Archive of Our Own ^beta

The first time Paul killed a frog, he couldn’t understand how anyone could kill something and enjoy it. The process was so messy, blood and whatever other wet substance frogs produce all over him. And the screams— it was all just bloody impractical, really.

And he felt bad for the little buggers. Why did they have to suffer for his mandatory conscription? All they do is hop around and eat insects, why should they have to pay for their innocence?

Paul always liked frogs, too. When he was younger he even got his Da to dig a hole in the backyard to raise tadpoles in. And sure, he was hurt when they all grew up and left, but that didn’t entitle them to his violence.

And death— well that was just another whole can of worms, innit? When his mum died that was the worst feeling in the world. At first he felt numb, like he was stuffed with cotton. Any sensory information he received was muted and muffled. Then came the grief, repeated stabs of cold and hot pain until his whole body was filled with hurt, each memory a new stabbing pain. His face felt soggy from the constant tears that never had the chance to dry up.

He had locked himself in his room, where time became fuzzy and unrecognizable. The only thing he could get himself to do was play guitar. Sometimes Mike would try to get him to come out, but he only gave him cold, piercing barbs in return. He could feel himself changing, a part of himself freezing over. He couldn’t help but welcome it, this hard mask that was developing over him, protecting him from the uncontrollable future.

By the time he came out of his room that mask was firmly in place; a polite smile and an easy-going attitude. Someone capable of dealing with any hardships coming their way. And hardships they were; the wreckage of mum’s death left their father drunk and aggressive. Gambling away most of the money mum made from her nursing job. These flaws were of course present before, but are now exasperated. While his aunts tried their best to look after the house, there was a noticeable loss in the figure that once provided the household with emotional stability.

Paul coming back seemed to be the bandage for that gaping wound. It didn’t fix everything and it never will, but it brought back some reality, made the clocks start ticking again. He made sure the bills were paid on time, took care of Mike, and did whatever else his father was incapable of doing. In this, he could feel the relief of finally having control over the situation, and he could also feel it from everyone around him too. Finally, the McCartneys can start to live without the shame and grief hanging over them.

Of course, life couldn’t stop being difficult for him outside of the home, either. He wouldn’t say he got picked on more than the average bloke, but he still got the occasional jab and jeer about his chubby face, his social status, or whatever else rubbish fourteen year-olds can come up with. He had gotten into a few scuffle before, but he mainly would just brush the kids off since he knew mum and da would throw a fit if they saw him come home with a messed up mug.

So when one kid started picking on him at the Inny he was not that affected by it at first, but as the bloke kept picking on him he started to feel this thrum of energy in his veins. As weeks go by it forms in the tightening of his jaw, the subtle clench of his fists, the coldness in his eyes, and the icy feeling in his chest.

Then one day he makes a joke about his mum, and so a plan starts to form. For him, the decision to kill was not an impulsive one. He’s not even angry at him. This desire did not come from his pride or his hurt. No, he was simply correcting this variable in his life as one might prune a bush or fix a crooked picture frame. Killing him was simply the logical solution for restoring the order of Paul’s life.

He began his planning by first falling into the folds of the local Liverpudlian gossip. Oh, that lad? Well I heard his parents are always out of the house. He’s a right scally, that one.Yeah, I always hear about him getting into trouble, y’know?

Next came the following. After school, Paul would tell his friends he got roped into helping one of his aunties, so he wouldn’t be able to take the same bus home with them. Then he would start to trail the kid at a distance, making sure not to raise any suspicion. He lived pretty close to the Inny, as it turned out, and took the same path home everyday. Sometimes he stopped for a smoke by some of the abandoned buildings that had been struck with bombs during the war.

It was so easy to walk up behind the teen and whack him over the head with one of the broken off bricks. He stumbled to the ground and a large gash from the back of his head immediately started to flow with blood. He appeared stunned as he reached back to touch the wound, but Paul wouldn’t give him respite. Like the rhythm of a forbidden song, Paul smashed his head in. The squishy sound of flesh as it gives away to the brick a harmony of its own.

Paul learns three truths that day: the first is that bodies contain a lot of blood, and that blood will get everywhere. This is evidenced by all the blood that had splattered and soaked into Paul’s clothes, face, and hair. It was also all scattered around anything within a metre away. The smell was metallic and thick, surprisingly not that unpleasant to Paul’s nose. The second truth was that people move a lot when they are getting, well, murdered. Paul’s lucky he struck from behind, otherwise he might’ve had to fight him off. It was already slightly challenging dealing with him flapping his limbs about like a real head case. Paul could definitely see the appeal of long distance weaponry. The final thing he noticed was how much he enjoyed killing him. It felt like a piece of a puzzle finally slotting into the right place. He also felt energized in a way only music had ever done before— blood rushing in his veins and feeling like he could bounce off the walls. A giddy sense of euphoria making his face break out into a grin.

The aftermath was surprisingly easy. He had put down the bloody brick in his hand and walked home through paths he knew no one else normally walked. To get into the house he went through the back door but thankfully it was in the middle of the week, so his father wasn’t home, and Mike wasn’t there either, probably busy hanging out with his friends. No one was there to see Paul strip out of his blood covered clothes and wash off all the remaining blood on his body. Nor had they seen him hide the clothing at the bottom of the rubbish bin.

No one had even suspected Paul when they had found the body. He must have gotten involved with those riff raff they would say. That poor sod should have known he had it coming. All in all, Paul found murder to be quite simple.

Paul’s life goes on. He keeps going to the Inny, keeps talking to George on the bus, and keeps playing guitar and writing songs. The only difference now is that sometimes he would correct the inconsistencies in his life. People like the lad in his maths class that cheated off his test, a bird he went out with who refused to dress more like Bridget Bardot, and a man who cut in front of him in line at the chippy shop; all these little errors in his life that he could fix with a well-timed blow of a crowbar or with hands wrapped around their neck. Anything works, really, as long as it gets the job done as quickly and easily as possible.

Speaking of birds, he’s gotten rather good at catching their eye. He’s never been one to be too self indulgent but it’s a nice ego boost to see nice girls giggle and turn their heads away to blush when he walks past them with a flirty smile. He seems to have a knack for making them fall apart under his tongue or his hands. And how can he help himself? When girls have such supple bodies; all soft curves, teasing smiles, and sweet smells.

Paul has the self awareness to know he’s a randy sod, and at his age anything from a leaf blowing in the wind can get him going. Pleasure had become a pillar in his life; he made it his mission to always indulge— indulge in the music that moves through his veins, in a cold beer that creates a low buzzing in his stomach, in the sweet inhale of nicotine into his lungs, in the chase of release through sex, and in the excitement he experiences when he can make someone’s heart stop beating. There isn’t anything he doesn’t allow himself to have.

Except— there is one thing. He doesn’t let himself have the scruffy faces, the toned arms, or the more muscular bodies that belong to boys his age. No, giving into that want would be too dangerous for his reality. He had to remain the cheeky boy-next-door.

So when his eyes catch on a Ted who takes the same bus as him he ignores the itch to indulge. The most he allows himself to stare— he stares at the sharp jawline, his tawny eyes that are constantly squinted giving him an intimidating aura, and his hair that perfectly frames his face in a quiff, the colour so enchanting to Paul; like blood when it dries. It makes Paul want to touch, and worse, it makes him want to ruin. For some reason this urge is much stronger than with all the others.

The itch abides slightly when he follows him to the local chippy a couple of times or to the newsstand. He always makes sure to stay just out of sight, though. It’s like being in an art gallery— he can’t let his fingers rip into the delicate canvas but he can admire the emotions that dance so gracefully across the boy’s face.

So imagine Paul’s surprise when Ivan introduces him.

It started out simple enough— Ivan knew he played guitar and he had a friend who was in a band, a skiffle group as it were. “He’s performing at the Woolton fete, would you like to go?” “Alright”, Paul had said at the time. He didn’t have much going on and he could always count on a church fete to serve lukewarm beer and maybe even pick up a bird. Because of the latter, Paul had put on his best shirt and had styled his hair into a believable teddy boy quiff.

Additionally, Paul was hoping he’d get a chance to play for them. He’s been playing guitar for awhile now and he thinks he’s getting pretty good at it. He’s already gotten some offers but he doesn’t want to play with a bunch of nobodies banging their instruments together. He wants to be a part of something real— something that makes his pulse race like when he plays Chuck Berry or watches fear enter someone’s eyes. Like when he hears a boy with curly auburn hair laugh. 

Hopefully the band that plays will be more worthwhile. He brings his guitar just in case.

***

Paul spent the first part of the fete flirting with some birds, trying to see if one of them is willing to be fingered behind the bushes when it’s over. While they act all coy with him, he can tell that they’re not as easy as some of the girls he’s used to. He gives up the chase when he sees Ivan waving at him.

He manages to get them seats right up front where they get to hear all the new bands play. Ivan tells more about his friend; how they live by each other and that occasionally Ivan will play in the band— trivial talk in between the bands setting up.

Eventually, Paul spots a familiar redhead with a scrunched face get up on the stage.

Ivan nudges his shoulder. “That’s him. That’s John.” he says.

John. Now he has a name to put with the face he can’t seem to get out of his mind. He doesn’t know if that’s good or bad.

John and his bandmates quickly set up the stage, not even tuning their instruments before launching into a rendition of “Come Go with Me” by the Del Vikings. The band itself wasn’t much to speak of. While some members showed enthusiasm, they were mostly clunking away trying to turn noise into sound.

John, though. He stood out like a star in the sky. Maybe it was the sun glinting off his hair or the confident smile forming on his lips, but whatever it was, made him soak up all the energy in the room. On a technical side, his guitar playing was decent too except for the fact that he played it like a banjo. He also had a distinct voice that made Paul want to record it and listen to it over and over. He wanted to push that voice as far as it could go, hear it bend and break, memorize the highs and lows.

Paul had a hard time reasoning to himself why he couldn’t reach out and touch.

***

After the performance, Ivan led him backstage where the rest of the band were hanging out and drinking beers.

Paul’s eyes immediately found John leaning against a wall while talking to one of the band members, a mostly empty beer bottle in his hand. 

Their gazes met and John leveled him an intimidating glare. Paul felt like this was an important moment in his  life; the way he responded now would shape every interaction going forward, he felt it in his bones.

Paul met his stare with a cool disposition but inside there was anticipation building in his gut. For a few seconds their eyes were locked onto each other, but then someone coughed and John turned his head away as if nothing had happened, but Paul could see a slight smirk form on his lips.

The moment gone, Paul turns back to Ivan who was talking to someone else in the band, who he then introduces to Paul. This goes on for a bit, which Paul doesn’t mind. He makes small talk about music— what he likes to listen to, how great Elvis is, does he have that new Buddy Holly LP?

Suddenly a warm breath grazes the back of his neck, it smells of booze and makes Paul shiver slightly although he tries to hide it. 

“Well, who do we ‘ave ‘ere?” a voice slurs.

“This is Paul. The bloke I was telling you about earlier.” Ivan says.

Paul turns around to see John is the owner of the boozy breath and voice. His mum always taught him to have manners so he sticks out his hand and repeats “Paul McCartney.”

John looks at the hand then back at Paul’s face,  squinting, and then grips Paul’s hand for a hearty shake. Paul returns the strength as well as the simpering grin.

“John Lennon. Now do y’know how t’play that thing strapped to yer back or are you just a pretty face.”

That earned some chuckles but Paul didn’t let it faze him. He’s had plenty of experience with people making slights at his looks. Calling him girly with big lips and prossie eyelashes, and whatnot. He can always remedy that with having a line of girls panting after him.

“I think you’ll find that this mug comes with many talents.” on the word talents Paul winked, causing what he thinks is a brief flush of pink on John’s cheekbones, although that could just be the beer.

And so he plays for them and he can tell they’re impressed, even John for all he tries to hide it. It makes Paul feel smug and well assured of his skills. It’s always nice seeing all that time and effort pay off.

Afterwards, John tells him he’ll think about having him in the band, but that he needs time to decide. Paul doesn’t put much weight on his words when a week later he is asked to come to practice.

He just hopes the want clawing inside of him can be tamed.

***

A new routine is built into Paul’s life. He practices with the band as much as possible— he has this idea in his head of making it big. Him and John sound real good, and when he convinces John to let George play they sound even better. If they can just find a good bass player and drummer they’d be set.

Occasionally they score gigs at small venues; weddings, birthday parties, and eventually a stable gig at a coffee bar. Now that his life is so busy he finds it difficult to schedule in moments for his more messier activities. But Paul doesn’t mind as much now that that time is filled with John.

Paul can’t help but want to impress him, having that cool demeanor turn to give him attention feels like a spotlight is being shone on his face. And making John laugh always gives Paul a tingly feeling.

So he goes out of his way to get closer to him. He buys all the records he likes to learn his favorite songs. He skips school and goes out to bars with John to get pissed. He also started following him home— just to make sure he gets home safe, of course. Sometimes he even watches John wank off through his bedroom window— again, he only wanted to see if he was sleeping alright.

It turns out to pay off in the end when John starts hanging out with him, alone. They mostly just skip and faff off at the cemetery or spend time on those little row boats. It’s crazy how well they fit together. Their conversations move and flow like a steady stream, broken up by laughter and sleazy jokes. Occasionally, in between those moments Paul catches John watching him with a focused expression, but turns away and blushes when Paul meets his gaze. It makes that tingly feeling come back. Makes Paul want.

It’s during one of these days where they’re hanging out at Paul’s house and missing school that Paul whistles a tune of his own. They were just lounging in his room, the cool breeze of summer coming from his bedroom’s cracked window making them compliant and sluggish. John was absently blowing on his harp on the bed while Paul was sitting right beside it on the floor lightly strumming his guitar. The tune was light and soft; something about new love.

“Where’d ye hear that?” John asks.

“Oh I jus’ made it up.” Paul answers.

“Made it up?”

“Yeah, like, sometimes I’ve got these bits of song in me head.” He hopes he doesn’t sound too much like a nutter. He gets up from the floor to grab his notebook to hand to John. He flicks through it with an unreadable expression, pausing with his right hand to push his glasses further up his nose. He doesn’t usually wear them except for days like this when it’s just the two of them. 

Paul stands nervously waiting for John’s verdict. “So?” He asks with what he hopes isn’t too much desperation of approval.

John shrugs his shoulders. “It’s alright.” Paul feels embarrassment wash over him but it gets interrupted by the slight upturn of John’s mouth, meaning that he was just pulling his leg.

Paul chuckles and lightly punches John’s arm. “Yer a git.”

“Yeah, but I reckon yer middle eight could use some work.”

“And what do you suggest, oh great one?”

“Well to me, young chap, all that rock and roll business is simply rubbish! It would be better if you made it more classical I dare say!” John says in a posh voice.

“You dare insult my work?! Now we must duel for the dishonour you have brought to my name!” Paul exclaims in a similar accent before launching himself at John on the bed.

“On guard! On guard!” John cries out as he’s tickled mercilessly, but it’s offset by the breathless laughs he lets out in between his words. He tries to fight back but Paul catches his wrists beneath his hands and pins him to the bed, wearing a wide grin and breathing equally as heavy.

His smile fades as he realises the position he put himself in: in between John’s legs as he holds him down. John is wearing a shocked face with a blush slowly spreading through his cheeks. He subtly tries to push back against Paul’s hold on his wrists but his grip remains tight. Carrying all those dead bodies wasn’t for nothin’, y’know?

Just as Paul is wondering if this moment will lead them deeper down the rabbit hole of bad decisions, John’s right leg comes up and knees him in the side, making him let go of his grip and go back to square one of the tussle; tickling each other until their guts are aching with laughter. It turns out to be one of the best days Paul’s had in a while.

And when the next day John brings over all the little scraps of writing he’s done, and they sit down with their guitars to add more to them, it makes it even better.

***

Things get set back quite a bit when John’s mum dies.

And that’s understandable, really. Paul was a mess when his own mother died. He wishes he could make John feel better but he knows nothing will erase the pain. All he can hope for is that John will come back to him.

His wish is answered one crisp autumn day in November.

He was doing his normal routine of walking by John’s house everyday to check if he could get a glimpse of him, usually the most he would get is a slightly open bedroom window. But on this day what Paul saw instead made him stop dead in his tracks, his eyes glued to the scene before him.

Off to the side of the house where it was partially obscured by shadows was John leaning over a body of which he looked to be frantically bludgeoning it with his fists.

Upon walking closer Paul noticed that both him and the body were covered in blood, which was no doubt from the mangled lump of flesh that resembled a face. He could also hear John’s laboured breathing and the wet thump of flesh against flesh.

When John hears his footsteps his head snaps up and their eyes meet. There are tears streaming down his face that cut through the blood splatters and Paul thinks he’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid eyes upon. His eyes are filled with pain, desire, and above all: hope. He longs for something that Paul had been searching for since his mother died: the desire to be seen.

Something stirs in Paul then, a yearning so strong that it scares him and makes him afraid of what it will do to their futures. There’s a new potential to expand on their relationship and turn it into something permanent; eternal. Something that Paul thought could only happen in his dreams.

Moving slowly so as not to startle John, Paul leans down to help lift John up to stand. He then goes to start dragging the body to the back, thankfully no one was around to catch them. John snapped out of his daze enough to help him move the body, and then once Paul found the shovels he also helped him bury it.

After Paul finishes hiding the shovels he comes back to find John still standing and looking lost. He hadn’t talked the entire time and Paul figured he was in shock. He once again gently took his hands in his as he led him back inside the house. He took him into the bathroom where he started a bath. 

John remained motionless so Paul helped him get undressed, taking care to remove each item of clothing as carefully as possible to make sure he wouldn’t react badly. Still he remained pliant even as Paul removed his y-fronts. Once he was naked Paul tried to not stare too hard as he led him into the bath. John immediately sat with his knees pulled up to his chest, his hands already starting to create murky red plumes in the water. Just looking at him made Paul’s heart clench. Clearly he wasn’t in a state to take care of himself.

Looking around, Paul finds a washcloth to suds up. He holds it up in John’s view so he would look back at him. Paul looks at him as if to ask ‘Can I?’, which John thankfully seems to understand as he gives him a minute nod. The next thirty minutes are spent gently scrubbing off all the blood and grime that had accumulated on John’s body, by the end the water became a dusty pink.

When he got out of the tub Paul dried him off with the fluffiest towel he could find, then dressed him in loose comfortable clothing. Now that his face is clean he can see that the skin under his eyes has become swollen from his crying. Paul wishes he knew what was going on inside his head.

John must have concluded that they were done because he left Paul in the bathroom to curl up on his bed under the covers, looking small and taking up the least amount of space possible that a person can manage while lying on a twin bed.

As Paul watches him his thoughts swirl around his mind, his earlier happiness fading into worry. Is this how he is now? How will we make sure no one finds the body? What will we do if we get caught? Does this mean John is okay with me touching him? What will happen if I touch him—

His thoughts are interrupted by a weak “Stay,” coming from the messy hair peeking out of the blankets.

Hesitantly, Paul slides into bed next to John. He can’t believe how any of this is happening or why John is letting him be so close. He feels like he’s going to wake up in his bed, sweaty and disappointed. But John moves back against him, prompting him to throw an arm over his waist, and so, if it is a dream, he hopes he’ll never wake up.

***

Neither of them say anything the next morning, nor do they say anything in the weeks that follow afterward. It’s during one winter day that Paul makes sure to catch John’s eye and point his head and nod towards a bloke that had been messing with his brother. John seemed to understand what he meant because later that day they egged the lad on until he followed them near the golf course, where Paul held his body down as John twisted his neck back until they heard bones snap, and then threw the body into the lake.

They still didn’t say anything, but John’s smile filled Paul up with warmth and pride. It felt good to be the reason John was happy.

And now in addition to the band and songwriting they have this to keep them close together, it made him feel like they were glued to each other; inseparable. No one else understood the need to feel blood spill onto their hands like they did.

Although, he has noticed their methods aren’t the same. When Paul bleeds the life out of someone he is outwardly calm, every step in the process has to be conducted perfectly, all his emotions drive him to be precise and fluid with his movements. With elation and relief being felt after a job well done.

But with John it’s like his emotions completely overtake his body. When he kills he moves with furious passion, anger, and sadness being at the forefront when he hits, slashes, bites, punches, and tears through another human being.

Part of Paul is entranced when he sees him like that; all raw energy that lends itself to creating masterpieces of their own right. But it always leaves him feeling slightly off-kilter; part of why he does what he does is to regain control of his life, but for some reason John invokes this urge to carve someone up, rip their limbs apart until he’s shaking from the high. To create a mess of blood and bone that they can then lie in it together, and maybe John will let Paul lie inside of him.

He doesn’t know if he feels fear or excitement at the prospect of finding out.

***

Things with the band improve and soon they get a residency in Germany.

Hamburg was unlike any place Paul had ever been to; sex shops along every street and prostitutes in window displays. Everywhere he went there were people engaging in some type of illegal activity.

Paul liked that in a way. Now he and John could do what they needed to do and no one would ever think twice about what they saw. Seeing a dead hooker or drunkard didn’t turn any heads like they would in Liverpool, and John and Paul didn’t have to worry about hiding the body. Sure, living in a tiny room behind a cinema was shite and it was murder to have to play for all those hours, but between getting a steady pay and work experience, easy access to sex whenever they wanted, and no suspicion of their more violent habits, it’s clear that overall they lucked out on residencies. 

There was another problem on his hands, though. Being able to get away with murder so easily had enabled both Paul and John to indulge in the practice more frequently, and more recklessly. Except for that first time, they normally took months to plan out their attacks but now it seemed like all it took was one wrong look from someone and their skull would be beaten in within the next hour. The leash that Paul kept on his self control was loosening and it certainly didn’t help being on prellies and alcohol all the time. Some days he felt like a wild beast that had been locked up in a cage reaching through the widening cell bars. John was even more off the walls— he would be covered in blood so often that Paul had to convince the others that he kept getting into brawls.

It didn’t help that they were so close together now, either. Ever since Paul first discovered him with a body there’s been this heated tension between them, Paul’s skin tingles after every time he accidentally skims his fingers along John’s when exchanging beers or when their bodies end up pressed together while sharing a bed. 

The Repperbahn brings a heady feeling of arousal to the air and it has certainly made Paul more inclined to seek out women and men for the night, morning, and day— using their bodies for whatever he sees fit. Because that’s the other thing; he can no longer hold himself back from also seeking pleasure from male bodies. But no matter how much he indulges in other pleasures he’s unable to stop the heated gazes that he and John have been sharing lately. When he sees John on stage sweaty and buzzing with energy, all he wants to do is tear into that skin and watch it bruise and drip red. He wants his fingertips to leave evidence of his crime. He wants John, badly.

But he holds off. He holds off because he doesn’t want to wreck this fragile thing they have, this connection that feels cosmic in nature. He knows he has to be careful with John, one wrong move and he could forever be locked out of the fortress surrounding his heart. Paul prides himself for his patience and dedication to getting into John’s graces and he’s not going to muck it up now just because he’s randy.

And so it’s much better for him to take all those wants and desires and project them onto the random people that catch his fancy. Like this one girl he is currently giving it to— fucking up into her and making her squeal while wondering how John’s thighs would look around his waist.

That is until John bursts into the room carrying the sharpest looking scissors he’s ever seen, a wild look in his eyes that turns furious once he notices what’s going on.

Paul doesn’t even get a chance to get a word in before John lunges and swiftly slashes through the girl’s neck, causing blood to cascade out, soaking Paul and getting on everything within 3 metres of contact.

Paul gets up, aghast. “Why’d you do that?!” he hollers. It’s not that he had much sentiment for her, but she was a decent enough lay and he hadn’t even gotten off yet.

But John doesn’t stop to answer— now that Paul has moved away he can slash and snip at her body, sometimes pausing to cut off a finger or ear. He only stops when her body is littered with large cuts and missing small appendages.

All Paul can do is stand there in shock. While John has always been more manic and unpredictable about his kills he had never done something like this.

John stood there breathing heavily, his hair in disarray and his clothes covered in splotches of blood. His lips are red from blood both under and on top of his skin. Paul wants to lick it off and bite down to draw more to the surface. In fact, the entire appearance of a sweaty John high off a kill makes Paul want to dig his nails into him and take him the way he was taking that bird earlier, nevermind the blood now staining the sheets.

Paul, still hard with arousal, repeats his earlier question. “Why?”

John flicks his eyes up from the corpse to his own. His lips draw into a snarl, “Because she doesn’t deserve you!”

Suddenly the beauty of that raging creature is too much to bear— Paul strides forward and grabs John by the back of the neck to pull him into a searing kiss, teeth, tongues, and lips clashing.

John moans in surprise but quickly welcomes the intrusion, with one of his hands coming up to grab Paul’s hair to deepen the kiss. Paul’s hands similarly grope and grasp at whatever part of John’s body he can. Their frenzied movements lead them to fall on the bed, knocking the dead body of the girl off in the process.

Paul, with his body now on top of John's, leans down to bite his lip, and both the coppery taste and the appearance of the crimson liquid staining his swollen red lips makes Paul moan.

John looks at him with arousal while seductively licking up the blood from his bottom lip. It prompts Paul to begin kissing his way down John’s neck, leaving little sucks and nips along the way. At his pulse point, something in him makes him bite down hard, enjoying the gasp that John lets out in response. The gasp turns into a groan as he keeps the sharp pressure of his teeth on his skin. He can feel John buck underneath him, probably overwhelmed by the pleasure and pain but Paul still holds on until he feels satisfied, and even then it’s just to go from biting to sucking on the area long enough to develop a dark bruise; one that will take weeks to go away. Paul can taste some blood in his mouth as he sucks and wonders if his teeth drew blood. Gradually, Paul moves on from the more intense sensation of sucking to gently lick and kiss the area.

“Ahhh Paul!” John whines.

With one last sucking kiss he pulls off completely, a string of spit trailing after his mouth before disconnecting. The bite already looks bruised and just like Paul predicted there was some blood sluggishly oozing out of the place where the teeth made indents. 

As Paul unveils more of John’s skin beneath his shirt he leaves more hickeys to bloom like flowers along his chest. Once he reaches his nipples he nuzzles it gently with his mouth before laving over it with his tongue, all the while staring up at John heatedly. He wants him to feel everything he’s doing to him. He begins to moan and arch his back once Paul starts sucking on them; turning them into swollen red nubs, occasionally scraping them with the edge of his teeth to hear him whimper.

After a few minutes of pleasurably torturing John, he makes a path of sucking bites to his happy trail, pausing to nip at his belly button. As he’s unbuttoning John’s tight drainies his eyes catch on the glint of metal laying next to them on the bed. It’s the scissors that John used to cut up that girl, the blades still gleam with her blood. Just the idea of slicing into John makes him harden in his trousers. After he’s finished with stripping him of the last pieces of his clothing, Paul picks up the scissors, making sure they’re in John’s line of sight as he licks off the remaining blood, the taste familiar but not the type of blood he craves.

“Yes please—” John stops to moan, “ruin me.”

Paul’s cock swells at the words. With one of his hands he opens up his thighs like doors leading into a sacred temple. Looking down at the swaths of pale skin beneath him, he feels overwhelmed, unsure where to start first. After some deliberation, he decides to make the first strike right by John’s right hip bone. As he slowly drags the blade down, delicate drops of blood well up in its place, before rolling down into the crease of his pelvis. John lets out a hiss and squirms a little at the pain, while his red swollen cock bobs and lets out a drop of precum. Paul has to restrain himself from licking it.

He repeats the process all across his body; along his rib cage, on his lean biceps, under his right nipple, marring his fleshy thighs, until John’s body is sufficiently covered. Sometimes in the middle of his cutting Paul would lean down and lick the blood from the wound, making John gasp and arch up into the sensation.

“Beautiful…” Paul murmured to himself. John truly looked stunning in the array of colors he wore. Sensing that Paul was finished he tugged at the clothes he was still wearing. “Want you inside,” John says with darkened eyes, “to make us whole.”

Paul agrees, this inescapable yearning inside him that won’t be satisfied until he can be as close to John as possible. And still it wouldn’t be enough, if only they could find a way to merge their bodies together. He can even imagine it; all bones and sinew clashing together, painfully morphing into something both amazing and frightening.

As he uses his fingers to open John up, and then later with his cock, he feels both calm and on fire. All the vices he partook in to satiate this monster inside of him don’t even compare to what it’s like with John. When they start moving together they don’t hide their hunger for each other. Paul’s hands brutally grip onto John’s hips while John’s hands are similarly scratching deep claw marks down his back. Their mouths seem to be eating each other more than they are kissing; Paul thrusts his tongue into John’s mouth only for him to bite it in return. It’s ugly and primal and divine.

After they both finish, with Paul staining John’s insides and his cum staining Paul’s skin, he takes in the carnage.

John is a mess: hair all ruffled up against the pillow, his eyes partially welled up with tears from the pain, his flushed cheeks, and the dried blood clinging onto the divots in his skin. He had been so afraid that he would destroy the art that was John Lennon, but now he’s realised he’s made him a masterpiece.

“Hey,” Paul says softly as he cradles his cheek with his hand. John smiles and it’s like the sun has risen on a new day. “Hi,” he answers with a scratchy voice that makes Paul fond.

He’s craving a ciggie like mad but doesn’t want to stop touching John. Instead he thinks about what just happened. Paul doesn’t consider himself stupid, yet he’ll honestly say he was surprised that John felt the same as him. To be fair, he was too caught up in worrying about his own desires to think about it. But of course, whenever he feels alone in life John has always been there.

“You’re mine too,” Paul says.

John’s smile widens, “I know.”

He then shifts nervously. “I’m hungry all the time, y’know…and— I think you’re the only one who can feed me.”

“Yeah, I feel the same.”

John leans in to softly kiss his lips, and Paul is stupidly happy and whole.

The loud creak of the door opening startles them out of the embrace, Paul turns to look at where the sound came from only to see George walk in with a drunken grin on his face that’s probably from a late night shag. The grin drops and his expression turns into a look of abject horror as he takes in the scene in front of him: namely the dead body on the floor.

He suddenly pales and vomits right by his previous vomit stain that they had let dry weeks ago.

“What did you do?!” George exclaims.

Dread and terror pools into Paul’s stomach. They’re definitely fucked.