RINGO COULDN'T really describe how he was feeling.

Paul's head dipped, his nose pressing against his cheek. Ringo's head was spinning out of it's usual axis; with his breathe caught up in his throat and his heart going 150 miles per hour and Ringo— Ringo couldn't help but open his mouth up to him.

And someone as twisted as Paul shouldn't be this good at kissing.

Despite the sparks he left, the teen's stomach felt like someone was twisting a wire through it.

Stop it! A sensible, sane part in his head shrilled. You feel those hands on your waist? Those killed fifty people— one of them he killed when he was seven years old—

With a pang of shock and self-disgust, Ringo wretched away, gasping for air he didn't know he was running out of.

His lips never felt so cold and empty.

"I can't," He stumbled out. "I-I can't b-breathe, Paulie."

The nickname was a slip, but he didn't care anymore if he did call him "Paulie".

"Shit, sorry."

"I-It's... fine..." Ringo whispered, finding his apology painfully honest and Paul looked so human— looking like what a sane person would've been with that expression of embarrasment on his face. "So," He uttered. "W-What now?"

Paul bit his lip.

"I... Was that— Was I your first?"

"No." But yours was nicer than all of my past kisses combined. And I don't know whether to laugh or cry about it. "Was I—"

"Yeah."

Ringo widened his eyes. "What?"

"Surprise, surprise," Paul chuckled humorlessly. "Think about it— my mother hated harlots. Despised them, loathed them enough to kill them and turn me against them. She acted like that mother from Carrie– horrifingly strict. Despite everything she taught me, I was still a boy. And boys have urges. And when she found out, well, it wasn't particularly pretty."

"What did she do?" Ringo asked, looking at him with the only emotion he always had for Paul— a sick morbid curiosity-like feeling that he knew would either leave him intruiged, or disgusted. Maybe even both.

Paul didn't answer. Instead, he brought his hand up to Ringo's chin— the cold pads of Paul's fingers on his neck making him shiver slightly. Paul looked like he wanted to kiss him again, wanted a pair of warm lips to melt him down to a puddle. But he didn't; instead, he brushed his thumb against Ringo's lower lip. Then he retracted, jaw suddenly clenched and hands stiff like a statue—

"You should go to bed."

"Paul," Ringo pleaded. "Paul, please, whatever it is just– just tell me. I can handle it, I swear—"

"Trust me, you don't want tonight's dinner wasted on the carpet."

"Did your mum, what, chain her to a wall?"

Paul sighed. The kid wasn't going to give up, wasn't he?

"Fine," The older uttered. "Are you sure you wanna hear it?" His only reply was a fervent nod. "My mum ripped her lips off and mailed it to her parents. Happy?"

The once-curious look on Ringo's face melted into nausea.

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh," Paul mimicked. "Happy?"

"What the fu– frick?" Ringo corrected himself quickly at Paul's look. "The police—"

"My mum may be psychotic, but she isn't dumb."

Probably runs in the family, Ringo thought sourly. "So, what now? Want another kiss?"

Color rose up the man's neck.

"Shit, uh—"

"Language, mister." He sassed.

"Hush it, angel."

Ringo blinked. "Angel?"

"Yeah, angel. Y'know, the flying cherub things, angels—"

"I know that," He grumbled. "But why angel?"

"Because angels don't do anything wrong. Angels are perfect, absolutely perfect."

"I don't really fit the criteria, Paul."

He chuckled. "Trust me, you do."

A/N this story will be the death of me i swear to god

how are you guys holding up????