vamp

The song came in. The piano sharp. The rhythm unnatural, with the drums leading through. The atmosphere settled in instantly and it was like you were transported into a movie. 

Michael stood there, looking at the camera, in character like he never was before. Once his time hit, his co-star turned around and, afraid of what he had become, he transformed into the monster that the song was about. 

He wasn't that shy kid who lived next door to you. The one who called every night just so he could hear your voice. The one who liked animals and cared about the environment like nobody else. 

He wasn't your cute little Mikey anymore. 

He was him. 

The Michael Jackson. 

He stepped forward, mouth dropping open, his dancers following behind him like parasites. They did the big dance break that everyone on set stopped and watched like they were witnessing the first moon landing. 

Everyone couldn't look away— Or rather, they didn't want to look away. 

"'Cause this is Thriller!" He shouted, snapping his body to the side for emphasis. "Thriller night!" 

Michael was doing things that had never been done before. 

He put his all into it, swiftly hitting his moves and mouthing the lyrics to the song perfectly.

You almost couldn't recognize who he was. 

"Anndddddd cut!"

The cast screamed and jumped, clapping and sending compliments to everyone at how incredible that was. Some of them patted and tugged Michael around, expressing their admiration, all while he did the same. That big goofy smile on his face. Others pumped their fists and hollered like their favorite football team won the Superbowl. 

And finally, Michael was only focused on you. 

Once everyone settled down, going into their well deserved break, he came over to you, sweat beading down his face. He was breathing hard but his smile never wavered. 

"W-What did you think?"

You blinked, looking at him like you'd seen a ghost. 

He'd never seen this type of expression before, and he worried that it meant you didn't like it— or worse, you hated it. 

"You…" you paused, not adding anything after. Frozen in shock. 

"…you?" He repeated, snapping his hands in your face to grab your attention. "Hello? Anybody up there?" 

"You…" you said again, in that same unsettling tone. 

Maybe the video was so bad you couldn't fathom it. 

"Was it that bad? Please tell me that wasn't bad? We can redo it if you think so? I think I missed a few steps—"

"N-No!" You jumped forward, getting off of the chair. You cleared your throat , raising a hand. "N-No— Michael, that was— that was incredible!" You couldn't catch your breath. "The costumes, the theme, the music— a-and the dance? The way you moved your body and slipped into the scene was absolutely amazing!" 

He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. Sore but easily ignored. "You really think so?"

"I know so!" 

He laughed softly, grateful for your positive words. "I'm glad. Didn't really care about everyone else's opinions, yours was the only one that mattered." 

"Flattery gets you nowhere," you teased. "Once again, I'm terrible at criticizing things—" 

"Yeah, but I want it." 

You both looked at each other, a blanket of warmth covering you both. 

You were surprised when he asked if you could come, another project he was planning and needed a second opinion on. Like always, you didn't think your words mattered, the field of music not your expertise. But he promised donuts— as much as you wanted to eat on set, and you couldn't pass that up. 

Getting on the plane was another thing. The ride was bumpy, the sky in full view, the clouds right there, and it felt incredibly odd to see it so close. It was your first time flying, but to Michael it was another day. Although you were terrified, assuming the worst, Michael told you that as long as he was by your side you could breathe. 

"Take deep breaths," he said in that calming tone. "Follow me. In and out."

And you did.

In the middle of the ride, you were relaxed with your head resting on his shoulder. The fear melting away. 

You weren't sure what to name what you two had. If it was a mutual understanding or two people who happened to fall in place at the right time— but something was there, and you both couldn't hide it. You found something in him that you couldn't quite grasp, like he was meant to be in your life. Finding him felt like destiny, and somewhere along the way, your hands found each other too. 

Late night calls, letters, twister time— it all felt like you both were growing into each other and there was no way to pull you both apart. 

You become familiar with his home and him. All of his hobbies and love for life. All of the things that could make or break him. Although you got a hint of what life was like behind closed doors, you never once talked about it unless he wanted to. 

He liked that about you. 

While others would have dug for the facts and showed the world that he wasn't as perfect as he hoped he would be, you took what you knew and let it simmer into tales that didn't need to be remembered because who were you to tell him how to handle his feelings and life? He was human, just like everybody else. 

Nothing else mattered. 

"Wanna see something?" He asked, a smirk playing along his face. Even while he was breathing hard, he still had energy to get into mischief. You've known him for so long, whenever he asked that, that never meant anything good. 

You looked behind him and around the set, nobody paying attention to you both. "Aren't you supposed to be taking a break? Gathering your strength and waiting for the next scene—"

"This is me taking a break." He gestured with his hands, showing off how he wasn't doing anything but standing really. "Come on, I wanna show you something."

Remembering the script; movie theater, street location, large scary house. You were pretty sure he was going to take you to part of the film you told him explicitly you didn't want to see. 

"Where are we going?"

"It's a surprise," He said, ending it with a wink that looked more like he was blinking with both eyes. 

"Is it the big scary house?"

"What?!" He gasped, holding his chest. "No— why would I take you there? You think because I goof around all the time I would take a young woman to a scary place and put her life on the line? Are you insane—"

The look you gave him made him drop the act instantly. 

"Yes it's the big scary house," he sighed, rolling his eyes. "It'll be quick. Promise. I just want to show you something." 

"No, you're gonna take me inside, run away, and pop out from the dark to scare me." 

"You really think so lowly of me?"

"Yes, actually." 

"Few minutes, that's it. And then you can go back to being boring and eating twenty donuts per second ." 

"Hey!" You smacked his arm, earning a hard whimper to leave his mouth. "You promised me donuts! So I'm going to get donuts!"

"You'll get fat—"

You smacked his arm again, harder this time, and he backed away, holding his arm like you wounded him. "Ouch! Can you stop that!"

"I'm not going," you stated and stood on it. "Now if you'll excuse me, I think they put out fresh ones—"

He grabbed your hand swiftly, your eyes popping open and with surprise strength he ran for it— tugging you behind him without letting go. He laughed through it all, listening to you scold him, screaming and kicking for him to let you go, and that this wasn't funny at all. 

But he didn't care, and despite your protest, you still followed behind him. 

He lead you towards the next scene, a few feet away from the big dance break section. It was darker, the set meant to be spookier than everything else. It reminded you of the Michael Myers house or the Texas Chainsaw house— those types of movies where nothing good happens and it always ends in death. 

He dragged you up the stairs, nodding at a few crew mates who were putting the last finishing touches to the house. Painting some dark scratches and scraps, adding more plants, fixing anything out of place before the Final Cut. 

"Michael! Let go!"

"We're almost there, sit tight and stop complaining." 

He opened the door, pulling you inside into the heart of the house and finally let go. A little too proud of himself, even while you gave him the darkest frown possible. 

"Pretty neat right?" He showed off the set, pointing to everything. "It's an abandoned house anyways but they made it even scarier by adding these cool touches." He walked over to the couch that was covered with a sheet, not ready to be used yet. "Everything is fake but it's pretty cool right?" 

"Yeah… cool," you gulped, looking around the room. It was darker inside, the only true lighting coming from the cracks of the windows. You didn't like how quiet it was, eerily reminding you of the Exorcist, the creaks sounding from under your footsteps. 

"Don't start shaking yet, it gets better—"

"Better?" 

"Duh, there's something upstairs—"

"Michael can we go now?" You didn't want to entertain his theatrics. 

He raised a brow. "But you just got here?"

"I know, I think this is—" you couldn't find the right words that didn't fall into you being a party pooper. "— nice." You guessed that worked. "But you know I don't like any of this—"

"So?" 

He didn't see the issue. 

"So? I'm scared! What if he comes out and tries to kill me !"

"Who's going to come out and kill you?"

"Michael Myers!" 

"Michael Myers?" He snorted. "From that Halloween movie? The one with the mask and the jumpsuit?" He chuckled lowly, "Oh please, he's not real."

You hugged yourself, finding that it was getting cold. "How do you know that?"

He looked at you like you were crazy, a big dopey smile on his face that showed nothing but teeth. "Uhhh," he pointed to himself. "Cause I'm the only Michael here," He laughed, holding in his stomach, now realizing how funny it sounded coming from his mouth. "Get it? Cause we share the same name. Michael Myers, Michael Jackson— we're both Michael." He fell onto the couch, kicking his feet. 

You didn't laugh. 

In fact, you were close to strangling him. 

"You're not funny," you sucked your teeth. 

"Come on, that was a little funny." 

You squeezed yourself tighter, ignoring how childish he was being and walked off. You didn't bother checking if he followed— to be honest you didn't care. You heard him call for you, pleading for you to come back but you didn't stop, continuing around the house. 

You knew it was fake in a way, but horror wasn't your favorite genre. You hated snakes, spiders, long dark hallways that probably held ghosts or far worse. 

You walked into what looked like the kitchen, surveying the details and creative touches that must have taken months to do. 

You didn't hear Michael's excessive laughter anymore. 

You looked back, the lighting too dark to tell if he was walking around. You didn't hear anything but your own footsteps, your breathing slowly turning harsh in the kitchen. 

Quickly, you jotted back to the living room, finding nobody there. The couch still there, the outline of Michael's movements imprinted in the oversized blanket that rested over it, but he was nowhere to be seen. 

You knew this would happen. 

"Okay, you can come out now. I know you're hiding somewhere," you said, looking around the room. "I know your trying to scare me and I don't find it funny. Like, at all." 

Nothing. 

You took a step back, your feet stepping on a creaky floorboard and you felt dread wash over you. 

"Michael?"

It was silent. 

You walked to the front door, reaching to twist for the knob, but a heavy thud stopped you, the sound coming from upstairs. 

You knew better than to investigate , reminding yourself that every character who went towards the noise was never to be seen again. You focused back on the door knob, turning it , but it wouldnt budge.

A cold chill ran down your spine. 

You shook and jerked the knob, chewing your bottom lip in fear. You thought Michael was going to pop out and scare you, not lock you in the house! 

"Hello! Is there a crew member here! The door is locked!" You shouted, rattling the door.

You turned and dashed to the kitchen, the back door your next exit but it was locked too. 

You used your shoulder, the wood hurting you more than breaking through, and you quickly turned to run back to the front door. Hoping that somebody might walk back— 

There was a dark figure standing in the middle of the hallway, stock still, like it was waiting for you to come closer. 

You didn't move. 

You only stared. 

Frankly, you were close to pissing your pants. 

"Mic—….M-Michael? Is that you?"

He didn't move. 

"Hey… this isn't funny anymore," you said nervously. 

He didn't move, standing in the dark like a ghost. 

"O-Okay, you got me." You didn't like how still he was. "Michael can we go— you're scaring me…" You stepped back, the creak in the floor vibrating against your skin. And you felt a cold hand touch your shoulder, big and large— the type of size that Michael Myers would definitely have and you did the next best thing. 

"Boo—oof!"

You punched him, sending your arms around, your knuckles colliding with his jaw sideways. He stumbled backwards, tripping over his feet and fell straight on his back like a sack of bricks. 

You gasped first, covering your mouth with both hands. You noticed the red jacket, the curly hair, and you felt your heart drop, afraid that you had knocked him out. "M-Michael?!" You quickly got to your knees, helping him turn over to assess the damage. 

He was holding his jaw with one hand while rubbing his back with the other, his costume still good but his back was hurting…And maybe his jaw too. He didn't know a girl could punch that hard. 

"It's like Muhammad Ali possessed you," He groaned, "I think you broke my jaw." He shook his head, "and my back."

"A-Are you sure?" You leaned in closer, cradling his face with your hands. You turned him to face you fully, tilting his head to check the wound. You didn't see any noticeable bruising, so that meant his muscles were sore for sure. 

"Yeah, I won't be able to eat for a while— or sing! I'll probably starve, then that means my career is over—"

"Shut up." You touched his face again but he didn't flinch. "If you can run that mouth of yours, then that means your fine." 

He set his jaw, trying his best not to crack a smile. "You know I can sue you right?" 

"Sue me and I'll tell the whole world that I think Prince is a better singer than you."

The way his face contracted, you would have thought his body had shut down. His mouth dropped open, eyebrows strangled together, he was deeply offended and you know it. 

"Prince? Better singer? That's worse then the broken jaw!" 

"I told you not to scare me," you scolded, brushing your thumbs over his cheek. "Now you're threatening to sue me! I should leave you here to rot!" Before you could get up, irritated all over again, he grabbed your hand and pulled you back down with him. 

"Let go—"

"Hey, come on. I'm sorry," he said, rubbing his fingers over yours, interlocking them last. "You're not really mad at me, are you?"

You weren't, not fully, but seeing how worried he had gotten so quick wasn't something you could pass up so fast. Michael liked pranking people, and sometimes he didn't often see that some of them were truly awful to do. "Yes, I am." You looked away, turning your nose up at him. 

"Please?" he whined, squeezing your hand in his. "Would you look at me?"

A taste of his own medicine should do him good. 

"Pretty please?" 

You were still looking away. "Not until you apologize." 

"I'm sorry," he muttered, but it wasn't good enough. 

He knows it. 

You knew it. 

He didn't like when you didn't give him all of your attention, the perfect advantage you had that he thought he could hide. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he repeated, getting closer— close enough his breath tickled your cheek. "I'm sorry for scaring you. I'm sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry—"

You looked at him from the corner of your eye. "You mean it?"

"Yes. Yes I mean it. I'm sorry." 

You tilted your head, finally giving him that attention he wanted so badly. "Good. It serves you right." 

"I know… I know." He watched you intently. "I can't bear the thought of you being mad at me for a second. But…We can leave, I think it's almost time anyways." 

"Well, alright." you held his gaze, then quickly looked away. "And I'm um… sorry. I'm sorry for punching you." 

"I deserved it," he chuckled softly. "I don't know how what I'm going to say to Rick if my face swells up later." 

"As long as my name isn't involved…" You were slightly nervous. It wasn't Michael of course, just the life outside of him. First time on set and you punched the rising star in the face— something he set up— and you were scared they'll remove you. "But…what…what would you say? I mean, are they going to kick me out?"

He could see your worriness clear as day. 

He reached for you, his fingers cupping your chin to turn your eyes back to him. "You really think I'll let them kick you out? I'll walk out right behind you."

"Michael, this is your career—"

"A career. Not my life." He held your gaze. "My life is sitting right here, in front of me." He said it like you meant everything in the world to him. "Wherever you go, I go." 

That feeling sat in your stomach, a low simmer of something you couldn't explain, but it felt good. 

Well, I have a suggestion." 

Blinking up at him, you were wildly confused on how you could heal a wound that quick. 

"What suggestion?"

"Maybe you could— well, I don't know…" That iconic smirk came back up.

He never knew when to quit. 

"…kiss it better?"

"Kiss it better?" You snorted, "Ohh, You set this up? didn't you?" You shoved him, but he didn't budge, smiling harder then he ever did. "You did all this cause you wanted to get me all alone for a kiss?" 

"Alone, yes. The kiss? No." 

"I'm not sure if it's the thriller you or the real you that's talking." You couldn't stop the grin from forming on your face. "Which one is it?"

"It's all me, baby," he chuckled. "Doesn't matter what music video or song— they're all me." 

"I guess I can arrange something," you shrugged, trying not to make it obvious that you really do want to kiss him. "As long as you use your manners." 

Something sparked in his face. 

"Please baby, just one little kiss. Rightttt here." He tapped the side of his face that you punched. "Kiss it better for me, would you, doll?"

You couldn't say no to that. 

You moved forward, lips inches away from his cheek. The last second he turned, his lips pressing against yours and it's like the whole world stopped. 

He didn't pull away, you didn't either, and he took that as an invitation to deepen the kiss. Guiding you to follow him. It felt electric, like someone lit a fire inside of him— inside of you both. It felt like you couldn't breathe, but it also felt like he was all of the oxygen in the world. You were so focused on how heated the kiss was, you didn't notice the next second after that you were lying on your back with him dangerously close to laying over you. His hand cradling your head from touching the floor. 

He pulled back , your mouths breaking apart with a loud pop, and you couldn't find the oxygen to breathe again.

"I wish we could stay like this forever," he sighed, using his free hand to brush your hair from your face. "Me, you, Bubbles, Louie, and Muscles—"

"We can leave Muscles," you grumbled. 

"Muscles is what's holding us together." He pressed another kiss to your lips. "Just us five. We can make our own memories, and maybe… start a new life together? How does that sound?" 

He was searching for your reaction, hoping you were on the same page as him. He was never good at reading people— he was never good at reading himself— But he liked knowing what people were thinking, whether it was from their face, or the taps of their foot to his song. As far as he knew, he could read a lot from you judging by your facial expressions. 

You were looking at him with the most wondrous eyes. Blinking up at him, fingers fidgeting around his shoulders, the light shining against your face like an angelic glow that he was going to write into a song to hold this memory.

"You…You really mean that?"

He nodded. "I know that." 

You didn't know what to say. 

The front door opened and you both turned towards the new presences. 

It was a crew member, with large headphones perched on their head and a clipboard in hand. He caught sight of you and looked away quickly, the position you both were in probably too suggestive for his taste. "S-Sorry Michael—" he bowed his head. "T-They said they were ready for the next scene. it'll start in five." 

"Sure," Michael responded, getting up. 

He held out his hand for you to take, pulling you up to your feet. He made sure you were steady, both feet planted securely, before patting down any loose ends of your outfit. "Duty calls," he said, frowning a bit. "Don't miss me too much, okay?" 

"You'll be two feet away," you shook your head. 

"That's too far for me, " He whined. "What if someone gets me? Who's going to punch their jaw off for me?" 

"Go," you chastised. "Hurry up before they kick me out for being a distraction." 

"Fine," he said, but he didn't move. "Walk with me then?" 

"You're so annoying." You rolled your eyes, but you took his hand and let him lead you out of the house. 

You waited patiently, eyes filled with sparkle, cheeks blooming with warmth. You came over, your first time, usually only conversing through the cracks of the walls or by mail due to the massive amounts of fans outside of his gates.

It happened by coincidence, a mistake that turned into a blessing of sorts. 

You had packages delivered to his front door, a mishap by the mailman, but you didn't seem to mind it too much. You simply found the perfect opportunity to catch him while he was leaving from his recording studio, calling for someone to answer because you've been trying to get past the gates all week. 

He heard, remembering that Latoya had mentioned that there were a few packages that weren't meant for the Jacksons a few days ago and he followed the tune of your shouts. 

After another helpless call, he answered. 

"I think we have your packages," he said, your voice immediately stopping. 

He heard silence for a while, the breeze brushing through the trees. "Um, Hello?" He said. The sun was slowly making its way down to introduce the night. He was getting cold, and he had a meeting to get to in the morning. 

He thought you left, but you spoke up. 

"Y-Yes! I'm sorry, I've been doing this every day, I thought I started to hear things!" 

He chuckled lowly, finding it all amusing. "Sorry, the front gates are always guarded, but I can have someone deliver it to you tomorrow."

"Oh, that would be perfect! Thank you!" 

It wasn't the last time he got your packages, occasionally getting them every few weeks. But it was all cleared when he had the mailman return them. 

"Do you really read through all of this mail?" Latoya gasped, opening a red envelope with decorated hearts. "There are so many, it'll be next year by the time you finish." 

"I don't mind, it makes me feel important to people when they take the time to write to me." 

He picked up a white envelope, his eyes immediately drawn to the last name. 

He's seen that name before, on the wrong packages often delivered to his front step.

He opened it, turning away from Latoya who was still in awe of the thousands of letters scattered around on his floor. 

He finally got your name— a pretty name at that. Handwriting that was cursive and bubbly, penmanship you don't see often decorated the paper. 

You thanked him. A few sentences written about how grateful you were that even with the mishap, he didn't mind sending the packages back. You also mentioned how you were amazed at the fact that you could see a giraffe from your bedroom window sometimes, a sight you don't see often but felt delighted by it. 

"I would love to see one up close the same way you do. But maybe when I'm much older and can travel the world on my own, perhaps I will. Thank you once again!" 

And that was it. 

He probably read the letter ten times before he realized that for the first time, you didn't want to see him as everybody else did— hoping they could get something out of him like a picture or an autograph— but you didn't mention any of it. You simply stated that you wanted to see his animals. 

Not him. 

His animals. 

And that is what started his deep infatuation with you. 

He wrote a letter back in the dead of night. The Pen scratching off certain words, frustration hitting through him, and then he was crumpling the paper once more, a fresh sheet already settled under his hand. It's been an hour, the fifth paper so far, and he tried his best to make sure the letter was perfect. It's easier sending a fax to businessmen about his ideas and new musical ideas regarding his career and the next album of his life, but sending a letter to somebody so… regular felt like the hardest thing in the world. 

And sending it out was even harder. 

But it happened. 

And he kicked himself for it. 

When he got his fan mail in two large bags, the only thing he wanted to read was yours. 

The dial rings once before the line is picked up, the receiver immediately placed against his ear. You greet him first, voice trembling. “Oh! H-Hello? Im S-Sorry, is this the Jackson’s residence?” 

“Depends." Michael was lying on his back, the cord stretching from his night stand. “Missing a package again?”

"Michael? Oh goodness, I thought I got the wrong number. I thought that, maybe you were pranking me or something—"

That was a few days ago. 

"Why would I give you a fake number?"

"Why wouldn't you?" 

There's some hidden underlying fact in your words, like this wasn't the first time you've gotten somebodies number and it was fake. But Michael wasn't like that. He was kind and genuine— he liked having someone to talk to, even if they were animals sometimes. 

"No, this is real. My own personal number."

"O-Oh, I see." 

It went quiet on the other line. 

"I hope I'm not bothering you, I know it's late but you said if I needed anybody to talk to you… you were always free—"

"Did I say that?" He sounded dead serious. 

"Huh? I think so? Wait— I'm pretty sure?" You gasped in distraught. "Oh my gosh, did I read that wrong? I'm so sorry, I-I thought the letter —"

Michael laughed behind the line. "I'm joking with you."

“Hey! Come on, don’t be a tease!" you whined. 

He found comfort like this, something he only truly found in his family centric circle— besides Joe. 

"So, what's the matter?"

He heard you shuffling, the line going quiet. 

"I um…needed to hear someone other then my parents… I guess?"

Michael sat up, the tension hardening. "What's wrong with your parents?"

"They think it's okay to control your life," you sighed. "I understand, respect your parents, blah, blah, blah— but I have dreams too you know? I wanna be an actor! Or maybe a journalist? I'm not sure yet, but I'm working it out."

He could relate to that. All of his life has been controlled by Joe. Singing, dancing, shows, music— all of it. His last album was probably the first time he's felt free and the thought of making another one gave him hope but that heavy presence has never left. 

"I get it. I have issues with my parents too." 

The connection sparkled. 

You both talked for hours afterwards, bubbles sleeping besides him, curled up against his side. You talked about more of your dreams, thoughts you had of the world and he listened. 

Eventually it turned into him listing off exotic animals he liked and planned on inviting to his home. He was on number 47, the list already bizarre as it was. 

"— and If I could own a panda, I could have free cuddly hugs every minute of the day." 

"Panda… elephant… koala…" you said in anstonishment. "Gee, what are you going to say next? A snake?"

"No, I wouldn't say that."

"Thank goodness—"

"I already own a snake. His name is Muscles." 

Another slew of chuckles shot through him at how silent you had gotten. "Are you surprised? I mean, do you think that's…" his laughter died, jaw setting tightly. He didn't want to say that word, he hated using that word, but he wouldn't be surprised if you used it. "—That's … not like…weird…to you?" 

"Weird?" You started, voice shooting up an octave in offense. 

"Y-Yeah, I mean, some people say it's weird. My brothers think so, and Joesph—"

"Oh Michael—" He thought he heard an angel on the other line. "—that's not weird at all. If anything, it makes you more interesting. Not a lot of people care about animals." 

He chewed his bottom lip. "If you want— I mean, only if you want, you can say no if you want too. But… You can come over— I mean, visit. I can show you what I have so far."

"You mean that?" 

"Yes. How about tomorrow?" 

"Tomorrow is no good—" He kicked himself for asking. "— the day after is perfect though. If you still want me?" 

He jumped from the bed and bubbles snorted in annoyance but went back to sleep. "Yes! yes, of course. I'll have Bill come for you."

"Who's that?"

"He's my body guard, but I trust him like a father."

"Okay." 

Michael got the excited jitters, pumping his fist. 

"The day after tomorrow then?" You asked. 

"The day after tomorrow then," he repeated back, like he couldn't believe what he was saying. 

"Goodnight Michael."

The line cut, and Michael felt like he was on cloud nine. 

You came over, just as he hoped, and he immediately showed you his home. The pool, the garden, his room. Nobody was home but the maids, his brothers and father were off somewhere he didn't care to know. All that mattered was that he got the house to himself so that he could show you around without questions following. 

You were amazed at his room, the collections of toys and posters he had almost made your eyes pop. You asked about his endless figurines of the Disney character Peter Pan and he gave you the simplest answer. 

"He's me." 

You didn't make a face in disgust, but you did ask a question. 

"Can you fly too?"

He laughed at that. "I'm working on it. If we can land on the moon, it's not far off that a man could fly too." 

You introduced you to Bubbles first and while you were scared to get close— holding onto his hand and shaking like an earth quake— you told him that it was very kind of him to rescue a chimpanzee. Muscles on the other hand you refused to go in the room. 

He's never laughed so much in his life. 

Louie made you calmer. Finding that he was cute and cuddly. And the famous giraffe you often saw outside of your window made the time spent perfect. 

You had to go of course, but the late night call was filled with joy. 

After that, the calls only kept coming. When he was away, far off while traveling with his brothers, he would send letters to your home in hopes that you would send back. It made him feel special in some way, knowing that somebody cared more about who he was then just the musical aspects of his character. 

Whenever you felt down, expressing concern about life and your parents exhausting expectations, he would sneak you over to his house and play twisters in his room. 

The maids saw you enough, but they didn't say anything. 

And he was thankful for that. 

But Bill, his bodyguard and trusted friend had a whole lot to say with a sharp raise of his brows and that light smirk on his face. 

"She's your girlfriend now?"

Michael would dodge the question with another question. "So men can't have female friends?" 

Bill didn't push for more, but he knew deep down that as long as Michael was happy, that's all that mattered. 

"I wonder what he's thinking?"

You were sitting besides him, arms stretched out to pet Louie's head, a small grin adorning your face.

He's known you for a year and your friendship still felt new. Like always, you snuck over, played one of his many board games, and he talked about the stress he had over his upcoming album. So, you suggested that some fresh air could do him good. 

Here you were, dangerously close, while showing one of his friends love that he so desperately wanted himself. He believed this was his chance to confess his deepest desire. He chewed the inside of his lips, formed the words in his head, and let it go. 

"I think…" He took a deep breath, eyes scanning your face for your next reaction. You were petting Louie's head, comepletly enamored by him— a girl unlike anybody he's ever seen. "I…um, I think he likes you," He finally said, his breath leaving seconds after. 

Your eyes slowly found his, attention drawn, your hands slowing down but still acknowledging Louie. "Really?" You questioned, lips curling into a grin. "How'd you know that?" 

He gulped, suddenly put on the spot. "He told me."

"Told you?" You titled your head, cheeks puffing with your grin. "Who Louie?" 

If this was anybody else, they would have laughed in his face. Called him insane, maybe delusional— in need of more time with humans and less time with animals— but you didn't do either. 

You stared at him in wonder, your attention all on him. 

Michael cleared his throat, "Y-Yeah, when they like someone, t-they make this small humming noise— sometimes you can tell by the ears. It's down, relaxed— he likes you. A lot." And he probably shouldn't have stumbled on his words so much, painfully obvious, but thankfully you didn't seem to catch it. 

"Oh wow, you sure know a whole lot about llamas." you drew your attention back to Louie. 

He could finally catch his breath. 

"I should probably leave soon. Your family might be back any minute now." 

He didn't want you to leave. 

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, Your probably a very busy man. Don't need to cut your time to spend it with me."

And that was the problem, he wanted to spend it with you. 

He needed an excuse to get you to stay longer. "Wait— can I show you something?"

"Show me what?" You looked at him questionably. 

"I've been working on something but I need input."

"You want my input?" You looked down in thought, "I mean, sure, but I'm not that very good at criticizing things." 

"Don't worry, I don't bite." 

You shoved him with your elbow lightly. "Please, I'm more scared of the snake." 

"Then let's go." He stood up abruptly, dusting off his pants. "It's only a few steps away from here—" 

Michael's jaw almost dropped. 

You were leaning forward, placing a kiss against Louie's cheek, a goodbye filled with love. Michael wasn't often jealous, but standing here, now, watching you show affection for someone other than him filled him with jealousy beyond comprehension. 

"Goodbye Louie." You petted his head once again and stood up. 

Michael swallowed around a lump. 

"Where is it again?" You questioned.

The studio felt warmer than before. Inches away from you once again but this time it was in his most vulnerable field. 

He finished playing a few of his demos, the ones Quincy gave his stamp of approval. You listened and bobbed your head, side eyeing him at particular high ending sections of the songs with a amazement on your face. 

"These were really good," you smiled, "I particularly like Starlight, although I'm a little confused on the meaning." 

"It's upbeat— something to get the crowd moving." 

"Sure,but—" you tapped your chin, "I feel like it's missing something." 

He wrote something down on paper, a few words taken straight from your mouth. 

Good but missing something

He placed his pen down, turning towards you. "The album isn't done yet, but I'm hoping it becomes the biggest album ever. Still working through some other songs, a title for the album, promotional pictures— other tedious things that you probably don't want to hear."

"I don't mind," you looked over at him. "I like when your like this— happy. You get so hyper about music, I can't help but be hypnotized." 

Michael begin to sweat, his face suddenly warm. "You do?"

"We're alike, you and me. Although I'm not a Super Star like you," you laughed. "I can barely handle cleaning my room and your here mixing instruments and doing tours." 

"T-That makes sense." 

A knock on the door startled you both. 

Bill came in, tapping his watch. "You family will be back soon, time to go." 

Michael screamed internally. 

"Guess I'll see you later?" You titled your head, rubbing a hand over his arm. 

"I-I guess so." 

You both couldn't break eye contact even if you tried. 

"Can I do something real quick?" You asked, catching Michael off guard. 

"Sure—" 

He wasn't sure what this feeling was— if he was going through cardiac arrest or if someone was hitting him with a bat at the chest, but all he knew was that he didn't want that feeling to go away. 

You leaned in, same way you did with Louie and kissed Michael's cheek. Your eyes shut close and your hands resting over his knee. You didn't pull away, even when Bill knocked on the door again. Time fell still. The moment so right that everything was swept away and replaced by your presences only. 

Michael didn't know what to do with himself. 

Finally, you broke away and chuckled to yourself. "See you later Mikey." You stood up and left a very flabbergasted Michael Jackson. 

You opened the door, Bill greeted you and you left with a light skip in your step. 

Bill came in, checking in on Michael. "You alright?"

"Hm? Oh, yeah," he shook the shock from his body, cheeks still warm. "I was going to write down a new song." 

"Ohhh, Okay. Well, if you need me, I'll be out here— " before he turned, he called out. "— and Michael?"

Michael looked at him in question. "Yes?"

Bill pointed to his cheek. "You got a little something there. It's red, like a kiss—"

Michael quickly rubbed his hand over his cheek. "O-Oh okay! I gotta get to work. I'm a very busy man Bill." 

Once Bill left, Michael finally left to his thoughts. He wrote something else under your critique, his face still bloomed with heat. 

Good but missing something 

Title track name — Baby Be Mine

locus mirabilis:

‘A wondrous place’

Things had only been getting better as the days went by, you had finally stuck on what you wanted to study as part of your combining interest in Victorian death culture and literature, the graves of Victorian writers to be precise.  A late night walk had brought you to the closed gates of Highgate Cemetery and your eyes had lit up like never before.

Making friends had also come easier than expected, and even a fellow doctoral student had caught your eye, a bookish shy-type, tall, with freckles muttered over his face and unruly red hair; boyish still.  He was gentle and kind, but had shown such nervousness, even when you had asked him out to a local café.  Harry, his name was, and he allowed you to keep your distance from the increasingly seething eyes of Paddy Mayne. He was sweet enough, the kind of boy who’d rather keel over than speak any of the profanities Paddy would say on a daily basis.  He amused you despite being a little younger than you, still too scared to hold your hand or embrace you in his slight frame even after you asked him to one late night in the library. The height of winter became filled with warmth, nights lit by lovely candles by the windowsill of the sharehouse and the soft words of encouragement from your friends and passionate letters of support from family back home brought that much needed light and soft warmth to your heart. 

The separation from Professor Paddy Mayne in the past few weeks was crucial, sparked by a fierce argument which you couldn’t get out of your head.  Even as you sat exhausted at your desk the memory of it was as clear as day:

“Last class will be out in, oh,” Paddy had raised the hand he’d had resting on his steering wheel, checking his watch. “Twenty-five minutes. There better be a good reason for you to be stopping me right now.”

Paddy’s hand had tried to slip into your undergarments as you sat in the passenger seat of his car, you had stopped him with a firm hand on his wrist. You were still in the car park of the university, the setting sun casting a golden light across the sharp lines of his face. When his eyes flicked to yours, the sweet darkness in them made you want to push his hand further in. 

“Paddy,” You started, releasing his wrist and letting him pull it from you on his own. “This, I, I’m- I’ve met someone. I don’t know if we can do this anymore.”

He blinked slowly, only letting his expression falter for a moment, then cocked his head curiously, clicking his tongue. “Oh, and you expect me to believe that so?” still mostly unphased by the confession of the proposed ending to your arrangement so soon.

“Well, I’d expect you to understand how much of a situation we’ve been undertaking for a while, that is all, Sir.” You explained.

“‘A while’,” he repeated, letting out a short noise of dismissal, “Well, I’d only just begun really.” he huffed.  

His hand flexed against the steering wheel, a slight, surrendering squeak of the vinyl beneath his fingers breaking the silence.

“It’s a… precarious situation, you know that Paddy,” you urged.

“Precarious?  The only thing fuckin’ precarious about all this is that you’re not pregnant and I’m not on a  boat halfway back to Belfast with my tail between my legs, and you’re now telling me there's someone else caught your eye?” He said, fire building in his voice usually reserved for other students.  There was a look in his eyes, something akin to jealousy but not quite so angry. 

The corner of his mouth had tilted up like he was enjoying this. He was amused by the lie you told yourself, that you didn’t need him. “What, some teddy boy then is it?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, lifting your satchel onto your lap. You unclasped the latch, pretending to look for your lip salve as Paddy huffed next to you.

“What an awful thing to say, his name is Harry–” you hardly wanted to allow Paddy to have a name to direct his spite towards.

“Is he a Brit?” He scoffed, “Ah, get tae’ fuck, of course he is with that kind of name. British pricks, I know them well aye, pricks themselves and don’t know how to use their pricks the lot of them,” he grumbled. “Sir!” You scolded, trying to remain formal, now that you’d decided to put things back the way they were. “You shouldn’t talk of a student that way.”

Paddy leaned forward, placing one large hand over both of yours that had been rummaging through your bag. The sun had fully set now, and all you could see of Paddy was the shine of his eyes looking directly into yours.

“You ‘Sir’ me one more time and I won’t hesitate to use that title to my advantage.” You heard him swallow thickly, his breath coming out hot against your cheek. “Though I threaten the cane, I haven’t quite used it yet, but oh… how I’d test it on your thick ass first to really christen it mine.”

A startled laugh escaped your throat, your fingers twitching underneath his. It took everything in you to snatch it away from his warm touch in disbelief at his behaviour. 

“What? Do you think you own me like some piece of meat? Bloody hell, Paddy, I thought this was just a bit of fun, y’know, excitement.”

Paddy let out a snort, lifting his hips in his seat slightly to pull his Navy Cuts and lighter from the pocket of his dress slacks. He lit it, inhaling a lungful of smoke and letting it billow into your space. 

“I don’t like to share. And I don’t lose what’s mine so easily.”

You glared at him, reaching down to grab the crank and unroll the window on your side of the car. You wafted the smoke out with your hand, acting irritated by the smell that usually drove you crazy when your face was buried in Paddy’s neck.

“Good. Then you haven’t lost anything at all really. You’re making me never want to look at a man again, let alone touch them…”

“That’s a sudden change of heart and head.  That smart little mind of yours might want that, but that desperate, pretty little thing between your legs will always tell you the opposite.” Paddy drawled, mouth half full of the lit cigarette.

“Won’t it?” he prodded again.

“Is that all you think about Paddy? No romance? No kindness?! Just getting in between my legs?”

He tilted his head, ignoring your outcry.

“What does he study then? Or is he some lout? Paddy continued.

You huffed, accepting quickly that he’d hardly react to you being verbally upset and angry,“He’s studying Law, a Masters student actually.” 

“So did Eoin set you up then?” he quipped.

“Do you have to mention Eoin every time we talk?” you quickly shot back.  There was a moment of silence as you both seemed to consider your options, Paddy sighing as he rolled his head back and stared at the ceiling.

It was still a while before he spoke, “So, your new lad is going to get some fancy job in law, buy you a nice wee apartment to live in, maybe a little doggie? Oh, would he promise to buy you such expensive clothes and let you shop at all the department stores.”

“Do I really have to answer that?” you said, a rising shock at his absurdity in your voice.

Paddy shrugged, “You’d rather me promise, now to whisk you off into the countryside back home to my cottage after we’re both done here,” he had said flatly.

“Do you dream of somewhere nice and quiet with no neighbours to hear you screaming on my cock at every waking hour just so you can say you’ve ‘got me’?” he asked.

You flushed a bright red, “No, Paddy I’m saying we can’t keep goin–” he cut you off,

“No ‘designer clothes’ for you, maybe no clothes at all since I know all you’d want for us to be would be in bed all day… but maybe I'd have to buy you a wee pony too to win your favour, wouldn’t you like that?”

He ashed the cigarette out before continuing through half a mouth-ful of smoke, “...sounds like your ‘Harry’ needs a clip around the ears.” he mused.

“Is that a threat of violence on a student?  That is overstepping the line Paddy.”

“Overstepping the line?” he questioned, pausing briefly after before humming slightly, almost in a low warning.

“My cock most of the way down your throat after every class is no ‘overstepping the line’?” it came out less of a question than a flat statement of annoyance. 

It had ended in a flurry of insults on both sides, and Paddy saying “Don’t let me see you with that boy.” You’d ended up slamming the door as he had laughed and told you he’d see you in class.

Time passed with weeks spent seething, but god how you missed him in a way you hardly felt innocent about; but you had only seen it in the end fizzing out terribly or exploding into something that would mean the end of the both of you. Casually seeking another companion in less of a precarious position was a conclusion you had reached fairly quickly. Yet, Mayne’s firm voice barking commands across the class as you struggled to fight the tension to teach students made your legs shake with nervousness at times, sweat growing on your brow even in a frozen classroom. He had made you angry, made you spit fire at him and swore to never touch him again, to yell at him that you were not be reduced to a body for him to fondle at will, to reprimand him for not bringing romance as you had thought he would’ve, just heat and passion month after month.  The other half of the weeks were often spent with the cool, calm eyes of Eoin McGonigal raking over you as if they were stripping back the layers of you being in entirety with each thesis meeting.

You had laid out your topic in a great frazzle of chalk and words across the small blackboard in Eoin’s office, him watching your fingers work as each word poured out of you.  A big ‘Highgate Cemetery’ circled in the middle stood as the returning point for your proposal.  He sat quiet for a moment before speaking, “It’s a great topic you’ve got there… let’s go there together, at the end of the week. I’ll take you around the place.” He nodded to the blackboard, “keep that up on there, maybe the other students will be jealous of your progress, eh?” he grinned.

Eoin pulled his coat off the seat with one hand, draping it over his shoulder,

“You haven’t been there before I heard you say, right? Trapped at the gate?” he asked quickly, you nodded your head eyes still stuck on the coat and the thought of a frosty morning, there was clearly no polite declining of his offer. 

You had always admired that coat, some thick black woollen affair that looked like it could brave any winter and protect anyone from any element be it wind, snow, hail, whatever any isles could throw at it really.  

Eoin’s voice wandered as he remembered, “––spent quite a bit of time there when I lived nearby a couple years ago doing my clerkship.” Your eyes fell from his hand clasped around the jacket to a lit cigarette in his hand, only now noticing it after it had puffed out some stray smoke he hadn’t chased wafted in front of his face, he had never smoked inside let alone in any way you had been made aware of until now. 

Paddy smoked like those old Victorian chimneys that were still dotted around London, seemingly continuous where it be inside or outside, it lingered too long on your clothes for your liking, too recognisable as his Woodbines.

Eoin’s eyes followed yours cautiously to the crumbling ash beside his fingers, wary, cautious in their gaze.  Yet he continued, 

“I think I spooked a couple people taking my evening strolls there a few times.” He smiled softly, eyes shining despite their dark depths.

“Meet me at Highgate, yeah?  Friday morning.”

Highgate Cemetery 20th January, 1956 A frosty morning…

Highgate Cemetery was a place of sombre rest indeed.  A sort of…well, ‘reserved exhaustion’ fell over the place as gravestones and monuments slumped in scattered clumps amongst growing brush and thick, barely leaved Ivy.  The stone paths remained, and remnant Victorian landposts struggled to fight the gloom away with their dim, ‘upgraded’ electrics.  The gloom was marked with a pale green hue, as if the plants themselves were decaying into the air, spreading what green they had left of the leaves throughout the place, the air was still and with little sound apart from the odd rustle in the brush or squeak of some fox you thought to be hiding somewhere. 

You had walked there in what little morning light there was, sun barely risen though shut far behind the persistent cloud of winter, repelled further by the smog of the city rising to greet the ashy clouds.  The footsteps of your saddle shoes spun impossibly loud against the surrounding foliage and stone monuments of the path.  Eoin  had said to meet near something he called the ‘Egyptian Avenue’, a sort of underpass within the cemetery, a large open gateway of an impressive sight of exotic masonry flanked by withered oaks and the continual beds of ivy.  You paused at the entrance to the passage, staring through to the light on the other side.

Eoin had asked for you early to avoid any ongoing funeral parties or trouble-makers.  Truth is, he didn’t sleep that night, he didn’t sleep many nights lately.  You pulled your tartan scarf tighter around your neck, woolen gloves keeping what little dexterity the cold allowed your fingers.

It wasn’t long before that thick brogue came from your side like honey, slicing through the still, silent air..

“Don’t you feel like there’s some sort of energy here? Some deep, ancient thing radiating out of the soil?” 

You jumped lightly at the sudden intrusion, turning to face Eoin quickly, to which a black-leather gloved hand reached out, patting your shoulder lightly to soothe, it lingered there for a moment, his eyes averting contact before he returned it to his side.

“Hmm, er– I guess so?” you responded to his initial interaction.

“Sorry to sneak up on you there, didn’t mean to give you a fright. He took a step back and discreetly looked you over, the way your thick home-knitted scarf bunched up and almost covered half your face, fighting and winning to be the most weather-proof as your thin jacket could barely cope. “ ‘Morning’, is what I was meant to say.  It’s good to see you here with such vigour about the place, I can see it on what I can see of your face under there.” he smiled softly, gesturing for you to pull down the scarf.

“I figure it means no harm, I’d think it to be comforting, peaceful y’know.” 

Vines like ropes twisting engulfed the place around you both as he stood close for a moment, looking to the underpass in front of you and the light beyond, grey stone bricks resting ahead and descended into the darkness with mats of moss and trapping dead leaves and small plants under themselves creeping along them.

“Quite lovely this time of year, is what I mean to say really.” he hummed, wringing his gloved hands together in the cold. 

“People would usually say it’s off-putting,” you laughed lightly, a puff of steam jumping from your mouth at the movement, his dark eyes following it from your parted lips and the trail that formed from your mouth.

“Do you do this often? –I mean meet up with students to help them with their study?” 

“Yes, of course.  Only last week it must’ve been Arthur and I were seemingly attempting to rouse the dead around Tower Bridge…”

You raised an eyebrow at the suggestioning of such a thing in such a place, he shifted the topic, the uncomfortable thought of the sheer number of dead mere metres away at a time sending a chill through your spine.  You weren’t the complete skeptic but you certainly believed it was wise to give all things supernatural and the undead a very, very wide berth.

“…or with Professor Cohen a couple months ago, I mean she and I nearly almost broke into St Paul’s to view the soot blackening and report on the damage from the Blitz.”  He appeared distracted, mulling over a Celtic cross on a grave with a particularly English name, brushing off some loose moss and lichen.

Distracted yet still somewhat there he continued, “So, yes.  You’re not the only unlucky one to be graced by a tour from yours truly." He spoke sarcastically, corners of his mouth raising.

“I would consider myself rather lucky.” you tested, flipping a page in the journal you had been holding open blankly, penless.

“Is that so?” he hummed, less of a question more a reassurance to himself.

“You’re a great tour guide.” You laughed trying to clear the air, wake him up for whatever academic slumber he had put himself under as he had moved to drawing his fingernails through the delicate lines in a draped urn monument.

“Hm. Good.” he said quietly.

“Though, I’m sure Mr Mayne would give you a very, very exclusive tour.” he said, a rattle of jealousy slipping into his voice.  He hadn’t been told exactly what was going on by his dear friend, but from the encounter at the Quad he could piece together the rest easily enough.  He hadn’t known you were trying to avoid Mayne like the plague as of late.

Yet, to say your blood ran cold at his obvious involvement by proxy, you regretted so casually sauntering up to the pair that morning, though that cigarette did hit the spot.

“Anyway,” he quickly pivoted, snapping into movement, ducking under a low-hanging branch before placing a foot on the edge of the tunnel.

“I was going to ask to meet you by the tomb of George Wombwell. Though, I thought it to be not quite right of me to point you in the direction of a grand statue of a British lion guarding a same man of great wealth.” he chuckled lightly.

“So here we meet, before this veil into the depths of the place,” Eoin said slowly with dramatic flair to his voice.  

You nodded and looked down into the dark underpass once more before back to the Professor. 

“You’ve spent too much time around Mr Mayne with that poetic observation.” you jeered.

“Oh, have I?” he raised his eyebrow, putting aside the dull ache in his stomach at knowing your exact pastimes with Mayne.

 It was hard to choose what to look at, the morbid curiosities before you or the alluring man acting a slight fool in front of you; giddy at the chance to share all there was to know about the place to a fresh mind that would listen perhaps, for once.  Yet he was clearly fighting with some inner turmoil, the poor man couldn’t have handled the scandal of your behaviour at the Quad very well.  Beyond that he was the perfect contrast to Paddy, refreshing in his calm demeanour, smooth honeyed voice and dark eyes rather than Paddy’s swift bark and shifting grey-blues.  His tall lean frame was accentuated by that dark coat you knew he treasured and the collar drawn up against the wind flowed into his dark hair which seemingly had a mind of its own.  Flecks of a few strands of grey in the little light that broke through the space.

“Are ya’ too scared to go down there?” he joked lightly, nodding towards the tunnel.  You shook your head, he stepped forward quickly, strangely. 

“I’ll guide you through, don’t worry.  I wouldn't want you to trip and fall in there or anything like that, have a great deal of trouble on my hands–” he moved to guide you,

“–couldn’t imagine a Professor responsible for a student getting hurt, be the end of them.” He absentmindedly pulled his collar down from where it shielded his neck, white shirt collar now visible. You thought of Paddy’s teeth drawing blood from your thigh in the past, and how the blood had stained his mouth and your slip.  The tunnel had an even heavier stillness to it than the outside air, and the pair of footsteps reverbated around you as you soon passed into the avenue ahead, Eoin had described its vast family vaults and strange Egyptian-like mosaics with lotus-bud columns and ornate vault chamber door decorations.  

“An almost bygone era of fetishism with ancient Egyptian culture…” Eoin murmured.

“Professor, and you don’t have a bit of fetishism with this place?” you prodded, his face dropped,

“Well-I, I have not always claimed to be on the correct side of academia at all times.” he tried to excuse himself.

“I find myself quite comfortable with talking about all that, you know, lonely men of your age making up for lost time and all obsessing over great idols like Boudica, turning them into lustful goddesses...” You had noticed the way he had gripped his own arm through his coat, leather glove stretching tight across the back of his hand,  “...I mean no woman or man is safe really from some of the professors around today and the past thirty years or so.”  You waved your hand at the monuments, “I say let academic pleasure fly.” 

“It’s academic– pleasu–? Academic pleasure…ah,” he breathed out, “Okay….” he said as if the wind had been punched from his lungs. “Let’s just not talk of fetishism.” he said frankly, red flush beyond the effects of the morning cold rising on his cheeks.

He slowed down his pace as he walked, aware of it being your first time actually within the cemetery gates, you spoke hurriedly about how you could piece things together.

It took a while for him to get a word in as you tried to make sense of the architecture and symbolism all around you both, when he did he spoke slowly, as if to stall your racing mind. 

“I just would like you, and you alone to tell me what you wish to study. Just even a few ideas to begin with, just-just make them cohesive.” He said with an attempt at grounding you in his voice.

“After a brief conversation with Mr Mayne some time ago as I hinted at,” he huffed, the direction of ‘you alone’ thrown by the wayside entirely, yet you continued, unreactive to his show of displeasure. “See, I thought it would be best to do a study on the authors of the cemetery.  Well, specifically as I do very much like George Eliot.” you suggested.

Eoin let out a low hum of agreence before saying in a drawl, back facing you,

“Yes, of course– of course. I quote Bede, 1859.” he began,

“What greater thing is there for two human souls, than to feel that they are joined for life—to strengthen each other in all labour, to rest on each other in all sorrow, to minister to each other in all pain, to be with each other in silent unspeakable memories at the moment of the last parting?”

The words flowed out of mouth like a mantra, the same fixative tone which Paddy’s rambling undertook, yet every word was filled with deep meaning, feeling; like he was clawing it out of the very pits of his being.

He nodded again to himself, turning his head over his shoulder,“Yes, lovely, excellent choice. Follow me, let's see dear Mary.” he said softly.

Watching his lean frame duck and dive through the high obelisks and under the leaves of hanging oaks you struggled to keep up, legs moving in quick uneven paces at his longer strides.  You thought of

Tolkien’s recent writings, of beautiful elves leading men and women to their deaths or imprisonment through the intoxicating haze of Mirkwood.

He slowly pulled off the leather gloves as he was speaking, tucking them under his arm.  Your hearing chose to avert itself of its purpose as your eyes wandered to his movement, pale hands gently etching the moss covered name of George Eliot on a towering obelisk.

Pulling off your own woolen gloves your hands followed his own as he pulled back, tracing where they had travelled.  To touch what he had touched so delicately, and even so morbid made your hair stand on end and intrusive thoughts.  He stood, gesturing to follow him to the rear of the monument as he fixated on the font use alone.

Your eyes caught what little light reflected off the rings on his hands, three in total, one you hadn’t seen before, a simple thing with some greenish stone.  You had thought it unusual for a man to wear anything more than a wedding ring. Though, you remembered your Uncle’s abhorrent display of too many rings on fingers too many sizes too big for them – they were bursting at the seams like some sort of vulgar chokehold on his well-worked hands.  These rings however sat perfectly on Eoin’s long, deft fingers, accentuating their shape and the pale skin beneath, he had few scars on his hands unlike Paddy, who said he had a habit of putting cigarettes out on his hand sometimes to quell his anger at war or accidentally burning himself with hot rifle muzzles.

Your shoe met the tangle of a tree root with a great ‘clip’, as you moved towards the rear of the stone, sending you forwards towards where Eoin knelt near it snapping you out of your thoughts.  His hand reached to steady you in a flash, gripping your wrist and applying force backwards.  It was cold, strong and firm in his grounding of you from tipping forward, and only there for a moment before he pulled it away quickly, placing his gloves back on with haste. 

“Whoops– sorry, sorry Professor.” you gasped.  Your eyes met his and it was as if he had seen a ghost, his pupils were blown and whites of his eyes full in horror at his gaze at the contact.  You laughed, trying to ease the tension, mist spurting out in short sharp bursts through the air

“S’alright.” he said calmly, his eyes still betraying his tone of voice.

Library – Afternoon

Eoin had walked back to the college with you, a brief appearance of a dull winter sun warming your faces weakly.  He spoke less on the walk back, as though language itself might trespass again into the space in his mind as you did at times. When he did, it was books to read, of pathways forward with your study, practical next-steps, all the scaffolding of his professionalism rearing its head as the excitable prior mood fell.  This ‘head’ of professionalism he wanted to rip away from the base, and instead reach down past its bloodied remains to confess his sins at an altar dedicated to you, one which he knew another man already worshiped at.

And yet, against his suddenly stiff demeanour, each time you stumbled slightly on the frozen pavement, his body shifted, anticipating you falling again and whether or not he could control himself to catch you without embracing you as he had craved since the day Paddy Mayne had done so instead.  The walk seemed endless, but eased into quiet comfort by the end.  The stone of the college had yet to shirk off the dark dampness of the night’s rain before and the towers loomed like great sentries overhead. You always thought the architecture was no doubt wasted on snotty family estate boys, but it suited perfectly the man at your side, dark, tall and with endless possibilities of conversation and unpredictability. You noticed how he lowered his head slightly as he stepped through the doorway to the library, a habit learned early and never quite unlearned, no doubt from the small farming cottages back home he said he was used to. 

“Well that was a great break from the daily schedule,” he said, voice mellow yet an air of satisfaction to it as he lowered it.

“Wait– I’ve had a thought.” he sparked up suddenly, voice rising back again to a very un-librarian level, “Just find a seat and wait there for a moment.” he said as he walked away, his hand gesturing over his shoulder wildly.

You took your time following his request, peering out each window to find a picturesque scene that suited your mood just right, pensive, yet excited. 

“Brought you here to show you some relevant books to look at briefly, but I’m sure you can handle yourself.” he reassured, placing the heavy stack lightly on the small dark wooden desk you had slumped at, feet aching to have kept up with his pace. “But, by God would I be a fool if I didn’t just give you these ones first.” he grinned. 

They were all exactly what you needed to get a start with no doubt, books on Eliot and elaborate graves, Victorian mourning and deep investigations into authors of the time.

Soon enough it was long since the end of the day, the Professor had left you with a quiet ‘thank you’ for the day's excitement and only yourself and the young librarian, an aptly bookish-looking fellow remained perhaps in the entire block.  You had talked to him briefly when he had almost stumbled over your pulled-out chair, explaining in a floaty tone of quaint dread that he had failed to catalogue an entire section of the law journals which were of imminent requirement for the new intake of Masters of Law students.  These of which you knew Mr McGonigal would be teaching, you had heard he became quite fierce when discussing his expertise; he had explained teaching law was his job, teaching history was his life's work.

Dramatic, he could be at the least of times.

Though, unbeknownst to you, Paddy sniffed you out like the blood hound he was.  He had been aware of your ‘excursion’ with the other Professor, and combined with the sight of you and the red-haired boy already having driven him wild over the past months; he was thoroughly fueled by spite churning in his gut and conscience.  He barely lowered his voice as he asked if you had passed through the library to the young librarian.

“Ah, yes Sir, yes– she’s buried herself in the literature biographical section. Best of luck finding her.”

“Good lad,” Paddy quipped.

The last person you wanted to see was Mr Mayne, well, so you had thought.

However, the second he rounded the corner to the section of shelves you felt overcome by something strange, a sudden burning desire as if all your pent-up frustration and annoyance with the Professor had melted away and you had been returned to that first day when it all changed.  None of the shameful, nervous and embarrassed feelings which had grown over the past few months remained in that moment, and what was left was something you had craved since the beginning.

Fresh, delicious and unbridled lust.

Your eyes had widened at the sight, switching between his eyes and his mouth as he spoke, wanting him to only place his mouth around you rather than meaningless words.  His usual woolen jersey was replaced by a light blue shirt with just enough buttons undone to keep the Proctors happy no doubt.

“I’d arranged a meeting.” Paddy said sternly.

You had not wanted to attend that meeting with every fiber of your being until now, until that itch had come back to you like never before.

Paddy held a firm grip on your hip the entire way to his classroom, and your hand gripped his own, fingernails digging in for extra effect.

Eoin had been in his office the whole time, fretting over how to plan for any sort of follow-up on his other Masters students and their own excursions, especially after nearly getting arrested on a couple for trespassing.  The door swung lightly as the pressure shifted in the hall, a great door swinging open at the other end and hurried footsteps.  He listened quietly, as their direction stalled outside the exact classroom belonging to Paddy Mayne.  It didn’t take long for curiosity to overcome his attempt at planning, the hurried pace of the pair of footsteps usually meant some sort of dramatic outing of a student cheating on Mayne’s difficult exams.

Silently he made his way to the exit of his office, slipping his keys out of the small clay bowl he kept by the door and stuffing them into his coat pocket.  Mayne’s door was only a few paces down from his own, door slightly ajar, rush no doubt allowing anytime for privacy, although the late hour of the day mostly granted Mayne that already.

Eoin’s eye followed the stream of light coming from the door through a slim gap, his arm flush against the cold wood of the doorframe.  The first thing he saw was the naked curve of a waist forming into the hip, and what was undeniably Paddy’s ring-clad hand raising to run down the soft lines of skin. 

Paddy’s desk had been cleared of all its contents. The desk lamp lay still plugged in on the hardwood floor, the dim light casting strange shadows of their bodies on the wall. 

Paddy squeezed the flesh of your thighs, cold rings forming indents in soft skin. His nose pressed into your cheek, his tongue running over the pulse point of your neck.

“Could hardly bloody focus today,” He whispered into your skin, one hand roaming up to your ribcage as you pulled at his collar. 

He huffed at the tension against his neck, “Missing you, your pretty, bare legs under the table… Could only think of my face in between them, makin’ you tremble…”

“Don’t know what’s gotten into you today, why’s it's taken you this long to let yourself come back with me?” he hissed.

“Felt particularly sexually inspired by that stairwell did we?” Paddy joked, clicking his tongue.

Your chest heaved towards him as you gasped out, “I-don’t know what came over me I just needed you.  Only you.”

“Aye girl, you’ll have me.” he nodded, teeth nipping at your neck as he pulled your blouse off, buttons popping that he hadn’t already undone.

Eoin caught his lip in between his teeth, stifling a whimper at the way your legs fell open so eagerly at Paddy’s words. He could feel his pants getting tighter by the minute. The only thing keeping him from pulling his cock out right there was the sharp pain of his nails in his palms, grounding him in reality.

“You don’t know how frustrating it is,” Paddy mumbled, one hand snaking up your back to grip the hair at the base of your neck. “To watch you there… unable to touch you, your pretty lips around the end of a pen rather than my-“

“Sounds like you have an issue with focusing, Professor.” You interrupted in a biting tone, and though your back was to him, Eoin could hear the smile in your voice.

“Oh, I have an issue…” he said, “an issue with a lot of the things you’ve been doing.  Galavanting with puny little boys and other Professors.” he growled lowly.

It was hard not to think about what Eoin would do if he were so lucky to be in Paddy’s shoes. He wasn’t known to be a rough man, but you brought out the worst in him. He wanted to flip you over on that desk, press your pretty face into the polished wood, and make you beg God for mercy.  But he was not Paddy. He could only try and ignore the heavy throbbing between his legs as Paddy tugged at your hair with one hand and fiddled with his belt with the other. You were giggling as Paddy finally pushed inside you, the laugh turning into an airy gasp in seconds.

Eoin’s entire face was burning at the sight, his legs beginning to feel gelatinous. Paddy was moving at a rough pace, a laser-like intensity in his gaze as he stared you down. 

If Eoin moved in just the right way, he could see Paddy’s face. The way his hair fell into his face in a way he didn’t usually allow, how his veins travelled down his toned arms. If Eoin looked closely, he could see a vein travelling below his belly button, down to his-

He looked away, eyes staring at the door for a moment. He’d been looking at Paddy for too long, able to see much more of him than he could of you. It was surely just how he pleasured you that was exciting to Eoin, but the way his cock throbbed when he turned back to see Paddy’s face twist in pleasure begged to differ.

He had feared there was something deeper, some sort of realisation rearing its head that had been there all along. Some ugly old thing of deep feeling rearing its head, coaxed at the pretty hands of yourself. 

Memories, they just were. Though they incited some deep encompassing feeling of confusion and dread,  muddied by years of blood and war, the past of light glances at the Rugby clubs, the feeling of being pressed against another man in a scrum back in Newtownards, against Paddy. The way they had written to each other, lost each other and then found again on the docks of Larne. Where they’d embraced, and Eoin had felt the world melt around him. 

For over ten years he had pushed it deeper, swept it aside, tried to distract himself without realising it, focusing on others or nothing at all, like some punitive subconscious oath.  Those days in the sweltering desert, cold nights separated in Norway and Denmark after the end of Germany’s surrender where he had longed for the firm press of a body against his, not any other, just Paddy’s. Years of want, years of guilty desire and time apart all for it to fall apart in a matter of months…

…and it had only taken seeing Paddy Mayne with another melting under him to snap.

Slowly, Eoin slid to the floor, onto his knees. The brown woollen trousers matching the floorboards beneath. One hand reached out to press against the door, and the other over his mouth, careful not to make any noise. 

You had let out a guttural groan as Paddy pushed one of your knees to your chest, allowing him to push deeper inside you. 

The whimper that released from your throat made Eoin sigh into his palm, pulling his hand to the cross necklace he wore whilst his other hand on the door fell down to pull at the taught skin of his side where his large cross tattoo lay, falling further to grip his thigh.   

Surely his faith would allow him to relieve himself of this pain, without acting on it. Surely it wouldn’t matter that his hand slid from his thigh to his groin. He applied light pressure to the imprint in his trousers, and the pleasure that shot through his spine made him shiver.

He felt some sort of cool fury pouring into his blood at the sight, the sound, the very air that breathed from the door.  This wave followed by a rush of what came as sorrow and horror of himself, those years at war, those sights compressed into one, tearing at his very being – like he was ripping himself apart from the inside out.

“Oh.” he let out shaking his head, it was ever so quiet, unheard over the muffled moans and creaking from the well-worn office desk of a man he had known he’d hatefully loved for years.

“Feels good, does it?” Paddy asked through grit teeth. And though Eoin knew he was talking to you, yet he nodded, a silent ‘yes’ falling from his lips as his  hips rose ever slightly to meet his palm. 

Besides, all you could muster were pathetic whines to his question, the thick, hot stretch of Paddy ridding you of your words.  Eoin was lucid, so aware, so full of energy and bursting with need. 

Paddy’s grunts became hurried soon enough and his words mixing into a ramble, “That’s it, fuckin- spread– out f’me.” he demanded, Eoin had turned his head again to the ajar door, watching your arms lean back scattering papers across the desk through hazy eyes.  As you shifted hurriedly, spreading your arms further across the desk where you leaned back on them, suddenly with an almighty hiss you recoiled back up into Paddy’s chest almost instantly.

“–God, fuck, ouch.” you pulled your hand between yourselves, groaning, hissing now in true pain.  Paddy stilled his movements in an instant and reached to cradle your hand, gripping the injured palm as he held your hip firm.

“You alright there? What happened?” his voice descended into concern, “Your fucking letter opener, Paddy,” you hissed out.

“Shit, mind slipped on that one.  M’sorry, less of an opener more of a desert knife.” He lowered his eyes to your palm as the blood welled and started to fall in a light line down your arm. 

“Poor pretty thing, you’ve got a wee cut there you do, are you scared of blood?”  You couldn’t tell if his sweetness was legitimate or not.

He was still firmly inside you as he moved your hand to his mouth, kissing the bloodied wound lightly as his dark eyes still bored into your own, in that moment you felt him twitch inside yourself.

“What the fuck Paddy–” you began,

“Lovely thing, like a wounded Dove.” he murmured.  

With that you pulled your arm down, hauling him almost completely off you with a firm push to his chest, yet he remained still inside you slightly, the thickness of him enough to be noticed no matter how little he was inside.

“First you try to lick my wound, and then, well, matter of the fact is, you keep a bloody knife on your desk?” you spat, anger welling.

“I also keep you spread and wet like this on my desk too, but you have little issue with that.” He pushed aside his concern and strange behaviour for a moment to recoil in one of his usual jeers.  A few drops of blood had fallen down off a thin trail across your palm, and Eoin’s eyes watched intensely, following it as it glided across your skin wishing he could do the same with his tongue, fingers, anything.  Paddy was a deranged man for touching his mouth to your blood, yet Eoin would do the same to both of you without a thought more, and he knew that painfully, sinfully.

“Let me see now, that’s it dove. No playin’ silly buggers I swear.” Paddy’s voice interrupted his gaze.

You huffed, attempting to fight with the internal understanding that of course it would be best to trust a man that had seen countless wounds in war over your little experience with cuts and grazes from wild blackthorn trees and stray wire fences at home.  You allowed him to take your hand back in his own.

Paddy hummed slightly admiring where the pale skin turned to sanguine,“Aye, I think you’ll live.” he grinned, “But let’s give it a wash now, let’s get you some gauze.”

He pulled back, slowly away from your body not to shock you despite your great upheaval prior, adjusting himself back into his trousers despite his still ready and hard cock protesting, securing the slacks with one hand, button and all.  

In the great shifting and clatter of more desk ornaments falling off as you pulled yourself upwards your onlooker slipped away, rising from his knees in an ungainly wobble and shuffling hurriedly down the corridor; face brazen with red as he tried to adjust himself in his pants.

“Just keep some pressure on it. Here–” Paddy said as he gripped your free hand to the wound then pulled your skirt down gently, pulling your ruined underwear away from your ankles and into his back pocket as you glanced unimpressed.  He guided you from his office with a firm hand on your lower back, turning to the left towards the bathrooms.  Before you could reach them the familiar silhouette of Professor McGonigal caught your eye, standing staring at the door handle of his office, keys in hand.

His hair was tousled, he still wore his gloves and coat despite the colleges’ radiators on full blast.

“Oh, hello.” he said hurriedly at your approach.

“Ah, it’s good we ran into you Mr McGonigal actually,” you admitted.  You pulled at your ruffled shirt which Paddy had gladly not ripped from your body earlier with what free fingers you had, barely concealing the wrecked buttons, mind racing to attempt to find an excuse why you were with Mayne alone well and truly past office hours.

“We’d just been discussing for hours–”

“–Aye, hours chatting.” Paddy nodded, a wolfish smile on his face.

You had to blurt something out, something, anything of enough substance,“–L–Let’s join forces to do a joint lecture. What do you say? Something on Irish folklore history, poetry, or deathways?” your eyes lit up at the realisation, you turned to Paddy for agreement, realising just how close you were standing, and how inappropriate that may have been to any other late onlookers.  Of course, your game was already more or less up after the encounter at the Quad, but you had chosen to still play innocent. You couldn’t trust what McGonigal might do at the end of the day, one small slip of the tongue and your great game between Paddy and yourself was up to a proctor or any sort of authority around the place. Hoping the blood wasn’t welling around your fingers you lowered and clasped your hands waist, trying to conceal the wound.

“It’ll draw those intrigued new students in, aye.” Paddy nodded absentmindedly at your side, the only thing on his mind being your underwear in his back pocket and his zipper straining at his front.

The whole energy from Eoin felt off. Strange. After the first frosty encounter at the start of the year he was always one of the most accommodating, engaging lecturers you had interacted with.  

His eyes flickered between you both,

“Just because I am Irish–,” he gestured at Paddy, “–we are, doesn’t mean I am some oracle in all things Irish.” Eoin huffed, pulling his satchel he had thrown in a panic at the bottom of the door over his shoulder.  

“Yes, of course Sir, I don’t mean to make any assumptions about you, well either of you–” you shook your head, shifting on the balls of your feet to try to distract yourself from the stinging pain and focus on not coming across as a folly and creating a believable lie.

“Oh, you can try to make any assumption all you want about me, I’m sure you’ll get it wrong,” Paddy said slowly, “You can both try…” he lowered his voice, nodding slightly at Eoin in some attempt at camaraderie. You glanced at Paddy and noticed his own eyes had fallen to your wound, wary of not pulling the other Professor into your own dramas.

Eoin cut him off before he could explain himself,

“I know… I know that I shared some stories from my childhood to you on occasion after class, but it really doesn’t mean I know everything.” Eoin seemed to be trying to memorise the woodgrains of the door in front of him,  “My expertise is not there, and you know there would be some upturned noses at any mention of ‘paganism’ in these halls; let alone the frolicing in the cemeteries.”  Eoin tried in an attempt to respond adequately, though found his mouth barely moving and his mind spitting out whatever he could to end the conversation.  Whole body and eyes avoided both your own and Paddy’s 

“That’s for private study, your own passion.” he said to you, with an air of desperation to his voice as he fought himself to turn to you.

“Are you alright? Your hand is twitching like nothing else.” you asked, nodding, as it was all you could do to his hand gripping like a vice around his keys still raised as if he was unlocking some invisible door in front of you both.

“Ah, yeah. Yeah. Just, too much coffee y’know.  Too late n’ the day n’all.” he slurred his words slightly.

“Are you on the drink?” Paddy asked at your side. “Eoin, wake up, you're on your feet now, you’re like a dead man walking.” Paddy continued laughing slightly, you noticed with a strange concern he usually reserved for only yourself.

“Christ, do I wish I were dead.” Eoin breathed out, head lifting back slightly as he closed his eyes as he moved to thrash the key around in the lock.  Nothing was gentle round there in the old buildings, and the movements mocked the earlier sight which marred him in a way like no other as your body had clung to Paddy.  Finally, with a crunch the key clicked locked in the door. 

This sudden swift change of mood amused you, he was not usually an emotional person.

He turned to you both, back against the door, you noticed how his height meant he looked down at you both slightly, “Apologies, for cursing like that.  Shouldn’t do such an unprofessional thing in front of a student.” he spoke with his tongue barely restraining what he truly had to say back.

Paddy smiled lightly, mind focused on the fact that knowing that, if he was locking the door, he’d been there for some time.  Sound carries, and of course, in all innocence; Professor Eoin McGonigal always leaves his door open for any concerned student.

You had found needed respite in the thought of a hot bath as you clambered up the Doctoral flats, the frost from the morning still lingering in the corners of your body despite Paddy’s warmth having warmed you earlier.  After the encounter with Eoin you hurried with Paddy to the bathroom, washing the congealing blood down the sink as he reached into a medical cabinet. He’d commented on Eoin’s strange demeanour only briefly before sending you on your way.

It didn’t feel quite right.  None of it.

Thoughts wracked your mind, not entirely complete, just fractures bouncing in and out of the corners reserved for shame, it kept falling back to Eoin, is this desire? Jealousy? Hatred?  To be frank, ever since Eoin had touched you this morning you had felt strange. The way he had looked at you when he had steadied you weighed on your mind, his eyes were like a deers in headlights on a country-road, like something so vulnerable inside him was being barely held at bay.  

His softness, his care in explanation and guidance filled a void you felt had been empty for a long time. The strange frenzy you felt upon seeing Paddy again even if you were frustrated with him for his comments on your own relationships felt so fuelled by something stronger. The ‘meeting’ with Paddy had soothed you for a bit, but after seeing Eoin at his office door moments after you had noticed a flash of a glint in his eyes as they connected to yours in that first moment.  It was as if he knew that silken touch from the morning still lingered for you despite the feeling where Paddy’s rough hands marred the flesh that his fingers had graced, yet only for a brief moment.

Careful to keep your wrapped cut hand from getting sodden you ran your hands along the rails of the bath, sighing heavily as you stretched into it.  The hand you couldn’t get wet instead you soon placed above your head, thinking as if Paddy’s own had secured in there in place, reprimanding you for its wandering.  You couldn’t keep away from him, no matter how much you had cursed at him.  The light fell lower as the blue throws of the twilight fell, the flickering warm lights of a few lit candles supplying what little remained.  Shadows cast in stretched abstract glyphs about the room as you followed the strange lines slowly.

Your mind quickly slipped into thought of Paddy at your side, but he was changed, doting, caring, loving and entirely yours without any institutional scandal marring you both.  He smiled with warm love and honeyed eyes, whispering sweet words of encouragement and stroking your hair as the candlelight licked at his face.  It was an image, a delusion of a devoted man bound to you, something he had seemed incapable of doing lest he be tempted by your body, something you craved.  The thought of hands stroking your hair soon began to shift, uncontrollably, to hands sliding through the water, upwards from your ankles, across your wet thighs. 

Disembodied, yet feeling entirely real.

Your eyes squeezed shut as the feeling overpowered you, it must be light-headedness from the little bloodloss you had thought, I must’ve passed out on the bed, this mustn’t be real.

Hands gripping the edge of the bath tightly you gasped as you felt long fingers start to rub small circles across your clit, another hand travelling to flick at your nipple and pinch at your neck.

“Paddy… I swear,” you huffed out.

“Aww, it’s alright now, pretty little thing.” you could hear a muffled brogue drawl out, as if it was underwater itself.

It felt like nothing else, some force of delusion of great subconsciousness holding you down and dragging out pleasure like never before, you shook in the warm surround of the water.

“Don’t– even– want me for anything– other–than this–” you managed to whine out

“Oh, I’ll come round to you, don't worry.” you heard that muffled brogue again.

It took only a few moments before the darkness of your closed vision went white.  It felt like hours before you stirred into consciousness, spread out across your own bedspread naked, injured hand hanging off the side of the bed like it had been to the side of the bath.

“W-what–” you whispered to yourself, voice hoarse and quiet in the calm silence of your dark room more for reassurance if anything.

It took a while for you to collect yourself and try and process what had happened.  You must have passed out in the bath and ended up on the bed like some wandering soul. Legs unsteady you made your way to the bathroom to the side of your room.

Pulling the thin line that led to the breaker for the small lightbulb in the ceiling you sighed.

The bath was full, the candles burnt out and the floor mat damp as if you had just been there.

You moved forwards slowly, chest rising in still remaining confusion as you reached out to touch the water.

It ripped around your finger as you slowly breached the surface,

Ghadzi Military Prison, Cairo 18th June 1942

“Just sit down?” Paddy continued, “You want me to just sit down?”  He had that cocky look of feigned surprise on his face that Eoin had grown to be annoyingly fond of.

“I will not do that when I’ve got places to be, Eoin-” he shoved past some of the placid prisoners in the cell “-The right man of action that I am.” Coming to address Eoin closely, he shook his head.

“I’ve got a little rendezvous of my own at the Hotel Shepheard tonight.” He lowered his voice.

“And from there?” Eoin raised an eyebrow as Paddy clasped a rough hand on his shoulder, 

“Well…who knows what I may have in store for myself, and what I shall find.”

Eoin tapped Paddy’s hand lightly on his shoulder, and Paddy returned it to his side.

“Is that so now?” 

“Aye.” He grinned, “I might just find myself a desert jewel all wrapped up in silk and ready for me, door unlocked waiting for me to unwr–.”

“Would ya’ be quiet now, Paddy, look at who you’re around,” he said, nodding to the other prisoners.

Eoin’s brows furrowed as he grimaced at the thought of not being there, his dark eyes betraying him in other ways at the image of you waiting like some pantheress ready to pounce the second the door cracked open.

“Stop daydreaming and keep thinking how we’re going to get back to base, Lieutenant.” Paddy changed his tone and shifted into that faux character of a man not madly in love with him that he found himself too familiar with. 

A few hours later

It wasn’t much effort to cause enough havoc for the guards to give into their brutish disposition and rush the cell, of course, to the pair's advantage. A few jeers, some more mind-numbing poetry from Paddy, and a few sly words here and there from Eoin placed the pair in a room of men frustrated enough to seemingly bend steel to escape. However, in usual fashion, Eoin had to try to drag Paddy by the collar and prevent him from joining in on the riot to slip out of the cell door unnoticed.

Reg had whistled across the room at them from his lone cell as they moved, their escape further helped by the dust which had flown up amongst the brawling bodies and blanketed the already stifling and claustrophobic room in a yellow haze.

Paddy grinned wolfishly, the haze hiding Eoin’s hand firm on his hip, then, in a mock-innocent voice not dissimilar to Sterling, said, “Reg lad, we'll have to make our apologies. I have a rendezvous with a kind lady this evening to meet.”

“What’s this? Paddy’s got a girl, eh?” Reg scoffed, eyeing him up full well like he knew Paddy and women went together like chalk and cheese.

“If that’s so, keep me locked up in here for eternity, might God strike me down, eh?” Reg grinned. 

Paddy continued his grin through the haze.

“You’re not serious, Paddy,” Reg spoke with an unheard concern in his voice. 

With that, Paddy was off, pulling Eoin behind him now.  The smell of dust and sweat and God knows what other excretions had a particular thickness which even Paddy could no longer tolerate lest he crawl out of his skin.

“But–Reg, —Paddy!” Eoin protested,

“He’ll be fine,” Paddy replied quickly, shutting down any protest.

“Ohh, you tosser,” Reg called out as they disappeared down the dark corridor.

“You won’t hear the end of this, Pads,” Eoin grumbled through the noise.

Later that Day

Hotel Shepheard.

It wasn’t straight to the bedroom as it had often been between the three of them lately… 

Eoin had disappeared back to base to warn of their abandoned comrade’s fate. Dragging his feet in a particular manner that he hadn’t found himself doing before, he was never left out of the fun.

You were already nursing a sherry, looking amused at the scruffy appearance of Paddy as he entered the room; knocking wasn’t necessary anymore.

“Would you like a shower, Paddy?” You asked, eying his dusty, sweat-soaked uniform. “My, so awfully hot outside isn’t it today.” 

“No, been quite cool where I’ve been, and no, because you know what will happen if you put yourself in there with me, too. We’ll run this place dry before we ‘finish’.” He spoke harshly as he leered across the room at you. “Don’t be so uptight now… You see, I called for you, Paddy, because I want to talk to you before I leave for the month of June.”

“So, you called me here to say you’re abandoning us in the desert?” Paddy remarked with a questionable tone.

“No, I called you here because you need a break, too. Eoin said it, I said it.” 

“Come with me to England. To my father’s estate. It’ll take your mind off things.” You shifted on the settee, your face inscrutable of the weight of what you’d struggled hard to face, saying and practising to yourself in scattered mutterings while writing. 

“Ah… nothing more would relax me than being in the den of the conniving gentry that sends little Tommy’s to their watery and sandy graves, that sent Eoin here to suffer and me here to become who I truly am in the ‘civilised’ man’s horror.”

He shucked off his shirt in a harsh motion, sun-etched skin stretching over his solid form. You’d thought an Irishman could never get this tan; Eoin usually turned red.

His dog tags and the cross he wore hung starkly against his skin as he moved about the room to hide the best of his ugly clothes in the ornate decorations.

You had begun to learn to brush off the annoyance of his usual mannerisms; though, however troubling and dysfunctional your family was, you felt it was necessary to defend them, the poor sods. 

“Paddy, this is my family, have some respect.”

“In truth, you’ve only recently gained a sliver of my respect, which is about the most I allow anyone, even those most dear to me and those who aren’t lines in a book.”

He knew he was lying through his teeth.

“You’re lying.”

“Aye.”

“So, are you going to agree with me? Or do I need to convince you in other ways?” You spoke firmly, but with a familiar glint in your eye.

“Oh, so this is a transaction, is it, aye? And what might those be?” 

“...Well, no, but maybe I'll pin you down, Major…” you grinned.

“I’d like to see you try.” He cut you off, statement opposing his actions as he moved forward to where you were lounging, his hand reaching to brush against your knee in a gentle manner you had barely felt from him.

You ignored his words, “...and ride you over and over, sir.” Your hand had moved to grip him through his slacks as he lingered above you.

“Don’t ‘sir’ me, sweet.”

“Well, I’d ‘love’ to have you come to the estate, so we can frolic in the gardens and be like the nymphs in the woods and forget this war.” You confessed.

Paddy just hummed lowly in agreement, a slight raspy growl to his voice.

“I don’t have leave, and if I did, you might find I’d have wished to take it in Newtownards, to see my mother.”

Your hand had wandered back to your own thigh, parting the silk robe, touching lightly at a mark on your soft, tanned skin.

“You know… your beard left quite a sore souvenir on my poor thigh last time. So scratchy on my tender skin, you see,” you confessed in somewhat of a lie, trying to draw out his release in finally claiming you.

“Eoin had to massage this beautiful oil he bought for me on my thighs every night for a week! Oh, but he did wander elsewhere, so strange! And weirdly with his tongue, Paddy.”  Your teasing finally made Paddy snap. 

He grumbled some non-distinct curse, no doubt as he flung himself down at you, pulling both arms away from yourself and up against the head of the seat as he straddled your thighs.

“I don’t believe you.” He gritted out.

He brought his head to yours, moving to the side to whisper in your ear lowly,

“Ah, but I’d buy you every oil in Harrods, enough to fill up every cabinet in any house if it means I get to be between your le––”

You pushed him back upwards, reaching to the side table to slip an approved request of leave slip, perfectly forged –albeit specifically stating that the soldier shall remain in the locality of England on matters of the war– onto Paddy’s lap.

He read it with a furrowed brow before he met your gaze. Eyes darker at your determination against him.

“Oh, but what you are proposing now is that they need not know about my little detour northward first, then is that it?”

“Isn’t it a bit too early to meet the family, besides I’m sure they’d like our little dark-haired Romeo more.” His tone was full of such venomous sarcasm.

“No, I want you all to myself.”

“So, is it a yes, Paddy?” You pulled the slip back from him and placed it back beside yourselves.

“Well, why don’t we bet on it?” He grinned, “Bet what–?” you asked.

“If I get you to come off more than four times in the next…” 

He checked his watch, “Thirty minutes… then I shall stay right here in the desert, perhaps treat Eoin and I to a little stay at some hotel without you.” 

“And if you don’t.”

“Then I win, and you come see me?” You said sheepishly.

“Of course, anything for you.” He spoke with that false sweetness that Eoin used with genuineness; however, part of you felt he was just testing how it felt to say what he actually felt.

You would fight for dear life against him that night. It went so quickly, from being sat on the settee like some seductress to fighting against him like some prey, determined face cracking into a smile at your bet placed.

He mostly had you pinned on your front in order to distract you from any attempt at preventing your orgasm, the thick weight of him moving hurriedly between your thighs.  You had chastised him for not doing the things you liked that Eoin did in an attempt to distract both himself and you from the thought of your missing man, though that appeared to just spur him on.

“He wouldn’t give you this.” Paddy gritted out between thrusts, mouth at the side of your neck, biting lightly with those sharp teeth of his. You could only hold on and try to think of the most off-putting things: the smell of blood and death, camel dung in the market, David Stirling, that particular drink you had at the cabaret club last Wednesday.

Paddy ripped your head up, a strong hand gripping your hair, “I know what you’re trying, girl,” he growled. You nodded against the strain, tears welling at the corner of your eyes, “I can feel you tightening up like some fuckin’ trap on me… no fuckin’ good.” He pulled you up off your front against his chest before moving his hand to your lower back and pushing you into an arch, the muscles on your back panging at the stretch. 

He remained inside as he did this, moving his hand underneath you to rub at your clit with his thumb.

He brought his other hand down with an all-mighty crack on your ass, hand grabbing the already blooming flesh that lay under it.

You laughed through the tears, now perhaps filled with another such misery at the thought that maybe Paddy did feel nothing towards you at all. 

“I will fight back, Paddy Mayne.” You spat out.

“I would like to see you try, so far you’ve failed, we are on two, and in such a short time.” Paddy’s voice rang through your head as he again lay himself over your body, deep inside, and he wrapped a hand lightly around your throat.

“What you’re going to do is you're going to come for me, and you're going to let everyone know that Paddy Mayne remains in the desert where he belongs.” 

You were intrigued by the fact that he did not tighten his grip on your throat; it was true that his reputation for being dismissive towards women in the past had harboured no sense of violence, unlike other men of the British army.

Your head spun.

“Where I belong, with Eoin. And you, you take your little holiday princess, yea’?  There will be no need for any soldier boyfriends to be brought round to Daddy to prove you’re doing so very well.” He jeered; your face flushed as the embarrassment waved over you.

His hand pulled roughly from your throat and rested back in your dark hair.

“You can take more now, can’t you? We haven’t gotten to four yet.”  

He got you for the third time, you cried out his name alone and for once without Eoin’s behind or following.

“That’s it, there you are, –yes, –till the morning knows my name,” he huffed out, teeth against your neck.

It did know its name in the end, but you knew victory in your bet, fighting tooth and nail as the time limit ran out.

You could barely stand as Paddy helped you into the shower, that gentle touch anyone rarely saw braving the surface of his stony exterior.  

“There we are, then straight to bed with you,” he said as he finished lightly drying you off.

He had pulled off the soiled silken sheets to your incoherent grumbles, tossing them to the floor and laying you gently in the exact spot he had had you writhing in minutes previously. 

Paddy didn’t sleep much that night, voices of uncertainty and self-hatred flying around his mind; of why he couldn’t be content like Eoin, to live a ‘normal’ existence, settle down with a beautiful woman such as yourself, two kids a farm, a dog, fuck…, what Eoin had said he wanted, family, kin of his own.  To not be shamed by society, invisible and unable to exist, lest only in the darkest corners of social clubs or army barracks.  He looked to himself, at his own confusion of what he truly adored and desired, of course, Eoin came to mind, but you were there and something truly else… a bridge between the life Eoin wanted and the love he and Paddy both desired, some medium to adore and to connect in a perfect triage of affection, sex and admiration.  

His mind and body ached greatly, and the thoughts raced through his mind and the twinges of strained muscle.

“A holiday would do me good,” Paddy whispered lightly as you, your breathing had slipped deep into sleep.  With eyes softened to a point which no man besides his own had ever seen in the infamous major, he took in the beauty of the view of you, brushing a strand of fallen hair across the face, he mumbled,

“No, I don’t think I shall make it to June without you.”  He moved from where he had propped himself up on his side to lie next to you.

“To England I go then for now,” he muttered sleepily, draping an arm around your smooth back.

Cotswolds, England Two Weeks later  2 July 1942

The Cotswolds in spring were as gorgeous as ever.  The gardens were alive with hyacinths flowering and your favourite snowdrops, as the meadows sprang with new life, rabbits and the occasional fawn and lamb pranced in the fields and woods, and butterflies fluttered in the warming breeze.

The past few days at the estate were the homely fantasy you had never dreamed of. Your father welcomed you with great jubilation in his eccentric way.  Paddy was soon to arrive as you had hoped, unsure of when, but no doubt it would make your day.  The thoughts of a life with either of them, let alone both in this fulfilling trio, made you yearn for a life without the shadow of war and espionage looming over you all.  You damned it for keeping Eoin trapped in a land so far from his home –oh, how Eoin would love the gardens here, though you had thought he had shown such joy and excitement at taking you around Ezbekîya Gardens in Cairo.  

After a particularly warm day at the estate helping your father with moving some large fence posts for the horses, sweat building in all those creases and crevices and sticking to the legs your men worshipped, and would no doubt feast from if they were both there, you felt a sense of rightfully fulfilled diligence. You had retired to your large guest room in an orange haze of sunset and bathed in the old claw-foot tub that seemed as old as the estate itself, dominating the ensuite facing the open balcony, the off-white curtains blowing in the breeze as you looked onwards, wishing to see a figure of a particular man crossing the estate. 

And he did, the stubborn thing he was, he did come round to his promise.  He arrived without your sight on some (undoubtedly stolen) bicycle, cycling with glee up the grand white gravelled road, having been through the inner turmoil over again about going through with your wishes, his singing whisked away into the warm spring air, words of a rebel tune in front of British aristocracy.

The call from your father came swiftly through the stairwell as you had just moved to shut the door and wrap yourself in your robe.

“Dear! There is a strange man at the door asking for you! How exciting!” Your father called jubilantly. 

You hadn’t told your father exactly about his arrival, rather hoping it would be sprung upon him in a surprise which lifted his spirits, as he found preparing for guests stressful, only mentioning the slight chance that a companion from the North African campaign might come visit.  Paddy, of course, needed no preparation in any part of his life.  

Your father was accepting of your private yet ‘explorative’ love life, as he had described it when your oversharing became the forefront of a late-night discussion camped out by the hearth. Your Mother had called it a ‘taste of Europe’, as she claimed she once did, though how she settled on a man from Guernsey who nearly cried at the taste of harira and was hated as a French-speaking Englishman you never knew. 

You raced down the dark stairs with a smile growing on your face. Paddy wore an off-white gansey over his uniform as he tilted his head to look past your father, holding the door ajar.

“You made it!” You raised your arms in a small cheer.

“Of course I made it,” he said as the corners of his mouth curled slightly.

“Dad, this is P–

“Blair, nice to meet you.” Paddy smiled, putting forward a hand to shake your father's.

Oh, he was really putting it on then for him, all gentleman-like as Almonds or Kershaw would say.

Your father looked him up and down, “One of our brave soldiers, I see, brilliant, and what regiment are you in Blair, what rank?”

You could see the gears turning in Paddy’s head as he considered his answer for a split second, Stirling screaming about secrecy no doubt in his memories, “11 Scottish Commando, Lieutenant, he answered.

“Good, excellent even! Tough and ruthless then.” He turned to you, “I thought you usually like men a bit more flowery and artistic…” Paddy raised an eyebrow, “Oh, you will find I can be quite the poet, sir.” 

You barely spoke as you made your way to where you were staying, just Paddy’s firm hand resting on your lower back, 

“Only you can drive me crazy enough to make me travel into the heart of the aristocratic British countryside when I could be instead cutting throats,” he said quietly as you walked up the stairs.

It was at times like these that you were reminded of his bloodthirsty disposition; however, it did excite some primal sense in you, which you hated to admit.

You undressed in silence, dispersed with dark glances and a sense of restraint, stripping off your robe, you watched Paddy’s arms and shoulders flex as he pulled off his jersey and shirt.

“As much as I hate to say it, I don’t think I can give you much of me tonight, cycling across half of England has taken that away, I think.”  

You crashed both exhausted onto the bed, covers not needed with the warmth of your naked bodies and the night air heated by the remains of the day's sun. 

He breathed a heavy sigh, the mattress seemingly denting more with his weight as he allowed himself to relax for the first time in countless days.

“Save what’s left for the morning then.” You huffed against his chest, even as sleep took you.

“Aye.” He followed.

The Next Evening 

The three of you had all gathered in your father’s library, Paddy perusing the novels and searching for any poetry of his liking. The conversations had been of much jovial mundanity that you had craved slightly for yourself and Paddy as respite: talk of the progress of the livestock on the estate and your father’s interactions with a local forager in the wood.

“Well, he was rightly allowed to take the mushrooms, you see, but he didn’t have to scare me by sneaking up on me, repairing that fence! I mean, I did scare the man too; he blurted out something in what must have been Irish, no doubt cursing my bloodline, lovely fellow though.” He laughed.

‘So, Mr Mayne, this makes me ask, how do I say it without being intruding…do you “speak the language” of the dear Irish. Maybe you could translate what he said!” 

Paddy clicked his tongue, shaking his head lightly,

“I do not so much speak the language as I hoped I could. Only wee bits here and there, enough to get by, not at all fluent in it on the account of what my colleagues would say was eight hundr-.” 

Your father cut him off, “I see, you know some ‘friends’ of mine would declare it a brutish unintelligible thing, inconsiderate fellows all, but it does entice such ideas of fairytale fantasy, wouldn’t you say?” 

You caught Paddy from the corner of your eye, from the restrained anger on his face; it had appeared Eoin’s entire spirit was channelling through him, and Paddy was restraining it from trying to reprimand this man for his kind but unfortunate grasp on culture. In typical fashion, your father had failed once again to read the room and to recognise the threat of impending violence that often-followed Paddy Mayne like a plague.

Paddy spoke, “Your daughter, I hear, has grown quite fond of it, no doubt to your friends' dismay, sir.” 

“But you said you don’t speak the language ‘properly’, oh no! Well, however ‘proper’ it could be as they’d consider, nasty folk, I am sure it is proper to you, but frankly, proper would be ‘English’ to the lot around here.” He laughed then quickly furrowed his brow, “Of course, we ‘English’, not that I consider myself much, are such conquering, colonising and yet intolerant creatures, not me as such, you see, obviously as I was blessed by the ever-loved French.” He joked.

“But in seriousness, I was of course cultured in my ways and enchanted by your mother, dear.” He turned to you, still beaming, “That’s why I spoil you both so! Such hard-working and beautiful souls.” He clasped his hands together, almost tearing up as Paddy stared in abject disbelief. He was one soppy, confusing man, a detail you had not told Paddy apart from a mere mention of slight eccentricities, how you did adore him though.

“I always encourage the learning of language, though perhaps my endeavours to learn German in my younger years would be frowned upon nowadays. Such a shame you don’t speak your own language.” He quipped.

“Aye, but one of my colleagues and I are quite inseparable, you see, and he does.” 

“So, you’ve been exchanging pleasantries and gathering information with a whole squadron of these men?” He asked, intrigued.

You nodded, “It’s been quite the exposure treatment, I mean, they do all stink to high heaven, Father.” 

“Now that,” He pointed at you, “is true journalism!” 

“And there are men from all walks of life…Scousers, Max, Scots.”

“Yes indeed, Scousers, Manx, Irishmen…, indeed unsavoury types to some darling, Ernest from across the way would’ve told you to best stay away, and but I am no bigot, and we welcome guests here, it does get lonely with just me and sweet Charlie-dog. I also have been made aware by your lovely cousin Maggie that this man is well-decorated according to the tabloids, something about a great win at a ‘Litani River’.” Paddy nodded slightly as he placed a book back on the shelf.

“Ah, but Maggie came by?” You cried out, “How I miss her! I cannot believe how I slept in during the day to not catch her.”

“Oh, I can.” Paddy continued his grin.

It flew right past your father.

“Blair, you have impressed me so far; you appear to know how to be a gentleman, to my surprise. I haven’t met many Irishmen, especially those from the North, and despite your quite bewildering way of speaking, if I am to be frank, I am still quite charmed!”

“Oh, be as frank as you would like, sir, I don’t take offence to being told I cannot be understood.”  He lied through his teeth.

Your father continued in his brazen honesty, turning to you. “He is, well, how do I say this…, not your usual type of man, petal.” He spoke quietly, brow furrowed, standing and plucking a book from the acres of shelves, “I thought you were more into the tall, dark-haired types based on that last French affair.” 

“Aye, she is.” Paddy interrupted, still increasingly seething, especially so at the mention of a Frenchman. 

You shot him a glare.

“Interesting, not my place to meddle really and now it may sound strange, but I only say that just as we are so very close, you know, she does love to gossip about her many adventures!” He said cheerily with that air of blind innocence.

As Paddy had retired to the guest room, your father pulled you aside.

“I like the man, but surely he wouldn’t mind putting that army training to use and helping me with the fence tomorrow?”

“Please, yes, that’ll tire him out; he’s used to pretty rigorous training daily.” You smiled, thinking about exactly what ‘training’ that is.

Most of the next day, you didn’t see Paddy as he was dragged away by your father wishing for assistance.

In the evening, you had shared the large tub with Paddy, perched up on the side overlooking the balcony and the soft fields and trees the view revealed, distracted by Paddy between your thighs, dragging his tongue slowly across you over and over again till the bath water went cold.

By the time it was deep into the night, your back ached at the small writing desk, the light from your lamp beginning to burn your eyes. You weren’t sure what time it was anymore, but when Paddy had fallen asleep a few hours ago, satisfied with the amount of excursion working around the estate had given him, it’d been close to midnight.

Paddy looked humorously small in the large bed. It was sweet, really, the way he shoved himself to the side, in anticipation of your arrival into his arms. You’d promised him as much.

“Just a few more ideas I need to write down, I promise,” you tide him over with a lingering kiss, his neck straining to meet your lips from your position above him, leaning over him.

But that was three crumbled papers in the bin and two cups of tea ago, and well, promises were made to be broken sometimes.

You groaned lowly to yourself, taking a deep breath, pressing your palms into your eyes for a moment, forcing the blur from them. Words didn’t look like words anymore, just scribbles on crinkled paper. But the ideas were there, in your head. You just needed the energy to write them.

“Love?”

The bedspread rustled behind you, the old wooden bed frame creaking as Paddy shifted on the mattress. You turned your head to look at him, just for a moment. You manage a small smile at the sight.

The sheet had fallen off his frame, the dog tags against his chest reflecting the moonlight from the window. His hair was tousled, very unlike the person he portrayed to everyone, the proper animal. You liked him this way, though, sleep in his eyes and yours. 

“You’re still up?” His voice is even rougher, his brogue gravely, and if you’d not been with him all this time, you would’ve had to strain your ears to understand.

You turned back to your papers, hand cramping around your pen.

Paddy huffed, “C’mere to me, put that pen down, as much as I love poetry and writing deep in my foul heart of hearts, I can’t see you’re tiring yourself like this, would rather another way.”

“Trying to get this done before I go to sleep. It’s on the tip of my tongue…just need to find the right words.”

Paddy hummed, and you could hear him swinging his legs over the mattress. The soft fall of his bare feet against the cold wood got louder as he moved closer to you, and soon a rough, calloused hand was running over your collarbone. His lips fell to the top of your head. His sweeping hands press deeply into your shoulders, making you sigh.

“I’d like for you to be on the tip of my tongue,” He joked, voice a low whisper.

“Paddy…” you moan, his name drawn out in a warning, a plea.

“What are you writing on?” He asked, leaning over your shoulder to make out the words The Crime of Bombing a Church – Destruction Beyond Religion.

“Now, I’m not a religious man, but you’re wanting to make me surrender to the life of a true sinner. Oh, what a show that would be…”  You gave him a sideways look. Eoin often did when he started to get too flowery and lamentful.

“It’ll be sunrise by the time you’re done now, sweet. And what will your Da’ think, me keeping you up at wee hours of the night? He’ll think I’m…”

Paddy leaned further down, his hand pulling your hair to expose one side of your neck. His lips found the pulse point below your ear, kissing softly.

“…doing ‘ungodly’ things to you,” he mocked in an upper-class accent.

Your eyes fluttered closed at his touch, the pen in your hand already teetering in your grip. It was incredible, the way Paddy could go from dead asleep to ready to ruin you in a matter of minutes.

His mouth opened, lips dragging against your throat and leaving a wet trail in their wake. Your breathing stuttered, hands shifting to fall flat against the desk. 

“Is that what I need to do, lamb? Tire you out?”

Your grip on the pen tightened, and suddenly, your hand is covered in dark ink. Shit.

“Paddy!” Your hushed shout permeated the otherwise quiet room, the rustling of leaves out the window the only constant of the night. The sympathetic noise he makes sounds hollow against your ears, and you know he’s not being sincere.

“You’ve made a mess…I suppose you could never help yourself, could you…Were you always such a filthy girl?”

You whine as the pressure on your neck tightens, not uncomfortable, but a reminder that he’s there. He tilts your chin up higher.

“Seems you're properly riled up, lamb…would you like to release that tension into me? I doubt you want another mess on your hands…though perhaps that’s exactly what you need”

He kissed his way up the column of your throat, his hot tongue laving at you, dragging the sharpness of his canines across the expanse of your shuddering warmth. Paddy smirks at how easy it is to wrap you up in his mischief, in his desire. All it took was a spark, a spike of heat before the fire in your chest was ignited.

Your body seemed to always be pliant with want, and it was rarely denied; perhaps he and Eoin spoiled you too much. God, he knew they did, but it was hard not to. You were always so eager, and you had accepted them both, loved them and carved a spot in your life for the two of them. It made Paddy’s heart lighter to have you close, to have you want him made him feel valuable. Like he was more than a name in a file without a picture to even spell out his humanity.

With one hand on your throat, he tilted your chin to the side, sealing his lips over your own and kissing you. It wasn’t rushed; it was sweet despite the fire in his touch, like he was trying to distract you. His mouth moved slowly over your own and swallowed the sounds you made.

He pulled away and smiled at how you trailed after him, your eyes having fluttered closed, delicately, like you hadn’t even noticed.

In a flash, he had your chair wheeled toward him, your back to the desk, his hands on either side of you. And in your surprise, your palms bared down on his forearms, the wet ink staining him immediately.

Before you can go to apologise, he stares at the darkness marking him, and something like a growl sounds in his throat.

“Always dragging me into your messes…” he shook his head, sucking on his teeth, like he was irritated, but you knew better than that. He was stiff, unyielding even against the softness of his loose briefs. His breathing was more laboured, and his body buzzed with the kind of energy that made the air around him shift.

Your bodies separated in a canvas of inky black, finger and handprints covered his tanned skin, his cheeks, his chest, it streaked down like great dark willow limbs across his back and wrapped around his spent cock like some binding rope.

The silken white sheets were a lost cause, and you smiled at the ability to destroy something so pure. The wind calmly brushing through the curtains lulled you both to sleep in a few short moments, limbs entwined despite the warm night air and evidence of your passion painting your bodies and bed, much washing to do was your last thought before you drifted off.

It didn’t take much for Paddy to begin to start testing how far you could enjoy the scale of the estate. Soon enough, he had you up against a tree in the woods, laid across his shirt in the flower field amongst the lilacs, in his lap on a chair in the library, and as you were making your way quietly to the kitchen to make a cup of tea the following night, the major followed behind you.

Cutlery and porcelain clattered loudly to the tiled floor as you were half-lifted, half-thrown on the low preparation table, one leg up on it and the other grasping for traction on the tiled floor now covered in chicken stock and leftover brandy.

“I can’t get what your Da’ said out of my head.” He snarled in your ear.

The slip you wore was hiked up above your waist in a frustrated low rumble from Paddy’s chest, “Fucking hell, Paddy, someone will have heard that racket, we can’t.”

You couldn’t help but be almost shaking with anticipation. It was natural that you had thought through almost all of the rooms in the estate Paddy could possibly have you in, and the kitchen had been an invigorating one.  Paddy had already riled you up for most of the night, and to say you were almost ready to take him without him even touching you was an embarrassing admittance, another round of washing then tomorrow.

“No matter, too many fuckin’ rooms in this place for anyone to hear.”

“What is your problem?” You gasped out as he dragged his fingers through the mess between your thighs you were already bright red and ashamed about.

“Have you had enough of these high-brow toff louts or Frenchmen on top of you that you now have come to understand that we Irish fuck dirtier and your wee cunt fuckin’ loves it?” he cupped your wetness with fingers, collecting some to smear it across your chest, perked by the cool air of the kitchen.

He moved to grip fiercely at your hips, pressed right against you as you pushed back at him,

“Oh aye, well your Da’, but sure seems to imply you’ve had your fair share of the British Isles.  I like your da’ I do.  He’s oblivious in the best way. I can get away with having you right under his nose.”

“I’m not some common whore Paddy.”

“What then, to me, to us, you’re a high-class one, is it then?” he questioned, pulling at the zipper of the pants he had shucked on when you had asked to come down there.  You always loved indulging at the first look of his thick cock, every time it sent the same shiver through you as it did the first time, 

 "Gonna let a fuckin' dirty ‘Paddy’ like me tear through you?"

“Paddy…” you breathed nervously,

“Do you want this?” he asked with sincerity.

“God, yes,” you gave in quickly.

His hands were firmly on your hips, spinning you around and moving your legs up, settling you on all fours atop the large, low wooden bench.

You immediately moved into the stretch, arching your back in that way pleasant for your muscles yet absolutely sinful for any viewer. 

Paddy let out a sharp inhale, “...she’s aching for it,” he mumbled.

He pushed in slowly, still allowing you the nicety of getting used to him again before starting a relentless, steady movement. 

“Love to get taken like this? Like some animal, by an animal like me, hmm?”

“You’re not an animal, stop that.”

Paddy pulled you around to him, away from the lewd display on all-fours, chest against yours as he drawled; “Not what some of your tabloids say, aye maybe, but I won’t stop this.” he pulled you back from on all fours, standing between your legs and crowding you as your back lay flat against the rough wood of the bench.

“Most men would say shame on your family’s name to see you passing yourself out like this?  Fuck, do I love it.”

The tightness, the closeness and the sheer heat of it all already had you building to a quick release; you had spread your arms across the table, contacting several implements resting there, including what you could make out through the haze of lust, a small paring knife with a wooden hilt.

“I like this place…” Paddy hissed through the sound of loud slaps and your almost panicked sounds of pleasure echoing through the kitchen, he turned your head with a forceful grab of your chin, “...but I miss the thrill, the blood and gore of it all,” he hissed out.

“I-It will end one way or another, Paddy,” you admitted, “I want you to– to, to come– come out of it in one piece, and Eoin too,” you managed to gasp out.

Paddy slowed down with that to more of a rocking pace, allowing you to gather yourself for a moment and consider his words, laying at bay your crashing release for a little, “But this lust for danger, you say? Well… maybe I can help.” You grinned at the pause in his relentless onslaught.

“And how is that?” He said gruffly, hand gripping your side roughly and beginning to move a bit faster again.

Your hand gripped the wooden hilt of the knife, moving slowly between his punishing, sporadic movements, pausing at each overwhelming burying of his cock inside you as he moved in rough, hard thrusts. 

Your free hand reached to pull his head down, and he hesitated in his movements, allowing you to draw the blade to his throat.

“Oh, this is an exciting progression to your wee story then?” he grinned, chest still heaving with effort. You felt him twitch inside you with arousal. 

“I knew this would rile you up, Paddy,” your grin matched his own, “Craving a bit of deadly excitement –fuck– after being away from Eoin for so, so long?” you asked, voice dripping sultry tease.  

Paddy’s head lulled backwards, throat shifting taught against the blade.

“Funny for all the rumours of my colleagues to prove that ‘Paddy Mayne is a confirmed bachelor for life…yet time and time again you prove that wrong.”

“What if I was doing it for the will and affection of another?” he admitted.

“Y’don’t have to lie to me, Paddy, Eoin’s told me how you come to me by your own regard.”

He pulled a spare hand and threw his slightly sweaty hair in frustration, uncaring of the knife skipping across his throat, annoyed at your clear ability to see through his pretence.

“When I look into both of your eyes, I see devotion, love – a life after the war,” you admitted. Paddy twitched again at that. Placing his hand on your stomach, albeit surprisingly lightly and the other on your hip.

“You’d fuck me and eat me and want me, but would you say… draw blood for me?” You asked sternly.

“Who says I haven’t already?” Paddy gritted out, neck moving slowly back to an uncomfortable angle as the blade pressed further.

“I’d rip and tear men with my own teeth if it was to keep you ours,” he growled low as he closed his eyes, almost revelling in the thought, thrusts now limited to short, sharp snaps of his hips. 

“Ah, yes, the dog Major, Paddy Mayne…” you wondered out loud, grinding yourself back down on him. “‘He growls and spits and bites just like one,’” you quoted some of the less favourable words written about him in Picture Post.

Paddy hummed in agreement, “Write that down, will ye?” he asked. You pressed the blade further to his neck to the most you felt comfortable, and your eyes widened at a thin line of sanguine forming, “What if it is already written, Paddy?”

You ignored him and continued, “Known for being so vehemently a loner, a sort of hermit of the desert war.”

“But wild dogs usually come in packs, do they not?” You questioned, voice rising higher as the blade followed suit.

“That is true,” Paddy murmured.

 “… and now, this wild dog is without his ‘pack’, conquered by, of all things, a prying journalist, and let alone based on rumours amongst ranks and written cohorts, a woman?” 

Paddy huffed in consideration of your accusation.

“Aye, but I was weakened long ago by a man.” He quickly admitted. 

“You’ve just made me collapse altogether…” 

“Tell me you love me then, that you’re mine, not by some proxy role of Eoin’s,” you all but commanded.

He paused; his expression completely frozen as he tried to process the request.

“Yes, aye…” he hissed out,

“No. Tell me,” You spat out.

“I love you; I am yours.” It came quickly and easily, perhaps the only time Major Paddy Mayne had submitted and, most importantly, behaved.  

To you, this was utter bliss.

He began moving again despite the friction of the blade moving a thin line of blood welling at his throat across his damp skin, repeating the words like a mantra, interspersed with mentions of Eoin as always and his need for you.

You were soaring on a power-trip like no other, pleasure crashing over you already even before your orgasm struck you like a bolt of lightning through your body.  Paddy followed you, pulling out and rutting against your stomach, spilling across yourself as you were pressed together.

“Good...” You hummed, amused and thoroughly pleased with yourself.

You laid back on the table, thoroughly satisfied.

Two Weeks Later, 2045 Hours 26th July 1942 Nearby Sidi Haneish Airfield, Axis Territory North-Western Egypt

Stirling had announced his newest reign of terror in the desert only a few nights before, amidst celebrations of a returned Reg after he had escaped on his own regard and walked deliriously, singlehandedly, and pissed through the desert for over a week to the rendezvous.

Over four weeks since Eoin had seen either Paddy or you had driven an itch into an aching pang of woeful desire and annoyance at the commanding forces for the lack of leave provided.

Paddy had arrived back earlier that day by himself in some half-shot-up Jeep; he said he fished out the wreck of an ambushed squad.  He looked happy in himself, which was unsettling to most of the men; Fraser especially considered if he’d finally gone mad at the sight of the major smiling.

Eoin had just darkly stared at him in jealousy of the ‘business of war’ he had been conducting.

As early evening slipped into view, they had made preparations in the eerie silence that was so familiar to the men before raids. Eoin broke it as Paddy rested for a moment next to him, watching Eoin tap at the scope on his rifle.

“Bet she’s sitting pretty back in the Cotswolds on that estate right now, Paddy, can’t ya’ sure picture it? All-silk sheets and bubble baths or something of the like…”  He appeared to daze off into the distance, and Paddy found himself surprised that a woman had become such a siren to Eoin that his Fenian self would come to daydream about England.

“All I can find myself picturing is wringing the neck of a Nazi now I am back in the desert, Eoin.”

“Oh, yes…well, sure then…understandable,” he muttered.

“She prefers cotton sheets on the estate in summer, by the way.” His eyes didn’t move from his own gun in his hand. 

“Cooler…doesn’t make it as much of a mess to clean up after I wring her out...” He said, his voice low, looking off to the side to make sure no other man was listening in. 

“...though we didn’t often make it to those ‘bubble baths’ you speak of after we got our kit off.”

“Men, prepare to advance to the rendezvous point,” came the order from Stirling somewhere in the distance in a hoarse croak as he puffed on a cigarette.

“Continue this discussion of bubble baths after the raid, Paddy?” Eoin asked nonchalantly.

“Aye, as always.”

The airfield was inhabited mainly by what appeared to be fresh recruits, already drunk under the setting sun.  The silent march went smoothly as the sand had been packed down by a burst of torrential rain earlier in the day.

Paddy’s hand quickly wrapped around the back of Eoin’s neck and pulled him roughly inwards.

Eoin smiled, “Better make it back to me after you’ve been gone so long, it would be a shame for you to kick the bucket before showing me how much you missed me.”

“Fuckin’ cheeky bugger you are, but fillfidh mé i gcónaí chugat,” Paddy spoke the only words he had remembered that Eoin had taught him.

“Right men, I dare say we shall give these chaps a bit of the old what for!” Stirling said in a mockery not so far off his actual voice, perched on top of one of the bonnets of the Jeeps as they were covered by a particularly large dune rising above them before the airfield, rifle haphazardly resting on his knee, and some strange local hat lopsided on his head.

“I have been locked away for too long in a damned prison cell and office.” He scoffed.

“Locked away from attempting and failing to add to your abysmal count, sir?” Johnny teased.

“Locked away from putting a bullet through your thick skull, Cooper.” Stirling retorted.

The raid was especially bloody on behalf of the Germans clear surprise; only a couple of scrapes from some flying shrapnel intruded on the SAS boys’ efficiency, one leaving a nasty gash in Riley’s leg and sending him hobbling off back to the rendezvous. Almonds had shouted that he “better well not bloody bleed out till this is over” as the first explosions of the grounded planes began.

The explosions were eaten up by the fading heat of the day as the night slipped deeply into murky blue black around them.

Cries for mothers and ‘hilfe!’ were stifled with quick blows to the head or the tear of a bullet or knife through the throat.

With the voices silenced and the flames, the sound only left crackling in the skeletons of Bf 109’s the men gathered themselves and turned, looking like the vengeful dead back into the low-lying scrub of the hills and to the vehicles.

Eoin sighed at his sniper nest on the dune, pulling the black scarf from his head and face, all the tension released from his body as he slumped to his side, head hurting at the focus output.

Those men, like jackals fresh off a bloodied ravage of a corpse, wandered in scattered groups back into camp. Eoin and Paddy soon found themselves sitting near their tent, wiping the now cold sweat and blood of their brows and cupping mugs of weak ration coffee in their bloodied hands.

A shuffling in the dark soon disrupted their comfortable and reflective silence.

“All this blood… gives me conniptions, it does,” Tonks said in his helplessly posh accent, emerging from the darkness into the light of the tents, unamused and painted in a gory spray of sanguine. 

“This–” he pointed to Eoin, “–is your fault.” Eoin smiled back at the Englishman, but had a strange, wild look about him, only enhanced as Tonks walked past him “Standing right next to one of the poor buggers you shot, why’d you have to aim for the jugular? Then ambushed by one of the pricks you forgot to kill on the way back to the Jeeps.”

Although pained with slight annoyance, he still smiled at the pair, weary of Paddy’s short fuse, though he did want to test a little further before he left them alone and retreated to his tent nearby. 

“Too busy gushing over one another again, are we?” Tonks jeered at Paddy as he smeared the remains of their mission on the hands and then the face of both Irishmen as he walked past.

“Aye, I’ll gush over you in one way or another momentarily, I’m sure.” Paddy grinned. 

“Hey now, fuckin’ bit crass of you?” Eoin said, surprised, hoping Tonks hadn’t heard it through his thin tent, 

“Ooh, I’m serious, Eoin.” Paddy turned to him, where they sat on two overturned ammo crates.  

Paddy continued as Eoin’s face fell into a dark seriousness, “Aye, well, the journey from England was hard, you see, not quite as hard as I was thi–”

“Are you going to continue this racket out here, or do I have to drag you into the tent to continue this conversation?” Eoin said coldly.

In a flash, Paddy had moved to grab Eoin by the collar, grinning in such a manner that meant he knew exactly what he was in for.  It didn’t take much to allow himself to be dragged into the tent and thrown down on the cot.

“Eoin, I thought you’d be quite pleased with my presence back in your tent. I even–” Paddy sat up, positioning himself like some ridiculous schoolboy with his back straight and hands on his knees in some faux sense of behaviour.

“Shut up.” Eoin cut him off, riffling through his bag.

“She wouldn’t quite give me her undergarments yet, but this’ll do.” He smirked as he pulled a strip of silken blue fabric from his rucksack and tucked it into his pocket. 

Eoin stood and quickly closed the distance, standing over Paddy as Paddy grinned up at him. The man above pulled the fabric taut in his hands, “Open your mouth, Paddy.”  He did not ask, rather told, as he slipped the fabric between Paddy’s teeth, “Bite down on it now, that’s it. Shut you up, Stirling would love this.”

Paddy’s eyes already almost rolled back in his own head as Eoin reminded him of how much he enjoyed, on occasion to be the one not to make decisions.

“That’s it. There you go now.”  His voice lulled Paddy into the movements. “Tá oíche an fhásaigh stad agus ciúin, a ghrá mo chroí… so, let her scent devour that pleasure spilling from that never resting mouth now.”

Eoin’s hand had moved from his mouth back to Paddy’s crotch, palming slow circles against the rough fabric.

Paddy let the fabric fall from between his teeth, and Eoin watched with a silent rage as it fell to the dusty floor, “Thought I was the poet here.” Paddy hissed, muffled and distorted through gritted teeth as he tried to rub the silken feeling from his mouth. Eoin stalled his movements. 

“You both bring out the romantic in me. I’ve been writing it down, you know.” Eoin said, particularly chuffed with his writings as of late. He snatched the fabric back from the ground and continued his slow torture of Paddy, now with added pressure.

“Think that romance was already there based on your acts all the way back in In-Inver-ar-ay.” Paddy stuttered.

With an annoyed grumble, he pushed the fabric back into Paddy’s mouth, dust and all, and kneeled back down to his post.  The sweet smell of your perfume was gone in that brief moment in the dust.

“What’s that, Paddy? Cat got your tongue?”  He grinned up from where he rested his head on Paddy’s thigh. Paddy grunted something muffled about a goat.

“Lovely,” Eoin murmured.

It didn’t take long before Paddy could no longer handle Eoin’s cruel rhythm and the feeling of the fabric once again, he brought a hand to Eoin’s wrist, moving his arm to his mouth as Eoin obliged, pulling the fabric from, now darker with Paddy’s saliva.

“Would it be my turn now for a little ‘good to see you again’? Paddy asked, pulling Eoin towards him and pushing him down on the cot and positioning himself between Eoin’s long legs.

Paddy settled in as Eoin's fingers found their way into his hair. He scooted closer, finding refuge in the warmth coming off of Eoin's body. Turning his head, Paddy rested his forehead against Eoin's lower stomach, dangerously close to his covered crotch.

Above him, Eoin sucked in a sharp breath.

"When was the last time you had someone so close, Eoin? Tell me, was it with her back before our scrape in Ghadzi?"

Eoin didn't respond other than to grip Paddy's hair and pulled him just enough to get out from under Paddy, resting on his arms.

“Did you seek some comfort without me? Was your hand the only lover by your side…or did you just think about me deep inside your girl?” Paddy teased.

Eoin’s head fell back as he swore in Gaeilge before he pulled Paddy down, twisting himself so he was looming over Paddy again.

"Are you hard right now? Did that get you hard?" Paddy grinned up at him.

Eoin pressed his forearm against Paddy's throat, pinning him to the cot. Paddy responded by shoving his hips up against Eoin's, grinding their growing tents together.

Paddy then flipped them over in a struggle so he could watch Eoin’s eyes flutter up at him, quickly taking advantage of the leverage, he had over Eoin and pressing roughly against his crotch.

They stayed there, mindlessly chasing their pleasure together from the clothed press of their bodies. Every movement brought a new sensation, from the harsh wool to the grind of aching muscles. 

Seconds, minutes, and hours could've passed as they used each other's warmth. 

From the countless times of sharing a bed for the sake of ‘sharing’, usually a woman was in truth in the guise of their real desire for each other; they knew how to read the other's actions. Eoin knew the unsteadiness of Paddy's hips meant he was going to give into his pleasure soon. Paddy knew when Eoin's hand started gripping him all over, and he rambled in his native tongue that the other man wasn't far behind. 

"No, no, I want to feel you. Feel your skin against mine." Eoin gasped as Paddy pressed against him with another roll of his hips.

Eoin pulled against Paddy's shoulders until they were both upright, kneeling on the cot. Eoin's thighs were trapped between Paddy’s, the masses of muscle filling the space.

Hastily, Eoin shoved the front of Paddy's trousers down. Paddy lifted himself, momentarily making himself taller than Eoin as he helped push his garments down his thighs.

Taking Paddy's cock in his own hand, the weight of it always surprised him. Despite being shorter than his own, Paddy's cock was thicker, heavier. Eoin readjusted his grip, doing so, he twisted his wrist, covering more area of Paddy's cock, the veins on his hand shifting, remnants of dried blood still covering his wrist where he had dealt with a German who had found his way to his sniping position.

Paddy gasped as Eoin glided his foreskin down, breathing hot air upon the exposed head of Paddy's cock. Paddy was a mere second away from grabbing Eoin's hair and shoving him down to take his cock. Though Eoin simply spat on the head and pulled away, grinning sideways as he made eye contact with Paddy.

"Fuckin tease," Paddy growled

"Maybe." Eoin smiled.

With that, Eoin pulled his own cock out, giving it a couple of tugs.

Eoin pulled Paddy's thighs to rest on his own, pushing their hips closer together. Close enough to their bodies to contact. 

Working in unison, they rutted on each other. One thrusting up as the other came down. Not going over an inch off the other but feeling so much.

Eoin gripped Paddy by the back of the neck, making him open his eyes.

"Look. Look at it." He said, breath stuttering.

Paddy looked at Eoin's face, only to see he wasn't looking back at him. He followed Eoin's gaze down to where his hand was fisting them together. The sight of it was mouth-watering.

Eoin's cock peeking above Paddy's by an inch. Paddy's cock pressed against a thick vein running up the underside of Eoin's. The red glistening head of Paddy’s drooling with pre-cum, shining up the side of Eoin's cock.

"I wonder if she's thinking of us right now. Thinking of this," Eoin wondered, laboured breathing adding to Paddy’s growing tightness in his gut.

The image of it brought matching moans from the men.

"If she knows that I, have you, and your cock getting your come all over my hand. If she's out there wishing these were inside her. Marking her as you mark my hand now."

With that, Paddy shook as he came, spilling onto his own stomach and Eoin's firm hand.

"Yeah, just like that… there we are." Eoin soothed as he milked him through it.

Paddy let himself fall back onto the cot, his legs splaying out around either side of Eoin. Paddy's chest heaved with recovery breaths as he peered up at Eoin.  His pale but lithe torso glistening with sweat-his own, Paddy’s, who could tell? -and some remnants of Paddy’s mess, Eoin smirked as he wiped the remaining mess across his stomach, painting a sweet swipe of Paddy’s pleasure across his abs.

Paddy stared in awe.

Eoin was looking right back at him. A hungry glint in his eye, looking as though he was planning on finishing on Paddy's chest. Like how he would with you.

"I miss her." Paddy mused aloud. 

"You think she'd like this?"

"What do you mean?"

"Would she lie here and wait for you to finish on her chest?"

Eoin closed his eyes.

"Would she have you rub your cock; you spend upon her? Feeling –fuck, nothing but the soft, sweet skin of hers? For you to defile the bareness of her?"

Eoin slowly fisted his own cock, letting Paddy's words wash over him as he raised his head to stare at the ceiling in consideration, the sinful lines of his neck on display. 

With Eoin's eyes off him, Paddy allowed himself to watch. To fully watch and soak it all in. 

Watching Eoin pleasure his cock, running his hand along his length. Getting a glimpse of Eoin's tip as he dragged his foreskin across his cock, so red and ready to finish.

"You know, I always wondered," Paddy choked out. 

"How'd you feel using that thing?"

Eoin stilled his movements, and Paddy could tell he was processing what he had just been told.

"Yeah? You want a taste of what she gets?"

Paddy didn't answer, couldn't bring himself to answer. He couldn't know what Eoin would say if he were to say it aloud.

"Get on your knees." Eoin finally said.

"What?"

Eoin slid his hand down Paddy's stomach, collecting the mess left there from Paddy's orgasm in his palm.

With an almost gentle push on the back with his clean hand, Eoin guided Paddy down to rest on his elbows. 

There was a moment of pause.

A moment of Eoin, taking in the sight before him.

Paddy, splayed out for him. Round, taught ass stuck up in the air. Shaped and toned from their training and raids. His back arching down was a sight Eoin hadn't seen anything quite like. Not having the slim, feminine curves of a woman like Eoin was used to, but of bulk. 

Thick, heavy muscles stuck out as Paddy held himself up. Eoin had the urge to sink his teeth into his mass. And below Paddy, once Eoin caught sight of it, he couldn't look away.

Paddy's spent cock hung down, long enough to still be seen behind his heavy balls. Eoin watched it twitch as he brought his hand down to smear Paddy's seed across his inner thighs.

"What are you doing back there?" Paddy peered over his shoulder back at Eoin.

Eoin placed a hand on Paddy's hip, letting him relax into the touch. His other hand brought his cock to nudge against the slick thighs before him.

"Bring your legs together," Eoin said. Paddy noticed how much his accent got heavier in a wild mix of Northerner and Dubliner, and his grip on English struggled as he lost control of himself slowly. He had always wished he were a Gaeilgeoir secretly.

And with that, Eoin started the motion of fucking Paddy's thighs, his muscles squeezing around his cock as a woman would, as you would. Back and forth he moved, using Paddy's strong legs for his own pleasure, knowing Paddy wouldn't perhaps feel the same as him.

Paddy squirmed in shock as Eoin's cock glided across his hole and taint. The rubbing against the sensitive area surprised him.

Pushing through Paddy's thick thighs, he felt the tip of his cock hit something. 

Paddy gasped below him as he too felt it. Eoin's cock continued to reach that depth, rutting against the back of Paddy's balls.

"Does it feel like her?" Paddy asked.

“No, fuck, it feels like you.”

“And you love me, don’t you, Eoin?” Paddy asked,

Eoin came with a moan, pleading ‘yes’, coating Paddy's thighs with his seed. He gave a few more thrusts, mixing his mess with Paddy's. 

"You're a right mess." 

"No thanks to you." Paddy scoffed as he lowered himself flat onto the cot.

"Now get down here." 

With that, Eoin let himself be pulled down beside Paddy. It was a tight fit on the single man cot, but they were no strangers at this point.