Wesker never loses anything. Ever. He remembers where all of his possessions are with photographic memory.
He remembers every argument you’ve won against him. Not because he’s bitter, because statistically, there hasn’t been much.
Wesker reads instruction manuals recreationally. He doesn’t even need them. He just likes knowing more than the people who write them.
Wesker claims to dislike pets. “Unpredictable and rough,” he says. Then you catch him having a conversation with the cat when nobody is listening.
He reads over your shoulder constantly. It doesn’t matter what you’re reading. Recipe, paper, text message. If he’s in the vicinity, he’s reading it too.
Wesker will absolutely correct your posture with no warning. You will feel firm hands on your back and shoulders, straightening you out.
He once referred to your relationship as a ‘mutually beneficial cohabitation’. You haven’t recovered from this wording.
While on your girls’ trip, Wesker never admitted he missed you. Instead he called/texted to ask where you are with increasing specificity until you return.
Wesker does not understand the concept of ‘decorative’. Why do you need four pillows?
Wesker does not like leaving the lights on. If you turn them on again, he will stare at you intensely as he turns them off again.
Disclaimers: Gender Neutral reader, Wesker gets in your personal space, hes so creepy in this for some reason, everyone makes excuses for him, potentially a series because I feel like Albert would get WAY worse post betrayal, this oneshot is just a taster fr
In short: your shooting accuracy has gone down by a smidge, giving a certain someone the perfect opportunity to spend time with you. Everyone thinks it's cute, you think it's starting to get concerning
I figured I needed to spice up my Resident Evil masterlist so this is a GREAT shout <3
I decided to go for a pre-betrayal Albert Wesker, when he was working for S.T.A.R.S. as the Captain. But should this oneshot do well, I'm totally already planning like two chapters for this already :]
Idk if I got his voice ngl. He's like, if squidward was British and smart and sparky, idk
If you are interested in a continuation, I am happy to commit to making this a 3 part series. So maybe leave a comment, I'll tag you in the next part! The leather daddy will come soon...
Hope you enjoy pooks!!!
IF YOU ARE UNDER THE AGE IF 18 YEARS OLD PEOPLE DNI
~◇~
"Ninety-six point four percent."
Jill leaned over your shoulder in the S.T.A.R.S. breakroom, tapping the edge of your qualification printout with a smirk. "Careful. At this rate, the Captain might actually have to do his job and evaluate you."
Chris, leaning against the coffee machine, chuckled into his mug. "Oh, please. Albert’s probably already clearing his schedule. He’s going to use this as an excuse to spend another two hours alone with his favorite specialist."
"It's getting ridiculous," Brad chimed in from the corner. "If any of us dropped a few points, we'd get a memo. You drop below ninety-eight, and suddenly it's a mandatory one-on-one seminar. I think it’s his weird, robotic way of asking you on a date."
A chorus of lighthearted agreements echoed in the room. They thought it was endearing.
To the rest of the team, Albert Wesker was a strict, unreadable wall of ice, and his hyper-fixation on you was just a professional crush—a rare, almost charming crack in his armor.
They didn't understand. They didn't feel the weight of his attention.
You forced a tight smile, folding the printout and shoving it into your pocket. It didn't feel like just a crush.
Every time he looked at you, you felt like a specimen pinned to a board. The way he curated your schedule, the way he managed your partnerships, the way he always seemed to know exactly where you were in the RPD. It was more suffocating than romantic.
And you knew, with absolute certainty, what was coming next.
It wasn't too long before the intercom on your desk buzzed. "Report to the basement firing range. Bring your sidearm."
The dread settled over you like a lead blanket. The RPD basement was always cold, but the chill that crept up your spine as you walked down the echoing concrete stairwell had nothing to do with the temperature. By the time you pushed open the heavy acoustic doors of the range, your palms were sweating.
Wesker was already there.
He stood in the center of lane three, entirely still, illuminated by the harsh fluorescent lights. His sunglasses reflected the sterile white glow of the room, it made it impossible to read him. He didn't turn to look at you as you approached, yet he spoke the second the door clicked shut.
"Ninety-six point four percent." His voice was smooth, cultured, and utterly devoid of warmth. "A disappointing display."
"It was a long shift, Captain," you said, stepping up to the partition and drawing your Samurai Edge, placing it on the bench. You tried to keep your voice steady. "My arms were tired. It won't happen again."
"No. It won't."
He stepped into your lane. The range was built for one shooter per partition, but he had anyway invaded the space. The scent of his expensive cologne and cold leather completely enveloped you, wiping out the smell of gun oil and ozone.
"Pick up the weapon."
You did as you were told, raising the gun and aiming down the sights at the paper target thirty feet away. You were acutely aware of him stepping up directly behind you.
"Your failure isn't physical," Wesker stated, his tone purely clinical, like a professor diagnosing a failing project. "It is a lack of focus."
Before you could respond, his hands were on you.
He didn't ask for permission. He stepped in so close that the solid wall of his chest brushed against your shoulder blades. The black leather of his gloves creaked softly as his left hand settled on your waist, gripping your hip with an iron-like firmness to violently correct your posture.
You flinched. The contact was entirely too intimate, yet his movements were strictly mechanical.
"Center of gravity, forward," he commanded.
His right hand reached up, wrapping entirely over both of your hands on the grip of the pistol. His fingers were freezing through the leather, pressing your digits tighter against the metal. You were completely trapped between the firing line and his body.
"I reviewed the precinct security footage today," Wesker said, his voice dropping to a low, quiet hum right beside your ear. "You spent thirty-four minutes in the breakroom."
The dread that had been pooling in your stomach spiked into pure, unfiltered anxiety.
"You are compensating for the recoil before the hammer even strikes," his voice continued, entirely unbothered by the sudden rigidity of your posture. You could feel the subtle shift in the air as he breathed. "Just as you are allowing your attachments to this team to compromise your potential."
Your breathing grew shallow, and a fine tremor ran up your forearms. You wanted to pull away, to tell him this was highly inappropriate.
But you didn't.
You stayed put.
You locked your jaw and aggressively compartmentalized the situation. Because causing a fuss would undoubtedly get you fired, or worse, shunned by the only unit you cared about.
He's just adjusting my grip, you told yourself, staring rigidly at the paper target, desperately trying to ignore the heat of his chest against your back. He's a control freak. He just wants the team's metrics to be flawless. It's strictly tactical. He's just trying to help.
"They're my teammates, Captain," you managed to whisper, though your excuse sounded pathetic even to your own ears.
Wesker paused. His hands stilled over yours. Even through the heavy fabric of your uniform, he could feel the sudden, rigid tension in your muscles. He could feel the erratic, shallow rise and fall of your chest against his forearm.
"They're distractions," he corrected smoothly.
His left hand slid from your hip up to your ribs, his thumb brushing a fraction of an inch below your tactical vest, a touch far too possessive for a commanding officer. "They make you complacent. They make you drop to ninety-six point four percent."
He leaned in a fraction of an inch closer. The cold rim of his sunglasses grazed the side of your temple.
"You are agitated," he noted softly, feeling the tremor in your forearms. "Because you know I'm right."
Your scoff was interrupted by the sudden pressure of his hand squeezing your own, forcing your finger to apply pressure to the trigger.
"Cancel your plans with Valentine on Friday," he commanded, his tone dropping to a velvet whisper that offered no room for disobedience. "You will be here, with me, running tactical simulations until your accuracy returns to flawless."
Your frantic mental compartmentalization shattered. The demand was too far over the line, too blatantly possessive to brush off as strict leadership.
"That's off the clock, Albert," you pushed back, the use of his first name slipping out in your sudden panic. You tried to lower the weapon, pushing back against his chest to break the cage of his arms. "You can't dictate my personal time."
He didn't budge. He didn't even shift his stance.
Instead, he merely tightened his hold, his freezing fingers completely locking yours around the grip of the gun. He effortlessly overpowered your attempt to lower it, pinning your arms back into the firing position.
"There is no 'off the clock' when you are my investment," he corrected smoothly, the vibration of his voice rumbling against your back. "You belong to this unit, which means you answer to me."
"I'm not doing this. Let me—"
"Focus."
He didn't let you finish. His strength entirely overrode yours as he made the choice for you, pulling the trigger. The gunshot was deafening in the enclosed space. The bullet struck dead centre of the target's head.
The sudden recoil jerked your arms, but Wesker absorbed the shock entirely, holding you perfectly steady.
You were gasping for air, the sharp smell of gunpowder burning your lungs. You tried to step forward, desperate to put space between you, but his left hand slid from your ribs to press flat across your stomach, anchoring you firmly back against the solid wall of his chest.
"Do we have an understanding?" he asked quietly, keeping your hands wrapped around the smoking gun, holding it steady in the ringing silence of the room.
You stared at the fresh bullet hole in the paper target's skull. Your throat felt incredibly tight.
The sheer, brazen audacity of what he had just done left you paralyzed in shock. He had just physically overpowered a subordinate officer to forcibly discharge a live firearm, a severe, highly illegal violation of every precinct protocol.
Yet, he held you with absolute, chilling confidence. He wasn't worried about complaints or repercussions. The terrifying realization washed over you that he could do this so openly because he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he owned the narrative entirely.
"...Yes, Captain," you whispered.
His hand slowly released your stomach, stepping back just enough to give you the terrifying illusion of freedom.
also a bunch of REs. Suddenly a nasty russian dude joined the monsterfucking party. (NSFW text)
Translations if you needed:
1) Let's fuck
3) Nem: *makes slurping sounds imitating kissing*
Leon: man...
4) I was told the most beautiful Tyrant escaped the lab -
5) -WHAT THE?
- didn't turned you in.
Hey, get a rest from a job
8) I want cheburek
