Candy Cigarettes & Pop Guns

Chapter 1: Candy Cigarettes

Wesker took a rather long drag off the cigarette, wincing as the acrid smoke struck his lungs, rioted through his system. It went right to his head, bubbled uselessly there. He coughed once, trying to clear the feeling and stubbed the cigarette out in the crystal ashtray he kept next to the bed.

He didn’t support smoking, thought it was a nasty habit with a nasty taste that made people’s teeth yellow and their clothes stink. He made sure to point out his disapproval to his colleagues who did smoke (William Birkin had been his favourite, after a week of referring to the habit as “sucking fags” William had thrown the remainder of the pack out and told him to fuck himself) but never had he been so resolutely ignored.

Christopher Redfield simply did not seem to understand the mechanics behind quitting. Quitting did not mean grabbing a smoke while on a break, or after lunch or dinner or sex. And yet Chris, who assured Wesker that he was well on the way to being done with cigarettes forever, still did all of those things. Thus the crystal ashtray (which Wesker had always intended to be an aesthetic piece) was still living next to the bed. The top drawer of the bedside table was bursting with cigarette packs, empty, filled and half-full. All brands to from Camel Lights to Marlboro Reds to slims to blacks. Chris had gone through a love affair with Turkish Blends and it was from one of these that Wesker had fished his misbegotten test cigarette from. He was sure Chris wouldn’t care, the man kept a stockpile (like he was expecting the end of the world to rise up and destroy all the Parliament factories) and he was basically wrapped around Wesker’s pinkie finger. Which, he had to admit, was pretty nice.

Because, apart from the cigarette thing, Chris really was captured. He was fiercely loyal; Wesker had noticed that off the bat, and almost innocently trusting. He had a temper and a sense of justice and the moral compass of a boy scout (all of which were things that bothered Wesker slightly when he thought about all the things, all the hell that S.T.A.R.S was going to face when things went south over at the Spencer place, because inevitably, eventually they would).

Chris was a good man to be in with; Wesker found himself thinking, not for the first time. Because of his devotion, his nearly blind ability to follow those who didn’t show to abuse his trust, because of his networking. When Joseph Frost had had a problem with the way Wesker handed out assignments, Chris had stood up for the captain, surprising everyone including Wesker himself. He had finagled an invitation for Wesker to Barry’s oldest brat’s birthday party. Had dragged him along to more than one co-worker happy hour. Chris kept Wesker visible, kept him in everyone’s good graces. So that behind the scenes Wesker could keep up his calculations, his double dealings. Not that Chris knew anything about that, no, it wasn’t in trusting Chris’ nature to assume such a thing.

Wesker almost smiled to himself at how easily he had manipulated his way into the system, into such a power position. But then the cigarette, the snubbed out reject of a cigarette caught his eye and his previous, miffed mood returned. It was why he’d tried the damn thing in the first place. He had hoped to ease the unease that gnawed at his gut every time Chris lit up. Because there was something in Chris’ gaze, as the flame from his lighter caught the edge of the paper, in the way he laughed when Wesker called it sucking fags (and shouldn’t he have known better than to try the same trick twice) the way he’d flick the ash off so carelessly. Something in the way he’d draw the smoke away from his lips and lean forward to press kisses to Wesker’s, the way that the loosely held the cigarette would dip and weave, the way he would transfer that smoke from mouth-to-mouth. There was something insubordinate about the entire thing, and something that made Wesker think that maybe he wasn’t as in control as he always assumed.

Chris had burned him once with an errantly held cigarette, had ducked in for a kiss when he should have been tapping ashes and had swept those embers across Wesker’s neck. It had hurt like hell and was unbelievably arousing in a masochistic kind of way and over Chris’ frantic apologising Wesker had grabbed the offending hand and kissed the fingers, letting that heat slide dangerously close to his cheek as he did so. They’d fucked hard after that, rocking together deliciously, Wesker’s neck burnt and raw. The injury was all but gone in a day, but the effect of it was never forgotten. To think he could lose control so easily over such a little thing. It worried Wesker, worried him deeply.

It hadn’t just been the burn, discovering he had a streak of masochist in him was hardly alarming news, it had been that fact that it was Chris. Chris, loyal and loving Chris, had hurt him, actually hurt him in a physical sense, and it drove Wesker wild with lust and that was a very big problem. Because one of these days, Chris would burn him again, or bite just a little too hard along Wesker’s collarbone and his collected demeanour (one he even had when having sex; to beg for it, or even to bottom to Chris would be like lowering his standards, and that was another thing that Wesker just could not tolerate) would crumble and then Chris would know. And he might try to take advantage.

Wesker sniffed, crossing his arms. In all his scheming and well-laid plans, he had to wonder, deep down, how well-laid and thought-out his relationship with Christopher Redfield truly was. He had needed an in, it was true. But an in and a fuck-buddy (lover, really, if he were going to be honest with himself there was something in the way that Chris and he coupled that read into a lot more than just a physical joining of bodies) were very different. Very different indeed.

The clicking of the lock on the front door pulled Wesker away from his musings, his calculations and his disgust at his own loss of perfect control. Chris was back from his weekly basketball game with Forest. He would be sweaty and tired and in the perfect position to be seduced. And really, what better way was there for Wesker to take his mind off his problems then to involve himself with them directly.

Chris objected when Wesker slunk out of the bedroom and hooded eyes and kisses. He was sweaty, he was smelly, he was all sorts of things that Wesker didn’t care about. He was there in the flesh, that was all that mattered to the blonde, and he wasn’t taking no for an answer. He practically dragged Chris into the bedroom, purring like a cat when Chris’ complaints died down.

The two of them landed on the bed lightly, Chris under Wesker, pressing up into the older man as Wesker pushed kisses down the column of his neck.

“What’s all this about anyway?” Chris managed, when his lips were free of Wesker’s flesh. The blonde smiled, divested Chris of his shirt, kissed along to the brunette’s nipples. Chris groaned at the contact, the light touches and sharper bites. “Wesker?” He let his hand slide up to cup his captain’s head, fingers sliding into the blonde hair, as Wesker continued to lavish upon his chest. A talented tongue was torturing a nub to almost painful hardness and Chris knew his face was crimson. Such treatment, the attention, made him feel amazing and embarrassed all at once.

The hand in Wesker’s hair tightened as the man looked up, met Chris’ gaze. Something electric passed between the two of them, something that bothered both of them. Wesker because it again brought to his attention the lack of control the situation forced on him; Chris because it told him that he was probably, defiantly falling in love with the man above him. Their gazes held for a moment longer then Chris looked away. Toward the bedside table with the crystal ashtray.

The sight gave Chris pause. His hand slid down to Wesker’s chin, forced the older man to look at him. “Were you smoking in here?” He asked, a light smile finding its way to his face. He nodded in the direction of the ashtray.

Wesker frowned, a sharp look that was really more bark than bite. “Really, Christopher, I don’t think this is the time.” As if to make a point, he brushed his hand across Chris’ crotch, earning a muted sigh from him.

But Chris wouldn’t be dissuaded so easily. He was sitting up now, shifting Wesker in the repositioning. “Yeah really,” he picked the crushed cigarette up, using his other hand to attempt to smooth it out, “you were, weren’t you?” He smiled, laughter edging his eyes and the corners of his lips. “Sly bastard, I thought you hated it.” Chris seemed satisfied with the job he’d done of salvaging it, put the thing to his lips and lit it.

Above him, Wesker sniffed, frowning heavily. “I do hate it.” He shifted back a bit more, turning his face from Chris, from the smoke lacing off the edge of the cigarette. “What have I told you about smoking around me?”

“Told me not to.” Chris ginned shamelessly around the words, pushed his face closer to Wesker. “But you don’t seem to really mind.” The hand holding the cigarette danced dangerously close to Wesker’s chin, he could feel the heat from it. “Am I right?”

“Of course not.”

Chris laughed, a quiet chuckle that told Wesker that maybe his earlier fears weren’t unfounded. That maybe Chris knew more about the captain and his kinks than Wesker would ever want to let on. Chris’ smile met his eyes, glimmered there almost evilly. “I’m not?” The cigarette dipped and wove, almost, but not quite, touching Wesker’s skin. “Then why are you holding your breath, hmm? And what’s with that expression?” Wesker hadn’t been aware that he was making any special expression. His retort was cut off as Chris lifted his leg, bringing all-too-real pressure against Wesker’s undiminished erection. “What’s with this then?”

“Nothing.” Wesker could feel his complexion burning, he wiggled backwards, hoping to escape from Chris’ lap and the unspoken, unbearable things he knew could come from this situation, but Chris stopped him with a firm hand on his hip. “Get off me, Christopher.”

“Oh, come off it. It was just some harmless fun.” But the cigarette wasn’t put out, or put down. It was burning down toward the filter, but Chris didn’t seem to notice. “Are you really mad?”

“Christopher.”

Chris kissed him, holding the cigarette well away. His mouth tasted like menthol, a cloying, smoky flavour. His Camel tainted tongue rubbed against Wesker’s and the blonde couldn’t help but respond, damning himself for his lack of control even as he did so.

“Are you?” Chris whispered when they’d parted. His leg pushed up again and Wesker writhed against it. “Am I to take that as a no?”

“Fuck you.”

“You usually do. Maybe not this time though?” Chris’ voice was terribly, wonderfully low, his hand so terribly, wonderfully close to Wesker’s uncovered chest. “What do you think?”

Wesker didn’t answer with words. Instead he grabbed at Chris’ wrist, held it in place. Their gazes locked, brown and blue clashing and conflicting, unsure and sure and maddeningly perfect. Wesker’s grip relaxed and Chris moved forward in the same instant, bringing that smouldering cigarette butt to an end on the captain’s chest. Wesker groaned, mostly from pain, and shifted his hips sharply against Chris’ leg.

Chris responded in kind, pushing his leg closer to Wesker’s crotch, pulling the cigarette away from his chest, briefly pressing it lower down, drawing another, less pained hiss from the man above him before tossing it to the ashtray. Wesker was moving restlessly, hands gripping Chris shoulders, nails digging in painfully.

“That fucking hurt.” He hissed between his teeth, the movement of his hips becoming erratic, lethargic.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Wesker admonished, pressing his lips to Chris’, not wanting to hear the shameful apologies. He tore at Chris’ belt and buttons, practically tearing the zipper down to get at him. Chris inhaled sharply as those warm hands clutched him coaxed him, he wasn’t even fully out of his pants or underwear but it didn’t seem to matter to Wesker. Clothed erection pushed against naked skin, making both men shudder.

“You should probably,” Chris began, his toes curling with the feeling of Wesker’s touches. He never got to finish his thought. Wesker had moved off of his lap and stripped off his own pants, the sight, as always, made Chris sigh, his gut clenching with wanting. The blonde’s hands were touching the two small burns, rubbing the raw skin tenderly. The one mark was on his left pectoral just above his nipple, the other next to his belly button. The imperfections on the normally perfect skin sent another shudder of adoration through Chris. He had caused those marks, something so little and perfect, like a hickey, but so much deeper.

Wesker was crawling back onto the bed, straddling Chris again, drawing his fingers across the skin of Chris’ cock. “You did this, you know.” He said, hips hovering over Chris, hands behind him, touching an area Chris had never really had the pleasure of dealing with directly. “You caused this.”

“I caused this.” Chris echoed, his own fingers brushing Wesker’s fresh wounds lightly, running from the one on the belly over the nipple to the higher one. Wesker groaned again, though whether it was from the touch, or the pain or the lust or his own slim finger pushing into him, Chris couldn’t be sure. It didn’t seem to matter. Wesker’s cock bobbed heavily above Chris’ clenching stomach muscles, a drop of pre cum beading at the slit. He touched the tip, again lightly, oh-so-lightly that it almost wasn’t a touch at all, and slid his finger into that droplet, smearing it. Wesker made some sort of noise, halfway between a grunt and a keen, and thrust at that finger. Chris, once again, obliged, forming a loose tunnel with his fist, giving Wesker something to work into.

His own erection, rather neglected nestled between Wesker’s thighs, begged for attention, pleaded painfully, every one of Wesker’s bitten out noises going straight to the core of it. But Chris wasn’t sure how to proceed. It wasn’t like he could order Wesker to do anything. So instead, he slid his free hand down his body and worked himself, knife-edging that place that resided next to perfection more than once.

“Are you ready?” Wesker’s voice had a rough edge to it, sharp and soft and lustful. Chris wasn’t sure what to be ready for, nodded mutely, kissed the skin closest to him, not entirely sure if it was Wesker’s or his own. And then, all at once he knew, because there was heat around him, hovering, quivering heat. It was all he could do not to thrust up into it. His hand on Wesker fell away, fell to the bed spread, clutched at the sheets. His eyes slid shut, teeth grabbing at his lip, but Wesker’s hand on his face stopped that. Their eyes met for a third time, but there was no revelation this time, nothing uncomfortable.

Chris was sure that Wesker was in some sort of pain, lack of lubrication and proper preparation tended to do that, but the blonde wasn’t showing any signs of feeling it. He pushed down with resolute assuredness, gaze never once leaving Chris’ face. The look was enough for Chris, he brought his hands up from the sheets to fondle Wesker’s hips, hold the man carefully while he made his descent.

And then it was over, Chris fully seated in that wonderful, tense, clenching heat. Wesker was panting lightly above him, eyes having stuttered shut at some point at the end. The first sign that there was pain. Chris loved it, needed it, needed to see it. He wished he had another cigarette, wished he could move, to pound into the yielding flesh above him. But Wesker wasn’t moving, was still adjusting to the feeling of intrusion, of Chris’ shape and girth. Chris thought he would go mad from the stillness, the lack of friction. He had never felt so terribly, helplessly amazing. Or amazingly, terribly helpless.

Then Wesker was moving, and the feeling broke over him, the madness descending as Wesker’s hips ascended and Chris accepted that he had indeed lost his mind. It was the only way to explain the spasmodic clutching of his fingers, the helpless, keening whimpers from the man above him, the tension in his legs and gut and how damn close he felt, even though Wesker had only moved a little. It was the only way to explain his own murmurings, the hushed mantra of “oh, god, don’t stop, please, please don’t stop” that was steadily gaining volume.

But Wesker seemed to have no intention of stopping (and thank god, because if he had, Chris may have well and truly lost his mind) and instead picked up his pace from snail to jet engine. Things got too hot too fast. The speed was break-neck; Chris barely keeping up, slamming upwards, knowing that he couldn’t last, not with that exquisite perfection around him, squeezing him the way it was. His hand unconsciously found Wesker’s cock, tugged at it roughly, probably painfully. Wesker groaned, rocked against him harder, lost to the world.

Chris came abruptly, throwing his head back and crying out wordlessly, hips snapping against Wesker’s buttocks, throwing off any semblance of rhythm the two had found. Wesker was quick to follow, his knees pressing into Chris’ sides painfully, whole body tensing as he crested orgasm. His cock twitched in Chris’ still moving hand, coating it in wetness as Chris continued to stroke. His movement stayed slowly, Wesker’s body unclenching around him, both of them working steadily down from the high. Chris attempted to get his breathing back under control as Wesker curled over him, blonde hair tickling his nose as the captain’s head rested on his chest.

“That…” Chris sighed, letting his hands trace up Wesker’s sides, down his back, a lethargic, easy motion, “was unexpected.” He could feel the burns, the heat emanating from them on his stomach and lower belly. He wanted to touch them again, run his tongue along them and know what the wounding on his captain would taste like. But now wasn’t the time.

“I would say it was.” Wesker said slowly, turning his head, cheek rubbing against the skin beneath him. Something in his tone was pinched, something false.

“Are you mad?”

“You asked me that already, Christopher. I would have thought my actions showed how not mad I was.”

Chris wasn’t sure how Wesker could form such complicated sentences, his own brain was too fried to even interpret them correctly. He mulled the words over in silence for a moment before asking, “So you aren’t mad?”

Wesker sighed. Something that might have been a low chuckle rumbled through him. Chris could feel it in his own chest. It felt nice. “No, I’m not mad. Just, thinking.”

“Thinking about what?”

“What other kinks you could have.” The head lifted, clear blue eyes roving over Chris’ expression. “Well, burning people with cigarettes seems to get you hot.”

Chris blushed. “That’s your kink, not mine. You just made such sexy faces, how could I not respond.”

Wesker laughed again, the tone less condescending than his usual one. “Fine. But you have a kink, Christopher. Everyone does. And I’m going to find it.” Because doing so would once again put him solidly back in the reins of power. But really, Wesker mused, as Chris fussed under him (proclaiming something like he had no kink and really there wasn’t any reason for Wesker to push the issue; which expressly told Wesker that there was indeed something to be un-mined in the Christopher Redfield fantasy folder) maybe there wasn’t something so bad about the temporary loss of control. Maybe letting Chris have his way once in a while wasn’t the end of the world. Maybe.


[A/N] So yeah, that's it. Hope you all liked it. I'll get around to posting Chapter 2 when I'm done writing it. As always rate and review if you liked it, or have any critiscism. :D