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annundrielCombat Jack
Chris/Leon
R
1556
Chris wishes he could turn over. He can't.
For my bb![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
spacefragments who has provided so many hours of excellent company, entertainment, and spectacular inspiration. I'm sorry this took so long. I hope you like it. ♥♥♥
Many thanks tocautionzombies and obstinatrix for giving it a beta and a read-through.
They decide to bed down in an abandoned mill by a dried up riverbed. Leon offers to scope it out while Chris checks the perimeter. It’s far enough from anything that they both agree it should be safe. Their mission’s important, but they’ve been awake longer than is healthy, running on adrenaline. A few hours' rest is advisable.
Leon chooses a room on the second floor; it’s got a good view of the area and is easily defensible with two of them.
“Not bad, Kennedy,” Chris says, peering out one of the windows and into the gathering dark. He doesn’t need to look at Leon to know he’s rolling his eyes.
“This isn’t my first time at the rodeo.”
Chris turns around, grinning.
Leon scowls, which only makes Chris grin harder. He should probably cut Leon some slack—out here they’ve only got each other—but Leon’s so easy. He glares and he frowns, huffs sighs and rolls his eyes and is generally way too much fun to rile up. Chris has to do something to relieve the tension out here on the job; pulling seniority on Leon, teasing Leon’s as good as anything, better than most things. There’s nothing to stop Chris.
“You can take first watch,” Chris says, holstering his handgun. He slips off his jacket and rolls it into a ball. “I’m getting some rest.”
He settles in on the floor as best he can, jacket rolled up behind his head. Closing his eyes, he breathes deep and tries to rest, feels himself slipping into a doze to the echoing sound of Leon’s boots on the floor. Eventually he hears Leon stop, followed by the rustle of clothing, the creak of boards as Leon lowers himself to the floor, settling in for his watch.
Chris lies there and listens to Leon breathing, low and quiet. Unconsciously, his own breathing falls into the same rhythm and soon he’s dozing to the sounds of Leon across the room, the occasional night bird coming awake outside.
The next time Chris becomes conscious, it has to be much later. It’s brighter behind his eyelids, and he knows the moon must be high enough to shine through the window. He’s about to stretch—there’s a crick in his neck and a twinge in his hip where he’s rolled onto his side at some point—and open his eyes, ask Leon if he’s handled the dark all right by himself, when something stops him.
There’s a noise, louder than their combined breathing, that Chris can’t quite place. He wonders if something’s crawling up the side of the house—that’d be just their luck—or if it’s something in the room, if he’ll turn over and find something slowly stripping Leon’s body of flesh. Chris gets ready to roll over, hand poised to reach for his gun, when he realizes the sound is familiar in its repetition.
Chris lies there and listens and, holy fuck, knows exactly what he’s hearing.
Not moving, Chris listens to Leon in the dark, the tell-tale sounds of skin on skin. He’d wonder how Leon can do this here, now, except Chris has done it himself, has needed release after a long, adrenaline-fueled day. He can’t fault Leon.
Over the rush of blood in his ears, Chris strains to catch any sound he can; the rustle of clothing, the catch of Leon’s breath. He thinks Leon must have taken his gloves—fingerless black leather—off; Chris would have. He’d want to feel skin, hot and silky, against his palm, want to soak in the heat of it uninterrupted by leather or nylon or wool.
Leon’s gloves are off, Chris thinks, at least one of them is. Though maybe Leon likes to use both hands, wrap one around the base of his cock, the other moving up the shaft, over the head. Chris can picture him with his back to the wall, feet planted on the worn wood floor, thighs spread. He wonders if Leon’s got his shirt pulled up; maybe he’s holding it with one hand, jacking himself with the other. Maybe it’s caught between his belly and his forearm, trapped between firm, muscled skin.
Chris’ cock swells at the thought of that skin, smooth and—huh. Tan or pale? Freckled, maybe. He’s noticed Leon’s freckles and wondered about them, stored that detail away in the back of his mind and tried not to look too closely at his partner or think too much about whether those freckles dusted more than just his cheeks.
He wants to turn over and see for himself. There won’t be details in the dark, not the kind he wants, but it’ll be something, a sight to fill his mind when he jerks himself off; Leon’s head thrown back, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, his hand working furiously between his legs. The slick sound of him, the catch of his breath, hair brushing against old wood.
God, Chris wants to do more than hear. He wants to see, wants to reach down and touch himself. Wants to get off listening to Leon get off, watching Leon get off. He’d refused to think about it before—a job to do, a mission to complete—but Leon is attractive, there’s no denying it, and hard as he’s tried, Chris hasn’t been able to keep it completely professional in his head, not when he’s half between wake and sleep, when his defenses are at their lowest.
Leon’s breathing changes on the other side of the room, coming faster, heavier. Chris’ skin tingles and his palms itch and fuck, fuck, he has to reach down and touch himself, can’t stay still when Leon’s making sounds that aren’t quite sounds, breathy absences of noise that light Chris up. Carefully, he shifts, arm sneaking lower down his waist until his hand is at his hip, trying to disguise the movement as innocent, a readjustment of limbs in sleep. For a moment, he thinks he hears Leon pause, thinks all of the sound is swallowed up by the moonlit night. He’s holds his breath and waits, the tips of his fingers just brushing the hard line of his cock.
One beat, two, and then Leon sighs, a soft hitch of breath, and the sound of skin on skin resumes. Chris presses his fingers firmly against his cock, wants to feel skin against his own so badly he practically aches with it.
He’s not sure how much time passes, or has passed, but every gust of air through Leon’s lips, every hint of sound from his side of the room is like a punch to Chris’ gut. If this is what it’s like when Leon’s quiet, what’s it like when he’s loud? Is he loud? Would he scream as Chris fucks him or would he bite that bottom lip and hold it in? Sound just like this—hushed, secret—even though they’re naked and sweaty and safe?
Chris shifts his hip against the wooden floor, hopes it looks like sleepy stirrings, and wants to find out. Wants to know what Leon likes, what he doesn’t. If he’s touching himself and thinking of Chris, of that time earlier that day when Chris had pulled him out of the way of a falling boulder—suspicious—and straight into Chris’ personal space. There’d been a moment, a brief second where Leon’s eyes had gone wide with surprise and gratitude, pupils dilating, before they’d shrunk down to that surly look Chris is coming to think of as Leon’s default. That look. He wants to wipe it off Leon’s face, bets it isn’t there now.
Leon gasps and Chris aches to roll over and look, to watch what is surely the last act of this show. To slip his hand inside his pants and touch himself until he’s coming with Leon, unafraid of being heard when their gasps together are indistinguishable.
He can’t, though; he can’t. All Chris can do is lie there with his hand squeezing around his covered cock and listen as Leon’s rhythm stutters and stops, the smell of him in the air becoming sharper, more potent.
Fuck.
Chris’ cock pulses beneath his palm, against his fingers. He shuts his eyes tight, blocks out everything that isn’t the smell of Leon, the sound of him. Imagines that it’s Leon’s hand on him and not his own, that he can hear Leon coming over to help him out and that any minute, any second Leon’s hand will slip over his hip and settle on Chris’—
Shoulder. There is a hand on Chris’ shoulder. Chris’ eyes pop open and Leon is there, right there, hand on his shoulder, kneeling beside him. Leon’s hair falls into his face and Chris can only make out part of his expression in the dim light, can only see the glint of eye and the unreadable dark line of Leon’s mouth. Chris stares up at him and all he can think is, Leon touched himself with that hand and wonder if he’d be able to taste it, to taste sweat and leather and come and Leon on those fingers.
He opens his mouth to speak, tenses his muscles to roll into Leon, but Leon pulls his hand away, says with a smirk, “Your watch, Redfield,” and Chris has to bit back a groan of disappointment.
Chris/Leon
R
1556
Chris wishes he could turn over. He can't.
For my bb
spacefragments who has provided so many hours of excellent company, entertainment, and spectacular inspiration. I'm sorry this took so long. I hope you like it. ♥♥♥Many thanks to
cautionzombies and obstinatrix for giving it a beta and a read-through.They decide to bed down in an abandoned mill by a dried up riverbed. Leon offers to scope it out while Chris checks the perimeter. It’s far enough from anything that they both agree it should be safe. Their mission’s important, but they’ve been awake longer than is healthy, running on adrenaline. A few hours' rest is advisable.
Leon chooses a room on the second floor; it’s got a good view of the area and is easily defensible with two of them.
“Not bad, Kennedy,” Chris says, peering out one of the windows and into the gathering dark. He doesn’t need to look at Leon to know he’s rolling his eyes.
“This isn’t my first time at the rodeo.”
Chris turns around, grinning.
Leon scowls, which only makes Chris grin harder. He should probably cut Leon some slack—out here they’ve only got each other—but Leon’s so easy. He glares and he frowns, huffs sighs and rolls his eyes and is generally way too much fun to rile up. Chris has to do something to relieve the tension out here on the job; pulling seniority on Leon, teasing Leon’s as good as anything, better than most things. There’s nothing to stop Chris.
“You can take first watch,” Chris says, holstering his handgun. He slips off his jacket and rolls it into a ball. “I’m getting some rest.”
He settles in on the floor as best he can, jacket rolled up behind his head. Closing his eyes, he breathes deep and tries to rest, feels himself slipping into a doze to the echoing sound of Leon’s boots on the floor. Eventually he hears Leon stop, followed by the rustle of clothing, the creak of boards as Leon lowers himself to the floor, settling in for his watch.
Chris lies there and listens to Leon breathing, low and quiet. Unconsciously, his own breathing falls into the same rhythm and soon he’s dozing to the sounds of Leon across the room, the occasional night bird coming awake outside.
The next time Chris becomes conscious, it has to be much later. It’s brighter behind his eyelids, and he knows the moon must be high enough to shine through the window. He’s about to stretch—there’s a crick in his neck and a twinge in his hip where he’s rolled onto his side at some point—and open his eyes, ask Leon if he’s handled the dark all right by himself, when something stops him.
There’s a noise, louder than their combined breathing, that Chris can’t quite place. He wonders if something’s crawling up the side of the house—that’d be just their luck—or if it’s something in the room, if he’ll turn over and find something slowly stripping Leon’s body of flesh. Chris gets ready to roll over, hand poised to reach for his gun, when he realizes the sound is familiar in its repetition.
Chris lies there and listens and, holy fuck, knows exactly what he’s hearing.
Not moving, Chris listens to Leon in the dark, the tell-tale sounds of skin on skin. He’d wonder how Leon can do this here, now, except Chris has done it himself, has needed release after a long, adrenaline-fueled day. He can’t fault Leon.
Over the rush of blood in his ears, Chris strains to catch any sound he can; the rustle of clothing, the catch of Leon’s breath. He thinks Leon must have taken his gloves—fingerless black leather—off; Chris would have. He’d want to feel skin, hot and silky, against his palm, want to soak in the heat of it uninterrupted by leather or nylon or wool.
Leon’s gloves are off, Chris thinks, at least one of them is. Though maybe Leon likes to use both hands, wrap one around the base of his cock, the other moving up the shaft, over the head. Chris can picture him with his back to the wall, feet planted on the worn wood floor, thighs spread. He wonders if Leon’s got his shirt pulled up; maybe he’s holding it with one hand, jacking himself with the other. Maybe it’s caught between his belly and his forearm, trapped between firm, muscled skin.
Chris’ cock swells at the thought of that skin, smooth and—huh. Tan or pale? Freckled, maybe. He’s noticed Leon’s freckles and wondered about them, stored that detail away in the back of his mind and tried not to look too closely at his partner or think too much about whether those freckles dusted more than just his cheeks.
He wants to turn over and see for himself. There won’t be details in the dark, not the kind he wants, but it’ll be something, a sight to fill his mind when he jerks himself off; Leon’s head thrown back, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, his hand working furiously between his legs. The slick sound of him, the catch of his breath, hair brushing against old wood.
God, Chris wants to do more than hear. He wants to see, wants to reach down and touch himself. Wants to get off listening to Leon get off, watching Leon get off. He’d refused to think about it before—a job to do, a mission to complete—but Leon is attractive, there’s no denying it, and hard as he’s tried, Chris hasn’t been able to keep it completely professional in his head, not when he’s half between wake and sleep, when his defenses are at their lowest.
Leon’s breathing changes on the other side of the room, coming faster, heavier. Chris’ skin tingles and his palms itch and fuck, fuck, he has to reach down and touch himself, can’t stay still when Leon’s making sounds that aren’t quite sounds, breathy absences of noise that light Chris up. Carefully, he shifts, arm sneaking lower down his waist until his hand is at his hip, trying to disguise the movement as innocent, a readjustment of limbs in sleep. For a moment, he thinks he hears Leon pause, thinks all of the sound is swallowed up by the moonlit night. He’s holds his breath and waits, the tips of his fingers just brushing the hard line of his cock.
One beat, two, and then Leon sighs, a soft hitch of breath, and the sound of skin on skin resumes. Chris presses his fingers firmly against his cock, wants to feel skin against his own so badly he practically aches with it.
He’s not sure how much time passes, or has passed, but every gust of air through Leon’s lips, every hint of sound from his side of the room is like a punch to Chris’ gut. If this is what it’s like when Leon’s quiet, what’s it like when he’s loud? Is he loud? Would he scream as Chris fucks him or would he bite that bottom lip and hold it in? Sound just like this—hushed, secret—even though they’re naked and sweaty and safe?
Chris shifts his hip against the wooden floor, hopes it looks like sleepy stirrings, and wants to find out. Wants to know what Leon likes, what he doesn’t. If he’s touching himself and thinking of Chris, of that time earlier that day when Chris had pulled him out of the way of a falling boulder—suspicious—and straight into Chris’ personal space. There’d been a moment, a brief second where Leon’s eyes had gone wide with surprise and gratitude, pupils dilating, before they’d shrunk down to that surly look Chris is coming to think of as Leon’s default. That look. He wants to wipe it off Leon’s face, bets it isn’t there now.
Leon gasps and Chris aches to roll over and look, to watch what is surely the last act of this show. To slip his hand inside his pants and touch himself until he’s coming with Leon, unafraid of being heard when their gasps together are indistinguishable.
He can’t, though; he can’t. All Chris can do is lie there with his hand squeezing around his covered cock and listen as Leon’s rhythm stutters and stops, the smell of him in the air becoming sharper, more potent.
Fuck.
Chris’ cock pulses beneath his palm, against his fingers. He shuts his eyes tight, blocks out everything that isn’t the smell of Leon, the sound of him. Imagines that it’s Leon’s hand on him and not his own, that he can hear Leon coming over to help him out and that any minute, any second Leon’s hand will slip over his hip and settle on Chris’—
Shoulder. There is a hand on Chris’ shoulder. Chris’ eyes pop open and Leon is there, right there, hand on his shoulder, kneeling beside him. Leon’s hair falls into his face and Chris can only make out part of his expression in the dim light, can only see the glint of eye and the unreadable dark line of Leon’s mouth. Chris stares up at him and all he can think is, Leon touched himself with that hand and wonder if he’d be able to taste it, to taste sweat and leather and come and Leon on those fingers.
He opens his mouth to speak, tenses his muscles to roll into Leon, but Leon pulls his hand away, says with a smirk, “Your watch, Redfield,” and Chris has to bit back a groan of disappointment.
