Chapter Text
The first time he sees you, Wesker's mouth runs dry.
He walks into the police station for his shift, just like usual, but instead of the receptionist he's been seeing for the past year greeting him with a bored and absent, “Captain,” he finds an entirely new face – and body, God that body – looking up at him with a bright, sweet smile and a stack of correspondence waiting for him on a corner of your desk.
“Good morning! You must be Captain Wesker. I'm the new receptionist, pleasure to meet you,” you greet politely. Wesker takes your hand in his and gives it a soft squeeze and a shake – professional but not as imposing and intimidating as usual – and can't help but fixate on how warm and soft your hand is in his, how delightful the brief brush of his bare fingers against your wrist is before he pulls his hand away.
“Oh, yes. I remember Chief Irons saying something about Bethany quitting. Pleased to meet you as well.”
His eyes find your name tag and he memorises those letters like they're the most important piece of writing in the history of humanity. The AC blows cool air into his face and with it, a soft, subtle whiff of your perfume reaches his nose and Wesker knows just by the way his stomach swoops in response that he won't be able to get you out of his head any time soon.
“Here is some mail for the S.T.A.R.S. team. I was going to bring it up myself but if you could take it now, that would be appreciated. I, uhm, have a lot to sort out and familiarise myself with,” you explain sheepishly and Wesker is obsessed with your embarrassed little smile and the way your nose scrunches up slightly.
“That's fine, thank you,” Wesker says, sounding so calm and composed when he's actually losing his mind on the inside, and takes the short stack of mail from you. He turns to leave, intending to let you go back to trying to untangle the mess Bethany left behind when she announced her resignation out of the blue a week ago, but he stops himself just long enough to tap his fingers on your desk and offer you a small smile he's not even sure is noticeable. “I wish you a wonderful first day, my dear.”
The shy but giddy smile that blooms on your face in response to his words before you thank him is enough to carry him through the rest of his long, arduous day.
You're already gone by the time he finishes his twelve hour shift, a fact he laments silently as he makes his way to his car and unlocks it. But next time he shows up at the station, bright, early, and eager to see you, your beautiful face lights up in recognition as soon as you see him and you greet him enthusiastically before he's even closed the distance between the entrance and your desk.
“Captain Wesker, hi!”
“Hello,” he answers simply, his voice much warmer than he's ever spoken to anyone he wasn't trying to manipulate before, and leans towards you almost absently. “How have you been, my dear?”
“Oh, I've been doing quite alright. Thanks for asking!” You seem flustered at his interest in your well-being which Wesker drinks up like a man lost in the middle of a desert searching for an oasis – he doesn't know what he would do with himself if you showed discomfort at his advances, subtle as they are right now.
“I recall you having some trouble with the mess Bethany left behind.” As if he doesn't have that first conversation memorised word for word already, having even opened his journal to write it down as soon as he got home that night on your first day, just to make sure he would never forget.
You huff and roll your eyes, the first break from polite enthusiasm you've shown so far, and Wesker drinks that up too. He watches with rapt attention every minute change in your facial expression, the way your shoulders draw back, the way you tap your nails irritably against your computer mouse – he likes you natural, this glimpse into the person hidden underneath the customer service persona. He hopes to see more of this in the future.
“Yes, it was a chore and a half to get through it all but I managed. Nothing some overtime yesterday couldn't fix,” you answer easily and Wesker kicks himself for having the day off when you stayed past your usual schedule – he should have been here to greet you at the end of a shift, perhaps even walk you out to your car or give you a lift if you don't have one. Not Enrico and his merry band of idiots.
“Paid for, I hope.” If not, he'll have words with Irons.
You chuckle at the barely hidden disdain in his voice and oh, wow. He wants to erase every sound he's ever heard before and keep only this – your voice, your laughter, the subtle snort that you try to cover up with your hand even though it's way too late for that. How can something so mundane – something he would even wrinkle his nose at when it's done by anyone else – be so charming to him?
“Definitely. I already spoke to the Chief before doing it, not to worry. But thank you for your concern, Captain.”
Your smile is breathtaking in its beauty and sincerity. Wesker has to restrain himself when the urge to lean over the desk and your computer monitor gets too strong – to do what, exactly? He doesn't know but the need to be closer to you is overwhelming.
“Do you have anything for me today so I can take it off your hands? Wouldn't want you to have to come up when I'm already here,” Wesker asks, both as a genuine kindness to you and as a distraction from his powerful urges and unusual thoughts.
“Yes, actually! A box of evidence for one of your cases just got dropped earlier. Let me…”
You stand up from behind your desk and walk over to the corner closest to Wesker as you pick up a cardboard box then walk around until you're standing in front of him and extending your arms to hand it over. Wesker takes it absently because all he can focus on is how gorgeous you look dressed in a knee-length skirt and soft sweater (the same ‘uniform’ your predecessor had to wear, yet it looks much better on you than it ever did on Bethany). The image of you crouching to pick up the box, the way the skirt stretched over your plump ass, and the way your chest dug into the edge of the box before you handed it over – all of it plays on loop in Wesker's mind as he thanks you for the box and wishes you a wonderful day, finally walking away and entering the S.T.A.R.S. office five minutes later than he usually does.
After that, you become a fixture in Wesker's life and his every waking moment. He simply can't get you out of his head. You're there when he's completing paperwork for both Umbrella and the RPD; you're there when he starts taking his lunch break outside of his office and walks past your empty desk – the little metallic plate sitting in the middle of your desk telling everyone you'll be back from your break in twenty minutes, which means Wesker needs to adjust his own break accordingly. You're especially there when he gets home at night, tired to the bone and feeling like he needs to take a year off to ever recover from how burnt out he feels, and he fists his hard cock in the shower with thoughts of you running through his mind without rhyme or reason. More than once he comes with your name on his lips and the smell of your perfume or the sound of your laughter lingering in his mind long after he's cleaned up all evidence of his depravity.
Every day, he starts coming in earlier and earlier, making up excuses about why – he had errands to run and finished them earlier than expected, his clock malfunctioned and he arrived a few minutes early, he left some paperwork unfinished on his last shift so he got here early to get it done – until, eventually, you stop being surprised to see him so early and just greet him with a smile, not even batting an eye at the fact that he wastes five, then ten, then fifteen minutes before his shift just lingering at your desk and chatting you up about anything and everything he can think of.
He's not ashamed to admit that he has it bad for you, but it does baffle him that he feels so strongly about you. He didn't think himself capable of such intense feelings for another but from the moment he walked in and saw you for the first time, he's had you permanently stamped into his brain, haunting his every waking moment – and a few dreams. The first time Wesker wakes up sweaty and hard as a rock, the remnants of his dream still vivid in his brain as he recalls with perfect clarity the way it felt to have your pretty lips wrapped around his cock while he fucked your face in his office, he has his cock in his hand and is ruining his boxers with his overflowing load before he can even think about it for more than a second. Every time he sees you at the RPD that day, all he can think about is how beautiful you looked on your knees in his dream and how badly he wishes he could have painted your face with his cum, not his fist.
But aside from your physical beauty – which is undeniable, especially when he catches glimpses of your beautiful curves and the way your skirt clings to your hips and those juicy rolls, your fat thighs, or your plump ass, wishing he could just bend you over, lift up your skirt, and bury his face in your cunt – what makes all of this worse is just how sweet you are to Wesker.
He knows you can be vicious when you want to be – a few weeks after that first fateful meeting, he walks by your desk on his way to the library and sees you laying into a handful of rookie cops who were giving you shit and making nuisances of themselves instead of minding their own business. Wesker had to make himself disappear behind the farthest row from the entrance in the library to hide the evidence of his rock hard erection straining against his zipper until it went down.
But no matter how irritated you might be – because of the regular cops at the RPD (never any of his people, he's made sure their behaviour is exemplary since it reflects on him), the various visitors acting entitled and thinking they can bully you into giving them what they want, or the simple annoyance that working customer service usually is – the second you see Wesker, all of it washes away. You smile at him and perk up in your seat the second you catch sight of him. Lately, if it's quiet enough and you can hear him coming, just the sound of his measured footsteps triggers something in your brain and he can see you unconsciously perk up and start to look around for the source.
And your voice… Listening to you speak is like a soothing balm. He could spend hours just listening to you talk – about music, about books, about your annoying neighbours and your family and the stray dog you've been feeding and that crow that keeps leaving trinkets for you outside your window because you fed it once a month ago.
Wesker quickly ensures that you call him for anything S.T.A.R.S. related even when, in reality, he couldn't give less of a shit about whatever it is that came through, just to be able to hear your beautiful voice outside of his short – always too short – visits to the front desk.
“Another stack of reports from the coroner for you, Captain,” you announce one day, a month into your employment, calling to tell him things he used to delegate to someone else before you showed up.
“I'll be down to pick them up shortly, my dear. Thank you for letting me know.”
“No need to thank me, I'm just doing my job.” You really aren't. Wesker wonders if you know this, if you've realised that you only do this for him because he asked, and he wonders what you think of it. Have you chalked it up to him being a hardass with exacting standards and weird expectations (something he arguably is but not to this degree)? Or can you tell that this is his pathetic attempt at getting more of your attention? If so, why haven't you said anything, why haven't you done anything? Are you subtly trying to let him down by letting his advances go unacknowledged or are you too shy to act?
Or are you that oblivious to the fact that he's flirting with you almost every time you talk?
“You should still be praised for it regardless. Especially when it's so well done,” Wesker insists, dropping his voice into a low, silky purr he's witnessed making you flustered before, and you're too late to shift the receiver away from your mouth when he hears the sharp intake of breath on the other side.
“Thank you, Captain,” you murmur, clearly affected by his words, which pulls a satisfied, giddy smile out of Wesker as he leans back in his chair and feels his cock filling up under his desk. “Do you need anything else from me?”
Oh, does he. He needs a lot of things from you, if he's being honest. For you to never stop talking, not even for a second – better yet, for you to only utter his name, preferably in a hoarse, breathy voice, delirious with lust. For you to let him trail his hands up your legs, seeing how far up that pantyhose goes and if he might find a garter belt up there, hidden by your skirt, or if the sheer fabric stops at your thighs before your panties begin. And for you to walk into his office at the end of every shift before you go home, close the door behind you, and ride his face on the floor of his office until he can't breathe. Those are just a few of the things Wesker needs from you.
But in the meantime… He does have an erection he should take care of before he walks down to reception and grabs those files from you. He shouldn't – it's a gross violation of your trust, it could ruin things if you realise what he's doing – but Wesker needs you so badly and he thinks he might wither away and die if he doesn't get at least this from you.
“Yes, actually. Are you busy right now?” he asks, knowing that you'd probably drop whatever you're working on for him anyway even if you are.
You hum and the sound goes straight to his cock as Wesker trails his free hand down his body and palms himself through his pants.
“I don't have anything important to deal with, no. Why?”
“Could you read some of those reports for me? I'm afraid I'm stuck going over some boring paperwork for Irons and I can't come down right this second.”
“And you can pay attention to me while doing paperwork?” you ask a bit skeptically while Wesker undoes his pants and pulls them down slightly.
“I can multitask. Besides, listening to you is not a chore, my dear.”
You chuckle, both bashful and delighted, right as he wraps his hand around his cock and gives it a tug. He sucks air through his teeth at the combination, making sure his mouth is nowhere near the receiver, and imagines it's your beautiful hand thumbing at his weeping head instead of his own.
“Alright then. I hope I won't get in trouble for reading these,” you joke in a light, inviting voice, and Wesker has to bite the cord to muffle the moan that tries to escape. His hand spreads his precum along his shaft, easing the slide of his fist as he pumps it slowly up and down, and your beautiful voice starting to read gruesome coroner's reports out loud to him is the perfect incentive to get him to set up a steady pace and get himself off.
Wesker nearly gives himself away when he can't quite muffle a moan properly as your lips wrap around words like ‘pallor mortis’ and ‘autolysis’ while he's rutting into his own fist like an animal on the verge of dying, and his heart almost gives out when you pause your reading and ask him if he's alright and if you should keep going or not.
“I'm quite alright, dear,” he says, his voice strained as he tries to keep it level instead of letting it come out as breathy as it really wants to be. “My pen just ran out of ink mid-word. You can go on until you finish that report.”
“Alright. I hope my voice isn't boring you,” you say lightly, but he can hear a trace of real insecurity in there which just won't do.
“You could read out a takeout menu and keep me invested, darling,” he reassures, entirely honest, while he picks up his pace again. His cock is even more sensitive now, it seems, and he has to bite down on his lip so hard in order to keep quiet that he can feel blood welling up immediately.
You make an embarrassed noise at his proclamation, which doesn't help his situation, but thankfully keep going without further comment. Every word out of your mouth is more fuel added to the pyre of his infatuation with you. You keep him right on the edge as you read out the report, his hand rubbing up and down his hard cock furiously as he chases his finish with your unwitting aid, but it isn't until you reach the very end of the document that Wesker can tip over the edge and finally come.
“Report awaiting the acknowledgement and signature of one Albert Wesker, PhD, Captain of S.T.A.R.S. Alpha Team, RPD,” you conclude smoothly. The way his name rolls off your tongue is nothing short of perfection and it gives him that little nudge needed to make him climax. He has to put the phone down on his desk when he comes, whining under his breath as he desperately tries to keep his noises contained, and he makes sure to catch every drop of cum in his fist so as not to ruin his work pants or the floor below.
Wesker is panting in the aftermath, feeling flushed and like he just exploded through his cock, but he forces himself to appear collected as he picks the phone back up and puts it to his ear.
“Thank you, darling. I'll wrap this up and be downstairs in ten minutes, tops.”
“Oh, I could come up now if you want? I don't want you to rip yourself away from your work just for this,” you offer kindly and he can just imagine the way you're biting your lip in worry, afraid that you're not doing your job well enough or that he might be displeased with your performance. As if he ever could. You could walk into the station in your pajamas and lounge in your chair all day reading magazines instead of picking up calls or greeting people and he'd feel inclined to give you a raise.
“That's alright, maybe next time. I need to stretch my legs a bit anyway. I've been sitting for too long.” He needs to clean himself up and wait for his blush to go down, is what he really means.
“Okay then. I'll be waiting for you, Captain.”
“See you soon, my dear.”
He very reluctantly places the phone back in its cradle, finally ending the call that, realistically, shouldn't have even happened, then looks down at his lap and finds the pathetic sight of his soft cock hanging out of his pants and his left fist sticky with cooling cum. He feels repulsed by himself – not for doing something most consider depraved or for doing it with you, but because he is Albert fucking Wesker. He should be above something like getting off in public to an attractive woman's voice, for fuck's sake.
But his own disappointment at his weakness or not, Wesker doesn't regret it. Whether purposefully obtuse as a subtle message or tragically oblivious, you aren't likely to help him with problems like this of your own volition any time soon – this might be his only chance at getting even a glimpse into what it's like to have you in such a way and he won't feel bad about it. Besides, what you don't know can't hurt you.
He makes quick work of removing every piece of evidence of his moment of weakness, then stops by the break room to make two cups of coffee and brings them down with him when he meets up with you at your desk – the coffee from the machine in the S.T.A.R.S. break room is better than the slop you get from the one downstairs. It might be a silent apology for masturbating to your voice earlier that only Wesker knows the meaning of or it might be just because he wants to see your sweet smile when you see him pass one of the paper cups to you. He'll never tell.
The inappropriate moan that escapes you when you take your first sip is certainly the cherry on top, regardless of his true motivation.
After that day, Wesker is determined to make his interest in you more clear – either you finally realise he has a thing for you or you outright reject him so he can move on, not that he'd be too happy with the latter option. Still, your behaviour and reactions to his mere presence, let alone his flirting, suggest that you're interested and even reciprocate his feelings. He really can't understand what's holding you back from properly responding.
He starts off slowly. He brings you coffee or tea and a pastry every morning when he comes in – he likes seeing you eat the things he brings you, especially when he can tell you enjoy it a lot and are trying very hard to keep things professional by not moaning your pleasure for the whole station to hear. He thanks and praises you for your assistance every time you call to tell him something new is waiting for him downstairs and he makes sure to throw in an affectionate pet name as often as possible – ‘my dear’ and ‘darling’ are the most frequent, but he tries out a few other ones just to see your reaction, like ‘sweetheart’, ‘lovely’, and ‘dearest’.
Then, when he goes down to grab lunch and is surprised to see you still stuck behind your desk dealing with a civilian who won't stop badgering you and won't take the hint that you want to take a break, Wesker steps in and very firmly chases them away, then generously offers to accompany you to lunch and give you an opportunity to vent since it seems like you need it. You happily take him up on his offer and somehow – i.e. through careful machinations on his part – this turns into a daily thing, where Wesker fetches you at lunchtime and the two of you spend a wonderful hour tucked away in some diner or other food establishment close to the RPD, sharing a meal and a laugh away from prying eyes and stuffy office decorum.
He wants more. He wants to take you out on a date, wine and dine you properly, then take you home and ravish you as he acts out every single fantasy that's been building up in his head for the past two months since he's known you. But every subtle attempt at suggesting grabbing dinner sometime has resulted in you assuming it's a work thing and either declining because you're too busy or suggesting you discuss whatever he needs to discuss with you during lunch instead.
He could just ask you out outright, but that would leave him too open to rejection, which Wesker hates, and too exposed to a report to HR in case you take offense to his overt advances and have an issue with the power imbalance in the office. Until he's sure you will actually react positively to being asked out on a date or unless you take the initiative, Wesker won't do anything more obvious than this.
Things pass in this manner – Wesker slowly falling in love with you and getting more and more desperate for your touch, waking up with a hard cock and your name on his lips most mornings – for another month, until they finally come to a head during a gala hosted by the RPD and sponsored by Umbrella for some charity Wesker couldn't care less about that's probably a front for Umbrella's illegal activities anyway.
All employees are invited – more like expected to attend – with the dress code being black tie, something which Wesker despises because that means putting up with a stiff, uncomfortable collar all evening, unable to take his bow tie off until he finally walks out of the building and goes home. On top of that, he'll have to schmooze with every big name idiot in the city since he's overseeing the entire S.T.A.R.S. operation. All in all, not a great time for Wesker and his preference for comfort and leading things from the shadows.
But then he walks in and sees you and suddenly all the discomfort and annoyance in the world is worth putting up with if it means that he keeps seeing you like this.
You're wearing an evening gown – black, floor length, with a sweetheart neckline that accentuates your delicious, ample chest that Wesker wishes he could bury his face in and never come out again. Your curves are on full display, making him curl his gloved hands – white, full coverage, to go with his tux – around his champagne flute so he doesn't do something reckless, like reach for your waist and grope your hips in the middle of the venue. Your makeup is minimal but flawless and brings out your features in a way that makes his mouth go dry, not unlike the first time he laid eyes on you, so he actually makes use of his champagne by taking a sip to wet his throat.
You're absolutely gorgeous and he hates the way so many people around the room are taking note of it – people who haven't bothered to spare you a second glance the entire three months you've worked here are suddenly unable to take their eyes off of you, even the ones who came here with a date. Even his own men – Chris and Brad, notably – can't help stealing glances at you as you make your way through the crowd towards Wesker.
The urge to wrap his tuxedo vest around your shoulders and shield you from view while he takes you home is very hard to resist. He wants to pluck out every eye that has had the audacity to look at you with even the smallest amount of lust or attraction, hypocritical as it is.
“Captain Wesker, hi,” you greet when you finally reach him, offering him a smile and extending your hand happily when he reaches for it. Wesker kisses the back of it like a gentleman, which makes you giggle beautifully, then regrettably relinquishes his hold once the gesture has been performed. “You clean up nice.”
He can't help preening slightly at your compliment, especially when your eyes take him in with an appreciative gleam in them. He feels like a peacock desperately trying to grab your attention, but he doesn't care. He's this close to just getting on his knees and begging you to let him date you.
“Thank you, dearest, but I pale in comparison to you tonight. I had my eye on you from the moment I walked in.”
He can tell you're blushing at his compliment the second the words are out of your mouth. Your body language especially is obviously flustered and you grip your clutch nervously for something to do – you're saved from any more awkward fidgeting by a waiter passing you by and offering you the tray of champagne flutes he's carrying.
You take one of the glasses with a murmured ‘thank you’ to the waiter, then take a fortifying sip. All of this, Wesker watches entirely fascinated and delighted; he likes seeing you so affected by him – a simple compliment, a look, a deliberate brushing of his fingers, all of it can elicit such wonderful reactions in you. It doesn't only stroke his ego, which many would say doesn't need any more stroking anyway, but it delights him because he's the only one who gets to see this side of you. With everyone else you're professional and collected, even when you're being friendly, but with him? You're a giggling school girl or a mean-spirited bitch ranting about all the annoying people around you – it's charming and makes him more enamoured with you by the day.
“You're too kind,” you demur, but before Wesker has a chance to insist that he's being entirely genuine – something he has to do a lot whenever he compliments you, now that he thinks about it – you change the subject. “It's nice seeing you without your glasses for once, though. You have gorgeous eyes, Captain, you should let the world see them more.”
Wesker actually feels flustered for the first time in his life at your simple, easy compliment. He can feel his cheeks heating up and he's sure he's visibly pink already – he's so pale that any colour on his face stands out like a neon sign. He clears his throat and takes a sip of champagne to get himself under control, then looks back at you, feeling like he should avert his eyes but forcing himself to maintain eye contact anyway.
“Ah, thank you, dear. I'm afraid you're the only one who thinks so. Most people find my stare… How should I put it? Unnerving, I think, is the word most commonly used,” he deflects.
Your brow furrows and your nose scrunches up as you frown at his words. It's such an adorable expression it makes Wesker's heart squeeze in his chest.
“That's mean. And stupid. People don't know what they're talking about, then. Don't listen to them, Captain. I happen to like your eyes very much, actually.”
He smiles – big, real, automatic – but he doesn't get to say any more because Irons, rather rudely, pulls him away from you and towards the mayor and some representative from Umbrella that Wesker knows of but has never actually met. He hastily bids you goodbye, furious that he has to leave you so abruptly, but you only smile at him and wave him away before getting pulled into your own conversation by Irons’ secretary.
He spends entirely too long making the rounds and talking to ‘important’ person after ‘important’ person, to the point where he can feel his eyes straining under the chandelier lights and a headache beginning dully at his temples. After about three hours of this, Wesker finally finds a good opportunity to excuse himself and makes his way out of the main area of the gala, disappearing inside a bathroom that's off limits for civilian guests, and giving himself a moment to get his bearings once more.
He feels stuffy and overstimulated – the lights are bothering his eyes, making him miss his glasses and regret not bringing a spare pair along, his feet hurt due to the uncomfortable leather shoes he almost never wears, his face aches from how much fake smiling he's done tonight, and he wants to rip his bow tie away from his neck and unbutton his collar halfway to his chest so he'll stop feeling like he's suffocating. He looks in the mirror, taking in how utterly unbothered he looks while actively nearing a meltdown on the inside, and hates himself for a moment for being such a closed book to anyone who isn't him.
He isn't unfeeling. He isn't a robot. He is just as human as everyone else, feels just as much as everyone else. But he has such a hard time showing it. It always comes out awkward and fake, like he's performing instead of acting, and it makes people distrust him and find him off-putting. The creepy eyes certainly don't help, which is just another reason to wear glasses instead of trying corrective lenses for his light sensitivity.
But you don't seem to mind any of it. You like his dry, often cringey humour – he often has you in stitches during lunch and he can tell you're not faking it – and his compliments always ring true to you, since you get so flustered whenever he issues one. And just a few hours ago you were complimenting his eyes and insisting that everyone else is just wrong for finding them disagreeable. But then why is it that you can't pick up what he's putting down when it comes to his romantic interest in you? What is he still doing wrong?
The sound of your breathless laughter nearby catches Wesker's attention and effectively pushes him away from getting lost in his own head. He feels better now that he's had a quiet moment alone and he really wants to see you again – he'd abscond with you to the nearest 24/7 diner and eat greasy burgers and share a milkshake rather than attend this wretched gala a second more, but he'll settle for hiding in a corner with you by his side until he can finally go home if he can't convince you to leave with him.
The bathroom door swings closed behind him as Wesker exits the room and follows the sound of your voice – not towards the gala, but further into the building where civilians don't have access. He finds you in the cops’ break room, doubled over in silent laughter while two other women, Irons’ secretary and the librarian, try and fail to operate the shitty coffee machine he knows you hate with a passion. They seem quite inebriated if their uncoordinated movements are anything to go by, but you seem alright when you straighten up.
Wesker thinks about making his presence known then, but something stops him. Perhaps it's a gut feeling, fate, or divine intervention, but he thinks it's just his need to observe and admire you, especially in a foreign element – surrounded by friends, obviously merry and having fun.
“And what about you, huh?” the librarian – he can't remember either of the two women's names for the life of him – asks indignantly once she's given up on trying to turn the machine on, continuing a conversation Wesker wasn't here to hear the beginning of. The secretary still valiantly attempts to operate it.
“What about me?” You don't sound drunk, but he can tell you're tipsy, just slightly, simply by your cadence and the loose body language you're displaying. He saw you like this only once before, during a lunch a few weeks ago when you had a few too many complimentary margaritas. It was endearing to watch you giggle out of nowhere and lean on him the whole way back to the station.
“When are you getting a man? My love life is in shambles but clearly things are working out for you.”
Wesker's blood freezes in his veins for a moment then, wondering if he's misread everything catastrophically badly this entire time, but your unimpressed scoff puts his fears to rest.
“As if. I don't know what you mean.”
“Oh, come off it,” the secretary jumps in, giving up on getting coffee as well. Wesker doesn't really understand why they want slop from the break room when he's pretty sure they're serving coffee at the bar as well – the good kind, even – but he's more interested in this discussion than the choices of drunk women at a work event. “What about you and Captain Hottie?”
You splutter indignantly, flushing immediately, and Wesker perks up as he realises they're talking about him.
“Yeah, Wesker's been wagging his tail at you since the moment you showed up. I swear I thought he was a robot or something until I saw him actually smile at you. Can't say he's my type, as pretty as that blonde hair is, but you certainly seem to like him,” the other drunken woman continues.
But you just shake your head, crossing your arms in the universal sign to stop, and it makes Wesker's heart drop to his stomach again. Is he finally going to get his rejection now?
“Guys, it's not… It's not like that, c'mon,” you protest.
“So you don't like him?”
“You should tell him that, then, cause I'm pretty sure he's about to start picking engagement rings if you go on any more of those lunch dates of yours.”
That makes Wesker scowl – they're not entirely wrong, but he hates that it's so easy for two women he barely interacts with to clock him so well. He doesn't even know their names!
“I do like him,” you say, fidgeting and looking so small that it makes Wesker's stomach twist weirdly – on the one hand, he's elated that you reciprocate, on the other he doesn't like the way your voice sounds and the expression your face is making right now. “But it's not like that. For him, I mean. He's just being nice, you know? What, can't a man be friends with a woman unless he wants to fuck her?”
“Well, of course he can!” one of your friends responds, too loudly for the quiet break room, as is the habit of drunk people.
“But we think it's pretty obvious he wants to bang ya, sweetheart,” the other adds gently.
Crude as the language is, they're right. Are you really this oblivious?
“He can't… He can't want that. Not with me.”
“Well, why the hell not?!”
“Because look at me!” you explode angrily. You look like you're in agony and it breaks Wesker's heart in two. He wants to grab you by the shoulders and pull you into his arms until you stop looking so upset. “He's so out of my league it's not even funny! He's the captain of that entire squad while I'm just the receptionist. For fuck's sake, he has a doctorate! That he earned at seventeen! How the fuck do I match that? And he's gorgeous! He's fit! I weigh more than he lifts, probably, and I don't wanna know how awful we look together when we walk side by side on the street!
“Captain Wesker is a kind man who is my dearest friend but nothing more. And that's the way things will remain. Men like him aren't for women like me.”
You straighten up as you end your speech in a quiet, resigned voice, and Wesker steps out of the doorway and into the shadows to let you pass without noticing him. He watches your back as you walk away, all traces of laughter and merriment gone from your posture as you stiffly put one foot in front of the other, but he can't make himself follow you immediately.
Instead, he stands there and replays your words in his head on loop – like a broken record he thinks might start sounding right if only he plays it enough times. Out of your league? Wesker? Who put those kinds of thoughts into your head?
You're utter perfection – from the moment he laid eyes on you, he was smitten. You may not have a PhD but you're smarter than most people working for Umbrella; you can get a degree any time, but critical thinking and good decision making are hard to come by these days. If anyone should feel insecure about how they make the other look, it should be Wesker, with his perpetual brooding and stiff exterior and the glasses he doesn't take off even when it's too dark to see properly. Not you.
He makes his way back to the main area, pale eyes scanning the crowd looking for you. He finds you lingering around his own people, Chris, Jill, and Joseph throwing you concerned looks while you almost seem to be hugging yourself as you grip a glass of champagne and smile at people greeting you as they pass you by, the expression obviously fake. He approaches you without another second of hesitation – he's held himself back long enough.
“Care to dance, my dear?” he asks as soon as he reaches you, not bothering to lower his voice so only you can hear him. If you worry about what the world thinks, then he'll show you just how much he doesn't care.
“Me?” Your head snaps up, startled, and your eyes widen before you take half a step back from Wesker. “Oh no, I'm afraid not. I can't dance.”
“Sure you can.” Wesker offers you a smile and extends his hand meaningfully, not intending to take ‘no’ for an answer now that he knows what's been holding you back. “You just need to follow my lead.”
You look from his hand to his face, swallowing dryly when your eyes shift nervously towards the people around you, but Wesker closes the gap between your bodies again and forces you to look at him, not them.
“O-okay. But I'm warning you now that I will step on your toes. And these heels are no joke,” you warn, lifting your foot to show off the uncomfortable looking, sharp-tipped heels you're wearing. He already knows you'll complain about your feet hurting tomorrow.
“I don't mind. There's no one I'd rather get my feet stomped on than you.”
Your eyes widen and your mouth parts to let an inaudible intake of breath pass through. All Wesker wants to do is taste your painted lips and smudge your lipstick everywhere he can as he trails kisses up and down your body. How silly can you be, how blind, to not see how pathetically whipped he is for you?
By the time the night is over, he'll show you.
“Lead the way then,” you murmur shyly and finally put your hand in his.
Wesker leads you to the dance floor, ignoring the thumbs up the three idiots he calls subordinates give him when he passes them by, then settles one arm around your waist, the other gripping your hand, while your free hand tentatively lies down on his shoulder. As a new slow piece starts playing, Wesker gently leads you through a simple dance, accounting for your inexperience and making sure he doesn't confuse you and cause you to stumble.
Your eyes are glued to your feet for the first few seconds of the dance, clearly anxious about stepping on his toes if you're not looking where you're going, so Wesker takes the opportunity to admire you from up close and personal. He stares without shame at your beautiful face and every dip, curve, and sharp angle he can find. You smell amazing – the trace of sweat only makes his mouth water as he imagines licking it up directly off your skin – and he's charmed by the glitter on your collarbones and dusted across your breasts, shining brightly under the fancy chandelier lights and pulling his attention there.
You look divine, a veritable goddess of old. He's a mere servant worshipping at your altar.
“I know I said it before but it bears repeating: you are resplendent, my dear. Not just tonight, of course, but these types of events really suit you,” he breaks the silence eventually, pulling your eyes away from your feet and back up to his face.
You make an embarrassed noise and try to duck your head, but Wesker uses your laced hands to tip your chin back up.
“There's no need to hide from me. I like what I see when I look at you.”
“Did you… You heard, didn't you?” you ask, dismayed, and Wesker nods.
“I didn't mean to, but I was regrouping in the bathroom and I overheard you.”
“Wait, are you okay? I know these things can be stressful and–”
“We're talking about you now,” Wesker interrupts you as he takes you on a spin around another couple expertly. You don't even notice how flawlessly you're dancing, how in-sync you are with him, how responsive to his wordless cues. “But I am okay. Hearing your voice nearby helped.”
“Oh, I… Really? Me?” you ask, flustered.
“Yes, you. Who else? Who have I been seeking every day for the past three months? Who have I been making excuses to talk to every chance I get, darling? Do you think I made Bethany call me every time a new piece of mail got dropped off?”
“Well… No, actually.” Your brow furrows adorably as you think through the past three months of interactions and Wesker has the pleasure to watch realisation come to life on your face in real time. “But that can't be right. I…”
It's risky and there's a big chance you might be weirded out by his confession instead of pleased, but he can't think of another thing to say that might drive his point home. He brings you closer, hand tightening on your waist slightly, and lowers his mouth to your ear so he can make sure you're the only one who hears this.
“Remember when I asked you to read that report to me over the phone a month or two ago?” he whispers, breath fanning over your ear and making goosebumps break out on your neck.
You swallow audibly and nod.
“I was giving myself a handjob because you got me hard with your voice and I couldn't take the sexual tension anymore without doing something about it,” he confesses. Your breath hitches and he can feel you trembling in his hold, but you don't pull yourself away or slap him clean across the face. “It's not the only time I did that, but it's the most memorable.”
He pulls away then, giving you back some space to breathe, and when he looks back at you, you appear struck dumb by his confession. Notably, you still haven't walked away from him.
“So you mean… All those times you asked me to get dinner with you…?”
“I was asking you out on a date. I wasn't sure if it was your subtle way of rejecting me or not and I didn't want to risk a harassment report so I didn't push.”
“Oh.”
Wesker lets you process that for a moment during which he keeps leading you along in a slow, intimate dance, but when you lift your eyes back up to regard him, he stands up straight under your scrutiny and awaits your judgement.
“Am I just a kink for you? A fun little experience you can cross off a list and then never talk to me again outside of a professional setting?”
“No.” Wesker shakes his head vehemently and tightens his hold on you, bringing you much closer as he puts both of your hands on his chest and circles your waist with his arms. The position is impossibly intimate, especially for this setting, especially for two people who are supposed to be nothing more than coworkers, but you don't protest. You realise what he's doing – making a public display of his interest in you, not trying to hide you like a dirty secret to be squirreled away. “Your laughter turns me on, dearest. You got tipsy a while back and all I wanted was to take you home and pet your hair while you slept it off. I want to wash your hair and massage your sore muscles after work and feed you the most expensive and decadent foods by hand while you sit on my lap.
“And yes, I also want to fuck you into the mattress until you can't walk and eat your pussy so much that I forget what real food tastes like,” he explains in a low voice, staring into your eyes and willing you to understand. You're clearly affected by his words but he can see you leaning closer, hypnotised by his words and not repulsed. “I want both. I want everything. I want you.”
You're almost nose to nose now, breaths mingling until Wesker can't tell whose air he's breathing, not that he cares, and you come to a gentle stop near the edge of the dance floor when the last notes from the live orchestra fade away into silence.
“I want you too,” you murmur, almost afraid of your own words, and look at him with so much vulnerability it makes his heart twist. “I didn't think I was allowed to.”
Wesker brushes his nose against yours before he pulls away, forcing himself not to close the gap between your mouths because this isn't the place he wants your first kiss to happen.
“There is nothing I want you to do more than want me back, my darling.”
You swallow and nod and step away from him with more difficulty than such a gesture should warrant, which he can understand and relate to.
“Okay then. Is that offer for dinner still available? I would like to take you up on it.”
Wesker smiles and takes your hand in his, lacing your fingers together and feeling like he's on cloud nine when you squeeze his hand and let yourself be held.
“Yes, it is. I have all the ingredients I need to make you the best steak you've ever had,” he answers and starts tugging you along as he makes his way towards the coat check.
“Steak? Right now? It's almost midnight,” you protest but you hand over your ticket to get your coat checked out and let Wesker help you into it without fuss.
“Did you drive here?” he asks as he leads you out of the RPD and towards the underground parking lot. “And yes, of course right now. You haven't eaten anything all evening, I'm making you something to eat.”
“No, I took a cab. And how do you know I haven't eaten? You weren't even next to me for most of the night.”
Wesker smiles as he leads you to his car, unlocking it and pulling open the passenger door for you, then, quite unnecessarily, he bends over your seated form and buckles your seat belt for you, bringing his face inappropriately close to your breasts. He can see you stilling at his proximity, ceasing to breathe for those scant few seconds he spends bent over, before he pulls away and gives you a grin. You can barely meet his eyes when he straightens up.
“Because I know you. You hate eating in public because you feel watched and judged. Maybe you nibbled on a couple of canapés, but no more than that. Am I wrong?”
“I hate when you do that,” you grumble, which is as much of a concession as you're willing to make. Wesker's grin stretches but he takes his win gracefully and simply closes the door so he can round the car and get behind the wheel.
You seem nervous on the way to his apartment, so he doesn't put pressure on you to talk. Instead, he turns the stereo on and lets his last CD play – one of your favourite albums. The familiar music takes the pressure off and relaxes you, and he doesn't miss the soft smile that plays on your lips every time you glance from the stereo to him and back again.
Once inside, he helps take your coat off, hangs it up in the entryway, then slowly approaches you until he's cupping your face and making you look at him. He rubs a gentle thumb over your cheek and wonders at how wonderful it feels to hold you this way without restraint.
“I don't want anything from you that you aren't ready or willing to give,” he begins, capturing your attention quickly with those words. “All I want to do tonight is feed you and look at you without any barriers, professional or societal. I can drive you home as soon as you put your fork down. I can drive you home right now, even. Just tell me, okay?”
You swallow and nod, your tongue darting out to wet your lips and smudging your lipstick a little.
“Yes. Thank you.”
But Wesker shakes his head. “Never thank me for something like this. You deserve everything.”
You let him press a gentle kiss on your forehead, smiling happily when he pulls away, then start taking your heels off while Wesker dumps his expensive and highly uncomfortable death traps at the door and walks away to find a pair of slippers for you.
He gets a perfect view of your breasts when he comes back, bent over as you are while trying to undo the strap on your second heel, and though Wesker is the biggest pervert on the planet when it comes to you, he ignores the way his cock twitches at the sight and takes a knee in front of you instead.
“Let me help you with that.”
You straighten up slowly and watch him from behind your lashes as he deftly frees your strap from its confines and carefully pulls the shoe off your foot. He can't resist laying a kiss on your ankle before he lets go of it and gets back to his feet but it doesn't seem like you mind.
“Here, wear these. The floors are cold.”
“Thank you.”
He leads you into the kitchen then and helps you up onto a stool at the counter before he takes off his suit jacket and bow tie and throws them over another stool without care. He unbuttons his shirt at the collar until he feels like he can breathe, then takes off his cufflinks and rolls the sleeves up, exposing his forearms. Left in a much looser and comfortable shirt and the waistcoat underneath the jacket, Wesker feels much more at ease.
“Something on my face?” he asks with a smirk when he turns his attention back to you and finds you staring at him as if you want to devour him instead of the steak he plans on cooking for you.
“Yeah,” you breathe out, licking your lips subconsciously. “A stupidly smug, handsome face.”
Wesker laughs and walks over to the fridge so he can begin pulling ingredients out.
“I have a face on my face? My, that sounds serious.”
“Terminal,” you deadpan, already annoyed at his teasing, and it tickles him in a way he can't truly describe the magnitude of to see you already back to your usual self.
“Does asparagus and mashed potatoes sound good to you? I think I have some mushrooms left over that I could whip up a sauce with, but I can't guarantee they're still fresh,” he calls out with his head stuck in the fridge as he analyses its contents to determine what would make a good side for the steak.
“Sounds good.”
Nodding, he pulls out what he needs, closes the fridge with his hip, then walks back to the counter and dumps everything on it before he starts sorting things out by order of preparation. You watch him curiously, your beautiful eyes analysing how he pulls the raw meat out and lets it rest at room temperature for a bit, then starts prepping the asparagus for when he cooks it on the stove later and the potatoes for the mash.
“Do you need me to do anything?”
Wesker hums, peeling potatoes and dumping them in a pot without looking up at you – he knows he'll peel a finger if he gets distracted by your beauty, and he will get distracted.
“Yes, you can take the bottle of wine out of the pantry and pour yourself a glass. Or, if you prefer, I can make you a cocktail after I'm done with these.”
“I meant for the food and you know it,” you grouse but he spies you getting to your feet out of the corner of his eye and hears you padding over to the pantry you saw him pull potatoes out of. “I don't know much about wines but this looks expensive.”
“That's because it is,” Wesker answers simply. “Corkscrew in that drawer there.”
You walk back to the counter with your loot in hand, then rummage in the drawer until you find the corkscrew – he hasn't used it in a while and it's gotten buried in a bunch of other crap. He finishes peeling the potatoes so he allows himself a moment to admire you: the way your bicep flexes when you turn the corkscrew to drive it into the cork and your pleased smile, almost triumphant, when you manage to pop it out of the bottle without issue. You turn to him with that same, proud grin and show him your success as if it's a prize.
God, he's so in love with you.
“How was that for a strong independent woman?”
He shakes his head at you which makes you crack up as you put the cork and its new accessory down. He walks around you to reach the cabinet where he holds his glasses and pulls out two wine glasses that he places in front of you on the counter with a wink.
“Try not to spill when you pour, independent woman.”
You stick your tongue out at him – he fights the urge to bite down on it – but pour two glasses for the both of you flawlessly. You even pour the correct amounts, instead of filling them up to the top the way amateurs do. He gives you a grateful smile when you hand him his glass and takes a sip before he goes back to his preparations and puts the pot of potatoes on the stove to boil.
While that happens, there's not much for Wesker to do. He needs to wait until he can cook the steak, both to let it warm up at room temperature and because he can't cook it until it's almost time to eat anyway, and the asparagus doesn't need much prep before cooking. So, while he waits for the potatoes to be done, he takes a seat across from you at the counter and drinks his wine slowly.
“Did you really not pick up on any of my signals?” he decides to ask, still curious about that. You're so undeniably attractive to him that he can't really fathom that you would think otherwise about yourself, so he's having a hard time wrapping his head around the whole thing.
“I did not,” you confirm, grimacing and taking a sip of your wine. “Or rather, I kind of did? But I convinced myself I was projecting my desire onto you and that I was being delusional.”
“Why? Why is it so hard to believe that I could want you?”
You let go of the stem of your wine glass and push it away from you so you can free both of your hands and wrap your arms around yourself. Just like earlier in the break room, you look small in a way that bothers him and this time, he doesn't resist the urge to tug you into his arms. He rounds the counter and gently pulls you into him, letting you hide yourself against his chest and not caring one bit if you get your makeup or glitter on the white shirt underneath his waistcoat or not.
“Because no one has ever wanted me before in a way that didn't make me feel dirty,” you answer, clutching at his back and mumbling your words because of your face being pressed up against his chest. Wesker recalls your words from the gala – the question about you being a mere kink for him – and he understands what you mean exactly. He knows… men are disgusting when it comes to their attraction to women sometimes. They will spit on a trans woman in the streets but come around the block after dark and pay one of them to spend an hour with him before he goes home to the wife and kids. It's not a secret to Wesker that attraction is not the same as acceptance and respect, but to think that you have been on the receiving end of lust without the latter two makes his blood boil.
“Do I make you feel dirty?”
“No,” you answer without hesitation, which at least makes it easier to breathe knowing that he didn't give you the impression that he would ever use you like that, even accidentally. “But sometimes I would make myself feel like that because I felt like it was wrong of me to be attracted to you, to have feelings for you, when you were just being nice to me and being my friend.”
“To be looked at with love or lust by you is to be blessed, my dear,” Wesker retorts in an instant as he cards a hand through your scalp and pulls you closer to his chest, kissing the crown of your head and hoping you can feel how his heart beats for you.
“You can't just… say things like that,” you groan, rubbing your forehead against him but pulling him even closer to you.
“And whyever not? It's how I feel.”
“Because it makes me want selfish things. Depraved things.”
“Want them, then. Do them. Act upon your desires. Nothing you want from me is off limits – say the word and it's yours.”
You pull away from him to look at his face and Wesker can read every filthy thought you're having right now plainly in your eyes. It ignites a fire in him too and he hopes you won't stifle it again even though he will not nudge you in either direction. This is your decision and no one else's. Wesker can wait for you another three months – another three years, even, or a lifetime if that is your wish. The ball is in your court now.
You lift your hands up to his face and cup his cheeks like he's made of glass and you're afraid of breaking him and cutting yourself on the shards. He lets you go at your own pace, simply reveling in how good it feels to be touched with such reverence and care, and melts into you when you tug him down to your level and shyly brush your lips against his.
“Kiss me how you've been craving,” you murmur quietly in the non-existent space between you, giving him permission, and Wesker doesn't need to be told twice.
He slots himself between your legs, pulling your chest flush against his own, then sinks his right hand into your hair, holding the back of your head firmly, while his left hand cups the side of your face and tilts it up until he's satisfied. Then, and only then, does he lean back down and pull your lips into a kiss, prying them open with gentle care and pouring his insatiable hunger into you as he licks into your mouth and finally finds out how sweet you taste. He swallows every moan that escapes you, pulling away only for brief seconds at a time to let you catch your breath before diving back in and caressing your tongue with his some more.
He doesn't stop until his own lungs are burning and even then, he doesn't go far. His forehead rests against yours and, in between harsh breaths to get oxygen back into his body, he steals short, sweet pecks from your lips that you happily let him get away with doing.
“I don't think I want you to drive me home tonight,” you utter after a few quiet minutes of breathing each other's air in.
Wesker rubs your cheek tenderly and gives you one more peck, this one a bit longer and deeper than the previous ones, then finally pulls away from you.
“I don't think I want to do that either.”
He goes back to his seat because he needs the physical barrier of the counter between you if he doesn't want to jump you right here and now. You let him go just as reluctantly and when, after a few minutes of you stealing glances at each other and forcing yourselves to look away and distract yourselves with drinking your wine, you realise neither of you has said anything for more than five minutes, you both burst into laughter and the tension breaks.
“Two grown adults can't keep it in their pants until dinner is over,” you comment, giggling and shaking your head. Wesker can't help copying you and he feels so free to be himself around you, to not have to wear a certain mask that is expected of him and just… be. Even when you laugh at him. Perhaps especially then.
Dinner comes out perfect, as it usually does when he bothers cooking for himself anything that's harder than a simple soup or a pot of pasta, and you let him feed you instead of doing it yourself after a bit of cajoling. In truth, it's obvious that you enjoy the care and attention, and Wesker loves being the one to provide it for you. When you insist on picking up the other fork and feeding him pieces of steak and mashed potatoes, an unfamiliar but wholly pleasant feeling swoops in his stomach as he parts his lips for you and lets you feed him just as carefully as he had been doing to you.
By the way your eyes sparkle and darken at the sight of his lips wrapping around the fork and the appreciative hum he lets out as he chews, he knows you might understand his desire better now.
Once dinner is done, he abandons the dishes in the sink without a care for once in his life and, instead, hoists you up into his arms and carries you to his bedroom. He lays you down in the middle of his bed and takes a moment to just look at you and admire the way you look: sated, relaxed, full of desire for him, spread out atop his sheets with the bright moonlight outside his window lighting you up like a diamond and making you shine just as brightly. In short: you look perfect.
He spends long minutes simply kissing you. Your lips are divine and he can't get enough of how warm your tongue is, how sweet your mouth, especially with the taste of the dinner he cooked for you lingering behind. He catalogues every moan, every sigh, every hitched breath that he can pull out of you just by kissing you, and he adds it to his mental folder that he's been compiling for you from the moment you met.
He peels you out of the dress slowly. He unravels you like a present, like an expensive painting he ordered a long time ago and which has finally arrived, like the most precious of artefacts he doesn't want to break by being too rough. To his delight, you have been hiding a garter belt under your dress, at least this once, and he is more than happy to take it off with his teeth. Once you're completely naked under him, Wesker feels like he could die quite happily now. He has seen heaven already so there is nothing to wonder about on the other side.
“Do you feel comfortable sitting on my face, my dear?” he asks gently, running a reverent hand over your cheek and down your body, watching with rapt attention the way you react to his touch – your skin breaks out in goosebumps and you are ticklish in certain spots, but you lean towards his fingers and follow him like a sunflower seeking the sun anyway. That he could ever be anyone's sun, let alone yours, is hard to fathom, but he would do anything to nurture you and give you everything you deserve.
“I think so,” you say in a breathy voice that transitions into a moan muffled by you biting your lip when he trails his hand back up and tweaks your nipple slightly. Your breasts are even more gorgeous like this, naked and free to spill down the sides of your torso, so full and flawless, not a foreign mark on them – just waiting for Wesker's mouth to bruise them up and lay his claim.
“Up you go, then.”
Still fully clothed, he lays down next to you and gestures for you to straddle his face. You do so hesitantly, clearly unsure of this position, but when you throw your leg over his body and shuffle upwards, he tugs you the rest of the way until your beautiful pussy is level with his face and pulls you down exactly where he wants you. Your legs immediately go slack as you take a proper seat the second his mouth wraps around your clit and Wesker smirks against your scorching cunt at the easy victory.
Your taste is like crisp, cold water in the middle of the night, like the juiciest fruit in summer, like nectar dripping from the teat of a Goddess nurturing humanity with her life-giving blood. It's everything he's been dreaming of and more.
Wesker eats you out like he's starved for it. You start riding his face pretty fast once he gets you going and every time you tug at his hair and pull him closer to your cunt without inhibitions, the sting goes straight to his cock and has him throbbing in his pants. He sucks on your clit, flicks his tongue in every pattern he knows just to see which one gives him the best results, laps at your folds and dips into your dripping hole like he's drinking directly from the tap. When he looks up at you, mouth busy spelling his name against your clit and nose buried in your hair as he breathes in the intoxicating scent of a dripping wet pussy all his for the taking, he is greeted with the sight of your heaving chest, tits heavy as they hang above his head like a taunt, and you watching him like you can't believe he's real while you whine and moan wantonly, his name featuring heavily in your little litany.
How is it possible to feel like a servant yet feel so worshipped at the same time?
“Oh, Albert, that feels so good,” you moan, a fistful of his blonde hair in your hand while the other cups your own breast and squeezes. Wesker moans as he sees it, wishing it was his hand there instead, and the sound makes you grind down on his face shamelessly. “Just… Just like that. Oh, fuck. I'm gonna come. Please make me come!”
Wesker sucks on your clit like a man possessed, laving his tongue just the way he's seen gets the best response out of you, and he has you coming in his mouth less than a minute later as you shake above him and grind his nose against your sensitive clit while his tongue laps up your release.
His scalp aches from where you pulled on his hair and his tongue is a bit useless now after the intense exercise he put it through, but he couldn't be happier. Especially when you climb off of him and give him a filthy, heated kiss that burns his lungs, and start pulling at his clothes like you want to rip them apart and climb him like a tree.
“That was the best oral I've ever received,” you mumble in between kisses as you run your hands over his naked chest and dig your nail into the soft muscle of his pecs. “I will suck your soul out through your cock for that.”
Wesker moans in response to your words – and the hand you teasingly trail over the tent in his pants – which makes you giggle before pulling away from his lips and undressing him properly.
He wants to tell you that he doesn't need you to do that – liar, he absolutely does – but you're pulling his dick out and swallowing it down to the root before he can do more than think about which order those words should be put in.
He's not ashamed to say he whines and fists the sheets like a virgin as you suck him off. Your mouth is divine and that tongue of yours is wicked – it finds all his sensitive places like a heat-seeking missile and licks at and swirls around them until he's begging you to stop before he comes too soon and ends your fun before it has time to begin.
You pull off his cock with a pop, saliva trailing from your lips to his shaft, and Wesker groans at the sight as he grabs his cock and squeezes the base to stave off an orgasm. You laugh at his predicament, an evil witch who revels in the suffering of men (as you should), but lie down on your side next to him and run your fingers gently through his hair while you press sweet kisses to his cheek.
“Just… give me a minute. I don't want to come the second I enter you.”
“It's okay, I can wait,” you reassure lightly, not a trace of judgement or impatience in your voice. When Wesker flicks his eyes to you, you're looking at him like he's a wonder. He's never been looked at like that before. “I don't think I can go back to being casual after this, Albert. Not when my feelings for you are only growing with every second I spend with you.”
He turns his face to rub his nose against yours and smiles at the way you close your eyes in bliss at the affection.
“I'd marry you tomorrow if you said yes,” he confesses quietly in the silence that lingers. “I know it's insane. But I love you. You're ‘it’ for me. I think I'm like a swan, you know?”
“You mate for life?” you ask just as quietly, voice hushed and heavy with a feeling he can't name but thinks he might be sharing.
“Precisely.”
Your lips on his aren't a surprise, but they are a treat. You kiss him deeply, hungrily yet without hurry, as if you've finally understood that he's not going anywhere, that you have all the time in the world to explore him, to learn how he works, to get familiar with his body and conquer it slowly.
When you break the kiss, your hand is laid on his chest, palm down right over his heart, and you look him deeply in the eye before you say, “I don't know how much of a swan I am, but I know I love you more than is healthy after only three months of knowing you and that I can't imagine living without you now that I've had you.”
“That's good enough for me,” Wesker declares, then pulls you back in for another kiss and rolls himself on top of you, opening your legs and finding your entrance so he can push his cock inside slowly while your sweet mouth moans your pleasure against his lips the more he stretches you.
“Oh, that feels so good. So big,” you praise, moaning when he bottoms out, and it makes him whine for whatever reason as he hides his face in your neck. “Oh, you like that? Like hearing how big you are? How good? How you stretch me better with half your cock than others have managed with the entire thing?”
“Ah, stop,” Wesker protests, panting against your slick skin, and pulls out slowly so he can drive himself back in. That makes you gasp and tighten your legs around his waist, while your nails dig into the meat of his ass and make him hiss in pain, but the kind that makes him crave more.
“Why should I?” you challenge. “You're amazing, Albert. You're so sweet, so thoughtful, so attentive. No one's ever cooked for me before or asked me to ride their face or needed a break to avoid coming too soon because I turn them on too much. You're perfect and I love you.”
In spite of all his attempts to stop this exact thing from happening, your words unravel him. Wesker comes inside of you before he can do more than shut his eyes and wrap his arms tightly around your torso. You moan softly as he fills you up and rake a hand up his back until you find his hair and tangle your fingers in his strands.
“Fuck, I'm sorry.” He feels horrible because this is the best sex he's ever had and he's barely even fucked you, but you're just warming his spent cock while soothing him through his orgasm.
“Don't be. I like this,” you reassure and nuzzle his temple before pressing a light kiss there. “And you've already made me come, you know.”
“But I also want to fuck you.”
“Eh, fucking is overrated anyway.”
You might be telling the truth – maybe you really don't mind and this is enough – but Wesker doesn't want to end it here. So, stubbornly, he pulls his cock out of your cunt and thrusts back in, gritting his teeth at how sensitive he feels, and just pumps in and out of you until that feeling goes away and he feels aroused again. It takes a bit and you're incredibly patient though it all, which, oddly, makes Wesker feel more confident instead of the expected humiliation he might have felt if this had happened with anyone else.
“You really– ah!– don't have to,” you say again but he's already picking up speed and fucking you nicely, making your pussy tighten and cream around his cock with every thrust inside.
“I want to,” he answers simply. He lifts himself up slightly so that he's using his knees to hold himself up over you, his hands on your plush hips, and your protests die on your tongue as you throw your head back and moan loudly every time he bottoms out, voice breaking when he hits your g-spot.
Your pussy feels perfect around his cock – warm and so wet as it squelches with every thrust and tells him what a good job he's doing making you feel good. He wraps his lips around one of your bouncing tits too and sucks on the nipple and grazes it with his teeth while his fingers find your clit and start playing with it while he pounds your pussy properly.
He can barely make out any coherent words in your speech, just occasional calls of his name thrown in between moans and whines.
“Come for me, gorgeous. Milk me dry,” he encourages, driving even harder into your cunt and tweaking your clit right when he rubs up against that special spot.
“Oh fuck, fill me up,” you moan, squeezing his cock like a vise as you come again, thighs shaking around his hips and pussy drooling like its trying to form a lake under your ass.
That is enough to make Wesker come again, too, and it feels just as good as it did the first time to bury himself deep inside your cunt and flood you with his cum while your nails almost tear his back open in pleasure.
When he gets his bearings again and looks down at you, you have a deeply satisfied and happy look on your face, which is precisely what anyone wants to see after having sex, but especially what he wants to see after his first time with you.
“Good, my dear?”
You giggle and grab him by the hair to pull him into a sweet kiss before letting go.
“Best. Ever.”
“You know, you don't have to lie to stroke my ego,” he teases, scraping his teeth against your neck to make you squirm and gasp before he wraps his lips around a spot he knows you can hide with your work clothes and gives you a hickey.
“You don't need it,” you sigh, seemingly happy with his little marking project as he begins making hickeys everywhere he can the further down he goes. “So I'm not lying. I've never felt so… attractive. Do you know how hot it is to see a man who looks like you absolutely lose it and bust early because of me?”
Wesker smiles around the mouthful of tit he has in his mouth and sucks that hickey quickly before he lets it go so he can speak.
“Not as hot as you telling me those sweet things, darling.”
“I meant every single one,” you murmur, scratching idly at his scalp as he props his chin up on your sternum, careful not to dig too deeply and make you hurt. “If I wasn't already in love with you before tonight, I would be now. You know how to charm a lady.”
“No, I just love you,” he denies and lifts himself up so he can kiss you again.
You tangle in the sheets together for long hours during that night. He can't get enough of you, no matter how much his dick protests at the torment after the fourth time he fucks you, but when he gets too tired to get it up again or too overstimulated, he just uses his mouth and fingers. His bed sees more action in one night than it has in all the time he's had it – you're the only person he's ever felt comfortable having in the bed he sleeps in, the kitchen he eats in, the house he calls home.
You both call in sick the next morning, too tired to do more than crack an eye open and say ‘fuck it’ when the clock reads six in the morning. Once your respective calls have been made, Wesker pulls you back into his arms, snuggling against your back and holding one of your breasts like a stress relief toy, and falls back asleep almost instantly, fully feeling like he's home and he's safe for the first time in his life.
It feels like his entire life he's been heading towards you and he's finally found you.
When he wakes up for good later around noon and sees you spread like a starfish on top of him, drooling on his chest with one of your knees digging into his stomach uncomfortably, Wesker has never felt happier in his life. He could live out the rest of his life like this and not get bored of it – and he will. No matter what happens, he knows this: you have to be the one constant in his life or else he'll go insane. You're his now and he doesn't let go of things very easily.
Something tells him that that won't be a problem, though. You seem just as enamoured with him as he is with you.
(He actually proposes a month later, like the insane person he is. You say yes, because you're just as insane. You don't have a traditional wedding but he buys you the dress and you wear it when he takes you to City Hall to sign the papers in June of ‘98. He tells you the truth about Umbrella the night before, though, but you simply look him in the eye and tell him that he could be a serial killer and you probably wouldn't care. Which is good because he kills a lot of people – or indirectly causes their deaths – not even a month later and then goes on to become a well known and hunted international bioterrorist after that.
You follow him everywhere he goes. You don't ever try to change him or make him feel bad for the way he is – physically or otherwise. And he loves you more with every day that passes, never once ceasing to believe that you are a Goddess, even before his own god complex kicks in. You are everything to him and Wesker never lets you forget.
And every year on your anniversary, he cooks you a steak dinner and slowly feeds it to you while you sit in his lap and do the same, before you retire to the bedroom and have marathon sex – these days, he doesn't come prematurely anymore because of his enhancements; he just fucks you until you can't take it anymore and then just a little bit past that. You do look beautiful when you're incoherent from pleasure, after all.)