Chapter Text
The mice scramble over each other in their clear enclosures, a furious roil of white fur and pink eyes and long, wormy tails.
They seem to be the only welcoming committee around; they congratulate you on snagging the ultimate sweetheart deal of a job with their delicate little paws pressed up against the plastic. It would be cute if you didn’t intimately know the hell that awaits them; the hell that’s already working its way through their veins.
You can hear your new co-workers in the other room.
"--smuggled viruses the company spent four years developing out of the black site and sold them to us. Ones we didn't even know they had.”
"Interesting,” a low voice says sarcastically.
"Oh, what? Don't like another little wunderkind stealing your biochem thunder?"
"I'm not threatened by some woman."
"I don't think you feeling threatened is gonna be the problem," the higher voice titters.
You haven't seen them yet and you can already tell they're both assholes. Great.
You're used to the casual sexism of the sciences. You've been dealing with it your whole life. Men being in love with you and hating you for it; insecure little twerps resenting you for running circles around them. They get mad because you've committed the mortal sin of being smart and beautiful. You don't suffer men easily and delight in taking them down a few pegs; you've honed it down to a fine art. A science, even.
You push open the door to the lab abruptly, wanting them to question how much you heard. They both look you up and down blatantly.
“Dr. Birkin,” you say, shaking his hand, introducing yourself, hating him already. He's a twitchy, wiry guy who won't make eye contact-- pretty much exactly what you expected based on his reputation. He turns back to his lab station, clearly uninterested in further pleasantries.
And then there's Dr. Wesker. You did your research on him and his impressive accolades; you always like to know what you're walking into. But nobody warned you that he's hot.
"A pleasure to meet you, Dr..." he reads the card on your lanyard, smiling around your name. His hand envelops yours when you shake it.
Yep. Hot. The sunglasses are pretty inexplicable, though. Maybe a sensitivity to the light. Or he's just deeply misguided and thinks they look cool. Hardly. Even with you in heels, he's two heads taller than you, at least; you have to look up at him. He could choke you out with one-- wow, you're really getting ahead of yourself here. Get it together.
"And you as well, Dr. Wesker. I look forward to working with you,” you say, hoping it sounds normal.
“What are your qualifications?”
Oh, brother, you've hit the pissing contest stage in record time. You rattle off your multiple degrees, various national grants, published research papers, previous high profile employers, and certifications. You are very good at what you do. Sure, your moral backbone is practically nonexistent-- you've been supplying international arms dealers with potent bioweapons for years now, and you indirectly have a death toll in the thousands. You don't care. You love the chemistry... and the power trip of turning something harmless into something deadly is just a nice bonus. And you were able to escape from your previous gig with $23.7 million dollars of precious research data. Alive, too. It was legitimately unclear if you would be able to outrun their assassins, but you did.
Dr. Wesker looks at you, a little confused. “And... how old are you?”
You tell him and he grimaces, but tries to hide it. He's jealous. You've done a lot in a short period of time. You only have so much life to live and so many millions to hoard. It's hard enough being a woman in the field, but it's even harder when everyone treats you like a fucking child just because you're young. Wesker tries to skate over the exchange and leads you deeper into the massive lab.
“Let's familiarize you with the lab and our protocol. We have work to do.”
You can't help but stare at his ass. Well, a little eye candy never hurts, does it?
(Oh, but it will. It will.)
It's a good thing the job pays gratuitously well, because you hate it.
The work is fine, interesting, engaging, sure; it all comes down to Dr. Wesker, who is the biggest, most insufferable pain in the ass you've ever met. The feeling is mutual. You've been working here for months, and you're at each other's throats on a daily basis. You still haven't stopped finding him attractive. Which is probably why you hate him so much.
You've been tasked with synthesizing a new bioweapon adapted from the work you stole from your previous job. It's not going well. It would be a lot easier if Wesker wasn't so fucking touchy about criticism. You would much prefer to be paired with Dr. Birkin, who is annoying but tolerable. But due to your specialties and whatever secret project Birkin is kept busy with, you and Wesker are partners in the lab. You spend half the time wanting to hit him over the head with your various degrees to prove you're not as stupid as he thinks you are, and the other half wanting to stick your tongue down his throat. It sucks.
You click your tongue, reading over a report you've been handed. "This is sloppy math, Dr. Wesker."
He grimaces, clearly not believing you. He thinks he's about to correct you. But you're right, and you know you're right.
“And what exactly is so ‘sloppy’ about it?”
"Since you're so attentive, you should have no problem identifying the error. Go on."
You push the page towards him. Wesker scans the report, brow furrowed. After a few moments of silence, he sighs and scratches out the figure, penciling in the correction. You smirk.
“I'd advise being a little more careful with your calculations. Your error could have cost the company millions of dollars.”
Wesker glares at you silently, thinking. You keep catching him out on errors; errors he's not used to making. Corporate loves you. And you've been... distracting him. Being the hottest, smartest person in the room is his job. So who the hell do you think you are, waltzing in, looking like that? Behaving like some--
"Can I help you?” you ask innocently. He's been staring at you for way too long, visibly seething.
"No. I don't believe you can."
You shrug. “It's alright, we all make mistakes. Even the eminent Dr. Wesker.”
Neither of you know it, but you're both thinking about fucking and/or killing each other right now. So it goes.
Over time, he takes to calling you by your last name, dropping your title. He hurls it at you like an epithet. So you decide to drop the pleases and Doctors and generally become a menace in return. And he hates it. He doesn't know what to do with it. So he starts slipping in casual digs at you.
"I hope for your sake that you won't decide to sell us out to the highest bidder. Not much a dead woman can do with a pile of cash,” he says out of nowhere one day.
You sip your coffee, unbothered. "Funny. They said the same thing at my last job."
“Did you also get away with being so insolent to your superiors? It's no wonder they wanted you eliminated.”
You pencil in a number on your report, not looking up. "You're dreaming if you think I'll be offended by you pulling rank on me. Is your own ego that fragile?”
“I'm just reminding you of where you stand here. This is my lab, and you work beneath me,” he seethes.
“Yes, of course,” you tell him as if he's stupid, “And as long as you continue to meet the high standard the work requires, I have no problems following orders. But I will say that these sorts of... hm, careless... errors make me less inclined to respect you and your... position.”
He's so pissed off that he can't get a rise out of you. The thing is, even if Wesker requested you be reassigned, you're too much of an asset now. You've made great progress on the current initiative, more than Birkin and Wesker have in the past several months prior to your hiring. The higher ups at Arklay would kill you before they would even think of firing you. So that's comforting. But if you could survive your last gig, you can survive this. Wesker is well aware. He resents you, he can't get rid of you, and you've burrowed so deep under his skin that he can't help but sexualize that hatred.
Of course, you don't suspect a thing. You just assume he's being petty and jealous. But he watches you from behind his stupid sunglasses and spends most of the day obsessing over the optimal method of taking you over entirely, possessing you, pinning you to the wall and fucking you until you forget your name.
He tries to get you to slip up. Make mistakes. Distract you the way you do him. His primary tactic is just bullying you. It doesn't work; you're used to it, and you take too much pleasure in denying him the satisfaction.
One day, he tries something new; he has a theory. Wesker leans over you as you're looking through a microscope.
“Let me see,” he murmurs, nudging you out of the way so he can look into the scope, his arms bracketing you in place. You're enveloped in his scent, the leather and expensive cologne, something sharp and clean. He adjusts the scope and his arms are wrapped around you and you actually tremble, and he notices.
"It's a very interesting specimen, isn't it?” he purrs, pulling away from the microscope. He's so, so close to your neck, his breath hot on your ear.
You reluctantly elbow him away, blushing. “You ever hear of a little thing called ‘personal space?’”
He completely ignores that and starts lecturing you on how your slide preparation is poor, how the misalignment affects the visibility of the sample on the scope. You move the glass slides a millimeter over and glare at him. What a stupid thing to throw a shitfit over.
With the confirmation that getting close to you is the one thing that will throw you off, Wesker starts aggressively invading your space. He's always behind you, brushing against you, finding any excuse to touch you, breathing in your scent. His hands find the small of your back when he breezes past, pressing you through doorways.
And just like he wanted, you start to make stupid mistakes because his proximity causes your brain to go fuzzy. He's finally getting you back, taking full advantage of the effect he knows he has on you. You figure that the only reason he would pick up this tact is because it's exactly what would work on him. You decide to test the idea.
When he's working in the narrowest space in the lab, two counters that almost touch, you approach him.
“I just need to grab a few things,” you say, pointing at the shelf behind him. He starts to move, but you shake your head, adding, “No need.”
You push past Wesker, your bodies flush as you take too long to select the bottles you actually have no use for. You turn to look up at him, chemicals in hand, expecting him to let you by. Now he's blocking you in, breathing hard. Noted.
“Is something wrong?” you ask, maliciously.
“Just move,” he says in a flat monotone.
You make sure to bump your hips especially hard against his as you squeeze past.
You don't know this, but he excuses himself to jerk off in the bathroom, thinking about your entire body trembling beneath him. How easy it would be to take you. How he's going to make you fucking beg for it.
It's too damn hot in this lab. The AC must be busted. You take off your lab coat because it's soaked with sweat; you unbutton your navy oxford down to the tank underneath. You'll probably be scolded for this and you're too hot to care. Even your messy bun feels suffocating on your scalp. You fan yourself with a stack of lab reports and it's still not enough.
Wesker has been working on some side project he’s being particularly secretive about. So for a few hours a day, you get a welcome reprieve from his constant presence. You actually get a lot done during that time, despite being incredibly curious as to what’s absorbing him so entirely-- not that you would ever admit it. But he’s spent even more time in the past week in that other portion of the lab doing... whatever the hell it is. You’re not complaining. You are, however, positive that the ancillary lab has got to be cooler than it is in here. You’re beginning to suspect that Wesker is just dicking around in there to make you suffer in the heat.
As if to confirm it, in waltzes Wesker, crisp and sweatless, not a hair out of place. The only sign of discomfort is that his sleeves are rolled up around his forearms, the veins spidering across his hands. There's something a bit obscene about seeing such a prosaic part of him for the first time. Fuck, you're staring.
He pulls on latex gloves with a lewd snap that makes you twitch. "Are the samples ready?"
All business. "Yeah, and you better get them into the cooler before the heat kills them all."
His mouth quirks up. "Oh? You can't handle a little heat? Is that why you've stripped in my lab?"
You glare at him, sweat trickling down your back. "Yes, Wesker, I’ve really been slutting it up in here. I won the chemical wash wet t-shirt contest and everything."
The image worms into his mind and he can't shake it.
"Besides, isn't this lab supposed to be perfectly temperature controlled? It's putting the samples at risk. Are you even listening to me?"
"If I didn't know any better, just by looking at you... I would think the lab is freezing cold."
Fine. So what if your nipples are hard and extremely visible? So what if he keeps moving closer and closer to you? You roll your eyes. "Nice sexual harassment, Wesker. Very professional."
"You don't want to see what me sexually harassing you would really look like,” he says, voice soft and dark.
You raise an eyebrow. "Oh? What do you have in mind?”
The corners of his lips quirk up, a small twitch in his face. “You're curious, aren't you?”
The air between you is heavy. He's so close to you now that you can see his blown pupils behind the glasses, eating you up.
"You don't care what I think."
He traces a finger down your jaw gently. "No. I don't."
Wesker stalks out of the lab, leaving you throbbing.
When Wesker arrives earlier than you, he always plays classical music from a tape deck in the corner. It's an obnoxious choice; very preening movie supervillain. You turn off the music.
"This is serial killer behavior, Wesker."
"It's tragic that you don't have an appreciation for fine art. Would you prefer something a little more mindless? It might suit you better.”
You sigh. “This is a lab. We're professionals. Get a Walkman if you're gonna die without your precious Prokofiev, because I don't want to hear it.”
You know your way around classical music; you recognize and actually like the piece. But Wesker likes it, so you're morally obligated to performatively hate it. Besides, you have results you need to rub in his face.
“But I guess serial killer music is appropriate.” You show him the report. "It's a fucking bloodbath."
The latest iteration of the virus is too effective. It tore through the cell cultures like a tornado, killing everything almost immediately. This is a problem you keep running into; it's not an effective bioweapon if it kills the host before it even has a chance to be contagious.
Wesker thumbs through the pages, looking perturbed. "If nothing else, we're very good at ensuring lethality."
You chew the end of your pen. "I really think our best course of action here is ensuring the resilience of the host. Introduce something that gives them the ability to fight it off, just long enough to spread it around."
Wesker sighs. "And we're back to chimeras again."
You suppress a grin because he's been ignoring your constant nagging about chimeras for weeks now.
“Obviously. I'm already preparing some of the specimens for splicing, so it should be relatively easy to accomplish,” you say, glad you did your legwork ahead of time-- just to rub his nose in it.
“In terms of introducing a slower activation time before the symptoms of the virus manifest,” Wesker starts, rounding on you, getting closer, “I'm thinking about the function of a body's healing mechanisms, akin to what happens when the skin sustains an injury but does not break. Allow me to demonstrate."
He abruptly grabs your ponytail and pulls you back, exposing your neck. His face brushes against your jugular, and he suddenly sinks his teeth into your flesh. What escapes you is a truly embarrassing moan that hums against his mouth. He pushes you away and gestures to the deep imprint of his teeth, already bruising, his tone clinical.
“Now, the broken capillaries beneath your skin are leaking into the interstitial tissue. The damaged endothelium in the capillaries will release endothelin, narrowing the blood vessels to hasten restoration. I believe if we utilize a similar form of hormone-induced vascular constriction, it may delay the coagulation of--”
Hold on, you can't believe he just did that. “Jesus christ, are you mansplaining bruises to me?”
You fumble a makeup compact out of your bag to examine the damage. It’s incredibly visible; there's no hiding it. There should be a tube of concealer in here, but you can't find it. Maybe he took it. Asshole.
“Wesker, talk about the basic functions of coagulation all you want, but that's the flimsiest excuse to kiss my neck I've ever heard.”
He shrugs innocently like he didn't just give you a fucking hickey in the middle of the lab. “It was just a demonstration. You have a tendency to have a hard time accepting facts until you see the evidence up close,” he says.
"So you're marking me now? What are you, a fucking dog?"
He smirks. "If I'm a dog, then what does that make you?"
What a lovely way to call you a bitch. "Fuck off, Wesker."
"One day, I'm going to shut that smart mouth of yours and teach you to behave. I'll make sure of it."
"And on that day, I'm going to kick you in the nuts."
"I would very much like to see you try."
Fine, you'll oblige. You jerk your knee into his crotch. Well, try to. His reflexes are too quick, and he grabs you by the thigh. His hand nearly fucking encircles it. And he holds it there, pushing you against the desk, forcing his way between your legs. You go to slap him and he instantly grabs your wrist. He's pressed so close against you that you know he can feel the heat radiating from your sex, right against his. The air between you is thick with tension.
"Is this what you wanted? You're certainly asking f--"
The outer door to the lab slams open, and you shove away from each other as Birkin's yelling cuts through the tense silence. You slap your hand to the bruise on your neck in an unnatural position, just desperate to hide it. You steady your breathing and smooth out your shirt like you weren't just convincingly recreating the cover of a vampire themed bodice-ripper with Wesker. Oh, how you envy the sunglasses right now.
When Birkin talks, he doesn't really care about who hears him, or at what point they've tuned into the rant. Neither of you are actually listening to him anyway. But Wesker gets him to calm down, responding to his barrage of questions with rational answers. You don’t clock a single word of it. Seemingly satisfied, Birkin storms back out of the lab.
You drift back towards Wesker, hoping irrationally that you can capitalize on the moment and get back to whatever was just about to happen. But he's already smugly disengaged, doesn't care; busying himself with work while the bruise he gave you blooms sweet and purple across your skin.
The next morning, you come into the lab and find Wesker absorbed in something under the fume hood. He doesn't acknowledge you when you enter, doesn't even look up. You set down your things. There, among piles of reports, two syringes are laid out neatly on a silver tray.
“What's this?”
Wesker sighs and turns away from his work, sounding exasperated. "What?”
You gesture to the ominous needle tray.
“Oh, that. Corporate is insisting on an update to our vaccination status. I did Birkin's last night. It's simply a ‘precautionary measure,’ which I suspect is code for insurance policy nonsense. Would you do me a favor and administer mine?"
He rolls up a sleeve and presents his arm to you. It's a weirdly vulnerable gesture. So you take a syringe, flick his skin unnecessarily hard, and jab him in one of his prominent veins.
He rolls his eyes slightly. "I knew you'd be a soft touch."
You hold out your arm in return. "Get it over with."
He takes your small arm in his big, gloved hands and has no trouble finding a vein. You let him inject you, and he makes hard eye contact with you as he depresses the plunger.
He swabs the site with alcohol, smiling to himself. It isn't until you're pouring your second cup of coffee that Wesker approaches again, still smirking. He leans on the counter across from you languidly, watching you closely.
"You're quite trusting, aren't you?"
You freeze. "What makes you say that?"
"We haven't synthesized a vaccine for the virus proteins yet. You didn't bother to check where the syringes came from, let alone ask, nor did you watch me prepare them. Why would you assume I was telling the truth?”
Horror creeps up your spine. "What did you do?"
"It's just a little something I've been working on. Consider yourself my first human test subject. And since you're so concerned with profits, just think-- if it's successful, the pharmaceutical applications would net the company billions."
“Answer the question. What was it?”
“Hormones derived from our lab rats, with certain synthetic modifications. I've found that it's incredibly effective for inducing heat in the mice. And all results point to success with the human reproductive system.”
"I don't believe you. That's impossible."
He grins. "Are you sure?"
"It's a saline solution, then. A placebo. You're just fucking with me."
"The only saline solution here was the one you injected into me. But you'll see soon enough, won't you?"
You sputter, grasping at straws. "You dumbass, I'm fucking infertile."
"Then you should know that infertility is irrelevant to the body's physiological response to sex hormones. You’ll begin to feel the effects of estrus within, oh, eight to twelve hours."
"The effects of what!?"
"Lucky for you, the rapid polyestral cycling of rats limits the estrus period to three to five days. So within a few short days, you'll be... back to normal."
You're struck dumb by this. You. In estrus. Because of rats?
"Fine. Then I'll inform management that I'm taking the week off, and then I'm lodging an ethics complaint, and next... I might even kill you.”
Oh, he’s just loving every second he gets to brag.
"No, I don't think you'll be doing that. Due to the fact that you are now contagious, you'll be confined to the lab for the rest of the week. All other employees have been advised to avoid this wing due to your exposure to dangerous pathogens. You will be quarantined to this level of the building until I have determined containment. You will work with me here in the lab and sleep in the break room, all under my observation. And of course, you will be compensated handsomely for your time."
"I'll ruin you for this,” you say through gritted teeth.
"Oh? And who's going to believe you? Dr. Albert Wesker, top of his field, haphazardly injected a colleague with rat derived reproductive hormones without her informed consent? Please. It's scientifically impossible and grossly irresponsible. My reputation precedes me. Yours, however... well, a false accusation for the sake of career advancement would hardly be surprising, would it?"
You back him up against the wall with all your five foot nothing, glowering. You try to choke him. Try being the operative word. He effortlessly holds your wrists away from him.
"Don't fret, dear. I do believe you might even enjoy it," and he smirks, "As will I."
He releases you, straightening out his shirt and smiling maliciously. As will I?
You crack up.
"Wait, wait, wait. Your little project that you've been so secretive about-- so proud-- you just, all you wanted was to-- hahaha--" You gasp for air. "You get free reign of a billion dollar lab and you're like, man, finally, I can get a woman to fuck me."
The laughing is pissing him off so bad, and that makes you laugh even harder. It would be actually funny if you didn't feel so out of control. Hysterical.
"I would be very careful about what you say to me right now."
"You know there are easier ways to get your dick wet, right? Like, buy a girl dinner first--"
"We both know that's not necessary. You can barely handle this and I'm not even touching you."
"God, you're in love with yourself, aren't you? Sorry Wesker, you may have a pretty face, but you're fucking insufferable."
He doesn't respond, and instead makes a big show of checking his watch. Above his glasses, he fucking winks at you.
You make a useless attempt at working. You have a full day ahead of you. Your brain screams at you while you collect samples, hands shaking. The lab reports swim together, the fluorescents are too loud, and the fact that you're one of the world's brightest biochemists seems to totally escape your awareness. All the math looks wrong. The work day officially ends and you lose the excuse entirely. You eat a tasteless microwave dinner hunched over the sink, gulping it down like somehow you can eat your way out of this.
You're hyperaware of every cell in your body; overthinking every nervous tic. You want to murder him; you're narrowing it down from a list of poisons both natural and synthetic. You check the clock. The nine hour mark is approaching fast and Wesker is watching you like a fucking hawk.
You decide to try hiding in the bathroom, so he follows you and narrates outside the door, which is just... great.
You almost convince yourself that it really was just a saline solution, that this is all a fucked up ploy to trick you into doing something stupid so he can hold it over your head forever. Like there would be any way for him to synthesize something that ridiculous in such a short period of time. Like he would actually be that obsessed with you, that crazy, to devote his talents to creating a synthetic hormone with the express and sole purpose of breaking you down until you beg for him. God, that would be nuts.
And then it starts.
You're leaning against the wall because you're sick of sitting, casually pretending to read a book, flipping the pages at plausible intervals, and pointedly ignoring Wesker while also considering how best to destroy his entire life. Then something inside of you twists violently, and the full force of it hits you like a truck. It actually takes your breath away.
Your mouth floods with saliva. Your nipples harden; your palms itch. Your cunt actually burns. You glance at Wesker and feel a ravenous need to see his dick. Your stomach sinks. You understand now what you're up against, what you're going to have to fight off for the next 72 hours minimum. You break out in a cold sweat, which worsens when you realize just how visible this must be.
And he's just going to sit there, looking exceptionally fuckable? God, you really wish you had your own pair of sunglasses. It's unfair.
Something sparks in his eyes when he realizes what's happening to you. "Well, well, well. How is my little test subject feeling?"
You decide to taunt him because you're an idiot. "I hate to break it to you, Doctor, but I don't feel anything at all."
Wesker crosses the room and corners you, hand on the wall, standing between your legs. Very, very close. The book falls from your hands.
"Is that so?" he says, coolly.
You can feel your heart rate skyrocket; the heat of his skin so close to yours. You inhale his scent, how dark and inviting it is. He knows exactly what he's doing, and he knows you're lying, and he knows what's happening to your body. His fingers find your pulse and you swallow hard at the contact. You're going to be sick.
"Subject's resting heart rate has risen considerably, putting activation time at eight hours." He says it so matter-of-fact that you want to choke him.
"The subject's sympathetic nervous system is identifying a threat," you reply. You can't know this, but you calling him a threat goes straight to his dick. He casually leaves you be and goes back to his stupid clipboard. You stretch to try to look like you're unbothered by this, and he begins to write.
"Reflexive lordosis behavior is observed, though the subject is visibly attempting to suppress it."
You become very self conscious about the angle of your hips. "Humans don't exhibit reflexive lordosis, asshole. Did you miss your first year reproductive biology class?"
He continues writing, ignoring you. "There was a recent study that suggested women wear high heels to mimic animal lordosis behavior. Is that why you chose those impractical shoes, hm? To present your hips to me? To let me know you're ready to breed?"
You fix him with a glare and pull off your heels, hucking them to the floor. The motion causes your skirt to ride up, and he notices your stockings and garter belt. He writes that down, too.
You sit down hard on a desk chair, legs and arms crossed like you can make yourself small enough to disappear. You're trying not to tremble. This is miserable. Wesker puts down his clipboard and snaps a pair of gloves on. Oh god, he's approaching you again. You try to roll the chair away from him, but he stops the wheel with his foot.
“Don't you dare--”
"Calm down, I just need to take your vitals. Now, be a good girl and sit still for me. Open."
No fucking way are you opening your mouth for him. You shake your head. Wesker clutches your cheeks and forces your mouth open. You try to bite him, unsuccessfully. He presses your tongue down with his thumb to peer into your mouth. It's horribly intimate and you want more.
"Subject presents appropriate salivary response and pupil dilation consistent with arousal."
You try to close your mouth to get his fingers out of there but somehow find your lips around his thumb instead. He removes it with a little smirk and wipes your saliva off on the shoulder of your blouse, totally ignoring you.
"Subject responds... enthusiastically... to manual stimulation of the erogenous zones."
Your insides begin to burn. You're so turned on that your walls physically ache. Even the light contact of your panties against your throbbing clit is too much and not enough. You imagine that if you touched it, you could feel your own frantic heartbeat with your fingers.
"Are you aroused yet, dear? Certainly you're already feeling it, based on the way you're... squirming."
You cross your legs harder, which makes it worse. "No fucking way."
Wesker forcibly uncrosses them, holding your shaking knees apart. You can barely fight it, he's too strong. He can see just how soaked your panties are, how it's pooling on the chair. His sadistic grin says it all. Still holding your legs apart and without warning, he pushes your panties to the side and clinically spreads your folds with all the professional distance of a gynecologist. You keen at his touch, half out of rage, half out of desperation for more.
Then he lets you go, snapping his gloves off to take notes.
"If you would like some relief, all you have to do is ask."
You feel violent. "Hard pass."
He leers at you, one hand on the back of the chair. "Be honest. Just how much have you thought about me touching you, hm? How many times have you moaned my name, wishing your hands were mine?"
This is awful. You get out of the chair too abruptly, making it roll across the floor. Wesker corners you until you're pressed flat against the wall, his figure looming above you.
"Wesker, it's not too late for you to let me go before anything stupid happens--"
"You don't want to leave. You're exactly where you want to be, and you're about to finally get what you want. What you've been aching for."
He slowly rucks your skirt up around your upper thighs, exposing your damp panties to the air. Even seeing the way your garters compress the flesh of your thighs turns you on further.
He drags an ungloved finger down your clothed slit, feather-light and maddening.
"All you have to do... is admit it."
You try to catch his mouth with yours. That seems easier. He won't let you. He grabs your chin with one hand, forcing you to look him in the eye. "No, dear, I'm afraid you'll have to use your words."
You take a deep breath. "Wesker. I hate you very much. I'm not sure I've ever loathed a colleague the way I do you. I find you obnoxious, arrogant, overconfident--"
His hand goes to your throat. The prospect of being choked doesn't make it any easier to talk.
"But because you injected me with rat hormones--" His grip tightens, a warning. The gleam in his eyes is so predatory that it makes you shake. You try again.
"Look, just fucking touch me already--"
"Ah-ah. Ask nicely."
In a small, quiet voice, you give. "And... only because of the effects of the injection... iwannahavesexwithyou."
He lets you go and begins to turn away. "I'm unconvinced."
Any last shred of dignity you might have had evaporates as you grab his shirt and whine. "Please, Wesker, please, I'm fucking begging you, touch me, I want you to touch me, please, I've thought about this so much, okay? It hurts--"
Without warning, he bypasses your panties and presses a long finger into you. He crooks it against your G-spot with ruthless precision. You gasp, clenching around him.
“Is that better?” he asks, innocently.
He slowly pumps his fingers in and out of you, rubbing your clit with his thumb. Your eyelashes flutter, pupils rolling up, a moan escaping your throat. You should probably feel more embarrassed about it but his fingers just feel so goddamn perfect.
"And my test subject is already so wet for me. You just can't help it, can you, you sick little thing?"
You cover your face with your arm, blushing furiously at the effect being called a thing has on you. He pries it away and pins your wrist to the wall, growling.
"No dear, no hiding. I want to watch you come apart for me."
"You sadistic fucking--"
"It's so nice to know I can shut you up just by doing this," he gloats, curling his fingers again. "You know, I find you much more tolerable this way."
You really, really want to kill him. His long fingers stretch you deliciously, and he can tell. "Did you think I didn't notice the way you watch me? You've been so obvious, so very desperate for my attention. Looking for excuses to get closer... to be touched.”
“No, that's-- I haven’t-- I'm not.”
“Mmhm. And you're wearing these slutty little outfits every day just to look professional, is that it?”
He snaps one of your garters against your skin. You have to bite back another moan.
He lightly slaps your cheek. “No, you're going to let me hear every sound you make or I'll stop.”
You're trying really hard not to cum. A whine escapes you as he presses harder on your clit. He smiles, his voice softening.
“My, what pretty sounds you make for me... doing what you're told. And I don't think you'll be needing these again.”
He pulls out a pair of scissors you didn't even know he had and swiftly cuts the panties off of your body. They hit the floor with a wet slap. Maybe if you could just... grab the scissors...
Miraculously, you were quick enough, and now they're in your hands. You hold them open, pressing a sharp edge to his throat. You're both turned on by it. He tuts.
“Well, if you feel so strongly about it...”
He removes his fingers from you with a wet pop and turns away. You throw the scissors on the table with a clatter. Fuck. He's now totally ignoring you, despite the fact your skirt is bunched up around your waist, throbbing cunt exposed. He picks up a book and sits on the couch. Angrily, you plop down on the other end and pick up where he left off. You were so close. If he's not gonna do it, you are.
He's on you immediately, grabbing your wrist, wagging his other finger at you.
"Did I give you permission to touch yourself?"
You struggle against him, trying to wrench yourself free. "I don't-- need-- your permission--"
A hand circles around your throat, forcing you to meet his eyes. "The only person who will be touching you tonight," his voice goes dangerously soft, "Is me."
You're grappling on the middle of the couch. You could go horizontal at any moment; just get it over with. "And to ensure that you don't do anything you'll regret--"
The sound of his belt slipping through the loops does something awful to you. It's so overwhelming that you don't even fight him as he secures your wrists behind your back.
"Now sit and be still."
He roughly pulls you across him like you're nothing to straddle his thigh. He goes back to disinterestedly flipping through his book like you're not about to internally combust. Ignore the fact that your cunt is right on his thigh, ignore how good he smells, ignore how infuriatingly smug he looks, ignore his perfect fucking mouth that you're inches away from--
You can't ignore any of it and start rubbing yourself against his thigh, needing at least some relief, no matter how humiliating it feels. He gives you a nasty smile.
"Oh? Is my pet that eager already?"
"Fuck off."
He's feigning boredom, relishing in denying you. "Does it feel good to hump my leg like a desperate animal? Like the mindless little creature you are?"
What comes out of you is a strangled moan as your hips move seemingly of their own accord. You don't even want to think about how you must look right now.
He traces a finger across your exposed collarbone, admiring you. "How pathetic."
Wesker looks down at the growing wet spot on his slacks.
"You're making such a mess," he observes. "That won't do."
He shrugs you off his leg, forcing you down to the floor. He helpfully offers his boot to you, and like the dumb slut you are, you'll take it. Shaking, you grind against the leather and rubber, feeling totally humiliated. Which is clearly the point, based on the size of the tent in his pants, holy shit--
"Clean up your mess," he tuts, impatient, tapping his thigh.
Hating him more than ever, you lay your head on his knee and take long, slow licks at the damp spot you left there, staring daggers up at his unreadable shades. He pets your head. His cock visibly twitches while he watches you. You lunge for the outline of his dick with your mouth, thrilling at how hard he is against your lips. He groans and yanks you away by your hair.
"No, I don't believe you've earned the honor just yet." He internally marvels at his own self control. The feeling of your mouth so hot and wet on his length, your cunt soaking against his boot-- he wants to draw this out as long as he can, but you're making it... difficult.
"You and your fist have thought about this quite a bit, huh? It would be a shame if this whole professional rivalry thing was really just about you being mad you wanna fuck me,” you pant, unfortunately really enjoying the feeling of his boot on your clit.
He sighs like this is a huge imposition. "Fine then. Be a good little pet and do what you were made for. Go on, since you want it so badly. Impress me."
You can't use your hands, so there's nothing you can do to get access. “Help me out here, Wesker.”
He laughs. “No.”
God, he's so fucking annoying. You nestle between his legs and use your teeth to pull down the zipper of his pants. With some careful maneuvering of your tongue, you're able to undo the button. It's so much more difficult than it needs to be, moving fabric out of the way with your nose and mouth, biting the waistband of his briefs to pull them down. It probably takes you a good five minutes of effort to actually get to his cock. He thoroughly enjoys every second, resting his head on one fist, happily watching you struggle.
And of course, once it's out... his dick is infuriatingly perfect, long and pink. You're tempted to just bite it, but you know that's not gonna go well. You take him into your mouth, as deep as you can go. He hits the back of your throat.
You weren't expecting him to moan like that; so pretty, so low. You can tell he didn't mean to betray that much, but your throat just feels that good-- you take him to the hilt, choking noisily, just to hear it again.
He threads his fingers through your hair, holding your face and guiding you more gently than you would ever have thought him capable of. Oh, so now he can help out?
You're giving it your all here. What you really want is the use of your hands so you can pump him and caress his balls and just ruin him. It's a testament to your own stubborn tenacity that you're wrecking him this bad with just your mouth. His thighs are tensing around your shoulders, right on the edge.
"Yes, what a good girl for me, letting me use your pretty mouth-- you're exactly where you-- belong--"
You hum around his dick in your throat and he finally cums, groaning in a way that you know you'll be replaying in your mind every time you touch yourself. You swallow and pull off with a wet pop, panting and glaring. His face is flushed and satisfied, his voice breathy.
“See? You enjoyed that, didn't you? Finally getting what you wanted so badly... serving me... and all you needed was a little push.”
“I'm not the one who was just moaning like a porn star, asshole.”
“Come to me,” he says, pulling you back up onto his lap. Wesker reaches behind you to take the belt off your wrists, but stops just before you're free. “Now, are you going to behave? If you don't, your ankles are next. Maybe I'll shove something in that whore mouth to keep you quiet, too. And you can forget about cumming tonight. I'll just leave you to squirm on the floor, helpless and desperate.”
That sounds both hot and really fucking horrible. You'll say anything at this point.
“I'll... fine, I'll behave.”
He nods and takes the belt off. You rub your wrists to get the circulation flowing again. And then your self control finally snaps. Months and months of quiet longing; the kind you hate yourself for, the kind that makes you neg him relentlessly, looking for a reaction, his undivided attention. Well, now you have it.
You smash your face against his, kissing him hungrily. His mouth tastes so good; a hint of cinnamon gum, maybe. The idea of him secretly chewing gum is really funny, actually. Like he was preparing for this. You bite his lower lip, which makes him moan in his throat. His big, warm hands are around your waist, climbing up your shirt. You grab his hair, trying to ruin the immaculately gelled strands of it. You can't believe you're making out with him; you can't believe it feels this fucking good.
Your bare cunt is flush against his hardening cock. You rub your slick pussy against it, finally getting a little relief, badly wanting it inside of you. His long tongue lathes across yours. You suck on it, an echo of what you did to his cock. He takes a sharp exhale against your lips, groaning. Eyes still closed, you remove his sunglasses and toss them across the room before he can stop you. He growls.
“They were getting in the way,” you whine, glad they're not pressing into your skin anymore. You pull away just so you can see his eyes uncovered for once. The ice blue of his irises are thin rings around his blown pupils.
You grin. “Nice pupillary response, Wesker. You're as turned on as I am, aren't you? You're not the one who's drugged. What's your excuse, huh?
He tugs your hair back hard so he can lick a stripe up your neck, nip at the skin on your jaw. “Let's call it an intellectual interest.”
You lean away from him again, taunting. “You're not getting off that easy, Wesker. If this was just an experiment, you wouldn't be moaning like that. You wouldn't be this fucking hard for me. So don't lie. You're just as desperate for it as I am.”
He drags you towards him, a hand tight on the back of your neck. “It's the satisfaction of treating you like the slut you are, I think. Debasing you. Knowing you'll never be able to forget what you let me do to you, right in this lab. So maybe the next time you try to question me, you'll think better of it. Because now... you know your place.”
“If that's what you have to tell yourself, sure.”
You grab his cock and line him up with your entrance, rubbing it back and forth. Teasing. You won't let him have it... yet. You pretend you're about to sink down, then quickly stand up, backing away from him so he has to follow you-- which he does. When he gets within distance, you whip the scissors off the table, slash his shirt open, and laugh.
“Just leveling the playing field,” you say.
“Bitch,” he says mildly, looking down at his ruined button-up. He promptly takes it and his undershirt off, which you really weren't prepared for.
Why is he so fucking shredded? He's a tightass little scientist who stays inside all day; he's been hiding this under his clothes the whole time? That's not fair.
Now that he's shirtless, he grabs your face, kissing you again, all teeth and anger. Something is finally breaking between the two of you. You both start sinking to your knees, to the tile floor; it's about time. The only thing you're fighting about is who gets to be on top, and after some frantic and quite frankly valiant struggling considering your size, he pins your arms above your head with one hand, his body heavy and hot against yours.
"I can smell how ready you are for me," he murmurs, biting your neck, sucking hard enough to bruise. His cock is sliding against your folds again. He tears your blouse down and unclasps the front of your bra; now you're even. You're too far gone to even care. Wesker leans back to stare at your tits, the perfect flushed circles of your areolas. He kneads one, close-cropped fingernails digging into your flesh.
"Now, tell me what you want, darling,” he pants, clearly just as ready for this as you are. “Of course, I wouldn't dream of doing anything without your express consent."
You moan as he tweaks your nipple painfully. “Oh, fuck you. Are you gonna fuck me or not?”
His hand presses down on your throat. It’s deliciously painful on all the fresh bite marks. “Not good enough. Beg for it.”
You roll your eyes, partially because he's choking you, really working your nipples, errant strands of hair are falling across his face, and you just want it so fucking bad.
“Wesker. Goddamn, I'm not gonna beg all pretty for you. Fuck me already, you asshole.”
He rubs the head of his cock slowly against your entrance, frictionless and hot. His voice takes on a raw, gravelly timbre that gives you chills. "Do you know how long I've waited for this moment? To finally claim you as mine?"
"Wesk-- fuck--"
He buries himself inside of you, strong hands snapping your hips into his. You make a horrible choking sound as he bottoms out.
"Look at you... taking my cock like the wanton slut you are."
You snort. “Pfft... wanton? What is it, the 1800s? Gonna call me a harlot next?”
His mouth goes to your breast and he bites down hard in response, then teases your nipples with his tongue.
"The way you clench around me when I bite you is just delicious," he murmurs, nipping you again. "My perfect little painslut."
Some distant part of you is furious that he knows exactly what to say to make you fall apart; the kinds of things you've fantasized about him saying to you in numerous dreams just like this.
His breath is hot on the shell of your ear, his voice low. "Every time you walk into this lab I want you to think about how I took you right here on the floor, how wet and desperate you are for me right now."
"Yes, sir," you moan automatically, and have no time to regret it. The "sir" predictably sends him into a frenzy, rutting into you even harder.
"Doesn't it feel so much better when you behave for me?"
You manage to sound a little sarcastic when you say "yes, sir" again and he smacks the side of your ass for it, hard.
"Behave. You're going to be obedient for me, or I'll stop. And your greedy little cunt will just have to survive without me.”
“Careful, Wesker. I know you won’t even be able to stop, you like my cunt too much. Gonna put that on your lab report?”
"I want you to shut up and cum for me," he grunts, speeding up. "Now be a good girl and look at me while you cum."
You try to hold his gaze but your eyes roll back as the orgasm tears through you. You didn't want to moan his name on principle; "Albert" is distinctly unmoanable, "Wesker" not much better, and either way, it's going to go straight to his head. But you can't stop yourself and your breath hitches on the K as your walls clench rhythmically around him. You can blame the injection but he was right, you've had plenty of practice. And god is it such a relief to finally cum after hours of torture; after months of secret, hateful pining.
His thrusts are getting sloppy; he's close, and the knowledge that he's about to fill you with his cum nearly brings you right back to the edge.
"That's it, such a good girl for me, take it all, let me fill you up. You look so-- you're-- fuck..."
He kisses you as he finishes and it feels bizarrely honest; like this whole thing was just a convoluted excuse to give you this one sincere kiss while moaning into your mouth. Wesker twitches inside of you, then tries to pull out.
"I'm not fucking done," you growl, trapping him with your legs. "Don't you dare pull out."
"You're in no position to be making demands--"
"Aw, you're oversensitive? The eminent Dr. Wesker can't finish what he started? I thought this is what you wanted, no?”
"It's... cute... that you think you're in control here."
“No, I think I'm gonna milk your cock until I decide you can stop."
He's trying to look mad but failing utterly because you can feel him harden inside of you when you challenge him. He snaps your hips into his roughly, and if you weren't whacked out of your mind on whatever the hell he gave you, it would be too much. But now? It's just right. Fuck, he feels good. Even if the hard tile is hell on your back.
"Bend me over your desk," you sigh, breathless. "I want you to fuck me against your desk, please.”
He moves the both of you so fast that you're a little stunned by it. You yelp when you land facedown on a stack of papers. This seems like an appropriate time to gloat.
“Can’t believe you fell for that. Good luck focusing on anything but how I look right now when you try to work at th--”
He pulls all the way out to shut you up and admire his cum leaking out of your hole for a moment. You shove your ass back against him, whining, gloating already forgotten.
"Shh, pet, let me give you what you asked for. Let yourself feel good on my cock, you pretty thing... my sweet girl... this perfect cunt belongs to me now... mine..."
He sinks back in slowly, both of you shaking like leaves. You did not anticipate him making these kinds of noises for you; how vocal he is when your cunt pulses around him. It's one thing to hear him whisper filthy things in your ear, but another to hear him moan so raggedly like this. And his dirty talk is getting suspiciously... tender? Or is he just trying to demean you? It’s unclear; more testing is required.
To prevent yourself from blurting out anything incriminating, you scan the papers you're getting fucked on top of. You notice another error in one of his reports so you grab a pencil and start erasing because you have totally lost your mind. He reaches under you to menace your clit and whatever you were writing veers off the page entirely.
"I'll tell you a secret. You're a very intelligent woman. I won't deny it," he purrs. "So do you know how good it feels to make you stupid for my cock?"
Before you can insult him, he slams into you again. You squeak. "And you made it so easy."
He's right, and you hate him, but his dick is wonderful. The scribble mocks you, collecting your drool, solid proof he made you do that. Knowing him, he's gonna frame it.
"I honestly can't tell if you respond better to praise or degradation, you seem so desperate either way." His lips brush against your ear. "I'm beginning to think you might just like the sound of my voice."
You nod frantically because you're done arguing about it.
"Yes," you moan.
"You're finally listening so well for me. Such an obedient girl. Maybe I'll even start calling you filthy things while we’re working. And soon, you won't even need hormones to get this bothered.”
Oh god. You're fucked.