Work Text:
The tapping sound of your nails against his desk is irking him; you can tell by the way he tenses his jaw in time with your pointer finger hitting the hard oak wood with each new sweep of your knuckles.
Clack, clench, Clack, Clack, Clack.
Clack, clench, Clack, Clack, Clack.
Clack, clench, Clack, Clack, Clack.
Good. Let it. He had no good reason beyond placating his own ego for keeping you in the office way past quitting time. Sure, the view was nice, but staring directly at Albert Wesker for too long is like gazing directly into the sun. Beautiful. Dangerous. He has an uncanniness about him, skin as smooth and clear as glass, a bone structure better suited to a Milan catwalk than a specialist police force, and the posture of a man who knows all too well the effect he has on others, all neatly packaged in a well-maintained, 6’3, slender but notably toned physique that would make anybody look twice.
It’s a miracle you even made it into the S.T.A.R.S unit. The day he’d approached you to express interest in having you transferred to his team, you’d inhaled your morning coffee too hard and nearly spat it back out on the impeccably crisp, tight blue fabric of his button-up. Nowadays, of course, with time, proximity, and familiarity, his abrasive good looks no longer put you on edge. They just get you hot and bothered at the most inappropriate of times.
Clack, clench, Clack, Clack, Clack.
Clack, clench, Clack, Clack, Clack.
Clack, clench, Clack, Clack, Clack.
Like right now. You’re pissed the fuck off with him; deliberately trying to provoke him even, but at the same time, there’s a reason you like watching his razor-sharp jawline so badly. Besides, it’s all you can do to keep from cleaning Chris’ desk for him. There’s a coffee mug with months’ worth of brown rings and a lingering smell that is screaming to be washed out, but you don’t want to set a precedent. You want to go home.
Clack, clench, Clack, Clack, Cl-
“Will you cease that incessant tapping?” Though it’s phrased like a question, he’s not asking. It's an order, punctuated with a steely, cold glare. He spares you one solitary glance before turning back to his work, continuing in a deadpan tone, “Didn’t I ask you to alphabetise everyone's reports on the Broad Glade and Silver Creek files?”
Yes. Tonight, he’d asked you to stay late to get on top of the aforementioned files. Yesterday, it was to refine meeting notes and arrange for them to be distributed to the rest of the unit. Last Friday, it was to reorganise the shared filing cabinets. It never seems to end.
It had all started so benignly; all you’d done was volunteer to help with the inordinate mountain of paperwork Irons had slapped him with after an extraction gone awry. You’d stayed late so your colleagues could go home to their families and dogs, but ever since, Captain Wesker had been leaning on your kindness a bit too much. Roping you into overtime most nights, asking for small favours, impeaching on your lunch break to discuss 'important' shit. He'd even cut in once when Chris had asked you out for dinner after work.
Every request chipped away at the innocence of the situation. It’s like he’s testing you, punishing you even, and you can't fathom why. You don’t need reminding whose running the show, and you’ve certainly pulled your weight since being inducted; earned your stripes, or S.T.A.R.S as it may be. For fucks sake, he propositioned you. Yet here you are, another late night pushing pencils and pretending it doesn’t make your clit throb every time your boss scolds you instead of getting cosy in front of your TV with a well-earned takeaway.
“Done.” You state, short in spirit but light on your tongue, offering him a maliciously sunny smile when he turns to face you again, expecting more to leave your lips and being left unsatisfied. You’re not normally so antagonistic, but you’re at the end of your tether and enjoying poking his boundaries.
As far as bosses go, you’d never considered Wesker a bad one, or even an annoying one, until recently at least. He’s never been pedantic about titles. Always given everybody grace about occasionally being late or keeping personal items in the office, so long as they do their job well and without cutting corners. Sure, he’s usually the first to call it a night anytime celebratory drinks are in order, but at least he makes the effort to be there.
“I’m not here to babysit you.” His tone is chiding, a direct response to your petulance. “The night is young, and there is plenty of work to be done. Pick something, or do I need to micromanage every aspect of your life?”
You wonder how he might respond to you picking home time as your next job. You’re both adults after all, and he physically cannot force you to stay here. There’s no lock and key; you’re the master of your own destiny.
You’re not going to do that, however, and you know it full well. He knows it. He could tell you to jump, and you wouldn’t even ask how high, you’d just start hopping and perhaps looking up therapists to help you decipher why you’re so eager to please the contentious authority figures in your life and put a stop to it.
Luckily, he doesn’t tell you to start jumping, but you also don’t decide to put your foot down either.
“I need a drink.” He watches closely, hanging fire for the punch line as you stand up, it’s hard to tell where his eyes roam to, but you imagine they’re nowhere appropriate, and the split-second delusion makes your body flush. “From the vending machine.”
He doesn’t laugh. You hadn’t really expected him to; rarely does Albert Wesker laugh at jokes that aren’t his own, and when he does, they’re never yours.
Content to feed your own bad mood by making the night last longer, you grab Chris’ mug, stopping in the washroom to clean it and your mind out. You need a minute to catch your breath and re-circuit your brain. The situation is only as bad as you make it out to be, you remind yourself as you stare at your reflection in the mirror. You’re getting paid, you’re building rapport with your boss and getting to ogle him while you do so. Eventually, you grab your soda from the machine, not bothering to grab anything for Wesker. His ‘body is a temple’ and all that crap, he’d sooner eat dirt than let half a sip of Dr. Pepper pass his hallowed lips.
When you get back to the office, you bypass Wesker’s private office and beeline for your desk to drop off Chris’ sparkly clean mug and take another second to put a smile on your face. Fake it till you make it. Except you don’t get the chance to come to at your own speed.
You smell him before anything else. Musky and sweet. Menthol-ish in an oddly sterile but inviting way. Besides the rare occasion while out on the field and that one time the elevator in the parking garage was overcrowded, you’d never been this close to him. Never felt his ice-cold breath on the back of your neck or how it makes your skin feel warm and tingly.
“Wesker?” Unsure of his intentions, you force yourself to stand at alert, muscles tensing even though you want nothing more than to relax and enjoy the proximity, even if just for a moment.
“Stand down, officer.” That’s an order, you can tell it by the rigid tenor of his voice, but there’s a little embellishment at the end, a hum paired with the tentative placement of his hand on your hips. It could almost be a totally innocent touch, one meant to put you at ease, if not for the simple fact that he is also the cause of your tension. Still, you hesitantly let your shoulders slump back down, instinctively cocking your hip and your head to one side, ‘accidentally’ allowing him further access to the nooks of your body. “You’ve been so defiant all evening. You’re not behaving like yourself. Why is that?”
“I- uh- I don’t know.” You do know, you know very well, you just don’t know how to say it without sounding whiny and paranoid. Two things you know full well Wesker cannot tolerate amongst his Alpha team. “I guess I-”
“-Think you’re being punished, or tested?” You don’t have to come up with an excuse; he’s a step ahead, his hands getting bolder as his fingers splay and feel their way around your lower torso, making you grateful he hadn’t let you finish lest you fumble and whimper through your words. “Taken advantage of perhaps?”
Barely able to rub two thoughts together, you place your hands over top of his, trying to reel him back, to slow him while you articulate an answer to his probing. Had you put up a real fight, maybe it would have worked, but your attempt is cursory at best and only seems to motivate him further. He holds on tight to you, squeezing you closer until his lips brush the back of your ears, and either his Beretta or something way less appropriate presses into the fat of your ass.
Oh.
“I can assure you those were never my intentions. To put it plainly, I like having you around; I can let my guard down to some degree. Don’t have to pretend to be the cool boss you all love so much.”
Double. Oh.
You had no idea your silly little workplace crush might be reciprocated. Even less of an idea how to feel about it. He’s supposed to be the sensible one, yet here you are, left to calculate your next step and the repercussions it might provoke.
You turn, wanting to face him. Sensing your intentions, he released his grip, letting his hands linger leisurely around your waist. There's no emotion on his face, and that fact rattles you more than you already are. Even with his shades halfway down his nose, there’s no remorse, or hope, or urgency in his baby blues. Perhaps it’s a defence mechanism to appear so unbiased after such a confession. Maybe he’s testing you. Or maybe he really is just a heartless bastard, playing the love-sick fool just to manipulate you. It’s hard to tell, and it makes you even more nervous.
“Captain.” It’s not habit that brings his title to your lips; the word feels clunky and ill-fitting in your mouth. Rarely has he asked any of the team to refer to him as their superior officer, but that doesn’t change the fact that he is, and as much as you desperately want to throw yourself at him, it would be a human resources nightmare with catastrophic consequences for both of your careers- a fact he seemingly needs to be reminded of.
It doesn’t get the intended response, however. Instead, his grip on you tightens, and he rolls his head back, tongue poking out between his teeth just a smidge, stifling a groan of pleasure. When he looks back at you, his glasses have tilted back into place, and there is a smirk pulling at the right-hand corner of his fair lips. “Call me that again.”
“Cap-Wesker. We can’t do this.” Your course correction is fruitless. The moment Wesker cups your face and tips your jaw to look straight at him instead of scanning his features for signs and tells, your instinctive resistance falters. You can feel the sincerity of his confession in his fingertips as they trace the arch of your cheeks with reverence.
“A new dawn is breaking, my dear. Will you rise with it, or will you be left, blindly stumbling through the dark with the rest of the chaff?”
Could be that you’re entirely too focused on the smirk that remains on his face and how it makes your heart beat rapidly, or the adrenaline rush of coming to terms with the fact that being with Wesker in any capacity besides professionally is about to happen for real, but you seem to have gotten lost somewhere along the way because you’re no longer sure your have any idea what he’s talking about. “Huh?”
“I can’t explain it all to you now, but things will be changing, and soon.” That’s ominous, you want to joke, but the gravity in his tone keeps your wit at bay. “This is a precious opportunity; there will be no room for half measures. No going back once you're committed to it, but if you’ll join me and stay by my side, I can assure you, my love, you won’t regret it.”
That’s quite an intense proposal for what you thought would be an office fling, not to mention the implications it holds for the future. So, like a coward, you don’t answer him decisively. Instead, you reach up on your toes and place your lips on his cautiously, knowing full well the implications of your actions.
He kisses back purposefully, borderline aggressively, his fingers fixing tightly around your neck and jaw to pull you closer. No wavering on his end. His tongue readily pushes between your lips like he already knows them intimately.
It’s your turn to paw at him; you’re gentler with his body than he has been with yours, careful not to come on too heavy and spoil the mood, though given his zeal as he pulls back from your mouth only to nibble and peck at your jaw, you doubt that’s possible. Yet he’s softer than you’d pictured on all those lonely nights, feeling guilty and euphoric as you’d pictured moments like these playing out.
Beneath his fitted blue shirt lie powerful, hard-earned muscles, but the flesh between is supple and smooth. Growing in confidence and hungry for a better feel, you thread a finger between his top two buttons only to be met with the resistance you’d feared. He grabs your wrist hard enough to shock you, pulling you out of your kissing-fuelled intoxication.
“You haven’t answered me.” Evidently, he won’t allow room for ambiguity. Devious of him to demand some sort of vow from you when your inhibitions are already shedding.
“Yes?” You’re answering on vibes alone, still unsure exactly what his plans are and how you fit into them. “You can trust me to follow wherever you lead, Captain.”
That placates him for only a second, earning you another smirk and a chance to finally pop those buttons. You soak in the sight of his exposed collarbone, relishing the feel of his silken skin against your pointer finger until his grip tightens once again.
“Prove it.” He instructs, guiding your hand towards his groin. The heat of his gaze, though hidden beneath his glasses, still burns into you. Should it surprise you that the leader of your team is so direct with his desires? No. But it still makes you gasp when he places his other hand around your throat and slowly but firmly guides you to your knees.
Skilful fingers save you from fumbling; he loosens his belt and trousers in a few short seconds, presenting his cock to you, and allowing you all the time you need to admire it. It’s long, cut, and pale. Marbled with bluish veins and crowned with a dusty pink tip that you quickly start to lather with sloppy kisses, pushing out your saliva until there’s enough of it to start working up and down his shaft in slow strokes.
The moment you fully wrap your lips around the head, however, is when his patience follows your common sense out the window. He’s considerate enough not to force your nose against his hairless pelvis in one fell swoop, instead grabbing the back of your head as he fucks into your open mouth just a little deeper with each thrust. Over and over, grunts of pleasure caught between gritted teeth sporadically.
He’s not considerate enough to think about your oxygen levels until your cheeks feel as though they’re ablaze and you start tapping on his thigh for a time-out. Even then, he doesn’t let up straight away, set on making sure your bottom lip kisses his balls at least once before permitting you to come up for air.
You’re too busy coughing and gasping for air to comment on it, but you shoot him a glare, and the message behind it must be received because he cocks his head to the side, sarcastically cooing as he softly brushes the same parts of your head he’d just had trapped in his clutches.
“Don’t look at me like that, dear. I’m setting the bar for you. If you want me to play nice, all you have to do is meet my expectations.”
Oh, he knows just how to take advantage of the part of your brain that craves validation. You maintain your glare a few seconds longer, pretending like his pretentious words aren’t making you wetter by the second, petulant to the end. But you follow his orders, biting back your gag reflex and sinking your face down on his cock over and over again, letting your spit dribble around his cock and drip onto your shirt.
You gorge yourself on him, only allowing yourself a reprieve to breathe when you start to feel weak and dizzy. Again, and again, until eventually it becomes obvious that he’s getting close. You can tell by the way his stringent posture starts to ease, the grip of his fingers on the back of your head relaxing slightly.
“You're going to make me cum.” He tells you. It’s not a compliment, but it feels like praise, nonetheless. His voice is strained, just barely a whisper, not stopping long enough to let you get a word in edgeways. “That’s what you want, isn't it, you little minx?”
His cock is lodged too far down your throat for you to give him any legible answer. Well enough, since neither of you would have it any other way. “That’s it, dear. You want my precious cum, don't you? You've no idea how valuable it really is, you just want me to finish all over that pretty face, don't you?”
Fuck yes. You're nodding as you bob along his length. Had you been hoping to get your own rocks off? Yes. Is your pussy aching for him? Absolutely.
But you desperately want to make him feel good, and you especially want to see what he looks like when he's coming undone. Will he shake and pant, or is he more of a tensed-up, near-silent type? Your money is on the latter, but you're sure that whatever he does, he’ll look beautiful doing it.
“Don’t tempt me.” He scolds, like you’re doing something wrong by milking his cock.
“But…” You pause with the head of his cock still gingerly draped against the tip of your tongue. His pale cock shines with your spit, his brow curved expectantly as you look up into his eyes before slurring: “What if I want to?"
His cock twitches at that, and you finally garner a laugh from him, one you can only assume is meant to stifle how obviously your keen gaze and teasing words have affected him. Both are victories, and the win feels sweet on your tongue as he lets out a feral growl, one so disorienting that you don’t even wince as he tightens his grip on your head again, holding you vice still with his cock on your tongue as he grabs the base and starts jerking himself to completion, giving you exactly what you wanted; three sharp strokes and warm, creamy cum starts to gush from his head, pooling on your tongue, tainting your taste buds with its musty, salt laden flavour.
He spoils you, using his grip to turn your head back and forth, side to side, smearing his release all across your face, not a drop wasted. He never actually tells you not to drink it down, but you instinctively don’t, holding his cum in your mouth and proudly presenting it to him when he finally seizes his climax.
“That’s a good girl. You can swallow it now.” You’ve barely gulped it down when he cups your jaw once more and directs you to stand on your wobbly legs. Calling you a good girl is one thing, but hearing him pur as he examines your soiled face makes your heart race more than any kind of oxygen deprivation could. “You’ve no idea how privileged you are. Seeds of greatness, wasted on your face in the name of debauchery.”
You don’t have the hindsight of post-nut clarity. Your brain can register what he sounds like (-fucking nuts) right now, but your pussy is calling the shots, and your pussy wants Captain Wesker to keep playing with you until it finds satisfaction.
Instead of questioning him, you do your best to comply, unabashedly rubbing your legs together and staring at his slightly reddened face. “Thank you for… letting me taste your… greatness?”
He laughs again, but this time it doesn’t feel like a triumph; it feels amorously condescending. Hurtful but arousing at the same time. “Don’t thank me yet; we’re not done yet. Now, be a dear; take off your clothes and bend over Chris’ desk for me.”
“Chris’ desk?” Sure, it’s right there, but like… so is yours.
“Don’t spoil things now.” There’s a warning in his tone; it’s playful, but there’s an edge to it. That doesn’t stop you from staring at him, perplexed as he starts to round you. You’d have liked to do it yourself, but you don’t complain when he pulls his shirt over his head, unveiling a lean, well-kempt chest that makes your breath catch. “If you want your reward, you’ll keep doing as you’re told.”
Your thighs brush up against Chris’ desk chair before you even realise you’ve been herded, and while you feel kind of pliable for being so easily moved, this isn’t a hill you want to die on. For good measure, though, your captain starts to embed soft kisses along the back of your neck, shifting lower to your shoulders and back, even your hips, as you unveil more and more skin to him. You’re practically buzzing, head twirling around on cloud nine by the time you drop your panties to the floor.
"Such a beautiful specimen." The whiplash of Wesker swapping from laying tender, worship-like kisses along your spine to him manhandling you into a bent-over position almost overwhelms you, but you react just in time to catch yourself before your cum soaked face hits the pine wood top.
The wetness of your pussy is obscene. The squelching, clicking sounds it makes as he explores your lips rings in your ears.
“I think she likes me.” He’s egregiously smug as he probes your entrance with two curved fingers, coaxing even more slickness from you and smearing it all along your taint and deep into the rim of your ass.
“Don’t tease.” Your voice is so whiny now, you barely recognise it. In all your fantasies, you hadn’t pictured this; you, presenting yourself, spreading your legs and arching your back like some bitch in heat. It’s like your clit has climbed up your body through the nervous system and taken control of your brain.
You’re so wound up that when he tuts, “Are you telling me, or asking me?” you don’t even entertain the idea of being snarky, you just keep on going;
“Asking! Please, Captain, please don’t tease me anymore.” Your voice is feeble; you must seem so pitiful to him right now, but he must like that, because you’re immediately compensated for it. He shoves two fingers into your cunt with ease and a thumb into your ass with less ease—it burns, intoxicatingly so.
The thought of not wanting to smear Wesker’s cum all over your colleague's desk is the only thing that stops you from fully melting as he massages the wall between your two holes, but every pump of his fingers feels so good. It gets harder and harder not to lose that final thread of self-awareness. As the nerve-tingling sensation of euphoria starts to creep into your bones, two things happen;
One: You give way to your body, letting it fall limp in preparation for your oncoming climax. No longer concerned with the mess you’re making.
Two: Wesker pulls his fingers out of you, callous and likely even amused given the visceral screech you emit in retaliation. It’s like he’s ripped the light right out of you, and you make your displeasure known, sharply turning back to offer him a seething glare. One can’t be a slave to their pleasure if said pleasure is snatched away. “What the fuck, W-Captain!?”
“Patience.” He punctuates his rebuke with a harsh slap to your tender pussy, and despite your defiance, you let out a petulant yelp, one that’s quickly silenced by the combination of Wesker's quiet, patronising shushing and the feel of him slowly dragging his now protected cock between your folds.
He hesitates on your clit, ghosting over the sensitive spot until you rapidly start to feel hazy and limp. You settle back down, hands and head on the desk, and your commanding officer rewards you by teasing the crown of his cock at your entrance. “Say the magic word, pet.”
You don’t need to be told twice; your cunt is already throbbing in near-painful anticipation. “Please!”
He’s tentative as he sheathes himself inside you, slowly pumping between your walls, allowing you to stretch and adjust to his girth. His gentleness doesn’t last long, however. The moment the words “more… please, Captain.” drip from your lips, he takes it as permission to abuse your pussy whatever way he desires.
“You feel so fucking good.” His voice is low and drawling, but you’re more taken by his foul language. Albert Wesker may curse and cut with his words, but he never swears. “Like you were made for me.”
You want to say something in response, to thank him for the compliment or offer your own praise, but when your mouth opens, all that comes out are incomprehensible mewls, their tempo disjointed by the slap of his hips hitting your ass. The bliss you’d lost earlier is already tantalisingly close, and it grows increasingly when he leans over you, trapping you beneath his chest.
The cool of his breath tickles your skin and makes your toes curl as he whispers his next order: “Touch yourself for me.”
It’s awkward and uncomfortable, the way you have to squish your arms beneath his weight and your own to frantically rub at your clit, but well worth it. The way you writhe beneath your Captain has him swiftly approaching his own orgasm every time you clench around his shaft.
Wesker, who has always prided himself on being practised and precise in everything he does, starts to lose his timing, rutting his cock into you in uneven thrusts. One hand presses harshly against your shoulder, trying and failing to give himself steadier footing.
Every grunt into your ear sends a chill up your spine, every erratic thrust sending butterflies through your tummy.
Oh god, Captain, I’m gonna cum. Is what you plan to say, but as though reading your mind, Wesker beats you to the punch, barking at you too: “Cum, now.”
It’s taken him less than an hour to tame you into his perfect pet, cumming around his cock on cue and in synch with his crescendo. His monotone voice applauding you all the way through, only interrupted every few syllables by his own gratification. “That’s it, my dear, that’s it.”
You ride it out together, sweat-slick bodies melting together, his chest and your back meeting with each ragged breath until eventually his cock starts to soften and he pulls out of you. You take a while longer to come too, your legs still shaking as you stagger back into Chris’ desk chair, surveying the mess you’re not looking forward to cleaning up, cringing at the fluids leaking onto the beaten pleather while Wesker disposes of the condom and straightens himself up.
Eventually, he returns to you, still sweaty hands resting on your shoulders. He squeezes gently, but it doesn’t distract you from the train of thought that’s returning to its tracks post-sex-haze, even though your lids are growing heavy.
You look up at him with tired eyes, heart aflutter at the prospect of building a future with this man, pit sinking deeper and deeper in your guts at the prospect of what HR and the rest of your team will make of this, but most importantly… “What did you mean? A new dawn is breaking? No room for half measures?”
“Don’t you worry, dear-heart. All will become clear soon enough.” It’s not an adequate response, but the chaste kiss he presses to your scalp feels final. For now.