i'm literally the priest's favorite sacrificial lamb because i am so docile and sweet and i hold very still when they put the rope around my neck and i trot along so happily while they lead me to the altar and they do not even have to tie me down because i lie so very still and only bleat once or twice in my lovely lamb voice and when the knife comes down it cuts through me like butter and i offer no resistance and i bleed so prettily all over my new white wool and my guts all unspool like the most beautiful shining yarn and my eyes are animal and dumb and hold no accusation and every time i die i come right back as another little lamb because the priest loves me so so much and he always chooses me for the sacrifice every time and he always places one hand on my small and twitching nose to calm me while he lifts the knife and he doesn't do it for the other lambs only me because i'm his favorite
i talk big shit about monsterfucking but the truth is nothing has ever made me as indescribably aroused as that one shot of dragoon gloves in the ffxiv heavensward trailer
How the PAs + Ex-Pops + Dr. Easterman would react to other reagents fighting you
Hi everyone! I'm apologize for not posting recently, I've been kinda out of it. Not the fandom, but just in general.
I wanted to write something, though. Consider this a thank you for 100 followers! Truly, y'all are a blessing. I don't have the words to say a proper thanks. When I started writing, I didn't think anyone would like my writing so much. I love y'all. ♡
By the way, I don't mean imposters fighting you. I'm talking about actual reagents who have an issue with you. These will be some possessive headcanons, enjoy!
Leland Coyle:
* You were his favorite reagent. No one but him had a right to touch you. Let alone hurt you.
* When he saw the other reagents in your group start turning on you, he was pissed. He saw how they tried to sabotage you, how they tried to hurt you.
* The final straw was when one of the other reagents managed to drag you down to the floor and start punching you.
* Coyle started full-on sprinting at the reagent. His electron baton already primed over his shoulder.
* He was shouting at the reagent, pure anger behind his voice.
* "You beatnick rape-o hophead motherfuckers aren’t gonna cook what meat I want raw!”
* When the reagent ran from you, Coyle didn’t stop until he was right over you. He grabbed your arm and pulled you back up to your feet. He then dragged you to the nearest hiding spot and forced you in, telling you not to move until the rest of the reagents were dead.
* After Coyle left you, his footsteps grew more confident. He was faster, more determined. He was going to kill the ones that hurt you.
* You saw briefly how he interacted with the other reagents. When he got in arms reach, he jerked them back towards him. Coyle forced them to the floor and didn't waste any time frying them.
* The crackling was loud, and Coyle's degrading names echoed throughout the halls.
* Every scream from the reagents only fanned the flames, making Coyle more excited for the hunt.
* Once Coyle came back to you, he pulled you out of your hiding spot. He put an arm around your waist and guided you with him.
Mother Gooseberry:
* Her favorite gosling? Getting hurt? She couldn't, wouldn't stand for it.
* She kept a careful eye on the other reagents when she noticed they were trying to move traps around.
* Her breaking point was when she realized you were heavily injured from all the traps you had tripped on.
* That's when Mother Gooseberry put the puzzle pieces together. Once she did, there was no going back.
* You had been hit by one final trap when Mother Gooseberry came to you. She firmly but gingerly helped you back up to your feet. She led you to a dark room and told you to wait there for her. Threatening to hurt you if you moved.
* The only thing you heard when you were hiding was screaming, Mr. Futterman’s drill and Mother Gooseberry's footsteps.
* You saw what she did to one reagent. When she had caught them, Mr. Futterman went straight to their forehead. Mother Gooseberry drilled through their skull and to their brain.
* While she was chasing the reagents, you heard a lot from Mr. Futterman. Constant cursing and yelling.
* “You grimy little fucks can't escape the goose grease!”
* Once all the others were dead, Mother Gooseberry did come back to you. She was pleased to see you hadn't moved and praised you for it.
* You noticed she was tired from all the chasing, but still concerned for you. She took your hand and led you to a medical box so you could heal.
* While you walked with her, you could feel her thumb rub the back of your hand. She would apologize that she wasn't there to protect you.
* “I'm sorry Mother wasn't there to protect her gosling. These wretched little children kept me from you.”
Franco Barbi:
* You were Franco’s mommy, his little rabbit, you weren’t gonna get hurt by these limpdick motherfuckers.
* Franco was angry for you. It was like he snapped when he saw the reagents try to lock you in the Chem Co facility. Thankfully, you managed to find your way out, but just barely.
* Franco's first priority was finding you so he could get you somewhere safe. If he found other reagents along the way, he would shoot them. Make them run.
* Once Franco found you, he grabbed you by the back of your ESOP. He pulled you around all the way until you got back to his room, where he kept the heavy grunt.
* He shoved you inside and took a moment to reload Lupara.
* “Don't worry mommy, baby’s gonna make these rat motherfuckers pay.”
* With that, he left. The popping of Lupara’s shots sounded much louder from where you were. You flinched every time you heard it.
* You couldn’t hear much else since Franco was so far from you, most of the time.
* Still, once Franco had killed the other reagents, he came back for you. He had one small bottle of medicine in his hands. He didn’t want you quite strong enough to fight back.
* He threw the medicine at you and waited for you to drink it. After you did, it was like he latched onto you instantly.
Kress Twins:
* They were more than upset, mostly because the other reagents weren't even playing fair.
* They had you do almost everything while bullying you.
* Otto and Arora's breaking point was when they saw a reagent slam your head on one of the metal valves.
* Arora borderline screamed at Otto to go and grab that reagent. Otto followed quickly and caught them just as quickly. He didn't even bother to get the reagent on the floor.
* Otto sawed through the reagent’s back, right on their spine. Once the reagent fell, Otto came running back to you.
* “My dear, look at what they did to our love.”
* “They must pay.”
* Otto grabbed your shoulder and forced you to walk with him. You could feel Arora's hand on your other shoulder, gently rubbing it.
* Otto put you in the nearest hiding spot and then left to find the others.
* You didn't even see any of the other reagents die. All you heard was the hollering, the sawing, and the breaking of glass.
* Still, Otto came back to you. They dragged you out of your hiding spot and brought you into the light. They then checked you over for any injuries. Of course you had some. Once they noticed, they left you once more to go get you medicine.
* When you started feeling a little better, they forced you along with them. Otto didn’t let you go until the doctors had to come and retrieve you.
Liliya Bogomolova:
* You were her little lamb, and she wasn’t going to let anyone else hurt you. That was reserved for her, and her only.
* When Liliya saw the other reagents picking on you, she was already keeping a close eye on them. Stalking them, and hiding around them more.
* Liliya stopped playing nice completely when she saw a reagent rip off the claws on one of her mannequins and stab you with them.
* Absolutely blasphemous, and Liliya wasn't having it. Liliya came out of hiding and bolted for the reagent who had hurt you. She moved right past you and tackled the reagent.
* She dug her claws into the reagent's neck, splitting it open. Once the reagent was limp, she got up and immediately went after the others.
* You slowly got up and covered your wound. You found the nearest bed and went to lay down for a minute. The pain was excruciating.
* It didn't take long for Liliya to get to the others. She had to hold herself back from acting too rash. She was angry, but she couldn't just constantly chase them. She needed to trick them, using her hiding skills. It was easier to get them that way.
* Once they were dead, Liliya slinked back to find you. It didn't take her too long since you hadn't moved very far. She saw you on the bed and rested her claws on you. She scratched lightly before noticing the wound on you.
* You swore you heard a light growl from her lips before she went off to find you some medicine.
* Pusher didn't like the way the other reagents treated you. He saw what they did, putting you in harm's way.
* Forcing you into traps, locking doors behind you so you couldn't escape the prime assets.. it didn't ever stop.
* Pusher would try and keep the other reagents in psychosis. Not you, though. Pusher always moved past you.
* “Don't worry baby, these bitches are in for a wild ride.”
* He would move antidotes away from the other reagents, just to keep them in psychosis longer. It would eventually work, killing at least 1 of the others.
* Pusher would also move medicine, making sure it was easier for you to find.
Pitcher:
* Pitcher hated it. He saw the way they treated you, like you were some sort of outcast.
* Pitcher would throw more molotolvs out. He did try and make sure you didn't get hit by them, but no promises.
* He would scream more often, too. It was louder than normal and sounded more strained. You would hear Pitcher growl and grumble to himself, but you couldn't make out anything he wanted to say.
* You noticed Pitcher would keep a close eye on you. Every time he saw you, his eyes scanned you for new injuries. He almost always found them.
* Pitcher would get so angry that he eventually stopped leaving the trial environment. If he ever did, it wasn't for long.
Night Hunter:
* The Night Hunter, like the others, hated seeing you hurt at the hands of these other reagents.
* The other reagents only hurt you so much before the Night Hunter decided you needed to stay with him.
* He wouldn't let you leave dark areas, and he always needed to have you in his line of sight.
* “I see you glow worm. For what they did to you, they're gonna fucking die.”
* Every time reagents would come in the room, the Night Hunter may as well have turned into the pouncer.
* He caught them and lacerated them until you could hardly recognize them.
* If the Night Hunter ever came across bandages, he would give them to you. Possibly even try to put them on you himself.
* He would watch your trials. You were supposed to be hurt, but not like this.
* Easterman thought it would make you stronger at first. He thought it would teach you not to trust others. So, he let it continue.
* Then, he realized every reagent that you got paired with tried to kill you. That's when Easterman took action.
* Even for him, it was hard watching his little lamb get bullied. So, Easterman forbade other reagents from doing trials with you.
* If the doctors forgot you needed to do trials alone and let another reagent go with you, the Jaeger needed to be put in the trial. The Jaeger was then forced to go after the other reagent(s).
* If you were stuck with another reagent, Easterman would monitor the trial closely. Just to make sure you didn’t get hurt. Beyond what you were supposed to, anyway.
* If he saw the other reagent(s) hurting you, he would force the doctors to go in and grab you.
* He would talk to himself about you after your trials. He would occasionally leave you special voice messages on your radio.
* "I see how hard you're working and how sore those precious hands are. These others are just a distraction. Keep your attention on me, little lamb."
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I wanted to make this post longer so it felt more special. Seriously, thank you all so much for 100 followers. I can't say it enough.
I want to get more posts out there, and I hope I'll do it soon! As I said before, I've been kinda out of it recently. Just sorta sluggish.
I appreciate everyone's support greatly, and I highly enjoy reading y'all's submissions! I hope you (yes you) have a great day. Much love and affection. ♡
I’m unsure whether you’ve already done this scenario before or not but I’ll ask it just incase :)
How would the PA’s + Ex-Pop’s react to cornering their s/o and another reagent in a room only for the reagent to practically throw their s/o at them in an attempt to escape? And for Easterman how would he react to seeing a reagent throw his s/o at an ex-pop?
-🍝
How the PAs + Ex-Pops + Dr. Easterman would react to a "sacrificial" reagent
This request is really fun, thank you for making the suggestion sketti. (Hopefully, it's okay if I call you that. I thought the spaghetti sign off was cool.) I hope y'all enjoy this post!
Leland Coyle:
* Coyle flinched very slightly when you got thrown at him. He wasn't looking to hurt you, at least, not yet. He was first trying to get to the other reagent.
* When you got close, Coyle quickly swung his baton away from you and used his other hand to grab your ESOP.
* When the other reagent tried to run, Coyle pushed you away from him. It was nothing personal to you, but Coyle was absolutely fuming.
* Coyle gave you a quick look as if to check if you were badly injured before bolting to catch the other reagent.
* "You cheatin' bitch! Think you can assualt my songbird?! I'll motherfucking kill you!"
* You getting hurt was nothing new to him. As a matter of fact, he enjoyed hurting you (to a certain extent). However, watching you get thrown into harm's way? Absolutely not. Only he could hurt you, and only if it was willingly.
* In the distance, all you could hear was screaming and yelling. Both from Coyle and from the reagent. Coyle was yelling something about justice, and the reagent was screaming in pain.
* When Coyle came back, he was winded. So much so that he had to put his cigarette down for a second.
* He stared at you for a moment before taking a long drag of his cigarette and pulling you close. Coyle then blew the smoke in your face and gave you an unusually tender kiss.
* After the other reagent was dealt with, Coyle let you go. He didn't stick by your side the entire trial, but you noticed he would keep an eye on you. He'd check around just to see where you were and stay in your general area.
Mother Gooseberry:
* When you were thrown to Mother Gooseberry, she accidently hurt you. You came at her so suddenly, Mr. Futterman's drill was the first instinct.
* When she realized she hurt you and the other reagent's plan worked, she was upset. In all manners of the word.
* She was first worried about you and how badly she had hurt you. She walked quickly over to you and touched your wound with her gloved hand. If the injury was bad enough, she would pull you into a hug and kiss the wound before guiding you to some medicine.
* Mother Gooseberry would apologize profusely. She couldn't believe that other naughty child made her hurt you. She had never sounded so distraught.
* "My little darling! No, no! Mother is so sorry. Let me kiss it better."
* In between Mother Gooseberry's doting and worrying, Mr. Futterman was cussing both Phyllis and the other reagent.
* "You clumsy bitch, after them! If you let that fucking mistake get away, Phyllis..."
* After getting you patched up, Mother Gooseberry would tell you to stay put because she had to teach your little "friend" a lesson.
* You saw her bolt down the hallway where the reagent went, and what followed were some of the loudest screams you had heard.
* By the time Mother Gooseberry came back, she was breathing heavily. Her shirt and Mr. Futterman's beak were practically dripping with blood.
* She grabbed your arm and pulled you into another hug, kissing your forehead and apologizing one last time before guiding you back to the shuttle. She pleaded with the doctors to take you back and didn't leave until you were safe.
Franco Barbi:
* When you were shoved towards Franco, you caught a glimpse of his surprised face. He jerked his hand toward you and grabbed you by your shirt.
* The surprise quickly wore off as Franco pulled you into a tight hug and slung Lupara over your shoulder.
* Franco shot in the direction the reagent was running. Both shots missed, and you heard Franco growl under his breath. He didn't even cry. He was absolutely livid.
* Franco pulled you off of him with a hard yank. He told you to stay still while he went and found that "rat motherfucker."
* It took a few minutes, but Franco did find them. You heard the same loud pops that made your ears ring when Franco shot over your shoulder.
* You also heard a lot of shuffling, loud thuds and even caught a part of what Franco was yelling.
* "You fucking mutt! Think you can hurt my mommy? It'll hurt when Lupara is up your ass!"
* When you saw Franco walking back to you, he was breathing heavily and still had an angry expression on his face. The expression changed when he got close to you, though.
* He gave you a sly smile and relaxed his arm, Lupara falling down to his side. Once he was within reach of you, he grabbed a fist full of fabric from your shirt.
* He pulled you close once more and kissed you with a sort of determination. As if he had been thinking about you, and you were his one goal.
* "Come give me a taste, sweetness. Baby missed you."
* After the whole ordeal, Franco basically became your body guard. He followed you around the trial and kept an eye out for anyone else while you completed objectives.
* He loved being able to protect you. It made him feel strong. Not only that, but it gave him an excuse to be around you. What's not to love?
Kress Twins:
* They would've been impressed if you weren't the one the other reagent was trying to sacrifice.
* When you were pushed towards Otto, Arora's hand was actually the first to grab you. She had to prevent you from falling onto Otto's saw.
* Otto quickly put his saw down and made sure you were steady on your feet, gently putting his hand on your shoulder. He spoke just as gently as he touched.
* "You alright, honey? You didn't get hurt, did you?"
* Once Otto had you situated, Arora quickly threw a tincture back in the other reagent's direction. The tincture hit, and the other reagent got sick.
* Realizing the ticture worked, Arora hurried Otto. She pointed and directed him towards the reagent. Much to their satisfaction, the reagent stopped just long enough to get shredded by Otto's saw.
* The reagent didn't even get far. You were close enough to see it all unfold. Even Arora got her hits in, opening one of her tinctures and pouring it on their face.
* "You'll never touch our darling again, you low-life vermin."
* Even when the reagent was dead, they didn't stop. Otto and Arora were far too upset. Hurting you was almost like them hurting each other. Almost.
* They still loved having their fun with you, and that does mean you'd get hurt. However, Otto would never use his saw on you unless it was in a trial. Even then, he would go easier on you.
* By the time Otto came back to you, the body of the other reagent was unrecognizable.
* Arora was looking back at you, watching your eyes glare at the reagent's body. When Otto got within arms reach of you, Arora used her hand to cup your right cheek and turn your attention back to them.
* Otto kissed your left cheek softly while Arora was holing your right. Arora rubbed her thumb back and forth along your skin.
* It didn't take much longer until they took you back to their sleep room. After all, they were technically Murkoff staff. Not many people could take you away from them. If anyone tried, they would have to fight both Otto and Arora.
Liliya Bogomolova:
* Liliya was both offended and pleased. She loved having you close to her, but she didn't appreciate someone else forcing her to hurt you. If she wanted you as a sacrifice, she would do it on her own will.
* When you were tossed at Liliya, she almost stabbed you with her prosthetic. She was primed to hit the other reagent, so she was caught off guard when you were thrown at her.
* Seeing your distressed face, anticipating her hurting you was disheartening. Liliya, in a split second decision, wrapped her arms around you instead.
* "I will not hurt my angel."
* Instead of chasing the other reagent, she let them leave. Not that she wouldn't find them later, but she was more concerned about you for the moment.
* Liliya stopped hugging you and grabbed your wrist, forcing you to follow her. Anytime you would try to stray away from her, she would snap at you. Liliya wanted you by her side, where she could see you. Just until the other reagent was dealt with.
* You could tell Liliya was angry due to her intense, strained breathing. She would occasionally try and reassure you, her hand squeezing you a little tighter when she did.
* "I'll keep you safe, my beloved."
* Liliya would randomly let go of you to hide and jump scare the other reagent, and she encouraged you to do the same. She'd tell you to hold them down while she mauled them. So, she wasn't just avenging you. She helped you get revenge.
* When the reagent was dead, Liliya wrapped you back in her arms and pressed the teeth of her mask to your forehead. As if she was trying to kiss you.
* She then guided you back to a safer room and refused to let you go until the scientists/doctors came to grab you. While you sat with her, she would keep an eye out for ex-pops and force them to stay away from you.
----------
Pusher:
* When you were shoved towards Pusher, he instinctively moved backward causing you to almost fall.
* Unfortunately, the gap between the other reagent and Pusher was too far. He couldn't grab them. So, instead, he sprayed the noxious gas into the air.
* It worked, and the other reagent went into psychosis. However, you went into psychosis too. Pusher just couldn't let the other reagent get away with what they did to you.
* Pusher enjoyed getting you high, but he felt bad this time. As soon as you started tripping, he ran off to find you an antidote.
* "Hold on, baby. I can calm you down."
* It didn't take Pusher too long to find an antidote, thanks to how fast he was. He came back and handed the antidote to you. Granted, he had to chase you around a little, but he was determined to help you.
* Pusher stayed with you until you came down from your high. After you took the antidote, Pusher held you by your wrist. His grip was more gentle with you, but he made sure you didn't stray far.
* It wasn't until you were in your right state of mind that he came a little closer to you and put his arm around you.
* "You cool, baby?"
* Pusher leaned into you a little bit, his mask almost touching your shoulder. He gave you a kind of half hug and tried to make sure you were okay.
* Once he knew you were alright, he took your hand and led you to an insertion gate. He made sure you two went in together so you could have a brief respite period.
* Every time Pusher would go back into the trial, he brought you with him. Just so you could get enough objectives done to get you a decent grade.
* Pusher didn't stay by your side all the time, though. He wanted the other reagent incapacitated on the ground. It didn't matter how.
* The only constant was that Pusher took you with him back to the gate once he had to leave. He didn't want you around the other reagent, lest they try to sacrifice you again to another ex-pop or prime asset. No doubt, they wouldn't be as nice as him.
Pitcher:
* The only person allowed to touch you and throw you around was Pitcher. At least, in his mind.
* Once he saw you get hurled toward him, all he could think about was how the other reagent touched you. It was so aggressive, so unfair.
* Pitcher grabbed your arm and slung you back behind him, then threw a molotolv at the other reagent. Pitcher growled and screamed, quickly letting you go to chase after the reagent.
* In the distance, you heard the sound of his snapping and strained breathing. Pitcher was incredibly vocal about how upset he was, and he wouldn't calm down until the reagent was charred. Or, left with so many blisters it hurt to move.
* Even when Pitcher ran out of gas, he didn't stop chasing the reagent. He kept moving until he caught up to them. Once he did, Pitcher tackled the reagent to the floor and started beating them. Putting every bit of strength into the punches he landed.
* When Pitcher was finished, the reagent wasn't left dead, but they were unconscious. Pitcher just left them there, not caring if another ex-pop or prime asset found them.
* By the time Pitcher found you, he was exhausted. Out of fuel, both literally and figuratively.
* Despite being so tired, Pitcher still had the energy to care for you. He came really close to you and, after a few seconds, rubbed the back of his hand on your cheek.
* He let his hand linger for a minute before grabbing the back of your head so he could bring your head down to his shoulder. He held you until he felt you relax.
* Pitcher couldn't kiss you properly, but he didn't want to take his mask off in the middle of a trial. So, he instead pressed his forehead to the top of your head.
* He eventually let you go and left through one of the insertion gates. He didn't come back out until the very end of the trial. Before you got to the shuttle, he stopped you. He lifted his mask and gave you a quick kiss. Rougher than usual, but that wasn't entirely his fault. He had to let you go so you could get back to the sleep room.
Night Hunter:
* The Night Hunter would 100% find it amusing. He even liked it. I mean, he was going after you first anyways.
* When you were hauled off to him, the first thing he did was stab you in the arm with his machete. He pulled you closer to him with his other hand, gripping you tightly.
* You were right up against him when he finally pulled his machete out. It didn't take long for the Night Hunter to get handsy.
* "I finally have you, little mouse."
* He would drag the blade of his machete down the sides of your body, digging into your skin rather gently.
* Kissing the Night Hunter was a little inconvenient because of the night vision goggles, but that didn't mean he couldn't kiss other parts of your body.
* He would kiss your neck and shoulders, keeping his machete pressed to you. Whether the machete was pressed to your stomach, neck, or thighs, it didn't matter.
* "Such shiny skin you have, glow worm."
* If you want to get away from his grasp, you'll have to rely on the other reagent. If they don't help you, pray you have a brick, bottle, or stun rig.
* The Night Hunter did enjoy hurting you, so you getting "sacrificed" posed little issue for him. If anything, he thought the other reagent was clever. The other reagent made you more accessible to him.
* If there was any saving grace, it was the fact that no other ex-pop or prime asset would come near you two. So, in a weird way, you were almost safe. Almost.
* The doctors/scientists would have to pry you from his grasp if you had no other way of escaping.
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Dr. Easterman
* Dr. Easterman wouldn't make a big deal out of it unless you were constantly getting bullied by this reagent.
* If it happened just a handful of times, he would expect you to get out of it. After all, he loved you for more reasons than one. You were smart and you dealt with pain well.
* The real issues came if it happened over and over again. He already paid special attention to you, but this other problem reagent was only causing him unnecessary stress.
* He didn't need any more stress. So, he would tell the prime assets to keep an eye out for you. Under strict orders not to incapacitate you and to target the other reagent.
* The ex-pops are susceptible to the prime assets charisma, so you didn't need to worry about them much either. If one of the ex-pops tried killing you, a prime asset would step in to protect you.
* If getting the prime assets/ex-pops to gang up on the other reagent didn't work, then Dr. Easterman would make an example out of them.
* The next trial you did, that reagent would be the victim of. Example: if you chose to do Vindicate The Guilty next, the other reagent would be The Judge.
* While you were in the shuttle going to that next trial (where the other reagent was the victim), you would hear a special "note" from Dr. Easterman on the TV.
* You would hear the normal speech for the trial you chose, but there were ominous, extra reassurances or motivation.
* "I will nurture you, my little lamb. Show me your anger."
* "You're daddy's how high, aren't you? Destroy what's holding you back. Come back to me."
* He would tell the scientists to watch you carefully and demand they go into detail about how you performed. If you had to see a doctor after the trial, he would get reports of your injuries.
* All of these reports could be used to praise and/or degrade you based on how well you did.
* Dr. Easterman would have you do trials alone for a little, just until he could be comfortable letting other reagents near you. Not just for your or his sake, but also for other reagents. He didn't want to have to kill a star reagent because they couldn't keep their hands to themselves. (Don't worry, you're his #1 star.)
Hi everyone! I hope you're all doing well. Thank you so so much for the amazing support! It makes my day when I see so many people enjoy my writing.
I hope my writing wasn't lackluster with this one, I was kind of afraid it seemed that way. Anyways, much love and affection to you! Have a fantastic day. ♡
Side note: Would anyone be interested in playing Outlast Trials with me? I don't have many friends, but I do have a mic if you care!
is laugh kink a thing. is there a name for this. i'm thinking of him deep inside me and something makes me laugh - whether it's him or myself or something we're watching - and the rattling and pressure change and uncontrollable movement makes him lose control -
[MDNI some smut, implied neurodivergent reader, vaginal fingering]
A/N: Yo I'd hate it if someone did this to me👀👀 Sigh👀👀👀 I said I'd hateeee it if this happened to me👀👀👀👀 Is my mic on👀
You hate eye contact.
Sure, you understand that it's the social norm but it doesnt make it any less uncomfortable. Looking into someone's eyes – and them looking into yours – feels like they're trying to peer inside you. Trying to read your thoughts and analyse every single micro-expression on your face. It makes you hyper-aware of how you're positioning your hands or the tone of your voice.
Is your posture straight? Does your voice sound monotone? How long do you need to hold eye contact for? Do you look away from time to time? Should you put your hands in your pockets or by your side? Oh my god, you've been fidgeting with your shirt the whole time.
How embarrassing.
Every social interaction feels like a humiliation ritual just because you don't know how to act and eye contact feels like torture. What, are you 12? By this age you should've learnt proper social etiquette.
At least some of your friends don't mind. They understand that you're a little different. Just because you're not always looking at them doesn't mean you're not fully engaged in a conversation.
Wesker doesn't tolerate it, though.
"Eyes up here," he'd say.
Holding a conversation with him was the worst. Not only is he tall and imposing, but he's intimidating simply by the way he carries himself. His posture, his sharp features, his speech. Anybody who took a glance at him knew he meant business.
And those fucking glasses.
You'd think holding eye contact with him would be easier if you couldn't actually see his eyes. This couldn't be further from the truth. Staring into those glasses feels like falling into a void. You're aware his eyes are scrutinising you from behind the lenses, and you wouldn't be able to tell. You aren't able to pick a point on his face to look at when speaking to him. The most frustrating part is you can tell he's aware of your struggle. Maybe he even takes some glee in it.
Wesker doesn't allow you to avert your gaze anyway.
"Look at me when I'm speaking to you," he would say.
God, he was so condescending about it too. Chastising you as if you were a child. Correcting your posture and commenting on how animated your hands become when you have to hold eye contact for more than five seconds. How humilating. You really can't help it, it's something you do subconsciously. It was a way for you to self-regulate.
"Don't look away, dear heart."
The hardest times are when his fingers are buried deep in your cunt. When his fingers curl and rub against that spot inside of you that makes you go weak in the knees. When his thumb rubs tight circles around your clit. When you're panting and your face feels hot.
No, he won't let you look away.
The moment you do his other hand grabs your face so he can turn it back towards him. It's because he wants to see every little expression of yours as he takes you apart on his fingers. He tells you as much. The way your mouth falls upon, the furrow of your brow, your half-lidded eyes fighting to stay open because he told you to.
No matter how much you whimper and whine, he doesn't let your eyes leave his gaze. And all you see is the reflection of your wrecked face in his glasses. Any more attempts to turn your head away only makes him snicker. Any time you plea and beg he shushes and coos at you.
He loves to whisper sweet nothings into your ear and feel your face grow hot in his hand. Praises and compliments you when you do what he says.
"Doing so good for me, taking my fingers so well," he'd mutter. "Keep looking."
The most exciting part for him is when you come. Oh, how he loves watching you struggle to keep your eyes open. Those moments when it feels so good your eyes start to roll back, he lives for it. He'd make you come again and again just so he could see it.
"You looked away that time, we'll go again."
And then his fingers are curling inside you again, the palm of his hand grinding against your clit. Even when you twitch and buck away he doesn't slow down. He won't stop until he's broken this bad habit of yours.
Even then, you still despise eye contact. It was so humiliating.
[MDNI smut, consensual somnophilia, overstimulation, creampies, not proofread]
A/N: Gulp... erm who wrote that...
The whole drive home, all Wesker could think of was you.
Lately he’s noticed a particularly irritating side-effect of the virus, one he wasn’t able to ignore or mitigate through regular means. It’s going to get in the way of his work if he doesn’t figure out a permanent solution soon, but for now he knows a few… methods to alleviate the issue when it arises.
During high stressful interactions or situations, his body seems to produce an excessive amount of cortisol, more than what is expected for a regular person. To combat this, dopamine and oxytocin are flooded into his system in an attempt to balance out the amount of stress hormones. As a result, dopamine and oxytocin are made in excess as well.
Wesker bites the back of his hand. Really? He’s horny? He’s insanely horny because he’s stressed and pent up. It’s almost embarrassing how his brain dissolves into a single track mind in these situations, where all he can think about is you.
Oh, you. His heart.
Yes, the only thing important to him right now was you. Sinking himself into your warm, wet heat. Wrapping his arms around your body, constricting you and holding you down as he uses you. Wringing out the sounds of your moans and whimpers and drinking them all in as his mouth devours yours.
The leather of the steering wheel creaks as his grip tightens, he can feel himself slowly harden in his pants as the images flash through his mind. The moment he steps through that front door he’s going to be all over you.
Albert groans quietly into your neck, trying to muffle the sounds spilling out of his mouth as he mouths at your pulse points. Sweat drips down his temple, his breathing laboured as he does his best to remain quiet.
“H-hah…”
He doesn’t want to wake you after all.
You’re only half-asleep when you feel something pressing down on you, the warmth blanketing you pulling out of your haze. Albert drops his body on top of yours, pushing a small “oof” out of you before he adjusts himself to ensure he’s not crushing you.
Then you feel his lips on your neck, trailing upwards until he’s kissing your cheek and the bridge of your nose. Your hand comes up to intercept his face right before he reaches your lips, pushing him a little so you can get a good look at him.
“Well hello to you too,” you tease, relishing in the agonised sigh he lets out. Your legs fall open so he can slot himself in between them, eager to get closer to you.
“Hello,” he huffs, nuzzling his head into the crook of your neck. “I need you.”
A warmth starts to pool low in your gut as his hands roam over you, a wetness gathering in your underwear with his constant grinding. You’re sure he can smell your arousal with his heightened senses, just as you can feel how hard he is through his pants.
“I’m sorry, Albert,” you sigh, dropping your head back onto the pillows. “I want to, but I can barely keep my eyes open.”
A small whine escapes him before he could stop himself, reluctantly pulling himself off of you. The sound catches your attention. He needs it that badly, huh?
“I’m sorry,” he says as he gets up. He’s still breathing a little heavier, but you can tell he’s trying to keep it under wraps. “Get some rest.”
He places a kiss on your forehead, then another on your hand. Right as he’s about to pull away, you tighten your grip. “Wait.”
Sure, you were tired, but seeing Albert so needy is doing things to you. “I have an idea.”
God, and what an amazing idea it was.
You feel phenomenal, all nice and warm for him. Your cunt so soft and wet for his cock as he slowly thrusts into you. It was so different, seeing you wrapped around him in this state, when your muscles are all relaxed. A good kind of difference.
The only downside in this situation is he can’t hear your sweet sounds, especially when he was looking forward to bringing them out of you on the drive home. Though, you do let out a few small gasps and whimpers in your sleep, and he wonders how much sound he can make you produce without waking you.
There is a tinge of guilt for using you like this, but you had begged him so sweetly. The least he could do was make you feel good too.
“Fuck…so good for me.”
He’s actually been at it for a while now, having cum twice in you already.
Tonight, however, he’s insatiable. There’s a drive in him to keep going, to keep stuffing you full even when he’s overstimulated. By now his thrusts have turned quick and shallow, much different from the deep rhythm that he started out with. The feel of your tight cunt wrapped around him feels too good, so he can’t bring himself to stop when his brain keeps flooding with dopamine the longer he continues.
His brow furrows, teeth nearly tearing into his bottom lip. He tamps down the whimper climbing out his throat, laving his tongue over your left breast and wrapping his lips around your nipple. A small, barely audible gasp comes out of you, the sound so soft Albert almost missed it. The thought of you being able to feel everything he does to you makes his cock twitch. Sensitive thing, aren’t you?
His hand reaches down to gather the fluids gathered between the two of you—the wetness you’ve gushed out mixed with his cum—and rubs slow circles over your hardened, neglected clit. Your legs give a small twitch as your breathing picks up, and he takes it as his cue to deepen his thrusts again.
He maintains a slow and steady rhythm, even when he can feel his restraint breaking. Right now, there’s nothing more that he wants to do than push your legs over his shoulders and take you until you awake gasping his name—but you’ve been so good for him, letting him use you like this. Poor thing, you were so exhausted. His dear heart deserves to feel good and well-rested.
Yet a small voice in the back of his head eggs him on. Imagine how their cunt would feel when they cum.
He buries himself deep into you, his movements turning into a deep grind as his fingers continue to work at your clit. As your cunt begins to tighten around him, his fingers move faster, working quick, tight circles on you.
A gasp tears out of you, brows pinched together as you rouse from sleep. It takes a second for you to get you bearings, and that’s when you register the warmth building in your gut. Albert continues to grind and rub against you, and it has you clenching tighter around his cock.
“Albert– ah…”
You don’t even get to finish your sentence as your orgasm overtakes you, body locking up as your hands scramble to hold onto any part of Albert, arms wrapping around his body and fingers tugging roughly on his hair, making him groan. His arms swiftly warp themselves around you, practically restraining you as he tries to press deeper inside.
The feel of your cunt milking his oversensitive cock makes his head spin, but he truly couldn’t get enough of the sensation. His hips continue the slow grind against yours as he licks up your jaw before capturing your lips.
“‘M sorry for waking you…” he mumbles against your lips as you try to catch your breath. Even now as you’re coming down you can feel his fingers trying to work you back up to that peak. Involuntary twitches leave you but you can’t move too far with the way Albert is gripping onto you.
“W-was that good? Does it feel good?” he asks you, desperation dripping from his voice. He wasn’t one who seeks approval from others, but with you there’s always a need within him that craves your attention. It drives him to keep giving and giving to you.
You whimper, squirming underneath him when you feel another orgasm approaching. Every part of you feels like a live wire, any small touch sending shocks of pleasure straight to your core. It starts to feel too much when every touch makes you want more and to run away. Albert just presses you deeper into the mattress to keep you still, rubbing at your clit more insistently.
The noises you both make are needy and desperate. You think a bit of drool escapes your lips.
“Just one m-more for me…please,” he pants. “Want to feel you.”
He’s not even thrusting into you anymore, keeping himself buried deep within you, making use of your cunt clenching around him as you approach your climax. You’re so wound up it actually hurts, feeling an ache in your lower abdomen as the muscles tighten. “Al, I– hah… I can’t.”
“You can,” he insists, the pitch in voice raising. The rapid movement of his fingers reflects the urgency in his voice. “Please, for me? Please, please.”
At his pleading, it’s like a band snaps, your cunt rapidly spasming around his cock. Albert cums with you, groaning at the feel of you milking his cock. Some of your combined fluids leak out of you, dripping onto the sheets.
He doesn’t pull himself out immediately, pulling you closer to pepper kisses all over your face instead. You hum contentedly, cupping his face and pushing away the strands of hair that have fallen over his eyes.
“Had enough?” you ask him, amused by the small huff he lets out. He drops his weight on top of you and buries his face into your neck, breathing your scent in.
“I’ll clean up,” he grunts. “Get some rest, it’s still late.”
I’m a believer that Albert Wesker is a fan of sensory deprivation/overstimulation.
Refusing to play with you, because Wesker is the one who decides when he wants to have his fun with you. Won’t you be a good subject and sit at peace?
You sit beneath his desk, in the shadow and positioned between his thighs as he analyses reports detailing the results and progress of your tests. Sat at his feet like a dog, back damp with beads of sweat sticking to your being like a second layer of skin.
The collar around your neck—the one with your project name embroidered onto the leather—feels far too tight around your nape, the creaking audible from beneath his desk as you tug on it, trying desperately to get some air and bring yourself back to your senses.
You feel fuzzy; your cheeks feel numb, they tingle periodically, and the burning heat between your leg only intensifies with every growing moment that you’re neglected. Your core tightens and you suppress a pathetic whine as he shuffles so the tip of his shoe is nuzzled almost perfectly against that area that turns your brain into a mushy, incapable mess. The only barrier being your underwear that has grown to become translucent with your need.
It’s only almost perfect because that’s how Wesker wants it to be, because if he wanted it to be exact and precise, it would be.
And he knows It’s not enough for you.
And you know he’s only doing it to hear you plead and throw a tantrum so he can scold you for not following orders. It’s the same play that he orchestrates every single time. You’re his puppet pulled along by the strings he holds, playing into his demands because that’s how things go around here.
You try so damn hard to hold still, to not twitch and squirm and grasp at the fabric of his trousers when he presses into that spongy spot that makes you sob out petulantly. The sounds of your slick match the volume of your gasps and moans, the front of his shoe becoming damp with every soothing circle he draws around your sopping wet sex.
And just as you’re about to let go, let your head go slack and spread your legs just that bit wider to accommodate him, he pulls back. The sound of him resuming his typing and the awful scratching of pen against paper above you. The creaking of the leather in his chair as he falls back into a natural position, leaving you whimpering underneath his desk.
But, you’re too docile and sweet to fight back again him, to wrap your thighs around his shoe and hump to your hearts content. You’re too desperate to prove that you can be a good patient for him, that you won’t cry too loud. You’ll behave.
You’ll just continue pulling at the collar that represents where you belong beside Albert, and wait until he’s ready to stimulate you once again.
Something about craning your head back while you’re sucking him off to fill your throat just that little bit more, hips flush to your face. Two fingertips clasped over your nose, watching as you sputter and gag and drool around his girth.
He’ll just hold you there with a sick sense of amusement, hung balls pressed snugly against your chin, coated in the beads of spittle that slip from your swollen lips as you try desperately to stay conscious.
And your throat burns so damn bad, your vision going fuzzy at the edges, your cheeks beginning to tingle as they go numb. You feel all the blood rush to your head as soon as he pulls away, a perverse string of his release and your saliva connecting you both.
Or Wesker who chokes you while you’re giving him a blowjob, to feel the bulge and weight of himself inside of your throat, your hands weakly tugging and grasping at his thighs to hold him still as he uses your throat to his hearts content.
Wesker who strokes the outline of himself through your throat while stuffed so far down that you’re becoming light-headed, the other resting upon the crown of your skull, as if to pet you. Those calloused fingers through those fingerless gloves pressing into your throat when your throat constricts and tries to push him out.
Who instructs you on how to please him. Bringing your trembling, clammy hands to cup his balls that have grown heavy and tight with need and the animalistic urge to leave you choking on his spend, his other hand guiding you down the thick length of him, watching your eyes widen with anticipation and discomfort when he’s far too big for you to take whole.
Wesker who taunts you for getting off on pleasing him, for coming untouched. Who makes a mockery of the damp and wet mess between your slick thighs, who instructs you to rub yourself to completion while he watches and strokes himself in preparation to fill you. Or maybe to get himself off and release onto your tear-stained face while you whine for him to take you already, shaky fingers still plugged into your fluttering hole. That you’re ready for him, capable of taking him. Worthy of his spend.
Wesker who makes you sob from distress and overstimulation when he refuses to fuck you because if you can’t take him fully in your throat, maybe you’re not ready to take him at all.
Camera Obscura [S.T.A.R.S. era Wesker/Reader] - Chapter 8
[Ao3 Mirror]
Rating: E
WC: 10k
Contents: Kissing, smoking, fingering, first orgasm. Some soft Wesker. Manipulation and grooming aspects. Secret workplace age gap relationship with emphasis on innocence and an exceptionally nervous Reader-insert. Full tags on AO3.
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[Chapter 1][Chapter 2][Chapter 3][Chapter 4][Chapter 5][Chapter 6][Chapter 7]
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Two weeks go by in the same manner. You retrieve your book from Wesker under the guise of it being from the library’s collection. He leaves his lighter on your desk once when he slips away to smoke. You deliver files and cases and papers to the S.T.A.R.S. office and steal little glances when the door to his office is open.
He drives you home sometimes. He’s cruel with his kisses and touches and only once more has he slotted his leg between yours. He always stops. Always. Even as you whine and rut against air, he is uncompromising.
“Not yet,” He says, murmuring it against your temple.
“I’m ready,” You plead.
“Ready for what?” He asks.
And you can’t answer.
You’re pretty sure that’s what he’s waiting for. You have to ask for it, to name it. But the task is… monumental. Asking for things is not easy for you, even small things. To ask him for… that? Every time it comes up your gaze drops, your throat closes. It’s too much.
You want it. You want it more than you’ve ever wanted anything, want him more than anything. But when you open your mouth to try, no noise comes out, the words impossible.
So Wesker just makes a little acknowledging noise that says I told you so without a single syllable.
You don’t think much of Wesker’s office being dark by midday. Even outside of the normal upper management nonsense he has to deal with inside R.P.D., he’s always had something else he tends to, some kind of family thing (You think? You never really got an answer).
You only know he’s out the next day because Brad complains to Joseph about it in the library, something about needing a sign off on reconfiguring Alpha’s helicopter.
“He told Enrico he’s nursing a cold, doesn’t want to spread it unnecessarily.” Joseph shrugs.
“He’s such a germaphobe…”
“I’m not complaining! I have Nas tickets next week, I don’t wanna be sniffling the whole time.”
That makes you think, at least. You hope it isn’t too bad- you’d like to make him a little care package but… you don’t even know where to drop it off. So you pick up a box of nice tea, some chocolate, and a pack of his cigarettes and put them in a little gift bag for when he’s back.
Which is the following day. You almost don’t find out, only in the office because Brad’s wallet had fallen out the previous day. But sure enough, a glance at Wesker’s office reveals the lights are on. You hurriedly go back to the library to grab the little gift bag and deliver it.
You don’t know what’s happened, but you see it on him. His shoulders are just a little too rigid, the normally unexpressive flat line of his lips have pulled down a hair too much. You know instantly this was not just a cold.
He doesn’t move as you come in. He’s motionless, completely still except for his fingers working over his keyboard, typing with a practiced swiftness. In fact- he stills only for a moment, you imagine his eyes darting behind his dark shades as you enter his office, before he resumes his rapid clicking.
“I heard you were sick.” You say as neutrally as you can. “I hope you’re feeling better, Captain.”
You set the bag on his desk- and only then does he move at all. A tiny turn of his head, just enough for him to have looked at the bag- then resumes typing just long enough to finish his next thought. He peaks into the bag-
In the low light, you can’t be sure. But you think the tight line of his mouth loosens, relaxes for a single heartbeat before he carefully places the bag behind his desk, away from prying eyes. “I am feeling better, thank you.” He says it with such profound detachment you wonder if you had imagined that momentary relief. “Was there anything else you needed, archivist?”
“No, Sir. Glad you’re back.” You say as you slip away.
You don’t see him for a few days. You know he’s still making it into the office because Chris tells you so, even complaining that Wesker’s been harder on his reports since his “cold”. But he doesn’t come through the library. No requests left on your days off, no lighters on your desk, no rides home.
When you see him in the hallways, you can’t tell if his eyes follow you. He’s always been subtle, adept at hiding his affection for you. Probably second nature considering he’s a policeman, you wonder if he’s ever been undercover. He’d be good at it, you think.
And you do think about him. You don’t know what changed, what happened. You’d bet dollars to dimes that he wasn’t out sick, but he certainly hasn’t confided in you what really kept him from working. The fear that you’re just not that important to him burns in you, but then he’s never been like the boyfriends you’ll see on T.V.
(and, oh, god, he is your boyfriend, isn’t he? He’s never referred to himself as such, but you are exclusive...)
But he isn’t affectionate like that. Certainly not in public, but even in private he doesn’t touch you in the way you had expected your first boyfriend to. You’ve had no flowery confessions of love or dedication (which is fine! You don’t need that and honestly you might pass out if he did) and when he holds you, it’s less of an embrace and more like he’s posing you, moving you like a mannequin to however he likes (which, honestly, might be better).
This kind of privacy is just an outgrowth of that. He wants more space, more control over things than the boys your age, and that’s alright. It’s maturity. You must believe that he’ll tell you when he’s ready or that he will handle this problem on his own. You do wish he didn’t have to, though.
Nearly a week since you’d seen him last, Wesker enters the library. It’s unfortunate timing, one of the uniformed officers from downstairs returning an evidence box, filling out the more annoying paperwork. You try not to perk up too much, do your absolute best to play it off as just being attentive to who you’ll be helping next. But Wesker keeps walking, sidesteps the check out desk entirely, gives you hardly anything more than a polite nod as he moves towards the door to the main hall.
You wilt- and then you hear it. shnk- click.
You know the noise, your body reacting to it before you can even name it. You press your thighs together and imagine his lips.
You glance over your shoulder, but all you see is his back, his neatly groomed hair and his pale work shirt, faintly wrinkled from the day’s activities. shnk- click. You hear it again, once more, before Wesker reaches for the door knob and exits the library.
You wait, patient and kind and hoping the officer doesn’t notice how twitchy you’ve become as he finishes his forms. You put the box away, set up the sign, and do your best to look normal as you exit the station out the back door once more.
You hear it before you see him, that same shnk- click. As you make your way up the fire escape you see him. Not leaned against the railing this time, no, sitting on one of the sunbleached lawn chairs. In one hand is a cigarette, already half gone, the smoke drifting lazily around him, and in the other is his silver flip-top lighter.
He’s kept the sunglasses on this time, blocking your view of those hypnotic eyes. Even so, you can still see something in the line of his shoulders, his posture over all- his arms braced on his knees instead of his usual stately, composed look.
“Come here,” He says, his voice low and unusually dark.
It’s the stress, you think, he needs some relaxation. You move to him, close enough to stand between his legs- and he pockets the lighter and holds the cigarette between his pale lips-
“Oh!” You gasp as he pulls you forward, just as he had in his office. You’re a little more prepared this time, easier to find your balance on his lap as your legs fold in neatly around his thighs. And, oh, to be touching him again… His warmth seeps into the backs of your thighs, into your hands from where they’ve landed on his shoulders. You’ve missed this. The sparse meetings you’ve had with him since your date have had much less contact, but now-
Wesker catches his cigarette between two fingers again and wastes no time in pulling you to him in a kiss. You’ve gotten much better at this part, you think. You hope. It still gives you butterflies to kiss him at all, but at least you can cup his face and not entirely have a breakdown just because his lips are on yours.
He parts your lips- and exhales. You jolt, but his hand wraps around the base of your skull, keeping your mouth pressed to his. Smoke fills your mouth, and when you inhale in surprise it sinks down into your lungs. The taste is strange, different than when you’d tried to smoke with him, smoother somehow.
It’s his smoke, the drag he just took- some part of him is deep in your chest and the place between your legs pulses at the thought. He pulls away and thin gray tendrils slip from your lips. You want to keep it in you, to hold this piece of him forever, but your lungs burn for fresh air and you breathe him out only because you must.
He hums in approval, fingers running along your jaw before he circles your throat and pulls you to him again. He kisses you, slow and deep, his tongue filling your mouth. Between each he pulls back enough to admire you and your dazed expression and glazed-over eyes.
Another kiss and you rock down against him. He grunts- he makes a noise as though you’ve burned him, pulling away with his upper lip curled back in a snarl. He looks down, where your bodies have slotted together- and you feel it. Shuddering, you dig your fingers into his shoulders, ruffling his shirt as something firm presses against you. A pure chance of the angle, having that part of him prod between your legs, right against that matching part of you.
You whimper, rock against him again- and Wesker exhales, hot and heavy against your throat. “Always so good for me.” The praise makes you squirm again, rubbing your tingling core against him again- and feeling it swell more. His hands find their usual place at your hips as he eases you back off his crotch and down onto his thighs.
He’s stopped you so early, you can’t even complain about it, too enraptured by this new sensation. You stare down between your bodies and see it again, the shape at the front of his pants. Your mouth waters, your fingers twitch and you need.
“Do you want to touch it?” He asks, drawing away to watch your reaction.
At no more than the suggestion, you’re trembling in his lap. You nod, meet his gaze through black glass and plead silently. You do, you really do.
Wesker’s hand, so much bigger than your own, covers yours at his shoulder. Where his are steady, your hands waver, shaking beneath his guidance. You swallow, try to force them to be as cool and unaffected as he is for fear that he’ll see it as not being ready and stop. But you can’t halt the trembling and he doesn’t stop.
He guides your hand down, over his chest and stomach and he pauses there, letting your palm hover over the zip of his pants. You can feel the heat radiating off him even through layers of clothes. You feel your mouth open in silent awe- and Wesker pushes your hand down.
“Oh,” You choke out. You shiver in spite of the heat of him, your pussy soaking your underwear again. It’s so natural to curve your fingers around him- at least, as best they can with his pants in the way. But you get a sense of his size, of the weight of him as he pulses against your skin.
“Mmm, it’s different than yours, hm?” His voice has tightened, a string pulled taut somewhere in him. You nod wordlessly, still just holding him. You want to- to stroke, you think, or to squeeze, but the fear that he’ll make you stop keeps you paralyzed. “Do you like it?”
You nod again, but feel yourself blushing again. You do. You haven’t even seen it, not really, but you like how it feels in your hand, like its warmth, like how his breath catches when it twitches.
“It certainly likes you.” The blush on your cheek turns to a burning, humiliating thing. He likes you. You- you do this to him. Finally you have to duck your head, to look away, even as you squeeze your thighs together and wish he was between them again. He hums, free hand coming up to stroke at your neck. “I think you’re almost ready.” He finally pulls your hand off of himself. You think he’ll drop it, but instead turns it out so he can see your delicate inner wrist- and kisses there, right on your pulse. “Soon.” He promises.
Your legs desperately squeezing at his thighs to no avail, nothing giving you the extra pressure your body craves so badly. You shudder again and nod because it’s all you can do. Yes, soon, yes, so long as he does it. You breathe through the surge of desire and he holds you-- with a careful distance between your bodies-- as you calm down.
When you can finally look at him again, you bring your hands up to his neck again, lacing them behind his head and toying with the thin blonde hairs that rest there. You can’t read his expression-- eyes guarded and his mouth is back to that singular, flat line-- but you do enjoy the residual pinkness that dusts the tops of his cheeks. And, you note as a smile leaks across your face, his shoulders have loosened up.
“Did it have to be a scary movie?” Brad asks, mouth twisted.
“I told you, it’s horror night.” Joseph says, tapping on the VHS’s case. On the dust jacket, a white outline holds a bloodied knife.
“Yeah, but I thought you meant good horror.” Chris says over the raucously popping corn before him. “I was expecting, like Halloween or The Exorcist.”
Joseph frowns sharply. “What do you have against Jason?”
“Joe, he’s not even in the first one!” Forest holds his face in his hands.
Chris has upgraded his home a bit since the last movie night, including squeezing a loveseat into his living room so Joseph and Brad aren’t relegated to the floor and/or kitchen stools. He’s even cleaned up, having been designated host of the newly dubbed S.T.A.R.S. (et al.) Cinephile Collective. You don’t actually have to love movies, Chris had impressed this upon you, you just have to want to hang out for 2-6 hours depending on movie selection, number of movies, and how quickly Chris can get the popcorn going. Today, they’re running late. Barry wasn’t sure if he could make it, before finally canceling- something with the wife.
“Fine, then what do you have against Mrs. Voorhees?” Joseph rolls his eyes. “I brought part two, also.”
“First off, Pamela Voorhees isn’t remotely co-”
“First name basis, Forest?” Jill heckles him. “You looking to replace Mr. Voorhees?”
Forest grimaces, twisting his face up in disgust. “Don’t even joke about it. As I was saying, she’s just not compelling and-”
“Fuck.” Brad mutters, dropping his head over the back of the loveseat.
“What’s up?” You ask quickly. Even among friends, you can’t entirely let go of that pang of anxiety.
“I forgot something in the report I turned in today. Ugh, Wesker’s gonna make me redo the whole thing tomorrow.”
“I have to know how you got from Mrs. Slasher Mom to whatever is in your paperwork.” Forest says.
For you, however, your ears perk up for an entirely different reason. The words come out easier than you expect. “How- how’s he doing? I heard he had that cold…”
Chris finally rejoins everyone in the living room, handing out oversized bowls full of oversalted popcorn. “Not sick, but damn does he need some time off. I asked if he wanted to join us, but he gave me the usual no thank you without even looking up from his monitor.” You do have to give it to him, his imitation of Wesker’s unplaceable accent is spot-on.
“It’ll never happen. We’ve worked with him for two full years, never seen him take a vacation, he’s only gone out with us, what, once?” Jill shakes her head.
“Twice,” Chris corrects. “Once we got him to the bar, but the other-”
“Oh! After someone pulled the fire alarm, right?” Brad jumps in.
“Does that even count?” Jill asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Wait, what happened?” You ask.
“So, like, a year ago, some dipshit perp manages to slip his cuffs and tries to run away- in the middle of the precinct, mind you- and gets the bright idea to pull the alarm as a distraction.” Forest starts-
And Chris seamlessly picks up, “He gets grabbed of course, but the fire department still has to come down. Policy, right? Now, if you don’t know, the Fire Marshall hates Chief Irons. So he makes a big show of how the entire building has to be evacuated while his crew sweeps it, top to bottom.”
“Three floors.” Joseph emphasizes. “Shit took hours.”
“So, while the whole S.T.A.R.S. office meets up at the parking garage, I suggest we head over to Kendo’s and have a little competition.”
“And lucky for Forest here, Kendo was out taking his lunch break, so no-go.”
“I suggest we go get lunch at that new burger place,” Jill says, waving a hand after a moment- “But basically everyone else who got evicted had the same idea. So we wind up at this hole-in-the-wall Vietnamese place for lunch.”
“And you know the captain, he’s all nothing to be done about it and they’re just being thorough. Like he’s not drinking his coffees as fast as the waitress can put ‘em down and white knuckling the mug the whole time between.” Chris shrugs. “But! It was socializing with the team when he could’ve just taken a nap in his car.”
“Genuinely, the best nap of my life.” Brad nods.
“Yeah. He’s always been tightly wound, but this last week or two has been really bad.” Chris sighs- followed quickly by Brad, already mourning his plans for tomorrow.
“Any reason why?” You prod. It’s risky, you think, being so interested in him… but it shouldn’t be too obvious. Right? It’s a natural conversation topic, when so many of your friends have the same boss, his mood will affect them and you want them to be happy, right?
“He’s been stifling yawns when he thinks we aren’t looking.”
“I mean, it’s not a last two weeks thing, but you’ve noticed Irons keeps dropping by, right?” Joseph asks, “I wonder if he’s putting pressure on Wesker for something…”
“For what though? We’re all in good condition, we’ve had no incidents or unsolved files, hell, Irons don’t even have to worry about funding us.” Jill scowls, looks like she’s about to say something else, but is cut off by Brad.
“Hey, this isn’t work time. I’m already gonna get my ass reamed tomorrow. Let’s watch some movies, okay?”
You nod, apologizing softly for keeping them all distracted. Chris waves his hand dismissively before pointing at Joseph. “Put in Part 2, let’s get some real Jason going.”
Stifling yawns. That is the part that kept your attention. You think about it all night, picturing his pale eyes with those dark bags beneath. His tense shoulders and meetings with Irons and oh, you don’t even know. He’s stressed, you know that much and there’s so little you can do for him.
But there is something.
It’s a gamble, of course. The team had said he hasn’t disappeared again, has been meticulously on time, in his office, every day since his cold, but that doesn’t inherently mean he’ll be in again today. You certainly hope so, because waking up early and then lugging the big carton of coffee and bundle of paper cups all the way from the cafe to the station, up the stairs, and all the way down the hall, all by hand has been really unpleasant.
The lights in the main office being off was disheartening. You could at least leave the coffee there, the rest of the S.T.A.R.S. will enjoy it when they come in. But a half-turn, and you can’t help but smile. Light illuminates his office, slipping through the drawn blinds. He’s in early again. Your gamble has paid off.
You don’t ask, just lever the carafe onto one of the side desks and immediately pour Wesker a cup. You knock softly on his office door- and receive no response.
Your good mood vanishes- what if he’d simply left his lamp on? The possibility is just as absurd as him not acknowledging someone knocking on his door.
You try the knob- and it’s unlocked. Now this, this really baffles you.
Slowly, you open the door, peering inside. The angle isn’t quite right; you see the side windows and the couch he’s got pushed up against the corner. You call out softly, “Sir?”
He doesn’t respond. You push the door open more.
The first thing you notice is that Wesker’s chair is empty. The second thing you notice is that that’s not entirely true. You can see the entire black, cushioned back to the chair but when you look down you find him. He’s almost flattened against the desk. One arm is stretched out, one leg of his sunglasses still held loosely between his fingers. The other is folded into a miserable pillow for himself, his head resting along the bend of his elbow.
You don’t dare even breathe.
He does, you note. His back, in the same shirt from yesterday, rises and falls in steady rhythm, the noise almost silent. You step to the side to get a better view of him- and realize his hair has just begun to fall out of its usually strict placement; loose strands along his brow and temples have fallen free, draping lazily across his skin. His mouth is open, just barely, and you grin at the thought of him, the untouchable, pristine Captain Wesker doing something so painfully human as drooling in his sleep.
But his eyes catch your attention. Closed like this, you first take the moment to admire those pale eyelashes, almost invisible where they rest on his cheeks. More painful, however, are the dark bags. Huge shadowing pools that still sink in beneath the hard line of his cheekbones.
How late was he here? Late enough to have fallen asleep at his desk, obviously, but this… it looks worse than one night of overwork. And with how Chris and the others have described it, he’s been doing this for some time..
You step closer and this time, don’t restrain yourself. Your fingers card through his hair just above his ear, pressing a few of those loose strands back into place, but realistically just dislodging more as you break apart the dried product in his hair. “Wesker?”
He jolts- eyes snapping open, his extended arm scrabbling back, back towards his waist-
“Just me,” You whisper, stroke through his hair again as his mind finally processes what’s going on.
He leans back slowly, blinking repeatedly as his eyes come into focus. He groans and pinches the bridge of his nose, then checks his watch. “My apologies, I must’ve-”
“It’s alright,” You say- and all the while your hand still slips through his locks. You’ve never touched him quite like this. Sure, you’ve cupped his head and ran your fingers through his fine, well-groomed hair, but not like this. It was always when he was kissing you or teasing you or any other kind of… of intimacy. And never because you initiated it. He always seemed… above these little displays. But he doesn’t stop you, doesn’t lean away. “I brought you coffee.”
He looks at the still steaming cup. Without his glasses you can see it, his cold eyes pinching together, the gears turning in his mind. Still loading, not quite awake yet, you think. Or considering something.
“Movie night ran late, so I brought a box for the whole team.” You assure him of your meager attempt at concealment. “You just got to it first.”
Your fingers again run through his hair at his temple, this time you sweep your thumb along the shell of his ear- and this time Wesker’s eyes soften. Just a fraction of a second, one of those expressions so faintly there you worry you’ve hallucinated it, but his eyelids drop an extra millimeter and go so slightly unfocused. He takes the coffee, holding it in his hands and staring into the dark liquid.
“Thank you.” He’s said it before; he’s polite. But he says it so tenderly, you think this is the first time he has maybe really meant it.
Your heart swells and you pet over his ear again, just to watch that same reaction happen. “Are you alright?”
The moment is over. His expression flattens, pulls tautly into that serious, neutralness. He sips the coffee and closes his eyes, not in relaxation, but to shut you out. He lifts his sunglasses, shifting his head away from you just enough to dislodge your hand in his hair. “I’m fine, dear. I stayed late and must have fallen asleep.”
You frown, slowly dropping your hand. “Wesker… what’s going on?”
“I’m consulting on a difficult case. I overworked myself; I’ll be more attentive.” He assures you, but all you can focus on is how rehearsed it sounds. He grabs your hand, brings the knuckles up to his mouth and kisses them. His lips are chapped, but warm from the coffee. It still makes your stomach flutter, despite everything.
Your frown doesn’t dissipate. You want to ask how long he’s been consulting; if Chris’s recount has been right, it’s been some time that he’s been wound up. You step in close to him again and cup his jaw. He lets you, all the while his smug little grin curls at his lips. It’s not quite as powerful while his hair is still mussed and his shirt is rumpled from having been slept in.
“Okay.” He’s too private. You know he won’t answer, won’t tell you anything. It’s all you can do. “Just… tell me if I can help you, okay? I… I’d like to help, if I can.” At least you know he appreciates the gift, that thank you will feed you through whatever challenge it is he’s facing alone. Even if he doesn't have to.
The grin falters and Wesker squeezes your wrists fondly. “I will, dear.”
Chris’s Jeep is a mess. Old paper bags of fast food, empty soda cans, miscellaneous papers. He blushes bright red as he shoves his gym bag into the back so you can take the passenger seat. It’s funny, you think, how Wesker’s time in the military made him so orderly and clean, while Chris’s time in the air force resulted in this.
“Sorry,” He laughs awkwardly. He turns the key- and the engine sputters. “For fuck’s sake.” he mutters, easing off, then trying again until it finally rumbles to life. “So, how’s records keeping treating you?”
You could tell him the generic stuff: chasing down late books, an awkward and desperate fingerwagging you had to give the officer in the east wing who keeps forgetting to sign the chain of custody logs (you almost cried the whole time, but you’re pretty sure you’d both be fired if he kept not doing it), how you’re almost done with cleaning the lower floor now- but none of that is right.
Normally, you’d use this as a chance to fish for how Wesker is doing, it’s been another week since you left him his coffee and you’ve only seen him once. He drove you home, but he couldn’t even walk you to your door. My apologies, dearheart. I have to catch up on some research. You wanted to ask if it was his consulting thing again, but you already knew. And you know now, if you ask if Wesker’s eased up on Chris, the answer will be no. He’s still overextended, in the building before the sun is up and still there long after everyone else leaves.
Instead, there is something else that you want to ask about. It feels silly. Even in the isolation of the library, the rumor mill eventually pulls you in. It’s not hard to overhear, one delivery to the first floor and everyone is talking about it. Some in hushed tones, some brazenly. But they can’t be serious, right?
“Actually… I was curious if you knew anything about the, um, this… cannibal thing.”
Chris’s smile drops. “It’s a damn mess.” The old Jeep sputters again as Chris navigates out of the parking garage, out onto the street. “Brass is trying to keep it quiet, saying it’s just a bear or something, but those bites were definitely human.”
The blood drains from your face. “So it’s… real?”
Chris glances over at you, clocking your growing distress. “Yeah… but, she was out hiking alone. We call that a crime of opportunity. It’s disgusting, but nothing to worry about, okay?” He squeezes your shoulder, giving you that smile that makes it hard to stay afraid.
“Good.” You say slowly, nodding, then cringe. “I mean- not good, but-”
Chris laughs, “No, I know what you mean.” He squeezes again, presses the comfort into you before retracting his hand to turn onto his street. “What movie do you think Brad got this time?”
You think for a moment, then groan. “As much as he hates horror, I bet it’ll be something with cannibals or the woods.”
“Yup. My bet’s Evil Dead.”
Thankfully, it wasn’t Evil Dead; Brad had a little more tact than that.
It was Silence of the Lambs.
The consensus after the movie was unanimous. The forest cannibal was probably some freak high out of his mind, completely brain-melted on meth. And as unnerving as that is, it is still much, much preferable to the cold, manipulative gaze of Hannibal Lecter and his siren song for Clarice.
The first of June comes without fanfare. The summer heat has just begun rolling in and in a big station like this, one built before the modern joys of air conditioning, you’re left with little option, especially for an inner room like the library. You prop both doors open, trying to get any air movement and plug in a small fan on the checkout counter. Still, when you have to go upstairs, you can feel the heat. You hope those windows outside the S.T.A.R.S. office open.
The warmth leaves you drowsy, sluggish. You clean the downstairs half-heartedly, mostly just reshelving books. If it’s like this all summer, you don’t know how you’ll get anything done. Not that there’s exactly a backlog for you to work through anymore, but the continued realization that your job really is fundamentally sitting at a desk and doing nothing until someone else shows up remains baffling. You keep expecting someone to show up and tell you everything you’re doing wrong, that you’re ruining some elaborate plan by spending your hours wiping down bookshelves and re-alphabetizing, but it has yet to happen.
Maybe you’ll beat this imposter syndrome thing yet.
For once, you hear him before you see him. The booming noise of the main hall flows into the library with the door open, but it doesn’t quite mask the sound of heavy footsteps. You gather a law reference book into your arms and watch as Chief Irons rounds the corner.
He seems startled that you’re already aware of him, but grins quickly, his white teeth glittering under his mustache. “Knock knock.”
“Good morning, Chief.” You greet as politely as you can. You never did get comfortable with him. That bad feeling is no more than background radiation. Something that you note, that makes a cold sweat bead at the back of your neck and you feel guilty about it existing at all.
He’s all teeth and squinty, beady eyes. His cheeks are rosy red from the heat, but it makes it look like he’s blushing deeply. “Morning to you, our little librarian.”
Your lips twist. It’s such a petty thing, but you do hate when people who should know get your title wrong.
“Can I help you with anything, sir?”
“Yes, actually. I wanted to double check some paperwork for a case.”
“Yeah sure.” You almost sigh. A normal request. “Do you have the number?”
“The Joe Frankfort case.” Irons says. You still. He must misinterpret it as confusion, as he clarifies: “The Redfield shooting case.”
“Oh.” Is all you can manage. You clutch the law book tighter. “But I thought it was closed.”
Irons smiles again, the kind that you give kids who can’t stop asking why, a pitying, tiresome sort of thing. “It is. I just wanted to make sure all the paperwork is filed correctly.”
Wesker. It has to be about Wesker. The thought pains you. Joseph said he was riding Wesker hard about something, it must be this. Even with the case closed and ruled as justified, he won’t let up. There’s nothing you can do about it now… You can only hope that Wesker is as meticulous as you think and that the Chief won’t find any ammunition there.
Reluctantly you go to the files room. Recent as it is, it’s near the front of the current cabinet. Considering the severity of the incident, the file is somewhat sparse. You flip through, not sure what to expect. Most of the contents are focused on Chris’s actions, less so on the kidnapping that necessitated it. You thumb over the picture of Chris paper-clipped to the left side, right next to Frankfort.
Nothing to do about it, you think. Nothing you can do could save Wesker or Chris from whatever Irons wants. You feel so… useless. Reduced down to the ball of anxiety that crawls in your belly.
You return to find Irons milling about behind the checkout counter. As the Chief of Police he’s allowed there, of course, but it still feels wrong, a sort of violation. That was your space now.
“Is that it?” He asks, motioning towards the file under your arm.
Ah, right. You were staring. Embarrassment makes your cheeks heat up again, but you hand over the file. You expect him to sign it out and leave, but no. Irons hums as he flips through the pages, examining whatever he’s looking for right here in the library. It makes you cringe internally. You really would rather he not stay…
“You work awfully hard.”
You blink, looking up at him again. “Pardon?”
Irons grins and you realized too late you’ve entered a conversation you don’t want to have. One of his eyebrows raises as he speaks, “I said ‘you work awfully hard’. Are you trying to impress someone?”
“N-no, I… I just like to keep busy…” Your cheeks burn at the acknowledgement, at being seen at all. It’s your job, nothing more--
“That so?”
Your heart sinks. Impress someone? Here, at the station? Did… Did Irons know? You look at his face again- and see it. His grin is too sharp, his eyes up-turned in a way more menacing than pleased.
“Could’ve fooled me.” He says, closing the file and holding it under his arm. “What do you do for fun, then?”
Your blood turns to ice. Is he… is he fishing for information on you and Wesker? He doesn’t know definitively… or he can’t prove it. You swallow, feel your lips trembling, pressure growing at the corner of your eyes as you struggle not to tear up. “I, um. I- not- not much? I l-like to read. Um. A-and I w-watched movies with the- the S.T.A.R.S. team. Sometimes.”
“Ah, I should’ve expected you to be a bit of a homebody.” He says, low and much too familiar. Your skin crawls. Leave. You want to leave- “Look at that, speak of the devil…”
You don’t want to look away from him, as if doing so much as glancing over your shoulder will have him lunging for you- but you don’t have to. Because you didn’t hear his footsteps over the elevated noise from the main hall, but you will always know his voice.
“Chief Irons.” Wesker says and in two words you can already feel the tension in his voice. It’s polite, perfectly so, but you know him well enough now to tell that chord of self-control pulled taut. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“Not at all, Captain Wesker.” Your blood turns to ice, Irons matching his tone. “I was just about to tell our dear librarian about the parties at city hall. You know, the ones with the mayor and the community board members from Umbrella?” Irons tips his head back, looks down his nose. “You both work too hard. You should bring our librarian to the next meeting and have a good time.”
Everything about this sounds awful. A party that Irons enjoys cannot be something you would enjoy. But a party at city hall with… with not just strangers, but strangers who all but run Raccoon City… You don’t understand any of this. Why would Irons be harassing Wesker about work and then invite you both out? Is it some kind of goad…?
“Maybe next time.” Wesker replies coolly, suddenly right beside you- close enough you can feel the heat off his body. A different kind of sweat beads at the back of your neck, somehow feeling more trapped than you had two minutes ago; despite all the trust you hold in Wesker, you’re stuck in a cage with two wild animals.
The Chief hums, the smile finally falling from his face as he twists his lips, his mustache warping beneath his nose. All his faux good mood fades, removed like a mask. “Too bad. You really should join us sometime, Wesker. You’d have some fun for once.” He waves the folder towards you. “Thanks for this, hon.”
“O-of course, sir…” Your voice comes out small, faint under the veiled weight between them.
The chief nods at Wesker, then leaves exactly as he came through the propped open door. You stare out it for a moment, waiting for the unaddressed tension to dissipate. It doesn’t. Even without looking at Wesker, you can feel the waves of pressure rolling off of him. You swallow, trying to get your nerve up before you do finally turn towards him.
On the surface, he looks almost normal. You can see it, though. His lips held a little too tight, the muscle at his jaw twinging.
“Wesker….?” You keep your voice quiet, almost lost beneath the din of the main hall. His gaze shifts, and only then do you realize he, too, had still been staring out the open door.
“Come here.” Is all you hear before Wesker’s hand is at the small of your back. It’s not a suggestion, all but pushing you into the first step before you’re struggling to keep his brisk pace.
“Wh-what?” You start, but don’t bother finishing. You don’t even know what you mean to ask: What he was doing? What was wrong? It doesn’t matter. He guides you forward, to the stairs and then up them. He doesn’t stop at the top, still pushing you, further and further. Then- his hand slides, dragging you along as he pulls you into an aisle upstairs, as far as possible from the main door.
Wesker turns you- and steps closer. You instinctively step back- and find your shoulder blades pressed to the wall. Cornered. The lamps above don’t quite make it into this row of shelves, leaving his features in heavy, obscuring shadows. Still, his expression has not changed- carefully neutral, his guard is up.
“I need to know,” He speaks slowly, emphasizing each word so your frazzled mind can follow along. “Exactly what he said to you.”
Your lips twist and you struggle to recall a conversation that was only minutes ago. “Um. He, uh… He wanted the file on Chris’s shooting. S-said he was checking some of the- the paperwork.” In a meek attempt to self-comfort, you wrap your arms around yourself, “He- he’s after you for something, isn’t he?”
“Is that everything he said?”
“He, um… I think he knows about us.” You can’t bear to look at him, your gaze dropping to his neatly laced boots. “He- he asked if I was trying to impress someone and then asked what I do for fun. But you walked in right after that.”
Wesker’s hands land on your shoulders and he leans down, his face almost level with yours. “Listen to me very carefully. Brian Irons is dangerous. Do not trust anything he says and do not go anywhere with him.”
Dangerous. You exhale- and though you should be afraid, all you can think of is I knew it. You didn’t believe yourself, spent so much time feeling guilty for having judged him of nothing. But he’s dangerous-
“Dear?” Wesker’s fingers are at your chin, drawing your gaze back up to his face.
“Yeah.” You swallow, try to rewet your dry mouth. You don’t even know what kind of dangerous he means. “What do we do?”
“I can handle him.”
“But he knows.” You pick at your nails, the reality starting to really sink in. You had to keep quiet because it would impact your job… but if the chief knew then… you’re going to be fired, aren’t you?
“I can handle him.” Wesker repeats, “You can trust me.”
Reflected in his black glass, all you can see is yourself, your wide, tear-rimmed eyes, your mouth drawn in tight, and the high pinch of your brows. But you do trust him, you do. He hasn’t hurt you, has spent so much effort to make sure he’s doing right by you and not rushing you. How can you not trust him?
You close your eyes and lean forward. Wesker meets you halfway, letting you rest your head on his chest. His hands sweep across your back in slow, soothing strokes up and down your spine. You don’t cry, as much as you feel like you have to, just melt into his embrace. Safe- that’s what it is. You feel safe here.
“The party he mentioned. With… with people from Umbrella. They fund S.T.A.R.S.” Wesker shifts beneath you, urges you back just enough to see your face again. “He’s threatening your job, isn’t he?”
One corner of Wesker’s mouth quirks up. His hands slide up, one settling at your jaw and the other over your throat. His long fingers curl there, wrapping protectively around you. His tone changes: “Is my sweet pet worried for me?”
Your cheeks burn at the name, eyes dropping away from him. It shouldn’t make your stomach flip, but it’s still a compliment and when he uses that voice, the low and teasing one, you think he could call you anything at all and you’d still be squirming. Not knowing if it’s a real question, you nod slowly.
Wesker hums- and again draws your face up. This time, he leans down and greets you with a kiss. The first is chaste, a comforting thing that has you fully relaxing into him in seconds. The second is heated. He licks into your mouth with fervor, his teeth catching your lower lip and you can only lean back against the wall, your legs naturally falling apart. You want him there, to make that space between your legs hot and aching. Even if you find no relief, you want him.
He greedily takes the invitation, stepping forward- but where you expect his thigh to press against your sex, his hand takes its place. He cups you, gentle at first as your eyes widen at this new stepping stone. It’s fair, you think, since you had felt him through his clothes before. The memory brings a fresh wave of heat between your legs- and Wesker squeezes softly.
A whine pries itself from your chest and you cling to his shoulders. His fingers curl; no longer is it the broad pressure, now it’s so much more precise. He circles there slowly, leaning in over you, his breath fanning over your face.
“You want more, don’t you, dear?” His voice has dropped, a dark whisper that makes your heart stutter. You nod, mindless except for how your hips move against his fingers. “You want me to touch you?”
That makes you whine and dig your fingernails into his arms, nodding again-
“Ask for it nicely,” He gives a shuddering exhale and you know he’s trying to rein himself in. “and I may just give it to you.”
You’ve wanted for so long. So, so long. Had it only been his thigh against you, maybe you wouldn’t have the nerve. But with him stroking you like this, his fingers so close to what you want- “I- please, w- would you t-touch me, Sir?”
Wesker’s jaw sets, his lips curling back in a snarl and he groans. You don’t even realize he’s moved until your world is spinning, twirled in his arms like nothing more than a doll- until his back is against the wall and your chest is to his back. You reach out, hold onto him for support- until he grabs both of your wrists in one hand and holds them to the hollow of your chest. All you can really follow is that the fingers that had been caressing between your legs have moved elsewhere.
You whine, rubbing back against him-- and gasp when you feel it. Any question of what exactly it was is answered thoroughly: Wesker laughs, that dark, teasing noise, right next to your ear and he grinds his hips on your ass.
His- his dick. He’s hard for you again. It’s always different, knowing something in an objective sense against the physical reality of it- and the reality of it is like a jolt of T.V. static across your brain. It leaves you dazed, panting, and pressing back against him in curious, inexperienced movements. Wesker raises his free hand- lifts it up past you, over your shoulder- and you hear velcro ripping.
You twist in his arms and see it: The band of his glove is caught in his teeth as he pulls it open, loosening it until he can shake it off entirely, falling to the library floor between you. His hand, now entirely exposed for all its pale skin and dark-veined glory, wastes no time in going back between your legs. He pops the button to your pants and delves beneath. He slips over your underwear- and groans as he rubs across the slick, soaked fabric.
You expect this to be the new line: a new furthest step in physicality. But Wesker, for once, doesn’t stop. He withdraws only enough to slip beneath your underwear this time and slides along your outer lips. He pets there only a moment before slipping between.
You shudder, dropping your head back onto Wesker’s shoulder. It’s different, so very different than your own timid explorations. His fingers are larger than yours, rougher, calloused. You’re so wet, he glides effortlessly along the whole length of your slit, down around your entrance that suckles at his fingertips greedily, up between your folds, and finally-
“Oh,” A strangled noise escapes your lips, a strained thing that leaves your jaw slack. Wesker circles your clit in unhurried, exploratory motions and all you can do is melt in his arms. Never, it has never felt like this. Maybe it’s that you can’t predict his movements, or that you’re held so tightly to him that you have no choice but to feel each movement rather than be in your head- but it is different. Each stroke makes your knees weak, your hips meeting each motion.
Wesker hums in consideration. Your ear on his chest makes the noise reverberate through your brain- which all but turns to white noise as Wesker switches over to a short up and down pattern, petting over the root of your clit. “You’ve been good for me, haven’t you, my dear? So patient.” He purrs as you nod blindly, eagerly soaking up the praise. His fingers still, leaving a light pressure. You whine and grind against his fingers, desperately trying to make him start again. “Do you deserve my attention, pet?”
Deserve? How could you possibly know if you deserve him? You look at him. You want to plead with him, to glean any understanding from his eyes, but find only the black gloss of his sunglasses and your own fearful reflection. It isn’t for you to decide what you deserve. Your voice trembles: “I don’t know.”
Wesker grins, all sharp, white teeth. “You do. This time.” And his fingers resume their dance. You shudder, eyes almost rolling back as liquid heat follows his every touch. Wesker groans and drops his head forward- and you almost think he’s headbutting you until you realize you’re staring into those glittering blue eyes, his sunglasses pushed up onto the top of his head.
“Have you touched yourself like this?” He asks, and your cheeks burn. You squeeze your eyes closed, hiding from the shame of it- is there a right answer? Does he have a preference? but the fear of him stopping again keeps you docile, honest. You nod and Wesker rewards it with moving a little faster. The hand holding your wrists presses closer, pushing your arms into your chest- and Wesker grinds his cock lazily into your ass.
You shudder, roll your hips back against him just to feel the shape of him. He’s touching you and enjoying it… Your fingers twitch, wanting to hold him in return, to… to touch him, if he’d let you- but you can’t bear to ask. This is already beyond anything you’ve ever felt, the electric drag of his finger across your clit- until it moves. You whimper softly as he slips down along your folds again, down to your entrance.
“And here?” His voice rumbles against your ear. He circles there, just barely dipping inside.
You breath catches, the thought of him being inside-- You nod slowly, “Y-yeah, b-but…” You bite your lip, the edge of anxiety chewing through the heat that fogs your mind. It feels stupid to admit, immature. “I didn’t… like it…”
“Mm, my poor pet.” He coos- and your legs tremble. The way he talks to you- like you’re some pitiful thing. “Let me show you.” He presses in.
You can’t breathe.
Your jaw falls open, but no noise leaves your mouth as his finger pushes into you. Bigger than your fingers, he opens you up around him, reaches deeper inside. You feel your walls clenching around him, not sure if your body should push out this new intrusion or draw him closer. It’s… strange. A fullness inside, so much more intense than your own explorations. He rubs inside, the sensation uncanny but not bad.
“Tell me how it feels.” You hear the smirk in his voice and you crack your eyes open to confirm it. He’s twisted just enough to watch your face, his blue eyes darkened, a pinkness coating his cheeks.
“I…” You start- and he curls his finger more, rubbing even harder inside you. Your voice breaks, fading into a whining drone. “It f-feels… I don’t know.”
Wesker hums again, that pleased noise leaving you putty-like in his arms. It’s only worsened when he begins to slide his finger out- you worry, for a moment, that you weren’t eager enough, weren’t ready- but Wesker pushes back in. It makes you shiver, the slow drag on your insides, the emptiness he leaves behind and the fullness on each return. Each motion winds a spool inside you, a kind of tension beneath your skin.
It’s strange, feeling him moving inside you, feeling the heat of him surrounding you, his chest pressed to your back, one arm corralling both of yours. He’s everywhere, all around you- his cologne and the twinge of musk and sweat on him smothering out any intelligent thought. Drowning in him, that’s what you wanted- and he’s giving it to you, flooding your senses and you hope he never stops.
Which he does, of course. He withdraws entirely this time and you whine pitifully, pressing your head back against him in the only plea you can manage. But he wasn’t aiming for that cruel denial. He adjusts his hand and this time presses two of his fingers into you. Two of those large, calloused fingers pushing, bullying their way back inside. It’s tight, your walls clinging to him despite how wet you are. All you can do is keen and cringe at the discomfort. He starts moving again, curling them inside you, forcing your pussy to open up for him and you hiss.
Teeth clenched, all you’ve got is a strained, “Wesker.”
“Too much?” The smirk hasn’t left his voice, no gentleness in his words. He likes that you’re struggling. All you can do is purse your lips and look at him, nodding, begging silently for him to have mercy. He meets your eyes and spreads his fingers inside you- a pinch of pain bolts through you, your walls spasming- and Wesker laughs as your legs twitch, your thighs squeezing together around his wrist. “My poor pet. Here.”
And all the soreness, all the discomfort fades as he grinds the heel of his palm against your clit. Your breath stutters, that white-hot liquid pleasure once again pouring from between your legs, not just erasing the strangeness of his fingers inside you, but enhanced by it. He rocks his hand on a rhythm, every stroke against your clit matched by his fingers pumping into you. It blanks out your mind again, leaves you panting, choking off an “Oh,” as you again melt onto him.
Wesker purrs. His eyes, already darkened with lust, drop down along your body. He grinds against your ass again, falling into rhythm with his fingers. “Tell me how it feels.” He prompts you again.
“It’s…” You start, staring up into his eyes. It’s mystical, seeing those blue eyes- nearly black with how wide his pupil has expanded- while he’s working you into mindlessness. “It’s good…” You sigh, more complicated thoughts escaping you. All you know is him and his touch and that you never want this to end.
He grins, his eyes half-lidded as he watches you surrender so wholly to his touch. He could leave you like this, like he has so many times before. Hot and wet between your legs, the desire burning inside you with no hope of relief; your hands weren’t enough before and now, having known his touch? You’ll never be the same. If he stops now, you don’t know if you’d survive it. He grinds the heel of his palm down and you whine softly, meeting the weight of his hand greedily.
Your breaths turn to pants, your hips tuning into his rhythm, forward into his fingers and palm, and back against the hard line of his cock. And the heat inside you grows, creeping along your skin. Each beat of your heart, every one of his soft grunts and it’s smoldering embers in your belly, a tingling heat that radiates out into every vein. It’s good, a raw pleasure- and it’s too much.
“Wesker…” You start again, your voice wobbling through a moan. You flex your fingers again, try to force thoughts into words: “It’s… I feel… weird…”
“Are you close?” He asks- and you don’t understand. You look to him again, searching for any kind of guidance: is this normal? Is it supposed to feel like you’re burning up from the inside out? But whatever Wesker sees in your face, he doesn’t answer with coherency. His brows raise and his even tempo finally skips a beat. “Never?” His voice has turned breathless in an instant. Something flashes in his eyes, a glint that for a moment makes you afraid.
But then Wesker is growling and his mouth latches onto your ear lobe. His teeth catch and you whine- but his fingers move faster in you, harder and any recognition of pain fades away. His mouth breaks away with a wet pop, only for him to move lower, lips sealing over the side of your throat and he bites. It hurts and it makes you clench down which only makes the motion of his fingers inside you more acute.
You squirm in his arms, but his grasp on your wrists and the arm that crosses your torso are too strong. You’re pinned, helpless to but to endure the ceaseless sensation of it all- his teeth and the heel of his palm and you can’t stand it-- “Wesker, please!”
His jaw unclenches and with the hand that still binds your wrists he forces you to look up at him again. There’s no mercy in his eyes. “Come on,” He grunts and shifts his wrist- and draws another agonized noise from your chest as he rubs back and forth across your clit. “Let go for me.”
How? It’s all too much, the heat inside you will burn you, torch you to ashes and leave nothing left. Your eyes water and you think I can’t, I can’t, I can’t-
“Don’t you want to be good for me, hm?”
You sob. You do, you do, but you don’t know how. He’s rubbing inside you and your throat still hurts and he’s grinding against your ass still and- your breath catches. His wrist twitches, presses on you just right-
Wesker sees it. He does it again- and again- and all it takes is three of those perfect strokes. The heat burns; the fire is all consuming. Your mind goes perfectly, blissfully blank except for the raw, unfiltered pleasure that fills every nerve, every sense. You choke through some broken wail. Wesker holds you through it, keeps on sliding his fingers in and out as your body tries so hard to clamp down on him.
You’re shuddering in his arms, almost boneless, held up against his chest- and as you float back into your own skin, you watch Wesker’s eyes close. His brow comes into a tight pinch, his jaw setting. His grasp across you tightens and he thrusts against you, his hips working against yours in quick, sharp movements. Until he huffs, groans low and deep through grit teeth and finally stills.
You stay like that. Melted against him, him half leaning on you as you each pant, sharing each other’s breath. You want to stay like this forever, you think. Warm and safe in his arms, still adrift on the aftermath of… that. Of him, you decide. Perhaps not standing, though. What you wouldn’t give for your own bed right now.
Finally, Wesker must’ve caught his breath. He lets go of your arms first, though they are still limp and useless when he lets go, dropping lamely to your sides. Then he moves the other hand. You hiss, turn your face into his shoulder as he fights to draw his fingers out of your overly sensitive body. And yet without him there you feel… hollow. Incomplete.
He holds the hand up- and shame makes you close your eyes, turn entirely into his shoulder to block the image. A clear web of your own slick coats his fingers, dripping down onto his palm.
“My, my. You made quite the mess.” He says, still breathless.
You whine, refusing to look at him or his hand. Until, of course, you hear it. A wet slurp makes you have to see, to know. A single peak back at the world and you’re met with Wesker’s lips wrap around his own fingers, licking them clean.
You’re speechless. Another wave of heat passes through you, but you’re far too exhausted to entertain it.
“Should clean up. I’m sure you’ve got work to get back to.” He says, but you can’t bring yourself to move just yet, nor does he really remove you from him.
You know you should. You know he’s busy and you’re remotely aware of the concept of you shouldn’t be doing this here, but instead you lick your lips and try to find your voice again. “Is that always…” You trail off, the words hard and fuzzy and distant. “Like that?”
Wesker grins wide, the one that would make your stomach drop if you weren’t still floating off this high. “Oh yes, dear. Though, I do think the first one is special.”
===
As always if you like my writing, please consider reblogging so other people can find it :3
Wesker fucking you with a stethoscope pressed to your clammy chest, listening to the patter of your quickening heart rate as he slides out so slowly that you attempt to buck skywards into him, chasing the stimulation he so graciously provides you.
Mocking you with that pitiful, sympathising tone that’s just for show, the one that makes your bottom lip quiver inward, avoiding his gaze because it feels as if he’s penetrating through you, taking you a part to analyse your every response upon closer inspection. He’s thorough too, filling you out so much that you’re gasping for reprieve, before pulling away with a coo leaving his lips, your trembling hands pulling at his hips when he refuses to thrust inside.
“Oh, but you can’t take it, can you? Look how much you’re struggling…”
And you’re so dizzy. Oh god, you’re so light-headed and everything feels fuzzy. You can feel the pins and needles running up your thighs, the stinging of your cheeks, your heart pounding against your sternum as a bead of sweat coats your cheeks, sticking to you like a second layer of skin. And you’re so tense under his observation, squirming through the discomfort when he finally stimulates you again, leathery thumb rubbing against your swollen sex in harmony with his punishing thrusts, in that addictive rhythm that makes you cry out.
And he taunts you. Making a show of how humiliated and pathetic you look, how reactive you are, how easy it is to rile you up and get beneath your skin. He plagues you, but you’re so reliant on him for gratification that you let him get away with his cruelty, sobbing as your heart exposes how desperate you are for his attention.
Test subject reader cockwarming Scientist Wesker as he flips through your files, praising you on your predictable results and newfound obedience during experimentation.
Squirming on his lap as every little word of praise sends heat rushing to the apex of your thighs, which are already damp and slick from waiting for your reward so eagerly.
albert wesker who lets you suck only on the head of his cock, who gets off on the lack of stimulation to the rest of him. small kitten licks to his angry, overstimulated tip as beads of his release drip from him and coat your tongue, accepting his gift like second nature.
albert wesker who also throat fucks you ‘til you’re grasping at his thighs in attempt to slow him down, to reel him back in. large hand cradling your skull as he drives into your mouth repeatedly while you sputter and gag and drool helplessly.
avid believer in body worship being wesker’s favourite kink
after all, he’s to become a god, and what is a god if not worshipped and praised? if not perceived as a higher force, a spiritual being, and omnipotent?
he wants you on your knees, serving him in that obedient way that shows how devout you are to him. kissing his shoes and awaiting your next order, cautious with your every movement to not disturb him. you’re duty is to admire him for what he is; the embodiment of authority.
you suck him off earnestly, giving him those eyes that show how admirable you believe him to be. how his touch against the back of your cranium and the gift he gives by coming down your throat is everything you could want and more.
he’s so generous for that. you mustn’t waste a drop. you wouldn’t want to fail and upset your god, would you?
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