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Poetry

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Broken bottles underfoot, glass shattered to form a bed of small sea-green beads. Brick walls painted dark and running with moisture. And heat; rough body heat thick with sweat, stale breath, and the raw undercurrents of sex.

John is caught in that sharp, pulsing rush that comes when you push beyond exhaustion, eyes over-bright and dry, throat raw with smoke and fire.

And the music shudders/thrums/quakes through him.

And his skin crawls with energy like static electricity.

And he needs

Needs something gasping and hot that will burn him and leave him spent.

He feels his fingers begin to twitch, and smiles to see George so close by, so nearly in reach, so very accessible.

A step. Fistful of clothing. Hard shove.

And now they're backed into an alcove, covered in black shadows, birds and blokes walking by unseeing.

"Christ, John!"

No answer, just teeth finding a pale throat, nipping sharply, blood surging to the surface.

"Fuck." Low groan, head tilted back further. "No romance with you is there. Not even a flipping 'hello'."

Hands snaking under t-shirt, fingers hard, digging into flesh, clawing harsh gouges. "Were you after poetry, son?" Mouth all bite and combat. "You're as lovely as a fucking summer's day. I could drown in your pretty bloody eyes. Your touch is fucking scalding." Knee thrust hard between legs. Breaths fast and jerking. "I became a buggering god-forsaken fucking sinner first time I saw you."

George swallows a laugh, moaning instead as a hand grasps him, sudden, tight, hard.

"And you were just some skinny kid, but you had the most kissable, fuckable, dirty mouth I ever saw, and your bloody skin glowed in the moonlight, and I wanted you." Tension. Leap of flames. And skin that tastes of salt. And eyes squeezing shut.

"Jesus."

"Yeah." Foreheads dripping, pressed together. "Alright, Georgie?"

"Yeah." Pause for breath. "You should read me poetry more often."