Work Text:
April 2006
Chris’ Apartment
Chris Redfield
The damn carpet ate the damn key to the damn handcuffs, he’s almost god damn positive.
Or Leon stole it to be a prick—it wouldn’t even surprise him.
He gives up for now, shoving to his feet with a huff and ripping the dirty sheets from the bed instead, tossing them to the hamper on his way to the bathroom to clean up.
The heat is just what he needed, indulging in a lingering shower and running soap silky slick everywhere he can reach. He inhales the crispy cool scent palette cleansing his skin, wrists heavy and uncomfortable with the warm metal still clasped around them, broken chain dangling from each.
He scrubs his hands across his face, dragging blistering heat to clear away the sweat of the night. His mind, body and time should be better spent on the war—on Wesker and ending the nightmare once and for all. Instead he’s focused more and more on indulging in a rabbit hole he should’ve known the danger of.
The bathroom falls silent with the twist of the shower handle and he wraps his favorite extra large towel around his hips like a comfort cape.
He did know the danger if he’s fucking honest with his hindsight—Leon was already a hell of a distraction and tempting torment even before he ever got into the man’s pants. The fuck did he think was gonna happen once he started dicking him on the regular.
But it’s a little late for that kind of regret or retreat, his body still thrumming with the satisfaction of having Leon at his mercy and screaming for him. The lingering desire for his presence is almost pathetic, shuffling out to the hall, water running in tickling lines down his spine and arms, dripping against the cuffs.
What other sounds and pleasure can he learn to coax from Leon.
The light is still on in his office and he moves inside, heads right past the light switch and to his desk for a little more of Fabio’s indulgence—away from the bitchiness of a reluctant bunny.
His drawing—it’s gone.
He shuffles through all the papers to make sure.
It cuts, imagining that Leon was probably smart enough and scared enough, petty enough to take it along with the key, throw it away somewhere to send a message, rid himself of a growing attachment neither of them really have any business indulging this deep in, ending the game of chicken before it can get out of hand.
Still. It cuts.
Heavily, he’s pathetic enough to admit.
He flicks the lights on his way out, pausing in the hall with the clink of glass off to his left. Kitchen light’s on as he creeps to the living room—a breeze of chilly wind hits his wet skin.
He’s sure he heard the roar of Leon’s motorcycle departing long ago and he tenses as he glances to the front door—locked—his eyes bouncing to the open window behind the sofa.
The fire escape.
“Leon?” he tests against the sounds of movement in the room beyond.
The click of a heel on linoleum.
“Not quite.”
A woman, a stranger and she comes into view of the kitchen doorway, a glass of amber in her hand—his whiskey no doubt.
“And you are?” he snaps, tensing further to analyze her threat.
East Asian, slender-strong limbs, pistol strapped to the tactically tight pants of her thigh. She’s no civilian, an air of skill and experience, floral blouse blood red and flowing, lips just as bright and crisp with her smile.
He adds, “I’d say make yourself at home but thinking it’s a little late for that.”
Her eyes are dark smoke and curious, tilting his glass to her lips for a coy little sip. There’s a careless ease in her non-aggression and he finds himself relaxing with it against his instincts.
“Well it is rather rude to barge in on someone when they’re busy with company,” she purrs lightly, disappearing back into the kitchen like she’s inviting him into his own space. “Ada Wong—an information broker of sorts. I came to do a bit of business with our mutual contact—but maybe—something interesting to be found here.”
Ada Wong.
He’s certain he’s heard the name, making his way into the harsh lights of the kitchen. He watches as she hovers around his simple wooden table.
Her gaze stays on the paper resting casually in her free hand as she takes another sip.
His missing drawing—he flexes with the immediate rage and urge to rip his property from her fingers. Exactly how much of his stuff has she rifled through right under his nose.
Her audacity further pisses him off and a bit of memory clicks—Claire’s soured face, animated and regaling the story of “—a spy with enough feminine wiles to choke a dumb gorilla. You should have seen how stupid Leon was for Ada’s crap. Practically tripping over himself to please her obvious lies.”
“So you survived Raccoon City after all.”
A tiny smile as she sets the glass down to the table. “I see you’ve done a little homework.”
“He really cared about her, Chris. I wish he could have saved her, y’know?”
If there’s anyone he can trust, it’s his baby sister.
“Enough to know you’re trouble,” he rumbles his threat.
“Maybe too much homework,” she says, dragging her gaze over and along his lower body with a cool curiosity. “Or maybe you can form your own opinion—seems like a party I missed out on.” Her heels click as she hovers right into his space and he doesn’t back an inch, her extravagant perfume heavy against his nose. Slender fingers tease across his left cuff, nails painted and sharp and his skin wants to shiver with prickles. “Shame I wasn’t invited this time—could have been something unforgettable.”
“Real shame,” he snaps quietly, shifting his hand out of her grasp. “Now get to the point—somehow I doubt it’s just jealousy.”
“Jealousy is a pointless concept in business,” she informs him with a little laugh like he’s a moron, stepping back and tilting her head. “Chris Redfield—former member of the illustrious S.T.A.R.S. Now a decorated Captain of the BSAA he helped form. Quite the hero’s resume.”
“A little homework of your own, I see,” he tests her.
“Enough to know you’re after Albert Wesker—maybe I can help with that. It’s pretty personal from what I hear."
He can’t deny the engulfing fire across his skin with that name.
“Wesker—won’t say you don’t have my attention, Wong. Exactly what is it you’re offering?”
“Information, as I said.” She slips something from her pocket, holding it out to him. “Taken a few weeks ago in the Eastern pockets of Romania.”
He takes the photograph from her—the small photo’s blurry and unfocused but there’s no denying the hair, features and sunglasses.
“Interested in a little business?”
He looks up at her quiet purr. His instincts scream he probably really shouldn’t. But anything that can lead him to Wesker—he doesn’t have the luxury of a choice.
“What’s in it for you?” he questions as she takes the photo back.
“Depends on the client.” She smiles, low and luring like a salespitch. “Cash, favors—but for heroes, maybe something more personally pleasant.” Her fingers reach again for his arm but he snatches her wrist, more out of the petty thoughts that linger and scorch—her and Leon tangling together in ways that shouldn’t be his business.
But burns his ass, anyway.
Still, he’s a little impressed by her complete non-reaction to his size and aggression. She’s clearly confident in her abilities in ways he better not underestimate.
“Gay,” he says simply.
“I see.” She hums, easing herself out of his grasp. “Can’t say that’s not a pity—but this would more than suffice.” She gestures to the drawing in her hand, her eyes appreciating its quality in every way he doesn’t fucking approve of. “You have other talents—be a shame not to put them to good use.”
He bristles his size and voice, “His privacy isn’t for sale.”
A tiny smack of her painted lips. “Noble,” she offers quietly. “Boring and predictable…but noble.” She lays the drawing to the table. “Cash, then. What do you say, Captain?”
He’d like to say eat shit.
“Well you know what they say,” he rumbles with low laughter. “Keep your friends close.”
Her sly smile could almost be attractive. “Not a bad idea.” She slips something else from her pocket—his wallet. She tosses it over. “Don’t worry, I’m no petty pocket thief—you’ll find nothing missing.”
He wants to doubt that as he catches the leather in his fist. But somehow he bets she’s telling the truth—she seems cocky enough for it.
She again picks up his drawing of Leon, her fingers almost a gentle caress to the edges. “But you never do business with someone unless you know they can afford it.”
Claire’s words come back to bite him and he finds himself glaring at her hands on his property like a childish pit bull he can’t be proud of.
“Agreed,” he bites out. “I’m in. But it better be worth it, Wong.”
“Well I guess that’s for you to decide—isn’t it.”
He’s not sure they’re still talking about business as he fishes money from his wallet
~ * ~
July 2006
Leon’s apartment
Leon Kennedy
Ada’s high-shelf perfume still clings to his nose even after a hot shower, a spicy jasmine that never quite leaves. Her velvet-hot kiss still a tingling phantom to his mouth, always convincing himself she means it in her own way.
But for the first time in his life, a different set of lips crossed his mind tonight when he kissed her. The lure of the tight little lacey choker she normally wears around her neck—a simple piece of jewelry he’s never thought twice about before.
Making love to Ada is a double edged sword of destruction he never thought could compare or even wanted to compare with anyone else. But Operation Hop Off barely has a fucking leg to stand on anymore, strike after strike racking up over the months until he’s left fighting and bleeding in the bottom of the ninth inning somewhere.
There’s always a good excuse handy for taking Chris to bed just one more time. A growing greed for writhing and cumming like his highly satisfied, highly paid personal whore. A set of eyes that can command his willful god damn obedience just like her.
But he still tries to be the hero of the ball game—mainly by staying the hell away from the man. It only works for so long—either Chris gets fed up and hunts him down for sex or his own pathetic withdrawals take over, keeping him off-balance and nearly begging in all the humiliating ways he’s only ever endured from her.
He escaped Ada’s hotel room tonight like it was on fire—something he’s normally loath to do, always lingering for as long as they can both tolerate.
“So soon?” She questions his departure from the silk sheets. “You really are in a mood tonight,” she softly clips. “It makes me curious.”
Shit—the last thing he ever needs is for Ada to get curious.
He owes Chris that much.
“Sorry, Ada. Just a lot going on with work, haven’t slept in days,” he lies.
But as questionable as his relationship with Ada is, or even the woman herself, her intel is usually solid—a possible lead on Ozwell Spencer could be the first step in ending this war.
He flicks another dart towards the well-poked board on the far wall, nearly a perfect circle forming around the perimeter as he waits for sat link footage on his computer. Miles of empty forest slowly scan and form along the screen, searching for something, anything in the general coordinates Ada gave him.
The search grid is massive, nothing he can do but wait.
Story of his fucking life.
But the night is quiet, his office suffocating in preferred shadow against the monitor glow. Nice and comfortable in satisfying solitude, curious as his security system pings with late night hall crawlers heading home, his second monitor lighting up with their movements.
Like a window spy he watches their lives from time to time, a welcome distraction from a prisoner’s mind, guessing what’s chasing their steps to get home so late.
Traffic. Work. Mundane problems—pleasures. Is someone waiting for them? Kids still awake in the darkness for late kisses and good nights. A slighted lover waiting for an explanation. How smashed is the guy in twenty two this time—what kind of nightmares keep them up in the night.
He’d probably be like them if bio terror never was.
It still cuts when he lets it, imagining a different life with a badge and uniform he could be proud of, flipping the dart over and over in his fingers as he watches.
An older woman steps along, sure and steady, balancing bundles of paper sacks—fireworks from the looks of it. Preparations for the upcoming fourth. His apartment never carries the bothers of holiday. Celebrations and family, sentiment, more things he left at the doorstep of Raccoon.
The dart zings through the air to land on target.
He loves it, needs it for them—he’ll fight this war for the rest of his life for their freedom to live in peace.
He fiddles with his last dart, watching another guy enter the building. His fingers pause with the tight skip in his heartbeat, thumbing along the sharp dart tip—well fuck.
Looks like his latest game of hide and seek is over.
Disciplined movements, familiar presence and posture of a military man—it all snags his recognition before he even registers Chris’ face through the screen—tight as hell t-shirt hugging miles of muscles, criminally covered with a light over shirt.
He tilts his wrist to check the time against the glow just to make sure—minutes till midnight—till Friday. He huffs, blood already stirring because it’s no boy scout making his way through the building up to his floor.
Big Daddy’s coming—and he’s coming fast, steady steps of a haunt finding his chains.
He doesn’t fuck here. He doesn’t have company over. He doesn’t show or share his space. His apartment isn’t a compromise he ever makes.
He flings his last dart, completing the circle with a heavy thwack to maybe somewhat satisfy his rebellion because telling Chris no is proving an impossible game to win.
How the hell the man found out where he lived he can only guess, a low laugh almost bubbling as he imagines Redfield asking his baby sister for the information. Probably the only civilian who knows where he hangs his firearms.
The only other person is Ada, not that he had or has much of a choice in her tendency to show up whenever the hell she wants.
Guess it’s another damn thing the two have in common.
He snickers quietly, unfolding his legs from the top of his desk, bare feet hitting the carpet and he snags his shirt from the back of his chair to slip into, a pointless protection against the man that he leaves unbuttoned.
A second thought, glancing back, the shadows catching and framing around his personal artifacts, memories—and his baseball card collection.
“Nope,” he pops quietly with a swift kick to the door to close it behind his exit.
Two knocks on his front door—just enough to demand attention but not enough to wake him from sleep. Like Redfield himself, a quiet, respectful storm brewing with powerful backdrafts beneath the surface. Rebellion begs to wait out the Friday countdown, push his luck and test the storm, see how high the wind can drive.
But the greed of a whore has him moving past the late night News on tv, flicking the lamp on to illuminate his shadows, opening his home to invite more destruction.
His fingers pause against the handle, a threshold of change that flickers his ghost.
Can’t really go back once he opens his home like this.
Goddamn Redfield.
He pulls it open with a heavy click, the hint of a smile waiting on the other side half framed in shadow against the hallway light. Cocksure and all gorgeous Redfield in every brace of limb and stance like he’s right where he meant to be. Chris’ jaw runs rough tonight, sporting rare stubble he loves running his tongue over.
But it’s the man’s eyes that always pack a hell of a punch—a steady sniper, soft behind the stormfront. Bits of red ring around the lens tonight, accompanying a breeze of whiskey drifting between them.
Big Daddy’s been drinking—well that’s fucking interesting.
Curiosity overtakes any rebellion he could still try for and he leans on the edge of the door, propping his arm above his head against it. He tilts and teases his neck to let his dangling fingers brush and lightly scratch the skin.
The silent shot earns an expected curve of a lip, Chris almost mirroring his stance against the doorframe, braced on his forearm. Familiar heat darkens the set of powerful crosshairs as he’s pinned in place and wordlessly labeled as Redfield’s whore.
And fuck if he can’t stop craving that raw want and unspoken claim, an almost humiliating power coating his skin like no one else dares.
The tight lines of Chris’ face licks at him, expressions and subtle signs of quiet rage he’s learned in his proud, appointed career of pissing the man off. A favorite little hobby, luring out and tasting all the flavors of Redfield Rage—at his most beautiful when laced with lust.
Whiskey chaos is something new in his favorite cocktail.
How does it taste.
Chris’ lips drag just a little higher. “Tick tock, asshole.”
Almost midnight and he feels it, the hot dare screaming in the space between them.
A hero would shut the door on a liquored up throw down. But Chris’ steps were more than steady and the way he’s poised in his doorway like a patient panther has him too fucking hot and curious just how far the man’s balls hang tonight.
How bad you want it, Redfield?
He steels his gaze and voice, “I don’t fuck here.” A pointless test of nutsack and game against the tingles of anticipating heavy hands dragging him to a sweaty, hellish mess.
Come here.
“Oh really?” Chris barks, crackles of added thunder in his features.
Pissy. Questioning. Like he doesn’t believe him. Not exactly the flavor of return fire he was expecting—a blow against his honor he’s never felt from the man before.
It—kind of stings differently than a usual barb.
But he’s more than up for the game. “Nope—can’t risk having stray dogs following me home.”
Chris’ lips twitch.
Tick tock, asshole.
The panther pounces with slow, steady purpose, pushing from the frame. Chris steps straight into his home and space, large palm snatching the door and pushing it shut like it’s his to handle.
Good boy.
He has little doubt, but sneaks a glance at his watch and nearly smiles—midnight on the dot.
Efficient bastard.
Breath of a laugh, Chris shucking the light flannel from his shoulders. “Good thing I’m not a stray, then.” He hangs it next to the door, next to his own jackets and the move, the violation could almost be fucking foreplay.
Maybe it is.
“Heh, don’t be so sure, not with that scruff,” he fights back even as he leans against the door, spine already curving for the warm palms wrapping around under his shirt, tilting his neck for Chris’ approach, skin rushing hot how he likes with the tickles of stubble and whiskey breath.
“Nobody made you open the fucking door,” Chris rumbles, vibrates his bones and his neck bends back to the whims of tongue across his throat leaving wet trails and promises.
“C’mon, Chris.” His breath snakes and moans. “Can’t leave a hungry dog out in the cold.”
A grunt. “No? You’re good at it.” Chris’ hand on his spine drops, clasps across his ass with a painful, perfect squeeze against his jeans.
Not good enough.
“Yet you keep coming back for more,” he accuses, letting his thighs be shoved apart by Chris’ knee.
“So tell me no,” Chris whispers, taunting like a stolen secret.
Quiet chuckles when he doesn’t answer, cocky nips of teeth below his ear.
“Must be all that cat in heat persuasion,” Chris adds.
His lips curve with their ease of play.
“Fuck you.” He husks his laugh, rougher than he’d like. “But good possibility.” He wraps his arms around Chris’ shoulders to keep him close, digging fingers into the soft cotton of his shirt. “Gonna share what’s got the boy scout all pissed and liquored? It’s Show and Tell Friday, asshole.”
A tiny huff of breath to his skin, almost missed, heavy palms clasping just that much harder around his body.
“Business,” Chris eventually clips.
He’s sorry he asked, the sour notes pissing on his game—Chris’ tone, the war, who they are—reality drifting where it’s not wanted and splashing his parade.
“Work—who would have guessed.” He snickers, shoving his jaw against soft hair tickling his face. “It’s Friday—so how ‘bout you kiss me, you fucking pussy,” he quips, looking for better buttons to press as he scrapes his fingertips along Chris’ shoulders.
“Look who’s talking,” Chris barks sharp amusement, ignoring his request and his bullshit, softly nosing at the side of his neck instead.
Prick.
“It’s just an insufferable, gloating pain in the fucking ass I’ve been working with,” Chris bites out like it’s poison. “It doesn’t matter.”
Interesting. He could—almost be jealous. He’s the king of getting on Redfield’s nerves. Or at least he was—it used to be so easy to piss him off, but the man almost seems to get off on his bullshit anymore.
“Here I thought I reigned as the biggest thorn in your ass. Guess I’m off my game,” he teases and the raging hurricane he was fishing for is hot and immediate.
“Guess you’ll have to settle for second place,” Chris snaps in a quiet thunderclap, hand fisting into his hair with satisfying violence. He wants everything he can earn of Redfield’s wild flavor kept hidden and controlled under a boy scout’s lock and key.
A flavor of disrespect reserved for mouthy whores.
It’s sweet as holy hell.
“Fuck,” he whispers, begging the lips against his neck. “Settling’s not my style, Big Daddy. Looking for a whore’s ass to take it out on?”
“Planned on it, you bendy little terror.”
Chris’ impatient groans tickle and please his skin, getting him hot to earn more. He rolls his hips with the heavy grip on his ass, tensing when Chris suddenly lifts him up with little effort like he weighs next to nothing.
Hard to deny the massive turn on, impressed with the size of Redfield’s balls to try such a move on him.
“Well now you’re just showing off, asshole,” he breathes to Chris’ neck. He wraps his limbs around solid, steady muscle as he’s carried toward the back hallway.
“Gonna bitch about it?” Chris rumbles deep and heavy, palms squeezing his ass.
“Only if I’m not getting dicked at the end of this little princess ride,” he whispers, moaning stolen notes for the carnal masterclass in action. “End of the hall, handsy bastard.”
He keeps his mouth busy with the side of Chris’ jaw as they move into the darkness, trusting the man’s sense of direction, running his tongue and lips as he pleases across stubble and hard lines, cock throbbing and tight in his jeans for attention.
He didn’t think it’d be this damn hot—he’s carried a few ladies to bed, but never been on the receiving end of the princess treatment. Is the ride something he could be into or is he just hot for Redfield.
The appeal dims in the threat of a different shadow, and the answer flies like another middle finger to his rebellion—directing Chris to his bedroom, his most personal space rather than the untouched, pointless guest room he could have chosen.
Just another compromise he’s willing to make.
The chill of his bedroom hits up the back of his shirt like a welcoming kiss. As close to the sensation of home as he can dare in an apartment chosen for him, his favorite haunt of moonlight and shadow. The only allowed witness to his innermost secrets, nightmares and regrets.
And pleasure, now, as he lands on the soft blankets, his detergents and faint gunpowder mixing in his nose with the new addition of Chris’ chaos. He welcomes the scent blend with the heavy shadow covering his body, adjusting to it easier than he expected, raking his fingers down Chris’ spine, hand bumping a hard rectangle where a perfect ass cheek should be.
He hums, curious as he fingers around Chris’ pants pocket. “Your ass is—kinda happy to see me.”
Chris mirrors the lazy noise, settling down, nosing across his throat with quiet drags of lips, the storm passing into a calm, suspicious drizzle.
“Mm, part of the reason I came—brought something for you.”
He balks at the silky smooth, flirty warmth sneaking out of that mouth.
“What the hell, Redfield, this isn’t a date. So unless it’s the keys to a brand new Porsche, it can stay in your ass.”
Chris snorts softly and then laughs, free and easy into his neck.
The kind of laugh that keeps the lights on in the darkness.
“A pointless, over-priced luxury car? Not in a million years, asshole.” Chris runs his hands in slow tracks across his ribs and into his shirt, voice falling just as quiet and dangerous, “But what if it were? What then, genius?”
He huffs.
Chris is fucking with him but Fabio’s bullshit sparks warmer still across his guts, changing the game, Daniel dancing into his mind like a stab wound, a guilty little jealous secret he’ll never spill.
“I’d tell you to fuck off,” he spits fire even as he tilts and bends his neck, chasing Chris’ tongue, prickles of unwanted heat racing under the man’s touch. “I’m nobody’s sugar baby—sure as hell not your precious fucking Baby Boy to take care of.”
Chris laughs at him like a purr, curiously unbothered by his pissy rebellion. “No doubt, with all that pride. And you’re far from it—” His tongue curls up and along the bottom of his earlobe, dragging a warm shiver he’ll never admit to.
A cocky whisper, “—Daniel’s a hell of a lot less obedient for me.”
He explodes with the .50 caliber shot to his nuts.
“Fuck you, Redfield,” he lashes out with a jerk of his jaw as Chris tilts back. “Ten ways I could kill you right now—if I wanted.”
Faint moonlight keeps the room from total darkness, the arrogant prick wearing the tease of a smile in the shadows.
“Oh, no need to sell yourself short—twelve ways you could try to kill me—if you wanted,” Chris rumbles and dips back close, lips light as a brush against his jaw, heavy fist raking down his abs to paw across his jeans. “I’m already hard as hell, bunny—but keep bitching.”
Prick.
He fumes—that bunny shit is gonna follow him to the grave, only coming up with eleven at most, shifting and chasing for the harsh friction of Chris’ hand. Whiskey chaos is proving to have a ruthless fucking bite to it—nothing more humiliating than losing control and letting all his buttons get so easily pressed.
Especially by Redfield.
In his own god damn bed.
He can’t tell if he’s pissed off because he’s turned on or turned on more because he’s pissed off.
And begging for it—hoping for more.
Chris’ attention’s always been oddly fucking addicting with all its flavors, but as a Friday lover it’s setting hooks to his skin he can’t figure out how to untangle.
Or even want to bother fighting anymore—it flickers hotter as he nuzzles against rough, wandering lips that have learned how to wind him up until he can’t give a damn, writhing his body with Chris’ rhythm.
Operation Hop Off was a fuck fest of a failure and he concedes the field and his loss of pride in Redfield’s verbal firing squad, trailing fingertips up the hard, sexy curve of Chris’ spine.
“Well give me something to bitch about then, Big Daddy,” he rumbles, indulges the man. “What’s in the box?”
A pause in the darkness, palm hesitating on his cock.
Chris probably expected a bitchy return fire. Hell, anything else, really.
“It’s just your request,” Chris eventually says.
His own fingers pause and linger, memory touching like a cocktease wrapped in something hotter.
My request.
A jolt of adrenaline—Chris’ sexy as hell collection of firearms and the rarest, most gorgeous weapon sight he’s ever appraised and desired. And one hell of a dance, Chris’ stolen kiss a hot prison brand he didn’t mind forfeiting to.
He didn’t really think—
“Thought we were just fucking around, getting hot,” he forces out. Honesty’s sake, on the one day of the week that always demands and forces it from them somehow. “You don’t really owe me something like that.”
He’d already written the expensive request off as nothing but pointless foreplay and it stabs hot in its refusal to be smothered—of course Redfield keeps his word.
Of course he does—fucking boy scout hero asshole. It curls warmer inside, threatening with tenderness somewhere over the god damn rainbow where a ghost doesn’t belong.
“You asked,” Chris says, sighs quietly and reaches for his jaw in the darkness, warm drags of thumb across lips still tasting the fucking Skittles. “Very nicely, in fact,” he throws his own words that night back at him, followed with a little chuckle he finds cute as hell. “But of course you’d find a way to bitch about it, Leon.”
He squirms under soft indulgence keeping him pinned to the sheets rather than any muscles—lured to his own bed by Big Daddy and trapped with Fabio, instead.
“Being in debt’s not my style,” he defends the shreds of remaining pride, clawing for protection.
Silent consideration, Chris’ thumb trailing to a stop, the shifting moon catching across his eyes, the steady hunter’s gaze—kept impressively hidden behind a lover’s tongue.
He sucks a short breath—snared in those beautiful, razor sharp crosshairs he lost sight of and his lips part with the hot reminder.
No, he was lured and trapped by Redfield. The marksman and tactician looking for weakness and he’s let him, bled for him since he walked into the building. Or really ever since he hopped his horny, bunny fucking ass onto Chris’ desk that night.
“Fine. Want to make it even?” Chris dares him, his shadow shifting in the darkness, fisting the box against his chest, cold cardboard edged with hot fingertips. “Assemble it. Let me watch.” The patience of a panther strikes for vitals, tongue and teeth running wet and violent across his throat. “And let me tongue that ass.”
Christ—heavy fucking blood draw and he moans his death and getting Chris’ tongue exactly where he likes having it.
He snickers hollow breath, rolling his neck to let Chris better have his way. “Jesus—that kind of pick up game could get a monk to bend over.”
Big Daddy and Fabio make a hell of a tag team, a challenging, unforgettable thorn in a whore’s ass.
“How the hell you still single, Redfield?”
He’s—really fucking curious.
“I don’t have the time or the need for a fucking boyfriend.” A soft snort as Chris rolls off to the side to let him up, mischief perking in his voice, “A willing rabbit hole here and there suits me just fine.”
His lips twitch for a smile even as he tries to be pissy.
“Oh you’re fucking hilarious—think of that one all on your own?” Redfield’s cheese hits nicely with the sudden freedom, an air of familiar ease, fisting his box and rolling to reach for the lamp chain. “Would you believe me if I said this kit was better than a Porsche?”
“Knowing you?” A tiny chuckle. “I might.”
The lamp clicks on to illuminate the muted greys and blues of his room, deep burgundy blankets cushioning the hunk of meat next to him, a heavy arm folded behind Chris’ head as he watches him in a lazy leisure.
It hits a bit erotic and new in his blood, a violating domestic vibe of having Redfield curled in his bed like this where no one else has been allowed or trusted.
Not even Ada could talk herself into his bed.
“Well get comfortable,” he quietly demands, raking his eyes down Chris’ clothed body to escape his gaze, settling on his stomach to open his box. He’s gonna make the most of this home delivery feast. “Thinkin’ we’re gonna be here a while.”
Soft rustling as Chris does what he’s told, shedding his clothes and kicking them off to the side.
He’s a bit impressed that Chris didn’t bother being neat about it.
“Better,” he hums at the man’s naked beauty, working his present open.
The weapon part isn’t what he expected as he lifts it from the box. Silver and black, titanium body, carefully bored sight lines and blackout details, laser mount, fancy aesthetic curves along the thin frame that catch his taste.
It’s—fucking gorgeous. Stylized perfection down to every detail.
“Not what I remember,” he mumbles, a little breathless with caressing his fingers along the expert craftsmanship.
“The exact one was impossible to get anymore.”
He twitches with rising heat.
“Commissioned,” he quietly finishes the thought.
“Yeah, it is.”
One of a kind.
He nearly moans with the hot rush over his skin.
Alright.
Fine.
Maybe he can tolerate a bit of sugar babying—just this once for something so sinful and sexy in his hands.
A shift on the blankets next to him.
“Your custom—you favor her.” A hitch of breath just this side of cautious. “So I took a gamble. It’s a Kendo piece so the specs weren’t hard to track down.”
It spikes hard in his chest—Silver Ghost. He more than favors her. She’s—everything that remains of what walked out of Raccoon City and she deserves nothing but the best. And this sight is top of the line in quality.
He’s not even sure what to say—hell of a fancy piece for Chris to go out of his way to commission. It had to be fucking expensive.
“Well way to peek up a guy’s skirt,” he snickers and teases to lure away from visiting things that can only be between two ghosts.
He glances over as Chris rumbles like an amused, horny cat.
“Had to see what pretty little panties I was working with.”
His breath and laugh barks without warning—probably the last thing he expected out of Chris’ mouth. He owns exactly zero panties. Not his style.
But the thought of a bargain sparks his libido like flint. Lingering memories of Daniel’s belongings beneath Chris’ bed and the thought—getting Chris packaged up in something tight and tiny plants right back into his Friday fantasies.
He sizzles low with tease, “Now that kind of information’s on an elite paygrade, Big Daddy, not to mention a damn nice dinner and night out first.” He leaves the sight on the sheets as he rolls over, spreading himself on top of Chris’ hard, beautifully naked muscles, dragging his hand down across a solid hip, enjoying the warm flesh as he imagines fancy silk.
“Quid pro quo,” he offers. “Show me yours and I’ll show you mine. Now I’m thinking for you—” He lets the thought ride hot and heavy with drags of teeth along his lip, knowing damn well Chris would tell him to eat shit first. “—Something in the racy red category, plenty of frills and lace to match all that Redfield hostility.”
Man’s lookin’ like a fancy fucking feast in his mind right now.
“Hn.” The lack of offense on Chris’ face strikes curiously, eyes glinting in familiar, thundering challenge. It’s hot as hell and Chris cups his spine with his free hand, shoving down into the back of his jeans to paw across his ass, crushing their bodies close. “I’d consider that deal to get your ass into something I choose.”
Well, fuck.
He can almost hear the what now, genius in Chris’ lazy posture.
Chris’ fingertips softly rake his asscheek like he’s thinking, clearly fondling phantom panties as they hover and it hits hot to please the man’s smoke.
“Well,” he husks, setting his sights on Redfield’s lips. “Not much stops you from getting your way, does it.”
“Not much.”
Deep and cocky.
Just the way he likes him.
“Maybe you’ll get it,” he threatens.
He dips closer to the man’s tempting heat, already tasting a lethal kiss never forgotten.
A conflicting war plays across Chris’ features even as his hand rakes across his shoulders to gently palm the back of his hair, deadly fingers touching at his neck in whispering currents.
“That kit wasn’t to buy favors.”
No doubt, boy scout.
God forbid Chris ever learns how to be truly manipulative—the world couldn’t handle it.
It twinges pure and warm every time he witnesses Chris’ honor in a war and world filled with unimaginable cruelty but he’s done with a hero’s restraint, of how much help the man needs at times to tear him apart even when he’s begging for it.
“Some things are free,” he lies. “Don’t be a damn hero, Redfield.”
Chris’ brows tighten along with his fingers, squeezing his neck and dragging him down closer. “Sure you don’t need one, princess?”
“Oooh,” he sizzles his smile with the hostility, the barb a poor mask for an offered out, writhing and rocking his body against Chris’ lap. “Sorry asshole, but your princess is in another castle. But sweep me off my feet if you think you can, hero, disrespect the hell out of my mouth if you want—it’s wide open.”
“Heh.” Chris matches his smile, hot whiskey breath puffing across his face. “Well your ass didn’t carry itself back here,” he says, fisting the back of his hair. “But I’m not your fucking hero.”
“And I’m not your fucking princess—a whore’s the only thing you’re ever gonna find here.”
“Good thing a whore answered the door then.”
“Good thing,” he agrees just as quietly with the tangled mess he’s laid himself in, tangling further the more he tries to escape it, closing his eyes for the heat of Chris’ breath.
“But he looked like a bitchy fucking bunny to me,” Chris whispers, hot as a brand and just as scorching to his skin.
What the hell’s the difference.
He doesn’t want to know as he meets Chris’ lips. The storm burns hot and overdue and he’s willing to burn alive tonight, tasting whiskey and moaning with the solid grasp keeping him close and trapped in their kiss.
Plenty of his shadows wear liquor breath and rough hands, horny bastards pushing with poor, clumsy attempts to take more than was offered. Usually bar flies drunk as hell with zero understanding of the word respect outside of what violence teaches them.
But Chris would stop if he told him to. If he changed his mind. No broken bones or verbal assault required. It’s hard to deny his growing lust for Chris’ power, not just as the raging hurricane he can’t stop riding high on.
The power of a good man.
The kind of man that could slit your throat.
“Never take your eyes off, Rookie. Trust is how you end up wearing a pretty little red necklace.”
Maybe.
He offers breath, offers touch, shoving his hand between their legs to cup and paw Chris’ cock, thick and silky heat in his fist, earning the pleased rumbles to his mouth he can’t stop listening for. And he offers his body, rolling with Chris’ desire to pin and claim him beneath, heavy hand yanking the front of his jeans to pull the button and zipper open for fantastic freedom.
He can’t afford to care what Chris sees when he looks at him—as long as he’s something the man wants to stick his dick into.
“Nightstand?” Chris mumbles to his lips, hands hurried and rough in their wanderings of his body.
As long as that’s where it ends.
“Closet drawers.”
A pause in their carnal worship, Chris’ hands slowing along his ribs before he rolls away to stand from the bed.
“Right,” Chris says. “You don’t fuck here—no need to keep it handy.”
He wants to ignore the bits of guilt recognized in a boy scout’s voice as he watches Chris nose around his closet in the dim lights, finding the small set of drawers, fingers carefully moving along the golden handles.
“Bottom,” he offers, stripping his shirt and tossing it off the bed. Top drawer underwear and socks, second one belts, third one accessories and fourth one party favors. The last thing to grab when he’s going out for the night.
But it’s not like Chris to be unprepared for a fuck—or anything for that matter.
“Had no business showing up here in a bottle,” Chris mutters, gathering lube and a condom. “I’m sorry.”
He huffs a whore’s pride to smother his own bits of guilt sneaking in, working his jeans down his legs and off the bed. Chris could be offered a free fucking coffee at his favorite local stand and still find a way to feel bad about it.
He used to think it was snobbery, that Chris viewed himself above the mere dealings of mortal men and things such as pleasure, whiskey and reckless weekends. A soldier well above freedom from war.
A perfect little golden boy scout the rest of the slobs could only dream to aspire to.
But half a year spent getting to know the man behind the soldier—really paints a different picture.
He’s a lot like his sister in some ways.
Jury’s still out on who’s got the more dangerous temper.
“Well at least dick my brains out before slapping me with buyer’s regret,” he quips, spreading naked to the sheets and propping his jaw onto his palm with as much bitchy glare as he can craft when he really wants to smile. “Kinda kills the mood, don’t you think, asshole?”
A good picture that has no business suffering the realities of bioterror—just another hero’s ghost carrying on however he has to. Because he has to. Just like the rest of them.
“Oh, it’s not regret,” Chris laughs, light and free as he shoots him a cute, crooked smile. “Destroying a peachy little fucking asshole like yours isn’t ever something to regret.”
The words bring him pleasure whether they’re meant to or not.
“Hope you don’t think that’s an insult,” he purrs like a bastard, posing on his side as Chris tosses the goods over and kneels onto the bed. The pump bottle grease—good choice. Nice and slick, long lasting. “It’s shower fresh.”
“It’s a compliment, genius.”
Chris snatches his ankles and yanks, his ass sliding across the sheets quick enough for a bit of nice friction heat.
“Well damn,” he moans out breathless, strong hands clutching his thighs and he’s hoisted up, bent at the hips and presented, Chris kneeling over him and planting his tongue wet and fantastic to his ass. “Get right in there, Big Daddy.”
“Mm hm,” Chris hums and laughs low in his throat with the cocky little smile splitting his lips, fingers squeezing his thighs that much harder.
The grip almost hurts in a perfect snare, saying more than any vocal command could.
“Aw fuck,” he sighs the delight, head falling back against the sheets as Chris takes what he wants from him.
He doesn’t bother hiding his appreciation, not that he could—his moans sing freely to the shadows, cock hard and throbbing with every swipe and dip of wet violation. Man always knows how to make a meal of it, patiently tonguing in all the ways that wind him the hell up and keep him wiggling and crying.
“Christ,” Chris finally whispers, slowly dragging his tongue with a warm wet trail all the way to his balls before wandering back, poking and flicking at his asshole. “I could taste you for hours.”
He nearly shakes with the heat smoking from those lips, his own cries and the rush of pleasure from Chris’ satisfaction in his body, watching the relaxed bliss of hooded eyes and wild hair he wants to tangle his fingers in.
Hard to find someone willing to eat ass, much less someone like Chris who really gets off on it.
Another point for the goddamn boy scout.
He’d let him tongue all night if Chris really wanted and asked—but he doubts the blood flow to his legs would agree, his limbs half numb and tingling with holding the position this long.
And he’s ready for that dick, wants him heavy and silky-hard pounding against his fucking brain stem.
“You just wanna hear me beg for cock,” he teases, moaning his need for it and reaching up, snagging his fingers through the soft top of Chris’ hair, running lines of appreciation.
“Your whimpers say enough, they’re so damn beautiful.”
The heat spreads like bittersweet poison across his skin—Fabio’s really fucking lethal with a little liquored up encouragement. He’s a grown ass man and he doesn’t fucking whimper.
“Fuck you,” he shuts it down. “How ‘bout you give me something to scream about instead.”
“Mm—come here, bunny.”
The heat flares, scorched and humiliating with the soft breath of Chris’ voice and fucking pet name—the alarming instinct to do exactly that.
It rakes him raw into a flavor of pissed off he can’t even label.
“Fuck you,” he spits quiet fire, snagging his fingers into Chris’ hair as he pulls himself up, straddling across his thighs and glaring down lust-blown crosshairs too powerful to do anything but fall in and bleed for. “Fuck you.”
He hides in a blistering kiss to cover the little fucking up-tick at the corner of Chris’ lips, dipping his tongue to share the tang of his body and all his hell, sinking his teeth to lips begging for his attention.
He digs his fingers into solid shoulders as he wants to give that fucking attention, listens to Chris’ moans and hisses, the crinkles of the condom being opened, biting him harder and almost hoping for blood with the growing need to say wrapping’s optional.
“Fuck you,” he fights against the rising heat for that desired violation, smothering the rest of his air in the prison of his own choices as Chris demands it, masochistic groans and lips working, sliding perfectly with his.
“You’re sexy as hell when you’re so pissed off and needy,” Chris rumbles lusty laughter, mouthing down to his neck, fingers cold and slick pressing and rubbing his ass, one sliding in with fantastic drag.
“You’re really lookin’ to lose a few teeth tonight, Redfield,” he threatens, his lips tingling from abuse, rocking and moaning with Chris’ rhythm, head tilting back for wet presses along his throat. “Hurry the hell up for once.”
“Well take your best shot, Kennedy.” Chris’ laughs again, free hand palming his lower spine as he gently drags his finger in a slower tease. “But you’re taking it easy till I decide.”
A common dance that Chris refuses to lose the lead on, as unbudging as a brick wall. Careful to the point of frustration at times but it’s impossible to hold Chris’ regard for a comfortable ride against him.
But it’s also about time he lays a few unbudging bricks of his own.
“Spare me your sweet talk Fabio bullshit,” he huffs, raking his fingers down Chris’ scalp to keep him pressed to his neck. “It’s not what we’re here for.”
“Afraid someone might give a damn?”
The question crawls up his spine and he digs fingernails into Chris’ shoulder. “I’m not your boyfriend and I don’t need to be taken care of.”
Chris rumbles with the violence, mouthing up along his jaw. “And I’m not your boyfriend,” he chuckles, low and almost sinister, slipping his finger free. “But you do need to be taken care of—you need to be wrangled like a pissy, wet goddamn cat.”
Half a breath before heavy hands slam him flat on his back to the sheets.
“Something a dog’s pretty good at,” Chris adds.
Maybe he can’t find much of a paw to stand on against the allegation as Chris covers his body, their hands lightly tangling for control, slippery lube warming between their fingers.
“Fuckin’ asshole,” he whispers, half impressed with being caught off guard, cracking a smile as his piss and vinegar leaks away in the face of Chris’ crooked little grin.
It lures out a light snicker and a heavy heartbeat.
He joins the game, “Well you do have the slobbering tongue for it. But cats always land on their feet.” He hooks Chris’ hip with his legs to easily flip them around, falling further into the playful smile below him.
Holding ground isn’t as easy as Chris twists and wrestles, rolling closer to the edge of the bed.
“Maybe, but you know what they say about a dog with a bone,” Chris counters, locking one of his wrists above his head.
He starts to curve up for a counter lock but obliges the satisfying hold instead, nearly drunk and moaning with the man’s weight and fire, pulling his other hand free to trail his fingers down the hard heat of Chris’ abs.
“Well you’d think they’d wanna bury it,” he whispers in the ongoing cheese war, gently flicking his tongue along Chris’ plump, lower lip. “But apparently—” Chris’ cock is hard and thick as he palms it, hooking his fingers to the edge of the condom and pulling, slowly rolling it off. “The dirt has to be just—right.” He chucks the rubber away as they lock eyes.
“Yeah it does,” Chris says quietly but his eyes are loud as hell in the shadows of the lamp’s low glow, looking down at him like he’s something.
Like he’s really something to look at other than a weapon bred for war or something to fuck.
The heavy gaze burns him alive but there’s no escape—he’ll face it with a sack just as heavy now because he has no other choice but to care about what’s behind those focused crosshairs, wrapping his fingers around Chris’ naked flesh as he’s left bleeding and begging like a cornered animal with Chris dipping closer.
“Don’t fall in love with me, Big Daddy—I belong to the fight.”
Chris hums, pausing, lips curving to a quiet smile only someone sharing a foxhole would feel.
“Yeah we do. I’m a soldier, Leon. My life is out there.”
An assurance maybe almost as desperate as his own plea but the delusion stands as he bends for Chris’ kiss, denial as his wrist tingles with the squeeze of fingers in silent command. Compromise as Chris lays on top of him, plants his claims to the side of his neck and he cries for it, the pain spreading with freedom’s heat and pleasure, raking his other hand across Chris’ shoulders to make sure it doesn’t stop.
Hot breath tickles his abused skin, “I don’t need a fucking boyfriend—do whatever the hell you want any other day of the week. Have all the parades and parties you can handle.” Chris licks and kisses at his bitemarks and he fights a tingling shudder in his nerves. “But Friday’s mine.”
Friday’s whore.
His body refuses any rejection, a drying lake finding rain with the primal commanding presence that colors Chris when he’s wound enough, the beautiful storm he’s always chasing.
Can I really have this.
“Tch, really gonna claim complete lordship over the best part of the weekend?” he brats back just to tease the wind’s fury, tempt fate’s cruelty with desires of what shouldn’t be, curving his body with Chris’ movements.
“Care to gamble your odds? It’s lucky Friday.”
He’s shit at gambling with anything other than his life.
“Gambling’s not really my style,” he says, easing his wrist free and rolling in place to his stomach beneath the heavy shadow, pressing and rubbing his ass up against him to hear the pleased breathing and feel his hot, silky skin. “How ‘bout I flick my tail for attention, instead—cats do that crap, don’t they?”
Chris rumbles low laughter, palming his hip and running rough lines across his ass cheek. “Usually.” A light smack across his flesh. “Especially when they’re in heat.”
He glowers at the sheets as he fights a smile.
Fuckin’ asshole.
He settles further down as he listens to Chris work the grease pump.
“Yeah alright dickhead—hilarious,” he mumbles, getting comfortable and welcoming Chris’ heavy weight over his spine. “But one breedable comment and I’ll really show you raging paws of furious thunder.”
Chris’ breath and laughter tickles the side of his neck and he tilts for it, arching his hips a bit off the sheets for a wet, gentle slide. He moans for the naked contact, waves of violation spreading fantastic needles across his nerves, squeezing and clenching around him with unashamed want.
Never again will he settle for anything less than Chris’ raw cock.
“Ever gonna make good on all those threats?” Chris rumbles and sighs his pleasure, carefully rocking and adjusting with the squelching gel.
Not particularly.
His breath puffs soft and greedy with every easy drag, rolling his hips, meshing his shape to match his shadow. “Depends on you,” he breathes lies.
“Then again,” Chris hisses his whispers like a beautiful threat, arm wrapping around under his throat as he settles heavy on top. “Cats are pretty fucking lazy when they’re satisfied.”
He can’t argue shit as Chris fucks him, hips slamming now in deep, brutally fantastic drags and earning the proof of his satisfaction from his mouth, heavy moans to help kill any fight he could have left.
Chris pins his wrist with his other hand, holding him still to better take his cock.
“God, fuck me,” he gasps his breathy compliments to the chef, rolling his hips and spreading his thighs further. “Fuck me till I can’t fucking take it.”
His bed rocks and creaks with Chris’ efforts, bashing the wall and announcing their need with every violent, wet smack of their bodies connecting.
Chris mouths at the shell of his ear, wet pulls and slide of tongue. “You bitchy little fucking nightmare, you’re gonna take everything comin’ to you.”
The words burn like hell but sing sweet promises like only Chris manages, his wrist released from its prison, Chris’ heavy palm cracking sweet as holy hell across his asscheek.
“Aw fuck!“ He writhes for every gifted violence with every drag of cock he never wants to end, crying out for his storm’s beautiful explosion over and over till his throat burns raw and used.
“It suits you, bunny.” Chris punches his words with every blistering slap, “Pleasure suits you screaming for cock suits you taking my cock suits you.”
“Chris—Jesus,” his words strangle with his cries as he rides high, pulling on Chris’ hand under his throat to mouth at his thick, warm fingers, sliding his tongue across solid knuckles, tasting everything he can of cheap soap and faint tobacco.
He falls into a free static like no one else brings to a whore, sucking and mouthing as he pleases, just to taste, just to please the incomparable moaning smoke at his ear, eyes finding his new weapon sight near the edge of the bed, heart skipping with heat.
It’ll never be pointless.
He curves his ass to better meet more of Chris’ hand—his mercy.
He’ll never be a pointless shadow to use.
He closes his eyes, clasping the sheets to stay solid and take everything gifted, letting Chris clap as much as he wants and fuck him like a personal insult, a personal disrespected cum dumpster.
It spreads like wild fire through his blood and muscles, his thoughts with every blend of sensation and freedom, every crack of Chris’ palm and wordless begging of his body.
When did it stop being just another pointless fuck—was it ever.
Crack.
He never fucks someone more than once.
Crack.
Except for her.
Crack.
There’s no fucking point.
Crack.
Except for her.
Crack.
He shudders violently with every welcomed strike, rolling his tongue over the back of Chris’ hand, rooted tension breaking further loose somewhere, the pains of a useful tool and wounds that never heal getting stroked, heat swelling across his throat.
Chris was dangerous from day one.
Because of her.
I’ve always trusted you, Chris, god dammit.
He’s quick to curve his arm up to snag his fingers into Chris’ hair as the tension finds a shock of release in hot and wet splinters at the corner of his eyes.
The scars on his soul fading just a little lighter maybe. A breath of suffocation that hits better than any sex.
Jesus fucking Christ.
“Give me something nice to wear for a while,” he offers and begs through abused cords.
“Not wearing enough of me?” Chris rumbles, mouthing down across his neck to tease and question along his bitemarks, hand slowing to a soothing caress on his stinging, inflamed skin, hips rocking now in a dangerous glide.
“That’s for you to decide.” He brushes his shoulder against Chris’ jaw. “Getting your way really fucking suits you.”
It’s the closest compliment and truth he can handle sharing to honor Show and Tell Friday, twisting his spine, bending to press their lips together for Chris’ satisfaction.
Let me take care of you.
I’ll always mean it.
Chris’ breath hits hot and more than willing, opening himself further to welcome tongue, slamming his hips back to meet every thrust, wielding well-executed whimpering noise as a new weapon striking for pleasing arteries.
His breath groans with the rough snag in his hair, his neck jerked and presented for lips and teeth working bruised flesh all over again.
“I’ll never get tired of making you cum for me, Big Daddy,” he moans more truth with Chris’ destruction, accepting his own pride of power as the man’s whore, welcomed now in his skillset with the hot cum pooling along his lower spine, Chris rocking and smearing his claims to his body.
“Likewise,” Chris hums soft appreciation to his throbbing neck, gentle groans and kisses to needlessly soothe. “Disrespectful enough for you?”
“Missed my mouth by a mile,” he snickers worn breath. “But it’ll do.”
“Maybe next time.” Chris shifts, running his fingers through his own cum to slide back into him. “Satisfied? Or can I make a bigger mess out of you.”
He sighs and rolls his hips, eyes fluttering with fatigue and pleasure as he rests his cheek to the sheets, Chris’ knuckles massaging against his ass, fingers gently prodding and feeling him out.
He hasn’t felt this loose and relaxed in ages—nothing like getting a little stress beat out of you. That kind of treatment typically costs a guy money and a trip downtown.
And zero eye contact.
Again his gaze finds his new kit, a transaction only half held up.
“I’m pretty fucking bodied—for now,” he sizzles a later promise of as much mess as they can handle. “But stick around if you want. Still owe you a show.”
Chris hums, fingers sliding free and palming his hip instead, warm and sticky. “Not really like you to be so accommodating,” he chuckles. “I don’t have to stay.”
Jesus Christ, Redfield.
He glowers—the man needs more help sometimes than a one-legged blind guy crossing a river.
Of fire.
With mutated piranhas.
The size of Buicks.
Breathing fire. And lightning, somehow.
Maybe—
Maybe he can blame himself for some of that.
“Guess I know a pretty good teacher. Make a deal—keep it.”
“Good point—I agree.”
He smiles, inhaling the sweet detergent in his nose. “You would, boy scout,” he says and the name might’ve leaked softer than he intended. “Now how ‘bout you get your sweaty ass off me for now, it’s hot as hell in here—and hit the fan, would you?” he adds as Chris rolls away with quiet laughter. “Switch on the wall.”
His comfort rumbles from his throat as the breeze hits and he shifts around on the sheets, snagging his pillow to shove under his face, wrapping his arms around it for more floof.
“Try not to purr so fucking loud,” Chris teases.
He huffs.
“Then maybe try not to dick me down so good next time.”
“No promises—you’re a good fuck, Leon.”
Chris’ words and cocky laughter draws his smile.
“Tell me something I don’t know, asshole,” he taunts his pride. “And if you wanna keep it that way, save all of Fabio’s sweet talk for your precious Baby Boy. Thinkin’ he’d appreciate it more—might get you all that whimpering obedience you’re lookin’ for.”
“From him? Or from you?”
He snorts into the pillow.
Smartass.
He’ll let Chris figure it out—he’s a smart guy.
“Got the balls to find out?” he sighs his fight like he can’t be bothered.
Maybe he can’t be.
“Don’t think I need ‘em this time,” Chris purrs a whisper with a touch just as whispering across his ass cheek.
Fuck—smooth bastard.
He lets his silence do the talking as he closes his eyes, listens to Chris shift around next to him.
The quiet fan motor mixed with the just as quiet presence nearby brushes his space like a familiar plate of food with new seasoning.
This is usually his time for escape, leaving whoever’s bed and heading home or to the bar, the office with his thoughts and after-freedom come down.
Cutting out the middle man—
Maybe he doesn’t hate it.
He cranes his neck to rest on his other cheek, watching Chris sitting on the edge of his bed, gathering his jeans.
Depending on the company.
He’s probably had it coming—Chris puts up with him in ways he can’t stop looking for, waiting for the man’s chase, the fights and barbs that hum like foreplay, sex that plays and lingers in his mind no matter where he ends up.
The man’s always there with a worthy, willing spar, verbal or otherwise. Passion with no other motivation beyond feeling good—no hidden strings, favors or business deals.
“Had a guy—” Chris breaks the quiet, curiously tense. “He was the too fucking eager type—and maybe I was, too. Ready or not, you were gonna take it when he was ready. Greased enough—or not.”
It takes him a second or two to connect what he’s saying and he raises his head off the pillow with the blistering realization.
A violating pain you never forget. He’s suffered it—a couple times—from ignorant shadows or pricks who didn’t care.
Violence made them care.
His gaze drags and lingers across the muscles working in Chris’ back as he pulls his pants on.
Who the fuck could hurt you.
It irrationally lights his lizard brain to be a caveman about it, pay a little visit to the guy for a little talk and a little fucking violence.
“Shit—Chris, I’m sorry,” he offers empathy instead, trying to guess why Chris would reveal something so personal—even for Friday. He sucks in his breath. “So you know—I wasn’t asking for it like that.”
“No.” Chris tilts his head a bit, a little smile on his lips. “I know you weren’t—but I’m always gonna be careful. I’m never gonna take the chance of hurting someone.”
You’re not capable of being a bastard.
He nearly reaches out to touch Chris’ spine—somehow offer something more than words.
“Hey, you be as careful as you need to. Don’t let any dickhead try to change you.” He sucks another breath and offers a light, awkward laugh. “Not even bitchy ones with a cute ass.”
Chris chuckles as he stands, buttoning his jeans and fishing his zippo from the back pocket. “Oh trust me, I don’t do a damn thing against my will—and I’d expect—you don’t either.”
It bites him like a question.
Or a warning.
“Nope,” he assures.
He never takes something he’s not willing to.
He smiles at Chris’ ass coated in jeans as he walks around the foot of the bed, planting a smoke to his lips and he can’t stop the words from forming, “So who’s the guy? Want me to relocate some of his teeth—cats do that crap, don’t they?”
A smile wars with the flickering pinch across Chris’ brows before he vanishes out onto the balcony, the warm July breeze drifting into the room along with the city noise.
“Doesn’t matter now,” Chris’ voice carries with a wisp of smoke. “Things changed. We changed.”
Chris’ storm raises the instincts along his skin with little bumps—the tone screams drop it.
Smells like an ex.
Smells pretty personal.
“Yeah alright, Big Daddy. Have it your way.”
He rolls over, grabbing the tv remote from the nightstand before flopping back against the pillows.
The tv lights up the far wall, news channel greeting him like a familiar and hated co-worker. He finds himself flipping through, searching for prime Redfield bait.
The ball game brightens the screen and he smiles—perfect.
He settles down, listening to the satisfying crack of a home run as he waits.
“Christ,” Chris' voice drifts as expected and his own smile upgrades with the bitchy laughter from his balcony—picturing a smile there. “Knew you were a fucking baseball guy.”
“You mean the sport that requires actual skill?” he baits further, fingers reaching and bringing the weapon sight up to his face, tilting it back and forth with the comfort of ease settling over his room in a dangerous cloud he could suffocate in.
Maybe—maybe there’s a little wiggle room in a ghost’s existence after all—for a bit more than war and pointless sex.
Maybe Daniel had a point with his words that night in the hotel room.
“Tch, die with your delusions, dickhead.”
“Yeah—maybe.”
~ Thank you for reading ~