Disclaimer: I own nothing! Resident Evil is the sole property of Capcom. I don't write for money...just for my own twisted amusement. xD
This was totally inspired by the Skillet song "Better than Drugs."
God of Dirt
X
The monster howled in agony as it was strapped down, wrists and ankles bound by thick, icy metal chains that sliced into its seething flesh. Torn, raped and beaten, the poor captive could do nothing but plead with its brainwashed counterparts; three diseased-looking creatures with sagging yellow eyes and bodies that were severely malnourished. It hurt to breathe, to think, to even comprehend their next appointment with the scalpel that would dissect every inch of skin, every throbbing vein and artery until the crisp white sheets were drenched in scarlet and their God would chuckle to himself, intrigued by how much blood could be contained in such a tiny creature.
Death felt like something soft and distant; a prayer whispered from the lips of an angel. But, like all things too good to be true, an easeful death would be the last thing their God would allow. His subjects provided entertainment, like a toy with unlimited catch phrases, only theirs came in bloodcurdling screams of misery and pain.
The laboratory was nothing but a nightmarish void of unspeakable suffering, a cesspool of sadistic cruelty, torture, and monsters spawned from the gates of hell, creations that used to be human but were now merely things, half-stitched, half-finished projects floating in cryogenic tanks. They were constantly monitored, proven to be extremely valuable for the future evolution of Uroboros: Lord Wesker's most successful virus.
"Don't struggle", the slaves grumbled in their cracked, dead voices. "He will only make it worse for you."
"Weaklings", the subject hissed, wild and enraged as it fought to escape. "Release me!"
"I'm afraid that is against Lord Wesker's orders", one slave echoed, its lacerated head bowed pitifully at the mentioning of His name.
"He's no lord, and you should be ashamed of yourself for acknowledging him as such. A dog has more worth."
Writhing against its restraints, the heavy chains jangled as the subject's thin, cavernous chest heaved. It glowered and cursed at the slaves, drinking in the sight of their bruised, blood-streaked skin, the downcast eyes and stiff shoulders. The creature was about to insult them again when—to its horror— the sound of hard, thunderous footsteps echoed across the concrete floor.
The slaves whimpered like submissive dogs, exchanging mortified glances when that deep, throaty voice saturated the air like melted toffee:
"Ah, it seems that we have ourselves quite the troublemaker..."
It gasped as the tall, masculine figure stepped into view, golden hair shining like a sinister halo in the darkness.
"Evening, my Lord", the foul beasts cooed, tongues flicking against his smooth, creamy skin, desperate to please their Master. Wesker ignored them. Instead, the God approached his violently trembling specimen, eyebrow raised. He was amused by the fact that something so pathetic could challenge his authority, could muster enough strength to pound its meagre fists against the rock-hard, chiselled perfection of his body.
"You think this is a game, hmm? That you don't have to abide by my rules..." Wesker glared down at this naked, defenceless creature, his beautiful face an ivory mask of indifference.
Nobody had ever offered him warmth since he sprouted from his test tube: a tiny, insignificant blob of life in which no womb had harboured. The world—unfeeling as a corpse—shrouded him in darkness as he grew older, stronger, and so intelligent that others practically bowed in his presence. His emotions were detached, as if he were a clock with the pieces removed, gadgets twisted and wedged into each other at awkward angles.
Now, pulling out the scalpel from his long, gleaming black jacket, Wesker couldn't help but chuckle as he waved it back and forth, terrifying his subject with the blood-encrusted blade. The creature squirmed in its shackles, huge eyes moistening over with fear as they shifted from the scalpel to the man's glowing red, sadistic orbs which flared like dying stars behind his shades.
"You disgusting piece of waste", Wesker hissed, saliva raining against the monster's cheek. He slapped it across the face, hard. The beast's head was knocked sideways, eyes bulging, lungs pressing more forcefully against the concave chest. Its body sagged in pain, but Wesker wrapped two strong fingers around its chin, forcing it to meet his cruel, shadow-wreathed gaze.
"With Uroboros, I have the right to be a God, for I am your superior in every way. This filthy wasteland of a planet is teeming with useless beings, overpopulated by idiots who fail to understand the importance of evolution. Only those with superior DNA may pass their genes onto the next generation; one that will belong to the Wesker Children. They will help build this new world—a paradise—brick by brick, and guess what? Your kind isn't invited."
With that, the vengeful God plunged his fist into the beast's skin, his gloved knuckles wrenching through its ribcage, fingers wiggling around until he could feel that wet, slippery texture of vacuum-packed organs; the heart vibrating like a dying bird against his curved palm. Wesker squeezed the fleshy organ, enjoying how the fat arteries bulged outwards from his immense strength. It exploded in a splatter of crimson, gooey tissue, disconnecting the body like a telephone cord. The creature's head lolled to the side, crumpled and dead.
He stared at the red, gaping hole in the creature's chest, hypnotized, as if it were the spread-eagled lips of a moist cunt. A wicked hardness developed between Wesker's legs, growing thicker with each passing second. He gritted his teeth to avoid a husky moan from slithering out. It's dying breaths, screwed-up face and icy, goose pimpled flesh all brought jolts of pleasure up the God's spine, stirring his appetite for a good, hard, old-fashioned fuck.
"Are you going to bring him back to life, my Lord?"
Wesker frowned over his broad shoulder at the slave; annoyed with its stupidity. The only subjects he kept alive were his humans—didn't it know that?
"In God's kingdom, the fallen angels gather their mangled, bloody wings together like the stems of broken flowers. Although beautiful, these flowers grow underground, fated to wilt and die before the light can reach them."
"That's an elegant way of putting it, my Lord. He was indeed weak."
The slave dipped its head in thanks, clawed feet tapping as it limped towards the corpse.
Using a long, venomous black tongue, it polished every inch of the table in preparation for Wesker's next specimen. The sound of teeth mashing through flesh engulfed the room, making the God's back stiffen in annoyance as his slave pulled out chunk after meaty chunk, Adam's apple bobbing as it swallowed each mouthful.
"Keep the others in their cages for now", Wesker purred. "I have other...guests to attend to."
Smiling, the tyrant ambled off, eager to check up on his other, more attractive pets.
X
They each slept fitfully, angelically, like ample-cheeked dolls with their soft lips drawn in luscious puckers; blissfully unaware of the wolf that watched with starving eyes. Wesker smoothed back his thick, lustrous hair as he sauntered into the room, stark features dreamy. Dressed from head to toe in sleek black leather (a delightful contrast to his porcelain complexion); the outfit showcased every inch of his masterful body. Built like a God, the villain flaunted lean, shapely thighs and a prominent ass that flexed—almost sinfully—with each nimble stride.
Standing before the massive computer panels, he clasped his gloved hands behind his back, as if secretly wishing to be handcuffed. A pretty face engulfed each screen—teasing him—swirling long, eager fingers around his already tortured cock. Pretty...all his toys were. Packaged up and ready to play; they served him in every way, their faces painted to mimic that of a beautiful china doll.
Among his three lovelies, Leon Kennedy looked the most gorgeous while asleep, Chris Redfield the feistiest when awake, and Luis Sera an eager-to-please little whore at any given time. With an impressively high tolerance to pain, Luis could handle almost anything. Chris, on the other hand, whimpered pathetically from a single punch, his golden skin sensitive like an infant's.
Wesker slumped into his chair, elegant fingers drumming against the glossy, muscular curve of a leather-clad thigh. He slid the other hand between his legs, relishing how the silky fabric cupped his well-endowed manhood. It strained against the zipper, pleading for release.
"Who am I in the mood for today...?"
Crimson eyes flicking from screen to screen, the tyrant's narrow hips bucked as his erotic stroking began.
[I hate this raw, burning need, but this place is like a sledgehammer against my skull...]
The three handsome, exquisitely-sculpted faces shifted and murmured in sleep, lashes fluttering as they dreamed. Leon, slender and delicately chiselled, tilted his head sideways, a strand of honey-blonde hair spilling over one eye. The pale sheets were bunched around his slender ankles, revealing a buttocks that flared outwards like a woman's: firm, deliciously supple. Bluish rays of light illuminated the pert nose, sinfully lush mouth, and skin so perfect that Wesker often climbed into bed, naked, just to caress every inch.
He won't do, the God decided. Leon—with his ethereal skin and satiny hair—was too feminine even for Wesker sometimes.
[I need to feel everything again; the warm flesh, throbbing heart, and those deep, pleading moans. It's the closest thing I'll ever feel to being human, to holding something that isn't sheathed in glass...]
Often it was the simplest of life's pleasures that had been disposed of by Wesker, but even this he could no longer neglect. Like a bad taste in his mouth it refused to leave him, and he toyed with the idea of creating a drug to destroy his most primitive urges. Roused from its cryogenic slumber, the fever had returned, reducing his body to a portal of malleable flesh, his senses opening like a flower in rainfall. Ruthless as a virus, lethal as cancer, it engorged his veins with fresh blood; fresh power. Suspended in the murky, emerald liquid of a glass cylinder he was the half-finished project—the result of an experiment gone horribly wrong. Beyond the walls of his transparent prison were young, vulnerable bodies, the bodies of men he had trained and left to die. Chris Redfield...Carlos Oliveira; they meant nothing to him. They were just roadblocks, empty pockets of space in a galaxy full of vibrant stars. But now...now Wesker felt the corners of his body folding in. Weak-kneed, he was losing his sanity, and losing it fast.
[Buried inside them, nestled within that thick, ravenous heat, I'm whole once more. I can rip their flesh apart or suckle it like a newborn for hours, as if expecting to harbour new life from the pores. I...am nothing, a God of dirt. Even with my empire there is nothing worth living for but the salvation of mankind. With Uroboros the power is mine, but only for a little while.]
Wesker pushed his sunglasses back to their rightful position on his nose, shuddering.
Swivelling his chair around, he now faced the next screen which revealed an almost-naked Chris Redfield snoring quietly, the sheets barely covering his groin. Chris had always been a little blocky, as if he was carved out of marble, but the tyrant was hooked on his toy like a drug. He wanted to eat Chris alive. He fantasized about burying himself in Chris's ass, head cushioned between those sleek, magnificent cheeks as he explored his bowels like some magical underwater cave. What aroused Wesker even more than his subordinate's ass was the fact that he could slip inside with such ease, emitting the prettiest groans from him as he thrust in sync with the blonde's hips.
Ever since capturing the young agent on his Africa mission to rescue Jill—who was long dead—Wesker couldn't get enough of his beefy brunette naked or clothed, for he seemed to be the only slave of the three who showed genuine pleasure for its Master.
Roughly kneading the rock-hard erection with his palm and fingers, Wesker smirked down at the thickening bulge in his tight pants, impressed by its length. He flicked his gaze back to Chris: the flaw in his every plan, the face that had willingly kneeled before him in the STARS office all those years ago, an enemy who had tried to defeat him numerous times with every weapon under the sun...but to no avail.
"You're mine, Redfield", the ex-Captain drawled as he swiftly unzipped his pants, releasing his engorged member.
Chris curved inwards like a spoon, large hands gripping the paper-thin sheets, and again Wesker was treated to his enemy's luscious buttocks.
The tyrant laughed.
"Even unconscious you still want me, don't you Chris?"
All of a sudden Wesker imagined himself manhandling the young brunette, his body still useless in its unconscious state. Awake, Chris was a riot to toss around, sure, but he savoured the opportunity when the dumbbell was helpless—no more name-calling as he got what he wanted without fuss.
How do we harvest cruelty? Destroy what people love. Strip from them all pleasure, all purpose, and watch as they gravitate towards the darkness.
As a child, the God remembered those words spoken from an old man with snow-white hair and leathery skin, his eyes forever hidden behind a microscope. Tucked away in the Umbrella Facility, he studied the miracle that was his Wesker Children: the ingredients of a perfect race, of a new era, yet only one had survived.
'You're nothing but an empty shell, Albert. I created you, programmed you...shoved you off the ledge until you became airborne and fearless. By some miraculous stroke of luck you survived, flourished, excelled. As wonderful as these feats may be, don't forget what you truly are: a mistake. When you expire, more Wesker clones will take your place, and it will be as if you never were...'
A thick, feverish rage seeped into Wesker's veins, setting his skin on fire as he recalled Ozwell Spencer in his wheelchair, a foolish old imbecile who never shut up.
Reaching for the needle, he flicked it a couple of times before thrusting the blunt top into his right forearm. The rage subsided. Instead, every nerve ending in the blonde's body skyrocketed in sensitivity, almost to the point that a light pinch would cause extreme agony. His flesh tingled, yearning to be fondled and abused, for the blade of a scalpel to slit open its creamy paleness.
[I'll make sure to give Chris a dose...]
Taking full advantage of the bizarre, yet highly euphoric sensation that only lasted for ten minutes, Wesker curled his fingers around the thick, rigid base of his cock and pumped. Massive waves of explosive, almost frighteningly intense pleasure lapped him from peak to divine peak, building up to a climax that threatened to tear him asunder. He spread his long, powerful legs for better access, combat boots thudding heavily against the floor. By now his erection was huge, swollen to a length of nine pulsating inches, and harder than concrete. One last fierce, urgent tug and it shattered through him like an atomic blast.
Coated in sweat, a loud, explicit animal grunt tore from Wesker's throat as an arc of creamy fluid spurt from his cock. The sound echoed through the lab, most likely to be heard by his sleeping dolls. Lasting for a little more than thirty seconds, his body was drained of all energy, skin left even more incandescent than before.
As he cleaned himself up, Wesker couldn't help but smirk up at Chris, who was now lying on his back with this huge, dreamy smile, as if he had just witnessed his ex-captain getting off.
"Don't worry, Chris...you'll get your turn. You all will."
The brunette smiled wider, his face blank and agreeable.
X
A/N: Yes...I'm a massive pervert lol, but was this story at least interesting? Did you like it, love it, or hate it more than anything? Please let me know what you think, I'm all ears, but don't flame because it's annoying lol.
Lots of Chris & Wesker yaoi to come in the next chapter! (if you dare to continue, that is. It only gets dirtier from here...)
:) Thanks for reading! *Hugs*