Apr 24
I present to you WESKER!!! This is my design of him in my Lycan Chris AU
One is before meeting with Chris the other is when he meets Chris (we're going to ignore that they look nothing like Wesker)
Rambling and closeups under the cut ⬇️
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Canada
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Australia
seen from China
seen from Hong Kong SAR China
seen from Argentina
seen from Malaysia
seen from Brazil
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Malaysia
I present to you WESKER!!! This is my design of him in my Lycan Chris AU
One is before meeting with Chris the other is when he meets Chris (we're going to ignore that they look nothing like Wesker)
Rambling and closeups under the cut ⬇️
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Rating: Not Rated
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Fandoms: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse), resident evil village
Relationship: Chris Redfield/Reader
Tags: Cuddling & Snuggling, Man needs hugs too, Romantic Gestures, No Smut, gender neutral reader, Friendship, Trust, Platonic Relationships
Chapter 1/1
Summary: When Chris told you he was on his way back, you can't wait to finally see him again. And since this mission has drained him more than ever, you decide to try and cheer him up a bit.
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Just a fic I remembered I wrote a whole while ago and I still like it a lot. Didn't share it here I think, so here we go. Have some softie Chris ❤
@chrisker-week day 6! We're at the finishing line guys! I have no clue what tomorrow holds but for now we have Mistletoe Kiss, a polycule of doom one Shot that is inspired by my Christmas art :3
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Enjoy! It was super fun to write!
The Years Start Coming And They Don’t Stop Coming
I was inspired to write a little fanfic back in August 2022. I had some general ideas but only wrote this much and haven’t touched it since. But I read it again recently and still thought it was cute so I decided to share. Keep in mind it is very rough with little to no editing.
Chris closes his apartment door and turns to hang up his coat while slipping out of his boots. His keys clank against the kitchen counter as he stretches and groans in front of the fridge. It has certainly been an interesting last few days at work and he could use something to take off the edge.
He opens the fridge to instinctively grab a cold beer, but his hand hesitates and settles on a bottle of flavored seltzer water instead. He cracks open the plastic lid as he plunks down on his sectional sofa and drinks a few gulps of liquid. There are a few papers and photos strewn out in front of him on the coffee table. He pushes some aside to reveal a photo of Rosemary. His hand runs through his hair with a sigh as his eyes dart to his phone. He swipes it a few times and holds it up to his ear.
"Hey, sorry it's been so long," he grins and chuckles, "no. No beer tonight. I got what you suggested; it's good. Listen, I uh... wanted to ask you something..."
Stark White Rage
A Resident Evil VIII fic rewrite, in honor of the Rose DLC.
Set after the finale of RE8. Ethan’s regenerative abilities allow him to survive, but only barely. He gets found by the BSAA, who conveniently forget to report this to his family.
TW: Graphic depictions of violence, Clinical trauma, Nightmares, Dismemberment
____________________________________________
Why the color white? Surely it took time to maintain such a stark and blinding color, and for what? Just so he could see in perfect detail how his blood looked as it dried into the cracks they couldn’t clean? It just looked red, in darker and darker shades as it flaked and peeled and faded.
He could still picture his little girl. His Rose, curled up in that pale pink blankie and clutching…what was it? A stuffed animal? His hand? Something that brought her comfort, to keep her calm and happy and safe. In his daydreams she was safe, clutching his hands and babbling at him. In his nightmares she cried.
“Subject 1, series F,” the robotic voice said, signaling the arrival of one of the handlers. They wouldn’t tell him if he had a name. They didn’t really talk to him at all unless they were running a test.
Still, he called out a hello. It was only polite. Maybe if he tried enough times they would return the favor.
He didn’t get an answer this time, but one of the handlers actually came up to the glass wall today.
“Good morning, series F,” he said.
“Is it morning? Couldn’t tell.”
His question wasn’t graced with an answer as usual. A robotic voice listed off the contents of his breakfast. Usually there was a serving each of fruit, bread, and protein. Today there was a dish of peaches, some toast, and a few thin slices of turkey. Pretty standard fare, aside from the patches of fluorescent blue mold.
At his confused look the man reluctantly explained, if only to get him to eat it. “We’re running a new series of tests. You’ve been consistent to a statistically significant level with the other molds, so we’re advancing our studies.”
The man who was just called series F just sighed. Foods with white and green mold were what he was used to, and he wasn’t thrilled about a change in his diet. Change meant they had to examine him, and that usually meant dismembering him and timing the recovery. It hurt every time, but it hurt more when he realized he was getting bored of it.
“Did you know humans will choose pain over boredom?” one of the surgeons had asked as he dug around for yet another vital organ. “You aren’t human, of course, but I have to wonder what you’d pick given the chance.”
Series F hadn’t responded. His vocal chords were still regenerating, which kept him from screaming. It wasn’t like he needed to breathe, but he let a gust of air in just for a distraction. As he felt gloved hands close around his liver, he stretched the broken skin of his lips in a soundless yawn. Partly because it felt good and partly because he wanted to make a point.
The surgeon had just laughed. “Right, don’t suppose it would produce any meaningful results. You’re already too bored of pain for the procedure to work.”
He poked idly at the blue mold now gracing his plate. They had tried to give him normal, fresh food in the early days, before they realized he literally couldn’t stomach it. The walls would always display some stain from the latest meal. Apparently food only tasted good to him if it was rotten.
Now they were giving him new mold. Did he do something wrong, or was this just another in a long line of attempts to replicate his state? They talked about it sometimes when they thought he was sleeping, how apparently he was the first nonviolent strain, but whatever made him nonviolent was impossible to reproduce with the other subjects.
“His regenerative abilities are off the charts, more powerful than we’ve ever seen.” The voices were muffled and distant, like he was dreaming. Funny how he could hear them even on the other side of the facility. Maybe that was just another ability he had.
“Even so, he’s hardly an asset if he can’t replicate.”
“There’s no proof yet—“
“There’s a lack of evidence, that’s all the proof we’re going to get. Whether he’s incapable, or doesn’t know how, or just chooses not to none of that makes a difference. The result is the same.”
The next few sentences were drowned out by the sudden shuffle of papers. “—take this project in a new direction, we need to make some progress here.”
“With all due respect, isn’t he more effective as an asset if he’s nonviolent? Introducing this mold could—“
“He’s only effective if we can reproduce his results. If we can even get a fraction of his regenerative power into one of our earlier subjects he could give the whole project exactly the boost it needs.”
He ate the blue mold. What else was he going to do? Starving was even more boring than the surgeries. It hurt worse than knives in his chest.
Rose was in his dreams again. Somehow she seemed closer, less hazy. In this dream she was in a crib, and he rocked it back and forth. She burbled a bit. He knew she had thrown up earlier, and they were worried of course but no more than is normal for two new parents.
His wife called to him from the kitchen, and he actually heard her voice. It was distorted but it was a real memory he was sure of it. Something about dinner being ready…she called his name but it was hard to make out. His name…his…his name…
The robotic lady greeted him the next time they decided was morning. “Subject 1, Series F,” she intoned. That wasn’t his name though.
——
It took nearly a week of the new mold for the little girl to appear. The surgeons and researchers didn’t acknowledge her. He asked who she was, but they didn’t answer, just added hallucinations to his list of symptoms.
“—just visual hallucinations so far. It’s unclear whether this an effect of the E strain in his diet, or the stress of change. We are increasing the sample size to further examine any correlative properties,” one said in an audio log. “So far his abilities such as regeneration and replication have remained unchanged.”
Another muttered darkly, “If he remains unchanged for much longer they’re probably going to scrap the whole series. Provided they can figure out how to get rid of the thing.”
The little girl didn’t do very much. She always ran away when he made eye contact, but he could feel her watching him all the time. During one of the surgeries she leaned over the bed and touched him. Her hands were cold and clammy, and slightly damp like she’d just climbed out of the water. They were testing his hands, one of their favorite places to examine.
He didn’t look at her, but he felt it as she moved down the table to grip what was left of his palm. He flexed, trying to comfort her. From what he’d seen she couldn’t be more than ten, and he doubted this was a pleasant sight. The doctors kept writing down that she was just a hallucination, but she felt real enough as he desperately tried to hold her little hand, torn ligaments screaming in pain.
She seemed to understand, and guided his fingers into a fist around hers. Whatever or whoever she was, it felt nice to not be so alone.
“Series F has recently developed more alertness during the surgeries, reminiscent of his chaotic behavior in the early trials.”
The next time he looked at the little girl she giggled as she darted away, and he caught a better look at her. Her hair was long and black. It left wet spots on the white floors.
——
His next dream was not of Rose. The sheets in his hands were soft and warm, bathed in the sunlight filtering through the curtains. It smelled like cinnamon.
“We have to get up soon,” he heard himself say.
The woman next to him groaned and blinked. She was beautiful, even more so because she loved him.
“We have a few more moments left.” She pulled him down and kissed him. They were on their honeymoon, after all.
You have to remember this, Ethan.
——
The researchers were shocked of course, but handled it with their usual measured logic. A change as abrupt as this was bound to entail many drastic changes, and the increased aggression was hardly unheard of in previous cases.
He screamed at them, begged them to tell him where his family was. He knew his name now, and if he had a name that meant he was a person, at least somewhat. You couldn’t treat people like this, couldn’t cut a person up against their will and starve them and drown them. How long had it been? In what fucked up world did he now live where this was okay?
“Where’s Rose?” he shouted as they brought his meal. “Where’s my wife? I know they’re real, please let me see them! Please I need my family!”
He wished they would cut out his vocal chords again, at least so he could regrow them to be less sore.
“They don’t like it when you yell,” the little girl whispered.
Ever since the last dream she’d started talking. Only for a short amount of time before she disappeared again.
“Good,” he replied. “I hope they get annoyed enough to actually do something about it.”
She just hummed to herself. It was one of the songs he’d been trying to slowly teach her.
The scientists were wrong. They had to be, she was much too real to be a hallucination. She remembered all their conversations, and she was even teaching him new things, stories and songs.
“Who are you?” he’d finally managed to ask.
“I’m your daughter,” she had said proudly,” which makes you my daddy!”
This girl wasn’t Rose of course. The real Rose was probably more grown up now, but she had blond hair, and bright blue eyes like his.
Her name was Evelyn. The visits came faster after mealtimes, like she was imprinted in the blue mold that came with his food. He could imagine her sailing on it like a little raft, all through his bloodstream until she got to his brain.
She was his daughter but not…she was older than him. How could his daughter be older than him?
“It’s weird,” she said. “It’s like you formed from nothing.”
“You didn’t make me?”
“Not really. I tried to, but you can’t make your own parents, that’s not how it works. I tried to make you into my dad, but then you and mom killed me.”
He didn’t remember doing that, but he apologized anyway.
“It’s ok, I think you were right to. I wasn’t being a very good girl. I hurt a lot of people, so it only makes sense that my daddy would have to come and put me on time out.”
“So I was born so you could have a dad?”
“I think you were born so you could have yourself. You eat yourself every day and you’re sustained by it. You don’t need family to keep you alive, you’re strong enough on your own. That’s why you’re the dad.”
He didn’t feel very strong, but that was hardly new. Maybe if he were stronger he could get out of here. He imagined it; going home to his wife and daughter, bringing Evelyn to meet them. He’d punch straight through solid stone, grind the awful white walls to dust with his bare, solid hands.
But he was still so human. He had the strength to punch a stone, sure, but it would break all the bones in his hand, and send incapacitating pain through his limbs. His hands might be able to regrow, but it was so slow and painful as to render him completely helpless.
Evelyn told him to wait. He was getting stronger, she told him, and one day he’d be strong enough to carry them home.
“Do you still want to hurt people?” he asked her after a late night story. It was one about an evil house in a swamp, full of monsters and madness. They had told it together, echoing each other as if reading off imaginary pages.
“I don’t know, I don’t think so.” She studied her own hands. Every night he brushed her hair and tried to dry her off, and little by little she was sniffling less, and speaking clearer. “Something about you makes me nicer I think. I didn’t really want to hurt anyone before, it was just what happened sometimes when I wanted to make more family. I was so lonely…”
“But we’re not alone anymore, are we Evelyn?”
“No.” She smiled up at him.
——
He dreamt of a kitchen table, where he ate the most delicious food.
“Go on, eat some more, you’re practically skin and bones!” a woman chided. She offered him more, and he only managed to refuse her once.
“Gotta keep up those nice strong muscles huh?” Presumably it was her husband speaking, while inclining his head meaningfully at the younger man across the table, playing some game on his phone.
It was peaceful, and nostalgic in a way he couldn’t put a name to. Morning light on the table highlighted a little spot of grease, and crumbs littered the floor around their chairs. It was messy, but not unusually so, just enough that you knew there were people living and breathing there. There were stains from accidental spills and scuff marks from chair on the hardwood floor.
“You have to go back soon, son,” the older man said gravely. “Give ‘em hell when you do, and we’ll be right with you.”
He nodded to the family before him, a treasure to be remembered by no one.
“No one else will fight for us anymore. If nothing else, remember us. Keep this with you, something those bastards can never take away,” Zoe said. Ethan swore he would remember her. He would remember everyone.
The man’s name was Jack, and his wife was Marguerite, and their two kids were Lucas and Zoe.
——
“I’m sorry,” Evelyn cried, sobbing helplessly into his arms.
She told him terrible things, and in return he gave her hope, he relayed memories, and he told stories of how they were when they were alive.
Evelyn told him how she filled a woman’s mind with crawling things. In return, Ethan told her how that woman used to make her famous stews, and how she had always wanted a bed and breakfast. A man was stretched and warped into a facsimile of himself. That man was a kind soul, who took in a little girl one rainy night in Louisiana.
“I didn’t know what I was doing,” she cried. “I didn’t know what it meant.”
Ethan didn’t blame her though. Her creators understood her nature, they were the ones who should’ve been more careful. Is a hurricane evil? Or is it just acting according to its nature?
“Storms break away at a shoreline. And children break things without knowing why,” he said. He felt a rush of joy as her crying eased. “You were a child and you were hurting. It’s their fault for giving those gifts to a newborn.”
The scientists still didn’t know why he didn’t fight back, didn’t even try to give his gift to someone else. He’d never wanted to make more of his family the way she did.
“The mold makes all subjects violent, and all mold wants to replicate. It’s the same way it occurs in nature, taking control of the host and finding optimal conditions for reproduction.”
But Ethan knew better now. The mold didn’t take over his mind, or Evelyn’s. Maybe her strain took over the others, made them do things they wouldn't ordinarily do, but that was just because his daughter was very strong. It didn’t replace Evelyn though, she replaced it.
He just didn’t need to replicate. He wasn’t alone. He had all the family he could ask for, somewhere beyond these walls.
When sleep took him again, he started to dream of monsters. They looked down on him and hurt him, but it wasn’t some biological need making them do it. It was just regular human cruelty, fostered and fed by the belief that they were better. That they had earned the right to do these things, or that they had no other choice.
He dreamt of a castle, and a village where wolves ran free. The lady of the house had hands like knives, and she laughed as her many-legged daughters crawled all over him.
There was a dollhouse in a forest of mist. The small hands of ceramic babies scraped against his face, and there stood a woman in mourning, conducting this orchestra of paint and metal and sharp laughter.
A creature of acid and filth approached, and even in the dream the smell was enough to send shivers of writhing disgust down his back. The monster heaved and groaned, and begged Ethan to remember, to remember anything he could even if it hurt. Even if it made him want to puke his guts out. Whatever guys he had left at this point.
The last was just a man in pain, a reflection of Ethan through a funhouse mirror, or maybe through a piece of sheet metal. He smelled like gunpowder and rust when he leaned close, and his eyes gleamed like pools of oil behind his glasses.
“You’ll get those bastards yet. C’mon papa, you’re supposed to be the stubborn one. Fight back!” He screamed it even as blades tore through his spine, even as fire enveloped him. A thousand voices merged into one, and all of them called out the same refrain. “Fight back! Don’t let this be your end. Fight back!”
It had been so long since he’d fought. He couldn’t remember what the weight of a gun felt like in his hands, couldn’t envision the recoil of it. He had forgotten his anger, replaced with mold and blood and stark empty white walls.
——
“I wish you could stay longer,” he complained to the empty air. The length of Evelyn’s visits had stopped increasing since they stopped putting the E strain mold in his food. There were concerns, cold and scientific ones mostly. Worries that they had done nothing except make Series F more unstable, even more unusable than before.
“At least we’ve seen some change. Might be enough to keep the wolf from the door,” one of them said in their faraway office.
“Yeah and how long is that gonna last?” An uncomfortable shuffle, the movements you make when you’re not sure how much remorse you should be showing. “Christ at least when he was stable we could’ve made the case for his usability as a control group. Now we might not be able to operate on him safely ever again.”
The last time he had woken up from his dream, he’d been on the operating table again, with scientists examining his stomach for any changes. Naturally, they didn’t expect it to grow limbs and slam someone’s head onto the table.
He could plead innocence. Say that his body had acted without his knowledge, that the mold was truly infecting him and changing who he was.
It wasn’t true though. Evelyn, the Bakers, the horsemen…so many memories were in him now. His was the only repository of their lingering desires, and they screamed for action, for justice, for change. But it wasn’t them making him angry, making him mess with the technology in the facility, or making him attack the scientists whenever he got the chance, the way he used to in the first days. A fire started in his chest every time Evelyn curled up beside him as he repeated bedtime stories from memory.
He wanted to be out. He wanted to go home.
It's the end of @chrisker-week ! It was so fun to participate! Here's day 7 Free day, 4th of July special [a polycule of doom one shot] based on the big cookout drawing I did awhile ago!^^
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
@chrisker-week day uhhhh- uhhh- *checks notes* day 5: "You're safe now."
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
And a bonus smuttier chapter for Priest Au
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
sun bleached flies — ethel cain