synopsis - Valentine makes the mistake again and again.
word count - 590
a/n 3 drafts and its still dogshit😭😭 im horrible at this im sorry
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Valentine makes the mistake again and again—running.
She can’t breathe—she’s forgotten even that simple thing. Her hands—those, too, are gone from her. Jill doesn’t know if they’ve ever been her own. Blood-soaked and sobbing, she collapses onto the bathroom tile, fingertips hemmed to her collar.
They’re cold when they rise to her cheek.
Cold—she’s only ever been cold. She remembers warmth in brief bouts of clarity—somewhere along her gooseflesh she remembers your fingers tracing circles around her scars. She remembers the indent your nails would leave when you’d press against her and kiss her and kiss her again because surely you’ve never loved anybody more.
Still, Valentine runs. Her feet are sore and her fingers constrict around a soft tongue she doesn't remember having—words that fall under her lips and seal themselves from the rest of the world.
Jill remembers the words “I love you.“
And for a moment—she forgets. She forgets your face—covered in stars and warm smells. Because memories have only ever hurt her—this hurting little girl she becomes when she learns to love again. She sees herself once killing Chris and Sheva and she sees herself again with Wesker’s blood on her fingertips because she’s killed him.
She doesn’t mind the blood—she minds the sudden warmth and wants the cold again. She wants to run but her feet have finally given out beneath her when she reaches the mirror.
Valentine falls to the floor. There’s a distant crawl of light outside— you, unbeknownst to herself. You’ll never know— she’ll make sure of it. You don't deserve this, her, whatever she is. You should find another girl— a good girl, a quiet one.
But you don’t. You stay and she’s never wanted more than you— but she can’t bear to say that when she’s only ever learned goodbyes. Even seeing you feels like a finality—something that won’t last, fleeting and painful to her lungs. A poison that she gags and coughs and spits around but still swallows because she’s only ever wanted to die with somebody.
She doesn’t want to die. She doesn’t want to die— she can’t convince herself anyhow. She wants to live and keep you in her arms until you grow old together.
That distant wash of light seems so close. It creaks and groans like rust and the door opens—you.
You— you, only ever you.
And you rush to her— like she’s something broken—something you can’t fix. But you can— she wants to say, fix her.
She knows it's a lie when you tell her this. Still, Valentine makes the mistake again.
This time, she doesn’t run. She stays— and that is the greatest mistake of them all.
“Baby—“
You begin— so soft she wants to kiss you. But she doesn’t—but you do. And it’s still sugar-soft and bitter-sweet as it’s always been— the callus on your fingertips rough against the gentle pads of her skin.
“I love you.”
Jill almost believes it. She believes it.
“I love you too.”
Valentine collapses into your arms and your palms turn to blood. Her lips crash into yours from a craned neck and she smiles—something fake but you don’t mind.
You’ve never minded. She smiles again.
Jill almost believes it. She believes it.
She cries— still bloodied and dragging it along your forearms but you’ve never minded.
You dry her tears. Warm. You’ve only ever been warm.
Damn every time I visit your blog you've got another blog theme 😭😭 and I thought I had a problem with changing my profile pictures everywhere lmao
Anyway, I just popped in to say hi bc I realised you're always in my notifications but I never return the favour 🥰 and maybe to ask if you'd be willing to write something with jill for me? Maybe sth sweet, hurt/comfort-y post wesker brainwashing? It's okay if not, idek if you write for her so either way it's fine!!
I love your writing and love interacting with you every time you pop up so thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for being one of the few familiar friendly faces in this fandom that make my days better 💕💕💕
(Realised this might be confusing since im sending the ask from my main lmao, it's @shesmycollaarr)
YOU’RE UNLIKECHARLIE???? How did i not know that… embarassing.. i write for literally ANYTHING so i am about to deliver for my GOAT. I love jill valentine Oh My Gosh <3333
ok yeah about the blog themes that might be true… idk its just that i wake up a changed woman sometimes and think my old theme is wack and lame and then i change it!!
story of my life. Okay back to the topic at hand THANK YOU for the request THANK YOU for being such a cool person and THANK ME for this AWESOME MEGA AMAZING Jill Valentine Hurt/Comfort Post/Wesker Brainwashing Fanfiction i am about to write!!
Tags: No Use of Y/N for Reader-Insert; AFAB Reader-Insert; S.T.A.R.S. Member Albert Wesker; Trans Albert Wesker; Flirting; Boss/Employee Relationship; Casual Sex; Hook-Up; Making Out; Vaginal Fingering; Cunnilingus; Multiple Orgasms; Albert Wesker is Bad at Feelings; Pre-Relationship
Word Count: 3,784
Summary: You stop at a bar to have a drink after an exhausting day as a S.T.A.R.S. officer. Wesker happens to join you not soon after. He also happens to take you home and help you shed all that stress in his bedroom.
Also on Ao3: Here
Requested here
a/n: I like my Wesker a bit awkward but covering it up with bluster sometimes. He's like "i dont care at all (cares deeply)" sometimes and I like that. We call that character depth *chef's kiss*
I googled so much about trans male bottom surgery and all the types of gender affirming procedures that can be done, as well as read real life trans men's accounts about their own preferences and experiences with having sex with cis female partners, because while I may not be fully cis myself (gender is weird, we roll with it) I am also not a trans man and don't know anything about these things. I hope it's neither unrealistic nor offensive the way I portrayed Wesker here. But just like last time, do let me know 🥰
Title is from Stripped by Depeche Mode.
I combined an idea I had a few days ago with mischa's request for more trans wesker and seraph's hard on for S.T.A.R.S. wesker (i also stole the idea of using this song for wesker from them shh 🤫) <3 call me Gordon Ramsey the way i be cooking with these ideas 👨🍳
After a long day at the office, the only thing you want is to have a nice drink in a quiet bar then get home, jack off, and go to sleep.
Being a S.T.A.R.S. officer is not an all around bad experience, but there are some days that are definitely worse than others. And today, everything that could go wrong absolutely fucking did. So now here you are, still in your uniform, slumped over the counter at the bar, and waiting for the bartender to dump your drink of choice in front of you so you can try and put this horrible day behind you once and for all.
“Hope you're not on-call, officer,” the woman behind the bar tells you as she pushes your glass in your direction with a half smirk to indicate she's just joking around and means no harm.
“I'll just unplug my land-line when I get home,” you joke back, fingers wrapping around the glass with a grateful nod in her direction, and take a sip of your drink. Your shoulders loosen up as the alcohol runs through you and warms up your belly so you push a ten dollar bill towards your bartender as thanks for her services and take another sip.
“I might have to follow your example,” a familiar deep voice says from behind you. You put your glass down, almost choking as you hurry to swallow, and turn around to find Wesker standing behind you with a small smirk that, nonetheless, doesn't hide the stress lines carved into his own face by the harrowing day you've just had. Seeing your Captain here is the last thing you expected tonight, but you can't say that his presence is unwelcome. Frankly, he's the only person you actually tolerate on your team, which sounds mean but is the truth. You can't suffer idiots and fooling around when there's work to be done and, unfortunately, the members of S.T.A.R.S. Alpha Team like nothing better than doing exactly that whenever there's no new case dumped on your desks. It's aggravating as hell.
“Captain,” you greet, trying to cover up your surprise at the sight of this man outside of the RPD hallways. “I don't think I've ever seen you outside of working hours.”
Wesker shrugs as he removes his glasses and tucks them into one of his jacket pockets before he gestures towards the empty barstool next to you.
“May I join you?”
“Yeah, of course. Be my guest.”
You watch him as he climbs onto the stool effortlessly, his long legs stretching comfortably beneath him as he settles next to you, and can't help but admire his side profile while he orders a whiskey neat and politely chats up the bartender when she asks him if you work together. Albert Wesker is the most gorgeous man you've ever seen, in your humble and entirely unbiased opinion, which you haven't failed to notice even once since the first moment you laid eyes on him. Sure, he can be an asshole sometimes, certainly demanding and harsh in his criticism, but if you don't give him reason to lay into you, he doesn't. You find him very logical and fair even when he's ripping someone a new one for being stupid and you can't lie and say that his deep, drawling voice doesn't do things to you sometimes when you let your mind run wild.
As you sit there, sipping on your drink and taking him in from much closer than you're used to, your eyes travel from his impossibly sharp jawline – that you would probably pay real money to bite and suck purple marks into – and the very faint stubble you can see only when the shitty bar lighting hits the hairs just right, to the strong, pointed nose you swear must have been carved by Greek Gods or something, until you come to a stop at the corners of those pretty blue eyes you so rarely get to see, pale like the surface of Neptune and just as cold.
You blink yourself out of your stupor when Wesker plants his glass back down onto the chipped wood bartop and turns to face you properly since he sat down.
“So, what brings you here, Captain? Tough day at work?” you jest, voice dripping with a wry sort of sarcasm that actually gets an amused huff out of the man sitting next to you.
His fingers wrap around the glass tumbler in front of him and rap absently against its walls, momentarily stealing your attention as you observe how perfectly his gloves hug his hands and emphasise how slender and long his fingers are. You briefly imagine how those fingers would look buried up to the knuckle in your pussy, your wetness dripping down his glove and ruining the material, before you snap out of it and force yourself to meet his gaze without looking flustered. You're not sure that you succeed.
“Something like that,” he answers dryly. “I wasn't sure if I should come in but I saw you through the window and thought maybe I should. Was I wrong?”
You busy yourself with taking a gulp of your drink to buy yourself some time to think of an answer. The question can be innocent – just a boss asking if it was appropriate for him to stop on his way home to have a drink with a subordinate. You could easily laugh it off then change the subject, have a polite conversation, then part ways and go home.
But the way Wesker's eyes are lingering on your face, particularly your eyes and lips in quick succession, tells you the question is intended to be anything but innocent. The way his body is angled towards you, giving you his undivided attention while still looking utterly nonchalant as he leans back against the bar with his sleeves rolled up and his hand wrapped around his whiskey is also anything but innocent.
And the thing is… You had an inkling your Captain might also find you more tolerable than the rest of your colleagues the way you do him. He's brushed his hand or arm against you when the gesture could have been passed off as a coincidence but for certain wasn't more than once. And you weren't born yesterday – you know when someone is attracted to you. But you've never let yourself seriously consider the possibility of anything happening between you and Wesker for a multitude of reasons, chief among them being that you could easily lose your job if things go wrong. You thought Wesker was on the same page but now you're not so sure anymore.
“Not at all,” you end up saying after you put down your nearly empty glass and wipe the corner of your mouth with a napkin, making a decision that you might come to regret later but not really caring all that much in the moment. You turn in your seat a bit more so you can face Wesker better, signalling your vested interest in his presence, then offer him a warm smile that's just a tad flirty at the edges. “There's nothing more I'd love than to unwind with my Captain after work.”
Wesker chuckles at your answer, the sound warm but dark just like his drink, and takes a slow sip of his own while your eyes trace the elegant line of his throat as he swallows, Adam's apple bobbing and making you want to trace it with your tongue.
“Flatterer.”
“I try my best.”
Your smile widens when he shoots you an unimpressed look, his lips visibly twitching, and you flag down the bartender to order another drink after you drain your current one before leaning closer towards Wesker, eyes intent on his lips for just a second before they flicker back up to his eyes, and ask him what he's doing later tonight.
He grins, eyes glittering with amusement and satisfaction, and mimics your posture as he leans towards you as well, his nose nearly touching yours, then speaks lowly, just for you, and says, “You, hopefully.”
You swallow back the breathy sigh you want to let out at his proximity and the intoxicating scent of his cologne, still strong after a full day of work so close to your nose, and pull back just enough to look him in the eye when you answer.
“That can be arranged.”
Wesker's eyes visibly darken, black swallowing the blue of his pupils, and a muscle in his jaw twitches before he gives you a nod and pulls back as well. The tension is abruptly broken when the woman behind the bar brings you your refill, but that doesn't mean you lose his attention entirely. He watches you steadily with eyes that seem to want to strip you down to the bone over the rim of his whiskey glass and you watch him back as you sip your drink, running your tongue over your bottom lip seductively to catch a stray drop and enjoying the way his fingers tighten on his tumbler in response.
An hour later, you find yourself slammed against Wesker's door after he drove you to his place in a very controlled hurry, holding onto him for dear life as he does his best to devour you only with his lips and tongue. Your fingers frantically try to work at his vest, then the buttons of the blue shirt underneath while Wesker kisses you senseless with a tongue you never expected to be so talented though maybe you should have, but it's really hard to focus on the task at hand when he shoves his knee between your legs and uses his broad palms to guide your hips in a sensual grind back and forth against his thigh.
“You gotta– ah! – stop doing that if you want me to get you naked,” you pant during a brief moment of respite when Wesker releases your mouth in favour of trailing hot kisses across your jaw and down your neck.
“I want you,” he rasps against your throat, sounding nothing like the aloof Captain you've gotten used to, before he latches onto the juncture between your neck and shoulder and starts sucking hard.
You throw your head back with a moan and completely abandon the half unbuttoned shirt as your hands slide down to his biceps and squeeze hard in response to the dual attack of his lips on your skin and his thigh rubbing against your throbbing clit. Wesker pulls back after a few seconds, admiring his handiwork in the low light coming in from the streetlights outside, before he starts removing your own vest and shirt, unclasping your bra quickly and throwing it all behind him without a backwards look. He palms your chest for a bit, tweaking your nipples and watching your reaction as you moan in response, then gently lets your feet touch the floor again as he removes his leg from between yours and steps away from you.
“Let's go to my bedroom,” Wesker suggests, finishing the task you abandoned earlier by letting his own shirt and vest join your clothes on the floor, and you eagerly take his hand and let him lead you further inside his apartment. He lights up a lamp when you reach the bedroom, bathing the room in a warm orange light, and your eyes briefly assess his decor – or lack thereof – before he pushes you backwards onto the mattress and goes back to kissing you as he crawls up your body.
Your hands start roaming his chest, back, and sides as you make out, moaning into his mouth and raking your nails across his broad shoulders when he sucks on your tongue hard and makes you arch your back off the mattress. When the tips of your fingers brush against his nipples, curious to see if he's sensitive there or not, your attention diverts instead towards the oddly straight scars that you can feel right under, the kind of scars that don't come from anything other than surgery.
You only linger for a couple of seconds, if that, before you remove your hands since you don't want to make him uncomfortable or kill the mood, but it seems like you already have when Wesker pulls away from your lips with a sigh and looks briefly at the ceiling in what you interpret as annoyance before he gazes back down at you. His blue eyes almost seem bored when they meet yours, which doesn't help you feel like you didn't fuck up somehow.
“Let's get it over with now, I suppose. I was not born with a male body, I had top and bottom surgery, I can fuck you just fine, and no, I can't really feel it when you touch my nipples. Is there anything I missed?”
Your eyes widen as he speaks, which he seems to take as a bad sign since he starts to climb off of you with a closed off expression that only emphasises just how open he's been the entire night, so your hands shoot out and grab him by the shoulders to keep him in place while you scramble into a seating position.
“Hey, that's okay with me,” you speak fast, trying to reassure him and not really knowing if you're succeeding. “I wasn't worried about any of that. I just didn't want to make you talk about something that might be uncomfortable, that's all.”
“Don't be ridiculous, I don't care about how others feel about my body,” Wesker shoots back, rolling his eyes at your perfectly reasonable assumption, but when you want to pull back from him, thinking this night might not go the way you were hoping after all, his fingers wrap around your wrists and pull your naked chest flush against his own. “But if it does bother you, tell me now before I waste my time on you.”
You huff incredulously and glare up at him with way less annoyance than anyone else would have garnered from you had they said the same thing.
“Obviously I'm not bothered. Can you go back to kissing me now?”
Wesker narrows his eyes at your tone but he does relax back down and recaptures your lips in a kiss that is more bite than anything else. You let him, giving back as good as you get, and as you sink back into the mattress with him kissing and groping you in a way that rekindles the fire in your belly, your hands go back to exploring his torso, slipping down to his backside and squeezing a generous helping of that ass you've been obsessing over for months now. To your delight it's just as fat as the pants made it look.
Eventually, Wesker takes off your pants and underwear too, and settles between your legs with a look that makes your mouth go dry and your sex pulse with arousal. He blows a deliberate, teasing breath against your clit just to watch you jolt and yelp with a smirk, before his fingers part your lower lips and rub up and down soothingly to gather moisture and get you used to his touch.
“Can you come more than once? Or should I hold off until you can come on my cock?” he asks almost idly as he rubs a wet finger over your clit in lazy circles before going back down to dip it into your wet entrance and tease you with just the tip.
“I can,” you confirm, whining when he applies pressure on your clit that makes you feel like you just saw a galaxy exploding behind your eyelids. “Just don't overdo it.”
His only response is to dip his head towards your pussy and wrap his lips around your clit before he sucks hard enough on it to make you shout.
In the next twenty minutes, you find out that kissing isn't the only thing Wesker's mouth is good for. He plays your clit like an instrument he’s been playing for years and fucks his tongue in and out of your hole like it's the best meal he's ever tasted, like he's been dehydrating in a desert and he can only find water at the end of your channel. You come more than you ever have on your own as he employs full use of his fingers, lips, and tongue to make you see stars, and when he finally seems to be done with you, you're nothing more than a jelly-limbed mess sprawled out on his bed and staring up at the ceiling as you try to get your breathing under control.
Wesker crawls back up your body while you relearn how to breathe and peppers soft kisses up your jaw and to the corner of your mouth. You huff when his hair – having come undone after you gripped it like a handhold the entire time he was buried in your pussy – tickles you but turn your head so you can kiss him properly, your own taste on his tongue making you horny all over again despite having already orgasmed more times than you can count.
“Can you fuck me now, please?” you gasp against his lips as he pulls away, lifting your hips up to rub yourself against him and feeling like you're going to explode if you don't have him inside you in the next five minutes.
“Only because you asked nicely,” Wesker responds, like an asshole, and chuckles without an ounce of remorse when you groan in frustration and retaliate by nipping at his jaw.
He leaves your side for a moment while he sheds his pants and boxers and rolls up a condom on his dick in full view of you, letting your eyes drink in the sight of him stroking himself a few times before he gets back on the bed and settles himself back between your parted legs.
You wrap your arms around his shoulders as soon as he's within reach and sigh in relief mingled with pleasure when he finally pushes inside and starts fucking you. The mattress bounces with every thrust of Wesker's hips and the walls reverberate with echoes of your moans mixed with his grunts and groans of pleasure, but you don't have it in you to feel ashamed by how unrestrained you are with your approval of Wesker's actions.
You feel all the stress and exhaustion of today, hell, of the entire week, wash away from you with every push and pull of his cock, feeling so good when he grabs one of your asscheeks to pull you closer into him and grinds his cock down until he rubs up against your g spot. Your own hand sneaks down between your bodies to find your clit and starts rubbing tight, uncontrolled circles against the bud while Wesker's movements grow sloppy from his own orgasm's imminent approach.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck! Feels so good, Captain! Just like that, don't stop, oh I'm gonna come again,” you moan, loud and breathy and entirely lost to your pleasure. You're right on the verge of orgasm yet again and you feel like you might just die if he changes even one thing of what he's currently doing.
“I'm close too. Come on, darling, give me one more,” Wesker commands between gritted teeth, snapping his hips hard against your pussy right as he says it, and that's all you need before you're seizing up under him and downright wail in pleasure as your orgasm hits you like a tonne of bricks for the final time tonight. A few more thrusts later, Wesker follows you over the edge too, screwing his eyes shut and moaning quietly into your neck while his teeth leave desperate little bites into the sensitive skin there.
After he pulls out and throws away the condom, Wesker collapses next to you on the bed as he gets his own breathing under control. You stare up at the ceiling for a long time, getting your bearings and wondering if your legs will hold you up until you can get home. Beside you, Wesker lets out a sigh as he moves into a sitting position and looks back at you with a considering look.
“I don't usually let women spend the night after I take them home.”
“If you give me another minute, I'll be out of your hair soon.”
Instead of nodding silently and letting you get yourself together by disappearing into the bathroom like any other man might have done, though, Wesker frowns and shakes his head.
“I don't want you to go,” he counters. “You can stay the night. If you want. But I would rather no one knew about us at the station, so we can't be seen arriving together in the morning.”
Your lips curl up into a smile at his words, something warm spreading through you at him not immediately kicking you out, and you twist around so you can lay on your stomach and prop your chin up on your hand as you gaze up at him.
“That's fine by me. You can drop me off at the café near the station and I can walk the rest of the way on my own.”
“Alright,” he answers simply, the matter now settled, then gets to his feet and picks up his boxers so he can slip them on before he turns back to you right in the doorway that leads to his bathroom. “You can order something for us to eat while I shower. There's a few takeout menus pinned to the fridge.”
“I will. Anything I should avoid?”
“Olives. And raw tomatoes. Otherwise it's up to you.”
“Alrighty,” you answer, still smiling and feeling oddly charmed by his blunt, blasé attitude after rocking your world with multiple orgasms like it's nothing, and wave him off playfully as he closes the door behind him. You remain in bed for a few seconds longer until you can hear the shower start running, then heave yourself up, pull your underwear back on, and go looking for the kitchen you only noticed in passing earlier. On the way to the fridge and the telephone hung up on the wall right next to it, you bend down quickly and scoop up Wesker's shirt, pulling it over your shoulders with a grin and buttoning it up while you examine what Wesker's takeout menus have to offer.
This isn't how you imagined your night ending when you walked into that bar looking for a drink at the end of a stressful day at work but you can't say that you're too mad about it either. Not at all, actually.
synopsis - You’d swallow yourself in Ada’s arms—begetting the lurid scene, erotic in the dark of her apartment. Barely through the night could you imagine— humming against the jet-black, pressing yourself further into her lap— you couldn't imagine it any other way.
word count - 731
a/n - many creative liberties were taken i apologize i tried my best 😭😭 im not good at making songfics (is that what they’re called? idk) dont know what you wanted so i made it kinda smutty but didnt like actually make them frick lol
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You’d swallow yourself in Ada’s arms—begetting the lurid scene, erotic in the dark of her apartment. Barely through the night could you imagine— humming against the jet-black, pressing yourself further into her lap— you couldn't imagine it any other way.
Still, she beckons.
A manicured hand falls against your cheek. It is as gentle as she allows it to be; and, for this night, she has decided to be gentle.
“Dont look away.”
Ada talks and it is so sweet when you listen to the low notes.
You don’t blink when you kiss her. Soft when you meet the plush of her lips—parading as something pliable.
Ada is anything but. She is yours— you are hers, yet she is anything but. Something tangible though so far from your distanced fingertips.
You don’t blink when her hands delve lower and hook around the waistband of your pants. You don’t blink when she bites onto your neck and draws a thin line of blood from the indent of her canines.
She is beautiful— never more than now. When she is in control, a fetish for glass lips and reopened scars.
You trail a hand to her chest. There are scars— she’s never told you of them and you’d never ask—but you always found them beautiful. She winces over a keloid. Raised skin, reddened flesh.
Her fingers go to your jaw— a warning. Still, you prod along her collarbone, thin and gaunt—working your hand over the bones. Ada tightens around you and takes herself upon you by your lips till you can’t breathe.
Your peripherals are darkened when she finally lets you pull for breath— dizzying and fading fast into her arms.
“Good girl.”
She croons—pleased with how she has regained the situation. Her fingers are moving to your lips and they part the wet flesh beneath them.
Well trained as you are—you fixate her fingers, tonguing the manicured digits. Your lips are agape as she presses into the back of your mouth near your molars and you gag— but still—
“Dont look away.”
You don’t. You stare down at her from atop her lap and ride her thigh softly when her fingers lightly rub your gums. She doesn’t either—her gaze melting you into putty.
You ask with your eyes, because you think she might be mean enough to say yes.
You make a picture of it, sprawled over her lap and begging and crooning into the small space on her shoulder. You whisper into her ear— staring so intently you feel her stiffen beneath you.
“Im not going to do that.”
Ada says evenly—gagging you on her digits.
You drop the façade. Sometimes her contempt is an earned delicacy. This is not one of those times. More and more you await this rotten affair to spoil—and sometimes you look at Ada’s face with a little jolt and think the time has come.
Surely now—you suck on her fingers and attempt around the intrusion.
“Why not?”
“How spoiled you are,” Ada says, more sweet words turning fetid. “The world will not always bend to your desires. Neither will I.”
You whimper with your eyes shut and she jerks your chin hard enough for them to open— whispering into your ear.
“Dont look away.”
You don’t— while she undresses in front of you and you are abandoned from touch.
You don’t— when her lacey bra reaches the floor and she rubs herself on you— faintly erotic when she breathily moans.
You don’t, not when she fingers herself with you above her while your hands are practically tied behind your back— you want to kiss her, touch her, but she has denied you that gentleness that she had earlier provided
“Dont look away.”
You don’t, because she comes over herself on you and then finally shoves her fingers back into your mouth and makes you taste herself on them.
“So good for me, hm?”
You whimper—so good for her, you did so good. She tastes so good and you gag around her and it’s all you’ve ever wanted, to be beneath her. You reach a hand to touch her breast and she pulls it away to wrap it behind your back.
“No touching, dear. Let me help you.”
She kisses you again around your neck and leaves hickies.
synopsis- You’d never imagine you’d be kissing Ada at some cheap motel you’d just fucked another woman at— but perhaps it was wrathful of you to assume that Ada had ever fully left at all.
word count - 681
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Look for me—
Somewhere where Ada isn’t, you think. Some other girl you’d pretend at— the very beginning where you’d fall again, courting some disgusting fallacy. You’d never look for Ada— then again, she’d never look twice your way. Not when she leaves— and with it, her curtained gaze.
Not when she leaves; and she should, because it's only right to leave the broken for the next to fulfill. Only right, this brokenness, the one who led a hand down the raw side of your rib and unfurled bone into wing.
You’d never been more beautiful—bloodied beneath her. You’d kiss her then, a red cardinal dressed in a shrike’s black. But she was yours, then, as you were hers—you let her know the deepest parts of you—and she allowed you some small thing in return. Her love.
Look for me, dear.
Look for me— as you did, through the blatantly obvious and envious attempts; sex and unrequited cruelty—another woman.
At least you can pretend that at your feet and between your thighs is somebody that you know very well.
Not some gaudy fantasy that has you beneath Ada while she claims you as hers.
A cheap motel, a breath away.
She tastes familiar. You don’t mind when you kiss her back but you still imagine Ada anyway—your own perverted loneliness. Nor do you mind when she stays—unlike Ada, lipstick trailing down your neck with your mouth and legs agape.
It hurts to feel her arms wrap around you while she whispers.
“I love you—“
Because you can’t love her back, even if you try to think—the only thing that ever occupies your mind is Ada.
You can’t bear to tell her this.
So you leave. A lengthened smoke break under a crumbling concrete balcony. The motel lights flicker piously in the near distance—reflecting off the half of your cheek vainly. Coloring in the hollow of your ribs so they look like wings— you’re only in sweatpants and a bra.
Look for me-
Somewhere where Ada isn’t. You want to cry. You don’t. You’re content with this ersatz attempt at love.
And when you go to smoke— a lighter flickers beneath, not yours.
You turn—Ada.
Ada—you blink, taking your share of the flame and mumbling your thanks.
You don’t believe it at first—dragging long, smoke curling lazily and mingling with the multicolored flash of lights. You’re colored by a bleed of blue and red and she is covered the same. It almost makes her look softer when she takes the cigarette from your lips and exhales.
“Was she good?”
You don’t know what to say, so you don’t say anything, resolving to stare. You don’t want to break the illusion— this inert christening of Ada’s visage beneath you.
Ada hums. She does not smile or force you to speak but she looks and that is the worst of them all. You feel like she can see every broken part of you and you feel like she’d never wanted to fix them in the first place.
You can hear her hum through your lips. It is soft— habitual, easy as she allows it to be.
You hum because it’s simple. Because it’s simple you kiss her, this pretending. Like she won’t disappear again— somewhere else, somewhere just beyond your reach.
But she’s here now, and the chestnut of her eyes is darkened by a wash of crimson light.
You’d never imagine you’d be kissing Ada at some cheap motel you’d just fucked another woman at— but perhaps it was wrathful of you to assume that Ada had ever fully left at all.
You wrap a hand around her waist while hers hike to your thigh.
“Stay. Please.”
Through the kiss. Through the late-night fucks and the mornings after.
Ada smiles.
“You don't enjoy her company?“
She bites into you as you groan and arch your back.
“Only because of you.”
You whimper— it hurts only because it should.
“Shouldn’t I, then?”
But cardinals were never meant to fly.
“Yes.”
Ada nods then, leaning into your neck and crooning.
It’s midnight—somewhere close between those small hours where the world swallows you whole in its breathless dark. You’ve come to expect it—the same cigarette in-between your fingers when it comes to rest at your lip—the same burn in the back of your throat that lingers even after you brush your teeth.
You sit hunched over the mirror—exhausted by a promise you’ve learned well enough you shouldn’t be keeping but keep anyway. There's blood threaded between the swollen pink of your gums and when you run your tongue along them, it still tastes like ash. Like pretending—sobriety, pills, nightmares, and then again pills for them as well.
You imagine Ada— with her magnanimous concern, hands laced with poison when they go to rest on your cheek. Like you’re something fragile— something she could break— but hasn’t she already? This rotted body, built and twisted under the same brick-colored flesh, red with worry and the venom of her lips— a blood coated tongue.
It’s broken. And when you reach for your molars— you find the blood is still there.
You splay water underneath your tongue and watch it flush the last vestiges of blood from your gums. A diseased, sanguine swirl flutters down the drain.
Again— you stare. That too, washes away. Your gaze when it trickles to the floor and you think of Ada again— these late nights when she’d visit under some pretense you’d never remember through her lips.
When she'd drag blood across the rug and you’d never mind—never thought to ask why you’d let her, only the gauze and her pretty eyes squinting when you’d staunch her wounds.
Only that—
You loved her. You loved the blood and the ash and the fire. You loved the holes in the vacant space of her heart. The smaller moments when she'd remember to breathe.
When shed’d fuck you and it felt like heaven because her arms were wrapped around yours. When she'd whisper something but you would never listen— too focused on whatever it was that evening. The blood still pouring from her hands.
You let a monster into your bed. The walls have grown hands and teeth and the bathroom suddenly feels small because blood has flown from every porous orifice across the popcorn skyline.
It’s not enough. You need her—her own pressed against yours, bitingly the lyrics of the inert tango you’ve dragged yourself in.
But that too washes away.
And what you are left with is a broken thing—when your hand drags over your phone to her contact—when you cry into the mirror because you’ve never heard her voice so soft than when she picks it up.
“Baby—“
It still tastes like blood.
You whisper into a muffled void.
“I need you here."
But she cares enough to say—
“Okay.”
She repeats.
“Okay.”
So you settle, dragging your hand across your flushed cheek, rubbing your rheumy eyes till the tears close under the fold of your eyelashes.
“Thank you.”
You hang up. Awkwardly. But it doesn’t matter.
Not when the blood has never tasted this sweet behind your gums. When the ash at your lip dissipates into liquor for your thoughts.
Not when—
Fuck— pathetic— pathetic— but you can’t want it more. Her. Ada.
The banal thump of house music and the spotlight luminary makes the blood at your lips look prettier—tongue hanging over your teeth as you kiss into Wesker, hands slipping to his waist. It’s faintly tarry when you pull for breath because it feels like you’ve fixed something inside yourself when you first kissed him, like a bad medicine.
It’s phenol when you kiss him again—tasting yourself on his lips. It tastes as if everything is right again but it’s not— you, under the influence, loosely grinding on him at some dingy house party.
“Dear—” he begins, he’s always called you that. If anything, it feels more wrong than anything now, you leaning over his shoulder to smoke.
“When did you start smoking?”
You laugh.
“Since you left.”
You don’t remember when he left. Only that he did—leaving a vacant space beside you everywhere you went. The lighter he’d share with you—every flame reminding you of the man you once loved.
You hate to love him again. But this is not that. So you don’t hate it when he takes the cigarette from your lips, taking a long drag with phenol and nicotine soft on his breath.
This time, he tastes like ash.
“You’re gonna kill yourself doing that.”
He says. Wesker takes another drag. Somehow, you think he cares more about you than himself.
“Now who said that? It's just a cigarette, Wesker.”
You laugh, taking the cigarette back from his eager fingers. He coughs into his fist.
“Id rather you not.”
Wesker turns to you as you tap the ash out from the filter. You smell like a smoker— he smells like one too. It oddly fits him, you think, before kissing him again.
You pull for breath.
“And when have you cared?”
Because when have you cared enough to stay for more than just sex? When have you cared enough to say you love me without running over the words in your head?
“Let me show you.”
And Wesker tries, you give him that. You give him the fact you loosely want him back again, loosely want him back on you, but—
“You think this is gonna prove anything?”
It doesn’t. Wesker comes and goes. This time is no different.
“No.”
At least he can realize it. It confuses you why he is kissing you, so gently it makes you flush, begetting you to ask—
“Then why—“
Then why. Why stay now?
And Wesker holds your cheek, his gloved fingers cold when you pull away.
“Because I love you anyway.”
Because you love him anyway.
“Fuck—“
You cry out when he bites on your lip. Phenol—it’s no longer medicine when it’s this bittersweet. Your head is thrumming with the onslaught of a migraine and the multicolored LEDs don't help when you fall to your knees, stumbling.
Wesker holds out a hand.
“You’re drunk.”
Obviously.
“Ride home with me.”
And you take it. Because you love him anyway even when it's glass on your tongue—because it hurts and you’ve never wanted it to hurt less.
It hurts when his fingers are still cold against your palm, sweat gathering in the small crevices. It hurts when he helps you out to his car and stuffs you in the passenger seat and you drunkenly mumble that you love him— and it hurts when he doesn’t respond, just looks at you, like he can’t imagine the words coming from your mouth.
At least, when you’re not drunk. But you are. And when the butterflies patter against your ribs and unfurl into ersatz wings in your lungs, you can’t breathe.
Wesker’s hand steadies you from the steering wheel.
He wordlessly turns the radio on. It’s classical. You briefly remember him listening to it when you were together. You can somewhat recognize the names—Puccini, or Handel, or maybe Dvořák.
Its almost as comforting as his voice.
“It’s okay, dear.”
He rubs circles on your back, but you want it to hurt. Want the bite and the phenol and the glass.
“We’re almost there.”
It’s bad medicine. You swallow the pill anyway.
You lead your head fall to the seatbelt. Leaning out the barely cracked window— the cold air vulgar against your flushed cheek.
You don’t know where he’s going until it's your own home.
Of course he remembers.
You unlatch the seatbelt. It’s constricting when you go to leave that safety net, stumbling to the front door— but Wesker is still there to steady you.
You search for the key and open the door, collapsing on the couch headfirst and groaning.
“Ugh.”
Tomorrow's hangover is going to be horrible. You can still hear the EDM ringing in your ears— you only hope that Wesker won’t stay the night. You hope he does.
Suddenly, a glass of water is in your hand. Wesker sits beside you and pours it to your lip, holding your jaw.
“Drink.”
You obey. It’s only courtesy, helping out an old drunk friend. You think he shouldn’t. You think he should.
It feels wrong—never been more wrong until it finally becomes right when he pecks you on the cheek again and hugs a blanket to your knees.
“Rest.”
And he’s still sitting beside you.
You know you’re exhausted when you can barely formulate your next sentence.
“I don't sleepwalk, you know. You can go.”
“Ill be fine.”
No you won't. You need him here just as much as he pretends to need you.
But it's nice to pretend, you think. Even when you sober up and realize it's all fake hurling over the toilet. At least you can enjoy it now, him resting on your shoulder as you still nurse the glass of water he gave you.
“Do you not want me to stay?”
He smirks— as if he already knows the answer. It’s slight— never obvious on him, never egotistical, only understanding and soft.
You swat his hand anyway.
“You can— I guess. Just don’t fuck with my shit.”
Wesker laughs and scrunches his nose at the expletive.
“Your ‘shit’ being?”
You half-heartedly nod, before helping the shirt from over your shoulders and running your hand along the edge of the couch.
“Just go to bed.”
And he does—because he leans so softly against you when you sleep as well, and when you wake up, he is still there.
The shirt is still hung over the back of the couch and everything is the same until it isn't. You rush to the toilet to throw up—sickened by the taste of ash and warmed liquor on your tongue when you remember the classical music he played, so suddenly it stops you.
It was nice, you think, still continuing to hurl. You thread your hair behind your ear, the bile resting on your lips forcing you to wash your gums and brush your teeth.
When you walk outside, Wesker is still sleeping.
You smile, softly.
You should start breakfast.
But that can wait. Wesker can wait.
Everything can wait. You snuggle with your back against him—whispering softly that you love him— even if you don't even know if you do— because at least he’s here now, and you wont let go this time.
Kisses, Ferris Wheels, and rigged carnival games (Albert Wesker x Reader)
Tags: No Use of Y/N for Reader-Insert; Gender-Neutral Reader-Insert; Carnival; Ferris Wheels; Tooth-Rotting Fluff; S.T.A.R.S. Member Albert Wesker; Soft Albert Wesker
Word Count: 1,963
Summary: A silly and fluffy date with Wesker pre-RE1 at a carnival!
Also on Ao3: Here
Requested here
The place is packed with people, noise, and colours. Children run past you without a care, their laughter drifting up into the air and getting lost somewhere between the loud music and the general hubbub of the carnival you've decided to visit today. Albert puts an arm around you, fingers tight and possessive on your hip, and steers you carefully through the throng of people while making sure he doesn't lose you.
“I know this isn't exactly your scene,” you begin apologetically when another unattended kid almost runs head first into you at full speed. He manages to swivel around you just in time, though, and you grimace up at Albert in response.
He looks down at you with an amused smirk and uses his other hand to pull you sideways into him momentarily so he can tuck a strand of hair behind your ear and give you a small peck on the lips. The smile that unfurls on your face makes his own smirk widen further with satisfaction.
“I knew what attending a carnival entailed, dear heart. I am prepared for unnecessary noise levels, annoying people, and paying ten times what things are worth at whatever stall or game catches your eye.”
You stifle a snort at that very apt description of what a fair is and lean your head against his chest as you continue to meander through the crowd at a leisurely pace, not really sure what to do first and simply happy to just take the sights in for now.
“I promise I won't bankrupt you,” you declare and even lift your pinkie in the air as proof of your seriousness. Albert only rolls his eyes at you and lowers your hand back down. “How about we start with something simple? Let's get something to eat. Maybe… corn dogs? I'm starving.”
“Very well, dear. Let's go.”
Albert orders for you both then wraps his left arm around your shoulders once more as you walk and eat, taking in the sights and being assaulted by so many contrasting smells, noises, and colours. You stop your stride to order a lemonade towards the end of your snack, Albert insisting on paying for it yet again, then you lock in on something you actually want to do and drag him excitedly towards it.
“Really, love?” Albert drawls from behind you as you approach the stall and he realises your destination.
“Yes! It'll be fun, trust me!”
“You're going to ask the S.T.A.R.S. Captain who was in the military to play a game that is based on shot accuracy?”
You turn towards him with a blinding smile as the two of you get in line, bouncing on the balls of your feet with an enthusiasm you can't quite contain.
“Exactly. These things are always rigged and I've been wondering for years if someone with actual experience can win. So you'll be my test subject!”
Albert snorts, shaking his head at you in amusement, but you can see his eyes flickering curiously towards the targets mounted on the wall of the stall with actual interest.
“Well, if it's for science…”
“Yup. For science. And for me,” you add cheekily, throwing in a wink that has Albert carefully hiding a fond smile from you by turning his head to examine the rows of prizes one can win based on their performance. You kindly let him pretend that you didn't totally see him being a giant marshmallow and simply squeeze his hand affectionately before turning back to face the front and seeing the woman in front of you almost clear all her targets. Almost being the key word.
“Aw, you'll get ‘em next time, babe,” her girlfriend, presumably, tries to console her and your heart melts at the way she rubs the other woman's slumped shoulders comfortingly before accepting her prize from the smug salesman's hands with an enthusiastic smile.
“Next!”
“Oh, Al, it's your turn. Go on, win me the biggest, ugliest stuffed animal they have,” you urge, playfully pushing Albert towards the shitty rifle waiting for him at the front. He shoots you a look drier than the desert but he does step up to the gun and gets in position while the salesman resets the targets for him.
You stand a few feet back to not crowd your boyfriend and you can't help but admire the breadth of his shoulders and the veins in his arms that stand up visibly as he flexes them, finger sure and ready on the plastic trigger. There's very few things hotter than Albert on a good day, but when he's all poised and dangerous like this it makes you go just a little bit crazy with love and lust. A quick sweep over the people waiting in line behind Albert or simply observing the show tells you that you're not the only one who noticed how hot he is, which makes you smile to yourself in satisfaction.
That's my man, you think proudly before you redirect your attention towards Albert and watch him start shooting.
Ten minutes later, you accept the cute if cheap looking teddy bear from Albert with a bright smile before you burst out in laughter at the sour look on his face.
“C'mon, Al, cheer up. You almost got them all!”
“These games should be illegal. That rifle jumped in my hands, I felt it!” Albert protests grumpily.
“Told you! But thank you for participating in my experiment. And for giving me this little guy.”
“I wouldn't put that thing so close to your face, dear heart,” he comments, a trace of disgust in his voice as he lowers the bear away from where you had it tucked under your chin, and you just roll your eyes fondly at him before you drag him towards the next stall.
“Next: Whack-A-Mole! I'll play this one too this time, don't worry.”
You leave that booth with even more prizes and an Albert whose pride has been restored after nailing the game without a single miss, then try out a bunch of other games around the fair, including Skee Ball and the boxing machine that measures your ‘strength’. It makes you laugh uncontrollably on and off for like ten minutes when Albert punches the thing so hard it breaks the counter. He doesn't even have the decency to look apologetic, which, in contrast with the salesman's dismayed and annoyed expression, only makes you laugh harder.
“Let's go before that man shoots you out of annoyance,” you tell Albert between breathless giggles and he lets you pull him away by the hand with a deeply satisfied grin on his face.
The sun has been steadily lowering since you got here and now, several hours later, after trying out every game the carnival had – and a few rides, like bumper cars and Tunnel of Love, which Albert pretended to hate but you could see he was secretly enjoying it, especially when he pulled you into him and kissed you senseless in the middle of the ride – and utterly exhausting yourself, the bright, colourful lights of the fair shine like beacons in the night. They reflect beautifully in Albert's pale eyes and the sight takes your breath away when you turn to gaze up at him.
His eyes only soften further when he looks down at you which makes your heart skip a beat.
“You're beautiful, you know that?” you whisper softly, your faces close enough for him to hear you even with all the hubbub going on around you.
“You may have told me that once or twice, yes,” Albert confirms but he sounds distracted as his eyes flicker down to your lips. “Though I've got nothing on you, my love.”
The compliment makes your heart take a tumble in your chest and your cheeks warm up in response. You lift yourself up on your toes, hands coming up to rest on Albert's shoulders for stability, and he removes the final few inches standing between you as he dips his head down and lets you capture his mouth in a slow, indulgent kiss that has the entire world around you fading away and disappearing entirely as your world narrows down to the feel of him under your hands and the taste of him – popcorn and strawberry lemonade – in your mouth.
“Let's end the night with a Ferris Wheel ride, huh?” he murmurs against your lips after he breaks the kiss that almost swept you off your feet entirely.
You nod wordlessly, still in the process of getting your bearings after that kiss, and let Albert steer you carefully towards the wheel in question.
It's a bit of a wait until your turn comes, but you're more than content with being held by Albert's arms as you wait, your back pressed flush against his front, taking in the atmosphere of joy and whimsy with the most important person in your life holding you close to him. He helps you up when the empty car comes to a stop before you and also makes sure you're properly secured even after the employee has already checked, then the ascent begins.
Your eyes are sparkling brighter and brighter as more of the fair gets revealed to you the higher in the air you get. It makes something in your chest ache pleasantly at the sheer size and beauty of it all, and when the first firework bursts in a shower of sparks across the sky, a surprised and amazed gasp escapes you at the same time as your hand finds Albert's and grips it tightly.
“Albert, look! It's so beautiful!”
His hand squeezes your fingers in answer before he drapes that arm around your shoulders and tucks you into his chest. His heart is beating rapidly in his chest as your ear presses against it and you can't help but melt inside at the clear proof of how affected he really is by having you near and in his arms.
“Yes, dear heart. It really is.”
You are both silent for a few moments as you hold each other and admire the firework show in contented wonder, but as the wheel starts moving again and begins the journey back down to earth, you turn to your boyfriend with a quietly serious look on your face that cannot, nevertheless, hide the depth of feeling in your eyes.
“Thank you for indulging me today, Al. I had a lot of fun. It really means so much to me that we did this.”
Albert smiles at you gently as he brings your face closer and plants a kiss in the middle of your forehead.
“I had fun too. And you don't need to thank me, my love. Any time spent with you is time well spent to me.”
The words make you swoon inside, but outwardly you only nod slowly and peck Albert's cheek in quiet thanks before settling back against him for the final stretch of the descent.
You only stick around for a few more minutes so you can grab another bucket of popcorn to take home, then Albert bundles you up in his car and drives the both of you back home. Your eyes are heavy with sleep but your heart is full to bursting with happiness on the ride home. And when you finally get inside and strip down to your sleep clothes, body warm and lethargic as it sinks into the mattress, all you can do is curl up into Albert's chest and plant a series of loving kisses against his sternum, enjoying the feel of his warm skin and nearly invisible blonde hair tickling your face as you wish him goodnight and fall asleep to the answering rumble of his voice wishing you the same.
synopsis - your girlfriend grace is too focused on other things. like reading. nerd behavior. you fix that.
word count - 462
—————————————————————————————————————
Ashcroft wears in her Converse.
Half a size too small—dark red lace underneath their peeling heels. Grace’s glasses shift down the bridge of her nose and you go to lean on her shoulder—fingers threading through her own, the scent of warm vanilla and maraschino cherries.
She has a book splayed over her lap—you’d rather taste the words on her lips. So you kiss her, and she kisses you on the cheek, her lipgloss gleaming against your blush.
Grace is reading The Picture Of Dorian Gray for her college Englishes. You pin yourself to her lap, covering the sepia pages, giggling when she runs a hand through your hair.
“You gonna make me get up?”
You ask tongue in cheek. You look at her dirty converse then the earbuds you both wear together.
Grace shrugs.
“Could always read tomorrow."
And she could. But that's no fun. So you flip through the pages, mentally numbering them as you watch them flutter before eventually giving up and sighing.
“Cant you read, like, never?”
Ashcroft giggles. You want to hear her voice again because it's so sweet when she tells you she loves you.
“I have too, baby—“
She probably does. Still, you say.
“No you don’t.”
And that earns you another laugh, Grace curling her fingers through the ingathered strands of your hair.
“Yeah, sure.”
Ashcroft threads her hand to make circles on your scalp while she moves the book aside with her wrist— shifting the wired earbud in her ear and plays one of her classical playlists. It’s pretentious, yes, but it's Ashcroft’s so you can hardly care. It’s been Puccini and Handel and Dvořák for the past weeks. Sometimes Mozart will make an appearance and you’ll light up—recognizing the chords as Grace praises you.
“Who’s this?”
You ask, letting her hand slip to yours, sprawled over her lap. You shift onto your back so you can meet her gaze, hair falling across your back.
“You know…”
Grace pauses.
“I don't know either.”
You giggle—when has she never known? Maybe it’s your lucky day to call her a larper. But you’re nice, and the music is as well.
You hum alongside it.
“Its nice.”
Grace fake guffaws, and covers it with a yawn.
“Wow. First times for everything.”
You laugh into her lap—her gingham skirt pleated prettily as you wonder at the pattern.
“Yeah. Sure.”
And when you go to lean and kiss her again—you shift her glasses to meet her nose again. The vanilla on her tongue, the words on her gums—the cherry gloss spread across her lips.
You peck her softly, only a gentle chew to her bottom lip as she breathily hums. Her converse still exposes her red lacey socks, and Grace has never been prettier except when she was yours.
Wesker never understood it; the inevitable, the damned, the soon to be; until he had you in his hands—held you— (always held you, warmed your hands), should've been right— except he had been the one to place you there.
The one with the knife. The knife, the gun and then the knife and then himself.
He held you. Always had. Bleeding and slipping through his fingers like he always knew you too— softened by his own callus.
There's blood when he goes to shower. There’s blood when he thinks of you and there’s blood everywhere where it shouldn’t be because you’re not here to make him forget anymore. His blood-soaked hands. Yours, in tandem, till you couldn’t take it anymore.
The knife, the gun the knife the knife—
The sound of a bullet colliding. Wesker recognizes the sound. Not your screams.
The blood doesn’t wash out. He killed all of them, every single one, watched them bleed— wasn't enough, never enough, watched them die as he watched you.
It’s never enough. He's grown used to the nightmares, though, and at best, at least he is not sad. He takes pills for them. Grown used to them too.
He hasn’t grown used to you. You appear sometimes in his own cold blood, washing yourself in it—because sometimes he likes to watch it pour from his forearm and scar over, if only to remind himself he’s real enough to bleed, even with this parasite writhing within him.
He knows you’re not real when you kiss him. When you kiss him and it's all teeth and blood.
He knows he’s not real when the gun knife gun— doesn't know anymore— its all the same to him, is placed upon him. Finishing what they started.
And he lets it happen. Lets himself bleed and not die and not die because when has he ever been able to keep anything he wants for long enough to remember it?
When he remembers your face, its covered in stars.
The pills. He reaches for the pills and swallows them and the men are gone because he’s killed them all.
And you remind him that you’ll always be there because he could never save you.
He never understood it until now— maybe he was never meant too.
You, at the desk, and of course, Wesker— the floral blouse at your shoulders christened beneath a lab coat. You reach to straighten a stack of papers—the desk’s edge, pressing them flat until they’re shallow enough to staple. The copier runs another set with a low, sibilant hum.
It’s become routine—these late-night, halcyon moments. How small it feels when Wesker, who, softened by his own exhaustion—lets his pretensions fall away.
“It’s late.”
It’s nice to see something akin to relaxation on him—the tension in his smirk and shoulders falling when he spots you in the lab astride him. It’s soft—softer than you’ve ever seen him, comforted by the low fluorescent wash. Still—he straightens under their off-white gleam. It's a habit, you think, that he never fully relaxes—a permanence that worries you.
You wonder who brokered that lack of trust with him.
It's a small mercy you've allowed yourself— to wonder about Wesker. Even then, you think he trusts you to some infinitesimal amount. Enough to help the coat from over your shoulders to the florals beneath— peonies and hydrangeas and other half-alive perennials, most certainly rotting at your breast under the harsh LEDS.
“Over-time.”
You run your hand along your thigh—meandering towards your lapel, fidgeting with your identification.
Umbrella.
“You’ve been taking extra shifts.”
Wesker notices. He’s right to—and he usually does. It isn’t comforting, exactly, but being seen is still better than the alternatives. Ignorance, and ignorance, and—oh, would you guess—more of the same.
Enough to say it's a reprieve from the day-shift. When your, yes your lab, is a thoroughfare between other, extended on-campus labs and they just have to run their reports through your printer because, coincidentally, the one downstairs is jammed for the second time this week.
You sigh. Let your limbs fold over themselves as you turn tongue in cheek to Wesker.
“And I suppose you don't approve?”
You tilt your head. It’s a garish sight—you, sprawled beneath the cool-light luminary, hair falling against your face in loose, ingathered strands.
Wesker does the same—except he looks much more comfortable and intelligent and in-place.
“If I had approved— I would not be asking you for coffee right now.”
Your coat lazily curls over the back of the chair. Hanging over the edge does the arm jolt loose when you glide it over and across your blouse yet again.
“You are?”
Buttoning your lab coat—your gloved fingers meet the polystyrene of the table.
And—
“As of now, yes.”
Those beauty words. You could kiss Wesker if you truly wanted too. Part of you means too.
If he wasn't your coworker, surely you would have by now. He’s handsome, tight-lipped and who just so happens to coincidentally, also be a bioterrorist. What's not to love?
But taking extra shifts after your coworkers does, in fact, begin to take its toll.
You don't kiss Wesker. You don't even think you’d be awake enough to meet the glass of his lips— surely it would hurt, your lazy teeth grazing his.
“Thank God.”
You sigh. His gaze softens when you look up to him just beyond the bridge of his nose when he looks down to you and you can see the pepper of red against his cerulean eyes.
“I thought some similar offhanded expletive would be your first response.”
He, too, buttons his lab coat. Usually it gets him respect, and if he’s lucky enough, an essential workers discount. Never smart enough to realize that he’s not even a doctor.
“Then you thought right.”
And as you slip past the blossoms on your blouse, sliding your lapel over the scanner— you look back to Wesker.
