darkstrawberrytimetravel

[darkstrawberrytimetravel]

This... There's a cinema close by to me that has double seats.

The idea that you sit and stir over Soaps words, how excited you are when they visit again.

Nervously you do your first check only to find it empty, seemingly, but you can still smell sex in the air. Walking up the steps in the dark, your senses in overdrive but the movie and sounds fucking with your senses.

Then you feel it, big muscular hands wrapping around you and pushing you on your knees to their spot on a double seat. You see an even larger dark muscular form walk up past you and settle on the seat right in front of you as you feel Soap undo your trousers and run his fingers up your slick slit. Ghost palms the hard bulge under his jeans and you stay there, locked in place as you feel Soap push into you from behind, fisting your hair and leaning down to whisper into your ear.

"Da ne worry love, he loves tae watch me fuck the pretty ones." His thick Scottish burr resonates down your ear.

I just know that Ghost and Soap come to the small, crappy cinema you work in every weekend, pick a movie they know will be dead and then fuck in the second row from the back. You have the seat numbers bloody memorised.

This falling apart cinema doesn't have fancy tech to keep an eye on things, it's all manual screen checks by the staff. Every 30 minutes you are supposed to pop your head in and check everything is OK. Your eyes find them like a heat seeking missile everytime. It's not worth interrupting these two huge, scary looking guys. You work on minimum fucking wage. So as long as they are the only two in the screen you just leave them to it and hope that they'll not leave a mess (they don't actually, you try not to wonder where exactly all the, uh, fluids wind up).

You're hauling a bin bag through to the garbage compactor room when someone squeezes your arse.

"Naw that we dinnae love our wee voyeur, but it's been months now hen and I'm starting tae feel a little insulted you're naw joining in."

[darkstrawberrytimetravel]

Master list

Note; This is entirely fictional written to the best of my ability. I don't claim to know the ins and outs of the British military and protocols, and nor am I qualified clinician.

Come hell or high water.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Why don't you just give in?

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

[darkstrawberrytimetravel]

Come hell or high water. Pt.3

18+, MDNI. Tags: Gore, severe injury, trauma, amputation

Pt.2

Soap.

Nothing could have prepared Soap for what he saw emerge from the tree line, even in the darkness. He watches Price and Gaz jog towards him, you’re on Price’s shoulders. Broken. Missing pieces. A metallic scent hangs in the air as Price gently lays you down on the dirt road, propping your stumps over Price’s backpack. Soap sweeps the beam from his flashlight over you, instantly trailing up your body as he catches sight of the shattered bone and damaged tissue protruding from what was once your trousers, one lower leg missing. The other unnaturally skinny. You're bare chested, bruises blooming across your abdomen and chest. Finally he finds your face, pale, sickly, clammy. Deathly. Glancing back at Price he notices the man's flank soaked, dark and crimson. Like osmosis his clothing had soaked up the blood from your stump and wounded calf.

“Bandages, where is the fucking first aid kit?” He looks between Gaz and Price, only then realising your backpack had held the first aid supplies. Meagre supplies, but something would have been better than nothing right now.

“We it was an IED, we had to manually sweep the immediate area before we could get to…” Gaz trails off before looking at you.

Soap turns his gaze, following Gaz’s towards you. You’re making odd noises, like snoring as your mouth moves like a fish, opening and closing. Each noise, breath, is slower than the last. Longer than the last. Soap drops to his knees and checks your pulse, his fingers digging into your neck. Nothing.

“It’s agonal breathing. We need to do CPR again.” Price’s voice is so calm, like your life isn’t hanging by a thread. That word, forever burnt into his mind. Barely taking notice of it during the standard basic life support training given by the military but in his time he’s seen it enough to know first hand that you’re gone at that moment. Technically dead.

“Fuckin' 'ell NO!” Soap growls, barely registering Price’s words. Soap shoves the bag under your legs away, Gaz dropping his knees beside your torso, one palm atop the other with his fingers interlocked as he positions them over the centre of your chest. Soap tips your head back and opens your mouth, giving two rescue breaths, before Gaz starts the chest compressions.

They continue working like this, swapping roles after two minutes to combat fatigue, eventually Price takes over compressions. Wiping sweat from his brow Soap glances down, you’re like a rag doll, unmoving, not breathing. He glances back up to Price as he works hard to force life back into you, he’s speaking aloud with each compression, counting the repetitions.

“Fifteen … Sixteen … Fucking…come… on! Come…hell…or high… water… I’ll fuckin’ drag… you back…to us.” Price grits out with each compression, pausing when he gets to thirty, the roar of the humongous Atlas A400M as it flies overhead. The force of the tailwind rocking the three men as they crouch lower to the ground to avoid being scattered by the strength of the wind. The aircraft flies overhead bathing the group in pure darkness momentarily as the moonlight is blocked, the boom of the engines so sudden and thunderous as it seemingly descends out of nowhere. Soap lifts his head, wiping dust from his eyes, his eyes finding Price realising he's stopped compressions and is checking for any sign of life. Time seems to speed up, barely registering the small smile on Price’s face as he realises your heart is beating again as the medics shove their way past the three men. The medics manage to stabilise you enough to carry the stretcher onto the aircraft via the lowered tailgate with Soap, Price, and Gaz quickly trailing behind as they’re ushered with urgent sweeps of the loadmasters arms. The men only just manage to sit on the fold down seats along the edge of the cabin before they feel the aircraft turnabout and begin take off.

Following Price then Gaz, Soap secures himself to his seat, then plugs in his headset into the aircraft comms system before leaning his head back against the cabin. Closing his eyes for a moment he then turns his gaze to further along the cabin, towards the cockpit where the medics have your stretcher bed attached to a frame and secured to the floor of the aircraft. Something is wrong, even with the turbulence as the aircraft begins its ascent the two medics are crowding around you. He hears snippets through the comms system. Words like hypovolemic shock, pneumothorax, BP 60/30. He can barely make out the sound of the monitor flatlining when he removes his headset not wanting to hear anymore. He can see you, smell the blood. He doesn’t want to know the intricacies of your condition, not that he understands half the medical terminology anyway. But he knows enough to know you’re fucked. He steals a look back at you, suddenly overcome with the realisation that an animal wouldn’t be left to suffer this way. Would it have been a kinder fate to have put a bullet between your eyes instead?

[darkstrawberrytimetravel]

I have this exact slip chain and fucking love it.

Ghost?? With a heart necklace???? That you can pull on??????

Hehe

(wip‘s and more rendered artworks (18+) are on my patreon)

[darkstrawberrytimetravel]

Positively ancient now.

sigh i truly believe that if you ever tried to tell the 141 boys not to pick you up because you were too heavy, they would look at you with the most deadpan expression, hook their hands around the back of your knees and lift until your thighs were hugging their ears, looking up at you with a raised brow

“wanna say that again?”

[darkstrawberrytimetravel]

I have another two fic ideas begging to be written but I need to finish my current two. Or just progress them.

[darkstrawberrytimetravel]

[darkstrawberrytimetravel]

Why don't you just give in. Pt.5

Fem reader

18+, rough handling, fingering,

Pt.4

Riley

He groans loudly and kicks his leg out, kicking the front passenger seat of the taxi.

“Oi! Mate, pack it in otherwise I'm bootin’ you out. Can bloody well walk home.” The cabby driver snaps as he eyes him in the rear view mirror.

“Alright, alright, sorry mate.” Riley raises his hands to placate the driver. Relaxing back into his seat and crossing one leg over the other he stares out the window. The drive doesn't take long, the housing estate he resides in being closer to the town centre than the outskirts. The driver barely has time to pull the handbrake up before Riley chucks a few notes at him, barely wincing at the night time surcharge, before swiftly exiting the taxi and stalking up to his front door. Letting himself in, he shrugs off his jacket and shoes as in the small hallway before climbing the stairs and straight into the shower.

Standing under the hot spray he leans his forehead against the tile wall and shuts his eyes, though doing so turns into a big mistake. As soon as his lids meet it's like the lights go off in a cinema auditorium, images dance over the forefront of his mind of you and him. His nose trailing down the column of your neck as your back arches under his touch, his tongue tracing your areola before his teeth tug on your hardened nipple. Your laugh as he lazily kisses you when you wake, the sounds of rain outside as you both lay on opposite ends of his couch, legs entwined, while you both read. Coming up behind you as you make a cup of tea for the two of you, his hands resting on your hips and his mouth finds the soft skin of your neck, trailing up to your ear as he finally whispers those three little words. I love you. He nearly rips the handle off the valve as he turns the water off and steps out.

Not now, I can't think of you. Why do you fucking haunt me. It's been months and you clearly just wanted my cock.

Drying himself he dresses in a pair of sweatpants, forgoing boxers. He walks downstairs and into the kitchen, pouring himself a double bourbon he takes it through to the lounge. Parking out on the sofa he sits in the dark, downing the drink and pulling up his phone. He pauses, as he places the glass on the coffee table, hoping the moment gives him time to really think about what he's about to do, to stop himself.

“I'm too fuckin’ weak for my own good.” He mumbles, opening the locked folder in his photos app as he tortures himself further, scrolling through the hundreds of saved photos of you, of the two of you. Lights shine through the front window, almost blinding him and he glances up, frowning as a car uses his drive to turn. Blinking the bright dots away he realises someone is climbing out, it's a taxi. That someone is walking up to his front door. That someone looked like they're wearing a hoodie and jeans shorts. It's like the air is stolen from the room, his heart races as he realises it's you. Like a prayer he'd never had the courage to utter is answered, and there you are on his property.

It's like a dream, and he practically glides out the front room and back into the small hallway to his front door, opening it just as you raise your hand to knock. Your eyes are slightly glazed, your hair tousled. Not styled but clearly raked through as you would normally do when you're nervous.

“Hey.” A simple statement. Breathy, soft like a whisper almost.

“Why are you here?” His jaw set, eyes narrowing.

“I… miss you, I wanted to-” You're nervous, your fingers play with the zipper of your hoodie.

“I'm not your fucking booty call, not the person you come to for a quickie.” He practically barks, fuck his thoughts tonight. Fuck that weak moment he'd allowed himself as he revisited the good times. Closing the door in your face he goes to turn but the door doesn't shut all the way, it stops abruptly. Glancing down he notices your foot in the door frame.

“I love you.” It rushes out your mouth, as if the words themselves were living entities you couldn't control. Your fingers curl around the door frame as you try to push it further, to see him.

He stands there, his heart racing. I love you. It echoes in his mind. Those words he so longed to hear all those months ago. A year ago. Why has it taken so long? Why now? Instead of joy, anger rises up. The door flies open as he pulls it roughly, grabbing you by the fabric of your clothing and hauling in you. He catches you as you stumble, kicking the door shut being you and enveloping you. Left hand gliding up your nape to your hairline as his fingers comb through and tugging you to him, right hand wrapping around your lower back and his mouth crashes into yours. He groans, pulling you hard against him as the kiss is fierce and all encompassing as he pours all his heartbreak into it. He feels your hands wrap around him, your right hooked around his neck and your left sliding across his rib cage and resting between his shoulder blades. You taste sweet, not just the alcohol. But his favourite taste, barring one other.

The anger catches up to him and he stumbles forward with you, you almost fall onto the carpeted stairs before he pulls you up and rights you. Pulling away he draws in a lung full of air. His chest heaving with how heavy the kiss was.

“You love me? You?” It's almost a growl, how deep and low his voice is. He doesn't give you time to answer before he spins you in place, your back now to him. He yanks your shorts and underwear down in one fell swoop, they fall to your ankles, before his left hand wraps around your jaw and the right rests against your navel.

“You love me?” His grip on your jaw tightens as he roughly turns you to face him over your shoulder. His hand glides down to your pussy, sliding his finger between your lips he feels how slick you are. Only then does he take notice of your ragged breaths, how your chest heaves. It's like liquid fire erupts in his belly, spreading low and he feels his cock harden almost painfully.

“I do I'm sorry-”

“You're sorry? Fucking what? You fucking haunt me, made me fall in love with you, chew me up and then spit me out.” He pushes you forward onto the stairs, planting his left hand between your shoulder blades, the fingers of his right find your pussy again, he doesn't waste any time before pushing one in. He feels you go rigid before a whimper falls from your mouth. He finds that sweet spot right away, almost like no time has passed, and he curls his finger. You moan and arch your back in response.

“Oh you like that?” He keeps his voice level. Pushing a second in he does the same, curling and then pumping them in and out of you slowly.

“Jesus fuck Simon…” it comes out shaky, your fingers curling and uncurling against the edge of the step your face rests against.

“So tight, so wet, love.” He leans forward, nose in your hair, smelling you before his mouth finds the lobe of your ear.

“You think-” he fingers work inside you, curling and pumping into you as he feels you tighten around him “-you can just come in here, to my home.” He pauses as your body starts to shake, he knows you're close. “In the middle of the fucking night. And tell me that? What fucking use is it now?” Just as you let go he pulls out of you and slaps your ass hard. You're a mess, shaking on his stairs under him.

“Please Simon…” you murmur, he can hear the disappointment in your voice. Are you disappointed because he withheld your orgasm? Or because you can't suck up to him?

Bringing his fingers to his mouth he sucks your taste off of him, stifling a groan at the taste, his favourite taste. It's been too long. But he's too fucking angry with you. Keeping his left hand between your shoulder blades his right slides up and wraps around your hair, fisting it as he yanks you backwards against him. “Why should I believe you? You're a fucking coward, only ever here for my cock. Never said a word to me this whole time, and now you turn up in the middle of the fucking night.” He feels your back against his chest, even through your clothes he can feel the rapid fire beat of your heart.

“Si… just please. Listen to me. Just… give in this one time. Give me a chance.” you murmur, he feels your head turn against his, like you're searching for his eyes over your shoulder but it's too dark, and you're both so so close.

[darkstrawberrytimetravel]

When Monster had their COD promo last year, every day I would buy a can and position it so Ghost would permanently scowl at me. Did it improve my motivation at work? Eh so so. Was it distracting? Definitely.

Do you kids know how hard it is to hyper fixate on shit as a goddamn adult?? Sorry boss I know you need those files done but I’m too busy giggling like a goddamn school girl over a fictional man

[darkstrawberrytimetravel]

Why don't you just give in?Pt.4

Fem reader

Pt.3

You

I grab my drink and follow the girls to a nearby table, we’re seated midway between the bar and the back of the pub. I know the girls are watching the lads at the pool table, I can’t help myself either as I look up and watch as Simon loses his current round against Gaz. His movements around the table are sleek, like a panther, and practised as he lines up his next shot. His muscles flexing under his jacket, the hem of his jacket and shirt riding up just enough for my eyes to trail over his lower back. He’s trying, but he’s never been great at scoring, he’s just in it for the game. 

Images of us in bed together lazily flash through the forefront of my mind, him laid on his front as I straddle his bare thighs and massage his back. My thumbs working deep into the knotted muscles of his broad and muscular physique, the feel of my breasts brushing against him as I lean forward and trace my tongue up his spine. The taste of his skin, sweat and his own scent that I can never find elsewhere. 

I clear my throat and shake my head away, willing those thoughts to dissipate as quickly as they had appeared. I shouldn’t be thinking of him. We’re history. 

I stir my drink and make an idiotic point of counting the beads of condensation on the glass. Anything to distract myself. By the time I lookup again I realise he’s gone, I check the table with Soap and the others and he's not there either. 

Breathing a sigh of relief I settle in, despite my little speech in the taxi it looks like we’ll be staying here. Then again I can’t really go elsewhere in shorts, a hoodie, and trainers. The evening flies by, finally we actually start to socialise as a group, no more eye fucking the boys. Just as I start to feel that familiar easy going feeling of the alcohol working its magic on my body, my eyes trail up to the pool table and then the adjacent table and bench. Still no Simon.

I wonder why he's gone, he doesn't chain his cigarettes, and normally after a particularly long operation he parks himself out in the pub until last orders. The more I think about him in the present I can't help the past rear its ugly head. Though it hasn't always been ugly. I find my thoughts shift to us, our passion once upon a time. How fierce it had burnt, the feeling of our bodies, limbs tangled, comfortable and even serene moments in each other's company as we went about mundane ordinary hobbies and tasks. Hopes for the future. His hopes for our future. My inability to fully commit myself. His disappointment and hurt.

“Hey!” 

I feel myself being shaken lightly, blinking and looking around, I'm met with a pair of green eyes. Laura's eyes. Suddenly I'm back in the present, we're in the pub. I realised I'm chewing my thumb, removing it and wiping my thumb dry on my hoodie. I avoid her eyes.

“Yeah sorry, got a little lost there. You know…. I think I'm going to head off. Make my own way back.” 

Standing up, I make my excuses to the rest of the girls, citing plans for the weekend and needing an early night. As I step out onto the street and the pub door closes behind me I take a lung full of air. There's an autumnal chill, I realise how cold I am despite the alcohol coursing through my body. Standing there for a moment longer I make my mind up and walk further along to the taxi rank. My self control crashes, vanishes, and I know I can't fight the inevitable.

Settling into the taxi I nervously play with the cuff on my hoodie, I'm drunk. That's all it is. I just need physical connection. No other reason. I try to distract myself by looking out the passenger window, watching the dark houses fly past as we get ever closer to my destination. My limbs are tingling, I start to panic as I think about the last time we were in close quarters, alone. How he'd looked at him with dark eyes, disappointment and hurt morphing into something else. Anger. How he'd fucked me, lulling me into a sense of security only to pull the rug out from under me after we'd finished. Calling me a slag and practically kicking me out his house. 

His defence mechanism. What did you expect? You broke his heart, did you expect him to carry on with the arrangement as normal, as if he hadn't poured his heart and soul out to you? Only you couldn't reciprocate back could you. Those three words on the tip of your tongue but you're not brave enough to say them. Coward. 

The taxi stops and I'm pulled from my thoughts again. I barely register myself paying the fare and stepping out. I'm outside his home. Simon's home. I'm always awestruck with the mundanity of it. Just a simple two bedroom detached brick property on an unassuming street in Hereford. Close enough for a 15 minute standby, far enough for privacy and comfort away from the Garrison. I feel my heart race and my breath shudder out as I walk those few remaining steps to the front door, I don't even have to knock. The door opens and I'm met with his eyes, I can't tell how he's feeling. It's too dark to see any emotion written on his face.

“Hey” I don't realise how soft my voice is. How nervous I am.

Pt.5

[darkstrawberrytimetravel]

Thoughts of Ghost edging the fuck out of you as you lose any modicum of self respect you had, before pounding you senseless.

Thoughts of Soap tying you spread eagle, tongue trailing over your body yet avoiding where you actually want his mouth until you're a dripping mess.

Price telling you to strip, turn around then bend over and touch your toes, giving him an unimpeded view of what you have to offer.

You and Gaz on the tube after a night out, hand wandering down between your legs, whispering in your ear reminding you to keep quiet so the other passengers don't cotton onto what he's doing to you.

[darkstrawberrytimetravel]

Come hell or high water. Pt.2

18+, MDNI. Tags: Gore, severe injury, trauma, amputation

Pt.1

Gaz.

Gaz watches as the whole operation turns to shit. One minute he's at the back of the line as the small group silently pick their way through the wooded area back towards soap and the rendezvous point, daring himself to think about what he'd do as soon as he's back on solid ground at the Garrison. Next both he and Price are blown onto their backs, as he watches you take the whole force of the explosive and roughly land in pieces on the upturned earth. While nothing could have prepared him for this moment, both he and Price automatically reverted back to the SOPs drilled into them from the start of their careers. Price flicks the switch on the Comms, informing Soap of the unfortunate development.

Price: “MAN DOWN!”

Soap : “SIT REP, NOW!"

Price: “CONTACT IED!”

He listens as Price updates Soap further, telling him to get the HALO free fall rig kit they'd stashed close by to the RV point before they'd engaged with the targets. And not to leave his position.

The next few minutes drag on, it seems like hours as Gaz and Price manually belly crawl forward and around you as they use their combat knives to check for any further IEDs within that immediate vicinity, digging into the soil carefully so as not to further detonate anymore. As soon as they've established the area to be as safe they get to work providing first aid. Flipping you over, they dig through your uniform pockets for the standard issue tourniquets all soldiers must carry.

“Mum… I want my mum… Fuck… can't die…like this.” Gaz hears as you whimper. The fear in your voice grips at his heart.

“S’alright, see Price and me are patching you up? You stay with us. We'll all laugh about this when we go for our pint, they'll slap a fucking bugs bunny plaster on you and call it a day.” He says, self assured. Only then does he look up and meet Price's gaze, the odds of you making out of this alive… he doesn't even want to think about that.

Tying off mid way up the thighs of the bloody stump and wrecked remains of your legs, tight, Gaz watches as the blood slows to a trickle. Looking up he spots Price as he tends to a penetrating injury on your right arm, applying another tourniquet there. Only then do they pause for a moment, realising that you've become still. Price puts his hand on your chest and simultaneously leans forward to listen for your breaths. There's nothing.

“Fuck! COMMENCING CPR!” He shouts, both he and Gaz work at cutting and tearing the clothing from your upper body until they see bare skin. Gaz moves to your head to provide the rescue breaths as Price compresses his fists hard into your chest.

“...twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty!”

Gaz watches as Price gives the allotted compressions before stopping and allowing Gaz to give the two rescue breaths. They go through three repetitions,Gaz about to take over from Price's exertions, before you finally take your own breath. It's shallow, weak. But you're breathing.

Gaz watches Price gingerly pick you up in a fireman's hold, and they cautiously retrace their steps back to the tree line before Price finds the original route the group had taken. They march in silence, it's only a matter of minutes before they're on the other side of the copse and they see Soap further down the road, waving his torch at them in the dark. They quickly make their way forward, meeting Soap half way, Price slowly and carefully laying you down on the dirt road as if you're made of bone china.

The next few moments are filled with Price's rapid fire shouting into the Sat phone, updating HQ of the situation, Gaz can barely keep up with the communications and the roaring in his ears. He looks down at you, unconscious, carefully laid down on the dirt road, your breaths short, gasps even.

Price: “ZERO, FOUR ZERO ALPHA, CONTACT IED. ONE CASUALTY. WITH CAUSALITY, NOW HAVE STABILISED AS BEST, NOW AT RV. GRID 542 736. WILL MARK WITH TORCH LIGHT. OVER.”

HQ: “BRAVO BRAVO ONE, HAVE ENGAGED MEDICS ON EVAC FLIGHT. ETA FIVE MINUTES. OVER.”

Pt.3

[darkstrawberrytimetravel]

Imagining Ghost wandering around Camden and flipping Zombiepunk off is rather entertaining.

bc of the new ghost tracer pack u can buy someone needs to write a fanfic as ghost as a punk rocker or or like a modern fic where this military man in his free time goes to punk shows and is soooo into it like full on punk nerd

[darkstrawberrytimetravel]

I don't know why, but the thought of Simon calling you duck (term of endearment here in the UK) tickles me. Have genuinely chuckled at it while out and about and probably looked absolutely crackers...

[darkstrawberrytimetravel]

Come hell or high water.

18+, MDNI. Tags: Gore, severe injury, trauma, amputation

(Had this song stuck in my head prompting me a little)

Price.

It shouldn't have ended this way. Not today, not on a fucking flyby of an operation. All it was was get in, neutralise the targets, get out. Except as they made their way through the copse of trees and onto the road for extraction, tragedy struck.

There had been no need not to retrace their steps back onto the barely used road which was the pre arranged extraction point. But you never did, you were maybe a few metres out off of the original path you, Gaz and Price all crept along earlier. But a few metres meant nothing in instances such as this. Price watched as the air in front of him becomes tangible, no longer transparent but now opaque with what was once the solid ground they had been walking upon.

There you were walking ahead, the joke being you'd take point instead of Gaz and Price could stare at your ass for a change, light hearted banter despite the atrocities just commited all due to a few lines drawn in the earth and men behind desks having a disagreement. Price saw the ground rise up beneath you, it was like you'd been plucked by some invisible force and were suspended midair as he's blown backwards, Gaz although further back is also brought down by the shockwave. Price comes to, ears ringing, like static being played on a loop inside his head. His chest feeling heavy with the kinetic energy that passed through him, fuck knows what it's done to you. Blinking hard he sits up, you're laid on your front, prone to the floor unmoving, your body looks different, a leg shorter, the other mangled almost beyond recognition. Red blooming around you, top and bottom, greedily being sucked in by the recently disrupted soil.

"Fuck, don't... Don't move Gaz, don't you move." He barks as he pulls himself up and kneels forward looking at you, what is left of you. They weren't expecting the IED strike. Shite you're as good as dead...

Crack and the earth moves again, "Fuck!" he flinches, but this time there's a clear distance between this explosion and the one prior, then recalling he'd just given the go ahead for Soap to use the det cord to bring down a few telephone poles, allowing for a clear path for the aircraft to land. He flicks the switch for his radio and calls in the situation.

Pt.2

[darkstrawberrytimetravel]

Why don't you just give in? Pt.3

Fem reader

18+, MDNI, tags: oral sex, rough oral sex.

Pt.2

Riley

“I'll get the first round.” Riley says as soon as he and the lads walk into the pub, he marches over to the bar and orders a pint, of the barman's choice. Placing it in front of Riley, he's then provided the card terminal. His card barely kisses the screen before he's gulping down the pint without stopping for air. He slams the empty glass back down in the bar, the barman still stood there with his eyebrow cocked.

“Listen mate, a few months of drinking piss warm water out of a water bladder makes you appreciate the finer things a whole lot more…” his voice rough, he then proceeds to rattle off the drinks for his round, and without a second thought to the pint he'd just downed he orders himself a double bourbon.

With his tray he walks over to the table and sits on the bench before pulling out his ‘backy pouch, filters, and papers as he starts rolling. The night is an easy one, everyone settling into it, they commandeer the pool table with Riley pitting himself against Gaz right away. He spots *her* right away as her group walks in, she's dressed casually, her shorts working overtime on her legs.

Those legs I've run my tongue up and down on from her ankles to her pussy then-

“Earth to Si… you gonna take your shot?” Gaz grins as he sips his pint before setting it down.

Riley quickly glances at the pool table and takes his shot, not realising she's watching him as she orders her drink. He and Gaz soon finish up, Riley grabbing his ‘backy pouch from the table before heading outside the front for a smoke.

Fucking hell I can't keep thinking about her… it never works. We've danced this dance since we were teenagers. His thoughts come unbidden as he strikes the lighter and lights his rolled cigarette. He barely takes his first draw before he looks around and catches the eye of another smoker. A girl… a sexy slip of a thing easily then years his junior. He flashes her an easy smile.

“Hey, not seen you around before. Are you local?” She says breezily, trying and failing at attempting to be cool in front of this older, ruggedly handsome man.

“Soldier, from the garrison up the road…” Riley mutters as his eyes shamelessly travel over her before meeting her gaze again and they both silently walk to a nearby alleyway.

Exhaling a cloud of smoke he closes his eyes and tilts his head back momentarily against the wall of the alleyway. The hand holding his cigarette falls back down and meets his thigh, his other hand fisting the hair of the girl on her knees and face in his crotch, with her hand between her bare thighs. Pulling on her hair and pushing her away slightly, he hears those obscene slurps and focuses on her watery eyes and mascara stained face. He meets her gaze for a moment before bringing his cigarette back up to his lips, after taking a draw he flicks it away and brings his free hand to the other side of her head and proceeds to face fuck her. Hips pistoning into her mouth, chasing it, his release.

It's not her though is it. He realises, not those familiar eyes, those perfect puffy lips he loves so much, albeit begrudgingly, not her hand wrapped around his dick as she brings him to those heady heights after edging him and teasing him throughout the day. He's relentless now, the stranger on her knees gagging as his dick slides down the back of her throat as he goes at an almost punishing pace. Still nothing, but bless her though, he feels her cum with her fingers between her legs and dress hitched to her hips. Hearing her moans muffled by his cock and the spasm of her jaw along with the rest of her body as she works through her orgasm does nothing for him, and so he pulls out of her mouth, the wrong mouth.

“Not tonight love, I'm shattered and probably downed one too many.” He mumbles, gaze meeting hers and thumbing her bottom lip for a moment before he puts his cock away and zips his jeans up, not bothering to help her to her feet.

“Oh, was I not good?” She says unsure, struggling to her feet. She totters on her heels for a moment, then leans over and brushes the dirt from her bare knees and settles her dress back down.

“No love, just shattered.” He lies before turning around and walking out the alleyway and back into the pub. Making his excuses to the lads as he finishes his drink, he walks back out, not caring if he bumps into the girl again, her face another forgettable one amongst the others he's claimed over the years. Hailing a taxi, he gives the driver his own address for the small terraced house he'd bought in Hereford, before he settles against the back seat in the cab, closing his eyes and pushing the heels of his palms into them.

"Argh."

Pt.4

[darkstrawberrytimetravel]

Why don't you just give in? Pt.2

Fem reader

Pt.1

You

He's looking skinny, or as skinny as a man who's resembled a brick shithouse for the last two decades can be, less toned I suppose more lean. I watch as he turns away, the t-shirt he's wearing allowing for more creases, bagginess. He's forgone his mask, not that he needs it. He needs a shave instead, he almost resembles his Captain with that growth. His dirty blonde hair now sun bleached in parts and his tan somewhat deeper.

You know you want to run your fingers through it, feel the short hairs against the pads of your fingers as your hand moves against the grain. The last time you did that his hands were- My thoughts are both rudely and thankfully interrupted.

“Ohhh blimey you see the lads? Who's that with the scraggly face? The tall one?” I hear Laura beside me. Instantly the table I'm seated at falls into hushed gossip, as they always do when they see the task force. The SAS lads are a common sight around here, but the more specialist unit within it still garners mystique, enthusiastic and borderline obsessive gossip whenever they grace us with their presence.

“Ghost… you really don't recognise him without that rag on his face?” I murmur as I look down and bring my mug of coffee to my lips. Ghost... I still hate that callsign. Nickname. The lore. I mean I know how fucking vicious and brutal he can be. It's not learnt or adaptive behaviour since joining the military. As usual the table descends into the usual gossip, the girls wanting to follow them to the pub they'll inevitably end up at later on. Such is the routine when they land back on home turf, especially since they've clearly been gone a while. Eat, drink, fuck, repeat.

I zone out, leaving the others to continue their usual shite when they talk about the lads. Finishing up, I stand with my tray and head to the tray return carts, Laura shouts and tells me I will be joining them tonight and that it's final. Fuckin’ a! Wherever the lads will be, so will we, the sodding groupies they are. Though it won't take much to be out the way, they're only headed to a pub. No need to dress to impress.

Walking away from my table I steel myself, walking past Riley and his lot. I resist the urge to gob in his food, as usual. I would have done it years ago, but I've risen above that version of myself. I do however afford a quick glance down and I'm met with ochre orbs, his ochre eyes. This time I yield and look away, not wanting to walk into someone with a tray full leftover dinner.

Later I find myself freshly showered, the weather keeps flip-flopping so I decide on shorts with a tank and a hoodie with my favourite trainers. It's still warm and humid enough to warrant the summer gear, but as August stretches through to September there's a chill in the air. I look at myself in the mirror, my hair tousled and low key smokey eyes. I almost feel like I should scrub the makeup off, I'm in my mid thirties, why am I dressing like I'm fifteen years younger.

We all bundle in the taxi for fifteen minutes it takes for us to get to the town centre in Hereford. I listen as the others plan and scheme where the lads are, I give the usual non committal noises they'd expect but eventually I put my proverbial foot down. “Look, I don't want to spend all night with you lot drooling over them. We'll get pre-drinks at The Queen's Arms, some of you will get a quickie I'm sure, and then we should go somewhere better to spend our time.”

I'm met with eye rolls and smirks, it's no secret I'm not enthralled by the lads on the task force, and even under duress when plied with copious drinks I've still not spilt the beans. Finally the taxi pulls over and we hop out, the fare being prepaid since it was a group booking. I stay behind to organise a return journey later before following the girls into the pub. We're met with a wall of sound, almost raucous, as we filter in and find a table. I see Riley actually enjoying himself around the pool table for once.

Pt.3