Seven Day Furlough (It Was Never Enough)
[FANDOM] Band of Brothers
[PAIRING] Joe Liebgott x Female Reader
tw// mdni(18+), adult content, sexual content, you and Lieb just freaking all day and night, cheesy af but just go with it ok?
A/N: Someone requested this a while back, and I'm barely catching up. Apologies to those who sent in requests. Anyway, this is a continuation of Engine's Running, which you can read here. What happens after female reader and Lieb get out of the car and to the hotel? 😉
The hotel turned out to be not one hotel, but six.
Every night was a new hotel. New sights, new sounds, new scenery as Joe drove you both to every new location, as Joe handled everything, and all he wanted you to do was be pretty. Not a single bag was lifted with those manicured hands of yours.
He'd rather they handle something else instead.
Day one, after a romantic riverboat tour, organized by Mr. Liebgott himself, he'd dicked you down so bad that your clit was fighting for its life. It was on life support, along with your pussy. Weeks without touching each other besides a brief brush of lips in clandestine settings, hands kneading your ass as he whispered what the hell he was going to do to you on furlough, had built up equally between the both of you. Or so you thought.
But the way Joe had you screaming, had you moaning and tearing at the sheets and shattering the windows, had proved that perhaps he was the one who won in this makeshift battle. Not through words; never with words, unless you wanted to know how deep his depravity went. That, he'll entertain, but sentimentality was something you freely expressed; Joseph David Liebgott, however? He'd rather express every single thought through his actions.
As you soon learned on day two. Pretty lace lingerie had popped up in the boutiques as you walked through town, and your marvel equated itself as Joe fucking you through multiple pairs of lace panties he bought you on a whim. Blew nearly his entire wallet, because why the hell not, he said. What was the point of a man working himself down to the bone if there wasn't a woman to appreciate it all, according to him. His words, not yours, you thought, while he had you spreading your legs open while he ate you out from the back with the blinds wide open. You lamented the loss of several of the panties, torn from his patience and excitement as you modeled every single one of them for him.
All remediated on day three. You got your panties; you got your bras, garters, and other fancy lingerie pieces at the next town and hotel. Day two's outing was a picnic, and day three was...well, you think it was about...hiking? Something like that. Hard to remember when the main highlight was that the hotel room walls were made of mirrors, and Joe was more than happy to take advantage of that. He was a grateful audience member of one, and you were the star of the show. Strip-tease, lap dance, letting you tie him up, taking everything you wanted to do to him with a low groan of approval.
Day four was the prelude to day five. Titty-fucking you in private museums and prone-boning you in villas that had army occupants who did not know the both of you had snuck in. A big "fuck you" to the officers was needed, according to Lieb, and he'd made you cream all over his cock while the two of you swapped spit to wine he'd stolen from the cellar. You nearly fainted when you realized he'd fucked you where a good portion of Battalion HQ was stationed. While you were fearing for your life, he was but a shrug and a lit cigarette away, escorting you back to the hotel to fuck you some more.
Day five was similar to the previous. You were supposed to say no. You were supposed to be mortified and ashamed to have your ass devoured on top of Major Winters' desk, but that tongue was doing beyond devious work. No alarm bells went off when you came on his face and flipped him around, making quick work on the fly of his dress uniform to swallow him whole. You sucked and lathed at him like your life depended on it. Well, his life was more on the line to be desecrating his superior's desk. but he didn't give a shit the way he grinned as he came down your throat.
If you could see that devious smile on his face forever, you'd give anything. The hand on on your neck. The manic expression in his eyes, his focus on you and you only. There was no blood, no grit, no gore; there was youth shining through the hard flint of his eyes as a paratrooper.
You took him slowly on day six. Nice and slow. He'd made it all about you, and now, it was all about him. A leisurely walk around the village, feeding the ducks, walking hand-in-hand, and if it weren't for the eagle on his shoulder, the uniform, you could pretend the both of you didn't join together in war, and you were a carefree woman in love with Joe Liebgott who had the softest gaze.
You'd laid him down on the bed, and had kissed and mouthed over every expanse of skin, some parts smooth, some parts scarred and mottled from warfare, some parts even fresh in injury. There was no rush. There was just you and him, on the bed, switching up positions the way he liked, hands on your ass, on the sheets. Hands everywhere and invariably on you, just as your hands were on his body, caressing him after a final orgasm into deep slumber that sank into his bones.
The seventh day had come too soon. How boyish and relaxed he looked, even if he slept with a loaded pistol under his pillow, a hallmark of a soldier always on alert. The two of you languidly had a humble countryside breakfast at the farmer's market, and then did one final sightseeing tour at the last town. Joe threw a wad of bills at the receptionist, and the two of you returned back to your hotel room to once again have your vocal cords be put to good use.
"Yeah, I like that," you deliriously moaned out, sinking back down on his cock as you held onto his chest for dear life. "Yeahyeahyeahyeah—"
"C'mon, then. You can do it faster than that." He bucked his hips up like a piston, giving the meat of your ass a demanding smack. Nonsensical words tumbled out of your mouth when he slid the tip of his finger in your backside, driving into you just as he began to rub furiously at your clit.
You screamed and had no capacity to care about any neighbors. Sorry but not sorry about how the bedframe was creaking, the mattress was making concerning noises, and between your cries and his epithets that had you gushing, you were sure that no person of the cloth wanted to be near the vicinity of the entire hotel. This was that down and dirty, that one last time type of sex. The howlongbeforewecanbelikethisagain. The BabyifIcouldhavethingsmyfuckingwayI'dgoAWOLifitmeantIcouldbeinthispussyforever.
Last day of furlough. The last few moments before he had to report in, and when it had to happen...gone would be the young man with eyes so wide and soft. His hands may have been rough and calloused, but they were gentle. Just like his smile when you told a silly joke and he'd hold you in his arms. They would all be gone. He'd be Sonny Boy again. Joe the Barber. The professional killer, a madman of a sharpshooter, as you heard his titles uttered through the hoards of men.
He'd have his hands full not from your breasts and hair that he loved so much, but from bullets and blood and guns and whatever trophies of war he staked his claim on. You weren't naive about his nature, about how he didn't earn his reputation for nothing. You couldn't be. You knew what was involved being with a man like him.
But in this moment, when his mouth was on your aching nipples and he had his arms wrapped around you, he wasn't the crazed grunt who grinned at the smell of death.
He was just Joe. Your Joe. Capturing your gaze and your lips, coaxing orgasm after orgasm out of you. He was the man who had you frantically scratching at his chest as you rode him hard and fast, like you could burrow into him the more you melded your flesh with his. No other man had you this desperate, this euphoric, this delusional in your philosophy, if you were ever afforded any braincells from how he flipped you over to take you from behind.
"I know you got one more for me," he gutturally stated, his fingers tugging your locks at the base of your head. "C'mon. I know you got one more."
No other man. "OhshitIcan't—" No other. "Joe!"
"You fucking can, and you will." What other man could compare to someone like him? "C'mon.
"Come for me right now."
Who could even come as close in comparison?
"Come.
"Now!"
"Joe!"
No one. That was right. No one. No one else could make you wring out everything you had for one last climax by a single command. No one could do it the way he did. Dick you down the way he did, be the rapport for you to do the worst as you bit and scratched and wailed as you came, the bulwark to the tempest you raged in ecstasy. Lay you down nice and soft while the tremors racked your body. Kiss you deep and slow, and when you sang one last verse to the high heavens, that was when he finally let him himself have his own release.
No one else could have a sliver of his consideration, and as he spilled his come on your heaving belly, how you wished he'd finish inside. A man would have to be beyond the common nature of man to be able to instill such carnal thoughts inside of you. But this was Joe, and because this was Joe, you longed for it.
You longed for it, and he knew. His gaze, through the haze of his climax, had darkened, and he conveyed all that he understood with his tongue on yours. Wet, filthy, hungry, and just plain nasty.
You wondered if other men would manically flash their teeth in approval when you collected his spend in your fingers and licked up every single last drop. You'd never let the tiniest bit go to waste. You were selfish, greedy, and you wanted it all.
"Woman, you're gonna fucking kill me" was his response in the form of a strained chuckle, and he didn't spare a moment of hesitation in capturing your lips for another kiss that had you opening your legs in a wider welcome.
You wanted it all. You wanted his dirty promises in your ear, and his hands full of your ass. You wanted his devilish grin. You wanted his skin on yours. You wanted the kind man who always took care of you, and you wanted the soldier who spilled blood to defy death for another day.
"Damn if you ain't the only one for me."
You wanted his love. And when you heard those words after one last playful nip to your lips, you smiled.
And he smiled back. Radiating, blinding, consuming you in awe as you looked deeply into those eyes that reflected only you. It was a genuine smile that had you encircling your arms around him in wonder. It was a smile that had you breathless as he gingerly slid into you again with all the care in the world; and as he began to move, you wondered if your elation could ever rival the reverence he made you feel when his forehead came to rest on yours.
Seven days of furlough were never enough. It was never enough. Seven days, fourteen, months, even years. No amount of days would ever be enough.
The both of you held true to that.
