Chapter Text
The indoor lights were as bright as day, forever. She leaned against the edge of the lab table, a freshly lit cigar between her fingers. She didn't actually smoke—she lit it purely because Albert Wesker hated the smell. The moment the smoke rose, the man strapped to the table by alloy restraints started struggling again.
Back in the day, whenever she lit a cigar to keep herself alert, he would visibly frown and say in a cold voice, "Put it out."
Now all he did was snarl at her.
She remembered the last time she'd seen Albert Wesker before everything went wrong. He'd had his back to her, his black tactical gear clinging like body paint, outlining the long lines of his shoulders and back, his waist drawn in tight. His voice was as arrogant as ever, but she hadn't really listened to what he'd said—her gaze kept wandering, wondering why he wouldn't turn around, wondering when his next heat would come. Then Wesker finally turned, his lips pressed together in that displeased expression of his.
None of that matters anymore. Albert Wesker—she wasn't actually sure whether this mindless body could still be called Wesker. He thrashed his head around until the metal ring locked around his neck made him gag, then slammed his head back so hard against the metal bed that it let out a dull thud. His blond hair was a wild mess, and from his throat came a continuous string of savage, meaningless roars. Right now he was nothing but a feral beast in a cage, his pupils narrowed to thin vertical slits, nothing but raw aggression burning in those crimson eyes.
She waved a hand in front of his face. The smoke fanned out. His eyes finally focused on her, and he roared even louder, then craned his head up trying to bite her, baring sharp canines as his jaw snapped shut in mid-air with a crisp click of his teeth. But he was pinned to the spot, trapped.
The tendrils beneath his skin squirmed, desperate to break free, only to be forced back down by the continuous electric pulses running through the restraints around his torso and limbs. Wesker's roar spiked into an even higher pitch, his body arching violently before slamming back down onto the table, muscles twitching with each jolt. When she had first fished him out, he was barely recognizable—half of him was charred to a crisp, the rest a tangle of tentacles. She spent three days digging through his private research—the punishing missions nearly killed her—and somehow managed to piece him back together, though the real credit belonged to his sheer stubbornness to survive.
She stubbed out the cigar and tossed it aside, then reached out and pressed her hand flat against Wesker's lower abdomen. His roar grew even more ferocious. His body thrashed wildly against the restraints, tentacles lashing out to whip the air before being shocked back again by the electric current. He seemed completely indifferent to the pain—his eyes never stopped watching her with instinctive wariness. Wesker's body temperature was alarmingly high; his skin burned beneath her palm, and through the thin fabric she could feel the ripple of tensed muscles. But soon, exhaustion set in. His roars turned hoarse, his struggles weakened.
His body was too frail now—burned in lava, then left soaking in a life-support system for so long. His muscles had atrophied. His already narrow waist had shrunk even further. The once-firm abdomen had gone somewhat soft, the lines between chest and stomach no longer as sharp. She slipped her fingers into the loose fabric of his clothing and touched him gently. The newborn skin was smooth, delicate, soft to the touch. His body jolted; his roar shifted in pitch. He tried to kick and thrash, but the restraints held him firmly in place. She slid her hand upward along the curve of his waist, and as her fingertips grazed his skin, she could feel the body beneath her trembling.
Their heat was approaching.
That familiar heat had already begun spreading through her blood. Her Omega was locked right there on the lab table before her—mindless, reduced to nothing but animal instinct. In the past, Wesker used to complain that she wanted it too often, for too long—not that he ever showed weakness in bed. He only ever said "enough" at the end, in that hoarse, fatigued voice of his. Then the next day he'd leave specially formulated suppressants for her, tucked into the drawer of the nightstand, pretending nothing had happened. Those vials used to sit in the cabinet they shared, box after box. Now they were long gone, and she hadn't had time to prepare a new batch.
She glanced at Wesker. He was panting heavily, still baring his teeth at her. In those vertical-slit pupils, there was nothing she recognized—none of the amusement of a predator sizing up its prey, none of the fervor from when he injected Uroboros, none of that fleeting emotion he'd sometimes show her, the one she'd never stopped to think about. There was only feral savagery, and the most primal desire to tear everything apart.
"Albert?"
The man before her didn't react at all. Once he'd caught his breath, he started struggling again. She watched Wesker devolve into the very low animal he'd once despised. The corner of her mouth twitched into a smile, but her eyes held no warmth. "Fine," she murmured to herself. "You asked for this."
The moment the metal buckle of Wesker's leg restraint snapped open, his body lunged upward—he was trying to kick her. The old Wesker could've broken a man's ribs with one kick. Now she sidestepped easily, dodging him. She reached down, grabbed his ankle, and hoisted his calf onto her shoulder, while her other hand worked at the fastening of her own pants.
Wesker's body went rigid for a moment—a very strange reaction. In his current state, he shouldn't have understood what this position meant, but his body remembered. It remembered this posture, remembered her warmth, remembered what it felt like to be wrapped in her scent. That brief stillness gave her an opening. She leaned down and reached a hand between his legs. Wesker kept snarling and struggling, his upper body pinned to the table, his lower body held down by her—he couldn't move, only twist his waist in vain, like a fish nailed to the shore.
But there was already a response. When her fingertip touched the slightly damp entrance, he jerked his hips sharply to the side, trying to evade. Of course—he was a beast now. Beasts have no concept of heat. All they know is fight or flight. She pressed her finger against the entrance without going in, just touching, circling. Wesker made a strange sound in his throat—something almost like a confused "Huh?" That sound was so reminiscent of Albert Wesker when he still had his faculties that she froze for a second and stopped to lean closer. He immediately took it as a challenge and let out a low, threatening growl.
She pushed her finger in a little deeper. It wasn't very dry, but it was hot, clenching tightly around her. She pulled out, grabbed the lube from nearby, squeezed some on, and tried again. This time it worked. Wesker's body went taut, his pitch sharpened, and his hips began to pull back. He wanted to escape, to avoid the feeling of being opened up, being penetrated. But his legs were held fast. Her finger turned inside him, curled its knuckle, pressed, slowly pushing apart muscles that were tightening defensively. He was still struggling, still snarling, still trying to bite her—even though his mouth was at least half a meter away.
"Don't move."
Wesker couldn't understand her, so she didn't bother with more words. She added a second finger, spreading them roughly inside, her nails digging into the soft flesh of his inner walls. His body jolted violently, his roar cut off into a short, hiccupping sound. She looked up and saw his eyes wide open—for the first time, something beyond pure aggression appeared in those crimson vertical pupils: confusion, and a kind of startled fury, mixed with a tiny, almost imperceptible trace of fear.
She pulled her fingers out, replaced them with her cock, lined it up with the now slightly stretched entrance, and thrust all the way in with one go. Wesker's body arched like a bow drawn to its limit, his abdomen lifting upward then snapping back down, slamming against the table with a dull thud. The metal restraints creaked under the strain. His hoarse roaring turned into a scream—no longer the sound of a beast, but a human cry. His fingers clawed at the edge of the table, nails gouging into the metal, scraping out a screeching noise.
It was too tight—so tight that it even hurt her a little. Inside Wesker, it burned like fire, clamping down on her desperately, every fold resisting. She looked down at where they were joined. The skin was stretched white at the edges, ringed with an unnatural flush. She took a breath and began to move. No technique, just thrust after thrust, gradually increasing the pressure. At first she could barely get halfway in, but after a while, nearly every push reached the deepest part. Wesker's body rocked back and forth with her movements, his head pressing against the metal plate. His cries had lost all form—snarls and screams blending together, occasionally broken by sharp gasps that carried a hint of sobbing.
That face had once been an unchanging mask of indifference. Sunglasses hid every emotion, only a faint, ambiguous curve at the corners of his lips. Now that face bore raw, unfiltered reactions—brow furrowed, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ground together. He'd bitten through his own lip from the strain; blood welled up, only to be licked away by his tongue. His Adam's apple rolled violently with each swallow. Sweat slid from his temple, tracing the contour of his cheek before disappearing into the collar of his neck restraint. The half of his face that had been burned by lava still bore faint scars—the new skin a shade lighter than the surrounding tissue, looking almost like some strange tattoo under the harsh white light. She reached out and touched that scar.
Wesker flinched. He opened his eyes. Those crimson vertical-slit pupils met her gaze, and in that moment she didn't see an empty shell. His eyes held a blazing, burning rage—the urge to tear her apart. She knew that look.That was Albert Wesker's expression.
But the next second, that look was gone, replaced by a hollow, meaningless ferocity. Wesker began thrashing and snarling again, as if that moment of eye contact had never happened. She was silent for a moment, then kept moving. With each steady thrust, Wesker trembled beneath her. His cries shifted—from enraged roars into something closer to moans, sounds she had never heard from him before escaping his throat. His hands clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms. His legs hung limply over her shoulders, his toes curling from the unfamiliar stimulation. His body began to move on its own, unconsciously matching her rhythm, his hips rocking with her movements—instinctive reactions that required no conscious thought.
Inside, his walls had started to adjust to her shape, becoming soft and slick. Each thrust drew out wet, sticky sounds. Wesker's eyes were closed again, his brow still furrowed, but his lips were no longer pressed tight—they parted slightly as he panted. Sweat coated his face, strands of blond hair plastered to his forehead. The sounds from his throat had grown low and drawn-out. Finally a little more docile, she thought. She quickened her pace, deepened her force, grinding against that sensitive spot. Wesker's body responded more intensely. His moans grew louder, trailing off into sticky, muffled notes. His hips pressed eagerly against her. She held him in place at the angle she wanted, then pushed deeper, building wave after wave of pleasure inside him.
Time lost all meaning. She didn't know how long she'd been at it. Maybe three hours. She vaguely remembered Wesker coming a few times—she hadn't kept count. The first time he climaxed, he cried out loudly, his body going rigid, spilling onto his own stomach. His inner walls clenched around her in a spasming grip that made her gasp, nearly pushing her over the edge too. So she paused, waiting for his orgasm to pass, then kept moving.
The second time, he let out a weak grunt, barely any force left. His legs slipped from her shoulders and fell to the sides of the table, knees bent, splayed wide open. After that, he had almost nothing left to give—just his body twitching, barely squeezing out a few thin drops.
But he was still meeting her. His body still rocked with her rhythm, his hips lifting, pressing against her on his own, even though he had nothing left to give, even though his body was showing signs of exhaustion. He was trembling, lost in an overload of pleasure.
Pleasure builds. Pleasure overloads. Pleasure turns from enjoyment into torment. When Wesker's body began to feel that "good" was no longer "good" but an unbearable, overstimulating intensity, he would try to escape.
That moment won't be far off.