#albert wesker nsft

[residentthot]

Asking the Resi Men to wear their gloves during sex 👀

Chris

He would chuckle a little, slightly surprised at your request. He doesn’t quite understand the appeal but he thinks it’s hot that you’re so turned on by the idea.

He would run his hands all over you enthusiastically and turn it into a sensory experience. The feeling of the leather against your skin is soft and supple, and his heart races when he sees the goosebumps left all over your skin from it. He would pay extra attention to your nipples, seeing how hard he could make them and how long he could torture you with little flicks and soft pinches before you begged him for more.

Leon

Immediately understands the assignment. He teases you as he slowly pulls on his fingerless gloves, and takes his time adjusting the leather to make sure he has free range to move all of his fingers without resistance. It’s almost like he’s getting ready for a fight, and when he looks at you and his eyes go dark you know you’re past the point of no return.

He would be a little rougher. Tugging on your hair and sticking his fingers in your mouth so you could taste the salt of his digits mixed with the base of his gloves.

As he thrust into you from behind, he’d grab a handful of your hair and tug, leaning in to talk to you in between huffs- “…You really like the gloves, huh? Does it remind you of when I’m on missions, taking control and being in charge?” All you could do is whine at that point.

Wesker

He noticed the way your eyes glossed over every time he was wearing his shiny black gloves, and it made the wheels in his head turn. As soon as you suggested it, he was on the same page.

He would grip your chin roughly, and force your eyes to meet his. He would tut at you a little bit, and make fun of you for being obviously aroused by this. And when it came time, he would insert his fingers into you, thoroughly enjoying the way your slick juices coated the shiny material and made for easier fingering. It wouldn’t take long for you to completely come undone under Wesker’s ministrations.

Luis

He’s the one who suggested it 😂. He always wants to try new things and experiment, and this was no different. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about it before (in detail…).

He’d use his gloved hands to hold your wrists above your head as he kissed all over your face and breasts sweetly. He wouldn’t be able to resist putting a digit or two in your mouth, and he’d be shaking by the time he used his gloved fingers to rub you to completion.

[silna-pdf]

Can you draw Wesker and the homie William hitting one of those 6ft bongs & getting high out of their mind? 😇

Cannot pass this one up gen, this one is for my people

[destinationtrekk]

big ole nsfw 👀 but… ((u don't have to answer if u don't want to))

What would Wesker’s reaction be to his partner squirting for the first time?

okay okay okay, you got me. huge nsfw below the cut - afab-reader, fingering, squirting (obvs), overstimulation, praise, oral (fem receiving)

18+ MDNI

the first time he does it is absolutely an accident. he's had a long day (week, month, year - being evil is hard!) and wants to toy with you until even he can't think anymore.

you have definitely not told him squirting was something he could make you do (if you even knew you could) so it takes him completely by surprise. your slick is dripping down his wrists, the sheets are soaked, so is his chest, and he just... freezes

you're mortified, you can't even speak. your eyes are locked on him waiting for... something. he doesn't speak, or make a sound - he isn't even looking at you. his eyes are locked on where you're squeezed tight around his fingers, dripping wet, and this is when he stops thinking and something clicks into place

he's immediately all over you, squeezing your waist and leaving wet hand prints all over you - he's obsessed with the way the light is bouncing off both of your wet skin. he's kissing you near violently, biting your lip and groaning and asking how he did that and how he needs it to happen again, right now

he's telling you how hot it was, how you're so good for him, warm and leaking all over his hands and his, you and your pussy belong to him, he's going to wring you dry until you can't keep your eyes open and you're begging him to stop, sweetheart

of course it does not take more than a few minutes of him fingering you again for him to very accurately figure you out. he's observant, and very familiar with human anatomy, so he drills that spot inside you until it hurts, and you're crying out and squirming under his hands. he urges you on, sucking your clit and murmuring how sweet you taste. between his hot mouth on your clit and biting your thighs and licking around his own fingers, his mouth is filthy - this is one of the times he just can't shut up about he adores you and your body

in no time at all he has you soaked again, this time it's all over his face too, dripping down his neck and over his collarbones, and all you see when you look down are his glowing red eyes and a disastrous smile

this is going to be a long night

[tiredsurvivoronmain]

The captains are having a private meeting in the office...

[RE8 Chris x RE1 Wesker] Alternative version:

[gothghostiie]

Mmmm. Wesker fucking you while you’re half awake and you cum so good you go back to sleep, he cleans you up and in the morning he gaslights you into thinking it was just a dream because he’d never do that to you :(

cw: somno, dubcon, gaslighting

he's such a sneaky bastard. he comes to bed after staying in his study for too long, hard and desperate. you're half awake when he slips under the covers, big, warm hands feeling you up and sliding into your underwear, pulling it down. he whispers soothing words into your ear, telling you to go back to sleep, it's okay doll. just let him do what he needs to do.

you just moan softly when he pushes inside you, not really awake but not asleep either. he rocks his hips into you lazily, rubbing your clit/jerking you off while sucking on your neck and god, you cum hard from this. maybe it's the sleepiness, maybe something else but it's heavenly.

he cums inside you, pulling out and gently cleaning you up before going to sleep, finally. the next morning you're all giddy, cuddling and kissing up to him, telling him he could've just woken you up - just for him to frown and tell you he doesn't know what you're talking about. touching you in your sleep when you're all helpless and vulnerable? he'd never do something like that to you pet :(((

[teratophallia]

This is becoming quite an inconvenience for Wesker... Enjoy some cropped bondage Uroborus. Wanna see the full image? Check out my Twitter (18+ Only)

[nshtn]

Doctor Wesker has run plenty of experiments on his patients for the sake of science. You, once his patient and now his charge, are caught in the maelstrom of an intense obsession and Progenitor's effect on his finer palate of emotions.

The latest experiment is just how far he can take you when he calculates your interests and collaborates your desires.

You're such a good, good subject, prime for research, aren't you?

1.9k, tags: medical - medplay;gloves;labcoat;dubious science experiments;medsker - xreader oneshot;crack, nsft - blood;biting/marking;dom wesker sub reader;edging;facefucking;light sadomasochism;overstim;praise;restraints, PWP/gn reader. i think im ovulating help

You moan, arching pathetically as Wesker’s tongue licks an experimental stripe across your sex. You’re tied and leaking onto his tongue, humiliated by your eager reaction after so many months without stimulation. It had taken so little to get you to this state.

Wesker found you such a fascinating subject. He knew you were attracted to him – he knew the way your gaze dragged down his features when you thought he wasn’t looking, how you’d privately admire his body when his eyes swept with preoccupation across paperwork. You’d flexed your fingers when they wrapped around his forearm when he helped you up days ago. You averted your gaze when his face was too close to yours when you’d nearly bumped into him, once, and he smelled the tide of your pheromones wash over him.

He could read you like a book, but could he draw the prize of your ultimate affections across his face?

It had taken due effort on Wesker’s part to learn about what it was you prized in sex. You were quiet and reserved even if you couldn’t hide your body’s microexpressions. Your physiology revealed things you had no idea it did, things he’d never admit he could read – like how, when your hands found his face early in your relationship and you let your thumbs find their place in the hollows of his cheeks to stare into his red-rimmed eyes, thick with unspoken emotion, your breath caught and your thighs went taut. But it wasn’t the if – he’d solidified that – it was the how that was the forensic mystery.

Admittedly, you were also terribly cute. A devil, really.

A languid, slower stroke rolls across the tip of you, slick with your own juices, before he curls his tongue around it harshly, flicking, tugging. You let out a whimper and roll your hips a little. He tightens his gloved fingers in response, calculated, and you feel his well-trimmed nails dig into the meat of them even through the black nitrile. It’s so deliberate it’s a different kind of sin than aimless lust; this was aimed, pinprick and target-locked.

That was alright – the mystery was part of the fun, the chase for something he never thought he’d find a curiosity in. When he finally walked in on you one night he was given all the information he needed to attempt his experiment: he supposed it should’ve been obvious – if you were attracted to him, and you associated him with playing the role of the doctor, that’s what you’d want, right?

Because that’s what you’d been watching.

He offered you the real thing. You looked at him like he offered you Narnia and tore the stars down all in one. The look in your eyes – a savory, delicious mixture of surprise, lust and shame – made even him stir. He had to consciously bite back the clearing of his throat, the flare of his nostrils. How inappropriate of him – trite. Control.

“Curious how you make me lack it,” he waxes silkily from his position between your thighs, one hand moving to your wrists – which were ziptied together with two tangled admission bracelets he’d perfected and printed off as set dressing – to tug them down, to muffle himself on his own terms, nose jutting against you. He pressed the flat of his tongue down and drenched it in you before returning to lap at you a little faster.

You corkscrew on him, trying to restrain your movement. “What?” You sound dazed, drunk off the high of it all, and he finds it intoxicating. It’s one thing to read about these things or hear them in isolation – it’s another altogether to wring them from such a pliant patient.

You don’t know what he means, do you? Too deep beneath the waves that swell in the center of you to catch the rocks, he guesses. The hand on your wrists leaves to press itself flat on the underside of your ass, grasping and squeezing and pushing you up a little and off him. He drinks in both the sight of your slick stringed against his tongue and a breath. “Control. You make me lose control,” he finalizes, and then he takes you into his mouth and sucks a little too hard and a little too fast to punctuate his cause: you.

You yelp and try to wriggle away from the sudden overstimulation, but he doesn’t let you. Suddenly, you feel the extent of his strength bearing down on you, keeping you close as you flounder and gasp, sharp tip of his nose bumping up against the tuft of fur at the base of you as his tongue purrs.

You swear, then, that it’s not just his tongue; you swear with all of you that it’s his entire body, emanating from the core of him. But you have no time to figure it out as he takes and takes and drinks his fill of you, the sinful echo of his adoration drowned out by the drone of your blood pumping loud in your ears.

Even without the wanton ambiance, you can’t help how you buck against him feverishly, now, seeking further contact, your muscles roiling against your will to keep them still. He chuckles low and reverentlessly between you, and you can’t help but let a string of expletives drool from you as you fight against the tide of pleasure that threatens to consume you.

Or maybe it’s him who’s consuming you, all around you, his deft, exploratory tongue far too rough and quick to contend with against the boiling, claiming heat in your abdomen. “F-Fuck, Wesker, I—” you groan, muscles tightening. It’d be painful if you weren’t so preoccupied.

Wesker pulls away, then, leaves you stranded. You curse even more. His tongue retracts, clicks against his perfect teeth. You can’t find the shame in you, buried alive in the need for stimulation as he cages your hips with his hands again to force you still. You growl a little. “I’ve been nothing but giving, haven’t I?” His voice, though deep and reverberating through your ligaments from the lean of his cheek into your leg, is playful.

“Can’t I take a little?”

It’s not a question. It’s a statement, and you know it, even in your haze. “Please?” you beg, trying your hand. You have none to bear. In your frustration, you pout.

“Poor little fly,” Wesker says, slow, breath hot and settling against your twitching sex. You swallow your placation as he continues, “regretting the spider’s parlor, hm?” The chuckle he gives is darker than the last as if he truly savors having you trapped like this. Maybe he does. Maybe it’s not some kind of roleplay anymore. As your sex adjusts to the lack of stimulation, your cheeks flood with crimson embarrassment, no less red than the strong bathe of it out of his lidded eyes.

Each blink envelops your thighs in darkness when they torpidly drift shut – before you steep in it again as they snap open. You can tell what direction he’s looking, whether he’s focused on you or not, by the way the light falls on your naked body.

His labcoat is ruined.

You moan a little again, despite yourself, and you follow it up with a piteous, stirring whimper, incredulous at your own reaction to something so godforsaken and filthy. “N-No, I don’t regret it,” you say, testing the water. “—you,” you correct, then stumble over your vulnerability.

“A—ah!” Whatever you were going to add is stolen in the nitrile glove that rubs up and down, suddenly, stroking you and making you shake a little, abruptly very, very perceptive to the sensitivity. Protest dies in your throat when he presses his thumb flat in soothing little circles that pop with pleasure, your hips leaning into the contact tentatively.

“I should really write a paper on you,” he says, flaring his nostrils. You smell amazing like this… you’re starting to get to him. “like I said I would.” You hear his tongue flit out and your gaze curiously drifts down in your stupor. “Eyes away. It’s no surprise if you’re peeking,” he chides, and as if robotic, you snap your chin up, mumbling incoherently. He hums at that, a satisfactory sound that thrums deep where you need it to.

God, Wesker needs to commemorate this. He can’t help it anymore. He wishes he could keep you suspended like this… but eventually you’ll both need water and food. How piteous, the human body; how piteous, his mind, for letting him get so carried away.

This was bad science.

This must be against the oath, and it’s certainly against doctrine, but he can’t stop himself.

Without warning, you feel his teeth sink into the inside of your right thigh and you careen away from the wickedness of it even though it makes you dizzy with lust. You don’t expect the sensation: almost every tooth but six at the front are sharp, like canines, and he’s not gentle or sparing, sucking his claim of you in your supple flesh like a brand until he feels hot red drip from his lips and mar his chin. Only then does he pull away, admiring his work. You hear his breath: it runs ragged and deep, affected unmistakeably. This has turned him on.

He’s a bit of a sadist, then, isn’t he? But right now, with all the hormones pumping through you, you’re masochistic enough. You can handle it. You’re a good little patient. You taste so good, so sweet, a forbidden fruit. A sudden, heavy, sex-drunk thought hits him: what is love, if not taking a bite out of something, feeling the weight of it in your mouth and the copper of it sliding down your throat?

You pulse with the pain of it, a feeling distorted into pleasure by the natural opiate he’s dragged to your receptors. You manage to find purchase and grind down on his face, finally, and he doesn’t stop you. Instead, he lets a mangled groan tear free and his forearms wrap around your thighs, forcing you down on his face while he sucks and licks and swirls, head bobbing, utilizing what he’s learned from the entire experiment to bring you to a boiling crescendo.

You cum crying Wesker’s name in stuttered, puffing, swollen gasps as you buck against his face and cover him in you. It’s such a beautiful sight and he doesn’t want it to end, filling the void in him with ego at how he makes you keen and cry for him. You are so beautiful that it burns his skin; he’s flushed, cheeks rosy in your name, so uncharacteristically affected by your display that the contrast sustains both of you. He sinks his mouth onto you and forces the last vestiges of your orgasm from you with no mercy, and you writhe in his unrelenting grasp.

You stop slowly, then, aftershocks rolling over you as he, too, ceases the brutal assault, though he lets you up off him only fractionally as if in warning of what brews beneath a surface cohesion.

Your breathing slows down as you catch yourself, slowly fading back into reality, body drooping a little. You feel a fuzz caress the edges of your vision. “T-Thank you,” you say, sheepishly, as your faculties return to you. Did he enjoy it? Did you do well enough? It swims through you, suddenly conscious.

There’s a thoughtful, impolite hum from him, as if considering something, which interrupts your mounting train of thought. You cock your head a little, sighing, hair damp… why hasn’t he moved away yet?

He sounds deeply phased and disorderly when he speaks again, breath hot and heavy and a head full of excuses primed to crumble any semblance of your resolve. “I think… I think I’ll need more data than that.”

[hellshire-harlot]

Father of Serpents | Albert Wesker x Reader Halloween Special

Taglist: @gothghostiie @weskie @destinationtrekk @nomansgunssmoke

The stone altar beneath you is cold, bitterly so, sapping the warmth from your bare skin.

Despite your best efforts, you can’t escape the cruel fetters keeping you bound. Spread-eagle, chained to the slab of granite, you can’t help but writhe, desperate to evade your inevitable fate. It seems like so long ago that you were snatched from the dim street, dragged to this unknown place of shadows and ominous reliefs carved into the stone walls, thrown in a cell to wait. But it hasn’t even been a day; you’d wager the sun hasn’t even risen yet. After all, what better time to perform a ritual sacrifice than on All Hallow’s Eve?

You know you’re being sacrificed, of course. For what other reason would a cabal of silent, hooded men abduct you, strip you naked, and bathe you in rose-water & honey milk? For what other reason would they drag you sobbing and pleading to a stone altar in the center of a spacious sanctum and tie you to it?

Your chest heaves, your lungs unable to get a full breath between your terrified sobbing. You’ve long since given up pleading for your life. You’d done all you could think of- promised not to tell, offered them your money, and when they ripped off your clothes you did your best to play along, thinking your kidnappers were going to simply fuck you and move on. Nothing so far has worked. None of them has even whispered a word. As they washed you in their ceremonial bath, their hands pouring the water all over you and carding through your hair, they never pulled or groped, only touched to clean you. In the beginning, when you had more energy, you struggled and kicked and hit all you could, and one of them evidently had had enough. He’d struck you, a vicious backhand that left your ears ringing and a cruel mark on your cheek.

For whatever reason, the others seemed angry that he had hit you. They led him away, and one turned your face side to side as if to check the damage. Now that you lay on the frigid stone that grows warmer only because your flesh is bound to it, you understand why they cared at all, and it only makes you weep harder.

They didn’t want their lamb to be bruised before the slaughter. It would ruin the meat, wouldn’t it?

Tears stream down your temples as a handful of the cultists circle you. You rest your head against the small cushion beneath it and bite your lip. You don’t want to give them the satisfaction of your terror, but you can only do so much. Your heart pounds as you scan them for weapons. You expected a sacrificial dagger or ceremonial blade, one designed to rip your heart from your chest or cleave your head from your shoulders. But none of them carry any weapons that you can see. Poison, then? Drowning? Smothering? There are many ways they could kill you that don’t involve marring your skin. Your stomach fills with dread as the visions of yourself vomiting blood, writhing beneath a pillow over your face, thrashing against arms that hold your head underwater, parade before your mind. You can only desperately pray for your death to be swift and painless.

As the cultists form a ring around your prone form, you ball your hands into fists and brace yourself. Throat hoarse from screaming and crying, you nonetheless summon your voice once more, a last, desperate plea for salvation. “Please, don’t hurt me,” you beseech, “I- I don’t want to die. Please.”

None of them respond, or even indicate that they’ve heard you. You close your eyes tight, another despairing sob tearing from your chest. I’m going to die here.

You only open your teary eyes when a voice that is not your own echoes throughout the sanctum. “Hac nocte noctes,” a deep-voiced man intones, the words unknown to you but their meaning ominous all the same. You haven’t heard someone speak other than yourself since this ordeal began, and it startles you. Your eyes snap open and you watch as the cultist who spoke raises his arms in prayer, and you glance to the side, heart stopping as you look upon the tens of cultists who now fill the chamber. All of them bow before the altar, heads lowered in prayer, and echo the mantra started by the man near you. Hac nocte noctes.

Another continues, and you can’t differentiate the voices in your terrified state. “Ad te vocamus” and the acolytes follow as your eyes dart around frightfully. You can’t stifle a nervous whimper. You wish you understood what they’re saying.

Vocate nos Patrem Serpentium

Something about snakes, you think? Are they trying to summon some snake-demon out of myth to swallow you whole?

Sicut serpans caudam suam devorat

Bare, spread open like a flower on the altar, you wish you could cover yourself. You try as best you can, grunting as you struggle against the chains around your ankles, but you can’t hide your flushed crotch from view. You hate the way the attention makes you involuntarily heat up.

Tibi hanc oblationem damus

The air around you feels colder than ever. The meager wetness gathering in your core chills, further sapping your body’s warmth. You can feel eyes all over your bare flesh, but with each cultist’s face hidden, you can’t tell if they’re actually looking at you or not. Do they gaze upon your helpless form with unadulterated lust? Do they long to sink their teeth into you and fuck you until you haven’t the strength to say no any longer? Or do they simply size you up like the butcher does his sow? You wish you could say for sure.

In reditu nihil petimus

Half-heartedly, you wonder what god you’re being offered to. Satan? Baphomet? Leviathan? Cthulhu? Kali? Some nameless, formless entity known only to these gathered men? As you were brought here, you took notice of the carved reliefs on the walls. Even now, they surround you, decorating the stone womb you are trapped within. All of them depict snakes, writhing and coiling in on themselves, devouring their own tails and lashing out at unseen enemies. One relief in the far corner depicts a rat in the process of being swallowed whole by a cobra, only for the cobra to be bitten and mauled by a great bear. Another relief, this one continuing the tale, shows the injured serpent biting its own tail and taking new form as a halo behind a humanoid figure, body undefined, unknowable. Then, the halo-snake rides along the arm of the figure, coiling and constricting the throat of a fox. The final relief you can see from your position shows the fox standing at the figure’s side as the same bear from the first relief, accompanied by a jackal, lunges for them. Behind the silhouettes you can make out etchings of roiling flames.

Such evocative, ominous imagery. You can only assume these people mean to sacrifice you to the serpent in their carvings. Do they believe him to be dead, and your blood will revive him? Is he slumbering, and you’re merely bait to awaken him? So many questions, and with not one of the cultists willing to even acknowledge you, each one will die on your leaden tongue and with your terrified heart.

Serva benedictionem intuitus tui

Somehow, you can sense their mantra is nearing its end. Your breathing speeds up. You still can’t see any of them carrying weapons, or anything at all. Each cultist has his hands raised in the air as if offering something to the sky, empty. You pull against your fetters again, to no avail. Do your family and friends even know you’re gone? Are they looking for you? What will they say when you never come home? Your heart aches to think of it. You hope that these cultists at least let your body be found. You don’t want your loved ones to spend the rest of their lives listening for a heartbeat that no longer exists.

You steel yourself. You will face death with gritted teeth, pursed lips, and stony eyes. You will not grant these lunatics the pleasure of turning you into a damsel.

Vivat Uroboros

Now, that phrase you can understand somewhat. Long live Uroboros. Is that the name of their god? Uroboros? Judging by the imagery of snakes all around you, and the mentions of serpents in the chant, you anticipate being swallowed whole by a leviathan summoned from below, or maybe tossed into a pit of vipers.

What you don’t expect is for a suffocating silence to fall over the sanctum.

It feels wholly unnatural, unearthly. Like there’s a bubble that encases you, preventing you from hearing anything save your own frantic heartbeat. None of the cultists are moving. Your breaths become shallow as you try to understand what’s happening, why the shadows in the corners seem to undulate.

And then you look up.

The eyes, unblinking, burn away your bones, leaving only your soul behind. They’re made of hellfire, with only slivers of onyx to act as pupils. They bore right into your own, and you suddenly find yourself even more paralyzed than you already were.

The silence is broken by something new- a low, droning hum, like the gastric functions of some titanic monster. You watch as the void above you shifts, shimmers like oil, distorts into something new. Tendrils- writhing, black, wet, vile, foreboding -emerge from the infinite pitch and encircle you and the altar you lay on, blocking out the rest of the world with moving, living walls. You can barely breathe as those brimstone eyes continue to appraise you, pupils dilating and shrinking as the seconds pass. They come closer, closer, until you can feel them hovering in the air just above your face. You can’t blink. If you do, you’ll die, you’re sure of it.

A nightmare. That’s what this is. All you need to do is wait it out and you’ll wake up at home, hungover from the party, tangled in your sheets and pillows. All you need to do is wake up.

But then, why does everything feel too real? Why does the oily tentacle that prods under your chin, tilting you up to face the unfathomable being it belongs to, feel so utterly visceral?

The appendage retracts, leaving a faint, sticky residue on your skin. Your head falls back against the cushion, your eyes still trained on the nightmare above you. A voice comes to you, a voice that echoes from the depths of your psyche like the death rattle of a vanquished god. It feels invasive, and yet completely native. It feels unearthly, and yet natural.

Hello.

The voice, deep and cold, is overpowering. You finally capitulate, squeezing your eyes shut against the pounding echo of the single word. Bursts of color flash behind your eyelids as the word reverberates, fades in and out, as if your mind is trying to consume it. It’s horrifying, making your skin crawl and your bones itch, but bound as you are, there is nothing you can do. You feel as though you’re being lobotomized from the inside out, the forbidden knowledge somehow contained within those two benign syllables putting a trepanning tool to the inside of your skull and pounding pounding pounding. The pressure builds, your heart running in circles, thrashing against your screaming ribcage, and stars die in your eyes as the pain crescendos and you feel your skull shattering-

And then you open your eyes. Half-blind with tears, you still recognize the form above you, standing astride your hips on the altar.

A man.

The most beautiful man you’ve ever seen.

The shock blasts away all the agony in your mind like a bomb at ground zero. Suddenly you see with perfect clarity, cold calmness draped over you like a paper-thin blanket of hoarfrost. All that is allowed to exist in your newly-cleared mind is the image of him. Tall, with blonde hair slicked back perfectly, not one strand out of place. Pale skin, like bone china, and thin lips, an angular face that simultaneously warns you away, lest you cut yourself on its edge, and beckons you to throw your body into the blade. His eyes, the color of magma, are the only indication that this is the same being that hovered over you moments ago. The same being, now in a new, impossibly-beautiful form. He looks down upon you, eyes harsh and stern but curious. Interested. The midnight leather that covers his body drapes around you, the ends of his long coat transforming into the same tendrils that encased you before. He tilts his head, appraising your naked form.

The same voice that scorched your sanity returns, though its razor edge is dulled. Be calm. It’s a command, one you physically cannot refuse. At the very least, this time it doesn’t crack open your skull and drain from it the fluid within. Like a computer given an executive command, your body instantly obeys. Your heart rate slows, your breathing evens out. You watch as his gaze leaves you, looking out over the prostrate assemblage before him.

It’s the same voice as in your head, but now audible to everyone else, that shatters the silence. “I have yet to be disappointed with your offerings,” he speaks, and he would sound like any other man if not for the way the bones of the earth tremble at his words, “it would be a shame to jeopardize our… relationship now.

“Which is why I can’t help but ask- who among you thought to touch what is mine?” Suddenly the detached cadence of his voice breaks away, revealing the cold, calculated anger beneath. For some reason, be it your exhausted heart or the command he gave you, you don’t feel uncomfortable the way you usually do when so close to such rage. You know it isn’t directed at you, but that hasn’t stopped your anxiety from rearing its ugly head in the past. Somehow, you are utterly calm in the face of the wrath of a god.

There is a pause, long and heavy, that clamps down on the room. For a painful moment, no one moves. Not him, not you, not the cultists around the altar or the assemblage before you. And then, a single figure rises from kneeling to stand tall and stiff among the crowd. Somehow, you know- this is the man who struck you. The bruise on your cheek stings with the echo of his attack.

The deity above you, nameless, hums in unknowable emotion as the perpetrator reveals himself. Like a bolt of black lightning, he thrusts his arm forward, gloved hand splayed out as if reaching for the man. In response, the man convulses, body twitching, doubling over and clutching at his stomach. He remains silent save for a few faint gurgling sounds, pained and sickening. Slowly, the summoned god draws his fingers into a fist.

“I haven’t felt the need to demonstrate what will happen to anyone who thinks they know better than I,” he says conversationally, as though a man isn’t dying in the middle of the room. Some of the cultists surrounding him turn to watch the spectacle, while others remain kneeling, albeit shaking. “But I suppose now is as good a time as ever, hm?” The tendrils that make up his coattails are writhing, charged with vitriolic power, hovering just over you. The sight of the man being tormented makes you sick, and you close your eyes to bite back the bile in your throat.

The voice returns, still gentle in comparison to his introduction, but stern. No, little one. Watch.

You already know you have no choice. Your eyelids open of their own volition, against the signals your brain sends. Now that you’re looking, you can’t tear your eyes away, like a car accident of eldritch proportions. It is nightmarish, and yet, you stand transfixed.

“Let this serve as a lesson to the rest of you,” the unholy being continues, watching with bored eyes as his victim falls to his knees, “this isn’t the most painful way I can kill. Lay hands on what belongs to me, and you will suffer. Am I understood?” In response, the cultists assembled nod their heads vigorously, or else give a terse cry of yes, Serpent-Father. Both reactions serve the same end, and their recipient seems satisfied. “Good,” he concludes with a pleasant tone.

His hand clenches into a fist, and the man’s head explodes into a mass of ravenous black tendrils.

Some of the devotees gasp, others flinch, and some remain still, though clearly at great personal cost. You can’t stop the horrified cry that escapes you, but the command of the voice evidently can. Hush. And your mouth closes.

As the body falls, twitching, to the stone floor, you watch the grotesque spectacle continue, more ebon tendrils eating their way out of the torso and abdomen. They detach from the body, slithering across the floor in unison towards the altar, and you realize they’re not tendrils at all, but snakes. They slide up the altar, over your trembling flesh, and up the legs of the man above you, who welcomes his servants with no issue. They obey their master unerringly, coiling in a braid around his outstretched arm, before becoming one with the shimmering leather itself. They are an extension of him, and so they merge seamlessly. One blink, and they’re gone, leaving behind only their master.

To their credit, the cultists surrounding the altar haven’t strayed from their positions, as much as you imagine they wish to. You look up at him, their patron, this Serpent-Father they’ve served you up to. You wonder if that is his name, or merely a moniker. He glances about the room, surveying the mass of devotees in attendance, and nods.

In response, one of the cultists at the altar begins another chant. The words remain unknown to you, but they set a strange rhythm, one that seems to put your soul into motion. Elsewhere, someone rings out a ceremonial bell, a sepulchral beat to accompany the tuneless song. You can’t help but wonder if this is where you die. If the beautiful, terrifying man above you will be the one to spill your blood, in his own name, and devour your beating heart.

But then, he isn’t above you anymore. He stands at the side of the altar you’re bound to, the other cultists having backed up against the wall with heads lowered in respect. He has free reign to run his gloved fingertips across the stone surface, and across your vulnerable skin. The slow, sensual touch makes you tense, expecting pain where there is none. At the frightened gasp you let out, he tilts his head in amusement.

His voice echoes in your mind again, a baritone murmur that curls against your innermost thoughts. He coils across your deepest self, probing, plucking the synapses of your brain like harpstrings. Each gentle tug coaxes your body into a pliant, heated state. Privately, he speaks to you. My pets gave you quite the scare, didn’t they? He hums, his corporeal hands gliding across the length of your leg, your arm, your side. He touches you with obvious intent, though what that intention is somewhat eludes you still. Are you not a sacrifice? Are you not meant to be killed in his name? Don’t mind all that, dearheart. Set dressing, really. You’re here to give me a different kind of offering.

Slowly, deliberately, he climbs atop the altar and sits astride your hips. He continues his exploration of your body until one gloved hand finds its way to cradle your cheek, an unexpectedly-comforting touch that you can’t help but lean into with a quiet whine. The other trails down, down, until his fingertips caress the sensitive flesh of your cunt. It makes you jolt, which consequently gives him better access to you, and his fingers greedily explore the velvety skin, nerves firing off with sparks of pleasure. As one finger dips inside, coating itself in the slick of your inner walls, you suddenly find yourself understanding the true nature of your predicament. “Oh,” you breathe, any and all confusion draining from you to the beat of the chanting.

You’re not here to give your life. You’re here to give your body. You’re here to fuck a god.

Both inwardly and outwardly, said god chuckles, amused by your wide eyes and heated cheeks. Whatever did you think was going to happen, hm? He asks, despite knowing full well what you expected. Your body responds eagerly to his ministrations, skin heating up, hips bucking against the restraints keeping you prone. You summon your higher brain functions to glare halfheartedly up at him for teasing you, to which he only coos condescendingly. “Did you think I’d eat you or something, little one?” He speaks aloud, voice soft but still cool and dark, “Oh no, nothing so gauche. The only screams that will fill the halls tonight will be of pleasure.”

The line is so cheesy; if an ordinary man used it on you, you’d roll your eyes. But in this place, surrounded by devoted onlookers and helpless before a god, it only makes you keen for more. You arch your back against the stone, meeting the languid thrusts of his fingers with the bucking of your hips. He looks down at you with such unbridled desire that your head spins. Speaking of screaming- he whispers into your head -My name is Wesker. You’re among my acolytes now, you may speak it freely. Don’t be shy.

A second finger, just as deft as the first, finds its way inside of you. It’s so good and yet not nearly enough. You can’t help but writhe beneath the god- Wesker -as he teases you. Your restraints hold fast, chafing against your wrists and ankles, denying you from taking more than what is offered. It’s agonizing, but the pain sears you from the inside out so deliciously. Any modesty lingering within you is burnt away in the wake of his fiery eyes and the horrible pleasure he brings. Your own eyes blown out, misty with tears, you can’t help but stare out at the procession of chanting cultists.

They treat your debauchment as though it’s a sermon. They offer prayers over your escalating moans, and you may be delirious enough to hallucinate but surely you aren’t simply making up the visible tents in some of their robes. The knowledge that they’re aroused simply by watching their god unravel you on his fingers, that they have the discipline to continue their worship regardless, sends a piercing bolt of arousal straight to your pulsing clit.

You can feel your climax sneaking up on you, choking you from behind. “Please,” you gasp, suddenly breathless as you look back to your tormentor, “pl- ah- please, make me cum, ‘m almost- almost there…” it’s as much a prayer as the ones being offered by your voyeurs. You wriggle your torso invitingly, begging him with your body to give you the building ecstasy.

Wesker smiles in satisfaction at the mess he’s made of you. The hand not burying three of its deliciously-long, slender fingers in your sopping cunt comes up, grabs your chin between thumb and forefinger. He drinks in your wrecked expression like the finest liquor. “You can have it, pet,” he coos, lowering his face to hover just over yours, and you’ve never wanted to kiss someone more in your fucking life, “go on. Scream my name while I ruin you.”

And you do. By every strange deity in this cult’s perverted pantheon, you do. Your downright pornographic cry of Wesker echoes through the halls of the sanctum, and the way you can see him shudder at the sound of his own name is what finally tips you over the edge. It’s sinful, the flush that comes to his pale cheeks, but it’s delicious. His being pulses with a surge of power at having his name invoked, especially during such passion as yours. The cultists chant a devoted hymn in unison, voices raised in victory, seemingly empowered by your climax. Your better judgment leaks out of you alongside the juices of your orgasm, pooling in a clear puddle of slick on the granite. Of any fluid from your body to give to Wesker, this is the one you would gleefully offer again.

As you come down from the ravenous high, your wonderfully-foggy mind registers something else prodding at your fluttering hole in replacement of his fingers. It feels hot and hard, and though you can’t crane your head enough to look down and see what it is, you can hedge a bet. The thought of having him fill you, claim you from the inside out, is enough to have you writhing desperately again. You keen pathetically as your chains keep you steadfastly held down, wishing more than ever that they were gone and you could simply wrap your arms and legs around this god and cling to him while he gives you all he has to give. You strain your wrists, your ankles, against the fetters, praying for them to just snap out of existence.

As though sensing your frustration, Wesker leans down, pressing his lips against the side of your head in a strange pantomime of a kiss that leaves your chest feeling unexpectedly fluttery and light. His voice swims in your head. Feeling trapped, are we? He asks rhetorically, the hand not guiding his cock to rest against your winking cunt wrapping around the chain on your right wrist. You nod frantically, babbling out quiet, incomprehensible pleas to be freed. Oh, alright. I know you’ll behave for me. After all, I’m sure you remember what I do to pets I find unsatisfactory.

The small ripple of dread in the pool of hot lust makes you whimper. It’s an unwelcome reminder that though you may be enjoying yourself, you’re not here by choice, and you even have the cold corpse of the man who slapped you to act as visual aid. But you’ll be good. You’ve been good thus far, been sweet and obedient under his ministrations, and you have every intention of continuing that. You’ll be good for him. For Wesker.

With a subtle squeeze, the god in mortal flesh releases your shackled wrist. The chain turns warm, scaly, as do the ones on the rest of your limbs. The newly-transformed snakes, just as vantablack as the ones he summoned to kill the errant cultist, slither away from your wrists and ankles, leaving you blessedly free. They return to their master, merging with his writhing coat, but you don’t care, only concerned with satiating the bottomless lust eating through your core. You take hold of the gloved hand cradling the apple of your cheek, entwining your fingers with his. “Please,” you whisper, summoning your headiest, lustiest voice, “I’m ready. Take me, Serpent-Father.”

The deep, lustful growl Wesker lets out at your usage of the honorific you picked up on from the cultists lets you know you made the right call. You brace your feet against the stone just as he finally enters you, hot cockhead breaching your cunt and stretching you around him. Connected to the divine in a way more literal than most could ever hope for, you moan, utterly lost in the heavy liquid pleasure that fills you. Like molten gold, it keeps you pressed down, prone and pliant for your god, unable to even fathom saying no. A new chant begins, some cultists diverging from the herd in their own hymns and calls of prayer, all to the constant call of the ceremonial bell. It’s overwhelming, and you can’t help but feel the devotion of the assemblage is directed to you as much as it is to Wesker. This feeling, being watched with hungry, obsessive eyes, would normally frighten you. But safe within the solid embrace of your god, spread out for him and him only, it only makes you shudder and clench around him.

Another deep, baritone groan rumbles into you from his chest as he pushes inward, filling you thoroughly and making a pleasant weight in your core. Chancing a look down, you see he’s only about halfway, and your stomach drops out as you realize just how much you have left to take. A firm hand grips your cheeks and forces your head back up to his, though not painfully. “Look at me while I fuck you, little mortal. There is nothing else. Only me.” He orders, and you have no choice but to obey him. The hand not clasped in his and pressed down to the stone slab comes up to press at his back, forcing him closer to you. He chuckles at your insistence, but obliges, leaning in closer until you can feel his hot breath against your face.

The first thrust, once he finally sheathes himself in your cunt, makes you white out in sensation. It isn’t pain, nor pleasure, merely the feeling of being filled so profoundly. But it’s strong enough to leave you gasping for air while your mouth hangs open in a silent scream. The second plants a blooming seed of euphoria deep within you, and the third sees that seed take root and sprout. Wesker lets go of your face, assured of your obedience, and presses the hand instead to your abdomen, where you realize his cock leaves a bulge in your belly. The full-body tremor that shakes you and him both as he presses down, constricting your cunt and his cock in unison, is soul-shattering. The part of your brain not melting out of your ears right now is determined to join this cult after the ritual concludes, if only to experience such glorious sex again. You already know no mortal, man, woman, or otherwise, will ever be able to satisfy you now that you’ve tasted the forbidden fruit. Maybe Eve’s garden was tainted by the serpent, but yours is left bursting with new life by his touch. Your Eden is here, with him and him alone.

The rest of the world fades away, leaving behind only the faint chiming of the bell and the singing of your devotees behind the lewd sounds of leather against flesh. You float in a void of ecstasy in which exists only you and Wesker, you and your god. You cling to his hand like the lifeline it is, being fucked half to death as you are, his inhuman thrusts bullying his cockhead cruelly against your cervix. Never before has anything (or anyone) reached so deep inside you, and you’ve heard it said that having your cervix touched is horrifyingly painful. But all you feel is a profound sense of fullness, near bursting, as he rams against your innermost walls. You half expect him to breach even that and make his home directly in your womb, but thankfully, he doesn’t. Your soul sings out, and Wesker hears it, his presence already entrenched in your mind forever. He pulls the strings of your psyche as though you’re the most beautiful marionette, and he the most perfect puppetmaster. Your body, and all that comes with it, is stripped away, and you feel as if he’s fucking your very soul instead, making his home in the space between your astral projection and the back of your eyes. It’s unreal, unlike anything you’ve felt before, like the protective skin around your clit has been stripped leaving only the bare nerves to be stimulated directly. Without the hindrance of flesh, he drags you upwards to a climax more intense than you could have imagined before.

He holds you there, at the edge of the beautiful abyss, taking his pleasure from you first. Your ecstasy builds, peaks-

And when he brings your entwined hands to his mouth and buries his fangs in the delicate meat of your inner wrist, it crests. Instead of being thrown to the wave, the wave throws itself over you, dwarfing you even as you stand on the mountain of built-up pleasure, washing you away. You hear a high-pitched scream, and barely, you register it as your own. You open your teary eyes, seeing double for a moment as you fall back into your body, and watch as Wesker hungrily sinks his teeth into your wrist. It hurts, yes, and your body jolts at the pain, but it’s quickly washed away by the aftershocks of your orgasm. His eyes never leave yours as he laps at your blood, consuming your life essence while you tremble beneath him in a broken mess of cum and slick. He continues thrusting into you, and you feel his cock twitch, and your own arousal stirs again somehow at the thought of him breeding you, filling you with his seed and making you bear his divine children. All at once, he releases from your wrist, letting out a monumental growl of pleasure as he cums deep within you.

Your body simultaneously feels like it’s completely numb, void of any tactile sensation at all, and also oversensitive to the point of pain. A foreign presence makes itself known in your bloodstream, flowing from your bitten wrist to the rest of you. Somehow, you understand that this is his way of claiming you- marking you. No rival gods, much less mortals, will dare lay their hands on you now.

The exhaustion has caught up to you finally. The room splits into four, your eyes barely able to stay open and your body going completely limp. It’s a little frightening, and you look up at Wesker with fearful eyes, asking for guidance. His hand returns to hold yours, squeezing as if to reassure you. You are mine, he murmurs from within you, there is no turning back now.

His. You are his. Mortal plaything of the Serpent-Father, of Wesker. It should horrify you.

But the thought is comforting enough to make you relax. He brushes gloved fingertips across your eyelids, closing them for you. His voice is the last thing you hear. Sleep, pet.

When you wake, the cold stone beneath you has been replaced by sleek, soft sheets, warmed by your body.

Slowly, delicately, you sit up, taking stock of your body’s condition. You feel fine, well-rested, even. But then the previous night’s events flash before your eyes.

Being tied to a stone altar. A god of unfathomable power taking shape over you. Giving you his name, taking the most beautiful form. Fucking you until you passed out. His teeth in your flesh.

A phantom ache makes itself known in your sex, protesting the rigorous activity of the night. But that’s the least of your concern as you look at your wrist. In place of what should be a healing bite mark, there is a rune.

At least, you think it’s a rune. It’s the color of midnight, pure black, in the shape of a striped 8-sided star, with a snake coiling around it. The mark of Wesker. As you think of his name, an echo of the unrelenting euphoria he showed you last night washes over you. Your face heats up, and you subconsciously rub your thighs together.

There are worse gods to belong to, I guess.

You already know you’re not at home. Your bed isn’t nearly this comfy, nor is it covered in sleek silk sheets. You assume you’re somewhere else in the cultists’ hideout, somewhere offerings such as yourself are left to recuperate from their endeavor. You’re also no longer naked- looking down at yourself, sliding off the smooth fabric, you watch the sheer gown you’re wearing billow out around your legs. Like the bed, it’s black, and you can only assume it’s made of chiffon or gossamer given the weightlessness of the fabric. It hugs your body absolutely perfectly, draping over your skin and leaving your back & shoulders bare. It feels like a dream.

A pair of gloved hands suddenly takes hold of your hips. Gasping, you attempt to turn, only for the grip to tighten, keeping you in place. “Hush,” Wesker speaks, allaying your surprise somewhat, “it’s only me, dearheart.”

His body, hot and firm, presses against your back, possessively looming over you. He kneads your hips idly as you recover from the minor scare. His presence is soothing, reassuring. With his claim on you thoroughly set, you know he will keep you safe, even if it is only to protect his investment. “Where are we?” You ask softly, unsure of how to carry yourself around the god who fucked you so well you converted to his religion.

He hums quietly, hands trailing down to your thighs. “We are in my domain. After the ritual concluded, I brought you back with me. And here you will stay.”

“…what?” You breathe. His domain? As in, his realm of reality? A place outside of the mortal plane as you know it? You’re not meant to be here. You should be home, with your friends and family. You belong back on earth, not as a caged pet to an ancient god. As alluring, as magnetic, as he is, you cannot stay with him.

Wesker laughs, a touch of cruelty entering his voice as he takes in your slight panic. “What, pet, did you think that was a one-and-done affair? That I’d be satisfied with breeding you only once? Think again.” One hand comes up to grasp your face, forcing you to turn towards a large mirror you hadn’t noticed. Your reflection greets you, as does his, looming behind you.

The first thing you notice is the band around your neck. Made of black silver, it circles your neck perfectly, staying in place without being uncomfortably tight or even chafing. A collar, shaped like a snake devouring its own tail. Your collar.

Wesker’s calm voice breaks you from your investigation. “I do hope you like your collar, little one. You won’t be parting with it any time soon.

“It’s as I said- there is no turning back now, my dear. There is nothing else for you. Only me.”

And the rest of existence fades away, leaving only you. Only him.

Only pleasure.

[melzzzzz]

some soft post-re5 chrisker

[luckyythirteen]

Do you have any "unpopular" opinions about Wesker? Takes, hcs, discourse etc that are often talked about in the fandom but you do not agree with?

NSFW DISCUSSION UNDER THE CUT

Idk if this is a hot take or unpopular opinion but I dont like the daddy domification of Wesker and writing him like he's Christian Gray. I dont see him as someone driven by his sexual desires. I understand the appeal of fantasy and I dont knock anyones personal kinks, but people treating it as canon annoys the hell out of me. He is not some suave fuckboy he's too focused on his plans. Would probably shove you off the desk if you tried to distract him from his work. Its not that I think he has 0 sex drive I think he just has a very "time and place" outlook on it.

[residentthot]

The demons won idk

[juiced-fruit]

FINISHED THIS COM FOR MY LOVELY FRIEND @rottenteeth !!

had lots of fun experimenting and going insane with the lighting

[silna-pdf]

Old birkin and wesker doodles.. trying to make up for my lack of time to draw ╥﹏╥

[destinationtrekk]

Albert Wesker NSFW Alphabet

a/n: not edited, and i included links to ones already answered in asks so this wasn't a million scrolls long

nsfw below the cut, 18+ only

masterlist

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

 aftercare with wesker 

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Wesker is an ass and thighs man. He’s staring you down in your uniform behind his sunglasses, and don’t be surprised if you have to repeat yourself when you’re sitting close to him and wearing shorts. If you shake your ass when he’s fucking you from behind he’s heart eyes and drooling like a cartoon character. 

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

He always asks to finish inside you. He’s not really into breeding all that much, he’s just obsessed with the way his cum leaks out of your hole and how it leaves his cock sticky and shiny when he pulls out. However he also isn’t a fan of mess or having to change the sheets every other day, so if he’s feeling really lazy he might even wear a condom just to make it easier on both of you. 

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Panty sniffer. Why are you booing? I’m right. This guy has INSANE biological and physiological differences from a normal human, so excuse him if you just smell amazing. It isn’t a fetish or anything, don’t make it weird. He’s just able to smell you way past your preferred fragrance, and your natural scent drives him insane. Even better if you wear boxers because then HE can wear them and smell like you and– 

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

He’s not very experienced when you first get together, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t good! He knows exactly what to do, and he’s watched you enough that he can memorize your tells and most sensitive spots pretty easily. He’s a fast learner. 

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Face down ass up, by far. Sure, he loves you on your knees and he adores watching your face twist in pleasure, but being able to press you into the mattress while your ass jiggles against his torso– heaven. 

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

He’s a pretty serious guy. Not to say he doesn’t have his silly moments when the two of you are feeling especially loving and giddy, but he takes sex as an opportunity to share your devotion to one another, not as a game or way to simply pass the time 

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

A little darker than his hair, but still noticeably blond. He keeps it trimmed pretty short. This goes back to his cleanliness like with cum– he wants to be presentable and also doesn’t want his entire groin wet and sticky when the two of you are finished. 

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Depends on what Wesker you like. STARS and uroboros!Wesker are heavy on sweet words and gentle, loving sex, while RE4 or 5!Wesker like it more rough and (dare I say) violent. Not mean!! They just prefer to leave their affection behind in bruises and bites rather than candle-lit confessions of love 

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Honestly, doesn’t do it much. He never had a need for it before, and really didn’t have the time or energy either. Maybe when he was in STARS he had a little more time to indulge, but in general he would just rather have sex. On the rare occasion he does, though, he’s quick and efficient. Usually in the shower, to keep it clean, it’s done in a  few minutes and he goes about his day like nothing happened. 

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

wesker's kinks

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

STARS!Wesker not-so-secretly loves to fuck in his office. It’s a thrill keeping you both quiet and still being in your uniforms, random gear and holsters thrown about when you’re pawing at each other to touch skin. I think maybe RE5!Wesker likes to have quickies in the lab or his office, but it’s more of a power play for him to see you on your knees than anything else. Otherwise, most Wesker variations prefer the comfy bed 

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

He hates to admit it, but insubordination is a big one. He demands respect, but knowing you have an attitude and aren’t afraid to tell him off gets him rock hard. This is usually how quickies start as well. Another turn on is calling him by his titles (Doctor, Captain, Officer, etc). Once again, he’s a respected figure who earned his titles through work and bloodshed, so giving him this attention feeds his ego (and his massive dick) 

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Wesker will not permanently harm your body or psyche. He doesn’t want to you be his mind/fuck slave, and he won’t have you crawling around after him begging for scraps of attention. He’s with you because he respects you on a fundamental level, so unless those are things you’re actually into, he wants to treat you with the respect you deserve. I also think he isn’t into food play, or any bodily functions in general. Once again, he’s a very clean and mindful person and making a mess doesn’t suit him. 

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Prefers receiving to giving, but that isn’t to say he doesn’t love both! He enjoys knowing you feel good and he’ll do anything to see you moan and arch your back, but he just adores how you look kneeling in front of him with big teary puppy eyes while he fucks your throat

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

He enjoys a good mix of both. He works so often that he usually doesn’t have energy for a rough session, so generally he takes his time and wants it to be sweet for both of you– other times he’s a beast and leaves you marked up for days with a barely-there limp from your sore hips

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Any Wesker loves a good quickie. Not on a regular basis since he’s so busy, but when the opportunity arises, he will absolutely take it. Whether it be in the lab, the office, in the field on a mission- if he has a spare 10 minutes, expect trouble in the form of his desperate hands and mouth.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

He’s a big risk taker. He figures worse comes to worse, you didn’t like it and it won’t happen again. Like trying new kinks for the first time or having an especially risky quickie at work- sometimes he jerks off to the memory for a week, other times it’s a little awkward and humorous. He just sees them as trials that may or may not work out, just like everything else. 

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Insane stamina, much lower energy. He can go for hours if you asked him too, but the poor guy just doesn’t always have it in him. Technically, even tired, he has potentially limitless stamina with how the viruses affect his body, but he’s tired, okay? He needs a nap because he was up all night staring at reports

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

He enjoys using toys! Vibrators are his go to because it’s easy to quickly overwhelm you with one, but he also really likes using ropes and plugs. He enjoys plugs a lot because he can keep you from dripping everywhere when he plans on round two later. He also loves to see you squirming and struggling when the ropes come out, and he especially loves when you use the ropes on him. 

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Wesker is a world-class tease. It starts with smug looks and raised eyebrows that make you blush under his attention, then slowly devolves into his breath on your cheek while he’s trapped you against a wall. He’s got a track record of leaving subtle touches on your body when no one is looking, but it still leaves you a blushing mess when his hand finds your thighs under the table. 

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He’s a shy little guy…. But God can he whimper and moan. He likes to keep himself quiet unless he’s teasing you with dirty talk, but if you get him comfortable or seriously out of his head, he’s loud as all hell. A complete mess, just babbling on about how good you feel, begging you for more, crying out and whining while you wring him dry. He’ll call you every pet name in the book just to beg you for whatever you’ll give 

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

I have a whole sub!wesker tag but… this man is a switch. He’s naturally dominant and commanding, even in bed, but when he feels safe and trusts you, he’s like putty in your hands. Whether he’s topping or bottoming, he’ll nuzzle into your skin and whimper like a puppy with every quiet word you coo at him. He’s into praise, hardcore, but he also enjoys a little (read: LITTLE) bit of degradation aimed at him when he can’t stop begging you for more. 

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

 wesker below the waist... 

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Not very high! He works his ass off, be it STARS or Umbrella or Tri-Cell, so most often he comes home and collapses on the nearest soft surface before he’s up at the crack of dawn and back to the grind. It’s actually hard to get him to relax sometimes, so even when he does have time to fool around, his mind is going a mile a minute and he doesn’t always have it in him to stop thinking long enough to even get hard. Not to say you never do it, your sex life is very healthy– it’s just not on his mind every day  

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He’ll ass out after a good orgasm. You’ve even seen him fall asleep at his desk, head hanging limp against his chest, after a quickie before. If it’s late at night and you’re in bed, good luck getting him up long enough to take a shower

[tiredsurvivoronmain]

W: "That's quite an unhealthy habit you have, Chris. Perhaps I can offer an alternative to relieve you of such...urges."

[gothghostiie]

BSAA reader getting kidnapped by Krauser, who brings you to Wesker. Wesker asks Krauser to stay and help with your "interrogation" after hours. They take you out of the holding cell and into the labs. They start out just trying to get information, but get more and more touchy, and Wesker starts threatening you with syringes while Krauser stands behind you and holds your arms. He messes around with a few different needles before picking one and injecting you with it. You start to panic and try to make them tell you what it was, but you barely get a few words out before you start to feel hot and now you're confused and not even fighting. Wesker comments on your behavior and brags that it wasn't a virus he gave you, that comes later. What he gave you now was an incredibly powerful aphrodisiac, and by the time he's done explaining, you're not even listening. You're grinding your ass against Krauser, who now has to hold you up to keep you from collapsing. They rip off your BSAA patches and then your clothes(Krauser uses his knife to cut your clothes off 😩), and the two of them take turns with you till you pass out

The next thing you know, you wake up with virus powers, in a bed in Wesker's quarters, Wesker in bed next to you and Krauser asleep in an armchair near the bed.

You send the BSAA your letter of resignation and a selfie of yourself wearing Wesker's shirt in bed with the two of them sleeping in the background

HELLO?????