Chapter Text
Crunch.
The rough sound of a newspaper being crushed rang in Ringo’s ears, and he looked up instinctively. John all but hurled the shredded paper into the bin. A dull thump followed, echoing through the room. It was loud, but no one flinched—clearly nothing new. Paul even set his teacup down and quipped,
“Congratulations. Today’s notorious rake.”
A soft snort of laughter came from George. John scowled for a heartbeat, then let out a laugh himself, deflating like a punctured balloon. Ringo almost smiled, then quickly composed his face again, uncertain whether he had the right.
This was a joke shared by John, Paul, and George—one Ringo didn’t quite belong to. He could have joined in, perhaps, but this was the sort of thing that demanded care. And so, though he sometimes felt the sting of loneliness, Ringo chose to stay back. Better a measured distance than stepping forward alone, only to be met with disdain.
There was no one person to blame. If anything, it was the tabloid hacks—those who would charge headlong after any scrap of gossip the public might enjoy. And if one insisted on looking deeper… perhaps fate itself deserved a share of the blame.
Most people credited the Beatles’ early attention to their music—their skill, their irresistible rock ’n’ roll. But a certain crowd, particularly the tabloids, offered another explanation. Three of the members were alphas. Alphas and omegas were rarities, and rarities always drew eyes. That attention had brought progress—research, medical facilities—but it also brought uglier consequences.
Alphas and omegas were different from betas, undeniably. But they were still human. Heat and rut could be managed. Instincts could be resisted. The problem was that people preferred to forget that. It was far more exciting to pretend otherwise. And so famous alphas and omegas learned, out of sheer necessity, to ignore the lurid fantasies printed about their sex lives. The Beatles, three alphas strong, had learned that lesson well.
They were more accustomed to it now than in the early days, but it was still infuriating to see imaginary scandals screamed in inch-high letters. Today it had been John. Tomorrow it would be Paul. The day after, George. Ringo, the lone beta—or so it seemed—felt quietly relieved that he didn’t have to be the one crumpling newspapers, even if it came with a twinge of guilt. If his name ever made the headlines, the scrutiny would be twice as vicious.
Because Ringo wasn’t a beta at all.
And certainly not an alpha.
He was an omega.
Anyone might ask how an omega could possibly hide among three alphas. For most, it would have been unthinkable. Heat aside, their scent alone would betray them. But Ringo was different. The fact that he remained undiscovered was proof enough.
He knew what he was, but he rarely felt it. His scent was faint to the point of absence, and he struggled to pick up on others’. With suppressants, it faded almost entirely, leaving him indistinguishable from a beta. That was why he told no one—not omegas, not alphas. Shock, suspicion, mockery: those were all that ever followed. Ringo wanted, desperately, to believe he was ordinary. But the heat cycles, and the rare, unwelcome reactions his body had to alphas, ensured he never truly could.
In an odd way, the press had helped him. The three alphas, exhausted by the label, were meticulous about controlling their scent and medicating their ruts. It spared Ringo from dangerous accidents—moments when his body might betray him.
If the truth ever came out—that the Beatles were three alphas and an omega—Britain’s papers would go mad. Every headline would turn them into some obscene fantasy. Just thinking about it made Ringo’s spine go cold. He clenched his fist and swore, as he had on the day he joined, that no one would ever find out.
But secrets of that magnitude have a habit of shattering—all it takes is one small, unforeseen crack.
“Fuck…” John breathed.
The heat that had been creeping up on him with his flare of anger seemed to surge straight into his head all at once. No wonder the morning had felt unbearably warm. What made it worse was knowing there was no one to blame but himself. He’d ignored the warning signs, failed to pack extra suppressants. It had never happened before—largely thanks to Paul’s relentless nagging. Bloody hell, he’s going to go spare when he sees this… As the heat worsened and his breathing turned shallow, John crushed the empty pill bottle in his fist.
He’d have to borrow Paul’s suppressants. They didn’t work especially well on him, but he had no alternative. A rut without an omega was physically draining—borderline unbearable. He inhaled deeply, then let the breath slip out again. Even he could tell the room was thick with his scent. Paul’s going to be hate this… And he would be back any minute now.
“John, about tomorrow—”
Paul barely made it a step inside before clapping a hand over his nose. Just as John had expected. With a deep scowl, Paul rushed to throw the window open.
“What the hell is this?!” he snapped, still covering his face. “You didn’t bring suppressants?”
“It’s not even my cycle yet. You think I planned this?”
“You’re unbelievable. You’re not even seeing an omega lately—how could you not pack them?”
“Alright, alright. Just give me yours.”
Paul complained, of course—but he also knew John had it worst. He stopped there, passed over his suppressants, and John swallowed them.
Paul’s expression didn’t soften. An alpha’s scent might be intoxicating to an omega, but to another alpha it was anything but pleasant. More often than not, it registered as a warning—an intrusion. And rut scent like this felt overwhelming, like drowning in far too much cologne. Nauseating rather than enticing.
“…No. This won’t do,” Paul said. “Swap rooms with George.”
“Yeah. Best idea.”
George’s roommate, Ringo, was a beta. No disruptive scent, no reaction to one either. The suppressants weren’t perfect, but they’d have to do. Next time, be smarter—before you earn that reputation properly. Leaving Paul flapping his hands by the open window and continuing his tirade, John made his way to George and Ringo’s room.
Knock, knock.
“What’s going on so—”
George opened the door and instantly recoiled, covering his nose before he’d even finished speaking. He was practically cursing John with his eyes. Have you lost your mind? John could feel the heat climbing higher, his head pounding. Too far gone to argue, he simply shrugged.
“Let’s swap rooms.”
George glanced back inside, thought for a moment, then nodded. As an alpha himself, he knew it was the sensible choice.
“You’ve taken suppressants?”
“Yeah. Paul’s.”
“Ringo’s asleep. Don’t disturb him.”
“I won’t.”
George gave one last look between John and Ringo before heading off toward Paul’s room. Sometimes he really was just like Paul—worse, even.
John lay down on the bed beside Ringo’s, breathing hard as he tried to steady his racing heart. Then he looked at Ringo, fast asleep. Ringo… always gentle, always quietly there. And somehow, that constancy made John feel more comfortable than anything else.
His eyes remained closed, but sleep wouldn’t come. Heat flooded his body, making every breath feel laboured. His erection twitched beyond his control, yet John simply ground his teeth and waited for the suppressants to kick in.
…Until the scent reached him.
It was faint—barely there—but he caught it. A sweet note slipping into the room, already thick with his own scent. If he hadn’t been in rut, he might never have noticed it at all. But rut sharpened instinct. He knew immediately. This was an omega.
Where was it coming from?
As though spellbound, John rose from the bed and followed it—step by step—until he found himself standing by Ringo’s.
No. Impossible. Ringo was a beta. Maybe there was an omega nearby, somewhere beyond the wall. Or maybe Ringo had used cologne and John was imagining things. If that was all it was… if it was…
…He needed to be sure. Just for a second. Only to check.
Just checking.
Murmuring it to himself, John climbed onto the bed and leaned down, bringing his face close. And when the sweetness bloomed unmistakably at the back of Ringo’s neck, John’s grip on reason slipped. His nose pressed into Ringo’s skin; his body moved unconsciously against Ringo beneath the covers. The scent was soft and sweet—vanilla, warmed with milk. Weaker than other omegas’, and somehow that made it unbearable. He wanted to breathe it in until his chest burned.
Ringo waking was inevitable. As consciousness returned, the first thing he sensed was a deep, green fragrance—like standing among trees. When his eyes opened, John was there, above him.
John? Why—?
Then John’s ragged breath brushed his neck, lips tracing his skin without restraint, and Ringo’s mind snapped sharply into focus.
Rut.
Panic surged as Ringo realised he’d been found out. He struggled, twisting to escape, but John caught both his wrists and held his gaze.
“…Help.”
John was trembling—voice, hands, all of him. His eyes were bloodshot, his skin flushed red with heat. He looked like he was in agony. Ringo remembered hearing how badly long-term suppression could backfire. This must be it. And once he understood that, thinking became easier. His secret was already out. Running now would change nothing.
Ringo relaxed, letting his scent unfold. He felt apologetic, thinking it might not help much since his scent was weaker than other omegas’. Yet as it strengthened, even slightly, John exhaled as though in relief. In that breath, Ringo caught the forest scent again—wood, trees. So this is John’s.
The three alphas usually made sure never to let their scent leak out, so Ringo hadn’t smelled an alpha’s scent in a long time despite hanging out with them. Now, surrounded by it, heat pulsed low in his stomach. Slowly, he reached down. John was already swollen, on the verge of bursting. To have endured this much for so long must have been painful. John shuddered at the touch. Cheeks burning, Ringo whispered,
“Just a little…”
John’s mouth curved into a grin before his tongue slid inside Ringo’s. Sweet, insistent—like savouring sugar on the tongue. It was the wettest, most relentless kiss Ringo had ever known. In the meantime, John pulled down his trousers and freed himself. Ringo fumbled for focus, then wrapped his hand around John's penis, stroking carefully. John’s stifled groan echoed between their lips.
When they broke apart, a silver thread stretched between them, mouths slick. John covered Ringo’s hand with his own, guiding the movement. He groaned, face tight with need. Watching him, Ringo felt heat coil through his body, damp warmth gathering. Then John tugged Ringo’s trousers down. Before he could protest, John had his penis in hand. Ringo moaned. John licked his lips, then gripped them both together. The friction was overwhelming, and Ringo couldn’t last long. They came almost simultaneously. His shirt was ruined by John's semen; it had to come off.
“Shall I help?” John teased, smiling.
So that was the plan. Ringo laughed softly despite himself. Still catching his breath, he sat up and pulled his shirt over his head.
The moment Ringo pulled off his shirt, John bent without hesitation and licked at his nipples. Ringo gasped, his voice breaking higher, a moan slipping free.
“John—! Wh-what are you—”
John didn’t answer. He didn’t stop. His fingers found Ringo’s slit.
“Wait—”
The word shattered as John bit gently at his nipple, turning speech into sound. John brushed at Ringo’s entrance and grinned.
“Christ, you’re soaked.”
Heat and embarrassment burned Ringo’s eyes. John kissed his chest and kept rubbing, his voice low and close.
“Can I?”
Ringo bit his lip. He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t.
But… just fingers. Only fingers.
He nodded.
John’s soft laugh warmed Ringo’s skin as his finger slid inside. The intrusion made Ringo catch his breath—too sudden after so long. John moved carefully, pressing, testing, learning. Ringo tried desperately to stay quiet, terrified someone in the next room might hear—but when John found that spot and pressed firmly, a broken sound escaped him anyway. He clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide. John smiled, the same wicked grin he wore when teasing, and focused mercilessly on that spot alone.
“Here? You like it here?”
The moans leaking past Ringo’s hand were answer enough. With John licking and biting his nipples while driving that pleasure home, Ringo felt undone. His toes curled, fists twisted in the sheets. Eventually, he arched sharply and came. John laughed softly.
“How many times are you planning to come without me?”
John was hard again already. When he lined himself up, Ringo murmured weakly,
"We shouldn’t…"
John kissed his cheek and whispered,
“It’s alright.”
It wasn’t. Ringo knew it. Sex with a bandmate—sex as alpha and omega—was madness from the start. It should never have happened. Even now, he should stop. But the air was thick with the scent of wood and earth, dizzying him. His body burned.
“Just help me a little more… yeah?” John murmured, scattering kisses across his face.
“Richie… your scent’s fucking amazing. So sweet.”
The words made Ringo flush—and smile, just a little. No one had ever said that to him before. He swallowed, wanting to believe John.
“Just don't come inside…”
One look at Ringo’s unfocused eyes and John lost the last of his restraint. He pushed in, and Ringo cried out. John groaned, head tipping back as he felt the tight heat around him. It was overwhelming. He clenched his jaw to keep from thrusting recklessly.
“Fuck…”
The sound alone made Ringo shiver.
“Relax, Richie,” John murmured, moving slowly, kissing and licking his neck.
Panic flickered—marks would be noticed. Ringo cupped John’s face, turned him back, met his gaze.
“Johnny… kiss me.”
John swore again and crashed his mouth onto Ringo’s. Arms wrapped tight, Ringo let him take his mouth completely. When John tried to drift away again, Ringo caught him, eyes locked.
“Focus on me.”
John grinned and kissed him harder, thrusting as he drank in Ringo’s sounds. When their lips parted for a breath, Ringo whispered,
“Good boy.”
That was enough. John’s pace turned rough and urgent. With John’s tongue filling his mouth, Ringo couldn’t quiet his moans—and there was no space left for shame. Their sounds passed straight between them, mouth to mouth. The growls tearing from John’s throat were low, feral, almost animal, sending shivers through Ringo’s body.
“John—Johnny… I’m going to—ah— I’m gonna come…!”
Ringo’s voice shook as the climax rushed up on him. John held him tight, hips still moving, and when his own release surged, he pressed his forehead to Ringo’s. They came together like that, foreheads touching—and true to his word, John didn’t finish inside him. As Ringo gasped for breath and realised it, relief flooded him, followed by exhaustion and a quiet, unfamiliar satisfaction settling deep in his body. John stayed close, breathing him in, then kissed both of Ringo’s cheeks.
“Thank you.”
“…No. I—I’m sorry. For hiding it all this time.”
“What’s there to be sorry about? Telling—or not telling—was always your choice.”
Ringo stared at him, eyes wide. John looked genuinely unbothered. Ringo had half-expected anger—at least some resentment—for hiding that he was an omega when he joined the band.
“I don’t mind,” John said lightly. “Just don’t end up like me today, yeah?”
Ringo laughed. John had thanked him for helping, but Ringo found himself more grateful for how easily John had accepted everything.
“…Still, isn’t sharing a room with an alpha risky?”
“Then why don’t you stay with me from now on?” There was something hopeful in John’s gaze. Since John already knew—and understood—Ringo’s secret, it might be easier than sharing with George or Paul. Still, suddenly rooming with John all the time might look suspicious. Ringo hesitated.
“Let me think about it.”
John didn’t like that at all. A petulant edge crept into his voice.
“I’d do a better job than Paul or George.”
“Well, I’ll tell you later who turns out best,” Ringo replied, refusing to lose.
Now properly sulking, John leaned in and bit gently at Ringo’s chest. “Ah—!” Ringo’s moan came out laced with laughter.
“John, you can’t leave marks…”
“It’s fine here. Only I can see it.”
“Still—ah…”
Ringo realised John had been focused on his chest this whole time. There was something oddly childlike about it, and Ringo smiled, running his fingers through John’s hair as he teased,
“We should sleep now… yeah? Be a good boy.”
John looked at him for a long moment. Just as Ringo grew self-conscious and tried to change the subject, John’s hand slid onto his thigh.
“Not sure I can be a good boy.”
“John—wait, John?! I’m tired…”
“You don’t need to do anything.”
“That’s not what I meant—ah!”
John squeezed his arse, drawing another helpless sound from him. An alpha in rut stopping after one round was never realistic. John had clearly held himself back earlier—for Ringo’s sake. There goes sleep tonight...
And yet, even as he thought it, Ringo slowly let himself sink into the pleasure John offered.