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"Christ," John says, stretching out his arms along the back of the sofa, "I need another drink."
"The word 'need' being applied very loosely here," says Ringo, amiable. He's loose-limbed against John's side, the two of them slumped together Beatle-style, not a breath of air between them. John groans, tilts his head against Ringo's and nuzzles plaintively.
"C'mon. Please, baby."
"You'll get sad," Ringo points out, combing soothing fingers through the reddish fall of John's hair. He's soft, firm, knowing. Nobody can talk John down like Ringo -- although, Harry thinks, it makes sense enough. Very few people know John like Ringo does.
"I won't," John protests, "I'm not there yet. One more, Ritchie? Please?"
He's toying with the buttons of Ringo's shirt, not quite unbuttoning. Harry's noticed before how strangely elegant his fingers are, given the size of his hands, and he can't help noticing it now: the delicate curve of John's wrist and the coy, almost feminine motions of his fingers. He's so busy watching John's hands that he almost misses the way John lifts his head, pleading, and goes for Ringo's mouth.
It's obviously a regular habit of John's. Ringo parries it as if he's been expecting it, meeting Harry's eyes apologetically over the top of John's head. "We've got company, love," he points out.
John emits a murmur of discontent and grasps Ringo by the back of the neck. "Company. It's only Harry. Ritchie, c'mon…"
This time, he's slower with it, something passing between his eyes and Ringo's as he leans in. Harry can't tell whether he's surprised or not. It would be crazy, really, four guys as close as those four were, if they hadn't, but -- he hadn't really pictured it like this, John begging to be kissed, needy and drunk but not as drunk as all that. Harry's seen him worse, but he's never seen him do this. It makes his stomach dip, the way John's mouth opens, the pink flicker of his tongue against Ringo's lower lip in the second before Ringo surrenders to him.
Ringo's indulging him, Harry realises. Like this kind of thing will put the thought of that next drink out of John's mind.
They kiss slow, slow, their mouths wet and open together, nothing rushed or frantic about it. They kiss like it's easy as breathing, and Harry's mesmerised -- until John's hand shifts to press against the thickening bulge in Ringo's jeans and Ringo breaks away with a laugh, gripping John's wrist firmly as if to stop him in his tracks.
He doesn't actually move John's hand, though.
"Johnny," Ringo says, his tone chiding. "Behave. Harry doesn't want to see this."
John glances over at him, then, and Harry feels it lance through him, the spark of mischief in those amber eyes. "Don't be daft, Ritch; everyone wants to see it. One of the wonders of the world, your prick."
"John," Ringo says, sternly, and Harry clears his throat, uncomfortably aware of a situation taking root in his own pants. John's captivating like this, wild with bad ideas, charisma in blue jeans. Harry's man enough to know he'd let John carry him away anywhere. That's kind of the whole essence of John, but it doesn't mean he can't take measures to protect himself from it.
"Look," Harry says, "I'd better go. You two, um…"
He gestures vaguely. John gives him a wounded look. "Aw, Harry, don't be like that. If you're scared you won't match up to Rings, don't worry, nobody does."
Jesus. "Nah, it's not that, I -- I mean, you two obviously have your own thing going, and --"
"Not going fast enough," John grumbles, popping the button on Ringo's fly as if uncapping a beer. Ringo does move his hand, then, but John nudges it right back, undoes Ringo's zipper and insinuates his fingers into the open vee of his jeans.
"Christ," Ringo breathes, "you're a nightmare, aren't you? Can't take you bloody anywhere." He looks up at Harry again, and Harry's brain is suddenly empty of everything but the single thought that John's hand is on Ringo's cock, right in front of God and -- well -- Harry.
"Baby," John drawls against Ringo's neck, "you take me everywhere, you know you do."
He's kneading, now, squeezing, his hand in Ringo's shorts. The back of Harry's neck is hot even before Ringo meets his eyes again and says, "D'you really want Harry to see how you get when you're like this, eh? When you're begging for it? He won't forget in the morning."
Harry's breath punches out of him raggedly. Then John says -- obviously not the answer Ringo was looking for -- "fuck, yeah, let Harry see" and the remaining blood in Harry's body rushes all at once to his cock.
"Fuck," he manages. "John."
John's half in Ringo's lap now, mouthing at his neck, jerking him in abortive little motions within the confines of his jeans. Ringo exhales, slow, and shakes his head, his mouth quirking. He's half-amused, half-resigned, and entirely unsurprised.
"Well then," he says, "better stop twatting about and show him, hadn't you?"
John slithers off the sofa all in one go, settling himself between Ringo's knees. Harry suddenly doesn't know where to look -- his eyes flit madly around the room as if to make sure they're alone, but it's John's room, and they are, and when he looks back at Ringo, he's smiling that same half-apologetic smile that settles the panic in Harry's gut. Ringo inclines his head slightly, and Harry lets himself take the silent suggestion and shift along into the space John's just vacated, the sofa cushions still warm with the imprint of his body. Ringo shifts easily, slings his arm around Harry's shoulders. It's a familiar position for them, only usually John's not on his knees at their feet, determinedly freeing Ringo from his jeans.
"He's good at this," Ringo says, soft and fond. "Calms him right down -- doesn't it, sweetheart?"
John's without his sunglasses, and it makes him look younger, sweeter, as eager to please as he is to shock. The smile he fixes Ringo with is guileless in a way that makes Harry want to protect him. "Yeah," he says, light. "Like meditation, y'know?"
He hooks his fingers into the waistband of Ringo's underwear and tugs, easy, easy. Ringo exhales a shaky breath as he's uncovered; then his cock smacks heavily against his thigh as it's freed and Harry can't help the answering noise that leaves his throat. He doesn't make a point of studying other guys' dicks, but he can still see the appeal in this one, half-hard and thickening in John's hand when he takes hold of it bare. His own cock twitches sympathetically and Ringo lets a pleased little sigh slip free, reaching down to card one beringed hand through John's hair.
"That's it, love," he breathes, as John starts to stroke him slowly, thumbing at the wetness gathered at the tip of him. "That's it, Johnny; perfect. Gonna give me your mouth?" He shifts on the sofa, spreading his knees wider, hips hitching into John's hand. "C'mon. Show Harry how you do it."
How John does it, apparently, is with confident aplomb, rubbing his lips over Ringo's crown until they're shiny with precome, and then sinking down like a sword-swallower. A vague memory stirs of a pin John used to wear to that effect; Harry thinks, Christ, he wasn't kidding, then. It's like a magic trick, the way John goes down and down and down, his lips stretched wide around the girth of Ringo's cock as he takes it into his mouth, into his fucking throat, surely.
Eventually Ringo's hips jerk, reflexive, and John chokes off a moan and looks up at him -- at them both, his eyes huge and dark. Ringo's hand tightens in his hair and John lifts up again, Ringo's shining length slipping slow out of the haven of his mouth. He's beautiful, Harry thinks, helpless; and Ringo says, "There you are, gorgeous. Nobody does it like you, eh?"
The thought of it, evidently, turns John on. Harry can't be surprised -- John's always insecure where he doesn't need to be; wants to make damn sure he's the best even when everyone else knows it but him. At Ringo's words, he begins fumbling at his own belt and fly, palming himself through the denim before he can get the buttons open, and Harry can feel his own throat going tight in sympathy, watching John pull off; suck; sink down again, setting up a slick filthy rhythm like one of his guitar licks.
"God," Harry breathes, without meaning to, and they both look at him then -- this lazy, knowing, expression which says they're in this together, whatever it is.
"Hey," says Ringo, low, "you want to know what it was like, being a Beatle? C'mere."
He knows it's going to happen before it does, but it still takes him by surprise: the warmth of Ringo's mouth, how soft his lips are. The way the hand unoccupied with John's hair slides almost casually into Harry's lap, smoothing up his thigh, feeling out the shape of his cock. It's fully stiff now, but Harry would challenge anyone not to get it up in the face of John like this -- Ringo like this -- the headrush of being sucked into their perfect intimacy.
Something bumps roughly against Ringo's elbow, knocking his hand away from Harry. Harry makes a soft little sound of protest, but then he opens his eyes and sees John in Ringo's lap now, straddling him, Ringo's cock bobbing darkly between them and wet from John's mouth. As he watches, John leans in to catch at Ringo's mouth again, and then -- God -- slides a big hand around the back of Harry's neck, pulling him in.
He can't pretend he's never thought about it. So much of his life with John is spent inebriated -- that's his excuse, anyway -- that it would've been stranger if he hadn't. There's something so alive about John, something that makes Harry want to do wild things. But this, somehow, doesn't feel wild at all. It's almost gentle, John's tongue lapping at the seam of Harry's lips, searching. Harry opens his mouth and lets John surge into him like the ocean, rolling over him, tugging him along in his irresistible wake.
You want to know what it was like, being a Beatle? Fuck, he's always wanted to know, and recognised that he never could. Nobody could, beyond the tight little knot of the four of them, still so impossible to untangle. If this is a fair facsimile, though, Harry will take it. He slides his hand into the thick of John's hair as John dips his head to mouth at Harry's throat, and pictures him doing this with pretty Paul, with brooding George, with the immaculate Mr Epstein. The images rush through him hotly and he bucks his hips, grateful when a hand -- someone's hand -- is there to catch him, slipping inside the fly of his jeans, taking hold of him properly.
It's John, Harry notes dimly, when the wet flicker of John's tongue disappears from his throat and he glances over to see the pair of them kissing again, deep and desperate now, Ringo sucking on John's tongue. John's groaning into it, tugging at his own jeans. After a minute he succeeds in pulling himself up enough to yank them down to his knees and Ringo finishes the job, chucking them carelessly aside so John's nude from the waist down, his legs spreadeagled over both their laps.
"That's it," Ringo murmurs against his throat, gathering John up by the neat little nip of his waist. "Back here, baby, yeah?"
"Yeah," John murmurs, "God." His eyes are closed now, his hand still lazily working Harry's cock, his narrow hips rolling. His cock is thick and flushed against his stomach, the russet tangle of his pubic hair wet where he's leaked all over himself. With his free hand, he cups the spine of Ringo's cock almost protectively and pulls it close until they're sliding together, smooth and practised. Harry can just imagine the heat of it, the silky-slow sensation, and feels himself pulse over John's hand in reaction.
"You got anything?" Ringo murmurs, soft, against John's throat.
"Pocket," John breathes. Ringo reaches for the discarded jeans, and when he returns with a little pot of Vaseline, Harry feels his mind go blank. He's paralysed by the thought of it, the implication. But Ringo's unperturbed, slicking his fingers and reaching back behind John's legs, his hand disappearing into shadow. Harry can see it in John's body when Ringo presses into him, the way his cock twitches against his stomach, the muscles in his thighs tensing. He whimpers, and presses back, and Harry pictures him swallowing up Ringo's fingers the way he swallowed his cock, so easy, so familiar. So ready for him.
"Fuck," Harry wrenches out, cupping his hand over John's where it's gone momentarily slack on his cock. "That's -- fuck, you're --"
"Yeah," Ringo says, the sweat prickling at his hairline now, glistening at his temples. "He loves this -- don't you? Our fingers in you?"
"Uh-huh," John murmurs, a thread of a thing. He looks intoxicated now as Harry's never seen him before, working himself on Ringo's fingers, his eyes half-lidded.
"D'you want my cock?" Ringo asks, and they groan together, Harry and John, before John's bracing himself on Ringo's shoulders and Harry's too mesmerised to protest about the sudden absence of his warm hand.
Ringo takes over one-handed. It's seamless: Harry registers dimly that this is only a symphony for six hands, but they're probably used to working with eight, even ten. As always, the consummate best. John's shaking as Ringo pulls him down onto his cock, inch by solid inch, and then Harry can't help but reach for him where his prick bobs red and swollen against his stomach, the sight of it almost painful.
"Fuck," John breathes, "Rings -- Harry --"
He starts to move, fucking himself like that, like he's needed it all night. Ringo's gripping him firmly by the waist; Harry can feel his upward thrusts in counterpoints to the movements of John's hips, the pair of them in perfect rhythm. John falls forward after a moment, kisses Ringo open-mouthed and slack, and then Harry's sucking at his neck, hoping madly that there'll be a bruise there in the morning, something to assure them all that this was real.
"That's it," Ringo's saying, starting to buck his hips more forcefully into John, "that's it, Johnny; come on; come for us, yeah? Show Harry how you do it, how you like it. So gorgeous like this, baby; always take it so well for us, don't you? John, Johnny --"
John comes, hard, his body trembling wildly between them. It seems to set off a ricochet effect: John spilling over Harry's hand and Ringo stilling inside him, his thighs tensing and his hand tensing around Harry and then before Harry knows what's happening, he's pulled along with them, sucked up into their riptide, coming over Ringo's fingers and wrist, white streaks of it coating his rings.
Afterwards, they come down slowly. John lets his head fall into the crook of Ringo's neck and shoulder and Ringo holds him, stroking his back, his hair. Eventually, with a groan, John staggers to his feet, Ringo finally slipping out of him. Ringo passes him a cloth, and John wipes himself roughly, smiling at Ringo. Smiling -- blessedly, at Harry. When they're all buttoned up, he insinuates himself between them, and they both let him. Indulging him, as neither of them can help doing.
"Better now," John says, content and sleepy.
Ringo kisses the top of his head. Easily, as if it's nothing, John takes Harry's hand. When Harry wakes up three hours later, he's still holding it.