Work Text:
April 2006
Outside Chris’ apartment
Leon Kennedy
He’d forgotten—that Chris probably played guitar. The pleasing notes chase him from the window like an aftershock to his body still hot and high, an almost bittersweet shadow at his heels with Raccoon’s memory.
He turns off the sidewalk and over damp grass to his bike.
He’s getting sloppy—one thing after another. Chris makes it a little too easy to justify his alarming rate of compromises—it’s just a nice, trusted cock on the regular instead of a one night deal—it’s just dinner—it’s just going home with him for great sex—it’s just a curious little house tour—it’s just a kiss—it’s just fun.
And Redfield’s a hell of a lot of fun. Man’s got a hell of a pair of lips and one hell of a set of skills—regret’s impossible when his legs are still a bowl of pasta after Chris fucked him into a whole new zip code of fantastic. The phantom power of all the man’s talents still race along his skin as he straddles the familiar weight of his ride, grabbing his helmet.
The guitar falls silent and Krauser echoes his ear, “Have your fun with them but don’t get attached. Distractions are for the pathetic and the controlled, Rookie. Don’t ever compromise.”
His own agency controls enough of him and he never wants another Ada in his life, another person his choices end up belonging to with a willing, pathetic god damn smile at times. Chris is nothing like any of them where it counts but more trouble in ways that cling, threaten and promise things he can’t afford.
His bike motor revs and purrs its appeal, twisting his wrists and leaving the apartment in the rearview.
Gonna be hard as hell to walk away from a good time like Redfield, but one hero deserves another—the man deserves to find more than a weekend whore, to find someone who can handle his Fabio side as much as they appreciate and handle his Big Daddy side.
Someone who wouldn’t mind slipping a collar on—proverbial or otherwise—to get him hot.
Operation Hop Off needs to happen even as his body still burns with Chris’ addicting, controlling heat.
Being a hero—
It tastes like shit.
~ * ~
BSAA HQ
Leon Kennedy
Operation Hop Off proves for a shaky start in the following weeks when work brings him to HQ for a follow up report on a new BOW.
Wandering the hall towards the lab has him catching a glimpse of the masterclass in action through the open doors of the BSAA training gym. There’s a tactical respect—unspoken usually—even whenever they’re pissed and at near-blows on the field it’s still felt between them.
He pauses and lingers in the doorway for the shirtless and sweaty performance—he’ll go with database notes for his agency’s benefit as an excuse. The justification’s as weak as Hunnigan’s tea but he stays lounged against the doorframe like a shameless whore perving without a proper license.
Observing Chris train a couple of rookies hits a bit different now that he’s more than well-acquainted with all the man.
But Operation Hop Off still stands in the face of every flex of Chris’ muscles and skill, the rumbling tones of expert, patient direction to his wards. A trusted trainer and he files every second for his silent praise and pleasure. Looking and perving are not the same as a strike across the plate—a foul ball at best, maybe.
Redfield’s teaching is a hell of a contrast to Krauser’s brutal, no fucks given whether he lives or dies style of hammering and beating lessons into his brain and onto his body—scars of a weapon being forged for war—for survival.
He rests the side of his head against the cold, metal frame—which style is more efficient?
“Hn.”
He can’t really find one damn to give about finding that answer—not when Chris’ students are this eager—even smiling and laughing at times. They lack the traumatized fear and pain, fragile breath reflecting in that fucking shower room mirror as he slowly taught himself defiance.
Moments of freedom stolen, escaping his training for hits of feel good in his marathon of a slow, expected suicide by responsibility and duty.
“Use something other than your fucking spit.”
The soldier's scoffing laughter tears his hearing, fingers still probing and shoving without regard. “Awfully uppity for a guy who takes it in the ass.”
His own fingers dig into the wet concrete with the discomfort, the shower spray lukewarm to his spine. “Is that supposed to be an insult? Not really any different from getting your dick wet—just another way to feel good.” He glares over his shoulder. “Now you’ll take what I give you or you can fuck off.”
“Sure—whatever, boy.”
It takes an alarming lack of effort to twist and pop a man’s elbow enough to leave him screaming on the wet concrete at his feet.
It shouldn’t have felt so powerful and easy to hurt someone—lacking his own regard.
The forever impatient judgement of Krauser’s eyes are never far, waiting even now for him outside the defiance of the shower room, nasty cigar hanging from bruised knuckles still stained with bits of his blood from the day’s training.
A heavy cloud of smoke twists and chokes the empty hallway.
“Good—don’t ever compromise, Rookie.”
“What the hell—do you want from me?”
Krauser shoves his cigar back to his lips. “What I want is for my time not to be wasted, what I want are results.”
“So you’ll get them.”
“Something to add to the lesson?”
Breath seeps and bleeds him away from the past—Chris’ gaze pinned on him with crosshairs of an entirely different flavor.
“—Or you just gonna stand there like a judgemental prick?”
The callout burns with the tone of a quiet cocktease only they know about.
“Think I’ll pass,” he says as bored as he can manage against the demand to fight licking at his will. But his self-indulgence is becoming a hell of a problem around the man, fingers gracing his neck, letting the middle finger drag down into a flying bird across his skin as he makes his exit. “I only throw down on Fridays.”
A little douchery return cocktease never killed anybody—it’s not a strike.
Chris scoffs, “It is Friday, dipshit.”
Fuck—is it?
He heads down the hall, glancing at his watch.
Well, fuck.
“Guess it is, asshole!”
He snickers but keeps his feet moving to escape the temptation and the training gym—a familiar set of footwork taken countless times back then in Krauser’s world.
Always looking for freedom and feel-good from the nightmares and pain, the judgement and never ending lessons of duty and war. It didn't matter from who, any shadow he could pick up or run into would serve. Some mostly nameless soldier or another, or a secretary from the restricted area of the building when he was feeling extra defiant with his short leash.
His body holds no pain and fear now outside of memory’s cruelty but is this escape really so god damn different as his feet course correct away from the lab and down the other hall.
He shoves his way into the shower room for that addictive hit of feel-good he can’t stop looking for. It’s much fancier—the boys at the BSAA spare no expense with comfort it seems. Less cold concrete and more warm tile and sense of offered camaraderie.
Late evening finds the place empty. He’s never cared about privacy—or maybe it was trained out of him somehow.
Friday begs compromise as he starts shedding clothes on his way to the far stall, slinging the plastic curtain aside and twisting the handle for luxurious heat. His hands plant to the white and blue tile, steam coaxing around his body with lingering comfort.
Luxury aside, it’s all a little too familiar as he waits for the shadow he hopes he picked up, knowing very fucking well it’s Strike One slinging across the plate and into the catcher’s mitt either way.
He watches droplets of water drift down the wall in front of his nose, barely picking up a soft bit of movement, more like a sense of air shift and instinct.
Expectation.
The assassin could have slit his throat if he wasn’t waiting for him.
His fingers press into the tile.
If it wasn’t a—trusted shadow.
Heavy hands settle silently to the wall next to each of his own, the man’s heat staggering even against the wide shower spray and no contact.
He breathes for his defiance, Strike One be damned because he has plenty of game left and he can’t give a shit right now about heroics—not when Chris is at his ear, hot and savage, “Hell of a picture of a cat in fucking heat back there.”
His lips drag up with the opening shot, not even doubting its degrading accuracy.
He tilts his head enough to acknowledge the shadow. “Know a better way to call a useful dog?”
It’s always a sick curiosity. Redfield’s limits—how much can he get away with before Chris decides to stop fighting. Or loses his shit on him completely. It shouldn’t be such a fucking turn on to want that eruption.
“Not many.” Quiet laughter tickles his ear, lips brushing the shell and he tingles with tease. “So what do you want, whistleblower?” Chris’ whispers spread and promise along his skin. “Or should I guess.”
Just make me feel good.
“How much help you need?” he scoffs as he presses back just enough to invite more heat, whatever disrespect he can earn. “Boy scouts and their written directives.”
More quiet amusement.
“I like to hear it.” Chris purrs his way down the side of his neck, hands finally moving to paw along his ribs in satisfying contact. “But I can respect that kind of cautious silence, bunny.”
He bristles with the tactical shot and that god damn name in ways that leave him wanting to tilt his neck for it anyway.
You’ll never hear me beg, asshole.
Chris gently wraps fingers along his throat. “Your body doesn’t know how to fucking lie to me,” he hisses, mouth pressing and massaging, biting his neck with desired kisses and tongue.
But I guess you don’t fucking have to.
“Cocky son of a bitch,” he whispers, letting himself be pulled back against the wall of hard heat and shower spray, fingers dragging a bit down the tile. He has to concede to the arrogance because it’s too damn good, too damn true with every drag of skillful kiss to his skin, nips of teeth and every fingertip pressing pressure of request to hold him still.
A twist of movement and clicking sounds of a dispenser, Chris’ hand wrapping cool and slick around his cock with soap or something.
Thoughtful.
He doesn’t give a shit what it is—pleasure falls freely from his throat and he grasps around to cling to Chris’ hair, pulling and keeping him trapped to the side of his neck, begging for every sensation he can get, curving with Chris’ shape and fantastic wet friction.
There’s no comparison with the selfish shadows of his past, or his own selfish, desperate need for them back then. Not when he can’t find humiliation in how fast he cums into Chris’ fist, even taking added pleasure in his shadow’s rumbling pride.
“You look really fucking good wearing me on your neck like this,” Chris taunts, licking at the bite marks.
He respects the hell out of the sneaky disrespect, blood running hot, pissed off and turned on with the balls of it.
“Well take a good god damn look, Big Daddy. It’s the only fucking collar I’m ever gonna wear,” he snarls as Chris shoves him into the wall, newly slick fingers probing gently into his ass, paitent as ever with respect he doesn’t need. “Just fuck me!”
“You’ll get what you want,” Chris growls back to his ear, free hand snagging the back of his hair to keep him pressed to the wet tile. “When I decide—but begging really suits you, bunny.”
“Fuck you,” he spits fire and shamelessly honest satisfaction with the wet slide of cock he’s been waiting for, heavy and naked without a condom between them to temper his need.
One hell of a compromise that keeps him panting and moaning like a whore for it.
“Close,” Chris hisses, fingers shoving against his lips and slipping inside to disrespect his mouth, yanking him away from the wall and back to his prison. “But not quite the right words I’d need to hear.”
Why the hell would I.
He’s no hero, not when his screams muffle around Chris’ fingers, tongue and body pinned and fucked into choice surrender. Dragging fingers of violent need against Chris’ wet skin with the blistering pain of teeth claiming his body in ways he can’t fucking stop, his will vanishing into the satisfied moans of Chris’ voice and his own pathetic noise.
It shouldn’t feel this god damn powerful to be Redfield’s whore.
~ Thank you so much for reading ~