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“I don't know what's got into you, Paul,” said John, trying very hard to keep his voice from trembling; over the years, he had become a master at masking discomfort, whether it be with a witty joke, or a dazzling grin, or an abrupt change of conversation. But this? This was really pushing him to his limit. “- but I am going to tell you once more that I want you to stop.”
Paul did not make any efforts to stop whatsoever. Hazel eyes flickering lazily over the man in front of him in a manner not unlike a snake, his lips ever-so-slowly formed a smile.
And it was not a Paul smile. It was not the perfect, plastic smile he put on for the presses, nor was it the sultry smirk he used for seducing, nor was it the mischievous, carefree grin that John was lucky enough to see behind closed doors.
It was a cruel thing to witness, and John's stomach churned unpleasantly at the sight of that dainty Cupid's bow, normally so familiar, twisted into something so cold and unfamiliar.
“You can tell me all you like, sweetheart.” he drawled, voice low and syrupy (and it was syrup, not honey, in his voice - Paul's voice had always, always been honey) as he traced John's jawline with his finger, so light it almost wasn't touching him at all, but certainly enough to send shivers rippling down his spine. “It's not going to change anything.”
“Don't call me that.” John hissed, trying to flinch away from the touch, trying to wriggle free, but the body pressed firmly up against his, pinning him against the wall, was stronger than he had ever known it to be, and his efforts were completely futile.
He was trapped.
Paul pouted. “Aw, Johnny, don't you love your own old Paulie?”
“You're not him, though, are ya?” John burst out before he could stop to think about it. It couldn't have been. John knew Paul almost more closely than he did himself, and whoever this was, it was not him. "You're not Paul. Y'er just some lookalike. Bet that's fetched you a hefty prize in some twisted competition somewhere.”
Not-Paul hummed, and where Paul sounded like a hummingbird, this sounded like a nest of hornets. “Clever boy!” He cooed, and John felt so horrifyingly patronised that he had to bite down harshly on his tongue.
“But,” The single word was enough to make John tense, and it only got worse when deft fingers, perfectly suited to picking at bass strings, started undoing the top few buttons of his Sergeant Pepper's uniform. “You really ought to watch your manners.” His breath was hot on John's neck, making him squirm. “I don't like it when people are rude to me, see.”
And then? Then, the-man-who-was-not-Paul-but-looked-just-like-him opened his mouth, and he bit.
A cry was ripped from John's throat, and he desperately hoped it sounded like a cry of pain. Because that's what it was. Pain, and nothing else. He clenched his jaw tightly, determined to ignore the electric feeling stirring below his belt.
But it wasn't just one bite, because then there came another. And another. And then there weren't even pauses between them anymore, just the constant presence of teeth grazing John's skin, and then it wasn't just teeth, but tongue, too, tracing from his collarbone to his jaw with a possessive sort of ferocity that would be certain to leave bruises.
John's legs shook beneath him. He felt like he was going to be sick, his stomach churning at the knowledge that he was completely helpless and could do nothing about it. But at the same time, looking at the man below him out of the bottom of his vision.. it was just as if it were Paul. And God help him, if that didn't make John shiver with a shameful excitement.
"Who are you?" he whispered, trying and failing to keep his voice from breaking.
He felt the smile against his neck. "As far as anyone else is concerned," said the man, drawing his words out slowly, deliberately, "I am Paul McCartney. And you're not going to correct that. Are you?"
John wanted to kick and scream. He wanted to fight. He'd been in plenty of scraps before, hadn't he? He'd actually had quite a reputation for getting chucked out of bars in Hamburg.
But he was slighter in frame than the Hamburg days. He didn't fight anymore, not really; he had no need to, not when he was adored by every human being in the world who owned a radio.
And truth be told? He was scared.
He was really, really scared.
So he said, weakly, "No."
"No..?"
"No, Paul." The name once so dear to John felt foreign and bitter in his mouth.
"There we go! That wasn't so hard, now, was it?" When he lowered his mouth again, John flinched, expecting he would be bitten again, but there was no teeth this time. Only kisses. Delicate. Claiming. That was almost worse.
"I can see why he kept you around," the man hummed, audibly smug. "You're adorable."
And John could not reply.