#alex weskerxalbert wesker

[damadisangue]

Dusk until dawn

1.

Excella does not understand what Albert finds in her.

She is merciless, Ricardo had told her, red nostrils, a greedy-exalted glint in his eyes.

I mean, he then went on, placing his hideous crocodile shoes on the coffee table, she plays with the ambiguity of her name, she kills in imaginative ways and she has never spared anyone in her honorable career as a trafficker.

Excella had raised an eyebrow, partly in agreement, partly irritated.

Irving then leaned over the arm of the black and white loveseat, inhaling hard - a silver straw between his fingers.

He lifts up, running the back of his hand under his nose-snaps his tongue against the roof of the mouth, blinks a couple of times, shaking his head like an annoyed horse.

"And then ..." he adds, winking at her "I guess she fucks very well."

Excella can't stop - of course the drug makes your tongue stick out, huh, Ricardo? - hits him with a backhand on his right cheek.

“You're a poor asshole."

Irving chuckles, points his index finger at her, raises his thumb - mimicking a shot.

"Maybe. Or you're the one with the brain full of shit.”

Excella brings a hand to her chest and squeezes, livid.

2.

A dark blue Armani suit, double-breasted in the same color - underneath, an almost transparent shirt.

Alex loosens the knot of her tie further, let it dangle around a thin neck, adorned with white and pink gold threads.

She excels the team in silence, brings the glass to her lips with a grimace.

She dresses like a man, Alex: tight hips, small breasts - Alexandra Wesker exhibits such a different femininity that Excella wonders how this is possible.

She swings one foot in the smoky air of the club - narrow-toed louboutin, lighter blue.

Irving moves on to the next strip, laughs - and it's like hearing a hyena in tall grass.

"Is not sufficient."

Excella swallows a sip of liquor, she restrains herself.

"For that amount, I don't even move one of my men."

"You are a greedy woman, Alex." She then apostrophe her, unable to contain herself.

Wesker shoots to Excella a bored look, drops cigarette ash on the floor.

Alex tilts her chin slightly in her direction, calm - condescending.

"And you are inexperienced, Excella."

Stuart takes a sip of mint-flavored tea, listen.

“Half of the weapons circulating in Africa are mine, Alex: it's not a trivial matter."

"No." Alex agrees, placing her cheek on her clenched fist "It's not."

Excella straightens her back, waits - she knows the predator is still on the hunt.

"Yours and Albert's guns."

Silence.

Irving claps a hand on his thigh and laughs.

3.

It's all too sensitive, too vivid.

Under the tongue the sour taste of the crystal, of his mouth - and it burns on the skin, between her thighs.

Wesker draws her to him by the midnight blue tie, bites - in the ears the furious roll of his heart.

The words of Le déserteur intertwine with their gasps, making them acutely alive - voracious.

She is small, Alex, under his hands; angular bones, flat stomach.

Torn off her shirt however there is a generous body that she offers to him, a wet curve that she's not afraid to bleed for him - with him.

Somewhere Irving is still laughing.

Somewhere Excella believes herself to be a queen, and Stuart accompanies Alex’s tragedy in silence.

Somewhere Alex dances for him, dies for him.

Somewhere they truly are gods of an upside-down world - Hera and Zeus who have come to claim their heaven.

Alex takes his chin between her fingers, half-closes her mouth - murmurs his name.

Wesker weaves his fingers into her hair, thin, short blonde strands that he pulls, until he reveals the soft crease of her neck.

The Stairway of the Sun runs in the blood, along the muscles: it leaves him contracted, excited - Alex's pupil dilates, swallows almost the entire iris.

Wesker feels her wrapping her hips around his thighs, inviting him - he thrusts, and the force with which the crystal amplifies everything takes his breath away.

He follows his urges, their destiny: Alex comes, and shouts in the cacophony of the club, scratches - arches backwards in a grand arc of leather and desire.

Somewhere Excella dies, Irving does not.

Somewhere Stuart is just a cog, Alex a victim - and he with her.

Spencer.

Somewhere: here, and now, they are just a challenge and a promise.

"Albert."

His orgasm breaks all other thoughts.

[damadisangue]

[damadisangue]

Spiel mit mir

Alex straightens her shoulders, shifts her weight from foot to foot.

“You are my brother." she replies, as if that was enough to explain everything.

Wesker releases a dry, harsh laugh: derisive.

"A little late to notice this, sister."

Alex shortens the distance that separates them, challenges him.

"If they find out ..."

“Is that what worries you?"

Silence.

“Answer me.” he urges, leaning towards her "Is the possibility that they will find us ..." he brushes her hips, climbs up along the ribs - tightens the curve of her breasts, tearing from her a surprised moan "... or the fact itself? "

Alex's eyes search for his, then move away, getting lost in the flames.

Albert's hands flatter, have no peace; they count her vertebrae one by one, brush against old scars, travel every curve, every line of a body that has always belonged to him.

"Answer ..." and he breaks her breath, one hand lifting her skirt, the other around her neck - demanding total and absolute surrender "... sister."

For a moment, a terrible instant, Alex could end it all.

She could withdraw, hands over his arms and say no, it was all a mistake; a desire, a whim.

That nothing has happened yet; that a couple of stolen orgasms and a demanding tongue don't change what they are - perfect liars, the Overseer and the Number Thirteen.

She could.

Alex reaches to his face, claws the hair on the back of his neck.

She asks. She wants. She demands.

“Show me." she tells him, and Albert understands - burns.

"Teach me." and he sinks on her mouth, searches for her in a wet, messy kiss.

He lifts her up and lets them slip between the sheets - show himself to her as the terrible, hungry beast he has always been.

Alex groans his name - he summons him.

And there is something exciting in the way she pronounces it - in the sheer devotion she shows him.

There is something that makes him bite her until he tastes the blood (Alex's, his - them) under his tongue, against his palate.

Alex runs across his chest with her fingertips, slips under his pants - she finds him already hard.

He arches between her hips, laughs when her desire wets his fingers - soft, dripping.

She doesn't ask him if it will hurt, or to be gentler.

She favors his movements, lets him leading - trembles in his arms, and closes her eyes as he touches her between her thighs with his mouth, releasing an exhausted yelp.

She is wet, and she unfolds for him - with him.

Albert smells of her - tastes of her.

He is flesh of her flesh, blood of her blood.

It is something different, yet so similar that it is cruelly superimposable - a merciless mirror.

Alex watches him from under heavy, languid lids; the pupil a very black orbit that has swallowed almost the entire iris.

Albert is a red and gold profile - lapped by the flames of the fireplace.

It's a line of skin and muscle moving between her legs, giving her no mercy - bringing her to her knees, screaming her name.

She comes, Alex, and Wesker smothers her orgasm on his lips, wet with her desire.

He moves away from her just enough to take off her skirt, her bra.

She's naked, Alex, and she reaches for his body - she's looking for him, wants him.

Fragile, pale; Albert is almost afraid of breaking her.

Almost.

But then Alex smiles; she takes him in her hands and shows no uncertainty - no fear.

She leads him to her - into her.

It is in the fate of their name to be cursed.

It is in the destiny of a family that has chosen betrayal, violence, fear.

It is in the history of a symbol that only now finds its meaning - Ouroboros; the snake devouring itself.

Albert looks for her eyes, chains them to his - blue and blue.

Ah.

It's a moment; just a moment.

Alex offers him a feeble resistance, a soundless moan.

She arches back, and Albert gazes in fascination at the point where the tight muscles in Alex's thighs join him, the thin pale line running down her pubis, the way she twitchs around his erection.

He bends over her, thrusts — he feels something break, and the sticky of her blood dirties his cock, the sheets.

Alex sticks her nails in his back, releases a single, dazed, cry - and then laughs, free.

The fire dies, curls up in the ashes and waits a la a snake on the hunt.

A blasphemous, immoral embrace takes place between the curtains of the canopy: something capable of blinding the gods and their morals.

She is warm under his fingers, between her thighs - tight, soft.

She groans and begs and gasps just for him - with him.

She is beautiful, Alex, and she accepts his thrusts as if she was born for this - as if they were both created for this one, tragic, moment.

She runs along his back with her index finger, touching the pulsating line of his carotid with the tip of her tongue.

“Albert." she calls - invokes.

Wesker lets himself be led by her voice and comes.

[damadisangue]

Iron

Heavy is the crown, lonely is the life of the one who wears it.

It's full of things he would like to tell her and all of them unpleasant - none true.

Alex slides her fingers along the edge of the glass, absorbed in her book - 1Q84, Murakami.

Wesker observes her in silence for a few more minutes, does not take his eyes away when Alex raises hers, staring at him.

"It's me, Al."

And it's pathetic: he's a fallen god, a broken man - there's nothing about him that doesn't already stink of failure and grim arrogance.

Alex puts the book down, seems to sense his thoughts - or maybe they're not quite as hidden as he thinks they are.

"I think it's time to stop." she murmurs, looking at him.

Wesker inhales strongly, is silent.

Alex stands up, seeks his eyes — she walks over to the desk, leaving her fingers suspended over the solid wood edge.

"I have no choice, Al."

No reply.

"I've never had it." she adds, and he knows what's coming now - he knows, because he would do it and walk away and blame her and choke on his own bile, in the fury that chews his chest and ...

Liar.

He would understand it. Yes, he would understand that.

Perhaps he would even find it fair.

Alex puts a hand on his cheek, warm.

“I choose not to have it, Al."

Wesker swallows, opening and closing the fingers of his left hand.

“You could." he murmurs, gazing at the papers scattered across the desk — everywhere, but not at her.

Alex caresses his face with her thumb, quietly.

"Yes I could." she confirms.

"I did it."

"Yes; you did it." she repeats softly - almost a whisper.

You left me. For your dream. For your idea. For our love.

Wesker senses her approaching, pulling the chair away from the desk and sitting on his lap.

He lifts his arms, leaving them there - his hands hanging inches from her hips, unable to touch her,

to love her and apologize and tell her that yes, she was right about him, that she was always right and that ...

“Maybe it's time to stop, Al." Alex whispers, leaning her forehead against his — and breathes, Wesker; argan and blood and her.

To break a chain that we have always called by the wrong name.

“The world was never mine, nor yours." she tells him, kissing his wet, tired eyelids.

But we are, Albert; we belong together - at least we.

Wesker clings to her - squeezes, rubbing the thin fabric of his silk shirt between his fingers.

Don’t go.

Alex closes her eyes,

"What if you don't come back?"

“Then wait for me."

listening to Albert's fear crumble and finally become relief.

[damadisangue]

Choke

There is a symmetry in their profiles that few catch.

Dressed in white and silk Alex is soft between his fingers - languid.

She has lost weight in the last few months and now her cheekbones are cutting her face, making her hieratic in her pallor.

A fallen godness.

Wesker brushes her forehead with his thumb, listening to a broken breath, an asymmetrical heart - a virus fighting for her and killing her at the same time.

"I'm dying, Al."

And he had given up the role of the charmant, wearing instead the lorica of the conqueror and monster.

He had hidden himself behind layers of leather and metal, walking the path he had written for them with the foolish determination of the deluded.

Or of god.

Black and black, Wesker had chosen the color of his thoughts, becoming a dense shadow, devoid of cracks - wounds.

He was convinced himself that he wasn't bleeding — that he was different, impenetrable.

Alex draws imaginary figures on his skin- exposed under her fingers - on the ground what remains of his defense - nothing.

A lump of leather and torn zippers.

He doesn't look at her - he can't - instead he strengthens his grip around her shoulders - holds what's left of her to him.

Gold and white - hopes and fears.

Alex sighs,

She knows,

surrounding his legs with her own and kissing him on his chest, just above the heart.

she always knew.

Black and white - leather and silk; no armor will ever be enough to defend them from themselves.

[damadisangue]

Solo play

Santoni, aged black leather - Oxford model.

Unfastened trousers, a torn poplin shirt - a half-smile on his face.

Cruel.

Daniel presses his lips together, closes his eyes - in the left screen subject B03 screams, in the right screen Wesker moans, and it's all so wrong, so ridiculous that he just wants to laugh and run and ...

Fuck.

He opens his thighs, reopening his eyes; he gives up, Daniel, because that impulse is there and it makes hard for him to even think - not look at them.

Don’t do it.

Alex laughs, and it's a normal sound - obscene as behind them people die and scream and explode in piles of blood and viscera.

Fabron swallows, staring at them from under heavy lids - which do not allow him to ignore them.

Not anymore.

And he couldn't tell when it all started; if jerking off in the Umbrella bathrooms thinking about her and that fucking see-through shirt was the zero point.

Or when Wesker had pressed his fingers into the back of his neck, gently inviting him to tell him the whole truth - to confess it on his knees, Alex pale and naked and bent, delighted by his discomfort.

Subject B03 runs, trips over crow's feet - falls, shattering wrist.

Daniel looks up - big eyes, gnawed with fear and tears - two infected guards behind the desk, a crazed Detonator in the next room.

Wesker’s hips twitching between Alex's thighs - the elegant way he takes her chin between his thumb and forefinger, rolling her face towards him and staring at her as if she were magnificent.

Fabron inspires,

Wesker opens his mouth,

he releases a desperate gasp,

he kisses her, pressing her on himself.

squeezes, and between his fingers is heavy his desire - warm.

Ruinous.

Subject B03 croaks a plea at the camera - help me! Why are you doing this to me? Why? - Daniel throws his head back, sliding along his erection with a feverish, voracious abandon.

And there is nothing else in the control room, but them - the clang of metal objects falling off the desk as Wesker knocks Alex over it, line of back muscles flexed on her,

in her.

Daniel hits the bottom of the desk with his heel, releases a curse - subject B03 is chewed, his screams shrill, annoying.

In his mind only Alex's voice - which comes and takes on soft, free shades.

Fabron follows the movement of his hips - he pursues his own orgasm, his own surrender.

Subject B03 dies - abdomen torn, on the ground a lump of intestines into which the infected stick teeth, jaws.

And they eat and devour and continue without an end, a beginning.

Wesker thrusts - he bites, and Alex screams and laughs and bleeds on him - for him.

"Phase One finished."

Daniel follows him moments later, blindly searching for a handful of handkerchiefs - whitish threads between his fingers, on the dashboard.

"Begin Phase Two?"

Fabron presses his forehead against the edge of the table, a furious roll in his chest - around him the quiet murmur of the infected, the deep and now different tone of Wesker.

"Begin Phase Two?" the monotone voice of the program repeats.

"They were made of silk."

"Uhm."

Daniel opens his eyes, pursing his lips when he finds himself having to try to get the sperm out of the computer's f key.

"I want a new one."

"Starting the phase ..."

"Yes, yes, fuck: start whatever you want." he replies, backing up in his chair and getting up.

"Level Four clearance required; say his name, please."

"Daniel Fabron." he replies, looking around.

"Entry code?"

"769402850031." he adds, closing his trousers and retrieving the belt from the floor.

"Speech and numeric recognition in progress, please wait. "

"We're even with my shirt."

Daniel runs both hands through his hair, looking at the C4 screen - Alex still in Wesker's arms, her thighs parted, her face partially hidden against his neck.

"Oh, Albert; the day we are even Hell will freeze."

"Welcome to Phase Two of the Resistance Project Dr. Fabron; subjects B04 and B05 have just been released into the area. Which one do you want to start with?"

Wesker's smile is all teeth and promises.

[damadisangue]

We are all experiments

2009 Progenitor, Alex had called it. It is already inside us, she had added, letting herself fall on the sofa. It has contributed to the evolution of the entire human race and what remains of it lies in silent sequences in DNA called HERV, she explained, neutral - too much. Heisenberg touches his left pectoral, tracing the implant scar - a long, jagged line of skin that is reddened at the edges, lacerated and cuts through to the nave. "It hurts." Alex's voice reaches him. "Is it a question?" he replies, in his voice a note hoarse with fatigue. "No." she retorts, undoing her shirt and rolling the sleeves over her arms. Karl watches her from the mirror showing him the pale skin of her wrists, that of her chest, devoid of wounds, imperfections. "We were bred to be the new race, my brother and I." Alex keeps her gaze fixed on him, around her small expression lines that he doesn't remember ever seeing. "The Progenitor leaves no marks, no injuries: it penetrates you and activates these sequences, making you worthy or unworthy." Heisenberg perceives the echo of Miranda's words, of her delirium and anger flares up, burning his throat, his breath. "A family, Spencer said. You are a family, he used to repeat." My beautiful children, Miranda instead commented. Alex clicks her tongue against the roof of the mouth, shaking her head. "I have no scar to reveal my nature, Karl: to show my pain. We were chosen to be perfect, free of marks or cracks. We are the vanguard of a new world." Heisenberg instinctively touches his face, there, where a web of wounds has now become a pale cobweb that he wears like a mask. "Spencer was a pupil of Miranda." she reveals to him, and Karl can clearly feel his stomach collapse, his testicles retreating between his thighs. "He showed him the Mycorrhiza, explaining its nature, its potentialities." she whispers, standing up and walking over. "And Spencer came home with a dream - us." she continues, now inches from his back. Karl looks for her eyes in the mirror and finds them transparent, so blue that they remind him of those rare sunny days in Coșmarul. "My story has the same roots as you." she concludes him, placing her arm next to his - immaculate skin and on which he can see the veins pulsing to the rhythm of her heart. "You has already hit me and you know that nothing remains on my body: neither bite nor gash." "But it hurts." he says, closing his fingers around her wrist and measuring the difference. Alex lifts her face to him, quietly. "All the time." Always. "And it never stops." "It can't." Alex tells him, hinting a sad smile "We are all experiments, Karl: some more successful than others." "And your brother..." "He was perfect." she reiterates "Compatible. Intact. Magnificent." But he is dead. "Yet he's not here." "No." "So it's all bullshit." Alex releases a sound halfway between laughter and sobbing, touching him for the first time without the intent of defending or pushing him away. "Here's another talent of yours, Karl: you always manage to get the heart of the matter in a few words." Heisenberg gives a lopsided smile, placing his hand on top of hers. "Alcina would say I'm a brute." "You are." asserts Alex, looking at him "But she is like Albert: unable to surrender to the truth." The factory listens to their words in silence.

[damadisangue]

You can call me Alex

They are both trapped: now he gets it.

She had presented herself to him nine years ago as a free woman, capable of holding the world in her fingers.

You can call me Alex, she had told him, flipping through a story full of pages and words for him - a universe she had been torn from to be isolated in Coșmarul.

And now he understood what the islanders had seen in her - why.

Alex doesn't save, doesn't redeem; she is not even capable of it with herself.

She could go anywhere, but in reality she was stuck in a vicious circle - Ouroboros, she had called him, scratching the gap between her ring and middle fingers.

She watches the assembly line carry the bodies back and forth to the factory, the engine drum roaring through the room's vapors, making the air moist and sticky.

"It is not enough." she murmurs, with him for days now.

Heisenberg has new wrinkles around his eyes, on the sides of his mouth; his hair has become even more tangled and he is sure he can see more gray among the dark strands.

"I know it."

"Mycorrhiza is feeding her and she is stronger, that whore." she chews, leaning forward.

Karl rubs his face, sighing.

"I could infect them with ..."

"No." she replies, very harsh "I've already tried."

Heisenberg opens his fingers, looking at her sideways.

"The fungus. The Progenitor is able to infect it, but that makes it different - more resilient."

"But you could manipulate it."

Alex presses her lips together, pale.

"Not in these conditions."

The cylindrical wheels continue in their motion, untiring; from the bottom of the factory come agonic, liquid cries.

"I am dying."

Karl looks at her and would like to say that no, he didn't notice, but it would be just a ridiculous lie.

Alex presses her tongue into her cheek, shaking her head.

"I know you can feel it with that dog's sense of smell: or maniac's sense, I haven't decide, yet. Christ, every morning I get up and the stench of death crushes me even before I'm lucid enough to wake up."

A man screams, then a muffled, soggy wheeze dies out.

Alex rocks back and forth a couple of times, almost looking like she's going to throw up.

"I'm about to do something you won't like at all, Karl."

No reply.

"But if it works, I can fix it all." she adds, staring at him.

Heisenberg shifts his weight from foot to foot, uncertain.

"I guess you don't want to tell me what it is."

"I can't."

"And how will I know if you have succeeded or not?"

Alex licks her lips, still beautiful despite the disease that now seems to crush her as if in a vice.

"I'll get back to you."

"With that face?" he anticipates, and Alex finds herself smiling in spite of all.

"No. Or maybe yes. It will depend on how strong the genetic signature of the virus is."

Karl absently strokes the head of the hammer placed against the railing, thoughtfully.

"Who are you going to steal life from this time?"

Alex lifts, a gold and lapislazuli necklace between her breasts.

"Does it matter?"

Karl looks at her, in his eyes a series of confused emotions - some of anger, others of curiosity.

"Miranda believes in reincarnation, not you."

"But that's why I sent my men here years ago, remember?"

The wetness of the factory has curled her hair around her face, along her neck, coloring her cheekbones a healthy pink, which will disappear as soon as they leave that room.

"You could be lying; after all, Miranda is not your problem."

Alex taps her fingernail into the crook of her elbow, quietly.

"She taught Spencer many things; she cultivated his ideas, generating us." she hisses, always pointing and speaking in the plural.

We. Albert and I. Albert Albert Albert.

"She saved him when she could destroy him, make him one of her experiments." she continues, closing her fingers into fists.

"She's been in touch with him for years, flattering his delusions, his madness about us - the chosen children, the heralds of the new world." she barks, a feral reddish tinge in the iris.

"I am who I am because of her." she sanctions, muscles tense, teeth uncovering in a restrained growl.

Heisenberg senses Alex's anger enveloping him and she smells like him - metal and blood; despair and fatigue.

"You and I are similar, Karl; our history has the same roots, only its offshoots change."

Alex inhales and her fury falls - she goes back to being locked up in that remote corner of the mind that Karl owns too, away from Miranda and her brothers and sisters.

"I'll be back."

"I'll be back."

"What if you fail? What if your experiment fails?"

"What if you don't succeed, Albert?”

Alex smiles lopsidedly, staring at him.

"I'll be back, Karl: in the meantime keep this shack up and build - invent, create."

"Then wait for me, Alex.”

"Fight." she concludes a fierce, absolute note in her voice.

Time will never be enough; for any of them.

[damadisangue]

December, 2008

“How long has she been like that?”

“Five days, Dr. Wesker.”

An irritated sound; rage spreading in waves all around her from his contracted, wounded figure.

“And didn’t you inform me sooner, old man?”

“Master Alex didn’t want me to.”

“Of course.” an abrupt smack, followed by martial, heavy steps “Because the little girl felt offended. Because of Excella. Because of the fact I had work to do.”

“Drop dead, you dick.”

“But your tongue still works fine, I see.”

“As if you didn’t know from the blowjob you got the last time, sucker.”

Stuart clears his throat, embarrassed; Wesker lifts her bodily, earning a punch in his face.

“Things will get better.”

“Your eye, dottor. Wesker, or Master Alex?”

“Both, old man.”

Alex tries not to retch, her forehead burns from a fever consuming her for hours, years.

“She’s got a temperature.”

“She’s got a temperature of 104 °F, then I stopped measuring it.”

Wesker holds her against his chest, heading to the bathroom and opening the door with his shoulder, closing it with his heel.

He puts her down on the little armchair near the bath, then starts searching inside the cabinets - bandages, disinfectant, two syringes, one tourniquet, a ice bag.

“It won’t work.”

“It will stabilize the virus.”

Alex releases a yelp that should sound like a laugh - she coughs.

“I’m dying, Al: a fucking serum serves me no purpose.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It’s the truth.”

“No, it’s not.”

I won’t let it be, the promise he can’t afford to tell - that he cannot fail.

Alex raises her opaque and whitish eyes towards him, reminding him of those of the infected.

But aren’t you both like that, after all?

“I don’t want to die.” she suddenly confesses, and she’s so little when she says that - she’s so fragile.

She’s the same child that swayed her feet over the edge of the chair in an aseptic waiting room of the Umbrella - a girl that didn’t like gingerbread biscuits and laughed when he offered her his chocolate biscuit, chopping off the head of the unlucky little man with that stupid smile on its face.

She’s the same twentyfive year old girl that modified viral proteins as if they were simple origami; the same ruthless woman that deformed lives in her steel fist and enjoyed it.

She’s the same person that had bent to nothing more that his mouth, his longing - to a voracious sex in which they had both found refuge and deliverance.

She’s Alex: only ever Alex.

“You won’t.” Wesker repeats, resolute.

Not now.

Alex sighs, tries to smile - threads of blood running down her teeth, on her chin.

Wesker takes off his gloves and puts on the latex ones, starting to prepare the serum; Alex offers him her arm, letting him roll the sleeve of the shirt above her elbow and touch her inner wrist with an unexpected gentleness - a treatment he only offers her when they are alone.

Albert looks for her eyes, Alex does the same - she nods: unfolding between them, a story come to its last, desperate pages.

[damadisangue]

Black Christmas

It's cold, Alex: on the skin, in the eyes. Under his fingers she reminds him the texture of snow and gold - burning when he touches her, apparent victim, ruthless predator. She is cold and this chill spreads around her - making her distant, hieratic. Not for him. He strokes her legs with his fingertips, moving up to her thighs and caressing her where she is more soft - close enough to give her a small, surprised gasp. She looks at him, Alex, and there's always that sparkle at the bottom of her pupil - a throbbing that feels like anticipation, confusion. Fear. Wesker reaches out over her, touching her inside, where she is still damp, supple. Alex lifts her face up, showing him the helpless curve of her throat. "It hurts." he tells her, and it's not a question. "Sometimes." she retorts, inhaling sharply as he opens her thighs, touching careful her labia, her clit, and finding her still wet - white and red. And there's blood on his fingertips, between them - in the soft fabric of his bathrobe, where Alex left it dripping and drawing sticky, warm threads. Wesker tilts his head towards his shoulder in a curious, cautious movement. He opens his mouth, holds back a lump of words that could change everything - they'll do when it will be too late. Another man would tell her. Another man would be capable of it - he would find nothing so strange, weak in it. Another man would not genuflect to a woman who laughs when people die - she gets upset because he lacks liquid cream and she hates gingerbread men. "That stupid stupid smile of theirs: I hate it." Alex stares at him silently, then hints at an asymmetrical smile - one of the rusty ones, which seem more happy than sad. Wesker falls to his knees in front of her, surrenders to who they are - to the wounds that will rage each other until there is no more blood to shed, truth to hide. Until there is nothing left but living flesh and a naked, beating heart - clinging to the (un)dead unable to surrender. Alex hugs him until there is no more space that can divide them.

[damadisangue]

Choke

Their bodies are weapons, tools.

Smooth, pale skin: unable to bear the scars of their thousand defeats.

Tense muscles, stretching over the bones - animated by a virus that allows them to be more, beyond.

To transcend and die.

Albert's body had freed her, hers had proved to be a limit - a chain with which to strangle her and reduce her to the miserable condition of unworthiness.

Not for him.

Wesker spreads his fingers around her navel, tilting his chin slightly to the right in a curious, careful movement.

Alex holds his gaze, in his eyes a strange expression - tender.

Almost loving. Almost.

And there is no way out for those like them: a contingency plan, a second chance.

There is a present they want to make eternal and a past that screams and repeats itself over and over.

Alex stretches her fingers towards his face, touching the hard line of his cheekbone, the tight one of his lips.

And he gives in, Wesker - always.

And he becomes something else under her hands - for her, in her.

There is no shame as he closes his eyes and sighs - he seems to free himself from a burden that haunts him everywhere (not with her).

"Only one survived; you."

A lie - another.

A refusal - that of an absentee and cruel father.

A vengeance for him (for them).

Wesker places his forehead against her abdomen, then rubs his cheek on it - down, and searches for her between her thighs, placing a kiss that is almost a bite.

“I'm dying, Al."

Alex arches against his mouth, weaves her fingers in his hair - threads of gold and blood between her breasts.

"No. It won't happen."

And she always surprises him how sensitive she is, his Alex; soft and supple under his hands - on his tongue.

“And who's going to stop it, huh? You?"

He is left confused and human by his need to find her - to touch and feel her and get a groan, a gasp from her.

A laugh that doesn't know of poison and ash.

Alex murmurs his name - Albert - opens up to his desire, to his plea.

Let me in, Alex; open up for me. Let me be there.

Wesker soothes her orgasm until it's too much for both.

[damadisangue]

September, 1998

Hunger is an always open mouth that devours us from the inside - a craving we never satisfy.

Hunger is the ambition of a child scientist, the love of a woman for a man who has never grown up.

Hunger is justice; hunger is the will to survive - to see another sunrise.

Hunger is a desire that doesn’t know morals, ethics; which prompts you to know what the other tastes like even if what you swallow is poison.

Hunger is what burns in Alex's face, in Wesker's eyes - in him.

Hunger is what drives the infected to continue - to seek: hunger for memories, for meat, for a contact, even just one.

"What weak creatures we are." whispers Alex, now one step away from the confines of Raccoon City.

Daniel follows her, behind them a large group of low and bewildered lickers - murmurs, confused voices compared to hers.

The horizon is tinged with pink and red - blood and light - along the ridge a profile that awaits them, austere, cruel.

Wesker turns and looks for her - always.

[damadisangue]

Labyrinth

They can be fibrous claws, soft and light feathers - even stone hard shields.

The virus expresses the will of the guest and for Albert is like learning to walk again.

Now black and red snakes hatch around his head, the next moment they curl up inside themselves, becoming the rostral tail of a mythological, impossible figure.

Alex squints one eye, finds him still intent on studying the small offshoots that adhere to his skin - pushing them, almost trying to get them back in without the use of his mind.

She stretches her arms out behind her, senses something around her waist - looks down, finding a tail-like appendage curled up near her navel.

Alex raises an eyebrow, touching it with the tip of her index finger - soft, slightly smooth at the ends.

Wesker turns, staring at her over his shoulder.

It should be a fox’s tail.

Alex hears his words, realizes they are in her head - between her thoughts.

"I didn't ask you any questions."

You thought it.

Alex blinks, dumbfounded.

I didn't even notice.

I know it; but that's how it works, apparently.

And before you weren't sure?

Wesker shrugs, disinterested.

“Magnificent: I guess I can't hide you anymore if I have to go to the bathroom."

“No."

An outraged, childish expression is drawn on Alex's face.

Wesker inhales and the virus's numerous protrusions seem to be sucked out of his skin, disappearing down his spine, around his heart.

Alex notices how the tail has stayed in its place, tightly wrapped around her.

You can take it off.

Does it bother you?

Alex passes her hands over it, caressing it - noticing its small imperfections, its silky, delicate texture.

No; but it is strange.

I believe the virus reflects what I think; what I want. If the drawing is inaccurate he cannot replicate it correctly.

Alex nods, watching it vibrate and then divide into nine sections, curling around her torso, along her thighs.

You are cold.

It's the mutation, she replies, moving closer.

For me is like burning, he replies, gathering his legs on the bed.

Alex tilts her chin to the left, reaching a hand towards his chest.

Wesker studies her movements in silence, intrigued: he creates a very black fur around her in which red and orange streaks shine.

She relaxed on him, Alex, releasing a contented, quiet sigh.

As a living pillow you are not bad at all, Al.

Wesker's laughter slides over her skin like a caress.

[damadisangue]

Goodnight lovers

A warm body that vibrates under his hands - flexing with every thrust, every gasp.

He forces her to back away, between her fingers crumpled sheets and a forgotten cannelé.

Alex slides along his chest, runs along his vertebrae one by one with her little and clever fingers - small, transparent nails.

Montorgueil is a clump of noises and voices - sparks of life that not even the recent war has been able to extinguish.

A boy yells a female name - Cléophée, Cléophée - in the distance the sound of a guitar chord.

Squinted eyes, heavy lids - Alex is a low-belly languor that only extinguishes itself when he soothes the flat surface of her abdomen, the soft one of her groin.

She arches against his face - opens her thighs to his mouth, to him.

The Progenitor breathes, pheromones and desire - exists, lives.

Alex intertwines her fingers in his hair - pulls, leads him to lift his chin in her direction, to look at her.

He glides over her, a fluid, elegant movement that reminds her of a snake.

She looks for his moist mouth, without shame.

Alex moans his name, reverses positions - sinks, and takes them both by surprise.

A car swerves and brakes, the smell of freshly baked tropeziénne filtering through the half-open window.

She dangles between his hips, Alex, her fingers fanned out on his chest, her hair strands of gold bathing her shoulders, her back.

And laughs, Alex.

She laughs, because for a moment - an instant; Albert's touch between her thighs, a thrust that takes her breath away — everything turns white and white, blinding.

Because the Progenitor is silent, and there is only her - them.

There is Albert's breathing between her breasts, his hands squeezing her buttocks at a precise rhythm - the small imperfections that the virus can no longer erase.

There is a liquid sensation that makes her legs tremble, her wrists - she collapses, Alex, and she bares her teeth against Wesker's shoulder, listening to her orgasm mounts and squeezes, leaving her confused, satisfied .

Albert lifts himself up, brings her to her knees - he takes her chin in his right hand and soothes the curve of her lips with his thumb: he comes, and Alex bites, feeling his blood under her tongue, down her throat.

The smell of vanilla slowly brings her back - a slight ache between her thighs, a choux à la crème that flakes between her contracted fingers, soiling the edge of the bed.

Albert then pushes her down, stroking her side, her ribs, the roundness of her navel.

The Progenitor rolls up in their thoughts, but it is a dull, exhausted glimmer - but they aren’t, oh no: they shone in the silence of the Parisian night, and even now they smolder under the ashes, reddish and greedy embers.

In her ears Albert's heart is beating stronger than any uncertainty.

[damadisangue]

December, 1993

Click: this is the sound of the snow announcing its coming.

Alex half-closes a eye, staring at the world outside the window - seeing just white and white, a pristine expanse offering no hold.

The lampposts are off, as the green and red lights adorning the balcony of the Thompsons.

“The electric meter.” she murmurs, curling up underneath the sheets “The power must have gone out.”

Quiet steps, muffled by the blue Persian carpet (asymmetric knot, farsibaff, silky warp and weft threads) and going down the stairs, stopping inside the kitchen - click click, click click.

Alex sighs, rubbing her cheek against the pillow; on the outside the snow keeps falling in big, thick, heavy flakes.

“Raccoon City is in the dark.”

Alex feels the mattress behind her bend, making space for a man whose profile and heat she always seeks.

“Birkin’s had a panic attack already.”

“Was it Annette who told you?”

Wesker slides his knee between her thighs, finding her still wet - ready.

“No; that imbecile managed to contact me on the beeper and melodramatically complained.”

Alex hints a smile, arching her back and welcoming his hands on her hips, around her navel and lower, where the blood from before has already become a mere reddish smear.

“Is he afraid of running out of sweets?”

Wesker laughs, and it’s a low and deep vibration, echoing amongst his ribs, his bones and inside, where the virus murmurs.

“He will steal Sherry’s.”

Alex suffocates her reply on his mouth, releasing a half moan when Albert thrusts, towering on her, presenting her with everything she’d always asked - begged - for Christmas.

Raccoon quietly sleeps, celebrating a white, colourless eve.

Alex loses herself against the skin of a man who’s already dead.

[damadisangue]

Gasping for life.

The white shirt slips on the carpet without making any noise, a gentle hiss as his hands slide down her back.

Albert grazes the tip of her neck with his fingers, inviting her to look at him.

Alex sighs in his arms and arching back, soothing the signs of another woman and another life.

She offers him her small and pale breasts, a body trained by pain - molded by the virus.

She offers him a brash and immoral desire, thin thighs and yet strong enough to hold him against her hips - in her.

She offers him a skin that has his own smell, a shared shame and slow gestures, of who has all the time in the world.

"That's how you do with Excella?" she asks every time - and every time she receives the same answer.

“Never."

Alex smiles on his mouth and laughs.

For the amazing art thanks to @madbedlam ❤️