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lilith0fthevalley · 18 hours ago

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🧬 “Observations (Classified)”

Albert Wesker x Reader | not really a part 2 | late-night voyeurism | NSFW 🌶 | obsession, formal restraint snapping like a bone.

reader is unaware; Wesker is very much not

---

02:14 A.M.

Late night. Facility security room.

The screens flicker in sterile white. Most are still.

But Camera 6A, the laboratory, glows with motion.

You.

Alone.

On screen, you’re in the west lab, arching slightly over the sink. Just rinsing out a beaker. Simple. Innocent.

But the fabric of your blouse stretches tight along your spine when you lean forward.

And something in him... pulls.

---

Wesker sits, arms folded, jaw stiff.

He’s already undone the top of his collar. Already removed the gloves.

Not because of you.

Of course not.

It’s hot in the control room.

The server fans are loud.

The stress levels are unusually high.

He’s just—adjusting.

Except... your voice, soft and oblivious, carries over the audio feed.

A hum. A simple, lovely, innocent note.

Unaware of the man who’s been replaying your shift three times over.

Unaware of how he’s zoomed in. Cropped the others out. Enhanced the footage of you turning to brush hair behind your ear.

“Look at you,” he murmurs,

to no one. To the air. To himself.

To you.

---

By the third time you lean forward, the motion is burned into his brain.

He doesn't mean to—

but his hand is already dragging over the front of his slacks, slow. Testing. Pressing down.

His breath leaves sharp through his nose.

This is beneath him.

This is pathetic.

This is...

His palm stills.

But your figure remains—graceful, hypnotic, damning—on-screen.

---

02:44 A.M.

He gives in.

Fingers pop the belt loose with one flick.

Zipper—quiet, slow. As if anyone might hear.

He leans back in the chair with a long, soundless breath through gritted teeth.

This is beneath him. He repeats.

His fist moves anyway. Down. Up. Slow at first—controlled, like everything else in his life. But his jaw is tight. His brows drawn. His breath shallow. He shouldn’t need this.

He’s superior. Beyond weakness. Beyond base urges. Beyond the kind of pathetic, primal desperation that leaves lesser men gasping into their palms in the dead of night.

But here he is. Knees spread. Glove tossed aside. Muscles flexing tightly on the fabric of his shirt in the dim light. His cock’s already slick, already hard—already leaking for you.

Disgraceful.

Illogical.

Weak.

There’s nothing clinical in the way his hips lift once, slightly.

Nothing detached in the way he groans when your laugh echoes through the speakers.

He imagines—

your lips parting when he finally corners you.

the way you’ll gasp when he tells you what he’s done for you.

How you’ll cry when you realize you were never alone.

---

“You don’t even know,” he whispers.

“What you do to me.”

“How long I’ve watched.”

“How hard I’ve worked to keep others away.”

“To keep you... close.”

Your laugh. Again. On loop. It plays like pure torture.

He imagines you writhing beneath his gloved hand, spine arched, eyes glassy—like a creature begging to be dissected. Every sound you make, every breathless moan, cataloged in his mind like data points. You’re not just a body—you’re a subject. A specimen. One he intends to ruin.

He imagines pulling you apart slowly—methodically—stretching your tolerance until you're no longer sure whether you're sobbing from overstimulation or worship. His thrusts would be relentless. Calculated. Deep enough to make you cry out, shallow enough to make you beg for more.

He imagines how your body would cling to him, trembling and slick, so desperate to keep him inside. He’d slow down—not out of mercy, but to watch you fall apart more beautifully.

He imagines gripping your face, forcing your gaze up to meet his—glasses still on, smile absent. Just cool, exacting control as he thinks, "This is what you're made for. Submission, chaos, and absolute obedience."

He imagines not stopping—not when you beg, not when you shake, not even when you forget your own name. He wants you empty, filled with nothing but his voice echoing in your skull. No thoughts. Just Wesker.

He imagines marking every inch of you—bite, bruise, handprint—proof of his ownership. Scientific. Clinical. Intimate in the most violent way.

He imagines your voice going hoarse from crying out for him. And he knows—you would. Again and again.

His strokes speed up. His breath stutters. He thinks of your lips wrapped around him, warm and wet and reverent—of bending you over some cold, sterile lab table, pressing your face to the glass just to see your fogged-up breath as he ruins you from behind.

You're his already. You just don’t know it yet.

He should be above this.

But he's not. He's fucking not.

He'd KILL for the real thing. He’d burn the whole facility just to hear you moan his name like you mean it.

“Mine,” he hisses through clenched teeth.

“You’ve always been mine.”

He hates this. Hates the shaking in his thighs. The raw, desperate sound that slips past his clenched teeth. The image of you sprawled and crying on his sheets—something he’s never even seen, but imagined with such terrifying precision he could swear it's real.

The monitor crackles slightly as you tilt your head and smile on screen—

and Wesker spills over his own hand with a low, brutal sound.

---

03:39 A.M.

Silence.

He exhales.

Reaches for a wipe.

Tucks himself away again.

He stares at the mess. Then at nothing.

Never again.

...Until next time.

Rewinds the tape.

Watches you one more time.

And doesn’t delete the footage.

---

(A/N: HAHA got you lovelies with the booby trap pic😈 Here's a little tease for you hoes;3 you'll get that wesker coc next time, I pwomise🥺 and he sure as hell won't make it easy for you. P. S. I'M STILL LEARNING HOW TO USE TUMBLR ALRIGHT???) Posted this draft at 3am.

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lilith0fthevalley · 18 hours ago

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🧬 “Deviation”

MANIPULATIVE!Albert Wesker x Reader | One-shot AU | Reader Unaware | Deep Psychological Control | Obsession-Slowburn

⚠️ Possessive behavior • Surveillance • Delusional Justification • Isolation tactics • No reader realization • Smut • Stalking

🧬 1. [Observation]

It begins, as most things do with Wesker, in silence.

Your first day on the team, you barely warranted a glance in the surveillance feed.

Another lab technician. Another replaceable assistant. Another insignificant moving part.

But then you lingered.

Stayed late. Came early.

Read the case files beyond your clearance level and didn’t flinch at the corpses.

You passed the first test.

Not that you knew there was one.

You thought it was coincidence that no one sat beside you in meetings.

That your access card opened doors you never requested.

That the intern who made a joke about your smile was transferred within the hour.

It wasn’t coincidence.

It was calibration.

He was isolating the variables.

And you, you became an anomaly worth noting.

He began compiling minor reports on your behavior, tucked into encrypted files labeled with meaningless acronyms—justifications for your existence in his system. He logged your arrival times, the hesitation in your speech, the way you handled scalpel trays with a certain… reverence. Clinical on the outside, but with the sharpness of someone who wanted to understand.

You weren’t like the others—those limp, nodding bureaucrats or ambition-hollowed researchers. You read between lines. You saw things. You didn’t ask for approval.

It should’ve been threatening.

But instead, it was fascinating.

---

🧬 2. [Containment]

Wesker doesn’t trust easily.

He trusts data.

Outcomes.

Silence.

But you unsettled the metrics.

You moved differently. You saw things. You questioned protocols he didn’t authorize you to read.

And he watched.

The way your fingers hovered over a scalpel you didn’t need to touch.

The way your reflection lingered in the biohazard glass.

The way your laugh, rare as it was, made low-ranking guards look up.

So he changed the guards.

Restricted hallway access.

Reassigned co-workers.

Built your world to orbit only him.

And still—still you never noticed.

Not when your new desk faced his office.

Not when your login synced with his terminal.

Not when your lunch orders began arriving, already paid.

You thought it was protocol. Efficiency. Company structure.

It wasn’t.

It was obsession.

Even your chair was adjusted—replaced with one designed to support your back based on posture data from security footage. Your lighting changed imperceptibly across weeks, tailored to prevent eye strain and keep you awake longer, sharper.

He scheduled briefings when you were most alert.

Redirected minor crises to ensure you'd report directly to him.

He watched the way you blinked when you were confused.

Memorized the twitch of your mouth when you were about to ask something risky.

Your coworkers left one by one. Transferred. Fired. Reassigned.

Those who got too familiar? Disciplined. Quietly.

You didn’t wonder why your inbox felt so clean.

Why no one interrupted your concentration anymore.

Why the company started feeling like a corridor, narrowing around you.

---

🧬 3. [Degradation]

It got worse.

Or—closer to the truth.

He found himself pausing the security feed just to watch the curve of your spine as you bent over notes.

He rewound your voice recordings, cataloguing the inflections in your “Good morning, sir.”

He deleted the word sir from your tongue in his mind.

He didn’t want your respect.

He wanted your obedience.

Your trust.

Your presence, constant and unrelenting.

You belonged in his space, like air belonged in lungs.

He just hadn't told you yet.

Sometimes, you left behind small things—sticky notes, paperclips, coffee cups. Harmless. Forgettable. But he kept them all.

The mug with a faint mark of your lip balm.

The pen you once clicked while reading virology samples.

A typed memo, crumpled, with a single word scratched out and replaced. "Necessary."

He examined them not with sentiment but calculation.

These were not keepsakes.

These were proofs of proximity.

You were slipping under his skin molecule by molecule, and he needed evidence of your presence in his domain.

But there were moments—dangerous ones—when calculation gave way to something darker.

Moments when you reached for a dropped stylus beneath the lab table and the hem of your coat pulled taut across your thighs.

Moments when you tilted your head to read something over a microscope and exposed the soft column of your neck.

Moments when the feed from the surveillance cameras caught just enough.

He knew every angle of your body from security footage.

The way your blouse sometimes gaped slightly when you leaned forward.

The way you stretched without thinking, unaware of how it framed you.

Unaware of the man watching—memorizing.

It was a weakness.

A flaw in his design.

But sometimes he would watch the footage at half-speed, eyes burning, jaw clenched, and tell himself it was for behavioral monitoring.

That the brief tightening in his chest wasn’t arousal, but concern.

And yet—when you bent to pick up a file one night, alone, late, and the back of your skirt lifted just slightly—

—his fingers had twitched.

Not from irritation.

From restraint.

From the raw, silent thought that he could take you. Right there.

Not in fantasy. Not in dream. But in brutal, clinical, breathtaking reality.

He could fuck you against the sterile counter and no one would stop him.

No one would even know.

But he didn’t.

Of course he didn’t.

He was control. Discipline.

He filed the footage.

Encrypted it.

And watched it again the next night.

Hands behind his back.

Jaw locked.

Throat tight with the sick, hungry coil of desire he refused to name.

You didn’t know.

Didn’t see.

Didn’t feel the weight of a man who no longer saw you as a subordinate or asset—

—but as something already his, simply awaiting the correct time to be claimed.

---

🧬 4. [Denial]

You never caught it, but he looked away first.

Every time.

Every instance your gaze met his, however briefly.

You assumed it was deference. Coldness. That clinical thing he wore like a second skin.

But it wasn’t.

It was containment.

Because the sound of your voice—the precise cadence in which you said “Understood, Doctor Wesker”—lit up some dormant, vile thing in him.

Something untested.

Something monstrous.

He was not above temptation.

He was simply better at dissecting it.

The way you smiled at your coworkers, never at him?

He noticed.

The way you stood just a fraction closer when anxious, fingers tightening at your sides?

He filed it away.

He let others believe you were isolated by accident.

But he'd engineered that loneliness. Curated it.

Suffocated anything that threatened to pull your attention elsewhere.

You never got that offer for project co-lead.

Never received the anonymous gifts left at your desk by interns.

Because Albert intercepted them.

Silently. Strategically.

You didn’t know it was his hand pulling you toward him, only that every direction seemed to fold inward until he was the only constant.

The only man who saw you.

Who understood you.

He watched you trace your notes, watched your lips form silent syllables, and all the while he denied himself.

Denied the heat pooling in his abdomen.

Denied the cruel ache behind every “Goodnight, sir” you uttered.

Denied the nightly compulsion to run simulations of what you would sound like begging.

And when he couldn't sleep, he listened to your voice on the lab’s intercom archive.

Just to hear it.

To pretend.

To substitute control for contact.

And still—he told himself he had not crossed the line.

Not yet.

Because you were still untouched.

Still pure, in the way only someone unaware of their ownership could be.

---

🧬 5. [Possession]

He began to see it in everything.

The way others looked at you—a threat.

The way you spoke about your family—a liability.

The way you said “thank you” when he passed you reports—intolerable.

You didn’t thank him.

You didn’t understand him.

You couldn’t.

But that was fine.

Understanding would come later.

He started curating your tasks more delicately.

Steered you away from field ops, too dangerous.

Assigned you exclusively to him, citing “performance optimization.”

You didn’t protest.

You thought you were being promoted.

But in truth, you were being drawn in.

Woven tighter.

Placed carefully, perfectly, exactly where he wanted you.

In his office.

In his world.

In his reach.

Your name was embedded in his daily reports. Your security log-in pinged his terminal every time you swiped a door.

The other researchers stopped referencing your work without Wesker’s express permission. He had erased your reputation as independent—you were his now.

And no one questioned it.

Not when his gaze burned through the glass walls of the lab.

Not when he stood beside you in meetings like a shadow wearing a tailored suit.

Not when his hand briefly brushed yours while reviewing samples, and he didn’t pull away.

He didn’t need to pull away.

He had already claimed what he wanted.

---

Now, his fingerprints existed on more than your reports.

He’d rewritten your schedule to end near his. Aligned your meals. Synced your lab hours. Even your breaks were subtly shifted, your elevator stops timed perfectly with his descent.

You didn’t see it.

But he did.

Every day you returned to your workspace slightly adjusted—your chair moved back in, your pens restocked, your personal mug rotated exactly one degree counter-clockwise.

“We’re optimizing,” he’d say.

“For your convenience.”

He'd begun accompanying you to biometric checks. At first, a coincidence. The second time, an excuse. By the third, he was inputting your medical logs himself.

His voice was always calm. Always formal. Always patient.

But his gaze lingered.

His presence loomed.

And his hands—always gloved—brushed against the small of your back far too often for protocol.

---

And he watched.

From behind glass. From dark monitors. From still frames and slow replays. When your blouse sat a little too low. When your eyes wandered where they shouldn’t.

You were careless with your innocence.

But he would be careful for you.

He adjusted the brightness of the surveillance feed. Zoomed in. Studied the way you leaned too close to your keyboard.

Imagined your breath fogging the screen.

Imagined how easily that breath could hitch. Could falter. Could beg.

You have no idea, he thought.

But you will.

Not yet.

But soon.

Understanding would come later.

---

🧬 6. [Infection]

The final stage was the most dangerous.

You said his name once.

Not “sir.”

Not “Wesker.”

Just:

“Albert…?”

His gaze snaps up from the report.

You’re standing in the doorway of his office, the heel of one shoe slightly kicked back, as if you weren’t sure whether to enter. The folder in your hand trembles slightly—an involuntary twitch you don’t even notice. But he does.

He notices everything.

The breath that stutters in your throat after the name escapes.

The flicker of hesitation in your pupils when his expression doesn’t immediately soften.

The way you shift—defensive, unsure—before you correct yourself:

“I mean—sir. Sorry, I meant—sir.”

But it’s already too late.

The damage is done.

You spoke it aloud.

Not in passing.

Not as a slip of protocol.

Not with bitterness or irony.

But with concern.

Soft. Tentative. Almost gentle.

And that… that is what undoes him.

You don’t know he has a file buried six levels deep into a server no one else can access—labeled with your name, storing every image of you captured on internal footage.

You don’t know he’s wiped out four internal transfer requests that would have pulled you from his floor.

You don’t know he personally selects your meals for team events—ensuring your preferences are always met, even when no one else notices.

You don’t know he’s kept you here, orbiting him, perfectly placed, under the illusion of promotion.

And now you’ve said his name like it belongs to you.

Like he does.

“Sir,” you try again, a nervous laugh escaping you. “Apologies. I—I didn’t mean—”

He stands slowly, measured, the desk separating you like a fragile boundary he’s had to respect for far too long.

“No need to apologize,” he says coolly. “You simply… surprised me.”

But inside? His thoughts are nothing but static.

He replays the syllables.

Not just the sound, but the shape of your mouth when you said it.

He files it into memory. Deep. Permanent.

And he knows—sooner than even you do—that this is the beginning of the end for the illusion.

Because from this moment on, you’ve stopped being a project.

Stopped being a subject.

You’ve become a trigger.

A fixation.

An opening he hadn’t anticipated—but cannot ignore.

You said his name once.

You won’t realize until it’s far too late:

You’ll never say it the same way again.

Because you didn’t know what you’d done.

You didn’t hear it the way he did.

Like it was already yours to say.

Like he wasn’t a god.

Like he was a man.

A man who had already rewritten every security protocol to keep you near.

A man who eliminated colleagues who made you uncomfortable.

A man who—if you ever truly looked—might shatter the illusion of “normal” with one cold sentence:

“You’re not here by accident.”

“You’re here because I designed you to be.”

But you don’t know.

You smile politely.

You offer your reports.

You drink the coffee that arrives on your desk precisely how you like it.

You go home.

You live your life.

While he rewatches your day in full.

While he listens to your voicemails and deletes names from your inbox.

While he studies you like you’re the last unexplained miracle on Earth.

While he reminds himself that love is irrelevant.

Control is what matters.

And he already has it.

---

He’d timed every entry and exit.

He knew how long you took in the restroom.

Which hallway you paused in to check your phone.

What time of day your voice grew tired.

He saw it as clearly as he saw cell degradation under a microscope.

That slow unraveling.

That quiet compliance.

You were adapting.

Your posture had shifted. Subtly. You walked faster when alone. Slower when near him. You dressed differently—more reserved, perhaps without realizing. You avoided eye contact with male superiors.

Wesker approved.

He didn’t speak of it.

Didn’t need to.

The conditioning was holding.

You had stopped asking questions.

Stopped challenging schedules.

Stopped requesting to work from other wings.

You had folded into the environment he designed—one where he was a constant hum beneath your daily routine. Where his name lingered at the back of your tongue. Where his voice set your pace and his silence set your nerves.

---

“You don’t know what you’ve done,” he muttered to himself, watching the security footage replay. While he studies you like you’re the last unexplained miracle on Earth.

There you were again. That exact moment. Your eyes soft, confused, lips parted: Albert…?

He paused the video.

Leaned back.

Let the sound echo in the sterile quiet of his office.

It was not an accident.

Not some sweet slip of tongue.

No.

It was the infection taking root.

Your body catching up to what your environment had long accepted.

Dependence.

Deference.

Attachment.

He could work with that.

Love was messy. Emotional.

But dependence—he could mold.

He could reinforce it, reward it, create just enough tension to keep you needing his approval.

To keep you needing him.

---

(A/N: should I make a part 2??? I mean- I already have it. I just wanna hear it from you dirty sluts;>)

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lilith0fthevalley · 3 days ago

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Hello my bestie! I miss youuuu and love youuu

Wanna make out?

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lilith0fthevalley · 3 days ago

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Hello my bestie! I miss youuuu and love youuu

Wanna make out?

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lilith0fthevalley · 5 days ago

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lilith0fthevalley · 5 days ago

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lilith0fthevalley · 5 days ago

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And Cut! That's a Wrap on This Years Summerween!

Hello Friend,

I just want to take the time to say thank you so very much for sticking with me and my little writing project. I hope you enjoyed the concepts and stories I had compiled to tell you. I also hope that when the time comes for me to expand on the ideas further, you are here, once more, to see whatever it is that I have to offer you.

And, of course, I would be remiss to forget to offer my gratitudes... To @shymoob, my dear friend, beta reader and co-event planner, I truly couldn't have done this without you. Your enthusiasm, your excitement, your input. Every time I have a modicum of an idea, I am so excited to share it with you. In response to that excitement, you are always so quick to offer encouragement and help me in brainstorming. Couldn't do this without you, Bestie <3 To Viper, I have shared this with you once, but I will share it again, you are the reason that I am writing again. The first time I read your work I remember thinking "Damn, They're GREAT!!" And from there, when I would/do write, I do it with the intention that one day, someone will read what I have composed and have the same reaction. And finally, To You, Dear Reader, Thank you for spending the time perceiving my little machinations and works. I hope they drew your attention long enough to leave you wanting more. While I have stated before that I write for myself, writing for an audience definitely does help! Having likeminded people who enjoy the same content, concepts, source material, and can discuss the ideas brought to life is a wonderful driver and inspiration to keep writing.

I love to chat with readers, so please let me know which fic was your favourite, which AU you want more of or even your own head canons to the little deviations of source material I have provided you with.

Until then, I will see you in the next one. With Love,

Lilith

#lilith writes #lilithofthevalley #Lilith's Summerween 2025

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lilith0fthevalley · 5 days ago

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Short Film Feature: The Thing Featuring Jack Krauser

Content Warning: This story contains dark and mature themes, including isolation, psychological horror, body horror, mild medical themes (immunocompromised character), and implied parasitic/alien possession. There are references to death, unsettling imagery, and tension-heavy scenes involving paranoia and transformation.

And as always…Reader discretion is advised.

Word Count: 1491

Event Masterlist

The distress signal had become a constant blare to the point that Krauser had tuned it out unconsciously. As he stalked through the halls of the Cerberus Research Facility, located way out in the frozen, desolate Antarctic, his ever present scowl deepened.

This assignment wasn’t supposed to turn out this way… And he swore to himself that if when he got back, he would wring the neck of whoever signed him up for this job.

It was supposed to be a simple security job. Protect the delicate little Poindexter's while they fuck with something they had no business fucking with. Hell, he didn’t even like the cold!!

As he rounded the corner of the hallway and came to a fork, he just barely registered the taped off corridor. Copious strips of black and beige duct tape barely holding onto the frame. A weak attempt at keeping something in… Or out…

Krauser glares at the hallway as if it had personally offended him… And in a way, perhaps it had… After all, the reason why this job, the job that was supposed to be a simple security job, had gone to shit emerged from that very passageway…

With a grunt he shakes his head and turns away. The stench of drying blood, gasoline and decay is disconcerting; Even for him.

Pushing off and to the furthest most right hall, he tilts his head in thought and lets out a long sigh through his nose. ‘How many of us are left anymore? 4? No, wait… 3. Or is it 4?’ The sergeant major lets out a frustrated sound and shakes his head. ‘Focus! Ok let’s think… At the beginning there was me, Dr. Blair, Dr. Copper, Palmer, Mac and Nauls… Then they added… Shit what was his name… The red headed prick, the annoying blonde, and Bennings… Old bastard could drink me under the table.’ He smirks at the recalled memory but quickly puts it aside to continue his count. ‘And lastly… Came trouble… The annoyingly delicate Dr. L/N and her lapdog assistant, Claude…’ He rolled his eyes, much like he did when she had first arrived and was scolded by Dr. Blair for doing so. ‘Make sure she feels welcome! She is an integral piece of this research team!’ Dr. Blair had squawked at him. She was a lithe little thing with cropped brown hair and bright green eyes that show a hint of age in the corners of them. A real mothering figure to the younger researchers and a great person to sit in silence with when the insomnia got to be too much for him. God, did he miss her company and her scoldings…

He paused for a moment and let his eyes fall shut...

~~~

“Uh… Are you listening, Jack?” The head doctor of the facility, Dr. Blair questions with a tilt of her head. Krauser gave her a lazy gaze but nodded. “I’m listenin’ Doc.” He drawls and raises a blond eyebrow at her much smaller form. She nods. “Ok good. I want you to understand how crucial it is that we have Dr. L/N here. She’s a pillar of the field!” The brunette gushes and zips around the lab, rambling to herself. “So make sure she has everything she needs, and if she asks for assistance with anything and I’m not there to give it to her, just… Use my codes to grant her access! You know those, don’t you? Oh, if you don’t they are under my keyboard on a purple sticky. Ah! And, just in case! God forbid, of course, anything happens to her assigned personnel, you would be next up to act as her security. Got it?” The doctor rambled so quickly Krauser lost most of the meaning of those words. “Wait. Doc, are you tellin’ me I have to play babysitter? For a grown woman?!” He asks incredulously. Blair pauses and lets out a huff as she glares at Krauser.

“It’s not babysitting, Jack… Dr. L/N has connections. Powerful ones. It can get this research to the covers of journals, she can pull strings and influence people. But she has to be around to do so.” Jack snorts and crosses his muscled arms over his broad chest. “So why doesn’t she?” “Because she wants to see the work first before she backs it. Which means she’s coming here. Which also means that we have to be so incredibly careful-”

“Yeah yeah, so you all don’t embarrass yourselves. I know.” Krauser rolls his eyes. It’s Dr. Blair’s turn to cross her arms as she spins around to face him once more. “Not just that, Jack… Dr. L/N is known to be incredibly… Susceptible to illness. That’s why she has an assistant coming with her. His name is Claude. Play nice with him.” She explains with an air of finality in her voice, poking a perfectly polished fingernail into Krauser’s chest before striding past him and back to the labs.

~~~

His grumbles continued soft and unintelligible as he continued through the halls in search of the task he had been so graciously given assigned… The last task Dr. Blair had set him with when things went to hell in a handbasket; Protect Dr. L/N.

Continuing to mutter his grievances, Krauser enters the little breakroom of the lab to see the light already on and a feminine figure standing at the counter humming a soft tune as she prepares a mug of tea.

Jack’s lip curls at the sight of her. The so-called fragile little doctor who needed an assistant to remind her of her timed medications, who had to be draped in layers upon layers upon layers of winter coats and sweaters in order to prevent catching a fever, who had to turn in for the night earlier than the rest of the scientists… The same woman stood back to him in a simple striped long sleeved shirt, pulled up to her elbows, leggings and shearling boots.

He scrutinized her.

And before he could speak, she broke the silence.

“If you have something to say…” Her tone is just barely different from the voice he first heard when she initially arrived at the Cerberus Research Facility... It was stronger... Not the same shy, watery little tone she had introduced herself with. He inhales sharply before speaking.

"...You're not wearing a coat." It comes out a bit sharper than he intended, instead of like an observation, it sounded like an accusation.

She froze, posture going rigid before speaking with a disarming smile over the rim of her mug.

"...Hm. It must be warmer in the kitchen today then." Instead of agreeing with her, Krauser crosses his arms and narrows his piercing blue gaze. “I don’t quite think that’s it…” He gruffs out, the gears in his head turning. The theories and hypotheses coming together–Dr. Blair would be so proud.

It was all beginning to weave together into a picture. A big, macabre, concerning picture… The strange creatures showing up after Dr. L/N’s arrival, her ability to survive in spite of her delicate nature and the most damning one… The recent changes she had been making; Discarding of her prescriptions, wearing less layers, staying up past the usual time she would be seen retreating to her quarters. Hell, even her complexion was becoming less gaunt and more healthy. She almost seemed like a different, thriving version of herself. But, those changes don’t just happen… Especially not to someone who’s been known to be immunocompromised for her entire career… No, something else has to be at play here…

Y/N pauses and slowly lowers the ceramic mug from her lips.

“...My my, Sergeant Major…” She muses low and playfully.

“It looks like there is some brain accompanying your brawn…” Her grin widens just a fraction, and something cold and inhuman flickers in her narrowed gaze.

“You should’ve started asking questions sooner, Jack~.”

The lights overhead flicker. A second later, a low chittering sound echoes from the vents behind him—followed by the hiss of something wet sliding across metal.

Something behind him clicks before a mechanical hiss can be heard

Krauser turns his head, muscles coiled. The break room door had closed… and locked.

“I would hate to be interrupted,” she purrs. “We have so much to discuss....”

He takes a step backward.

She doesn’t move to close the distance. Instead, her smile only deepens.

“Did you really think you were protecting me, Jack?” She taunts and leans back against the counter top, still giving him that sharp, predatory smile.

"You're not Dr. L/N…" Krauser surmised.

The woman chuckles, the sound alien in her throat.

“Oh, Jack… Ever so clever… More than those doctors gave you credit for…”

She tilts her head slowly. “You’re right. I’m not.” She says as she leans off the cabinet to pace. The action akin to a prowling beast.

“But, she was so kind… To

Let

In.”

Fin.

Event Masterlist

Taglist: @shymoob

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lilith0fthevalley · 5 days ago

Text

Now Showing... Hunter's Solstice

Midsommar AU!Leon S. Kennedy x Fem!Reader

Content Warning: This story contains intense horror elements, including psychological manipulation, cult themes, ritualistic imagery, implied drugging, pursuit/chase sequences, and a romantic partner's descent into monstrous, predatory behavior. Depictions of panic, fear, emotional betrayal, and implied physical threat may be distressing to some readers.

And as always… Reader discretion is advised.

Word Count: 2543

Event Poster Back of Case Summary Event Masterlist

How did it come to this? Running for your life in some Spanish village, miles away from the smallest modicum of cell service, some crazed snarling behind you that you don’t dare turn around to identify… You squeeze your eyes shut as a panicked whimper rips from your throat. Salty tears brought on by the adrenaline at the unknown have dried on your cheeks, making them tight and uncomfortable. But that isn’t your main concern, no… You’re more focused on the insane creature behind you. Taunting you. Coming close enough to catch you before releasing you.

It’s toying with you…

You round one of the cookie-cutter village houses and press a palm around your mouth to muffle the sound of your breathing. How did this happen? How did you get here? What’s going to happen? Where… Where is Leon?

~~~

Leon pads out of the bathroom, scrubbing a white towel around his head to dry the sandy blonde locks. A full size towel is wrapped around his waist, baring the sight of his cut muscles to the colder air of the bedroom.

Y/N sits on the end of their shared bed with a squint of her eyes, a playful purse of her lips and a quirk of her head. “What’s that look for, Mi Cierva?” He chuckles and strides over. His footsteps are silent on the polished wooden floor, and as he grows closer, his girlfriend cranes her neck up, following the sight of his face. The smile on her lips persists as she narrows her eyes further. He tilts his head, eyes glittering with warmth. “Hmm? Do I get an answer?” He prods in a whispered tone.

“I thought you went to Spain to work, not find vacation spots.” The woman on the bed says slowly. Leon’s eyes widen and his bright, ocean coloured irises dart to his bedside table. The drawer is open… He lets out a sigh, a charming smile tugs at his lips. “Ok, ok… you caught me.” The blonde agent bends at the waist, lowering until his nose is touching hers. “It was going to be a surprise until you spoiled it.” He teases before kissing her softly. She loops her arms around his neck and pulls him in deeper.

~~~

An anniversary present from Leon. That’s how this started. A surprise discovery of plane tickets to an airport along the coast of Spain.

Your eyes dart around as you try to make sense of your existing thoughts in addition to the new movement unfolding around you. As you strain to try to remember what happened before you woke up, you see two inhumanly tall figures dressed in red robes walk across the round wooden stage in the center of the village…They look… familiar. You cry out in pain softly and a hand flies to your temple as another memory consumes you…

~~~

On the first night of their arrival, a feast was prepared for the entire village in celebration. Leon smiled as he recounted a story to Y/N, explaining that when he had once rescued the president’s daughter—a pretty blonde named Ashley—the watercraft they'd escaped on had run out of fuel not long into the journey. A villager, returning from his own outing, had kindly offered them shelter so they wouldn’t be left soaked, cold, and sticky with saltwater.

Leon told it jovially, as if it were an amusing anecdote rather than something concerning. And perhaps it should have been worrying, but the way the villagers recalled the moment made it feel like they had simply… been there for Leon. Odd as it was, there was something comforting in their warmth toward him—something his girlfriend had to admit she was grateful for.

As the night carried on, the village broke into celebration. Dancing, singing, and, once the children had been sent to bed, drinking. Laughter and music filled the air.

Leon stood from the long dining table and offered Y/N his hand with a warm smile. “Care to dance?” he asked, the faint pink of alcohol blooming across his ears and cheeks.

None too sober herself, she nodded, taking his hand, swaying already, but unconcerned. Inhibitions could be damned. Leon—sweet, warm, kind Leon—wanted to dance. And there was no reason in the world to deny him that.

He began teaching her a traditional dance, one he’d learned from the villagers during his past stay. At first, she stumbled through it, awkward and off-beat, but soon they were spinning and twirling in time with the others. Claps and hollers echoed around the couple. It was nearly comical—but the way Leon grinned, wider than she had ever seen, made the embarrassment worth swallowing.

They spun together in the last circuit just as the music began to die away. Heads turned toward the top of the room.

Two tall figures, robed in red, stood silently with their hands folded. At once, the villagers bowed their heads. Some pressed their hands together in reverent prayer, others lifted their palms toward the sky. Leon gently lowered his lover’s head, his own eyes closed, hands folded differently than the rest. The murmurs from the robed figures rose in volume, only to fall silent just as suddenly. After a quiet nod, they turned and left without a word, vanishing as silently as they had appeared.

“Assistants to the High Priest,” Leon explained once the music resumed. “He must’ve sent them to bless the village. Probably checking if anyone’s been marked by the Gods yet.”

His companion tilted her head at that. “Why doesn’t he come down himself? I mean, if he’s the High Priest and all…” Her words trailed off as the room seemed to tip.

Leon chuckled softly. “Woah, too much for you to drink, Cierva,” he teased, plucking two glasses from a tray offered nearby. “Drink this. It’ll help with the vertigo.” He gently brought one glass to her lips.

A hand rose to stop him, catching his wrist. “Wait—just answer my question first.”

Leon’s lips pinched into a slight frown, but he sighed. “Fine, fine. I’ll explain. But you have to drink this after. Deal?”

Y/N, tipsy and amused, nodded and flashed a wide grin.

“…The High Priest is… a mysterious figure. He’s chosen once every hundred years and lives in the castle higher up the mountain. He sends the Assistants because they act as extensions of his will. He isn’t supposed to be able to do much without a Blessed One present,” Leon explained, lifting the cup once more.

She took a small sip. The taste was grassy but sweet—like green tea mixed with honeyed water.

“Blessed One?” She asked, taking the glass from his hand and sipping again.

Leon’s blue eyes flickered, watching her with an unreadable intensity, before he nodded.

“Mmhmm…” His lips kept moving, but the rest of his words slipped past her ears unnoticed, drowned in the quiet hum overtaking the night.

~~~

The fresh memory gives you a better perspective now… The red robes… Assistants to the High Priest… But why? Why are they here? Why now?

As they complete a full rotation in the center of the stage, a new figure joins them… It is…. Shorter than the ruby draped twins, and hooded just like his assistants, draped in purple and gold robes and wielding a staff that writhes like it’s alive. Both of the Assistants let out ear piercing and honestly, quite monstrous roars in unison at the arrival of the new hooded figure. Slowly, villagers stumble out of their homes as if entranced by the sound, coupled with the arrival of their lord. Even in a stupor, their actions are purposeful as they put up 3 tall, wooden posts, each decorated with an identical tapestry.

A fabric illustrating a strange… bug-shaped… thing, haloed in beams of light.

In the next image, the creature’s silhouette hovers above the shadowed shape of a bear and a deer, surrounded by swaths of humans, who do not have the bug-creature hovering over their heads.

The third image is a repeat of the previous, the only deviation is that the bear and deer have been replaced by a man and woman respectively.

The last image of the tapestry depicts the man and woman sitting on throne-like-seats, and being worshipped by the people.

As you narrow your eyes and strain to focus on the images woven into the tapestry, you’re caught off guard by a constant, low sound coming from the collective.

They’re chanting…

“Gloria Las Plagas…” They drone on and on before the figure in the center holds up a hand to silence them. His authority makes not only the villagers-who welcomed you with open arms, not 12 hours ago-bow reverently, but also the crimson robed assistants… It can only be one possible figure.

The last role in the strange hierarchy of this little village…

The ever mysterious High Priest.

“Enough.” His voice makes your heart stop and your blood run cold… Surely not… Surely you’re mishearing… You have to be…

The figure in the center of the wooden structure pulls his plum and gold hood down around his shoulders…

You feel your breathing stop in your throat..

The sweet, sensible blonde man, who you once called your partner, your lover, your boyfriend, stood upon that stage, a smug smile adorning those pink lips that used to kiss you to sleep.

He’s flanked by two assistant priests, being worshipped like a deity at the hands of this strange little Spanish village…

‘What… The fuck is going on?!’ Your mind screams as you shuffle closer to witness the event closer.

Leon speaks, commanding the attention of the people, and probably every creature in the valley…

“Brothers, Sisters and the ascended creatures at my side… Happy Solstice.” Leon’s voice curls around the congregation, commanding attention and respect, which the villagers are more than happy to grant him.

He continues, pacing around the stage, like he used to do in your shared apartment.

“As you know, every Solstice, our dear friends in red are gifted an ability by our God… The ability to recognize when one of our own have been blessed to play a most sacred role…” Leon’s voice softens, but it feels like a tone one would use to trap a frightened rabbit.

“The most sacred role… of our Cierva or our Oso.” Your rudimentary Spanish gives you little in the way of comfort… Bear? Deer? What is he talking about??

“How lucky are you all… to bear witness to the blessing… of both?” Leon purrs. The villagers chant and cheer. Mixtures of whistles and ‘Gloria!’’s and excited shouts drown out much of what Leon the High Priest says, but what catches your eye, is the movement of the crowd.

Leon opens his arms and grins, a sharp, pearly white smile. It looks more like a creature baring its teeth rather than a welcoming, human smile. They’re dressing him, you realize… In the bloody, freshly cut hide of a bear…

“Just like a frightened deer, bounding through the woods, seeking escape… Our blessed Cierva has decided to flee…“

Run…

“But you and I both know, my dear acolytes…”

Run.

“She won’t get far…”

Run!!!

You take off, sprinting. To where, you aren’t sure. Just not here. Just not around this village. Behind the house you’ve been using to hide, towards the perimeter of the village, and to the barrier gate. Your lungs burn and your eyes sting with tears.

How did it come to this?!

~~~

You don’t look back.

You can’t.

The chanting still echoes behind you, growing distant as your feet crash against the undergrowth. Leaves snap beneath your heels, branches whip your face, and your chest feels like it might split open from the sheer force of your breathing.

But you can still feel him.

Like a shadow pressed into your spine.

And then you hear it—

A low, guttural huff. Not entirely human.

You twist around a tree trunk and nearly slip in the mud, catching yourself just in time. The forest is alive with noise now. Every crack of bark, every rustle of leaves could be him. Your heartbeat drowns it all out.

Then—

A dragging sound. Heavy. Purposeful.

You whip your head over your shoulder and catch a glimpse between the trees—

A towering silhouette.

Your breath catches.

He moves like something that shouldn’t be able to move so quietly—cloaked in blood-slick fur, the head of the bear draped over his own, gaping jaws open wide as if snarling for him. Its dark pelt clings to his frame like a second skin, stitched crudely at the shoulders. Its claws dangle around his wrists like trophies.

The eyes behind the beast’s skull gleam bright—inhumanly blue. And fixed on you.

“Run, little deer…”

His voice, softer than it has any right to be, curls through the trees like smoke.

“I want to hear your heartbeat sing.”

You cry out and push harder, your muscles burning as you vault over a fallen log. Blood drips from a cut on your knee, and your vision blurs with tears—but you keep going. You have to.

“You look so beautiful when you’re afraid!”

He’s closer. You can feel it. Not from his footsteps—he’s too silent for that now. But from the weight of his gaze. The way the woods bend around his presence. He’s everywhere.

“You think I’d let you go?”

Another whisper, impossibly near your ear.

You veer left and trip, slamming into the earth with a grunt. Mud cakes your hands, your arms. You scramble up—just as a heavy thump lands behind you.

Too late.

A hot gust of air brushes your neck.

Then: a hand, gloved in fur and blood, seizes your ankle and drags.

You scream, kicking wildly, your nails clawing for purchase in the dirt. But he pulls you back effortlessly, reeling you into his arms like a hunter reclaiming a prize.

The weight of him crashes down, pinning you. The stink of iron and sweat and the musk of old, drying fur wraps around you like a noose. You twist, fighting, but it only earns you a sharp tug on your hair and a firm grip at your throat—not enough to choke. Just enough to make you listen.

“Shhh…” He breathes through the bear’s mouth, teeth gleaming beneath the muzzle.

“I adore you like this.”

You sob as he leans down, the fur grazing your skin, his lips ghosting over your cheek.

“Don’t you see? You were never just my girlfriend. Not to me. You’re my Cierva. Our God saw it. Saw you.”

His hand slides to rest over your chest, right above your hammering heart.

“This…” He murmurs, almost reverent. “This is the rhythm of something divine.”

You whimper, trying to turn away, but he nuzzles closer, the bear’s matted fur brushing your face like a twisted veil.

“And to think…I was blessed as the Oso just about a year ago… How lucky am I to learn that my Y/N… My sweet, little, loving and hopelessly devoted Y/N… Is my counterpart… My Cierva~” He nuzzles his nose into the column of your neck and inhales deeply.

A smile curves his lips, slow and bright and wrong.

“You don’t have to understand yet, my love. You only have to stay.”

~~~

Event Masterlist

Taglist: @shymoob

#Resident Evil x Reader #Lilith's Summerween 2025 #Lilithofthevalley #Lilith Writes #Fem!Reader #Resident Evil Fanfiction #Leon Kennedy x Reader #Leon x Reader #Leon S Kennedy x Reader

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