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“No brothels?”
“No brothels?” Paul repeated incredulously, his eyes cutting into the base of John’s skull. “Bloody hell, may as well turn back now. ‘d rather let the noose have its nasty way with me before I let this dry spell last ‘nother day.”
“No ladies of the night even?” John pressed the fisherman (who, quite frankly, looked just as disappointed as the rest of the crew). John groaned, turning his back to the docks and finally meeting his first mate’s glare. “Well, you heard the man, looks like we’ll all be friends of our sweaty grips tonight.”
A chorus of whines and pleads followed suit, George rolling his eyes at the amount of fuss a bunch of grown men were throwing about over skirts.
“Cheers, Georgie, really struck gold with this town, didn’t cha’?” Paul rubbed the bridge of his nose, George getting an unwarranted gust of the stink from under his arms. Fucking hell, for a bunch of people surrounded by water, they sure seemed to avoid every droplet that could actually clean them.
George tsked and muttered lowly, “don’t matter much, you ‘n John’ll find plenty of similar company in each other.”
“Right,” John intervened, firmly pushing himself in between him and Paul and shutting down that conversation swiftly. “I reckon we get ourselves cleaned up and just get pissed at whatever shithole this little town calls a tavern, shall we?” As if there was any arguing with John’s orders, Paul and George nodded. “Great! Off we go then, lads, and not another word.”
As always, the crew finds themselves making a larger ruckus than cannonfire – belching and hollering more than their lungs should allow, arms interlocked over shoulders, drinks flying about the place like gunfire and George none too pleased with the shamelessness of their depravity. John and Paul are off somewhere in the corner, discarding the guise of discussion and folding over the other in childish laughter and twisted admiration. No one dares question it, it simply isn’t worth it. Even George, who’s known them longer than they’ve known each other, doesn’t lose a blink of sleep thinking about it.
George groans, nearly silent under all this noise, and grabs his coat. No one bats an eye as he walks out of the tavern, par from the scrawny bartender who seems far out of his depth. George snorts, he couldn’t care less.
The wind whips at his face, the Atlantic breeze being their reason for sheltering down for the night, and continuing to punish George even now. His nose must already be an embarrassing shade of pink, his fingers finding home in his pockets as he presses forward. It’s a rather small place, even for a port town, the quietness of the streets not lost on him, ears upturned for footsteps or another sailor’s voice. His boots are loud against the cobble, like hooves on wood, trotting and leaving footsteps like trail pieces saying, come follow me. His hair curls against his eyelids, reminding him that it’s getting to a length that needs cutting, a task he’ll be sure to put off for the next few years until it gets unmanageable.
Once the screaming of his crew becomes nothing but background noise, George feels himself settle for the first time in hours. Although he didn’t drink all too much (all too much defined as three or four pints), his head couldn’t take the noise a minute longer, and his vision is still fuzzy from the harsh lighting in that awful tavern. What a sad little town, George thinks, only saved by its uneventfulness which tonight it loses.
George thinks about that bartender’s eyes as he was walking out – a sad little puppy he was, the type John would kick if it sniffed his ankles. It isn’t his problem, he can bark and whine all he wants, George is free from that madness.
The ocean sings at him, waves lapping at the sand and pulling the tide back with it. With a slight wobble, George skips down the stone steps and onto the sand, boots tracing leftover shells and broken conches. Perhaps a dead town has its plusses, no robbings and screeches or stabbings to be echoed in between these tall buildings. Nothing but George and the goddess of the sea.
He finds an open cave, high walls of rock and arches, an opening akin to an entrance eroded with time. George lets himself stroll in, blade at rest and mind at ease as he sees a suitable stone to sit on.
A glint he knows all too well catches his eye – pearls, in the shape of a well-expensive necklace. George grins, kneeling to reach it and letting the string of the necklace twist around his fingers as he presses the cool gems against his knuckles. While the rest were getting drunk and no doubt waking up to their pockets sacked, George would have at least made a profit out of this otherwise boring night.
George jumps slightly, head snapping to his right at a sudden splash.
Nothing.
The waves are calm, he knows the voice of the sea more than his own, fingers on the handle of his blade as he quietly moves forward.
There it goes again.
At the edge of the cave, the ocean stretches worlds ahead, nothing but foam and breeze bobbing on the waves. Except George has the right mind to look below him, because he isn’t daft, and he finds the source of the noise. An octopus – stuck in between two jagged rocks and wriggling in visible agony. George cringes, feeling awful enough to kneel and reach down, hand grazing the top of the octopus but not enough to help it. He edges forward, his other hand gripping painfully onto the sharp edges of the cliff. With a final push, George swipes his hand further and manages to push it slightly.
“Shit-” George bites his lip when the octopus practically starts shivering in pain. Clearly all he managed to do was make its situation worse, the poor thing shooting out ink in panic, black mixing with blue and traces of red. “God fucking damnit…”
He should’ve left the damn thing on its own, instead now it’ll die a painful death because George thought himself a martyr of the sea. Real Poseidon he is, god.
Hastily, George lets the pearl necklace dangle from his fingers, hoping the octopus (who, now that George gets a closer look, looks like no other octopus he’s ever seen) understands that he’s helping. Yeah right, George, he hears John mock in his mind, just coo at the bloody thing like it’s a bird, that’ll get it all wet and slippery. With the haunting giggle of Paul as an afterthought, George swings the necklace, hands shaking as he leans over the cliff, trying to ignore the sharpest set of rocks he’s ever seen below that stare right at his jugular.
A gnarly cut-up tentacle latches onto the necklace and George feels himself smile despite the awkward position. He pulls gently, just enough for the octopus to wriggle itself out of the wedge it’s in. The necklace gets pulled in by its suckers, but George is just happy to see the thing jump back into the sea smoothly. He sighs a breath of relief and falls back down, legs dangling on the side of the cliff as he stares up at the cave roof.
So maybe he’d be as much of a poor sucker as the rest of the crew, oh well, at least he’s done some good. He’s sure to be let into the arms of the church now, kind sod that he is. George laughs at himself, the soft breeze trickling through his hair and cooling his flushed cheeks. He imagines the sorts of troubles the other boys are getting themselves into right now, if it’s any more exciting than saving injured octopuses. He considers going back, perhaps the alcohol has loosened John and Paul enough to let him back into their circle (that or they’re tongue deep in each other and scarring the maids at the inn). George does enjoy their company, despite their constant bickering and tendencies to butt heads, it felt like he knew Paul longer than he knew himself at this point, the threads of their fate sewn tighter than their sails. He liked John too, even though he can be a right prick and a piss-poor captain, and the rest of the crew were decent if not funny. But, he supposes, at the end of the day, his place among the crew is slipping further into the deck and away from his closest friends if he lets it continue on like this, and-
“Thanks.”
George nearly loses his vision at the speed he sits up at.
“By Hermes’ staff, I don’t believe it,” George sputters, his heart hammering the moment his eyes adjust to the sight in front of him. “A mermaid?”
“I suppose, merman is more like it though.”
George kneels at the edge of the cliff, eyes never leaving the merman, glancing briefly at his blue scales, faint traces of red peaking through the pattern. The moon blesses the merman with gentle light, his skin glistening with the ocean, seemingly supple and soft like virgin snow. Sand freckles his hair like a halo, strands of hair framing his face like baroque art, the very types in expensive manors he’s not allowed to touch to maintain its value. Except this isn’t a painting nailed to the wall, he breathes small breaths less than a dove would and blinks with lashes as real as the tide.
And blue, of course his eyes are blue – deeper than the depths of the sea and prettier than any seashell hidden between beaches. Such a sad doe-eyed expression, George feels his heart pang for no apparent reason.
“...you daft or somethin’?”
George blinks, the merman’s snapiness catching him off guard. “Could get a different answer depending on who you’re asking that, really.”
“Well unless you’re mates with the crabs, I’m askin’ you, aren’t I?” He asks sarcastically, an unamused expression painting his striking face. George huffs and ignores the jab. “Either way, thank you.”
“What’re you thanking me for then?” The very same octopus he saved is latched around the merman’s back. “Ah, I see.” George clears his throat. “Sorry if I hurt your friend, didn’t really know how else to get 'em out.”
“Lost your necklace,” the merman says.
“Suppose so,” George responds.
They settle into silence and George waits for the merman to disappear back into the ocean but he never does. George tries not to make it obvious, but he can’t help searching the entire merman’s face and body with his eyes. His thoughts must be branded on his forehead because the merman scoffs when George tries to decipher the shape of his tail.
“You act like you’ve never seen a mermaid before. You must not be a very good pirate, then. Doesn’t seem like you’ve got much going for you at all, mister.” The merman makes himself snicker, his shoulders a little more relaxed and George swallows at the sight of his defined collarbones.
“I’ve seen plenty, I’ll have ya know…just not one quite as pretty as yourself.”
The merman’s eyes widened, and George himself is surprised by his own words. “Laying it on thick, aren’t you. Think you’re gonna lure me in, is that it, mister? I don’t imagine us mermen go for quite a lot on the market.”
George rolls his eyes. “‘m names George, not mister. And I couldn’t really care about sellin’ you on the market, ‘m not that typa pirate.”
He seems unimpressed. “Is that so? Thought you type were all meant to do whatever your captain asked of you.”
“Well, if I listened to every rule out there, I wouldn’t’ve become a pirate, would I now?”
The merman grins and George tries not to let himself appear too happy by that. “Suppose not.”
George sits comfortably on the edge, legs once again dangling. He keeps his wits about him, sword ready on his hip, but hopes he won’t have to use it as his eyes trace the merman’s lips and teeth. “Do I get to know your name?”
The merman blinks. “Ringo.”
“You havin’ a laugh? That can’t actually be your name.”
“Least I haven’t got a patch of kelp growin’ on me face,” Ringo scoffs. George scratches his moustache, a tad embarrassed, but not in the slightest angry. “What were you doin’ here anyway, George?”
George feels a shiver run down his spine, his name sounding nearly ethereal on the lips of a merman. “Was just goin’ for a walk when I found your slippery friend. Couldn’t really stand the racket at the tavern, so…”
“Makes sense, could hear you lot coming from a mile away, thought judgement day was upon us.” George laughs and Ringo’s smile grows wider. “You the plundering and drinking type, George?”
“Not really, if I’m being honest, Ringo.” George feels his chest warm up just saying his name, “‘d much rather write than be sleepin’ amongst these grotty lot.”
“A writer, ay? What’d you write – poems? You a romantic, George? Got a missus back at home waitin’ to be plundered by the big bad pirate such as yourself after you read her your love letter?”
George laughs again. “You’ve got a mouth on you for a merman, thought you types were meant to be as innocent as lambs. But, er- no, not quite a poet yet. I jus’ write, jot down songs and whatnot, maybe one day they’ll mean somethin’.”
“You sing?” Ringo’s eyes lighten up.
“Not quite as good as you, I’m sure.”
Ringo scoffs. “Now you’re takin’ the mick of me, my voice is deeper than the ocean, even an anchor and all that, I don’t reckon I’ll be serenading any sailors sometime soon.” Ringo must know what he’s doing to George right now, teasing him and fishing for sweet words that he knows he can give.
“Deeper than an anchor, yes, but no man of the sea can go without it.” George nearly slaps himself and he shakes his head, cringing at his own words. Ringo tilts his head up at him in confusion, and George wonders when he got so close, able to grab his legs and pull him beneath if he so wanted to. “I’m sure this is all terribly boring for you, though. Bet you’ve heard a bunch of old gits say all sorts of romantic words to you.”
“...you’re the first one,” Ringo begrudgingly admits. “Not all of us merfolk can make anyone swoon over our looks. Especially not someone of my caliber.”
“Aye?” George raises a confused brow. “Thought that was the little jig you merpeople had, luring poor buggers with your pretty voices and soft faces.”
“Well, you really are a daft one, think’ve met lobsters with more to say than you.”
“Cause I’m sure you’ve got an education down in the land beneath the tide, don’t you, Ringo? You and your slow lobster friends,” George said, slightly annoyed at Ringo’s attitude. Yet, at Ringo’s pleased expression, George felt any aggression sift away. “I suppose no other mermaid has me feelin’ the way I do now, so there’s some truth to your words. But you’re just another bloke at the end of the day, jus’ got a pretty tail instead of a cock.”
Ringo blushes. “Guess that makes you a right queer, don’t it?”
“You what?”
“You’re the one thinkin’ about my knob, haven’t you any decency? Don’t you know us folk are innocent as lambs?” Ringo mocks, confidence back at full force watching George stammer at his words. “If anyone’s pretty, it’d be you with that nimble little body of yers.”
“Oi! Who’s the queer one now?”
“Takes one to know one.” Ringo sticks his tongue out.
“You’re a funny one…”
“Not too bad yourself, even if you’ve got a funny little wad of hair on your lip.” Ringo stares at his lips and George tries not to let it get to him. “Definitely better conversation than most pirates.”
“Hah, well, not like we’re known for our intellect.” George thinks of John and Paul, the only two in the crew who can probably read a book and retain any part of it. “The few that are probably won’t be on the sea for long.”
“Guess that means you’re seabound, aye?”
“Thought you said I was smart.”
“You heard what you wanted to hear, George.” Ringo’s voice goes soft when he says his name. George shudders and averts his eyes, he knows that Ringo knows what he’s doing to him. Stupid prick must be on a high having this effect on him. “You alright, Georgie?”
George snaps his head back when he realizes Ringo’s situated between his legs, a hand resting on his boot and eyes glimmering with the lunar light. How can such a creature be a harbinger of death – fragile, tilted eyes, dainty and forlorn, George couldn’t stab this one even if he tried.
“Just peachy, doll. You’re gettin’ real comfortable with a pirate, you sure ya trust me that much?” That clearly was the wrong thing to say, Ringo’s eyes catch the handle of his sword and he suddenly swims a few feet away. George almost flinches and sighs, “was just joking, ya know, pretty obvious you’ve got me wrapped ‘round your evil finger.”
Again, George nearly slaps himself for not thinking before he speaks.
Ringo frowns. “You’ve got me mistaken for some sorta ghoul, mister, haven’t got any evil intentions with you. I just wanted to thank you and you’re callin’ me all sortsa things.”
“What, did I hurt your feelings?” George cooed. “You’re made of tougher stuff, doll, don’t think I’m that stupid.”
Ringo swims forward, the water splashing onto the cliff, as he hauls himself up just enough to be near face-to-face with George. His breath hitches, being this close to Ringo’s face, he feels himself lose all line of thought like an idiot. Guess he must really seem like the world’s biggest dunce, sputtering like a fish and cheeks red as cuts. Truly, no mermaid has ever had this effect on him, maybe he really is queer.
Ringo doesn’t say a word, doesn’t even smile, just stares him down and lets his cold breath run across George’s lips. George tries not to lean in, ignores the urge to run his nose into Ringo’s neck and let the saltiness of his skin graze his lips.
Slowly, Ringo tilts his head and opens his lips to speak-
“George!”
Ringo flinches and jumps back into the water. George catches his arm harder than intended, but Ringo doesn’t struggle or shy away, he looks at George slightly starstruck as if he discovered something new himself.
“Ringo-” George’s throat is dry. “We’ll be sailing east tomorrow…will I see you again?”
Ringo slips his arm away from George’s grasp. “Thanks again, mister.” And then he’s gone, swallowed by the sea and disappearing from sight entirely.
George sighs, exhausted.
“George! Where are you!?”
“Oh, for god’s sake, shut it, John!”
Not that it came as a surprise, but the rest of the crew weren’t as enamoured by these events as George was.
Paul hummed when George had told him the story of a merman who spoke like any old mate of theirs but swam with the grace of a goddess. He somehow made the conversation about John, and George quickly mentally blanked out when Paul started droning on about John’s swimming capabilities. John himself wasn’t impressed either, “did he suck your cock? No? Then why the hell’re you tellin’ me about this?”
George couldn’t sleep the same since. The waves would lap against the ship, raps and knocking of the wood that only reminded George of Ringo in the strangest way. He dreamed of spirals and conches, sand in between his teeth and octopus ink staining his tongue.
It had been weeks since he’d seen Ringo and he didn’t expect to see him again. Even if Ringo had been amused by George, they hadn’t touched land in so long, Ringo would’ve had no time to catch up.
“Maybe ya need to find yourself a girl, George.”
George passed the bottle back to Paul. “And end up chasin’ every skirt like you? I think I’m good.”
“Yeah, instead of skirts you’re chasin’ shimmery little tails, right?” He said, taking a long swig before John yanked the bottle from his lips, earning a rough shove.
“What you need,” John starts, “is to find out where his pretty little friends are, huh?” John wiggles his eyebrows. “Bet we could have a good time with a bunch of pretty faces like that, Mother Mary knows we need it.”
George groans, watching him and Paul snicker amongst themselves. “Sex-obsessed, the lot of you.”
George puffs an exaggerated sigh, “get off it, Paul, ‘m not in the mood.” Another rock (seashell?) is thrown at him and George winces, but keeps his eyes closed as he remains flat on the stony shore. “Just piss off already, I’m fuckin’ tired, okay?”
Another seashell, this time aimed at his chest, somewhat heavy and very much painful. He doesn’t question the direction it comes from.
“Paul, I swear ‘m gonna wring your damn neck-”
George looks at the seashell – which isn’t a seashell at all. It’s a pearl necklace, one that he remembers all too well.
Oh.
“Oh,” George says stupidly.
“What’s that ‘bout wringin’ me neck?” Ringo asks, snarky grin plastered across his face as he leans against the rocky perch George is on. George feels his cheeks heat up, lowering his head like a guilty dog.
“Well, you’re not Paul.”
“And you’re not a starfish so why’re you laid out on the rocks like one?”
“Well…” God, if Ringo looked good in the moonlight, he looked near celestial at dusk – his tan skin glowing as if Apollo ruled him alongside the sun. And, god, his eyes. Ringo needed no siren’s voice to lure George into the depths of the sea. He has a face they write sonnets and poems to, compared his hair to gossamer and claimed that angels dwelled in his breath. “I don’t know.”
Ringo grins. “Were you waitin’ for me?”
George bashfully shakes his head. “No, I just quite like havin’ my back mutilated by the rocks. Real comfortable, you should give it a go. Might even cut yourself some legs, aye?”
“I think I can manage on me own, thanks.” George gives him a strange look and Ringo rolls his eyes. “Some rumors are true, ya know. We really can walk on land.”
“Why don’t you then?” George asks, scooting closer to the edge. Ringo lays his head on his elbows, half of his body in the water. George sits close enough that his thighs are nearly touching Ringo’s arms. He can see where Ringo’s skin melds into his tail. George bites his lip and swiftly meets Ringo’s gaze, who’s currently giving him a look that says he knows what he’s thinking about.
“Don’t fancy gettin’ dry, like. Makes me thirsty,” is all Ringo offers with a shrug. “And it hurts, I’ve known a few who’ve died from it…also, you didn’t make it easy finding you, you know. You lot travel fast, so cheers.”
“You followed us?” George tries to hide his giddy smile.
Now it’s Ringo’s turn to look bashful. “Well, ‘course, you think I like swimming this far out on my own for no good reason?”
“Where’s your friend?” George looks around, eyes searching for slimy tentacles. “He didn’t come with you?”
“He’s not really my friend, that’d be just embarrassing. Octopuses make for even worse conversation than yourself, I’d reckon.”
George snorts. “You must really love being bored then, seeing as how you swam all the way out here for my terrible company.”
“Hm, well, think about it as the better of two evils. Not much else going on that’s interesting besides yourself. Even if you are grotty.”
“Oi,” George nudged Ringo, his skin as soft as it looked. “You should be thankin’ me considering I’m the highlight of your day- month, even. A few barrels of gold’ll do.”
“And you’re a humble one too, George. Get up to writing any more poems of yours?”
“Nah, nothing seemed to really come out right.”
“Any about me?” Ringo bats his lashes, yelping when George pinches his cheek.
“Cheeky sod, ya ain’t that pretty.” George knows that’s a damn lie. The lines of scribbled sonnets know it’s a lie too, and by the looks of it, Ringo knows it too. His tail bashes against the water, almost like a dog wagging its tail. “...could write somethin’ for you though.” Ringo’s head perks up, god, he really is like a puppy. “We’re gonna stay here for a week or two. Not much on the agenda so…no old ladies to rob or graves to plunder, I’ve got the time.”
“Oh, wouldn’t wanna cut into important business, would I?” Ringo teases.
“You want that damn poem or not?”
“Would be nice, yeah. Always fancied the writing type, now one of them fancies me.”
George raises a brow. “You know, everyone describes you merfolk as gods of the sea, angels without wings and empresses without shrines, that sort.” Ringo raises a brow, silently saying and? “But you speak like any ol’ bloke would, remind me of my mates and you talk just like them too.”
“Your mates being those gits who use you like cleaning rags?” Ringo said, disappointed when George gave him a hurt look. “What? It’s not bloody hard to see, ‘s like they just keep you around to make ‘emselves feel better. Then again, that’s pirates for you.”
“They’re a hard bunch, sure, but I’ve known ‘em my whole life.”
Ringo snorts. “And what have you got to show for it?”
“Shut it, kelp-eater.”
“Now who’s goin’ round sayin’ we eat kelp?”
George chuckles softly. “That’s where you draw the line? Don’t care much for clearin’ up the accusations of bein’ man-eating beasts?”
“Could say the same about you land-people, I hear mer-tail is a real delicacy among you folk. Doesn’t mean I go about spearin’ every human I meet, now do I?”
“Who’s to say?” George shrugs his shoulders. “Maybe there’s no one around to confirm or deny.”
“Guess you’ll be the one to tell the tale for me, clear my good name, yeah?” Ringo slots his arms on George’s lap, head resting on his elbows again and peering up at George with his big pearly eyes. “Something the matter? You’re about as pink as a starfish, son.”
George coughs an awkwardly obvious hitch in his throat. “You’re just a tease, not sure I believe what you said about havin’ no evil intentions with me.”
Ringo smiles and George could’ve sworn his canines didn’t used to be that sharp. “Is that what you want? Do you dream of me havin’ lustful ways with you? Would Dante swallow you whole and take you to limbo and someplace deep? I’ve always wanted somethin’ taboo, ya know.”
“I don’t-”
“I think it’s sweet, George, knowing I’ve been on your mind as much as you’ve been in mine. Dunno what it is about you, you just…feel like myself. D’you know what I mean or am I making a fool outta myself?”
“No…no, not at all.” George lets himself run his fingers through Ringo’s hair, his fingertips freezing at the touch and shivering when Ringo leans into it. “I think I know you too, or at least, I’d like to know you.” A fresh slate is what he would like, a few minutes away from John and Paul’s mocking laughter and to never feel the forever swaying of a ship.
“Would your mates mind? I know how pirates can get ‘bout us folk in the water.”
George shakes his head. “They can sod off, there’s nothin’ for them to worry about. Plenty of folk like me talk to mermen, what’s the issue with it?”
Ringo snorts, “I reckon you don’t have dreams of talking to me, do you, George?”
“What do you dream about then, aye? Nothin’ they write carols about, ‘m sure.”
“I’d tell you but,” Ringo leans in and whispers in his ear and George feels his world shift, “not even Minos would know what layer of hell to give my soul.”
George feels a thrill run through him – harsher than death itself and more exciting than life. He grips Ringo’s arm, nails drawing crimson from his cold-blooded flesh, blood vessels swallowed in his vice, pulling him impossibly closer as if trying to merge bodies. George doesn’t know what to do, never did quite know, and lets his body move before his brain thinks.
“Ah-!” Ringo flinches as George’s teeth sink into his neck. He doesn’t pull away, only mewls and leans in closer. Blood trickles down his collar and George nearly moans as he tastes the salt in Ringo’s skin and all the parts that make him inhuman. “G-George, ah.”
When George feels the thrum of Ringo’s heart on his tongue, he yanks himself away so aggressively he gets whiplash.
Ringo looks just as surprised as he does, panting, eyes always sad, blood on his beautiful skin.
“I need to go.” George stands as fast as he can, ignoring the pitiful look in Ringo’s eyes as he backs away. “I…I need-”
“Will you come back?” Ringo’s eyes plead, the kind that say he’s felt this way before. “I’m sorry if I came off too strong, I just-”
George turns away before he finishes his sentence, walking swiftly up the rocky shore and pretending he can’t feel the eyes of a goddess follow him woefully.
“What the fuck are you talking about, George?” Paul, for once, looks serious. John, too, sits beside him with a concerned expression. “It sounds like you actually like this freak.”
George sighs, knowing that this was going to happen, and shuffles on his seat. His eyes follow the crew around him, suddenly grateful for how loud they naturally are once the liquor hits their tongues, no one paying attention to the three of them in the corner of the tavern.
“He’s not all too bad, Paul, he talks just like us. I think he’d even be a crewmate had he been human,” George said.
“Yeah, had he been human, George,” John juts in. “But he isn’t, he’s a blood-sucking merman who can’t get attention from desperate fishermen so he finds the pathetic muck like you who’ll believe his empty words.”
“They’re just as scared of us as we are of them, John, it’s just old wives’ tales and whatnot…” George downs his pint in between breaths, collar heating up with sweat as he withstands against John and Paul’s line of fire. “Plus, had he wanted me dead, he coulda had me when I was layin’ like a dead fish.”
“Oh no no, Georgie,” Paul starts. “They reel you in for as long as possible, lure in suckers with their voice until their love is ripe enough to pluck.”
John raises a brow and turns to Paul. “Then Georgie’d be dead by now, surely. I don’t think that’s right, love.” Paul gives him an oh yeah? look and lets him explain. “No use waitin’ weeks for his love to ripen, his breeches were about ready to pop the second he saw that tail waggin’ his way.”
George groans as they tumble into a roar of laughter, slapping the table and rocking the drinks like they were on a ship through a storm. They settle down after minutes, wiping tears from their eyes as they regain their sensibility.
“But seriously, George, you didn’t give in, yeah? I mean, once they got you, they got you.” Paul looks at him dead in the eye. George remembers the taste of blood vividly in his mouth and the whisper of a demon's name in his ear. He looks straight back at Paul.
“No, he hasn’t got me at all.”
George stands on the rocky shore days after the taste of rum leaves his lips. The air is crisp with the night’s breath and he grips the even colder pearls in his palm.
The ocean crashes against the cliffy shore beneath him, the same one that swallowed Ringo’s blood and George’s shame.
He takes a deep breath, lets his grip loose, and throws the pearl necklace as far into the sea as he can.
The eyes never leave him.
Hands like claws swarm his neck – wanting, gripping, smothering; longing, angry and alone, wanting, wanting, wanting. His lungs have burst, his mouth full, his eyes watery.
Then hot, impossibly hot, and he’s sinking lower and lower, deeper than he should be, getting dragged down by hands that aren’t his. His skin burns as if the sun lived in it, like Apollo himself, and he can’t even cry. He looks around for Paul, but his eyes have scorched and burned to the back of his skull. He listens for John but his ears have been ripped by the enclosures of hell.
He wants.
Never before has he felt like this, like his chest was going to collapse within itself if he didn’t get what he wanted. Greed, lust, gluttenous and angry, violent and heretic all at once. He feels like sin reincarnated, life put together by death, like the smell of gunpowder after battle, fresher than rain yet staler than dirt.
He grinds his arousal down into skulls, draws blood from his lips as he moans, thinks of saltwater and taboo, dreams of Achilles’ love and wrath after his partner's death.
“Will Minos know where to leave your soul after I debauch you?”
George wakes in a cold sweat, panting and tears running down his face. He scrambles out of his sheets with hands shaking and splashes his face with the only drinking water he has left. The pouch empties, he’s dripping with either sweat or water. His entire body is tingling and, begrudgingly, he can feel his cock twitching in arousal.
George looks down at his shirt and groans when he realizes he’s soaked, he needs to ask Paul to borrow one lest he catch his death.
A knock at the door- “you alright in there, George?” John’s voice bellows through the cracks.
“Yeah, sorry,” George sighs, walking to the door. “Did I wake you-?” George nearly collapses, because it isn’t John standing in front of his door, nor anyone human for that matter. “Ringo?”
“Oh, George.” Ringo falls into his arms, pulling him in as if he hadn’t seen him in years.
“What…?” George murmurs, arms awkwardly hovering over Ringo’s shoulders as he looks down. Ringo’s tail is gone, instead replaced with two dainty-looking legs, quivering and weak. He also notices Ringo isn’t wearing anything but a button-up shirt, stopping at his mid-thigh and most likely stolen from some drunk git. “How are you here?”
“George, please, I’m so sorry,” Ringo mumbles, nose diving into George’s wet shirt and sighing in pleasure as if dying of thirst. “George…”
“Where’s John? I know I heard his voice,” George firmly said, eyebrows furrowing when Ringo doesn’t respond. “Ringo.” His head snaps up. “Where the fuck is John?”
Ringo looks delirious, shaking his head and panting. “I don’t know. I don’t know, George.” He collapses into George, nearly falling if not for George catching him. Ringo is desperately trying to catch his breath. “I just knew I needed to find you.”
“Tell me what’s goin’ on, Ringo, you’re makin’ a right bugger outta yourself.” He feels his pulse quicken when Ringo doesn’t respond. “Ringo?”
Ringo groans, tongue lapping at the moisture in George’s shirt. He whines when George grabs his jaw and forces him to meet his eyes. Ringo’s eyes are nearly all consumed by his pupils and before he can even say another word, Ringo smashes their mouths together.
Fuck.
George immediately shuts the door with his heel, fingers digging into Ringo’s waist as he drags him in. It tastes like everything he ever dreamed of – burnt sugar and blood, disgustingly sweet and impossible to spit out. They kiss as if they’ve done this a million times, finding the grooves in each other’s tongues and biting the chips in their teeth. George feels Ringo’s sharp teeth, sharper than they’ve ever been before, which sends zero warning signals through his brain.
Ringo doesn’t pull away, and George momentarily forgets that he’s the one that needs to breathe. He yanks away from Ringo’s latching grip, panting for air and admiring the creature in his arms.
“I need you, Ringo,” George gasps in between breaths, his admission a surprise to both of them, leaping back into Ringo’s mouth after the dizziness in his head leaves. “Dreamt of you every night, wrote your name on paper and drew blood from my wrists wishing it was yours as I drank it.”
“Oh my god,” Ringo groans, eyes shutting as George laps at his neck, nipping at his skin and savoring every lick. He sucks hickeys into his skin, wishes they could stay forever, and feels his cock stiffen at Ringo’s tiny ‘ah, ah’s. He’s so small in his arms, it doesn’t feel real imagining him in any other light. “I-I thought you left me- oh.”
George pushes him down onto the bed, climbing on top and pinning Ringo’s wrists down with one hand. The other traces Ringo’s lips with his fingers, eyes following the plump redness.
“No, god…never,” George mutters as he unbuttons Ringo’s shirt, revealing his full body. George groans seeing Ringo’s leaking cock. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
He presses soft kisses against Ringo’s collarbone, tongue dipping into the crevices and lapping at every droplet of sweat. Ringo shuffles against the sheets and whines when George’s tongue focuses on his nipple.
“G-God!” Ringo throws his head back as George bites at his bud, lapping his tongue and sucking until it's pink and glistening. He turns his attention to the other one, thumb toying with the swollen nipple and grins as he hears Ringo’s cut off moans. “C-Can’t, fuck, can’t-”
George is so desperate, lips pressing further down onto Ringo’s stomach, nibbling his hips and licking below his navel. Ringo thrusts his hips up, the tip of his cock slapping George’s neck and leaving traces of pre-cum on his skin. George chuckles and continues peppering kisses on his hipbones and waist, shuddering when Ringo grips his hair with both hands, silently pleading.
“I’m sorry, Ringo,” George says sincerely. “You taste so good. I wish I could eat you forever.”
Ringo nods like he understands. “You could.”
George smiles, his chest warm, before licking a hot stripe up Ringo’s thick cock.
Ringo cries, his back arching as George swallows him all the way down to the root. He gags, tears rushing to his eyes but doesn’t dare pull back up. Ringo’s moans are downright sinful, the type they warn about in the bible, and George’s eyelids flutter as he starts bobbing his head up and down.
“Ah, ah-” Ringo pushes George’s head down, forcing a painful gag out of him. Seemingly unbothered, Ringo shoves George up and down while thrusting against his tongue, pre-cum and spit stuffing George’s throat as he rubs his thighs together to pleasure himself. “Good boy, George, yeah, just like that.”
George slides his tongue up against his cock, pressing against the vein, hollowing his cheeks and tries not to pass out as he gets used like a cheap prostitute. He ought to be disgusted with himself, but knowing Ringo, a goddess of the sea, is the only one who turned him to such a state turns him on like nothing else. No one else but Ringo could do this to him.
“Mhpf-” George groans, black spots appearing in his vision as he grips onto Ringo’s hips for support.
“S-So good, ‘m about to come into your mouth.” Ringo’s eyes roll into the back of his head, his back curling and hips twitching in carnivorous pleasure. “Fuck, only for me, George, o-only mine-!”
With a loud whine, Ringo empties his load into George’s mouth, his come stuffing his throat and dripping down his chin. Ringo pulls out and covers George’s lips until he swallows every last drop.
“Ringo…?” George asks hazily.
Ringo looks terrible – pale and out of breath, like his skin is drying and-
“Fuck, do you need water?” Ringo nods, a warm smile on his lips as his eyes droop. “Okay, okay, just please, oh fuck, wait, don’t close your eyes. Fuck, I-”
George panics, tries to do the math of how long it would take for John and Paul to understand the situation (would they even help?) But he needs their help, he’s too vulnerable alone, too impressionable by Ringo’s eyes. God, he can’t fucking do this alone, he misses his mother even, he misses Paul, he needs John’s help so bad-
“George?” Ringo whines, eyes glazed in tears, and it was like the faces of his two closest friends had never existed.
“Please, oh, fuck, you’re so tight, Ringo-!”
Ringo groans, back twisting against the sand as the tide crashes against their naked bodies. He grips the stone they’re hiding behind, legs tightening around George’s hips.
“Y-Yeah? Tell me what you w-want.”
George whines, cock weeping against Ringo’s maddeningly tight walls, hips still as he sobs into Ringo’s neck. “W-Wanna fuck you, please, please.” Ringo looks unfairly delicious with the moon on his skin, reminding George that he truly is something otherworldly, “please let me worship you- god.”
Ringo’s hole tightens around his cock, grinning as he watches George’s face twist in pleasure and pain.
“Will you ever leave me again?” Ringo asks innocently, teeth impossibly sharp and eyes focused.
“N-No!” George yelps. “Never, never, I was so bad. I-I, ah- wanna, need to be good for you. W-Will always be there for you.”
Ringo nods slowly. “You promise…?”
George's chest heaves with a violent sob. “Yes! Only you, t-there’s only you!”
Looking satisfied, Ringo smiles. “Come on, then, you sad git.”
George nods his head aggressively and cries when he starts thrusting, eyes rolling up and moaning as hot arousal pools in his belly. He rams his cock as far up into Ringo as he possibly can, proud when he sees Ringo’s expression as he fucks his prostate.
The ocean is louder than life itself, like gunfire and the screams of warfare. George stares into Ringo’s eyes, ignoring the waves whipping away at their bodies, tearing into their skin and surrounding them whole.
He feels nothing but want, feels nothing but pleasure and sees nothing but blue. It surrounds him and swallows him to the gulfs of the flames, and he falls, as a corpse may fall, to the dead floor of hell.