Wanna Try On My Fuzzy Pink Handcuffs? (Chrisker One-Shoot Fanfiction)
🔞 NSFW — Explicit Chrisker Smut 🔞
"Chris Redfield thought a pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs might shake up the no-strings sex he's been having with Captain Wesker. He’s cocky, bold, and maybe just a little desperate for control. But when he dares to turn the tables, he learns fast that Wesker never plays to lose. What starts as a joke turns into a full-blown power game, and Chris is left breathless, aching, and craving more."
Desk Sex, Cuffs, Power Play, Chris Redfield Is So Down Bad, “Wanna Try On My Fuzzy Pink Handcuffs?” (inspired by Juno – Sabrina Carpenter), Shameless Chris Redfield, Top Albert Wesker,Bottom Chris Redfield (Resident Evil), Wesker Always Wins, Chris Has One Brain Cell and It’s Horny, Office Sex.
Chris Redfield stood outside Captain Wesker’s office, heart pounding like he’d just breached a hostile stronghold, the fuzzy pink handcuffs stuffed into the back pocket of his jeans. He’d bought them at a joke store four months ago, a half-baked plan he’d never dared act on until now. The cuffs, bright, velvet, obnoxiously fluffy, were a challenge, a way to shake up the casual, no-strings hookups he’d been having with Wesker for months. It started with a whiskey-soaked night after a mission, a rough clash of lips and hands in a dark alley behind a bar, and kept going because Wesker’s cold, commanding presence was so high Chris couldn’t quit. Those nights raw, intense, always ending with Chris wrecked and Wesker smirking gave him the balls to walk in here today, ready to mess with the captain who always held the upper hand.
Wesker was a goddamn enigma, all sharp edges and untouchable control, his dark blue S.T.A.R.S. uniform making him look like a predator dressed for war. The tactical vest hugged his shoulders, the black undershirt clung to his chest, and the matching pants were tailored just right, distracting as hell during briefings or, worse, sparring sessions when Wesker’s grip lingered, pinning Chris to the mat with that infuriating smirk. Chris adjusted the cuffs in his pocket, the soft velvet brushing his fingers, and took a deep breath. This was either his best or dumbest move yet.
He knocked once, sharp and loud, then pushed the door open, knowing Wesker got a kick out of his cockiness.
“Redfield,” Wesker said, not looking up from the report on his desk. His voice was smooth, clipped, like he was already anticipating Chris’s bullshit and savoring it. He sat there in his S.T.A.R.S. uniform dark blue vest crisp over a black undershirt, pants pressed to perfection, blonde hair slicked back like he’d walked out of a recruitment poster. The sight hit Chris like a shot, stirring memories of their last hookup: Wesker’s hands pinning him against a locker room wall, breath hot against his neck, both of them silent except for harsh gasps. “This better be worth my time,” Wesker added, pen still moving, his tone daring Chris to make it interesting.
Chris grinned, all teeth and bravado, leaning against the desk’s edge, close enough to catch the crisp scent of Wesker’s aftershave something sharp and expensive that lingered on Chris’s skin after every fuck. “Oh, it’s worth it, Captain. Got something to spice things up.”
Wesker’s pen paused, the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth betraying his interest. “Your idea of spice is rarely promising.”
Chris’s grin widened, reckless and teasing. He reached into his back pocket, pulling out the handcuffs. They dangled from his fingers, pink and fluffy, catching the dim light from Wesker’s desk lamp. “Wanna try on my fuzzy pink handcuffs?”
The words came out bold, fueled by the memory of Wesker’s mouth on his, the way their last hookup left Chris shaking and craving more. He held Wesker’s gaze, daring him to bite, knowing their months of hookups meant Wesker wouldn’t back down from a challenge.
Wesker’s head tilted up, slow and deliberate. His blue eyes sharp, unreadable, like they could cut through steel locked onto Chris’s face, then slid down. Past the tight black tee clinging to his chest, past the worn jeans hugging his hips, to the cuffs swinging in Chris’s hand. A heavy pause stretched, the air crackling with heat, thick with the weight of their history nights of stolen touches, rough sex, and Wesker’s voice in his ear, always in control.
“What a provocative little game,” Wesker murmured, voice low, almost a purr. He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, a smirk curling his lips. “And what do you think you’ll do with those, Christopher?”
Chris’s stomach flipped at the way Wesker said his name sharp, intimate, like it belonged to them alone. He stepped closer, the scent of aftershave stronger now, mixing with the faint leather of Wesker’s vest, making his head spin. “C’mon, Captain,” he said, voice rough with confidence. “You telling me you can’t handle a little fun?”
Wesker’s smirk sharpened, the room suddenly hotter, the air pressing against Chris’s skin. “Handle it?” he repeated, amusement dripping from the word. He stood, slow and deliberate, his height forcing Chris to tilt his head up, the dark blue vest making him look untouchable. “Put them on me, Redfield. Let’s see if you can keep up.”
Chris’s breath hitched. Their hookups had taught him Wesker loved a challenge as much as he loved control, and the way those blue eyes pinned him now was proof. He circled behind Wesker, hands steady despite the heat pooling in his gut, and grabbed one wrist, the fabric of the black undershirt brushing his fingers. Wesker didn’t resist, standing still, letting Chris snap the cuffs into place. The velvet was soft, absurdly so, but the metal’s click was sharp and final.
“There,” Chris whispered, stepping back to take it in. Wesker, hands cuffed behind his back, the dark blue S.T.A.R.S. vest slightly askew, still radiating that infuriating control. “Got you now.”
Wesker tilted his head, smirk pure mockery. “Do you?”
Chris didn’t wait. He closed the distance, grabbed Wesker’s face, fingers brushing the sharp line of his jaw, and kissed him hard, messy, pouring in every ounce of heat from their months of hookups. Wesker’s mouth opened like he’d been waiting, his tongue sliding against Chris’s with filthy precision, slow and deliberate, unraveling him. The kiss was a battlefield Wesker’s control clashing with Chris’s desperation, lips bruising, teeth grazing, the taste of aftershave and memory flooding Chris’s senses. He pushed Wesker back into the chair, straddling his lap, his thighs bracketing Wesker’s hips, the dark blue vest rough against his chest. His cock strained against his jeans, pressing into Wesker’s abdomen as he ground down, the friction sparking heat through his veins. The fuzzy cuffs rubbed against Wesker’s wrists behind his back, soft against the hard lines of his uniform, and the memory of their last time Wesker’s hands, his voice pushed Chris closer to the edge.
“Fuck,” Chris gasped into the kiss, hands tugging at Wesker’s vest, fingers catching on the tactical straps, the texture grounding him even as his head spun. “Been thinking about you all fucking week.”
Wesker’s chuckle was low, dangerous, his breath hot against Chris’s lips. “You’re predictable, Christopher.” He couldn’t move his hands, but his voice was a leash, pulling Chris in, those blue eyes never leaving his, sharp and piercing even as Chris ground harder against him.
Chris bit Wesker’s neck, hard enough to mark, his hips rolling, the pressure of Wesker’s body beneath him amplifying every sensation. Wesker groaned, low and guttural, the sound sending a jolt to Chris’s cock. The chair creaked as Chris rutted, shameless, the heat and friction building, their history making every touch a spark. His jeans dragged against Wesker’s pants, the rough fabric and the hard line of Wesker’s abdomen driving him wild. “God—fuck—” Chris’s voice broke as he came, hips stuttering, soaking his jeans, the combination of Wesker’s tongue in his mouth and the intense pressure of grinding on his lap too much to hold back.
He slumped forward, panting, forehead on Wesker’s shoulder, dazed but grinning. “Fuck, that was quick.”
Wesker, infuriatingly calm, sounded amused. “No restraint, Redfield. I thought you’d learned by now.”
Chris laughed, shaky, lifting his head. “Give me a—”
He froze. The cuffs were gone.
Wesker stood, the pink velvet cuffs dangling from one finger, his other hand free like he’d never been bound. Before Chris could process it, Wesker grabbed him by the waist, strong hands lifting him off the chair with effortless strength and planting him firmly on the desk, the wood creaking under his weight. Papers scattered, pens clattered to the floor, and Chris’s breath caught as Wesker loomed over him, his dark blue S.T.A.R.S. vest framing his predatory stance. Wesker’s eyes were dark, hungry, his smirk gone, replaced by something sharper, more dangerous.
“I don’t need my hands to own you,” Wesker said, voice a low blade cutting through the air. He leaned in, lips brushing Chris’s ear, breath hot and deliberate. “Did you really think you’d won this time?”
Chris’s cock twitched, already half-hard again. That voice, that control it was why their hookups never stopped, why he kept coming back for more. His body thrummed with the memory of Wesker fucking him against a safehouse wall, the way he’d taken Chris apart with that same unshakable calm. “Fuck,” he whispered, half-laugh, half-moan. “Then fuck me, Captain. Show me.”
Wesker’s grip tightened on Chris’s waist, pinning him to the desk, his fingers digging into skin through the fabric of his tee. “Oh, I will,” he said, voice dripping with promise. He yanked at Chris’s belt, popping the button on his jeans and shoving them down to his ankles along with his boxers, the fabric pooling on the floor. Chris’s cock sprang free, leaking, and Wesker’s eyes flicked down, amusement flashing across his face as he took in the sight.
“Look at you,” Wesker murmured, hand sliding down Chris’s chest, nails dragging over skin, catching on the hem of his tee. “Always so eager for me.” He pushed Chris flat onto the desk, the wood cool against his back, legs spreading instinctively as Wesker stepped between them, the dark blue vest brushing against Chris’s thighs. Wesker reached for a small bottle of lube in the desk drawer Chris’s, left from one of their previous hookups, a testament to how often they’d done this here. He smirked as he slicked his fingers, the sound of the cap clicking open loud in the quiet office.
Chris’s breath hitched, his body aching for it, the anticipation sharper because of their history. “You kept that shit here?” he said, voice rough with need, his eyes tracking Wesker’s every move, the way his fingers moved with surgical precision.
“You left it, Christopher,” Wesker said, voice low and smug, stepping closer, the tactical vest rough against Chris’s skin. He pushed one finger inside Chris, slow and deliberate, making his hips jerk, a moan tearing from his throat. Wesker’s finger curled, hitting that spot that made Chris’s vision blur, his body trembling under the weight of that familiar, devastating control.
“Fuck—Wesker—” Chris’s voice was wrecked, hands gripping the desk’s edge, knuckles white. Wesker added a second finger, stretching him with calm precision, his other hand pinning Chris’s hip to keep him still. The stretch burned, then melted into pleasure, Wesker’s fingers moving with a rhythm that felt like a fucking signature, one Chris knew too well from their nights together.
“More—please—” Chris gasped, his body arching, the desk creaking under him. He was already half-gone, the memory of Wesker’s cock inside him from their last hookup making him desperate, needy in a way that should’ve embarrassed him but didn’t.
Wesker’s movements were relentless, fingers thrusting with precision, preparing him with that infuriating composure. “So impatient,” he murmured, almost conversational, as he withdrew his fingers, leaving Chris gasping, empty, and aching. He unzipped his own pants, the sound loud in the office, freeing his cock hard, ready, and glistening as he slicked himself with more lube from the bottle. “You thought those cuffs would hold me?” he said, lining himself up, the head of his cock pressing against Chris’s entrance, teasing just enough to make him squirm.
Chris’s legs spread wider, his body arching toward Wesker, desperate to close the distance. “Just fuck me already,” he growled, voice raw, his hands reaching for Wesker’s vest, fingers curling into the tactical straps.
Wesker pushed in, slow and unrelenting, filling Chris inch by inch, the stretch intense, perfect, hitting every nerve just right. Chris moaned, loud and unashamed, the desk creaking as Wesker thrust, hard and deep, each movement precise, controlled, owning him completely. The room was a haze of heat, sweat, and the sounds of Chris’s ragged moans mixing with Wesker’s low grunts, the dark blue vest shifting slightly with every roll of his hips. The office smelled of aftershave, leather, and sex, the air thick with their history, every thrust a reminder of why Chris kept coming back.
“You’re so loud,” Wesker said, voice steady despite the rhythm of his thrusts, his hands gripping Chris’s hips, fingers digging into skin. “Anyone could walk in. Would you like that, Christopher? To be seen like this, mine to ruin?”
Chris’s cock twitched, face burning, the thought sending a jolt through him. “Fuck you,” he gasped, no heat in it, only need. Wesker’s smirk widened as he leaned down, biting Chris’s lower lip hard enough to draw a whimper, his thrusts speeding up, relentless, the desk groaning under their weight.
“You’re mine,” Wesker said, voice low and final, as he drove deeper, hitting that spot with every stroke. Chris’s hands scrabbled at the desk, knocking pens and papers to the floor, his body trembling as Wesker fucked him into oblivion, their past nights making every thrust hit harder, mean more.
Chris came again, harder, body arching off the desk, spilling over his stomach, Wesker’s name a broken moan. Wesker didn’t stop, thrusting through Chris’s shudders, drawing out every pulse until he followed, a low groan escaping as he spilled inside Chris, the heat of it grounding them both.
Wesker pulled back, standing straight, his dark blue S.T.A.R.S. vest barely rumpled, expression composed. He wiped his hands on a tissue from the desk, eyes never leaving Chris’s. “You’re bold, Christopher,” he said, voice mocking. “But you always break for me.”
Chris, sprawled across the desk, sweaty and wrecked, managed a shaky laugh, his chest heaving. “Those cuffs… fucking worth it.”
Wesker’s smirk widened, the pink handcuffs dangling from his finger. “Keep trying, Redfield. Maybe one day you’ll surprise me.”
Chris moaned loudly, shamelessly as Wesker leaned down again, the desk creaking under their weight. The fuzzy pink handcuffs lay forgotten on the floor, and Chris knew he’d be back for more of this whatever this was. Their casual thing had a way of pulling him back, every smirk, every touch, every fuck making him crave the next round with the captain who always won.
đź’śThank you for making it to the end.
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