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It had taken Paddy Mayne a good deal of time in his younger years to come to terms with the fact that he enjoyed the feeling of another man’s cock in his arse. He was entirely aware that it wasn't what a man should want, what it singled him out as, but it made no difference. His desires were just another of the many aspects of his person that he held no control over. His little corner of Newtownards was too small to hide in—himself, too well known—should these acts ever be uncovered, so he did his dealings in Belfast, or even Dublin, sometimes. There was hardly time to get into a fight over religion with a prick on one's tongue, after all.
When the war first hit, he’d just barely learned the art of holding back his fists long enough to allow whichever poor sap had held his gaze a little too long in the parks at night close enough to touch his skin—to reach into his trousers and take him in his mouth, fingers slipping down toward his fundament. It had always felt dirty to him, back then. Perhaps that was the appeal, really. Still, he had come to begrudgingly accept that, sometimes, it was worth letting go of his better judgement and allowing himself to be manhandled over a toilet bowl in some filthy cubicle, if—and only if—it would gain him that distinct pleasure as such could only be achieved when some stranger reached inside of him.
It was a unique sensation, for one as obtrusive and hostile as one Robert Blair Mayne, to force his body into what might be considered by some as a submissive state, and to feel such fulfilment from it. He could never quite come to terms with what it was about the experience that gave him such satisfaction. While not quite regret, a certain sense of disgust succeeded each one of these encounters, sitting heavy in his stomach like spoiled food. The filth of it all was undeniable—but Paddy had been raised with the belief that all the best games required a little blood on one's knees and a little mud on one's face. He took this churning in his guts to be much the same feeling as might result from the sight of a dead sheep rotting in the field—foul, discomforting, but not unnatural, and curiously fascinating. Just as it may be seen as wrong, but ultimately harmless, to sit, prodding at a carcass with a stick, watching the maggots squirm between its bones, was it not harmless to indulge these base desires of the flesh that so repulsed the masses?
In Egypt, Eoin had given him an entirely new perspective on the whole affair. There was, if not poetry, then a sense of irony in the fact that it had taken the threat of such great destruction for Paddy to learn that there was more to male-on-male intimacy than cocks and arses and Sodom and Gomorrah. In the foul swamp of aggression and virility that was the army, Paddy had unearthed the rare jewel of genuine love. While equally plagued by past threats and warnings thrown down like prison cells from pulpits on high, Eoin had been gentle.
It was not a physical gentleness, so to speak, for he could be as rough as any Dublin stranger when Paddy wanted him to, but something intangible, spiritual. He saw Paddy, not as a madman, but simply as a soul, tender and tormented. He treated Paddy as though he were precious—taking the wild dog in his hands and pressing his lips to its fur with a soft smile. Eoin could reach that spot inside Paddy with ease and precision, even when their bodies were apart. To touch was no longer a sinister, morbid craving, for which one must live like Mr. Hyde under the cover of night. With Eoin, it became clear to Paddy that the shameful enjoyment he derived from men extended beyond their nether regions—and that it could instill in him an emotion so far removed from that shame that he began to develop a wrathful hatred of those who would call it so.
Lying beside Eoin’s body, half-buried in the sand, that wrath had grown; wrath at David, at GHQ, at Winston fucking Churchill—but, most of all, at himself, and at God. Love was real, but fate was cruel, and death was inevitable. 'Memento mori', he found himself thinking. A ridiculous phrase, really; after all, how could one forget? Besides, Eoin had never been afraid of dying. Even as he’d laid awake all night, shaking in Paddy's arms, terrified of eternal damnation for the acts he’d committed, he’d never once flinched at the prospect of hell’s primary entry requirement. Paddy remembered those nights with a conflicted fondness, now. How naïve they had both been! From that point on, every air strip he decimated, every river of blood he forged into the desert, every bomb detonated, had been in Eoin's name—never mind the fact that Eoin would never have wanted to be memorialised with such violence. Dead Jerries, aye, he enjoyed them as much as any soldier—but Paddy's own self-destruction, not so much.
Yet, self-destruct, he did. With each passing day at Jalo, Paddy lost his love again and again and again. He lost Eoin that first night, alone in his tent, finding shame in comfort and comfort in shame once more, as his own hand carried out the work that Eoin's could not. He lost Eoin again, sleeping out in the dunes, having failed to find the one remaining piece of him, no matter how he tried to reassure himself that his body was not him. He lost Eoin a final time, at the end of David's cruel, immaterial knife, cutting through his grief like a weathered length of rope. He still felt the burn from the noose it had become, as he reluctantly stepped down from the gallows and turned his thoughts to victory, whatever the cost. Death could come later. Death would come later.
Paddy hadn’t let another man touch him softly since. The only contact he required was that of a fist into a jaw—only teeth and blood and broken bones. Such intimacy was what landed him back in prison, so long after David had opened his cage with the promise of a new regiment. David wasn’t around, anymore, though. With his master rotting away somewhere in Italy, GHQ had handed the dog his own leash and expected him to continue wagging his tail for them. Well, he had tried—and then, they fucked up. It was only a matter of time before he ended up behind bars again. People will fawn and coo over a stray, right up until it bites into their hand, digging into flesh and grazing bone. Paddy bit hard. Paddy was rabid.
It was languishing in that cell that he first met his absent master’s brother. Another upright toff with a stupid English accent and even worse ideas about propriety and regulation, Paddy hated him instantly. Worst of all, though, was his scent—not a physical odour or sense, so to speak, but his entire air. He was David’s brother, but he didn’t look like him. He didn’t smell like him. David had been fucking infuriating, but remarkably like himself, as much as it pained him to admit it. This other Stirling, though, was an entirely different creature. There was no sweat, no blood, no filth to him. There was certainly no sand under his foreskin. He looked and acted like a thoroughbred horse, preening in its stable, surrounded by medals and trophies and his own horse shit, entirely unaware of the way it stunk. The only dirt that seemed to cling to his spotless, pressed uniform was the undeniable reek of shame. God, was Paddy tired of shame.
“Always trust the judgement of a dog,” Fraser had said, upon Lieutenant Colonel Stirling's introduction to the men, and Paddy found himself inclined to agree with the lad. He often did, these days—though he’d never tell him that. Fraser’s incessant animosity toward him had led to an odd sense of rivalry between the pair that had only grown since Paddy had taken the reins of the SAS, but his judgement remained some of the soundest among them. While sound judgement was often a rather isolating trait to have in their regiment of madmen, for Fraser and Withers to both sense something unpleasant about their new liaison was still rather vindicating for Paddy. They saw things through the same lens, it seemed—in more ways than one.
When had it all changed, then, that Paddy should end up in Termoli, with that familiar burn, once again, coursing through his spread thighs? Lower jaw hanging slack as his mouth gaped, brows knitted and cheek pressed up against the rough brick wall of the alleyway he had found himself in, he let out a stifled groan at the deluge of sensation overtaking his body. A delightful pressure held firm at the base of his spine, originating from a lithe hand braced upon his nape, its long fingers tangling in his hair and ghosting over his earlobe.
“I must be insane,” he heard Bill mumble to himself.
Paddy let out a chuckle. “Oh, you're sane, alright. This is just you saying, ‘fuck it,'” he answered, voice low, “and taking a swing.”
From the very first moment they'd met, in that dank, dismal cell, that swing had been winding itself up in anticipation. Perhaps the real question was, why had it taken so long for it to make contact?
Despite holding fast in his belief that he would not survive the war, there had been few moments in which Paddy had truly felt, 'Ah. So, this is where I die.' Squatting behind that barricade, though, with even the unshakeable Jock McDiarmid reduced to half his usual size, the thought had struck him. Not only was he going to die—but, for the first time, he did not entirely want to. He wanted to see Eoin—by God, he wanted to see Eoin—but a part of him knew that that would simply never be. If death had come for him in the desert, he surely would have welcomed it with little hesitation. They were a long way from the desert, now, though.
"I'll fight, but not surrender," he sang, voice steady while his grip trembled about his weapon. "I'll fight, but not surrender."
Another cavalcade of violence erupted after that, in some kind of last, explosive hoorah. Then, it happened. One Panzer went up in flames with a deafening bang, and then another. Reinforcements had arrived, and they—those still alive, at least—were saved. It was a remarkably strange experience, to anticipate death—accepting it to the best of one's ability, all within the short timeframe of a few raging minutes—only to find out that life would continue for another day, after all. After that first tank exploded, Johnny's frantic, elated cries of, "Bazookas, Paddy! 2SAS!" sounding from across the square, it was all Paddy could do to stare blankly at the carnage, incapable of joining in with the celebratory hollers of his men. His voice had been spent, screaming in desperate determination as he mowed down men with a rain of fire and bullets. No, Paddy made no joyous exclamation, nor any witty, cutting remark, but only stood, utterly empty, for one, brief moment.
Paddy, then, felt an entirely new emotion towards that insufferable prick known as Bill Stirling. Rage, certainly—for stealing his unit's name, its motto, its freedom, its thunder—and yet, beneath it all, bubbled the undeniable warmth of gratitude. For a brief moment, he felt hope. If he began to respect the elder Stirling, even just the tiniest bit more, from then on, he'd never tell.
This newfound, silent respect was tested, momentarily, at dinner, but no punches were thrown, verbal or otherwise. Bill seemed more irritated by Paddy than Paddy was by him—as had become increasingly the case, lately—and a part of him revelled in it. Something had changed between them that day; that much was certain. There had been flickers of it before, in the form of fruitless olive branches and invitations to conversation over wine, but never had Bill made himself so obvious as he did with his outbursts of concern, slamming the table, voice raised, as he choked out warning after warning.
It became clear, then, that Bill feared for Paddy's life, and he feared desperately. Had they been friends, it would not have been such damning evidence of Paddy's longstanding suspicion that something deeper resided beneath the man's constant frustration with him—but friends, they were not. 'I've seen you, Bill Stirling,' Paddy thought, catching his gaze. From the conflicted glare he'd received in response, Paddy knew that he had, in turn, been heard.
Wandering the streets, later that night, Paddy's thoughts lingered on the expressions of the men as he'd given them the revelation of their fates, should they be captured. Most were too drunk to appreciate the severity of those words, but it did not matter. They knew—and when morning came, they would not forget.
"Surrender is no longer an option for the SAS. Fight or die."
Bill's words from that evening swam in Paddy's head like a shark, following the scent of blood in the water. When he'd asked if he were a monster, neither Bill nor Eve had answered. It wasn't as though he felt he could truly disagree with the sentiment, but it still didn't sit right with him. Who was left to remind him, though, that he was a poet? What was left, but to become a devil? Perhaps it was time to finally embrace that most devilish side of himself. After all, what guidance had the Lord ever given him on this campaign, besides that of a cross hung about a soldier's neck, pointing down, like the needle of a compass, to the space on the ground between his legs? In all his time spent being thrown behind enemy lines, being told to 'Go, kill, return, go again,' Paddy had never followed such reckless directions as those which God seemed to be presenting him with now. Then again, perhaps it was time he gave a chance to some of that blind faith that Almonds always seemed to be raving about. Had Bill, himself, not entrusted Paddy's mortal soul to the man?
It was hard not to see it as a sign that his aimless wandering landed him back outside their makeshift barracks, having apparently walked in no more than a large circle around the nearby streets. With little better to do, Paddy slumped down on the steps and pulled out a cigarette. Lighting it quickly, he watched the bright, orange glow as it burned for a moment, before taking a drag and shaking away the long-dormant, yet omnipresent desire to press it to his wrist.
A faint breeze rushed past him and carried with it the distant, muffled jubilation of the men still drinking in the mess. Paddy couldn't hold back the small smile that crept onto his lips at the familiar sound—unintelligible shouts of Scots and Scouse—then grimaced again at the one voice he knew was surely missing from the fray. For the time being, at least, it seemed that Reggie would remain another friend lost to the war. It was nice, though, to hear the others so happy, after so long—even if it was only thanks to the drink. Every celebration seemed tinged with that dark undertone of regret and horror, now. He knew that his men were all falling victim to a fate he'd never wish on anyone; they were turning into him.
Whether the Colonel had been watching from a window above, or whether it was another convenient coincidence that he decided to take some air at that exact moment was anyone's guess. As it was, though, Stirling emerged out into the night behind Paddy and paused at the sight of his broad back in the moonlight. Before he could begin struggling for words or clear his throat to announce himself, Paddy turned to catch a look at whoever had decided to interrupt his peace and broke the silence for him.
"Something you want to say to me, Stirling?"
Bill took a deep breath, sighed softly, then strode over and sat himself beside the other man. "You are…" he began, as though their previous conversation had been mere minutes ago, as opposed to hours, "an effective soldier."
Paddy barked out a laugh at that, bitter and self-deprecating. "Effective soldier," he repeated, in slight disbelief. "An effective fucking soldier." A beat passed in which neither spoke. Paddy took another long, sighing drag from his cigarette and threw his head back to take in the sight of the bright smattering of stars across a deep, inky sky, before finally adding, "So, you do think I'm a monster."
The uncomfortable, quiet swallow that Bill gave in response was enough of an answer to make up for his lack of words.
Shooting the sky a sneer at his own expense, Paddy fell back on the one thing left that he knew he could still rely upon to make sense of the incomprehensible, and began to quote, "And thus the pious wolf begins: / Good father, I must own with shame / That often I have been to blame:"
"Is now really the time for poetry, Mayne?" Bill interrupted with a sigh.
Paddy cut back in and continued, undeterred, voice raised in disapproval, "I must confess, on Friday last, / Wretch that I was! I broke my fast:"
Clearly knowing that Paddy had no intention to cease until the verse was complete, Bill gave in and shut up. Sitting back, quietly, he accepted the words being thrown at him and allowed them in—hearing, if not listening.
"But I defy the basest tongue / To prove I did my neighbour wrong; / Or ever went to seek my food / By rapine, theft, or thirst of blood."
As Paddy's recital came to an end, voice trailing off as he let the words linger in the air between them, the pair sat in silent, mutual contemplation.
"Do I sense satire in there?" Bill asked, intending it as some kind of weak joke, but coming out with a surprising air of caution, as though a student afraid of raising his hand and giving the wrong answer.
"Well, it wouldn't be my place to tell you," Paddy answered, with only a hint of mischief, as opposed to his usual outright mockery. "No, I'll not tell anyone what to make of poetry, me. If you hear satire, then satire, it is."
Bill turned the thought over in his mind for a moment. "Here, I thought humour had all but abandoned you, today."
"Me? No, humour could never leave me be," Paddy retorted, sounding more exhausted by the fact than amused, before adding, "Aye, what's funnier than almost getting blown to bits by an entire fucking panzer division?"
"Finding out you're top of Hitler's personal hit list is up there, I'd wager," Bill shot back, a reluctant grin tugging at his lips.
Before he could help it, Paddy's own mouth had broken into a smile again, just wide enough to bare his uneven teeth. "Ah, some fuckin' craic that is, eh?"
In the silence that followed, gentler now than the sharp tension they'd grown accustomed to around one another, the very air surrounding them seemed to shift, and Paddy was certain that Bill felt it too. The urge to reach out grew tenfold over the course of a split second—to reach out, to touch, to hold—the desire washing over Paddy like a long suppressed tidal wave of longing. Why there, why then, why him, Paddy neither knew nor cared. There was only that deep, churning sickness in his stomach that he'd come to understand as the feeling of wanting. He wanted Bill Stirling.
"I defy the basest tongue," he repeated, more for his own sake than his companion's. "Still… pious as one may be, in this here hypothetical, I'll not deny that I am, indeed, a wolf."
Beside him, Bill let out a soft snort, which Paddy could only assume was in agreement. Not a monster, then, it seemed—just a dog.
"If I be a beast, let me be beastly." Clapping his thighs, Paddy shot to his feet and gestured for Bill to do the same. "Come, I've yet to show my appreciation for your bazookas."
Clambering up, with far less vigour than his younger companion, Bill raised an inquisitive eyebrow and gently shook his head—in disapproval, but not refusal. "I dread to think what your 'appreciation' entails," he muttered beneath his breath, but made no other protest as he approached.
It was clear enough from the casual nonchalance with which Bill stepped forward that he merely expected to be dragged along to some kind of frantic, rum-fueled sing-song with the SAS boys. What he had not anticipated, however, was Paddy Mayne grabbing his wrist—taking advantage of the split-second of shock that followed the brief physical touch to press him up against the nearest wall—then pulling him down into the most brutal, rampant kiss that he had ever tasted.
Stunned for a few moments, Bill's expression remained one of blank confusion when Paddy finally pulled back to stare at him. Eventually, after an endless second, the Lieutenant Colonel managed to stutter out a quiet, little, "Goodness."
With a half-roll of his eyes and a click of his tongue, Paddy softly griped in response, "How did I just fuckin' know you were gonna say that?"
Ignoring the jab, Bill simply stood there, mouth agape. "I… I…" he mumbled, entirely lost for words.
Paddy placed his hands firmly upon Bill's shoulders, staring him dead in the eyes as he offered the ultimatum: "Unless you intend to push me away and pretend this never happened, I'm going to kindly ask that you shut the fuck up for a minute while I see to you."
"See to—?" Bill began, but was swiftly interrupted by the enticing sight of a particularly exasperated Paddy growing tired of his fumbling and dropping to his knees.
Opening Bill's trousers with ease, the lack of retaliation from his superior did not go unnoticed by Paddy, as he yanked them down about his thighs and palmed his growing erection through his underwear.
Scanning the area in apprehension, Bill came to the realisation that the spot they'd found themselves in was surprisingly well-hidden, blocked from view by the terraces on either side, shading them entirely from the moon's voyeuristic glow. It struck him, then, as his gaze lowered back to the man kneeling before him, that this may not have been as spontaneous an encounter as it had first appeared to be. From his spot on the ground, Paddy stared back up in curious expectation, as though waiting for some kind of signal. It was hardly a difficult choice—the grip between his thighs already driving him half mad with want—and so, with a quick, desperate nod of his head, Bill gave the order.
Without another word, Paddy pulled out Bill's cock and began to carefully inspect it, like the barrel of a loaded gun. It should have come as no surprise, then, that he seemed so eager to take it between his lips and pull the trigger. Spittle hanging from his chin, Paddy made good on the promise in his eyes and licked a wet stripe from base to tip, teasing the head with gentle, circling ministrations from his tongue.
Harder still, Bill nearly passed out at the sight. "Lord above…"
"There's a joke in there, somewhere," Paddy observed, deadpan, but for a small, hardly noticeable twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Bill watched on, red-faced and rapt, as the man below him opened up and began to suck the length down into his throat. Tentatively, as though he expected it to be swiftly brushed aside with a snarl, he reached out a hand to clasp the back of Paddy's head. To his surprise, however, Paddy returned the gesture by placing his own hand atop Bill's, urging him to grip harder, while nuzzling lightly into the touch.
"Oh," Bill gasped, clawing at Paddy's scalp as his cock disappeared between those perfect lips, "oh!"
Those stuttered moans alone served well enough to spur Paddy on, if only to see what further noises he could wring from him. Taking him in deeper, he let the member probe at the opening to the passage beyond, allowing only the very tip past into the intense, constrictive heat of his pharynx. It was enough to make him splutter, drooling around Bill's prick with the hint of a tear in one eye.
Upon Paddy's tongue, the flesh tasted of very little, besides the faint, inescapable saltiness of sweat—thanks, in equal parts, to the humid, Italian night, and the burn of arousal. Even freshly washed and smelling of lavender soap, there was a natural sort of nakedness to Bill's scent, free from the overbearing, aromatic citrus aftershave that Paddy had noted, with great disrespect, on a number of occasions prior. Each inhalation sent another wave of that familiar, heady musk into Paddy's airways, and he gulped it down like a man starved. It had been too long, now, since he'd last been able to grow lightheaded and limp while making use of his mouth for another man's pleasure.
Bill's hips held fast in place, afraid to move for fear of offending the famously mad, rabid fucker whose teeth were currently encircling his manhood. Paddy wanted to tell him not to be so pathetically scared of it all, but couldn't bring himself to pull away. Letting his gaze trail over the light patch of fur crawling up Bill's lower stomach, he took in each sliver of exposed skin, from bare forearms to sharp collarbones, adorned with that taunting golden crucifix, before locking eyes through his damp lashes.
This sight alone—Paddy's red face wet with spit and sweat and tears, as his jaw stretched wide to accommodate Bill's prick—was enough, apparently, to send Bill shooting off without warning. Painting the walls of Paddy's mouth with his spend, his grip grew harsh, white knuckles buried in Paddy's hair, as he trembled with the force of his release.
"Good heavens," he uttered, softly, catching a glimpse of milky white spit spilling from the corner of Paddy's lips. "Oh, sweet Christ," he then added, as Paddy's narrow tongue flicked out to lap up the stray droplet.
Paddy neither spat nor swallowed, but, instead, rose to his feet and dropped his trousers. Bracing himself against the wall, he then opened his mouth and let it dribble out onto his palm, before dragging that same hand down between his arsecheeks and beginning to slick up the entrance within.
"What are you doing?" Bill asked, eyes still affixed to the scene before him, then flashed his regret for having asked upon his face with a twisted grimace.
"What does it look like I'm doing?" Paddy countered, plainly. "Didn't think I was going to let you have all the fun to yourself, did you?"
Bill gulped heavily at Paddy's words and approached, cautious, from behind, reaching out a shaky hand to caress the younger officer's hand where it rested on the wall.
"Ah, you're on the right track," Paddy cooed, moaning lightly and chewing on his lower lip, as he slowly pressed a slick finger into himself.
Taken aback by the soft, high pitch of the sound, a feverish rush of thirst shot through Bill's body, leaving him sweating and shaking, almost gasping with desire. His hand trailed down Paddy's arm, then his back, lingering above his arse, then daring lower and taking up the space beside Paddy's own.
"Go on then, sunshine," Paddy teased. "Don't be shy."
Gritting his teeth, Bill grabbed Paddy's wrist and snapped it up to join his other hand, pinning them against the wall. Paddy's ensuing laugh was gentle, yet punctuated by an undeniable edge of danger. Bill didn't mistake it for anything but the threat it was—they both knew full well that Paddy could fight him off if he wanted to—but neither showed any signs of moving. Chest pressed flat against Paddy's back, Bill huffed raggedly into the crook of his neck, his tense jaw hovering over the exposed collar below, as though holding back the urge to bite.
Paddy twisted his head to look back over his shoulder at the man behind him, their eyes meeting for a second, as he took Bill's quivering lip between his own teeth and showed no such restraint, biting down just lightly enough not to draw blood. Groaning into the almost-kiss, Bill shuddered something violent for a second, before Paddy pulled away, rolling his hips back into Bill's.
"Would you look at that?" Paddy quipped, eyes dark with lust. "You're hard again."
Even Bill seemed a little shocked by the revelation at first—given that he hadn't been able to call himself young for quite some time, now—but the maddening, electrifying realisation that he may, genuinely, be about to sodomise the infamous Paddy Mayne was more than enough to aid his recovery. Unable to deny them any longer, he let his urges consume him and cocked his head in challenge. "It appears I am. What's it to you?" he murmured, voice no more than a soft purr into Paddy's ear.
"Well, you see," Paddy drawled, his own breath growing rough with anticipation, "I was very much hoping you'd take that fine prick of yours—" for it was as fine a prick as Paddy had ever seen, much to his chagrin— "and put it to good use for once."
"You really want to…" Bill began, stuttering with a thrilled sort of nervousness, unable to find the words he sought. "You want to go that far? Here?"
Flexing against Bill's grip, Paddy began to grind back against the cock resting in the cleft of his arse and let out a gentle laugh. "Oh, aye. I don't do things halfway, me."
Releasing Paddy's wrists, Bill slid his hands back down his arms, taking in the sensation of those firm, sculpted shoulders beneath his fingertips, before dropping further and settling on the exposed skin of his trim waist, where his undershirt had ridden up. "Oh?" he asked, failing to fully mask his bashfulness beneath his smug, goading tone.
"If you're trying to get me to beg—"
"Would you?" Bill asked, breathless and earnest, hardly bothering to conceal the hint of hope in his voice.
"Get to fuck," Paddy chuckled back, trying not to dwell too much on the split-second 'please' that crossed his mind.
Bill, however, merely took this as an instruction, and got to fucking. Slipping the head inside, gentle but insistent, he let out a deep, guttural groan as Paddy slowly enveloped him. Pushing deeper, he let his chest rest against Paddy's back, burning from the searing heat of his skin, even through all the layers of uniform between them.
Paddy hung his head, breath hitching in his throat, and hissed, "Oh, fuck."
It was as though their every interaction had been leading up to this moment—Bill's hand grasping Paddy's skull and pressing his face into the wall, as they both grunted and sighed in muffled pleasure at the feeling of one another’s bodies, at long last.
"I must be insane," Bill mumbled, and Paddy could only laugh.
“Oh, you're sane, alright," he murmured, rough and deep, teeth gritted, as Bill continued shoving his way inside. "This is just you saying, ‘fuck it,' and taking a swing.”
The pressure came in waves, like the pulse thrumming past his ears, as his body stretched and loosened with each further inch. It was tighter than he'd have initially liked, but there was something surprisingly pleasant about the shock—the sheer intensity of it all—that served to silence the cyclone in Paddy's mind and leave nothing but the feeling of warmth and fullness inside. When Bill's hips finally aligned with his own, their bodies pressed flat against one another, he couldn't hold back the cry building in his chest—a harsh, rasping, rather pitiful sound that reverberated between their two, interlocking frames like a shiver.
Behind him, Bill physically trembled. Whether it was in fear or frenzy, Paddy could not tell. Likely, it was simply a result of his every muscle tensing like a tightly strung bow, shuddering as it neared the point of either shooting or snapping. Not for the first time, Paddy found himself thinking, 'Oh, I'd fucking love to see 'snap'.'
"Christ, you—" Bill hissed, before drowning himself out with his own moan and interrupting his train of thought to the point that he began to question himself. "Why the fuck are we—" he paused, then corrected himself, "Why the fuck am I doing this?"
Paddy scoffed a little at the pedantry and steadied himself against the wall, inhaling deeply as he adjusted to the burn and began to rock his hips back in invitation. "For the very same reason you've forsaken that massive fucking bedroom you've commandeered for yourself up there, in favour of taking me outside in this here alleyway," he stated, between the occasional stuttered sigh or hiss whenever Bill hit the spot, just right.
With a sudden, hard thrust, Bill tightened his grip and grunted. "You started this."
Paddy's soft whine trailed off into another little laugh, before retorting, "I gave you a choice, and you did not resist." Gasping, as Bill slowly retracted, almost to the tip, he steeled himself in anticipation of what was to follow, but didn't let it put a stop to his monologuing. "See, what you want is control—and, at this very moment, you wish to control me. A part of you wants, desperately, to believe in the animal notion that to mount is to dominate. Even though I, myself, quite clearly do not subscribe to this notion—and have practically handed you this opportunity on a silver platter—you still think that if you fuck me hard enough, it might make you feel like my superior, for the first time in your dull, little career."
What he did not say aloud was, 'And if you can control me—laud your power over me like the spoilt laird you are—you will not have to admit that you care for me. Well, we shall see what Fionn mac has to say about that.'
Bill waited until the analysis of his character reached a conclusion before giving what they were both waiting for and slamming back in. If he was aware that the action only served to prove Paddy's point, he chose not to acknowledge it. "You speak as though you know me," he argued, twitching in satisfaction at the choked whimper he managed to drag from Paddy's throat.
"Oh, I know you, Bill Stirling," Paddy sang, voice gravelly from use. "I know you well." Reaching back, he pulled Bill's head in close to his own, and turned to whisper in his ear. "I know the way your eyes linger on my mouth when I enter a room, how your fingers ache with the need to spread them open. I know the way your chest twitches at the thought of me—how I occupy your mind, late at night. I know your deepest fantasies, of pushing me to my knees before my men, slapping me across the face, and making me say, 'Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.'"
"That's quite enough—" Bill snapped, failing to hide his thrilled quiver at the scene Paddy was describing.
"Most importantly," Paddy cut back in, "I know the shape of your cock, and how it feels inside me. I know the coldness of your hands as they grip my skin, clawing at me like the animal you are. Aye, I'd say I know you as well as I'll ever need to."
With something of a pout, Bill's mouth hovered over Paddy's jaw, breathing hot down his lightly stubbled chin. "I suppose you believe me to be some sort of degenerate beast, just like yourself."
"A degenerate?" Paddy scoffed. "Aye, maybe. And, yet, 'now and then / Beasts may degenerate into men.'"
Bill couldn't tell whether it was intended as a compliment or an insult; perhaps, it was no more than mindless, intellectual rambling, but it stirred his ever-building arousal, nonetheless. He had always considered himself human, as opposed to animal—not just a man, but a gentleman—and, yet, there they were, fucking like dogs in the street. The strangest thing of all, though, was that nothing had ever felt more right. Allowing himself to shed his costume of humanity and slip into this most base version of himself—degenerating, or perhaps evolving, into a creature driven only by want—Bill began to move wildly, freely, into the consuming heat of Paddy's tight body. The sensation that overcame them both was one of pure, physical ecstasy, every nerve tingling with warmth and pressure.
"That's it—that's it—come on, Stirling, don't stop now," Paddy rambled, ragged breaths following the rhythm of Bill's hips crashing into his own.
Bill wouldn't have stopped, either, were it not for the force of the orgasm that suddenly came crashing down over him, as he buried himself deep, one last time. Clawing at Paddy's hip, digging his fingers into the supple flesh of his arse, he released inside with a full-bodied shudder and a loud, choked groan. As the harsh climax finally began to sputter to a stop, Bill's body folded over the smaller frame in his grasp, enveloping him almost entirely.
Before Bill could even contemplate moving away, Paddy reached back and grabbed hold of his hand. "Don't you dare pull out," he spat, his heart rate building so fast that Bill could feel it through his back.
Despite softening, the Lieutenant Colonel put great effort into obeying the command to the best of his ability, making the most of their awkward angle to keep himself forced inside, twitching as he held still, sensitive and overwhelmed. Wasting no time, Paddy dragged Bill's hand around to his front, placing it upon his own hardness and puppeteering it, clasping his fingers over Bill's own and using them to stroke himself for a minute—then once, twice, three times more—to completion. As he finally spurted up the wall, staining the brickwork with proof of their entanglement, Paddy keened, high and breathy, sounding so unlike his usual self that Bill almost wondered if it were actually some other man that he had just passionately buggered, out in the balmy, open air.
The truth, however, was undeniable. It was none other than Paddy Mayne whom he held in his arms, convulsing lightly in the aftermath of the little death to their prior relationship. Tense legs growing shaky beneath them, the two, intertwined bodies trembled with the weight of their breathing, sagging like the tangled branches of a plum tree, laden heavy with fruit.
Bill reluctantly took a step away, leaning back against the wall beside Paddy, who remained motionless, forehead pressed into the bricks as he meditated on the events that had just taken place. Slumping down to the dusty ground and sitting with a thump, Bill let out a deep, tired exhalation, as his legs stretched languidly out before him. Letting his eyes wander up to where Paddy still stood, transfixed by his own thoughts, he saw a thin, watery line of blood trickling down with the sweat and come upon Paddy's inner thigh.
"Christ, Paddy, you're bleeding!"
Paddy stood back, straightening himself up, and looked down between his legs. "Aye, so it appears, I am." Sweeping a finger through the red-tinged trail of fluid, he brought it up to his face with a frown, then wiped it on his shirt hem and shrugged. "Well, you were awfully fuckin' eager to get it in me, weren't you?"
Bill flinched at the half-hearted accusation and grimaced, taken aback by Paddy's nonchalance. "You could've bloody well said something!" he countered, offense taking precedent over the pang of guilt settling in his stomach.
Surprised by Bill's sudden shock, Paddy furrowed his brow, scowling. "It's not like you've never seen a little blood before," he dismissed, bending over to hoick his trousers back up, giving Bill an overwhelmingly thorough view of the bubbling, pinkish mixture dribbling from his hole. "Here, I thought you were supposed to be a soldier."
"You know that's not my point," Bill argued, trying to ignore the potent image of the shadows dancing over Paddy's defined hamstrings as they shifted and tensed with each movement. Rising to his feet and closing the gap between them once more, his palm hovered in the air over Paddy's bicep, afraid to touch. "Do you really think I wish to hurt you?"
Unable to conceal the tinge of bitterness seeping through, Paddy let out a sad, little laugh. "You don't?" he asked, the gentle crack in his voice giving way to a distant glow of earnestness, buried beneath the sarcasm.
"Not like this, Paddy, for crying out loud!" Bill brushed his consternation aside and allowed his hand to rest upon Paddy's shoulder, stroking his collarbone with his thumb. "Not like this."
Paddy's face contorted with an odd look of confusion and pity, wordless as he ruminated on the outburst for a moment. "Well, perhaps I should like to hurt," he announced, quietly.
Searching for a response, Bill's mouth gently opened and closed like a fish out of water, gasping for oxygen. No matter how he willed an answer to emerge, however—an apology, a condolence, a comfort, anything—none came. Both held the other's gaze in the tense silence for what felt like an age, until Paddy let out a soft sigh and lowered his eyes, stepping back from Bill's grasp.
"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to bury twenty-one of my men in the morning." Fastening his belt, Paddy gave a clipped nod in Bill's direction, and put an abrupt end to the discussion.
As he walked away—heading back towards the mess with the intention of getting dreadfully, fabulously drunk—Paddy had to clench his jaw, biting and gulping down the urge to look back, as though swallowing the key to his very soul. He didn't see, then, the way that Bill's gaze followed him from behind, nor did he see the expression on his face, twisting in conflicted pain. In spite of the silent desire dancing across his quivering lip, Bill stood, glued in place, as he watched Paddy leave. Eyes wet and wide, cheeks dyed red by a hearty mix of lust and embarrassment, the officer's fist gently twitched at his side, balling up and tightening around nothing but air.
'Paddy.' The name sat, weighing down on his tongue, and could not be moved. He wanted to scream out into the night—to reach out and take hold of all that remained unsaid between them, and to throw it forth, in hopes that some vague declaration might reach the ears of the man disappearing before him—but all he could manage was one, small whispered confession, carried away on the breeze as quickly as it left his mouth.
Paddy did not hear Bill's heart yelling out to him, nor the murmured 'Blair,' riding upon the wind and taking its place among the stars above, but he did feel a faint ache in his chest, as the world shifted around him. The nature of their war had changed, indeed.