Chrisker One-Shots

Through The Eyes Of A God

Work Text:
As Chris laid beneath me – no, groveled beneath me – like a king before a God, I found his sweet scent remarkably distinct and arousing. Especially when it harmoniously slipped from his ripped chest and trembling legs, frazzled and bent to my will, begging for attention. I couldn't withhold a chuckle.

Good ole Chris. He always did know how to flaunt grand vigor, and perhaps that's why I wanted him to understand my reasons of betrayal the most. However, none of that seemed to matter now as I encased his daring cock with a leathered palm, curiously fishing for all sorts of vocal variation: high gasps and low groans. They were quite amusing. But I was looking for something a little more... specific, and when Chris finally – at best – arched into submission, I knew that last, sodden moan was his wordless way of saying, 'Goddammit, Wesker! Stop this teasin' and fuck me already!'

Give or take a few words, of course... so how could I deny his implicit invitation?

And with my coat the first article of clothing cast aside, I succeeded to my belt; carefully unlatching the prong in a lead by the tongue, and in a few teasing tugs fully set it free; along with stiff excitement. A privileged taste of action indeed, though concurrently offered Chris the perfect opportunity to formulate a retort, physically or verbally – either not a clever move – but fortunately it seemed he was too engulfed in trepidation to try even the slightest pass.

A wise choice.

Although his astuteness came as no real surprise. Be that as it may, he certainly wasn't my best man all those previous years for naught, and I detested the mere thought of partaking in a vindictive rodeo, where only one participant had the horns—

Or balls... because that'd be no fun.

No fun at all.

And I didn't expect Chris to entice for more with muffled pleas, but here I was – ardently mounting his rock-hard buns; lovely, yet soaked brunette hair captured feverously within my free hand as I titled his head back, exposing a neck strained with veins and a mouth that constantly sought dispute. Though occasionally... liked to talk dirty.

"Just... get on with it, you sonofabitch!"

Inelegant, maybe, but definitely not uncharacteristic, seeing as his surname didn't hold a crimson connotation for nothing, and with his cheeks growing redder and hotter each time we rocked – to no particular rhythm, complementing his weeping phallus – I broodingly cursed at fate for not letting this man be the one to tackle me through the window of Spencer's Estate that historic night.

We would've made quite the team... But who's to say it's too late to start over?

So I took a risk forward, leaning lower to brush a coy ear with crooked lips, stealing a savored lick at his warm lobe, and I wasn't fond of reassurance or repetition, but found myself succumbing with a supportive, "Rest assured, Chris." and though those words didn't come easy for a man of my standards, they played their part remarkably well.

Oh yes, very well indeed. After all...

I was just getting started.