𝐒𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐞 𝐚 𝐒𝐡𝐢𝐩 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝

𝐒𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐞 𝐚 𝐒𝐡𝐢𝐩 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐚 𝐊𝐢𝐬𝐬

@samediankh requested: ship: Chris && Wesker ⸻ 9: ﹝…in public﹞

Untypical in times of peace, no trepidations remained in this day and age - at the dawn of a new world. Whatever held him back years prior, had it been reason, discipline or dangers he now could only scoff at, all of it had fallen away the moment he let his mask slip in the laboratory beneath the Spencer Mansion.

A lifetime away were the days in the sunlight, of morning coffee and idle chatter between people he had handpicked. His elite soldiers, once destined for something greater. Who he had intended to remain at his side as he ascended, and yet most of them proved to be disappointments. Most, but not all of them.

Amidst the sobering realization of the S.T.A.R.S. failing at the first curveball tossed their way, a select few had prevailed time and time again.

One of them now stood before him, amber eyes burning with a passion not unlike that which he remembered fanning in moments wholly different in nature, skin pressed against skin as they never seemed to be close enough.

An impulse still very much present in the moment, it seemed, as Wesker had exploited a moment of distraction to close in on Chris, his body moving at inhuman speed and with an ease unlike anything he had experienced before the Mansion Incident.

Gloved fingers had closed around the other man’s throat, exerting only a shred of the power living within as he smashed his former subordinate’s back into the next wall, a curl forming around his lips as he could hear the air leave the body in front of him.

Ignoring clawing fingers on his arm leisurely, Wesker pressed himself closer, leather against tactical gear, material creaking under the pressure applied while he could feel the disbelieving gaze of the vermin intruding on their little dance resting on him, wide-eyed. He ignored the woman as he had for most of their fight, him only toying with Chris while tossing her around like a rag doll whenever she was stupid enough to get in the way.

“Take pride, Chris,” the blond near whispered, a strange tone living deep in his voice, almost reminiscent of excitement - an emotional reaction he had never shown this clearly before, “...for a God has favored you.”

Tinted glass obscuring his eyes until this moment were not enough to hide the red hue now glowing in a foreboding, inhuman way; visible to Chris only for a heartbeat at most, before Wesker leaned in even closer in one smooth motion. Hard lips pressed against once soft and pliant ones, now battle-bruised and dry from the fights before, their bow downturned in a clear sign of denial.

It mattered not.

Soon enough, Chris would see the glory into which he had ascended, and he would make him his right hand, his prophet, the one leading the stray sheep remaining on this mortal plane to greatness.

Still ignoring the unwelcome bystander now releasing a shocked gasp at the sight of what played out before her eyes, Wesker pressed ever closer, thus preventing the other one from using his legs to fight him, while his free hand grabbed the brunet’s wrist. Angling his head, he attempted to deepen the kiss - as public a declaration as Wesker had ever been willing to commit to - but hissed when teeth bore down into his lower lip, breaking skin and mixing the iron taste of blood into the connection.

A far cry from the playfulness of days gone by, he pulled back, face pulled into a grimace of vexation and irritation alike, irrational impulses once again taking over as his hand let go of Chris’ wrist and instead connected a fist to his jaw, the cracking sound seemingly finally being enough to pull his alleged partner out of her stupor.

Anticipating the attack before it was even executed, Wesker slinked back into the shadows with another fast motion, snarling as he spit blood onto the floor.

Clearly it would take him some more convincing for Chris to come around, and to do so he would need to get rid of this Sheva Alomar before all else.