Ancient History

Ancient History


Chris hadn’t expected the man to be so damn fast. It was this underestimation that saw him pinned against the wall, knee slipped against his crotch, fingers tightening around his throat. He stared down into the man’s harsh, deeply lined face, and a brief little growl escaped him before those fingers clutched tighter. His vision swam with gray, feet kicking uselessly as Albert Wesker kept him pinned. A wave of anger and disgust darkened the renegade’s heart – that he would come so far, only to be stopped by the one man he had once trusted above all other’s. That traitorous, backstabbing Wesker.

“You’re like a little parasite, aren’t you Redfield?,” the blonde demanded hotly. “No matter where I go, you’re always there. Is that purely coincidental? Or is that little crush you had on me still leading you down my trail?”

The words stung, like a bucket of bubbling acid. Chris winced visibly, baring his teeth as his fingers scrabbled over Wesker’s gloveless digits, nails digging down cruelly. His foot drove into the man’s groin, Wesker giving a brusque grunt and dropping the brunette to the floor. Chris huddled there, coughing and hacking, before rolling away from the demonic man and taking an unsteady stand. His hand reached for the cruel knife at his hip, unsheathing it and hunkering down in a defensive posture.

“Come on,” Chris taunted, hopping like an impatient boxer waiting on his opponent to swing, “Come on motherfucker.”

“Aw,” Wesker crooned, cocking a hand on his hip and giving a smug little smile at the ferocious renegade. “Did I touch a nerve, Redfield?”

“Shut up!,” Chris roared. “I’m not gonna play these little games with you, Wesker. If you wanna kill me, just come over here and try it.”

“You don’t know what you’re asking for, boy,” Wesker growled. He took a step in Chris’ direction and watched as the man readied his weapon, his blue eyes ice-cold and dangerously sharp. Chris certainly had come a long way from the wide-eyed boy who had used to fawn over him tirelessly. That boy had been a great shot, but painfully naive. This man. . .he certainly was appealing. “If you’re so anxious to die, it can be arranged.”

But that was the entire point of his challenge. Chris didn’t think Wesker had the guts to kill him. He had certainly had the opportunity – and while Chris was a man of pride he could admit that Wesker certainly had the strength to dispose of him. So why all of this cat and mouse bullshit? It was possible, though highly unlikely, that Wesker had the same feelings for him.

But what feelings did he have for the monster? Years ago, before Wesker’s betrayal had led several members of his team to die, before Raccoon City had become a graveyard, before Rockfort Island had crumbled, he had believed the man were perfection personified. Sharply intelligent, deeply devoted, strong and skilled, never flustered in the face of danger. What he had felt for the man could have been described as a ‘man crush’, though the terminology seemed strange and demeaning to the man. He supposed, deep down, he had cared for Wesker far beyond the bounds of heterosexual friendship.

'Ancient history', Chris thought as he watched the looming beast inch closer. Dark shades hid the man’s eyes, but that for the best. They were inhuman now, raw, evil. Looking into them was like peering into the soul of Umbrella Corporation, and Chris Redfield had seen enough to give him nightmares for two lifetimes.

He was there, in Chris’ sight, and then he was a blur of gleaming leather. The renegade uttered a beastly roar before he was snatched by the throat and flung across the room. He managed to catch himself, flipping his body, fighting momentum. He skidded to a stop inches from the stone wall, panting and shaken, but still gripping his dangerous weapon. Blue eyes ran around the room, and words died on his lips as he saw no sign of his opponent.

“You’re slow,” Wesker growled, grabbing Chris by his hair and jerking him to his feet. Hot breath rushed against Redfield’s ear, gloveless fingers resting over his throat, gloved palm pressing roughly. Chris swallowed, his fingers twitching as his vision swam. His knife clattered to the floor, the sound echoing as defeat. He had been foolish to believe he could ever defeat Albert Wesker – that perfect construct of man and beast. He stood an ice-cube’s chance in Hell of overpowering the beautiful monster.

“Too slow,” Wesker murmured, voice tangled between smug glee and tenderness. The crushing touch at Chris’ windpipe lessened, offered him a chance to breathe. He took in a deep gulp of air, pain surging into his lungs with every swallow. His head swam dizzily as Wesker tickled his ear with breath, the fingers at his throat no longer crushing – petting. “After all these years, you’re still just a pussycat,” Wesker crooned, fingers slipping lower to tease the flesh above Chris’ neckline. The heavy armor he wore was certainly a nuisance, but Wesker could still find sweet morsels of flesh. “How can a pussycat hope to topple a lion, Christopher?”

Chris grit his teeth, refusing to dignify the question with a response. The man was obviously trying to prey on whatever emotions he believed Chris still held for him. Probably believing that he could be weakened with such ancient, childish wants and desires. He had seen too much and come so far to be manipulated so easily. He remembered the night they had gone to the mansion, still so virgin to the idea that the Umbrella Corporation could be so hideously malign. Landing in the woods, the whipping blades of the ‘copter fanning a sea of tall grass. The night warm and muggy. He remembered the first howls rising up into the night air, the scream as one of his team found a dismembered hand, the chase through the grass, with the sound of that beastly growling following close behind, his own breath sharp and fast, his heartbeat hammering in his ears. He remembered Wesker’s cool voice laying out their strategy, remembered thinking that if there was one man he’d follow to the end of the earth and back, it was Albert Wesker.

“No.”

“No?” Lips hovered over his ear.

“You’re not gonna wrap me around your finger, Wesker. Get the fuck off of me.”

“Wrap you around my finger,” Wesker repeated. He chuckled softly. “Christopher. You’ve made the mistake of believing you have a choice in this. Sooner or later, I always get what I want.” Those lips touched his ear, breath warm. “And I am a fool who still seems to want you.”

“It’s too late.” Chris struggled. “You put a face to it all, don’t you understand? You are Umbrella. You’re the one we’re all trying to stop.”

“Ever the patriot,” Wesker sighed. “Stop squirming.”

But for Chris, it was not a matter of his own personal feelings. It was not a matter of sleepless nights, or of frightening nightmares that forced him closer to some unspeakable truth. It was a matter of pride, and a matter of honor. Maybe he didn’t have a whole lot left to fight for now, but he still had that much. Because of this man and the dirty, deceiving bastards he worked for, his little sister was involved with this fight. Countless people had died, and their deaths were still as unjustified as they were cruel.

“Fuck you,” Chris said, with no real anger or fire behind the words. But when he broke free of Wesker’s hold and rocketed his fist across the man’s cheek, there seemed to be plenty of fight left in him. Before the man could turn his inhuman gaze back on him, Chris had snatched up his knife and, without so much as a word uttered, buried it in the man’s chest. Everything seemed to stop. Silence pervaded. Chris could hear his own panting, but it was distant, on another world. He watched blood splash down to the stone floor, heard the small pitter-patter, and watched Wesker’s eyes change. The yellow and red faded to a deep, almost newborn, blue. He sagged against the wall, clutching the hilt of the knife. And it was not so much the color of the eyes as the look in them. Almost wounded.

“Now you know how I felt when you stabbed me in the heart,” Chris spat.

Wesker’s eyes closed, flickered, closed again. His lips opened, and a thick clout of blood poured down his chin. Chris tried to observe this impassively. This man had betrayed him, had betrayed all of them. Had proverbially driven a knife into all of their backs. Let him suffer. Let him die with only his memories to comfort him.

But this man had also been his friend, in another life. This man had held him up when all others had watched him fall. This man had played a part, had pretended. But could he have masqueraded so well? Could everything have been a lie?

“Christopher.”

Chris’ eyes snapped to the dying man. But how stupid of him. Wesker was standing now with the knife in his hand, blood running down the sleek metal. His eyes were no longer blue, that insane red and yellow flashed out from his lined face. His lips peeled back to show his teeth, white and gleaming in the moonlight. He tossed the knife aside. “Did you really think it would be that easy to kill me? Did you honestly believe that you could take me down so easily? I thought I taught you better than that, Christopher. I’m deeply disappointed in you. And now that you’ve shown me how pathetic you are, I think it’s time for your punishment.”

Chris took a few steps back. But the fight had finally abandoned him. He stood there immobile as Wesker grabbed him and pulled him closer. He could not even form any brash and arrogant words as the man hauled him into his arms and carried him like a child across the room. For some reason, he hung there against him, even embraced his neck. Perhaps, somewhere deep down, he had wanted this all along. Even if it meant sacrificing his entire cause for one night beneath him. He supposed the man who had stood out there in the high grass with the summer wind against his face had never grown up. Had never stopped believing that there was something worth surrendering for.

Wesker did not throw him down. Chris braced for impact, but he was surprised to find himself being lain delicately across the table. His legs naturally hooked around Wesker’s waist, his blue eyes looking up into that raw, demonic gaze earnestly. “Just a pussycat,” Wesker murmured, as blood from Wesker’s wound slicked Chris’ kevlar and gloveless fingers pet his cheek. “You have to be handled gently.”

“Not always,” Chris murmured, tipping his head back as Wesker began to kiss his throat. He moaned as teeth sank into his flesh. Not at all gently. He could feel hands beginning on his layers, moving him into nudity. A few curses were muttered into his skin as Wesker was slowed down by yet another layer of clothing. But soon his chest was bare, his clothes a forgotten memory on the stone floor. And those kisses, so inhumanly hot, were tracing down his body. Lighting upon his quivering muscles. A tongue touched his nipple, and Chris arched briefly, fingers clutching at Wesker’s hair.

His abdominal muscles shivered beneath the blonde’s mouth, his body vaulting and relaxing as Wesker began to unbutton his pants. Perhaps patience for the man was not a virtue, for he soon ripped the damnable apparel off and threw them aside – and Chris’ underwear soon followed after. He beheld the brunette in all of his glory, hands combing up and down Chris’ thighs as he observed. He watched the slow twitch of the renegade’s cock, swollen and bruised with tension. His hand magnetically wrapped to the furious rod, stroking slowly. The feel of leather and warm flesh winding around his sensitive cock forced Chris to cry out, hands gripping the table beneath him as he was played with.

“If I had known you were so. . . Gifted. . . I would have done this a long time ago, Christopher. How does that feel?”

“Mmmnn… fucking good,” Chris breathed, lips bitten as his eyes tilted to Wesker’s face. “Mmph, shit. So fucking good.”

A brief chortle escaped Wesker’s lips, before he bent over and wrapped these around Chris’ pulsing cock, tongue tickling the sensitive, leaking bulb. Chris gasped, rearing into Wesker’s hot mouth, toes curling against the table as pleasure tingled through his body. Wesker seemed a diligent man who viewed foreplay as more a task than a treat. His eyes would tip up every so often to gauge Chris’ reaction, seemingly counting the moments before he could plunge inside. Chris wondered why the man was even going so far as to suck his dick, he could easily tear inside anytime he wanted to and fuck him senseless. It wasn’t as if Chris could put up much of a fight. But the renegade wasn’t about to ask questions, the man gave a good blow, he could give him that much credit.

Wesker’s mouth slid off of the soaked and throbbing shaft, burning eyes running up Chris’ body before his own was handled. He undressed himself with the same impatience, and when Chris was greeted with every inch of Wesker’s hard body, he could only utter a slow, deep sigh. Every inch of him was perfect. Sculpted, toned, deeply tanned. Scars ran across his flesh, erratic tattoos that told storied tales of his “adventures.” There was blood on him, and Chris looked at the wound he had placed there. But he wasn’t about to apologize, the bastard deserved worse than that.

“It isn’t like me to take pity on someone,” Wesker said, and Chris thought there was a touch of derisive humor in his voice. “But I seem to be surprising myself lately. Sit up, Christopher.”

Chris laid there, looking into Wesker’s eyes balefully.

“If you prefer,” Wesker crooned, brutally tucking two fingers into Chris’ ass. “I could fuck this virgin asshole raw and dry. It’s your choice after all.”

“Nnnn.” Damn, but those fingers felt good. A hot bolt of pain and pleasure shot up his spine like an arrow. Fuck. He was harder than ever. But the thought of Wesker sliding that impressive length inside of him bone-dry did dampen his fire, a little.

Chris came up, hands resting on Wesker’s hips, breath washing across his hard belly. He placed a kiss there lightly, and felt the blonde tense beneath him. 'He wants it just as bad as I do. . . Maybe more.' The thought filled Chris with confidence, and he found himself teasing the man. Nibbling his stomach, hands slipping around to squeeze at Wesker’s firm rear, nails digging in deep. Wesker was a man of control, but he could not fight off a small rumble in his throat as Chris toyed with him. “Mm, pussycat,” Wesker murmured, sliding his fingers through Chris’ unkempt spikes.

Chris purred with the affection, teeth gently nibbling Wesker’s stomach, sliding higher to ghost his chest. Chris kissed his throat, his neck, and when he hovered over his lips, Chris looked deep and hard into Wesker’s burning eyes. He found raw power there, power beyond the realm of human understanding. But something else lingered there, perhaps against the beastly man’s wishes. Something close to tenderness. Chris smirked, knuckles brushing at Wesker’s cheek. The man winced from the soft touch, but did not pull back or pin Chris down in some monstrous demonstration of power. Chris touched his lips hesitantly with his own, pulled away briefly, searched those eyes again. And then moved in, locked on, stroked Wesker’s tongue with his own.

He hummed inside of his mouth, his arms wrapping around his neck. Wesker tensed once more, but seemed to melt, his hands combing up and down Chris’ defined back, scratching him lightly. He deepened the kiss, grunting into Chris and giving a sigh as the brunette pulled away. There was a coy little smile on his bruised lips, a flirty humor in his sharp blue eyes. Wesker could have scrambled those rugged good looks with a dismissive wave of his hand – but he didn’t quite dare. It wasn’t so much about Chris’ strength. “I like this face,” Wesker crooned, cupping it in his palms. Chris’ stubble scratched at him, and the sensation was pleasurable. Everything intensified, even the slightest graze of flesh.

“I like this body,” Chris murmured, hands tracing every sharp angle and delicate line. He lowered, marking his path with warm kisses, until he was greeted with Wesker’s considerable arousal. He licked his lips, stalling briefly. He had never in his life wanted someone so badly – never a man – and he was unsure of how to continue. He was guided by Wesker, who snatched his hair and pulled him closer. Chris opened his mouth to offer negation , but all words were lost as Wesker’s pulsing tip passed through his lips. Chris voiced muffled complaints around the salty tip, hands clutching at Wesker’s hips. But the blonde was persistent, rocking forward into Chris’ mouth, leading him by his hair the way a man would an unruly dog.

'Or a pussycat', Chris thought sourly, but really, it wasn’t so bad. The feel of all that hot skin, pulsing and alive, inside of his mouth, was strangely erotic. He felt his own cock bounce against his belly, and gave a gusty little mewl around Wesker’s dick, blue eyes peering up the monster’s body pleadingly. Wesker chuckled and laid his head back, pushing Chris down his cock, unable to keep his small gasp from escaping as Chris’ hand moved from his hip and cupped his balls. “Mmmmm,” Wesker droned lazily, scratching the patriot’s shoulder. “Christopher.”

Chris shivered. The sound of his name in that husky voice made him crazy with want, and he realized then that there was nothing he could have done to stand against this man. He craved him with every fiber of his being, with every inch of his burning body. He always had, and goddamn, he always would.

Chris released Wesker’s cock with an audible pop, giving one long, slow lick from base to tip, teasing the bulb with teeth and tongue. He whimpered in discomfort, shifting on the table as his eyes begged the blonde. Finally, he could stand it no longer, and he spread himself over the table and stroked his aching cock. He closed his eyes as his lips parted, “Fuck me.”

“Mm, so eager, pussycat,” Wesker chuckled. He sucked two of his fingers, slicking them with his spit before guiding them to Chris’ tight entrance. The renegade tensed, and then relaxed as Wesker pushed one digit inside, his breath escaping in a sigh. Wesker licked his lips as Chris’ body rose up in sexy waves, his muscles clenching around Wesker’s driving finger. “So tight,” the blonde whispered, before a second was slipped inside, scissored. Chris gasped, the undulations continuing, slow and seductive. There was a leaden weight in his belly, a dull and insistent throb in his groin, a fluttering in his heart.

“God,” Chris moaned, “Ahh, f-fuck. . .”

Wesker leaned over the brunette, breath steaming against Chris’ vulnerable throat. In that instant, the man could have torn out his throat, ripping him apart limb from limb, Chris Redfield was a quivering, wanting, weak man beneath him. But all Wesker did was kiss his sweaty skin and whisper against him. “You belong to me. To me only. Say it, Christopher.”

There was so much pride, still it demanded he keep his dignity. But Chris had already fallen over the edge, and there was nothing to catch him, His thighs embraced Wesker’s hips, his arms enfolded around his neck, and he said it. Goddamn him, he said it.

And Wesker, feline smile curling his lips, withdrew his fingers and filled Chris with his hard, aching length. The pace of their sex was as hectic as their chase. Slow and teasing, hard and fast, oft times rough and abusive. And yet Chris loved every moment of it, Wesker could feel this as the man coiled around him like a predatory snake, every limb clutching tight as he rode through the delicious waves of pleasure and mingling sweetness of pain. Wesker slammed into him hard, forcing the renegade to scream and tattoo his back with deep, long scratches, his body vaulting from the table, hard, sweaty muscle colliding with the monster.

His neck was kissed, licked, loved. Chris was sure sometime during the affair, his lips were tackled and beaten, his tongue bruised and battered. He could taste the raw power coursing through Wesker, could feel it trembling beneath his touch, inside of his own body. It was so surreal, to feel that much primal, carnal strength throbbing within himself.

'I belong to you. Maybe it’s always been that way. Maybe from the start, maybe from the moment I saw you standing there, looking like you owned the place and every body within. Maybe from the moment your eyes met mine and you possessed me with them. Hell, maybe all of this shit can be fixed with us.'

But that was wishful thinking, brought on by the intimacy of sexual pleasure. Chris was not a romantic man, nor was he ideological. He was grounded in his faith and guided by his conscience. A man of honor and of passion, and Wesker, a man of betrayal and secrets. Cloaked in the shadows with his Cheshire grin glowing. But Chris felt he could be granted a reprieve – maybe they both could – for one moment together. One moment that contradicted itself – a whirlwind of sex and violence and raw, primitive hunger. One moment of tenderness and want that defied the boundaries of explanation.

Chris climaxed with these thoughts chasing themselves around in his mind, with Wesker’s teeth imprinted on his throat. He came hard and sudden, breath hitching briefly before he moaned loud enough to cast an echo, toes curling into sweaty flesh, hands clutching at disheveled golden hair. His body rose, fell, rose again, settled. He mewled gently as he quivered – panting, sweaty, shaken. Deeply, deeply ashamed.

Wesker kept moving. Kept fucking him hard and brutal, forcing Chris to unclamp his grip from his hair and hold the table for support. Hazy blue eyes focused blearily on Wesker’s face. The man of control was shaken to his core – just as sweaty, just as breathless. Just as guilty. He came with sudden force, Chris whimpering as hot come rushed inside of him, pumping strong, pumping deep. Wesker came down, resting against him like a weary child. How strange, in that moment, Chris could have taken some of the control back. Could have regained a mite of his dignity. But all he did was stroke Wesker’s sweaty hair and hold him awkwardly with one arm.

“Pretty good,” Chris breathed, body trembling. “Pussycat.”

All Wesker could manage was a tired laugh.