vamp

You had a cookbook open, the pages clean and free from the mistake you were most certainly going to make. The receipt was in the trash, the wrapping with it.  The longer you stared at the book, the more you felt like it was meant for some poor victim to attempt something they knew they weren't good at. 

Your hands were never meant for mixing and decorating sweets. You learned that at a young age, way back in elementary when you almost poisoned the whole class from your cookies. It was meant for signing names and dialing phone numbers—meant for pointing and directing people to do their jobs for once. 

Glued to the kitchen, you had a wide variety of bowls, utensils, and ingredients organized on the counter in preparation for your new endeavor. Usually, at this time, you would have been rushing down white hallways with schedules and deadlines at your heels. Album covers, outfit designs, documents that needed to be looked at— exhaustion spinning your head, but adrenaline moving you forward— but not tonight. 

A 2-week paid vacation was in your contract and you decided to spend it at home, choosing to relax in the comfort of your seldom used kitchen while your mind buzzed with ideas on what to bake first. 

Your first victim will be an attempt at making cupcakes. 

You flipped through the cookbook, staring at the pretty pictures they displayed of cakes, cupcakes, cookies; every delicious treat you could think of. You bit your lip, mouth watering at the sight of a red velvet cupcake. Red and white icing, cream-filled, dark crimson crust— all that was sure to induce you into a sugar coma. 

You had to make it, poison be damned. 

You got started, following the instructions. Bowl first, eggs, sugar, milk— whatever the instructions said to use, you did exactly that. You got comfortable in the process, hands moving with sugary determination. You mixed when you needed to, added more toppings for extra sweetness. White chocolate chips, some sprinkles— you might have overdone it with the sugar but there was no harm in that. "Red velvet Surprise!" Was your epic name for this creation you hoped would live up to its name. 

It almost felt like managing a business, the environment your family thought you would dread but dove into with wonderful results. Cooking was like managing people and their expectations; a little guidance here, some careful calculation there; you smiled to yourself, maybe it won't turn out to be such a disaster after all. 

After a while, the silence started to eat away at your bones. You weren't used to the quiet, so you turned the radio on, sugary gloss finger tips sticking to the channel knob. You twisted, the station crackled to life— your interest set on flipping through radio hosts who were actually entertaining to listen to. 

| “—And now for a fan favorite!"

The radio host calls out, the music scratching before you hear the familiar sound of that voice ring through. 

You turned your attention back on the lumpy concoction, the ingredients almost consistent but still in need of mixing and time. You used your wrist to stir, entirely pleased at the results so far, tongue sticking out as a natural habit to keep yourself focused.

| "—Where did you come from, lady? And ohh, won't you take me there—" 

Even when you were away relaxing at home, trying your best to focus on being normal— stress-free, feet cozy in your fuzzy slippers, pajamas glued to your body— you still couldn't get away from him. 

| "— I want to love you! Pretty young thing—"

You can't stop your head from bobbing to the track. Foot tapping, your wrist moving with the rhythm of the song. Somewhere in the middle, you were mouthing the words, hips swinging, the ad-libs probably one of your favorite parts of the song. 

Once the batter looked good, you poured it into a tray, each cup filled moderately to ensure you didn't overdo it. 

The oven was preheated and set to 400 degrees. And after, you took the time to clean off the counter with a wet rag, disposing of dirty dishes all while singing the last parts of the song before the host changed it. He announced an artist you didn't like, someone whose voice sounded like sandpaper and bad decisions on a track, and tuned into their more recently popular song. 

With the oven finally heated, you placed the tray inside, giving it a once-over before you shut the door and left it to bake. 

You had a lot of time on your hands. 

Your legs brought you towards the living room, the radio music following like a ghost. You hadn’t been home in so long, often held back at work, so it wasn't a surprise that everything was unkept. Stacks of folders and binders, work-related paperwork you didn't feel like dealing with were everywhere. 

With a heavy sigh, you got to work. 

You reorganized, placing some papers under the coffee table, a few on your bookshelf, and the rest in your bedroom closet to tidy the area. You had old files of projects you showed to your boss, some you managed to see come to life, others that needed massive reworks but didn't seem like a bad idea. Sketches of outfits, pictures of venues, and merchandise— the tour at the time was eating you alive but you loved it. The feeling of seeing fans appreciate a design. The rush of excitement when a scene was pulled off on stage, a situation created out of the thought of “would it be crazy to do this?” And a lot of “yes! Let’s do it!” 

Regardless of the stress, you liked doing what you did—

A knock at the door startled you. 

You checked the clock on the wall, the time reading a quarter till eight. You weren't expecting guests…

Were you? 

You were going to ignore it, assuming some teenager was going around trying to pull off a prank but the knock happened again, this time heavier. 

Odd.

You quickly ran to the door, suspicious and otherwise terrified that it could be the cops or worse. You peeped through the tiny hole in the door, standing on your tiptoes, and your face twisted immediately. 

Great. 

With a deep sigh, stress brewing back up into your spine like you've been tased, you unlocked the door, cracking it open slightly, the chained lock keeping the door from opening further. 

The blacked-out shades were no surprise, having grown used to looking at the lens like a barrier, but the baggy pants were new. Dark gray, high above his waist, the oversized jacket did nothing to hide his slender frame. And the hair, God, the mullet shaped and styled like he was going to an award show— not someone's apartment building. 

It's almost like he wanted to be caught.

"Hey…" the man of the house said, shuffling from one foot to the other, his lips pulled into a grin. 

"Hey," you repeated back, taking note of how alone he was. He usually had a bodyguard, Bill, but it was only him. 

You wanted to laugh suddenly, the whole point of being here was to get away from him, but it seems like he couldn't stay away.

"Are you lost or?" You said, looking at him confused. 

"Lost?" his grin dropped, "No? At least, I don't think so?"

"Good. Cause I got cupcakes to make and you're wasting my time—" before you could close the door, he managed to squeeze his foot between the crack, the heel of the shoe pointed sideways. 

"We drove all the way over here and I can't get a smile?"

You gave him a smile alright. One that was forced and filled with venom. 

"You're no good," he pouted. 

"Thank you. See you in two weeks—" again, he wouldn't move his foot. "Mr. Jackson, go home." 

"I can't."

"Yes, you can."

"No," he said with emphasis, "I can't."

It's like arguing with a toddler. 

"Why? " you questioned, “—and it better be a good reason too."

"My house flooded." 

You raised a brow. "How did that happen?" 

He bit his lip, pulling his hands behind his back. "Bubbles thought it was a bathtub so he decided to move in." 

Like a mother to a troubled toddler, you knew just when he was lying or telling the truth. 

"Oh, really?”

He nodded, head down, eyes peering into yours. 

“Then why didn't you drive to a plumber? You think I got a degree in fixing toilets?”

“…maybe?”

“You're so—“ you have to remember he was your boss, but you were also on vacation, so technically he wasn’t. “I’ll call someone to come fix it, does that sound good?”

“Sounds perfect!” 

The silence washed over. 

You smelled your cupcakes, the sugar developing. You looked back at the clock again and then to the folders still scattered around on the floor. “Great talk sir, see ya—“

“Wait!”

The door refused to shut. His foot was still caught between the crack of the door. You both looked at each other crazily. Eyeing one another. The chain coming down so you can open the door wider to give him a piece of your mind. 

“Mr.Jackson, it’s highly inappropriate for you to be here. I mean, this is my house. My home. You don’t live here—“

"Is that my song?" He interrupted, stepping closer, close enough you could smell his cologne. 

"Your song?” Your lips turned, “No—"

| “— You really turn me on. You knocked me off my feet—“

"It sounds like it," He smirked, earning an eye roll from you. 

"What do you want?"

"I needed an escape.” he managed to push inside, forcing you to step back while he walked into your personal space,  ignoring your very obvious scrunched face. "The people back there were giving me a headache." 

"I know the feeling." you give him a pointed look, your arms crossed over your chest as you watch him walk deeper into your living room. He checked out the scattered folders on the floor, tip-toeing around them, peering around like a curious cat. 

"And the guy who replaced you? Ugh!" He groaned loudly, plopping himself down on your couch.

“Are you going to ignore me?” You said, finding it useless to keep projecting while he did in fact, ignore your comments. You took a peek from out of the doorway, noticing the very obvious black car parked up front. 

Deciding to save what little peace you had left, you shut the door, leaving the issue alone. 

 “—If I have to spend another second with him, I'm gonna—"

"You're not going to do anything," you tutted, walking back to the kitchen to check your cupcakes. You opened the oven, backing away slightly when the heat shot out in waves. 

"I'm gonna fire him. He's annoying," he sighed, lounging on your couch like he owned the place, his thin legs resting over the cushions. "He tells me to do this and that— say this and that. Smile, scoot over, sign this album—"

"Don't be a baby," you said from the kitchen. "That's his job." 

Seeing that your cupcakes were done, you took the cupcakes out with an oven mitt on your hands, the smell immediately hitting your stomach. It smelled so good, good enough to risk burning the roof of your mouth. 

You rested the tray on the counter, waving it down to cool it off. Michael was still complaining, listing more reasons why he was in hell at the estate without you there. You heard something about interviews, a magazine cover, dressing like a robot for promotional material for some new sci-fi film he wasn’t interested in. 

You licked your lips, the smell drawing your senses, your mind already hyping you up to try it. 

“And he tells me to be smart about it— smart! Like I’m not smart already!” 

"I say the same thing,” you added, still letting the cupcake cool off. 

"Yeah, but I like the way you say it.” 

You couldn’t ignore the implications of that. Old wounds hidden behind a band-aid that was going to slip off soon. You’ve had this conversation with him before, way back when you first joined his team. You were just starting, a few years younger, your eyes filled with hope and love for the same things he had. 

As his manager, your interest was supposed to align with his… and somewhere down the road, it aligned almost too perfectly. 

You joined him back in the living room, folding your arms over your chest. 

"And he smells funny," he added, "like old shoes and Bubbles when he doesn't take a bath for a week." 

"That's kinda rude."

"It's kind of true," he shot back. 

You both watched each other, quiet and still. 

Finding that the conversation was going nowhere, you opted for a better solution to his complaints. 

"I baked cupcakes, wanna try?" 

He pulled his shades down, perched up on his nose now. He looked at you with those big brown eyes, his eyeliner dark and mysterious. It gave the impression of seductiveness— although you know he's nothing more than a sweetheart at best. 

"Yes, Please." 

You prepared a presentation, announcing yourself as if you were the queen of England. Saluting and then marching with a singular cupcake warm in your hand. You made your way to the living room, shooing him to move his legs over so you could sit beside him. "Your highness," you teased, bowing your head and he took the cupcake from you, his fingers touching over yours. 

He waited, eyeing the cupcake. “Will this kill me?”

“Let’s hope not.” 

He took a small bite. 

His face didn’t change much, except for a tilt in his eyebrows. 

"What do you think?" You questioned. 

He was silent for the most part, chewing slowly— almost too slowly for your liking. You know he wasn't much of a food person, often having to be forced like a toddler to get his nutrients in, but you've never seen his face so far removed from an emotion. 

"…Well?"

"It's… something…" he said, voice low. 

"Something? Like, good?  Bad?"

"Honest?"

Knowing him, he was going to be blunt in fact. "Go for it." 

"Don't quit your day job," he gagged, and you rolled your eyes at his exaggerated movements. "Yuck, I wouldn't feed that to Bubbles even if he liked it." 

"You're so annoying."

"You asked." 

"Are you serious? Is it really that nasty?"

"Here, you try." 

He leaned over without thinking, holding the side he didn't bite to your lips, close enough that if anybody walked in, it would have been obvious what the relationship between you two was. 

Your eyes dropped to the cupcake and then back to him, but he was only staring at your lips. 

"Say ahhh—" he cooed, moving in without permission, like he knew you were going to do what he said even if you didn’t want to. 

You opened your mouth slowly, finding it hard not to stare at him. Long lashes, glossy lips, smoky eye shadow that made his eyes even more enchanting to look at— and the long curly hair over his face gave him a prince archetype, you should thank his hairstylist for suggesting it again.  

You took a bite, teeth nipping at his finger but he didn’t pull back. The taste instantly exploded into your mouth on impact. Too much sugar, too much flour, dry and wet at the same time— Christ, this was disgusting. 

Your lips pulled back, cheeks puffing, the clear look of disgust written all over your face. 

"Told you so," he laughed in your face. 

"Fine, fine, you won. It’s nasty." You shivered, tongue pooling out to try and get rid of the taste from lingering on your tongue. "I don't think baking is for me." 

"At least you know now," He chuckled, placing the mess down on the coffee table. "Your true strength is in high heels and a pencil skirt." 

Finding that you were over with his smart comments, you decided to use your own. "Are you stereotyping me, Mr. Jackson?" 

It hit him quicker than he ever thought. His eyes went wide, almost as wide as a cartoon character's face in panic. "w-wait— no— I meant working under me—"

"Under you? Like I'm your common prostitute? Is that what your game is?" 

He sat back quickly, the distance not helping his favor, holding his hands up in defense. "N-No— wait— I didn't mean it like that— " his mouth dropped open, excuses rolling off his tongue like honey. "Cause you work for me— and of course I'm not calling you that! I respect you too much— a-and I would never say that to you—"

"But you would say that to anybody else?" Your lips creased, concern spreading over your face. 

"Pardon? No! Never! I-I would never do that—"

"Gotcha." 

It all came crashing down. 

You watched as his big brown eyes turned, his lips slowly running into a thin line. His hands came back down, resting over his lap, and you couldn't help chuckling in his face after that. 

"Aww, chin up," you smiled, "any longer and I would have called the cops." 

"You're a dirty player," he said, tilting his head. "Had my head spinning and you're laughing."

"Hey, you're not innocent either. Remember when you tapped 'kick me' on my back and had everyone sign a contract to keep their mouth shut about it?" 

"It was funny." 

"It was mean."

"You're mean," he said quickly after, stopping you in place. 

You felt the shift in his tone. The slump in his stance. You don't often see him look this way, quickly upset without a cause. 

"How so?"

He looked off to the side, his fingers fiddling in his lap. "You left me…Alone," he said slowly, "they don't understand me. Don't understand what it takes to do the things I do." He sighed so heavily, you felt your heart shake. "Not like you. 

And then it hits. 

There was a cause. 

The cause was you. 

"I'm…" you stop yourself, unsure how you should respond. Should you respond as an employee should to their boss? Say what they want so you don't get fired? Or should you respond in a more personal way? Something beyond a work-related relationship that you've been trying so hard to maintain. 

"Sir—"

"Michael," he corrected, barely taking a glance. 

You tried again, his name tasting sour. "Michael—” it didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel proper to refer to him so closely. “Sir—" 

You heard him huff, his eyes finding yours suddenly. He laughed slowly, shaking his head. "You're so strange. I ask everyone else to call me Michael— some even have nicknames for me, but you always resort to 'sir' and 'Mr.Jackson'." 

"Because,” you stated, unsure. “ You're my boss—“

"Is it so bad to be more than that?"

There it is. 

That tick in your heart that never seemed to go away.

 Any normal person can bite it back and ignore it. Pretend enough that it turns into something less, but you don't have the compassion to pretend. The world was real, your job was real, he was real. It only lies dormant until the moment you see him and then it kicks back up again. 

You swallowed around a dry lump, feeling warm all over. It was getting dark— darker than you would like. If he stayed longer, you assumed his bodyguards would think something bigger was going on— Nothing was going on. 

"You should leave," you started, feeling hopeless so quickly. "Before someone suspects that you're here." 

"Who would suspect that?" 

"Dark car across the street, bodyguard probably at the stairs—"

"But I don't wanna go."

“You have too.”

“I don’t want to.”

You should be more resilient than this. Instead, you were being pushed over. Entirely left at his will, subject to do what he wanted because Michael always got what he wanted. The stage, the lights, the fame. He wanted it so bad, he conjured it out of thin air. 

He wanted you so bad, he conjured it right in front of him. 

“Say it again,” he breathed, “say it like you mean it. Tell me to leave like you don’t care.” 

But you did care. 

And that was the scary part. 

“I…Sir—“

“Michael.” His hand crept towards yours, thumb brushing over your skin, sending warmth through your body. “Tell me again. Tell me you don’t want me.” 

You wondered how many times you could say it. How many times could you deny it to convince yourself that it wasn’t real? 

"S-Sir…you know we can't." 

It's hard being like this, putting a wall between you two when you both know that it's very easy to jump over it. 

You knew what he had, a crush that developed over time into something raw. Something that couldn’t be explained and yet felt all over— but Crushes were for kids, children who didn't have their life planned ahead yet. Not for people whose distance was already set in stone. 

You, bright-eyed, following under your manager because you had always dreamed of mentoring the greatest. President, big company owner, world superstar— manifesting truly did you wonders, but you didn't think it would go this far. And Michael? He was completely out of reach. Talent, compassion, and exceptional ability to garner fame like nobody else. 

He was your boss. 

Not the boy next door. 

Workplace relationships weren't your thing, especially when it took into account how many people wanted him as badly as they did oxygen. 

"I know," he said, his eyes drifting somewhere far off. 

It felt cold. 

“I get it. Yeah…” His fingers ran over the knuckles of your hand, stopping short of your ring finger. He took extra time noting it, like he was trying to say the obvious without looking even more stupid. "A guy could try though, right?" 

You blinked, and he was moving before you realized it.

He pressed his lips to yours, squeezing your hand into his. He didn’t push any further, didn’t try to deepen the kiss, he simply felt your lips against his because he knew this was probably the only opportunity while he had the chance. 

It felt…strange. 

Not a bad strange. A good strange. The type of strangeness that was mixed with troubled feelings, no worries, and a life imagined into sunsets and warmth.

This was inappropriate. 

This was bad. 

But…

For some reason….you didn’t move either.  

You titled your head. 

He pressed in harder. 

And you both melted into each other like chocolate left out in the sun. Sticky with want, lips sweet against one another. The taste of him was long-lasting and made your stomach twist with satisfaction. 

Before you could pull away, he was ushering you down into the couch, his hands pinning you down. Your bodies moving together on their own until he was slotted between your legs, your thighs trapping him in. The kiss transcended into something more, something deeper that was close to boiling over. 

You turned your head away when he breathed into the kiss, reality hitting back into you, giving you whiplash. 

“Mr— Sir—“ he kissed you again, but you pushed him back by his shoulders. "W-We can't," you gasped.

 His eyes watched you with want.

 "You're my boss—"

"Then do what I say." 

He pushed you deeper into the couch. 

“Michael—”

"I-I'm trying to save myself—" he kissed your neck, his teeth grazing over your skin like a blunt knife. His large hands pulled at the waistband of your pajama pants, dipping in like his name was written between your legs, waiting for him to sign his signature. "B-But I can't stop thinking about you—"

It was all too much. His hands, his body, his voice— everything.

He was your boss, the world's most wanted pop star. Women adored him, men wanted to be him— but all he wanted was you. 

"Angel, please—" he groaned, finding that sensitive spot that made your lips curl. 

"They'll—" you gasped when his hands grazed over the pool of heat between your thighs, relief finding its way by the mere force of his fingers slipping into you. He didn't stop, dead set on feeling you pulse around his fingers until he knew you belonged to him. "— cut my pay— maybe f-fire me—"

His lips found yours again, the kiss sloppy and wet. He pulled away, open mouth hovering over yours so he could taste your silky moans on his tongue. "I won't let that happen," he rasped, "If you go, I go." 

"Don't—" you shuddered when his thumb found the sensitive bud you've been mourning for him to touch since the moment you first saw him. "D-Don't—be stupid—"

"Don’t make me stupid." 

Two fingers, long and slender, found their way into your core and it sent a wave of pleasure through your body, soft moans slipping from your mouth like a perfect melody. You shut your eyes tightly. Scared. Terrified. Entirely overwhelmed and yet you craved more. 

"Come back— skip the vacation at home. Spend it with me." His fingers curled and twisted, using the many spasms in your face to see what made you squirm and groan. He was clumsy, a bit awkward, but it didn't stop him from trying to find out what made you so perfect. "I-I got a beach house in Florida— vacant. Bought it last year just in case."

You were so hyper-focused on the feeling of him, you didn't realize you were tuning him out until his mouth descended back on yours, so eager to remember the taste of you. 

"You heard me?" He said, pulling back. "Four bedroom. Two stories. Private and secluded."

You nodded. He smirked. And then your eyes snapped open when you felt a tingle boil in your stomach. 

"Angel, are you listening?"

"…huh? O-Oh—" you weren't. All you could focus on was his hands. How often they dragged over. How often they slipped in. How often they were set on making you come undone. 

“Bought something that wasn’t just for myself—“ he kissed your neck again. "Just for you— all for you.”

“Mr.Jackso—“

“Michael—“ he snapped, “Call me Michael, baby, lover— anything that doesn’t sound so distant.” 

Your eyes found him when the longing felt tighter. 

“Michael—“ you mewled. Peering up at him like an angel fallen from grace. 

Inappropriate. 

“Keep going,” he dipped low, kissing you once more like you were his lifeline. 

He was your boss. 

Your hands found his neck, squeezing, using him like an anchor to keep you rooted. “Michael—oh, Mi—chael—“ 

Your lover. 

“Stay with me—“ he dove back in, “stay, stay, stay—“

He was everything. 

"Michael— oh god—" 

You couldn't hide the tremors. The deep wash of pure bliss that hit everywhere and nowhere at once. You cried out for him, his name a prayer on your tongue. All while he took you through it, fingers holding you down while your hips rutted up to feel the last remnants spike. 

You held his shoulders with a tight fist, cursing under your breath while he tutted at your eager display. Entertained and otherwise satisfied. He kissed you through it. Kissed your face, neck, shoulder, forehead— anything that he deemed belonged to him. 

You belonged to him. Work relationship status be damned. 

You murmured something, sighing lightly. Eyes shut for the night. He wasn’t sure what, but for now, he thought it was best to leave you alone. 

Now was his time to go home. 

He finally pulled back when you whined that he was too heavy. Fingers slowly slipping from your pants to reveal the mess made. He stared at it like it was gold, the mere existence of it worth millions of dollars to him. 

He shouldn’t….that would be too…. 

Well, it wouldn’t hurt to try—

A knock on the door— always a knock on the door—made him shoot up from the couch. “In a minute!” He shouted and quickly rushed to your bedroom to find a blanket. He draped it over your body, tucking you in, fingers running over your hair to make sure you looked comfortable. He got on his knees again, mouth pressed against your temple one last time, and left like he was never there. 

But he was. Wasn’t that hard to forget. 

Once he opened the door, he found his bodyguard posted against the wall, hands crossed over his chest. He tipped his head down when Michael shut the door, pulling out unfamiliar keys from his pockets to lock the deadbolt, twisting until it snapped and he whistled with pride. 

He jogged down the stairs, his bodyguard at his heel and he slipped into the car with your house keys tucked in his pockets. 

If you want them, you’ll have to call, beg for him to bring it back, and he’ll tell you to come get it, all the way in Florida. 

“Where to boss?” His driver called out. 

Michael hummed, turning his gaze out the window. He supposed he’ll try to be nice to the executives. Try to pretend like he wasn’t yearning to hear your heels click down the halls while he was stuck listening to men think for him and assume what he wanted. 

He sighed. His driver knew. And he switched on the engine, twisting the gears into drive, and began to pull off. 

Michael leaned against the window, eyes shut. He remembered everything. Your voice. The kiss. His hands that brought you pleasure beyond a cheap thrill. He touched his lip, fingers grazing over. Still warm with desire. 

And if you're still wondering if he did. Fingers tapping against his lip. Well…He couldn’t get rid of the sweet warmth of you on his tongue. Sweet, delicious, his. 

6 June, 1944

On the day they went out to France the world did not shake with the might of men moving at arms, as your dreams had once convinced you. The countryside that day stirred and meandered into the light of the day like any other.  ‘Lady’ cat was sleeping in the morning sun, strewn across the wooden deckboards and smiling in her own way. You took heed of the bold red colours of the sky; still yet in its own way a quiet but fervent warning from the world as to what would be waged across her surface.

The day moved slowly into itself as you made your way packing your belongings for a brief trip to London, though only after finishing a book Paddy had suggested before they had gone as you sat on the stairs of the farmhouse with your feet touching the damp grass of the field below.  

This trip was the start of a long series of stays.  It was to start at a new print agency, and to, when tasked, provide assistance in collecting the newest correspondence on the front, nothing further advised. No more spying, no more shifting and seduction you had thought, pulling a discarded blouse from across the wickered-backed chair which sat by the window in the farmhouse’s bedroom.  Paddy had sat on the chair on occasion, pipe and poetry in hand as the late afternoons had slipped by till evenings and he was called gently to bed by a calm lilt and the promise of whiskey after sex.  

Your travel case soon stood ready for action by the door downstairs soon enough, yet your attaché case still sat open on the small window-side table as you prepared final clippings and notes to carry. Only one pocket in it remained untouched, this by your own ruling.  Within lay two small notes each from Eoin and Paddy, mundane in nature – just short ‘thank yous’ or ‘don’t forgets’ written in their own scribe. 

These, of course, spoke to their character without speech itself.  You adored each one, one with ink refined, neat and charming in its loops and twists across the page, the other bold from a strong hand forged by an even stronger personality.  You were to leave in the morning, one brief last night shared between just yourself and the dear Tabby which the men both adored (although Paddy denied it).  Of course, she was fine by her own for a brief time, no doubt nothing but elated at the prospect of catching field mice to her heart's content and causing mischief at the neighbours cottage.  

A walk to finish the day was common at the farmhouse when it had been the three of you, stretching your legs for once un-entwined of each other out into the countryside.  As a trio you’d pass brooks and into the small forested hollows not yet claimed by farms.  This time your legs journeyed by their lonesome, and had taken you down the beaten dirt road the farm sat alongside.  Your gaze followed the land to its very end where the churchyard stood surveying idly across the fading light of the country below.

Strolling past the wooded graves, you took note of moss and lichen lurching over their inscriptions, eager to take those buried to further anonymity.  It wouldn’t be such a shame all this you wondered. A quiet, soft death.  

If it were to come to your two men though…, would they rest in a sunny clearing? With daisies rising above their faces, ankles?  As their last thoughts had shared in pleasantry the three of your faces?  It was for certain it would be another, stark kind of death.  One rather filled with fire, smoke, and the screaming twisted faces of men dying around them, sinking into mud and rot of the trenches or township battlefields. 

One of a blood-battle fought not for ‘peace, liberty and all’, but the veracious appetites of men holding the power of the world in small uptight fists lacklustre in both love and kindness.  Your own hand, now clenched into a fist, however, held a small quiet power, one indeed of love, one of closeness, and the neverending dance between two men’s devotion for another and each other, despite your own entanglement between them and forged from within them.

London came and went, and no letters were to come either; not for several months that was.  

Between your newest print houses pigeon-hole or the farmhouses’ lonely letterbox the near constant stream of mail in the past dried right up.  You danced between the farmhouse’s quiet homeliness and the weakened yet still bustling city in England.  You didn’t mind the city really, yet you still kept the farmhouse key in your breast-pocket and reminisced of its creaking floorboards and crackling hearth whilst at the small bed-sit in Pimlico which you had been provided with.  It was above a quaint flowershop, and you could picture Eoin procuring you bouquets with a small smile on his face and Paddy arguing prices in a loud bark at his side.

Keeping any mention of what the SAS were up to, their casualties, losses and positioning was a thorough aim of yours despite the overflow of work reporting on the state of London.  The new V-1 bombs were a terror from the sky, the flying bomb they called it, and they came from dust till dawn.  London suffered, and London worked, and London fought.  Whilst back in Newtownards the time passed like any other, and you found yourself picturing what Lady the cat could be up to in the cold mornings or late evenings where she would creep her way into the farmhouse through a cracked window to rest on the empty bed. 

You thought of where on the front might Paddy and Eoin be now, perhaps huddling for warmth in some blown-out village with snow falling down their coats and aching bodies fighting to push forwards. At nights where your thighs fell open lazily across the arm of the armchair in your bed-sit, and you stared into the softly glowing fire, the thoughts wandered alongside your hands to how your two  would be coping with it all in another manner.

Thoughts arose of the two men sneaking off to a place rarely quiet during war, to revel in each other for a break from it all.  Perhaps they would start a fire in the remains of a house, and Paddy would sink to his knees with a firm hand in his hair, willing him forward onto the eager man before him.   Maybe they’d forget about their days in each other and pose the question of ‘what if she was here to see you like this?’ quietly over and over to tease and test one another.

A particularly enamoured fellow home affairs reporter had slipped in conversation one evening at the French House in Soho.  He had become somewhat of a companion to you, Sid was his name.   Sid was a rather strangely handsome fellow you thought, the type of person who gets more alluring the more you look at them. 

Although he’d made it clear to you that people had found him quite the opposite in passing.  He was elegantly long in the face despite having a cockney prose stronger than a fishmonger to make up for it, like a pretty flower hiding a sharp barb at the centre.  You’d met in the busy halls of Reuters and been quite close ever since, he reminded you of Eoin in a way at times the way he kept you enraptured in conversations.  

Though his hair was lighter, less curly and completely unruly unlike Eoin’s, his height and leanness reminded you of Eoin despite the fact he was without a doubt taller and held a physique of someone seemingly distinctly underfed, running on wine, coffee and cigarettes rather than hardened in the desert.  Despite this, sometimes you brushed away the thought that you could quietly see yourself falling for him in another life. 

He was an odd fellow though, found often walking his shaggy lurcher dog aptly named ‘Baron’ along the Thames or through the heavily-hit streets of Whitechapel in the late hours of the night.  He’d stop wherever to scribble hurriedly in his correspondence journal at passing which he’d pull out of his roughly spun coat with its upturned collar facing the wind.  Sid had a near constant resting expression that he was about to respond to anything wryly, he kept out of trouble in the print houses by mainly writing rather than speaking, and a distinct scar on his lip always caught your eye as his mouth rested in a near permanent smirk when he held his tongue. 

You didn’t quite know how old he was, he still refused to tell you.  Most tended to think he was quite older than he must’ve been.  One time, he’d come into the tea room protesting that he had ‘gotten 40 the other day!’ from a young girl on the street.  Your guesses fluctuated depending on how well-kept or gaunt-looking he was each week you supposed.

Between arguing over the latest dispatches to Normandy the stormy-eyed man pulled his reading glasses off in a hurry, leaning forward away from his open document and almost toppling wine glass to pull you in, pupils adjusting rapidly to the change in vision as he met your surprised eyes.  ‘You’ve heard of the latest SAS moves, have you then?’ He asked, voice hushed as he pulled your own empty glass from your hand, topping it up with the red wine he had somehow smuggled from the barman earlier. The liquid poured smoothly into the glass, almost reaching the top as you tried to gather what you had heard,   ‘That’s certainly enough Sid, quite– yes thank you– I, I must say that no, no I have not,’ you admitted.

‘Well, steamin’ idiots–were, or have parachuted into the Vosges Mountains. If you’d ask me, I’d say that those areas are crawling with Jerry’s.’ He had gotten so close you could almost count the light freckles that sat in number across the pale skin of his strong nose and across his cheeks. Sid always invaded peoples space quite without himself or them realising, though it was always in a gentle manner to emphasise his own devout attentiveness. 

‘’Ave got a whisper that most of the bloody squads gone down, captured y’know.  Most likely off with their ‘eads if you’d ask me. No one’s surviving that.’

Sid tended to become more unintelligible as your nights together went on, Cockney rhyming slang thrown about as he waved his arms and threw various papers from reports at you, he’d often end up falling asleep in your armchair at your bed-sit, cigarette still hanging out of his mouth just as Paddy would do back at the farmhouse.  As you made your way out of the pub, Sid stumbling over himself beside you, the revelation that there was knowledge flowing about the SAS had rightly caught up to you. 

You had left it as wilful ignorance, ‘no news was good news’.  Sid’s briefcase went tumbling from his hand in an almighty thunk, landing at your feet as his cigarette almost slipped from his mouth and fell alongside it.  You took that moment to retest him, picking it up and pushing it against his blue collar shirt, pulling him in.  He looked down at you through widened eyes, face an eerie calm all of a sudden.

‘Sid, please tell me more about the SAS division, anything, please. Are you sure they’re in dire circumstances?’ you asked.

‘I had a butcher’s at the gen, I swear I did–’, he mumbled between a few hiccups and slurred complaints half muffled through the cigarette.

‘–but it’s all rabbit and pork he told me, this diamond geezer. Oh, ‘you can’t trust a word of it down Fleet way I say’ he said.’

He appeared to be forcing himself to keep blinking as he looked at you, he must’ve had nearly two bottles in him.  You pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and finished the drag for him.

In an attempt to smarten himself up, he knocked his hat to a ridiculous angle.  ‘That’s a Hampton Wick I told him, I did Miss, I know what them SAS boys are up-to.’ He tipped to one side, ‘Fuck it, I’m right Brahms aren’t I? Nearly fell off my plate of meat didn’t I.’  He laughed hysterically as he spun back towards you, eyebrows raised and the creases of his smile and eyes painting an absurd shadow across his face. 

You were interrupted when another man brushed you, no doubt a colleague as he shouted upon entering the pub; ‘Sid! What the bloody hell are you doing here?’, the other man stumbled pointing to the ground next to him before stepping over, ‘Well, you see I was over here, like this, but that didn't really work for me,’ he moved back to where he had been leaning against the brick wall, ‘so I thought I'd try over here, but I don’t think there's much future in this one either.’ He said plainly.

The man let out a noise of confused agreement before pushing through the door, the drunk man was now laughing quietly to himself, proud of his own absurdity. 

‘Sid, Sid, please, English.’ you begged, continuing your protest from earlier. 

‘I–er– am English!’ he slurred, ‘Yes, sadly!’ you nodded laughing before gathering yourself, pulling his rough hands into your own.  

‘Name, Sid, my dear, dear friend… what is the name?’ you pressed, lifting his clasped hands up and down with each word. Sid also took a moment before mustering himself, the drunken man perked up, ‘My name?! Well you’d know by now my name is Sidney Turner, at your very service.’ He put on a posh accent and attempted to bow, pulling his hands from yours and lurching over to one side against the brick wall of the pub.

‘No– Sid, no.’ you cried out, laughing at the unintended comic. ‘The codename, Sid, of the mission.’ He shook his head, letting out a series of ‘ooooh’s’ as he huffed searching his clouded mind.  Sid didn’t know about your ‘connection’ to the SAS, though you’d wanted to tell him as such, and maybe you would soon.  

A shoulder to cry on when the seemingly inevitable came wouldn’t be too harsh.

‘Loyton.’ Sid said suddenly, and quite soberly, cutting you from your thoughts.

‘Operation Loyton, Miss.’ 

October 30th, 1944

Loyton was disastrous.  Over 30 men captured, unheard from since.

Paddy was not one of the men to go, it was mostly new men he hadn’t even seen, a new division.  But, he had been sent home nonetheless earlier, injured in a skirmish in Operation Houndstooth, relegated to command from Fairford like a ‘proper “senior officer” must do’ before he would be returned to the fighting in the Low Countries. The news of Loyton crushed him like no other, and unlike the refusal of leave for his poor Da’s funeral he felt not rage but instead immense impenetrable sorrow.

Drowning these sorrows was the only way to quieten the screaming voice in his head that told him it was undoubtedly his fault.  He knew who was on the list of men to send to the Vosges, he had penned it himself.  So many unknown names headed by one name which he treasured like no other.  In that moment he had thought Eoin would of course handle it, as he led men so well in the past, he did not consider quite how anything could go so wrong. He was sure he had signed Eoin’s death sentence.  

Stirling had reprimanded him after assaulting several corporals in his usual manner. A few forced words to ‘clean up his act’ merely touched the sides of Paddy’s misery. The drink called and he had found himself thinking of Newtownards and the lonely farmhouse. He hadn’t known where you were, only that you would be making your own way of course, the smart head-forward thing you were. 

The key was left to you for safe-keeping, and Lady was to be looked after. He knew you were safe somewhere on the shores of England, that was the only solace. Soon enough he had seemingly drunk every pub in Essex dry, and a new placement to London called for further glasses to sink and streets to wander at night wondering what went wrong to lose Eoin.

You had been posted to Paris after it had been Liberated, only a month long affair but enough to miss London and the quiet evenings with your new found friends in Sid and Baron the dog.  Sometimes you cursed speaking French with all your might, though it obviously made you ‘useful’ to GHQ when called.  The boat ride over the channel and home was hellish, squalls stirred swells which lashed the side of the boat and you pulled your scarf closer to you in the cramped dimness of the hull, murmurs of other returning soldiers and personnel creating the only human respite in the vast metal containment.  

Taking the time you swept through the letters from Sid and your family, none still from Paddy and Eoin of recent note.  The most recent from your friend noted in his ridiculous use of rhyming slang once more, ‘moved Uncle Ned, dog and bone me once you get hammer and tack, i’ll give you the rat and mouse. Au revoir.’ he’d not wanted the address to be intercepted clearly, and you weren’t surprised considering his recent delvings into possible war crimes in Oradour-sur-Glane in June.

You smiled at the penned words, despite his unique prose you had to admit the rhymes worked quite well in deception.  Stepping off the boat during the last light of the day wasn’t the relief you had hoped, the chill sinking deep into you as the frozen wind whipped around you.  It took longer than usual for the train to meander into London from Dover.  Soon enough you had made your way down the streets of Charing Cross to a phonebox, willing for Sid to answer the other end even this late at night to provide his address and a nodding head to your stream of consciousness once you arrived, maybe a glass or two of that wine he had as well.  

Your own bed-sit could wait.

The lights and merriment of The Two Chairmen could be seen and heard not far from your perch in the phonebox, no doubt it was filled with returning soldiers willing for a night to forget what they had seen on the front.  Perhaps brimming with information of new efforts and scandals.  Sid soon answered the phone, his voice deep and gravelly with sleep despite its comfort to your ears.  ‘Don’t even think ‘ave to ask who this is now, do I?’ he quipped. You could hear the half-smile in his voice.  You traded a few friendly insults back and forth between yourselves as you attempted to get his address out of him.  He complained of your lateness and tried to push you towards visiting tomorrow when he could hold his head upright only to crumble at a few carefully placed ‘pleases’ from yourself.

‘55 Sans Walk, Clerkenwell–Yes! Yes, near where that bloody prison used to be, though that says nothing about my upstanding character, you here?’ he joked.  You laughed whole-heartedly down the phone as he corrected himself, ‘Near the market, let's just say that instead.’ you agreed.  Taking a few moments, just listening to your shallow breathing down the line before you blurted out. 

‘I missed you.’, hand gripping the handle of the black phone tightly in anticipation of his response. He let out a slow breath behind the phone, ‘Missed ya’ too.’ he followed, a certain frustration to his voice you hadn’t heard before.   

‘Right then, now get going, Baron’s woken up and she’s not happy to see me nabbing to you on the phone than in person.’ You agreed and gave your farewell,  ‘See you soon, love.’ he resigned.  You’d never gotten used to the average Tom, Dick and Harry on the street calling you that despite most of your life spent in the UK, and your heart panged slightly at the thought of your real and truthful ‘loves’, wherever they were.

A great clatter suddenly brought your attention from hanging up the phone on its hook towards the pub's lights.  Four men were tossing another out into the street, a pint glass still swinging from the man's hands.  Despite the danger, perhaps this was an opportunity to collect his frustrations of the war on your way, some fresh information to share once you got to Clerkenwell.  You swung the phonebox door open in a hurry, pace quickening to catch up with the lurching man, clack of your Oxfords echoing around the empty street and bag swinging haphazardly beside you.  The man was not much taller than yourself and his back faced away from you as he moved down the street, though his figure became increasingly familiar as you drew closer.  

‘Excuse me, Sir–’ you began, the man spun around in a burst of coordinated vigour, his fist raised in a sudden lunge. 

‘Get tae fuck–!’ he began before stopping dead in his tracks.  

Despite the dark blonde hair tousled over his face you could see that snarl on his face you had come to know and love. 

Paddy Mayne stared back at you, eyes afire in the dim streetlight.

You had flung yourself into his chest immediately, draping your arms around his neck as he outstretched his own in an attempt to avoid getting the remains of his pint and cigarette ash on you.

‘Easy now, you’re going to knock us both over.’ He huffed. You pulled back, reaching for the glass in his hand and tipping back the contents to his surprise.

 ‘What did you do this time to get sent home, Paddy?’ You questioned, voice full of smug joy knowing that despite his rank he’d prefer to be without fail in the midst of it all in war than on the streets of London. He took a heavy drag of his cigarette not answering before you jabbed him in the rib with your index finger, ‘Didn’t write to me either Paddy,’ You reprimanded him.

‘and where’s Eoin? I haven’t gotten any letters from him either.’ You continued, placing the pint glass on the gutter ledge for the pub to collect later on.  Looking up at him from your stoop you could see the sudden emotion in his eyes, with Paddy it was always rage primarily with an undertone of sadness or other such negative feeling. 

‘I don’t know,’ He admitted.  

Your heart sank as you recalled what you had been told over that table of empty wine bottles before you left for France.

‘Something— it didn’t go quite as we had planned.’ Paddy admitted. Your eyes widened as your hand came to grab Paddy’s own.  He reached into his coat pocket with the other, ‘His ma–she gave me this letter.’  The letter was worn, as if it had been opened over and over again, no doubt in disbelief. 

Dear Mrs. McGonigal:

This letter is to confirm my recent telegram in which you were regretfully informed that your son, Staff-Sargeant  Eoin McGonigal, attached to the airborne troops, has been reported missing in action in Vosges, France since 14 August 1944.

I know that added distress is caused by failure to receive more information or details regarding the matter.

Therefore, I wish to assure you that at any time additional information is received it will be transmitted to you without delay, and, if in the meantime no additional information is received, I will again communicate with you at the expiration of three months.

The term ‘missing in action’ is used only to indicate that the whereabouts or status of an individual is not immediately known, It is not intended to convey the impression that the case is closed. I wish to emphasise that every effort is exerted continuously to clear up the statue of our personnel.

Under war conditions this is a difficult task as you must readily realise. Experience has shown that many persons reported missing in action are subsequently reported as prisoners of war, but as this information is furnished by countries with which we are at war, the War Department is helpless to expedite such reports.

The personal effects of an individual missing overseas may be held by his unit for a period of time but are unfortunately likely buried with the soldier in the case of a death or confiscated by the enemy.

Permit me to extend to you my heartfelt sympathy during this period of uncertainty.

Sincerely yours,

Lt. Col. W. Stirling  

The letter had that manufactured signatory to it that made you grit your teeth, Stirling likely barely even glanced at it as he signed himself away, or better yet, one of his assistants in London forged it away.

The name ‘Loyton’ brushed your lips again.  He was lost, as Sid had told without even knowing it.  

‘I already knew.’ he said aghast, ‘signed them myself…, his orders to lead those men.’ Paddy confessed, he had lit another cigarette whilst you had read, puffing the smoke to the side in a deep exhale, looking up to the scattered clouds in the dark sky.  You reeled backwards, pausing as an overwhelming desire to react physically against the man in front of you arose.  You struck him clear across the face, surprising your own self as much as him before gripping his coat collar as he hissed in pain, the cigarette fell from his lips to the damp ground.  As you moved closer you came to realise just how much he stunk of whiskey and who-knows-what other concoctions. 

Drowning his sorrows no doubt.

‘Are you daft Paddy Mayne?!’ you cried out in his face.  Despite your outrage he almost immediately began to frog march you backwards towards whence you came, a firm hand on your shoulder. ‘How could you– could you not have foreseen the mission was– I don’t know! Impossible? Dangerous beyond even your suicidal mind?’ You blurted out as you stumbled over yourself as the immovable force behind you pushed, voice echoing off the brick walls of the street as he moved you back past the doorstep of the pub. 

‘Aye, we’ll have none of that.’ Paddy said coldly and soon enough you were being pushed through the flown open door of the phonebox, arms only catching yourself last minute against the glass. His demeanour had shifted, from a drunk, clearly emotional one to one of a stone-cold commander.

‘Don’t speak.’ Paddy told you. 

‘Don’t fuckin’ say a word now, just do what I want.’

You turned, eyes widening at his clear intention.  He nodded slightly towards the ground and it didn’t take long for you to sink to your knees, the rough concrete of the phonebox catching on your stockings as you lent your head against Paddy’s thick thighs.

‘I missed you.’ you whispered.

‘I know.’ he replied as the sound of his belt unbuckling filled the cramped space.  It never took much for him to be aroused, he had an astounding virility despite his clear qualms with his own indiscretions.

You helped him to pull himself out of his trousers, taking the heavy weight in your hands as a marvelled look took your eyes as his darkened eyes met your own.  Even after the time passed, the veins and weight of him had imprinted their way into your mind, lips, tongue, and no doubt throat as you brushed your mouth along the thick, familiar length of him.

You took your time in teasing the already dripping thick head of him, popping it lightly from your mouth and swirling your tongue across the sensitive surface, dipping your tongue into the slit of it and watching the way tension seemingly drained from the man above you.   Soon, you relented to his growing huffs of frustration and your nose brushed the patch of hair at the base of him as you took him in your mouth.  

It took some muscle memory to kick in to relax your throat further to allow for his hand to push and pull your head back and forwards on his unforgettably thick length. With a jaw already aching as you shifted on your knees, you moved your fingers to glide gently across the remaining soft skin of what you couldn’t take down.  His head rested against the glass of the phonebox door, eyes closed as he fumbled with his cigarette case from memory and lit one in the small space, smoke flowed from his mouth to cloud the phonebox further as its already fogged glass of the heat from your bodies obscured what was inside.

Paddy relished in your skilled mouth for some time before he interfered, pushing you roughly backwards still buried to the hilt down your throat, hands clasped together at the back of your head stopping from cracking it against the thick glass of the phonebox.  Your knee scraped painfully against the floor and the no-doubt hole ripping in your stocking reminded you quite of the ridiculousness of the situation. 

What might a passerby have to endure?  Your head was bracketed between the glass and his thick thighs still holding the back of your head now with one hand he pulled out, tapping the thick weight of himself against your puffed lips and outstretched tongue before pressing back in. He began to lazily thrust into your mouth, your jaw protested as you stretched it as wide as you could.  You closed your eyes in concentration, trying to control your breathing.  He clicked his tongue, ‘Need those pretty eyes on me girl. Don’t you dare fuckin’ stop looking.’ he rumbled from above as he snapped his hips forward roughly into your mouth. 

You missed the way his breaths would get rough and ragged in these moments, almost like some animal huffing in beastly exertion.  It felt like an eternity before he was holding your jaw open further and pushing deep into your throat as he came.  In your concentration your eyes had slipped closed again as you savoured the heat of him and the salty taste filling your mouth.  You hadn’t paid attention to his face,  now it was obvious that his face was stained with tears as your vision focussed.  The great fearless dog that was Paddy Mayne was a broken man.

‘I’ve got nothing now,’ He spat out, chest heaving as he came down from his high and rubbed his forehead with his hand, mouth twisted in anguish.

‘Hey!, I’m still here!’ You replied, mouth hardly able to form the words as he slipped from it.  Your head was quickly yanked back as he pulled your hair roughly, almost lifting you off your knees from where you knelt. 

‘You know my feelings towards you are still for nothing but to get my cock wet, despite whatever I might say.’ He said harshly.

‘I doubt that, do not act like you neither want nor need me in your life Paddy when you’ve admitted the opposite.’ Came as a brave warning from your slightly trembling lips still wet with spit and the salty taste of him.  You had never seen him in such a state.

You stood calmly and  brought your hand up to gently guide his face to look at your own,  ‘Now. Now, of all times do we need each other most, for us. For him.’ You nodded at the letter now clutched back in his hand, his eyes flared with fury, yet he leant into the touch, like some wounded animal wanting to fight its saviour, and he closed them.  

‘There is no real war left for me to go out in…, no point to it all.’ He slowly began bizarrely as he opened his eyes again. You shook your head, amazed at his clear drunkenness which had seemingly returned, you reached for your briefcase and stood, holding it out to him. 

‘There is most certainly still a war Paddy, this is why I am still here…, though I can see you’re not in the state to read any of my recent reports.’ you replied, frankly embarrassed by his mighty fall from his usual temper.

‘Oh I’ll read, read nought but poetry till the day I die, nothing more,’ he slurred out, hand unintentionally clasping over your own against the briefcase pushed to his chest.

‘But the day I die may be quite soon, aye…,’ He swayed, resting himself leant against the door of the phonebox as he continued, ‘ no point without him fighting by my side.’

‘Paddy now is not the time for half-arsed poetry, you simply cannot be serious, you are needed in Europe. Eoin- he’ you tried to refrain from choking up yourself, ‘He’ll be alright somewhere,’ you said hopefully.

He had fixed his trousers and pushed open the phonebox door, letting a rush of cold air in which refreshed your hazy mind.  You followed him, leaning against the door of the phone box opposite him. 

‘Come on,’ You said, guiding him to the crisp outside air to sober him up.

‘I suspect the troops are greatly disheartened by your discharge?’ You asked, scuffing your heel against the cobbled street knowing reasoning with any man, let alone Paddy in this state would likely amount to nothing.

‘Bill Stirling can command as he wants, the bastard. I was never much of a leader anyway.  I’ve taken up more success in commanding the pints in my own hand than any men lately.’ he waved behind him in the vague direction of the pub.

‘I’ve nowhere to stay.’ he confessed, ‘Only came here to drink expecting I’d make the train back to Gloucestershire, but knowing I wouldn’t.’ he admitted. You squeezed his hand ‘I’ve got a friend we can stay with tonight, he’s closer than my place, I was headed there anyway.’ you adjusted your own coat with the other.

‘“He’s?”’ Paddy asked, eyebrows raised. 

‘Don’t be daft Paddy.’ you replied, a vibrant red flush of embarrassment warming your cheeks.

‘Oh, I’ll be whatever you’d have me tonight just this once, so I will.’ he replied sarcastically. 

The walk to Clerkenwell went by quickly as you attempted to fill each other in on life since D-Day and Paddy thoroughly sobered up, rain began to fall as you neared the darkening bricks of the address you had gotten over the phone.  The black wood door of the building required a shove from Paddy to open and the wrought iron railings of the stairs left a mark on your hand as you made your way to the fourth floor. 

Sid’s hair had gotten even longer since the time you saw him last, reaching almost to his collar in such an inopportune fashion, a ridiculous ensemble of  facial hair messily covered his jaw and above his mouth. 

He smiled so widely as you opened the door, enough to show the gold crown on one of his teeth that he usually tried everything to hide.

Seeing your eyes widen at the sight of him he immediately began to explain, ‘Apologies…, bout’ the state of me that is,’ he muttered. ‘Just been cooped up here working for months, hadn’t even looked at myself– who’s this then?’ He cut himself off and pointed towards Paddy behind you, the torn threads of his black jumper hanging down from his hand.

‘I believe this is a dead man walking Sid.’ you mused, ‘This is Paddy.  He is in the SAS.’ you stated, lacking any sense of covertness.

‘Paddy…’ the man mused, scratching at his head, he jumped slightly soon after with a quick inhale, ‘Mayne?! He’s a sure terror he is, he is? Isn’t that right?’ he asked hurriedly into the space between the two of you.

‘Only when wee’ boys like yourself get in my way.’ Paddy responded for you.  The man on the other side of the door stooped despite his height, bowing his head slightly in nervous acknowledgement contrasting a wolfish grin on his face.  He looked at you, a ‘boy!?’ he mouthed, a mischievous sparkle in his eye shining as if he was rejoicing in the fact he had been referred to as younger for once.

‘Welcome in then,’ he cocked his head. ‘Welcome, welcome make yourselves at home, don’t mind Baron she’s had his forty winks now and a pig's ear to keep her company.’ he grinned.

‘Hate dogs.’ Paddy huffed, brushing past the other man as they filled the doorway in front of you.  You all moved into the space in silence, you were grateful to be anywhere after your marathon of a day, even in the somewhat messy bed-sit with a dog snoring by the coal grate.  The dwelling was practical, homely in Sid’s rag-tag way, with old paintings he’d collected from flea markets stacked in all corners of the room, books and bric-a-brac filling any spare surface. 

It was larger than your own with a set of strangely ornate glass doors with mis-matched stained glass separating the main room from a small sleeping alcove to the left.  The wallpaper was peeling in some parts and stained with coal smoke in others.  A coat rack stood by the door, most of its arms broken leaving one holding the owner's unmistakable wool coat.  The wooden floor had several mismatched extremely worn rugs covering it, perhaps Persian in origin, though Eoin would likely tell you otherwise; no doubt procured from a flea market in Sid's travels in Morocco or some other place he claims to have visited.  Between these were fine scratches in places, of furniture shuffling in the past and fresh ones from the clear sign of a dog's claws.

By the door in the corner was a small kitchenette, a kettle still steaming sat on a small gas ring, above, a couple of cast irons hung from hooks haphazardly plunged into the brick behind. 

You placed your briefcase on a low-table seemingly acting as his work desk.  It was filled with books and papers and a half disassembled well-used Kodak Brownie.  Notably, your friend had always kept his typewriter on the kitchen bench, he’d always said he found the most inspiring words coming to him when cooking or brewing coffee.  

Snapping you from your observations of the room Sid spoke,‘Ain’t you a dog yourself? That’s what they’re sayin’’ He said in his dangerously curious tone, he clearly  couldn't help but continue the conversation from across the room as he still lingered by the now closed door, pointing from his hip at the soldier as he stood by the window at the other end.  

‘Aye, and she’ll have me playing fetch with your mop-head in a minute if you don’t shut your gob.’ Paddy warned, cocking his head in your direction.  Sid turned to you with a faux surprised look on his face as if to say ‘he’s only gone and said that in my own house, has he?’ You waved him off and made your way over to gently pat the fast-asleep dog.

The messy-haired man raised his hands above his head in an exasperated stretch before clasping them together, with eyes closed for a moment in an attempt to compose himself.  ‘Well, it’s just the one room, but I can put a couple of blankets down for you or whichever you’d like.’ the journalist said, smiling kindly. 

‘Or we could take your bed and you can sleep on the floor.’ Paddy said roughly.

‘Or…,’ Sid grinned, ‘I could set the dog on you, and we’d see if you’re really a dog yourself.’ he scoffed, ‘She’d rip the balls of you, son.’ He said darkly.

‘Fuckin’ sayin’ that to me in me own house,’ Sid mumbled, barely audibly, pulling a cigarette from his pocket and placing it in his mouth, ‘ridiculous.’  he muttered.  Your head was already in your hands at the immediate posturing between the two.  The air settled between the two soon enough, and they even bonded over a shared love of some of the romantic poets and Greek epics into the early morning. 

Paddy gradually sobered up once and for all and Sid became increasingly drunk in his harmless manner on gin despite the time, you were dozing off cramped and contorted to fit in one of the mismatched chairs by the window, Paddy sat beside you in the other, eyes falling to the way your long skirt had bunched up to reveal your thighs and worn winter stockings.

Eventually the Englishman, tired of trying to pull any dramatic stories from the soldier, disappeared to the small bedroom to the side of the main room and returned with an armful of roughly spun woollen blankets. He spread them out by the dying fire as the dog had stirred awake and was now roaming nervously between the armchairs, brushing her thick wiry hair against Paddy’s trousers and your hand hanging off of the chair.

‘Right, I’m off then. C’mon ol’ girl, get to sleep in the bed tonight you lucky’un.’ he clicked his tongue in a practiced tone and the dog and she strode across the room to follow the man.

Paddy watched as you slept for a while before corking the bottle of rum he had been provided with firmly. Placing it on the table beside your briefcase he quietly lifted you from your chair.  You stirred awake just enough to be helped from your skirt and stockings, leaving just your long blouse for modesty, Paddy stripped swiftly, uncaring about his nakedness in another man's home as you curled up between the two blankets.  He soon came to realise that lying beside you was the only comfort he had experienced in mouths, and he felt grounded away from the mindset of ‘kill or be killed’ which had overtaken him ever since he had been separated from Eoin, and especially since the news that he was missing had come through.

After a few hours, birds chirping outside and a distant ‘all clear’ siren had stirred you both awake as dim light flooded through the still-open blinds of the room.  Paddy’s arm lay heavy across your side and chest, keeping you flush against his warm body under the blankets, your hips already ached from the hard surface below but you were grateful for somewhere to at least rest your head.

You roused against him, pressing your clothed behind to his crotch in an absentminded test.  Without fail the Paddy you knew was there as after a few moments he roughly grasped your hip.  A hand was brought to your mouth, ‘Spit.’ his gravelly voice commanded quietly.  Your eyes shook awake at that, turning your head over your shoulder to look into his blank face.  There wasn’t much of a debate when it came to doing what Paddy wanted usually, it would happen one way or another.  You moved your head forwards as you still reluctantly gave in, letting a small puddle of spit stream from you mouth onto his hand as your eyes searched his own and face for any emotion.

‘On your front,’ he continued, a gentle hand lightly pushing on your shoulder despite his domineering tone and initial harsh grab of your hip.

‘I’m not going to fuck that needy cunt of yours,’ he said casually still quiet in the small space.  His weight shifted from beside you as he sat up to straddle your thighs, holding the hand with your spit up to his own mouth to spit harshly against your own.

‘Though…, I don’t doubt that she's been begging and dripping for me since you saw my swift exit from that pub.’ he accosted.

You gasped as he smothered your thighs in your shared spitHe began slowly moving against you, hands moving to press on your lower back as he set the pace. 

He pulled out from your used thighs with a slow, drawn out breath.  With a single moment he flipped you over onto your back, taking a moment to reach down and rub your clit with two rough fingers before dipping into your wetness and pulling it across his spit covered length.  With the three liquids gathered on his finger he brought his fingers to his mouth savouring the taste.  Your eyes widened, but he wasn’t finished,  pulling the finger out to reach down, pulling at your own mouth to open he leaned down and let a string of spit fall from his own mouth to yours.  It hit your lip and rolled into your mouth with a taste of a mix of salty skin and heated pleasure. He continued to move downwards, pulling you into a rough kiss to finish the fourth taste he was craving, tasting everything you could give him.

‘Come on Paddy, before he wakes up.’ you whispered against his mouth which had formed a wolfish grin barely touching your own.  He let out a rough noise deep in his chest as he flipped you back over, cock slotting roughly between your thighs once more.

‘Has he had his way with you then yet?’ Paddy said suddenly through gritted teeth against your ear as his full weight pressed you through the blankets and against the hard wooden floor below.  The slick drag of his cock soaked in your combined spit and the wetness now accumulating on your thighs made you impossibly needy.  

Your eyes widened from their blissed out half-closed state, ‘No, no we– not really, I–.’ you whimpered out quietly, ‘Not really?’ Paddy growled, voice raising to a fierce question.  His hand moved against your head to push your face against the rough woollen blanket as he sped up.

Maneuvering his head to your other ear he dragged his tongue across your neck in a rough claim of the sweat-dewed skin there. ‘Is he good? Tell me?’ he began questioning, scoffing at you as you grimaced beneath him.  Your face filled red with embarrassment as you unintentionally squeezed your legs tighter against him.  This to no doubt spurred him on as you felt his sheathed cock heave in a mighty twitch as he paused pressed flush against you.  He waited a moment further for a response, to which there was none you could muster. 

‘Seem’s we’ve an eye for the same sort,’ he cooed mockingly as he started to move at a vicious pace, the sound of his thighs slapping against your own was sure to wake the man next door you thought.  Let alone was the floorboards beginning to complain in a low creak and groan under your combined weight.  

You shook your head, hair failing over your face, ‘Oh…, aye, I think we do.’ Paddy chuckled mockingly.

‘Should I have a ride of him too?...’ he questioned into the air beside you, anger and jealousy flooding into his voice, before gritting his teeth ‘since we’re all fuckin’ havin’ a go, aye?...’ Tears had begun welling in your eyes at the desperation building in you, he was so close to giving you what you wanted, to pounding you into the floor and making you forget about everything that was coming down around the both of you. 

The blankets under your chest had bunched up, the harsh fabric brushing against your sensitive chest as the weight of Paddy rocked against you.  ‘...Since we’re all fuckin’ goin’ about the town whilst your men are away, fighting–, fuckin’ dying in Hell right here on Earth?’ He continued his tirade.  ‘Please, Paddy!’ you begged quietly.

‘Oh, I think I’ve gathered quite well a sense of your true character.’ he mocked.

‘Fuck it,’ he grumbled, sitting up to roughly spit between his own thighs and onto yours with precision.  You stuttered as you felt the liquid hit you, part of your mind relishing in the filthy treatment, the other 

just wondering if this was another quiet outcry for anything to distract Paddy from Eoin. 

‘Would putting my cock in you set you right then? Remind you of the only thing that can satisfy you?’ he asked.

You nodded your head at an attempt of a response to his question as his hand gripped the back of your neck firmly to steady your movements, holding your head face down as your hips and back began to ache at holding your thighs together and arching your back slightly.

The muscles of his back shifted as he completely crowded over you as he returned to his pace.  ‘Just a desperate fuckin’ whore.’ he grunted, ‘No, no, I’m not, I swear–’ you whimpered.  You could tell how much his words were working himself up if anything as he began to ramble against your neck.  Growls and grunts of ‘Aye, oh, you love it don’t you.’ and ‘There’s a girl.’ came tumbling from his parted lips as he reached between the blanket and your body to pinch at your hard nipples in the cold air.  You were in bliss even without him being inside you, just the rhythmic movements of the strong man above blanketing your body and watching him work himself at the thought of you desperate for him was enough to make you squeeze your eyes shut in pleasure.

Paddy soon lost his composure entirely as he sat up on his haunches over you.  He scooped an arm under your knees, shunting you upwards as he and pulled your hips up to access your knickers which had ridden up as he used your thighs. The shine of your skin glistened from the dull blue light filtering through the windows as he marvelled in the sight.  He quickly pulled the thin silk fabric to the side, twisting it inside out as you squirmed at the fabric pulling even more taut around your hips. 

His spare hand had moved along his cock in long pulls in a steady practised rhythm all the while as you tried to squirm against his grip.  You reached your hand backwards to try to grip at his thigh, nails scratching the skin as you moved against the rough blanket below you, trying to get any sense of friction and release of your own.  Paddy, in seeing your desperation let out a low rasp of curses, moving forwards against you to coat the material of your knickers still twisted in his fingers in thick ropes. He released the material with his mess added to your own and it fell back into place between your thighs.

He hunched over you further, trying to control his ragged breaths, ‘You’re going to keep those on just like that…,’ he patted your still aching cunt now with a flat hand.  You jumped as his movement pushed his own hot release against your now cooling wetness.  

‘and you’re going to stand in front of that eejit and not say a word about it.’ he told you. His head fell back as he moved to stand, spent cock still thick hanging between his thighs as he pulled both his hands through his hair darkened lightly by sweat.  You watched as he crossed the room to the kitchen, admiring his strong body in the gloomy light.  He brought a tea towel over which had hung from a low cupboard, kneeling to wipe at your thighs yet leaving the mess beyond the thin fabric above. Returning you watched in disgust as he wiped his hand and still wet cock uncaringly on the towel before returning it to the spot from which it came.

‘It’s still early,’ you breathed as Paddy gathered himself to lie again at your side. ‘Aye, a few more hours of sleep maybe for you.’ You hummed in agreement, uncaring of the cooling mess against your still heated body.

Still coming down from the sight of the man you had missed in his full nakedness despite the depraved act he had just worked out on you, exhaustion eventually took over you again as you tried to slow your mind. The sweat now dewing coldly against your body was quickly wicking into the blanket Paddy draped across you, and your eyes fell shut in satisfaction as sleep took you. 

Paddy began slowly to track his lips against your shoulder once he recognised your breathing pattern allowing him to admit into vulnerability, taking his time to muster the words from deep within he whispering against your skin;

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,