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The rainforest is hot. Muggy. The air itself sticks to Leon’s skin, not to mention his clothes and the sweat that would otherwise evaporate, if the intense humidity would only allow for it.
Despite the harsh, pressing sensation of the heat and humidity, he world around him is abuzz with life. Emphasis on buzz; no matter where he turns his gaze and his body, there’s always something new and colorful trying to take a nip out of him—or a chunk. Near and far, based on the time he’s spent here, the forest never falls quiet, whether it’s a lone insect or swarm of them stirring up a winged storm or a flock of birds chirping among the canopy. Whether it’s the buzz of a cicada, one of the most prominent sounds by far, or the crack of a branch or the squish of muddy ground beneath his boot, there’s never a quiet moment.
The forest is vibrant and teeming with life, nothing like the pictures in the school books he read or the documentaries he watched as a kid. Seeing it in person is a brand-new marvel, a small childhood dream of his come true—the circumstances do leave a bit to be desired, but the fact that he’s here at all, circumstances notwithstanding, is an experience that many will never be able to claim they’ve had. The sun high above peers through the vast canopy in ribbons of light that leave mere speckles on the ground, there’s greenery every which way he turns, all of it reaching high into the sky as if to touch the distant sun. It grants him the distinct feeling of being miniature compared to the forces of nature, a mere ant compared to the miles upon miles of forest chock-full of life that stretches hundreds of feet in the air.
All of that life, sustained by the heat, the sun, and the relentless rainfall that fuels it year-round. Rivers, ponds, and so much rain.
The forest is never silent, yet Leon wishes it could be just a bit quieter. Just a bit drier, just a bit less relentlessly hot and muggy. The sounds of buzzing cicadas and cracking branches easily fade into the background, but the storm that’s rolled in and made its home here tonight disrupts just about everything the two of them, Leon Kennedy and Jack Krauser, have been dispatched here to do.
The ample amounts of rain that slip through the holes in the canopy and dribble down the trunks of the tall trees beat against the walls of the tent. The sound is nigh-deafening, rain falling all around them with the thin walls being their only protection from the elements. The tent, barely big enough to fit two full-grown men both lying on their backs, is stuffy and does nothing against the rainforest’s humid heat—the nighttime allows no reprieve from the weather and the current relentless showers, courtesy of the midnight sky above, only suffice to add to the endless pressurized humidity.
Leon takes in a breath. The air is tight, moreso than it was when the sun was out, so heavy in his lungs that he can taste the rain in his goddamn bronchioles.
He’s never missed milder weather as much as he does now. Compared to this, the height of summer in the American Midwest is like a refreshing spring day rather than the horrid, heated, hellscape he knows that Midwest summers can be.
“You miss American weather at all?” Leon mutters, voice near inaudible beneath the pummeling rain. It beats against the distant canopy, against the wood, against the tent and against the ground, the sound alone beating against his brain. He should be catching some sleep, but falling asleep in clothes soaking wet from both sweat and rain as aforementioned rain pummels his eardrums is more of a challenge than he’s apt to tackle.
The athlete’s foot is going to be a bitch to deal with when he gets home.
“Is that even a question?” Krauser scoffs in response. The tent is dark, only saved from being pitch-black by the faintest moonlight that peers through the canopy to illuminate the forest floor. Outside of the haziest outlines that divide deep gray and pitch darkness, there’s no details he can make out of his mentor’s expression, only his low breaths and the shift of wet fabric against the tent’s ground as he readjusts. “It’s why we’re getting back on the road the second the storm clears. We’re losing time, but we won’t make it an inch in this weather.”
“Right.” Leon shifts as well, reaching an arm up to rest his head on it, only to be met with a whiff—more than that, if he’s being honest—of his own body odor. Great, they haven’t even made it to the village, and he’s already in desperate need of a shower. “Guess it’s a rain check then, huh?”
Krauser lets out a noise that’s somewhere between a voiceless laugh and a sigh. “I’ll tell you what I miss, ‘cause God fuckin’ knows I’m not falling asleep in this shithole.”
Leon perks up. Not physically, there’s not enough room in this tiny tent to move without disturbing his mentor, given that they’re already close enough for the other man’s body heat to add to the rainforest’s oppressive atmosphere. They’re tucked like sardines in this tent, just the two of them and the tent’s thin layer against the world—it would be a little more helpful if it were cold outside so that their shared body heat could be a help rather than a hindrance, but no luck in that regard.
Leon’s burning up, and yet his clothes are still sopping wet and suffocating. It’s too damn hot in here.
“Women. American women, that’s what I miss,” Krauser muses. His voice is airy, lighter than it’s been all day. Despite their circumstances—waterlogged, jammed into a tiny tent, halfway deafened by the rain just outside—they’ll take what they can get, which just so happens to be memories of home right about now. “Thank God for women, amirite?”
Leon hums in agreement. Thank God for women; he wouldn’t be here without. “Got anyone specific in mind?”
“Right now?” Krauser huffs. “Any lady that’ll look twice at me.”
Leon lets out a breath. They’re normally far from this casual, far from discussing the more intimate aspects of their personal lives, but the storm brings the inside out just as it brings those outside in. If this is where the conversation heads, then Leon won’t be the one to object. “Fair enough.”
“What about you, then?” Krauser is quick to reply. “Anyone waiting for you at home?”
At home? All that’s waiting for him—aside from much milder, less wet weather—is work. Reports to write up, especially. When he gets home, Krauser will be there with him, he’ll see the President again, he’ll see his peers and his superiors again, but in terms of his love life? Nope, nothing, nada. He’s had nothing beyond a fling in some undefined time he’s given up keeping track of, and these past weeks of preparation have left him strapped for just about every moment to himself.
“Nope,” he answers simply. Dwelling on it any longer will only bring down the already shoddy mood. “Maybe it’s time I propose to the job. The middle of a rainforest is a real romantic spot to do it, wouldn’t you say?”
“Psh. You got time, rookie,” Krauser remarks. Leon’s eyes trail over the faintest light that illuminates the fibers of the tent’s roof, hardly indistinguishable from the pitch darkness that shrouds both him and Krauser. Bare of sight, his other senses are amplified—it’s said that in the absence of one sense, all others grow stronger. “Nobody waiting at home, sure, but you got a type?”
Krauser’s voice, though casual and amicable in the slow moment, retains his usual gruff and guttural nature. They’re close enough for Leon to feel the rumble of his vocal cords in his own chest, close enough to hear each slow breath as they lie side-by-side, close enough for Leon to realize that he isn’t the only one that stinks. The thing is, he’s done worse while smelling worse; kissing a lady with sewage-breath, for one—after wading through said sewage with multiple open wounds, all after sweating up a storm fighting for his life for half a day, not to mention the B.O.W guts he was covered in. Lying in a tent soaked in rain and sweat next to his Major, also soaked in rain and sweat, hardly compares.
Rainwater certainly smells better than sewage water, at the very least. Tastes much better, too—his days of lapping at the rain like a dog are left in the far past of his childhood days, but a little rainwater in his mouth certainly elicits much less gagging than a little sewage water.
Kissing someone who’s just gargled E. coli soup without making a face takes guts. Whether or not it was genuine, he can applaud the effort.
“A type,” Leon repeats to himself. “Maybe.”
He hums in thought. Something he likes in women? Red. Red dresses, red lipstick. Dark hair, trimmed just below the chin and styled to frame her face. Deep brown eyes, lean and deceptively strong, mysterious and yet so, very—
“Asian chicks,” he says, before his train of thought can escape him again.
“Really?” Krauser replies with a chuckle. “S’ that it? Nothing else in particular?”
“Haven’t had the time to think about it, I guess,” Leon surmises. He reaches both hands up and scrubs them down his face with a sigh. They come back sticky with sweat, and the tent still reeks of their scents, rain and sweat and earth. “I dunno. Chicks don’t dig workaholics who can’t even talk about their job.”
Krauser snorts in response. He shifts again, but all Leon can hear is the sound of it.
“What?” Leon turns his head to the left to face his mentor, but finds it for naught; he can barely make out the man’s outline, much less any facial expressions. “Is there something funny about that?”
“Yeah, there is. The fact that I don’t buy it,” Krauser responds. “Last thing you need is to put a ring on a job, and there’s no way you aren’t drowning in pussy at home.”
“What gives you that idea?” Leon retorts as the rain continues to pour. If there’d been lightning, then he’d be able to see Krauser’s face, even if just for a split second—if there’d been lightning, they’d have much bigger problems on their hands than heavy rain, namely avoiding getting barbecued standing under the wrong tree. Even without the earth-rumbling thunder that typically accompanies a storm this powerful, it’s still as loud as ever.
“You’re telling me that you, what, with all that fuckin’ pretty boy charm, can’t get laid?”
“That’s not—” Leon hesitates. He scrubs one hand down his face again, lets it linger with his fingers tucked into the collar of his shirt, as if to let his skin air out just a bit more—which ends up being completely useless against the humidity. The thickness in the air in of itself a layer that he can’t take off. With the heat, the darkness, and the coiling frustration with just about all of it, his next confession slips off his tongue before he can give it a second thought: “Fuck. Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s been too long, and I’m pent-up, or whatever.”
“Who wouldn’t be, kid?” Krauser replies. “There’s nothing but fuckin’ forest out here. Let me tell you, an old mate of mine once hit his head after mistaking a weird-looking tree for a hot lady. We never let his ass live it down after he got out of the med ward.”
Leon raises a brow. It’s stupid, his expressions can’t be seen in this darkness, but he’s long past caring. “Wait, hit his head? How?”
“Rainy night,” Krauser begins. “Kinda like this one, go figure. Rucking up the side of a mountain, the guy pauses, looks into the distance, then his eyes go wide—right before he steps forward, loses his footing, and conks out on a rock beneath the leaves.”
“Jesus.” Leon resists the urge to sit up. He’d only end up jostling the tent, so he continues to lie down, though he pulls his hand away from the hem of his shirt to again rest it beneath his head. “Was he okay?”
“Bruised ego, s’all,” comes Krauser’s reply. Getting so desperate as to mistake a tree for a woman is a level Leon’s never reached, but hey, he’s young. He’s got time for a lot of things. Hopefully hitting his head upon being blinded by horniness doesn’t end up being one of those things. “For good fuckin’ reason. That and a concussion, but nothing some R&R couldn’t fix.”
“Damn.” Leon turns his gaze back to the dark gray roof of the tent. He spins the idea around in his head, the story of his mentor’s unnamed old friend. It’s such a ridiculous idea, mistaking a tree for a woman, but then again, it’s not an isolated case—he vaguely remembers reading somewhere about Columbus mistaking manatees for mermaids.
“Like you said, kid. Sometimes, you’re just too fuckin’ pent up,” Krauser continues. “I’m surprised you kept your head screwed on right this long, with the way young people typically go at it like rabbits.”
“Pfft, what young people are you talking about?” Leon shoots back, only to receive a friendly punch to the arm for his retort. Being on the receiving end of Krauser’s brute strength, however, means the impact shoots up his shoulder regardless of how hard it was intended to be.
“Just—like—goddamn—rabbits,” Krauser adds, punctuating his words with a few more love taps. Leon snaps a hand around his mentor’s wrist in response, following up with:
“Oh, piss off,” which is broken off with an airy chuckle.
Krauser pries his arm from Leon’s grip with ease. “Watch your tongue, rookie.”
“Sorry, Major,” Leon replies on instinct.
“Oh, lighten up,” Krauser snickers, driving his point home with one last friendly tap, “‘cause the fuckin’ sky sure won’t any time soon.”
“Yessir.” Despite the fact that neither him nor his mentor can even see it, he offers a half-hearted, two-finger salute.
The rain continues to pour. He doesn’t know how long it has been at this point, nor how long it’ll be until it lets up enough for them to move again. It’s the type of weather to soak your map, erase your footprints, and leave you spinning in circles in a place you most definitely should not be circling around in. The midnight darkness is no help, either, so thick that their flashlights can hardly penetrate.
The sky is closer to lightening up now than it was when they first pitched the tent, but they still have at least a few hours until the sun peeks over the horizon and begins to bleed through the canopy, say nothing of this storm. A part of him aches to leave the tent behind and brave the rain, if only to get home just a bit faster—and finally get some reprieve from the sheer stuffiness of this forest. He has a job to do, that he fully acknowledges, but in a standstill like this when there’s nothing left to do but look at the pitch black tent’s roof, his mind is bound to wander.
Venture to Amparo. Find Javier Hidalgo. Take him alive, have him questioned, wipe their hands of the incident. Much easier said than done, as with every mission, yet that’s not even taking into account anything unfortunate that might end up rearing its ugly head. Like getting stuck in this horrible storm so far, for one.
All they have to do is wait out this storm, or at least wait until it tapers off enough for them to weather their way through. Weather the storm, get back on the road sooner rather than later, because if they don’t—
“I can hear the gears in that head of yours turning,” Krauser comments.
“You think that means it’s time for an oil change?” Leon quips.
“It means quit overthinking,” comes Krauser’s reply. “Never does anybody any good, ‘specially not men like us. A wandering mind is a distracted mind.”
“Right.”
The back of his neck itches. It’s still as hot and humid in here as ever, and he’s no closer to the bliss of sleep than he was when this conversation began. A bead of sweat runs from his hairline to his brow, down the side of his face where it lingers at his temple until he reaches up to wipe it away.
If he’s going to get through this mission, then he needs to keep his head. He breathes in—the air just as thick as it has been since he got here—breathes out, then reaches both hands up to run his fingers through his air. He’s getting antsy. His hair is damp with sweat, sticking awkwardly to his forehead, over his ears, and around the back of his neck; right now, it’s like a blanket over his scalp, thick and uncomfortable and downright wet.
“What do you do at that point?” Leon mutters. Whether or not Krauser hears it above the pummeling rain, he continues: “When you’re so distracted and—fuck it, pent-up—that you start banging your head on rocks?”
It’s such a stupid question. The last thing he should expect is a dignified response, or even any response at all; it’s something he should know by now, but fuck, the last thing he’s going to do is let this heat overpower each and every sense he has without something to interrupt it. He might end up bashing his head on a rock just to escape the sensation of pressing humidity at every angle.
“Heat already driving you up the wall, rookie?” Krauser responds. He lets out a dry chuckle, shifts in some unseen move against the ground, then adds, “Best thing you can do is find a release. When you got no outlet for it, you gotta learn to ask for help.”
The voice Krauser responds in is his no nonsense, “shut up, listen, and learn” voice. The one he reserves for lessons, for when he needs Leon’s utmost attention and effort. The air thickens with his silence once his last vowel rings out and disappears into the rain, tight with more than just the unyielding humidity—there’s room for a question from Leon. It’s almost as though that’s what Krauser wants from him: not to receive a lecture, but to ask and really learn.
So Leon swallows back the saliva gathered beneath his tongue, then cuts through the silence with his question: “Ask for help?”
“When you’re pent-up enough,” Krauser elaborates, “your right hand just ain’t enough anymore. Jerkin’ off alone gets real old, real fast—but when you’re letting someone else take the reins, it gets a helluva lot better.”
Neither the rain nor Krauser’s voice change in volume, and yet with those words, the sound of his mentor’s voice echoes all the more acutely in his ears. Questions jump to his mind, ready themselves on the tip of his tongue before he can think, but he allows none of them to leave his mouth. The heat of Krauser’s body is stark against the muggy humidity of the forest, a different sort of warmth that makes the skin of his left side prickle and buzz where they lie beside each other. The smell of the tent’s interior is something Leon has deliberately paid as little attention to as possible; there’s the neutral scents of earth, plant life and, of course, rain, but among that are the less-pleasant smells of sweat and the remnants of MREs on their breath. Above all, there’s the smell of Krauser, to which he can hardly put a name—it’s his natural scent, one that’s just undefinably him. Comforting in its familiarity, associated with a man he’s grown to trust and admire.
“Me ‘n the boys, back in basic,” he continues in Leon’s silence, “we figured out pretty quickly that doing it together was different than going at it alone. Hell, some of ‘em even blew each other. Wasn’t gay, though—lotta the guys had ladies back at home, ones they still kept in touch with. It was comrades just helpin’ each other out. Think of it like… that oil change you were talking about.”
Leon’s face goes warm. He supposes that he’s the one who brought this on by directing the conversation this way, and yet he can’t help the way that heat stupidly floods his cheeks like some kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Hearing about his superior’s sex life, hearing how he manages the stress of the job by—
Masturbating with other men. Blowing other men. Leon breathes in, then out. The air is thick with Krauser’s scent and just as heavy with humidity as always.
He hardly knows how to react. Any usual reply or retort he’d normally put to use by now would be entirely out of place in this situation, but he’s also afraid to ask a question. One question, any question, when or why or, God forbid, how. He wouldn’t have to ask a question to see where Krauser is coming from, yet at the same time, the thought of sharing with another man what he’s only ever shared with women or himself is…
Concerning. Curious. A notion he shouldn’t even entertain. A notion he’s damn well entertaining, anyway, because there’s assfuck else to do in this sweaty tent. Heat, breath, noise, all he could share and all he could receive. Fuck, his mind is spinning. It’s been forever since he last jerked off—ahem, taken some personal time—much less had sex, so though he’s not surprised his mind is wandering, the particular place it’s wandering to is… maybe less than ideal.
Krauser’s the one who told him this, the one who led Leon down this way—Krauser, his Major, his superior and his mentor, the one who’s taught him every bit of information that’s led them to this point in this part of the Amazon. Every skill, every trick, everything he should keep an eye out for.
Krauser who, when he gets pent-up, has sex with other men.
The idea shouldn’t be lingering in his mind. It shouldn’t be spinning around in there, building as the tent’s thick heat grows stuffier and stuffier, it shouldn’t be at the forefront of his thoughts. Krauser is his superior, his mentor, and it shouldn’t. It really, really shouldn’t, and yet—
“Could you…” Leon hesitates, then reaches for the hem of his shirt, grips it, then bites the bullet and says, “elaborate?”
“I could demonstrate,” Krauser replies without missing a beat.
Leon’s teeth sink into his bottom lip. Not hard enough to break skin, but just hard enough to remind him of what he’s getting into. Krauser, his Major, is offering to—
Well, Leon doesn’t really know exactly what he’s offering, but whatever it is…
“It ain’t shameful, or anything. As long as it’s just us guys helping each other out.”
It’s either this, or continuing to marinate in this dreadful heat with the awkwardness of this confession stacked on top. That, and Leon would be lying to himself if he wasn’t the tiniest bit curious; if it wasn’t the truth that he is, admittedly, pent-up.
Leon lets out one last breath. It’s shakier than he’d like to admit. “Okay. Sure. I’ll bite.”
“Attaboy,” Krauser croons. Both nervousness and elation bubble in Leon’s chest before rising to the bottom of his throat and he can hear his heartbeat in his skull; it’s been too damn long since he’s done anything remotely close to this and it shows. Krauser’s voice rings in his ears, in his brain, rattling around slow and sturdy and guiding. “Roll over, face me.”
Leon rolls onto his left side, and Krauser is right there to meet him. They were already so close, and this only further diminishes the minuscule amount of space that was left between them in the first place. They’re close, and yet this is far from the closest they’ve been—headlocks, parries and counters, other training moves have put them flush with each other on more occasions than either of them can count, and yet this is nowhere near a training session. This, right here and now, within the tent and beneath the storm, is new. New in a way Leon can hardly put a proper name to.
They’re close enough for Krauser’s breath to brush against Leon’s cheek, close enough to feel each other’s body heat in a way that threatens to bring the tent’s interior to a boil. Close enough for the lack of sight to make Leon’s skin tingle as he hears Krauser shift, as he feels Krauser’s each and every twitch and movement by body heat alone. His heart jumps into his throat, nesting right beside the burbling bubbles of elation and anxiety, as Krauser’s ungloved hand—when did he take off his glove?—brushes against the clothed skin of Leon’s navel. It’s as though he’s a boy beneath the covers of his bed, knowing full well that what he’s doing is forbidden, yet carrying along anyway into the late hours of the night.
“Let it even out, pretty boy,” Krauser whispers straight into Leon’s ear and the skin of his neck goes cold—fucking cold, in this unbearable weather—with equally unbearable anticipation. Leon doesn’t have to think twice about what Krauser is talking about, because his breathing has been uneven since the second Krauser brought up his days in basic. “It feels so much fuckin’ better when someone else’s pullin’ the strings, I goddamn promise you.”
Krauser is going to be the death of him. “Okay,” he mutters beneath his breath, only because if he doesn’t let some sound out then his chest cavity is going to rupture with the beat of his pounding heart. “Alright.”
That hand against his navel drifts lower, sparking electricity beneath his skin with every inch it moves. Warmth is already beginning to gather in his abdomen, an electric, rushing sort rather than the slow, muggy heat he’s still yet to get used to. A warmth he hasn’t been privy too in too long, if the way he’s already this goddamn turned on says anything; his breathing is barely under control, the heat continues to coil in his abdomen, and he doesn’t know whether to break the silence or keep quiet to maintain the spell that’s been cast over the two of them.
That question is answered for him when Krauser hooks his hand around the clasp of Leon’s belt and begins to undo it, pulling a breathy gasp from him as that calloused hand works to expose him. Krauser’s own breath trips, and it’s then Leon realizes the silence was never really silent in the first place—highlighted with both their uneven breathing, they sink further in.
“Just like that, rookie,” Krauser mutters, even though Leon has done nothing but reply with monosyllabic confirmations. Leon raises his right hand, slides it down his belt and helps Krauser undo the hook, then trails his hand up to Krauser’s forearm and allows it to linger. Muscles flex beneath his palm, and it’s even clearer now how soaked both of them are with sweat and rain. Tendons shift, Krauser unbuttons Leon’s pants and undoes the zipper inch by slow, tantalizing inch, and Leon bites his tongue in a desperate attempt to once again regulate his breathing as that hand brushes against the front of his briefs.
He’s already so wound up, he may as well burst right here. Major Krauser, doing this to him, muttering encouragements, unzipping his pants, slipping his hand beneath the hem of his briefs and—
Oh.
Oh.
“Oh, fuck.”
“Told you,” Krauser supplies, only continuing to dip his hand into Leon’s briefs.
Those fingers run a line along his shaft, bringing his dick to hardness with just a few featherlight touches. They breathe in tandem, shaky and hot and threatening to boil over with anxious energy and fervor—or maybe that’s just him, falling apart at Krauser’s hand with nothing more than a light brush and some words whispered in his ear. It doesn’t matter, not when Major Krauser has his hand down Leon’s pants, continuing to run his fingers down Leon’s shaft and sending sparks jetting up his spine with every stroke.
The muscles of Leon’s thighs twitch involuntarily, irregularly, flexing and relaxing in response to the pleasure welling up between them. “Shi—t,” is all he can drawl out as Krauser continues to stroke him, again and again until he falls apart. They haven’t even gone that far; Leon’s dick is still in his damn pants and here he is, whining like a starved dog.
“Shit. Too dry,” Krauser mutters beneath his breath. He withdraws his hand from Leon’s briefs, forcing him to cope with the sudden loss of stimulation as his blood continues to thrum beneath his skin, in his abdomen, still pulsing with—
“Major—Krauser?” Leon swallows back any wayward sounds, voice unsteady even without the stimulation of Krauser’s hand.
“Gimme a sec,” Krauser mumbles. He shifts, motions unseen beneath the pitch black cover of night, until he hacks and spits into his palm before returning his hand to Leon’s briefs and slipping beneath once again. This time, however, he tugs the hem down and frees Leon’s dick from its confines, giving it a firm stroke that glides just a bit easier with the help of his saliva—a sound escapes Leon before he can hardly rein it in, a breathy moan punctuated with the crack of his voice. Pleasure shoots up his spine, the muscles of his abdominals twitch, and he knows that he is not going to last long like this.
By all standards, it should be a shitty handjob: they’re in the middle of work, or more specifically, in the middle of the Amazon jungle. They’re crammed like sweaty sardines in a tent barely big enough for the two of them, caught in just about the worst storm either of them has ever seen; the heat and humidity are cooking them alive, they’ve been either sweaty, soggy, or rain-soaked or some unholy combination the entire time they’ve been here; Krauser’s hand is rough and calloused from years of work, spit and sweat hardly make proper lubrication, and they’re both men.
Except it’s not gay, it’s just good friends helping each other out. It’s not like they’re kissing or whispering “I love you” in between rounds—it’s just a favor. An exchange. Stress relief, because this is Major Krauser, the man he’d trust with his life.
Leon splits the silence with a groan as Krauser continues to move his hand up and down, working Leon apart with nothing more than his hands. “Just like that, rookie, just fuckin’ like that,” Krauser continues on, undeterred by the death grip Leon has on the other man’s forearm. There’s a buzzing heat beneath every square inch of Leon’s skin beyond the normal rainforest heat that spurs itself on, moves within him, echoes with every sound that comes from his superior’s mouth. Krauser presses his thumb to the tip of Leon’s dick, slicks his digit with the already gathered precum, and Leon cries out. It’s a filthy sound, something he never thought could leave his mouth and something that he never thought Major Krauser would be the one to listen to. Arousal, shame, anticipation, pure white-hot embarrassment all mix in a horrifying, thrilling concoction within him. It’s too much, it’s not enough.
“Careful, kid,” Krauser rasps, again right in Leon’s ear. He shivers again, bites harder on his lip, but his lungs tremble and the rhythm of his breathing follows suit. “Don’t get too loud, now; the rain’ll drown some sound, but not all of it.”
Leon nods. It’s too dark for Krauser to see it—upon making that realization, he lets out a shaky breath before replying with a simple, “Okay.” How silly of him. It’s not like there’s much blood left in his brain, anyway. Krauser removes his hand from Leon’s dick again and the sound of wet fabric against the ground ensues, but it’s lost to the rhythm of his heart pounding in his ears as the other man slips his thumb between Leon’s lips, guides them open with little protest, presses the thumb of his other hand to Leon’s tongue and presses down ever so gently.
Leon can’t breathe. Not because his airways are blocked, not at all, but because Krauser is right there, prying him open with gentle caresses and allowing Leon to taste him: salt, dirt, skin, Krauser, all tastes made intoxicating by the want fogging his brain. Leon doesn’t know why he’s doing this, yet at the same time, he doesn’t have enough mental bandwidth left to ask.
That thumb traces a line over his teeth, then presses into his canine for just a second before swiping over his lip again, the journey made easy by the slick saliva along his lips. “Bite on this,” Krauser commands; the very next second, his glove is pushed between Leon’s lips and into his teeth. Salt and dirt are replaced by fabric, rainwater, and lingering hints of gunmetal, bleeding into his mouth as he dutifully sinks his teeth into the already damp garment.
So that’s why. Now silenced, no longer at risk of filling the forest with his sounds, Krauser runs his hand back down Leon’s midsection and wraps his hand around Leon’s dick again. It’s bliss, the steadily growing pressure in his abdomen and the heat it brings along with.
Leon whines into the glove. It’s muffled, perfectly so. “There you go,” Krauser praises, beginning to pump up and down with his sweat-slick hand.
Up and down. Up and down. Faster, faster, until Krauser sets a pace that has Leon writhing in place and moaning into the glove, muscles twitching and sounds escaping him and mind rendered useless beyond the pure pleasure flooding it. It’s good, it’s so fucking good, it’s white-hot pleasure, lust, depravity, want, need. He needs this more than he’s needed anything else.
Sweat. Lust. Rainwater. Want. Gunmetal, depravity, fabric, deodorant, dirt. Leon is going to lose his goddamn mind, or maybe he’s already lost it. Krauser continues muttering in his ear, whispers that set his skin alight and praises that do just the same to his nervous system. The low rumble of his vocal cords reverberates in Leon’s own chest, the muscles of his forearm continue to flex beneath Leon’s hand with every movement, their ankles and shoes knock together as Leon’s legs twitch until they weave their legs together and pull closer to each other than before.
He’s getting close to the edge. Too close. Major Krauser is doing this for him, teaching him about this, with nothing in return. Offering another lesson in teamwork, because fuck, he was right when he said doing it together was better—so, so much better. Leon’s still yet to climax—even though he can feel it right there, just aching to come to the surface—but he wants to give back, to make Krauser feel the way he’s feeling, to say his thank-yous for letting him feel this way.
To make Krauser fall apart the way he has. It’s such a stupid, selfish thought, but he’ll be damned if he lies to himself here, of all times. Krauser’s not the type to be taken apart but Leon, as inexperienced as he is, will give it his best fucking shot.
Leon tongues the glove, works it free from where it’s caught between his teeth, then reaches his other hand over to tug it out and take a breath. “Hang on,” he huffs, words punctuated with the instability of his breathing. Krauser’s hand slows, giving Leon the space to breathe, but Leon doesn’t give him the time to ask what for as he adds, “We gotta—hah, do it together, right?”
He supplies his words, shows what he means by letting go of Krauser’s forearm and trailing his hand to the man’s belt hook, giving it an experimental tug. The meaning of his words is laid clear to the both of them.
Together.
Krauser lets out a low chuckle. “You’ve always been a quick learner.”
Leon grins, unseen to Krauser beneath the pitch darkness as always. He takes it as open invitation to begin unfastening Krauser’s belt, sped along by the brimming hunger in his veins. It comes apart with a click, slides smooth out of his belt loops, clatters in some unseen nearby corner as Krauser finishes the job for him by freeing his hand to open his jeans and slide his briefs down.
He’s already rock hard. Leon reaches his hand up to his mouth, bites the bottom of his glove and peels the damp thing off his hand, then sucks on his cheeks to gather saliva and spit it into his palm. His fingertips are already pruney from the wet glove, very skin soaked with sweat and rainwater, but there’s no such thing as too much lubricant when they don’t even have access to proper lube out here. He copies Krauser’s moves from earlier: unbuckling the man’s belt and undoing his jeans, removing his own glove, spitting into his hand, and reaching back down to start with a slow stroke from the base to the tip.
The effect is instant. Krauser’s unsteady breathing crumbles into a shaky gasp, and he drawls out a simple “fuck” as Leon repeats the action, again and again.
“Driving me fuckin’ mad,” Krauser rasps. His breaths continue to brush against Leon’s face, choppy and uneven and so full of the hazy desperation that Leon’s been made victim to as well. Maybe it wasn’t as crazy of a thought as he originally, well, thought; jerking off Krauser in the middle of the rainforest, letting that voice crawl beneath his skin and those moans reverberate in his ears. Letting the scent of him be all he can smell, tracing the veins of his dick beneath his fingers as he continues to pump. “So fuckin’ mad, rookie, just you ‘n me, huh?”
Leon shivers as Krauser begins to jerk him off again. “Yeah, just—just you and—me,” Leon parrots, swallowing back the moan in his throat. God, where’s that glove? They gotta be quiet, which Krauser is making real hard to do, but as his left hand searches the space between him as his right continues to work away at Krauser, there’s nothing to be found—
Krauser hooks his right hand around Leon’s neck, then presses their sweaty foreheads together. With hardly any warning, he presses the rest of their bodies together, tightening their interweaving legs and joining their chests and abdomens. Leon’s breath again catches in his throat when Krauser rubs their dicks together and now, they’re absolutely closer than they’ve ever been, ever. Leon stutters in his movements, but Krauser only makes that up by rutting against him, chasing that peak with more fervor than Leon knew he could. They’re close enough for Leon to feel the rumble of Krauser’s groans in his own chest, close enough for their soaked shirts to stick to each other and ride up in the losing battle against friction, close enough for the muscles of their thighs and calves to flex and feel each other’s flexions, so close and so close and so goddamn hot.
Leon’s going to burn up. He’s going to melt, he’s going to be consumed by the sheer vigor of Major Krauser rutting against him, sharing his heat until it’s too much, groaning and whispering in his ear until it deafens him and rubbing against him until the friction sets him alight. “Fuck, w’na see you,” Krauser slurs, “wanna see that pretty face, all twisted up,” and Leon can’t even begin to form a response.
They’re sliding against each other, bare skin against bare skin from how their shirts have ridden up, sweat easing the glide as Leon reciprocates with his stuttery movements—he thrusts into Krauser’s hold as Krauser thrusts into his, presses his hips into Krauser’s as they chase the high that Leon’s absolutely going to reach first because fuck, he’s absolutely on fire from the inside out. If his veins are gasoline, then Krauser’s touches are the spark, and there’s hardly a place they aren’t touching.
Sounds are escaping him again, moans and whines cutting sharply through the storm that continues just outside the confines of their tent. He’s not alone in that fact, with Krauser’s voice joining his as their groans overlap and feed into each other. They’re too loud by far, yet Leon hardly has the mind to restrain himself.
“Shit… hang on—” Krauser cuts himself off, pauses for just a second to peel his other glove off, then offer it up. “Bite.”
A snappy, monosyllabic command that Leon obeys without a second delay, because he’s long learned to not question his Major. He again sinks his teeth into the soaked fabric, letting him restrain the absolutely debauched sounds still escaping him. Krauser returns his hand to its steady hold behind Leon’s neck, continues wringing pleasure from him one stroke at a time, right up until he bites onto the same glove between Leon’s teeth and lets out a strangled groan that Leon can feel in his own throat. Their noses brush, their breaths intermingle. Almost every inch of distance has closed save for the mere centimeters between their lips, spared only from touching by the fabric shared between them. The utter lack of distance between them is invigorating, and they’re touching from their chests to their stomachs to their legs to their dicks, rubbing against each other like men starved.
Leon’s going to burst. Lightning is shooting up his spine and down his legs and every cell in his body is on fire. Krauser’s still pumping him, thrusting against him, guiding him to the edge with every minuscule movement until there’s nothing left to do but let go.
So, that’s what Leon does. With one last shaky breath and a press of Krauser’s thumb against his tip, he lets go.
Like fire razing a forest, the sheer sensation consumes him until there’s nothing left; the flames lick at him until they swallow him whole until his mind is nothing but charred pulp and his body a writhing mass of flickering embers. While his rhythm against Krauser stutters until it crumbles and falls to ash, Krauser continues to pump him through the throes of his orgasm, working him dry as every muscle in his body convulses and he cries into their shared glove. It’s an electric bliss—chemicals flooding his brain, Krauser and his comforting heat still flush against him as he’s guided through his climax.
It’s too dark to tell whether his eyes are opened or closed, too dark to see anything, yet dark enough to immerse him into both every other sense and the sensation of the aftershocks of his orgasm. His hard-on has already started to flag even though Krauser’s still yet to reach his peak, so with every muscle in his body still on fire—every muscle still quivering with exhaustion—he continues stroking the man as he shivers beneath his touch.
Krauser’s hand moves from Leon’s dick to his hip, letting him steady himself as he chases the edge by continuing to rut up against Leon. Semen smears against his jeans and that’ll absolutely stain into something ugly but fuck, Leon’s far past caring about anything beyond finishing Krauser off. Leon’s breathing hard into the glove, in and out and in as his muscles scream for oxygen beyond the thick rainforest air and scents of their coupling, and he’s still swallowing up those increasing sounds that Krauser is feeding him through the fabric.
The movement of Krauser’s hips begins to falter. He lets out a filthy sound, something gravelly and harsh before a thick, hot wetness spurts onto Leon’s knuckles and runs in rivulets down his fist. It slickens the glide of the final few pumps as Leon strokes him through those blissful seconds of his orgasm, guiding him through just as Krauser did for him.
Leon breathes. Krauser does, too, and he’s the first to spit out the glove to make room for his desperate oxygen needs. Leon manually pries it out with his free hand, finding it soaked now with not just sweat and rainwater, but with saliva as well. For a few moments, they just breathe, basking in the still simmering air around them as they lie flush against each other. Their foreheads are still pressed against each other’s, breaths still intertwining as they refuel their oxygen-starved muscles and minds.
Krauser lets out a stuttered breath that sounds suspiciously like an airy chuckle. “Better than by yourself, yeah?”
His breaths brush against Leon’s face in the pattern of his words. Hazy and addled with the blood still yet to fully return to his brain, he lets out a satisfied sigh. “Absolutely.”
Krauser is the first to return to lying on his back, Leon soon doing so as well. There’s an embarrassingly noisy split of wet fabric when they separate, the state of them now only setting in now that the blood is rushing back and the high is wearing off. When Leon tucks himself back into his pants and rights his shirt, he winces at the stick of sweat and how it soaks him head-to-toe. From the way his hair sticks to his forehead and the back of his neck, the way his shirt clings to him like a wet rag, the way his pants rub against his legs and the way that he can definitely smell himself now, if there was any mistake about it before all of this. It’s not a pleasant smell, that of sweat and… whatever they just did.
Made evident by the sound, Krauser’s doing the same as well, righting his clothes as best he can with the rather damp situation. The storm is still pummeling away just outside, neither the heat nor the humidity have let up even an inch, and their impromptu cardio session has hardly helped with that.
Despite everything, the heat seems just a little more bearable now.
“Think you need a shower, rookie,” Krauser rumbles, and Leon can only find it in himself to reply with a half-hearted chuckle.
“Smell who’s talking,” Leon retorts because fuck, does this tent reek. Maybe he’ll just step outside and take a shower in this never ending rainforest storm—being soaked in rainwater is better than being soaked in sweat.
Being soaked in rainwater is better than being soaked in other things, too.