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"we can't," george started. he wasn't sure how to end the thought. he closed his mouth with a clack, the sentence now a breath hanging unfinished and paper thin in the air. john didn't notice.
"can't what?" he was attacking george's neck with kisses and bites that smelled like alcohol, that felt hot and made george shiver. sweet and sticky, slow but greedy. george grabbed at his collar and tried to steady himself.
"can't..." his mind searched for the words, head spinning before he finally gave in and let out a soft yowl. john made a sound too, low and rumbling against the heat of george's skin as he nipped at it. george sucked in through his teeth. "don't..."
"shouldn't is more like it," john said, running his thumb across george's bottom lip, looking up into his eyes. his eyes. oh, george could swim in them. dark now in the low-light, a swirling reflection of the cosmos, rich with understanding and longing. such passion, such fury, seen only when the two of them were on stage, or when john was terribly turned on by whatever argument he's having with paul. and then, like a dream, it evaporated. john closed his eyes and leaned in, whispering against george's mouth: "but i can't help meself."
george shivered, completely humiliated.
"take me."
"can't. not here."
"please."
and john smiled, cheek to cheek with george, who was panting like a dog. he smiled, nuzzling their faces together, the frames of his glasses pushing up hard against the skin of george's cheek, pinching slightly.
"you're so cute, georgie. love when 'ye beg."
"please," george heard his voice break and felt the blood in his veins run cold. the pathetic squeak in his voice caught johns attention too, and he immediately crashed their lips together in response. it was torture to be held from john, torture to live every moment without those perfect pink lips, thin and serious, against his own. he moaned against it, sinking into john's arms. he was melting, surely, and was convinced that he'd be reduced to a puddle any moment. and john's arms, slender but defined from hours of playing, held him in place like an anchor. he couldn't think or move or breathe or do anything but let john's mouth guide him, let john's arms hold him, let himself become john's, john's, john's.
and then, like they were floating in a dream: john took his hand and led him out the back door, round the corner, into a car, landing plush and flying up the stairs, into bed.
george was bashful in the silver moonlight, his chest bare, his legs exposed, sliding off his briefs. he felt so raw, like john could do anything and it would feel right. and there was john, ever the angel, ever the fairy, hovering above george, just as exposed, pressing soft kisses against george's chest. george giggled like tinkling bells.
this must be love, he thought, wrapping his arms around john's shoulders. tendrils of auburn hair shielded george's eyes from the glow of the moon as john captured his lips once again, the two of them smiling against the kiss.
"are we going to do this, then?" john asked. his voice was soft and warm, uneven with doubt but still bubbly with affection. he was smiling still, and george could hear it.
"take me," george repeated, low and whispery, heart fluttering and eyes glittering as he nodded, smiling just as wide.
john giggled, his hands roaming around every bit of george's body. and as he captured george's neck again, slow and giving extra attention to every sensitive spot he found, george couldn't help closing his eyes and thinking again, as he moaned and panted, this must be love.