I'm Arma. He/They. ESL. SWANA. A lifelong RE fanboy and around the same age as the franchise itself. (25+)
I mix classic canon with the remakes. I generally favour classic continuity for my own verses but I'm happy to adapt to remakes' canon for my RP partners.
I won't be toning Wesker down in his pursuits and ideology. Heavy themes of eugenics, abuse, war, terrorism, and other dark topics will be present on this blog.
I will also write Wesker as a human being and as someone that exists in day to day life outside of his villainous plans. So, here's an obligatory IC =/= OOC. Depiction is not endorsement. Character analysis is not an attempt at excusing them. etc, etc.
I am totally down to interact with OCs, other fandoms, do crossovers or AUs, and to follow other Wesker RPers.
I tag triggers as "subject tw".
NSFW text will be present on the blog. It will be under "read more" and tagged as nsft.
My only hard limits regarding RP are noncon and paraphilias of any kind. I'm fine with writing pretty much anything else.
I have no interest in self-inserts or real person RP. (No hate, just not my thing) I am also not interested in interacting with people using AI.
Regarding shipping: The Rebecca picture easter egg is just an easter egg and they weren't even going to put it in Wesker's desk originally, so I don't recognise that as canon on this blog. Out of Wesker's usual/popular ships with other canon RE characters, I really only ship him with Birkin and my Al is one half of that pair of evil hell spawn with @golgothac. Outside of his in-game interactions, I have plotted his main verse ships with @hopewrought and @the4thsurvivor. I'm open to other ships in the future, but that'll depend on specific chemistry/plotting. Heβs not the easiest person to wring any emotion or desire, out of.
Since CV is on my mind a lot now, I keep thinking of the incredibly tender way Alexia comforts dying Alfred. And that she even shoves him into the pod she was in, likely to either preserve his body or to try to revive him in the future.
Characters who hold themselves above humanity still succumbing to human emotions is my weakness & I think CV portrays it fantastically. And itβs also why I do enjoy exploring the idea of Wesker similarly failing to not have any attachments and still desiring companionship of certain people.
Metal bends, yielding to his strength. Itβs scalding hot, leaving momentary marks of charred flesh on his hands, but he seems quite unbothered by the fact, looking down the hallway that has begun to be engulfed in smoke and fire. The path forward is somewhat clear, at least, with the metal beam out of their way.
He takes her by the hand, helping her stand up and briefly giving himself a chance to look her over. Their carefully selected outfits wonβt be salvageable after this, but they both only have a few scrapes and bruises, thus far.
He can hear too many, too heavy, footsteps approaching, and he only has a moment to let go off her hand and dash forward, grabbing a piece of shattered glass from a window and arming himself with it, cutting through grey fatigue-clad militia men, right as they make an appearance in the narrow hallway.
He gets shot a couple of times in the process, but as the ruckus of erupting gunshots fills the air, he knows they are dead men. They donβt have a clue how to handle him and he dispatches all dozen of them before they figure him out.
The left lens of his glasses is shattered and he disposes of them in annoyance, taking the time to push strands of his hair that had fallen out of place, away from his face. Before turning around and looking back to Bethany, feeling something very off as he is walking towards her.
He canβt help but smirk in exhilaration as he realises what he is hearing from the floor below.
βTheyβre going to detonate the building.β He says, a little too excited for someone that is about to be in a collapsing restaurant with a rooftop view that was sold to Bethany as a βlovely spotβ just the other night, for their upcoming date. βBut theyβll try to take you alive, first.β
He extends his hand towards her, his shirt splattered in blood and strands of his hair stubbornly brushing against his forehead, again. His golden gaze is practically sparking with fiery excitement, as he looks at her. βWeβve never had the pleasure of fighting together.β
@egoiudico takes me to all the nicest places uwu
The physical wound has long healed, that was the easy part. Piecing herself back together from emotional injury, that has been a process.
Not the knowledge that simply existing as she is, makes her a potential target. Bethany has known this, in some ways has always known it from the moment of her infection and subsequent quarantine. The wary glances and distant behaviour from others that varied from a general air of disdain to a sense of objectification, and the strange scent accompanying it all detected by her newly enhanced senses that she soon learned to identify was fear. Humans would always fear what was 'different'. Percieve it as a threat. While clinging to her own humanity and refusing to let this affliction change who she is as a person, that she would be considered something different now is undeniable fact.
Bethany had accepted this. Is sympathetic to it and has been working to understand her new existence, while still cautiously blending in with a world that would reject her if they knew.
Reckoning with abandonment and betrayal was worse.
Even if it had not been the intent, results do not care about intentions. The outcome had been a brutal and vicious brush with death. Sometimes she can still feel that metal implement in her chest, her heart beating painfully around it.
Rebuilding trust came at a price. The offence had been written in blood. Composing an equalizer would require the very same ink. Few things are pure in this world, but surely the desire for retribution is sanctioned by the gods if they exist, so universal is the urge. To return harm to those who harmed you first. It feels fair. Righteous.
Bethany retreated behind her walls until that price was exacted on her behalf.
What they have could never be considered normal by any standard metric. And yet that is something she craves. Normalcy, or at least the illusion of it, while also cradling the bond they share of unique existence and experience. The desire to be seen and known by someone who understands, who can be learned from, to feel a sense of community with, all are powerful needs and make for a reciprocal connection not easily severed. Albert earns her forgiveness slowly through actions and the relationship began to heal with patience.
The dinner date, when proposed, initially gave her pause - she had avoided leaving the house unless necessary since the incident - but Bethany is aware she cannot hide forever and something as simple as this, with a pleasant view, does sound wonderful. An opportunity to properly reconnect and enjoy each other's company. She had agreed to the date, and began to feel something akin to her old self in the planning of her outfit, choosing a floor length strapless opaque baby blue dress with a sheer organza outer layer that flatters her form, and shoes of the same hue. As a self indulgent gesture she had also provided Albert with a pocket square of matching colour to her dress, and cufflinks studded with gems also of that same blue. To match with her is a symbol of unity and belonging. And likewise, her own accessories are composed of black diamond jewellery, their inky luster evoking his dominant colour of choice.
The restaurant had lived up to its promise. It was indeed a 'lovely spot'. Charming aesthetic, with opulent balconies and open-air sections providing a pleasing vista both of the night sky and the lights of the city below. She reaches for his hand with a smile, about to compliment his discerning taste in the choice of venue when the floor rocks beneath them. Parts of the ceiling collapse in a violent outburst, and with it comes the smell of smoke. A second, even stronger detonation soon follows and while Bethany cannot tell the direction it came from, it is certainly closer. Then a third. Concussive force knocks her to the floor, while glass sprays outward. Over the sound of her ears ringing there are distant screams. Bethany puts a hand to her ear, there is the warm wetness of blood very briefly before it erupts into flame then is snuffed out. A perforated eardrum, though it heals just as quickly.
Not for the first time in her life, Bethany wonders if this is what it is like to be cursed.
Albert helps her stand and under his briefly assessing look Bethany nods to indicate she is fine.
They turn at the same time towards the sound. Armed men in tactical gear, not true BDUs but an imitation of it. Though, their weapons are real enough. In less than a heartbeat after letting go of her hand Albert is already systematically ripping them apart armed only with a chunk of glass. It is a sight to behold. Bethany had known what he is capable of courtesy of his strain, but only in theory. This is the first time she has witnessed his violence in action and there is an odd beauty in it. He moves with the confidence and skill of an apex predator, with speed beyond anything in nature. Their human eyes have no chance of keeping up with him but hers are able to witness and take in the full glory of it, absorbing every nuance of his motion and reflexes. His opponents are outclassed by a margin that may as well be a chasm, and Bethany realises this is what their kind is capable of. Something in him is unleashed and he disassembles their forces in a way that is somehow both methodical and feral. As the bodies pile up the smell of blood grows stronger, and when a few of them get lucky shots on Albert a unique note is added to the chorus of scents. Of course his blood smells different to theirs. Why wouldn't it? Now documented, that sensory memory is filed away forever. Despite the gunshots there is no meaningful harm done, and Bethany looks him over with a unique appreciation when the deed is done, lips parted and pupils blown so wide they almost swallow her irises. Bloody. Dishevelled. Yet confident and strong as ever. Healthy and whole. It is reassuring. The destruction of their enemies looks good on him.
A dark, vengeful piece of her heart wishes she had seen him do this to her prior attackers.
But tonight's enemies are far from done. While she fixates on Albert, he notices and relays what is going on below. Fear threatens to rise in her. She doesn't know what is more terrifying - the building coming down around them, or what nefarious purpose they could have in mind for her if she were captured alive - but his hand is her anchor, solid and secure, allaying her nervousness. These men may have numbers, and are well armed, but they no longer have the advantage of surprise. Nor are they like the two of them.
"Pleasure?" Bethany queries. The look in his eyes makes it clear Albert views this as a kind of sport, an amusing diversion. "I'm no fighter."
Her fingers squeeze his as she adds, "But there's a first time for everything."
They take off running down the smoke-filled hallway. What few unshattered light fixtures remained, lose power with an audible flicker and low hum, leaving only sparse emergency lighting . A building like this would assuredly have backup generators but when no such power source comes to life, it is clear within seconds that this was done on purpose. Likely to disable the elevator.
As they make it to the stairs a second squad coming up from below moves in. These ones are more heavily equipped, wearing tactical plate carriers and night vision goggles, seemingly cementing the earlier loss of power as deliberate. Albert charges into the fray without hesitation, grabbing the attention of most. This squad seemingly has no better idea of how to handle him than their predecessors. One of them breaks away attempting to flank Bethany, spotting her for the easier target. She hadn't been able to fight back before, when harpooned from behind with four pounds of metal in the street, but in the here and now she can. With Al here at her side anything feels possible, and impotent rage at having been unable to defend herself is channeled into power. Bethany has learned restraint, tempered her strength, and what is the meaning of restraint if not holding back until the appropriate time?
She closes the distance before the would-be attacker can open fire, gripping his face and slamming him backwards into the wall with a ferocity that caves in the rear of his skull in a brutal crunch, showering blood and brain matter in an outward splash. Up close the gore is overwhelming and she flinches at the impact. It had been easy. Too easy. 'That's what you deserve', Bethany thinks angrily at the hapless corpse, rationalizing, flicking a piece of occipital lobe from her shoulder. At least she made it fast unlike her companion who at a glance is quite clearly playing with his food, reveling in the power differential between his foes and himself. To him there is seemingly no distinction between being surrounded, or in a target-rich environment.
A sudden jolt of hot liquid pain as something pierces her thigh in that moment of distraction. She glances down to see a tranquilizer dart. Its payload is not fully delivered by the time she rips it out in a panic, but a spreading numbness still courses through the muscle. When she straightens up there is a technicolor explosion of pain in her face as the butt of a handgun connects with her bottom lip, busting it open against her teeth. Bethany falls, taken to the floor by her assailant but not before grabbing at and pulling the NVGs off their face. Blood is running over her chin, over her teeth and down her neck, bursting aflame, a smouldering pool of liquid in her mouth. She can't breathe. As they hover over her Bethany spits the blood in their unprotected face like a dragon emitting a gout of flame. The reaction is immediate. Screaming. Flesh melts like wax and fills the air with the rancid scent of its burning. Uncovered eyes burn in their sockets and pop, fluid spurting forth as they burst. Evidently this tranquilizer is not like the one from before that nullified her flames.
And then, she feels it. Her variant making its way to their brain stem, burning its way down via her scorching blood and surging through optic nerves, forging a connection. Turning them. Making them hers. It is complete when the screaming stops. Bethany can feel it instinctively, as surely as she can feel the limbs of her own body. There is something she just needs to reach for. Metaphorical fingertips brush the edge of what remains of their consciousness and dig their way into it. They are little more than an extension of her, a puppet to her will. "Get OFF me!" Bethany demands aloud, scrambling, voice teetering on the edge of hysteria while their mind is firmly grasped in her fist. Alongside the verbal outburst is a transmitted psionic command, one that can be heard by any viral host in the vicinity but only those with her strain are subject to the compulsion. It is one word, broadcasted like a siren. 'Die.'
Like a marionette whose strings have just been yanked taut the figure leans back from where they have Bethany pinned. Their head tilts up and the gun, butt of it still smouldering from when it had bust her lip, is pressed into the covered underside of their chin and aimed skyward. The trigger is pulled repeatedly until there is nothing left of the top of their head but an exit wound, ceiling painted with their brain matter that begins to rain down in chunks. The now-corpse slumps over, strings broken.
Bethany shuffles backwards on her elbows to get out from under them and extinguishes the flames on herself before they can reach the neckline of her dress. She stumbles to her feet, still swaying a little on the numb leg, and makes her way to the stop of the stairs. Albert is seemingly done with his skirmish and returns to her side. With a gentleness entirely contrasting the violence of mere moments ago and yet still vibrating with excitement he cradles her face, seemingly enamoured, having witnessed her potential unfurling like a flower ready to bloom. Bethany submits to the affection, leaning in, needing to be grounded. There is a clear distinction between that of her attacker's blood and her own, the former a tacky wet brightness, with the latter having dried and the char from the flames making it darker in colour. His thumb smears the two as it brushes a path to her lower lip, inspecting the now-healed injury.
Her leg is still numb, and starting to cramp, as if the muscles are rebelling. Bethany realises that of the glimpses she caught of the squad Albert fought with, there was no attempt made to tranquilize him. Only her.
"They're not trying to take you alive." Bethany notes, recalling his earlier words.
"No." He agrees.
She inhales, about to question further, but is interrupted by gunfire from the bottom of the stairs. Bullets rip through her back and exit through her stomach and chest, while yet another dart lodges itself between her shoulder blades. Albert pulls it free and uses his own body to shield her from the rest of the salvo, and when there is a moment to breathe he disappears down the stairs to engage the enemy.
Without his support to hold her up, Bethany doubles over in pain. Those bullets scorched a path through her body, even if she's had worse; and the blood from the now-closed wounds has burned holes in her dress. She douses the smouldering with a hand, though some of it has dripped onto the carpet and set it alight too. Coldness spreads outwards from between her shoulder blades. It touches her lungs, making it difficult to breathe. Bethany stumbles downstairs clutching the railing, a train of fire behind her just beyond the hem of her dress that has so far retained its structural integrity. What greets her is further carnage. Albert is done playing, it seems. "Get me out of here," she murmurs, barely audible above the crackling flames. Her distress is apparent not just from the desperate grip on the railing, but a psionic low-level call for help. Bethany is not aware she is emitting it, but across the distance she feels Algernon stir, agitated by the subconscious signal designed for Queens to call upon their minions. It is unable to leave confinement and vines thrash in a facsimile of anger at Bethany being in danger. She responds with a soothing urge directed at the plant, pacifying it, lest the greenhouse suffer any damage.
An arm winds around her upper back and Bethany leans in. She is the far more gore-covered of the two, and would feel bad for transferring more of it to him if not for the fact that both of their expensive and meticulously selected sets of attire are far beyond saving. The numbness is beginning to fade and walking becomes easier as they make their way to a staff exit without further interruption.
It leads to an alleyway full of trash, overflowing dumpsters and recycling bins, and a cardboard baler that has seen better days. Blessedly, the scent of blood and smoke clinging to them overpowers everything else. Out here, the stars seem brighter than before they headed inside. Though, perhaps that was merely a trick of the light. As they exit the alley Bethany inhales deeply, testing the capacity of her lungs. It is slowly growing easier to breathe. Something she is deeply thankful for, as they still need to make distance.
When they are a block away the restaurant detonates.
"You enjoyed that, didn't you?" Bethany queries, a sense of wonder in her voice.
"Didn't you?" His expression is carefully absent of judgement, tone carrying a neutrality that implies he may know more than she is willing to admit.
"β¦Perhaps a little. It felt good to get to fight back this time. Though I'm not as good at it as you are."
Their enemies deserved it, had earned their fates by attacking first. But was this truly catharsis? There has been such needless destruction. Bethany's strongest feeling might just be a wish it never happened at all.
She is silent for a moment, listening as the sound of sirens approach. Whoever had blown the building up had been thorough, every floor had collapsed, all that remained was a smouldering heap belching a plume of ugly smoke into the sky.
"So this is what it means? To be like us? A Tyrant?"
Whether she means the power they had both unleashed that evening, or being hunted, is uncertain. Perhaps both.
He is frozen in place, feeling the tip of a sharp knife against his throat, a gloved hand holding his face in a firm but gentle grasp, one of his arms now bent behind his back, held firmly (and a little painfully), restraining him.
How frightening!
He leans into the touch just a little, allowing the very tip of the knife to press deeper into his skin as he brushes his back closer to HUNK's chest, eyeing him with a crooked smirk on his lips.
She was quite adorable when she started working for him, but was too young for him to consider her looks beyond that, at the time. There was something about her short brown hair with a touch of red to it and her big curious eyes that reminded him of someone else, from the (relative) innocence of his own youth, and it had somewhat endeared him to her more than he had planned to allow himself.
She had matured into a beautiful woman, since; bright, youthful beyond her age, and still filled with tenderness that was beyond him to ever understand. Her once curious gaze was now knowledgeable and confident and it seemed she had found her place in the world. Seeing her more recent pictures pinned to the files he had been updated with, had filled him with a strange sense of melancholy.
Helena is a bit of an unpredictable hothead; it's something that both appeals to him and makes him cautious in his dealings. She is certainly a striking woman to look at, and her drive and passion are impressive.
There is a degree of warmth that she exudes with her appearance, in her gaze, and her voice. It's unlikely that they would ever meet on less than hostile grounds; but such conviction was always a worthy trait he had found fascinating in those that chose to oppose him.
But, as far as appearances go, what can he say, he likes brunettes and always appreciated extra plush on the curves.
He is fairly average, perhaps not even particularly aesthetically pleasing to the eye. His features aren't very harmonious and he looks a little older than he is; a likely outcome of an irregular early development due to poor living conditions.
But Wesker finds his unapologetic attitude rather charming, and there is a natural and confident sense of masculinity about him that is quite attractive.
He is hyper competent, quick to think on his feet, and adapts to stressful and ever-shifting situations instantaneously, always finding his advantage, and that is very enticing.
She was always pretty. Too pretty for William, actually, as many had so cruelly joked around Arklay. Her nose was, perhaps, a little too prominent for her face and she always looked tired, even when they were all too young to look that way, but she was undeniably a pretty girl, still. It was the first and final time he had ever felt self-conscious about his own appearance and had wondered if he couldn't measure up.
More importantly, she had proven to be more intelligent than him; brilliant, even. She could keep up with William in ways that he could not, and with Birkin's discovery of G and pursuit of getting it approved by Spencer for research, he knew their time together was almost up.
In a way, it was comforting to leave him in Annette's hands, knowing that he wouldn't be completely alone, and someone looked out for his interests in a place where no one else would.
π₯, ada wong, either gender presentation, maybe even the crow
Wesker dispenses compliments and insults
Ada always walks into the room like she owns the place. Even as a young spy, her poise was enviable and her little stumbles along the way were endearing.
She has a certain elegance about her, no matter what she wears and what role she plays; it's magnetic and impossible to ignore, for most. She dresses and styles her appearance perfectly and knows what flatters her figure. Humans are superficial; they feel special when a beautiful woman gives them attention. It is always amusing to observe the way they so often cave to her with such ease. The power she can hold over them by her mere presence alone is fascinating.
He would also be lying if he said that he doesn't find her defying and antagonising him on occasion, rather enticing.
He has always enjoyed watching her work. Her brows furrowed in a particular way and her gaze was sharp and focused, watching the task at hand like a lioness tracking her prey.
The contrast of her dark hair against her pale skin, and her blue eyes framed by dark lashes, made her a striking woman to look at, as did her confident and precise body language.
She was rather young, still, when they had first met, and still coming into herself, by the time they met again in cold mountains of Caucasus, she was a woman forged through hellfire; beautiful and deadly.
Objectively speaking, he is a handsome fellow, of course. But his looks do nothing for Wesker, personally. He doesn't see anything aesthetically interesting in him, only 'pleasant'.
The noise of the street vanished behind a heavy metal door, that had been hidden in a narrow alley of an unremarkable district. A tall coffered ceiling held up by Corinthian pillars extended above deep crimson carpet that snaked its way along the hallway, contrasting the carved white marble above.
Mobile phones and other electronics were strictly forbidden past the vestibule, as were hats, coats, and anything else obscuring one's identity. As a neutral ground of sorts for intelligence agencies and other organisations that traded in information and 'unique' goods, it was a place for powerful men to make alliances, resolve interpersonal conflicts, or barter with one another.
Conversations scarce rose above a murmur in club 'Hereditas.' There was plenty of secluded seating placed in a circle around a fountain in the middle of a large open hall drowning in meticulously maintained topiary that served both as a decoration and obscured the conversing guests, more. Heavy curtains lined the booths with leather seating, and the walls were painted with frescoes of mythical beasts, Gods, and scenes of legend.
Family crests pinned to a jacket, embroidered in fabric, or engraved upon cufflinks, and signet rings were not an uncommon sight and new members were always sponsored by an esteemed senior, that put their reputation on the line for whoever they were presenting to the club.
"Baxter, come over here-" An older man, known to him as Ambrose Nikolaou, had drawn his attention, gesturing to him with his hand. He was a useful acquaintance, interested in trading 'exotic' materials. Some of them were quite useless, pertaining to concerns of one's masculinity, 'spiritual healing', and superstitious practices, but the decadent and the wealthy had their whims and he was willing to oblige, for a price. On occasion, they would provide an intriguing lead, and that night had proven to be a lucky one.
"What is G, if not our first glimpse of a true rebirth?" Two unfamiliar young men were seated by Ambrose's table, one of them animatedly talking at the other. "Infinite rejuvenation of one's body... infinite growth... it's all chaos, for now, but once we tame it, immortality will be within our reach!"
"Keep quiet, Sebastian." Ambrose pat the young man's shoulder, perhaps, a little too aggressively, and gestured him to move, leaving the other guest alone at the table.
It was strange. He didn't seem quite familiar, per se, but there was something-
Ambrose had interrupted his thoughts once more, offering him a seat in the both, opposite the stranger. Ambrose himself remained standing, lighting a cigar and enjoying a puff, before speaking, again. "My guest here claims to have something real special in store. You're my assessor, these days. I'll wire you your fees."
Wesker merely nodded in response. Such 'assessments' were not uncommon. Whether the materials were B.O.W. related or rare and illegal biomaterial finds of use, it was an easy job that paid well and had led him to some interesting findings.
He faced the stranger, as the heavy crimson curtain draped behind Ambrose, leaving the two of them secluded in the booth.
