albert-hatesker

[albert-hatesker]

leaving tumblr for the foreseeable future. i deeply dislike the resident evil community and all of the infighting that takes place, as well as the constant casual bashing of people. i feel as though i have no place here, and it has been a feeling i've had for quite some time now. i have no plans to delete this blog as of now, and while i may return someday, it is highly unlikely. i'll still be writing and drawing things relating to the media - as i do still deeply love these games - but it will be under a different name, on different websites. mutuals are welcome to ask for my new accounts. it's been a pleasure. - wes.

[albert-hatesker]

How it feels hating a ship most of the fandom loves

[albert-hatesker]

resident evil requiem .

[albert-hatesker]

I had a weird azz dream of re5 wesker beating tf out of Chris but in full drag

...

Should I be concerned?? 😥

no no, this is perfect. if wesker can canonically strut around in that much leather then i believe drag would be on the table as well if capcom weren’t cowards.

[albert-hatesker]

update from mister wes himself, i'm crossposting the fics i have up here to ao3, and all future ones i write will also be crossposted.

this is my ao3 btw.

[albert-hatesker]

[albert-hatesker]

Albert Wesker | Resident evil The Umbrella Chronicles (2007)

[albert-hatesker]

I was listening to a song called "Hass und liebe" by miss construction and I got a weird thought and it was like what if albert was German :0

Just a random thing btw, byee!! (○_○)！！

haiii… i personally like to headcanon him as german because i associate him with an unfathomable amount of german industrial artists and miss construction (including hass und liebe) is one of them ^-^… you are so right.

[albert-hatesker]

chris redfoeld

true

[albert-hatesker]

bro the moon just told me you smell like moth balls!

what does this mean .

[albert-hatesker]

wesker scar hcs do you think he has any notable ones.. can be pre 5 or post 5 whatever your heart desires

i love scar headcanons teehee... this is answered with canon in mind.

pre-5:

assorted small scars from knife wounds and potentially a nonfatal gunshot or two from his time in STARs, any laceration wounds also have the associated scarring from being stitched up as per proper procedure.

an associated set of large scars from resident evil 1, when he was impaled by the tyrant. the exit wound is significantly larger and more ragged than the entry wound, possibly with other scarring that stretches out beyond the main injury because his skin probably split around the site.

post-5:

extremely heavy scarring on his face, chest, and upper back from the loss of skin and uroboros pustules. he'd realistically be missing the arm that had shrapnel interwoven with the uroboros tendrils, and his other would be seriously damaged. legs are up for debate because he was in the lava, but he was also able to stand in it?

uroboros scarring is blackish and looks necrotic/discoloured, but it doesn't rot. if he were to recover that much lost body mass/injured tissue, it would likely render him extremely weak and/or permanently disabled because there is only so much that even a bioweapon can take.

oh poor thangggg

[albert-hatesker]

i have a BIG GUN and I like to have BIG FUN

me too :pray:

[albert-hatesker]

thats an awesome fic you just wrote

I POSTED IT ONE MINUTE AGO.

[albert-hatesker]

|| tear you apart

somewhat of a prequel to closer to god, commissioned piece. to love and be loved.

1201 words || nsfw, contains blood and descriptions of (consensual) thigh cutting, still sadomasochism, there is a little aftercare in this one.

Cold. That’s the only thing he can focus on right now, the cold, hard plane of porcelain pressed against his back in comparison to the warmth of the hands pressed against his thighs, soothingly rubbing the sore muscle as he tries to process any of the soft, comforting words being murmured against his ear. The sounds all blend together, a confusing maelstrom that wars with the bubbling uncertainty in his chest. The more his mind lingers on what he’d just agreed to doing, to allowing, the more intense the anxiety gnawing at his insides becomes, rolling deep in his guts and choking up his throat until he can barely speak. 

He chokes back a whimper, a pathetic little sound of uncertainty, maybe a twinge of fear. He’s never been averse to the threat of injury before, never been all that worried about the repercussions of his actions on his body, not when it would all knit itself back together in time. But this, this is something else entirely, something that sets off instinctual alarms in the back of his mind, biological safeguards keeping his mind spinning and his heart racing as his eyes squeeze shut, trying his hardest to muster up what remains of his composure. It’s not that he doesn’t want this, no, it’s the unpredictability of what may happen next. 

“Are you okay?”

Those three words, firmer than the others yet sweet as honey, finally manage to pull him from the recesses of his own mind, a lifeline to cling to in a dark, crashing sea. He grasps it, holds on for dear life as he hesitantly opens his eyes, looking back into the gentler, calmer eyes of the other. It eases his nerves, even if just a little, knowing that he’s secure, safe. It’s a premise he’s not familiar with, far too used to being on guard and ready to strike, always in a persistent spiral of primal terror gripping his veins like ice, the faintest whisper able to make his blood run cold and his skin prickle with the urge to fight, to flee. He swallows his thoughts back, knowing they’ll do him no good here. This isn’t life or death, there’s no reason to bare his teeth in a feeble attempt at self defense. “Fine,” 

He breathes, uncertainty painting his tone despite his best efforts to mask it behind a facade of indifference, of unconditional willingness to do anything with a fear of nothing, but even the faintest little hint of worry doesn’t slip past their perceptive touch, not when he knows his own anatomy is betraying the emotions raging within him in whole-body shudders and unsteady breaths, not when their hand trails up to his cheek, cupping the warm skin lovingly. He leans into it instinctively, craving the comfort it can offer him. In that soft hold, he loses himself for just a moment. A low whine slips free from his throat, the faintest show of surrender against the onslaught of feelings he can barely parse, both terrifying and intoxicating. 

“I’m okay,”

He whispers, this time with a gentle, eased comfort. It’s easier now, putting his paranoia to rest. He’s not a man easy to tame, unwilling to compromise and unwilling to be brought to his knees, but there’s something about this that feels so achingly right that he practically feels himself giving out, the walls around himself crumbling to dust, breaths catching in his throat when he finally hears the tense, metallic snap of the folding knife - the one he’d chosen, the one he’d tenderly placed in the other’s hand far before all of this started, when he’d initially agreed to this - opening, the sharp blade pressing against the flesh of his inner thigh, wrenching another soft noise from him. He wants this, wants the control that comes with allowing something so primal.

There’s nothing proper about bloodshed, nothing clean, nothing pure. No matter how one frames it, the oozing of wounds, carmine stains on white tile, the perfect burn of nicked veins and torn skin is unclean, best left unmentioned. Not felt like this, draped in silks of pleasure and adoration, eroticized in such a way that the first press of cold metal sends a shiver down his spine. He sucks a tense breath in through clenched teeth, bracing himself and being met with a gentler force and a voice that, in his state, he can barely imagine as anything more than rosy. 

“Relax.”

Coaxing, patient, understanding; all things he’s not used to, things he’d always thought fraudulent until now. Until them. He’s not one to trust, and yet the tension melts away from his muscles when he opens his eyes once more, allowing himself just a moment to lose himself in theirs. They lean close, warm lips pressed to his forehead, the tip of the knife digging into his pale flesh, shockwaves of pain shooting outwards from the wound itself to set his nerves alight, his skin feeling too tight for his body. He gasps out then, anguish painting every ragged breath as he tries to fight back the unfamiliar, harsh wave of unbearable heat that leaves him shaking, sweat already clinging to his clammy skin as the blade slides further down, parting muscle down to the pearlesque layer of fat beneath as if it’s no firmer than butter. 

It hurts. Like nothing he’s ever felt before; a constant, throbbing pain that burns, aches, and stings all at once. He feels too warm, shifting uncomfortably at the sensation of his own blood seeping over his skin, viscous scarlet soiling the cold surface beneath him with muted drips. The blade retreats, leaving the fresh wound to bleed, searing agony replaced by a duller ache, feeling his own fluttering pulse beneath the damaged skin. Yet, it feels good, in a perverse way. In a way he feels he’s been suppressing his whole life, in some twisted facet of his own psyche that has always lingered right on the edge of his awareness, yet never fully realized in the constant spiral of his work, a single-minded drive to just-

“Fuck!”

He cries out, feeling the blade cut deeper this time, the shock and sting of it wrenching a soft, pleased sigh from his throat, the intensity making him feel like he’s drowning in the best way, the near-heavenly torment making all of his worries fade to a bleeding static, his lungs burning sharply with his shallow gasps for air, fingertips scrabbling for purchase against a smooth surface with no give. Over and over again, until blood stains the fingertips of his willing lover, until both thighs are smeared with red and marked up with long slices, to be bandaged and hidden away, to become his own secret depravity that he’ll conceal from the world, to become the one thing he can truly control. He distantly registers the sound of the knife snapping closed, ripped free from his haze at the scalding touch of a warm, wet towel being applied to the fresh gashes. He instinctively flinches away from the sensation, met with more soft words and gentle praise, making him melt all over again, letting that blissful haze assume control of his senses once more.

[albert-hatesker]

albert wesker opinion on CT scanner with no casing

also very good! real men have an appreciation for the beauty of intricate machinery. 11/10.

[albert-hatesker]

albert wesker opinion on weevils (resident weevil)

very good! i think he likes weird bugs. 10/10.

[albert-hatesker]

YOU DIDNT ANSWER ME GIVE ME HIS OPINIONS ON HYRAXES

WAS IT THAT SERIOUS THAT YOU CAME OFF ANON.