#fows

He’s crying. He sobs, and he bites down on a scream as everything inside him clenches and twists and bursts. His shirt is soaked through, his hair wet against his forehead, and his chest billows, the air hissing out like a popped balloon. 

“Paul, Paulie, Paulie, Paulie, Paul,” John says over him, kneeling over him, bracketed over his body like a blanket, haloed against the light. Wet drips down onto his face. Wet mixes it with the tears that slick down the sides of his cheeks. 

The light waivers—bursts and shivers and pulses as he opens his mouth, tries to breathe in, can’t. The crowds cracks open—the sound spills out, curls around the open rafters of the ceiling and falls down over them like a waterfall. 

“Paul, Paulie baby,” John cries, lips bloodless, the white of his eyes stretching broad and bone-colored and bloodshot. His fingertips press into Paul’s shoulder like bursting, his other hand, flat on Paul’s cheek, seers. 

The heat presses down. The heat bubbles up from inside him. He can’t see John—the sides of his face streak, drip like paint melting from a canvas and dropping into his bones. It fills him. It presses, it swells against the seams of him and melds, liquid inside him. He shivers, and deep inside something pulls—a tight twang like a plucked guitar string, a burst of vibrating pleasure that shoots up his spine and tingles at the base of his skull.

He tries to twist away. He tries, and his legs twitch uselessly beneath him, his hands flopping back down to the stage. The smell presses into him—the smell filling up every inch inside him. Every gap. He turns his head and gags. 

“I don’t know. I don’t know what’s happening to me,” he tries, though he does, and his voice cracks, and every sound distorts, dipped beneath the liquid that drips from his cheeks, and his heart pounds so hard it shakes him, makes his eyeballs dance in his skull. He wants to get away—needs to. To bury himself in some dark place he’ll never be seen again. 

Mary hadn’t collapsed, when she’d died. She hadn’t fallen somewhere, a heroic faint into the waiting arms of someone who loved her more than life itself. She’d come one day, been gone another. A single visit to a hospital bed. A sheet stained with blood. He’d thought it would happen in an instant—that he’d stand one day from the dinner table and then it would be over. The world winking out to that endless expanse he would never know, and it would be like the part of him that was him had never existed. Scared of blinking. Scared of closing his eyes. 

Over him, wet gleams on the rim of John’s nostril, solidifies and dangles, glittering on the end of his nose. 

“I know, I know baby,” John cries, and Paul realizes it’s not himself, the quivering of his own eyes that makes John shake, but John himself. His whole body—close and slow quakes like the shifting of a mountain, the arms which hold him up bowing back and forth as he struggles to hold himself upright. 

“John, out of the way!” Brian yells, skidding to his knees beside him. His shoulder presses against John’s, pushing, and then arms wrap around John’s middle—pulling, and he turns, hissing, spitting. A sound—flesh on flesh. Ringo hits the stage beside him, and the John is back, throwing himself over top of Paul. 

The weight hits him, rocking him into the slats, and his gut clenches, gagging, as the warmth of John presses into him, the wet against his throat as John latches there, chest shaking, shivering. 

I love this because catboy Paul hasn't even made an appearance yet but people are frothing at the mouth to see him wrecked.

I wrote this just now just for you <3

She comes to him in dreams: a specter of something larger than it seems, the vibrating shift of a thing that announces itself like an earthquake. He knows her before he sees her—feels her before he smells her. 

What I like about ABO is how it makes gender issues inignorable and can rob someone of their agency and autonomy under the yoke of heat cycles and presentations and I think that's essentially analogous to the trauma of puberty that many non traditional gender presenting people experience.

Paul already had issues with his gender and identity early on in that he doesn't align strongly with any gender or desire to be one, but still being a beta is seen as a personal flaw and failure because it means he's failing to be a fetish object for someone else. He wants to be desired. He wants to be good. But at the same time secondary genders are filthy and sexualized by his father Jim.

So standard ABO is already to interesting with Paul, but then in a kind of "careful what you wish for way"...what if Paul did get what he wanted, in that he IS the most desired and perfect thing, but instead of that making him happy it runs parallel to the trauma of beatlemania in how they become violently divorced from their own person hood into advertising/media/desire objects.

Essentially, most of my fics are concerned with "how can I make this worse?" For Paul, that's forcing him to confront not only the feminine aspects of his gender that he's long denied, but by making him so intensely sexed that it destroys his personhood. Similar to what happened during beatlemania, but much more personal, much more aggressive, and in such a way that he won't be able to find solace as he did in being the coke slag prince of London.