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Leon’s cheek is cold where it’s pressed into smooth wood, a large, calloused hand covering his face and firmly holding him down. There’s a dull throb where the palm rests, laying over what will certainly be harsh, possessive red marks by the time he wakes up.
He’s draped haphazardly over the makeshift desk, various papers scattered around and under him, mugs and discarded water bottles making up the table’s defensive walls to his left and right. His shirt rides up where his stomach meets the table’s edge, fatigues shucked down to his knees. The chill of the night air as it ghosts his bare skin is the one and only loving touch he’s come to expect from these meetings.
Leon tried his best to keep a carefully crafted image. He was a survivor, a hard worker, a talented fighter, and a promising soldier — anything past that was strictly need-to-know, and most people surrounding him would simply never need to know. Especially regarding the matter of identity.
Up until now, he thought he’d done an excellent job removing himself from suspicion. He kept his life before the age of sixteen well under wraps, choosing to walk away when the recruits would swap school or childhood stories over yet another bland meal. He showered at night, tucked into the farthest corner, secluded and safe. His uniform always fit, never too tight or too loose — snug where it should be, loose where it needed to be. He’d worked hard to be seen as he was.
A moment of carelessness, unsurprisingly, had been his downfall in the eyes of Jack Krauser. Krauser appeared a fair man, knowing exactly when to push and to pull, how to shape those under his training into soldiers ready for any situation; Leon in particular was quite receptive to this, meaning much of his free time was spent weapon in hand, staring down the mass of muscle that was the Major as they sparred.
Sometimes he told himself it had been too quick to prevent. He’d blamed it on a misstep, on lack of sleep the night before, on the heat stealing his full concentration — any option was preferable to admitting he had slipped up. He could still feel the knife tearing through fabric, a thin, beading red line forming on his chest with lightning speed as he stumbled backward. In that moment, his feet had been swept from under him, back hitting the ground and cool metal meeting his throat shortly after.
The Major had scolded him, something about leaving himself open, being off his game, all things Leon had heard before — the words themselves hadn't mattered, nothing more than the usual disappointment that came with losing to the larger man. What had mattered, however, was the way Krauser’s eyes seemed to become glued to the square of skin now revealed by the hole in his shirt, the shallow gash cutting directly through faint pink scars under his pecs.
Leon remembers freezing, and that pit-of-your-stomach feeling that comes with any secret worth keeping. He’d been found out. He’d expected Krauser to shout, to call him a name and shove him away like his skin could draw blood from a simple touch. Instead, the tip of the knife had found the hole in his shirt, lifting and tearing ever so slightly to bring more milky skin into view, eyes following the scars as if inspecting him for flaws, assessing his worth like an antique.
For several lengthy moments, they said nothing. Then the larger man’s gaze darkened, and only then did Leon remember how to move. “Major Krauser, let me– it’s not what–”
Krauser had stood up abruptly, taking two steps back and adjusting his relatively undisturbed uniform in the meantime. “Clean yourself up, rookie. We’ll discuss this later, in my office.”
Leon’s stomach had churned, then, just as it did now.
Krauser looms over him, shadow cruel and demanding in the way it falls over Leon, blanketing him wholly as if to hide him from the world. The heel of his palm digs into Leon’s jaw as he holds him down, the other hand creeping slowly, slowly, up his left thigh and over the curve of his ass. It wasn't gentle, it was never gentle — Krauser touched like he owned, and Leon had very little leverage to argue.
He shudders as thick fingers swipe through his folds, collecting the barely-there wetness on coarse fingertips and spreading it. It’s rough, slightly dry, and Leon attempts to squirm — not that it will do anything — away from the touch. The Major’s deep chuckle only adds to the queasiness making a home in his gut.
“Relax, boy scout,” Krauser speaks through a smirk, one finger beginning to circle Leon’s cock unkindly. “No point in being so tense, unless you want it to hurt. Pretty little things like you tend to like it that way.”
Leon hisses, sudden stimulation to his otherwise neglected cock barreling him towards overstimulation within seconds; he wills his muscles to relax anyways, shoulders falling to once more rest against the cool wood they had subconsciously been raised away from. Krauser’s right — the man will, and has, hurt him in taking him, and he’s in no mood to cause himself more trouble. Begrudgingly, his t-dick begins to fill out under Krauser’s ministrations, and the older man’s smirk only grows. He again runs his fingers through Leon’s folds, a pleased hum rising from his chest as he circles the younger’s entrance.
“That’s it, rookie. All it takes is a real man ordering you around a little, huh?”
A fingertip dips shallowly into his hole, coming back coated in enough slick for Krauser to deem it his go-ahead. The older man wastes no time in breaching him with the thick digit, textured skin rubbing along his inner walls with every thrust forward. Leon muzzles a strained whimper. The intrusion burns, not yet pleasurable, but too much of a fight and Krauser will forgo the prep altogether.
That had been his first “lesson” of sorts in their arrangement — choosing his battles. In a twisted sort of way, the pace was often up to him, dependent on the amount of humiliation he could withstand to keep it that way. The largest problem, however, was that Krauser liked to push.
Who would believe his word over the Major’s?
A second finger joins the first pumping into him, and Leon clenches his jaw under Krauser’s palm. The digits loosen him up together, at first, pressed close to accommodate him to the extra width, then scissor, dragging along his walls with purpose. It’s too soon, too fast, but the stretch begins to morph ever so slightly into something more enjoyable, so he bites back his objection.
Krauser’s pace is firm, laced with impatience, but he lazily curls his fingers, narrowly avoiding what Leon knows he's searching for. It's yet another denial, and Leon huffs, briefly picturing his boot meeting the side of the larger man’s head — maybe he’ll keep that one for later, replay it when the Major inevitably oversteps during drills. He attempts to angle his hips to force Krauser’s fingers to hit deeper, hit the spot that’ll grant him a modicum of actual pleasure, but Krauser just laughs and angles his fingers away.
“Asshole,” Leon mutters, jaw clenching under Krauser’s palm. He squeezes his hands into fists where they lay by his head.
Krauser tuts. “Watch it, rookie. Good girls are supposed to lay back and take it, not mouth off.”
Girl. It had been the first thing on Krauser’s mind the night he found out, pushing Leon against the wall to shove a hand down his fatigues and investigate for himself, coarse fingertips gliding carelessly through Leon’s wetness. Had the man not literally and figuratively had Leon backed into a corner, he likes to think he would have told someone, or at least done something about it — Jack, however, being the senior of the two, had indelicately reminded Leon of the weight this new information held.
One word from Krauser to his higher-ups, and Leon would be finished. Perhaps, in a way, it’d be a mercy, free from a life of being a government mutt, but on the other hand… where would he go? What did he have to return to?
All he had was the ruins of the life he hoped for, and the ruins of the life he left behind. If this life would get ruined, too, he’d at least do it on his own terms. He was a survivor.
A third finger is shoved in with the rest, no ease or care in the action, brutal pace set immediately upon entry. An airy gasp spills past his parted lips as the digits push deep, shamefully torn between wanting to push back or shy away. Dull pain, throbbing pleasure, and ever-present revulsion settle like stones in his gut. Krauser’s pace never slows, never lets up, and muted, shameful little noises rise from Leon's chest with every stroke. If he these were his circumstances, he might as well enjoy what he could.
“Greedy bitch,” Krauser murmurs, mocking, though there’s less bite to it than everything else he’s hurled at him so far. He trails his hand from holding Leon down at his cheek, to instead rest his weight between the younger man’s shoulder blades, reduced pressure not going unnoticed. Simple as the motion was, Leon had come to learn certain things that made the Major tick — when the older needed a push, a helping hand to move things along, to ensure he’d be on his way out of this godforsaken tent even one second faster. Reprimand him as he would, the Major respected a challenge, nearly as much as he valued showing the younger blond just how quickly he could squash it.
So, Leon struggles. He wriggles under Jack’s hold, tries to rise to his elbows, fights just how he knows the Major likes it. As expected, the older man breaks, and Leon cracks a hidden smile, relishing in his miniscule victory.
Krauser all but snarls, shoving Leon back into laying flat on the wood, the heel of his palm digging into Leon’s spine hard enough to make the blond wince. Calloused fingers slide out of him with a lewd pop, though he’s robbed of the opportunity to reflect on it when he hears Krauser’s tactical belt hurriedly unclasping. He exhales heavily through his nostrils, peering behind him to view the tent in the Major’s pants as he fishes his cock out, red and angry at the tip. Krauser sneers down at him, stroking himself with slicked fingers.
“See something you like, boy scout?” The name is given condescendingly, serving not to validate Leon, not to affirm how he fits in the world’s puzzle, but to dangle it in front of him, teasing and derisive and just out of reach. Boy, not man, as if the notion itself is so unbelievable it’s negated simply by Jack implying otherwise.
Leon’s expression sours, then jerking his head away to gain any possible distance between himself and Krauser. It’s apparently the reaction the older wanted, however, and he shudders against his will as he feels the older’s blunt cockhead knock against his own. It trails through his wetness lazily, slick coating the hot skin with every glide — Jack wasn't fond of extra lubricant, opting to instead take the rougher approach to personally guarantee Leon would feel the effects the next day.
He doesn't bother to check if Leon’s ready, either. He positions himself at his entrance, the Major’s now free hand gripping the meat of his hip his only warning as he rocks forward. In one slow, steady push, his hips are flush against Leon’s, burying himself to the hilt with a deep groan.
“Jesus, rookie,” he nearly pants, squeezing Leon’s hip tight enough to pinch. “Always suck me in like you were made for it. It’s a shame you’re trying so hard to be something else.”
Leon scoffs, nails digging into his palms within his closed fists. “You say that to every new recruit you fuck?”
“No, just the mouthy cuntboy mutts. The men out there all know how to handle themselves well enough,” Krauser draws his hips back til only the tip remains in Leon’s wet heat, then snaps them forward unkindly, the lewd slap of skin on skin audible throughout the tent; Leon’s gasp is equally so, ripped from him before he can swallow it down. Krauser snickers at this. “God, you're fucking easy. Just need something in that cunt of yours to shut you up.”
Leon grits his teeth as Krauser formally starts moving, starting off slow, but fucking deep into him every time he bullies his way in. Every second of silence is a win Jack gets over him, but fuck, this part never gets easier — the Major’s a sizable man in every way, and while not necessarily huge, the girth alone was nothing to roll his eyes at. Muzzling a rather undignified noise, he peeks back at the larger man.
“Such a romantic. How is it you’re still a bachelor?” Sarcasm is thick in his breathy tone, dripping like acid onto the wood below him.
Krauser rolls his eyes, slamming home particularly hard to shove Leon further up the table. “What, are you offering? Dying to be in a wedding dress?”
The thought sends a wave of nausea through Leon’s full body. Krauser evidently feels differently, cock twitching inside Leon between rolls of his hips. He almost wants to laugh.
“You know, I don’t t-think the– hah– life of an honest man would suit you,” he quips, mentally cursing his unstable voice. The Major simply grips his hip tighter, tight enough to bruise, and fucks into him faster; Leon releases his hands from fists to instead grab the edge of the desk. “Domestic’s not– really your style.”
Krauser trades depth for quickening the pace, driving into Leon in earnest. Each thrust punches pathetic little noises from him, throaty and strained with the effort of keeping them quiet. The hand between his shoulders slithers down, finding the hem of his shirt and slipping under. Their skin is hot where it meets, and he imagines a trail of patchy burn marks forming with each new bit of skin the larger man’s hand covers. He presses himself up into the touch anyway.
“All that talking you do, and you still end up right here for me to use, taking me like you're built for it. You might as well drop the tomboy act,” Krauser’s clipped nails scrape over his shoulders, the sensation tugging a gentle hiss from the younger blond. “Too fucking pretty to be a guy, anyway.”
Leon pants, shameful heat trickling from his chest to his gut at the words; he’d ridicule himself for that later, once he was back in his right mind. For now, he clenches down weakly, earning a guttural groan from the Major. The hand in his shirt snakes under to his front, flicking over a pebbled nipple, then tracing the pink scars there.
“It's a shame about these, though. I really would've liked to see the full picture.”
As if spurred on by the mental image, Krauser fucks into him harder, strained little moans blossoming each time their skin collides. Rough hands grope his chest hungrily, twisting his nipple between two fingers. It’s enough to make Leon lose conviction, first unrestrained moan of the night tumbling past his lips, the shame felt moments prior merely an afterthought now.
Jack’s boastful smirk is audible when he speaks. “Good girl.”
The Major seems to lose patience after that. He indelicately removes his hand from Leon’s pec, ignoring the younger man’s almost imperceptible whimper of protest, and settles with balling the fabric up tight in his fist for a better grip. He slams into Leon like he means it, wet slap of skin unmistakable to anyone who happened to pass by, — unlikely, considering the hour — the younger’s pitiful moans even more so. Leon doesn't have to look to know Krauser is smirking, feeling triumphant in his aiding in his falling apart.
Leon raises himself up on his toes, angling his hips ever so slightly, forcing Jack to search for that spot in him that will make him see stars; he keens when he finally, finally, hits it, and this time, the Major doesn't move away. His face screws up in wanton pleasure, mouth hanging open and eyes squeezed shut.
Krauser tuts, his tone that of faux disapproval. “Careful now, rookie. Wouldn't want anyone to hear, would you? Have your little secret get out?”
Leon tenses at the thought, tugging his lower lip between his teeth with little regard for potentially drawing blood. The noises never stop, though, now scratchy where they’re trapped in his throat; the Major releases his shirt, instead laying a hand over his neck and feeling the vibrations through his palm. He feels a slight squeeze, and he clenches down again, harder this time. Krauser responds with a deep moan of his own.
He begins to pant, gruff and damp, as he hammers into Leon’s wet heat. “Fuck, just like that. Dumb fucking mutt.”
Suddenly, his hip is released, and Krauser’s fingers are stroking his swollen clit, rough movements in time with his hips snapping to meet the younger’s. Heat pools in his gut all at once, so quickly it’s nauseating — it’s too much, way too much, and Leon doesn't want to cum like this, but Krauser’s not stopping, and–
”Jack, I don’t–” he heaves, chest aching with the force of it; before he can realize his mistake and mentally shame himself for it, the Major’s hand is tangling in his hair, tugging his head up at an awkward, painful angle.
“One touch to your tiny little cock and you go fucking braindead, is that it?” He spits, his fingers leaving Leon’s clit to instead pinch at his labia. Leon whines, high and pathetic, and squeezes around Jack’s cock hard. “Try it again, and get it right this time.”
“Major!” Leon cries, unsure what he’s even asking for. Krauser makes the decision for him. His hand eases back into its place, two fingers framing his t-dick on either side and jacking him off, faster now than before. Leon’s initial protests, mental repetitions of ‘no,’ are wiped from his mind as he feels himself brutally shoved to the edge.
“Gonna be a good girl and cum on my cock?” Krauser nearly growls, slamming himself in to the hilt with every thrust. “So damn pathetic. Go on, mutt, cum for me.”
Calloused fingers drag over his swollen clit, and he comes undone with a sharp cry. He shudders as Krauser fucks him through it, orgasm rolling over him in dizzying waves. Fucked-out whimpers are all he can manage, hands gripping the table’s edge so hard his knuckles are white.
Krauser leans himself over Leon, nearly draping himself over his back, as he chases his own climax, which is clearly not far off if the loss of rhythm in his thrusts is anything to go by.
“Could knock you up just like this,” the older man grunts, hot breath fanning over Leon’s face. His hands find their way to the younger blond’s waist, gripping tight for leverage. “Take you out of commission, keep you right where I want you. Make them all know you’re mine.”
Jack’s just talking himself through it, saying whatever comes to mind, but Leon’s stomach still churns. He squirms in the Major’s hold, though barely moving an inch; the older doesn't slow, rocking Leon with every uncoordinated thrust.
“Gonna cum so far in you, it’ll have to take,” he rasps, pulling Leon back by the waist to meet each snap of his stuttering hips. Leon, reduced to whimpering under him, weakly shakes his head ‘no.’ “Fucking take it.”
He spills inside of him with a guttural moan, resorting to burying himself to the hilt and grinding his hips against Leon’s ass. Begrudgingly, the younger blond moans, a lewd, shameful thing, at which he lifts his head to then bury it in his elbow, hiding his face as best he can. They stay like that for a moment, panting heavily, shirts clinging where they’ve sweat through them. There's no intimacy in the closeness.
He gets to enjoy it for all of about ten, maybe fifteen seconds before it gets ruined.
Krauser is the first to move, pulling out with a wet, gruesome pop, humiliation traveling down Leon’s spine like a freeze you get from forgetting your coat during winter. He pats Leon’s ass on the way up, grabbing a tissue to wipe himself off before tucking his length back into his pants.
“Get up, boy scout. You’re on my papers.”
Leon scoffs, scooting back off the desk, snatching his pants and boxers back up from around his knees. He, embarrassingly, fumbles with the belt — the look the Major gives him makes him look particularly punchable — so he turns away, shuffling towards the tent’s entrance. Krauser “fixes” the papers on the desk, if fixing meant picking up a pile and dropping it on the opposite side of the wood.
Leon adjusts himself once he’s redressed, shirt tucked into his fatigues well enough to avoid suspicion. Without a mirror, he thinks his hair looks… fine? His face, on the other hand… he’ll scrounge around for an ice pack in the morning.
“I’m running out, you know.”
Krauser looks up at him like he’s grown a second head. “What are you telling me for? You know where they are.” He waves him off after that, a lazy dismissal to beat all lazy dismissals, and Leon briefly revisits his boot-meeting-head fantasy.
Sighing, he walks to the other side of the tent, dropping to the second-to-last drawer in the dinged up filing cabinet. He fishes out a small box, cracking the already well-worn lid to remove a foil blister pack, then carelessly tossing the box back in and kicking the drawer shut.
“Wouldn't kill you to buy a box of rubbers,” he mutters, pocketing the foil package. “Asshole.”
He tries his best to slam the tent flap behind him as he leaves.