In The Other Bennet Sister, Dónal Finn's character, Tom Hayward, is in a boat on a lake trying to tell the person he's with that he loves them.
In SAS Rogue Heroes, Dónal Finn's character, Eoin Mcgonigal, is in a boat on a lake trying to tell the person he's with that he loves them.
So … in Young Sherlock, will we get a scene where Dónal Finn's character, James Moriarty, is in a boat on a lake trying to tell the person he's with that he loves them?
Relationship: Paddy Mayne (SAS: Rogue Heroes)/Fem Reader Insert (Past Paddy/Eoin if you squint)
Tags: World War II, Grief/Mourning, Love Letters, Original Character Death(s), Alcohol, Masturbation, There Was Only One Bed, Straight Sex That's About Gay Sex, Past Paddy Mayne/Eoin McGonigal (SAS: Rogue Heroes), Safe Sex, Penis In Vagina Sex, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Hand Jobs, Angst and Hurt/Comfort
Words: 5,702
read on ao3 or below the cut!
After several months of gritted teeth and forced patience, it was the weekend you'd been waiting for at last.
Your fiancé had written to you a month prior informing you of his upcoming leave, and you both intended to make the most of it.
He hadn't sent a letter since, but you knew that when communication was sporadic, it was because the men were hard at work destroying German aeroplanes, and automobiles, and even boats by the dozens—and saving countless lives in the process.
Precisely where he and his boys in the SAS were stationed in the desert at any moment he could not share, but as secretive as they were, they couldn't conceal the manner in which their actions were changing the tide of this war.
When you joined the effort yourself, you assumed your stations in North Africa would mean you'd be seeing plenty of each other. That wasn't the case, but it did afford the occasional opportunity to get away and enjoy each other's company.
As a member of the Auxiliary Territorial Service you hadn't seen action, per se, but you were as close to it as a woman could get during the Second World War, even if, at first, that primarily meant cooking and scrubbing and serving the men returning from the desert in makeshift canteens, and gracefully allowing them to best you at games of darts and snooker in the name of morale
It wasn't at all like what you'd seen in the recruitment pamphlets. In the heat and grime of the desert it would've been pure misery to be dolled up with the glamorous hairdos, lipstick, and false lashes of those ATS models.
In fact, it was typical to work from half 7 in the morning to half 9 at night, seven days a week, enduring the relentless, searing heat of the days and the uncaring frigidity of the nights, all with a permanent grin on. There were days you were convinced you'd never be free of the sand that nestled within each and every crevice of your body and personal belongings.
Lately, though, you'd been trusted with tasks that actually felt like meaningful contributions. You'd taken naturally to the knowledge required for ammunition inspections, and delivering urgent post and much-needed petrol to remote units via Jeep or motorbike was a thrill, even if it coated you in an itchy, extra-fine layer of sand that felt even more impossible to scrub away. It was worth it if it meant you were doing your bit for the boys.
Of course, your determination—and the speed and creativity of your driving—attracted plenty of unwanted male attention while you awaited your next reunion with your beau. Telling them you were taken only made matters worse, but letting them know he was SAS usually settled things.
The SAS boys never came out this way, which was a shame. Joe spoke so fondly of them, and told such remarkable stories. Sometimes you felt as if they were also your friends and compatriots, rather than just his.
And this weekend would be the one to change everything. With this month's weekend pass secured, you'd put away your wool field service cap and heavily starched cream workers dress in exchange for a new satin dress in a striking shade of aubergine. An elegant holiday awaited you in Cairo, not at all far from your usual station in Abbassia.
You'd never wanted so badly for a hotel room, and he’d reserved a stay for you both at the famously pricey Palm Court Hotel. Just imagining it made you a bit lusty.
Yes, you anticipated a hot bath to soak away the penetrating dust, strong walls between yourself and the constant biting of the midges, and finally to luxuriate on a real mattress after all of this time sleeping in an army surplus cot. Most important, though, was your reunion with your doting fiancé. You craved his smile and his wit just as much as his passionate embrace, and two days with him to enjoy the city in late spring were precisely what you needed.
It had been nearly five months since you'd actually laid eyes upon each other. Your chest ached at the mere thought of seeing him again, longing for his company and his touch. He took the greatest pleasure in drawing out your pleasure, and it has been far too long.
And you knew it was unlikely, but perhaps this time he'd properly propose—getting on one knee, offering a gold band. Joe had asked you on a whim, unprepared, the day before he shipped. Of course you'd said yes.
In between the few meetings you could get, you both got very well acquainted with air mail letter cards. Your notes back and forth were always on the small sheets of flimsy grey paper, forcing you to write small when you had lots to say. Joe’s scratchy handwriting could be difficult to read, at times, but you always carried a magnifying glass for just this purpose. Your proximity also meant you could receive messages in just days, skirting the six week transit time it might require for your wartime post to arrive back in Britain.
He could hardly tell you anything in his letters these days, but he was very clear about the time and date to meet him at the Empire Club for a romantic rendezvous.
He didn't say much else, besides how much he missed you and anticipated your time together, filling the page with his silly, sexy code words. He avoided anything explicit, circumnavigating the censor’s overzealous desire to black out or cut out any words.
The codes were always sexual in nature, ridiculous and titillating to you all at once. There were famous ones, like NORWICH ((k)Nickers Off Ready When I Come Home) and BURMA (Be Undressed Ready My Angel), but Joe had invented a few of his own that he liked to pepper in your letters in majascule.
“EGYPT” was “Eating Greedily Your Pussy Thereupon.”
He always did make good on that promise.
“CAIRO” stood for “Coming Abruptly Inside, Rapid Orgasm.”
Joe was selling himself short in this regard, you thought. After all, he always ensured you finished a few times before he even got fully undressed, and then his stamina was something to be admired. Though after a scare, before all of this, you always used protection now.
And finally, “HARRODS” signified “Her Arousing Raiments Remain On During Sex.”
Perhaps it was strange that he enjoyed making love to you still adorned in your beautiful clothes, but you very much liked it, too, so what could the harm be?
Were these phrases the cleverest? By no means. But just reading them still gave you a pleasant tingle between the legs. Without realising, he'd conditioned you to be constantly aroused by the names of your immediate geography (as well as thoughts of luxury shopping).
He was always clever with his letters. They hadn't been blacked out or snipped up by censors yet.
And you did have one explicit letter from him, written to you just before he left for war. You'd practically memorised it at this point.
In this message he promised to marry you as soon as it was over, and to find a way to lick and caress and fuck you senseless at every opportunity he got in the interim. It was perhaps your most valued possession—one you wouldn't dare to ever allow anyone else to see.
The letter was on your mind as you waited for him at the Empire Club. You arrived just before 5, when he was to meet you there, toting a rather large handbag doubling as your overnight bag.
5 came, as you sat at your finely linened table, and then 6, and the fun and dancing and commotion of swinging jazz music all around you quickly shifted from a lively diversion to a cause of misery.
You drank only a single glass of a very delicious Bordeaux, wishing to keep your wits about you, as you fruitlessly peered around the bustling club.
Patience could only do so much. When the clock struck 10, with Joe still nowhere in sight, you decided it was time to retire for the night.
You retreated to the hotel, deflated. The front desk only gave you a little trouble—your name was not technically on the reservation, and apparently the capital was very busy tonight with rooms difficult to come by—eventually giving you the brass key to Joe’s room.
It was luxuriously furnished but not very big. Somehow, they kept the air comfortably cool, but the bed and a chest of drawers with a mirror on top took up most of the living space, and the bathroom was dominated by an enormous tub. Atop the chest were a small box of chocolates, a bottle of red wine, and small cruets of oil and vinegar, as well as salt, pepper, and some kind of dried green herbs, presumably for enjoying with bread.
You should have been sharing this space with Joe, you thought. It was all very, very unfair.
You tried to hold these details in your mind. The more logical part of you stuck only to what you knew for certain. The circumstances simply weren't right tonight. He’d only gotten held up—that was the nature of war. There had been no way to alert you either way.
But the despairing pit in your stomach told you otherwise, even as you tried to ignore it. Telling you he was dead, gone, lost. That he would have found a way to you tonight if that weren't the case.
Again, you shoved the notion away. You refused to mourn until you received real news.
Though, if you were being honest with yourself, part of you had been mourning all along. Anticipating this very thing each night.
By now you were too wrung-out and empty to cry even if you'd wanted to.
And the hollowness was just the half of your frustration. All of this build-up had left you feeling desperately horny. You'd been so looking forward to benefitting from Joe’s pleasurable talents, and then coming fully undone under his weight with him inside you. You hardly had the privacy to look after your needs sharing such close quarters with the other ATS girls.
So fuck it. You tossed your heavy bag to the bed, putting one hand in under your dress, and touched yourself with Joe in your mind's eye. With your free hand, you spread his racy letter across the wooden chest, reading the love and desire in his words and allowing them to wash over you. You pictured his tongue running over your aching clit and how he'd know just when to start sucking it to send you to other worlds.
You let yourself moan aloud as the pleasure built. You needed to feel it all. Let it all out.
It took the sensation of the heat cascading down your face to realise tears were forming in your eyes.
But then, a sound from outside the room. Time seemed to freeze at the jostling of a key in the door’s lock.
Could it really be Joe?
You'd been so close to coming, but that didn't matter in the slightest now if the interruption meant he was here.
First, you needed to make yourself presentable. Like you hadn't been caught in the middle of crying while masturbating.
You wiped your fingers on the outside of your knickers and your eyes with the back of your wrist, shoving Joe's letter into a drawer and shutting it closed as the door opened.
You weren't convinced for even a moment. This wasn't Joe at all.
The man was shorter, fairer, square-jawed and dense with muscle. A stranger in tan SAS uniform.
He froze in the doorway, dropping his kitbag to the carpeted floor with a heavy thunk.
“I was under the impression this room would be unoccupied,” he said, his words strongly accented and lilting, and ending in a rising pitch. Ulster English, you were fairly certain.
“Then you were under a false impression,” you countered.
“Well, I can see that,” he said, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him. “But what, precisely, areyou doing in this room?”
“I'm spending the weekend with my fiancé,” you answered.
“Your fiancé,” he repeated, drawing out the syllables. “Joe Billings.”
“Yes.”
The word emerged as hardly a whisper. Your legs seemed to automatically walk you to the foot of the bed, where you took a careful seat.
As the man cleared his throat, he stepped further into the room and lowered his sand-coloured beret over his heart. You already knew what he would say next, and could no longer look at him.
“It is my painful duty to notify you of the death of your fiancé, Corporal Joseph M. Billings. I and many others share a deep gratitude for a life nobly given in service of your country. I offer you my heartfelt sympathy in your great sorrow.”
The words were rote, passing over you as if they meant nothing, despite the fierce feeling in the soldier’s delivery. They were spoken with such meaning that you felt guilty for the hollow manner in which you received them, unhearing as the watery pulse in your ears drowned out everything else.
Factually, you understood what had come to pass. Joe was dead. You hadn't been informed, because why would you? You weren't yet his wife, and his next-of-kin—his parents—wouldn't have even thought to write to you. They'd never liked you, still holding out hope he'd marry the girl they'd always favoured for him. In fact, you didn't put it past them to try to keep you in the dark for as long as possible.
The shock of the news helped you contain yourself. Every emotion was fighting to get through the door at once, creating a stopper that allowed nothing past.
But most of all, you were concerned with not being allowed to grieve—when the grief would come—in solitude.
“And you're here because…?” you led.
The man let out a mirthless laugh, clicking his tongue.
“I did not intend to intrude, miss. As mentioned, I was led to believe this room would be vacant…”
“As you also mentioned, the room is occupied,” you snapped. “And seeing as I just learned of the loss of my would-be future husband, I can't say I'm much in the mood for company.”
“Right, of course.” He sighed heavily. “It was improper of me to assume. I suppose I’ll just stroll the streets until my meeting with GHQ in the morning. Do what I can to stay out of trouble…”
Right. The vacancy issue. There was a good chance he would not sleep indoors tonight if you cast him out.
Only when you dared to look upon him again did you see how weary he looked. Tired not just in body and mind, but in the soul, in a way that resonated deeply with you now.
“No, wait. Please.” You shook your head. “I apologise for the outburst. There's room for you on the floor, at least.”
It was a shame there wasn't at least a sofa for him to rest upon.
“Outbursts are to be expected,” he said. “No apology required. But I won't have you sacrificing your comfort on this eve, of all eves, on my behalf…”
“No, I insist,” you said.
All at once, the notion of him leaving was beginning to feel like a threat. Just having another soul in the room with you was a balm. That was the power of human connection, however meager and distant.
“In that case,” he shared, “I am perfectly happy to sleep on the floor.”
He retreated back to the entrance, grabbing his kitbag to drag it closer to the open floor space beside the bed.
“But first, will you sit?” you asked him.
He paused a moment, giving you a hard, lingering look, before he nodded and joined you at the bed’s edge.
“How did it happen?” you said.
Perhaps you should have been more specific, but he gathered your meaning without further prompting.
“He was shot,” he answered plainly. “During a raid of an airfield in Heraklion. I'm told it was instantaneous and he did not suffer. Otherwise, the mission was a success.”
Were his words reassuring? You couldn't be certain. They felt meaningless. Unreal. Did it matter whether he had been in pain or not if he was gone now? Did it matter if his sacrifice had led the others to victory if he was dead?
“Joe was a good man,” he went on. “Had his wits about him. He was always reading something, or writing. To you, most likely. I was fond of him.”
So this man knew him. Joe had made an impression, at least. You found yourself smiling for the first time all night, accepting a handkerchief from the stranger beside you.
Oh. He'd noticed your falling tears before you'd even felt their stinging heat glide down your cheeks. You dabbed away at them. It was his gesture of kindness that had made you shed them, rather than the utter hopelessness still awaiting its opportunity to claw away at you from the inside.
And now he was sitting here next to you, you really saw him, not as an intruder, as a messenger of the worst possible news, but as a comrade of Joe’s, who'd seen sides of your fiancé you never would, or would even have liked to.
In his rugged countenance there was that melancholy you noted earlier. His skin was worn, the apples of his cheeks burned and rosy, and his brown hair was sun-bleached in light streaks at his crown. His eyes were a piercing grey-blue. In them you saw so much loss. The death of Joe and a hundred others tearing at his soul.
And here he was attempting to make you feel better, like you even knew what true loss was. He placed a careful hand high on your back, a gesture of reassurance and comfort in your time of need.
It was his touch that opened the dam, forcing you to gulp at the air, hiccuping between sobs as the tears flowed. So much for staying strong.
Before you could help it you were turning to the man, face buried against his chest to weep. Though you felt him flinch, reluctant to accept your onslaught of feeling, he also didn't push you away.
Slowly, he came to embrace you, his barely-there contact against your shoulder loose but strong, and strangely bracing. You hated losing control like this in front of a stranger, but now there was absolutely nothing that could be done to stop your torrential flood of emotion—nothing but give yourself over to it.
And you were surprised by the man’s powerful, wordless solace, especially as he came to cradle your head to his chest with one calloused palm.
“It's all right,” he finally murmured, his lips so close to your ear that the heat of his breath made you shiver. “Weep all you need. Let it flow.”
His face was near enough to your scalp to kiss you atop the head, but he did no such thing. Instead, you merely heard him take a sharp inhale.
“You smell of lavender,” he said.
“It's my soap,” you whispered, realising your gasping had subsided somewhat and you were surprisingly coherent. It was the expensive stuff you sold on ATS commissary duty. Joe's favourite.
“It reminds me of home,” he continued. “Of the people most dear to me.”
Nostalgia had snatched him away to some other place. You didn't mind lending his company a moment. You were glad to help him visit there.
“And you smell of sex,” he added.
So he’d noticed—the unwashed must of yourself still lingering upon your fingertips.
You weren't sure why he’d said it, or if his words were an invitation for what you did next.
But you couldn't resist leaning up to press your lips to his. The contact was brief but electric, his lips carrying the essence of strong drink, and though he immediately pulled back from you, you did not regret kissing him.
“I'm sorry,” he muttered with the shake of his head. “I'm not the right man. I can't.”
“No, I'm the one who should apologise,” you said, though the sentiment was hollow. “It was wrong of me.”
“You’re in shock,” he went on. “Mourning. You must not do something you’ll regret. And believe you me, there's nothing I can do that'll help you forget him.”
At that, you had to laugh. He scowled at you in return.
“Forget him?” you repeated. “You misunderstand. I wanted to pretend. That he wasn't gone. Use you. As a substitute. And I know that's horrid. Selfish. Again, I'm sorry.”
“To pretend?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I…” he started, swallowing hard. “I think I can play pretend.”
He grabbed you hard by the chin before engulfing you in his kiss, sharing the burning taste of potent alcohol only hinted at before. The passionate caress of his lips against yours was rough and needy, reflecting your own growing desire, and you did what you could to meet his fervour.
His hands gripped you places you didn't expect, avoiding your breasts, and hips, and thighs, and instead grasping your shoulders and cupping your ass. You'd never been handled this way before, but you found yourself titillated by his lack of delicacy. It felt so right to be manhandled a bit. Especially now.
Moving in closer, you pressed your hand between the legs of his trousers. He moaned as you grazed him, only the littlest bit hard. You didn't imagine that would be the case for long.
Joe would've had you in your dress, but as the man tugged away his layers of desert clothing, you found it pertinent to do the same, shedding your dress and the corselette and knickers beneath until you were both fully bared.
“What can I call you?” you asked softly.
He seemed to mull it over a minute before answering.
“Blair,” he finally said.
It wasn't a name you recognised. Still, you held on dearly to it.
And you’d come prepared—not for Blair, exactly, but prepared nonetheless—with protection. You didn't have to reach far to collect your bag and retrieve the condom's brown cardboard square. He took it without question or fuss, before leaning back in the bed and clicking the press-switch at its side to cut the lights.
When he returned to you, the room only dimly lit by the glow of outside lights through the curtain, he kissed you once more, gently biting your bottom lip. Then he used his mighty hands to flip you over, facing away from him on your hands and knees. This was new.
And you knew you were meant to be imagining Joe, but you couldn't help but admire Blair’s mirrored reflection even in the low light. His eyes were pressed shut as he stroked himself hard and then carefully rolled the condom over his length. Your cunt twitched at the thought of having him inside you soon.
He didn't say a word as he came up behind you, perhaps committing to the game, knowing your man was as English as they come. No further foreplay was to be had tonight, which was just as well. You were wet and ready for him as it was.
Still, you hardly felt ready when he began easing himself inside of you from behind. You felt almost too tight around his delicious girth, until he was buried fully inside you. No, you wouldn't be able to pretend Blair was Joe at all.
He went slow, at first, guiding himself out and in at a relaxed pace, until your body adjusted to taking him, clenching greedily around him. Then, with his hands gripped on your cheeks for purchase, his thrusts quickened, rough and reckless and absolutely wonderful. You could take it hard and fast, and he showed no signs of slowing down.
He made you want to cry out, to moan his name aloud, but you didn't dare break the illusion with your voice. He wasn't fucking you now. Not in his head.
You suppressed all but the most inevitable groans of pleasure, and couldn't help but watch him shag you eagerly from behind with his eyes closed, his furrowed concentration taking him somewhere else completely as he soundlessly contorted his lips.
He was good at this pretending thing. Even if it wasn't for you, you found that tragically romantic.
Attempting to follow his example, you tried to imagine Joe in his place again. But no. This pleasure was undeniably Blair-shaped, and there was nothing that could be done about it. Guilt was pointless, so you embraced his sensations instead, and the heady thrill of each wet slam of his hips into your body.
This letting go was key. Suddenly his cock was hitting you just right, just where you needed it at just the right speed, and you were coming, shuddering and tightening around him, and utterly failing to keep your joyful music to yourself.
Once the sensation subsided, he stopped, and pulled out. He hadn't finished yet, though, still hard as a rock. He teased the crack of your ass with his sheathed head, slick with your fluids. You sighed when he pressed its swollen tip against your asshole.
“God, I want to…” he started.
“I want you to,” you coaxed him.
You'd never had anything up your ass before. Hadn't ever given it a thought. But suddenly you couldn't think of anything more tantalising.
“It'll hurt you,” he said. “We need more…”
You rose quickly, gathering the small carafe of olive oil from the amenities on the chest.
“Will that do?” you asked, handing it off.
“Aye,” was all he said.
And you loved the thick, wet sound of the oil being roughly applied to his prick, and the tentative touch of his slick fingers as they entered you first, testing and stretching and teasing a dizzy whine out of you.
And then his fingers left you and he poised himself to enter you again. He balanced one hand on your lower back while holding himself with the other, playing with your sensitive hole with the bell of his cock before pushing past the threshold. Just his head entered you, stretching you at the entrance so that the pain mingled beautifully with the ecstasy.
You let out a hot exhale at his sharp, full sensation.
“Is this all right?” Blair dared to whisper.
“Yes,” you said. “Go on.”
And he followed your word, pushing himself in just a bit deeper with each careful movement until you'd taken all of him, so full of him you could hardly stand it, and yet desperate to keep him.
“Still good?” he wondered, the breaths around his words heavy.
“Excellent,” you replied, perhaps too blissfully. Not that it made sense to be embarrassed about anything in this slightly compromising situation.
“I think maybe you should set the pace now,” he suggested, so that's what you did.
You used the weight of your body to dictate precisely how he fucked you, how fast and how hard and from what angle. You were fully in control.
Leaning on one arm, your other hand returned to your throbbing clit, so sensitive now that it was easy to bring yourself to climax again and again, the sensations new and strange and wonderful as you stretched yourself taut on him.
And as this went on, he moved in closer to you, no longer making love to you from behind but arched over you, with his arms stretched to either side and his forehead pressed to your back, occasionally grazing tender kisses to the soft skin there.
You’d lost count of how many times you'd come, panting from the exertion, when Blair finally righted himself again.
“I'm sorry,” he murmured. “I don't think I can finish.”
“It's all right,” you said, though you wished it weren't the case as he pulled out of you entirely, shedding and binning the condom.
Your body was more exhausted than you'd understood, but delightfully so. It was a shame you couldn't help him in the way he'd helped you.
As you turned to face him again, you saw none of the weightless relief you felt yourself after your time together.
“I get it,” you added, hoping to ease his nerves. “I'm not her.”
He hesitated, gulping, before he answered
“You're not.”
“Is there no way I can help you?” you wondered.
“I… I couldn’t ask you that…”
So there was.
“You’ve helped me, Blair,” you said. “Please allow me to return the favour.”
“You'll think me sick.”
“No sicker than I,” you insisted. “Please. Tell me.”
Tell you he did. Though he’d underestimated you. You didn't find what he wanted to be the least bit perverse. It was simply unorthodox. Most of all, he’d entrusted you with this intimate act. That had to count for something.
Enthusiastic, if not somewhat clueless, you allowed his words to guide you. You began by lubricating your middle finger with the oil, and Blair gazed at you and through you at once, his half-lidded expression strained with want. He leaned back for you, knees spread wide, as you kneeled between them, gently massaging the soft skin surrounding his asshole before breaching him, palm up.
He gasped as you gently crept deeper into him, hot, tight, and dry directly at the entrance, and soft and slick deeper in. It didn't take long to find what you were looking for, curving the pad of your finger upward toward his belly. Just as he'd said, it was like a firm ball just inches inside of him, and only the lightest touch made his cock jump and his breath stutter.
“Is that right?” you whispered.
“It is,” he answered, biting his lip. “Fuck, that’s it.”
His hips bucked as you caressed him from the inside in minute circles and he cried out—the most sound you'd gotten out of him so far. Then, with your free hand, you took his dick in your palm, firmly squeezing the head in short, rapid strokes.
Again, he was gone, his eyes shut, long lashes fluttering as he clenched. Blair’s strained breathing soon rounded into a moan and a single repeated syllable.
“Oh, oh, oh…” he muttered and whined, and in moments he was spilling his seed, which spurted white and slick across his smooth chest.
He panted when he was finished, his mouth and eyes now agape as if in surprise, as you moved from him. Blair appeared stunned, stuck in place as you helped him towel off. But soon, he snapped out of his stupor, joining you in the bathroom to clean yourselves of oil and fluids.
Once you were both changed into your pyjamas, he sat on you bed with you again.
“Thank you,” he muttered. “You, er… thanks.”
“Think nothing of it,” you said.
You still felt he was the one who'd done you the favour.
He looked as if he planned to say more, but then choked, unable to speak. Tears fell and his bottom lip quivered, and the moment you opened your arms for him, he fell between them and clung to you.
He said nothing as he wept. Perhaps he wasn't ready to talk. Helping him feel what he needed would have to be enough for you. You allowed it, holding him and whispering reassurances, for as long as he needed.
Oh course, the curiosity killed you. You wanted so badly to ask if those were the kinds of things he'd done with the one he’d lost. But you realised you didn't need to. You felt in each quake and jerk of his body, saw in each overwhelmed expression, that this bygone love had never been properly consummated. That in giving himself to pretence, he'd shared a number of firsts with you.
When he had no tears left to shed, Blair apologised and excused himself. As promised—and to your chagrin—he slept on the floor.
He was gone before you awoke in the morning. On the chest of drawers he left you a letter on hotel stationery in looping, elegant handwriting.
I couldn't leave you without thanking you again for your courtesy and being so amenable to my intrusion last night. I also wish to warn you of those who’ll try to soothe your wounded heart with a reminder that there are plenty of fish in the sea. That will never stop your wanting yourfish. To forget will not grant you strength. It's the remembering that will allow you to summon the will to go on when you don't believe you can. Remembering and time.
Writing this, I recall a poem. It's never been one of great value to me, but I believe it may speak to you.
If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.
-Emily Dickinson
That's to say, you've done well to cool my pain a moment. I thank you dearly for it and hope the courtesy is soon repaid.
Yours sincerely
R.B. Mayne
Your gaze fell and stayed upon the name at the end of the letter. Certainly the man you'd spent such an unusual and indelible evening with wasn't Major Paddy Mayne, about whom Joe had spoken with wonder at every opportunity.
And recalling Joe now brought on fresh tears, the gloom mingling with a sense of uncomfortable acceptance. Yes, he was gone, but that didn't mean the world had ended. There was still so much to it to discover, to experience—and a war still to be won.
You weren't all right now, but you would be. And if you could share even the smallest pockets of joy with those who needed it in the meantime, all of this sorrow would be worth it.
jim almonds really ate when he told paddy "someone has to make you change. be it god, or me, or the ghost of that catholic boy that you left buried in the desert" 😭 he really hit paddy's soft points 😭 what a diva
“Is my sex whimsically inventive?” inquired Tonkin.
“That is what I write on bathroom walls.” Johnny smirked. “‘For a whimsically inventive time, call John Tonkin.’”
“I know you’re joking but I’d be ok with that.”
“Paddy,” Johnny turned to address him. “Can I ask you a question.”
“Of course,” responded the Irishman.
“Are you ever going to sleep with Eoin?”
“That’s awfully personal.”
“We don’t ask Paddy questions like that,” muttered Tonkin.
“You don’t. I do. What’s the deal?”
“Well,” Paddy spoke slowly, as if choosing his words carefully. “Word around camp is I’m giving his sex organs a proper jostling.”
“You guys have been together forever,” snapped Johnny. “He would clearly like to have a physical relationship, soooo, what’re ya’ doing?”
“We’re down the rabbit hole, now,” shrugging his shoulders, Tonkin cocked his head at Paddy. “What ARE you doing?”
“Well, I’m very fond of Eoin.” Paddy admitted.
“Well, what’s the problem?,” asked Johnny.
“All my life, I have been uncomfortable with the sort of physical intimacy that comes easily to others,” explained Paddy. “Handshaking, hugging, prostate exams. But I’m working on it. Just recently, I had to put vapo rub on Eoin’s chest. A year ago, that would’ve been unthinkable.”
“Now you know how I feel when I have to put it on you.” Tonkin hissed at Paddy.
“Ok,” Johnny held up a hand. “So, are you saying someday you and Eoin might…get physical?”
Paddy contemplates for a few moments.
“It’s a possibility,” then he rose, making his way to the fridge.
Johnny silently freaked out in Paddy’s wake, grasping Tonkin’s arm.
“Paddy,” Johnny spoke tentatively, “I know this wasn’t easy for you and I’m really glad we could have this conversation.”
Paddy smiled at him, turning to get ice as Johnny pummeled Tonkin’s arm in surprise and elation.
He fucks nasty. I KNOW he fucks nasty and NO ONE will ever convince me otherwise. He not only fucks nasty but he actually gets the job done and makes sure you're satisfied too. So, that's even better.
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