Show Me Your Teeth
Title: Show Me Your Teeth
Author: skelly_lector
Pairing: George/Ringo, with a bit of John/Paul on the side.
Time Frame: Uhh, not entirely sure. Let's say around 62-66. The touring years.
Rating: R
Warnings: Drugs. Boy-lovin’. Much talk of sexy-times. Nothing too graphic, though.
Summary: Ringo always suspected that there was something unusual about George. The truth is better than he could have ever imagined.
A/N: Uhhh. I really have no idea where this came from. I guess I thought George deserved to be a bit kinky for a change. Perhaps I was inspired by those magnificent fangs of his. Or maybe it was Lady Gaga. (This is why I can’t have nice thingsss.) This was written and edited in the past two hours or so, so please excuse any mistakes or general failure.
Disclaimer: Lies, all lies! Never believe anything you read on the internet.
Ringo had always suspected that there was something unusual about George. To most people, of course, he was highly unusual: he was the dashing, mysterious, talented guitarist of the world’s most famous pop group. But in Ringo’s eyes, he was a mate, a lad, a best friend; nothing but an ordinary bloke. There was nothing unusual about him.
Except for the sneaking suspicion that Ringo had long held that George did something rather strange in bed. The girls all knew about it, of course; somehow, the word had spread amongst the models, showgirls, dancers, artists, and other birds that tended to hang around the Beatles. Each girl that George seduced in his shy way followed him into the bedroom with a nervous, expectant grin and left the next morning looking somewhat bewildered but entirely satisfied. Ringo had observed this phenomenon on multiple occasions, and he could only draw one conclusion: George was, in one way or another, kinky.
And then, one fateful night, Ringo had solved the mystery. Finding themselves confined to their hotel room by a grumpy Brian who didn’t want them “out getting shitfaced the night before a show,” the troublesome foursome had found an alternative way of entertaining themselves: the mysterious hand-rolled cigarettes that Bob Dylan had given them in New York. A few joints later, they had thwarted the whole point of staying in the hotel in the first place but were quite frankly too blazed to care.
Eventually, John and Paul had staggered off into the other room, clumsily groping each other the way they always did when they were out of their minds in private (and occasionally in public, as some rather shocked club-goers could testify). That left Ringo and George lolling about on the floor and staring at the ceiling, giggling like children, and clinging to the fading tail ends of their highs.
Through half-lidded eyes, Ringo watched John and Paul stumble out. He’d never quite understood what their deal was. Were they together or just messing around? In love or just friends with benefits? Ringo pondered these questions in an attempt to distract himself from the hot, sticky jealousy creeping up the back of his throat.
“What d’you suppose it’s like?”
Raising his eyebrows, he looked down at George, who was resting his head on Ringo’s stomach and staring fixedly at the ceiling.
“Being John and Paul, I mean,” George went on, his words tumbling out just a bit too quickly for comfort.
“Messing around with your best mate, you mean?” Ringo asked slowly, rather uncertain as to where this conversation was headed.
“Well, that, yeah,” George admitted. “But I sort of meant…y’know. Being with another bloke.”
Ringo blinked. “You don’t know?”
Blushing like a schoolgirl, George looked down at his splayed legs in embarrassment. “No. Never tried it. Have you?”
“No,” Ringo admitted, feeling his cheeks heat up. “Though,” he began, paused, took a deep breath, and went on, “Though…I’ve always sort of wondered.”
“You have?” George looked up at him, his eyes stone cold sober. The expression of hope and hunger on his face gave Ringo a pretty good idea of where this conversation was going.
Swallowing hard in an attempt to push back the lump of nervousness building in his throat, Ringo nodded. “Yeah.”
George rolled over and threw a leg over Ringo’s hips, pushing himself up until he was on his hands and knees over Ringo’s laid-out body. Swallowing again, Ringo stared up in awe at the dark eyes fixed on him. Licking his lips nervously, George said the magic words:
“Would you like to try it?”
The details of that night are unimportant. What matters is that Ringo finally figured it out. George was a biter.
Now, Ringo was a practitioner of the sweet, gentle, straightforward style of lovemaking. A biter seemed like an unlikely match for him. And yet, it was the most incredible thing he’d ever experienced. That night in the hotel, when George had tried it for the first time, Ringo had nearly creamed his pants like a horny sixteen-year-old. Skin electrified like George’s teeth carried a powerful current, he had dissolved into a hot, screaming, flailing puddle of want. He wasn’t sure he’d ever made a noise that loud in his entire life. And yet George had seemed entirely unfazed; he’d merely smiled and dug those electric teeth in again.
Ringo was pretty sure he’d woken up the whole hotel that night.
He didn’t quite understand it. All he knew was that every time (and oh, there had been many, many times since that first time in the hotel room), George could bring him to his knees, reduce him to the purest essence of his desire, drive him clear out of his brain in just one bite.
The downside, of course, was the hickeys. The brilliant red and purple marks appeared on Ringo’s pale skin every morning, as sure as the rising sun. John and Paul made merciless fun of him for them; the first time they’d noticed, they’d teased him for finding himself a wildcat of a girlfriend. But as the bruises had increased and no girl had appeared, they’d been forced to draw other conclusions.
“Georgie’s a biter! Georgie’s a biter!” Paul had shrieked, gleeful as a child who’d caught someone stealing cookies from the cookie jar.
John, on the other hand, had remained quiet, eyeing Paul’s smooth neck thoughtfully.
“Come ‘ead, Paul,” he’d called, beckoning the bassist into another room. “I want to try something.”
But even once their bandmates had gotten over it, they still had to worry about the rest of the world. It simply wouldn’t do for one of the clean-cut Beatles to go parading about in public with obvious hickeys all over him. What would they say if someone asked about their constantly-bruised drummer? And so Ringo invested in turtlenecks and scarves, and for his part George tried to stick to areas that were never exposed. But sometimes, in the heat of the moment, he couldn’t quite restrain himself.
“I feel like an abused housewife,” Ringo complained as he dug through his suitcase in search of a long sleeved shirt to cover up the particularly spectacular purple hickey George had planted on his arm the previous night. “I wear scarves in the summertime, I can’t take off me shirt to go swimming, and now I can’t wear short sleeves either.”
“Sorry,” George apologized sheepishly from his perch on the end of the hotel bed. “I got carried away.” He stood up and wandered over to inspect the bruise, a thoughtful look on his face that Ringo knew meant trouble.
“It is a nice one, though, isn’t it?” George mused, smiling faintly as his fingers traced the purpled skin. “Sort of heart-shaped, don’t you think? I’ve been trying to figure out how to make them heart-shaped for a while.”
A shiver running down his spine, Ringo tugged his arm away and tried to focus on his suitcase. He really did not have time to jump on George right this instant, which was what was surely going to happen if things continued like this.
But George was not going to help him restrain himself. Instead, he leaned in close and whispered in Ringo’s ear: “I guess I need some more practice, then, hmm?”
Ringo nearly bit his tongue in two to suppress the gasp trying to fight its way out of his mouth. Instead, he turned around and spread his arms, wrestling with the smile threatening to overtake his face.
“Look at me, Geo,” he ordered. He needn’t have bothered; George’s hungry eyes were roving all over him, drinking him in like he was an oasis in the desert. “Do you really think you need more practice?”
His shoulders, chest, and stomach looked like a rose garden, at least a dozen little red and purple circles dotting the pale skin. They clustered around his clavicles, bloomed on the tops of his shoulders, and made a little trail from his navel to his waistband, where George had scraped his teeth just last night. More marks lingered, pale and pink and fading from weeks and months ago.
“I think you’re beautiful,” George said simply, his eyes wide as he took in his handiwork. “Absolutely amazing.” He stepped forward and caught Ringo in his arms, folding him close to his warm chest and running his fingers in slow circles over Ringo’s back and shoulders.
Ringo drew in a breath that was just a bit too sharp as George’s lips ghosted over his cheek, slipping across his ear and down his neck as he whispered, “I worship you.”
“George,” Ringo said weakly, but George silenced him with the gentlest of kisses to his jaw.
Hot breath filled his ear as George repeated, “I worship you.” His fingers danced over Ringo’s shoulders and down his bare chest, tracing the evidence of every love bite. “And these are my prayers.”
Ringo let out all his breath at once as George leaned down and ran his lips across his clavicle.
“You’re mine,” George murmured, surveying the bite marks through half-lidded eyes. And Ringo realized that the bites were more than a kink, more than just a neat trick George used to bring them both pleasure. They were marks of possession, signs of ownership. George was leaving his marks on Ringo’s body because he wanted to own him, heart and soul. And, when he thought about it, Ringo couldn’t honestly say he minded.
“And you’re mine,” Ringo whispered, cradling George’s head in his hands and holding him close. He felt George’s breath stutter on his skin as the guitarist wrapped his arms around his waist.
“Ye-e-es,” George sighed, pure bliss overtaking his dark features. “Yes.”
“So tell me, Ringo. What kind of cigarette are you smoking there?”
“Huh? What?” Ringo blinked, jerked into the present by the reporter’s voice and the flash of half a dozen cameras in front of him.
“I mean, what brand is it? Or is it self-rolled?” the reporter persisted. Ringo raised his eyebrows; why the hell did people want to know these things about him?
“Uh, self-rolled, I suppose,” he said absently, peering down at the smoldering cigarette in his hand. “Dunno.”
“Paul, how do you like it here?” another reporter piped up, thankfully taking the attention off of Ringo for the moment.
“Uh, well, it’s quite nice,” Paul answered smoothly. “We haven’t seen much of it aside from the airport and the hotel, though. But those were both lovely.”
Everyone laughed, and Ringo forced a grin as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. These bloody chairs were hard as rocks, and he had a particularly painful bruise on the inside of his thigh. George had really gotten creative last night. And what a night it had been…
He nearly managed to space out again, but a camera flash brought him back into the moment as his hickey twinged more than ever. He shifted again, barely managing to mask his frown of pain.
Hot breath ghosted against his ear as George leaned over and whispered, “Leg bothering you?”
Glancing at his bandmate out of the corners of his eyes, Ringo grimaced and nodded.
“Sorry,” George breathed, a mischievous grin creeping onto his features. “I’ll kiss it and make it better later if you like.”
As George sat back in his chair, Ringo smiled to himself. He knew George would make good on his promise. Every night as they lay in bed together, he held Ringo in his arms and kissed the new bruises blooming on his skin like flowers opening under the sun.