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A stupid charity function that RPD’s top officers had to attend because of rumors of pretty women had Iron grinning like an idiot, which put Wesker in a worse mood than usual. He didn’t like dressing up and playing pretend.
Ironic.
STARS was different though. He’d actually miss that one when it finally crumbled..
Getting ready was supposed to be quick. Chris sat on the bathroom counter anyway, legs swinging once before he stilled them. Wesker stood at the sink in just his undershirt and pants, unfolding the straight razor with that familiar metallic click.
“Christopher, don’t you have somewhere to be?”
“You’re the only one who got invited, so no.” Chris kept his tone light, almost bored. “Figured I’d watch.”
“You don’t even like these things.”
“Yeah, but you’ll be there. Jill. Barry. Dancing, supposedly.”
“You want to dance with Barry?” Wesker kept his face flat, testing the blade’s edge with his thumb.
“I’d pick Brad over Barry, thanks.” Chris let out a short laugh that made Wesker pause mid-motion, just for a beat.
Wesker turned on the sink. Warm water hit the basin. He splashed it over his face, droplets catching in the stubble. Chris watched the water run down his neck, pooling at the collarbone before soaking into the shirt. Soap next. Wesker worked it in with his fingers, deliberate, not rushing. The lather built white against his skin. Chris’s gaze followed every pass of those long fingers.
The razor clicked open again. Wesker pulled the skin on his jaw tight and started the first stroke. Slow. Short. The soft scraping sound filled the small bathroom. Chris shifted on the counter, thighs pressing together.
Another stroke with blade angled just right, catching the light. Wesker’s hand stayed steady, no tremor. Chris couldn’t look away from the way the razor moved, precise, controlled, like everything else Wesker did. The stubble disappeared in clean lines. A faint hiss of breath from Wesker as he adjusted his grip. Chris’s mouth went dry.
“You gonna dance with someone? It’s a gala, right?” The question slipped out before he could stop it.
“What is with the questions tonight?” Wesker side-eyed him, pulling the skin tighter for the next pass along the jawline. The razor scraped again, louder this time near the bone. Chris’s pulse kicked up. He could see the faint red lines left behind on the skin, already fading.
Chris didn’t answer. His breathing had changed. Shallower. He leaned forward a fraction, elbows on his knees. The metallic tang of the blade mixed with the soap smell. Wesker turned his head slightly, working under the chin now. The angle exposed the long line of his throat.
Chris stared at the pulse point there, the way the razor glided just beside it. One slip and-
but Wesker didn’t slip.
Ever.
The sound was everything. That rhythmic, intimate scratch. Not too fast or hesitant. Just steady, blunt blade against skin. Chris felt it low in his gut, a slow pull. His pants were getting tight. He tried to adjust without being obvious, but Wesker noticed anyway when he rinsed the razor under the tap.
“You’re getting hard watching me shave.”
Chris froze, deer-in-headlights. The words landed flat, factual. Heat rushed to his face. “Sorry, I’ll just—”
Wesker caught his arm before he could slide off the counter. Grip firm, the hand not holding the razor. “Stay. You wanted to sit here and bother me. So stay.”
Chris stayed. The razor went back to work on the neck. Short strokes downward. Wesker’s Adam’s apple bobbed once as he swallowed. Chris tracked the blade’s path, the clean sweep leaving pale skin behind. Another scrape. The sound burrowed into him. He was fully hard now, cock pressing uncomfortably against his zipper. He didn’t dare move.
Wesker finished the jaw, turned to rinse his face in cold water. The shock of it made his skin tighten. He patted on aftershave, the sharp scent cutting through the room like a slap. Chris inhaled it without thinking. His hands gripped the counter edge.
“I already showered. I’m not doing it again because you can’t control yourself.”
“Fuck you, Wesker.”
Wesker grabbed his jaw, tilted it up. Fingers cool from the water. “Mind yourself.”
Chris huffed through his nose. It didn’t help. If anything, the pressure of Wesker’s hand made him twitch harder in his pants. The ache was stupid, immediate.
“I was going to let you go take care of that. Changed my mind.” Wesker watched him, eyes sharp behind the glasses.
“I didn’t mean it, Sir.”
“Don’t.” Wesker released him. “You’ll wait. No touching until I get back.” He was already running late. The irritation showed in the quick way he dried his hands.
Chris nodded, slid off the counter on unsteady legs. He sulked toward the kitchen, half-hard and miserable. Wesker dressed fast; shirt, vest, jacket, the whole stiff tux and left without another word.
The apartment felt too quiet after the door shut. Chris paced a little, then dropped onto the couch. The semi softened after twenty minutes, but every shift of fabric brought it back. The memory of the razor’s sound looped in his head.
That scrape.
The exposed throat.
Wesker’s steady hand. He pressed the heel of his palm against himself once, then stopped. The order stuck.
Two hours dragged. Chris jerked off in his mind a dozen times without touching, imagining the blade, the lather, the way Wesker’s focus narrowed to nothing but the next stroke. The tux waiting at the end of it. He was hard again when the door lock finally clicked.
Wesker came in tight-shouldered, keys and wallet hitting the table with a clatter.
“Did it go—”
“Bedroom.”
Chris went. Wesker followed, already muttering about Irons and the incompetence of the whole night, cologne still sharp and layered over the aftershave. He found Chris on the bed, pants shoved down, already prepped and waiting.
“Good fucking boy, Christopher.” No teasing. Wesker got his pants open and pushed in quick, a real sound escaping him for once. Wesker did not waste any time, muttering about incompetence and Irons being a fucking disgrace to the RPD while putting chris on his hands and knees,
Chris pushed back to meet it, then folded forward, ass up, arms sprawled. Wesker took it out on him, hips snapping, the tux jacket still half on and ridiculous. When Wesker finished he reached around and finished Chris off with a rough hand, efficient.
It wasn’t supposed to be long drawn out sex he just needed to get off.
After, Chris rolled his head sideways on the sheets. Wesker was yanking at his tie.
“That bad, huh?”
“Up.” Wesker's fingers motioned upwards for Chris to follow.
“You just fucked the life out of me and now you’re kicking me out. Rude.” Chris tried to hide his disappointment at the command.
“You said you wanted to dance.”
Chris blinked. “You’re serious?”
“The whole night I had to deal with every miserable person there asking me to dance, now I want to and you’re refusing me?” Wesker couldn’t pretend to be offended if he tried.
“You bastard, you know that’s not what I meant.” He took the cufflinks and put them down before Wesker pulled him to the kitchen floor.
They ended up in socks on the tile, fridge humming in the background. Wesker’s hand settled at the middle of Chris’s back. They started moving.
Chris stepped on his foot immediately.
“You know how to slow dance, Christopher?”
Another clumsy step. Wesker didn’t flinch, just adjusted the grip and kept steering. The rolled sleeves of the dress shirt brushed Chris’s palm. Fabric soft, skin underneath warmer. Chris kept his eyes on Wesker’s collar. The clean line of the fresh shave showed at the jaw, sharp under the kitchen light. Wesker's lips stayed on Chris’s forehead as they danced. Trying to encourage him to loosen up.
“You’re tense,” Wesker said.
“I’m trying not to break your toes.”
“You’re failing.”
Chris snorted. The sound surprised him. They kept going. No music. Just the small shifts, the faint drag of socks. Chris’s hand settled properly on Wesker’s arm. Muscle moved under the sleeve with each turn.
“There,” Wesker murmured after a minute. “You finally stopped thinking.
“That’s insulting.”
“It was meant to be instructional.”
Wesker looked down at him. No sunglasses. “You’re staring.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And yet you agreed to dance.” Wesker’s thumb brushed the back of his hand once. Chris’s next reply died somewhere in his throat. They swayed closer. The aftershave smell lingered faintly on Wesker’s skin. Chris wanted to press his face there, right where the blade had been.
They kept at it for a while. Chris stepped on the foot again. Wesker closed his eyes for half a second. “Remarkable.”