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Standing here face to face with Wesker on Rockfort Island, Chris knew the man had always been like this. Even back in STARS.
—
The shooting range that smelled of cordite and old sweat in its halls. Wesker walked the line with his clipboard, stopping at each shooter. "Barry, acceptable groupings. Jill, tighten your follow-ups." He didn't even pause at Chris's lane. Just tapped the score sheet with that perfect handwriting. "Redo the drill. Your stance drifted on the third."
The next day Chris reloaded and fired again. Perfect aim, perfect hits. Wesker gave the same reaction, marked something down, and moved on.
That night the reports came back covered in red ink. One page missing a signature line. Another had "clarify timeline" scribbled in the margin like he was still a green cadet. No other notes. Chris stayed until the cleaning crew showed up, rewriting everything on fresh forms which he never did. He left the stack on Wesker's desk at 2:17 a.m., grabbed his shit, and headed out.
Next morning's briefing, Wesker assigned patrol sectors. Chris got the warehouse district again, the one with the busted lights and that smell that never left your clothes that you only got assigned if the captain was mad at you. "Redfield, try not to improvise this time." Wesker said it right in front of the whole team. A few guys chuckled, it was embarrassing.
Chris sat there with his pen digging into the paper. Jill glanced over, eyebrow raised, clearly worried about her best friend.
By the fourth day the team had definitely noticed. Conversations died when he walked into the break room. No one said shit, but the shift was obvious in the fact the man was so uptight this week.
Chris worked through lunch, powered through the afternoon paperwork dump. His neck was killing him by the end of it. On the way out he punched his locker because it wasn’t closing right and the old scar on his left knuckle split open again.
What was he doing wrong?
Wesker's office door was closed but the light was on. Chris knocked twice, harder than usual.
"Come in."
The room felt smaller at night under that green shaded lamp. Stacks of files everywhere that never seemed to get smaller no matter how long the captain worked. Wesker sat writing in a black notebook and didn't close it when Chris stepped inside.
Chris shut the door. The latch clicked loud and he started his tantrum, "What do you think is wrong with me?"
Wesker capped the pen and set it down exactly parallel to the edge of the desk. "Be specific." There were a lot of things wrong with Chris Redfield but he needed the man to specify.
"You know exactly what. The constant nitpicks. The radio silence. I'm pulling doubles and you're acting like I showed up late and didn't even try." Chris's words came out faster than he meant. He gestured at nothing. "If I'm fucking up, say it straight. Don't do this half-measure shit."
Wesker leaned back. The chair creaked once. "You've completed every assigned task. Your reports are filed. Range scores are within acceptable parameters."
"Then what the hell is the problem?"
"No problem." Wesker's fingers drummed once on the armrest. "Except your apparent inability to function without external validation. Interesting regression."
Chris laughed, short and ugly. His fists clenched until they went sheet white. He didn’t honestly know what Wesker meant by that, "Regression. Right. You've got me doing extra laps, staying late, checking my goddamn email every ten minutes. And for what? So you can prove a point?" His voice was loud now, way louder than he ever got with his captain.
Wesker slowly stood and walked around the desk until he was close enough that Chris could see the faint crease in his collar.
"Working yourself ragged, snapping at your team. All because Daddy took away the praise you’ve grown so dependent on?" A smug look settled on Wesker’s face as he watched his subordinate’s reaction.
Chris staggered back a step. His pupils were blown wide. The word hung between them and for a second he wasn’t even sure Wesker had actually said it. He opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again. "Don't—" Nothing else came out.
He just stood there breathing hard through his nose, face burning red. Chris wiped his mouth with the back of his hand even though there was nothing there. His shirt felt too tight across the shoulders. He took another half-step back until his calves hit the chair by the door.
Wesker didn’t move any closer. He just watched, the same way he watched targets or his experiments. Clinical. Almost affectionate in how precisely he catalogued every little tell of Redfield. "The orphanage instilled you well. Remove the reward and watch how quickly the obedient boy starts to unravel. You listen. You crave appraisal. You need it like air, Chris. And I enjoy seeing exactly how deep that runs."
—
The memory ended just as quickly as it began. Wesker stood right there in front of him on Rockfort Island, smug like he could read every thought running through Chris's head. They weren't supposed to be here together. Not like this. Chris was supposed to kill him or drag him in or something. Anything but this.
"We both know what you really need, don't we? Someone stronger. Someone who won't abandon you when you're not perfect." Wesker's thumb stroked along Chris's jaw, deceptively gentle. The touch sent a jolt through him that he hated. "Say it. Say you want Daddy to fix you."
Wesker always did this. He exploited those father figure issues, the way Chris had been raised in that shitty Umbrella orphanage. It unraveled him faster than anything else ever could. Chris felt his breath catch. Hands stayed at his sides even though every instinct screamed to shove the man away and put a bullet through his brain, but he didn't. The island air hung heavy around them, salt water mixing with the faint smell of vanilla that always seemed to cling to Wesker.
Chris swallowed hard. His mind flashed back to those STARS days again, the late nights rewriting reports, the way his stomach twisted every time Wesker looked past him. He had chased that approval like a dog after scraps but after the betrayal, the dead bodies piling up. He learned how to stop with other people. Not Wesker.
"I shouldn't be here," Chris muttered. His voice came out rough like he had been smoking again.
Wesker's smile sharpened, he stepped closer, backing Chris against the cold metal wall of the old facility corridor. The concrete under their boots was cracked and stained from years of neglect.
"Yet here you are. Chasing me across the ocean. Again. You could have ended this a dozen times in the last 10 minutes, Chris. But you didn't."
Chris's heart pounded against his ribs. He could feel the weight of his holstered gun pressing into his side. One quick move and he could draw it. Try to end this for good. But his arms wouldn't listen. Wesker's hand slid down to grip his chin, forcing their eyes to meet. Those sunglasses hid nothing.
"Say it," Wesker repeated, low and commanding like he was still captain and Chris was still that green recruit desperate for a pat on the back.
Chris's jaw clenched. Heat crawled up his neck and blossomed, it almost hurt. "This is fucked up."
"Is it?" Wesker leaned in until their foreheads almost touched. "Or is it exactly what you've been missing? All these years pretending to be the big hero. The strongest one, hmm? When really you need me to take the weight. To tell you when you're good, to punish you when you’re bad."
The words hit like a gut punch. Chris thought about the orphanage halls, the endless lines for inspections, the way the staff doled out praise only when you followed every rule perfectly which he rarely had. Wesker had figured that out early, it was on all of his forms. Used it like a drug and Chris kept taking it.
His breathing got heavier. Wesker's free hand moved to Chris's belt, unclipping the handcuffs that hung there. Chris had used them on plenty of suspects and was supposed to use them on Wesker. He thought they'd end up on him.
"You want plausible deniability?" Wesker asked, voice smooth as he dangled the cuffs in front of Chris's face like bait. "I'll give it to you. You can tell yourself you had no choice. That I overpowered you. That the big bad traitor forced your hand." Wesker let out an airy laugh at that.
Chris didn't fight when Wesker grabbed his wrists. He let his arms get pulled forward. The metal clicked shut around his right wrist first, then the left. Tight enough to bite into the skin but not enough to cut off circulation. Wesker knew exactly how to do it after years. Chris's pulse thrummed against the steel. The quiet surrender that made shame burn hot in his chest.
"There," Wesker said, stepping back to admire his work. "That wasn't so hard, was it? Good."
The praise landed wrong and right at the same time. Chris was ashamed of how his body reacted, the way tension eased in his shoulders even as his mind was telling him to uncuff himself. He tested the cuffs once, just a small tug. They held solid.
Wesker turned and started walking down the corridor, jerking Chris along by the short chain between the cuffs. The island facility echoed with their footsteps. Here it was just the two of them. Dim emergency lights that flickered overhead, casting long shadows across the rusted pipes.
They passed an old security room with monitors long dead. Wesker pushed open a heavy door at the end of the hall. Inside was a small office that looked like it had been stayed in for at least five nights and left mid-shift. The desk was covered in dust, a chair tipped over in one corner. A cot against the far wall with a thin blanket. Wesker must have cleared it out earlier. Planned this.
That thought infuriated Chris.
"Sit," Wesker ordered, pointing at the cot.
Chris hesitated for half a second before he obeyed. The cuffs clinked as he lowered himself down. The mattress was lumpy but relatively clean. He stared at the floor, jaw tight, trying not to think about how easy this had been. How he hadn't even pretended to resist. Plausible deniability. Yeah. He could cling to that for twenty minutes later when the guilt hit full force.
Wesker crouched in front of him, hands resting on Chris's knees. "Look at me."
Chris lifted his head slowly. Their eyes locked. Wesker reached up and removed his sunglasses, tucking them into his coat pocket. Those henna colored eyes were intense up close, inhume and almost cat like.
He ran a hand up Chris's thigh, stopping just short of dangerous territory. Chris's breath hitched. The handcuffs dug into his wrists as he shifted. Part of him wanted to tell Wesker to go to hell. The bigger part stayed quiet, waiting. Wanting him to do something.
"Tell me," Wesker pressed. "Tell me you're mine to fix."
Chris's mouth went dry. The words stuck for a long moment like fresh honey. Outside, something snarled in the distance. Some reminder that the world was falling apart around them. But in here it narrowed down to just them.
"I'm yours to fix," Chris finally whispered. The admission tasted like that honey the way it was so thick to say out loud
Wesker's smile returned, slow and satisfied. Then he stood, pulling Chris up with him by the cuffs. "Good. Very good."
Wesker stood over him, already working his belt open with quick fingers. "You've done enough fighting tonight. Now you're going to show me how good you are for me."
Chris's face burned again like lava pooling in his cheeks. He kept his eyes down but his body stayed put. Wesker stripped off his coat and shirt, then shoved his pants low enough. He sat on the edge of the cot and pulled Chris closer by the chain. "On top. All the way. You're doing the work."
Chris hesitated, breath coming short. Wesker's cock was already hard, thick and ready. The sight made something twist low in Chris's gut. That old familiar pull.
"Not yet," Wesker said, voice dropping. He grabbed Chris by the hips and flipped him face down across his lap, cuffed hands trapped under his own chest. "Courtesy first. Can't have you breaking too soon."
It was bullshit and they both knew it. Wesker just loved this part. Loved sliding his fingers into Chris and feeling him fight it. He yanked Chris's pants in one rough tug, exposing him completely. Cool air hit tanned skin. Chris tensed, jaw locked tight.
Wesker didn't bother with lube at first. He spat on his fingers and pressed one in slow. Chris grunted, muscles clamping down hard. It burned. The stretch was too much after so long without this. But Wesker kept going, working it deeper, curling just right.
"Easy," Wesker murmured. "Relax for me. That's it. Good boy."
Chris's breath hitched. The praise sank into him like warm whiskey on ice. He hated how fast it worked. His body started to loosen despite the shame flooding his chest again. Wesker added a second finger, scissoring them apart, thrusting slow and deep. He took his time, twisting and pressing against that spot inside until Chris's hips jerked.
"Fuck," Chris hissed through his teeth. It hurt at the edges but felt good too. That warm feeling built fast in his belly. Wesker's free hand stroked his back, almost soothing, while those fingers kept pumping.
"Look at you," Wesker said quietly. "Taking it so well. You were made for this, Chris. Made to be good for Daddy."
The word hit Chris like a bullet. He shoved his face into the thin blanket to muffle the groan that slipped out. His cock was leaking against Wesker's thigh now, hard and aching. Wesker added a third finger and Chris whimpered, pushing back despite himself. The stretch bordered on too much but the praise kept him there, floating in that hazy place that he adored.
Wesker finally pulled his fingers free. He wiped them on Chris's hip and manhandled him up, turning him to his face. "Now ride me. Don't you dare stop until I say."
Chris straddled Wesker's lap on shaky knees. The cuffs made it awkward for him, forcing his hands together in front of his chest. Wesker held his own cock steady. Chris sank down slow, teeth clenched as the head pushed inside. It was a lot. Bigger than the fingers. He breathed through it, inch by inch, until he was fully seated. It has been so long since he’s had Wesker’s cock in him.
Wesker groaned low, hands gripping Chris's thighs. "Move."
Chris started rocking. Slow at first, getting used to the feel. Then harder, he lifted up and slammed back down, doing all the work like Wesker wanted. Sweat broke out across his back and his thighs burned. Every thrust sent sparks up his spine. Wesker just leaned back on his elbows, watching with that smug half-smile, letting Chris fuck himself on his cock.
"Good boy," Wesker praised. "Look at you working so hard for it. Faster now, boy."
Chris picked up speed despite the burn. The cuffs rattled with every bounce. His face was flushed dark red, mouth open as he panted. It felt filthy and degrading. Wesker's hands slid up to his waist, barely guiding and not taking over. Just enough to remind Chris who had him.
"You're mine," Wesker said, voice rough. "Say it again, baby."
"I'm yours," Chris gasped out. His hips snapped down harder. The angle hit perfect every time now since he found it. Pleasure coiled tight in his gut. "Fuck. Daddy... please."
Wesker's eyes flashed at the word. He reached up and gripped Chris's jaw, pulling him down into a messy kiss. Teeth clinking and tongues intermingling. Chris kept moving the whole time, grinding deep, chasing that edge. Wesker broke the kiss and leaned back again, one hand stroking Chris's cock in time with his thrusts.
"Don't stop," Wesker ordered. "Make yourself come like this. Show me."
Chris fucked himself harder. Long, rough strokes that made his legs shake. The tinge in his muscles mixed with the slick drag inside him. Wesker's praise kept coming, low and steady. "That's it, taking every inch. Look at how desperate you are."
It didn't take much longer. Chris came with a broken groan, spilling over Wesker's fist and his own stomach. He clenched tight around Wesker's cock. Wesker let him ride it out, then grabbed his hips and thrust up once, twice, burying himself deep as he finished inside.
They stayed locked together for a minute, breathing hard. Chris slumped forward, forehead against Wesker's shoulder. The cuffs dug into his wrists but he barely felt it anymore. Wesker ran a hand through his hair..
"See?" Wesker whispered. "You needed this."
Chris didn't answer. He just stayed there, spent and full and floating on the praise. Exhaustion crashed over him like a wave. Chris felt the metal leave his wrists but he was already half gone, body heavy and spent. Wesker pulled the thin blanket over him and said something quiet that Chris didn't catch. Sleep took him fast.
When he woke up, the room was empty. Gray morning light leaked through the cracked window. No Wesker and the cuffs were at his belt. Chris sat up slow, muscles sore and aching in that deep, used way that he forgot after years. Someone had wiped him down completely. The sticky mess was gone from his skin. His clothes were folded neat on the edge of the cot. The only sign anything had happened was the bruise on his hip and the raw feeling inside.
He rubbed his wrists.
That hollow feeling settled heavy in his chest. Like something had been carved out and left nothing but an echo. He dressed in silence, checked his gun, and stepped out into the corridor. The relief from before was gone. All that was left was the hollow ache and the quiet knowledge that he'd let it happen again. He shoved the feeling down, grabbed his gear, and headed out.