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nshtn · 25 days ago

Text

// Cardiolipin

Albert Wesker has better uses for you than scientist-turned-secretary, and a secretary has much better uses than counting all the port caps he's used.

5.2k, tags: gloves, medical - dubious science;labcoat, nsft - handjob;leather & hand kink;mildly dubious consent;role switch;accidental voyeurism;bottom wesker, PW(much)P/gn reader, themes of obsession, TRICELL - office setting

2nd fic of Cytochrome C. AO3

It was late at night at TRICELL. You'd just completed the last of the documents that Albert Wesker had assigned for you: today had been a day of nothing but record-keeping, pouring over entry after entry to inventory the things you'd both used in the pursuits of your knowledge.

It was a rough pile of paperwork, but someone had to do it – and Wesker told you he had deadlines to meet. He could stave your own off for this, but he couldn't push back his own.

Typical. You’d come to expect it, really.

While you appreciated the subtle cover, his arrogance peeked through the paper-thin veil. At least he tried to make it sound better than it was: that he simply didn't feel that it was his place to do inventory, even if it was under his job title, and, technically, not your own. Not anymore, at least.

Sometimes you felt a little like his secretary.

Well, a lot of times, actually – the way you two had... gotten along, how closely you worked and the strange, unearthly bond that had blossomed between you. At times, you handled some of the tasks he couldn’t busy himself with – sorting e-mails, tech support, confirming the formidable math that went into organic chemistry formulas (he really hated those).

But perhaps it was in the way he’d lean over you a little more than was necessary, cologne creeping up and onto you as he read over the paper you held about results towards your own research. A glove at your back. An impressed sound, gruff, escaping the confines of his lips…

...the methods he used to congratulate you, like he was perpetually locked in some kind of social chess, obvious in the way his voice would lilt upwards into an unnaturally high register – and the rewards he’d present as if he were trying to condition you towards success. Admittedly, you let him get away with it most of the time – to glitter with free dopamine wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, was it?

Did he think you were dumb enough to come when called, like some kind of pet?

Though, admittedly, you’re sure you would if he rewarded you well enough. As long as he made it worth it, you didn’t pay his transactional nurture heed; it wasn’t malice, it was business, and you’d learned that well enough against his lips in your last close encounter.

You’d outpaced the average quite significantly, then. You still lasted now. Something in you beamed a little dangerously at that, spine prickling with the rattlings of your subconscious. It was a warning – you sidled yourself too close to someone who didn’t share the same base human values.

You disregard that as your pencil glides.

You were curious if it’d lead anywhere some day. Physically, it had done so once before: your breakthrough in the selective application of tardigrade-specific proteins to a biological scaffold of human cells without interfering with neurons was a major leap forward for his own research. He’d asked you to use rudimentivirus progenitorensis as a vector, and that had been a very odd, very difficult request, but... given the sample, you got to work on an ‘exuprogenivec’ – it was hard, but the tendency for it to run away with what you gave it and produce virulent offspring was annoying. When you finally managed to produce something you thought viable, even in a forever flawed state, he’d taken the entire project off your hands in exchange for something you could hardly believe you’d taken him up on.

You could still hardly believe he’d allowed it. Him, of all people – Wesker! You thought he’d scoff, then. But had he read into the way you tolerated him and found that tolerance bled into something more? Had his own bled in recognition, or in turn?

Given how you no longer had the steam to work on the project, and seeing that it was in a state someone of his qualifications was better suited to, you did acquiesce. And, more importantly, you didn’t regret it. That hung between you, now, and Wesker took advantage of your attraction whenever he thought you needed a boost.

Or, perhaps, when his ego needed one – sometimes he slid up on you or called you over with the express purpose of something you’d initially found most uncharacteristic until you’d finally gotten used to it: completely unsubtle flirtation, your response to his efforts something you could tell he locked himself in on even through the privacy of his shades.

You’d learned. He’d learned your tells, too, though.

So, that left you here, now, neatening up the stack of papers with tired hands as you meant to deliver them and play the act of the paper boy. He was up in his office, a little farther from your unit, free from biohazard bags and agar plates.

You sigh with a trained sort of anticipation that makes you double-take as you stand from your desk. Without further adieu, you pass through the door that separates your well-lit unit and into the dimly-lit bowels of midnight TRICELL.

At night, the lights would dim to stimulate the natural circadian rhythm and help avoid accidental time-blindness in employees. Sometimes, though, you wished they were a little brighter – they imparted a sort of creeping, heaving otherness when they were this dark. The gaps between yellow-green fluorescence cast harsh, deep slices of darkness like prison bars as you pass each glittering light.

Was that intentional? Did it mean to paint the theme it did, so drab and macabre? Sometimes you felt like you weren’t in the know on something larger than yourself. Something eluded the tips of your mind. Maybe it was just the many mysteries of Wesker that made you feel this way – he scantly shared the level of social detail that was appropriate for a situation, preferring to remain a miserable little pile of secrets to your wandering mind.

But maybe it was something else. Maybe it was something deeper than what bobbed cleanly on the surface. Your gut demands it, but your mind is empty of factual conclusion.

You just can’t place it.

Eventually you find your mark and let your overthinking slide away, even if it’s a thick, gooey, embittered thing. It’s a little odd how quiet it is, save for the echoing scuffs of your shoes, but you’re here – now’s not the time to be lost in thought when approaching a man who would surely question you if he saw it drawn across your face; you weren’t interested in the debate, it wouldn’t be a fruitful discussion.

Should you knock? Surely he knows you mean to come in…

Ignoring your own silly protests, you pass your papers to your other hand securely and rap at the door twice before you’ll politely invade.

No answer…

That’s odd – certainly a first. Could he have fallen asleep at his desk or left work without you to resume it tomorrow? No, no – he was married to his work, and it’d recently gotten interesting... one of those pill hotel resting zones in the nap room, then?

But that was unlike Albert Wesker. He was a man who stuck to his schedule, and there had been no indication that he’d recently been pulling any seventy two hour benders that ended in you finding him curled up in his unfinished paperwork, rare as that was.

With a different curiosity occupying your head, you turn the handle and nearly throw your papers, hand coming up to cover your mouth as your eyes lay upon the scene before you. Oh, no, Wesker hadn’t left. He was right there at his desk, head in one gloved hand, the other tugging a fistful of himself just as preoccupied as your mind had been mere moments ago. You feel warmth sprint across the surface of your cheeks. You should turn around. He lets out a breath, the edge of his lips letting gritted air out from the clench of his canines. You should turn around and leave. As he completes several languid strokes from the tip to the base of himself, you are privy to the lewd sound of the way his skin slides across pre-stained leather. Is this the same pair he wears around you? God, you should really turn around and leave. But your body isn’t responding to the heed of your mind. It’s too busy heeling to the sound and sight, which you are certain now has become a degree of purposefully theatric, of Wesker willingly letting his arousal bubble out thick and growling from the bare column of his throat. His head tilts back a little, adams apple bobbing as he swallows a mouthful of saliva. You turn, and your clothing ruffles. Your fate is sealed like the potting of a slow-boiling frog. “Well, I didn't take you for the type to voyeur, but I suppose I could have been wrong in my calculations,” Wesker breathes, suddenly, voice oozing with intention and perfectly unmarred as he continues to stroke himself, pace slowing to offer him an even greater degree of composure. You were certain he was looking directly at you. He shifts his position to something a little more upright than hunched, as if professionalism still clung to him.

You clear your throat. “I-I can lea–”

“Nonsense. Come here,” he beckons, letting his propped elbow shift as he wags a finger at you, grunting with the weight of sexual frustration as he pauses. His hand lays over himself but never tucks his length away as the wheels of his chair slide back a little. “I’ve better use for you than fretting over every syringe.”

You want to open your mouth and say something – you want to curse him out, maybe, for making it out like your work was so menial and pointless, but the offer he presents has your mouth firmly shut as if taped as you nearly drop your papers. You stride over to him promptly, diverting your eyes with equal parts respect and shyness as you approach the side of his desk, pushing the papers onto a part of it that has yet to find itself swamped. You want to offer him privacy even if he– even if…

“That’s better. Now,” he begins, and you think he’s going to admonish you for something, but instead his free hand comes up to his shades to push them down a little as he gives a single stroke from the top to bottom of himself. His eyes, slit and predatory, bore into you with no less a degree of control than he’d normally have, but they swim with the weight of endorphins in the degree of their visible dilation.

And they look you up and down, slow and searching, before they stop at your own pair. You’re certain you’re red, now. “...are your hands only good at pencil-pushing, or do they hold some other useful talent for the occasion?”

Your brain stutters. “I-I was just going to leave the paperwork o-o-on your desk, as I believed that you’d– that you’d gone home, but then I saw you a–”

“You don’t need to pile on excuses.” He hums a little, lets his eyes divert to the paperwork you’ve delivered as he pauses once more in thought. Then, with a small, perceptible smirk, viperous and serpentine as they roam back to you, he leans back in his chair and lets his hand – the only barrier between your eyes and his intimacy – slide away.

He’s hard and leaking, and he thrums to attention as your vision seems to tunnel in on him automatically. Why did you do that? You can’t help yourself. You’re supposed to be better than this, and you crawl with a heady mixture of shame and desire that makes Wesker huff again. “Perhaps you’d like to get a grip on the situation, hm?” Clearly he sees past your aching repression, even as you deny yourself.

And it’s never been more clear to you that your brain is prioritizing, because it’s certainly processing that.

You move forward before he’s even finished taunting you, drawing in a breath as you let your hand draw forward. You’re slow, offering him the space of rejection if he chooses, but he just lays back and watches you as you wrap your hand around him. He’s not quite relaxed, no, but something close to it, hips still taut and growing a little tauter, wriggling forward as your hand breaches him. But he’s thick, and warm, and wet, and, fuck, he’s beautiful.

His lips curl into a devilish, self-satisfied smirk.

There’s something to be said about how he obviously trapped you in this situation with this intention, but in the heat of the moment you cannot find it in yourself to make that comment. In fact, your glazed-over mind cannot find it in itself to care, much too busy with the outline of pumping veins that crawl along his shaft and natural wrinkles, committing them to memory like you’ve taken a private, filthy Polaroid.

You let a pathetic, guileless whimper slide from your throat. He chuckles, ego undeniably preening at your uncoerced truth. You feel nice, he qualifies to himself. “Mmm, you’re so warm...” he says – breathes, huffing as he lets his glove almost but not quite wrap around you, wrapped around him. But he stops before it makes contact with its’ intended destination. “...but something’s missing.”

Wesker bares his wrist to you in a move that feels more intimate than it should, one hand moving towards the latch of his glove.

He does it with an air of reverence that has you mimicking, mirroring. “Yes,” you dryly, quietly concur, nodding your head as if entranced – and perhaps you were – as you let go of him, leaning in and undoing the latch gingerly, further soiling it as if it weren’t already coated in a helping of his own lubricant. Your eyes are so occupied with your task, fingers curling around the underside of his wrist and the muscles at the base of his thumb, that you do not notice the scalding degree with which his gaze follows you.

He is breathing shallow and stuttered and perhaps a little more stuttered as you begin to pull off the glove. Wesker is thrumming, basking in your mimicry and care as if a starved man in a way that you are entirely blind to. Your attention holds more weight than others, don’t you know that?

You must. You must! But you don’t seem to acknowledge it, not truly, and that frustrates him. And it shouldn’t.

It should relieve him. You shouldn't be privy, but his own selfish want for your attention outweighs the danger of such an honesty.

God, how can he help it when you’re this fucking adorable? Such a good little thing, so good at following unspoken direction. You naturally flow the way he diverts your stream. Reducing you is fun – dangerously so, drawing him in a feverish light he doesn’t quite like. This is some kind of knife’s edge, and he’s not sure if letting it dig deep into him is the right choice when it comes to the importance of his research.

You add an unknown variable to something very fragile…

...and yet he cannot find it in himself to stop at once, instead seeking his own destruction in the way his digits beckon the glove from your fingertips, taking the clean edges of it. “Hold your hand out.”

You obey unquestioningly.

He slides the leather – something you find smells faintly of leather oil and something else, something a little different, ruined at the palm and latch – over your splayed hand, pulling until it’s a second skin over your waiting, wanting fingers.

“Thank you…” you breathe, moving to latch it.

“Not necessary,” he hisses, impatience creeping up him like a vine. There’s another reason he doesn’t want you to latch his own glove on your hand that he doesn’t voice – it’s his, and he doesn’t want to mentally associate you with that, too, lest he drown in seeing you in everything more than he already does.

Wesker’s free hand slides up your wrist, tracing a path to your face which starts off gentle, tilting your head towards his length beckoningly. There’s a sharp demand inlaid, and you follow the natural lead, letting your vision admire him a little more as you fall into an obedient crouch, and then again, more comfortably, on your knees.

Where he thinks you belong. He wants to say it with his mouth, but he knows better than to voice something so brash, instead letting out an almost imperceptible groan if not for the proximity you found yourself. You don’t bother to bite back your pleased hum as you let your gloved hand rest at the base of him, thumb tracing a vein with deep-seated curiosity that makes him bite his lip.

The way you lack his secretiveness, how openly and wantonly you allow your admiration to stick out, is something that he finds himself both unreasonably attracted to and grievingly envious.

And while he’d like to continue to bathe in the sickening reverence he’s molded out of you in this heated moment, he must first attend to something of great importance: you really shouldn’t see what he’s been busying himself with. He doesn’t want to risk your wandering eyes landing on any one of those screens. He’d rather you see the result of it – the direct result of you.

Letting your mind wonder about what was on them is a much kinder fate than true, free knowledge. If you knew how deep this all ran, you’d...

He tightens his grip subconsciously, pinning your vision on him as he leans up a little with a creak, deftly flicking the monitors off before he returns fully to you, shifting in the chair so that you can better make out the shape of him, which flexes with the movement of his hips.

“There. That’s better.” Wesker sighs a little, and you find that the sound echoes nerves as much as it does the first pricklings of arousal. You lean into his grip instead of away, as if the near-painful pinch is comfortable, and in response he regards you, head tilting down.

You lock eyes. You feel so small.

You’re sure he’s about to say something teasing to chafe the seams of you, but instead he says something surprising in its sudden painted depth, distracting. “Does it not bother you to dedicate your mind to this?” He doesn’t add the ‘to me’, but he sees it’s how you take it in the turn of your expression. It’s so silly to him, how you ascribe meaning to words unsaid – it is bared in the furrow of your brows, so deeply caring. His glove lets go of your chin as it cards through your hair as if you aren’t on your knees, in his office, labcoat pooling at the wheels of his chair.

You are his the way his car or glasses are, and whether known or not, he does not hold doubt of that. Albert Wesker’s confidence is not nearly as much of a false pretense as other things.

You’ve caught onto a few of those, haven’t you?

“So intelligent,” he croons, something that sounds less mocking than he intends it to be, “and yet here you are…” ...on your knees for me, at my beck and call - but it trails off before he finishes the thought . Doesn’t it bother you to feel like a tiny, rotating gear in his grand machine? Do you not find it insulting to feel so utterly human, at the mercy of what surrounds you? But if you stopped, he’d find you so much less appealing. It wars with him, this.

Yet the expected punctuation of a chuckle eludes you. It is not present to cushion the blow. The statement belies that he views your mind with a certain degree of respect. It makes clear that to do what he does now is, to him, the reduction of your mind to something simpler, more base instinct and gnashing teeth than a white-coat and fluorescent strip lighting.

It’s domination.

“Should it?” you reply, shrugging a little, hand tightening its’ grip around him, which he allows. Wesker is a man whose analytical mind leads him down paths not just less traveled, but untraveled entirely – you don’t ascribe the level of transactional thought to pleasing him that he does. You are doing this because you want to, not because it plays some higher role.

“I like…” you trail off, searching for the words, something that isn’t so hard for him to swallow as your gentle fist slides up and up his shaft. ‘To serve’ - No, that’s not it, you have a spine. ‘To make you happy’ - that feels too raw. “...to make you feel,” you settle, though you find it doesn’t capture your own feelings.

It is vague enough to pass, though the natural, sweet look you give him certainly helps, devoid of any hint of betrayal. That is such a foolish look to offer him… but right here, right now? It makes his hips jerk a little. He lets a small and thoughtful ‘hm,’ pass with it.

Wesker is a man who feels like a raw, open wound beneath a nearly-impenetrable shell. His own defenses dig into scar tissue that cannot close. When you see him for what he is, at his most penetrable, you want to make him feel what he won’t allow himself.

To say this in its’ truth will only alienate him. You must wait for an opening to let even a little of your intention encapsulate him. No matter what you do, you must do it gently.

Some part of him must know it, because he releases a breathy sigh as your gloved hand glides up and down faster, the leather a sinfully pleasing texture, the image of you in his own a far more sinful picture. “Is that it?” he quips, but he gentles as he sweeps your hair back in your slow rhythm, his turn to mimic, “A mutual debasing?”

No, a mutual debriding.

His own brows find themselves drawing together as you milk the tip of him, thumb at the edge, the motion far too much and too quick, thin lips tight and wide with shut eyes to accompany them. An uncharacteristic, dark flush scrawls over the apex of his cheekbones as you continue without pause. “Mmmhmm,” you reply, a noncommittal, accepting hum that is more focused on his pleasure than the topic at large. You see it: the tension in the twitch of his leg, the way his hand tightens in your hair, his other hand gripping the arm of his office chair.

But he doesn’t stop you. No, he quite likes this ‘mutual debasing’ more than he lets on, you figure. You hum a little as you let your fist tighten and drop down further, finally, letting up on the relentless rhythm you’d previously established.

The moan he lets out in return is more than worth it, and he doesn’t even hide it. It is the reward for your foolishness, so bold. The walls are well-insulated – this isn’t just any office, after all. What is decided in the room you incriminate with your shockingly gentle sin can change the endless upwards race of humanity. And perhaps, though you see it as phonetic, metaphorical change, Wesker knows it as genetic change.

Wesker rocks his hips alongside you as you pick up your pace, hissing through his teeth. Each stroke is matched one to one. The sound fits him, but he forces his mouth open near the end of it and he heaves the ends of a hot breath out that he repeats in puffs as you draw him closer to the crest of this distraction. “F-fffuck you’re good,” he states, a truthful thing, finally beginning to see the end of the rope of his composure.

His hand has long stopped traveling through your locks. Instead, he’s gripping your head in place, eyes cracked open and baring down a brilliant fire into your own. They are ruby red, filigree of a golden yellow surrounding wide black slits that are losing themselves in your earthly pleasures. To think he felt himself beyond this… he did not want to be. He wasn’t.

“Hnnh…”

Not… not if it felt like this. Not if it was you. Not if it was you. He will contend with the meaning of that later. His jaw is slack as you let your pent-up admiration cascade directly through how tight and fast you grip his cock.

“Does that feel good?” you ask, tone indecently polite. Though you’re well aware it does, the sight before you more than obvious, you want to hear it made known. It is a confirmation you know you can edge out of him if he won’t give up the goal.

Wesker responds with a growl more like a chuff that rises readily from him as he pulls at the edges of your hair in warning, letting his nose crinkle.

Your pace, then, tortures him in how it slows at his lack of a lingual reply. Just who do you think you are? But he can’t force it out of himself, so caught up in the need for you to continue that his anger holds no teeth, thick rim no match for the true whole of desperation that clamors up his spine and pools as a tight, demanding heat. If he chides you, you might stop, and then…

“Yes it feels g-good,” he snaps, not quite as envenomated as he envisioned as his brows furrow more meaningfully, chasing the pops of pleasure with every completed stroke, “don’t… don’t stop now.” You are so much better than his hand, and so much of this hinges on it being you that it's sickening.

He is beautiful like this in his own way, open to you and repressing the urge to writhe. His eyes shut tight as the sensation mounts.

Wesker loses sight of his grander goal in the scent of your proximity, a sweet temptation. You smell like something he cannot admit to himself. Attempting to place the true depth of it fails – he cannot discern what about you feels so known, fog of pleasure pushing away proper analysis. Instead, he forces himself to bear down on the pheromones of your shared arousal as he bucks slightly to meet your hand.

And the statement he’s made, too, passes, even though you could very well cease entirely and steal away this pleasure. You could flip your roles. You are unbalanced equals right now, teetering into something more, and though it should make him feel uncomfortable, instead it makes him feel like he’s going to burst. He is unsure if the unbalance lies in the lack of defined submissive and dominant, or if it lies elsewhere, and he doesn’t care – not now, at least.

Not as you speed up again, and his short, trimmed, perfect nails dig past the leather and into the side of your head, scrunching in your messied locks as your frantic pacing pushes him up and over.

Wesker’s other hand grabs the other side of your head, holding it in place like a support brace as his hips stutter. At the last moment, your free hand cups itself around his red hot tip to catch his glory. You’re so thoughtful, even now. Had he the mind, he’d soften the blow, but in the crescendo of feeling his mind demands he take, take, take.

He hisses and whimpers and writhes as release bares down on him, and it’d be beside you not to notice how intentionally he forces his mouth to remain open and venting out the sound on you, intent clear in the rejection of the trained response to be entirely silent as his hot breath fans you through teeth that beg to clench. As staged as this is – as controlled as the interaction’s beginning was, the appearance of letting himself go entirely is just that: it is something he does willfully, shaking over his own cup until it pours out for you. His hips roll as the glove steadies and slows and stops on him.

In a way, he’s giving, and this is its’ own breed of equivalent exchange. It’s payback for your timeless adorations, pointed in the direction of a dangerous, deceitful receiver; it is also the inevitable continuation of the reward you get when you steer progress forward.

And, oh, you steer progress so well it’s sin. Wesker feels himself go slack, feels you pull away and closes his jaw as he draws himself back to the shore of an unbreakable – lest it’s you – composure. He smells more now of himself than the vetiver and ambergris clinging to his neck, the lingering remains of your bared affection.

The timing of this dawns on you. There is nobody here to interrupt you, nobody to pass rumors at this time of night. It is perfectly private.

You look up at him with wonder at his appearance, the sides of his sideburns slick with sweat. Your hungry mind, so adorably human, imagines how much of his scent is hidden in the suit he’s wearing, how much of it you could extract and roll your hips into if—

There is no time for the opportunity. Wesker cleans himself off and pushes the glove off him, tucking himself neatly away. There’s a moment of silence as he cleans your hands off, too, before he begins to undo the latch of his glove to retrieve it again. Once retrieved, they’re both set aside. Wesker looks so different without his gloves – less unapproachable, almost, even if his appearance had never quite deterred you.

He is the first to break the quiet, of course, a sigh snaking out from his maw as he lets his fingertips splay through your hair, languidly attempting to sweep it out of your face. “I was right. Your hands are very precise.” He tucks a lock behind your ear, the tips of them flushed. You look up at him, but his eyes don’t meet yours - there’s a distance placed in them.

“Thank you.” You’re a perceptive one. Had you taken things too far? Surely he hadn’t meant for you to take control of the situation the way you did. But, then, he didn’t stop you - he’d seemed to enjoy himself… the dull, remaining glow of his eyes is undeniable evidence that you’d definitely made him feel.

Wesker bats his lashes, the weight of your gaze not entirely comfortable when he’s submerged in the dangerous tranquility of afterglow hormones. Perhaps he’d felt, indeed - felt far too much.

It’s the awkward moment between, and the sigh through his nose before you rise to your full height - something he does in turn as if you’ve done so to spite him - is what sets your gears in motion. You can’t help the way you quirk a brow at how he fixes his tie, grabbing the edge of his shades to hide himself as he prepares to leave his office. Had he really stayed just for this? “You could’ve asked, y’know.”

Wesker turns his head to you with a mild tilt, as if the notion of genuine, clear communication escapes him. His reply is filtered through the tight sieve of carefully placed intention. “Ah, yes,” he begins, and then he tuts in rebuttal, “but where’s the fun in that?”

You return him the sassy arch of your brow.

He’s decided he’ll let you live.

#albert wesker #albert wesker x reader #resident evil #nsft #tw medical #/dev/writing/#tw suggestive #suggestive

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solosergiohd · 2 months ago

Text

[TF2 15.ai] The Mercs argues about their favorite 2005 video games

Medic: Shut up, Demo! No one even playing that anymore!

Demoman: Says you! I doubt the world would be the same without it, unlike your spin-off game garbage!

Scout: Hey, what's going on, fellas?

Medic: Demo is underselling the art of suspense and intrigue of my favorite 2005 video game.

Demoman: That's because it's utter garbage, ya bleeding idiot!

Medic: You are the idiot here, Demo! Can't you see the depths and intricuses that weave its plot together?

Scout: Whoa, guys. You haven't even told what it is yet.

Medic: While Demo is attacking my opinions, he's busy defending "Resident Evil 4"!

Scout: What, you mean Leon Scott Kennedy? I thought those were just Capcom horror games.

Demoman: This is what I'm saying! You're all uncultured! "Resident Evil 4" was a survival game to save Ashley Graham!

Medic: Maybe so, but I haven't met a single person who played "Resident Evil" Not a "Village" version! That entire games is just made by Capcom who made a horror games to gamer chumps like yourself!

Scout: I mean, he's not entirely wrong.

Demoman: Both of ya can go to hell!

Scout: So, Medic. What was your favorite 2005 video game?

Medic: Why, it's the greatest 2005 video game of all time. It's-

Demoman: It's "Crash Tag Team Racing".

Scout: Ugh, gross! Medic, what the hell? That game is such bullcrap!

Medic: Says you! It is full of interesting racers, tracks, and minigames are excellent to play.

Demoman: No way. "Crash Team Racing" on PS1 is better! But "Nitro Kart" is pretty good too of my childhood instead of "Tag Team Racing"

Medic: Oh, and I'm sure that "Resident Evil 4" leaves tons of weapons for its characters between all of the world! Right, Scout?

Scout: Honestly? Both of 2005 video game suck. "Shadow The Hedgehog" is leauges better.

Demoman: You can't be serious!

Medic: Unbelievable!

Engineer: What seems to be all the ruckus?

Scout: Medic and Demo are arguing about some random crappy 2005 video game.

Demoman: Be quiet, Scout! "Shadow The Hedgehog" is such a basic pick! Shadow trying to be good to find Maria Robotnik or be evil with his father space demon named Black Doom.

Engineer: "Shadow The Hedgehog"? I can't fault it for being good at what it does, but it's no longer the G.O.A.T. that you think it is, Scout.

Medic: That's right! "Crash Tag Team Racing" has a much better plot-

Demoman/Scout: Shut up!!!

Engineer: I think y'all need something a bit more morden, don'tcha think? What about "Chibi-Robo!"?

Scout: Ooh, that one's really good.

Demoman: The GameCube game is so stylish!

Medic: Chibi-Robo is just a tiny robot with tail plug is endearing! He ran out of his battery until he dies every time I play it!

Engineer: See that? Everyone loves "Chibi-Robo!", so there's no reason to argue.

Medic: Although, Telly Vision sucks as character!

Scout: Ugh!

Demoman: Boooo!!!!

Engineer: *grunts*

Sniper: Lads, lads, calm down! I could hear your weeaboo yammering from my Sniper's post!

Demoman: Medic hates Telly Vision! This is a crime against all of 2005 game!

Sniper: I couldn't give two shits about what character Medic does and doesn't like. Why don't you just play a game with multiple characters that draw you in the same way that Chibi-Robo does?

Scout: Like what?

Sniper: Numerous games! Ones that let their characters shine! Like "Pac-Man World 3" or "Ty The Tasmanian Tiger 3: Night Of The Quinkan".

Medic Or like "Crash Tag Team Rac-

Demoman/Scout: Stop it!!!

Engineer: Wait, "Night Of The Quinkan"? Isn't that the one with the Australian aliens?

Sniper: Yeah, what of it?

Demoman: Hahaha! And here I thought you were just Australian like Bluey, but now you're into-

Sniper: Don't you even dare, Demo! "Ty The Tasmanian Tiger" who uses a boomerang. He's from Australia, I am Australian, It make sense. And how many boomerangs with Ty to defeating a evil cassowary guy? It's brilliant. It's tearful. It's-

Spy: It's stupid, that's what it is.

Sniper: Get out of here, Spy! You have no idea what you're talking about!

Spy: I do, and I'm right. "Ty The Tasmanian Tiger 3" may be good, but it is nowhere near the best.

Engineer: Then what do you think is the best, Spy?

Spy: Personally? "Star Fox Assault" is undoubtedly the best 2005 video game of all time, bar none.

Scout: What? No Way! That worst "Star Fox" character named Panther trying to be love with Krystal the entire time!

Spy: Clearly you have never played it, otherwise you would know that "Star Fox Assault" is much more that just talk! It's suspenseful furry and Landmaster is genius, and Fox McCloud X Krystal is god-tier! like Mr. Wolf X Diane Foxington.

Medic: Exactly! It's just like "Crash Tag Team Ra-

Demoman: Don't you even dare!

Soldier: I heard everyone ships Mr. Wolf X Diane Foxington in "The Bad Guys 2", and I came running! What's happening right now?

Spy: Favorite 2005 Video Game, now!

Soldier: Oh, uh... Probably "God Of War"

Engineer: "God Of War"? But that game is just a Greek action adventure guy named Kratos who kills monsters and troops.

Soldier: Yes. And every games is worth it! The composer is a true genius at the Sony PlayStation headquarters. He manages to tie together plot points that you almost never see coming! Not only that, but Kratos is one of the greatest ghost of sparta in PlayStation history!

Sniper: But what about Hercules?

Soldier: You have something to say, Sniper?

Sniper: Nothing. It's just that I don't like my 2005 game with filler garbage.

Soldier: Garbage?! Why you-

Soldier/Demoman/Scout/Medic/Engineer/Sniper/Spy: *arguing*

Heavy: Everyone! Stop now! How about "Kingdom Hearts 2"?

Demoman: Yeah, that's pretty good.

Scout: No arguing for that.

Engineer: That was great.

Sniper: That's a good one.

Spy: No argument now.

Soldier: Love that game.