Albert Wesker Big Naturals

Once again, you're unsure of what has come over you.

There's never any feelings of pain or anger, when it happens. Only a heavy mass in the center of your chest that makes the intake of breath a nearly impossible task. Within that mass is where all your grief is held, being that there is no discernible origin for your sorrow. It stays and festers within you, because where else would it go? Without a source for your troubles there's no place for you to direct it. So within you it lives, climbing through your lungs and burning your throat until it takes root within your brain.

It should annoy you with how much it renders you useless. Instead you feel hollow.

You have not left your bed the whole day.

There are times where you would not leave for several days. You hope this one would not be one if those times.

Despite how much you sweat or how greasy you feel, not a single muscle within you moves to clean yourself. The growling of your stomach goes ignored, and the same goes for your chapped lips. Instead you pull your blanket tighter around you, hoping to bring yourself a semblance of comfort. It doesn't work. Nothing you do ever does.

Why are you letting yourself get worse again? You were doing so well.

The opening of your front door snaps you out of your head.

Oh. That's right. He has been visiting you regularly since you've given him a copy of your key. Now when he opens that bedroom door he's going to see how you really are. Though the unwashed dishes in the kitchen sink and the messed up couch pillows in the living room was probably more than enough in letting him know the kind of person you are when no one's looking.

He should leave you. Find someone better. Someone healthy.

The three knocks on your bedroom door sends a chill down your spine. His voice calls out your name, both washing over you like a soothing balm and ice cold water.

"Are you in there?"

He knows you are, and you know that he knows. None of your shoes are missing, most pairs arranged in a small row by your front door, though the ones that have been most recently used are haphazardly thrown in the general direction of the others.

His voice calls to you again. Can't he just go away? At least until you're better.

"Don't come in. Please."

You hate how small your voice sounds, so pitiful and laced with anguish. If it's that evident to you, you imagine it must be a lot more obvious to him. The thought of him being perceptive to your vulnerability makes you want to claw at your skin and tear through him.

Unbeknownst to you, he has always known. That's why he's here after all.

Your name spills from his lips again, quiet and gentle. He speaks to you the same way one does to not spook a frightened animal. "Just let me in, it's alright."

The only sound that comes out of you is a choked back sob, a prickling sensation making itself known in the back of your throat. This time he doesn't bother asking, simply letting himself into your room and shutting the door behind him.

God, you can't even look at him. Your eyes dart to every corner and item in the room before you simply clench them shut, trying to fight the hot sensation you can feel building behind them. Knowing that he is seeing you as you are now its too much humiliation to bear. The heels of your palms press into your face, right over your eyes, as you grit your teeth.

"I'm sorry," you say, still unable to face him. You almost want to curl up and die when you feel the mattress dip beside you.

"It's alright," he says, sitting as close to you as he can.

"I-I'm not usually like this."

"I know."

"You can go, I'll be alright soon."

"I'm not doing that."

"I'm sorry."

There are hands gripping your wrists as he calls to you once again, this time more stern, like how one would scold a misbehaving child. Your hands are being pulled away from your face before you yourself are pulled up to rest against the headboard. Throughout it all your eyes remain closed.

In the darkness of your vision, your senses fill in an image for you. How one of his hands hold yours, his thumb running over your knuckles. How the other hand brushes the hair sticking to your temple, then the feel of his thumb moving over your cheeks. There's no doubt he took note of your eyes bags.

A kiss to one of your hands startle you, and when he hears the sharp intake of your breath you feel the way his lips curve upwards in amusement. Even now you still can't face him, no one has seen you this way before. It feels agonising even if his touches are soothing. A deeper frown appears on your face.

"I'm sorry."

"None of that now."

He speaks in hushed whispers now, like a secret shared between two children or a prayer spilled from devoted lips. The words are both calming and make you want to fall apart, each syllable a breath you can feel on your cheek. His face has moved so close to yours, a hand still cradling the side of your face while the other rubs soothing circles on the inside of your wrist. Even if you aren't looking at him, he doesn't require you to.

He has you all the same.

A breath escapes you as his lips press against your cheek, your eyebrows furrowed as he continues to lay kisses over your temple and brow. Even as you try to turn away in shame his hand keeps you in place and presses you more firmly against him. He kisses the tip of your nose and the corner of your lips, hushing you when you let out a distressed sound.

"I'm being so difficult for you," you lament. "Please stop. I can handle it."

When Wesker gets home, it's already way past your bedtime. His steps are slow, dragging almost, as he makes his way up the stairs and into your shared apartment, closing and locking the door quietly because he doesn't want to wake you up.

Another horribly long day split between S.T.A.R.S. and Umbrella. He can't wait to be rid of both, to finally shed these shackles limiting him and forcing him to jump every time Umbrella says so. But until then, he has to bide his time and keep jumping. Knowing that he has you to come home to certainly helps make things more bearable.

You weren't in any of his plans or predictions for the future. He's never thought of himself as the kind of man that could have a romantic relationship that lasts more than a few months and ends just the way it started – meaningless and without fanfare. But you like to take him by surprise. He doesn't know if what he feels for you is love – he's gone so long without it that he doubts he'd know what it feels like – but he certainly cares about your well-being, enjoys your company, and intends to keep you at his side indefinitely through all the trials and tribulations that might arise in the near future. Perhaps love is as simple as all that – Wesker wouldn't know.

The moonlight is shining down on your sleeping form when he enters your bedroom. You forgot to draw the curtains again so the full moon has full access to your sleeping form, gently caressing your exposed skin and making you almost glow in the darkness of the room. Wesker takes a moment to just look at you – you're beautiful like this, sleeping in his bed, exhausted after your own full day of work yet so at ease resting in a space that belongs to him as well. The fact that you don't stir, don't register his presence as foreign and a threat, makes Wesker's heart squeeze in his chest. It's nice to not be the boogeyman sometimes, but only where you are concerned.

He reluctantly pulls himself away from the doorway and quietly slips inside the bathroom so he can shower. He makes quick work of shedding his clothes and washing away the sweat and grime accumulated throughout the day, then sweeps his damp hair away from his forehead while he shaves – he doesn't like doing it in the morning because those couple of hours between both of you waking up and parting ways for your respective jobs are the most precious hours of Wesker's day. He gets to just hold you during breakfast, sleepily nuzzling your neck with you sat on his lap while you quietly feed him things off your shared plate. He can hang back and watch you get dressed, tripping you up when you're rushing back and forth getting ready just to watch you scowl in his direction and say his name in that annoyed tone that melts into breathless giggles as soon as he hooks his arms around your waist and drags you towards him by your midsection.

Shaving in the morning would take time away from that. So he does it at night.

When he emerges from the bathroom in boxers and a sleep shirt, you've shifted around and changed positions so that you're lying on your stomach and hugging your pillow. The blanket has slipped off of you in the process and so it gives Wesker a perfect view of your bare legs and the way your sleep shorts hug your ass like a second skin, stretched by your bent leg as they are. Your shirt has also ridden up, leaving more than half of your back exposed to the air.

“Oh, play time, I think,” he murmurs lowly to himself, biting his lip as he takes you in and feeling his boxers already growing tight as his cock takes an interest in you.

He crawls into bed slowly, making sure not to jostle the bed too much so as not to wake you up, and very carefully straddles your thighs. He runs a curious hand over your exposed skin, enjoying the warmth of your body and the pliant obliviousness of your sleeping state. So unaware, so relaxed, so trusting. He can feel precum dribbling out of his cock at the thought and he has to suppress a low moan when he caresses your sweet ass, groping it gently and squeezing ever so softly.

He slides your shorts down slowly – partly to make sure you don't wake up, mostly because he likes the tantalising way your bare form is revealed to him; he's unwrapping you like a present and he always likes taking his time with things that matter.

“Let's take a look at you, darling,” Wesker mouths silently when he's pulled your pants down far enough and uses both hands to spread your cheeks and look at your pretty pussy. You're a bit wet from your sleep and scorching hot when he rubs a hand between your folds to feel you up. He licks those fingers when he pulls them away, moaning quietly at the taste of you, then settles himself lower on your legs so he can bend down and burrow his face into your cunt.

He begins with small, kitten licks at your entrance, just testing the waters and making sure you'll stay asleep. When you barely even twitch at the first few swipes of his tongue, Wesker grows bolder as he laves his tongue over your hole and wiggles it between your folds, fingers finding your clit and rubbing it in slow, gentle circles that are meant to turn you on and make you wet but not come.

You taste amazing and with every pass of his tongue over your pussy he only gets hungrier for you. His cock is straining in his boxers, begging to be freed, but he only gives himself a couple of tugs through the fabric before he goes back to getting you wet for him.

The first finger enters you easily so Wesker fucks you slowly with it, savouring the way your walls cling to him and suck him further in with so much greed, then he adds another. This one pulls a noise out of you – not pain, but a bit of discomfort. Wesker slows his pace down now that he's making you take two of his fingers and simply rocks them in and out of your tight pussy while waiting for it to relax and loosen up. In the meantime, he goes back to licking at your cunt, finding your clit and sucking on it a bit, which certainly helps relax you and get you even wetter.

You sigh in relief and fall silent again while you keep on sleeping.

He switches to scissoring you, watching his favourite thing in the world – your tight cunt – open for him and relax the further he plays with it. After that, it doesn't take long to get you as loose as you're going to get while asleep. He pulls his fingers out and sucks them into his mouth while he uses his free hand to pull his cock out, then uses the slick fingers and the precum leaking out of him like a faucet to get himself lubed up for you.

Wesker's eyes flicker briefly towards the night stand. He should put a condom on, really. But he doesn't want to move away from you when he's so comfortable straddling your legs and moving might disturb the bed too much and wake you up. It should be fine just this once, he tells himself, especially if he pulls out before he comes. It'll be okay.

Stroking his painfully hard cock with one hand, Wesker settles himself better between your legs and pulls your pussy lips apart with his fingers so he can have better access to your entrance. He rubs himself between your folds for a bit, sliding his cock across your heated flesh and enjoying the soft sighs that escape you every time he rubs against your clit, then when he can't take it anymore, he lines himself up with your hole and starts pushing in.

You whimper in your sleep when he starts stretching you properly but he goes slow and caresses your legs and lower back soothingly to get you to settle back down. When he finally bottoms out and feels your impossibly warm and tight cunt clenching and unclenching around his entire length as it struggles to adjust, Wesker has to lean over you and bite down on your shirt to muffle a lustful groan.

You feel so good around his cock. Your pussy is just perfect – tight, warm, wet, and so fucking eager to be filled. No matter how much prepping it needs and how you might squirm around a bit in discomfort at the initial stretch, you always wrap your legs around him and urge him to go fast and rough as soon as he's inside you – such a cockslut.

Wesker pulls out of you slowly, moaning very quietly at the way your pussy clings to him as if begging his cock not to leave, then drives back in as gently as possible. He keeps this steady, slow pace for a while, just holding himself up above you and watching his cock slide in and out of your drooling, sleeping pussy. But Wesker is not a patient man and the slow pace is killing him more than granting any relief, so he drapes himself over your back, pinning you under his weight, then starts to fuck you properly.

He still doesn't go as hard as he would if you were awake, but every snap of his hips makes your body jolt under him and the bedsprings start squealing as he sets a good pace. His ankles are keeping your legs spread when you try to shift under him and his soothing murmur in your ear helps you settle down when you start fussing more than usual. Quiet, unconscious moans fall from your pretty lips as Wesker keeps driving his cock in and out of you without signs of stopping until he's finished.

“So fucking good, darling,” he huffs, panting above you and nuzzling your hair, while his hand slips under you and finds your clit. “Just a little bit tighter and then I'm done.” He rubs your nub hard and fast this time, pulling slutty little moans out of you with every press of his fingers to your clit, and before he knows it your cunt is tightening around his cock like a vise as you come quietly in your sleep, sighing and drooling on your pillow while Wesker uses you to get off.

The feeling of your orgasming pussy is so sudden and overwhelming that his balls draw up immediately and he just shoves himself inside as far as he can go and dumps his entire load in your cunt, flooding your pussy and not giving a single fuck that he promised himself he'd pull out. You couldn't pay him to pull out when you feel so good milking his cock like this.

He gives himself a few seconds to catch his breath, then gets up and pulls out of your used pussy. The sight of your glistening lips and his cum dribbling out of you now that he's not plugging you up with his cock anymore makes him want to shove himself back in and fill you again. You'll be mad about this in the morning, surely, but he can't bring himself to regret it – it's not his fault your pussy feels too good.

Wesker cleans you up thoroughly, making sure no evidence of his ‘mistake’ is left behind, then dresses you back up and even fixes your shirt so that it doesn't leave your back exposed to the bedroom air anymore. When he slips under the blanket next to you, now draped over both of you properly, you immediately seek him out and curl yourself up against his side, burrowing into him like a little pill bug. He wraps his arm around you easily and kisses your temple, heart filling with warmth when you sigh contentedly and nuzzle into his chest before sinking into him and going back to the deep sleep of before.

It doesn't take him long to fall asleep after that, either, and he sleeps the whole night through without issue. In the morning, he lets you know that he fucked you when he came home because you like to know when he made use of your body while you were unconscious, but he fails to mention his little creampie. It would only upset you, anyway, and it's not a concern.

You give him a happy smile and a long, sensual kiss on the lips, then pull his cock out so you can give him a morning blowjob before you have to go to work. Wesker grips your hair tightly and moans appreciatively when you take him into your throat without gagging on the first try and he even gets to fuck you on the kitchen table after some coaxing, only needing to gently tell you that it's unfair for you to finish him off without him returning the favour. You happily let him plow you then, bent over the table and showing off that perfect pussy of yours without a second thought.

“And this one is the zygomatic bone,” Albert says softly, caressing your cheekbone with his bare fingers, warm skin on warm skin as his breath fans across your face and heats you up further. You swallow dryly, heart in your throat as it beats a million miles an hour, and look up at him as he hovers over you.

You're lounging in bed with him, just a quiet afternoon spent together as boyfriends because he finally has an off day from both S.T.A.R.S. and Umbrella. You only meant to pop in quickly for an hour or two then let him get some rest – lord knows he needs it, after all – but then he offered to make you some pasta when your stomach growled embarrassingly loudly while cuddling with him on the couch so now you're lying in bed with him after your meal, cradled in his arms while he quietly demonstrates where each bone in your face is and what it's called.

If you're being honest, you stopped paying attention to the names about ten bones ago.

“And here's your temporamandibular joint,” Albert continues. His voice sends shivers through you that you can't really contain – it's low yet gentle, caressing you as sweetly as his fingertips do. “Would you like to demonstrate?”

You open your mouth, Albert's fingers pressing carefully down on your joint to make you feel how it moves.

“Yeah, there you go. Right there.”

The indirect praise makes your pulse skip and jump. Albert's eyes – endless blue vortexes that threaten to drown you every time he looks at you – are glued to your open mouth, zeroing in on your pink tongue darting out to wet your dry lips, and when his hand slides down to cup your jaw instead and tilt your head towards him, you let yourself be pulled in whichever direction he wants without protest. You feel lightheaded as you stare up at him, entirely breathless and caught in the tension that has been simmering between you from the moment he started cooking for you – you helped chop ingredients for him and every time he passed you by on his way from the pot on the stove to the fridge or sink, his front would brush your back teasingly and his arm would settle on your hip while he murmured in your ear, “Just me,” as if he didn't know what effect his actions had on you.

“You take instruction so well, darling. Such a perfect specimen,” he praises now, voice low and soothing, alluring in its depth and darkness, like an ocean you don't know if you can survive. You'll happily let yourself drown.

“Anything for you,” you confess easily, the words leaving your lips like silk slipping through your fingers, but there is no shame or bashfulness to accompany the words, not between the two of you. He already knows he has you – in every sense of the word – and there's no harm in reminding him how much he means to you. He's your whole world and he deserves to know it, to feel it, to hear it, because it was just him and his loneliness for too long before he met you.

“Good boy,” Albert murmurs now, fingers sliding to hold you tight, his thumb resting close to your ear, before he tilts your head up further and captures your lips for a kiss.

His lips glide across yours so effortlessly, like he's lazily relearning your mouth, reminding himself how it feels to caress you this way or bite your lower lip that way or what sounds you make when he sucks on your tongue before licking into your mouth hungrily. You cling to him like a raft in the middle of an ocean, sighing between each press of lips, moaning quietly when his leg slots itself between both of yours to press up against your core, gasping when his hand quests downwards and leaves your jaw in favour of settling over your throat.

He presses down, tightening his fingers just right, and the pressure makes your breath stutter and your heart speed up in your chest while your arousal only gets stronger. Albert's lips stretch until he's grinning down at you, cocky and in control, and oh so beautiful because of it, and your body only grows warmer with lust and affection for him. He looks so good when he's so in control of you.

“There is something so intoxicating about you being so pliant under me, darling,” Albert observes, his thumb rubbing idly at the skin of your neck. His pressure lets up for a moment, letting you take a deep breath in and soothe your burning lungs, then he goes back to gently choking you while your lower half desperately ruts against his leg. “I could kill you so easily like this.”

The moan that slips out of you is involuntary. You screw your eyes shut as your body jolts and throbs with the arousal his words elicit, bucking into his thigh and gasping for breath. You need him so badly.

“Breathtaking,” he murmurs, sounding mesmerised by your reactions, then releases your neck and instead trails a hand down your chest and cups you through your pants, grinding the heel of his palm down onto you and giving you the exact kind of relief you seek.

“Hnng, Albert!” you moan between hitched breaths. “More, please.”

He hums low in his throat but generously obliges, slipping his hand under your waistband and using his bare fingers to pleasure you. Every stroke and circle of his fingers on your heated flesh makes you moan, overwhelmed tears gathering in the corners of your eyes, and when Albert's free hand cups your cheek and strokes the bone he was pointing out to you earlier, your eyes snap open and lock onto his icy gaze, full of heat and possessiveness as it draws you in so completely.

“Eyes on me. That's it, exactly like that,” he orders. His voice takes on a rumbling, pleased tone that lights you on fire and he times it perfectly with his middle finger dipping into you and stretching your hole out. “That's a good boy. How about you come for me, hmm?”

“Y-yes, sir,” you stutter shamelessly, euphoric from the dual stimulation of his hand on you and his finger in you. The sound his thrusting finger makes is downright sinful and it only makes your pleasure mount.

Albert's eyes darken further as his pupil expands, leaving the pale blue of his irises as just a faint ring around the black. His hand speeds up, pumping in and out of you wildly with no finesse, just the goal of getting you to come, and your back arches, a drawn out moan escaping you, as you reach your climax and come hard enough to make you cry. You keep your eyes glued to Albert's the entire time and he rewards you with a kiss when you're done, his hand petting you gently under your pants and working you through the aftermath of a good orgasm.

“Well done,” he purrs, more than satisfied with your performance, then pulls his hand out and brings those gorgeous fingers to your mouth and nudges it open. “Now clean me up.”

You suck on his fingers obediently, looking up at him with wide eyes as your lips wrap around his digits and your tongue caresses the pads and the skin between his fingers, licking the lightly calloused skin and tasting yourself with every pass of your tongue. You can feel Albert's erection poking your hip and twitching every time you hollow out your cheeks and suckle on his fingers, but his self-control is absolute – he doesn't rub himself against you for relief even once.

After a few minutes of just quiet slurping and unwavering eye contact, he finally pulls his fingers out of your mouth with a pop and wipes them of your saliva on your shirt.

“I want to use your thighs this time, darling. Come here, let me see those beautiful legs.”

You let him pull your pants down to your knees and manhandle you so you're lying on your side with Albert spooning you from behind. You can hear him shuffling at your back and the sound of a plastic cap opening, then he pulls your thighs apart just a tad before he slides his lubed up cock between your legs. You close them tightly, making your flesh the perfect grip and warmth for his needy cock, and let out a sigh of relief and pleasure both when Albert's hand comes around you to hold you flush against him by the throat. He doesn't squeeze but his grip is firm and doesn't leave room for you to do anything other than stay in his hold and let him use your thighs.

“Perfectly warm and tight. You really are such a fine specimen, my dear. Couldn't have found a better boyfriend,” Albert pants in your ear, his hips snapping against your ass forcefully and making your body rock back and forth under his assault. The room fills with the sounds of your combined heavy breathing and the slapping of skin, but all you can focus on is how heavy and warm Albert's cock is between your legs, how delicious the slide of it feels when he rubs up against you and stimulates you again. His words only add fuel to the fire burning in your belly for a second time.

You can't really speak, though you doubt you'd know what to say anyway. Having Albert pressed so close to you, his chest glued to your back, with that muscular arm wrapped around your torso and his strong fingers circling your throat while he fucks your thighs is too much for your poor brain to handle. His hot breath hits the shell of your ear before he takes the lobe between his teeth and bites down at the same time his cock catches on your entrance on a particularly sloppy slide and it makes you whine and squirm in his arms. It catches again on the second pass through and Albert just jams his tip inside – and only the tip – then proceeds to rut into you just like that, the hand at your throat slowly tightening to match the steady build-up of another orgasm in your belly.

He flicks his tongue out to tease your ear and says, “Come. Now,” in an authoritative voice that leaves no room for argument, so you let go and come again as soon as the command is out of his mouth. Albert groans at the feeling of your hole squeezing the tip of his cock like that before he pulls out and shoves himself back between your thighs properly, thrusting all the way inside until his balls are flush with your thighs, and comes with you.

The feeling of that sticky, warm cum coating your thighs is nothing short of euphoria.

You barely notice when he lets go of your throat and massages your neck to make sure you're okay, only focused on how good and warm you feel in his hold, how secure he makes you feel as he holds you and lets you come back to yourself bit by bit until you're back to normal.

When you lay a hand over his own and squeeze his fingers, that's when Albert finally pulls out from between your legs and fetches a bunch of tissues so he can clean you up. He presses light, appreciative kisses on your thighs once he's done, a gesture that makes you more flustered than the thigh-fucking did, then settles back behind you after setting your clothes to rights so he can spoon you again.

“We should do that again,” you mumble sleepily through the yawn that overtakes you. Albert hums as he rubs a hand up and down your arm and gently kisses your neck.

“We will. Sleep now. You did promise to let me rest, after all,” he teases playfully.

“Not my fault you like to push my buttons,” you protest, lightly slapping his hand before you just let it flop back down, too lethargic after two orgasms to actually fight him about being a menace.

“If your buttons weren't so satisfying to push, maybe I wouldn't do it as often.”

Any comeback you might have come up with stays an unfinished thought in your mind because your eyes slip closed and your breathing evens out quite fast, the utter contentment of being here with your boyfriend dragging you under and making you fall asleep before you can say anything in response. Albert doesn't take much longer to follow you into a nap, though, because despite his teasing he truly is utterly exhausted, so it doesn't matter in the long run anyway.

Chapter Two: Forgiveness

Chapter Three: The Future of a Past Life

Chapter Four: The Wolf and The Lamb

Chapter Five: Imperfectly Perfect

Chapter Six: Alchemy : afab!reader | amab!reader

Chapter Seven: Simple

Chapter Eight: Worth The Wait

Chapter Nine: In Sickness and In Health

Chapter Ten: Be Good

He rounds a corner to the lunch hall and the shock hits him all at once.  Where there was once dismal gray eaten by blackened mold now stands the vibrant, lively atmosphere he once knew.  He knows these faces.  Their laughter beckons him closer, jumbled by words that have no shape or meaning.  Down the rows he walks, his heel-to-toe gait inaudible over the life around him.

Do they not see him?

He waves a hand in front of a group.  

Nothing…

Why is that so familiar?  This sensation…

He continues down the aisle, coming closer and closer to the back, the students’ presence tapering off, distance between seats growing until…

A faceless boy.  The remains of his lunch are pushed off to the side.  A few sit around him—a seat or two separates them—though none speak to one another.  Wesker meanders around them, analyzing each detail.  There is another boy, his fingers winding round a knitting needle, linking intricate patterns almost obsessively.  To his left, another girl hunched over, scribbling relentlessly in a book, black masses winding underneath the rip and tear of a ballpoint pen.  Each has a face.  Blurry, but present. 

But not the other one.

Not the one with his head buried in a virology book, etching notes in the margins, blonde hair tucked perfectly in place.  

He knows that book.

He comes closer, leaning forward to peer between the pages.

“Incomplete.  Incomplete, incomplete, incomplete…”

What is?  The words are there, the formulae, the diagrams…

The boy’s head rips around, bones cracking unnaturally to face him.  No eyes.  No features at all, and yet—

“You are incomplete.”

He’s caught off guard, eyes widening slightly before he catches the act of giving himself away.

“Explain yourself,” he commands.

A beat of silence.

“No.”

Insolence.

His lips part to scold the boy but every word catches in his throat, blocked by the startle of an environment changed within the blink of an eye.  Before him is the same table bare save for the book the boy once read, its dusty cover begging to be opened by a gloved finger that heeds the call without thought.  Within the log chart reads many names, each etched out and blurry except for one.

Albert Wesker - 1968

His is the final name in the log, but that makes no sense.  These texts circulated for a few years after he’d moved on to more advanced classes.  Surely there should be others.  He turns a page.  

The title is scratched out.

The authors’ names.

The publisher.

Each page, every word, every date.  Diagrams are scribbled over, covered in black masses that bleed into one another, different from the pen that marked the rest.  Black, inky blobs that seem to move and flow with the focus of his gaze.  Leaking and drooling from the confines of their borders, running down and down toward—

He gasps and rips his hand away, slamming the book shut with a distorted squelch that echoes in the abandoned hall.

“Albert.”  Comes a stern voice from behind him.  One he knows all too well.  

He looks back, skin chilling at the sight of Doctor Marcus.

Impossible.

“Is that any way to treat the specimens?”

He brings his gaze forward once more, finding a cadaver—a student from the grade below—splayed out before him, her intestines smashed between the nitrile gloved fingers of his right hand.

He’s dead.  Marcus is—he was there!  He made sure of it.  How…?

“All these years and you still can’t get it right, hm?”  Marcus’s voice slithers up his spine, practically right in his ear—no, directly in it.  

A punishing grip coils in his hair and shoves him down, his face mere inches from the hollow cavity of the cadaver’s abdomen.  Wesker grits and growls and tries to push himself back up, but he can’t—why!?  

“What a waste.”

He’s ripped away by the hair, tumbling harshly, back striking empty metal with a loud bang!  

“You cost us that game, you little bitch!”

Three teenage boys surround him, his back pressed to the coldness of a locker.  The lights hum above and the others serve only as onlookers.  Wesker had just barely stripped from his football gear. 

“Missed that block for what?”  The biggest of the trio slams his palm into the space right beside Wesker’s head.

He can feel it bubbling within.  All that rage and hatred.  These putrid organisms masquerading as something greater…

“Stop to fix your hair?  Was that it?”  He jeers, taking hold of Wesker by the hair.  “Huh?”

Slap!

“Was that it, you fuckin’ faggot?”

Slap!

“Mommy and daddy not teach you how to think?”

Wesker lurches forward, a brutal strike of the knee landing between the boy’s legs.  He doubles over and Wesker seizes the opportunity to tackle him to the ground, landing blow after blow to his jaw, nose, temples—anywhere and everywhere he can beat down on this filth that dared put his hands on him.

It brews so violently in him, this sick satisfaction that he’s going to remove something unworthy from this world.  Each strike is a gift, a benevolence, a boon to a planet that needs to be healed and freed from the scum that lurks around every corner.

There are hands ripping at his shoulders trying desperately to tear him away until they’ve got him and the heels of his uniform shoes are dragging through the courtyard grass, leaving the young boy who’d sucker-punched him bleeding, crying, and short a few teeth.

An animal, he hears the faculty say.  A danger.

Must be why his parents never wanted him, come the whispers of the other children.

He’s shoved through the doors to the headmaster’s office, suddenly upon his dormitory bed, shivering and shaking beneath the old, thin, scratchy blanket that serves as his only protection from winter’s bite.  Wesker presses his shaking hands to his lips, tongue falling free to lave at the crimson heat that dribbles from his broken knuckles, letting his teeth sink in once it’s apparent the pain can block out the cold.

I must not fight.

I must not fight. 

I must not fight. 

I must not fight.

I must not want.

I must not fight. 

I must not fight. 

I must not cry.

I must not fight. 

I must not wish.

I must not fight. 

“Look at what my mama got for me!”  The girl pulls a humanoid turtle action figure from behind her back to show her friend.

Albert watches, spinning a small lollipop between his thumb and forefinger.  The school’s gift to the parentless.  The lunch hall roars with cheer, but he remains watchful and quiet.

He’s handed a new lollipop as he approaches the desk.  His knees want to shake, but he still extends a hand, broken knuckles on display, to take the candy from the strange man before him.

“Your uniforms will be replaced every year from here on out.  Free of charge,” he says, his voice doing nothing to hide his boredom.  It is the man’s first words to him.  He does not look at Wesker, but Wesker looks at him.  A strange chill settles at his nape.

His anonymous sponsor.  The man funding his stay at these schools.  The one who had supplied him with bulk boxes of school uniforms and supplies for as long as he can remember.  The only reason he ever believed there might be a family out there that cares after all…

Oswell E. Spencer.  The man whose portrait hangs in the main hall of every school he’s ever attended.

“But…”

He can’t breathe.  There’s a tightness in his chest gripping him from the inside out, rending him into pieces that feel all too vulnerable in Spencer’s presence alone.  It chokes him, slithering and clawing its way through his gullet, expanding and contracting, pulsating as if it had a heartbeat of its own.  He drops the lollipop to grab his throat.

“Hm?”

He falls to his knees, gagging against the onslaught.

Spencer regards him with little care, still scribbling away at whatever matters more than Albert’s suffering.

Please, he wants to say.  Please, I can’t—

His head is so cold.  The frigidness creeps into his limbs, into the fingers wrapped around his neck that plead and beg for it to stop.

“Out with it, boy.”

And out it comes.  Obsidian black, slime covered worms that he expels with every heaving retch that forces tears to his eyes.  It burns.  It all burns so badly and he can’t breathe through it—any of it.  Spencer’s gaze, uncaring and unkind; the squirm of more of these things in his gut, spawning almost relentlessly; the way nobody would help him even if he could cry out.

Nobody will ever help him.

“Do you know why, dear boy?”

He falls to his side, hitting the pool of muck with a sickening squelch, dreadfully aware of how it becomes deeper and deeper with every ounce that pours from his paralyzed mouth.  Drowning.

He’s drowning.

Three sets of legs stand before him.

“What a shame,” says Doctor Marcus, tsking his disappointment.

“Oh, Albert.”  Birkin sighs.  “I’m disappointed.”

To hell with you all!  He wants to roar, but no sound emerges save for pathetic gurgling.  The darkness is rising into what remains of his vision.  It won’t be long…

“There, there, dear boy.”

The world plunges into darkness, the weight of it crushing and reforming his very being into something surely so terribly unrecognizable.  

“I’m sure you know just how to fix this, hm?”

There’s nothing but terror in this void, and here everything plays out so vividly once more.  His loneliness, his anger and rage, isolation and pain…  All of these things he’s told himself he’s greater than, everything he’s believed himself to have overcome…

He’s but a speck in their gravity, suspended to forever orbit their influence.  Is he truly so damned?  Is there nothing else?  Has he ever been… happy?  Does his life only amount to suffering?

There has to be something.  Anything! 

Anything…

He prays.  He hasn’t done that since he was a little boy begging for a family.  Through tears, he begs a god he doesn’t even believe in for salvation from the crushing weight of it all.  He does it until his throat burns and his eyes leak.  He hasn’t done that in a long time either…

Suppose he won’t do it ever again…

“Captain.”  

Yes… that used to be him.  Captain Albert Wesker.  

“Captaaain~”

It’s nice to be called that again.  To feel there was something he belonged to after all, even if he never did.  The lie was so sweet.  Tender and gentle until it wasn’t.  Until it grew teeth and made everyone bleed.

“Hey, Captain!”

There’s a glint in the distance.  Something reflecting… no, emitting light.

“It’s time to come home, Captain.”

What is home?  Just a place to rest his head, just a place to… feel… something…

“Hey, Captain Wesker,” comes that angelic voice, still calling to him.  “I got you something…”

Oh…?

“Hey, Captain, would you want to, uhm… I mean, can we…”

He’d like that…

“You should get some rest, y’know.”

He tries.  He tries all the time…

“Albert, huh?”

For once, he likes hearing that more than his title or last name.

“I appreciate you, too, Al…”

True in return, more than he can ever express…

“Be good!”

His heart swells.

“When you think of love, do you think of pain?”

Always.  God, always. 

“I’ve got you.”

He hopes those words never change.

“Good morning, sleepyhead.”  

He wants to hear those words every time he wakes.

“I love you.”

He blinks and he’s in the driver’s seat of a patrol car, navigating through a downpour with you in the passenger seat.  You’re both drenched.  He can’t find it in himself to be terribly bothered.

He’s holed up in his office, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose with his glasses knocked askew.  There is a knock at his door—two and two, your usual.  

He arrives with carryout to share in his office.  The others looked at you like you had two heads when it came to light that you’d been spending lunch breaks with him.  Nobody reacts anymore.  Some things, like the turn of the Earth, just come naturally.

Your apartment door opens to reveal your smile.  You ask what he’s doing there.  Lunch, he tells you.  His thumb rubs along the arms of his sunglasses, his nerves tense even as you grin wider and invite him in.

You glide the needle beneath his skin with practiced ease.  His headache begins to subside instantly.  The tip of your tongue sticks out in your concentrated state.  You’ve never been more beautiful.

Your thumb smooths under the puffiness of his eye, tracking something wet in its wake.  “There you are…”  You bring him closer and tuck him beneath your chin, the warmth of your skin welcoming him to hide from all that he’d just survived.  “S’okay.  Got you.”  Your voice is still thick with sleep.

You woke him.  Saved him.  Pulled him from the darkness and brought him back to life.  Do you even know it?  Do you know what you’ve done for him?

“God?”

There is no answer.  There is never an answer.

“Can you please make it better?”

His small body shivers beneath his blanket.  The only warmth is his soundless whisper against his clasped hands.  Albert doesn’t know why he’s doing this.  God never answers him.  Many of the others swear He listens, but it seems like He never does.

“M-maybe you could send me an angel?”

It hurts in his chest again.  Maybe he’ll go to the nurse’s office tomorrow to ask for help.  He doesn’t like how it feels.  Do the others feel like this too?

He hopes not.

He doesn’t want anyone to hurt like him.

“The nicest angel you have.”

Maybe someday He’ll listen.