Dear Boss [Chapter Two]
Title: Dear Boss [Chapter Two]
Author: Corleoned (Me XD)
Pairings: John/ Paul, all the bloody way XD
Rating: Hard R for murder, slums, graphic descriptions of violence, blood, graveyards and angry mansex.
Summary: The late August of 1888 bridged the gap between modern violence and Victorian innocence, the idealism of Victorian society shaken to it's core by a sexual sadist and serial killer seemingly running rampant around East-London. No one had seen him, yet no one could forget him. He lived, and still lives, in infamy, as Jack the Ripper.
Author's Notes: Second chapter, and I am truly sorry this episode took so long. But as I was born in 1992 and not 1872, I had absolutely no concept of Victorian London's architecture or structure at all. X_X After a few nights of studying maps, I was finally able to figure it out, and therein is my reason for having copious amounts of description about London, Whitechapel, and the surrounding areas, to set the mood for the rest of the story. I promise there wiill be absolutely no horrid descriptive paragraphs from me after this chapter, and the mystery level will definitely ramp up, AKA more action XD Plus I managed to get a little present in for you all at the end XDDDD So without further ado, I bring you the longest chapter in the history of the world XDDD (P.S: George'll be in the next chapter xD)
Also, once again, I am a horrid slut and comments actually really keep me going, just because my massive ego needs to be stroked daily |D Soooo.... -whistles and inconspicuously pokes 'Post Comment' box- XD The next chapter might take a bit longer.
Historical Notes: Please excuse any discrepencies, they obviously were not meant.
See prologue and the previous chapter for general historical notes pertaining to those select episodes.
Disclaimer: I own nothing of The Beatles or Jack the Ripper.
Prologue: community.livejournal.com/beatlesslash/1196402.html#cutid1
Chapter One: community.livejournal.com/beatlesslash/1198135.html
And once again, historical notes:
Metropolitan Police Department/ coppers/ cops/ blue-bottles/ Scotland Yard= all the same thing XD
Omni-buses= The 19th century version of double-deckers, drawn by horses for public transportation. It was considered 'common' to sit on the open top 'garden seats' until several London socialites began to sit there despite opinion. Then it became in vogue.
Thames= the river that runs through London
Westminster Abbey- the legendary church
All of the town descriptions are based off of actual maps, photos, and descriptions.
-Many streets in Whitechapel were named and renamed, so many of them actually ended up with the same name, extremely confusing for anyone, even the locals.
-Whitechapel Road= the main road cutting through Whitechapel, much like the Thames in western London.
-IAF= Irish-American Fenians, the 19th century version of the IRA (Irish Republic Army)
-It was basically good manners when a woman sneezed for a man to offer her his hankerchief
-A penny dreadful was basically a short horror story, very, very violent, with stock characters. Much like Sweeney Todd.
-Psychology as such hadn't been invented yet. There was only the emerging and doubted field of psychoanalysis, led by Sigmund Freud.
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'In a mad world, only the mad are sane.'
Stepping out into the foreseeable London smog, Paul coughs harshly into his arm, glaring at the thoroughfare spread out in front of him like some sort of strange picnic, the gentry the main course. No matter how many times he attempted to adapt himself to the heavy London air, he could never quite prepare himself for the wave of smells, scents, and sensations that hit him like an open sewer whenever he emerged from the Metropolitan Police Department.
The traffic itself was immense, Paul‘s glare drooping almost comically into a grimace at the sight of it. Despite growing up in a considerably large city in the northernmost regions of England, the sheer size of the lorries and road-carts were horribly unnerving.
Sighing, Paul takes a deep breath for courage before sprinting across the motorway, attempting to blocks out the deafening noise that drowned his senses whenever he left the relative sanity of work and home. The only way he could think to define it was by classifying the racket as some odd sort of combination of commerce, cheer, cheating, and chumminess, heavily garnished with tobacco and beer.
People would seemingly fall out of the tops of omni-buses, socialites who, less than two years ago, would have never even considered riding in such ‘common‘ transportation, now laughing with their friends on ‘gardenseats‘, all while little boys dangerously wove their routes around horse hooves in the street, either laughing with other grubbyfaced imps or attempting to sell something, usually a combination of the two. Paul couldn’t help but smile. It may not be perfect to others, but it was perfect to him; a possessing mix of liberalism and Victorian morality. It was a good age, it was a progressive age…
As he strolled along the side of the rushing and swirling Thames he could see Westminster Abbey in the distance, the parliament buildings peeking out from behind the abbey itself, as if hiding behind the impressive Christian fortress.
Mouth twitching as he attempts to keep his composure, Paul’s eyes followed several businessmen, birdlike in their extensive use of the color black in the wardrobe and the mandatory capes they wore, arms flapping animatedly as several of their umbrellas turn inside out with a freak gust of wind, almost sweeping a couple of chimney sweeps off their feet.
‘Better be careful or you’re going to take off there,’ He chuckles good-naturedly, winking at the penguin-like group as they start to waddle out cautiously onto the road, only to retreat in alarm as a gargantuan lorry spun around the corner, nearly running them over.
To their right on the corner of the intersection, several respectable-looking women waited with a look of casual interest and growing annoyance for a reasonably good-looking man to help them across the road.
‘You‘ll be waiting a while, ladies. The youngest man in the parliament district is sixty-two,’ He mutters to himself, mildly amused as he takes a sharp right, intent on taking the shortest possible path to Whitechapel by keeping to the river‘s side.
Pairs of yawning shopkeepers continue to slip across his path as they take in their morning’s load from the boats parked alongside the riverbank, the vessels momentarily marooned due to low tide.
Paul’s mouth quirks playfully, shaking his head in absolute disbelief at the city. It was brilliant. And it was alive, alive with every single movement, never standing still.
It always struck him just how many different people and sounds you could hear. Butchers, aprons bloodied but hands clean, workers, who could always be told apart by their broad backs and strong arms, civilians, gentry, the working class, all different, and all fantastic….
Grinning, Paul quickly runs ahead to catch a fleeting glimpse of a large steamboat under Westminster bridge, leaning over the rails with several children to peek at the colossus before quickly chasing it to the other side, children following. Paul picks up the smallest one to help him see, the boy too young to speak but letting out an excited squeal, legs pumping and hands waving excitedly.
Paul laughs, handing the little boy carefully back to the oldest child, heading off with a considerable spring in his step, eyes bright as he simply observes the diversity of the city. The people of London spun together into a strange sort of multicoloured cloth, stronger than what people expected yet vulnerable, soft. The pull of one string could make the whole city unravel...
Paul swallows, suddenly feeling guilty and ridiculous for his display of youth, immediately straightening his dayjacket and quickening his pace dutifully along the riverside.
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It was only a short distance to Whitechapel in the East, yet it was a world away. However, telltale signs of squalor were beginning to peek through the gleaming image of the pristine capital, a bum here, an lost-looking child there. It was as if the killings themselves represented some sort of disease, spreading further and further West, threatening to bring the whole structure of life as they knew it tumbling down...
'TERROR IN WHITECHAPEL! ANOTHER GRISLEY MURDER COMMITED!'
'What?' Paul snaps incredulously, grabbing the paper in disbelief from the small paperboy and simply staring at front page with downright astonishment. 'No, they couldn't have gotten wind of it so quickly...' He murmurs, scanning the front page quickly, grimacing as the ink gets on his gloves.
‘Very rarely has anything occurred, even in this quarter of London, that has created so profound a sensation. The crowds of people, which have since daily assembled at the scene of the murder, have been reduced to a condition of almost abject terror...Mary Ann Nicols, also known as 'Polly'.....brilliant...' He grumbles sarcastically, the boy now whining and tugging on his coattails before Paul looks down, chuckling as he hands him a pound, ruffling his hair affectionately. The boy breaks out into a brilliant smile at the value of the coin, biting on it experimentally before taking off to the nearest bakery with a whoop, paper bag bouncing behind him.
‘That was extremely nice of you, sir,’ A blonde girl says shyly, her lumbering sheepdog straining on his leash towards Paul, Paul immediately laying it on thick.
‘Well, children, they are the future…’
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One hour and one very pretty woman's calling card later, Paul finds himself smack dab in the middle of Whitechapel, awkwardly straightening his cravat and brushing a speck of dirt off of his trousers. Although he had been in Whitechapel several times over the past few months of his employment with the Met, he had never truly been there during daylight, and to be perfectly honest, he had no clue where to start. The whole district was like some sort of rat's nest; as soon as someone accidentally stepped into it, the most unwanted creatures in all of London emerged, scurrying past, eyes fixed to the ground until they found refuge in another hovel, or somehow managing to drag a few respectable people down with them.
It seemed that every corner had a pub with an identifiable colour and animal, ‘The Blue Boar’, ‘The White Lion’, and each street actually came in pairs, like the queer new children’s book, ‘Alice in Wonderland.’ Everything was as it seemed but nothing seemed as it was.
‘Why is there five pairs of streets with the same name,’ He mutters to himself as he continues to walk down the thin and dirty streets, ignoring the prying, weary, lifeless eyes gazing at him from every angle. If it was any other part of town, he would stop and ask for directions, but he doubted that would be a good idea here.
Winding his way through the labyrinth and attempting to gain his bearings, Paul passes several cotton warehouses and a sole department store, looking almost rudely shiny next to the paint that peeled off the surrounding houses like a skin disease. Women peddled pathetic wilting flowers, children played with an empty hoop, but this wasn’t the sort of life he needed. Paul knew he needed to head deeper into the squalid maze, to the common heart of Whitechapel, where not even the best blue-bottles dared to go in less than groups of four. Even Westenders had heard of the infamous ‘Blind Beggar’ pub; If you ever needed to find the worst sort of people to do the worst sorts of jobs for the best prices… well, that was just the known place to go…
Eventually he comes upon a sign declaring ‘Butcher’s Row,’ the butchers preparing their stock for the day, the sound of cutting and the cries of chickens all around him as they screeched their last death cries. A city of meat had suddenly grown up around him, making him dizzy, never have being the best person with blood in the best of circumstances. Beef, mutton, lamb, veal, legs, shoulders, loins, ribs all gleamed in a panoply of scarlet and white, Paul shuddering despite his best intentions not to. The market seemed to grow higher and higher, drowning him in the blood being splattered, bodies being shaken, as the blood almost washes him away…
Luckily, he feels himself being saved by a pair of rough yet bony hands, an elf-like red-haired man holding him up slightly, but by the scruff of his neck, making Paul gag as his cravat is pulled tightly against his windpipe.
‘Whatcha doin’ere, then?’ The man sneers, Paul swallowing tightly as he sees a knife in the boy’s hand. ‘Why would y-you suspect I don’t come here often?’ He growls back, just as sardonically, hiding his fear.
'Well, yehr not exactly conspicuous, are yeh?' The man lilts with a scoff, raising a brow at Paul's clothing with scorn and derision. 'So, what's a man of your esteemed societal position doin' in these parts? Come for the freak show? Come to spit and rub in on the Irish a bit more?'
Paul looks around, swallowing tightly as he realizes what the man had said was true. Women and children begged for money on the corners, a horrifyingly young man with a grisly beard and red eyelids, drabs of women sinking into their clothing and wrinkled crones peddling themselves in alleys. Paul attempts to meet each and every one of their eyes, as if to tell them he felt for them, but finally lowering his them, fiddling with his cufflinks distractingly. He didn’t know half of what these people had to go through. He didn’t deserve to look at them that way….
'Do-do you know who I could possibly talk to, from the IAF?' He manages, forcing himself to look upwards into the spiteful green eyes. 'I may have some information that may be of value-'
'Like bull you do,' The man snaps, pushing Paul back against the wall and bringing his knife to Paul's throat. 'Give me one reason why I shouldn't send you down to the devil as a message to the rest of your pig friends...'
'B-Because I can tell you when and where IAF raids are planned to occur,' Paul manages to grit out, holding the knifed arm steadily away from his main artery. 'Pro Quo, I give you information, you give me what I want...'
'And what do you want?' The man hisses, his face inches from Paul's.
Paul swallows tightly, taking a risk. 'T-that I can't tell you....'
The man stares at him wearily for a few moments, before relinquishing his grasp on his shirt, pocketing his knife. 'You can come back at night,'
He mutters, starting to walk away, seemingly a million pairs of lifeless eyes staring. 'We don't work during the day....'
'But wait- where?!' Paul calls out, desperate to have some grasp of control on the entire situation, his anger barely contained. He hated being helpless. He hated it with every fibre of his body…
The man turns back for only a moment, a gaunt face but with a smile flittering across it.
'If we told you that, it wouldn't be any fun, would it?' He murmurs, winking at him, not so much as a friendly gesture but as a natural instinct, as if it was his response to a world who had kept him down.
'Don't worry about finding us, Mr. McCartney. We'll find you.'
--------------
‘Seduction isn’t making someone do what they don’t want to do. Seduction is enticing someone into doing what they secretly want to do already.’
Paul stands nervously at the mouth of Whitechapel Road, checking his watch nervously. Half past the witching hour, and still no sight of any person with any intention of ‘getting to know him better’ other than a multitude of prostitutes. Exhaling in slight irritation, Paul takes a seat on the decrepit church, closing his eyes for a moments rest.
Suddenly, a multitude of hands reach out and the next thing Paul knows he’s being dragged through the back roads of the city, unable to find his feet in the uneven and unfamiliar darkness. Sighing, Paul settles for being pulled along like a sack of potatoes, feeling every rough turn and bump, not even questioning his treatment by this point.
‘No wonder no one wants to help you lot,‘ He mutters, a rather liberal foot kicking him in response.
He could recognize nothing in the darkness, only vague shapes who’s intentions he could blindly guess at, feeling as though he was being pulled down a darkened tunnel to the gates of Hell itself. Paul bites his lip in nervousness as they pass a cemetery with ominous black gates, the plot of land considerably higher than the living, as if the dead would someday overtake them and rise again.
He finally feels himself being dumped in a rather ungainly fashion in front of a boisterous building with muted, glowing lights, doubling over in the pain of being dragged what seemed like several kilometres with nothing to break each fall.
Eventually, Paul manages to look up at his attackers, groaning as he squints at the figures in the light, faces blurring. The figures immediately scatter like dust in the wind, Paul blinking slightly and rubbing his eyes, the lens of his eyes finally focusing on the one remaining figure, instantly recognizable with his shock of red hair.
‘Come into the Blind Beggar,’ He snickers, kicking him slightly at Paul manages to shakily get to his feet. ‘We roughed you up a bit, you’ll fit right in,’ The boy spits, Paul holding him by his collar, too weak to actually throw a blow but managing to be menacing nonetheless.
‘Who am I meeting in there?’ He growls, shaking him slightly.
‘Not the boss, that’s for sure. Let’s just say he’s our propagandist…’ The boy giggles evilly, managing to get the boot in before scrambling away with a cackle. Paul was positive he left on all fours, but maybe it was just his eyes…
Paul leans against the wall of the pub, managing to stabilize himself. Whatever was in there can’t’ve been worse than what he’d just been through. Nothing could scare him. He’d face it like a man, and take his consequences as such.
Tentatively, Paul pushes open the door, letting it fall open as he tenses, hand on the most immediate weapon on his person. He’s immediately stunned, simply at how utterly cheerful it seems. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but certainly not this air of festive cheer, bread in the oven, wood on the fire... He was positive his face was the exact definition of gob smacked.
It was warm inside, the tiny fire burning brightly despite the howling winds of reality just outside the doorway. There was a bar, some cordial bottles radiant with fake grapes in bunches, biscuits in baskets, so in contrast with the world outside. One of the barmaids adjusts the dingy velvet curtains, pulling them closed just as it starts to rain outside.
‘Who you lookin’ for then, dear?’ One of the women call out, Paul swallowing as all attention is drawn to him.
‘Don’t exactly know, actually,’ He grunts out in a compensationary tone, wincing only moments after at his ridiculousness and stupidity.
‘Ah,’ A brown-haired stout woman wallpapering the corner nods, winking at him and pointing down to the last table, it’s inhabitant draped in shadows. ‘Lookin’ for that one, then.’
‘Does that one have a name?’ He asks the lady as she lets out a horrific cough, Paul instinctively searching for a handkerchief but finding none. He’s about to apologize for his lack of manners before a voice snaps out of the darkness like a whip.
‘Why don’t you ask me?’ The voice cuts through the air like a knife, the words cold and cynical to the ear, like the emotion had died within them. Paul slowly raises his eyes to meet the other pair glinting in the darkness.
And once again, they knew each other.
Instantly blind anger shoots through, him, Paul’s hand immediately going to his pocket but stopped as he feels a blade nick at the tip of his back.
‘My, my, don’t we have a temper,’ The man purrs mockingly, his face still hidden in the shadows as he plops his boots up heavily on the table, the sole almost worn to the bone. ‘But I like that, not going to lie to you.‘
Paul practically feels sick to his stomach, the mere sound of the mans voice making his heart pound erratically as he grips the nearest table for stability.
The stout woman snorts, freighting her way towards the character and smacking his feet off the table, coughing heavily but still managing to rasp, ’Be a gentleman for once in your life, lad, and get your mucking feet off the good table!’
The whole bar lets out hoots and hollers of affectionate jeers, Paul suddenly hit by the surrealism of it all, feeling as though he had been dropped into a penny dreadful.
The man grins, his mouth now visible as he leans forward slightly into the light, brandishing his own red handkerchief and presenting it to the woman gallantly.
‘For you Anne,‘ He says smoothly, chuckling. ‘Mr. McCartney’s not the only man with manners here…you can even keep it till morn, if you‘d like…‘
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In all his time studying scientific resolutions to crime, crime itself, and psychoanalysis, Paul had found that stereotypically there was several key patterns a regular murderer followed. Desperately, he starts running them through his head, quickly recited them to himself to calm himself down. Look for danger signs….
‘Step one, the aura phase. The first step that the potential killer takes, where he or she begins to withdrawal from reality and enter into his or her own private world of perverted fantasy. Friends, family and those who encounter the person, may not be able to detect this person’s change in personality. Time can slow down in his/her mind, colours tend to become vivid, sounds more intense and the person becomes completely cut-off from any normal stimuli. The killer’s thought process at this time involves looking around for someone on whom to lay the blame for his/her anger and hatred. ’
‘Come’ ere,’ The voice rasps mockingly, coxing him with a finger , Paul stepping forward nervously, determined not to meet the man’s eyes. He knew he’d be lost if he did…. But they reflected everywhere, off every counter surface, every spoon, even the shadows seemed to grant him the power of a million eyes. It wasn’t long now… yes, he could feel it. He was gone. It was an insatiable drive powering him now, an undeniable lust now boiling through his veins, to possess and be possessed, thoughts of all others and any moral obligations, lost. The eyes conveyed so many things, they bewitched him, only the eyes he could see…
‘What is your name?’ Paul murmurs softly as he sits down complacently, not because he was ridiculously stupid and expected the man to tell, but because he genuinely wanted to know. Two pitchers of beer were immediately served, a lone hand reaching out to take one from the dark side of the table. He was immediately transfixed by it. They weren’t the hands of a murderer, and Paul began to doubt himself. What if this man had just found the girl just like he did? What if it was just a coincidence? He had no proof. His hands looked strong, skilled, but somehow gentle, surprising for a man he was certain had killed two women, maybe more….
What was he thinking, he had practically caught him in the act, for Christ sake! Why was he wanting to see the man’s face? No, it had passed the point of no return. It was no longer a question of wanting to see the man’s face.
It was a need.
‘Step two. The Trolling Phase. The killer begins to actively seek out his victim, focusing on venues most likely to house his type of victims. For some this may be schoolyards, local corners, or in this man’s case, the public doss-houses in London’s East End. Trolling does not consist of random or accidental encounters. The subject knows exactly where to find the desperate, those willing to be seduced. It is usually in the place the killer feels most comfortable, an area where the killer is able to conduct speedy, perfect escapes, not drawing attention to himself as an unfamiliar face.’
‘So,’ The man says softly, finally leaning into the light and exposing his face, thoroughly ignoring his question as Paul swallows tightly, feeling something drop into the pit of his stomach but unable to explain fully what it was.
‘You’re young,’ He mumbles, the first thought that comes to mind when seeing his face. He wasn’t prepared for that, certainly not for this. His mind flashes back to those sweaty and heated ‘nocturnal disturbances’ at Rugby’s boarding school for boys, reddening furiously as the man in front of him grins, but not to immersed in his subjects eyes as to forget to wave Anne goodbye as she heads out the door into the rain. Paul attempts to turn as well, simply needing to see what he saw, but two gentle but firm fingers quickly and insistently turning him forward. ‘Don‘t even think of leaving. Not when I finally have you,’ the man murmurs quietly, gazing into his eyes, Paul finally able to stare at his face, and what a memorable face it was…
He had a strong jaw line, smooth skin, not marked by smallpox or constant alcohol use. He was unusually clean-shaven, like Paul, rare in London, most men having some form of mutton chops or moustache. A thin but expressive mouth, a sloping nose, strong bone structure, all leading up to his eyes. His eyes… Paul couldn’t even begin to describe his eyes.
‘Step three. ‘The Wooing Phase’. Most serial killers once they have identified their victim-to-be, then try to win his/her confidence and like a fisherman, lure their ‘catch’ into a trap.’
Paul knew what was happening, he knew he was lost to him completely. He was captured. His and his alone…
‘I knew we’d run into one way or another,’ He says in louder tones, for what Paul assumed was the benefit of the patrons. Paul had forgotten about them…
All of a sudden, the rain and lightning storms that had been threatening all week coming down in a crash, Paul instinctively jumping up at the collision of noise and accidentally pulling the man upwards with him, unaware that he‘d been gripping his forearm. Several knives were drawn on John’s behalf, but John waves them off dismissively, leaning in and whispering in Paul‘s ear, ‘I’ll come peacefully, aye? But perhaps we best do this outside, hmm?’
Paul looks around at the deadly crowd, all notes of cheer and happiness gone. If only they knew who he actually was, what this man was capable of, what he knew he was capable of…
He slowly nods, wordlessly dragging the beast outside into the pouring rain. He still couldn’t believe it, the man was…-No. He wouldn’t allow himself to say it. He wasn’t attracted to men. He was attracted to women and certainly not to this monster.
Roughly he drags him to the side of the road, immediately reaching into his pocket to grab his cuffs, hand still on the man’s arm as the prisoner waits patiently for him to retrieve his wares.
Abruptly, John rips his own arm free and manages to twist Paul’s back roughly, Paul crying out more in surprise and anger than in pain as John pushes him viciously into the nearest alleyway, taking out a small garrotte from his back pocket and pushing it into Paul’s neck, Paul attempting to breathe but choking, choking….
Suddenly, he hears the garrotte being dropped with a clang, splashing his leg as it lands in a puddle, the rain pouring down and the sound deafening. Nobody could hear… He couldn’t even scream…
And then there was a mouth on his, rough, wanting, needing, capturing as he holds Paul’s arms above his head possessively, attempting to slip his tongue into Paul’s mouth as Paul bites down harshly, John skilfully removing his tongue at the last moment but continuing to press his lips against his, the water starting to seep through Paul’s clothing.
Paul is about to retaliate, to punch, to snap, but finds him impulsively leaning into the kiss, eyes hazy and unfocused, feeling strangely high off of their unspeakable actions. It was everything he had been told not to do, everything he had denied for his entire life, every feeling he'd suppressed...
'Give in,' John hisses lightly, starting to nip down Paul’s long white neck, making sure to leave tender yet stinging bite marks along the way.
Paul's mouth falls open in a soundless moan, his body still instinctively tense but not pulling away. This meant absolutely nothing, he attempted to convince himself as he feels himself being guided through the night. He was simply immersing himself in the case in the most obvious way possible. Naturally he wouldn‘t be attracted to this… monster. The man was a sexual deviant, as well as a traitor to the crown and a bugger and a fiend and-
'Oh god,' Paul groans, body snapping back automatically as the man pushes him against the cool rough brick of the alley wall, rubbing up against his behind and slowly reaching around to undo his cravat, throwing Paul’s hat and shirt to the side indifferently after staring at them for several unsettling moments, trousers following quickly after.
'Hey! Be-be careful with that-' Paul slurs stupidly through half-lidded eyes, pushing the palms of his hands into the wall to brace himself for the inevitable. He had been disarmed. He was now naked. He was going to die, just like all the others. He was going to die like a woman…What an embarrassment to both the school and the force-
'What?' John mocks softly, kissing his ear as Paul’s shakes vulnerably despite his attempts to lock all his muscles in a firm rejection. 'I'm not going to kill you,' He grins wickedly, chuckling as Paul allows a shiver to run down his spine at the expression, his face shamed by the throbbing erection between his legs. He turns slightly, as much as his captor would permit, anger and pain flaming.
'Y-You made me feel this again...' He spits, his large eyes dark with hate.
'Now now, I'm simply making you realize what you value...' John murmurs, running a hand almost tenderly along his cheek, but his nails too sharp to be anything but painfully derisive.
Paul smacks the hand away, enraged as he manages to grab John's wrist in his fingers. Immediately executing the exact same assault as John moments before, he manages to tackle him to the ground, the sounds of jubilant singing inside the infamous pub blocking any noticeable sounds the attack had made. Violently, they wrestle on the dirty stone, the rain seeping through their clothing as Paul finally gains utter dominance, straddling him around the waist triumphantly, panting. 'I'm going to take you in, I don’t care what the rules say,’ Paul pants, eyes flaming with victory as he stands slightly to retrieve his handcuffs.
In less than two seconds, John had pressed him up against the rough alley wall again, starting to tug on his belt with a cackle, his two knives a comfortable insurance in each hidden side pocket of his jacket.
'Wanna bet?' John's mouth twitches, slowly growing into a smirk as he manages to wrestle the handcuffs away, the key hanging from the side. Immediately John locks Paul's hands in front of him, kissing him heatedly in the rain as Paul unconsciously kisses back.
'S-so what?' Paul slurs faintly, almost dizzy with a strange mixture of pain, arousal and shame as he leans back, defeated, against the wall, attempting to collect himself as John starts to work on his own trousers.
'So what?' John murmurs against his muddy, naked shoulder, kissing it lightly, lips making their way up to his ear and tugging on it playfully with his teeth. 'I want something else entirely from you, Paul James McCartney...'
Paul's body snaps to attention at the use of his full name, face slightly surprised but mostly filled with fury. 'Where did you get that information from?' He snaps, his voice loosing all arousal as he somehow manages to remember the fact that he's naked, disarmed and handcuffed in the middle of an alley with a deranged maniac.
John pouts, reaching down and wrapping one of those ridiculously sensual hands around the base of Paul's cock, starting to slide his hands slowly downwards in a steady motion, one moving up after the other as he kisses Paul's jawline, his own pants finally unbuttoned..
'I have sources,' He mumbles, running his teeth gingerly down the side of Paul's main artery, Paul diving back into his amazing mixture of arousal and terror. 'Now, am I going to have to get nasty? Most people don't like me when I get nasty...'
Paul swallows suppressing a heavy moan as he feels John's thumb press against his tip, jerking up instinctively, using the wall to prop himself upwards, wrapping his legs around John's strong midline. Shamefaced, he slowly presses their hips together in a silent plea, a slow sly grin coming to John's face as Paul looks at him naively, hopefully.
'No, luv, not yet,' John hisses in ear, licking it slowly and carefully, a tremor running down Paul's body, his hips unwittingly rocking forward eagerly as John presses Paul’s back flat against the wall. 'I want to hear you say it, you know of what I speak...'
Paul's face flames, attempting to hold himself steady as he feels faint, this was wrong, so wrong, he wasn't-
'I want it.'
'I'm sorry, lovely, didn't exactly catch that one,' John grins widely, pulling his tongue slowly and tauntingly back into his mouth, making sure Paul catches a glimpse of it. Blood red, the devil's tongue was bloody blood red...
'I SAID I WANT IT!' Paul yells, eyes shut in expectation of ecstasy, but nothing relieving him for several seconds. Paul almost opens his eyes before he feels himself being roughly thrust into, John grunting with the effort as Paul cries out in slight pain and desperation, hands immediately losing themselves in John's hair. Wantonly Paul tugs John towards him, enveloping his mouth in a passionate kiss. It could've been minutes, or seconds, Paul never could tell when he kissed him.
John smirks as he feels Paul's control over his actions starting to slip, holding his possessively as he starts to thrust into him, never saying a word, but always present, ever watchful and hungry.
Paul feels a mouth on his clavicle, arching his neck to allow better exposure as the mouth immediately gains possession of his Adam's apple, all the while Paul attempting to justify it all to himself. As long as he kept his eyes closed, it was alright, he could pretend… But no woman had ever pleasured him like this, no woman had ever made him feel exposed, hateful, proud, submissive and possibly even loving, all in one action.
Slowly Paul relaxes into the touch, but never fully giving way, allowing his hands to sneak under the creature's shirt but never pulling it off, not allowing himself to commit entirely. It was simply work, simply...
'Oh GOD,' Paul cries again out as John once again wraps his hand around his cock once more, John grinning like the devil into his neck.
'And what would the Met say if they saw their beloved professor being buggered by their most wanted criminal?' John manages to growl, his breathing now coming in increasingly short pants. 'Moreso, what would-' 'Your beloved Oxford say?'
Paul lets out an enraged snarl, biting at the back of John's neck viciously and twisting the back of John's shirt more tightly around his neck, almost to the point he's choking him, like a dog lead.
John smiles, kissing Paul's cheek tenderly in response.
'Comeon, little boy, beg for it,' He taunts breathlessly, his arousal practically choking his voice as even he feels himself start to lose all control, but managing to hold himself steady for a few precious seconds. 'Beg, doggie...'
'Goddammit,' Paul whines, ’Give it to me...'
John immediately slaps Paul across the face before kissing the imprint deftly, nuzzling it with his cheek. 'One more time...' He slurs, Paul not even caring about the abrasions on his bare back, or the slap, only the blissful thrusting of the man between his legs.
'Pll-eeease....' He hitches, close to delighted tears as he tugs at John's hair needily, the sweat causing their bodies to stick together while Paul's hand slides down one of John's sides, grabbing a rough hold of any part of John’s body he could reach. The coarseness of their bodies paired with the rough sand paper of the brick wall causes Paul to bite into John's neck to stifle his cries as he comes harshly, the creature following not far after.
Paul's body shudders in relief before relaxing against the wall, giggling like an idiot, instinctively nuzzling the crook of John's neck and kissing it lightly, faintly recognizing that he had grabbed a hold of John’s hand during the whole debacle…
Before it hit him.
He stared down at the beautiful face in front of him, John’s expression looking as innocent and content like a cat who had just had it's belly rubbed.
To be perfectly succinct, What the questionable fuck had he just done?
--------
‘There is always some madness in love. Yet there’s always some method to madness.’
'Well, this will be a most unorthodox position for your beloved Met to find you in. Honestly, Mr. McCartney, you really should be more wary of strangers,' John says mockingly, standing back to admire his handiwork, already fully dressed as the sun starts to rise sleepily in the east. John slowly runs his eyes over Paul‘s frame scrupulously and extensively, as if committing his body to memory. 'I would love to stay and play, Paulie-love, but unfortunately, I rather need my handkerchief back .'
'I hate you,' Paul hisses, glaring up at him from the rickety pipe he had been handcuffed to, tugging uselessly at his left hand, the rain still pouring down. John smiles slightly, eyes soft as he leans down, kissing him one last time, almost bruisingly, as if he meant the effect to last. Paul’s anger wins out over his raw lust as he bites down viciously on John's lower lip, John pulling back with a look of slight amusement. Slowly and sensually John’s deep red tongue snakes his way out of the corner of his mouth, licking the edge of his own lip and
smiling blissfully as the metallic taste hits him.
'Mmm, we may just make a killer out of you yet,' He purrs, kissing his forehead lovingly before standing, staring down at him coyly one last time before he turns.
'Catch me, Paulie, catch me if you can.'
Author: Corleoned (Me XD)
Pairings: John/ Paul, all the bloody way XD
Rating: Hard R for murder, slums, graphic descriptions of violence, blood, graveyards and angry mansex.
Summary: The late August of 1888 bridged the gap between modern violence and Victorian innocence, the idealism of Victorian society shaken to it's core by a sexual sadist and serial killer seemingly running rampant around East-London. No one had seen him, yet no one could forget him. He lived, and still lives, in infamy, as Jack the Ripper.
Author's Notes: Second chapter, and I am truly sorry this episode took so long. But as I was born in 1992 and not 1872, I had absolutely no concept of Victorian London's architecture or structure at all. X_X After a few nights of studying maps, I was finally able to figure it out, and therein is my reason for having copious amounts of description about London, Whitechapel, and the surrounding areas, to set the mood for the rest of the story. I promise there wiill be absolutely no horrid descriptive paragraphs from me after this chapter, and the mystery level will definitely ramp up, AKA more action XD Plus I managed to get a little present in for you all at the end XDDDD So without further ado, I bring you the longest chapter in the history of the world XDDD (P.S: George'll be in the next chapter xD)
Also, once again, I am a horrid slut and comments actually really keep me going, just because my massive ego needs to be stroked daily |D Soooo.... -whistles and inconspicuously pokes 'Post Comment' box- XD The next chapter might take a bit longer.
Historical Notes: Please excuse any discrepencies, they obviously were not meant.
See prologue and the previous chapter for general historical notes pertaining to those select episodes.
Disclaimer: I own nothing of The Beatles or Jack the Ripper.
Prologue: community.livejournal.com/beatlesslash/1196402.html#cutid1
Chapter One: community.livejournal.com/beatlesslash/1198135.html
And once again, historical notes:
Metropolitan Police Department/ coppers/ cops/ blue-bottles/ Scotland Yard= all the same thing XD
Omni-buses= The 19th century version of double-deckers, drawn by horses for public transportation. It was considered 'common' to sit on the open top 'garden seats' until several London socialites began to sit there despite opinion. Then it became in vogue.
Thames= the river that runs through London
Westminster Abbey- the legendary church
All of the town descriptions are based off of actual maps, photos, and descriptions.
-Many streets in Whitechapel were named and renamed, so many of them actually ended up with the same name, extremely confusing for anyone, even the locals.
-Whitechapel Road= the main road cutting through Whitechapel, much like the Thames in western London.
-IAF= Irish-American Fenians, the 19th century version of the IRA (Irish Republic Army)
-It was basically good manners when a woman sneezed for a man to offer her his hankerchief
-A penny dreadful was basically a short horror story, very, very violent, with stock characters. Much like Sweeney Todd.
-Psychology as such hadn't been invented yet. There was only the emerging and doubted field of psychoanalysis, led by Sigmund Freud.
-----------------
'In a mad world, only the mad are sane.'
Stepping out into the foreseeable London smog, Paul coughs harshly into his arm, glaring at the thoroughfare spread out in front of him like some sort of strange picnic, the gentry the main course. No matter how many times he attempted to adapt himself to the heavy London air, he could never quite prepare himself for the wave of smells, scents, and sensations that hit him like an open sewer whenever he emerged from the Metropolitan Police Department.
The traffic itself was immense, Paul‘s glare drooping almost comically into a grimace at the sight of it. Despite growing up in a considerably large city in the northernmost regions of England, the sheer size of the lorries and road-carts were horribly unnerving.
Sighing, Paul takes a deep breath for courage before sprinting across the motorway, attempting to blocks out the deafening noise that drowned his senses whenever he left the relative sanity of work and home. The only way he could think to define it was by classifying the racket as some odd sort of combination of commerce, cheer, cheating, and chumminess, heavily garnished with tobacco and beer.
People would seemingly fall out of the tops of omni-buses, socialites who, less than two years ago, would have never even considered riding in such ‘common‘ transportation, now laughing with their friends on ‘gardenseats‘, all while little boys dangerously wove their routes around horse hooves in the street, either laughing with other grubbyfaced imps or attempting to sell something, usually a combination of the two. Paul couldn’t help but smile. It may not be perfect to others, but it was perfect to him; a possessing mix of liberalism and Victorian morality. It was a good age, it was a progressive age…
As he strolled along the side of the rushing and swirling Thames he could see Westminster Abbey in the distance, the parliament buildings peeking out from behind the abbey itself, as if hiding behind the impressive Christian fortress.
Mouth twitching as he attempts to keep his composure, Paul’s eyes followed several businessmen, birdlike in their extensive use of the color black in the wardrobe and the mandatory capes they wore, arms flapping animatedly as several of their umbrellas turn inside out with a freak gust of wind, almost sweeping a couple of chimney sweeps off their feet.
‘Better be careful or you’re going to take off there,’ He chuckles good-naturedly, winking at the penguin-like group as they start to waddle out cautiously onto the road, only to retreat in alarm as a gargantuan lorry spun around the corner, nearly running them over.
To their right on the corner of the intersection, several respectable-looking women waited with a look of casual interest and growing annoyance for a reasonably good-looking man to help them across the road.
‘You‘ll be waiting a while, ladies. The youngest man in the parliament district is sixty-two,’ He mutters to himself, mildly amused as he takes a sharp right, intent on taking the shortest possible path to Whitechapel by keeping to the river‘s side.
Pairs of yawning shopkeepers continue to slip across his path as they take in their morning’s load from the boats parked alongside the riverbank, the vessels momentarily marooned due to low tide.
Paul’s mouth quirks playfully, shaking his head in absolute disbelief at the city. It was brilliant. And it was alive, alive with every single movement, never standing still.
It always struck him just how many different people and sounds you could hear. Butchers, aprons bloodied but hands clean, workers, who could always be told apart by their broad backs and strong arms, civilians, gentry, the working class, all different, and all fantastic….
Grinning, Paul quickly runs ahead to catch a fleeting glimpse of a large steamboat under Westminster bridge, leaning over the rails with several children to peek at the colossus before quickly chasing it to the other side, children following. Paul picks up the smallest one to help him see, the boy too young to speak but letting out an excited squeal, legs pumping and hands waving excitedly.
Paul laughs, handing the little boy carefully back to the oldest child, heading off with a considerable spring in his step, eyes bright as he simply observes the diversity of the city. The people of London spun together into a strange sort of multicoloured cloth, stronger than what people expected yet vulnerable, soft. The pull of one string could make the whole city unravel...
Paul swallows, suddenly feeling guilty and ridiculous for his display of youth, immediately straightening his dayjacket and quickening his pace dutifully along the riverside.
----------------
It was only a short distance to Whitechapel in the East, yet it was a world away. However, telltale signs of squalor were beginning to peek through the gleaming image of the pristine capital, a bum here, an lost-looking child there. It was as if the killings themselves represented some sort of disease, spreading further and further West, threatening to bring the whole structure of life as they knew it tumbling down...
'TERROR IN WHITECHAPEL! ANOTHER GRISLEY MURDER COMMITED!'
'What?' Paul snaps incredulously, grabbing the paper in disbelief from the small paperboy and simply staring at front page with downright astonishment. 'No, they couldn't have gotten wind of it so quickly...' He murmurs, scanning the front page quickly, grimacing as the ink gets on his gloves.
‘Very rarely has anything occurred, even in this quarter of London, that has created so profound a sensation. The crowds of people, which have since daily assembled at the scene of the murder, have been reduced to a condition of almost abject terror...Mary Ann Nicols, also known as 'Polly'.....brilliant...' He grumbles sarcastically, the boy now whining and tugging on his coattails before Paul looks down, chuckling as he hands him a pound, ruffling his hair affectionately. The boy breaks out into a brilliant smile at the value of the coin, biting on it experimentally before taking off to the nearest bakery with a whoop, paper bag bouncing behind him.
‘That was extremely nice of you, sir,’ A blonde girl says shyly, her lumbering sheepdog straining on his leash towards Paul, Paul immediately laying it on thick.
‘Well, children, they are the future…’
---------------------
One hour and one very pretty woman's calling card later, Paul finds himself smack dab in the middle of Whitechapel, awkwardly straightening his cravat and brushing a speck of dirt off of his trousers. Although he had been in Whitechapel several times over the past few months of his employment with the Met, he had never truly been there during daylight, and to be perfectly honest, he had no clue where to start. The whole district was like some sort of rat's nest; as soon as someone accidentally stepped into it, the most unwanted creatures in all of London emerged, scurrying past, eyes fixed to the ground until they found refuge in another hovel, or somehow managing to drag a few respectable people down with them.
It seemed that every corner had a pub with an identifiable colour and animal, ‘The Blue Boar’, ‘The White Lion’, and each street actually came in pairs, like the queer new children’s book, ‘Alice in Wonderland.’ Everything was as it seemed but nothing seemed as it was.
‘Why is there five pairs of streets with the same name,’ He mutters to himself as he continues to walk down the thin and dirty streets, ignoring the prying, weary, lifeless eyes gazing at him from every angle. If it was any other part of town, he would stop and ask for directions, but he doubted that would be a good idea here.
Winding his way through the labyrinth and attempting to gain his bearings, Paul passes several cotton warehouses and a sole department store, looking almost rudely shiny next to the paint that peeled off the surrounding houses like a skin disease. Women peddled pathetic wilting flowers, children played with an empty hoop, but this wasn’t the sort of life he needed. Paul knew he needed to head deeper into the squalid maze, to the common heart of Whitechapel, where not even the best blue-bottles dared to go in less than groups of four. Even Westenders had heard of the infamous ‘Blind Beggar’ pub; If you ever needed to find the worst sort of people to do the worst sorts of jobs for the best prices… well, that was just the known place to go…
Eventually he comes upon a sign declaring ‘Butcher’s Row,’ the butchers preparing their stock for the day, the sound of cutting and the cries of chickens all around him as they screeched their last death cries. A city of meat had suddenly grown up around him, making him dizzy, never have being the best person with blood in the best of circumstances. Beef, mutton, lamb, veal, legs, shoulders, loins, ribs all gleamed in a panoply of scarlet and white, Paul shuddering despite his best intentions not to. The market seemed to grow higher and higher, drowning him in the blood being splattered, bodies being shaken, as the blood almost washes him away…
Luckily, he feels himself being saved by a pair of rough yet bony hands, an elf-like red-haired man holding him up slightly, but by the scruff of his neck, making Paul gag as his cravat is pulled tightly against his windpipe.
‘Whatcha doin’ere, then?’ The man sneers, Paul swallowing tightly as he sees a knife in the boy’s hand. ‘Why would y-you suspect I don’t come here often?’ He growls back, just as sardonically, hiding his fear.
'Well, yehr not exactly conspicuous, are yeh?' The man lilts with a scoff, raising a brow at Paul's clothing with scorn and derision. 'So, what's a man of your esteemed societal position doin' in these parts? Come for the freak show? Come to spit and rub in on the Irish a bit more?'
Paul looks around, swallowing tightly as he realizes what the man had said was true. Women and children begged for money on the corners, a horrifyingly young man with a grisly beard and red eyelids, drabs of women sinking into their clothing and wrinkled crones peddling themselves in alleys. Paul attempts to meet each and every one of their eyes, as if to tell them he felt for them, but finally lowering his them, fiddling with his cufflinks distractingly. He didn’t know half of what these people had to go through. He didn’t deserve to look at them that way….
'Do-do you know who I could possibly talk to, from the IAF?' He manages, forcing himself to look upwards into the spiteful green eyes. 'I may have some information that may be of value-'
'Like bull you do,' The man snaps, pushing Paul back against the wall and bringing his knife to Paul's throat. 'Give me one reason why I shouldn't send you down to the devil as a message to the rest of your pig friends...'
'B-Because I can tell you when and where IAF raids are planned to occur,' Paul manages to grit out, holding the knifed arm steadily away from his main artery. 'Pro Quo, I give you information, you give me what I want...'
'And what do you want?' The man hisses, his face inches from Paul's.
Paul swallows tightly, taking a risk. 'T-that I can't tell you....'
The man stares at him wearily for a few moments, before relinquishing his grasp on his shirt, pocketing his knife. 'You can come back at night,'
He mutters, starting to walk away, seemingly a million pairs of lifeless eyes staring. 'We don't work during the day....'
'But wait- where?!' Paul calls out, desperate to have some grasp of control on the entire situation, his anger barely contained. He hated being helpless. He hated it with every fibre of his body…
The man turns back for only a moment, a gaunt face but with a smile flittering across it.
'If we told you that, it wouldn't be any fun, would it?' He murmurs, winking at him, not so much as a friendly gesture but as a natural instinct, as if it was his response to a world who had kept him down.
'Don't worry about finding us, Mr. McCartney. We'll find you.'
--------------
‘Seduction isn’t making someone do what they don’t want to do. Seduction is enticing someone into doing what they secretly want to do already.’
Paul stands nervously at the mouth of Whitechapel Road, checking his watch nervously. Half past the witching hour, and still no sight of any person with any intention of ‘getting to know him better’ other than a multitude of prostitutes. Exhaling in slight irritation, Paul takes a seat on the decrepit church, closing his eyes for a moments rest.
Suddenly, a multitude of hands reach out and the next thing Paul knows he’s being dragged through the back roads of the city, unable to find his feet in the uneven and unfamiliar darkness. Sighing, Paul settles for being pulled along like a sack of potatoes, feeling every rough turn and bump, not even questioning his treatment by this point.
‘No wonder no one wants to help you lot,‘ He mutters, a rather liberal foot kicking him in response.
He could recognize nothing in the darkness, only vague shapes who’s intentions he could blindly guess at, feeling as though he was being pulled down a darkened tunnel to the gates of Hell itself. Paul bites his lip in nervousness as they pass a cemetery with ominous black gates, the plot of land considerably higher than the living, as if the dead would someday overtake them and rise again.
He finally feels himself being dumped in a rather ungainly fashion in front of a boisterous building with muted, glowing lights, doubling over in the pain of being dragged what seemed like several kilometres with nothing to break each fall.
Eventually, Paul manages to look up at his attackers, groaning as he squints at the figures in the light, faces blurring. The figures immediately scatter like dust in the wind, Paul blinking slightly and rubbing his eyes, the lens of his eyes finally focusing on the one remaining figure, instantly recognizable with his shock of red hair.
‘Come into the Blind Beggar,’ He snickers, kicking him slightly at Paul manages to shakily get to his feet. ‘We roughed you up a bit, you’ll fit right in,’ The boy spits, Paul holding him by his collar, too weak to actually throw a blow but managing to be menacing nonetheless.
‘Who am I meeting in there?’ He growls, shaking him slightly.
‘Not the boss, that’s for sure. Let’s just say he’s our propagandist…’ The boy giggles evilly, managing to get the boot in before scrambling away with a cackle. Paul was positive he left on all fours, but maybe it was just his eyes…
Paul leans against the wall of the pub, managing to stabilize himself. Whatever was in there can’t’ve been worse than what he’d just been through. Nothing could scare him. He’d face it like a man, and take his consequences as such.
Tentatively, Paul pushes open the door, letting it fall open as he tenses, hand on the most immediate weapon on his person. He’s immediately stunned, simply at how utterly cheerful it seems. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but certainly not this air of festive cheer, bread in the oven, wood on the fire... He was positive his face was the exact definition of gob smacked.
It was warm inside, the tiny fire burning brightly despite the howling winds of reality just outside the doorway. There was a bar, some cordial bottles radiant with fake grapes in bunches, biscuits in baskets, so in contrast with the world outside. One of the barmaids adjusts the dingy velvet curtains, pulling them closed just as it starts to rain outside.
‘Who you lookin’ for then, dear?’ One of the women call out, Paul swallowing as all attention is drawn to him.
‘Don’t exactly know, actually,’ He grunts out in a compensationary tone, wincing only moments after at his ridiculousness and stupidity.
‘Ah,’ A brown-haired stout woman wallpapering the corner nods, winking at him and pointing down to the last table, it’s inhabitant draped in shadows. ‘Lookin’ for that one, then.’
‘Does that one have a name?’ He asks the lady as she lets out a horrific cough, Paul instinctively searching for a handkerchief but finding none. He’s about to apologize for his lack of manners before a voice snaps out of the darkness like a whip.
‘Why don’t you ask me?’ The voice cuts through the air like a knife, the words cold and cynical to the ear, like the emotion had died within them. Paul slowly raises his eyes to meet the other pair glinting in the darkness.
And once again, they knew each other.
Instantly blind anger shoots through, him, Paul’s hand immediately going to his pocket but stopped as he feels a blade nick at the tip of his back.
‘My, my, don’t we have a temper,’ The man purrs mockingly, his face still hidden in the shadows as he plops his boots up heavily on the table, the sole almost worn to the bone. ‘But I like that, not going to lie to you.‘
Paul practically feels sick to his stomach, the mere sound of the mans voice making his heart pound erratically as he grips the nearest table for stability.
The stout woman snorts, freighting her way towards the character and smacking his feet off the table, coughing heavily but still managing to rasp, ’Be a gentleman for once in your life, lad, and get your mucking feet off the good table!’
The whole bar lets out hoots and hollers of affectionate jeers, Paul suddenly hit by the surrealism of it all, feeling as though he had been dropped into a penny dreadful.
The man grins, his mouth now visible as he leans forward slightly into the light, brandishing his own red handkerchief and presenting it to the woman gallantly.
‘For you Anne,‘ He says smoothly, chuckling. ‘Mr. McCartney’s not the only man with manners here…you can even keep it till morn, if you‘d like…‘
-------------------
In all his time studying scientific resolutions to crime, crime itself, and psychoanalysis, Paul had found that stereotypically there was several key patterns a regular murderer followed. Desperately, he starts running them through his head, quickly recited them to himself to calm himself down. Look for danger signs….
‘Step one, the aura phase. The first step that the potential killer takes, where he or she begins to withdrawal from reality and enter into his or her own private world of perverted fantasy. Friends, family and those who encounter the person, may not be able to detect this person’s change in personality. Time can slow down in his/her mind, colours tend to become vivid, sounds more intense and the person becomes completely cut-off from any normal stimuli. The killer’s thought process at this time involves looking around for someone on whom to lay the blame for his/her anger and hatred. ’
‘Come’ ere,’ The voice rasps mockingly, coxing him with a finger , Paul stepping forward nervously, determined not to meet the man’s eyes. He knew he’d be lost if he did…. But they reflected everywhere, off every counter surface, every spoon, even the shadows seemed to grant him the power of a million eyes. It wasn’t long now… yes, he could feel it. He was gone. It was an insatiable drive powering him now, an undeniable lust now boiling through his veins, to possess and be possessed, thoughts of all others and any moral obligations, lost. The eyes conveyed so many things, they bewitched him, only the eyes he could see…
‘What is your name?’ Paul murmurs softly as he sits down complacently, not because he was ridiculously stupid and expected the man to tell, but because he genuinely wanted to know. Two pitchers of beer were immediately served, a lone hand reaching out to take one from the dark side of the table. He was immediately transfixed by it. They weren’t the hands of a murderer, and Paul began to doubt himself. What if this man had just found the girl just like he did? What if it was just a coincidence? He had no proof. His hands looked strong, skilled, but somehow gentle, surprising for a man he was certain had killed two women, maybe more….
What was he thinking, he had practically caught him in the act, for Christ sake! Why was he wanting to see the man’s face? No, it had passed the point of no return. It was no longer a question of wanting to see the man’s face.
It was a need.
‘Step two. The Trolling Phase. The killer begins to actively seek out his victim, focusing on venues most likely to house his type of victims. For some this may be schoolyards, local corners, or in this man’s case, the public doss-houses in London’s East End. Trolling does not consist of random or accidental encounters. The subject knows exactly where to find the desperate, those willing to be seduced. It is usually in the place the killer feels most comfortable, an area where the killer is able to conduct speedy, perfect escapes, not drawing attention to himself as an unfamiliar face.’
‘So,’ The man says softly, finally leaning into the light and exposing his face, thoroughly ignoring his question as Paul swallows tightly, feeling something drop into the pit of his stomach but unable to explain fully what it was.
‘You’re young,’ He mumbles, the first thought that comes to mind when seeing his face. He wasn’t prepared for that, certainly not for this. His mind flashes back to those sweaty and heated ‘nocturnal disturbances’ at Rugby’s boarding school for boys, reddening furiously as the man in front of him grins, but not to immersed in his subjects eyes as to forget to wave Anne goodbye as she heads out the door into the rain. Paul attempts to turn as well, simply needing to see what he saw, but two gentle but firm fingers quickly and insistently turning him forward. ‘Don‘t even think of leaving. Not when I finally have you,’ the man murmurs quietly, gazing into his eyes, Paul finally able to stare at his face, and what a memorable face it was…
He had a strong jaw line, smooth skin, not marked by smallpox or constant alcohol use. He was unusually clean-shaven, like Paul, rare in London, most men having some form of mutton chops or moustache. A thin but expressive mouth, a sloping nose, strong bone structure, all leading up to his eyes. His eyes… Paul couldn’t even begin to describe his eyes.
‘Step three. ‘The Wooing Phase’. Most serial killers once they have identified their victim-to-be, then try to win his/her confidence and like a fisherman, lure their ‘catch’ into a trap.’
Paul knew what was happening, he knew he was lost to him completely. He was captured. His and his alone…
‘I knew we’d run into one way or another,’ He says in louder tones, for what Paul assumed was the benefit of the patrons. Paul had forgotten about them…
All of a sudden, the rain and lightning storms that had been threatening all week coming down in a crash, Paul instinctively jumping up at the collision of noise and accidentally pulling the man upwards with him, unaware that he‘d been gripping his forearm. Several knives were drawn on John’s behalf, but John waves them off dismissively, leaning in and whispering in Paul‘s ear, ‘I’ll come peacefully, aye? But perhaps we best do this outside, hmm?’
Paul looks around at the deadly crowd, all notes of cheer and happiness gone. If only they knew who he actually was, what this man was capable of, what he knew he was capable of…
He slowly nods, wordlessly dragging the beast outside into the pouring rain. He still couldn’t believe it, the man was…-No. He wouldn’t allow himself to say it. He wasn’t attracted to men. He was attracted to women and certainly not to this monster.
Roughly he drags him to the side of the road, immediately reaching into his pocket to grab his cuffs, hand still on the man’s arm as the prisoner waits patiently for him to retrieve his wares.
Abruptly, John rips his own arm free and manages to twist Paul’s back roughly, Paul crying out more in surprise and anger than in pain as John pushes him viciously into the nearest alleyway, taking out a small garrotte from his back pocket and pushing it into Paul’s neck, Paul attempting to breathe but choking, choking….
Suddenly, he hears the garrotte being dropped with a clang, splashing his leg as it lands in a puddle, the rain pouring down and the sound deafening. Nobody could hear… He couldn’t even scream…
And then there was a mouth on his, rough, wanting, needing, capturing as he holds Paul’s arms above his head possessively, attempting to slip his tongue into Paul’s mouth as Paul bites down harshly, John skilfully removing his tongue at the last moment but continuing to press his lips against his, the water starting to seep through Paul’s clothing.
Paul is about to retaliate, to punch, to snap, but finds him impulsively leaning into the kiss, eyes hazy and unfocused, feeling strangely high off of their unspeakable actions. It was everything he had been told not to do, everything he had denied for his entire life, every feeling he'd suppressed...
'Give in,' John hisses lightly, starting to nip down Paul’s long white neck, making sure to leave tender yet stinging bite marks along the way.
Paul's mouth falls open in a soundless moan, his body still instinctively tense but not pulling away. This meant absolutely nothing, he attempted to convince himself as he feels himself being guided through the night. He was simply immersing himself in the case in the most obvious way possible. Naturally he wouldn‘t be attracted to this… monster. The man was a sexual deviant, as well as a traitor to the crown and a bugger and a fiend and-
'Oh god,' Paul groans, body snapping back automatically as the man pushes him against the cool rough brick of the alley wall, rubbing up against his behind and slowly reaching around to undo his cravat, throwing Paul’s hat and shirt to the side indifferently after staring at them for several unsettling moments, trousers following quickly after.
'Hey! Be-be careful with that-' Paul slurs stupidly through half-lidded eyes, pushing the palms of his hands into the wall to brace himself for the inevitable. He had been disarmed. He was now naked. He was going to die, just like all the others. He was going to die like a woman…What an embarrassment to both the school and the force-
'What?' John mocks softly, kissing his ear as Paul’s shakes vulnerably despite his attempts to lock all his muscles in a firm rejection. 'I'm not going to kill you,' He grins wickedly, chuckling as Paul allows a shiver to run down his spine at the expression, his face shamed by the throbbing erection between his legs. He turns slightly, as much as his captor would permit, anger and pain flaming.
'Y-You made me feel this again...' He spits, his large eyes dark with hate.
'Now now, I'm simply making you realize what you value...' John murmurs, running a hand almost tenderly along his cheek, but his nails too sharp to be anything but painfully derisive.
Paul smacks the hand away, enraged as he manages to grab John's wrist in his fingers. Immediately executing the exact same assault as John moments before, he manages to tackle him to the ground, the sounds of jubilant singing inside the infamous pub blocking any noticeable sounds the attack had made. Violently, they wrestle on the dirty stone, the rain seeping through their clothing as Paul finally gains utter dominance, straddling him around the waist triumphantly, panting. 'I'm going to take you in, I don’t care what the rules say,’ Paul pants, eyes flaming with victory as he stands slightly to retrieve his handcuffs.
In less than two seconds, John had pressed him up against the rough alley wall again, starting to tug on his belt with a cackle, his two knives a comfortable insurance in each hidden side pocket of his jacket.
'Wanna bet?' John's mouth twitches, slowly growing into a smirk as he manages to wrestle the handcuffs away, the key hanging from the side. Immediately John locks Paul's hands in front of him, kissing him heatedly in the rain as Paul unconsciously kisses back.
'S-so what?' Paul slurs faintly, almost dizzy with a strange mixture of pain, arousal and shame as he leans back, defeated, against the wall, attempting to collect himself as John starts to work on his own trousers.
'So what?' John murmurs against his muddy, naked shoulder, kissing it lightly, lips making their way up to his ear and tugging on it playfully with his teeth. 'I want something else entirely from you, Paul James McCartney...'
Paul's body snaps to attention at the use of his full name, face slightly surprised but mostly filled with fury. 'Where did you get that information from?' He snaps, his voice loosing all arousal as he somehow manages to remember the fact that he's naked, disarmed and handcuffed in the middle of an alley with a deranged maniac.
John pouts, reaching down and wrapping one of those ridiculously sensual hands around the base of Paul's cock, starting to slide his hands slowly downwards in a steady motion, one moving up after the other as he kisses Paul's jawline, his own pants finally unbuttoned..
'I have sources,' He mumbles, running his teeth gingerly down the side of Paul's main artery, Paul diving back into his amazing mixture of arousal and terror. 'Now, am I going to have to get nasty? Most people don't like me when I get nasty...'
Paul swallows suppressing a heavy moan as he feels John's thumb press against his tip, jerking up instinctively, using the wall to prop himself upwards, wrapping his legs around John's strong midline. Shamefaced, he slowly presses their hips together in a silent plea, a slow sly grin coming to John's face as Paul looks at him naively, hopefully.
'No, luv, not yet,' John hisses in ear, licking it slowly and carefully, a tremor running down Paul's body, his hips unwittingly rocking forward eagerly as John presses Paul’s back flat against the wall. 'I want to hear you say it, you know of what I speak...'
Paul's face flames, attempting to hold himself steady as he feels faint, this was wrong, so wrong, he wasn't-
'I want it.'
'I'm sorry, lovely, didn't exactly catch that one,' John grins widely, pulling his tongue slowly and tauntingly back into his mouth, making sure Paul catches a glimpse of it. Blood red, the devil's tongue was bloody blood red...
'I SAID I WANT IT!' Paul yells, eyes shut in expectation of ecstasy, but nothing relieving him for several seconds. Paul almost opens his eyes before he feels himself being roughly thrust into, John grunting with the effort as Paul cries out in slight pain and desperation, hands immediately losing themselves in John's hair. Wantonly Paul tugs John towards him, enveloping his mouth in a passionate kiss. It could've been minutes, or seconds, Paul never could tell when he kissed him.
John smirks as he feels Paul's control over his actions starting to slip, holding his possessively as he starts to thrust into him, never saying a word, but always present, ever watchful and hungry.
Paul feels a mouth on his clavicle, arching his neck to allow better exposure as the mouth immediately gains possession of his Adam's apple, all the while Paul attempting to justify it all to himself. As long as he kept his eyes closed, it was alright, he could pretend… But no woman had ever pleasured him like this, no woman had ever made him feel exposed, hateful, proud, submissive and possibly even loving, all in one action.
Slowly Paul relaxes into the touch, but never fully giving way, allowing his hands to sneak under the creature's shirt but never pulling it off, not allowing himself to commit entirely. It was simply work, simply...
'Oh GOD,' Paul cries again out as John once again wraps his hand around his cock once more, John grinning like the devil into his neck.
'And what would the Met say if they saw their beloved professor being buggered by their most wanted criminal?' John manages to growl, his breathing now coming in increasingly short pants. 'Moreso, what would-' 'Your beloved Oxford say?'
Paul lets out an enraged snarl, biting at the back of John's neck viciously and twisting the back of John's shirt more tightly around his neck, almost to the point he's choking him, like a dog lead.
John smiles, kissing Paul's cheek tenderly in response.
'Comeon, little boy, beg for it,' He taunts breathlessly, his arousal practically choking his voice as even he feels himself start to lose all control, but managing to hold himself steady for a few precious seconds. 'Beg, doggie...'
'Goddammit,' Paul whines, ’Give it to me...'
John immediately slaps Paul across the face before kissing the imprint deftly, nuzzling it with his cheek. 'One more time...' He slurs, Paul not even caring about the abrasions on his bare back, or the slap, only the blissful thrusting of the man between his legs.
'Pll-eeease....' He hitches, close to delighted tears as he tugs at John's hair needily, the sweat causing their bodies to stick together while Paul's hand slides down one of John's sides, grabbing a rough hold of any part of John’s body he could reach. The coarseness of their bodies paired with the rough sand paper of the brick wall causes Paul to bite into John's neck to stifle his cries as he comes harshly, the creature following not far after.
Paul's body shudders in relief before relaxing against the wall, giggling like an idiot, instinctively nuzzling the crook of John's neck and kissing it lightly, faintly recognizing that he had grabbed a hold of John’s hand during the whole debacle…
Before it hit him.
He stared down at the beautiful face in front of him, John’s expression looking as innocent and content like a cat who had just had it's belly rubbed.
To be perfectly succinct, What the questionable fuck had he just done?
--------
‘There is always some madness in love. Yet there’s always some method to madness.’
'Well, this will be a most unorthodox position for your beloved Met to find you in. Honestly, Mr. McCartney, you really should be more wary of strangers,' John says mockingly, standing back to admire his handiwork, already fully dressed as the sun starts to rise sleepily in the east. John slowly runs his eyes over Paul‘s frame scrupulously and extensively, as if committing his body to memory. 'I would love to stay and play, Paulie-love, but unfortunately, I rather need my handkerchief back .'
'I hate you,' Paul hisses, glaring up at him from the rickety pipe he had been handcuffed to, tugging uselessly at his left hand, the rain still pouring down. John smiles slightly, eyes soft as he leans down, kissing him one last time, almost bruisingly, as if he meant the effect to last. Paul’s anger wins out over his raw lust as he bites down viciously on John's lower lip, John pulling back with a look of slight amusement. Slowly and sensually John’s deep red tongue snakes his way out of the corner of his mouth, licking the edge of his own lip and
smiling blissfully as the metallic taste hits him.
'Mmm, we may just make a killer out of you yet,' He purrs, kissing his forehead lovingly before standing, staring down at him coyly one last time before he turns.
'Catch me, Paulie, catch me if you can.'