I s'pose this could be seen as my own twisted of wishing you all a happy new year...
Title : Graceful degradation
Author : Gereiheimer
Paring : John/George, hints at John/Paul
Rating : NC-17 (although this chapter is only R)
Disclaimer : I own none of the people mentioned in this story, and meant no harm whatsoever to their memory when I wrote this. I made no money from it.
Warnings : erm, smut ? Role play and prostitution. Only mildly kinky, though. Also, unbeta’ed because I’m too lazy to look for one. Feel free to point out any horrid typo/mistake. If you feel like having a look at the other chapters before I post them, drop me a line, I’d be delighted to have them edited ^^
Time and place: around 1965, in London.
Author note : the story is told from John’s point of view exclusively. Not ‘cause I prefer him, but ‘cause I’m bloody unable to figure out what goes through George’s head. I’d also like to dedicate this story to omgchucknorris who (very involuntarily) triggered the idea for this and who is the George to my John when we role play. Many thanks to her for helping me to improve my characterization of George. Well, at least he sounds slightly less not like George, now…
Summary : “I want to play a game,” I state quietly, the apparent casualty of my voice concealing the intention I put into the sentence. But George knows. This is not the first time we’re doing this and as he stares back, I know he understands. I remember the first time we did this, when I asked him if I could borrow his hand for ten minutes. I remember his dark eyes trailing slowly on the bulge in my trousers before he agreed, much to my surprise.
I look up from my guitar as George sits down on the couch in front of me, his own trusty Rickenbacker on his knees. He gives me a little smile and I nod, strumming the first notes of the new melody I’m trying to write. George is getting in tune, his unplugged guitar only making a faint noise as he pinches the cords repeatedly, his head cocked to the side in silent concentration.
I stop abruptly and put my guitar aside with a sigh. George gives me a look but does not ask, letting me know that he’ll listen if I want to tell him, but not urging me to do so. That’s George. Subtle. Too subtle sometimes, when you know something’s up by the way he looks at you but cannot decipher what it is, no matter how hard you try.
I just stare then, letting my eyes wander on his thin hands, his narrow hips and his long legs folded awkwardly under him, until I reach his face and meet his eyes. He looks back. He knows this look, and the expression on my face is probably obvious to him, even if I try to conceal it. He doesn’t avert his eyes though, his eyebrows raising as he sets his own guitar aside.
I know it’s an overture, and a pretty obvious one if you know what to watch, especially for George. It’s more the sort of thing Paul would do. Setting his guitar aside, spreading his legs and giving me a bold look, mouth smirking over-confidently. I struggle to push the image away and bite down the anger that comes with it. I don’t know if it’s been showing on my face though, but George suddenly looks away, afraid that he read me wrong, and picks up his guitar.
“I want to play a game,” I state quietly, the apparent casualty of my voice concealing the intention I put into the sentence. But George knows. This is not the first time we’re doing this and as he stares back, I know he understands. His body tenses minutely and he lets go of the guitar, the way he looks at me showing that he’s up for it.
George is always up for anything I propose, anyway. I toy with the idea to push further and further, to see if he’s going to snap, just like the first time we did this, when I asked him if I could borrow his hand for ten minutes. I remember his dark eyes slowly trailing on the bulge in my trousers before he agreed, much to my surprise.
He looks at me, just like he did then, letting me know that he’s listening by the way he slightly leans towards me . I do the same, putting my hands on my knees and licking my lips, my eyes serious.
This is no joke. The game we play is no joke, never. George understood this a long time ago, and I know he likes the fact that when we play, he can be sure that I’m never pulling his leg. I wouldn’t dare.
“I want to buy you,” I state.
I lean back on the couch and watch him as he considers the idea. That’s part of the game too, the moment he pretends he might refuse, although I don’t know whether he is really pondering the idea or just fakes to do so.
He doesn’t ask. George never asks. Whatever I propose, no matter how twisted what I want to do is, he never asks. That’s why I play this game with George too, because he just accepts the idea for what it is, and never laughs.
I can only imagine what this would be like if I asked Paul instead. He would miss the point completely. I mean, I love the man, but we’re too different for this to work. Our differences make us click and fit for some things, but not for this.
Paul is not kinky enough to see the appeal of it. Buy me? he’d ask, like a whore, you mean? And he’d raise a half-amused, half-disdainful eyebrow. I don’t think you’d be wealthy enough to buy me, Johnny, ‘sides, you know as well as I do that I don’t really need money these days… He’d pat my hand and discard the idea as ridiculous.
George doesn’t do any of this. George doesn’t do anything. He looks at me without seeing me for a while, before asking, “where?”
I smile (because it means he accepted it alright already, but is still making sure that he got me well), “Shepherds Alley,” I answer and he nods slowly. Yes, Georgie. You understood that right. Shepherds Alley is one of the darkest, seediest streets in London and it is well-known for its love hotels and prostitutes.
George’s eyes are very dark and his face totally neutral as he looks at me intently and I know he’s pondering the idea some more. I think of telling him that he doesn’t have to do it if it makes him too uneasy, that I will not think less of him if he refuses (although this may be a lie), but I don’t, because I’m sure he knows that already.
Or maybe not.
With George, you can’t really tell. The way his brain works is a bloody mystery for me most of the time. Granted, the man doesn’t talk much, even the fucking press got that right, but there’s more to it. He has his own, personal way to communicate, and sometimes it’s so bloody cryptic that even I can’t figure it out. Not that words are actually much more reliable, I think with an inner snort.
George shifts on the couch and I immediately look back to him. He glances towards the clock and makes up his mind. “Two a.m.”
I nod quietly, more subdued at this moment that I could ever be otherwise. My eyes search his, wanting to make sure that he accepts for the good reasons, provided there would be any.
But this is apparently unnecessary and he turns around. “Don’t be late.” The door closes behind him and I take a deep breath, followed by a little snort of disbelief.
I just convinced George Harrison to be my whore for the night.