Everybody is writing up some crazy fictions about Victor and his assistant or Victor and his favorite patient..
But someone bring me secret spouse hcs. Rhode Hills staff is still shocked that he leaves the facility to go “home.” He has a bedroom on site but he barely uses it.
So what’s the point of going home? It’s go get home to his spouse no one knows about. And they’re a fucking freak like him.
- Coming home late on certain days. Every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday at 12am, he goes home.
- If you’re asleep, he watches u sleep (or fucks u while u sleep)
- If you’re up, you both discuss recent developments in each others lives and cuddle a lil
- I also hc him to have an unsure diet (like genetically modified rats or mice. Like some science experiment food) and has a fridge or section different from yours to prevent “cross contamination.” Can’t have his nemesissy chemicals seeping into the casserole you give to your mother
- He is technically rich so you either don’t work and or just work for fun/passion. He’s got you regardless.
- You both have his and hers walk in closets and his is STACKED. Victor has very expensive tastes. And that reflects onto the clothes and accessories he gives to you.
- He doesn’t care what you do with the home, as long as he has his basement lab, heat lamp room, and closet, he doesn’t care what you do.
- You never really need another doctor cause he can basically cover the surface of everything wrong with you. May not be the BEST but he can roughly sketch out or predict a symptom or diagnosis even if it’s not in his line of study.
- Fucks you everywhere..
- All the wine in the house is sourced from Lady D (shut up about timelines whatever I say goes /j)
- If you aren’t home when he comes back he gets kinda mad you don’t tell him. The ONLY reason he comes to his house is to see you living in it. So if you don’t warn him that you’ll be out on y’all’s meeting dates, he’d be pisseddddd.
- No one at Rhodes knows about you and he likes it that way. Thought the perfume and kisses on the collar make some of them suspicious.
- And he’ll mark you up too if u work elsewhere. Legit just comes home every once in awhile just to bite your neck and sniff your hair before dipping.
-Panty sniffer
- Would DIE if Zeno found out about you.
- Oh! And loves to say “Honey! I’m home!” Just to joke around with the cliche, but now he can’t stop saying it. And will scream your name like he did with graces when u don’t show after the first 3 callouts. And then gets upset and anxious VERY quick.
Super OOC but.. idc! I like domestic and gentle husband Victor. WE NEED MORE CREEPY GROSS HUSBAND VICTOR. WE NEED MORE HCS. (Fics r long 😔)
“I LOVE OLD MAN YAOI” I scream into the ether in hopes some talented, gifted writer will grant me more Chris Redfield/Leon S. Kennedy/Ethan Winters fluff cuz I’ve read all of it-
TL;DR: Trying out new things together might be very fun.
WC: 4.2k
CW&TW: it's quite sweet in my book but i suppose i should put DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT 18+ MDNI ♡ Gunplay ♡ Double Vaginal Penetration ♡ Spitting in Mouth ♡ Consent ♡ Creampie ♡ Shoe rubbing if you squint ♡ Leon comes in his pants if you keep squinting ♡ No use of Y/N ♡ Use of 'Slut' ♡ No proofread ♡ Explicit Language
~ ♡ ~
You would never guess that one day you’d find yourself down on your knees in front of Leon as his gun is aimed at you and him looking at you with something so feral and wild in his eyes your throat feels tight with both fear and excitement. You were the one who asked for it, just to try — but you would never think that’d make you feel scared shitless, even after Leon checked safety multiple times to soothe you and showed you that it’s completely unloaded.
Leon stared down at you, his pupils blown wide with desire. He feels like a psycho for being this turned–on from something as twisted as gunplay but at least he can justify himself by reminding that it was your idea all along. In all his forty–nine years of existence, holding you at gunpoint and watching your misty eyes was the closest thing that ever provoked him to almost coming in his pants right away.
He trails the pistol up, up, until it reaches your forehead. “That’s where I usually aim. To shoot the brains off.”
Your breath hitches as if it’s the first time that you realize that your husband actually does that. You never gave it much thought, never pictured in detail what he goes through and what he has to do every time. Your cunt clenches treacherously, making you feel disgusted. No, no, no. No way. Things like these can’t make one horny.
Leon locks eyes with yours, his lips stretching out in a grin and he pulls the trigger. You cry out at the top of your lungs — but nothing happens. You honestly don’t know what you expected. You just feel this primal, animalistic fear that completely ignores everything rational.
“You didn’t think I’m that crazy, did you? That was so rude, baby,” Leon juts his lips, the tip of the gun trailing down to your nose bridge, eventually stopping by your lips. “C’mon, be nice. Need to get two of my favourite ladies acquainted. Say hi, gorgeous,” he nudges your pursed lips with the muzzle.
“Hi,” you croak out, barely parting your mouth but that’s enough for Leon.
He forces the gunpoint in the wet, hot cavern of your mouth and you moan around it in surprise. So metallic, so sickeningly cool to the touch, so fucking perverted.
“Don’t worry, I clean her up well,” Leon reassures you. “I take good care of my girls. You know me.”
Oh yeah. You knew it all along. There was no way that this man could be sane. But if he had his PTSD and depression and whatever else shitton of disorders he got to blame, you can’t do the same. A civilian who hasn’t even touched a rifle before meeting Leon. Just a sick bitch, apparently.
Your lips stretch tight around the tip of the gun and you flick your tongue out hesitantly to taste it. Leon notices your pink flesh of muscle twirl around it and hums appreciatively, “Atta girl. That’s it, good job. Work that mouth. Just as if it was my cock, yeah? Yeah, you love that cock. You’re a noble cock–sucker, isn’t that right? Always sucking until your jaw aches.”
You should probably feel humiliated, but you feel proud. And even though you can’t bring yourself to pretend that it’s Leon’s dick — because Leon’s dick is so unmistakable, so tasty, so his — you try to pretend that you actually need to make this barrel come, no matter how ridiculous that sounds. Deep down you know that if you suck it good enough Leon’s probably gonna be the one who ends up coming for real.
So you hollow your cheeks within the limit, flattening your tongue and sucking in more of the gun. You look up at Leon from under your lashes, no doubt looking like a PornHub freeze–frame.
“Holy fuck,” Leon groans out loud, closing his eyes. “That’s so fucking wrong. Think you can swallow it whole, huh? You’re crazier than me for actually doing all that.”
“I love it,” you try moaning out around the pistol but it comes out lowkey muffled, obscene and depraved.
He lets out another low sound before harshly yanking the gun out of your mouth, your lips letting it loose with a popping sound. “I’m gonna show you crazy, then,” Leon grits out.
Unzips the fly of his jeans, enough to expose the waistband of his boxers that confine his rock–hard erection, which you hadn’t even noticed before, too busy sucking on the gun. Then Leon tucks the handle of his pistol between his underwear and pants, zipping up until just the muzzle peeks out. Your eyes widen and you can practically feel how your tight hole drools, clearly on board with the idea.
Leon gently grips your neck, tugging you closer to his crotch as he rasps in a baritone, voice hoarse with arousal, “If you won’t open wide, you’re gonna get your teeth knocked the fuck out. As soon as you feel like that shit is too much, you’re banging your fists on my thighs, yeah? And shoving me the hell off.”
You nod eagerly, feeling your brain turn into a mush. You can’t believe that you’re about to do what you’re about to do. That’s something you wouldn’t even share with your best friend, getting your face fucked with a gun. On the other hand, lucky you.
Leon’s palm tangles in your messy hair, gathering the strands up in a makeshift ponytail, “Ready when you are.”
You don’t answer: just wrap your lips around the pistol once again, already grown used to the texture, taste and feel of it. You relax your throat right away, feeling relatively calm despite the whole wildness of the act. Leon doesn’t move an inch, his hazy eyes taking you in. You tilt your head a bit to change the angle, making the tip of the gun nudge the inside of your cheek.
You catch the very moment when Leon stops putting any effort in trying to behave himself.
He cups the back of your head with unsteady hands to keep you in place and starts moving his hips slowly, in and out. The muzzle catches on your teeth accidentally one time, and that’s enough to remind you to keep your mouth open wide. You part your lips as much as you can, giving Leon enough room to work with. And he takes advantage of that.
He speeds up, hitting a little deeper so you feel the metallic tip worry your uvula. You gag when you feel it for the first time but don’t try to stop him. All the while, Leon’s eyes are glued to his face and he gets off on the view alone. He actually feels like you’re sucking on his cock and not on the gun, he can almost feel the way your throat constricts around his dick, can almost sense your twitching uvula.
Leon moans at the way you suck on the pistol obediently and diligently; the gusset of your panties is soaked through, clinging to the rotund lips of your pussy. He yanks up your oversized shirt so it doesn’t block the view, his gaze dropping down to your wet cunt outlined by drenched fabric. Without thinking, Leon presses his boot into your vagina. You gasp at the sensation, hard shoe feeling so unexpectedly good against your aching core.
“Don’t be shy, baby. Rub on it,” Leon all but whispers, his voice pure velvet. “Can’t feel any more degraded anyway, can you?”
He’s right. So you turn all your inhibitions off, swerving your hips forward to hump his shoes. Leon still works his own hips, slowly but purposefully drilling the muzzle into your throat with an occasional grunt or two. You squeeze your eyes shut making sure to keep your mouth open wide even though your jaw already feels slack, and grind against his boot, leaving a moist spot on the toe of the shoe.
Leon looks down and lets out something between a growl and a moan. He didn’t think you’d actually get so wet. And the fact that you’re as turned on, that’s what gets him off better than the play itself.
“Look at me,” he hastens. “Keep those eyes on me.”
You do as he says, looking up at him again. Your lashes are wet — you barely even noticed that you’ve shedded a few tears. But Leon notices right away.
“Fucking hell. You like that, huh? You really like that? You’re twisted like that?”
You nod.
“Yeah? How that feels, blowing a goddamn gun? You just really do anything I say, it seems. What if I’m sick in the head? What if I spit in your mouth?”
You don’t know if that’s supposed to make you feel repulsed, but you just shrug, still riding his boot leisurely.
Leon lets out a sardonic laugh, his own head spinning. “Then say ‘ah’.”
He harshly tugs the barrel out of your mouth and the butt out of his pants, your jaw twitching from exertion. But you keep your mouth open like you promised.
Leon leans down to your level, something hot and dangerous glinting in his icy blue eyes. Then, not giving you any warning, he spits right in your waiting cavity.
You don’t wince or flinch or jerk, like he expects. You stick your tongue out a bit before it lands, and Leon swears he can see the exact moment when his own saliva mixes with yours.
Then you close your mouth, and Leon’s gaze zeroes out on the way your throat works as you swallow it down your gullet.
And, God help him, something inside of him bursts.
Leon’s gaze glues to you, his hips falter and his grip on you tightening. You look back at him, confused. But before you can ask him what’s going on, he lets out a low grunt and his eyes flutter shut.
With a hushed moan of your name, his whole body jerks forward as he thrusts up into the air.
You don’t even need to see anything to know unmistakably that he had just come right in his pants. Your throat feels sore and everything is just so filthy and weird, but you can’t stop yourself from moaning out loud just at the thought.
Leon doesn’t take more than thirty seconds to recover from his orgasm before he messily kicks his jeans off, not minding the fact that there’s a huge wet patch on his boxers. He shimmies out of them rashly, wrinkling his nose at the sensation of sticky, gross sperm worrying his overheated skin.
If it was up to you, you’d wring his underwear to squeeze every single drop of cum out of it and lap it up. But that’d probably be too crazy, even for Leon.
Leon’s cock doesn’t look like any ejaculation happened within twenty–four hours; you couldn’t even tell if it wasn’t for the droplets of pearly white seed that still clang to the head, along with a few smears on the shaft. Because it’s stony, flushed and very ready to go again and again and again — no blue pill needed.
You stare at his dick mesmerized and completely miss the moment when the gun gets back in his hands. You only realize that when you feel its wet, drooly tip press against your temple.
Leon looks down at you, face still flushed from climax, “Get on the bed and spread your cunt as wide as you can.”
Your body obeys his order before your mind even processes it. You crawl onto the bed, situating yourself on your back and part your legs, quickly freeing yourself from the soggy panties. You think to drop them onto the floor, but Leon grasps them from your grip and wraps the fabric around the pistol. Then, meticulously yet casually, he uses your drenched underwear to wipe the muzzle.
“Next time you wanna do it, we should stock up on condoms. That cock is always gonna be raw inside of you, but I think they’d come in handy for a gun.”
Your breath hitches in your throat. Is he seriously about to…
“W-what do you mean? Are you saying…”
“I’m not saying anything,” Leon’s eyes bore into yours. “I’m gonna fuck you with this hot stuff. Your poor pussy’s all lonely, hasn’t ever met anything but fingers and cock. Don’t be so selfish. She’ll like it.”
You inhale and forget how to exhale. Fucking your mouth is one thing, but fucking your cunt with a gun… it’s not that big, but still… that’s fucking insane.
Leon notices your flabbergasted expression and moves onto the bed, then raising his hands to cup your face, “If you’re so worried, then my cock can join. She’s familiar with it. Then… this baby girl will just sneak in. You won’t even notice.”
Your heart skips a few beats, every word of his sounds more and more wicked. You’re not even scared. You’re just… too woke. As if… that’s something so forbidden and it’s wrong to like it, so you just try to tame yourself and gaslight yourself into being disgusted. When in reality, you’re anything but.
Leon goes on, noting your inner turmoil. He’s not too pushy, not overstepping — he just reads you like an open book. He knows you just need some more encouragement to accept that you’re, in fact, kinky. “That’s right, gorgeous. Have you ever wondered how good that pussy can stretch? I bet she’d take two dicks easily. But like hell there’d ever be any dick inside of her that is not mine. Let’s test her, baby.”
You bite your lip but eventually, you nod before even giving everything a good thought. After all… the gun doesn’t seem too wide. And technically… if you’re supposed to push a goddamn baby out of this hole, it can… stretch good..? You have no idea what that's even gonna feel like, but you think you’ll manage. It can’t be that bad. Yeah, Leon’s thick but… c’mon. It’s gonna be okay.
When Leon places the gun on the bed beside his thigh and grasps his cock to lube it up generously, squeezing half of the bottle you feel like changing your mind though. If that gun made your jaw ache, that’s gonna be something else in the pussy. But it’s not like you can let Leon know that you’re a little bit nervous. You want your cunt to fit everything in. To just impress Leon.
Nothing can be worse than anal, at the end of the day. And you’re not just saying it.
Leon keeps spreading lubrication over his cock, sound wet and familiar, making your bare cunt squeeze around air. You still hold your pussy lips spread wide with your thumbs, seeing the way your clit twitches and peeks out of its hood. You can’t see your hole quite well in this position but that’s even better. You don’t need to see it to know that it’s too small to endure what’s about to come. Still, you’re willing to try. Leon takes some more time to coat the pistol with the lube as well, and that makes everything so very real that your heart and cunt both clench again.
“You’re a real trooper, baby. Such a brave girl,” he coos as he aligns the swollen tip with your fluttering opening. Your hole clenches, spitting out transparent wetness directly onto the head of his cock. Leon licks his lips at the sight, gripping your thighs lovingly as he nudges forward.
Leon watches the way your opening makes way for him, hugging the pudgy head and eagerly stretching to welcome him in. A primal satisfaction flickers in his eyes spurring him on.
He feeds your pussy another inch, then another and another. Your fists tangle in the sheets. No matter how many times you take him like a champ, it always feels so… overwhelming. He feels like a goddamn pole and you thank God that his cock is exactly the way it is, not any bigger or smaller.
“Atta cunt. Such a greedy one, though. Just gobbles up whatever I ask her to. You should teach her manners, gorgeous. Can’t let her be so promiscuous,” Leon pants, his thumb unexpectedly moving to flick your clit. “C’mon, waterworks. Need you slippery.”
You buck your hips; Leon’s finger rubs you just right. He knows you like no other, even better than you know yourself. You barely can get yourself off while he always does, no exceptions.
His thumb draws figure eights on your perky nub, enough to tease and bring you that sweet, torturous pleasure. His cock is still inside of you, Leon’s focus completely on your bud. You don’t even notice the way you grow wetter just like he wanted. When you look down, you see that he’s already hilted, sack slotted right against your chubby cunt. The friction was so deliciously smooth you didn’t even feel much of it.
“You feel so good,” you squeeze out just to let him know how perfect he makes you feel.
He sets your clit free, moving his thumb to spread your pussy wider around his cock. You look down and while you can’t see much, you can see for sure that there’s no space for anything else. Your cunt clenches at the realization.
The corners of Leon’s mouth twitch upwards, “Oh, it’s gonna get only better.”
“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, y’know?”
You hurry to reassure Leon that you do want it anyway—
“But I know you want it. So buckle up.”
You squeeze your eyes shut. The view is the most painful part. Obscene, too. You would’ve never thought you’d ever put yourself in such a predicament. But here you fucking go.
You hear don’t see the way Leon lubes the pistol one more time just to make sure everything goes smoothly in every way possible. You feel don’t see the way Leon’s thumb smears the same lube around your entrance, still stretched tight around his dick.
You sense don’t see the way something sticky, cold and rigid catches on your opening. You gasp not from pain but from the realization. Leon’s thumbs keep you spread wide still as he slowly, steadily pushes the tip of the gun inside of you. It goes in way more easier than any of you expected. Still, you whimper never feeling stretched so wide before. It’s not very painful. You just feel stuffed to the brim.
“Open your eyes, baby. Look down and watch how your pussy does hell of a job,” Leon husks out, barely holding back a moan, both from the way he feels something sliding in alongside with his cock and from the visual.
You exhale and finally open your eyes. You see a concentrated look on Leon’s face, both concern and lust written in his eyes. You shift your gaze to your pussy and immediately squeeze your eyes back shut right away.
There’s actually a good inch of the gun buried inside of your cunt. That’s when you swear you feel some discomfort that surprisingly goes away as soon as you close your eyes. Talk about placebo.
“Fuck, you’re incredible,” Leon rasps. His fingers move away from your folds as your cunt finally wraps around the muzzle. “That’s… oh fucking hell. You’re too snug.”
You cry out, feeling Leon’s cock move inside of you hesitantly. He moans as his own dick feels that little part of the pistol buried inside of you. That must feel as new for him as it is for you.
“Baby… God. Thank you. Thank you for being such a pervert,” he gently tries to move the gun together with his cock and you whimper, feeling two things fluttering inside of you at once.
You relax as you notice that he doesn’t try to push the pistol any deeper. It’s definitely not that bad. It could be bad if he attempted to make your cunt swallow the whole thing, but now? Now you feel kinda fine. And definitely proud of yourself. Of your pussy.
You carefully move your hips forward, making Leon groan.
“For fuck’s sake,” he growls out and pushes you down flat at the bed in one swift movement.
Leon pulls his cock out harshly, making you yelp. He kneels between your thighs and grips the handle of the gun while the tip is still nestled within your walls.
Then he starts moving it in and out, speeding with every thrust.
You gasp and pant and moan, at this point not even caring what’s fucking you. Your brain is too hazy to function. You just feel this thick, cool thing sliding in, sliding out, sliding in, sliding out—
“Would that be enough to make you come, huh? You don’t even care what your cunt munches on, huh?” He slaps your folds lightly and you squeak, clenching around the gun. Leon’s lips twitch in a predatory smile, “Oh, you liked that. I know you’re suffocating the poor thing now. So fucking nasty.”
“Maybe I am nasty,” you manage, half–moaning the words.
Leon locks eyes with yours, his mouth still curved upwards. “You’re not. You’re just being such a sweet slut for me.”
The wave finally crashes down.
You could do a dozen of different things. You could try to be prickly about it and say that you’re not. You could bite your lip and say ‘yes Daddy’. You could spit right in his face.
Instead, you just come around the Glock. Your muscles clamp down harshly, squeezing the life out of the pistol as your spine dips involuntarily.
Leon watches you with a heated gaze but not like you’d care about it. He would never guess that could make you come.
But fuck, you haven’t orgasmed prettier than that ever before.
Leon’s free hand flies to grip his cock, his fist a blur as he jerks himself off. His own head throws back as he groans and grunts and moans, “Fuck, no, every drop goes inside of you.”
You still feel out of it from your climax when Leon aligns the head of his cock with your hole still stretched wide around the muzzle, and your pussy accepts just the tip of it. Leon’s hips buck up involuntarily and you squeak as you’re forced to take a little more of his cock along with the gun still resting inside of you.
The next moment he whimpers your name as a warning before he lets go of his dick and comes right inside of you.
You gasp, looking down. He fits in just enough to not let any drop of his jizz land outside of your overstuffed pussy. It’s too quick to even give you time to process because next thing you know, Leon’s pulling out.
You two see the way excess seed oozes out of your hole straight onto the gun and you swear you see Leon’s softening cock twitch. By any means, that’s the most perverted thing any of you have ever done.
Leon blinks a few times, his gaze still glued to the gun that’s, for God’s sake, still inside of you, and then he lets out a hysterical laugh.
“Fuck me,” he croaks out, voice still hoarse from orgasm. “This… that’s… nobody ever hearing about this, ‘kay? I… God, baby, that’s my work gun.”
You choke on your saliva. “What?”
Leon grins up at you, not looking sorry at all. “I mean… I didn’t think I’d get my spunk on it. That’s kinda… not… nice, yeah.”
“So that’s all that worries you?” you squeak out indignantly. “Not the fact that it’s been inside of my mouth and, Jesus Christ, my vagina too?”
His smirk doesn’t falter. “Well… it’s new. Gotta initiate it, right? It’s not even complete, though. Hasn’t tried your shithole yet.”
“Leon! Gross! That’s too much!” You swat at his chest.
“That’s what she said,” he retorts with a Cheshire cat smile.
“Get this thing out of me, for God’s sake! Ew!” You wriggle, realizing that the pistol is still pretty much inside of you, smeared with cum.
Leon snorts, moving to scoop the remaining sperm with his finger to push it further into your hole before easing the gun out of you. “Didn’t see you complaining when you came around it, though.”
“Oh, I’m not the only one who did, you know,” you clench your teeth as your cunt is finally left alone, and suddenly you feel it all: the soreness, the absurdity of the situation and… satisfaction.
“I’m gonna pay you back, Leon,” you suddenly say with utter seriousness. “You won’t even expect it. But you know I will. You just wait.”
Leon’s facial expression remains neutral. His limp cock, though, jerks at your declaration.
“Okay,” he finally utters calmly. “Tickle me pink all you want, gorgeous.”
You exhale, wincing as the weariness of your pussy makes itself known. Tomorrow's probably gonna be hell.
But when you think about the eventual payback you have in mind, you can’t help but grin like a halfwit. You just need to wait for the right moment. And until you can walk properly again, for Christ’s sake.
Summary: Another late night at the BSAA, and another excuse for Chris to check up on you.
CW: Slight angst - Fluff - Established relationship (kinda) - Older reader (50s) - Canon age Chris (53) - Old man yaoi - Smut - Gay smut - Anal - Bottom Chris - Top reader - Safe sex - FEMALES DNI - MINORS DNI
Words: 6.2k
A/N: Let’s take this as face value, I just want to fuck Chris Redfield. It wouldn't have taken much to convince me to write this anyway. This was also just because I was helping my cousin beat Village and that Chris is burned into my retinas. I'm rambling, but I wouldn't say this has much of a plot unlike my other smut, it's just for the love of the game.
The BSAA headquarters had long since surrendered to the night. The frantic energy of the day—the ringing phones, the barked orders, the hum of a hundred workstations—had bled away into a heavy, artificial silence. Desks were cleared of everything but dust. Corridors stretched out like cold, sterile veins, their lights dimmed to a ghostly blue. Every door was shut tight, sealing away the secrets of the day.
Except for yours.
You sat hunched over your desk, the green glow of a desk lamp carving your features into sharp shadows. Files were scattered across the scarred oak like a paper graveyard. This was your domain. Your job was to ensure that the operations Chris and his team conducted under the table stayed buried deep beneath it.
You’d started as a field agent, a lifetime ago. You still remembered the stench of New York under Glenn Arias’s viral cloud—the heat, the screaming, and the sight of Chris Redfield cutting a path through the chaos. That was the first time you’d learned to trust someone else’s shadow more than your own.
But a decade ago, a shattered knee and a chest full of shrapnel had traded your holster for a highlighter. It took sitting behind this desk to realize just how much heavy lifting went into keeping the public’s peace intact.
A sharp ache throbbed in your joints, a reminder of every mile run and every hit taken. You scrubbed a hand over your face, the stubble rasping against your palm, and let out a long, ragged breath. Reaching for the ashtray, you picked up a smoldering cigarette and took a slow drag. The smoke burned, familiar and grounding, before you exhaled it into the lamplight.
“Working yourself into an early grave? Or just waiting for the building to collapse around you?”
The voice was gruff, weathered by years of shouting over gunfire. You didn’t even have to look up to know the weight of the man standing in the doorway.
Chris was already shucking off his heavy leather coat, the material creaking as he tossed it toward the rack. He missed the hook, but didn't bother to fix it. He looked tired—Chris always looked like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, and tonight, he looked like he was losing the fight.
A small, tired smile tugged at the corner of your mouth as you watched him approach. He didn't wait for an invite; he just started rummaging through the files on the edge of your desk, his large, calloused hands moving with a restless energy.
“Job’s never done, Chris,” you sighed, flicking ash into the glass tray. “Besides, I can't just leave this mess.”
Chris grunted in response, a low vibration that seemed to settle in the quiet of the office. He didn't move away; instead, he circled the edge of the desk with a slow, deliberate stride until he was standing directly between your spread knees. He was close—close enough that the scent of cedar, gunpowder, and expensive leather rolled off him in waves. As he leaned forward to inspect a mission manifest near your keyboard, his legs brushed against your thighs.
You cocked an eyebrow, your gaze dropping to the way he moved. He was being purposeful, leaning down just enough to crowd your space, his frame blocking out the rest of the room. You took another slow drag of the cigarette, the cherry glowing bright in the dim light, and smirked as he finally turned his head to glance at you over his shoulder. His eyes were tired, etched with lines that hadn't been there during the Arias job, but they still held that same piercing intensity.
“That’s going to kill you,” he grunted, his voice dropping an octave in the small space between you.
You let out a dry, raspy chuckle, the smoke curling around your face. “You’re one to talk, Redfield.” Your mind flicked back to a decade ago—the day you were discharged from the hospital with a leg held together by pins and a stubborn refusal to let anyone help you into your apartment. You’d watched him through the window of the cab, leaning against his truck, chain-smoking through two packs in a single afternoon because he didn't know how to handle the fact that you almost didn't come home.
“Better a cigarette than some BOW tearing my throat out,” you huffed, flicking a stray bit of ash into the tray. “At least I can control the pace of this one.”
Chris didn't argue. Instead, he let out a sharp exhale that was almost a sigh and turned around fully. He hoisted himself up, sitting on the edge of the old oak desk with his boots dangling between your legs. He crossed his massive arms over his chest, his biceps straining against the dark fabric of his shirt. For a long moment, he just stared at you—searching for something in your expression, or perhaps just grounding himself in the fact that you were still there.
Without breaking eye contact, he reached out. His fingers, calloused and warm, brushed against your lower lip as he took the cigarette right from your mouth. You didn't stop him. You watched as he took a long, deep drag, his chest expanding as he pulled the smoke into his lungs.
You kicked off the floor, rolling your office chair forward until it clicked against the desk, slotting yourself firmly between his legs. The height difference put you eye-to-eye while he sat on the desk. You could feel the heat radiating off his thighs against your sides.
Chris exhaled the smoke slowly, the grey cloud drifting between the two of you like a veil. He looked down at the cigarette, then back at you, a shadow of a smirk playing on his lips.
“Stubborn old bastard,” he muttered, though there was no heat in it—only a tired, bone-deep affection. He leaned in closer, his knees tightening slightly against your hips, anchoring you to him in the silence of the empty headquarters.
You leaned forward, resting your cheek against the rugged denim of Chris’s thigh. One hand stayed grounded on your own lap while the other splayed flat against his abdomen. Even through the layers of his shirt, you could feel the rock-hard tension in his core—the body of a man who had never truly learned how to relax.
“You like it,” you hummed, your voice vibrating against his leg. It wasn't a question; it was an observation of a decade-long truth.
Chris didn't pull away. He never did. He liked the grounding weight of your hand, and he liked you—far more than he’d ever care to put into words. Admitting it meant putting a label on the overly friendly glances and the late-night disappearances. It meant acknowledging that this wasn't just two old soldiers blowing off steam, but a tether that kept him from drifting too far into the dark. And, though he’d take the secret to his grave, he’d have to admit the sex wasn't the only thing that actually made him feel human anymore.
“Maybe,” he whispered. His voice was a low rasp as he leaned over, reaching for the ashtray. He didn't just drop the cigarette; he ground the cherry into the glass with a slow, forceful pressure, extinguishing the light until only the dim green glow of the desk lamp remained.
He looked down, his gaze tracking the movement of your hand. You began to massage his thigh, your palm sliding up and down in a slow, rhythmic motion that you both knew by heart. It was a silent language, a countdown.
You tilted your head back, looking up at him from your position between his knees. A ghost of a smirk played on your lips, the kind of look that only came from decades of knowing exactly which buttons to push.
“So, Redfield,” you started, your voice dropping to a low, intimate timber. “Did you actually climb those stairs to look at the reports? Or were you just hoping I was in the mood for something else?”
You already knew the answer. You could feel it in the way his breathing hitched, the way his knees tightened almost imperceptibly against your sides, pinning you in place. The reports were just a paper-thin excuse, a ritual they both performed before the inevitable.
Chris didn't answer immediately. He reached down, his large hand cupping the back of your neck, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a surprising amount of pressure. His eyes were dark, focused entirely on you.
“The reports can wait until morning,” he growled.
The air in the room seemed to vanish. You knew how this ended—it always ended the same way. In a few minutes, the scattered files would be swiped onto the floor, the old oak desk would be creaking under the weight of two grown men, and the silence of the BSAA would be broken by the sound of muffled groans and the desperate calling of one another’s names.
You leaned down further, the heat of your breath ghosting through the heavy denim of his pants. Your lips brushed the hard line of the bulge beneath the fabric, and the reaction was instantaneous.
Chris let out a ragged, strangled groan, his boots scraping against the floor as his legs clamped tight around your shoulders, pinning you into his space.
“Don’t,” he huffed, his voice cracking. It was a half-hearted command, more a plea than an order, and you both knew it.
You looked up at him, a wicked glint in your eyes that only decades of shared trauma and survival could forge. You knew Chris’s patience for teasing had thinned out as the years piled up. The older he got, the more he just wanted the release—the blunt, honest grounding of your body against his.
“Remember that night after Arias?” you murmured, pausing to press a slow, deliberate kiss against the ridge of him. You felt him shudder under your touch. “I was so damn worried you’d caught something, or that Arias had done more damage than you were letting on. But all you wanted—the second we were behind a closed door—was for me to take it out on you.”
You chuckled, the sound low and resonant against his thigh. “Pretty sure Rebecca caught on, too. The way you were looking at me on the helicopter….you weren’t exactly subtle, Redfield.”
Chris rolled his eyes, a rough, breathless sound escaping his throat. One of his massive hands found its way into your hair, his fingers threading through the strands and tightening into a firm, anchoring grip. His other hand slammed flat against the edge of the desk, his knuckles white as he braced himself.
“Funny,” he managed, a dry, gravelly chuckle breaking through his composure. “Memory’s getting hazy in your old age. I’m pretty sure I was the one who fucked you that night.”
He looked down at you then, his gaze heavy with a hunger that had been building since the moment he walked through the door.
You finally pushed off the floor, the movement drawing a protest from your stiff joints, but you ignored it as you stood between his knees. Chris didn't move an inch; he just watched you with an intensity that could have set the room on fire. As you rose, your lips found his in a collision that was both desperate and deeply familiar. His hands moved instinctively, finding a firm perch on your hips, his thumbs digging into the bone as he pulled you flush against the edge of the desk.
He mumbled something against your mouth—a low, gravelly string of words lost in the friction of the kiss—but the specifics didn't matter. What mattered was the taste of him. He tasted of stale cigarette smoke, the bite of cheap whiskey he must have had earlier, and something else that defied everything: he tasted like home. It was a strange, almost a soft thought for a man in your line of work, but in a world of bioweapons and collapsing governments, everything always led back to him. He was your only north star.
“Let me take it slow,” you whispered, pulling back just enough to let the words brush against his lips. You watched his pupils blown wide in the dim light. “I know you like it when I take my time with you.”
Chris let out a long, shuddering breath, his head falling back slightly. His fingers twitched against your skin, eventually sliding beneath the hem of your shirt. His touch was rough, calloused from decades of holding a rifle, but there was a hidden gentleness there that he saved only for you.
“Mmm,” he hummed, the sound vibrating deep in his chest. “You’ve had enough years to figure that out.”
You slid your hand under his shirt, your palm hot against the landscape of his torso. You traced the hard, familiar lines of muscle that hadn't softened with age, moving upward until you felt the heavy thud of his heart. At the same time, his fingers were tracing the raised, jagged lines of the scars on your chest—souvenirs from the injury that had ended your field career.
“I like knowing you, Chris,” you said softly, a genuine smile tugging at your mouth as you leaned in to press your forehead against his. “Every inch. Every new scar.”
Chris’s grip on your hips tightened, his knuckles brushing against your belt. The exhaustion that usually clouded his face seemed to lift, replaced by a raw, quiet vulnerability. For a moment, he wasn't the commander of Hound Wolf or the man who had seen too many friends die. He was just a man who was tired of being alone.
“Then keep going,” he rasped, his eyes locking onto yours. “The world’s not going to end in the next twenty minutes.”
Your mouth moved over his with a languid, deep rhythm, exploring the familiar terrain of his lips and the rough scrape of his stubble. Chris’s hands stayed low on your back, his palms broad and warm, pulling you closer until there wasn't a breath of air left between your chests.
Slowly, almost tentatively, your fingers moved to the buttons of his shirt. You worked them one by one, your knuckles brushing against the dark hair of his chest. Each time a button gave way, you’d pause to press a kiss to the newly exposed skin—the hollow of his throat, the top of his sternum, the hard curve of a pectoral. Chris let out a low, shaky breath, his head falling back against his shoulder.
When the shirt was finally open, you peeled it back, letting it drape off his shoulders. He didn't let it stay there for long; with a shrug of his heavy frame, the garment fluttered to the floor, forgotten among the files.
Now it was his turn. Chris’s movements were deliberate as he reached for the hem of your shirt. His eyes stayed locked on yours, searching, an unspoken question in the brown depths. You nodded slightly, and he pulled the fabric up and over your head in one smooth motion. The cool air of the office hit your skin, but the chill didn't last long before Chris’s hands were back, his palms splaying over the scars on your chest and ribs. He traced them like a map he’d memorized long ago, his touch reverent.
“Still here,” he muttered against your collarbone, his voice thick with a sudden, raw emotion.
“Always,” you breathed back.
You moved to his belt next. The metallic clink of the buckle sounded loud in the silence. You worked the leather through the loops, the sound of the zipper following shortly after. Chris stood up just enough to help you slide the heavy trousers down his legs. He stepped out of them, leaving him standing there in nothing but his dark boxers, his physique still formidable, though marked by the decades of war he’d waged.
You stood before him, shirtless and exposed, looking at the man who had been the constant in your life for more than twenty years. The green light of the desk lamp caught the silver in his hair and the deep lines of his muscles. He looked less like the legendary hero and more like the man you loved—tired, scarred, but entirely yours.
Chris reached out, his hands curling around your bare waist, pulling you back into the space between his thighs. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply.
“God, I needed this,” he confessed, his voice a muffled rumble against your skin. “I needed you.”
“Needed me?” You rasped. “Or wanted me?”
Chris’s grip on your waist tightened, his fingers sinking into your skin as if he were trying to anchor himself to the only solid thing left in his world.
He pulled back just an inch, his face still ghosting against the side of your neck. His breath was hot and uneven. He didn't answer right away; instead, he tilted his head, his forehead coming to rest against yours. In the dim, green-tinted shadows, his eyes looked like bruised glass—haunted, but softening as they focused on you.
“Both,” he finally rasped, the word vibrating between you. “It’s always been both. I want you until it hurts, but I need you because you’re the only one who remembers who I was before all this started. Before I became whatever the hell the BSAA thinks I am now.”
He let out a sharp, self-deprecating huff of air—the ghost of a laugh that didn't quite make it—and his hands slid from your waist down to the backs of your thighs. With a sudden, surprising burst of strength that reminded you he was still more than capable of handling himself, he hooked his arms under your legs and hoisted you up.
You let out a low grunt of surprise, your hands instinctively flying to his broad shoulders to steady yourself. He sat you back onto the edge of the desk, right on top of the scattered files and mission reports. The paper crinkled and slid beneath you, some of it fluttering to the floor like autumn leaves, but neither of you cared.
He moved back into the space between your knees, his bare chest pressing against yours. The contact was electric—skin on skin, heat on heat. You could feel every ridge of his muscle, every throb of his heart against your own. He leaned in, his nose brushing against yours, his voice dropping to a gravelly, dangerous velvet.
“You’ve been in my head all day,” he admitted, his thumb tracing the curve of your lower lip. “Thinking about you in here. Thinking about how much I wanted to shut that door and see if you still looked at me the same way after everything I’ve done lately.”
You reached up, cupping his face, your thumb smoothing over the rough stubble of his jaw. “I’ve known you for twenty years, Chris. A few more secrets aren't going to change the way I look at you.”
A ghost of a smile finally touched his lips—a real one this time. He didn't say anything else. He didn't need to. He leaned forward, capturing your mouth in a kiss that was no longer slow or tentative. It was hungry, demanding, and filled with the desperation of a man who had finally found his way back to the only shore that mattered.
Chris’s hands were steady but urgent as he helped you out of your pants, his fingers lingering for a second too long on the jagged, raised scar that ran across your knee. It was the mark of the day your life had changed, the day he’d almost lost you to a world that didn't care about its heroes. He pressed a silent, reverent kiss to the damaged skin there before rising back up to capture your mouth again.
He tasted like a man who was starving, his kisses deep and demanding. Even when you placed your hands against his broad chest and pushed back slightly, he followed the motion, reluctant to lose the contact. You slid off the desk, your bare feet meeting the cold floor, but the chill didn't stand a chance against the heat radiating off him.
Now, it was your turn to take control.
You reached for the waistband of his boxers, your knuckles brushing against the coarse hair of his lower stomach. Chris let out a hitch in his breath, his hands falling to your shoulders to steady himself as you peeled the last layer of fabric away. He stepped out of them, standing before you completely exposed—a man made of scars, heavy muscle, and a weariness that only you were allowed to soothe.
With a firm press against his shoulders, you pushed him back. He moved easily, his weight settling against the edge of the oak desk once more. The wood creaked under his frame, and he gripped the edge of the table behind him, his biceps bulging and veins standing out in his forearms as he watched you with hooded, burning eyes.
You didn't rush. You wanted to map him, to reclaim every inch of him after his months away in the field. You started low, your hands roaming the heavy, powerful columns of his thighs. Your lips followed, trailing hot, lingering kisses over the rough skin of his legs, moving slowly upward. You felt him shudder, a low vibration in his muscles that told you exactly how much he’d missed this.
You moved to his abdomen, your tongue tracing the ridges of his core, feeling the way his stomach muscles jumped and tightened under your touch. You worked your way up, your lips ghosting over the old bullet wounds and surgical scars that littered his chest like a history of every war he’d ever fought.
“You’re still a masterpiece, Chris,” you murmured against his skin, your voice muffled by the heat of his body.
You moved to his arms, kissing the thick bicep where the BSAA patch usually sat, then up to the broad span of his collarbone. He tasted of salt and the lingering scent of his own musk. Finally, you moved back up to his face, cupping his jaw with both hands. His stubble rasped against your palms as you pulled him down for a kiss that was no longer a question, but a promise.
Chris let out a broken sound—half-groan, half-sob—and pulled you into the space between his legs, his forehead crashing against yours.
“You’re the only thing that’s real,” he rasped, his eyes searching yours for the stability he lacked everywhere else. “The only thing that hasn’t changed.”
You took a single, small step back, the fabric of your boxers slipping down your legs until they pooled on the floor. A sudden shudder rippled through your spine as the stale, chilled air of the office hit your exposed skin, but the cold didn't last.
Chris didn't let it.
His hands were already moving, his fingers hooking into your waist with a proprietary grip that broached no argument. He pulled you back into the heat of his body, and the moment your cock brushed against his, a low, guttural sound bubbled in your throat. The friction was a jolt of pure electricity, a reminder of exactly how long it had been since you’d felt this specific, heavy weight against you.
You leaned in, pulling Chris back into a kiss that was messy and desperate, your tongue tangling with his as your heart hammered against your ribs. While one hand stayed anchored on the solid muscle of his shoulder, the other reached out blindly, sliding open the top drawer of the oak desk. Your fingers brushed past pens and official stamps until they found the familiar square of a foil wrapper.
You set it on the desk with a faint crinkle, your other hand sweeping a stack of mission reports and personnel files out of the way to make room. The sound of paper hitting the floor was the only thing breaking the silence. You broke the kiss, the air between you tasting of whiskey and heat, and firmly turned Chris around.
He went willingly, though his breath was coming in short, ragged hitches. You pushed him forward until his chest was flush against the edge of the desk, his large hands gripping the wood so hard his knuckles turned white. You ran your palms down the broad expanse of his back, your nails dragging just enough to leave faint red tracks against his skin. You followed the movement with your lips, pressing burning kisses down the length of his spine and across the powerful flare of his shoulder blades.
“Don’t tease me,” Chris breathed, the words more of a plea than a command. A small, broken moan escaped his lips as his erect cock brushed against the cold, hard edge of the desk. “I’ve had a long goddamn week….just give me this.”
You responded with a lingering kiss to the sensitive nape of his neck, your breath hot against his skin. You reached for the condom, the silver foil crinkling loudly in the quiet office. With a practiced motion, you tore the wrapper and rolled the latex over yourself.
You let out a soft, shaky breath, your eyes briefly locking with Chris’s as he looked over his shoulder. In the dim green light, his brown eyes were dark with a raw, stripping vulnerability. He wasn't the commander right now; he wasn't the legend. He was just a man looking for the only person who knew how to put him back together.
“I’ve got you, Chris,” you whispered, your voice thick with a promise that spanned decades.
You stepped closer, your thighs caging his as you guided the head of your cock to his entrance. Chris’s back was a broad, tense map of muscle beneath your gaze, his skin shimmering with a fine sheen of sweat in the dim lamp light.
Slowly, with a hand anchored firmly on each of his hips, you began to push. You were gentle, your thumbs rubbing steady, grounding circles into the meat of his waist as you eased the tip past the initial, stubborn resistance of his muscle. You felt him hitch, a sharp intake of breath hitching in his throat, and you paused, leaning over him until your chest was flush against his back. The contact was a brand—hot skin on hot skin, the rapid thud of your heart echoing against his spine.
With one final, deliberate thrust, you bottomed out.
Chris let out a long, fractured moan that vibrated through both of your bodies. His head dropped, his forehead pressing into the cool wood of the desk as he worked to find his breath. One of his hands reached back blindly, fumbling until his fingers laced tightly with yours, his grip almost bruising. You stayed perfectly still, anchored inside the heat of him, letting his body stretch and accommodate the sudden fullness.
He felt incredible—tight, pulsing, and impossibly warm. After a moment, the tension in his shoulders began to bleed away, replaced by a restless, demanding energy. He pushed back against you, his hips seeking the friction he’d been craving all night.
“Move,” he grumbled, the word muffled against the desk but vibrating with a raw, low-timbered authority.
It wasn't a suggestion; it was a need. You let out a shaky breath, your forehead resting against the nape of his neck, and began the first, slow pull. The sensation of him clenching around you was nearly enough to break your composure.
“Easy, Chris,” you whispered, your voice thick and raspy. “We’ve got all night. Nowhere else to be.”
You thrust back in, deeper this time, the sound of skin meeting skin slapping wetly in the quiet office. Chris let out a choked sound, his fingers digging into the desk until the old oak groaned under the pressure.
You kept the pace slow and agonizingly deliberate, your hips rolling into his with a languid power. Every time you bottomed out, you lingered for a heartbeat, pressing your lips against the damp skin of his shoulder blades or the heated column of his neck.
“That’s it, Chris….take it all,” you whispered against his ear, your voice a low, gravelly vibration that made him shiver. “You’re doing so good for me. Just like that.”
The praises seemed to strip away the last of his professional veneer. Chris let out a jagged breath, his back arching like a bow as he pushed back blindly, his body seeking the blunt force of you. When you angled your hips just right, driving upward so the head of your cock dragged directly over his prostate, the reaction was violent.
Chris let out a choked, strangled moan, his head snapping back as his eyes rolled shut. His hand, still laced with yours, squeezed with enough force to make your bones ache, anchoring himself to the sensation.
“Fuck….” he groaned, the word breaking in the middle.
You could feel the slick heat of his pre-cum dripping onto the scattered files beneath him, the scent of sex and salt filling the small radius of the desk lamp’s glow. He was completely undone, his body trembling under the weight of a pleasure he usually denied himself.
“You like that, don’t you?” you breathed, your thumbs tracing the protruding bones of his hips as you picked up the pace just a fraction. “Knowing I’ve got you. Knowing you don’t have to think about anything else.”
Chris didn't answer with words—he couldn't. Instead, he let out a long, shuddering sob of a breath and ground his hips back against yours, a silent, desperate plea for you to stop holding back.
You didn't break the connection immediately, savoring the way his heat clung to you as you finally pulled out. The wet, sliding sound was loud in the quiet office, punctuated by Chris’s sharp, hitching breath.
Before he could even think about moving, you caught his waist, guiding him to turn around. He was pliant in your hands, his movements heavy and uncoordinated as he shifted his weight. You gripped his thighs and hoisted him up, seating him firmly on the edge of the scarred oak. His legs instinctively fell open, wrapping around your hips to pull you back into the space between them.
You didn't wait. You lined yourself up and began to sink back into him, the tip of your cock stretching him open once more. Chris let out a low, vibrating sound—halfway between a growl and a sob—as he felt the familiar fullness returning.
His hands shot up, his large, calloused fingers digging into the meat of your shoulders. He didn't just touch you; he anchored himself to you, his knuckles white as he hauled you downward. He met you halfway in a kiss that was bruising and desperate, his tongue Tangling with yours as his mouth tasted of salt and the lingering smoke of the night.
You thrusted deep, your hips hitting his with a solid, fleshy thud that echoed in the empty room. The desk creaked under the combined weight, more files sliding off the edge to join the wreckage on the floor, but neither of you blinked. Chris’s head thrashed back for a second, his teeth bared in a silent snarl of pleasure before he pulled you back in, his legs locking tight around your waist to force you deeper.
“Stay right there,” he rasped against your lips, his voice broken and raw. “Don’t you dare stop.”
Every thrust was a reclamation. You watched his face—the way the shadows of the office carved out the lines of his exhaustion and the intensity of his focus. He looked at you like you were the only thing keeping the walls from caving in, his grip on your shoulders never wavering as you drove into him, steady and relentless.
Chris’s body went rigid beneath yours, his head snapping back as a guttural, primal sound tore from his throat. You felt his internal muscles clench around you in a series of rhythmic, demanding pulses that nearly sent you over the edge instantly. His back arched, his heels digging into the wood of the desk as he came, the heat of his release smearing between your pressed-together abdomens, slick and hot in the narrow space between your bodies.
The friction, the heat, and the raw vulnerability of Chris coming apart in your arms were too much to withstand. You leaned him back further against the desk, your hands moving from his shoulders to the top of the oak surface to brace yourself. Your thrusts became heavy and uncoordinated—sloppy, desperate lunges as you chased your own peak.
The world narrowed down to the sound of skin slapping against skin and the frantic, shallow gasps for air. Then, with a low, ragged groan that felt like it started in your marrow, you hit your own climax. You rode it out with a few final, deep thrusts, your vision blurring as the pleasure washed over you in waves, grounding you into the solid, shaking man beneath you.
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the sound of your combined, heaving breaths. Your strength seemed to evaporate all at once. Your forehead dropped against Chris’s damp chest, the coarse hair and the scent of salt and smoke acting as a pillow. Your heart hammered against his ribs in a frantic, uneven duet.
Slowly, with a lingering reluctance, you pulled back. The cool air of the office rushed back into the space you had occupied, a sharp contrast to the heat of the last few minutes. You eased yourself out of him, the wet sound of the separation echoing in the quiet room.
With shaking fingers, you reached down and peeled the condom off, the latex snapping softly. You sat there for a moment, still boxed in by his legs, your forehead still resting against his sternum as you both waited for your heart rates to return to something resembling normal. Chris’s hands, which had been gripping your shoulders so tightly, slid down to rest loosely on your lower back, his fingers twitching in a slow, post-orgasmic daze.
Chris’s chest rose and fell in a slow, deep rhythm beneath your forehead, his skin cooling as the sweat began to dry. He didn't move to get up, and neither did you; for a long moment, the only thing that mattered was the warmth of his body and the steady thrum of his pulse.
Eventually, Chris cleared his throat, the sound a low, gravelly vibration that rattled through your own chest. He shifted slightly, his calloused hands sliding up from your lower back to cup the back of your neck, his thumb tracing the base of your skull with an uncharacteristic softness.
“So,” he started, his voice thick and weathered. He cleared his throat again, trying to find his commander’s tone and failing miserably. He sounded like a man who had just been reminded he was human. “The million-dollar question. You coming home with me tonight? Or are you going to stay here and finish burying these reports so the brass doesn't have a heart attack in the morning?”
You didn't pull away. Instead, you let out a soft, tired chuckle, the sound muffled against his damp skin. You shifted your head just enough to press a lingering, tender kiss to his collarbone before looking up at him. In the dim, emerald glow of the desk lamp, Chris looked every bit his age—the lines around his eyes were deeper, the silver in his hair more prominent—but to you, he just looked like the man who had kept you alive for twenty years.
You leaned up, your lips meeting his in a kiss that was a world away from the desperate hunger of a few minutes ago. This one was slow, tasting of a shared promise and a long-overdue rest.
“The reports can wait for the morning,” you whispered against his lips, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “I’d like nothing more than to go home with you, Chris.”
Chris let out a long, relieved breath, his eyes closing for a second as he leaned his forehead against yours. A faint, real smirk touched his face—the kind of look he only ever saved for you.
“Good,” he muttered, his grip on your neck tightening just enough to pull you back in for one more quick, firm kiss. “Because I’m pretty sure I’m too old to be sleeping on an office chair, and I’m definitely not leaving here without you.”
He stood up then, his joints popping in the quiet room as he helped you steady yourself. Together, you began the slow process of reclaiming your clothes from the floor, moving through the wreckage of scattered files. The BSAA headquarters was still dark, still cold, and still full of secrets—but as you reached for your coat and felt Chris’s hand settle firmly on the small of your back, none of it seemed to matter.
