so, because apparently some people have decided that reporting tagged dead dove fics is activism now, i’ve decided to do the funniest possible thing and host a dead dove fic event for the joc fandom.
introducing, very unofficially for now:
the bag is open: a joc dead dove fest 🕊️
this will be a darkfic/dead dove event for jack o’connell characters, with no minimum or maximum word count. fics can be as short, long, nasty, bleak, psychological, violent, messy, or unwell as your little heart desires, as long as everything is properly tagged and warned for. art/graphics will also be accepted, i might turn this into a small digital pdf zine.
the actual interest check will open tomorrow so i can see how many people would want to join before i make the full official post/rules/submission info.
tentative posting date is august 14th.
basic rules will be the obvious ones: all sexual content must involve characters 18+, no ai-generated fic, tag your shit properly, and readers are responsible for curating their own experience. dead dove means dead dove. do not open the bag and then complain about the dove.
anyway. interest check tomorrow. sharpen your knives or whatever.
I need smut with Paddy Mayne. Reader is some kind of reporter or medical stuff in sas and Paddy have eye on her, so when they have private moment in tent, you know fire starts 🔥🔥🔥🌹
You asked nicely, so here it is..
Even in the tent, the cold crept through canvas flaps, but you barely noticed it anymore—you'd grown used to the North African winter, the way it bit after the sun surrendered.
You were packing away the last of your supplies when the flap snapped back.
You didn't need to look up. You knew that silhouette
"Still working, nurse?" Paddy's voice came low, rougher than the wind outside.
"Someone has to patch you lot up when you come stumbling back from whatever madness you've been on," you said, not turning around.
Your hands kept moving, sorting bandages, but your heart had already started hammering against your ribs.
The tent flap fell closed behind him. The sound of it—the finality—made your breath hitch.
You felt him before you saw him.
The heat of him at your back, the smell of sand and gunpowder and sweat that clung to him like cologne.
His hand found your hip, heavy and certain, and he turned you around to face him.
"Paddy—"
"Been watching you," he said, his eyes dark in the dim lamplight. That famous intensity, the same focus he brought to destroying German airfields, was now fixed entirely on you.
"Three months. Watching you move through camp. Watching you touch men's wounds with those hands."
His other hand came up, calloused fingers tracing your jaw.
Rough. Demanding.
You felt the tremor in his touch—not nerves, but restraint. The coiled violence he carried everywhere, now redirected.
"Don't have long," he said, voice dropping to a growl. "Patrol leaves at 0400. But I need to feel something warm. Something alive."
His mouth crashed against yours before you could answer. There was nothing gentle about it—his lips were chapped, his stubble burning your skin, his tongue pushing past your teeth with arrogant certainty.
You gasped into him and he swallowed it, his hands dropping to your waist and hauling you against him.
You felt how hard he already was through the rough fabric of his trousers, pressing insistently against your stomach.
"Turn around," he ordered against your mouth, already spinning you.
His hands were at your belt, yanking it free with practiced efficiency. "Hands on the cot. Now."
You obeyed, bracing against the narrow camp bed, the canvas creaking under your palms.
Behind you, you heard the jangle of his own belt, the whisper of fabric. Then his hands were shoving your trousers down, rough palms gripping your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.
"Been thinking about this," he muttered, and then his fingers were between your legs, probing, testing.
You were already wet—had been since he walked in, if you were honest—and he made a satisfied sound in his throat. "Good girl. Ready for me."
He didn't wait. He didn't tease.
With one brutal thrust, he was inside you, filling you completely, stretching you around him.
You cried out at the sudden intrusion, the burn of it, and he groaned—actually groaned—his forehead dropping to your shoulder.
"Christ," he breathed, then started moving.
There was no rhythm to find, no slow build.
He fucked you like he fought—hard, relentless, efficient.
Each thrust drove you forward against the cot, your knuckles white where you gripped the frame.
The sound of it filled the tent: the slap of skin on skin, his ragged breathing, the creak of protesting canvas.
His hand wrapped in your hair, pulling your head back, arching your neck. "Look at me," he commanded.
You turned your head as much as you could, and his mouth found yours again, sloppy and desperate, his tongue mimicking the pace of his hips.
He was hitting something inside you, some perfect spot that made your vision blur, and you whimpered against his lips.
"That's it," he growled, shifting his angle, driving deeper. "Let me hear you. No one out there but the desert. Give it to me."
You couldn't have stopped the sounds if you'd wanted to.
Each thrust drew a gasp, a moan, your body responding to his brutality with its own desperate need.
His free hand snaked around, finding where you were swollen and sensitive, rubbing rough circles that made your legs shake.
"Close," he warned, his rhythm faltering, becoming erratic.
His grip on your hair tightened, his hips snapping forward with animal urgency. "Come with me. Now."
The command in his voice, the sheer dominance of him, pushed you over.
You clenched around him, your orgasm ripping through you sudden and violent, and he swore—filthy, beautiful words—burying himself to the hilt and holding there.
You felt him pulse inside you, hot and thick, his whole body shuddering against your back as he spent himself.
For a moment, nothing moved.
The tent was silent except for your shared breathing, harsh and slowing.
He stayed inside you, his forehead resting between your shoulder blades, his hands still gripping you like he might float away if he let go.
Then, slowly, he withdrew.
You felt the loss immediately, the emptiness, the ache he'd left behind.
You turned, leaning against the cot for support, and watched him fasten his trousers with steady hands, his expression already closing off, returning to that mask he wore for the world.
But when he looked at you, something flickered. Something almost soft.
"0400," he reminded you, his voice rough.
He reached out, his thumb brushing roughly across your swollen lower lip. Then he was gone, ducking out into the desert night, leaving you alone with the smell of him on your skin and the promise that he'd be back—if he survived.
a/n: for the first time, i'm speechless by something i wrote, this is just pure smut, hot and raw
“Cook’s a very, like, larger-than-life character… Selfish, completely selfish, but in a fun way as well. You can look at Cook and laugh with him and at him, instead of hating him for how selfish and unsympathetic and inconsiderate he is. As long as it’s party time for Cook, then it doesn’t really matter.” - Jack O’Connell
I’m a firm believer that if you write in the joc fandom, whatever character you write best for/is your most popular fic, is a reflection of yourself kinda like one of those personality quizzes LMAO
turnnoffyourmind
kianamaiart
blakekathryn
snowghoul
andulkaphoto
discoholicmusic
pixelskylines
