marmalay
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George recalled those late, drunken nights in Hamburg where they were all too out of their minds to care about implications. Glances at the other lads while they were with whatever bird they’d brought back for the night, their loud keening-like whines chasing away any thought of sleep. He’d reasoned it was like then, with him sharing the room with John tonight. His mind went to one girl John had brought back, a pale brunette that looked a little older than him. He’d told him she had a certain curve to her smile that he liked, but they both knew John didn’t bed girls for something like that.
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George humps a hotel pillow while sharing with John for the night. He's not as quiet as he thinks he is while thinking about him.
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The collar was very George; Thick, and dusty orange. Soft, almost buttery leather with a few neat holes put through it, plus a big shiny silver buckle. The other hardware on it was silver as well, the D-ring where the leash was attached sporting a thin bone-shaped metal plate with “GEORGE” in punched letters. The leash matched, of course, a five foot long leather lead with a loop at the end.
John ran his thumb across the collar, pushing it under the buckle to flick it upwards, tapping his nail against it with a gentle clink.
“Said y’ wanted a collar,” John’s eyes moved up to him. “So I got you one.”