barbie!

21 she/her wesker sounds like a great guy

[ghoullean]

𓏏†𓏏 ︶  barbie ★ 21 !

⋆𖦹° she/her/hers ‧꩜ ↯

↳ wesker’s no.1 thinker ! ‧₊˚⊹

bisexual , minors DNI , comms closed !

got an awful immune system, my posts can be inconsistent ! + i rarely proof-read my uncommissioned work, expect some mistakes !

୨୧ aspiring author ,

☩ i write about most RE characters !

my ko-fi !

[ghoullean]

hi you lot. so i’ve permanently lost access to my google drive that i’ve been using to store my writing on for the last 8 years. this includes finished & unfinished comms that people have paid literal money for.

i am absolutely devastated. there were pictures of my late father on there that are now completely lost with no way of recovering them.

i am so fucking sorry to everyone who’s commissioned me but yet to receive it. i’ll be dming you shortly to try and reconcile things.

it may seem silly but this is a significant loss to me.

i’m not sure when i’ll be back.

love you x

[ghoullean]

its my birthday. wesker smut in the works. love you xx

[ghoullean]

wesker the type of guy to react to your nudes with “👍” and then leave you on seen for eight hours.

[womanappreciater]

late to it but heres unfinished pieces inspired by @fangfetish and their writing piece of james

[ghoullean]

I just found your page today and can I say I love the way your write Wesker so much ?? Maybe it's the way you describe actions or feelings , or genuinely the way you let him speak ? I can't explain it. It just is such...yummy food to me. Yum yum yum. 😼

when i have a bullshit day, i often come to my asks and feel such an overwhelming surge of gratitude.

happy belated valentines to you! yes you, directly. fourth wall break.

i started officially posting on tumblr july last year. i genuinely didn’t expect anything to come of it because at the time, i had no idea if wesker was even on the radar for most people.

i feel so appreciated and loved by you all. like my writing means something to someone in one way or another and that’s truly all i’ve ever wanted.

yeah, i write porn but i’m glad i can provide a brief escape for you all. life gets difficult.

i love you all so much and i’m eternally grateful for how kind you’ve all been to me. i’ve been overcoming some really harsh writers block and you’ve all been so unbelievably patient and understanding.

love you. happy late valentines day. mwah.

- barbie xoxoxo

[ghoullean]

wesker in love ?

genuinely.

cw; domestic violence. manipulation. wesker is not a good person.

possible but it isn’t sweet. it isn’t cute.

it’s nasty. depraved. violent.

his entire being is lost within you. fragments of himself shattered and laid out neatly for you to observe.

use his arms as your coat rack. his hands as a foot stool. his teeth as scissors. all of him. all of it is yours.

he dismisses you quickly most days. speech quick and stilted. keeps you at arms length even though he so desperately wants to be absorbed by you.

you’re home late one night. frantic questioning laid to one side.

he slaps you once. tells you that you aren’t to be late again or he’ll hit you harder the second time.

his message brutal. the delivery calm.

you’re conditioned within an inch of your life. posture, speech, mannerisms. he refines it all.

you respond well. you sit upright and save the usual hunch in your spine for moments when you’re completely alone. you broaden your vocabulary, speak when spoken to.

he offers you his hand when you walk downstairs. holds his coat over your head when it rains. opens the car door for you.

you argue and he’s the first to shove you.

hard.

so much love, he doesn’t know what to do with it all. how he could possibly express it without violence.

you sob. feeling the cold kitchen tiles at your palms.

like routine, he picks you up so kindly. he becomes soft, pliant. allows your tears to fall on his freshly ironed shirt.

he says nothing. waits until you’re calm and discards you all over again.

you go out to dinner. he makes simple conversation. you wonder if he’d have been better off as a friend.

he was pleasant. funny. oddly charming.

wesker says he’s fond of you. says you look ever so beautiful in the dim light.

it wasn’t you. it was his design. all of it.

he bleaches your hair blonde whilst you both drink wine and converse with each other about mundane things.

he notices you slouching and prods at the top of your spine.

always observing. always correcting.

the pleasant nature of the night gone and you’re reminded of what you’ve come to live with.

he doesn’t kiss you. says he wont waste his time on such trivial portrayals of love.

you sleep in bed alone most nights. wesker furiously concocting in his office. the bed is colder when he gets in.

you have enough of him one night.

you ask him why he keeps trying to change you. why he isn’t happy with the way you are.

he becomes furious even though that anger isn’t visible on his face.

he grabs you by the hair and twists you beneath him. positioned so all you can do is wince and look up at him.

you’re a shell of a person without him, he spits. and look how far you’ve come with his help.

you’re welcome to leave if you wish, my little dove. just remember what an awful life you’re going back to.

he gives you a necklace. it’s heavy yet beautiful.

you aren’t to take it off.

he doesn’t believe in marriage. finds it too superficial. that necklace is a symbol of your love. that’s all you need.

be fucking grateful.

but he wont wear one. jewellery brings him out in awful rashes.

you don’t mention his collection of various watches.

wesker loves you.

fucks you just right, makes you whine and beg for more of him.

but your scalp becomes sore from how many times hes ragged you around. you flinch when he raises a hand.

wesker loves you.

so much.

he’s so very fond of you.

but you often wonder why he went through all the stress of changing you completely.

[ghoullean]

my take on wesker headcanons pertaining to him having autism + ocd !!

just want to thank you all really quick for giving me so many ideas in my asks !! beautiful stuff truly. that begs the question of would you prefer full blown fics or just some cute little headcanons? you let me know.

now lets get down to the meat of it all.

if you want to skip the rant, you can hc wesker as you like. i physically don’t care. he’s not real. he has autism? yeah fuck it. he’s experienced testicular torsion? sure, why not.

that being said,

autism is definitely something i believe he has yet doesn’t find himself too hindered by it to really tell anyone. people call him a “passionate virologist” and he’d take that over “that one blonde autistic scientist.”

ocd however? no, i personally don’t headcanon him with ocd.

my credentials? i have ocd. i’ve struggled with this disorder for as long as i can remember and it really isn’t something i take lightly.

wesker is orderly, neat & loves control.

i see how this can seem like ocd to most people because of the exposure we’ve had to this disorder through film, books ect. but ocd typically doesn’t manifest like that.

none of what i’ve seen from wesker appears compulsive. he has an obsessive need for control but that comes from having the ability to make decisions for himself withheld at a very young age.

he asserts himself, keeps things orderly because he wants to not because his brain is telling him he must.

ocd comes with horrific intrusive thoughts. constant anxiety and unbelievably exhausting rituals (if we’re talking about traditional ocd and not pure o.) that often seem frantic.

from what i’ve researched into wesker’s character, he doesn’t seem overwrought with anxiety at any point. which is a CRUCIAL part of ocd. the worry leads to the compulsions which relieves the anxiety momentarily only for the worry to come back and the cycle repeats.

his need for control and the fact he’s neat is simply just a part of him. he hates clutter because he does. not because it makes him feel like hes suffocating.

again hc as you wish. i physically don’t care. just my little take!

[ghoullean]

i know fluff isn’t really my area of expertise and i know wesker isn’t the most comforting character ever but i’ve wanted to write something like that? specifically pertaining to certain disorders and disabilities. drop a little ask with a disorder/disability you have/would like to be represented and i’ll add my little two pence.

comfort goes a long way

[ghoullean]

old leon does something to me

[ghoullean]

You knew Wesker's routine like the back of your own hand.

He rarely ever strayed from it. It was one that suited him and conveniently enough, you too.

So when he started coming home at 3am instead of his usual 8pm. You’d become curious.

It wasn't like him.

He needed a strict regimen. He ate at a certain time. Slept at a certain time. It's what fulfilled him. Kept him whole.

Kept your mind at ease.

"Where've you been?" You swallowed thickly. Unable to quite articulate the sternness you'd practiced in the mirror.

Wesker was in the motion of taking off his coat and hanging it on the rack beside your front door.

He should’ve jumped. Been taken by surprise that you’d waited up for him.

Something told you he’d been anticipating this for quite some time.

"Working." He responded quickly as if he'd rehearsed that, too.

He paid no real mind to you, only cared about smoothing the creases out of his jacket.

“It’s three in the morning.”

“It is indeed.” Wesker agreed with you. His tone was light. Lighter than you’d ever heard it anyway.

You soothed your palm with the knuckles of your thumb. Toying with creases, redrawing them over and over.

He’d taken to the table shoe rack and kicked up his heel. Untying the laces of his oxfords.

“I’ve been waiting for you.” You almost choked on the syllables.

Tears pricking at your eyes and threatening to spill over onto your cheeks.

“I didn’t ask you to.” He spoke with that same lack of inflection his tone always carried.

So dismissive. So unbelievably infuriating.

“You ought to rest, my dear.” Wesker spared you a brief glance, chuckling to himself as he stacked his shoes away on the rack ever so neatly.

Like you were a painting on the wall he’d seen thirty times over and its appeal had long expired.

Now it was simply just furniture rather than a decorative piece.

“How can I?” Your hands rubbed at your temples, mouth hurrying to speak before he could interrupt you. Again.

The grandfather clock in the living room ticked its repetitive tune. It seemed louder than ever at this time. Digging into your eardrums and ripping them open.

Wesker opened his mouth to respond, gazing down at your bare feet on the tile. A habit of yours he despised.

“How many times have I told you to wear socks down here, hm? You need to keep yourself warm.” He clapped your shoulder with a rough hand and shoved you through the entrance to the living room.

“No- no. Wesker. Listen. You–” You felt that same emotional lump form in the back of your throat again.

You shook in place. Bubbling with devastation and anger all wrapped up into one even spread over the course of your body.

“You need me to listen to you?” Wesker finished for you, barreling ahead of you in long paces and reaching the couch.

It was as if you didn’t register anymore. You were a thing in the way. An inconvenience to Wesker’s daily goings.

“Or perhaps, I need to tell you where I’ve been? Tell you why I’m so late? And oh, goodness, I'm not cheating on you, am I?” He threw himself into the cabinet beside his armchair, fishing for the whiskey behind the Snifters.

You stilled against the doorway, leaning into the oak of the frame. Seeking comfort within its stiffness.

“Are you?” You whispered, anything louder would’ve torn into a guttural sob. One that’d disturb the eerie tranquillity of the room.

“I am.” Wesker jerked his head down in a simple, agonising nod.

“But there isn’t much you can do about that. You can’t leave. I know you can’t.” Wesker occupied his hand with the bottle of whiskey, careful not to tear the label.

“You’re more than welcome to, of course but I don’t know where you’d go.”

There was a glint in his eye. Enjoyment. Sick sadistic satisfaction of seeing you curled in on yourself and weak.

“Who?” Was all you could muster. Your body stalked forward, leaning against the fireplace.

“You needn’t know the shape of the wound.” Wesker tipped the bottle over his glass.

A hollow gargling sound occupying the space.

His finger tinkered with the rim, taking a cautious step towards your frame that was pressed into the fireplace.

Wesker’s sturdy arms instinctively drew around your back, tugging you into an embrace you made no effort to leave.

“You’re so very sensitive.” Wesker hummed, his shoulders rigid against you.

He felt like a bruise you couldn’t stop prodding at.

“I suppose that isn’t your fault. Poor thing. Off to bed now, hm? I’ll follow shortly.”

[ghoullean]

and a quick suck my CLIT to all the straight males that mischaracterise ada as a narcissist succubus whos sole purpose was to lead leons feelings astray.

she wanted to be a paediatrician when she was younger, ALRIGHT? shes very passionate about languages and fitness, OKAY? she has an extensive collection of vases because she buys herself flowers all the time, YES? her favourite season is spring and she likes to read in the sun, UNDERSTAND? she knows she cant ethically have children or adopt an animal because of her work so she babysits and pet-sits for her friends when she has the time, IS THIS CLEAR? she loves travelling and visits her mum at home every year, AFFIRMATIVE?

[skelesass]

depression redraw

[ghoullean]

SUMMER BOY!

TAGS: CAR SEX OHHHH YEAH. temperature play? kind of? idk. sub!wesker. fem!reader. a whole lot of sweat. no foreplay ): just straight fucking lowk. HUMILIATION!!!!! face slapping yes.

PAIRINGS: you x albert wesker

A/N: i yearn for summer. this cold weather is genuinely getting to me. i’m going crazy. i want to sweat my actual face off. summer come to me..

Black interior, black tinted windows.

The tongue of your seatbelt was branding its shape onto the flesh of your stomach.

Wesker’s shirt was rolled up his forearms, a formality you’d never observed before.

His left hand rested on the bottom of the steering wheel, the other sweeping up the beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

The traffic ahead stood agonisingly still. People clambering out of their cars and fanning themselves with magazines.

Patches of sweat drenched Wesker’s shirt, his body writhing underneath the blazing heat.

“Can you open the windows?” You implored Wesker, your shoe pulling the leather of your seat taut.

Wesker had taken extra precautions and enabled the childlock on his car. You’d often, absentmindedly, roll the windows down. Almost blinding him and killing you both in the process.

Wesker swiped at your ankle, clicking his fingers and pointing towards the footwell.

“You’re ruining the leather. Feet down.” Wesker grumbled, voice lacking its usual edge. Menace thinning in the presence of heat.

The gel that occupied his hair melted off in sticky clumps around his neck, blonde tufts falling and attaching to the wetness of his forehead.

You attempted every self-cooling measure possible. Fanning yourself hysterically with your hands, pressing your face against the car vents, even turning yourself upside down and sticking your head into the footwell.

“I’m melting.” You whined, scratching at your scalp. Your hair was a damp mess, the ruffling of your hair bringing only momentary relief.

“Leather interior is inconvenient in weather like this.” Wesker swallowed thickly, reaching for water in his cup-holder that wasn’t there.

You swore you’d heard Wesker whimper, like a dog when you’d given them a treat in a closed fist.

“Inconvenient? More than incon-fucking-venient. This is torture.” You sighed with exasperation. That sigh only amplifying the heat.

“I could think of more torturous conditions.” Wesker tried, humour in his voice failing catastrophically.

“Right. Of course. Because you’re holding up so well.” You bit, gesturing to his appearance growing more dishevelled by the second.

You weren’t sure if the heat had turned you mad but your hands moved to the hem of your t-shirt. Debating whether you should yank it off. The fabric was suffocating, strangling in this all consuming hotness.

It was like a fever you couldn’t shake, even if you plunged yourself into a deep freezer.

You couldn’t move fast enough, hauling your t-shirt up over your head and tossing it over to the back seat.

It took Wesker longer than usual to process what you’d done.

His eyes lingering on the look of your chest heaving up and down with each breath, droplets of sweat glistening in the heat.

“Put your t-shirt back on.” Wesker cleared his throat calmly, tearing his gaze from you and to the stationary car in-front.

“Tinted windows. No one can see me.” You reminded him, knocking your knuckle on the tinted pane.

“Mm, but I can.” Wesker reached his arm backwards, retrieving your shirt and pitching it onto your lap.

“Fuck’s that supposed to mean?” Your face contorted into a scowl and crumpled the shirt in your hands.

Wesker broke out a languid chuckle at your immediate offence.

He tore the shirt from your grasp and gently patted at the slick gathering at your chest.

Intentionally or not, your teeth caught your bottom lip. Your eyes half-shut, sleepy and gazing up at him through your eyelashes.

A boyish gleam tugged at his lips, discarding the shirt on your lap again and reaching for your outer thigh.

An attempt at ragging you closer to his frame.

Your skin was tacky, tethering both of your bodies together like velcro.

“I doubt the traffic’ll move anytime soon.” Wesker spared a glance towards the cars again, narrowing his eyes at the people bent over in desperation.

You averted your gaze alongside him.

His mouth connected with your neck, craned over the centre console.

A frenzied mouth lapping up the salt of wetness.

Your hand moved to his hair and flicked the sunglasses resting on his head to the floor.

The sharp metal thud earning an indifferent groan from Wesker’s throat.

Carefully, his teeth nipped at the cartilage at the very front of your neck. His body awkwardly shifting to get a better angle.

“Wesker–” You gasped, tossing your head backwards into the head rest.

“C’mon. We’re in public– and there’s people.” You insisted, making no real effort to move him off you.

“Tinted windows.” He grumbled into the soft skin of your neck, mimicking your earlier gesture of knocking your knuckles against the window.

You beat out a half-hearted laugh, nodding as confirmation to continue.

Wesker’s fingers dug into the satiny silk of your thigh and hitched your leg up over his shoulder.

You weren’t much of a ballerina but you sure were flexible enough.

His lips moved to kiss down the inside of your thigh, keeping one hand firmly wrapped around your ankle.

Wesker moved his other hand underneath the small of your lower back, mouth maintaining its contact with your thigh then eventually to your calf.

Movement less precise. More lazy.

The sun made even the most controlled of people sloppy. The warmth forcing the earth’s inhabitants into a sick submission.

Your hand mussed into Wesker’s hair, the other occupying the button of your shorts.

His eyes glared with intent, blue of his iris shrinking and making way for dilated pupils.

“Come. Sit on my lap.” Wesker mumbled into your calf, pressing soft, wet kisses. The aggression he often sought for during intimate moments vanishing into an eerily non-chalant facade.

Wesker pulled away briefly, wrangling your waist into his hands and shouldering your leg back onto the floor.

You simply sat back, tensing your muscles.

His patience was thinning like syrup left in a microwave, your lack of cooperation was only proving to frustrate him further.

“Where are your manners?” You teased cautiously, folding your leg beneath you.

The leather. The leather interior– you were ruining it.

“My manners?” Wesker scoffed, still grappling and attempting to shift you atop him.

“Your manners. Sit on my lap, please.” You shrugged and remained as stiff as you could in your seat.

The heat covered you both like a thick winter blanket.

Wesker, admittedly, felt too fragile to argue. He wasn’t dressed for this kind of weather. A long sleeve shirt and black slacks.

“Fine.” Wesker huffed again, inhaling recycled air by that point.

“Sit on my lap, please.” The sentence came out in one breath, looking at the dashboard. A mocking of you rather than it having any actual weight.

“I’m sorry, Wesker. I don’t really think you meant that.” You clasped your hands together in-front of your stomach, puffing air into your cheeks.

The heat was making him delirious and clearly it had the same effect on you.

“My dear.” Wesker groaned, resting his forehead on your hip bone. Tone exhausted.

“Please will you sit on my lap?” He pleaded.

God, you might as well have stripped him naked and thrown him outside. His face churned an unnatural shade of red, something other than him simply just overheating.

You glared at him for a beat. Eyes gazing into his defeated leer.

“Since you asked me so sweetly.” You snickered, wrestling over the console onto his lap.

Landing on his thighs with an almost inaudible grunt, you felt the tent pricking up in his slacks.

Throbbing cock jutting irritably in his pants. The sound of him sucking air behind his teeth. You taking up his peripheral vision.

You’d never seen him blush.

Until now.

Wesker’s frantic efforts to hide his face by crashing his lips against yours were laughable.

He was smart yet stupid enough to think that’d work on you.

A lone finger pressed at his chest, leaning backwards and lightly resting your back against the steering wheel.

“Careful of the horn.” Wesker cleared his throat, lips pulling into a papery line.

You’d, then, leaned your entire body weight on the wheel. An abrupt honk sounding out into the road.

Heads turned towards Wesker’s car. Middle fingers thrown upwards towards the windshield.

“You brat.” Wesker snapped through gritted teeth.

You raised your hand, delivering a harsh sting of a slap across his cheek.

“Don’t call me that.” You hissed, gauging Wesker’s immediate reaction.

Wesker wasn’t so familiar with so-called ‘corrective measures’ being used on himself.

A whine.

A boyish, drawn out whine punching out from the depths of his gut.

Wesker was afraid he liked that more than he was supposed to.

“Of course. I apologise.” Wesker gasped lightly, testing the apology in his mouth.

For the first time in a while, he felt as though he wasn’t losing control.

No.

Rather learning the rules. Obeying them. Following you.

Your lips collided with his, spit swapping between your mouths. The pair of you panting, beside yourselves with sensation.

Wesker almost gagged on his own breath, chest almost collapsing in on itself with how brutal his heartbeat was in his throat.

You dragged a hand down his chest, reaching down to the crotch of his pants and harshly pressing down on his cock.

“Fuck.” Wesker’s whole body jumped at the contact, hand clamping at the base of your neck.

“You like that?” You cooed ever so sweetly, peppering kisses along the expanse of his jaw and neck.

Wesker’s hand gently smoothed your locks of hair, as if to cradle your head. Like you were a gentle little thing.

“Do you?” You asked again, stilling your hand.

Wesker jolted into a quick frenzy of nods and stuttered yesyesyes’es.

Unravelling himself right beneath you.

Sweat had then completely drenched his shirt. White turning transparent.

A gentle mist had formed in the car, fogging up the windows.

He wondered if that’d be noticeable from outside. Did tinted mean fog proof? He was to take that question to the dealership the following morning.

Eventually, your hand slipped through his waistband and freed his cock from their previous confines.

His tip pulsed, standing to attention. Anticipating.

Your movements were unhurried, strategic.

You hoisted yourself up onto your knees, pulling the crotch of your shorts to the side.

Wesker’s eyes kept locked on yours, running his hands up your frame. Committing each curve to memory.

“Would you like to fuck me, Wesker?” You asked softly, amusing yourself with how focused on you he truly was.

“Mm.” Was all he’d managed, mouth slightly agape.

“I’ll need more than that.” You swiped your tongue across your bottom lip, feeding him the lines he’d used on you before.

Wesker’s face heated up again, patting at the sweat rolling down the sides of his face again.

He knew if he’d verbalised his want. You’d be given the authority he was desperately still grasping at.

Wesker jutted his chin to the side, laughing at himself incredulously. For the situation he’d found himself in. For him wanting you to slap him again.

“Use me.” was all that he’d managed.

Wesker assisted you in pulling your shorts to the side, allowing you to set your pace.

For once.

A crash of arousal shot through your stomach, threatening to split your composure open.

You weren’t sure how Wesker maintained his facade when you’d fuck. How he’d hear you whine so beautifully for him and not want to tear you apart.

You sank your tightness around the girth of his cock. His size wasn’t one you were sure you’d ever get used to.

Wesker tossed his head back, trapping his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Oh my god,” you grappled onto his shoulders, realising that you weren’t at the right angle to bounce as freely as you’d have liked.

Wesker’s hands slipped underneath your thighs, coming to your rescue without even needing to ask.

“Fine?— you’re— god, tight.” Wesker groaned and lifted you up then gently lowered you back down again. Attempting to develop a momentum you were comfortable with.

“Yeah, fuck.” You bit out, enveloping his mouth into another kiss. Swollen lips bruising against his.

“Give me your cock. Give me that fucking—“ you moaned out. If Wesker had the thing tinted, must’ve made it sound-proof too, right?

Right?

“You’re a mess.” Wesker whined, swallowing back the flurry of moans that built in his throat.

You struck him again at that, using more force than you intended this time around.

Another whine. His tip pounding inside of your slick cunt.

“Good. You’re doing so well, dear-heart. Hit me again.” Wesker’s arms were working overtime, trying to accommodate your rhythm.

“Please.”

He was learning.

You’d struck him again, harder then. Enough to leave an angry palm shaped blotch on his face.

Wesker saw the brief panic flash across your features. Fear of genuinely hurting him. You weren’t dominant in nature. This was a first for you.

A first for him too.

“I don’t mark easily.” He reassured you, implying the furious red patch on his face would fade in no time.

The tightening of your cunt sent him spiralling again.

“Oh, fuck.” Wesker’s voice raised to a register he’d only ever used when disciplining someone.

“Use my cock. Use me just like that.” Wesker encouraged, gritting his teeth with how close he was.

“You gonna cum?” You taunted, tipping Wesker’s chin upwards to meet your gaze.

“Are you going to let me?” Wesker batted back, a knowing smirk creeping up onto his features.

“Say please.”

“Please.” His response was instantaneous, clutching at the skin of your waist with a feverish grip.

You stifled out a laugh, quickly vanishing into an elongated moan again.

“You can cum— fuck, cum inside my cunt like a good—“ you cut yourself off, drenched in sweat and ears filled with animalistic whines scratching at Wesker’s throat.

Wesker’s release sought after him as quickly as your permission came.

Cum shot out from his needy cock and coated your soft walls with strings of white.

Spent, Wesker’s arms shook. Still managing to hoist your weight up.

His cock ached. It bordered on painful. Still riding him the way you were.

“That’s it.” Wesker panted, shifting in his seat to get a better angle of your cunt. Hitting that spot that made your vision blur and ears ring.

“I’m gonna— cum. Oh god—“ you strangled out, hardly able to say anything at all.

The same shock of arousal pooled in your stomach, travelling right to your cunt and then eventually reached your stomach.

A rush of ecstasy shattered through your core. Wrenching a cacophony of shouts from your stomach.

You fell limp, resting your head on Wesker’s broad shoulder. The pair of you simmering in your post-sex musk.

“Has the traffic moved?” You asked softly, tone delicate.

Wesker rubbed his palm in circles over your back.

“No but we are getting stares.” Wesker pointed with his index and thumb towards the frankly, sickened group of people in the car ahead of you.

“What?”

“Oh, my dear. Did you think this car was sound-proof?”

[ghoullean]

so badly want to start writing abt james sunderland like i used to.. thinking

[ghoullean]

MIDDLE AGE N’ ME.

TAGS: mid life crisis wesker. yeah.

PAIRINGS: albert wesker x reader

A/N: giggled so bad writing this. love you. enjoy! no smut here though, sorry!

⏔⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔o᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔⏔

Wesker perched in his arm-chair. His posture unsure. His arms unable to choose between being draped along the back of his chair or rested on his knees.

An internal conflict was waging in his eyes. Fighting the urge to survey his immediate surroundings as he usually would even though he’d lived in his house for more than a decade.

You’d think he’d known the layout by now but you’d always catch his keen eye wandering over his bookshelves.

It was evident this nonchalance he was attempting to feign didn’t come naturally to him. 

An aliens attempt at fitting in with the human race.

"Wesker, are you-- alright?" You probed gently, looking up from the book in your palms.

Wesker only slouched further into his chair and winced. Betraying years of neat, pristine posture forced his face into a grimace.

"Mm, yes. I'm.. cool." Wesker cleared his throat. Usually he’d reject all forms of colloquial speech.

Only idiots engage in such.. Improper vocabulary, my dear. You’re not an idiot, are you? 

You’d tucked your bottom lip beneath your top teeth, chewing and swallowing down the guffaw that boiled tightly in your throat.

"You're 'cool'?" You almost wanted to reach up and feel the temperature of his forehead. 

"Yes, yes. I'm indeed very cool." He confirmed and fought back the hideous roll of his eyes as he spoke that same word again. 

"That's what they say now, isn't it? Cool. Chill. Very casual of me to say. Don't you think?” 

You sat for a moment or rather, let him sit with his words for a moment. 

You’d noticed then, upon further inspection, Wesker had switched out his usual rectangular sunglasses for tear-drop shaped lenses with a caramel brown tint. The frames were skeletal, thin. 

Unflattering on Wesker’s broad face. 

“They? Who’s they?” You asked, now intrigued by Wesker’s sudden change.

He was usually so clinical and ritualised about his appearance. You were certain this change didn’t just spawn out of nowhere. 

“The youth– kids. The kids. I’m hip now, you see. I’m going with the.. Flow.”

Only dead fish go with the flow, dear heart. 

You jerked your head upwards, clearing your throat as a buffer to choose your next line of wording very precisely. 

“This isn’t about your 50th birthday, is it? I’ve told you, you’re not old. You’re just–” 

Wesker let out a bout of stilted laughter and tucked his hands underneath his armpits. 

“I’ll have you know I am very much comfortable– cool with my age and the aging process. Thank you.”

There was a kind of prepubescent edginess to his mannerisms. Like someone struggling through the throes of maturity and medicates the hormones by defying immediate authority. 

“It doesn’t seem like it.” You responded, tone sharper than you’d intended. 

Admittedly, it was hilarious seeing the esteemed Albert Wesker lose himself to a mid-life crisis. You honestly hadn’t considered it a possibility for him. 

A man like Wesker, so secure in his identity, longing for his youth again? Impossible. 

You’d half expected for him to lash out at you then for speaking so pointedly but he didn’t, though he was definitely contemplating the idea. 

“We should go on vacation. The Bahamas. I’ll take time off work. We should– yes, we should relax.” Wesker nodded towards you, tipping his sunglasses and looking up at you through the flimsy frames. 

“You’re going to take time off work? To relax?” You laughed to yourself, gently slapping your thigh. 

“Albert Wesker, virologist for the Umbrella Corporation, wants to relax? In the fucking Bahamas?” There really was something viciously wrong. 

You can’t remember the last time Wesker had ‘relaxed’. Well maybe he had if his unique version of relaxation was making bioweapons of mass destruction. 

“In the fucking Bahamas.” Wesker confirmed, playing with the feel of the casual profanity in his mouth. 

This wasn’t the man you’d come to love. This was a complete mess unfolding right in-front of your eyes. 

It was somewhat endearing but it certainly wasn’t him. 

“You know what? That’s an amazing idea, Wesker. Just fantastic. Y’know what, Wesker just seems too formal. Not your style anymore.” You surrendered, clasping your hands together.

“Al. Short for Albert, perfect, right?”

“Al.” Wesker repeated, face crumpling into a scowl.

You could see his body contort with the discomfort of such an informal way of speaking. 

“I think I’d rather be shot.” Wesker shook his head, waving his hands in the air. 

He rose from his seat, looking out through the small tinted window that he’d had fitted for his light sensitivity. One that didn’t burn holes in his corneas when he gazed through it without his sunglasses.

“You should dye your hair too, Al. My darling Al. Black? Brown? Oh– maybe some frosted tips? Instead of that awfully mature slick back.” You spoke further, envisioning Albert as a completely different person. 

It was nausea inducing. 

“What’s wrong with my hair?” Wesker frowned, smoothing a hand over the gel cast that was his hair. He was very particular. It had to be as hard as a rock. Impenetrable. 

“It’s not cool– I might take some inspiration from you, y’know? Get a tattoo. Live a little.” You smiled sweetly.

Wesker snapped his head to meet your gaze, eyes narrowing or maybe widening. You couldn’t tell through his sunglasses.

“No. No. No. No. No Tattoo’s. No.” Wesker declared, almost pleading. 

Your beautiful, unblemished skin. How could you taint it so easily? He could’ve fainted. 

“You’re cool now! You’re a chill guy. What’s wrong with a little tattoo? You’re Al. Al would let me get a tattoo.” You asked, sitting upright in your chair now. 

“Stop calling me Al. It’s horrid. Anyone would think I’m some sort of hipster with a name like that.” Wesker huffed, placing a hand to his forehead like a damsel in distress.

“You’re acting like some sort of hipster wanting to go to the Bahamas and wearing those– godawful sunglasses.” You chuckled, shrugging at the honesty of your confession. 

“I’m old.” Wesker sighed woefully, grappling with his hands behind his back. 

“You’re not old.” 

“I’m becoming arthritic. I’m sure of it.” He commented, looking away from you and sparing you a quick glance momentarily.

“You’re becoming dramatic, that’s what I’m sure of.” You raised your arm to gently soothe Wesker’s bicep. 

“Look at me. I’m as skinny as a damn needle. I’ve hardly got any muscle left. Osteoporosis typically develops in those aged fifty. I’m wasting away.” Wesker gently swatted your hand away and wandered off back to his armchair. 

“Albert Wesker doesn’t pity himself.” You spoke, gesturing to the door of his office. 

“Get in there and do something. Cure osteoporosis. Make a magical potion to ensure you live to three hundred years old or whatever it is you do.” 

Wesker grunted, nodding and rising from his seat. 

“Fine but because I want to. I want to.. Cure osteoporsis. That’s.. cool.”

[ghoullean]

dni if you’re a radqueer / proship.

the “you” and “reader” i write about and refer to is always an adult.

i always write with the idea that “you” are over the age of 25.

yes, wesker is a complicated character and morally grey. that doesn’t mean i’d ever, under any circumstances, write anything remotely sexual involving someone underage.

you’ve genuinely lost the fucking plot if you think that’s an acceptable thing to ask someone and i cannot believe i’ve been asked more than once.

stay out of my dms & asks you absolute freaks