Superiority Complex

Superiority Complex

Irving didn’t like to think of himself as a failure, even if it was what people said about him. He was a business man. Or at least, that was how he chose to see it. Oil was his business, his life. Well, oil and bio-technology…now. He leaned his forehead against the glass of the window, staring off into the endless blue of the water beneath the ship as his thoughts drifted back to the meeting he had just attended. The way the sluttish Excella had frowned as she handed him the case, her lips forming the proposition. The way she’d looked back at the man she’d had with her. That man. Blonde with dark shades pulled over his eyes even though they were indoors and it was pretty dark outside. He was older, probably in his forties. Distinguished, that was the word, Irving thought idly. Distinguished. It was sort of what Irving fancied himself as, not that anyone else in the world saw it that way. With a sniff, Irving straightened his collar. No one really took him seriously.

‘…better not get any bright ideas, we’re running this operation. Any funny business and we won’t hesitate to cut you loose.’

The woman, Excella, had said it, sneering at him in her haughty way. He’d wanted to sock her, and probably would have if it hadn’t been for the presence of the blonde man behind her. Boss Wesker, she’d said. It was the one and only time he’d meet the man, she’d said. He should feel honoured.

Again, not quite the word that Irving would have chosen. Wesker resembled a Greek statue, all ivory skin and chiselled features. Sure, the glasses and the haircut didn’t fit, but Irving was sure every other detail probably did. Greek perfection. Horny! That was the word he’d wanted.

Irving sniggered into the back of his hand at the thought, glancing around the empty cabin quickly. He was alone, just as when he’d set off for the meeting. The observation deck where he sat was completely deserted. Irving rolled his eyes, earlier his ‘personal Manjini bodyguards’ had been skulking about, but their feral eyes and slack jaws had disturbed Irving to the point that he sent them away to haunt other parts of the ship. There was the captain of this vessel also, the man who piloted it through the clear blue water so skilfully. And that masked girl.

He hadn’t questioned when Excella said they’d be providing him with support on his way to Kijuju, he’d merely listened as Wesker had summoned the figure forward and by that point he didn’t give a fuck who it was. Because he’d heard that voice. And that was all that mattered in the world.

The British lilt. That perfect, superior accent. Irving coughed into the back of his hand, self-conscious of his own rather base accent even though he was alone. He remembered the way that voice had lighted in him, striking so many chords that Irving had nearly choked on his own blush. He remembered the way that British head had turned to him after the words had been spoken, the almost comically questioning quirk in the eyebrows just visible over the dark sunglasses. The most attention he received from the man during the whole meeting.

He hated to admit it, even to himself, but being treated in such a way almost made Wesker even hotter. A holier-than-thou air pervaded the propinquity of the man and, in His presence, Irving knew he was no better than the dirt. God-like, Irving mused again, picking at one of his cuticles, a Greek god fallen to earth. More than anything, Irving wished to worship at the temple provided him.

Worship. There was an intoxicating idea that stirred a warning signal at the bottom of Irving’s gut. “Beautiful.” He muttered, letting his eyes flutter shut. Vague images of what Wesker might look like half-wrapped in a toga, grapes held loosely in one hand diffused through his brain idly. It would have been easier to muse what Excella would have looked like as a Greek statue, as the woman hardly wore anything anyway, but half the fun was in not knowing, so Irving continued with his chosen game. He wasn’t interested in Excella anyway, no matter how much of her goodies she showed off to the world.

Irving had never been one with a care for women, as most of them found him slimy and two-faced without even having talked to him. He’d learned quickly in his middle and high school days that it was much easier to get on with men than with double-edged, back-stabbing bitches. Women were the inferior sex anyway.

He smiled to himself, musing for a brief that moment, that maybe Wesker would share this thought. That maybe He would compliment Irving on having it. Maybe would reward him for being so good, so smart. Reward, another one of those words that went straight to the pit of his stomach and stoked the already smouldering arousal there. Irving shifted uncomfortably in his seat, hand imperceptibly moving to adjust his cock while his face remained placid under the guise of staring out the window.

He wondered idly, not bothering to move the hand now resting easily on his crotch, whether Excella had fucked Wesker. In all likelihood she had, she looked easy enough and Wesker was probably straight and into that sort of thing. Women, that was, women with big, fake tit implants. Irving sneered. Most men it seemed did. Not him though. The few women he’d been involved with had all been svelte, willowy bitches, girls with more crack in them than blood. He was pretty sure the one had been a man at one time. Not that that was a thought that particularly bothered him.

Men were smarter than women. Men were better than women. And Wesker was better than men. Irving could tell just from that cursory glance, that smooth-as-velvet voice.

He closed his eyes, leaning his suddenly hot forehead against the window pane, the hand at his crotch tightening reflexively with a twinge of need. He could imagine that voice saying his name, giving him orders. Could imagine it telling him to worship, telling him to suck it, to take it. Irving sighed, his fingers unlatching the button on his pants almost without being aware that he was doing it. The zipper whispered down next, helped along by the incessant pushing of his erection.

Separate from the movements of his hands, Irving’s daydream continued unhampered. He was under Wesker, lips and hands busy with his new God’s proffered cock. It was alabaster perfection, unmarred by even the slightest hint of blush. Irving rubbed his cheek against it, like he could burrow himself in the scent of it. The flesh was decidedly cool (much like the window pane he was actually pressing into) and quivered slightly as he nuzzled it. He wanted to take it in his mouth, to lavish upon it with tongue and nip at it gently with his teeth. He wanted to suck the life right out of his God, claim the perfection as his own.

In real life, Irving’s mouth opened slightly, a whine escaping from him as his hands sped up at their task. He shifted forward, his body curling inward, head sliding over the cool glass of the window leaving a streak of sweat, his bottom lip quivered and another louder cry threatened to escape him. He bit down on it instead, worrying his lip to bruising and nearly biting through it in effort to keep quiet. His hands dragged over his erection almost roughly, bitten nails scouring the skin to just this side of painful. He was kissing Wesker’s cock now, planting butterfly kisses along it, from the root to the head, where he paused, tongue slipping out to taste the salty tip, swirling around to collect as much of the precious liquid as he could. The essence of his deity was not something to be wasted.

The taste (the sweat from his own upper lip that had dripped into his mouth) was what did it, the thought of actually being that close, of lapping at that font of perfection, fuelled him on well. His hands gave two more sharp tugs, pinching once at the head of his cock, and Irving was gone, over the edge, the pool of need in his gut overflowing suddenly like a reservoir in the rainy months. He unfurled like a spring, quick and twitching, his hands coated in his own telling whiteness. But then the feeling dimmed and spread through him like a fire, coiling through his muscles. He slumped in the chair, a boneless mass of tingling nerves. His mind blinked out and came back, flipping like a shutter between his still too-close fantasy and reality. Irving let his eyes flutter shut, let his mind flow free, allowed himself to rest. He didn’t think he’d ever come that hard before in his life and was sure that he wouldn’t again.

He wiped his hand clean on the bottom of the seat, fingers sliding over bits of discarded gum and stickers. The movement took more concentration than it should have, his muscles were still tired from the exertion. Almost as an afterthought he tucked himself away, easily working his penis back under the plackets of his pinstripe pants and pulling the zip. He didn’t bother with the button, the motion was beyond him. Irving raised his legs, clumsily stretching them into the seat next to his, bumping the back of his knee painfully more than once on the divider between the two. He got it finally though and settled gratefully into a deep rest.

The trip back to the mainland took quite some time, especially when they bypassed the oil fields. There was time for sleep. There always was in Irving’s mind.

If he had been all together, he might have glanced about the cabin once more before taking his nap. Might have once again checked that all was in order and that he was completely alone. But men of Irving’s stature very rarely felt the need for such over-protection. Had he though, had he but glanced behind him once to the door that led out to the main deck, he would have seen the two constantly staring red eyes of the masked woman. The two eyes that saw everything. And reported everything

back to Wesker.

****

[A/N]: So yeah, I'm in love with Irving, and I haven't written anything in a super long time so I figured I'd try and kick back off my return with something different. I enjoyed writing it (Ricardo Irving is certainly nothing like the characters I usually write XD) and I hope you enjoyed reading it. Rate and review if it so pleases.