Hi!! You can call me Eeep. I'm definitely not new to tumblr but this account is a rebrand of my old one (that is now deserted lol). I love writing and reading fanfiction, both things are my passion in life and also a way to cope with some of my past trauma.
If you wanna follow me when I start posting please be sure to take my rules and guide lines into consideration!
I do NOT tolerate the following:
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◇racism, homophobia, transphobia, or any hate in general.
◇AI use or people who support AI, you will be blocked immediately.
◇misogyny, sexisim, pedophiles, MAGA, conservatives, or anyone who falls into similar categories/beliefs.
◇minors. Please do not interact with my work if you are below 18 and if you don't have an age in your bio. I will be writing some explicit things in the future and I wish to keep younger people safe and innocent as they should be!
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Alright! Besides that, I'm pretty open minded to requests or asks! I write for Resident evil, DC, possibly star wars, and potentially creepypasta and marble hornets in the future. For right now I'm going to be focused on my mean male wife Albert Wesker! And probably Leon Kennedy as well. And to be honest, I might just switch up who I write for depending on my mood lol. Jason Todd is also my male wife, definitely not as mean as Albert tho XD
(Got this pic off of Pinterest, credits to the original owner!!!)
◇Thinking about S.T.A.R.S Wesker make brain go burrrrr. This started as justva small drabble and turned into a mini fic lol. I have been working on my longer fic about viroloist!f!reader x Albert wesker who experiments on her. However I've had many set backs and have just grown a bit frustrated. I figured writing this might help get me going again ♡
There isn't really anything crazy in this, just smoking with captain wesker as a new S.T.A.R.S recruit. Brief mentions of height later towards the end, but just to make it known that reader isn't super dainty and small, wesker is just naturally a giant. Also reader is described to be aroused in a few parts, so if that's too much just ignore this♡
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When you first join the task force, Wesker is eyeing you precariously from the very moment his guarded gaze meets your polite smile; the others wave and greet you with warm, welcoming tones of voice. He grits his teeth silently and sulks behind everyone else.
The next few days, the captain seems glued to his office more than usual. As you begin to bond with your new teammates, they reassure you that it's just how Wesker is with everyone. Still, you couldn't help but second guess that notion. You remember introducing yourself, trying desperately to make eye contact and keep a level voice, but you begin to wonder if he even liked you at all the more you restlessly thought about it.
You're a grown adult, you don't need the acceptance of everyone you meet… There's just something so painfully alluring about Captain Wesker. You can't help but dwell on every word you ever muttered to him. Had you been too chalant? Was your voice louder than you had perceived at first out of nervousness? Maybe you spoke too fast, giving him the right to assume you were yet another bright eyed rookie looking to be coddled.
You made sure to pull your weight, and more. Every report you filled out was detailed and spell checked at least three times over, turned in right on time and everything, sometimes even before anything was due. You've only been on one small mission since joining the S.T.A.R.S Unit, but you did good on following orders and staying out of trouble.
Weeks went by before Wesker ever spoke to you outside of briefings and mandatory meetings for tactical defense discussions. A part of you silently hoped you wouldn't have to suffer through yet another embarrassingly tense conversation.
You had been wandering the beautifully crafted building that was R.P.D, too prideful to dare ask anyone for directions. You stumbled upon an unlocked door on the upper level, deciding to push forth and explore a bit more out of unchecked curiosity.
There was a rickety old railing- rusted from the rain and snow in the fresh winter months- leading up to a different and more private area of the roof. There were two wooden benches pressed up against one another, with an overflowing ash tray by the ground.
As you climbed further up the stairs, holding the railing tight, you were certain you were alone. Your hands wander past the coat pulled tightly around your frame, trying to fish out the fresh pack of cigarettes you'd picked up earlier in the morning.
That's when you heard the steady, monotone voice pull you out of the serene silence of the late afternoon.
“I didn't peg you as the smoking type.”
You jumped like a gunshot sounded off through the chilly air, whipping around to face your intimidating superior. You were sure that your eyes looked wider than usual, stunned from the comment that seemingly came out of thin air.
“Oh! Captain. Sorry sir…” You trailed off with a quiet sense of awkwardness.
He chuckled. It was more huffy and quiet than a full on laugh, but to hear such a sound leaving the thin slash of his lips made your heart thump wildly. You peered anywhere but at him, first looking down at your uniform boots and then out on Racoon City.
“I didn't intend to startle you.”
His voice is as smooth as velvet, and you can't ever seem to ignore the carefully curated way in which he conversates. It's always clipped and to the point, no filler words or stutters. Just clean cut, practiced ease. The silent confidence that radiates around him is similarly natural to the way his bright blue eyes sometimes become visible from behind the shades he's always wearing.
“No, it's fine. You're just… very silent.”
The faintest curl of those wicked lips sends you spiraling behind your professional demeanor. It seems he's amused by your statement, as well as the fact you think you hide your frazzledness wonderfully.
You don't. Not around him anyway.
“Working in a field like this, that's to be expected.”
You truly hope that the biting wind is a good enough excuse to deter him from thinking the warmth of your cheeks is simply from the winter. He doesn't fall for that. A part of you can almost tell. It's harder to read him than be in his presence, perhaps that's what's so unnerving about Wesker.
You can't ever truly gauge what he may be thinking or feeling in the moment. It's frustrating, and it throws you off rather often. If this wasn't the case, you'd actually feel content around him. Wesker is scarily intelligent, and severely handsome but his silent knowledge is actually reassuring.
When you're placed in a life or death situation, having someone who fluidly navigates every escalated turn of events is a big deal. You can easily understand why Wesker was given his rank. You may not have been a part of the S.T.A.R.S long, but from what you've seen Wesker has worked to earn his place.
The respect that follows isn't shocking
“Right…” You tail off quietly once more, feeling unsure of how to continue the conversation.
He watches you. There's not one sign of being uneasy, not when his expression is always so observingly measured and intentional. Everything about him is that way; from how his blond hair is slicked back neatly, to the crisp and inescapable way the fabric of his uniform hugs his toned form.
You swallow thickly as your hands find one another despite still holding the fresh pack, picking at the already bitten and fraying skin of your fingers. No one has ever made you this nervous before, and you've always held pride in the fact that if they had, you never showed it physically with body language or mannerisms.
“Do you smoke?”
You internally cringe at how eager the question sounded when it reverberated back to your own ears. You had jutted out your hand, offering the cigarettes a little too quickly. He spares you and doesn't mention your tightly wound behavior, but the slight smirk is still present on his wickedly handsome face.
His boots shift forward before you can even register how large his footsteps sound on the rooftop. Wesker doesn't crowd you in, but he's close enough now that to fully look up at his towering height you must strain your neck.
You aren't dainty by any means, especially not in the sense of height. However, it's as though no matter how tall you truly are. He's taller. The detail only further flusters you, and you try your best to not instinctively tip your chin down and stare at the ground between you.
“Yes.” Wesker answers curtly with a tiny nod, peering down at you like you are his entertainment for the moment. “Though, it isn't a habit I'm particularly proud of.”
You swallow thickly once more and give your own small nod, looking down at last to pop open the plastic seal around the pack. You slide the top back after knocking them against the palm of your hand a few times, carefully sliding one out for him without touching it.
Wesker looks down at the little coffin, hesitating for no other reason besides wanting to make you squirm. He must admit, he's used to others being timid around him but you are special. He thinks about it more than he wants to admit to himself.
In fact, that's one of the many reasons he has for being more distant with you than he normally would. Between being a double agent and working two very taxing jobs, he doesn't have much time or care for chit chatting.
Though, as soon as he saw you, he knew you wouldn't be easy to avoid. Not only with your new position as one of his officers, but also the magnetic pull each time you set your sight on him. Wesker wasn't dull, and he certainly didn't play coy unless he saw fit. He'd seen you eyeing him, thinking so arrogantly that he hadn't noticed or caught on to the way your legs would shift beneath you; how you'd cross one leg over your knee and press your thighs together.
Wesker doesn't ever smoke the brand you choose, but just to humor this frivolous distraction he decides against telling you that preference. Instead he simply reaches those long dextrose fingerless gloves and plucks the cig from the box.
He brings the filter up to his lips, sliding it between to rest there. He also decides to not go for the pristine silver Zippo in his breast pocket. The two of you stare at each other for a long drawn out pause, the tension laying on even thicker.
You slip a cig between your lips as well, hoping that he doesn't catch the way your hand tremors. Again, you write it off as the bone deep cold of the atmosphere. Yet, he still doesn't fall for it. When you reach into the left back pocket of your tactical pants and pull out your own lighter, scratched and obviously on its last leg, he continues being still.
Not wanting to be rude and light your own before his, you bring the faded lighter into the space between you. Wesker doesn't move a single muscle. This close, you can catch the blue of his eyes, which only makes the tension filled tingle burn hotter in your lower stomach.
Wesker moves his chin forward just a hair, silently motioning for you to go ahead and light the end of his cigarette yourself. The air in your lungs genuinely vaporized within a flash. Confusion hits you like ice water to the face. He had spent the last few weeks avoiding you like the plague and now all of a sudden a switch flips? He doesn't strike you as the kinda guy to be wishy-washy and unclear with his intentions….
The longer you look up at him though, the harder it is to keep overthinking everything. The pad of your thumb strikes the lighter barrel and flicks the flame on. The orange light dances across your faces as you stand close, though it burns out when the wind hits it.
Wesker takes yet another step towards you, close enough for you to catch a whiff of the amber undertones of whatever masculine cologne he uses. It's not strong enough to make you dizzy, but the heady feeling that rushed through you is embarrassingly similar to that of arousal. You snap out of it as quickly as you can, feeling ashamed to be acting like a horny teenager.
His veiny hand hovers over your lighter as you strike it again, protecting the flame as he bends down just enough for the cherry of the cigarette to light. He doesn't drop his hand as his other one captures your wrist in a shockingly gentle touch, pulling you closer until the cherry of your own catches the flame.
The conversation dies down leaving only you and your captain on the roof, basking in hazy cigarette smoke and a grey sky. The clouds above draw closer like a hushed promise of where this strange moment will take you in the future, sprinkling tiny little wisps of white snow.
Maybe your team was right… Captain Wesker might not be so bad after all.
Camera Obscura [S.T.A.R.S. era Wesker/Reader] - Chapter 4
[Ao3 Mirror]
Rating: T (chapter), E (whole fic)
WC: 6k
Contents: Smoking. Your avoidance catches up to you and Wesker must correct it. Eventual secret workplace age gap relationship with emphasis on innocence and an exceptionally nervous Reader-insert.
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[Chapter 1][Chapter 2][Chapter 3]
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The walk to work the next morning is particularly cold. You hate to say that they were right, but, well. You shouldn’t get used to it, anyway. It was a nice gesture, a lot faster and warmer than your usual trek, but… you should really stay used to walking.
Just in case.
Still, you’ve got your scarf wrapped tight over your face as you muscle your way in through the heavy doors. It’s a little earlier than usual; some of the early morning crew are still hanging about, yawning and rubbing their eyes, ready to go home. It’s almost quiet.
For a moment you’re comfortable, content even.
And then you see him: the desk sergeant.
You never got your ID.
He recognizes you immediately. His expression sours, an instantaneous clock of your own thoughts. You wilt as you approach, every ounce of joy wrung from your bones by the time you make it to the desk.
“Seriously?” Is all he says.
“I’m sorry. I meant to. I just… got distracted.” You can’t bear to look at him, your eyes glued to the countertop instead. Which doesn’t help when you see his fingers flex in frustration.
“It’s really unprofessional. And a security risk. Our systems are in place for a reason.”
“I know.”
This is, of course, the wrong thing to say. He launches in again: “If you know then why haven’t you done it yet? How long have you worked here?”
“I…” You shrink under his cutting words. Tears prick at your eyes. “Almost a week…”
“You’ve had almost a week to get your ID printed. You couldn’t stop by HR once?”
You bite your lip, the ringing in your ears getting louder. You should’ve. You knew you should’ve and still--
“Is something the matter?”
You stiffen, eyes widening even as you refuse to look away from the desk. You feel him step in close behind you, not as close as he was in the library, but close enough to make you want to run. Why? Why is Wesker here now?
The sergeant’s gaze lifts, settles somewhere over your shoulder. The fire in his eyes dies down, anger smoldering as he crosses his arms over his chest and leans back in his chair. “Yes, Captain. Our new assistant records keeper is in violation of station codes.”
In your peripheral, Captain Wesker shifts. You don’t need to look to know he’s canted his head towards you, waiting to hear it from you. Your voice is small, a strained whisper. “I don’t have an ID.”
“I see.” You can’t read his inflection. Is he disappointed? You can’t tell. “Alright. I’ll handle this.” He steps away- towards the east wing. You hesitate- and he turns backs enough to wave you forward. “Come on.”
Your stomach sinks through your feet. You nod and fall in step behind him. He marches through the hallway, past people chatting at the vending machines, past the offices with their blinds open. Were they looking? Did they know? Tears well up again and you blink quickly to dispel them. Please, you just want to go home-
“You knew you needed this ID?” He asks without turning back towards you. You nod, but he continues anyway without looking. “Why didn’t you get it sooner?”
He marches you past more doors, more windows, more people attending to their jobs. You barely hear yourself when you speak, “I… didn’t know where to go.”
“That’s a stupid reason.” Ice lances through you- and he turns, just enough to see his eyes behind his sunglasses. Pale blue has turned cruel, a viciousness in his gaze you’d never imagined- “You could have asked.”
Oh. You drop your gaze again, only watching his boots on the linoleum. The tiles blur before you, tears finally rolling over your cheeks. You can’t even berate yourself, the buzzing in your head too loud, the weight of failure crushing down. Your legs move without guidance, following without looking-
He pushes through a set of double doors and when they close behind you, he stops and spins back towards you. You stumble back to not run into him- still unable to look up from his neatly tied laces.
“Wipe your eyes.” It’s not unkind; a firm command, but there’s no venom in it. “You’re more capable than this.”
It doesn’t help. The sob builds in your chest- and no matter how you try to force your jaw closed, to stamp down the growing rend in your throat, it slips past your lips. Silent at first, a mute opening of your mouth, then the hiccupping gasps of a strangled “Sorry, sorry,”
He doesn’t move, completely still as your legs begin to wobble, the break down threatening to bring you to the floor--
And his hand catches your arm. With tear-blurred eyes, you can’t even see where he’s taking you, but it’s back out those doors and around a hard left- and when he pushes open another door, the bright morning sun and cold winter air meet you. You flinch under the sudden intensity of the light and the briskness of the wind.
His hand guides you again, pushing you back against the brick wall- and he steps away. “Take a breath.” You nod, try, you try- but all you get is another stuttering gasp. The firmness returns to his voice, “Breathe.”
You squeeze your eyes closed, wrap your arms around yourself and focus. The wind whips up, shaking the trees and bushes, making your wet cheeks sting- and after a moment you can finally exhale.
“There,” His voice is quiet, a hunter trying not to spook a deer, “Better?” When you nod and manage a few shaky breaths without his command, he leans back and crosses his arms over his chest. "I doubt this needed quite so much waterworks."
You nod again, ashamedly turning away as you wipe your eyes with your sleeve, the last echoes of your sniffles dying down. “I’m sorry,” You say again- then quickly tack on, “Sir. It is stupid.”
Wesker hums in consideration. “The best apology is altering one’s behavior.”
Again, your head bobs. He’s right. If you don’t, you’ll just end up in this situation again… But his hand comes forward- and his fingers hook under your chin, drawing your gaze up- up to his face. You breath stutters; his lenses reflect your own miserable visage back, red-ringed and puffy eyes, your nice work outfit rumpled. But his voice is smooth, the motion of his lips hypnotic as he asks, “What will you do next time?”
You want to escape, the pressure of his unfiltered attention too much- but all you can do is answer him. “Ask you?”
Whatever he expected from you, this is not the answer.
Where his brow had been furrowed in frustration, both pale eyebrows rise over his dark frames, his thin lips parting in a quiet inhale. The warmth of his fingers on your jaw shifts, the pressure sharp for just a moment- “Alright,” In seconds his voice has become rough, breathless- and he clears his throat, reigning in whatever other emotion you'd caused in him. In a flash, it's gone. He's the same aloof captain you know. “Now, let’s get your ID, hm?”
R.P.D.’s human resources turns out to be one guy in a small office on the east wing’s second floor. The door is already closed when you and Wesker arrive, a muffled conversation leaking under the ill-fitted jam. Wesker crosses his arms, brow furrowing at first, before he gestures towards a chair in the corner.
You take it, settling back and again nervously pick at your nails. Even with Wesker guiding you here and being your emotional support captain, the anxiety of doing something you’ve put off gnaws at your mind. But you try to center yourself, try to embody an ounce of the captain’s coolness as he leans back against the wall catty-corner you.
He speaks without actually turning his head towards you, almost disinterested. “Did you have a nice outing with my team?”
You blink. “O-oh,” You look away from him again, finding yourself embarrassed for being seen at all. “Actually, I didn’t go out with them. They were headed to a bar and I, uh, you know, can’t. ‘Cause I’m… You know…”
“But you did get into Chris's car, didn’t you?”
This time your cheeks heat for good reason. “Oh! Yeah, he- he gave me a ride home. Said it was too cold for me to walk home.”
“Did he, now?” Wesker muses, “How chivalrous of him.”
He says it like he means it, as though he’s made a genuine observation of Chris’s personality, but you can almost taste it- some kind of undercurrent. Your brow knits. Was he… upset with you?
“It was nice of him.” You say slowly, testing the water, “but I’ll probably walk tonight.”
Wesker nods once, a firm approval. “Good. Chris is an excellent officer. I’d hate for him to be distracted because you’re keeping him up too late.”
Up too late? You raise an eyebrow, not following his logic. If Chris was already headed to the bar, and your apartment was on the way-- wait, does he mean-- “No! No, no, it’s not-” You bury your face in your hands, feel the blush that burns at your cheeks. As humiliating as your public shaming had been, this is something else entirely. Why did it have to be Wesker who saw you? “It’s not like that. We didn’t… It was just a ride, I swear.”
Peeking from behind your fingers, you watch as his posture shifts. His shoulders lower by inches, even if his expression doesn’t change. His lips part-
And the door opens. A uniformed officer exits, his face screwed up in anger which doesn’t dissipate at all as he realizes he’s made people wait. He huffs and marches off down the hallway. The door to the office remains open, some inside sighing wearily.
You hesitate, first eyeing the office, then nervously looking at Wesker. That wretched little smile is back- the whiplash makes you nauseous again, your heart skipping a beat as he nods forward, urging you to go on. With teeth sunk into your lip, you manage to force yourself up. You’re almost there- you can do this.
Your hand trembles as you knock on the door frame.
The man on the other side of the desk is younger than you expect with gaunt cheekbones and a wrinkled forehead, which is made worse by his pinching the bridge of his nose. He looks up over wire frame glasses at you with an exhaustion so deep you feel awful for intruding at all. But you can’t back out now.
“Um, I- need an ID made?”
The man-- a Mr. John Blackburn from the diploma on his wall-- stares at you for a moment. "Sure." He begins to rummage in his desk- then, a recognition seems to hit him. “Wait, are you Ross’s assistant?”
“Assistant records manager,” You halfheartedly correct.
“Ah, right,” Blackburn says, turning away to sift through a different pile of documents. “Actually, all I need from you is a photo.”
You blink. “No… paperwork or anything…?” You ask, feeling even sillier that this had required even less work from you than you’d thought.
Blackburn digs in his desk for a moment, pulling out a shiny silver camera. “Yeah, Chief Irons already sent over everything I needed. He wanted to make sure you got set up quick.”
You blink. Chief Irons? Why would he have handled that for you? From the corner of your eye, you watch Wesker shift, chin lifting as he focuses in on the conversation. “Does he… usually do that?”
“No, but everyone knows Ross is too busy playing curator to run the library.” Blackburn fiddles with the camera- then seems to realize what he’s said. “Please don’t repeat that.”
“I- I won’t.” You nod solemnly- though once again feel a little bad for the man you’ve only met once. And maybe also for Irons. His first impression on you was… uncomfortable, but maybe you had just read too much into it.
“Alright. Smile.” Blackburn lifts the camera- and unprepared, you try your best. “Great.”
He flicks through the images, then again digs in his desk. His brow furrows, those wrinkles carving deep canyons across his dark skin. His desk rattles, the contents of his drawers shoved from one side to the other- “Damn. I can’t find the cord. How about I run this to you later? Don’t want to hold up your day.”
“O-oh, sure.” You say and glance over to Wesker. Something overtakes you. “You’ll definitely get it back to me today? I really need it.”
Blackburn actually looks up this time. He nods, “Yeah, I know I got the cord somewhere.” You don’t respond, manifesting every ounce of seriousness, of coolness- you need this ID. “Okay, if I can’t find it, I’ll just print you one without a picture before I leave.”
That… should be enough. At least proof you tried. “Alright. Thank you.”
Blackburn’s eyebrows raise and you think he maybe hasn’t had anyone thank him in some time. “Yeah. Course.”
You slip out of the office. Your hands instinctively come together, nails ready to pick at one another, but… the compulsion is less now. Wesker too pushes off the wall, meeting you halfway as you turn to retrace your steps through the station.
Once you’re out of earshot from Blackburn’s door, the teasing lilt he’s used with you before returns to Wesker's voice. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
You blush again, the shame of your earlier breakdown sitting heavy on your shoulders. “No, sir.” You feel silly, immature for having lost it so easily. You really are lucky to have people looking out for you… “It was nice of Chief Irons to do that for me.”
Without looking, you feel his mood sour. Despite his words, there’s no warmth in his voice as he replies, “Yes, very nice of him.”
The captain’s still in that bad mood all the way across the station. Well. Bad mood seems slightly incorrect; he’s not frustrated like he was earlier or even upset, it’s more… He just hasn’t said anything and in your glimpses of his face, his mouth has returned to that firm, neutral slash. He’s tense, which you think may actually be his default state.
It would make sense. His detour with you is completed, so he has to get back to his real job- which is high profile and intense and oh, you feel bad for distracting him. If you’d just handled that sooner…
Well.
If you’d handled it sooner you wouldn’t have been able to have this time with him…
But it doesn’t stop you from feeling guilty for taking him away from the things he should actually be doing.
Which is why when you reach the intersection at the top of the stairs in the main hall and all Wesker does is motion wordlessly towards the library entrance, you just dip your head. You want to thank him again, but you’ll just end up stuttering through it and making a fool of yourself again and you’ve used up enough of his time for one day.
Thankfully, the library is empty. The log book itself is untouched, exactly as you’d left it the night before. Which means… you’re all caught up. All done, no more deliveries- nothing but mindless cleaning and reorganizing and honestly, that’s about what you deserve right now.
You clean the entire north half up the upper floor. Top to bottom, the tops of every bookshelf, the row of books removed, the shelf itself wiped clean, the books themselves dusted and reorganized, and finally the horrific piles of gray are swept away.
An officer comes in sometime after a while and you aren’t even startled by it. He requests a book-- something on theoretical sciences, makes some excuse about how his wife’s been really into Stargate. You barely even have to look for it, though you do regretfully discover how much dust had escaped your pan and had instead floated down to the first floor. Which is fine, that’s the whole point of starting high.
Plus, you’ve got plenty of time now to handle that. No deliveries and as long as you’re in the library, you won’t get a backlog. All you’ve got to do is clean.
The officers thanks you as he signs the checkout slip, even though the extra layer of dust does make him sneeze.
You feel a little bad about that. You should keep cleaning- as tiring as it is, you’re a little excited to see this place shiny and well-kept. For how nice just one section of the upper floor looks from your efforts, you can’t imagine how it’ll sparkle. Unfortunately, the duster you’ve been using has just about hit its limit. The feathers had been glossy and black when you’d pulled it from the Cleaning drawer, but now they’re matte and gray. You’ll have to take it outside and shake it out sooner or later, but you don’t particularly want to do that just yet.
Maybe there’s another one in the drawer that you’d missed? It’s still not quite right to be behind the counter, but at least you’ve been in this drawer so many times now-
The door to the library creaks open behind you.
“Oh, just a sec,” You wave behind you, digging further into the drawer, shoving aside a box of floor cleaner tabs (though you do note their existence for your inevitable mopping).
“You’re always so busy.” A voice behind you says.
You almost don’t recognize him- but something in you makes you whip around to check. “Mr. Irons!” The feeling of being out of place behind the counter returns with a ferocity and you scramble up to your feet, sidestepping the desk entirely.
“And always so tightly-wound!” He laughs, waving a hand dismissively. “You know, you gotta toughen up if you wanna make it in a police station.”
You pick at your nails and drop your gaze down to his feet. The shame, too, comes back. How long you’d avoided something so easy…
“I- I know.” You bite your lip. All of these professionals here keep having to help you. It makes you feel so… oh. Wait. Your ID. “Oh, um. Thank you, by the way. For sending my paperwork to Mr. Blackburn.”
The chief grins, a slow-growing thing that creeps beneath his moustache. “Actually, I’ve got a gift for you.”
He extends his hand- and your own image stares back at you. It’s not a good photo. Your expression is at best neutral and at worst terrified. Eyes widened, brows raised, your mouth even slightly parted. And you would focus on that more, on the horror of having your own anxiety documented forever- except for the huge bold text curling over the station’s shield insignia: R. P. D. STAFF MEMBER
You take the ID card and turn it over, admiring the fresh glossy text of your own name and job title. It’s… different really seeing it there. This is your real, actual job. Tears gather again at your eyes again. “Thank you, Sir…”
“You’re so welcome.” He smiles again, the one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes and… your stomach tightens. But… it’s just anxiety, isn’t it? The Chief has helped you out too… maybe you were unfair to judge him so quickly… Irons dips his head, tries to draw your attention back up to himself. “Are you settling in now?”
“Oh, y-yeah, I think so. Everyone in the S.T.A.R.S. office has been so nice to me.”
“Good, I’m glad.” You can’t not see it, can’t not hear how his voice doesn’t match his expression. “What about your family? They real proud you’re helping out the force?”
Your family. Whatever joy and belonging you’d felt with your ID melts off you, a sort of dread creeping in its place. “They don’t know.”
And for the first time, the Irons’ eyes do sparkle with interest, despite how he tries to corral the smile that grows under his mustache. “Why not? It’s a good job for a kid like you.”
“We um,” You fiddle with the ID, run your finger over the insignia again, trying to summon back that feeling of comfort. “We don’t get along.”
Silence, for a moment. A beat too long. It’s awkward, you know, dumping your family troubles on someone else. Ugh, on the police chief no less, not even your boss, but your boss’s boss and- “That’s too bad.” He says, his voice tighter now. But he reaches out- and your grimace as he touches your arm. “But don’t you worry about it. We’ll take good care of you, alright?” His finger twitches against you, stroking the fabric of your work shirt. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got dinner with the mayor to get to.”
He grins again- then pats your shoulder for good measure. You try to smile again, at least to be polite. Your attempt to force out a good night, sir was weak, but satisfying enough for Irons to dip his head and turn back through the door.
You held your breath for a while after, before finally, finally exhaling. Irons was so… You frown and sink into the chair behind the counter. He was nice, you think? He helped you out and encouraged you and he hadn’t… actually done anything bad to you. Was it fair to be so uncomfortable when he hadn’t hurt you at all…? Wasn’t it childish to respond only from instinct?
Your stomach hurts. Your rest your head in your hands and hope the feeling passes. You-
Wait, did he say dinner? You crane your head over towards the clock on the wall and- damn, yeah, you still haven’t replaced those batteries. Instead, you wake the computer and twist your lips. Sure enough, time has creeped on, nearly half past five. You… should probably go as well. This time of evening, the sun is probably already sinking below the skyline.
If you hurry, you might just catch some of the sunset. You grab your bag and stuff your belongings in- and only partially because of the time itself. In truth, you hadn’t seen Chris- or any other member of S.T.A.R.S. all day… and if Chris really thought you shouldn’t be walking, then he’ll probably come by before he leaves and you…
You shouldn’t be here. Teeth sinking into your lips, you rush yourself out the library door. You shouldn’t distract him and… what if he… is interested in you like that? You pick at your nails again, the thought impossible to really consider as you descend the back staircase. He wouldn’t be, you’re sure, but would you be giving him the wrong message if you let him keep driving you? You like Chris-- and everyone else in S.T.A.R.S.-- and don’t want to endanger that minuscule sense of belonging just for the comfort of not walking.
You push open the door and flinch as cold, Midwestern March air blasts across your cheeks. It’s not unbearable with your coat and- you blink, re-examining your surroundings. It’s much too green. You turn, look at the door too, as though it would explain how you’ve taken a wrong turn and ended up behind the building, but there’s no explanation beyond your own distraction. You sigh and feel stupid, too absorbed in your own nonsense to even walk yourself home…
Maybe you should just sit for a while, clear your head before you actually have to deal with dodging traffic… Besides, you found that nice little spot the other day, it’d protect you from the worst of the wind. The chain is still disconnected so you climb the stairs. Chris and Irons both float in your head, two messes for you to skirt around and-
“Interesting. Here I thought you’d had enough of me for one day.”
You startle, hands grabbing at the fire escape's handrail as you look around- behind you, no, where-
“Up here.”
And above you, leaning against the railing of the roof, is Captain Wesker. Your eyes dash over him and stare because something forbidden is happening here; his forearms, wrapped only in his shirt, no coat, are pressed against the metal of the guard rail. His usual rigid posture has relaxed, one leg bent behind him. But your mind shorts out, caught endlessly looping between two details.
First, it’s not your own reflection staring back at you. Folded neatly and clipped onto the collar of his shirt are those black, glossy sunglasses. No, Wesker’s icy blue eyes are on display tonight, watching you as you flounder beneath him.
But the other- the other is he still has those fingerless gloves on. That alone makes some part of you warm inside, but held in those long, slender digits is a cigarette. Unlit, the captain rolls it between those fingers and you soak up every minute movement until you see his lips twitching upwards again.
“Um,” You start, stop, and struggle to piece together anything that has happened to you in the last several hours. “S-sorry, Sir, I’ll go, I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“You’ve done nothing of the sort.” Wesker nods beside him, summoning you up the stairs. You hesitate but… he seems in a much better mood than earlier and… the prospect of any scrap of attention makes your knees weak. With careful steps you ease your way up onto the roof, feeling more and more like a stray cat he’s summoning with a handful of treats.
He leans back- and in a single, smooth movement, he pulls a silver lighter from a pocket, lights the cigarette, and puts the lighter away. Wesker puffs for a moment to keep the flame steady, then relaxes against the railing again. Every moment of this is precious to you, the sight an unspoken taboo- the clean and proper Captain Wesker has never once smelled of cigarette smoke. Now, as the wind shifts, the smell of tobacco washes over you.
And Wesker eyes you the whole time, one eyebrow raised as he watches your observation of him. If he minds you staring, he certainly doesn’t stop you- until his expression cools, brow dropping down to be firm against his eyes. The amusement has all but left his voice, his usual seriousness returning in a flash. “Did you get that ID card from Blackburn?”
Whatever joy that left him returns to you and in lieu of response, you dig in your pocket to retrieve it. It’s still strange seeing your own image and the R.P.D. logo side by side, but makes you smile nonetheless.
Some of that terseness fades from Wesker’s eyes, but not all of it. “Very good.” Is all he says, but the praise still makes you feel something. That same something from when he’s touched you, a warmth that settles in your belly and makes you feel bubbly and sick and Wesker turns back, gazing out over the city street past the fence. He raises that cigarette up to his lips and you watch, enraptured as his thin lips wrap around the filter and he takes a drag.
Reality itself is almost lost on you, too busy imagining his mouth- where you aren’t sure. You want to kiss him, you know that, but something more. You… you can’t just stare at him. You want to, want to watch his every move for as long as he’d allow you to, but you know somewhere in the still functioning parts of your brain that this isn’t how it should go. The last few working synapses spit out what meager thoughts you can form, “How, uh, how long have you been with R.P.D.?”
One icy blue iris slides to the corner of his eye, returning your gaze as he exhales slowly, thin smoke drifting from his lips. “Almost two years.”
His answer is hazed out, buried under how his voice rumbles, how you’d felt it right next to your ear.
“Thats, um,” You swallow, try to force the thought from your mind. “That’s not long, is it? What- what did you do before…?”
That makes him turn halfway towards you again. Again, he pauses before answering, though you can’t place why. Is he watching you as much as you are him? “U.S. Army. Only one tour.”
“Oh.” Your mind sluggishly tries to plug in the numbers on that. Two years here and four years in the military- that’s still only the last six years. You might not know how old he is, but you’re fairly sure he’s not twenty-four. “But, what about… before that?”
You watch again as he takes another drag on his cigarette- and this time meet his eyes. “You’re very curious tonight.” He says through the smoke, his voice a little rougher.
Just like the night in the S.T.A.R.S. office, your shame catches up to you fast. He’s private and you only met him this week. “Sorry, Sir. We- um, we just haven’t really… talked much.” You bite your cheek, wondering if you’ve ruined the moment. But Wesker doesn’t leave, his posture staying at it was. Alert, aware of you, but not tense. And you just can’t help yourself.
You sneak another glance up to his face, meeting the gaze that still watches you. The anxiety in you gnaws, desperate to make you look away from him again, but you hold on just a bit longer. And here, as the street lamps flick on, you really look at his face. His eyes are cold, a kind of clinical indifference that makes you nervous- but more pressing is the dark circles under his eyes. They’re completely hidden under his sunglasses normally, but now all you can see is how tired he looks.
He brings the cigarette up again and this time quirks an eyebrow at you, an unspoken question hanging between.
“I, ah,” You start, but aren’t entirely sure where you’re going with it. You’re self aware enough to know if you ask why he looks so tired, he won’t give you a good answer. Every personal detail you’ve requested has only been met with dodgy dismissals. Instead- “I didn’t know you smoked, Captain.”
Wesker gives a dry laugh and turns the cigarette in his fingers. “Good. It’s not a flattering habit.” The tip glows in the darkening sky as he watches it slowly disintegrate before him. His eyes flick up, cerulean reflecting the speck of orange- and he extends his arm out towards you.
You don’t understand at first, but startle when you do. He’s offering you the cigarette. He wants to share a smoke with you. “O-oh, I’ve, uh, never…”
Only after you say it do you realize you didn’t even debate if you wanted to or not. It’s never held any appeal before, but now- to share something with Wesker, to touch where his mouth has been-- a kiss by proxy--
His only response is that tiny smile crawling over his lips again. “Would you like to try it?”
Your mouth is dry. You do. You’d try anything he’d ask. Your head moves without conscious thought and Wesker beckons you closer. Not as close as he had been in the library, but still close enough you can feel his warmth soaking through his shirt, a pleasant reprieve from the March air.
He lifts the cigarette and you meet his hand, mirroring his grasp just beyond the filter. You expect him to let go, but he doesn’t, guiding it up to your lips, his hand curled over yours. Your breath comes quick-
“Easy,” Wesker says, low and quiet and so close to your ear and you grip onto the railing to keep from collapsing. “Breathe in slowly, just a little.”
You shiver, wrap your lips around the filter and inhale. He pulls the cigarette away and you exhale-- and all at once your throat itches. You turn away, coughing lightly against the back of your hand as Wesker chuckles. It’s not unkind- as embarrassing as it is, his laughter doesn’t entirely feel at your expense. And-
his fingers run along your back. You breathe in sharply and the cold air burns your throat again, making you erupt into another coughing fit. His touch lingers, thumb rubbing against your spine for one agonizing moment-
And he pulls away, bringing the cigarette up to his lips again.
“Sorry,” You manage, gripping the railing for dear life as you right yourself.
Wesker shrugs. “You did better than I did the first time.”
You blink at him, expecting something else, but he’s turned away again, exhaling thin smoke that dissolves in the wind. The desire to ask builds in you; the imagery is too intense. How old was he? Was he sharing with someone else? If not, did he buy them for himself? But you know already. He won’t have answers to share with you. Instead you watch him for a while more and when the wind picks up you wrap your coat tighter around yourself.
“I should… probably go before it gets any colder.” You say, as much as you hate it. The cigarette in his hands has burned low, hardly an inch before the filter left. “But, thank you.”
Wesker nods in acknowledgement, a silent goodbye all you’ll get from him now. But still, he’d invited you to stay and shared with you… a smile creeps over your face, unable to suppress it as you make your way back down the creaking fire escape. The wind whips again and you turn away from it, protecting your exposed face from the worst of it.
“It’s rather cold tonight. Anything else you want to ask for?”
His voice makes you look up again. Just as how you’d found him, he leans against the railing, peering down at you. Was there? The freezing air bites through your coat, making you shiver under Wesker’s icy gaze. What will you do next time?
Would you be a distraction to him, too? All he’d asked was for you to ask. “Would…” It feels wrong. Wretched. Burdensome. . But he’d told you to ask and you said you would and you force the words out, “W-Would you m-mind driving me home, Captain?”
That same smile curls over his lips, but now you can see it reach his eyes, the corners crinkling. He doesn’t even answer, only pulls his sunglasses from his shirt collar.
His car is nice. You don’t know enough about them to name a make or model, but after having been in Chris’s ancient Jeep, you can tell the difference. The seats are black leather, the interior so meticulously clean you feel bad even existing in it. When he starts the car it purrs, rumbling pleasantly all around you.
You wish you lived further.
But he has you outside your apartment building in only a few minutes, having spent more time exiting the parking garage than really enjoying this brief view of his personal space.
You get out first, then lean down to talk to him through the passenger side window. “Thank you, Sir.”
You do mourn the loss of seeing his eyes. In the dim light of the car, you can make out so little of his features, but even less with his dark glasses. Even so, you can see how one side of his mouth is lifted in that lopsided grin. “It was my pleasure.”
You blush hard and look away, focusing instead on the hood ornament: some kind of cat jumping forward, though from the angle you can’t really tell. It was my pleasure. You hate how he says it. Another torturous line you’ll be thinking about all night. “Good night, Captain.”
You lean away from the window, not expecting anything else-
“Sleep well, dearheart.”
Your heart skips a beat. The window rolls up, dark tint obscuring any last minute glances at him. Had you imagined it, the pet name? You want to ask, to know- but you also don't want to break the dream just yet. You can live in that little delusion for a while longer.
Still, as you half stumble your way to your door he waits in the parking lot, making sure you get into your apartment before the lights flick on again, the engine roaring as he drives away.
calling leon by his middle name. he loves it… maybe a little too much (18+)
“leon— mmhm, fuck!”
the sound of his hips slapping against your ass echoed in the room, along with your moans and his grunts. he’d been back from whatever mission he was on, a week ago. and he’d missed your pussy, and you deeply, which he was showing you enthusiastically.
“so tight f’me, baby,” he grunts, his voice low and breathless, hips pounding into you relentlessly. “missed you so— hah... so much.”
you could only wantonly moan in response with the way he had you spread under him, legs propped up on his broad and muscular shoulders, copious amounts of slick leaking from around his cock, trickling down your ass and into the bedsheet, ruining them.
you wrapped your hands around his strong forearms, digging your nails and leaving behind bloody half crescent indents, and if it was possible, it turned him on even more.
he let out a deep, throaty groan. fuck, you couldn’t get any better. “yes, baby. that’s it, mark me up.”
he moved faster now, almost at a punishing pace, eliciting a few tears out of your eyes.
“baby… scott— you’re too fast! ah… slow down,” you whine, almost crying out, nails still digging onto his forearm.
the moment his brain registers what you just said, he freezes. literally. his hips stutter mid-thrust, the rhythm faltering altogether and then, he stops. “what’d you just say?” he asks, observing your face, watching a tear roll down from your eyes to your temple.
you breathe deeply, easing your body, and loosening your grip on his forearms. “what?”
you look at him, eyes locked with his. why did he stop? you just asked him to slow down, didn’t you? “i just… wanted you to slow down… you were going too hard.”
“no, not that. what did you call me?” he asks, his voice was soft, body at ease now, not strained. just propped up above you on his forearm.
oh. you had called him by his middle name. scott. you would’ve been worried about him being displeased if it was not for his cock twitching traitorously inside you. “scott. it slipped. my bad,” you say, smiling coquettishly.
leon smiled back, almost boyishly. he reached up and gently grabbed you by the thighs, pulling back just enough to dislodge your legs from his shoulders and letting them fall back on the bed, eyes never leaving yours.
“well, don’t let me stop you,” he says softly, propping himself back on his forearms that rested besides your shoulders. you noticed his face was flushed when he leaned closer, that silly smile never leaving his face.
“leon scott kennedy, are you blushing?” you giggle in amusement.
he groans softly, burrowing his face into the curve of your neck, breathing in your scent. you giggle again, one hand coming up to play with his hair.
“did you like it when i called you scott?”
he lifts up his head, just slightly, to look back into your eyes. “…a little.” when you kept looking at him, he surrendered. “‘kay, yeah. i did. that was hot—you are hot. fuck, i missed you.”
not even a millisecond later, his lips were on yours, tasting and coaxing you open. and then, a soft thrust, which had you grip his biceps. his whole body was weighing down on you, every inch of his skin pressed against yours.
“scott,” you whimpered in his ears, voice soft and gentle, as he kept thrusting into you shallowly.
“christ, you’re going to be the death of me, love,” he grunted out, increasing his pace. “dont stop.”
it didn’t take too long for you to come apart under him, pussy clenching and fluttering around his cock as your orgasm crashed over you. soon enough, he followed with a choked grunt, emptying himself inside you, filling you up to the brim.
after you had caught your breath, you couldn’t help but giggle again. “now i know just what to say to get you blushing like a schoolgirl.”
leon huffed out a breathless laugh, looking at you with amusement. “not if i make you scream it all night long. think you can handle a second round, hmm?”
⋆˚｡⋆✧˚ Suited!Burnt!Darth Vader x Fem. Reader ˚✧⋆｡˚⋆
Word Count: 4,681
Summary: Reader and Darth Vader play out a little scenario, and then Vader fucks you with his fingers. // “I think that…the chase excites you…”Your observation amused him, but behind the mask you would never know. “Perhaps…” he agreed, but then his voice took on a deeper timbre like every word was spoken as a secret, “…or it is your capture that pleases me much more."
Warnings/Tags: Sexual content, vaginal fingering, predator/prey, unhealthy/toxic relationship dynamics, possessive behavior, and Vader himself gets a warning because, you know...
Author's Note: Hello and welcome to my very first full-length Darth Vader fic! I'm so excited to post this :) Anyway, this is my last fic of 2025. Thank you all for so much love and support throughout my writing journey and for all of you who've been reading my Star Wars fics: thank you so much for your support and your feedback. It means so much to me to be able to share my work with all of you and I hope you enjoy this one<3
My Star Wars Masterlist | AO3
dividers by @/saradika-graphics on Tumblr.
The night pressed in like a confession, thick with silence that refused to be broken.
He sat alone in the half-light, every shadow on the wall a memory he couldn't rip apart. There was no escaping the slow corrosion of his thoughts and how they circled back, always, to the same flickering moments he could not undo.
He hated the softness in him, the ache that still answered to names and faces long gone, hated more that he could not will himself into something colder, cleaner, less human. Regret had made a home behind his ribs, and no amount of forgetting could fumigate its presence from his sickened mind. He wanted to be someone else, someone untouched by the fault lines of his past that rippled through his senses like stray lightning, but all he could do was exist inside the wreckage, wishing he had the power to piece together a new beginning from the ruin.
Red rage fueled him—kindling to the blaze within his soul—but behind the mask, he liked to imagine that his eyes remained an innocent blue, even if it weren’t true, a haunting trace of who he once was still lingering there, where no one could detect.
Some distant part of him screamed for revenge, but that was not truly what he wanted, no, Darth Vader wanted to eclipse the very notion that revenge had anything to do with how he hunted you, determined like he had something to prove, like he wasn’t the most feared man in the galaxy. He had every reason to slaughter you when he caught you, but this game never ended the way he wanted, with your throat crushed, esophagus severed and your body limp at his feet.
He had everything that he wanted right at his fingertips, except the rest of the galaxy did not get to witness this.
You were just for him.
This was not to say that he wasn’t taking a piece of his own heart and letting it crumble in his own two hands every time that he grabbed you, gloved fingers sinking into your plush flesh and always in those moments was he inspired to dig into you until you bled, fingers pulling your flesh apart like ripe fruit, the sensual desire to devour flooding his senses, the acridity on his tongue only invigorating the lust for blood within him, his hunger for carnage.
What he sought from you was far from revenge. This was long-sought release, the unfurl of smoke across charred grounds; you were ingrained in these shadows, inhaled into his lungs to choke him from the inside.
Revenge, to him, was a blood-soaked satin moon—silken in its stillness, opulent in its horror.
It hung heavy above a lake that shimmered crimson, a mirror of every wound never allowed to heal, every whisper of betrayal that once slithered down a wicked tongue and coiled, serpentine, around his spine. The blade was never clean; it remembered.
Just as he does.
Violence, for him, was never born in chaos. It was carved from ice and honed with precision, each cut deliberate, each scar a mark of ceremony.
What was done was never forgotten.
It didn’t need to be.
Forgetting would be mercy, and mercy was a luxury he could not afford to anyone, least of all to himself.
But you—you are the crack in the armor, the ember buried in the frost, the light he so desperately tried to shield himself from and he hated you for it.
For the way you undid him without even trying, for the way your presence wrapped around the steel of him and made it sing like sorrow. You were the liability he could not discard, the weapon he could not bear to unsheathe fully, because he knew you’d cut him deeper than any enemy ever would.
He needed you, and that need made him burn.
It tied you not only to his regret, but to the raw, ragged edge of his soul where the blade never quite reached, because you were already there, already lodged in the softest part of him, the part he denied the existence of.
You were his undoing, his absolution, his torment and his rapture, and he knew with a terrifying certainty that he would never be free of you, nor did he wish to be.
And that, more than anything, was why he could not forgive.
Not you.
Not them.
Not even himself.
The very idea of submission made him seethe, let alone the notion that Anakin Skywalker was not as deceased as he’d let you, or even himself, believe.
That was why he wanted you here, amongst lava fields and flickering flames, because even though his essence was cloaked in a shroud of night, when he looked at you, all he saw was red.
***
This had become more your undoing than his and that thought was what plagued you as you moved soundlessly through the corridors of Fortress Vader, feeling your skin beginning to crawl as the temperatures rose the further down you traveled, marking you, mocking your very descent as though into Hell itself, but this place was a far worse one to exist in than that.
At times were you so inclined to find yourself dancing amongst demons than here, being pursued by the one man in this galaxy that most people were smart enough to avoid.
You felt it begin to claw at your chest, your body not a strong enough cage to contain the swell of fear within you.
You managed to suppress it enough to keep moving and that was all you could tell yourself: keep moving, never falter, don’t hesitate.
This was no longer an act of insubordination, but a direct disobedience and you were aware of the consequences when he caught you, which, you expected, was inevitable. You were no match for Vader’s superiority, or his cunning ability to keep you in the dark, even though he was the one who wore shadows like a badge of honor, his ebony armored existence the gasoline to your flame, the cryptid besieging your nightmares.
This time was no different; you beckoned him into your subconscious almost every night, those rasping, haunted breaths reached your ears before your frightened gaze ever saw what was coming and then, you knew, there was no escaping him, not even in death.
You should’ve been more afraid than you were, but there was a certain lightness in your step as you remained uncaught, tempting fate and mortality as you traversed the fortress. You were not sure where you were going, only that you could not turn back. Like the cold road ahead were you alone here, destined yet determined to find your way through even the worst of what might be waiting for you.
It crept down your spine like spider’s legs, ticklish and unpleasant and you were inspired to peel back your own skin when you felt him gaining ground.
Another breath, another step, another corridor that looked the same as the last. If you had been here before, you were not aware, only that this building felt more and more like a maze the further you walked, but that was just a trick of the mind, a way for the brain to protect itself from impending danger, attempting to distract from the fear of capture.
It was always the same—you felt him long before you saw him.
Somehow, the corridor you were in filled with shadows, inked waters flooding in to drown your imposition. The air around you crackled with tension and you were reminded of the storms you had endured on your home planet that felt so very long ago, and how the storm clouds blotted out the sun, but this went beyond that. This was the calm before the storm, the oppressive cloy of suspense that came just before the breakdown of a lifetime, the end of an era, the tornado that ripped through you every single time you let him get close enough to touch.
This was how it felt right before the sky opened and tore straight through you, raining upon the ground with all the violence it had pent up from the torturous longing still lingering in its atmosphere, spindles and tendrils of lightning splitting the sky and piercing your body, electrifying the very blackest hidden parts of your soul where only his thunderous presence felt comfortable, roaring within both you and himself.
And then, like a vengeful spirit did he rise before you, a silhouette betrothed to the midnight hour and the backs of your eyes began to throb with headache. His inferno swept through you, and you fell to your knees but whether it was out of reverence or fear were you uncertain, all that you did know was that time had run out and every breath you took was on borrowed time.
As his towering form strode towards you, it became quite clear that you were well out of your league, a lost soul held captive by wicked fate which bound you here, but you unwittingly sought refuge with the one man who countered love with possession; only he got to see you like this.
As he stalked closer, his bootsteps emphasized the mutual agreement between you that ‘love’ was not something you would find here, at least, not in its purest form. Vader had more to offer than something so simple; nothing was ever so cut-and-dry with him. As much as he enjoyed seeing you submit to him so obediently, there were many ways for him to bring you to your knees aside from this and he was nothing if not…innovative.
His steps halted in front of you, and he bent at the waist to reach down and grab your jaw, forcing your head back for him to examine you better. Darth Vader was a tall man, and he loomed over you like a giant, a black hole threatening to pull you in and never let you go. His sharp inhale had a visceral reaction on you and his scarred lips twitched behind the mask as he refused to allow you to recoil; you had little value beyond that of dirt beneath his heel, but you knew better.
If you hadn’t known how he truly felt, there was no chance you would have let him play with you like this. You were never in any real danger—he didn’t have to say it, you already knew, but spoken word threatened to shatter the illusion and so he never told you what you needed to hear.
His gloved digits tightened on your jaw to an almost bruising grip as he spoke in a gravelly tone, the modulator translation making him sound like he hadn’t spoken in years, but perhaps the weight of his words was what altered his inflection more, “foolish one…I can feel how strongly you crave me, and yet you choose to run.”
With teeth gritted and eyes narrowed, you refused to give in to him and become the sniveling, whimpering mess heaped at his feet that he wanted you to be. He’d have his way soon enough, but you were going to make him work for it. There was no sense in bowing under his brutality yet when there was more to come…
“I think that…the chase excites you…”
Your observation amused him, but behind the mask you would never know.
“Perhaps…” he agreed, but then his voice took on a deeper timbre like every word was spoken as a secret, “…or it is your capture that pleases me much more.”
His words crept down your spine and made you shiver despite the intense heat; there was more truth to them than you wanted to admit in your current position, but as his grasp tightened to the point where you could feel the bones grating together in your jaw, the look of defiance in your eyes slowly began to fade and the flicker of a plea bloomed on your tongue but you stifled it before the words left you, much to Vader’s obvious chagrin.
He had plenty of time to devote to your destruction; he could force himself to be patient, and you would learn soon enough that Darth Vader favored broken things.
***
If a moon hung somewhere above your head, its light smothered by the smog-thick air, you could not see it—but if it were there, it would have blushed at such insolent debauchery.
You were seated on Vader’s lap, your throne, as his knees nudged your thighs apart.
How many times you had found yourself in such a compromising position were you unable to recount, however, now that you were here you could not lie to yourself that it wasn’t exactly where you belonged. His harsh breaths rasped through the apparatus and into your ear as his chest heaved against your back. You shifted to the side to accommodate his chest plate and avoid crunching into any of the delicate controls that stabilized his life support system, or his prison, depending on whether you viewed his suit the same way that he did.
Most were too fearful to delve into the truth of the man behind the mask, or they never were afforded the chance, but you weren’t so lucky as them. You knew what the armor he wore symbolized and how deeply engrained within him it was because without it he never would have stood before the galaxy only to watch it crumble at his own hand, his direction, his demise. It was as much life support as it was protection, the two often went hand in hand but never like this, and though you knew there was no hope of you ever seeing him for who he truly was, there was a little glimmer of reprieve that you could at the very least pretend he was someone whom you would want if you could see him. Perhaps it was cruel to imagine yourself frightened of Darth Vader or maybe you should have been afraid, only you couldn’t bring yourself to fear the man whose delicate touch you seemed to crave in the way that your lungs craved air. Nothing of Darth Vader spoke of delicacy, but in times like this, he was bold enough to try and there was no other soul who was worthy of it in this entire galaxy except for you and he wouldn’t have it any other way. All else paled in comparison to you, splayed for him, threaded with glittering sweat and sin, and the smirk on his face behind his mask was wild enough that it could’ve started another galactic war.
It was an involuntary reaction, a need for which he could not suppress. He had to have you, and the armor was a frustrating hinderance, a painful reminder that he could never give all of himself to you in the way that you both needed most.
He wondered if it wounded you, too?
He kept your legs spread by using the Force, just so that he could focus his touch elsewhere. His gloved hands possessively grabbed your hips and roughly traced your curves as he pulled you in. He wanted to make sure you knew that this was your rightful place, that you were his; that he owned you.
You shuddered in his grasp and small gasps fell from your parted lips as his fingers traveled lower, across your abdomen, along your pelvic bone, between your thighs…
Darth Vader couldn’t fuck you, not in the way you both needed, but he was highly inclined to propose certain modifications to make it possible, but his physical body was a mess of cybernetics and numb flesh that you found morbidly winsome, from the occasional opportunities you were afforded a fleeting glance of him without his suit. No matter what he designed for himself to pleasure you with, there was nothing comparable to the real thing and for that was he consumed by an overwhelming ferocity that was more painful to him than the neural needles connecting his helmet to his skull. He had to surrender to the fact that you were everything that he wanted, standing right in front of him, sitting right here on his lap…and he could never, ever have you.
It was a cruel agony, a torturous ache, a pain that was only rivaled by a tempest of rage, and so, he took out all his frustrations upon your willing, pliant form.
Somewhere in his bitterness had he ripped your clothes from your body, tearing them to shreds so that he could have you bare, could see more of you—you were not allowed to hide from him.
There had been a time when he might’ve been inclined to take his time, yet the patience he never had as a young man or even now had run out and there was no stopping him—he would have you, as he wanted, and even if you had been so inclined to try to protest, it would have fallen on deaf ears. Darth Vader had no qualms with seizing what he wanted, laying claim to you as though you belonged to no one else and you didn’t. You had no say in the matter now, but it wasn’t like you were asking for one. The only thing you were capable of in this moment were wanton moans and the occasional mewl of his name as your thighs trembled and your aching core leaked delicious juices onto his thick, gloved fingers that he yearned to taste, but couldn’t.
“Foolish girl…you’ve made a mess and I have hardly touched you,” his deep, rasping cadence sent a bolt of pleasure straight through your body and a spill of whimpers fell from your lips like a waterfall of desire, “it seems you need to be taught a lesson in patience.”
Your feeble protests amused him, but his apparatus registered his chuckle as a low rumble, pleasurable against your back as you leant in against him more heavily, limp under his hand as the friction produced on your inner thighs by his gloved hands made your entire body shiver. He knew damn good and well that he did not possess the patience needed to teach you any of it, but that had never stopped him from taunting you, watching the way your delicate façade crumbled and how the light in your eyes withered when he evaded you, his touches becoming teasing as he refused to give you exactly what he knew you wanted.
“Please, Vader…please…” you begged so pitifully that his touch almost became tender, his hand faltering slightly as he groped your thighs, “I need you.”
“You need far more than you are worthy of receiving,” his cruel response only made you ache and his grip on your thighs tightened painfully, “your pleas for mercy are as pathetic as you are.”
Your bitten lips were red and swollen as you cried out desperately for his touch, your center practically throbbing with need as you ached for fulfillment. You didn’t care how pathetic it seemed; you just needed him inside you.
You squirmed on his lap, and he kept you seated firmly upon him, refusing to give you even an inch. He wanted to make you suffer, wanted to hear your little cries as you wiggled on top of him, chasing any bit of friction his hands created in their wake as they rubbed and massaged your thighs. One of his hands let go of your soft flesh and grasped your breast, instead torturing your rosy nipples. You gasped and arched backwards, hips bucking deliciously as you let out a keening moan. You had always been sensitive to this sort of touch and Vader was acutely aware of it, making a mental note of what touches you responded to the most, delighted by how easily he made you sob in pleasure.
“O-Ohh-!” the sharp gasp his touch elicited had a strong effect on him and his right hand reached up between your legs and cupped your sex, making you squirm with renewed vigor, knowing you were on the brink of getting what you wanted.
In the haze of arousal, you were mildly concerned with how his gloves might tear your sensitive flesh, heart racing in your chest as you braced for pain, but he was prepared for this and so, with agonizingly slow movements, he lifted his dominant hand to your lips and without a single syllable of protest from you, your mouth opened and your lips closed around his index finger, suckling gently on his digit to prepare it for entry.
“Good girl,” Vader’s voice was a pleased rumble as he tilted his head down to watch you preparing his fingers for him, “if you are not patient, then at least you are obedient.”
He could make concessions if it meant he could tear you apart from the inside just a little sooner.
Once he deemed himself ready, he carefully extracted his fingers from your mouth and reached between your legs, using your spit as he also gathered some of your slick from your weeping cunt to use as lubrication before he mercilessly plunged a finger into you. You panicked and Vader felt your muscles tighten and seize up around the intrusion, but he never gave you a second to recover and you should’ve been used to this by now; your reaction frustrated him and his other hand tightened on your thigh enough to bruise.
The pleasure he gave always bordered on painful because nothing about Darth Vader was simplistic or one-dimensional. He was multi-faceted, no matter how much he would try to convince you that the only thing he cared about was retribution, no. The truth was that he did care for that as much as he needed to, but there was very little that he cared about as much as this.
Your forced yourself to relax and you grunted underneath his iron grasp and Vader offered you a rare reprieve by slightly loosening his grip. The finger he had inserted into you was uncomfortable, but that had never stopped him before and, as he withdrew from you to just his fingertip and then sank back inside, you felt like the air had just been punched from your lungs.
Your inner muscles were tight around the thick digit, fluttering with the first tiny onset of pleasure that the fullness had sparked, and Vader became relentless.
There was nothing subtle about the way he touched you; Vader’s demands were clear: you were his and the maddening thought that drove his every movement to the brink of causing you agony was that this was all he could give you. There was nothing gentle or tender in the way he pushed his finger deeper, feeling your body shift against him as you tried to hopelessly adjust to the stretch, before he cruelly added another finger with considerably less prep and your whine was echoed within the steady pulse of his heart, which he had to speak out against lest he forget who he was, “you’ll take what I give you,” he growled furiously in your ear, attempting to drown out the sounds of bliss and need that poured from your glistening parted lips.
You would take it, even if it killed you, because this is what you had always wanted from him: a connection, even if it was merely physical rather than anything more.
The provocative sound you made when you were already getting dangerously close to release made his pacing stutter, his hand faltering in its movements and he growled with anguish, not wanting it to be over so soon. His ministrations slowed and you aired your grievances with a frustrated groan. You were desperate and shaky, your mind numbed with the beginning traces of ecstasy that were beginning to dawn upon the horizon of your soul, bleeding out across your mindscapes like blooming auroras of color and emotion.
His thumb circled your clit, pressing down just enough to provide pleasure without giving release. You were teetering on the edge, and he reveled in the power of holding you there, nothing to reach for and nowhere to go until he allowed you to—it was all his decision.
This was the thing that Darth Vader got off on: the feeling of your quivering body against his as you begged for his mercy, appealing to him in such a prettily afflicted tone, needy for him in every single way that he would then use to completely unravel you.
Finally, he let you succumb.
He pumped his fingers in and out of you steadily, watching you writhe in his lap as you babbled incoherently, breathless in your admission as you tried to warn him, but you were too much of an overstimulated mess to get the words out, “I…I-I’m gonna…”
If he had heard you, Vader did not acknowledge it, only he doubled his efforts. Your sounds were unmistakable in their admission: you were desperately close, and Vader would move planets, explode stars, scorch the very rot that was the Empire until it was little more than ashes that rained down like confetti after a hard war won…just to get you there, right where he wanted you.
Your heartrate quickened and your core ached as he pressed his fingers into you as deeply as your body would allow, and finally were you brought absolution by Vader’s hand.
The air around you crackled with the intensity of flame, and you felt like you were burning from the inside. Heat centered at your core and radiated outward from between your legs, spreading through you like it was fire that ran in your veins rather than blood, but you had found that, with Vader, you had sealed your fate not in just blood, but in devotion, an atonement for the fundamental belief you had in the Jedi Order and what you once thought it had offered you, but nothing in this galaxy could give to you what you truly needed and that was him, and the sin of the Empire, the gilded age of shadow and bilge that you thrived upon if only because it had welcomed you, hand in hand, with the man who had refusedto leave you behind and that was enough to satisfy you more than any orgasm brought about at his hand.
Still, there were not enough words to describe the deliria with which you had surrendered to.
Your pussy was swollen with use and arousal when he finally extracted his fingers after your orgasm subsided and the milky cum that had gathered on his dark gloves enticed him so much that he considered taking off the helmet for just onetaste, but he knew it would be useless—Vader was accustomed to risking his life, but to remove his helmet in such a scene would be suicide and what a rapturous way to go…
A ragged breath sizzled through his voice modulator, momentarily drowning out the sounds of your illicit cries and pitiful whimpers as you attempted to recover.
“You are aware that my only demand from you is your loyalty,” he began, the sinister growl edged in the polished practice of a commander, an enforcer, a man who garnered respect through fear rather than by integrity and he would use such merit and reputation to remind you of your place once more, as if you ever had any hope of forgetting, “and such loyalty is to be expressed through unwavering devotion, not to my men, not to the Empire, not even to the Emperor himself, but to me.”
His words made the backs of your eyes throb and your pulse hummed as you processed his words, letting them settle over you like ash from a fire.
“You belong to me and to no one else. And I believe that your allegiance can only be determined by your willingness to submit…so I suggest that you get comfortable. You won’t be going anywhere for some time now.”
Dude, words cannot describe how much a love crispy Vader. The wording in this? The setting of each scene? How beautifully you captured the sorrow in him and the burning want? This was perfect. Definitely will be saving this to read another time, especially because it's also so in tuned with Vader's character!
The part going into detail about him wanting reader physically was so sad in such a miserable way. I love reading these with burnt vader because the torture of not being able to fully give himself intimately is not only Canon, but it's so heartbreaking 😭😭😭
I love your writing and umm if you're doing requests may I please request essentially the reverse of the fwb ones, where she and arthur are partners in crime and they're super sweet and couple-y best friends but are NOT together even though everyone in camp is like 'are they seriously not fucking???' And they're just mutually pining like idiots for years on end. I hope that made sense sorry if its weirdly specific i probably need therapy lol.
wc: 1.9k
tags: FLUFF!! pining Arthur.
Comfortable. Too comfortable. It was almost suspicious. Those were the exact words Susan Grimshaw would use to describe the pair of lovebirds that bumbled around camp as if completely enamoured in their own worlds. Those lovebirds not even being the crude Sean and babbling Karen or even Mary-Beth and the stuttering, nervous mess which was Kieran. No. It was the mere sight of you, the silver tongued bandit with her heart on her sleeve being so shamelessly sought out by the brooding, enigmatic man Arthur Morgan. To be completely fair on Grimshaw’s part, it wasn’t only her who held suspicions on the end of her finger when she would constantly wave it in front of your nose. The very close friendship the pair of you had knitted together came tangled with the inquiries of not only the women of camp, who bargained gossip for gossip by their washboards, but the men in camp who would throw sneaky, offhand remarks at the wind over a drink or game of poker. And yet, not much to everyone’s surprise that the pair of you would deny, deny, deny.
And who can blame them? It had become an almost domestic frame: the pair of you couldn’t help but to give in to the simple pleasures. Simple distractions. Mornings became rich in the same scene of Arthur trailing behind you to your routine which in return had become his routine. Knowing he would be gone on a job for most of the week, he prepares himself for the long departure in his own endearing way. Trailing behind you with ears low tucked behind his hat, he follows you to the glistening shores of Clemen’s Point the very mornings before departure. He’d sheepishly blush and sit on a rock nearby where you had already begun to wash your face in the cold, relieving sting of the water. With a palm tucked under his scarred chin and elbow resting on his knee, his body lumbered over to intently watch you. The use of conversation was pointless in the of quiet elysium which was the Clemen’s point waters so early in the morning that the moon still forged itself to the blue sky–so early in the morning it traps the pair of you in a capsule where no one else seemed to matter or intrude. When he can’t avoid your tickling suspicions, he scratches the back of his neck and hopes you didn’t think of him as any less of a man.
“You’re up early.” You draw first to jab at him.
“Gonna be busy today.. Coffee’s good when it’s hot.” He hides his real reason behind coffee beans and hot water, tipping his hat for extra perseverance.
“Really now?” You’d respond to him with conviction for his dishonesty and he shrugs. You pulled yourself up and rang water from your skirt.. “Could you get me a cup then?”
“Ain’t your dog, woman.” He’d mumble with no real bitterness, walking with a slow lumber towards the campfire where he lets his feelings for you swallow him up in his pathetic attempts to make you smile.
Caring for you had become a part of Arthur Morgan’s character. The aspect of grey clouds contorting you to anything but the carefree, happy woman who read to him on quiet nights and splashed in puddles on rainy days leaves him feeling utterly ashamed and bastardized. Arthur doesn’t know exactly when he realized it hurt so much to see you as anything but content and well fed, yet he succumbs to your rule and seems to crush himself beneath your thumb.
“You’re gonna get yourself sick like that.” He scolds you when you prance through the streaking, silver pelts of rain. You chase the rushing chill past the front steps of The Loft, stopped by the simple yearning to play with the riches of nature. If Ambarino could offer Arthur one thing, it was the ability to see you bask in the background of green and meadows of blurred wildflowers.
“So?” Water trickles down your back and seeps through the stitchings of your clothing and much to his prediction you push down the sting of cold with brilliance.
He laughs half-heartedly at that. “So? You whine like a dog for days with a stuffed nose, you ain’t foolin’ me.” He crosses his arms over his chest as if it’ll stagnate the humming in his body. He forces his head down to avoid the sting of his yearning for you. And yet, even when you pull him by his hands into the blur of pelting water he feels nothing but warmth in his vain attempt to preserve your health. And in the end, he’d rather it be both of you sipping hot stew in the quarantine of his tent than you by yourself in yours.
Though, you show you care for him as well, in sweeter and considerate terms of affection. When Arthur Morgan fails to take care of himself in negligence or in carelessness, you make up for it with not a word spoken in between them. With a bowl of fresh stew lightly garnished with creeping thyme personally plucked by you, you take it upon yourself to bring the moping man a meal when he’s too stubborn to grab one himself. When another robbery only left them with a quarter and law men too close to camp, you remind Arthur that he isn’t the cold steel of a gun but he was human.
“You ain’t gotta do that fa’ me.” Yet, when his thumb firmly brushes your hand in exchange, it speaks all the thank yous to you with the life in his eyes coming back.
He speaks thanks especially when he knows you need it. It isn’t uncommon for Grimshaw to have you fold the same 3 loads of laundry at the beginning of every morning, or force you to stick your nose to the mat and collect the dust through your nostrils and a broom. When the days begin to wax at you and you melt over the boil of your pot, Arthur knows he isn’t a smoothtalker yet he pats himself on the back for his saving grace.
He’ll bound up to you, confident with a chest puff of ash and yarrow pollen. Sometimes he’ll find you atop of a discarded barrel, you were already helping Pearson peel at potatoes, fingers tough and printed with the blunt side of the blade; But that thief needs to steal some more of your precious time.
“Put’chu shoes on. Need you to run an errand with me.”
“You busy? Could use a saddle warmer.”
He’ll almost always ask you with hands looped on his gun belt, naval tilting up as if to downplay his own request. However, on occasions where he is self-serving enough to pry you from the comfort of your tent, he’ll ask you to accompany him for no real particular reason. Well, of course he has his reasons. But who were you to say no to that handsome man.
Once in a while, when the brilliant summer sun would even dare to outshine your golden smile, he calls you over just by the banks to serve him in your musical lull. Pulling his sleeves up to the curl of his bicep, he swings an axe overhead with a thunderous strike of lightning and the logs of wood splinter effortlessly in his control and he only pauses to call your name from the crowd. Finger pointing a spotlight to you as you make your way. “You.”
“Me?” You make your way over with a fluttering skirt and the breath of lilac that calls your name in its aroma. “What about me?”
“Need you to read for me.” An awkward hand gestures to the book safely tucked under your arm and with a hell of a lot better to do such as washing and cooking you sit down in a shady patch of lime grass and flip to page 25 of your book. There, with the trees swelling at every gale of bird songs and the smell of oak and cedar, you read to him from your spot where your skirt pools on the floor and makes his heart tick with endearment. When he fails to force his face down into the heat of his work, he allows himself to sneak fleeting glances of you and your pretty skirt. Capturing you in his mind was no different than a fully realized photograph, he knew you well enough to not have to remember which way your hair parted and how you liked to wear ribbons in your clothing. When you do catch him looking, he ducks his head with an apology too quiet for you to hear but just for him to save his pride. And you laugh, because the shades of red that paint his stubble face wasn’t due to the pounding sun in the sky but the drumming of his heart.
Arthur Morgan’s criminality didn’t leave him much room for care and domesticity. The soft blazing skin of a woman had become unfamiliar and alien to him as dreams of Tahiti or god knows what. Death’s waiting arms was by far going to be the closest thing he’ll get to a white lacy wedding, yet when the noose slips and it tightens it’s hold on him, a nagging itch in his body tells him your boot isn’t fitting as it usually did or you’ve been losing track of your rings and dainty necklaces that seem to only fit your perfect skin. And heaven knows he cannot even imagine death's eternal sleep if you were not properly looked out for.
It wasn’t the prettiest sight, though he has to admit it to himself, to tear away trinkets and gold from the hands of anyone unfortunate enough to ride down his trail. With a sinful thumb he wipes sweat lining the indents of his forehead and dismounts with a heavy footfall directed towards your yellow starched tent canvas. He pulls open the canvas but not before announcing his entrance like the gentleman that he was.
And yet, when he’s able to string together enough money he buys you those new amber shaded boots with dark rose embroidery running along its stump. Once in a perfect pale moon he cobbles together enough to buy you a new necklace to replace the one you left in Valentine, and the embellished swelling of your already tinted pink cheeks makes the blood in his hands tingle when he gives you the delicate items. He is adamant on doing it to serve you, to make your life a little easier in the light of the coming summer. Even when you kiss his cheek and whisper your thanks and praise, he dares to let his smile show any more crooked teeth. His reasons are albeit, a little more selfish than he cares to admit.
“Look at that face, Morgan! She gave you a good one this time, ain’t she?” Sean croons from his spot at the table like a crow with a face kissed red in liquor.
“Gave me more than what you’ll get in 10 years, fool.” He deflects with a dismissive hand when he b-lines for his tent. Despite all the accusatory remarks and comments, he bounds to his tent with a smile on those thinly curved lips, because something about everyone assuming you were his as he was yours had only fed into his hopeless desires. Arthur Morgan knew he was out of his mind for yearning for you, but he had lost half of it to the violence. And lord knows he deserves to lose the rest of it to love.
Wow dude I'm just finding banging after banging to reblog tonight! I love reading my daily dose of fanfic at night before bed, especially when it's this in character and so so so good eeeee
I'd like to request Arthur Morgan with a female reader. She gets all giggly when she's nervous. So, when a simple kiss becomes a make out session she can't stop giggling. I think he'd find it cute, but also a bit confused by it.
Anyways, thank you for reading my request!
Arthur shushes you for a third time.
"You tryin' to wake up the whole damn camp, woman?" He chuckles exasperatedly, drawing his head back from the fragrant slope of your neck. His eyes are turquoise glass in the light of the dwindling oil lamp as the shadowy marionettes of your silhouettes mingle on the canvas wall.
"Sorry, sorry..." You murmur on a slow, steadying exhale, lower lip curving under your teeth in a valiant struggle against a smile. He grunts and shifts his weight on the too small cot, propping himself on his elbow beside you, a sinewy arm curled over your middle to keep you from tumbling off the side. You briefly close your eyes, summoning your most serious thoughts, finding him studying you with something like fond bewilderment upon opening them.
"You good?"
"I'm good."
The corner of his mustache twitches in a lopsided smirk, his gaze trailing to your cupid's bow. "Good."
He kisses you, tentative at first as if to test your resolve. Then again with warm fervor, a soft rumble of satisfaction in his chest as the welcome press of his tongue parts the seam of your lips. On instinct your legs open in tandem, making room for the thick weight of his thigh to slot between them. You break for air, a throaty sigh on your rum-spiced breath, and Arthur's mouth finds the corner of yours, then the arc of your jaw, then your ear, then--
You erupt with giggles.
"Jesus." He scoffs and lifts his head, no malice to be found in the roll of his eyes. "What is wrong wit'chu?"
"I--" You can barely speak, your whole body shaking with the effort of containing yourself.
"Am I ticklin' you or somethin'?"
Cheeks stinging from smiling so hard, you wipe an errant tear with the back of your hand. "I -- yeah, maybe it's that." You giggle again, thumbing his chin scars to feel the rasp of his beard. "It's 'cause you're all whiskery."
"...Y-y'want me to get up an' shave, or...?"
"No, no, no." You laugh and quickly shake your head, settling back down on the cot in a display of good behavior. "I'll be quiet. I promise."
His eyes narrow at you doubtfully. After a beat, he lowers his head ag--
You cackle.
Arthur growls under his breath, and the lines of his face crease at you with such typical seriousness that you have to turn away, your body wracked with silent, uncontrolled laughter. He cracks a smile.
"You're a strange bird, you know that?" He shakes his head. "Actin' like you ain't never been kissed or somethin'."
"I'm just - happy, Arthur." You reply, the corners of your eyes crinkling not with mirth, but affection. "That such a crime?"
He huffs softly, eyes averting, the tips of his ears a dusty pink. "Naw. Reckon it ain't."
You gentle, your palm coming to rest at the back of his head to pull him close. He resists.
"You gonna act right this time?" He furrows his brow at you, as playful as you've ever seen him. "Or am I gonna have to kick y'out and make you go curl up with Uncle by the chicken coop instead?"
Before you can answer, a pebble hits the outside of the tent, square in the shadow of Arthur's head.
"Will you shut the hell up in there? Some of us is tryin' to sleep."
Arthur shoots a glare at the wall. "Yeah, yeah - God forbid you miss out on the beauty rest, Marston. Ain't got no more mirrors left for you to break."
You hear John curse under his breath as he retreats. Arthur lifts his palm from your mouth and gives you a crooked grin.
"Now...where were we?"
He turns his head, blows out the oil lamp, and your laughter fills the dark.
Ooooo this was so good!!! The dialog is extreamly on point, I could see arthur actually talking like this! Omg and the part with John genuinely made me laugh, love this 😆
Camera Obscura [S.T.A.R.S. era Wesker/Reader] - Chapter 1
[Ao3 Mirror]
Rating: G (chapter), E (whole fic)
WC: 4.4k
Contents: Eventual secret workplace age gap relationship with emphasis on innocence and an exceptionally nervous Reader-insert.
=====
You’d only seen it once before. You’d dropped off your resume (a scant thing; a diploma and some volunteer hours at the library) at the front desk two weeks ago and that thirty feet from the massive double doors to the ornately decorated wood was all you had seen. Of course the main hall was a behemoth, a wide open space filled with massive statues and carved pillars and dozens of cops. It had been a long shot, but you needed something, anything to get some stability, to have a paycheck, sock away some money before college. And… the job seemed simple enough.
You took a deep breath as you stared up the steps, smoothing out your best attempt at office professional clothes. Even as your tried to settle your nerves, the door was constantly in motion, people coming and going, the noise from within the main hall leaking out around you. The waves of each open and close was almost soothing, the knowledge that if it was too much, you could just leave.
But this was meant to be a new start. And you needed the money.
Inside, the air is warmer- heated by the dozen people milling about, talking and discussing over cups of coffee and donuts. Though, it would be hard to be cooler than the crisp February wind whipping outside.
“Can I help you?” A heavyset man at the front desk looks at you through the crowd. The desk sergeant has a kind face, even if his tone is firm. You smile politely, push down the nerves and approach him.
“I’m ah, I’m the new assistant records manager?” You say, immediately hating how it became a question mid sentence.
But, he must’ve been expecting you, because his eyes light up with recognition. “Ah, gotcha! Let me page Mr. Ross. He interviewed you, right?”
“Uh, actually-” You want to correct him, but he’s already sending out the message. You knew of Harold Ross, in the sense that he had called you to confirm he was going to hire you, but that was the grand total of your interaction; you hadn’t been interviewed at all.
“Jameson!” The officer barked. You jumped, clutching your arms to yourself and desperately holding onto your paper thin smile. Another uniformed man approaches, nods politely. “This is the new records keeper, can you guide them up to the library?”
The new cop- Jameson- raises an eyebrow, but ultimately shrugs. He gestures vaguely for you to follow up the impossibly large stairs.
In truth, the architecture, the art of the police station had been most of the reason you had applied. Sure, the money was good, and the ad listing had almost no experience necessary, but when you’d dropped off your resume, this was why you had hoped you’d get an interview-- or, the call. The main hall is breathlessly massive, two stories and probably another story up to the roof. In the middle of it all, between the split for east and west wings is a statue- lady justice herself. Behind her, another walkway, and then the towering panels of glass, windows all the way to the ceiling.
Jameson waits patiently as you ogle your surroundings, and when you blush and apologize he just shrugs, makes some noncommittal noise. He leads you up the west side stairs, turns a sharp 180, then enters the first door on the right. He holds open the door- and you almost fall to your knees. The library is huge, rows and rows of books, of filing cabinets and utility shelves with evidence boxes. Above you is even more; a staircase to the side curls around, leading to the upper level. And all of it, all of it is surrounded by that dark wood, the white stone, the gorgeous style of it all.
“Mr. Ross should be around soon. You can probably just wait around the desk.”
“Desk? Oh, right-” You glance around, finding the little checkout counter with a sad little incomplete Away from Desk, will return ___ AM/PM sign. “Um, thanks.”
Jameson nods, then just as quickly leaves.
You wait. For a while you stand, staying near the desk and inspecting things nearby. A fake plant gathering dust, a miniature display of scales, an ashtray in sore need of emptying. Behind the desk is a heavy-looking door without windows. It doesn’t look like an office, maybe more storage?
As time passes, your attention drifts further. The row of shelves closest to the counter is all law books- you somehow aren’t surprised. Still, you touch their leatherbound spines and trace over the filigreed text. You circle the desk, debating just sitting at one of the little tables… but it’s so quiet here- the commotion of the main hall is muted, but not quite gone- surely you’d hear if someone came in? You could wander a little bit…
You stay close to the desk or door at first, always lifting your head after a few moments just to make sure you hadn’t missed Mr. Ross entering. But as dense lawbooks lose your interest you slip further away. Each table has its own little banker’s lamp, the power strips for each pitifully hidden with tape on the floor. The library is fairly orderly, only a handful of books left out of place. You don’t yet know the exact layout, so you refrain from putting them away, but you do at least collect them, setting them on the checkout counter as you circle back.
The lower floor seems to be entirely this: semi-publicly available books, mostly on law and state history, a handful on art, mostly local early 1900s, and then a shelf entirely for that company you’d seen on the city limits sign: Umbrella. You pick one book from the middle, grimace at the title: The Umbrella Effect: Revitalizing America’s Midwest.
The whole shelf is like that, almost blatant propaganda. Usually corporate money influencing local institutions is a little more subtle… You wonder how many audits and inspections they’ve managed to dodge.
But… you twist your lips. This was the kind of thing you’d have to deal with, wouldn’t it? Working with cops… and the corruption that follows…
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. You’d just be here, anyway. Some degree of corruption was inevitable at every job, right? Maybe at least here it would be so above your paygrade you wouldn’t have to deal with any more directly than the occasional book donated to the station’s collection. You slide the book back and turn away, wandering again. How long had it been? You squint around for a clock- for a moment you’re relieved to see one on the wall near the desk. But it only takes a second to understand it’s long since died, the hands stuck at 4:30.
What else can you do? Go back to the front desk and… and tattle that Mr. Ross still hadn’t come by? He was probably busy… And what an impression you’d make on your new boss…
You chew your lip and again circle the lower level- this time pausing at another door. A survey confirms there are only two doors: the one you entered from, the one that leads out onto the second floor walkway of the main hall, and this one. Could it be… an office? Maybe he was… back here? You’d already been waiting so long, it wouldn’t be so rude, right?
You knock first, the first attempt so quiet you barely heard it yourself. Your fingers tremble, but you steel yourself, remind yourself you’re supposed to be here, you’re being paid to be here. Still, after a good hard rapping on the door, there’s no response from the other side.
Now it’s just curiosity- and you turn the knob.
Whatever you had expected to be on the other side, it wasn’t there. Because this room, you’re not even sure how to explain what it’s meant to be. A small room with a little balcony over the room below, both this and the room below almost entirely empty- though the lower seems to have some kind of storage use. This one is just a pair of benches, some more fake plants, another door in the corner, and who could forget the <>giant unicorn statue? You come closer to it, admiring the statue itself, but also really trying to understand why the hell this was here. It was well made, just like the statue in the main hall, but why have it tucked into this unused room…?
This station is so weird. Maybe you should’ve just stuck it out for another job…
With a sigh you duck back into the library- and squeak when you see someone else already here. “Oh!”
At the desk, a man with his back to you is writing in a log. He turns sharply at your noise-
“I’m s-sorry, are you, uh, Mr. Ross? I was just- um,” You start, then realize your mistake before you can even explain. Because the man before you is not dressed like any records keeper you can imagine (though, given the strangeness you’ve already seen and him being at least an hour late, maybe you’re just not imaginative enough). Despite the library’s warm, dim lights, the man before you wears sunglasses. That alone gives you pause, but what makes it obvious that this man is not Mr. Ross is the obvious uniform he sports: a crisp blue dress shirt with a shield logo emblazoned on the side: S.T.A.R.S. You aren’t sure what, exactly, it stands for, but this man is obviously a cop. But if the mistaken identity was not enough to make your cheeks heat in embarrassment, this man was also handsome, built like a model with firm cheekbones and shiny blonde hair swept carefully backwards.
One corner of his lips lifts, almost laughing at a joke you’re not in on. “If you’re looking for him, I’m afraid our records keeper has a reputation for being difficult to reach.” He turns away again, finishing his entry on the log. He sets the pen down, and seems to look behind the counter- and hums. “It seems his satchel is still here.”
Even his voice is nice, rumbling with an accent that you can’t quite place. But the stranger gives you no chance to question his opaque statement before he’s turned and slipped through the main door- letting a burst of noise fill the room as he exits.
You sigh and look to confirm, yes, there is a bag on the floor behind the desk. So… Oh, so, he’ll be back. The thought is relieving, except… when will he be back?
You resort to just reading. A book from the pile you’d gathered is the obvious choice: a brief history of the police station itself. Why, exactly, an art gallery had been converted wasn’t ever really explained, but at least it gave you some kind of explanation to that lone unicorn and the gorgeous architecture. You’re already in the second chapter when-
Another blast of noise from the main hall. You startle, almost dropping the book. A man rushes in, his short dark hair a ruffled, unkempt mess, huge bags under his eyes. A tan coat flaps around him as he marches by. He doesn’t look at you at all- just goes behind the desk and ducks down and begins rifling through a bag.
You stand- “Are you Mr. Ross?”
The man huffs, still out of sight. You approach, just close enough to see him digging through the satchel. “I’m very busy, can’t you tell? Just leave a note here and I’ll get back to you when I can.”
“Oh, but, I’m the new assistant-”
Ross bolts up, looking you up and down. “Shit.” From the raise of one eyebrow, it’s a judgemental gaze- were you not dressed professionally enough? Did he not expect- “I thought you were coming on Tuesday.”
“It… is Tuesday…”
He sighs again, face falling flat before rubbing at the bridge of his nose.
Good job, really making your boss like you, now! “But, um, I’m really glad to meet you and, uh, eager to get started!” You try to recover, smiling brightly. “Just tell me what to do to help.”
Ross still eyes you uncertainly, but whatever he sees must be good enough. “Your primary job is to tend to this request list.” He motions to the log on the counter. “Members of the dedicated police force will put in requests for materials, all you have to do is find the material- a book or casefile, most likely, then deliver it to them.”
You look closer at the log- and try not to react to seeing nearly a full page of unfulfilled requests. Only one person had been in the entire time you’d been waiting… how… long has he been avoiding doing these? And… You flip though the pages, shouldn’t they just be checked out like a normal library…?
“When you take the item to them, make sure they sign both this log again and the card in the case’s sleeve, so if it goes missing we know who had it last.” Ross taps the log, emphasizing the signature line.
“O-okay. I can handle this.” You nod, the reassurance more for yourself than for his sake. Predictably, he raises one eyebrow at you. “It’s just deliveries, right? And signatures.”
Ross tips his head but ultimately sighs. “Yeah. It ain’t rocket science, I’m sure you’ll figure it out. If you manage to get through all of them, just clean up the library.” He waves dismissively towards the room in general. “If you need help, I’m working on appraising the collection in the east storage room.”
He says it like it means anything to you, but at least you have a way to find him… You’d just have to ask around to find out where the east storage room is.
“Yeah… I can do that.” You nod again and look at the list. First up on the list, Rita Phillips, Citizen Soldiers, 2/19/98, 1st Fl. W. Office. Already a few days old… but okay, not too bad, you got a name and the room and the title- “How is the library laid out? Like, where would I find…?”
You look up- just in time to see the door open, Ross’s long coat almost getting caught in the door as he slams it behind him.
Finding the book does take some time, but as you had already explored the library a little, you’d had some rudimentary understanding of the layout- which had entirely ignored any semblance of an organization system you had seen before. But, after a bit of searching, you allowed yourself behind the counter and sat at the library’s computer. The search function was rudimentary, but good enough to confirm the general subject matter: military nonfiction and the author’s name.
From there, it wasn’t too hard to find the correct shelves, thankfully organized alphabetically by author.
The most stressful part was returning to the main hall- now even louder with the midday bustle. But you carried the book, the sign-out sheet, and had confirmed that the checkout sheet inside the book was still there. You mustered all the confidence you could and marched back out- out and immediately back down the stairs.
Your voice shook pathetically when you asked the desk sergeant where the first floor west offices were, but he seemed to be too busy to pay much attention. He just pointed off to the side towards a closed door, the blinds drawn. Your hands trembled, but you remind yourself you’re getting paid to be here and enter the room.
It was, thankfully, offices. With all the commotion of officers going about their jobs, nobody even looked up when you entered. All you had to do was find the desk labeled Phillips. Officer Phillips was confused, but extremely thankful that her request had finally been fulfilled.
It went on like this- struggling to find what had been requested, struggling to figure out where to take it, but most of the recipients being overjoyed that- in their words- “they finally had a records manager.” You kinda felt bad for Ross. Maybe he really was caught up in some big project and just needed the help…
Regardless, your day continued in this manner for some time. You managed to get through a half dozen requests before you got to Aiken, Case #971220-3, 2/23, STARS. You blink at it a few times, immediately having three distinct issues.
One, no first name? Probably not an issue once you figure out what office they’re in, but two, what was stars supposed to be? You squint at it, roll it around in your head. An acronym? It didn’t look like any police unit you’d ever heard of. Did they mean stairs? Was there a stairwell office?
While neither of these issues were a great start, the third was the most problematic. You hadn’t yet seen any case files. Everything before had been books from the library itself, not the actual police records. You twist your lips and circle the library again- this time settling on that door behind the checkout counter.
It still feels wrong to go behind the counter, but with little other options, you should at least be able to explore your own workplace… right? You try not to be so afraid just from touching the door handle, but the threat of reprimand makes your stomach tense. The handle barely moves, the door locked.
Of course it is. But… it has to be where the case files are. There’s nowhere else that you can think of. So, you again turn to the counter and the little desk behind it. The back of the counter is messy, stacked with papers dated from two weeks ago, but nothing helpful on top. The top drawer however is full of random office supplies- pencils and pens and ink and extra pads of checkout slips. And on top of it all is a tiny little set of keys.
Taking them feels worse than just being behind the counter, but… when the first key fits the door perfectly, all you feel is relief. You make a mental note to relock the door and leave the keys exactly where you found them- as soon as you’ve done your job.
Which is significantly easier here than out in the library. The room is split into two sections, one side with nothing but rows of file cabinets, each labeled neatly by half decade, and the other is towering racks filled with white boxes, each labeled with EVIDENCE. The cabinets give you another big clue: the file number starts with the year, so you spend less than two minutes rifling through the “1995-” cabinet before you hit the #97s, and finally exactly what you’re looking for. You double check the case’s label against the request log twice just to be sure.
Next, though, was the more nerve wracking part. Stars? You repeat the thought over and over, pleading with the scribbled request to impart some new knowledge. It doesn’t, of course, so you have to take the worst option: exiting the library anyway.
At least you don’t have to chase down anyone; officers on their breaks seem to love leaning on the railings along the main hall’s second floor. The first one who doesn’t seem like he’d immediately execute you for bothering him is chewing gum loudly, his hands curled tightly into the banister as he smacks.
“Um, do you know a, uh, Officer Aiken?”
“Aiken?” He repeats, taking a deep breath and rubbing at his forehead, revealing a thin line of sweat. “Ain’t he with S.T.A.R.S.?”
“Um, yeah he must be- where, ah, where could I find him…?”
He blinks at you, then furrows his brow, like you couldn’t have asked a more obvious question. “Just… go left.” He points over your shoulder, then hooks his finger to the side. “It’s pretty obvious…”
Your cheeks burn, but you stumble through an apology/thank you slurry and quickly head towards the second floor hall.
Just… just go left.
You keep your head down, only glancing up as you pass a door on the right- but from the steam that slips under the door and the Showers placard, you’re pretty sure that isn’t it. The further you get down the hallway, the worse it feels, once again trespassing in the building. At the turn, you can finally exhale. Emblazoned on the side of the wall, the same insignia you had seen before… oh.on that man’s shirt.
Well. You chew your cheek for a minute and let the silent embarrassment pass by you. At least for its unintelligible placement, the hallway was essentially abandoned, giving you a moment to yourself. How could you have known the office was tucked back here anyway…?
You push through the door- and it is nothing at all like the detectives’ offices. It’s smaller, more cramped, desks shoved in back to back to back with equipment and personal belongings covering every wall. In an instant, everyone in the room had turned to look towards you. Your heart stutters, skips a beat in the horror of perception. Staring- they’re all staring- “Um,” You choke out, “R-records delivery…?”
“I’ll be damned, did Irons finally fire Ross?” A burly guy in the corner says.
“No, no,” You quickly say-
“But you’re new, aren’t you?” A younger man says, closer to the middle of the room.
“Well, yes-”
“Congrats,” The lady next to him says, “Welcome to R.P.D.”
“Who’s it for?” Another guy butts in, “Who’s got the first delivery from our new records keeper?”
“Um,” The words have fled your mind, thoughts themselves trembling as hard as your hands. The text on the log looks blurry, an impossible task to read, making you recall from memory. “Uh, Ai-, um, Officer Aiken?”
“Oh! I feel so honored,” Yet another man approaches the growing gaggle- and deftly snatches the file right out of your hands. “I wasn’t expecting this for another week at least.”
“Th- the log,” You croak out, pointing at the paper stuck to the top. Signature- you still need his signature and-
“Did anyone in records throw you a party?” The burly guy asks, then rubs at his graying beard as he mutters, “Man it’s been ages since we’ve had a party…”
“Nah, Barry, there’s no one in records besides Ross.” The young-looking one chimes in- before clapping you on the shoulders. You squeak at the sudden contact- makes you shrink away from him, but his enthusiastic greeting follows you. “I’m Chris Redfield, Alpha Team lead. And we’re going to throw you a welcome party.”
“Oh! You really do- don’t have to, it’s, um, I mean, I wouldn’t-”
Motion at the corner of your eye-- a door opens, the blinds swaying as someone steps into the room. “What exactly is going on out here?”
The atmosphere shifts in a breath. Every officer stands upright, smiles falling from their faces. All except for Redfield, whose smile only dims faintly. “Captain!” He greets, “This is the new records manager, we think a helpful new hire deserves a party.”
You turn, finally looking at him properly. And, oh, you’ve seen him before. This morning. He’s tall, even amongst this outstanding selection of human ability, he seems to hold himself higher, back ramrod straight, mouth a serious, grim slash across his features. Meticulously put together, not a wrinkle on his shirt, not a hair out of place in its combed-back style. But worst were his sunglasses- tiny reflections of your own slackjawed face echoing back at you.
“Is that so?” He says, one pale eyebrow arching over the dark lenses.
“Assistant manager,” you squeak out, a correction nobody seemed to notice. “A-and you really don’t have to. I’m, I’m not even part of your squad…”
The captain lifts his chin, seems to stare down his nose at you for a moment. “Aiken!”
“Yessir!” The man who took the file jumps, unprepared for his boss’s attention.
“When did you put in that file request?”
“Only three days ago, sir.”
“Hmm. You’ve been busy.” The captain tips his head, observing you behind those reflective lenses. Even with the mild praise, you want to melt into the ground, to seep between the floorboards and disappear from his scrutiny. “A competent file clerk is definitely a welcome change. Alright. Jill, keep Chris from going overboard. Everyone else, back to work.”
“Do you work tomorrow? I could have it set up by then.” Redfield says. It feels like cotton is filling your head, obscuring every sense that isn’t your acute awareness of his eyes still on you. You can only nod before Redfield is rushing back to his desk, pulling out a pad of paper and immediately jotting down ideas.
And just like that, the crowd around you has dispersed. You blink, finally breaking assumed eye contact with the captain to observe everyone else falling back into place. Like nothing had ever happened. The captain, however, has not returned to his desk. He steps closer- and as cramped as the office is, you have nowhere to go. “I’ll make sure Aiken gets that slip signed.”
He says it quietly, just for you. Your stomach clenches, knees wobbling at his closeness, at the lowness in his voice.
“Ah, thank you, um, sir?” The title is strange, not something you’ve really used before, but it feels weird to not use it.
The awkwardness of your attempt makes his lips twitch upwards. “Think nothing of it.” He offers his hand, “Albert Wesker.”
You introduce yourself then nervously meet his handshake. He has none of your nerves; his hand engulfs yours, swallows it entirely as he gives a firm, confident shake. “I um,” Your voice fails you the first try,“I should probably get back.”
“Of course.” Captain Wesker drops your hand, folding his arms behind his back. It only makes you more aware of your own unprofessional anxious nailpicking. “Timeliness from our records keeper has been sorely lacking; I don't wish to be the one to delay you.” He pauses- then that touch of a grin peaks on his lips again as he dips his head just so- and a half circle of icy blue, ringed by delicate, pale eyelashes rises over those dark lenses. “It was very nice to meet you.”
He may as well have shot you.
The glance leaves you breathless and dumb, only nodding your agreement. Your condition can't have been unnoticed, but mercifully he says nothing, only turns away and returns to his office. You stagger out of the room, never more thankful the library was so close to the S.T.A.R.S. office.
Please check out the second and third chapter of this fic if you see this reblog!!! Seriously, the writing and attention to character details is AMAZING. I cannot wait for more, love me some S.T.A.R.S wesker appreciation 🤤🤤🤤
jason todd who makes everything in your home kiss.
it starts with your toothbrushes.
when you wake up before him, groggy and yawning. rubbing at your eyes as you pad to the bathroom when you see it. both of your toothbrushes facing one another and touching at the bristles. part of you is grossed out by the germs, but the other part thinks it’s the cutest thing to just naturally happen.
but you didn’t know he’d meticulously placed them like that the night before, giggling to himself before he shut the door after him to sneak into bed.
when you finishing brushing your teeth, you move them apart, leaving yours on the other side of the ceramic cup.
though when you get home, there they were, kissing again.
he did it after washing the dishes too, setting aside your mug next to his and letting their handles touch one another like an inanimate lovers embrace. when he’d brew both of you coffee in the morning, he’d have the handles facing outwards and the mugs clinking together until you took yours. he wouldn’t even take a sip until you pulled them apart first, watching you drink over his own mug. glasses fogging up as he pretends to read and drink at the same time.
sometimes he’d take pictures of it like people do with their food at restaurants.
the front door that was littered with different pairs of shoes, he made sure were also in love. the inanimate objects touching the other pair close. he’d even take a shoe off on either side of yours, pressing your pair between his.
the teddy bears he won you at the fair were also not safe from this. especially while sitting on your bed, he makes them face one another and smooch with the arms of the bigger bear around the smaller one. sometimes he does it while you’re in bed. he moves them to the bedside table, being sure to squeeze them face to face again.
after a long day of work you walk into your bedroom with the bed still made and jason out on patrol. you plop onto the bed when you open an eye and huff at what he’s done. the jingling of his keys and the crinkle of takeout echoes through the apartment.
he calls out your name, “i’m home princess. where are you?”
“jason get in here,” you call from the bedroom, already standing up. when he gets there your arms are crossed and your looking back and forth from him to the bed. “what is this?”
you pointedly ask as he looks to where you were. blinking at him, you struggle to compose yourself and giggle too at the position he’d placed them in. the pink bear, that was supposed to be you, was bent over and the red one that was him was pressed up behind, mounting teddy bear you.
he genuinely blinks, “uh, two bears in love?”
he says it so seriously that you can’t help but burst out laughing.
“you’re so annoying,” throwing your head back and putting your hands on his chest as he crowds over you, staring.
that familiar hunger in his eyes that makes you feel like you feel all warm and fuzzy. the calculated kind of stare that told you that sleep was not longer at the forefront of your mind.
without realizing it, he walks you backwards until the backs of your legs hit the side of the bed. he gets you off balance just to press you against the mattress and leave his hands on both sides of your head. like a familiar dance, your arms wrap around his neck to pull him in even closer. jason smiles with that irresistible face of his that lets you know you’ll cave on whatever he says next.
shifting his eyes to the bears before training them back on your face, his grin spreads more.
jason todd and the snide little, "'fuck's wrong with you?" that comes out from under his breath if anyone bumps into you in the street, even if just by accident -
i imagine it's a busy day in gotham, an early morning or a late afternoon, sunny. and he's leading to or away from your work, a little bit brisk, too brisk, if only to get through the crowd a tad quicker. someone dings your shoulder, just barely, just enough to slip your rhythm and ripple through jason's hand when you're tugged back a step.
(one of those things that overlaps with being a vigilante -- his sensitivity to pace and proximity no matter the occasion , even in the broad of day, or during the softest moments with you.)
but he’s turning before you can register--first to you, to give you one of those, not-so-secretly-a-bat (nor quick) onceovers to check for any kind of collateral (then to tuck you back into the side of his coat)... then to put those big, new jersey canines on display in a sneer that says much more than he'll ever need to...
before finally pulling you forward again, like the city will move around him before he ever lets it move you, not letting it linger you single second longer.
anything about jason being a man of few words is propaganda. unless he’s exhausted, he’ll talk your ear off about the books he’s reading, his arguments with his brothers and teammates, the criminal operations he’s plotting on. he’s quick and witty, and has no qualms making fun of himself or you. you try your best to listen, honest — but sometimes you end up accidentally tuning him out. he’s not offended by this, don’t worry, and he’ll fuck off if you get overstimulated.
but, god help you, his talkativeness absolutely extends to the bedroom. you cannot tune him out then.
every word makes your face hotter, your moans louder. he gets off on it shamelessly. he’s constantly mouthing off, talking about how good you look, how good you feel, how good you are for him. you don’t have to do a thing, pretty, just let him do all the work. the definition of ‘talks you through it’.
“there she is, there’s my girl. so pretty f’me… god, baby, if you could see what i see. perfect little thing. i’d give you the moon, baby— s-shit, stop squeezin’ me like that. gonna make me cum too quick, like a goddamn virgin. if i wasn’t fuckin’ you stupid right now, you’d think that’s funny. what’s that now? ah, ah, ah? uh, uh, uh? sound so fuckin’ cute, baby…”
i don’t think he’s much of a moaner, honestly. i think he’ll grunt, occasionally groan, but the real kicker? he whimpers when he cums.
“shit, ‘m so fucking close. gonna give it to me? yes, you can, i know you can. c’mon, baby, you’re right there. i’ll rub your pretty clit— there you go. oh, i know, sweet girl. c’mon, be so good for me. there it is— fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck— mmph!”
the only time you can guarantee silence is when you’re basking in the afterglow. once he’s sure you’re clean and physically/mentally okay, he’ll pull you right back into him in bed. his favourite place to be is the crook of your neck. his lips will press a few sweet, soft kisses on your shoulder, but after that he just wants to lie there with you and breathe in your warmth.
I wonder what it was like sleeping with Leon once he came home, rejuvenated by Elpis. Cured, healed, literally de-aged.
His fixed posture is immediately noticeable when he holds you tight in his arms. His back is straight and not slightly leaning over you. His core feels much firmer. Before, you had to mind hugging him too tight or else he'd lose his balance.
Now he's a rock solid wall.
He kisses you like he's in his twenties again. He hoists you up effortlessly. No sound comes from his lips. No grunts of effort. Just tossed over his shoulder all casually.
He's unsarcastically rough with you. Not rough rough, but for a man his age, and of his health (as far as you knew) this was not your husband. You haven't been kissed this harshly, held this tight in years. You don't remember him getting it up this quickly since you were in your twenties.
He's needy, and he's on top of you, with no regard for his legs or back. The pounding between your thighs is relentless. One split second, you're filled to the brim, and the next, empty. And then you're full again before you process. And then you're empty. In. out. in. out. in. out. It's so fast, and for a change, you're clawing at his back, pleading him to slow down, when typically, it's the other way around.
Glimpses of your loving, gentle husband is still there as you're being fucked like a porn star. His hands grasp yours, his fingers curl around yours like he's holding a bundle of sticks, unable to be bothered to twine your fingers--his forehead dips just above yours to gently touch, and rub your noses together, giving your bruised lips a break.
Your hips are literally off the bed--he's lifting your hips and angling you. It's so overstimulating it's almost painful. He's fucking you like he hates you, but muttering to you like a confessional.
"I know, honey--I know, I know--I'm sorry--I'm sorry--I need you--fuck...--I need--"
You didn't even need your "assistance" that night. Postmenopausal hormones were pesky (and Leon had no problem lending you a hand. Or a wand.) but this was the first time you had not one, but a string of organic orgasms since your thirties.
"Come on, one more, honey... One more.."
Leon decides he'll tell you about Elpis once he's finished.
An angel gains it's wings every time Leon is written with an s/o his age. Ughhh I love the dynamic of it more than an age gap honestly. While I don't mind a TINY age gap, it's just so fitting for his girl or lover to be his age or even older!
hey, so basically I had a draft saved on my tumblr that was 1k words and I went to add some more just now and it's fucking gone. The fic i was writing for Albert, the one where reader is experimented on and made into a super human or whatever. Yeah. It's gone. 1k words. All gone.
I genuinely tried not to freak the fuck out. I refreshed, logged out, I even un-installed tumblr and reinstalled it. It's gone. Sooooo, I fucking hate everything right now and I'm trying very hard not to delete this app permanently. I know better than to not save my writing on a Google document first, but I didn't think about it this time around and now a 1k word fic is down the drain...
I'm gonna give myself a little time to cool off before I start writing the fic again, but genuinely tumblr. Fuck you dude. I'm so irritated and upset right now it's not even funny.
summary: after a mission goes wrong, leon finds himself stuck in a quiet safehouse with you, his younger partner who tries a little too hard to keep up. as the silence settles in, so do your doubts. but leon, ever observant, reminds you in his own quiet way that you were never a burden to begin with.
tags: re9!leon!agent!leon x younger!partner!reader | age gap, slow burn, hurt/comfort, protective leon, observant leon, soft leon, safehouse setting, post-mission tension, emotional vulnerability, reader overthinking, quiet intimacy, no confession (yet), hand holding, comforting hug, leon notices everything, mutual trust, understated feelings
The safehouse was supposed to feel like relief.
Instead, it felt like silence had teeth.
The mission had gone sideways hours ago—too many variables, too many things Leon couldn’t control—and now the both of you were holed up in a dim, half-abandoned structure that smelled faintly of dust and rust. A single flickering light buzzed overhead, threatening to go out at any second. Outside, the world was still dangerous. Inside… it was just quiet enough for your thoughts to get loud.
Leon stood near the window, one hand resting against the wall beside him as he scanned the perimeter for what felt like the hundredth time. His posture was rigid but familiar—shoulders squared, head slightly tilted, every muscle tuned to the possibility of danger. Even at rest, he wasn’t really resting.
You watched him from across the room, knees pulled slightly toward your chest as you sat on a worn couch that had definitely seen better days.
He looked… tired.
Not just physically. That kind of tired ran deeper. It was in the way he exhaled a little heavier when he thought no one noticed. In the way his grip lingered just a second too long on his weapon, like letting go wasn’t something he trusted himself to do.
You wondered how long he’d been like this.
And then, inevitably, your thoughts turned inward.
You were quieter than usual. He noticed that too.
Of course he did.
“Something on your mind?” Leon’s voice cut gently through the silence, low and steady, not looking at you yet—but fully aware.
You hesitated, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. “Just thinking.”
“Yeah?” he said, finally glancing over. His gaze softened the moment it landed on you. “Wanna share?”
There it was—that openness he didn’t offer easily to others.
You shook your head lightly. “It’s nothing.”
Leon stared at you for a second longer than necessary.
Then he pushed himself off the wall and walked over.
Slow. Careful. Like approaching something fragile.
“You’re a terrible liar,” he muttered, stopping a few steps in front of you.
You let out a quiet breath, something between amusement and defeat. “You’re one to talk.”
“Difference is,” he said, crossing his arms loosely, “I know when I’m doing it.”
Your lips pressed together, but your gaze dropped.
That was enough for him.
The shift in your demeanor—the way your shoulders curled in just slightly, the way your voice had lost its usual edge—Leon recognized it instantly. Not weakness. Not incompetence.
Just… weight.
And you were carrying too much of it.
He sighed softly, running a hand through his hair before lowering himself onto the couch beside you. Not too close at first. He gave you space—but not distance.
“You’re doing that thing again,” he said quietly.
You frowned a little. “What thing?”
“The ‘I’ll deal with it on my own’ thing.”
You didn’t respond.
Because he wasn’t wrong.
“It’s not your job to carry everything,” Leon continued, his voice gentler now. “You know that, right?”
A small, humorless laugh left you. “Kinda feels like it is.”
He turned slightly toward you, his expression more serious now. “Why?”
You hesitated, then shrugged weakly. “Because I’m the younger one. Because I’m supposed to keep up. Because if I don’t—”
“Hey.” His voice cut in, firmer this time.
You looked up.
Leon’s gaze had sharpened—not in anger, but in something protective. Something grounded.
“Don’t do that to yourself,” he said. “This isn’t some competition you have to win.”
Your throat tightened slightly. “Easy for you to say.”
He exhaled, softer now. “Yeah… maybe it is.”
There was a brief pause before he continued, quieter:
“But that doesn’t make it any less true.”
The room fell silent again, but this time it felt different. Less suffocating. More… held.
You stared at your hands for a moment before speaking again, voice smaller now.
“I just don’t want to slow you down.”
Leon blinked.
And then, very subtly, his expression changed.
Something almost incredulous crossed his face—like the idea hadn’t just surprised him, it had offended him a little.
“You think that’s what you are?” he asked.
You didn’t answer.
That was answer enough.
Leon shook his head, letting out a quiet breath before shifting closer—closing the space between you this time.
“Look at me.”
You hesitated, then did.
His eyes were steady. Warm, but firm.
“You’re not slowing me down,” he said. “If anything, you’re the reason I don’t completely lose my mind out here.”
Your brows knit slightly. “That’s… a lot of pressure.”
A faint smile tugged at his lips. “Didn’t say it was your responsibility. Just telling you how it is.”
Your chest felt tight again—but not in the same way as before.
Softer this time.
Quieter.
Leon studied your face for a moment, then his expression eased.
“C’mere,” he said gently.
This time, you didn’t hesitate.
You shifted closer, and he wrapped an arm around you, pulling you in against his side. His hold was steady, protective—but careful, like he was always aware of how much strength he had and how gentle he needed to be with you.
Your head rested against his shoulder, and for the first time since the mission went wrong, your body started to relax.
He noticed that too.
“See?” he murmured. “Not so bad, leaning on someone.”
“…Don’t get used to it,” you mumbled, though there was no real bite behind it.
He huffed out a quiet laugh. “Too late.”
His hand came up briefly, resting against the back of your head—not pushing, not forcing—just there. Anchoring.
Grounding.
“I’ve been doing this longer than you,” he added after a moment, voice quieter now. “Doesn’t mean I’m better. Just means I know what it feels like to think you have to handle everything alone.”
You stayed quiet, listening.
“You don’t,” he said.
A simple statement.
But it landed.
You shifted slightly, your hand brushing against his without thinking. For a second, neither of you moved.
Then his fingers turned—just enough to gently hold yours.
◇I don't really know where I'm going with this but I miss my evil man so I'm just gonna go with the flow and hope for the best. Im sorta in between picturing Al with either a fellow viroloist that he met when he was still with Umbrella, or a S.T.A.R.S medic that he slowly fell for and manipulated into staying with him after the events at the mansion. Whatever happens please enjoy!
Ps; ignore any grammar mistakes or misspelling I'm using my fossil of a tablet to write this lmfao ♡
✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩~
Having a relationship with Albert Wesker wasn't ever supposed to be easy. Some days more often than not, it's nearly impossible to gage how he truly feels behind his cold mask of detachment. If you're lucky enough to have caught his eye, you'll be up for a very confusing and chaotic ride.
First things first, I don't peg Albert as the type to develop feelings for someone based off of physical attraction/appearance. Of course, that plays a part of the bigger picture but he's been around many attractive people- Excella, Chris, Jill, Rebecca, etc- yet Albert seems almost entirely unbothered by something as trivial as sexual appeal or conventional attractiveness.
He'd be more intrigued by someone who's not only scarily intelligent, but also someone who can match his own level of superiority and ridiculously high expectations (he's a narcissist ofc he's gonna want a baddie who's more or equal to his level of evilness and self obsession). I'd say the more morally grey his partner is the better. You don't have to be a bioterrorist or anything, but I mean... come on? You gotta be okay or at least a little acomidating to his insane beliefs/behaviors lol.
Also, I hate to break it to my fellow sensitive peeeps out there but if you show any sign of being easily effected by others or 'overly emotional' for lack of a better word, he's not gonna dig that. I think especially in the beginning, he'd look for a more focused and clinically detached individual or someone who has 'thick skin'. He's gotta be able go say some horrible shit or else he won't stick around. Albert doesn't strike me as the kind of man to tolerate tears, honestly.
If you did happen to make it past the initial start of what will most likely never be officially stated as a relationship, he'll view you as even more of a suitable partner. I also personally think he wouldn't give a single fuck if you were jealous... like with the whole Excella thing in RE5, it'd be best if you simply trusted the fact that he's too emotionally closed off to even consider choosing another person.
That's not to say he'd be faithful out of kindness or compassion. No, no, no. He just wouldn't want to be bothered with trying to whoo someone else when he's already got his hands full with you (and global saturation). Albert would most likely be interested by the simple fact you make him feel human. It would irritate him and also turn him on. He's probably only ever had meager flames that never lasted long in the past, (for strictly manipulation purposes or just to handle stress) so having his emotions cling to him and grow for you will be something he looks at with scientific fasination.
Now, let's say further into your relationship you allow him to inject you with something to evolve you genetically?? you're getting wifed up. No but seriously, Albert would probably do so at some point with or without your permission. Like if he really wanted to experiment on you, he would. Not with G virus or T virus (the ones that make the big scary looking monsters), he'd likely effect you with a more mild dose of what he has just to start you off.
If you don't, yknow, die- Albert would only adore you more. He'd probably never say that he loves you, but he'd more likely say he adores you or something along those lines further into the relationship. If you took to the mutations well, he'd be thrilled inside. He might even consider upping the potency a bit more, or he might even create something new to infect you with. How freaking romantic is that guys? XD
I know some people might not enjoy these hc since I try to stay as true to Albert's character as possible, but I love that evil ass man okay? Like he is a horrible person, and he probably wouldn't even actually consider a relationship at all if we are being for real. He's trying to rule the world- or in his words, save it- and he doesn't display any signs of wanting someone by his side while he's doing so. Albert is totally a malignant narcissist in canon, so good thing this is fiction and I can write him however I want :p
Anyways, I might write something a bit spicer! I'm thinking of following up with a little ficlet about an s/o who takes to the viruses Albert injects and then they can be a super sexy evil badass with their man! Possibly some heated super human smut? Likeeeee Edward Cullan breaking the whole damn bed type beat?... anyone?... no?... oh OK.
Alrightttt I've been cooking up the following fic for this little blurb. Without saying too much I've decided on going with Albert x viroloist!reader who he has a long history with since Umbrella. The plot is basically just about him experimenting on reader and admiring the changes within them. It is going to be written with AFAB but!!! I will be keeping it as neutral and inclusive as possible for my POC as well as almost everyone else.
I wouldn't be opposed to potentially making something with AMAB for Albert if anyone is interested (im just a little lost with the anatomy part of that but im willing to try and better myself lol) This fic will be longer and eventually turn into some steamy superhuman smut at the end like I mentioned in the post above. I don't want to put too much of a time limit on myself since I do get writers block when I leave flow state, so I'll just be trying to get this fic out either this week or sometime this upcoming weekend!
I've also been super sick, so hopefully I don't have covid or else I'll be very upset :))))))
