Hot Wire
Words: 2.9k. Warnings: Alcohol consumption, swearing, smut, smut, smut. Notes: This is my first time writing for Warfare, just wrote what came. This has nothing to do with the real person, just Cosmo Jarvis in the movie with the name 'Elliot'. That's it. That's all.
If you couldn't see Elliot's truck parked right outside your house through the window, you would have assumed the person knocking on the door was trying to escape a chainsaw-wielding murderer and had chosen your bungalow as their place to hide.
Excessive and urgent, Elliot's fist rapped against the door. A door he had adjusted the hinges on last summer. A door he had walked through countless times. A door he had a key to. Words failed to explain just how irritated he was that he had to knock before entering his own home, but his fist was doing an exceptional job.
His hand fell through the air as you finally opened the door, exposing a small foyer that looked foreign to him for a moment since it didn't have his shoes or bag thrown on the floor.
“Elliot, what are you -”
“Why the hell did you call Erik to fix the house?” The question flew out of his mouth, spit sputtering behind it.
“I didn't. And it's not fixing the house. It's replacing wall plugs.” His eyes turned off the drill they were using to search yours and you watched as they darted around behind your head, looking for something. It was one month and a day since you told him to leave, asking for space, so you supposed this emotional drop-in was not completely strange. It was bound to happen eventually. “Do you want to come in?”
“Into my own house? That I literally pay the mortgage for?” He muttered while stepping in, kicking off his sneakers immediately.
Following you into the house, noting its unusual spotless state, Elliot clocked the small plastic Menards bag on the kitchen table next to a glass of wine. As if he was half fire-breathing dragon, a huff fled his nostrils as he took the outlets out and examined them.
“It's the two in the bathroom. They stopped working a couple days ago.”
Elliot diligently nodded and went to work, going to the garage first for his tools and then taking over the bathroom. As soon as he went in, the scent of your body lotion rushed up his nose and the fire in his belly flickered lower. He wasn't angry at you for asking someone else for help. He was just hurt. The corner of the sink countertop stabbed his hip, reminding him that this bathroom was not made for a man of his size. He didn't fit in the tub, but sometimes insisted on joining you in there even if it meant throwing his leg over the edge uncomfortably. The bathroom was meant to be the first renovation when you two bought the starter home, but other projects and expenses always popped up. It occurred to him now that it may never be scratched off his to-do list. It could become someone else's task.
Changing the electrical plugs was a straightforward swap. Elliot estimated he was crouched down in the bathroom for less than a half hour. It was enough time for him to calm down. The distraction of using his hands and an screwdriver lowered his blood pressure. In fact, he felt sort of proud that you had purchased the correct ones by yourself instead of focusing on the fact that that meant you might not need him. Hardware store runs had always fallen under his jurisdiction even if you sometimes came along. He was the one calling the shots up and down the aisles even in the plant nursery.
Once upright, Elliot put his tools away in the bed of his truck. He wasn't enjoying staying at his sister's place, but he figured the least he could do is be useful while he was there and take on some of her home repairs. It would mean less time spent as a human jungle gym to his nieces and nephew.
“All done.” He walked right to where the living room and kitchen met and reported to you, looking at the old plugs in his hand.
“Okay. Thank you.” You had to swallow your sip of wine quickly to answer, lips wet at the center from doing so.
“Why didn't you call me?” Perhaps, someone who didn't know him as well would miss the note of agony in his voice. They would just hear a simple question. It rang out to you above his baritone, impossible to ignore. “You're still my -” He stopped himself, catching the word as it reached his glistening teeth. Elliot swiped the bag off the table and put the two white outlets inside. “This is still my house.” He corrected himself.
“I didn't call Erik. I ran into him at the store and then he offered.” Obviously, he had been told that you and your husband were taking a break. “I'll call him and tell him it's done. That his help is not required.” Putting down your wine glass, you turned for the phone that sat by the coffee pot and ceramic sugar container. “Thank you again by the way. It'll be nice to go to work with dry hair tomorrow.”
You were signing him out, a monotone signal that said: ‘You know where the door is. See yourself out.’.
Elliot began to leave, but he didn't even make it past the coffee table before he was stomping back toward you, crossing the threshold between rooms.
“Can we talk?” Three words he had never arranged in this order leapt from his mouth. “You said I don't communicate….” He attempted to explain, hand in front of him assisting as you slowly turned around, looking at him like you were concerned he had lost his mind. Your husband had never asked to talk before, but he had asked if you two could stop talking many times. “I'm here. I'm trying to talk.”
Placing the phone back on its cradle, you leaned against the counter and gestured to the laminate tiles as if to tell him he had the floor before picking up your wine again.
“I know my job is a problem. I’m away a lot and I get moody before deployment,” He was leaving in a month to Iraq and, while being a Seal seemed to give him both pride and purpose, the time leading up was difficult. “And you have to hold things down alone…and then I come back and it takes a while until I’m settled…” This was not rehearsed. He was going off the fly, trying to open up as you had asked and begged him to for ages. His mouth felt uncomfortable and his words were jumbled. It seemed like both of you weren’t sure where this was going to go. Elliot trailed off before widening his eyes at you and throwing out a finger, “You know, your job isn’t great either.” This was more familiar territory. Elliot could only focus on his own wrongdoings for so long before turning the situation around. “You think I like knowing my wife is rubbing down other guys all day?”
“Yeah, you’ve said that.” You two had had this argument before, usually in his truck when he picked you up from work and one devastating time at the beach when you ran into a regular client who was glistening in the sun like he was born from it with a body so perfect that it could have been the first draft of Michaelangelo’s David. He had felt instantly aware of every hair on his body as this poreless guy in short red swim trunks enveloped you in a hug while going on about how you were the only person who could work the kinks out of his lower back. ‘Your wife is a goddess’, he told Elliot with a smirk so cocky that it was clear he had no idea how close to being punched in the face he actually was. “It’s really insulting to me when you make it sound like I give tug jobs for a living. I was in massage therapy school when we met. It’s in-sane that you act like this is a new thing.” Eventually, you were going to want to sit down and have a conversation with your husband about the next steps. The separation phase was never supposed to be permanent. It was just breathing room. Unfortunately, now you were fighting and that conversation felt even more open-ended.
Elliot didn’t have anything to say, biting at his gums, he watched as you stalked over to the fridge to pull out the bottle of wine for another glass. You reached up on your tip toes out of habit, not necessity and he cracked his neck to the side, watching your breasts momentarily jiggle as you moved.
“Are you seeing someone?”
“What?!” You wanted to ask him if he needed his head checked, but the question was clear in your eyes. “No, Elliot. We’ve been separated for a month.”
“I don’t know. Your outfit, the wine.” His chin like a laserpoint, he gestured to both.
“Yeah, I was going to woo Erik with my nine dollar bottle of pink Moscato, you caught me.” He hated when you were sarcastic with him. Disdain from you was reserved for your friend’s narrow-minded husband or the employees at the DMV, not him. “And I wouldn’t wear this on a date. You should know that. You dated me.” These were the secondhand Lululemons you commonly wore to work and a tank top that you only used for sleep and yardwork. Turning around, you began to pour yourself a very generous glass.
“That’s not fucking funny.” He was almost in your face now, removing the polite space you two had been keeping. “Don’t joke about getting together with one of my friends-” You would never. Erik would never. Logic wasn’t exactly computing for Elliot right now.
“God, Elliot, I haven’t seen you in a month and you pick a fight!” Putting the twist-cap back on the bottle, you whined. “I will call you when I’m ready to talk, but you have to -”
His hips pressed into you, sandwiching you between his weight and the counter. Your hands flattened against it as he huffed in your ear, “I don’t want to talk. I want you. I want my wife.” He was growling, low and dour, a large hand sliding over your hip and then holding your stomach. Elliot felt like a mess and he could not stand it. The idea of being deployed without knowing if he was coming back to you or his sister’s couch (or worse, a soulless apartment complex by the river) was driving him crazy. You weren’t squirming underneath him, instead he felt your breath steady and your head move back, hanging just slightly to his shoulder. It felt so good, so comforting, to know he wasn’t the only one who missed being this close. “You smell so fucking good.” Biting down on his molars, he groaned before burying his face where your neck met your chest. His unkept facial hair was like sandpaper against your skin as he sucked and pecked at one of your most tender spots. He had discovered it when you two first hooked up and the way you gasped now sounded exactly the same as it had that night on his couch. “No, you haven’t been with anyone. Nobody’s touched you…” His hand gripped at the center of your shirt, balling the material together in his fist and yanking it down, allowing your breasts to spring free. “Still mine.” He breathed and licked at what he could reach of your clavicle, his hands both going down to your thighs and then your ass, reclaiming curves that he had marked as his a long time ago.
“E…”
“Say what you want. You got to tell me what you want.”
You were panting under his touch. It was too much for words to break through. Elliot took one hand off your thigh and gracelessly put his four fingers in your wine glass before directing them into your mouth, only three digits making it in, “Tell me, baby, tell me what you want…”. The sugar sweet taste of the pink wine was mixed clashed with the texture of his calloused fingers, but yet it was so satisfying. He wiped his fingers on your chin before down to your chest, feeling his way around you.
“I want you.” Softly, you managed to say. It was a mystery to you as your brain was not present. This was strictly desire and feeling. “God, I want you.” If he hadn’t been at the ready before, you could feel it pushing against the small of your back now, Elliot’s determined arousal, large and confident.
He tugged on your pants and brought them down to your knees, taking his palm wet from wine and your mouth and reaching into your underwear, grinning like a Chesire Cat at the warmth he found. He slipped one finger in, but you shook your head.
“No, just fuck me, Elliot. I want you to fuck me right now.”
He had never been precious about foreplay before, so he wasn’t about to start now. He slapped at your breasts as you bent further over the counter and went straight to undoing his belt and the rest of his jeans while you stepped out of your pants completely. He pumped his shaft, one-two-three, and then slid it inside you - slow at first and then all at once. A string of delicate whispered yeses danced out of your open mouth as Elliot held your hips sturdy and railed into you. More than he missed this, he had just missed you. His wife. It was as if he was trying to pull you two together so tightly that it would be too painful to come apart.
“You are my wife.” He wasn’t reminding you because you hadn’t forgotten. It was a declaration. “My. wife.” He gasped before bowing his head to yours, sealing your open mouth with a kiss that he was starving for. “Fuck.” Loudly, he grunted before his wet cock slipped out. He rushed to turn you around, helping you up onto the counter with both hands under your bum. Once precariously placed, he admired the snug spot that he had just been pounding into. Elliot slanted forward and kissed you again, your pussy pressed against his shirt before he stood back up at attention and spat at your already sleek slit and reentered, holding one of your legs as the other rested over his shoulder.
“Cum. Cum for me.” He directed while looking back and forth between your wide eyes and your middle finger rubbing at your clit. The sights only encouraged him to buck into you faster, heavier. “Come on, baby. Cum for me.”
Instead, you came together. Elliot had intended to pull out and spray his load over your mound or your stomach, some sort of visual that you were still his, but it felt so good to be connected again, together, that he let himself go. Slowly, you slid off the surface with his help and felt the cold floor on your feet. You slid your hands under his shirt as you two rocked from side to side together, just for a couple beats while you came down.
“Oh my God…” Sighing, you wiped at your face. He was watching you, waiting with eager eyes for you to say that all was forgiven and any issue was now resolved.
“We’re so good together…” He whispered, his hands on your back to keep you from swaying away, looking down at your breasts as he stepped on the discarded clothes on the floor.
“Sex has never been a problem for us.”
“Let me come home and work on what the problem is.” He moaned, head back in a second of frustration. The silence felt like porcelain as it took over, like if he dared to test it it would immediately break into a hundred small pieces. He blinked rapidly as he swore he saw you nod your head, like a kid who just heard the word ‘Disneyland’ or something. Softly, you laughed and nodded again.
“Okay, if you really mean it, that you will work on it before you deploy, yeah, come home.”
Smashing his mouth against yours, he kissed you deeply, tasting the Moscato that he usually never wanted a glass of for himself. Right now, it was exactly the right flavor. He held you close in the kitchen and made a mental promise to himself that he would do everything he could to put you two in a good, strong place before he left. He was going to renovate the bathroom. He was going to work on opening up and not being a dick about little things you couldn’t control.
“Shit.” Interrupting his planning, you hissed over his shoulder.
“What? What?” Elliot turned his head and tried to find what you were looking at. It didn’t take long for him to see through the living room window that Erik was getting out of his car.
“The window is open.” Through grit teeth, you stated, really wishing you used the blinds more. “We’re naked and it probably smells like sex in here.”
“Yeah, it does." Pleased as punch with himself, Elliot hummed. "I’ll deal with it.” Pulling up his underwear and then his jeans, Elliot headed to the door with a stupid-happy smile stamped on his face and his fly open. He turned the handle, pulled the door open, and greeted his friend, proudly, like his presence alone said: This is my house where I live with my wife and everything is going to be okay.
