Krauser is all too familiar with this feeling by now. The exquisite agony of wanting something so badly, but knowing he can never have it.
They tasked him all those years ago with molding and shaping Leon into the man, the soldier Krauser knew he could become. Pushing him forward through hell and high water, making him walk until he could run on his own. And all the while, all he wanted was to hang onto him, to keep him, to find the way where Leon could never leave him behind. He clutched and he clawed and he clumsily fought with all of his worthless strength, but it was too much. Too heavy. The world around them conspired to drag them apart, to remind Jack that he could never have him, didn't deserve him. He was too broken. Too pathetic. Too weak, even to keep hold of what he wanted the most.
Getting another taste of him now, so long after knowing he never would again-- it hurts so bad it feels like it'll fucking kill him. It'll kill him if it stops. His life was little more than pain, so if his death is to be the same, so be it. At least this is the kind that makes him feel alive, makes him feel something. The kind of pain they used to stoke together, the only source of light he can remember in those cold, miserable, doomed days after Operation Javier.
He outright growls when Leon pulls away, bruising fingers digging into his back to try and pull him down, lifting his head to beg for his mouth again. Then it occurs to him why he backed off. It's a nearly frenzied reach for Leon's bare chest, rough palms sliding over abdominals and pectorals, muscles he helped carve into him. He grips at his ribs and threatens to yank him back down once again, operating on sheer, greedy want.
No. No, not yet. He wants that warm, lovely skin against his own, but he's still wearing these stupid goddamn clothes. Leon takes the initiative on his laced-up pants, so Krauser sees to his now bloodstained shirt, carelessly ripping it open. The buttons all give out with barely a fight, and he tightens his core and sits up enough to wrestle his arms out of the sleeves. Alongside the blood dripping from the cut on his chest, there's a new telltale scar in the center, right over his heart, the same shape and length of the knife sunk into the ground forgotten beside them.
And now that he's sitting up he can't keep his hands or his mouth off of Leon, aggressively biting kisses up and down his collarbone, gasping and snarling and heedless of how difficult that makes it for Leon to get his pants open.
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They tasked him all those years ago with molding and shaping Leon into the man, the soldier Krauser knew he could become. Pushing him forward through hell and high water, making him walk until he could run on his own. And all the while, all he wanted was to hang onto him, to keep him, to find the way where Leon could never leave him behind. He clutched and he clawed and he clumsily fought with all of his worthless strength, but it was too much. Too heavy. The world around them conspired to drag them apart, to remind Jack that he could never have him, didn't deserve him. He was too broken. Too pathetic. Too weak, even to keep hold of what he wanted the most.
Getting another taste of him now, so long after knowing he never would again-- it hurts so bad it feels like it'll fucking kill him. It'll kill him if it stops. His life was little more than pain, so if his death is to be the same, so be it. At least this is the kind that makes him feel alive, makes him feel something. The kind of pain they used to stoke together, the only source of light he can remember in those cold, miserable, doomed days after Operation Javier.
He outright growls when Leon pulls away, bruising fingers digging into his back to try and pull him down, lifting his head to beg for his mouth again. Then it occurs to him why he backed off. It's a nearly frenzied reach for Leon's bare chest, rough palms sliding over abdominals and pectorals, muscles he helped carve into him. He grips at his ribs and threatens to yank him back down once again, operating on sheer, greedy want.
No. No, not yet. He wants that warm, lovely skin against his own, but he's still wearing these stupid goddamn clothes. Leon takes the initiative on his laced-up pants, so Krauser sees to his now bloodstained shirt, carelessly ripping it open. The buttons all give out with barely a fight, and he tightens his core and sits up enough to wrestle his arms out of the sleeves. Alongside the blood dripping from the cut on his chest, there's a new telltale scar in the center, right over his heart, the same shape and length of the knife sunk into the ground forgotten beside them.
And now that he's sitting up he can't keep his hands or his mouth off of Leon, aggressively biting kisses up and down his collarbone, gasping and snarling and heedless of how difficult that makes it for Leon to get his pants open.