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“Nope, do it again,” Paul says through gritted teeth for the fiftieth time. George feels his jaw clench as the older lad gives him a pointed look. He’s played the same thing each time. The thing Paul wrote, exactly, and Paul was being a complete control freak. “Hazza, is yer guitar in tune?” He asks, and George shoots him the nastiest glare he can muster.
“Yeah! ‘N I’m playin’ exactly,” he grabs the page, holding it up for all to see, “what you wrote!” He insists, shoving the page back down with disdain. Paul frowns, playing a note.
“Tune to my guitar,” he says, ignoring him entirely. George stares at him a moment, silently asking if he was serious. He plays the note again, and George mimics him, and the next note, and the next. Identical. “Yer not playin’ it properly!” Paul exclaims finally, frustration seeping through his voice.
“Well maybe y’should just have John play it then!” George snaps, violently playing the part. Once he’s done, Paul plays it and then looks at him like he should hear a difference. “That’s what ‘m playin’!” He cries out.
“No it’s not!” Paul rubs his eyes, taking a sharp breath, "George, just listen!”
“I’m listening!!” He shouts, “maybe if you would shut yer damn mouth then you’d be able to hear it!” George yells, and the moment he sees the look on Paul’s face he knows that he’s fucked up. It’s been a while since he’s had a spanking, but that doesn’t mean that he’s just going to roll over and take it either. Paul stands up and George scrambles out of his seat as well. “Don’t you dare,” he starts to grit out, eyes flitting to John and Ringo, who respectively watch with amusement and pity.
“Corner. Now.” Paul demands, and George feels his mouth hang open. He doesn’t bother looking at the corner, in complete shock. Paul motions angrily at the corner.
“What?” George hisses, “then I can’t play,” he reminds him, watching Paul carefully. Never once has he been put in the corner. Forced to sit at Paul’s feet? Sure. Tugged over his knee? Absolutely. Put in a damn corner like a child? He’s not doing that.
“I don’t care. Get in the corner. Otherwise ‘m takin’ yer guitar home with me tonight,” he threatens, and George sputters a bit. He doesn’t doubt that Paul would try to take George’s guitar, and he really doesn’t know what to do about it.
“That’s not,” George sputters, glancing around for help. He feels his cheeks start to burn. Ringo just gives him a little shrug, John just offers a cheery grin and raises his eyebrows at the corner. “That’s not fair!” He snaps, looking around desperately, “no, c’mon, Ritchie, y’know he’s bein’ ridiculous,” he spits, and Ringo’s eyes dart to Paul.
“We’ll put it to a vote then.” Paul determines. “All in favor of putting Georgie in the corner?” He asks, raising his own hand. George clutches the neck of his guitar nervously, heartbeat picking up. His eyes go wide and he nearly chokes on his own spit when John raises his hand too. He knows the bastard doesn’t agree with Paul, he’s just curious about how it’ll all play out.
“He always sides with you!” George cries out, “Ritchie!” He calls, and Ringo huffs.
“Paul, yer bein’ unfair,” he sides with him, and relief flickers dully in George’s chest. Paul shoots him a tight lipped frown.
“Well, the one bein’ punished doesn’t get a vote anyway, so it’s still two to one.” He states. George stuffs his guitar into its case angrily.
“That’s not fair,” he states coldly, ignoring Paul’s footsteps coming closer until there’s a firm hand wrapping around his upper arm, dragging him up. “Get off me! ‘M leavin’!!” He shouts, struggling to get out of Paul’s grip. He doesn’t loosen up, instead snatching his guitar case away. He sets it down on the chair, dragging George who’s taken to squirming as he’s shoved into the corner. Uncomfortable arousal prickles in his gut when Paul’s hand threads through his hair, shoving his face into the corner.
“Yer stayin’ right there ‘til I say so-“
“Why d'you get to pick!?” George shouts, struggling harder. His breath catches in his throat when Paul presses his own body up to George’s back, forcing him further into the corner, and he’s effectively trapped.
“‘Cause I’m the one with the belt that’ll bruise yer arse fer weeks, so you’ll do what I say!” Paul shouts, and George bites back a whimper. He’s hard, because that’s just his luck. Paul’s grip slowly loosens, ready to jolt back into place at even the slightest movement. George’s throat burns from the humiliation of it, everyone’s eyes on him. He stays put, swallowing down his pride. Paul’s hands slip away, and the warmth of his body disappears. “Good,” he mutters, and he hears his footsteps retreating.
It gets a million times worse when they start playing again without him. His mind was fixated on just how awful it all was. How could they do this to him? His forehead presses against where the walls meet, tears blurring in his eyes. The song doesn’t sound right without him playing, but he’s been put in literal timeout.
They circle through the songs, with Paul nitpicking about every little thing. John mouths off once or twice, but he doesn’t get the corner. George shifts around, getting restless. Why was he even staying? Paul was distracted. He should just walk out, sure he’d have to leave his guitar, but at least then he’d regain some autonomy. He straightens up, starting to turn around-
“Get back, get back...” Paul sings, switching mid-song over to that one, leaving John and Ringo to scramble to catch up. He can feel the eyes on him, and he groans, slamming his head lightly against the wall. Tears water in his eyes. It was ridiculous and unfair. They shouldn’t get to treat him like this. His throat burns, listening to them finish up the song without him. “Good job, that one was good.” Paul praises everyone but him, and George tries his absolute best not to cry. He fails his task, but keeps it quiet, refusing Paul the satisfaction of hearing him sob.
He cries into the corner, utterly silent other than a bit of sniffling that was drowned out by the instruments. Eventually the music stops, and he hears footsteps again. He lets out an audible hiccup when a hand runs over his shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze before pulling him away from the corner. Paul exhales softly when he sees his tear streaked cheeks, expression gentling a bit. George refuses eye contact at all cost, even as Paul guides him back to his chair. He pulls up a chair to George’s as he sits.
“C’mon, love, let’s try it again,” he murmurs, and George watches as Paul plays the part slowly. George repeats it note for note, the exact same thing he had been playing from the very start, and yet Paul smiles at him like he’s done something incredible. “Good! That’s it!” He exclaims, “see? You’ve got it,” he hums. George just looks at him in utter disbelief. The absolute bastard.