ménage à trois [ paul mccartney x reader x john lennon ]
summary: There’s only one bed and none of you speak French.
prompt: k hear me out mclennon sandwich BUT ITS ON THE PARIS TRIP SO IS JUST YOU THREE IN THE TINIEST BEDROOM + a request for reader’s wet dreams waking paul up warnings: this is a threesome babey 🥪🥪🥪
masterlist
guess who’s never had a threesome? me. guess who accidentally drank a shit ton of coffee and didn’t go to bed till six am writing this?? also me. i’d appreciate any feedback y’all have bc @spaceyantique beta’d this for me like a darling but my illiteracy knows no bounds
There’s only one bed and none of you speak French.
Paul tries, but between his wild hand gestures and the receptionist’s increasingly confused looks, he’s getting nowhere. John more or less just flirts with her. You tolerate about five minutes of it before dragging them away from the front desk.
“Sorry,” you offer to the receptionist, and you’re pretty sure it’s the first word she’s understood in the whole exchange.
The three of you stand at the foot of the bed for a bit and just. Stare at it. The hotel room is long but narrow, with the bed at the very end of it literally touching three walls. Whoever designed it was obviously at the end of his wits. The bed would be roomy for one person, cozy for two, but three? That’s pushing it. Still, there’s not even a couch in the room, so when you all look at each other it’s with a wordless understanding.
“I sleep on the right,” John says. He claims his spot as such and immediately stretches out, not even taking off his shoes. You wrinkle your nose but choose not to say anything. Paul wrinkles his nose and does.
“Don’t be disgusting, John.” Paul toes off his boots and clambers onto the left side. “There’s a lady present.”
John grins and twists around, dangling his feet in Paul’s face. “Talking about yourself in the third person, eh?”
You’ve locked the bathroom door by the time they start fighting but the walls are thin. There’s a thump and a shrill screech. Laughter. More shouting. Your reflection frowns back at you, eyes tired and hair a mess, and you take your time showering. In true European fashion, it’s a tiny, miserable affair. Your elbows keep knocking into the walls. The water runs cold before you even finish shampooing. It’s a mad dash to put on your pajamas before you freeze your tits off—except even that goes awry when you realize you forgot to pack them. The only things you can find are a soft tee shirt and shorts, which are a bit shorter than you’d like to be wearing but will have to do.
To top it all off, when you step out of the bathroom, they’re still lobbing shoes and insults.
“Boys, please! It’s one in the morning!” Two pairs of eyes flicker to the clock on the wall, then back at you. “Can you at least pretend to be adults?”
Paul has the decency to look a little scolded. John, on the other hand, leers at you.
“I think someone cut a few centimeters off your shorts, love. Not that I’m complaining.” He winks and you decidedly push down the fluttering in your stomach.
All in all, it takes another hour for the three of you to get to bed. Paul insists on showering first, which leads to another argument that takes five matches of rock-paper-scissors to be resolved.
(Paul gets the first one. John calls a two out of three and wins that. Paul calls a three out of five and wins that. John accuses him of cheating and gets called a sore loser. You end up shoving Paul into the bathroom while John is looking for another shoe to throw.)
If your mother knew you were squeezing into a bed with two boys, she’d throw a fit. Especially if she knew that you couldn’t stop thinking about how rosy Paul’s cheeks looked when he stepped out of the shower, or the fact that John is bloody shirtless. No, it’s best that none of this gets back to your folks at home.
“Comfortable?” John asks. Both boys are facing outwards and you’re lying on your back, trying to ignore the warm bodies on either side of you.
Paul shifts his arm and nearly elbows you in the boobs. “I feel like a sardine,” he says.
“Try sleeping in the middle,” you retort. “It’s like being in a sandwich.”
That earns a laugh from John, which turns into a contagious yawn.
“We should go to bed,” someone says, but you’re already drifting off.
***
John’s a pretty heavy sleeper, so when he wakes up and it’s still dark out he’s very confused.
He’s also a lot warmer. Sometime in the night, John had turned and pulled you flush against his chest. His nose is pressed into your hair, one leg thrown over your hip. John rather likes the feeling of cuddling so close, but he knows it’s not the most appropriate position. He goes to move when he hears a quiet noise.
“John…”
… oh. So that’s what woke him up.
You’re moaning, soft little sighs and whimpers that go straight to John’s cock. You’re having a wet dream… about him. He wants to pull away, knows that this is wrong, but then you’re grinding against him and all thoughts fly out the window. John’s hips find yours and he has to bite his lip to keep from groaning. God, he’s rutting against you like a teenager but it feels so good he can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed.
“John?”
John’s eyes snap open and he freezes. Your voice is different, clearer. You’re awake now. It’s like a cold bucket of water has been dumped over his head and he jolts away from you.
“Sorry, I didn’t—“
His apology cuts off because you’re suddenly moving, pushing back into him. The soft curve of your ass presses right against John’s cock. All the air in his lungs rushes out and he gasps out your name.
“Is—is this okay?” he asks. He wants to make sure, needs to.
“Yes,” you reply. It’s more of a plea, and it’s all John needs to start moving again.
The hand that’s on your stomach trails down and slips under the waistband of your panties. John groans when his fingers find your slick folds.
“Fuck, you’re soaked.” John rocks his hips into yours. Your hair is still damp from showering and when he breathes in, the scent—lavender—sends a rush of arousal through him. “Were you dreaming about me?”
You can only whine in response because John is slipping a finger into your cunt. His thumb finds your clit, rubs gentle circles that send flames of pleasure licking up your body. It’s already so much, too much, not enough.
“Didn’t know you were such a filthy girl,” John growls and you arch into his touch. “What was it about, hm? Were you dreaming about this? About getting fingered while Paul is sleeping right there?” His words tear a gasp from your lips. “You’re gonna have to be quiet or you’ll wake him up, birdie. Unless that’s what you want…”
“It’s a little too late for that.”
John can’t see very far, but he doesn’t need to in order to make out Paul’s face on the other side of you. His pupils are blown wide, eyes trained on John’s hand still moving under your clothes. And John… likes it. Being watched. It should be weird, should feel wrong because Paul’s his best mate, but then his eyes find John’s and the hungry look in them tears a hot blaze of arousal through him.
Somehow, his voice is steady when he speaks. “You want a taste?”
Paul’s mouth falls open and he nods. Without a second thought, John pulls his hand from your pussy and lifts it to Paul’s lips.
The sight of Paul licking your juices from John’s fingers is quite possibly the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.
Second only to the look on Paul’s face when you hesitantly wrap your hand around his cock and start jerking him off.
“Fuck,” he groans. His eyes flutter closed, head tips back and bares the curve of his neck. John wants nothing more than to bite into it, to mark Paul, but you beat him to it. And John, who’s never liked feeling left out, lets his hand drift back down to you. This time, he curls two fingers into your cunt. You clench around him and your grip involuntarily tightens on Paul, whose hips jerk forward at the feeling.
God, how John wishes he could see your face. You’re sure to be so pretty, cheeks flushed, lips parted around gasps, eyes watching Paul’s cock in your hand. Still, he can hear the noises you’re making, and that’s almost just as good.
It’s not the most comfortable position, really. Your wrist feels awkward at this angle, with Paul being so close to you. And John keeps breathing in some of your hair. But the intimacy, the heat, the rush of adrenaline makes all that fade away. The filthy sound of John thrusting his fingers in and out of your cunt, Paul’s high, almost feminine sighs. John’s grunts as he rocks against your body, breathe hot on the nape of your neck.
Paul gasps something unintelligible but you know what he’s trying to say. You start pumping him even faster, letting the sound of his cries spur you on. You want to taste them, you think, and it doesn’t make sense but you lean forward anyway and capture Paul’s lips in yours.
The movement changes your angle. John’s fingers curl against something in you that burns white hot, electric in your veins. His thumb presses into your clit and then you’re cumming, moans falling from your lips to Paul’s as he follows you over the edge.
“Fucking hell,” Paul breathes.
You can only nod. Your mind is still floating somewhere in the stratosphere. You can’t remember the last time you felt like this, both high and irrevocably grounded, pressed tight between two bodies thrumming with warmth.
“I’m gonna… clean up a bit,” you mumble when you’ve caught your breath. While you stumble off towards the bathroom, Paul reaches and finds John’s face in the dark.
Despite the fact that he’s just had a threesome, John suddenly feels shy. It’s intimate in a different way, how Paul’s fingers trace the bridge of his nose, outline the curve of his lips. And when you come back, weight dipping the mattress slightly, the warmth of your body settling behind him is so gentle that John is scared he’s only imagining it.
Paul doesn’t say anything, just pulls John forward and kisses him. It’s a chaste brush of the lips, but combined with the feeling of you nipping at his bare shoulder sets John’s nerves ablaze.
“I—“
You shush him and run a hand down his spine, thumbing the waistband of his joggers. “Just relax, John. It’s okay.”
Whether it’s your words or the soothing touch, John’s body almost melts, curving into yours. At the same time, his lips seek out Paul, who pulls back with a glint in his eyes.
“You haven’t even come yet, have you?” Paul asks, though he already knows the answer.
“Does it fucking look like I have?” John grumbles. Your hand trails across his waist and cups his erection and suddenly John can’t come up with anything witty anymore. He keens and bucks into the touch.
“So this is what it takes to get you to shut up.” You giggle when John’s attempt at protesting is muffled by Paul’s mouth.
“Guess we should do this more often, then.”
