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𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖀𝖑𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕻𝖔𝖊𝖙 Paddy Mayne x Female ATS Reader

“𝖨𝗇 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗋𝖾𝗍 𝗐𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍, 𝖨𝗇 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖨 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗏𝖾, 𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗒 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗍, 𝖳𝗁𝗒 𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝖾𝗂𝗏𝖾. 𝖨𝖿 𝖨 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝖾, 𝖠𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌, 𝖧𝗈𝗐 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖨 𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝖾? 𝖶𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌.” -𝖫𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝖡𝗒𝗋𝗈𝗇

Summary: Blackmailed into joining the ATS and shipped to Egypt, you try keeping your head down while navigating the commando and encountering a hot headed Ulster poet.

Tags/warnings: 18+ NSFW. Historical fanfic (1941). Rough sex, dom!Paddy, sub!Reader, degradation and praise, knife play, nipple play, spitting, slapping, choking, hair pulling, boot grinding, creampie, multiple orgasms, fingering, oral sex (both receiving), power imbalance, aftercare. Emotional trauma, grief, coercion and blackmail, mentions of vomit, mentions of torture and execution infidelity/cheating, self harm, misogynistic and sexist language, mentions of WW2, mentions of Nazis, mentions of the IRA and other paramilitary groups. Soft angst and kinda fluffy if you squint.

Word count: 9.8k

Author's note: Eek, here I am being a horny bastard plus an annoying history nerd. Hope you all enjoy this... Also feel free to skip all the historical context and go straight to the smut if that's yer thing- it is good and nasty. I added a glossary with terms at the very end of this fic in case needed.

additional note: i am terribly dyslexic and my fingers try to type as quick as my brain can think, so excuse the insane typos all over this. i am slowly trying to get rid of them 🫡 Likes, reblogs and comments are encouraged and well appreciated. As always. Thank you!

Masterlist.

You felt the staff car rattling over the pitted track, as you stared at the young British soldier sitting next to you, holding a Lee-Enfield bolt on action rifle across his chest. A drop of sweat crawled against his sun kissed skin. He did not dare to look at you, or even say a single word while escorting you in the military car.

You sat back against your seat, fidgeting with the fabric of the skirt of your newly appointed khaki ATS uniform. You felt the pencil skirt plastering itself to your nylon thighs and the sweat pooling as a courtesy of the Egyptian spring heat. The wool tunic had already started to darken under the armpits. “Jaysus…” you exhaled as the desert air made its new home in your lungs, pressing your ribs against the fitted uniform coat. You stared down at your chest, focusing on the delicate golden ATS badge on the lapel.

Your gaze then drifted to the orange desert and the camp on the far horizon. You started to feel it coming– the nausea. You were unsure if it was due to motion sickness, or simply the act of standing by and defending the Union Jack, tending to the men in the British Army.

Your mind wandered away, refusing to stay in submission in that car, recalling all the events that led to you this moment. It kept dragging you back to that mouldy interrogation room in East Belfast, barely three months ago.

You remember the major’s polished boots creaking as he walked in circles around your chair. He slapped a blurry black and grey photograph across the table for you to recognise it– You refused to cooperate, you refused to reply in English, you refused to even sit in that room without a solicitor. “They are alive, for now… What are youse now? The IRA, I mean. Nazi sympathisers? You might as well be if... you are taking resources from the British Army. We are at war, we are on the same side here, you know that.”

“Ba mhaith lion dlíodóir*.” You replied, staring at the photography and the documents planted in front of you. You stared at the grey dead eyes of your father, your eyesight became blurry and glassy. You could not stand the thought of him or your husband getting hurt for leading the noble cause of a free nation. You could not stare at the thought of them being wrongfully called Nazi sympathisers when your country as a whole had decided to choose neutrality during the Great War. (* “I would like a lawyer” as gaeilge. )

“I can offer you a deal then, joining the Auxiliary Territorial Services in the North Africa campaign,” he said, “or we try you in London as a male terrorist sympathiser. Look at your curriculum, Cumann na mBan member. Wife of one IRA volunteer, daughter of another. Plenty of evidence, plenty of witnesses. Your choice, you terrorist scum.”

Days later you had received a letter from a familiar name, E. McGonigal. A distant family member on your late mother’s side. You had met Eoin for the first time a couple of years ago, when you were merely an eager 20-year old campaigning across Dublin universities to raise funds for the Irish Republican Army. He was a law student in Trinity College at the time, who later joined the Royal Ulster Rifles. Through his older brother, he had heard the news of a young Cumann na mBan volunteer potentially getting sent to London and tried as a male terrorist.

“Join the ATS. If you go to London, they will offer you the noose or the chair.” The letter read.

You did choose North Africa, not only because of Eoin’s advice, not because you cared about King George or Britain. You chose it because off the record, you had been told that both your father and husband were being held in a civilian holding camp instead of the Crumlin Road– they had no intentions to send them to England on the next transport list. Winston Churchill probably had larger problems like the Nazis, and could not care much about a pair of Irish rebels in Belfast. Maybe your service will grant them a better treatment, or a potential release.

As you approached the campsite, the driver, a Manchester native, started to talk to the soldier next to you about the price of cigarettes in Cairo. Your eyes were still set on the horizon, analysing the rows of sagging canvas tents. The smell of petrol suddenly seeped through your nostrils. “Stop the car,” you demanded and the driver scoffed at your request, “Stop it or I’m getting sick all over youse.”

Just on time you managed to jump off the vehicle, curling into your stomach and bending your knees, letting the bile burn up your esophagus as the liquid spewed out of your mouth. You stared at the vomit on the sand for a second while you held your chest, you felt Eoin’s letter folded inside your brassiere. You kicked the sand around the vomit, trying to cover it up as courtesy before jumping back into the car.

“Fuck sake,” the young soldier next to you rolled his eyes “Thank fuck women are not allowed to actually fight. Useless.”

“I could very much rip that Lee-Einfield from your chest and shoot you between your brows right now. I would fuck up if I was you, sir.” you replied as you set yourself back into the seat and the car ride resumed.

“Fucking terrorist whore.”

The following ten minutes went by eternally in quietness and stillness. Your mind had nothing else to focus on but trying to convince itself that this all was for an unknown greater good. Sure, if your father and husband got granted forgiveness thanks to you, they will eventually be able to get back into leading the Irish Republican forces up north, right? Foolproof plan with greater long term positive results.

The car stopped its tracks outside a cluster of administration tents, where a bored-looking sergeant holding a slipboard and a sweat-stained cap barely looked over at you.

“Name, you?” He asked. You gave it and he twitched his eyebrows as he wrote it down.

“Another Fenian? Additional driver and cook, attached to 11 Commando support,” he read back at you.

“I was told I was going to do technical and operational roles, I was expecting to be an ack-ack girl, or an ammo inspector, not a chauffeur and feeder..” You interrupted him.

“As I was saying, driver and cook, attached to 11 Commando…”

“With all due respect, sir,” you interrupted again, “if I wanted to baby grown men, I would’ve married a Protestant. I joined a paramilitary group because I am well aware of my war capabilities…”

“Billet’s in the women’s lines, tent twenty three. Latrines are behind the cookhouse. Do not wander around on your own after dark unless you fancy a bullet from a jumpy sentry in those perky tits of yours.” He spoke. You bit your lower lip, keeping yourself from talking back or even smacking him across the face.

He stamped your billet chit and handed it over without even looking at you. You shouldered your kitbag, and with it, everything you owned in the world, and walked between tents while the setting sun hammered the top of your khaki hat. You felt men glancing at you, some nodded, most did not. You kept your chin up, eyes forwards, the same way that you had learnt to stand and walk when the British Army marched through your street growing up.

The first night in the camp had been worse than your time under arrest in Northern Ireland. Tent twenty three was at the edge of the ATS compound, you shared a tent with two other women: Dot, a skinny Londoner radar technician, who chain-smoked and never shut up about her pilot sweetheart in the RAF, and Gwen, a quiet woman from Bristol. They both had immediately registered the northern accent as soon as you introduced yourself by name, and without a word, they both shared glances, deciding that you were trouble they did not need.

You had claimed the empty cot, furthest from the entrance. It had a broken leg and it was propped up on an empty ammo box. The blanket stank like old sweat. Outside, the desert air cooled down fast once the sun dropped. You laid in the quietness of the tent as the camp outside settled. A gramophone somewhere in the distance was playing “We’ll Meet Again” by Vera Lynn. “We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when, but I know we’ll meet again some sunny day,” you sang in broken whispers to yourself and a stoic glance, staring stolidly at the gold wedding band on your left ring finger.

“Will you shut it there, new girl?” Dot shouted from across the tent.

You heard the laughs of men in the distance, loud and careless. It filled you with rage to think about what you were being coerced into doing. You felt like nothing but a traitor to your own freedom cause. Sleep came in snatches. The memories of your father shouting revolution slogans from the back of a lorry, driving across the city. Memories of your husband’s hand on the small of your back, guiding you through a safe house’s hallway and into at the back room, where a half dead man was lying on the floor around a puddle of blood, asking you to please stitch him up. You woke up sweating, with your fist clenching around nothing and your heart hammering, trying to escape your ribcage.

By 5:30 in the morning you were up, splashed lukewarm water on your face from the latrine bucket and reported to the store's corporal as ordered. He barely looked at you. “Can you drive a 15 cwt? Ammo run to 11 Commando. Don’t try anything funny, we will know.”

You suddenly found yourself staring at your white knuckles on the steering wheel, the engine coughing sand and the crates filled .303 and grenades rattling in the back of the truck. The track was a little bumpier than expected. The early sun was already vicious, burning your skin through the dusty windshield. You felt the sweat pooling down the back of your neck and soaking the collar of your shirt.

Then you saw him and you could not believe your eyes. You thought you might have been hallucinating under the sun. He was standing between two rows of bivvies, a map case under his armpit. Lieutenant Eoin McGonigal. He looked thinner, tanner and his hair looked certainly lighter against the sun. As his eyes flickered towards the truck and his gaze landed on you behind the steering wheel, he stopped on his tracks.

He changed direction quickly, his boots started to kick sand as he approached you. You killed the truck’s engine, jumping off and opening the back to allow the men to unload the ammo. Eoin yanked his slouch hat off and ran a hand through his sweaty hair.

“Weeping Christ!” he said in disbelief. “You are actually here!”

He opened up his arms before wrapping them around your cotton uniform. You grabbed him by the shoulders, stepping back. “Didn’t have many options, I’m afraid.”

He let out a short, stunned laugh. “I wrote that while half-drunk in The Empire- Jaysus… Look at you now,” his gaze moved over the ATS badge pinned to your uniform. “I figured you’d be stuck in Cairo pushing papers, not driving ammo straight into the lion’s den.”

You shrugged, leaning back against the heavy door of the truck, feeling your boots heels sink into the sand. “Well, I can drive. Turns out I can also cook and keep me mouth shut when it suits me. Mostly.” You chuckled, avoiding eye contact.

Eoin’s eyebrows twitched, his smile faded slightly. “Mostly… That is the part that worries me, you see?” He glanced over his shoulder, checking for any nearby shadows, and stepping closer to you. “Listen, this camp is full of hard men. Proper hard. They have been out here in the desert for a year now. They don’t ask why a catholic girl is suddenly here wearing khaki, but they will notice. Just keep your head down. They don’t ask politics, so you don’t talk politics.”

“I’ve been keeping me head down since the raids three months ago, Eoin. I’m grand at it.”

“Any word from your father and the husband?” He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck.

You looked down, fidgeting with your wedding band.

“Last I was told they are at a civilian camp, not Crumlin Road. That’s about it. I’m hoping that me being here is buying them better food rations, less beatings, I don’t know.”

“I’ll make enquiries. I’ve got a mate in the Provost staff. If they are still in Northern Ireland, I’ll find out.” Eoin’s face tightened as he reached out to squeeze your shoulder.

“I didn’t come for favours, Eoin. I’m here because I’m more useful for the cause with the fucking Brits than dead.”

He stared at your face, nodding.

“You know, I got a friend you should meet here. Paddy Mayne, short sturdy Ulster fella. He’s a Prod, but drinks like a Catholic. My best mate in this hellhole, but I’m not sure he’d love to be around some IRA lass. Just be on his good side as well and stick by us, alright.”

You heard a man patting the back of your now empty truck, signalling it was time for you to leave. You turned yourself to open the door of the truck before jumping back up. “I’m not some wee flower, Eoin. But thank you for the advice.” You smiled.

“Slán, mó chara.*” He said as he closed the door behind you, before sending you off. ( *“Bye, my friend” as gaeilge. )

You felt the weight of the 15 cwt shift under you as the engine idled roughly outside the 11 Commando camp lines, the early afternoon sun beating down on your forehead. You noticed how the sand and dust really clung to everything; the khaki collar of your uniform, the rim of your hat, the creases of your pencil skirt, the nylons under the skirt. Your sweaty palms were now stuck to the steering wheel. Eoin had flagged you down barely fifteen minutes before with a scribbled order to do a supply run to Cairo. You were to pick him up at the bivvie cluster by the water point. He did not tell you who the second man was, only that it was “someone you should meet.” You were half expecting another unpleasant sergeant or some fresh faced subaltern that would spend the entire drive staring at your legs.

The truck’s canvas flapped as you stopped the engine. Eoin was awaiting there, next to him, a broader man, barely shorter than him, his white vest was covered in dirt and his overshirt’s sleeves were rolled high over his muscly forearms. You locked eyes with his pale blue eyes. That must be Paddy Mayne.

Both men climbed on the truck, Eoin next to you and Paddy on the back.

“Dead on time,” Eoin spoke first “Paddy this is–”

“Fuck me sideways! If it isn’t that IRA wee girl that wears the tan uniform.” He laughed with a gravel. He did not sound surprised nor angry at the facts. Heat rushed up your neck and cheeks.

You shot a glare at Eoin, your eyes widened in accusation. He silently mouthed “I said nothing.”

“You’re a celebrity around here, girl,” Paddy spoke as he leaned one elbow on Eoin’s seat, coming closer to the both of you. “Not to profile a fellow Northie, but I reckon it had to be you and not the wee Londoner. Belfast, are you?”

Your jaw tightened as you tried to keep your voice steady in the same clipped tone that most people seemed to speak around here.

“Aye, wild West Belfast,” you joked as you wiped the sweat off your palms against your skirt, leaving faint streaks of dampness and sand across the fabric.

“Newtownards myself. About 10 miles east of Belfast,” he leaned back, settling himself among the empty crates of ammunition. “We are neighbours then. Small world in this bloody desert, aye?”

You twisted the key and the engine coughed back to life, rattling the entire space. Eoin fished a crumpled packet of cigarettes out of his breast pocket, tapped one out and passed it your way without asking anything beforehand. You heard the sand spraying from the tires as the truck pulled away from the camp. You took the cigarette and placed it between your lips. He lit up yours first with a match struck on his thumbnail, and then he lit up his own.

“You IRA fuckers did some mad shite back home. The RIC barracks, I was a wee child when that happened, my da was around for that one, so I remember it very well.” He spoke out casually, almost letting out a laugh.

Your hands flexed on the wheel, you held it tightly as you steered it.

“I am not really an IRA volunteer myself, Paddy,” you clarified. “My father and husband are, or were. I don’t even know anymore.” Your voice cracked just a fraction at that last bit.

You felt Eoin’s gaze on the side of your face, with regret. You saw him on the corner of your eye. He looked sorry, truly sorry, like he wished he could reach into wherever they were being held and drag them out himself. You met his eyes for a second.

Paddy let out a low whistle.

“So you’re a married lady already, missus? Lucky bastard, whoever that is.” He teased you, being curious at the same time. You lifted your left hand from the wheel just long enough to wiggle your fingers, letting the thin gold band glisten with a caught ray of sunlight.

Reality was, you were not even married for that long before your husband was arrested. You mainly did it fearing that he was going to get killed either in action, or executed in prison by the British Army.

“Listen,” Paddy went on, “I hate the bloody English when they are playing the bastard as much as the next man.”

Eoin cut in fast. “Now you listen mate, you don’t need to give any explanations. For her sake, I don’t believe it’s a good idea to discuss these topics out here.”

The cigarette between your fingers burned down faster than it should have. You took one long drag.

“And why’s that, huh, Eoin?” you asked, letting the smoke out against the desert wind whipping through the window. You glanced sideways at him as he leaned over, taking a drag of his own cigarette.

“You know why.”

“No, Eoin, I actually don’t.” Your voice rose and the truck swerved a fraction before you yanked it back. “You fucking traitor. Brit lover.” You insulted him. You did not regret it, not really. It actually felt pretty good to let the rage out on someone for the time being, unfortunately it had to be Eoin this time.

Your chest heaved under the uniform, the sweat pearling between your breasts. You could feel Paddy staring at the pair of you from the back in silence.

The silence stretched for a long mile, except for the engine’s growl and the endless crunch of the tires on the sand.

“You still believe in the Republic, then?”

You did not hesitate. “Well, if I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here right now, Paddy.” Your eyes stung. Tears were threatening to run down your face. You did not even know this man. In reality, you barely even knew Eoin.

Paddy leaned forward between the seats, close enough that you finally caught a scent of him. His arm barely brushed your shoulder, sending jolts down your spine. “Fair play. It takes balls.”

Eoin muttered something under his breath that you barely heard.

The truck lurched to a stop in the same dusty spot where you had picked them up earlier. The sun had dropped lower and the tents threw long shadow shapes across the sand. Eoin got off first, thanking you out loud. You gave him a quick nod, before mouthing a small “‘m sorry” at him.

Paddy stayed a second longer on the back. He looked at you properly for the first time, now under the setting sunlight. You almost smiled at him despite yourself. He reached into the pocket of his filthy trousers, pulling out a small folding knife. He flipped it out once, caught it, and held it out to you, handle first.

“Take this.”

“I got a rifle in the back if I need–”

“Take the fucking knife, love,” he cut in, licking his lips and pressing them closed ad you grabbed it. “Some lads around here got the wrong idea about what the ATS is for. They just see a woman in a pencil skirt dishing out meals and think you are here for the other kind of relief. You know what I mean. If I was your husband, I would hate the idea of–”

You know what he meant. You had heard the same repetitive jokes from the sergeant back at the stores, you had seen the way certain eyes lingered around your legs when you walked between the tents at dusk.

“If any of them tries it on… use it.” Paddy’s mouth twisted as he opened the door and hoped off.

“Cheers,” You muttered, sliding the knife deep into the pocket of your skirt.

Eoin was already walking ahead as you stared at the pair. Eoin turned back to shoot you a smile and a salute, Paddy did not. You twisted the key once more and drove off. You did not need to look in the mirror to know that Paddy had turned around this time to look back.

You stood over the big aluminium pot, boiling over an open flame. You had to use both hands to move the wooden spoon around in slow stubborn circles, stirring the thick stew. Steam rose to the surface and out on the air, carrying the heavy smell of cooked meat and whatever species you had scrapped together from the latest shipment. You could feel the sweat collecting under your breasts and over your eyebrows as you stood over the boiling food and under the ruthless Cairo sun, even if you were being half covered by the cook-tent awning.

You let out a heavy sigh as two soldiers dressed in dirty uniforms stepped into a queue in front of you. You grabbed some pieces of meat and spooned the stew into their tin plates. They both were deeply engaged in a conversation about rugby scores, not even acknowledging your presence, and once they got their food, they continued to talk and walk away without so much as a glance.

“You’re welcome,” you called out loud after them, getting not one reaction from their part. “Pricks.” You whispered to yourself.

You wiped your forehead with the back of your wrist as you lost yourself in the bubbly thick stew.

A pair of boots took you out of your head as they cinched on the gravel behind you. You knew those steps very well as they approached.

“Eoin.” You greeted him without lifting your gaze.

He stopped by the edge of the stove. He was wearing a dirty vest top, covered in grease smudges and sweat stains. “It smells decent for once.” He spoke.

You managed to lift your head up, gifting him a half smile. “Any news?” You abruptly asked without much care of who around you could’ve heard that. “Said you’d ask.”

Eoin looked around him and over his shoulder. It wouldn’t look good for him as an Irishman if they knew he was going around everyone’s backs and asking about two almost-convicted IRA members’ status. He remained quiet for a long second before taking a deep breath.

“Not good news, I’m afraid.”

You felt your stomach dropping like a stone down a well. The heat suddenly felt distant as cold rushed through your veins. Your head felt light and your hand tightened the grip around the wooden spoon. You kept stirring the spoon because if you stopped, that meant you’d have to face Eoin. Look him straight into his eyes and listen to what he had to say. And if you did that, you might as well just fall apart.

“They have paused the High Court cases at the moment,” he went on. “Everything’s backlogged until the Nazis are sorted. But once they reopen, I can’t really do much if they get formally charged as terrorists. The evidence is there… you know that.”

You dropped the spoon. Letting it hit the edges of the pot and your hands trembled. You closed your eyes and tried to focus on your breathing. The only thing behind your pressed eyes was your father’s face, your husband’s eyes. The idea of both of them rotting somewhere, getting consumed by time before being officially executed, while you stood there, feeding the exact same system that was doing this to them. Your knees threatened to fold. You wanted to sit down right on the dirt, press your hands against your face and scream until the desert sand swallowed your body whole.

Eoin stepped in closer, his arms hovering around your frame.

You shook your head at him once you noticed his concerned expression. “Sorry. I’m grand.” You lied. You forced your spine straight up. “I can’t look weak out here, Eoin, not in front of all these men.” Your voice cracked.

You hated it. You hated how small this circumstance had made you feel. You hated how the uniform suddenly felt like a costume that was two sizes too tight, how it felt like it was a trap to break your ribcage and kill you on the spot. You hated how most men around you constantly made you feel like a piece of shite. And you hated knowing that even if you took it like a good girl, it would all be worth nothing.

You stared at the stew once more, holding yourself still against the stove, letting the heat of the open flame dance around your fingers. You could not care less if it burned the skin. You felt the tears blazing your eyes and over the corner of your sight, you noticed how Eoin was nervously standing in silence. Visibly thinking of what to say next to at least attempt to comfort you.

“I’m okay, really.” You insisted before he could even open his mouth. You mostly said it out loud as a way to convince your body not to collapse in front of half the camp and prove every of those fuckers in khaki that a woman in uniform is useless, even as a feeder.

Eoin stared at you for longer in silence before clearing up his throat. “The food smells proper. Better than whatever slop they were serving us over the last month.”

“I don’t even know what kind of mystery meat this is.” You laughed a watery chuckle.

Eoin leaned in, peering into the aluminum pot. A grin slowly appeared across his lips before looking at you. “That’d be gazelle. Paddy shot it himself and dragged the carcass back to the camp on his own.”

You paused for a second.

“Haven’t seen him in days,” you muttered casually, “do you know where he is?”

“Not since yesterday, no. He probably got himself in trouble, but he’ll be grand. He always is.”

Just then a familiar gravel voice cut across the sand from the far side.

“Hey, sweetheart! Serve us a plate of whatever that is, will ya?” You looked up and saw Paddy striding over towards the pair of you.

“Speak of the devil,” Eoin grinned and followed over as Paddy sat down on the shaded bench nearby.

“-detained by the fucking Redcaps overnight. Managed to only get a week’s pay fine.” Paddy was telling the story of his overnight detention with the Military Police, almost bragging about it with a smile across his sunburnt face, and how he managed to escape the noose.

“So you got arrested?” You chimed in the conversation as you set the first plate down in front of Eoin, and the second one in front of Paddy.

Paddy looked up at you, grabbing your hand as the metal of the plate clinked on the rough wood of the table. His calloused hands rubbing your palm.

“Detained and arrested are not the same thing, darling. You personally should know that very well.” He grinned as he noticed that blush started to crawl up your neck and cheeks.

You scoffed, turning your back at him and noted as two more soldiers had wandered over and queued around the stove for their own portions.

“They fed me better food in Ghadzi last night, I’ll tell you that much!” Paddy’s voice rose behind you, loud enough for half the cook-tent to hear.

“You know what, Lieutenant Mayne?” You replied "The MP might not have hanged you. But I will do it, and then I’ll pour the stew up your hole.” You didn’t even think, the words flew out of your mouth before you could stop them.

The cluster of men now gathering around the stove bursted out in a chorus of awkwardly loud laughs. Even Eoin had snorted into his plate as he slurped the stew out.

Paddy’s laugh joined the mass, sarcastic and short. You heard the scrape of the metal as he slammed his steel plate against the table, hard enough to make Eoin jump on the bench.

“Right,” he said suddenly with a serious voice. “You and I need a word, missus.”

“Ah, here, Paddy,” Eoin said, straightening up. “That’s unnecessary, she was just—“

But Paddy was already up and making moves. His hand closed around the sleeve on your wrist firmly, pulling you behind him before Eoin could even finish the sentence or any of the other recruits could say anything at all. You allowed him to do so. Using your free hand, you reached out into the pocket of your khaki skirt, fishing for the knife he himself had gifted you days prior.

“Don’t you dare.” He spoke, knowing your intentions and you decided to ignore his command.

He didn’t stop dragging you until you were behind the supply tent and out of sight. The canvas wall reflected the sun and beamed the heat against your skin. Paddy let go of your sleeve and stepped back half a pace.

You held the knife open, pointed at him. Your hand was sturdy and he seemed surprised, as he was expecting to see you tremble. He used his hands to swiftly cage your wrist and make you drop the knife. He saw your eyes following the knife on the sand.

“Leave it.” He spoke out. “What the fuck was that about?”

“You told me to use it.” You replied.

“Not the knife, love. Whatever the fuck was that back there. You got a problem with me? Fucking say it.”

“You are the one that came in shouting and joking like everything’s a fucking laugh after I’ve spent all morning serving men who won’t even look at me. You think this bullshit’s easy for me?” You stared at him, frowning up your eyebrows.

“Aye and I was fucking detained all night, love.” Paddy exhaled through his nose. “It was no bleeding fun either.”

You meant to snap something back. You knew the real reason for your annoyed and volatile reactions was the terrible piece of news that Eoin had dropped on you only a few minutes earlier. You wanted to say it, but the words got caged on your ribs. Your lips started to tremble and your frown crumpled. Suddenly, the tears came in hot and unstoppable. They ran down your cheeks before you could wipe them away, leaving wet streaks across your dry face.

Paddy’s face changed instantly. The cocky grin vanished in a second.

“Hey. Jaysus. What?”

You couldn’t help it or stop it.

“I’m very sorry, Lieutenant Mayne,” you choked out. “I’m very fucking sorry.” Your hands travelled up to your face in a failed attempt to cover it. “I’m so sorry to everyone in here. I should, I should just write a letter back home and ask them to send me back and trial me at the same time as my father and— I’m just—"

Your shoulders shook, they felt heavy, like you were carrying a thousand pound uniform on your body. You were exhausted already, every day you had to bite your tongue it felt like another nail in the coffin to the only cause you had ever believed in. You felt like you couldn’t breathe.

Paddy stepped in closer without saying anything. His arms shakily came around your frame. Carefully, he placed one hand on the back of your neck and the other one between your shoulder blades. He didn’t shush you. He didn’t even tell you that everything was going to be alright. He just held you as you cried your eyes out against the dirt on his shirt. His thumb moved slightly tracing smooth circles over your spine.

After a long minute he bent his head, placing his mouth closer to your ear. You could feel his breathing brushing your tied up hair.

“I think Eoin really likes having you here.” He said.

You stayed pressed against him. Your breathing started to slowly steady down. You pulled back from the embrace just far enough to look him in the eye. Without a second though, your hands reached out to find his cheeks, your finger tips traced the sun kissed skin under his stubble and you pulled him in for a quick kiss. That felt like the first honest thing you had done in weeks.

You stepped back, wiping off your face with the heel of your hand, smearing the tears and dust across your cheek. Your hat had slipped and you reached up to straighten it. Paddy stood there, arms half raised where they had been holding you, eyes wide open and stunned.

You didn’t say anything else, neither did he. You turned back, bending over to reach out for your knife on the sand, folding it and storing it back inside your skirt’s pocket. You kept walking because that felt like the only thing you knew how to do right.

You sat quietly in the driver seat, staring at the bonfire crackling in the open space in the campsite in front of you. Awkwardly, you shifted on your seat as you pulled your uniform blouse that had clung to the damp hollow between your shoulders on the valley of your back. The faint glow of the camp lights shimmered in the horizon giving the illusion of a false dawn.

Eoin sat beside you in the passenger seat, balancing a now empty box of cigarettes on his kneecap. He did not say much on that ride, the silence felt heavier than the ammo crates you had hauled earlier on that very same truck.

He cleared his throat with a small cough, getting your attention from the orange flames licking at the sky, from the sparks rising and dying like tiny stars in the cruel desert sky.

“Listen,” Eoin shifted to look at you. “I got a letter today. It came from my brother in London. He’s attached to the High Court staff now.”

Your stomach tightened as you expected the worse.

“There have been protests outside the courthouse, there will be a new one tomorrow. Big one. Backbenchers and the general public are not happy, and they are demanding that the IRA lads still in holding are tried as Nazi sympathisers as soon as possible. Full treason charges. Saying that interference with the war effort is the same as siding with Hitler.” He paused as you scoffed, smiling at the unbelievable claims he was dropping on you. “They are taking resources from the British Army while we are fighting the real enemy. Ambrose, my brother… he reckons the court will not be gentle.”

Your eyesight fell on your finger, staring at the gold wedding ring in silence. You bit your lower lip with such a strength you feared you’d break the skin and burst it yourself. Your jaw clenched, the pressure tightened around your molars, you thought you were going to shatter a tooth. The skin above your brows started to suddenly itch. But no tears this time.

“Hey, I’m sorry… I know it’s not–” Eoin reached over to you. His finger brushing gently over your forearm.

“Don’t fucking touch me.” Your arm jerked away from his touch so fast the truck rocked on its springs. The heat invaded then your face, a mixture of anger and grief mixing together until you could not tell them apart any longer.

Eoin pulled back immediately, holding his palm open in the air, as if he was showing a spooked animal that he had no intentions of harming it.

“I’m sorry.” You whispered softly. “This is not your fault.”

“There is something else. You might want to give your farewells and good wishes to Paddy. They are deploying him to Burma in the next couple of weeks or so,” Eoin exhaled through his mouth, rubbing the bridge of his nose and his eyes. You could tell that he was not very happy giving out those news out loud. Saying it made it feel more real.

Eoin opened the door on his side before jumping down the truck into the gravel. “Good night, love. Try and get some rest.”

He shut the door with a solid thunk and you watched him walk away. You could tell he was absolutely knackered even if his face will try to not show it. He kept walking until the darkness between the tents swallowed him.

You stayed there, motionless for a second before lifting your right hand and brought it at full force across your own cheek. The crack of skin on skin was oddly satisfying. You did it again, harder each time. You felt like you deserved it. You blew the heel of your hand into the side of your head, once, twice, three times, each hit landing with a dull thud that rattled through your skull and teeth.

Not one tear came out.

You twisted the rear view mirror towards you. In the dark reflection you saw your face, red cheeks and dark eyes. You pinched your now-messy hair pin back into place, smoothing the stray hairs– consequence of your small rage fit. You pressed your lips together into a thin line and forced out a tight smile. You held the stare, locking onto your own eyes as if you were daring your own self to flinch.

The smile stayed for a second before your hand flew again across your face. Even harder this time. The flat of your palm hit the same cheek so violently your head snapped sideways. The pain shook through your jaw, deep into your teeth and set your ear ringing.

Only then you turned your head towards the open passenger window. Paddy stood ten yards off with a half lit cigarette. It was glowing between his fingers as he was watching you. He was watching this whole time. His stern face gave nothing away. He raised the cigarette back to his lips, letting the smoke float deliberately out of his lips before dropping it to the sand and standing on it with a twist of his boot.

He turned away.

You shoved the door open and jumped down. You started after him, your skirt catching for a second on the truck step, holding you back for a second. He had already moved fast in the maze of tents. You chase after him

You slipped through the canvas flap without announcing your entry into the tent where you had seen Paddy duck inside a minute earlier. He was alone, stretched out on his narrow cot in nothing but his khaki drill trousers and a threadbare white vest. One arm tucked behind his head and the other one holding up a small book close to the lantern’s yellow light. His eyes never left the page in front of him.

“You know, usually ATS are not allowed in our tents at this time,” he said in a low voice without looking up, “and I certainly would have expected you had the courtesy of asking for permission before entering.”

You ignored his words as you walked up to him. Your fingers closed around the book and before he could react you plucked it from his grip. You read the first verse in the page aloud:

“When you are old and grey and full of sleep, and nodding by the fire, take down this book, and slowly read, and dream of the soft look. Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;”

Paddy’s gaze snapped up to you then. He stared at your features as he sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the cot until his booted feet fell planted on the ground. The mattress frame creaked under his weight shift. His arms reached out, taking the book back from you with a surprising gentleness. He placed the closed pages on the mattress beside him and continued to recite the poem from memory:

“How many loved your moments of glad grace, and loved your beauty with love false or true, but one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, and loved the sorrows of your changing face;”

You walked up, stepping directly in front of him.

“I never took you for a poet,” you said.

He looked up at you from his seated position. He smiled at you.

“You don’t know me very well at all, I’m afraid, missus.”

His hands moved then, slowly creeping and sliding up the backs of your thighs. His palms pressed flat against your body, you could feel them burning through the fabric of your uniform skirt and the sheer nylon stockings beneath. Only two layers separating his skin from yours. His touch became firm and possessive and his thumbs traced small circles just beneath the curve of your ass. A shiver rolled straight down your spine and made its way to your stomach, pooling with heath under your belly. A warm ache made its home between your thighs as you involuntarily clenched them together. Your breathing deepened and with that you felt your uniform growing tighter across your chest, your nipples rising against the cotton of your brassiere until the friction was unbearable.

He kept his eyes on yours before murmuring:

“And bending down beside the glowing bars, murmur, a little sadly, how love fled. And paced upon the mountains overhead. And hid his face amid a crowd of stars… W. B. Yeats.”

Your throat suddenly fell dry and your hands moved on their own accord, settling over his broad bare shoulders. The muscle felt warm and solid under your hands. You could feel the uneven rise and fall of his breathing.

“Is there anyone waiting for you back in Ireland?” you asked on the low.

“Aye,” he replied as he started to caress you through the length of the back of your legs, pressing only hard enough to feel the nylon sliding against your sweaty skin. “ My ma and da.”

You felt twisted inside, guilty and longing, knowing that your husband was rotting somewhere up north, soon to face the death penalty because of the choices you had both made for your nation. Yet you stood here now, allowing another man’s hands to map the shape of your legs like he had every right. Your core throbbed and the warm wetness gathering in your panties made you shift around.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving for Burma, Lieutenant Mayne?”

His thumbs stopped with the caressing and then Paddy stood up in one smooth motion, rising until he barely towered over you, he was close enough that you had to slightly tilt your head to meet his eyes. You could feel the heat rolling off his chest. His breath travelled across your lips and you could almost taste the cigarette he had been smoking moments earlier.

“Why did you need to know that?” he asked as he stepped even closer still, crowding you.

You felt the ghost touch of his hands travelling across your thighs. Your breathing was ragged. A flush crept up your neck and burnt your cheeks. You were wet, embarrassingly so, the nylon on your stockings was now growing damp where they met the apex of your legs.

“You shouldn’t have followed me here,” he stated, “I think it’s best if you leave.”

You shook your head repeatedly in a frantic motion, now tears started to prick on the corner of your eyes.

“No.”

His hands moved gently, cupping the sides of your neck and his thumbs rested along the line of your jaw, stopping you from shaking your head. His hands felt warm and rough.

“No, what?” he asked.

“No, Lieutenant Mayne.” You replied.

“No, what?” he asked once again.

Your lips parted trembling.

“No, sir.”

Paddy pushed your chin up with his thumbs, forcing you to pull your head back slightly as you looked up at him. He analysed the curvature of your rosy lips for a second before taking a deep breath, inhaling you. He broke the silence by suddenly spitting across your face. You wanted to reach out and clean your face with the back of your hand but were too stunned to do so. That was when he crashed his mouth against yours, it was no gentle poet’s kiss. His tongue immediately pushed through your lips into the depth of your mouth. You moaned against his lips, your fingers playfully travelling to the collar of his vest, fisting around the fabric that stretched across his chest.

“Call me that again,” he demanded with a growl.

“Yes, sir.” You whispered with a shaky voice.

Your knees threatened to buckle as he caught you by your waist, holding your flushed body against his. The hard bulge of his cock was already pressing against you through his trousers. He spun you around, cornering you against the edge of the cot, and as you fell against it, he used one hand to pop the buttons of your uniform shirt, yanking it open as his big, sturdy, calloused hands palmed your breast over your brassiere. His fingers slid through the thin fabric then, his thumb dragged over the stiff peak of one of your nipples. He used his other free hand to expose your other breast fully, and then put his mouth into action.

His lips flew across your breast, leaving a wet trace as he passed by making his way to your nipple. His teeth nibbled around the skin as you held it tightly and roughly with a hand, popping it fully into his mouth. He sucked the inside of his cheeks, pressing his tongue against the erected nipple. Your mouth was slightly parted in awe, not one sound left your throat, only half broken and confused moans.

You held your weight against the mattress with one hand, the other one made its way to Paddy’s hair, tangling up your fingers around his greasy unwashed hair.

You felt dizzy.

Once he decided he was done with your breasts, he stepped back murmuring something to himself. You couldn’t decipher what he was saying. He momentarily knelt down between your open legs, and pushed up your uniform’s skirt, riding it up around your hips. You felt the air hitting your damp thighs and the soaked cotton fabric of your underwear.

“Inconsolable mother of God. Fuck me,” he muttered with a grin across his his face. Your cheeks flushed further. “What would your husband say if he knew his wee rebel wife was getting this wet for another man?”

You should’ve felt upset at his words, instead your body reacted by involuntarily rolling your hips up to him, searching for some attempt of friction. Paddy let out a filthy laugh as he shoved two fingers around the gusset of your underwear, parting your slick pussy’s folds open without a warning.

“Fuck sake, Paddy…” you whimpered.

“It's sir, you slut,” he corrected you. His free hand slammed a slap across your cheeks, taking you by surprise. He curled his fingers inside of you with one first thrust. Your head fell back as you let out a loud moan and pulled Paddy’s hair.

He pumped his fingers harder and slow, stretching your wet soft walls. “You’re to call me sir while I ruin this married cunt of yours, you hear me?”

“Yes, yes, sir.” You trembled with your eyes closed, nodding.

He added a third finger while pumping, and his thumb started to grind circles around your swollen clitoris. Your vision started to vision out as the tension ached across your belly, cooking tighter. Sweat started to bead around your collarbones and down the flat valley between your breasts. He leaned in and licked it away, his tongue and teeth grazing your skin.

Without a notice, he started to slam harder against your cunt. He could tell by the way you could barely hold your moans any longer and your walls clenched around his fingers, that you were growing closer to an orgasm. Your thighs clamped around his wrist. He didn’t stop as you finally reached your peak, letting you fuck yourself with his fingers as you rode the first orgasm out.

“Such a good girl,” he praised you. “First one’s free. If you want another one you better fucking earn it.”

He pulled his fingers free, shiny and coated with your releases. He pushed them between your lips. You sucked obediently, tasting yourself as you locked eyes with his darkened blue eyes.

“On your knees.”

Shakily, you dropped for him before his command even fully registered in your brain. You felt your knees hitting the packed dirt flooring on his tent. Your hands tried to desperately fumble with his belt, failing to undo it, he stepped in with a chuckle, helping you with the task. He dropped his trousers and underwear down, letting them pool at his ankles, freeing his cock in front of you. It was thick, flushed and the head was already gleaming with pre cum. You wrapped your right hand around it and spat on it before taking him into your mouth with one greedy slide.

Paddy smiled with a groan, letting one of his hands fist your now half messy hair and the other hand supporting the weight of his body on the metal bedframe.

“Go on, suck it nice and clean, love.”

You hollowed your cheeks and swirled your tongue, taking him deeper and devouring him while massaging his balls. He slowly pushed further down until his tip hit the back of your throat. Tears pricked from the corner of your eyes as the burning stretch hit it. You bobbed your head faster, allowing the saliva to drip down your chin onto your chest. He pushed himself further down your throat, trying to mute your moans.

“You better stay quiet, or the others are going to think that you’re nothing but a filthy married whore, all free to use.” He said and as you looked up at him with his cock still deep inside of your mouth, he spat on your face. You closed your eyes upon the impact.

You position your knees to each side of his boots, pressing your bare and wet core against his dusty boots. You started to rub yourself against the laces as you kept sucking. Paddy groaned. He pulled his member off with a wet pop before he could come.

“Fuck, the mess you’re doing with my boots…” Paddy pointed out with a laugh.

You whimpered, opening your mouth and hanging your tongue out.

“Not yet. I want to finish while I’m buried inside of you.”

He hauled you up the mattress, spinning you once again, bending you over the cot, ass up. Your palms hit flat against the thin bedsheets. Your uniform skirt was rucked up all the way to your waist and your knickers were yanked to the side. He sneaked his hand into your skirt's pocket, fishing out the folded pocket knife he had given you weeks ago. He flicked it open with a familiar sound. The cold dull side of the steel blade traced the bare curve of your arse.

“Stay very fucking still, will ya?” he murmured, your breathing became heavier as you tried to put all your trust into him, hoping he was not going to stab you on the back.

“Paddy…” you enquired.

“I’m not listening,” he sang, now caressing the small of your back with the cold metal, making you shiver while you tried to stay still for him.

“Sir…” you corrected yourself.

The flat of the blade slid under your underwear’s waistband and with one solid, quick tug on each side, the cotton fabric gave away with a rip. He grabbed the ruined fabric, hiding it under his pillow while murmuring a small “For later. When I’m alone.”

Suddenly, he had dropped the knife on the side of the bed and his mouth was now all over your back. He held your head against the mattress, pushing it lower as he licked your half bare back.

He moved his mouth over to your pussy, he pulled your knees open and exposed you further, before he started eating you out from behind. He kept his mouth hot and open, drooling all over your already messy cunt. He fucked your already dripping cunt with his tongue, while he pinched your swollen and aching clit and rubbed it with ruthless circles. You tried to cry out while forcing yourself to bite his bedsheets.

You pushed your cunt further against his face, chasing the new orgasm.

He devoured you like a starved man at war. He placed long and painful licks from your clit to your ass, and back again, sucking your folds into his mouth, humming against your core until the second orgasm hit you so hard your legs gave up, letting you collapse into the mattress.

Paddy rose behind you before you could even recover. His strong hands handled your hips, raising them higher and forcing you to be on your knees in doggy style once again. The heavy head of his cock nudged at your entrance.

“Beg.” He ordered.

“Please-” was all you could let out, as your breathing was ragged and you could barely let the words out.

He yanked your head up by the hair. You closed your eyes suddenly at the pain of your scalp being pulled all abruptly.

“I said fucking beg.”

“Please,” you cried out, “please, sir. I need it. Please.”

He trusted in with one swift brutal motion as you kept crying and begging out, suddenly your “please” became smaller “thank you’s”.

Paddy groaned deeply, keeping himself from moaning alongside you. His stretch burned so perfectly you started to see stars. He wasn’t even that long, but he was thick, so thick and at the perfect angle to hit the sweet spot that made you drool all over his sheets, digging your nails on his pillow. He didn’t give time to your pussy to adjust before slamming again, you could only hear the wet slaps of your skins and the creak of the bedframe, followed by Paddy’s choked groans.

“Harder, sir, please…” you dared to ask for it.

He obliged, the hand that was fisting your hair yanked it even further back, his other hand went over to your neck, holding it tightly. Your hand rested over his, on your neck, clawing at his grip. Your spine arched obscenely. You came again without previous notice. You came again, at the same time as him. He groaned and moaned against your ear. Your walls clenched around his cock, milking every drop of his cum.

He didn’t stop or slow down. “That’s three in a row, you greedy Fenian fucker.”

You sobbed out his name as you tried to recover your breath. Paddy pulled out flipping you on your back, shoving your knees to your chest. He smiled at the sight of you, your chest, neck and face fully flushed with an orgasm. Your pussy dripping with a mix of your releases. He pressed a couple of kisses across your face.

He then pumped his cock with a couple of strokes, hardening it once again. You felt limp and still gasping as he positioned himself on your entrance once more. The head of his cock hit against your cervix with each thrust. You felt drops of his sweat pouring from his damp vest and to your exposed chest. Your nails made their way across his back, racking red trails across his skin.

You kept your eyes closed.

“Open them. Look at me, missus,” he noticed, “I want you to remember it was me who fucked you like this.”

You did. His blue eyes were blown black with lust.

“I’m going to leave for Burma,” he reminded you between thrusts, “Might not come back. And you will still feel me for weeks. And every time you play with this pretty pussy of yours and try to think about your husband, I want you to think of me instead.”

You nodded, speechless. He suddenly stopped.

“I think I’m done, Paddy.” You told him, to which he nodded in agreement. He stayed inside of you, in silence. Not moving one bit.

As he pulled out, his fingers reached out to the dripping cum and he half attempted to push it back inside of your cunt. You broke down crying.

“Hey,” he looked over at you, “it’s all going to be okay.” His voice softened and he positioned himself next to you, kissing your eyelids close. He got rid of the rest of your clothing carefully and gathered your shaky body against his warm chest, allowing your legs to tangle up with his.

“Will you write?” You asked.

“If I’m still breathing,” he smiled, “Eoin wouldn’t forgive me if I didn’t.”

You smiled against his chest, nodding in silence.

“And if you’re still a free woman when I’m back, and all of this is over, I will find you. Even if you’re still wearing that gold band on your finger. Even if you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you.” You replied immediately.

He tilted your chin up, kissing you slowly and deep. Trying to memorise the taste of you.

“In secret we meet, in silence I grieve, that thy heart could forget, thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee, after long years, how would I greet thee? With silence and tears… That’s Lord Byron.”

Paddy recited out loud against your hair, his voice cracking with tiredness.

You stayed like that until the first faint hint of twilight touching the horizon. You slipped out fully uniformed, into the cooling morning desert. You pressed your hand low against your belly, feeling the faint ache and throb where he had been. For the first time since Belfast, you didn’t feel quite so alone.

𝖌𝖑𝖔𝖘𝖘𝖆𝖗𝖞:

IRA/Irish Republican Army: Paramilitary organisation that fought the British Army from 1922-1969.

Cumman na mBan: Women’s paramilitary organisation and auxiliaries of the IRA.

Fenian: Irish.

15 cwt: British light military truck.

.303: Rifle cartridges.

Crumlin Road: Prison in Northern Ireland.

Provost: British Army provost in Northern Ireland.

Ulster: Irish province in the North.

Prod: Protestant.

RIC: Royal Irish Constabulary. Armed British forces.

The Republic: The Republic of Ireland.