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komotionlessqueenmm · 4 months ago

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Headcanon/Preference # 35

Gifs NOT mine.

Year posted - 2024

Rating - SFW & NSFW

Reading time (roughly) - 18 minutes

It's been a minute since I've watched all the Resident Evil movies, so some stuff might not be super accurate. Just roll with it my lovelies.

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SFW

• You are really Weskers one and only true weakness, and he is both terrified, and enraged by the thought of someone exploiting that fact.

• So obviously he is very tempted to inject you with the virus. But he's worried that it might not bond with your genetics like his.

• So he runs like a million different tests, without your knowledge, to find out if it would undoubtedly bond with your genes.

• When he comes to the conclusion that it will in fact bond with your genes, he feels as if a weight is lifted off his chest...

• Now he's just got to figure out how to convince you to take it.

• If push comes to shove... He might just inject you against your will.

• If that's the case, he will do whatever it takes to earn your forgiveness, and make you understand that this was for the best.

• Wesker would burn a thousand world's to protect you okay. He'd abandon everything he's worked for, if it meant keeping you safe. You are his world, and his one and only.

• He would die for you if he had to, and he will fight to his very last breath to get back to you.

• You literally can have the world on a silver platter. If you want it, simply ask and it's yours.

• Money, power, jewelry, clothes, his attention, hell you simply want food? Weskers gonna pull out all the stops, and make you an amazing dinner.

• Can't bring yourself to ask for what you want, and you'd rather leave hints? No worries Wesker can read you like an open book, consider it yours already love.

• On that note. Wesker is an amazing cook, like seriously good. You'd think he took culinary classes before he got into working for Umbrella. In reality it's just a natural skill he was practically born with.

• He makes cooking complex meals look easy, and to him it is easy, second nature really. And he'd be lying if he said he didn't enjoy cooking for you, doing anything that makes you happy, makes him happy in return.

• You're also the only person that can get him to open up and talk more. Something's he won't tell you about from his past, but those things he claims are better left in the past.

• Wesker loves reading to you, but he also loves listening to you read to him as well. And when you both wanna read your own books, curling up and spending the evening together reading quietly is perfect to.

• You make him so unlike himself at times. Sometimes even he wonders how you have such an effect on him. Not that he's complaining, he loves it in fact, it goes to show how special you really are.

• If you ever want to just go and get out of the infamous bunker, simply exploring what's left of the outside world. Wesker will let you, he knows you can look after yourself.

• But is he back at the bunker pacing back and forth like crazy? Yeah he totally is... For about 20-25 minutes before he decides he can't handle not knowing, and he goes after you.

• However he won't let you know he's there, he'll simply shadow you unless you really need him. He just needs to be certain you're okay, infected or not he still worries.

• He definitely teaches you how to fight. Hand to hand combat of course, but along with teaching you how to use just about any weapon he can get his hands on... Which is a lot.

• He'll teach you how to drive if you never learned, how to operate a helicopter, small plane, and even a fucking tank just in case.

• Don't know how to swim? No worries love, Wesker will take however long necessary to teach you. Don't have great endurance? He's got you covered.

• He's actually a very good teacher. He pushes you, but he never pushes you to far. He's fair. And he's driven to help you, become an even more amazing you. He's very patient, and very encouraging.

• Wesker loves everything about you. Anything you consider a flaw, he considers incredible. His praise is through the roof. He practically worships the very ground you walk on.

• As stated before Wesker can read you like an open book. So whenever you're scared, he's there to comfort you. Or if you're stressed, he's happy to draw you a warm bath.

• Maybe you're just tired? You know the kinda tired no amount of sleep can fix. Well he's there for you, holding you, letting you rest, and assuring you that he loves you.

• Despite how incredible he is, and how mush pride he has. Sometimes he can't help but feel a bit insecure at times. Are you afraid of his eyes? Of him perhaps? Will you grow bored of him and leave? Is he worthy of you?

• It's rare that these thoughts occur, let alone bother him. But sometimes late at night, while holding you in his arms, he can't help but wonder.

• He pushes those thoughts away, and the following morning you always manage to unknowingly, reassure him that he has nothing to worry about.

• Arguments with Wesker are pretty seldom. When it does happen, typically it's you hollering at him, and him sitting there silently waiting for you to calm down.

• He has raised his voice to you once, but it was brief, and he apologized almost immediately. The only reason he raised his voice, was because he was worried when you did something extremely reckless.

• Wesker is extremely patient, and understanding with you. He knows sometimes you're not quite yourself, whether it's because you're tired, you're hurting, or simply overwhelmed with something.

• If something is bothering you, but you don't want to talk about it. He'll quietly scoop you up into his arms, take you to bed or nearest couch, and simply lay down with you atop him. Petting your hair and simply letting you relax.

• He's seen you cry many times, and he's never once thought poorly of you for it. He knows you've been through a lot, and adapting to this new world isn't easy for you.

• You've seen him cry once. There was an accident while exploring the outside world, and Wesker thought he'd lost you, that he'd failed you, and you'd paid the ultimate price.

• Even as he looked up at you from his position on his knees, tears continued to roll silently down his pale cheeks. You were alive and well, but he was so close to losing you.

• You held him in your arms, and simply let him get it all out in silence. His strong frame, typically as unfazed as a brick wall, shaking as his heart wretched in his chest.

• He'd never known pain like that before, and he was grateful you didn't think any less of him for it. Hell it brought you both closer together, and strengthened your bond in ways he had never considered before.

• Wesker encourages every one of your hobbies, even if it's something he doesn't quite see the appeal of. It makes you happy, and that's good enough for him. He'll find you supplies whenever he leaves the bunker, and really anything he thinks you might like.

• The beginning of your relationship was odd. Before you started dating, Wesker would follow you around like a grumpy cat. Acting like you mean nothing to him, but always insisting on being near you.

• Actually there are a lot of reasons you could compare Wesker to a cat. And if you ever tell him that he denies it admittedly, all the while practically purring as you toy with his hair absentmindedly.

• He'll literally be staring at you without his sunglasses, and his slit pupils are now wide and round. And the moment his attention is drawn elsewhere they shift back into thin slits.

• Wesker has a secret sweet tooth, and again if he's called out on it, he'll deny it to hell and back. Even if he has a sweet in his hand, or even his mouth. You can't prove anything!

• Will definitely steal food from you just to tease you, a playful smile on his face the entire time. Actually he steals all sorts of stuff from you just to taunt you, and he absolutely loves it when you chase after him trying to get it back.

• Will he use his power to speed away? Possibly. But he honestly enjoys letting you think you can really catch him.

• Aka he enjoys playing cat and mouse, but you never know who's the cat, and who's the mouse until the cat gives chase.

• All in all he loves you with every fiber of his being, and he would follow you anywhere, and do anything for you. It doesn't matter what you might say or do at times, you are his everything.

NSFW

• Oh and before you ask, yes the cat and mouse play, is something that occurs in the bedroom. And again it varies on who's the cat and mouse depending on yours and his mood.

• Wesker enjoys all sorts of role playing. Acting like he's the STARS Captain, that needs to do whatever it takes to get you to confess to a crime. Being the good doctor who must cure your mysterious illness.

• And even acting as if the virus has altered his mind, and made him into a mindless sex crazed beast. He especially enjoys this one, because it plays into his breeding kink.

• This man wants to breed you so so bad. It's partly a side effect of the virus, but he's always had an interest in it long before he injected himself. Now with you as his love, he feels as if he needs to breed.

• Rough sex, slow sex, quickies, you name it he wants it. His sex drive is high now that you're together, but he is very patient if you don't want sex as much as him.

• Wesker is incredibly romantic, and he loves spoiling you. He's a giver through and through. So that being said if he could live the rest of his life, with his face buried between your thighs he would.

• Oral is a must anyhow. Wesker is big, he's well aware of this fact, and he doesn't want to hurt you. So he'll spend at least a half hour between your legs just prepping you.

• And boy does he know what he's doing. You often loose count of how many orgasms he pulls from you.

• From base to tip he is roughly 7.9 inches long, and 2.1 inches wide. The tip is very prominent, and he is surprisingly uncircumcised. His cock also leans a little to the left when hard.

• His cock is a pale as the rest of his body, but when he's hard the head gets very pink. He has two very prominent veins that feel absolutely divine.

• Wesker loves cockwarming so much, sometimes he insists on sleeping with his cock still buried in your heat. But his favorite time is when you're sitting together reading.

• He's such a tease when you're cockwarming. Giving the occasional thrust just to hear you whine needily. He will pump load after load into you, and keep you plugged up with his dick, even if you are sensitive.

• Aftercare King GOD! He will massage your sore muscles, clean you up, run you a soothing bath, bring you a snack and plenty of water or maybe some soothing tea. He'll whisper sweet nothing's into your ear, praise you, and remind you of how much he truly loves you.

• You just wanna cuddle afterwards? Perfect it'll give it time for his seed to work its way deeper. Want a bath or shower immediately after? That's okay too, he'll change the sheets while you do so, then join you once he's done.

• You can always tell when he's horny, not only by the way he'll paw at you, or the evident bulge in his pants. But also because his eyes glow exceptionally bright, and the slits of his eyes are wide.

• He sounds like a beast as he nuzzles into you, growling and purring as he tries to coax you into helping him out.

• That being said Wesker is very vocal. He moans, growls, purrs, and spews praise the entire time. He isn't super loud about it, as he prefers to have his face buried in your neck, but sometimes he will get a bit loud. Typically that's when he's really needy.

• When he's extra needy, he whimpers so much. It's so fucking hot when you get him all worked up like that. Making him weak and needy, whimpering and begging you for his release. It's divine, and makes you feel so very powerful.

• He loves loves loves making you loud as fuck. His goal is to make your voice horse by the time he's done. Especially if others might be around. He needs them to know who you belong to, and ensure no one is dumb enough to try anything.

• Wesker takes so much pleasure in fucking you dumb. And when you get cock drunk, he's so fucking proud. He will make an absolute mess out of you, and then praise you for being so good for him.

• There are very few things he isn't willing to try with you. He isn't willing to share you with anyone... With the exception of a clone of himself... He will fuck you roughly, but he doesn't take it to far considering his strength, and the amount of damage he can inflict with little effort.

• He does enjoy bondage, both for you and himself. And yeah he could break out of his binds very easily, but why would he, he's enjoying you taking control, and using him for your pleasure. His favorite technique of binding you is with a straitjacket, and it plays into some of his favorite role playing stories.

• Wesker will fuck you anywhere at any given time, seriously he has no shame, just ask and he is yours. That's not to say he won't kill anyone for interrupting or catching you. Your pussy is for his eyes only.

• While he loves pumping you full of his cum, he will never pass up an opportunity to cum on your tits. Especially if you beg for it so sweetly, I mean he loves fucking your tits anyhow. So if you want him to paint your breasts with his cum, who is he to deny you?

• But if you don't ask him to cover you in his cum, or cum in your mouth. Wesker is gonna stuff you with his cock and finish in your warm cunt. Even if he only gets the tip in before he starts to unload, as long as he's inside your heat he's satisfied.

• That isn't to say he won't make you eat his cum. His favorite way of doing that, is to cum inside your pussy, finger you until you cum, and make you suck on his sopping fingers. Sometimes with his gloves on, because he knows you love the leather.

• If you're together before being locked up in the bunker, Wesker is not above letting you suck his cock at his desk. In STARS or Umbrella, he is yours to do with as you please. And if he can return the favor while you're at work, he's more than happy to.

• Wesker also loves seeing you wearing his clothes so much, that it often gets him all hot and bothered, and he's on you real quick like.

• When you inevitably fall pregnant, Wesker is the first to know. He knows before you know. He could sense the changes to your body, and eventually he could hear the extra heartbeat.

• But he'll wait for you to figure it out, and come to him. And like a good lover, he'll act surprised by the news, because he knows it'll make you happy.

• He praises every change your body goes through, some of which he seriously adores. Like how your hips widen a bit, and your breasts swell with milk for the babe.

• He will pamper you 1,000% more than he already did, waking you up most days with his tongue buried in your sweet pussy. And when your breasts grow heavy and sore, he's there to relieve the pain.

• Lactation kink unlocked!

• Initially it started with him massaging your sore breasts, but as he watched milk bead from your tender nipple, he instinctively licked it clean.

• You moaned, he growled. And within seconds your nipple was in his hot greedy mouth. Wesker groaned at the taste of your milk, tweaking your other nipple until it began leaking.

• He played with the milk for a moment before swapping breasts. Back and forth he went until he was satisfied, and the pressure in your breasts had subsidied.

• He kissed you hungrily afterwards, letting you taste your own milk. Before kissing his way down your body until he reached your sex, eating you out as if he were starved.

• Wesker fucking loves pregnancy sex. He loves holding your swollen belly as he makes slow sensual love to you. He loves how extra responsive you are, and how extra sensitive your body is.

• He is very attentive and will help you in the shower or bath, and when your all cleaned up, he can't help himself and he will finger you to climax.

• And when it gets to hard to shave yourself, Wesker is happy to lend a helping hand. Which unsurprisingly ends with him licking your pussy.

• Forgot to mention it before, but Wesker enjoys eating pussy very messily. It's so obscene the sounds he makes as he licks and slurps at your sex, growling and moaning as he dose so.

• The sounds are so obscene you often find yourself blushing like crazy. Even though you tend to suck his cock all noisily as well, something he takes great pleasure in of course.

• Wesker loves having you ride his face, when you're pregnant and when you're not. Don't worry you can't hurt him, so grind away. He'll keep a firm unrelenting hold of your hips, so you don't gotta worry about falling or anything like that.

• Once your child is born, Wesker is eager to get you pregnant again, after you've healed up of course. Although if you would rather wait a while, he'll comply to your request.

• So he'll cum on your belly, on your tits, your butt, your back, or down your throat. Wherever you want really. But he will beg you to let him breed you again, eventually. He can't help it, he needs to breed you.

• If you downright refuse, then he's gonna get you into anal if you aren't already. So he can atleast cum in your ass if you won't let him cum in your pussy anymore. But again he will still try to convince you at some point to let him cum in your pussy again.

• He needs it, don't be mean.

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Movie Wesker is a dreamboat okay! I freaking love Shawn Roberts, and he looked so good as Wesker.

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happy74827 · 7 months ago

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Conflicted, Yet Certain

[Albert Wesker x Agent!Female!Reader]

Synopsis: Tension rises when you refuse to do what Wesker orders. The result? Well, it's nothing short of explosive {GIF Creds: @monsieurphantom}.

WC: 2611

Category: Spice/Lime, Insane Amount of Sexual Tension {TW: Choking, Slamming into Trees (lmao), Wesker being a lil bitch}.

I’m going to be so real with all of you rn. I’m not a complete stranger to Resident Evil; I know some things (most all relating to Leon and Ethan 😏), but in terms of Wesker… yeah, I dunno THAT much. I did lots and lots of Google research solely because I discovered him through an edit (I’m also aware of the Separate Ways DLC, too, don’t worry), and he’s cool asf. So, bada boom, this oneshot was born.

And I don’t want to toot my own horn, but I think I pretty much nailed him. Personality-wise, that is. And @yoursacredqueenmother, don’t you come for me. You knew this was going to happen.

So, with that out of the way, enjoy this fic that I spent way too much time on :)

『••✎••』

It was like a gush of wind. One minute, you were staring into the dark abyss of his shades, free to move, and the next, you were against a tree with a firm hand gripping your neck. No matter how many times you were reminded of his inhuman strength, it always caught you off guard.

"I asked you a question,"

Wesker was standing so close that your bodies were almost touching, his grip tightening every second that passed without a response. His free hand moved from his side to rest on the knife on his hip. Your eyes moved down to the weapon, and he let out a low, almost guttural, chuckle.

"What, are you afraid?"

He pressed the blade against your cheek. The cold steel made your skin burn, and you winced as it cut into your skin. He held it there, watching you struggle. You didn’t try to push him away or escape the pain, but you didn’t give him the answer he was looking for, either.

You looked up at him stiffly and gave him a look that was equal parts hate and disgust. He was always playing these games, pushing you, taunting you, testing you. You knew he wanted you to react, to show him that he had any effect on you.

He removed the knife from your face, and you exhaled a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Wesker didn't remove his hand from your neck, though. Instead, he ran his glove-covered fingers across your cheek, wiping away the blood from the small cut he caused.

"I expected better of you," He paused, and you felt his nails dig into your skin, "And, more importantly, I expected my orders to be followed."

Your heart skipped a beat as you heard the unspoken threat in his words. You couldn’t stop the shudder that went through your body, and the scariest thing about the whole situation was that you weren’t sure if it was fear or arousal.

His grip on your neck loosened, and you relaxed, letting your head fall forward slightly. You knew that, at this point, Wesker was just waiting for an answer, and you had nothing left to lose by giving it to him.

"I won't do it."

"Excuse me?"

He tightened his grip on your neck and lifted your head up to look him in the eye. Your heart raced, and you could feel the adrenaline pumping through your veins.

"I won't do it. You can't make me."

Wesker scoffed and took a step back, letting go of you completely. You took a deep breath and watched him intently, waiting for him to strike again.

He didn’t, surprisingly. He just stood there, looking at you. It was a real pain how he could see right through you, and all you had were his damn glasses.

"You can't make me," You repeated. It was shocking how much confidence you had in that statement, especially given that Wesker could break you in half if he wanted to, but despite everything, you were defiant.

He tilted his head, his lips curved into a smirk. His posture was casual, and, while you were still tense, his attitude was the complete opposite of what it was a few minutes ago.

"I think you'll find that I can."

There was no trace of the threatening, sadistic man you were so used to dealing with. Instead, he was calm, almost charming, but it didn't change the fact that you didn't trust him for a second.

He took a step towards you and then another. Before you could move, his hand was on the back of your neck, pulling you closer.

"You will do as I say because if you don't," He paused and leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear. "Chris will be the one who has to deal with your mistakes."

It was a low blow, and, as much as you wanted to tell him to go fuck himself, you knew he was right. There was no way you were going to put Chris in any kind of danger. Not now. Not ever.

Wesker chuckled. The sound was dark and full of amusement. He was enjoying the power he had over you, and you hated it.

"You'll do what I say, won't you?"

You didn't reply, but it didn't matter. You were both aware that he was right. He knew that, no matter what, you would follow his orders. He knew that if it came down to it, you would give up everything for the sake of protecting Chris.

You felt Wesker's hands loosen, and he stepped away, putting some distance between the two of you. He seemed pleased with your decision, his smirk growing wider as he watched you.

"Now, go and prove yourself useful, my dear," Wesker commanded, the amusement gone from his voice.

He turned his back to you and began to walk away, but you couldn’t leave it like that. You couldn't just stand there and watch him leave.

You rushed forward and grabbed his arm, an act that he fully expected and allowed but not one that was welcome. He spun around and grabbed your wrist, twisting it painfully. If he weren’t so precise in his movements, he would have broken it.

You didn’t bother tugging or fighting his grip. You just stood there and stared up at him, waiting for him to say something.

He didn't. Instead, he just looked down at you. It was a different kind of stare. Not one that was filled with amusement or anger but curiosity. He was curious about what you were doing. He was curious about what kind of game you were trying to play.

"I'm not afraid of you."

Wesker raised an eyebrow. You could almost hear the sarcasm in his voice when he spoke.

"Oh, I'm well aware."

He released your wrist, his touch lingering longer than necessary. You flexed your fingers and rubbed at the spot where he grabbed you, trying to ease the ache.

You weren't afraid of him, but that didn't mean that you weren't intimidated by him. It didn't mean that you weren't cautious. After all, he was stronger and faster than you, and his control was unmatched.

"Why don't you go run along to Redfield now, Agent," Wesker said, his tone almost teasing, "I'm sure he'll be delighted to hear of your obedience."

You didn't wait around to listen to any more of his taunts. Something took over, something that made you do something really, really stupid.

You walked straight up to him, no words spoken, no thoughts shared, just pure, unadulterated instinct. Inches away from him, you pushed yourself up onto the tips of your toes and smacked your palm against his cheek.

His head snapped to the side, his eyes most likely wide, and his mouth slightly parted. The slap didn't hurt, or at least, it didn't affect him physically, but it was enough to shock him. He didn't expect that.

He turned his gaze back to you, his jaw clenching and his fists balled up. His shoulders tensed, and you could see the annoyance written all over his face.

"Do it again."

Stern and cold, his voice was low and full of warning. A part of you told you to walk away, to get out of there while you still had the chance, but the other part of you refused.

Your hands trembled slightly, but you didn't back down. You’ve been holding it in for so long, so agonizingly long, and this was your chance to do something, to let go, even if it was just for a second.

For once, you didn't care about the consequences, or the punishment, or the fact that, at that moment, Wesker could very well kill you.

You slapped him again. Tried to, anyway. He was too fast, and before your hand could reach his face, he grabbed your wrist again. He pulled you forward, twisting your arm behind your back, and held you against him.

His other hand was on the back of your head, forcing it up so that you were looking him straight in the eyes. Except, again, you couldn’t. Not with those fucking sunglasses in the way.

He leaned down, his lips only a few inches from yours. You could feel his breath on your skin, warm and heavy, and it sent a shiver down your spine.

"Do it."

This time, there was no malice or mockery in his voice. No, he wasn't telling you to hit him. He was giving you permission.

Your heart was racing, and your legs felt weak. It was so much, and you weren't sure how much more you could take. You hated him, God, did you hate him.

But, at the same time, there was something about him that drew you in. Something that made your pulse quicken, and your stomach churn. Something that made your head spin and your palms sweat. Something that made you want him, even if you didn't want to admit it.

And, as much as you hated him, as much as you loathed him, you couldn't help but want him.

He was a monster. He was evil. He was everything you had spent years fighting against, but there was no denying the attraction you felt towards him.

The heat of his body was overwhelming, and the smell of him, a mix of leather and gunpowder, was intoxicating. His grip on your hair tightened, forcing you closer, and you were sure he could hear the way your breathing hitched.

"Come on, dear," He taunted, that mocking, sinister tone back in his voice, "Don’t tell me you're losing your nerve."

That was it. That was all it took. You didn’t know what came over you, but suddenly, your hand was on the back of his neck, and you were crashing your lips against his.

It was messy and rough, and there was so much anger, hate, and lust behind it. Wesker returned the kiss, his lips moving against yours, and he let go of your hair and the arm he had pinned behind your back.

His hands moved to your waist, gripping tightly, and you grabbed a fistful of his hair. He let out a low growl deep in his throat and pushed you backward.

The next thing you knew, your back was once again thrown against the nearest tree. It wasn’t as painful this time, mostly due to the adrenaline coursing through your veins and Wesker taking the initiative to move his arm to the back of your neck to soften the impact.

The bark was rough against your skin, and the scent of pine was strong, but none of it mattered. Not with the way his hands found your thighs, lifting them up to wrap around his waist.

Not with the way his teeth bit and nipped at your bottom lip, drawing blood. Not with the way his tongue soothed the wounds, tasting the coppery fluid.

Not with the way his hips rolled against yours, drawing out a moan from the back of your throat.

Wesker pulled away and trailed kisses along your jaw, moving to the side of your neck. You gasped and bucked your hips as his teeth scraped against the sensitive flesh.

He chuckled, the vibration of his voice against your skin making your head spin, and moved his hand from the back of your neck to hold the sides of your face.

He was so close. You could feel the heat radiating off of him, the warmth of his body contrasting the cool air around you.

You wanted to reach up and rip those fucking sunglasses off his face to finally see what was hidden behind them. You wanted to look him in the eyes, to see what kind of expression was on his face.

You wanted to know if he felt the same way you did, the same fire, the same desire.

You wanted to know if he hated you as much as you hated him.

Instead, you ran your fingers through his hair, grabbing and tugging at it, causing him to growl against your neck. His lips were still on your skin, sucking and biting at the delicate flesh, and his hands were exploring every inch of you.

His hands roamed, and you closed your eyes, savoring the sensation of his touch. Your head was clouded with desire, and you could barely focus.

It was all happening so fast. Too fast. Your body was on fire, and, for a moment, you forgot who you were with and what he had done. You forgot the pain and the suffering and the lives that had been lost.

You forgot it all, and, just for a moment, it felt good. It felt right. It felt like you were meant to be together in every way.

Wesker was no fool, and he certainly didn't miss the change in your breathing or the way your muscles relaxed under his touch. He could hear your heartbeat, the rhythmic thumping growing quicker and louder as his hands moved lower, and he could smell the scent of arousal in the air.

He pulled away and looked down at you, the corner of his lips twisted into a smug smirk. He could see the look in your eyes, the haze that was covering them. He could feel the heat of your skin and the way it prickled under his touch.

He knew what you were thinking and what you were feeling, and he could use it to his advantage.

"So, this is how to get through to you," He mused, his voice low and teasing, "Interesting."

And just like that, reality set back in.

Your eyes snapped open, and, as if you were being electrocuted, your body went rigid. Wesker took a step back and released you from his grasp, watching intently as you fell to the ground.

Your body was numb, and your head was spinning. You couldn't move, couldn't speak. You were frozen, unable to do anything but watch him.

"Well, well," He started, his eyes never leaving you, "Perhaps I was wrong about you."

He took another step back, putting more distance between the two of you. You looked up at him, your breath coming out in short, ragged gasps.

He tilted his head, his face showing a mixture of amusement and annoyance, and took another step back.

"Send my regards to Chris, won't you?"

Then, he was gone. Just like that, he disappeared, and you were left alone in the woods, struggling to understand what had just happened.

What had you done?

You didn't know, and, to be honest, you weren't sure you wanted to. All you knew was that you had fucked up big time.

You had let your guard down and shown him a weakness. You had given him the perfect opportunity to use you, and use you he did.

You stood there, your mind racing and your body aching. Your legs were weak, and your heart was pounding, and it took a while for your breathing to return to normal.

Goddamn it, what had you done?!

The question haunted you, and it continued to haunt you as you stumbled back towards the main street, where your car was parked.

You were completely and utterly fucked, and you had nobody to blame but yourself.

You got into your car and turned the ignition, the engine rumbling to life. You shifted into drive and pulled away; the only thing on your mind was how badly you needed a drink.

Or two.

Or three.

Damn it… What the hell had you done?

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maekendia · 2 years ago

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how would wesker, leon, luis react if they saw the reader wearing a mini skirt or a low-cut outfit?

headcanon pls 🥺🥺

love you

i love you too! hope you enjoy. :)

~ 18+ MINORS DNI ~

Leon

Leon gets so nervous anytime you wear anything revealing.

LITERALLY STARING.

You tease him so much, bending over and adjusting your top.

“Please, come here.”

He makes you sit on his lap.

He whines every time you shift slightly.

Eventually he gets tired of your teasing.

He makes you ride him with the skirt still on.

Wesker

“Who are you wearing that for? Huh?”

Undressing you with his eyes.

He pulls your skirt up to look under.

“No panties? slut.”

He picks you up and practically throws you onto the bed.

As soon as you hit the bed he’s immediately undressing you.

“You’re gonna be a good little slut for me.”

Luis

“Espléndida”

He smiles so wide.

He literally cannot stop looking at you.

Practically drooling.

He kisses you all over telling you how gorgeous you look.

Him worshipping your body.

The skirt doesn’t stay on for long.

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forthevillains · 8 months ago

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Albert Wesker headcanons (pt.2)

!NSFW! (fem. reader)

~ Wesker is definitely dominant, especially when it comes to sex. He’s been like that ever since he lost virginity. Even then, when he was inexperienced, he knew for sure what he was doing and would insist on being on top

~ when you two started dating though, he already had perhaps too much experience… To say the least, he’s a very kinky man, often difficult to please, though it changed when he met you

~ considering how rough he can get, if he cared for you and planned on having a long term relationship, he’d offer you a safe word in case he gets carried away

~ he likes your voice, a lot. When you moan due to his actions, it turns him on even more than he already was and he craves your pleasure, maybe even more than you do yourself

~ he often makes you come on his fingers, loving how you cry out when that happens, begging him to stop, only for his movements to fasten, making your legs tremble and head dizzy, you have no other choice than to let him. He knows you like it and he wants to keep going until you physically can’t anymore;)

~ even though he’s trying to be gentle with you, he gets very rough in bed if you let him. He has no problem gripping your flesh tight enough to bruise, biting your skin as well. Sometimes he gets carried away and makes you bleed, but once he realizes he’ll shower the spot with gentle kisses as an apology (though he’s still gonna do it again)

~ if there’s one thing Wesker can’t resist it’s buying you expensive and erotically revealing lingerie. He prefers to fingerfuck you in it so that he can keep your soaked panties as a reward

~ as much as he loves receiving, he’s actually very good at giving too. He loves going down on you, even though he mostly does it when he’s too tired for anything else or when you’ve been very good to him. He adores the faces you make, how you throw your head back, how your shaky hands slide in his hair only to desperately pull him closer. He’d hold onto your hip with one hand while he’d have two fingers buried deep inside you as he pleasures you with his tongue. It’s also his favorite way to overstimulate you as he can always grip your thighs so that you can’t squirm away

~ quickies are a necessity. No matter how crazy he’s going from the fact that he doesn’t have enough time for you, he just has to release all the tension and stress and if you’re around and up for it - he won’t waste the opportunity. His office is the best place for them. He wouldn’t want anyone else seeing his precious little angel in such a state of bliss

~ you’ve been rarely given the opportunity to be on top, however when you have… Oh did he enjoy it. He might’ve let you be on top, but little did you know how much he’d put you through in return. If you’re shy, it’s even better for him. He’d keep his hands off of you, ordering you to ride him as he makes you look at him. If you dared dodge him in any way, he’d just forcefully turn your head to look back at him. He’d watch you, how your cheeks turned red from embarrassment and how you helplessly tried to bounce on his thick length, a moan slipping from your mouth every single time you did it, teary eyes from the overwhelming sensation. You felt ashamed of yourself, but it felt too good to stop… Of course he’d only torture you like that until he’s had enough. Then he’d grab your hips to keep you still and pound into you hard enough to make you see stars

~ he doesn’t own toys as he thinks they’re useless. He can make you feel all types of ways on his own. Though he does like to tie you up so that he can have his way with you and push your limits. He likes to see you try and get away, knowing he can do anything he wants to you

~ his favorite position would still be missionary. Call it old school, but it’s the best way for him to keep everything under control. He watches the slightest expressions of yours when he fucks you like that, holding you close to him, giving you the slightest of comfort while he abuses your tight hole to the point when you’re probably not gonna be able to walk for hours. If you’ve grown used to his size, he might just take one of your legs and push your knee to your chest to get even deeper. He’s not gonna let go until he’s satisfied

~ he’s a quick learner. He knows exactly what to do and where to touch you to make you melt, whether it is intimate or not

~ to be fair I feel like he’s a boobie guy. Doesn’t matter how big they are, he just loves them. He loves to kiss them, suck on them, hold them, even just look at them. He loves it and he definitely stares when you’re changing in front of him

~ definitely not a condom user. He either cums inside or on you. Though he surely prefers to release inside as he does have a breeding kink;)

~ he would love to watch his seed spill from your hole only to push it back in with his fingers every single time. He finds it very amusing

~ if you decide to blow him off on your own, he’ll absolutely melt. He might be the one in charge at all times, but the way you suck him off so good always catches him off guard. Maybe it’s not even your skill but you in general, yet he couldn’t care less. He loves how you look up at him when you do so, how you teasingly swirl your tongue around him. He can’t get enough and trust me when I say he could watch you like that forever

#albert wesker #albert wesker x reader #resident evil #resident evil wesker #wesker x reader #wesker x you #oneshot #headcanons #re smut #smut #resident evil headcanons

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mandalhoerian · 2 months ago

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⸺ albert wesker x reader, 10K

⸺ cosmic (lovrcraftian) horror, body horror, fate worse than death

⸺ summary: You’ve devoted everything to Wesker, following him through rituals that defy human comprehension. But in the pursuit of godhood, loyalty is both a gift and a curse, and every bond must be severed.

⸺ back to bloody endings.

⸺ read on ao3

taglist: @uhlunaro @wxwieeee @ann1-the-s1mp @withonly-sweetheart @esterphobic

@justb3333 @ada-wong-lover @nyctophiliagnes @kiyokoume @lightning-hawke

@cherriesnfangs @byexbyez @sodoswitchimage @sparrowguardian

On that day when Umbrella burned and civilization crumbled, you first laid eyes on a god incarnate.

Albert.

It was an ordinary name, but that alone made it special. For how can something so utterly common possess such depth? In the darkness you often pondered the shape of it, allowed it to fill your thoughts until it became something larger than language, until your awareness subsumed everything. It saturated every aspect of existence, expanding from its mundane syllables to imbue your being with meaning. You thought of nothing else in the shadows of midnight when you felt empty, because for all its mundanity Albert was everything. He defined life itself by granting it purpose. With each breath, each heartbeat, you found yourself devoted. And if Albert granted your life purpose, surely his would surpass the pitiable fragility of human nature and rise above time, space, mortality; indeed, Albert himself was not truly human at all. No—his ambitions were too grand to be contained by fragile flesh. In many ways, his devotion was so like yours. If anything could come close to deserving a name like Albert... surely it must be god.

The ritual chamber is drenched in deep red light from rows of candles embedded within narrow stone alcoves. The glow shifts and sways, pulling shadows into warped patterns over the walls, casting twisted shapes that stretch and contract in eerie rhythms. Candles flicker in clusters, their flames casting just enough light to reveal the carvings beneath your hands—sharp, jagged symbols that slice into your palms as you press against the stone floor. Thin lines of red mark the impressions, but you hold your position, palms pressed to each groove, feeling each cut with reverence. This pain is small—a gift offered freely for the right to be here.

Ahead, Wesker’s form stands untouched by shadow, a stillness radiating from him that reaches you in waves. The folds of his coat, black and pristine, brush against the tops of his boots as he stands before you, back straight, arms folded. His eyes, catching the red glow, look down on you, dark and resolute, fixed on your every move. He lifts his hand, slowly, each finger curling into a shape you recognize well. The order to begin.

You lower yourself further, bowing until your forehead touches the stone. Cold presses against your skin, sending a faint shiver along your spine, but your hands remain steady, fingers splayed across the grooves. The candlelight dips lower, casting a faint sheen across the ink now pooling beneath you. Dark and viscous, the ink trickles in quiet streams from the carvings, winding through the grooves and gathering around your fingers, warm to the touch. The substance clings, seeping between each finger, marking the creases in your skin as you press down, feeling it grow thick along your palms, sinking into your flesh.

Wesker’s shadow drapes over you, expanding across the stone, a presence that fills the space around you, pulling your body into alignment with his. His hand, still held out in front of him, catches a flicker of the candlelight—a gleam of red against leather. Every movement he makes is defined, contained, yet with a force that radiates through the stillness of the room, a silent command filling every gap between you. The scent of heated wax and something sharp, metallic, fills your senses as the ink rises, surrounding you, each tendril of it curling upward as if summoned.

You straighten slowly, the ink trailing over your fingers, still clinging to your skin. As you pull back, it stretches, a string of darkness that breaks and falls in drops, scattering across the stone in tiny, inky splashes. You extend your hands before you, palms upward, revealing the intricate black stains the ink has left behind—markings that follow the lines of your skin in delicate, webbed patterns. The dark traces of ink snake up to your wrists, each line distinct, weaving itself into the very texture of your skin.

Wesker steps forward, his gaze fixed on your upturned hands, his shadow falling over you fully now, blocking out the faint flickers of candlelight. His gloved hand lowers, fingers skimming along the edge of your jaw, a touch so precise you hold yourself perfectly still, allowing him to guide your face upward. The pressure of his fingers against your skin is neither warm nor cold, a steady contact that grounds you in place, keeping you bound to the ritual unfolding in the space between you. His thumb brushes over your chin, lifting your head to meet his gaze fully.

Your eyes meet his, and the weight of his presence fills the hollow silence. He draws back slightly, observing you, the dark lines of ink creeping up your arms an affirmation to the bond shared in this ritual. He extends his hand, fingers splaying outward as he gestures toward the center of the chamber, and you understand immediately, your body responding to the command with an almost instinctual obedience. You shift forward, your knees pressing further into the stone, ignoring the bruising ache that spreads through your legs.

As you lean into the center of the carvings, the ink responds, gathering itself, inching along the floor until it coils around your ankles, locking you in place. It rises, twisting in smooth, spiraling patterns that wind up over your knees, higher along your thighs, binding you within its dark embrace. Each loop, each coil, settles against your skin, firm yet pliant, shifting with your movements as if it’s both alive and sentient.

You begin the incantation, the words resonating from deep within your chest, each syllable thick on your tongue, a sound that fills the chamber with a steady rhythm that aligns with the pulsing ink. Your mouth shapes the words with certainty, lips forming around each sound, every syllable flowing into the next in an unbroken stream. The ink pulses with each word, tightening against your skin, a slow, relentless pressure that slides up over your arms, encircling your wrists, holding you in place as the ritual continues.

Wesker is circling you now in a slow pace, his gaze sharp, his attention unwavering, watching as the ink spreads further, its tendrils tracing your skin in delicate, branching lines. The ink marks reach the base of your throat, curling upward in slender threads, pressing just beneath your jaw. You feel it there, a constant pressure that grows, filling every corner of your awareness, rooting you within the center of the ritual, binding you in ways that go beyond flesh and bone.

As your final words leave your lips, the ink pulls tighter, digging into your skin with a fierce, relentless grip. It winds itself into every crevice, a solid, consuming presence that leaves no part untouched. The silence falls over you both as Wesker’s hand rises, his fingers brushing over your shoulder, trailing downward along the line of your collarbone, tracing the ink-stained skin with a precision that stills every muscle in your body. His fingers linger, pressing just enough to feel the pulse beneath, the faint tremor of your heartbeat, before he withdraws, leaving only the ink and the mark it has carved into your skin.

Wesker steps back, his gaze flicking over you, his eyes narrowed, a faint glint reflecting in the dim light, a flicker of something you cannot read. He turns, the faintest shift of his coat stirring the ink-stained air as he leaves you kneeling in silence, bound to the dark, lingering presence that fills the space, etched into the stone, etched into your very flesh.

After the ceremony, you encounter Wesker outside the city limits where abandoned buildings rose from the concrete underbrush, long shadows stretching into the horizon with no sign of ending. Ripped power cords slither over cracked pavement while tangled wires looped around broken street lamps in coils that sway gently in the breeze. Empty storefronts gape open like ragged maws, the doors thrown aside and discarded to be swallowed by the ever-expanding spread of destruction.

Nature, impatient and hungry, was already claiming pieces of the city for its own; green sprout from windowsills, growing in bursts of color along brick façades and decayed facsimiles of humanity. Somewhere overhead, amid the high rise maze of derelict apartments, birds take flight, their wings beating against the gray haze of smoke and cloud. You watch them drift past, the sight drawing out something strange inside you—something raw and primal, an ache so sharp it drove deeper than mere nostalgia. It cuts through your senses, pulling at memories buried beneath a layer of filth and pain. You remember then that once, very long ago, this same sky had been free.

Behind you, footsteps click steadily along the sidewalk, their pace brisk and steady as Wesker approaches, pausing to stand beside you, hands loosely clasped behind his back. His sunglasses shield his eyes, but you could see enough to know what drew his attention. You glance down, staring blankly at the gun you held loosely in one hand, feeling the familiarity of its metal body as if it was an extension of your being. An instrument of violence, certainly, but also an old friend—for though death surrounded you everywhere it was, oddly enough, also the thing closest to salvation you had ever known. A way out, perhaps not for others, but for you it would do the trick. It always did.

A bird swoops low overhead, and Wesker follows its path with a faint tilt of his chin. You wonder what he sees when he looks upon the world he created, whether it still possesses some fragment of potential or has merely slipped beyond repair.

"We have done well here," he says, letting his gaze linger on the street. "Our research will soon make progress beyond our wildest dreams."

His words stir something within you then, a sense of yearning that blazes to life beneath your breastbone. Hope. Pure, singular hope, white hot in its intensity. Here, finally, someone who sees things the way you did—a man who understands how desperately humanity needs help. He means to save them all, and it's beautiful—like looking into the heart of fire and seeing what lay beneath its infernal strength. All those years spent following him are finally reaching fulfillment, and though you have no doubt your days are numbered, there's also certainty in knowing he would never let you die needlessly. The day must come when your sacrifice would mean something more. Until then...

You leave the chamber behind, the echo of yet another ritual clinging to your skin, the quiet halls stretching before you, illuminated by sparse pools of light, their faint glow hardly penetrating the shadows that cling to the walls. As you walk, your fingers trace along the stone, grounding yourself in the familiar chill, rough edges giving texture to the silence around you.

Yet tonight, the silence feels different. You catch your reflection in a wall mirror as you pass, the faintest distortion rippling across the glass. Your reflection stands, shadowed and hollow-eyed, lingering even as you move forward, clinging to the glass with an unnatural stillness. You blink, hard, and the image snaps back, settling into place—a tired face, dark marks beneath your eyes, but unmistakably yours.

The silence deepens as you turn into another corridor, the faint shuffle of your footsteps swallowed by the darkness around you. The candlelight dances unevenly, shadows trembling as if disturbed by something unseen. And there, at the edge of your vision, you see a form—tall, unmoving, half-bathed in shadow.

“Wesker?” you call out, and somehow feel it swallowed up like you're in some sort of space where sound doesn't travel.

The figure doesn’t respond, standing still, watching from the end of the hallway. His form is cast in an odd way, a stretching shadow that feels elongated, limbs and torso reaching further than they should. You step forward, closer, and the form pulls back, slipping into the corner of the hall, merging with the darkness as if it had never been there at all.

“Is there something you need from me?” you say, half-expecting him to emerge from the shadow, to appear in that calm, controlled way he always does. But there is only the silence, waiting, thick in the space left behind.

You swallow, moving down the corridor, cautious, as though treading on something fragile. The flickering light trembles across your path, bending and shifting, leaving the walls in uneven, unpredictable darkness. The shadows have a strange fluidity to them, moving at the edge of your sight, lingering just beyond reach, settling back upon being perceived, as if denying their own movement.

Finally, you reach the end of the hall, pausing as you glance into the light spilling from another room. Wesker is there, his silhouette unmistakable as he paces along a row of shelves, gloved hands brushing over a few select items. A faint scrape echoes from his touch, the leather of his gloves catching on metal as he lifts a small, silver vial to examine it. His gaze sweeps over it with a sharp, meticulous focus, and then he sets it back, turning just enough to notice your presence in the doorway.

“Are you lost?” he asks, and though his words lack warmth, there’s a spark in his gaze, an almost cruelly amused curiosity as he watches you stand in the threshold.

“I thought… I saw you in the corridor,” you reply, the words tumbling out, searching for reassurance in the familiarity of his face. “But it couldn’t have been you. You were—”

He lifts a brow, head tilting just slightly as he considers you. It's the answer you need.

“It must be the light,” you murmur, though the explanation sits uneasily in your mind. You glance away, focusing on the objects arranged on the shelves, each one meticulously placed, pristine, unblemished, bearing Wesker’s unmistakable precision. There’s a sense of order to everything he touches, a stillness that seems to seep into each item he claims.

He steps closer, his figure moving through the narrow strip of light as he approaches, standing just an arm’s length away, observing you with an intensity that almost mirrors the shadows in the hallway—those elongated shapes that had refused to settle, the impossible contours stretching beyond sense.

His words seem casual, though his eyes never leave yours, his attention narrowing onto each shift of your gaze. “The rituals can take a toll on the mind. Rest is essential if you’re to continue assisting me.”

You nod, though the tension that has settled into your shoulders remains. “Yes, I understand."

A faint curve pulls at the corner of his mouth, something between approval and amusement. “Weakness is a symptom of the unprepared."

The words sting, though there’s no malice in his tone. Only truth, cool and exacting, cutting through the uncertainty lingering in your mind. You shift your weight, looking back to the mirror along the wall, half-expecting to see that same warped image staring back. Instead, it’s empty, its surface calm and unmoving, reflecting only the dim room behind you.

Wesker continues, folding his hands behind his back, the smooth line of his coat catching the light as he turns his head, as if considering your thoughts with the same scrutiny he affords to his own pursuits. “I would hope the strain isn’t interfering with your work.”

“No, of course not,” you reply quickly, refocusing, straightening as you pull yourself into composure. “It’s only that the shadows seemed… alive today. And in the mirror, I saw—”

He raises a gloved hand, and the words halt on your lips, suspended in the stillness between you, the faintest shift of fabric audible as he closes the space to where you're looking. “The mirror?” he repeats, his eyes narrowing, the sharp edge of his question cutting through whatever fog had settled around you.

“Yes,” you murmur, glancing back at it. “I thought I saw… something strange.”

“Reflections can be misleading.” His hand lowers, and he turns back to the shelves, his movements smooth, as though the interruption had not rattled him at all. He continues speaking, his words carrying a subtle quiet. “Our minds tend to create what it cannot explain. It’s a matter of perception.”

You watch him move, the way his form shifts in the candlelight, his shadow cast along the wall—a dark outline that stretches, reaching further than his frame, bending into shapes that seem almost unnatural. There’s a flicker there, a small distortion at the edges of his shadow, as though it exists with a will of its own. It holds, lingering even as he steps away, a delayed echo of his figure before it finally fades.

Wesker’s attention returns to you, assessing, the faintest trace of interest sparking in his eyes. “Perception can be a powerful thing. I suggest you train yours to see beyond the explanations your mind tries to make.”

You nod, though the shadows still cling to the edges of your vision, drifting along the corners like threads woven from darkness itself. “Understood."

He steps closer again, his fingers reaching toward your shoulder, resting there with a firmness that brings you back into the present, anchoring you in his touch. “Good. We will need that focus. And I will expect nothing less.”

His hand lingers, just for a moment, before he pulls away, turning back to the shelves, his focus once more on the items arranged before him. You watch as he goes around, confident, fluid, his form melding seamlessly with the shadows that cling to his figure, as if they are drawn to him, woven into his very presence.

You absentmindedly nod, though unease stirs beneath the surface, a quiet disquiet as the shadows at the edge of your vision linger, watching, waiting. The reflection in the mirror stays still, but there’s a small shift—a imperceptible change you can’t define. And as you turn to follow Wesker, you feel it there, pressing against the edges of reality, whispering truths you cannot grasp.

When the dreams begin, you feel yourself drifting away into another realm.

As you drift to sleep, there is an emptiness there, deep and infinite, pulling you down. Somewhere, somewhere far beyond imagining, a sound stirs, the faintest vibration resounding through the nothingness, an echo that comes from nowhere and everything at once. It pulls at the edges of the abyss, a chasm without end, until its resonance shakes the void itself. From somewhere along the distant rim, something pushes back, and slowly, it begins to solidify, taking shape. And then, bit by bit, a ripple of noise takes hold, rolling across the bottomless pit, building with a steady pulse of sound. A drumbeat. Unmistakable now. One beat, two beats. One. Two. Shaking the very core, gathering strength and depth. The beat surges, stronger now, expanding, stretching into the depths until it encompasses them fully, filling every crack in the nothingness, until at last, it echoes from everywhere at once. An endless rhythm. The sound of creation. The beginning of everything.

You dream of stars—of colors too bright, so vivid you can almost taste them, like nectar. Of pure energy, undiluted power, coursing through you—pulsing beneath your skin, making it crawl, thrumming inside you, driving you deeper into this place of pure light. A universe full of life bursting forth from nothingness, an explosion that burns hotter than any sun, white-hot and scalding. When you look around, there is only brilliance, and something else. Shadows, draping themselves over the blinding light, bending around its edges—pulling the very brightness from within it as if trying to suck the life out. The darkness moves, inky black and oozing like oil, spreading throughout the universe—coiling over it until all you see is shadows, stretching farther than any horizon. Stretching for eons, ever-changing, evolving, crawling through time until at last it settles. Into the great expanse where once there was light, a perfect dome of blackness hanging over an endless sea. At the center, a planet. Small, but vibrant with potential. There, teeming with new life, countless possibilities waiting to be discovered. A chance for rebirth. So close you could almost touch it, feel the heat of its suns burning into your skin. And for a moment, there is peace.

Then chaos. Death. Destruction. Blinding light erupts from the core of the planet, obliterating everything. There's an eruption. A single point that breaks apart—and expands outward like a supernova. White hot fragments shattering off in all directions, ripping apart worlds and galaxies and universes. Splitting into particles so fine they disappear even as they rip through space itself, disintegrating reality to nothingness. Nothing. No. More. Than. What. Is. Left...

Then...you wake. In bed, sweating profusely, sheets tangled around your feet, sticky and wet with ink. It pools around you like blood, seeping into the mattress and staining your skin. This is when the fear sets in, sending cold waves up your spine, crawling over every inch of you until you can't bear it anymore. Can't breathe...can barely move. Not even a scream escaping your throat, not even the smallest moan. Just terror, so intense it tears right through you. Like you're falling into some dark, bottomless pit and no one will ever hear you again. Not even God Himself.

The days blend together, passing in a quiet rhythm of rituals, tasks, and endless hours spent in his presence, though his focus rarely turns to you now. Wesker’s pace quickens with each passing day, his steps more determined, his gaze fixed on something beyond the reach of anyone else in his command. He spends long hours in his study, hunched over tomes thick with foreign symbols, his fingers gliding across pages lined with faded ink. Dark diagrams, arcane instructions, and symbols twist across each sheet, his eyes tracing each detail with a hunger you have only glimpsed before.

You approach one evening, a tray of tea balanced between your hands, the clink of porcelain softly breaking the silence as you enter. His back is to you, shoulders rigid beneath his coat, but his focus remains on the table before him. He leans forward, studying a dark, twisting symbol he’s drawn across a sheet of paper, its lines spiraling inward, pulling the eye deeper with each turn.

“Wesker,” you begin, setting the tray on the edge of the table. He doesn’t turn, his attention locked on the symbol, his gloved fingers tracing its curves. You clear your throat, the words feeling stiff in your mouth. “You requested this earlier.”

There’s no response, only the faint scratch of his pen as he adds another line, completing the symbol with a flourish. You shift, fingers clasping in front of you, waiting. Silence stretches, pressing between you, until he finally speaks, his voice low, as if talking to himself more than to you.

“What do you think is the purpose of sacrifice?” He asks the question without looking up, his fingers still hovering above the parchment.

“I… I suppose it’s to achieve something greater,” you answer, unsure of his intent, your words carefully chosen.

“To rise beyond the boundaries of this existence, one must shed attachments,” he replies, pushing the paper aside, still refusing to look at you. His posture straightens, a hint of frustration in his tone, as if annoyed by such simplicity. As if longing for something deeper, more profound than mere attachment. “It’s not enough to wish for power. Power requires devotion… and loss.”

Loss. A word you can't associate with him. He's ruthless, uncompromising, but never reckless—always focused on what lies ahead of him. And yet, you know what he seeks goes beyond ambition. Beyond humanity itself. But even that term seems inaccurate. To think of him as human… it felt wrong, like calling a mountain a grain of sand. Still, you understood there was something unique about his nature—something set apart from those around him, like looking down upon a crowd and realizing how insignificant each person appears beneath your vantage point. Maybe that was it, maybe that's why you followed him. For wasn't he always rising above, ascending while the rest remained shackled?

“And what must be lost?” you ask, carefully, watching the way his fingers linger along the symbol’s spirals, his grip tightening as if his answer is somewhere in those lines.

“A price that matches the value of the reward,” he replies, setting the paper down with a sharp flick of his wrist. “Something worthy, something that binds one to the mundane. Only then can one ascend.”

He moves past you without another glance, the edges of his coat brushing against your hand as he strides toward a shelf lined with artifacts. Each object stands tall, isolated in its own display, darkened glass enclosing some, while others rest upon velvet. His fingers hover above one—a small, worn coin—and he lifts it, turning it over with a contemplative frown.

"An equivalent exchange," you repeat. The concept resonates within you, a memory surfacing—dark markings stained into stone grooves, red liquid pooling around your palms, thick and viscous as it soaked into your flesh. "I'm guessing that would be your... physical body?"

"Only if it were that simple," he replies, lowering the coin to its case, his reflection visible in its polished surface. His gaze dips downward, considering. "One might offer up their flesh, yes, but the material plane contains more than skin and bone."

The first mark appears the morning after your most recent ritual. A thin, dark line snakes across the inside of your wrist, winding down in delicate loops, barely noticeable against your skin. You rub at it, wondering if it’s a lingering trace of the ink, but it doesn’t fade. The stain sits deep within, as if woven into the very fibers of your skin. You cover it with your sleeve, pushing the worry aside. Wesker’s tasks demand focus, and there’s no time for idle thoughts.

A few days later, another mark appears, etched into the back of your hand. Again you try to rub it away, scrubbing until your skin aches, but the line refuses to fade. You wear gloves for the remainder of the week, unwilling to let anyone see them—not because they repulse you; quite the opposite. They stir something within, a subtle unease, as though you have been violated without your consent. As if this ink is seeping beneath the surface of your being, worming into places it shouldn't go. You still haven't forgotten how you sweated ink the first time you've dreamt of the cosmos from the point of view of something unfathomably old and infinitely large and much too awake for comfort.

But when Wesker sees it for the first time, he isn't even perplexed. Not one bit.

"Yes," he says simply, taking hold of your forearm without warning and examining the mark closely, almost pleased. "This is only a minor manifestation."

Manifestation? A sense of alarm creeps over you, but instead of letting it overwhelm, you force yourself to maintain composure.

"Will it ever go away?" Your heart pounds harder, adrenaline racing through your veins, ready for whatever comes next. If Wesker notices, he shows no sign. He continues inspecting the mark in silence, turning your hand slowly around, eyes narrowed in concentration. Finally, he looks at you again, his face calm, but with a hint of smug satisfaction.

"No," he replies, letting go of your arm, leaving you breathless with anticipation for what this means.

You swallow, uneasy, but nod, attempting to brush off the growing tension that twists through your body. “If it’s useful to you, I can endure it.”

“Useful,” he repeats, and the faint curve of a smirk touches his mouth. “Perhaps it is.”

You turn to leave, but the room shifts, tilting slightly beneath your feet, the walls bending in the corners of your sight. You grip the edge of a nearby table, steadying yourself, as the sound of Wesker’s pen scratching over the paper grows louder, filling the space. It drags on, stretching, a thin, rasping sound that makes your teeth ache. You clench your jaw, forcing yourself to ignore it, but the edges of your vision blur again, curling into dark shapes, shapes that twist and dance, pulling closer.

“Are you still here?” Wesker’s voice cuts through, startling you from the strange daze. He looks up, a faint crease between his brows, his gaze sharp.

You blink, focusing on him, the shapes fading, though a faint echo of them lingers, just out of sight. “Yes, I… my apologies,” you manage, straightening, forcing a steady breath through clenched teeth.

He watches you for a moment longer, eyes narrowed, before dismissing you with a flick of his hand. “Then stop wasting time.”

You nod and leave the study, but each step feels heavier, the marks on your skin pulsing in time with your heartbeat, a faint prickling beneath the surface. As you reach your quarters, you catch a glimpse of yourself in a nearby mirror—a fleeting image, there and gone as your reflection twists, elongating, warping into a face that isn’t quite yours.

All the dwellers of the base have been pushed out for this day. With preparations complete, the only ones remaining inside are you and Wesker.

For safety reasons, he said.

The chamber swirls with an unnatural darkness, denser than shadows, curling in thick tendrils around the edges of the stone walls. It has gathered here, drawn by the symbols etched along the ground, twisting and spiraling in perfect, maddening symmetry. Candles burn low, their flames darkening to a strange, cold blue that casts the chamber in shades that seem to pull at the edges of your vision. You kneel in the center, hands pressing down on the damp stone, fingers spreading as you steady yourself against the waves of nausea twisting in your gut.

A low hum begins, vibrating through the stone, crawling up your hands, a pulse that moves through your veins, faster, hotter, until it reaches your chest, locking in with the frantic beat of your heart.

The ink within your skin stirs, writhing like a living thing, coiling tighter around your bones, sinking deeper. You feel it shift, burning as it stretches through your veins, each line pushing outward, bulging just beneath the surface of your skin. Your hand trembles as you look down, watching the ink crawl over your knuckles, darkening, splitting, and then reforming, patterns moving in endless loops that draw themselves again and again, circling back with the same unyielding intent.

“Focus,” Wesker’s command snaps through the space, breaking into your thoughts, and you look up, struggling to keep your gaze steady.

He doesn’t look at you, his focus wholly absorbed in the ritual, his eyes fixed on something far beyond the chamber walls. A faint smirk pulls at his mouth, an expression that sends a shudder through you, though you push it down, steeling yourself. The darkness around him seems to solidify, condensing into vague, looming shapes, edges blurring and then sharpening, their forms twisting like carved from some shifting substance that defies understanding.

And then, with a sudden clarity, you see them.

Massive, unblinking eyes, cold and hollow, emerge from the darkness, scattered like stars across a space that stretches further than sight. Each eye is a chasm, vast and indifferent, their centers an endless void that reflects no light. They shift, expanding and contracting, unblinking as they gaze down upon the chamber. You sense them studying, dissecting, cataloging everything within their reach, and in that moment, you realize they see you—and yet, they do not.

The creatures seem almost incorporeal, half formed, insubstantial, it's your mind that gives form to their attention as eyes, but if asked to describe them you find yourself utterly unable to say with certainty what they looked like. The closest description would be amorphous tentacles of smoke coiled loosely around one another, giving off occasional brief flickers of fire which didn't illuminate anything but themselves. Their faces were featureless, or perhaps made entirely of features, impossible to distinguish any individual part save the huge black holes of their eyes. You cannot tear your own eyes away from these pits; no matter how hard you try, something keeps pulling them back and making you stare into them. The flickering flames deep within seem hypnotic as well - it reminds you of staring into lava lamps, except you find yourself unable to breathe or even blink for fear of missing something crucial.

The weight of their regard presses against you, a force that drives you further into the stone, your hands pressing down harder, fingers clawing into the cracks as you fight to hold your position. The ink surges in response, spreading across your forearms, pulling itself into shapes that pulse and shift, lines twisting into something unrecognizable, alien symbols that imprint themselves into your skin.

"What is this?" Your breath shudders through your lips as you speak, head tilted upward, neck aching under the strain as the ink coils tighter, the lines sinking deeper, twisting around nerves, a constant throb that beats in sync with the distant, rhythmic pulse from the void above. Each heartbeat feels like it might tear you apart, the ink pushing, straining, reshaping you from within.

Wesker pauses, glancing over his shoulder, but there's no remorse in his gaze, no sympathy for the pain you're experiencing. The corners of his mouth tug upward into a cruel smile as he holds himself in position. "A blessing," he replies, gesturing upward, palm upturned toward the abyss swirling above. "An opportunity."

The ink on your arms pulses again, stretching, tearing at the edges as it splits into new patterns, marks that snake up over your shoulders, across your collarbone. Your skin prickles, burning as though on fire, and you grit your teeth, choking back a cry. You see your reflection in a metal plate along the floor, the ink staining your face now, creeping up your neck, dark lines splitting and weaving together in a grotesque mask that moves on its own, pulsing in time with the ancient rhythms that fill the chamber.

“Is this… truly necessary?”

“Necessary? There is no alternative. " He watches as the ink pushes further, his gaze unwavering, his satisfaction unmistakable as the lines twist and bind, digging into your skin with a relentless grip. “To attain godhood, one must be willing to surrender the limits of their humanity. And those limits are nothing more than illusions.”

Your hands tremble, every muscle tightening as the ink spreads, reaching into your bones, until you can no longer tell where it ends and you begin. The edges of the chamber blur, twisting as the shapes from the void shift closer, each step a silent, unfeeling approach that presses against the limits of your mind. And there, in the recesses of thought, a new awareness blooms—a quiet horror, a sense that these beings do not see you, not as Wesker sees you, nor as anyone has ever seen you. You are nothing to them, a fragment in an endless cycle, a mark to be discarded once your purpose fades.

Your pulse hammers, rapid, erratic, the ink burning hotter with each beat, its grip twisting around your mind, drawing you into the void. A flicker of doubt sparks, small yet unyielding, whispering through the silence. “I don't think they're even aware of us..."

" Awareness isn’t what you believe it to be,” he says, a dismissal. “Their indifference is their strength, their inability to see us as anything of consequence. That is why they are worthy.”

The words settle within you, twisting into the ink, warping its patterns as it presses further, tighter, your skin stretching to contain it. You close your eyes, struggling to breathe through the mounting pressure, the darkness expanding around you, drawing you deeper. Their gaze reaches through you, searing you from the inside out, reducing every thought, every sense of self, until nothing remains but the ink, binding you to the void, an unyielding part of something vast and cold.

Wesker’s hand presses against your shoulder, his touch grounding, yet cold, and you feel his satisfaction through the hold, his approval mingling with the horror settling within you. “You see now. The weakness of humanity, the futility of attachment… it is all meaningless.”

Your mouth opens, but no words come, the ink filling every corner of your mind, the truth of his words burrowing deep, coiling around your thoughts. Doubt flares, small yet potent, a quiet voice asking if this is what you truly wanted, if devotion is worth the sacrifice it demands. But as Wesker’s hand lingers, as his gaze settles upon you with a possessive pride, you push the doubt down, swallowing it beneath the ink, burying it within the emptiness left behind.

The shapes in the void shift, moving away, their interest dissipating, and the pressure eases, though the marks on your skin remain, burned deep beneath flesh and bone.

Beneath the ache, beneath the numbness, there is freedom, absolute release from every responsibility, every obligation that had weighed you down. Every action taken since joining STARS had led here—to this moment where your bond was forged through the ancient ritual etched into the stone. Your hands shake, but with a different energy now. A desire. An eagerness. The feeling that everything matters; that there's so little time left and every second counts.

Days blend together under Wesker’s command, and though you continue to follow every instruction, his presence feels distant, slipping through your reach. He no longer meets your eyes directly; his gaze drifts past you, unseeing, as if you’re an extension of the space around him rather than the vessel of summoning he molded you to be, his very personal telephone between realms. Perhaps it shouldn’t surprise you — or upset you — that he cares less for what happens to your body now, as long as your mind remains functional enough to perform the tasks demanded of it. Even that prospect may not last too much longer, however, judging by how the tarry ink burns up your skin. After all, soon nothing will remain of the flesh that once belonged to you. Soon, there will only be whatever Wesker chooses to make of you next, once the ink seeping through your pores takes root and blossoms into something both horrifyingly foreign and tantalizingly familiar. Already, you can sense the changes coming upon you, although you can no longer decide whether you welcome them or fear them.

In the dim study, Wesker stands with his back to you, his figure outlined in a faint, cold glow from the candlelight. He holds an ancient tome open before him, his fingers pressing down on a page as he studies the symbols inscribed there. You wait in silence, the inked lines on your arms and neck still simmering from the last ritual, burning beneath your skin with a relentless, pulsing heat. A single word would be enough to acknowledge your presence, but Wesker doesn’t glance up.

“Do you… need assistance?” you ask, after a long stretch of silence. Your voice sounds small, fading into the quiet that fills the study, and you search his face for any hint of recognition, some sign that he’s heard you.

“Not now,” he replies curtly, his eyes never lifting from the page. His fingers trace a line of text, their motion precise, as if every word holds a truth he must dissect, a meaning hidden just beyond reach. His hand pauses, hovering over a diagram, and he tilts his head, his focus deepening, as though he’s forgotten you stand there.

You hesitate, shifting your weight, and then take a step closer, feeling the marks on your skin pulse, a faint throb that echoes through your veins, tethering you to him in ways you can’t begin to understand. “If you require anything… you need only ask.”

Wesker’s hand rises, a subtle, dismissive gesture, and the words die in your throat. “I’m certain you’ll know when I do,” he says, his voice distant, a faint edge of something almost mechanical in the way he speaks. He finally glances in your direction, though his gaze stops short of meeting yours, instead settling somewhere near your shoulder. “Until then, occupy yourself.”

You nod, swallowing down the sting of his dismissal, convincing yourself it’s only another test, a way to gauge your resilience, your ability to withstand his indifference. The ink on your skin tingles, a faint burn along the lines that weave up your forearms, reminding you of the rituals that bind you to him, of the power you now possess—a conduit to realms beyond comprehension, but above it all, the loyalty you’ve sacrificed for his ambitions.

As the days stretch on, his evasiveness sharpens, the unspoken distance widening. His commands become brief, clipped, each instruction delivered without a single look in your direction. You bring him reports, stacks of files, but he waves them off with a flick of his wrist, his attention firmly on the relics and artifacts scattered across his desk. The objects have multiplied, more texts and tools gathered, forming a collection of pieces that seem integral to his plans, each one a step closer to his goals.

One evening, after a particularly grueling task, you find him standing before a darkened window, his silhouette sharp against the shadows stretching across the room. You approach, footsteps soft, stopping just within reach, but he doesn’t acknowledge you. His eyes are fixed on something beyond the glass, an expanse only he can see.

“Is there… something troubling you?” you ask, a question you instantly regret as the silence tightens, an unyielding reminder of the separation growing between you.

“Troubling?” His voice is low, barely shifting as he turns, his expression as cold and unyielding as the night beyond the window. “I have no use for such trivialities.”

You lower your gaze, feeling the ink on your arms flare with an inexplicable heat, the lines coiling tighter, as if sensing the shift, the subtle wall that now stands between you. “Of course. For someone doesn't really care about having to shed their humanity, weakness isn't something you suffer from," you manage to reply, pushing down the small spark of anger kindling within and using the condition he told you about ascending against him in that moment.

He tilts his chin, studying your response as though assessing some threat to his plans—which, in fact, you are right now —a slight crease appearing along his brow, faint yet perceptible. He inhales, exhales, measured breaths, his jaw tensing, though his tone remains casual, as if the conversation is beneath him. "It’s the absence of sentiment that truly liberates," he replies, the words sharp. "And as your patron, I expect you to follow suit."

The ink pulses, thrumming beneath the surface, a steady vibration that spreads across your skin, working deeper through the ink-etched veins and capillaries beneath.

You meet his gaze then, your eyes level with his, a single step closing the space between you. A boldness rises within, sharpened by the pain twisting through you, and for a moment, he almost looks surprised, caught off guard by the change, the rebellion written plainly across your features.

"Are you sure this isn't some twisted proof that you, too, are weak?"

He moves faster than you can react, pinning you back against the desk. A gloved hand closes around your throat, the leather cool against your feverish skin, squeezing down harder with each rapid pulse of your racing heart. Your lips part, breath catching, choking as he grips you tighter. The marks flare hotter, lines snaking up toward your neck, a steady burn that sinks deep into bone. And Wesker watches, unflinching, an infuriating calm behind his gaze, like he's observing some insect struggling under a magnifying glass.

"Tell me, dearheart," he purrs, leaning closer, his free hand coming to rest on your hip, gripping it just tight enough to bruise. His fingers brush against the side of your leg, tracing along the edge of the hem. "Who exactly is testing whom here?"

Words won't come. They tumble and twist into the back of your throat, fighting against the pressure on your windpipe, lodging uselessly, filling your lungs with acid. Your eyes water, stinging as you force a breath, hands wrapping around his wrist, tugging at his grasp. The ink attempts to surge beneath your skin, pulling towards him, as if drawn by his touch—and in a sick way, the thought sends an odd sensation through you, warmth stirring, a jolt of excitement cutting through the struggle for survival. It's almost churning now, gathering itself in response to Wesker's proximity, latching onto his presence like iron filings aligning with magnetic poles, seeking his orbit even as your limbs seize and panic begins setting in.

"Shall we attempt a second confirmation?" he murmurs, his thumb brushing against your jaw, fingers twitching around your throat. With each shallow breath, you feel him shift closer, until all you can smell is his cologne mixed with sweat, gunpowder, and his own unique scent that's musky and sharply fresh at the same time.

You gasp, straining for oxygen, but your vision has started turning hazy, black spots dancing across the edges of sight. "No... No more tests," you plead hoarsely, fighting against his hold, nails digging into his bare forearm beneath the cuff of his shirtsleeves. But he seems unfazed, continuing the slow strokes against your neck, a torturous combination of pleasure and pain.

There's something unsettling about the way he looks at you just then; no emotion crosses his face, no hint of cruelty or amusement colors his features save for the small smile curling on his lips. No sign that you are being strangled either—your eyesight might be going dark but otherwise you're completely alert and conscious of your surroundings, down to the finest details such as the smell of woodsmoke in his cologne and the rough texture of leather rubbing against sensitive patches of skin on your throat. Nothing suggests he feels anything remotely similar to discomfort or rage at being touched in such a brazen manner, quite opposite actually —the cold steeliness of those eyes boring into yours makes you shiver despite the burning heat scorching inside every inch of your body. As though you weren't human anymore (although you already knew that)—not an equal opponent but merely an object for his amusement...or worse: a plaything.

He lets go, then. Simply steps backwards without looking at you once. Without saying anything either although surely he must have sensed how close to unconsciousness you were...that couldn't escape his notice, could it? All you hear is the sound of rustling fabric when he readjusts his sleeves, fixing up those crisp cuffs neatly just so, and walks away.

"Then refrain from pointless interruptions. That will be all."

The final hour is upon you.

Upon all of you.

Wesker enters the chamber, coat trailing behind him, and he surveys the altar, checking each piece as though performing a routine inspection. A cloth sits at its center, bearing a row of unlit candles, each one precisely set apart from its neighbors. Beside them stand several vials of crimson liquid, labeled with neat markings that delineate the names and quantities of various chemical compounds. Arranged on either side sit more mundane items—chalk, a knife, a small bundle of herbs, all arranged with exacting precision, each facing outward.

His attention turns to the walls, which bear numerous markings, circles bordered with elaborate runes and glyphs etched into stone—crude symbols carved with knives or chisels, still raw despite their antiquity. Each circle represents one phase of the ritual, arranged in a continuous spiral that curves upward along the slanting rock face, leading to the large sigil carved at the topmost point.

Though he does not mention it aloud, the other agents sense what is happening. The mood is somber. Everyone who served under him knows what awaits. Many refuse to admit it—many believe they can stop Wesker before he completes this insane plan. Some do not care because death holds no meaning for them anyway.

Ascendance.

Rising above mortal constraints. Above physical limitations. Beyond earthly desires and impulses, beyond base necessities, beyond wants, needs...beyond mortality itself. How many others wished for such an existence, yearned to overcome limits placed upon their lives by nature alone? To exist beyond the suffering inflicted by fate? Beyond weakness, beyond despair? No one deserved godhood more than Albert Wesker.

He was prepared. Always ready. In the event of failure, he made preparations months prior, ensuring complete secrecy of location and purpose, ensuring there were contingency measures in place should the worst occur. Whatever else happened today mattered very little in comparison; whether successful or thwarted, there would be fallout.

In many ways, victory carried far greater consequences than defeat.

"The preparations are complete." He glances around as he speaks, addressing the team as a whole though none dare meet his eyes directly. The candles crackle softly, sending sparks dancing across stone floorboards. Shadows flicker along each wall, reflecting the restless motions of everyone gathered beneath them.

Wesker takes center stage amidst those shadows, standing tall among men twice as large yet somehow seeming more intimidating than any creature you've ever faced together. You feel it in the way he towers above you now—a force like gravity pulling you toward him, stronger than anything natural or ordinary. A gravitational pull that cannot be denied; that draws everything inward until nothing resists his will anymore. And for a moment, it makes perfect sense that his goal would involve claiming godhood...even if doing so meant abandoning all those who stood alongside him throughout years spent serving beneath.

It begins with a soft hum rising through the stones, building steadily into an audible frequency, vibrating up through your legs, settling deep into your bones as the runes along the ground glow brighter, tendrils of red light spiraling outward from each symbol. You feel yourself shift, tugged forward with each pulse that passes through your feet, drifting closer to the center until you stand just behind him, centered beneath the carvings. The energy grows thicker, clouding the room in a haze of smokey crimson as a low chant fills the chamber. Familiar phrases repeat, spoken first by Wesker before echoing back in unison from everyone assembled.

Already the sky outside has begun to darken, clouds swirling overhead, black and turbulent with flashes of lightning crackling across their depths. It casts shadows around the chamber, giving everyone gathered within an ominous look, as though they themselves might disappear without warning at any time...almost making one wonder how much reality had been altered already. If perhaps you are all trapped in a world where physics no longer operates the same way—where things which should not exist somehow persist regardless.

A gust blows past, shaking loose debris from the ceiling and scattering dust into the thick mist flowing across stonework surfaces. Chants grow louder, reverberating from every angle until they seem to surround you entirely, surrounding each person individually rather than being sung collectively, as though somehow producing its own unique sonic environment solely for each individual present.

Slowly the shapes fade from view—dissipating as though melting away altogether—until nothing remains but darkness streaked through with threads of bright red that snake upwards toward Wesker. Ink floods the chamber in thick rivulets, pooling along the edges of a carefully inscribed circle in the stone floor. You stand in its center, feeling the ink as it crawls up your ankles, warm and cloying, pulsing like a heartbeat.Wesker’s eyes gleam with a cold focus, his gaze fixed on the ink that spirals out across the floor in thick, flowing lines. He raises his hands, gloved fingers flexing as he murmurs the invocation, pulling the ink higher, drawing it toward him in dark, writhing tendrils. The ink moves in response to his words, wrapping around his arms, his shoulders, spiraling upward, drawn by the pull of his voice. His form flickers in the strange light, stretching with each syllable, his figure shifting in ways that defy logic, his limbs appearing to elongate for the briefest of moments before snapping back to his natural shape.

Wesker’s mouth lifts at the corners in a slight, calculating smirk before his expression fades back into cold focus. He steps forward, crossing the threshold of the circle, his form towering above you. A faint shimmer surrounds him, a dark aura that makes the edges of his figure blur, as though he is more shadow than substance. He lifts one gloved hand, reaching toward your face, his fingers brushing your chin as he tilts your head up, forcing you to meet his gaze.

Wesker’s eyes flicker, and for a brief moment, he almost seems to study you, faintly glowing eyes catching on the lines of ink winding over your arms, twisting around your neck. “Do you know what holds me to this existence?”

The question feels loaded, though you push aside the creeping sense of unease it stirs. “Your vision,” you answer, eyes steady, clinging to the belief that everything he’s asked of you has served a greater purpose. “Your ambition, your purpose…”

He tilts his head, a slight frown creasing his brow, as if finding your answer insufficient. “No,” he says, his tone hardening. “Ambition is not a tether; it’s a path.”

The ink surges again, and your arms tremble, your skin burning as it claws its way further up, coiling around your throat in thin, tight bands, pressing until each breath feels shallow, labored. You search his face, confusion tightening in your chest as you try to make sense of his words.

“Loyalty,” he says, “is a binding force. "

"But that doesn't make any sense," you begin, trying to resist the compulsion that keeps pushing you forward. Why would such strong feelings suddenly start affecting things physically now? "So many here are devoted to you or your cause here. That doesn't mean it holds you back--it's not your humanity to sacrifice."

"Allegiance and responsibility are different bonds," he explains impatiently, "and neither one prevents me from achieving my destiny. What anchors me is duty. Duty to those who serve me, who put their faith in me. Faith requires reciprocity."

The ink squirms wildly across your body as you try desperately to process this new revelation. Couldn't see a single way where those concepts intersected so strongly without hurting someone else...but then again, you hadn't expected him to care about such concepts anyway--or consider himself responsible for keeping them alive. What would happen after tonight, after this ritual worked...would all that loyalty die off immediately?

"You'll sacrifice everybody here?"

"Just one," he admits calmly.

And you don't get to find out what that means.

A sharp, tearing pain erupts within your chest, sudden and violent, as if something deep within you is being ripped apart. The ink isn’t just spreading over your skin—it’s clawing its way up from the core of you, rising from the very depths of your being. You gasp, clutching at your chest, but the ink pulses beneath your hands, oozing from beneath your skin, each vein bulging as dark tendrils push outward, twisting and writhing as they snake beneath the surface.

Your arms begin to shake, the skin stretched taut, veins darkening as the ink forces itself through, pressing out from your own blood, spilling across your wrists in thin, jagged lines. You watch, horrified, as it travels up your forearms, the ink moving faster with each heartbeat, with each horrified pulse. You press your fingers to your arm, but the lines bulge against your touch, moving just beneath the surface, as if alive, as if with a hunger that cannot be contained.

Your throat tightens, and you can feel it there too, slithering up from the base of your neck, thick and cloying as it climbs, leaving trails of burning heat that radiate through your jaw and into your skull. Your mouth opens in a desperate gasp, and then the ink spills up, coating your tongue, your teeth, filling your mouth with the taste of iron and earth. You choke, trying to spit it out, but the ink surges forward, spilling from the corners of your lips, slick and hot as it drips down your chin.

The pressure builds, pressing out from your chest, searing as it pushes through muscle and bone, stretching your skin until every inch feels as though it might split. The ink presses into your eyes, and you can’t stop it—you feel it slipping beneath your eyelids, thick and viscous, clouding your vision in dark, pulsing shadows. Your vision splits, doubling as the ink crawls over your eyes, blurring everything, warping Wesker’s form into a twisted shape that sways in and out of focus.

A crackling pain ignites down your spine, and you arch forward, your back straining as the ink threads through each vertebra, every nerve alight with agony. Your hands claw at your own arms, fingers digging into the ink-streaked skin, but the ink rises to meet you, spilling out from under your fingernails, dripping in long, black trails that splatter onto the stone below. You’re dissolving, coming apart piece by piece, every part of you unraveling into this dark, relentless tide.

“Wesker…” The word escapes, barely a whisper, your voice strangled as the ink fills your lungs, pressing through each rib, winding up through your throat until you can barely speak, barely breathe. But he only watches, unmoved, his gaze fixed on you with a cold detachment, as though observing an experiment running its course.

Splash!

The ink settles, pooled across the stone in a wide stain that pulses with faint, erratic beats, like the lingering echo of a heartbeat long faded. The symbols on the floor glow faintly beneath, as though drawing the last fragments of life from what remains. The chamber is silent, save for the faint, rhythmic pulsing of the dark liquid, a final, lingering trace of what was once a human form.

Wesker stands tall in the center of the circle, his form looming larger than ever, though now the eerie light surrounding him seems almost solid in appearance. It shifts and stretches as the seconds tick, as though becoming something more tangible—less intangible smoke and more fluid motion as his very essence takes shape before everyone, power emanating from his core, the energy within pulling the darkness tightly around his edges into some monstrous embodiment of his will. Looking at him is like trying to comprehend a black hole, impossible to truly process without some feeling like one might fall in forever, lose oneself somewhere inside, consumed utterly by sheer magnitude—that sensation hits as hard as it did the first day upon realizing what Wesker really was capable of doing...to say it sent shivers down anyone's spine (whether literally or figuratively) would be an understatement.

Even when gazing upon him now, mere mortals found themselves struggling desperately to stay balanced while staying rooted firmly in place lest they slip deeper and succumb completely—every agent present could feel it permeating the very walls, emanating outward like some kind of massive psychic forcefield encompassing entire city blocks. There may have been people outside unaffected by such sensations, oblivious to anything beyond daily routines but at least they didn't know what it felt like to look directly at one's idol turn into nightmare fuel, although perhaps ignorance wasn't always bliss here anymore (even though they probably wouldn't recognize any differences anyways).

Wesker smiles broadly, lips parting slightly as he exhales a low chuckle—more sound than anything tangible. His eyes blaze golden yellow, so bright that their luminosity nearly drowns out the room, casting him in stark shadows like smeared ink stains across parchment paper. As if on cue, the candles around them dim one-by-one, leaving only blackened wicks standing upright against smooth wax bases before slowly fading entirely to darkness. Yet even without the flickering flame providing illumination there remains enough light filling every space between molecules to clearly see Wesker going in and out of focus constantly throughout this transformation process while maintaining solid presence simultaneously somehow...defying physics quite drastically. One second he's floating effortlessly just inches above floor stones; another instant later he's gone completely transparent like vapor rising off heated metal surfaces...then reappears shortly after in different places randomly around everyone gathered....all without actually moving an inch himself.

For a moment, his gaze drifts to the ink at his feet, lingering on the spot where it still throbs, faint and uneven. The shadows waver, stretching across the stain, faint trails twisting through the ink as though moved by a memory, a fragment of something left behind. He tilts his head, his lips curling slightly, amused at the sight. After all these years of planning, scheming, meticulously plotting every move with such precise detail to bring himself up here, to achieve ascendance...now the cost presented itself in full, laid out plainly for all to see.

He bends down, extends his palm at the goop of the liquified human body.

The ink responds, rising, coiling around his wrist in thick, dark ribbons, threading between gloved fingers, traveling over leather sleeves and twisting around his forearm. He holds his palm steady as it winds higher, snaking its way around his elbow, spiraling upward through the fabric of his coat until finally reaching his shoulder, and settling there like a bird. It ripples, shimmering, changing color from glossy black to silvery gray, to deep blue-black, and back again, rippling constantly.

You are quite adorable in this form.

"Well then, dearheart. Shall we begin?"

#you can observe my sleep-deprived sloppiness from the banner alone. man im tired #albert wesker x reader #albert wesker x you #wesker x reader #wesker x you

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madsfrank · 4 months ago

Note

How would the Dead by Daylight Killers(Mastermind, Trickster, and Ghostface) would react to a Survivor! Himbo! Male! Reader that's a bit like Ken from the Barbie movie?

Himbo! Reader is a 6'6 powerhouse of a guy whose heart of gold, cheerful demeanor, and great sense of fashion makes up for his lack of braincells!

He's just so nice to literally everyone, even Killers lol

(you can delete this ask if you want)

'*•.¸♡ SFW II HC 𝕶𝖎𝖑𝖑𝖊𝖗𝖘 𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖍 𝖆 𝕳𝖎𝖒𝖇𝖔! 𝕾𝖚𝖗𝖛𝖎𝖛𝖔𝖗 ♡¸.•*'

-ˏˋDirectoryˊˎ -ˏˋ Masterlist ˊˎ -ˏˋ Mastermind ˊˎ -ˏˋ Trickster ˊˎ -ˏˋGhostface ˊˎ

- ̥۪͙۪˚┊❛ 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖉 ❜┊˚ ̥۪͙۪◌

………..Chris?

No like seriously this man is going to stare at you and be like “ah my long lost Redfield.” Especially if you’re nice.

Honestly, he’s probably going to maul you more since you remind him so of his beloved friend-zone situationship.

However, if you start giving him fashion advice? He’ll hook you….but you may or may not see him in the next trial with more than just black leathers.

I feel like you would always be the last alive and of you play into his silly mind games, he may let you get hatch. Maybe.

Either way, all your fellow survivors are extremely jealous you’ve somehow managed to survive even sometimes around Wesker.

It may get so bad that wesker will actually discard the real Chris Refield because your too much of a fun toy to play with.

- ̥۪͙۪˚┊❛ 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕿𝖗𝖎𝖈𝖐𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗 ❜┊˚ ̥۪͙۪◌

First of all, who hurt you? Why are you trying to befriend this man?

Secondly, the trickster is hardly nice in any trials. You will be getting some knives launched at you. Advice? Sharpen his blades for him and after each trial to win him over.

Yeah, he’s still gonna kill you. But at least it will be more painless than what the others get.

If you’re really insistent and somehow convince him you want to really befriend him, not just another fan, he may even let you stay in his realm. The little studio apartment that the entity lets him keep.

I swear the man would probably completely change. Instead of the hyper on stage attitude he’s probably be a bit more…chill? How he is with his manager mostly.

You are physically at an advantage against him, he’ll probably admire you for that, which will give you some lenience with him on allowing other survivors into his realm.

Just don’t get too cocky and don’t trash his place either!

Not to mention that every time you go back to the campfire, you are getting some major outfit changes, he’s totally going to force you to dress like he does. Not even an option to say no. If you have any taste, it’s gonna be his.

- ̥۪͙۪˚┊❛ 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕲𝖍𝖔𝖘𝖙𝖋𝖆𝖈𝖊 ❜┊˚ ̥۪͙۪◌

Now this, this is fun.

You’re a powerhouse of a man, yes? Perfect.

Danny is a short king. Ideal.

You are carrying him on your back. In trials. To hunt down other survivors. He does not care.

Ok yes, the other survivors are laughing their asses off but also getting slashed in the throat so who really wins?

This is the fastest friend setup you will ever witness.

Also you’re carrying him bridal style now everywhere. Final.

Not to mention this man is gonna want your help in designing his new costumes. You think there should be hot pink flames on his mask? There should be hot pink flames on his mask. You get the point.

Needless to say you are getting hatch every single trial. Also, any of your closest friends are also getting hatch. Plus, a houseparty at his realm.

Danny is pretty chill ngl, so expect him only to kill you if he wants to show you a new technique he just learned.

“Dude, check this out” and you get gutted, but hey! At least it was pretty cool right? You literally end up giving him pointers while verging on blood loss.

So great, you’ve become the Ghostface’s #1, and you’re never getting rid of him!

#dead by daylight #ghostface x reader #ghostface x you #wesker x reader #wesker x you #dead by daylight x reader #dbd killers x reader #dbd x reader #dbd x you #the trickster x reader #my works ૮₍˶ •. •⑅₎ა♡

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alespov · 1 year ago

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“He’s in my head so much, I might as well give him some.”

#┊ ˚➶ ｡˚ allyse talks ┊ ˚➶ ｡˚#resident evil #albert wesker #albert wesker x reader #albert wesker x you #dbd albert wesker #dbd albert wesker x reader #dbd wesker #dbd albert wesker x you #Albert wesker smut #albert wesker imagine #movie albert wesker #albert wesker resident evil #wesker x you #albert wesker headcanons #resident evil remake albert wesker #dbd the mastermind

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weskie · 3 months ago

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What You Deserve (Albert Wesker x afab!Reader)

18+ | 2700 words, salacious use of tentacles, post re5 wesker, one of those things that was meant to be sweet but became nasty, amab!reader version here | Fic Directory

You've taken such good care of him. Isn't it time he rewards you? Be careful though. Some things are still a little… new.

You were something else. Frankly you always have been, but now more than ever.

Despite waves of self loathing and rampant depression of which he would never confess, Wesker’s recovery has been as smooth as you could make it. Pain medication kept most of the lingering aches away and Uroboros had ensured he lived to see another day. Other than a weakened body riddled with scar tissue from his little dunk in the fires of the Earth, he couldn’t complain terribly much.

Even after his fusion with Uroboros, Wesker was still a mere man unable to escape the more… basic urges. He’s always considered arousal to be like an itch. Sure he could scratch it, but he could also ignore it and let it go away. He often chose the latter, but, with little else to occupy him besides literature or your company, such a choice became significantly more difficult.

You notice his state quickly, though you say nothing of the tented blanket that only seems to continue rising the more he tries to ignore it. You simply take his hand and squeeze, occupied with your laptop while Wesker rereads the same line of his book over and over again in a poor attempt to settle down. When he tips his head back against the mountain of pillows he’s propped against, you give him a knowing look.

“Want some help?” You ask, thumb brushing against his knuckles.

Does he? He did go waist deep in lava. Thus far, it had seemed Uroboros took care to heal his nerves in all other places, and he’s never noticed a lack of sensation in the times where he’s had to touch himself to bathe, but what if he can’t feel enough to… perform well for you? Was it even the full act of sex that you were offering or simply assistance in relieving him?

Perhaps the uncertainty was written across his face because you turn to face him, hand rising to stroke his cheek and trail into his unstyled hair. Your touch spurs another aching pulse between his legs. “Only if you want to,” you say sweetly.

He pretends to consider your offer, but his answer was yes the very moment you spoke. The second your thumb brushes his lip, he’s tugging you onto his lap. He swallows your protests with ease, groaning weakly into the kiss. Wesker knows you’re afraid to put your weight down on him, still so worried about agitating his aches and pains. He has half a mind to grip your hips and help you grind against him, but you’re taking charge before he can.

“Let me,” you murmur, lips trailing down his neck. You halt at the collar of his sleep shirt, moving away only to help him pull it over his head. Your hands land on his sides, smoothing up and down slowly, stroking reverently at the juxtaposition of softness and patches of scarring. Each motion brings you closer and closer to his chest until you’re kneading his pectorals, thumbs brushing against rosy buds in such a way that leaves him panting.

It really has been a while… the throb of his cock confirms it. He has half a mind to just tear at your clothes and rush you to take him, but you seem to sense his impatience just as easily as you’d noticed his need. “M’gonna take care of you,” you whisper sweetly, palms coaxing him to rest fully against the pillows. “You deserve it.” You slip so easily down his body, blanket falling away to reveal black boxer briefs that have clearly garnered a little wet spot from such light teasing. “Just relax. Shut your eyes, sweetheart.”

He does as you say, releasing a shuddering breath in anticipation for what’s to come. It turns to a gasp the second your tongue laves the dip of his hips. Your hands steady him with gentle pressure, shirking their duty when you decide to skim your nails over ticklish flesh and wring a breathy giggle from him.

He can feel your smile as you kiss further down, sensation dulling when your peppered love finds its way to the band of his underwear, renewing once more when you peck sweetly at his inner thighs. Wesker’s hips seek you of their own accord and he’s lucky enough to feel at least one press of your lips to his covered length before you make your way back up. He practically bucks into your grasp when you take hold of him.

“Seems like everything's in working order,” you coo playfully in his ear.

Wesker finds his lower lip to gnaw on while you stroke him slowly. His hands paw at your clothes, eagerly trying to expose you. His eyes flutter open, pupils blown wide around distorted hues of red and blue still vying for dominance over one another. He’s just about got your shirt off when that hand of yours dives beneath his waistband, milking the most humiliating whine from him imaginable.

What's wrong with him? Why is he so… desperate?

His hands leave you to shimmy out of his underwear, hissing at the cool air and the mere sight of your hand around his weeping cock. He turns back to you, keening into a kiss as he tries once more to tug at your clothes. He hoists your leg over his hip, palm smoothing to take a greedy handful of your rear, playing with your flesh as you’d done with him. Everything about you is bliss itself, from your slow, torturous strokes to his cock to the slide of your tongue against his. You should be bare against him, skin to skin, letting him feel every inch of you. He needs it. He needs you.

Suddenly, a humming laugh escapes you, reverberating against his tongue before you break away. “Again, huh?” You breathe.

Again… yes.

Once more, tendrils have wound their way around you to do his bidding, but this time for more… salacious reasons. Each one wriggles under your clothes in some way or another. You aid them in their quest to strip you, tugging your shirt and pants away with ease while the masses slither just as eagerly as his hands explore.

It’s so cute how you squirm for him. It’s as if the tables have been turned oh so perfectly, leaving you just as red in the face as you’d made him. He may not have his full strength yet, but this? This more than makes up for it. One tentacle coils at your waist, holding you perfectly in place as the others find themselves far more… occupied. Your giggles turn to breathy moans, each one sung perfectly for him. You’re like an instrument only he can play, your pleasure a melody only he can create.

“W-Wo– Ah!” You gasp, head lolling to the side the very second one of those slimy appendages creeps between your legs. Your first instinct is to clench your thighs together, though you don’t get very far with having been straddling him. The tip of it swipes your clit, making you buck and whine. “Al!”

Tantalizing was… not a strong enough word for the sight before him. These appendages have always carried a degree of wetness, some leaky black ooze that only ever left a small mess, but now? Oh, now they leave clear glistening trails along your flesh that make his cock utterly ache. It’s as if he’s painting you with his own arousal, picture perfect and drenched in his love just like you should be. The tentacles trail over where he wants to see you marked most: your chest, your neck… all the way down to your pretty little pussy.

“Al, I–” You try, but you’re whimpering as more slithering lengths join in to curl around your thighs. He didn’t even have to lift a finger… There’s so many things he could do with you. He could lift you, surely, to his face. Slide his tongue that’s been so starved for you between your sopping folds. Or he could lower you onto his cock right now. Forget effort; you wouldn’t have to do a thing. He could simply maneuver you accordingly, bounce you up and down with their grip on your body until you were both fucked senseless. Or…

Wesker’s chest rises and falls with each open mouthed breath, watching with wide eyes as three smaller tendrils approach your cunt. You squirm, but you show no sign for him to stop even as they alternate swiping along your slit.

“I-I thought– mm!” You try, words as shaky as your trembling body. “T-Thought I was gonna t-take care of you instead…”

“You are…” he breathes, utterly hypnotized as more tentacles join the fray and suddenly, without warning, you’re spread completely for him, slithering lengths taking your legs while smaller ones part your drenched pussy lips. You’ve been put on exhibit, and oh… how you writhe and keen under his sopping touches. All Wesker can do is simply lie there, cock torturously hard at the sight of you like this. He dares not touch himself; he dares not even imagine it lest one of those lengths creep to coil around it to satisfy the urge.

“A-Albert– ngh!” Every cry you make fuels whatever hidden desires lurk below the surface of his mind. Nothing in the world could’ve prepared him for the sight of an extra thick tentacle slinking along your leg, coiling up and up until it presses at your entrance. “O-Oh my god!” You mewl, head falling back. “I don’t– I don’t think I can– that’s too big… Al, I don’t think I can– Ah!”

Exhilaration runs down his spine as though every nerve in his body fired at once. Watching it press into you, seeing every ounce of slick drip from its effort to wriggle inside as you keen and mewl and cry out his name over and over again as if to pray to him… Wesker licks his lips, panting heavily, fighting to keep control despite that knot in his gut threatening to give at any moment. His fists bite into the sheets, threads popping as they give way to his strength.

“O-Oh g-god,” you sob, barely audible over wet squelches. “P-Please… Al, p-please!”

“I…” he tries, but he has no words. Nothing in the world could possibly explain this– why it was happening, why he was allowing it, why… why he fucking loves it.

But he does know why, deep down. Past that layer of perfect prudence and discipline lies the truth. You deserve this. You deserve every ounce of pleasure he can stuff into you. For all that you’ve done for him… you deserve everything.

You cry out over and over again as the thickness fucks in and out of you, slick drizzling from your cunt down your ass and onto the bed. It soaks his hips and cock, oozing off to coat the sheets and surely seep down into what was now a ruined mattress. But he doesn’t care. Not one bit.

The tentacles wriggle all over you, slithering and rubbing against tender flesh, restraining the intense trembling of your legs as you dangle helplessly. He can practically hear it hitting the depths of your cunt, each noisy, wet thrust coupled with your sweet songs a promise of your never ending pleasure. And oh… you deserve it. You deserve all that he can possibly give you. You were there for everything. The good, the bad, the horrifying… Every part of him is yours, which means you get this, too.

The first time you cry out his name is perfection in and of itself. You come undone so beautifully. He has to grasp his cock and squeeze the base damn near to the point of harming himself just to keep from blowing his load right then and there. Watching you practically seize in his slithery grasp, hearing you gag and gurgle on one that had slipped between your lips, knowing you’re so fucked out of your mind that you could do little else than suckle its length as if it were his cock…

Even then, it’s like he can feel it. The sensation is dull, but it is there. Your lazy tongue, the clench of your throat, the warmth of your breath, the throbbing quiver of your cunt– it’s all fucking there, and it’s all for him. You belong to him. You’ve shown him so many times, over and over again that he has you, heart, mind, body, and soul.

“That’s it, dearheart…” he coos, shaky voice barely more than a murmur. “You’re– you’re doing so perfect… You’re taking me so well.”

He feels you clench up again, walls trembling as you approach your next release. You always did like when he’d purr such things in your ear. It warms his heart in the strangest way to see it work just the same now.

“O-One more for me.” Wesker rasps brokenly, heavy breaths leaving him as he watches with an unyielding gaze. He will not miss a second of this. “It feels good, doesn’t it…? I can feel it too.” He wants nothing more than to hear you come undone for him once more. As if understanding his thoughts, the appendage in your mouth slips free, prompting you to gasp and choke desperately for air.

You moan nonstop as if it were the only sound left that you could make. It’s like you’ve been robbed entirely of higher thought and fell into a mindless state, one that could only comprehend the thickness ramming in and out of your cunt. Your sweet noises pitch up more and more with every passing second, signaling your next climax is near.

Wesker wills the tentacles to tilt you upright, the big one still fucking into you despite the position shift, and you whine weakly at the change. “Come for me, my sweet.” He commands, rising from his position to cup your cheeks between his hands. As if fully understanding his order, you do exactly that, falling apart with a breathless scream cut off by the thick length slipping from your cunt while the others force you down onto his cock. “Oh, god!” He roars, face falling into the crook of your neck to muffle his own cries as his release hits him like a lightning bolt, coating your ooze slicked walls with his seed in heavy spurts.

Albert’s eyes are clenched shut, but he swears his vision has gone white. There’s nothing. Nothing at all is left in this world except for your limp form in his hold and the heat of your flesh between his teeth. Even when the oxygen in his lungs has gone stale, he still forgets to breathe. It’s your trembling fingers curling at his nape that remind him he’s even still alive.

The two of you remain like that for some time, long enough that his legs go stiff and each slithering length once wrapped around your body retreats back into him. You’re both covered in ooze, but he can’t find it in himself to care. Not yet, at least.

You’re limp in his grasp, but he can tell you’re awake from the occasional scritch to the base of his neck or breath fanning against his skin.

“I… apologize.” He eventually murmurs. It’s all he can think to say. Certainly, you both would be having quite the conversation about this eventually. But, for now, this much is due. “For… having lost control.” It isn’t even an exaggeration. At some point, all thought went out the door. There was only the two of you and every salacious desire he couldn’t suppress.

He needs to become better at that.

“Mm,” you hum weakly, fingers threading through his hair the way they always do in the afterglow. “You’re full of surprises…” There’s a hint of amusement in your voice. That good natured softness with which you’ve always treated him. “We gotta… mm, when my legs work again… it’s shower time.”

He couldn’t agree more. For now though, he means to simply hold you, still buried within your heat. You feel like home. What luck to have found you…

And what bliss to know you’ll stay.

#albert wesker #albert wesker x reader #albert wesker x you #wesker x reader #wesker x you #resident evil #dead by daylight #dbd

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yanderestarangel · 6 months ago

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Wesker has consumed my mind entirely, so could I leave an request for him?

Albert wesker as the father of readers boyfriend, at first he didn’t pay much attention to them but the more often reader came by, the more his thoughts started to become intimate and every time reader would have a fight with his son, wesker would use it to make them doubt their relationship with his son.

Really love your fics, if you won’t do this request it’s fine, but really can’t wait to read more of your story’s! Hope you’re doing alright and take care of yourself 🫶

— HEADCANONS RE || WESKER FATHER-IN-LAW X SON-IN-LAW READER

TW ┊dark smut, ftm reader, aggression, toxic relationship, age gap, v!sex, cheating, eat out, blowjob, 69, sexual recording, sensitive themes, dead dove.

WARNING : no negativity please. If this isn’t your sort of content, block me and move on with your day<3

— SFW AND NSFW

In Wesker's eyes, at first you were just another toy for his son, you were already the third boyfriend his son had in less than three months — so the scientist didn't even look at you, just greeting you out of politeness and isolating himself again in his office to continue his work."It won't last long, I bet." Albert said to himself, referring to yet another boyfriend of his son, but he didn't get involved in matters... After all, he was a man too busy for trivial things.

You obviously tried to be a polite boy and get along with your father-in-law, but all your attempts failed as the blonde didn't even look at you — and if he did, you couldn't speak because he simply wore those sunglasses 24 of the day. It was frustrating for you every time you received a rude and rude response from your own father-in-law, making you give up on getting closer to him.

But despite his attempts to avoid you out of pure disinterest, he couldn't deny that you were getting into his routine much more than he wanted to admit. His son always brought you to spend the weekends and have lunch at his mansion, so finally the older man's eyes noticed you.

You were a kind and sweet man, different from his son who was always the same as his personality — only a little worse considering his extreme elitist upbringing. But not you, you were simple and sweet, it even surprised him how stupidly innocent you could be sometimes.

And his also knew that it wouldn't take long for his son to start a fight with you because of his stupidity.

The older blonde started to have unhealthy thoughts about you, your presence was like a balm for him, but also like an inferno that threatened to burn everything and everyone around him.

He began to wonder what it would be like to squeeze your thighs, how your soft skin would feel in his big, calloused hands — how beautiful you would look moaning and begging him to go deeper into your beautiful body... How he would be better than his son being a companion to you.

He really tried to push those thoughts away and tried to approach you like a real father-in-law would, apologizing for his previous behavior and that he was just stressed about some company matters.

But the way your face and doe eyes lit up at simply being treated well by him made the heat in his core gradually rise — every fiber of his being was pulsing and burning like a fire... Only he knows how much he controlled himself to doesn't push you against the nearest wall and make you his right there.

Albert tried to suppress the feelings of lust that were slowly threatening to rot his mind, but every time he saw your smile, even those caused by his son, he wanted to do some crazy things and take you for himself. "Fuck, I'm too old to act like a dedicated man controlled only by his desires." Wesker thought as he rested his temple on his closed fist and watched you on the other side of the room, in his mansion, hugging his son and watching a movie. But he knew that moments of peace like that would end soon, especially with his son's toxic behavior — he had already predicted this, but he never thought it would take a considerably longer time compared to other times.

Even though it took a while, it happened, you fought with your boyfriend and practically the entire gated community heard the screams. Wesker was still trying not to interfere in your two lives because of the feeling of wanting to have you for himself — but after the fifth fight where you were slapped in the face by his son, he felt obliged to break up the heated argument and take you to a safe place away from there.

Before you said anything he just took off his sunglasses and for the first time looked at you with his piercing blue eyes. "No no, you don't need to say anything kid... I know my son was a horrible man and an asshole to you. I'm on the right side, just because he's my son doesn't mean I'm going to blind myself to the horrible things he did you hear." Albert said it loud and clear, then his cold, rough hands found your face and made you focus on his face.

"Listen to me, pretty boy, you deserve someone better than him." He spoke with a tone that made you feel goosebumps, the nickname "pretty boy" came out practically erotically from his thin lips and the look with the older man's dilated pupils didn't help much with your confused feelings.

With each fight that happened in your relationship, you felt closer and closer to your father-in-law. Even starting to frequent Wesker's mansion when your boyfriend wasn't there, purposely just to be alone with the older man.

Between smiles, conversations and not-so-unconscious looks, you quickly found yourself sitting on the older man's thighs while both of you were breathing faster — unable to hold back any longer, Wesker had given in to his desires and finally kissed you, his lips on yours, in a warm and desperate kiss — his hands going to your ass squeezing the soft flesh and quickly soft moans coming out of both of you, the erection in his pants wouldn't let him lie that he wanted more than just kissing his own son-in-law. "Come on lad... I'll show you how much you need someone older who really knows how to take care of you."

Wesker's cock was thick and pulsing enough to make your brain shut down with each thrust, moaning and drool dripping from the corner of your mouth as your legs trembled around his muscular torso — your pussy dripped onto his bare, skin-tight member. skin made you feel the thick, dirty tip of precum kissing your uterus and threatening to fill you at any moment. "Fuck--! open that pussy wider for me, good boy..." Wesker moaned as he grabbed your thighs and squeezed the soft flesh there, leaving marks all over it.

Having sex with your own father-in-law was dirty and wrong... But it was incredibly hot. Unlike your boyfriend, the older man really focused on your pleasure.

He smiled huskily as he saw you turn into a trembling mess barely able to suck his dick while you did a 69 in his office. "You have a charming and pretty pussy, boy," He moaned, licking and wrapping his lips around your clit, sucking hard as he felt your hand on his cock, stroking it gently. The light pressure on his dick was pleasant and arousing as it also fueled his desire to make you feel as good as he could. He kept alternating between his fingers inside you and his tongue on your clit, and every now and then, he'd let a finger slip into your ass, and a moan from your lips encouraged him to continue doing so. "Fuck, you're tight, so, so tight..." Wesker's moaned, his hands squeezing your thighs, wanting you to hold onto him, to let him know that you were enjoying it. "My son is an asshole for letting such a needy and bitchy boy like you run wild, I'm glad I got you for myself, right?"

The two of you fucked like two animals in heat, even with your boyfriend at home — every time you waited for him to sleep and ran to Wesker's office. "Do you want me to help you with this my angel?" The scientist laughed as he fingered your pussy with two thick fingers, rhythmically thrusting into your g-spot and making you roll your eyes and hold on to the wooden table that you were leaning against, making the tall man laugh.

"Shhhh, don't make any noise, be a good slut and keep those beautiful moans bottled up ok? You really are sensitive boy- holy shit, it's just my fingers and you're already squirming for me to touch that cute pussy of yours." He snapped his fingers against your pussy, a sting, but not enough to make you shudder too much as his attention was diverted to your clit, flicking it with his thumb, trying to tease you even more and make you beg for him. him again. "You want me to fuck you don't you? Then you better beg for it boy." Albert pronounced each syllable fiercely, unbuttoning his pants and once again exposing his thick, pulsing member — you could smell the musk and the heat radiating from his groin, making you drip even more and barely be able to think beyond begging him in a slurred manner to fuck you soon.

"My son should see what a whore his boyfriend is for me, you know?" He teased as he buried himself without warning into your wet heat, covering your mouth with his hand as his thrusts were animalistic but with a concern that his cock would hit all the right spots on your sensitive wall.

Fingers, tongue, dick, sex toys, everything you wanted he used for your pleasure, taking you to orgasms that you didn't even know could be so pleasurable. Besides his look conveyed more than a simple desire for you — he wanted more, a lovers' affair wouldn't satisfy him, he needed to steal you from his son.

And how to do this? Simple, record a short porn video and send it to him later — cruel? Sure, but your father-in-law was sick and obsessed with you enough to not even care about his own son.

"Look at the camera, come on my prince, be a good slut and fix your eyes on the lens." Wesker pulled your hair as he made you look at the recording instrument with your face messy and flushed with pleasure — your pussy squeezed and milked the older man's cock as he made sure to record you from every possible angle.

"Smile darling... Tell him who you belong to." He grunted in your ear, hearing you moan his name repeatedly as he increased his thrusts to the point of making your groin hurt and hot, mixing your juices and his cum that made your thighs even wetter. He held his head tightly to the camera, as a cruel smile spread across his own face. “It looks like you lost quite a boy, I never thought you were so stupid, son... But you can leave it, daddy will take good care of your... Ex-boyfriend." The blonde laughed as he came again inside your pussy, seeing you moan drunk of pleasure for him — Wesker loved you in a distorted way, but unlike his son, he really saw a future with you by his side. Like his boy, as it had to be.

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messenger-of-babel · 3 months ago

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Rose Coloured Glasses

Summary: You've only ever been able to see Wesker in shades of pink, even when that colour brings you to your knees.

Word Count: 2.3K

Notes: Language and mention of needles. First time writing for Wesker (woohoo) he's such a fun character to write for. Really hoping to pull out my fav psycho a few more times. Please enjoy! xx

━━━━━━━━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Your downfall was loving a man in uniform.

You didn't care if it was the one he wore in the morning, clad in the gear required for the captain of S.T.A.R.S. Neatly ironed blue button up tucked into black tactical pants, logo blazing proudly on his shoulder. His hand would come to stroke your cheek softly before being covered with the black leather of his gloves. It was just as good as the one he wore in the evenings, trading it out for a long white lab coat and retreating back to the lab that saw more of him than you ever did.

Your friends called you crazy. The man was married to his job, always in the office and focused on the task. Didn't matter if you had come to bring him lunch and surprise his coworkers that there was, in fact, someone warming his bed at night. You took a selfish kind of pride in that fact, drinking in the startled looks and disturbed gazes of his squad. It was hard to conceal your smile as you raised onto your tiptoes, kissing his cheek lightly before handing over the coffee you had gone to get him. He wouldn't react, of course. He hardly ever did. Gruff and cold, he'd thank you, gloved hand gently pushing you out and away from him. He'd go right back to working like you weren't even there, and you would see yourself out.

They called him toxic. Called him a deadbeat of a partner who couldn't give back what he got. That wasn't even including the secret job as a scientist you kept for him, swearing you'd take that to your grave. You deluded yourself, hanging onto those rose-coloured glasses with tightly wound fingers. It all fell away when he did eventually come to bed, tired and worn but taking his place next to you. It might not seem overly affectionate to anyone else, the way he threw his arm over your midriff, but you knew it was. It was held in the way his breath hit the back of your neck in soft puffs, slowly easing out as he let himself drift asleep. The sleep he denied himself so frequently and seemed to elude him unless you were lying beside him. It was in the way he got up before you did, folding the blankets back up properly once he slipped out, ensuring that the chill of the morning didn't reach you. The way he made sure what you needed was laid out over the back of the chair by the cupboard as he got dressed himself. You liked that he had passion, that he was curious. You liked that he knew what he wanted and how to get it. You liked that he wanted to make a difference in this world, to make his mark.

If only you had known just what kind of mark he was going to make.

When Chris, one of his squad members came to your house, gun drawn, after a particular mission, your glasses were tested. His eyes had been wild, and you were desperate to call for the police if it wasn't for the fact that S.T.A.R.S was the best of them. You hadn't believed anything that he had said at first, shaking your head violently while he hurled accusations of helping him at you. But as the tears pricked your eyes, some of the dots did manage to line up, giving Chris some credibility. It was further backed up when the police report came in from the Arklay incident, and the way that he never came back for you.

Not even once.

You had cried of course. cried for days in fact, at the idea that he had gotten into a dangerous situation and wasn't who he had seemed to be. It wasn't just that fact though. You weren't sure if the reason you were crying was because he had lied, or the fact that regardless, he hadn't come back for you. His uniforms and coats were still ironed and hanging up neatly in the cupboard, his favourite expensive coffee still stocked in the pantry. There were traces of him at every twist and turn of that cramped apartment until you couldn't take it anymore.

You left, doing your best to move on. You had convinced yourself that those rose-coloured glasses were gone, that you had matured and learnt from your time in Raccoon. However, when he turned up on your doorstep, changed but still very recognisable as the Albert you knew, everything was still coloured in shades of pink. You had resisted at the start, you really did. you remembered what Chris had told you about him, about what had happened. you tried to think of the death and the trials and the ethical lines that were crossed in the name of science, the agency he worked had worked for. That is what your brain recited on loop, but unfortunately it was your heart that remembered the way he'd walk on the side closest of the road to protect you, the way his body heat would cling to his jacket he'd offer you, silent and facial expression blank. You couldn’t forget the way his lips would trace across your shoulder the rare times he was actually in the mood, stirring the blood beneath. So, who could blame you when he initiated a hug, something he never did? who could blame the way your body remembered to melt into him, eyes fluttering shut as you cried. You weren't sure if it was tears of relief or not.

Now you were here, in some safe house. The red, rosy hue was gone, replaced with a monochrome grey that was as bland as you felt. Your glasses hadn't just been pried from your hands; you had held on too tight. Instead, the way you woke up to what was happening was the shattering of the lenses, causing a painful awakening. He had said he had a gift, something for your anniversary. You wished you could take away the memory of how your body had warmed in excitement, thrilled at the idea of a gift.

He had definitely changed since he had been away, uniforms ditched in favour of a black leather fit that clung to his frame, black frames perched on his nose. You hadn't cared, if your Albert was back, he was back. However, as he had pinned your arm down on the dining room table, shades tossed to some corner from where you had slapped them off and revealing his glowing eyes, you realised your old Albert was gone. Your old Albert still had some humanity in him.

"To take you with me to the new world." he had said gruffly when you protested and screamed, the syringe hovering above your skin. "To see if you're worthy."

You didn't know what this 'new world' of his was or what he was fighting to inject into your system. You had detached yourself completely from his work, asking nothing. You knew in the back of your mind that you should. That you should ask and see for yourself, but the bliss of having him back paired with the absolute fear that you wouldn't like what you would see kept your mouth shut. When that needle breached your skin, it had burnt like fire.

You screamed; face contorted. When the plunger was fully dispensed, he let your arm go and you stumbled away, tripping over your own feet. Holding your arm to your chest you sobbed, making out the shape of his boots as they appeared in your tear blurred vision. He crouched down, softly petting your hair with a tenderness that now scared you. "There." he hummed, satisfied with himself. "Now you'll be more than human. You'll be what you deserve to be."

"What do you mean?" you had forced your throat to croak out, trying your best to not throw up.

"The Uroboros. It will fuse with your body on a cellular level soon enough, and then you can rule with me. Usher in the new dawn and set the sun on the age of man."

His words and smug tone had begun to scare you, tears slipping down your cheeks. However, you didn’t get a moment to ask him what he meant as your body arched, jerking at the sudden pain that overtook you. It felt like your bones were all snapping, a burning hot liquid coursing through your body. It was as if your veins had been replaced by acid, contorting your mouth into shrieks and wails as it raced around your system. It was the worst pain you had ever felt in your life, and the last thing you could make out before your brain blacked out was the face of a monster peering down at you, red eyes boring into yours like the devils.

Then you awoke here, in the safe house. A place only he and his closest employees could access. Your room was lush, bed was soft and comfortable. decor was a little dated, but it still complimented each other regardless. The closet filled with your favourite clothes, brands and pieces that you had lost back in the bombing of Raccoon. The small tea cupboard was stocked with the ingredients needed for your favourite hot drinks and fresh groceries were dropped off every week through a dumbwaiter. It might have even been enjoyable, save for the fact that the walls were glass, separated from prying eyes of the outside only by the curtains you pulled across it.

Not like you had many visitors anyways. Wesker himself had only visited you twice, caught up in his major plan and crushing Chris Redfield under his heel. He had stroked your face sweetly, but the cold of the leather now sent unpleasant shivers down your skin. He promised he would return for you when the new world he envisioned was on the horizon, and he'd come back for you to usher in the new age.

Then he was gone, leaving you alone save for the virus he'd planted in your body. Now you lied on your side atop the large mattress, tracing over your arm. Your skin bulged and warped unpleasantly where you traced, fingertips bringing vine-like contortions to your skin, disfiguring it. You healed faster than you ever had before since he injected you, the most fucked up anniversary gift he had given you to date. He had been thrilled of course, praising you. Telling you that, 'He knew you would be perfect,' as if you hadn’t now turned into some monstrosity. Your veins flared black when you got angry, and everything became overwhelming.

The lights were too bright, sounds too loud. You moved faster that you meant to, creating bruises as you bumped into things before the dark marks healed before your eyes. He had said something like this would happen, when he tried to coach you through it. You had spat at him to leave. You didn’t want to partake in the tenderness he now offered, now twice as affectionate now that the virus had taken root in your system. He was convinced you would come around, if you only knew.

With each passing day that felt more and more unlikely. Empty syringe canisters decorated the top of the dresser, the one thing that was helping you still feel moderately human. He had cases of it sent to you twice a month, telling you to take it regularly in order to maintain your new 'gift'. You didn’t care about his gift. Didn't care if it died a slow, painful death within your body, but you didn't want to go down with it. The Uroboros inside you calmed when you took it, no longer trying to press against your skin uncomfortably, no longer speaking words into your mind and filling your thoughts with dramatic urges for violence.

As you depressed the syringe plunger in your leg, it was a like a breath of fresh air after forgetting how to breathe, clearing the mist from your eyes. Your jaw drops in relief as you take your medication, eyelashes fluttering. You only had three left, enough to last you maybe under a month if you were lucky. Despite sending notes back up the dumbwaiter asking where your next case was, there was no reply.

The fear had begun to set it in. No one knew where you were, and if someone managed to have stopped your crazed ex-partner, there'd be little to no chance that he'd give up your location, even if it meant saving you. He was too prideful for that, something you used to find endearing about him. You rub your thumb over the puncture site, lip trembling as you fight back the urge to cry. There was only so much medication left, and when it ran out you knew the urge inside you would take over. You would lose your humanity just like he did, hands just as stained.

Your tears were stained deep into the fabric of your pillow as you cried again that night, fear and shame wrapping claws around your chest like usual. You could feel it asleep under your skin, coiled like a snake waiting to break free from its prison. Maybe this was your punishment, to have to count down your days in silence, dreading the next dose you'd be forced to take. All alone, waiting to either get more medication or to become a monster. You slowly slipped into sleep once you let exhaustion take you, wishfully hoping, praying that someone would come to get you. Anyone but the man in uniform who had become your downfall.

Your rose-coloured glasses may have showed you the world in pink, but no one told you it was blood on the other side of those lenses.

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