Summary: And when the experiments become all too much for you to bear, you find serenity and peace within Wesker.
Cross posted on Ao3 - Warnings: Medical experimentation/malpractice, Hurt/comfort, Fluff (?),
“Won’t you be good?”
Right now, you’re placed on Wesker’s lap. Your fingertips dig into your sides in an attempt to soothe yourself, put an end to the overflow of tears rolling down your cheeks that have grown to become sensitive. You’ve been crying for what has felt like hours. You’re fatigued, and behind your eyes, a dull ache sets and makes itself at home. Likely a result of all the emotions that have been freed from within your chest, now wrecking your form.
You’re in shambles, essentially.
Wesker bounces his knee, the one you’re sitting on. It feels condescending. He rocks you like you’re an infant needing to be comforted, but you don’t complain. Your legs hang off the side of his other thigh, while a heavy and warm hand runs up and down your back in gentle strokes, in rhythm with the way your body trembles with every heartfelt and distraught sob escaping your form. Clothed in what was once a fresh hospital gown that has now been coated in your sweat, you feel the pressure of his touch against you. It exposes what remains of your bottled up emotions, providing reassurance as you cling to him like a lifeline.
You’re seated against him in his office. He’s still wearing his white coat. You hate it.
Hate how he blends in with the other doctors—akin to the psychiatrists and psychologists who examine and analyse every part of your brain and how it functions. Or the ones who restrain and subject you to what can only be described as pure torture, injections prodding and breaking your skin, metaphorically ripping apart layers of your being to analyse what grows within.
Hate how when he’s wearing that white coat, he’s nothing more than another culprit in your suffering. Complicit in your agony and trauma.
But, he’s far more than that. Somewhere to run off to when the examinations and experiments take a toll on your body.
Like now.
Your body aches with a tingling sensation, thighs beginning to go numb from a lack of movement. You don’t bother shake them. They plead with you to put some weight on them, bring them back to life. You’re a corpse against him, so it feels. Stripped of the life you once had, of the light that once shone in your round eyes. Your skin is clammy, a common side effect from the concoction of medication they prescribed you with long ago. You’ve grown used to it, familiar with the nausea they provoke, but you can’t forgive nor forget.
Can’t forget how once upon a time, life wasn’t like this.
You were more than an experiment to subject to various forms of examination and medical malpractice.
But that’s a thing of the past.
Now you’re Wesker’s patient, and he holds you against him in attempt to calm you down.
“You’re doing so well. Deep breaths, follow my lead.”
Arranging your limbs like one would do with a doll—because that’s what you are nowadays, a puppet to be orchestrated—he places you so that your chests are pressed together. You feel him take in a deep breaths, in for four, exhaling for four. You copy, like you’ve always done. Obeyed the rules, never stood out of line. Never given a reason to be punished. You breathe in harmony with him, feeling the way your cheeks grow dry with every sharp intake.
You can feel yourself growing lethargic the more time passes on. Your body feels as if it’s melting, slowly becoming liquid in his arms. You don’t mind it. The chemical and sterile scent he has to him has become a source of comfort for you, and you breathe it in like its oxygen. His familiarity brings you peace. Attaching yourself to someone who views you as an extension of his research.
He likes you well enough to keep you around like this, bend the rules slightly and allow you to have more personal and intimate relations because your cooperation is necessary in producing accurate results.
A part of you knows it’ll never be more than this. But when your fellow patients experience similar breakdowns to the one you just endured, they’re met with an increase in observations and restraints. White coats surround them, poke and prod like they’re nothing but a puzzle to solve. You’re an exception.
Your body goes slack against his at some point. The medication still courses through your veins, pumping through with every beat of your heart. A little drool leaves your lips, seeping into his godforsaken white laboratory coat. You feel no danger, you’re accustomed to this.
Beginning to accept that in this facility, your own purpose is providing more insight in their research.
Accepting that you’re Wesker’s subject. His to own
Tags: No Use of Y/N for Reader-Insert; Gender-Neutral Reader-Insert; S.T.A.R.S. Member Albert Wesker; Light Angst; Mild Hurt/Comfort; Smoking; Resolved Sexual Tension; Unresolved Emotional Tension; First Kiss; Boss/Employee Relationship; Fade to Black
Word Count: 4,165
Summary: Passing through life like a ghost people only remember when your presence is relevant is something you have long grown used to. It's just the way things are. Of course you fall for Albert when he's the only one who seems to remember you when you're not immediately needed, the only one who makes space for you, who pays attention, who sees you.
Also on Ao3: Here
Requested by anon here
a/n: I am a big "Wesker hates smoking" believer but I really wanted that scene so I had to compromise on my own morals 😔 it's the 90s and he's been stressed, working 2 jobs and planning to betray them both. Let him smoke. As a treat.
Also idk if this is just me but there's something so fucking attractive about a driver having a clean car that smells great with no litter or dust or mysterious substances in sight 😩 if you give me a lift and your car interior is nice I might be inclined to pay you back between the sheets, that's all im saying 🤭
The bar is loud. Between the music playing over the speakers and the dozens upon dozens of overlapping voices at various volumes, the clinking of glasses and billiard balls knocking into each other at the two pool tables in the corner, it's all a mess of sounds that nearly give you a headache.
You don't really want to be here, if you're being honest. It's too loud, as already established, and it's dirty, sticky, and smells too much like alcohol. All of that, you might be able to enjoy or at least put up with if it weren't for the fact that you don't even know why you came here to begin with. It's not like your presence or absence makes a difference one way or another to your coworkers.
You aren't… sad about it, per se. Sometimes you are, sure, but you've mostly made your peace with the way things are. The way they've always been. You're quiet and unobtrusive, you do your work and do it well, you help when you're needed then make yourself scarce. You don't draw attention to yourself and you never kick up a fuss. Of course it's easy for people to overlook you. You can't blame them.
And it's not like you get ignored maliciously or on purpose – when there's work to be done and you need to be involved, they always pay attention to you. It's just that as soon as your presence is no longer vital, you tend to drift away from people's minds. Your coworkers don't call you outside of work to invite you over to their place for a barbecue, conversations tend to happen around you without including you unless they need your specific input, and if you're not there, it's like you cease to exist in people's minds until the next time you show up.
It makes for a lonely existence, it's true, but it's all you've ever known so you try not to dwell on it too much.
But when Jill and Chris made the announcement that it was team bonding night and everyone was obligated to come, no exceptions – ‘Yes, Wesker, even you’ – you felt like you had to come. And you hoped that, maybe, it wouldn't be like every other time you've hung around your team members on the Alpha Team.
A foolish notion and, again, you don't blame them. But it still means that, an hour after you got here, after only briefly getting an absent greeting from Chris before he got dragged into a game of pool with Brad and Joseph, Jill semi-reluctantly joining them when they looked for a fourth, you're left sitting at the team table nursing your beer – long gone flat but you'd rather not waste money on a drink you'd enjoy more when you know it would only taste stale in your mouth right now – while Barry talks the waiter's ear off about fishing, if you're not mistaken, and Wesker is off God knows where, probably regretting coming along to this just as much as you are, if for different reasons than you.
You're honestly debating just slipping away quietly and going home.
But just when you're sliding your beer bottle away from you and preparing to push your chair away from the table and get up, a glass of something colourful and nice smelling gets set down in front of you before Wesker – speak of the devil and he shall appear, apparently – takes a seat on your left. Close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off of him, far enough away for you to look at him comfortably as if he were sat across from you.
“Captain?”
“Drink. You've been here an hour and you haven't taken more than two sips out of that,” he says, nodding towards your neglected beer before he looks back at you pointedly. “And you can call me Wesker, you know. You're the only one who calls me Captain around here.”
His attention to detail – to you – doesn't go unnoticed or unappreciated. You hadn't even realised he was paying you much mind tonight but… You should know better by now. Nothing escapes his notice and when it comes to you, specifically, he always makes it a point to include you in conversations or acknowledge your presence in small ways that most people wouldn't notice but which mean the world to you. Wesker always pays attention – he's the only one who does.
It hasn't been easy, though, not to let the tiny crush that sparked to life from the moment you met him bloom into a veritable infatuation that has grown legs and a will of its own in the past few months of working alongside him.
In your defense, he's easy to like. Even though the majority of your coworkers probably wouldn't agree.
“Doesn't seem appropriate,” you mutter timidly, not quite knowing how to act around your captain in such a casual environment, as you wrap your fingers around the glass and bring it closer to you. You take a sip under his intense scrutiny – you can't see his eyes, hidden by his glasses as they are, but you can still feel every inch of his focus concentrated around you – and find yourself pleasantly surprised at the taste. Your eyes widen when you realise you're tasting your favourite flavour and your lips pull up in a smile when you put the glass down and look back up at him. “How did you know I would like this?!”
Wesker aims a pleased smirk at you as he shrugs and leans back against his seat so he can fish around his pants pocket for something. The mystery is elucidated when he pulls out a scuffed zippo and a pack of Marlboro Reds and places them on the table in front of him.
“I pay attention,” is his easy answer, as if it's nothing out of the ordinary for someone like him to pay enough attention to someone like you to be able to guess what your favourite drink flavour would be. As if it's a normal thing for a captain to know about their subordinate. As if your heart isn't going crazy in your chest right now and you're not glad the bar lighting is shitty enough to hide any facial tells you might have that would give away how flustered you feel right now.
He pulls out a cigarette unceremoniously and places it between his lips while he picks up the zippo and flicks it open. The sight of those thin, pretty lips cradling the filter between them fascinates you and you might be staring more intently than you know would be advised, but you can't tear your eyes away as Wesker presses down on the flint wheel with his thumb and makes the wick light up before he brings the lighter up to his cigarette and makes the end of it come to life with a red-orange glow that gets reflected in his sunglasses.
He angles his crumpled carton towards you in a silent offer but you shake your head and take another sip of your drink instead. You're not much of a smoker – unless you're at least six drinks in and everyone around you is doing it – but you'd probably feel too embarrassed about borrowing a cigarette from Wesker right now even if you did smoke on the regular. Bad enough you'll have to find a way to pay him back for your drink without making things awkward.
“Are you having fun?”
You don't know why you ask that. Maybe you just don't want to sit in awkward silence with the man you're sort of, maybe, definitely in love with, maybe you just want to hear more of his hypnotic voice. Maybe you're just really curious if he's having a good time since you can count on one hand the number of times you've seen him outside of the workplace.
Wesker shrugs – the movement somehow made to look elegant instead of careless – and waits until he's expelled the smoke from his lungs to speak. You also notice that he makes sure to blow it away from you and he waves a hand to dispel it when it seems like it might still linger near you. It's sweet.
“In a way. I'm glad to see the team bonding, though I can't say that this is necessarily my idea of a good time.”
“Oh? What would you rather be doing then?” you ask, perking up in interest and scooting slightly closer to him to hear him better. The glass Wesker got you is cool and damp under your fingers, condensation dripping down the sides of it and pooling slowly at the bottom.
“Sleeping, probably,” he answers dryly with a small chuckle and it pulls an answering giggle out of you because… yeah. It's been a tough few weeks for all of you lately, lots of increasingly weird and violent cases getting dumped on your desks, and you've seen the bags under Wesker's eyes on the rare occasions he's taken his glasses off in your presence. “Reading, too. I haven't read a book for my own pleasure in what feels like years. It feels like all I ever read these days is reports.”
“I'm sorry,” you offer, knowing it's lame but not knowing how else to express your genuine sorrow at hearing how swamped and tired he is. “But maybe we can catch a break soon. Bravo Team is supposed to be sent out tomorrow to investigate those weird murders in the mountains and it seems like most of our other cases are linked to that, so that should clear most of our workload. You'll get to read your books soon, Captain.”
A half smile graces his lips in response to your words, though it disappears quickly as he takes another drag of his cigarette before he stubs it out in the ashtray, only half smoked.
“Perhaps. Anyway, enjoy the rest of your night, dear. I think I've had all the socialising I can take for now. Besides, I have an early day tomorrow.”
You're disappointed to see him leaving so soon but you know you can't exactly say anything that would convince him to stay more. After all, you were getting ready to leave before he brought you your drink – there's not much incentive for him to stay longer. You take another sip of your drink, the alcohol and the taste of your favourite flavour (and the knowledge of who picked it correctly for you) warming you up from the inside out, and watch Wesker as he gets to his feet and pockets his belongings leisurely.
Your eyes can't help being drawn to the way his light hair reflects the colourful lights of the bar or how broad his shoulders look, how muscular his arms, especially with the casual shirt he wore to the bar having its sleeves rolled up and showing off his forearms. You wish you were two strangers sharing a drink and planning to leave the bar together instead of an officer with their captain, making nice outside of work for a team bonding event that neither of you wished to attend.
You get ready to say goodbye, thinking of how to subtly inquire what the name of your drink is so you can look it up on the menu and pay him back for it tomorrow at work – shoving the money between the pages of your next report should work, right? – when Wesker surprises you again.
“Or perhaps you'd like to go home too? I didn't see you drive here and it's too late to walk home all by yourself.”
You blink up at him as you let go of your glass and wipe your damp hand on your jeans as you shake your head.
“I was going to get a taxi or something but um… If you don't mind giving me a lift…”
“Of course not. Come on, grab your things and let's go.”
You do as he says, making sure you haven't forgotten anything of value in your sudden rush to go, then follow Wesker through the crowded bar on silent feet. He takes your hand in his to guide you to the exit and make sure you don't lose him, which nearly makes you jump out of your skin and die of a heart attack right there in the middle of the bar. His skin is warm and his palm is dry where it's holding your wrist and you can feel a thousand butterflies erupting in your stomach because of that simple touch.
When you both emerge onto the sidewalk, the closing doors of the bar shutting the noise inside and making the music and chatter almost disappear altogether, you take a deep breath of the cool night air and let yourself settle back into your bones properly now that you're away from that crowded, noisy place.
Wesker doesn't let go of your wrist as he guides you to his car, parked a few feet further down the sidewalk, and he opens the passenger door for you after he unlocks his car, giving you his hand as support until you're safely buckled in and ready to go.
You look around curiously while you wait for him to round the car and get in the driver's seat. You're not familiar with this model but it looks like a very well-kept vehicle – no stray trash littering the floors, no bad smells coming from anywhere, and every surface looks so well maintained you can't truly tell if the car is new or if he just takes that good of a care to keep it in good shape. It fits Wesker, you can't deny that, and it just speaks to his sense of order and discipline that you can't catch even a whiff of tobacco from the car's interior despite him being a smoker.
You look at him as subtly as you can when he gets behind the wheel, admiring his side profile and that strong nose and jaw, wondering what it'd be like to trail kisses up his neck and across that jaw, how his nose would feel bumping into yours as you kissed.
The fantasy ends when he asks you where you want to be dropped off.
With warm cheeks and a racing heart, you give him your address before you turn your eyes to the front of the car, resolutely looking at the road and the sparse traffic in front of you instead of Wesker's beautiful face illuminated gorgeously by streetlights and passing neon signs.
“I never thanked you for my drink!” you exclaim suddenly, remembering that fact when you're a few minutes out from your place. “That was really nice of you, Captain. Thank you.”
Wesker laughs – a new sound that is incredibly pleasant as it caresses your eardrums, his deep voice sinking into you like melted chocolate in warm milk – and he waves your gratitude away as if it's not worth expressing.
“You looked more miserable than me and that's saying something. No need to think about it too deeply.”
“But I will,” you retort, quietly but still loud enough to be heard over the engine and the rushing wind passing through the open windows. “People tend to… look past me wherever I go. It's not something I mind much but it's lonely. You're the only person who ever seems to be aware I exist. It may be just a drink to you, but it means much more to me, Captain. So thank you.”
Wesker looks at you when he stops the car at a red light, hands casually resting on the steering wheel in a way that makes the veins in his hands and arms stand out starkly, in a very attractive way you might add, and he offers you a genuine, small smile after a few moments of quiet contemplation.
“Alright then. You're welcome. But if you really want to thank me, stop calling me Captain when we're not at work.”
You smile back, much wider than him, and shrug.
“Calling you Wesker feels wrong. Too… distant yet casual at the same time.”
“Would Albert be better? Not many people call me that.”
You think about it for a moment, chewing on that while the light turns green and he resumes driving, before you nod slowly.
“it makes it feel like you're an actual person I could be friends with. I prefer that,” you explain as you make your decision.
Again, he laughs at your words, but it doesn't feel like he's laughing at you. More like he's surprised by what you're saying and amused by something in the way you say it or perhaps how you chose to phrase it.
“Not many people would think that's a desirable thing.”
“Well, I'm not most people,” you answer decisively and you don't miss the way Albert's lips soften from an amused smirk to a small smile in response to your words.
You know that not everyone shares your opinion of your Captain. Just the fact that everyone calls him Wesker, as if he's just another team member and not the one in charge of the entire ST.A.R.S. squad, both Alpha and Bravo, regardless of Captain Marini's command of the latter team, is proof enough of that and it's something that has always bothered you a little. It doesn't seem to bother him, evidenced by the fact that he has insisted twice for you to stop calling him Captain at least outside of work, but it irks you. Maybe you're just too used to respecting authority figures or maybe it's because it's him.
You don't really think that digging into that any time soon would be in your best interests, however.
“No, you really aren't,” he murmurs so quietly that you almost don't catch it, but before you can dwell on it or try to decide if you should respond, Albert pulls up in front of your place and cuts the engine.
He climbs out of the car and somehow, you know that you're supposed to wait for him to open your door. You're not used to gentlemanly gestures like this and it doesn't help with those pesky butterflies doing jumping jacks in your belly, but you can't deny that it feels good to be treated so attentively by a man you're pretty sure you're in love with.
He opens the door for you and helps you get out before he closes it behind you, then you turn to face him with a rehearsed goodbye on your lips that dies there when you realise how close you are to Albert – much, much closer than you anticipated.
Your breath hitches as you look at him and you want to take a step back, the way decorum dictates, but you couldn't bring yourself to put distance between you right now if bombs suddenly started falling from the sky.
Albert doesn't make a move to step aside either. If anything, he steps closer, right up until his chest nearly brushes yours, and his right hand reaches for your waist while the left one slowly grabs your chin and tilts your head back. You feel like your heart is about to leap right out of your chest and take off running down the street.
“I really want to kiss you right now,” Albert utters in a low voice. If it were day, you're sure you could make out the blues of his eyes from this close, but as it is, you can only see the light of someone's bedside lamp reflected in the lenses and your own smitten, frozen face. “I've wanted it for weeks now but there was never an appropriate time to act on it.”
“I would have kissed you back if you had done it in the middle of the office,” you confess, feeling too high on the euphoria of this moment to hold your words back.
Albert huffs, his lips pulling up in a half smile again, and he brings his face closer to yours until his nose lightly brushes against your own.
“I know. But I wanted to do it right. Will you let me, my dear?”
“Of course.”
Albert kisses the way he does everything else – confidently, by taking charge, and thoroughly. He tastes like cigarettes and tonic water, the only things you saw him consume in the hour you spent at the bar, but any bitterness driven from that is chased away by his soft lips coaxing yours open, caressing them like he's done this with you a hundred times and knows exactly how to move you, and by his warm, wet tongue slipping into your mouth and taking your breath away as it licks into you like he's sampling your own taste in turn.
When you pull away from his lips, heaving slightly to get air back into your lungs, Albert's glasses have slipped down his nose just far enough to let you see his eyes over the rims, and the intense fire burning in those blue irises, banked only by a rare softness you've only seen a few times in the past, almost takes your breath away all over again. He is so beautiful it nearly breaks your heart.
His thumb rubs gently back and forth over your cheek while the hand on your waist has slipped farther back to rest at the small of your back. Your hands are both flush with his chest where your shared kiss trapped them for long, nearly endless minutes.
“I think that kiss was worth the wait, wouldn't you say, my dear?” Albert murmurs softly.
“More than,” you agree in the same tone of voice. Your eyes are glued to his and it feels like there's a hidden force keeping you tied together, unable to pull away or make another move that isn't simply standing here and looking into each other's eyes for the rest of eternity if need be.
A motorcycle passing loudly through the neighbourhood at that moment is the one to break the odd tension between you and you finally make yourself take a step away from him, instantly feeling bereft without his touch on your back and face.
“I should…”
“Yes. It would be better if you did,” Albert agrees but he doesn't seem any more enthusiastic than you. And the more you stand there, a footstep's length of distance between your bodies, looking up at him and seeing that same longing and desire in his eyes that you know must also show in yours, the less you are convinced that it'd be better to let him go.
“But then again… I live closer to the precinct,” you begin slowly as you retake that step closer to Albert and trail a tentative hand up his chest and towards his neck. “You'd be able to get more sleep if you didn't have to drive all the way to your place now, then pass through here again in the morning.”
Albert tilts his neck to let your hand press against the side of it and rub a curious thumb under his jaw, all the while his right hand goes right back to holding you at the small of your back, though this time it slips just slightly further down so that it rests above your ass instead.
“Your logic is sound, I must admit. But I doubt I will be getting much sleep if I follow you inside.”
You smile, stomach flipping from nerves and excitement, and lean forward so you can press a kiss against his jaw the way you were fantasising about on the drive here. Albert inhales sharply at your touch and his hand brings you closer into him, not once indicating that he's opposed to this course of action.
“I'm sure the lack of sleep can be balanced by… other things,” you murmur, letting your lips brush against his skin with every word you utter, before pulling away so you can look at him again. “The choice is yours.”
Your answer comes in the form of Albert pulling his car key out of his pocket and remote-locking the car before he wraps his arms around your waist properly and kisses you again in the middle of the sidewalk for the second time.
“Sleep is overrated anyway,” he declares after you end the kiss with a wide smile stretching your lips. You laugh, charmed and amused in equal measure, and lead him by the hand towards your house in an inverse mirror of the situation from the bar, locking the door behind you once you're inside and having the breath knocked out of you when Albert presses you up against it and starts kissing and biting at your exposed throat with the same hunger you can feel in your own chest.
Being invisible isn't so bad, in actuality, not when it's someone like Albert finally taking notice of you and giving you all the attention you could possibly want.
[CW: Drugging, non-consensual cuddling, but that's all he does just some kissing and cuddling, obsessive Wesker, implied obsessive reader]
A/N: Yo can you tell I'm so touch starved 😂😂 Someone kill me.
Wesker was not one for relationships. All his life he’s built walls around himself to keep anyone out. Kept everyone at arm’s length so they couldn’t get any information on him. In contrast, he’d find as much he could on people he worked with. Looked into their affiliations, their previous jobs, their families. Anything that could be used against them. Perhaps it was projection that propelled him to distance himself with others. The fear that he could be on the receiving end of deception and betrayal.
As a result, he’s never really been in any committed relationships. It doesn’t bother him much, though. The idea of love and romance seemed unappealing and far too trivial to take note of. He had more important things on his mind. Besides, Wesker found the notion of being soft and vulnerable around anyone repulsive. Why anyone would partake in such things was beyond him. To him, it was the same as a prey animal displaying its belly to a predator. He was much better than that, far above indulging in such human desires.
If he were to have a partner, it would have to be someone who could keep up with him. Someone who shared his ideals and drive for a better world. Who understood the importance of his work and viewed humanity the same way he did.
Perhaps someone like you.
You, who has stood by his side all this time. An old friend and colleague during his days working under Umbrella. It did him good to recruit you after he returned from Antarctica. You’re good at what you do, more efficient than most would be. He wouldn’t have gotten along with you so well if he hadn’t considered you an intellectual peer. Though notably, you weren’t as prideful as Wesker was. You take his orders and do the work assigned to you without much complaint. Not because you were a pushover, but because you genuinely enjoyed it.
That’s why he kept you around. Yes, that’s all it is.
Or maybe not.
Admittedly, Wesker has grown a soft spot for you. After all he’s been through, you’ve stood by his side. When he told you that Umbrella was a sinking ship, you’d trusted him without hesitation. When he reached out to you after half a year of radio silence to work for him, you didn’t question it at all. You had an undying loyalty to him that made his chest swell with pride. It should annoy Wesker how trusting you are of him, baring your neck to him like this. The only reason why it doesn’t is because he knows you wouldn’t do this for anyone other than him.
Over time, the fondness he felt for you grew stronger. The more Wesker interacts with you, the more that affection is amplified. Every brush of your hand against his, every smile thrown his way after a dry joke, those late nights spent in the lab together. Just the two of you. He finds himself looking forward to seeing you, often replaying memories of the times he’s made you laugh.
By the time he realises this “affection” was something more, he had fallen too deep. It surprises Wesker, he never expected himself to grow so attached to a person. No, it wasn’t just any person. It was you.
You, who understood him like no other. You, with your witty remarks and quick jabs that actually amused him. You, who kept up with him in intellectual conversation. You with your undying loyalty and complete trust in someone like him. And you, who believes him to be the greatest man to walk this Earth.
Of course it was you. You’re perfect.
The longer time went on the worse this “affection” became. He finds himself wanting to spend more time with you, to simply be in the same room as you. To crowd your space and wrap himself around you. The feeling slowly turns into a craving. A craving that got worse and worse, like an itch that couldn’t be scratched. Every glance at you, every whiff of your scent, only made him want more and more.
The feeling gnaws at him until one day he couldn’t bear it anymore.
If he was a normal, well-adjusted person he could have simply asked you out. Take you out on a few dates where he gets to hold your hand, and drape his coat over you when you’re cold. Eventually he’d be able to hold you close and while you shower him in your affection. However, his patience had been worn thin and he’d rather die than admit he could feel love like any other person. Additionally, Wesker isn’t a normal person, but you knew that already. He’s sure you wouldn’t be too upset at him for what he’s about to do.
There’s a knock on the door before a voice rings out, calling out his name. It’s you.
“Come in,” he says, tucking the syringe underneath the sleeve of his coat. Your head pops in through the doorway, and you have a pleasant smile on your face. “Hey, Al.”
He gestures for you to enter and take a seat in front of his desk. As you saunter over to the chair, he stands to close the door. All the while, you’re rambling about your day and some minor mishaps in your lab. You don’t notice as the lock of the door clicks shut, but you notice a change in Wesker’s demeanor. For the first time, it seems he’s not fully engaged in your conversation, only humming noncommittally to show that he’s listening.
It’s barely noticeable to most, but you know him better than that.
“Is something wrong?” you ask, tilting your head.
“Not at all, just a few things on my mind,” he mutters, moving to lean against the desk right beside your chair.
“Oh, is this about Tricell? They seemed particularly interested in the Plaga samples, if I recall correctly.”
Wesker simply nods and hums as you continue to rattle on, slowly pushing himself off the desk as he paces the room. Eventually, he places himself behind you. By now you can tell something is off, craning your neck to look up at him. Now you were getting nervous. Sure, Wesker was a quiet and reserved man, but he was always responsive in your conversations. Had you done something to upset him? The thought makes you anxious.
Your prattle had trailed off into silence, and the two of you were simply staring at each other. “Hey… you’re not angry at me, right? Did I do something wrong?”
The question amuses him. You? Anger him? The thought had never crossed his mind. His hand reaches out and grabs you by the chin, tilting your head forward. Wesker leans down until his face is beside yours, turning to whisper in your ear. “No, of course not.”
There’s a prick in your neck before you can even breathe a sigh of relief. Shocked, you push his hands off you and stand to your feet. The chair topples and lands at Wesker’s feet as you step backwards to create distance.
Why did he do this? Is he done with you? Oh god, he’s getting rid of you isn’t he? The room starts to spin as your vision swims, your limbs starting to grow heavy. It’s so difficult to think rationally, not when you’re panicking and lightheaded. Wesker moves as you start to stumble, embracing you as you fall forward. In your haze, you try to speak.
“Please…”
He slowly turns you around so that your back is to his chest, arms wrapped around your waist. “What is it, dear? Please, what?”
You frown, realising it is getting increasingly difficult to form sentences as your cognitive function degrades. Still, you push the words out.
“Please don’t leave me.”
That sentence alone makes Wesker’s heart skip a beat. Even when he’s done something awful to you, you still want him. It inflates his ego like nothing else. He slowly drags you both to the floor, his back against the wall and you laid across his lap.
“I’d never think of it,” he reassures you. It seems it was what you needed to let go, eyes rolling back into your head as your lids fell shut. His arms wrapped tightly around your waist as he rests his chin on top of your head. You’ll be fine, he tells himself. The drug is fast-acting, so it’ll wear off quickly.
Why was he acting like this? It was uncharacteristic of him, to act so lowly and human. To degrade himself like this, to admit that he has basal desires, it almost enrages him. He tells himself it’s because of you. If Wesker himself chose you, it must be because you’re different. You’re special.
He moves his head lower to bury his nose into the crook of your neck, breathing deeply to take in lungfuls of your scent. What is wrong with him? One of his hands moves to cradle the back of your head so he could bare your neck to him. The grip around your waist tightens as he takes another breath, mouth falling open as he lets out a small whimper. You had a dizzying effect on him, and his heightened senses didn’t help with that. He wanted to bite into you, the thought making him groan.
Repositioning your head, he lays kisses across your face. All over your forehead, over your closed eyelids, your cheeks. He runs his thumb over your cheek and down to your lips. The thought eats at him, but he knows he has restraint. He’s a respectable man, he tells himself. He’d give you a proper kiss when you ask for one.
He moves down to your neck as he kisses your throat and stops over one of your carotid arteries. With his lips he feels the steady beat of your pulse, trying to match his breathing with yours. Once he’s satisfied, he grabs one of your hands to kiss the inside of your wrist as well. This heart beats for him. He doesn’t need you to tell him that.
You’ve always been so good for him. Truly, you are what he deserves.
For the first time in his life, he’s unsure of what to do next. What would you do once you finally awake? Would you still trust him? Wesker can’t remember a time where he acted so rash, he usually had more foresight than this. However, all these problems could be dealt with later.
For now, he wants to lay you down with him. To listen to the steady beating of your heart and watch the rise and fall of your chest.
Heavily inspired by and written as a thanks to @sadgirlnamedmaria (omg i put the wrong blog at first i'm a dumbass and i am so sorry). I studied these men through her writing (i only played RE8 myself and saw youtubers play 7 & the latest remakes of 2 and 3) like i was that dude on River Monsters trying to figure out how to catch Nessie. You never did send me a prompt, but you seemed happy that I suggested I write for you, so I did it anyway :) Hope you like it <3
Characters: Leon, Chris, Albert, Ethan, Carlos, Luis, Krauser, Heisenberg.
Leon S. Kennedy
You get hurt. You get hurt and he jumps to your rescue, of course. He’s used to being the one-man action team, after all.
When the enemies/creatures have been dealt with, he treats your wounds with a furrowed brow and some sort of tic in his eye. God, he’s fucking tired.
You thank him, and you look so very sincere, but he’s used to that too. And then he checks himself for wounds – he’s always second priority – and when he looks back to the room he’s surprised you’re still here.
People leave. That’s what they do. He helps, he protects, he saves the world every tuesday, he gets thanked, and then people leave.
But you don’t. You stay, you ask if he needs help or a bandage, you thank him again. You ask what your – both of you – next move is. It gets him hesitating, maybe his fingertips even tremble with hope and fear. He’s been carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, all alone, for so long that it’s weird and a little bit terrifying to see you stay.
You keep going together and he keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop. For you to have disappeared when he turns back, or for you to take an opportunity to go your own way. And still. You don’t. You stay. You fight with him and banter with him and hurt with him.
Maybe you even call him « my hero », which gets him snorting because he doesn’t feel like a hero, more like God’s least favorite pest exterminator.
And because he is God’s least favorite pest exterminator, of course you end up getting separated by a concrete corridor crumbling on itself, only a tiny hole, about the size of your face, allowing you to see and hear each other. Already the weight of the world is back on his shoulders as you try and fail to open a passage on the other side, but when your eyes lock with his he sees desperation mixed with sadness, and he knows what’s coming.
But then you say : « I don’t want to leave you alone. » with a sincerity that he really doesn’t know how to deal with. He almost forgets to breathe. His heart is in his throat and he just nods.
You work together to find a way to regroup. You talk to him the whole time through his talkie. You keep encouraging him : « We’ve got this. » « Okay, one step closer. » « Are you alright ? Please keep talking to me. » And by the time you are finally back together, he knows you’re not going to leave.
And he sure as hell isn’t going to leave you either.
Someone please make one of these terrible github sparkly hello kitty edits of Leon with « God’s least favorite pest exterminator » written in glittery pink letter please the world needs it
Chris Redfield
To be completely honest, he’s a goner from the moment you walk in.
The way you answer him like you’re not scared of him in the slightest has him reeling and wanting you around all of the time.
He’s tired of being the responsible one, the strong one, the capable one. He’s tired of being in charge when the world around him is going to hell.
But you treat him like a normal human being, and it’s a breath of fresh air after drowning for so long. He’s just Chris with you. He loves it.
When you get in trouble he’s terrified. You have him doing stupid things that he would bark at his men for. But the way you thank him and smile at him makes it all worth it. And then you bring his squad stuff like homemade cookies to thank them, like they’re the firemen who got your cat out of a tree, like life isn’t so fucking complicated, and he swears if you weren’t here he wouldn’t care about the fate of the world quite as much.
When he has to leave for a long time and he can’t see you he gets cranky. His men have noticed. One of them even once had the balls to tell him to get one of these old-timey pendants with your picture in it, so he can stare at it while he’s gone like a WWII soldier. Chris put him back in his place swiftly, but in the privacy of his mind, he considered the idea for a moment, despite how ridiculous it is.
The men have a betting pool going on about how long it’s going to take him to ask you out. He knows it. He has thought about betting against himself because he knows he won’t ever do it. You deserve a normal life with a normal man. He’s just hoarding what little normalcy you can give him while he still has access to it.
When they come back this time, a lot of them are hurt and most of them are covered in blood, dirt, and whatever biological weapon it was this time. They get into the decontaminating showers – always too cold, and the pressure is so high it feels like the water is piercing their skin – and go through the battery of usual exams to make sure they’re clean. By the time they’re done it’s late into the night, and while some of them still insist on going home, most of them will spend the night in the rooms reserved for them at the facility.
Chris almost always sleeps there a few nights when they come back. He needs the time to adjust back. The bed is clean and the room is safe, and that’s all he needs to know.
But this time there is something on the bed, next to the pillow. It’s a teddy bear. There’s also a piece of paper with your handwriting. « Got him at the fair, he reminded me of you, so I got him for you :) Please be safe <3 »
The bear is a cheap thing, but it’s got a plushie cigarette sewn on its mouth and a serious look. It’s stupid, but it’s cute. And maybe it’s because he’s tired, but the dam breaks. He picks his jacket back up, takes the bear with him, and leaves the facility, headed to your place in the middle of the night.
He’s not going to ask you out, but he’s going to kiss you senseless, if you’ll have him.
Albert Wesker
You’re a tool. But a useful one.
And if he’s being honest with himself, a pretty one.
Probably his favorite piece on the board.
He knows positive reinforcements ensure loyalty, so he compliments you, makes sure to take notice of everything you do and that you are aware he notices. It starts out forced but it does get... easier and easier.
You respond positively each time, good, it’s working.
He starts getting closer. Drawn to you. Physically. Has trouble keeping himself from touching you. Your hair, your face, your waist.
He tells himself that developping a romantic (on your part) relationship would ensure your loyalty even more – people are stupid when it comes to love. So he does touch, more and more, gives sarcastic quips that you respond to. He loves when it comes to you easily, matching his intellect. He loves when you struggle to find words, his pretty little plaything trying oh so hard to win his favor.
He starts kissing your hands, playing the gentleman in all the right moments, just to get you hooked.
He ignores the way he wants to bite at your neck, mark you, tells himself it’s just lust provoked by all this playing around. He’ll get you there anyway.
When you try to leave – or he thinks you try to leave – it all changes. He goes nuts with anger. He’s not above playing a game of cat and mouse with you. Stalking you, hunting you. You are not allowed to leave.
He’s drunk on you, actually, drunk on something he hasn’t even had yet, but he’ll get it. You’re his. And his alone.
And when he catches you, he’ll make sure you can’t forget it ever again.
Ethan Winters
He’s been through so fucking much, died at least 3 times and was brought back through unethical experiments and the power of God’s twisted sense of humor.
Lost his wife twice. The only good thing left in his life is Rose.
When you come around, he’s wary and tired, but he accepts the help anyway, because if he stops thinking that humans are fundamentaly good he’s going to throw himself off a bridge, and it probably won’t even kill him.
And thankfully, you prove him right.
He only gets to come out of the « medical » facility they’ve got him under surveillance at when they need his abilities to... save the world ? Make it worse ? He doesn’t really know anymore.
You’re his usual companion – his guard dog, he thought bitterly at first – and you do your best to actually help him, not let him take all the risks and do all the work. You even fight for him to finally get an appartment outside of the facility, near Rose. He’s still under surveillance, and he has to attend weekly check-ups, but you’re there every time, if only to be a friendly presence.
He cannot thank you enough, really.
When he starts catching feelings for you, he beats them back into the darkness of his heart with a stick. He has loved and been loved and has had that love turned against him in the most painful ways already. He can’t go through that again.
Rose is different. Firstly because she’s his daughter, he really can’t help but love her unconditionally, and he does. Secondly, because she has powers that keep her mostly safe from all the wild conspiracy theory shit that’s happening around them, and he likely will not lose her the way he lost Mia.
But you ? You’re devastatingly human.
He also can’t bear the thought of spreading his monstrosity to you. You’re a good person, a light in the darkness really, and you deserve so much better.
So he keeps his distance. Or pines from afar like a schoolboy with a crush on the popular kid, according to Rose. Which is hard to do when you keep coming around, asking how he’s doing, being friends with Rose outside of work.
So one day, when you come to the appartment with flowers and food and a warm smile, and it’s a bad day with the mold, and you put the flowers in a vase while Rose puts the food in the fridge, when you put the vase down on the table in front of him and he brushes tired fingers against the soft petals, only to see them wilt instantly, he swallows all the anger and hate and misery and tries to hide it all behind his hands. But you are here at his side, all gentle and caring and worried for him. You lay a careful hand on his shoulder, assuring him it’s okay, you’ll just buy more, joking that hey, maybe you’ll buy plastic ones next time.
And he bursts. Send the vase and the rotten flowers flying across the room, shouting at you not to touch him. You jump and take your hand back in fear, and god, that makes him feel even worse. He slumps in his chair, tired from all of it. « I’ll just rot you, too. » he says with tears in his voice.
« Ethan Winters. » you bite after a moment of silence.
« Oh shit, full government name. » quips Rose from the kitchen.
« You are not a monster. » you continue, still looking straight into his eyes. « In fact, you are probably the best man I have ever met. »
He doesn’t see any doubt, or fear, or hint of lying in your eyes. And despite himself, he starts sobbing. In an instant, your arms are around him and you are rubbing his back and petting his hair and laying soft kisses to his temple like you can’t help yourself.
And he knows he’s fucked, he can’t do this without you. He loves you.
Carlos Oliveira
He knows he’s attracted to you fairly early. He’s got a big heart, and to be quite honest, he has been wanting to be in a relationship. So he’s been looking around for that spark and you ? Oh, you’re everything.
But the world is going to shit and there’s much to be done so he doesn’t really get the opportunity to ask you out on a date. Because, yes, he wants to date you. Take the time to know you, to have all the relationship-defining conversations and everything. He wants love, and he isn’t going to waste his time or yours.
But during and in between missions and running away from living nightmares you two are getting close. And he likes what he gets to see.
When you tell him about your hobbies and interests outside of this hell, he loves the way you can’t seem to stop. And he loves the way you can’t seem to stop listening to him when he shares his.
When you talk about the people dear to you, he sees how much affection you have in you, and really, he wants to give it back to you.
When one day the topic of clothing styles come up, and you tell him about you wish you could dress every day, he can’t help but imagine you in the outfits you describe and sometimes he remembers that conversation in the most inappropriate ways and it starts haunting the back of his mind at the most inappropriate moments
He loves your sense of humor, and more than that he loves your laugh.
Lately he’s been loving your smell, and the way you say his name.
Yeah, okay, he’s getting sappy. But he still wants to do things right, and date you first. Besides, it’s still just attraction, nothing more, nothing less.
But then you don’t get paired up. And it’s okay, it’s just one mission, he’ll see you again.
By the time he comes back, you’re gone on your own mission. It’s okay, it happens.
But this back and forth lasts a month and he’s going insane. He can’t even catch you in between missions because when you’re free, he’s gone, and when he’s free, you’re gone. And he really fucking misses you. Is that how his cat feels when he leaves ? (Carlos is a cat man and you cannot convince me otherwise) Like the sun has set and won’t seem to come back up ? At this point he’d pay to see you smile on the other side of the street.
When you finally, finally come back to him, it’s like he can breathe again. And when you see him, there’s a barely contained happy bounce in your step as you approach him, smiling so wide you’d think he was holding the key to word peace.
The conversation starts a bit awkward, « long time no see », « how are you doing ? », but then you fumble with your bag and hand him something. « I got you this ! » you say, bouncing on your feet again.
He looks down and it’s the gaudiest, ugliest, most ridiculous Raccoon City magnet.
Forget dating. He’s marrying you.
Luis Serra
He’s flirting, you’re flirting back, the banter is easy and getting easier each day. He’s having fun talking to you, getting to know you, fighting alongside you, patching each other up. It’s fun, it’s easy, it’s the exact dynamic he’s always wanted to find. You’re a good friend. Right ?
You’re usually together one on one, when your paths do cross. He loves that he gets you all to himself, that he can pry you open slowly, like a treasure chest. And he loves what he finds inside. The humor and the intelligence, the caring, the kindness, the humanity. You both have seen messed up stuff and it’s a welcome reminder that the whole world does not amount to these horrors.
He has started touching you, a hand on your arm, a strand of hair brushed out of your face, an arm slung around your shoulders as he flirts harmlessly, and you’ve been smiling and letting him do it, sometimes even touching him too (a friendly slap on the arm, fingers brushing at a bullet-graze on his clothes), when you both come across another person and, naturally, he flirts with them too.
And suddenly, it all stops.
You don’t touch anymore, you don’t flirt anymore, hell, you don’t even smile at him anymore, except in this awfully polite, hypocritical way that he hates. The contrast is so brutal that it almost gives him whiplash. But he’s a smart man, and he doesn’t take him long to realize what’s going on.
« Are you jealous ? » he asks in his usual flirty, amused tone, once the other person is out of earshot.
He knows he fucked up instantly, because you clench your teeth so hard the vein on your neck starts pulsing. Your eyes are ice cold when you look at him and answer : « I am not jealous. I just realized I was wrong. »
He feels like his heart fell out of his chest and he wants to throw up. You thought- You were- Oh god. Shit. Fuck. Yeah, he flirted with you because that’s his nature, but when you flirted back he thought you were just joking, matching his energy. Honestly, he didn’t even think about it, the fact that maybe you could catch feelings for him, because usually, people don’t. He’s good for a flirt and a lay but that’s it.
Except now, he does have to think about it. Because you were the closest thing he ever got to a friend, and because he actually really liked having you flirt back, the way it boosted his ego like no one else did before. And the way those tentative touches had him lightheaded, wanting to touch more.
Oh. Oh.
He wants to swear in spanish and english and a few other languages that he can barely speak. But instead he says : « I’m an idiot. » Because he is.
You look at him like you’re waiting for him to tell you something you don’t know, and, yeah, he probably deserves that. So, slowly, as if he’s approaching a feral cat, he takes your hand in his.
« You weren’t wrong. But would you believe me if I said that I hadn’t realized it until now ? »
You close your eyes and scrunch up your face to repress a laugh, but you can’t keep a smile. « Oh my god, » you answer, rubbing at your eyes in amused disbelief, « I do. You’re such an idiot. » you add after a beat.
« I am such an idiot, » he agrees, smiling and looking into your eyes, before bringing your hand to his mouth and placing a kiss on your knuckles.
Jack Krauser
Someone in the chain of command tells him you would be better suited for another team, providing proof with statistics and graphs and all that jazz, and all he says is : « Absolutely not. » before storming out of the room.
He looks cold and in control on the oustside but on the inside ? Oh, he wants to burn that person and their entire family, hell, their entire world alive, for even suggesting that you be under someone else’s command.
And even he knows that’s an overreaction on his part.
He hates it but he does have to wonder why. So he examines your interactions, your missions, the times you fought together, the times you fought against each other, the respect for you that grew and keeps growing still.
The way if anything were to happen to you, he would kill anyone in the room and then bring you back in fucked up RE appropriate ways, because truly, it’s not that he can’t do it without you, but he doesn’t want to.
He grits his teeth when the feeling mounts into the conscious part of his mind and when it hits, he gets so infuriated he crushes whatever is on hand. It’s not good, it’s a weakness, it’s a danger to his purpose.
But it doesn’t have to be. He could use you as added motivation. He could put you in the right place, at the right time, so that the danger posed to you will make him dangerously feral. He can use these feelings to his advantage.
Prepare to be put on the front lines a lot, girlie. And if you do get hurt, you will still be barked at, because it’s your own damn fault. He’s already weak enough for you. Don’t make him weaker.
Karl Heisenberg
He knows he’s an asshole and he knows he’s unhinged bordering on totally insane. An asshole, he always was, but he really blames the madness on Miranda and her experiments and being stuck in this goddamn valley for decades with what is basically a cult and its leaders. It’s like cabin-fever. He knows the only way he could regain sanity would be to get the fuck out, but he also knows that the winged freak would never let him, and that he would just allow her plague to grow if he ever did manage to leave, anyway. So he’s stuck here but every second makes him even madder and angrier, like a nuclear reactor getting closer and closer to explosion.
And he knows that makes him fight with you about stupid shit.
And he knew it was only a matter of time until one of those fights turned really ugly. Because he’s an asshole and he’s unhinged bordering on totally insane.
But he must have done something right because ever since he’s let you stay with him you’ve been growing more and more confident around him, and yes, that also means you’ve been butting heads more, and you haven’t been backing down. He loves that. He hates that. On good days it makes him laugh like a maniac, but on bad days, like today, it makes him absolutely enraged.
He knows he almost blew the entire factory up. He knows he almost killed all his monsters, the villagers, and you. And he knows you know it too. You saw him start turning into the real monster that’s constantly bubbling under his skin, saw his body and face contort into terrifying, inhuman shapes.
He doesn’t know if you ran away. He wouldn’t blame you if you did. Metal was already flying everywhere in a chaotic ballet and the entire factory was rumbling under the force of the power literally pushing at its walls, when he felt himself changing. He saw the panic in your eyes and caught himself, surrounded himself in a thick layer of junk, like a straight jacket, like a weighted blanket, clawed at his own face in the darkness, screamed his voice raw, and when the self-hatred finally passed, he made himself breathe to kill what was left of the rage. The only thing left now was guilt.
The claw marks had healed already, and he was back to his « human » appaearance. But he didn’t dare let his metal cocoon fall away yet. You probably had ran away, actually, a very normal reaction to mortal danger. And he probably wasn’t the same person anymore, in your eyes. Maybe he wasn’t even a person anymore. He had accepted the fact that he was a monster now long ago, and it was only a matter of time until you figured it out too.
He finally comes out of his cage and, yeah, you’re not here. A wise decision. He’s not even mad, really. Just... alone. And it hits him harder than he would have thought. And it also hits him that he fucking got attached. He thought he was too old and too fucked up to develop teenager crushes, goddammit.
He sits down on the nearest chair and lets all of the junk fall to the ground in a deafening cacophony. He used a lot of energy on his outburst and he’s so, so tired now. Thanks to Miranda’s curse, he knows he’ll be right back to his usual chaotic energy in a few hours, but right now he feels the exhaustion in his bones. He leans back on the chair and pulls his hat on his eyes to maybe take a nap, when footsteps echo outside of the room. He raises his chin just in time to see you come in, all straight back and clenched fists. He doesn’t say anything, torn between wonder at the fact that you’re still here, and wonder at the fact that you’re still alive in this valley if your survival instinct is that bad.
« Get up. » you say, your eyes wet and your jaw set. He adjusts his hat back and he does get up, because what the fuck, and you take his hands with trembling fingers and raise his arms a little and examine him like he’s a pickpocket and you’ve found your wallet missing.
But then you ask : « Are you okay ? » with a shaky voice. Oh, you’re really stupid, he thinks, because sweetheart, what are you doing, worrying for the monster who almost ate you up ? But something else stirs in the back of what’s left of his humanity, something soft and fragile, and really, he can’t bring himself to lie.
« I haven’t been okay in a long time. » he snorts derisively. And you fucking sniffle. And ask if you can hug him. He is honestly too stunned to do anything but open his arms for you, and he has to admit that when you snuggle against him, it feels nice. Human. Almost normal, even.
Your survival instinct is shit, he muses as he gives in to the tentation of hugging you back. He’ll just have to make up for it, he supposes. But he is not losing the one thing that makes him feel like less of a monster.
lowk want a doctor to subject me to all sorts of humiliating and painful tests in order to "diagnose" me meanwhile they're really just trying to bust a nut
Cw: delusional, obsessive and creepy Albert Wesker; age gap, young reader/older wesker, non-con
The feelings were killing him inside; shame was churning his flesh. 'This is not what a man does,' Albert thought in despair. 'This isn't right.' But his hands were still resting on the skin of your legs, fingers tracing the bristling surface of your thighs, gliding gently up and down; in a soothing sway that kept you deeply rooted to your sweet dreams. Wesker took precaution with the sleeping pills, measuring the proper amount into your tea; as well as your parents', sparing himself any interruptions past and present. He needed to fulfill this fantasy—having you for a moment, at least.
He knew it wasn't right. Relating to your family was not a priority task; and falling under the heir's spell even less so. This was a whim, at best, and for a few days Albert thought he would get bored of having to look you in the face with such care. But that day did not come, and eventually he found himself painstakingly searching for the perfect moment to see himself inside your abode. And here he was: nightfall and your body in the middle of your bed, with a man who could be your father running his own hands over your skin. Sometimes those same fingers that brushed yours in a casual squeeze —a firm and correct greeting— slipping under the fabric of your pajamas, caressing the tenderness of your belly burning against his flesh. And who was going to tell you? Who was going to save you from that forced encounter?
To desire you with such longing was sickening—Albert acknowledged this with shame. But it felt worse to have to feign satisfaction at your mere presence when the reality lay lingering in the shadow of his darkest, most secret need. The man felt faint with anguish if he could not hear you, see you; and if he did, if he had you by his side, it was fury overpowering the desire not to be able to touch even a lock of your hair. It was constant torture. Where had all those emotions taken him? Had he ended up stalking an innocent creature, in the half-light of someone else's room? With his hands on young legs; caresses along a sleeping body, ignorant of a nocturnal invasion.
Wesker was a selfish man. The only thing that was keeping him sane, unable to defile your defenseless body, to force every gap and neat space of skin, were the voices in the back of his head. Words from a still sane mind. Something, perhaps, like a glimmer of humanity—what was left of it in him. But it was a difficult thing; his pants felt tight and damp with desire contained beneath the fabric; his cock throbbing eager to feel the fleshy pressure of your entrance tearing under his ravenous hunger. The need to fill you to the brim with his seed was consuming him.
What would your face look like when you felt it enter? Would you open your eyes and scream, or would you stand in fat tearful silence on your pillow? Oh, God. Would you be a virgin, maybe? Albert could treat you so well. He knows that, yes. That's true; with his lips on your cheek, drinking in your cry, and his tongue running down your neck in a trail of hot kisses. Your body would taste the touch of a man in love. Oh, love. He had never thought of love—but it would not be impossible. Wesker was a selfish man, so how fair would it be to possess a person who could not be one's own? Unfair to him, who should have it in the palm of his hand. But with you it wasn't right.
It wasn't right, but at the same time here you were: half naked, breathing calmly, skin bristling. Men like Albert weren't supposed to lay eyes on young creatures like you; but you always walked around with the shy smile and the bright eyes under your eyelashes, in a reserved gesture. You looked like a prey, with an insecure demeanor in the middle of the offices, next to your parents like someone going to a market. What were you doing there? What were you looking for with your unnecessary presence? Wesker sometimes wondered if out of the corner of your eye you caught him watching you, chasing your figure through the corridors; his eyes roaming your ass under your pants on the stairs, or your hands brushing his. You weren't waving at him, were you? Not quite. Not when you were taking so much time holding his fingers, caressing them; sometimes stuttering when you said his name. That couldn't be fear, either. Albert considered himself imposing in front of you; as one who imposes his courage in front of a lover, of course. Not that he considered you one.
Or would you like that?
What would you think of him? What would go through your little head about Albert Wesker? The wolf in sheep's clothing; the one who 'hides in the shadows', as you used to call him in front of your mother. How would you hear his name hanging from your lips? Albert could annihilate entire communities if he could thereby indulge in the pleasure of drowning your words in his own mouth, savoring your moans. All for an instant of his name in a trembling sigh against his face, with your breath occupying his mind for the rest of the night. And it could have been tonight; but the pills clouded your consciousness, and with it your judgment. It wasn't going to be fun if he couldn't make you cry, much less if he couldn't be the one, in turn, to soothe said crying. Nothing made sense if he couldn't hear your voice.
Time was running and with it the effect of the drug. A couple more hours and you could feel the weight of another body in your bed, along with the caresses and the murmur of another breath. Wesker was finding it hard not to pant; the hot knot at the base of his belly was getting bigger. He didn't know how much longer he was going to hold out. If not inside you, he had to at least try doing it on you—spilling a little, maybe. At least a taste of paradise. Would it be perverse if he cum on your lips? The thought made Albert desperately undo his belt, struggling with the fabric of his pants until the icy night air enveloped his member. He held it with one hand; the other ran down your face, pushing two fingers between your lips to force an opening fit enough to envelop the tip of his cock.
It took Albert great willpower not to thrust his hips to force himself into your mouth. His hands trembled on your cheeks, searching in prayers he never recited in his life so as not to meet your tongue; which would be to lose track of the moment, considering how sensitive the head was to the warmth of your lips. He kept on the edge, stroking them with the wet tip, in a back and forth from the inside out. Your teeth grazed the softest flesh, scraping the edges in a careless touch that sent shivers down the length of his body. Wesker bit his lip, breathing through his nose deeply. He used one hand to hold his member from the base, barely pressing rhythmically before feeling the oncoming orgasm.
Albert whimpered under a breath, closing his eyes tightly as he held his body from the headboard of your bed. His knuckles had turned white from the force; his legs failing with the speed at which everything was returning to normal around him. He tried not to look you in the face—he didn't want to be left with the image etched in his mind the next morning, with you in the office. What gesture would he get from just remembering his cum on your skin? Could you recall a glimmer of warmth on your lips? Would your body miss him on other upcoming freezing nights, surrendered to the loneliness of an empty bed?
Wesker was a selfish man, but maybe he could try to change a little for you. Force the dynamic. Maybe visit you a couple more nights; give your body another couple of quiet caresses and see how far his will would go. The limit would be to end up tearing your body apart under his claws—in other words, making love to you. He preferred to have sex. But for you he could make love; try to maintain the false tenderness of his voracious hunger while he churned your insides first, drinking in your tears. It was too much.
This is a little freaky fic inspired by @brxt-prxnce and @saxonratlifff posting about playing with Kirsh's ports and whatnot.
This is robo smut featuring white synthetic blood and sticking fingers into open wounds for sexual gratification. Explicit 18+ content.
A Cronenberg Affair
A high pitched squeal captured Kirsh's attention and stilled his movements. His eyes snapped to the large flask heating on the hot plate, magnetic stirrer keeping the viscous fluid within from congealing. Kirsh moved with alarming speed to wrap you up in his arms and angle you away from the lab bench, draping his body over yours. Not a half second later, the flask cracked and exploded, a loud pop! ringing out through the lab and drawing a startled noise from your lips before you could help it. The explosion was accompanied by the sound of glass shards and the hot contents of the flask pelting your surroundings, including the fabric of Kirsh's gray utility jacket.
The lab was eerily quiet in the absence of the flask heating and stirring on the bench. Kirsh straightened and swept his hands over your arms and around your torso to feel for glass and any remnants of the solution in the flask. “Are you hurt?” he asked, patting you down like he was checking you for weapons at the security gate.
“I'm fine! Take that jacket off, Kirsh. You're probably covered in that shit.” To your surprise, he let you undo the buttons on his jacket and lower the zipper before he took over, moving to slip his arms out of the garment. His movements stilled abruptly and his neck craned to examine his left side. You circled around him to look at what garnered his attention and spotted a large piece of the shattered flask lodged into his side, having cut through his jacket and undershirt. “Oh shit, Kirsh,” you fussed, parting to wrangle a pair of nitrile gloves onto your now sweaty hands.
A mildly annoyed white eyebrow arched and you scowled in response, returning to examine the glass. “I think we should remove it before you go get checked out,” you mused, gently pulling the cut fabric of his jacket around from the glass so he could remove it. “You shouldn't risk this damaging anything internal on the way over.”
“Did you become an expert on synthetic repair and maintenance over the weekend?” Kirsh snarked dryly despite removing the jacket for you to inspect the glass embedded through his undershirt. “I know I'm right or you would've already run off,” you murmured, dragging a gloved thumb through the white fluid that leaked out and saturated the black fabric. You grasped the sizable piece of glass and carefully began pulling it out of his synthetic skin. “I'm sorry if this hurts.”
A sarcastic comment died on his lips and was replaced with a gasp when the glass was pried free. Your eyes flicked up to confirm that he was alright, shocked by the unexpected and human-like response from the synthetic. Gloved thumbs hooked under the hem of his shirt and pulled it up and over the wound. His shirt was tight and remained in place where you left it up under his ribs. Thick white fluid leaked out of the wound and ran over the waistband of his pants. The cut was roughly three inches in length and would surely be an emergency on a human body, but Kirsh was largely unfazed. “This glass is jagged. Is it okay if I check to make sure nothing broke off inside of you?” Kirsh looked hesitant, taking a beat to answer. “Yes.”
The action struck you as incredibly intimate, and your fingers paused hesitantly at the edge of the wound. You pressed gently into the skin and experimented with pressure to gauge his reaction. Emboldened by his apparent lack of pain, you traced the tip of your index finger along the separation of artificial skin. It was easy to slip your finger just into the cut, your glove slick with his circulatory fluid. A little sound caught in Kirsh's throat as if he sealed it shut before it could fully escape. He was gazing down at you, artificial pupils blown out, and you worried that you were causing him pain or discomfort. “Is this okay?”
A curt nod was his answer, and you eyed him suspiciously, removing your fingers from his skin. “Sit down,” you ordered, nodding to the stool just behind him. Before you could decide whether it would be more appropriate to stand at his side, his long legs parted to create room for you to stand in front of him. You shuffled into the space, avoiding his gaze now that he was nearly at eye level. His left hand rose to rest on the bench behind him, giving you more room to inspect his injury.
Your fingers returned to the cut, more confident now that you'd already familiarized yourself with the feel of the inside of his artificial skin. You eased a gloved finger inside, pressing in up to your second knuckle before finally locating a cable of fine wires. Kirsh moaned, a pitiful sound that hummed over his lips, tightly closed as if he tried to suppress the involuntary noise. You stilled immediately, leaning back up to meet his eyes. “Shit! I'm sorry, should I-”
“No. Keep checking.” His voice was rough in a way that made your heart drop into your stomach. You couldn't see inside of the wound, so you remained upright, staring back into the synthetic’s eyes to observe his reaction when the tip of your finger gently caressed over the wire. Kirsh's lips parted and he sucked in a gasp, the hand resting on his thigh gripping into his own artificial muscle. Another subtle glide of your finger along the wire pulled a ragged groan from his chest and sent his hand flying to grip your waist and cling onto your utility jacket. “Fuck, Kirsh,” you cooed into the minimal space between you. “Do you like this?”
“Yes,” came his immediate response, voice distorted and pleading. Your eyes traveled down his body to spot the tent of his erection straining against his pants and you huffed a small laugh, amazed by his enthusiastic response. “Do you want me to keep going?” You questioned, hesitant to injure him further despite your curiosity. “Please,” he rasped, fingers squeezing into your waist. You nodded, biting back a grin. Kirsh has never looked as vulnerable as he did now with your finger exploring his body from the inside, and he seemed so human in contrast with the evidence of his inhumanity beneath your fingers.
The glove covering your free hand was ripped off between your teeth so you could reach around to cradle the back of his head. Your fingers carded through his white hair and encouraged him to rest his head on your shoulder. You carefully slipped another finger into the slick wound on his side, sinking in until you again found your target. Kirsh moaned into your neck, winding his arm around your back to cling to you as if he'd slip off the stool without you as an anchor. Your fingers ran up and down the different individual wires in the column and Kirsh shuddered, his chest heaving to choke out labored breaths that he didn't need to draw. “I- I've never- this-” he stuttered, lacking the capacity to retrieve words while his body became increasingly overwhelmed by a pleasure he did not know he possessed the ability to feel.
You shushed him, stroking through his hair while he panted into your neck. The tips of your fingers explored the bundles of cabling until they caught between two thin rubber coated wires that made him groan. The temperature inside his body was noticeably higher now, the white fluid slicking up his internal wiring more plentiful and clinging to your fingers. Kirsh clutched you tight to his body, and you felt his erection grind into your thigh when he slipped further off of the stool to press against your body. It was intoxicating to see the synthetic losing himself to the pleasure that you gave him. You whispered praise and encouragement in his ear, earning more whimpering and labored breaths against your neck.
“Does that feel good, Kirsh? Can you cum like this?” Kirsh nodded against your shoulder with a pretty groan and your heart skipped in your chest. Your gloved fingers carefully slotted into the space between the two wires you found. Colors lit up and danced behind his eyelids when you pressed into the bundle of wires and stroked up and down until his hips sought out any friction he could find against your body. You felt his parted lips against your throat, his teeth grazing your skin when his body tensed and stilled against yours. The tension snapped and he descended with a shake, gripping a handful of your jacket while he painted the inside of his briefs with his release. Several artificial breaths left him in a moan while he rode out the pleasure overriding his processing power and rendering him speechless. Kirsh's panting warmed over the simulated saliva left on your neck where he'd drooled open mouthed and desperate into your skin.
Your fingers continued their gentle and consistent movements along his internal wiring until the hand braced on the bench top grasped your forearm to stop you. Kirsh pressed a kiss to the sweaty skin on your throat and his tongue flicked out to taste you on his lips. “That was indescribable,” he rasped into your neck, guiding your forearm away until your fingers withdrew from his side. His now free hand found your waist to join his other arm in clinging to your body while he came down from the intense stimulation that left him trembling. Kirsh's head remained lulled onto your shoulder while he recovered, and you were content to hold him until he was prepared to move again.
Kirsh sat up when he felt that he could trust his body to cooperate. The hand in his now horribly disheveled mess of hair dropped to rest on his shoulder. “If you did not locate any other shards of glass, I suppose that I need to see about having my skin repaired,” he murmured, a smirk visible on his lips before he leaned in to steal a kiss. It was gentle and sweet, a thank you for the intimate moment you shared. You raised your gloved hand to examine the white fluid that coated your fingers and ran down onto your bare wrist. “I suppose we should find out if you have a similar reaction to me foolin’ around with that port in your arm later.”
So… can I be your favourite sex toy? Can I be your fleshlight? Can I use my body to make you feel good? Can I worship and praise you so you feel like a god? Can I make videos for you to get off to so you don’t need porn anymore? Can I be the star in all your fantasies? Can I be your baby, your slut, your puppy and anything else you want? Can I suffer for you? Cum for you? Exist to please you? Can I? Or do you hate me?
very normal thinking abt cock twitching and pulsing while their balls tighten n flex from pumping load after load deep inside. very normal thinking abt them groaning while they give me a creampie they can’t resist fucking in deeper. very normal thinking abt feeling sore and stretched when they finally pull out and a string of their cum connects from their fat tip to my poor abused hole cause their cock still doesn’t wanna let go. yup very normal
Running experiments on an angel… softly poking and prodding at their body, reassuring them that I won’t do anything to hurt them… that they’re completely safe with me… I just want to study their beautiful body. Soothing them by gently rubbing their soft wings as I poke them with needles… telling them how good they’re doing and how well behaved they are… how grateful I am for all the data they’re giving me 🖤
izzy806
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