#also alberts here

[hazelnutnebula]

S.T.A.R.S. No.1 Favourite Sillaayyyy (Artfight attack on @cuplague)

[labyrinth-guard]

Insert witty joke about anthropomorphic animal games here

[weskie]

To Make Your Heart Sing (Albert Wesker x ftm!Reader)

3556 words, fluff, hurt/comfort, s.t.a.r.s. wesker, ftm!reader, top surgery mention, coming out, main character injury, soft wesker, established relationship | Fic Directory

some truths are simply hard to tell. still, they must be told

You tried your best to keep things under wraps.  

RCPD’s human resources department knew of your ‘condition,’ but the file that landed on Captain Wesker’s desk a year and a half ago mentioned nothing of it.  You were just, well, you.  And that’s all you needed to be.  You were hired and the rest was history.

Or it was supposed to be.  Instead, you found yourself getting into the best of trouble.  Make no mistake, Captain Wesker intimidated you to no end.  Suppose that’s why the first time you turned a corner and the both of you knocked into each other left you a stuttering mess while you tried desperately to help him pick up the stack of paper he’d been holding.  The other officers who had been in the adjacent break room had the luxury of watching with bated breath to see him chew you a new one for such a careless mistake.

But he didn’t. 

The next was when you’d overcooked your food in the microwave, leading to a loud, wet pop and spaghetti sauce all over the insides of the machine. To your embarrassment, your captain was beside the coffee pot, brow arched just above the rim of his sunglasses as you sputtered and chuckled your apologies for both the mess and the noise.

You could’ve sworn he smiled.

Then there was that day you’d been running late.  You called the precinct from your clunky Nokia, begging for forgiveness from your captain.  As a peace offering, you offered to bring him coffee from a local shop, stating that it was “so much better than the liquid tar in the break room.”  His silence had scared you half to death, but his acceptance carried the strangest hint of amusement.  Black with two sugars, he’d told you.  When you’d finally arrived and delivered it, he took it directly from you, fingers brushing yours and making your cheeks light up.

That was the first time you’d ever seen more than a miniscule smirk on his face.  

Not to mention that time you’d pulled overtime and, upon entering to deliver yet another report, you’d found Wesker with his head resting atop his folded arms on the desk.  To this very day, you still had no idea what came over you to retrieve your S.T.A.R.S. jacket from your desk and drape it over his back.  You’d returned the next day to find it neatly folded atop your desk with a sticky note that simply said ‘Thank you.’

When the day came that he cornered you in the break room, black coffee with two sugars in hand from another one of your late mornings, you felt like a deer caught in headlights.

“I want to take you on a date.” 

Your eyes practically fell out of your head and your cheeks went up in flames.  You were stunned.  Captain Wesker was into men?  Not only that, but he was into you? You didn’t know what to say, what to do– anything.  You must have sat there blinking with your mouth agape for minutes before he’d finally just hummed, snagged a napkin and wrote his number down for you.

“If you find it agreeable, call this number later.  We can… work out the details then.”  

Looking back on it, he seemed just as nervous in that moment as you felt.  Not that you could blame him.  You figured he must have observed you for a long time to gauge if you’d be receptive to advances from another man, but the risk was still high– rejection, risk of harassment accusations… all sorts of bad outcomes must have been weighing on his mind.  But, that night, you called him.  Awkward as it had been, you both settled on a restaurant an hour outside of the city to reduce the chances of you two being seen by the others from the station, and the rest?  Well, it had progressed slow and steady, but your secret relationship with Captain Wesker, now simply Albert to you when appropriate, had entered its third month.

Which is why you’d grown nervous.

You didn’t know how to tell him.  At some point, things would progress beyond warm kisses and tender touches.  At some point your… anatomy was going to matter.  You wish you would’ve told him before all of this began and saved yourself the potential heartache of losing what had been the sweetest, gentlest relationship you’d ever had.  You worried yourself sick about it, always careful never to wear tank tops or shirts bright or thin enough that the tone of your chest scars could show through.  Your testosterone shots were easy enough to hide, thankfully.

Albert had been nothing less than a pure gentleman throughout it all, never once pushing your boundaries or showing impatience when you’d shy away from things.  Even the night you’d both fallen asleep on your bed consisted of little more than a hand resting atop the small of your back and your face nuzzled against the comforting rise and fall of his chest.

But, try as you might to hide it, Wesker had picked up on your anxieties.

“Have I made you uncomfortable?”  

Your heart fell through the floor the night he’d asked that.  You swore up and down over and over again that it was nothing he’d done and that you were just dealing with something that you didn’t know how to put into words.  He accepted your answer without question, pressed a kiss to your knuckles, and continued reading the file he'd brought home from work.

Your mind always turned to thoughts of how you were going to tell him, distracting you at the worst times.  Which, of course, put you in a situation where you had no choice in how the truth would come out.

The bulletproof vest had saved your life– for the most part, that is.  Gunmen in a hostage situation had released a young girl, sending her out to run toward the blockade.  She was to be a message, clearly, because they fired at her as soon as she got close.

You bolted out to cover her, mind devoid of sense the very moment you saw one of the men emerge from the building.

You took two to the chest with the first simply lodging into the center of your vest.  The other managed to pierce, embedding in your right pectoral.  You’d laid between squad cars and the steps to the bank for god knows how long, shaking fingers applying as much pressure to your wound as you could muster while the sun beat down on you without mercy.  The next thing you knew, you were being thrown into an ambulance and given the good stuff, and you woke up after who knows how long in a hospital bed.

Your first visitors were Rebecca and Jill.  You’d grown closer with them than most of the others– save for Wesker, of course.

“How are you feeling?”

You simply answer Jill with a lopsided smile and a hum, tipping your head back against the pillow.  “Mm, yup.”

“I don’t think the pain meds have worn off yet,” Rebecca giggles from across the room where she inspects the whiteboard covered with hastily scribbled patient information.

“Lucky him.  Should let Captain Wesker know he’s at least feeling good when we go back.  He’s…”  Jill turns to you with a sweet smile, clearly pondering her words.  “Distraught is a… is a word for how he is right now..”

That, of course, breaks your heart.  He was there when it happened.  Albert saw you go down.  Silly you, covering the girl they’d released…

Your eyelids grow heavier as time goes by, eventually slipping shut while you bask in their company.  When they open again, you’ve got two nurses at your bedside.  Even in your dazed state, you can put two and two together.  Just a change of bandages…

“Hi, sweetheart!” Chirps the woman closest to you while she peels away tape and gauze.  “You bled through so we’re just cleaning you up, okay?”

You simply nod and stare up at the ceiling.  It doesn’t hurt, thankfully, and the only thing you feel is cold air on your chest.  Part of you shudders.  Medical settings could be… complicated with your unique condition.  But you try not to anticipate the worst.

Oh how wrong you are.

“You can come in,” says the other nurse.  “Just replacing his bandages.  We’ll be out in a few.”

The hum in response yanks you from whatever blissful stupor the pain meds had lulled you into and you shoot up in the bed, shocking the nurse tending your wound.

“Careful, baby! You’ll tear your stitches–”

You barely hear her, nor do you feel her hands attempting to coax you back to the bed.  You go down, but not before locking eyes with your one and only.

Fuck…

They’ve got the top of your gown off and there’s no way–

You swallow thickly as your throat closes with a wave of shame.  You shut your eyes to hide the tears gathering within them, listening intently as Wesker’s nearly silent footsteps come to a halt on the other side of your bed.  He sees you.  There’s no way he doesn’t.  He’ll have questions.  Fuck, maybe he’ll just know outright.  Wesker’s a smart man…

You should’ve told him.

You keep your eyes screwed shut for what feels like eternity, even after the door clicks and the nurses leave you to each other’s company.  Neither of you says a word and it’s nearly pure silence until you hear the drag of a chair.  You just about jump out of your skin when his fingertips graze your knuckles, but they don’t retreat.  Instead, he takes your hand in his, lifts it, and presses kiss after kiss to it.

Your eyes crack open, vision bleary from tears and clearing as they spill.  You find him looking at you with furrowed brows and some painful combination of worry and relief written across his face.  His glasses are hooked on his shirt, showing you icy blues with a touch of red in the surrounding scleras. 

“How do you feel?”  His voice is as calm as ever, but, for once, his expression betrays him.

“Like I got shot,” you rasp.  You crack the tiniest smile despite the swirling dread and anxiety filling you to the brim.  You observe him for a minute, looking for something, anything to confirm your fears.

You find nothing.

“Indeed,” he hums, lips twitching at the corners.  “I’m glad you’re in good spirits despite the tears.”

You give a weepy chuckle that turns to tight sobs.  You feel so helpless and pathetic.  You’d almost died and now your little secret had been put on wide display for him.  Part of you figures this is just the universe’s way of telling you to get on with it.  Just finally rip the bandaid off.

You suddenly start to rise from your flat position.  Wesker watches you for signs of discomfort, taking his finger off the bed controls only once you were upright and–

Oh fuck– no, no, no!

They hadn’t buttoned your gown earlier.  The front section falls forward and you scramble to push it back up, holding it in place as you clench your eyes shut and bite your tongue.  His hand leaves yours and your stomach drops, ice shooting through your veins. For a minute, you think he’s leaving, but then–

Snap.  Snap.  Snap.

Your eyes widen, gaze falling to the hands working to pinch together the little buttons that run along the seam at your shoulder.  Wesker leans across you just slightly to repeat the process on the other side.  His scent fills your lungs and you can’t help but take a deep, greedy breath, chin quivering all the while. 

“Would you like to stay with me while you recover?”  He asks softly, taking his seat once more.  “Or would you prefer if I stayed with you instead?”

It’s so earnest that you could scream.  Part of you wonders if he’s just avoiding the elephant in the room.

“I imagine the comfort of your own home would lend itself better to your recovery,” he continues, taking your hand in his once more. “But I am not averse to either choice.”

“Al, you don’t have to–”

“You’ll need the help.”  He says, giving your hand a gentle squeeze.  “I assume you’ve had restrictions like this before.”

That cold feeling runs through your body again. He’s not avoiding it.   

“Yeah…”  

And he’s completely right.  You will need help.  You doubt your restrictions will be as tight as those you had after top surgery, but you did take a bullet to the chest.  Two, technically…

“I want you to think about it.”  Wesker checks his watch as he speaks, rising from his chair with a small huffed breath.  “My break is nearly over, but I’ll try to come by again before visitation hours end.  You should rest some more.”

You let your head fall back against the pillow once again, eyes fixed on him as he pushes the chair back to its original spot.  Wesker approaches your bedside again, hand raising to rest against the side panel controls.

“Up or down?”  He asks, voice soft.

“Mm, somewhere in between please.”  

Your eyes lock with his as you descend.  That same tenderness still dances in his gaze– the kind he saves for you and you alone.  Despite the tendrils of anxiety tugging at your mind, you find such an act soothes you to the core.  Wesker breaks eye contact for a split second to glance behind himself, ever the private man he is, and he leans over you.  His lips press to your forehead first, warm and soft, and his right hand rises to your cheek to thumb at the curve.  He holds that position for a moment, breaking it only to press another to your lips.

“Hm,” he hums, breaking away to glance at the monitor.  He chuckles softly.  “Your heart rate just jumped.”

Oh god, you think it yourself.  You can practically feel your cheeks go up in flames, but you giggle nonetheless at his cheeky little observation.  “Well, you know… handsome blonde guys named Albert do that to me.”

He leaves with a light shade of pink dusting his cheeks, much to your satisfaction.

They keep you at the hospital for another full day just to be safe.  Wesker spent his lunch break with you again, during which he reminded you that he would absolutely be aiding you while you’re under physical restrictions– you need only pick the place.  He’d been positive your own home would be better, so that’s what you opted for.  

Much to your joy, you weren’t excessively limited.  No heavy lifting, no strenuous activity– all the usuals.  You were to have two full weeks off before returning to simple desk duty.  Wesker picked you up, duffel bag of his necessities already packed in the back seat of his car, and brought you home.  Things were stellar until you realized he wanted to do just about every little thing for you, convinced you would cause yourself further harm.  Cooking was out of the question, so he made you meals that you could’ve sworn belonged in a gourmet restaurant rather than your little apartment. And laundry?  Forget about it.  You practically had to wrestle a handful of socks and towels from him so that you could feel less like a deadbeat.  Wound care, though… that was where things got tricky.  Wesker insisted that he be the one to change your bandages, and he did so twice a day, which was more often than was even recommended.

“I said I would take care of you.  What kind of partner would I be if I let you walk around in old bandages, hm?” 

It had been hard to let him do it.  Despite knowing full well he had a clear view of your chest in the hospital, you were still apprehensive to let him see it again.  No questions had been raised in regard to the origin of your scars, but that was somehow worse.  For a time, you figured he chalked it up to some sort of wound obtained in the field, but the day came where his hands wandered and a fingertip trailed the line running beneath your left pectoral.

“I…” You try, swallowing thickly to quell your nerves.

“Tell me about them.” Wesker breathes, finger still running along the ridge, pausing over the parts that weren’t quite perfect.

The worst part of everything?  You know full well you could just walk away and he’d leave it.  Al never pries; he always respects your boundaries.  'No' has always been a complete sentence to him, something you’ve appreciated endlessly in your time together with him.  But, all the same, wasn’t it time you gave an inch?  The man so endlessly patient and sweet to you, despite how he presents himself to the rest of the world, deserved the truth.

So you spill.

“I’m transgender…”  You murmur, words tight in your throat as you stare down to your socked feet.  From there, the rest falls free.  Every little detail.  Childhood woes, adulthood struggles– how happy you were the day you got your very first shot of testosterone and how you felt like you had a new lease on life itself when you woke up from your chest surgery all those years ago.  A tear or two escapes you as you tell your tale, but they’re not the bad kind.  No… they come from something else entirely.  A joy you could never put to words, a cresting wave of pride that you’ve come so far and lived so well despite every bump in the road, a sense of self that felt like wings upon your back…  With every story, you find yourself meeting his gaze more often until you’re looking right into those icy blues.

If Albert is dissatisfied with your revelation, he doesn’t show it.  Instead, he stands before you and listens intently to every word.  Without his glasses, you can see his eyes soften at certain parts, but it's the way his hand doesn’t quite leave from where he’d touched your scar before that keeps you hopeful throughout the entire ordeal.

“And I– I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before, I just…” You exhale hard, eyes dropping with the weaning of that miracle burst of confidence.  “Telling people is… difficult.”

“Did you think I would react badly?”

You didn’t expect such a question, let alone for it to be asked so gently.  “I… yes and no.”  You chew the inside of your cheek as you ponder the way to best explain it to him.  “Not everyone is kind about it.  I didn’t think– it wasn’t that I thought you’d be mean about it, I just… I didn’t want you to feel like I was lying to you…”

Wesker’s eyes flit to the side for a brief second.  “I understand.  Though I fail to see how you would’ve lied.”

At that, you let out a breathy little laugh, eyes closing as you shake your head.  “So you’re okay with it?”  You ask finally, hand rising to rest over his that still lingered at your chest.  The anxiety returns and you worry the side of your lower lip between your canines.

“I am,” Wesker hums, offering you perhaps the softest, sweetest smile you’ve ever seen grace his face.  His free hand reaches for the one that hangs loose by your side, holding it tenderly as he leans forward.  At first you think he’s going for a kiss, which you happily prepare for, but he presses his forehead to yours.  You allow your eyes to flutter shut, same as him.  “I’m afraid you’ve stolen my heart, my dear.” He pauses for a moment, brushing his nose against yours. “You are who you are.  I wouldn’t want you any other way.”

At that, there’s simply no helping the way you throw yourself at him, arms wrapping around him as tight as you can without agitating your wound.  He returns your embrace immediately, palms stroking up and down the length of your back, perfectly warm against your skin.  

There’s one last thing to tell him.  Something that’s been in your heart for a while now.  He deserves every truth from you, and you’re all too happy to give it to the man who assigns you heaps of reports at work and makes your heart sing at home.

“I love you.”  You murmur against his collar, smiling big and wide at how his arms tighten around you.  “I really, really love you.”

“Good,” he hums.  Wesker rests his chin atop your head, swaying slightly as if to music that wasn’t there.  “Because I really, really love you, too.”

You giggle at his mimicry, but, in truth, you’re overflowing with joy.  It’s as if the sun itself has risen in your chest to hear those words, but that is simply the effect Wesker has on you.

What bliss to know you warm his heart the same.

[nshtn]

Yan!Wesker x Oblivious Virologist Reader

741 words, tw: voyeurism, unconsensual belongings-rifling, creepy-eepy social-stilted Wesker

You were so innocent that it almost hurt him. Something deep and long-dead inside of Wesker was tortured to life by the way you talked, walked... acted.

You'd do things no other scientist of any ranking with their head on ought to do.

Sometimes this was meandering through corridor after corridor on the mornings a free moment struck you to leave a coffee or some small treat at his desk. To this, he'd normally take great offense (because he can feed himself, you know, he's done it his entire life without help, and why would he need anyone else's now?), but some flame he couldn't snuff out lit him alight when he thought of asking you to stop. No, instead, he would mutter a 'thanks' as he jogged past you and, at some point in your day, you'd catch the fruits of your labor: a full shot of the man cross-legged, leaning against a metal-lined bacteria-resistant wall, the sweep of his gaze untelling as he sipped or grazed.

He found more often than not, in those moments, it landed on you. After all, you were such an interesting specimen.

Other times you'd see him pass you by and strike conversation with him as though he were any other researcher, as though when he had not first acknowledged you properly when you'd first met him it'd been simple, uncomplicated error. And his heart's highest layer wanted to ignore you and give another half-baked 'mn,' as he scurried off to some dark and dim-lit place to plot, but he found that the deepest and most pressing layer, the one he tried and failed to compress, would not allow it to be so. The thought hurt, though his social repression could scantly place why. So, instead, in that moment his head would turn to you and he would pause, turn his body fully, take in your effort to include him. How quaint. You were funny like that.

Funny...

He could hardly recall the last time he'd found another person so genuinely tolerable. Your performance in the research of reversing cell apoptosis wasn't helping. Birkin found it worthy of a raise, and that meant you were worth keeping, and the way events transpired resulted in continued contact and established routine. Wesker came to enjoy your silly socialization quirk and whatever idiotic bravado had you considering him a viable conversational partner.

His eyes kept falling to you when your back was turned. His mind ran to your opinion when the news droned on too long. And, though he could never admit it to even himself, the time you'd stopped by his desk when you'd seen him shake his head after scrutinizing a report and provided him feedback and advice past the end of the work day had you solve the initial issue.

Time only made matters worse. He'd begun actually talking back, giving you his opinion devoid of the usual serrated edge that lined his tone. He had advised you, too, once, when you came to work dejected about a failed date. You didn't deserve them anyway, he'd said. You were too smart for people like them. They didn't understand you... two. And there were occasions in which he would somehow, coincidentally, arrive at your precise station when you found yourself stuck in your work and peer over your shoulder, putting in comments that would nudge you towards success.

You were just so very funny. You were so interesting.

Even just this was enough to ascend your social position in Umbrella. People avoided you or embellished their retelling of test results when they had to interact with you, fearful that getting close to you would be some equivalency of stepping into Wesker territory. Nobody was stupid enough to stand in the man's way and risk becoming a test subject. As for which direction they leaned away from you? It was divided: half thought that getting close to you would risk that when you finally became the lamb to slaughter they, too, would bleat... the other half picked up on some scant social cue of Wesker's that dawned on them the sickening realization that associating with you would have them rended for encroaching his territory.

Ah, he was like a shark, encircling a ball of bait... no, that seemed wrong. It was all wrong. Your research was all right, bringing the corporation to a new height and gaining you the title of Head. You held no fear of him or anyone else above or below you. Worst of all, you found yourself nestled around a Kafka novel occasionally, something he discovered when he could bear no more of the absence of you when the lights dimmed and you headed for home and he was left with the scent of you, rifling through your locker and memorizing the placement of every piece.

You, too, were a shark, though your teeth were beneath you.

Wesker could fix that.

[ryllen]

I have never ventured to the side of wanting to romance unromanceable NPC before,

but isn't Wei kind of a marriage material ?

[jack-kellys]

underrated newsie of the year award goes to 🪽

[0039pf-third-blog-hooray]

guys look what i made for my best friend 🤭🎀

i also bought a couple of sticker packs and gems for a friend to decorate the album, and ethan got the best and the most. he deserves it. 💔

edit: part 2

[moeblob]

So I personally don't play DBD (though I think it might be fun to try but I'd be bad at it so) but a streamer I watch plays it a lot and her survival rate against Wesker players is astounding. And funny to watch. So I draw lil doodles for her Wesker interactions to put off doing other art.

[the-fo0l]

Hey Can we get another yan Albert wesker x reader please? If not its ok. And another question, which charecter are you willing to write in mortal kombat? Hope you have a great day miss♥

(Sorry for my English)

mk characters are in my pinned post! also sorry this is super duper late! warnings: kissing/makeout, reader is not a fan, reader is kidnapped!!

Yan!Wesker coming home to his darling

You swirl the tea in your mug, playing with the way the liquid moves against itself. Every tick of the wall clock makes you more and more agitated. Usually, it would go entierly unnoticed, escpesially with the sound of heavy rain outside. But right now the noise serves as a constant reminder that your captor will be arriving 'home' any second now.

And, as if the universe had read your thoughts, you hear the sound of the front door being unlocked and someone entering the mansion.

After a moment spent re-locking the plethora of locks on the door, Wesker steps in, his eyes quickly search for you before he even bothers take off his rain-drenched coat. And he couldn't help but feel his heart miss a beat when he caught sight of you. You were leaning against a kitchen counter in some of the loungewear he'd bought you, looking nothing short of ethereal without even trying.

"Hello, my darling," he greets you as you make eye-contact. A greeting you don't bother returning.

Only after confirming for sure you hadn't escaped in his absence (nearly impossible considering the security measures he's taken against it), he feels relaxed enough to at least take off his shoes and coat before finally joining you.

"You're home," you state plainly as he calmly strides his way over to you. Your apathetic acknowledgement of him momentarily pulls all air from his lungs, even if your eyes remain focusued on the mug, you usually don't speak to him at all unless it can't be avoided.

"I am," he breathed, as one of his hands tenatively comes to rest on the kitchen island as he now stands in front of you. You take one last swig of your tea and place the empty mug on the counter behind you.

"....How was your day?" you asked, not that you particularly cared, you just needed him to do something other than just stare at you like that, with those with piercing, predatory, infatuated eyes of his.

"It was fine," Wesker replied, giving you a gentle smile before taking your hands into his, making eye-contact with you and courtiously kissing your knuckles, "better now."

He could've never imagined that someone could bring out this kind of emotion in him. He's a man who takes what he wants and betrays without regard for anyone or anything. He's fought and won against some of the most powerful of mutant monsters and most well-trained of soldiers. And yet he feels weaker that ever from something as simple as being under your scrutinizing gaze.

God, he's so pathetic for you.

He sofly takes your face into his hands, tilting your head up, forcing you to face him properly. He inches closer and closer until you're completely chest to chest. Finally, there is no barrier between us, he'd destroy anything that tried to fill that space. His superhuman strength is palpable, keeping you still as his tall stature cages you in against the counter. He subconsiously licks his lips at the sight of you so vulnerable under him. With exhilaration in his body, he leans down and he kisses you.

One hand slides into your hair and another holds the side of your face, keeping your head firmly in place as he gradually deepens the kiss more and more. It was an overwhelming feeling, your lips and body being smothered by full weight of his obsession. Your skin against his, the small muffled noises that escape you, the slight taste of chamomile on your tounge —he feels like he's going fucking insane.

How you can make him feel so strong and yet so weak at the same time is both fascinating and agitating to him. This annoyance is faux of course, after all, he could never look into those captivating eyes of yours with anything other than complete adoration.

"Oh darling, how I've missed you" he murmurs into the kiss, making sure to purr out the nickname in a way that makes your skin tingle and your ears echo. You push a hand against his chest as a signal that this is becoming way more of a make-out session than a kiss, but of course he doesn't take the hint, if anything, it encourages him.

You just pray the chef prepared dinner perfectly tonight, it's hard to sleep with muffled agonized screams coming from somewhere in the house.

[moxymaxing]

Clarence💥💥💥💥

[lenateliier]

“I am in blood stepped in so far that, should I wade no more, returning were as tedious as go o’er.”

[emotinalsupportturtle]

Why is my comfort author Albert Camus??

[comet-wire]

Last night I cried, and I mean UGLY cried at a foul hour because I love Albert Wesker and I hate it. (/Lh)

Like first off, the man's name is Albert??? Need I say more? But then, his name is kinda gothic when you say his full name. I don't know if that's just me. But just simply referring to him as Albert is goofy as fuck considering he's supposed to be a villain in RE. Not only that, he's got paper thin lips. How's he gonna get a kiss kiss??☝️🤨/ref

But it wasn't only that, mind you, it's also because this absolute FUCK, this evil David Bowie and Johnny bravo looking mother fucker, has consumed my life and every waking thought that sometimes it genuinely hurts and that's what I hate about being autistic. It's just how much I want to consume of something once it becomes a special interest and/or hyperfixation. On top of that, Wesker is a special case for me because I found out I technically trauma bonded to him as a comfort character. For the past year and a half now, I got back into RE because of the RE4R and began hyperfixating on said game then it spiraled into hyperfixating about the Wesker's storyline, with project W and so on. I already have a tendency to go back to RE periodically every like two or so years but this has low-key been probably the longest I've consistently fixated on RE without a single break in-between. My dad and I bonded over resident evil, he's one of the people who got me into RE, albeit he watched the movies and I got into the game's. Which means RE means a whole lot to me and since he passed my fixation on it only heightened as a source of comfort. I also found out when you have a comfort character during a horrible period in your life, you very well can trauma bond with said character. So that means out of all characters, I have trauma bonded to Albert Wesker and I am two seconds away from tweaking. 🤩

On top of that, every time @rainbowroadonsteroids sends me something remotely Wesker related I start punching my wall and they bully me for it smh./Lh+nm

Shout out to my favorite human nightlight, Albert Wesker. ☝️🗿

[blood-mocha-latte]

how many times did i die without noticing? // abigail smith

[callitfatecalitkarma]

one way trigger (mellow version)

Preformed by Julian Casablancas & Albert Hammond Jr

Inglewood, Live at The Forum

10-27-21

[sophaeros]

Julian and Fab sit on a trolley and Julian slides his hands up the back of Fab’s maroon T-shirt, just because. One of the first things you notice around the Strokes is that the casual intimacy they assume with each other is often playfully physical. Julian leans behind Fab and bites his back. “Ah! Ah! Ah! Dude! Slow! Stop!’ shouts Fab.

Fab draws a five pointed star in felt pen on the inside of Albert’s left wrist and carefully shades it in.

In a break Fab and Albert dance cheek to cheek, ‘I’m jealous of your slow dance,’ teases Julian. ‘I’m going to kill you both in a jealous rage.’ Nick leaps around Julian’s waist, his legs wrapped high behind Julian’s torso, his head tucked in below Julian’s chin. ‘My monkey child!’, Julian shouts. ‘Somebody have my monkey child.’

Backstage awhile later, I find Fab and Albert punching each other, pretty hard. ‘It’s a whole thing,' explains Fabrizio between blows and yelps, ‘It’s love, right?’ ‘No it's not,’ retorts Albert, ‘It’s violence!’

They watch a playback. ‘This is awesome,’ Julian commentates, then, as he watches himself swing a little bit wildly into the beginning of the second verse, says ‘not so good’. But they’re pleased. Julian and Fab dance together and chant, ‘Party! Pizza Party! Party! Pizza Party!…’

— The Strokes for The Face, 2002 (x)