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redfieldlegacy1 · 1 month ago

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Title: Play (Chrisker One-Shot fanfiction)

Pairing: Chris Redfield / Albert Wesker

Rating: Explicit 🔞

Tags: Chrisker, angst, smut, audio confession, power imbalance, manipulation, submissive Chris, dominant Wesker, masturbation, possessiveness, S.T.A.R.S. era, cassette tape, voice kink, internal monologue, Flirty, Horny vibes, Teasing, Dirty Talk.

PLAY

The S.T.A.R.S. headquarters is a ghost town after midnight, the fluorescent lights dimmed to a faint hum, casting long shadows across the linoleum floors. Chris Redfield’s boots echo faintly as he moves through the empty halls, the weight of the cassette in his jacket pocket heavier than it should be. The black plastic is warm from his grip, the red slash in the corner a reckless mark of his unraveling. He recorded it last night, alone in his apartment, lights off, curled on the couch with the recorder pressed to his lips like a confessional. Every word was a wound, a plea, a surrender—and now he’s here, standing outside Albert Wesker’s office door, heart pounding like a drum.

The door is solid oak, polished to a sheen, with Captain A. Wesker etched on a brass plate. Chris’s breath hitches as he crouches, the cassette trembling in his hand. He shouldn’t do this. He should burn the damn thing, pretend it never happened. But his fingers move on their own, sliding the tape under the door, the plastic scraping softly against the floor. He lingers for a moment, palm pressed against the wood, imagining Wesker finding it, those cold blue eyes narrowing as he realizes what Chris has done. The thought sends a shiver through him, equal parts dread and desire. He stands, wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans, and slips back into the shadows, leaving the tape behind like a bomb waiting to detonate.

___________________________________________________

Inside the office, Albert Wesker remains long after the team has gone home, the silence of the S.T.A.R.S. headquarters a rare luxury. The room is a fortress of order—metal filing cabinets, a polished desk, a single tumbler of bourbon catching the dim glow of a desk lamp. The blinds are half-drawn, slivers of moonlight cutting through the darkness, painting the walls in stark contrasts of silver and shadow. Wesker’s leather chair creaks faintly as he leans back, gloved hands steepled, his sharp features unreadable. He’s reviewing mission reports, or so he tells himself, but his focus wavers, a rare lapse in his iron discipline.

His eyes catch on the cassette, lying just inside the door where it was slipped under, a black rectangle with a single red slash in the corner. It’s out of place, an intrusion in his meticulously controlled world. He rises, movements fluid and predatory, and retrieves it, turning it over in his gloved hands. No label, no note—just the red mark, like a drop of blood. His lips curl into a faint, amused smirk. He knows who left it. Only one person would be this reckless, this desperate.

Wesker returns to his desk, settling into the chair with deliberate calm. He slides the cassette into an old player he keeps in a drawer, a relic from his days of cataloging interrogations. His gloved finger hovers over the play button, a moment of anticipation he savors. Then he presses it, and the machine whirs to life, a faint hiss crackling through the silence before Chris Redfield’s voice spills out, low and ruined, like a man confessing to a sin he can’t escape.

“You haven’t touched me in eighteen days.”

Wesker’s smirk sharpens, a predator scenting blood. Eighteen days. The precision is almost pathetic, a tally of longing etched into Chris’s voice. Wesker’s fingers tap a slow rhythm against the armrest, a metronome of control. He can picture Chris in that dingy apartment, curled on a worn couch, counting the hours like a prisoner marking time. The thought is… deliciously satisfying.

“I keep thinking about your mouth. About the way you bite when you lose control. You remember that? Or is that just me?”

Chris’s voice trembles, raw with need, and Wesker’s eyes narrow, a flicker of heat stirring beneath his icy composure. He remembers—vividly. The locker room, the heat of Chris’s skin under his teeth, the way he’d arched into the pain, gasping like it was a gift. Wesker shifts in his chair, the leather creaking softly, his gloved hand tightening on the armrest as he forces himself to remain still, to savor the power Chris is handing him on a platter.

“I jerked off in the showers today. I thought about you the whole time. Thought about you bending me over that steel sink again.”

Wesker’s breath catches, a subtle lapse he immediately regrets. The image is searing—Chris braced against the sink, head bowed, muscles taut, the cold metal biting into his hips as Wesker fucked him with ruthless precision. The memory is a spark, igniting something dangerous in Wesker’s chest. His hand drifts to his lap, resting there, not yet moving, but the temptation is a low hum under his skin, growing louder with every word.

“I didn’t finish. Couldn’t. Not without your hand on my throat.”

The admission cuts through Wesker’s composure like a blade. He leans forward, elbows on the desk, his gaze locked on the spinning cassette as if he could see Chris through it—flushed, trembling, unraveling in that grimy shower stall. The thought of Chris failing to find release without him is intoxicating, a testament to the control Wesker wields even in absence. His fingers brush the edge of his tie, loosening it with a slow, deliberate tug, a concession to the heat coiling in his gut, sharp and insistent.

“You left bruises on my hips. I want more.”

Wesker’s eyes darken, pupils dilating as he pictures those bruises—purpling marks against Chris’s tanned skin, a map of his dominance. The idea of adding more, of pressing harder, deeper, until Chris is marked inside and out, sends a pulse of arousal through him. His gloved hand presses against his thigh, the leather creaking faintly, testing his restraint. He can still feel the ghost of Chris’s hips under his palms, the way they’d bucked against him, desperate and yielding.

“Use me like you did after the briefing, remember? When I couldn’t walk straight for two days.”

The memory hits like a drug—post-mission adrenaline, the supply closet, Chris pinned against a shelf, Wesker’s hands ruthless, his control fraying just enough to let something feral slip through. Chris had been a mess, pliant and desperate, his gasps muffled against Wesker’s shoulder as he’d fucked him into oblivion. The next day, Chris had limped through training, every wince a silent reminder of Wesker’s claim. Wesker’s lips part slightly, his breath slower, heavier, as the tape continues.

“I can still feel you, you know. The way you fucked me so hard I forgot my own name. I want that again. I want you to make me beg for it, make me crawl for you, Wesker. I want you to fuck me until I’m screaming, until I’m nothing but yours.”

Chris’s voice drops lower, thick with arousal, and Wesker’s jaw clenches, a muscle ticking faintly. The audacity of it—Chris laying himself bare, offering himself up like this—stirs something dangerous in Wesker, a hunger he rarely allows himself to indulge. His hand moves, brushing the front of his slacks, a deliberate graze that sends a jolt through him. He doesn’t give in—not yet—but the heat is undeniable, a fire stoked by Chris’s reckless confessions.

“I keep imagining you there, in the office. Bending me over your desk, ripping my clothes off, fucking me raw until the whole building hears me. I want you to take me apart, Wesker, until I’m a mess you made, until I can’t even stand.”

A low hum escapes Wesker’s throat, unbidden, and he catches it, his lips pressing into a thin line. The image is vivid—Chris sprawled across this very desk, papers scattered, jeans shoved down, his body flushed and trembling under Wesker’s hands. The thought sends a shiver through him, and his fingers curl, nails digging into the leather of his glove as he fights the urge to give in to the heat pooling in his gut.

“I want you to fuck me until I can’t think, until I’m nothing but your slut, your toy, your fucking pet. Call me whatever you want, just don’t stop. I want you to use me until I’m shaking, until I’m begging you to let me come, until I’m sobbing your name.”

Wesker’s breath catches, sharper this time, and he despises the lapse. Chris’s words are a weapon, each one chipping away at his iron control. The raw need in his voice, the way it frays with desperation, is a heady thing, a reminder of the power Wesker holds. His hand presses harder against his slacks, the contact sending a spark through him, but he stops short, his discipline a thin thread holding him together.

“I keep dreaming about your hands. The way they feel when you’re rough, when you don’t hold back. I want you to choke me again, to make me gasp your name. I want you to fuck me so hard I can’t stand, so deep I feel you for weeks.”

The tape hisses, and then there’s a sound—a low, unmistakable moan, the rustle of fabric, the creak of a couch as Chris touches himself. Wesker’s eyes narrow, his pulse hammering as he listens to the soft, desperate sounds, the slick rhythm of Chris’s hand, the ragged edge of his breaths. It’s raw, unfiltered, and Wesker feels it like a current under his skin, electric and dangerous. His gloved hand moves, a slow drag across the front of his slacks, the pressure deliberate, testing the edge of his restraint.

“I want you to tie me up, Wesker. Use those cuffs from the armory. Make it hurt. Make me feel it for days. I want to see your marks every time I look in the mirror, to know you’ve ruined me.”

Wesker’s eyes glint, a predatory edge sharpening his gaze. The image of Chris bound, wrists red from struggling, his body marked and trembling, is almost too much. His hand tightens, a faint tremor betraying the effort to stay still. He can see it—Chris on his knees, head bowed, begging for more, his skin a canvas of Wesker’s control. The thought is a drug, and Wesker’s pulse quickens, his breath coming slower, heavier.

“I want you to fuck my mouth, Wesker. Hold my head and make me take it, make me choke on you. I want to taste you, to feel you lose control for once. I want you to come on my face, to mark me like that, to make me yours in every fucking way.”

The words are a shock, raw and filthy, and Wesker’s control frays further, his hand pressing harder against his slacks, the leather glove creaking as he grips himself through the fabric. The image is searing—Chris on his knees, lips swollen, eyes defiant even as he submits, his face marked with Wesker’s release. Wesker’s jaw clenches, his breath hitching as he fights the urge to give in fully, to let Chris’s voice unravel him completely.

“I want you to punish me, Wesker. Spank me, whip me, whatever you want. Make me earn it. Make me beg until my voice is gone. I want to be on my knees for you, to feel you break me, to know I’m yours even if you throw me away after.”

Chris’s voice is a wreck now, slurred with arousal, and Wesker’s control is a fraying thread. The image of Chris bent over, skin red and welted, begging for more, is a fantasy Wesker didn’t know he wanted until now. His hand moves, gripping himself harder, the pressure a deliberate concession to the heat Chris has stoked. He doesn’t come—won’t—but the thought of Chris broken and pleading is a drug he can’t ignore.

“I’m hard just thinking about it. About you fucking me with that voice—telling me I’m yours, even though you’ll pretend I don’t exist tomorrow.”

The accusation lands like a blade, and Wesker’s smirk returns, colder, sharper. Chris isn’t wrong—Wesker’s indifference is a weapon, honed to keep him off balance, to keep him hungry. But the resentment in Chris’s voice, the way it cracks with need and anger, stirs something in Wesker he doesn’t care to name. His fingers move, a slow, deliberate drag across the zipper of his slacks, the contact sending a jolt through him. He’s too disciplined to give in fully, but the temptation is a live wire, sparking with every word.

“I want you to fuck me in front of a mirror, Wesker. Make me watch myself fall apart, make me see how pathetic I am for you. I want you to spit in my mouth, to tell me I’m nothing without you. I want you to own every fucking inch of me.”

Chris’s voice is barely holding together, raw and desperate, and Wesker’s hand tightens, his breath hitching as the image burns into his mind—Chris on his back, staring at his own reflection, broken and owned, Wesker’s voice cutting through him like a knife. The thought is almost too much, and Wesker’s fingers press harder, a slow, deliberate rhythm, his discipline fraying at the edges.

“I want you to ruin me again, Wesker.”

The name is a prayer and a curse, and Wesker’s jaw clenches, his eyes dark with something feral. He can picture it—Chris broken beneath him, owned, marked, his defiance reduced to whimpers. The thought is intoxicating, a power he craves even as he fights to keep it leashed. His hand presses harder, a slow, deliberate rhythm, but he stops short, his discipline a thin shield against the fire in his veins.

“If you’re not going to answer me, at least do one thing.”

Wesker leans closer to the recorder, his breath slow and measured, but his eyes are locked on the cassette, as if Chris’s voice could pull him through the machine. The defiance in those final words, the challenge, is a spark to dry tinder.

“Play this while you touch yourself. I want you to come to my voice.”

The tape clicks off, the silence deafening, heavy with the weight of Chris’s surrender. Wesker sits back, his chest rising and falling with deliberate calm, but his eyes are dark, glittering with a hunger he rarely allows himself to feel. His hand lingers in his lap, fingers brushing the fabric, a slow, deliberate tease. He doesn’t give in—not fully—but the thought of Chris’s voice, broken and begging, is a temptation he’ll revisit, again and again.

He ejects the cassette, turning it over in his hand, the red mark glaring up at him like a dare. Chris is a liability, a weakness Wesker should crush before it festers. But the tape is a trophy, a testament to his power, and he’ll keep it. He’ll listen again, late at night in this very office, when the world is quiet and his control can slip, just a fraction. When he sees Chris next, he’ll let the silence speak, let Chris drown in his own need, knowing Wesker holds the leash.

Wesker stands, leaving the tape on the desk, the bourbon untouched. The office is silent again, but the air hums with the promise of what’s to come. The game is far from over—it’s only just begun.

💜Thank you for making it to the end.

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More unhinged fanfiction? I’m on AO3: @RedfieldLegacy

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