Being close to Zeno was already complicated, but having a relationship with him was even more so.
When you entered his life, he was still in the middle of a whirlwind of emotions and discoveries. His search to become stronger often blinded him and made him act similarly to Wesker—though never quite the same. After all, there was still humanity behind that thick shell, like a lamb in wolf’s clothing.
Zeno doesn’t just think he’s unworthy of love—he despises any display of affection or pity directed at him. Even if it comes from you, if he notices the slightest hint of pity in your eyes, he’ll snap and storm off in anger.
Zeno has a habit of watching you quietly when you’re distracted—reading, cooking, talking, or even sleeping. Not in a creepy way, but in a disbelieving way, like he’s trying to understand why someone like you would stay with him. Sometimes you catch him staring and he immediately looks away and mutters something defensive like: "Don’t get the wrong idea. I was just… thinking."
He hates admitting it, but he constantly compares himself: “I’m just a poorly made copy.” You try to comfort him, telling him that he’s a different person from what Wesker was, and that’s exactly what makes him special. But the silver-haired man refuses to listen, laughing bitterly as he says you could never understand what it’s like to be seen as a defective clone.
Affection feels strange to him, but it isn’t unwelcome.
He always believed he was unworthy of love, that no one could ever truly fall for him. When you stayed despite his outbursts and his Napoleon complex, Zeno began to realize that what he truly needed wasn’t to be feared by everyone—but to be understood and loved.
The two of you would spend nights watching the stars together. He would listen as you whispered plans for the future, and every time you included him in those dreams, it became one of the rare moments when he could genuinely smile. “All of that, little one? Sounds fun… we’ll definitely do it.”
The older man would say it in a calm voice reserved only for you. You were the only person who ever gave him good memories, and he was genuinely grateful for that.
Aside from the days when he became obsessively focused on surpassing Wesker and becoming more powerful; Zeno was a pleasant partner most of the time—especially considering you had been together for quite a while. He spoiled you with his black card, insisted on taking you out, and helped you with your shopping. And even though he pretended to hate it, he secretly loved when you kissed him in public. To him, it meant you weren’t ashamed to be seen with him. And in that moment, that was the only validation he needed.
Zeno has extremely light sleep—if you're not beside him, he wakes up constantly. But when you're there, he sleeps much deeper; sometimes he unconsciously holds your wrist or shirt while sleeping, like he's making sure you're still there. If you try to leave the bed too early, he pulls you back half-asleep: “Six more minutes… don’t disappear yet.”
He has a habit of removing his glasses only when the two of you are alone. The marks on his face become more visible, and he lowers his gaze, silently waiting for you to touch them. When you kiss one of the scars, his whole body trembles and he groans softly. “Damn it, darling… you really know how to make me weak.”
Zeno also collects the small things you accidentally leave behind—a hair tie, a note, a strand of hair—and keeps them inside an aluminum cigarette case tucked in his coat. Whenever he spends too long away from you, he turns to those little things you left behind: small fragments that remind him he still has a safe harbor to return to, even in the middle of all the chaos.
Despite his superhuman strength, he carries you as if you were made of glass. After losing his powers near Elpis, he still tries to lift you and almost falls—laughing awkwardly as he says: “Sorry… I’m still getting used to being… normal.”
If you take care of him during this crisis, he’ll be deeply grateful—but it won’t be easy. Zeno already had an extreme inferiority complex before (made even worse by Dr. Victor’s mockery after he lost his powers). Because of that, he becomes more guarded, trying to push you away, training until his muscles ache and he collapses exhausted on the floor on some random Tuesday.
The silver-haired man wasn’t used to feeling pain—let alone wounds that took months or even years to truly heal. For the first time in a long time, he felt fragile… more fragile than he had in years.
Sometimes he wakes up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat after a nightmare where someone takes you away from him, and he can do nothing but watch. He tries everything he can for you—anything money can buy, he’ll give you—but his greatest fear is simply losing you one day.
⊹ 𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒:
When you bite his throat, scratch down his back until you draw thin red lines, or suck a bruise onto his collarbone where his shirt collar barely hides it, he groans like he’s been wounded in the best way. “Fuck—Yes honey… show to everyone I’m taken... Show I belong to you.” The validation of being visibly claimed overrides his usual shame.
Foreplay is indispensable for him — Zeno is the type of man who secretly craves being subtly teased in public. A slow hand sliding up his thigh under the table during a dull business dinner, your warm breath and soft, filthy whispers against his ear while everyone else drones on, or the “accidental” graze of your fingers over the growing bulge in his pants as you shift in the passenger seat. Each touch sends a visible jolt through him — jaw tightening, breath catching, eyes darkening behind those tinted glasses — but he never stops you. Instead, he leans in just enough to murmur low and rough against your hair: “Keep that up, darling… and I won’t wait until we’re home.”
He used to avoid mirrors — hated seeing the scars, and the reflection of a face that he wasn't sure if it was still his own staring back. But once you start fucking in front of one, something shifts. You make him watch: watch how your body arches for him, how your eyes never leave his even when he tries to look away. “See that, honey?” he whisper while he’s pounding into you from behind, one hand wrapped around your throat, the other pinning your hip. “That’s you making me lose my fucking control...” It becomes a ritual. He’ll fuck you in front of the mirror until he can finally look at his own reflection without flinching — because he sees you wrecked and blissed-out because of him.
He prefers leather cuffs, silk ties, or his own hands pinning you down over elaborate shibari (too fussy, too vulnerable to "perform"). He loves wrists bound above your head so he can see your face — every flinch, every gasp, every time your eyes roll back. Heavy restraint makes him feel in total control, but he always leaves one hand free to touch your face or let you grab his hair if you need grounding.
He has a massive praise kink on the giving side — calling you “my perfect little thing” “so fucking good for me” “look how beautifully you take what I give you.” Hearing you whimper or beg under his words makes him rock-hard. But he secretly craves receiving it too. When you whisper “You're so strong,” “I love how you control me...” or “No one else could make me feel this safe.” mid-scene, his rhythm falters — he grips you harder, thrusts deeper, voice breaking into a rough “Say it again… fuck, say it.” It's the closest he gets to admitting he needs reassurance.
He likes spanking and slapping (on the thighs or ass—never the face unless it’s been pre-negotiated), as well as light flogging. He starts in control, building the intensity slowly based on your reactions. The sound of his palm connecting, your sharp inhale, the way your skin blooms red… it quiets the noise in his head. If you safeword or tense up in the wrong way, he stops instantly, switching to soothing rubs and soft kisses over the marks he’s left behind. Before he ever hits you in the face during sex, he asks about it at least three separate times—before either of you is too turned on to think clearly. And even in the moment, right before raising his hand, he asks again: “Are you sure, darling?” If the answer is yes, he begins with gentle slaps to your face while forcefully fucking your pussy—He'll only really slap you hard in the face after a few sessions and tests, and when he finally does, he'll be completely different. He'll make you open your mouth and spit on your tongue, ordering you to swallow while giving you a hard slap on the cheek at the end, all so that after sex he can give soft kisses to the red mark that's leftn in your skin.
He begs to cum inside without protection (even knowing the risks). When you allow it, he enters slowly, holds your thighs open and fucks you deep, rhythmically, groaning hoarsely: “Let me... please... let me mark you like this. I want to see my cum dripping out of you afterwards.” Every time he cums inside, he stays still, still hard, pressing his hips against yours to "hold" everything in, whispering "D-Don't leave... stay with me... please—you're the only real thing I still have... I love you—Please honey... I just love you s-so fucking much..."
“Please,” his rough voice had long since devolved from confident growls to weak pants. He gasped for air between pathetic moans, fingers twitching around your wrists as he held you down. “You feel s-so good, fuck, I just need this, please-“
He released one of your wrists, hand sliding down your body until he could loop an arm under your hips. Jerking your body up, he slammed into you, hips grinding against yours until you cried out. Zeno groaned into your neck, his own spit warm and wet as he bit down. “F-fuck, please honey, keep making noise f’me, just a little longer, you’re such a good- fuck!”
It had been just a little longer for the last hour, at least. Your body was levels past overstimulated, creeping somewhere near pain but still lost in how hot and wet his broad chest was against yours. Pinned perfectly still against the mattress with no hope of escape, you barely had room to wiggle your hips to meet his thrusts in return.
“You’re like a dream, hole’s so wet — tell me you want more, tell me how good my cock feels.”
“Zeno,” you barely had the energy to moan, let alone form coherent words. “H-hurts, s’too much- you’re so big.”
He choked out a dark laugh, hips twitching as he continued to grind his aching cock into you. “Oh, honey, I want you to feel it. You’ve been so good for me, you can take more, I know you can take more, my sweet little pet.”
He bit down on your neck, sharp canine latching on to the delicate skin beneath your jaw. You yelped and tensed under him, squeezing his cock almost painfully. He let out a filthy moan into your wet skin, releasing his bite to nuzzle into the bright red mark. “Now say it, pet. Say no one else could make you feel this good, fuck- only me, tell me you love me-“
Your eyes snapped open at his desperate words, your lips curving into a sleepy smile. His stamina was running you into an early death, but he was reaching his end, drunk on his own lust as his thrusts quickly lost any sense of rhythm. His pants were laced with near-silent whines in your ear.
“Jus’ you, Zen,” Your whimpered words slurred into each other, barely more than a moan as his sloppy movements made your eyes roll back in your head. “L-love it, love you, can’t take any more- it’s- fuck, Zen please-“
Zeno pistoned his hips a few more times before he finished with a low growl, roughly grinding into you to milk the feeling. His hips twitched weakly as he collapsed his weight on you. You both struggled to catch your breath, exhaustion making even that task difficult. He groaned softly as he carefully lifted himself again, softening cock sliding out of you with a filthy squelch. You felt your combined wetness soaking the bed beneath your hips as he pressed a sloppy kiss to your jaw.
The bed shifted as he stood and left the room. You didn’t attempt to move, nearly asleep drenched in sweat when he returned with a warm cloth. Zeno wordlessly cleaned you up, hands surprisingly gentle after the way he just used your body like a toy. You let him handle you, only opening your eyes once the bed dipped directly in front of you.
It took massive effort to pry your eyes open, but you reached up to rub the sleep away when you saw his expression. His cheeks were flush with embarrassment, eyes looking anywhere except your own.
“I apologize.” Zeno reached out to brush his knuckles across your reddened cheeks. “That was unusually harsh of me.”
You hummed and leaned into his touch, shuffling forward to press your face to his thigh. “S’okay, I liked it. Just… maybe not again for a while.”
His eyes widened and he huffed, the corner of his mouth lifting in a disbelieving smile. “Regardless, I feel… fortunate, to have you here.”
“How romantic,” you hummed, exhaustion quickly catching up again. His low voice spoke again as his broad palm stroked your hair, but you were already asleep.
Synopsis: When Zeno arrives furious over Victor’s lack of results, he becomes unexpectedly captivated by your innocence and begins to question why someone so gentle is caught in the middle of something so dark.
—Pairing: Zeno / Fem! Reader
—Warnings: None. Yet
—Author's Note: This is Pre! Re9 storyline. Before grace. Before Spencer’s truth is told.
The building had once been a bank.
You could still see it in the bones of the place — the wide marble floors worn smooth with age, the tall windows that let in pale afternoon light, the heavy iron vault door that now stayed permanently shut at the end of the lower hallway. Victor had bought the entire structure months ago. Most of the surrounding businesses had long since left the block, leaving the street quiet except for the occasional passing car or the low hum of trucks arriving at odd hours.
You tried not to think too hard about what they brought.
Your desk sat in the front lobby where the old teller counters had once been. Victor had replaced them with a polished wooden reception desk and a narrow hallway that led deeper into the building. Behind you hung a tall filing cabinet full of paperwork — shipments, expense reports, supply lists, and the steady trickle of invoices that seemed to multiply by the week.
Your job was simple.
Answer the phone.
Sort the mail.
Schedule Victor’s meetings.
Keep track of deliveries.
And, most importantly, never go downstairs.
Victor had told you that the first day.
He had smiled when he said it too, like it was nothing more than a casual workplace rule.
“Laboratory safety regulations,” he’d explained while setting the folder of employment forms in front of you. His voice eerily soft, eerily quiet. “Chemicals, experimental equipment. Nothing you’d find interesting anyway.”
You had nodded immediately.
You were good at nodding. Good at accepting things the way they were given to you.
It wasn’t like you had many options.
You hadn’t grown up with much.
Your parents had died when you were still young — a car accident on a wet highway you barely remembered. After that it had been a rotation of relatives, spare bedrooms, and eventually a small apartment you could barely afford once you were old enough to be on your own.
You learned quickly that being quiet, polite, and helpful made life easier.
People liked you that way.
So when the job listing appeared — administrative assistant needed, competitive pay, quiet office environment — you applied the same day.
Victor hired you almost immediately.
He was strange, maybe. A little absentminded. Always scribbling notes or muttering about breakthroughs and variables under his breath.
But he wasn’t cruel.
He paid you on time.
He let you take tea breaks whenever you liked.
Sometimes you even caught him staring— fingers twitching at his sides with an expression that remained content. That had to mean something, right?
Compared to some of the jobs you’d had before, it felt almost… comfortable.
Even if the building itself felt a little too quiet sometimes.
You were sorting paperwork when the door opened that afternoon.
The sound echoed through the empty lobby.
Not the light push of a normal visitor.
Something heavier.
Deliberate.
You looked up.
The man standing in the doorway did not look like anyone who should be walking into an office building.
Tall and broad shoulders. He had a dark coat hanging stiffly from his frame like it had been thrown on rather than worn properly. His face was sharp, stern in a way that made the air around him feel tense before he’d even said a word. He had an earring— only one that caught the over head lights and shined silver with a pristine, pretty decision. And his eyes. Although covered by dark frames, you imagined they scanned the room in one slow, measuring sweep with the way his neck craned.
You straightened instinctively in your chair.
“H-Hello,” you said softly.
Your voice always came out a little quieter than you expected.
“Can I help you… sir?”
For a moment he didn’t answer.
He was staring at you.
Not rudely. Not in the usual way men sometimes did.
Just… staring.
Like you were something entirely unexpected.
Something that didn’t belong.
Zeno had come to the building ready to tear Victor apart.
Months of funding.
Months of promises.
And nothing to show for it.
No breakthrough.
No power.
No progress worth the money he’d been pouring into the man’s research.
He’d spent the entire drive over rehearsing the conversation in his head — the threats, the ultimatum, the way Victor’s smug confidence would finally crack when he realized the patience funding his work had run out.
Zeno had expected armed guards.
Scientists.
Assistants.
Maybe security.
What he had not expected… was you.
A small girl sitting behind a reception desk with a stack of paperwork and a pen tucked behind your ear.
Your eyes were wide.
Curious.
A little nervous as they looked up at him.
You didn’t look like someone who belonged anywhere near the kind of work Victor was conducting in the basement of this building.
Zeno’s jaw tightened.
“…Where is Victor?” he asked bluntly. Already he could feel his fingers tightening, veins popping against his skin in untamed anger.
His voice came out rougher than he intended. Low. Gravelly from disuse and irritation.
You blinked once at the sound of it but quickly reached for the small notebook beside your desk.
“Oh! Um, Dr. Victor is downstairs in the lab,” you explained gently. “He’s been working all morning.”
You flipped through the pages like you’d done it a hundred times. The scent of old books and lead wafted heavily in the air.
“If you’d like, I can call down and let him know you’re here.”
Zeno was still staring.
Up close it was even more obvious.
You didn’t belong here.
Not in a building full of illegal experiments and men chasing power that could change the world.
Your cardigan sleeves were pushed halfway up your arms from writing.
A little smudge of ink stained the side of your finger.
You looked… so fucking normal.
So soft.
Zeno felt something unfamiliar twist faintly in his chest.
“…What do you do here?” he asked. Quite bluntly— you thought.
The question seemed to surprise you. I mean, it wasn’t every day a man looking so.. collected, question your intentions at a workplace. Your workplace.
“Oh,” you said quietly, glancing down at your desk. “I’m just the secretary.”
Just.
The word sat strangely in the air.
Zeno’s gaze flicked toward the hallway leading deeper into the building.
Then back to you.
Victor had a habit of hiding things in plain sight.
But this?
Putting someone like you at the front desk of a place like this?
It was reckless.
Or cruel.
He wasn’t sure which yet.
“…You work here every day?” he asked. It was then the man almost felt awkward. Zeno wasn’t new to talking up pretty women— fuck, he was almost a pro at it. But this, this was just confusing. A pretty girl like you deserved better.
You nodded.
“Yes, sir.”
Zeno almost groaned with the way such pleasantries spilled from your soft lips. One hand came up to the desk, grabbing it with a profound force that a crack almost echoed out.
Almost.
Your voice was soft. And so fucking polite.
You were trusting in a way that made something sharp flicker behind Zeno’s eyes.
He exhaled slowly through his nose.
For the first time since arriving, the anger that had been coiled tightly in his chest loosened slightly.
Not gone.
Just… redirected.
“…Call him,” Zeno managed to growl out. Already pulling his hand away from the desk— away from your proximity like it has burned him.
You smiled a little at his answer.
A small, warm thing that seemed completely out of place in the cold marble lobby.
“Of course.”
You picked up the phone.
And while you dialed, Zeno found himself watching you in a way he hadn’t expected to.
Studying the way your voice softened even further when you spoke into the receiver.
The way your fingers tapped lightly against the desk as you waited.
Still trying to understand one very simple thing.
What the hell was someone like you doing in a place like this?
And why, for the first time since stepping through the doors, did the thought of Victor dragging you into whatever horrors he was creating downstairs make Zeno’s patience feel very… thin.
Summary: At long last, Zeno has finally acquired Wesker's widow. Unfortunately for him, nothing could have prepared him for how sweet you are when concussed.
Content: Reader has a concussion, fluff/angst wombo combo but mostly angst, mistaken identity, pretty sure this counts as dubious consent? Spolier for RE9 if you haven't already played it.
w/c: 4.3k
Ao3 Link
In the grandeur of his home office, Zeno leans patiently on the window by his desk nursing a cigarette between his fingertips with a smirk on his face. Further back in the room, you lay unconscious on the leather couch; your head bandaged and your breaths shallow.
Your kidnapping had proved to be easier than expected when an early opportunity presented itself. His hired goons were efficient and eager for payment, which Zeno handsomely rewarded. He didn’t even mind that you’d accidentally taken a hit to the head during extraction. You held precious information he’d been dying to get a hold of for years. Physical wounds would heal after all. He had access to any doctor in the world and enough money to get any one of them to make a house call. All he had to do now was wait for you to wake up.
He can wait.
Zeno is a patient man when he wants to be.
The Connections had been forthright with information regarding the infamous Albert Wesker in the years he’d worked through their ranks; his intelligence, his cunning, his ruthlessness, but not so much with matters regarding more exclusive, personal details. Zeno is not the type to live without knowing exclusive details.
Zeno is the type of man to act when he wants something. And for years, he’s wanted every bit of information on the man he begrudgingly shares a face with. For years he’d been looking for you.
And now he has you on his couch.
And you’re beginning to stir into consciousness.
Zeno’s lip curls, and he pushes himself off of the window, snuffing out his cigarette in the crystal bowl on his desk as he leisurely saunters closer to you.
“Mrs. Wesker, do you know where you are?” Zeno drawls.
He kneels next to the couch, his gaze never leaving your face as your eyes finally flutter open. Zeno smirks. “Or who I am?”
Your eyes finally come into focus on Zeno for a long moment, then you smile. “Honey, you’re back.” You coo sluggishly, your voice dripping in a sweetness that Zeno doesn’t expect. He stares at you, momentarily dumbfounded, only coming to his senses when he feels the heat of your palm moving to caress his cheek.
He uses his superhuman reflexes to catch your wrist before your hand makes contact, grip firm but not bone-crushing,
“Honey?” He parrots back, his voice low. “Who do you think I am?
“I know who you are, Albert.” You say sweetly, blinking slowly. With your wrist still in Zeno’s grip, you tilt your hand forward and run a finger gently over the T-Virus mark that mars Zeno’s face, causing him to stiffen. “You’ve been taking more viruses. You promised you’d tell me if you were going to take another one.” You utter slowly in a soft reprimand.
Zeno feels one of his eyes twitch and his jaw clench so tightly his teeth ache. You’re talking nonsense. You think he’s Wesker.
“You are delusional, woman.” Zeno grits out, jaw set in a barely contained rage. He’s been compared to a ghost his whole existence and your concussed brain mistaking him for your dead husband is doing nothing to curb his short temper.
You only smile back in a daze, completely unaware of Zeno’s anger. “I have eyes, darling. You didn’t have that before you left the manor. It’s okay. I still think you’re handsome.”
The way you smile is pissing Zeno off. This isn’t the way he thought this would go in the slightest. He’d expected shock. He’d prepared for anger. He expected fear and wariness. He was prepared to brush off empty threats. He was prepared for any number of insults to be hurled at him like in past interrogations with far more dangerous targets. Not flirting. Not loving touches meant for a man long dead.
“Woman-” Zeno spits, forcing himself to take a deep breath so he doesn’t blow his top on a deluded captive of all things. “You are confused. I’m not Albert. You need treatment.”
His words don’t breach the haze of affection on your face. “Your eyes are different.” You drawl brainlessly, looking at Zeno’s golden eyes through his sunglasses.
Zeno’s scowl disappears, a realization hitting him.
He could still get some of what he wants with you sweet and pliable like this. More ammunition to have at his disposal when you finally come to your senses.
“Different?” Zeno drawls, leaning closer to you to examine every micro-expression that crosses your face. A snakeskin gloved hand removes his sunglasses, meticulously picked among hundreds to highlight his bone structure, to reveal his otherworldly eyes to you more clearly while his other hand still grips your wrist with a less punishing grip. The glasses are discarded on a nearby table. “How so?”
“They were red like rubies when you left.” You continue, still gazing up at Zeno with a soft smile on your face. “Now they’re golden like amber, sunlight, turmeric…” You trail off, sighing up at him wistfully. “... still beautiful.”
Zeno stiffens. Your words are so genuine and unguarded that it’s stirring up warm feelings he’s unwilling to acknowledge. He’s used to attention, both negative and performatively positive. He’s used to empty praise from higher ups. He’s used to admiration from people always expecting something in return. He’s used to hollow flirting from people only interesting enough to spend a night with.
But your freely given affection gives him pause, cracking his cold expression into something more vulnerable, before quickly being covered in ice once again. “You’re delirious.” He utters, but the sharpness in his tone is weaker than before.
“-ly in love with you.” You coo, finishing a sentence that you’ve obviously said countless times with your real husband. Your dead husband, Zeno reminds himself. The husband that he looks so eerily like. Zeno clenches and unclenches his jaw. This softness he feels towards you is a byproduct of trace memories embedded in his borrowed DNA. Nothing more. Yet, he can’t bring himself to pull away from your gentle touch on his cheek.
“You don’t know what you’re saying.” Zeno mutters, unable to look away from the loving expression on your face.
You blink. “You got a haircut.” You continue, seemingly having tunnel vision on “your husband’s” different physicalities.
The edge of Zeno’s mouth twitches, fighting off amusement. Such a selectively observant thing you are when concussed. “I did.” Zeno lies, indulging your false reality for the time being.
“It’s shorter on the sides. Lighter too. Very modern. ” You compliment, that dazed smile still on your face. Your free hand fumbles into Zeno’s hair before he can protest, and the feeling of your fingertips brushing against his scalp has his breath hitching.
A better man would swat your hand away.
A better man would call for the doctor to sedate you until this fever dream of yours passes and Zeno can interrogate you properly, but he can’t bring himself to shatter your illusion just yet.
Zeno is a strong, powerful man in the eyes of others, but with you in this moment he feels utterly weak to your sweetness. Even the strongest steel can bend with enough patience, time, and force. And the sheer force of your affection on his guarded, lonely heart wasn’t something he was prepared to fend off.
Perhaps a small indulgence is in order. To keep you talking so freely, of course.
Zeno finds himself leaning into your touch, eyes fluttering closed from your gentle fingers sifting through his hair.
“There we go.” You whisper, flattening your hand against his face idly rubbing your thumb on his cheekbone. “You’re always so tense when you come back after a long trip.”
Your voice, the way you're speaking, and the warmth underlying your affections are helplessly addicting. Zeno doesn’t remember the last time he felt cherished like this and he can feel his shoulders sag and jaw relax under your careful touches.
“The suit’s new too. What’s the occasion?” You ask softly, your fingertips softly tracing the T-Virus marks snaking down his jaw.
The suit. Right. It is different from anything Wesker ever wore.
”It’s-” Zeno leans back slightly and clears his throat, adjusting his tie. A nervous tick he’d picked up and never managed to kick. A clear signal to others he’s rich, powerful and worthy of respect? Zeno’s carefully calculated attempt to be the most stylish man in the room to distract from his stolen genetics?
“-business. Nothing you need to trouble yourself over.” He says easily, slipping back into a more familiar (and comfortable) role as the suave, charming businessman. It’s not too different from a charming husband, he rationalizes in his mind.
“It’s really nice. White, three-piece. You’re not worried about stains?” You ask slowly with concern in your voice.
It’s astonishing how much you’re noticing about him while still missing the obvious. Zeno doesn’t bother to curb his smirk this time.
“It’s a special fabric. Stain resistant. Nothing to worry over, darling.” He replies. The pet name slips out before he can stop himself and he momentarily curses himself for it, but it’s quickly forgotten when you smile so warmly up at him. His answer seems to satisfy your worry and your hands start to wander once again. Zeno lets out a pleased hum as he leans into your touch.
He lets himself sink further into your touch when the hands on his cheek and head trace over his skin to rub the exposed sides of his neck and his clothed shoulders. He lets out a displeased grunt when you suddenly stop.
“Your ear’s pierced.” You sluggishly say with surprise, staring at the dagger dangling from his left ear.
That statement grounds him in an instant, his eyes snapping back open. A new suit is easy to explain away as wanting to try something new or needing one for an event. A piercing is a more challenging choice. For Zeno, he was seventeen and sick of everything being decided for him. He wanted to do something permanent for himself even if it was as small as a piece of metal in his ear. He’d stubbornly kept repiercing the same spot over the years whenever he’d accidentally left the jewelry out for too long and the hole closed up thanks to the menagerie of viruses running through his veins. He never minded the pain of it. It was a constant reminder of his own autonomy.
But Wesker had no such rebellion as far as he knew. Too out of character for even your hazy mind to rationalize. So Zeno opts for a simple approach.
“Yes.” Zeno finally answers, flexing and unflexing his fingers like he’s itching to reach out and touch you but stubbornly holding himself back. “It’s new.”
You stare, and for a frightening moment Zeno believes you may have come to your senses. He lets out a relieved sigh when your confusion morphs back into quiet affection, gently resuming your gentle touches on Zeno’s neck. “Well, now I know who to give those single earrings too. I feel bad for losing so many. You spent good money on those for me.”
“Don’t worry. I can always buy you more pairs.” Zeno utters, a sudden lump forming in his throat when you give him another hazy smile. He’s surprised at how easy it is for him to slip into the role of doting husband.
“Always so sweet to me.” You coo, the love in your eyes so earnest that it makes Zeno’s chest feel tight and his body to sink into your touch again.
It’s not for you. Stop indulging her whims. You’re better than this.
“Are you working in the next hour?” You ask sweetly, still caressing Zeno’s cheek.
The answer is always yes; Zeno has meetings to plan, notes to review, projects to check in on, angry calls to make. But with you like this, touching him, saying sweet things, he can’t bring himself to pull away from it just yet.
“No.” He utters reluctantly. “I have an hour free.”
“Care for a cuddle?”
Zeno is silent. He knows he shouldn’t give in more than he already has, but he finds himself torn between his common sense and his growing desire to keep entertaining your little fantasy. He’s painfully aware this whole situation is a byproduct of your concussed brain and that it’s not him you actually want, but with the way you’re looking at him, with that sweet, hopeful anticipation in your features, he finds it impossible for the word “no” to leave his lips.
“Alright.” He finally says lowly, a hesitance in his voice that betrays how suddenly nervous he is when he swallows. “A cuddle.”
Zeno finally sits on the leather couch, guiding you to sit across his lap. He leans back until he’s supported by the cushion, pulling you carefully with him. He’s acutely aware of every point of contact between you two; your plush thighs across his lap, his gloved hand on your hip, your hair tickling his chin from the height difference between you two. He unconsciously finds himself tilting his head to breathe in the scent of your hair. He can’t even think straight enough to decipher words to describe it; only indescribably good. Relaxing. Addicting.
This is ridiculous. He’s acting ridiculous. The sensible part of his brain is screaming that he’s a fool for indulging your delusions, but the affection-starved part that he had long convinced himself didn’t exist easily drowns out any remaining common sense.
You lazily snake a hand over his shoulders and tuck your head into Zeno’s neck, your other palm slipping itself onto his dress shirt below his waistcoat as you hum, content and comfortable. “I miss this when you’re gone.” You sigh into his neck.
Your words only make the unfamiliar ache that’s settled in his chest more pronounced. He struggles to identify the emotion, his analytical brain running through every possibility before it lands on longing. He doesn’t even think to feel ashamed. Your hands feel chilled against his furnace of a body from the viruses living in his blood. Your careful touch and sweet words have made him feel more alive than anything he’s injected into his veins, but Zeno would rather die than admit that to himself.
He only breathes you in deeper and holds onto you tighter, his nose burying itself in your hair.
You notice his tightened grip. Of course you do with Zeno’s hands dimpling your skin through your clothes. You only chuckle. “It’s alright, baby. I’m not going anywhere.”
Zeno can feel how fast his heart has started beating. He’s certain you can feel it too under your hypnotizing touch.
His body betrays him and does the stupidest thing possible before he can stop it.
He feels his lips pressing a kiss into the crown of your head.
“... I know.” He breathes.
You giggle and lift your head to look up at Zeno, that hazy affection still painfully prevalent on your face, now made even more irresistible by the flush on your cheeks. “You missed.”
“Did I?” Zeno utters in a low, dangerously hungry tone. You only nod and try to tilt your head up to Zeno’s lips, but the angle you’re sitting at makes it impossible for you to close the distance on your own.
Zeno stares, staring intently at your lips.
He’s not that much of a glutton for punishment.
“You’ve got a head injury.” Zeno grits out, his restraint being held on by a thread of decency and the last shreds of his self-control. “I’m not taking advantage of you in this condition.”
You hazily chuckle, nuzzling back into his neck. “Always such a gentleman when I’m hurt.” Your hand is still rubbing Zeno’s chest. Your thumb catches just below a shirt button, guiding your thumb to brush against a pectoral muscle. The skin on skin contact makes Zeno shiver involuntarily and his breath hitch and a heat to kindle in his gut.
He is not going to get a hard-on from you touching his chest. God damn it, he won’t.
“Don’t get used to it.” He grits out, clearing his throat and trying to act as composed as possible and not like he’s moments away from kissing that grin right off of your beautiful face.
You only giggle and take a deep breath to relax into Zeno, but you pause. You breathe in again. “You smell different.” Your voice sounds almost hurt when you say that.
Fuck.
Zeno has no idea what expensive soaps or cologne Wesker used to douse himself in, or why you sounded so vulnerable when you pointed out his unique smell. His fingers flex from where they’re grasping your hip and shoulder, scrambling to come up with a reasonable response that won’t make you want to get out of his lap.
“Different how?” His voice comes out softer than intended, not wanting to upset you
“Did you change your cologne?” You ask slowly, blinking up at him with those mesmerizing eyes of yours.
An awkwardly long pause stretches between you two. “Maybe.”
“You didn’t like what I got you?” You ask softly with a frown.
“I…” Zeno utters, having no clue how to respond. He tries in vain to bring any kind of memory to surface from Wesker’s life from his borrowed blood that will help keep this fantasy alive, but any kind of trace memory he’s inherited is vague and more of a feeling or general emotion at the best of times. He has nothing. He’ll have to improvise.
What do you want to hear? No, you might see right through that and make this situation worse.
Tell you the truth? Out of the question.
“... I wanted something different.” Zeno finally finishes, carefully watching your reaction.
“I wish you would have told me. I never want to get you things you don’t like. Did it aggravate your nose too much?” You ask with painfully genuine concern in your voice.
Your expression is nothing but sincere and it makes Zeno’s chest ache even more. Is this what loving someone is like? Fretting over a stupid present that shouldn’t even matter? To care about their happiness with small gestures and sweet words?
Zeno forces out a bitter chuckle, trying to remain the illusion of composedness even as he swallows down a painful lump in his throat. “It was a bit strong. Too strong.” He rasps.
You frown and for a moment Zeno has a heartstopping fear that you’ll pull away, which is quickly overwhelmed by a much stronger feeling of possessiveness when he feels you nuzzle into him again and plant a chaste kiss on his neck. “I’m sorry. Do you not like cedar anymore?”
How can you expect him to respond after that? Zeno, embarrassingly, can’t even muster enough composure to form words, so he simply shakes his head.
“What do you like nowadays?” You ask, subtly resuming your gentle rubbing on Zeno’s chest.
Breathe you fool. Answer her.
“Pine.” Zeno finally grits out. He clears his throat again to compose himself. “I like pine.” He says, softer.
Another sweet smile from you. “I’ll remember that for next time. Promise.”
There’s a simultaneous warmth that Zeno feels around his heart, and a twist in his gut at the unwavering certainty in your voice that there will be a next time.
He can't let you say any more things like that. It will only hurt him more when you stop saying them after you come to your senses at some point. He logically knows this won’t last forever, but that doesn’t stop the soft, raw part of him to yearn hopelessly for more.
“Don’t. I might not deserve it.” Zeno breathes softly, frozen in place and not trusting himself to move or even look at you as he stares at the bookshelf stuffed to the brim with leather bound books.
You raise your head again, still sporting that disarming smile. “Doesn’t matter. I’m giving it anyway.” You say just as soft, gazing up at Zeno like he’s the center of your universe.
And that’s what finally makes him break.
He suddenly lunges forward with all of his earlier restraint a forgotten memory, his lips molding with yours in a borderline desperate eagerness and his hand on your back raising to cup the junction of your head and neck so he doesn’t accidentally aggravate your head injury further. He pulls you tightly to his chest so there’s no remaining space between the two of you; his hand digs into the flesh of your hip, your hand has once again finds itself cupping Zeno’s cheek, and Zeno’s chest feels as if it’s about to burst from the sheer amount of longing to have you in his arms until the end of time.
But you’re both still human for the most part and need oxygen, so at some point he pulls away to let you breathe. You’re flushed and panting and so beautiful with your eyes half-lidded.
Zeno takes a shuddering breath against your lips, fingers tangling into the hair at your nape while he gazes at you like a man starved. His whole being aches with a mixture of hunger and guilt because you looked at him like he meant everything to you and it’s not meant for him. Not really. But that doesn’t stop him from wanting to keep that addictive look on your face.
It’s not on your face now, though.
Your eyes are half-lidded and confused, he realizes.
“Honey, did something happen?” You pant with genuine concern, your hand still cupping his cheek. Your thumb rubs that damned T-Virus mark on his face like before, but instead of freezing up, Zeno leans into it, his eyes closing.
He can’t keep doing this.
Entertaining this delusion further is just setting up more emotional fallout down the line.
Damn that soft, worried expression on your face. That breathtaking, wide-eyed expression. That single-minded worry and devotion. It grips his heart so tightly that it unravels any rational thought he has left. Damn him for being too embarrassingly weak to reject your affections. Damn Albert Wesker for making his wife so head-over-heels in love with him that Zeno will never stand a chance at having it from you himself.
“No, nothing happened.” Zeno grits out, barely a whisper. The lie sits bitter on his tongue, unlike his easy excuses from before.
“You kiss different.” You say with concern.
“Different.” Zeno echoes, with fresh anxiety ripping through him. Of course he kisses differently. He kissed you like you were going to slip through his fingers any moment. Like this would be the first and only time he could get his mouth on yours.
“Bad different?” Zeno rasps, suddenly second guessing every kiss he’s had in his life
“No! No, not at all.” You reassure, your expression painfully tender. Zeno can tell you mean it, and it immediately cuts through the haze of his spiraling thoughts. His desperate grip on you loosens as he searches your face for a lie, or worse, pity. All he finds is softness. That unwavering affection and devotion that sparked this whole mess in the first place that makes him ache with a longing and greed for more.
“Then what kind?” Zeno utters reluctantly, like he’s nervous about the answer.
“It’s just… it’s less certain. Like you’re kissing me for the last time or something. Don’t get me wrong, I love the enthusiasm, but is everything okay?” You ask, concerned and still achingly sweet as you keep caressing Zeno’s cheek.
Zeno’s grip goes slack, then tightens again. He can’t deny that he never wants to let you go, even though this whole arrangement is something fleeting and doomed. Zeno only grunts and leans his forehead against yours, savoring the proximity and rubbing your skin through your clothes for a moment before he utters, “No.”
A long pause.
“I don’t know if I can give it back.” His words are barely audible.
“Give what back?” You whisper lovingly.
There are a hundred answers to that question that wouldn’t begin to cover what you deserve. The unwavering devotion? A loving look that could disarm a vengeful god? Tender care that makes you feel like a queen? You’re so soft and Zeno is anything but soft. Would you still look at him with such adoration if you knew he was only a broken copy of the man you fell in love with?
“... nothing. It’s nothing.” Zeno says, finally answering after a prolonged silence.
“Honey?” You whisper with worry and affection, lifting your other hand to cradle his face, and Zeno immediately melts into your touch despite his busy mind. He feels that same unfamiliar twist of guilt in his gut from earlier, stronger this time. He’s not the one you’re supposed to fuss over or care about.
But he’ll be damned if he gives it up now. He turns his face slightly to leave a light kiss on your palm. Your skin is comparatively cool against his lips and it only makes him want to sink into your affections further.
You smile at the kiss. “You don’t have to tell me now, but just know I’ll be right here if you want to talk. I’ll just listen.”
Zeno remains silent for a long time, simply allowing himself to indulge in your softness.Your emotional safety. His voice is rough when he finally speaks. “Why?”
“Because I love you. You’re stuck with me for a long ass time.” You say, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world, and with such earnest affection.
Zeno lets out a hoarse laugh. “That’s a dangerous promise to make, sweetheart.”
“Maybe I love danger.” You respond, once again, with an answer you’ve told your real husband countless times.
Silence.
Instead of trying to distance himself from the sweet response, Zeno’s face melts into a handsome smirk. “Even if the danger is me?”
“Especially if the danger is you.” You coo, giving his lips a light peck. Zeno’s lips chase yours again before you even have the chance to pull away.
Damn the future. He has you now.
And Zeno is not one to let go of things that he considers his.
a/n: I don't know what it is, but this man has me in a chokehold. Thanks for reading!
— Zeno spends hours adjusting his appearance in the mirror before leaving the house, regardless of how important the occasion is. He’ll always make sure his hair is perfected, not a single strand out of place, and his clothes never seem to wrinkle. Despite being a busy man, he makes it his priority to present well.
— Owns a large collection of designer colognes yet has a distinct signature smell he can be recognised by. A warm, woody scent—something strong that fades nicely into the skin. The remnants of his cigarette smoke mixes in perfectly, the notes of tobacco creating an almost addictive, unique fragrance.
— Although he is extremely confident, Zeno struggles a lot with internal insecurity. He wants to stand out, to be individual. When his identity is threatened, that’s when you see his confidence shatter and his emotions come through. It’s never hard to tell how feels when his face speaks more than words, particularly when he’s hurt.
— Relationships are something he never searched for; he’s a man who is far too set in his ways to achieve his goals. However, he isn’t opposed to being human. He recognises he has feelings. Many people in his line of work would view humanity as a weakness, though Zeno is always able to excel by using it to his advantage. Being relatable to others can get you what you want.
— Tends to overshare a lot about things you have never heard of before. He appreciates you because you listen. He never expects a response or agreement with anything he shares—he already believes that everything to his knowledge is correct and it’s hard to convince him otherwise.
CONTAINS: Slight sadism, implied unprotected, p in v, oral (giving), light bondage, degrading, biting, choking, aftercare
— Often pent up from the stress of his job. Since he’s lucky enough to have someone who understands him and his life, he knows he can rely on you to help him relieve his frustrations. There will be days where he has you on top, both of his arms wrapped around you to make sure you are as close to him as possible while intimate. Other days, he will have you pinned down, wrists bound with his tie.
— Finds more satisfaction giving head than receiving. Painfully slow with it too. He loves putting you in positions where he knows he can tease you. Yours eyes must always be on him, listening to the filthy things he calls you while talking with his lips against your inner thigh. He’ll bite into your skin at different forces just to hear how you react to each one. When tears prick your eyes, you eventually feel his smirk form and his teasing end. He got what he wanted from you.
— Allows you to talk down to him at times. Hearing you insult him and mention what he lacks forces him to deal with his emotions, ultimately turning him on. There are times when it causes a retaliation, when your tongue can be too sharp, and he wraps his hand around your throat. He squeezes and listens to how your voice breaks and goes quiet, a silent warning to not tread too far past your line.
— Does his best to make sure you feel cared for despite there being some instances where he can’t stick around for long afterwards. He’ll clean you up and check in on you, leaving you with a parting kiss on the cheek before putting his clothes back on. He ensures that he’ll make it up to you, and he usually does.
Summary: It is a small injury. But to Zeno, anything that harms you is unacceptable.
It happens so quickly you barely register it.
One moment, you are in the kitchen, reaching for something just a little too far back on the shelf.
Next, your grip slips.
Glass shatters and soon, pain follows.
“Ah-” you hiss, instinctively pulling your hand back as a thin line of red runs across your palm.
It is not deep nor is it serious, just enough to sting. You are already reaching for a towel, more annoyed than anything else, when you hear it. You turn your head just as Zeno appears in the doorway, his presence immediate, overwhelming, like he has materialised out of the air itself. And you almost have a feeling that he did, given how far he was only seconds ago.
His eyes land on your hand and everything else disappears.
“What happened?” he asks, more demands but you choose to ignore the sharp edge.
“It’s nothing,” you say quickly, already putting a tissue on your palm. “I just-”
“Show me.” it was not a question.
You hesitate for half a second before sighing and giving him your hand.
“It’s just a cut, Zeno, I'll be fine.”
He is in front of you before you finish the sentence, his hand closes around your wrist, not rough, but firm enough that you cannot pull away even if you wanted to.
“You are bleeding.”
“…Yes, that tends to happen with cuts.”
Zeno does not react to your tone, he is too busy assessing the situation.
“How long ago?”
“About thirty seconds ago.”
“Cause?”
“A glass broke. It’s not a crime scene.”
“It is if it compromised you.”
You stare at him for a moment, caught somewhere between exasperation and disbelief.
“Zeno.”
He finally looks up at you.
“What?”
“It’s tiny.”
His grip tightens slightly.
“That is irrelevant.”
You barely have time to protest before he is already moving, he guides, or rather pulls, you toward the counter, clearing space with quick, efficient motions.
“Sit.”
“I’m fine.”
“Sit.”
There it is again, that tone, you know better than to argue. You sigh, but comply, hopping up onto the edge of the counter as he disappears for exactly three seconds before returning with what looks like an entire medical kit.
“Zeno, this is excessive.”
“It is appropriate.”
“For a paper cut?”
“It is not a paper cut.”
“It’s basically a paper cut.”
His jaw tightens slightly as he takes your hand again, far more carefully this time.
“Do not minimise injury.”
“You’re overreacting,” you whisper.
“No,” he replies immediately. “I am reacting correctly.”
“Why does this bother you so much?”
For a moment, he does not answer, his focus remains on your hand as he cleans the cut, his touch careful despite the tension in his posture.
“Because it should not have happened.”
“Zeno, it was an accident.”
“Then the environment was flawed.”
“You’re going to redesign the kitchen over this, aren’t you?”
“If necessary.”
“I was joking.”
“I was not.”
You shake your head, but you cannot stop the small smile that forms on your lips.
“You’re impossible.”
“I am thorough.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“I am correct.”
His grip on your hand changes slightly, as he finishes wrapping it.
“There,” he says.
You glance down at the neat bandage, then back at him.
“All that for this.”
“All that, because it is you.”
“It doesn’t even hurt that much,” you admit.
Zeno’s gaze moves back to your face.
“It did.”
“Past tense.”
“It was unacceptable then. It is still unacceptable now.”
You tilt your head slightly, studying him more carefully.
“You really mean that.”
“Yes.”
Something in your chest tightens, not uncomfortable, just… warm.
“You know,” you say softly, “most people would’ve just handed me a plaster and moved on.”
“I am not most people.”
“No,” you agree quietly. “You’re not.”
You slide off the counter before he can stop you, your uninjured hand resting lightly against his arm.
“I’m okay,” you reassure him.
Zeno’s gaze drops briefly to your bandaged hand, then back to your eyes.
“I will monitor it.”
You laugh softly. “You’re going to monitor me?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“As long as necessary.”
You shake your head, stepping just a little closer.
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is efficient.”
You smile, softer now, your fingers curling lightly against his sleeve.
“It’s sweet.”
Zeno pauses.
That, more than anything else you have said, seems to catch him off guard.
“…Sweet,” he repeats.
“Yes.”
Carefully, like you are testing something, you lean in, your forehead almost brushing his.
“I’m fine,” you whisper, Zeno’s hand lifts, resting against your wrist, avoiding the bandage.
“I will make sure you remain that way.”
You cannot help it, you smile because for all his intensity, all his precision, all his inability to treat anything involving you as minor… There is something undeniably comforting in it.
Something steady and certain.
And as his thumb brushes lightly against your skin, you realise you do not mind his overreaction. Not when it means you are the thing he refuses to risk.
