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boythingguy · 12 days ago

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Wesker is a man of no half-measures whose risks are calculated. You are one of his finest researchers, growing on him like a moss.

He should reward your hard work in his name, shouldn't he?

You reach bubbling, dangerous fever pitch when you ask him to indulge a little fantasy of yours - good doctor, bad doctor... unfortunately for you, he has much grander, lavish ideas than that. He also has every chemical substance manufactured in the last thirty years at his disposal.

This is a trust fall, and Wesker inflicts the rise and the plunge; will you sink or swim? Do you trust him with a butterfly needle?

11.6k, tags: medical - medfet;dubious science experiments;gloves;iv / needles;labcoat;pharmacokinetics, intox - consensual aphrodisiac;fantasy drug, nsft - blood;biting/marking;dom wesker sub reader;edging;sadomasochism;overstim;penetration, themes of obsession, PW(much)P/reader uses gn pronouns & female genitalia - technically an in-universe 'continuation' of Mind the Gap.

1st fic of C Complex. | 2nd | AO3

This had been planned for longer than you could think of – in some way, at least, floated as an idea that had become more and more coherent the longer you knew the mysterious virologist until you found yourself sitting in a medical bed somewhere within the confines of your workplace, closed off from the rest of its’ office-spaces and lab-units.

You’d thought that he’d use the opportunity, when you’d first brought it up, to bully you, but instead he’d made a tentative hum and raised his pointer finger to his chin, shades trained on you as a single eyebrow arched with the heady temptation of the power that he’d hold over you if he did it.

God… you trusted him with that? To play God over you in his own right? To take the reigns of your mind – to inject you with a drug, far above pharmaceutical standards, and use it as an aphrodisiac while maintaining your consciousness?

You were very stupid or very brave, or, the third option: very desperate. He found that his thoughts warred over which of the three you presided on – surely, you had at least some awareness of the truly terrible amount of blood that stained his hands, so what made you trust the world’s best virologist (...and phlebotomist – Excella not withstanding) with decommissioned medical equipment and TRICELL’s finest supply of Cellegelyn Hydrochloride?

Was it because you trusted him with something far more superficial – your daily dose of medication – though he’d show you the swirling liquid each time? He wouldn’t now; oh no, he’d leave it in the air and see if that would make you squirm a little.

With the perceived safe danger of it. With the thoughts that would cloud your mind, and your own reaction to them. Oh, he’d prepared – he was no man of half measures.

Filthy minx. He supposes you did tame him, however – his violent urges spared you, replaced with an intense need for you to provide him stress-relief when you were within his presence. The self control it took not to run tongue over bare skin and bite when he was stressed out of his mind… you knew, didn’t you, little devil?

L-deprenyl. Enantiopure from Deprenyl, unnecessaries trimmed for your body’s convenience and your mind’s sanity – you were getting the best of the best, something that wasn’t even considered marketable. He wasn’t looking for your complete, stolen submission under the duress of a sunken mind; he wanted your willing, pleading submission handed to him as the MAO-B affinity bled into MAO-A. The infusion system would drip-feed your pliant, greedy vein far past the tipping point of a pharmaceutical dose.

In theory, this would be a slow build-up and the ride of a lifetime – literally, considering the inflictor. The excitotoxicity, though, was fine-tuned compared to the sledgehammer of a much rougher, barbaric chemical that prodded dopamine, serotonin, and norepinephrine out of unwilling receptors mindlessly... Oh, no, this was measured; this would trigger within the context of the situation. If you didn’t want it, then it wasn’t going to force your hand. And that was the real magic of it, wasn’t it? To see you squirm with how badly you’d want him to control you… to watch you beg for his touch, for more, for less; it hardly mattered, he just wanted to feel the rawness of your need – as long as you wanted him.

Only him, though.

Perhaps that was what made you desire this so strongly from him specifically? You could’ve asked someone else, but you’d delegated it to him.

You were always quick to fluster when he’d do anything that might tease at the seams of your mind and unfurl the fringes of your deeper feelings – you weren’t very good at hiding them, no. But that was something so appealing about you: undeniably book-smart even to him, yet your social defenses were lacking in the thickness of your mask. Your cheeks would pop with color at the slightest provocations – when he’d compliment your papers or handwriting, when he’d inject your thigh and run his nitrile-gloved fingers exaggeratedly over your bare skin, when he’d pull his labcoat’s arm up to his elbow and you’d watch, hungry-eyed and slack-jawed, at the way his veins shifted and his muscles tensed as he depressed the plunger of a syringe, bead at its’ tip swelling with the threat of spilling.

What an interesting little specimen… distracting thing. He was surprised he had yet to spill anything – a testament to the degree of his precision, he supposed. You’d make for a fine subject in testing the true unchained abuse potential of L-deprenyl.

Really, you should thank him for what he was about to do to you. There was a lot of other things he could do rather than fuck his finest researcher hopped up on a harmless discontinued psychostimulant. He had to admit it, too: he wanted you under him, surrendering and breathless, with a ferocious depth even he had not yet come to fully understand. None of the pieces of his set were intended for what he was about to do with them – it was its’ own breed of blasphemy, but something in that made his cock stir with the event that would transpire.

That Wesker would inject you and fuck with you until you were little more than a puddle that didn’t know what you wanted. Fucked-out under his touch, quivering and moaning long after his hands and hips would cease. Fuck, you’d be so cute like that.

And you couldn’t help it – there was an incredible intimacy in the needles he’d sank into your skin. You’d done them first, but then he’d took an interest and all-too-conveniently chided your skills in rotating your spots. Then he’d taken over for you, and it’d really only been downhill in the sheer depth of your bludgeoning crush since then: you had come to find that there was a radical intimacy he took to when he did it, always a sort of deftly placed respect for the needle he used as if a reverent tool, lack of clinical detachment clear in the way he’d languish in your squirming.

You kept coming back. You weren’t that socially maligned – he figured you must’ve liked it. Liked the attention, liked the gentleness from a man who could snap you. Yes, you liked when he played nice. And he had to admit it: you were remarkably tolerable. Or, at least, you’d grown to be.

That gave him pause sometimes. Since when had he grown so soft for another? It didn’t matter, though, did it? Who would stop him – Spencer? Marcus? Their precious Doctrine? Ha. No. Only their ghost. And he’d vanquished the idea of that when—

You were just… you were stubborn like that. An extremophile of your own, well aware of the danger and lambasting yourself in his presence regardless of blaring, bleary red. Though, after all, he’d hired you as a temp and you’d turned it into a permanent position through the deathly combination of your brains and your unwitting, accidental charisma. You reminded him of someone he used to know – someone who had been a lab partner, too... but you were soft where that man had been hard. You didn’t seem to hunger for power at all – you just wanted for connection, for knowledge (and he could’ve said that about the man he’d known at one point, too, but their lifetimes had corrupted them both beyond the grasp of a simpleminded humanity) – and Wesker could give you these things as easily as he could breathe.

No, it wasn’t hard to be a chameleon to someone who barely cared whether you even wore the mask these days. He dreaded to admit it to himself, but you were terribly, awfully, horribly amicable. Maybe that was a negative observation – to get along with him? Did you possess a superego? Oh, what was he saying – of course you did. Yours was just better than everyone else’s, like his.

Anyway, your daily injection was just your medicine, nothing more than a routine with a sprinkling of powerplay from him – but now? Now it didn’t have to be. Now he could take it to the next level.

You tap your leg against the bed with an air of mild impatience. You’d like it better that way: he could stop pretending he had any degree of detachment. He wasn’t any more subtle than you. Did he think he was?

A shiver of anticipation ran up your spine as Wesker approached, light gray labcoat, black turtleneck, black pants, distinct lack of a tactical belt a sore thumb in his appearance and what he had planned as he leaned his frame into your personal space.

“Hello there,” he punctuated, simply. His gloved fingers reached out and two digits slithered from the edge of your jawline to the fat of your neck, where they pressed in your soft flesh until your chin tilted to meet the intensity of his gaze at an odd angle. It wasn’t entirely comfortable – though perhaps that was intentional. “Are you… ready for your treatment?” A statement more than a question – and dripping with sin you both knew, thin veneer of professionalism no cover.

So very abrupt, though. You’d have to adjust.

“Oh, yes, Doctor Wesker,” you quipped back, finding it somewhere in you – heart thumping a beat faster – to bring your hand up to settle at his chest. He’s far quicker than you with his own, grabbing your sluggish wrist in his hands, a sliver of skin peeking from his labcoat and muscles taut with the strength of his grip. “Ah ah ah,” he tuts, chiding gently as he lets your hand down at your side, “touching is my job. You wouldn’t want to render me jobless, would you?”

In any true professional environment, this would shatter his medical license irrevocably. And yet… and yet, with this knowledge, you huffed a laugh and a hot, bothered breath in one. “Of course not.”

Wesker responds with an appraising look, gentle upturn in the corners of his mouth approvingly. “Good. Good.”

A moment of silence passes as he cases you, adjusting his shades, letting them drift down the bridge of his nose with the aid of gravity until he’s certain they’ll nearly fall off. You sit up a little in the bed as he lets go of your jaw, fingertip slinking away. Then, he removes the offending pair himself, tucking them in a breast pocket when it doesn’t go as he planned.

No matter – that magmatic gaze is fully trained on you, now, no degree of separation from which to cloak itself in. Both parties run deep with unspoken desires, it seems.

“Any doctor will tell you that all operations start with preparation of the patient,” he begins, smile dripping away into a natural disguise of cool neutrality as he reaches behind your bed and pulls a holter monitor out, placing it on your stomach and bending over you – your nose filling with the oddly compelling scent of dark, earthy-sweet vetiver, black orchid and the sanitized dichotomy of ozone – to fetch three leads.

You bring your hands out to help him, but his free hand darts out to them, warm glove brushing your digits to remind you to still yourself silently.

You flush a little. You’re not used to this level of Wesker’s unbidden attentions or this degree of enforced helplessness – and it was only going to become more prominent as the night passed. You’d expected a little when he’d unexpectedly agreed to this – but he’d really… he’d gone above and beyond your… your simple idea.

Loyal to a fault, you raise your arms above your head and he pulls your gown up, chest exposed to cold and bare air. Goosebumps raise as he trails his fingers ever-so-lightly, gaze trained on your soft, supple, easily-broken skin. He makes a noise of further approval as he attaches the leads to the holter monitor and slips one under one breast, the cold sinking in and making you shiver a sound of your own that makes you clear your throat.

How uncouth. He hadn’t even gotten started and your tiny mind was already his playground.

“So eager,” he croons out-of-character, voice low and dripping timbre and a little grit as he places the other cold lead.

The third has his hand sliding with an indecent slowness up your bunched fabric, deliberately placing the last of the leads high on your chest so he can swipe his wandering digits across the canvas of you.

“You want this treatment, don’t you?” It’s consent wrapped in the easily-swallowed pill of his role as the good doctor.

But, god, how you wanted the bad doctor to come out.

“Yes, I’ve…” you quibble, “I’ve wanted it for so long.” You avert your gaze with a shyness one part real and two parts theatrical. You should’ve been an actor, the way his eyebrows twitch from their normal cinch a little before they settle again. To pull that out of a man who prided himself on his degree of control… or to know that he laxed his walls around you… both contributed equally to the reverence that had him hanging the stars in your eyes.

Like a tiger that bared its’ teeth upon you but never truly bit down. A monster of a man in the palm of your hands, offering some hidden facet of himself for you to cast your adoration upon.

The trust alone from the closed and thorny mind of a razor-sharp intellect could make you moan a little. You instead tilt your head at him, and Wesker’s vision creeps up into your own. If you were truly guileless, you might’ve thought his lens contained a degree of insecurity with the weight of your silent affectations, like you might not like what you’d find.

As if this meant something to him. You cast it out of your mind – there’s no way. But perhaps you don’t notice that he stiffens and then relaxes with a breath a little too deep.

“You’re going to get it, don’t worry,” it’s a sultry hum, and he’s holding down the power button on the device laying on your stomach until it powers on. Three lead mode. He’d even charged it. Damn.

You both fall into a comfortable silence as he turns on the infusion system – a TC Atlantis, a collection of many features in one and no doubt a climbing expense to license that was pristine and unblemished by the horrors that it was steeped in – and sets it to 80. You wonder to yourself the degree of what this machine has seen in its’ time, what stories it would tell if it could. The flow it’s set to seems slow...

You trust him with it out of necessity. You lend him the same trust he’s lending you in this moment, and perhaps you are a fool for it – but that’s part of the fun, the not explicitly knowing. You squirm a little, pressing your legs together with the intention of drawing him from what he’s doing.

Wesker’s hand strays from the machine, now set, to your leg, giving it a curt pat as he returns dutifully to it. You still caught him, but he was nothing if not a careful and well-disciplined man.

But the wisp of warmth that swirls around in your abdomen curls and inflames as Wesker hooks up a harmless bag of saline – with a little potassium, he might add – to the machine, hitting a setting at the bottom before he turns to you. “Now, just let me fetch your… analgesic,” he offers, a stumble in the search for words that fit his current role as he briefly reaches out for your hand and gives it an ever-so-polite squeeze.

You flash him a knowing smirk. “Take your time,” you reply gently, though you both know that the wait is torture.

The virologist stalks off momentarily with the sound of his black boots clicking like heels against the pristine, sanitary tile, and you are left to stew in your curiosity. A frown tugs at you. The Atlantis is set to a custom name instead of what it should really be, merely labeled ‘pain relief’. That must’ve been what he’d been gently tapping in.

Is the effort a matter of pride? It seems like so much.

You look around you and it all truly sets in as you curiously bring your arm up to you, careful not to disturb the holter monitor – a mean eighty six beats per minute and a wonderful ninety eight percent saturation – as you move the bracelet with your fingers, admiring his work. It’s an admission bracelet to a fake hospital, but your name, birth date, weight, eye color, and gender are all perfectly correct – and he’d never taken birth date or weight from you. Something about that makes the curl of warmth in you tighten a little. The stakes increase – the danger – and what you know he knows.

About… about you. What else does he know? The unknown fills itself with contextually relevant info that makes your cheeks burn a small deal before he’s even done a thing. How did he get that information?

But Wesker returns before you can continue to dwell beneath the surface of it. You let go of the bracelet before he can notice, your curious eyes searching the small bag and insertion needle – its’ tip as small as he can afford to go, a butterfly needle a nicety in the name of your creature comforts.

“Which arm?” he says, leaning forward and right back into your space a little. You mock up a ‘hmm’ before you offer the one closest to the Atlantis. The damn bag had its’ label removed. Some part of you feels outclassed by this and demands brattiness to make up for it, but the threat of getting stuck wrong has you on your best behavior. “This one, please, sir,” you drawl.

He tosses a glance straight at you, eyes teeming with a darkness to their gaze that sends a shiver down your spine. Do you know? Do you know the fire with which you are constantly playing with? You stoke a flame you can’t hope to vanquish, you lovesick fool… but he doesn’t voice the projection he’s heaped upon you.

He doesn’t compress it either, curiously – but it drains away nonetheless as he breaks two of his fingers from one of his black nitrile gloves, fingers breaching the material. He pulls an overly-convenient isopropyl alcohol pad from his labcoat and generously rubs the tips of his fingers with a bit too much attention and panache before he brings the same pad to your offered inner arm, sliding it entirely from there – “Do you prefer insertion… here?” – all the way to your inner wrist, where he rubs it a little more insistently until your mouth goes dry, massaging the alcohol in – “or here?”

God, he plays with his food, doesn’t he?

And he plays so well, so gently, little circles against the sides of your wrist as your inner nerves adjust to his touch, making your body twitch a little. So pliant, so easy that he can’t help himself… “I-I don’t-- I don’t mind,” you stutter, flexing your fingers a little as he brushes against such sensitive, smooth skin.

That makes him let out a huff of a laugh with a short pause.

Still so eager – even now. The lamb walks to slaughter itself… “The veins here are easier to see,” he lies coolly, pinprick cat eyes casing your reaction and the splotches of telltale color that rise in you at it. Aren’t you an odd one? His pointer finger brushes it intently, rolling it back, and forth, and back, and forth along the tendon it sits, pushing it down a little like a tensile cord in faux demonstration that makes your breath hitch.

Fuck, you really are a devil. Are you a masochist?

“It responds very well,” Wesker adds, then, emphasis on ‘very well’ as his gaze falls back to real concentration as he fetches his needle, one extra dab of alcohol at your wrist for extra-extra-sure as he uncaps it. You hold your breath. He holds the needle close to your hand. “Don’t ball your fist – that’s schlock.” Ah, Wesker always used such… odd eloquence – old and regal. Apparently, according to him (he’d told you, at least) Umbrella taught him a lot of them. But it’s befitting of someone with his status, somehow. Right now, he’s both antagonist and protagonist. “Mhm,” you nod, keeping your arm still.

He stops, then, free hand wrapping around the side of your arm that faced down to trap your wrist in place as his other hand closed in with the needle, those slit eyes of his intently calculating where to stick you to get a clean hit. Or if he even should – if he should intentionally miss and dig and see if you squirm, or how much of a social misstep it would be to selfishly indulge in his own sadism.

But he chooses not to play with an unknown variable, giving a little huff at his unspoken desire to make you hurt so well before he leans in a little more. Then, like that, he strikes – it’s over swiftly, needle breaking your tender skin and ravaging the vein wall. A tiny click sounds out as the sharp is disposed, and a tinier tube that leads out is the only remainder of the action.

...huh? All that lead up and… “Wow. That was… I didn’t expect that,” you say, blinking a little despite yourself. You can’t help it – you expected it to be more… more painful. He chuckles, and it morphs at its’ tail end from something lighthearted to painfully dark.

“Perhaps I should forget a little,” is all the doctor offers you from the unwoven threads of his thoughts, deep and wizened by the ports he’s placed in times past. “Would you like that next time, my patient?” You give a tiny gasp as the situation is re-acquainted with you, the elusive ‘my’ making your brain twirl. It doesn’t mean anything, of course it doesn’t, but it’s another part of a grand set aimed at the warmth slowly spreading through you. “I think you could s-stand the humbling,” you shoot back, smirking.

Alas, he brings reality into you by pressing a little on the insertion point, which causes you to instantly cringe with the uncomfortable digging sensation. Ouch.

“Hm? What’s that?” he purrs out, smug, and he does it again as an experiment, viperous eyes digging past your own with unrestricted glee. You suck in a breath and hiss through it, but his other two fingers are applying enough pressure that trying to pull your arm away won’t work without injury to the wall itself. “Fuck, that is an odd sensation,” you growl out, eyelids crinkling.

Wesker chuckles. It breaks off into a manic, deep bark of a giggle that is somehow as much powerplay as it is oddly, inescapably genuine. You’re… your facial expression simply caught him – like an ant with light bearing down on it or… or something. He’s in control of the situation, he can spare the emotion, he reasons away.

“What a dirty mouth,” he says. And before you can object, he leans forward and your lips brush – then meet – a quick, chaste kiss before he pulls back. “Mm. Spreading your disease,” he quips, shaking his head a little at his own virologist humor. That one could use a little more tinkering, he thinks.

“A-Ahuh,” you say, eyes lidding a little as you move your head forward just enough to try and re-capture his thin, soft, frustratingly far lips. He punishes you for your greediness by reminding you of his grip on that fucking point and, in spite of yourself, you moan a little, and then your horrified expression nearly kills him again.

“So responsive,” he croons, belittling, letting go of it entirely before he gets carried away; he doesn’t want to collapse anything. Then again, he could restick your other arm...

But you can tell that he’s reluctant. You can nearly smell it on him – a shark that has snagged its’ tooth and barely restrains the desire to really pull. “It was the kiss,” you pout, eyebrows drawing together with a pitiful look that is befitting of your current position, if anything.

“Hm. Of course. Typical,” Wesker asserts. He might not even be joking – “Just how many kisses do you dispense on average, doctor?” You quirk one of those pity-brows.

He regards you, blinks a little at your comment, seeking its’ intent. Then, he relaxes – you’re not the jealous type. No, not like he’s becoming. The thought of your lips on anyone else’s makes him want to grab your shirt and make you the outlier. But, he has to admit it: you’ve already become a statistical anomaly in his world…

“Hmm. One or two, if I’ve deduced that they’re susceptible,” he admits, and the honesty surprises you. It makes sense, though – he’s married to business, but he’ll do what business demands to make deals.

You nod a little, nonchalantly.

The fire seeks to burn you, though – he seizes your shoulder instead of your shirt and presses his lips to yours again, a little more insistent. You gasp and he pulls back a little, but then he’s back on you, and you’re surrounded in his delicious scent, and he smells quite macabre like black orchids warring with the isopropyl and too much hand sanitizer, and it’s odd but beneath it all you can smell the diluted day’s sweat of him.

That makes you have to bite your own cheek not to chase the contact when he breaks it again, finally satisfied with having painted a more dazed expression on you.

More pressing matters await than the continuation of discussion, though, and Wesker forces himself to focus on something other than his urge to take and taste the object of his own bud of crawling, itching desire.

“Now,” he says, breaking the moment, “time to begin treatment.” He sounds a touch breathless and it makes the corners of your mouth turn up a little. Not so unaffected now, huh?

He looks back to the TC Atlantis and moves from nearly leaning into you to adjust it. You watch as he fiddles with the bag he’s got. He produces a small syringe – no steel tip this time, rubber – and attaches it to the end of the bag, pulling back the plunger with two fingers until it’s filled with a measure of white, unassuming liquid.

What could it possibly be? You hum a little, eyes narrowing. Knowing the man you’ve come to acquaint yourself with, it could be nothing but more saline – or it could be something insane, like… like ketamine. Or something like that. You hope not – that’s a bit much for you.

Wesker picks up on it, though his red slits remain focused on what he’s preoccupied with. “Having second thoughts, little lamb?” This new addition makes you swallow and avert your prying eyes. “I’d hope not,” he adds, a little darkly, “it’s a little late to be turning back, don’t you think?”

Because you won’t be, not soon, he thinks. But he doesn’t say that.

You churn with an eccentric mixture of sudden illumination to your situation and a surge of lust. No escape… Your breathing gets a little heavier and the corners of his mouth turn up. “I understand that this is hard for you,” he assures, though he’s put on all the theatrical professionalism of a patient’s advocate, “but please,” it drops from that into something serious as his eyes turn to yours, smile falling, “don’t worry – I’m an expert.”

And Wesker says it with such courage that you just nod. You are in too deep now. But, god, it feels good to be surrounded.

He pulls the syringe out, satisfied, and lines it up with one of the branches on your IV, screwing it in. Before he begins, though, he stops. “Are you ready?” The way Wesker says it, slow and dragged out, is as if you will be hit with something dreadfully strong. The calpain potential makes you tremble lightly.

“It’s… it’s nothing truly insane, right?” You look to him for safety, and he shelters your mind with a scoff, as if the mere notion escapes him. “Of course not. I am interested in how you’ll fare with it, though,” he admits, one hand brushing your hand to impart his presence. It’s shockingly intimate, somehow.

It’s also all you need to be bewitched by such a dangerous, cunning, calculating man. For all you know, this is a sick trap and you’re crawling onto his sacrificial altar. What if it’s… what if… but then Wesker’s making unbroken eye contact with you as he pushes on the plunger, looking at your eyes for anything, and you greet that with a whimper that makes him smile a little. It climbs into a very toothy little smirk, one canine peeking as the final Cellegelyn in the syringe disappears in you.

But you don’t feel different, and you blink. Do you have some kind of immunity? “Um…”

He doesn’t respond, he just nods a little, as if he knows, and he adjusts the bag and the speed of its’ draining – he sets it up to mix with the saline on 100. That’s… a little quicker. “Mm, we’re just getting started,” he says, hint of something predatory emerging as the seconds eclipse.

You gulp and chuckle nervously. “Am I supposed t-t-to… to feel any d-different?” You can’t help it – you feel a tug of disappointment at the lack of anything noticeable. “Not necessarily. Not yet. Patience, patient,” he chides, holding a single gloved finger up at your worried protest. Wesker does something a little more like when the two of you are alone rather than as a doctor; he leans both of his arms against the side of your bed – which would, in your shared lab unit, be his chair, usually – and regards you.

There’s a sort of artificial softness imbued there. Is it weird if you find his effort endearing? It should scare you. You can, at least, cast out the thought that he somehow got his hands on a dose of uncharacteristically gritless Progenitor-based-something. If you’d mentioned your concern he would smack you, and you’re sure of that, too.

He interrupts to ask you a question. You see it, now – the desire behind that cold, creeping gaze. I want you, it says. He’s quiet, almost a silver, electric whisper. “What do you want?” It’s so charged.

You quirk a brow, but then you let the statement wash over you. What do you want? To continue. But what do you want? “I want you,” you say, nodding with certainty. He smirks, brows drawing together at that in approval.

“That’s it,” he compliments, and then he puts a hand on your stomach, brushing up and up your skin.

You shiver as he does. It feels… very nice. Then, he dips it beneath your gown again and traces over the leads he’s placed, hand climbing higher very slowly as he appraises you. The texture of the glove, warm and clinical, makes you huff. And then you whimper, and he gives a little ‘oh?’ and continues, dancing his fingertips along your sternum before he draws his hand back down, down, down, against your thigh, tips of his prim and proper nails brushing against your skin.

It feels really good – really, really good, and it makes you arch a little. Oh. “That… that feels n-nice,” you qualify, and your free arm twitches as it attempts to reach to him to guide him.

You stop yourself.

He doesn’t stop himself, though. He gives a tiny tug to that catheter with his free hand and you crinkle so beautifully as the sensation climbs through you, moaning a little, drawing your thighs together and clenching them gently – so helpless, so adorable. And all his to play with, now.

Putty.

“Struggling, lamb?” Wesker chuckles accusingly, letting go and sliding his hand up your arm instead, the touch erupting fresh goosebumps across your skin and making you lean into it as if starved. “Whatever you gave me is- is… y’know,” you avoid, beginning to flush more.

His touch is a lot – but it’s not enough, you want more. He chuckles a little more as you shoot him a very desperate glance.

“What ever happened to patience, hm?” But even as he says it, Wesker is sliding his hands over you and grasping at your grabbable hips, making you shift to allow him better access. “Feisty,” he breathes, digging his digits into them. You moan pathetically – the sensation is enhanced, spilling out from your hips and feeding your core like a direct connection you didn’t know you dialed. “T-That’s… nice…” you comment, eyes wrenched shut as you surrender yourself to more sensation.

The TC Atlantis clicks and filters more into your vein in the background. Everything is starting to feel like a pleasantry, just a little bit better than it should be – even just background noise that fills your ears, almost… musical.

Wesker acknowledges you with an affected sigh as a hand dips nearer to the corner of your thigh, massaging the flesh with deft, experimenting swipes of his fingers. You buck a little trying to encourage him to where, optimally, you’d prefer him, but your insistence is met with his resistance. “Not yet. But… soon.” He’s a little lax because he notices your eyes have dilated significantly.

You mewl in return, pleading at him – “How soon?” – and buck your hips a little.

“Soon,” Wesker repeats, a bit more snippy and sharp, letting go of your thigh a little hesitantly. You miss the warmth of it, your own desires laid bare as your brows press up together pleadingly even without the prosody of your speech.

He pushes down the bed’s arm and leans forward, then, forcing your lips against his own. It’s surprisingly sweet and needing of you, like the more he notices that you’re falling under the Cellegelyn, the more of himself climbs out from his chest.

From his shell.

You’re hopelessly addicted to that, grasping, perhaps, at the ghost of what you perceive as closeness, moving your lips on his own, digging your hands into the sides of your bed so you don’t try to lean forward to grab his – because you know, cognitively, that the intimacy will get you punished. He massages the pads of his thumbs at your hips all over again, hard,kneading sensitive flesh to the point of bruising as his tongue laps at your lower lip, and you open your mouth obediently, if sloppily, letting him in with a yelp.

Letting him all in. God, please. You moan into his mouth at his grip strength and you swear he drinks it in. You are massaging his ego so excellently. What an entertainment. He’s surprised at how fast it’s kicking in – aren’t you just dearly receptive? Some kind of polymorphism or something, perhaps? What a malleable little oddity.

Wesker’s tongue rolls against your own and even now, you notice it – it’s longer and leaner than a normal person’s, pressing into your wanting mouth with the strength of his need as you moan again into his own. He swallows the sound down, lips synchronizing with your own pair only enough that your mixing saliva doesn’t spill from you. You’re forced to swallow because you’re producing so much, and the sensations running through you make your legs furl and whimpers spring from you.

Your face is cherry red, and he stops kissing you to let you heave breaths in with a satisfied sound, only to nudge his nose up against yours in a tease before he leans back the rest of the way.

Wesker, of course, lacks the same embarrassing composure-drop – aside from a string of hair that peeks forward and the way his labcoat leans over your legs, he’s still perfectly normal. How frustrating. “And…” he sucks a breath in, himself, “...and how is the treatment progressing? How do you feel?”

His eyes are trained on yours, searching as he thumbs your hips with apparent absentmindedness, no longer the grip he had before, sparingly. Those pupils are so intense – and they always have been, but they’re even more intense now. They also gleam a little brighter, something you take great interest in as the cue that he’s feeling something and you’re not alone. It makes sense that he wears his shades so often, because without them, those eyes – and how bright or dim they are – are peepholes into a grander being.

You look a little dazed, but you manage to swallow a bit more, clear your throat and speak through the warmth that clamors through your guts, pawing insistently at the seams of your mind. It’s odd – your wits, you find, are still about you – at least partially. You don’t feel dumb. Perhaps you feel loose, but you’re not out of control. Everything just feels so good, and everything that makes you feel makes you feel so much.

You squirm... you’ve been doing a lot of that. It makes Wesker smirk with a self-satisfaction. “I-It’s going very well, d-d-doctor Wesker,” you reply, though you sound far more affected than you mean to. Or is that just the perfect representation of your slow, marching unraveling?

“Mhmm...” He stops crowding your space and pretends to immerse himself in thought, his voice deep and telling. Then, one of his wispy brows raise. “And what could I do to assist you further, hm?” His eyes flit to the holter monitor as he speaks. The way he looks at you, next, is suggestive, but it belies that you’re obviously not allowed to breach the unspoken rules of this game and beg him to fuck you.

Not yet, at least. There is time until the Atlantis has completed its’ infusion – the bag isn’t nearly empty. This doesn’t mean you can’t pathetically beg for other forms of contact, however.

So you puff a little and think really hard, and sustain your blush and roll your hips with the power of your powerlessness… “Please, I just… I just want you on me, just… touch me, p-please?” You look down, very ashamed at the way you sound and yet hopelessly turned on, and it makes Wesker’s eyes glint dangerously.

Your defenselessness is truly delicious. He really ought to keep you. He can imagine it, a fantasy he almost certainly cannot partake in: you in his lab, leashed and collared to his side, where he can take a break whenever he so feels the whim chase him to touch you. And you, whimpering and needy at every turn, always ready to give and give selfless stress relief like a good toy. So utterly human.

It should disgust him. Instead, your specific breed of naive humanity is like a fetish. You’re not bound to the ghost of a Doctrine, you’re not infected with any virus; your DNA is unblemished, untouched like a tap of pure, rippling potential. You’re so corruptible… and yet… and yet he cannot find it in himself to do that with any real, consequential permanence. God, he wonders if you’re compatible with… no, no, no.

Your moans would be a pleasant background chatter as he compares different strains under electron microscopes though, he thinks, instead of your mindful chattering. And you must see it in his eyes, the way they flare up as they gaze into your own with a deathly precision, because your spine feels a shiver climb up it and you let out a shaky whine.

You’re beginning to need him so badly that the emptiness in you aches.

“Keep talking,” he urges, one of his gloved hands shifting to slide over the fabric of the front of his pants, the other sliding over your body, seeming to really focus, with honed calculation, on the parts of you that draw the most sound from your throat.

You feel so lit alight with sensation this time that you writhe under him as his other hand draws, deliberately, over your sides – “Oh, g-god, why does it feel so- so-… hmmah,” – over each rib, across your hips and the outsides of your thighs, where he presses his digits inward teasingly as your core tightens – “F-f-fuck, Wesker, please, please,” – under your gown, which he bunches up and unbuttons to expose you to the air, making you whimper pathetically amidst the cacophony of your own groaning, his gloved fingers, two bare, pressing into your chest and your sternum and wrapping around your neck. You suddenly feel like you’re going to––

Wesker pauses. He’s leaning over you, gray coat draping across your legs, watching your face intently.

Like he’s looking at an anodized experiment encased in a tube. So clinical, cold, and utterly transfixed by the exponential disentanglement of your mind. Your psychology entrances him, laid bare and leaking.

Your eyebrows bunch up and a look of betrayal crosses you, and then you pout – embarrassment is far away in another land, you were so... “Don’t- don’t- why did you s-s-stop?”You almost feel like you’ll cry, bucking your hips incessantly into nothing, nothing at all. Since when had you been moving them? “Don’t stop, please, oh, please, p-please,” you prattle on, breathing shallowly. His grip increases a little and it falters.

“Why?” he asks, voice rough with need and accusatory, though he’s well aware of the answer – he just wants to force it out from you under the duress of all that dopamine, serotonin, and norepinephrine. Oh, yes, it’s long since leaked from one to another. But, fuck, you’re making him want to give in to his own basal urges and fuck you hard into the bed.

But he has more control than that. Plenty more restraint than you currently possess. It isn’t time yet – he knows what he’s doing. And when it is, he’s going to ruin you...

You actually sniffle. “I was so-- I was so c-c-close,” you manage to stutter out, your eyes seeking out his with a drugged desperation that makes his cock throb. “Is that so? … Really?” Wesker’s grip on your neck releases a little, and you lean your head and press the tiniest, defeated little kiss against the gray cuff of his labcoat in your addled confusion.

It releases completely and you swear he chuffs at you. “Well? Keep going, then.”

He slides his hands across your shoulders and dips them across your chest, digs them underneath your back and runs them along the sides of you. “Oh, thank you, thank you,” you babble breathlessly. You arch so beautifully, so wonderfully pathetic, and you sing and moan for him.

“So responsive,” he croons, “so powerless against me. Against the slightest little touch…” He demonstrates it by wrapping them across your stomach, pushing his hands deftly, each finger trailing themselves across each of your ribs in a dizzying pattern, each movement making you twitch and whine. So pitiable – such a far cry from your book smarts.

“Doesn’t this embarrass you?” But he knows it doesn’t – not now.

You can feel the lust in the coils of you tightening and pulsing with his touch like electric lightning. He dips one of his hands between your rolling hips – “Ohhhhh, yesssss,” – finally, middle finger running over you, and your labored breathing gives into rhythmic cries as you gush all over his hand, arching. “Wesker, oh, god, Wesker, oh, oh, fuck, f-f-fuuuuuuuckkkk, W-W-Wesk– Wesker… hhhhhah, ah, hhah, ah...”

He keeps it there, wriggles his digits about a little as you cry out so prettily for him. He keeps it until your gasping and moaning of his name (something he deigns for you to stop doing, such music to his ears) become the tortured rasps for him to stop. “Oh, GOD W-W-Wesk– Wesker it’s TOO much- T-TOO much,” you hiccup, legs pressing together, body writhing around even as he strokes you, sadism very clear in his catty, agitated gaze. “Please! Please, no m-m-more, no more, no more-more-more Wesker, W-Wesker, ple-e-eaaaase,” you beg through your teeth, free hand grasping at the other arm of the bed with a white knuckle grip.

Should he really give you mercy? You’d continue to say his name, a nice ring coming off your lips. “And here I thought you wanted me to touch you,” he muses, mock complaint going unheard to the higher regions of your mind. Your voice is as pretty begging to stop as it is to go… decisions, decisions… and he’s so indecisive, really, as you wriggle helplessly and squeak, dribbling even more on his fingers. It’s such sweet, embittered torture to your electrified nerves.

But then you start to cry, tears rolling down your cheeks as you plead and plead, and he ceases, stilling his hand but never pulling it away. “Fine.” It’s said sharp and final, but his expression is amused. The glove between your legs is covered in you – sticky strands that make the nitrile glisten wetly, truly a sight to behold.

His mouth is awfully dry. How lucky for you that you’ve got a bag of saline to keep you company. All he has is a heaping dose of your saliva.

You thank him breathlessly as you come down from your high, finding that it takes an abnormally long time. You’re so dizzy. Your body feels like it runs with pleasure in your aftershocks like an almost-painful livewire of lightness, your chest puffing so much and so quickly that the holter monitor – which has migrated to the side of the bed by now – beeps about your low oxygen saturation.

Wesker quirks a brow, his smugness wiped away at it and replaced with a little frown. He yanks his hand from you, which makes you stiffen before you relax, jelly-like, and he rips off his gloves, one of his hands finding your own to hold. “Easy, now,” he chides. But you want to yank your hand away – it’s so sensitive, and this is oddly intimate, so you twitch and whimper and...

The already-quirked brow climbs higher as his free hand pauses the TC Atlantis.

Wesker certainly thought that you had some kind of oddly strong reaction, but he hadn’t expected it to be to this degree or this fast – perhaps there were secrets to your mind he had yet to uncover about its’ inner workings? Things that your medical records simply didn’t divulge because nobody had ever looked. Intriguing. “Breathe with me, alright? In and out,” he splays your hand against his chest, underneath the fabric of his labcoat and over his turtleneck. Your hand slides a little, admiring even in your daze as you follow his command wordlessly, the holter monitor finally ceasing its’ siren.

“Good. Keep going, I’m nowhere near done with you,” he admits, humming a little from deep in his chest to occupy you away from his words save for the command inlaid. You continue, and eventually you find you’re no longer dizzy.

“So…” the virologist begins, his hands grasping your own to place it back on the bed, then darting away as if the potential connection scares him off – especially when your brain is lit alight with so much oxytocin. Your hand twitches after his, but then stills. This is Wesker, and this is a scene, not a normal man and a warm bed – but you still appreciate what you perceive as aftercare.

“How are you feeling now?” It comes out a little awkward, something that you’ve not quite heard from him in a long time, like he’s a little unsure of himself. You reckon he is, the way his eyes keep flitting to the monitor and then you, though when he notices your noticing he forces them to remain on you.

But he’s not terribly empathetic – he’s still roiling with arousal, evident in his own budding impatience.

“Better,” you nod, giving a weak smile as you shiver with a particularly strong aftershock.

He kicks off his boots very suddenly and climbs onto the bed with little grace, sitting on his knees and between your legs, once more regarding you. When you gasp, he gives a cocky, toothy grin, the predatory streak in them returning full force, no longer pressed down to comfort you. “What, did you think that was it? That I was going to make you cum without internal stimulation and let you free?” He giggles – and then it turns into a chuckle. The chuckle turns into a sadistic cackle of a laugh that shakes his shoulders.

“Oh, no, little bambi, you’re very far from home,” Wesker says, eyes narrowing with a mean look as he leans in to steal a little of the saline he’s been loyally feeding your vein. He grabs your jaw harshly and you squeak in delayed surprise as he pulls your chin forward and down, tongue relishing in the taste of you together as it tangles in your own dominantly, suckling and pulling sound from you as he lets his first clipped moan out.

You take the opportunity to swallow it and he forces your head back and against the bed for your attempt, lips so tightly packed against yours that you squirm under him.

He lets you up on his own time, pulling back as you cough and heave breaths in. Everything is so much right now that you already feel like he’s been touching you again, your hips twitching. It isn’t unnoticed, especially when your legs are flowing around his knees. “How convenient for me, you’re already ready again…”

“...but I suppose I’ll be a gentleman,” he croons, stroking his own ego as he pulls another pair of nitrile gloves on with a snap that makes you weak, tightening your knees around his waist as you hoist yourself a little in preparation. Just the feeling of shifting them makes you pant for a second – you’re fried.

“P-Please?” You shiver with anticipation and say the first thing that comes to your mind. You don’t know if you’re pleading for him to be easy on you or to prep you, honestly. You might be dripping wet, but you do need a little prepwork before he just s—

Wesker’s fingers are at your slit again before you can continue to dwell on it, his gaze tilting down and his brows furrowing in concentration as he experiments with your sensitivity, thumbing at your swollen clit a few times. You suck in a breath and your hips twitch – “A-ahhhh, god,”– and he parts his knees more to force them apart. That makes you full-body shudder, your hands grabbing at the cloth of his labcoat and squeezing it when he begins to move his thumb in a circular motion, other fingers sliding against your slit, one slicking itself up and driving into you.

You moan as he works it in and out of you in calculated strokes, eyes flitting from the holter monitor, your face, your glistening, fluttering hole. He grits his teeth and huffs, breath hot, face beginning to get flushed – something you realize even in your haze that you have never, ever seen before, the sight before you making your back arch and your fingers curl. He doesn’t quite realize that it’s his own appearance – debauched in his own way – that set you off, and he sets to hammering his finger in you with forceful insistence to make way for another digit.

You quiver and buck your hips disobediently, and you know you’re really in it now because he doesn’t even respond except to grunt, eyes narrowing as they land on you in meaningless warning before they refocus on your fluttering grip.

Fuck, you’ve got suction. He had expected Cellegelyn to loosen you up like a muscle relaxer, not leave you gripping his finger like you’re trying to milk it. You’re so goddamn hot, you know that? To debase you like this – to steal your intellect away and leave you the weak one writhing beneath him… it could become an addiction if he wasn’t careful.

Maybe all the little powerplays he’d pulled had been intentional to get to this very point. Had you ever considered that? Had you? “You have no idea what you’re entertaining, doll,” he growls.

The pet name, completely unexpected and new in the moment, makes you heave. Doll? “W-What?” you squeak, staving off the curdles of warmth that threaten to overwhelm you all for the sake of his own satisfaction and the potential at more of that. Oh, you’d be so good – you’d be the best doll, anything to keep this going. “F-Fuck, Wesker, feels so-- so good,” you mumble, barely coherent.

His nostrils flare at your damaged, telling cadence, and he slows his pace, which only makes you squirm a little more trying to force up some friction.

The squelching sound of your utter arousal is driving him mad. He needs to bury himself to the hilt in you sooner rather than later, lest he pop the button on his pants. The strain against them is starting to hurt, and the discomfort only serves to fuel him as he pushes a second finger in you, ceasing his thumbing so that you don’t overload before he’s got a chance to comfortably seat himself in your pink, blushing warmth.

You curse at the second insertion, but you stretch with beautiful ease. Your hands, though, are gripping his labcoat enough that it’s actually starting to pull him a little closer. You can smell him, and you can smell his cologne again, and the sensation of his fingers driving into you is making you whimper. Everything is crackling through your entire body and you want to curl up in a ball and hold onto the sensation for as long as you can. You sink your teeth into your lip to try and silence yourself even though it feels so good it’s almost burning with each deep stroke, and you bite yourself so hard you bleed.

You’ve released blood in the water.

The scent of copper tang makes him growl inhumanly, and his free hand doesn’t bother to disrobe of its’ filthy wet nitrile, wrapping around your back and pulling you forward with an unexpected strength as he continues to press into your walls with his other, tongue lapping along your lower lip and teeth lewdly. It makes you whine – it burns so good, and everything feels so good, and you white knuckle his labcoat as he lets go of you, shoving you back.

“Nghh, fuck, Wesker, I-I-I won’t––”

“No more fucking games,” he interrupts, shaking his head and puffing strands of hair out of his sightline. You nod, unable to answer him properly with your mouth. He’s beginning to lose his mask and his patience, and he fiddles with the button of his pants and pulls down the zipper, freeing himself.

You encourage him as he pulls his digits out, and you whine at the startling lack-of, greedy hole still clenching around the air. He wastes no time, smearing your natural lubricant over himself in pumps that make his mouth hang open enough for his elongated canines to be seen.

You let go of his labcoat and bring your hand to your mouth, biting your fingers to keep from babbling about how gorgeous he looks. But then you tear them away. It must be known, even at great personal cost, because how many people get to see him this way? Has anyone ever even told him? To bare another second in this world without him shouldering this knowledge will kill you, your addled mind is certain.

Or maybe it’s just the oxytocin surging through your veins and demanding you bridge minds. But you cannot deny yourself, consequences be damned.

“Y-You’re gorgeous,” you breathe, eyebrows raising in total earnest. You look so thoroughly smitten that he can’t help but lock eyes with you, and his very own fate in pretending this is merely a scene is ruined because his cock visibly throbs in his grip at your honesty.

He diverts his cat-like eyes, long lashes fluttering. Like this, he almost… almost looks bashful. Tendered. You nearly forget the situation before you feel his hot tip at your entrance and practically choke, so wet and bothered that it slides right in and he groans in turn.

“God, you’re still so tight,” he praises, ignoring whatever happened seconds ago, one hand gripping your hip, the other on the side of your thigh.

“You’re f-f-fucking… beautiful,” you say, eyes wide and blown out completely. Before you can continue your tirade to ruin his appearance of detachment, he punishes you by tightening his grip painfully, his cock driving into you to the hilt as you scream for a second. He curses alongside you, the noise surprising him, barking it out in equal at the way your walls quiver as they take him.

But he doesn’t tell you to stop…

It’d be more noticeable if you weren’t desperately trying not to cum, thoughts difficult for you to grasp and direct as your nails dig into his labcoat. Urge was easier, but you wouldn’t deny him this now; not after he’d treated you to such an experience prior.

He picks up on it by the way your walls move around him, incessant, and he growls low, long and deep as if to force your body to submit to his demand to hold off. “Not yet, I hav-haven’t… had my fun,” he commands, chest expanding with a labored breath.

He’s wide, and it makes it all so much worse – no, so much better. You ball your fists until crescents are digging into your hands as he pulls back and then rocks forward a few times, each one making you whimper at its’ peak, and your whimpers only serving to further ingratiate you to faster rocking.

Wesker’s grip on your hip tightens as he rolls in and out of you smoothly, wet slapping filling the air. Skin-on-skin. His gaze finally returns to you. “Know what? You’re the fucking pretty one, taking me so well, fuck, I want to… hhah, keep you like this,” he babbles, both his hands gripping your hips tightly as he fucks your taut body back and forth on his length with the ease that Progenitor bestows upon him.

What he gets in return – the prize of your reply – is your broken moan tearing through the air. You’re leaking out of yourself, hardly capable of remembering your own name, less and less of it all springing to you with each successive thrust.

To be privy to such power makes your core pulse.

You’re trying so hard for him, but you can’t help how your body grows impossibly tighter, beginning to lose your grip on thought as you mumble. Your vision crackles with the weight of his throbbing length pistoning into your soft, gracious heat.

“Mmmah’gnna, g’nnaahh-hhahh,” you slur, trying desperately to warn him, your hands patting and grasping at his sides to convey the spirit of your meaning.

He just keeps going, spilling noises that match your own incoherence against a wall of unintelligible complimentary ramblefucking you never could’ve expected from such a cold man. “Mmnhh, sofuckinggoodforme, you gonna be so– FUCK, fucking good for me, huh? Gonna k-keep you, hnnh, gonna fucking keep– keep you– make you m-m-mine, allmineallmineallmine…” His prosody blears around the edges and tightens when he drives into you, slurs when you milk him and leaks emotion around seams that can no longer bare to keep themselves together in lieu of his frantic fucking. Cellegelyn was the best fucking choice for this he ever could’ve chosen, and he’d do it ten times over to feel your heavenly grip crushing the day’s stressors away.

He’s a genius.

Hopefully you aren’t paying attention to what he’s actually saying enough to see the startling, alarming bright red – and if you are, which he severely doubts (and even he is having great struggle to pay any heed to your admittance that you were dangling on the edge) you’d discount it as lustful rambling.

But your head is lolling, tongue out and panting desperately as your orgasm crashes over you for the second time tonight. Your pulsing, dribbling, gasping warmth hugs his in a rhythmic pattern, head drawn back in a silent scream as one hand pulls at your own hair with the intensity that bombs your nervous system with each quick, deep, hard stroke he’s mindlessly, mechanically performing.

He leans forward, suddenly, breath a hot gasp, mouth hanging open as he seeks your neck.

Wesker diverts only enough to avoid incidentally murdering you, lax mouth – and each glittering, monstrously inhuman canine shaped by something truly ancient you couldn’t hope to understand on the level he did – sinking into the tender, sweet flesh of your shoulder like the strike of a viper.

You cry out and he groans into your shoulder as his hips finally give way to stuttering as they fuck too deep and too quickly into your overstimulated heat, and then he paints your insides, one arm seeking your side to death-grip as his other digs his nails, intentionally, into the flesh of your hip, drawing blood as his hips jerk and he bottoms out in you with each hot spurt.

You feel so good squishing and squeezing around him, you’re such a good hole.

You’re still twitching as he pulls out of you, releasing your shoulder from his mouth only after gnawing into it a little more – which makes you sob and sniffle and kick and moan, your body transforming the pain into otherworldly pleasure beyond your understanding.

“Nnnnh… ooohhhh, ohhh goddd,” you breathe, legs shaking as your abdomen leaks a heady mixture of the two of you.

So fucked out... what an adorable, pleasant look on you. Or is that the hormones talking? Wesker doesn't dedicate the time to dissecting it, he lets it wash over him in the way his face – and brows, more notably – take on a certain rare peacefulness, an expression they don't normally occupy.

You can do nothing but watch, no strength to intervene as Wesker’s tongue licks languidly at the wound he’s made, rolling over the beads of heme-rich blood that leak from you, teeth stained with your essence and breath tainted with the scent of iron. No drop of his mark is left to waste – it is almost ritualistic, though some small corner of your mind clinging to sanity whispers that this isn’t something he normally does.

It’s not quite cuddling – more like he’s trapping you against him, though he’s polite enough to prop himself to the side to avoid crushing you underneath him (that’d be rather unfortunate). This doesn’t mean he ceases his mindful lapping, continuing despite how you wriggle a little beneath him – if anything, he seems to find amusement in countering it.

He’s let go of your hips and lessened the grip on your side at some point, though you don’t quite register when.

It altogether reminds you of a big cat with a carcass, licking and gnawing idly to pass the time, more than it does the cuddling and afterglow you’d associate with what followed sex. But, strangely, you find that you… enjoy it. Not fucked out enough to attempt real affection, your hands come up to grip themselves in lieu of your desire to grab one of his. He seems to understand this, an unexpected and gentle hum that rises out of his throat, deep and low and claiming, his degloved hands – when did he take them off? – smoothing the gown you’d nearly discarded over you, shielding most of your naked body from the world around it, though not your shoulder.

He smells a little like you and you smell a little like him, a mix you find endearing – one you believe you may not soon forget, wonder in the back of your mind on the debate of whether or not he’ll commit this to his memory, too. Did he have a snapshot memory? His intellect would lead you to believe that he might.

The sensation of his slender tongue against the bite makes you struggle not to let any more sounds escape you, breathing elevating a little with each gentle lave – but you struggle, more truthfully, not to make a feeble attempt to shove him off of you; there’s absolutely no way you’re going to be able to cover the rich, deep bite unless you wear a scarf. And everyone… everyone will know who bit you with the shape it’s made.

Wesker knows that, too. He’s indulging in the thought of it, actually, knowing it will inflame – and maybe cleaning the blood from it with himself rather than the third party of an alcohol wipe is a little more alien than it is human, a hunger for heme that is satiated by your very own supply. Dangerous, though, because it’s not the first time he’s tasted it from another person – though it’d never been under this context, he supposes.

How all of this plays out for your future working with him – working under him, next to him, that is – he’s certain it’ll lend itself to his finer manipulations very well, in fact.

You wonder yourself, vaguely, more in concepts than words, how long he’s going to be cuddly before he resurfaces as the cold, emotionless figure he presents to the world and stalks off. You didn’t take him for the type to stick around, so to get anything at all after the conclusion shocks you in a pleasant – and perhaps a bit thoughtful with the weight of implication – way.

“H-hi,” you say, vocals shaking a little as you begin to come back down from it all. Wesker’s throat bobs, chest puffing with the edges of a laugh at your greeting, as if waking from a dream. Conjugation still threatened to escape you.

He stops cleaning you and lays his head in his hand, magnificently dulled gaze boring into your own. “Hello,” he replies, clearing his throat to shake it of the blood that clings, swallowing the last of it, tongue licking his lips in savor of you. The sight kicks up the dust of your blush again, having recently calmed.

When did he tuck himself away? He looks entirely clean – and you, on the other hand, are an absolute wreck.

“Enjoying yourself?” Wesker chuckles impolitely, brow cocking at your disheveled appearance and the catheter still wedged in your wrist.

Oh… that’d have to come out. You give a curt nod, sit up (with one hand as your guide, which still feels awfully sensitive) and look around you for something to stem the inevitable bleeding when you pull it out.

He tilts his head a little, watching you.

“Do you need something?” It’s both smug – as he is the only one who can provide it, really – and truthful, as he’s not quite sure your wits are totally about you to be pulling on anything. So, as your free hand moves to your wrist, he reaches out and grabs it.

“I’ll take care of it,” he swiftly decides, voice gold-lined with what little of the natural and yet uncharacteristic softness remained. After all, you seem amicable to it.

You blink as it washes over you. One event would unfold after another, and your brain would process them all individually. This painted an odd dichotomy you allowed yourself to steep in if only for the coddling it provided: you can think, but it’s hard to speak. The remnants of a dissociative? But you certainly remember the experience.

“O-oh, okay,” you softly say, reply delayed by your condition and the gears in your mind that cowed to his purposefully gentled tone.

Wesker gingerly turns your other arm over and retrieves a bandaid – though you feel more than too old for those, the situation demands it of you in your clumsiness. He runs his digits along the area and kneads a little at the thin tape holding the catheter down, then knits his brows as he pulls it out in one swift motion, replacing its’ presence with a bandaid that he holds down with frightening strength, quite a bit more than is necessary, perhaps because he must curtail the urge to lave at that, too.

You close your eyes tight and his brow quirks. “You’re still that sensitive?” Then, the virologist leans in a little, a conspiratorial hint in his tone. “Could you be… exaggerating?” But he leans back out with an edge of playfulness and ease, almost showy, rather than caution or anger.

“No,” you shake your head, opening them once it’s over. He hums thoughtfully.

The time has come for Wesker and you to depart, and he shuffles around with the meaning to stand before your hand sluggishly tugs at the cuff of his coat. He turns to face you, though you see that he creeps with a subtle impatience.

“Just wanted to say… t-thank you,” you cough out, pushing yourself into a sitting position and stretching your legs as you mean to stand.

Your belongings were bagged nearby in a themed tote. The man had truly thought of it all.

He considers something for a moment, seeking beyond your words, before he relaxes his shoulders and stands up, dusting himself off with the intention to stalk away.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he chides, slit pupils glinting with something you cannot define that surpasses the weight of the red flags you’ve seen before as he turns away, perhaps intentionally, unclipping his shades from his breast pocket and pushing them up entirely.

Wesker begins to walk away. “Thank me when you understand the depth of my generosity…” - a line that you find climbs up your spine, but he adds one last bit as he rounds a corner, clack of his boots with his disappearance to clean up - “...or the consequences of it.”

(thanks for reading this massive 11k!! lil aftercare tune soup for your soul:)

#ohhhmmygod #favorite #Jesus- mmhhh-

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