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“I was wondering when you’d show up,” Paddy murmured, not looking up from his cigarette at the approaching footsteps, kicking up dust with each agitated stomp they took towards him.
Having found his bank in record time, the rest of his walk had taken him in circles around the narrow, crumbling streets and left him slumped down on the front steps of one of the bombed-out shells of Augusta that, presumably, used to be a house. Perhaps it even used to be a home. It would serve his purposes, either way. He’d known it would only be a matter of time before the miserable, young officer showed up—to scold him, no doubt—so he’d gone just far enough to avoid the rest of his men, and waited.
“You can be a right fucking idiot sometimes,” came that familiar Aberdeenshire accent, soft and gentle in timbre, but bubbling with frustration below the surface. Paddy didn’t have to look back to know that a scowl was twisting that pretty, boyish face, as he spoke.
It was a strange arrangement that the two of them shared. Fraser was one of the only men to make his disdain for their leader clear, and Paddy took to countering this by finding amusement in poking at the lad’s soft spots in search of a rise that never came. It wasn’t unusual behaviour—it was hardly a secret that the man in charge of the SAS made himself easy to dislike, and that anyone who took issue with him, he hated right back. The thing that neither of them understood was why Paddy could never seem to find the venom in himself to reflect that same disdain back at their poor, dour brother in arms. It wasn’t as though he loved him, or anything—Christ, no, nothing like that. The thought was enough to make him laugh—he hardly even liked him, when it came down to it. The two of them knew things about one another that the rest of the men weren’t privy to, though. Sometimes, that was enough to form a connection—turbulent as it turned out to be.
“If you’re still on about the church, I don’t want to hear it,” Paddy snapped back, a little half-heartedly. Then, belatedly considering the other man’s words, he took a drag and turned to face him. “Only sometimes?”
Dragging his palm over his face in frustration, clearly fighting the foolish urge to throw a punch, Fraser opted, instead, to grit his teeth and glare. “You’ve got to stop doing this.”
“Oh?” Answering in that same voice with which he accepted a challenge, prepared for a fight, Paddy raised his brows and frowned in mock-confusion. “And what might this be?”
Fraser sneered. “If you’re trying to play coy, sir, it’s actually quite disgusting. We both know what that look meant.”
“What look?” Paddy goaded further, earning him another sigh of utter exasperation in return.
The exhaustion on the boy's face bordered on dreadful, sitting heavy in the tightness of his hunched shoulders and tense muscles. Anyone would think he’d never been taught to relax as a child, left forever in a purgatorial state of unease. The deepening creases and waxy complexion of his skin were made all the more stark in the light of the relentless Sicilian sun, and Paddy knew he wasn’t the only one who’d noticed the bags beneath his eyes darkening in recent weeks. Perhaps it would have concerned him a little more, if he didn’t find it quite so attractive.
“You know damn well what," Fraser quietly seethed, lining each word with a thick layer of resentment, if not outright disrespect. “That thing where you flick your eyes at me, and we both know what you mean is, ‘I’m off to go have a sad little wank in a corner somewhere, if you feel like joining in.'" He stepped a little closer, without even seeming to realise it. “It’s the same way Withers looks at me when he thinks he deserves a treat—and I can assure you, he is always far more deserving, Paddy.”
A pointed little smile crossed Paddy’s lips at this accusation. He let a few moments pass while Fraser’s temper quickly settled back down to its base level of tired neutrality, before retorting, “And yet, here you are.”
“Aye,” Fraser sighed, shaking his head a little, more disappointed with himself than anybody else, “here I am.”
A beat passed wordlessly between them. Paddy took the momentary ceasefire as an opportunity to offer the younger soldier a cigarette, holding it out with a silent inquiry, as some kind of peace offering. Bitter as he was, Fraser wasn’t one to turn down that which was free, and approached cautiously, looking like some kind of stray cat, lured in with the promise of meat. Taking the fag from Paddy’s outstretched hand, he let his fingers brush gently against the Major’s knuckles for a second, before pulling away sharply, regret flashing softly in his eyes. Paddy made no comment on the display, only held out his lighter in silence and stared into Fraser’s downturned eyelids, counting each of his long lashes, as he leaned down and held it to the flame between lightly trembling lips.
For a moment, their gazes met through the smoke, and a ripple of mutual understanding flowed across the space between them. The nature of their relationship was transactional—that much, they knew. Like the exchange of cigarettes on a war-torn street—a provided service, a conditional offer; it always left something owed. As it was, currency of the material sort had never been in shorter supply. What else were they to do, then, but return to one another, and do it all again? It resulted in their making love like a pair of gamblers, always trying to win back their losses from the previous game—and, much like gamblers, neither were willing to admit that they were addicted.
With a quick sigh and smack to his thighs, Paddy tore his eyes from the flushing of Fraser’s cheeks and rose to his feet. “Come on then,” he gestured to his companion as he stepped through the open doorway behind them. At the sight of Fraser’s blank, unmoving stare, he rolled his eyes and urged, “I gather you didn’t come after me just to tell me to go fuck myself. Get in here and we can get to it.”
Fraser clicked his tongue in protest, but still followed without a word. Inside, the whole place felt dead, haunted—a barren wasteland where life once was. It was a fitting place for the two of them, really. Crucifixes lay in broken halves on the floor, while picture frames clung to the walls for dear life, having been shaken off their hangers by blast after blast. In front, Paddy paid no attention to the destruction, crunching broken glass and rubble underfoot as he led them through to the kitchen, which stood mostly intact, still. Fraser found himself stifling a silent sigh of relief at the realisation that even Paddy seemed reluctant to fuck in a likely-dead stranger’s bed, though he bit back the rest of that train of thought as soon as he felt it draw near. There was little use worrying about who lived and died, these days. Most people simply did both.
Entirely oblivious and free of any moral crisis of his own, Paddy wasted no time in unbuckling his belt, leaning back against the large, wooden table in the centre of the room. The fabric of his trousers tightened in anticipation, as he watched Fraser’s long body almost fold in on itself, hunching down to pass through the short door frame.
Taking a deep, wincing drag, Fraser slumped back against the cool, stone wall behind him. “You're worse than a fucking animal,” he spat, gaze unmoving from its focus on Paddy’s rough hands at his crotch.
Paddy merely shot him a grin and scoffed. “Tell me something I don't know, lad," he countered, throwing his belt to the floor. “Come on, I know you've still got some vaseline in that pocket of yours. Don't pretend you don't.”
In spite of his will to remain a fortress against Paddy's offence, Fraser's breath began to grow heavy, his face a little redder with each further movement the other man made, eager and expectant. The reluctance in his eyes failed to translate to his actions, as he reached into his pocket and pulled out the tin, tossing it over.
Paddy placed it down beside himself and gestured him over with a nod, letting out a mumbled, “Come here, then. Put those healing hands on me, now, like the martyred fucking saint you to pretend to be.”
"You'd know all about that, wouldn't you, Paddy?" Fraser hissed beneath his breath, the softness of his voice robbing the words of their intended bite.
Even so, he did as he was told, closing the distance with two long, hesitant steps. Drawing in near, he let Paddy's thighs bracket his hips, their stirring pricks almost brushing together. Their proximity meant that both could feel the other's breath upon their cheeks, as Paddy opened Fraser's belt, in turn, and made for the buttons at his fly. Leaning his forehead down to rest on the shorter man's shoulder, his own back a steep hunch to accommodate the difference in height, Fraser sighed out a breath, as his superior fumbled with his trousers and finally freed his cock from its tightening confines.
Stroking a hand down over the soft hair at Fraser's nape, far shorter now than it had been when they first fell into one another’s arms, back in the last days of the desert, Paddy nuzzled lightly against the head resting in the crook of his neck and urged the man to stand up straight again. As his face resurfaced, red and dewy with sweat, a sultry expression of unbridled desire left his mouth agape and his eyes dark, heavy with lust. Paddy picked up the tin beside him, then, making a show of swiping his fingers through its contents and pressing a greased thumb to those open lips, parting them further.
Leaning in close, until they were breathing the same air, their lips lingered less than an inch apart, but never quite touched. Before Paddy could tease any more, though, Fraser grabbed his wrist and wrenched his hand aside, staring, hot, into his eyes, until they both began to tremble. Paddy retaliated by turning his attention lower, slicking up his palm and giving Fraser's cock a sudden, firm pump, that had the young Captain biting his lip and groaning aloud.
“I’ve put up with enough shite today,” he mumbled, mad and ranting. “If I don’t get this fucker in me soon, I’m liable to become more erratic and violent than usual, and I was under the impression you’d taken it upon yourself to stop that from happening.” His words betrayed the lack of urgency in his hands, running his fingers up and down the length in slow, languid strokes
“Aye, and I regret it every fucking day,” Fraser sighed, rolling his eyes once more. “Hurry up and bend over, then, if you’re so bloody desperate.”
With a quiet click of his tongue, Paddy stared off into the distance for a moment like a petulant schoolchild, before finally obliging. Turning away, he braced himself against the worn wood of the kitchen table, trousers hanging loose about his hips. “Get on with it.”
Fraser wasn’t about to argue with a command like that. Yanking Paddy’s trousers down to his ankles, briefs and all, he snatched the tin of Vaseline from his superior’s fist and smeared a thick stripe of it down the valley between his bare cheeks. There was something about the way those muscles tensed and twitched whenever he put his hands on them that made him quiver, a surge of power rushing over him like a bucket of boiling water aimed at his head. Slipping his thumb just beyond the rim of Paddy’s hole, he quickly pulled it back again, as though burned. Breath hitching in his throat, mouth dry from gasping, he tentatively began to push in once more.
As the soft ring of flesh pouted and clenched about the intruding finger, Paddy sucked in a sharp, gasping breath. Willing his body to relax, he slowly hissed it out again and leaned back into the touch, taking the finger deeper inside, right up to the base of the knuckle. Fraser pulled back and added another, and the motion repeated, digits sliding in and stretching him open. With each twist and stroke inside, Paddy leaned down further, until he was bent in half at the waist, resting on his elbows, palms spread flat across the surface.
Fraser took in the sight with a whistled inhalation, cheeks hot with arousal. For all his many, many faults, it was hard to deny that their leader cut a fine figure like this—the rugged soldier presenting himself for buggery like a cheap whore, thighs shaking with need as he fucked himself on another man's hand. Just to consider the absurdity of it all was enough to set the Captain's pulse racing. He pulled his fingers back and wiped them across the back of Paddy's shirt, before lining himself up, savouring each hurried, little grunt that sounded beneath him. Holding himself there for a good, few seconds, tip pressed teasingly against the tight hole, he clamped his cool hands down about Paddy’s waist and took a final, deep, steadying breath, before gently pulling him back to meet the encroaching thrust.
Paddy's fingers curled at the tension, nails scraping at the rough wood beneath them. The upper half of his body seemed to stiffen, as the lower softened, allowing itself to be penetrated. Moaning aloud, he angled his hips up as best he could, swallowing each inch with an insatiable hunger. It wasn't enough.
“Christ, you’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?” he hissed.
“Thought it might do us both some good to learn some patience,” Fraser replied, nonchalant, but for a slight rasp brought on by the tightness of his jaw.
“If you want to be the one to explain to the men why I’ve decided to make everyone else’s life a living hell, tomorrow," Paddy warned, shooting back a glare, "then be my fucking guest.”
“You do that anyway, Paddy. I doubt anyone would notice the difference.”
“Ah, would you stop being so smart with me for five fucking seconds?" the older man barked, grimacing at the slow stretch. "Anyone would think I’m forcing you into this.”
Fraser bit down a smirk. “I’m not one to disobey a direct order from my commanding officer, sir.”
The quip drew a reluctantly amused scoff from Paddy. “Well, that’s a bare-faced lie, if I’ve ever heard one." He shifted his hips a little, in search of some of the friction he so craved. "Give that sharp tongue of yours a rest, now, damn you, and let me feel you.”
“Aye, Sir,” Fraser muttered, then, sarcastic and bitter, as he thrust in with one, forceful shove, and seated himself all the way to the hilt. He would've saluted too, just to prove a point, were his hands not so preoccupied with Paddy's flesh.
The movement jolted Paddy forward, whimpering and groaning, as though pulling a knife from his guts. Seeing his knuckles turn white where they clutched at the table, Fraser placed a tender palm atop the other man’s hand, interlacing their fingers.
“You'll give yourself splinters, like that,” he murmured, grip tightening.
Red-faced and sweaty, all Paddy could muster in response was a series of grunts through gritted teeth, pushing his hips back and clenching down. They soon settled into a slow, thumping rhythm—Fraser pulsing deep inside instead of wildly thrusting, as Paddy had grown used to. After a minute or so, as his body loosened, little by little, Paddy began to lose his patience.
“Faster, now,” he huffed, forehead resting on the table. “I know you can go faster.”
A sudden, harsh, cracking sound of palm against flesh momentarily stunned him into silence, before the sting began to set in, spreading across his arse cheeks like a rippling wave across water. Glaring back over his shoulder, Paddy snarled, but made no attempt to push him away.
“Oh, you’re getting cocky there, soldier,” he warned, wearing that familiar, ape-like smile—the one that said nothing of pleasure, but only of vague, looming danger. “Do that again and I’ll—”
Cutting him off, mid-threat, Fraser grabbed a fistful of Paddy's hair between his knuckles and yanked him back, leaning in to the crook of his neck. With a heavy thrust, he made the most of the angle his arched back provided and buried himself deep. Just as he’d hoped, Paddy responded with a cry, loud and violent—sounding more like he was being punched than humped.
“You’ll what, Paddy?” Fraser asked, taunting. “Don’t pretend you don’t love it.”
Paddy let out a low growl in response, clenching down in a way that made Fraser’s knees buckle. It was hard to argue with the lad, though, when the sensation sent shivers of heat through his bowels and warmed him all the way to his chest. The pleasure sat in the back of his throat like a sour aftertaste, and he practically gagged for the want of it.
“I know what you're after, Sir. You'd never treat me so harshly if you didn't want the same thrown right back at you, again and again.” There was a hint of bitterness—self-pity, perhaps—in Fraser's words, as he bucked up into the officer's taut body, just as fast as he'd wanted.
Paddy's hands still grappled with the edge of the surface, his body dragged almost upright by the grip in his hair, unable to rest his head upon the chest behind him or lean back down over the table. The discomfort of it all suited him. “Oh, I just fuckin’ dare you to do that again,” he snarled, the violence in his tone dripping from his teeth like poison.
Fraser saw the request for what it was, though, disguised behind the threat. Lurching forward, grip still tight in Paddy’s hair, he sent the older man’s face crashing down into the table, shoving his cheek into the wood and holding him firmly in place, as he raised his other arm and brought it down to his arse with a great, deafening crack. Paddy wailed—actually wailed—at the receiving end of the slap, knees giving out beneath him as the pain shot down through his thighs and set his whole body quaking. Fraser suspected it might well have been the greatest exclamation of emotion—of sensation—that Paddy had ever allowed himself to express.
At this restrictive angle, Paddy couldn’t quite reach down to touch himself, but felt the urge mounting with the speed of Fraser’s thrusts. Equally frustrating and stimulating at once, he could only grunt unintelligibly and allow it to continue. It would have been easier, if it felt like violation. If it were an assault, he could fight back, knock the other soldier to the ground and grind his face to a pulp with his fists. As it was, though, he could only accept it. He’d asked for it—he’d needed it. He still needed it, breath growing ragged as his guts tangled into knots with every pump of Fraser’s cock inside him.
It wasn’t long before the rhythm of those thrusts became irregular and harsh, spasming gently until he finally pulled out, just in time to spill in long, white streaks across Paddy's lower back. After a second of recovery, not long enough for either to have truly caught their breath, Paddy stood up and spun around, leaning back and grabbing Fraser's wrist. He brought the hand to his cock with a silent command, and the soldier obeyed, as resentfully, yet dutifully, as always. Fraser leaned into the body before him where it rested, half-sitting on the table, and began to gently stroke the length in his palm, hot and hard, so red with desperation to burst that it almost looked purple. Paddy let out a faint whine, twitching and growling at the teasing slowness.
“More,” he demanded, voice almost inaudible over its own harsh, accompanying rasp.
Almost cheek to cheek, Fraser's mouth at Paddy's ear, he whispered, deep and rough, “I'll do you one better,” and dropped to his knees.
Taking the other man into his mouth, cheeks hollowed out, he descended. The wet, vulgar sound of it mingled with that of Paddy's sudden hiss at the overwhelming sensation. Shoving his fingers back into the hole before him, Fraser found his insides soft and tender from the path his prick had forged—a thought that had him moaning around the cock in his mouth. As he worked at both regions simultaneously, Paddy's legs came to wrap around his head, all but smothering him with those firm, muscular thighs.
Soon enough, Paddy came with a stifled cry down Fraser's throat, panting as he threw back his head to stare at the ceiling. They both sat still for a moment, silently regaining their composure in the sudden calm after the storm. After a minute or so, Fraser rose to his feet, tucking himself back into his trousers and threading his belt into its loops, making a point of not looking at the other man where he sat, debauched and sensuous in his state of half undress.
“We should get back,” the younger soldier mumbled, buckling and buttoning himself back up. “They'll start wondering where we've gone.”
Paddy sat up at this, watching Fraser pace nervously, running his hands through his hair to smooth himself out. It was a shame, really—Paddy had always liked the dishevelled charm he seemed to give off after they fucked.
“The lads won't give a fuck where we've gone,” he countered, cleaning the expulsion from his back with his palm and wiping it on his trouser leg. “They'll just be glad to be rid of us for a wee while.”
“I think you mean rid of you, Paddy,” Fraser scoffed, incredulous.
“Aye, maybe,” he answered, making himself as decent as he could be bothered to, “but you do love to wind me up, don't you? Set me off like a fucking grenade, you do.”
“Ah, don't blame your shitty behaviour on me again," Fraser sneered. "Grenade, my arse. A pup, biting for attention, more like.”
Paddy gave a half-hearted, lopsided smile and chuckled lightly. “Well, you wouldn't give me any, otherwise, would you?”
Fraser shook his head, tutting quietly in place of a further retort. Once he'd straightened himself out enough that he was certain it didn't look quite so obvious that he'd just been humping his commanding officer, he took a step toward the doorway, before looking back over his shoulder.
“Next time you want my attention, Paddy,” he announced, staring him dead in the eyes, “try asking nicely, for once.” As he turned to leave, ducking back through to the crumbling hallway, he found himself followed by the low, distant rumble of Paddy's laughter.
No matter how they fought it, they both knew they'd end up right back here, again, in every city they passed through—taking what they could from one another's bodies, wrapped up in a tangle of arms and legs, still too afraid to linger too long on the thought of the other man's lips, let alone kiss them.
'Try asking nicely.’ They both knew he'd do no such thing.