Title: Secrets
Written by:
crocodile_eat_u
Written for:turkfox
Rating: NC-17
Character/Pairing: Marti/GERTI
Prompt: Martin getting down and dirty with Gerti.
Notes: Martin/GERT-I because the OP has a magnificent mind. Un-betaed and basically a PWP. Enjoy. ;)
It’s quiet. Peaceful almost but not silent. Martin can vaguely hear the drone of chatter from outside GERT-I, the switchover from day to night echoing as people prepare to leave for their warm, comfortable homes.
He sits there, in the flight deck, wondering idly what he did wrong. What could have possibly happened to have his life end up this way? Was it his dogged determination to become a pilot? Wandering through life blinkered, regarding any other possible option, which might’ve benefited him better, as anything less than perfect.
Perhaps he trod on some sort of holy ant as a child and this was fate, or karma’s, or whatever the hell it was, way of repentance. It wouldn’t have surprised him; Martin Crieff wasn’t famed for his interminable supply of decent luck.
So he sits there, maudlin, not cursing the day he was born but rather regretting it with the sad sort of solitude born from one who’s a hairs breadth way from giving up entirely. He’s lived on this precipice before, gone weeks tiptoeing that cliffs edge, waiting for something, anything, from a well placed acerbic comment to a gust of wind to push him off, tip him to the descent of resignation. However it doesn’t come. For whatever reason, Martin has never thrown himself willingly off, rather begging something to do it for him.
What that says about him, or his current state of mental health, he doesn’t know. Nor does he want to speculate too much on it.
All he does know is that he’s tired. He’s tired, exhaustion drilled painfully into his bones, throbbing insistently in the marrow, making his body twitch whenever it’s forced to move. He can almost hear his joints creek, days of hauling around IKEA flat pack furniture from place to place, cribs and cupboards, desks and drawers. He works quietly, efficiently, ignoring the groan in his protesting limbs and the ever persistent niggling in the back of his head warning that the rent is due, or that the flimsy fan heater Simon gave him has packed up and it’ll be a cold night.
It’s always a cold night though, which is a depressing thought, but realistic nonetheless. The April showers have brought nothing but grief, pans and buckets filling with dripping rainwater, Chinese torture- drip, drip, drip. It drives him crazy but he ignores it and turns over, tucking the duvet further around his body like a pig in a blanket and tightens his grip on the umbrella above his head.
Not now though. Now he’s dry and safe, and doesn’t have to worry about the worrying amount of damp creeping up his walls like mossy, green claws. Martin sits in GERT-I, in his captain’s chair and looks out over the consol, eyes flickering over the dials and buttons, seeing colours and procedures and knowledge. And a burst of pride swells in his chest; content in the knowledge that in here, in GERT-I, he is in control. And he isn’t as incompetent as he thinks he is. He is needed.
“You are brilliant do you know that?” Martin murmurs softly, trailing his fingers over the yoke, the smooth plastic almost humming under the pads of his fingertips. It’s dry in here, neither warm nor cold which is almost refreshing. Martin feels as if he’s caught in empty space, where neither feeling nor thought are necessary. And it’s nice, to feel for even a shred of a moment that he doesn’t need to worry about anything. GERT-I’s like that. Solid, infallible in her own way, and it’s nothing short of wonderful having something so persistently unyielding in his life, unchangeable.
The others don’t know he’s here, and if Martin’s honest, he prefers it that way. He cherishes this quiet, this soft sort of peace he’s granted when he’s here, sitting in his chair like it was made for him. He’s somewhere where he truly belongs. GERT-I is tolerant of him, understanding; there is nothing here to judge him for what he does, or how he does it. Here, Martin doesn’t have to worry about twitches in lips, others unsure whether to smirk, or turn down their smiles into drab frowns of pity. He doesn’t have to look into eyes and see mirth, or worry, patronising glints of light glittering at him with haughty derision.
For once, in this quiet space, Martin doesn’t feel ashamed. He doesn’t need to feel ashamed.
Here, right this second, Martin doesn’t need to feel anything.
He closes his eyes, sinking back further into his seat, the leather crinkling against his weight, slipping against his worn, denim jeans. His knees knock into the yoke, leg outstretched against the consol, butting up against it. The presence against him is comforting almost, the solidity of GERT-I reassuring, like he’s not completely alone in this.
It’s late, which is nice, late enough so everyone would be home now, tucked away against the sofa, watching crap TV and eating dinner. Carolyn and Arthur and Herc maybe, chatting away while Arthur fumbles with the DVD player. Douglas alone at home, re-runs on Dave and his hand for company.
Martin tries not to think about them often, it’s just a distant thought in his mind, nestling in the back whenever he’s feeling particularly piteous. They wouldn’t know he’s here, shouldn’t know he sleeps in GERT-I when he’s feeling lonely or cold. Or his attic picks the day to be a bastard. They might know, and if anyone would, it’d probably be Douglas. But he never says anything, and Martin makes no effort to disclose this knowledge, the secret lingering silently and unacknowledged between them.
It’s fine this way, and for that, Martin is grateful.
He looks around, shuffling closer to the consol, his hips undulating forward, back sinking into the cool leather. It’s dark, the sky a crisp, cloudless midnight blue above his head. The glare of the lamps glow in, highlighting the control panel in a milky, white flush. Martin looks at it, feeling lethargic, boneless against the seat, and rolls his head back, lolling against the back of the seat, eyes fluttering closed.
It’s been a while, he thinks vaguely, fingers tapping idly against his jeans, fingering the worn seam. Exhaustion would do that to you, it seemed, suck any sense of confidence from your bones, any drive for pleasure. His libido was well and truly shot, but sitting here, for once in his life comfortable, he can feel it stir a little, raise its withered head and sniff the air suspiciously.
But in GERT-I? Really?
It’s not like anyone would know, he reasons, fingers shuffling closer to his groin, kneading the bulge softly. A groan bubbles up from his throat, soft and barely audible in the small confines of the flight deck. It’d been so long. That familiar tug in the base of his stomach, the gentle constriction of muscle pulls at him, and he flushes. His skin prickles, hairs standing on end as the zipper slides down and button pops open, deft fingers sliding in and tugging at the faded cotton of his underwear.
He’s doing this, actually touching himself in GERT-I, and Martin bites his lip, eyes fluttering open to peek around, heart hammering in apprehension. The door is locked, everyone’s gone home- there’s nothing here to stop him, so why does he feel so nervous? He twists his head, pressing the side of it into the leather, feeling it slide against his cheek smoothly. His hand twists slightly, shimmying his jeans down his thighs, hips pushing upward slowly.
“Oh...” The groan rumbles in the room, vibrating from his throat as he slides his hand in and wraps it around his cock. He runs his hand up it, gripping the head gently before sliding down, twisting as he goes. God that felt good, and he does it again, and again until he’s squirming against the seat, pawing at his boxers down until they bunch across his thighs. His cock feels hot and heavy in his hand and he strokes it again, rubbing rough circles under the head until he’s bucking for more, hips straining against the seat.
It feels so hot, so stifled in here, unlike the cold space of his flat under the flimsy duvet that barely passes for a blanket. He twists, leaning forward and pressing his forehead against the cool surface of the control panel, feeling the yoke butt against his legs. Knees caught either side of it. It presses unyielding against the inside of his thighs, the stretch of his jeans biting into his skin like fingers grasping for purchase. His prick juts obscenely in front of him, the purpled head swollen and leaking, the glaze of precome glinting in the half light.
Martin blinks down and giggles, rubbing the red glans with the tip of his finger, moaning quietly as his lids quiver shut. His hips stutter forward, caught against the solidity of the yoke and his erection juts against it, bouncing up until he’s rubbing himself against the handle, the slip slide of precome easing his way.
Oh god, he thinks mindlessly as he ruts against the consol like a dog in heat. I’m wanking off against GERT-I.
But it doesn’t bother him, doesn’t curb him against the act. It’s naughty, so filthy, doing this. He’ll sit here in a day, in this very seat and grip the yoke, run his fingers across the handle as he radio’s ATC and loses against Douglas in another word game, knowing full well that a day ago, it was covered in his come.
Him. he. Martin Crieff was here. And he’d be the only person to know. Him and GERT-I.
The thought makes him rut harder, humping himself against the solid black mass as his arms fling forward and grasp at the consol, slippery with sweat, his hot, sticky forehead pressed against it. He gasps into her, into GERT-I, panting for breath, lips wet against the consol as he sucks around a button to stifle his cries.
How this happened, he doesn’t know. Nor is he in a position to care. For once in his life he feels free from worry, free from anything that reminds him of the state of his life. Here, in GERT-I, this clapped out plane, held together with hope and tape, he feels free.
Oh by god does that feel good.
His fingers clench, hips jerking once, twice, three times before he comes against the yoke, biting hard into the button. His throat constricts, chest tight for air as his mind slams forward into his orgasm, blinding white light bursting behind his lids. Martin pants harshly, too hot, too sticky, dimly aware after a few minutes of the faint pita patta as his come drips down the yoke. He leans back, sinking into his seat and watches it, the white streaks looking so obscene it borders on hilarious.
He’ll sit there, Martin thinks idly, taking a minute to just bask in the afterglow, next to Douglas, accepting coffee from Arthur like it’s the most normal thing in the world and he’ll know. He’ll know what happened. He’ll know he’s was here, and what he’d done, and that in all reality, he probably shouldn’t have. But it wouldn’t matter.
It doesn’t matter now. He doesn’t care, and in some sense, he doesn’t think GERT-I would either.
And that’s alright.
He’ll be alright.
Fin.
A/N- Hope you enjoyed. <3
Written by:
crocodile_eat_uWritten for:
turkfoxRating: NC-17
Character/Pairing: Marti/GERTI
Prompt: Martin getting down and dirty with Gerti.
Notes: Martin/GERT-I because the OP has a magnificent mind. Un-betaed and basically a PWP. Enjoy. ;)
It’s quiet. Peaceful almost but not silent. Martin can vaguely hear the drone of chatter from outside GERT-I, the switchover from day to night echoing as people prepare to leave for their warm, comfortable homes.
He sits there, in the flight deck, wondering idly what he did wrong. What could have possibly happened to have his life end up this way? Was it his dogged determination to become a pilot? Wandering through life blinkered, regarding any other possible option, which might’ve benefited him better, as anything less than perfect.
Perhaps he trod on some sort of holy ant as a child and this was fate, or karma’s, or whatever the hell it was, way of repentance. It wouldn’t have surprised him; Martin Crieff wasn’t famed for his interminable supply of decent luck.
So he sits there, maudlin, not cursing the day he was born but rather regretting it with the sad sort of solitude born from one who’s a hairs breadth way from giving up entirely. He’s lived on this precipice before, gone weeks tiptoeing that cliffs edge, waiting for something, anything, from a well placed acerbic comment to a gust of wind to push him off, tip him to the descent of resignation. However it doesn’t come. For whatever reason, Martin has never thrown himself willingly off, rather begging something to do it for him.
What that says about him, or his current state of mental health, he doesn’t know. Nor does he want to speculate too much on it.
All he does know is that he’s tired. He’s tired, exhaustion drilled painfully into his bones, throbbing insistently in the marrow, making his body twitch whenever it’s forced to move. He can almost hear his joints creek, days of hauling around IKEA flat pack furniture from place to place, cribs and cupboards, desks and drawers. He works quietly, efficiently, ignoring the groan in his protesting limbs and the ever persistent niggling in the back of his head warning that the rent is due, or that the flimsy fan heater Simon gave him has packed up and it’ll be a cold night.
It’s always a cold night though, which is a depressing thought, but realistic nonetheless. The April showers have brought nothing but grief, pans and buckets filling with dripping rainwater, Chinese torture- drip, drip, drip. It drives him crazy but he ignores it and turns over, tucking the duvet further around his body like a pig in a blanket and tightens his grip on the umbrella above his head.
Not now though. Now he’s dry and safe, and doesn’t have to worry about the worrying amount of damp creeping up his walls like mossy, green claws. Martin sits in GERT-I, in his captain’s chair and looks out over the consol, eyes flickering over the dials and buttons, seeing colours and procedures and knowledge. And a burst of pride swells in his chest; content in the knowledge that in here, in GERT-I, he is in control. And he isn’t as incompetent as he thinks he is. He is needed.
“You are brilliant do you know that?” Martin murmurs softly, trailing his fingers over the yoke, the smooth plastic almost humming under the pads of his fingertips. It’s dry in here, neither warm nor cold which is almost refreshing. Martin feels as if he’s caught in empty space, where neither feeling nor thought are necessary. And it’s nice, to feel for even a shred of a moment that he doesn’t need to worry about anything. GERT-I’s like that. Solid, infallible in her own way, and it’s nothing short of wonderful having something so persistently unyielding in his life, unchangeable.
The others don’t know he’s here, and if Martin’s honest, he prefers it that way. He cherishes this quiet, this soft sort of peace he’s granted when he’s here, sitting in his chair like it was made for him. He’s somewhere where he truly belongs. GERT-I is tolerant of him, understanding; there is nothing here to judge him for what he does, or how he does it. Here, Martin doesn’t have to worry about twitches in lips, others unsure whether to smirk, or turn down their smiles into drab frowns of pity. He doesn’t have to look into eyes and see mirth, or worry, patronising glints of light glittering at him with haughty derision.
For once, in this quiet space, Martin doesn’t feel ashamed. He doesn’t need to feel ashamed.
Here, right this second, Martin doesn’t need to feel anything.
He closes his eyes, sinking back further into his seat, the leather crinkling against his weight, slipping against his worn, denim jeans. His knees knock into the yoke, leg outstretched against the consol, butting up against it. The presence against him is comforting almost, the solidity of GERT-I reassuring, like he’s not completely alone in this.
It’s late, which is nice, late enough so everyone would be home now, tucked away against the sofa, watching crap TV and eating dinner. Carolyn and Arthur and Herc maybe, chatting away while Arthur fumbles with the DVD player. Douglas alone at home, re-runs on Dave and his hand for company.
Martin tries not to think about them often, it’s just a distant thought in his mind, nestling in the back whenever he’s feeling particularly piteous. They wouldn’t know he’s here, shouldn’t know he sleeps in GERT-I when he’s feeling lonely or cold. Or his attic picks the day to be a bastard. They might know, and if anyone would, it’d probably be Douglas. But he never says anything, and Martin makes no effort to disclose this knowledge, the secret lingering silently and unacknowledged between them.
It’s fine this way, and for that, Martin is grateful.
He looks around, shuffling closer to the consol, his hips undulating forward, back sinking into the cool leather. It’s dark, the sky a crisp, cloudless midnight blue above his head. The glare of the lamps glow in, highlighting the control panel in a milky, white flush. Martin looks at it, feeling lethargic, boneless against the seat, and rolls his head back, lolling against the back of the seat, eyes fluttering closed.
It’s been a while, he thinks vaguely, fingers tapping idly against his jeans, fingering the worn seam. Exhaustion would do that to you, it seemed, suck any sense of confidence from your bones, any drive for pleasure. His libido was well and truly shot, but sitting here, for once in his life comfortable, he can feel it stir a little, raise its withered head and sniff the air suspiciously.
But in GERT-I? Really?
It’s not like anyone would know, he reasons, fingers shuffling closer to his groin, kneading the bulge softly. A groan bubbles up from his throat, soft and barely audible in the small confines of the flight deck. It’d been so long. That familiar tug in the base of his stomach, the gentle constriction of muscle pulls at him, and he flushes. His skin prickles, hairs standing on end as the zipper slides down and button pops open, deft fingers sliding in and tugging at the faded cotton of his underwear.
He’s doing this, actually touching himself in GERT-I, and Martin bites his lip, eyes fluttering open to peek around, heart hammering in apprehension. The door is locked, everyone’s gone home- there’s nothing here to stop him, so why does he feel so nervous? He twists his head, pressing the side of it into the leather, feeling it slide against his cheek smoothly. His hand twists slightly, shimmying his jeans down his thighs, hips pushing upward slowly.
“Oh...” The groan rumbles in the room, vibrating from his throat as he slides his hand in and wraps it around his cock. He runs his hand up it, gripping the head gently before sliding down, twisting as he goes. God that felt good, and he does it again, and again until he’s squirming against the seat, pawing at his boxers down until they bunch across his thighs. His cock feels hot and heavy in his hand and he strokes it again, rubbing rough circles under the head until he’s bucking for more, hips straining against the seat.
It feels so hot, so stifled in here, unlike the cold space of his flat under the flimsy duvet that barely passes for a blanket. He twists, leaning forward and pressing his forehead against the cool surface of the control panel, feeling the yoke butt against his legs. Knees caught either side of it. It presses unyielding against the inside of his thighs, the stretch of his jeans biting into his skin like fingers grasping for purchase. His prick juts obscenely in front of him, the purpled head swollen and leaking, the glaze of precome glinting in the half light.
Martin blinks down and giggles, rubbing the red glans with the tip of his finger, moaning quietly as his lids quiver shut. His hips stutter forward, caught against the solidity of the yoke and his erection juts against it, bouncing up until he’s rubbing himself against the handle, the slip slide of precome easing his way.
Oh god, he thinks mindlessly as he ruts against the consol like a dog in heat. I’m wanking off against GERT-I.
But it doesn’t bother him, doesn’t curb him against the act. It’s naughty, so filthy, doing this. He’ll sit here in a day, in this very seat and grip the yoke, run his fingers across the handle as he radio’s ATC and loses against Douglas in another word game, knowing full well that a day ago, it was covered in his come.
Him. he. Martin Crieff was here. And he’d be the only person to know. Him and GERT-I.
The thought makes him rut harder, humping himself against the solid black mass as his arms fling forward and grasp at the consol, slippery with sweat, his hot, sticky forehead pressed against it. He gasps into her, into GERT-I, panting for breath, lips wet against the consol as he sucks around a button to stifle his cries.
How this happened, he doesn’t know. Nor is he in a position to care. For once in his life he feels free from worry, free from anything that reminds him of the state of his life. Here, in GERT-I, this clapped out plane, held together with hope and tape, he feels free.
Oh by god does that feel good.
His fingers clench, hips jerking once, twice, three times before he comes against the yoke, biting hard into the button. His throat constricts, chest tight for air as his mind slams forward into his orgasm, blinding white light bursting behind his lids. Martin pants harshly, too hot, too sticky, dimly aware after a few minutes of the faint pita patta as his come drips down the yoke. He leans back, sinking into his seat and watches it, the white streaks looking so obscene it borders on hilarious.
He’ll sit there, Martin thinks idly, taking a minute to just bask in the afterglow, next to Douglas, accepting coffee from Arthur like it’s the most normal thing in the world and he’ll know. He’ll know what happened. He’ll know he’s was here, and what he’d done, and that in all reality, he probably shouldn’t have. But it wouldn’t matter.
It doesn’t matter now. He doesn’t care, and in some sense, he doesn’t think GERT-I would either.
And that’s alright.
He’ll be alright.
Fin.
A/N- Hope you enjoyed. <3
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Comments
You built up a perfect atmosphere and I feel like I shared a very, very intimate moment. Daayum.
Greatly done!!