#gviral

"cuckolding?" 👀👀👀👀

send in kinks for vic to rate

a mischievous grin spreads his lips , showing off modified metal teeth that had their own shine to them .  charming and off - putting at the same time .      “ i truly wonder how much of it is for the sake of the experiment to you .  to all of us , perhaps .  maybe it was never about the advantage of having a . . .  willing . . .  incubator , after all . ”      nor was it ever about humiliating william or claiming annette as his own .

“ for as long as the fun lasts then we can continue indulging in it , can't we ?  and i'll continue staring into your studious gaze as i have my way with her . ”

hey *bites lip

she doesn't think william deserves any rights to negotiate anything that involves sherry, especially after the way he treated her years prior and the stories the younger girl has had time to recount to claire in between surviving and escaping the hell raccoon city had turned into. but the news of them being on the run has broken - it was bound to happen eventually along with its possibilities, and claire fears inevitably it will reach sherry too. she hopes not, but if the trial to get her custody has proven anything, hope doesn't mean shit.

assorted starters , @gviral

albert wesker had a soft spot for william birkin. years before you took your first breath, you remember rainy raccoon city. the roaring storms overhead and the white walls of the training school. you remember quiet moments. you remember william birkin.

he looks at you like he's seen a ghost, and maybe he has. he's a ghost to you, too. the warmth that you expect to fill your chest never comes- because those memories of william are not ... you won't call them meaningless, because everything has meaning. but his memories are still his own, even if they are yours. rather, you know there are some things buried in your bones that are sacred ⎛ even moreso than yourself ⎠ and that you should not dare to change them.

like his weakness for a certain blond scientist.

is this a joke, william asks, and it hits you then how strange this must be for him. he must imagine that you would be older, or perhaps he thinks that this is exactly what should've happened because you were the chosen one. the one who returned to life ⎛ not you, still you, this time you were born with divinity. back then, you had to earn it ⎠ you don't really know what's going through william's head, because you've never known.

he's the only person you have ever known to surpass you. you remember having to come to terms with that. not you, still you. ❝ neither of us are laughing. it is a poor one, then. ❞

truly, there's nothing humorous about it. you want to feel something, but there's only that void. you wish to reach into your chest and pull at your heartstrings because he did love william birkin in whatever way he could- even when he didn't understand that until it was too late. there was a missing part of him that was shaped like william birkin until the day he died ⎛ just like the one shaped like chris redfield, like jill valentine, like a person he thought he could settle down with ⎠and you ... ?

gviral : “Wait— I'd come with you if I could. You know that.”

Somewhere deep within the old training school, the chemical tang of evolved leech flesh hangs in the air, the bitter stink of Marcus's vengeance. Wesker and Birkin had watched him on the surveillance cameras, before he confronted them — or at least — they were confronted by a creature who wore both his skin and its own estimation of his appearance as a younger man.

They had made their way through the underground administrative corridor. Marcus's viral temper tantrum spelled the end for Umbrella, a grim fact they'd discussed at length over the last several hours. Albert stood at the elevator platform, his S.T.A.R.S. uniform immaculate despite the chaos surrounding them — a sharp, almost deliberate contrast to the entropy that had consumed the training school. Albert Wesker was a creature of calculation even as the world he had helped build began its death rattles.

William, ever his opposite, was a complete mess. The darkness around his eyes polarises the bright, skittish awareness within them, the way they darted toward every shadow as if expecting to see the grinning, leech-ridden visage of James Marcus emerging from the darkness to claim his vengeance.

William had always been, what Wesker often fondly thought of as scruffy, but tonight, the dishevelment was different. It was not the charming, distracted chaos of a man consumed by virological artistry; it was the frantic, unspooling of a creature who knew with startling clarity that the walls of his world were beginning to collapse.

His shirt was unbuttoned at the throat where the knot of his tie sat askew, twisted like a noose that had been hastily loosened by a man gasping for air. The sight of it stirred something deep in his chest — a peculiar, uncomfortable warmth — a sensation he had long since learned to disguise as professional interest, lest the walls of this midwestern tomb bear witness to something that could get them both killed.

❝ I do. ❞ He wanted him with him, he wanted him with him now, tomorrow, the day after. He would have liked nothing more than for William to return home, bundle up his research notes, his wife, his daughter, and get the hell out of Raccoon City — to leave Umbrella behind with him post-haste, especially now.

But they'd already been over this. Wesker's focus finds the sloppy tie around William's neck and with a gesture that felt just as intimate as any kiss they had ever shared, he reached for it, his fingers working carefully around the silk as he spoke. ❝ Once G is finished, you will contact me. The Organisation has resources. We will extract you, your wife and daughter as well, ❞ He adjusted the collar of William's shirt now, carefully, attentively, his hands brushing over William's shoulders as he finished, his cool blue eyes clouded by both the soft grey tint of his lenses and with something like pride at a job well done, or perhaps it was just a quiet affection for the man before him entirely.

The tie hung perfectly now, a sharp arrow of crimson silk pointing down to William's belt buckle. ❝ Umbrella is a sinking ship, William, but we- we are evolution. We will adapt. We will endure. ❞

the uniform still feels foreign on his person. starting a job of this caliber has left him swimming in what he could only describe as the inability to comfortably settle in. this is the man he's become, but will it ever be enough? for here he stands, his youth shining against his features, the gentle hope of a young human pledging to do nothing but good, and a part of him still doesn't feel it's enough. though apparently he's in good company with those thoughts.

There's a short wait before Wesker— Albert Wesker— responds, brain processing such an unlikely scenario against an internal list of rules that forbade the occurrence from happening in his table of likelihoods.

He moves backwards with a jolt of something, a movement that snaps up-and-back with unnatural swiftness, shoulders tightening, the sound of his fabric rustling with it. With such fast movement, his shades, too, are uncentered. It's the movement of battle readiness, of course... it's self-defense.

It's being caught elsewhere. The past, perhaps, with William's unmarred visage at its' helm, or thoughts about the machinations he's developing.

How errant of him.

Wesker moves his shades back with a black-gloved finger, huffing a breath suspiciously close to a chuff.

"Settled in already, are we?" But there's no testiness in his voice. It should be there, and it isn't.

He stands to his full height in another series of swift movements, letting his arms fall to his sides. There is calculation behind his eyes, the lit flare of luciferase painting Birkin's face in weak blooms of red. The way he moves is nothing short of fully intending, forcing Birkin to step back to retain professionalism. It creates a bubble of space between them. There's no malice, though, no turning gears of bilious anger, no frown of 'mistake'.

He cocks his head mildly, letting the same finger push his glasses down enough that Birkin can make out where his eyes are centered: directly on him, like pinprick spotlights. This serves two purposes: it confirms his sightline & his attention; there's no chance he's looking at any scrolling field of data.

The red is stronger without a powerful, prescribed black filter to anonymize its' projection.