Chapter Text
It was difficult being the only omega in the band, or more accurately it was all just overwhelming. Ever since he presented about a year ago, the rest of the alphas had taken that as a sign it was okay to use him as stress relief. It had been fun at first, getting fucked whenever one of his alphas was in the mood, and it kept everybody calm and sated, but after a few months and the bruises healed only to be immediately replaced, it got a bit.. much.
He had gone from being a respected beta to feeling like a sex doll. To make it worse he couldn’t really change his situation since the one time he had tried denying one of them sex had ended in a fight between every other member. Some days it felt like their sanity revolved around getting to fuck him, which was a distressing thought that he does his best to ignore.
George enjoys providing for others, and if he played his cards right he could occasionally leverage it to get some of his songs in their albums. John and Paul were the ones to go to for that, but if he was being honest(and he’d never tell the others) he liked having sex with Ringo the most.
Ringo was the nicest after all. He was almost always gentle and careful, despite being the biggest. He didn’t get angry easily, and didn't get jealous. If George didn’t feel like having his cunt used, then he would just pivot to his ass or mouth and give him a break.
Paul would be gentle with him until he got in ‘a mood’, which was most of the time recently. Things have been especially stressful at the studio, recording and re-recording, but nothing seemed good enough. George tells himself that it’s just the stress getting to him, that that’s the reason why he’s been hunched over a toilet bowl every morning for the past two months.
Even Paul’s moods were still better than John. John had been the first to take him, to steal his virginity like it was something owed to him. He was rough, groping and bruising every inch of him with a kind of possessive intensity that made George a little afraid. Afterwards John would always wrap around him, clinging tightly to him. He would refuse to let him up to clean himself or even use the bathroom.
They would all fuck him together sometimes, and George enjoyed it when Ringo would take his cunt, with Paul in his mouth, and John in his ass. It was the easiest arrangement for him to handle since Ringo’s pace would steady John’s, and Paul would normally keep things slow when fucking his mouth.
George gags up the remaining bile before flushing the toilet. He manages to pull himself up, brushing his teeth as he tries to will away the tiredness in his eyes. It’s been months since he’s slept well. His cunt is so damn sore, even though it’s been a couple hours since he’s been fucked. The rest of them were out at some party or bar. He had decided to stay back at the hotel, needing sleep. He rinses and spits before wandering to John and Paul’s bed, flopping down in the center. Even though he was their shared omega, he knew that they loved each other more than they loved him.
It was fine because he had Ringo. Ringo’s hotel room was locked though, so he was stuck there hoping that they’d all be back late so he could get a few hours. Or that they’d come back too drunk to perform and simply pass out beside him. His eyes shut as he curls up under the covers, breath beginning to even..
The door slams open, and John and Paul pool in. George winces at the noise of their bickering, pretending to be asleep until John yanks down the covers. He grabs his hips, tugging him to the edge of the bed. He doesn’t even look at George as he yanks his pants down.
“Yer bein’ ridiculous,” John sneers, and George fights the bubbling urge to cry. He wiggles weakly when John’s hands find his waist, steadying him briefly before he undoes his own pants. He pushes into his perpetually loose hole, thrusting a few times to find the rhythm before he starts fucking him into him properly. “We can’t use— fuck,” he pants, looking down at George suddenly, “you need’ta lose that weight,” he comments, and George flinches at the way his eyes roam his stomach.
Paul scoffs, sitting beside his head. His hand strokes his hair, and George hopes desperately that he won’t try to use his mouth. He already feels nauseous, and if something is shoved down his throat there is no way he wouldn’t vomit.
“He’s fine, Lenny,” he states firmly, “he’s too thin to begin,” he decides, only for John to scoff. Fear spikes through George, making his stomach turn. He’s tried to deny it for months now, but deep down he knows.
He knows how big he’s going to get. He also knows that he can’t tell the others. A whimper escapes him, and he buries his face into Paul’s stomach. John speeds up the moment he looks away, tears fall from his eyes, and he’s glad for the instinctive part of him that was producing a little bit of slick. 'It’ll be over soon’, he tells himself in his head. Just as he had done the first time. ‘It'll be over soon’.
“I like bein’ able to toss ‘em around though,” John complains, “he’s gettin’ so fat that—“
“John,” Paul chastises lightly, “he’s cryin’,” he says scoldingly, and a chill runs through George at the well intended words. John despised any acknowledgement of his behavior, and Paul went and ruined it. He speeds up, movements harsh and angry as he gropes at his waist. ‘It’ll be over soon, it’ll be over soon, it’ll be over soon’, but he can’t seem to make himself believe it.
“Can’t handle the truth,” John mutters, squeezing him hard. George knows that none of them would be able to handle him being pregnant. He’d be kicked from the band, or worse, John would make him get rid of it to keep him useful.
The third option, the most realistic, terrified him the most however. The idea that he’d be forced to quit, but kept as tour pet. Marry one of them, travel with them all and have nothing change except not being able to play music. There was no good answer. He estimates he’s at about four months along now.
John groans, coming inside, and they shuffle around a little bit. John collapses beside him as Paul takes his place. Fear flashes through George when he looks at John’s cock, traces of blood on it. The blood always scared him, every time he saw it his mind went wild with panic, thinking that he’s lost the pup.
Maybe that would be the best case scenario though. Miscarry and not tell a soul. His heart aches at the thought though. Paul finishes inside of him, kissing his unresponsive, sticky with tears, lips. He lays beside him as well, falling asleep just as fast as John did. George waits until he’s sure they’re both out cold before he stumbles up. He showers up, grabbing a robe before he heads to Ringo’s room. He didn’t want to risk being woken up with a cock in his ass.
He finds the bathroom light on in there, and he sighs in relief. Ringo was better at respecting boundaries than the others. If he told John no he’d be flat out ignored. Paul would pout and act rejected, not understanding when George would start crying from frustration. He’d always give in, what choice did he have? Ringo understood though.
He starts to lay down in bed, only for the bathroom door to open. He gives a weak smile that very quickly fades when he sees how drunk Ringo is. He doesn’t stand up, still aching, but Ringo smiles brightly when he sees George. He walks closer, cupping his cheeks in his hands, and then he kisses him.
George whimpers, trying to push him away, though Ringo doesn’t relent. It makes him afraid. He’s always hated it when Ringo got drunk, he’d always act more like John, less like himself.
“Hi, Georgie,” Ringo hums, and George swallows down his nausea. Ringo buries his face in his neck, inhaling deeply. His hands wrap around his waist, and it just makes him feel trapped, especially when he spots Ringo’s erection. He really couldn’t handle it tonight.
“Not tonight, Ritchie,” George tries only for Ringo to pull back, dragging him with him. He finds himself on his knees with Ringo undoing his pants, and he blinks back tears. “Ringo—“ he chokes on his own cry when Ringo’s hand threads through his hair, guiding him to his cock.
“Shh.. please, love,” he slurs, “can smell John ‘n Paul on ye.. y’can’t..” he trails off, eyes shutting. George wraps his hand around it, ignoring his own shaking as he strokes him. That was always the argument they all used when he tried to tell any of them no. It was always ‘you let so ‘n so do insert act, making him feel like he had to even it out so they all felt loved.
Ringo guides his tip to his mouth, and a soft growl escapes his lips when George tries to tilt his head away. Tears threaten to escape, mind pulsing with tiredness. He didn’t have to yell at him like John, a simple noise was enough to tell him to comply.
He opens his mouth, letting Ringo push into his throat. He gags, nausea curling in his already upset stomach. Panic flares weakly through him as Ringo begins to thrust lazily. His hands brace against Ringo’s hips, trying to pull away frantically only for Ringo’s grip to tighten in his hair. He gags, realizing with more and more urgency that it’s not an ‘if’ if he’s going to vomit, it’s a ‘when’, and it’s soon.
He lets out a muffled cry, struggling on his knees. Ringo’s hand twists in his hair as he speeds up, trying to get himself to orgasm before George can really back out. His stomach stirs further with each thrust, and he pivots from trying to get away to trying to just hold back, but it’s too late.
He chokes out a final sob as it comes up, and Ringo yelps, yanking back immediately as George vomits on his dick, and then the floor. There was hardly anything left to come up, but he’s made a mess nonetheless. His lips quiver as he starts to cry, humiliation swirling in his brain. He wants to be held, to be assured it’s all okay. If Ringo would just scoop him up and tell him it was just a little mistake, that he’s sorry—
George shrieks when Ringo backhands him, shock hitting him harder than he actually had. The rings stung his cheek, and he stares up at him with wide eyes. Ringo seems to sober up a bit, realizing what he’s just done. His cock has gone to half mast, vomit dripping off. Anger fades into horror as he kneels down immediately, reaching out, but George is scrambling back before he can even process the decision to do so. Even John’s never hit him before.
“Love, I’m so sorry—“ he says pleadingly. George struggles to stand, but the moment he can get off the floor he’s bolting to the nearest door. He gets onto the balcony, grabbing the chair out there to hoist in front of him protectively. His mind is pulsing with fear, tears blurring his eyes. Ringo had been safe. He’s always been safe. A sob escapes his lips as Ringo opens the door, following him out. “Georgie—“
“Get away from me!” He shouts.
“George, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry— I didn’t—“
“Get away, get away, get away!” He screams, knees buckling a bit. He leans on the rails, sinking down with the chair still held protectively in front of him. He just wants to be home with his family. He wants to go back to being a beta, wake up and pretend all of this had just been an awful nightmare. He can see Ringo’s look of horror and guilt as he stands near the door, contemplating what to do.
Ringo steps forward, grabbing the chair and he tugs it out of his grasp. George lets out a noise that’s a mix between a cry and a growl as Ringo picks him up. He shakes hard, sobbing and struggling as Ringo pulls him out of the cold night air, back into the threatening hotel room.
“I’m sorry, Georgie, I’m sorry,” he breathes, apologizing through his own tears. George thrashes harder, wailing at the top of his lungs. He’d take Paul and John coming to rescue him over this. Ringo curls up with him on the bed, holding him close, and he feels like a helpless doll as he cries into his hair. “I’m sorry, I should’ve listened, I didn’t mean to hurt you..” he chokes out.
George gives up struggling in favor of crying. He could only hope it’d be over soon.