what they don’t tell you about being a writer is that returning to a long fic you haven’t touched in a while means rereading 50k words first because you don’t actually remember your own fics that well
Tags: No Use of Y/N for Reader-Insert; Gender-Neutral Reader-Insert; Light Angst; Insecurity; Hurt/Comfort; Soft Albert Wesker; Protective Albert Wesker; Suggestive Themes; Fluff
Word Count: 1,963
Summary: Insecurities regarding your accent. Albert puts them to rest.
Also on Ao3: Here
a/n: Inspired by me sending a voice note to my friend a week ago and playing it back only to cringe the entire time bc I sound horribly eastern european and I hate it. Also by the fact that sometimes I feel bad because I'm a 25yo university drop out with no real future or prospects :) I feel inferior and self conscious about it so I decided to write a fic about it.
Not being from the U.S. has never bothered you. There are plenty of things to love in your country, plenty of reasons to be proud of it even while being aware of its flaws and shortcomings. You love your mother tongue and your culture and the traditions you grew up with. Frankly, you miss it sometimes – the freedom to speak the language of your soul and know that you will be understood, to walk down the street and not fear running into a street sign you can't read or ask for directions you don't understand.
You speak English very well. It took years and dedication to master this language but you did it. Your vocabulary is better in English than your own native tongue sometimes, especially in the areas you've most had to use English in. You grew up seeing it everywhere, hearing it everywhere, being told that it was the language of the future, of trade, of civilization, and that any idiot should learn it because it will, one day, become indispensable.
But you didn't grow up with English, not really. More like you grew up around it. Alongside it. And it shows.
Your ‘r's don't roll right. You pause a lot while searching for words. Your inflections are so obviously foreign sometimes, emphasising the wrong part of a word, and sometimes when you try to express a sentiment from your own language and can't find the equivalent saying, you just direct-translate without even realising that that's not a thing in English, not until someone looks at you weirdly for it. And don't even think about all the times you forgot how an idiom went and you said something that didn't sound right at all but you just couldn't remember how it went for the life of you.
It's humiliating.
You hate it.
You hate your tongue for refusing to imitate the sounds you know you can replicate in your mind. You hate your mind for buffering and forgetting words you were using without issue the day before.
You know you're smart. You can talk circles around any native English speaker any day.
So long as the talking is done in writing, though. Because as soon as you open your mouth, your perceived intelligence drops by several degrees in everyone's eyes.
You met Wesker when he was visiting your country for business. He was muttering something unkind about the state of your country and you don't know what possessed you to do it, but you turned to him with furious eyes and called him an asshole.
“Not everyone in this ‘shithole of a country’ is illiterate and uneducated the way you seem to think, American. I can understand you just fine, so maybe watch your tongue. If you hate it so much here then I suggest you leave. We don't need your precious American dollars here anyway.”
He told you several months later that that's when he knew you were going to be very important to him. In contrast, in that moment you just wanted to slap him so hard he spun all the way back to where he came from.
He invited you for coffee. Asked you to be his guide for the two weeks he was supposed to stay there.
“Since you're so adamant your country has more to offer than bad customer service and potholes, why don't you show it to me? I'll pay you.”
You didn't take his money – as infuriating as his arrogance was, he was good company, intelligent, funny, and he didn't patronise you about the things that mattered. But you showed him all the good things tourists never saw because they fell for the traps designed specifically to take their money and give them a weak facsimile of the real thing.
You fell in love with him in a mere two weeks. You told yourself it was a crush – it wasn't but you wouldn't accept that until a year later. He didn't fall in love; he just decided that you were suited to him and would be his from that moment on. Love came later, even though his tenderness showed even then.
At the end of his trip, he asked if you were any good at geography. You said you could learn. He offered you a job – indefinite, ridiculously well paid, off the books. Danger, wrapped in riches. But that's not why you took it – you took it because he asked, because he took his glasses off and let you look into his odd eyes without barriers and rubbed his thumb over the back of your hand as he talked. You took it because part of you was already hoping he would ask before he did.
You've been by his side for years now. His time of traveling from country to country for business is behind him but you remain even if your initial purpose has ended. You love him more than is advisable and he treats you better than he's ever treated anyone who wasn't him. You're an odd pair but you make it work and that's all that matters.
But you still have your insecurities.
As a foreign university drop-out with a noticeable accent, it's hard not to feel inadequate when you see who Albert surrounds himself with. And that's without taking him into account.
Everyone around you is accomplished. Even if they are foreign and have accents, it's like that's an exception they're allowed to have because look at all the degrees they have, all the accomplishments, all the accolades. What do you have to show for your atrocious accent?
You've heard the whispers. People wondering if he found you in a brothel, wondering how good your mouth is for Albert Wesker to keep you around, wondering how much he's paying you to let that ‘sadistic bastard’ break you nightly. They don't know that the first time Albert cried in front of someone else was with you. They don't know he's obsessive about how he handles you, how far he can push before he bruises you too badly (by his standards, not yours), they don't know he taught you how to have sex in a way that didn't make you feel like a prop for his pleasure.
They don't know. Nor do you want them to. But their words still sting because you feel like the most stupid person on earth every time you open your mouth and your words don't come out the way you want them to.
Albert finds you sulking in bed on one of these days, listening to a stupid pronunciation podcast and trying to mould your mouth in a way that produces the same sound you hear. You swear you're doing the same thing the idiot in the podcast is doing, but you can still hear your accent in there and it makes you chuck your phone at the wall and watch it shatter before you fall back on the bed and look up at the ceiling with burning eyes.
“What is the matter, beloved?”
You curse in your own language under your breath, glad that at least that comes out sounding right, and shrug without looking at him.
“I sound stupid. I'm trying to fix that.”
You can feel Albert's frown without looking. The bed dips under his weight and his elegant hand reaches for your chin, caressing it softly before the tugs on it to move your head. You let it flop sideways as you look at him with teary eyes.
“You sound perfect, there is nothing to fix,” he denies swiftly, his thumb rubbing at your skin gently.
“That's a lie. I have an accent.”
“You do. It's one of the things I like about you.”
You scoff. “Really? You like it when I sound like I learned English in a barn? When I can't find my words and stammer like an idiot? Or, hey, maybe–”
Albert digs his fingers into your face and glares down at you. The gesture shuts you up immediately.
“Don't speak badly of yourself. You are smarter than half the people I know, an accent doesn't change that.”
“Doesn't it, though?” you ask in a voice so small you're afraid he wouldn't be able to hear it if it weren't for his heightened senses. “People judge you by how you speak and how you sound. And they judge me a lot. The things they say…”
“Point those people out to me and they will be disposed of.”
“That's extreme.”
“Not when it comes to you. You know that,” Albert iterates firmly and, yeah. You do. You still remember that time one of his would-be business partners assumed you were there to serve coffee and he treated you like a servant the entire meeting. Albert plucked his heart out on his way out. He still got the contract the company he was representing was offering.
“It's not even just what other people think, anyway,” you lament, brushing off his violent love declaration in favour of whining some more about something that's really bothering you. “It makes me feel bad every time I open my mouth. Doesn't it turn you off in bed when I moan things with that horrible accent? I don't even pronounce your name right in the heat of the moment.”
“My dear,” Albert begins, leaning closer and hovering his lips over yours while his hot breath warms your skin, “your accent in bed makes me harder than a rock. If you could suck my cock with an accent, I fear I would be finished in under a minute.”
You laugh despite yourself, chest warming with love and your lower regions warming with desire, and part your lips eagerly when he closes the distance between you and caresses them with his own lips. When he pulls away, he rubs his thumb over your bottom lip then steals one more peck before straightening up.
“I hope our children will one day share your accent. That's how much I love it,” he declares in a soft murmur.
You make a face at the prospect and nip gently at his nail, his thumb still resting on your lip.
“God, I hope not. Spare them.”
“Would you rather they sounded American, then?”
“Equally as terrible, thanks,” you joke, joining him in laughter when he starts shaking with amusement, and your mood has already lifted significantly from the moment he entered the room to now. “You really know how to make me feel better, huh.”
Albert leans back over you and kisses your temple, inhaling your scent briefly before pulling away.
“I love you,” he says simply and that is answer enough.
“Yeah, I guess you do… I love you, too.”
He removes his shoes then climbs into bed with you, pulling you into his arms and keeping you cradled close, your back to his front as you rest against his shoulder. He pulls up a book on his tablet – your favourite, in your language – and he starts reading out loud, stopping periodically as you correct his pronunciation or he asks you what a word means and why it's spelled like that. You do your best to explain things that come instinctively to you and Albert listens attentively, nodding at your words and smiling when you're done talking before he gives you a sweet kiss as thanks.
It's good to hear your language from someone's lips who isn't you, even if it sounds a tad off and the grammar isn't perfect when he stops reading and starts a conversation with you. Just the fact that he's trying – for you – makes it all worth it.
And to think that you met because he was insulting the place that birthed you and you decided to cuss him out for it. Funny how fate works.
Don't you hear me howling? (Albert Wesker x f!Reader)
Tags: No Use of Y/N for Reader-Insert; AFAB Reader-Insert; Pregnancy; Pregnancy Kink; Breeding Kink; S.T.A.R.S. Member Albert Wesker; Soft Albert Wesker; Discussion of Abortion; Coworkers to Lovers; Mutual Pining; Fluff; Hurt/Comfort; Angst; Possessive Albert Wesker; Protective Albert Wesker; Obsessive Albert Wesker; Food Kink; Misogyny; Fat Shaming; Threats of Violence; Slut Shaming but not the sexy kind; Flirting; First Kiss; Office Sex; Lactation Kink; Cunnilingus; Masturbation; Come Shot; Come Eating; Epilogue; Penis in Vagina Sex; Creampie
Word Count: 9,720
Summary: Wesker never gave you more than a passing glance in the year he's known you as the pretty, kind receptionist of the RPD. It isn't until he sees you bursting at the seams with pregnancy that his vague attraction blooms into feral need and the desire to possess.
Also on Ao3: Here
a/n: Title is from It Will Come Back by Hozier.
Okay so I started writing this fic then got curious about pregnancy related things, especially when it comes to workplace laws and stuff, and found out that maternity leave only starts like a month, maybe TWO before THE DUE DATE. What the hell?? Like ik it's probably worse in the US or sth, I already expected that, but even outside of the US it's not much better. Why the fuck are pregnant people expected to work when they're like. 5 months along? 6 months along? Hello?? Am I the only one who thinks this is bonkers? Even if you don't do physically taxing stuff, being pregnant sounds pretty taxing on its own. Literally why are reproductive rights so archaic omg I'm tired of this shit 😩
Therefore, take your disbelief and leave it at the door for this fic. Pretend you live in a world where you get to go on leave any time you want during your pregnancy (or at least MUCH earlier than 7 months the fuck???).
I chucked breeding kink, pregnancy kink, AND lactation kink at Wesker like smoke bombs before taking cover. All the while making him an absolute muncher AND making sure to clarify that he likes meatier women 🥰 I can multitask very well, hire me.
This came to me when I was reading a tiktok slideshow from a romanian creator who messages women's partners to test them at the women's request. And one dude, who has a whole ass pregnant gf or wife (don't remember which) was like yeah idc about her cause she's fat af now and never wants to fuck and tbh I never even wanted a kid, I'm too young for that and wanna live my life so help me cheat.
I wanted to grind him into paste. And since I couldn't, I wrote this fic instead :)
Wesker has known you for about a year now, ever since you started working the front desk at the RPD. You're not terribly close, but he likes you well enough – you're cute and always have a sweet smile and a coffee waiting for him when he comes into work – and he finds you infinitely more agreeable than your predecessor who always looked at him with suspicion and never bothered to return his greeting when he came in.
He hasn't seen you in about a month, though, on account of you taking time off for your pregnancy. It came as a surprise when he found out about it since he didn't even know you had a partner, let alone that you were expecting, but he supposes he wouldn't know something like that about a coworker he doesn't even spend all that much time around. He debated sending you a card and some flowers to congratulate you, but he didn't think you were close enough for the gesture to be seen as nice instead of presumptuously familiar.
So imagine his surprise when he comes in for his shift today and doesn't see your temporary replacement greeting him, but rather you. Sad and tired looking, heavily pregnant you. Last time he saw you, you weren't showing at all.
“My dear,” he greets, slightly alarmed, the second he arrives at your desk, “what on earth are you doing here? I thought you were on maternity leave.”
“Captain Wesker, hi,” you greet much more dully than usual. You even wipe the corner of your eye surreptitiously before you muster up a smile and push a paper cup full of steaming coffee in his direction. “I was, actually. Had to come back, though.”
Wesker frowns as he accepts the coffee he won't admit he's been missing since you've been gone, but he doesn't take a sip and bid you goodbye the way he always has. He cradles it in one hand, the heat seeping through his gloves to warm his palm up while his bare fingers almost get burned when he clutches the cup tighter than he should, and stays where he is as he takes you in with a worried frown. You slowly sit yourself back down in your chair and it's obvious that your rounded belly is giving you issues with getting comfortable.
“Is something wrong with the paperwork? I can talk to Irons, get it sorted–”
“No, no, nothing like that,” you interrupt in a hurry, waving your hands in his direction before you slump in on yourself and clutch your fingers nervously as you avoid making eye contact. “I just need the money. Babies are ridiculously expensive and I need to make sure I have everything she needs before she gets here.”
Wesker's eyes follow the path of your hands as they cup the swell of your stomach and rub it tenderly, your voice dipping lower into a gentle tone he's never heard from you before, but which he suddenly wants to hear forever – it's sweet and intimate, motherly, and it does things to him he's always been content to ignore and push to the back of his head until further notice. The problem is that he can't ignore it now, not when his dick is hard as a rock in his pants because the sight of you caressing your baby bump while speaking in that tone is the sexiest fucking thing he's ever witnessed.
If he were inclined to psychoanalyse himself, he'd probably come to the conclusion that his own lack of motherly figures growing up has translated into a bit of a kink for mothers – especially currently pregnant ones. The thought of breeding someone and making her a mother occurred to him while masturbating once when he was sixteen and it made him come harder than he ever had before. The thought of fucking a pregnant woman is nearly enough to make his vision go white and his knees buckle.
He endeavours not to think about these things too often, precisely because the thought of fucking you when you look so radiant and chubby has given him a raging erection he's trying hard to hide.
God fucking dammit. Get it together, Wesker.
He clears his throat and taps the fingers of his free hand rhythmically on top of your desk while he gathers himself internally. Outwardly, of course, he's giving nothing away.
“Why do you need money? Is your husband not able to provide for you?” Pathetic, if so. What kind of man gets his wife knocked up before he's sure he can provide for his family indefinitely? It's your right to work if you want to – financial independence is important and Wesker respects a woman who won't let herself depend on someone else to provide for her – but you shouldn't have to. Especially not when pregnant or with a newborn soon on your hands.
Your face twists at his words and your hands seem to almost be clutching your belly, a protective gesture that is sending even more arousal straight to his cock, and he has to shift around to relieve the pressure somehow. He's so grateful your desk is tall enough to conceal his problem and that you're sitting down now after the initial greeting.
“Boyfriend, not husband,” you correct bitterly. “Well, ex-boyfriend now, I suppose.”
“Ex? He left you? While pregnant? With his child?” Wesker asks incredulously.
You nod and your eyes fill with tears that honestly break his heart. He pulls out a handkerchief and passes it over and you take it gratefully before dabbing gently at your eyes so as not to mess up your makeup – Irons and his sexist dress code.
“He was happy when I told him I got pregnant. I thought about aborting it because it seemed too soon, but he promised he wanted a family, that he was happy, that he was going to marry me. So I kept it. Stupid me.” You laugh bitterly but your hand is still so very tender where it's rubbing circles on your belly. Your resentment over this situation seems not to have transferred to the precious life in your womb, which is good. Resenting your baby would only make you even more miserable now that you have been, essentially, left to fend for yourself whether you like it or not. “One of his friends came over one day when he was at work and told me that he'd been complaining about me lately. That I'm too moody, that I never want to have sex anymore, that I'm too fat for it anyway and he can't even get it up when he sees me looking like this… He didn't deny it when I confronted him about it. He said he wasn't ready to be a father after all and that it would be better if we broke up. And now here I am.”
Wesker has to pry his fingers away from the coffee cup in his hand to avoid squeezing it to death and spilling scalding coffee all over himself and your desk. He's looking at you and he can't quite comprehend what he's hearing. Too fat? Too moody? What rocks for brains does that moron possess in his empty head to make him think, let alone say, those words?
Even if you were fat, before or now or after, the argument is irrelevant. But right now, you are quite literally growing a new life in your body – of course it is going to change and adapt to it, physically, hormonally, and mentally. And frankly, Wesker thinks that all women could stand to gain a few more pounds anyway, especially with the way some of them are starving themselves for some nebulous beauty standard that is only damaging their health and cutting their life expectancy short by a decade, minimum.
Even the sight of you – fully clothed in professional attire, teary eyed and clearly stressed – has Wesker wishing he could bend you over his desk – gently and carefully – and fuck you until he puts another baby in you alongside the current one, biological impossibility be damned.
Some of the idiots who share his gender truly are lost causes who should be eradicated off the face of this earth.
“I am terribly sorry for this, darling,” he ends up saying, sympathy dripping from his tongue and a plan slowly starting to form in his head. “He is an idiot and you shouldn't take a single word of his to heart, but that doesn't change your predicament. Pardon me if I'm acting too familiar…”
You wave him off with an embarrassed little chuckle.
“Captain, I just told you my boyfriend left me because I'm too fat to have sex with. I think we're way past impropriety.”
“Very well. Then please call me Albert.” You offer him a shy but pleased smile as you nod in acquiescence and give him permission to use your first name as well. If he hadn't just fallen in infatuation with you in the span of about ten minutes, he would be disappointed in himself for the way his stomach clenches at the sight of that smile. “I wanted to ask… Are you on your own then? Is anyone helping you with your pregnancy, doctor appointments, grocery runs? Things of that sort.”
You shake your head. “I don't have anyone. I moved here for university and I met him before I could make up my mind about staying here or moving back home. My family isn't much better off and I feel like I'd just be a burden if I moved in with them now.”
“Hmm. I'm sorry to hear that, my dear. I'm here if you need help, you know?”
“Oh, I couldn't possibly–”
“Please,” he says, taking your hand in his – much smaller, with no callouses from years of military training and gun handling, soft – and giving it a squeeze. “I don't like the thought of you on your own like this. I know we are not close, but I've always had a soft spot for you and I want to aid you if I can.”
“Well, if you insist… Alright then. I'll let you know if I need any help, Cap- Albert,” you say, correcting yourself at the last minute, with a small but grateful smile reserved just for him. It feels right to hear his proper name come out of your beautifully bitten lips.
He knows you won't actually reach out – propriety and shame are a powerful combination – but he's put the idea in your head and that's all that matters. This way, it won't register as strange and seem as if it's coming out of nowhere when he starts showing up for you, slowly inserting himself in your life with the excuse of helping a coworker in need.
Of course, Wesker does want to help you – the thought of you, helpless and alone, fending for yourself, juggling work and a pregnancy, doesn't sit right with him. But he also has his own, selfish, ulterior motives. Ones that end with you livening up his empty, impersonal apartment, safely tucked at home during the remainder of your pregnancy because like hell is he going to allow you to put yourself and your baby in danger by working, welcoming a beautiful new life into the world. A life that will, of course, bear his last name.
If your ex was too moronic to understand the treasure he had in his life, Wesker isn't. And he will not let you slip away. That is a promise he's already made to himself by the time he reluctantly pulls away from you and trudges up to the S.T.A.R.S. office to finally start his day.
***
Over the following weeks, Wesker gets closer to you bit by bit. He starts bringing you something to drink in the morning in exchange for the coffee you always have waiting for him – smoothies, tea, shakes packed with fruit that are beneficial for a pregnant woman – and he gets the pleasure of seeing your smile slowly unfurl on your face every time, shy but pleased with his dedicated attention.
He lingers by your desk throughout the day so much that Chris starts subtly reminding him that they have work to get to, something he's both grateful for and irritated by. Your amused chuckles are worth the indignity every time, though.
Wesker also starts actually taking his lunch break instead of marking himself as having taken it while he keeps working on the mountains of paperwork he has to complete for both Umbrella and S.T.A.R.S. – and really, what's the difference between the two anyway? He stops by your desk and gently whisks you away, delightedly wrapping an arm around your shoulders and guiding you to a quiet, secluded spot so he can ‘share’ his lunch with you. In reality, he takes the time to cook healthy, nutritious meals just for you every day with the sole purpose of watching you eat. It gives him an odd sense of satisfaction to see that pleased look on your face when you eat his food, to hear your happy exclamations whenever whatever he cooked is particularly tasty, and to watch you rubbing your belly at the end of the meal and state that you've never been fuller in your life.
Wesker has long accepted that he's an odd man with weird eccentricities so he doesn't even bother keeping a lid on it.
He finally makes the real step forward towards his ultimate goal, though, two weeks later when you push aside your finished meal with a grateful smile then start fidgeting with your hands nervously. Wesker straightens up immediately and gives you an encouraging look – you clearly have something to say that is causing you a great deal of distress.
“I have a doctor's appointment tomorrow,” you begin, twisting your fingers around and picking at your nails, your eyes not quite meeting his own. “And I feel terrible asking this because you don't owe me anything and I feel like I'm taking advantage of an offer you made out of kindness but I really have no one else to ask and…”
Wesker takes a gamble and decides to lean forward, gently grasping your hands in his – he engulfs them so easily, it drives him crazy – and stilling them with a soft squeeze. Your beautiful wide eyes look up at him as your lips part but you don't pull yourself out of his grasp. You allow him to hold you.
“I made that offer because I genuinely want to help you. I didn't take the time to get to know you properly before your leave but I realised I wanted to change that as soon as we talked upon your return. And you're a wonderful person, my dear. You deserve someone in your corner who has both the willingness and the means to help you. So go ahead, ask me for what you need.”
It's pathetic how desperately he yearns to give you everything you need. What is it about you that has touched on all his exposed wires and made his brain light up this way? This isn't just attraction – he thought you were pretty even before he saw you pregnant, and he's seen pregnant women before that he didn't feel the need to get on his knees for. But it's like something about you that day – pregnant, beautiful, yet so tragic and desolate – pushed all his buttons and awakened this primal side of him that wants to provide. To own. To protect.
He's never felt that before.
You bite your lip as your gaze drops to your intertwined hands and Wesker has to work very hard to not act on his impulse of leaning forward and capturing that lip between his teeth instead.
“I had to sell my car before I came back to work because I was short on rent,” you admit shamefully in a quiet tone. “My lunch break is only an hour so taking public transport to get to my clinic is out of the question. And I can't afford to lose hours at work. I was hoping I could borrow your car for tomorrow. I swear I'm a good driver and I won't damage it, I–”
He stops you with a gentle but firm squeeze yet again and says, “I will take you to your appointment myself. I trust your driving abilities but I don't feel comfortable letting you behind a wheel when you're pregnant. Accidents happen too easily, even something as minor as breaking suddenly because of a reckless idiot could harm you or put you at risk.”
“Oh, that's… Albert, that's very sweet, thank you. But are you sure? I don't like the thought of you wasting your lunch break on me.”
He'd waste more than that for you, silly girl.
“It's not a waste. And I'll make sure we still eat, don't worry. If you think I'm letting you go hungry the whole day because of your appointment, then you really don't know me at all, dear heart,” he chastises with mock-disappointment and is blessed to see you get shy again and duck your head with a small smile. God, he could eat you up.
“Thank you, Albert, seriously. You're far kinder than I deserve.”
“No, you deserve far more. I'm just doing what I can.”
He tucks a strand of your hair away from your face, letting his fingers brush teasingly against your skin just to feel your warmth, then finally pulls his hands back into his own lap and relinquishes his hold on you. The way you fluster at his touch and busy yourself with packing up the remnants of your lunch to avoid looking him in the eye makes Wesker feel very smug and satisfied, a feeling that carries him throughout the rest of the day and until he sees you again the following one.
He takes you to your appointment as promised, making sure your seat belt is on properly and isn't causing you any discomfort and delighting in the sharp intake of breath his proximity elicits, and walks you all the way to the doctor's office door where he sits you down in a chair so you can wait for your name to get called.
“How far along are you?” he asks quietly in the silence that descends, realising that he never confirmed. He can't imagine you're further along than seven months, at most, but it doesn't hurt to have specifics.
“Twenty-four weeks,” you reply, smiling proudly as you say it and rubbing a thumb over your belly absently. “She's healthy and right on track, but I always get so nervous before every appointment. Like, what if this one's the one where I find out something went wrong, you know? Especially now with me working again and being so stressed all the time.”
“Your worries are valid, my dear, but I promised I wouldn't abandon you and leave you to fend for yourself and I meant it. Whatever you need, I'm here for it. You have nothing to stress yourself over.”
You smile at this and, bravely, take his hand in yours so you can give his fingers a squeeze.
“Will you go in with me, then? I understand if it's too personal a request but I…” you trail off for a moment, furrowing your brows and biting your lip, then continue softly, “I could really use the support.”
Wesker's heart skips a beat at the prospect of being inside that room with you, as your support, the way your good for nothing ex should have been, and he's nodding before he's even processed what he's saying yes to. Your obvious relief and sweet smile would have been enough to make it worth it, but when he helps you inside the office and up onto the examination table and gets to witness you revealing your bare stomach so the doctor can apply gel and start the ultrasound, he thinks he might just implode from the combination of awe and arousal swirling through him.
He watches the ultrasound screen attentively and marvels at the little life in you.
“And there's the heartbeat. Healthy and stable, just like always,” the doctor says but all Wesker can focus on is the weird echoing sound of that heartbeat. Such a strange experience that makes him feel all sorts of things. He's already decided that your child will be his, that he will raise her as his own and give her his last name, but this is the first time he's been confronted with the actual reality of it all – that is a real person inside of you, a real, tangible human being in the process of being grown, who will have little arms and legs and little organs all her own, who will cry and breathe and eat, who will keep growing outside of your protective womb until she's as tall as you with opinions of her own.
The realisation hits him like a freight train and Wesker has to blink back tears in an uncharacteristic show of humanity and vulnerability he's not sure how to feel about. He's very glad for his sunglasses now, as they obscure this momentary lapse in composure, and he hopes that your presence in his life won't lead to many more slip-ups like this – he couldn't bear it if he suddenly turned into a pathetic marshmallow because of a cute pregnant woman.
Though maybe he can make an exception for you…
After wrapping up the appointment and making arrangements for another one soon, Wesker takes you to your favourite fastfood place as a treat, even while he makes sure to tell you how much he disapproves of the quality of the food. You stick your tongue out at him, in a much better mood now that you've once again been reassured your baby is safe, and tell him that pregnant women get privileges like eating unhealthy food without consequences. He tells you he's pretty sure science doesn't work that way, to which you reply that he doesn't know everything and that growing a whole human in your body makes you entitled to all the greasy food you want anyway.
He can't exactly argue with that so your argument ends in a stalemate.
With every day that passes, you and Wesker grow closer. His subtle touches grow bolder and your reactions more intoxicating – he can't get enough of the way you fluster so obviously or smile so sweetly or flutter your eyelashes whenever he compliments you. You start waiting for him to finish his shift – only an hour past the time your shift ends, which you always use to get some groceries from a nearby supermarket then lie down on the couch in his office while he finishes his work for the day – so he can drive you home at the end of each day. Similarly, he starts waking up earlier so he can pick you up and take you to the station instead of letting you keep struggling with the Raccoon City public transport which isn't the most reliable or comfortable to navigate while pregnant.
Wesker especially loves it when you sometimes fall asleep in the passenger seat on the way to your apartment, so obviously comfortable and content that you let your guard down and relax into a light doze, trusting him to get you and your baby home safely. He knows what it's like to be trusted so blindly by a naive person too ignorant to know better – the entirety of S.T.A.R.S. is a prime example of that, and, to an extent, so is Umbrella – but you're the first person who's made him want to be worthy of that trust and not betray it.
Things finally culminate in the grand finale he's been aiming for about two months and a half after he first laid eyes on you back at your desk and decided you were going to be his.
Wesker comes down from his office to check in on you in the middle of the day, as per usual, using the excuse of stretching his legs and grabbing a coffee to walk past your desk. If he happens to stop by to say hi and get distracted for, say, twenty minutes, then that's solely his business. But when he walks past your desk, he finds it empty. The plaque you usually set in place during your break or when you go to the bathroom lets him know you'll be back soon, but he knows you should be at your desk – he always comes to visit you at the exact same time every day and you always make sure to time your bathroom breaks so that you're present every time he passes through.
Instantly, he gets suspicious.
“Officer Branagh,” Wesker calls out, seeing the man lingering in a corner of the lobby, leafing through a file. “Have you seen our dear receptionist recently?”
The man raises his head from his paperwork and frowns as he thinks before his face lights up in recognition. The bright expression only lasts a second, though, before it melts into something more displeased, almost concerned as his eyes flicker towards the entrance.
“I did, actually. She dragged a tall fellow out the door when he wouldn't stop fussing or lower his voice. I offered to escort him to one of our holding cells until he cools off but she insisted she can handle herself.”
Wesker grits his teeth in annoyance. He wants to yell at the man and tell him that maybe letting a pregnant woman ‘handle’ a physically larger man who's already displayed signs of aggression isn't the smartest thing he could have done, but he doesn't have time to spare for berating a beat cop who's below Wesker's notice. Giving the man a tight nod, Wesker turns on his heel and marches out of the station, bursting through the doors just in time to hear the slap you give your ex echo loudly in the front yard.
“You little b–”
“Finish that and you'll be eating through a straw for a month,” Wesker growls as he stalks towards you and that man, grabbing the idiot's hand that was in the process of raising towards you and twisting it cruelly.
Your ex – because who else would it be – yells out in pain and Wesker lets him go, shoving him a few paces away from you before angling himself so he's shielding you even while allowing you to still be visible.
“Got yourself an attack dog now?! What is this shit?”
“Don't act surprised one of the officers on shift at the police station I work at stepped in when you were about to hit me!” you yell, indignant but clearly shaken by almost getting physically attacked by a man whose baby you're currently carrying. “You have no right to be here! I told you to leave!”
“You were begging me not to go three months ago and now you want me to leave? What are you gonna do on your own, huh? How are you gonna raise my kid?” your ex snarls, trying to get in your face but being stopped by Wesker's hand on his shoulder pushing him away roughly. “Get your fucking hands off. This dumb bitch thinks she can keep me away from my kid? I have a right to it, you know? I bet I can sue you for custody and take it away from you as soon as a judge sees your pathetic little apartment and bum ass job!”
“Alright, I've heard enough,” Wesker snaps, your hurt and scared gasp echoing in his ear, and he grabs your ex by the front of his shirt and jerks him forward until they're nose to nose. His glasses have slipped down the bridge of his nose so his eyes are visible and he doesn't know what shade of glacial they are, but it must be pretty cold for the other man's eyes to widen with fear the way they do before it gets replaced by false bravado. “You are a sorry excuse for a man and I won't let you talk to anyone that way, let alone the woman whose life you nearly ruined with your spineless whims. She is perfectly capable of raising her child on her own but even if she wasn't, she won't be alone. Now, you either leave here under your own power or I send you home in a hearse.”
Your ex sneers in a poor attempt at intimidation and bares his teeth at Wesker like a cornered animal taking one last, desperate stand.
“You think you're the one, big man? Whore will probably spread her legs for anyone right now cause who the fuck will take her when she's so used? She'll come running back to me when she gives birth and you realise you're raising another man's child.”
Rage the likes of which he's rarely felt ignites in Wesker's chest and his right hand snaps up, lightning quick, towards the cowardly piece of shit's throat as he presses harshly against his windpipe. The man struggles, eyes going wide and face changing colour, but Wesker's hold on him is absolute – he's not going anywhere unless Wesker wants him to.
“That child is mine, not yours. You lost that right when you abandoned the woman you convinced to keep your child when she wanted to abort it,” Wesker growls, loud enough for you to probably hear. “As for her? She will go back to you only over my dead body. That, you can be sure of.”
He lets the idiot go only when he seems in danger of passing out and he throws him away from himself so harshly that the man falls on his ass and stays there while he coughs and tries to get oxygen back in his lungs. Wesker wishes he could put his boot on his neck and stomp, but he knows better than to assault a civilian in broad daylight in the front yard of the station. If anyone witnessed his use of force and intimidation – which, knowing the people he works with, everybody probably did, watching from the windows and gossiping like the annoying busybodies they all are – they won't actually say anything about this. They'll act like they've got no idea what your ex is talking about if he kicks up a fuss about Wesker putting his hands on him. That's cop culture for you.
But anything more than this will get a few raised eyebrows and at least one good samaritan suddenly growing a spine or developing a conscience and it will just create unnecessary drama for Wesker – drama he has no time for.
“Go back to where you came from. If you bother her again, you'll come to regret it,” Wesker spits one last time, then turns away from the vermin entirely and faces you instead.
You look small and scared, folded into yourself almost, as you stare with wide eyes at the heap of limbs on the ground that one might generously call a man. When Wesker steps up to you and cups your cheek, angling your face so he can inspect it and make sure that that tea towel in human form didn't actually lay a finger on you before he got here, your eyes snap up to him and they soften incredibly quickly while also filling up with tears.
“Shh, not here. Come, let's go to my office, darling,” he shushes you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and turning you towards the station. You walk on slightly shaky legs up the front steps and back inside the building, but by the time he's taken you past your desk and up the stairs towards the S.T.A.R.S. office, you seem to regain your footing.
People give you looks on the way there – sympathetic, but annoying nonetheless – and it makes you duck your head and shrink into yourself. By the time Wesker shuts the door to his office and draws the blinds for privacy, you're resembling a turtle without its shell, desperately trying to cover yourself up and never resurface.
“Come here, darling.”
You let yourself be pulled into his arms without complaint. Wesker folds you against his chest, a zing of contentment shooting up his spine when he feels your firm belly bump into his torso, and you hold onto him for dear life as he quietly comforts you with a hand on your back and one over your nape. You sniffle against his chest but don't seem to be fully crying.
“That was embarrassing. I'm sorry you had to step in,” you mumble after a few, long minutes of tense silence.
“Don't apologise. He was going to hit you, I would never allow that to happen.”
“That's why it's so embarrassing!” you lament, fisting his shirt tighter and pressing your forehead against one of his pecs. That shirt will be wrinkled beyond salvation for the rest of the day but he couldn't care less about it right now. “Picking fights I can't win. I just… couldn't take the way he was talking about me anymore so I slapped him.”
“I would have encouraged you to do worse if we weren't at the station. But the last thing you need is assault charges,” Wesker reassures you.
“Did you… mean any of that? What you said to him? Or were you just… being kind? Defending me?”
Wesker passes a hand over your head, smoothing your hair back gently before he pushes at your shoulders with all the tenderness he possesses and looks at your upset, scared face patiently. Anxiety and hope swirl in your irises and Wesker smiles.
“What do you think?” he murmurs in a low tone, dropping his gaze to your lips meaningfully before dragging it back up to your eyes. You don't seem convinced though, worry and insecurity warring for dominance in your gaze.
“You really want me like this? Pregnant with–”
“With my child, yes,” he interrupts firmly, bulldozing over what he knows you were about to say. “Pregnant and beautiful and smart. Downright gorgeous, might I add. A seductress at times even.”
You quirk up an eyebrow and snort at his words, though he can see your shoulders losing their tension and he can feel you pressing closer to him as you finally let go of that thin veneer of platonic propriety that's been keeping you apart for this long.
“I'm sure seeing me waddling around everywhere is very sexy.”
“It is,” Wesker insists, entirely serious. His hands travel down your back, tracing your spine and settling over the swell of your ass. His thumb finds the zipper of your skirt and he plays with it, though he's pretty sure the skirt is stretchy enough he could easily hike it up your legs and over your belly without needing to take it off at all. “You drive me crazy looking like this. I've been thinking about having you in this office for not at all professional reasons for months now.”
Your breath stutters in response and you lean in even closer, pressing your breasts up against his chest and craning your neck to maintain eye contact.
“And what would you do with me in this scenario?” you ask, breathless. He can feel your hardened nipples brushing up against him – you started going without a bra a couple of weeks ago when your chest started being too sensitive and it's been killing him slowly to see the full outline of your chest, so free and natural, all up in his face while he can do nothing but gaze respectfully – and it makes his cock twitch in his pants.
“Bend you over and eat your pussy out until you can't hold yourself up anymore,” he answers bluntly, not wasting time beating around the bush, and he is rewarded for it with the widening of your eyes before your pupils expand with arousal and you lean up towards him so you can brush your lips faintly against his own.
“Then how about you do it, then? Since my child is already yours, it seems only fair that you own me too,” you whisper flirtatiously.
You don't even know the beast you've just unleashed with those words. Because Wesker takes ownership very seriously and if you give yourself over to him, you will never be rid of him – he will sink his teeth in deep, latching on for dear life and tearing them out of his maw before he ever lets go. He will chase you to the ends of the earth and pull you right back into his arms where you belong if you ever try to run away from him – safe and sound, protected from the horrors of the world he knows very well. He is, after all, one of them; and if not, he's at least one of their creators.
“Don't make offers you don't mean,” Wesker warns, the only chance he's giving you to take your words back, to back away from the predator you're inviting into your den, and run away screaming. To emphasise his point, he takes his right hand off of your ass and brings it back around to your front, settling it gently over your throat where he can feel your pulse and the warmth seeping from your skin. “You know better than to feed a beast you have no intention to keep.”
Instead of backing out, you lean closer, pressing your neck into Wesker's palm, letting his fingers wrap loosely around it like a necklace, and close your eyes serenely.
“I'm yours, Albert,” you murmur with conviction, “if you'll have me.”
Your lips crash immediately, hungry and desperate for each other as two months’ worth of building tension finally snaps and gets resolved. You moan into him when his hands come down to grasp your ass and squeeze and he groans when you rub your belly down against him and stroke his hard cock through his pants with it. Your mouth tastes so sweet he's convinced he wouldn't need sugar in his coffee anymore if he just kissed you after every sip. And the way you respond to him, arching against his body, sighing and moaning at every touch, makes him feel delirious with lust.
“My desk. Bend over it, now,” he pushes out in between kisses, breathless and pent up beyond reason. He snatches his lips away from you with great difficulty and helps turn you around and guide you to his desk, clearing it with one sweeping hand without a care about what gets thrown to the ground and if it survives the fall. Files come undone, papers flying, but Wesker has eyes for none of it.
You bend over the desk as far as your bump will allow, hands splayed on the polished wooden surface in a spectacular show of surrender to his will, then look at him over your shoulder with the neediest look he's ever seen aimed at him from a woman. It makes his cock twitch and leak heavily, likely ruining his underwear if not his cargo pants entirely, and he has to bite back an embarrassing moan that wants to escape.
“Please eat my pussy, Albert,” you moan, exactly like the little seductress he accused you of being earlier, and push your ass out towards him, wiggling it left to right, up and down, to entice him to touch you. “It's been so lonely without a real man's touch. And it's so hard to masturbate with a pregnant belly in the way.”
The thought of you trying to touch yourself in vain, all alone and frustrated in your little apartment while craving his touch, makes all his blood rush south and he finally loses his last thread of patience as he settles himself behind you and presses his crotch against your ass. He rubs himself up against you, pulling a few moans out of you, while his hands come around your body and cup your sensitive breasts. In a few short weeks, once you give birth, these beauties will fill up with milk so you can feed his daughter all the nutrients she needs to grow up big and strong. Just the thought of wrapping his lips around those tits heavy with milk and pulling some of it out, coaxing it onto his lips before he can lave his tongue over the nipple to soothe it, makes Wesker want to do unspeakable things to you.
Fuck, how is he going to survive when all traces of pregnancy vanish from your body eventually? Will you let him put another in you?
“You don't even know how badly I crave you,” he grunts in your ear, massaging your chest greedily before he starts unbuttoning your shirt and freeing your flesh so he can squeeze it without any barriers in the way.
“Show me,” you urge, wanton, and arch your back with a low moan spilling out of you as he takes one of your naked nipples and tweaks it gently. He knows how to handle your sensitivity just right, turning discomfort into pleasure with just a few touches. “Show me, Albert, please. I need you.”
Those words finally push him to back away from you and lift up your skirt. Just like he predicted, the stretchy material easily slides past your thick thighs and over your belly. He lets it rest there, assured that it won't slide back down annoyingly while he works, then gets down to his knees and slowly pulls your panties down your spread legs.
Wesker groans when the sight of your glistening folds is revealed to him. Pearly, thick arousal leaks from your pretty hole when he spreads your lips with two fingers and it drips down his digits like sap from a tree.
“Gorgeous,” he murmurs, just barely loud enough for you to hear, and you make a sound that's a mix between a moan and an embarrassed squeak. “Don't be shy, darling. This is mine, after all, isn't it? Let me inspect it, admire my property.”
“Yes, please,” you sigh, leaning on your elbows for better support as you widen your stance further. Wesker makes sure you're comfortable and not straining yourself before he pulls his fingers away from you so he can have a taste.
Sharp, tangy, with a trace of sweetness. He groans, delighted, and loses the battle with himself as he spreads your pussy open and just buries his face in it, drinking you up without shame. You moan at the feeling of his tongue on your pussy and push back against him once he starts flicking it back and forth, gathering every drop of moisture and getting a taste of every inch of you. He sucks your clit into his mouth, grazing his teeth lightly against it, immensely gratified to see how engorged and needy it already is just from a few touches. He gives it a few smacking kisses that make you squeal and moan, grinning against your cunt, before he goes back to your weeping hole and focuses his efforts there once more.
Wesker knows how to pleasure a woman. He knows that simple penetration is almost never enough, that for some women it actually doesn't do anything at all if it doesn't come with some clit stimulation at a minimum. So he's eaten his fair share of pussy, fingered plenty of partners and played with their nubs to get them to come. Yours might be, by far, the best one he's ever had.
The taste of you alone is perfect, but the way you keep gushing around his lips as he kisses and licks you, clenching around his tongue when he spears you open, pushing your hips against his face while you moan, “there, right there, ah fuck, that feels so good, Albert,” could seriously get him addicted. He never wants to part from here. He wants to spend the rest of his days feasting on your pregnant cunt and hearing you moan so sweetly because of him.
You're coming on his tongue before long. Wesker moans, unashamed, and licks you up greedily until you're twitching and trying to get away from his touch, growing sensitive from your orgasm and whining quietly without actually putting up much of a fuss. Later, when he takes you home – and it will be his home he takes you to tonight, no more dropping you off at your lonely apartment while his house remains empty – he'll indulge in some proper overstimulation, but now is neither the time nor the place. You'll need real aftercare when he's done with you and that can't be achieved here. Besides, he wants to hear your cries and screams reverberating off the walls of his bedroom, which definitely can't happen here.
Pulling himself away from your delicious pussy, Wesker gets to his feet and unzips his pants so he can pull his aching cock out of them at long last. He wants nothing more than to bury himself in your hole and fuck you stupid right here, right now, but his need to do some things right wins over his carnal hunger – he also wants the first time he slides into your tight pussy to be in his home, in his bed, on top of his sheets while lying on his pillows. His naked, pregnant Venus, all spread out for him and ripe for the taking.
“I can–”
“No need. Just this is enough, my dear,” Wesker assures you, hissing through his teeth as he wraps a hand around his shaft, then starts pumping it rapidly, just chasing his finish as he looks at your cunt, shiny with your wetness and his spit, and licks his lips to taste the lingering sweetness left over. It takes him a minute, tops, to get his orgasm, and he paints your asscheeks with his load, letting his cock rest in the cleft of your ass as it spurts out a few more drops on your perfect skin.
Some animalistic part of him purrs happily at the sight of him marking his territory like this and it damn near growls when you reach out with your left hand and scoop some of his cum off your ass and suck it off your fingers with a hum.
What a dirty girl he has on his hands.
“Tastes good,” you declare with a wink as you let your fingers out of your mouth with a loud pop. “Next time come on my tongue.”
“Next time,” Wesker says, straightening you up and spinning you around so he can crowd you up against his desk, “I'll come in your pussy. Fill you up properly.”
He kisses you, tasting himself on your tongue and feeling satisfied that his own taste will linger in your mouth as well, before he pulls away and just looks at you for a moment.
“You can't get me pregnant again until you put a ring on it,” you tell him, somehow guessing correctly what his deepest desire for you is. “Not making that mistake again.”
Wesker growls at the presumption to be compared to your useless ex, but he only nips at your jaw in retaliation as he pulls you closer into him by your hips.
“I will, don't you worry, darling. But I'll try to abstain until you're healed and our girl is a little older. Two under two is a terrible idea. Or so I've heard.”
You hum, clearly pleased, and press kisses up his neck that have Wesker wanting to hoist you back up onto his desk and slide into you after all.
“I'll remind you of this conversation in about a year, yeah?”
Wesker laughs, knowing you're probably right, and his heart fills with warmth when you break out into chuckles as well and lean your shaking head into his chest. He could probably listen to this sound forever, if he's being honest. How the hell did you make him fall in love in less than three months? You must be some kind of witch.
“Let's get you cleaned up and back to your post. I fear we've shut ourselves up in my office for long enough to draw suspicion,” Wesker announces reluctantly, pulling away from you, and kisses your temple on his way to his drawer so he can pull out some wet wipes and clean up the mess on your back. His touches are reverent as he cleans your skin, as he pulls your panties back up and straightens out your skirt and shirt. You look presentable once more when he's done and he can't help admiring you for a second as you check yourself out in a pocket mirror you keep on your person at all times, looking so professional and so beautiful and all his.
“Let's go.” You look back at him with a smile, your eyes telling him how content you truly are. Wesker kisses you one last time then guides you out of his office with a respectful hand on your back, giving nothing away as he walks with you past his team's cubicles and makes sure they're not messing around instead of working again.
You put your plaque away and get settled in your chair once you reach the front desk, turning your computer back on and checking your emails, then aim one last smile at Wesker before he turns away to leave you to your work.
“I'll wait for you here once I clock out. I don't trust that you'll get any work done if I lie down on your couch after what we did earlier,” you quip playfully, winking, and Wesker shakes his head as he gives you a glare that lacks any seriousness or heat.
“I can contain myself. You need rest, not more time dangling your legs off that chair. Come up as soon as you're done with work.”
Your amused grin softens into something gentler, far more intimate, and you nod without further comment. Wesker bids you goodbye then finally pulls himself away from you, feeling like his feet are weighed down by anvils with every step he takes. He can't even bring himself to do more than roll his eyes behind his glasses when Jill offers him a thumbs up and a grin while Chris wolf whistles and says, “Get it, Wesker! Great taste in MILFs!”
He doesn't even dignify that with a response. But he does make a mental note to get Chris back for being so crass and insubordinate. But that will have to wait – first, he needs to plan the evening ahead and how exactly to make you feel romanced and appreciated for yourself while also getting you in his bed as soon as possible so he can finish what he started in his office.
Now that's more to his liking.
***
“Ngh, ah fuck, right there, right there, don't stop.”
“Not stopping till you're leaking, beloved,” Wesker grunts, his hips snapping forward like he's possessed, only one thought swimming in his mind: breed.
Your legs lock around his waist as you throw your head back and arch your spine, putting your beautiful, heavy tits right in front of his face as they jiggle and bounce with every slap of skin that echoes throughout the room. Wesker takes one of them in his mouth, teasing the nipple with his tongue and making you keen at the feeling, before he wraps his lips around it, carefully keeping his teeth away, and suckles. Your sweet taste explodes on his tongue and makes Wesker moan around your breast, his cock twitching inside your warm channel even as he continues to pound into you.
Your fingers thread through his hair, sliding up from his nape and anchoring themselves in his longer strands as you keep him there and cradle him to your chest as if he were your daughter – his and yours, eighteen months old, peacefully sleeping in the nursery a few rooms over from here, unaware mommy and daddy are in the process of making her an older sister.
“Fuck, Albert,” you groan when he rolls his hips into your cunt and grinds the head of his cock against your cervix just right. “You're insatiable.”
He is. He won't deny it. He can't get enough of you – every single day he spends with you only fuels his obsession further, only makes his hunger grow, only makes him more determined to own you and keep you and spoil you. It's not his fault that you are quite literally perfection incarnate – physically you're a goddess and he happily worships at your altar, but as a partner? You're the best decision he's ever made. The way you gladly followed him after the destruction of the Spencer Mansion, the way you took his last name and put him down as your daughter's father on her birth certificate after you gave birth, the way you've been so loyal and supportive in the year and a half since.
He had been ready to be alone for the rest of his life the way he's always been. He had been ready to have no equal and, therefore, have no comfort from a peer, no understanding, no safe place to retreat to. You've given him all of that and more.
And now you're giving him this: your body, your body's gentle fruit, your womb. Family. Love. Belonging.
“I need you,” he mumbles around the nipple in his mouth, taking one last pull of your breast milk before he lets your breast go so he can latch on to the other one and give it the same treatment. Your daughter isn't drinking as much milk anymore these days but your body still produces it which makes your breasts sore – why use a pump when Wesker is more than happy to help you with it?
“You have me,” you reassure, hiking your legs up around his waist and pulling him closer into you. You both moan at the way the position brings you two flush against each other, as deep as he can go, fused together. “Come on, make me a mommy again.”
Wesker damn near shudders as pleasure zings down his spine and makes his toes curl at the thought and he pulls his mouth away from your other breast now too in favour of planting his feet on the mattress and renewing his efforts of breeding your pussy full of cum. Your reignited moans bounce off the walls and your face, illuminated by the glow of his naked eyes, looks resplendent and otherworldly as Wesker holds himself up above you and pounds your cunt with determination.
Your tits keep bouncing, your thighs rippling with every slap of his own against them, and Wesker can't wait until you're even fatter, pregnant once more and full with his baby. If you have twins he might just not survive your second pregnancy but god does he wish for it – to see you as big as you can get, round and glowing, heavy and exhausted as he comes home to you and rubs your aching feet, as he takes his turn caring for your daughter to give you a well-deserved break.
The mental image of taking you on a walk, pushing a double stroller while Wesker holds your daughter on his shoulders with an arm around your waist is so fucking powerful that he whimpers as he comes, shutting his eyes tightly to resist the onslaught on his senses and filling you to the brim with no signs of stopping.
You get yourself off with your fingers on your clit and join him in ecstasy a moment later, moaning his name and squeezing his cock like a vise as you milk him of every last drop. When he finally comes back to himself and looks down at you, your sweaty chest is heaving but there's a dopey smile on your face as your hand travels upwards from your clit to where your womb resides.
“Thank you,” you murmur, exhausted. It's been a tiring day between taking care of your baby girl and now taking Wesker's cock so enthusiastically and he plans on letting you sleep as much as possible tomorrow to make up for his absence these past few days. He'll take over until the next time he has to leave, to give you a chance to recharge your batteries.
“It's me who's thankful, darling.”
He kisses your temple, tender and full of gratitude, then slowly pulls out of you and lays a few gentle kisses on your spread thighs on his way to cleaning up your pussy. He pushes as much of the cum that escaped you back inside as he can, then licks up the rest and gives you another, smaller orgasm just with his tongue on your sensitive clit. Finally done now, Wesker fetches a wet washcloth and wipes you down, then himself, then slides back into bed and pulls you against his chest until your nose is buried in his pecs, one leg thrown over his own and your hand resting on his stomach.
“I love you so much,” he murmurs, feeling like he doesn't say it enough, like you might not know just how much you mean to him.
“I know,” you reassure and squeeze the pec you aren't resting on on your way up to his neck, where you curl your palm around the side of it and hold on tightly, thumb rubbing gentle swipes back and forth on the skin. “I love you too, Al. Forever.”
He looks down at you, at your beautiful eyes filled with certainty and sincerity, at how easily and perfectly you slot into his arms, at how gorgeous you look naked at his side, sated because of him, full of his seed, and his lips pull up in a smile before he kisses your forehead again and gets comfortable so he can fall asleep with you cradled close.
He's on a path to greatness, that is certain, but he knows his victories wouldn't taste quite as sweet if he didn't have his family by his side throughout it all. Thank god he doesn't have to know what that would be like. Sounds like a lonely existence.
summary — Albert Wesker, your husband, does push-ups on you !!
a/n — NOT PROOFREAD WE DIE LIKE WESKER.
ao3 link — https://archiveofourown.org/works/80267221
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“What an absurd idea, absolutely not.”
Your husband waved his hand in a dismissing motion, something he always did when he wasn’t having it. Nonetheless, you were stubborn and VERY persistent, “Oh, pleaseee handsome?” You pleaded with that pretty little tone you used whenever you were needy, knowing full well it made him weak. He met your persistence with a scoff.
“Your efforts are futile. I will not comply with such childish endeavors.” The blonde asserted, leaving no room for argument in his tone. You huffed. Pouting while you watched him not even once raise his eyes at you, accompanied by that indifferent expression on his attractive face. He stubbornly remained seated at his desk, looking down at the various paperwork scattered in front of him. However, you refused to give up. He wasn’t the only one who was stubborn in this marriage. Replacing the pout, a scheming smirk was plastered on your lips.
—
“This is foolish.” The man muttered in a breathy tone. His arms were pinned on either side of your head. A look of defiance on his handsome mug as his eyes bored into yours. Wesker couldn’t deny the view, your pretty face looking up at him with a cheeky grin. Under him was where he always preferred you, so this couldn’t be so bad, could it? Indeed, it could. You made it like torture for him. He should’ve known his spouse was planning more than just a simple workout.
Albert questioned himself. How could he have allowed himself to get into such a situation? Although he knew exactly why, your pleading and needy little tone always made him so weak that he couldn’t help but cave. However, he’d never admit it, which is how the man found himself over his beloved’s body, arms planted on either side of your head, his usual sunglasses long discarded. So close together, Wesker could feel the heat radiating off your body.
It wasn’t the pushups that tested him. It was that cheeky grin, those little giggles, and the most challenging of all, your soft kisses.
Down, kiss. Up, down, kiss.
Reluctantly, with each little peck from his wife, he couldn’t help but melt a little further. Your cat-eyed husband’s mask of indifference faltered with every meeting of your soft, plush lips to his. The rolled-up sleeves of his black buttoned-up shirt seemed to make you even more pleased since they put his biceps on full display. Your eyes often flickered to the way Albert’s biceps would flex every time he’d come down. You’d meet him with a kiss and a little gentle squeeze to his arms, feeling the hard muscle flex under your fingers.
Albert Wesker couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride over the way you basically felt him up and looked so pleased with him, even though he was desperately exerting every effort to keep himself from just collapsing on you. After all this time of marriage, he still felt his heart flutter at your adoration for him. You sure were affectionate to say the least. Nonetheless, he did relish this wonderful view. Watching you look so pleased below him, you were perfect.
“Pleased, are you ____?” He let out a deep exhale from his lungs as he lowered again, meeting your lips before pushing back up. A smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth, yet he refused to let it show. Don’t get him wrong, he LOVED pleasing you, but he was also abundantly stubborn.
“Oh, very much so, Albert.” You voiced teasingly. Your teeth sank into your bottom lip as your eyes sparked with an idea that, oh so delighted you. “Say, handsome,” you started, tilting your head just slightly. He raised an eyebrow. He knew you all too well not to recognize the glint in your eyes, already knowing you must have something up your sleeve. “If it’s not too much trouble, won’t you say my name between every push-up? Unless you’re too tired-” You tested his endurance on purpose. You knew full well he had stamina enough to do this easily, but you also knew if you challenged him, he would never deny.
All his complaints flew out the window the moment he heard your request. He wasn’t clueless; he had a good idea of what you really wanted to hear. “Nonsense. If that’ll put an end to these silly requests…fine.” Albert had cut you off, feigning reluctance to your request. He refused to be doubted by the one he wanted to impress, even if he knew you were never doubtful of him.
Up, “___,” down, kiss.
A smirk threatened his lips while he gave in to your silly idea. Each exhale was accompanied by your name, his breathless tone exciting you. He clenched his jaw as he came down, his arms burning with each push.
Up, “___,” down, kiss.
He rasped out your name in a breathy tone, grunting lowly as he pushed back up. The push-ups weren’t the only thing getting increasingly hard. It was both a reward and a punishment getting those soft kisses from you. He wanted nothing more than to just collapse right on top of you and show you real pleasure. Meanwhile, you were happily relishing in feeling his hard flexing muscles, the way he struggled to keep this up, and especially all those enticing sounds leaving his lips.
Albert’s brows furrowed slightly, his cat-like eyes narrowing a bit as his eyes flickered down to the way you bit your lip, the pleased look in your eyes, and the most noticeable to him, your thighs pressed together. A knowing smirk spread across his lips, and he abruptly stopped his movements. Almost pouting as he suddenly stopped, you opened your mouth to question his reason for stopping. However, you were cut off by the man’s lips crashing against yours, giving you no warning as his tongue slipped between your lips. “Hm!” A surprised gasp was muffled by his mouth moving against yours in a rather desperate manner.
His body pressed down. He kept himself up by his right forearm, while his other hand caressed down your body. Wesker’s palm stopped at your abdomen, sliding under your shirt and pressing down lightly. You weren’t complaining in the slightest. Your arms came up to wrap around his neck, pulling him closer. Yet he still kept the littlest distance between your hips, as if teasing you as you teased him. Your lips struggled to keep up with his, and just as you were losing breath, he finally broke off the kiss. Now you were the breathless one, trying to catch your breath as he already started peppering kisses along your jaw and now attacking that appetizing neck of yours.
He was a patient man, but still, you managed to keep him tempted just by lying there and looking pretty. His tongue wiped over his lips, wetting them before leaving a trail of hot, open-mouthed, messy kisses along your neck. You instinctively tilted your head to give him more access to your neck, which made a surge of lust shoot through his already hard cock.
Nipping down and sucking on your skin occasionally as he continued his attack, he was rewarded with pleasurable sounds from you. He’d linger your skin between his teeth just a little longer than necessary to hear your soft whimpers. Then again, he abruptly stopped his motions, pushing himself up to look down at your flushed body more clearly. His hand that lay on your midriff slid down to the hem of your pants, pulling at the waistband and letting it go to make it snap. He smirked at the little wince that you procured.
“Albert-” you started, but were cut off by his hand shoving between your thighs. His fingers found your cunt over your panties. He could feel how soaked you were, and it only made his smirk widen.
“Yes, dear?” Albert mocked as his hand palmed your wetness through your clothing, causing you to gasp. He loved all the sweet noises you made for him. Fuck. It made him THROB. His smirk turned into a wolfish grin as your thighs squeezed around his hand, desperate for more friction. “Tch tch, open up for me. You don’t want me to stop now, do you?” He taunted with a little bite to your jaw before raising his head again to look down at you.
Your legs parted almost immediately, to which he was very pleased. You didn’t want him to stop, anything but that. The blonde man leaned down until his lips ghosted over yours, breaths mingling together as one. His lips brushed against yours, his tongue ran across your bottom lip before delving back into your mouth. You struggled to keep up, yet again, as his kisses grew in intensity, accompanied by the growing intensity of his hand. Albert’s calloused fingers slipped under your soaked panties, sliding over the slick of your vagina.
The kiss quickly became bruising, his tongue swirling around yours while he swallowed those sweet moans you produced. He began with slow, teasing circular motions on your clit, urging you to get dizzy in the ecstasy he provided. It felt as if waves of fire washed over you, heat pooling low in your abdomen as his fingers grew rough and messy in their motions. Your body felt like a spring coiling tightly, aching for release. Your cunt practically was pulsing as he frantically worked on your clitoris. Your moans were muffled by the way his tongue fought for dominance over yours, although you barely put up a fight.
Wesker seemed to be very abrupt tonight since, in just seconds, his hand pulled out from your wet heat, his lips tearing away from yours. Your legs trembled under him, panting, and you whined. That was until he rucked up your shirt, his fingers sliding down to the waistband of your pants and panties, hooking to tug down, discarding them in rough yet swift movements. His knees shifted to rest between your legs, preventing you from moving them, making sure your pretty pussy was on display for him.
He leaned down once again, leaving a hot trail of kisses from your jaw, down to your neck, nipping your soft skin as he went. Wesker’s large hands cupped your bare hips, your shirt hiked up enough to reveal your midriff. Practically crawling down your form, he left messy touches of his lips and teeth on your ribs, stomach, hips, and on your vagina, teasingly above your arousal. You whined needily, causing his famous smirk to return.
“So impatient, my sweet.” Your husband cooed as he positioned himself between your legs, so his face was at your throbbing need. His large arms slid down your body to grip your thighs, throwing them over his shoulders. Your head raised, half-lidded eyes full of lust yet love, as you gazed at the man between your legs. Wesker palmed your thighs, kneading them like a cat making biscuits. He wanted nothing more than to shove his nose against your flushed clitoris and soak up your weeping cunt with his tongue, but teasing his beloved was too satisfying to pass on.
The man began to pepper soft, tender kisses on your inner thighs. Occasionally playing with your skin between his teeth just to hear your desperate whines. His tongue glided across your plush skin, nearing so close to where you desired.
“Please, oh, Albert!” You begged, back arching from his touches. Albert Wesker wasn’t an easy man, but for you? Oh, he was an easy lover. Your legs on his broad shoulders made it so your pretty pussy was on display just for him. Lusciously, his tongue tasted along your weeping cunt, halting at your button, emitting a gasp from you. The tip of his tongue rounded your nub, massaging around the fleshy, wine colored arousal.
You hummed, biting your lip as your hand reached down, raking through Wesker’s hair before tangling your fingers in his soft locks. His usual slicked-back hair was now messy from your grip. Wesker flicked his tongue hungrily at your slick before delving his tongue into your hole, which was swollen from arousal. Your brain short-circuits, letting out a strangled gasp as his tongue languidly caresses your walls. Your head struggled to stay up, but fuck, the sight of him between your legs, mouth latched onto your cunt as he practically devours you was enough to make you see stars.
He withdrew from your hole, catching his breath for a moment while he swallowed your slick that lay on his tongue. You almost whined, that was until his nose nuzzled against your clit, making your hips rut involuntarily on him. Wesker seemed pleased at your eagerness, a low hum leaving him. His deep voice vibrated against your pulsing heat. Not a moment too late, his fingers began to tease your entrance. The tips of those rough, big hands caressing your lips.
Up, down, up, down.
He didn’t waste anytime. Playing with your juices before inserting two large digits into your hungry need. “Fuck-!” You whimpered as he thrusted deep inside, curling his fingers to reach that sweet spot.
“Don’t stop, oh, mm’so good baby!” You cried out as he picked up the pace, slipping in another digit accompanied by his tongue flicking on your sensitive button. “mmph- Albert! Yes, just like that, oh!” His view was no shorter than seeing heaven. The sound of your pleasured moans seeps into his ears like the most gorgeous melody. Your fingers tugging at his scalp as you fall apart from his ministrations.
His tongue lapped your sweet juices, starting to make certain shapes with the tip. If you weren’t seeing stars, blinded by the pleasure, you would’ve realized just what he seemed to be shaping sooner. His tongue made a crooked line from the left of your pussy to the top, reaching your clit; then sliding down, making another crooked line to the right of your vagina. Albert’s tongue retracted, only to flick again between those two crooked lines, making a horizontal line in the middle.
A. Two lines this time, L. Another three lines, B. Four, E. Three, R. Two, T.
“Oh fuck, oh, God yes!” You choked out. It didn’t stop there, no, of course not. He wanted- no, needed you to understand that he, Albert Wesker, was the only one who could make you burn with satisfaction.
W. E. S. K. E. R.
“F-Fuck-! mm’Albert!” You sobbed as shockwaves rippled through your body. Your hand pulled at his soft, blonde locks roughly, causing him to groan against you. The vibration of his deep growl shattering any hold you held on to repressing your orgasm. The grip in his hair went limp as your body trembled, vision spotty as you struggled to regain control over yourself. His fingers didn’t slow until your body tensed before going still, sliding the digits out, his eyes remained on yours. Your head long fallen back as you panted, unable to keep your eyes open while you faced the aftershocks of the pleasure he provided.
“Look at me,” he demanded, yet not in such a harsh tone. Your lids fluttered open, half lidded as they looked up at him, who was now sitting up on his knee between your legs. His fingers, coated in your release, slid into his mouth, which he sucked gently, tasting you off of him. You hadn’t even noticed he removed your legs from his shoulders; they lay on either side of him. You deeply exhaled as he crawled back up your body, peppering affectionate kisses over your limp body.
“Mm’love you, my sweet.” He purred, his breath ghosting over your ear. His large biceps flexed as he pushed off the ground, moving to stand up, then lean back down to scoop you into his strong arms.
“Love you too, mm’handsome.” You murmured as you leaned your head on his neck, trusting your husband, Albert Wesker, to care for you through the night.
Wesker is definitely the kinda guy to just manhandle you randomly. Not to hurt you of course, just to remind you of who he is.
He never lets his tough, professional character falter around others. His face always having a cold, expressionless look. But for you? Oh this man has a soft spot. You’re not allowed to tell anyone, though, he would die if anyone found out he has even a bit of emotion.
With you, behind closed doors, he lets everything else go. He’s a sucker for physical touch, but of course, he’d never admit that. Just look at him a certain way, touch him, kiss him. He melts.
But sometimes, all this affection upsets his ego…
“Hi Albert, how was work?” You asked with a soft smile as he walked through the door.
“Fine,” he replied coldly, closing the door behind him. He didn’t seem fine, though. He seemed stressed, maybe tired.
You walk towards him and lean up to give a soft kiss to his lips. “I love you,” you say, before turning to walk away.
Before you could get too far, he wrapped his arm around you and pulled you back firmly against himself. His arm stayed over your chest as his other hand slowly came up to grip your jaw, forcing you to look at him.
He just stared at you for a moment. His eyes, hidden behind those dark shades he’s always wearing, scanned your pretty face. Then, slowly, he leaned closer to you. His breath hot against your ear, “I love you too, dear, but don’t forget who I am.”
