#totalglobalsaturation

He doesn’t truly care much about your height at all, though he enjoys how much power he feels it gives him over you in certain instances

Hugging him ends with you nuzzling into his chest 4 times out of 5, unless you’re laying down. 

He is prone to tilting your chin up with 2 fingers to make you look at him in his eyes

He is very easily intimidating, standing in the 6’- 6’3 range (depending on which Wesker it is)

He becomes quickly amused if you try to intimidate him considering your smaller stature, proud even

His natural stride is longer, but he subconsciously shortens it for you, meeting your pace as to not lose you behind him

As for being picked up, he will only do it in private and for specific reasons

Like moving you out of his way, you were baffled by how effortless it truly was when he picked you up and set you elsewhere 

Or he’ll put you up to sit on the counter mid-conversation so he doesn’t have to look down at you so much—you’re giving the poor man neck issues

If he is particularly tired or relaxed when you're around he may very well rest his head on yours. It’s horrible for his perfect posture, but he loves you, so he doesn’t really care

The lab's air was thick and smelled sterile to a nearly nauseating degree for anyone who hadn’t grown as used to it as the two of you had. Albert sat in a tall chair made from black leather that stuck to skin like a vice when it was humid. His forearm rests on the armrest, exposed to you. This routine was always silently intimate; clean the area with an alcohol wipe, uncap the syringe with gloved hands, insert the needle with the precision of a neurosurgeon, and dispose of the sharps. He always healed too fast to need to worry about the puncture wound. You watch his jaw tighten and his eyes close, a microsecond of pain shooting through him as the virus within him assimilates the new dose. You found it to be quite beautiful, but that's the virologist within you squeaking like a newbie in the lab for the very first time.

“This will never get old…” You smile softly, watching him respond so well to the dose, satisfied when his racing heartbeat slows back down to normal. 

“Part of me is inclined to call you a sadist, beloved.” He muses, standing up from the chair. The seat groans in protest, reminding him to replace that later. 

“It is not sadistic. It’s not your pain I enjoy.” You say, back turned to him as you close up the case those syringes are kept in, sliding it back into the locked storage box it belongs in. In your lab, everything has a place. “It’s seeing how well you respond to it, our work, I just can’t get enough.”

“Yet you refuse to take any of your own.” Albert leans against the wall, arms crossed. His amber eyes meeting yours when you turn around, slitted pupils dilating in slight increments to adjust to microscopic changes in the light. “You refuse to join me in this strength, we’ve claimed the world—only the strong remain. Why do you still hesitate?”

“I have my reasons-”

“You don’t trust that you’ll survive it,” He cuts you off, tilting your chin up to peer into your eyes with two fingers.  “Do you believe yourself too weak? I can assure you that there is nothing to worry about, you are my wife, dearest.” The implication he could have possibly picked a woman too weak to survive is almost offensive to him. His diagnosis is not entirely wrong, this strain of Uroboros is…unstable, to say the least, you have every right to doubt it. It eventually achieves homeostasis within a being, as it has with most of the 80 million remaining members of the human race. 

“I will not be pressured into this, Albert. I’m simply acting based on the data I have available to me. Uroboros is aggressive. It is volatile. Homeostasis is a roll of dice entirely and I am not willing to play that game until the odds are in my favor. Not to mention, it reflects the temperament of its host, and I can assure you that lately you have been anything but stable minded.” You remind him, grabbing his wrist and removing his hand from your face.

A thin smile graces his features. “And yet here I stand.”

“Because your wife is a genius that understands how to keep it under control.” You counter, “If I must maintain my own dose alongside yours there becomes room for error, error I will not tolerate. You need me at my best until homeostasis is achieved.”

His irritation does not go unnoticed by you, his gaze feels like shards of ice, his hands idly trace the seams of the storage box. “I chose you to stand beside me, not behind me, my love. I am growing tired of your hesitance to enjoy what we’ve created.”

“I have no intentions to change my mind anytime soon.” You meet his eyes as you say this, then turn back to your desk to continue your work. It is in times like this, where he’s clearly not going to agree with you, that you ignore him. You examine a microscope, studying the behaviors of the virus contained within the petri dish; it taps the glass of the dish in the direction of your husband, following him around the dish as he moves around the room. It was your favorite discovery you’d made. Uroboros had a strong cohesive property—it recognizes itself in being and reaches for it. Many of the mutated humans deemed too weak to survive the strain ended up becoming amalgamations of screaming mutants due to this… it was a beautiful sight. It was on your to do list to obtain one of these rat king-esq creatures to study on your own. 

You jot notes down in your notebook in that wonderful handwriting, neat and legible from years of practice writing lab reports. You hear your husbands dress shoes against the tile approaching you. “Albert, what are you d-” 

A pinprick, right against your carotid artery. It was quick and precise. He’d taken one of those damned syringes and stuck it in the artery supplying the most blood to your brain. 

“Shhh,” He hushes you, holding your actively weakening body close with an arm around your waist and his head resting atop of yours. “Let it happen, beloved, let it happen.” 

You feel your heart rate accelerate and the world slowing significantly. You’d told him no. You’d told him no and he infected you anyway. The thought lingers in your head for the next 30 seconds that you’re conscious. 

When you wake up, you’re in your shared bed. He sits on the edge of the bed; he’d reached over to move a piece of hair from your eyes. You turn your body entirely to force him to stare at your back. “I have no words to communicate how angry I am with you right now, you selfish, thick headed, asshole!” Your words carry little weight, considering the tired brittleness of your tone. Fatigue plagued your limbs and you swear you can feel the Uroboros in your veins. It's as angry as you are.

“You'll thank me, my dear. I told you it wouldn't kill you.” He pulls his hand back from you, speaking with that signature smugness of his—you usually adore it, right now, you do not.

“Thats not the point, Albert. I told you I would do this on my own terms. You did not listen to me.” You growl at him, voice dripping with irritation. You didn’t give him the dignity of even the tiniest of glances towards him. Instead, you stand from the bed, trembling ever so slightly from the newfound strength coursing through you. The floorboards feel as if they could splinter and crack beneath you, as if you could make them that fragile.”You think this makes us equals?” Your voice sounds like jagged glass breaking; this time lacking your typical clinical edge to it. You walk to the en-suite, the wood of the doorframe groaning under your hands. “It doesn’t. It just makes you look pathetic. Impatient– a fool at best.” 

“Don’t be so emotional,” he says with a calmness that is maddening, standing by the window, silhouetted against the dim glow of the world outside. “You’ll thank me for the clarity I’ve provided you once the transition phase is over.”

“In an hour, I will be reinforced in my lab office.” you counter, turning your head to look over your shoulder, meeting his eyes for the first time since you woke. “Don’t bother checking the lab monitors, I’m revoking your access to my personal servers.”

“Don’t be a child. We have work to do, the saturation isn’t truly complete until stabilization is global and you know that.” Clearly your decision had put the tiniest of cracks in the mask he wore as a “God”.

“Your saturation,” You correct, glancing in the mirror at yourself. While your pupils remain normal, your eyes look lighter. “Consider this break I’m taking a sabbatical. Have fun handling this on your own.” 

He watches you pace through the room and down the hall. His jaw tightens and he adjusts his sunglasses on his face. “Pouting like that isn’t going to change anything!” He yells down the hall, a thud follows as the lamp on the bedside table crashes to the ground. By the very end of his fit, most of the furniture in the room was turned over or broken in some way. The virus within him eats up this anger, becoming squirrely beneath his skin.

A few of the survivors—The Worthy, as they dubbed themselves—watch him as he passes by. His exposure being more concentrated and precise left him without the minor side effects the vast majority had had, blackened veins and sclera, strange black tendrils sticking from skin where the virus has broken through, and many other unsightly things. They’d become the new norm, that’s why Wesker stood out from them; flawless, a god among men. The men envy him, but respect him—the women envy you. They see Wesker as a pillar of excellence, perfection refined into one man; behind his glasses, however, he sees red. His vision blurs, without you to do the tedious work of properly dosing and monitoring changes within him, uroboros was no longer a tool, but a tide slowly beginning to come back in.

“I don’t recall asking about your symptoms, Husband.” Your voice had rung through the intercom from your locked office in the lab three days prior. You hadn’t left once. “You swear you can handle this without me, be my guest.”

He scoffed at your attitude, “You can be pouty all you want, wife, don’t be surprised when the new world doesn't recognize the value I see in you.” He responds, salty that you still refuse to see why he's right. “I’m perfectly capable of achieving my own homeostasis.”

He says that; but he isn’t.

By the end of the first week without you at his side, he was a wreck. Multiple lab stations were a mess, his fits of rage becoming more and more frequent as the Uroboros within him assimilated with the irritation—the aggression—in his head. He needs you, he can’t function with you here… but you’re still in the lab. Still angry at him. The Worthy no longer responded to him with the same reverent fervor they used to, he was too unpredictable, prone to exploding.  

Uroboros was like a mirror. Wesker is angry, Uroboros becomes violent… even his loneliness seems to make the virus more volatile within him, keeping him on edge. Even when he’s alone in the main lab, the light from your office casting through the dark room, his hands tremble. He yearns to force that door open just to see you for even a few seconds. For a moment he realizes this is the closest to failure he’s ever been—and he thought he’d already won.

He couldn’t admit that. Never. Albert Wesker does not fail. He paces over to the locked cabinet you kept the syringes in. He knows the code and as much as he knows you enjoy thinking he doesn’t, it's your wedding date…he finds it cute. Once the door of the locked cabinet pops open he takes out the case and sets it on a lab table. 

One small vial, three quarters full with an obsidian liquid that seems to get excited at his touch. He saw the amount you’d given him a previous time, surely by now he's capable of handling more. He’s stronger now, and determined to prove that he doesn’t need to rely on you for these things. He fills the syringe almost entirely, flicking air bubbles out as he preps the same spot you always had. 

As he pushed the plunger down, forcing the syringes contents into his veins, it felt as it always does. Cold, the slightest sharp pain, from here it would be nothing—normally. This time was different. It felt like his body was on fire. Wesker’s breath hitched, his hands shook, the syringe in his hand dropping to the ground and shattering on impact. His heart beats heavy and the sound reverberates in his ears. Something is wrong. He expected things to go as normal, assimilation of familiar virus cells, not…this. His vision breaks and flashes white in the dark room, his breath becomes heavy and he folds in on himself. His knees surely bruised as they hit the ground, a stressed hand running through his hair as the pain shoots through him. 

Rejection. This is what rejection feels like. When Uroboros is denied the stabilizing enzymes you knew how to correctly administer, it begins to reject. A strangled cry slips past his lips, he's never felt this weak before in his life—surely he looked pathetic, pitiful, nowhere near the utter perfection he represents. Such a sloppy miscalculation on his part—even he knows that. He’s sure he'll be fine, he’ll assimilate the cells eventually. Wasting precious time. Time he could be doing anything else.

His thoughts are interrupted by the door to your office opening, your figure in the doorway but all sounds are muted.

“Oh you poor thing.” The heels of your boots click against the tiles. “I told you this would happen.” Not that he could understand you. You kneel down to his side, pushing him by his shoulder to lean against the black lab table. “Let me help.”

In your hands was another glass syringe, the liquid within this one amber. You does your routine. Clean the area with an alcohol wipe, uncap the syringe with gloved hands, insert the needle, inject, and dispose of the sharps. His reaction is immediate. While you’d been “pouting” as your darling husband so gracefully put it, you’d created a neutralizing agent. Proven effective via trial on yourself… a risk was taken, fortunately your calculating mind had proven itself once again. While you completely cleansed yourself of the early-stage infection; you know how important this is to Albert. The dosage you gave him is nowhere near enough to cleanse the months of doses of Uroboros, just enough to reverse the overdose. The tendrils that pieced through his skin seem to hiss as they recede.

The silence that followed was intense, the rasp of his heavy breathing was all there was to be heard as his body tried to recuperate. “The tremors should subside soon, my love.” You say, sitting yourself down next to him, resting your head on his shoulder. “I am still mad at you, but not enough to see you dead.”

“You…you neutralized it.” He’d noticed your eyes—no longer glowing amber, no slit-shaped pupil. “In yourself.” His voice waivered, weakness evident in the sound.

“I did. I told you I would do things on my own terms. I wish you didn’t get so caught up in your vision that you couldn’t handle that.” Your hand entwines with his, rubbing a thumb along his knuckle. “I think now you understand you cannot do this on your own..”

His hand fully grips yours, signs of strength returning to him. “Did you find a way to-”

“Force homeostasis? Yes. Of course it needs to be tested until proven effective.. I wasn’t doing nothing in the lab for the last week, my love.” You speak softly, his ears must be sensitive now surely, being loud would hurt him. After allowing him a moment to recover you stand, helping him get to his feet. “I love you, if you ever scare me like that again so help me God I will kill you. Oh. And if you think you can just stick a needle in me whenever you’d like, you will find just how quickly you will lose the privilege to stick anything in me.” 

He hears the venom in your tone and chuckles, “Always so charming, beloved.”

The world was finally still—the age of man ended, as your husband had put it. He stood at a window, admiring the view. Scattered city lights mark the homes of the few remaining there, the worthy. He didn’t turn when he heard your footsteps, nor the beating of your heart that had long ago synced with his–a result of your refined virus, one you took on your own will. When you reach his side his arm finds its way around your waist and you curl into it. The view was wonderful, the fruit of your labors finally revealing itself. The sight is even prettier with in the arms of the man you’d helped build it.

“It’s as you envisioned it.” You say softly, your back pressed to his chest, head tucked beneath his. 

He doesn’t say anything in return, he doesn’t truly need to. His attention has moved from the view and to the glass itself. The reflection of the two of you, specifically. 

Your eyes, amber like his once again, reflect in the glass.

After the fall of civilization as the world knew it, it lacked control, efficiency, even. One thing you share dangerously in common with your husband is a peeve for irrationality, and an urge to keep things neat and in place. Everything has a place in your mind, so does every person. In fact, now it is your place to decide where those things belong.

With Wesker’s help, now that he’s accepted, he is truly lost without your beautifully complex mind. Civilization has been clumped into sectors. Sectors you have the keys to, so to speak, total and utter control. 80 million people, split into 8 sections across the continents—with the aid of Uro, Antarctica is now entirely habitable.

This is how you spend your mornings, in bed, the strap of the slip you slept in sliding down your shoulder with your laptop resting on your thighs. The dim light of the screen reflects off your features, although not strong enough to overpower the soft glow of your amber colored eyes. The data on the screen tells you everything about each sector in a given moment—ill, dying, or overall weak survivors are identified and flagged. In this case, there was an intriguing number of ill people within sector 2, Central America. It never fails to amaze you that from where you sit, you can completely isolate 10 million people, and have the worthy who choose to serve yourself and Wesker as higher beings take the anomalies away to your labs for poking and prodding. It’s truly a power trip, unlike anything you’d ever felt before.

Once the issues flagged in any sectors were handled for the morning, you close your laptop and leave it on your nightstand. The sun hasn’t fully come up above the horizon, so the sky is still darkened, a few remaining stars visible. You notice next to you a lack of a familiar warm body. The place he’d been lying still ran hot, so he clearly had just gotten up moments before you woke. You glance around, eyes finally landing on your husband’s figure on the balcony. Amber eyes meet your own, and a face of admiration graces his sharp features; you notice his lack of sunglasses. “Good morning, beloved.” His voice sounds deeper this early; it scratches your brain just right. “You’ve been efficient,” he praised.

“Hm.” You make a small sound of agreement, sticking out a hand and beckoning him over. “Come back to bed.” Your tiredness also reflects in your voice. He just smiles softly and paces over to you, sitting back in the dip where his body had once been lying. “That wasn’t a question.”

“Not even a please. Clearly, I spoil you.” Albert says, swiping a stray chunk of hair from your eyes and caressing your jaw. When you don’t appear amused to be toyed with this early in the morning, he lies right back down next to you. His arms snake around your waist and pull you closer into his feverish warmth, leaving an opening for soft kisses on your temple, beneath your ear, in your hair—— honestly, anywhere he has access to. For a merciless God, he was such a sweet lover; even if you’d been forced to earn the respect he shows you now.

Your favorite gift from him is your office. Well, more than an office. The Spire, as it’s called. It’s more of a lab than an office, 15 stories tall; your personal office sits right at the top. The view of the world you’ve built is immaculate. The office is sleek, modern, and reflects your tastes perfectly. The organization for efficiency is to your standards, and it soothes your mind to know that he put so much thought into it. The people who were deemed anomalies earlier in the morning were brought here; you watch the experimentation on them from a monitor coinciding with each specimen. Like a child with an ant farm. One by one, the cameras cut as anomalies die out, too weak to handle the stresses they’re put through. It’s a rather gruesome sight, but you remain unfazed. Apoptosis–cell death–induced by concentrated ultraviolet, the subject sinks into an odorless pool of biomass. One second, there is a man standing in the sterile white lab room; the next, there is little more than clumps of dying cells. Complete erasure, the method one you designed yourself. You sigh and lean back in your chair, and a familiar gloved hand rests on your shoulder. You don’t pity the dead; their lack of value irritates you more than anything. Wesker sees much of himself in you when you do this.

“How you’ve grown, my love.” He admires, remembering the times before when he had to goad you into being ruthless for your own protection. “However, some of them were quite resilient, a shame that potential was snuffed.”

“Resilience is friction. What we have built works like a perfectly oiled machine, you know that as well as I do. Friction slows machines.” You reply distastefully.

“So you do listen when I go on those ‘long-winded rants’ you claim to hate.” He remarks, turning you around in your chair to face him. He rests his hands on the arms, caging you in. The proximity lets you get a good look at him, an opportunity that you always appreciate. His sleeves are rolled to the elbows, his hair slicked back the way he's perfected it.

"I always listen when you look at me like that." You bite your lip, looking up into his amber eyes. He never bothers with sunglasses in your office; you always gripe at him to take them off. His eyes are beautiful. You could watch them for hours without growing bored—the way they catch and refract light, the lighter specs shifting within them. The only thing you liked more was the blue hue they held originally. The blue you fell in love with.

When you glance over, you see the setting sun, the stark red of the sky drenching the room in ambient light. Long shadows bleed into the room just as quickly. The dying light catches in his eyes, and the sight makes all the death you’ve witnessed today feel like nothing at all. “You’re letting something keep your attention from me.” He says, a tad irritated. “The work will be here tomorrow. It’s not going anywhere.”

You chuckle at his blatant hypocrisy, remembering the times before this. His hours spent neglecting you in his office, not that you didn’t have your own work to do. “I’m enjoying the silence.” You respond simply.

He doesn’t answer you with words; just a shaken head and a pair of arms scooping you into a bridal carry as he takes you himself to the elevator. 15 stories of reinforced glass descended in silence, not the tense kind.

At dinner, your hand is laced with his–sans gloves– yet another privilege only you have the pleasure of. The warmth of his skin against yours feels grounding. You spend your days surrounded by data and death for this affection, ever so subtle. But that’s just how you function. You speak to each other with harshness, but it’s always soft affection.

“You’ve grown sentimental, husband.” You set your wine glass down as you tease him. “Have I finally made you soft?”

“Only for the one woman alive who knows how to kill me, dear heart.” His thumb strokes your knuckles as he responds, the rhythm slow and sensual. “This perfect world I’ve—we've designed is all for you, in the end. I know how much you care for the efficiency of things. I’ve enjoyed seeing you thrive in this environment; it suits you and your newfound knack for...” He pauses, searching for the right word, “...ultraviolence.” He settles with.

He’d been dead for three weeks now, after the incident in the mansion. The department tried to cover it up. Chief Irons made sure none of the rest of your team could tell the truth to the world; RPD had been eating out of Umbrella’s palm this entire time. While Chris and Jill weren’t too fond of letting it happen, you didn’t mind. You resigned from the department entirely, went out on “mental health” reasons—no one wants a jumpy, PTSD-stricken cop, besides that, they paid you off to keep your mouth shut tight. 

The cold water of the shower ran down your back as you stood under the head. You couldn’t take warm showers anymore, the heat just reminds you of him and his unnatural, almost feverish warmth. Your apartment held a few of his things, from the times he’d brought you home after drinking with the alpha team. You’d always end up begging him to stay, and he did. You had to take the spare hygiene products out of the shower, seeing them in there made you spiral–hell, even thinking about them now is. You turn and tilt your head up, eyes closed, to feel the water hit your face drop by freezing drop. At first the cold showers had been uncomfortable, but to avoid the suffocating ache in your chest from the hot water you considered it a fair trade off.

When you finally got out of the shower, the mirror was not steamed up, you make eye contact with your reflection. 

“Pull yourself together..” You mumble at the sight, you’d sought solace at the bottom of a bottle after the mansion and God it was obvious, but no number of bottles can erase those images from your mind. The bags under your eyes were deep; a shiny red tear-burn stung the corners of. It was hard to look at your face and see anything enjoyable anymore, he used to tell you how beautiful your eyes were, describing them as full of light. When he’d betrayed you, that light was snuffed, though you refuse to believe he meant for you to die in that mansion. Maybe it's wishful thinking.

“You need a routine in your life, the structure will help you in your grief.” Your counselor had said, but when does routine become an unbreakable cycle? Where is the line between a comfortable normal and an obsessive need to do the same things over and over, because repetition means everything will be the same?

Wake up (7:30), shower, get dressed and ready to exist as a person…whatever that consists of that particular day, eat something, go on a run, get coffee, sit on your phone for hours at a time–any entertainment to keep the thoughts away- eat lunch, think too much about him, remember, regret, cry, open a new bottle, drain it, stare in the mirror until you see something redeemable within yourself (you don’t), have dinner, go to the liquor store, change clothes, cry yourself to sleep, repeat. 

It’s not a hard routine to follow, most of it is subconscious now, a ritual repeated like a mantra within you that you couldn’t stop even if you tried. Sometimes, though, a thought pops into your head. ‘What would he think of me?” If he saw you like this? Most believe he would ridicule you, call you names…maybe he would, just a little, and then he’d scoop you up in his arms and let the sound of his heartbeat steady your erratic one. He’d brush his hand through your hair and make everything feel okay. If he were here, everything would be okay.

Today’s session of sorrow ends abruptly with a familiar knock on the door–no, no you’re just hallucinating. It's getting to you, the loneliness, the alcohol, the silence of your apartment—interrupted only by the humming of the refrigerator.

Then it happens again. Some part of you deep down cries not to get your hopes up, you shove it down immediately in favor of your desire. Only one jackass you know knocks like that, and no one even comes around here anymore, surely it’s him… surely you’re not crazy….. But he wouldn’t knock. He has a key. If it’s him it'll open. You go to open the door, met with a brick in your throat and you freeze. Images of the mansion flash in quick succession—opening that door and Kenneth being mauled by a monster in front of you. 

You can’t open it. 

Even touching the handle makes it feel like it’s branding your hand, you recoile and the half full glass in your hand crashes to the floor and cracks into pieces. You retreat. Into your head and into your home. You’d leave the glass for later, you decide, going and curling up on Albert’s side of the bed. 

You were unaware of the fact he had been there. He’d been there, hesitating just as much as you had. He’d hurt you once, he thought, would coming back now hurt you more? He knocked anyway, heard your labored, afraid breathing at the door thanks to his ...enhancements. He knows he should give you that space, that out from all of the horrid unpredictability he brings with him, but Albert Wesker is a selfish man. He waits, it truly only takes about 10 minutes for him to hear your heartbeat settle into something steady, relaxed maybe? Or asleep? Whichever it is, he decides to unlock the door and step inside, closing it lightly behind him.

You sleep light, though. His shoes against the floor is just enough to wake you. Not shifting at all you open your eyes and focus intensely on the sound—one person, heavier build, based on the groaning of the wood floors.. And the clack of…dress shoes? Or something similar. The gait is precise, almost mechanical.. No, no no no. This isn’t real. Another trick of the mind, just like the knock from before.  

Until it’s not, the door opens allowing the hallway light to filter through the room. You don’t see who it is, you just shut your eyes tightly. A hand touches your back and you flinch away; panic sets in immediately. Albert recognizes it too, gripping your shoulder as lightly as he feels possible with his newfound strength. He pulls you in close, not allowing you to struggle away or hurt yourself on something in your panic. 

“Shhh, shh, shh. You’re okay, it's me, my love.” His low voice rings out, but your head is convincing you you’re back in that mansion, walls closing in, heart beating in your ears like rain on a metal roof. It takes a full 30 seconds of restraint and soft words to coax you out of that shell your mind has put itself in, to calm your breathing from the hyperventilation.

“But you’re- you’re supposed to be– the casket-?”

“Was empty. I’m here. They had to believe I was dead for all of this to work; but that was never meant to apply to you.” His hands stroke through your hair. “Look at what you’ve done to yourself, sweet girl.” He notes the bags in your eyes, the tear burn, the way you shook in his arms.

“Everything changed and I didn’t know how to handle it.” You mumble into the area between his neck and his shoulder. “They paid me well enough not to talk about what happened in that mansion that I haven’t even worried about being unemployed. I got lost.”

“I’m here now, but I can’t stay long.” He shifts the both of you to sit on the bed, you’re practically straddling him. The look in your eyes when he says it breaks what's left of his heart. 

“You can’t show up here and then leave me, you ca-”

“I see you still jump to conclusions so preemptively. Never change, my love. I don’t intend to leave you behind again.” A smirk forms on his face as he sees you process his words; your eyes light up at the implication. He always admired how expressive you were, even if it clashed with his own aloof and distant nature. The way you were a social butterfly to his wallflower. 

“You want me to come with you? I ca- well… I don’t really have any other commitments.” You press your forehead to his, looking into his eyes. They’re different now. Inhuman, but the love they hold for you is undeniably there. 

REQUEST RULES:

No incest, pedophilia, generally gross kinks (I do NSFW, but those requests tend to be put last as I have to be in a certain headspace)

I can do headcanons, short fics, or long fics, any of which may inspire me to write a series

I like to know my anons! of course it's totally optional, but leaving an emoji for me to identify you by is always fun, I love getting to know my readers!

As of right now, I am only writing for Wesker and may dabble in some Zeno.

I also have my own series of fics surrounding my oc, if anyone's interested I'll happily share her with you!