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hellshire-harlot · 27 days ago

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You’re Supposed to Bleed the First Time | New God!Albert Wesker x Goddess!Reader

They all lied, lied, lied

Why didn’t anyone tell me

Love is like

Being fucked with a knife

————

Reader is a young goddess in a pantheon. Never before has a mortal ascended to divinity.

Until him.

Also available on AO3 here.

Taglist: @gothghostiie @adrianrainesfangs @weskie @destinationtrekk @nomansgunssmoke

A pulsating wave of sickness, of agonizing fire shooting through your body, startles you from sleep. Barely conscious, you tumble out of bed and rush to your bathing room and heave violently into the toilet, your bile stained gold with Ichor. The fluid that is meant to remain in your veins.

As you finish throwing up and take a deep breath, you have your first concrete, conscious thought this morning. Young you may be for a goddess, you are not helpless, or stupid. Something is very, earth-shakingly wrong.

You look out the window, then, and realize it’s not even morning at all- only blackness greets you from outside, stars and moon shrouded in a blanket of clouds. Your Domain, your realm and home, is unnaturally still and twice as silent. Like the forest suddenly going mute before a tornado, the ominous atmosphere does nothing to soothe your nerves. You know you should get back to sleep- the other gods will surely chastise you if they see you with bags under your eyes -but you can’t. It’s like your body was jump-started, all cylinders firing at once, strung tight like a bow in dreadful anticipation of… something. You have no idea what the source of your sudden illness is, or why it’s now just gone. You don’t know why you’ve woken in the middle of the night. You don’t know why this dread, heavy like solid gold, pulls your body downwards. But you have no time to wonder, as your door bursts open.

You yelp in shock as a small group of other deities flood into your room, already attending to various tasks. One helps you to stand up and flushes the toilet, not even mentioning the godly blood you just expelled. One throws open your closet, while another raids your jewelry box like a burglar. Everything moves so fast around you, your head begins to spin.

“What’s going on?” You warble, unsure of anything. You’ve never seen the elder deities this frazzled, and it puts you on edge.

“It finally happened,” one goddess chokes out, face wan with terror as she helps you into a long white dress extracted from your closet, “Just now, the sickness, did you feel it?” Her hands shake as you step into the garment, tying the long sash around your waist while you try not to panic.

“No,” you breathe, your body suddenly feeling very cold. You think you know what she’s talking about, but you’re too terrified to believe it. “No. You’re wrong. Tell her, tell her she’s wrong,” you plead, beseeching another god who runs a brush quickly through your hair.

His face is grim. Pale. Afraid. Your heart sinks. “She’s not wrong, child. Albert Wesker has achieved his goal.”

Albert Wesker. A name you and all the other gods know all too well. Your eyes have been on him since the Arklay incident years ago, when he defied death and became inhuman. Immortal, like you. But not like you, because you are kind and your hands touch with softness, and Wesker is the most wicked man to walk the mortal world. He keeps his hands within gloves so that he doesn’t have to touch the lesser mortals, not even gracing them with the dignity of direct contact when he murders them. He twists everything he touches to fit his own needs. He turned a woman into a puppet.

You feel suddenly very lightheaded.

“What’re we going to do, then?” You ask, words clipped with panic while the gods in your room finish dressing you. You don’t resist them, frozen like a mannequin as they fix your hair and fasten a choker around your neck. You feel like the ground itself has vanished beneath you, leaving you adrift in the void, darker than the blackest night, the same obsidian Wesker covers himself in. The association makes you shudder with dread. “The man hates the divine, you’ve heard him say how much he wants us dead-“

Another god places his hands on your shoulders to calm you, and on instinct, your mouth closes. “He wanted the gods the world prays to dead,” he says, stern and steadfast, “Not us. There is a distinction. If we meet him on equal ground we may gain-“

“Gain what?” You interrupt, shoving him away, hysterical tears in your eyes as the procession begins guiding you out of your safe, dark home and into the terror of the unknown night. Not even the confines of your personal pocket of reality can protect you now. Is this how newborn humans feel, you wonder, taking in the Domain around you with new, frightened eyes, is this what it’s like to be ripped from the warmth of the womb? You suddenly understand why human babies cry when they’re born. You’re crying, too. “Wesker can’t be reasoned with, he goes against everything you’ve taught me! You can’t possibly expect him to honor any sort of agreement or bargain!” Your ranting goes mostly unnoticed as the other gods hustle you to the edge of your Domain. One goddess grips your hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze, and the liquid warmth of divine teleportation envelops you.

You blink, and suddenly the warmth intensifies. You’re here.

The caldera of the volcano is scorching hot, writhing with molten lava and the residual energy of the horror that transpired here just moments ago. The rising sun does nothing to assuage your racing heart, furiously pounding in your chest like the dull beats of the helicopter currently flying away. You envy its passengers- Chris and Sheva, strong and brave; Jill, finally freed from her servitude; even the Captain flying the chopper. All of them are ignorant to the truth. They rest their weary heads, thinking that Wesker has been eliminated once and for all. How would they react, you wonder halfheartedly, if they knew their rockets had turned their nemesis into a deity?

It’s not their strength you envy; you are divine. Strength is something not in short supply. It is their blissful ignorance. You would give up every drop of Ichor in your body if it would save you from the looming consequences of their victory.

The rest of the pantheon, gods and goddesses alike, surround the mouth of Kijuju in a rough circle. Some stand just inches from the magma; it wouldn’t matter if you touched it. You are immortal, after all. But the seething presence of something lying in wait just below the surface makes you flutter back, gossamer dress billowing in the heated wind.

You cling to the hand of the goddess at your side, curling into her. She places herself slightly before you, as if to offer protection you both know she cannot provide. You look at her rounded face, eyes wary. “What happens now?” You ask, voice small and almost inaudible under the burbling of superheated rock.

She looks pained, turning away from your pleading gaze. “I don’t know,” she admits weakly, “None of us do. We can only wait now, little one.”

And wait you do. The anticipation hangs over the volcano, heavier even than the clouds of pyroclastic ash that threaten to stain your dress irreparably. You can’t tear your eyes away from the shifting magma. The liquid stone turning over and in on itself, flowing like water but a hundred thousand times more deadly, moves and dances in mesmerizing patterns. You are suddenly captivated by it. Though your body quakes with anxiety, your mind becomes clear and lucid.

It is these mesmerizing patterns, swirls and whorls of magma, that you blame for the sudden voice echoing in your head.

Come closer, it orders you, stern and masculine, leaving no room for argument. Your breath hitches, unsure of the voice’s origin but knowing that it doesn’t belong in your head. He doesn’t belong in your head, whoever he is. Come closer, now. I won’t ask again.

Against your better judgment, fear makes your bare feet shift. One foot in front of the other, you pull away from the goddess you once clung to. You are afraid of what lies beneath the lava, what lies lurking in your mind. And this is why you approach. Some of the gods notice you, but you can’t care, not with the strange voice overpowering your will with cold, all-encompassing dread. Good girl. You shudder, electric sparks of ice running up and down your spine despite the overwhelming heat. Stop. Kneel, right where you are. You overcome your paralysis just enough to defy him. A rumble of disapproval echoes in your skull, though you try to pretend it’s the volcano. It doesn’t work.

I don’t want to do that, you tell yourself, even mouthing the words to make them real. Maybe if you concentrate, you can resist the pull this entity has on you.

Of course you don’t, the voice sneers, uncaring of your terror. Your lip trembles. What you want is irrelevant right now. Kneel.

The flippant dismissal of your desires is familiar. The other gods are often quick to wave you off and shut you down, too busy or too distracted with their own activities to humor you, and being the youngest of the pantheon, you have precious little leeway to stand your ground. You take a hint of comfort in the familiarity of submission as you slowly fall to your knees against the igneous rock. “You talk to me just like the others do,” you whisper sorrowfully.

At that, the voice is unusually silent. You shift, uncomfortable on your knees. The magma before you burbles and you clench your hands into fists to calm yourself. Once again, the magnetic patterns of the lava captivate you, providing some refuge from your fear. The molten rock folding over and in on itself like rising dough is tantalizing to you, and on instinct, you reach out.

To touch it? To feel the heat scorching against your delicate hands? Even you don’t know why you do this. But you don’t have a chance to retract your hand, because another suddenly bursts from the magma and grabs onto your arm with bruising force.

A scream dies in your throat. The other gods are all watching now, rooted to their spots with anticipation and fear. A choked sound escapes you as you attempt to pull yourself away from the grasp, only to have it pull back. More of the arm emerges from the lava, revealing a shoulder. The second arm shoots out of the fire and finds purchase on the solid rock, only further aiding its owner’s climb to freedom. You try again to free yourself, a scream of confused terror echoing through the caldera, prompting some of the gods to rush to your aid. Hands wrap about your waist, pulling you away, but the stranger’s grasp is far too strong.

With five other gods helping to pull you back, and your own strength and that of the stranger, the task is accomplished. As he is exhumed from the magma, he lets go of you, and for a moment, you are frozen where you lay on the rocky ground.

Standing before you, clad in the same ebon leather that defines him so deeply, is Albert Wesker.

For that agonizing moment, you are held in place by his gaze alone. Though you’ve seen his eyes before, the stark identicality they bear to the lava he was just birthed from makes your heart drop. His pupils are perfect slits of vantablack, dilating ever so slightly as he looks you up and down. While the other gods scramble away, you remain a heartbeat longer. He looks upon you critically, assessing you from head to toe. His eyes rake over your body, your soot-stained dress, the collar hugging your heaving throat; they seem to linger just a little too long in some places. It stirs an odd, uncomfortable feeling in you, but you don’t know why. It’s something you’re used to, as some of the older gods look at you this way frequently. Like they’re hungry.

Wesker looks hungry, in this moment. For some reason it makes you want to cover your body with your arms, like your dress has been burned away entirely, all of you laid bare before him. The moment passes, the suffocating spell is broken, and you let out a horrified cry as you throw yourself backwards. The other gods, the ones who helped you pull him from the lava, catch you, shielding your body with their own. Between limbs, you peek out at the new, vicious god. His eyes have never left you, and they meet yours again easily, even through the forest of gods between you. You squeak like a frightened mouse, ducking your head and squeezing your eyes shut. You dart into the burrow of your mind, hoping that he cannot follow you there.

But you know it’s pointless. You know the voice in your head was his. His fiery eyes finally leave you and assess the pantheon that surrounds him, and his brow furrows. You can practically feel the disdain, the anger, radiating off of him. You hold your breath in anticipation as he begins to speak, his cold, seductive baritone reverberating through the volcanic dawn and into your bones.

“It seems I was correct after all,” he begins, a thin smile on his lips, “look at you- Cowering, backing away, terrified. Weak. The eldest of you, shying away while your youngest is in danger.” He’s referring to me, you realize with a start. You are the youngest god in this pantheon (though in terms of earthly years you eclipse the age of any living human easily, among the divine you are barely a stripling). He knows you are the most vulnerable being here. You don’t like that he knows this.

The shield of gods around you has somewhat dissipated; where once the barrier was three bodies thick, now only one layer of gods protects you from Wesker’s scorching presence. Finally, you have the strength to stand again, swaying like a willow. You feel completely adrift, tossed overboard and into the churning sea with no hope of rescue. The world spins around you like never before, but then again, never before have you been in such acute danger.

Finally, one of the eldest deities among you finds their voice. “We want no trouble from you,” they call, voice proud and courageous despite their obvious fear, “but what do you want from us?”

Wesker’s head snaps around to face the speaker, who doesn’t back down. His face twists into a furious grin, incredulous at the audacity to speak out against him so blatantly. “What do I want?” He echoes, a dark chuckle following. A surge of electric power crackles, invisible, through the air all around you, and it’s not coming from the ash cloud overhead. The other gods seem to notice it too, looking wary. Your entire being is quaking.

Wesker throws his arm in the direction of the gods shielding you from him. In the time it takes you to flinch and recover, five members of your pantheon are ensorcelled in shining black tendrils that rip into their bodies without mercy. In the time it takes you to scream, those five deities are dead. The Ichor spills over the basalt ground, splatters your face and your dress, warm and sticky and horrifying. The other gods scream too, backing away desperately as Wesker retracts the tentacles, and they return to his arm from whence they came.

You know this power of his, another of his twisted creations. Uroboros.

Haloed by the glow of the lava behind him, Wesker looks even more imposing, divinity defined. One of the murdered gods lays, strewn in a contorted position, barely a foot from you, her lifeless eyes staring straight through your own. The very same goddess who held your hand minutes ago. A being who, like all the others, had stood among the divine for time immemorial, killed in an instant by a vicious usurper.

I’m going to die here, you realize with a cold, heavy heart. I’m going to die and Wesker is going to kill me. You desperately want to pretend this is all some sort of nightmare but you know better. The infernal glare of Wesker’s eyes is too potent to be an illusion. His voice, deep and filled with rage, is too loud and too real to be anything but the truth. “What I want is to understand why exactly beings as weak as these-” he shouts, cruelly kicking at one of the dead gods and sending the body rolling several yards from the sheer force of it, “deserve to call themselves divine. Because from where I’m standing, you bleed and die just as easily as any human.

“In fact,” he continues, turning back to you and grinning with sharp teeth and hellfire eyes, “what’s stopping me from killing the rest of you pathetic creatures?” Terrified cries erupt all around you, one of them your own. Wesker tilts his head as he stares down your trembling form, as if daring you to speak up. But it is not you that cries out next.

“No,” shrieks another of the most aged deities, eyes wild and frantic, “Gods cannot fight amongst themselves, the mortal world will be torn apart! You must leave us be!”

The blonde man barks out a laugh. “I don’t recall saying I cared about the mortal world. Were none of you paying attention when I explained this to Chris?”

Another goddess finds her voice. “Whatever it is you want from us, we’ll give it to you! We will not fight you!” Though some of the others look at her incredulously, the consensus is that she speaks true for all of you. Even you find yourself agreeing. Whatever it takes to keep Wesker from slaughtering you on the spot, you will gladly do or give.

“Whatever I want, hmm?” Wesker hums, smiling in cold satisfaction. You almost miss the shades he always wore; at least then you wouldn’t have to suffer the inferno of his gaze. “Fine.

“You, little goddess. Come here.” He addresses you directly. His gloved finger curls in a beckoning motion, and once again his tone lets you know he won’t be asking you twice. But you won’t obey him. You can’t. He can’t be asking what you think he’s asking-

You blink, and before you can so much as shake your head, suddenly he stands directly over you. Your subsequent scream is cut off by a gloved hand gripping your choker and dragging you up until your face is inches from his. Your pupils shrink to the size of pinpricks, your heart pounding like a fleeing rabbit. Everything in you is begging you to get away, but you cannot. Wesker’s grip is steadfast as he appraises you. With the ash and Ichor across your face, staining your once-pristine dress, and desperation blatant in your every cell, you must look a mess. He doesn’t look angry at your infraction, rather mildly irritated.

“I’m sure this is new to you, so I’ll be lenient this once. Disobey me again and I won’t hesitate to discipline you. Do you understand me?” Wesker murmurs to you, hot breath caressing the soft flesh of your ear. His eyes do not leave your face for a moment as he speaks. It’s terrifying, to see such obviously-inhuman features on a man, and yet…

And yet, some part of you stirs. A part you know very little about. Your belly begins to grow warm. It’s confusing and a little frightening, because you’ve never been in this much danger, but for some reason, the heat feels good. You whine, unable to make sense of yourself, trembling before Wesker’s fiery eyes. “Wh- what are you doing?” You stammer softly, referring both to his intentions and the spell he’s seemingly cast on you.

His responding smile is cold and cruel, drinking in your terror and uncertainty with avaricious zeal. “What do you think I’m doing, dearheart?” he retorts, a sound deep and dark in his chest and it resonates in your marrow (the heat in your belly only deepens, drops to your crotch, makes your cheeks flush and warm). The term of endearment makes you feel utterly unsafe, but at the same time, sends sparks racing down your spine. You shudder with unknown, unwanted sensation. You want to run, to get far away from the man pressing you against himself, but there is nowhere you could go. “You’re going to be still and silent for me until I say otherwise. Let your better do the talking.” The anger, terror, and frustration coil within you, and all you can do is weakly nod your head.

The resulting rumble of satisfaction, dark and deep, has you swooning. “Good girl.”

Between the speed with which he maneuvers you to press firmly against his side and the coiling serpent of unknown emotion making its home in your being, your head has begun to spin. His hand moves from your choker to keep you held to his hip, pressing into the divot of your waist with such force you wonder if it will leave a bruise behind, a brand of Wesker’s cruelty. Nothing makes sense. What is wrong with me, you ask yourself, what’s happening to my body?

Frustrated and confused, betrayed and conflicted, your eyes shine with unshed tears. In so little time, your world has been completely upended. Wesker raises his voice once again to address the other, cowering gods, and the increased volume combined with his vitriolic tone makes you flinch and whimper. Inadvertently, you wind up curling further into his hold, which tightens as if to keep you this close. “This goddess belongs to me. Give her to me, and I’ll spare the rest of you. That is my only offer; I’d suggest taking it.”

The outcry of the other gods at this is expected. You’re their youngest, the most precious among them- you know they’ll protect you, as they always have. Against Wesker’s command, you wiggle in his grip, anxious to get away from him, if only to stop the infuriating heat in your core. He seems to be the one causing it- is that one of his powers? You wonder silently. Whatever it is, the growing warmth and unnatural need within you is alien, and you want it to stop.

While you continue to squirm, Wesker’s hold only tightens, making you hiss in pain. It hurts, the bruising force with which he restrains you, but you have to get away from him. He has to be the one causing this reaction in your body. But the pain is more unbearable than the heat, and you have no choice but to cease your struggles. You go still in his hold, and blessedly, his grip loosens to a far more comfortable pressure. The satisfied hum he gives you at your capitulation only makes the heat worse- so it is him!

Focused on something other than pain, you’re able to listen in on the deliberation of the gods. It’s an unpleasant surprise- you’d expected this to be no difficult decision, that they’d refuse Wesker instantly. Evidently, you’re wrong. “We can’t,” one deity insists, “she’s the most vulnerable among us, you know what he’ll do to her. How can we in good conscience sacrifice her, or any of us?” You pray the final movement is in your favor.

“What choice do we have?” Hisses another, far older god, crossing his arms, “He’ll kill all of us if we refuse, including her! We have to prioritize the greater good!”

“What use is the greater good if we lose more of our own to perpetuate it?” Yet another speaks up, “He’s already taken five of us, plus the countless mortals! It’s our duty to protect her!”

On and on the argument continues, but the heated tone dies down. They seem to be reaching an agreement, and your mouth goes dry as you see that it isn’t the one you want. “He won’t keep his word,” one goddess reminds the group, stern face pained and angry.

“Of course not,” dismisses an elder god easily, “but her sacrifice will buy us time to make a plan. This is what we must do.”

You expect to feel angry. You expect to feel rage the likes of which you didn’t think possible, sadness, bitter fury, betrayal at this condemnation of you at the hands of those you love. But instead you only feel hollow. Every interaction you’ve had with one of the other gods plays through your head, stained cold and bleak with the knowledge that when push came to shove, it took them less than five minutes to trade your life for theirs. Five minutes of debate, and not particularly intense debate at that, is all you are worth to them, when they once looked you in the eyes and told you that the wonders of the universe were yours by birthright.

Was all of it a lie? Did none of them ever love you? You think you wouldn’t be so wounded if they had been truthful about how little you meant to them. Maybe then you would have seen this coming. Maybe then you wouldn’t feel like your heart has been ripped from your chest.

You’re unsure of what exactly to express, how to react to this. The gods look at you, their scapegoat, their sacrificial lamb, and you see in their eyes your own judgment of death. “No,” you choke out, and you just now realize you’re crying. Your throat feels tight and hot and your vision grows watery. “You can’t do this to me! You swore you’d protect me, you promised! You promised!” You’re shouting, hysterics making your body quake even with Wesker’s steadfast grip on you. The man you’ve just been handed to tightens his hold just a bit, but you can’t bring yourself to care. You refuse to walk to the gallows without a fight. “I was your daughter,” you continue, great heaving sobs ripping from your throat as you see that some of the gods look upon you with sympathy, with pity, and yet make no move to save you. Their apologetic stares only make you more angry; how dare they look at you that way when they’re complicit in this madness all the same? “You were my family!”

The eldest of the gods surrounding the caldera furrows his brow. “Gods have no family,” he says, only stone-cold firmness to be found in his eyes, and then turns to address Wesker with the same grim tone, “She is yours. We expect you to hold up your end of the bargain.”

Your final cry of no peters off into a desperate sob, though it has no time to echo throughout the volcano, as your body is engulfed once more in the liquid, warm sensation of teleportation. But unlike the natural, seamless transition of the one that brought you to Kijuju, this feels like a violation, hot and uncomfortable, the magic sticking to your skin unpleasantly and itching as if you’ve been burned. Like Wesker forcibly displaced your being. In a way, you realize, he did- you subconsciously resisted his pull, but your power is nothing compared to his.

Why me, you wonder mournfully, why not anyone else? You are his opposite in every regard- in human years, you’re older than him by more than a century, yet by human standards he’s far older than you both in mind and body. The other gods often called you radiant, pure, full of light and soft warmth, though in hindsight you wonder if they meant a single syllable.

Wesker has killed more humans than possibly anyone else ever has, and has done the unthinkable; a human becoming divine, spilling divine blood. Every touch he gives you is harsh, unyielding, and cruel. He is a void into which you have no choice but to fall. Maybe, you think, that’s why he chose you over any of the others, deities far older, more beautiful, more powerful than you.

In any case, escape is not a possibility. If you have any hope of a quick death, resistance will snuff it instantly. Not that you could resist, not in this state. You feel lightheaded, lopsided, like you’d faint if not for the girding support of Wesker’s grip. Gone now are the high walls of the volcano, replaced by a vast, ominous sanctum. The transition gives you pause, and your wailing ceases for a moment as you take in this strange new place. Wesker, too, looks curiously at the location he has dragged you to, obviously unaware of where exactly he is.

It’s his Domain, and like all Domains, it is a reflection of its master. Wesker’s section of reality fits him perfectly, you admit; it is grandiose, elegant, sinister, and yet fascinatingly complex. Supporting the high, vaulted ceiling are a series of carved onyx pillars, sprouting from the ebony floor and engraved with intricate depictions of serpents coiling into themselves. It is a room far too grand for any one man. But Wesker is not just any one man, and once the shock wears off, he seems to realize how befitting a Domain he has been granted.

Suddenly, the man turns to you, expression stern. “What is this place? Tell me, little Endling.” As ever, it is not a request, but a demand, one your sense of self-preservation forces you to oblige.

Somehow, you force your throat to produce a weak, hoarse response. “Y-your Domain,” you answer, trembling under his gaze, “your- your home.” You can’t provide more than that, your remaining courage finally exhausted. Please don’t ask something else, please don’t ask something else, please don’t ask something else-

Wesker hums, satisfied with your timid response. “A Domain, hm?” He muses aloud, “I can work with this.” Your entire body sags with relief at his acceptance, this tiny sliver of mercy, though dread begins to creep in as you ask what exactly that ‘work’ is. Your lip wobbles, and you hold your tongue while fighting back tears. Speaking would do nothing for you now, except maybe anger him.

When he begins walking again, you stumble, and he doesn’t waste a moment before a mass of Uroboros coils around you, pulling you back to him. The slimy, unnatural sensation is horrific, and you bite your lip until you taste your own Ichor. This time, he pulls you fully into his arms, bracing them against your upper thighs and pressing your body into his shoulder and torso. He is warm, feverish, even, and the radiating heat has you instinctively curling into him. The position, as oddly uncomfortable as it is, gives you the little blessing of being able to hide your face from him, one you make full use of. Silent tears travel from the edges of your eyes down to the tip of your nose, falling to the polished floor below with each staccato breath you take. A disconnection between your mind and your body sinks its claws into you, dulling the sharp edge of your sorrow into something of an unpleasant ache.

You pass from the entry sanctum into a more reasonably-sized room, with a floor made of dark basalt and walls with inset shelves holding opaque, geometric bottles of who-knows-what. You finally gain the strength to look around again, letting out a soft gasp as you take in the mist-filled chamber Wesker has carried you to. It’s a bathing room, lit with floating candle-flames that hover around a large, rectangular tub connected to the far wall. The sound of gently-running water soothes your frightened mind, an aperture above the tub filling it with steaming water while decorative aqueducts carry runoff back into the walls, rills traveling through niches carved into the tub.

Wesker huffs, a simple sound that nonetheless has you shrinking back into yourself with a startled peep. Once he’s done taking in the room, he lowers you to the ground, allowing you to finally put distance between yourself and him. Immediately, you stumble backwards until your legs collide with the tub, bracing your hands against it so that you don’t fall in. Your eyes, filled with fear and uncertainty, flicker up to meet his, glowing with disappointment. They pulse with magmatic fire, absolutely inhuman but beautiful in a way that you cannot describe.

Breaking the short moment of silence, he gives you an order. “Strip.”

Purely on impulse, your hands dart across your bust, clinging to the soiled fabric of your dress. Your Ichor runs cold at the thought of taking it off. “…What?” You murmur dumbly, unsure if you’ve even heard him correctly.

A blur across your vision, and he stands inches away from you, just like before in the caldera. Another frightened noise escapes you as he boxes you in between the tub and his own immovable body. “Take. Your clothes. Off,” he repeats, voice lowered and patience obviously running thin. You tremble, arms clinging tighter to yourself, attempting to turn your head away to escape his burning gaze. A firm, gloved hand grips your chin with bruising force, dragging you back to face him. He leans in, his face close enough that his breath warms your nose. “Or do I have to tear them off you?”

Your response is immediate and frantic. You shake your head, a choked no leaving your mouth, and your leaden arms fumble with the dress keeping you hidden from his prying eyes. After barely a second that feels like a year, you manage to yank the dirtied white fabric over your head. As you pull it off, you undo the clasp on your choker, removing it from your neck and bundling it with your dress. You can’t help but hold the bunched-up fabric tightly to your body, though, keeping your breasts hidden, at the same time as your thighs press together to hide your crotch from his view. You’ve never been naked in front of another before. It feels dirty, vulnerable, and tense, and you understand now why the other gods always insisted upon you wearing clothes and keeping your chest & crotch hidden. How can anyone enjoy this?

At your shyness, Wesker tuts, taking hold of the dress and pulling it from your unresisting arms. “Ah ah, none of that,” he chides, “you can’t hide from me, little one. I’ve already seen you at your lowest. Let me see my prize.” You’re unsure what exactly he means, but you’re too shaky to ask and for some reason the way he speaks makes you want to sob. You allow him to toss away your filthy dress and you force your arms to rest at your sides, quaking in place as you feel him taking you in. Again, he hums, a long and pleased sound deep in his chest, and it makes you shudder in something that definitely isn’t fear. “There we are,” he croons, “oh, you’re filthy, pet. In the water, now.”

Without waiting to ensure your obedience, the man turns on his heel and gives you space, presumably to enter the bath. Though the rising wisps of steam entice you, you’re far too on edge to risk submerging yourself in his presence. But he’s correct; your face is splattered in ash, Ichor and dirt from the caldera. The Ichor, particularly, makes you sick. The knowledge that the proof of the weakness of the gods, of your own weakness, paints your face is enough to have you cupping the warm water in your hands. You raise your dripping hands to your face, rinsing away the day’s violent events. The sight of the luciferant golden Ichor blossoming as it drips into the tub, exploring outside the veins of its former host, makes you swallow. Though it is gone from your flesh, the echo it left will never truly fade.

Against your better judgment, you look over your shoulder, watching as Wesker shucks off his long coat and gloves, tossing them aside as he did your own raiment. He doesn’t spare you a glance, only striding to one of the shelves in the wall and picking up a couple of containers. When he turns to walk towards you and notices your staring (and your being outside the water), he says nothing of it, only placing the containers on the flat rim of the tub and bracing his hands on either side of you, pressing against you, his own crotch flush with the small of your back. You shudder.

His closeness, his aura, his persistent and greedy gaze- whatever it is about him that is making your body react this way, you need him to stop. It’s too much, too unknown, and the tension curling in your belly is too scary for you to stay silent any longer. “Please, stop.” The words leave you in a shaky whisper, and even that has you bracing for a punishment for speaking out of turn. But when nothing happens and you look behind you, you find only Wesker looking at you in what you could only describe as confusion.

“Stop what?” He echoes, almost seeming genuine, “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific, little Endling.”

Your frustration finally shows on your face, and you glare up at him, pouting in despair. “My body,” you plead, “whatever you’re doing to me, I- I can’t take it, please…”

One of his sculpted eyebrows raises. “Your body?” he trails off, taking hold of your chin with forefinger and thumb to force you to look him in the face. You wither beneath his studious eyes, the way he gazes right into your soul, burning through everything else until he reaches your very marrow and feasts upon it. “Hmm. Tell me, dearheart, what am I doing to your body?”

The inquisitive question throws you off. You assumed he would know, that he would have some inkling of his divine powers over others despite his recent apotheosis. Your tongue darts out to wet your trembling lips, and you don’t miss the hungry way he takes it in. But maybe if you say the words aloud, it will break the spell. It’s worth a try, so you summon your self awareness and beg it to tell you what’s happening. “…Feels hot,” you finally say, shivering as you unveil even more of yourself to the man that will undo you entirely, “and tight. I’ve never felt it before. My Ichor feels like- like I’m sprinting.”

Wesker nods thoughtfully, never once taking his eyes off your heated face. He hums, and you can feel it resonate within you from where you are pressed to him. “What else?” He prompts, “do you feel nervous? Anticipatory, perhaps?”

Somehow, he’s describing exactly what it feels like. Your stomach drops out, a heavy, hot stone weighing it down in your body until it feels like you’re burning from the inside out. You nod. “Y-yes. But it feels almost… good.”

At your final admission, Wesker’s lips curl into a warm, satisfied smirk. His pupils dilate, expanding into black holes that threaten to drown you in their vantablack depths. He tilts your chin to the side, leans in closer just to hear your breath hitch. “I think I know what you’re feeling, little one,” he murmurs, dark and deep, and it only makes the burning in you that much more intense and hungry, “It’s called arousal. And I’m not doing anything. It’s all you.”

Arousal. You finally have a word for this hot, insatiable feeling curling in your core. But contrary to your hopes, the arousal doesn’t fade. The knowledge that Wesker is not directly responsible for this curling, scorching serpent in your belly makes you even more mortified. You feel shameful, disgusting. Your hands tremble. Part of you is thankful that he continues, sparing you the need to force your tongue to break the silence. “You’re a strange little thing, aren’t you, dearheart?” His gaze is softer now, almost pitying. He is no longer disappointed in you, now merely inquisitive. “Tell me, how much did the gods teach you about this?”

The feeling of his bare hand groping the apex between your legs, fingers resting atop the soft, velveteen flesh of the little slit lying there, has you freezing. All at once, your thoughts come to a screeching halt beyond the sensation of his deft fingertips idly kneading the meat of your pelvis. The arousal intensifies, and you finally pinpoint where the heat is strongest. It’s there, in the unassuming flesh of your crotch, pulsing and pleading for something you cannot name. It’s the same place your heart and stomach drop to whenever Wesker’s voice drops to that particular dulcet octave. His touch feels at once wrong, like a violation of the highest order, and so unfathomably right. Never before has another touched your crotch in this way- you have, for grooming and cleaning, of course, but you’re fairly certain none of the other gods have ever even seen it. And yet the intoxicating warmth of his palm against the vulnerable flesh has you melting, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Somehow, the answer slides from your tongue without meaning to. “N-nothing,” you keen, resisting the subconscious urge to grind your crotch into Wesker’s wicked hand, “They only told- told me that it’s bad, to touch here. But why-“ you pause to hitch in a breath as his pointer finger slowly passes along the folds of your slit, making you shudder “why does it feel- feel-“

“Good?” Wesker finishes for you, humming knowingly as his finger pets over the delicate flesh. Somehow, he knows what he’s doing to you, what this hot arousal in your core truly means. You need to know, you need to understand why your body is doing this, why something supposedly bad has your mind melting in pleasure.

“Yes,” you moan, the word stretching as his finger presses deeper, gliding through the slick folds of flesh. Why would the other gods keep you from exploring this part of yourself? You realize, in this heated moment, that their motivations must have been selfish- they’ve already demonstrated how little they truly cared for you. Why would this be any different?

Wesker groans, a soft, low sound deep in his core that intensifies the pulsing in your own. “I didn’t anticipate you to be so innocent,” he says, his hand’s movements never pausing, “you really don’t know anything, do you, little Endling? Do you even know what this part of you is called?”

You can only shake your head. In your mind, and in your studies, it has only been obliquely referred to. It’s your crotch, your pelvic area, the place where urine (and Ichor, roughly once every two months) comes from. That’s all it’s ever been to you, and nothing more. But the way Wesker speaks of it, like it’s some grand, delicious secret he’s about to let you in on, makes you desperate to know. Desperate for him to tell you what this soft flesh, wet and pulsing with pleasure and desire, truly is.

His deep chuckle, satisfied and anticipatory, only makes the soft skin of your slit pulse further. “Oh, you’re too delicious, pet. This,” he grips the meat of your crotch again, making you let out a sound of painful need, “is a cunt. Your cunt. Plenty of humans have one, too. And it’s probably my favorite part of human anatomy.”

Cunt. Another new word, short and simple to describe what has been hidden from you. Hearing Wesker speak, hearing him praise your cunt so highly, makes it swell with warmth. Everything he’s doing feels entirely too good, dare you say even sinful. Part of you wants him to stop, but another part, one much larger and more convincing, hungers to know more. You are bare before him, vulnerable and weak. He could kill you with no effort. But the thought of his hand wrapped around your throat, holding you in place while he devours you with his eyes, only makes your arousal worse.

So lost are you in the moment and the overwhelming sensations racing across your skin that you don’t notice the uncanny sensation of him teleporting the both of you out of the bathing room. Sleek, cool fabric meets your bare back as he lays you down horizontally, and you realize you’re on a bed. His bed. The silk underneath you is a relief to your feverish skin and you arch into it, basking in the sensory delight of both the sheets and Wesker’s hand still groping your cunt. His fingers work through the soaked folds, exploring you until they find one particularly sensitive spot.

You jolt as two fingertips massage that very spot, rubbing it back and forth, sending shockwaves of pleasure across your body. Your legs spasm uncontrollably in time with his ministrations, and thankfully you don’t have to ask him what exactly this new part of you is, because he beats you to it. “And this is your clit. Feel that, dear? Like a little button beneath my fingers?” He gathers the swollen bud between thumb and forefinger and pinches just so, but even that relatively gentle touch is enough to have your mind whiting out with undiluted pleasure. He takes your ensuing silent scream as an answer. “Another favorite of mine. With just a bit of attention to such a small bit of tissue, your body becomes putty in my hands. So pliant, just how I like my playthings.” While one finger remains to fondle your clit, two dart down and begin pressing into you, finding the same hole the Ichor spills from every two months and delving inside it.

It’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt. It’s sublime, blissful agony and agonizing bliss. You need more, but just those two fingers, barely inserted, fill you and stretch your cunt to an uncomfortable degree. You want it deeper, though you don’t know why, but what if your little body breaks under his? What if you can’t satisfy his curiosity, and he discards you like he did with the other gods?

Self-preservation becomes the new catalyst to your need, knowing that if Wesker is angered, it could spell your end. And besides- your hole pulsing around his fingers as they slowly inch deeper within you, clenching on them while he plays with your clit, is too delicious of a feeling to lose. You try to buck your hips up, try to take more of him into you, but he retracts with a chuckle. “Look at you. I bet you don’t even know what you’re so desperate for, what your body needs. But I’m not a heartless man, pet. I know what you need. All you have to do is answer one more question for me.

“Can you do that? Hm?” His enthralling voice, dripping with confidence and seduction, is the single most addictive thing you know of. You’re so caught up in the heated glamor he has you in that you nearly miss the words themselves. But you’re not entirely lost, not yet, and you manage to frantically nod your head. Whatever he wants from you, you’ll do, a mixture of fear for your survival and desperation to ride this mounting pleasure for as long as you can driving your obedience. You manage to hiss out a verbal response, to which he chuckles, satisfied. “So eager for something you can’t even name. Now, tell me- did the gods ever teach you about how humans reproduce?”

That shakes some clarity back into your muddled mind, and your eyes fly open, body going somewhat stiff atop the gossamer sheets. “What?” You breathe, taken aback. It’s not something you know much of, to be honest- you’ve heard it referred to as lovemaking, but the other gods always obscured the details to you. The end result, however, you’re familiar with; the bloody visual of a mother pushing a baby from her shattered body haunted you for countless nights after you saw it. Why on earth would Wesker summon that sobering memory to your mind now, in the throes of pleasure, with his fingers still digging slowly but surely into your cunt? “I- Is that what you…? I don’t understand,” you stammer, backing up across the plane of the soft bed.

The feeling of Wesker’s delicious touch leaving your core as you move away from him is agonizing, and the pleasure that once bloomed in your cunt now begins to wilt. You shrink under his infernal eyes, watching his brow furrow infinitesimally. He moves as well, coming closer as you move away, matching your motions. His fingers are shiny, glistening with the shimmering slickness of your cunt. He looks down at them briefly before bringing them to his mouth and allowing his deft, long tongue to clean away the remnants of you. He lets out a shuddering, pleased groan at the taste, and you find yourself unable to look away as he devours your slickness until his fingers are clean. When he looks back to you, his pale face is smattered with a relatively faint (but noticeable) blush.

“Your body craves what all other mortal bodies do, little Endling. Don’t deny it. I can sate that hunger if you just submit.” His temptations are ever more powerful against your weakened resolve, but you hold fast, bringing your legs closer to yourself. You simply can’t fathom it. Wesker wants to reproduce with you? To make love with you? It’s impossible, it has to be. The man is incapable of love (even as you form the thought you know it’s false. You’ve seen the way he’s looked at other mortals before, you’ve seen the unmistakable desire in his eyes when he gazed upon Chris). To think he wants that from you, to teach you how humans reproduce in the most personal possible way, makes you shudder in disbelief. Eventually, your back hits the wall, and you can flee from him no further. He returns to his place over your smaller body, bathing you in his shadow, forcing you to breathe him in.

But you can’t. Whatever he means to do, you can’t. “I- I’m not ready,” you plead, eyes wild, “I can’t, we can’t! Gods don’t- we don’t-“ you can hardly bring itself to say it, your face feeling aflame with humiliation. Gods do not reproduce, you and the others all simply are. You fell from the stars exactly as you are now, physically speaking. You are not born, and you do not die.

Or, at least, you didn’t.

But with his apotheosis, Wesker has shaken everything you thought you knew about godhood. He did not fall from the heavens, he clawed himself from the molten earth. He murdered gods, something you presumed impossible. He was born, and he made gods die. So what, you wonder frightfully, is really true about divinity? What does it mean? Can you truly produce an infant in your belly the same way mortal women can?

Do you even have a choice in finding out?

Wesker’s murmur, face inches from yours, snaps you from your racing thoughts. “Gods don’t what?”

Your eyes dart away, unable to maintain contact with his as you finish your sentence. Your voice is barely a whisper, tongue hesitant. “We don’t… make love…” saying the words aloud, you feel almost dirty. Guilty. Silently, you yearn for the blind pleasure he offered just moments ago.

To your surprise, Wesker begins to laugh. It sounds both warm and cold, both endeared and cruel. He looks at you with a condescending glint in his burning eyes, smiling, baring his inhuman teeth. “Oh, my precious little Endling,” he sighs, chest still shaking with laughter, “Is that what you think this is? I’m not going to ‘make love’ to you.” His words should bring you relief, but his merciless eyes and the fingers prodding once more at the entrance to your cunt only make you more nervous. “I’m going to fuck you. And you will learn everything that was kept from you.”

Another new word. Your vocabulary becomes more complete, more vulgar, by the moment in his presence. Cunt. Clit. Fuck. The last one sounds like the opposite of lovemaking- it sounds brutal, cruel, and wicked. Like a gnarled bramble bush compared to a flowering lilac. Part of you wonders, frightfully, if the analogy is a little too spot on, and you’ll feel the pain of those brambles as he fucks you.

A breathless noise escapes you as Wesker once more coaxes two fingers into your clenching cunt, your body eagerly welcoming him back. That coiling pleasure begins to build once more, dulling the edges of your terrified musings. His face ducks down, buries itself in your neck, and he takes a shuddering breath, drinking in your scent as he deftly thrusts his fingers in and out, in and out. “See? It feels good, doesn’t it? You want more,” He whispers, a heated promise against the shell of your ear, amplifying your growing pleasure. Your body sings at his words, reacting just as it did back in the caldera, cunt clenching and drawing him further in. You don’t know just what it is about his voice that has such an effect on you. All you know is the pleasure pulses, heavy and warm, every time he murmurs in that dark baritone.

Your mind is not gone just yet. You’re fraying at the seams, but you haven’t completely unraveled. You grit your teeth against the building, burning pleasure inside you and force your eyes open. His mouth is latching onto your skin, nipping the delicate flesh with his canines until Ichor is drawn and then lapping it up like a starving man. You can’t help but cry out at each attack, keening against his mouth as he presses his lips to the now-bruised skin, treating the wound with smothering kisses. You feel so helpless, a slave to your body’s alien desires, unprepared for the onslaught Wesker forces upon you. Not for the first time today, you lament the other gods and their lack of transparency. What reason could they have to leave me this vulnerable?

You force yourself to put aside your anger and fear for the moment. Biting back a moan as Wesker attacks a particular spot at your neck, you attempt to speak up. “Are-“ as if he’d timed it, the man laves his tongue over the weeping flesh of your collar, forcing you to taper off into a desperate, pathetic noise halfway. He chuckles, deep rumbling laughter that reminds you of how much he enjoys pulling you apart, piece by piece. It carries the sinister promise of more to come, and so you attempt to continue. “You- are you going to- to hurt me?” You’re terrified of what the answer may be. What he’s doing right now feels good, yes, but will it always feel good? Is the night doomed to end with you curled in on yourself in agony, or spread out on Wesker’s bed while he drowns your mind in euphoria? You’re almost as scared of the answer as you are of the question itself. But the words have already left your mouth, so you brace for the response, whatever it may be.

Wesker hums neutrally, a sound that answers none of your questions and only serves to make you more nervous. His body, pressed firmly over yours, prevents you from shrinking away. After a moment of contemplation, he finally speaks. “Not intentionally,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to the shell of your ear (an unexpected action that makes your breath hitch and your heart flutter), “It will hurt, of course. Not unbearably, and not for long. But it will.” Languidly, he scissors his fingers inside you, stretching you open with an expert ease that tells you he’s done this before. You don’t know whether the knowledge that he has experience in this area makes you feel humiliated, or relieved. He may not keep his word, obviously, but all that matters to you is that you aren’t doomed to a night of pain. As long as you are pliant and obedient, you will survive. You suppose that’s the best you could have hoped for. “You’re thinking awfully loud, little one,” he clicks his tongue, tapping your forehead somewhat roughly with his free hand, “stop it. There’s nothing of use to either of us in that sweet little head of yours.”

You whine, your face growing hot and eyes growing teary at his degradation. It settles unpleasantly in your belly, but against all odds, the humiliation mingles with the arousal he fills you with. The two sensations, equal and opposite, suddenly clash and become one, something unspeakable and stronger than both on their own. Involuntarily, you clench hard around him, drawing a strangled breath from Wesker and a strained cry from you. Your traitorous tongue, perhaps hoping to cut off whatever belittling he intends on next, takes the opportunity to make itself useful. “I was- I was scared,” you admit weakly, wincing in pain as a third finger joins the two already inside, and pleasure claws its way up your body, “I thought you’d- you would hurt me, or- or kill me.” After that, you purse your lips shut with a humiliated whine to keep yourself from digging your grave any further. But the damage has been done, and another condescending laugh rolls over you like thunder from his chest.

“Poor, dumb little thing,” Wesker coos, and your eyes fly open at the insult, tears overflowing, “for all you know I am hurting you. You don’t even know what it is I’m doing, just that it feels good. Isn’t that right?” He leans in closer, his reptilian eyes burning you with their mocking glare. It’s true, though- aside from the words he’s given to name these sensations, you have no idea what he’s doing. It is one thing to read the word ‘dog’ in a dictionary, and another thing to see the creature apart from its name, and yet another entirely to understand that the word and beast are one and the same. You may have the words to name his actions, but you don’t have the context to understand or comprehend them, and it frightens you to the core.

Said core is currently being violated, three deft fingers pressing deeper and deeper into your cunt, rubbing against a particularly spongy and sensitive spot just behind your clit that makes your brain short circuit. Wesker continues to strike down your ego, each wicked word chipping away at your mind. “That’s all you are, dear. A dumb little Endling, daring to call herself a god. Innocent, precious. And all. Fucking. Mine.” Each hissed word is punctuated by a deep thrust of his fingers against that spot inside you, and you’re only just now noticing but the pleasure is in your lungs and it’s suddenly hard to breathe, and you writhe against him, grinding your clit on the heel of his hand as his heated gaze melts your resolve completely-

Suddenly, an unspeakable ecstasy crashes through your body. More potent than anything he’s done so far, it ricochets across your soul until you can barely see. You’ve never experienced something like this, this profound euphoria ripping through your veins like floodwater after a typhoon. All you can do is arch your back up into Wesker’s waiting embrace with a loud, lewd moan, your head pressing back into the soft bed beneath. It’s so intense that it’s almost frightening, but as the aftershocks wash through you, you find that all the tension you’d previously harbored is completely gone. Whatever just happened, whatever Wesker just did to you, it’s left you utterly boneless. You sob in between gasps for air, barely registering Wesker’s satisfied chuckle above you. His voice drops to a delicious whisper that only enhances the dregs of ecstasy flowing across your body.

“And just like that, there you go.” His breath is warm, soothing, against your face, and the incomprehensible urge to kiss him makes itself known to you. His lips have already graced your neck, your ear, and felt so good, you know they’d feel utterly sublime on your own. Kissing is something you’re familiar with, though you’ve never done it yourself- the other gods did it sometimes, and you’ve seen humans clash lips more times than you can count. You always wanted to try it, and if you are to die at Wesker’s hand, you suppose this is your last chance. But his pleased smile, the crow’s feet it gives his eyes, has you too enthralled to act on that urge. “You’re going to cum many more times for me, pet. That is what your body craves. That’s what I’m going to do to you, what I’m going to give you. And you will beg for more.” You’re struck by the realization that either he knows what his voice (like ebony silk and thick, rich wine) is doing to you, or he simply enjoys hearing himself speak. Whichever is the truth, you don’t care. You can’t care, not with the way each word drags you further into the decadent oblivion he offers.

The hand that wasn’t buried in your cunt rubs soothing warmth into your side, up and down, relishing in the softness of your skin and the layers of plushness beneath. Your chest heaves, diaphragm rising and falling as you attempt to come down from the height of cumming. Your eyes, hazy and wet, blink slowly in response to Wesker’s voice. His lips, thin and smooth, are so utterly enticing. Against your will, you voice your innermost thoughts. “I want to kiss you,” you breathe softly, barely a whisper on the heated air. But, of course, he hears it very well.

He raises a sculpted brow and tilts his head. “Is that so? How bold of you, pet. Ask properly, and I’ll consider it.” In response, you whine in frustration, left wanting and needy for his affections. How are you supposed to know what asking him properly even means?

“Please,” you beg, fixing him with your best doe eyes, “please let me kiss you, I- I’ve never-“

A finger, still coated in the evidence of your release, drives itself into your open mouth, cutting you off. You nearly choke on it, face heating up even more at the taste of yourself, and you nearly bite him in your confusion. “Try again,” Wesker orders sternly, “address me correctly.”

A charm of resistance, buried deep within, awakens at his cruelty, and you respond in kind. Your teeth come down onto his finger, though not enough to hurt; merely a warning that you can bite harder if you choose. You glare up at him, indignant at being denied what you know you’ve earned, what you deserve. He’s taken you prisoner, unraveled your entire world, and covered you in the blood of your fellow deities. The least you’re owed is one small request. Denial is an unfamiliar, unpleasant sensation. Very rarely were you ever refused a request, especially if it was for lessons or material comforts. The other gods were always eager to shower you in beautiful gifts and teach you the secrets of divinity. The few times you were shot down in your requests stung, making you angry and indignant. Once, you even threw something in your frustration.

Here and now, though, the denial feels even worse. You feel like you’ll die if he doesn’t at least give you this one thing. It’s never been so profound, this yearning in your core. You want to grab him by the hair and pull him down, force your lips onto his and take what you’re owed, but you push that thought away. If I did that, you remind yourself, I would be no better than him.

Despite the gentleness of your bite, Wesker’s temper flares, and he bares his sharp teeth down at you. “Spoilt little slut,” he growls, a dangerous edge to his tone. You hope the anger in your expression hides your burgeoning terror, but in all likelihood, it doesn’t do much. You can’t help but whine lowly in the back of your throat, and your jaw drops open in an attempt to appease him. Immediately, he pulls his finger away and his hand lays a cruel slap to your cheek. It’s not as harsh as you expected, and the site of the blow merely tingles instead of burning. A warning, just like your bite. Still, it makes you yelp, and you try to cradle your cheek with your palm, only for Wesker to pin both your wrists beside your head. His hands dwarf yours, a terrifying reminder of the difference in power between you. His pupils are dilated, eclipsing his irises in vantablack, belying just how much he’s enjoying this. You don’t know whether to be flattered, terrified, or enraged, and so you settle for a healthy mix of the three.

“You want me so badly, hm? Fine. I’ll indulge just this once,” Wesker sneers, and you barely have time to register his words in your brain before his mouth comes crashing down onto yours and he’s ripping the breath right out of your lungs. It’s utterly unlike any kiss you’ve ever witnessed, any kiss you’ve ever fantasized about having. It’s cruel, all teeth and tongue, as he forces his way into your mouth and claims it as his own. And yet, his lips are still as soft as you pictured, though it’s hard to focus on them when he laves his tongue across every inch of your mouth and presses your own tongue down flat into submission.

The sensations are overwhelming, and more than a little frightening. But still, you’ve gotten what you asked for, what you begged for. You try, hesitantly, to return the kiss, whining into his mouth when he forces his weight down onto you, keeping you prone and still. He groans, a deep-throated sound that makes you swoon, but the pleasure of his voice is ripped from you when he sinks his sharp teeth into your tender lip. You cry out in pain, attempting to pull away, but his hold on you is steadfast. He full-on moans as he tastes your Ichor, sucking at the bite with vicious purpose. Pain, like denial, is an unfamiliar sensation, and you don’t know how to cope other than through the tears that stream down your temples.

Finally, blessedly, he pulls away, leaving a long thread of Ichor-stained saliva connecting the two of you. He nips at it, cutting it out of the air, and you flinch at the close snap of his fangs. Face flushed, his tongue darts out to the corner of his mouth to lick up a trace of your Ichor, savoring the taste. His eyes never leave your shuddering form, and you hate the deep, sharp pang of arousal that echoes through you. His hand grips your chin, forcing your attention to him. “That’s enough. Now apologize.”

His grasp loosens, just a little, but it’s enough for you to find your voice. “‘M sorry, I’m sorry,” you croak desperately, “Please, I- I only wanted-“

“What you want is irrelevant, Endling,” he reminds you coldly, hips thrusting slightly against yours as he hisses the epithet, and you feel something firm and warm rub against your cunt, something that has your mouth going dry for a reason you can’t name. You squeeze your eyes shut, allowing more tears to fall, wishing desperately that this is all simply a nightmare that you’ll wake from any minute. “You. Belong. To me,” he says, free hand punctuating each pause with a light slap to your cheek, drawing pathetic whines from the base of your throat, “You will take what I give you and nothing more, am I understood?”

Once again, Wesker’s hand loosens around your jaw, allowing you to speak. “Yes,” you rush out, pleading for his cruelty to end, “yes, I- I understand, I’m so sorry, I-“

“Master.”

“Wh- What…?” You whisper dumbly, caught off guard by his interruption.

“Call me Master,” he orders, leaving no room for argument.

A dull, heavy stone of despair roots in your chest. He’s never going to let me go, you realize with a lull of sorrow, not even after he’s fucked me. Though he only became a God a short while ago, his power far outclasses your own. It will be many years before you’ll be able to escape him, if ever. You’re no longer a goddess; you’re his prisoner. With no other option, you close your eyes against the fresh wave of tears that threaten to escape. You inhale a shaky, weak breath. “…Yes, Master.” And suddenly you hate yourself far more than you hate Wesker, because as you say the word aloud, the pulsating pleasure in your core only deepens.

Your self-hatred thickens even further at the way you keen under his response. “Good girl.”

You can’t bear to open your eyes. But you nearly do when you register Wesker’s wicked tongue lapping against your cheek, languidly licking up your tears before moving to your other cheek and doing the same. It feels strange, unnatural, and almost pleasant. It leaves a tacky, uncomfortable trail of his saliva on your face, but the warmth of the non-violent touch is too addictive. One moment, he is cruel and unyielding, the next he touches you with such deliberate tenderness that your heart flutters like a swarm of butterflies. And somehow, neither sensation makes your body recoil; your cunt only aches with need, regardless of if Wesker is caressing your face or slapping it. But at least the (relative) softness is easier to allow yourself to enjoy.

His hand has left your face, though the phantom memory of his grip haunts the tender skin. “You’re not ready yet,” Wesker murmurs to himself, appraising your hapless body underneath him. The same hand that slapped you now gently tilts your head from side to side, and you force your eyes open to see him studying the mess he’s made of you. “Normally, I would prepare you with my mouth. But you already had my mouth, didn’t you?” You ignore the rhetorical question in favor of opening your mouth to ask him what exactly he’s preparing you for, but he cuts you off before you can start. “So instead, you’ll have this.”

From his wrist, coiling around his hand, come the tendrils of Uroboros. The very same horrible creation that allowed him to slaughter five of your fellow gods right in front of you. You don’t have time to protest the idea of those things going anywhere near you, as one thick tendril darts down to your cunt and pushes inside without preamble. The stretch is difficult to bear, plenty thicker than his fingers, but Wesker gives you no time to adjust. The tentacle is slippery, coated in a thin layer of something you don’t even want to imagine, allowing it to slide into your cunt with relative ease. A choked cry escapes your throat, and on instinct, your hands press to his chest in an attempt to push him off you. Wesker clicks his tongue condescendingly, shaking his head as another set of tendrils slither across your arms and force them down to the bed. “Behave,” he orders as the Uroboros pins your hands to either side of your head, keeping you pressed down firmly. Helpless against him.

As much as you remind yourself how vile, how terrible, the thing inside you is, you can’t prevent your body from reacting to it. Each languid thrust pushes the rounded tip of the appendage a little deeper into your cunt, its smooth surface caressing your inner walls and sending waves of pleasure through you. Already, you feel the sublime ecstasy of before mounting deep inside, your peak fast approaching. The dregs of the last time you came still haven’t left your bloodstream, and the thought of even more rushing through you makes you uneasy. It’s too much, too fast, but with your hands pinned and body helpless, you can’t do anything to stop it from creeping closer.

“No,” you blurt, gasping for air against the serpent of euphoria constricting your lungs, “it’s- it’s too much, too much, I can’t- I can’t cum again, please-“ you hesitate before saying the dreaded word but if you don’t, you know things will only get worse “-M-Master, Master please, I can’t, please stop!” Your wide eyes stare up at him, while his are fixated on the tendril pounding further into your cunt with each passing second.

He doesn’t look at your face when he responds, humming in satisfaction. “Yes, you can,” he tells you casually, flexing his wrist and making the tendrils pulse, both squeezing your wrists and whiting out your vision with pleasure, “Go on. Cum for me, my little Endling.”

And with a resounding sob of pleasure, you do, a stray tendril flicking over your clit finishing you off. It burns, like the sun itself is caressing you, but even through the agony of overstimulation it feels so supremely good. A piece of your soul bursts, leaving you writhing in your living binds, hips bucking in an attempt to escape the onslaught. Self-loathing buries itself in your core just as the tendril retracts, allowing you to release a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Euphoria washes through you, drowning you in liquor and honey until all you can breathe is sin. And it is sinful, this- you know for certain if any of the other gods could see you now, they’d call you vile, a useless creature, a broken thing. You try to rationalize it, try to remind yourself that the word of the other gods means nothing to you anymore, but it’s easier said than done. You’ve had your whole life to live under their thumbs, and only a few hours to adjust to their abandonment. It may take time for you to accept that they never cared for you, but until then, you can’t help but envision their disappointment as your soul pulses with the aftershocks of pleasure.

The Uroboros is slow to retract from you, familiarizing itself with every inch of your cunt. It drags against your sensitive inner flesh, taking an agonizingly long time to finally pop out completely. You let out a shuddering sigh of relief, hole clenching down on nothing and wrists finally free. You wipe the tears from your bleary eyes, gazing up at the divine man whose body presses yours to the bed.

Wesker watches the slick tendrils of Uroboros slide back into place, concealed within his flesh, before his eyes flicker back to you. The aggression is gone, and you feel a bit of your fear fall away. He chuckles softly, taking in the ruined expression on your face. “Look at you, dearheart,” he coos, hand cupping your cheek in mock tenderness, “what a dumb little mess you are. I think you’re more than ready.”

You wrap your arms around yourself in a makeshift hug, desperate for any scrap of comfort to cling to. Your entire body feels sapped, broken, like Wesker has drained everything you have from you. You’re shaking, trembling softly with fear and the remains of your climax. “Ready for what?” You whisper, voice choked, “what more are you going to do to me?”

He closes his burning eyes as he removes his shirt, his belt, and finally his sleek pants. The more of himself he bares to you, the more your mouth goes dry.

Wesker reminds you of the many statues placed around the Domains of the other gods, of the paintings of baroque heroes in the nude. His torso is finely carved as if from marble, muscles rippling with untold strength just beneath the skin. You can’t take your eyes off his arms once they are revealed to you- the same hands that murdered millions, including gods, have brought you to mind-shattering ecstasy, and will do so again. He pauses in his disrobing, noticing your rapt attention, and a slow smile comes to his face.

“Enjoying the view?” He hums, pupils blown wide with lust as he surrounds you with himself. You are. The sight of him makes your mouth water and your cunt leak with desire.

But you’ll die before you admit it, and so you bite out a retort. “Answer the question,” you demand, shrinking into the bed away from him.

“I already told you, pet. I’m going to fuck you. Now you tell me- do you know what this is?” The question, hissed through gritted teeth, is punctuated with a harsh thrust of his hips against your own. That tantalizing hardness in his pants throbs against you, and your mouth goes dry. It feels like a dark promise, like the executioner letting you caress the edge of the axe doomed to separate your neck from your body. Somehow, twin ropes of dread and excitement spindle their way up your spine. You shake your head, tongue useless and limp. You don’t know what that thing is that he conceals, but you’re terrified of it, and of what it represents. Your unmaking at Wesker’s hands.

He laughs darkly at your innocence, lowering his body until you can feel the warmth he radiates just above you. “I didn’t think so. This is how I’m going to fuck you, dearheart. Now watch.”

Slowly, teasingly, he pulls away his pants, revealing his strong, bare legs- and a long length of flesh standing at attention just between them. The sight of it makes your throat close up, and your stomach drops out as you realize he intends to put that thing inside of you. Your eyes meet his, beseeching him to see reason. “That won’t fit,” you rush out, closing your legs to hide your cunt from him, “whatever that is, it won’t fit inside me, you- you can’t-!”

Wesker merely laughs, shaking his head, condescension radiating from him. “Keep telling yourself that, little Endling. Now, relax your body for me- it will hurt less.” He looms over you like a predator cornering his prey. And you lay before him, helpless, a doe left to bleed out and gasp her last breath around sharp teeth in her throat. You try to follow his advice, you do, but it’s far easier said than done. Despite your best efforts your body continues to tense and tremble, little whimpers escaping your parted lips.

He takes notice of your failed efforts to lay limp, it seems, because he sighs. His hand, so much larger than yours, takes your wrist and brings it to the thing he intends to force into you. You gasp at the sudden contact, but it’s such a new, foreign sensation- warm, velvety, and firm in your palm. He pulses in your grasp and lets out a hitched breath at your touch. “That’s it,” he groans, clearly pleasured, and lowers his head to rest in the crook of your neck, “familiarize yourself with my cock. Worship it. Worship me.” Wesker’s breath is hot against your throat, and everything begins to blur into a haze of intoxicating sensation.

You move your hand carefully around his cock, clumsy and unsure of yourself, but certain that such a sensitive part of him could be very easily hurt. Briefly, the thought of taking advantage of that arises, but you push it away. Attacking him, especially like this, would only make things worse. And besides, knowing that you hold his most delicate component in your hand, bringing him the same pleasure he soaked you in, makes your heart flutter. The flared head calls to you, a bead of opaque liquid forming atop it, and you carefully rub a fingertip against the smooth skin. The resulting moan, baritone and delicious, makes your cunt pulse in turn. His pleasure, you realize, is as addictive and terrifying as your own.

Your hand falters in its movements as you feel Wesker’s mouth against your heated skin again. This time, his touch is deviously soft, sensual. He laves his tongue over the sensitive parts of your neck, presses hot kisses to your sternum, tastes your flesh with deliberate tenderness. He hums in satisfaction at your taste, making you squeeze your thighs together, chasing any hint of pleasure. “You taste divine, my dear, has anyone told you? Maybe if you’re good, I’ll sample your cunt directly. Mmm, I can only imagine how delicious it is.” His murmurs are seared into your tender skin, praise that makes your soul feel full and needy for more. With each kiss, each warm press of his body against yours and each buck of his hips into your hand, you fall further and further into submission. Your body begins to relax, tension sapped from your bones and distilled into pure serenity. You try to remind yourself of the pain he brings, the ways he has hurt you, but it seems so trivial in comparison to the hazy almost-bliss he lets you fall into. Lazily, you move your hand up and down across his cock, gentle strokes that make him hum long and low in the base of his throat.

Suddenly, he pulls away from your heated skin. “Stop,” he orders, and on instinct, you do. You pull your hand away, cradling it to your chest like he burned it. “I’d much rather cum inside you. Now breathe deeply, little Endling. In and out.”

Your traitorous body, relaxed and warm beneath him, is all too eager for him to enter you. Wesker moves slowly, surely, aligning the tip of his cock with your fluttering hole. You whine as he taps it against the sensitive flesh, hips twitching in want. Anticipatory nerves flare through you, but your desperation for pleasure wins out over them. To brace yourself for him, you grip the sheets beneath you in tight, trembling fists and take a deep breath.

Your exhalation is cut short, morphing into a strangled gasp as Wesker’s cock pushes its way into you in one smooth thrust.

In perfect synergy, pain and euphoria fill your body like two streams confluencing into a pond. Your core sings at being filled, stuffed to the brim and then some- but at what cost? Wesker lets out a choked moan as he sheathes himself fully in your heat, pressing his hips flush to yours. As he does, you feel something within your cunt stretch, and then snap. It’s a sensation that overpowers everything else with cold terror, as more sharp agony tears through you, radiating from your cunt.

Something must be wrong, something must be broken. You attempt to pull yourself together, to push away from the man on top of you, but his weight is too much. He snarls at your apparent refusal, a hand around your throat forcing you to lay back down. “Be still,” he orders, gritting his teeth against the pleasure your fluttering walls inflict, “don’t make me discipline you again.”

Helpless beneath him, you can only let the excruciating pain wash over you in fiery waves, clenching down around Wesker’s cock as you heave. He remains still, thankfully, allowing you to adjust to the sensation; a small shard of mercy you take gladly. After a few moments (stretched by the pain into lifetimes), the discomfort becomes familiar, and something in you changes. Lodged deep inside you, his cock prods against your innermost flesh, taunting your wanton core. You need more from him, you realize as the pain becomes bearable, you need him to move.

No sooner do you think that than Wesker decides to move, languidly pulling out and smoothly thrusting in again. The fluid movement punches the air from you again, and you let out a choked moan as something eases his reentry. Peeking down, a stream of gold catches your eye, radiant and bright against his hips. Ichor.

You are split in two, now. One half of you feels sick, just like you did when you first woke up to his apotheosis, horrified by the knowledge that he’s drawn your Ichor, and from such a delicate place. And the other half somehow curls in desire as your lifeblood lubricates his cock, allowing him to spear you even more easily. Every act of violence only draws you closer to him and the forbidden euphoria he brings. A long, drawn-out oh escapes you, choked with hiccuping cries as pleasure is punched into you. Evidently, your turmoil shows on your tear-streaked face, because between smooth, experienced thrusts, Wesker leans down so that he’s nearly kissing you again.

“Stop. Thinking,” he orders, punctuating each word with a particularly-deep thrust of his hips. His cock slams into that spongy spot just behind your clit, flooding your nervous system with pleasure, so much so that you barely register that he’s spoken. You let out a pitiful cry, a moan like an animal, and he laughs in cruel pleasure at the mess he’s made of you. “That’s it. Think about this instead, hm?” He hisses, sending a tendril of Uroboros down to assault your throbbing clit, “You know why I call you an Endling? Go on, answer your Master.”

The question comes out of left field and you can’t do much but let out a confused whine in response. You shake your head fervently, unsure if you trust yourself to do anything but moan out a stream of Please and Wesker and any number of incomprehensible sounds. But he has other ideas. “You have a tongue. Use it,” he demands, petering off into a deep moan as he humps your helpless body.

After much effort, and at the threatening way Wesker’s hips suddenly slow down, you force your mouth to work. “N-no, I don’t- please -I don’t know why,” you keen, tacking on a weak Master at the end in response to the expectant look he gives you. It’s somewhat a lie- you can hedge a bet. But you don’t want to entertain the thought until you have to. It makes you sick just considering it.

Your worst fears are confirmed when his lips curl into a wicked grin, full of malice and bloodlust. “It’s because I’m going to slaughter them- every last one,” he promises, his eyes burning, “until only you and I remain.” His vow made, the dark god once again forces his mouth down onto yours, swallowing your cry of horrified ecstasy.

He’s much gentler this time, and you sob into the kiss as he passionately entwines his tongue with yours. You throw yourself into the decadent sensations, desperate to ignore the terrible fate he’s condemned the ones you once called family to. Most of all, you’re desperate to ignore the vicious, angry part of you that can’t wait for their demise. Maybe they deserve it, that part screeches like a mournful eagle, maybe they should all burn for abandoning me. That dark part of you is unfamiliar and horrifying, and you weep harder against it and the pleasure Wesker fills you with.

The two sensations- euphoria and horror -should be completely antithetical, completely separate. But somehow, they entwine like his tongue with yours, like two snakes wrapped around a Caduceus. The intensity doubles as the emotions mix, battling for dominance in your mind and your body. Ultimately, inevitably, it’s pleasure that wins, and you abandon any fear in the face of that all-consuming heat.

As Wesker steals every breath you take, smothering your mouth and punching the air from your body with each deliberate thrust, your impending climax only grows in scope. Between kisses, you cry out to him in desperation. “Please,” you sob, “please, Master, I want- I want it, I want to- to cum, please make me cum-“ you trail off into a scream of pleasure as the tendril fondles your clit just right, sending you hurtling closer to the edge. He chuckles in response, devouring your submission with eager hunger, drowning you in himself.

With each heated press of his lips to yours, all your thoughts cease to exist. With each moment you spend being lavished and ravished, you drift further and further into the depths of submission from which there is no return. But then again, what do you have to return to? The answer, of course, is nothing. The gods cast you aside, gave you to Wesker like a war prize, and ignored your pleas for mercy. You have no place among them. For better or for worse, your new life begins here. With Wesker.

It’s with this reluctant conclusion that the stars align. Pulling just a hair’s breadth away from your kiss-swollen lips, his voice is like liquid fire. “Then scream my name, little Endling.”

And you do. By your own name and by the names of every god who abandoned you, you do. It feels like true apotheosis, like you’re only now being truly born and everything before was merely a hollow imitation. On instinct, you wrap your legs around Wesker’s waist, pushing him further into you and keeping him locked deep inside your core. He seems to have no complaints, giving a glorious moan into your mouth as his cock twitches and his thrusts begin to halt. His hips stutter, his voice even breaks, and he refuses to pull away. Between the eden of his touch and the ambrosial afterglow of your orgasm, you squirm in confusion as you feel something fill you from the inside. His cock pulsates, shooting a warm liquid deep into your cunt, and it feels strange but at the same time so profoundly right. Like this is merely how it’s meant to be.

For a while, everything is still. There are no sounds except your racing heart and your shared panting. As the tide of pleasure draws back, you start to feel a bitter self-loathing creep in. You try to cling to the warmth of before, but that crawling thought of what have I done what have I done what have I done coils around you like a snake. Your breathing picks up and you feel you’re about to cry again.

Seemingly, Wesker notices your deteriorating state, pulling away languidly from your body and looking upon you with sated eyes. His breathing is still deep, still winded from finding his release in you. “Perfect. My little plaything, broken and bred, all for me. You and I will start a new era of divinity; our bloodline will reign supreme.”

Your voice is wet when you speak up. Your vision is misty. “Our- our bloodline?” You croak, hiccuping as you try to hold back the tears.

His gaze softens, as does his voice, as he takes in your wrecked body. “Yes. You’ll bear my children. That’s what this-“ he gives one lazy thrust, forcing his spend deeper inside and making you yelp “-is for.” He watches your lip tremble for a moment and sighs softly, a sort of pity on his face. “Go on, little one. Cry if you need to.”

You don’t know what it is about him giving you permission that sets you off, but it does, and you do. You squeeze your eyes shut, letting out a weak sob, which only grows louder at the endeared chuckle Wesker makes at the sight of you. You feel utterly wretched, like the pleasure of before has taken a terrible price in return. Against your better judgment, you wrap your arms around your captor and pull him closer, desperate for any sort of comfort, even if it comes from him. Mercifully, he obliges, one broad palm cradling the back of your skull and allowing the embrace. You shudder, weeping softly but no less forcefully in your exhaustion. All the while, his softening cock remains lodged within you, keeping his seed safely inside. You want to go home. You want to travel back in time to before this day, to before Wesker was even born, when you were happy and pampered and accepted among the pantheon. You wonder if you’ll ever even see your Domain again, with its comforting familiarity and soft light, and the thought of never sleeping in your own bed again makes you wail into Wesker’s warm chest.

Blessedly, he offers no platitudes- no false notions of everything being alright. He merely allows you to find solace in his arms and cry yourself out. You don’t know how long it takes you to calm down, but by the time that hot metal ball in your throat has dissipated, your eyes are dry. Once your cries have finally abated, Wesker gathers you further into his arms and gradually slips his cock out of you, an awkward sensation that makes you cringe. Your lips part to ask what he’s doing, but a tendril of Uroboros presses softly against them. “Hush, pet. I’m going to clean you up.” That’s all the warning you get before that same syrupy feeling of teleportation overtakes you, and suddenly, you’re both in the bathing room again.

The sensation of hot water on your tender skin is unexpected, and you seize up in caution until you realize he teleported the two of you directly into the tub, your head the only part of your body not submerged. After getting your bearings, you let out a deep sigh, relaxing into Wesker’s hold. The heat of the water feels utterly heavenly, seeping into your bones and chasing away the awful drop you just experienced. He, too, relaxes, letting out a deep groan of relief as the bath soothes his body. You can’t bring yourself to move even a little. He has ripped away all your strength and left you boneless, pliant. He encounters no resistance as he sits you up in his lap and begins slowly washing your hair.

The peaceful, pregnant silence is broken only by the gentle sound of flowing water. Occasionally, Wesker will extend an arm, and Uroboros will retrieve a container from the far shelves for him. You say nothing as he massages some kind of shampoo into your hair, his fingers pressing against your scalp. As he cups his hands to wash away the soap, he sighs. “There’s something on your mind, isn’t there,” he murmurs, brushing your locks with his fingers, “You can ask whatever questions you want- but I might not answer them.”

Slowly, you blink, emerging from the warm pool of beeswax your mind was within. You don’t turn. Your voice is soft, sated, and sleepy. “You’re really going to kill them?” You whisper, almost terrified of the answer.

You can almost hear the soft smile on his face. “I am. Do you object to that, dearheart?”

Your silence, choked and shameful, is his answer. You don’t object. Or, more accurately, you can’t. You are too broken down to deny that vengeful little part of yourself any further. You grow teary-eyed again at the realization that even if you could, it wouldn’t make any difference. You are, as always, powerless in the face of divinity far superior to you.

Wesker senses your inner despair, pulling you back into his chest. His body radiates a comforting warmth, pulsating into your own. “Hush. No more tears, now,” he says, hands rising from the water to wipe away your sorrow. Even this banal touch is electrifying upon your delicate skin. He leans forward to whisper in your ear, lips caressing the shell. “If you behave,” he promises, “I’ll teach you everything they neglected to. I’ll give you the answers you need.”

It’s a promise you’ll hold him to. You want the words to explain to yourself what he’s doing to you. You want to know how to articulate the agony (and the ecstasy) of this day. If he can give you that much… well. The thought of captivity doesn’t sit well with you, but in the end, have you not just traded one cage for another? At least, with him, you can see the bars for what they are. At least, with Wesker, you know where you stand.

As you fade, exhausted, into sleep, you take comfort in knowing this much for certain: there is one good thing that separates your captor from the gods you once called family. With the way he holds you to his chest and reminds you that you are his, you know that he would rip the earth asunder to ensure you stay with him.

It’s enough to almost make you smile as you close your eyes.

#Albert Wesker #Albert Wesker x reader #smut #resident evil #resident evil smut #resident evil x reader #my writing #writers on tumblr #writers on AO3 #Nsft #Rebhfun #Mine #from the desk of Lovelace #I AM SO GLAD TO BE DONE WITH THIS WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO #ask to tag #tw hard kinks

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