"What's it like?" George asked one evening. They'd just finished a game of cards, the remains of which were still spread messily across the coffee table. John had gone to shower while Ringo slipped off to bed, which left George and Paul alone in the communal area of their suite.
Paul blinked, turning his attention away from the closed bathroom door. His arm still rested along the back of the couch, curled around the empty space that John had occupied just minutes before. "What's what like?"
"Y'know." George jutted his chin toward the bathroom. "You and him."
It wasn't exactly a secret that John and Paul's friendship was more than it seemed. George had long had his suspicions, but it became clear the day he and Ringo walked in on the other two grinding against each other in their hotel room. John and Paul jerked away from each other like repelled magnets, but George didn't care, nor did Ringo. They were friends with Brian, after all; queers had long ago lost their shock value.
A soft, easy smile quirked at Paul's lips, and his eyelids drifted downward as he focused his attention on his knees. "It's good," he said quietly. "Really good."
George hummed in acknowledgement, occupying himself with scooping the cards off the table. He stacked them neatly, tapping the edges against the flat surface, forming a perfect rectangle. "I mean," he ventured. "Kissing, and—stuff. Is it weird?" He stared down at the king of hearts that faced him from the top of the deck, unable to meet Paul's eyes.
"Ah, y'know—" Paul's voice cracked a little, in the way it did when he was trying too hard to be casual. His interview voice. "It's—well, it's different, certainly, but it's—nice. Kisses are harder—firmer, I mean—I mean, it's not a woman's mouth, obviously, and that's—I like it."
"Oh." George tapped the sides of the deck against the table again, just for something to do with his hands. He tucked the cards back inside their patterned box.
The soft chink-ing sound of a lighter caught his attention. Paul shifted forward, elbows on his knees, puffing at his newly lit cigarette. "It was weird at first, I s'pose," he offered after a moment, as if sensing George wasn't satisfied with his answer. Deep down, George knew that nothing Paul could say would fully sate his curiosity. Even though he'd seen them together with his own eyes, their relationship still didn't quite make sense, didn't quite seem real. He wanted to understand, he wanted to know.
A secret, quiet part of him wanted to experience it himself.
"I mean," Paul went on, "the first time we really—held each other close, y'know, and—no tits! That was weird. He's quite hard." Paul caught himself and laughed. "And, well—that, obviously. What do you do with that?"
George stared at him expectantly, and Paul's face seemed to fall and light up all at once. "Really?"
"I'm just curious!" George said, defensive. "You told me all about sex with girls before I had it myself, this is—this is what we do, innit?" The excuse seemed feeble, even if he knew his reasoning was sound. He liked his relationship with Paul: the insightful older friend teaching him the ways of the world. Paul had no reason to hole up and get all private on him now.
"It's just—" Paul looked once more to the bathroom, from which the sound of water still steadily roared. "Him. He's not some prostitute I can tell stories about." He shrugged, tapping the ash from his cigarette into an ashtray on the couch's armrest. "I love him, and all that."
That, somehow, was more surprising than finding out that they were intimate with each other. At least, it wasn't something George had expected, or even thought about. The concept was even more bewildering and impossible and thrilling. George's breath caught in his throat and he cleared it awkwardly, scratching at the side of his face.
"So you—you don't intend to find some girl? You're happy? Like this?"
The look on Paul's face answered the question before he even opened his mouth. "Yeah. I am." He leaned back, gazing up at the ceiling as he took a long, slow drag. "Why're you so interested all the sudden?" he asked around a breath of smoke.
"Dunno." George's fists curled against his thighs, knuckles going white. "I mean, I guess I've been curious for a while now." He glanced at Paul's eyes, waiting for the look of judgment. It never came—of course it didn't. If anyone knew how he was feeling, it was Paul. Still George couldn't shake the fear that he could have been wrong about them all this time. What if they weren't a real couple? What if they were just best mates that kissed sometimes?
Paul hummed softly. "I would've expected you to be disgusted, is all," he admitted.
"No." Even that felt like a death sentence. It was as though he had just buckled himself into a speeding car, and he could only hold on tight and hope it took him somewhere nice. "I mean—I don't—I don't think I'm queer, but—"
Paul laughed. It wasn't mocking, really; it was gentle, sympathetic. "Oh, sure. We're not either."
"I like girls," George said with conviction. "I do. They're soft, and pretty, and they smell nice. I think the world would be an awful, ugly place without them, but…" He'd hoped his distant, incomprehensible longing would put itself into words for him, so he could explain all this to Paul as well as himself. His mind was blank, like he'd reached the end of an unfinished script. He could only look at Paul desperately, hoping he understood.
"John's like that. He still fucks girls from time to time, when he can." Paul lifted a single shoulder, smiling wryly. "But I don't miss it, really. I think I could live the rest of my life without having another girl, and that'd be okay."
Paul finished off his cigarette, stubbing it out and watching the ashes crumble. "Anyway," he said, not looking up. "What I'm saying is, you can like both. You don't have to choose."
"I don't know, is the problem. I mean, I don't really—you two, you had each other to figure it out with. I guess I have Ringo, but I—" his chest went tight, his heart slamming against his ribs. "I don't want to mess that up. If I'm wrong."
The shower cut off, catching Paul's attention. His eyes flickered toward the door and he scratched at the corner of his lips, brow creased in thought. George knew that look. It was a dangerous one, one that meant he had some kind of insane plan forming behind those deceptively innocent eyes. Usually, it was something George wanted no part of.
Usually, the results were worth it.
The bathroom door opened and John emerged with a cloud of steam. He had one of the complimentary hotel robes pulled on over his pajamas, his hair towel-dried into messy, pointed tips. A faint redness darkened his cheeks, following the line of his neck and downward—John liked his showers hot. George could almost imagine the way his skin felt: clean and soft, pliant with residual heat.
George shook his head as if to physically dislodge the thought, his cheeks burning. The conversation with Paul had gone to his head, and now it had him all confused. His curiosity was always strictly limited to wondering what the two of them did, and how, and if it felt good at all. He never imagined touching either of them, or vice-versa. The thought had his blood flowing like lava, his palms sweaty, a jolt of electricity arrowing from his chest all the way to his crotch.
He crossed his legs, willing away the feeling.
John squinted, looking between Paul and George with a hint of a scowl on his face. "What'd you do to him?" The question was directed at Paul, though George felt another flash of shame for it.
Paul rolled his eyes. "Nothing. We've just been talking." He reached out, his arm stretching over the side of the couch. "Come here, love."
With one last cursory glance at George, John reclaimed his spot against Paul's side. He tucked his legs under himself like a roosting bird, his body curled under Paul's arm, which was eagerly pulling him closer. Paul nuzzled his temple, eyes sliding closed. "Mm, you smell good." His voice was silken in a way George had never heard before. His stomach flipped as Paul dragged his mouth over John's face, his lower lip catching on his skin, pressing down in an open-mouthed kiss.
George knew he should look away, excuse himself and go to bed, but they were never this openly affectionate. He slid his fingers under his collar, pulling it away from the heat that was starting to build in the dip of his neck.
John leaned away from Paul's questing lips, his eyes meeting George's for a fraction of a second. He squirmed, his breath a soft little stutter that George felt in his own chest, his lungs tight and empty. John touched his fingers to Paul's mouth, pushing him away. "You missed me, I take it."
"Only a little." His hand landed on John's jaw, using it to tilt his head. Paul moved in to claim his mouth, and George's heart was pounding in anticipation.
Their lips only barely brushed before John wrenched away, his brows knitting in confusion. "What are you doing?"
Paul shushed him, his hand sliding into John's open robe, palming at his side. He leaned in, his nose pressed into John's hair as he mouthed something against his ear. John shivered, his eyelashes fluttering, and it was only then that George realized that he had overstayed his welcome.
Ashamed, George pushed himself to his feet. "Sorry—I'm off."
"Hang on, wait," John said. Just like that, he had shifted back into the assertive leader George was familiar with—the one he couldn't help but obey, no matter what the command.
George could only stand there, rooted in place, his pulse moving like a thick sludge. John and Paul were staring at him, as if expecting something. George couldn't imagine what they'd possibly want from him, except for maybe privacy.
John leaned forward. The arm Paul had draped around his shoulders now slid to his waist, curling there like a protective cobra. There was nothing possessive in Paul's steady gaze, however. He looked at George openly, invitingly, even as John beckoned him closer.
George made his hesitant approach, standing before them like a child waiting to be scolded. When John's fingers curled softly around his wrist, George's nerves were set aflame. He looked away quickly —looked to Paul, who only smiled at him, tilting his head.
"C'mere," John said softly, leaning upward. "Give us a kiss."
"What?" George sputtered. He laughed, because this had to be one of John's absurd jokes, the kind that only Paul really understood. But it didn't seem that way. They looked at him with a strange, playful affection, and it made his heart beat so strongly he was certain they could see it.
"Go on," Paul urged. "Try it. See if you like it."
It caught up with him, finally—this is what Paul had been planning. He shook his head rapidly, taking a step back, though John's hand remained clasped around his wrist.
"Now, now, Georgie, don't be like that. Hurt my feelings, you have."
"It's all right," Paul said, gentle. He took George's other hand, smoothing his thumb over his knuckles. "We do this sometimes, when he gets it in his head that he has to have a girl." His lips quirked and he shot a fond glance in John's direction. "It's fun, isn't it?"
John hummed in agreement, his hand sliding up to fist the front George's shirt, pulling him downward. "Until they begin to wonder why he's kissing me more than them. I swear a couple've nearly called the police."
Their faces were mere centimeters apart, and George could feel him breathing, could feel Paul's watchful eyes on them both. John lifted his eyebrows, a quiet offering. They weren't going to make him do anything he didn't want to, but in that moment, he never wanted anything more in his life. Before he had a chance to talk to himself out of it, George leaned in and pressed his lips to John's.
It was like a firework exploding inside him, starting at his lips and coursing through his whole body in a mixture of heat and blinding light. His knees buckled, his hands flying to John's shoulders for support. It was rather chaste, as kisses went; soft, clinging presses of lips, John's firm and unyielding against his own, the tip of his nose pressing against George's cheek. But that wasn't what made George's heart pound in his ears, made his breath catch and his fingers cling tighter. It was the soft scratch of stubble catching with his own; the strength of John's jaw and the firmness of his skin; the quiet, distinctly masculine sound muffled somewhere in John's throat.
George tilted his head, pressing in deeper. John's mouth opened for him, their shaky breaths mingling between their gasping lips. A hand on the back of his head pulled him in closer, John surging up to taste him. George groaned into his mouth, his fingers digging into John's shoulders. John kissed harder than any girl George had ever been with. He was more insistent and demanding, all teeth and tongue. The wet insides of his lips caught against George's, holding on and sucking softly. Instinct made George fight back, push harder, give back whatever John gave and then some.
His back began to ache from his position, bent down awkwardly over John, but he couldn't bring himself to break away. His hands slid from John's shoulders to his neck, his face, tracing his cheekbones with curious fingertips. His face wasn't nearly as supple as woman's, free from the thick, powdery feel of makeup. If there had ever been any doubt, it was effectively banished. He was kissing John, one of his best friends—best male friends—and arousal was pounding through him like a drug.
Like flipping a switch, John fell back with a moan, opening up under George like a flower in bloom. George didn't realize he was moving, following John's mouth, until he felt Paul shifting aside to make room for his knee to settle next to John's thigh. Paul's hand on his back kept him steady, thumb sliding up and down the curve of his spine. George's body felt like a live wire, thrumming everywhere all at once.
When they broke apart, John stared up at him in amazement, breathing hard, his hair fanned out on the back of the couch where his head lay. His lips were shiny and red in the aftermath, and George's fingers traced across them of their own accord, just to feel.
He'd done that. To John.
"Well," John said, breathless, his lips quirking. "Paul, me lad, I'd say we have ourselves a gen-u-ine queer on our hands."
"Mm, seems like," Paul agreed. He leaned in, fingers tucking a wayward bit of hair behind George's ear. "What'd you think?"
George couldn't think about much, aside from the fact he was fucking hard—from a kiss, though it was probably one of the best kisses he'd ever had in his life. "I dunno yet, I think I need to have another go." He dipped down to catch John's mouth again, only to be stopped by a hand on his chest. Paul's.
"Hang on, hang on, don't get too excited," Paul chided.
John snorted, tracing George's cheekbone with the backs of his fingers. "Don't mind him, he's bad at sharing."
"I try my best. But I've got to have a go, too—can't expect me to sit here and watch all night, can you?"
George pulled back, sliding over to sit in the empty space on John's other side. "Sorry," he breathed, still embarrassingly shaky. "All yours."
Rather than latching onto John, however, Paul leaned across him, pulling George in by the back of his neck. They met in the middle, their lips connecting with a surge of confidence George didn't know he possessed, which was only fueled by John's moaned, "oh, fuck yes."
Paul kissed differently than John. He was careful—polite, if that was even an appropriate word to describe kissing. He silently asked permission for each move before he made it, his hands on George's face cradling rather than grabbing. He kissed lightly, slowly. He moved from George's lips to mouth at his cheekbones, sliding back down to brush noses, their eyelashes fluttering together. God, kissing Paul was more than just a mouth-to-mouth affair. He kissed with his whole face, reverent touches of skin on skin, his big, warm hands massaging George's scalp and the line of his shoulders.
He was dimly aware of John shifting beneath them, stretching out his legs. It was only when he palmed himself through his pants that George's breath caught, breaking away from Paul to watch.
John had the beginnings of an erection, the outline of his dick beginning to tent the thin fabric of his pajamas. George didn't think before dropping his hand to John's thigh, sliding it upward and squeezing softly. "Can I..?"
John's hand fell away, his legs opening wider. "Shit, George—as if I'd say no."
George's hand moved higher. The heat from John's skin radiated through the fabric, his muscles jumping under George's touch.
"Wait," Paul interrupted, his fingers hooking around George's wrist. He dampened his lips, his breaths shaky. "I wanna—I'm going to—let me get 'im hard for you. First."
George sat back to watch as Paul's mouth descended on John's lips, his hand sliding down the soft curve of John's torso. His fingers slid into the slit in the front of John's pants, pulling his dick out as if he'd so a million times, thumbing it gently.
It was surreal, and inarguably the most erotic thing George had ever seen in his life. They'd all seen each other in various states of undress, but this—this was different. Paul leaned over John, kissing him in that delicate, worshipful way of his, fist curled around John's cock as if he owned him. John was so receptive to it, loving it, one hand in Paul's hair and the other clutching his shoulder, holding on tight as if to keep Paul there. He was making the tiniest, most delicate sounds, which were nearly lost in Paul's mouth.
Then Paul was moving downward, off the couch and onto the floor, pushing John's knees apart. John moaned in anticipation, a sound that George thoughtlessly echoed, adjusting himself through his trousers. John was panting hard, watching Paul with red cheeks and half-lidded eyes. Paul took him into his mouth without preamble, letting him slip back out in a soft slide, the foreskin glistening with spit. He did it again, and again, closing his eyes in bliss as John hardened in his mouth. Saliva dribbled from the corners of his lips and trailed down John's prick, soaking into the surrounding fabric.
George's hips jerked and he had to look away, leaning his head against the couch and laying an arm over his eyes, breathing hard. He was dangerously close to coming in his pants like a kid, just from watching Paul on his knees, his pretty girl lips stretched by John's dick. And Jesus fuck, Paul seemed to love it, was moaning just as loud as John was—louder, even, though it was muffled by the fullness of his mouth.
There was a wet sounding pop! and a soft laugh, and George peeked out from under his arm.
"All right?" Paul asked with a grin, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. "C'mere, you can touch him."
"Fuck yes," John groaned, reaching for George's hand. "Yes, yes, yes, you can touch me, come on, Georgie."
His fingers grazed over the shaft—still slippery from Paul's mouth—and George's heart pounded in his throat. A part of him still couldn't believe he was doing this; the same part that told him he should stop, now, before he got in over his head.
John whined, pushing his hips upward, his dick bumping against George's hand. "George, please."
George couldn't think anymore after that.
He wrapped his hand around him, sliding his fist from base to tip slowly, experimentally, watching John's face, listening to the hitch of his breath.
"Harder, go on," Paul urged, breathless, his lips brushing against George's cheek. "He likes it rough, you won't hurt him."
"Christ, yes." John nodded frantically, his eyes locked on Paul's. "Give it to me, George, come on."
George pulled away. It was just for a second, though John's broken whimper wouldn't have allowed him to stay away longer even if he'd wanted to. He spat on his palm and gripped him again, tighter, and set to work. He played John as he would a new guitar, learning his secrets and coaxing out the most beautiful sounds. It felt weird, but the pulsing, heavy heat in George's hand was also familiar. This was something he knew how to handle, unlike the first time he'd tried to navigate his way around a girl. He knew what he was doing, knew how it felt, and John let out a wavering cry when George dipped down and dragged his tongue over the tip.
"Oh fuck," Paul groaned, and George was aware of the sound of a belt being unhooked. He lifted his head in time to see Paul shove his trousers halfway down his thighs, his erection pushing out from his underwear. "Do it, suck him," Paul begged. He stroked himself through his pants, his eyelashes fluttering against his reddened cheeks.
George obeyed, his mind a dizzy haze. He held John in place as he trailed his lips up the shaft, drunken off the scent, before taking the head of it into his mouth. Something in George's brain seemed to stop functioning at that moment. The smell of soap and sweat and sex overwhelmed him, the combined flavor of all three exploding in his mouth. John surrendered to him completely, his body stretched out and trembling under George's touch.
George squeezed his thigh, the hand on John's dick angling it so he could suck it harder, deeper. His tongue twisted around the tip, seeking out the slit and prodding it hard, coaxing out more of the taste. Each of John's broken, high-pitched whines pushed him farther and farther into his frenzy. He felt his throat trying to close, his mouth too full, but fuck, he needed more. He wanted to suck John in as far as he could, make him cry out again and again.
John tangled his hands in George's hair, pulling too hard, but George hardly noticed. His dick was throbbing in sympathy, aching to be touched. Each of John's shuddering moans seemed to wrap around him like a heated, ghostly hand. It pulled him closer and closer, melting his bones and turning his blood to lava. He felt like he should be doing something with his hands—he'd be three fingers deep in a girl by now. Before he realized what he was doing, his fingers slid between John's thighs, gripping the warm weight of his balls through his pants.
A strangled noise escaped from behind John's clenched teeth, his hips jerking forward, slamming his dick down George's throat. George tried to keep it there, tried to relax, but his eyes were watering and his throat was burning. He pulled back with a wet gasp, coughing hard into his fist.
"Shit—George, 'm sorry." John was reaching for him in an instant, brushing the hair from his face. "All right?"
George could only nod, biting his lip in a vain attempt to hold back the strangled coughs.
"Just surprised me, is all," he said, voice rough. He reached out tentatively. "Want me to..?"
Paul caught his hand, lacing their fingers. "I think you've had quite enough of that for now."
George didn't have the chance to be disappointed. John's hand slid between his legs, finally—finally—cupping the bulge in his trousers. His eyes rolled back, unconsciously pushing himself against the warmth of John's hand, lips parted around a silent moan.
"Ah, there we go," John crooned, nuzzling George's neck. "That's what you want, innit?"
A rapid nod was all George could manage, his head falling back against Paul's shoulder. Their hands seemed to be on him everywhere all at once. One pair slowly unbuttoned his shirt, slipping inside, tracing his ribs. Another pair worked at his belt, massaging his thighs, fingers dipping into the waist of his underwear. His whole body was humming with energy, coming alive under their touch, and it was almost too much. He was a breath away from pulling away from them, just to lie down on the floor and just collect himself and breathe. He knew he wouldn't, couldn't, because he'd never get an opportunity like this again.
His clothes were stripped away, tossed aside and forgotten, leaving him naked between them. He didn't feel naked, not with John pressed along his front, Paul slotted against his back. Their bodies fit together and formed a barrier, a shield between George and the world. His hands curled into the sleeves of John's robe, holding on tight as John rolled against him leisurely, their dicks sliding against each other. Paul fingers kneading George's narrow hips, and he rocked forward once, slowly, ripping a wavering groan from somewhere within George's chest. Through the cotton barrier of Paul's underwear, a damp hardness pressed against George's backside, catching in the crevice.
A jolt of panic cut through the haze, his breath catching. "Don't," George whispered. He feared the request would go unheard, lost beneath the sounds of their shared breaths. But they were as in tune with each other as ever. Paul clutched him tighter, promised, "I won't."
John reached between them, his hand encircling their dicks. The added friction sparked through George's bones, and he could only cling to John, his head falling back on Paul's shoulder. They rocked together, the three of them, George boneless and wrecked between them. He didn't have to move. The steady push of Paul's hips pressing him against John, who gently rocked him back. It was slow, steady push-pull of pleasure and George didn't know which he craved more. Paul's damp breath puffed against his neck, John's sweaty forehead buried in his shoulder.
One of Paul's hands moved from his hip, circling around him to grasp for John. George watched dazedly as Paul clutched at John's hair, his face, whimpering "Johnny, Johnny." Finally, John looked up and Paul pulled him in for a kiss.
Their breaths rattled against George's face. The wet, sloppy sound of their mouths clinging together was almost as erotic as the feeling of John's fist between them. The kiss hadn't broken his pace—if anything, he jerked George harder now, faster. And then there was Paul's voice, husky against his ear, "I wanna suck your cock, George."
George thrust hard into John's hand, sucking in a hot breath that caught in his throat. If John's hand hadn't stilled, he'd be gone. Paul wanted to—he wanted to. Those words seemed to echo in George's head, and he couldn't think about anything else, didn't think he'd able to ever again.
"Christ, Macca," John managed, his voice as wrecked as George felt.
Paul's hands were back on George's hips, turning him around, guiding him back. "Lie down for me," Paul murmured. John moved from his spot, allowing George to stretch back along the body-warmed cushions.
Paul's lips landed on his chest, dragging downward. His tongue traced the contours of George's ribs and leaving him breathless, trembling. Paul had barely touched him, and George still felt as if he were about to explode out of his own skin. He wanted to yank Paul down and hold him as tight as possible, feel him everywhere all at once.
John's hand on Paul's face made him stop. He looked up at John, and George couldn't hold back his dejected whimper.
Paul swatted George's chest gently. "Shh."
"Do you wanna..?" John started, his thumb trailing across Paul's cheek. Paul turned his head into the touch, nuzzling against him.
"Yeah. Yeah, fuck me."
For one panicked moment, George thought Paul was going to leave him like this. He'd be forced to get off with nothing but his hand and the imagined image of John fucking Paul into their shared mattress. But then Paul's lips were on him again, kissing the insides of his thighs, while John dug a bottle of something out of the pocket of his robe. As he maneuvered himself behind Paul, the reality of what was about to happen came crashing over George in a wave.
"Oh my God," George groaned, nearly a sob, and he wasn't going to last long like this. He was already leaking all over his stomach, his breaths tight and shallow. Paul's tongue trailed up to taste him, dragging through the mess.
John pushed off the robe, fighting his way out of it as if it were holding him back, tossing it off the couch. And God, George wished he'd lose the rest of his clothes, wished the three of them were naked together, all skin on skin. He knew John well enough to know that wouldn't happen, that this was as much as he would allow, but Paul—
George grabbed at Paul's shirt, and Paul leaned away from him with a chuckle, pulling it over his head. It didn't matter how many times he'd seen Paul shirtless—it was different now, in this context. George's skin flushed with heat, his mouth damn near watering as he traced his fingers over the jut of Paul's collarbone.
John's thumbs hooked into the waist of Paul's underwear, edging it downward. "Bend over, love," he murmured against Paul's ear, just loud enough for George to hear. Paul answered with a groan, lowering himself back down to mouth at the crease at the top of George's thigh. And then finally, finally, he shifted, dragging his wet lips up George's length. George's hands were in his hair in an instant, holding on, keeping him in place, pushing his hips up in a hungry search for more.
John leaned over Paul's back, pressing two fingers to George's mouth. George sucked them in without question, John's soft gasp sending a thrill rushing through him. Then Paul's mouth closed around him, and George saw stars.
John's fingers pushed in and out of his mouth, in time with the steady, all consuming bobbing of Paul's head. Obscene slurping sounds were coming from Paul's mouth or his own, George didn't know, and he didn't care. There was spit dribbling down his chin and John wiped it away with his middle finger as he retracted his hand, which disappeared behind the rise of Paul's backside. Paul froze, his fingers digging into George's hips. His eyelashes fluttered rapidly, brows rising in bliss.
"Paul," George pleaded, tugging at his hair. "Please—I can't—I need–"
That seemed to be all the explanation Paul needed. His eyes slid open, holding George's gaze as he swallowed him back down, taking as much as he could. George could feel his throat flexing around him, could feel each little sound Paul made, and fuck, he was so close, so close.
Paul pulled back, letting George slide almost completely out of his mouth before sucking him back in. A greedy sound rumbled in the back of Paul's throat, almost feral. George's grip on his hair tightened, the soft strands slipping through his fingers as he tried to pull him closer, closer. And then Paul released him entirely, laying his cheek on the jut of George's hipbone and breathing hard. John grunted softly behind him, rocking forward, and holy shit, this was really happening.
George almost wished Paul would move, get off of him so he could watch, but then Paul was on his dick again. He sucked him in slow, a whimper vibrating in his throat, and that was almost just as good. Paul's lips, pink and shining, slowly stretched around him, and George watched with detached fascination as his dick disappeared into his best friend's mouth. Paul panted around him, cool air gusting against George's skin in harsh puffs. Behind him, John slowly began to move, rocking Paul forward with each press of his hips, dragging out a reedy whine each time he pulled back.
George had never even met a girl who'd take it from both ends. Most balked at the mere suggestion. But here was Paul—the same Paul that could enchant the world with a single wink—taking both him and John and loving it. His moans were loud, strangled, his lips slick and messy as he drooled down George's cock. That was what did it. George was coming before he could even stutter a proper warning, but Paul stayed on him as if he'd been expecting it. He swallowed around him with a muffled sound of delight, the excess dribbling from the corners of his mouth.
George's hips jerked, his whole body filled with a white-hot static from head to toe. It was unlike anything he'd ever felt before, so intense it seemed it might burst from his pores. He didn't realize he'd closed his eyes until Paul's loud, open-mouthed groans caught his attention, just barely muffling John's rough panting. He forced open his eyes so he could watch. Paul was nuzzling against his stomach, kneading his sides or clutching at the couch as John slammed into him. John's hair hung down in sweaty strands, hiding his face, his knuckles white as fingers dug into Paul's hips.
"Come inside, come inside," Paul was groaning, nearly incoherent, his breath hot and damp against George's skin. "C'mon, baby, give it to me."
They came in near-unison, Paul's voice breaking on a moan. George could feel the spurts of heat against his thighs, stirring up a sluggish spark of arousal in his gut. John followed with a soft cry, burying his face between Paul's shoulders and clutching him tight.
Paul collapsed slowly, his arms trembling, shifting up to rest his head on George's chest. John followed him down, still half on top of him, their combined weight a welcome, comforting presence. The experiment—or whatever it had been—was over now, had probably gone on longer than it should have. That thought didn't stop George from wrapping his arms around them both, tangling his fingers in Paul's hair, stroking the sweaty back of John's neck. He could feel Paul smile against him, and contentment settled over him like a blanket.
He was so out of it that he barely registered the soft click of a door opening. It wasn't until Ringo sighed, loud and longsuffering, that panic kicked in. He couldn't even throw himself off the couch and hide, not with Paul and John still on top of him.
"So you're all queer now, is that it?" He didn't sound angry, surprisingly, nor disgusted. He simply lifted an eyebrow, leaning against the doorframe.
"Sorry," Paul said, grinning wide, as if this wasn't the most horrible thing that could have happened. George's mind scrambled for an excuse, a way to turn this into a joke, for it to be anything other than what it looked like. "Did we wake you?"
Ringo nodded, rubbing at an eye. He looked so small and sleepy that George felt a burst of shame. His hands slid away from Paul and John, a breath away from reaching out for him.
"Keep down next time, would you?" He looked pointedly at George, whose face was burning, his heart fluttering in terror. "Or at least invite me."
With that, he grinned—and George swore he winked—and shut himself back in their room.