Chrisker One-Shots

Taste Like Heaven

Nothing like this would've happened if he weren't a complete moron and quitted his job.

Chris groaned and locked his arms around the stiff neck, sinking his teeth through the alabaster skin of Albert Wesker's shoulder to stifle the noises he couldn't stop as three saliva coated fingers shoved into him all the sudden.

He wouldn't have to listen to the angles' mourns thundering loud and clear from the heavens above and watch their tears running down from the dark sky...

Those long fingers moved inside him steadily; their main object's to locate that special button that will melt him into a sweet puddle and hopefully stop the pain and guilt he endured.

If only he listened to his sister long time ago...

##

Wesker should've started the preparation ceremony carefully, but that was a hard task to keep focus on when Chris continued to grind against him and had his legs crossed about his back and pulling him closer for more friction; it was too much for him to bear. He couldn't remember when was the last he gave to his carnal desire, but to lust his nemesis means it had been 'ages'.

Not to forget the lovely fact that Chris was dying, slowly and painfully. Karma couldn't laugh at his righteous ideas any more.

Excella was, indeed, a good assist.

He rested his head on the crook of Chris' neck, the skin there heavily stained with dark blood and stiffening with each hot breath taken and released by its owner. He inhaled deeply of that delicious scent; Chris' sweat mingled with blood and the heavy aroma of something new, of a bright future.

Uroboros.

It aroused him to no limits and fueled his senses with hunger he himself, the proclaimed god, couldn't explain why.

Wesker voraciously worked his fingers inside the tight canal, smirking as Chris let out another longing moan and banged his head against the wall behind him. He switched from studying the various change of expressions upon Chris' face to the wall he had him pinned to - it was heavily smeared with dark crimson of Chris. It was amazing his conscious was holding up so far after so much blood loss.

"Chris, don't do that again or you might black out, and even a man like me will feel ridiculous fucking an unconscious man."

Though with the smell of death surrounding him, he doubted he would give a damn about the man' state.

Chris gasped as he spoke calmly into his ear, Wesker's fingers grinding mercilessly against that specific, sweet spot inside him shattered what curses he planned in mind to spit back. "K-kay," he nodded his head.

Wesker decided Chris had had enough with the formal preparation and was ready for something better and far more appropriate to fill him up before over stimulating might break him at any moment.

Not to forget his own throbbing problem.

Unbuckling his belt and undoing his pants with one hand, Wesker traced his other gloved fingers over Chris' hole one more time before joining their lips for a soul-searing kiss and pushed the head of his cock inside.

For ten painful, long years, Chris had been the havoc of his plans. Ten years of popping in his face, showing up when he never were welcomed and standing in his way towards a better race; and now, the very same Chris Redfield, was becoming his own enemy's pet.

Did he really believe killing himself with a lethal drug such as the PG67A/W would put him out of his misery? Such a foolish man.

Wesker couldn't suppress the chuckle as the dying man writhed in agony- or was it from pleasure?- between him and the wall he was pressed against, smearing more of his intoxicated blood all over it and proving that blood served to be good lubricant as his body continued to slip down and up repeatedly.