Chapter Text
Pathetic, the only word Chris could've used to describe the sight before him. Wesker, the stoic, intelligent and seemingly invincible captain of the S.T.A.R.S. team now reduced to a shaking, sobbing mess. Sat in the corner of the cold room, weak. Chris could've killed him, he should've. But instead he just stood and watched. Silent. The captain looked up at him through his lashes. Trademark sunglasses askew, mouth agape, bleeding, shaking. Also hushed, yet still grunting and panting. Absolutely pathetic. The tyrant he unleashed on Chris was long dead, Wesker being attacked by it. Foolish. The hole in his stomach is completely closed up, his shirt torn to shreds.
The tip of Chris's gun is pressed against Wesker's forehead. He wouldn't come back from this. It would finish the job. So why won't he pull the trigger? Maybe it's Wesker's pleading eyes, his failure to hide his fear. His teeth bared, the first real movement in the last minute. "Chris." Wesker said. Less of a said, more of a croak. Voice snapping. Miserable. His hand reaches up to grab the barrel, only for Chris to shove the gun harder against him. Forcing a sharp grunt from Wesker. The man won't beg, Chris knows that. Him saying that will be the most he will get. The extent of it. So why won't he just fucking shoot him already? He's gotten all he can. It's over with. He's done.
"Please . "
Oh, fuck.
The gun falls from Chris's grasp, landing on Wesker's calf. A shudder going up his spine. His control of the situation slipped in a second. Still, with everything. The betrayal, the attempted murder, still. He follows the captain's orders. That fact is more pitiful than Weskers backfire. That fact is more pitiful than anything. And Chris knows, the shame burning in his cheeks. The shame evident in the shaking in his hands and tears running down his cheek. He dropped the gun. Wesker acted on that immediately, grabbing the gun and pointing it up at Chris.
"You can't just do that." Chris hissed. Anger now rising. He grabs the gun and holds it to him, kneeling down to be on eye level with Wesker. "Shoot me." And with that Wesker scoffed, dropping the gun with a dismissive huff. "This is futile." Chris ticks, desperate to do something, anything. Wesker notices, eyes narrowing in disbelief. In response, Chris lunged forward, hands wrapping around Wesker's throat in a desperate attempt to regain control. Wesker's mouth shoots open and he grabs at Chris's wrists. Fighting the large man off. His body writhing as Chris's hold becomes bruising, "Stop!" Wesker rasps. To that Chris tightens his grip. "Do you— Do you feel no remorse?" He asks, out of breath. Wesker gasps for air as Chris releases him, allowing him to respond. Coughs and splutters coming from the captain. Chris stands up, looking down at him. His eyes catch. Chris now feels an equal need for air.
The captain is hard.
Wesker shifts onto his knees, hunching over in the corner as he retches, he hasn't noticed. For how long? Does he get off on this? Seriously? The blue light of the laboratory hides the violent blush spreading across Chris's face. As Wesker moves back to look up at Chris, wiping the side of his mouth. He studies the mans face. Following his gaze. He freezes. Face contorting. Wesker looks just as shocked and disgusted as Chris.
"Chris," he pleaded, shakily hoisting himself up onto a bench. He leans on it, his legs still numb.
"Stop. Just stop talking."
The two lock eyes.
"I don't know—"
"Stop."
"Chris." He whispers. " Please. "
If Chris was sane, in his right state of mind. Then maybe this wouldn't have happened. Maybe he wouldn't have succumbed to the captain's charm, if you could even call it charm. Chris grabs Wesker once more, dragging him close, too close. Their lips crashed together, rough and desperate. They wrestle as they tumble through the room, crashing into the test tubes and landing onto the computer desk. Hoisting Wesker onto it, Chris slotting between his legs. He pulls back, taking in air. Forehead against Weskers. Hands still on the side of his head. "Chris." Wesker rasps. Chris's hand latches onto Wesker's hair, pulling it back. "You're like a broken record." He seethes. "Just fucking explain yourself." A note of desperation in his voice. Causing Wesker to huff. "Umbrella, long before I was contracted with S.T.A.R.S. I was with them. It wasn't—'' Chris pulls harder. "—Fuck! It-It wasn't personal." He whines. Chris grabs onto Wesker's crotch, fingers digging in. Wesker's mouth opens in pain as he stutters. "Shit—Okay! Okay! I get it!" He sobs. Chris lets go of his hair, taking his jaw again. Kissing him fervently. Hand still on his crotch, only this time smooth and massaging.
"Wait." Wesker hisses as Chris rips through the shredded fabric that used to be a uniform. "You don't deserve to own this, let alone wear it." Chris whispers, biting at Wesker's neck. Throwing his badge to the corner of the room, the bang echoing through the metallic room.
–
Wesker was frantic, needy and hoping to be touched. Anything. His control is long gone, down the drain, he feels like he’s going insane. He wants to beg, grovel at Chris’s feet. Rid himself of the shred of dignity he clings to. “Please, Chris. I need— I need—” He whines as Chris continues to strip him. The other man still remaining fully clothed. It’s unfair, really. He’s allowed Chris to see him in such a feverish state, why can’t he do the same? Chris has always been eager to please. Can’t he do that now? Wesker gags as Chris jams his finger into his mouth. “Enrico. That was you, wasn’t it?” Wesker hums in response, causing Chris to jam his finger deeper. “God. How could I have been so stupid?” Chris drags his fingers out, pulling on Wesker's thighs, dragging them apart. A pale flush shrouding Wesker’s face. Without warning Chris pushes his fingers in and Wesker lets out a shallow gasp. He wants more, already. It isn’t enough. “More- Ha—!” Wesker sputters, in return Chris runs his tongue over Wesker's already hard nipple. “Oh!” He keens at the new sensation, back arching up as his eyes squeeze shut. Chris pushes a third finger in, making Wesker grip the table. Gritting his teeth.
Chris pulls his fingers out, making Wesker clamp his legs shut. Chris coaxes them open once more, rough. Bruising. The sound of a zipper makes Wesker wince, trying to stop the continued whines and moans from escaping his lips. His hand sinks down his body, desperate for any sort of relief, however Chris pins his wrist above his head. Greedy . “The entire time? You were deceiving us the entire time?” Chris glowered, mumbling into Wesker's chest as he aligns himself up with Wesker’s entrance. He stays there, waiting for an answer. “..Yes.” And with that Chris slams into him, a strangled cry escaping Wesker as he fists at the desk. Back arching up, only causing Chris go in deeper. Strings of white coating Wesker’s chest. A deplorable display. Tears falling down his face as Chris continues to thrust harshly into him. Wesker’s toes curled as they rest on Chris’s shoulders. “N-Too! Too—Much!” Wesker squeals, fingers digging into the table as his thighs shake. Chris pulls out, Wesker clenching around the newfound emptiness.
“Get on your knees.”
And so he does, snaking off the table onto his bruised knees. Chris holds his hard cock against Wesker’s lips, threatening to push in. Wesker licks across a vein on the bottom, lapping around the tip. Soft, slow. Chris grabs Wesker's hair, shoving him down roughly, making Wesker gag. Chris groans, low and throaty. The sound alone makes Wesker come again, landing on Chris’s boot. He continues to deepthroat the bigger man, licking and being careful not to touch it with his teeth. Quickly Chris comes. Wesker choking on the liquid, trickling down his lip.
“My boot,” He muses, pressing it against Wesker, showing off the small splatter of cum. “Clean it.” Wesker stares up at him. Seriously ? Degrading. Utterly degrading. Chris shoves his boot harder against him. Wesker huffs before moving further down, running his tongue against his own secretion, nose turning in disgust. Chris watches, gaze burning through the man before him. He supposes this is punishment enough. Humiliate the captain, turn him in. Ruin him. Or, maybe. He could keep this entire ordeal a secret. Use him. The boot is shined in spit. Wesker, now looking up at Chris like a dog. Vile. This entire thing was vile.
“Put your clothes on we’re leaving.” Chris dismisses, tucking himself back in. Wesker drags his briefs on, S.T.A.R.S. embroidered cargos and ripped, bloody shirt. His sunglasses, still in the bloodied corner which he once lay. Slowly Wesker trudges over. The gun lying in a pool of his own vomit. He grabs it.
Chris seems to have taken pity. Granted him a second chance.