Heyyy 😏😏😏
I would like to request something with Billy Shears huehuehuehue. Maybe reader had a crush on Paul and Paul either didn’t reciprocate or just didn’t know but after he got replaced Billy starts flirting and all that stuff and maybe he is a little freaky scary but then they BANG I love his mustache god he looks SO GOOD AAUAUGGHH
𝑛𝑢𝑚𝑏𝑒𝑟 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑒 | billy shears x reader
𐙚 contains; nsfw!! minors dni! female anatomy, light corruption, reader’s a little fucked up about it and so is he
𐙚 summary ; you had a crush on paul. now you’re not sure who he is. and you’re not sure you care.
𐙚 note ; haii angel mwah mwah!! this is my attempt at making it not weird but also making it make sense..?! anyway i am so into him.. gosh. you know he’s a freak.
It started with the mustache.
You weren’t stupid. People thought you were, sometimes, because you smiled when it wasn’t required, because you liked pretty things (Paul), because you didn’t say much. But you’d known Paul. You knew Paul. His voice, his walk, the way his eyes always flicked down and to the left when he was lying.
This wasn’t Paul.
This was something with Paul’s shape and voice and mouth, but not his soul. Not the boy you’d carried a torch for since Hamburg. Not the one who’d kissed your cheek once after a gig and never looked at you that way again.
This one did look at you that way.
From the moment you stepped into the room, his eyes dragged across you like molasses. Slow. Heavy. Possessive. You felt it low in your belly, deep in the place that made you ache.
And God, the mustache.
Paul had been clean-cut, always trying to be the nice one. This creature in his skin, had let the softness go. The new growth made his mouth look dangerous. Delicious. Like he’d taste like smoke and secrets.
You should’ve been scared. Or confused.
But you weren’t.
You were curious.
Not afraid. Not shocked. Not even, really, surprised.
The change had been gradual, almost clever. A new mannerism here, a shift in phrasing there. Paul’s hair got longer. His smile changed shape, smaller, less eager to please, less boyish. Then there was the mustache. The one that made you stare the first time you saw it, some ridiculous day in late ‘66. Not because it looked bad, God no! But because it looked… good. Too good. Like a lie told with a wink. Like a costume piece that somehow fit too perfectly.
It scratched at the back of your brain. Like déjà vu in reverse. Like you were remembering something that hadn’t happened yet.
And the thing was, you’d liked Paul. The real Paul. Or the old one. Whatever. You had liked him the way you liked old cinema, or rainy afternoons, wistfully. Tenderly. He’d been nice. Genuinely nice. Charming in a boy-next-door way, almost bashful sometimes. You’d had a quiet crush, one of those ones you carried around like a pebble in your pocket... small, secret, only meaningful to you.
But he’d never looked at you. Not really.
And then this new one had.
Billy walked into the studio one day and looked straight at you like he already knew what you tasted like.
That was the day you stopped pretending nothing was different.
You should’ve been disturbed. Everyone else seemed to be. Or confused, at least. You caught John once, staring at him with an expression you couldn’t read, half boredom, half suspicion. George seemed on edge all the time now, strung tighter than his guitar strings. Even Ringo had started giving little side-eyes when Billy spoke a certain way, like he wasn’t sure if the man sitting beside him was still the one who used to split chips after a gig.
You just watched.
Watched him take up more space. Watched him lean back in his chair like he owned the air in the room. Watched the way his smirk curled different now, more self-assured, more wicked. Watched the way he looked at you.
And you teased him for it.
You couldn’t help it.
At first it was harmless. Casual. He’d walk past and you’d ask, all sugar, “New shoes?” even though they were clearly not. You’d tug the brim of his cap down over his eyes when he got too cocky. You started leaning over the mixing table just a bit too far, letting him see how unbothered you were.
Then you upped the ante.
"Where's the real Paul, then?” you asked him one day, flipping through notes with feigned innocence. “Buried in the garden? Or did you eat him?”
He looked up from tuning his bass, grinned slow. “What d’you mean, love?”
Your heart kicked. Love.
You tilted your head. “Nothing. Just feels like you’ve got more teeth than you used to.”
He chuckled. “I’ve got the same mouth.”
“That’s debatable.”
You walked off before he could respond, knowing he was watching you the whole way.
⸻
You mentioned it to John once, mostly to see what kind of answer you'd get.
You were backstage, John elbow-deep in a bag of crisps, feet kicked up on a flight case. The others were still loading in, and Billy was off somewhere probably charming a reporter or a sound tech or a wall.
“So,” you asked, casually, “when did Paul get replaced?”
John didn’t blink. Didn’t even look at you at first. Just kept chewing.
Then, “You one of those then?”
“What, a conspiracy nut?”
He shrugged. “People say things.”
You watched him. He didn’t seem uncomfortable. Just… unreadable.
“You’re not denying it,” you said.
John popped another crisp in his mouth, sucked the salt off his fingers. “You denying it?”
You smiled. “I didn’t say I minded.”
That made him look at you. Really look.
For a moment, John studied your face like it was something written in a language he only half-remembered. Then he smirked.
“You’re strange.”
“Am I?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Most people’d be upset if someone died and got replaced by some cheeky bastard in a new suit... y'know, if it were true.”
You leaned back in your chair. “Yeah. Most people.”
There was a long pause.
“You alright?” he asked, not in a mocking way.
You shrugged. “Not really.”
John huffed out a laugh. “Fair enough.”
⸻
It got worse, or better, after that.
Billy started turning the screws, and you let him.
He’d catch your eye in the control booth and raise an eyebrow like he could hear your thoughts. He’d stand too close when you passed each other in the halls, hand brushing your back, fingers ghosting your elbow. One time, in a lift, you felt his breath on your neck and didn’t move away. You heard him smile.
It wasn’t subtle.
And you were a bastard about it.
“You ever gonna stop staring at me?” you asked him once, alone in a hallway with peeling green walls and no real lighting.
“Not planning to,” he said, not even pretending to look away.
You grinned. “You know, you used to write about people like me.”
He raised an eyebrow, trying to play off what you just said as a joke. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. People you didn’t shag.”
He laughed, low and slow, and stepped into your space.
“Then I’ll have to be more creative, won’t I?”
Your stomach flipped.
You couldn’t tell if you hated him or wanted to crawl into his lap and lick the smirk off his mouth.
Maybe both, you thought about it late at night.
Not Paul. Not really. But the shape of him. What it meant that something, or someone, could just step in and be him and somehow make it work. Was it still him if it made you want him more? Was that fucked up? Probably. Did you care? Not really. You think you liked this Paul better.
He was sharp where Paul had been smooth. Wicked where Paul had been sweet. He said things that made your skin crawl in the best way, with his tongue in his cheek and his voice like honey left out too long. You wanted to see how far he’d push it. You wanted to push back.
⸻
You were curious still.
And he was getting impatient.
Billy had been walking that tightrope with you for weeks, maybe longer. Each time your eyes lingered too long, each teasing comment you dropped like a lit match into the air between you, he let it burn. He’d been smiling, cocking his head, playing along. But there was something in him now, ticking louder each time you said nothing when he said too much. Each time your gaze held something like suspicion and something like want, and never settled on either. It was as if you knew he wasn't Paul. That was making him uneasy.
He wanted to crack you open and see what you’d do when there were no more games.
He started that night, late again, another studio after-hours moment you had no right to still be awake for. You’d been sitting on the sofa flipping through Paul’s old notebook. The real Paul’s, his, not his. Lyrics, doodles, bits of songs that had never quite grown up. You were humming something under your breath. Something unfinished.
Billy came in, quiet, movements fluid. He’d stopped bothering to knock. You didn’t stop flipping pages when he dropped into the seat beside you.
“You looking for something?” he asked.
You shrugged. “Looking’s not the same as expecting to find anything.”
He leaned back. Watched you.
“Funny,” he murmured. “You poke and prod like you’re digging for a secret, but you don’t ask any real questions.”
“I don’t need to,” you said without looking up.
“No?”
“You’re not trying very hard to hide it.”
That made him go still.
“Hide what, exactly?”
You turned a page. “Whatever it is you are.”
The silence sharpened.
He let out a laugh, low and mean. “You’re really something, y'know that?”
You just raised an eyebrow. Waited.
He leaned forward. “You want me to say it? You want me to admit it, yeah? That I'm a good boy who learned the part well enough that you couldn’t help yourself?”
Your pulse jumped. “I didn’t say I couldn’t help myself.”
“No, but you keep acting like you’re too clever to fall for it.” His eyes burned. “And yet, you’re still here. Still staring at me like you want to fuck the difference out of me.”
Your throat tightened.
“I never said-”
“You never said anything!” he interrupted. “That’s the problem. You just let me hang there. Let me talk circles around it while you play innocent and clever.”
He shifted closer. You could feel the heat of him, even through the tension crackling in your limbs.
“Maybe I am him,” he whispered, voice like warm breath behind your ear. “Maybe I’m not. You think it matters now?”
Your hand curled around the edge of the notebook. “Why does it matter so much to you?”
“Because you look at me like I’m something cracked open,” he said, eyes gleaming. “Like you want to crawl inside and see what’s left. And I keep waiting for the disgust. For the oh God what have I done. But it’s not coming, is it?”
He reached out, his fingers brushing your jaw, gentle but insistent.
“You like this,” he said. “You like me. Not because I’m a ghost of something you used to love. But because I’m not. Because I see you.”
You swallowed.
“And what do you see?”
His smile was slow, dangerous. “Someone who’s too smart to pretend they’re confused.”
You licked your lips. “You’re very sure of yourself.”
He leaned in.
But it wasn’t soft.
There was nothing delicate about the way his mouth dragged across yours. It wasn’t a kiss, it was a claim, the kind people made when they had something to prove and something to lose. You didn’t gasp prettily. You didn’t melt. You bit his lip. Not hard enough to bleed, but hard enough to say, you don’t get to be in control here.
He tasted like ego. Like something borrowed, something stolen. His hands found your waist like he was trying to memorize the shape of you under pressure, but you pushed back just as fiercely, nails dragging up his arms through his shirt, marking the fabric. If he wanted to pretend he was Paul, you’d make sure he walked out with bruises that weren’t his.
“Christ,” he muttered against your mouth, voice already ragged. “You’re nasty when you want to be.”
“You want sweet?” you said. “Dig up the last one.”
That made him laugh, a sharp, breathless sound that sounded too much like victory. His hand closed around your throat, not squeezing, just holding. His thumb traced your pulse like he was clocking the moment you gave in. You hadn’t.
Yet.
“Keep talking like that,” he said low, close, “and I’ll make sure you choke on my name. Whichever one you pick.”
You shoved him, hard, enough to rattle him back against the couch. He didn’t fall. Just smirked, smug and crooked.
“You like pretending you’re in charge, don't you?” you said, sliding into his lap like you had every right to be there.
His jaw flexed. Your weight in his lap told you exactly how much it had worked.
“You talk like you haven’t been thinking about this every night for weeks,” he said. “All your clever little digs... just a desperate way of saying please fuck me, I don’t care who you are.”
“Wrong!” you said, hands on either side of his face. “It’s I know exactly who you are. And I want you anyway.”
That did something. His fingers dug into your hips like he’d just realized they were real. That you were real. That this wasn’t a game anymore.
“Prove it,” he said.
You ground down, just once, just enough to make his breath catch.
“I’m already letting you breathe,” you whispered. “How much more proof do you need?”
And then you kissed him again, harder this time. With teeth. With intention.
He made a sound against your mouth, half startled, half amused, like you’d finally proved him right. His hands dragged up your back, rough through the fabric, not looking for comfort, just for contact. You bit at his lower lip again and he swore into your mouth, fingers tightening like he might leave prints.
“Not shy now, are you?” he murmured when he pulled back, just far enough to breathe. His voice was hoarse, nearly wrecked already.
You reached between you without ceremony, slipping your hand past his waistband, palming him through the front of his trousers with all the tenderness of a punch.
He jerked a little, hissed, and grinned like a bastard.
“Oh, bloody hell-you’re not even pretending, are you!?”
You leaned in, teeth grazing the corner of his jaw. “Wouldn’t know how.”
He caught your wrist, not to stop you, he guided you instead, like he wanted to feel every inch of your hand over him, deliberate and mean. His breath stuttered. His cock was already heavy under your touch, warm through the fabric, twitching each time your grip shifted.
His eyes had dropped, were watching your hand now, dragging slow up and down the line of him. His hips lifted, greedy for friction, but you eased off just enough to make him groan.
“Tease,” he breathed.
You smiled, voice steady. “Loser.”
And then he moved. Fast. No warning. His hands were on your shoulders, grip iron-rough, shoving you back onto the couch in a single fluid motion, your body bouncing once, breath punched out of you as he leaned over, pinning you down with his weight and that look in his eye like there you are. That wicked, wild, I’ve got you now glint.
He hovered above you, one forearm pressed to the cushion beside your head, the other hand curled just under your jaw, firm but not cruel, just enough to remind you who was on top now.
He kissed you again then, hard and dragging, all tongue and teeth and noise. His hips sank down into yours, and you felt the hot press of him against you, not coy anymore, not half-hard and aching but ready, and you arched into it without thinking, a low, involuntary noise pulling from your throat like it had been waiting to be let out.
He ground into you once, deliberately, and smiled when you whimpered into his mouth.
Then he was everywhere.
Hands under your shirt, dragging the fabric up, nails grazing skin. He didn’t ask. He didn’t need to ask. You were already lifting your arms, letting him peel it off, watching his face as he took you in, eyes dropping, lips parted, that sharp glint turning something almost reverent for a flicker of a second.
And then it was gone again, his mouth was on your throat, open and wet, sucking a mark into the curve just below your ear, like he wanted to brand you.
“Keep still,” he muttered, biting just lightly. “I want this to stay.”
You shuddered.
His hand dragged down, fingers rough through the cotton of your shirt, over your stomach, and when he reached the waistband of your pants he didn’t pause. The button popped with a practiced flick, zipper tugged slow like he wanted you to feel every tooth peel apart. Your breath hitched. He leaned back enough to look, to watch as he tugged them down, your hips lifting, cooperating without shame. He peeled them off with your underwear in one motion, dragged them down past your thighs, baring you inch by inch, like unwrapping something already half-melted in his hand.
Then his fingers were there.
Two of them, tracing through your slick with a filthy kind of reverence, like he liked what you’d done to yourself just thinking about him. He circled your entrance slow, teasing the rim, not pushing yet, watching your face the whole time. Your hips bucked, greedy, and that made him grin, dark and smug.
Your breath stuttered. He was watching you too closely now, like he wanted to see the exact second your defiance turned to desperation.
It didn’t take long.
He pulled his fingers out and dragged them across your tongue before you could argue. You sucked them in anyway, eyes locked on his. His pupils flared.
He swore under his breath.
Then he was undoing his trousers, fumbling them low enough, shifting to line himself up, and you felt the hot weight of him at your entrance, the head dragging slow through your slick, teasing but not quite, he wanted you to beg.
You didn’t. Not out loud. But your body did. And he knew it.
He pushed in slow, watching your face the whole time.
When he bottomed out, you gasped, high, caught, and his expression turned animal. His hips snapped forward again, sharp this time, and you cried out.
And then he really started. The rhythm was brutal, nothing delicate, nothing sweet. Just need-his hips slamming into yours, hands gripping your thighs to keep them spread, jaw clenched as he drove deeper each time. You were writhing beneath him, every breath punched out on the end of a thrust, pleasure curling tight in your gut.
He reached up, grabbed your wrists, pinned them above your head with one hand.
“Keep them there,” he growled. “Be good.”
You nodded, biting your lip, and he leaned in to kiss you again, sloppier now, breathless, desperate. You kissed back like you were trying to take something from him, like you were trying to swallow whatever was left of Paul down and replace it with this.
You felt him press deeper, almost too much, and then he stayed there. Just ground in, thick and hot, pulsing faint against your walls while his breath went shaky near your ear.
But he didn’t finish. Didn’t even move.
He held you in place with one hand splayed over your lower stomach, the other still wrapped around your wrists where they were pinned above your head. His chest pressed against yours, heartbeat wild but slowing, like he was forcing himself to stop.
His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke. “Not yet.”
Your head turned toward him slightly. “You’re gonna hold out now?”
He kissed the corner of your jaw, open-mouthed and warm. “Didn’t drag this out just to come like some teenager. You want it quick, I’ll leave and send you the other one.”
Your legs flexed around his hips on instinct, trying to pull him back in, but he’d already started moving, slow now, deliberately so. Deep, dragging strokes that had your whole body shivering under the weight of him. Every roll of his hips hit that spot, precise, devastating. You cursed low, hands twitching in his grip.
“You’re, God, doing it on purpose-”
“’Course I am,” he murmured, licking into your neck between words. “You make me wait, make me talk in circles, least I can do is make you sweat.”
He twisted his hips at the end of one stroke, and your eyes nearly rolled back.
“That’s the spot,” he said, smug but breathless. “Knew it’d shut you up.”
You made a strangled sound, part whimper, part curse. He kissed your throat in apology and did it again, slower this time. You felt your toes curl, stomach coil.
“Feel you clenchin’ already,” he said, teeth grazing your jaw. “Gonna come, aren’t you?”
You nodded before you meant to. He grinned against your skin.
And then he started to ruin you properly.
He shifted up onto his knees, hands catching your thighs and pulling your hips forward till they hung off the couch. The new angle hit deeper, ruthless. You cried out, head thrown back, heels digging into the cushions for leverage. He rolled his hips with measured force, dragging out every inch until it felt like too much, then pushing back in with a single, maddening thrust that made your chest arch.
Your hands found his shoulders, then his face, then his neck, anywhere you could touch, anything to keep yourself anchored. He felt good, not just physically, real. Present. Not a shadow of someone else, not a question mark with a smile.
You tugged him back down onto you, and it wasn’t pretty this time. It was open, panting, clumsy, his hips still moving in those long, brutal strokes while his mouth caught yours again and again.
Your thighs started to tremble. He felt it, groaned against your mouth.
“There it is,” he breathed, fucking you harder now, finally.
Your body snapped taut, everything clenched around him, pleasure cresting fast, hard, your second orgasm slamming through you before you could brace for it. You sobbed against his mouth, hands fisting in his hair as he rutted through it.
“Yes, that’s it, just like that, good-”
He barely finished the sentence before he lost it too.
You felt him go still. His hips buried deep, his whole body shaking as he spilled inside you, moaning low and wrecked, his head tucked against your throat. He thrust once more, slower, a final twitch of his hips as the tension broke. Then stillness, just breathing, heavy and ragged.
His body sagged down onto yours, weight comforting. His breath hit your collarbone in hot bursts. You curled a hand into his hair, not to guide him, just to keep him. You felt his mustache brush your skin again, lazy and soft now, the cocky edge stripped out of him like someone had wrung it from his spine.
After a long moment, he finally spoke.
Voice raw. Quiet.
“…Still think I’m pretending?”
You blinked up at the ceiling.
Then: “You’re not him.”
His shoulders stiffened faintly.
You slid your fingers up the back of his neck.
“But you’re something.”
He was silent for a moment. Then nodded.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “Yeah, I think I am.”
You didn’t move. Neither did he.
The room was quiet, save for the slow, wet rhythm of your heartbeats returning to something human.
Whatever he was now, whoever he was, you had him.
And he had you.
taglist: @sharksausages, @wavvytin, @wimpyvamps, @finallyforgotten, @lennongirlieee, @alanangels
