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It’s been a long night. They’ve had too much wine, as it usually goes at these boring press events. They finally make it back to their shared hotel room, and while George hurries to strip Ringo of his stodgy overcoat, the drummer gets himself ready to take their relationship a step further.
There’s something he’s been thinking about lately, though. It’s not something Ringo notices much at first. Everyone’s always smoking in Hamburg, and if they’re not, they’ve got the rim of a pint between their lips. Even in Liverpool, the same is true. Point is, most people’s mouths are occupied most of the time.
But George… it’s almost obsessive the way he needs to fill his mouth.
And it’s not just food and drink and cigs, though George does have a voracious appetite for all three. When their relationship turned into… whatever this is, Ringo started noticing his habits more, as one does. Among which happened to be George’s propensity to put his hands in his mouth. A habit borrowed from Paul, maybe, who’s always had a nervous tic of chewing his nails.
But when they started kissing– oh lord.
George kisses like he’s trying to devour. He’s doing it now, pouncing on Ringo once they’re in their nightwear. There’s rarely a moment both of their mouths aren’t open, tongues and teeth writhing and clashing. Those sharp canines love to dig into Ringo’s thick lower lip, pulling him in to suck at it until Ringo feels like he’s going to explode. And then he’ll come back in, only to suck his tongue into his mouth like it’s his next meal.
Ringo likes to think he gives it back just as good. He focuses on other parts of their bodies, using his hands to pull George closer or massage his shoulders and pectorals through his shirt. He pushes him down on a bed– whose it is hardly matters at this point– following in after him and straddling his legs. George reels him back in, hungrily lapping into his mouth.
“Wait– mmf,” Ringo tries to adjust his position, but George’s appetite for kisses will not be sated. He holds Ringo’s head firmly in place, going at his lips like there’s no tomorrow. Ringo brings a hand up and finds his left nipple underneath his shirt, pinching it roughly. George gasps, and Ringo wrestles his arms back down.
“Just–” he pants a bit, somewhat deprived of oxygen from all the kissing, “just let me look at you for a mo’, love.”
George whines and struggles, but eventually gives up, letting Ringo pin his wrists next to his head and admire him. His overgrown brow. His deep, almost black eyes, so full of desire that it makes Ringo’s head spin. How that could all be directed at him, he has no idea. His sharp cheekbones, cutting handsome lines down the sides of his face. His lips, one sucked between his teeth and…
Christ.
“Georgie, you…” he says, breathless still. George squirms. Ringo lets his voice drop lower. “Do you need something to suck on, baby?”
George frowns, his eyes starting to look a bit watery, and Ringo worries for a moment that he’s said something horribly wrong. But then George is nodding, looking up at him through clumpy eyelashes.
“Alright, love,” Ringo says softly, sitting back a bit to quickly remove his rings and place them neatly on the side table. Just as George is leaning up to follow him, he pushes him back down, running a hand along his face.
“Richie…” George moans, trying to connect their lower halves.
“Shhh, I’ll take care of it, love.” He caresses George’s cheek, trailing his hand inward. He brushes a thumb along that plush lower lip, watching in awe as it trembles beneath his touch. Very, very slowly, so as to not spook the lad, he brings his fore and middle fingers in, pushing into George’s mouth until they’re just past the second knuckle. And… really, it’s the most intimate thing he’s ever experienced. He can feel every miniscule movement of George’s mouth, tongue twitching and twisting, almost shyly. He presses down experimentally, and he feels rather than hears George’s whimper, the vibration sending a shiver down his spine.
“Suck,” he commands gently, and George wastes no time in doing so. His cheeks bend inward to conform around the intrusion, pulling in and pushing out in slow succession. He’s never been blown by George before (not yet, at least), and he can’t help but imagine replacing his fingers with his cock, shoving it in and out of George’s mouth until he’s sobbing–
But George isn’t ready for that yet, and Ringo is a very patient man. He waited years for George to even notice he had feelings for him. For now, this is more than enough.
The thought of it, though, combined with the absolute vision that is George sloppily sucking his fingers, runs right to Ringo’s cock, and he has to do something about it. He lowers his pelvis until they’re finally, finally touching, and something in George breaks.
“MMMPH!” He moans, helpless and muffled. Ringo rubs up against him, their boxers producing a mind-numbing friction. A tear slips down George’s face, and Ringo’s dick jumps. Before he can even think about the moral implications of being turned on by seeing his best friend cry, he pushes his fingers in as far as they can go, not stopping until he can feel the back of George’s throat. The poor guitarist chokes a bit, but he makes no effort to push his assailant away. Instead, he bucks up, and his eyes grow red and well with tears. Ringo eases up a bit, spreading his fingers just to see the spit dribble out of George’s mouth.
“Fuck,” he moans, speeding up their rhythm. He takes his fingers out, wiping them on his shirt as he dives back down for another kiss. And George tastes different now, his mind supplies, that Ringo’s fingers have been in it. And fuck if that doesn’t make his dick wet.
George sobs and throws his arms around the drummer’s neck, bending his knees to thrust up with more force. It doesn’t take long for them to finish like that, making a mess in their underwear.
After a nice, long shower (as demanded by Ringo), they settle down to sleep, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up to them. Ringo pulls back the covers on his bed and slips in, grabbing the book he left last night on the side table.
“Mind if I keep the light on?” He asks.
“Never do,” George responds. He hasn’t gotten into bed yet and is sort of awkwardly standing between the two, shifting from side to side. Ringo eyes him curiously.
“Something wrong?”
“No, no, just–” George stops moving, biting his lip. Ringo thinks offhandedly that it’s amazing the thing is still there after all the gnawing it suffers. Although, in regard to George’s biting habit, he’s lucky his own lips are still attached, too.
“D’ya mind if I climb in with ye’?” The lad looks uncharacteristically uncertain, as if sleeping together somehow crosses a line they haven’t been over yet.
“Course not! Come on in,” Ringo invites, throwing the covers back and patting the space next to him. George grins and pads over, snuggling up beside him. Ringo’s propped himself up a bit to read, so George sort of just burrows in under his arm, throwing a lanky arm around his waist. Ringo smiles, filled with affection. He lays his arm down over George protectively, knowing he won’t be retaining a word of this book. The boy next to him is far too cute for anything else to be worthy of attention.