rating // nc-17 (this is nothing but porn, just porn porn porn, shield your eyes)
word count // 770
pairing // Liebgott/Webster
summary // PWP. he's a sick, sick boy (really rough sort-of hate!sex)
disclaimer // This is one hundred percent based on the HBO mini series Band of Brothers' characters David Webster and Joseph Liebgott. I mean no offense to the real David K. Webster and Joseph D. Liebgott.
author's note // there are a lot of things in my life that I regret and webgott just isn't one of them. Title based on a lyric from TV on the Radio's "Wolf Like Me."
The thing Webster hates most about Liebgott is that the skinny fucker knows him better than anyone.
He knows just where to land his punch (not the jaw; that bitch made his knuckles bleed. Say what you want about Webster but the son of a bitch’s got a hell of a skull. Punch him in the nose, however, and it’s Webster who bleeds, and it always manages to trickle into his mouth, like clockwork, and there’s nothing, nothing Liebgott likes better than finding the taste of blood in the sweet thing that is Webster’s mouth. The taste is worth it even if Webster whispers that he’s a sick, sick boy while he fucks him into the wall).
He knows just what to say (not ‘fuck you’ because Webster will inevitably turn it into some clever pun that leaves Liebgott fuming, feeling like an idiot, but something German, something filthy and deep-cutting that Webster will only half-understand, leaving him panting and desperate to fill in the blanks).
He knows just wear to bite (not his neck because Webster complains too much after about the visibility of the mark, bitching that they’ll get caught. So Liebgott bites him right above the hip, at that long sharp bone that points him like an arrow to the inevitable goal, which he’ll lick and suck and kiss until Webster is spilling into his mouth, the only warning a hard tug at his hair).
He knows just where to kiss (not his mouth, because that’s far too conventional for Liebgott and Webster but the soft slip of skin beside his ear, or the sensitive thread of flesh where his neck meets his jaw, or right at his throat, teeth dragging ragged over his adam’s apple, or, when he’s sick of foreplay, as often is the case, just the head of his cock, before it’s wet enough to fuck himself on).
He knows just where to fuck (not the shower, because that’s too clean for both of them. Webster likes Liebgott slick with sweat and come and sometimes dirt and sometimes blood, wherever he can get it; Liebgott’s favorite kind of dirt is the filth that comes out of Webster’s mouth, spilling hot and heavy from his breath into Liebgott’s ear when he fucks him from behind, hands roaming over the long, slender expanse of Liebgott’s back, streaked with the shape of Webster’s fingernails).
He knows that Webster likes to think of himself as a composed and sensitive man, a romantic and a gentle lover and a steely intellectual. He’s perfected his monotone, and his fathomless stare, and his steady, infallible smile - he’s polite and respectful and everything a Harvard gentleman should be - but Liebgott knows if you push hard enough, if you know just what buttons to press, if you know precisely which inch of flesh will yield if you just nudge, then Web just snaps, like clockwork, every time. The monotone breaks, the stare becomes something alive, like Liebgott’s lit a match to those blue, perfect irises, and the smile hardens into a leer - a sharp, predatory thing that makes Liebgott’s blood run too quick and too hot and just the right side of unbearable. Web’s hands go from petting and stroking to squeezing and bruising, those beautiful hands that seem as if they were put on this earth for the sole purpose of wringing ever last drop of come from Liebgott’s cock.
Sometime a hand around his throat is the first clue he’s got him. Sometimes it’s a backhand - never enough to really put him out, but enough to get his blood going. Sometimes it’s just a bruising kiss on the mouth, or a hand on his wrists, which will clench and fight under the pressure but always, always let Web have him, because Liebgott knows Webster is incapable of any real hurt.
Because Webster knows him better than anyone too. And he knows no matter what hate fights its way past Liebgott’s teeth, whatever bruises he leaves or blood Webster finds later, smeared on his teeth, Liebgott just prefers this particular brand of violence as his vehicle of affection. A perverse part of him thinks (knows) Liebgott pushes because he can, because Webster is the only one who could take it, the only equal match.
They know each other too well, Webster can’t help but think, as his teeth make their bed in the hollow of Liebgott’s collarbone, but still, still, he finds a new bit of skin to gnaw, a new muscle to flex, a new sweet nothing to whisper in Liebgott’s ear, driving him crazy, reminding him, always, never well enough.