Archive of Our Own ^beta

Harrison stood at the end of the fête with hands in his blazer pockets. To be honest, he wasn't there for the music, but Paul persuaded him to come by. Said it’d be ‘worth it’. He mentioned knowing some guys who play, and perhaps they would require someone decent on guitar if George could impress.

But George wasn't paying attention to the band. He was looking at them. Paul was new to the group, and it showed in the way he stood. He was more self-aware than the others, biting his lip between songs and staring offstage with a sense of impatience. He performed well. Although he didn't mention it, he was better than the others. As George saw it, Paul was holding back, as he usually does when he is afraid of showing off. And beside him, John was playing a battered guitar. His speech was slurred even when he wasn't intoxicated. When John sang, he didn't look at the crowd; he focused on Paul...

George noticed that first. Paul looked at his guitar while John looked at him. There was still something happening at that time. George sat at the far end of the crowd, a cigarette tucked behind his ear but still unlit.

The Quarrymen were rough but loud. They played “Come Go With Me”, and John forgot half the words but didn’t seem to care. Paul joined the harmony with a voice that was as smooth as butter, and the crowd suddenly paid more attention. John's gaze made George feel a twist in his stomach.

He didn't know what it was yet.

It was only a week after Paul fell drunk from a pub behind John, laughing too much and pulling at his shirt that they learned that George had followed them. They pressed themselves against the stone wall and kissed as if they were starving.

They weren't fucking until George saw it, but it was later.

They kept playing. Paul settled in a little more with each song as he played American songs, Buddy Holly, and Elvis covers with all the vowels mangled and spit half-swallowed. He chuckled at something John whispered during the verses, and George watched him lean in to whisper it, close enough to touch their shoulders.

After the set, the boys left the stage in a rush of cords and jokes. A warm bottle of ale was passed around behind the bake sale table, and Paul drank from it without wiping his neck. George followed quietly and effortlessly, as he always does. With a smile and a push of his arm, Paul found him. “You see ‘em?” Paul asked, jerking his thumb toward the retreating backs of the other Quarrymen. “Bit shite, right?”

George gave a small shrug. “You played well,” he said, and meant it.

Paul's eyes brightened, his easy charm flickered like a lamp was switched on. “Cheers. You ought to come play next week! I told John about you. He’s interested.” He said it like it meant something, like John’s interest was worth chasing.

Despite feeling uncertain, George showed up every week. They practiced in back gardens and upstairs bedrooms, in cramped kitchens, and under railway arches. And George played his fingers raw to prove he was good enough. He was constantly monitoring Paul and John's space, not only the physical separation that was fading, but also the tension they were feeling. Paul chuckled before, but not like this. He behaved differently towards John, acting loud and unguarded, as if he did not care who saw him. John, who normally hides his sharpness as if he were a weapon, seemed to soften when Paul teased him, with flushed cheeks and boyish muttering.

Sometimes Paul would sing something daft in falsetto just to get a rise out of him, and John would roll his eyes, grinning, then slap Paul’s arm a little too hard, and Paul would laugh, not flinch… never flinch.

John made a single touch on Paul's back, and George observed it. They were crouched over a lyric sheet, trying to puzzle out rhymes for “baby”, or maybe they weren’t; maybe they were just fucking around like they always did, but John’s hand found the small of Paul’s back and stayed there.

Paul didn't look up, the fuck didn't even blink!

For a few days, George was haunted by that night. After that, he became aware of other things. The way John called Paul 'Macca' was like it was a punchline.

Paul's voice became more coaxing when talking to John. When they smoked, their knees were knocked under tables, arms were thrown over shoulders, and fingers were touched.

Although it wasn't obvious, George had always been observant. He spotted things before they fully developed. They rarely saw him. Not when Paul gave John a piece of gum with his mouth already half-open. Not when John bummed a smoke and held it between his lips, waiting for Paul to light it, and Paul did, without looking.

Something was happening, and George had no idea what to do with it.

Months passed. George became familiar with the rhythm of the band's gigs at dive bars and church basements.

They didn’t talk about it. At least, not loudly. Not Paul, not John, and certainly not George, who had no one to say it to even if he had wanted to. It lingered in every corner of every room they played in, every pub's back room, loft, and alleyway.

George wasn’t stupid. He might have still been the youngest, and he might have had to hand over his guitar when the older boys said so, but he wasn't blind. He saw how John's eyes first caught Paul when they arrived somewhere new. Paul's hand hovered just behind John's back, not touching, but still close enough to be felt. They kept going as if everything between them belonged to them and no one else.

And maybe it did. George didn't enjoy thinking about the part that wasn't relevant to him. Whenever the world became too quiet, Paul would walk with him home, kick stones down Menlove Avenue, and sing improvised songs under his breath. He kept tossing George's hair and bringing him pastries from the corner store without ceasing, acting like he was older than he really was. Without trying, Paul was kind and gentle. Occasionally, it altered when John was present.

Paul's laughter was not like other 's, it was sharp and uneven, as if he were a cheeky fool. He turned into someone who talked too fast and touched too much, draped across furniture and shoulders alike, like he didn’t have a body at all but something lighter than the rest of them could catch up to.

They played a youth club gig on Friday. St. Peter's or St. Margaret's, an old parish hall where the floorboards creaked and the tea urn hissed all night in the corner. John drank during the second set, but not enough to slur, just enough to make him grin wider than usual.

Paul matched him with drinks, laughed loudly, and tugged at his collar. They sat on the kerb behind the hall afterwards, sharing a cigarette, and George hovered a few yards away, attempting to tie his shoe.

“I think we’re shite,” John was saying, voice low and warm. “but you, Macca… you’re all right.”

“Oh, cheers,” Paul murmured, mock-offended. “Think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Mmm,” John hummed. “Don’t get used to it.”

A thick pause interrupts John's exhale and Paul's small laugh. Later, he clasped George on the shoulder and asked if he would like to come out for a pint. “Can’t,” George lied. “Mum’ll have my head if I’m late…”

He was stared at by Paul for a long moment before he shrugged. “Fair. Catch you Sunday, then.”

They left together. Waiting until they were two blocks away, George grabbed his bike and pedaled after them, his wheels glinting like ghosts on the wet pavement.

He was uncertain as to why and had no desire to follow them. Nevertheless, he did it. Despite their half-laughing, half-shoving, and stumbling on a side street behind The Grapes, he kept riding.

Behind The Grapes, the alley was dark. There were a few drunks lingering by the bins. George paused at the far end of the alley, keeping his pedal and running behind a trash bin, feeling his heartbeat ticking against his ribs.

John and Paul were able to escape through the back door. Paul was laughing still, his jacket was unbuttoned, his cheeks were flushed with alcohol or John, and John was dragging his cigarette like it was the only thing keeping him upright. Despite his low voice, Paul grinned and leaned in, his head tipped against John's shoulder. For the first time, George saw them together without the slightest pause, their shoulders touching.

John's eyes were hooded and half-lidded, and Paul's expression was more relaxed, his mouth still curled in a barely held smile.

It was drizzling now, but it's not enough rain to send anyone inside. George paused and observed Paul leaned against the wall, his chest rising and falling quickly, as if he had just run a race but failed.

“I can’t feel my fuckin’ knees,” Paul wheezed between breathless chuckles.

John stepped close. “What d’you need knees for, pretty boy?” he said, slurring the last bit just enough to make it feel like a dare. Paul's laughter shook sharply and quickly died in his throat. Both men stared at each other.

Paul didn’t move. Standing there, he raised his shoulders slightly and parted his lips, as if he had intended to say something but had forgotten how. John's hand slowly rose to touch the side of his face, with his thumb sliding along the curve of his cheekbone.

George blinked hard, but when his eyes regained focus, they were kissing!

It wasn’t graceful. It was sloppy, teeth-clicking, and hungry, but it meant something. They broke for a brief moment, just for air. John's mouth roared with a ragged laugh. “Christ, Macca. Is that what you've been waiting for?”

Paul leaned against the wall and smiled. “Dunno, ”he said. “Are you going to do it again?”

John kissed him again. The world seemed to be collapsing as George remained frozen in the rain. The rain made his feet tingle and his face numb, and it was only a kiss between two men snogging. John's grip on Paul's hips was so intense that Paul cried out. This wasn't meant to be seen.

John kissed him harder this time, and Paul made the whine again. It seemed like he was coming apart. Paul's hands were clenched into fists beside him. "John", he said, ragged but quiet. "John, hold on."

John exclaimed a sharp and drunken laugh. "Why?" he said against Paul's neck. "Are you going to run off now that I've got you?"

John's kiss on Paul was so intense that he gasped and George wanted to look away but couldn't. He stayed standing on the pavement, covered in rain and freezing, watching as John's head lowered to touch the skin underneath Paul's ear. Paul's fingers pressed into John's shirt. "John," he whispered, and his head dropped back. "Slow down…”

John breathed out a low groan, as if he couldn't control it. “What if I don’t want to?” he said.

Paul's voice wailed once more, and he clasped John's shoulders with his hands. "We're in public," he said.

John let out a huff of hot laughter. "There's no one here."

"Someone could walk out and see us," Paul insisted, but he didn't pull away.

John grinned. "Let 'em look," he muttered. As soon as his hand was under his shirt, his fingers were splayed with possession towards Paul's back. "Let them watch; I don't bloody care."

Paul gave a shudder, but the whine returned when he spoke again. "John. Please…"

John didn't say anything. He lowered himself to his knees instead. His jeans were dark at the knees, and his fingers were already working at Paul's belt like he had done it a hundred times. And maybe he had done it a hundred times, for all George knew. Maybe this wasn’t the first time.

Paul made a sound that George hadn't heard before. He dragged his hand down to John's shoulder, as if he was attempting to stop him. George remained firm even though rain was sneaking into his socks and his thighs became damp from crouching.

John mouthed Paul's cock through the fabric, causing Paul's hips to jerk. “Fuck’s sake,” he muttered, voice strangled, already hoarse. “We—John, we can’t…”

Paul took in air through his teeth because of the vibration he felt from John's low humming. Bracing against the brick wall, he twisted one hand in John's damp hair with a sense of ambiguity, wondering whether he wanted to push him away or pull him closer.

George pressed a hand against his mouth. He was hard. Fuck... The heat was pulsing through him like smoke, intense and horrifying, and he had no idea when it happened or what it meant. He should get on his bike and ride away, pretending he never saw this, but he couldn't.

Then Paul’s trousers were undone. John tugged down his belt just enough to prevent it from clinking too loudly in the quiet. George saw his skin, which was pale, flushed, and trembling. Paul's head fell against the wall with a quiet thud as he hissed in the air. “Jesus, Johnny…” he whispered.

John’s voice came up rough. “Don’t say his name, baby. I’m the one on my knees.” And then his mouth was on Paul.

Paul cried out just once; a short, startled, bitten-off sound, as if he'd been punched in the gut. His hips jolted forward, and John took it all, moaning low and obscenely as he did, as if it was painful to be so full. George's hands had moved between his legs. He was unaware of putting it there. It hovered now, palm pressed flat over the front of his trousers, like he could contain it.

Paul attempted to avoid being heard by muffling his groans into his arm, but it was unsuccessful. The rhythm was messy and desperate as his hips rocked forward, and John was steady with both hands on his arse, pulling him deeper with every pull. The squelch of it, the obscene wet sounds, they were all too much. “God… fuck, John—fuck!” Paul’s voice cracked open like a fault line. He came with a stuttering gasp, his forehead pressed against the wall, and his knuckles were white where they held the brick. John kept going, swallowing everything and groaning around it, as if he were also getting off.

George came too. Without moving or touching. Just from watching, and It shamed him dearly. He was left feeling breathless and empty, trembling behind the bin, as if he had just committed a sin he couldn't name.

Slowly, John stood up and used the back of his hand to wipe his mouth. Paul pulled him close and wrapped an arm around John's neck and kissed him, feeling sloppy, grateful, and tired. For a moment, they stood there with their chests to each other, breathing as though they had the same lungs.

George backed away. His bike wheels were slick on the pavement, but he didn’t look back. Didn’t sleep that night. He was never quite sure if it was desire, jealousy, or heartbreak that stayed with him the longest throughout his life.

After that day, George was unable to look at them. He kept his eyes lowered, even when Paul slung an easy arm across his shoulders or when John called him 'baby' and pretended to kiss him on the cheek. They were unaware of the shame that filled his entire body. George had never felt as dirty as he did in his life. He didn't see it happen again. It seemed like he had conjured up the whole thing, not just one night but multiple nights. Almost…

As it turned out, the Quarrymen were shite. They couldn't quite nail a set without some missed notes, or misplaced chords, or mumbled lyrics, but they kept playing gigs anyway. It was what they had. The gigs became regular, always on Friday nights. Same little rooms, mostly shitty crowds, but they played. Sometimes people clapped, sometimes they didn’t. On good nights, they made enough to cover beer and a cab home. Some of these nights, George stayed late. He chose to stay because he couldn't bear the silence of his empty house. He stayed because he was frightened of what he might discover in his own head. Mostly, he stayed because of Paul.

When Paul grinned at him from the stage, his warm and wild laugh lit up the whole room. It was a drug that George was helpless to stop taking, no matter how bad it made him feel.

After another disappointing gig at The Grapes, it was another late night. John was pissed. Paul too, but Paul was a happy drunk. He'd been laughing at everyone since he and John stumbled out of the pub, arm-in-arm like a couple of drunk sailors, while George followed behind, quiet and miserable as usual.

They walked as if they had nowhere to go. Paul tugged on John's sleeve, and George trailed them as if he were a shadow that wasn't theirs. He had meant to leave, he told himself; every Friday will be the last one. But he never did. Not when Paul kept looking back at him with that smile, lazy and crooked, as if it didn't cost anything to give. They turned around and walked towards the alley behind The Grapes, which was not the same as before but close enough that George's stomach twisted.

John tripped on the kerb, and Paul caught him, his arms around his ribs. Their laughter reverberated in the air. George hid behind the broken streetlamp and tightly clung to his jacket as if it were a blanket against any feelings.

“Steady on, sailor,” Paul murmured.

John muttered something that was unintelligible. He was draped over Paul now, half-holding and half-hanging. Paul didn't seem to be bothered. He pressed his face against John's temple and said something too low for George to hear.

Then Paul turned and looked directly at George. Not by accident. His eyes caught George in the darkness, and for a moment, he believed he would say something. He laughed and waved.

But Paul didn't smile or say anything. He just stared. And John, still leaning heavy on Paul's shoulder, looked up too. He followed Paul's gaze and observed the younger man.

“You coming?” Paul said, very softly.

George’s mouth went dry. John looked at Paul, raised his brow, then back at George. “Didn’t know we had an audience again,” he muttered. He didn’t sound angry. He sounded amused, like he'd only just realised that George had been watching that night.

George took a step back. His throat was tight. “I-I wasn’t—” he stammered. “Didn’t mean to…”

Paul pushed John off him gently and stepped forward. His eyes didn’t leave George’s. “‘S all right,” he said. “You can come.”

George's heart sank into his chest. He couldn’t tell if he was being offered forgiveness or something else. John rested against the wall and lit a cigarette with his hands shaking. “Let him watch, if he wants to. You like watching, don’t you, Georgie?”

The rising shame caused George to flush, full of shame. Paul was now standing in front of him. “It’s all right,” he said again. “It’s just us.”

And George believed him. Underneath the nausea, guilt, and arousal in his stomach, he had faith in him.

Paul turned around and walked back towards John. Stopped a foot away, eyes heavy. “Wanna show him, Johnny?”

John’s mouth curved. “You want to let him see?” He dropped his cigarette and stomped it with his boot. He kissed Paul right there, under the broken lamplight. Paul let out a sigh as he reached up to him, his hands reaching to his waist, while John's fingers cradled the back of his head like he was holding something precious.

George's knees almost gave out. It wasn't a show; it was something he wasn't supposed to witness, but still, they were giving him permission. That was the worst part… they knew.

John pulled back, lips wet, panting. “Get on your knees,”

Paul did without any hesitation whatsoever. Despite the rainwater soaking the denim at his knees, he didn't care. His hands went to John’s fly. John's hand gently slipped through Paul's hair. “You still watching, baby?”

George couldn’t answer. His mouth was open, his trousers were tight, and he was aching. He nodded.

“Good,” John said.

Paul had John out now, cock already hard. George didn't know if it was from the kiss, the thrill of being watched, or just Paul, but it was thick, flushed, and beautiful. Paul looked at it as if he were starving. And then he slowly took him into his mouth. A groan rose from John's throat like thunder.

Paul heard George's faint whimper. With John in his mouth, he looked up at him, his eyes wide and cruelly soft.

John looked too and smirked, feeling cocky. “Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered. “Are you going to come again just from this, George?”

George's knees made contact with the pavement. He didn't even realise he had moved. He wished to run and never return. He wished to crawl into Paul's lap and demand to be touched.

Paul hollowed his cheeks, slow and sweet, and John groaned above him, his hand fisting tighter in Paul’s hair. “You’re so good at that,” he muttered. “taught yourself well, did you?”

Paul's eyes were fluttering shut, but he was still humming around him. George's fingers were shaking as he unzipped his trousers. John pulled Paul's hair back, causing his head to tip. It wasn't rough, just enough to expose his throat. He glanced over Paul's shoulder, right at George.

“Want something, baby?” he asked, his voice thick. “You look ready to cry.”

George couldn’t take it. His knees were aching from the rain-soaked pavement, and he was shaking so badly that they couldn't stop examining him. “Please…,” he managed, barely above a whisper. It could have meant anything… but it didn't.

John smiled with that awful, crooked smile. He lowered himself to kiss Paul's neck. “What do you think, Paul?” he said. “Should we give Georgie what he wants?”

Paul's lips were lingering on John, kissing slowly and wetly, and he hummed, indicating a yes.

George watched Paul's tongue move. The way his mouth widened towards John. He wanted to feel it too. Instead, he said, “Please.”

John's laugh was ragged, as if he knew it. “C’mere, then.”

With shaking legs, George stood and stumbled forward. As he knelt in front of Paul, too close to think, Paul looked up at him with wet eyelashes, his mouth swollen and red. "Can I?" he murmured.

George nodded, fast. "Yes... god, yes. Please."

John crouched behind Paul, his hands wrapping around his waist and lips on his neck. "Go on, then."

Paul's hands moved to the front of George's trousers, and his fingers worked the belt loose with the grace and ease of years of practice. His eyes were still heavy as he looked up at George. "Don't cry," he whispered. "Don't do that, baby. Come on.”

George felt dizzy as he nodded. Paul had his fingers on the zipper of his pants and leaned in to kiss the wet patch on the fabric. George's eyes were squeezing shut as he groaned softly. "Please, Paul… I need…"

Paul looked up through his eyelashes, his hands still on the zipper. He undid George’s fly slowly. The chill air caused George's cock to twitch, and Paul exhaled a soft breath that drifted over his head. “God,” Paul whispered. “Look at you.”

George shivered violently. His hands floated in the air as if he were not sure where to put them; at his sides, in Paul's hair, and over his face to hide. Paul leaned forward and gently caressed the tip of his cock with his lips.

George gasped and choked on it, and his fingers finally found Paul's hair, curled in damp waves against his scalp. John was still behind him, holding Paul as if he were his own. Slowly and possessively, his mouth moved along Paul's neck and jaw, but he remained silent and watched.

Paul opened his mouth and slowly took George in, slowly, inch by inch, his eyes still locked on his. His lips were hot and slick, his tongue cradling the underside, and George nearly came then and there. He grasped Paul's shoulders, attempting to avoid moving forward and crying, but the pleasure was strong.

Paul leaned back just enough to breathe, mouthing down the shaft and licking the vein as if he were mapping it with his tongue. “Tastes so sweet…” he mumbled, almost to himself.

The rain masked the sound of George's grumbling, which echoed around them. He had to keep his eyes open and be able to see it. If he didn't see it, he would come apart right there. George whimpered. “Paul… oh fuck, Paul…”

John's throat shook with a low chuckle behind him. “Didn’t think he’d beg so nice, did you?”

Paul's lips curled obscenely as he smiled around George's cock. He raised his hand to stroke something he couldn't reach, and he bobbed his head again, but with a slower pace. George let out a cracked noise, desperate and wrecked, hips twitching forward before he could stop himself.

John moved closer, pressing his body against Paul's back, his hand trailing down to squeeze between Paul's legs. Paul's groaning around George caused a vibration that nearly made him see the stars. “Oh my God—” George sobbed. “I-I can’t….”

Paul pulled off for a brief moment to whisper. “Yes, you can.” Before taking him again, this time deeper, wet, warm, and all-consuming. The intense pleasure that George was experiencing was so strong that he was sweating and shaking his entire body. John's hands were everywhere, guiding Paul's hips, tugging at the front of his own trousers, and rutting slowly against Paul from behind, as if he needed the friction too. His eyes flickered up to George, sharp and glassy.

“Bet you dreamed of this, didn’t you, Georgie?” he murmured. “Us. Him. You, on your knees. All that shame in your belly…”

George moaned helplessly, his hand fistling in Paul's hair tighter than he meant. “D-don’t stop, pleas.”

Paul didn’t. He swallowed him down as if it was what he was made for. While his mouth worked on him, George was held steady by one of his hands that found his thigh and squeezed it hard.

George couldn’t hold on. With a sob breaking into Paul's mouth, his body went taut and his spine arched. Paul took everything, didn't hesitate, just hummed quietly and took it all in.

George collapsed forward, his forehead against Paul's, shuddering. Paul licked his lips, eyes half-lidded, and his voice was hoarse. “Good boy.”

John made a hungry sigh and gently pulled Paul up by his waist, spinning him around, and pushing him into the wall behind him. As if possessed, he kissed him with the taste of George on Paul's tongue. George couldn't sit back on his heels, his heart beating and his thighs burning from the pavement. As John fumbled to finish what he had started, he watched with daze, exhausted, and aching. He pushed Paul, like the sight alone had damaged him.

Paul's grunting into John's mouth, filthy and desperate, made George swear he wouldn't forget the sound.

“Touch yourself,” John said. “let me feel you come.”

And Paul did, sliding his hand into his jeans, arching back, and pushing his hips into John's. George could barely breathe. Paul moaned as if he were falling apart, and John caught his mouth on it.

Soon after, Paul cried out, muffled against John's neck. Shortly thereafter, John followed with a strangled groan, his teeth locked, both of them trembling against the brick.

And then it was quiet. George knelt on the sidewalk, his heart beating like he'd run a marathon, and watched as John tucked himself back in with trembling fingers. Paul stood panting against the wall, his eyes closed like he was trying to hold something together. John's eyes shifted to George. "Come here," he said. "look at you, Georgie-boy. You're a bloody sight."

George paused, but only for a moment. He stood up, his knees aching, and made his way forward. "I-I'm a mess…”

John grinned. "Yeah you are. All sloppy." Without thinking, he ran his thumb over the wetness on George's chin, and he leaning against it unconsciously, exhaling slightly, as if he needed the contact. "You liked watching, didn't you?"

George shivered. "I didn't... I mean, I-I..”

"No use lying," John said, "not when I can tell what it did to you."

George flushed scarlet. He was hesitant to speak, even though his taste for Paul was still strong, like a memory. He nodded. "God... yes, I did. Please don't... I know it's wrong, I—"

A ragged groan interrupted him. Paul looked at him again, his eyes dark. "It's not wrong," he said quietly. "Not if you wanted. You wanted it, didn't you, Georgie?"

George could barely breathe. Paul spoke his name for the first time all night, soft and gentle, as if it were important, something private and real. "Yes," he whispered. "God... I wanted it, I…"

In a low, knowing tone, John laughed. He reached out and touched George's face, his fingertips tracing over his jaw. "Look at you, prettyboy. You look like you could go again, right here. That why you didn't run away?"

George caught his breath in his throat. Their eyes were burning, and he couldn't think with the way his body was reacting under their gaze.

John's hand slipped under his chin, tilting his head up, and Paul's eyes slowly travelled over his body, like he was mapping all the places he wanted to touch. "Are you going to let us touch you?" John murmured, just above a whisper.

George felt like a live wire. He nodded. "Yes… please.”

John made a soft sound, something between a hum and a laugh, and it rumbled against George's skin as he leaned in closer, his breath warm and damp from the rain. The gravity of his fingers kept him tilted up and curled beneath George's chin. Paul's eyes never left George, even as he leant against the wall with his lips parted and his shirt wrinkled and clinging to him.

John’s voice came again. “We’re going to take care of you now, yeah?” His thumb stroked just under George’s jaw. “You let us.”

George nodded, helpless. “Please,” he whispered.

John stepped aside just enough to let Paul come forward. He cradled George's cheek and guided him in slowly, appearing to be afraid George would spook. But George didn’t flinch; instead, he leaned into it.

A shiver ran down Paul's spine as he sighed into his mouth and pressed closer. John's hands are ghosting along George's waist as he stands behind him. One slipped up under his shirt, palm flat against his stomach, hot and grounding. George exhaled into Paul's mouth.

“You’re shaking,” Paul murmured against his lips.

George nodded again. “I can’t stop,” he breathed. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“You don’t have to,” Paul said. “we’ll show you.”

When John kissed the back of George's neck, his body gave off a jolt. John's grin was felt against his skin by him. Paul caught his lips again, deeper this time, his tongue flicking against George's lower lip until George opened it for him.

John dipped his hands into George's jeans again, loosening the button and dragging the damp denim over his hips. Paul was also helpful, tugging until they gathered around George's ankles, exposing him again. John pressed himself closer, rutting slowly against George's arse, slowly enough to drive him mad. “Good boy,” he said against George’s shoulder. “Still so hard for us?”

George whimpered. “It hurts.”

“We’ll fix it,” Paul murmured, dropping to his knees again. “let me.”

George could’ve cried. He hovered his hands again, uncertain about what to do with them. He tangled one in Paul’s hair again, and Paul kissed the inside of his thigh. Paul took him in again with a warm and slow approach, and George's knees buckled. John grabbed him from behind, his arms strong and firm, and George fell into the grip with a sob.

“There you go,” John whispered. “Let him take care of you.”

George had no words. Only the heat of Paul's mouth, the smooth pull of his lips, and the soft groan vibrating through him. His hands brushed the base while his tongue circled the head, patient and skilled, and so tender that it almost ended his life.

John mouthed at his neck again, one hand on his chest, the other sliding down, and fingers brushing between his thighs with an aching slowness. “We’ve got you, Georgie,” he whispered. “Let go.”

George did. His body tightened, his spine arching, his mouth falling open in a silent cry as he came back again, harder, his whole frame trembling with the force of it. Paul took hold of him again, without looking away, and swallowed him as if it was a sacred thing. When George sagged this time, he almost fell.

John lowered him to the ground with him, back to the brick. George was tucked warm and small between them. Paul wiped his mouth and kissed the side of George’s knee before crawling up beside him, tucking close, his hand cupping George’s cheek again.

“You did so well,” Paul murmured, eyes soft.

John brushed away George's damp hair from his forehead and touched his temple. “Still think it’s wrong?”

George shook his head and abruptly to kiss Paul, full and slow and aching with all the emotion he couldn't express. Paul reciprocated the kiss. John held them close as Paul cradled his jaw with one hand. George's body trembled to his core as he shivered between them. He had nothing left to give, but they didn't seem to mind. They just held him, warm, solid, and safe.

John nosed along his neck. "Gonna leave you covered in marks, baby."

George laughed breathlessly. "I think I'd like that," he said.

Paul exclaimed a gentle laugh and placed another kiss on his cheek. "Yeah? "You got a preference where we put 'em?"

George's cheeks flushed. "You can put them anywhere you like." The words came out quiet, but sure.

They took him at his word. Paul affectionately caressed his shoulders, neck, and any exposed skin. John also left marks. On his chest, his hip, and his thighs. They covered him with hands, mouths, and teeth. By the time they were done, George was nothing more than a trembling, gasping mess, covered in marks, bruises, bites, and sore, sore, sore.

John was smiling as if this was a game, but his eyes were still dark. “I think we broke him,” John said, tilting his head with mock concern. “What d’you reckon, Macca? Think he’ll come back next Friday?”

Paul didn’t answer right away. Slowly, he ran his hand through his hair, as if he were wasting time. Sharp and serious, his gaze finally met George's again. “I don’t think he has a choice,” Paul said softly.

John leaned in close, his lips brushing his ear. “We weren’t the only ones watching tonight.”