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Tear You Apart

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Wesker’s hand is hard around his throat, leaving Chris grasping, grasping at Wesker’s wrist, his forearm, squirming where he’s caught between Wesker’s body and the wall. He feels like a fly, a bug pinned to a piece of corkboard, not big enough to be dissected, but interesting enough to keep around, to study. Chris can’t see Wesker’s eyes through his sunglasses, not really, can only see the occasional gleam of inhuman amber through the reflection of his own pained face; he can feel Wesker taking him apart.

He always could.

Wesker’s too close to kick, to dislodge but Chris tries anyway, shifting his weight forward. His heart is thudding in his chest, and his blood is boiling, racing, and, oh god, he’s hard.

When the fuck did that happen?

Wesker notice it the same time he does. He doesn’t seem surprised, the look on his face turning sharp, predatory. He’s like a shark, a snake, the wolf long after he’s lost the sheep’s clothing. Chris doesn’t like it; his dick twitches anyway.

Wesker pushes his hips against Chris; he’s hard, too—hard in all the right places—and Chris bites back a groan because, no, he doesn’t want this and, yes, fuck, he really does.

It’s his body betraying him, unable to remember the difference between good and bad, old and new, when Wesker tightens his grip on Chris’ skin and knees his way between Chris’ clenching thighs. His body only knows how much he used to want this.

Wesker is right, he’s—

“Weak, Chris,” Wesker says, sibilant drawn out. “You’ve always been so weak. Such a disappointment.”

“You don’t—” Chris gasps. “You don’t feel disappointed.”

Wesker chuckles; it’s not a nice sound, more like thunder in the distance, low and threatening, the promise of a storm to come.

Hot shivers race across Chris’ skin.

“Oh, Chris,” Wesker says, “I’m not.” Skimming a palm down Chris’ side, the leather of his gloves warm even through Chris’ shirt, Wesker stops at Chris waist, fingers slipping to the small of his back even as he keeps Chris pinned with one arm. “So much promise, so much…” Wesker licks his lips. “Potential.”

Chris doesn’t want potential, not the kind Wesker means, not any kind associated with Wesker. Potential for Wesker is dark, dirty. Devious. He remembers Wesker telling him he had potential before, back when Wesker was…when he let himself think of Wesker as Albert. When things were different and Chris had thought…had thought…

He lashes out, hands slipping from Wesker’s forearm, fingers hard against Wesker’s face, pushing him away. He knocks Wesker’s glasses off, gets a quick flash of inhuman eyes, manic-bright and burning cold, of Wesker’s bared teeth, before Wesker’s growling, pulling Chris away from the wall. For a moment the world spins, and then Chris is back against the wall, face first, the taste of sweat and blood in his mouth, grit beneath his cheek and the palm of his one free hand, his other twisted behind his back.

“You’re so transparent, Chris,” Wesker says, lips hot against Chris’ ear, teeth sharp. Chris hates that Wesker knows, that Wesker’s always known.

Chris hates that this is how this is finally going to happen.

He pushes back against Wesker, feels trapped between a rock and a hard place, between the urge to fight or fuck.

God, he wants to fuck.

Part of that must slip out; part of it, all of it, Chris doesn’t know, but he can feel Wesker’s smile, can see the sparking red of Wesker’s eyes from the corner of his own when Wesker says, “Yes, Chris, now you’re getting the idea. Now we’re on the same page.”

“We’ll never be on the same page, Wesker,” Chris bites out, even though he knows…he knows…he doesn’t know what he knows anymore.

Chuckling, low and deep and rumbling, Wesker slides a hand to Chris’ front, cups Chris’ cock through his pants. “Oh,” he says, “I think we both know you’re wrong there.” His fingers play at Chris’ fly, sneak up to pop the button open, work the zipper down. Chris squeezes his eyes shut, bites his lip, braces for it because, fuck, he needs this, he wants this more than he can bear to admit, and then Wesker’s hand is on him, Wesker’s fingers are wrapping around him, and Chris has never felt more vulnerable or turned on in his life than he does right now, pinned to a wall by a psychopath.

He opens his mouth to protest, to deny, but nothing comes out, nothing but air and a desperate noise from the back of his throat, desperate and animal-like and Chris doesn’t know who he hates more, Wesker or himself.

Wesker’s hand works him, grip just this side of painful, leather sliding against skin, his other hand keeping Chris’ arm pinned. Chris still has one arm free, he could do…something, he could push away, try to grab, he could…

He doesn’t. It’s as telling as any of the sounds he’s trying not to make.

“You’re easy, Chris,” Wesker says, voice coiling at the base of Chris’ spine. His thumb and forefinger are a hard ring around the base of Chris’ cock, his other fingers shifting lower to press against Chris’ balls.

Chris shifts forward, shifts backward, wants—

“So easy to read. I know every button—”

Chris’ arm pulls tighter, Wesker’s hips push closer.

“—to push, every angle—”

A leather-covered thumb sweeps across the head of Chris’ cock, and Chris tastes blood again, fresh on his tongue.

“—to play. You’re mine, Chris.”

He pulls away then, hand disappearing from Chris’ cock, and Chris swallows a protest he can’t help, feels a surge of relief he despises when he feels Wesker’s fingers on his belt, working the buckle open.

It’s the work of seconds, and then Chris’ pants are around his thighs, his cock free, ass bare. There’s the sound of a zipper, loud even over the sound of blood rushing in Chris’ ears, his breath coming in pants.

Wesker’s practically silent, breathing measured as he steps close. There’s a moment, a brief one, when he changes his grip on Chris’ wrist that Chris could take, that Chris could use, but he doesn’t. He stands there, feels Wesker cover him, chest to back, cock to ass, and doesn’t move.

“What now, Wesker?” he asks; his voice doesn’t come out nearly as strong as he wants it to. “Are you going to fuck me?”

Wesker’s hand is back on Chris’ cock, his teeth back against Chris’ ear. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Chris?” he purrs. “That’s always been what you’ve wanted, my cock up your ass while you beg for it on all fours.”

His hips move, his cock dragging against Chris’ ass, slipping between his cheeks as he works Chris ruthlessly with his hand, pulling a rough groan from him.

Chris’ fingers scrabble against the wall for some purchase, for anything to hold on to as he pushes back against Wesker, searching for more.

Wesker nips at his jaw, sucks at his skin forces him against the wall as he moves, hard and rough and fast, too fast, and Chris is groaning, isn’t even trying to hide it anymore when Wesker hisses through his teeth and Chris feels him come, feels it hot on his skin.

Chris’ heart thuds and he wants to cry out because, no, that’s not how this is supposed to go, that’s not how this was meant—

“I’d never lower myself to your level.”

He thought he’d heard how cold Wesker’s voice could go; he was wrong.

Wesker twists his hand on Chris’ cock before letting go, stepping back. He presses Chris’ arm into his back once, hard, and then Chris hears his zipper, hears Wesker bend for his glasses. Hears Wesker’s footsteps as he walks away, leaving Chris against the wall, hard and aching, Wesker’s come on his ass.

If there was ever a time to get a jump on Wesker, this should be it.

Chris can’t move.

Wesker’s footsteps pause at the far end of the room. “Until next time, Chris,” he says, drawing Chris’ name out like a promise, a threat, and then he’s gone and Chris is alone.

Turning his face into the wall, Chris presses his forehead there, slams against the concrete with his fist before wrapping his hand around his cock, jerking himself off quickly, efficiently, trying not to whimper at the remembered feel of Wesker plastered against him, Wesker’s so close, his cock right…there

Chris bites his lip when he comes, doesn’t want the mistake of saying that name, his name.

It takes him a while to catch his breath after, longer than it should. When he feels like he can, Chris straightens, pulls away from the wall. He cleans himself up as best he can, pulls his pants up, tucks himself back in. Ignores his come on the wall.

He feels sore, battered, like he’s weathered the storm. The bruises he’s left with could be from fighting or fucking.

Chris can’t tell the difference.