hello! welcome to the fun house, where you'll find plenty of wesker content to simp for. i will typically keep all of my fics gender neutral unless otherwise specified to keep things inclusive <3 i do not have any resident evil ships but i may rb content if the wesker aspect makes me feral enough
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Considering Wesker most likely lived in a boarding school during his childhood and had to sleep around other people he did not like and vice versa... He trained himself to cry silently or not at all. Like unable to cry. Instead he gets unreasonably angry and his throat closes up as a defense mechanism.
That comes handy when he starts working in umbrella and later in stars because it means no one will catch him "lacking" in any way.
But at the same time the barbwire around his neck gets tighter and tighter as the years go by...
Also he dislikes crying in general because it's messy and he feels as if he doesn't have the control of the situation. Also it's "unreasonable". He just rationalizes everything trying to avoid finding his own humanity.
Almost made myself cry｡:ﾟ(;´∩`;)ﾟ:｡
First of all, as someone who also had to learn how to cry silently because everyone was allowed to be angry and loud in my house but God forbid I was ever upset about anything, this is kinda killing me a little haha 🫶
Second of all, I can actually see this applying to Wesker so well 😔 he's so quick to anger in canon, always reacting to things by punching things, choking and/or kicking people, screaming etc. He's very fucked up and emotionally repressed. He turns every negative feeling he has into anger because anger is socially acceptable and even expected from a man, so nobody will call him weak or mock him for being angry, whereas if he sheds a tear... Oh boy.
I also like to imagine that if something happens that he allows himself to cry over, it's like... a silent tear you can barely even notice sliding down his cheek before he wipes it away and acts like nothing happened. Crying is a waste of time that solves nothing so even if he can even cry anymore, he won't allow himself to 'indulge' very often.
Incomplete - (Albert Wesker x gn!Reader) - Lover Leader Liar
2394 words, non-chronological, flashbacks, s.t.a.r.s. wesker, young wesker, teen wesker, spencer, marcus, birkin, homophobia, use of homophobic slurs, violence, gore, mild-ish emetophobia warning, religious themes, no proofreading we die like dr. dipshit, part of the lover leader liar series | Fic Directory
God loves you, but not enough to save you.
He knows these halls. He walked them for years. Sure, the building would change but never the layout. He could be transferred ten states away and still they would be identical to the ones he left behind.
He drags a finger along the now chipped wallpaper, feeling the muted grit of it beneath the shield of his glove. It’s strange to see. Stranger to be here. He doesn’t even know why he’s here. No, no… that’s not true.
He does know, doesn’t he?
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?
Incomplete - (Albert Wesker x gn!Reader) - Lover Leader Liar
2394 words, non-chronological, flashbacks, s.t.a.r.s. wesker, young wesker, teen wesker, spencer, marcus, birkin, homophobia, use of homophobic slurs, violence, gore, mild-ish emetophobia warning, religious themes, no proofreading we die like dr. dipshit, part of the lover leader liar series | Fic Directory
God loves you, but not enough to save you.
He knows these halls. He walked them for years. Sure, the building would change but never the layout. He could be transferred ten states away and still they would be identical to the ones he left behind.
He drags a finger along the now chipped wallpaper, feeling the muted grit of it beneath the shield of his glove. It’s strange to see. Stranger to be here. He doesn’t even know why he’s here. No, no… that’s not true.
He does know, doesn’t he?
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?
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Wesker who strokes the outline of himself through your throat while stuffed so far down that you’re becoming light-headed, the other resting upon the crown of your skull, as if to pet you. Those calloused fingers through those fingerless gloves pressing into your throat when your throat constricts and tries to push him out.
Who instructs you on how to please him. Bringing your trembling, clammy hands to cup his balls that have grown heavy and tight with need and the animalistic urge to leave you choking on his spend, his other hand guiding you down the thick length of him, watching your eyes widen with anticipation and discomfort when he’s far too big for you to take whole.
Wesker who taunts you for getting off on pleasing him, for coming untouched. Who makes a mockery of the damp and wet mess between your slick thighs, who instructs you to rub yourself to completion while he watches and strokes himself in preparation to fill you. Or maybe to get himself off and release onto your tear-stained face while you whine for him to take you already, shaky fingers still plugged into your fluttering hole. That you’re ready for him, capable of taking him. Worthy of his spend.
Wesker who makes you sob from distress and overstimulation when he refuses to fuck you because if you can’t take him fully in your throat, maybe you’re not ready to take him at all.
Tags: No Use of Y/N for Reader-Insert; Gender-Neutral Reader-Insert; AFAB Reader-Insert; Established Relationship; Dominant Albert Wesker; First Time Topping; Bottom Albert Wesker; Blow Jobs; Anal Fingering; Come Sharing; Rimming; Pegging; Strap-Ons; Doggy Style; Spanking; Cowgirl Position; Riding; Multiple Orgasms; Coming Untouched; Praise; and referenced a bit of somnophilia as a treat
Word Count: 2,805
Summary: You want to peg your boyfriend. He's surprisingly okay with that; even more than just okay, actually - he's very eager.
Also on Ao3: Here
Requested here
a/n: Kind of a spin off of this fic but also not really cause that one's explicitly cis fem reader, whereas this one isn't. But this one started bc of a throwaway line about pegging in that fic so I'm linking it.
I almost went insane writing this fic cause I kept thinking of wesker on his back with his legs spread wide open and passed out from how horny it made me.
Reader is afab but no body descriptions are given aside from them wearing a strap.
Also I keep teasing yall w that somno fic but I swear it's not on purpose 🙏 it's coming, I promise
“And you're sure you're okay with this?”
“Absolutely.”
“You're not just saying that only to freak out later?”
“When have you known me to give in to peer pressure about something I haven't thought through?”
“I don't know! But most men are weird about stuff like this!”
Albert raises an eyebrow at you – unimpressed, condescending, and offended all at once – and takes your face in his hands so he can hold you still and look deeply into your eyes. Even now, his own are so mesmerising when you look at them, taking your breath away and making you want to do unspeakable things to him. His lips quirk up when he notices your reaction but he only leans close enough to make sure he has your attention before he speaks clearly.
“I am not most men. You know that, darling. And if you think I've never given myself a prostate orgasm before, then you truly don't know me as well as I thought you did.”
You can feel your cheeks warming up with both flustered nervousness and arousal as his words hit you, which only makes Albert smirk wider, then he steps away from you and starts shedding his holsters, his vest, then his shirt, until he's clad only in his suit pants, chest bare.
He throws you a cheeky look over his shoulder as he walks away towards the bedroom, saying, “You coming?” as he disappears down the hallway.
You swallow dryly, feeling yourself get worked up before you've even started, and follow after him on slightly trembling legs. Your heart is beating like a rabbit in your chest when you finally cross the threshold but it's a mix of excitement and nervousness about doing something for the first time. So far, you've been happy to bottom for Albert without issue – he's an excellent top and he knows exactly how to make you feel good without letting any dysphoria get in the way at the same time. But you've been curious about flipping the script for a while now and it didn't take that much convincing to get Albert to hear you out.
The only thing he made sure you understood was that, top or bottom, he's still in charge. Which, yeah, no shit.
Albert is waiting for you on the bed, having shed his pants along the way as well, and is now sitting leaned against the headboard in just his boxers. You walk up to the bed slowly and start crawling towards him, your eyes taking in the loose blonde hair hanging in his face all messy and the wet patch on his underwear that's calling your name. You lick your lips as you bend down to his crotch then very gently start trailing kisses up his clothed erection through the fabric of his underwear, reveling in the soft sigh that escapes him and the hand that slides across your scalp and grips you tight.
You kiss his shaft like it's precious, enjoying every sound that escapes Albert's throat and every minute twitch coming from his cock, then slowly grasp the waistband of his boxers and tug them down his legs. His cock is flushed and painfully hard when you take it in with your eyes and a look up at Albert's face shows a similar flush high on his cheeks – you love it when he looks like this, human and vulnerable just like everyone else.
The hand holding your head pushes your face meaningfully towards his erection as he glares down at you.
“Get on with it, darling. We don't have all day.” Liar. He specifically cleared his schedule for the entire day because he wanted to give you plenty of time to grow comfortable with the idea before actually doing it.
But you don't argue because you want to taste him just as much as he wants to feel your warm mouth around him, so you dip your head down and take his cock in your mouth. Albert groans at the feeling of your tongue running across the underside of his cock and teasing at his frenulum, easing up on his hold so you can bob your head up and down as you see fit and enjoy giving him head unimpeded.
You moan at the taste of his precum on your tongue as well as the weight of his cock in your mouth, hollowing your cheeks when you suck, then rubbing the head against the velvety plushness of your inner cheek while you rub and squeeze the rest of his shaft with your hand.
His cock leaves your mouth with a pop when you need to take a deeper breath and you leave it alone for now as you trail kisses down the underside until you reach his balls and take them into your mouth. Your eyes flicker up, taking in the sight of a flushed Albert looking down at you through half-lidded eyes, blonde lashes fanning across his skin so delicately, and you have to grind your crotch down against the mattress to relieve some of the arousal lighting you on fire at the sinful, tempting vision from above.
“The lube is on the nightstand, darling,” Albert announces in a breathy voice. “I suggest you make use of it now before I come all over your face.”
You let his balls fall out of your mouth with one last kiss pressed to his cock, then do as he said. You busy yourself with opening the bottle and drizzling a healthy amount of lube in your palm, warming it up as much as you can and spreading in on your fingers, and when you turn back to Albert you find him on his back, a pillow under him, legs wide open and spread for your viewing pleasure.
“If you're trying to kill me, it's working,” you groan, feeling almost lightheaded at the sight of him so exposed and eager for you.
He laughs at you, probably feeling very smug about getting you so flustered just by doing this, and wiggles his ass to get you to move. The way his cock jumps makes your mouth go dry.
“I have better ways of achieving that if that was my goal,” he purrs, cheeky and so unfathomably hot, then spreads his cheeks for you without preamble. “One finger, then I'll tell you when to add more.”
Swallowing harshly, you kneel in front of his spread legs then hesitantly circle his rim before starting to push a finger inside. There is a moment of resistance during which you worry you're doing it wrong somehow, before your finger pops inside and you slide it right in. Albert groans at the feeling but he nods at you to keep going when you look at him to check in, and so you do.
Having your finger inside him is odd, but not unpleasant. You like the way he twitches and moans, especially when you add another finger, then another, and before you know it, you're opening him up properly; when you start scissoring those fingers while pumping his shaft with your free hand and dip your head down to gently, curiously tongue at his rim at the same time, it takes you by surprise that Albert shoots off without warning and comes with a yelped moan. Some of his cum lands on his chest – a few drops making it as far as his cheek – and a lot of it dribbles down to your fist, but you clean it all up with your tongue because he always tastes so good.
You pull your fingers out of his ass and crawl up his body to lick his cheek, but he pulls you into a deep, hungry kiss before you can pull away, groaning into your mouth when he shares his load that you didn't get a chance to swallow yet.
“You look too good between my legs, my dear,” he murmurs in between desperate little kisses as he nips at your bottom lip, an explanation for why he came without warning just now. “I didn't expect to feel your tongue.”
“I was curious,” you mumble, distracted by the way he's rutting against your crotch, already hard and ready to go again, and you wish you could sink down on his length and ride him until you can't move anymore but you want to fuck him even more.
“Good thing you're not a cat then.”
You groan as you finally pull away from his mouth, rolling your eyes at his horrible pun and the shit-eating grin on his face, and leave the bed with some reluctance so you can shed your own clothes at long last and put on the strap he got for you – his exact preferred size and material, very comfortable for you to wear and fun to play with when you tried it on prior to this. You're a bit nervous to be wearing it in front of him now, knowing that you're about to actually use it, not just test it out by yourself, but an anxious look back at Albert quells your fears down to a quiet simmer: he's waiting for you on his hands and knees but he's looking straight at you as he waits, his eyes flashing with hunger when he sees you wrap a hand around the dildo and roll a condom down its length.
You lube it up properly when you get back on the bed and settle yourself between his legs. He spreads them widely, even pulling his asscheeks apart to make things easier for you, and you can't help dipping down and licking at his hole when he makes such a feast of himself by doing things like that. He moans like a whore at the wet, warm feeling of your tongue and thrusts back against it.
“Hnng, keep going,” he huffs as he rocks back on your tongue, even reaching back to hold your head flush against his ass.
You can't reply but you moan in agreement as you keep eating his ass out, dipping your tongue inside properly and groaning at the taste of the flavoured lube he apparently got. You slurp messily at his hole, enjoying the desperate little ‘ah, ah, ah’ noises that escape Albert, the way he curses under his breath and tells you how good your mouth feels on him. You want to fuck him so badly it hurts.
He seems to be of the same opinion because he finally lets go of you after a few more seconds of this and you pull away breathlessly, wiping your mouth and looking down at his ass – wet, gaping, glistening with lube and your drool, and so fucking tempting it would make a saint fall headfirst into sin.
You take your strap in hand and guide the dildo to his entrance then, watching rapturously as your cock breaches Albert's entrance and starts slowly sliding in, inch by inch getting swallowed up by his hole and disappearing inside his body. Fuck, is this what he feels like every time he fucks you?
You stop about halfway through, meaning to give him some time to adjust and so you can check in with him, make sure everything's alright, but it shouldn't really surprise you when he rocks back against you and sheathes himself fully on your strap. The moan that escapes him is absolutely filthy – you didn't think Albert could be this vocal in bed until now, but apparently all it takes is your mouth on him and a cock in his ass to get him to let go of any tightly held restraints on his vocal cords.
“Fuck me hard and fast, darling. And don't stop until I tell you to,” he orders in a trembling voice high with arousal.
Helpless to do anything but obey, you pull out and slam back in, making him gasp and fist the sheets tightly, before you set a pace you hope is to his satisfaction.
The sound of your skin slapping against his on every thrust inside goes straight to your crotch and makes you feel so incredibly turned on you think you might explode. The sight of his spread cheeks, taking your cock so well, eagerly pushing back against it to meet your thrusts, drives you insane.
Experimentally, you give his ass a slap while you fuck him. He growls loudly and you fear you might have displeased him, but he just hooks his ankle around your leg and says, “Do it again. Harder,” through gritted teeth. So you do.
You pound your boyfriend hard and fast, your breathing growing shallow the more worked up you get, and give his ass as many slaps as you can, hard and heavy, and watch as redness blooms on his pale skin, listening to the melodious sound of his whines and moans every time a hit lands.
He's not content with letting you do the work for too long, though. He tells you to pull out after a good few minutes of this then flips you around until you're lying back against the headboard so Albert can straddle your lap and impale himself on your cock.
“Let me show you how you really ride a cock, darling,” he teases with a smirk, making you glare at him in offense because you know how to ride him, thank you very much, but all annoyance flees your brain when he starts bouncing on it better than a porn star.
The sounds that leave his mouth as he throws his head back and fucks himself on your cock are pure filth, plain and simple. You can feel your heart in your throat as you watch him and can't resist leaning forward and attaching your lips to his neck so you can suck red-purple marks into that perfect, flawless skin. Albert clutches your head close to him as he slows his bouncing down to a slow, deep grind, huffing and moaning louder when he apparently finds his prostate and nails it on every other expert circling of his hips. You just keep your hands on his waist and your mouth against his pulse point as you kiss and suck and bite at the long, pale column of his throat, and hope you won't die from how good it feels to be ridden by your boyfriend.
“I'm going to come, darling,” Albert announces between moans.
“Come for me, Albert,” you plead, desperate to see him falling apart in your lap, eager to swallow his moans as he spends himself between your bodies because of your cock. “Give it to me.”
“Ah, fuck,” he groans, his voice turning into a pleased whine towards the end when you buck up into him sharply, before you feel his warm cum spraying on your chest and dribbling down your stomach as he comes.
The feeling of Albert's release on your skin, the feel of him in your arms like this, and the trembling of his upper body as he comes down from his climax make you come without a single touch to your lower half. You bite down on his neck to muffle your keening voice as pleasure rolls through you and makes you see stars exploding behind your closed eyelids for a moment.
“Good job,” Albert murmurs, huffing as he finally relaxes in your lap and runs a hand over your scalp before he pulls your head back to look at you. When he sees your teary, flushed face looking up at him dazedly, his lips quirk up slowly in a devilish grin. “Did you come untouched, my dear?”
You gulp and nod weakly. You feel so pathetic sometimes next to him, but it only makes you love him harder.
“So good for me,” he coos and gives you a filthy kiss before pulling back and letting your head go. “Let's go clean up now. You need a nap and I want to fuck you while you sleep all nice and oblivious next to me.”
Albert's words make you throb with interest again, though it's dulled significantly by the orgasm you've just had, so you watch him as he pulls himself off of your strap before getting up and following him into the bathroom for a quick shower. You want to be done fast so you can go to sleep ASAP. He hasn't fucked you in your sleep in a while and you've missed it – waking up to him rocking inside of you while still lethargic with sleep is better than any drug, you're convinced of it. And feeling his cum between your legs in the morning when you distinctly remember going to sleep dry and clean is even better.
Fuck, going to sleep when you're this horny might be harder than anticipated. Albert makes such a needy slut of you with just a few words, it's infuriating.
How would Wesker feel if someone saw his eyes by accident (like his glasses got knocked off) and instead of fear or disgust they’re awestruck and tell him he has such pretty eyes?
Hi, love! Idk how long this is cause I just typed it directly into the ask. Didn't expect it to be quite so long, but it felt better than some hc bulletpoints 😌 hope you like it ☺️🫶
The window to the soul
warnings: none
tags: fluff, maybe light angst, soft wesker, gn reader, no use of y/n
a/n: trying sth new with the formatting of this ask, I'll probably forget to use it next time I have an opportunity to do so or I'll be too lazy to do it 😔😩
"Ope, sorry! Didn't mean to-"
And there you go. Cue sharp intake of breath and trembling hands and wide eyes staring at him in fear and horror.
Wesker doesn't much care if his natural appearance frightens or disgusts people. Frankly, he even welcomes it. It's better if they realise head-on that he is not like them - he is better, he is more, and they will never be on his level. But he does have to admit that it's annoying sometimes, especially when it's people he has to work closely with for one reason or another. It's why he makes sure to always wear his glasses around others, even when he realistically could take them off without getting a headache.
He sighs as he bends down and retrieves his fallen glasses, but before he can put them back on, your hands stop him gently. He finally directs his gaze to you, expecting to see any number of negative emotions swirling in your very much human irises, but instead he finds wonder staring back at him. There is no other word for it: you're mesmerised as you take in the colour and shape of his eyes, his pupils, his irises, fingers tightening around his wrist as if you need the support.
Your mouth is parted as you look at him and Wesker can hear your shallow breaths and the way your heart has picked up speed. Your own pupils are dilated - as if you're looking at something you enjoy, as opposed to a freakshow meant to strike fear in your heart.
"Your eyes are gorgeous," you murmur, almost absently, and Wesker is struck dumb. He doesn't make a move to stop you when your free hand lifts itself towards his face, when you place it on his cheek delicately as if he'll spook or break if you're not careful, when your thumb rubs slowly under his eye and very faintly swipes over his blonde lashes where they kiss his skin every time he blinks. "Has anyone told you that?"
You switch your focus to him then, actually acknowledging Wesker the person as opposed to your world narrowing down to just his eyes. There's a smile on your face and he can feel warmth in your cheeks that has nothing to do with the heat.
"This isn't exactly the kind of reaction people usually have to seeing my eyes," he replies dryly, affecting nonchalance, though inside he's a bit shaken by your positive reaction.
In truth, people tended to be freaked out by Wesker's eyes even before he took Birkin's virus. He started wearing glasses pretty early in his teenage years, way before the sensitivity to light got so bad it started giving him migraines, simply because he wanted to hide his gaze from the world. He'd been told by many people - and many hook ups when he used to take them off during sex for the first few years before he just... stopped - that his eyes were unnatural looking. Eerie. 'Freaky', even. He knows his eyes were of a blue so pale it almost seemed gray and that, paired with his usual intensely piercing way of looking at things, it made people uncomfortable to be stared at by him. A good tool when you want to intimidate someone - not so much when you're trying to gain trust or simply enjoy yourself with a willing partner between the sheets.
Wesker has never been complimented on his eyes in a way that didn't sound, at the very least, backhanded. His eyes have never been called 'gorgeous', that's for sure.
You narrow your own eyes at him in response to his words and your hand falls from his wrist so you can cup his other cheek in a mirror hold of his right side. Wesker looks at you wordlessly and just lets you touch him. He's killed others for less but for whatever reason, your touch is not unwelcome. You wouldn't know Wesker has strict personal boundaries and doesn't like being touched unless it's on his own terms by the way he treats you.
"Then people are very stupid and their opinions don't matter anyway." You huff and squeeze his cheeks harder in emphasis before your touch grows gentle again. "I love your eyes, I can't believe you've been hiding these beauties from me for so long. I'm banning glasses around me from now on!"
Wesker chuckles as he absently folds his glasses one-handed and slips them in his vest's pocket.
"Is that so? By what authority, pray tell?"
"Mine! As punishment for depriving me of access to your pretty eyes," you declare, glaring at him for a moment before your gaze gets drawn back to his eyes like a magnet. You seem unable to stray too far or for too long, a sentiment he cannot say he understands. He's not insecure about his appearance, not at all, but he views his looks, his body as... a tool, more than anything. It can help him get what he wants when the other person is attracted to him or it can intimidate others into bowing to his will when they're afraid. But to be the recipient of such unabashed, sincere appreciation of the beauty of something that usually disgusts people is a foreign feeling. "Oh, unless your eyes hurt because of the lights or something. Then I guess you can hide them away again."
"Thank you for your magnanimity, my dear," he drawls sarcastically but leans into your soft touch when a beaming smile crosses your lips.
It goes against decades' worth of conditioning to take his glasses off in someone else's presence and just... exist that way around them, but Wesker stops wearing them whenever it's just the two of you somewhere, be it his office, his lab, or an even more private setting like his bedroom when he eventually invites you in it. Your eyes light up and a small, happy smile blooms on your lips every time you see him be himself around you, which makes the whole experience worth it, if only for that.
His eyes may be odd, but apparently so are you. A better match couldn't have been made.
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Darling, won't you just plead? (Albert Wesker x f!Reader)
Tags: No Use of Y/N for Reader-Insert; AFAB Reader-Insert; Extremely Dubious Consent; Non-Consensual Drug Use; Drug-Induced Sex; Masturbation; Sexual Overstimulation; Multiple Orgasms; POV Alternating; Dacryphilia; Light Sadism; Older Man/Younger Woman; Unhealthy Relationships; Manipulation; Breeding Kink; Dominant Albert Wesker; Possessive Albert Wesker; Blow Jobs; Deepthroating; Dirty Talk; Slut Shaming; Verbal Degradation; Pussy Spanking; Control Issues; Rough Sex; Multiple Sex Positions; Choking Kink; Creampie; Aftercare
Word Count: 3,716
Summary: When Albert leaves you alone again and you get horny, you try to take care of it on your own in his absence. You're probably ovulating, that's why you're so insatiable. But with every orgasm that you give yourself you only crave more. What you really need is Albert. Lucky you that he's happy to provide.
Also on Ao3: Here
a/n: Title from God Complex by VIOLENT VIRA. // btw I love her music so much, check out all of her songs if you haven't already, she's amazing <3
Entirely self indulgent. My biggest fantasy, right here for you all to read 🫣 ik ik this is tame to REAL freaks, leave me alone. But like, I cannot emphasise enough how bad my breeding kink is. Every time I think about ✨️scenarios✨️, they all end the same way. Ffs I cant even watch porn where the guy doesnt come inside without thinking "what a waste of a good creampie" IT'S A PROBLEM. Especially for someone who doesn't actually want the result of a creampie 😭 ironic, isn't it.
You've lost count of how many times you've made yourself come or how long you've been at it. You just know that you keep going, the tension keeps building, you keep crashing against the shores, and yet the relief you're seeking does not wash over you and drag you down into relaxation and lethargy. You just get more frustrated with every orgasm that doesn't bring you relief.
Your wrist aches, your fingers cramping from the awkward hold on your toys – you've pulled all of them out and tried them on one by one in the hopes that finding the right one will finally give you what you need – and your cunt is sensitive from all the stimulation it's gotten, from your hole to your clit, but you still feel like you need more.
You need Albert.
Just the thought of him has your clit throbbing and your pussy tightening around the dildo in your hole. You need him so badly you think you'll die if you don't get even a glimpse of him soon. Just his scent would probably be enough to tip you over the edge now, even a brush of his fingers across your skin would quell the fire in your belly or at least smother it for a while. You whine and sob in frustration when you can feel another orgasm building because you already know it's not enough. It's not Albert's cock in your pussy and so this pleasure is meaningless.
He finally walks through the door right when you come for the thousandth time, shedding his holsters at the entrance, leaving his gun on the living room table, and walking slowly towards the bedroom whose door is wide open. He could hear your frustrated panting and frantic heartbeat before he even unlocked the front door, and now that he's standing in the doorway, he can smell you in all your glory. The room reeks of sex and sweat, but he can smell even more: your frustration and the need to be bred. He didn't think the injection he gave you would work quite so well and so fast, otherwise he would have been here for the moment it set in. Now he'll have to rely on your biased account to get the notes he needs, hmm. Vexing.
For a moment, Albert just stands in the doorway and observes you. You're unaware of his presence, that much is obvious, coming down from a painful orgasm that offered no relief yet still continuing to pump a dildo in and out of your abused hole. Your cunt is raw, visibly so, and there are tears ruining your pretty face as your chest heaves from adrenaline and the sad, little sobs that escape you both.
In short, you're a mess.
Albert's lips quirk up at the sight and he takes a deep breath, savouring your ripe scent, then finally steps inside with deliberate, loud footsteps. Your head snaps in his direction at once and the way you just drop everything in favour of clambering to your knees and crawling towards the end of the bed towards him, sweaty and tear-stricken, babbling his name like that's the only thing you're capable of saying anymore, makes Albert feel very powerful indeed. Just one shot of his little experiment and you've been reduced to nothing but a cock-hungry, empty-headed, little slut.
It was only a couple of days ago that you were giving him lip and talking about parting ways and flying solo because, in your words, he left you alone for weeks at a time anyway, so what did it matter if you went off on your own? A stupid question – of course it mattered. Here, you are his. Here, you are safe. Here, he can keep an eye on you even from afar and make sure you're exactly where you're supposed to be. Out there, however… Anything can happen. Well, you wanted his attention – you've certainly got it now. Maybe a round belly and a baby on your hip in about nine months or so will keep you busy enough to not feel lonely while he builds a new world for you.
“Hello, darling,” he murmurs when he comes to a stop in front of you. He cups your cheek, feeling the heat radiating from it and determining that while it's elevated, it doesn't put your health at risk, and allows your desperate little hands on his thighs as you hold yourself up against him.
“Albert,” you whine, dumb and pathetic and exactly how he likes it, and blink up at him with wide eyes whose lashes are weighed down by big, fat tears he wants to bottle and sip on whenever he needs a taste of you. You're so beautiful when you cry, when you're upset, when you're so miserable and achy and the only thing that could possibly make you feel better is him.
“Yes? What do you need?”
He already knows, but he wants to hear you say it. You always said, ‘later,’ when asked about children – first you were too young, then you wanted to live a little, then you just weren't ready, now it's because you don't think it's the right time to bring a child into the world. If not now, then when? When you're fifty and he's too old? No, that won't do. Albert knows you want kids, he can see the longing every time you encounter one in public or watch something on TV. He knows you're just being stubborn and delaying things out of fear – as if he would ever let anything happen to you or the babe, as if he would abandon you and leave you to raise them on your own. Silly girl.
So he wants to hear you say it. Wants you to beg him to breed you, to put a baby in your belly the way you've been craving for years. Even if it's the injection talking, it's still your pretty mouth forming the words and putting them out in the world. You'll remember that you asked for it when your head clears.
“Need you,” you murmur weakly, grasping at him and begging for him with your eyes.
“I'm right here, beloved. You have me.”
“Not… Not like that.” Your brow furrows with frustration – with him for making you say it or with yourself for being so inarticulate? He knows how much you pride yourself on being eloquent so this must be a hit to your ego to see yourself reduced to a babbling mess, but Albert loves it. He's loved conquering you one aspect at a time and taking over all that you are from the moment he met you – an outspoken receptionist, working at the RPD to raise money for a few years to put herself through school. His senses honed in on you that first day he saw you and he knew he had to have you, no matter what. And have you he does, but even now you still have this silly notion that you're not completely, wholeheartedly, irrevocably his. That you didn't willingly give yourself up when you accepted to go on a date with him, when you let him take your virginity, when you found out about his involvement with Umbrella all on your own and stayed, when you followed him after July ‘98 and never looked back.
Albert conquered you, yes, but you didn't put up much of a fight either.
“Then how?” he goads, tone sweet and gentle like honey, while his fingers trace over your sweaty face before loosely wrapping around your throat, right beneath your jaw. He doesn't need to squeeze for your breath to hitch and your pulse to jackrabbit in your throat.
“Need you… to fuck me,” you force out, eyes glassy as they stare up at him beseechingly.
“Just fuck you, dear heart?”
You shake your head, as much as you can with his hand keeping a hold of you so firmly, and it seems like your need outweighs your shame or shyness, as needless as those things are between the two of you, especially in this room and this bed. Any modesty has long since lost its place in your relationship, not after all the things he's done to you – and you to him, frankly. He wouldn't have let anyone else even think about pegging him, after all, and not because he thought he wouldn't enjoy it. There is something about you – always has been – that makes Albert act out of character and crave things he would've normally not even deigned to acknowledge.
“Want you to…”
“Yes?”
He leans down, his face hovering above yours, breath fanning across your face, and he sees the way you clench your thighs as your nostrils flare. It makes him smirk – what he gave you is working exactly as planned.
“To put a baby in me,” you finish in a whisper as you finally give in and verbalise your need.
Albert straightens up with a victorious grin, ignoring your aborted whine at losing his proximity so abruptly, and slides a hand to the back of your head so he can grip you tightly and pull your face forward. He shoves it against his crotch – hard, eager, his underwear already ruined from his leaking tip – and clicks his tongue meaningfully.
“Suck me off, dear. After all, you have been preparing yourself for me for hours. I deserve the same treatment, don't I?”
Clumsily, you open Albert's fly and tug his pants down his thighs, then pull his cock out of his boxers and take him into your mouth. He groans at the feeling of your hand around his base and your warm, wet mouth enveloping his head and sucking. You swirl your tongue and flatten it against the frenulum, letting your saliva escape your mouth and run down his shaft so you can use it to ease the slide as you pump the rest of his cock. His hand, at first, just holds your head while he looks down at you, pretty on your knees as you suck his cock, but like with everything he does, Albert takes over and guides you how he wants you instead.
“Yes, just like this,” he groans, pushing you farther down his shaft until your lips are flush with his pubes and his cock is resting nicely down your throat. The feeling of those velvety walls constricting around his cock while you do your best to breathe through your nose makes Albert want to shoot down your throat and leave you to suffer without him just a little longer. But he does want to knock you up, unfortunately, so he pulls himself away from you, out of your mouth entirely, and wrenches your head back so he can get a good look at your face. Drool is leaking out of your mouth and down your chin, your eyes bloodshot from your tears, and when he grips his cock at the base you already know what he wants from you as you stick your tongue out as far as it'll go. He slaps his cock on your tongue several times, watching you greedily and loving every second of how depraved you look.
You were so innocent when he set his eyes on you for the first time. Now look at you.
When you look up at him with that needy, dumb look on your face again, he knows he can't wait any longer.
He pulls his clothes off of him in a hurry then manhandles you until you're on your back. He drags you towards him by your ankles, making you gasp in surprise, then spreads your legs wide and looks down at your pussy. It's raw and very obviously sensitive, your hole loose after all the action it's seen courtesy of your toys, but when Albert slaps his cock down on your overstimulated clit, you moan like a whore and push your cunt up towards him in a silent plea to be filled.
“Is this what you want?” he asks because he can't help himself. He likes drawing out your suffering and seeing you get even more worked up. “Big, fat cock in your pussy? Answer me, you little whore.”
You flinch and gasp at the slap Albert delivers to your pussy, moaning when the impact stimulates your clit, and nod frantically to avoid another slap for not being fast enough to answer.
“Yes, I– Yes, Albert! Please,” you beg, your hands fisting the bedsheets tightly while you look up at him with desperation written in every line of your face. You look gorgeous and exquisite – how could you want to take yourself away from him now, all because he left you alone a few times lately? No, you're not going anywhere. Your place is here, in this house, in this bedroom, in his bed – on your back, legs spread, waiting for him to put another one in you and keep you busy. That's what you need; not freedom. Freedom gets you caught by the authorities or killed by his enemies or defiled by some inferior simpleton who thinks he could ever satisfy you the way Albert has been for the past eight years. He knows better. He always has.
“Please what?”
“Please breed me!”
Satisfied, Albert finally starts pushing inside. There is no resistance when the head of his cock pops past your entrance, not until he's about halfway inside – he's never had you quite this loose and used for the first fuck before but it's doing something wonderful to his system. If he didn't know how possessive and territorial he is, he might consider letting someone fuck you loose before he takes over just to feel another's cum squelching in your used cunt – alas, no one even deserves to see you like this, let alone use you for their pleasure. Only Albert.
You're moaning loudly and sobbing with relief by the time he bottoms out. His balls flush against your ass, your cunt milking him like crazy as you orgasm just from being filled, Albert watches, fascinated, as your entire body sags into the mattress and visibly loosens up for the first time since the injection's effects started taking over, probably. Just his cock is enough to make you come, how cute.
He doesn't give you time to get your bearings or enjoy the relief. He pulls halfway out then slams back in, setting the tone for how he's going to fuck you – rough, fast, deep. He wants you to feel it tomorrow, to remember just who, exactly, fucks you so well and makes you come so hard.
No distinguishable words leave your lips after that, just moans and broken pleas for more. Your tits bounce with every slam of his cock into you and he orders you to squeeze them and hold them while he fucks you – you obey without pausing for a second to think the order over.
“You look so good like this, darling,” Albert comments, grunting every time he bottoms out and hits your cervix. Your pussy squeezes him just right while the sounds of skin slapping against skin echo in the bedroom – filthy, indecent, unmistakably erotic. It's primal and guided only by two things: your need to be filled and his need to own you. “On your back, taking my cock, begging for my seed. Why do you want to leave me, hmm?”
He doubts you could answer right now even if the serum weren't coursing through your system just from how hard he's fucking you, but when you don't say anything, he bends over your body and grabs you by the throat. He squeezes – not enough to damage anything because he knows exactly just how hard and where to squeeze, but hard enough to make you choke and spasm under him. Your cunt tightens around his cock in response and fuck, he wishes he could safely keep you like this until he's done – gasping for air and gripping him like a vise.
“Do you really think I'll ever let you walk away from me?” Albert hisses close to your face, fucking you hard and deep and knocking the breath out of your struggling lungs while his hand just keeps squeezing. You'll have a nice set of bruises in a short while shaped like his fingers. “This is what you're good for, darling. I don't need you for your brain or even your beautiful face. Just your body. These tight little holes made just for me, perfect for my cock, mine to use however I want. And your womb, of course. It's been empty long enough. Trust that it won't stay that way for long from now on.”
Albert finally releases you with those parting words. You cough and wheeze as you let air back into your lungs while he flips you on your belly and slides back into your pussy without a care. He holds you up by the hips, lifting your body at an angle to meet his pelvis, and he laughs as he watches you frantically try to keep yourself up before you just give up and smush your face in the mattress while he uses you.
He barely notices when you come again. You're too tired to do more than whimper, your thighs barely twitching, but he does feel your cunt growing slicker while his cock is pounding into you.
When he grows bored of holding you up, Albert lets your body fall back to the mattress, tugs you further down to the edge of the bed, and shoves himself back into you, this time pinning your body down as he fucks you even harder. Your moans come out in a broken staccato caused by his brutal pounding and your legs flail weakly behind you, but Albert doesn't pay it any mind. You've really pissed him off with this nonsense talk of leaving and he doesn't care if he's being too rough. You can take it and you will.
He would never break you – you're much too precious and important for him to risk you like that. But you can take a rough pounding for his sake every once in a while, even if it'll leave you bedridden for a few days while your lower half recuperates. You've done it before.
You're drooling on the bedsheets with an exhausted, blissed out look in your eyes when Albert checks on you a couple minutes later. He smirks in satisfaction and renews his efforts, absolutely ruining your cunt with every thrust. When he feels his orgasm approaching, he flips you again and puts you in a mating press, making you whimper at the stretch of your sore muscles, then slides into you as deeply as humanly possible and makes sure to come right against your cervix when he lets go. Your eyes roll into the back of your skull as you're filled to the brim with cum, coming again so hard that you just pass out for a few seconds, while Albert feels like Christmas has come early as he watches his seed leak out the sides of his cock because there's too much for your poor pussy to contain.
He fucks it into you for a bit, enjoying your whining caused by the oversensitivity of your raw cunt, then finally pulls out with a satisfied groan and stares at your wonderful pussy struggling to close back up and prevent his load from escaping.
“Good job, beloved,” he praises genuinely. He's so happy with you, so proud. You've always been so good to him and he's finally giving you what you want – what does it matter that he had to use underhanded methods to get you here?
“Mhm,” you moan, licking your dry lips with an absent but euphoric smile, and close your legs now that your purpose for the night has been fulfilled. He'll keep breeding you, of course, but in a few days when you're not so sensitive anymore.
Albert wipes your sweaty face with a gentle hand, pleased to see your fever already going down now that your body has been given what it craved – specifically his cum – and hoists you into his arms so he can take you to the bathroom and clean you up. A nice, warm bath is in order to loosen your muscles and soothe your aches.
He gets in the tub with you when the water has filled it enough, holding you up so you won't drown yourself by accident but also holding you just because. Your touch is the only one he welcomes, the only one he craves. You drive him insane just with your scent or a smile or a look. That's how he knew he had to have you that day at the RPD when you introduced yourself with a smile and told him you were ‘at his service, whatever he needed’. You've been invading his thoughts and heart since that day. How could you ever think that you can just walk away from this? How could you ever think he doesn't care?
He leaves you alone because the places he goes to are not fit for a girl like you. His work is dirty and dangerous – it would either turn your stomach or make you too much like him. He doesn't want that. He wants you exactly like this: the perfect balance of nice, kind, good, innocent, and absolutely depraved when he pushes your buttons just right.
“You're mine, beloved. And soon, my seed will sprout in your belly and drive the point home once and for all,” he whispers against your temple, knowing that his words aren't really registering with how floaty you are right now, and lays a hand right over your womb as his lips brush softly against your hairline.
You'll forgive him when you figure out what he did when he gave you what you thought was your annual ‘flu shot’ in a few days. It's not like you don't know what a controlling bastard with no concept of boundaries you followed into the abyss. And if you don't… Another dose and a proper breeding session should fix that quickly. He's giving you what you want, after all – his attention, his love, and his child. Forgiveness is inevitable. Just like your upcoming pregnancy.
