none of y'all write med play the way i want it i HATE it here!!
wheres the description of gloves popping against skin, the soft squeaking latex as they move about.
why are we not talking about that thing to find a good vein where they flick or lightly slap your elbow to get an easy stick and then the way they go "thereee we go, i got it"
and what about the gentle reprimand and compliment combo. OUGH when a doctor hums a no or quietly says try again when you do or say something the wrong way, the way when you Do get it they tell you "great job, exactlyyy like that."
Replace What You Lost - Victor Gideon x Reader (Gender-Neutral)
Hello, this is my first work I did of Victor Gideon fanfiction that I deleted earlier this year. However, I feel okay with reposting this on tumblr specifically due to a mixture of thinking about it for far too long, and my most recent blood tests and blood pressure checks were 'perfect'. It's by no means my best work, but if you read it before and missed it, it's back. Enjoy!
Warnings: Bloodplay, needles, choking, blood drinking and bondage!
"Now, I must admit that I am partly to blame for what happened too." The ringing in your ears lessened to where you could hear his gentle voice, a murmur cast over his shoulder as he grabbed a tourniquet from the metal tray he had wheeled in across from you.
You blinked wearily, your senses slowly returning back to you. Victor had moved you into his office while you were unconscious. The chair that usually stood in front of his desk — the chair you frequently sat in to report any recent important calls and deliveries, was now in the centre of the room, and you were tied to it. Ankles bound to the antique wooden legs. Spine flushed to the rigid back with a leather strap digging into your ribs. Your right arm was secured at your side, your hand absently throbbing with minor pain. Your left arm was propped up on a pillow, another thick strap looping over your forearm, across your lap, then under the seat to secure it in place. You couldn't squirm, only slowly lift your head up to watch him saunter back over to you with a look in his eyes you couldn't see, nor possibly recognise if you could.
"You've been given too much work lately," He continued, unfazed by the growing panic that gradually seeped into your face.
A pale finger of his slid up your left arm, tracing a vein before following another, then another, carefully searching for what he desired from you. He brought the tourniquet around the top of your arm and pulled it painfully tight.
"Please, clench your fist for me." You did as you were told and a smile tugged at his cracked lips from your obedience.
His large finger returned to your skin and began to prod at a particular vein that bulged and throbbed under his touch. Victor kept still, feeling your blood pump through you. With the visor he had begun wearing lately whenever he was due to leave the clinic, you were unsure if he was currently looking at your arm or at your eyes. You weren't sure what was worse, his fascination with your blood or his fascination with your reaction. He cleared his throat all of a sudden, straightened and returned to the metal tray behind him, back turned to you once more.
"I should have expected you to be tired, what with not getting enough rest" —He held up a needle to the light and rolled his head onto his shoulder to look back at you from the corner of his eye— "but I did not expect you to carelessly shatter my research," He tutted, then shook his head.
Your brow furrowed at the reminder of your very recent bout of carelessness. A small box tossed down the stairs and he had caught you in the act of trying to tidy it away.
It was getting to be too much for you now. A nurse had fallen ill two weeks prior and with the remaining staff ever busy with their own work, your boss Dr Gideon called upon you to manage some of her work in her stead. Of course, you were no doctor or nurse, you were merely a hardworking receptionist—the only receptionist—now forced to rush blood and stacked papers between the other staff member's desks, all while juggling your own incoming calls and urgent emails. By the end of the first week, Victor had found you and chastised you for falling asleep at the front desk after your shift, before dumping three clipboards in front of you and telling you to make some use of yourself. By the end of the second week, you had spent two nights in a row at the hospital, trading your desk for sleeping in your car when you managed to drag yourself out the front door.
When you awoke this morning, a box greeted you, fragile written on each side. A note was also attached to it.
'For immediate storage'
You fished your phone from your pocket and groaned at the time that flashed up on your lock screen. It wasn't even five o'clock in the morning yet. Going against your better judgement, you decided to heave yourself up and deliver the box to where it needed to go, lest Victor spotted you dozing in the building once more. You assumed it had to be taken to the blood lab. Why did you have to store it and when did it even get here? Did someone drop by late last night to deliver it without bothering to wake you up? How embarrassing...
A yawn tore through you as you made a great effort to ascend the stairs of the lobby. The plan you crafted in your tired mind was to drop these off at the blood lab for those with actual medical knowledge to deal with later in the day. You had no idea where it was supposed to go anyway. It wasn't your job and nobody had bothered to enlighten you, not once. However, you unfortunately never managed to reach the top of the stairs in the lobby. During yet another mighty yawn, you foolishly decided to close your eyes and dramatically tilt you head back towards the ceiling. The toe of your shoe collided with the edge of the next step and the whole staircase instantly rushed up to meet you. You brain kicked into a sudden high gear and tossed the box in your hands to the side so you could clumsily catch yourself. Your body crashed into the marble and slid down a couple more steps before you finally came to a stop. You huffed out an anxious breath of relief. That would definitely leave a bruise or two on you somewhere.
Glass broke below you, the sound only now registering in your mind. Your eyes widened. Slowly, you turned your head to peer down at the box now resting on its side at the bottom of the stairs, lid thrown off, the casing inside dislodged, and all the vials of blood thrown about the floor. Some were cracked, most were completely smashed, but all were ruined. Twenty new vials of blood utterly ruined.
Without a second thought, you picked yourself up and hurried to the bottom of the stairs to try and clean up the mess you stupidly made. Without a broom nearby, you went to grab the lid to brush the broken glass into the box but recoiled in pain as there was broken glass lodged in the cardboard. You brought your sliced finger up to your face and winced at the blood freely flowing down the side of it and onto your thumb.
"Well," A calm voice drawled above you, "it seems you've had quite the accident, doesn't it?"
Your head whipped around to find Victor Gideon looming over you at the top of the stairs. He was dressed in his usual lab coat, but instead today he worse an odd visor or half-helmet over his eyes, something you had heard talk of from the staff but you weren't expecting something so oddly sci-fi looking. Immediately, you remembered the position you were now in.
"Dr Gideon" —you scrambled to your feet and glanced back down at the blood sprawling across the perfect floor— "I tripped and it slipped out of my hands, I must apologise." You played it over in your mind and cringed at how quickly this all happened.
"I can see that you tripped," He nodded slowly at you, spying the wound on your finger with curiosity.
"I'll immediately look into where this shipment of samples came from and inform them that we require more and—" Victor raised a hand and shook his head to silence you.
"There's no need for that. It wouldn't be a good look for my care centre, now would it?"
You shook your head back at him, embarrassed. He started to descend the stairs towards you.
"No, it wouldn't," Victor let out a long sigh, saying the words for you.
He stopped on the last step behind you. He towered over you. The lack of open frustration towards you was highly unnerving. When he found you sleeping on the job, he openly shouted before falling into his usual mocking tone. You had a feeling your job was definitely on the line now.
"Lucky for us, though, I have an idea." In an instant his hand was around your throat.
Both of your hands flew upwards to tug fiercely at his wrist in a pathetic attempt to get him to release you. All you got was a single condescending tut as he lifted you off your feet and brought you to his chest. His grip tightened and you felt his nails dig into your pulse. The words you wanted to shout at him were forced out in weakening unrecognisable chokes and undignified grunts. Victor calmly shushed you, like you were a child he was lulling back to sleep after a nightmare and your vision finally grew fuzzy, then dark. There was nothing you could do but give up.
"It's best we get this over with before the others arrive." His grip loosened and he held you against himself for a second longer. There was enough time for you to replace what you broke and for him to clean up your mess before any of the staff noticed.
Victor's eyes travelled from the blood on the floor to the blood he had seen on your hand. He used his free hand to take it in his own and lift it up to inspect it. Exhausted enough to trip and foolish enough to try and handle broken glass. If you hadn't piqued his interest at your first interview, he would have ordered you home and to not return without even thinking. Before finally slinging your unconscious body over his shoulder, Victor gently raised your finger to his lips and afforded himself one small taste of you. A smile spread across your skin but you weren't awake to feel it.
You blinked and realised he was now in front of you again. When your eyes caught the needle in his raised hand, you scrunched your face up and tilted your head away from the sight. Under the restraints, you felt your body jolt and twitch with nagging fear.
"Now, now. You've had blood taken before, your records state so. This is nothing new." Still he continued to speak to you like you weren't currently tied up after he choked you. It was far too professional and disturbingly casual.
A cold hand brushed your cheek and your body went rigid at the touch.
"I won't hurt you," Victor bent down to whisper to you. "Not unless you make me."
A gentle chuckle left him as he stood back up to take a hold of your arm. You winced at the sharp scratch of the needle breaking your skin and sinking deep into his vein of choice. Though you resolved to keep your gaze away, you remained acutely aware of the sound of him attaching a new bottle onto the end of the needle.
"You may unclench your fist as well," He noted playfully.
Your palm stung from where you had been digging your nails into the skin. You could only hope they weren't bleeding.
Victor began quietly humming to himself as he changed every filled vial out with an empty one. You counted each pop and click of the old being removed and the new being connected. You kept your breathing steady, staring at the wall of his office intently in a pretty good attempt at keeping yourself grounded and warding off any rising panic. It'll be over soon. But still your left arm began to tremble without your control.
"You're doing so well." Victor's voice startled you. It was so uncomfortably soft and reassuring.
Over the agonisingly long blood draw, the tray was gradually filled with the new vials containing your blood. You counted the nineteenth vial being attached onto the needle and you held back your tears of relief at the fact you were nearing the end.
Victor watched your blood effortlessly flow into the clear tube with rapt attention and a brimming sense of glee. If he wanted to, he could drain you of much, much more. Watch the blood ooze out of you and study it to his heart's content. Study it. Experiment on it. Corrupt it. There was so many things he could do and he wanted so desperately to try them all. But alas, such kisses of self-indulgent desires would leave you far more exhausted than you already were currently. He needed the blood, but he also needed a functioning receptionist as well. He removed the second-to-last one from the needle, deposited it on the tray and brought the final one over to connect it back up. Unfortunately, Victor himself was apparently losing his focus in the early hours of the morning as well. The back of his hand bumped into the needle in your arm and easily dislodged it with a violent hiss.
Pain tickled your forearm and you felt the needle be removed by Victor. Warmth spread down your arm and around your elbow. It was slick and gathered in your open, twitching palm. You forced yourself to keep your gaze at the wall.
"I do apologise. It appears I knocked the needle slightly, an easy mistake considering the hour." Your heart rate picked up when you realised Victor was making no quick attempt to stem the flow of your bleeding.
"Am I okay?" The panicked words practically tumbled from your tongue.
"Yes, yes, you are quite alright" —The tourniquet was finally removed from your arm— "and it's from the pressure. It looks much worse than it is."
Without thinking it through, your head rolled back over to see for yourself what he had done to you. Blood coated your forearm, it pooled in your hand and you felt it had overflown and dripped between your fingers and onto the floor. You tried to move your arm and felt the red soaked pillow stick to your skin. A sterile cloth was then placed over where the needle had torn your skin and Victor left it there to soak up the blood.
"Now, I know what you must be thinking," He regarded you by name, "but you won't be let go after this." His words came as genuine shock to you.
"I... I won't?" Part of you wanted to doubt it so you never had to step foot into this building ever again.
"Of course not, you replaced what you lost us and nobody will ever know it happened." Victor practically cooed at you as he removed the now soaked cloth to hold in his open hand. "This will be our little secret."
If he wasn't going to fire you, then once you had been released you would be leaving by yourself.
Suddenly, though, Victor tilted his head at you, like he had heard your very thoughts and his playful smile sagged into a thin, pursed line. His head dipped down, eyes behind the visor scanning the crimson webbing spreading throughout the fibres of the fabric in his hand. The calloused skin of his thumb dragged a heavy line through the centre, the pressure enough to force some of the blood to dribble out the sides of the cloth and onto his shoe.
"But you're just another... normal person, aren't you?" He saw your features scrunch slightly with returning worry. "You see, I am so close to finding the person I have been after for so long and I can't let you report this... incident, and get my centre into trouble." Something bubbled in his chest as he spoke and a distinct rasp crept into his voice as he continued to ease into casual threats towards you.
"The easiest option would be to dispose of you" —He threw his other hand up when your face suddenly contorted at such a comment— "but I do not wish to do that." The way he slowly said you name as the stern note in his voice melted into one if amusement, it made you shiver.
Victor watched you avert your eyes again when he brought the damp cloth to his nose and breathed in deep and slow. Such intoxicating blood. His forked tongue poked out between his lips and brushed against the fabric lightly. Then, his eyes fell to the blood still on your arm and in your hand, the edges of it already crusted.
"I will give you the day off and you will return tomorrow morning. You will speak to nobody about this, not even the police." That subtle edge of venom slid out of his throat again and Victor delighted in how you tensed and flinched when his voice barely rumbled. "Don't even try. I would know if you did."
The floorboards creaked as he lowered himself onto one knee, dropped the tainted rag of blood and now chose to hold the back of your turned over hand in his palm. The legs of your chair squeaked momentarily from your sudden jolt as Victor kissed your bloodied palm and parted his lips to silently suck on your blood. A wicked smile grew on his face, drinking in both your taste and your body jolting to the side once more upon audibly swallowing the blood in his mouth. He brought his other hand up to press two fingers against the pulse on your neck.
"If you did... I would come find you." Victor's mouth sank back down to suck at the blood still coating your fingers, swiftly sliding his tongue between each digit to ensure every drop was tasted.
He couldn't help but chuckle to himself when his second swallow was followed by the chair legs grinding and bouncing against the floor. The remaining fingers around your neck spread out wide and pushed down on your collarbone. It wouldn't keep you in place but the uncomfortable pressure gave you enough pause, anticipating another choking, for him to secure an easy third helping of you.
"And I would have you bleed more of your delectable blood for me." After that, he no longer stopped to make a show of swallowing your delicious blood. Instead, Victor eagerly gulped down every drop and his tongue lapped at the blood and his lips sucked on the surface of your skin, working their way up your forearm to the tiny tear in your arm.
He could feel your blood pound under his fingers and if he weren't making such noises against your arm, he could possibly be able to hear your little heart beating all too quickly. It excited him to no end. He found himself gradually leaning against your leg, surprising himself with the fleeting feeling of friction against his crotch.
"Do you understand me?" He breathed, pulling himself up for air to stare directly at you.
You nodded quickly, eyes squeezing shut in terror.
"Say it," Victor demanded, voice now cold, that bulge against your leg more and more apparent as the seconds ticked by.
You forced your eyes open to search the far wall for the correct string of words you carelessly lost in the depths of your fear. Your mouth hung open, panicked breaths the only thing escaping.
"Say it!" His voice boomed in your ears and you felt ashamed about the whimper that left you.
"I-I understand!" You affirmed, voice shaky.
The hand on your neck retreated away to wipe your blood from his lips, though you still saw a red glint on his gold teeth.
"Good... Good..." He too sounded as breathless as you.
He rose to his feet and retrieved the discarded cloth from the floor and shoved it into his pocket, turned his back to you, then focused back on the vials of blood he momentarily forgot about. Nineteen was enough for what he needed, so he began to wheel the small cart to the door of his office.
"I'll leave you hear too calm down. Blood tests can be very anxiety inducing for some patients." His gentle, teasing tone returned and part of you was relieved to hear it. "I'll see these to their proper place, clean up your mess, then let you go home for some sleep."
Without another word nor a single lingering hesitation, Victor turned and left the room like nothing had happened. Your head flopped back and tears weakly threatened to sting the corners of your eyes, exhaustion overpowering any want to fully cry at this moment in time. You'll save your inevitable breakdown for when you returned back to the relative safety of your home. You did not want to give Victor any chance of satisfaction from your tears.
In the bloods lab, Victor carefully labelled each of the tubes with what he would want done to the blood inside later today, then sat back in his chair. He removed his visor and placed it on the table. His eyes travelled down into his lap and that same twisted smile spread across his wretched features. As much as he loved what he did to you, he was enthralled with what you could do to him. A little fact that made his tongue glide over the blood still coating his teeth.
|| Dr. Victor Gideon x Fem!Reader ||
Rating: E
Words: 6.9k
Warnings: many...Snake-Like Victor Gideon, Graphic Description, Blood and Gore, Blood Drinking, Menstrual Sex, Dub Con, Medical Procedures. Dead Dove Do Not Eat. Please check Ao3 for full list.
18+ MDNI
ao3 link
When I would come out of Isolation, he would be standing there. The red light of the ward flashing and glinting off him as he stood, large and imposing with his hands behind his back. He wouldn't say anything, just nod approvingly and I would follow, hating how that sliver of approval would make me smile. I clung to it, this tiny scrap of acknowledgement from a monster. I was as foolish as the frog, hoping the scorpion wouldn't sting me but he was already upon me—under my skin, ready and poised to deliver a fatal drop of poison. So I kept going, letting myself want his trust and his approval, hungering for it.
An assistant nurse who finds herself fascinated by the director of Rhodes Hill Chronic Care Centre. Can be read as reader or an OC, no name or overly descriptive features
I watched his hands, large and rough, as they slowly sloughed off the dead cells along the patient's arm. It was a precise and meticulous procedure, nobody dared to breathe as the doctor worked—we were never to interrupt. For such a large and imposing man, his movements were always so careful and deliberate—a tenderness tended to linger, even as his pulled back layers of skin and tissue. Every one of us wore gloves, face masks and scrubs that had once been white but were stained pink and grey no matter how thoroughly they were cleaned. At most he wore a lab coat, but his hands were always bare, the only thing on his face was that strange visor—for his damaged sight, the lead researcher, Doctor Richardson, had said. His mouth, split and cracked was always in a thin line as he concentrated, taking skin and blood samples back to the lab to study before he returned to his private office up on the third floor.
Rhodes Hill Chronic Care Centre was not the place to work if you were faint of heart. A sanatorium posing as a long-term care facility for those with physical injuries and psychological disorders—I knew it was posing. Nobody ever seemed to improve, I'd been here six months and not a single person had been discharged yet people had disappeared. The Head Nurse had shrugged, saying the Director had them relocated. I'd been sent here as a trainee nurse as part of my placement, shadowing the Head Nurse in daily tasks until one day she'd told me to take over for the surgical assistant—she was ill, she said.
That assistant never came back.
I'd been given clearance to access Security Level 1 areas, mostly so I could access patient files. I had to help prep for surgery, I'd been told, and had to assist the surgeon while he worked. For what type of surgery? I didn't ask. I didn't want to know. The things I had already seen had made my stomach twist with unease but nothing had prepared me for Doctor Victor Gideon.
At first I had recoiled, glad that my expression had been partially covered by the mask over my face when he had come in with the Lead Researcher, towering over the other man and his hulking frame barely fitting through the operating room door. My breath had hitched and his head had turned toward me ever so slightly before he had held a large hand out, requesting a scalpel. I had been repulsed then, as his large fingers slid through tissue, the blood leaving traces on the rings he wore before the other hand was using the sharp blade to slice deeper and remove whatever sample he had wanted. I'd watch him wash the blood off his hands after, as if it were merely dirt and not the bodily fluids of another human but I wasn't even sure if I could call Victor Gideon human.
Immune, Doctor Richardson had told me that first day in the operating room when Doctor Gideon had left and I had given the researcher a questioning look. There had been an understanding that I did not talk about what happened. I kept quiet and did as I was told. But I wondered, immune to what exactly?
My horrified fascination led me to always watch Doctor Gideon's hands when he performed any surgery or even while he worked in the Blood Lab. I wondered if he was responsible for his own scars—had he tested on himself? No, I thought. He was skilled but the extent of the incision that ran from his neck down his torso was certainly too large to have been done himself, surely. I wondered what it was, it reminded me of an autopsy incision. I tried to never look at him too long but I couldn't help myself. It was a strange fixation that manifested over time. I couldn't help watching him or listening to his quiet words as he carefully sliced open the cranium of some poor patient.
Occasionally there would be other students that would come to the centre. To learn. To study. Doctor Gideon would shadow us sometimes, from afar. I now had access to Security Level 2 and had seen far more gruesome experiments than I could dream of. I was a permanent hire now and I guided them through the facility, showing them the patient wards and theatre rooms. I always felt Doctor Gideon watching as I led them through the charade of medical care we were trying to perpetuate. The students rarely noticed the looming shadow but I did. I could always feel the weight of his presence, the vibration of his footsteps as he lingered somewhere nearby—perhaps watching through the one-way mirror in the large operating room, or otherwise lingering in a dark corner. If anyone noticed him, there was always that audible gasp, the quick suck of air through their nose and a stuttering sound. I did not blame them, he was terrifying. Grey skin, grey hair and the lenses on his visor glowing red as they homed in on you, assessing and cataloguing each movement and breath from his great height.
They would huddle together then, like sheep. Thinking that were safe in numbers.
They were not.They needed to be smart, to not balk at the task at hand—they needed to not ask questions they didn't want an answer to. You didn't last in the sanatorium if you asked too many questions. If they did, Doctor Richardson would have me take them into the Isolation Ward. Like a Judas goat I would lead them through and I would be the only one to come back out. Their endless bleating used to carry over into my dreams, I would see them with their red eyes and pleading, bleeding mouths. I barely dream now.
When I would come out of Isolation, he would be standing there. The red light of the ward flashing and glinting off him as he stood, large and imposing with his hands behind his back. He wouldn't say anything, just nod approvingly and I would follow, hating how that sliver of approval would make me smile. I clung to it, this tiny scrap of acknowledgement from a monster. I was as foolish as the frog, hoping the scorpion wouldn't sting me but he was already upon me—under my skin, ready and poised to deliver a fatal drop of poison. So I kept going, letting myself want his trust and his approval, hungering for it.
I was as sick as any of the patients I tended to, I thought. But it was my way of surviving. In those early weeks I had thought of never returning but something kept bringing me back, this terrifying siren call of horror and fascination. And there was something about Victor Gideon, something that told me I would be found if I didn't come back of my own free will.
Perhaps my days would have continued to the same if I hadn't been for my morbid curiosity and the way he made my skin crawl with a sort of horrified arousal. I felt attuned to him whenever he was nearby but during an operation I could never tear myself away from him.
It was a rainy day in November when something changed. That morning I had prepped the operating room for an operation on one of the hysterical patients. When he walked into the brightly lit theatre, I tried to contain my grotesque excitement. Fingers parted skin, gliding through tissue and I watched, avidly, as he did so. It was macabre, yet I stood there, silent and obedient, passing across surgical instruments without being prompted all the while watching his fingers. My feet shifted as I felt my body cramp and felt the wetness of my monthly suffering, earlier than anticipated. I bit my lip and shifted again, trying to ignore it. The doctor paused then and turned, passing me a bloodied scalpel though his many eyes fixed on me. I could hear the slight hum of the visor as it zoomed in and I looked down at the tray I held in my hands a moment, feeling my heart begin to pick up as my cunt throbbed with another cramp but also something else that I tried to ignore. I looked back up as he plucked the hemostat from my tray, his gaze still watching me. I swallowed, feeling stuck to the cold floor of the room, the lights feeling far too bright. His tongue flicked out, the forked muscle tasting the air quickly before it was gone and he was turning back to the patient tied and sedated on the operating table. I made myself breathe, and I squeezed my thighs together before I focused back on the doctor, watching and wondering what those fingers would feel like between my legs, parting my folds and slipping into my bloodied heat.
I tried to not let me thoughts stray any further, part of me feared that he could hear them, the other part—the part that did not dream and cherished any bit of praise—hoped that he could.
Squeezing my thighs again, I busied myself with cleaning the dirty instruments, knowing that I wouldn't be needed for a while. He would be done soon and then I would have to clean the rest of the room and monitor the patient until he was stable enough to move back down into the Rehabilitation Ward. Perhaps I let myself think these perverse thoughts as a distraction to what it was we were doing. I did not question the strange behaviour of the patients, nor that they disappeared frequently; staff too, like the nurse I had replaced. I let this fascination with Victor Gideon fester, constantly scratching at it so it would never heal. I was always watching him whenever I saw him within the main part of the centre. I would busy myself nearby, listening to the sound of his voice as he spoke in that careful tone of his to someone else. I would make myself useful if he came into the Blood Lab to request another document and I would offer to take reports to him if the Lead Researcher was busy—delivering them to his office with the reverence of an apostle surrendering some slaughtered creature to the altar of the Gods.
It became an obsession.
Doctor Richardson was pleased with my work, recommending that I move over to their Research Labs. I was dedicated and thorough, and not squeamish. I had never considered research before, it had sounded dull and I had wanted to help people. Ha. Those idealistic values I once had were gone, I didn't care about anyone else but myself. And him.
I'd been working more in the labs than with the patients for the last several weeks. I saw Doctor Gideon more often, watching him out of the corner of my eye as I noted down blood tests results from the patients in the Rehabilitation Ward while in the lab. The back of my neck would prickle but I would keep on working, trying to focus on what I was doing. Sometimes I could feel him approach and then see the glint of his visor in the shiny metal of the microscope I was working at. He always stood so close, looming over me. I would squeeze my thighs together under the desk and try to focus on my work.
Today was no different. Surgery had been hours ago and my shift was nearly over. There were no windows in the Blood Lab but I could tell the time by the ache in my feet and shoulders. And I was desperate to get home and shower. I had done my best earlier to clean myself in the bathroom, trying to wash away the menstrual blood and hastily shove a pad onto my spare pair of knickers. I felt irritable and my entire body ached but I would continue on.
I didn't want to disappoint Doctor Gideon.
I heard a hum from him as he picked up a report next to me, the only sound the whirring of the hematology analyser and the flick of pages being turned carefully. I only faltered a moment before I continued typing on the computer, trying to focus on the data. My body cramped and I shifted in my chair, trying to will it away. When he was so close to me it was hard to concentrate, he carried with him a heavy scent of patchouli but it didn't quite mask the strange metallic, chemical scent he seemed to exude.
"Hmm." Another flick of the page before he settled it back down on the counter next to me. "Come bring this to my office when you are done."
"Yes, Doctor."
The heavy footsteps signalled his departure and I strained to hear them until there was nothing but silence as the analyser finished processing. It beeped at me and I flinched.
Had I done something wrong? I hadn't been able to tell whether he was satisfied with my report or not. I didn't want to rush but I also didn't want to keep him waiting too long, there was hardly anyone else except the overnight shift in the clinic now. I had no idea what hours Doctor Gideon kept and was not brave enough to ask anyone. The thought of him staying back and waiting for me had me working as quickly as I could.
I ran the machine again on another sample from the same patient, wanting to check it across the data it had just spat out at me. Cross-examining it and meticulously typing it out, my eyes blurred as I stared at the screen. Usually, I would leave it for Doctor Richardson to check over before it was given to Doctor Gideon but I couldn't do that now, not when he had requested it. I didn't want to waste anymore time, I could feel my heart starting to race with a restless anxious energy as my foot tapped against the floor, waiting for it to print out. If it was wrong, I would do it again until he was happy with it, I told myself, as I took the warm pages out of the printer and carefully stapled them together.
Carefully placed in a manila folder, I turned the hematology analyser off along with the lab lights and locked the door with my security pass. I made my way towards the West Wing, ignoring the sound of Selena Corey singing as I passed the bar lounge and headed for the third floor. Someone else could take her back to her room, I had more important things to do. Besides, I wasn't a regular nurse anymore. I was a research assistant. I'd bought myself a nice new pencil skirt and a matching jacket, trying to affect an air of professionalism. I was irritated that I'd had to throw my bloodied stockings in the bathroom bin and the skirt chaffed against my thighs as I walked. When I reached the third floor, I briefly paused outside the door, checking my reflection in the mirror to make sure I looked presentable and that my jacket was straight before heading inside.
There was usually a table in the lounge area of the Director's office where I would leave reports, this is what I had been instructed to do by my team lead so I had never ventured very far into the room before. The main office was always shut and the one window that peered inside usually had the blinds partially closed so I could only catch hints of the doctor while he sat at his desk. The blinds were completely drawn today however the door was partially open. My heels clicked loudly against the tiled floor and I paused at the door to his office before gently knocking. Unlike the rest of the care centre, the Director's office was lit with lamps that emitted only gentle orange light.
"Come in."
He was still working, writing something in what looked like a diary as I entered. The desk he sat at was massive, made of dark wood panelling that matched the walls and shelves of the rest of the office. It had to have been custom built, I thought, to accommodate for his size, along with the chair he sat in. He didn't even glance at me as I entered and I was grateful, he was not wearing his usual visor and some of his grey hair fallen forward across his scarred face as he worked.
"Shut the door."
I did as I was told, the gentle click of the door closing very loud in the office. There was an old gramophone in the corner and it was lightly playing some classical music, and there was also the smell of cigarettes—the butt of one gently smoking on a glass tray that was filled with ash. I moved deeper into the room, my footsteps silenced against a thick rug. I placed the report on the desk, in what I hoped was not a meek manner, trying to retain a semblance of formality—as if I had done it a hundred times before. Nervously I smoothed down the front of my skirt.
"Please," he said, still not looking up at me but gesturing to one of the chairs in front of his large desk. "Take a seat."
I sat, ankles crossed and my eyes flicked around the room taking in the green leather couch, many books that lined the shelves and the medical illustrations on the walls. It was warm in here and I itched to take my jacket off but the doctor was still wearing his usual snakeskin coat, clearly unbothered by the warm room. So I didn't move. It felt like an age that I sat there in that dim room, waiting for him with my stomach twisting in to knots. When he clicked the pen he was using and looked up at me I swallowed. The corner of his lips quirked at he closed his journal and dragged the file I'd brought toward him and opened it, flicking through it.
"Hmm."
My anxiety spiked again as he read through the document. Though I could see his face I couldn't discern his expression. He didn't spend much time on it before dropping it back on the desk.I kept my hands in my lap, trying not to fidget. I felt like a rabbit, paralysed in front of his gaze and not wanting to make a sudden movement lest he strike at me. I'd never seen his eyes before, they glittered in the low light. It was hypnotic.
"You've shown great promise."
Soft words. I let them wash over my skin and revelled in the pleasure they gave, some of the apprehension sliding away at his praise.
"Thank you, Doctor."
"Victor."
I hesitated a moment but then managed to reply, "Victor."
Victor.
I savoured the name like it was the finest wine. It tasted like victory an the feeling spread though me immediately. It made me feel special, better than the rest. He could trust me and I would be worthy of his trust. My heart raced and I couldn't help the flush that bloomed across my cheeks and that my lips quirked into a smile. I tried to not let it affect me, to stay objective and sensible. But I was a silly little rabbit.
He smiled back at me, his large hands clasped together on the desk as he leant forward. The lamplight caught on the gold of his teeth—I'd never been able to study his face so openly before and only now noted the additional incisors. I shivered.
"You are very observant," he said. "I've not had an assistant nurse last this long, nor one be recommended for promotion so swiftly." He smiled again, though it wasn't a particularly reassuring expression, it was a lot to have the full intensity of his attention on me and I subconsciously shifted in my seat. His tongue darted out then, so briefly sliding across his lips before disappearing. "You seem to anticipate my every need."
"Thank you," I said and added, "Victor." My breath shuddered out of me as I went on, "It's a pleasure to work with you."
"A pleasure?" The tongue flicked out again. "It is, isn't it."He stood then, the chair sliding back against the rug. Moving with deliberate slowness he came toward me. I didn't dare move, swallowing my nervousness and ignoring the ache deep within me. How I despised that my body was making me suffer when I was alone with him. But I wouldn't be rude, I would not say anything. The satisfaction I felt from his praise was enough to ignore my clenching cunt and the way my lower back ached. I didn't need an opioid injector, I just needed him to tell me again that I had done a good job.
I clasped my hands tighter as he came to stand behind my chair and I felt him place both large hands on the top of it, his knuckles barely brushing the back of my shoulders.
"The thing about being very observant," he said, his words floating down to me and sliding down my spine, "is that you need to be subtle. You are not the only one who is watching."
I heard him take a deep and slow breath as one of his hands gently came to rest on my shoulder. It engulfed it completely. His thumb touched the side of my neck. It was cool as it slid slowly against my skin, my pulse thundering under it like a raging fire. I licked my lips, they were dry and I bit at my bottom lip in an effort to rein myself in. Had I fallen asleep in the lab? I must have. Or the drugs I had taken earlier had not been inflammatory relief but some hallucinatory substance.
But the heavy scent of patchouli mixed with cigarettes and that peculiar underlying scent of his was more than enough for me to know it was real. It filled my nose and I tried to breathe, it was cloying but I wanted to breathe in more of it. I wanted to cling to the smell and memorise it.
"You seemed a little tense today," he said and though I could not see his face I hear the lilt behind his words that made me know that he was smirking at me. His thumb brushed behind my ear and touched a sensitive spot that made me shiver with pleasure and I subconsciously squeezed my thighs together, my own fingers clasping my hands tighter. "Is there anything I can do to help?"
Yes.
"No," I said. "Thank you for your concern," I added with sincerity, "It's nothing. I will try not to let it interfere with the work."
His fingers had crawled across my shoulder and were on my neck, idly stroking my hair like I was some sort of pet. The music softly playing from the gramophone came to a stop and Victor's fingers paused before they slowly retreated from me and he was walking towards it and carefully flipping the vinyl over. The notes filled the room again and I reminded myself to breathe. I hadn't been dismissed, I knew this, so I stayed seated with the anticipatory feeling in my chest while I stared at his back. It was so broad and the top of his head was only a foot away from the ceiling. I had often wondered what the rest of him looked like, his hands were large—I was certain one would have easily been able to wrap around my neck. My eyes briefly flicked to his leather pants when he turned before I looked away, mortified with myself. It was one thing to think about his cock in the privacy of my own apartment but another to do so right in front of him.
I had daydreamed about holding his full attention but now that I had it I didn't know what to do with it. I felt too small in his presence, scared I would say or do the wrong thing and I would be the lamb led to the Isolation Ward, never to be seen again. I recognised there was something twisted within me, that I didn't just want his approval but all of him. But he still scared me.
Victor moved back to me then and I briefly caught the smile on his cracked lips. He didn't seem angry—I had only ever witnessed his displeasure once, at a junior researcher that had contaminated a blood sample. It had been an icy sort of rage and I had never wanted to hear it again.
He was holding something out to me, it was a wine glass filled with a dark red liquid. I took it, my fingers briefly touching his. Still cool despite how warm the room was. I sniffed it, it was a very rich wine. I was no sommelier but there was something about it that reminded me of Victor and I glanced at him.
"I found that in a little village in Eastern Europe," said Victor pleasantly, coming to stand behind me again. "It will help you relax."I sipped at it, it sat heavy on my tongue but I would drink it all anyway. At least it gave me something to do and a reason to not speak, I did not trust myself and was worried I would say something stupid. I sipped at the wine again, it made my head swim a little though I hadn't had much of it. My muscles cramped again and I grimaced, covering the action by mindlessly taking another sip of the wine.
Sweat was starting to bead on my forehead and I wiped at it without thinking. My arm felt heavy and it dropped with an ungracious thump at my side.I blinked sluggishly. Was I that tired that half a glass of wine but causing me to feel like I'd drunk half a bottle instead? Surely not. My grip slackened on the wine, the glass slipping from my hands but it didn't fall. The doctor was catching it and placing it on his desk. I went to move forward but I felt the world around me spin with the movement and leant back, a gasp leaving my lips in my confusion.
"Shh, shh, shh…" I heard him say.
All of a sudden his hands were under my arms and pulling me up to stand with such ease it took my breath away. I felt like a child's doll and I swayed on my feet. All my thoughts were feeling slow.
"This room is quite warm, I do apologise."
He didn't sound apologetic at all. His fingers undid the two buttons holding my jacket closed and was pushing it off me, leaving it forgotten on the ground. It was a slight relief to have it gone but I still felt overly warm in the room, I knew he'd put something in that wine he'd given me. I wasn't stupid. It must have been some kind of sedative. I felt like a puppet with half of its strings cut so my movements were clumsy and awkward. Those larges hands of his were on my blouse then and I couldn't look away as he undid them, fingers brushing against my skin as he did so. They felt rough and still so cool, it felt delicious against my own heated flesh. My heart was fluttering like a mad bird in my chest as he parted the fabric with the same ease and precision he did to a patient's chest cavity. I madly wondered if he'd rip out my heart and eat it, and if I would mind.
The shirt hung loosely on my shoulders, exposing my bra clad breasts to him, his hands ghosted over the skin and my nipples hardened in response. It was such a feather light touch, and I couldn't help but moan when his hand delved into one of cups and caressed one breast, thumb running over my nipple to make me moan again. I felt dizzy with the sedative but also with want, feeling wetness flood my knickers in response. I heard his slow hiss of breath before he picked me up again, walking over to his side of the desk to sit me on it and push me back.
I fell back slowly as if in a dream as I felt him push my skirt up my legs so it bunched around my waist.My head lolled to the side and through half lidded eyes I watched his large hands wrap around my thighs and slowly open them. I tried to shy away, not because I was repulsed—I should have been—but because I was embarrassed that I was bleeding.
"Victor…" I tried to speak but he shushed me again, squeezing my thighs before sliding up them to my knickers.
His hands rested there a moment and my gaze flicked to his, I felt pinned by it and it alone. He sat in his chair and drew close, leaning over me and pressing his face against my clothed cunt. I both heard and felt the deep breath he took alongside the flick of what could only have been his tongue as it pressed against me. I shuddered at the contact unable to help the way my hips bucked in response.
"I can smell it," he murmured against me, once of his hands releasing their grip to grab something I couldn't see. I felt something cold against the skin of my hip. It was a blade. I tensed but all he did was slide it underneath the fabric of my underwear. He leant back slightly so I could see his face, his strange tongue darting out again as the blade slid under the other side of my knickers until the became loose. A clink as the blade was discarded and he was pulling my ruined underwear away and shoving it into a coat pocket. I instinctively went to close my legs but he held me open, studying me like something under a microscope. He breathed in again and smiled at me. "I can also smell you when watch me work." He sucked at his terrifying teeth in a mocking but amused fashion as he looked at me. "Naughty."
I flushed at his words. Of course he had noticed, how stupid I had been to think he wouldn't have. But he had smelt me? I was mortified at the thought but not much, my deranged obsession made swell with pleasure for it had clearly pleased him.
"I've wondered what you taste like…"
The grip on my thighs tightened, not that it needed to. I could barely move with the sedative in my veins, and even then, I wouldn't have wanted to—not when his mouth was upon my cunt. The slide of his tongue had me keening and my clumsy arms knocked something off the desk—I think it was my wine—but he didn't care. His mouth was too busy devouring me, the wet sound of his tongue sliding through my bloody folds, lapping at it like a starved beast. There would be imprints from his fingers on my skin, bruises left like lingering kisses. I didn't care, there was no room for it—just like there was no room for my disgust. I should have been appalled at the way he supped greedily from my cunt, not missing any of my shed blood. It felt too overwhelming good, my entire body shuddering and sweating, my back was drenched and the fabric of my blouse clung to both me and the desk. He groaned against me, his diabolical tongue slipping into me, searching for more and I pushed my hips up against his face so his nose was pressing against my clit making me moan.
He gave me one last lick and leant back in the chair, though he still had his hands on my legs, keeping me there in place. I lifted my sweaty face to look at him, his mouth was covered in blood and I watched his tongue slide out and lick as much of it as he could.
"Divine." His voice had taken on a darker quality that sent a fresh wave of shudders down my spine and made the space between my legs throb. "Certainly the most enjoyable meal I've had in a long time."I didn't know what that meant and I didn't really want to know. But I could hazard a terrible guess. My body tensed at the thought but he was standing then, hands sliding up my legs and holding my waist where my skirt was bunched up around it. He towered over me and I was once more hypnotised by his reptilian gaze. One of his hands smoothed down across my chest and over my cunt, the heel of his large palm pushing against my clit. I keened at the contact.
"There you go, little rabbit," he said, voice as captivating as his gaze, "I won't hurt you."
It was foolish to latch onto those words but I did. I was greedy for survival but also his touch, I wanted more of it. And I received it, when a large finger flirted at the my entrance before sliding in, teasing and searching within me before another joined, stretching me open. My eyes closed at the feel of it and my hands reached out, gripping at the arm that still had its hand on my waist. My fingers dug into his coat sleeve as his fingers thrust into me; stretching and filling me as his thumb circled my clit, drawing out the threads of pleasure until it was knotting together deep in my gut. I writhed under it, my arms flinging to my sides and fingers digging into the wood of the desk with sluggish movements as I arched my back.
I could feel the pleasure about to burst, my walls clinging to his thick fingers before the knot was unravelling and threads snapping. I felt the gush of warm blood and my release, the slick sound of it filling the room as he kept thrusting his fingers within me. My body went lip, the rush of endorphins slicing through my body like lightening while I lay there, half-lidded eyes watching as Victor removed his fingers from me and licked them, fork tongue darting over his grey skin. I sighed, eyes closing as the gramophone continued to play. There was a clink and a rustling sound, something thudding lightly to the ground. I opened my eyes again and focused, trying to push myself up on my elbows but I was easily pushed back down by one large hand.
The doctor had removed his trousers and was grabbing my legs again, pulling me down the desk so my ass was nearly hanging off the edge of it. I'd caught a brief glimpse of his cock, monstrous in size and grey like the rest of him—though the surge of blood had it looking a pallid red. I tried to move back, there was no way that was going to fit inside of me.
He was hushing me again, like one would a frightened child scared of the monster under the bed—like I was being silly.
"You shouldn't be scared, don't be scared," he cooed at me and I could feel the large head against my cunt, wetting itself against my release and blood. "It'll only hurt if you're scared, little rabbit."
It did hurt. The monster wasn't under my bed, it was in it—in me. I couldn't help it, I tried to relax but the stretch burned me like I was being split open. His fingers were on my clit again, coaxing me open. The stretch of him had me opening my eyes in shock but I felt like I was going blind, that I was going to pass out. It was overwhelming. But then as quick as it had come the pain started to ease, probably due to whatever drug he'd given me and the pleasure was building again.
I was rising to meet him now and he leant over me, the smell of cigarettes and that strange metallic, chemical scent washing over me. It was not the sort of smell you'd find in a perfumery, but I breathed it in deeply as if it were the most intoxicating thing I'd ever smelt. And it was intoxicating, I couldn't explain it. I wanted more of it and I tried to wrap my legs around him to bring him closer but I struggled. I felt his soft laughter as his face loomed over mine before his mouth was on my neck, licking the sweat as his cock slid deeper into me. A mangled moan escaped me when I felt the sharp coldness of his golden teeth scraping against my skin and then I whimpered as I felt him bite at the soft skin.
Those teeth shouldn't have been able to pierce my skin without ripping me apart, I felt the sharp stab of them and I knew he'd drawn blood. It felt like the prick of two needles and something cool flooded my system. Still buried in me, he was then leaning back, the angle causing another moan to leave my lips and I saw his grin in the low light, watching the two fangs on either side of his additional incisors disappear back into the grey gums before his mouth was on me again. My head spun at the loss of blood and I felt like I was teetering on the edge of oblivion as he drank me in, fucking me harder as he did so, the desk protesting under the weight and force of his body colliding with mine.
I couldn't tell where the pain ended and the pleasure started, it was all blending together and making me feel like I was transcending anything my body had been built to feel. A flick of his tongue over the wound on my neck, the skin feeling tight and bruised before his mouth moved to claim my own. I could taste the blood as his tongue slid across my own, as well as the cigarettes. His mouth was the only warm part of him, his kiss burned me as it devoured. Teeth nipped at my bottom lip and his hips pounded erratically into me, I could feel he so close and my walls were clamping down on him at the thought.
"Good little rabbit," he whispered against my lips and the carnality of his tone had me shuddering beneath him as my vision teetered into blackness.
I felt the intensity of his seed spilling inside of me, his hands digging harshly into my hips as he leant back to furiously drive into me. My body felt shattered when he pulled himself from my shuddering cunt, I felt sated yet empty. Spasms still wrecked through my body as I twitched. I couldn't open my eyes, I felt like I'd been glued to the desk. A pitiful whimper escaped when I felt something sharp prick on the inside of my thigh.
A lifetime seemed to pass before my breathing started to even out and I managed to open my eyes, the blurry blackness slowly ebbing away from my vision. Victor was watching me carefully, his leather trousers back on. More life was flowing back into me and my head was starting to feel clearer. I managed to sit up on my elbows, awkwardly closing my legs—they ached, my entire body did. The doctor moved toward me again, fingers lightly pushing my hair out of my sweaty face.
"Very great promise," he said and pressed a cool hand against my forehead as I managed to sit up fully, my shirt hanging open and stained with blood. I saw he had an empty med injector in his hand, remnants of some unknown liquid still clinging inside it.
Awkwardly I nodded, sliding off the desk and teetering on my feet—one of my heels had fallen off. I felt like a newborn foal as I tried to walk but his hands were on me again, lifting me with ease as he placed me on a nearby leather couch.
"No, no, no," he said in that same sing-song voice that had me feeling like an errant puppy. "You can't leave just yet, we have to keep an eye on you."
An eye on me? I wondered what he meant but I didn't protest. I felt too tired. My entire body was exhausted and I felt an odd sort of hunger in my stomach. It niggled at me but ignored it for the moment, too focused on getting comfortable. I could feel him watching me carefully, not knowing that I would never leave the clinic again and the strange craving in my stomach was one that would irrevocably keep me at his side.
Because it was the sort of hunger that is never quite satiated.
Same as last post, typos, grammar, you know the drill lol Oh! And I will be compiling the sketches I’ve done as a separate post in the future so they aren’t as blurry from quality loss👍 But I will be covering his skin texture next as a side quest to this project so stay tuned for that friends! :)
Credits to @alexwlwesker and @nostalgiaclown for their amazing screenshots (they are my go to’s for this and future projects🙏)
cw: fauxcest/pseudocest?, dead dove: do not eat (noncon, drugging, somnophilia?), this is disgusting i’m sorry
Pervy Uncle!Victor, but he’s not an actual blood relative, more like your parents’ colleague or ‘friend’ of many, many years. He’s got to meet you in your teenage years and as you grew into a young, adult woman his gross obsession intensified.
Pervy Uncle!Victor who would always find a way to have his hand on you, somehow. Over your shoulders, moving you aside by your waist, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear or playfully taping your thigh as you sat beside him on the couch.
Pervy Uncle!Victor who notices how uncomfortable you get, when he’s near, especially when it’s only the two of you in the room. His presence looming and suffocating, him standing too closely to your liking. But him offering to drive you somewhere was even worse – Victor’s thick, ringed fingers sliding up and down your exposed flesh (of course your skirt had to roll upwards!) during the ride or his knuckles 'accidentally’ brushing over the swell of your breasts after he insisted on helping you put the seatbelt on.
He hated how you talked back to him. You were so mean to him, always half-yelling that he’s gross and you’ll tell your parents. Tsk, silly. Nobody would even believe you. His reputation is pristine, an outstanding and devoted doctor of local community.
Pervy Uncle!Victor who would ‘get lost’ late at night during the house party your parents hosted, just to end up in your room. His presence would startle you awake from the sweet sleep as you grew rigid and almost yelled at him to get out. To your surprise, he actually did.
But it wasn't long after, when he shared his concerns with your parents, about your well being and mental health. He prescribed you a new, more efficient medication for anxiety and a mix of supplements. You started taking the meds as you thought they were prescribed by the family doctor, not your creepy, touchy uncle!
Pervy Uncle!Victor would sneak into your room late at night, while everyone was soundly sleeping. Your mattress dipping under his heavy weight, as he spread open your thighs. At some point you had to wake, some incoherent mewls leaving your parted lips and your eyes barely opening up, limbs scattered between the sheets, numb and heavy.
Though you felt everything he did to you – slowly, almost playfully, he removed your sleeping shorts and panties in one go, then placed each thigh over his hips. His thick digits toying with your pussy, tapping and rubbing. Circling and slapping the swollen nub, until you were softly sobbing for your uncle to stop. :((
Pervy Uncle!Victor couldn’t get off the smell of your slick as it coated his fingers – the excessive amount coating your cunt thanks to new medication the good doctor prescribed! Uncle Victor would stretch you out with his skilled fingers, while his disgusting mouth sucked on your poor, overly sensitive nipples that poked through your little shirt.
He would abuse his ‘niece’ until she became an incoherent, babbling mess underneath him, drifting off to sleep from time to time, only to wake up to a rippling orgasm rushing through her.
Pervy Uncle!Victor who would create a new routine by night, just to kiss his precious girl goodnight and feed her his fat cock either in her needy pussy or that bratty mouth. Uncle Victor will make you a good, obedient girl, eventually.
a/n: Slowly coming back from hiatus. Feel free to send me something! ✉︎
the only hell I know is without you (Albert Wesker x f!Reader)
Tags: No Use of Y/N for Reader-Insert; AFAB Reader-Insert; Fat Reader-Insert; Love at First Sight; S.T.A.R.S. Member Albert Wesker; Soft Albert Wesker; he is DOWN BAD; Lust at First Sight; Dirty Thoughts; Fast Burn; Office Romance; Masturbation; Wet Dream; Voice Kink; Praise Kink; Mildly Dubious Consent; Phone Sex; Mutual Pining; Idiots in Love; Feeding Kink; Hand Feeding; Autistic Albert Wesker; Possessive Albert Wesker; Fluff; Angst; Sensory Overload; Insecurity; Fatphobia; Slow Dancing; Love Confessions; Getting Together; First Dates; Cooking; Banter; First Kiss; First Time; Body Worship; Face-Sitting; Cunnilingus; Hair-pulling; Blow Jobs; Missionary Position; Premature Ejaculation; Creampie; Multiple Orgasms; Epilogue
Word Count: 14,231
Summary: Albert Wesker does not do relationships. Or falling in love. Or nearly falling to his knees with yearning. Not until he meets you, then everything changes.
Also on Ao3: Here
Requested by anon(s) here
a/n: Now you BOTH have a praise kink. Take that!
This monster of a fic came out of nowhere. Idk why it got so long. It just wouldn't end. But I have to admit that I think this is my favourite fic ever, not just Wesker fic but like. Out of all the fics I've ever written. Idk why. If this has typos or things that don't make sense it's because it's 10:30 am and I still haven't gone to bed. Point them out so I can correct (or don't, I'll probably read it again when I'm rested and do it mysefl).
Title is from Die For You by Starset.
The first time he sees you, Wesker's mouth runs dry.
He walks into the police station for his shift, just like usual, but instead of the receptionist he's been seeing for the past year greeting him with a bored and absent, “Captain,” he finds an entirely new face – and body, God that body – looking up at him with a bright, sweet smile and a stack of correspondence waiting for him on a corner of your desk.
“Good morning! You must be Captain Wesker. I'm the new receptionist, pleasure to meet you,” you greet politely. Wesker takes your hand in his and gives it a soft squeeze and a shake – professional but not as imposing and intimidating as usual – and can't help but fixate on how warm and soft your hand is in his, how delightful the brief brush of his bare fingers against your wrist is before he pulls his hand away.
“Oh, yes. I remember Chief Irons saying something about Bethany quitting. Pleased to meet you as well.”
His eyes find your name tag and he memorises those letters like they're the most important piece of writing in the history of humanity. The AC blows cool air into his face and with it, a soft, subtle whiff of your perfume reaches his nose and Wesker knows just by the way his stomach swoops in response that he won't be able to get you out of his head any time soon.
“Here is some mail for the S.T.A.R.S. team. I was going to bring it up myself but if you could take it now, that would be appreciated. I, uhm, have a lot to sort out and familiarise myself with,” you explain sheepishly and Wesker is obsessed with your embarrassed little smile and the way your nose scrunches up slightly.
“That's fine, thank you,” Wesker says, sounding so calm and composed when he's actually losing his mind on the inside, and takes the short stack of mail from you. He turns to leave, intending to let you go back to trying to untangle the mess Bethany left behind when she announced her resignation out of the blue a week ago, but he stops himself just long enough to tap his fingers on your desk and offer you a small smile he's not even sure is noticeable. “I wish you a wonderful first day, my dear.”
The shy but giddy smile that blooms on your face in response to his words before you thank him is enough to carry him through the rest of his long, arduous day.
You're already gone by the time he finishes his twelve hour shift, a fact he laments silently as he makes his way to his car and unlocks it. But next time he shows up at the station, bright, early, and eager to see you, your beautiful face lights up in recognition as soon as you see him and you greet him enthusiastically before he's even closed the distance between the entrance and your desk.
“Captain Wesker, hi!”
“Hello,” he answers simply, his voice much warmer than he's ever spoken to anyone he wasn't trying to manipulate before, and leans towards you almost absently. “How have you been, my dear?”
“Oh, I've been doing quite alright. Thanks for asking!” You seem flustered at his interest in your well-being which Wesker drinks up like a man lost in the middle of a desert searching for an oasis – he doesn't know what he would do with himself if you showed discomfort at his advances, subtle as they are right now.
“I recall you having some trouble with the mess Bethany left behind.” As if he doesn't have that first conversation memorised word for word already, having even opened his journal to write it down as soon as he got home that night on your first day, just to make sure he would never forget.
You huff and roll your eyes, the first break from polite enthusiasm you've shown so far, and Wesker drinks that up too. He watches with rapt attention every minute change in your facial expression, the way your shoulders draw back, the way you tap your nails irritably against your computer mouse – he likes you natural, this glimpse into the person hidden underneath the customer service persona. He hopes to see more of this in the future.
“Yes, it was a chore and a half to get through it all but I managed. Nothing some overtime yesterday couldn't fix,” you answer easily and Wesker kicks himself for having the day off when you stayed past your usual schedule – he should have been here to greet you at the end of a shift, perhaps even walk you out to your car or give you a lift if you don't have one. Not Enrico and his merry band of idiots.
“Paid for, I hope.” If not, he'll have words with Irons.
You chuckle at the barely hidden disdain in his voice and oh, wow. He wants to erase every sound he's ever heard before and keep only this – your voice, your laughter, the subtle snort that you try to cover up with your hand even though it's way too late for that. How can something so mundane – something he would even wrinkle his nose at when it's done by anyone else – be so charming to him?
“Definitely. I already spoke to the Chief before doing it, not to worry. But thank you for your concern, Captain.”
Your smile is breathtaking in its beauty and sincerity. Wesker has to restrain himself when the urge to lean over the desk and your computer monitor gets too strong – to do what, exactly? He doesn't know but the need to be closer to you is overwhelming.
“Do you have anything for me today so I can take it off your hands? Wouldn't want you to have to come up when I'm already here,” Wesker asks, both as a genuine kindness to you and as a distraction from his powerful urges and unusual thoughts.
“Yes, actually! A box of evidence for one of your cases just got dropped earlier. Let me…”
You stand up from behind your desk and walk over to the corner closest to Wesker as you pick up a cardboard box then walk around until you're standing in front of him and extending your arms to hand it over. Wesker takes it absently because all he can focus on is how gorgeous you look dressed in a knee-length skirt and soft sweater (the same ‘uniform’ your predecessor had to wear, yet it looks much better on you than it ever did on Bethany). The image of you crouching to pick up the box, the way the skirt stretched over your plump ass, and the way your chest dug into the edge of the box before you handed it over – all of it plays on loop in Wesker's mind as he thanks you for the box and wishes you a wonderful day, finally walking away and entering the S.T.A.R.S. office five minutes later than he usually does.
After that, you become a fixture in Wesker's life and his every waking moment. He simply can't get you out of his head. You're there when he's completing paperwork for both Umbrella and the RPD; you're there when he starts taking his lunch break outside of his office and walks past your empty desk – the little metallic plate sitting in the middle of your desk telling everyone you'll be back from your break in twenty minutes, which means Wesker needs to adjust his own break accordingly. You're especially there when he gets home at night, tired to the bone and feeling like he needs to take a year off to ever recover from how burnt out he feels, and he fists his hard cock in the shower with thoughts of you running through his mind without rhyme or reason. More than once he comes with your name on his lips and the smell of your perfume or the sound of your laughter lingering in his mind long after he's cleaned up all evidence of his depravity.
Every day, he starts coming in earlier and earlier, making up excuses about why – he had errands to run and finished them earlier than expected, his clock malfunctioned and he arrived a few minutes early, he left some paperwork unfinished on his last shift so he got here early to get it done – until, eventually, you stop being surprised to see him so early and just greet him with a smile, not even batting an eye at the fact that he wastes five, then ten, then fifteen minutes before his shift just lingering at your desk and chatting you up about anything and everything he can think of.
He's not ashamed to admit that he has it bad for you, but it does baffle him that he feels so strongly about you. He didn't think himself capable of such intense feelings for another but from the moment he walked in and saw you for the first time, he's had you permanently stamped into his brain, haunting his every waking moment – and a few dreams. The first time Wesker wakes up sweaty and hard as a rock, the remnants of his dream still vivid in his brain as he recalls with perfect clarity the way it felt to have your pretty lips wrapped around his cock while he fucked your face in his office, he has his cock in his hand and is ruining his boxers with his overflowing load before he can even think about it for more than a second. Every time he sees you at the RPD that day, all he can think about is how beautiful you looked on your knees in his dream and how badly he wishes he could have painted your face with his cum, not his fist.
But aside from your physical beauty – which is undeniable, especially when he catches glimpses of your beautiful curves and the way your skirt clings to your hips and those juicy rolls, your fat thighs, or your plump ass, wishing he could just bend you over, lift up your skirt, and bury his face in your cunt – what makes all of this worse is just how sweet you are to Wesker.
He knows you can be vicious when you want to be – a few weeks after that first fateful meeting, he walks by your desk on his way to the library and sees you laying into a handful of rookie cops who were giving you shit and making nuisances of themselves instead of minding their own business. Wesker had to make himself disappear behind the farthest row from the entrance in the library to hide the evidence of his rock hard erection straining against his zipper until it went down.
But no matter how irritated you might be – because of the regular cops at the RPD (never any of his people, he's made sure their behaviour is exemplary since it reflects on him), the various visitors acting entitled and thinking they can bully you into giving them what they want, or the simple annoyance that working customer service usually is – the second you see Wesker, all of it washes away. You smile at him and perk up in your seat the second you catch sight of him. Lately, if it's quiet enough and you can hear him coming, just the sound of his measured footsteps triggers something in your brain and he can see you unconsciously perk up and start to look around for the source.
And your voice… Listening to you speak is like a soothing balm. He could spend hours just listening to you talk – about music, about books, about your annoying neighbours and your family and the stray dog you've been feeding and that crow that keeps leaving trinkets for you outside your window because you fed it once a month ago.
Wesker quickly ensures that you call him for anything S.T.A.R.S. related even when, in reality, he couldn't give less of a shit about whatever it is that came through, just to be able to hear your beautiful voice outside of his short – always too short – visits to the front desk.
“Another stack of reports from the coroner for you, Captain,” you announce one day, a month into your employment, calling to tell him things he used to delegate to someone else before you showed up.
“I'll be down to pick them up shortly, my dear. Thank you for letting me know.”
“No need to thank me, I'm just doing my job.” You really aren't. Wesker wonders if you know this, if you've realised that you only do this for him because he asked, and he wonders what you think of it. Have you chalked it up to him being a hardass with exacting standards and weird expectations (something he arguably is but not to this degree)? Or can you tell that this is his pathetic attempt at getting more of your attention? If so, why haven't you said anything, why haven't you done anything? Are you subtly trying to let him down by letting his advances go unacknowledged or are you too shy to act?
Or are you that oblivious to the fact that he's flirting with you almost every time you talk?
“You should still be praised for it regardless. Especially when it's so well done,” Wesker insists, dropping his voice into a low, silky purr he's witnessed making you flustered before, and you're too late to shift the receiver away from your mouth when he hears the sharp intake of breath on the other side.
“Thank you, Captain,” you murmur, clearly affected by his words, which pulls a satisfied, giddy smile out of Wesker as he leans back in his chair and feels his cock filling up under his desk. “Do you need anything else from me?”
Oh, does he. He needs a lot of things from you, if he's being honest. For you to never stop talking, not even for a second – better yet, for you to only utter his name, preferably in a hoarse, breathy voice, delirious with lust. For you to let him trail his hands up your legs, seeing how far up that pantyhose goes and if he might find a garter belt up there, hidden by your skirt, or if the sheer fabric stops at your thighs before your panties begin. And for you to walk into his office at the end of every shift before you go home, close the door behind you, and ride his face on the floor of his office until he can't breathe. Those are just a few of the things Wesker needs from you.
But in the meantime… He does have an erection he should take care of before he walks down to reception and grabs those files from you. He shouldn't – it's a gross violation of your trust, it could ruin things if you realise what he's doing – but Wesker needs you so badly and he thinks he might wither away and die if he doesn't get at least this from you.
“Yes, actually. Are you busy right now?” he asks, knowing that you'd probably drop whatever you're working on for him anyway even if you are.
You hum and the sound goes straight to his cock as Wesker trails his free hand down his body and palms himself through his pants.
“I don't have anything important to deal with, no. Why?”
“Could you read some of those reports for me? I'm afraid I'm stuck going over some boring paperwork for Irons and I can't come down right this second.”
“And you can pay attention to me while doing paperwork?” you ask a bit skeptically while Wesker undoes his pants and pulls them down slightly.
“I can multitask. Besides, listening to you is not a chore, my dear.”
You chuckle, both bashful and delighted, right as he wraps his hand around his cock and gives it a tug. He sucks air through his teeth at the combination, making sure his mouth is nowhere near the receiver, and imagines it's your beautiful hand thumbing at his weeping head instead of his own.
“Alright then. I hope I won't get in trouble for reading these,” you joke in a light, inviting voice, and Wesker has to bite the cord to muffle the moan that tries to escape. His hand spreads his precum along his shaft, easing the slide of his fist as he pumps it slowly up and down, and your beautiful voice starting to read gruesome coroner's reports out loud to him is the perfect incentive to get him to set up a steady pace and get himself off.
Wesker nearly gives himself away when he can't quite muffle a moan properly as your lips wrap around words like ‘pallor mortis’ and ‘autolysis’ while he's rutting into his own fist like an animal on the verge of dying, and his heart almost gives out when you pause your reading and ask him if he's alright and if you should keep going or not.
“I'm quite alright, dear,” he says, his voice strained as he tries to keep it level instead of letting it come out as breathy as it really wants to be. “My pen just ran out of ink mid-word. You can go on until you finish that report.”
“Alright. I hope my voice isn't boring you,” you say lightly, but he can hear a trace of real insecurity in there which just won't do.
“You could read out a takeout menu and keep me invested, darling,” he reassures, entirely honest, while he picks up his pace again. His cock is even more sensitive now, it seems, and he has to bite down on his lip so hard in order to keep quiet that he can feel blood welling up immediately.
You make an embarrassed noise at his proclamation, which doesn't help his situation, but thankfully keep going without further comment. Every word out of your mouth is more fuel added to the pyre of his infatuation with you. You keep him right on the edge as you read out the report, his hand rubbing up and down his hard cock furiously as he chases his finish with your unwitting aid, but it isn't until you reach the very end of the document that Wesker can tip over the edge and finally come.
“Report awaiting the acknowledgement and signature of one Albert Wesker, PhD, Captain of S.T.A.R.S. Alpha Team, RPD,” you conclude smoothly. The way his name rolls off your tongue is nothing short of perfection and it gives him that little nudge needed to make him climax. He has to put the phone down on his desk when he comes, whining under his breath as he desperately tries to keep his noises contained, and he makes sure to catch every drop of cum in his fist so as not to ruin his work pants or the floor below.
Wesker is panting in the aftermath, feeling flushed and like he just exploded through his cock, but he forces himself to appear collected as he picks the phone back up and puts it to his ear.
“Thank you, darling. I'll wrap this up and be downstairs in ten minutes, tops.”
“Oh, I could come up now if you want? I don't want you to rip yourself away from your work just for this,” you offer kindly and he can just imagine the way you're biting your lip in worry, afraid that you're not doing your job well enough or that he might be displeased with your performance. As if he ever could. You could walk into the station in your pajamas and lounge in your chair all day reading magazines instead of picking up calls or greeting people and he'd feel inclined to give you a raise.
“That's alright, maybe next time. I need to stretch my legs a bit anyway. I've been sitting for too long.” He needs to clean himself up and wait for his blush to go down, is what he really means.
“Okay then. I'll be waiting for you, Captain.”
“See you soon, my dear.”
He very reluctantly places the phone back in its cradle, finally ending the call that, realistically, shouldn't have even happened, then looks down at his lap and finds the pathetic sight of his soft cock hanging out of his pants and his left fist sticky with cooling cum. He feels repulsed by himself – not for doing something most consider depraved or for doing it with you, but because he is Albert fucking Wesker. He should be above something like getting off in public to an attractive woman's voice, for fuck's sake.
But his own disappointment at his weakness or not, Wesker doesn't regret it. Whether purposefully obtuse as a subtle message or tragically oblivious, you aren't likely to help him with problems like this of your own volition any time soon – this might be his only chance at getting even a glimpse into what it's like to have you in such a way and he won't feel bad about it. Besides, what you don't know can't hurt you.
He makes quick work of removing every piece of evidence of his moment of weakness, then stops by the break room to make two cups of coffee and brings them down with him when he meets up with you at your desk – the coffee from the machine in the S.T.A.R.S. break room is better than the slop you get from the one downstairs. It might be a silent apology for masturbating to your voice earlier that only Wesker knows the meaning of or it might be just because he wants to see your sweet smile when you see him pass one of the paper cups to you. He'll never tell.
The inappropriate moan that escapes you when you take your first sip is certainly the cherry on top, regardless of his true motivation.
After that day, Wesker is determined to make his interest in you more clear – either you finally realise he has a thing for you or you outright reject him so he can move on, not that he'd be too happy with the latter option. Still, your behaviour and reactions to his mere presence, let alone his flirting, suggest that you're interested and even reciprocate his feelings. He really can't understand what's holding you back from properly responding.
He starts off slowly. He brings you coffee or tea and a pastry every morning when he comes in – he likes seeing you eat the things he brings you, especially when he can tell you enjoy it a lot and are trying very hard to keep things professional by not moaning your pleasure for the whole station to hear. He thanks and praises you for your assistance every time you call to tell him something new is waiting for him downstairs and he makes sure to throw in an affectionate pet name as often as possible – ‘my dear’ and ‘darling’ are the most frequent, but he tries out a few other ones just to see your reaction, like ‘sweetheart’, ‘lovely’, and ‘dearest’.
Then, when he goes down to grab lunch and is surprised to see you still stuck behind your desk dealing with a civilian who won't stop badgering you and won't take the hint that you want to take a break, Wesker steps in and very firmly chases them away, then generously offers to accompany you to lunch and give you an opportunity to vent since it seems like you need it. You happily take him up on his offer and somehow – i.e. through careful machinations on his part – this turns into a daily thing, where Wesker fetches you at lunchtime and the two of you spend a wonderful hour tucked away in some diner or other food establishment close to the RPD, sharing a meal and a laugh away from prying eyes and stuffy office decorum.
He wants more. He wants to take you out on a date, wine and dine you properly, then take you home and ravish you as he acts out every single fantasy that's been building up in his head for the past two months since he's known you. But every subtle attempt at suggesting grabbing dinner sometime has resulted in you assuming it's a work thing and either declining because you're too busy or suggesting you discuss whatever he needs to discuss with you during lunch instead.
He could just ask you out outright, but that would leave him too open to rejection, which Wesker hates, and too exposed to a report to HR in case you take offense to his overt advances and have an issue with the power imbalance in the office. Until he's sure you will actually react positively to being asked out on a date or unless you take the initiative, Wesker won't do anything more obvious than this.
Things pass in this manner – Wesker slowly falling in love with you and getting more and more desperate for your touch, waking up with a hard cock and your name on his lips most mornings – for another month, until they finally come to a head during a gala hosted by the RPD and sponsored by Umbrella for some charity Wesker couldn't care less about that's probably a front for Umbrella's illegal activities anyway.
All employees are invited – more like expected to attend – with the dress code being black tie, something which Wesker despises because that means putting up with a stiff, uncomfortable collar all evening, unable to take his bow tie off until he finally walks out of the building and goes home. On top of that, he'll have to schmooze with every big name idiot in the city since he's overseeing the entire S.T.A.R.S. operation. All in all, not a great time for Wesker and his preference for comfort and leading things from the shadows.
But then he walks in and sees you and suddenly all the discomfort and annoyance in the world is worth putting up with if it means that he keeps seeing you like this.
You're wearing an evening gown – black, floor length, with a sweetheart neckline that accentuates your delicious, ample chest that Wesker wishes he could bury his face in and never come out again. Your curves are on full display, making him curl his gloved hands – white, full coverage, to go with his tux – around his champagne flute so he doesn't do something reckless, like reach for your waist and grope your hips in the middle of the venue. Your makeup is minimal but flawless and brings out your features in a way that makes his mouth go dry, not unlike the first time he laid eyes on you, so he actually makes use of his champagne by taking a sip to wet his throat.
You're absolutely gorgeous and he hates the way so many people around the room are taking note of it – people who haven't bothered to spare you a second glance the entire three months you've worked here are suddenly unable to take their eyes off of you, even the ones who came here with a date. Even his own men – Chris and Brad, notably – can't help stealing glances at you as you make your way through the crowd towards Wesker.
The urge to wrap his tuxedo vest around your shoulders and shield you from view while he takes you home is very hard to resist. He wants to pluck out every eye that has had the audacity to look at you with even the smallest amount of lust or attraction, hypocritical as it is.
“Captain Wesker, hi,” you greet when you finally reach him, offering him a smile and extending your hand happily when he reaches for it. Wesker kisses the back of it like a gentleman, which makes you giggle beautifully, then regrettably relinquishes his hold once the gesture has been performed. “You clean up nice.”
He can't help preening slightly at your compliment, especially when your eyes take him in with an appreciative gleam in them. He feels like a peacock desperately trying to grab your attention, but he doesn't care. He's this close to just getting on his knees and begging you to let him date you.
“Thank you, dearest, but I pale in comparison to you tonight. I had my eye on you from the moment I walked in.”
He can tell you're blushing at his compliment the second the words are out of your mouth. Your body language especially is obviously flustered and you grip your clutch nervously for something to do – you're saved from any more awkward fidgeting by a waiter passing you by and offering you the tray of champagne flutes he's carrying.
You take one of the glasses with a murmured ‘thank you’ to the waiter, then take a fortifying sip. All of this, Wesker watches entirely fascinated and delighted; he likes seeing you so affected by him – a simple compliment, a look, a deliberate brushing of his fingers, all of it can elicit such wonderful reactions in you. It doesn't only stroke his ego, which many would say doesn't need any more stroking anyway, but it delights him because he's the only one who gets to see this side of you. With everyone else you're professional and collected, even when you're being friendly, but with him? You're a giggling school girl or a mean-spirited bitch ranting about all the annoying people around you – it's charming and makes him more enamoured with you by the day.
“You're too kind,” you demur, but before Wesker has a chance to insist that he's being entirely genuine – something he has to do a lot whenever he compliments you, now that he thinks about it – you change the subject. “It's nice seeing you without your glasses for once, though. You have gorgeous eyes, Captain, you should let the world see them more.”
Wesker actually feels flustered for the first time in his life at your simple, easy compliment. He can feel his cheeks heating up and he's sure he's visibly pink already – he's so pale that any colour on his face stands out like a neon sign. He clears his throat and takes a sip of champagne to get himself under control, then looks back at you, feeling like he should avert his eyes but forcing himself to maintain eye contact anyway.
“Ah, thank you, dear. I'm afraid you're the only one who thinks so. Most people find my stare… How should I put it? Unnerving, I think, is the word most commonly used,” he deflects.
Your brow furrows and your nose scrunches up as you frown at his words. It's such an adorable expression it makes Wesker's heart squeeze in his chest.
“That's mean. And stupid. People don't know what they're talking about, then. Don't listen to them, Captain. I happen to like your eyes very much, actually.”
He smiles – big, real, automatic – but he doesn't get to say any more because Irons, rather rudely, pulls him away from you and towards the mayor and some representative from Umbrella that Wesker knows of but has never actually met. He hastily bids you goodbye, furious that he has to leave you so abruptly, but you only smile at him and wave him away before getting pulled into your own conversation by Irons’ secretary.
He spends entirely too long making the rounds and talking to ‘important’ person after ‘important’ person, to the point where he can feel his eyes straining under the chandelier lights and a headache beginning dully at his temples. After about three hours of this, Wesker finally finds a good opportunity to excuse himself and makes his way out of the main area of the gala, disappearing inside a bathroom that's off limits for civilian guests, and giving himself a moment to get his bearings once more.
He feels stuffy and overstimulated – the lights are bothering his eyes, making him miss his glasses and regret not bringing a spare pair along, his feet hurt due to the uncomfortable leather shoes he almost never wears, his face aches from how much fake smiling he's done tonight, and he wants to rip his bow tie away from his neck and unbutton his collar halfway to his chest so he'll stop feeling like he's suffocating. He looks in the mirror, taking in how utterly unbothered he looks while actively nearing a meltdown on the inside, and hates himself for a moment for being such a closed book to anyone who isn't him.
He isn't unfeeling. He isn't a robot. He is just as human as everyone else, feels just as much as everyone else. But he has such a hard time showing it. It always comes out awkward and fake, like he's performing instead of acting, and it makes people distrust him and find him off-putting. The creepy eyes certainly don't help, which is just another reason to wear glasses instead of trying corrective lenses for his light sensitivity.
But you don't seem to mind any of it. You like his dry, often cringey humour – he often has you in stitches during lunch and he can tell you're not faking it – and his compliments always ring true to you, since you get so flustered whenever he issues one. And just a few hours ago you were complimenting his eyes and insisting that everyone else is just wrong for finding them disagreeable. But then why is it that you can't pick up what he's putting down when it comes to his romantic interest in you? What is he still doing wrong?
The sound of your breathless laughter nearby catches Wesker's attention and effectively pushes him away from getting lost in his own head. He feels better now that he's had a quiet moment alone and he really wants to see you again – he'd abscond with you to the nearest 24/7 diner and eat greasy burgers and share a milkshake rather than attend this wretched gala a second more, but he'll settle for hiding in a corner with you by his side until he can finally go home if he can't convince you to leave with him.
The bathroom door swings closed behind him as Wesker exits the room and follows the sound of your voice – not towards the gala, but further into the building where civilians don't have access. He finds you in the cops’ break room, doubled over in silent laughter while two other women, Irons’ secretary and the librarian, try and fail to operate the shitty coffee machine he knows you hate with a passion. They seem quite inebriated if their uncoordinated movements are anything to go by, but you seem alright when you straighten up.
Wesker thinks about making his presence known then, but something stops him. Perhaps it's a gut feeling, fate, or divine intervention, but he thinks it's just his need to observe and admire you, especially in a foreign element – surrounded by friends, obviously merry and having fun.
“And what about you, huh?” the librarian – he can't remember either of the two women's names for the life of him – asks indignantly once she's given up on trying to turn the machine on, continuing a conversation Wesker wasn't here to hear the beginning of. The secretary still valiantly attempts to operate it.
“What about me?” You don't sound drunk, but he can tell you're tipsy, just slightly, simply by your cadence and the loose body language you're displaying. He saw you like this only once before, during a lunch a few weeks ago when you had a few too many complimentary margaritas. It was endearing to watch you giggle out of nowhere and lean on him the whole way back to the station.
“When are you getting a man? My love life is in shambles but clearly things are working out for you.”
Wesker's blood freezes in his veins for a moment then, wondering if he's misread everything catastrophically badly this entire time, but your unimpressed scoff puts his fears to rest.
“As if. I don't know what you mean.”
“Oh, come off it,” the secretary jumps in, giving up on getting coffee as well. Wesker doesn't really understand why they want slop from the break room when he's pretty sure they're serving coffee at the bar as well – the good kind, even – but he's more interested in this discussion than the choices of drunk women at a work event. “What about you and Captain Hottie?”
You splutter indignantly, flushing immediately, and Wesker perks up as he realises they're talking about him.
“Yeah, Wesker's been wagging his tail at you since the moment you showed up. I swear I thought he was a robot or something until I saw him actually smile at you. Can't say he's my type, as pretty as that blonde hair is, but you certainly seem to like him,” the other drunken woman continues.
But you just shake your head, crossing your arms in the universal sign to stop, and it makes Wesker's heart drop to his stomach again. Is he finally going to get his rejection now?
“Guys, it's not… It's not like that, c'mon,” you protest.
“So you don't like him?”
“You should tell him that, then, cause I'm pretty sure he's about to start picking engagement rings if you go on any more of those lunch dates of yours.”
That makes Wesker scowl – they're not entirely wrong, but he hates that it's so easy for two women he barely interacts with to clock him so well. He doesn't even know their names!
“I do like him,” you say, fidgeting and looking so small that it makes Wesker's stomach twist weirdly – on the one hand, he's elated that you reciprocate, on the other he doesn't like the way your voice sounds and the expression your face is making right now. “But it's not like that. For him, I mean. He's just being nice, you know? What, can't a man be friends with a woman unless he wants to fuck her?”
“Well, of course he can!” one of your friends responds, too loudly for the quiet break room, as is the habit of drunk people.
“But we think it's pretty obvious he wants to bang ya, sweetheart,” the other adds gently.
Crude as the language is, they're right. Are you really this oblivious?
“He can't… He can't want that. Not with me.”
“Well, why the hell not?!”
“Because look at me!” you explode angrily. You look like you're in agony and it breaks Wesker's heart in two. He wants to grab you by the shoulders and pull you into his arms until you stop looking so upset. “He's so out of my league it's not even funny! He's the captain of that entire squad while I'm just the receptionist. For fuck's sake, he has a doctorate! That he earned at seventeen! How the fuck do I match that? And he's gorgeous! He's fit! I weigh more than he lifts, probably, and I don't wanna know how awful we look together when we walk side by side on the street!
“Captain Wesker is a kind man who is my dearest friend but nothing more. And that's the way things will remain. Men like him aren't for women like me.”
You straighten up as you end your speech in a quiet, resigned voice, and Wesker steps out of the doorway and into the shadows to let you pass without noticing him. He watches your back as you walk away, all traces of laughter and merriment gone from your posture as you stiffly put one foot in front of the other, but he can't make himself follow you immediately.
Instead, he stands there and replays your words in his head on loop – like a broken record he thinks might start sounding right if only he plays it enough times. Out of your league? Wesker? Who put those kinds of thoughts into your head?
You're utter perfection – from the moment he laid eyes on you, he was smitten. You may not have a PhD but you're smarter than most people working for Umbrella; you can get a degree any time, but critical thinking and good decision making are hard to come by these days. If anyone should feel insecure about how they make the other look, it should be Wesker, with his perpetual brooding and stiff exterior and the glasses he doesn't take off even when it's too dark to see properly. Not you.
He makes his way back to the main area, pale eyes scanning the crowd looking for you. He finds you lingering around his own people, Chris, Jill, and Joseph throwing you concerned looks while you almost seem to be hugging yourself as you grip a glass of champagne and smile at people greeting you as they pass you by, the expression obviously fake. He approaches you without another second of hesitation – he's held himself back long enough.
“Care to dance, my dear?” he asks as soon as he reaches you, not bothering to lower his voice so only you can hear him. If you worry about what the world thinks, then he'll show you just how much he doesn't care.
“Me?” Your head snaps up, startled, and your eyes widen before you take half a step back from Wesker. “Oh no, I'm afraid not. I can't dance.”
“Sure you can.” Wesker offers you a smile and extends his hand meaningfully, not intending to take ‘no’ for an answer now that he knows what's been holding you back. “You just need to follow my lead.”
You look from his hand to his face, swallowing dryly when your eyes shift nervously towards the people around you, but Wesker closes the gap between your bodies again and forces you to look at him, not them.
“O-okay. But I'm warning you now that I will step on your toes. And these heels are no joke,” you warn, lifting your foot to show off the uncomfortable looking, sharp-tipped heels you're wearing. He already knows you'll complain about your feet hurting tomorrow.
“I don't mind. There's no one I'd rather get my feet stomped on than you.”
Your eyes widen and your mouth parts to let an inaudible intake of breath pass through. All Wesker wants to do is taste your painted lips and smudge your lipstick everywhere he can as he trails kisses up and down your body. How silly can you be, how blind, to not see how pathetically whipped he is for you?
By the time the night is over, he'll show you.
“Lead the way then,” you murmur shyly and finally put your hand in his.
Wesker leads you to the dance floor, ignoring the thumbs up the three idiots he calls subordinates give him when he passes them by, then settles one arm around your waist, the other gripping your hand, while your free hand tentatively lies down on his shoulder. As a new slow piece starts playing, Wesker gently leads you through a simple dance, accounting for your inexperience and making sure he doesn't confuse you and cause you to stumble.
Your eyes are glued to your feet for the first few seconds of the dance, clearly anxious about stepping on his toes if you're not looking where you're going, so Wesker takes the opportunity to admire you from up close and personal. He stares without shame at your beautiful face and every dip, curve, and sharp angle he can find. You smell amazing – the trace of sweat only makes his mouth water as he imagines licking it up directly off your skin – and he's charmed by the glitter on your collarbones and dusted across your breasts, shining brightly under the fancy chandelier lights and pulling his attention there.
You look divine, a veritable goddess of old. He's a mere servant worshipping at your altar.
“I know I said it before but it bears repeating: you are resplendent, my dear. Not just tonight, of course, but these types of events really suit you,” he breaks the silence eventually, pulling your eyes away from your feet and back up to his face.
You make an embarrassed noise and try to duck your head, but Wesker uses your laced hands to tip your chin back up.
“There's no need to hide from me. I like what I see when I look at you.”
“Did you… You heard, didn't you?” you ask, dismayed, and Wesker nods.
“I didn't mean to, but I was regrouping in the bathroom and I overheard you.”
“Wait, are you okay? I know these things can be stressful and–”
“We're talking about you now,” Wesker interrupts you as he takes you on a spin around another couple expertly. You don't even notice how flawlessly you're dancing, how in-sync you are with him, how responsive to his wordless cues. “But I am okay. Hearing your voice nearby helped.”
“Oh, I… Really? Me?” you ask, flustered.
“Yes, you. Who else? Who have I been seeking every day for the past three months? Who have I been making excuses to talk to every chance I get, darling? Do you think I made Bethany call me every time a new piece of mail got dropped off?”
“Well… No, actually.” Your brow furrows adorably as you think through the past three months of interactions and Wesker has the pleasure to watch realisation come to life on your face in real time. “But that can't be right. I…”
It's risky and there's a big chance you might be weirded out by his confession instead of pleased, but he can't think of another thing to say that might drive his point home. He brings you closer, hand tightening on your waist slightly, and lowers his mouth to your ear so he can make sure you're the only one who hears this.
“Remember when I asked you to read that report to me over the phone a month or two ago?” he whispers, breath fanning over your ear and making goosebumps break out on your neck.
You swallow audibly and nod.
“I was giving myself a handjob because you got me hard with your voice and I couldn't take the sexual tension anymore without doing something about it,” he confesses. Your breath hitches and he can feel you trembling in his hold, but you don't pull yourself away or slap him clean across the face. “It's not the only time I did that, but it's the most memorable.”
He pulls away then, giving you back some space to breathe, and when he looks back at you, you appear struck dumb by his confession. Notably, you still haven't walked away from him.
“So you mean… All those times you asked me to get dinner with you…?”
“I was asking you out on a date. I wasn't sure if it was your subtle way of rejecting me or not and I didn't want to risk a harassment report so I didn't push.”
“Oh.”
Wesker lets you process that for a moment during which he keeps leading you along in a slow, intimate dance, but when you lift your eyes back up to regard him, he stands up straight under your scrutiny and awaits your judgement.
“Am I just a kink for you? A fun little experience you can cross off a list and then never talk to me again outside of a professional setting?”
“No.” Wesker shakes his head vehemently and tightens his hold on you, bringing you much closer as he puts both of your hands on his chest and circles your waist with his arms. The position is impossibly intimate, especially for this setting, especially for two people who are supposed to be nothing more than coworkers, but you don't protest. You realise what he's doing – making a public display of his interest in you, not trying to hide you like a dirty secret to be squirreled away. “Your laughter turns me on, dearest. You got tipsy a while back and all I wanted was to take you home and pet your hair while you slept it off. I want to wash your hair and massage your sore muscles after work and feed you the most expensive and decadent foods by hand while you sit on my lap.
“And yes, I also want to fuck you into the mattress until you can't walk and eat your pussy so much that I forget what real food tastes like,” he explains in a low voice, staring into your eyes and willing you to understand. You're clearly affected by his words but he can see you leaning closer, hypnotised by his words and not repulsed. “I want both. I want everything. I want you.”
You're almost nose to nose now, breaths mingling until Wesker can't tell whose air he's breathing, not that he cares, and you come to a gentle stop near the edge of the dance floor when the last notes from the live orchestra fade away into silence.
“I want you too,” you murmur, almost afraid of your own words, and look at him with so much vulnerability it makes his heart twist. “I didn't think I was allowed to.”
Wesker brushes his nose against yours before he pulls away, forcing himself not to close the gap between your mouths because this isn't the place he wants your first kiss to happen.
“There is nothing I want you to do more than want me back, my darling.”
You swallow and nod and step away from him with more difficulty than such a gesture should warrant, which he can understand and relate to.
“Okay then. Is that offer for dinner still available? I would like to take you up on it.”
Wesker smiles and takes your hand in his, lacing your fingers together and feeling like he's on cloud nine when you squeeze his hand and let yourself be held.
“Yes, it is. I have all the ingredients I need to make you the best steak you've ever had,” he answers and starts tugging you along as he makes his way towards the coat check.
“Steak? Right now? It's almost midnight,” you protest but you hand over your ticket to get your coat checked out and let Wesker help you into it without fuss.
“Did you drive here?” he asks as he leads you out of the RPD and towards the underground parking lot. “And yes, of course right now. You haven't eaten anything all evening, I'm making you something to eat.”
“No, I took a cab. And how do you know I haven't eaten? You weren't even next to me for most of the night.”
Wesker smiles as he leads you to his car, unlocking it and pulling open the passenger door for you, then, quite unnecessarily, he bends over your seated form and buckles your seat belt for you, bringing his face inappropriately close to your breasts. He can see you stilling at his proximity, ceasing to breathe for those scant few seconds he spends bent over, before he pulls away and gives you a grin. You can barely meet his eyes when he straightens up.
“Because I know you. You hate eating in public because you feel watched and judged. Maybe you nibbled on a couple of canapés, but no more than that. Am I wrong?”
“I hate when you do that,” you grumble, which is as much of a concession as you're willing to make. Wesker's grin stretches but he takes his win gracefully and simply closes the door so he can round the car and get behind the wheel.
You seem nervous on the way to his apartment, so he doesn't put pressure on you to talk. Instead, he turns the stereo on and lets his last CD play – one of your favourite albums. The familiar music takes the pressure off and relaxes you, and he doesn't miss the soft smile that plays on your lips every time you glance from the stereo to him and back again.
Once inside, he helps take your coat off, hangs it up in the entryway, then slowly approaches you until he's cupping your face and making you look at him. He rubs a gentle thumb over your cheek and wonders at how wonderful it feels to hold you this way without restraint.
“I don't want anything from you that you aren't ready or willing to give,” he begins, capturing your attention quickly with those words. “All I want to do tonight is feed you and look at you without any barriers, professional or societal. I can drive you home as soon as you put your fork down. I can drive you home right now, even. Just tell me, okay?”
You swallow and nod, your tongue darting out to wet your lips and smudging your lipstick a little.
“Yes. Thank you.”
But Wesker shakes his head. “Never thank me for something like this. You deserve everything.”
You let him press a gentle kiss on your forehead, smiling happily when he pulls away, then start taking your heels off while Wesker dumps his expensive and highly uncomfortable death traps at the door and walks away to find a pair of slippers for you.
He gets a perfect view of your breasts when he comes back, bent over as you are while trying to undo the strap on your second heel, and though Wesker is the biggest pervert on the planet when it comes to you, he ignores the way his cock twitches at the sight and takes a knee in front of you instead.
“Let me help you with that.”
You straighten up slowly and watch him from behind your lashes as he deftly frees your strap from its confines and carefully pulls the shoe off your foot. He can't resist laying a kiss on your ankle before he lets go of it and gets back to his feet but it doesn't seem like you mind.
“Here, wear these. The floors are cold.”
“Thank you.”
He leads you into the kitchen then and helps you up onto a stool at the counter before he takes off his suit jacket and bow tie and throws them over another stool without care. He unbuttons his shirt at the collar until he feels like he can breathe, then takes off his cufflinks and rolls the sleeves up, exposing his forearms. Left in a much looser and comfortable shirt and the waistcoat underneath the jacket, Wesker feels much more at ease.
“Something on my face?” he asks with a smirk when he turns his attention back to you and finds you staring at him as if you want to devour him instead of the steak he plans on cooking for you.
“Yeah,” you breathe out, licking your lips subconsciously. “A stupidly smug, handsome face.”
Wesker laughs and walks over to the fridge so he can begin pulling ingredients out.
“I have a face on my face? My, that sounds serious.”
“Terminal,” you deadpan, already annoyed at his teasing, and it tickles him in a way he can't truly describe the magnitude of to see you already back to your usual self.
“Does asparagus and mashed potatoes sound good to you? I think I have some mushrooms left over that I could whip up a sauce with, but I can't guarantee they're still fresh,” he calls out with his head stuck in the fridge as he analyses its contents to determine what would make a good side for the steak.
“Sounds good.”
Nodding, he pulls out what he needs, closes the fridge with his hip, then walks back to the counter and dumps everything on it before he starts sorting things out by order of preparation. You watch him curiously, your beautiful eyes analysing how he pulls the raw meat out and lets it rest at room temperature for a bit, then starts prepping the asparagus for when he cooks it on the stove later and the potatoes for the mash.
“Do you need me to do anything?”
Wesker hums, peeling potatoes and dumping them in a pot without looking up at you – he knows he'll peel a finger if he gets distracted by your beauty, and he will get distracted.
“Yes, you can take the bottle of wine out of the pantry and pour yourself a glass. Or, if you prefer, I can make you a cocktail after I'm done with these.”
“I meant for the food and you know it,” you grouse but he spies you getting to your feet out of the corner of his eye and hears you padding over to the pantry you saw him pull potatoes out of. “I don't know much about wines but this looks expensive.”
“That's because it is,” Wesker answers simply. “Corkscrew in that drawer there.”
You walk back to the counter with your loot in hand, then rummage in the drawer until you find the corkscrew – he hasn't used it in a while and it's gotten buried in a bunch of other crap. He finishes peeling the potatoes so he allows himself a moment to admire you: the way your bicep flexes when you turn the corkscrew to drive it into the cork and your pleased smile, almost triumphant, when you manage to pop it out of the bottle without issue. You turn to him with that same, proud grin and show him your success as if it's a prize.
God, he's so in love with you.
“How was that for a strong independent woman?”
He shakes his head at you which makes you crack up as you put the cork and its new accessory down. He walks around you to reach the cabinet where he holds his glasses and pulls out two wine glasses that he places in front of you on the counter with a wink.
“Try not to spill when you pour, independent woman.”
You stick your tongue out at him – he fights the urge to bite down on it – but pour two glasses for the both of you flawlessly. You even pour the correct amounts, instead of filling them up to the top the way amateurs do. He gives you a grateful smile when you hand him his glass and takes a sip before he goes back to his preparations and puts the pot of potatoes on the stove to boil.
While that happens, there's not much for Wesker to do. He needs to wait until he can cook the steak, both to let it warm up at room temperature and because he can't cook it until it's almost time to eat anyway, and the asparagus doesn't need much prep before cooking. So, while he waits for the potatoes to be done, he takes a seat across from you at the counter and drinks his wine slowly.
“Did you really not pick up on any of my signals?” he decides to ask, still curious about that. You're so undeniably attractive to him that he can't really fathom that you would think otherwise about yourself, so he's having a hard time wrapping his head around the whole thing.
“I did not,” you confirm, grimacing and taking a sip of your wine. “Or rather, I kind of did? But I convinced myself I was projecting my desire onto you and that I was being delusional.”
“Why? Why is it so hard to believe that I could want you?”
You let go of the stem of your wine glass and push it away from you so you can free both of your hands and wrap your arms around yourself. Just like earlier in the break room, you look small in a way that bothers him and this time, he doesn't resist the urge to tug you into his arms. He rounds the counter and gently pulls you into him, letting you hide yourself against his chest and not caring one bit if you get your makeup or glitter on the white shirt underneath his waistcoat or not.
“Because no one has ever wanted me before in a way that didn't make me feel dirty,” you answer, clutching at his back and mumbling your words because of your face being pressed up against his chest. Wesker recalls your words from the gala – the question about you being a mere kink for him – and he understands what you mean exactly. He knows… men are disgusting when it comes to their attraction to women sometimes. They will spit on a trans woman in the streets but come around the block after dark and pay one of them to spend an hour with him before he goes home to the wife and kids. It's not a secret to Wesker that attraction is not the same as acceptance and respect, but to think that you have been on the receiving end of lust without the latter two makes his blood boil.
“Do I make you feel dirty?”
“No,” you answer without hesitation, which at least makes it easier to breathe knowing that he didn't give you the impression that he would ever use you like that, even accidentally. “But sometimes I would make myself feel like that because I felt like it was wrong of me to be attracted to you, to have feelings for you, when you were just being nice to me and being my friend.”
“To be looked at with love or lust by you is to be blessed, my dear,” Wesker retorts in an instant as he cards a hand through your scalp and pulls you closer to his chest, kissing the crown of your head and hoping you can feel how his heart beats for you.
“You can't just… say things like that,” you groan, rubbing your forehead against him but pulling him even closer to you.
“And whyever not? It's how I feel.”
“Because it makes me want selfish things. Depraved things.”
“Want them, then. Do them. Act upon your desires. Nothing you want from me is off limits – say the word and it's yours.”
You pull away from him to look at his face and Wesker can read every filthy thought you're having right now plainly in your eyes. It ignites a fire in him too and he hopes you won't stifle it again even though he will not nudge you in either direction. This is your decision and no one else's. Wesker can wait for you another three months – another three years, even, or a lifetime if that is your wish. The ball is in your court now.
You lift your hands up to his face and cup his cheeks like he's made of glass and you're afraid of breaking him and cutting yourself on the shards. He lets you go at your own pace, simply reveling in how good it feels to be touched with such reverence and care, and melts into you when you tug him down to your level and shyly brush your lips against his.
“Kiss me how you've been craving,” you murmur quietly in the non-existent space between you, giving him permission, and Wesker doesn't need to be told twice.
He slots himself between your legs, pulling your chest flush against his own, then sinks his right hand into your hair, holding the back of your head firmly, while his left hand cups the side of your face and tilts it up until he's satisfied. Then, and only then, does he lean back down and pull your lips into a kiss, prying them open with gentle care and pouring his insatiable hunger into you as he licks into your mouth and finally finds out how sweet you taste. He swallows every moan that escapes you, pulling away only for brief seconds at a time to let you catch your breath before diving back in and caressing your tongue with his some more.
He doesn't stop until his own lungs are burning and even then, he doesn't go far. His forehead rests against yours and, in between harsh breaths to get oxygen back into his body, he steals short, sweet pecks from your lips that you happily let him get away with doing.
“I don't think I want you to drive me home tonight,” you utter after a few quiet minutes of breathing each other's air in.
Wesker rubs your cheek tenderly and gives you one more peck, this one a bit longer and deeper than the previous ones, then finally pulls away from you.
“I don't think I want to do that either.”
He goes back to his seat because he needs the physical barrier of the counter between you if he doesn't want to jump you right here and now. You let him go just as reluctantly and when, after a few minutes of you stealing glances at each other and forcing yourselves to look away and distract yourselves with drinking your wine, you realise neither of you has said anything for more than five minutes, you both burst into laughter and the tension breaks.
“Two grown adults can't keep it in their pants until dinner is over,” you comment, giggling and shaking your head. Wesker can't help copying you and he feels so free to be himself around you, to not have to wear a certain mask that is expected of him and just… be. Even when you laugh at him. Perhaps especially then.
Dinner comes out perfect, as it usually does when he bothers cooking for himself anything that's harder than a simple soup or a pot of pasta, and you let him feed you instead of doing it yourself after a bit of cajoling. In truth, it's obvious that you enjoy the care and attention, and Wesker loves being the one to provide it for you. When you insist on picking up the other fork and feeding him pieces of steak and mashed potatoes, an unfamiliar but wholly pleasant feeling swoops in his stomach as he parts his lips for you and lets you feed him just as carefully as he had been doing to you.
By the way your eyes sparkle and darken at the sight of his lips wrapping around the fork and the appreciative hum he lets out as he chews, he knows you might understand his desire better now.
Once dinner is done, he abandons the dishes in the sink without a care for once in his life and, instead, hoists you up into his arms and carries you to his bedroom. He lays you down in the middle of his bed and takes a moment to just look at you and admire the way you look: sated, relaxed, full of desire for him, spread out atop his sheets with the bright moonlight outside his window lighting you up like a diamond and making you shine just as brightly. In short: you look perfect.
He spends long minutes simply kissing you. Your lips are divine and he can't get enough of how warm your tongue is, how sweet your mouth, especially with the taste of the dinner he cooked for you lingering behind. He catalogues every moan, every sigh, every hitched breath that he can pull out of you just by kissing you, and he adds it to his mental folder that he's been compiling for you from the moment you met.
He peels you out of the dress slowly. He unravels you like a present, like an expensive painting he ordered a long time ago and which has finally arrived, like the most precious of artefacts he doesn't want to break by being too rough. To his delight, you have been hiding a garter belt under your dress, at least this once, and he is more than happy to take it off with his teeth. Once you're completely naked under him, Wesker feels like he could die quite happily now. He has seen heaven already so there is nothing to wonder about on the other side.
“Do you feel comfortable sitting on my face, my dear?” he asks gently, running a reverent hand over your cheek and down your body, watching with rapt attention the way you react to his touch – your skin breaks out in goosebumps and you are ticklish in certain spots, but you lean towards his fingers and follow him like a sunflower seeking the sun anyway. That he could ever be anyone's sun, let alone yours, is hard to fathom, but he would do anything to nurture you and give you everything you deserve.
“I think so,” you say in a breathy voice that transitions into a moan muffled by you biting your lip when he trails his hand back up and tweaks your nipple slightly. Your breasts are even more gorgeous like this, naked and free to spill down the sides of your torso, so full and flawless, not a foreign mark on them – just waiting for Wesker's mouth to bruise them up and lay his claim.
“Up you go, then.”
Still fully clothed, he lays down next to you and gestures for you to straddle his face. You do so hesitantly, clearly unsure of this position, but when you throw your leg over his body and shuffle upwards, he tugs you the rest of the way until your beautiful pussy is level with his face and pulls you down exactly where he wants you. Your legs immediately go slack as you take a proper seat the second his mouth wraps around your clit and Wesker smirks against your scorching cunt at the easy victory.
Your taste is like crisp, cold water in the middle of the night, like the juiciest fruit in summer, like nectar dripping from the teat of a Goddess nurturing humanity with her life-giving blood. It's everything he's been dreaming of and more.
Wesker eats you out like he's starved for it. You start riding his face pretty fast once he gets you going and every time you tug at his hair and pull him closer to your cunt without inhibitions, the sting goes straight to his cock and has him throbbing in his pants. He sucks on your clit, flicks his tongue in every pattern he knows just to see which one gives him the best results, laps at your folds and dips into your dripping hole like he's drinking directly from the tap. When he looks up at you, mouth busy spelling his name against your clit and nose buried in your hair as he breathes in the intoxicating scent of a dripping wet pussy all his for the taking, he is greeted with the sight of your heaving chest, tits heavy as they hang above his head like a taunt, and you watching him like you can't believe he's real while you whine and moan wantonly, his name featuring heavily in your little litany.
How is it possible to feel like a servant yet feel so worshipped at the same time?
“Oh, Albert, that feels so good,” you moan, a fistful of his blonde hair in your hand while the other cups your own breast and squeezes. Wesker moans as he sees it, wishing it was his hand there instead, and the sound makes you grind down on his face shamelessly. “Just… Just like that. Oh, fuck. I'm gonna come. Please make me come!”
Wesker sucks on your clit like a man possessed, laving his tongue just the way he's seen gets the best response out of you, and he has you coming in his mouth less than a minute later as you shake above him and grind his nose against your sensitive clit while his tongue laps up your release.
His scalp aches from where you pulled on his hair and his tongue is a bit useless now after the intense exercise he put it through, but he couldn't be happier. Especially when you climb off of him and give him a filthy, heated kiss that burns his lungs, and start pulling at his clothes like you want to rip them apart and climb him like a tree.
“That was the best oral I've ever received,” you mumble in between kisses as you run your hands over his naked chest and dig your nail into the soft muscle of his pecs. “I will suck your soul out through your cock for that.”
Wesker moans in response to your words – and the hand you teasingly trail over the tent in his pants – which makes you giggle before pulling away from his lips and undressing him properly.
He wants to tell you that he doesn't need you to do that – liar, he absolutely does – but you're pulling his dick out and swallowing it down to the root before he can do more than think about which order those words should be put in.
He's not ashamed to say he whines and fists the sheets like a virgin as you suck him off. Your mouth is divine and that tongue of yours is wicked – it finds all his sensitive places like a heat-seeking missile and licks at and swirls around them until he's begging you to stop before he comes too soon and ends your fun before it has time to begin.
You pull off his cock with a pop, saliva trailing from your lips to his shaft, and Wesker groans at the sight as he grabs his cock and squeezes the base to stave off an orgasm. You laugh at his predicament, an evil witch who revels in the suffering of men (as you should), but lie down on your side next to him and run your fingers gently through his hair while you press sweet kisses to his cheek.
“Just… give me a minute. I don't want to come the second I enter you.”
“It's okay, I can wait,” you reassure lightly, not a trace of judgement or impatience in your voice. When Wesker flicks his eyes to you, you're looking at him like he's a wonder. He's never been looked at like that before. “I don't think I can go back to being casual after this, Albert. Not when my feelings for you are only growing with every second I spend with you.”
He turns his face to rub his nose against yours and smiles at the way you close your eyes in bliss at the affection.
“I'd marry you tomorrow if you said yes,” he confesses quietly in the silence that lingers. “I know it's insane. But I love you. You're ‘it’ for me. I think I'm like a swan, you know?”
“You mate for life?” you ask just as quietly, voice hushed and heavy with a feeling he can't name but thinks he might be sharing.
“Precisely.”
Your lips on his aren't a surprise, but they are a treat. You kiss him deeply, hungrily yet without hurry, as if you've finally understood that he's not going anywhere, that you have all the time in the world to explore him, to learn how he works, to get familiar with his body and conquer it slowly.
When you break the kiss, your hand is laid on his chest, palm down right over his heart, and you look him deeply in the eye before you say, “I don't know how much of a swan I am, but I know I love you more than is healthy after only three months of knowing you and that I can't imagine living without you now that I've had you.”
“That's good enough for me,” Wesker declares, then pulls you back in for another kiss and rolls himself on top of you, opening your legs and finding your entrance so he can push his cock inside slowly while your sweet mouth moans your pleasure against his lips the more he stretches you.
“Oh, that feels so good. So big,” you praise, moaning when he bottoms out, and it makes him whine for whatever reason as he hides his face in your neck. “Oh, you like that? Like hearing how big you are? How good? How you stretch me better with half your cock than others have managed with the entire thing?”
“Ah, stop,” Wesker protests, panting against your slick skin, and pulls out slowly so he can drive himself back in. That makes you gasp and tighten your legs around his waist, while your nails dig into the meat of his ass and make him hiss in pain, but the kind that makes him crave more.
“Why should I?” you challenge. “You're amazing, Albert. You're so sweet, so thoughtful, so attentive. No one's ever cooked for me before or asked me to ride their face or needed a break to avoid coming too soon because I turn them on too much. You're perfect and I love you.”
In spite of all his attempts to stop this exact thing from happening, your words unravel him. Wesker comes inside of you before he can do more than shut his eyes and wrap his arms tightly around your torso. You moan softly as he fills you up and rake a hand up his back until you find his hair and tangle your fingers in his strands.
“Fuck, I'm sorry.” He feels horrible because this is the best sex he's ever had and he's barely even fucked you, but you're just warming his spent cock while soothing him through his orgasm.
“Don't be. I like this,” you reassure and nuzzle his temple before pressing a light kiss there. “And you've already made me come, you know.”
“But I also want to fuck you.”
“Eh, fucking is overrated anyway.”
You might be telling the truth – maybe you really don't mind and this is enough – but Wesker doesn't want to end it here. So, stubbornly, he pulls his cock out of your cunt and thrusts back in, gritting his teeth at how sensitive he feels, and just pumps in and out of you until that feeling goes away and he feels aroused again. It takes a bit and you're incredibly patient though it all, which, oddly, makes Wesker feel more confident instead of the expected humiliation he might have felt if this had happened with anyone else.
“You really– ah!– don't have to,” you say again but he's already picking up speed and fucking you nicely, making your pussy tighten and cream around his cock with every thrust inside.
“I want to,” he answers simply. He lifts himself up slightly so that he's using his knees to hold himself up over you, his hands on your plush hips, and your protests die on your tongue as you throw your head back and moan loudly every time he bottoms out, voice breaking when he hits your g-spot.
Your pussy feels perfect around his cock – warm and so wet as it squelches with every thrust and tells him what a good job he's doing making you feel good. He wraps his lips around one of your bouncing tits too and sucks on the nipple and grazes it with his teeth while his fingers find your clit and start playing with it while he pounds your pussy properly.
He can barely make out any coherent words in your speech, just occasional calls of his name thrown in between moans and whines.
“Come for me, gorgeous. Milk me dry,” he encourages, driving even harder into your cunt and tweaking your clit right when he rubs up against that special spot.
“Oh fuck, fill me up,” you moan, squeezing his cock like a vise as you come again, thighs shaking around his hips and pussy drooling like its trying to form a lake under your ass.
That is enough to make Wesker come again, too, and it feels just as good as it did the first time to bury himself deep inside your cunt and flood you with his cum while your nails almost tear his back open in pleasure.
When he gets his bearings again and looks down at you, you have a deeply satisfied and happy look on your face, which is precisely what anyone wants to see after having sex, but especially what he wants to see after his first time with you.
“Good, my dear?”
You giggle and grab him by the hair to pull him into a sweet kiss before letting go.
“Best. Ever.”
“You know, you don't have to lie to stroke my ego,” he teases, scraping his teeth against your neck to make you squirm and gasp before he wraps his lips around a spot he knows you can hide with your work clothes and gives you a hickey.
“You don't need it,” you sigh, seemingly happy with his little marking project as he begins making hickeys everywhere he can the further down he goes. “So I'm not lying. I've never felt so… attractive. Do you know how hot it is to see a man who looks like you absolutely lose it and bust early because of me?”
Wesker smiles around the mouthful of tit he has in his mouth and sucks that hickey quickly before he lets it go so he can speak.
“Not as hot as you telling me those sweet things, darling.”
“I meant every single one,” you murmur, scratching idly at his scalp as he props his chin up on your sternum, careful not to dig too deeply and make you hurt. “If I wasn't already in love with you before tonight, I would be now. You know how to charm a lady.”
“No, I just love you,” he denies and lifts himself up so he can kiss you again.
You tangle in the sheets together for long hours during that night. He can't get enough of you, no matter how much his dick protests at the torment after the fourth time he fucks you, but when he gets too tired to get it up again or too overstimulated, he just uses his mouth and fingers. His bed sees more action in one night than it has in all the time he's had it – you're the only person he's ever felt comfortable having in the bed he sleeps in, the kitchen he eats in, the house he calls home.
You both call in sick the next morning, too tired to do more than crack an eye open and say ‘fuck it’ when the clock reads six in the morning. Once your respective calls have been made, Wesker pulls you back into his arms, snuggling against your back and holding one of your breasts like a stress relief toy, and falls back asleep almost instantly, fully feeling like he's home and he's safe for the first time in his life.
It feels like his entire life he's been heading towards you and he's finally found you.
When he wakes up for good later around noon and sees you spread like a starfish on top of him, drooling on his chest with one of your knees digging into his stomach uncomfortably, Wesker has never felt happier in his life. He could live out the rest of his life like this and not get bored of it – and he will. No matter what happens, he knows this: you have to be the one constant in his life or else he'll go insane. You're his now and he doesn't let go of things very easily.
Something tells him that that won't be a problem, though. You seem just as enamoured with him as he is with you.
(He actually proposes a month later, like the insane person he is. You say yes, because you're just as insane. You don't have a traditional wedding but he buys you the dress and you wear it when he takes you to City Hall to sign the papers in June of ‘98. He tells you the truth about Umbrella the night before, though, but you simply look him in the eye and tell him that he could be a serial killer and you probably wouldn't care. Which is good because he kills a lot of people – or indirectly causes their deaths – not even a month later and then goes on to become a well known and hunted international bioterrorist after that.
You follow him everywhere he goes. You don't ever try to change him or make him feel bad for the way he is – physically or otherwise. And he loves you more with every day that passes, never once ceasing to believe that you are a Goddess, even before his own god complex kicks in. You are everything to him and Wesker never lets you forget.
And every year on your anniversary, he cooks you a steak dinner and slowly feeds it to you while you sit in his lap and do the same, before you retire to the bedroom and have marathon sex – these days, he doesn't come prematurely anymore because of his enhancements; he just fucks you until you can't take it anymore and then just a little bit past that. You do look beautiful when you're incoherent from pleasure, after all.)
This is the first time I've written proper pathetic Wesker that is just Like That, instead of being under the influence of sth. I'm very charmed. I love dominant Wesker and I believe he still very much is in this 'verse, but your first time was emotionally charged and it meant a lot to him so… he kinda lost his cool a bit. He's allowed <3 a man who yearns is a man who earns iktr 💅
[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.
Lovin some evilness @letdaddycook - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
theartofmadeline
snowghoul
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
blakekathryn
yousharknotpass
areudirty
ellievsbear
2087
romaincrisis
