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They’ve made it into an art form, him and George.
John can’t think of when the first time was, just that it was rough and hot and rushed, heavy breathing and muffled groans punctuating the air of the Hamburg room. The whole memory is a haze of alcohol and sexual frustration, both of them too far gone to question what the fuck they were doing. John remembers how much he’d been holding back then, those animal urges he always had to suppress. Until George, of course. It was different with George.
Everything was different with George.
It had always been getting off with a mate—yes, it was going a bit farther than he’d done with Paul or the others, but it was still just getting off—until one night, right before a gig, John had looked over at George and nearly took him right there, because George was just so fucking gorgeous, standing there, all dark eyes and wet lips, tuning his guitar like he had no clue what he was doing to John.
John knew he did, though. George always knew.
He’d played the entire show with a terrible hard-on—and worse, so did George. It had been impossible not to notice, and it had caused John to miss two of his cues. Fucking George. They both knew that Paul could see them, too. He probably thought they had birds waiting for them backstage; he kept grinning at them knowingly between songs.
What Paul didn’t know is what they did afterwards.
It had always been getting off before that night. It all changed after, when George finally grabbed him and growled, “Give me fucking everything,” and John had never questioned him again. It was the night they stopped holding back.
After that night, it was like all the things John kept locked in the darkest places of his head had been unlocked, and suddenly all those unthinkable thoughts were on the table. Suddenly every moment he spent alone was spent with George—and when that wasn’t the case, he was thinking about how to get rid of the others in order to get George to himself. Because John likes George.
John likes the smell of George’s sweat, the sheen of his body in the dim light of that tiny little room. He likes to hear George’s breath catch when John finally touches him, a sharp, needy intake of breath. He likes the whimpering noises George makes when John spreads him out on the bed, when he strokes too slowly or squeezes too hard. Too hard, but just right.
John likes fucking him. If he sticks with the same bird for too long he tends to get bored, but it hasn’t happened with George. John likes that George doesn’t care about formalities, the hesitation or the asking of permission. Once the door’s closed and locked, John can do anything. Sometimes John likes fucking him slowly, listening to the drawn-out noises and watching the pleasure build up until the boy’s close to tears, a choked wail in the back of his throat that never quite surfaces.
John likes fucking him up against a wall most of all, and he knows George likes it too. He likes the feeling of lifting George up, kneading hands into his arse, leaving red handprints. He likes the ache he gets in his legs from holding George up too long (it’s lucky George is so fucking skinny, but still). He likes the feeling of George’s legs wrapped around his waist, hands clutching at John for goddamned life. He likes it when George presses his forehead to John’s and they breathe into each other’s mouths, hot and ragged and needy.
They didn’t used to do it naked, either—took too much time—until John found out that George scratched. That changed everything. Every article of clothing must be removed now, because if it isn’t skin on skin, it isn’t fucking enough . John finds himself liking it when George claws down his back, groaning all the while. John finds himself needing it. George isn’t afraid to be just as rough with John as John is with him. John likes all the things about George that birds don’t give him, the hedonistic want that the two of them share.
George is loud, too; he doesn’t hold back anymore. He wouldn’t even if John asked him too, because he knows the effect his moaning has. George is truly the most vocal partner John’s ever had, and he loves it. Sometimes George will deliberately let loose a whorish moan just to watch John’s reaction, to feel the next few thrusts become harder, deeper, deliciously desperate. George likes watching John lose control. George is fucking shameless, and so is John.
Possibly the best thing about George, though, is his near-sobbing mantra when he’s close, the don’t stop, oh fuck, don’t fucking stop, John, don’t stop, over and over, tugging at John’s hair pleadingly, like he thinks John will pull away at the last moment. It’s ridiculous, that thought, of John pulling away. As though, after all this time, George thinks it’s still just getting off. Like he still can’t figure out why John has stayed. John can’t understand this.
John really likes George.
Sometimes—rarely, but sometimes—they’ll have the luxury of falling asleep together if the others are out, and that’s what John has come to like above everything else. Because afterwards, George will survey the damage, tracing over the raised scrapes on John’s back and laughing softly. George thinks it’s funny that they’re both always red and sore by the time they’re done. They lie there, sweat-damp and panting, listening to each other’s heartbeats slowly reverting to normal. They whisper things into the dark, things they can’t say around the others; “This is what I’ll do to you next,” and, softer still, “you’re so fucking gorgeous, d’you know that?”
And he is. John likes seeing him after, completely debauched and satisfied on the other side of the bed, a drowsy grin on his face. His hair is always tousled—John makes sure of that—and his face is always a lovely shade of pink. John likes to hold him as they fall asleep. He likes being close, so he can feel George’s heartbeat and listen to the slow, steady breaths.
George kisses him after. John likes kissing George. The kisses are better after than before; sweet and lazy and gentle, a soft tangle of tongues in the dark. Before, George is unabashed and fucking loud, but after he is shy and quiet, and John likes both sides of him. If it were anyone else, John might feel queer about it—the kissing—but with George it seems only natural. John likes seeing how swollen he can make the already swollen lips.
John likes that George bites back.
John always makes sure to suck a bruise on George’s neck somewhere. A final reminder for when they force themselves to wake up too-early so George can crawl into his own bed in case the others come back and ask questions. John likes that it’s their secret, something they have that the others don’t. He likes watching George stumble into the bathroom and see the mark and grin into the mirror like a little boy. John loves it when Paul or someone else comments on it, remarking what a good fuck he must have had, and could he tell them her name? And George laughs and looks at John, a look that says if they only knew.
John likes to count the days it takes for the mark to fade. And then he counts the days until they can do it again.
John really fucking likes George.
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~fin~