By Caelumi

You learned about formaldehyde. It was one of those chemicals that was common enough around the house but you knew it because it was what stalkers and rapists used to drug their victims. Of course that was on the news or in the movies or a classroom and what you didn't know - Chris, panicking, had thought - was how strongly bitter it tasted or how much it burned to breathe in. You never learned about the sheer amount you needed to actually fall unconscious from it. It was in his nose and in his throat and he was dizzy and ready to vomit long before the world had fallen into blackness.

And now that he was awake he just felt sick more than anything. When he managed to open his eyes the room still danced. The dim light was too bright. He coughed, a reflex to the fire tightening his throat, and his stomach clenched. Unable to move Chris could only lay where he was and dry-heave. There was nothing in his stomach to come up.

Someone had drugged him. Chris moaned and tried move, only realizing slowly that he couldn't. He was kneeling on the floor, laying across a cot. He jerked at his arms weakly. They were stretched out straight before him, hands brushing the cool wall. Rope bound his wrists and the tips of his finger had already started to go numb. He had to get free - that thought was clear in a thick haze. Jerking his limbs, he realized with dulled panic that the rope from his wrists was looped under the bed and around his thighs somehow. He had to get up because like this he was vulenerable to those walking dead or-

"You are a real pain in the ass, Redfield."

Chris heard the voice but the recognition didn't come. There was only the spinning when he opened his eyes and the burning coughs that shook his body. Reality was still a dim thing, floating by him in wisps of smoke that were too thin to catch. He knew he was tied up because he couldn't move, that was all. He was cold, there was that, too.

Sounds behind him reminded him - he'd forgotten, was it important? - that he wasn't alone. He just wanted to throw up. Heavy, metallic sounds. Clicking. His mouth was dry; it hurt to swallow.

Then hands were on him and even through the aftermath of the drugs he realized that he was cold because his pants weren't on. The floor under his knees was freezing but it wasn't the floor that made him realize his partial nakedness it was the fingers on his ass, sliding down the middle of it. His body instinctively jerked forward and there was a laugh. "What-" Chris choked out, even though he knew.

Hot breath was in his ear. "Like I said, you're a real pain in the ass. I thought my job might be easy and you would die on your own, but it looks like that may not happen. I won't let you ruin my plans, Chris. Except that I think I'll have a little fun first."

Chris tried vainly to focus on his surroundings and on the man behind him. "Who..." He tried to turn his head but the room spun and the person had moved out of view. He was too out of it to place the husky voice. The presence behind him moved away for long enough that the drugged man's attention swayed and he lowered his head down to the scratchy blanket. Fun. What fun? What plans were-

"Ah!" The brunette yelled as something cool and slick and large was pressed between the cleft of his ass, right against that sensitive hole. "No, what are you..." He struggled, but it wasn't much. Between the after-effects of the formaledhyde and the bindings connecting arms and legs Chris didn't manage much more than weak jerks that didn't do anything to move the pressure from his ass. "Stop it, please!" He wasn't below begging, not in his current position. Even his addled brain knew what was going on, what would happen before the too-large object had begun to be forced into him.

Chris muffled his yell into the bed underneath his face. Whatever was being made to violate him stretched him past comfortable limits and felt sharp and unyeilding. It was slicked, he understood that much since he wasn't instantly ripped open. But it didn't lessen the pain of the stretch and Chris yelled again at the steady, intense ache.

"Shhh," came the voice from behind him. "You don't want to draw the attention of the things walking around in this house, do you?" Throughout the words the forward press never stopped. Chris continued to yell. He was being split, torn open by the cold thing. The pain even eclisped the sickness. The length worked into him until Chris could feel it deep in his stomach, an undeniable pressure-driven agony. His feet worked uselessly at the floor. Finally the impending push stopped. "I guess I shouldn't try to make the entire thing fit," he heard from behind him, but Chris was too shaken to understand the words.

He gasped sharply as the presence was drawn out of him before thrusting back inside. Chris screamed this time but then the cold length hit something inside him that completely choked off the sound. The brunette's back arched of it's own accord, his mouth opened in an ‘O' of shock for the violent pleasure that racked his body. He coughed out a cry as the thing inside him stopped the deepening movement and instead pressed down harder against that spot. "There you go." A soft encouragment from behind him as Chris's muscles spasmed and shook. When the thing fucking him began to move again the S.T.A.R.S. member was still shaking with pleasure and could only make himself whimper at the violation that briefly hit that spot inside him with each sure stroke.

The cot squeaked as Chris' body was moved by the hard length driving him. He wasn't sure where the pain ended and the pleasure began and found his whimpers turning into moans. His cock was hard, he knew that through the drug haze because it kept rubbing against the edge of the small bed that he was tied over. Each rub brought a gasp to his lips.

Chris was pushed further and further, both inside and out the sensations overloading his already damaged senses. The thrusts into him came quicker in response to his own rocks back against the deep pressure.

Then it was gone. Chris cried out involentarily at the empty feeling. But that sound was nothing compared to the sickened noise he made as his shotgun was tossed onto the bed, the rounded barrell slicked by thick fluid. "Oh God," he whispered, feeling ill. That had been inside of him. Fucking him.

"God has nothing to do with this," said the voice behind him. Chris closed his eyes, shutting away the building moisture. He knew the voice. He knew who the man behind him was, the man who was replacing the void left by the shotgun with his own heated, stiff cock.

Chris' bound hands stretched, his fingers pressing against the wall as the new heat filled him and eased some sick sense of loss. "Wesker," he moaned out, the moan disgust and disappointment. He cried out as a single thrust buried the man hips to ass. Fingers clenched roughly at his waist.

Hot breath was again in Chris' ear. "If you're going to cry my name," he whispered, his voice smug, "at least call me Albert." Chris was silent as Wesker's immediate weight backed off of him and his body was shook by violent thrusts. Soon his own cock was hard again without his violition and rubbing against the cot harshly. Chris' renewed whimpers filled the small room and soon enough the pleasure reached a breaking point and Chris' muscles tightened with that swell. He cried out as his cock pulsed thickly, spurting out his unwanted pleasure in a white stain on the edge of the bed.

Wesker's fingers dug into his hips hard enough to draw a whine from Chris' lips. The man silently slammed into him once more before the brunette felt an expanse of warmth deep in his gut. Chris panted, face laying against the rough blanket, trembling. Wesker pulled away and that allowed the liquid left inside of the younger man to begin the slow trek down the inside of his thigh. Chris heard the sounds of the man straightening himself out.

"Untie me," Chris whispered, voice hoarse and - he hated to hear - pleading.

There was a laugh and Chris glimpsed those black sunglasses as the man leaned over him just enough to pick up the shotgun. "I'll leave the door closed," he said and fingers brushed over Chris' cheek. "That might give you a little more time." A sharp smack across his ass caused the brunette to cry out. There was a chuckle. "Thanks for the good time."

The door opened and closed.

Author's notes:

My sister sends me a prompt once a week. She gives me the specs and turns me loose. Sometimes it turns out well, sometimes it doesn't... I'm afraid this might be one of the later but I hate for anything I actually manage to finish to sit on my computer and never see the light of day. So, here you are.

Prompt: It was Wesker in the 'Safe' room with the pump-action shotgun. Victim: Chris Redfield.
Rating: A healthy NC-17. Shameless PWP smut.
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em. Tis unfortunate.

- Caelumi