Redfield Legacy

In the frosty Chicago winter of ’52, Chris, a small-town dreamer, meets Wesker, a sharply dressed mystery. What begins in quiet glances grows into something real even as the world tries to pull them apart. But some connections, once sparked, don’t fade with the season.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/65020960

🔞 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.

💜Thank you for making it to the end.

Reblogs & comments keep me going 🌙

More unhinged fanfiction? I’m on AO3: @RedfieldLegacy

Pairing: Chris Redfield / Albert Wesker

Rating: Explicit 🔞

Tags: Chrisker, angst, smut, audio confession, power imbalance, manipulation, submissive Chris, dominant Wesker, masturbation, possessiveness, S.T.A.R.S. era, cassette tape, voice kink, internal monologue, Flirty, Horny vibes, Teasing, Dirty Talk.

PLAY

The S.T.A.R.S. headquarters is a ghost town after midnight, the fluorescent lights dimmed to a faint hum, casting long shadows across the linoleum floors. Chris Redfield’s boots echo faintly as he moves through the empty halls, the weight of the cassette in his jacket pocket heavier than it should be. The black plastic is warm from his grip, the red slash in the corner a reckless mark of his unraveling. He recorded it last night, alone in his apartment, lights off, curled on the couch with the recorder pressed to his lips like a confessional. Every word was a wound, a plea, a surrender—and now he’s here, standing outside Albert Wesker’s office door, heart pounding like a drum.

The door is solid oak, polished to a sheen, with Captain A. Wesker etched on a brass plate. Chris’s breath hitches as he crouches, the cassette trembling in his hand. He shouldn’t do this. He should burn the damn thing, pretend it never happened. But his fingers move on their own, sliding the tape under the door, the plastic scraping softly against the floor. He lingers for a moment, palm pressed against the wood, imagining Wesker finding it, those cold blue eyes narrowing as he realizes what Chris has done. The thought sends a shiver through him, equal parts dread and desire. He stands, wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans, and slips back into the shadows, leaving the tape behind like a bomb waiting to detonate.

___________________________________________________

Inside the office, Albert Wesker remains long after the team has gone home, the silence of the S.T.A.R.S. headquarters a rare luxury. The room is a fortress of order—metal filing cabinets, a polished desk, a single tumbler of bourbon catching the dim glow of a desk lamp. The blinds are half-drawn, slivers of moonlight cutting through the darkness, painting the walls in stark contrasts of silver and shadow. Wesker’s leather chair creaks faintly as he leans back, gloved hands steepled, his sharp features unreadable. He’s reviewing mission reports, or so he tells himself, but his focus wavers, a rare lapse in his iron discipline.

His eyes catch on the cassette, lying just inside the door where it was slipped under, a black rectangle with a single red slash in the corner. It’s out of place, an intrusion in his meticulously controlled world. He rises, movements fluid and predatory, and retrieves it, turning it over in his gloved hands. No label, no note—just the red mark, like a drop of blood. His lips curl into a faint, amused smirk. He knows who left it. Only one person would be this reckless, this desperate.

Wesker returns to his desk, settling into the chair with deliberate calm. He slides the cassette into an old player he keeps in a drawer, a relic from his days of cataloging interrogations. His gloved finger hovers over the play button, a moment of anticipation he savors. Then he presses it, and the machine whirs to life, a faint hiss crackling through the silence before Chris Redfield’s voice spills out, low and ruined, like a man confessing to a sin he can’t escape.

“You haven’t touched me in eighteen days.”

Wesker’s smirk sharpens, a predator scenting blood. Eighteen days. The precision is almost pathetic, a tally of longing etched into Chris’s voice. Wesker’s fingers tap a slow rhythm against the armrest, a metronome of control. He can picture Chris in that dingy apartment, curled on a worn couch, counting the hours like a prisoner marking time. The thought is… deliciously satisfying.

“I keep thinking about your mouth. About the way you bite when you lose control. You remember that? Or is that just me?”

Chris’s voice trembles, raw with need, and Wesker’s eyes narrow, a flicker of heat stirring beneath his icy composure. He remembers—vividly. The locker room, the heat of Chris’s skin under his teeth, the way he’d arched into the pain, gasping like it was a gift. Wesker shifts in his chair, the leather creaking softly, his gloved hand tightening on the armrest as he forces himself to remain still, to savor the power Chris is handing him on a platter.

“I jerked off in the showers today. I thought about you the whole time. Thought about you bending me over that steel sink again.”

Wesker’s breath catches, a subtle lapse he immediately regrets. The image is searing—Chris braced against the sink, head bowed, muscles taut, the cold metal biting into his hips as Wesker fucked him with ruthless precision. The memory is a spark, igniting something dangerous in Wesker’s chest. His hand drifts to his lap, resting there, not yet moving, but the temptation is a low hum under his skin, growing louder with every word.

“I didn’t finish. Couldn’t. Not without your hand on my throat.”

The admission cuts through Wesker’s composure like a blade. He leans forward, elbows on the desk, his gaze locked on the spinning cassette as if he could see Chris through it—flushed, trembling, unraveling in that grimy shower stall. The thought of Chris failing to find release without him is intoxicating, a testament to the control Wesker wields even in absence. His fingers brush the edge of his tie, loosening it with a slow, deliberate tug, a concession to the heat coiling in his gut, sharp and insistent.

“You left bruises on my hips. I want more.”

Wesker’s eyes darken, pupils dilating as he pictures those bruises—purpling marks against Chris’s tanned skin, a map of his dominance. The idea of adding more, of pressing harder, deeper, until Chris is marked inside and out, sends a pulse of arousal through him. His gloved hand presses against his thigh, the leather creaking faintly, testing his restraint. He can still feel the ghost of Chris’s hips under his palms, the way they’d bucked against him, desperate and yielding.

“Use me like you did after the briefing, remember? When I couldn’t walk straight for two days.”

The memory hits like a drug—post-mission adrenaline, the supply closet, Chris pinned against a shelf, Wesker’s hands ruthless, his control fraying just enough to let something feral slip through. Chris had been a mess, pliant and desperate, his gasps muffled against Wesker’s shoulder as he’d fucked him into oblivion. The next day, Chris had limped through training, every wince a silent reminder of Wesker’s claim. Wesker’s lips part slightly, his breath slower, heavier, as the tape continues.

“I can still feel you, you know. The way you fucked me so hard I forgot my own name. I want that again. I want you to make me beg for it, make me crawl for you, Wesker. I want you to fuck me until I’m screaming, until I’m nothing but yours.”

Chris’s voice drops lower, thick with arousal, and Wesker’s jaw clenches, a muscle ticking faintly. The audacity of it—Chris laying himself bare, offering himself up like this—stirs something dangerous in Wesker, a hunger he rarely allows himself to indulge. His hand moves, brushing the front of his slacks, a deliberate graze that sends a jolt through him. He doesn’t give in—not yet—but the heat is undeniable, a fire stoked by Chris’s reckless confessions.

“I keep imagining you there, in the office. Bending me over your desk, ripping my clothes off, fucking me raw until the whole building hears me. I want you to take me apart, Wesker, until I’m a mess you made, until I can’t even stand.”

A low hum escapes Wesker’s throat, unbidden, and he catches it, his lips pressing into a thin line. The image is vivid—Chris sprawled across this very desk, papers scattered, jeans shoved down, his body flushed and trembling under Wesker’s hands. The thought sends a shiver through him, and his fingers curl, nails digging into the leather of his glove as he fights the urge to give in to the heat pooling in his gut.

“I want you to fuck me until I can’t think, until I’m nothing but your slut, your toy, your fucking pet. Call me whatever you want, just don’t stop. I want you to use me until I’m shaking, until I’m begging you to let me come, until I’m sobbing your name.”

Wesker’s breath catches, sharper this time, and he despises the lapse. Chris’s words are a weapon, each one chipping away at his iron control. The raw need in his voice, the way it frays with desperation, is a heady thing, a reminder of the power Wesker holds. His hand presses harder against his slacks, the contact sending a spark through him, but he stops short, his discipline a thin thread holding him together.

“I keep dreaming about your hands. The way they feel when you’re rough, when you don’t hold back. I want you to choke me again, to make me gasp your name. I want you to fuck me so hard I can’t stand, so deep I feel you for weeks.”

The tape hisses, and then there’s a sound—a low, unmistakable moan, the rustle of fabric, the creak of a couch as Chris touches himself. Wesker’s eyes narrow, his pulse hammering as he listens to the soft, desperate sounds, the slick rhythm of Chris’s hand, the ragged edge of his breaths. It’s raw, unfiltered, and Wesker feels it like a current under his skin, electric and dangerous. His gloved hand moves, a slow drag across the front of his slacks, the pressure deliberate, testing the edge of his restraint.

“I want you to tie me up, Wesker. Use those cuffs from the armory. Make it hurt. Make me feel it for days. I want to see your marks every time I look in the mirror, to know you’ve ruined me.”

Wesker’s eyes glint, a predatory edge sharpening his gaze. The image of Chris bound, wrists red from struggling, his body marked and trembling, is almost too much. His hand tightens, a faint tremor betraying the effort to stay still. He can see it—Chris on his knees, head bowed, begging for more, his skin a canvas of Wesker’s control. The thought is a drug, and Wesker’s pulse quickens, his breath coming slower, heavier.

“I want you to fuck my mouth, Wesker. Hold my head and make me take it, make me choke on you. I want to taste you, to feel you lose control for once. I want you to come on my face, to mark me like that, to make me yours in every fucking way.”

The words are a shock, raw and filthy, and Wesker’s control frays further, his hand pressing harder against his slacks, the leather glove creaking as he grips himself through the fabric. The image is searing—Chris on his knees, lips swollen, eyes defiant even as he submits, his face marked with Wesker’s release. Wesker’s jaw clenches, his breath hitching as he fights the urge to give in fully, to let Chris’s voice unravel him completely.

“I want you to punish me, Wesker. Spank me, whip me, whatever you want. Make me earn it. Make me beg until my voice is gone. I want to be on my knees for you, to feel you break me, to know I’m yours even if you throw me away after.”

Chris’s voice is a wreck now, slurred with arousal, and Wesker’s control is a fraying thread. The image of Chris bent over, skin red and welted, begging for more, is a fantasy Wesker didn’t know he wanted until now. His hand moves, gripping himself harder, the pressure a deliberate concession to the heat Chris has stoked. He doesn’t come—won’t—but the thought of Chris broken and pleading is a drug he can’t ignore.

“I’m hard just thinking about it. About you fucking me with that voice—telling me I’m yours, even though you’ll pretend I don’t exist tomorrow.”

The accusation lands like a blade, and Wesker’s smirk returns, colder, sharper. Chris isn’t wrong—Wesker’s indifference is a weapon, honed to keep him off balance, to keep him hungry. But the resentment in Chris’s voice, the way it cracks with need and anger, stirs something in Wesker he doesn’t care to name. His fingers move, a slow, deliberate drag across the zipper of his slacks, the contact sending a jolt through him. He’s too disciplined to give in fully, but the temptation is a live wire, sparking with every word.

“I want you to fuck me in front of a mirror, Wesker. Make me watch myself fall apart, make me see how pathetic I am for you. I want you to spit in my mouth, to tell me I’m nothing without you. I want you to own every fucking inch of me.”

Chris’s voice is barely holding together, raw and desperate, and Wesker’s hand tightens, his breath hitching as the image burns into his mind—Chris on his back, staring at his own reflection, broken and owned, Wesker’s voice cutting through him like a knife. The thought is almost too much, and Wesker’s fingers press harder, a slow, deliberate rhythm, his discipline fraying at the edges.

“I want you to ruin me again, Wesker.”

The name is a prayer and a curse, and Wesker’s jaw clenches, his eyes dark with something feral. He can picture it—Chris broken beneath him, owned, marked, his defiance reduced to whimpers. The thought is intoxicating, a power he craves even as he fights to keep it leashed. His hand presses harder, a slow, deliberate rhythm, but he stops short, his discipline a thin shield against the fire in his veins.

“If you’re not going to answer me, at least do one thing.”

Wesker leans closer to the recorder, his breath slow and measured, but his eyes are locked on the cassette, as if Chris’s voice could pull him through the machine. The defiance in those final words, the challenge, is a spark to dry tinder.

“Play this while you touch yourself. I want you to come to my voice.”

The tape clicks off, the silence deafening, heavy with the weight of Chris’s surrender. Wesker sits back, his chest rising and falling with deliberate calm, but his eyes are dark, glittering with a hunger he rarely allows himself to feel. His hand lingers in his lap, fingers brushing the fabric, a slow, deliberate tease. He doesn’t give in—not fully—but the thought of Chris’s voice, broken and begging, is a temptation he’ll revisit, again and again.

He ejects the cassette, turning it over in his hand, the red mark glaring up at him like a dare. Chris is a liability, a weakness Wesker should crush before it festers. But the tape is a trophy, a testament to his power, and he’ll keep it. He’ll listen again, late at night in this very office, when the world is quiet and his control can slip, just a fraction. When he sees Chris next, he’ll let the silence speak, let Chris drown in his own need, knowing Wesker holds the leash.

Wesker stands, leaving the tape on the desk, the bourbon untouched. The office is silent again, but the air hums with the promise of what’s to come. The game is far from over—it’s only just begun.

💜Thank you for making it to the end.

Reblogs & comments keep me going 🌙

More unhinged fanfiction? I’m on AO3: @RedfieldLegacy

Jealousy || Accidental Voyeurism || Past Relationships || Power Dynamics || Smut || Top Piers Nivans || Dubious Consent

Piers wasn't looking for trouble just an old box in Chris’s attic.

What he found was a VHS tape from 1997… and a side of Chris he never expected.

Now that he’s seen it, he’s not asking he’s taking.

Some footage never should’ve survived.

And yet,it’s still playing.

Do you want to see what Piers saw?

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64511608

Smut || Mirror Sex || Top Albert Wesker ||Bottom Chris || Possessive Behavior || Manipulative Albert Wesker

“This place is insane, Wesker. What the hell are we doing here?”

Wesker’s head tilted slightly, his grey-blue gaze snapping to Chris with a flicker of reprimand.

“That’s Captain to you, Redfield. Or Sir, if you prefer. You’ll address me properly tonight.” His voice was smooth, edged with steel, and it sent a jolt through Chris’s spine.

Chris swallowed, his throat bobbing as he corrected himself. “Captain, then. This place—it’s too much. Costs more than I’ll ever see.”

“It’s a necessity,” Wesker replied, stepping closer, his bare feet silent against the rug. “A stage for what’s about to happen. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Chris’s lips parted to argue, but Wesker was already upon him, closing the distance with a predator’s grace. Those piercing eyes locked onto his, stripping away any pretense of resistance. Wesker’s hands moved with purpose, unbuckling Chris’s belt and tugging his pants down in one fluid motion. The fabric pooled at his ankles, followed by his briefs, leaving him exposed. Chris kicked off his boots hastily, stepping out of the last of his clothing until he stood as bare as Wesker, his skin prickling under the weight of that unrelenting gaze.

“I want you to see yourself,” Wesker murmured, his voice a low, dangerous purr. “Every inch of you, falling apart for me. Come here.” He gripped Chris’s arm, guiding him toward the mirror with a firmness that brooked no argument.

Chris’s breath hitched as they stopped in front of the glass, the reflection throwing their nudity into stark relief. Wesker pressed himself against Chris’s back, skin to skin, the heat of his body searing against the younger man’s muscled frame. His hands roamed—over Chris’s chest, down his abdomen—possessive and deliberate, while his lips grazed the side of Chris’s neck.

Only brought you the appetizer. The whole meal’s over here:

It’s strange what desire will make foolish people do.

Chris never planned to fall in love with him. He’d learned discipline in the Air Force—how to compartmentalize, how to keep his head clear. This was supposed to be physical, a way to burn off the tension of their missions. Simple. Safe. But then came the late-night drives, Wesker’s black sedan slicing through Raccoon City’s backroads, the hum of the engine a steady counterpoint to Chris’s racing thoughts. The radio played low—some jazz station Wesker favored—and Chris would steal glances at him, the dashboard lights carving shadows across his sharp features. They’d pull off somewhere quiet, the city a distant glow, and talk. Not about S.T.A.R.S. or the cases stacking up—just small things. Chris told him once about flying, about the rush of breaking the sound barrier, the way the sky felt infinite. Wesker listened, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on Chris’s thigh. “Flying suits you,” Wesker said, voice dry but warm.

“All that reckless freedom.”

“Says the guy who treats every mission like a chess game,” Chris shot back, grinning.

“You’d hate the cockpit—too many variables.”

Wesker’s lips twitched, almost a smile, and Chris felt it—a crack in the armor, a glimpse of something real. He hoarded those moments, convincing himself they meant more than they did. He didn’t know Wesker was already playing a different game, one with Umbrella’s shadow looming behind every move. To Chris, Wesker was just his captain—brilliant, flawed, human. Desire blinded him to the truth, made him a fool chasing a mirage.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64479166

“You’re sweet, Christopher,” Wesker said, quieter now, his breath warm against the side of Chris’s neck.

Chris’s eyes snapped open, his heart stumbling. Wesker was closer than he’d expected, close enough to feel the heat of him through the humid air. The words hit like a spark, igniting every hope Chris tried to keep buried. “You can’t say stuff like that,” he murmured, aiming for a laugh, but it came out raw, too real.

“Why not?” Wesker’s voice was soft, almost a challenge, like he knew exactly how it unraveled Chris.

Chris swallowed, his throat tight. He turned to face him, their shadows blending on the fire escape’s grated floor. “Because I might believe you,” he said, barely above a whisper.

He didn’t say the rest that he wanted to believe it, that he lay awake after their nights together, replaying Wesker’s touches, convincing himself they meant more than they did. Chris was in love, stupidly, hopelessly, with the way Wesker moved, the way he said his name, the way he seemed untouchable but still let Chris this close. He knew it wasn’t the same for Wesker just a fling, something easy, something to pass the time. But Chris couldn’t stop hoping. He was twenty-three, too young to know how to let go, too full of dreams to see that Wesker’s heart might never catch up to his. One day, he told himself. One day Wesker would feel it too.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64712512

On the night before the Spencer Mansion mission, Chris and Wesker share one last moment, unaware that love and betrayal are colliding under pressure.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64384897

After Wesker’s death, Chris is left with lingering memories and unanswered questions. The battle is over, but the past refuses to fade leaving Chris to mourn the one person he should have let go.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64383115

Chris is left reeling in the aftermath of Wesker’s death, their dreams deflating like a final breath. Haunted by memories of love and betrayal, he sits alone with his beloved ghost, whispering the question that will never be answered—how did it end?

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64382350