Wesker is a man who notices patterns.
Patterns are useful. They reveal weaknesses, inefficiencies and opportunities. Most people move through life not observing them, leaving themselves vulnerable to mistakes that could have been prevented time and time again.
In a way, Wesker has built his career on noticing what others overlook. Which is why he notices the transfer paperwork immediately.
The document arrives amongst dozens of others requiring approval. Budget allocations. Personnel reports. Laboratory assessments. Ordinarily, it would have received no more attention than the rest. Instead, his gaze halts over your name on the bottom of the page.
‘Internship conclusion date: Friday’
He can’t look away. The date itself is not surprising. By nature, internships are temporary. He has signed countless documents of this nature over the years. Researches arrive, and they leave. That is how the world works. Personnel turnover is an unavoidable reality of any organisation.
There is absolutely nothing unusual about this one. But he can’t look away.
An uncomfortable weight settles somewhere between his ribs.
Wesker leans back in his office chair, removing his glasses briefly as he considers the document before him. The reaction is irrational. Nothing is changing beyond the expected conclusion of a professional arrangement. The laboratories will continue operating. Research will continue its progress. Another intern will eventually occupy the position.
Another intern. The thought itself makes him scowl. But why? His eyebrows furrow in irritation.
His gaze returns to the paperwork. Three days. The realisation arrives slowly. Then all at once.
Distance had never been the objective. Not truly, at least. Distance implies presence. That you were somewhere nearby, just in another room, separated only by deliberate choice. He could avoid your laboratory. Avoid unnecessary conversations. Avoid the increasingly dangerous habit of seeking you out in the evenings.
But absence…that was a different monster entirely.
Absence was your workstation, empty. It was no more lights on after midnight. It meant no more laughter across the laboratory, one that could be heard from his office at times.
The distinction should not matter. But it does.
When evening sets, Wesker has accomplished remarkably little. Several reports remain unfinished and emails unanswered. Two meetings pass without retaining any of his attention.
The decline in his efficiency is unacceptable. The source of it…even worse.
Shortly after midnight, he leaves his office. The decision appears spontaneous, but Wesker is not a spontaneous man. This was premeditated.
His route through the facility follows a much-too-familiar path. One that he walked so often it required no conscious thought. The corridors are mostly empty now, illuminated only by the stark glow of security lights and the occasional glow from active laboratories.
As he rounds the corner, he sees the familiar light spilling through the window of your lab. For a moment, he simply stands there.
How many times had he found you like this? Bent over a workstation long after everyone else had gone home. “Resolving one last discrepancy, sir,” you would say. He had spent months pretending those encounters were accidental. Months pretending he was just passing by. Months of pretending that he didn’t anticipate your presence.
Now, standing in the corridor, he finds himself confronting a far simpler truth. He had always known where to find you. And soon, he wouldn’t. The thought settles heavily in his chest. Before he can reconsider, the scanner by the door flashes green, and it zips open with a mechanical hiss.
You look up immediately. For a second, there’s a look of surprise. It melts into a smile when you notice the man in the doorway. His eyes narrow slightly behind his glasses.
The answer had been obvious for some time. He had simply refused to acknowledge it.
And now, looking at you beneath the glow of laboratory lights, knowing this might be one of the last opportunities he would ever have to do so, Wesker finds himself confronted by the one outcome he cannot tolerate: a future without you in it.
The laboratory hums quietly around you.
Wesker remains near the entrance. He has not stepped fully into the room.
You notice it, but you do not wish to comment. Instead, you straighten slightly from your workstation, unsure whether this is still a professional visit or something else entirely.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” you say eventually. Your voice is steady, but softer than usual.
“I am aware,” Wesker replies.
He does not move further inside immediately. His gaze drifts briefly across the laboratory before settling on you. It is that same assessing look he always carries, but there is something slower about it now. Less… immediate. As though he is allowing himself to observe without interrupting the process.
A silence follows. It is not uncomfortable, but it is different from the silences that used to exist between you. Those had been functional. This one feels suspended.
You turn slightly in your chair. “Is something wrong?”
The answer comes too quickly to be reassuring.
He seems to register that as well. A faint tightening at the corner of his jaw suggests he is reconsidering how much control he is willing to maintain over this conversation.
After a moment, he steps inside properly. The door slides shut behind him with a soft mechanical sound.
“I reviewed the transfer documentation,” he says. You study him for a second. “And?”
There is a pause before he answers, longer than you are used to from him.
“And I assume you are aware of its contents.”
“I am,” you say. “It’s just the end of the internship.” You try to keep your tone light, but it does not fully land that way. Something in the phrasing makes the room feel quieter.
Wesker moves closer to one of the nearby workstations but does not touch it. His hands remain still at his sides, an unusual lack of engagement for him.
“Yes,” he says finally. “That is the formal description.” You watch him carefully now.
“But not the only one,” you reply. That draws his attention back to you immediately.
The shift is subtle, but real. His focus narrows; not in the professional sense, but in a way that feels more personal than anything he has allowed in this room before.
“You are leaving in three days,” he says.
“No choice in that,” you answer bluntly.
Another silence follows. This one holds longer than the previous ones. Wesker looks away briefly, as if the idea requires distance to process, then returns his attention to you.
“I have not interfered with your placement decisions before,” he says.
You tilt your head slightly. “Before?” The word catches him.
For a fraction of a second, the control he normally maintains so effortlessly slips - not visibly, but enough that you notice the pause before he answers.
“I assumed distance was appropriate,” he says.
Your expression softens slightly, confusion mixing with understanding.
“Is that what this was?” you ask quietly. “Distance?”
He does not respond immediately. When he finally does, his voice is lower than before.
That answer lingers between you longer than anything else he has said.
You push yourself off the workstation and take a small step closer. Not enough to crowd him. Just enough that the space between you is no longer purely professional.
“And did it work?” you ask.
Wesker’s gaze drops for a moment - not away from you, but slightly downward, as though the question has forced him to confront something he had been keeping deliberately unexamined.
Then, more quietly, almost as if the admission requires precision rather than emotion:
Wesker remains where he is for a moment longer than necessary, as though still weighing whether further honesty serves any functional purpose. His gaze does not leave you. There is no professional layer to interpret it through anymore. Whatever distance he had been maintaining has already been compromised, and neither of you is pretending otherwise.
You wait. Not impatiently, steadily, as if you understand whatever he says now will matter more than everything before it.
Finally, he moves. It is controlled, but deliberate in a way that feels unfamiliar for him. He steps away from the workstation, closing the space between you without breaking eye contact. The remaining distance feels smaller than it should, the laboratory suddenly too quiet to justify how loud your awareness of him has become.
“I miscalculated,” he says quietly.
You blink slightly. “About what?”
His jaw tightens in restraint.
“About separation,” he says after a moment. “I assumed removing proximity would restore equilibrium.” There is a pause. He seems to register how inadequate that explanation is even as he speaks it.
“It did not,” he corrects quietly.
You don’t interrupt. You let him continue.
His gaze drops briefly - not away from you, but to the space between you, as if studying the remaining distance as a variable he cannot solve.
“You remained,” he says. “In my attention. In my routines. In ways that were not efficient to ignore.” Your heart softens at this confession.
You take a small step closer, careful not to push him away from the edge he is already standing on.
“That sounds like a problem,” you say softly.
“It was,” he agrees immediately.
Then, after a pause that lasts longer than any of his previous ones, he adds: “And it is not resolving itself.”
You study him now in silence, seeing past the usual composure. The precision is still there, but it is no longer insulating him from what he is saying. The honesty shifts something in the room.
“You’ve been trying to fix this,” you say quietly.
“I’ve been attempting to remove interference,” he replies. You watch him for a moment, then shake your head slightly.
“And I’m the interference?”
That makes him pause. Just enough to register that the answer is no longer something he can default into.
“You are the reason that approach failed.”
The sentence lands heavily in between you. It is not poetic, it is not soft. In his terms, it is absolute.
The space between you feels different now, no longer like distance or restraint, but like something waiting to collapse.
“You could have said that earlier,” you murmur.
“I was attempting to ensure it was not temporary,” he says.
That, more than anything else, is what finally breaks the remaining structure of the conversation.
Because for a man like Albert Wesker, certainty is the closest thing to vulnerability. And he is standing here admitting he waited until he could not undo it.
His hand rises slowly, not uncertain, but careful, as though still verifying that the outcome is real. It settles at your waist with the same precision he applies to everything else, except there is no detachment in it anymore. Only presence.
“You should leave in three days,” he says, but it is no longer a command. It’s an observation he doesn’t agree with.
“And what do you want?” you ask.
For a moment, he does not answer.
Then, very quietly, as if the word itself carries too much consequence to be spoken carelessly:
His hand tightens slightly at your waist, not pulling you closer yet, but no longer pretending there is a reason not to.
And when he finally leans in, it is not abrupt or consuming. For once, without analysis, he stops resisting what he has already accepted.
A weight comes off your shoulders. Wesker exhales once, slow and controlled, and the hand at your waist shifts. It is final in its intent, guiding you. He closes the last fraction of distance between you without force.
His other hand lifts to your face, fingers settling at your jaw with precise familiarity. The kiss is not rushed, but it is not tentative either.
When it happens, it is immediate in its certainty but not in its aggression. Measured contact, precise and controlled, but no longer theoretical. No longer restrained by consideration alone.
His breath is controlled against yours, his presence completely focused, as though every remaining variable has narrowed to this single point of contact.
And for the first time, there is nothing analytical in the way he holds you. When he pulls back, his eyes do not leave yours.
There is something in them. His eyes look so much softer, pleading with no words. You pull him back for another kiss, but this is different. It’s wilder, desperate. Your hands wrap around his neck and find their way into his hair.
He grunts when he lifts you up by the waist and places you on the workstation. Experiments be damned. He pulls away to look at you - and oh fuck, he is dangerously close to losing whatever shred of control he’s got left.
You lean backwards, supporting yourself on your hands. It’s an inviting gesture, but dangerous. Wesker pushes your legs apart with his knee in one fluid motion, and pushes his forehead against yours.
“I need you. I’ve always needed you,” you whisper quietly. Wesker closes his eyes and you wrap your leg around his, pulling him closer.
“I-fuck.” He exhales heavily. “Do you want this?”
You nod immediately. You pull him in and kiss him feverishly, like it’s the last time you’ll ever see him. It wouldn’t be far from the truth, you think.
His hands trail around your waist and under your shirt, caressing your skin. It feels like it’s on fire. You break the kiss so he can pull the shirt over your head, and he exhales sharply. He studies you like a specimen, one that checks all the boxes. He wastes no time in unclasping your bra and helping you out of your pants, leaving you completely naked on the desk for him.
“Can I?” He traces his fingers between your thighs, and you feel electricity buzzing. You nod desperately, unable to string together anything coherent.
Wesker spreads your thighs apart with his knee once again. He uses a finger to tease your folds, and you bite your lip, holding back a moan. At first, he’s agonisingly slow, moving back and forth and eventually using a second digit. You’re so aroused you can feel yourself dropping onto the desk, but he makes no comment about it.
Maybe you imagined it, but you hear him curse under his breath when he finally pushes two fingers inside of you. They slide in with a delicious squelch, and that only turns him on further. He holds a steady pace, almost mechanical. Your toes curl in ecstasy, and you wrap your legs loosely around his waist as he fucks you with his fingers. The lewd sounds only make you wetter, and you can feel your orgasm approaching.
“F-fuck…sir, I can’t, I-I’m close-“ you whimper into his ear, and he picks up the pace. He supports your back with his other arm and ravages you with his other. When you do finally orgasm, you arch your back, giving him a full view of your fucked-out state.
You lay back on the table when he pulls out his fingers, and they glint in the light of the room.
“Open.” He commands, holding your face. You part your lips obediently, and you feel his wet fingers slide into your mouth. God, it’s so fucking hot. You can taste your pleasure on his fingers, and as you suck on it delicately, he’s undressed himself.
He pulls his hand from your mouth, and you bite your bottom lip. You feel his dick line up against your entrance, and you let out a small gasp. His tip is coated in slick from your wetness, and you feel your cheeks flush.
“Beautiful…” he whispers under his breath.
There is no ceremony as he bottoms himself out inside you, and you yelp in surprise. He’s bending over you, gripping your waist like a vice.
Wesker is a calculated man. Calm, controlled. But he fucks into you with a feverish frenzy, like an animal. Like you’re the one thing he doesn’t have to worry about analysing, or keeping in check. His strokes are rough and deep, and it hits all the right spots. He groans and you feel the knot in your stomach makes itself bigger. You moan into his ear and he only goes harder. “Ffffuck, sir, yes! Just like that-“ you can barely finish your sentence before he pulls out without warning, and flips you over.
You’re on all fours on this laboratory desk, and it’s the most lewd scene you can imagine. You drip onto the floor, while Wesker is lining himself up to use you for his own pleasure. This time, he pushes himself in halfway, and his strokes are short and quick. It’s not enough. Your cheek is pressed against the desk, his hand holding your neck. You push yourself back into his thrusts, and grabs your hips. “Don’t.”
You can hear his laboured breathing clearly when he talks. “Please, sir,” you beg. “No more distance.” He pauses for a moment. Then, you feel his arm wrap under your body and reach for your clit. He teases you, rubbing in slow circles and moving his hips lazily. Your eyes are beginning to well up with tears. “P-please sir. Please, f-fuck me…”.
He obliges, pulling your hips into himself, burying himself deep into your cunt. The squelch makes you squirm; his dick keeping a quick pace as he drags your second orgasm closer.
His left hand rubs your clit with clinical precision, and it sends the tears running down your face as he overstimulates you to no end.
“Fuck, fuck- sir, I’m gonna-“ you plead, his pace unchanged. When you feel your orgasm send you over the edge, he embraces you from behind, fucking you through it. Your legs quiver with pleasure, and he pulls out slowly. You turn your head to look at him and he’s breathing heavy, a few strands of hair falling over his eyes. There’s the glisten of sweat on his temples, and he looks into your eyes. He doesn’t break eye contact as he helps you sit upright.
You both catch your breath for a second. He traces his fingers from your neck to your chest. He speaks quietly. “Your departure is…not ideal.”
“You want me to stay?” You smile, coyly.
