sleepycatofshimano

fandom ➳ Resident Evil 1 Remake (Video-game 2002)

warnings & tags ➳ Albert Wesker/Chris Redfield, Rape/Non-con Elements, Dubcon Kissing, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Masturbation, Frottage, Asphyxiation, Doomed Yaoi, Top Albert Wesker, Bottom Chris Redfield, Canon-Divergence (only a tad)

⠀⠀⠀➳ This work is rated 'R'; do not interact if you are under the

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ age of 18.

summary ➳ Wesker knows he’s short on time—now that his plan to eradicate S.T.A.R.S. is underway; and a certain, eager point-man falls right into his gait.

In which a specific scene in ‘Resident Evil 1’ plays out a touch differently... And by a touch, I mean an astronomical amount. ;)

The subtle sidle from deteriorating viscera to clove-scented cologne had beckoned Chris like a pot of porridge in the Goldilocks tale—the only narrative that could lull his younger sister to sleep. Something, or somebody, familiar was nearby. In a terse attempt to compartmentalise himself from such private (and cherished) affairs, he forced a crude inhale of breath as he leaned up against the dark-oak wall to his right. This freakish mansion, segregated far out from any semblance of civilisation, truly felt like the primitive embodiment of a lucid nightmare. Chris swore he and Claire had ventured through a similar home; only, under the guise of a haunted house, sometime around Hallowe’en, when the two still bathed together as young children. If only this manor had candy strewn about its divots and corners.

Paintings of ghostly visages and decrepit architecture warned him not to endorse the haze that seemed to be growing nearer, but at the faint sound of unhurried footsteps and a click of the tongue, Chris felt his fingers slip from the trigger of his pistol. Such an adagio rhythm could only be attributed to one man on S.T.A.R.S.

Three shots.

Biting hurriedly at the innards of his cheek, Chris instinctively returned to fingering the acute alcove of the trigger; only, he did not round the corner, nor order a sound-off. Listening for a moment, his lean and rugged stature stilted against the stagnant air of the building—an off-shoot of the Mansion—with his gun at half-mast, whilst he found his own breathing had stopped altogether. But there was none of that incessant and eerie groaning those monsters exuded; only the soft breathing of Man.

In a far more assured manner than he anticipated, Chris shifted his body around the corner; immediately, he felt no longer a need to flaunt his firearm.

Captain Wesker: in all his stringent glory. And that voice—his captain’s usual monotone and dour, now coaxed into vivacity: ‘Chris,’ and a piercing breath, ‘you’re alive.’

What a relief it was—that he was alive. He and his captain. Where Jill and Barry had vanished, the young soldier hadn’t a clue; but at the mere sight of Captain Wesker’s austere and unbothered stature, Chris found himself looking idly out the window; if only for a moment. The rain had not let up. With a chuff, he feigned a grin and replied: ‘You shocked, ‘Cap?’

Without so much as a single, blonde strand falling from its rightful place, the Captain of S.T.A.R.S. Alpha Team nodded low as a grin of his own crept on to his pristine features. ‘Aren’t I? You make me proud, boy.’

Not allowing another moment to pass, Chris took a vigorous step forward—all-the-while keeping his pistol bobbing around his groin; half-mast, still. ‘Where’s Jill? Barry? Are they safe, sir?’ All he could see in the reflection of his captain’s Stygian shades was his own eager face. Hope plagued him yet. If something had happened to his partner... The rest of Alpha Team... This band of militant misfits, what was it Chris would do without them? Raccoon City was no place for a bachelor; not one like him, anyway. So, as his index finger slipped—slowly—back against the concavity of the trigger, he awaited Captain Wesker’s next words.

The blonde officer only retained his grin. ‘We got separated.’ The ingratiating flutter of moths turned Chris’ attention away for a moment, which drew a faint sigh out from his captain.

‘I see,’; that was all the young S.T.A.R.S. member could manage. If there was one thing Chris did not excel at (barring literacy skills), it was his masking of emotions. The boy was clearly dejected.

Captain Wesker turned his back to his subordinate. ‘You must feel tired, Chris. Already, you have been here longer than anticipated.’ Before the younger man could enquire into his captain’s rather ambiguous diction, the older man only continued: ‘We really ought to catch our breath, don’t we?’

For the first time upon seeing his captain—originally relieved at the sight of a familiar comfort—his dark brows furrowed. ‘Catch our breath? What about Jill and Barry?’ The heat and claustrophobia of this off-shoot residence was beginning to irritate the younger S.T.A.R.S. member, and he found himself swatting at a fresh bead of sweat upon his nape.

Yet his captain’s back was turned still; all Chris could look at was the black of his combat vest. ‘What about them?’

‘They could be in danger! Or—or, worse... We shouldn’t even be here, sir. Those monsters are everywhere—we’re lucky to be alive!’

At this, the Captain pivoted to face his vivacious soldier. ‘Danger? Christopher, this is, precisely, what S.T.A.R.S. have trained for. Officer Valentine and Officer Burton can handle themselves—I assure you.’ Of course, Chris could not discern the genuinity of his response, as the Captain’s eyes were utterly obstructed. But that grin remained.

Again, Chris looked out the darkened window. His brows remained down-turned. ‘I don’t know, sir,’ he began, his intonation carrying with it a foreign weight. ‘I really think we should keep movin’.’ The rain was not letting up any time soon.

What sounded like a stifled chuckle permeated off of Captain Wesker. ‘And what about you, Chris? Should you even be here?’ A pause; though, his smirk did not falter. ‘As you so-eloquently placed it, of course.’

The younger man grimaced at this remark, which only forced his head back to face the blonde inquisitor. He felt his cheeks running flush. ‘I just want our comrades safe. I think I ought to keep movin’, Captain.’ But as Chris Redfield pushed himself from the cool embrace of the wooden wall, Albert Wesker holstered his gun.

It was the mere rate at which his captain seemed to be moving toward him that tipped Chris on to a rather precarious axis. Without so much as needing to glance around his subordinate’s shoulder—to scan for, well, zombified monstrosities—the Captain used his forearm to nudge the younger man backward into the nearest oaken door—Room 002. Exceedingly puzzled, and slightly disoriented, Chris pushed back at his captain, but the door had already been closed before him. Now inside the unfamiliar room, the young officer immediately listened for any signs of life; decaying and malicious life, that is. But where Chris looked utterly concerned, Captain Wesker only resumed grinning at his subordinate; and his forearm remained pressed against his breast.

‘Captain,’ Redfield sputtered, but nothing came of this. Desperate to retain his standing with his captain, no other attempts at questioning Alpha Team’s leader were employed. But Wesker did respond, in turn.

‘Verily, Chris, I did not know you were alive,’ he whispered, something foreign teetering on the edge of his intonation. ‘How proud I am, Redfield. It seems I have made a fine S.T.A.R.S. soldier yet.’

At his words, Chris’ mind began to flood with imagery of Jill—of Barry, of Joseph, of Brad... ‘Didn’t know I was alive, yet you say Jill and Barry are safe!’

Wesker’s voice remained calm—its usually collected cadence reigning over the tranquility of the moths. ‘I proclaimed no such thing. I merely said they can handle themselves.’

Chris’ hands were on his captain’s vest before his frenetic mind caught up with him. In a slovenly attempt to draw out the truth from his captain, the young officer slipped both thumbs beneath the svelte chest-guard, his eyes wild as he silently dared Captain Wesker to remove his shades and look him—him, Officer Redfield—in the eyes and tell him his comrades were safe. But when Wesker refused to so-much as grimace in turn, Chris released him. And stumbling back, he wiped his brow clean of residual sweat.

The Alpha Team leader remained unswaying from his subordinate’s pithy outburst.

‘Captain, sir,’ Chris began, allowing himself to back up against the left-adjacent wall to regain his composure, ‘I’m sorry. I’m real sorry.’ And there Redfield found himself, heaving and drumming his knuckles lightly against the wood of the wall as he cursed silently beneath his exertion of breath.

Wesker did not allow merely a moment of silence to pass between the two of them—seizing any and all opportunities with razor-sharp precision. ‘Oh, Chris,’ he started in a deeply condescending pulse, ‘you busy your mind with such frivolities. Haven’t S.T.A.R.S. taught you to do no such thing?’ A creak in the old floorboards alerted Chris like a neophytic pup. ‘Or does your loyalty begin to waver? At the sight of your captain, no less?’

The younger man’s eyes were on Wesker’s shades, now; half-lidded, properly puzzled and dazed at his misplaced exertion and the Alpha Leader’s words. ‘My loyalty?’

Captain Wesker was now mere inches from his point-man’s face. ‘Your loyalty, Chris.’

Redfield found no response.

Humming pleasantly—more to himself than Chris—Wesker tilted his head as though he knew his fellow officer harboured the words he sought after. ‘What would happen if I informed you that none others survived. What would you do then, Chris?’ And then, as though Redfield’s eyes reflected something akin to prey, Wesker swooped in with his hands and fingers, catching the young man’s chin with little room for retaliation. ‘Tell me, boy.’ And in the Captain’s shades, Chris, for the first time, saw something other than his own reflection: The sinister irradiance of aseptic crimson.

The click of the pistol’s trigger swapping off Safety was what caused Wesker to pull his own face back from Chris’; however, he did not flinch. It was the ghastly laughter that dripped from the Captain’s tongue that caused Chris’ stomach to churn in bereavement, and just when he thought he might retch all over his team’s leader, the gloved grip at his chin transferred quickly to his throat.

Neither man spoke a word to the other. Once Chris’ vain shuffling had halted, it was the dull buzz of the lightbulb outside the door that filled his ears—the occasional flutter of moth wings and patter of discord-drenched rain against pane. From outside the confines of Albert Wesker and Chris Redfield’s quarrel, the world felt at peace; if only for a moment. And maybe it was.

Siccing his teeth on to Wesker’s gloved index finger, Chris grunted as he attempted to force the older man off from him. The Captain flicked his hand away from his subordinate’s mouth, waving it thrice through the air as though he were tantalising Redfield for attempting escape.

‘And so the hound bites. However, nothing short of what I expected. Say, Chris, how about we speak like men? Ask me, again, if Jill and Barry are alive.’

With an even raspier grunt, Redfield quickly lowered himself as he dropped his head forward against his captain’s abdomen—a move befitting a quarterback. But this was not American football they were playing. Wesker only faltered backward two paces, before he quirked a thin brow and forced his soldier right back into his original position against the wall.

‘Not fond of my words, are we? Well, the least you could do is share yours.’

The Captain’s fingers were once more at Chris’ throat, only this time, a thumb had slipped past the young man’s lips; and how easy it was to penetrate Redfield’s oral orifice. Wesker chuffed a grunt of his own.

Baring his teeth, now, Chris threw his head back against the bleak wall as he hissed around the intrusion: ‘What do you intend to do to me, Wesker?’ And although the words were somewhat muffled, the older man grinned anyway; a smile that, for the briefest of moments, reminded Chris that he was here because he trusted Wesker.

In that moment, when the younger’s eyes softened slightly, Wesker slowly pulled his digit out from his point-man’s mouth. Those brief seconds were agonising for Chris—watching the foreign object slip off the wet surface. He felt strange. His knees had betrayed him as he momentarily lost his footing and attempted to, again, grab at his captain’s combat vest. This was, however, in vain, as Wesker side-stepped with such accuracy, Chris could have sworn the man had disappeared entirely.

Stumbling forward a few steps, the point-man extended outward his arms to brace for impact; but he was met only with the hardwood floor. Yet in that very instant, it was the cool touch of fingertips and coarse leather that settled obliquely against his nape. Then, something shifted, and Chris felt a rather unorthodox tug at the top-handle of his combat vest—as though he were being reared upward like some unruly shepherd.

‘Get up, Redfield.’

Heaving, again, Chris spat a globule of thick spittle at his own two feet, before narrowing his sights on his captain. ‘What did you do to them?’ Hacking up another swathe of saliva, the point-man allowed Wesker to pull him up off the ground by his top-handle; if only to preserve the remainder of his dignity. But he had been handled like an animal. He had, hadn’t he? It was perverse—sadistic, even. It made Chris’ blood curdle in blistering rage.

‘Must we truly busy our thoughts with the visages of others?’ The Captain released that finite grip on his seething subordinate, raising his head with a terrible grin. ‘When there are two perfectly adequate faces right here?’

Slowly, with great caution, Chris began to circle Wesker—shoulders raised, head lowered. ‘Stop playing games, Wesker. Who are you taking orders from? What is it you plan to do with me—with all of us? Tell me! Tell me right now!’

Wesker’s lip twitched upward ever-so-slightly. ‘If you value a scintilla of candour, Christopher—which, of course, I do—I plan to regain your trust. It is clear you have grown quickly hostile toward me, and I can-not say arrogance suits you well. At least place your anger where it will not bite back.’ He did not meet Chris in his predatory game of Cat and Mouse. Not yet, anyway.

‘Shut up! Just shut up, already!’ With these words, Redfield halted his skulking and stepped toward Wesker; but he did not pounce.

Like the warmest slice of butter—perhaps dripping down from a pan on to the drought mesa of one’s tongue—Wesker hushedly remarked: ‘You seem confused, Chris. Torn. Perhaps you have finally exerted yourself.’ A click of the tongue. ‘How disappointing.’

When his captain approached, Chris did not recoil.

‘Oh, look at you. Even my men fall victim to obsequity.’ Gently, Wesker flicked a stray strand of walnut-singed hair behind Chris’ reddening ear. ‘Not to worry, Chris. I do play fair.’ The Captain’s fingers found his chin once more, inspecting Redfield’s flushed features as he commandeered his head every which way. Wesker hissed low: ‘Will you abide?’

Chris grimaced as his captain brushed the back of his gloved hand against his whiskered cheek. ‘You’re confusin’ the hell outta me, Wesker.’ The urge to turn-tail and run had hampered hastily back. ‘Why did you bring me in here?’

His captain only chuckled at such an enquiry. ‘Bear witness, boy.’

Chris stiffened as Wesker pushed him—vigorously—back against the wall, careful to avoid any oblique paintings and oddly placed furniture. With only a singular, hanging lightbulb to guide his way, Alpha Team’s captain had forced Chris into his desired position with inhuman precision—cat-like, animalistic. But when the younger man’s head butted lightly against that growingly familiar wood, his teeth had grit and he decided to reach for Wesker’s own face.

The pale, and rather spectral, nature of the Captain’s face looked far too pristine this close—too smooth, too chiselled—and when the rough flesh of Chris’ fingertips swiped across this very visage, he wanted to scream. Not a speck of seta was to be felt, or found, on Wesker’s chin.

‘Captain,’ Chris spoke softly, not daring to move in any which direction, ‘are you gonna let me leave?’

But as Wesker reached for the hand at his face and enveloped his point-man’s own, Chris grunted and, finally, pulled back.

‘Enough of this shit!’ he exhaled, bracing himself once more against the wall. Again, Wesker did not allow Chris a moment of reprieve; he closed the distance, once and for all, snaking his hand around his subordinate’s nape to commandeer his gaze toward him—his captain.

‘Christopher, I told you to bear witness.’ His tongue flicked out to wet his thin and roseate lips. ‘Abide.’ And then that very mouth was on his, slick flesh against whiskered gruff, as the two S.T.A.R.S. members crashed slovenly against one another. Immediately, Chris began to palm at Wesker’s vest, unsure of where to place his hands. He believed he wanted his captain off of him. In a vain attempt to nudge him away, Redfield nipped at the older man’s lower lip.

This only drew out a tender groan from Alpha Team’s captain.

Far more aggravated than confused, now, Chris made quick work of lifting his knee to sic on to a rather private chamber, but Wesker was one step ahead. He always seemed to be one step ahead.

‘Ah-ah,’ the blonde whispered against the protesting mouth of Chris Redfield. ‘Naughty.’ Shifting with egregious ease, Wesker slid the hand that did not remain round his nape to grasp at the back of his subordinate’s thigh. ‘Though, I suppose this is a fitting segue. No matter.’ And then Chris felt it—the pang of something terrible. A gentle sting. A promise of certain demise.

Redfield knew his captain was privy to it: The protrusion. That ache in his loins. He really did try to shy away from Wesker’s groin—which lay unbothered against his own—but the Captain had a steadfast grip in two unrelenting areas. Three, counting something Chris would dare not mention. In this position, stilted forcibly against the wall, chest heaving, eyes wild, hair slick with sweat and foreign blood, Chris wanted nothing more than to melt into the old and stale wood.

But a curt groan was all that escaped the latter, for the taut nature of his combat shirt had been forced upward; far over the chiselled malpais of his abdomen. No longer was that unrelenting grip upon his calf, but his neck remained surmounted by Wesker’s hand. This whole exchange had caused Chris’ innards to roil and shriek, for he wanted to vomit and laugh—all at the same time. What the hell was this? What game was his captain playing at? Surely, it wouldn’t go further than this—surely, this was some sort of test. Of loyalty? Of patience? Of veneration?

‘Do you feel alive, Christopher?’

That single, hushed enquiry; it set Chris’ loins ablaze. ‘Stop... Stop that,’ Chris groaned, coming to quickly realise that there was no escape—at least, none that allowed the two of them safe passage. He believed he was about to retch; all along Wesker’s mouth, no less. ‘You,’ he continued, breathlessly, ‘you’re unfair.’ Another groan was torn from his coarse throat.

Wesker returned the sentiment, rolling his hips—once, only once—against his point-man’s own. ‘I’m merciful.’ And in unison, the two men grunted softly against the other’s pervasively parted lips.

Chris no longer protested when Wesker’s astute grin slid tenderly across his lightly stubbled cheek and beneath the ridge of his jawline. But when the former felt the damp of something sidling along the underside of his chin, a punch befitting a boulder rammed against Wesker’s chest. As Chris gasped for air of his own, he took notice of how stale this tiny alcove in the residence appeared to be. How long had it been, truly, since life last walked these halls? Life that did not amount to ripples of rotted flesh dripping off and splintering down the languid gait of corpses?

Wesker did not recoil at Chris’ attempt; he only extended the length of his tongue, swiping up and across the whiskered chin of his point-man. Did it not bother him—how ragged Chris’ skin felt in comparison? How did he taste, he wondered? What was it that caused his captain to continue drawing his tongue against his face, as he stood there, helplessly, whimpering softly into the night?

A particularly warm breath wafted against his cheek. ‘Are you not enjoying this, Chris?’

He wanted to rip Wesker’s teeth from his mouth, but he had seen what happened with  his last outburst. Was he truly to stand here, like an idiot, while his captain lapped his slick all over his face?

‘Use your words, boy.’

Chris reared his head away from Wesker’s incessant slough of saliva. ‘No. I don’t know. I’m—I’m not sure what this is, Wesker.’ With wide eyes, he looked back to him; but his shades remained stilted on his perfect and willowy nose. ‘Are you trying to get in my pants?’

It felt damp. Everything felt damp. The sweat on his neck. The splotches of spittle that dripped down his face. The swell of his loins. Perhaps if it weren’t so humid in the residence, Chris might have had his wits about him—wits enough to shoot Captain Wesker point-blank and escape these accursed grounds, once and for all. With Jill and Barry and Rebecca in tow.

Another huff of sultry breath—far too warm for Chris’ liking—caressed the point-man’s bobbing Adam’s apple. The Captain’s downy fingers slid up along both sides of his soldier’s forest-green vest, sullied, now, with flecks of blood; dried and new. Chris’ face remained propped uncomfortably to the side of Wesker’s depraved onslaught. But his captain spoke still.

‘Let me make this easier, Chris—for the both of us.’ Another exalted breath bayoneted the stagnant air between their flushed faces. ‘Turn around for me.’

‘And if I don’t—’

Wesker slipped one hand beneath Chris’ jowls, tipping his head upward against the wall—as though he were reprimanding a pup for chewing on something it was not supposed to. ‘If you don’t oblige, Redfield, I will have no other choice than to take you against your will.’

The younger man grit his teeth, but turned around, all-the-same. ‘Take me?’ he murmured against the stale wood, which pressed dully against the tip of his nose. ‘Take me how, Wesker?’ God, the room felt far more humid now. Chris wanted to bash his forehead against that very wall. He was confused. Angry. Starved. Anxious. Truly, what had become of S.T.A.R.S. Alpha Team? Were him and his captain the only two left?

But everything felt preordained. The fidgeting and rustling of—what he presumed—his captain’s lithe fingers working the leather length out from its belt-hoops chimed softly against his rear. Breathing far more discordantly, now, Chris stiffened between his captain and the barren wall.

‘Fuck, Wesker, what’re you doin’?’

Like an old-world vulture hooking its beak into a slew of marrow, the Captain’s face found its rightful place in the crook between his point-man’s ear and nape. Then, he whispered with a queer gentleness: ‘In truth, Christopher, I’ve wanted to do this for a long time.’ Those same, astute lips came to rest against the hidden, and deliciously fleshy, alcove behind his ear-lobe. ‘And I fear I’m running out of time.’

The proximity of his captain’s mouth at his neck, chanting such vulgarities down his spine, caused the swell in Chris’ loins to ache and prod with far more vigour than he would have liked. But when two fingers hooked deftly beneath the waistband of his trousers and he felt the slick of something blistering in heat—smooth, lubricious—his head jolted backward and he cried out for him, Captain Wesker, to stop. Fortunately for the point-man, his hasty act of defiance had earned a disgruntled groan from his superior, and that damp protrusion at the crack in his rear had disappeared entirely.

It felt as though Chris had just defied God Himself. With a jerk of terror, Chris immediately dropped a hand to his buttocks; and to his relief, he felt nothing else there. Muttering a half-assed apology, he, hesitantly, turned his head to face his captain, before Chris nearly wailed—again—at the sight.

The thin and roseate skin on Wesker’s lips had been doused in deep crimson. In an overt display, Chris’ head-butt had splintered open his captain’s bottom lip.

‘Fuck. I’m sorry, ‘Cap, I just—I just don’t... I didn’t mean to hurt you, sir.’

But when Captain Wesker only smiled—with both rows of red-gleaming, canine-sharp teeth—Chris Redfield knew he had bit off far more than he, or anyone, could have ever chewed.

In that very instant, Wesker brushed his subordinate’s hand away from his rear, to which he, without so much as a grunt, weaseled his middle-finger into the younger man’s anus. As Chris chuffed in clear discomfort, the older man only chuckled as he brought his mouth back to that same spot around his ear. The lowered rasp of Wesker’s voice bit delightfully at the over-sensitive lobe. ‘It is only natural,’ he began, employing the finger buried in his subordinate’s anal mound to pry apart the slick of his walls, ‘to lose control.’

Chris whined out in agony as he could do nothing else but stand slumped against his captain and the wall—all-while his anus was stretched and pulled pervasively to the will of Wesker’s intrusion. It burned worse than anything he had felt before. If Chris were to so-much as shift in his captain’s grasp, one module of his walls would be subjected to further torment. He could not move—could not breathe. When was the last time he had taken a breath?

Wesker stalled the lissom length inside of his subordinate, releasing a rather pithy sigh. ‘Control. Yes. Control.’ The older man’s chest now pressed gently against the younger’s back; and to the latter’s surprise, it was no-where near the suffocating gesture he assumed it to be. ‘But I assure you, Christopher, I will not lose mine.’

Another finger had breached his taut sphincter, and Chris had to will himself not to expel the bile that seemed to be rising in his oesophagus; however, this secondary intrusion failed to meet the length at which the first digit had travelled, and when the younger man finally shifted forward a tad—anything to pull away from the pain—Wesker had removed the finger entirely. But just when Chris thought his captain was exuding something of a mercy, he looked over his shoulder and watched as the older man, flushed and grinning, spat down at the palm that cupped the swell of Chris’ ass-cheek. In a cruel concoction of spittle and blood, Wesker made quick work of rubbing his index finger in the glint of bodily fluid, before delving once more between each bristled cheek.

It practically slipped in.

Chest against the wall, now, Chris groaned as he stood in the palm (literally) of Wesker’s hand, kneading at the empty and lame wall before him. It felt as though the svelte length of his captain’s fingers would penetrate far past his prostate, and he suddenly feared for his own survival. How far would he take it? Those fingers had not even assumed any sort of rhythm or motion; they only seemed to plunge further and further amidst his anus.

‘Fuck! It hurts, Wesker—it fuckin’ burns!’ Chris bit down on his lower lip, tasting his own residual blood and sweat and any lingering saliva that had been shorn from his captain’s mouth. He had been with a woman before—more than one woman. Chris knew what it felt like to bury his fingers inside of a cunt; in fact, he had managed a depth that led his knuckles to the swollen lips of multiple women, and they certainly seemed to enjoy it. What made this so different? If he closed his eyes—truly focused on something else, anything else—could he, too, derive pleasure from this? What-ever this was?

Wesker’s own knuckles suddenly jounced between the tight recess of his cheeks. A darkened chuckle tickled at the tiny wisps of hair against Chris’ nape; and gently, tenderly, the Captain’s thumb brushed against Chris’ perineum. He had managed to fit two-whole fingers inside his subordinate’s anus.

Chris resumed his laboured breathing—a volatile confidence seeping through the sweat on his skin, telling him that he was in a state of numbness. Nothing would hurt, so long as no movement presided between his legs. ‘Wesker,’ he muttered, wishing he could grip at something, or someone, or anything to quell the boiling pang, ‘it hurts.’

And there it was: the trove that determined all. When once the Captain’s forefinger curled upward, Chris was convinced he could see galaxies spanning light-years—far past this nightmarish mansion, far past his captain’s sadistic wrath, far past anything he had ever seen or felt before. Just as Chris’ knees were about to give way to gravity, a stern grip tugged at the top-handle of his combat vest. Not even his own pleasure could release him from the iniquitous grasp of Albert Wesker.

As the unrelenting hold on Chris’ back-side tightened, the Captain slowly withdrew his fingers—in one, steady breath—as he buried his nose in the younger man’s sweat-riddled tufts of anarchic hair. ‘You make me proud,’ he lauded softly into those very tufts. ‘So proud.’

Chris dared not look down and around at the slick he felt slinking along the fleshy mast of each cheek; perhaps his own mess, perhaps Wesker’s ichor and spittle. After the Captain had grazed that spot—that forbidden-fucking-spot—he felt lightheaded. Weak. Deprived of autonomy. Chris was careful not to allow his head to drop backward, but he did swat his hand against his captain’s arched thigh; and it was clear the older man had been forced to assume a rather assertive position to retain his subordinate’s bipedal stance against the wall. This thought caused that familiar dizziness to return to Chris—a feeling that seemed to penetrate the very marrow of his bones. He wondered how many people the Captain had constrained to this very position.

‘Captain,’ Redfield exhaled, ‘how the hell’d you do that?’ Dropping his flushed forehead against the wall, he attempted to catch his breath.

But that vice-like grip at his top-handle had not diminished.

The point-man was granted little reprieve, before that same, rounded kiss of slick prodded eagerly at the splinter in his rear. Immediately, he stiffened—immediately, he knew just how dire the situation had soured. His captain did not intend to halt this torrent of deviancy.

With rising anxiety, Chris began to grind his teeth as he sicced his oblique nails into his palms. He sputtered, with a rather singed oesophagus: ‘What do I,’ shaking his head in an attempt to rid the molestation of sweat, ‘what do I do, sir?’ Claustrophobia had crept up languidly around every ligament, and Redfield could feel his abused orifice shrinking inward—flexing in raw affliction with every intake of breath. And for a brief moment, the briefest of moments, Chris wished for one of those horrid monstrosities to burst through the door of this tiny off-shoot of a room and devour them both.

‘Chris.’ His name, spoken so innocently against his ear—it bothered him. But when he felt the damp streaming down his cheeks, he feared he might have lost all control entirely. ‘Oh, Chris.’ The point-man winced as that saturated and unbearably torrid intrusion snaked past the freshly sore mound at his rear. ‘You need only bite down.’ And perhaps it was the pungent miasma of ichor tantalising his nostrils, or the mizzle of iron and grit sidling along his lips, but in that moment, Chris had never felt more compelled to abide by an order.

Redfield’s teeth sank into Wesker’s forefinger without so much as a nudge.

A thunderous groan against the tingling shell of his ear. ‘How does it taste, Chris? The blood you’ve shorn from my flesh?’ What would happen if Chris did not relinquish his mastication? How much further could his canines reach, until his captain begged for him to stop? To let him go? To let who go—himself, or the Captain? At this point, deep beneath the other’s skin, did either truly wish to be let go?

Claggy globules of spittle began to trickle down the younger man’s chin as he detained Captain Wesker’s finger amidst his jowls; but neither man appeared to be letting up. Instead, the girth of interloper, too, breached foreign flesh—the two men penetrating the other in a myriad of callous pleasure and vinous pain.

They were silent; nearly still against one another. Only their ragged breathing and subdued groaning sounded as communication between the two of them. But neither even attempted to speak—to berate the other, to beg for something else, to wish to prostrate for some sort of secular forgiveness. They were perfectly content with the penetrating of the other’s flesh.

However, once the suede embrace of the Captain’s scrotum brushed against the point-man’s perineum, superior and subordinate exhaled a charred and precarious breath.

As Chris began to inch forward—against the chilling flatland of the wall—in a patent display of discomfort, Wesker’s aseptic hand swiped across his soldier’s lower waist to settle at his hip.

‘Keep biting, Redfield.’

Chris began to sputter unintelligible pleas against his captain’s forefinger—bracing himself against the wall as his anus was fucked with enough vigour to befit a voracious and fallen god.

‘Suck on it. Suck on my finger. Lap at the blood you’ve spilt. Inhale me, Christopher.’

The straining of his own manhood could no longer be ignored. In one-fell swoop, Chris fumbled his hand down toward his fly, which had been scraping egregiously against the hardwood. God, the sound of the Captain’s voice—a slurred whisper—sounding low and pinched and so sure in his ear had become too much for the younger man to morally tolerate. If Chris hadn’t known better, he would have claimed Wesker to be blighted by his point-man’s sex. And perhaps he was.

But Chris’ attempt, however, was in vain; for just as his fingertips managed to graze the slit in his sweat-riddled boxers, a hand that was not his own had grasped at the twitching protrusion beneath his leather belt—and it felt so unfathomably wrong: to be touched like this by another man. Yet as though Chris’ silent and racing thoughts had been culled from his mind unto the universe, the brutal length of Albert Wesker slipped out from his taut anus, only to have that same, irritatingly smooth scrotum prod against his bristled perineum.

Again, Chris winced and dropped his head down against the wall—pulling with him, Wesker’s forefinger. ‘Are you,’ he murmured around the lithe length, heaving and sore and utterly dishevelled at his captain’s attempts, ‘are you fuckin’ me, ‘Cap’n?’

A terse slap sounded, and Redfield cried out. Another one. The point-man’s rear burned, and he feared that raw semblance of discomfort would never quite leave him. And slowly, so slowly, Wesker leaned forward with his officer, practically folding his chest over the younger man’s back-side. Muttering a remark of his own, the Captain flicked his tongue out against the outer-shell of Chris’ ear, before sliding that slick and crude length down along each ridge. He finally settled on the orifice that led inward, to which he snaked the tip of this sopping appendage against the opening. ‘Might you humour me, Chris?’

Wesker’s fingers had, successfully, freed the younger man’s erection from the incision of his fly. The sheer girth that enveloped the Captain’s palm nearly toppled his cadence against Redfield’s rear, but he recovered without a hint of suspicion. Nary a limb could pick apart the stature and composure of Umbrella’s most reliable asset: not even Chris Redfield. No, not even Chris. Starting, immediately, with an allegretto tempo, Wesker’s bony fingers slid from the base of his point-man’s shaft, to the precipice and glistening placket at the head of his convulsing cock. A swift flick of the Captain’s thumb shifted over the tip, drawing a steady trickle of pre-ejaculate down his wily digits—and, oh, how he wanted to lap at those very digits like some exotic confectionery. Chris’ sweat and sex, alone, could have been tousled and tucked neatly into an aromatic candle; one that Wesker would place at his bedside and fall maddeningly in and out of slumber amidst.

‘Captain,’ the point-man moaned against the hardwood, slapping his open-palm against a dark stain in the wall, ‘it’s too much—I can’t keep like this, I gotta sit’own.’ His teeth had not once retracted from Wesker’s forefinger; and the spittle that had congealed against his whiskered chin had begun to rut against his captain’s hand.

The Captain pressed his nose to Chris’ coruscating locks. Flitting a thumb over the swathe of drool that enveloped his subordinate’s chin, he made sure to this time still inside his point-man, causing the latter to utter another crude moan and slap against the wall. A dark chuckle escaped his captain. ‘Shall we stop?’ Wesker’s enquiry looked naught for an answer.

‘No.’ That was all that slipped past the confines of Chris’ tongue. And then, he reached a hand between Wesker’s groin and his own rear. The resplendent length of the Captain remained still in Redfield’s anus, but it was utterly unmoving. When that same hand retreated back to the wall—in a similar spanking motion—Wesker took it upon himself to halt the masturbatory assault on his subordinate’s erection.

‘Tell me you want it, Chris.’

His fingers scratched at the wall, and the younger man felt those same, sultry tears streaming down his face—pooling at his own lips, where he tasted still the shorn ichor from his daring captain. ‘Why should I?’ he whispered, attempting to suck in the stolen tears and wet his oesophagus. He believed his fingers would soon bleed.

‘I have no more time for games, Christopher.’

Chris nearly fainted from his captain’s breathless remarks; he knew the man wanted more—needed more. So, as Redfield bucked his hips backward in an indolent motion, he exhaled: ‘I want you, Captain.’

‘To?’

Chris growled against the forefinger, which had begun prodding eerily at the meaty entrails amidst his mouth. ‘To keep goin’. Sir.’

Another dark chuckle sounded against Chris’ back-side. ‘To go where, my dearest?’

And at this, Chris Redfield practically spat his captain’s finger from his mouth. ‘To keep fuckin’ me, Wesker. Are you happy? Is that what you finally wanted to hear?’ Before Wesker could concoct a response of arrogant nature, the point-man took it upon himself to grab at his superior’s wrist and wrap it around his chest—undeterred and unbothered by the ichor and saliva that now tainted those same, downy fingers. ‘Please.’

‘Please, indeed.’

There was no chuckle this time. However, the next thrust that pervaded Chris’ rear had truly roused his every whimsy and subdued his every doubt, for he howled against that wooden wall and grasped at Wesker’s hand like some stray prairie wolf. Each stab of the Captain’s hips butted Chris’ knees against the wall, belt-buckles chiming in feverish melody—and the sheer volume of this little tryst could have alerted the entire residence, were someone else within its walls. And perhaps there was. But whether or not another member of Alpha Team or a lone survivor of the Mansion resided amidst these accursed walls, the S.T.A.R.S. coordinator and ruffled point-man showed no signs of slowing down.

For the first time—perhaps ever—Chris wanted to kiss him. The blood that surely dripped still down those pristine fangs, the pooling of spittle as he salivated against Chris’ ear, the depravity that slipped greedily off his twisting tongue—he needed those lips on his own. Now. Right. Fucking. Now.

With wariness, Redfield lolled his head to the side, meeting Wesker’s willowy nose as the latter continued to thrust his insatiable hunger against his subordinate’s rear. Maw-like grip at his waist. One leg hooked around the younger’s own, holding him in steadfast position. Chris snarled as he gazed down at his captain’s flushed visage; and, God, how pretty he truly was. Had it always been possible—probable—for a man to be so beautiful?

‘’Cap,’ he breathed down the length of Wesker’s pale nose. ‘C’mere.’

Without so much as reining in his maddening tempo, the Captain’s golden brows furrowed slightly beneath those darkened shades, and it became clear to Chris that he was grinning. Then, he purred at his subordinate: ‘Happy to oblige.’

At Wesker’s honey-slick response, Chris grazed his open-mouth against his captain’s own—the two men’s lips not daring to clamp down in a submissive show before the other. But Redfield’s composure was beginning to waver. So, gently, he flicked his tongue against Wesker’s scintillating lips, drawing back a hint of iron and intoxicating slick.

And then, another purr escaped the Captain’s hoarse throat. ‘Oh, Chris.’ At his name, the younger man returned the grin and grasped tighter at the hand against his breast. ‘Obedient, until the end. Open.’ And he did. Chris Redfield ceded and opened his mouth, wide, as though a dentist had promised him a lollipop at the end of the session—but just as his lips parted proper ways, his mouth was instantaneously filled with Wesker’s rollicking tongue. It swirled round, every which way, cloying and wily as ever, before it inevitably tangled with Chris’ own; and together, the two men slithered their respective appendages lackadaisically against the other. With the Captain’s cock brushing brutally against Chris’ prostate, his fingers twirling up and down his blood-bloated shaft, and his tongue burying itself amidst his oesophagus, Redfield could only stare up at the swinging and dimmed lightbulb above them with a slack and drool-plastered jaw.

It was too much; God, it was too much. And perhaps that was why Chris had degenerated into nothing more than spasmodic whimpers against Albert Wesker—one hand coaxing his erection unto nothing more than a limp sock of flesh, and his anus into a searing alcove of viscid reprieve. One more thrust and one more pump, and Chris Redfield was spent.

The point-man collapsed lazily against the wall as his captain penetrated his waist with those shrewd nails, fastening his hold on the younger man as he pounded ruthlessly against his cerise-tinted cheeks. One final, and rather guttural, growl sounded as Wesker clamped his teeth down amidst Redfield’s shoulder, and he sputtered against his hunched-over frame—meeting the folded stature of his subordinate with his own.

Much to Chris’ surprise, and relative dismay, the Captain removed himself from their languorous entanglement. The younger officer remained stilted against the wall as he listened to the clinking of a belt-buckle, the zip of a fly, and the gentle rustling of fabric. Then, the clearing of one’s airway, before Wesker placed a firm hand on Chris’ shoulder.

And like a true captain, voice revitalised and rather authoritative: ‘I’m to secure the remainder of the area.’

Redfield shifted awkwardly in his suddenly genial and formal grasp.

‘You may freshen up, Chris. Lest those monsters glean an idea of what happened to you.’

The point-man could feel the cruelty of tears prickling at his eyes. How could the man have shifted in demeanour so damn fast? ‘Mhmn.’

Wesker clicked his tongue, prodding his bloodied and bruised forefinger at the crease in Chris’ shoulder-blade. ‘What was that?’

The point-man swatted away his hand, grunting as he picked himself up from the wall. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Do not allow that boyish anger to trivialise this moment, Chris.’ Captain Wesker then, slowly, leaned back against the razed and swollen ear-lobe of his soldier. ‘The sex was great.’ And then he was away, out past the oaken door, gone to the night to ‘look’ for survivors and secure an exit route.