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cetaitlaverite · 6 months ago

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Anything to Anywhere

Masters of the Air - Bucky Egan x OC

masterlist is here <3

03. Top Fighting Condition

Stella was sure she’d never been so happy to return to Thorpe Abbotts. The airfield she’d been stuck at for the night had been tiny and dingy and cold, with barely enough dinner to go around for the people billeted there, let alone an extra ATA pilot who had been grounded and couldn’t get home until the storm passed.

She had spent the night in the mess hall in the absence of a bed and some of the mechanics there had been nice enough to stay up with her, making sure no one turned the lights out on her and made her sit in the dark. It had almost been fun. She hadn’t spent an awful lot of time getting to know the mechanics at Thorpe Abbotts but if they were anything like the ones at RAF Middleton St George then she thought she should give them a chance.

Back at Thorpe Abbotts in the bright light of midday, Stella was thoroughly exhausted. She would have more chits up on the board to fly today, she knew - the American crews would be arriving soon, so the ATA was wringing all the use it could out of the ATA pilots stationed at Thorpe Abbotts before the majority of their attention became dedicated to ferrying B-17s - but for now she wanted warm food, a warm shower, and a nap if she was lucky.

Squinting through the sunshine, her arms crossed against the lingering chill from her night up north, Stella trudged across base towards the mess hall. Her feet were freezing cold in her boots. Maybe her socks were damp. Would anyone mind if she took her boots and socks off in the middle of lunch? As long as they didn’t smell bad, she reasoned, there was no reason why anyone should have a problem with it. She’d always been told she had rather pretty feet, though admittedly she had always thought that was an incredibly strange compliment to give someone.

“Finley!” shouted a male voice up ahead.

Stella raised a hand to shield her eyes as she squinted to make out the figure. As she neared the mess hall she caught sight of the grin, the moustache, the casual slump of shoulders and the indescribable size of the man.

“Major Egan!” she shouted back, offering a lazy salute.

“Where the fuck you been?” Bucky demanded as she approached.

Stella smirked. “Why? Have you been missing me?”

“Like a hole in my heart,” Bucky teased, pressing a hand to his chest.

Stella rolled her eyes. “My last assignment yesterday got me stuck in a tiny airfield up in County Durham. I was due to ferry a Bristol Blenheim back but there was no way it was going to survive the storm, so I spent the night in a freezing cold mess hall with a bunch of mechanics.”

“Sounds like a party,” Bucky mused.

Stella hummed. “D’you want to see my dance?”

Bucky’s grin turned confused, his eyebrows knitting together. “Your dance?”

“Yeah,” Stella confirmed. “Me and some of the mechanics up there made up a dance while we were waiting around for the storm to clear. You wanna see it?”

Bucky laughed, tipping his head back and letting the sunshine spill over him. When he looked back down and found her with those earnest blue eyes of hers watching him like an owl, awaiting an answer, he shook his head with a wide smile and leaned back against the wall of the mess hall, settling in for the performance. “Sure, Finley,” he agreed, “show me your dance.”

Stella grinned back at him. “Okay! So it starts like this -” With that, she set about showing him her dance, executing a poorly choreographed routine which was no less spirited for its lack of skill. She stopped suddenly after executing a turn, gasping as she said, “Wait, I forgot!” but she recovered quickly, calling out a, “Nevermind!” and picking up right where she left off.

By the time she was finished Bucky was laughing, clapping to cheer her on.

“That,” he said, pushing up off the wall to head over to her finishing position, “that sure was something.”

“Did you like it?” Stella asked, dropping the position and meeting him halfway.

“It was something,” Bucky said again.

Stella hit him on the arm. “That’s not a compliment!”

He laughed. “No, it was great. It was great, Finley. I’m impressed.”

“Thank you.” She made to say something else but then her stomach rumbled and she realised she felt a bit sick and her gaze turned to the mess hall. “But I’m hungry now, so that’s the end of my performance. They didn’t have any spare food up there so I haven’t eaten since lunch yesterday.”

Bucky slung an arm around her shoulders which she quickly shrugged off, falling into step beside her as she headed around the side of the mess hall to the door.

“Finley!” called one of the other ATA pilots when she entered.

“Jessop,” Stella greeted back.

He came jogging over, a glass of water still in his hand. “This Major Egan?”

“Certainly is.”

“Nice to meet you,” Jessop said, thrusting out his hand towards Bucky. “I’m Christopher.”

“Everyone calls him Jessop,” Stella informed Bucky.

Jessop shrugged. “My last name,” he explained.

“Bucky Egan,” Bucky introduced himself back.

Jessop nodded, withdrawing his hand once Bucky had shaken it. “So you’re the guy who stole my girl.”

“No one stole anyone because I am no one’s girl,” Stella informed them both flatly.

Bucky was chuckling under his breath. “You telling me I ain’t the only guy chasing after Finley, here?”

Stella rolled her eyes. “No one’s chasing after anyone.”

“I’ve only been asking her out every day since we were first assigned together back in 1940,” Jessop answered, sharing Bucky’s grin. “She may have a pretty face but she’s a hard nut to crack, be warned.”

Stella scoffed. “If you two want to talk about me as if I’m not here then I may as well not be here. I’m getting lunch,” she declared.

The instant she was out of earshot, Bucky turned to Jessop and leaned in conspiratorially. “So what’s her first name?”

Jessop laughed, patting him on the shoulder. “Now that, I can’t say. You gotta earn first name privileges.”

Bucky groaned playfully.

Jessop patted him once more on the shoulder before turning to lead him to the table full of ATA pilots. Subsequent introductions were made and, by the time Stella found her way over, Bucky had commanded both the attention and the affection of all of Stella’s friends.

“Looks like I’ve been replaced,” she remarked with a teasing frown. She set down her plate, pulled over a chair, and threw herself into it.

“Where were you last night, Finley?” Alice asked, wiping her mouth with her napkin. “I waited up for you before I got too tired.”

Stella sighed and recounted her story of her time in County Durham.

The ATA pilots grimaced. It was not the first time, nor likely the last, any of them had found themselves stranded in some remote airfield or other.

“You’ve got more chits today,” the pilot beside Jessop, Martinson, informed her once she had finished speaking. “You’ve got a B-24 Liberator to ferry from the depot to RAF Hethel, then from there a Spitfire needs taking to RAF Pembrey in Wales. Jessop’s going to Wales today, too, so he’ll wait for you there to take you back here. He’s got a Mossie to deliver back to the depot.”

Stella smiled ruefully with a shrug. “No rest for the wicked.”

“How many types of plane do you guys fly?” Bucky asked, looking between them all as he lazed back in his chair.

Jessop grinned. “All of ‘em. Bombers, fighters, night-fighters, recon. Whatever needs flying.”

“Any of you ever flown a B-17?”

“Of course,” Stella said. “Alone and with a broken rudder at that.”

“Fin often gets the big bombers,” Alice explained.

“I much prefer fighters,” she informed Bucky sidelong. “Spitfires are great, those are the ones everyone asks about, but I love flying Hurricanes. I’ll be devastated when the rest of your Yanks filter in here and the surrounding airfields and I’ll be forced to fly bombers more often than fighters.”

Jessop brushed her aside. “They’ll always have you flying the most damaged of any aircraft, Fin. The chicken ATA pilots over at Hethel can never muster up the guts to ferry their fighters when they’re too damaged.”

Stella gave a dreamy sigh. “All the things I’d give just to fly an undamaged fighter one day. If they’re that good when they’re broken imagine what they’re like when they’re in top fighting condition.”

“Why don’t you request a transfer if you love flying fighters so much?” Martinson asked. “Hethel��d gladly take you.”

Stella rolled her eyes. “I’ve asked. Knightswick won’t let me. He said he needs to have at least one good ATA pilot around here when the Yanks rock up.”

Immediately, complaints rang up into the air from every corner of the table.

Stella laughed. “I’m kidding! But not about the transfer. I think the reason he won’t let me transfer’s more likely because he can’t be arsed to fill out the paperwork, but either way he won’t let me go. I’m stuck here.”

“Aw, come on, Finley,” Bucky answered her around a wry grin, “bombers ain’t so bad. And I think you’ll like my boys fine when they get here in a few days.”

Stella’s eyebrows hopped up. “Only a few days? Time’s passing me by faster than I know it.”

“Soon enough this place will be back to life,” Alice mused, “and I, for one, think it’s a welcome change. Say, Major Egan, are any of the incoming airmen single?”

The day the rest of the 100th Bomb Group started filtering into Thorpe Abbotts in their monstrous B-17 Flying Fortresses was the day the base erupted into chaos. One of the planes had had a rough wheels-up landing which sent the medical truck and the fire engine racing across the airfield to meet them and, though no one was hurt, the chaos of that lingered a while as the men who’d been on board spoke animatedly about what, exactly, had gone wrong. All of the men, in fact, scattered about the base like ants the instant their feet were on the ground, asserting their dominance in this new territory, claiming it as their own. One of them even brought a dog with him.

Safe to say, Stella wasn’t all that impressed, but Bucky was clearly absolutely made up about having his friends here. When he saw Stella walking to the ATA hut he raced up behind her, calling out her name as he went. “Finley! Hey, Finley!”

He was drawing unwanted attention from the new Americans, so Stella turned sharply around and growled out a, “What?”

Bucky was grinning. “C’mere, got someone I want you to meet.” He slung an arm over her shoulders which she, as usual, shrugged off before he led her over to a waiting man still in his flight suit, his crusher cap on top of his head and his gloves in one hand. He looked straight out of a film with his smouldering blue eyes and plump lips, one hand blocking out the sun as he squinted, watching Bucky lead Stella over.

“You remember that guy I was telling you about?” Bucky was saying to Stella. “Blond, movie star good looks, chaste as the day he was born? Well, fresh in from Greenland is the man himself.” He was smiling so wide his cheeks must have hurt. Stella could already tell there was no shortage of affection between them. “Buck, this is Finley. And Finley, this is Buck.”

Stella nodded at him in greeting. “Hello.”

Buck nodded back at her. “Nice to meet you, Finley.” His voice was impossibly deep. Maybe he really was a film star before the war.

“You too, Buck,” Stella replied. She was looking at him curiously. “Is that your real name?”

Beside her, Bucky barked a laugh. “No, of course it’s not his real name.”

Buck smiled kindly at her. “My real name’s Gale.”

Stella’s eyebrows furrowed. “Then why do people call you Buck?”

Bucky laughed again. “I gave him that name,” he explained to her, “‘cause he reminds me of a guy from back home whose name was Buck.”

Stella turned to him, searching his face with squinted eyes and a frown on her lips. “So is Bucky your real name?” Bucky simply stared at her with raised eyebrows and an amused smile, so she huffed and rolled her eyes. “Don’t look at me like I’m silly, you cheeky bastard! If you tell me your name’s Bucky obviously I’m gonna believe your name’s Bucky!”

Bucky scoffed. “It’s a nickname!”

Stella rounded on him. “Why would you expect me to know that?!”

He rolled his eyes. “You thought my parents named me Bucky?!”

“You told me that’s your name!”

“My name is John,” Bucky informed her. “John Egan. There, that better?”

Stella stared him down before crossing her arms and turning back to Buck. “Maybe,” she ground out against her will.

Buck looked at John with a question in his eyes.

John grinned back at him with eyebrows raised. He gestured at Stella. “Ain’t she great?”

Stella scoffed and thumped him in the side.

“Finley’s a pilot,” John explained to Buck. “For the ATA. Ain’t that right, Fin?”

“Certainly is,” she confirmed. “I’m flying again in a little while, in fact. We’re surrounded by a lot of different airfields but not all of them have mechanics on site to repair damaged aircraft and still fewer have ferry pilots to transport said damaged aircraft, so the ATA operation here covers most of the bases in East Anglia. Today, a new American crew a few airfields over crashed into a tree during a practice mission, so I’ll be flying their fort over here for our mechanics to repair.”

Buck’s eyebrows were raised as he nodded along with her. Stella wouldn’t have necessarily said he looked impressed - surprised was maybe more accurate. “You like flying bombers?” he asked.

Stella shrugged. “I like flying anything. They won’t let women fly combat so ferrying is the best I can do. My real calling is flying fighters, though, so before you Americans invaded I got to fly those quite often.”

“Spitfires?” Buck asked.

Stella shared a quick smile with John, because he knew she hated how Spitfires got all the glory of being the best fighter plane when she thought Hurricanes were better.

“I think you’ll find, Buck,” John replied for her, “that the Hawker Hurricane is the best British fighter plane.”

“It’s the best fighter plane full stop,” Stella argued. “No other country has produced anything better. I know you Americans fancy your P-51 Mustang as the best but I’ve flown those plenty and they don’t come anywhere close. No competition. But we have been doing this a lot longer than you lot,” she reasoned with a smirk. “We’re glad to have you here but what took you so bloody long? We could’ve used some extra manpower during the Battle of Britain when every pilot was flying several times a day and night to prevent a German invasion and our cities were getting bombed at the same time.”

“We were still in training back then,” John protested.

Stella shrugged. “Too little too late.”

“Finley!” called a voice from behind Stella and John.

Both turned and found Jessop exiting the ATA hut.

“Knightswick wants to speak to you before you head out,” Jessop called. “He’s waiting for you.”

Stella frowned. “What’s he want to speak about?”

Jessop was clearly fighting hard to maintain a straight face but doing a poor job of it. His smug smirk was as clear as day on his face. “That plane you’re flying -” He whistled. “Have fun.”

Stella narrowed her eyes at him. “Why? What’s wrong with it?”

“What isn’t wrong with it might be the better question,” Jessop replied, chuckling to himself. “But that’s above my security clearance to confess.” He thrust a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the hut. “He’s waiting for you right now.”

“And where are you going?”

His smirk only got wider. “Got a Hurricane to ferry from the depot to Mendlesham.”

Stella’s jaw fell open. “Bastard!” she shouted at his retreating back.

Jessop cackled as he headed off to get into his flight suit. “Snapped rudder,” he called over his shoulder.

“Swap you?” Stella called.

Over his shoulder, Jessop raised his middle finger at her. “Not a fucking chance,” he shouted without turning back.

#ata #my writing #masters of the air #masters of the air x oc #masters of the air fanfic #masters of the air fanfiction #bucky egan #john egan #john bucky egan #bucky egan x oc #bucky egan fanfic #bucky egan fanfiction #john egan x oc #john egan fanfic #john egan fanfiction #john egan x reader

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blackswaneuroparedux · 2 years ago

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Ούτοι γυναικός εστιν ιμείρειν μάχης.**

- Aeschylus

Surely it is not for a woman to long for battle.**

Maureen Dunlop flew far faster planes than any of her peers, including Amelia Earhart. She flew Spitfires, Lancasters, Hurricanes and Mosquitos, and proved the dream of Picture Post's photographer when, on emerging from the cockpit of a Fairey Barracuda, the sun on her hair, she made the cover shot of the popular Picture Post that sold thousands of copies in autumn 1944.

Dunlop mastered the controls of 28 different single-engine and 10 multi-engine aircraft types, which also included the Hawker Typhoon, Hawker Tempest, Avro Anson, Mustang, Bristol Blenheim and Vickers Wellington. The ATA did a gruelling day-to-day job, plying the skies under constant threat from inclement weather the length and breadth of Great Britain, at a time when the nature of flying was changing in popular consciousness from having been a pre-war novelty and the subject of record attempts and joyrides, to being a vital part of the war effort.

The women among its members also had to put up with opposition from men who had little faith in their ability – or perhaps misplaced chivalry – such as Air Chief Marshal Sir Trafford Leigh-Mallory, who would not let women pilots cross the Channel, or who were merely rude, such as the RAF men who joked of the first all-women aircraft ferrying pool at Hamble in Hampshire as "the lesbians' pool".

Dunlop, like many of her female colleagues, said she wished she could have flown in combat: "I thought it was the only fair thing. Why should only men be killed?"

The ATA service had been founded on the initiative of Gerard "Pop" d'Erlanger, a director of British Airways and banker, who bent the ear of Sir Francis Shelmerdine, Britain's director-general of Civil Aviation, against opposition from the RAF, which preferred to use its own pilots until shortages forced it to relent. ATA pilots had to make the most of training that was, some avowed after the war, inadequate. Instrument flying was not taught, but the service would have ground to a halt if pilots had not broken rules forbidding them to fly in bad weather. Women had to have a minimum of 500 hours' solo flying before joining the ATA, twice as much as the 250 hours originally laid down in September 1939 for the first members, all men. She was one of the 164 female members of the wartime Air Transport Auxiliary (ATA), of which one in ten pilots died while transporting aeroplanes between factories and military airfields

Maureen Dunlop, the second of three children of Eric Chase Dunlop, an Australian farm manager employed by a British company in Argentina, and his English wife, Jessimin May Williams, began flying at the age of 15, when she joined the Aeroclub Argentino. Two years later she had obtained her pilot's licence. Living with her parents, older sister Joan and younger brother Eric on estancias in Patagonia, she was educated by a governess and briefly attended St Hilda's College, an English school at Hurlingham in Buenos Aires. The example of her father's British military experience as a volunteer with the Royal Field Artillery in the First World War, together with an article in Flight magazine, inspired her to sail to England and offer her flying skills to the ATA.

She came through the war uninjured, but once had to make a forced landing when a faulty engine developed heavy vibration (an incident for which she was absolved of responsibility), and once was flying a Spitfire when a badly fitted cockpit cover blew off. After the war she qualified in England as an instructor and, returning to Argentina, flew for the Argentine Air Force and taught its pilots, as well as flying commercially. In 1973 she and her husband, Serban, a retired Romanian diplomat she met at a British Embassy function in Buenos Aires, returned to England, where for the rest of her life, on a farm in Norfolk, she followed her second love - breeding Arab horses. Dunlop built up an outstanding knowledge of bloodlines. She died in 2012.

#dunlop #maureen dunlop #aviator #pilot #plane #flying #fly #female #femme #pioneer #ATA

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nocternalrandomness · 2 years ago

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Bristol Blenheim Mk.IF L6739 is the world’s only flying example of over 4,400 of this historic type built

#Rare aircraft #Vintage aircraft #RAF #Bristol #Blenheim #Mk.IF #Bomber #Aviation history #L6739 #WW2 #Warplane #Combat aircraft

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usafphantom4 · 5 months ago

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Pair of paintings l did in 2018, both Bristol Blenheim IVs, one Royal Air Force, the other Free French.

Both acrylic on paper 40 x 29cm

@PeteHill854 via X

#Blenheim #bomber #french air force #ww2 photo #ww2 history #aviation photography #ww2 aviation #ww2 aircraft

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vamqyr3 · 2 years ago

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I HAVE AN IDEA🧍‍♀️ how about a fic with gaz where he unknowingly sleeps with an undercover intel agent and he accidentally leaks info and reader leaves him high and dry or like something similar

much love!xx love your writing!!

↳ KYLE “GAZ” GARRICK // FATAL. ➷

CW// DRUGGED, FEM!READER, RESTRAINED, CHOKING, REVENGE, POSSESSION, SOMNOPHILIA, ECT.

NOTES// this was a joy, actually. Yk had to get back on fuckery, the gaz tag wasn’t writing enough freak shit. @allen-444

Late evening, greater London, off Rye and Blenheim, bar in, infiltration, exfil. You’re looking for a hard drive, small, black, one of the newer ones. It’d feel the highs of flame after leaving your hands. But what you’re really looking for is a man. Tall, reasonably dressed, jumpy, one of the newer ones. Named Kyle, enemy of whom ever signed your checks, owner of that goddamn drive.

“Get busy,” his thumb pointed to the kitchen doors, streaming down the sides of a waiter uniform and turning away. It wasn’t uncommon for your hires to send their own into the field, which was perfectly horrible. Was he to stand there playing pretend server whilst you hug up on a man intent on strangling you to truth?

The floors are glossy, tacky against your heels. The women smell of hair and ointment, gathering in clumps along the walls. Taking up chairs and talking in groups of three or four. You’ve had confirmation of Kyles arrival minutes ago, he’d been screened for weapons, showed ID, the whole thing. You easily tip toe to his side. He had no interest in the communion behind him, shoulders jutting out over the bar top. You make it a point to keep your knees pointed to him, sliding into a backless stool on the right. You had hoped he’d been conversational, jittery even and spewing from the lips. But he said nothing as you unstuck a finger and commanded a glass of fruity whatnot. He’s a smart man, mother must have warned a similar call of stranger danger.

“Gotta name?” Seemingly surprised he shuddered and turned, having ignored you out of respect thus far. “Me?” A dent in his shirt followed finger. “Who else?” He coughed out a smile and turned on the chair to you, dragging the rim of his drink along. “They call me Kyle, thank you,” you smile, looking to the drink now dragged to your front. “You?” He angles forward, pushing up his brow line. “Noir,” hes quick to nod at it, shift back on his axis and throw back some drink.

And he was nice for the most of it, non cooperative at best. it had taken one full life story and a handful of heavy touches to get him to angle his looks. He walks pressed to the hot air on your back, seemingly stupid failing to walk tamely. Kyle says not a word passing your doorframe, letting up to follow you horribly to a dark sharpened bedroom. The lights stay off, easier on you, and as you rub at his sides you poke for the unfriendly silhouette of a silencer or throwing knife. He’s knocking his round lips into your face, throwing them lower and collapsing under the press of alcohol and blood. It makes you smile to some degree. But thats lost knotting up pants in a fever. The sooner you found that fucking hard drive the sooner he’s lying stupid on the floor.

Theres a curt spurt of air that makes noise through your angry teeth. He laughs at it, leaning back into the dark. “Looking for something?” “Belt buckle,” There’s a weird change in his pitch, “Im sure you’re not gonna find the drive in there, baby,” and its silence on your half, following there’s a laugh and quick made excuse. You had no idea what he was talking about, his hand moves in his pocket, you’re just some really rich, really dumb, really horny girl from the bar. Completely unrelated to any events prior or following the disasters of Bristol twelve months ago. There’s a nasty pinch at your thigh, it grows tight and sharp, like a pic being driven into your muscle. As to what it was you drew blanks, left guessing in the dark. You jut away from it, only to be caught on his thick collarbone. He unsticks the thing before you disconnect. You’re left bloodshot and frigid. Questioning, crying, jumbling and fighting. You would run, but to where? You were paid discretely, you would work discretely. No backup. It would take a few heavy seconds before the effects of it melt your spine. You go folding to the ground.

It was hot before it was cold. Three seconds of drunk skull swaying before the click of liquid and skin woke your ears. The simplicity of touch, dewy after feel of his teeth on your neck. He’s somewhere lower in your sight, past your bare thighs and locked hands. Your forehead numbed into a deep fuzz yet you still curl up under his view. Furiously rubbing over his crotch, looking over your bubbled skin, holding up your left knee to sit before you. He stays like this for a moments break, rubbing himself onto you and looking for signs of lucidity.

“You really thought you were gonna do somethin’ huh?” Your lips only crack open to push out air. “Still feelin’ cocky? Noir?” “Just peachy,” That something seems to snap at his smile, the hand from your knee collaring under your hooked jaw. Its exhilarating, enthralling. The thought of possible escape had only crossed your mind in the following minutes. He’s had you here for a while, no doubt.

“Oh, I bet you were gonna take me back home fuck a little then kill me after, yeah?”

“Wouldn't be opposed,”

“Yeah? Come on then smart girl,”

He kisses with emotion. Hot feathery angry passion. It was a self testament, a breathy challenge, to see how you went down with drugs baking your body. He moved with the might of a lover. Cold nails and scented skin, he humps into you with a kiss. Its a foreign feeling, his mouth feels of bitter alcohol and salty aftertastes. Both of his palms leave your lower half. His elbows snap in and forearms cage thick around your hurt neck. The bites are animalistic, attacks, bites at a preys flesh.

Gaz pulls back, frenzied, lost hand ringing strings of your hair. With your chin pointed to the sky his lips make an odd movement and he’s commanding you to unstick your tongue. The action is not without noise, his spit carries a musk on your teeth. Swallowing, opening again, smiling.

“Fuck, wish you weren’t so pretty,” by now he’s smoothing over your puffy slit. Sloshing around dribble and playing with his food. “You’re disgusting, shit, I hate how pretty you look,” Hes sputtering odd contradictions, delving into you with a vengeance.

The whites of his teeth cracks between their siblings pressure, his back rippled, hips spent. Gaz spends no time away from rhythm. Bullying your meaty thick walls with a musical push. You’re puffy and raw, tickled by the lick of his hair on your plush length. The sight of him shiny, popping in and out, heavy and wide. The backs of your knees meet his knuckles, closing around it to push your thighs to the roll of your stomach.

You could cry, sob, drool and see in crosses, he would never notice. Gaz is fucked, spent swallowing hot air and smelling of sex. The best of him was left tending to your half drunk and senseless. His whole body lights up with wet thickets. He considers biting into the lines of your neck, connecting the void wedged between your breasts. Pumping so the shaking of his pelvis puffs your reddy nasty cilt. Snapping your legs in halves when the twitches of your legs send your knees fighting his palms.

Its disgusting, degrading, to him at least. To have fallen for a bitch of such composure. Something disgusting to rub and rut back into him. You were horrible for having liked this, you shouldn’t. He’d leave you here, tape a vibrator to the abused little patch of wet ribbons. Come back just to smile at the looks of it, take a few photos, maybe fuck his last load a little deeper. He’s conflicted, having adored you so much beforehand. It was revenge, for tricking him, lying, making him fall in love.

“You wanna cum for me sweet thing?” You hadn’t the mind to respond. He hums some noise to solidify the question, no response. “Guess not,” He still fucks at a horribly mean pace. Balls punishing the rubbed skin just below a ghosting bubbling ring of pre. He’s so pretty. Gaz makes music with your chubby cunt, thrusting hot air out of your lips. He needed you harder, deeper, raw, fucked. The creamy brine around his base thickens, the pitch in his mouth shifts. “Better cum now or you’re not doing it at all,” “M’ can do it myself, after,” “You fuckin’ touch my shit I’ll have you crying on the floor begging me to stop making you cum on my cock. I said now, bitch, do your job,”

Its perfectly pathetic, you’re horribly inclined to listen. Likely to flex the divots his head mashes into. You’ll finish before him. Round off the fabric and push away from his mean thick dick. Fucking a spine shaking high back into you. Your tongue rolls from your lips, he’s kisses at it. Shoulders touching yours, deliciously trapping your elbows to your sides. He fucks a load into you, draining the weighted pull of him flush against your root. He chokes on the sheer might of his undoing, crying over his own cock.

His poor little afterglow is shaky. He unsticks, dribbles out of you in satisfactory. Breaths into bitten wounds under your ear, rises on his hands, rolls back onto his knees. The mushy meat of your thighs hope to close the caved leaking hole. Squeezing and milking the rest of pleasure. He circles off the bed, pulling a bit of clothing just over his lower half. You can see his unsteady eye, the twitch of his still buzzing hand.

“You’re leaving me here?” His eyes are to the room adjacent, twisting the pants around his hip. “Yeah,” He moves to socks. “You’ll figure it out,”

#kyle gaz garrick #kyle gaz garrick x reader #kyle gaz garrick x you #kyle garrick #gaz cod #gaz mw2 #gaz x reader #call of duty mw2 #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #gaz modern warfare #gaz garrick #task force 141 #pervert!writing #pervert!gaz

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