"To hurt is as human as to breathe."
- J.K. Rowling -
The heart is a Devil
The cure for pain is in the pain.
(February 1988)
Il Gattopardo.
Alex studies the room - elegant, discreet.
Italian cuisin, a few tables - ebony wood and white marble, a contrast that she appreciates.
On the walls applique in classic style (crystal and gold) in the middle of the table candles - perhaps with a lavender note.
Heavy curtains, gathered at the sides by embrasse torchon - black and more gold.
"Mr. Sullivan?" asks the restaurant manager, and performs in a big smile "Your table is ready, please: if you want to follow me."
Alex turns, and smiles.
"We want, Albert?"
Wesker's fingers brushes the nape of her neck and tighten.
The first thing he notices is that she didn't put on his dress.
Not what he had asked ordered her to wear.
Wrapped in a red silk dress (Versace, one shoulder. A golden zipper that runs all her way back), Alex is a profile that defies any flicker of the flame - a smile all teeth and arrogance.
She slides with her eyes on the menu (she already knows what to choose), pats one pale fingernail on the edge of aged parchment.
"A fillet of beef in red wine sauce. Rare, thank you."
The waiter nods, marks the order.
Alex puts her hands on the table, her fingers intertwined with each other - under the silk nothing.
"And for you, sir?"
Wesker returns his attention on the empty plates, closes the menu.
"Same."
The waiter notes the second order, Alex raises an eyebrow.
Wesker is already thinking about what punishment inflict to her.
He never liked to see people eat.
They irritated him; all those smug faces, those eyes became glossy and dull from too much food eaten.
He was disgusted by women from unamade and flushed makeup, the men who took the appearance of hungry locusts - the swinging bellies, obscene flicker of bodies next to organic decay.
For a man like him, who exercised a systematic and strict control of everything in his life, that kind of pleasure irritated him enough to keep him away from canteens or restaurants.
But not enough to stop him from turning the world into a set of dislocated and cannibals jaws.
Alex cuts a slice of meat; she presses it with the tip of her knife (one, two, three times), leaving a trail of blood and wine.
She stares at him from beneath pale lashes, curling her lips into an ambiguous smile.
"What's up?" she asks, and brings her fork to the mouth - red and red "Don't you like it?"
He hides his puzzled expression behind the smile of a shark.
"They believe we are a couple came here to celebrate Valentine's Day."
Wesker laughs, and it's a terrible sound - broken flesh and splintered bones.
"The lady at the entrance asked me." Alex continues, dabbing her lips with her napkin "The one with the pearl necklace: how long, if I may, my lovely girl." she repeated, imitating her accent of the south.
"Too much, I said."
The Albert's laugh fades into a low murmur, the pupil dilates.
"Since always, would be the right answer."
"Maybe." he grants.
Alex reclines backward, welcomes his fingers around her ankle, along her calf - to touch her inner thigh and the lace of a thousand dollars underwear. (La Perla, Floras Vibes. His gift after she had been so good to be silent and comes during a meeting with the administration of the Umbrella.)
"Maybe." she agrees, and puts her hand on his arm, deceptively docile.
Wesker cannot wait to hear her screams.
Alexandra Fayer wants him to devour her alive.
Alexandra Fayer wants him to watch her while she dresses for him; while she is wearing her best skin and shouts his name and collapses to her knees and comes and...
There are times that everything is so fierce that is like to be in a war; they bleed, they curse, they hurt each other.
Those are the moments in which they fuck in the corners of empty laboratories, when the Umbrella is sleeping and the giant watchdog of the Red Queen with her.
When he tears from her a painful and sharp orgasm - bites that sink and tear, crumpled clothes left on the floor like nothing.
Alex arches backward, let his hands slip between her thighs - along her mouth.
Albert pressed, and she opens her lips to him.
The finger slides on her tongue once, twice, three times, it gets wet with the same desire that is mounting between her legs - merciless.
Alex stumbles into the white carpet, ruined to the ground - Wesker follows her, a predator on the hunt.
She bites, Alex, ripping a moan from him - then he settles a slap that splits her lip.
Alex laughs, gasps beneath him, and glares to him with inhuman eyes - hair tangled and pupils reduced to nothing.
Drops of blood on her mouth, between his teeth: Alex is a creature built for the pain - shaped by it.
Between his legs Albert is desperately hard.
"We try something new?" she asks, and laughs more - bared teeth that hover like a hidden trap in the tall grass.
Albert tightens, the leather of his belt that affect the tender skin of her wrists.
She could break free at any time.
But he doesn't know. Not yet.
She could break every chain, every string: reverse the positions and inflict him the worst tortures.
Once she had done it: she had reduced him to his knees, panting and pleading - wounded and helpless, dripping a desire she had choked in her mouth again and again.
She could; but when he brushes the tip of his tongue on her breasts every other thought is meaningless.
The carpet is damp beneath them, Alex's body a glossy and trembling curve.
"Son of a bitch." she hisses, and Wesker watches her closes her eyes, shaking her head first to the left, then to the right.
"Go on." she says, and tries to hit him with her heel "You're certainly not better off than me."
The heart of Wesker is a furious drum, filled: a punch that threatens to smash his ribs with every beat.
No, he is not better off than her; he only would reverse her on her knees and bend her and sink into her until she begs him to stop.
Until he will broke her spirit - until he can re-established some kind of hierarchy, any fucking hierarchy.
Alex pulls, looks for him from beneath heavy lids.
"Albert." she calls - invokes.
Wesker soothes the flat surface of her abdomen and goes down.
"Oh."
Oh.
It's the only thing she says when she understands.
She watches him pour the lubricant on his fingers, massaging each other.
She studies him, suddenly attentive - wary.
She stiffens when he fondles the soft curve of her buttock, his mouth a gentle movement along her neck, on the shoulder.
Albert can feel her heart beat just above her left breast, her breath caught in her throat and knees slightly close together.
Uncertain - doubtful. An animal blinded by the light.
Wesker smiles (a wolf on hunting) opens - invades, conquers.
Alex opens her eyes and cries.
She nearly ripped his lip.
Blood under his tongue, between her teeth: Albert knows no mercy and observes her flex under his hands, moaning shamelessly.
"It's nothing." he says, and Alex surrenders under his fingers - fits "Only a moment."
Alex searches for his eyes, gives him a murderous glare.
Oh, Albert already imagine what will be his punishment.
It hurts Oh, it really hurts.
Relaxation techniques, instructions for use, anesthetic lubricants - bullshit.
Alex contracts the muscles of her arms, tries to relax those in her back - prepares herself for the next step.
"I would like to say I'm sorry."
Alex stares at him, and doesn't turn off that air of challenge - the invitation to do worse, more.
"But it would not be the truth."
For a moment Alex gave him an expression absolutely outraged - comical, almost.
Then she laughs, and extends to his face - slips with her tongue along his mouth.
"Next time I'll deny your orgasm for so long that death will seem a viable option for you, Albert."
Wesker almost comes at the thought.
She whines, complains, cries, growls.
Albert observes the fingers of Alex bent into claws, teeth clench in a rabid bite.
Red on the cheekbones, between her thighs - a trickle of blood flowing on the carpet, along his erection.
He leans toward her lips, crushes - sinks.
"You are beautiful." he says, and for once it is the truth that the monster says to the princess of the story.
Alex breaks his breath and gave him a kiss that has their own flavor.
He released her wrists: he left her holding onto his shoulders, breaking the skin of his chest with her little and shiny nails.
Alex is rolled around his body, she follows his movements - shows unexpected strength.
He interlock his fingers in her hair, pulling - forces her to show him the tender crook of her neck.
Alex plays the part well and is languid in his arms - the perfect portrait of the slave.
Albert wears the mask of the master and continues his cruel show.
It is a sudden orgasm one that passes through Alex - she comes, and Albert hears her inner walls contract around his erection, under his fingertips the wet of a desire finally fulfilled.
She hides her face against his chest, licks.
Wesker perceives her slids her tongue over his nipple, along the stretched muscle of his chest - up to the collarbone and rest there, sighing.
He squeezes her like a pretty doll of skin and promises - he comes, and it is a quiet sound for a man who will devour worlds and hopes.
In the room fall a silence full of everything.
Alex rubs her wrists, following with her fingertip the purple streaks that are forming.
She stares at what remains of her dress, smiles a little.
She slips her hands between the fibers of the carpet (ruined), approaches him - flexing her back.
Wesker follows her every movement - cautious.
Alex strokes his temples, the corners of his mouth - gives him a kiss that makes him feel defeated, lost.
"Thank you." she says, before collecting what is left of them between his thighs - a tongue that threatens to make him hard again.
Albert is abandoned against the back of the couch and wondering what if?
He will remember Alex like this; a bare foot dangling over the kitchen stool and an asymmetrical smile on her face.
Wrapped in one of his robes, with her hair still wet on the ends and leave small drops of water on the counter.
He will remember her while wielding a spoon as if it was a scepter, in front of her a cooked cream.
He will remember her while she stretched over his shoulder to discuss the latest results of the clinical trial of the T virus, while she mocks William for his hyperglycemic diet.
He will remember her sleeping at his side, a hand in his and the other a fist against his chest.
He will remember her.
Even when they will be no longer a man and a woman, but beasts and gods, he will remember her laugh, a little out of tune - rusty and scraping on the edges of each syllable.
He will remember, and will not matter then who had to be above or below - who had the power.
"I had fun."
"I know."
"We could do it again."
Albert cast her a sideways glance, sinking the spoon in the ice cream and subtracts a generous portion.
"I didn't mean the dinner."
Wesker relaxes his shoulders, smiles a little.
Alex gave him the look of someone who has already won.
The time will burn their hopes into ash and regret.
"It's like Tolstoy said.
Happiness is an allegory, unhappiness a story."
- Haruki Murakami -