#wwii x reader

[gazlightmehardergazzy]

Sexually Frustrated Headcanons with with Lewis Nixon x Reader, Harry Welsh x Reader, Bill Guarnere x Reader, and Don Hoobler x Reader

[FANDOM] Band of Brothers

[PAIRINGS] Lewis Nixon x Reader, Harry Welsh x Reader, Bill Guarnere x Reader, and Don Hoobler x Reader

[PROMPT] You guys know the drill. And the Don Hoobler one is dedicated to the very obvious #1 Hoob fan in this fandom. [PREVIOUS PARTS IN THIS SERIES] 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5)

tw// mdni (18+), adult content, explicit sexual content

Lewis Nixon x Reader

He wasn't much for patience. He himself may be languid, especially as the son of Lewis Nixon II, but everything and everyone else was subject to his impatience with every second passed that didn't yield the fruits he was expecting. It was only fair. That was life. Princeton, business, the army: Patience had its place, but it didn't mean he had to humor it at all times, much less humor everybody. Patience, especially, was not reserved for your absence. Blast it. He should've never sent you on that reconnaissance mission. Should've never agreed to Dike's incessant whining about how you were the only one who could do what you did. His own ass should've been on the line, for all Lew cared. Patience was eating into his bones, and he sat in wait, burning, an empty bottle of Vat 69 laying strewn on the table, his buttons and shirt askew. Waited every night for your damned return, like he was more of a mutt than your superior, waiting to hear your voice again. Burning. He burned. Damn Shakespeare to hell at this point for the stupid poetics that waxed inside his head. Maybe going to an Ivy was a curse. He sat there, morose, alone, dim lights illuminating his ragdoll of a body, yearning for a figure that had him imagining things in the dark that began with the faintest touch of lips.

"When I get my hands on you after chow tonight, Brat," he whispered against your cheek with full gravel, "that's going to be the last time you go crying to Dick." "Captain Winters, Captain Nixon is bullying me again, Sir." "Why, you little—" There you went. You could torture him endlessly, antagonize his soul down to his bones, and nothing would be done. When you went off running to Dick, you could be absolved of anything and everything, and Dick knew that, and you knew that, and he knew that. A purposeful look of ignorance tinged with coyness in the bare flash of a hidden grin could only leave him riled, undue in injustice, left without sanctioned action. You knew what you were doing. He knew what you were playing at when you peered at him behind the leaning form of his friend. That dastardly smile. What could a man and officer do but watch in silence? You knew what you were doing with that Vat 69 bottle. When you leered at him, lips wrapping around the rim, he damned near lost his mind when you took them down to the base of the neck. Sucked and licked and laved at the glass until it turned hot, and Lewis was sure what was happening in his fatigues was even hotter than that stupid bottle. Come. Here. Now. It was evident in his eyes, in the harsh set of his mouth. Too bad it only made you grin even wider and enjoy torturing him while hiding behind your CO. With a flighty tip of your head, you blew a raspberry at him before deepthroating that bottle again like it was the best dick of your life. By the time a strong hand clamped onto your arm, the sound of a heavy chair thudding, Captain Winters demanding where his peer was taking you, you had won. Invariably. You won. Of course. Now, if you could just survive whatever he was planning on doing to you...

Do not press this man too much. Call him languid. Call him lazy. Call him a lion downed and unwilling to get up from the longest nap. A man had his moments of idleness, but a man also had his moments of achieving satiation, in which he was willing to go that extra mile to get what he wanted. And what Lewis Nixon wanted was you split on his cock, begging for your life as he railed you into next week. Because that whole week, he had idled, but had warned you not to press your luck, yet teasing him was your ultimate ambrosia. Just realize that his ambrosia was your spit swapping with his, fucking nasty on your CO's desk, stolen chocolate bonbons and good whiskey blending into the kiss. The type of filth that had you limping and turn real silent for several days in shock at what that man could do when he was pent up enough. Turned you real docile. It was clear Captain Nixon was not a proper gentleman before meeting you, and he clearly was not a gentleman when he had you in his bed.

Humoring you was the source of the frustration, yet he chased. Because, albeit he'd grit his teeth when self-restraint was demanded of him, the chase was addictive. It lured him. He was never one to humor, always expecting results, no bullshit, no games, yet he'd carry on like some idiotic detective in a two-penny novel. You'd hide, and he'd find. Hide-and-seek was already wearing at his patience, but he played your game. Never mind that you were awfully good at this game, and it'd been over an hour of him scouring the base for your whereabouts. He'd found clue after clue, letter after letter, and even though he wouldn't call it quits, he was still awfully close to stalling. That was, until your final clue was your underwear, smelling very strongly of the place he wanted to taste the most, and when he inhaled, the chase was due to end at that moment. He was dialed in. Focused. It took no more than five minutes for him to find you, and when he did, his eyes weren't just dark from being Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome. Did you know he fucked like a piston when you had your nails digging into his ass?

Harry Welsh x Reader

Cheerful Harry. Tough, a bloody good soldier and officer, and one of the best in the company. Could skin, gut, and shoot a man with a smile the size of the U.S.A. Loyal, hardworking, sharp as a tack when things had to be done, optimistic, and an advisor that was never wrong. He never was one to turn down a challenge or ever surrender. Except in these cases. The enlisted sort-of knew. The officers knew, but propriety was expected of officers, unless you were Lewis Nixon, who, at this time, was on the edge of the last precipice to hell. The man was devoted. Devoted and pent up, obviously, and not getting his way, or was satisfied enough. There was a gleam in his eye that sparked of danger, and it was enough to not have Captain Lewis start another war with his sarcasm, and not worth the effort of combatting hellfire, according to Lieutenant Speirs. Lay low. Keep heads down, and pretend nothing was amiss. Pretend that there wasn't a hard crick in his jaw, and how when he smiled, it wasn't a smile full of good cheer. It was that one a shark, warning everyone to steer clear of him while he fought for his soul. Good Lord. What the hell have you done to get him this frustrated?

"Son, you need a woman," Colonel Sink suddenly interrupted, looking Harry dead in the eye above the clasp of his hands. "Go take early leave and get your ass to Paris. I'm sure a paratrooper like you would have no issue getting laid. "Do it for everyone's sake, Welsh. You're dismissed, and don't you dare come back here without fucking out whatever the hell's gotten into you." The words reverberated in his head, but comedy was drained out of him days ago. Whiskey and beer and champagne were no better than water, and he'd gotten into way more drunken fistfights and losses of his temper than ever. Dick couldn't protect his track record anymore, and his behavior was reported all the way up to Colonel Sink. "That obvious, huh?" Yeah. It was obvious. His superior knew. Everyone seemed to know. Happy Harry was no longer Happy Harry. Instead, he'd morphed into Hyperirritable Harry, as dubbed by Lewis. The shit irked him, but that just seemed to prove that sonofabitch right. He really was irritable in the most hyper of ways, and he'd counted fourteen days, six hours, and twenty-three minutes since you weren't kissing him in his lap. Gone on some recon assignment to aid the civilian rebels. Said you'd be back soon, but word had come back that you were delayed by a surprise front put up by the German forces. You'd be back within two days. But it was ten days, seven hours, and twelve minutes too long for his desperate self. He didn't need random fucking women, damn it. He needed you. Needed you to jump into his arms and tell him that you were all right. Needed you to tell him to pleasure you, because that was his pleasure, to give more than what you demanded. Tell him that he was hitting it right in all the places you wanted him in. That he was eating that ass right, slinging that dick right, dirty talking in your ears so wrong that you didn't know what the hell was right as you pulled on his dog tags. Needed you on his face, calling him all the cute nicknames you gave him, and telling him he was doing such a good job. Needed. Wanted. Begged for. But could only dream of as he sat stiffly on his bunk and looked at the empty flask in his hands. He wasn't a cheater, and he sure as hell wasn't a whiner, so all he could do was wait and stew in his frustration. Whacking off was an even worse solution to his problems. He traced the photograph of you tucked into pocket of his coat and sat in silence.

You liked playing with him, and he let you do whatever you wanted. You didn't even have to ask. When you twirled his hair and rubbed his chest, especially in his lap, using a tone of voice reserved only for him, he could only grin like a fool and agree to whatever you wanted. The issue was, well, as stated, you liked playing with him. You liked to play with the buttons of his fly, twirl a feather you nicked out of a duster over his belly, and amuse yourself with another random part of his body while you ignored where he needed you the most. Fun for you, not so fun for him, fighting to rip out of his fatigues and bury his face so far up your ass, he'd be a permanent seat for you, all satisfaction on his end. And he'd do all that with that infamous Harry Francis Welsh grin. But in these moments, his smile was strained. Heat crept under his collar, blushing his skin under your touch. Delicious. You precious Harry. Lieutenant in the 101st, proud paratrooper, and a damned good shot. A man's man. Self-restraint, whispers for mercy, and hands clutching the armrest of his chair. All for you.

Bill Guarnere x Reader

"Aight, think the jig is up, gents. I'll be goin' now." "Okay, tough guy, listen: How 'bout you leave good ol' Bill alone, huh? Not my night right now. Just tryna drink." "That's sergeant to you, Private." "Listen here, fucker: You wanna talk your shit, then talk your shit in the corner. You wanna take it to the tree-line, we can go do that, but you need to know that you're gonna get fucked up. I ain't braggin'. I ain't lyin. You're gonna get fucked up. That's the truth of it. So how 'bout you don't press me further and leave me alone, okay?" "Johnny, handle this for me because, uh, I'm 'bout to lose my shit if i stay. I'm 'bout to lose my shit, yeah." You heard his words. Everyone did. The first few times he got in the crabbiest mood like this, some still dared to press his buttons. Some whittling down to Malark, because Malark was...well, Malark. Then you had Web, but Web was akin to an awkward turtle swimming in circles and never bothering to comprehend nuance. Luz was always a lost cause. Heffron tried once, and he figured it wasn't worth it to egg on his sergeant any further. The others didn't really want to test out the wild in the name Wild Bill, so thankfully he could get lost in his cups and mope like a sick mutt. Oh, well, though. He deserved that. Stay strong. Another argument, and you'd put him in the doghouse while you fled to go seek solace with the docs. Whatever! He'd made you mad with his Bill Guarnere-ness. That devious cad! Or was he so oblivious about his charms that he was none the wiser on those women chasing him down! You would not give in. He could be outraged and sulk in his pride for all you cared. You were going to win the argument, because once again, you were right, and he was wrong. Yeah. It was just that... When he'd say "Baby" with the full timbre of his voice, with a serious face accented by the swagger and confidence from being a parachute infantryman, it was hard to resist. Sleeves rolled up, brows furrowed, with open arms inviting you to come bury yourself in his chest. Fight over, angry words forgotten, just him and his hold on you, telling you that everything was going to be okay, even through the worst of the fights. Anything and everything you threw at him, he'd never faltered. And of course, somehow, that ended up with you screaming his name as he piped you down while he spoke languid filth into your ears. Clinging onto his back for mercy, making you be the agreeable one now as he was the one to ask questions as you clamped down on his cock. Sorry was him not looking too sorry with all the devious work he was doing to you. "Love you, Baby. I fuckin' love you. I love the fuck outta you and your ass, you know that, right?" All that audacity, making your ego preen and your stupid heart swell, and then you'd melt again because he'd have an arm over your shoulder, snuggling you into his chest after he wrecked your guts. Smoking a cigarette with a lazy grin while ignoring how one of his newer wounds just opened up, you getting mad again because he was being an idiot and didn't tell you, and him waving it away to then propose some date idea that you'd accept— Snap out of it! You had to stay strong! You were not going to give in to his wicked charm and that arrogance! You were not going to give in! You were completely immune to his dick! Completely immune. In fact, you could protest that dick forever if he was going to get on your nerves! He could be frustrated forever, because you were not going to be swayed this time!

"Awwww, Baby. Baby, won't you please come here? Lemme make it all better for you."

"You know I love you."

Holy shit. That was all you could think of. It was different this time. Very different. As usual, you fell for it again, and there he went with those hands, trying to "make it up to you" as he fed you exactly what you wanted to hear with his front grinding up against your ass. And you friggin' fell for it! Again, you stupid, forgetful idiot! He was pent up, and the manner in which he fucked you was proof enough of his mounting frustration, even though he cooed sweet nothings and said that he'd take care of everything. You felt stretched out, in, sideways, topsy turvy, like you were molding clay subject to the whims of a very vexed artist. Gave in when he put his arms around you, leaning his face against your own from behind, a kiss on your nape sealing your fate. "Now, listen here, Baby," he languidly said, stubbing his cigarette out on the ashtray on the nightstand as he gathered you closer. You instinctively craned your face up to look at him and felt immediately apprehensive through the haze of satisfaction you weren't yet willing to admit. "I got this hotel to ourselves the whole night, and I did that so I could show you how sorry I am. "I only said sorry once. And I think—" Oh, no, you knew where this was going. "—I'm not done showing you just how sorry I am. "Let me say sorry to you all night long. Because believe me: I've been feeling very, very sorry for the last several days." Yeah, you were screwed, quite literally and figuratively.

Don Hoobler x Reader

"Hoob, that serious, huh? If this shit wasn't you'd have scared the draws off your victim, day one," Rader nonchalantly stated, tossing a spare Hershey's bar at Howell. "Buddy, that's how I know you're fucking crazy. Sporting wood over a body being able to kill a man and being a hell of a shot? Yeah. That's our crazyass Hoobler, for sure." Howell seemed to not want to be left out of the assessment, either. "You're fucking pitching a tent right now as we speak, ain't ya?" There was no denial. There was mirth in his wide eyes, adoration, bloodlust still hot from the last firefight they had in the woods, and want. Pure, unadulterated want as he stared at you reassembling your cleaned Luger. You and a Luger? Man's fucking wet dream, right there. He was already breathing hot and heavy when he found that you had years of firearms experience under your belt, but then he'd seen you shoot those Germans square right in between the eyes, even earning Shifty's respect. When you showed up with an oberstleutnant's Luger, he swore he came in his damned pants. He needed you now. Holy fucking shit. His face hurt from how wide his grin was seeing you handle your shit like this, but when you then pulled out a Walther P38— "Hoob—Hoob! Buddy! Ay, ay, ay! Get your ass back here—" Yeah, there was no fucking way he was going to wait for his Jr. to go back to sleep. He immediately made a beeline towards you, dodging curious officers and his dear friend's calls, even as his own sergeant, as he focused on you and you only. He'd already been showing you his interest towards you, if it was obvious enough that he never trolled you, only tried to make you laugh genuinely; because pranks were for dumb grunts and annoying privates, and he'd reserve being an impish menace towards those joes. Never you. Never ever you. Were fatigues thick enough to cover a very obvious erection?

Everyone liked Hoob. It was hard not to. He was an excellent soldier, optimistic, tough, never backed down or complained, always smiling, and most of all...he was good at killing. Which, as stated prior, was part of being a well respected infantryman. There was a certain mania that was accompanied by having such abilities, and said mania bled into his humor. And it also bled into his affections. Any other man could say you were rotten in the soul for shedding blood and partaking in war, but Donald Brenton Hoobler swore he fell in love deeper and deeper. The better you were at cracking shots and stacking bodies, the more hot under the collar he became. Because hell yes. You understood him. What made a soldier out there in the frontlines a good soldier? What made a grunt a grunt? A renowned member of Easy Company, sporting that Screaming Eagle patch with full confidence? Shit wasn't free. A joe had to be down to do the dirty work willingly, and you weren't shy to see him greet you, uniform covered in blood and gore that weren't his. "I liked what I saw today, Hoob," you lowly whispered, lips hovering above his, clucking your tongue as he expectantly craned his head up for a kiss that you denied. He had to be patient. Didn't Captain Winters say that self-discipline was what separated man from boy? You glossed your fingertips over the crotch of his pants, rubbing dirt and clotted blood away from his cheek. "Never seen someone chop up a Carbine like that, much less a Thompson, and make it work while fighting for his life. "I love a smart man who's good at what he does." Instantly, even through the makeshift gag, he beamed. Never mind that his hands were bound behind him. That was "prime grade lucky underwear" from yours truly shoved into his excited mouth, and he'd practically double-timed his rate of fire and fight when you promised you'd give him your recently worn one as a treat. When all was done and settled, and weekend leave commenced, he'd driven you guys off to the nearby town on a stolen Jeep. He knew how to hotwire cars and take them apart, too. What could this man not do? A life of mischief, running free in the Midwest, and doing all the things good boys didn't do in his little Hillbilly club with Rader and Howell. You rubbed delicately over his erection and he groaned. How exciting it was to see him strain against his restraints and look at you with those trusting eyes. "I'm going to take my time with you, Hoobie, okay?." You fondled him in full this time, licking up a bead of sweat that ran down his temple before it hit bandages covering up his wounded clavicle. He moaned something for further effect in response. "I swear you spent the whole day teasing me on purpose. So this is your punishment. "Don't worry. I'll make it a reward after I had my fun."

The thing about Hoob was his utter honesty. Honesty was good, but it was still jarring when you had it from a bonafide menace who bayonetted his adversary and then took a nap under a pine tree like it was nothing. Honesty delivered in a scenario where a smile juxtaposed the message given invariably raised hackles. "You're gonna give them nightmares, Man," Rader remarked, rubbing his chin as the privates squealed and ran out of the cathouse with barely any of their clothing. "You're out here being crazy." Hoobler smirked as he saw the chickens flee and the girls he hired wave at him. Cost him some bucks, but the way shit was going, he needed to blow off steam and get those privates in shape, so a prank was the solution. They learned their lesson, the ladies got paid, and he felt some semblance of satisfaction at the results. "You telling me I have to stop, Sarge?" "I never said that, Donnie." His friend snorted. "Lord knows I'd rather have you scaring the shit out of those replacements than try to school you into fixing whatever's eating away at you. "Actually, I already know. Already told Lip to pass the word on up that Captain Speirs can't be hogging your bird all to himself with that recon work. Shit, I might think Lip would be more than happy to be a replacement himself." He smiled back in thanks, but the rest of the boys at the table knew there was an edge gleaming back in the corners of his lips. A foretelling. Restraint. Expectation. Anticipation and impatience. That everything was all right, but not all right to him, and the greenhorns were the sacrifices that would appease him for now. That, and good drinks, which Babe Heffron was on the tab for. Called it thanks for holding his six when First Battalion wanted to throw fists after one too many pints. Or maybe that was an excuse. Or a mix of both. He was never one to lose his shit in the most conventional of ways, and that was the issue the guys didn't want to witness. Call it 'fuck around and find out', but Hoob never had to say that out loud. Didn't need to, for a corporal of his reputation. Trust that some poor fool would get the brunt of his ire with a grin all the while. He missed you. His Birdie, his friend, his damn near identical insane twin. He missed making you laugh and seeing the roll of your eyes at his antics. Missed your sharp observations, your grit, and those pretty hands on firearms. Missed that tenacity, and you didn't ever back down from a challenge regarding your skill or your character. Missed you in his arms, and he collected all this loot, with the prime person he wanted to share it with missing in action. Hell, he missed those eyes on him, lips on him, hands on his body. How he could be an utter freak, and you'd let him do his worst. And then you'd push back on him, hoovering his dick and making him beg, and what man out there could resist? He couldn't even whack off right, like his johnson was permanently imprinted to only come when you were there in person, no joke. He knew you'd find that endearing if he ever told you just how much of an effect you had on him. That was, when he could tell you. Because he wanted to. So badly. The bar was no fun, being an entertainer in the crowd felt like it'd lost its juice, you weren't there to share chocolates with, tricking and "borrowing" to impress was pointless without his main recipient, and you weren't here to kiss him until spit and cum and utter filth that bubbled up from the depths of his soul made the two of you goofily grin. "She's still coming after me with that dildo! Sergeant Toye! Help!" Hoob leaned back in his seat and watched Joe get up to go rescue his idiotic private from getting devoured by a busty mistress. He would've cackled in the past at seeing the clownshow of men fighting for their lives and slipping and sliding in lube, but for now, he drank and smoked his cigarette, waiting until you were back in his arms like you should've been.

[gazlightmehardergazzy]

Sexually Frustrated Headcanons with Chuck Grant x Reader, George Luz x Reader, David Webster x Reader, and Don Malarkey x Reader

tw// mdni (18+), adult content, explicit sexual content

[PROMPT] The third part to the Sexually Frustrated Headcanons series. Part 1 is here.🔵 Part 2 is here. Part 4 is here. Part 5 is here. Part 6 is here. 😂

Chuck Grant x Reader

He was always known as the cheerful blondie from California, but quite honestly, he was feeling far from cheerful while staring at the wood of the top bunk. Another furlough, another night of stark realization that you and him couldn't be together.

He smoked a lot. The sticks kept him occupied when he salivated, when he tasted the air like he could taste your skin and your lips, like you were here smiling at him coyly as you pushed him down on a bed. He smoked and smoked and smoked, and through the hazy cloud, he could almost visualize the dips, angles, and curves of your body.

Liebgott told him he'd buy him some drinks, even some girls. "Why don't I treat my blondie buddy at the cathouse? I'll turn that frown upside-down" he'd amusedly state, but Chuck was barely holding onto his facade of a smile by gnashing his teeth. He was serious about what you and he had together; unlike Wild Bill, he wasn't one to sow a million oats everywhere when he had a promise.

Thus, the pictures. They were his greatest treasures. His hand would still tremble when he'd pull them out and look at you. He was touched by how you went to a professional photographer to get them taken for his pleasure. His fellow G.I.'s knew about your pretty self, with your enthusiastic smiles and neatly coiffed hair; for a bunch of tough sons of bitches, they sure loved to hem and haw over pictures of their sweethearts like gossiping old ladies.

They could cluck over your adorable poses and captions. What they couldn't entertain themselves with, however, were the pictures that nearly made him shoot off a bullet in surprise at the first glance.

These pictures were scandalous. Bold. The sheer sensuality and confidence behind each laminated paper had him stubbing out his cigarette to rush for the nearest semblance of privacy. He'd gone immediately stiff at your nude body presenting itself in ways that you knew he loved. Every single position was his favorite; and you knew that because what you and he had done together before he left for the field had left him an addict for your touch.

He'd trained himself like a damned mutt. Whenever he'd remember those secret photos tucked into his breastpocket, he'd sport wood. Laughable, really, and thank God for the thick overcoats everyone was given. And thank the clueless grunts besides mind-reading Liebgott from noticing how there was a lot more bite to his smiles, and how strained his eyes were when he'd grin at some joke that unfortunately was no longer that funny.

The men could get relief at bars and hotels with all of their skirt-chasing, but Chuck just needed his damned hand and those photos. The problem was, there was always someone milling about everywhere he went. Well, he could always rent a hotel room alone, but all the moans and groans coming from the walls were just not a good time. There was no way he wanted to hear what Heffron sounded like when he was getting off again. And Shifty had the pace of a goddamned rabbit—

He was frustrated. There was a permanent crick in his shoulders. The few times he was able to handle himself, they were always in some blown-out part of a building or some random hole he'd sneak away to. He'd have to rush himself, which he hated. God forbid someone like Don Malarkey found him and he'd be labelled the Beat-off Blondie Bandit for the rest of his life.

Could Charles Grant be spared one goddamned moment alone without anyone interrupting?

George Luz x Reader

Mr. Goofy was no longer Mr. Goofy. What happened for Luz of all people to tell Webster to can it? Even Randleman was shocked at how George chewed on his cigarette and stalked off into one of the rooms of the bombed out villa they secured. Looked like the jokes ran out in Belgium after the last battle they had.

Well, it wasn't so much of the battle that had George absentmindedly flicking his lighter on and off in silence. It wasn't the lack of Hershey's either. What had him sulking had nothing to do Lieutenant Speirs' sharp orders for the men to prepare for another bout of fire.

He was going to bust. Straight up. Blast off into space. He hadn't come for over three weeks, and he was fucking losing it. He swore he was going insane.

He swore he was going bonkers from not having your hand stroking him. Swore he'd tear a bastard a new one if he didn't have you saucily clamped around him. The hell was a man going to do without a mouth sucking the soul outta him?

But he listened. He kept his promise. Because he was a "good boy." You told him that, and there was no way he'd have you disappointed and not call him that again. You told him that he wasn't to get himself off the whole time he was gone. No edging, either. No looking at magazines or flirting with any skirts. If Georgie Boy behaved and was good, you'd give him the grandest of all rewards.

He'd been so curious, so full of confidence. Of course a man freshly awake from the craziest sex would agree to anything. You could've asked for the White House, and he'd lead a lone assault to capture the property completely sober. Yes, he'd be good. Yes, he'd listen. Of course he wouldn't touch his dick or toe the line when it came to propriety at the bars. He'd be the goodest boy ever.

Yeah, shit obviously didn't fly the way he wanted it to. He was constructing his pitiful eulogy everyday. Herein lies George Luz Sr. He died of a stroke due to a blood clot in his terminally hard cockadoodledoo. The pathetically loyal mutt could've wacked off in the john because who the fuck could've known, but he kept the cock ring on. He is preceded in death by his grandpa—

You said you'd be there at the next field hospital location; they'd nabbed you to go help set up the next one. Lip stated that since they'd wrapped up this current area, going to the next rally point was due soon, and Luz was over the fucking moon. Fucking finally. Holy shit, how the hell did monks do this? There was no way they weren't jerking their gherkin when no one was looking.

For all that was said, there was nothing about you exercising restraint, and knowing you, it was kept that way intentionally. You might give him a grand reward, but your sweet Georgie Boy hoped you could handle his grand punishment.

David Webster x Reader

He didn't get it. He didn't get why you didn't see eye-to-eye with him. To him, sex was just an itch he had to scratch; something purely physical he had to "take care of" before it got too burdensome and clouded his judgement. He still cared deeply for you, and you only. So what if he wrote down the prices of all of the ladies at the brothels he had? Was it so wrong for a man to do a cost basis or price analyses on his purchases?

So, no ladies offering themselves for free, either, you said. None of that going off, doing his thing, but sparing your reputation. Sex wasn't just physical for you. You wanted your relationship to be "real", and this was your "real."

"I'm not settling for anything less, Web. I...I want to love and be loved genuinely by a man who loves me deeply in return. I want—"

"But what's love got to do with it?" he idiotically asked, and you had to idiotically explain yourself that sex wasn't just a basal craving to take care of for you. But then again, in retrospect, this was no jest. This was no coy game of chess. He was "real", and you realized that whatever you and David Webster had, this was his first time with something you considered readily understood by the masses.

This was his first time agreeing to all of your conditions, and in a blown-out foxhole, he pondered over a dying cigarette. He could go without sex for a while, but every unmet aspect of his appetite was in full force. It had been a long while without your body eagerly taking him in, and the urge to kill the coil building up in his gut occupied his mind more so than the primal need to see dead bodies stacked at the other end of his barrel.

The way you clung to him, clawed desperately at his back, as he drove into you over and over again. The crescendo of your voice, how you called for "Web" over and over and over again. He could see the imprints of his hands on your skin and your glossy eyes. Over and over and over and over again. Again and again and again. Cigarettes. Coffee. Blood and guts and foxholes and dirt and day after day, night after night. Rutting into his own hand until he shot nothing but blanks but never satiating that grandiose hunger that kept him awake in the dark.

Liebgott sardonically told him that he'd buy him a lady; maybe that'd "get the stick outta his ass" the way he took the bit and was more prone to entertain a fistfight. "What's love got to do with it?" didn't fly, however. So he abstained. He abstained while the other joes went and got filthy with their own needs, and he sat in damp mud with a cheap bottle of booze and his own ass, his book of choice unread and ignored. To fuck his own hand or to not fuck his own hand? Aye, now that was the rub. Except, he couldn't bare to do anymore rubbing, and no fucking, and lacked mental fortitude to subdue the lust settling into the hard lines of his jaw.

So he wrote. If he couldn't read worth a damn, he'd write. So he wrote and wrote and wrote the most sinful things he'd ever written. Surprised him, really, the creative genius he apparently had; God help him if leadership or one of those German officers found out what debauchery he created on paper. Would he be burned at the stake or shot immediately? Who knew. What he did know was how ink told tales of how he took you, where he took you, how long he took you. How you pushed him down and took him, fast and hard, slow and deep, rocking into him while you carved your pretty nails down his heaving belly. Not a single drop of his spend going to waste.

He wrote and wrote and wrote, and he gave no fucks about sending his depravities back to you. He knew his officers read every single dirty thing he wanted to do to you in his letters; he didn't give a shit when Captain Winters kept on leveling uncomfortable gazes at him or the knowing stares from Captain Nixon. They knew what he wanted, and all he wanted was to fucking bust, but he couldn't have that reality here in this blown-up foxhole, could he? If he had to suffer, than everyone had to suffer.

Hope the brass enjoyed his Harvard education during mail inspection. Hope you enjoyed his last episode he penned you. The Kama Sutra was one of his favorite literary works, and he expressed in full detail which positions piqued his interest. Did you also know he liked to draw? And how creative he could be when it came to your body? Well, now you knew. Now, you knew.

Don Malarkey x Reader

"The Don! My man, you still pent up—"

"Bill, you open that goddamned mouth, you're not gonna be able to close your gob for two weeks straight."

"O-Okay, Man. Wow. Looks like nothing's changed. All right, Buddy. I'll keep you in my prayers. Relax."

Everyone knew to keep their traps shut, but Guarnere really never minded any warnings; he ran towards them, just like how he ran back to antagonize a very frustrated Donald George Malarkey, who was apparently more prone to eating his cigarette than smoking it from how aggressively he chewed on the stick. All Don wanted was to be left alone to nurse his shitty beer and smoke in peace.

All he wanted was to see you. All neatened up. Or shabby. He didn't give a shit. He wanted to see you, but you weren't here at the bar, and he was burning.

You weren't here to tease his ears with your voice, like you ghosted your fingertips across his cheek. You weren't here in town. You weren't there at the fountain. You weren't there shopping for groceries, a time where he could smoothly steal a kiss or two behind the baker's stall.

And then you were there to smile at him ever so sweetly. Play with his hair, the shiny pins on his uniform, milking the desperation out of his propriety when he asked you if he could buy you a drink. Of course, you'd say yes. Of course, you'd let him hold you close, swing you around on that merry dance floor when the boys were able to get time off. Grin at him. Call him your cute Donnie. Make that hushed, delicious purr that drove him crazy when he dipped you low.

And when the two of you were alone, and he was kissing you and devouring the column of your throat, you'd let him. Yes. You in his lap, on that couch, kissing and touching and your ass grinding down on him, grabbing onto the lapels of his army greens. Yes. Finally. Months on end, and you'd teased him like the Cheshire cat. But months on end was worth it for this particular now, and if you kept on gyrating on him like that, say your prayers for your clothes at how fast he was divesting them from you—

Save your prayers for him, because after one last definitive grind, you got up for no good reason, gave him a chaste kiss, and walked out the door like nothing happened. You had him dumbfounded at how he just sat there in shock before realizing that this game of cat and mouse was still in progress.

You weren't the villain if he was a most willing participant, however. He loved the chase as much as you did, no matter how frustrated the end result turned out to be. He loved the mischievous sparkle in your eyes as you accidentally ground up on him in the crowded bar and your masterful escape attempts and how he pursued hotly at your heels and the way you just knew how to play that hungry dog in him eager for the hunt and—

And, and, and! And was how he was sitting there hungrily alone that night, watching the partygoers sate their own needs while he waited for you with baited breath. Waiting and watching, always for the flitter of your hair and clothing. Waiting for his devious mouse to poke its head out for a cat that'd do anything to be devoured.

Would you be here tonight?