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bobparkhurst · 7 months

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[picrew] A Bit Of Background Context First: I don't tend to share OCs. I've done it... a handful of times. But they are fun and I love other people's and i love mine too. So, I've decided to pick up with the @almost-a-class-act's spooky prompts for October, a form of OC-tober as well.

So... every time I pick up a spooky prompt (not daily), I'll be picking up with an existing or new OC. They're not necessarily introductions - these are primarily for me to get used to sharing anything. So yeah, probably a lot of in media res.

Anyway. This one is Christine Basset. She features in an SAS Rogue Heroes fic I'm working on as we speak. Somewhere in the middle of four siblings, Chris found a purpose she never knew she had during the war, working as a driver for the National Fire Service. Now the war is over, the pressure to return to more domestic endeavours is high, and she will navigate that the best she can.

Character A tries to convince Character B that it's too early to put the Halloween decorations up

Mike is almost out the door and already congratulating himself on a job well done when the upstairs window flies open and a loud voice rings out into the evening.

“Michael Sadler, that had better not be you skulking around my front garden.”

He freezes and tries to flatten himself behind one of the rather unruly rose bushes that he’s been assuring his wife he’ll definitely manage to tame sometime, but the slipper that zips just past his nose and lands with a soft thwomp on the path in front him him lets him know that he’s been entirely unsuccessful in the attempt. He sighs heavily and stoops to pick it up.

Chris leans out of it, arms folded and eyebrow raised. He waves the slipper sheepishly back at her.

“If I told you I was just letting the dog out, would you believe me?” he calls up. Chris makes a show of considering it, before fixing him with another skeptical stare. He grimaces. “She’s on the bed, isn’t she?”

“You know, I told my mother I’d landed a clever one,” Chris says, voice dry. “Get back inside and bring that back in with you.”

She doesn’t mean the slipper.

Tucked under his arm, wrapped hastily in an old towel, is possibly the most terrifying thing Mike’s ever seen in his life, and all things considered, that ought to be saying something. He isn’t sure where Chris’s brother got it from, except possibly Hell itself, and more to the point, he has absolutely no idea why his wife likes it so much. Some hand-painted sheepskin mask, lopsided and sewn together with clumsy stitches to form some kind of nightmarish amalgamation of what looks like several different imaginary creatures created by someone who has never seen an animal before in his life.

The mask had been sitting undisturbed where he had hidden it when it had first come into the house, somewhere buried underneath a stack of newspapers and three tins of paint, for months. He’d almost jumped out of his own skin when he had arrived home from the pub and found it staring at him with its uncanny lifeless eyes from the kitchen window. It had made the carved jack o lantern next to it look like some cherubic effigy.

Chris had intended it, she said, as decoration for the Halloween party they were hosting tomorrow and actually, it was beautiful and perfect for the job. Mike had asked her if she expected anyone to actually enter the house if that objectively petrifying thing was staring at them. She didn’t seem to think it was as reasonable a question as he did and they had found themselves then eagerly squaring up for an argument.

But then the oven had begun to smoke and both of them had been somewhat distracted for the next several minutes. By the time the situation had been dealt with and the dinner almost rescued, they had entirely forgotten what they had been arguing about in the first place.

It hadn’t been until he’d gone downstairs to answer a late night call of nature that he’d realised - with an alarmed shriek that he was sure was very manly and dignified - that he was just going to have to take matters into his own hands and resolve this untenable situation of That Thing Inside His Home himself. And that decision had lead to his wife sitting down on the bottom of the stairs with one bare foot and an expectant expression.

The slipper he hands to her first when he comes back inside. She tugs it back onto her foot, before holding out a hand for the other package.

“The party isn’t till tomorrow,” he tries, with what he hopes is his most appealing smile. “Chris. My love. Please see clearly.” He pats the towel. “This is horrifying. This is the worst thing that anyone has ever brought into our home. Including Jasper.”

Jasper is their miserable and mysteriously aged cat. Neither of them are going to bother arguing about this objective fact.

“It’s supposed to be scary,” she replies. Her lips twitch. “My love.”

“Sweetheart…”

“Beloved…”

She shuffles up against the wall as he sits down next to her. From above, a small terrier begins to clatter itself down the steps, happily snuffling at the sight of its two favourite people. The towel Mike tucks down on the other side of him and holds his hands out, palms up. After a moment, Chris rolls her eyes and places her hands in his.

“If I don’t make a fuss about it during the party, can it at least live outside tonight?”

“What about tomorrow night?”

He considers for a moment. “Could we burn it?”

“No.” She squeezes his hands and leans in, nose pressed against his. “But... if it goes back in the cupboard under the paint until next Halloween, will that be acceptable?”

She plants a light kiss on his lips, which technically is cheating in these negotiations, but he decided to feel magnanimous in this small victory.

He’ll have at least a few hours to convince one of the neighbour children to steal it during the party anyway.

#war is helloween #sas rogue heroes oc #oc: christine basset #sas rogue heroes #mike sadler x oc #mike sadler #bob: spooky prompts

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eoinmcgonigal · 3 days

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me again! 😈🤣

could i also ask for "your lover pulling away from a kiss to ask you to marry them" with whatever pairing you'd like!!

thank you again! <3

Welcome back >:D

You absolutely can! I hope it's okay that I've done Mike/OC. I don't think he or Jim have been requested, and for some reason an OC just felt right.

He pulls away from the heat of the kiss, trembling as his words softly graze against her lips: “Marry me.”

Sarah giggles at the thought, wrapping her arms around Mike and kissing him again. There are other things on her mind. She makes sure they are on Mike’s too, drawing him back into what they were doing.

It’s only afterwards, as she gathers her shirt and is buttoning it back up that he breaks the comfortable silence they often share.

“I meant it, you know.”

Sarah looks towards where he still lies on the bed, sprawled in a tangle of sheets and limbs like he always does. The words take a moment to register, her heart skipping a beat as she realises that he was serious. He meant it.

She has to look down. She didn’t realise that was something they could have—that it was something he wanted. It had seemed like an amusing, fleeting notion.

Her hands falling to her sides, Sarah goes slowly towards him. She knees, the mattress dipping beneath her weight as she settles on her side, facing him. “You truly…?”

“Yes.”

Wetting her lips, Sarah wonders if he can tell how fast her heart is beating. “Ask me again?”

He doesn’t—not immediately. Instead, he shifts closer, his hand caressing her cheek and drawing her in. The kiss is gentle, and sweet, everything she’s come to love about the side of himself he trusts her with.

The kiss breaks, and this time when Mike meets her gaze there is no questioning his sincerity.

“Marry me.”

With a trembling smile, she nods: “Yes.”

Kissing prompts

#sas rogue heroes #mike saddler #mike x oc #kissing prompts #document type: diary entry

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youraveragebritishamerican · 16 days

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Just some information about my SAS:RH oc, Elliott Yves Calvari-Roche.

#sas rogue heroes #sas: rogue heroes #male oc #male original character #oc

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butternuggets-blog · 1 year

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Changing Faces

Minor Blood/Gore - A Discovery of Witches x SAS Rogue Soldiers

Pat Riley, Augustin Jordan, Baldwin Montclair/Male OC

@adowbaldwin @booksoncanvas

Pat Riley kept polishing his boots and studiously ignoring the two men locked in a fierce whispered argument beside him.

He had glanced askance out the corner of his eye a few times now and caught the ginger staring at him with an intense, cold expression. The blonde had come and gone a few times, doing duties, and whenever he returned he would try to pry the other man from his perch in the shadows. And the argument would resume.

'Can I help you sir?'

The blonde smirked at his friend, and strode over. The ginger twitched like he wanted to step forward, but chose not to, glaring instead at his companion’s back.

'Not really.’ The Free French man shrugged apologetically. His accent was noticable by its absence; his voice was nondescript, but there was an almost lyrical lilt to his words, like poetry. ‘My friend thought he knew you; you look exactly like someone we've met before'

'Someone good?'

No, unfortunately. He was-..' the man fumbled loosely for a polite turn of phrase, failed to find one, and gave up. '- a monster.'

‘Well I hope I don’t prove to be one’

The blonde smiled. ‘I hope so too.’

________________________________________________________________

He found out later that their names were Benoit Ferrand and Martin Bouchard. Martin was fair-haired and genial, a sergent that could raise the spirits of his men effortlessly, and made a genuine effort to get to know everyone under his command.

Benoit was a captain, ruthless and pragmatic, and with a fiery temper that could be curbed with a look from Martin. Pat felt that it was another Paddy and Eion situtation, and kept his thoughts to himself.

He had even more to think about when the rest of the Free French came back from patrol. Augustin Jordan had been out leading a patrol, and hadn’t been told about the new commanding officers who had arrived with fresh recruits.

Pat watched him stiffen, his eyes roving over the pair as they approached the truck. Benoit nodded, stiff and formal, and Augustin returned the gesture, shrinking in on himself a little like he was trying to appear smaller than he was.

Interesting.

He showed the same deferance to Martin as well, although he shook the other man’s hand instead of bowing. They were clearly communicating with each other although Pat could barely see their lips moving as they talked.

...oh.

Pat’s heart jumped slightly. He was still getting used to having Augustin around; he wasn’t nearly as concerned about the vampire as he had been when they found out about his condition, but adding two more into the mix, especially ones that appeared to have senority over him...well, he was definately uneasy.

________________________________________________________________

Pat spat blood onto the sand, dribbling most of it down his chin and onto his collar as Baldwin stared down at him with a blank expression.

'Morning.’ He drew a rasping breath. ‘Fancy meeting you here.'

The plane had caught them by surprise, straffing the trucks and causing them to scatter. The rest of the patrol had gotten away but Pat had missed the obvious drop in the sand dune in front of them and before even Baldwin’s lightning-fast reflexes could save them they had pitched forward into nothing.

He remembered hands shoving him clear of the driver’s side door and then darkness.

'You should..leave me here and..and go get help'

'Don't be stupid.’

Baldwin sat down on the sand beside him, resting a salvaged machine gun in his lap. Behind them, the sun was setting, the crumpled remains of the truck quietly smoking away.

‘Martin would never forgive me if I left you here alone.'

'How long have I got?'

Baldwin glanced at him.

'..not too long. Another two hours.'

It was. No relief, no joy; no sorrow or anger either, just a quiet, calm peace in the face of the inevitable.

Pat thought about the pass in his pack for Cairo and hoped that Jim would use it wisely. They’d joked about seeing the girls at the Empire Club, but they were sure they wouldn’t get very far before they found better entertainment elsewhere. He hoped Jim was smiling when he raised a toast to him.

They lapsed into a comfortable silence for a while, the sound of Pat’s rasping breathing mingling with the hiss and pop of the now-destroyed car. The plane didn’t come back, which was a relief, but Pat suspected it was because he had been lying unconcious for so long that whenever it had passed overhead previously it hadn’t seen any survivors.

Baldwin shifted in the sand and glanced down at him again.

'Have you figured out what we are?’

Pat nodded, and lapsed into a coughing fit. Baldwin waited politely for him to finish.

‘When?'

'Augustin.'

It was all he could manage around the liquid clogging his throat.

'I suppose we couldn't hide forever. Not in such cramped quarters.' Baldwin’s fingers fiddled with a few scuffed marks on the barrel of the gun as he tried to come up with the rights words.

'Martin thinks I should offer immortality to you.’ Baldwin scoffed lightly at something only he could see in his mind’s eye. ‘An immortal life.. as long as your enemies don't get too close to you first.'

'I'd consider it'

'Of course you would, you're dying'

'Still, it's not like I've got anywhere to be right now.'

Pat settled back into the sand and watched the stars come out above them. Phantom grass beneath his fingers whisked him back to Cumbria, the scent of ashwood and his mother’s primsoses from the window box outside the living room and the chatter of the neighbours echoing through the wall. He missed the chance to miss home.

Two fingers stretched towards the vampire, and Pat nodded as Baldwin slid closer.

'Are you sure? I need verbal consent before I even agree to attempt this'

'Attempt?' Pat croaked, drily.

'It hasn't always gone well, in the past'

'I'm sure.’ Pat bit through his lip as he half-crawled, half-dragged himself up into the other man’s lap and collapsed back down. ‘Don't mean to outrun the reaper, just delay him a bit.'

'And you're sure? You're ready?'

'Ready as I'll ever be. Let's do this'

'Alright.’ Baldwin helped him get comfortable again, and wiped some of the gunk away from his neck. Pat shivered at the brush of cold fingers against his skin.

‘This is going to be excruitiating.'

Pat nodded.

#pat riley #baldwin montclair #augustin jordan #baldwin montclair/male oc #sas rogue heroes #a discovery of witches

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hesbuckcompton-baby · 7 months

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Damage Gets Done - SAS: Rogue Heroes x OC - Chapter 5

Summary: Still reeling from Eoin McGonigal's death, Diana prepares for L Detachment's raid on Tamet Airfield

Relationships: L Detachment x Platonic!OC, eventual Reg Seekings x OC

Warnings: Language, violence, very brief gore, alcohol consumption

Word Count: 3.8k

Tags: @20th-centu-fairy-girl

A/N: Sorry this chapter took a while! I moved for university recently, so I had to take some time to adjust to a lot of changes, but I'm settled now and back to writing again!

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The road to Jalo - if it could even be called that - was uneven and inhospitable, their jeeps swaying precariously side to side as they travelled dunes and rocky trails, the wind disguising their tracks as they filed through the barren wasteland to god-knows-where. Diana sat silently in the passenger seat beside Paddy as they followed behind Sadler, sunglasses shielding her eyes from the glaring sun, curls piled atop her head in a failing attempt to cool herself down, the desert breeze succeeding at nothing save for blowing more hot air directly at her, carrying sand with it, and it sometimes seemed as if the group had accidentally swallowed half the desert already.

Paddy had somehow become even colder since Eoin's death, regarding her with little more than an even stare. She could not - would not - tell him the whole story of that night - how it had been her job to check McGonigal's parachute was safe and secure, how she had found his battered body down in the bushes and dragged him for hours, how she could not help but blame herself for the soldier's death. Mayne was hot-headed at the best of times. If he thought Diana was responsible for the death of his best friend, she wasn't entirely certain he wouldn't kill her. No. It was her burden to shoulder alone, at least for now.

Jalo protruded, stout and square, from the blanket of dunes ahead, its walls of sand and dirt disguising it against the monotone landscape, its facade unassuming, with a few gaping holes in its perimeter wall to testify to its state of abandonment. It didn't look like much of a base as they pulled up beside it, Diana craning her head to peer at the wide, empty yard inside, but it certainly had potential. As they clambered out of the jeeps, Kershaw wordlessly tossed her his flask, the water stale but good enough to wash the dirt out of her mouth as Stirling emerged at the head of the group, hands on his hips as he surveyed the place.

"This is good," She assured him, standing at his side. "They won't find us out here in the middle of fuck-knows."

David nodded in agreement with this assessment, glancing sideways at the woman. He had not missed the ever-present scowl that had been creasing her expression since their failed parachute jump. Stirling knew the loss of McGonigal had shaken the team, but he had never thought him and Diana to be particularly close, so her state of seemingly constant misery struck him as strange. It would not do.

Clapping a hand over her shoulder, Stirling turned to address Sadler, the newest addition to their group. "How far to the nearest German airfield?"

"Sirte is 350 miles north-west."

"And the Allied front line?" Diana added, taking another sip of Kershaw's foul-tasting water as she suppressed a grimace.

"The first position we'd come to is East - 80 miles to the New Zealand Reserve troop. Although, they've been sent north, so the camp is empty."

Stirling had an idea. His hand still on Diana's shoulder, he looked to her, brow raised. In the months they had spent together, they had come to know each other well, and in times like this, they scarcely even needed to speak to one another to convey their thoughts. Their natures were similar, their thirst for chaos and danger one and the same. Diana arched her brow, as if to say 'Seriously?', and David shrugged a 'Why not?'. A smirk had begun to creep its way across her expression by the time David turned to the others, who had witnessed this wordless conversation with varying looks of confusion.

It was Paddy who first caught on. "...The New Zealand camp is empty, eh?"

"They may have left some trucks behind," Stirling suggested.

"Some guns - ammunition," She added, her smirk spreading into a mischievous grin. Among the small crowd, the others seemed to realise what they were implying, an air of excitement settling over them. Sadler was frowning intently, the realisation of what he suddenly found himself involved in one that unsettled him. Diana shrugged as she walked past him, heading back to the truck. "We're all on the same side. It's just... re-distribution of resources," She assured him with a smile, clambering up into one of the jeeps. The thought did not seem to bring him comfort.

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It was a free-for-all the moment L Detachment arrived at the New Zealand camp, splitting off all over the place as they pilfered tents and loaded crates of ammunition and alcohol onto the trucks. In one of the officers' tents, Diana had found a stack of books, many of which her father had shelved in their library back home, and these had been unceremoniously shoved into her bag, the weight nothing compared to her parachute pack days earlier.

At one point, she and Johnny Cooper had attempted to smuggle out a large crate of bullets, which they proceeded to almost drop with a loud clatter. The men around them froze, the air filled with a tense silence as they waited to see if any of the remaining men in the infirmary tent had awoken and raised the alarm. When it appeared they had not been disturbed, Diana and Johnny struggled to suppress the fits of laughter that threatened to spill, delighted at their own success as they finished loading the truck, Sadler watching on with an ever-disappointed glare. She sent him a thumbs-up, but his scowl only seemed to deepen.

By the time they made it back to Jalo, it was already broad daylight the next day, the brief respite from the scorching desert sun already over, sweat dripping down their brows as they began to unload the trucks. Diana had been given the task of pitching the tents as some much-needed shelter from the elements, and Kershaw had taken it upon himself to help, holding up the poles for her as she attempted to drive tent pegs into the loose sand below.

"Don't think I haven't noticed you ain't said a word to Paddy since he came back after the storm," Dave said, driving another tent pole into the dirt. She looked up at him, stilling the movement of the mallet in her hand.

"We've been busy, if it escaped your notice."

He frowned at her. "I'm not thick, Di. I was there when you checked Eoin's parachute, I've pieced it together even if no one else has."

Diana sighed, throwing up her hands in surrender. "And if it was my fault he's dead, then what?"

"Then it was an innocent mistake. But I don't think it was - we all made the same checks, I didn't kill you, Reg didn't kill me. You didn't kill McGonigal."

"Paddy wouldn't see it that way," She shook her head, driving another peg into the sand with a mighty whack.

"No one knows what Paddy thinks of anything. But he'll notice you've gone all fucking weird, I'll tell ya that."

"... Let's just go blow some shit up, eh? Give us something else to think about."

The frown did not leave Kershaw's face, but he did not press the matter further. Diana was his best friend - that was true enough - and he would follow her lead in this, even if he did not agree. It was her burden to bear, but he would defend her against Paddy should the need arise. With a silent nod, he watched her hammer in the last peg, the tent now standing alone, and followed as they returned to the jeeps.

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Grease paint streaked her face, the smell of it lingering in the air, her coat collar turned up against the desert wind, which grew ever colder as the night rolled on. Her rifle sat comfortably in her palms, so familiar it felt like an extension of her own arm, but there was one key difference that set Diana apart from the men around her - she had never seen combat before. She had trained longer and harder than any of them, but she had never seen enemy territory, never fought without the supervision of her father. Never killed a man. She had hurt people - so many that the guilt no longer weighed on her conscience, but those men were paid for their troubles, offered leave to heal up. These men would not have that. When Diana hurt these men, they would stay down.

Her back was pressed up against the side of an Italian jeep, the sounds of chattering seeping from a large building across Tamet Airstrip. Reg was crouched beside her, their shoulders pressed against each other for balance as they prepared their weapons.

"You ready?" He spoke, voice scarcely more than a whisper.

Diana nodded, a stray curl bobbing up and down in front of her face. "Always," She smirked. Reg looked over at her, quickly returning the smile. In a single, swift movement, he raised his hand, flicking the curl out of her face before returning to his gun, loading it with a fresh magazine. Glancing over at Dave, it became clear he had witnessed the entire interaction, intrigued expression barely visible beneath the grime that coated his face. But she could always tell.

Wordlessly, Paddy reached out, passing her a couple of Lewes' bombs, gesturing for them to be handed to Sadler. As she passed them on, the navigator peered at them curiously, the objects foreign in his hands.

"The famous Lewes bomb, that is," Mayne nodded.

"Never heard of them," Mike frowned.

"They're only famous amongst us, in fairness," Diana shrugged. "Jock invented them."

"Have you used them before?"

Paddy and Diana glanced at each other, the lingering silence the only answer Sadler needed. Letting out a sigh of exasperation, he stuffed the bombs in his pocket as Mayne handed Diana another pair of explosives.

"These are primed to go off in ten minutes," He explained, passing the rest out to the other members of the group.

"From now?" Sadler asked cautiously.

"Aye."

She looked down at the bombs in her hands, her mind suddenly plagued by images of her own hands being blown off in a mighty explosion. "Right, so we should fucking get on with it then, eh?" Reg's voice came from beside her, his breath fanning across her face as he leaned forward to speak to Paddy.

"We have plenty of time," He spoke dismissively.

"For what?" Dave asked.

Their small group watched as Paddy turned, craning his neck to look beyond the jeep they crouched behind and at the building across the strip - lights glowed golden inside, the gentle din of laughter and music emitting from within. In a moment of sudden clarity, Diana realised his intentions.

"They're drunk, Paddy," She tutted, "They-"

"They are low-hanging fruit. They are pilots and engineers when they sober up. If you don't like that, take Mikey over there and plant the bombs while we deal with the rats."

Her jaw was set tight, teeth grinding uncomfortably, fingers drumming irritably against the hilt of her rifle. They stared back at each other in silence for a moment, the others fidgeting with both discomfort at the apparent tension and fear for the ever-shortening timers on the bombs in their hands. Reg opened his mouth to speak up again, but before he could find the words, Diana was on her feet, the jeep's shadow still shrouding her from the view of their enemy. Stuffing a pair of bombs in each of her coat pockets, she gestured for Sadler to stand. "Let's move."

Scrambling to his feet, Mike was swiftly at her side as they made their way around the rear of the jeep, the shadows at the edge of the airfield camouflaging them as they headed for the rows of aeroplanes lined up at the other end of the strip. In the edge of her vision, she could see the silhouettes of their comrades, creeping into the light as they approached the building opposite, weapons bared.

Sadler watched them make a beeline for the pilots' mess, glancing occasionally at Diana, whose gaze remained focused and firmly ahead, never wandering to the others. He crept up alongside her, the primed bombs in his bag a constant source of tension for the man.

"So... what, you don't kill?" Mike whispered, eyeing her sideways.

Diana scoffed, surprisingly jovial in response. "Oh, I'll cut, maim and butcher if the occasion calls for it - but I find no enjoyment in a turkey shoot."

"... I see," He nodded. The man appeared overall unnerved by the company he had found himself in, but it did not stop him from planting the explosives as ordered once they reached the planes, tucking the bombs below wings and into open cockpits.

"My father is General Hannigan - I don't know if you're familiar - but he's trained me in combat since I was a girl," Diana chatted as Sadler clambered up onto the wing of the next plane, and he noted her almost eerie sense of calm as she passed him up another bomb, not even flinching as the sound of gunfire erupted behind them, a sure sign that Paddy had hit the jackpot. "I've broken just as many arms and legs as bloody Paddy Mayne, if not more, but Stirling was the first willing to take me on."

Sadler clambered down from the plane, eyeing the chaos that had erupted at the other end of the strip. Their men stood silhouetted against the light of the doorway, firing bullet after bullet into the mess hall. Diana's back remained turned to the scene, entirely nonchalant as she tossed another explosive into an open cockpit.

"Sounds like a strange childhood," He pointed out. "Training for... this."

She shrugged. "Well, to be honest, I specialise in - hang on-" Turning towards the chaos, she raised her rifle, eyeing the minuscule figure of a stray enemy soldier as he ran up behind Seekings and Kershaw in the dark. Within a moment, Diana had taken aim and pulled the trigger, a single shot echoing from their end of the airstrip before the figure toppled to the group in a lifeless heap. "I've mostly been trained in sharpshooting, but it's all good experience," She smiled.

"Blimey," Mike breathed. "Good shot."

A few minutes later, the pair were accompanied by the rest of their group, the others sporting fairly dazed expressions as they emerged from the mess hall to finish the job, planting the remaining bombs. "How long have we got?" Diana called, digging into her pocket for the last of the explosives she had been given.

"Two minutes!" Kershaw barked, working in a frenzy to get rid of the devices whilst they still had time. She nodded, gesturing for Mike as they began to jog back towards their original rendezvous point, the others close behind as they returned to the shelter of the jeep.

Pausing a moment to catch their breath, it became suddenly evident that their numbers were short. "Where the fuck's Paddy?" Reg huffed. Looking up, Diana surveyed the dimly lit airstrip, catching sight of a figure still climbing on the planes, clothed in one of their large, leather coats.

"There," She nodded, the others quickly catching sight of him. Letting out a loud whistler, Kershaw barked for him to follow, the fuses on their explosives only seconds away from detonating. They needed to get away, and they needed to do it fast. Suddenly she recalled that day out in the desert - how resistant Paddy had been to finding higher ground, to evading the oncoming storm that would've surely killed what was left of their group had they gone through with Mayne's plan. The man seemed entirely averse to any notion of self-preservation, something she could oh-so-clearly see now, as he persisted to smash a cockpit's controls with the butt of his rifle.

"Fucking hell," Diana muttered irritably, stepping forward as Paddy finally began to jog towards the group. Dave reached out, seizing her arm to prevent her from going any further, but she shrugged him off before he managed to get a firm grip. The others had not seemed to notice the lone survivor of their rampage, barreling full force towards Mayne from across the strip. Lifting her rifle, she took aim, the flash of the first explosion through the viewfinder momentarily blinding her. Blinking away the spots in her vision, she found the figure once again, now only metres away from Paddy's back, and pulled the trigger.

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"Almost there, go again," her father had ordered sharply, staring at the spot where a dark bullet hole marred the brick wall across from them, mere centimetres from the desired target - a green glass bottle, propped up across the courtyard.

"How long will we do this for?" Diana sighed, tearing her eye away from the viewfinder, which had begun to leave a pink ridge upon her cheek from the hours she had spent pressed against it. "We've been at it all day - I've hit most of the targets already."

"We will do this until you hit all of the targets," Hannigan instructed, re-opening his newspaper as he reclined in one of the garden chairs. "There is no room for mediocrity, Diana, and I will not tolerate failure. We go until you can take out the whole row without a single miss, even if we have to go into the night," He paused for a moment, then hummed to himself. "That may be a good idea - we will practice shooting in the dark tomorrow night."

Diana suppressed a sigh, wiping sweat from her forehead as she peered up at the sky above. The midday sun hung high overhead, the cloudless sky offering no reprieve from the miserable heat. She was thirteen years old, her knees aching from hours spent kneeling upon the tiled ground of the courtyard as she practised with the rifle her father had gifted her the previous Christmas. At the time, he had called it a present, but the hours she spent working on her skills were no gift.

Christmas had been the only time Hannigan ever gave her anything at all. There had been no birthdays - she had no birth certificate, nothing to dictate when her birthday actually was. To remedy this, her father would simply declare her a year older come the first of January each year, and the occasion would go unmarked - it was not a real birthday, so why should they celebrate? Besides, Christmas had been mere days before, and Hannigan had always used this as a time of change in her training regiment - a milestone for which he would introduce some new skill or weapon he expected her to master.

This Christmas had been no different. In the months since, she had spent hours each day crouching in the courtyard, aiming at bottles and jars and all manner of targets, her father's watchful eye always urging her on. If he had a prior engagement that day, he would simply hire someone else to oversee her training, and these men did not always have the... soft touch her father did. She had been shouted at, bullied and belittled, had her ears and hair tugged at in punishment for her moments of incompetence - so much so that she came to long for her father's unflinching discipline, his commitment to their hours of drill, no matter how much she ached afterwards.

But it had paid off. The first time she had taken out a whole row of targets without a single missed shot, Hannigan had let out a celebratory cheer, pouring the child a glass of straight whiskey as a reward. It had burnt her throat, but she had drank it anyway. It made him smile.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

In the bright orange glow of the fiery explosions, they could see the way the soldier's face was torn apart, his skull shattering as the bullet made contact, ripping a hole through his nose and cheek as he was knocked backwards by the impact, landing on his back in a pool of blood. He had been mere metres behind Paddy when she took the shot - a dodgy aim could have meant killing Mayne himself. But Diana did not miss. Not anymore.

Reg let out a guffaw, wrapping an arm around her shoulders as they staggered back a few paces, distancing themselves from the explosions as they grew ever-closing, the planes erupting into flame one by one, lighting up the barren desert all around them. "Hell of a fucking shot!" He laughed, and Diana began to grin too, whooping along with the others, their faces bathed in the flames' warm glow. There was an air of celebration amongst them as they retreated from the airstrip and back into the wasteland, cheering and chattering noisily about their accomplishments. Reg's arm remained slung around her the entire way back to the jeeps, drooping against her neck as he vowed to get her a drink upon their return. The unease that had filled her seemed to ebb away as he chuckled, breath fanning the side of her face as they reached the jeeps, the cars shrouded in the shadow of a sand dune, patiently awaiting their return.

Piled into the vehicle, swaying side to side against the uneven terrain, Kershaw let out a cry of elation as he produced a bottle of gin from under his seat, a remnant of their spoils from the New Zealand camp. Reg had stolen gallons of the stuff the previous night, but they had gotten through a concerning amount already, and what was left was now scattered in strange places in an attempt a preservation.

"Well, well, well," Dave grinned, cracking the seal. Lifting the bottle to his lips, he took a long sip, a line of gin trickling down his chin as the jeep hit a bump in the road, spilling some in his lap.

"Careful!" Seekings barked.

Letting out a satisfied exhale, Kershaw bulled the bottle away from his mouth and peered at the label in approval. "Oh, yeah. Good shit."

Diana gratefully received the bottle as it was passed to her, taking a swig and passing it on to Reg, slumping backwards in her seat. The exhaustion of the night's pursuits had suddenly caught up with her, eyes drooping slightly. It had been more than twenty-four hours since any of them had slept, and once the adrenaline wore off they would surely turn comatose, desperate for their sleeping bags once they made it back to Jalo.

"Wonder how Stirling's boys did," Reg grumbled, passing the bottle across her back to Dave.

"What if they didn't get any?" She joked, voice turning bleary with tiredness. "God, that'd piss him off." The others laughed, amused by such an unlikely prospect.

It was not unfounded.

#sas rogue heroes fic #sas rogue heroes #sas rogue heroes oc #sas: rogue heroes #david stirling #mike sadler #dave kershaw #reg seekings #paddy mayne #johnny cooper #sas: rogue heroes fic #sas: rogue heroes oc #oc: diana

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regseekings · 7 months

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SAS Kink Heroes fic masterlist

you can't have it all - E - Mike/Bill - watersports

“You don’t have to do anything. What is it you do want, right now?” This , Bill thinks. You . Everything.

aubade - M - Mike/Augustin - exhibitionism

“I didn’t bring you out here to be quiet,” Mike says.

holy smoke and sweet desire - E - Mike/Pat/Jim - fisting

“God, you’re a beautiful thing, Mike,” Jim murmurs. “How’d we get so lucky, eh?”

yet still stedfast - E - Mike/Paddy - sex pollen

“You need to be very fucking clear what it is you are offering me, boy,” Paddy says.

interlude - E - Mike/Reg - facesitting

“Got a proposition for you, Sadler.”

you can come back another day - E - Mike/Eve/OMC - spitroasting

“A trifling detail in the face of my desire for you.”

silk - E - Mike - lingerie

Right now, however, he is alone, with his thoughts, with his booze and with the box on the bed.

#mike sadler #paddy mayne #eve mansour #reg seekings #augustin jordan #reg: fic #sas rogue heroes oc #sas kink heroes #sas rogue heroes #sas: rogue heroes

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6thofapril1917 · 2 months

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If You Play With Fire, Then You'll Burn - Chapter 3

She straightened, rising to all five feet and four inches of height to look the guard in the eye. “I no longer fall under the UDF’s jurisdiction. I’m here on behalf of the British Army Special Air Service, L Detachment.” The guards glanced at each other for about half a second before they burst out laughing. “Right,” the tall one wheezed, “and I’m Field Marshal Smuts.”

Private Sarah “Sarie” Meyer has hit rock bottom.

A year after her expulsion from high school, she’s managed to build a new life for herself as a despatch rider with the South African Women’s Auxiliary Army Service in North Africa. Ferrying messages, packages, and relief to Commonwealth units throughout the expanse of the Sahara desert, her life has gained a stability it hasn’t had in years—until it all comes crashing down around her.

When a vindictive CO reveals a classified secret from Sarie’s past, she finds herself ostracized from the rest of her unit, stripped of her duties, and facing a discharge. That is, until a chance encounter in a Cairo bar leads to a proposition from a new, radically unconventional unit of the British Army.

The SAS breaks with tradition. Sarie Meyer is going to shatter it.

eventual johnny cooper/original female character, multi-chapter.

read on ao3: chapter three - sonder koördinate - 5.1k words

thank you @baberoe for beta reading <3

tag list: @dcyllom @hesbuckcompton-baby @regseekings - let me know if you'd like to be tagged, and i'll add you to the list!

#sas rogue heroes #sas: rogue heroes #sas: rogue heroes fic #sas rogue heroes fic #johnny cooper #reg seekings #paddy mayne #david stirling #sarie meyer #sas rogue heroes oc #WE'RE BACK BABY!#dispatches #notes from the front

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homeahoy · 1 year

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Some kind of heaven

Just a quick drabble

Dave Kershaw x Male Y/N

He was a plain speaking kind of man, one who spoke his mind and told it like it was. Not that Dave Kershaw was without compassion. No he that he had in spades. He felt deeply for his fellow man and hated to see anyone oppressed. It was why he had signed up and went to Spain and exactly how he found himself signing up for the SAS. Now in the middle of the desert he found himself engaging in things he never thought he would have. Things that twisted your mind and made you go insane if you weren’t careful. The way to prevent going insane was to find someone to talk to. Be it a friend or someone who was more than a friend. Someone who you were intimate with in more ways than one, than was how Dave Kershaw had found you.

You had signed up like everyone else, been selected because of your background in getting yourself into a hell of a lot of trouble with any kind of authority and made the jump with the rest of them escaping with minimal injury, just a few nasty cuts and what could only be described as a kind of road rash down one side of your face. It had healed up quite quickly but had been hidden mostly by the stubble growing on your face. Facial hair, one of the many pleasures of the SAS was not having to shave and be presentable everyday. You had taken full advantage of that until one day you couldn’t stop itching and were sure you had something living in there so off it came. None of that was by the by. What really mattered was how you ended up being more than a friend to Dave Kershaw.

You had started out like most of the guys here. Only a lucky handful had the pleasure of knowing each other beforehand. You knew no-one being the only one from your battle regiment. Dave had the pleasure of knowing a few of the other’s but being the sort of person he was, he was fast to make friends. You included. He was funny and liked to wind people up but knew when enough was enough. More importantly he would have your back in a fight, something he had proved to you on that first trip into the desert, where had saved your neck from an enemy bullet. How you ended up in bed together was another thing altogether.

It has started out with a drunken kiss in the confines of your shared tent. Then crawling into bed to share each other's heat when the desert nights got too cold to be scared off with mere blankets and sleeping with layers on. Hands had slowly begun to wander until you were often finding excuses to escape back to your tent, ending in you biting into your pillow to stop anyone hearing you moan. It felt like some kind of heaven, to have someone to talk to, to share your feelings with, to love in a way that you knew had changed you. Yes it was a lucky thing you had met Dave Kershaw.

#sas: rogue heroes #fanfiction #male oc

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derry-rain · 2 months

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fanwork masterlist: derry_rain/bobparkhurst/regseekings

fic

i’ve been writing stuff that doesn’t make it to ao3 all the time these days. ficlets that have transferred to ao3 already largely aren’t linked here.

find me on ao3 and check my general fic tag

sas: rogue heroes (reg: fic)

here, this made me think of you - reg x johnny

seashells - dave x reg

star trek au - david stirling

greedy animal - david x paddy

oc fic:

snippet: mat - paddy mayne x omc

snippet: christine - mike sadler x ofc

the terror

i don’t think i’ll ever stop loving you - hickeygibson

courage, devotion - goodsilna

you’re stronger than you think - tommy armitage

secret love - joplittle

band of brothers (all hbo war fic collected under the tag bob: fic)

“i’m not fragile y'know” - speirsroe

evening school au - ron speirs x chuck grant

oc fic:

snippet: sanne - renee lemaire x ofc

snippet: ruby - roy cobb x ofc

snippet: kitty - don malarkey x ofc

a shortcut through a cemetery at night - don malarkey x ofc (kitty beck)

dead doesn’t mean gone, officially - don malarkey x ofc (kitty beck)

the pacific

sober - runner x leckie

masters of the air

to be where i’m going - ken lemmons x rosie rosenthal

untitled ken lemmons x rosie rosenthal

another untitled ken lemmons x rosie rosenthal

oc fic:

snippet: maureen - gen, pre- ofc x gale cleven

justified

can you hold my hand? please? - givenson

strange canyon road: star wars au - givenson

other:

[1899] untitled tove x clemence

other fanworks

all my gifsets can be found under the tag: derry: gifs

#apologies for the spam #i belatedly realise pages don't work well on mobile #so making a post for this as well #derry: masterlist #long post #the tags are wildly underutilised #but i think i found everything that didn't get transferred to ao3 or deleted

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mercurygray · 6 months

Note

‘a touch at the end’ prompt for Daphne and Mike.

Hope your idle hours in the airport mean you are headed somewhere fun!

Thanks, friend! Idle hours in the airport were actually spent coming home from a very fun work conference - back to the grind tomorrow, sadly. This was a fun prompt - although I'm not sure why I decided on present tense.

He hasn't planned on being here at all.

They've left him a little at sixes and sevens, here in Cairo. He's been debriefed about Stirling's capture, and the military intelligence people have taken his statement, but no one has really told him he can leave, and so he is simply hanging around the office, waiting for something he can't name - until he hears his name, from somewhere near the door.

"You need a chauffeur? Sadler here's an excellent driver, take him."

The Major evidently asking the question doesn't look like he believes that. "Can you handle a Bentley?"

A Bentley?! He could almost sing. "Handle anything you like, sir."

"Good. There's a dance tonight at Shepheard's and some fellows need driving from the consulate. There's a house car. Need a better uniform- see the man downstairs about getting some trousers, will you? And a shave," he adds, his lip turned up a little at the sight of Mike's hair.

"Of course, sir." SAS men pride themselves on being wild, but on balance, the beard is a small price to pay for the chance to drive a Bentley.

And what a magnificent beast it is! The car is beautiful, black and trim and purring like a kitten even here in the desert. Someone takes a great deal of care with this engine, and he treats it with the respect it so rightly deserves, easy on the clutch and gentle with the gearbox. This is a thing of beauty, and must be handled well. Stepping out at the consulate, Mike can see himself in the gleam of the door and stands just a little taller, his cream beret only a little rakish over his freshly trimmed hair. He didn't let the barber take the whole beard - it's just been trimmed back into obedience for the evening to keep him presentable.

There are a pair of men in tailcoats waiting near the door, and a woman in red, already a little tipsy, to judge by the way she's leaning against one of the men, glancing back into the well-lit entryway of the building. "Well, come on, you, or we'll be late!"

And as the last woman comes out the door, Mike's heart falls. He should have known she'd be here.

She is a thing of beauty, too.

But here she can't be Daph, at least to him. She's not even Daphne - she's Miss Markham-Reed, brilliant and bejeweled with her diamante clips and dancing shoes, ready to be the darling of the ballroom and a whole host of men who are universes above him in rank. These are the men she should be dancing with every Friday night, men with Honorable next to their names and estates waiting for them at home. And she's still too good for all of them.

One of her escorts calls her name, and she laughs like anything, eyes sparkling in that way that only she has - until she sees him, and the laughter stops.

He springs into action, opens the door. "Let me get that for you, Miss." He holds out his hand so the drunk woman can hold on as she climbs in, balancing her evening bag and her dress against the champagne she's already drunk.

"Oh, steady on, Eloise," one of the men says, climbing in after her and laughing as she rearranges herself on the seat. "One can't have too much fun before the party starts, you know." Daphne carries up the rear of the group, her own evening bag sea-glass green, dress long and slinking, like a wave.

"Thank you, Corporal." For a moment, she's holding his hand, too, and they lock eyes, the moment somehow more intimate than a kiss.

"Careful, miss. Your dress." He carefully picks up the beaded tailing and tucks it up into the door, his hand just barely brushing her leg, the silk of the stocking on her ankle. In another universe he'd be beside her in the backseat, black-tie and tails, hand fully up the long column of her dress. (He's taken her out of dresses like that before, hands careful on the beading, the silk of her precious stockings.) But tonight is not his night - he is in her world, and not she in his.

"Well, come on, man, we haven't got all night," one of the men drawls from the back seat.

"Of course, sir," Mike replies, shutting the door and stepping around to the front of the car. "Shepheard's, sir, was it?"

Her three companions are loud and excited in the backseat all the way to the hotel, quite content to treat him as an extension of the car itself, an automaton barely worth noticing. But every time he glances in the mirror, her eyes are still there, still following his.

There's a long queue of cars when they arrive, long enough to make you wonder if there's even a war on when there's a party like this on offer, but half the men are in uniform and there's still a searchlight on the roof to remind everyone the Germans could come at any time, if they liked.

"Will you wait here, do you think?" she asks, sounding disinterested as he gives her another hand up, out of the back seat and into the warm, loud circle of light outside the hotel, music drifting out from the lobby into the street. "I don't know if I'll stay."

"For as long as you like, miss," he says, anonymously efficient, and the thought gives him hope. She'll pass through many hands tonight, but at the end, she'll still be his to take home, to touch the way the others can't, and that's all that matters to him.

#i have written a thing #daphne markham-reed #sas rogue heroes oc #mercurygraypresents

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