Weskertine Smut + Light Angst
︶ ྀི◟ ͜◞˚̣̣̣ ᪥ ˚̣̣̣◟ ͜◞ ྀི︶
Tags: smut, angst, yearning, trauma, experimentation, or@l, f1ngering, kidnapping, s3x, male x female, weskertine, re5, resident evil, chris redfield mentioned, stockholm syndrome, jill valentine, chris redfield
Author’s Note: I don't really do this Tumblr smut stuff, but I decided to give it a try. I wrote this for my friend who loves Weskertine. Hope that you guys like my work... I can post more if you want, just nervous. Ok thank you bye 🥹 Please comment and give any criticism if you have any!
︶ ྀི◟ ͜◞˚̣̣̣ ᪥ ˚̣̣̣◟ ͜◞ ྀི︶
For months, even after being freed, Jill couldn’t get it out of her head. Wesker the way his slicked hair felt under her hands. She could still feel her fingers gently pushing back stray strands. She was so… so clueless back then. Clueless was the only word to describe it. Nothing else seemed right, proper, correct. She could still feel those leather gloves caressing her skin like a whisper, like a puff of wind. He was a distant memory, yet he was so close. Every single bit of him was so close, yet so far.
She was, of course, thankful to Chris for saving her. She could still feel that burning in her chest, the aching infection, and the dizziness she always felt when the drugs began to settle in. It truly was torture. Three years of experimentation on, of sharp needles stabbing into her skin, three years of white walls and machines beeping, a haunting symphony in her ears. And amidst the cacophony of noises she also heard while with Wesker, she also heard his voice. His voice was like a physical force that controlled her, the raspiness, the condescending tone he always used… God, as it is wrong to say that she missed him?
She went through hell and back, from a year-long medically induced coma and so many experimentations that it made her hair turn golden, as if sunlight had been woven into her strands of once brown, choppy hair… she had been through everything that anybody could imagine. She had these moments, these sudden shocks where all she could think about was Wesker, what he did to her. It was as if those three years were being played right in front of her again.
She was going through one of those moments again, but it wasn’t out in the open when she was with her friends, like usual. It was in the quiet of her apartment, the desaturated azure walls, a white, smooth ceiling, and a nightstand with an array of pills in all colors on top of it. When they came, they didn’t panic; at least, most of the time. They just left her in this state of longing, of… desire. She thought about him so much, that her hands started shaking and her stomach started churning. They weren’t shaking because she was nervous, she was shaking because she was fighting the urge to touch herself… to trace her hands down her body, feel the coarse hair just a few inches away from her throbbing center.
Once she tried to do it, to touch herself to the thought of Wesker… she thought that it might help take the sinful, disgusting thoughts away. Maybe if she just did this once, she wouldn’t feel that heat twirling in the depths of her belly. She didn’t enjoy it much really. When her soft, pale fingers graced and ghosted over her warm, slick folds, the only thing that she realized was that Wesker would never touch her like that again. She felt her skin instead of their leather, heard her whimpers instead of his voice… He was gone, and she was safe.
But that desire did not fade even after that one time of touching herself. It built up and up inside of her, and Jill tried so hard to get rid of it, to disperse this shameful lust twirling and dancing inside of her, causing her core to pulse and weep. She flirted, let other men touch her. Yet as they moaned and trembled above her, there was only one thought in her mind…
The thought of Wesker was a flower, a blooming chrysanthemum that would never wither. The more she thought about him, the more that flower grew and bloomed. And she could never stop thinking about him.
And slowly, as he became a daily thought again, she didn’t think about the blood he sucked out of her body and the things that he plucked out of her and implanted into her, she only thought of his cold fingers, his pink, thrashing tongue… She couldn’t do this, it was so fucking hard.
It was that night in her apartment when a new memory came to her, one long buried in whispered comforts and her friends asking her if she was okay.
Her knees and hands digging into a pair of clean sheets, blonde hair dangling in her eyes, and Wesker’s tongue sliding in and out of her velvety, warm, damp channel. He coaxed moans and mewls from her lips with each curl of his tongue, with each possessive murmur that he thought she couldn’t hear. He always stuck a gloved finger inside of her. “Just to check on you, dear,” he would falsely promise. She was half-asleep when he did it, rubbed her dripping slit, still clothed, and told her it would be okay, that was all just a treatment.
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