Work Text:
In the moment of their first encounter, Wesker had been entirely engrossed by the thrilling anticipation of torturing Redfield to death. Therefore, he had not taken any notice of the blond survivor, not until much later. Now that he was not only aware of the man’s existence but constantly felt his skin crawl with the desire to touch, explore more parts of his beautiful body, Wesker’s gaze locked onto him as soon as he appeared around the campfire, anxiously waiting for his next trial.
The pristinely tailored, blue suit had been swapped out with a pair of black, distressed jeans, combined with what seemed to be a bowling shirt; a hideous thing, striped in various tones of turquoise, but at least the jeans fitted him perfectly, hugging his lean frame. Wesker wondered whether he had chosen the outfit himself or whether it had been imposed upon him by the Entity.
Offerings were burned - usually such a tedious, irrelevant ritual, but this time he was astonished to see the flames licking at an RPD badge - and within the blink of an eye he was standing in front of this peculiar universe’s imitation of the wrecked Raccoon Police Department.
The air was filled with low groans of the undead and the pungent smell of burning gasoline. Wesker inhaled it deeply, allowing a sentimental emotion, laughably close to nostalgia, to pass through him. Even though he spent the majority of his downtime between trials in this realm, being sent here to slaughter survivors always left him with a special sense of a déjà vu; recalling that fateful day he had led Alpha team to the nightmare awaiting them in the Spencer Mansion. The circumstances had evidently not changed too much, or so it seemed. With that thought in mind, he set out in search of his first victim.
He decided to ignore the blond survivor for the time being. Naturally not because he harboured any sort of sentimentality for him based on their last meeting, or anything similarly delusional for that matter, but simply because he was an easy target and would be disposed of just as quickly at any part of the trial.
Instead, his attention was solely focussed on the gambler with that everlasting irritating grin. Fortuna’s favourite, so it seemed, with the way he continued to win every single fifty, even at the department’s unsafest pallets. It was infuriating, and enough of a reason for Wesker to chase him ruthlessly.
This time, luck favored Wesker, though, and it did not take too long until the gambler was dangling from the hook for the second time already. His useless team had only two generators of progress to show for and the smugness slowly began to vanish from Visconti’s lips.
With large parts of the East Wing fully closed off and having only completed the generator in the entrance hall and one on the West Wing, they were truly facing a stalemate. Visconti’s hook was right in the middle of the East Wing and it would be child’s play to defend and hold three generators until either the Entity would end the trial, after growing bored of their failure, or the survivors themselves would beg for mercy.
But yet again, there was something missing. Or rather someone.
Contrary to last time, Wesker had been able to spot the blond survivor more than once. Working on a generator, unhooking, tending to a teammate's wounds - his movements were still a little clumsy, but at least he wasn’t so easily frightened anymore. And yet, Wesker had not hooked him one single time. Time to change that.
After he was not able to locate him anywhere in the East Wing, he decided to venture out further, consequently allowing Visconti to be unhooked as he entered the West Wing. Now, it didn’t take him all too long to find the survivor, and yet he was somewhat surprised to come across him - of all places - in the S.T.A.R.S. office.
The man must have noticed his presence, however he did not acknowledge him at first. Instead his attention was absorbed by the photographs, medals and awards that decorated the walls, studying them curiously.
It was an odd sight. Usually, the survivors only stopped running when the situation was already irrevocably hopeless, watching him with large desperate eyes, silently begging for mercy. And even though their current situation was indeed hopeless, the man in front of him did not appear to be concerned about any of it.
Wesker observed him, confused, even more so when the survivor finally spoke up, still without facing him.
“They told me this place - or realm, I think that’s what they called it - is yours. Or that you’re from around here. Is that true?”
Interesting. Wesker had already suspected the survivors might discuss and share every little scrap of knowledge they possessed in hopes of gaining an advantage in their trials. How much had Redfield, Valentine and Alomar blabbed out? It did hardly matter. They knew nothing that would be of help to them. Not one of them had ever caught more than a glimpse of his power - the extent of what he was truly capable of.
Nevertheless, he hadn’t expected the survivor to ask him any personal questions. Was he the one that had sent them here? Wesker couldn’t decide whether he was surprised or intrigued by that shameless curiosity, and whether he wanted to allow or punish it.
For now, he simply hummed affirmatively.
“You are wearing a uniform this time. Were you a policeman here?”
The incredulous undertone was hard to ignore, even though the man clearly tried to suppress it, and it made Wesker laugh quietly.
“Yes, I was. I was the Captain of a special forces unit. But that wasn’t all I was,” he explained vaguely and he observed the way the survivor’s eyebrows furrowed. Despite the man’s obvious confusion, he remained silent.
Seconds passed, agonizingly slow, before the survivor eventually spoke up again, eyes still glued to one particular photo.
“Aren’t policemen supposed to be righteous? Were you corrupt or how did you land here?”
This time, the laugh was ripped from Wesker’s throat so suddenly that it rang in the air, loud and clear. Quite some time had passed since their last meeting; apparently enough for the man to be traumatized so tremendously that he had lost most of his fear. It was very entertaining to spectate.
“Oh my, so many questions. Does that usually give you an advantage in trials? Or do you just continue asking away, even with your dying breath?”
The underlying threat finally induced the survivor to look at him, but his face was an unsatisfied grimace, disappointed by the nebulous answer. For a moment they simply stared at each other, as the survivor’s displeasure slowly softened into something akin to curiosity again.
“You are one of the killers that looks closest to an ordinary human being. And yet, the others claim you’re more of a monster than most.”
No judgement - not even the hint of an accusation - lay in the survivor’s words. Instead, it sounded more like an unvoiced question. A cautious attempt to find out whether that was really true. Wesker did not see any reason to answer, so he remained silent, consequently forcing the other man to go on.
“I don’t think so. You might be cruel, but you did spare me.”
Oh, what a naive, sweet thing. He couldn’t possibly assume Wesker had spared him out of the kindness of his heart; especially not after he had paid the price for his escape.
“I don’t know what kind of life you led that brought you here. But after my first trial, I realized… that I might deserve it. To be in this place. I haven’t lived an honest life. I always wanted to make my parents proud, so I lived the life they always wanted for me. I lied so much, to my mother, to the woman I love…”
The words were practically flowing out of him, seemingly without end, and Wesker was perplexed by the sudden monologuing. Now, he began to realize what the purpose of this visit was. The survivor had been motivated by guilt, was searching for the one person who knew of the sin he had committed and could grant him absolution.
However, Wesker was not interested in the role of his confessor.
“You did not come here to tell me your life story, did you? Did you expect me to spare you again, out of pity?”
“No!” the survivor exclaimed, loud and quick, eyes wide in shock at Wesker’s sudden harshness.
“Or did you expect me to spare you just because I allowed you to pleasure me the last time?”
Another pause, seconds passing by in uncertainty as the survivor’s eyes flit across the room, searching desperately for the words he needed.
“You don’t deserve my mercy just because I have granted it to you before.”
There was a bite to Wesker’s words; not only were they painfully serious, but the impatience in his voice echoed gravely inside them.
If the survivor was indeed naive enough to assume one little tryst was enough of an incentive for the killer to let him escape every single trial from now on, then Wesker was certain he had already wasted too much time on the man.
The accusations seemingly pained the survivor in turn so deeply that it affected him physically. He grimaced, gritted his teeth, shook his head repeatedly before he finally managed to spit out the reason for lounging inside Wesker’s former office instead of working on a generator.
“I want to do that again. What we did last time. I want you to…”
He swallowed audibly. His gaze evaded Wesker’s, and instead of struggling for words, he stepped forwards and sank to his knees, slowly but with extreme care, right in front of the killer.
This turn of events was truly unexpected. Guilt might factor into his decisions, but apparently more significant was the desire to continue where they had left off, to further explore the depth of his lust.
This display of submission, presented out of the survivor’s own free will, was simply captivating - left Wesker unable to do anything but take in the view and bask in its perfection. A smile, so full of complacency, settled on his lips.
“Mhm. So that is what has brought you here.”
The question of why the man had come to him to satisfy his urges instead of settling for a fellow survivor - a much safer option, certainly - presented itself, but the answer was so obvious to Wesker that he did not even feel the need to voice it. Of course this sweet, innocent man would seek him out. None of those meek little rats could compare to him, could offer the survivor anything close to the depth of pleasure Wesker would expose him to.
A sense of pride pervaded him as he realized the survivor was bright enough to have come to the same realization.
This show of intellect deserved a reward.
“No.”
“... what?” the survivor asked. His head shot up comically fast, eyes wide with surprise and dejected confusion. A pitiful sight.
“This is ridiculous. I don’t want a simple repetition of our last time. Get up,” Wesker ordered calmly, still unmoving, simply fixating the survivor with a carefully emotionless stare.
The man looked so flustered, almost ashamed, yet complied right away. Even as he stood tall, he still looked incomprehensibly small, Wesker noticed, as he took in all of the man’s microexpressions. The hunched shoulders, the gleaming white teeth worrying his lower lip, the hands fidgeting nervously in front of his crotch, trying to hide the considerable bulge tented in his slightly too tight jeans, while his motions only brought more attention to his shameful desire.
How many more signs of this enchanting insecurity could Wesker possibly coax out of him?
“Sit down on the edge of the desk.”
Now confusion fully took possession of his beautiful face and for a second Wesker feared he would have to repeat himself, but then the survivor followed the instruction, walking over towards the desk in long strides before he turned around and sank down onto the solid, polished wooden table. He still couldn’t quite meet his eyes, but Wesker noticed the fleeting look the other man shot his way; eyes bright with curiosity and excitement.
Without much further ado, Wesker strode across the room to occupy the place between the survivor’s strong thighs, which eagerly - likely out of instinct - spread for him. The combat knife was placed next to him on the table. He had no use for it now and even though he could just as well strap it to his uniform, silently daring the survivor to seize it in a moment of inattentiveness was promising to be much more thrilling.
The man did not even bat an eye, though, fully concentrated on Wesker.
Perfect.
This close, the warmth radiating from the younger man’s body was all-encompassing, tingling Wesker’s skin, as he reached out to lay his hand on the survivor’s inner thigh. He simply let it rest there for a moment to enjoy the feeling of the solid muscle under his gloved fingers.
“We don’t have much time. You realize any of your fellow survivors could walk into this room at any second?”
That possibility was highly improbable - considering how careful they needed to play out the rest of the trial in the face of Visconti and the little track star both being on the verge of death, no one would dare to come too close - but he still wanted to instill a sense of the panicked paranoia of being caught in the survivor, simply to elicit a reaction from him.
“They won’t,” was his simple answer. His tone was resolute - surprisingly so, and it puzzled Wesker.
“And you are sure about that?”
“Yes, I am, now please, please don’t stop-” the survivor said a little too quickly, revealing that it was eagerness more than certainty that determined his answer. Wesker laughed quietly, shaking his head, before he finally allowed his hand to wander further upwards to the survivor’s groin.
His reactions were exactly as anticipated. Lips parted in a sharp intake of breath, almost owlishly wide eyes following Wesker’s movements while the killer observed him in turn. The poor man was already fully hard, Wesker realized, as he began to palm him through the rigid material of his jeans.
“You were waiting such a long time for this, mh?” he asked, even though the answer was so painfully obvious, just to see those miniscule hurried nods again, to hear the soft whimpers of yes, yes, yes.
The survivor shifted his weight, leaning backwards and supporting himself on his palms to grind his groin against Wesker’s hand. Such an impatient little thing.
“Hips up.”
He hooked his fingers in the belt loops of the survivor’s jeans as the man propped himself up on the desk enough for Wesker to slowly pull the offending piece of clothing down, casting it aside carelessly.
As he set out to do the same thing with his briefs, he felt the survivor tense slightly underneath his hands. A complicated expression flitted over his face as his gaze strayed frantically through the room, fixating on anything that wasn’t Wesker.
Whether the survivor was having second thoughts or he was on edge because he was the one getting undressed this time around, Wesker wasn’t entirely certain, but he didn’t dwell on the thought for too long. Instead he chose to resume his motions, slowly peeling down the survivor’s briefs, just enough for his erection to spring free of its confines.
A soft gasp, followed by a drawn out groan, as smooth leather enclosed the survivor’s weeping cock. Even as the survivor squirmed under his gaze, Wesker took his time examining his girth, appreciating its weight, the mouthwatering, almost purple shade that betrayed just how aroused he was. He was just barely longer than Wesker himself was, but lacked in width. Still, he was well endowed; well enough that Wesker was almost inclined to sink to his knees himself this time.
He ran his thumb along the tip to spread the few drops of precum that had already gathered there, allowing a somewhat easier glide as he began to pump; very slowly, so the survivor had the chance to adjust to the pleasure of his ministrations.
The survivor tilted his head back, eyes falling shut as he moaned, cheeks painted in the sweetest shade of pink, droplets of sweat gathered at his hairline. He looked absolutely lovely, a masterpiece come to life, and Wesker absorbed the view greedily while he felt himself harden in his tactical pants.
Now that he had been allowed a small glimpse into perfection, he craved to see more.
“Get that hideous thing off,” he demanded, gesturing towards the distasteful shirt. The poor thing looked a little dazed, surprised, but complied right away, unbuttoning it with shaky fingers. Before he could shrug it off his shoulders, Wesker’s left hand already began to explore, grazing over the quivering muscle of the survivor's stomach, mapping out the small moles scattered over his side where his hand eventually stayed, holding him close while his right hand continued to stroke the younger man's cock.
Losing himself to the process, it caught him off guard when the survivor’s hand sneaked towards his neck. He froze, caught between the instinct to pull away, stop altogether, and to allow whatever the survivor had in mind. The weak pressure increased, a soft pull downwards, and he allowed himself to yield to it.
As soon as he was close enough, the survivor arched his back to meet him in a kiss. Wesker drew in a sharp intake of breath and their teeth clashed against each other as the survivors' lips parted in an uncoordinated attempt to deepen their kiss hastily.
It was so infuriatingly endearing, so impossibly arousing, that it made Wesker dizzy with lust and he pressed closer to the other man, forced his tongue inside his mouth, hellbent on kissing him until his lungs would scream for oxygen.
The hand that wasn’t already occupied with pleasuring the survivor shot to his own fly, attempting to open it, but the zipper wouldn’t budge, and he groaned in frustration. It was seemingly impossible with one hand only but he couldn’t possibly stop touching the other man, not for even a second.
Luckily, the survivor noticed soon enough and withdrew the hand still clutching at Wesker’s neck to quickly unbuckle his belt and unzip his fly. Wesker freed himself from the rigid material, while he shrugged his pants down before he crowded into the survivor’s space once again. Bucking his hips forward, the sensation of their cocks brushing against each other was electrifying. He held out his hand in front of the survivor's mouth and ordered, “Spit.”
The survivor held his gaze as he leaned forward, wet tongue peeking out as he allowed a satisfactory amount of spit to pool into the palm of Wesker’s hand, and without wasting any more of their time, Wesker closed his hand around both of their cocks to spread the wetness before he grinded into the enclosed space.
“Ahh… hah… Wesker,” the survivor sighed in pleasure, and the sound of his name was unexpected, as sweet as molasses.
“So they told you my name?”
How intriguing. He was aware of the unique names which the survivors assigned to their executioners - and The Mastermind was not only somewhat flattering, but very fitting -, with no way of knowing most of their real names. But with pests like Redfield and Valentine following him into this world, Wesker’s case was an exception. Nevertheless, he had not expected them to share their knowledge with their teammates. A fallacy on his part.
The survivor’s half-lidded eyes averted his gaze shyly, going as far as attempting to lean forward to hide his face in the crook of Wesker’s neck. Apparently, his name had slipped out unintentionally and now the man felt either ashamed or feared some sort of punishment.
Wesker did not allow him the chance to hide, instead leaning back to catch his coy gaze while he stopped their grinding momentarily.
“It is only fair, then, for you to tell me your name.”
“... -lix.”
“Oh sweetheart, speak up.”
The survivor bit his lip, before mumbling a little louder this time.
“Felix. My name is Felix.”
Wesker hummed as his lips spread into a smile.
“Favored by luck. Mhm, how fitting.”
And with that he resumed the movement of his hand, flicking his wrist, brushing the tips of their cocks against each other. Felix, caught off guard by the sudden spike of pleasure, almost slipped, barely steadied himself on the table by planting his palms on its smooth surface, before he started to buck his hips as well, grinding into Wesker’s hand.
His legs tangled behind the older man’s rear, pressing himself closer. Wesker placed his unoccupied hand on Felix’s jaw to hold him in place in a bruising grip, their faces close enough for their breaths to mingle and as Felix mewled pathetically, Wesker closed the distance, mouths clashing together, tongues intertwining.
Suddenly, Felix’s whole form tensed, went rigid as he moaned into their kiss and liquid warmth spilled between their bodies. Wesker slightly withdrew from their close embrace to catch the sight of Felix making a mess of them, cock twitching in Wesker’s hand, and he wrung out a few last drops of come which spilled onto Wesker’s cock.
As Felix’s body turned limp, boneless from exhaustion, Wesker supported him with one hand placed on the small of his back, only for Felix to snake his arms around his neck, holding himself up with his help while dragging Wesker close again. Too exhausted to initiate a real kiss, Felix mouthed small, sloppy kisses on the corner of Wesker’s lips, as Wesker wrapped his leather-clad hand, covered in the younger man’s spent, around his own cock, before he stroked himself to completion in no time at all.
High on the afterglow of an overwhelming orgasm he felt weightless, only tethered to earth by Felix’s arms, his warm, heavy breath fanning over Wesker's neck. As he leaned back slowly, entangling himself from the survivor so he was able to observe the mess they both left behind. He ran his fingers through the mix of come on Felix's stomach before he held them up in front of Felix’s lips.
“Because you seemed to enjoy it so much last time.”
His lips split into a sharp grin when realization flashed across Felix’s features and he parted his lips to lick his fingers clean without hesitation.
“Good boy.”
The small scowl on Felix's face was so obviously forced, wicked delight simmering just under the surface, like a housecat grimly staring ahead while it was being petted.
Suddenly, the roaring alarm that indicated the exit gates were powered echoed through the office, and Felix flinched, surprise and something close to remorse flickering over his face. Wesker couldn’t blame him; he was equally astonished that they had spent enough time here for the other survivors to successfully turn the trial around. Anticipating they would be too scared, too unorganised, too dense, had been a miscalculation on his part.
Next time he would need to be more careful.
Wesker entangled himself fully from Felix’s embrace, and as the survivor leaned back on the desk while watching him curiously, Wesker stepped back and averted his gaze to fully focus on making himself presentable yet again.
“Get dressed and then find your teammates,” he said shortly as he, at last, strapped the combat knife back to his uniform.
When he turned around to take his leave, Felix piped up once again and his tone was incredulous as he asked, “Don’t you want to hook me?”
Wesker paused in his step. A few seconds of silence passed until it was broken by his laugh.
“What a lovely offer.”
He allowed himself one last furtive glance at the man sprawled on his desk, knowing that it would only need a few seconds more for the urge to go back and touch him again, just for a little while longer, to turn unbearable and he didn’t have the time for such nonsense.
“No. But there’s always a next time.”
A hint of amusement seeped into his voice. Was it a threat or a promise? Boding pain or pleasure?
Finally, he turned away and walked out of the office, in search of an unwary survivor that he could still turn into a sacrifice. However, his mind was already far away, wrapped up in fantasies about the trials that were still to come.