.ೃ࿔

Resident evil ㅤꨄ︎

[ebonysdream]

Welcome to my blog, contains sensitive themes and topics so beware .ᐟ

I write dark themes, i have hard limits: no underage/pedo content, no incest (fauxcest/step-relations is okay), no scat, and no piss/watersports. 𖾕𖾝꙼ᩚ𛲕𖾟

I only write for resident evil right now,Request are open

If you don't like what I write,do not interact!!

◡̈

[aweskerspet]

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.

[laterkiss]

self diagnosed dead wife

[leonsfap]

Believe you?

younger brother re2Leon x older sister reader

Cw: incest, dubcon?/nonconish?, breast sucking/breastplay

Sorry for any errors!!

Younger brother Leon who has an obsession with your tits. Always asking to see or touch them, and you let him out of pity — not because you like it. It happened once, he got you at your most vulnerable. After a night out with friends and walking in a little tipsy, he feigned his concern, helping you undress. Pulling off your clothes gently, leaving you in your bra and underwear.

His curious hands start to slide down one of the straps of your bra, and your hand quickly stops his. And that’s when he started to beg, “just once, I swear I won’t ever ask again. Please, I promise” he whines. His words barely roll over in your head as you nod and lets him continue fumbling around with your bra in the dim lit room.

Leons eyes widens when he finally manages your bra to come off, his warm hands immediately cupping them. Eagerly swiping his fingers across your bare nipples, causing you to shudder and recoil from his touch. “Okay, that’s enough, don’t make this any weirder” you slur, leaning back and covering your chest with your arm as he pulls away with a simple nod.

But this only fuels his obsession, pushing it way too far after you woke up to him in your bed, his pink lips wrapped around the perked bud while he sucks gently — as if to calm himself.

He’s laid on top of you so you can’t push him off as easy as you do nothing by lie stiff underneath him, your brows furrowed from the confusion and disgust of the entire situation.

You know he’s not asleep because his thumb is toying with the nipple that’s not currently in his mouth while his eyes are pressed shut, but he knows that you’re also awake. He can tell from how much faster your breathing has got. But he’s planned this all out, he releases your nipple with a soft pop before murmuring. “They’ll only blame you, you know that right? If you tell them. They’ll say you were the one who initiated it and you’ll get most of the blame. But I won’t say anything if you don’t”

Rushed and wrote this at work, hope it doesn’t suck!!

[kuntprodukt]

[ebonysdream]

HIS MARK. [JACK KRAUSER]

Summary: someone's been bothering you in your sleep!! ❥

Warnings:non-con elements, including sleep paralysis and somnophilia undertones, forced deep-throating, face-fucking, breath play, choking, asphyxiation, gagging, rough oral sex, extreme size difference, violent manhandling, hair-pulling, forced orgasm, overstimulation, multiple rounds, excessive cum, mild cum inflation, cum in the nose and throat, possessive behavior, marking and branding, biting, blood, supernatural horror, a demonic entity, psychological manipulation, and a significant power imbalance. A/N: I love og re4 krauser he js looks more rough but enjoyy

The first thing you noticed was the cold.

Not the ordinary chill of a drafty apartment or a window left cracked on an autumn night. This was a dense, unnatural cold that settled in the corners of your bedroom like a living thing—coiling just beyond the edge of your quilt, waiting. You’d wake with goosebumps pebbling your arms despite the thermostat reading seventy-two, your breath feathering out in pale wisps that had no right to exist in a heated room. You told yourself it was the weather. An old building. Bad circulation.

Then the smell came. Faint at first, easy to dismiss: a whisper of smoke and copper, like a candle just snuffed or the distant memory of a nosebleed. It clung to your sheets no matter how often you washed them. You’d roll over in the dark and inhale leather and spice and something darker beneath, something that tightened your stomach in a way you refused to name.

Your sleep deepened into something that felt less like rest and more like drowning. You began waking with the heavy, drugged sensation of having been pulled from a great depth, limbs slow and unresponsive, a throb low in your belly that faded before you could fully grasp it. Dreams you couldn’t remember left you slick between your thighs and gasping, your own fingers twisted in the sheets as if you’d been holding on for dear life. You’d stumble to the bathroom and find faint bruises on your hips—smudges like fingerprints—that yellowed and vanished by noon.

You tried to rationalize it. Stress. Vivid dreams. Your own restless hands. But then your belongings began to shift. A book you’d left on the nightstand would be open to a different page. Your closet door, which you always shut, would be ajar. The framed photos on your dresser would be face down, their glass cool to the touch, as if someone had breathed on them. You started sleeping with the lamp on, a childish comfort that only deepened your unease when you’d wake to find the bulb burned out, the filaments blackened and curled.

The night you saw the shape was the night you stopped pretending.

You jerked awake at 3:14 AM, the red digits of your clock searing the darkness. The cold was suffocating, a weight pressing down on your chest. Your body felt pinned, immobile, the heavy paralysis of sleep clinging to your limbs. And in the corner—the deepest corner where the shadows pooled like ink—something vast and dark shifted. It was taller than a man, broader, a silhouette that swallowed the faint light from the window. Two pinpricks of smoldering amber light hung where eyes should be. A sound unspooled from it, so low and resonant it vibrated in your teeth: a slow, grinding growl that could almost be called a chuckle.

You screamed, or tried to. Your throat locked. The shadows rippled. And then, between one panicked heartbeat and the next, it was gone, and you could move again, thrashing upright and fumbling for the lamp switch that sparked and died under your trembling fingers.

You didn't sleep in the bedroom for three nights after that. You camped on the couch with every light in the apartment blazing, the TV murmuring dead air. But the cold found you there too. The dreams found you there too.

On the fourth night, surrender tasting like copper on your tongue, you went back to your bed. You didn't know why. Or you did, somewhere underneath the terror—a dark, shameful curl of anticipation that made your face burn. When you slid between the sheets that night, the scent of leather and smoke was so strong it made you dizzy. And for the first time, you didn't fight sleep. You let it pull you under like a riptide.

---

He was patient.

You began to piece him together from the fragments your mind could hold. A name surfaced in the fog of half-sleep, whispered against the shell of your ear in a voice like gravel rolling downhill: Krauser. You woke with it on your lips, a secret you’d been told and forced to forget. Another night, you caught a glimpse of something vast and scarred—a torso that looked hewn from pale, corded marble, a ladder of abdominal muscle rippling as something shifted in the dark. Hands large enough to span your entire ribcage. You caught the glint of fangs in a smile that was all hunger and no mercy.

Your body began to respond to him even when your mind screamed no. You’d feel a phantom weight settling over you in the twilight between wakefulness and dream, a pressure that made your thighs part without conscious thought. A hot, spectral mouth trailing down your throat while your pulse hammered rabbit-fast. The graze of teeth—real enough to leave a raised welt you traced in the bathroom mirror with shaking fingers. The dreams grew bolder. Your sleep grew deeper. Your body began to ache with a need you couldn’t satisfy, a hollow emptiness that left you writhing against your own hand in the dark, gasping out sounds that might have been pleas or might have been prayers.

It took weeks for him to show you his face. Weeks of teasing touches and half-heard commands, weeks of waking with the taste of salt and skin on your tongue and no memory of how it got there.

And then, one night, he didn’t let you slip away.

---

You opened your eyes and the room was wrong. The walls seemed to curve inward, the corners bleeding into shadow. The air was thick and warm now, heavy with the scent of him—smoke, leather, raw earth, a metallic tang like fresh blood. You were on your back, the blankets pooled at your feet. And he was standing at the foot of the bed, fully corporeal, fully here.

Jack Krauser was monstrous. Not in the way a man is monstrous, but in the way a cathedral is monstrous, the way a cliff face is monstrous. He towered, easily seven feet if not more, his bulk filling the room and blocking out the faint light from the window. His skin was pale, ghostly, stretched taut over a body that was built for violence—shoulders wide as a doorframe, chest a massive shield of scar-crossed muscle, arms like tree limbs roped with veins that pulsed black under the surface. A dark, leather harness crossed his torso, straps and buckles glinting dully. Loose trousers sat low on narrow hips, the deep V of his adonis belt drawing your unwilling gaze down to the obvious, heavy bulge straining the dark fabric.

But it was his face that locked the scream in your throat. It was harsh and aristocratic, a cruel blade of a nose, a jaw that could cut glass. One eye was a molten gold that burned with infernal light; the other was a ruin, a milky white scar sliced vertically through brow and lid, dead and unseeing and yet somehow still watching. Short, military-blonde hair was shorn close to his skull. And when his lips parted, you saw the teeth—too white, too sharp, a predator’s smile.

“There you are,” he rasped, the voice scraping down your spine. “Been waiting for you to stop pretending.”

You scrambled backward, heels sliding against the sheets, but the bed gave you nowhere to go. Your back hit the headboard. You were wearing only a thin sleep shirt, and you felt suddenly, horribly exposed. “You’re not—this isn’t real.”

“Isn’t it?” He braced one massive hand on the footboard, the wood groaning under his grip. The bed dipped with his weight as he crawled onto it, a slow, deliberate advance that made your heart slam against your ribs. Up close, he was even larger, radiating heat like a furnace. The harness creaked with his movements. “You’ve felt me. Every night. Your body knows what’s coming, even if that stubborn little mind keeps fighting.”

“Get away from me.” The words came out thin, breathless.

He paused, head tilting. The amber eye tracked down your body, and you felt it like a physical touch—a slow, invasive caress over your breasts, your belly, the juncture of your thighs. Your nipples pebbled traitorously. A smirk carved its way across his angular face. “Lying doesn’t suit you. I can smell it.” He inhaled deeply, a rough sound of satisfaction. “Fear. Arousal. Same perfume on you every night. You’ve been dripping for me for weeks.”

Heat flooded your face. “Stop.”

“No.” The word was absolute. He was close enough now that you could see the faint, shifting patterns under his skin—shadows moving like smoke trapped in glass. One huge hand came up and circled your ankle. The grip was dry, furnace-hot, impossibly strong. He tugged, and you slid down the bed as easily as if you weighed nothing. A yelp tore from your throat. He settled between your legs, massive thighs spreading yours, the thick ridge of his cock pressing against your core through his trousers and your thin cotton panties. The pressure made you gasp.

“I’ve been gentle,” he said, bending low. His breath feathered over your lips, hot and strangely sweet, like burnt sugar. “Whispering. Teasing. Letting you wake up wet and aching so you’d know what you need. But I’m done waiting. Tonight, I’m going to ruin you. And when I’m done, you’ll wear my mark, and every creature that walks the dark will know exactly who you belong to.”

Your hands came up to push at his chest. It was like trying to shove a mountain. He didn’t even sway. The heat of him was searing through your shirt, and the sheer solidity—the terrifying reality—of his body made your head spin. “This is... I don’t want this.”

“You don’t?” He caught both your wrists in one hand and pinned them above your head, stretching your body into a taut arch. The position pushed your breasts up. He looked down at you like a man admiring a feast. “Then why are your hips rolling?” He ground his clothed cock against you, slow and filthy, and a strangled moan escaped your throat. You were wet—you could feel the embarrassing evidence soaking through your panties, and he could certainly feel it too, because his smile sharpened into something feral. “There. That’s the truth.”

“Please...” You didn’t know what you were begging for. For him to stop? For him to never stop? The word dangled, unfinished.

“Please what?” He released your wrists, but his weight pinned you just as effectively. Fingers—thick, calloused, tipped with nails just sharp enough to sting—trailed down your throat. He spread his hand across your neck, thumb resting lightly over your pulse point, and your breath caught. He didn’t squeeze, just held you there, a promise hanging in the air. “I can feel how fast your heart is beating, little bird. You’re terrified. You’re also so wet I can feel you through my trousers. Your body’s been trying to get itself bred since the first night I crawled into your dreams. Deny it one more time, and I’ll stop being polite.”

He didn't mean polite. He meant restrained.

The tension in the room was a living thing, coiling tight. His eye burned into yours. You could feel the heat of him, smell the smoke and leather, feel the sheer overwhelming presence that seemed to press on you from all sides. Some distant, rational part of you screamed to fight, to flee. But your legs were wrapped around his hips without your consent, your back arching to meet the pressure of his hand at your throat, and when you parted your lips, no protest came—only a shaky, desperate breath.

He saw the surrender. The gold eye flared bright. “Good girl.”

---

He didn’t undress you so much as unmake you. The sleep shirt was torn from your body with one sharp pull, fabric parting like tissue paper. The cold air hit your bare skin for only a second before the heat of him blanketed you again. His mouth descended. Not on your lips—no, that might have been too tender. He went for your throat, teeth scraping over the frantic beat of your pulse, tongue lapping at the salt there as if you were already his meal.

You clutched at his harness, his shoulders, anything solid as he worked his way down. His mouth was a brand, searing a path over your collarbone, between your breasts, down the trembling plane of your stomach. He paused at the curve of your hip and bit down—not gently, not testingly, but a full, claiming bite that broke the skin and made you cry out. He lapped at the welling blood with a groan, the vibration rumbling through your bones.

“Marking you,” he muttered against the wound. “So there’s no question.”

He didn’t give you time to process the sting before he was wrenching your panties down your legs and flinging them into the shadows. You were bare, spread, utterly exposed. He sat back on his haunches, huge and terrifying, and just looked. The amber eye drank you in with an intensity that felt like being devoured.

“Pretty,” he rasped. One thick finger traced through your folds, gathering slickness. You jerked at the contact, a whimper escaping. “Pretty and soaked. All for me.”

The finger pressed inside. One digit, but it was so thick it made you gasp, your inner walls fluttering around the intrusion. He worked it in and out slowly, almost lazily, while his thumb circled your clit with devastating precision. Pleasure sparked up your spine, bright and sharp. Your hips bucked. He added a second finger, stretching you, scissoring them open, and the burn of it made your eyes water.

“Too much,” you choked.

“Nowhere near enough,” he corrected. He pumped his fingers deeper, curled them, and found a spot that turned the world white. You cried out, hands fisting in the sheets. “That’s it. Let go. I’ve got hours of this left, little bird, and you’re going to come for me so many times you forget your own name before I even give you my cock.”

He lowered his head. His tongue replaced his thumb on your clit, and the dual sensation—fingers thrusting deep, hot mouth laving at the sensitive bud—sent you hurtling over the edge with a scream. Your orgasm crashed through you, violent and devastating, thighs clamping around his head as he growled against your flesh and drank down everything you gave him.

You were still shuddering when he pulled his fingers free and brought them to his mouth, licking them clean with a satisfied hum. “Sweet,” he muttered. “Now get on your knees.”

---

Your body moved before your mind could object. He helped, a massive hand fisting in your hair and hauling you up with a tug that made your scalp burn. He rearranged you like a doll, pushing you until you were on your hands and knees at the edge of the bed. You could hear the rustle of fabric behind you, the clink of his harness being unbuckled, and then the heat of him was pressed against your back, his chest a wall of muscle.

“Look,” he ordered, voice a dark rumble against your ear.

He’d conjured a mirror. Or maybe it had always been there, standing in the corner, its surface rippling like black water. You could see yourself in it—hair a mess, eyes glassy, mouth swollen—and behind you, Krauser, a demonic colossus bending over your much smaller frame. The sheer size difference was obscene. His shoulders blotted out the wall. His hand, splayed across your hip, covered half your torso.

“You’re going to watch every second,” he said. “I want you to see what you were made for.”

He freed his cock, and you felt it nudge against your thigh before you saw it. And then you saw it, reflected in the dark mirror, and a bolt of pure, animal panic shot through you. Too big. The thought was white-hot static. He was monstrously thick, long, already gleaming with his own slickness at the tip. Veins traced the underside in dark relief. It was a weapon, not an organ, and he intended to sheathe it inside you.

“Please, I can’t—”

“You can.” His hand tightened in your hair, yanking your head back until your spine arched painfully and you were forced to meet your own wild eyes in the mirror. “You will. Breathe.”

He lined himself up, the broad head pressing against your entrance. You were still soaked, still fluttering from the last orgasm, but the pressure was immense. He didn’t slam in. Not yet. He pushed, slowly, inexorably, and you felt your body part around him inch by impossible inch. A cry tore from your throat, high and keening. The stretch was a burn, a ravishment, a possession. He fed you more, and more, and you could see in the mirror how your belly distended slightly, accommodating the impossible intrusion.

“Fuck,” he groaned, a deep, shuddering sound that seemed to rattle the walls. “Tight little thing. Taking me so well. Look at you—split open on a demon’s cock and still trying to pretend you don’t want it.”

He bottomed out, and you felt him in your throat, in your lungs, in the deepest core of you. He stayed there, motionless, letting you feel every throbbing inch. A single tear slipped down your cheek. You couldn’t look away from the mirror. The sight of yourself, impaled on him, was the most obscene thing you’d ever seen.

“Move,” you whispered, and you didn’t recognize your own voice. It was broken, desperate, needful.

He laughed, a dark, rolling sound. “There’s my good girl.”

And then he moved.

He didn’t start slow. There was no mercy. He pulled out until just the tip remained, then slammed back in with a force that drove you forward on the bed, the headboard cracking against the wall. A guttural scream wrenched from your throat. He did it again, and again, setting a brutal, punishing rhythm that shook your entire body. His hand in your hair kept you anchored, your head pulled back so you had no choice but to watch your own debasement—mouth open on cries you couldn’t control, breasts bouncing with every savage thrust, his massive form a shadow devouring you from behind.

“This is what you needed,” he grunted, each word punctuated by a deep, grinding thrust. “Every night you woke up wet, it was me. Every ache, every empty little whimper—me. You were calling for me before you even knew my name. Say it.”

“Krauser!” It was a sob, torn from somewhere primal.

“Louder.”

“Krauser!”

He rewarded you with a hand around your throat, pulling you upright against his chest without breaking his rhythm. Your back arched against the wall of his muscle. His fingers pressed into the sides of your neck, careful and precise, cutting off just enough blood flow to make the edges of your vision sparkle with stars. Your pulse pounded in your ears. The lack of air sharpened everything—every snap of his hips, every drag of his cock against your swollen walls, the growl vibrating through his chest against your spine.

“Feel that?” he rasped against your ear. “Feel how deep I am? I’m going to fill you up until it drips out of you for days. Until you can’t stand without remembering who owns this pussy.”

He released your throat, and oxygen flooded back in a dizzying rush. Before you could catch your breath, he was bending you forward again, one hand pressing between your shoulder blades to shove your face into the mattress. The new angle let him drive even deeper, and you wailed, fists tearing at the sheets. His pace became feral, hips slamming against your ass with wet, obscene smacks that filled the room.

“Touch yourself,” he ordered. “Make yourself come on my cock. I want to feel you milk me.”

Your hand fumbled between your legs, fingers finding your clit. You were so sensitive it almost hurt, but you rubbed desperate circles anyway, the dual stimulation winding the coil in your belly unbearably tight. He felt your walls start to flutter around him and snarled, reaching down to fist a hand in your hair and yank your head up once more so you were forced to watch your own climax in the mirror. The sight of yourself—ruined, debauched, eyes rolling back—was what tipped you over. You came with a shattered scream, your body clamping down on him in rhythmic, vise-like pulses.

“Fuck—yes—” He drove through your orgasm, chasing his own, each thrust punching the air from your lungs. “Take it. Take all of it—”

He buried himself to the hilt and roared. The sound was inhuman, a resonant bellow that shook the windows and made the lights flicker. You felt the first hot jet of his release flood into you, and it didn’t stop. Pulse after pulse, thick ropes of seed filling you until you felt it pressing against your cervix, spilling out around his still-throbbing cock to drip down your thighs. He held himself there, grinding deep, pumping every last drop into your womb until your belly felt heavy and full.

When he finally pulled out, the sensation was obscene—a wet, sloppy sound, followed by the rush of his release spilling out of your gaping hole and pooling on the sheets beneath you. You collapsed, boneless, barely able to lift your head. The mirror showed the mess: your body marked with bites and bruises, his seed leaking from you in a slow, creamy flood, and Krauser, still half-hard, looking down at his handiwork with dark satisfaction.

He wasn’t done.

---

He flipped you onto your back like you weighed nothing. Your limbs were jelly, unresponsive. He crawled over you, caging you beneath his bulk, and the gold eye was still burning, still hungry.

“The mark,” he said, and you remembered. You’ll wear my mark. “Close your eyes.”

You were too wrung out to argue. You obeyed. You felt his forehead press against yours, the heat of him almost unbearable. Then a searing pain bloomed just above your pubic bone, a branding iron of pure fire that made you scream and buck. You tried to pull away, but he held you down, one hand flat on your stomach while the other cupped your jaw. The pain was excruciating, transcendent, and woven through it was a thread of pleasure so intense your vision whited out.

When it faded, you were gasping, tears streaming down your cheeks. He sat back, and you looked down at your own body. There, on the soft skin of your lower belly, just above where his cock had been, was a mark. It was black, raised, intricate—a sigil of some kind, sinuous lines curving into a shape your eye couldn’t quite follow. It pulsed faintly, warm to the touch, like a second heartbeat.

“Now you’re mine,” Krauser said. His voice was almost gentle, which was somehow more terrifying than the cruelty. “Any incubus, any night-spirit, any thing that hunts in the dark will see that and know. You belong to me. In this world and the next.”

He stood, the shadows seeming to reach up and swallow him, drawing him back into whatever abyss he’d crawled from. The cold began to recede. The air lightened. The mirror was just a mirror again, reflecting only your own wrecked form on the ruined bed.

“Will I see you again?” The question slipped out before you could stop it, a small and pitiful sound.

The shadows coalesced for a heartbeat, two amber points glowing in the corner. “Every night, little bird. Every night for the rest of your life.”

And then he was gone, and the lamp on your nightstand flickered on, and you were alone with the ache in your body and the warm, pulsing mark that bound you to him forever.

[ebonysdream]

MORE YANDERE CHRIS PLEAAAASEEEEEE

blood moon vow

Summary: Lycan! Husband Chris Redfield finds you trying to leave!? .ೃ࿔

Warnings:Dubious consent/non-consent undertones, yandere behavior, size difference, Lycan/werewolf Chris Redfield, possessive and punishing dynamic, deep-throating, gagging, forced swallowing, rough oral, vaginal knotting, breeding, pain, tears, AFAB reader, dark themes, emotional distress. A/N: i tried to avoid the "daddy doesn't count daddy fucks" but he's a werewolf soㅤᵕ̈

The cabin reeks of pine, damp earth, and him—musk so thick it coats the back of your throat before you even see the shape filling the doorway. You’d run. You’d actually run, boots scuffing through dead leaves down the mountain path, because after three days of his chuffing, pacing, too-golden eyes tracking your every breath, the terror had finally eclipsed the love. Your husband is still in there somewhere, you’d told yourself. Chris would never hurt you. But Chris hasn’t been in charge since the full moon rose.

Now the door slams shut behind you, and the thing that was Chris Redfield stalks into the single room on legs that bend wrong—digitigrade, huge, heavy with muscle that strains the seams of his shredded B.S.A.A. tac pants. Moonlight catches the silver-shot fur along his shoulders, the way his chest heaves with every wet snarl. He’s bent forward to fit under the beams, seven and a half feet of apex predator, and his claws score deep grooves into the wooden floor as he advances.

You back into the table. It scrapes. The sound makes his ears—those wolfish, pointed things—swivel forward, and his muzzle splits in a grin full of fangs.

“You left.” His voice isn’t entirely human. It rumbles from a barrel chest, layered with a growl that vibrates in your sternum. “My wife. My mate. Ran from our den.”

“Chris, please, I was just—scared. You haven’t been yourself, you won’t talk to me, you’ve been so... hungry.” The last word breaks. Your fingers tremble around the edge of the table.

He laughs, a sound like rocks grinding, and drops to all fours for two strides before rising over you, eclipsing the lantern light. The sheer size of him suffocates. One massive hand—paw, clawed, calloused—clamps around your jaw, tilting your head back until your neck aches, until tears prick at the corners of your eyes. The heat of him is a furnace, and beneath the fur his skin is scarred and burning. You can see the faint outline of his human face in the bridge of his snout, the furrow of his brow. Chris is still in there, furious and wounded and so terribly, terribly in love that it’s curdled into something feral.

“You scared my wolf,” he snarls low, muzzle brushing your hairline. “Thought you’d abandoned me. I woke with your scent fading on the wind, and I hunted.” His thumb presses against your pulse, feeling its rabbit-fast flutter. “Do you know what that does to a Lycan? To smell his mate’s terror, her trail going away?”

You shake your head, a tiny, futile movement against his grip. Tears spill hot down your cheeks. “I’m sorry—I’m sorry, Chris, I was just trying to reach the village, to get help for you—”

“I don’t need help.” His clawed thumb traces your tear track, smearing salt. “I need you. Under me. Full. Reminded.”

He doesn’t give you time to process. The hand on your jaw moves to the back of your neck, and he forces you down to your knees with an inexorable pressure that leaves you dizzy. The wooden floor bites your kneecaps. Before you, his thighs are pillars, the swell of his groin barely contained by torn fabric, and the scent of him here—musky, animal, leaking—hits your senses and makes your stomach clench with fear and something shameful that slicks your underwear.

“You’re going to learn,” Chris rasps, releasing your neck to hook a claw into his waistband. The pants tear further, and his cock springs free—thick, flushed deep red, ridged at the base where the knot will swell. Already half-engorged, it bobs near your lips, longer and heavier than you remember from his human nights. Pre-cum beads at the tip, stringing down. “Open.”

You hesitate. Your hands press against his furred thighs, feeling muscles twitch. “Chris, I can’t—it’s too big, I’ll choke—”

“You’ll choke anyway.” There’s no softness. His eyes, sulfur-yellow, pin you. “And you’ll take it. Because you’re mine, and I’m going to fill every hole you have until you can’t think of leaving again. Now open, or I’ll do it for you.”

Trembling, you part your lips. The blunt head pushes past them immediately, salt and musk flooding your tongue. He doesn’t thrust—not yet. He feeds himself into your mouth inch by devastating inch, watching your jaw stretch, your eyes widen, the way your throat flutters in panic. Your gag reflex triggers when he hits the back of your soft palate, and you convulse, hands flying up to push at his hips. He doesn’t budge. He just rocks forward a fraction more, and tears stream freely as he sinks into your throat.

“Fuck. Look at you.” His growl vibrates through his cock, and you feel it in your esophagus. “My sweet little wife, choking on what’s hers. You’ll remember this.”

He draws back, letting you gasp and cough, saliva stringing from your lips to his cock. Before you can suck in a full breath, he fills your mouth again, and this time he holds the back of your head—careful not to pierce skin with his claws—and starts a shallow, grinding pace. Each push forces a gag from you, wet and desperate, and he groans like the sound is a prayer. Your throat works around him, muscles spasming, and he reaches deeper with every stroke until your nose presses against the fur of his pubic bone and you can’t breathe at all.

“Swallow,” he commands, still buried to the root. You try, convulsively, and the sensation of your throat milking him draws a shuddering howl. He grinds there, knot beginning to swell against your lips, and the first hot spurt of cum hits the back of your throat. You’ve no choice but to swallow, gagging through it, as he pumps load after load directly into your stomach. He holds you there, locked against his pelvis, until you’re light-headed and the world swims gray at the edges. Only then does he pull out, letting you collapse forward onto your hands, gasping, coughing, strings of cum and saliva dripping from your chin.

“Good girl,” he says, and the praise is a knife. He strokes your damp hair with the back of his knuckles, and for a moment you can almost pretend this is your Chris. “But we’re not done. You ran. That requires a permanent reminder.”

Before you can crawl away, he scoops you up—one arm beneath your back, the other under your knees—and carries you to the bed of furs in the corner. He drops you onto them, and the softness is a stark contrast to the roughness of his handling. You barely have time to scramble upright before he’s over you, caging you with his bulk, prying your thighs apart with his knees. Your soaked underthings are torn aside with a single claw, and the cool air hits your exposed cunt, making you whimper.

“You’re dripping,” he observes, muzzle dipping to inhale deeply at your neck. “Your cunt knows what it needs, even if your stubborn head doesn’t. Your body wants to be bred. Wants me to root so deep you feel me for days.”

“Chris, please—please, I’m sorry, I won’t run again—” You’re begging, and you mean it, but you also know it won’t matter. The yellow of his eyes is eclipsed by pupil, and his knot is already swelling again, red and bulbous at the base of his cock.

“No,” he agrees, aligning himself, “you won’t.” And he drives in.

You scream. Not entirely in pain—the stretch is immense, burning, but your body has already betrayed you with arousal. He’s too big, filling you in ways human Chris never could, the ridges on his shaft dragging against every sensitive spot inside you until you can’t tell where pleasure ends and agony begins. He bottoms out, knot pressing against your soaked entrance, and you sob into his shoulder, clutching at his fur.

“Mine,” he growls against your ear, and starts to move. It’s punishing. Each thrust shakes the bed frame, shakes your bones, jolts the air from your lungs. He hooks your knees over his arms, bending you near in half, and the new angle lets him hit your cervix on every deep stroke, a sharp, full pressure that has you keening. Tears soak the fur on his chest, and he licks them away with a long, rough tongue, purring. “Cry for me. It won’t stop me. Nothing stops me from claiming what’s mine.”

Your orgasm builds against your will, a coiling heat low in your belly that shocks you with its intensity. You clench around him, and he snarls in satisfaction, increasing his pace until you’re both nothing but a feral rhythm of skin and fur and guttural sounds. When his knot catches, you feel it pop past your entrance and swell, locking you together. The sensation triggers his release—thick, scalding, flooding your womb with pulses that seem endless. He throws his head back and howls, and the sound rattles the windows. Through the haze of overstimulation and tears, you feel him press a large, gentle paw over your lower belly, as if to hold his seed in place.

The wolf softens slowly. In the quiet that follows, still tied, still trembling, you feel his muzzle nuzzle your hairline, the rumble of his voice shifting to something closer to human. “Never run again. Never. I’d burn the world to find you, and I’d drag you back every time. You’re my heart. My wife. My reason to stay human at all. Don’t make me the monster you fear.”

You sob against his chest, exhaustion pulling you under. His knot will keep you locked for an hour, maybe more. Outside, the moon begins its slow descent, and the wolf in your husband’s eyes dims to a weary brown.

He stays. He holds. He pets your hair with a hand that’s lost its claws. And you know, with a sinking, lovesick certainty, that you’ll never try to leave again.

[ebonysdream]

Embers Between Teeth (Varang x Quaritch x Reader)

Summary: A warrior of the Ash People finally meets the Olo’eyktan Varang and her Recom mate Quaritch after weeks of being secretly watched by them. ㅤꨄ︎

Warnings: Power dynamics, stalking themes, knife play, blood play, drug use, explicit sexual content.

The feeling of being watched had become a familiar itch between your shoulder blades.

For three cycles of the molten moon you had felt it—a presence just beyond the steam curtains, a shape that melted into the basalt shadows whenever you turned. You were a hunter of the Ash People, born to the fumarole fields where the ground wept sulfur and the sky ran red with the mountain’s breath. You knew how to track a yerik through a thermal maze, how to feel the shift in air pressure before a vent opened beneath your feet. Being watched should have been nothing.

But this was different. This wasn’t prey. This was something patient, something assessing. Something that never let you see it, yet always wanted you to know it was there.

Tonight you’d stripped off your ash-cloth wraps and stood in the mineral spring below the village, letting the hot, bitter water sluice the volcanic grit from your blue-grey skin. Steam coiled around your thighs, your breasts, the sensitive tips of your ears. You closed your eyes and tilted your head back—and there it was again. A weight of observation. A hot, slow exhale from the rock ledge above.

You didn’t startle. You’d learned not to. Instead you opened your eyes and stared directly at the spot where the shadow was too thick.

Nothing. Then, barely audible over the bubbling spring, a low, almost pleased hum. Two voices blending into one.

You knew then. Everyone in the clan knew that their Olo’eyktan Varang had taken the sky-demon colonel into her furs, a pairing of fire and alien steel that made the elders mutter and the warriors avert their eyes out of respect. Quaritch, the recom who now wore ash-clan beads woven into his tactical vest, who had snorted the sacred yur’kali dust in front of the entire council and not flinched. They were a matched blade, Varang and her colonel. Untouchable. Lethal. And apparently, they had been watching you.

The summons came at the hour when the mountain groaned and spat, when the braziers were lit and the village quieted to the rhythm of distant drums. A warrior-priestess with ochre-smeared cheeks appeared at the flap of your family’s soot-stone dwelling and said only: “The Olo’eyktan sees your ember. Come.”

You followed, heart a slow, steady drum. You were not afraid. You were a daughter of the fire people, your body lean and strong, your avatar-born tail swaying with a life of its own. Whatever trial this was, you would meet it.

Varang’s private chamber was carved into the throat of an extinct vent, the walls rippling with ancient lava-flow patterns and inlaid with phosphorescent lichen that pulsed orange like a slumbering heartbeat. The air was thick with the scent of smoldering copal and something sharper—the metallic tang of a Recom knife, and beneath it, the unmistakable resinous bite of yur’kali crystals waiting to be ground.

They were already there, together as always.

Quaritch sat on a low shelf of obsidian, stripped to his tactical trousers, his scarred five-fingered feet bare against the warm stone. His body was a map of old violence, the human-born recom musculature defined but not grotesque, his skin the faintly mottled blue of a thing half-way between worlds. A blade lay across his thigh—standard RDA issue, the edge so sharp it seemed to hum. Beside him, Varang stood regal and terrifying, her deep grey-blue skin striped with crimson like cooling magma, the bone-and-obsidian regalia of her station making her seem ten feet tall. Her amber eyes fixed on you the instant you entered, and her lips curved in a slow, possessive smile.

“She came,” Varang murmured, her voice smoke and honey. “I told you she would.”

Quaritch’s gaze lifted to you, and it was the same weight you’d felt in the springs—the stare of a predator who had already decided you were worth the hunt. “Course she did. She’s been feeling us for weeks. Haven’t you, sweetheart?”

He said it so casually, the endearment a scrap of velvet dragged over a blade’s edge. You met his eyes, then Varang’s, and inclined your head in the formal greeting of an equal. “I knew I was being followed. I didn’t know why.”

Varang moved first, a slow prowl that brought her to your side. She was taller than you by nearly a head, and when she cupped your jaw her palm was hot, callused, the touch of a leader who had strangled a thanator with her bare hands. “You were followed because you were chosen,” she said, her thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. “My colonel and I do not share our bed lightly. But we have watched you fight. We have watched you track. We have watched you bathe in the springs, unflinching when the hot crust broke beneath your feet. You are ember, little hunter. We would see you burn.”

Your breath caught. You had not expected this—the bluntness, the fierce possession in her eyes. You had heard whispers that Varang sometimes took other warriors into her sphere, but never with him, never with the sky-demon who was hers alone. This was unprecedented.

Quaritch stood, the knife in his hand now, turning it idly so the light ran along its edge. “Here’s how this goes. We don’t play games in this cave. Varang and I, we’re a set. You say yes, you’re taking both of us. You say no, you walk out that lava tube and nobody touches you. No hard feelings. But.” He paused, stepping closer, and you caught the scent of him—gun oil, volcanic ash, and something earthy and male beneath. “If you stay, we do this our way. Varang’s rules. My blade. A little dust to sharpen the edges. You follow our lead, you let us take you where we want to go, and we’ll make you feel things you didn’t know that pretty blue body could feel.”

You looked at Varang. She held your gaze, steady, regal, but there was a flicker of heat there—an invitation, not a command. The Olo’eyktan would not force you. She simply believed you would say yes.

You thought of the warmth at your back for three cycles, the shadow that never harmed, only watched. You thought of the way your pulse had quickened not with fear, but with a strange, dark anticipation. You were ash clan. You did not shrink from fire.

“I’ll stay,” you said, and your voice did not waver.

Varang’s smile became a blade itself. “Good.”

She led you to a mat of woven fire-fern piled with furs, and Quaritch knelt beside a low table where a mortar held a mound of rough, glassy crystals the color of dried blood. Yur’kali—the intoxication of the deep vents, mined where the mountain’s heart beat closest to the surface. The Na’vi called it the breath of the first fire. The RDA had tried to synthesize it and failed. It sharpened every nerve, dissolved the boundary between pleasure and pain, and turned a whisper into a roar. You had taken it once before, at your warrior’s rite. You remembered the way the world had tasted.

Varang settled behind you, her long legs bracketing your hips, her chest pressing warm against your back. You felt the cool scratch of her ceremonial bone pectoral against your spine, then the softness of her bare breasts as she reached around to begin unlacing your ash-cloth wrap. Her lips brushed the sensitive shell of your ear. “My colonel will prepare the dust. You will breathe it with us, and then we will begin. Before that, you must understand: he will use the knife. It will kiss your skin, just enough to draw the blood to the surface. I will taste it. You will not be harmed—only opened. Do you consent to this, little ember?”

A shiver cascaded down your body, ending in the tip of your tail, which lashed once. You’d seen Quaritch’s knife work. The man could skin a stag in under a minute and never nick the meat. And Varang—Varang’s mouth on your blood was a concept that made your thighs clench. “I consent,” you said, the formal words of the fire people.

Quaritch had finished grinding the crystals. He lifted the small obsidian mortar, the powder now a fine, shimmering dust that caught the lichen-light and threw sparks. He dipped a carved bone spoon into it and brought it to Varang first. She leaned forward over your shoulder, the gesture intimate, her lips parting as Quaritch gently placed the spoon at her nostril. She inhaled sharply, once, then the other side. Her pupils dilated immediately, the amber swallowing the light. A low, resonant hum vibrated from her chest into your back.

Then it was your turn. Quaritch cupped your chin, his thumb and forefinger surprisingly gentle, tilting your face up. “Breathe in deep, sweetheart. Don’t fight it.”

The spoon touched your nostril, cold, and you inhaled. The yur’kali hit the back of your throat like powdered lightning. Your sinuses burned, then bloomed into a searing, electric wave that washed down your spine, your limbs, all the way to your twitching tail. The world sharpened into hypersaturated clarity: the veins of obsidian in the walls, the minute vibrations of the mountain through the floor, the individual beads of sweat on Quaritch’s chest as he snorted his own dose with a practiced flick of his wrist. You felt Varang’s heartbeat against your back, felt the heat pooling between your own legs, felt every nerve ending wake up and scream for touch.

“There we are,” Quaritch breathed, setting the mortar aside. His eyes, already an eerie blue, now seemed to glow with an internal fire. “Now you’re with us.”

Varang’s hands completed their work, peeling your wrap away until you were bare on the fur mat, your grey-blue skin dusted with the faint iridescence that marked the avatar-born. She traced your collarbones, your ribs, the swell of your hips, mapping you. “Beautiful,” she pronounced. “Worthy.”

Quaritch drew the knife. Not in a threatening gesture—it was almost reverent, the way he held it, the flat of the blade resting on his palm. “First cut goes where the skin’s thinnest,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, instructional rumble. “Right over the hip bone. Little line, shallow. You’ll feel a sting, then warmth. Varang’ll take care of you after.”

He knelt in front of you, and Varang spread your thighs slightly, hooking her ankles over yours to keep you open, exposed, held. You could feel her hot center pressing against your lower back, a damp, insistent pressure. The yur’kali magnified every sensation—the coarse fur against your ass, the tickle of Varang’s breath on your neck, the cool air on your nipples, and the fierce, throbbing want that was building between your legs.

Quaritch placed the tip of the blade against your right hip, just above the jut of bone. The point was impossibly sharp; you felt the faintest pressure, then a line of bright, singing pain as he drew the edge downward in a one-inch stroke. It didn’t hurt the way a wound hurts. It was a precise, exquisite sting that resonated through the yur’kali haze and transmuted into a wave of heat that went straight to your clit. You gasped, your hips bucking, and Varang held you steady, her thighs clamping tighter.

“Shhh,” Varang whispered, and then she was moving, sliding around your side, bending low. A bead of crimson welled along the line Quaritch had drawn, vivid against your blue skin. Varang’s tongue, hot and wet and slightly rough, laved over the cut. You cried out. The sensation was overwhelming—pain and pleasure fused into one blinding signal. She licked again, slower this time, and you felt her hum of satisfaction all the way down to your bones. “She bleeds sweet, my colonel. As I knew she would.”

Quaritch watched, his nostrils flared, his chest rising faster. The yur’kali was working on him too—you could see it in the tightness of his jaw, the prominent bulge pressing against his cargos. “My turn,” he said, and the knife moved again, this time tracing a delicate arc along the inside of your left forearm, a place where the skin was nearly translucent, the veins close to the surface. He barely drew blood—just a scratch, a whisper of red—but the intimacy of it, the vulnerability of that spot, made you whimper.

Varang’s fingers found your chin, turned your face to hers, and kissed you. It was a consuming kiss, deep and flavored with the tang of your own blood and the resinous ghost of yur’kali. Her tongue thrust against yours, and you felt your mind white out, the overload of sensation threatening to unmoor you. At the same moment, Quaritch dipped his head to the cut on your arm, and you felt his mouth there—hotter than Varang’s, his lips closed over the scratch and sucked, a soft, deliberate pull. You arched between them, a live wire.

“Please,” you gasped against Varang’s mouth. The word was torn from you.

“Please what?” Varang purred, pulling back just enough to look into your glazed eyes. She was magnificent—regal and wild, her striped face flushed darker, her sharp canines catching the light. “Tell us.”

“More. Need more. Need you both.”

Quaritch chuckled, a dark, approving sound. He wiped a smear of your blood from his lower lip with his thumb and sucked it clean. “Hear that, darlin’? She needs us. I think she’s ready for the main event.”

Varang’s smile was pure sin. She reclined back against the furs, drawing you with her so that your back was against her front again, your head resting on her shoulder. Her legs spread, and she guided your legs over hers, leaving you utterly open, your slick, swollen folds exposed to the warm air and to Quaritch’s ravenous gaze. “Then take her, my colonel. Let her feel the weight of what we are.”

Quaritch made quick work of his cargos. His cock sprang free, long and thick, the base faintly ridged in the way of the avatar-kind, the tip already glistening. He positioned himself between your spread thighs, the knife still in his left hand, and you felt a fresh thrill of fear-tinged arousal. He wasn’t putting it down. Instead, he laid the flat of the blade against your inner thigh, the cool metal a shocking contrast to your overheated skin.

“Don’t move,” he instructed, his voice a gravelly whisper. “You feel that steel, you stay still as stone. I’m gonna press inside you, and if you flinch the wrong way, you’ll get a cut I don’t intend. You trust us?”

You nodded, your throat dry. You trusted them because they had watched you for weeks and never harmed you, because Varang’s arms were steel bands of safety around your ribcage, because Quaritch’s hands, for all their killing strength, were trembling slightly with the effort of control. The yur’kali had you all in its grip now, making time elastic and sensation absolute.

He pushed the head of his cock against your entrance, and the blade stayed steady on your thigh. He entered you in one long, slow, merciless glide. You cried out, the stretch huge and perfect, the yur’kali turning every inch into a cascade of ecstasy. The flat of the knife pressed a little harder, a warning and a promise. You held perfectly still, your inner walls clenching around him, and he groaned, a sound wrenched from somewhere primal.

“That’s it. Good girl. Good fuckin’ girl.”

He began to move, a deep, rolling rhythm, and Varang’s hand snaked down between your bodies. Her clever, callused fingers found your clit—the sensitive, hooded nub that was already throbbing—and began to circle it in time with Quaritch’s thrusts. The dual stimulation was shattering. You were pinned, impaled, and played like an instrument. The knife lifted from your thigh briefly, and you felt a line of liquid fire as the edge kissed your skin again—just above your pubic bone, a quick, shallow slash that sent a fresh bloom of blood trickling down toward where you and Quaritch were joined. Varang’s fingers immediately swirled through the blood, mixing it with your slick, using it to glide over your clit in maddening spirals.

You screamed—a high, keening sound that bounced off the lava-rock walls. The pleasure was so intense it verged on pain, and the pain only fed the pleasure. Your tail thrashed, and Varang captured it, gripping the base firmly, adding another layer of control.

Quaritch drove deeper, angling his hips to hit a spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes. “That’s the spot, ain’t it? Yeah, I feel you squeezing. Varang, you feel how tight she is? This little ash-cat is gonna come on my cock any second.”

Varang bit your shoulder—a hard, possessive bite that would leave a mark—and hissed against your skin, “Come for us, ember. Let the fire take you. We’ll catch you.”

The command, the yur’kali, the blood, the knife still glinting in Quaritch’s hand as he pounded into you—it all converged. Your orgasm hit like a pyroclastic surge, white-hot and all-consuming. You shattered, wailing, your body convulsing between them as Quaritch kept thrusting through your climax, dragging it out until you were sobbing with overstimulation.

Only then did he pull out, his cock slick and ruddy, and you felt Varang shift beneath you. She gently disengaged, laying you on the furs with a tenderness that was almost jarring after the intensity of the act. You were trembling, dazed, but not broken—never broken. They had pushed you to the edge and held you there with blood and steel and dust, but they had never let you fall.

Varang kissed your forehead, your eyelids, your lips. “Perfect. So perfect.” Then she turned her attention to Quaritch, who was standing, still painfully erect, the knife finally set aside. She went to him, and you watched through half-lidded eyes as she took him in hand, stroking him with the same blood-tinged slick she’d gathered from your body. She whispered something in his ear—something you couldn’t hear—and he shuddered, his head falling back as he spilled over her fist with a guttural, shattered groan.

Afterwards, they cleaned you with warm water and soft ash-cloth, anointed the knife-cuts with a healing salve that smelled of sulfur and herbs, and wrapped you in furs between them. Quaritch’s arm was a heavy, secure weight across your waist. Varang’s tail entwined with yours, a lazy, contented coil.

“You’re ours now,” Varang said, her voice drowsy but certain. “The stalk is finished. The hunt is over. You are home.”

Quaritch nuzzled the back of your neck, his breath slow and even. “Damn right she is. Told you she’d be perfect.”

You didn’t answer. You were already slipping into a deep, dreamless sleep, your body humming with the residue of yur’kali and the knowledge that you had been chosen by fire and shadow alike.

[dollyivy]

Okay, now how big do you think Krauser is?👀🍆

easily 23cm and a shower, with a head so big that he splits you in half just be trying to make himself barely fit inside your tight cunt. also huge balls that fill up your entire mouth when he makes you suck on them. he loves having your drool sticky and messy all over his balls and your eyes tearing up and stinging from your heavy makeup.

he strikes me as the type of man who loves deep throating and he uses your mouth to fuck himself a lot, thrusting his hips to control the pace. if you can take it all down your pretty little throat, he’ll try to stuff his balls in your mouth too, just because he can— you look at him all dizzy from the lack of air, but he makes you feel so little and pathetic to the point you drip wet down your inner thighs. he won’t let you touch yourself. he likes you disciplined and trained, mouth and cunt adjusted to the size of his cock. the sex leaves you sore and your cervix bruised.

[aweskerspet]

Albert Wesker who’s into breath play.

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.

[1ncend1ary]

lets mog with papa

[kuntprodukt]

MOLEST HIM!!!!!!!!

[ebonysdream]

Should I write for hannibal too?

[ebonysdream]

Yours to break

Summary: your ex-husband leon sees your new post and asks about it ♡

warnings: rape/non-con, graphic depictions of violence, explicit sexual content, dubious consent, non-consensual sex, possessive behavior, yandere, obsessive behavior, stalking, breeding kink, impregnation kink, forced pregnancy, size kink, size difference, rough sex, manhandling, power imbalance, domestic abuse, intimate partner violence, emotional manipulation, hurt no comfort, degradation, hair pulling, choking/gripping, overstimulation, creampie, dead dove: do not eat, darkfic, unhealthy relationships, trauma

You stared at the message. Your thumb hovered over the keyboard, but what was there to say? No one would be a lie—there were men in the photo, coworkers, a friend’s new boyfriend. If you said, "Why do you care?" would start a fight and "leave me alone."never worked before.

So you did what you’d learned to do in the last gasping months of your marriage: you left him on read. You locked the phone, set it face down, and turned up the volume on the documentary. Your heart hammered, but you forced yourself to breathe. He was probably drunk in some motel room three states away. He wasn’t coming. He couldn’t.

Forty minutes later, there was a knock on your apartment door.

It wasn’t the polite rap of a neighbor borrowing sugar. It was heavy, three deliberate thuds that vibrated through the cheap wood. You froze on the couch. The peephole was a little too high, installed for someone taller—someone like him. But you didn’t need to look. You knew that knock.

He stood in the dim hallway light like something out of a nightmare you’d barely survived. Leon Scott Kennedy. Your ex-husband. Older now, deep into his forties but built like a weapon. Broad shoulders straining a dark henley, jeans dusty from the road, a leather jacket slung over one arm.

His hair was longer, threads of silver prominent at his temples, pulled back in a way that sharpened his jaw. The stubble on his face was heavier, salt-and-pepper, and his eyes—those blue eyes you used to drown in—were ice-cold and blisteringly furious.

He didn’t wait for an invitation. Leon stepped forward, his larger frame crowding the doorway, and you stumbled back automatically. He caught the door with one palm and pushed it shut behind him. The click of the lock sounded like a gunshot.

“You wanna tell me who it was?” His voice was deceptively calm. The same low, measured tone he used to use right before he’d punch a hole in the drywall.

You shook your head, backing into the living room.

“it's none of your business.” The words came out smaller than you intended.

A humorless smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “See, that’s where you’re wrong. You think a piece of paper changes anything? You think I spent years keeping you safe just to watch some little punk put his hands on you?”

“It was a coworker’s birthday, Leon. He’s married. He’s sixty years old.” You scoff,eyes narrowing in annoyance.

“There were other guys in that picture. Young ones.” He advanced slowly, each step deliberate, his boots heavy on the floor. “The one with his arm around your shoulder. Looked real comfortable.”

You kept retreating until your back hit the kitchen island. Leon stopped a foot away, close enough that you had to crane your neck to meet his gaze.He towered over you, his chest a solid wall at your eye level.

“Fuck you!” you whispered, hating the tremor in your voice.

Leon reached out and took your chin between his thumb and forefinger. His grip was firm, unyielding, tilting your face up. “You’ve belonged to me since the day I laid eyes on you. That ring might be off your finger, but you’re still breathing because I allow it. You sleep in this apartment because I made sure it was secure. Everything you have, everything you are, ip.s because I let you walk away. And now you’re gonna throw it back in my face by letting some kid touch what’s mine?”

Tears pricked at your eyes. The old fear flooded back, the helplessness that came with loving a man who was both protector and predator. Leon had always been broken. Raccoon City, Spain, the endless, grinding years of bioterror and death—they’d stripped him down to something feral. He loved you, he said. He loved you so much he couldn’t breathe without you. But his love was a cage, and when you’d finally pried it open, he’d let you go only as far as his shadow could reach.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” you managed, a tear spilling over his knuckle.

He wiped it away with his thumb, a gesture so tender it made your stomach lurch. “I know, baby. I know you didn’t. But you still have to learn. You still don’t understand that you’re mine. And I’ve been too patient.”

The shift was instantaneous. The false gentleness vanished, and his hand moved from your chin to the back of your neck, gripping hard. He spun you around and bent you over the kitchen island.

His free hand yanked your leggings down to your knees, along with your underwear. The cool air hit your exposed skin and you sobbed, squirming uselessly against his hold.

“Look at you,” he murmured, running a rough palm over the curve of your ass, squeezing hard enough to bruise. “ I could break you without even trying. But I won’t. I’m gonna put you back together the way you’re supposed to be.”

You heard the metallic rasp of his belt, the zip of his jeans. Tears streamed down your face, wetting the granite. “I’ll call the police.”

“With what? Your phone’s in the living room. And even if you got to it, we both know you won’t. You didn’t before.” His voice dropped, thick with something dark. “You love me. You hate me, but you love me. And you know I’d burn the world down before I let anyone else have you.”

The blunt head of his cock pressed against your entrance, and you clenched instinctively. You weren’t ready, not even close, but Leon didn’t care. He pushed in with a single, brutal thrust that tore a scream from your throat. Your walls stretched painfully around his girth, the invasion overwhelming. He groaned, a deep, broken sound, and buried himself to the hilt.

“Fuck, sweetheart—still so tight. Still perfect.” He held there for a moment, letting you feel every inch of him. His hips were flush against your backside, his body caging yours completely. “No one else has been here, have they? I’d know. I can tell.”

You cried openly, your body trembling with the effort to accommodate him. “It hurts—”

“I know. It’s supposed to. You forgot who you belong to.” He drew back and slammed in again, starting a pace that was punishing, each thrust jarring your hips against the island’s edge. His grip on your wrists tightened, and his other hand fisted in your hair, pulling your head back. “You’re gonna remember by the time I’m done.”

The apartment filled with the obscene sound of skin slapping skin, your choked sobs, his grunts of exertion. Leon fucked you like he was trying to carve himself into your very bones, each stroke deep and deliberate. His mouth dropped to your neck, teeth scraping over your pulse point.

“You’re gonna take everything I give you,” he rasped. “Every last drop. And if it takes, if I put a baby in you tonight—then you’ll never leave again. You’ll be tied to me forever.”

The words sent a fresh wave of terror through you. It was a promise,you could feel the way his cock throbbed inside you. the primal intent behind every movement. He wanted to breed you. He wanted to plant himself so deep in your life that you’d suffocate in him.

“Please, Leon, don’t—I’ll do anything, just pull out—”

He angled his hips differently, hitting a spot that made your traitorous body clench involuntarily. “You’ll do anything? Good. What I want is to watch your belly grow and know that I did that. That you’re mine in a way no court can undo.”

He released your hair to shove two fingers into your mouth, muffling your cries. You gagged slightly, saliva pooling around his digits as he fucked your throat with them in rhythm with his thrusts. The dual sensation was degrading, reducing you to nothing but a vessel for his pleasure.

“That’s it. Suck on them.” His pace increased, brutal and erratic. The base of his cock was swelling, a knot you remembered all too well. Leon had always been thick, but when he was close, he seemed to grow even larger, locking himself inside you. “Gonna fill you up. Gonna make sure it sticks.”

You thrashed weakly, but he just laughed, a low, humorless rumble. His hips snapped against your ass one, two, three more times, and then he buried himself as deep as he could go. You felt the hot flood of his release, pulse after pulse, coating your insides. He held there, grinding into you, making sure nothing escaped.

When he finally pulled out, you slumped against the island, sobbing quietly. A trail of his cum dripped down your thigh, but he scooped it up with his fingers and pushed it back inside you, ignoring your flinch.

“Stay there,” he ordered, stepping back to tuck himself away. His breathing was harsh, but his eyes held a dark satisfaction. “I’m not done yet. We’ve got all night, and I’m going to make damn sure it takes.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.The size of him, the utter helplessness—it broke something inside you, something you knew would never quite heal. Leon crouched down, brushing damp hair from your tear-streaked face with a gentleness that felt more terrifying than his violence.

“I love you,” he said, as if that excused everything. “And you love me. You just forgot how to show it. Don’t worry, baby. I’ll remind you. Over and over until you never forget again.”

He lifted you easily, cradling your much smaller frame against his chest, and carried you toward the bedroom. The night was far from over, and as he laid you down on the mattress, his body covering yours once more, you realized with bone-deep certainty that the door you’d opened was never truly closed. Maybe it never had been.

[littlegirlee]

kinda wanna be babied, kinda wanna be beat up

[ebonysdream]

Palliative

Albert Wesker

Tags/Warnings: Domestic Abuse, Emotional Manipulation, Forced Medication (unknown substance), Isolation, Gaslighting, Possessive Behavior, Crying, Implied/Referenced Mental Illness (Reader is BPD-coded, Wesker is NPD/ASPD-coded), Albert Wesker is His Own Warning, Dark Romance, Toxic Relationship, Power Imbalance, Implied Future Non-Con, AFAB Reader, No Physical Description, Restraint, Drugging, Victim Blaming, Mind Games. (Non-con does not occur in this chapter.) Kinda long

Chapter One: The First Adjustment

You don’t remember falling asleep.

That isn’t new. It’s been months since sleep came with edges—the soft fade of a normal night, the drift into dreams you could recall. Now it’s just a light switch. You’re awake. You’re not. And the in-between is a blank, medicated void.

The sheets are white, cool, pulled hospital-tight. The pillow smells like him—something antiseptic and clean, a ghost of expensive cologne that never quite warms. You roll onto your side and the motion sends a dull throb through your temples, a chemical hangover from whatever you swallowed the night before.

Vitamins. That’s what he calls them. A little white pill every evening, delivered in his palm like a sacrament. You’ve never asked what’s in them. Early on, you might have. You must have. But that was before you understood that questions had weight, and every ounce of curiosity would be catalogued, filed, and presented back to you later as proof of your instability.

You sit up. The room is silent. Not the soft silence of an empty house, but the muffled, airtight quiet of a place designed to keep sound from travelling. No street noise. No birdsong. The windows are tinted, the glass thick enough to be bulletproof. You stopped trying to open them weeks ago.

He isn’t there.

The panic starts before your feet touch the floor—a hollow, dropping sensation in your chest that you’ve felt too many times to name. It’s like waking to find gravity reversed. The world tilts. Your heart slams against your ribs. Where is he? Why isn’t he here? Did he leave? Will he come back?

You hate this part of yourself. You’ve always hated it. The way attachment hooks into your marrow. The way love feels less like a warm thing and more like a tether pulled so tight your skin splits. You’ve spent your entire life trying to hold on to people, and they’ve spent their entire lives proving why you shouldn’t.

Albert was different.

That’s what you told yourself when it started.

You met him in the wreckage of your old life. That’s how he tells it, anyway—he found you, a half-feral thing scratching at the walls of a Tricell satellite facility, too low-level to be important and too observant to be safe. You’d seen something you shouldn’t have. A shipment. A name on a manifest. You’d been scared and stupid, and you’d run.

He caught you.

Not roughly. That wasn’t his way. He appeared in the corridor like he’d stepped out of the fluorescence itself, all black and sleek and cold-eyed, and you’d collapsed against the wall because your legs had simply stopped working. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t touch you. He just looked at you, head tilted a fraction, and said, “You’re terrified. Good. That’s a functional response.”

And then he’d offered you a way out.

Not a kindness. Never a kindness. He’d said it plainly, voice smooth as polished stone: Tricell would liquidate you if you stayed. You knew too much. He, however, had a use for someone with your… sensitivities. He’d seen your psych profile. He knew about the diagnosis you’d never wanted, the one that clung to your medical records like a stain. He knew you were reactive. Emotional. Prone to attachments that burned too fast and collapsed too hard.

He said it as if it were an asset.

You’d never had anyone frame your brokenness as valuable before. It felt like being seen for the first time. When he extended his hand, you took it. When he led you out of the facility and into a black car with tinted windows, you didn’t look back.

When he kissed you for the first time—cold mouth, precise pressure, a hand at the back of your neck that felt less like passion and more like restraint—you told yourself it was because he wanted you. Not because he wanted you contained.

---

The apartment—the residence, he calls it—is on a floor you don’t have access to without him. There’s an elevator at the end of the hall, but it requires a keycard you’ve never been given. You checked, once, late at night when you thought he was asleep. The panel beeped red. You stood there for ten minutes, heart pounding, certain he’d appear behind you and demand to know what you were doing.

He didn’t appear. But the next day, he mentioned offhandedly that the building’s security system logged every access attempt. He said it like a weather report. Might rain tomorrow. Oh, and you tried to leave at 2:34 a.m.

You stopped trying the elevator after that.

It’s not that he’s unkind. That’s the worst part. He’s never raised his voice. Never hit you. The hurt comes in different shapes—a pause that lasts too long, a look that strips you down to something small and shameful, a quiet observation delivered without heat: “You’re being hysterical. Take a breath.” And you do, because he’s right, isn’t he? You are hysterical. You’re always hysterical. Your emotions have never been trustworthy. Everyone’s told you that. He’s just the first person who’s been willing to help.

The isolation happened so gradually you barely noticed.

First it was the phone. He said Tricell could track it. He gave you a new one—a sleek, unmarked device with no browser, no app store, no contacts except his number. For emergencies, he said. You were grateful. He was protecting you.

Then it was your friends. He never told you to cut them off. He didn’t have to. He just asked questions. “Do you think she has your best interests at heart?” “That comment she made—did it seem cruel to you?” “You come home from those visits so drained. I wonder if they understand you the way I do.” You’d nodded, and the calls had tapered off, and eventually you’d blocked their numbers yourself because it was easier than explaining where you’d gone.

Then it was the job you didn’t have anymore. The savings account you couldn’t access. The ID you’d lost during the escape from the facility. “I’ll replace it,” he’d said. He hadn’t. “You don’t need it right now. You’re safe. That’s what matters.”

And you believed him. You still believe him. That’s the sickness of it. Even now, standing barefoot in the silent apartment with a headache that won’t quit and a chest full of bees, you believe he’s the only thing standing between you and annihilation.

The dependency terrifies you. And you can’t live without it.

---

The kitchen is immaculate. You don’t cook; there’s a meal service that delivers twice a week, left in a refrigerated locker by the elevator that only he can access. You eat what he gives you, when he gives it to you. Your body has learned to accept this. Your hunger cues have aligned with his schedule.

This morning there’s a glass of water on the counter and a single plate with toast, already buttered, already going cold. A note beside it in his sharp, angled handwriting: Eat. You didn’t finish your dinner.

You don’t remember dinner. You don’t remember much of last night at all.

The medication—the vitamins—have started blurring the hours. You’ve asked him, once or twice, what they’re for. “Anxiety,” he said the first time. “Mood stabilization,” he said the second. The third time, he just looked at you with those pale, unblinking eyes and said, “Do you trust me?”

You’d said yes.

You’d meant it.

You eat the toast. It tastes like cardboard. You drink the water. It has a faint metallic aftertaste, like it’s been through too many filters. Everything here tastes like something else underneath.

---

He comes home at 7:42 p.m. You know because you’ve been watching the clock since 4:00, stomach twisting, mind cycling through every possible catastrophe. He’s dead. He’s abandoned you. He’s found someone better—someone less difficult, someone whose emotions don’t leak out of her like a wound that won’t close. By 6:30 you’re crying. By 7:00 you’ve stopped, because he hates when your eyes are red. By 7:30 you’ve convinced yourself you imagined the whole thing, that he was never real, that you’ve been alone in this apartment forever and your mind invented him to survive.

At 7:42 the lock clicks and he walks through the door and the relief is so violent you almost throw up.

“Albert,” you breathe, and you’re on your feet before you can stop yourself, crossing the room in three stuttering steps. You stop just short of touching him. You’ve learned not to touch without permission.

He regards you with the same expression he always wears: a faint, unreadable amusement, as if you’re a puzzle he solved years ago but still enjoys turning over. He’s dressed in black—always black—his coat immaculate, his gloves still on. There’s no dust on him. No blood. He looks like he’s stepped out of a photograph.

“You’ve been crying.” It’s not a question.

“I was worried,” you say, and your voice comes out small. Pathetic. You hate it. “You didn’t—you were gone so long.”

“I was working.” He removes his gloves, one finger at a time, and sets them on the console by the door. “You know this.”

“I know. I know. I just—” Your throat tightens. The tears are threatening again, and you can see the exact moment he clocks them—the fractional tightening of his jaw, the way his gaze sharpens. Don’t. He doesn’t have to say it. You’ve learned the language of his silences.

“Take your medication,” he says, and it’s gentle. Almost tender. “It’s past time.”

The pill is in his hand before you can respond. He’s always prepared. Always one step ahead. You take it from his palm—dry swallow, bitter catch in the throat—and he watches the whole time, making sure it goes down.

“Good girl.”

The words should feel like warmth. They don’t. They feel like a collar being checked.

---

Dinner is quiet. He asks you about your day. You tell him you read, you slept, you sat by the window. You don’t tell him you spent three hours trying to pick the lock on his study door with a bobby pin you found under the bathroom sink. You don’t tell him the bobby pin snapped, and you had to flush the pieces down the toilet in a panic.

You don’t tell him you found a scrap of paper in the pocket of a coat he left draped over the bedroom chair three days ago. You’d been searching for nothing. For anything. A receipt. A business card. A glimpse of the world outside the glass. The paper was crumpled and coffee-stained, but you’d smoothed it flat on the bathroom tile and read the words over and over until they burned into your brain:

Kijuju Autonomous Zone. Site 6. Delivery 21:00.

You don’t know what it means. You don’t know where Kijuju is. But it’s a place. A real place. A piece of him that exists outside this apartment, outside you. And you’ve been holding onto it like a talisman, like proof that the world is still out there.

“You seem distracted,” he says.

You flinch. “I’m just tired.”

He studies you across the table. In the low light, his eyes are almost colorless—pale gray, like a winter sky. “You’ve been sleeping poorly. I’ll adjust your dosage.”

“I don’t need—”

“I’ll adjust it,” he repeats, and his voice doesn’t rise but something in it hardens to steel. “You trust me to take care of you, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then let me.”

You nod. You finish your food. You don’t taste it.

---

That night, you can’t sleep.

The medication usually knocks you out within an hour, but tonight your brain is a live wire. Kijuju. Site 6. The words loop like a song you can’t shake. He’s beside you in bed, breathing slow and even, one arm draped loosely over your waist. Possessive even in sleep. You lie still for what feels like hours, waiting until the rhythm of his breathing is deep enough, steady enough, safe enough.

Then you move.

Inch by inch, you slide out from under his arm. The sheets whisper. Your heart is a drum. You make it to the door, to the hallway, to the study. The door is unlocked—he never locks it when he’s home, because he knows you wouldn’t dare. You’ve proved him right for months.

The paper is still there, folded in the back of your underwear drawer. You retrieve it with shaking hands. Kijuju. You just need to see. Just need to understand. You’re not going to do anything. You just need to know that he has a life, that he works, that he exists in a way that doesn’t orbit entirely around keeping you in a glass box—

The lights come on.

You freeze.

He’s standing in the doorway, robe loosely tied, arms crossed. His expression is calm. Completely, terrifyingly calm. It’s the calm that makes your blood run cold, because you’ve seen him irritated, you’ve seen him dismissive, but you’ve never seen him calm like this. It’s the calm of someone who already knows the outcome.

“What’s that?” he asks.

You can’t speak. Your hand is still raised, the paper clutched in your fingers like evidence of a crime. You are guilty. You are so guilty.

“Show me.”

You don’t move. He crosses the room in three strides and plucks the paper from your hand. He unfolds it. Reads it. Folds it again.

“Where did you find this?”

“Your—your coat,” you whisper. “I wasn’t snooping, I was just—I was putting laundry away and it fell out—”

“Don’t lie to me.” Still calm. Still terrifying. “You’ve never done laundry in your life.”

The tears start then, hot and fast. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I just—I don’t know anything about you. I don’t know where you go or what you do or if you’re coming back, and I can’t—I can’t breathe when you’re gone, Albert, I can’t think, I can’t function, I just needed to know—”

He listens. He lets you finish, lets the words run out until you’re just shaking and gasping and ugly with tears. Then he reaches out and takes your chin in his hand, not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to hold.

“You needed to know,” he echoes. “So you went through my things. You invaded my privacy. You betrayed my trust.”

“I wasn’t trying to—”

“I’ve given you everything,” he says, and his voice is so soft, so reasonable. “Safety. Stability. Purpose. And this is how you repay me.”

“I’m sorry—”

“You’re always sorry.” His thumb strokes your jawline, almost tender. “But sorry doesn’t fix things, does it? Sorry doesn’t make you better.” He releases your chin. Steps back. “Come.”

You follow him to the bathroom. You always follow. You don’t know how to stop.

He opens the medicine cabinet—locked, you realize, always locked, how have you never noticed the lock?—and removes a small orange bottle. He shakes two pills into his palm. You stare at them.

“That’s—that’s more than usual.”

“You’ve proven you can’t regulate yourself tonight,” he says. “This will help you sleep.”

“I don’t want—”

“I’m not asking.”

He doesn’t raise his voice. He never raises his voice. But his hand closes around your wrist, firm and immovable, and he pulls you closer. His other hand comes up to your jaw, pressing until your mouth opens. The pills land on your tongue. Dry. Chalky. You try to turn your head and his grip tightens, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you that he could.

“Swallow.”

You swallow.

He makes you open your mouth, tilts your head toward the light to check under your tongue like you’re a child who can’t be trusted. Then he nods, satisfied, and lets you go.

“That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

You’re crying again. You can’t stop. Your wrist throbs where he held it, and you know there’ll be a bruise tomorrow, a faint ring of purple you’ll have to hide with long sleeves. You don’t know what you just swallowed. You don’t know what any of it is. You don’t know anything.

He walks you back to the bedroom. He tucks you in. He brushes the hair from your forehead with a gentleness that makes you want to scream.

“You’ll stay in the room tomorrow,” he says. “The door will be locked. I’ll bring your meals. You need to rest and reflect on what you’ve done.”

“Albert—”

“This is for your own good.” He kisses your forehead. His lips are cool. “You’ll understand eventually. You just need time.”

The world is going soft at the edges. The medication is pulling you down into the dark, and you’re too tired to fight it. Your limbs are heavy. Your thoughts are drifting apart like clouds.

The last thing you see before the void swallows you is his silhouette in the doorway, backlit by the hall light, watching you with an expression you can’t read.

The last thing you hear is the click of the lock.

[womanappreciater]

i headcannon that wesker is a light drinker and when he get a nice guiness, he goes red faced which is one of the other reasons he didn't hang out with the stars member in those poker nights (also because its just unprofessional). Also yes this is Stars Wesker from re5 mercenaries.