sleepycatofshimano

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

warnings & tags ➳ Albert Wesker/Chris Redfield, Pre-Resident Evil 1, Anal Sex, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Top Albert Wesker, Workplace Sex, Quiet Sex, Older Man/Younger Man, Frotting, Anal Play, Riding, Chris Redfield goes for a ride, Degradation, Power Imbalance, Dirty Talk, Filthy, Utterly Filthy, Power Play, Power Bottom Chris Redfield

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

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ age of 18.

summary ➳ Albert Wesker unearths a rather licentious photograph of eighteen-year-old S.T.A.R.S. member Rebecca Chambers. Determined to relieve some pent-up stress, the Alpha Team leader aims to bring himself a stroke of gratification whilst his little piggies are out on a mission; but when a headstrong Chris Redfield bursts through the door with distressing news regarding his partner, Wesker's plans are folded---or, are they? Perhaps piggies provide more than just meat...

...Perhaps they provide a particular thrill; an alimentary endeavour---a promise of chaste flesh.

Flesh that whimpers like a filthy mutt.

Thumbing upward along the ridge of the lightly saturated photograph, S.T.A.R.S. Captain Albert Wesker flitted his forefinger across the stilled abdomen of Bravo Team’s Rebecca Chambers. From her girlish grin to the papery bend in her stature, the eighteen-year-old medic assumed the virginal radiance of textbook piety; and like all men, the holder of the photograph fell victim to this reverent parable.

But he was silent—determined, undeterred by the familial relationship his little piggies, his irradiant S.T.A.R.S., had become the pinnacle of. Raccoon City regarded this close-knit team of elite soldiers as a band men only dreamt of warring alongside; a company that women could only stare after whilst passing along the local dive-bar. Nary a moan befell his lips. Palming irreverently at his groin, Wesker only sicced his two-front teeth onto his lower lip as that very hand flicked down the zipper of his fly—parting gently, perhaps the very vulva of Rebecca Chambers, the splinter in his dark-fitted boxers.

Nearly berating himself for allowing so much as a faint hiss to slither from his lips, the Captain quirked a brow from beneath his signature shades. His usually ignored manhood was well-past half-mast at this point. The blood that, surely, coursed throughout the stringent veins along his cock had, too, splintered off to his head—instilling a foreign drilling amidst his skull. In layman’s terms, Albert Wesker was tipsy off his own arousal.

And there it was: the thunderous patter of footsteps jogging down the second-floor hallway.

It was not unlike Chris Redfield to make his presence known—the insolent boy. The door to the office swung open, devoid of remorse, and Alpha Team’s point-man sauntered into his secondary home. The shutters to Wesker’s office were closed, yes, but the Captain recognised his point-man’s gait from any floor—any terrain, any time of day.

However, what-with the gleaming tip of his erection pouring so greedily into the pale palm of his hand, his blossoming breaths, and the vivacity of Rebecca’s photograph in his cleanlier hand, Wesker could not so much as stand from his desk to greet the eager rookie.

But he did not need to; for Chris Redfield pounded, thrice, at his austere captain’s door. When Wesker did not call out in response, as he usually did with his subordinates, the point-man’s muffled voice sounded strenuously against the door: ‘’Cap, Jill needs to see a doctor. Got somethin’ wrong with her stomach. Think I’ll stick ‘round the office a bit longer.’

His little piggies were supposed to have returned home for the work-day; but he had officers Chris Redfield and Jill Valentine investigate into a rather precarious case that had made itself known amidst Raccoon City. Irritatingly so. An eccentric string of kidnappings. Police Chief Irons had been moaning down Wesker’s nape to deal with the oddity—and quickly. So, the Captain had deployed none other than his point-man and B&E specialist. Ordered to conduct their investigation into the wee hours of the night, Wesker did not expect the two to arrive back to the R.P.D. so soon. Perhaps some congratulatory endeavours were in order; but not tonight. No, certainly not tonight.

‘’Cap? You in there?’ A tousling at the door-knob, and the Captain knew better than to toy with his luck this greedily—so neophytic, so intoxicatingly boyish.

Clearing the phlegm that had hastily developed in his oesophagus, he called out: ‘Redfield, you may enter. Do forgive my preoccupation.’

Refusing to wait a second longer, Chris practically barrelled through the door. Beneath Wesker’s darkened shades, he watched as his point-man swayed precariously in the door-frame. Neither man spoke for a moment, before Wesker finally cleared his throat—again—and tipped his willowy nose downward. Looking up at Redfield from beneath his shades, he knew such a stare would incite the younger man to ramble onward without the Captain needing to waste any more precious breath—on a man, who had so rudely disrupted the scintilla of respite Wesker was seldom granted.

Chris’ face darkened. ‘We caught the perp. Two males. One tried to run, and just as we captured the bastard, Jill’s stomach decided it was her time. Rushed back to R.P.D. in a pinch, and, well, here we are.’ Pursing his lips, the point-man, itched at the back of his head as his even darker eyes raked over his captain’s unreadable features. ‘Mission complete; only, one officer might need some further assistance.’

Wesker’s lip nearly twitched at Redfield’s attempt to lighten the overt tension that permeated throughout his office. ‘Yes,’ he murmured, eyes darting quickly to the clock that mounted the adjacent wall, ‘that won’t be a worry. Thank you for letting me know, Chris. You are free to retire for the night.’ However, in the palm of his right hand, the vigorous and snake-hipped length of Albert Wesker twitched tenderly in freshly shorn slick. ‘We will de-brief once Valentine recovers from her ailment. I presume you took ample notes.’

‘I sure did.’ With a boyish grin, Chris jutted his head to the side and, too, eyed the circular clock adjacent to his captain's oaken desk. ‘You sure you don’t need me, ‘Cap? I could keep her company.’ A pause—so neophytic; so inconsiderate, it forced Wesker to subdue a scowl. ‘Or, you.’ Redfield winked, before finding that his farcical composure had hastily crumbled, and he failed to suppress a chuckle.

But Wesker held on—tight. And so, too, did his hand. Curious, he groped his shaft and slid his lithe fingers upward, stopping only at the rim of the head. ‘Isn’t it past your bedtime, Redfield?’

At the Captain’s remark, Chris clicked his tongue and leaned languidly against the thin door-frame. ‘Guilty.’

His subordinate’s matched playfulness prickled dangerously at Wesker’s skin, and he found that those very fingers had flitted—greedily, now—over the glistening and congealed slit of his manhood. ‘Naughty, are we?’ he mused with a half-subdued grin. ‘Fortunately for you, I don’t have time to indulge in your games tonight, Christopher. It would be best to see yourself out.’

Where Wesker tamed any primitive sounds from spilling outward, Chris whined at his captain’s dismissal. ‘Yes, sir.’ But the faint furrow of his bushy brows told the Captain he harboured a true disdain toward his superior’s request.

Looking back down to the photograph that remained on his oaken desk—diligently covered by his computer monitor and inkwell, Wesker tempted fate and the very notion of morality, as he stroked his skeletal fingers down his swelling length. This caused a mizzle of pre-ejaculate to run down his shaft, pooling around his steady digits. When had the head of his erection become privy to such sensitivity? He would have to find a way to reward Jill for taking that photograph of Rebecca—though, no-one knew the S.T.A.R.S. Captain was in possession of the lustful, little thing. He could certainly get creative.

Filled with a far more heady sense of self, Wesker suddenly leaned forward in his leather chair as he studied his point-man’s continued look of dejection. ‘Have my words failed to reach your reddening ears, Christopher?’

Redfield made haste in averting his gaze. ‘No, sir.’ Though, his response did not tip him back into that insolent gait; no—instead, Chris started toward his captain, a slight caper in his step. He stopped before the grandiose desk, eyeing the few trinkets Wesker kept in his vocationary company: an inkwell, a slew of red pens, a stack of pristine paper, a singular coffee mug, and his computer. Verily, his desk was entirely devoid of personality—or, rather, individualism.

A touch befuddled, the Captain leaned further forward, so that his breast was now grazing the edge of the desk. Redfield was awfully close to comfort, here; and as the point-man, himself, brushed his fingers against the tip of the oak, Wesker’s thumb flitted over his own tip.

‘Redfield,’ he started slowly, ‘might it be you have further details to report? Or, is this bleeding into atypical territory?’

Chris’ cheeks reddened. ‘I’m not sure what you mean, sir, but I do want to ask you somethin’.’ Leaning forward, now, young Redfield gazed down at the neatly filed paperwork situated beside his captain’s even neater keyboard.

Wesker chuffed his approval. ‘Go on.’

‘What are you doin’, uh, Friday night?’

The thumb that once repressed the preamble of his arousal now fell away, allowing for the head of his cock to coat his shaft in his sticky dribble. Wesker was already beginning to regret the later-clean-up. But his grin returned to his features. ‘How interesting,’ he murmured. With this little piggy gazing down at him, almost longingly, lip ever-so-slightly sucked inward as he awaited a response from his dear captain, Wesker might have pounced on the boy right then and there. But he didn’t. No—this was, perhaps, one stroke of luck in an otherwise desolate and depraved reality for the head of S.T.A.R.S.

Chris reeled back, brows raising and lowering, as his lean shoulders inched upward to his ears—and like a terrified mutt, he dropped his head, yet kept his gaze on Wesker. ‘Interesting? So, does that mean you’ll–’

‘Come?’ The Alpha Team leader dared another stroke along his retained erection.

The point-man nodded—stiffly.

Wesker had to stifle a laugh; one that not even Redfield would ever come to understand its origins. ‘This is rather unexpected of you, Chris,’ the Captain continued, speaking a little louder, now. ‘Don’t you have anything better to do on a Friday night?’ Truthfully, Wesker could feel his erection straining further along his palm, and he was growing rather impatient. It did not seem as though Chris intended to leave any time soon.

‘To be honest, ‘Cap, I don’t. Figured it wouldn’t hurt to get to know the S.T.A.R.S. family a little better. Y’know?’

An honest laugh seeped past Wesker’s lips, now. ‘Oh, Chris. Always so eager. It is a quality few possess. I dare say I admire it.’ Another languid stroke, another flit over the head of his arousal, and the Captain of S.T.A.R.S. nearly hissed with his point-man stood just mere inches from the debauchery transpiring beneath the oaken desk.

‘You do?’ Chris asked softly. ‘I mean, like I said, the offer stands.’ Redfield’s own lip twitched—though, in contrasting approval to Wesker’s earlier response.

The Captain lifted his head back up, clearing his throat of any residual—or new—phlegm. ‘Yes. Now, leave my office—if you will. I have much to attend to.’ The darling photograph of Rebecca Chambers lay lonely in wait for Albert Wesker to once more gaze upon its girlish contents; however, his languorous efforts beneath the desk had not halted upon Chris Redfield’s brutish entrance. In fact, they only heightened in intensity.

Redfield grinned a terribly boyish grin; and perhaps in that moment, leaning forward  against his captain’s desk with that undeniably youthful smile, he was more vestal than Rebecca Chambers ever was. ‘Come on, ‘Cap. It’s late. Lemme help you out.’

The overwhelming urge to prod tenderly at his scrotum surfaced passionately against the tidal wave that was his point-man. The hour was well-past midnight; Raccoon City felt devoid of all life, especially around the R.P.D., wherein the usual bustling of frivolous, civilian murmur was diurnally heard. But Redfield would not let up—he did not so much as lean off his arm and stroll back toward the now-closed office door. And so, Wesker’s face remained stoic and rather esoteric as he considered his soldier’s words. ‘Help me out?’ he began with a leering lilt, ‘oh, Chris. You should hobble on home. Valentine will be quite all right; I will see to it personally.’ Would Redfield back down?

‘I insist, Captain. Let me help you take a load off. ‘S the least I can do.’

Wesker’s hand began to shake—if only slightly—at his man’s insistence. Two more strokes of agonising subtlety, and he, finally, leaned back in his black-leather chair. ‘Fine. Approach.’ So certain—so visceral, so utterly unperturbed; Chris had no other choice but to cede.

‘Yes, sir,’ he muttered, that grin beginning to slowly waver. ‘What is it you’re currently workin’ on?’ But as the young point-man stepped around the desk to join by his captain’s side, his spry visage twisted into a projection of sheer bereavement.

Before Chris would speak, Wesker seized the stilted air—commandeering the situation entirely to his will. ‘Now you may see what it is you’ve interrupted, Chris.’ The Captain’s voice was dulcet and slow, like a gossamer bristling gently after a tropical storm, as he employed his fingers to once more reach up his straining length.

Redfield audibly swallowed. ‘Yes, sir, yes—I do see. I, uh—is there somethin’ I can do?’ And the way Wesker’s point-man stiffened at the licentious sight of his captain’s hand working shakily at his groin—manhood still rather obstructed, yet overt in its presence—whilst his breast remained pressed languidly against the tip of the desk, well, it was strangely spurring on Alpha Team’s leader; goading him to continue, to finish what it was he had started.

Wesker’s wily grin returned to his roseate and pursed lips. ‘Isn’t there?’

But he was always so determined—his little piggy, his obsequious Redfield. Without so much as a pint of argument, Chris grabbed at the edge of the desk and lowered himself to his knees. Following his every movement, Wesker shifted slightly in his chair—bringing with this slight adjustment his hand and its continued juddering—as his stare suddenly refused to leave the boy. Albert’s pace had quickened; if only a touch.

Redfield’s dark gaze refracted off his captain’s abyssal shades, but his determination did not waver. One hand remained on the desk as he inched forward, lips thin and slightly strained, as he palmed nervously at his thigh.

Wesker did not intend for his next breath to rasp from his throat in such a hitched cadence, but his words followed before he managed to remedy the former. ‘If the sight unnerves you, Chris, I believe you’d best run along home. I still have Valentine to deal with.’

And, suddenly, the point-man’s face withered into what Albert deemed was primitive distaste. ‘I don’t want to leave, ‘Cap. Let me worry about Jill. She’s my partner, after all—and I’m here, right now, helping you.’

The Captain clicked his tongue, stilling at the base of his girth. ‘Jealousy? I never deemed you the type, Redfield.’ Another rather piercing sigh; they were becoming less intermittent by the stroke. ‘No matter. But I do not,’ he motioned listlessly to his flayed fly, wherein his manhood twitched spasmodically amidst his palm, ‘indulge, for show.’ And as Chris watched the Captain’s face sour, he dropped the hand that had been clutching the desk for dear life—or was it merely aid?

‘I ain’t jealous,’ he muttered, falling back on his heels as his determined gaze only bolstered every time Wesker stroked himself. ‘I wanna help. I wanna make you,’ Redfield continued, voice low and steady as his whiskered hand flitted over his own groin, ‘feel good, sir.’ And at his point-man’s clearly nervous expression—the slight upturn of his slick lips, the quiver in his lightly stubbled chin, the red pigmentation on each ear-shell—Wesker took notice of the way his cock strained and expelled another globule of pre-ejaculate. His young soldier’s sheer determination—it was ravishing; a tool to whet his insatiable appetite. Chris Redfield was delicious, and here he was, kneeling so damn obediently on the floor of Albert’s office. Only a fool would nary indulge.

‘All right, Redfield,’ Wesker exhaled, his upper lip reeling back to expose his bare and glistening canines, ‘perform for me. Perform a trick, like the righteous and servile mutt that you are.’

Chris was overtly taken aback by the way his captain was suddenly addressing him—for the young man’s dark brows furrowed and he picked nervously at a loose chip in the dark tiles. But he did not question his superior’s command; in fact, he welcomed it, as he scooted forward and off his heels, knees propping him up to the height of Wesker’s groin. ‘Sir,’ Chris murmured, before planting his rather large hand against the blonde’s knee. Flitting his thumb over the smooth and rounded surface, Redfield then inched his touch further up along Wesker’s thigh, seemingly memorising the foreign feeling of his captain’s dress pants—something the point-man never dreamt of touching. Not in this lifetime, anyway.

Was the boy experimenting? Testing the waters? It was cute, as much as it was crude; and Albert had to train his hand from applying too much pressure to the base of his erection. Not too fast; not yet. The closest the two men had been, prior to this rather abrupt fraternisation, consisted of tactical training; and even then, when once the Alpha Team leader held his point-man locked in place between his thighs, it was only dubious curiosity that had snaked up Wesker’s spine.

Regarding Chris’ own feelings, however, the Captain was not so sure.

Leaning his girth no more than an inch to the opposite side of his subordinate’s hand, Wesker was careful so as not to excrete any of his own damp on the boy—especially if he were to sidle along after Jill. But Chris took terse notice of his captain’s shift, and seemingly without thinking, placed his other hand on the adjoining thigh. ‘Captain, I want’a see you.’ Another piercing breath hitched in Wesker’s throat and, before long, rivulets of pre-ejaculate were trickling down his venous shaft.

This whole ordeal had coiled into something far messier than the Captain originally anticipated—but there was no denying just how sickeningly sweet the incalculability of foreign touch felt against his sex.

Abiding by Chris’ request—perhaps the only time the S.T.A.R.S. Captain would—Wesker softened his grip, allowing his manhood to bend back into its original position: stiff, stilted, and stoic before the point-man. And Chris was only able to sigh a sultry breath against his captain’s inner-thigh as he gawked at the sight.

And one word, only one word, slipped past the Captain’s lightly parted lips: ‘Better?’

Redfield chuckled—low—against the svelte fabric. ‘Yes, sir.’

With playful reluctance, Albert drew back his downy fingers as Chris’ own nudged against the base of his cock. Slick and shorn pre-ejaculate coated the twitching appendage, and the young man pressed his thumb gently along the pale of his phallus. Thin tufts of light-blonde bristled against the base, of which Chris’ pinkie and ring finger twirled amidst. In the point-man’s grasp, the Captain’s erection convulsed far more vivaciously than it had in his own; and then a searing sting of something delightful bayoneted his loins, steadily beginning to reduce the Alpha Team leader to nothing more than a primate. At the crux of it all, Albert Wesker, too, was human—and Homo sapiens all harboured distastes and desires.

Redfield’s lips had parted further in awe as he took his captain into his hand—making sure not to apply too much pressure, for he wanted to allow the man’s erection to spasm and grow without constraint; at least, for the time being. Chris was all-too-eager to witness just how terribly his captain desired his touch, and it almost bothered Wesker to see his subordinate near-drunk off this perverted power trip. To subdue his buzzing irritation, he coaxed his canines against the roseate protuberance of his bottom lip.

Chris’ innocent grasp at his cock was merely too delectable. After another moment of youthful curiosity, the Captain hissed at his point-man. ‘Well? Aren’t you going to perform a trick for me? I haven’t got all day, boy.’ Truthfully, his erection was beginning to swell far greater than he had ever bore witness, and it was seducing his senses to a frightening degree—one that none other should see. Not even his partner: Birkin. No-one. Yet here Redfield was, gawking at the lively girth of his Captain’s—Umbrella’s greatest asset’s—manhood. How pathetic; how terribly wonderful.

In the midst of all this silent excitement, a tiny sinew of pre-ejaculate slowly began to trail down along the inner-ridge of Wesker’s thigh—a rogue string of excitement, excreted from his full-mast gratification—and the young point-man wasted no time in siccing his lips down onto the gleaming convoy. And in slight bereavement, the blonde watched as his soldier’s tongue unravelled against the darkened fabric, lapping up the globule trail in one fell swoop. Right before the sopping muscle was trained inside his jowls, Chris’ eyes darted up to his captain’s stringent shades. The former grinned like a wily mutt, drawing his tongue down across his chin—once—to rid his flesh of any rogue spittle or pre-ejaculate.

‘Oh, Chris,’ Wesker cooed, running idly a hand through his point-man’s normally unkempt locks, ‘what a show you’ve put on.’ And then, a whisper—something dangerously low as the Captain tugged at a rather large tuft. ‘You filthy mutt.’

Chris groaned against Wesker’s thigh, refusing to retreat from the exotic embrace of his captain’s pants. ‘I ain’t filthy. I’m just doin’ what anyone else would do.’

‘Chris.’ Another perilous tug, and the boy was damn-near whimpering. ‘Do you truly believe any one of our S.T.A.R.S. would regress to their knees before me? I am no god, Chris. Verily, you must be mad, boy; because here you are, lapping at my slick like some rabid hound. Oh, no, dear heart, you are filthy.’

What Wesker did not expect in response, however, was Redfield gliding both hands over the concavity between his groin and burying his juvenile visage against the twitch of his cock. His lips were unbearably warm, and as the Alpha Team leader felt what he presumed to be a tongue slither languidly along the base of his shaft, he found himself willing his climax back down into submission. Oh, how long it had been—and to have his subordinate worshipping his manhood in such a chaste manner... Wesker knew, precisely, what this would do to him. Rebecca’s photograph had been proof enough.

A terse grunt flitted over the Captain’s tongue; a noise that was not lost on Redfield.

Immediately, the point-man enclosed his lips around the whiskered girth at his base, puckering his lips so diligently as he elicited a groan of his own. Wesker could smell his musk permeate from below—his sweat perforating the otherwise stale air of his office. In tandem, the two men chuffed their mutual reluctance—only, both somatic senses seemed to contradict each larynx; bitterly so. Wesker watched with sickening curiosity as Chris, with his eyes squeezed shut, began to drag his bottom lip up along every vein complementing his shaft—following every convulsion, retraction, and what felt to be his very heartbeat. Perhaps it was. When once Redfield reached the precipice of his manhood, the Captain had, by then, permanently bruised his office chair; for his nails had breached the leather arm-rests proper.

A hushed demand—a plea? ‘Take it, Chris.’

The softest, sultriest, most intoxicating waft of breath prickled over the head of his glistening phallus. ‘Yes, sir,’ and then Redfield enveloped the roseate tip with his lips—how gentle and slick they felt! Had his point-man so much as kissed another human being? His mouth felt yet to be tainted; yet to be touched.

Stifling another sound, Wesker leaned back in his chair as he stared up at the dreary, popcorn ceiling of his office. He knew his subordinate could not see where his gaze held—if his gaze existed at all—and he revelled in the sheer lunacy of those pretty, boyish lips coaxing the tip into his jowls. His filthy-fucking-jowls. As though the sticky spire of his arousal had begun to meld with the flat of Redfield’s tongue, Wesker began to—silently—curse himself for being so unbelievably sensitive. Yes, seldom did he ever wreak pleasure on his flesh, but never did he seem to watch that control falter; no, not once had it attempted to elude his grasp, and here was Chris Redfield, cajoling away that control with such ease.

‘Chris.’ The Captain’s breath hitched; the moniker rasped so tenderly in his throat. ‘Use your tongue.’ Albert sincerely hoped he would not regret bestowing such a depraved command unto his subordinate.

But he obeyed—oh, did he obey. Without another one of those defiant and juvenile grunts, the point-man drew out that wily appendage and dragged it around the pulsating rim of his captain’s cock. Wesker wanted to peel his piggy from between his thighs, but with every swirl and lap of his tongue, Alpha Team’s leader found his lithe digits running through more and more tufts of sandy-brown hair.

As Chris steadily became more comfortable, his positioning began to subtly shift to better accommodate his own weight—however, as his left foot inched further from his knee, it clashed terribly against the leg of his captain’s desk. A well of pens—royal blue, white, and gold—tipped over onto the oaken surface, and Wesker merely grunted as his personal space had suddenly been sullied.

But his point-man did not dislodge the head of his manhood from between those virginal lips; no, he slovenly murmured an apology as he began to snake his tongue down the stiffened shaft.

Immediately, Wesker forced a hand to veil his features—three fingers splayed past the ridge of his eyebrows, whilst his thumb and pinkie found the curvature of his piercing jaw-line. Not even a nun baked fresh from within an abbey could have assumed such pious vindication!

Seeing as his captain had removed a hand from his body, Chris garnered a fickle scintilla of confidence as he deftly ran his hand—once—down the delectable shaft before him, his tongue following in rapt tow.

Clever.

Wesker mused in his mind as he shifted forward, providing his point-man with much to work with—and at. And here, a rather steadfast pace had been assumed; Redfield working his one hand in tandem with his tongue, whilst Wesker, warily, rolled his svelte hips down against his subordinate’s face. Here, he could feel the exceedingly light stubble that plagued Chris’ flesh, and he wanted to order his man to shear off the facial hair—to hook his fingers sweetly beneath Chris’ prickled skin and remove it himself—but he knew better. Albert Wesker: The pinnacle of pragmatism.

And here that pinnacle was, rolling and grinding his hips against Alpha Team’s point-man.

Chris had found his cadence rather quickly. With slight aid from his captain, his head was oscillating beautifully against Wesker’s groin—and the latter was so perilously proud to learn that Redfield knew how to take cock like a proper bitch. Verily, the Captain wished to pry his subordinate’s eager face from his manhood to then replace with those whorish lips his own; but he knew how to pace himself. He knew better than to act like a roguish teenager. A bygone era for Wesker, perhaps, but for Redfield? Could he say the same for his point-man—a twenty-five-year-old?

As Albert was pondering this curiosity, that very man eased off the glistening erection before him, leaning backward a touch as he lazily dragged his cheek against the far more slick tip. ‘Captain,’ he whispered like a damn virgin, ‘I think I wanna kiss you.’ Redfield’s golden-brown stare had intensified since last Wesker met those eyes, and he, again, had to resist that urge to pull him up himself. Control; oh, how good it felt.

So, with a maddening grin, the Captain flitted his fingers beneath his hair-less chin as he tipped his nose downward at the young man. ‘Allow yourself to indulge, Christopher.’ Ambiguity was one of many arrows in Wesker’s quiver, and he would utilise such a tool until the day he shed his mortal flesh.

Chris seemed satisfied at these words—practically stumbling to his feet before collecting himself and forcing his stature to assume a more professional taste. How wonderfully servile. And then, taking a step forward, the point-man slid a knee against the Captain’s groin while his other pressed along the outside of Wesker’s spread leg. Planting both hands on the slightly scarred leather arm-rests, Chris leaned forward into his captain’s personal space.

Instinctively, Wesker retracted further back along the head of his chair, but his hands remained stilted on his thighs.

‘Sir,’ Redfield breathed with great rasp, ‘I promise I don’t bite.’ He chuckled—with both rows of gleaming-white teeth, such a dainty grin, that—before averting his gaze down to Wesker’s lips.

The older man chuffed with a widening grin. ‘Perhaps I do.’ But he did not move forward; he wanted his point-man to eradicate the distance that existed still between them.

A look of mild concern washed over Chris’ flushed features, but his face remained just as close. When Wesker did not proceed forward, the younger man huffed as he tilted his head and—albeit, roughly—pressed his lips against his superior’s. Yes, rather inexperienced; Albert could deduce that much—but the way Redfield practically inhaled his cock... It was very interesting, indeed. Did the boy know anything of romance? Perhaps not. But that did not matter, for here and now, all the Captain wished for were those same, pious hands to bring him to climax.

But it seemed the point-man had other plans.

Chris, almost immediately, flicked his tongue against Wesker’s rather un-sullied lips, and he could taste every part of himself in that languid motion. It did not bother the Captain, however, and he reciprocated as he forced his own tongue forward—pushing Redfield’s appendage back as Wesker seized the power trip that was beginning to arise from his filthy subordinate.

The older man warned him as he brushed his nose along Chris’ cheek. ‘Easy, boy. I will not tolerate hastiness. You may indulge, but that indulgence shall adhere to a particular standard.’

Chris’ dark brows furrowed as his lips suddenly parted, yet he pressed his cheek further against his captain’s perfect and willowy nose. ‘A particular standard? Who’s the one with his cock hangin’ stiff between his legs? Let me kiss you, god-damnit.’ And it was almost instantaneous as the younger man slipped his lips back across Wesker’s own cheek and over the hump of his lower lip.

Rolling his eyes, the Captain—silently—obliged. Thankfully his man could not see his perturbed look beneath the shades; yet, it may very well have induced further excitement for the two of them. Well—perhaps there would be a next time? Wesker did not want to mull over such a thought; not right now, anyway; not with Redfield’s tongue against the roof of his mouth and his hot breath down his chin.

And then words—such filthy words were uttered against Albert’s lips. ‘God—I fuckin’ wanted this, ‘Cap. I wanted this for so fuckin’ long.’

A guttural gruff of what sounded akin to a growl arose from the older man’s throat. ‘Watch that tongue of yours, boy,’ he muttered in similar cadence and lilt, once more reaching his hand down to the perilously neglected erection between his legs. ‘I ought to flog you for such disobedience.’ Quickly, now, Wesker began to stroke himself to the sweltering sensation against his mouth.

‘Ah, not so fast, sir,’ Chris purred, bringing a stern grip to Wesker’s pleasantly occupied hand.

Clumsily, Wesker felt—and heard—as Redfield moved to his own belt and began to fidget with its zinc-scented contents. Truthfully, the young point-man was exuding a lot more noise than the Captain had intended for, but at the rate things seemed to be progressing—and the raging hard-on the two, seemingly, shared—it felt like folly to halt his soldier’s efforts. So, he did not. Instead, Wesker rolled his head back against the leather embrace of his seat, watching beneath the rim of his dark spectacles as Chris freed his arousal from his respective fly.

A grin slithered across Wesker’s cheeks. ‘How very chaste of you, Redfield.’

The point-man blinked—once. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ His own fingers began to work steadily at his erection.

The Alpha Team leader only retained his grin. ‘Never-mind that. But, do keep your rustling and raging to a minimum, yes? I fear we are not the only staff in the building.’

Chris tutted with a complementary smile. ‘Not at all, sir. But ain’t that what makes this so good?'

Wesker repeated his subordinate’s words with a light chuckle of his own. ‘So good?’

And the young man’s cheeks reddened to a pious degree. ‘So good.’

Redfield’s arousal was then hanging stiffly above his captain’s juxtaposed erection—the former harbouring a girth Wesker had admittedly never been privy to, and the latter in retention to the likened svelteness of stature. And carefully, as the two men looked down to the other’s absolved genitalia, Chris made the first move and—with two fingers—eased the head of his cock down onto Wesker’s own.

The Captain of S.T.A.R.S. hissed whilst his point-man stifled a frayed grunt, yet he did not cede to the sweltering myriad of nerves entwining in places once deemed sin. The back of Wesker’s head touched back down against the leather rest, and he was once more staring up at the dreary ceiling of his office. He had to muster resolve from the annals of a usually monarchical chamber to so much as silence the pleasure Redfield had wreaked upon him.

And that was when that very point-man decided to—gently—drop the scintillating head of his cock against his captain’s own. And again. And again. Another smooth, warm kiss of that fleshy precipice, and the two soldiers had already assumed a sort of perilous rhythm.

A hoarse exhale, and Albert Wesker felt his fingers twitch against the splintering arm-rest. ‘Easy, Redfield.’ But by the heightening groans and ragged breathing, his subordinate nurtured nary plans to halt this onslaught of coition. The wet and maddening glide of erection unto erection, coating each other’s arousal in thick slick—both men found the other’s chest as they began to gasp and stifle any sounds of further vulnerability. But Redfield did not seem to hold fast to that ideology for long.

Looking down, still, the point-man grazed his fingers dangerously close to Wesker’s own as he ruffled around the navy dress shirt. ‘Let me ride you, ‘Cap.’ It was almost breathless—such an enquiry.

The words rivuleted straight to Albert’s loins. But the blonde captain did not provide any semblance of an answer; he only continued to palm restlessly at Chris’ own shirt—forest green and dishevelled past the point of S.T.A.R.S. standard.

‘You there, ‘Cap?’

A particular trajectory had been assumed, and the head of Redfield’s cock sidled down one side of Wesker’s throbbing shaft, meeting with the tips of gilded pubic follicles.

Neither man could discern whose slick was whose.

The Captain merely sneered, wrapping his tricky digits around Chris’ wrist as he guided him carefully from the growing stimulation of his nipple. ‘I heard you loud and clear, boy.’

Chris moved closer, now—his manhood completely encapsulating Wesker’s own; like a fleshy valence. This little act of superiority from the younger man had caused his own scrotum to jab tenderly at the remaining protrusion in his captain’s pants, and he groaned a beautiful sound at the contact. ‘So’s’that mean you’ll let me?’ My, his breath was hot.

Staring forward at Redfield, Wesker retained his sneer. ‘Aren’t you eager?’

Chris was visibly annoyed. With hastily waning patience, the point-man propped himself further up from the floor, so that he could straddle one leg around his captain’s unmoving thigh. With boyish ease, the younger man managed to shift his denim jeans further down his hips—revealing a darkened pubic mound, that of which complemented the convulsing girth of his thick shaft with virile confidence. When Wesker did not so much as flinch, Chris removed the hand from his cock to grasp at the older man’s shoulder, allowing himself to swing around his other leg.

‘You’ve sullied my shirt, Redfield. How will I approach Valentine, now?’ A tiny smile had taken the place of the sneer.

The young man returned the sickening expression. ‘You won’t. That’s my job, sir.’ And then he brought a hand down to Wesker’s own erection, but he did not remove the host’s fingers. No, Chris decided to wrap his larger ones around the svelte grasp of his captain, commandeering the slick and eager manhood forward—forward, until the twitching tip brushed against the splinter of Chris’ cheeks.

Smiling far softer, now, Redfield asked him: ‘Can I?’ And there it was again: that undeniable look of piety; of innocence, of inexperience.

Albert finally allowed a proper sound of gratification to flee from his jowls. ‘You may.’ And the sheer intensity of his head slamming back against the chair could have been heard throughout all of the R.P.D. His point-man—his Chris Redfield—had so clearly never taken a cock inside his anus before. It was too tight; every stretch and swathe of skin felt too pristine, too smooth, undeterred by past and foreign intrusion. Although only about an inch of Wesker had breached the rectum, the Captain could have easily worked with just that—an inch of anus.

But Chris wanted more.

The distressed groan of virginal youth clattered around the young man’s throat like a rabid castanet, before he forced his buttocks further down Wesker’s twitching shaft—consuming another two inches of his captain. The older man now watched his soldier with fiery focus as the former utterly impaled himself on the cock of his superior, and whether out of geniality or something else entirely, Albert brought a steadfast hand to Chris’ pale waist.

‘Chris.’ The name on his lips was tender—aerated, adagio. ‘Allow yourself a moment to breathe. You’ll wound yourself with that sort of determination. It will bleed into folly, boy.’

His determined, little mutt stilled against his captain’s erection, thinning out his grin as he considered those words. And then, in the annals of his arousal, Wesker allowed his point-man to run his dirty, little hands along his captain’s face—exploring stretches of flesh none other had yet explored: the concavity of his collarbone, the sultry divot between the pointed shell of his ear, the beginnings of his crow’s feet. Verily, he allowed his officer, his eerily young officer, to commandeer his usually pristine and untouched visage every which way. And then, Redfield chuffed something primitive—something akin to a bitch whimpering in heat.

‘I’m determined to make you feel good, ‘Cap. Let me. Let me do this for you.’

Wesker tightened his hold on his man’s waist. ‘And you, Chris? What about your gratification?’

The point-man exhaled a huff of poorly placed amusement. ‘If you mean my own pleasure, then I’m more than happy here.’ Flitting his thumb over Wesker’s lower lip, he spoke low: ‘Can’t you tell?’

The Captain of this whole mess hummed in acknowledgement at the boy’s words, slowly, then, beginning to run the hand that once held Redfield in place down along his thigh; albeit, it was a touch hirsute for Wesker’s liking, he continued downward, then back up, soothing his obsequious mutt before he once more impaled himself on coarsened cock.

As Chris took another two inches of his captain, he found it impossible to contain his discomfort; but this road-block did not stop the boy, as he eased his buttocks further and further down against Albert’s thighs, until he felt the suede base of manhood brush against his sore cheeks.

And his loyal subordinate asked so sweetly: ‘Captain, may I?’

It was impossible for Wesker to ignore the boyish lilt and neophytic connotations such an enquiry held; and so, he complied. The Captain’s eyes trailed downward as Chris Redfield slipped his thumb over the damp and scintillating mesa of his captain’s bottom lip; and then he slipped that wily digit across the fleshy hump, sliding along Wesker’s flat and stilled tongue. And with one, careful push off his thighs, Chris lowered himself back down atop his captain’s cock, grunting with a vigour Albert had not even heard from the monstrous experiments that existed deep beneath the Arklay mansion.

‘Good,’ his point-man breathed with a proper flush on his cheeks, ‘I wanted to see you properly. You know, feel you.’ And his own lips had become rather slick from the excitement—alone.

Wesker grinned terribly, gripping back at the concavity of his mutt’s lean waist. Then, forcing the foreign finger from his mouth, asked: ‘Do you not feel me already, Chris? Your anus has completely devoured my cock.’

Oh, watching Redfield squirm and blush at his words, alone, pumped a fresh wave of blood to his manhood, causing the young man to wince wonderfully at the hardened sensation. ‘Captain,’ he strained, voice hoarse and singed with drunken desire, ‘Help me out here.’ Dark, bushy brows furrowed, whiskered jaw slack, Chris Redfield rode the Captain’s cock as though his life depended on it—every bounce, every hilt, every stutter—it would all amount to something exotic; something queer, something akin to pale creosote.

And Chris salivated for that very poison. So, as he watched the nearly imperceptible visage of Albert Wesker, he managed to attain a rather consistent rhythm—up, down, up, down, a tempo few could truly stray from. It was accordant; it was passionate. Chris kept his hands against his captain’s face, his thumbs dancing over both lightly flushed cheeks, subduing the maddening desire to flick away those arrogant shades. And he very well might have—if Wesker hadn’t taken hold of one of Chris’ wandering hands. Whilst that same, pale grip remained at the boy’s waist, the other now brought Redfield’s grip to his captain’s throat.

Wesker stared into Chris’ unperturbed gaze as the latter returned the understanding; only, Chris could not see the older man’s own. But his hand did not stray from the Captain’s throat.

‘Chris,’ Albert began slowly, looking down over the tip of his willowy nose at the two thick clefts that strangled his cock like some ravenous snake, ‘I want you to keep your hand here and apply apt pressure. Can you do that for me, Chris?’

Cheeks redder than ever, the point-man began to gasp as his cadence did not waver. ‘I don’t wanna hurt you, sir.’

‘Christopher.’ It was sharp—something darker than a command, grittier than a plea, yet sweeter than a promise. ‘Do as I say, and I will meet your,’ Wesker continued, pausing briefly to subdue a creeping groan, ‘boyish determination with adequate reverence.’

Swiping his thumb over a single, stray strand of blonde, Chris lowered his chin to his heaving chest, nodding along to the foray between his thighs. ‘Fine.’ A groan from Redfield. ‘But, tell me if I hurt you. All right?’

The Captain did not respond.

And so, with a newfound determination, Chris bolstered his hold around Wesker’s throat—his palm resting awkwardly at the precipice of his Adam’s apple, whilst his sweat-ridden fingers pressed tenderly beneath his jowls. And when the Captain growled low at his subordinate’s adjustment, Chris knew he had followed orders just the way Wesker had requested; and it warmed the boy’s loins.

With a—seemingly shared—entanglement of reverence, passion, and determination, the point-man continued to lift himself off his captain’s cock and back down without so much as straying from its generous length; not once did Wesker’s manhood slip outward from his mutt’s anus, nor prod awkwardly at his sore rectum, for the young man had found, what his superior would dare not admit, the perfect rhythm.

Lolling his head to the side, Wesker stared down at the sterile floor—his Oxfords unmoving, focus trained entirely on the whimpering pup in his lap, as his breathing hitched far softer than Chris’ own. The older man had begun to roll his own hips upward, matching the point-man’s cadence with ease, and it was here wherein he could feel the boy’s rectal walls begin to tighten.

Was he purposely squeezing them? Pulping the neophytic flesh—just for his captain? Albert hadn’t a clue; but it felt fucking grand. His pulsating manhood slipped in and out from the fleshy embrace of this filthy mutt’s anus, and when Chris leaned forward and moved his one hand from Wesker’s cheek to meet the other at his throat, the Captain actually smiled. And he did not complain when once the blistering kiss of Redfield raped his neck, sultry tongue lapping hungrily at otherwise neglected flesh, presumed canines grazing the prickled surface, and the soft bristles of facial hair contrasting delightfully against Wesker’s naked shell.

‘’Cap, I’m gonna come.’

Albert wrapped one arm around his mutt’s backside, whilst his other remained loyal to the reddened waist of Redfield. ‘Not yet,’ he ordered low, pulling the boy closer against himself.

Chris was very clearly taken aback by his captain’s words, and as he tried to wriggle out from this newfound grasp, Wesker only chuckled and breached the skin at his subordinate’s waist.

‘Fuck, that hurts,’ Chris groaned, grunting and rasping against his superior’s throat. ‘I’m gonna dirty your shirt, ‘Cap. This angle’ll do neither of us any good.’ Another filthy whimper.

Chuckling, again—far more airy, this time—Wesker rolled his hips with a rather crude force, causing Chris to whine and wince and beg for his captain to allow him reprieve.

‘’Cap—pleease, I can’t hold it much longer,’ the boy groaned, cursing at himself as tears streamed down his cheeks whilst saliva trickled down the throat of Albert Wesker. ‘Fuck. Fuck. Please. Please, Captain. Please.’ Chris was degenerating into nothing but a sordid mongrel, and Wesker could feel his own orgasm quickly approaching. The pathetic cries of his Redfield were too delectable not to savour a touch longer, but he could not allow his pup to reach climax so slovenly.

So, Wesker snaked his arm up from Chris’ backside to his bristled nape, forcing the boy’s face further against his throat—causing the mutt’s wily teeth to tear at a chunk along the base of his captain’s collarbone. And as Chris groaned at the sudden taste of blood on his lips, Albert employed the hand at the boy’s waist to force him off from his thighs, sending him straight to the frigid ground. Then, following in rather graceful tow, Wesker straddled his point-man and reached quickly for the mutt’s cock, pumping it with brutal vigour as he watched the young man whimper and bit at his lower lip—the blood from his captain streaming down in elegant threads over his quivering chin.

‘Chris, I want you to look at me. Watch as I coax your climax from your dogged flesh.’

The boy obeyed, wincing as he lifted his head off the ground to gaze upward at his captain. And he watched as his erection was forced down against his ridden-up shirt, the glistening tip gliding along his navel. With a continual slack jaw, Chris sputtered to tell the Captain to stop, but it was too late: strings of alabaster globules splattered all across the point-man’s abdomen, reaching as far as his sweat-slick collarbone. Chris Redfield had been utterly defaced by his ejaculate, and yet his captain—the stringent Albert Wesker—drew his lithe digits around the concavity of his stomach, trailing the still-warm expulsion around in dextrous circles. Chris felt humiliated; but he knew better than to avert his gaze.

A whisper—a singular command from the Captain, and Chris nodded before it was even murmured. ‘Whimper for me, Chris. Show me the mutt you are—the mutt it is I have been playing fetch with. Let me hear you, Chris.’ Wesker’s hand was back at his own arousal, stroking steadily at its pale shine. ‘Let me hear your filth.’

And Chris Redfield did not disappoint the older man; no, his dark eyes bore languidly into his captain’s Stygian refraction, croaking apologies and pleas for the older man to bring his lips closer, to continue touching his spent cock, to all but crush his entire weight with his predominant presence. As Chris watched Wesker work hastily at his own erection, the former reached a hand toward the man. The Captain swatted away the attempt like a sagacious panther. Again, Redfield cried for him to come nearer, but Albert did not oblige.

‘Let me kiss you, ‘Cap. I want to fuckin’ kiss you. C’mere, so I can kiss you. Please, ‘Cap, I need you here.’

Grinning as a perilous trouper, Wesker grit his teeth as he felt the head of his cock swell, before his own climax mizzled down on Chris’ abdomen; and amalgamated atop the boy’s whiskered stomach, beautiful dewdrops of semen had intermixed with one another, no longer separable by appearance. Only a scientist or doctor could now differentiate the detritus that painted Alpha Team’s point-man.

Peeling back from the slick that enveloped Redfield’s abdomen, shirt, and collarbone, Wesker made quick work of tucking himself back into his dress pants. Exhaling rather airily, he brought himself to his feet, subtly sliding the photograph of Rebecca Chambers beneath his keyboard.

‘The hour is late, Chris. Run along home. I’ll see to Valentine.’

An audible gasp escaped the boy’s raw throat. Propping himself up with his red and coarse elbows, Chris glared at his captain. ‘What? What’d’ya mean, ‘Cap? We just—’

Albert adjusted his leather chair, so that it was once again facing inward toward his desk. ‘I appreciate the aid you have provided here tonight, Chris. But spend any longer in here, and I might never see this work to completion.’

The point-man’s jaw was mildly agape; his chest, heaving, still, while he watched his manhood shrivel inward on itself—the ejaculate beginning to harden against his taut skin. ‘Can I at least help you clean up?’ Chris was terrible at masking his irritation—his sheer disappointment at Wesker’s distaste for even a scintilla of ‘after-care.’

The Captain re-adjusted his shades. ‘That will be unnecessary.’ Not another word left his mouth.

Chris, however, refused to stand from the Captain’s office floor. ‘Let me.’

Wesker did not so much as turn to face his subordinate. ‘The answer is no.’

‘No, it ain’t!’

Now, a hint of a grin adjoined Wesker’s thin lips. ‘Are you disobeying me, Chris?’

The young man frowned as he sat himself up onto his buttocks. ‘You’re an asshole,’ he bit at the blonde effigy. ‘You fuck a guy, kiss ‘im, come all over his chest, and then refuse to acknowledge anything happened? You’re an asshole, Wesker.’ And then he rose from the ground altogether, pulling up his denim jeans in one fell swoop—the belt buckle clanking viciously as he fumbled haphazardly with its zinc contents.

From behind the desk, Albert released a curt sigh as he stared down at the sterile and forgotten keyboard. Subduing the urge to click his tongue, he merely hummed. ‘There were nary expectations going into this, Chris. You know that.’

The young point-man chuffed his own sigh, stopping just before zipping up his fly. ‘Doesn’t make this any less humiliating—god-damnit.’ Running a hand through his vivacious locks, he completely forgot just how sullied his hands truly were; and clicking a tongue of his own, he cursed at himself as he looked around the room. ‘I’m talkin’ to Jill. Wouldn’t want to disrupt your work.’ And then, smoothing—carefully—his fingers over the forest-green compression shirt, he made sure there were minimal stains and evidence pertaining to his tryst with the Captain. ‘I’ll tell her you were busy.’

‘Always so eager, Christopher.’ A hand rattled at the desk drawer, causing the boy to look back at his superior. ‘Your efforts are recognised.’ Then Wesker brought a hand to his hip—his pants already having been utterly fixed back into place. ‘I assure you, boy, this was not in vain.’ And there it was—the slightest hint of a smile; an honest smile, one that slithered through the usually preordained stone-face of Albert Wesker.

Chris’ brows furrowed tremendously at the sight. ‘Yea,’ he began, voice still rather hoarse, ‘thanks.’ And he left his captain’s sterile sanctuary in a determined stride, careful as to not slam shut the door to either Wesker’s, or the S.T.A.R.S., office.

Truthfully, Albert was rather relieved that he did not have to deal with Valentine; there were far more important matters besides a stomach ache. Warily, he nudged aside his keyboard, looking back down at the salacious photograph from earlier. Rebecca Chambers had not moved in position; in fact, she had not moved at all. The eighteen-year-old medic was stilted—frozen in time—grinning so innocently, Wesker feared his erection might return.

Only, it didn’t; for a haze had settled, then, in his mind—one that pillaged the countenance of a rather heady boy. And Albert Wesker felt himself grin at that very face.