Can't Buy Me Love- If There Was a Ringo ending
Hi everyone!! This is my first time writing something like this, so I hope it's satisfactory.
Keep in mind that while you read that this is satire and to not take this seriously! This is based around CBML by Brummelliana on itch.io, so if you haven't played that before, I recommend doing that as this fanfic will very likely not make sense otherwise. This will get vaguely explicit towards the end, so just be cautious about that.
You rather begrudgingly follow Paul through the door of The Beatles' flat at 57 Green Street, belongings burned and dignity stripped.
You see, you had just been sold by your horrendous mother, who hated you, to Paul McCartney of the Beatles. The Beatles! You HATED the Beatles. You were not like the other girls. You only wanted to listen to OLD music, like Beethoven or something.
Anyways, the door was labeled "L." You did not know why. I don't either.
When you first stepped in, you were met with three young men seated at a table, appearing to be having morning tea. This was very important, as you British people must have tea multiple times a day. It's an integral part of your diet.
They had very surly faces, sitting there with their awful mops of hair. The one on the left had large, thick eyebrows and a pinched face. He vaguely resembled a stick-bug in his general appearance, bent over his rations. You could see he had some large teeth when he opened his mouth.
The second one, in the middle, had a very square-ular face and a pointy nose with eyes that looked like almonds. The man appeared vaguely like Juliet Greco, if Juliet Greco were an English lad from Liverpool. He was the stockist of them all.
The third one was the smallest. He looked similar to a basset hound, with his big blue eyes. This man, however, stared with a sort of fascination. You did not know why.
Either way... How far had society fallen... If these are the idols of today's youth.
"By gum, Macca. You've got to stop buying hookers." The stick-bug-looking one said.
Paul joined the other three at the table, sitting down. You noticed there was no seat for you. Instead, Paul pushed on your shoulders until you were seated on the floor.
"It's uh.. bad for our image if you're trifling with prossies." The little one said, turning to Paul but sneaking glances towards you. "Just fuck regular broads like the rest of us."
Paul rolls his eyes, groaning to himself. He was very saucy. "Well, I DO fuck regular broads, right. But as I've told you lads already...! I've got unique tastes only a hooker would be accustomed to." He states this in an entitled way, his lips almost drawn in a pout. "It'd be worse for us if I divulge it to a regular bird and she runs off to the press!" Paul declares. Then he bites his cheek and mutters to himself. "Discretion is preferable in this scenario, y'know..."
He brightens right back up then, grabbing you by the arm. "But Y/N's no hooker, actually!" The Liverpool lads give him a look of surprise at this, almost intrigued. "I've bought her up her Mum for no less than 10 quid." Paul declares, quite pleased.
It seems as if there was a record scratch, but despite being in a music group, these were men of flesh, not in LP form at this present point in time.
"Good Lord, Macca, you've bought a fuckin girl?!" The Juliet Greco wannabe shouts. "Paul, ye can't just buy a fuckin girl." The first one says, seemingly more concerned.
Paul holds out his hands in a way that resembles that one Druski meme. "Lads, c'mon! ...How often do you get a chance like that? I was reading the paper, y'know... And I saw the listing... Well, we've got that album coming out tomorrow. So we've got the money coming in." He says firmly.
"Isn't that... Y'know..." The stick-bug hesitates. "...illegal?" Paul pouts some more. "C'mon... Better me than someone else!" He winks. He was more womanly than you were.
The members now look at you. You did not like this. "Er..." The wannabe says unintelligently. His voice was rough, staring with beady eyes. "Would say take 'er back to 'er mother... But as she sold 'er for ten quid, not sure tha's a good idea..."
This was all getting to be a bit much for you. It had been one hell of a morning, and it wasn't even 10 am.
"Cor..." You mutter, pressing your palm to your forehead, pushing back your brown hair. You speak up with a question, despite being deeply flustered. "So... How's this gonna go?" The larger one looked at Paul with mild offense and surprise. "She talked."
Paul looks down at you and hushes you gently. "Shh-" The insect cuts him off. "Well, go put 'er somewhere, then." He suggests. Paul becomes cheery again, rubbing his hands together like one of those cheesy cartoon villains, except happier. He turns to you. "Ohhkay. Let's getcha acquainted, then!" He winks.
---------------------------------------------------
A cage. He put you in a fucking cage.
This was not something you enjoyed. In fact, you despised it. You despised all of this. Stupid Beatles! Stupid men! Stupid music, stupid mother! You wanted your old music! Your cylinders, your room... You wouldn't put up with this! No sir-ee! You would break out of this cage, find that good-for-nothing, cunty little man, and give him a piece of your mind! Yeah! Down with the patriarchy! Eat the rich! Stop the war...
Oh, what was the use? You were locked in this crate, and Paul would surely just get angry if you tried to leave...
You curl up in your cage and close your eyes in resignation.
---------------------------------------------------
You stir slightly, feeling a finger poke at you as if you were an animal in a zoo exhibit. Which, let's be real, you might as well have been.
This was not Paul. You knew this because Paul smelled of cunt and cigarettes. This was also not the insect, whose name you had learned was George. George had also interrupted your slumber previously. George smelled of foodstuffs, cigarettes, and Tabac Original Eau De Cologne. This one smelled like canned beans, cigarettes, and cognac. You were familiar with cognac because your mother was an alcoholic.
You open your eyes, looking around confusedly. You could not see anyone. That was, until the person spoke up.
It was the little one from earlier, sitting on the ground down low. You hadn't noticed him at first.
"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't see you down there." You apologize.
The little man sighs, clearly bothered by something. "O' course... That's the way it always is." He sighed.
You frown, surprised by the sudden depression emanating from the small band member. "How so?" You question. You were not familiar with the way these modern bands worked.
"You see, no matter what, I'm lower than the others... Whether it's down here or up on me drums." He explains, deeply sorrowful.
You suddenly feel very bad for this poor little man. "So you're... Different than the others? Cast aside?" You suggest.
You thought it was almost as if... He wasn't like the other *lads.* You related to this heavily. Except you were not a lad. You were a girl.
"I understand. Everyone casts me aside because I'm not like other girls."
Ringo blinks. "....I see."
"Oh, you lovely man... I'm sorry. In my heart, you'll always be right up there too, with everyone else."
He smiles a bit, a sweet little smile. "Can't believe he's keeping a sweet thing like you all locked up in a cage... Not right to treat a lady like that." He mutters.
You blush at this, thinking about what a gentleman he was. A right sweetheart. You tilt your head, nodding. "Yes. Very improper." You agree.
"I'm Ringo, by the way. Me real name's Richard, but they call me Ringo 'cause of my rings." He informed you. "I'm Y/N." You replied. He tries to kiss the fingers you had gripping the bars of the cage in place of kissing your hand. You giggle coyly at this.
"Sorray I woke you earlier, luv. Just... Curious about you, I suppose." He says.
"That's alright. You're not the first one." You admit, referring to George. "I had just been dreaming again anyway. Still nothing sexual. And still not anything about Paul."
Ringo squints. "Right... That would be odd." He says. You nod again. "Yes. Especially because I hate him so much. "
It's silent for a moment, and you look at each other. He was quite attractive, actually, you realized with a growing lust. His big nose... Blue eyes... And surely he could keep a good rhythm... You surely would drive his car.
"Will you let me out, please? Save me from Paul?" You ask very nicely.
Ringo ponders this for a moment, then nods. "Alright. But we'll have to be careful! He'll have me on a platter otherwise..."
He unlatches the cage, and you spring out, pouncing on him. He topples backwards with a sound of surprise.
Your lips meet his in a passionate kiss. Ringo takes a moment to process this, but quickly kisses back. Before you know it, he's got you up in his arms, legs wrapped around him, and he's carrying you to his room.
"Oh, darling." He groans as you break away for air. "It's only 1963, and besides, that's not even your song." You reply, before going back in for seconds. You arrive in his room, and the two of you tumble into his bed.
Ringo undresses you with haste, and you gleefully allow him to. You pull at his own clothes, fishing out his humongous, hard, spitting cobra. Golly gee, it must've been 9 inches easily! What a monster. You sure understood your mother now.
"You may not be 16, but you sure are beautiful *and* you're mine." Ringo declares loudly, before slamming his clam hammer into your weeping flower. You moan obscenely.
You made sweet love with him all night long, and he was very good at it. He once said it don't come easy, and boy was he right. He kept his hard-on for ages, lasting a record amount of time before finishing. You were the sea, and Ringo was the submarine. He sailed you like no one had before, mostly because nobody had before. You rocked on for him more than one time that lovely night.
