This doesn't take him back to a better time. Better is before 1998. Before a cold, rainy autumn night in Raccoon City. Better is the innocence of blundering into a dark apartment half-drunk and exams behind him without worrying that there's something lurking in the shadows. Better is the security of shutting off the television when the credits roll on a horror film and turning in for the night knowing that it's all fake. This doesn't take him back to a better time, it wasn't better, it was what two broken men had that was as broken as they were, something that made their hurts hurt less, until it wasn't Leon's crutch anymore.
Doesn't mean it wasn't good, that it was without light. The weight of Krauser's hand, the shape of the fingers carding into his hair and squeezing around the curve of his skull are so familiar that it aches. Leon fights his reflexive flinch to scrub the veinous shape of his cock with his tongue, the pink triangle of its tip breaching the seal between his lower lip and his swollen length as he licks his way down.
Been years since he was this full of the smell and taste of him; Krauser's been sweating in his jungle, same as him, crowding more of him into his mouth, the masculine scent of his sweat is intoxicating. He missed this, missed him, it makes him sick to his stomach with guilt (why did it come to this) and resignation (there was no other choice), and the band of heavy warmth of his leg wrapped around his own feels like an invitation. Leon starts to swallow-
The yank pulls Leon's mouth away, wet, his spit thick and clinging to him in strings; he snatches up at Krauser's hand with a grimace that's too pink in the face to be furious, to be anything more than embarrassed that he dares to be so gentle once he's bullied Leon onto his side. Resists, at first, so the spit-slick length of his cock skims his mouth and paints a glistening smear up his cheek, blue eyes fever-bright. He relents, it's what he wants, of course he does, and despite the years between them he scarcely gags when his glans knocks into the spongy back of his throat, when Krauser nudges in again and Leon swallows, the sound of it thick and wet.
There was a time Leon would've done anything for those words of praise, for a little more of that gentleness. To hear it now seems so unfair it ignites a sentiment so volatile he thinks it might be rage.
Leon wraps an arm around Krauser's hips, nosing in like he means to choke himself on him, scorning Krauser's gentleness, his coaxing to ease into this, fuck that and fuck him, Leon swallows him angry, lashes wet, fingernails raising welts, fingers threatening to bruise. A violence in the jerk of his head, drooling over his skin, the wet churn of his buried girth obscene beside the muffled choke in his throat.
no subject
Doesn't mean it wasn't good, that it was without light. The weight of Krauser's hand, the shape of the fingers carding into his hair and squeezing around the curve of his skull are so familiar that it aches. Leon fights his reflexive flinch to scrub the veinous shape of his cock with his tongue, the pink triangle of its tip breaching the seal between his lower lip and his swollen length as he licks his way down.
Been years since he was this full of the smell and taste of him; Krauser's been sweating in his jungle, same as him, crowding more of him into his mouth, the masculine scent of his sweat is intoxicating. He missed this, missed him, it makes him sick to his stomach with guilt (why did it come to this) and resignation (there was no other choice), and the band of heavy warmth of his leg wrapped around his own feels like an invitation. Leon starts to swallow-
The yank pulls Leon's mouth away, wet, his spit thick and clinging to him in strings; he snatches up at Krauser's hand with a grimace that's too pink in the face to be furious, to be anything more than embarrassed that he dares to be so gentle once he's bullied Leon onto his side. Resists, at first, so the spit-slick length of his cock skims his mouth and paints a glistening smear up his cheek, blue eyes fever-bright. He relents, it's what he wants, of course he does, and despite the years between them he scarcely gags when his glans knocks into the spongy back of his throat, when Krauser nudges in again and Leon swallows, the sound of it thick and wet.
There was a time Leon would've done anything for those words of praise, for a little more of that gentleness. To hear it now seems so unfair it ignites a sentiment so volatile he thinks it might be rage.
Leon wraps an arm around Krauser's hips, nosing in like he means to choke himself on him, scorning Krauser's gentleness, his coaxing to ease into this, fuck that and fuck him, Leon swallows him angry, lashes wet, fingernails raising welts, fingers threatening to bruise. A violence in the jerk of his head, drooling over his skin, the wet churn of his buried girth obscene beside the muffled choke in his throat.