Archive of Our Own ^beta

Paul uses his hands for much more things than killing, and he will never let Peter forget that.

Fingering. Fisting. Petting. Piercing. Drawing blood. Good old handjob. It seemed like there was nothing Paul couldn’t manage. Hell, Peter even saw – well, heard Paul brag, which is almost the same thing – how he rewound time to save his, Peter’s, life.

Paul took his thanks afterwards with a bunch of saliva and a handful of hair.

Peter couldn’t understand Paul; not in a million years. For Peter, their games are for fun, for entertainment, to fill an otherwise boring night (hollow void) with squealing and pathetic pleas. But Paul never needed that; all he did, it seemed, was for others’ sake.

Paul never needed sex, either.

But he had sex; surely with Peter, maybe with someone else, too, but it was unlikely: they were inseparable through the night and throughout the day, it’s not like Paul had any time to slip out with a girl.

But Peter only saw him come once, maybe twice; his memory sometimes gets foggy. It’s not like Paul was eager to please, no, not at all (not in a million years), but he loved having control. He loved seeing Peter squirm, squeal, scream, just like the family they clubbed to death mere hours ago.

Sometimes they did it on the boat. It was cold, and easy to get sick, and Peter always worried somebody could see them. Paul, however, never worried about a damn thing.

Sans one.

“I fail to see how this in any way advances the plot,” Paul remarks as Peter grunts, coming; they’re in the house’s master bedroom, Paul mounts his hips and works his magic. “This is why they fade to black, remember? No one wants to see this filth.”

“What?” Peter asks, feeling dizzy. “What’d you mean?”

“Nobody would watch gay porn if a slut like you was on the scene even once,” Paul spits out, cleaning his hand with Peter’s shirt. “Why are we doing this?”

Peter sighs. He never knows why.

“Do you love me?” he once asked over a bowl of popcorn when they watched a chick flick over several bodies; one of them Paul propped up like a pillow.

Paul laughed.

“What the fuck? No, of course not,” (not in a million years.)

“Then why are we doing this?

Paul blinked, slowly raised his hand, turned the TV off. His fingers, stuck in the same bowl of popcorn Peter was eating out of, trembled heavily.

“Not for you, that’s for sure, Tubby.”

Peter almost let out, “Don’t call me that,” if he didn’t notice how Paul’s eyes flickered with deep (primordial, ancient, wordless, a feeling before narratives, before time, beyond space) disgust.

“How did you even dare to think I’d do anything for you?”

Paul has a thing about dogs. They entertain him deeply; he loves clubbing them, shooting them, driving them over with a car, drowning them, (tearing them apart with what became of fingers, biting off heads with broken jaws, there must be only one hound left and that’s him,) roasting them as a barbeque – luckily, he never made Peter eat those; Peter got sick from the smell alone.

“Why dogs?” Peter asks already knowing the answer.

“Why do we do anything, Tubby?” Paul responds, putting his hands off of a disemboweled Borzoi. “Do you know? Do you?”

Peter shakes his head. Again. And again.

Sometimes it’s a dry spell, and Paul has fun shooting Peter like a moving target, then rewinding time and doing that again. And again. (And again, bleeding hours from a tape cut apart like ashy skin.) Once Peter half-joked about how Paul himself reminded him of dogs. Paul laughed and said that then, Peter surely must be a bitch.

And then boom – a headshot.