, a way that made Ringo panic.

"What then?" Ringo asked cautiously.

"Well..." John began, drawing out the word "There's a little place I've been frequenting that might interest you."

"Out with it, Lennon." Ringo rolled his eyes with a small laugh.

"Just hear me out, okay? Because as soon as I say the word you're instantly gonna say no." John had put his drink down now, meaning he was being 'serious'.

"What word?" Ringo huffed.

"Strip club." John spoke quickly "That's two words but you get my point."

"No." Ringo said simply.

"Come on! Why not?" John whined, reaching his hand forward to pull at Ringo's sleeve.

"Because I don't want to. The last thing I need is some lad giving me a lap dance and I cum like that." Ringo clicked his fingers to emphasise his point which made John laugh.

"You're so modest." John giggled "It'll be fun, I swear. If you don't want any meaningless sex or whatever, you may as well go the next extreme."

"That makes no sense." Ringo was trying not to smile but it was difficult with John.

"Look, you're probably gonna go home tonight and wank to some boring, twinky porno, right? How's it any different to go and watch some beautiful, twinky dancers in real life? I'll tell you how it's different, it's better." John had begun pointing his finger with almost every word.

Ringo sat in silence for a moment then burst into laughter "I hate that you know me so well."

"I'm your best friend, it's my job. It's also my job to get you out of this rut you've gotten yourself into, and if you won't let me set you up with anyone and I'm guessing you won't let me get you a prostitute..." John paused and looked at Ringo with hopeful eyes.

"No." Ringo scoffed.

"Then you have to at least let me take you to this strip club. It's not that seedy, I promise. There's some gorgeous guys there, and I mean gorgeous. You don't even need to get a lap dance or anything if you don't want to, we can just sit at the back and drink, just like we're doing now." John retained his hopeful gaze.

Ringo paused once again, screwing up his face slightly in thought then let out a heavy breath "Fine."

"Really?" John almost gasped.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. I'm just about drunk enough to go along with this." Ringo laughed "Let's just go now before I change my mind."

The two of them downed what was left in their drinks and headed out into the night. Ringo pulled his coat close to his body as they walked down the street, John leading the way excitedly; Ringo couldn't remember the last time he'd seen him so happy. It was cold enough to justify getting an Uber, but Ringo didn't think he'd enjoy the knowing look on the driver's face when he dropped them off at a strip club. The walk to the gay quarter of the city was a familiar one, it was almost exclusively where John spent his time therefore where Ringo would find himself at the end of most of their nights together. Ringo was aware of a few more 'adult' establishments in this part of town but sometimes it was hard to tell the difference between what was a sex shop and what was merely a gay bar with a raunchy name. It didn't take too long before they'd arrived outside a fairly large building painted all black with neon trimmings around the doors and windows and a few people outside smoking; they passed John a knowing nod which Ringo was hardly surprised by.

"The Helter Skelter?" Ringo asked as he read the sign, turning to John.

John shrugged his shoulders "It's phallic, I suppose."

The inside looked considerably less questionable than the exterior, but it was also incredibly dark. As they entered one of the bouncers greeted John warmly, and Ringo was certain he'd seen him in the morning at John's at least once or twice. The music was loud to say the least, it probably wasn't any louder than it was at the club but the whole atmosphere made everything seem more claustrophobic. There were two bars that Ringo could see, one near the entrance and one towards the back which gave a better view of the main stage. The scantily dressed men hadn't caught Ringo's eye immediately, though he was consciously trying not to stare, but once he noticed them it was hard to ignore; almost all of the men walking around were shirtless, some of them in nothing but a jockstrap and a bow-tie or a hat - Ringo wasn't sure whether that was meant to be sexy or comical. He suddenly felt very aware of his presence and couldn't feel like he could walk much further than the door, but John was already sauntering in like he owned the place, which he probably wished he did. John turned around when he noticed Ringo wasn't beside him, gave him a frustrated look and hurried back over to his side.

"What's wrong? Cock got your tongue?" John winked but it didn't help Ringo relax in the slightest.

"I should probably go home." Ringo murmured, he didn't feel like he had full control over his mouth.

"Don't be a git, we're here now. Let's just get a drink and observe, okay?" John didn't wait for a response, instead he practically dragged Ringo over to the bar.

The bartender offered John his usual and Ringo ordered the same, not knowing exactly what he was ordering but his brain didn't feel able to process the question.

"How often do you come here?" Ringo asked when the bartender turned around to make their drinks.

"Not as often as I'd like." John was already perusing the crowd.

"But why?" Ringo turned his back to the club, feeling unable to look at the spectacle on the main stage.

"I dunno, I just like it. Mixes it up a little. It's an art, you know? But its like... sexy art." John rambled and Ringo couldn't help little out a low chuckle.

"Sexy art? Sometimes I wonder why I'm still friends with you." Ringo mumbled.

The bartender returned with their drinks and the two of them muttered a thanks, Ringo began drinking it desperately to calm his nerves. Out of the corner of his eye he could see John mouthing words to someone across the room, as much as he told himself he didn't want to know what was happening he couldn't help turning in his seat to get a better look. On the other side of the club was a man meeting John's gaze and mouthing back at him, he was holding a tray of drinks and serving a group of men without breaking eye contact. Once the tray was cleared the man gave a smile to the customers then began walking over to the two of them. He was one of the few men actually wearing a shirt but his bottom half was almost entirely exposed, wearing tight, black shorts and boots with a sleeveless, white shirt with a black bow-tie to match, it was supposed to be some kind of a 'sexy waiter' costume Ringo guessed. He had a very pretty face, Ringo had to admit, with dark hair and large, doe eyes and a fairly slim body; yet the petite appearance he had was counteracted by his body hair, of which there was quite a lot, with his arms and legs covered. Ringo wasn't trying to stare but it was difficult when someone looked so inviting, but the man hadn't given a single glance to Ringo as he walked over, rather his eyes were fixed on John's entirely.

"Fancy seeing you here." The man spoke, he had quite a soothing voice.

"Haven't scared me off just yet." John grinned but then turned to look at Ringo "Where are my manners? This is my mate, Ringo. It's his first time in a strip club, can you believe it?"

"Virgin, eh?" The man laughed "Well we'll have to make sure you have a good time tonight, won't we?"

Ringo felt his face getting a little hot with the man looking directly at him, he let out a nervous laugh "I'll probably just stick to drinking."

"Come off it, we're gonna get you a lovely lad." John nudged him playfully then turned back to the man "Who's working tonight?"

"Same old. Except, we do have a newbie that started two weeks ago." The man smiled somewhat devilishly "He moved over from the joint that shut down, what was it called..."

"Honey Pie?" John replied a little too quick.

"That's the one. Awful name." The man chuckled.

"I can agree with that." Ringo spoke after taking a final sip from his drink, signalling to the bartender to get another.

"Well he's up on stage next I think, in a few minutes or so." He gestured to the stage where a man was currently on all fours twerking to a Britney Spears song "Could give you some time alone, Ringo, while I take care of your friend here."

Ringo gulped and looked over to John who had his eyebrows raised suggestively "No harm in looking, I suppose."

"That's the spirit, Rings." John smirked "We'll just finish up our drinks, when the new guy's up I'll come and grab you, yeah?"

"Sure thing, love." The man winked then headed back off into the club.

Ringo had already almost finished his second drink, gripping tightly onto the glass as though it would crush his nerves somehow. John slapped him on the back warmly, ordered a second drink for himself and leaned on the bar so that he could get a view of both Ringo and the rest of the room.

"You two seem to get along." Ringo had tried to sound jokey but the tension in his body was immense.

"Oh yeah, me and Paulie go way back." John chuckled.

"Paulie?" Ringo asked.

"Well his name's Paul but you know me, I love my pet names." John finished the last drop of his first drink.

"Not much of a stripper name is it? Paul." Ringo chuckled quietly.

"Well he's a stripper and his name is Paul." John was looking at Ringo a little worriedly "What should he be called?"

"I guess you're right. I just figured it was like porn stars or something." Ringo let out a heavy breath and tried to straighten his back, he'd been huddling over the bar as though it would protect him somehow.

"Well you better not make that mistake again. That'll get you kicked out before you can say 'latex jockstrap'." John picked up his second drink now.

"Why do I feel like you're doing this to punish me?" Ringo groaned.

"Loosen up, Ringo. Let's get another drink in you and we'll see how you feel, yeah? I'll stay with you if you want but I figured you might be a little more comfortable without me hovering around." John motioned to the bartender for another round "All you have to do is sit back and watch the bloke dance, is that so hard?"

"It might be hard, that's the problem." Ringo laughed, he felt himself loosening up a little.

"I wouldn't worry about that, they probably take it as a compliment. Hell if I was grinding on a bloke's lap and he didn't even get a semi I think I'd slap him one." John patted Ringo on the back again, a lot harder than he probably intended.

John continued trying to get Ringo to relax for the next several minutes and it seemed to work, although Ringo felt the alcohol was the main factor, and it wasn't too long before the stage was emptied and a voice came over the club announcing the next dancer: Spike.

"Spike?" Ringo asked with a giggle.

"Oh so Paul isn't stripper enough but Spike is too stripper? Make your mind up." John got up from his seat and motioned Ringo to do the same.

They headed over to the seats that surrounded the stage, Ringo wanted to sit at the back but John shoved him forward to the front. Before he vanished off in search of Paul, he reached into his pocket and fished out a couple crumpled notes which he then thrust into Ringo's hand. Ringo stood there dumbfounded for a moment before music began playing and he quickly sat down in a chair, he regretted how close he was to the stage immediately but he figured it might look a little insulting if he moved now. He tried looking around for John but he was nowhere to be seen, neither was Paul for that matter.

Ringo recognised the song quickly, it was 'Fame' by David Bowie and it was some consolation that the music was at least familiar but then he began to worry whether he'd be able to listen to it again without this memory coming back to his mind. He didn't have very long to worry because someone was walking out onto the stage, and Ringo swore for a moment his heart stopped. Spike, although Ringo seriously doubted that was his real name, was absolutely gorgeous. He came out in a mesh vest and purple baggy trousers, his dark hair was slightly coiffed - an attempt to give him a Bowie look - and his face was insanely chiselled. Ringo's mouth dried up almost immediately and he cursed himself for not bringing a drink with him, a part of him wanted to get up from his seat and rush out of the club but an even larger part was desperate to stay, to watch.

Spike made his way slowly down the stage, swaying his supple hips as he walked, a serious and sultry look in his eyes. There was a fixed pole in the middle of the stage which he gradually moved over to, standing in front of it then lowering himself down to the ground with his legs spread wide with one hand ghosting over the pole and the other running down the inside of his thigh. Some of the other men in the club had already begun whooping, yet Ringo didn't feel like he could make a noise if he tried. Spike then began thrusting his hips slowly into the air, rolling them in a circle with his mouth slightly hanging open. He lowered himself onto the stage floor so that he was balancing on his knees, he straightened his back and ran the hand that had previously been gripping the pole to run over his chest. His slender fingers began toying with the fabric at the bottom of the vest, his other hand mirroring the first, and he raised his eyebrows just slightly in the direction of a group of men who called out incoherently to answer the unasked question. Then the vest was peeled off his body agonisingly slow revealing a toned chest beneath it, and Ringo suddenly realised he'd been clenching his fists tight enough that his nails had begun to leave marks.

Ringo swore he was feeling light headed, his vision felt a little fuzzy and his heart was racing. Spike had continued moving his hips to the beat of the song, one hand roaming over his now bare chest. Much to Ringo's dismay he began walking off the stage into the crowd, first heading over to the group of men Paul had been serving earlier to collect the notes they were eagerly waving in the air. There weren't too many people in the club, it was a Wednesday night after all, which meant Ringo wasn't as hidden as he'd like to be. When he saw Spike turning his gaze to look at him, a bank note currently between his teeth, he felt his heart drop. Both of his fists were clenched in his lap and his heartbeat sounded almost as loud as the music, but worst of all he was hard. Shit. If it would've looked rude to have moved seats earlier, it would have been like a spit in the face if he got up and walked away now.

Ringo wasn't sure if Spike could see the intense panic he was currently experiencing, perhaps that was the very reason he was coming over. He continued to sway his hips as he walked, his brooding eyes fixed unshakably onto Ringo's, a small smirk on his thin lips. Spike looked Ringo up and down, his tongue darting over what looked like rather sharp teeth, before he turned his back on him and began lowering himself down onto his lap. No contact was made, instead he hovered painfully close over Ringo's growing erection, grinding his hips with his hands sliding over the silky material of his trousers. It was torture, but just about bearable. Ringo was gripping the arms of the chair ridiculously tightly, he wondered if he'd be able to break them through the power of his panic alone. He focused on controlling his breathing, but it was increasingly difficult when Spike looked over his bare shoulder and licked his top lip sinfully. You can do this, Ringo kept telling himself, and he almost believed it until things got much, much worse. There was a ripping sound and Ringo felt all the air leaving his body, he couldn't even prevent the rather pathetic moan that left his lips; Spike had torn off his trousers in one fluid motion, throwing the discarded fabric onto the stage, revealing nothing but a jockstrap underneath.

The group of men began cheering again, one of them urging Spike to come back over but he didn't pay them much attention. Instead he turned back around to face Ringo which only made things more difficult - hard would've been a better word to use - with Spike's bulge almost eye-level with Ringo and his sharp face looking down at him. Ringo looked up to meet his dark eyes and felt like he could've orgasmed then and there from a single touch but before he could get too used to the sight, Spike was returning to the stage. Ringo had no idea how a single song had managed to last this long, but apparently it had, and he was almost certain he couldn't survive another minute of it. When Spike had begun wrapping himself around the pole, Ringo forced himself to get up from the seat and find the nearest bathroom to cool off. While a part of him was still worried about appearing disrespectful, he wasn't quite prepared to be reduced to a pile of sweat and moans in front of all those people.

In the bathroom, which was thankfully empty, he splashed his face with cold water and stared at his face hard in the mirror to gain some sense of normality. Part of him wished he'd be able to hide in there until the club closed but unfortunately that wasn't a valid option. He took a few deep breaths and headed out of the bathroom, making a beeline to the bar near the entrance and ordering a drink immediately. Spike was still on stage dancing to another Bowie number, but Ringo forced himself not to look. Two drinks later and Ringo felt an all-too-familiar slap on his back as John reappeared into his sight.

"What you doing sulking over here?" John asked, he had a very satisfied grin on his face "You're missing the show!"

"Fuck you." Ringo chuckled, the glass in his hand was almost empty.

"What? Why?" John scoffed.

"Look at him, he almost killed me!" Ringo gestured drunkenly over to the stage.

"Jesus, I'll be honest I didn't expect him to look like that." John snickered "You can't tell me you didn't enjoy it."

"A little too much, if I'm honest." Ringo sighed "But right now I'd love to go home and have a very, very cold shower."

"You sure I can't tempt you to a private dance?" John nudged him.

"No." Ringo said firmly, but his speech was a little slurred "Home, now."

"Fine, suit yourself." John groaned "Did you at least give him some money?"

Ringo paused for a moment then reached into his pocket, pulling out the same notes John had given him "Oh, suppose I forgot. My mind was a little preoccupied."

"Who raised you?" John scoffed, snatching the money back "The money's not for you."

"You do owe m-" Ringo began but John cut him off.

"Don't start with that." John was looking out across the room again and motioned for Paul to come over.

"You want another one already?" Paul purred after hurrying over and looking down at the money.

"Not tonight, love." John winked "Can you pass this on to the new fella, Ringo was too busy trying not to cream his pants that he forgot to tip him."

Paul looked over at Ringo with a smug smile "Enjoyed the show then?"

"Depends on your definition of 'enjoyed'." Ringo mumbled into his drink.

"I'll make sure it gets to him." Paul swore as he took the notes from John and tucked them into the waistband of his shorts, Ringo debated how hygienic that was, then disappeared into the club once again.

There was a silence between the two of them for a while before John began to laugh for no real reason, and Ringo couldn't prevent the contagious nature of it, so the two of them sat laughing at the bar for a few minutes. When the silence fell again, Ringo was the first to speak.

"Now can we go home, please?" Ringo urged, discarding his empty glass on the bar.

"Fine, fine. Thanks for coming with me tonight, and more importantly: you're welcome." John got up from his seat and Ringo sluggishly followed him.

"For what?" Ringo asked.

"For giving you something new to wank about." John giggled.

#the beatles #beatles #beatles fanfic #the beatles fanfic #beatles fanfiction #george harrison/ringo starr #ringo starr/george harrison #ringo starrxgeorge harrison #george harrisonxringo starr #starrison #mclennon

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gloves94 · 4 years

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The Munter [Paul McCartney] 4

Warnings: None Pairings: Paul McCartney/OC Summary: Sage O'Shea is a hardworking woman of the 1960's. A strange combination of brains and- well- Let's just say she is not your average beauty. Au contraire she's a Munter. John bets Paul that he wouldn't dare date such a monstrous woman. Despite his best judgement Paul agrees and takes John on his daring bet. Will Paul be able to see Sage's true beauty? What's going to happen when poor Sage finds out about their nasty bet? Whether the results are pretty or not- one thing I can say is love works in mysterious ways.

My fanfiction: M A S T E R L I S T

4. The Offer

Friday, November 22nd, 1963

Yes.

It had been possible.

Paul had been shamelessly flirting with her and she had been right to mistrust him. It had all started with the influence of the most troublesome band member corrupting the most impressionable one.

"Didn't know you fancied Brian's little gargoyle," John teased. "Got her a little gift and everything," John Lennon chuckled maliciously as he spun on Brian's desk chair childishly. Opposite of him Paul sat on a sofa chair with his legs crossed. He was calmly reading the newspaper. The small box white box he had gotten his accountant sat on the coffee table at his side.

"Oh, sod off," Paul responded mindlessly under his breath as he flipped a page of the paper. Unluckily for Paul McCartney, John was very bored this morning. "Is it the glasses? That beasty hair mane? The caterpillar brows?" Paul lowered his paper to look at his best mate who was leaning across the desk wiggling his eyebrows. He looked at John with a bored expression and shook his head.

"John, leave her be," Paul sighed.

"John, leave her be," John retorted in a mocking tone as he babbled like the buffoon he was. Sometimes Paul didn't understand why John had been baptized as the "Smart Beatle". He could be so obnoxious sometimes.

"There you go again defending the Four Eyes," John taunted.

"Why?" Paul glared. "Why are you so fixated on her appearance?" He frowned as he put his newspaper down. The edge of John's lips curled

"Ah, I know what you're doing Macca. See I think what you're doing is very clever."

"And what exactly am I doing?" Paul arched an eyebrow.

"You're buttering up the little monster so she can do your bidding. Clever man. I hope you can pull some strings for me, eh Paulie."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Paul rolled his eyes as he returned his attention to the day's dull news. "Oh yeah?" John's voice dripped like honey as he sought out the best way to stir the pot to push all of Paul's hot buttons. "But wouldn't it just be grand?" He pressed on. "I can't stand the thought of having to cut my budget. And it won't be long before she's bossing us around on Brian's behalf. Breathing down our necks. Locking us up for the weekend with a ball and chain!" He declared dramatically.

"She'll be a bug John, but it's her job," the other shrugged.

"You see I - I need to keep my affairs in order." John tossed a pencil against the desk and looked terribly smug.

Again Paul lowered his paper. This time he ripped a page out.

"Which ones? Financial or romantic you swine?" Paul said as he crumbled up the paper ball and threw it at John hitting him on the head.

"Both," Lennon replied shamelessly with an eat-shit grin.

"You're a pig Lennon, and Cyn- she's expecting."

"It’s not the same when they are expecting. Everything changes. All she does is bitch and bitch and bitch. You’d think I married a mouth instead!" John laughed. Paul once again rolled his eyes.

"Enjoy it while you can- and always - alwayscarry a rubber with you!" John gave Paul an unwanted penny for his thoughts. Paul shook his head and stood up ready to leave the room and maybe flirt with that new blonde girl just to kill time.

"Wait! I just had the grandest idea!" John exclaimed as he snaked around the desk like the vile creature he is and stood before Paul blocking his way out. "Bet you can't seduce the Munter," he slapped his friend's arm. "Oh I bet you!" He said giddily.

Paul scoffed. Please.

"I'd be a ball. She'd do whatever you say. We'd have her under our thumb!"

It was ridiculous. It was incredulous. John had to be joking. Both laughed at John's ridiculous proposal. "Very funny you git," Paul laughed.

"Unless- you don't think you can?" John pressed with a mischievous glint on his eyes. This struck a chord in Paul. John knew exactly what he was doing how he was riling his best friend up.

"Can't? Of course, I can," Paul said smugly puffing up his chest. "Would I?" he huffed. "Not in a million years. I'm not the one that needs glasses Lennon."

"Why don't you do it?" Paul suddenly shot back. Slapping his best mate's arms back. "You seem to have a bitching good time doing it to others."

"Paul, I'm a married man," John opened his arms innocently as he retreated back to Brian's desk chair.

"Alright mate, you're only married when it suits you."

"But which one of the Fabulous Four would have the greatest success? I am after all loyally committed," He stuck out his wedding band finger. "Ringo is not even half as charming as you are- and well George is well George." Lennon shrugged.

"John," Paul found himself almost magnetized as he retreated back to his original seat. "She's a little- alright - she's hardon the eyes. I'd be monstrous to do something so horrid to her – to anyone."

"Fine, if not you. I guess I'll just have to find somebody else," John tempted as he spun in his chair with an innocent façade. "Unless, of course, you don't think you can tame the wildebeest." John chuckled quietly, his light brown eyes lingering on his bandmate.

The gears in Paul's brain quickly ticked and turned and taken over by his weak male ego he grinned. "Alright then. What's in it for me then?"

"What do you want? Money? I'll wear drag for a week if you want," John chuckled. "Anything you want Paulie."

It was then that his conscience got the best of him.

"No John. We can't do this," Paul hesitated.

"Why not?" John said a bit too quickly. He had been so close to getting Paul wrapped in his evil scheme.

"What if- what if I'm not her type?" Paul sought out an excuse out of this sure to be mess. It was wrong. It was unethical. It was a horrid thing to do to anyone. "What if she rejects me?" He deadpanned.

"Oh, so you are interested then?" John grinned. The other sighed. "Oh, You dirty dog!" John slapped his palms on Brian's desk.

"John!" Paul exclaimed. "Just what had he gotten himself into. She's a Munter," he whispered in an agitated hiss. Even if it was only the two of them in the room. "I-I can't even picture myself holding her hand!"

"Do you want to?" John poked.

"Want to what?"

"Hold her hand?"

Paul rolled his eyes.

"Let's shake on it then," John stretched out his hand. He truly was the devil and not in disguise. His hand was even twitching with eagerness. "Let's be real, you'd be doing her a favor. You paying attention to her would be the grandest thing to ever have happened in her sad little life. You know what? We'll do this for fun, bet you can't get the gargoyle to fall in love with you." John laughed.

It was childish. It was so unnecessary. How old were they again? Did they not have anything better to do?

But it hurt Paul's pride. He knew he could. Girls of all ways of life practically threw themselves at him. What would make this one any different? It would be easy. Besides, he was never one to back down from a challenge.

Paul should've thought about it a little more. Should've been more empathic more mature about the entire ordeal.

"You're on mate," he slapped his palm on John's.

Saturday, November 22, 1963

I swung my bag over my shoulder as I made my way home. On my other hand I my heavy messenger bag now loaded with George and Ringo’s accounting paperwork.

“Sage!” I turned around and stopped dead in my tracks. It took only a moment for a person to tackle me into an aggressive embrace. “Thank you!” Isabel shouted into my ear. “You saved my life!” She exclaimed as I had to pry her arms from around me.

"Not your life, just your job," I clarified in a bored tone.

"Still!" She insisted reaching for my hands.

"Why did you do it?" She asked the million-dollar question, her brown eyes wide.

I shrugged. Maybe it had been Ringo’s expression. Maybe it had been the desperation in the woman’s eyes who knows. I mean I’m not the devil, it wouldn’t have made me a better person.

I simply shrugged and turned away.

"I'm sorry!" Isabel called out as I walked away.

Xxx

"Mum! I'm home!" I called once I arrived home, but surprisingly mother wasn't home. "Odd..."

I made my way to the living room and began to play an old Sinatra record and just momentarily unwind. Throwing the bag with all the paper work to the sofa with an exhausted sigh. You'd think a girl would catch a break on the weekends. I fished out the little paper where Paul had neatly written his phone number and address. “’To the loveliest vision," the other note that had been found alongside the gift was burning in the pages of the diary I kept in my night stand's drawer. I didn't dare ask if he had written that or even what it meant. So I decided to phone him, it wasn't late enough that I would inconvenience him or early enough that he might be out an about. I toyed with the phone cord nervously as it dialed. It was then that a voice much to gruff to belong to the Cute Beatle picked up on the other line. "Hello?" "Hello," I retorted politely. "Hi- Good evening. Is Paul there?" The line went dead with a ring. I looked at the phone confused before once again dialing hoping we had gotten cut off or something, but alas nothing. I mean- why call him? Wouldn't it be easier if I just went over ahead and dropped off the papers? There was no need for chit-chat. Deciding to get over with it, I once again dressed up in my winter gear and decided to make my way over to his place. It was then that the phone rang. It could only be him. Who else? "Yes, Paul?" I picked up on the second ring sounding a little too eager. "Paul?" It was a woman's voice. "Why is Paul phoning you?" the voice asked. "Isabel," I greeted curtly. "Never the mind, Sage, I was wondering if maybe you wanted to come over? So that we could review some accounting terms?" I didn't hesitate in hanging up the phone. The nerve.I had already done enough for the woman. xxx The address that he had written wasn't too far away from my own home. Once I arrived, I had to do a double take at the address. Yup, this was it. It wasn't the place where I would image a Beatle lived. It was a simple red brick house with a luscious green garden. Approaching the front door, I rang the doorbell. The door opened and an older gentleman opened it. He visibly cringed when he saw me and with a groaning noise slammed it on my face.

"Hey!" I protested banging on the door. This was the right address, I was certain. And what a rude man!

"I'll tell lol you something girly, you're not the first or the last to come by today, but you really are the ugliest one!" The grouchy man said in a rough voice through the door.

"I'm here to see Paul!" I shouted back ignoring the insult.

"Oh, I know. You're the one that's been ringing incessantly! And don't even get me started-" I could hear him stepping away.

"I work for Brian Epstein!" I shouted. "Paul asked me to come deliver some papers," I explained breathlessly. The older man opened the door wide this time and eyed me curiously with mistrusting eyes. "If you don't believe me, here," I handed him a note. "It's his handwriting." It was.

Moving aside like a troll block an entrance the older man moved and allowed me to come inside the house which smelled like fresh paint. I figured he probably had just moved here. He lead me to the living room and instructed for me to sit before going into the kitchen.

He returned escorting two young girls out of the house.

"Ladies, thank you for cleaning my floor, dishes and shelves. I promise you; I'll ring you when Paul gets here. Buh-bye," he waved as they left.

They both called out a "Thank you Mr. McCartney" and left.

By the resemblance and attitude I could only guess that the man was Paul's father.

"Sorry about that," he began as he clapped his hands off as if dusting them off.

"They are driving me absolutely looney! Ringing all day, breaking into my home. These two offered to clean, figured they might as well make them useful," he chuckled.

I sat uncomfortably in the new living room with my legs shut tightly together and my bag guarded in my arms anxiously.

"Tea and biscuits?" He offered.

This was very awkward. I wasn't sure what to say and Jim McCartney, Paul's father sat across from me eyeing me as if I had two heads.

"You're not like the others," he said wisely as he sipped on some tea. "I know these things," he pointed wisely. "If I may ask- why don't you shriek and sob like the others do with my son? Or lust after him like a rabbit in heat?"

I rudely spluttered some of the tea I had been sipping back in the tea cup I had been drinking from. I put the cup down and cleared my throat.

"Well sir, I'm a professional you see? I work for a Brian Epstein and the rest of the band, that is, including your son. I'm his accountant." I explained.

"A working woman," he nodded impressed. "I was young once as well- so if you would just tell me the real reason," his tone changed to a bored one.

Mr. McCartney really didn't beat around the bush.

"Well," I took in a deep breath and let out an uneasy laugh.

"You said it yourself, I'm the ugliest girl that's come by the house all day long," I shrugged. "And yet- you don't allow that pessimistic opinion to defeat you. You really are different," he sipped some of his tea.

"I'm a realistic person Mr. McCartney, I am well aware that your son or any other Beatle or man would be sent to a mad house if they even considered laying their eyes on me. I know that perhaps beauty isn't my affinity, but I'm pretty brilliant in other areas. Also, at the end of the day they are just humans like you and I,” I offered with a small smile.

He couldn't help but chuckle. "Well best watch out for Paulie, that's never stopped him before," he wiggled his arched eyebrows.

"Dad!" It was Paul. The voice came from upstairs. He came down from the stairs with his hair soaking wet. He was dressed in casual clothes and wearing his house slippers. His face was pink, and he looked terribly embarrassed. Had he been eavesdropping?

"What are you doing you twisted old man?" He protested as he joined them in the living room. He looked around swiftly for the fan girls. "Are they gone?" He asked in a hushed tone.

"Oh, relax son. Yes, they are gone. These girls are starting to come in handy, they're cheaper than a maid!" He said with both his brows raised.

"They steal my underwear and socks dad!" Paul protested.

"You don't even live here!" The other retorted.

"Sorry that you got stuck here with my old man. I hope he didn't bore you to death," Paul apologized. "Bored her? Ms. O'Shea has proven to be one of the most pleasant conversation that I've had in weeks! All of your other girls are all brain dead 'where's Paul?' 'Can I see his pictures?' 'Paulie this, Paulie that, yadda, yadda,'" he rolled his eyes. "Its refreshing to have someone that doesn't want to talk about you all the time!"

Paul ran a hand through his wet hair nervously.

"Yeah, remember that you were just going to bed?" Paul said through gritted teeth.

Mr. McCartney waved him up and made his way upstairs.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever. I'll leave you two kids to it."

Paul sighed and shook his head.

"Sorry about him, he gets lonely in the city. More so, now that I don't live with him." He sighed. "Oh, that's fine. My mother is the same," I nodded understanding.

"I'm remodeling my pad so I'm crashing with Old Jim for the time being."

There was an awkward silence. I was unsure of how to proceed. I fidgeted with my thumbs I eyed the door nervously ready to escape. It was simple just drop off the papers and get out.

Here I was. Alone with Paul. His hair was wet and sticking to his forehead. He wore a white t-shirt and a pair of brown pants. Drop the papers and get out.

"Some scotch?" I was caught off guard by Paul preparing himself a drink.

"N-No thanks," I answered warily, "I don't drink," I explained. Get out. The voice inside of my head said to me.

Paul raised his eyebrows surprised. "Try it then, it won't kill ya," he said with a coy smile as he poured her a cold glass old fashioned scotch. It was that same smile, the one that would make girls bend over backwards to do anything for him. It worked wonders. Not wanting to look lame, I thanked him quietly and took the glass in my hands. I swirled the golden drink in my hand inspecting its density and realized that he had put a record on.

The song was more than familiar.

“Y-you like Sinatra?” I asked surprised. What a stupid question. Who doesn't like Sinatra?

“Old Blue Eyes?,” he responded. “I know you do.” There it was again - that damn smile.

Oh, right. He had been in that cave hole that is considered to be my office. I figured he must’ve seen the framed portrait I keep on my desk.

“Right,” She retorted curtly my eyes darted for the door. Out. I really didn’t like the way he was looking at me. Paul approached me and sat in the sofa next to me. His body was pivoted so that he was facing me. His arm was casually arched resting over the sofa’s seat. He took a heavy sip of his drink. I inched away from him as inconspicuously as I possibly could.

Romantic music, alcohol, his body language. My mind began to race, there was no way in hell he had invited me over with the malicious intent to seduce me. Then again there was that note. I looked at him oddly. Paul was called the Cute Beatles by the obsessive groupies that stalked and followed the band around everywhere. With his perfectly arched eyebrows, full lips, petite nose and dangerous bedroom eyes in my eyes he was the most handsome of the Fab Four.

“Try it,” he said leaning over and raising up the glass slightly to my lips. I took a drink from her glass just like he had done and just how I had seen people do in flickers whenever they wanted to appear cool headed.

I felt my throat clamp shut and groaned as the strong liquor burned. I couldn't help it, I began violently coughing.

"Hey easy there, it's not Lemonade," Paul said after a chuckle. "Water?" He offered kindly touching my shoulder. This gesture was enough to send me overdrive.

I managed to nod through coughs as I patted my chest.

This was too much. Too weird. Too awkward. I looked at the door only a couple of steps away. I had delivered the papers. I could make a go for it and just leave.

As soon as he was gone, I swung my coat on and made a go for the door as quickly as I could.

I was about to reach the doorknob-

"Running away?" I could almost hear the smirk on his lips. I had been caught. I felt my face turn scarlet and flush with embarrassment. There was a smug expression on his face he held a glass of water on his other hand.

"It's late, it's getting dark. I best get going," I spoke quickly with a raspy throat.

"Nonsense!" He replied approaching me and handing me the glass of water. His cold hand touched mine as he did. It lingered there for a second, enough to make my heart skip a beat. I must've been imagining thing because the edge of his lip slightly curled into a grin before he turned to reach for his coat from the coat hanger.

"A lady should never walk home at night unescorted," he said picking up a set of car keys. "Come on, I'll drive you home."

"No. It's close by-" I protested but he simply pushed me out the door. He wasn't even wearing shoes! He was on his slippers!

Outside he ducked his damp hair from the November winter. "Paul!" I opposed. "I'll be fine, I swear."

"Inside," The gentleman said as he opened the car door open.

My eyes slightly widened at the gesture. No man before had ever offered to escort me home before, much less had bothered to open the car door for me.

Without an alternative I stepped inside of the silver convertible. I sat inside of his nice car stiffly. It was an Austin Healey 3000, the type of car that I had only seen in James Bond flickers or in toy form much less been inside of. Like the house the convertible also smelled new.

I clenched my shaky hands in an attempt to appear more composed. This was so inappropriate, nothing good would come out of this, I know it. He clearly does not like me; he could not like me. He could not be flirting with me. Not one boy had ever reallyfancied her, and the one that had- well... let's just say it is not a pleasant story.

He got in the drivers seat and turned to smile at me. I turn away hoping he won't realize just how nervous I really am. He set on the ignition and drove on to the address I gave him. Neither of us exchanged a single word during the entire car ride. I was too nervous and well- only God knows what was running through his head. "Music," he said. It was more of a factual statement not an offer as he turned on the radio.

“Yes music!" I retorted louder than intended. Finally, they were outside of my house. The home was your stereotypical middle lower-class British home.

"Thank you very much Paul, goodnight! Ta!" I said hurriedly as I opened the door almost running for her dear life.

"Sage wait!" His hand reached for my arm as he held me in place.

"I'll confess," he began, and I shallow a knot that had formed in my throat.

"I invited you with an ulterior motive." Uh-oh.

I looked at him with both of my eyes wide. For a moment I could've sworn that her heart stopped. It wasn't possible. His grip tightened around the fabric of my coat. He looked at my terrified expression. "I-I actually wanted to…” there was a hint of hesitation on his tone.

I held her breath as he pondered on his words. I wondered just what in the world he could've wanted to do with me.

The music, the lighting, the booze, I prayed it wasn't a some ruse he played on all the new members of Brian Epstein’s team.

xxx

There was an angel standing on Paul’s right shoulder. It reminded him of his mother, may she rest in peace. It reminded Paul that the eyes of a person are the windows to their soul and hers were kind. They were innocent, and vulnerable, pure and hidden away from the word shielded by two framed glass walls.

On his other shoulder however was a horned imp wearing red suit that resembled his best friend, John.

“You dirty dog,” it laughed inside of his head. “Don’t tell me you’re begging to get sappy over the Munter? Ya pansy cakeboy!”

John’s imaginary voice reminded him of the bet he had agreed to be a part of. Maybe he was right, maybe it would be fun. Considering she had almost ran away from him twice now it was definitely going to be a challenge. And the only challenge wouldn’t be getting her to fancy him-

He tried not to stare at her massive eyebrow, her poor skin, her bushy untamed hair and just overall awkwardness.

How was he supposed to even kiss her? Would he have to find a way around it? Turn off the lights? Do it in pitch darkness.

Paul wasn’t a masochist but- now he hadto do it. His hubris was on the line. Besides, he still had time to think just what vile thing he would ask John to do once they got even.

So he pulled a malicious lie out of his ass.

"Sage," he looked down to reach for her hand but she kept them tucked close to her body looking terribly uncomfortable.

"You're-" he ransacked his brain for a compliment.

Paul was a man of words, he had to select his adjectives with a keen eye to detail. He really should've thought this more thoroughly.

Beautiful? Nah. Too much, too fast - besides it would sound like a hollow compliment. Pretty? Too overused.

Suddenly he found himself stuck. This really was going to be harder than he had assumed. It was so easy to tell any woman that they were beautiful. They might be bashful about it, but they would believe anything that came out of his lips. This one- what would he praise?

"Smart," he blurted. "Brilliant!" He said more to himself at the comment. "You're a woman whom I don't have to pray to the Lord to throw some brains down from heaven. You're efficient-"

Her eyes were wide in shock and confusion as he spoke.

"Point is-" he mumbled to himself. How would he go on about this? "I want you-" He paused for a moment. How would he word this? 'Have dinner with me?', 'Come out with me?', 'Come out. We could go dancing have a good time.' He was at loss of words and he looked at her, this time he really looked at her. The innocence that was reflected on her face. He couldn't do this to her. "-be my personal assistant," he finished dully.

She remained mute. This was too weird. "I-I'll pay you handsomely, twice whatever it is that Brian pays you."

It took her a moment to regain her composure. "I-I don't know what to say," she responded flabbergasted. "Paul, I'm flattered, I really am, but I'm looking for something more serious and I'm happy with my current position."

"Which is why I'm paying you more," he pressed.

"I'm sorry, but I can't." She said shaking her head, "I didn't kill myself studying just to end up as- an assistant." She said lowly sounding frustrated. He let go of her arm and she excited the car.

Paul was struck, had she just rejected his offer?

He rolled down the window as she rushed up the stairs. He had to do something, say something.

"This is exactly why I need you!" He shouted after her.

She froze in her steps and turned to face him in the cold night. Hands shoved deep inside of her pockets. She looked at him expecting him to continue. to her surprise he even got off his car and stepped towards her. She looked at his tall frame approaching her. Maybe he had been completely wrong about her.

He guessed there were simply something's that money couldn't buy. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out, his brows furrowed. "Thanks for the ride," she mumbled before reaching her door.

"You are one of the few people that see and treat me- actually treat us. As actually human beings." He spewed unsure of where all of this was coming from. "You don't put me or the others in a godly pedestal. You-You respect yourself, which makes you an even more valuable… team asset." He licked his lips, and shifted on his feet uneasily. “Think of it as a steppingstone in your career.” Her eyes lingered on him for a second. There was something about his offer that made her uneasy. Something that didn't sit right with her gut.

"Goodnight Paul.”

xxx

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#the beatles #beatles #fanfic #John lennon #Paul mccartney #George harrison #Beatles fanfic #ringo starr #lennon #mccartney #oc

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twoheartsoneclara · 5 years

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i want you all to know that i’m putting on the playlist that i have while writing this stenbranlon au and it’s just two songs by lorde, one by paul mccartney, and the entirety of the pride and prejudice (2005) soundtrack

#claire.txt #so far...

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mclennunf · 7 years

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Anotha prompt!! Modern AU mclennon on valentines day

omg i think i know who this could be ;) lovely idea, and i hope i can roll with it!

February 14th fell on a Sunday this year and John Lennon didn’t sleep in late, as he usually did every Sunday. This would be his and Paul’s fourth Valentines Day together as a couple and he was sure it would be a good one. Paul McCartney was a romantic, he always had been. He loved going all out for John. There was many times when John would come home from a long day, and Paul would have a bath drawn with candles lit, or even when Paul would convince John to meet him at the park and come to find the younger man with a picnic of John’s favourite food (cornflakes) waiting for him.

That being said, Paul knew that John wasn’t good at all the lovey-dovey romantic gestures like Paul was, but he showed Paul his love for him in different ways. John was notorious for the little things. He always made sure Paul had a blanket when he fell asleep on the couch while they watched the telly, or made sure Paul always had a fully stocked stash of his favourite tea and snacks. Paul never expected much from John because of these little things.

But boy, Paul was wrong this Valentines Day.

J: Good morning and happy Valentines Day my lovely. Your task for the day requires you to follow the clues and find me. :)

P: Playful little bugger, aren’t you?

J: Your first clue is outside your door. I can no further be in contact as per Mr. Valentine, but I will see you soon and if I’m lucky, you’ll be mine.

Paul laughed at the messages. He loved when John was goofy, but this was so unlike him it made Paul’s stomach fill with butterflies. He went to the front door and opened it. There was a polaroid photo on the front step. Paul picked it up and scanned it to find it was a photo of him and John at their first pride event together back in 2012, before they were dating. Their mate George, a photography nut, had taken the photo, and Paul was surprised that John still had it in his possession. But, he also had no idea why or how this was a clue. He flipped it over to find John’s familiar scribbly handwriting.

The person in which you seek is hidden, and when found you will sing. You’ve sang in the same place before, with a bright rainbow thing!

Paul chuckled to himself as he read John’s little poem. He knew that meant the next clue would be at Strawberry Fields, where the pride event John had taken Paul to had been. It didn’t take him long to get there, because he was so excited he wanted to see John’s little plan unfold. He walked into the fields, wandering around quite a bit before getting too anxious and excited.

P: I’m in Strawberry Fields.. Can’t find a damn thing.

Paul waited a few minutes after his message had been marked read, but it seemed that John was sticking true to his word by not staying in contact any further. Paul rolled his eyes and began walking again, but he tripped, and fell down onto his knees. “Bloody hell!” He quickly jumped up and moved his head from side to side, making sure nobody had seen his fall. He looked down and saw a rock, exactly what he had tripped on. He picked it up and just as he was about to throw it away out of frustration, he noticed a sticky note with the same familiar scribbly handwriting as the polaroid picture.

When our love was blooming you’d make me walk, down the street around the block. Our favourite place with cigarettes and pints, my favourite place to watch you rock.

“Too easy. The Cavern!” Paul said out loud to himself with a smile. He literally skipped to his next destination. Outside of the Cavern, there was another polaroid photo taped to the door. An unusual thing to see, but it was Sunday and nobody would be showing up to the Cavern on a Sunday. Paul gently pulled the photograph off of the door and brought it up to his eye level. It was a photo of Paul sitting on the stage of the Cavern by himself, sitting on a stool with his guitar. Paul remembered this photo, because George had taken it and showed Paul immediately after his set. The way the spotlight hit Paul made him look professional and handsome, but he remembered being miserable because of how hot it was. John must have taken the polaroid from George. He flipped it over to find the same style note as before.

Though I know I’ll never lose affectionFor people and things that went beforeI know I’ll often stop and think about themIn my life, I love you more

Paul smiled at this note wholeheartedly, and he knew that he had finally reached his destination. He assumed the door would’ve been locked, but it wasn’t. He hesitantly walked into the Cavern and headed down the stairs. It didn’t smell like the usual stale pints and burning cigarettes. When he finally made it down to the floor, he was surprised by what looked like at least 100 candles around the dance floor. When his eyes finally met the stage, there he was. His John was sitting on a small stool beside what looked like a record player. John knew how much Paul loved the vintage sound of a record. Paul’s heart was already doing backflips, but when he watched John stand up to reveal that he was wearing a suit, he could’ve fallen over. He switched on the record player, and their song, Can’t Help Falling In Love by Elvis Presley came on. Paul could’ve cried.

John met him in the middle of the dance floor and put his hand out, nodding toward it in a gesture for Paul to take it. Paul’s hand was shaky, but he took John’s hand. John pulled Paul close into his chest, placing his hand on Paul’s hip and began swaying back and forth to their song. John leans in and kisses Paul’s cheek before whispering in his ear.

“Happy Valentines Day, my love.”

#mclennon #mclennon fanfiction #mclennon one shots #mclennon drabbles #anon #answered

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imaginebeatles · 8 years

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Art and Obligation | Chapter 16

Pairing: John/Paul

Rating: Nc-17 (PG-13, for this chapter)

Set in: 1820s (au)

Summary: John Lennon works as the apprentice of a well-known portraitist and is tasked to do the picture of the young Mr. Paul McCartney. He is the son of Jim McCartney, a wealthy and powerful landowner, and has the reputation of an arrogant, spoilt brat with a pretty face, who has a way of wrapping anyone around his finger. But soon John finds that things are not as straightforward as they may seem.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Beatles and this is fictional. I do not make money off this.

Author’s note: So, here it is. After I don’t know how long. I hope you’ll like it :) Thanks again @chut-je-dors for translating some stuff into French again for me. The translations are listed below again like last time.

The words Paul had uttered that afternoon concerning his father remained swirling inside John's mind even throughout the following morning when Paul and he had decided to enjoy breakfast together at one of the cafes just outside of the city limits, before going on a walk to admire the city as they had been planning on doing since they had first arrived in the city. It was a small but pretty café, situated directly on a narrow street, which left barely any room for any tables to be placed outside, but the large glass doors at the front could be opened to provide some room for two or three tables on warm days. Today, however, the doors were shut and the inside was filled with people attempting to escape the dreary weather and the dark looming clouds that were drifting overhead, which had prompted the waiters to put down some extra tables and chairs, making it almost impossible for anyone to walk around without accidentally bumping into anything. The mossy colour of the painted wood on the exterior of the building had been carried through inside in the wallpaper and tablecloths, and had been mixed with some accents of deep reds and oranges as well as the dark grey of the stone slate flooring to create a warm and cosy feel, while the light coming in through the windows kept it bright and fresh.

John and Paul had taken a seat at a corner table alongside the wall at the front of the café and enjoyed a cup of coffee and a plate of fried eggs and toast, while they took in the pleasant smell of tobacco, coffee, freshly baked pastries, and the many different flowers that were placed onto the many tables in small vases. There was a strong whiff of cologne and perfume in the air due to the many people that were seated in such a small space, which they both tried their best to ignore as Paul read a French newspaper and John took some notes in his notebook while staring out of the window. Occasionally, he would glance at Paul and study him as he wondered what exactly the other man had meant when he had said his father would kill him if he knew about them, but Paul appeared oblivious to the intent gaze that had been fixed upon him. He knew he should not have expected any differently when Paul had once again refused to elaborate on his words and strange demeanour, considering he had so far always been met with a dismissive gesture or phrase when he had inquired about anything remotely personal, but still he had not been able to help but hope - perhaps rather foolishly - that it would be different now.

He was glad, at least, to note that despite his odd reaction yesterday, those mixed and confusing feelings he had expressed were not still plaguing him now, as John had first feared. He looked calm and composed as he sat back in his chair: his legs crossed, back straight, shoulders loosened, and his hands relaxed and unwavering as he turned the page or brought a piece of toast to his mouth. He looked precisely how a man of his class ought to look in a situation such as this one and how John was used to seeing him - with his mask placed high upon his nose, looking distant and approachable at the same time. Below the table, however, well hidden from view, he had his knee pressed firmly against John's, like a constant reminder of their newly-found closeness, and on his wrist, John could catch glimpses of white and green sparkles, which told him Paul was wearing the bracelet he had given him, each glimmer causing his stomach to twist with pride that this gorgeous beauty of a man belonged to him.

"I see you are wearing my gift, then," he said as another sparkle caught his eye, and he repressed a grin as he glanced up at the younger man to see him doing something similar. The more time he spent with him, the easier it became to recognise the smallest clues that could give away what the man was truly thinking and feeling, knowing where to look. This time, John could see the tiniest of twitches at the corner of his lips as Paul suppressed a smile of his own and allowed the bracelet to roll further down his wrist, making it look like an accident as he brought it into clear view for John to see.

"Of course. Something as beautiful as this, it would be a shame not to wear it, wouldn't you agree? Not that I appreciate your manner of acquiring it, however," he said, giving John a firm look, but there was a sparkle in those hazel eyes that gave him away and allowed John to let his grin shine through as he cocked his head to the side, feeling rather smug.

"Naturally," he replied with a wink in good-humoured jest, pricking a piece of toast onto his fork and eating it as he kept his eyes locked onto Paul's, before laying his fork back down and licking some egg from his finger, watching in amusement as Paul's gaze was drawn to his mouth at the movement, recognising the sparkle of interest that lay in it.

"Besides," Paul spoke after clearing his throat and averting his eyes from the distraction that was John Lennon's mouth, which filled the older man with a sense of triumph, "there would have been no use in refusing it. I am well-acquainted with your sort."

"My sort?" John scoffed in return, snickering as Paul glanced back at him with an almost exasperated look in his eyes, before his hand vanished beneath the table to grasp at John's wrist before the older man had even realised he had been moving his hand to the other's thigh, taking John by surprise as he halted his movement.

"Yes, Mr. Lennon, your sort. I have been around enough young gentlemen like yourself to know not only how to recognise them, but what to expect as well. That," he paused to nod at where his hand was still firmly wrapped around his wrist, "was hardly surprising, nevermind impressive." For a moment John was uncertain how to reply to that, and licked his lip as he considered the implications of what the other had said, liking the subtle hint of a challenge that lay in it, one that he was more than eager to accept, the suggestion of Paul's experience with former lovers resulting not in jealousy, but in an eagerness to prove himself, a competition not so much with those previous partners, but with the man himself, a tug-of-war with the same end-goal but with each other's pride on the line. John assessed him for a moment, before pulling back his wrist in seeming defeat as he sat back in his chair, displaying his body to the other man in a manner that was supposed to be inviting, as he continued to hold his gaze, a small smile playing on his lips.

Paul, however, pretended to be indifferent to the other's attempt to play him with such a simple trick and turned back to his newspaper, as if that was the end of their conversation. His expression had barely changed at all during their exchange, not having so much as twitched or flushed at anything either of them had said or done, making it seem like they had been talking about the latest developments concerning the impeccable state of Aunt Mimi's flower beds, rather than shooting some flirtatious banter back and forth, which was a rather curious thing, considering yesterday he had not been able to pose in the nude without becoming aroused, and John wondered how he managed it.

"We aren't going to discuss what happened yesterday, then?" he asked after a moment of silence as Paul brought his cup of coffee up to his lips, watching closely as he halted at his words for a second before taking a sip as if nothing was wrong.

"We are discussing yesterday," he said, keeping his eyes on the newspaper that lay before him, but both men knew that was not what John was talking about it.

"That is not what I meant, Paul. I am talking about what you said about your father."

"I don't feel the need to discuss it. Nor do I wish to bore you with something as silly as that. It is not important and it most certainly does not concern you."

"Oh, I think it more than concerns me, seeing as you were talking about what would happen if he would find out about us, which clearly includes me. Is that what you have been worrying about all this time? About him finding out?" John asked, and Paul studied him for a moment before shaking his head.

"John-" he started, but before he could say anything else, they were interrupted by a young lad about the same age as they were, perhaps slightly younger, with bright amber eyes, blond hair, and a slender physique, who greeted Paul like an old friend, his English sounding broken on his tongue that was clearly more used to the shapes and forms of the French vernacular than the English one.

"Mr. McCartney! I had not expected to see you here. Good morning! Or, well, I suppose it could be better, considering the weather. I thought you were still in London?" the young man asked in a bubbly sort of fashion as he came to stand next to them, a bright smile on his face. Paul turned to him with a matching smile of his own as he recognised him and offered him his hand, which the young lad shook with a polite nod, before offering him a seat at their table. Thankfully, the man refused.

"Oh no, my apologies, but I shouldn't. Olivier is waiting for me here somewhere. I am supposed to meet him for coffee. You remember Olivier Morin?" he asked, sounding surprisingly fluent in English, despite his accent, and Paul nodded as he replied that he did. "He is having a small ball this evening, you see, just among friends, of course - you know the kind - but there are still some things to arrange. Organisational things, I mean. He asked me to assist him, so I cannot stay and talk for long. But it is wonderful to see you again. I thought you wouldn't be back until springtime at least. If I had known you would be here..."

"Last minute change of plans. Oh, and allow me to introduce you to a dear friend of mine, Mr. Lennon." With those words, Paul turned around to motion at the man beside him, who looked up from his notebook in surprise at the mention of his name, and swiftly covered the mindless sketch he had been making of the stranger before him in his notebook with his left hand as he offered him his right with a force smile. "John, this is Cédric Gardet, a close friend of mine."

"How do you do," he grumbled as they shook hands, while his mind tried in vain to work out what exactly Paul had meant by calling the man before him "a close friend", especially considering he had been introduced as his "dear friend". Once the French lad had released his hand with a polite nod and a wide smile, John shuffled closer to the other man beside him and laid his hand on his thigh as he closed his notebook to keep anyone from seeing what he had been working on, knowing neither the lad himself nor Paul would appreciate it. Cédric continued to smile as he looked between the two men, his eyes travelling from John to Paul and back again, until his smile widened even more in what appeared to be understanding.

"It is nice to meet you, Mr. Lennon," he said, before turning back to Paul, leaning with his hand on the table as he leaned closer to him, lowering his voice as he spoke.

"If you are interested, the ball I was talking about is happening this evening at eight at the Morin's mansion as usual. I am certain Olivier would appreciate it if you were to come. I know he would have sent you an invitation if he had known you were in Paris," he said, looking suddenly somewhat nervous as he glanced around him, as if to check whether if anyone was near enough to hear what they were talking about. The secrecy awakened John's curiosity.

"We would love to come, Cédric. We will be there," Paul promised and the lad's face lit up at the news, all worry having momentarily disappeared, before his expression turned serious again.

"Olivier will be most pleased to hear that. He has missed you, you know. As have I, of course," he said and with that he pulled back from him and turned his attention to the both of them again as he continued. "Now, if you two gentlemen would excuse me, I'd better not let my friend wait for too long, or else he'll get impatient. I will see you both this evening. À bientôt!" he said and raised his hand at the both of them, before vanishing back into the crowd of people as he made his way further into the café.

"Who was he?" John inquired once he was certain the young lad was too far away to be able to hear them, trying not to sound as bitter as he was feeling. Paul, however, didn't seem to notice the shift in his mood and merely smiled as he picked up his cup of coffee and took a careful sip, minding not to burn his tongue.

"An old friend of mine. Oh, and do not worry about this evening. You will enjoy yourself," he said.

"How do you know?" John asked, finding that hard to believe as he most certainly did not like balls, feeling little desire to be dancing with strange women he was not interested in and making polite conversation with people that were so uninteresting he could not even make himself pretend to care. Paul, however, smiled at him and nudged his knee with his own at his question, which John could guess was supposed to be a comforting gesture.

"Remember when I told you the art exhibitions were not the reason why I enjoyed my trips to Pairs? Well, this upcoming ball will show you exactly why I do enjoy these trips so much," Paul said and took another sip of his coffee before continuing. "These balls Olivier Morin organises are not your usual dances. It was during one of them that I met Cédric, if you were wondering."

"He is not just an old friend, is he?" John asked and swallowed thickly when Paul shook his head in reply, glancing at John from the corner of his eye.

"He is a good lad. I was seventeen when I met him and we have been close ever since."

"Is that how you realised you... had certain preferences? How your father found out?" John asked, and Paul nervously glanced around to see if anyone was paying them any attention, before he shook his head.

"Finish you coffee," he said, much to John's surprise, as he moved to stand up and began to put on his coat. "If we are going to discuss this, we'd better not do it here."

The two men barely spoke to each other at first as they made their way through the small cobblestone streets of Montmartre, walking closely together underneath a single umbrella which they shared to protect themselves from the rain that was softly falling down from the sky above them. It did not look like the weather would be clearing anytime soon, neither men being able to see even the slightest glimpse of blue among the grey clouds, but they hardly cared, liking the excuse it offered them to be walking pressed together like they were, with their shoulders and arms brushing as they ascended the hill, moving higher and higher up to where Paul had promised him they would be able to look out over the entire city of Paris. It was only when they came by a set off stairs that would lead them further up the hill at a steeper incline and through the many tall buildings that made up the neighbourhood, that Paul began to speak, their surroundings being completely deserted except for the occasional stray cat.

"Cédric was not the first man to pique my interest," he said in a soft voice as they began to climb the stairs, locking his arm with John's to be even closer to him and to offer them both some additional stability, the stone stairs being slippery beneath their feet due to the rain as they ascended them. John hummed to let him know he was listening as he glanced at him to see him looking down at their feet as he continued to speak. "Nor am I worried my father will find out about my preferences, as you called them. I would even dare to say he knew about them before I did." He chuckled at the confession, but John did not join in, feeling the way Paul's hold on him tightened as he spoke the words, which revealed just how painful and potentially scary it was for him to talk about something this personal.

"How did he find out?" John asked as a gentle encouragement, which made Paul glance up to study him for a brief moment before letting out another chuckle.

"You really are not going to give up on this, are you?" he asked, but John did not need to answer the question, both men already knowing the answer he would give. The younger man took a deep breath to calm his nerves before he started speaking again. "I met this boy," he said, biting his lip as he considered how to continue, "I was young , barely twelve, and from the moment I first saw him I felt a strong attraction to him. Not that I understood what that attraction meant, of course.

"We met at one of the old theatres in Liverpool before it closed down, and it had been one of the first times that I had been allowed to come backstage when I first saw him. One of the actors had taken me under his care and was showing me around when I saw him practising some lines with some other boys and, of course, I was thrilled to hear I was allowed to join in. He was handsome even then and a good year older than I was, but we became close friends and I would visit him at the theatre as often as I could manage, sneaking away from home whenever I could with the most silly excuses. We would meet up after shows as well, something my father especially very much disliked and I think now he might already have suspected something then, but for months it went fine like that. We would talk, play, rehearse lines, and he’d try to teach me how to act, but I wasn't any good and I preferred to simply practise lines with him and watch him play instead, but he never gave up on trying. My brother Michael would cover for me when my mother would ask where I was, but after a while she started to realise where I was going whenever I vanished and told my father. He was furious, of course. Having his own son socialise with actors and other common low-life types, it was disgraceful in his eyes.

"He caught us together that same day. We had been rehearsing lines together, sitting alone in one of the dressing rooms and were holding hands when my father burst in. He yelled at me, slapped me across my face, and dragged me away and out of the theatre. Not long after, the theatre was shut down and the company that he had been part of had moved to London. We had never gone much further than holding hands or giving each other curious pecks, and I don't think I quite realised what I had been doing until I saw the anger on my father's face. I had never seen him that furious before."

"That does not sound pleasant," John said, uncertain what else to say, and Paul chuckled sadly as he nodded in agreement.

"It wasn't. I met him again when I was seventeen during a family trip to London. We fell into bed together, but we never reconnected in the same way again. I still visit his plays whenever I can, though."

“Are you talking about that young actor we saw in London a few days ago? Whitfield ? I er… I heard you mention something about loving him,” John confessed, surprised when Paul chuckled.

“You weren’t meant to hear that. Besides, I never loved him. I have never loved anyone, I don’t think. After him there were many more: other actors, rent boys, artists... When I was sixteen I had an affair with one of my father’s acquaintances. He was quite a few years older than me and taught me a lot. My father caught us kissing one day and decided that if I had not found myself a proper wife by the age of twenty-five, he would take matters into his own hands. To be honest, it had been a stupid mistake to start making out in the library of all places with the door unlocked. I should have known better and my father had been furious with me. Probably because he had thought my preferences had changed since that day with Whitfield. Two years later he found out about the rent boys, which meant I needed to find another way to continue my affairs. First, I only had Paris, where I could do whatever I wanted as long as I was careful, and my father was never aware of any of the men there, I don’t think. But then about a year ago, he hired a new stable boy. He caught me with him over two weeks ago.”

“And that is what has been bothering you?” John asked and Paul nodded as he bit his lip.

“He gave me an ultimatum: either I find a girl to marry in the coming two months, or he will find someone for me himself. I came to Paris to enjoy my last sense of freedom before I take a wife. My father does not even know you are here.”

“Shouldn’t you find a girl to marry, then? So you know you are at least marrying someone you like?” John asked, knowing he would not be able to stand marrying someone he did not know or was at least a little interested in, but Paul shook his head.

“My father will find someone suitable. After all, it would not do for his oldest son to marry anyone who is not beautiful, smart, accomplished, and kind. It is all for the good of the family, you know. Besides, despite my faults as an oldest son, he does still love me; he wouldn’t marry me off to someone he knows I would not like,” he said as he looked up at the other man with a pained smile, and nodded at something directly ahead of them. “Come on, we are nearly there.”

He quickened his pace as he intertwined their fingers and pulled John along with him as they walked up the last couple of steps, and, turning around a corner, came by a large plateau that was build up against the hill and provided the perfect lookout over the city beneath them. It was an absolutely stunning view and John was dumbstruck for a moment was he stared at the city below, over the many, many roofs, between which he could see the tops of trees onto which the sun poured many separate rays of white gold as it fought to break through the many dark clouds that were attempting to swallow it up. Apart from them, there was one other couple who seemed to have had the same idea in coming up here. They stood leaning against the railing as they stared out over the city and spoke silently to each other, clearly in love and too caught up in each other to realise they were being joined by two men. Nevertheless, Paul squeezed his hand to catch his attention, before letting go of him, and smiled as he put the umbrella away and beckoned him to follow him to the railing, the rain having stopped.

"I hope you are not afraid of heights," he said, half-serious, half as a joke, and John could only mutter an almost inaudible "no" as he followed him, staring at the younger man as he turned around to see where he was walking, and in that moment all John could think was that he was even more beautiful than the city that lay at their feet; a thought that he immediately pushed away, thinking it was daft of him to think such silly things about a man who was not only too far out of his league, but who would also have to get married in a few months.

"It is beautiful," he said after a moment of silence as they stood with their sides pressed against one another, taking in the sight before them while their fingers played with each other, the touches light and almost shy, ready to pull away if they would need to, and Paul hummed in agreement.

"Isn't it just?" he said, nudging the other’s calf with his foot.

"I am sorry about what is happening with your father. It must be tough," John said, his voice tight as he kept staring at a speck in the distance, even when he could feel the other’s eyes on him, taking him in. After another moment of silence, Paul let out a deep sigh and shrugged as he turned back to look out over the city, a deep frown on his forehead.

"Just make this week worth my while," he finally spoke and John promised that he would.

That evening, the two of them arrived about half an hour later than the time Cédric had given them that morning, which meant they were exactly on time according to Paul, who offered John an encouraging smile as he helped him out of the carriage. He was looking as handsome as ever in his black suit with velvet coat, his hair styled perfectly and his face cleanly shaven, giving him an almost doll-like look. John had put on the same suit that Paul had given him for the exhibition at The Salon - which, thankfully, someone had washed and ironed after he and Paul had handled it so carelessly that evening when they had gotten back - and again he felt drastically under-dressed compared to his companion, despite the latter's constant reassurances that he could make princes jealous with the way he looked, figuring he was exaggerating even if he did look handsome, and that he would not need to exaggerate if he was looking handsome enough already.

The building where the ball was being held was not so much a mansion as John had understood it, but a grand, 3-storey, pure-white Parisian townhouse, just outside the centre of the city, with a small set of stairs leading up to a large, shiny, black door with a golden doorknob, that John supposed would resemble a lion's head that was holding the knocker in its beak, but he was too far away to be able to tell. Light shone through the many windows, the curtains behind which had been drawn to keep curious passers-by from looking in, giving John only an impression of the figures moving inside. It looked pretty busy, much to John's dismay, but when he felt Paul's fingers brush the inside of his hand, most of his worries vanished from his mind. Taking a deep breath, he followed his companion up to the front door, and watched as Paul produced a small key from beneath a small statue of a dog that was placed besides the stairs, and opened the door for them, revealing a narrow hallway with plain white walls and black-and-white tiled flooring, where they were greeted by a cacophony of music, laughter, and talk in both English and French. They had barely stepped inside and closed the door behind them, when a young man came into the hallway and approached the two of them with a wide smile that John could see was more directed at Paul than at him.

"Monsieur McCartney! Vous êtes là!" the young man said as he beamed at Paul, offering him his hand, which Paul gladly shook as he smiled back at him.

"Olivier. Ravi de vous revoir. Comment allez-vous?" he replied, and John felt a familiar pull in his gut at the way the vowels and consonants rolled of the other man's tongue, thinking the already beautiful languages sounded even better when Paul was the person speaking it.

"Très bien, merci. Je dois vous avouer que je n’en presque croyais pas quand Cédric m’a dit qu’il avait bien parlé avec vous ce matin. Et c’est qui ce monsieur, qui vous avez avec vous?" the young boy asked as he finally turned his eyes onto John and offered him a hand as well, looking him up and down with an appreciative gaze that made John stand a little closer to Paul, unsure what to make of the other man.

"Voici John Lennon, un ami à moi. John? This is Olivier Morin, our host for the evening," Paul explained as he introduced them, switching back to English to make sure his companion understood and John acknowledged the other man with barely more than an uninterested hum as he shook his hand. He was handsome, with raven black hair, pale skin, and a couple of very light freckles that were scattered over his nose and cheeks. He had high cheekbones, a well-defined jawline and wide lips that curled up naturally, making him appear friendly and approachable without trying.

"It is nice to meet you, John," Olivier Morin said kindly in the same accent as his friend from this morning. "If you two would excuse me, however, I need to find some more bottles of wine before people will start to complain. Please, make yourself at home and don't forget to say hello to Cédric. He has been waiting for you. I will find you later." They acknowledged each other with one last nod and with that, Olivier turned around and started making his way to where John presumed the kitchen was situated. He had been about to head towards the large set of doors from behind which they could hear the sound of music and laughter, when Paul stopped him, wrapping his fingers loosely around the other’s wrist to hold him back with the lightest of touches.

"John," he started and John fought the urge to whine as he turned back around to have Paul lean up against him to press a small kiss to the corner of his mouth, his hand resting on his breast, making him freeze up as he took him somewhat by surprise. "Please behave and don't be grumpy. We are here to enjoy ourselves, remember?"

"Not that I have any idea how we are supposed to do that. Balls are not for me, Paul."

"Well, this one will be different," the other man replied with a suggestive hint in his voice that made John frown. He didn't say anything as Paul reached up to fix his scarf - he always struggled with doing them properly - his clever fingers pulling deftly at the material, tugging it into place as he glanced up at him through his eyelashes, his full pink lips slightly parted in a way that caused John’s mind to spin with many inappropriate thoughts, which were heightened obscenely as he continued to speak. "Be a good boy for me, would you? I promise, you will enjoy yourself," he said, almost teasingly, and John hummed as Paul leaned forward to kiss him again, properly this time, and John found himself unable to deny him anything when he asked him like that.

At first sight, the ball looked like any other, the room being filled with both men and women, some dancing, while others were sitting alongside the walls as they sipped a glass of wine, either talking in small groups or simply watching the dancers in the middle of the room. At one back, a small group of musicians were situated who John could hear knew what they were doing, and who would play different kinds of songs throughout the evening, making sure to switch up the different dances and occasionally doing a request when a young lady would ask for one. On closer inspection, on the other hand, John started to notice something odd. Although the group of dancers in the middle of the room was made up of both men and women, they were not strictly separated with the women all on one side, and the men at the other, and instead, as John came to realise, they were not only dancing with partners of the opposite sex, but of the same sex as well, meaning some men had taken on the parts of the women and some women the parts of the men. He could see more of those couples sitting at tables or on sofas surrounding the dance floor, and when he saw two women giggling together as they flirtatiously played with the materials of each other's dresses, John realised what kind of ball this was.

"Try not to stare John, it is impolite," Paul chided him with a wink as he noticed his lover watching the two young women on the sofa, and let out a chuckle as John turned back to look at him, his eyes wide. "I told you, you would enjoy it,” he added with a wink and when John appeared too shocked to say anything, Paul took him by his hand and dragged him towards a small group of people, one of whom John recognised as being Cédric, who greeted them both with a warm smile, and - much to John’s surprise - made no comment at all on the fact that Paul was still holding his hand. It took John a moment to come over his shock and to stop trying to pull his hand away from his lover’s grasp.

As Paul had promised, the ball indeed turned out to be enjoyable as John became more used to showing his affections for the other man publicly like this, fighting against years of doing the exact opposite out of fear and resourcefulness, while he and Paul spoke to some people, most of whom Paul had already met and who could speak English, while they enjoyed a glass of wine, and watched other people dance. Paul’s hand was still firmly wrapped around his, as if he were afraid John would freak out and run away if he didn’t, a possibility John had to admit was all too plausible, and he was glad to have him near him to ground him. There was a strong sense of freedom, though, and both men were glad they did not to have to hide their affections in the company of others for a while, and even John began to feel glad Paul had decided they would go, understanding why he liked these balls so much. Even the other guests were turning out to be somewhat interesting to talk to, most of the people being acquaintances of Paul, though John had to admit some of them were still too posh and arrogant for his liking, but there were plenty of other people around to make it bearable.

"So," John asked as they took a seat on one of the sofas, taking a moment for themselves after a prolonged discussion about the faults of contemporary art of which John could not remember the details if his life depended on it and that had even started to bore Paul after a while, and curled his arm around the other's shoulder, pulling him to him as he surveyed the area, "how many of these people have you not taken to your bed, then?" Instead of acting shocked at such a forward question, however, Paul merely hummed and looked over the room as he leaned against John's side, allowing his hand to rest on the inside of the other's thigh in a way John knew what meant to be teasing.

"Some of the women, I suppose," he answered after a moment of consideration and John nearly choked on the sip of wine he had wanted to take at, and stared down at Paul, only realising he had been joking as he saw the amused shimmer in his hazel puppy eyes that were not half as innocent as they appeared. "I am only kidding, John. Apart from Cédric and Olivier, perhaps... two others?"

"But you have done it? With a woman?" John asked, suddenly intrigued as he watched the women around him, thinking it strange not to see their eyes fixed onto men but on each other. Beside him, Paul shrugged.

"Once or twice. Just to see what it was like."

"And?" Again, Paul shrugged, causing John to laugh. They remained seated like that for a little while longer, until another guest came up to them and turned to Paul as he offered him his hand.

"Excusez-moi? Voulez-vous danser?" he asked, and John raised an eyebrow at that, thinking the man bold for asking that while someone had a protective arm slung over his shoulder, but Paul assessed him for a moment before sitting up and putting his glass away on the side table beside the sofa.

"You don't mind, do you, John?" he asked and for a moment John considered telling him he did, but he knew Paul would do what he wanted no matter what he thought about it, anyway, so he let him, retreating his arm in defeat as he shot the strange man a warning look, which was swiftly ignored by both him and Paul, as the latter gave him his hand with a smile. He watched closely as Paul allowed himself to be taking to the dance floor where he came to stand at the side where the women would usually stand, next to another man at his right and a woman at his left. John didn't remove his gaze as he watched him dance, speaking and laughing heartily with his dance partner in a way he had not seen him do except for the previous evening when they had laid in bed together, enjoying their post-coital bliss.

"He is handsome, isn't he?" a voice came from beside him and John hummed as he turned his head to see Olivier standing next to him, a glass of wine in his hand as he watched the dancers as well. "Don't get your hopes up," he continued, "it won't last forever. Paul doesn't do that sort of thing."

"I know. He told me about his father," John replied, feeling his throat tighten at the idea that he indeed was going to have to give Paul up someday, a day that would come sooner rather than later, and a day he did not want to think about. Not yet, anyway. Olivier, however, seemed surprised at his words.

"How long have you known him?" he asked, and John shrugged.

"A couple of weeks. I don't really remember exactly."

"He seems to like you. More so than he ever like me or Cédric." John hummed, unconvinced, and tore his eye away from Paul to see that Cédric was dancing as well, two couples away from Paul, with another man.

"Are you and Cédric...?" John started, and was not surprised when Olivier immediately admitted that they were, sighing as he took a seat on the armrest beside John.

"We like our freedom," he explained when he noticed who John looking at. After a brief moment of silence, he added, "he really does like you, you know."

"I don't know..."

"You should know. I have been watching you two all evening. You make a handsome couple," he said and John turned his head to look at him, not noticing it when the song changed into another and Paul and Cédric came over to them, laughing as they discussed their dance partners, only falling silent when they were beside their lovers again.

"What are you two discussing, then?" Paul asked as he took his former seat on the couch at John’s side, pressing himself even more against him in a way that forced John to wrap an arm around him, and Cédric pressed a peck onto Olivier's lips, before taking the class of wine from him.

"You," Olivier replied to Paul's question as he winked at Cédric, who giggled in reply.

"Good things, I hope?" Paul inquired at the news, turning to John who fought a blush as Olivier answered for him.

"Obviously," he said and Paul leaned in to kiss John as well, before turning away and moving to stand again, much to John's surprise, who stared up at him as he waited for him to explain his leaving him again so soon, wanting him back against him.

"Do you dance?" Paul asked, seemingly out of nowhere, and John blinked up at him a couple of times, before shaking his head.

"I don't."

"But you know how to?"

"My aunt taught me," he said and immediately wished he hadn't as he saw a mischievous grin appear onto Paul's lips at his reply. Before he knew what was happening, Paul had taken his hand into his own again and was pulling him up from the sofa and onto his two feet with surprising strength that left John no choice but to follow him.

"Perfect! When you know how to dance, you dance. Come on, indulge me, won’t you," Paul said and behind him he could hear Cédric and Olivier laugh as he unceremoniously dragged John with him onto the dance floor, despite his lover’s weak, stammered protests, and before he knew it he was standing in between two men with Paul before him, that same mischievous grin still on his lips and a glimmer in his eye that looked more than a little triumphant.

"You cannot come to a ball without dancing at least once, John. Now, I assume you only know the men's part, so I'll take the women's part again," he said, and John wanted to object again, but before he could, the music had already started, forcing him to participate against his will.

The dancing was not as bad as John had feared it would be, and slowly he started to relax as he felt how Paul began to lead despite having the woman's part, guiding him through the song and the many different steps that were part of the complicated dance they were doing, while occasionally whispering instructions into his ear when he was close enough. To his luck, the musicians had started a slower song than the previous one Paul had danced to, allowing John to keep up with the steps and the tempo of the music, reducing his awkward stumbling to a bare minimum of four or five times per minute, as he tried to remember the dancing lessons Mimi had given him by force when he turned fifteen. Paul, however, did not seem to mind his stumbling, appearing more amused by his mistakes than anything as he smiled at him whenever he noticed one and occasionally let out a giggle when he did something especially stupid, and tried his best to help him.

He looked gorgeous as he danced, an almost continuous smile on his face as he watched him move, taking in the sight of him with an appreciative look of his own, his eyes sparkling almost green in the strange light that lit up the room whenever he met his eyes, and John smiled back at him as he felt his hand tremble as Paul held it. His other hand, he let brush over the other’s waist whenever he turned away from him, a touch not necessary for the dance itself, but as long as Paul did not complain, John hardly cared what he was and was not supposed to do.

He could hardly look away from him at all, his hands twitching with the urge to grab him and pull him to him for a kiss, wanting to hear him shriek in surprise before his voice would die down and he would give into him, his slender fingers coming up to caress his cheek and push his hair back with a gentle pull as John would wrap his arms around his waist and hold him close. He could see it happening before him, and for a moment he thought about actually doing it, to kiss Paul right there and then in the middle of the dance floor, but before he had had time to act, the song had already come to an end and the two of them broke apart to bow and applaud the band.

Previous Chapter

Translations:

Monsieur McCartney! Vous êtes là!: Mr. McCartney! You came!

Olivier. Ravi de vous revoir...: Olivier. It's good to see you again. How are you?

Très bien, merci. Je dois...: I am very well, thank you. I have to say, I could hardly believe it when Cédric told me he had spoken with you this morning. And who is this gentleman you have brought along?

Voici John Lennon...: This is John Lennon, a friend of mine.

Excusez-moi? Voulez-vous danser?: Excuse me? Would you like to dance?

#fanfiction #beatles fanfiction #BEATLES SLASH #The Beatles #McLennon #mclennon fanfiction #JohnxPaul #john #paul #au #pg-13 #Art and Obligation

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s-k-e-t-c-h-y-artist · 8 years

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Beatles Seasons AU Spring Beatle: Paul McCartney He has the power to grow things. He represents new life and growing. But that doesn’t mean he can’t do destructive things as well. He takes his job very seriously and makes sure that each petal on any flower is perfectly beautiful. He takes great pride in it. Paul McCartney © himself This AU © Me Paul’s design © Me

#the petal prince himself #paul mccartney #spring #the beatles #beatles au #my art

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mithranqueersmusings · 4 years

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Before This Dance Is Through XII

Chapter: 12/16

Rating: T

Tags: AU - Strippers, Modern Setting, Smut, Slow Burn

Pairings: George Harrison/Ringo Starr, John Lennon/Paul McCartney

AO3 link here / Fic masterlist here

The following morning, Ringo made the snap decision of deleting the app and cancelling his subscription. He was surprised at how easily he was able to do it, staring at the blank space of where the app used to be. Whether it looked strange or not he didn't truly care, at least that's what he told himself, because whatever George thought of him didn't matter. It never mattered, even right from the beginning. The conversation last night, if it could even be called that, just proved to him that George just wanted to mess around with him because he knew that he could; and he really could, even Ringo didn't know how much he'd be willing to put up with just for George's enjoyment. But he wasn't going to do that anymore, he wanted to believe that it was a matter of pride, that he didn't want someone to know that they had that much of a hold on him, but he knew that wasn't the case.

The true reason he had to distance himself now, before things got much further, was because it would just hurt too much. He couldn't sit around hoping that George liked him, reading between the lines of everything he did or said and trying to piece together what it all meant. He couldn't really afford it either.

Of course George didn't like him. How could he? After how pathetic Ringo had been: almost losing his mind just because George touched him, trying to hide behind a fake profile and failing miserably. This wasn't like him, he'd never acted like this about a guy before, and that had to be a bad sign.

As he got ready for the day he swore to himself he would never set foot in that club again, no matter how much John might beg. It was just too degrading, and far too painful. Behind all this shame and anger was the stinging realisation that he truly liked George, someone he would never be able to have. Even if George didn't have his rule, there was no way he could be truly interested. Ringo was nothing but a game, easy prey to be played with. Part of him wanted to just give in, to allow himself to suffer as long as it meant he could look at George, to merely be in his presence. But it would kill him, because soon enough George would get tired of him and he'd be left right back where he started: utterly alone.

Luckily Ringo had work to distract him, the activity days he'd been participating in had resulted in a few more students and even though Ringo knew most of them weren't going to last, it would at least get his mind off things. Ringo had been particularly taken with a young boy who had expressed big dreams of becoming a famous drummer; he reminded Ringo very much of his younger self in many ways. It was a little bittersweet, to see a child so happy, remembering how happy he'd been at that same age then to compare it to all the issues he was battling all these years later. Maybe it wasn't the best distraction after all, but it was a sure sight better than being stuck at home on his own.

He'd seen John a few times but he was being strangely reclusive, which usually happened when he was going through a 'creative period' so Ringo was careful not to pester him too much. Even if he was able to get John's undivided attention, he wasn't sure he'd completely want it. After all John had the ability to read Ringo better than anyone, and he'd no doubt realise something was up before Ringo even opened his mouth. He didn't want to tell John about everything that had happened, not yet, but there was no chance he'd be able to look John in the eye and tell him that everything was alright.

Ringo ended up having the entire week booked with lessons, which was pretty uncommon for him, but with the summer holidays beginning a lot of children or younger students felt like picking up a new hobby to fill their spare time. In an hour one of his new students would be arriving at his place for their first lesson; occasionally a student wouldn't have a drum kit of their own, so Ringo offered his own up for the first few lessons to allow his students to get a feel for whether they really wanted to commit to drumming or not. After all, Ringo was one of the more affordable drum teachers in the area, and kits could be ridiculously expensive so he was very sympathetic to people who might not be able to afford their own.

He'd tidied up the place in the morning, throwing away all takeaway containers and rushing about with the hoover. First impressions were important, and he couldn't imagine this student being very likely to return for a second lesson if the makeshift classroom was an absolute pigsty. It was a hot day but he still tried to dress professionally, wearing a burgundy shirt with the sleeves rolled up and loose black jeans.

The doorbell rang out through the flat and Ringo hurried over to the door, taking a deep breath and putting on the warmest smile he could manage before opening it. The smile died almost immediately, his heart sinking in his chest.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Ringo blurted out without thinking, louder than he'd intended.

"Is that how you talk to all of your students?" George grinned, he was leaning on the doorframe like a jock in a teen movie.

Of course it was George. Why wouldn't it be? As if traumatising him several nights ago wasn't enough, he just had to turn up at his house too. Ringo supposed he must've been someone truly rotten in a past life if God was going to treat him like this. What part of 'I don't want to see George again' didn't he understand? Maybe he should start wishing he'd never see a winning lottery ticket, or a brand new car.

Ringo didn't say anything, just stood there gripping the door. Could he slam it in his face? Because that's what he felt like doing. It wasn't anger at George, not really, after all he hadn't necessarily done anything wrong. It was just rage at the entire situation, that seeing George had smacked him in the face with the realisation that he couldn't just ignore these feelings in hopes that they'd vanish.

"I just figured I'd switch things around a bit. You're always visiting me at work, so why don't I come and see you?" George cocked his eyebrow.

"But this is my house." Ringo responded dumbfounded.

"Well if you had an office or a studio that's where I'd be, but since you don't..." George let the rest of the sentence hang in the air, he looked at Ringo expectantly as though he wanted to be invited in.

Ringo was almost certain he hadn't blinked since he'd opened the door, he'd just been staring at George as though he'd vanish if he looked long enough. He was wearing sunglasses which were resting on the end of his nose, allowing Ringo to see into his glittering eyes; they were small and rectangular, Ringo thought they would've looked ridiculous on anyone else. He was wearing the fur coat he'd worn on the night they'd gotten a drink, a night Ringo had fruitlessly attempted to forget.

This was the real decision: was he going to let him in? He had paid for a lesson, but Ringo had a sneaking suspicion that George had an alterior motive for being here. Allowing him into his house would really be admitting defeat, accepting that he couldn't fight these feelings. Was George really here just to mess him around? It seemed a little extreme, even by George's standards.

It had been very easy for Ringo to tell himself that he was going to get over George - why he needed to get over someone he'd never actually dated was a problem for a different time - but being confronted with the sight of him now made it abundant that it'd been a lie. Just seeing George made him happy, made his stomach flutter and his heart stutter, and that was never going away.

"Come in, I guess." Ringo tried to maintain his cool as he stepped aside and George sauntered past him.

George scoped around the living room, Ringo wasn't quite sure what he'd been looking for. Seeing him here was very strange, something he'd only seen in his late night fantasies.

"Nice place." George said simply, moving around the small space.

"Thanks." Ringo took a few steps into the room "How did you find me?"

"Believe it or not there's not many drum teachers called Ringo around here." George moved over to inspect the drum kit.

"Are you seriously here to drum? I don't want to seem rude but-" Ringo was getting a little exasperated.

"Is that so hard to believe?" George grinned once again and Ringo felt weak in the knees "Maybe I just wanted to see you. Could be either one."

"George, please... Don't." Ringo sighed, he couldn't look at him.

"Don't what?" George took a step towards him "I can leave if you like." He paused "Is that what you want?"

"I-I don't know." Ringo stammered, he felt his face hearing up "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what? I just thought it'd be fun to come and see you." George paused again, for a moment he dropped his typical demeanour "I thought I'd scared you off."

"What do you mean?" Ringo found the strength to look at him, the grin was gone and he almost looked scared.

"Nevermind, this was a bad idea. I should just go." George shook his head and began making his way to the door.

Ringo moved instinctively, grabbing George's wrist as he tried to push past. It wasn't a tight grip, far from it, but it was enough to make George stop in his tracks. This was the first time Ringo had touched him like this, intentionally and without any encouragement, and it felt a little strange. He could feel the heat and softness of his skin, pulling that soft hiss from George that came with the sudden coldness of his rings.

"Don't... Don't leave." Ringo spoke in a quiet voice.

"Okay." George responded in kind, almost shakily.

Ringo gingerly let go off his wrist, George slowly turned around so that they were facing one another. The hallway was small, there was only a little distance between them, yet none of them moved. The silence was thick, clouding Ringo's mind as he looked up at George who returned the gaze intensely.

"How did you know it was me?" Ringo was desperate to break the silence, he couldn't bear George looking at him like that any longer, but he didn't dare say what he really wanted to.

George laughed, it was quiet and a little husky "You really wanna know?"

"Yes." Ringo let out a small chuckle.

"Well I had my suspicions as soon as you asked me how I was." George explained with a smile "Most people who message me don't bother with the formalities."

"Oh, I see." Ringo felt a little embarrassed "What else?"

George let out a sigh, breaking their eye contact and placing his hands on his hips, a little frustrated "Ringo, you know when we're at the strip club, it's not just you checking me out. You do realise that, don't you?" George began "I know you're probably too freaked out to notice, but I'm looking at you too."

"But... You never saw me naked." Ringo tried to look back on their conversation in his head, desperate to make sense of it all.

"In real life, sure." George turned his face to look at Ringo directly again, his eyes were serious but his lips were curled playfully "I noticed things about you, Ringo. Small things."

George took a large step forward, closing the space between them completely. Ringo let out a quiet gasp, pressing himself against the wall in an attempt to get away, but there was nowhere to go. George lifted his finger to push gently at Ringo's shirt collar, tracing over his neck and top of his chest lightly.

"When I'm this close, I can see the shape of your collar bones, how smooth your chest is." George pressed his other hand flat against Ringo's thigh "I'll notice the shape of your legs, your hips, your waist. Do you understand?"

Ringo nodded, he knew if he opened his mouth all he'd be able to let out would be a pathetic gasp or moan. George was proving his point a little too well, Ringo felt even more panicked than he did whenever George would be this close to him at the club. But wasn't this what he'd wanted all this time? The two of them finally alone, far away from that place.

"If that answers your question, I've got one of my own." George only needed to whisper for Ringo to hear him, his breath was hot against Ringo's cheek "All those things you said, did you mean them?"

Ringo gulped, this was all too much. George's finger tracing along the outline of his collarbone, his thumb rubbing the inside of his thigh. The hands were bad enough but even worse was George's stare, his dark eyes saying so much and yet still unreadable. Ringo had never been this close to his face for so long, it was usually his arse or crotch or something equally as explicit, and he felt like he was truly seeing him now. Why did he have to be so gorgeous? Ringo doubted he'd put up with this much stress for anyone else, in fact he knew he wouldn't.

"Yes." Ringo breathed out, he felt his body tencing in anticipation - he expected George to pull away, that wolfish grin on his face, only to leave without a further word.

"Really?" George's voice faltered a little and Ringo looked at him worriedly "You think I'm beautiful?"

It wasn't the direction Ringo had been expecting, he let out an exasperated laugh in shock "Seriously? You're seriously asking me that?"

"What?" George moved his head away sightly but his hands remained in place "It's not something you hear a lot in my line of work." His attitude was quickly returning, but Ringo couldn't forget that slipping of the mask.

"You're beautiful, George." Ringo admitted, he moved his own hand from where it'd been glued to his side and lifted it to brush against the softness of George's face, he flinched very briefly "I thought that the moment I saw you."

George laughed, his eyes darting away quickly, it was something Ringo had seen a million times with John whenever he tried to genuinely compliment him about something John was insecure about - which was most things.

"You're not making this easy for me, are you?" George asked with a little sadness in his voice.

"Me!?" Ringo exclaimed with a hearty chuckle, letting his hand fall from George's face "Do you know the amount of agony you've put me through?"

George began to laugh too "Couldn't help myself."

They stayed stood like that for a while, both laughing with almost no space between them. George still hadn't moved his hands and Ringo was very grateful for it, he'd gotten so used the the feeling.

"So I take it you don't actually want to learn to drum?" Ringo asked, he felt surprisingly calm.

"Well that's not strictly true." George began but broke his sentence off with a laugh when he saw Ringo raising his eyebrow "Fine, fine... I just wanted to see you. Happy now?"

"As long as you're still gonna pay me." Ringo responded with a smile.

"Oh, is that how it is?" George began rubbing his thumb over Ringo's clothed thigh again.

"I don't see you dancing for free." Ringo retorted.

"In your dreams." George let his sharp teeth poke through as his grin widened.

"And what about your dreams?" Ringo asked almost in a whisper.

"I think you know what I want." George moved his face even closer, breathing against the exposed skin of Ringo's neck.

"What about your rule?" Ringo felt himself warming up a little.

"You're not my customer. You're my teacher." George chuckled, his mouth mere inches away from Ringo and he had to stop himself from holding his breath.

"What if I don't sleep with my students?" Ringo asked, his voice was higher pitched than usual.

"Then I'll just have to convince you to change your mind." George punctuated his sentence by finally closing that small space, pressing his wet lips against Ringo's neck and kissing it roughly.

Ringo felt like he was in a dream, in fact this was one of his dreams, but it was really happening. George moved his hand up to Ringo's waist and scraped his teeth lightly against the sensitive skin on his neck. He pressed two more kisses as he gradually moved upwards, then removed his mouth entirely and brought his head to rest against Ringo's. He'd seen George's glare countless times before, but never quite like this, knowing it was purely for him and him alone.

"You said you'd do anything to have me. Well, here I am." George practically purred the words and Ringo didn't waste another second, locking their lips together so roughly that it knocked George backwards until he was pushed up against the opposite wall.

George didn't respond at first, no doubt in shock, but as soon as he registered what was happening he was reciprocating Ringo's vigour with ease. Ringo cupped his face desperately, soaking in the joy of finally being able to hold him like this. George's hand cupped Ringo's hip, the other lightly grabbing his arse. George tasted like tea and smoke, completely ordinary things, yet it was almost transformed into ambrosia for Ringo, he couldn't get enough.

This was really happening. Maybe God had been kinder than Ringo had first anticipated, he only prayed this wouldn't be snatched away from him just as he got used to it. If that was going to be the case, Ringo was going to make sure he used every single second to his advantage, he was going to fight for it. He wanted this, he needed it. He was even beginning to believe that he deserved it.

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mithranqueersmusings · 4 years

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Baby, You’re A Rich Man II

Chapter: 2/28

Rating: T

Summary: Ringo could never understand why that group of three boys made him feel so uncomfortable, or why the way George looked at him sent him into a panic. After a chance encounter Ringo discovers the truth and has no clue what to do with the information.

Tags: AU - Gangsters, Slow Burn, Smut, Eventual Romance, Violence, Angst

Pairings: George Harrison/Ringo Starr, John Lennon/Paul McCartney

AO3 link here / Fic masterlist here

Ringo still couldn't shake his feeling of exhaustion, even with what he assumed was a knife poking into his back. The man's grip on his arm was tight but he could still turn around if he really wanted to. Ringo hadn't been in many fights, he liked to avoid them whenever he could because the last thing he wanted was to end up in hospital, he was sick of being holed up in there. His hands were still deep in his pockets and he considered gripping his keys and trying to do a number on this guy, but he didn't like his chances.

"Just give me your wallet, and I won't have to do anything unpleasant." It was a gruff voice, and Ringo could tell even without turning around that they were quite a bit taller than himself, which he was certain why he had been targeted.

"I don't have it on me." Ringo spoke truthfully, his voice was somewhat hoarse with panic "All I've got is some tips from work."

The man sighed and Ringo could feel the knife pressing slightly harder into his back which sent a wave of panic through his body; he didn't carry his wallet on his just in case this exact situation occurred but was he going to be stabbed for taking that exact precaution?

"Bullshit." The man spat as he drove his foot into the back of Ringo's knee, making him fall forward into the ground roughly.

He fell onto the concrete hard, only being able to shield himself somewhat with his hands which got scuffed badly. The man lowered his weight onto Ringo's back, making him unable to move, as he rooted through the pockets of his coat. The mugger pulled out the note from George and scoffed, stuffing it into his own pocket.

"You're lucky you've got this mate." The man drove his knee into Ringo's back harder which made him groan "You can keep your change." He laughed as he cut his knife through the bottom of Ringo's pocket which made all the coins he'd made on his shift to fall out onto the hard ground.

He felt the man shift as he began to get up, chuckling to himself and spitting down onto Ringo who just lay still, not wanting to risk angering him in any way. He heard the man's footsteps walking away down the alley behind him and Ringo lifted his head somewhat and decided he wouldn't get up until he was out of his sight. Then Ringo saw another figure approaching from the end of the alley, he assumed at first that it was a friend of the mugger's and cringed at the thought of them relishing in their victory while he still lay pathetically in the alley. Yet the two appeared to be arguing and Ringo lifted himself up as best he could, he felt winded from the fall and his back was aching. He heard raised voices and suddenly the second figure shoved the mugger against the wall hard and Ringo gasped, he scrambled to his feet as fast as he could and collected all the spilled coins. The figure landed a hard punch on the mugger who fell to the ground only to be met by a series of hard kicks. Was his mugger getting mugged? Ringo couldn't stand to watch it anymore, in a normal situation he'd try and help the victim but he wasn't sure that word applied here, so he moved down the alley as quietly as he could while making small glances behind him to make sure he wasn't being followed. The mugger was being mercilessly kicked and Ringo could hear his cries of pain echo down to him until they stopped; Ringo turned around again to see the second man coming towards him at a rapid pace so Ringo broke out in a sprint.

"Stop!" The voice called out but Ringo didn't stop, he kept running to the end of the alley and gripped onto his house keys tightly as he thought he might have to use them this time.

He was almost at the end and then he'd be free, surely nobody would attack him on a populated street, or at least he hoped. But then, as if his luck couldn't get any worse that day, two more figures turned into the alley and blocked off his exit. Ringo halted immediately as he realised he knew their faces, it was John and Paul. They didn't look at him aggressively, but he could tell for certain that they weren't going to let him pass. What were they doing here? The realisation hit Ringo hard when he turned to look behind him to find George was the one rushing after him, he was the one who attacked his mugger. What the fuck was going on? George stopped a few paces away from Ringo, he had a small cut on his cheek that was bleeding and he was panting heavily. Ringo stumbled backwards into the wall, not feeling as though he could hold himself up any longer. There was silence among the four of them as George held out a crumbled bank note which was covered in specks of blood. Ringo looked down at the money then up at George who's expression was as blank as ever.

"What the fuck?" Was all Ringo managed to breathe out, feeling frozen in place.

"This is yours, isn't it?" George cracked a small smile, his breath was returning to him now.

"Were you following me?" Ringo felt that he already knew the answer but he didn't know what else to say.

"I'm not a big fan of the word 'followed'." John piped up, his arms were crossed across his chest. "Protected has a nicer ring to it."

Ringo's mouth dropped open but no words came out, he was utterly speechless.

"You must be pretty freaked out." Paul spoke softly "We can explain if you want us to, if not you're free to go home."

"So you were following me then? Do you do that sort of thing a lot or did you just get a feeling that I might get mugged tonight?" Ringo's voice was becoming aggressive as he felt himself calming down, he was able to stand up without support of the wall.

"Look, Ringo, we just wanted to make sure you got home alright, that's all." George was still holding out the bloody note.

"You could've just asked to walk me home, that's what normal people do!" Ringo felt his rage bubbling but he didn't think it was really directed at them, he was just confused and scared and tired "I knew there was something off about you lot, you're bloody mental. What did you even do to that guy, did you kill him?"

George scoffed "Course not. I just roughed him up I bit, I wouldn't have if he didn't get me with his knife." He pointed to the cut on his face which was bleeding down his cheek, but he seemed entirely unbothered by it. "I don't expect you to thank us or anything, just take your money and get home." He took a step closer to Ringo with the money extended, but Ringo just slapped it out of his hand.

"I don't want your dirty money. Fuck knows where you even got that from." Ringo scowled "Just leave me alone, let me go home and stay the fuck away from me."

George sighed and looked at the other two who made way for Ringo without a word, they both had a somewhat sad expression on their face. Ringo pushed past them and hurried out of the alley towards his house, as he put the keys in the front door he turned to the alley where he could still see the three of them watching him from the darkness. He held up his middle finger as a last sign of resistance before disappearing into his house. He leant all his weight against the closed door behind him, closing his eyes and sighing deeply. It wasn't very often Ringo felt so rough, he knew he should probably have a bath to clean himself up and calm himself down but he was far too exhausted and all he had the energy to do was to collapse on his bed face first and sleep. As soon as his head hit the pillow his exhaustion weighed down upon him and he struggled to keep his eyes open for much longer, drifting into a deep sleep.

Luckily Ringo didn't have to work for the next two days, he was very thankful that he could stay in the safety of his own home away from muggers and strange men. The previous night played on his mind throughout the day, the hole in his pocket and bruises made it difficult to forget, but he tried his best not to get caught in the whirlwind of thoughts in his head. He spent the first few hours of the day in bed before finally dragging himself to the bathroom to run himself a bath. He looked at his bruises in the mirror as best he could, his back was marked pretty badly along with his knees and hands. It wasn't best to dwell on the negative but Ringo couldn't shake the ghastly feeling he got when thinking about what might have happened if he'd attacked the guy or said the wrong thing. It made him shudder when he remembered the feeling of the knife pressing into his back and he wondered how long it would be before he was able to forget it. One thing he tried his best not to think about was George, the way he witnessed him mercilessly beating his attacker or how pleading his eyes looked when approaching him afterwards. One thing Ringo prided himself on was his accurate judge of character, at least from that horrible ordeal he knew why he had such a bad feeling about those three boys. That was where his train of thought stopped, he didn't want to get lost in theories about who they are or what they did because he knew it'd only freak him out more. His largest worry now was whether they'd come back to his work, or even turn up at his house. It was best not to think about, Ringo decided, as he sunk into the warm bath water with the loud radio beside him drowning out his thoughts.

By the time Ringo returned to work he was no longer sore but was still mentally rattled. Luckily it wasn't too long of a shift today, only 2-7, and he found himself pleasantly distracted as he worked throughout the day. He decided not to take a lunch break so he could finish a little earlier to get as much drum practice in as possible, he'd spent his days off holed up in his room with his kit. He tried his best not to play too loud, but with drums that was almost impossible, and it hurt to play with all the cuts and scuffs on his hands, but he played all he could and felt much better for it; his drumming was his best and only emotional outlet. His colleague came into work around 4 and rushed over to Ringo as soon as he caught sight of him. Ringo did get along with him somewhat, in the way that work colleagues do, but he always had the feeling that he liked him far more than Ringo cared for him.

"Ringo mate! How you doing?" He said with a smile, he almost never started his shift when he was supposed to as he was always chatting with the staff.

"Been better, but not too shabby." Ringo smiled back "How about yourself?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. You'll never guess who was in here yesterday asking about you." He was always one for gossip, and if any news got to him first he liked to parade it around like he'd discovered the meaning of life.

Ringo paused, his heart sank as he knew immediately who it was but nonetheless still entertained the conversation. "Who was it?"

"One of them scary blokes, the ones in the suits. Never seen them apart from each other before, but it was just the one lad on his own, you know the one with the eyes? Proper scary like." He rambled "Came in around 6 yesterday asking if you were working, I told him no and he asked when you'd next be in."

"What did you tell him?" Ringo asked urgently, causing his colleague to raise and eyebrow.

"I told him you were working today at 2." He spoke with caution now "Should I not have? Is something going on? I figured he just really liked you or something, cause he just walked out without even ordering anything. Maybe he just wants to give you a fat cheque or something." He chuckled but Ringo felt anything but humourous.

Ringo didn't want to explain everything that happened, he barely even knew this guy and the last thing he wanted was word getting out that Ringo was being stalked by some shady men, especially if said shady men caught wind of the rumour. He just sighed and ran his hand through his hair, unsure what the best course of action to take was.

"Has he not been in yet? Maybe he's not coming." His co-worker was clearly trying to reassure Ringo, even though he didn't know why he needed reassuring.

"Yeah, maybe." Ringo chuckled weakly but he had a sour feeling that it wasn't the case. He carried on cleaning tables and his colleague left to get his apron on.

Another hour passed and there was no sign of any of the boys which should've been a relief to Ringo, but it only put him more on edge. The worst thing about this whole situation was how little Ringo knew, he still had no idea what they even wanted with him or even if they even wanted anything at all. Luckily Ringo had the dinner rush to distract him right up to the end of his shift, but as soon as he walked out the door back into the world he was riddled with fear. Not only did he have the possibility of getting mugged again, which would've been bad enough on its own, but he was also potentially being watched and followed at every moment. He swore off walking down the alley even though it wasn't that dark, it would be a long time before he walked down there again. It added another 10 minutes onto his walk but he didn't mind too much, he rarely got out of the house if it wasn't just going to and from work. He started to whistle as he turned onto his street, secretly hoping that he'd avoided whatever situation he might've been getting himself into, but his hopes were crushed when he saw an all too familiar figure sitting on the steps outside his house. It was George, seemingly alone, smoking a cigarette and looking around him every so often. Eventually he spotted Ringo and he stood up abruptly, putting out his cigarette and placing his hands in his pockets. He looked pretty harmless from where Ringo was standing, he was very slim and didn't carry himself very aggressively but as Ringo got closer and George's hard face and deep eyes came into focus Ringo felt fear building up in his stomach. He stopped a significant distance away from George, he was afraid to get too close to him, and he wondered whether it was safe to even be here at all.

"Hi." George spoke first, his tone was as serious as always but his demeanour was unthreatening "I know you told me to leave you alone, but-"

"But you decided to wait around outside my house for me to finish work instead?" Ringo tried to sound dangerous, but he just couldn't manage it, not when he felt this scared and especially not with George's eyes staring at him like that.

"I couldn't help myself." George's voice got quieter but he didn't break eye contact "John and Paul don't know I'm here. I just had to come and talk to you, to explain myself."

Ringo didn't know what to say, on all accounts he should be calling the police but there was something in George's voice that sounded genuine. "Are you expecting me to let you into my house?" Ringo questioned, folding his arms across his chest in an attempt to look threatening.

"I'm not expecting anything." George took a few steps closer to him, and Ringo became uncomfortably aware of how much taller George was than him. A part of his brain told him to run, to shove past him and lock himself in his house, but he didn't. He looked at the cut on George's cheek which was beginning to heal, his instinct told him to reach out to touch it but he resisted. He looked almost defeated, nothing like the imposing presence he had been when he'd asked for his name all those days ago.

"Well you better start explaining, and quick." Ringo's heart was beating faster than he'd care to admit.

"I can't really say out here." George looked down at Ringo with his dark eyes "Would you let me buy you dinner? As an apology, and you can get all the answers you want."

"Is that what all this is? A ploy to get me to have dinner with you?" Ringo wanted it to come out as angry, but it didn't, instead it was soft and quiet, so he cleared his throat rather pathetically.

"No, there's no ploy. Just let me take you to dinner, anywhere you want. If not I'll just go, and I'll leave you alone." George's breath smelled of smoke and it was hot against Ringo's face, he wanted to take a step back but he didn't want to look weak.

Ringo had to admit the fact that he was hungry, he hadn't eaten since breakfast and he wasn't even sure he had any food in. He'd never been asked out to dinner before, he didn't have any friends generous enough to ever pay for him and he was such a difficult eater that he never really bothered with restaurants anyway. He felt himself warming to the idea, even with the part of his brain screaming that something was wrong, he just couldn't convince himself that George was going to hurt him as he looked into his eyes. Certainly there was a bigger picture here, and Ringo felt that it wouldn't be easy to get the information that he wanted or if he even wanted the information at all. He didn't want to admit it, but maybe the feelings of panic he felt when George looked at him or spoke to him weren't exactly fear but instead were something more personal, more intimate. He felt his mouth drying as he held George's gaze and was only able to speak when he turned away.

"Alright then." Ringo croaked, still uncertain whether he was making the right decision "But if there's any funny business, I swear I'll-"

"Don't make promises you don't intend to keep." George interrupted, grinning down at Ringo who felt incredibly small and vulnerable at that moment, exposing his sharp teeth which sent a flutter in Ringo's stomach.

He felt like he might be making the stupidest decision of his life, but he didn't care.

#beatles fanfic #the beatles fanfic #beatles fanfiction #the beatles fanfiction #george harrison/ringo starr #george harrisonxringo starr #ringo starr/george harrison #ringo starrxgeorge harrison #starrison #beatles #the beatles

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mithranqueersmusings · 4 years

Text

Baby, You’re A Rich Man XVI

Chapter: 16/28

Rating: T (Violence Warning)

Tags: AU - Gangsters, Slow Burn, Smut, Eventual Romance, Violence, Angst

Pairings: George Harrison/Ringo Starr, John Lennon/Paul McCartney

AO3 link here / Fic masterlist here

Ringo had ducked off the stage as soon as he heard the gunshots, he hurt his ankle somewhat as he sloppily landed on the ground and took shelter in the nearest booth. The rest of the band had scattered, most of them heading through the door to the backstage area immediately, but Shane had remained scoping the area until his eyes landed on Ringo. He rushed over to where he was crouched under the table and seized his arm aggressively.

"We've gotta get out of here, now." He commanded, trying to pull Ringo out.

Ringo tried to push him away, attempting to loosen the tight grip he had on his arm "I can't Shane, not while George is still here."

Shane sighed "Don't be stupid, you have no idea what you're getting yourself into. Just come with me, Ringo, he's not worth dying for."

"You don't know him." Ringo smiled sadly "I can't leave him behind, I just can't. Just go, Shane."

Shane nodded solemnly, letting go of Ringo's arm and hurrying to the backstage door while trying to keep his body low. The initial gunshots had been followed by a series of screams, yells and the sound of glasses smashing. Ringo crawled out from under the table slowly, the dance floor had cleared completely and the sounds of screaming faded into the distance as the majority of the crowd managed to escape. He tried to keep his mind focused, as much as the terror of the whole situation tried to possess him he wouldn't allow himself to simply flee. As much as his mind told him that George was fine, that he'd know exactly what to do in this situation, he knew deep down that he wouldn't be able to live with himself if he left him behind. He crept behind one of the many pillars dotted around the room that allowed him to get a full view of what was going on. He could see bloody footprints and trails heading towards the main entrance and it made him wince, he only hoped the people managed to get out alive.

He could hear voices, then he spotted the suspicious men he'd noticed earlier huddled in the centre of the room. There was four of them, all holding guns in their hands, and they all set off in opposite directions after conferring with one another. Ringo moved to the next pillar as carefully as he could manage, then he could finally see the table where George had been sitting previously, but he was no longer there. Ringo froze. Was he dead? Had he managed to get out? Maybe Ringo was just being an absolute moron for sticking around and George was already searching for him outside. He had to take a deep breath and shake his head to bring himself back into his body, trying his best to spot George somewhere hidden. The issue with the club is that it had been designed for privacy, particularly the booths, that were hidden away in all of the corners or obstructed by huge pillars or ornaments so that you couldn't see directly into them. Ringo squinted his eyes as he thought he saw a glimmer on the floor of one of the booths, but before he could make out exactly what it was a hand grabbed him roughly from behind.

The hand covered Ringo's mouth, stopping him from screaming, and pulled him back further into the darkness of the club. Ringo struggled as best he could, but their other hand pinned his arms back and all he could do was wildly kick his legs. He paused for a second, trying his best to not let the panic overcome him, and was able to swing his leg backwards hard enough into his attacker's knee that his grip on Ringo's arms faltered and he was able to free himself. Ringo pushed himself away immediately, spinning around to land a punch on the man's face. But the man was far too quick for him, and he caught Ringo's arm and twisted it to force him down to the ground. Ringo cried out in pain as his face was pushed down into the dirty carpet, and he heard voices calling from the centre of the room.

"I've got one!" His attacker shouted, the pride in his voice clear.

Ringo then heard the sound of tape being ripped from above him and before he was able to think through the pain he felt his wrists being tied together sloppily. Then he was dragged by his hair into the centre of the room where the four men he'd seen originally seemed to be waiting for him.

"Well isn't he pretty in pink." One man laughed.

"Who is he? He's not one of theirs."

"No clue, but he was sneaking around that's for sure." His attacker spat on the ground next to Ringo's knees.

"I recognise him... I've seen him with the Harrison lad quite a few times."

"Is that so? He could be useful then."

"Should we take him back with us?"

"Just wait a minute, let me try something." One of the men grinned, walking over to Ringo and seizing him by the neck to bring him closer into the middle.

The man pulled out a gun and Ringo yelped, he was cursing himself for being so careless. He felt the cold metal of the barrel pushing against his temple as he knelt on the ground, his arm was throbbing in pain and he felt like bursting into tears.

"Now! We wouldn't want anything sour to happen to your little friend now, would we Harrison?" The man announced, looking around the room for any sign of movement "Let's just make this easy for all of us, come out now and we won't have to hurt him."

Silence.

What if George wasn't even here? He easily could've gotten away, and if so was Ringo just going to die all the same? Ringo squeezed his eyes shut tightly as he heard the hammer of the gun being pulled back. This was really it.

"Last chance! If you don't want to get brains all over your friends lovely suit I suggest you show yourself, now." He called louder this time.

Silence.

Ringo steadied his breathing, trying to ignore the sweat forming on his forehead or the way his throat burned with the desire to cry. He had to pray the man was bluffing, he had to pray for something.

"Alright!" A voice called from afar, and Ringo felt a mixture of relief and horror when he recognised it as George's.

Ringo's eyes shot open and searched desperately for him, trying not to jerk too violently, when he saw him stepping out from one of the booths with his hands up. Ringo had never seen a more pained expression on his face than when he saw Ringo in such a desperate position.

"Are you alone?" The man asked, his hand still gripping the gun "Where are the other two?"

"They got out." George said plainly, taking slow steps down the stairs and closer to the group.

"Why didn't you?" The man asked with a grin.

George glanced immediately to Ringo, but brought his gaze back to the man a second later "What do you want?"

"Well things got a little ugly the last time, didn't they? We're willing to give your guys another chance, to make up for all the mess you made. If you don't kick up a fuss this can all go smoothly. We don't want to kill you, we're not animals." The man said with the gun still pressed against Ringo's head.

"Fine." George sighed "But you don't need to take him, he's got nothing to do with any of this." He was struggling to hide the panic in his voice.

"I dunno... He must be pretty important to you, so I think we'll bring him along." He finally moved the gun away but Ringo wasn't any less tense.

"He's not." George said flatly, but it looked like there were tears in his eyes "I just don't want anyone getting hurt, I couldn't care less about him."

Ringo looked at George desperately but he wouldn't return his gaze.

"Is that so? I guess we won't be needing him then." The man tutted, then signalled to some of the other men to move.

Two men approached Ringo now, one roughly dragging him to stand up shakily onto his weak legs. He was returned once more to his helpless position with his arms pinned behind his back, then the second man approached with his fists raised. Ringo turned his head and shut his eyes as if it would lessen the pain, but he couldn't ignore the sting of the man's fist punching his stomach. He was hit again and again, the building was silent except for the sound of Ringo crying out in pain and the repeated noise of the punches landing on his body. Ringo managed to open his eyes and catch a glimpse of George who stood there watching, he could see the tension in George's body and how his hands were shaking as they were still held up above his head. As much as he knew George was trying to protect him through all this, it still hurt to know that George wasn't doing anything to stop it. Ringo wished he could fight back, to just do something, but his body was only growing weaker and his chances against a group of armed men were ridiculously slim.

After what felt like a lifetime, George finally spoke up in a strangled shout.

"Stop it! Jesus, fine... Do what you want with me just leave him alone." George had never sounded so desperate, and the tears in his eyes were beginning to fall "Please."

The man who had previously held the gun to Ringo's head, who he figured had to be the leader of this little group, chuckled when he saw how effectively his plan had worked. He made another signal with his hands and Ringo was once again dropped to the floor, his knees would've stung with pain if his body wasn't already drowning in agony. His face and torso were bruised and aching, he struggled to open one of his eyes and it hurt to breathe. George made a step to rush towards Ringo, his face completely distraught, but the man held up his gun again but this time pointed it at George.

"Let's not get carried away here. You forced us to do that, don't forget it." His voice was like poison "Now I think we've stayed here far too long already, we best be on our way."

The man nodded and the remaining two men rushed towards George, kicking the back of his leg to force him to the ground and taping his wrists together behind his back just as they had with Ringo. George didn't resist, his head was bowed in shame. Ringo stared at him defiantly, trying to send his thoughts into George's head so that he would finally look at him, but he never did.

When George was tied up, himself and Ringo were carried out hastily from the club where two cars were waiting. The streets were fairly empty given the time of night and Ringo wondered how the police hadn't arrived yet. The boots of the cars were opened and George and Ringo were carelessly tossed inside like luggage. When darkness descended onto Ringo as the boot was shut with him inside, the panic really began to set in. It was pitch black in there and it made no real difference whether his eyes were open or not. He tried to struggle in his restraints but it was no use, he wasn't going to get out of them by himself. Then the car's engine turned on and it began to speed off down the road, rocking Ringo around in the boot roughly. None of this felt real, it was like some disorientating nightmare.

He began to curse himself for not running out of the club with everyone else, but then his mind debated what might've happened to George if he hadn't. It probably would've turned out for the best, both of them managing to escape and reunite without any problems at all, but Ringo just had to be so careless. There was no use dwelling on it now, he just had to pray that he'd get out of here alive. They had said they didn't want to kill them, but they didn't strike Ringo as the most trustworthy people. His whole body was still aching, he'd never experienced pain like this before and he hoped he never would again. He hoped the worst of it was over, and that it wouldn't be long before someone came to save them. George had told him about what had happened with Paul before, and they'd gotten him out safely, but it had also resulted in George getting stabbed and a bunch of dead bodies. Ringo shuddered in the darkness, trying to keep his mind as calm as it could be in a situation like this, but it wasn't easy.

After a long while the car came to a halt, Ringo tried to guess how long they'd been driving for and estimate where they might've ended up but it was near impossible. The boot was opened once more, the light flooding in blindingly, and Ringo was thrown out onto the hard road.

"Get up." The man said gruffly, forcing Ringo to his feet and shoving him forward.

They were at some kind of abandoned building, Ringo didn't recognise it which only made him feel all the more uneasy. He was ushered inside carelessly, he could barely walk but he had to keep going, until they came to a small, bare room which was lit by a single hanging light bulb. The man shoved Ringo forward harshly, causing him to fall to the floor yet again, and then slammed the door shut. Ringo hastily looked around the room for some way out, for something to get his bindings off him but it was stripped bare. A few moments later the door opened again and George was thrown to the ground in front of him, and this time when the door was shut he could hear it being locked.

Ringo wanted to rush over to George, to wrap his arms around him and hold him close, but he couldn't. They both looked at one another with pain in their eyes, and it was George who spoke first.

"I'm so fucking sorry, Ringo. This is all my fault, I never should've got you that job in the first place. It's all my fault." George sounded close to tears and it pained Ringo more than any injury he'd endured.

"George." Ringo spoke softly "You can't blame yourself. I shouldn't have stayed behind to look for you, it's my own stupid fault."

"I'm not gonna let them hurt you anymore." George began sounding angry but his eyes were still filled with tears "Over my dead body."

"Please, George, just calm down. Everything's gonna be alright, they'll send someone for us just like they did for Paul, right?" Ringo tried his best to smile comfortingly, but his face was all bruised and bloodied.

"Eventually... But there's no knowing how long that'll be. We've really pissed these guys off, and I don't trust them one bit." George spat "We have to get out of here ourselves."

"How are we gonna manage that?"

"I dunno yet, I'll think of something..."

"What about your knife, do you still have it?"

"No, they took it off me right quick. We just need something sharp to pierce through the tape, then we can at least be up and moving." Ringo had never heard George sound so focused.

Ringo racked his brain to think of something, looking around the small room and then over at George "What about your belt?"

"What?"

"Your belt... You know, that sharp bit on the buckle. Would that work?"

"It's worth a shot." George smiled now and it eased Ringo's pain somewhat.

George stood up then as best he could, wobbling as he did, then walked over to Ringo who did the same.

"It's gonna be fiddly, but you've gotta try to push it through the tape hard enough to make a hole. Once you've done that I should be able to get them off you." George explained "Just relax, alright?"

Ringo nodded then turned his back to George so that his hands could awkwardly reach for his belt. It would've been a lot easier if he could see what he was doing, but he knew his captors weren't really considering what was best for him. With his wrists pressed so close together it was difficult to get a grip on the thin piece of metal and even more difficult was trying to angle it so it could hit his restraints. Ringo began to get flustered, losing grip of the metal or moving his wrists down too quickly and missing it entirely. This wasn't going to work, and the panic in his mind began to rise again. George noticed he was getting frustrated and rested his chin on Ringo's shoulder.

"Calm down, love. Just breathe, and try again. I'm right here with you." He whispered, kissing Ringo's neck lightly before pulling back so Ringo could try again.

Ringo took a deep breath and got hold of the metal once more, then pulled his wrists upwards and slammed them down hard until he felt it pushing through the tape. He gasped, even though he felt it tearing at his skin somewhat he didn't care.

"It's through." Ringo breathed, but he felt more tense than he had previously.

"Well done. Now I'm gonna try and rip them off you, hold still." George was still whispering as he turned around to get his finger through the small hole Ringo had created.

Ringo felt George pulling at the tape desperately, but it wouldn't tear and he heard George sighing behind him. He tried again with more force but to no avail.

"I'm gonna have to use my teeth. Can you get up against the wall, love?" George spoke softly and Ringo appreciated how much George was trying to calm him.

Ringo obliged and pressed his front up against the wall, George knelt down behind him and kept adjusting his angle as he tried to get a grip with his teeth. It was awkward to say the least, and Ringo only felt appreciative that he was stuck with George rather than anyone else. After a few tries George managed to get a grip of the restraint in his mouth and he jerked his neck to try and tear it. At first nothing happened but Ringo remained calm, he had to trust George that this was going to work. Then he heard a ripping sound, it was only short but it was something.

"Alright, almost there. You're doing so good, Ringo, just stay calm." George's voice was tight.

He set to work again and it wasn't long before he had ripped through the tape, Ringo couldn't help thinking how useful George's sharp teeth must've been in all this, and finally Ringo could move his arms freely. The restraints were lose enough that Ringo could break through them and the feeling of the tape falling to the ground was something beyond relief. He turned around with an ecstatic expression in his face and quickly set to work on freeing George too. It wasn't easy, the tape was thick and tight, but he persevered and soon they were both free.

Immediately George captured Ringo in a hug, pulling the older man closely to him and taking in a deep breath.

"You did it." George said softly "God you're brilliant, Ringo."

"Let's not get too excited just yet." Ringo chuckled, holding George tightly "We still have to get out of here."

"Right." George huffed, pulling away reluctantly "I've got a plan. Just do what I say and we should get out of here in one piece, alright?"

"Alright." Ringo breathed.

"Before we try this, I just wanna say..." George's voice trailed off "You mean an awful lot to me, Ringo, and I'll do everything I can to keep you safe. If it comes down to it and you can get out without me, I want you to go, okay?"

"George don't be insane, I'm not gonna leave here without you." Ringo placed his hand on George's neck gently.

"Please, Ringo, I couldn't live with myself if you- If..." George struggled to meet Ringo's gaze.

"You've gotta get this in your head, George, we're in this together. No matter what happens I'm gonna be here with you, yeah?" Ringo smiled weakly "I care about you, George, more than anything... In case I don't get a chance to say this: I love you, okay?"

George looked up at Ringo in alarm, those were the last words he was expecting to hear right now. Ringo looked afraid, as though he instantly regretted the words as soon as he said them but when he opened his mouth to explain himself, George silenced him with a kiss. It was a short kiss, but a passionate one, and George whispered in Ringo's ear as he pulled away.

"I love you too, Ringo."

"Really?"

"Really." George smiled, his hand caressing Ringo's check "Now let's get out of here so I can show you how much I mean it."

"Alright, what's the plan?"

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