god bless the prehistoric animals who died and became fossil fuels which powered the car that drove his mother to the hospital to give birth to him 😵💫😵💫😵💫😵💫😵💫
Summary: A spoiled marksman with a smart mouth that has spent months getting under everyone’s skin, especially Paddy Mayne’s for attention from the colonel. But once he finally decides to take what’s been offered, you discover that some men are far more dangerous than the enemy.
Tags: No use of Y/N. Male reader. Bratty M!reader. Manhandling. Power Dynamics. Cocky Bastard Energy. Dirty Talk. Degradation. Semi-public sex. Rough Sex. Possessive behavior. Overstimulation multiple sex scenes. Size kink. Anal sex. Overstimulation.
ℳ𝒶𝓈𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 - gif
Words count: 4500
Vast desert had a way of stripping men down to their bones, sand crawling into every crevice, sun burning every patch of exposed skin and the only thing more relentless than the heat was the silence between gunshots.
Cairo, '41.
The Long Range Desert Group hauled in another batch of recruits for this mad bastard outfit Stirling and Mayne were calling the SAS.
Amongst the dust-coated, sun-cracked faces of those new boys, you stood pressed linen and polished boots, cigarette held between two fingers.
"You've got to be takin' the piss," somebody muttered down the line.
You hadn't even given them the courtesy of looking up, too busy inspecting the desert, mouth set in that bored little curl.
The nick of ‘spoiler prince’ started over the tea since you’d refused the brew due to the water tasted of canvas, followed by the springs which were bent and you'd not sleep on a thing fit for a dog.
There was also the rations aspect, the bloody sand in your boots, the way someone had folded your kit, quality of hygiene…
Within a week, half the lads were threatening to strangle you in your sleep.
Eventually they'd given up making threats and simply started covering their ears whenever your voice rose above the wind.
‘If he's no good in the field, I'll shoot him myself and save the Germans the bother.’
But then came the first raid, a Luftwaffe airstrip in the middle of nowhere you took advantage of and went silent, melting off the lorry with that long rifle of yours strapped across your back.
The lads cursed, thinking you'd bolted out of cowardice right before the sentries started dropping, each one a quiet pop muffled to the consistency of the suppressor you'd insisted on bringing and had been mocked for.
By the time the explosives were set on the parked Stukas, you'd accounted for seven men, all clean head shots from positions no one could quite work out, even after walking the ground later.
When you climbed back into the lorry that night, cigarette already lit between your lips, you'd looked at the men who'd been ready to leave you to die in the sand and given a lazy, infuriating smile.
"Anyone got a proper drink? Think I've earned one."
After that, no one argued if you wanted the last cigarette in the tin or a particular bottle of wine pinched off an Italian convoy.
The mathematics had become very simple: you killed Germans like it was breathing and in exchange, you’ll get what you wanted.
More than anything else in the world right now, the target in your sight was Robert Blair Mayne.
Paddy bloody Mayne.
You could not, for the life of you, recall the precise moment you'd begun to want him.
Perhaps it was the first time you'd seen him drunk, sleeves rolled, knuckles split with a Webley sat on the table beside his glass.
Perhaps it was the time you'd watched him take down a German patrol with a captured MP40 and a mouthful of poetry from Yeats he'd been muttering while emptying the magazine.
He was also the only man in the entire desert who looked at you and didn't see a snobbish bastard.
Plus, he was a real sight to look at.
Heavy in the shoulders, quite large mountains of biceps with the way they would shine any time he’d wear nothing but a tank top…
So you set yourself the task of earning him.
Your kill count climbed as you went out on operations no one had asked you to volunteer for, spending three days on a ridge above Benghazi watching a German colonel's daily routine until you could put a round through his eye at six hundred yards.
It had become the joke of the regiment, your reputation as a marksman had bought you a kind of respectful distance but everyone deep down knew you were mad for Paddy Mayne.
He wasn't immune to it but you couldn't have known.
He'd watched you from the very first day when you’d complain about anything and a thought had taken root behind his eyes that he hadn't shared with another living soul.
‘That mouth could be put to better use.’
He'd watched you in the mess that first night, leaning on one elbow, wrist limp along your collar undone one button further than regulation and he'd had to drink himself sideways to kill the picture in his head of dragging you into the back room by the hair.
He'd said nothing while you hooked yourself slowly and gloriously, you'd done it all by your own hand and he waited.
The waiting was its own pleasure for him unspooling himself in front of him, day by day, week by week, getting more reckless and obvious, more raw.
Three months in, you'd begun to do things you'd never have done before like starting to leave your tent flap open at night when you knew he might pass, bathing in the canvas tub to let him see your bare ass.
That night you'd lain awake in your cot, fists clenched at your sides, dick achingly hard against your stomach before ultimately giving up and realizing how he was going to drive you into the ground.
You’ve killed nine men that day and set a new personal record, coming back with blood on your sleeve along a cigarette already lit and Paddy passed you on the way to debrief, hand brushing your lower back in a single warm pressure of palm ad he whispered “Good lad."
You thought you might come in your trousers right there in the dust while he simply kept walking without looking back.
Waiting until the camp had quieted, desert very cold now with the stars that had come up so thick and white you could read by them, you slipped out of your tent with your boots in your hand and you walked the long way round the perimeter so you wouldn't pass any sentries who knew you.
Perhaps the stars had aligned that night because, the second you rounded the corner from your tent, a hand came up and closed around your jaw, warm callused weight of Paddy’s palm under your chin as his fingers pressed into the hinge of your jawbone, transmitting positive and electric feedback down your spine straight into your prick.
He tilted your face up and made you look at him, night so dark yet the moonlight allowed you to see every small fleck of grey in his stubble along the beauty of his blue eyes.
"Lookin' for me, are ye?"
He was in nothing but a white tank top, collar brownish from sweat and hair damp while those pale, watery eyes were on you.
"I—" you started.
"Hush." One thick finger went up to your lips.
"Do ye know what I've been thinkin' on every time ye open that pretty mouth of yours and start whingein' bout anythin’?"
You shook your head, you could not have spoken if your life depended on it.
"I've been thinkin'," Paddy said, his voice dropping to a rough, low purr, "if I just shoved me cock down yer throat ye'd shut the fuck up for once." He nodded slow, like he was agreeing with himself.
"Look Paddy—"
"On yer knees." He was ‘smiling’ now, not even interested in hearing your words as you went down.
The order arrived and your body answered, hard-packed sand meeting your knees through the wool of your trousers as you leveled up your head to the same level of the heavy cut of his thighs and his heavy hand came down and cupped the back of your skull, fingers spreading wide and digging into your hair as he held you there.
"Look at the Spoiled Prince on his knees in me room. The lads'd never believe it."
His other hand went to his belt and the buckle clinked, leather hissing through the loops.
He let it fall to the floor and he popped the brass button on his trousers, dragging the fly down by inches before pulling himself out.
You made a small, broken sound in your throat at how big he was while his cock hung out of his open trousers, heavy and already half-hard, foreskin drawn back to show a wet flushed head, shaft veined and ruddy.
The sight alone filled your mouth with water.
"Aye," Paddy breathed, watching your face. "that's the look I've been waitin' for. Open up."
He didn't ease in, taking the back of your skull in that wide hand of his and he fed himself between your lips in one unhurried push and the thick blunt head of him stretched your jaw wide.
"There ye are," he murmured. "Open up for me, good lad."
He pushed deeper and your throat resisted, gagging hard, eyes flooding with tears while he made a low sound of approval in his chest and held you there a moment, head of him jammed up against the soft seal of your throat.
"Easy, breathe through yer nose. Spoiled Prince with me cock down his fuckin' gullet and his eyes streamin'.”
He pulled back and you sucked a great desperate breath through your nose, a long thread of spit followed his cock out of your mouth and broke against your chin, before you could do anything about it he pushed back in, deeper this time and the head of him pressed into the muscle of your throat and breached it, heavy length of him sliding into the place and your hands came up to grab at his thighs.
He was looking down at himself where his clothed abs met your nose. "Quiet now, aren't ye? Where's all that whingein' gone, eh?“
He pulled out a half inch and pushed back just to feel you choke around him.
"Can't say much?" His thumb stroked your temple, almost tender. "It suits ye. Should've stuffed yer gob the moment ye opened it."
He fucked your face slowly, holding your head in both his hands now, fingers tangling deep in your hair and he rolled his hips into your face in a grinding rhythm and the heavy weight of his bollocks slapped wet against your chin on every stroke while your jaw ached.
Your own cock was a hot iron bar in your trousers, leaking through the wool and throbbing every time he used your mouth as a toy, proper pace of a man fucking a mouth he'd been thinking about for months by now applying long greedy strokes that pulled almost all the way out of you, leaving you gasping a single ragged breath, before driving back to the root and choking that breath off again.
Those little hitching grunts he was making in the back of his throat further amplified the amount of pleasure you were getting, all straight to your leaking and abandoned cock.
His pace ratcheted up, careful patient cruelty of him slipping and you saw it the moment his thighs started to tense under your hands.
"Fuck, don't ye dare spit—" he shoved in to the hilt and held himself there, hands on your skull as his cock kicked hard against your tongue and the first thick scalding pulse of him hit the back of your throat.
You couldn't have spat if you'd wanted to with how deep he was buried, it went straight down, pulse after pulse, flooding a quantity that seemed impossible for any man to produce.
He grunted with each spurt, low animal sounds in his chest and his thighs trembled against your shoulders, taste of him spreading through your mouth on the long thick aftertrickle as he slowly drew himself out of your throat.
He let the last inch rest on your tongue.
"Show me." And you opened your mouth, tongue a pool of him.
"Good lad, now swallow."
He watched your throat work, mouth pulling into a smirk as he pulled you closer and you ran your tongue over the softening head of him, gathered the last drops of his spend, sucked the slickness off his shaft.
"Up," he said suddenly once satisfied with the work, hauling you up by the arms with how strong he was.
In that moment you remembered watching him crack a man's jaw with a single short punch and feeling that strength applied to your own body was a different revelation.
"Now, we’ve got a wee tour to make fer me place, ye and I."
“Though ye were already done by.” The small tease back was all you could muster despite being already drastically turned on by the man who could do anything he wanted to you and you wouldn’t have minded the slightest.
“Oh ye still wanna talk?" Paddy asked and suddenly he spun and bent you, face-down, over the curved iron belly of a fuel drum, metal cold and gritty against your cheek and his big hands hooked into the waistband of your trousers dragging them down to your knees in one fast yank that left your bare arse open to the desert air.
He pressed his mouth to your ear.
"Quiet now, the lads are about. They're never quite asleep so ye keep that mouth of yours shut. Hear me?"
"Spit," he said.
"What?"
"Spit. Hand."
He'd thrust his palm in front of your face and you spat into it. He gathered the slick of your saliva and you heard him spit again himself, his hand was between your cheeks suddenly and two blunt fingers were pushing into you with no warning at all.
You bit your fist, eyes watering as he worked you open with quick brutal pumps of his fingers and no more than that before his fingers were gone and the head of his already hard again cock pressed against your hole.
"Ye'll have to take it as ye are," he murmured, almost apologetic, before he fed himself in and the stretch was brutal.
He'd been buried in your throat ten minutes ago and now he was making his way into a hole that hadn't been opened properly, with nothing but spit to slick him.
You bit the cold curve of the fuel drum, clawing at it with both hands as you made a noise like a dying animal and he clamped his palm over your mouth from behind, chest pressed flat to your back as he shushed you mockingly against the back of your neck.
"Come on, ye can take it. Ye wanted me cock s’much ‘fter all, aye?" His hips kept feeding forward and the impossible thickness of him kept disappearing into you.
Finally his hips met your arse and his bollocks settled against your own as he seated himself to the root in you, panting against your shoulder, palm hot over your mouth.
"Christ above. Yer so tight.”
He started fucking you in long fast brutal strokes that drove the air out of your lungs in puffs and rang the fuel drum. Your bare prick rubbed against the cold gritty iron with every thrust and the friction was hot.
You could hear voices somewhere off in the dark from two of the men on the late watch, smoking and laughing about something a corporal had said but it came in stutters through Paddy's hand and made him fuck you harder.
"They're thirty bloody yards away round the corner of the ammo dump. They'd see yer arse in the air with me cock in ye if they took one wrong turn. Ye'd be the talk of the camp by breakfast." He punctuated it with a thrust so deep it lifted you onto your toes. "Spoiled Prince bent over a fuel drum gettin' it, they'd never let ye live it down."
Your dick was throbbing from the way he was pounding your prostate on every single stroke, a relentless drilling into the same spot at the core of you that caused you to shake so hard the drum was rattling and he laughed against your neck.
His hand slid down off your mouth to your throat and squeezed gently just when your prick, who wasn't even being touched but just dragged against cold metal while his cock was a hot hammering bar in your guts, your whole body seized and your toes curled in your boots as you came in long thick spurts that arced out into the dark and pattered against the sand below the drum.
The pleasure tore through you so hard you saw white and your knees buckled, only Paddy's hand on your throat and his hips locked against your arse held you up.
"Aye," he breathed. "There's a good lad." He didn't stop, kept fucking you straight through the helpless twitching of your spent prick and the gasping aftershocks.
When he'd ground a few more long strokes into your shuddering body he pulled out of you with a obscene sound that made you whimper and he hauled your trousers up to your thighs but no further, turning and shoving you forward with a hand at your back.
"Walk. Don't tuck in, we're not done."
Your trousers held loose round your hips by his fist in your waistband while you ‘walked’ (more like got dragged by him) with your hole open and aching, already beginning to throb with the use he'd put it to.
He steered you between two storage tents and round the back of the cook's lean-to, past a row of crated tins.
There was the spare medical tent, used only in emergencies, currently empty, its flaps tied off and Paddy walked you straight at the back wall of it.
"Up," he said. "Arms round me neck."
"Paddy— I can't— "
"Ye can, up." He repeated the order almost like a purr while he nuzzled his face into the crook of your flushed neck and took a chunk of flesh between his teeth as both hands found the backs of your thighs and he hoisted you, back hitting the canvas wall of the tent and the whole structure swayed faintly.
Your legs went round his waist on instinct and his hips pinned you there.
His cock was already lined up and, with a shift of his hips, the thick wet head of him kissed your aching hole before he dropped you down onto it.
You sobbed out loud and clapped his hand over your mouth so fast you tasted his palm.
"What did I tell ye? Quiet. There's lads sleepin' three feet that side of this canvas. He'd come round and find ye stuck to me cock against the back of his bed. D'ye want that? Hm?"
You shook your head, frantic, his palm still over your mouth.
"Then quiet. Like a good wee whore fer me."
He started fucking up into you while holding you up entirely on his cock and his arms, one bicep braced under your arse to take your weight, the other forearm pressed across your chest to pin you to the canvas and every thrust came from below, driving up and you dropping down, angle putting his cock somewhere even deeper than before, colliding with your prostate.
His grunts were soft and hot in the crook of your neck, faint slap of his hips meeting your arse muffled by the give of the canvas at your back with the way the whole tent shook gently from each upward drive of him.
You whimpered against his palm and he kept fucking you.
"Aye, yer doin’ good. Quiet wee thing when ye've a cock in ye. That's the trick, eh? Ye were missin' it all this time."
He bit your neck hard, right where your collar would just barely cover it in the morning. You gasped into his palm while his teeth held a moment before releasing, lips closing over the spot and sucking.
A dark plum of a mark would bloom there for everyone in the regiment to see.
"Mine," he murmured against the bruise while fucking you faster and your spent, twitching, oversensitive dick was caught between your bellies, dragging against the rough cotton of his tank top while filling and hardening again, every stroke into your prostate winding the heat back up in your gut.
His teeth scraped your neck and you could feel him swelling in you, the size of him stretching you wider and the pressure on your prostate grew unbearable until he bit down on your shoulder and slammed up into you to the hilt, holding there and coming.
The heat of it flooded you at the feel of him pulsing inside you, wet of his spend painting your insides.
You came hard with him, though the target of your jet was his tank top while his own was flooding white your insides.
He held you there a long time, chest heaving and cock softening only a fraction. His mouth released your shoulder and dragged warm along the line of your throat all the way up to your ear.
"Good lad," he breathed while hitching you higher in his arms and kept his cock in you, walking the two of you back through the dark camp with your trousers somewhere round your knees, bare arse in his hands and cock plugging the spend inside you, face buried in the salt-damp crook of his neck.
"Tell me ye love it," he murmured.
"I love it… I love it. Paddy—" he squeezed your arse hard in his palm.
"Of course ye do, made for it and me cock, aren't ye?" His teeth grazed your earlobe.
Finally, the last fifty yards back to his quarters the door shut behind you as he kicked it close and the latch turned.
He dropped you on his bed as you lay there panting, trousers somewhere on the dirt floor and your shirt half off while your arse was a slick open ruined thing with his spend leaking out of you onto his blanket.
You looked up at him from the bed as he stood there in the lamplight, peeling his shirt over his head and tossing it.
He climbed onto the bed, his thighs spread wide and he reached down, gripping your hips as he hauled you up his body till you were straddling him.
"Up," he said. "Ride me, Prince."
"Paddy I— fucking can't do it…"
"Ye’re disobeying yer captain? Up on yer knees and hand on me chest."
Your hands shook so badly you fumbled it twice while trying to follow the orders.
He was still mostly hard and the third try you got the head of him lined up to sink down and he watched your face the whole way.
The slow stretching slide of him reopening you punched a thin broken sound out of your throat.
You bottomed out on him and his thighs flexed under your arse while his hands settled lazy on your hips, encouraging but not directing.
"Now go, show me how bad ye wanted me.”
You started moving, slow at first with how much your thighs were trembling, bracing both palms flat against his hot heaving chest as you lifted yourself over that thick prick of his before dropping back down and the slick fullness of him impaled you on every drop.
Finding the most optimal rhythm for your tired and cock-drunk body, he was in deep on every drop and the angle let his cock kiss your prostate every single time and your own prick was bobbing helplessly between you, leaking a thin clear leak onto his stomach.
"Faster," he said. Soft, encouraging. "Come on, Prince. Faster. Bounce on me— Ah… that's it. Look at me wee slut. Tell me ye're a slut, Prince. Say it for me."
"I'm— I'm a slut—"
"Whose."
"Yours— your slut, Paddy!"
"Good lad. Faster now. Come on, earn it."
You rode him faster, thighs burning and hole a slick well of spit and his spend.
He was emanating low pleased grunts and his hands had tightened on your hips.
A knock at the door, three sharp raps officer-style that made you freeze.
Your whole body locked and Paddy's eyes flicked to the door before smiling wickedly.
He sat up under you in one smooth motion, thick soldier's arms winding round your back and pulling you flush against his chest.
His cock stayed seated to the root in you. You could feel his heart hammering against yours.
"Yes?" he called toward the door.
"Mayne — Sadler. Sorry to wake ye. Stirling wants confirmation on the morning patrol roster before he turns in. Just a yes or no."
Paddy's mouth came up to your ear. His breath was hot.
"Answer him for me, Prince."
"Wh—what?"
"Tell him tha’ the patrol's confirmed. Don't make him knock again."
He started moving, holding you tight against his chest with both of those iron arms and he started rolling his hips up in short fast brutal thrusts, every one of them slamming his cockhead square into your prostate and punching the breath out of your lungs.
His mouth dropped to the side of your throat and his teeth fastened on the meat of your neck, biting down and sucking while he kept fucking up into you and his arms held you so tight to him you couldn't have moved an inch.
"Sadler… the— the patrol—"
You gasped because he’d shifted his angle and the next thrust hit even deeper as a ragged broken noise climbed up your throat and you bit it back into a strangled cough.
"Yes—yes, the patrol's confirmed—"
You barely got it out with Paddy that bit harder, teeth locked on your neck and hips, a piston driving up into you in fast and short thrusts knocking another piece of word out of your mouth in a broken stutter.
"You're sure?" Sadler said, voice with a strange flat of carefulness to it now.
"He's sure," Paddy purred against your throat, before barking. "He's sure! Roster's confirmed, Mike. Patrol at oh-five-hundred, all hands. Now bugger off, we're busy."
"…Right. Right. Goodnight."
Fast footsteps receding.
The moment they were gone Paddy laughed and his mouth came up to your jaw to kiss it almost sweetly unlike his hips that kept up that same brutal pace.
"Oh ye did well. He knew I was balls-deep in ye. He'll have it round the camp by sun-up and there won't be a man in the regiment by breakfast. Doesn't know me Prince spent the night impaled on me lap."
"Shut up…"
"Nah, He hush. Don't talk an’ just take it."
He couldn't keep talking either, his breath had gone ragged, at this point just slamming up into you in short greedy bursts while holding you tight to his sturdy chest, face buried in your neck and you could feel him swelling thicker inside you.
The building of a third wave was traveling up your spine until you came dry, your cock spent past its stores, just a thin clear weak dribble between your bellies, but the orgasm itself was savage and making your hole clamp down round him in helpless rhythmic pulses.
He grunted into your shoulder and bit down again before shoving up into you to the hilt and coming, hot pulse of him pumping into you on top of everything he'd already left.
Locked to his chest with no strength to go anywhere beside staying in his shaking veined biceps, his mouth opened against your own to devour it.
Soon he became your only supply of oxygen for your tired muscles while his tongue shamelessly explored your mouth messily, saliva traveling down your chin the more he enjoyed the feast.
When he let go of your mouth, the only sounds left in the room were the two of you breathing and the faint creak of the bed under you as Paddy slowly relaxed his arms and pulled out of you.
You whimpered and he lifted you off his lap like you were dead weight, setting you down on the edge of the bed and you toppled.
The dirt-floor rug under your cheek and your legs splayed limp, arse open and leaking.
Your neck a ruin of teeth-marks and bruises, eyes half-shut enough to make up Paddy’s frame standing over you, face into your wavering vision.
His hand came down, thumb dragging slow along the line of your jaw.
"Wrecked ye proper, eh?"
You made a thin broken sound that might have been a yes.
He leaned closer, mouth an inch from your ear as his voice dropped to a soft, intimate purr.
"Dunno tell me yer tired. We've only just begun, I waited three bloody months wi’ me hand on me cock at night thinkin' about what I'd do when I finally got ye. I made a very long poem and we've barely scratched the top of it." His thumb stroked your cheek.
