Archive of Our Own

Turning into a cat wasn't on Wesker's bucket list for this lifetime, but like with all other things in his life, he learns to roll with it and make the best out of his situation.

He doesn't know how this happened. There is no scientific explanation for this – trust him, he's tried to come up with one – and it's not like he was even aware that magic existed before that moment. He doesn't exactly have a person in mind he could go to and demand answers from.

All he knows is that one moment, he was sinking into lava while cursing Chris Redfield's name and entire bloodline, and the next he was waking up as a black furball instead of burning for eternity in whatever layer of hell people like him got sentenced to after death. It's not necessarily the best possible outcome or how he thought his fiftieth birthday would find him, but he can't pretend that he's not just simply glad there is a birthday to greet him at all.

Surviving as a stray cat is not easy. Surviving as a black stray cat is even worse. Turns out that a lot of stupid, ignorant people hate cats for having the audacity to exist and have an irrational superstition-fueled fear of black cats in particular. He doesn't want to remember how many times he evaded death or torture at the hands of cat-hating idiots since he found himself without opposable thumbs. Finding shelter is the way to go, but how to go about it? If an animal shelter gets their hands on him, he might not get adopted. If he doesn't, he might get put down for ‘his own good’. Not to mention the very real threat of being neutered. He may be fifty years old, but he does not want to lose the ability to reproduce while in cat form.

Getting adopted seems like the ideal solution but even that has its downsides. He's not like a normal cat – he won't poop in a litter, eat that disgusting slop people call ‘cat food’, and he refuses to be babied and coddled or, god forbid, be put in silly outfits and cooed over like he's a toy. He needs someone who will worship him like he is owed but who will not bat an eye at his quirks.

He needs you.

Wesker has been watching you for a while now. He doesn't know how he ended up in this specific country and city when he was drowning in lava in Africa before he died, but he's rolled with it because that is the way of survival. He's gone through a lot of different neighbourhoods looking for food, shelter, and companionship, but yours has been the only one he's found even mildly acceptable.

He sees you every morning on your way to work. You wear headphones and don't seem all that interested in observing the world around you – a weakness as far as vigilance goes, but a boon in his favour since he can quietly observe you without fear of being spotted – but you happily take them out if someone approaches asking for directions. You smile at every stray cat you see – once, when you didn't seem to be in a hurry, you even stopped and crouched with your hand outstretched, beckoning the idiot who tried to steal Wesker's food the other day towards you. She came to you shyly, rubbing her whole body against your hand and winding her way around your legs when you got up and laughed at the cat's antics, and a strange wave of white-hot jealousy shot through Wesker at the sight. It should have been him being petted by you, not that mangy fleabag.

He wants you, plain and simple. He's seen a lot of your routine to know that you live alone and spend most of your free time that way too – you could use a companion. You're funny (he's spied on you by climbing up your building and settling himself on your windowsill) and smart, if a little weird – you talk to yourself a lot, though he supposes he would too, if he had no one to talk to. You're also very kind with a bleeding heart, which is the exact thing he needs if he wants to convince you to keep him and not just pass him off to someone else or a shelter.

He can't explain exactly why he wants you to take him in. All he knows is that he does.

Wesker gets his opportunity to walk into your life permanently when you leave your window open while cleaning, having shaken a small rug outside your window just a few minutes prior, after which you didn't close the screen properly. He paws at it expertly and pulls it open, then primly hops down to the floor and trots inside like he owns the place. If he's already here, what are you going to do? Kick him out?

He explores your apartment while you're distracted with your cleaning. It's not terribly expansive, certainly smaller than he's used to these days, but it's leagues better than sleeping on the streets as he has been for the past couple of months. Your music is blaring loudly from your phone while you dust off your furniture and sing along to it – you're horribly off-key but, oddly enough, it endears him to you rather than making him want to shut you up.

It takes you until you finish cleaning and plop down on your bed to catch your breath for you to notice Wesker. And it's only because he hops up on your bed and stares at you with big, unimpressed, golden eyes.

The startled scream you let out is expected if a bit annoying – his ears are even more sensitive as a cat than they were as an enhanced human, how is that even possible? – but, just like he knew you would, you calm down pretty quickly and look at him with apprehensive curiosity.

“Where did you come from, pretty?” you ask in a hushed, awed voice. You look around, trying to get answers, and when the open screen bangs against the window pane outside you groan as realisation sets in. “Damn, how the hell did you get up here, though? Are you some kind of supercat?”

Wesker, of course, doesn't answer. His tail flicks in boredom as he stares at you, though, which probably makes you think he's annoyed with you. He should… try to appear cute, right? That's how he'll secure your adoration.

You, oblivious to his inner machinations, bring up a hand and extend it towards him in offering. You keep it a respectful distance away and don't push his boundaries, but he can see the thinly veiled hope in your eyes that he won't reject you. He's seen your dejection whenever one of the strays refuses to approach you or straight up runs away from you. You never push, but you always mutter a quiet, “Damn, tough crowd,” before walking away with disappointment dogging your footsteps.

Fear not, dear heart, for he will never reject you. Now that he's here, you'll have no need for any of those ungrateful tramps – you'll only need Wesker.

“You're so handsome,” you coo softly, your wide eyes admiring Wesker's glossy, black coat. He's gotten enough glimpses of himself to know his fur is pure black, dark like obsidian, which only makes his eyes stand out even more. He has a handsome physiognomy, too, which would endear him to more people if he wasn't a black cat.

He approaches your hand slowly and sniffs it, familiarising himself with your scent and drinking it in at the same time, then proceeds to headbutt your palm and rub himself all over your hand. Now, you will smell like him and other cats will know to stay the fuck away – this one's taken.

“Oh! Aren't you a sweet… boy? Girl? What are you, anyway?”

Wesker tolerates the indignity of having you check his genitals to determine his gender, but only because he needs you. As soon as you're done, he backs away from you and glares in your direction while he waits for your next move.

“A handsome boy! And a smooth criminal at that, sneaking into my house while I wasn't looking,” you remark in a slightly childish voice you can't help defaulting to around cats sometimes, but you quickly lose the abhorrent affectation as your brows furrow and you start thinking. “What to do with you, though? I can't exactly afford a cat. And I'm gone so often, you'll be home alone every day while I'm at work.”

Well, that won't do.

Wesker wedges himself in between your arms, tucking himself between your breasts – which would make him blush if he was human again, but he can't deny that it's very warm and cozy here – and wrapping his paws around your wrist so he can hold it hostage. When you gasp and look down at him with a look of complete and utter wonder, he makes his eyes as big as he can and utters a single pitiful meow in your direction.

He can see you crumbling to pieces right before his eyes.

“Oh, fuck,” you mutter, burying your face in his fur slowly, as if testing the waters, and when all Wesker does is start to purr in reply to your affection, you grow bold and rub your nose against the fur on his chest, giggling when his flicking tail tickles you. When you pull away and look back at him, your eyes are teary. “Cat distribution system, I guess.”

Wesker meows again, satisfied that you gave in so easily, and settles more firmly into your body, soaking up your heat and the softness of your skin as you gently rub his body and give him scritches. He's found a home and the person to provide it for him – now he can finally start looking into ways to get back to being a human once more.

Living with you becomes something like heaven, if Wesker's being honest. He has the house all to himself while you're at work, which gives him the opportunity to use your computer while you're not there and try to figure out what the fuck happened to him and why he's a cat. Predictably, he finds nothing. Not even when searching the websites and forums that can't be found by idiots accidentally stumbling on them by clicking the wrong link.

He thinks about contacting someone he knows but… Who could he even contact? Who could help him that he can also trust not to take advantage of his impaired state? He'd rather stay a cat forever than contact Chris – not only because it's a matter of principle, but also because he doesn't truly trust that naive idiot not to dump him with the BSAA in the name of ‘reforming’ him, all so he can be turned into their little lab rat instead.

The last time he saw or talked to Ada was years ago when that whole business with the Amber in Spain went down, not that she would feel inclined to help him even if they were on good terms. Ada doesn't like complicated and this entire situation has that word plastered all over it.

Jill is out of the question for obvious reasons. He wouldn't put it past her to just… bash his head in and forget about the whole thing like it never happened. Which – fair enough, but it doesn't really help Wesker now.

Other than that… He has no one. He has no friends, no allies, not even paid help that could be persuaded by money or loyalty to aid him. The realisation that he's all alone in the world is… sobering. Fifty years old on this planet and what does he have to show for it? Plans ruined, allies dead or scattered to the winds, life in shambles. He's a fucking cat, for crying out loud!

With no help forthcoming and no clue about where he could even start looking for it, Wesker comes to the realisation that he can either drive himself mad trying to change back or he can accept that this is his new reality. Maybe there is no afterlife – maybe it's just this: reincarnation as a stupid four-legged furball where he is forced to come to terms with how limited he is by his nature and that no one is too mighty not to fall eventually.

He accepts his fate.

Slowly, reluctantly, and with great difficulty. But he does accept it.

It's you who helps, surprisingly enough. You're wonderful company when you actually have time to just stay at home and hang out with him. You take his odd habits in stride – ‘One of my friends’ dog eats every raw vegetable in sight and plain corn puffs, for whatever reason, and will only pee in the toilet. You're positively normal in comparison, Shadow’ – and don't pester him for attention constantly whenever you're lonely. He can see it when it happens, though – how you get quieter and your gaze becomes a bit distant while you curl yourself around one of your pillows and sigh very deeply. Sometimes you cry, sometimes you just stare, gaze empty, at nothing in particular.

Wesker always comes out of hiding and curls up around you, making you hold him instead of your pillow, while he reluctantly licks your tears away and nuzzles into your neck. It's only because your tears taste good and your neck is warm, that's all. It's definitely not because your loneliness resonates with him and strikes a chord in him every time you get like this. Of course not.

The first – and only – time you take him to the vet, he almost kills the so-called doctor when he tries to give Wesker a vaccine. Not only does he not trust a random hack with a degree to put anything in his body, but he also doesn't want to know what the vaccine might do to him. He still has his powers – he could effortlessly climb up to your window when no other cat could, his strength is abnormal for a feline of his build, and when he's not paying attention, he tends to use his accelerated speed while running from one end of the apartment to the other during the night in order to expel energy (he refuses to call it ‘zoomies’, that is an undignified term that does not apply to him). He shudders to think what a cat vaccine would do when coming into contact with his cocktail of viruses.

When vaccines are a bust, none of the staff being able to get a hold of him to even sedate him, they try to take a look at his equipment and make an action plan for neutering. That is the one and only time he bites you, hissing at you with all his might and making his displeasure known. The pain and betrayal in your eyes at his aggressiveness hurts him in a way he didn't think was possible and he almost regrets attacking you, but he stands firm because there are important things at stake here. He cannot let you do this to him.

In the end, you walk out of the vet office the way you entered it and no further talks of such things ever come up again.

(He makes it up to you that night by sleeping next to you the whole night through, not making a peep even though he so badly wants to tear through the house, and makes sure to still be there, all snug and cute in your arms, when you wake up in the morning. The beatific smile that blooms on your still sleepy face at the sight of him so docile and warm next to you makes Wesker's feline heart skip a beat. He brushes it off as an anomaly.)

He realises he has to come clean about being an actual person trapped in a cat's body about two months after he's come to live with you. That is the last thing Wesker wants to do, but it becomes necessary.

You see, usually people do lots of things around their animals that they wouldn't do around other people. Like changing clothes in front of them, for example. Or showering with the door open. Walking around naked. Masturbating.

Don't get Wesker wrong, he'd love to get in on the action whenever you pull up a video and turn your vibrator on, because you're a very gorgeous woman and, cat or not, Wesker is still a man with a healthy libido. But not only would it be inappropriate to try anything in cat form, but it actually makes him feel guilty that you don't know you're baring yourself like that around a man who's only trapped in a cat's body but has all his faculties about him.

He's tried to just not look or be there in the room when you do something like this. But it's impossible to avoid you completely in such a small apartment, not unless he wants to wedge himself under your furniture indefinitely – which wouldn't block out the sounds of you fingering yourself and moaning so sweetly anyway.

He knows he definitely needs to say something when you start to masturbate again and he can't bring himself to hop down from your desk and look away anymore. His cat eyes are glued to your spread legs, watching you pleasure yourself with the vibrator, and when you tease a dildo that's just about the size of his cock into your entrance, he nearly combusts from how badly he wishes he had a human body so he could bend you in half and make you scream his name.

Instead, he's forced to remain a voyeur. It takes you a while to be done because it's your day off and you clearly want to indulge, and every second of your sweet voice panting and moaning and whining while you pleasure yourself with your toys makes Wesker think that maybe this is hell after all.

When you come, his sensitive nose is flooded with the scent of your release and the urge to lick it up is so powerful that he has to bite down on his own tail so he won't do something stupid like actually walk up to your still spread legs and do exactly that.

He considers himself a saint for keeping himself in check when such a tempting feast was laid before him as if on a silver platter and he denied himself the pleasure of sampling the goods. It'd be so easy to get a taste while you sleep, after all. But he contains himself.

The day after is when he decides to come clean. You've been wonderful to him these past two months – the vet visit notwithstanding – and you deserve to know that he's a human. There's a big chance you'll kick him out but he believes in you. You won't hurt him, you already care about him too much.

You're typing something on your computer when he hops up on the desk and just looks at you for a moment. He won't leave without a fight – and he truly believes your bleeding heart won't let you just kick him to the curb – but nevertheless, Wesker takes a good look at you as if memorising your face and posture. He doesn't know how you became so beautiful and dear to him in the span of just two months.

“Oh, hey, baby,” you greet when you finally pull your eyes away from the monitor. The smile you offer him is bright and happy as you scratch under his chin, making him purr involuntarily, and when you coo at him he already knows what you're about to do. With soft, careful hands, you grab him under his front legs and bring him closer until you're cradling him in your arms like a baby. He hated it the first time you did it, but after curling up next to your neck and feeling your gentle fingers rubbing his body and caressing his fur, he changed his mind. You're surprisingly apt at being a cat owner, he's surprised it took you this long to get a pet, honestly.

“What's up, Shadow?” Not the most inspired name for a black cat, but this one is leagues better than the other ideas you had. You actually let him pick his name – meaning that you just threw random names at him and watched for a reaction from him so you could pick one. “You getting lonely, you grumpy old man? You can sit with me if you want, it's okay.”

Wesker purrs louder, knowing how much you love it when he does it, and licks insistently at your neck for a bit. Your taste on his tongue is so comforting – like home and food and safety. He's actually a bit terrified of losing you; you're all he has in the world now and all that stands between him and homelessness again. Wesker is a resourceful man and he has the advantage of his powers, but there's only so much he can do in this cat form – he doesn't know if he'll survive being homeless again or what fate awaits him if he gets caught by someone else or a cat shelter. He doesn't want to find out.

“Hey, it's okay. What's gotten into you?” you ask worriedly, petting down his back and nuzzling his fluffy head. Wesker meows and licks you again, which makes you utter a distressed noise as you almost crush him to your chest and get up from your chair so you can walk around with him in your arms.

He winds his paws around your neck in an approximation of a hug and he can feel your heart skip a beat at the affection. God, why are you so sweet? And why does he find it so endearing instead of annoying? If he had met you before being turned into a cat, he would've sneered at your weakness, at how pathetically human you are, and called you naive and stupid. Now, all he wants is to have real arms that can hold you whenever you start crying into your pillow again.

“Silly baby, it's okay,” you soothe. Your hands on his back are so gentle and comforting it makes Wesker want to dig his fangs into you and never let go.

He lets you comfort him for a few minutes longer before he hops out of your arms and goes back to your computer. You follow him curiously – he can see the worry in your eyes still and it only makes his guilt stronger as he resolves to tell you the truth no matter what – and take a seat at your desk while you watch him navigate clumsily to a word document so he can start typing. It takes a while – and he's surprised you just let him bang at your keyboard instead of shooing him away like most people might – but eventually, he has a message for you. It's simple, but to the point.

I'M NOT A CAT.

You stare at the text on your screen for a good minute without saying anything. Wesker watches you intently, looking for any hints that you might do something out of character – like strangle him or something – but all you do is stare at the screen and blink slowly. When you finally turn to look at him, your lips are parted to allow your shallow breathing to wheeze past them. Your hand trembles when you smooth it over his head. Wesker leans into it, bumping his nose against your fingers and licking gently at your fingertips in apology, then flattens himself to your desk in a show of deference and guilt he never thought himself capable of.

“Either I've finally cracked or you're not a cat,” you whisper shakily as you look at Wesker like he's imaginary and you're expecting him to vanish any second now. In your defense, he doesn't think he'd cope with this news better if he were you.

Wesker meows, his ears flat around his head, tucked tightly like a loaf with his tail hidden away. He looks up at you pathetically and wishes he had a human voice to speak with.

“Okay, okay,” you repeat, sounding panicked and on the verge of hyperventilating. “This is fine. The cat that broke into my house and refused to leave is not actually a cat. Sure, why not? I mean, it does make a lot of things make sense now, I suppose. Like why you only eat human food and why you use the toilet only when I'm not there and why– oh my god, I tried to neuter you! Oh my god I've been… And you've been…”

You turn wide, mortified eyes in his direction and he meows again, covering his head with his paws so he can avoid looking at you. The image of you pleasuring yourself lives rent free in his head but he does his best to push it away from his mind right now.

“I think I might have to flee the country and change my name now, Shadow…” you mutter in embarrassment, groaning and hiding your own face behind your hands. You blow out a long, harsh breath before you look back at him behind stressed but not hostile eyes. “If you're not a cat, then are you a human? Wait, stupid question. Of course you are, you just spoke to me. Well, typed but, you know… Okay, better question: who are you and why the fuck are you a cat?”

Wesker would laugh if he could – your distress and desperate attempt to cope with the situation is amusing and sweet. He lifts himself up and slowly walks back to the keyboard, watching you to see your reaction, but you just lean into your chair and watch him curiously. Your rapt fascination with him makes Wesker want to preen but now is not the time. He makes use of your keyboard once more, this attempt taking a bit longer than the previous one, but when he's done he sits down in front of you and awaits judgement.

ALBERT WESKER & IDK.

You gasp as you read his newest message; it confuses him. Why does this alarm you when news of him being a cat didn't? But before he can wonder further, he sees you pulling your phone out and begin typing frantically on it before you gasp again, even louder than before.

“You're a wanted bioterrorist! I knew that name sounded familiar! It says here you died a few months ago but apparently you've just been moonlighting as a cat the entire time. What the fuck is my life, dude…”

Well. Wesker didn't bank on you knowing who he is, if he's being honest. His main concern ever since betraying S.T.A.R.S. has been evading the authorities and especially the BSAA. He didn't even know the public were aware of him and his existence until now.

This certainly complicates things.

NOT A THREAT

He types that out quickly, getting the hang of it now, then turns back to you with the widest eyes he is capable of. You read it out loud then snort, shoulders finally slumping into a relaxed posture as the tension you've been carrying seems to leave you at long last.

“Yeah, no shit,” you mutter, shaking your head at him and laughing quietly to yourself. “I saw you wrestling your own tail and hissing at it when it hit your face the other day. I know you're not a threat.”

Embarrassment floods Wesker at your remark and he hisses shortly at you before ducking his head and grooming himself to avoid looking at you. It's not like he can help it! His feline instincts get the better of him sometimes and he becomes a slave to his own nature, even if, in the back of his mind, he is aware that he's acting ridiculous. It's the same reason why he can't resist running around the house at three a.m. and knocking things over to wake you up so you can play with him – it's in his nature!

“Well,” you start, sighing and running a hand over your face, “thank you for telling me. And I'm sorry you're stuck as a cat. It must suck a lot.”

He perks up as he looks back at you, letting his damp paw fall back to the desk before he pads over to you and cautiously sniffs your face. You stay still, looking at him intently though without fear, and let him sniff you for a long time before he licks your chin and pulls back so he can write one last thing in the word doc.

THANK YOU. YOU MAKE BETTER. WANT TO STAY W U

He sacrifices proper spelling, grammar, and punctuation towards the end when it becomes tiring to type with his paws, but it all ceases to matter when he looks back at you and sees quiet tears streaming down your face. He makes an alarmed sound – a concerned little ‘mrrrp’ – and hurries to your side, jumping in your lap and pressing his paws to your chest as he lifts himself up so he can lick your tears away faster than they can fall. You let out a choked sob and hug him to your chest, sinking your fingers in his fur and muttering quiet, broken apologies in between hitched breaths.

“Sorry, sorry. I just… I never thought I'd matter enough to anyone to make something like what you're going through feel better. It means a lot,” you murmur once your tears have ceased. Wesker meows and starts purring as loudly as he can, then rubs himself all over you before he looks back up at you and meows again. You smile, a small, sad thing that makes Wesker wish he was human again so he could kiss it away, then take his small head in your hands and rub your thumbs across his face in a gentle, relaxing pattern. “You make everything better, Albert. Thank you for being here.”

Then you bend towards him and press a soft, lingering kiss on his forehead – your sweet scent invades his senses and he knows he would be blushing now if he was human. He purrs louder, happy that you're not kicking him out, and snuggles close to your neck after you pull your lips away.

You get up from your chair again with Wesker in your arms and turn the computer off before walking over to your bed and lying down, Wesker held tightly like he's precious while you cuddle with him shamelessly. He continues to purr away without a care and starts play wrestling with your hand, hugging your wrist between all of his paws and nipping gently at your fingers, careful not to actually nick you with his sharp teeth.

Your laughter and the joy you emanate as he plays with you sink into his heart and make a home for themselves there. And when you grab him with a playful growl and bite down on his ear as retaliation before blowing raspberries against his fluffy belly, he can't even bring himself to think that this is undignified and below him. He thinks that he'd let you play with him like this even if he were back in his original body – he just wants to see you happy and have your body next to his. It doesn't matter in what capacity.

Wesker has a problem.

It's been a few more months since he revealed himself to you and things have changed but not for the worse. Boundaries have been established so that neither of you is uncomfortable by being around the other – every time you kick him out of the apartment for a while because you need some ‘me' time, all he can think about is what you're doing and how badly he wishes he was there with you, but that's neither here nor there.

You got him those talking buttons everyone and their mother bought for their pets at some point so you can ease communication between the two of you, which helps him feel more like himself now that he doesn't have to rely solely on tail flicking and meowing to communicate his wants and needs. And while you seem more aware of your behaviour around him and stop yourself from treating him like a mindless animal now that you know he's anything but, you still give into your urges and play around with him or cuddle him in bed whenever you feel the need for some affection.

Wesker is more than happy to indulge you.

You've become his whole world in a few short months. Literally but also emotionally. He looks forward to seeing you walk through the door at the end of a work day and he misses you terribly when you're gone. Now that you know he's human, you've taken to reading books out loud to him in your spare time – either his favourites or whatever you're currently reading. You talk to him about yourself in a way you didn't before and he feels like he's known you forever. There is connection – real connection – building here, growing stronger every day, and it's everything he didn't know he could possibly want.

The problem is that he's falling in love with you, something he never thought himself capable of. And it's fucking inconvenient since he's still very much sporting cat ears and a tail.

It figures that Albert Wesker would find love when he's fifty and not in possession of opposable thumbs or a voice, so that he's forced to stew in it, incapable of acting on the feelings and desires brewing in his chest.

So far, he's been lucky – you don't seem to be the dating type and the only action you get is from your sex toys. He doesn't have to think about the horrifying possibility of you coming home with someone and forgetting about him while you fuck a stranger in the same room as Wesker – or worse, kick him out for privacy while he's stuck in the hallway outside your apartment still faintly hearing the sounds of your pleasure caused by a man who isn't him.

But then, his luck runs out.

You come home after work one day, looking happy and radiant, still touching your lips and giggling every once in a while, and Wesker knows that something horribly wrong is up immediately. His fur stands up in alarm and his whiskers point forward as he watches you hum happily under your breath while putting away your work clothes and getting started on dinner – for both you and him. Finally, when you giggle for the fifth time in the span of ten minutes, Wesker has had enough.

He walks over to his talking buttons and presses on them with more force than necessary, the cheap plastic creaking ominously under his touch.

WHAT.

He pauses for a second before he presses the other two buttons.

WHY. LAUGH.

You snap out of it at his question and step away from the stove, letting whatever you threw in the pan simmer on low heat while you take a seat and lean towards him with your elbows on your knees.

“I have a date!” you announce happily as if this is cause for celebration. Wesker actually flinches away from you, though you hardly notice through your dreamy, unfocused gaze, and he has to bite his tail to make sure he's not having a nightmare. Oh, this is bad. Why are you happy about this when it's the worst day of Wesker's feline life? And that's with counting the numerous times he almost died in the beginning.

WHEN. WHY.

“Tomorrow! And what do you mean ‘why’? I know I seem like a loser, Albert, but I do actually have a life outside of this apartment occasionally,” you answer with a frown. Wesker hates to sour your mood because he does like seeing you happy, but this is an exceptional circumstance – he can't have you feeling happy about going on a date with whatever loser dared to ask you out. “He's a new hire at my job and I thought he hated me for the longest time but turns out he's just shy and didn't know how to ask me out! Isn't that so cute?” Pathetic, more like. Wesker wouldn't fumble like this – he'd walk up to you, grab your chin, look you in the eye unwaveringly, and tell you that he's taking you out. You'd say yes because the bold move would fluster you too much to second guess things and then he'd kiss you: long, deep, possessive, and with no hint of hesitation. You would know exactly how much he wants you and how very clearly you're already his. “He, uhm. He actually kissed me after I said yes. It was unexpected but I liked it even if it was just a peck.”

You look flustered and dreamy as you recount the story. Wesker is seething, tail puffed up while his nails dig into the wooden flooring of your apartment, and he wants to scratch that bastard's eyes out. Kiss you?! When you're already Wesker's?!

You don't notice his anger and jealousy. Lost in your own head, you just continue making dinner, then share it with him while watching a video on tips for first dates and how best to dress for a casual date in the park. He very nearly throws the phone to the ground to stop you from watching that nonsense but stops himself just in time, knowing that it would achieve nothing – it would just make you upset with him.

Instead, he sits there and watches the eager glint in your eyes as he thinks about how much better he'd be at taking you on a date.

Wesker would buy you the clothes to wear for a date with him. He would take you somewhere nice – expensive but in a subtle way so as not to overwhelm you and make you feel self-conscious. He'd bring you the biggest bouquet of your favourite flowers and a small but tasteful bracelet to go with your outfit – something expensive again, but not ostentatious. He would make it clear that you could be wearing rags and eating cheap hotdogs on a street corner and he'd still consider it the best date he's ever had. Because it would be. Because it'd be with you, the first woman he's ever felt anything real and genuine for.

But it's not Wesker taking you out. It's your coworker. Because Wesker is a fucking cat who can't even kiss you or hold your hand while that moron gets to put his grubby hands all over you and defile you with his mouth.

He sulks the entire evening, refusing to join you for a cuddle and your daily book reading when you beckon him to you. It clearly bums you out but Wesker can't stand to be close to you, to participate in this little ritual you've created together, when all he can think about is your coworker touching you all evening tomorrow, making you laugh, holding your hand, kissing you at the end of the date and, maybe, even taking you home afterwards.

But that night, after you've gone to sleep and fallen in some kind of dream that makes you sigh softly and call out his name every once in a while, Wesker jumps up on your bed and curls up on top of you, turning himself into a pretzel on top of your chest right above your heart. You settle down immediately after one more deep sigh of relief, and sink your hand in his fur before finally sleeping peacefully. Wesker looks at your sleeping face in the dark, eyes flicking from your eyes to your nose to your lips, and wishes with all his might that he was human again.

He just wants to hold you. He just wants to tell you that he… that he loves you. He would give anything in exchange for that, anything at all.

He doesn't know when he finally manages to fall asleep, but when he wakes up to your gentle fingers running over his fur and your gorgeous eyes staring down at him, his exhaustion is all but forgotten.

“Morning, grumpy. Are you feeling better today?” you greet sweetly, a thread of amusement obvious in your voice.

Wesker hisses playfully as he smacks you in the face with his tail and it makes you laugh and splutter with indignation from the mouthful of fur you just got.

“You're so mean to me. Maybe I should take you to the vet again, hmm?” The remark has Wesker giving you an unimpressed stare and it doesn't take long for you to crack and start laughing. “I'm kidding, I'm kidding. But seriously, what happened? Did I do something wrong?”

Wesker shakes his head but doesn't try to answer. It's too early in the morning to be thinking about how everything is going to be ruined tonight when you go on that date, so he just snuggles closer, pushing his nose into your neck and licking at your skin to get a taste of you. You giggle, always so ticklish when his sandpaper tongue grooms you, but you don't push him away – you asked about that once, wondering if it was weird to let yourself be licked by a grown man in a cat's body, but he explained that he still has cat instincts about some things. He may have stretched the truth a bit – or rather, kept his answer vague and let you fill in the gaps by yourself – but Wesker can't suddenly turn into a saint overnight simply because you made him fall in love with you. He's still gotta have his flaws somewhere.

“Oh, okay, so we're doing this now. Message received, no talking about our feelings,” you mumble between giggles, but your words belie your happiness at his show of affection as you wrap your arms around the length of his stretched out body and hug him close to you as you turn on your side so you can snuggle him better. You bury your nose in his fur, inhaling his scent – you once told him that he smells like sunshine and everything good in the world, which he found ironic at the time and still does – then start peppering kisses all over his face and chest, muffling a small scream into his fur before you pop your head back up and look at him with a grin. Your hair is disheveled from sleep and he can still see pillow imprints on your face, but you've never looked more beautiful than you do right now.

You brush a gentle finger over his face before you let out a sigh.

“You're so soft and nice to me, Albert. But I wish you were a man again. I'd really love to give you a proper hug right now.”

Before Wesker can do or think anything in response to your words, a foreign sensation takes over his body – like lava settling into his flesh again, like TV static spreading over his limbs, like ice in the middle of Antarctica drowning his lungs, all of it happening simultaneously yet somehow separately all at once – and his vision and hearing go white and blinding for long moments. When he pulls himself together enough to open his eyes again, the ceiling is staring down at him and you are gasping at his side.

“Albert?”

He groans, feeling disoriented after that weird, painful experience, and then he freezes when he realises that he groaned. Not meowed, not mrrped, not yowled. Groaned. Like a human.

Wesker moves his right paw and looks down at it when it's in front of him but instead of a paw, it's a hand. He gasps then sits up straight as he frantically looks at his body – human, healthy, perfect. He has hands and opposable thumbs and when he touches his face he can feel lips, not a muzzle. He turns to the right when he hears your shallow breathing and he feels like he could jump for joy when his face is level with yours for once – he no longer has to look up at you because of his much smaller stature.

“I'm me again,” Wesker observes and he almost doesn't recognise his own voice. Fuck, it's been so long he almost forgot what it sounded like.

“You…” you murmur, voice trailing off. You lick your lips to wet them, then clear your throat, and all Wesker can focus on is that flash of pink and the way it darted across your lips. “You're here. As yourself. And not my cat.”

“It appears so,” Wesker confirms and fuck, he knows he should wait, should do this right, make sure you're receptive, but he really can't stand to stay away from you a second longer, not now that he's back to normal and he doesn't know if it'll last. If this is his only chance at having you, in whatever capacity you will allow him, then he's taking it, consequences be damned.

He turns and leans over you, one hand propping him up while he throws a leg over you and hovers above your body. You look up at him with wide eyes and parted lips and Wesker wants to freeze this moment and immortalise it in his mind.

“What are you doing?” you ask faintly but when he lowers himself just a bit, you clutch at his chest, hooking your fingers in his shirt instead of trying to push him away.

“What I've wanted to do for months now.”

Wesker leans all the way down towards your face and presses his lips to yours. The initial contact is like electricity running through his veins – he's never felt like this kissing someone before. You gasp at his touch yet you open your lips without thought when Wesker caresses them with his own and coaxes them open expertly. Touching your tongue with his is like heaven itself and your taste explodes on his tongue as he explores every inch of your sweet mouth – this mouth that has uttered your most deepest, darkest secrets late at night when you couldn't sleep, that has choked back sobs when the loneliness got to be too much, that has kissed his furry body without restraint and showered him in compliments he can't remember ever receiving as a human before.

You've given him so many things he never even knew he was missing and you've done it so effortlessly too. Like it's second nature to you. All he wants now is to give you back a fraction of the worship you've bestowed on him.

You moan when Wesker sucks gently on your tongue and the sound goes straight to his dick. It hardens in his pants alarmingly quickly, pent up after so many months of being stuck as a cat, unable to significantly take care of his arousal, and he lowers his lower body without even realising it as he chases some sort of relief through friction. He ends up rubbing his erection right over your crotch, which makes you gasp and moan even louder. He swallows the sounds greedily before he very reluctantly pulls away to let you breathe.

The look in your eyes is nothing short of dazed. Wesker drinks in the sight and hopes that it's not the only time he gets to witness it.

“You… You kissed me.”

He nods, smiling in amusement at your obvious statement, and brushes your hair away from your forehead fondly. He doesn't miss the way you lean into the touch and chase his hand when he pulls it back.

You look up at him with eyes that get clearer by the second and he feels so much adoration for you at this moment it nearly bowls him over.

“You're really handsome. For a bioterrorist. Has anyone ever told you that?”

Wesker snorts. “Once or twice,” he quips, then darts down quickly to steal another small kiss from your tempting lips. “Are you going anywhere with this?”

“I… Sorry, I'm just thrown off. I thought…”

“Yes?”

You look embarrassed when you dart your eyes away from him and turn your face to the side to avoid looking him in the eye.

“I thought I was weird and insane for having feelings for my cat who's not really a cat but still looks like one,” you mumble.

Wesker softens at your adorable display and lowers himself properly on top of you, pinning you to the bed so you can't think of ending this conversation out of embarrassment by going anywhere but also so you can feel just how much he reciprocates.

“Not weird. Nor insane.” He presses his nose alongside yours, rubbing at your skin and looking at you a little cross-eyed as he admires your face from up close, and he can't believe that he gets to do this now. “You asked why I was acting like that yesterday. It was because I was jealous.”

“Jealous?” You furrow your eyebrows and look back at him when he pulls his face away. “What for?”

“Because someone asked you out before I did. And because you said yes. I feel like you're already mine and I don't like the idea of you kissing anyone else but me.”

That flusters you again but instead of looking away, this time you cup his face in both of your hands and caress his cheeks with your thumbs in a gesture so tender it makes Wesker feel a pang deep in his heart – when has he ever been handled with such care? When would he have allowed anyone to do so?

“I only said yes because I was lonely and I felt guilty about my feelings. I… I thought it might get you out of my head if I went out with him,” you confess, your eyes looking so deeply into his own and flickering all over as they take him in just like he has been doing to you this entire time.

Again, he has to sit and wonder if he's ever felt like this before: wanted, but not for what he can do or what he represents; needed, but not for any material or selfish goal. You fell in love with him when he was the grumpy cat who knocked your stuff over to get your attention when he felt like you weren't paying him enough of it – when he was helpless and useless and you didn't even know what he looked like. To be loved so selflessly, so unconditionally is not something Wesker has ever experienced. He doesn't know what to do with it. Words seem lacklustre and he can't bring himself to say them anyway, not even now. But he does know how to show you.

“Don't ever get me out of your head,” he murmurs instead and leans down again to capture your lips in a searing kiss, pouring months of pent up desire and longing into it, hoping that his body can talk enough for him that you understand exactly how he feels. The way you wrap your arms around his shoulders and widen your legs so you can hook them over his waist and pull him into you says that maybe you do.

He steals the breath from your lungs with every kiss he presses against your lips while his hips grind down so he can rub his cock against your pussy. He can smell you getting wetter with every press of your bodies and he feels feral with the need to sink his teeth into you and rut into you like an animal. Hours of memories of you spread out like a feast, unaware that he could see you and hear every sound that fell from your lips as you brought pleasure to your neglected body, flash through Wesker's mind right now and he is helpless to do anything but trail his spit-slick lips down your throat and leave bites on your neck that will bruise and remain behind for days to come.

You sigh against him and thread your fingers through his hair to tug him closer. The way he grips your hips, the desperate, uncoordinated rutting of his cock against you, his hungry lips devouring every spare inch of exposed skin – none of it scares you away; if anything, you beg him to do more, to do worse, with every soft whimper that escapes your lips and every tug on his hair when his teeth leave indents in your skin.

“I want to devour you,” Wesker mutters, tugging your sleep shirt over your head and revealing your beautiful breasts to his hungry gaze. He immediately latches on, swirling his tongue over the nipple and grazing his teeth over the hard nub to see you arch up into his mouth with a gasp, rubbing yourself up against him in the process.

“Please,” you breathe out. Your breath keeps hitching with every tug on your nipples, either from his mouth or his fingers, and the sound goes straight to his cock every time. You beg so sweetly, how could he ever refuse you?

Wesker makes short work of getting you naked, baring you completely and leaving you spread out under him like an offering. You tug at his clothes to get him naked too and he obliges happily – it's only fair that you get to see him like this too. He can't help but preen a little under your appreciative gaze, especially when you lick your lips the further down his body your gaze goes and you spread your legs suggestively as soon as you catch sight of his hard, flushed cock. It makes him want to split you open right then and there.

“Think you can take me like this, my dear?” he asks sweetly, rubbing his fingers through your wet folds and groaning quietly at how obviously turned on you are just from his kisses and desperate exploration. He wants to bury himself in your pussy and emerge days later, but he also needs to be inside you in the next five minutes if he doesn't want to explode. Gorging himself on your cunt will have to wait for next time – then, he can take his time and indulge to his heart's content.

“I'd take you drier than a desert right now, Albert. Just please fuck me!”

His stomach clenches with arousal and his cock twitches in response to your words – so eager, so equally desperate to be joined with him as he is to be with you. He has to kiss you again, muffling your sweet moans with his lips and tongue. He swipes the head of his cock between your lips so he can gather as much of your wetness as he can, then spreads it over his length evenly. He really hopes it's enough – he doesn't want to hurt you, but if he doesn't feel your velvety walls around him now he might go insane.

Your hole is sopping and welcoming when Wesker finally lines himself up with it and starts pushing inside. You open like a flower for him, eager to have him pollinate you, and the gasp you let slip past your bitten lips when he starts stretching you more and more with every inch of his cock that he feeds into your pussy sounds like a benediction.

“That's it. You're doing so well, dear heart. Take it just like that, just a little bit more,” he grits out, forcing himself to go slow when every bone in his body wants him to just plunge balls deep in your cunt and fuck you into the mattress. When he finally bottoms out, he has to consciously let himself breathe out and relax while he waits for you to let go of the death grip you have on his shaft before he starts moving.

Every time he pulls out and thrusts back in, your tits bounce under him and brush up against his chest. You moan, tiny little sounds that escape your lips and caress his eardrums like the most elegant of instruments. He needs to fuck you properly.

The slow pace lasts only a few seconds, just enough for you to get used to his girth, before Wesker hikes your legs up on his waist and starts pounding into you so hard your headboard bangs against the wall. Your sounds are wanton and loud – you sound like the best porn star he's ever heard, the sexiest goddamn nymph on this planet, and he's convinced you were crafted especially to drive him insane with how perfect you are.

There is no room for words now between you – there is only the slapping of skin and heavy breathing, his moans and your whimpers, and the delicious friction of your warm, wet pussy and his hard cock as he takes your body for himself. Wordlessly, Wesker finds your clit and plays with it at the same time as he hammers into you like he's never had pussy before and never will again. You start sobbing from pleasure when the wave crashes into you. Your eyes roll to the back of your head and you moan his name deliriously, a sweet mantra he doesn't think he'll ever get tired of hearing – already he wants to hear it again, in that exact pitch, full of exactly that much pleasure and worship.

The squeezing of your cunt is damn near unbearable and it proves to be his undoing. He's been celibate and yearning for your divine pussy for months now, it's not really a surprise that your orgasm sends him hurtling into his own. He forces himself to pull out of you and come on your stomach, though the first few ropes land on your cunt and drip down to pool near your ass and the sheets. The urge to rub the head of his cock over the mess and push it back into you is strong, but he doesn't know if you're safe or if you want to take the risk regardless. He knows what he wants, but that's beside the point.

But as well behaved as he's being, he can't help himself – he swipes his fingers through the mess on your stomach and thrusts them into your mouth just to watch you dazedly but hungrily lick his fingers clean and swallow his cum without hesitation. Fuck, he wants to ruin you.

Wesker makes use of the tissues you keep next to your bed and wipes you down before he flops down next to you and pulls you into him, lying on your sides face to face and tangled together as much as possible. If there is one thing he misses about being a cat it's the ability to tuck himself into your neck and nearly fuse into your skin until there wasn't a single inch of space left between your bodies.

“What now?” you ask quietly in the silence that descends, the sound of your breaths mingling the only thing that disturbs it.

“What do you mean, darling?” Wesker is busy cataloguing every square inch of your face, one of his hands coming up to cup your cheek and touch you curiously, reverently, marvelling at his freedom to hold you now and feel your skin on his.

“What are you going to do now that you're you again? Will you… leave?”

Your voice is small and afraid and in it, Wesker can hear every fear of being discarded so soon after he used you, every expectation to be abandoned once again. He frowns in response and leans closer to you, sharing your pillow as he presses his forehead to yours.

“I'm not going anywhere,” he denies vehemently in a soft tone he never thought he'd use sincerely. He has faked affection for women before, for various reasons, but he's never felt it in his chest, never thought himself capable of it. At some point, he figured he was just wired differently and simply couldn't feel such things for another – he now knows that he just hadn't found the right person. Or maybe the timing and circumstances are what matter here. He'll never quite know which, if either, it is.

“But your plans–”

“Can wait. I don't care about that now. I've been craving you while having you inches away from me for months, darling. I just want to hold you. Take you out on a real date. Take care of you like you've been taking care of me. Is that allowed?”

You laugh at his teasing, your huff warming his lips from how close your mouths are, and you press a short kiss against them that lets him feel all the relief you're pouring into it.

“It is,” you whisper, breathing his air and caressing his nape with playful fingers that wind his blonde hair around the tips. “There's nothing I want more.”

“Good. Then we are on the same page.”

You curl up against him easily when Wesker pulls you closer, tucking your face against his neck and nuzzling your nose into it. He runs a hand over your back at the same time and delights in how perfectly you fit against him, how seamlessly your bodies slot against each other to keep you as close together as you can be. Your body is warm against him – though not as warm as his – and it feels like he can relax for the first time since Chris showed up and started sticking his nose into things that weren't his business.

He still doesn't know what happened to him – how he became a cat, or why – but he doesn't much care about that right now. He just wants to hear your heart beating against his chest and feel your warm skin sliding against his own while he breathes you in and feels like he's finally arrived somewhere he can call home. Maybe he'll get his answers, maybe he won't. All of it can wait.