Affaire de Coeur
"We were hooked when we woke.
We had arms for each other.
But I yearned to resume
My dreams of another."
― Roman Payne
Present Day...
She gasped, losing her mind, she bucked against his hand. He was insane for her, desperate for her, dying. He knew what he'd been missing before when he'd touched her. He'd been so eager to get his release, he'd forgotten hers.
Sated from their first pass, he was ready now. Ready to give her what she needed. He was ready to give her more. He slid her panties to the side and drew one of her legs up. She shook her head but it ended on a groan, a moan, as he slid inside of her. He watched her face, enamored of her. Her eyes went blind, her skin flushed. She gasped, grasping at him. He slid his hand down her belly and stroked her as he pumped his body into her. He stroked her at the apex of her and stole her soul. She died, coming apart around him, gasping and bucking and sucking him in. He pumped hard and fast into her now, faster, deeper. She cried out, her one leg on the ground shaking and trying to go out on her.
He hooked her around the waist and lifted her, inside her still, and set her on the dresser. The angle was sharper now, harder. She held on, crying out. He pushed her body back and braced one hand on her collarbone and shoulder, the other rolled her hips to him. He shifted, searching for the right angle, and watched her face until he found it. He knew the moment he did because she screamed, open mouth screamed, and grabbed onto the dresser on both sides to hold on. It was the moment she figured out sex was one half fantasy made flesh and one half trial and error.
Testing them both, he surged into her hard enough to watch her eyes blur and feel the slap of his body against her as they hit. It rang through him like a bell. Yeah, he thought, that's what they both wanted. He did it again and it stole his breath this time. She grabbed for his arms and held on and he fucked her deep again, feeling it in his balls, feeling it in his stomach. Wet and sticky, her body urged him on. So he gave it what it wanted, he plowed into her three more times, slow and hard. He hit the end of her at this angle and she screamed, bucking. It only took one more thrust and she came, she came around him and tightened like a fist, stealing his breath and causing him to almost die on the spot. She bucked and he ground himself inside of her.
He watched himself in the mirror over her shoulder. Hair in his eyes and her body, her body, wrapped around him. It was a potent aphrodisiac to be the man claiming her. The power of that alone was nearly crippling.
He picked her up again and took her to the bed. He stayed inside of her, pleasing them both, making her gasp and groan. She rolled him to his back and slapped her hands on his chest. He could do little more than hold on as she forced his body into hers so fast and hard that he couldn't remember who or what or where he was or if he was anything but loins and longing. Her body was all tits and taut belly. They bounced, heaving, and he filled his hands with them, desperate for her. Her rolling hips were lifting and lowering and leaving him insane.
How could she think there was anyone else in this bed but her? She was all he could see and feel and need. He lifted enough off the bed to fill his mouth with all that bouncing breasts. Too much almost for his hands to hold and perfect for teeth and tongue and lips.
And she was right, all those years ago, she'd told him she had the best healing hands in the business. She was right. She used them now to brace on his upper thighs, she arched her back, she offered the bounty of herself to his mouth and she destroyed him.
His hands grabbed the headboard and held on. He watched her in the moonlight, watched her bounce and ride and roll and fuck him. He nearly felt insane with it, insane with want, insane with all of it. She rolled forward to grab his face while she bounced up and down on his dick like a wild, wanton, wonderful thing.
He kissed her, tasting her tongue. She grabbed his hands where they were over the rails and looped their fingers together. The brace of it helped her ride him faster, harder, slapping against him with a wet and wonderful sound. She was a goddess, a buxom goddess, a woman who was trying to rule even as she rode him to victory. The battle was hers and he let her claim it, dying for her.
He tugged at her breasts with his lips, his tongue, licking them as she teased against his face. He saw the mark he'd laid on her and shivered. He set his teeth to other nipple and she was done, she was there. She came around him, wet, so wet and ready and willing that it was time. It was very much time. He gave her and himself what they both were racing toward and filled her up. It was all those years of flirting. He filled her full of all the years he'd wanted her and couldn't have her. He shot into her and wanted to come out the other side of her. She kissed him, so, so, so very deeply.
Forbidden love - consummated.
All he could do was remember how he'd found her - a thousand years ago before the world had turned them both into shadows of what they'd meant to be. When he'd still had hope of being a man. When he'd still had hope of being with her.
Before evil had taken residence within him.
1998 - Highway 109 Headed Toward Raccoon City- Winter
It would never fail to surprise him how the world seemed to be waiting for his arrival. He knew, he'd always known, that he and the other children from Project W were simply test subjects. Born to intellectually superior parents, they'd been herded like cattle and given the same surname "Wesker."
But none of the other children had his tenacity. None of them had his drive, his determination, his single minded ability to make the world bend to his iron will. Spencer had praised him, favored him, pampered and groomed him to lead.
And let him loose in the their world to start building an empire.
Eager, bright, at seventeen and full of a kind of hope that left him breathless, Albert Wesker found himself on the doorstep of his own future. He'd met William Birkin and birthed greatness from the Ebola virus in that lab with Marcus as his mentor. With Spencer behind them, they'd taken the world by the balls and given life to the Tyrant - the greatest creation since the dawn of the Umbrella Consortium. When Marcus stood in their way, his death was the only way to bring the gift of it to the world.
Killing him eroded the first real piece of the man left inside the creation.
Spencer began to decline, mentally and phsyically, they all knew it when he continously funnelled funding into B.O.W. research that was non-productive. Desperate for a legacy, Spender was rapidly unraveling. To avoid the fallout, shortly after William's funding was approved for the G-Virus program, Wesker secured his own release from beneath Spencer's thumb to the UIB (Umbrella Intelligence Bureau) in hopes of discovering where Spencer's "private donors" were located. The truth was an ugly mistress that fucked them all.
Spencer was playing with strains of viruses so unsteady, things so unpredictable, that it would unravel the entire company before it was done. The only way out was to steal the research and burn Umbrella to the ground to hide it. The sense of betrayal worked like a charm to shove him toward a future where he was no longer a servant, but an architect of his own fate.
The army offered him the training he needed to finally break free of the chains that bound him to his past. With the truth about Spencer in his pocket, and his plan in place, Albert Wesker cast aside the shackels of his Umbrella roots and set about building his elaborate escape that would, in one fell swoop, secure his place in history and destroy Umbrella for it's duplicity.
After years of being the guinea pig, he was finally the Captain. In a handful of weeks, he'd take his self anointed warriors on their quest to greatness.
It was vain, and often self righteous to feel so pompous, but it left him with purpose to know that everything he'd been taught was shortly going to see it's fruition.
His hand picked team was going to unwittingly offer him the keys to his own freedom - the cost would simply be their lives. A small price for a world without Umbrella.
He was so lost in thought that he nearly ran her down on the road.
The dark, the rain, the long highway - it made him glassy eyed with day dreams.
He barely hit the breaks when the headlights danced over her soaked form; hands lifted, face eager, voice straining above the rain. "Oh! Oh, sir! Help!"
The sleek black sedan avoided her and cruised to a stop at the side of the road. She lingered, looking nervous. Finally, the dark gobbled up her smoking motorcycle as she hurried toward his window. With a whir of sound, he could finally hear her.
"Oh thank god, you stopped! My bike broke down...I need a ride to town."
He studied her in the pouring rain. Pretty. Young. She reminded him in his desk of him and Birkin in 79. He was betting she was that young. He'd risk everything he owned on betting she was barely twenty...if she was twenty at all.
She still had that newness that screamed, "Innocent."
Had he ever been?
He glanced at the reflection of rain on the road and saw Birkin, laughing and hugging him when they'd discovered T's regenerative capabilities, when they'd found Golgotha waiting inside of Lisa Trevor...such wonder, such hope...had he ever been that young?
His voice carried, above the din, "It's too late at night for a girl your age to be taking rides from strange men."
She paused, eyeing him. He saw the caution on her. What was it about her face that was familiar to him? His brain immediately did an inventory of anyone he knew. It rattled off names and faces like a computer.
And it came up empty.
She called back, "I'm armed. So just in case you decide you want to cop a feel..." She showed him the knife on her thigh in the holster there. Her brows arched and her smile was sly, "I'm not just some girl. I can handle myself."
He was pretty sure all girls felt that way. Brave, stupid, and young - he almost envied it.
Gesturing with his head, he waited while she rounded the hood and climbed into the passenger seat. The car idled before it moved forward onto the rain slick pavement. She sat in the seat beside him, sans belt, and watched his profile. It was a handful of moments before he spoke, "That knife is useless. I could take it from you and kill you with it before you could blink."
Surprised, her brows arched again, "I bet you couldn't, hot stuff. I can't even believe you can see me to kill me. You know it's night, right? Who wears sunglasses at night?"
He glanced at her face and then back at the road, "I have photophobia. It's aggravated at night especially in rainy conditions. The reflection of headlights and puddling water facilitate an ocular reflex that's quite painful."
Curious, she tilted her head, "Really?"
"...really." He glanced at her again, "Where are you headed?"
"The Apple Inn. I'm in town for the Holidays."
He glanced at her, "Christmas is passed."
Her eyes flickered, "Who said anything about Christmas? Maybe I'm Jewish."
He nodded, watching the road, "Hanukkah is passed as well."
She chuckled and patted his arm. "I know. Smart guy. I was teasing." She flopped in the seat, "You remind me of my brother. He has no sense of humor either."
Wesker shrugged a shoulder, "Humor is often without merit. Laughter loses it's purpose when it simply exists to eradicate actual conversation. The utter erosion of the use of meritorious conversing is generally demonstrated by a complete lack of intelligent dialogue. Only those with no real lingual skills resort to poor humor as a way bolstering their confidence. "
She blinked at him in the dark car, "Who talks like that? Are you a robot or something?"
He shrugged again, "Merely making small talk."
She laughed, shaking her head. Her blue eyes twinkled. "Are you? Usually that's things like...how's the weather? And what's your favorite scary movie? Not...a weird lecture on the merits of humor in conversation."
"Maybe I'm just not a funny man."
She laughed again, shaking her head, "Maybe not. Come on, prove me wrong, throw me a pun."
He gave her a droll look and focused back on the road. Amused, she shrugged. "What's your name anyway?"
"Does it matter? We're but passing acquaintances. Our entire acquaintance, actually, will come to an end in less than eight minutes."
She eyed him, mouthing twitching, "True. But think about how much fun we could have in those eight minutes."
He shrugged, seeing no harm in it. "I'm Albert."
She blinked, twice, and cleared her throat. "Albert?"
"Yes. Albert."
Her long legs shifted on the seat. She tapped one booted foot. "I see. Albert. A name nearly as boring as the way you talk."
He gave her another droll look. "Albert is a respectable name."
She shrugged, chuckling. "It's an old man's name. Like Murray. Or Vernon. I'm Claire."
To her great surprise, he actually laughed. It sounded musical somehow and not at all like she'd expected. "Claire...a fat girl's name."
Shocked, she slapped his arm and shamed him with her laughter. Her red hair looked soft and damp in the low light from the road. "Jerk."
He shrugged. "Statistically, most girls named Claire are obese."
And now she shook her head, charmed. "Am I?!"
He glanced at her, considering, and finally returned, "No. You are pleasantly shaped."
Claire chuckled and tucked her knees up. "You're something else, Al. I'm glad you picked me up tonight. It's been a real hoot."
A real hoot. These kids and their sayings. He glanced again at her and his eyes skimmed the line of those long, long legs in her cut off jeans. She was, physically, meant to attract men. She was young, fertile, and feminine in a way that spoke to the hormones. If he were younger and less...what? No. Not less. More. If he were younger and more...normal...he'd perhaps engage in a mild flirtation with her.
He would be curious to see how a flush filled her cheeks and her bosom.
He was a man, after all, and still given to flights of fancy for beautiful women.
He was not, however, the type to pursue relations with a woman on the eve of his master plan. There simply wasn't time for anything to distract him from his purpose here - even if it felt really good to laugh for the first time in years.
He pictured the spill of her body beneath him and shifted on his seat. Apparently the flesh was still more than willing, even when the mind has sense given up on the pleasures it offers.
The car rolled to a stop in front of the Apple Inn. Claire grabbed her bag from the back and opened the door. The rain grumbled quietly in the teeming dark and she paused, eyeing him.
"You wanna come in and get a drink? There's a lobby bar. I'm just meeting my friends."
He glanced at her and shook his head, "I'm old enough to be your father, I suspect. I imagine your companions might not appreciate such a social snafu."
She shook her head, eyes twinkling. "You're something else, Al. Age is just a number, honey. Who cares how old you are? We could all be dead tomorrow right?"
She leaned over and pressed a kiss to his cheek. He froze, body tensing, and she slid out of the car on a pretty laugh.
"Take it easy, Al. It was really great meeting you. If you ever tug that stick outta your ass? Maybe we can find out what color your eyes are beneath those sunglasses."
She winked and closed the door, hefting her bag over her slender shoulder. He watched her run through the rain, her pretty little butt shaking in the denim cutoffs she wore.
For a moment, he almost wanted to go after her.
But she was far too young and there was no time in his life for romance.
He had an empire to build.
And a legacy to destroy.