Seraph

You're in his arms before he can even open his mouth to say anything. It's like you teleport – one second you're here, the next over there; your arms wind around his waist and you bury your face in his chest, choking on his familiar scent that you haven't smelled in more than a decade as you start to sob in his arms like a little kid.

Albert's arms wrap around you without hesitation after the initial shock has worn off and when one of those hands slides into your hair and grips the back of your head so surely, so tenderly, so familiarly, you break down even more.

“Shh, beloved, it's alright. I know, I know. I'm sorry it took me so long to find you,” he murmurs, soothing you and holding you up when you feel like you might fold like a house of cards and collapse right there in your driveway.

You shake and cry and try to hold on with all your might. If you loosen your hold on him for even a second, he might vanish again and you don't think you can survive being separated from him again.

You don't know how long you stand there, embracing in the middle of your driveway, crying in his arms while he does his best to calm you down. But when you finally find the strength to pull away and look up into his eyes, Albert has the most apologetic look on his face that you can remember ever seeing before. He truly looks sorrowful, as if he can feel your pain and he is sorry, truly sorry, to be the cause of it.

“Is it really you?” you croak, all cried out and feeling as fragile and shaky as a leaf barely holding on to its tree branch in the middle of a vicious storm, as your hands shakily rise up to touch his jaw, stroking his face and marvelling at the feel of him under your fingers after eleven long years spent apart.

“Yes, beloved. It's me. I'm sorry. I should not have left you, should not have let you go. I–” For the first time since you met Albert Wesker, he seems at a loss for words. Uncertain as to how to express what he's feeling or perhaps not knowing what that is to begin with. “I was mistaken. About what truly mattered.”

Tears well up in your eyes anew at his words. You're a fool and a fool in love at that, because you know you would have forgiven him even if he'd just waltzed back into your life without a word of apology and no acknowledgement of the pain he caused you by abandoning you like that. But it feels good to hear him say it, to admit that he was wrong to discard you like that, after all the time you stood at his side and tried to love him as best you could – as much as he was willing to let you.

You always knew that you loved Albert much more than he loved you, that he was your world while you were just one aspect of it (and sometimes not even a terribly important one whenever his Umbrella work got in the way). But he did love you. And that was all that mattered. He didn't mistreat you, didn't raise his voice or bully you into being smaller and submissive just because he was a man like a lot of other men in his profession did. He took care of you and was attentive whenever you were together. The problem was that, especially towards the middle of 1998, those times became fewer and fewer, shorter and shorter, and his focus always seemed split between what you were doing together and wherever his mind wandered to sometimes.

“I–”

But you don't know what to say nor do you have a chance to find out, not when the front door bangs open and Jake's voice hollers at you from the threshold.

“MOM! DO YOU NEED HELP WITH THE GROCERIES OR NAH? IT'S TAKING YOU AGES!”

“‘Mom'?” Albert questions, brows furrowing, and you groan internally at how complicated everything is. You can feel yourself unravelling at the seams already, torn in too many directions, but one thing is certain and it has been since you gave birth alone in your birth country in April 1999: Jake comes first, always.

“Jake, sweetie? Can you come here for a moment, please?” you call out to your son shakily, stepping away from Albert's warmth and feeling frozen to the bone and desolate without his touch as soon as you do. The groceries are forgotten in the trunk of the beat up car your parents gave you when you showed up on their doorstep, pregnant and heartbroken eleven years ago, but none of that matters now.

You avoid looking at Albert while you wait for Jake to put his shoes on and meet you here, not wanting to know what Albert is thinking, what his reaction to any of this is, what he is likely to say or do when you reveal the truth, and when your boy comes skidding to a halt in front of you – you've told him to stop running around everywhere like this so many times but it's a lost cause at this point – you turn to him and crouch in front of him, enjoying the fact that you finally have to look up at him when you do it. He's so grown, your boy – ten years old already, freshly turned a few days ago. Sometimes it feels like time passed in the blink of an eye while others, it seems to drag on for eternity.

“Is this guy bothering you, mom? Cause you know Malek's uncle taught me how to take down a guy twice my size in judo the other week and I bet I can make this loser scram in five seconds flat,” Jake boasts, keeping his voice low so only you can hear but something tells you that Albert heard him perfectly well by the way you can hear him huff in amusement behind you.

“No, Jakey, he's not bothering me. But thank you for offering to defend me. No, what I need to tell you is that… This is your daddy, sweetheart.”

You don't know what reaction Albert is having behind you. You're too scared to check, truthfully, so you just keep your eyes on Jake and hope that he will take the news well, at least.

You haven't told him much about his father, too heartbroken to talk about him most days. On the rare occasions that you did tell him stories, you had to keep them brief and lacking many details – Albert was a very private man who kept everything personal behind an impenetrable vault during your relationship and you had only extracted a few secrets from that vault before it was closed to you forever.

Now, Jake looks up at the tall man behind you, sizing him up anew with the fresh information in mind, and it really shouldn't surprise you when he scowls at Albert and crosses his arms in front of him defiantly.

“So you're the deadbeat who got mom pregnant then skipped out on her, huh? What, back for more? Like hell I'll let you anywhere near my mom, asshole!”

“Jake!” you exclaim, scandalised by his behaviour and language, rising to your feet and gripping his shoulder to hold him back when he snarls in Albert's direction and makes as if to throw himself at him to put his money where his mouth is. “That is no way to speak to anybody, I taught you better than this! You don't have to like him, but you owe him the same respect you would afford anybody else!”

“What about what he owes you, mom?!” Jake yells and that actually makes you stumble backwards in shock. Your son has never yelled at you before. Never, not once in the ten years you've raised him. He's gotten pissy with you plenty, grumpy and grumbling to himself whenever you deny him or scold him, playing angrily in a corner when he was little to make sure you knew he was upset that you refused to let him stay outside ten more minutes or wouldn't budge about when bedtime actually started. But you raised him right and he's never thought that aggression – that bullying you into acceptance – would ever get him anywhere.

“Jake–”

“No! Frick that! You've been struggling alone for years without this asshole and now he just shows up?! How many times have I found you crying in the kitchen because of him?!” Jake rants, blue eyes flashing with indignation and protectiveness over you, then he walks around your frozen frame until he stops right in front of Albert and stares up at him with double the fearlessness David had when facing Goliath with nothing but a sling and his own wits at his disposal. You watch, helpless yet a little proud, as Jake squares his shoulders and glares up at Albert like all that's holding him back from tackling him to the ground is your presence. “I don't know what you think you're doing here but if you hurt mom again I will make sure they never find your body. And the second she wants you gone, you scram. Or I'll make you.”

You hold your breath while you wait for Albert's reaction, eyes glued to that impenetrable mask that you find hard to read even now, and are floored when instead of scoffing and dismissing the threats of a ten year old boy or, worse, getting angry, Albert's lips curl up in a smirk as he nods seriously down at Jake.

“Noted. I will endeavour to keep her happy and content with my presence here. But should she wish me gone, I will obey.”

Jake huffs, apparently just as taken by surprise by the lack of hostility as you, looking up at his father with suspicious blue eyes, but then he crosses his arms again as he takes a step back and nods.

“Good. Glad we understand each other.” He turns away from Albert then, obviously dismissing him entirely now that that's been taken care of, and grabs the forgotten bags from the trunk before he pauses briefly next to you. When your and Jake's eyes meet this time around, there's still fierce protectiveness lighting up his irises but there's an apologetic twist to his lips that, ironically, looks exactly like his father's. “I'm sorry I yelled at you, mom. It's not your fault he's an asshole.”

His words make you laugh in spite of yourself and Jake's lips pull up in a chagrined smile at your reaction, ducking his head with ears tipped with red as he hoists up the bags to hold them better.

You shake your head as you cup his face and press a sweet kiss on his forehead, which only makes him blush harder.

“Thank you, Jakey. But I don't need you to fight my battles for me.”

“If I don't, then who will, though?” Jake protests softly, voice pleading for you to be reasonable and see things from his perspective. And it breaks your heart. Because your ten year old son should not feel so responsible over you and your happiness. It makes you feel like you failed as a mom somewhere, if your sorrow has been so evident to him that he's taken it upon himself to try to protect what little happiness you have left.

“I will,” you answer firmly, ignoring the sudden lump in your throat as you smile down at him. “I'm not your responsibility. You're mine. Okay?”

“Hmpf. Fine,” Jake grumbles, as per usual, before he turns away and trudges back inside, and you're not entirely sure if your words even got through to him, but you resign yourself to having to slowly reinforce this idea from now on. The last thing you want is for him to grow up too fast and carry burdens that aren't his to bear.

“Jake!” Albert calls out before Jake can disappear inside the house. Your boy turns to glare back at Albert as he waits for him to speak. “You've been doing a wonderful job taking care of your mother. But I promise I will take over now, as long as she lets me.”

Your breath hitches and you have to wrap your arms around your midsection, holding yourself, while you watch Jake mull over those words.

“About time,” he snarks, still defiantly disrespectful, then turns around and shuts the door behind him after clearing the threshold.

You stare after Jake for a few baffled moments, already mentally preparing a proper scolding later and a fitting punishment – even though your heart is mush at the display of protective love – but Albert's hand gently brushing your shoulder pulls your attention back to him and makes you turn around. You look up at him and are surprised to find his face bared completely to your gaze, glasses tucked away and eyes on full display.

They used to be blue, is the only thought you have, like a mournful chant as you take in the changed face of the man you haven't seen in more than a decade.

“It seems like I have a lot more to atone for, beloved,” Albert says, his voice low and heavy with guilt. His odd eyes are soft and laden with emotion as they gaze down at you and it makes your breath hitch despite it all, despite the long years that passed, despite all the pain you've been nursing ever since he left you.

“You broke up with me through a letter the night before a mission out of town,” you mutter, finally finding your voice and finding that it's surprisingly bitter. It's odd, to love someone so much, to have missed them every day since they abandoned you, to want them back by any means and be willing to do anything, forgive anything as long as it will get you them, but still feel so hurt by their actions. “My visa ended that following week. The day before I left the US, I found out I was pregnant and you didn't pick up no matter how much I called, didn't answer the door no matter how many times I banged on it. I was alone, Albert. I barely had enough money to get back home.

“I… I thought about aborting him. God knows I did. My parents encouraged me, said it would be foolish to raise a child alone like this. But I still loved you and I didn't want to remove the only piece of you that I had left.

“And I don't regret it, don't misunderstand me. I love Jake with everything that I have and he makes my life brighter every day just by being here. But he's right. You weren't here and you never tried to be. Did I mean so little to you that you couldn't even be bothered to call? Why are you here, Albert? Why now?”

Your voice is quiet, tired, hurt. You're not angry. You never could be, not with him. You know you should – any sensible woman in your position would slap him hard across the face and send him packing. He has no right to you nor Jake, not after kicking you to the curb like that. But you love him. And part of you – a big part – is still hoping for an explanation that will… not necessarily make everything better or right, but at least make it hurt less.

Make you feel less like an idiot for waiting for him for all these years.

Albert's hands take both of yours in a hold that is so gentle it makes your heart break. He looks down at your fingers, smaller and more fragile than his, and you wonder if he remembers what it felt like to slide his palm over your hand and lace your fingers together while he fucked you, whispering praise in your ear, telling you how good you felt around him, how much he wanted you, needed you, craved you. You wonder if he meant those words or if it was just dirty talk to him while to you, it was everything.

“I didn't abandon you,” are the first words out of his mouth and you look incredulously into his eyes. “I released you. Where I went… you could not follow.”

“What happened to you, Albert?” you ask, begging him to open up just this once, to let you in, as his unnatural eyes tear themselves away from your clasped hands and meet yours unflinchingly.

“I changed,” he says, looking into you, through you almost, but his thumbs are rubbing back and forth across your fingers and he doesn't turn away from you. “I've done… terrible things, my dear. I wasn't a good man when we were together but I am an even worse one now. You deserved better. I didn't want to ruin your life by dragging you down with me. And perhaps… I thought you might hold me back, too.

“It scared me how easily you could coax me away from work and into your arms, so I forced myself to spend less time with you. I knew you would look at me with beseeching eyes full of tears if I told you the truth and you would turn me away from what I believed to be my destiny. Just like you're doing now.”

You blink and a series of teardrops fall from your eyes, plopping down, warm, wet, and salty, on your joined hands. You didn't even realise you were crying.

One of Albert's hands extracts itself from your hold and wipes the remaining tears from your eyes before they can fall but he doesn't move it when he's done. Instead he holds it there, soft and calloused and warm, holding your cheek and rubbing the tip of his thumb across the skin.

“I should have let you,” he continues quietly. You are helpless to do anything but stand there and look at him, and listen to his tale with bated breath as you witness the only man you've ever loved – will ever love – finally bare himself open, worms and all, to you. “What I was following was not my own path to greatness, it was someone else's manufactured road to Hell. And yet even after finding out the truth, I still walked it. I thought I could make it my own. Salvage years thrown into a fruitless endeavour that meant nothing. But I failed. And I nearly died for it.”

You gasp, hands tightening around Albert's remaining one in your hold, and your breath hitches with an aborted sob as you contemplate the horrible possibility of your Albert dying, even while you would have never known about it. Perhaps that would have made it worse – to wait for a dead man to show up for the rest of your life.

He tuts gently, as if scolding a child, and shakes his head at you while his hand clasps both of yours steadily and his thumb presses gently under your eye to stop the flood.

“Do not cry for me, beloved. I should have died. It would have been fitting – arrogant until the last. But I lived. If it was some stroke of luck, or divine intervention, I don't know – maybe your eternal love and devotion reached me somehow and offered salvation. But what matters is that I lived and as I lay there for weeks, recovering from my wounds, all I thought of was you.

“Your eyes, your smile, the sound of your laughter. All I wanted was your gentle touch and to feel your lips upon mine once more. I endeavoured to find you, if only to ease my heart's longing for a moment and make sure you were alright. I'm sorry I left you, dearest. I'm sorry I never called. I'm sorry I unknowingly left you to carry this burden on your own for so long. I'm sorry that you gave me the greatest gift possible – the fruit of our love – and I wasn't here to receive it.

“I'm sorry.”

Miraculously, it's Albert's turn to cry now. It's only two tears, one for each eye, but they are monumental as they slip past his bottom lashes and trail down his cheeks, meeting at his chin and falling down to his shirt – only a small, round patch darkening the fabric as proof that Albert Wesker is human. But you witnessed it and you heard his words, the tremble in his voice, the real sorrow in his eyes as he looked at you and offered you his heart on a platter.

Eleven years apart and he loves you now more than ever. Or perhaps, he's only now finally allowing himself to truly feel that love and indulge in it.

You know you've forgiven him. You forgave him before he ever wrote that curt letter all those years ago, before you knew you were carrying his child, before you upended your entire existence to raise Jake and do it right. You forgave him from miles and miles away, unknown to you and dying, and you forgave him when he looked down at his son with a smirk that hid pride at his gumption and devotion to his mother.

You forgive him. You always have. You always will.

“I love you,” you answer and though it's not the words he expected or hoped for, they seem to hit Albert even harder. He looks at you in disbelief but you only smile at him and lean your cheek into his palm and make him hold your head up for you instead. “I never stopped. I tried, believe me, but I couldn't. No man could ever make me feel what you could achieve with just a touch or a look. And I didn't want anyone else raising Jake if you weren't around to do it. Does that make me a fool, Al?”

Albert swallows heavily, fingers twitching around your face in response to the nickname, but he shakes his head.

“It makes you human. Something I forgot how to be in your absence.” You hum at his words and he lowers his hand so that it's cupping more of your jaw than the entire half of your face, tracing your lips with his thumb and coming to rest at the corner of your mouth. It makes your heart skip a beat. “I don't deserve you. I know that much. But I told you that I am not a good man, beloved. I'm selfish and I want you more than I've ever wanted anything else in my entire life.”

“You have me,” you answer readily, foolishly, easily. There's so little you wouldn't do for him. He holds your heart in his hands, always has.

Albert inhales sharply and lowers his face to yours, closing the gap between you so rapidly it makes your breath hitch and your eyes dilate immediately, but he only stops at your cheek, pressing his forehead against your temple, his nose into your cheek, and breathing you in so deeply it's like he's trying to memorise your scent.

“Don't tempt me with something like this, my dear. I will take everything from you if you let me and I will never let you go again,” he warns, his voice so low it's almost a growl.

“Why would I ever want you to let me go? Al, I've been yearning for you ever since you left me. There's nowhere else I'd rather be than in your arms.”

His hand finally slips from your hold then, sliding around your waist and bringing you flush against his chest so fast you barely have time to blink. The hand on your face slides around your head until he's gripping the back of it, too, and then his lips are on yours – warm, scorching even, hungry and so, so familiar you could cry. You part your lips for him without being coaxed into it, just sighing as if you can finally rest now that you're back home where you belong, and when Albert's tongue starts gliding so expertly around your own, guiding it in an old but not forgotten dance, all you can do is wind your arms around his shoulders and cling tightly while he devours you whole.

You only break apart when the need for air becomes too much to ignore. And even then, Albert doesn't go far. He just lays his forehead against yours and lets you catch your breath.

“I love you, too,” he says in the intimate silence that falls briefly over you in the wake of your kiss. “I never told you that enough. But even when I couldn't say it, I felt it. You are the only woman I've ever loved, my dear.”

You smile, feeling truly light and happy for the first time in years, and tighten your arms around Albert as you bring him closer into you and bury your face in his chest as you hug him tightly. You can hear his heart beating in his chest from where your ear is pressed against it and it brings you so much comfort it's insane.

“You should know, however, that your son is minutes away from marching back outside and tearing us apart. It seems like your decision is not exactly the outcome he was hoping for.”

You don't question how he knows that, but you do sigh at the mention of Jake, your heart twisting with worry and pain for your baby boy, and pull yourself reluctantly away from Albert's embrace as you bring yourself back down to reality.

“He's your son, too,” you point out, wanting to get that out of the way first.

“Biologically, yes. But I have no claim to him, not yet. Perhaps not ever. I intend to earn the right to call him mine in time, but for now he is yours more than he could ever be mine.”

You shake your head at his odd quirks of logic but you know this isn't a battle you can win so you just move along to your next point.

“Do you have somewhere to stay?” you ask next, biting your lip in worry. Sending him away is the last thing you want to do – the irrational thought that, after all this, he's still going to vanish from your life and you will never see him again is hard to shake, but you don't have another choice. You can't keep Albert here. Not now. Not yet. Not for a while.

“Yes. I didn't hope for more than you cursing me out and sending me packing so I made sure to book a room.”

You huff out a laugh and it warms your heart so see Albert's lips pull up in a grin, his eyes tracing your smile and the way your eyes crinkle at the corners almost hungrily, obsessively.

“Good. You will return there until tomorrow, when I will come to you. We can go out for coffee or take a walk or whatever else you have in mind. But today… I need to go back to Jake and talk to him. He is confused and angry and hurt. I don't want you invading his space and upending his life when he sees you as the enemy. Is that… Is that okay?”

Albert's grin softens into a fond smile as he nods and pecks your lips chastely before he steps away from you entirely.

“You're a brilliant mother, beloved. Your logic is sound. I don't want to let you go so soon but I know you're right. If you need my assistance with him… I will be a phone call away,” he says as he slips a note into your hands with one last parting squeeze as he takes a few more steps away from you. It's like he doesn't trust himself not to sweep you off your feet and say ‘fuck it’ to the entire thing if he spends too much longer in your presence. It's sweet, almost. It makes you feel like you're back at the beginning of your relationship, only much better this time around.

You look down at the slip of paper in your hands, your heart flipping at the sight of Albert's beautiful handwriting and the phone number scribbled there, then lift your head back up to regard him again softly. You can hear the front door opening as quietly as possible, which isn't very quiet at all, and you know Jake is losing patience if he's decided to check on you already.

“I think I can handle one overprotective preteen boy by myself, Al. But can I call you later anyway?”

“Yes, of course. I'll be waiting.”

Your mouth itches to poke fun at him for his eagerness but you don't want to send him back into hiding under his carapace so you just smile, besotted and indulgent, and nod as you finally pull yourself away from him as well and start walking backwards towards the house.

“I'll try not to keep you waiting for long.”

“Beloved, an eternity by the phone is still less than I deserve for how long you were forced to wait for me. Take your time. I will be there.”

“Talk to you later then,” you promise softly, too emotional to acknowledge his words, and he seems to understand if the way his eyes soften in your direction before he lifts his hand up in a wave is anything to go by. You watch him pull his glasses out and fold them back over his face then turn away from you and the house, walking steadily away from your arms that are yearning to wrap themselves back around his torso, and it's like watching half of your heart walk away, but it's something that you know must be done.

You watch until he disappears around a corner, heart still thudding in your chest, before you just slump down on the front steps and hang your head as you try to collect yourself. A small hand, soft and tentative, comes to rest on your shoulder as the sound of shuffling feet comes from behind. You put your hand over Jake's and tug him forward until he comes to sit down next to you, when you throw an arm around him and pull him gently into your side.

You're happy he still lets you love him openly at ten years old. Most of his friends have already started turning their noses up at receiving public affection from their parents.

“Is he gone now?”

“For today,” you answer, humming softly as you run your hands through his red hair, marvelling at how beautiful it is and how well it suits him. Your beautiful, compassionate boy who feels so much all the time.

“Is he staying?”

“Do you want him not to?”

“Does it matter what I want?”

You pull away from Jake slightly then, just enough so you can look at him, and it doesn't surprise you when he avoids your gaze, but you still coax him into looking at you before you speak.

“Of course it matters, Jakey. Look, you're old enough to understand some things but still too young to understand others, that's just a truth we all had to accept or fight against at some point in our childhoods. But you're a smart boy so I won't talk down to you. Your father hurt me, it's true, but he didn't know about you when he left me. It was my decision to keep you even though everyone told me it would be cruel to both of us. If you want to blame someone, blame me.”

“You didn't do anything wrong, mom! He should have been here!” Jake explodes, angrily pointing an accusing finger in the direction Albert disappeared to.

“Yes, he should have,” you agree sadly, even though it pains you to admit it. Even if Albert didn't know you were pregnant, the way he just left you behind without even bothering to look you in the eyes as he broke up with you is inexcusable. You can guess why he did it like that – perhaps he could not have gone through with it if you had had a chance to protest or to even look at him. But it doesn't make it hurt any less. “But he wasn't. We can't change that now. And he didn't know. And now he's here and he wants to try again. He wants to make amends and he wants to get to know you, to earn your forgiveness. You don't have to accept. I won't force you. And if you really can't tolerate him then I will tell him to leave.”

“Forever?” Jake asks quietly, subdued once more. That's your Jake – quick to anger, quick to calm.

“Forever.”

And you mean it. You won't trade your son's happiness for your own, never. Even if it will kill you and tear you apart to send Albert away… You will do it. For Jake? You'd do a lot worse.

“But you love him,” Jake protests, confused and distressed over your easy acceptance of his wishes to the detriment of your own happiness. “He's all you can think about even when you don't say it. Why would you…”

“Because I love you more. You are my world, Jake. I will do anything for you,” you answer simply as you lay a gentle hand on his face and stroke his cheek fondly. Tears well up in his beautiful eyes and you coo at him softly as you wipe them away, tutting pitifully at him when they just keep coming, more and more as he starts sobbing and throws himself at you, hiding himself away in your chest and clinging to you for dear life. “Shh, sweetie. It'll be alright. Momma has you. I will always have you.”

“You would… You would turn him away for me? Even though he made you laugh like that?”

So he heard that. Of course your little shadow was spying on you long before the front door opened.

“Even then.”

Jake sniffles, rubbing his wet face against your shirt while those small hands tighten their hold on you, and your heart breaks at his sorrow but you let him let it all out, safe and sound in your arms where you can help him make sense of everything he's feeling. You'd rather he cried on you for hours if it meant he walked away from it with a clear head and a light heart than to have him dealing with his emotions in more destructive ways where you can't see it.

“I guess… I guess he can stay,” he grumbles eventually, after he's cried out all his tears into your chest. “Sometimes. But no funny business! And if he hurts you again I will kick his ass!”

You laugh, giggling softly at your son's audacity, but you're so full of love you could burst with it.

“Deal. And if you change your mind, I will too. Just say the word, Jakey.”

“Okay, mom. I will.” He pulls himself away from your arms then, wiping his wet face with his sleeve and making you grimace, knowing you'll have to change both of your shirts now, before he looks back at you and offers you the fiercest, softest look you've ever seen on him to date. “I love you. If he loves you too then we'll get along. Eventually.”

“I love you too, baby. So much. And I really hope you will. But it's okay if you don't. Just… give him a chance before writing him off completely, will you? For me.”

Jake nods seriously, an expression which fills your heart with fondness, then gets back to his feet and offers you a hand. You take it, grateful for it when your knees protest just slightly at the position, then dust yourself off and put a hand on his back as you lead him back into the house, asking him how he feels about that stew recipe your mother's neighbour gave you last week and listening to his opinion as you chime in with your own suggestions of how to make it better for tonight's dinner.

Just around the corner, unbeknownst to you, Albert finally walks away for good and heads back to his hotel room, his heart heavy in the wake of everything he heard his son say, everything he heard you say, and determined to make it so that neither of you will ever shed such bitter tears and make such heartbreaking promises to each other because of him. He may have failed in Africa but he will not fail here. He can't.

And he is ready to finally claim that which he has denied himself for too long. He is ready to claim his family at long last. It's the only thing worth striving towards now, the only thing worth dedicating the rest of his wretched days to. If for no other reason than because you deserve to be taken care of for once, free of the burden and sorrow he forced on you unknowingly all those years ago.

Now this is much better than total global saturation. Much, much better.

The moment the reader sees Wesker's eyes and remarks on how they soften is directly inspired by this incredible fanart I haven't been able to get out of my head ever since I first saw it here.

Also this is a Wesker who's had time to stew in his thoughts and realise where he went wrong. He doesn't regret his actions per se but he hates that he still followed the path laid out for him by Spencer even after he found out the truth and killed him. And he hates that he pushed away the one thing that was his, truly his, in his pursuit of Spencer's goals. He's not suddenly cured of evil, he's not a good man, but he wants to be for you and Jake.

You had been chosen out of a lineup – a tribute from your conquered kingdom to appease your now ruler, Emperor Albert.

Your nation was a small one, but it was strategically placed between the Empire he was building and the Kingdom ruled by King Chris of the Redfield line, the Emperor's sworn enemy and bitterest rival. With barely any fighters – your people were farmers and artists, not warriors – and not many resources at your disposal, your small country had fallen fairly quickly and capitulated even quicker once the promise of forgiveness and protection was issued as long as your people laid down their arms and let the Uroboran soldiers set up camps all around the land.

As was his habit, Emperor Albert issued an order: all girls of noble blood who were of age and not yet married were to be brought before him so that he may take one of them and make her part of his ever expanding harem. This tied all of the smaller nations assimilated by the Uroboran Empire to him and wasn't as restrictive as having to choose one spouse out of all the nations, thus avoiding the risk of upsetting any one population by not choosing someone from their country. It was also an effective method of taking political prisoners that didn't upset people quite as badly as the chopping block and damp dungeons did.

You were the daughter of a minor noble in your country. Not terribly important but not insignificant either. The youngest and thus the only one who had yet to be married off, but freshly turned of age right around the time the invasion started, you had been packed up and sent to the capital where Emperor Albert was waiting to receive the candidates for his harem.

You hadn't even entertained the idea that you might be chosen. There were plenty of better girls to choose from, politically speaking, and your looks didn't make you stand out in any particular way, at least as far as you were concerned. Your parents always boasted of your beauty to any who were willing to listen, but that was what parents did so you didn't take their opinion into consideration when it came to this matter.

Yet even so, you went into it fearing for your safety. Because the Emperor was known to be inhumanly handsome, tall and strong, imposing, quick-witted and silver-tongued, but he was also known to be cruel. Stories of his exploits in battle ran amok amongst all the lands, whether pinned like insects under his iron fist or not, and they painted a gruesome picture. He was said to be a one-man army unto himself; that very few lived to tell the tale of an encounter with him on the battlefield. And that he was ruthless when fighting, sparing none and taking no prisoners, relishing in the carnage and the blood spilled – some even suggesting that he bathed in it after the fighting was done, others that he drank it as if it were water or wine.

And as if that wasn't bad enough, the rumors that abounded about his harem were even worse. Tales of forceful couplings whenever the Emperor desired it with no regard for his harem members, lasting injuries, cruel punishments, torture just for the sake of his sick amusement…

You didn't know what to believe or what to expect when you stepped foot into that throne room, all the girls lined up like cattle to be chosen for the sacrifice. All you knew was that you were terrified and you didn't want to sacrifice your happiness and health for the good of a country too weak to fight its oppressor properly. Your father did always tell you that you were too smart and too opinionated for your own good.

You almost debated sabotaging yourself on purpose just to avoid being chosen. After all, the ‘losers’ were simply sent home as if they had just taken a vacation in their country's capital for a while, no harm, no foul – what were you at risk of losing by, say, showing up badly dressed or curtsying sloppily or burping in front of the whole court?

But your pride wouldn't allow you to give such a bad showing and bring shame upon your family name, easily overlooked as it was amongst the nobility. And then, when he walked through those imposing double doors that seemed much more menacing now, surrounded by his Empire's flags and coat of arms as they were, all thoughts of impoliteness and bad etiquette fled your mind.

All you could do was stand up straight and watch him in trepidation, feeling frozen to the spot, too big yet too small at the same time, as he walked right past you in a flurry of black leather robes that seemed made of darkness itself – his battle armour, never taken off even during feasts and celebrations – before pivoting on his heel and taking all of you in with a critical eye. Eyes that were blood red and inhuman, slitted like a serpent, and which seemed to be able to pierce through any armour, through flesh and bone and sinew and get to the very marrow of a being just by looking at them.

You could hardly breathe when he looked at you. You didn't know what he saw – what he could possibly see when faced with someone so ordinary as you, so weak and unremarkable, so plain. Because standing there in front of your new Emperor, you truly did understand why so many people called him a God, blasphemous as it was. Everything about him was electric and carried this aura of otherness. His hair, sun-kissed and a perfect contrast to the darkness he surrounded himself with, was perfectly swept back with not a single strand out of place. His robes were precisely drawn about him to hug his body well enough to protect yet not too tightly so as to restrict his movements. His posture was impossibly straight and he had a sway to his hips when he walked, a certain something in his step, that made all who were present take notice of him and know that they were in the presence of greatness.

Everything about Emperor Albert screamed superiority. Magnificence. Divinity, perhaps. A terrible, cruel divinity – but were not all Gods as cruel as they were kind, in the end? As terrible as they were merciful?

Usually, this process of choosing an addition to his harem lasted days, at the very least, as far as you had heard before coming here and been informed by the Emperor's staff upon your arrival. He had high standards for his partners and wouldn't so easily procreate with just anybody – which was curious, considering he had still yet to produce an heir with any of his several wives, a fact which had sparked some rumours about impotence but which hadn't taken off quite so enthusiastically for fear of invoking the Emperor's wrath – so the choosing of a new wife was thought out and properly considered before he made his final decision. Sometimes he even spent time individually with the prospects just to get a feel for their personality and nature, if he was so inclined.

Yet something curious happened on that day when all the viable candidates your country had to offer waited with bated breath to be judged or dismissed.

The Emperor's eyes landed on you and his head tilted as he eyed you up and down curiously. He took a deep breath into his lungs, as if savouring a scent or trying to decipher it, then stepped forward. One step, two steps, three steps, four. He leaned closer to your frozen face, ruby eyes looking unflinchingly into your terrified ones, and then he pointed down to the floor.

You had no way of knowing what he wanted you to do. Of what he meant by that. He never spoke a word – not then, not afterwards, not until the day you married him officially and he spoke the vows of your people in a bored, drawling tone that sent shivers down your spine that, to this day, you couldn't tell if they were from fear or something else. So you didn't know what he wanted you to do but that didn't matter. In that moment, you didn't think. You acted. You did the first thing that made sense in the presence of a God who held the fate of so many souls in the palms of his gloved hands.

You knelt.

You dropped to your knees so fast they smacked against the marble floors of the throne room, bowing your head and laying your palms flat on your thighs as if in prayer, and you murmured just two words.

“My Lord.”

Somehow, he knew your words meant more than just a subject addressing her ruler by the wrong title. You were addressing your God, your Lord, the being in charge of your destiny and continued existence. When even you didn't know what any of it meant, he did. He always knew.

He walked away from you then and you thought that was it. He'd found you lacking, nothing more than a simpering idiot or a cowardly fool, and had moved on to better prospects. But then you heard murmurs rising up as those footsteps kept retreating farther and farther away. But then a soldier came to a stop in front of you and extended a hand towards you. But then you lifted your head and saw a blonde woman with grey eyes staring down at you impassively and offering you a helping hand so you could rise to your feet.

You did so and looked around in confusion. Where was the Emperor? What was to be done next?

Your questions were quickly answered after that by a man named William, the Emperor's advisor and closest friend, if it could be believed that a man such as Emperor Albert could ever have something as ordinary as friends. You had been chosen. The process was done, the rest of the prospects would be sent home if their families weren't on the list of guests for the upcoming wedding, and you were to be given a room in the palace and be attended to by the Royal Household while being prepared for your nuptials.

Your family was to be notified as soon as possible, both officially by the Emperor's staff as well as informally by your own hand.

For days, you lived in a sort of limbo. You couldn't quite believe it. You? A member of the Emperor's harem? Why? You had made a fool of yourself, kneeling like that and bowing your head in prayer like an idiot! He was no God, no matter what people said. He was a man like any other, who could bleed and die just like any other.

But... was he? Was he really?

You never interacted with your betrothed again until your wedding day. He was a busy man, preoccupied with state affairs and securing his hold over his new lands; he had no time for wedding preparations or getting to know his future wife. But you saw him from a distance often. Across the massive ballrooms and hallways of the palace, talking to various advisors and staff members, sometimes looking bored, others barking orders with a vicious, angry snarl on his face that brought terror to your heart as you imagined being on the receiving end of it.

Sometimes you watched him from your balcony while he trained in the courtyard. He had such a grace about him that reminded you of that holy experience in the throne room, making you remember exactly how you'd felt in that moment, what feelings had led you to kneel in front of him without a first thought, let alone a second. He rarely trained with other people but even alone he was magnificent. Awesome. Almighty.

Such power, however, terrified you. What were you to do now? How could you ever escape this terrible monster in front of whom country after country, kingdom after kingdom kept falling like they were nothing more than domino pieces standing between him and total conquest? You shuddered to think of your wedding night or of all the nights that might follow. Would you be nothing more than a bruised, used vessel for his seed? Is that what you would be reduced to in a few short weeks?

You didn't have anyone there to assuage your fears either. The Emperor's advisors were busy and didn't bother interacting with you for more than to ask colour preferences for tablecloths and if you had any allergies to certain flowers. William was constantly running around doing the Emperor's bidding when he wasn't plastered to his side. And Jill, the soldier who had helped you to your feet that fateful day, was a loyal guard to you, escorting you everywhere you went and keeping a careful eye on you at all times, but not much of a talker. You'd only just barely gotten her name out of her and that had taken days of pestering.

The harem wasn't here, so you couldn't ask any of your future sisters-in-arms what to expect, how to behave, what to do and not to do to minimise the pain. The Emperor didn't cart his harem around when he was constantly on the move, going from war camp to war camp around the region as he met with allies and conquered new lands. Not only was it cumbersome, but it would be foolish as well – anyone could just snatch a member of his harem and do what they pleased with her as revenge on the Emperor, be it rape, torture, murder, or simple kidnapping for leverage or ransom.

It made sense, of course, but you lamented the women's absence. If only you could ask just one person what would befall you come your wedding day!

Yet, in spite of all your fears and worries, the day came just as it was always bound to do. Your father gave you away with tears in his eyes and silent apologies on his lips while your mother watched from the sidelines, stoic and stone-like so as to not break down in front of half the Royal Court in the face of her youngest daughter being given away like a pig for slaughter.

And there, waiting for you, was your handsome, terrible groom. Wheat haired, crimson eyed, and tall and imposing like a tower rising up above the sea to loom over all, Emperor Albert took your hands in his and recited the vows of your culture while you were bound together in holy matrimony. And when it came to drawing up your veil to reveal your visage to his gaze, he did so slowly, almost reverently, as if unwrapping something precious like a present, and your breath caught in both terror and attraction as your naked eyes beheld him as your husband for the first time in your life. Because he was terrifying, yes, but he was so beautiful, so handsome, it made your knees buckle.

When his soft lips touched yours in a kiss to seal your union, everything else faded away until only his touch and his scent lingered in your senses, nothing more.

He pulled away much sooner than you would have liked, but as he did, the spell was broken and reality rushed back in to the sound of thunderous applause and joyous cheers that felt more like jeers in your ears in that moment.

The sacrifice had been accepted. Rejoice all who have survived.

You remained silent at your husband's side the entire evening. You danced with him as was appropriate, dined at his left as was expected, and smiled, tight-lipped and proper, whenever someone walked up to you to issue congratulations or present a wedding gift for the newest Royal couple.

But while people ate and drank and revelled, you worried. The Emperor's body so close to yours was like an unattended flame licking up and down your side, scorching you and slowly cooking you alive. Would it hurt much? Could you, perhaps, lose yourself in his touch the way you'd lost yourself in that kiss and make it happen without even realising it did? Or would he want you present and feeling every agonising second of his torture?

Perhaps that was the real reason he took a wife from each country he conquered – to take his frustrations out on them for all their country's infractions. It was a terrifying thought that wouldn't escape you no matter how hard you tried to banish it.

And so you passed the evening in this manner – worrying yourself into a panic while trying not to let it show, and dreading what was to come. But regardless of your fears, you did not let anything slip as you bid your parents goodbye, hugging them tightly and promising to do your best to see them again (they would be leaving early in the morning, before you woke up). Nobody was coming to save you and there was no reason to worry your poor parents. Perhaps this would be the last time they ever saw you alive and so you wanted them to remember you like this: a beautiful young woman, smiling at them happily on her wedding day; not a terrified girl preparing for her execution.

You walked the corridors leading to your marital chamber in silence, Jill ever faithful at your side. You were thankful your husband's side hadn't insisted on the tradition of observing your first coupling, as was the norm in a lot of other neighbouring countries – if you were to be weeping tonight, you would prefer the privacy of only being witnessed by your husband.

You were also glad he had sent you ahead while he wrapped things up and said goodbye to the guests, who would be continuing the revelries long after the two of you left the party.

“Will I see you in the morning, Jill?” you asked when the two of you stopped in front of the heavy doors leading towards what you felt was to be your coffin tonight.

She looked at you strangely, as if you'd asked something out of the ordinary, before nodding resolutely. You smiled. Well, at least as far as Jill was concerned, there would be a morning for you – how bad could it be if the prospect of you not living to see the dawn was foreign?

“Then I shall see you then. Have a good night, my friend.”

You offered her a sad smile, full of trepidation, then walked into the room.

The interior was bland and impersonal, as was to be expected from a room whose only purpose was for the Emperor to consummate his marriage in. You looked around nevertheless, trying to spot any torture tools or get a hint of what you could expect, but nothing jumped to attention and so you were left sighing as you took a seat on the edge of the bed and settled in to wait. Perhaps he wouldn't even need a tool – a man such as him could surely break you in ways you hadn't even thought possible just with his bare hands.

Tears welled up in your eyes at the thought. You hugged yourself tightly around the middle and sniffled, trying to stop the onslaught but unable to put a lid on it once the dam broke. You'd been holding everything in for a long time, been pretending everything was fine and you could handle this bravely. But suddenly all you wanted was to flee through that door and find your parents, sink into your mother's embrace and beg her to not do this to you, to not let them ruin her daughter, to take you back with them and start a war if need be – just not let you go.

Before you knew it, you were crying properly, sobs and pathetic sniffles escaping you, the sounds of your own misery so loud that you almost missed the opening of the door behind you. Almost.

You whipped your head around, eyes red rimmed and face most likely a mess, and stared wide eyed as your husband swept into the room and shut the doors behind him before turning to face you with an expression you could not decipher even if you hadn't been despairing on the inside.

“I– I'm sorry, My Lord!” you hastened to apologise, rising from your seat and curtsying as was proper (and resisting the urge to kneel again, if only so the punishment for your transgressions would be lighter). “I–”

But you didn't know what to say next nor were you given the opportunity to find out. Your husband lifted a hand to stop you with a frown and he took a step closer to you, then another, until you were face to face in front of the marital bed – well, face to chest rather, as you had to crane your neck to look up at his impossibly tall person.

Your breath caught in your throat as you stared up at him and you remained immobile, a scared mouse in the underbrush while the vicious snake rose up in preparation to strike, while the Emperor's hand rose to cup your cheek and gather your tears on his fingers. You watched, transfixed, as he then brought those fingers to his mouth and tasted your tears.

Your mouth went dry at the sight. And, humiliatingly enough, your core throbbed as well. Getting aroused at the sight of your husband swiping his tongue over his gloved fingers covered in your tears was such an inappropriate reaction and you wondered what was wrong with you.

He hummed at the taste as he let his hand fall to rest at his side.

“I was expecting to taste your tears when the ecstasy of my cock brought them to your eyes, but this will do as well, I suppose.”

Your eyes widened at the crass remark but your cheeks warmed as violently as your stomach lurched with perverted interest at his words. You gasped near silently but your husband still heard you, if the small smirk that graced his features was any indication.

“Are these tears of joy, my dear? Are you so filled with happiness at being chosen that you could not contain it any longer?”

You felt mocked, which wasn't helped by the arrogant look in your husband's eyes when he looked down at you, but you couldn't muster more than a tiny shake of your head in response to his question.

“Then is it… sadness? Homesick already?”

“No, My Lord,” you managed to answer verbally this time, gulping when he started circling you then, like a hungry wolf eyeing his prey and gauging how many strikes it would take to immobilise it before the feast could begin.

“Then– oh! Fear, is it? First time jitters? I promise it doesn't hurt that bad, that's just an old wives tale. I promise I'll be gentle,” he reassured from behind you, his voice low and dark in your ear as his breath fanned across your nape and made you shiver, “at least at first.”

Your heart jackrabbitted in your chest then, tears springing to your eyes again as he all but confirmed that he would hurt you, his quietly amused tone telling you just how much enjoyment he would take out of it. Still, you shook your head and forced your trembling voice to answer, fearing how much worse your punishment would be if you didn't indulge him. Surely, he already knew what was bothering you and was just taking delight in drawing your pain out.

“No, My Lord. I… I heard… But it doesn't matter. I will take whatever you will give me, as is my duty as your wife.”

You couldn't look him in the eye when you felt him circling right back around to face you and the silence that descended felt oppressive, but you bore it with as much dignity as you could, refusing to let your tears spill again, at least not before the pain actually happened.

The hand on your chin was unexpected and it made you choke on your breath momentarily, but its gentleness was even more of a surprise. Gloved fingers, long and elegant and hiding the power to rip a man's heart out of his chest if the rumours were true, gently grasped your chin and lifted your head so you could meet your husband's gaze once more. You let yourself be led, quietly fearing what you would find when your eyes met his, and ended up gasping anew when soft lips you'd tasted once already landed on your own and pulled you into a sensual dance that made your head spin and your stomach swoop.

You grasped at your husband without realising it, needing an anchor as he swept you away with his expert mouth, and your hand found his armoured forearm as you clung to it for dear life during the entirety of your kiss. When he released you after long minutes of shared intimacy, you were breathless and dazed as you looked up at him with tingling lips and a racing heart – this time for an entirely different reason.

“You, my dear, will take exactly what I give you, yes. But don't fret about silly rumours and embellishments. I am a generous lover and I do not enjoy needless force for the sake of it inside the bedroom. Let me guess – you heard that I will hurt you? Maim you? Force you and revel in your screams?”

You wanted to avert your gaze the further he went along, as he laid out all your fears like it was nothing, but the hand on your chin was holding you in place still and so you couldn't do more than nod shallowly in his grip.

“Yes, My Lord,” you answered quietly, ashamed to admit it yet even more afraid that the rumours were true.

Your husband snorted in reply and shook his head, sliding his palm up your face so he could cup your cheek and stroke the skin under your eye so very tenderly.

“I don't need to force you. A single kiss from me during the ceremony was enough to make you want to jump me in front of everyone, was it not, my dear?” he questioned rhetorically and rather smugly. You flushed in embarrassment at the apt observation but nodded obediently when the Emperor gave you an expectant look. “And just now, when I tasted your misery – you liked that. You got wet, I could smell it. Do you deny it?”

“N-no, My Lord,” you stammered, feeling like you could catch fire with how heated your skin felt at him calling you out so bluntly.

“Then what do you have to fear? The only screams I enjoy in the bedroom are ones of pleasure, dear heart.”

“I… I don't know… We never spoke and I didn't know what to expect… I had no one to talk to, to prepare me or…”

“You poor thing,” your husband tutted condescendingly, but his touch was gentle still as he wrapped an arm around your waist and drew you into him, pulling you to his chest and tilting your head even further back so he could keep looking into your eyes. “You have nothing to fear from me, my dear. I take very good care of what's mine and you – well, I think you might just be something very special indeed.”

“Me, My Lord?” you questioned incredulously. You and special had no business being in the same sentence together, it just wasn't possible.

“Yes, you. Do you know why I chose you, out of all the others, without even bothering to assess them all?”

You shook your head, feeling breathless when the hand on your waist traveled to the small of your back and dipped downwards, cupping a handful of your buttocks and squeezing tightly.

“Because you smelled divine and looked so scared and innocent standing there without breaking eye contact, like a little mouse staring down the jaws of a predator,” the Emperor explained, bending down to trail kisses down your neck while his hand kept groping you and making you gasp. “And then you knelt for me. Without hesitation. Without a word of command from me. And you looked so very sinful avoiding looking up at me like I was the God you were praying to, kneeling in supplication like a good, devout little worshipper. Do you know how hard I have to beat people into submission to accept me as their ruler? How much harder it is to make them see that I am no ordinary man?”

You shook your head or at least tried to, letting out an involuntary moan when your husband's other hand let go of your face to cup your breast through your dress instead, fondling the flesh in tandem with your ass while his mouth kept lighting up small fires on your skin as he went along, pulling down the shoulders of your dress with his teeth so he could lave at your collarbones and suck proprietary marks into the skin.

“And you did it without thinking,” he continued, gripping the front of your dress with both hands and tearing it down the middle, revealing your chemise but for a moment before he tore through that as well. “Right there, in front of everybody. I got so hard watching you all I wanted was to bend you over the throne and take you in front of the entire Court.”

You gasped, moaning softly when your husband grabbed your breasts in both hands and squeezed hard before leaning down and taking one nipple into his mouth so he could roll it around and suck on it greedily.

“I knew I had to have you. None could compete, not in front of such beautiful, exquisite submission such as yours, my dear. So you see? You have nothing to fear from me, darling.”

You blinked up at him when he let go of your breasts so he could cup your face in both hands instead. You felt dazed, swept away by the tide of his desire, of his words, of his touches, and you didn't know if you would sink and drown or rise up to the surface to draw breath again, but you knew that you wanted more of this. More of him.

“Yes, My Lord,” you murmured, not knowing what else to say. Your heart was in your throat from the anticipation, eager this time as opposed to frightened, and your core felt like it was on fire – no one had ever made you feel like this before in all the years you'd been alive.

“Remove your clothes and lie down for me,” he ordered then, stepping away from you and giving you back your space.

Yet even with him gone from your immediate presence, his eyes lingered on your disheveled body and the weight of his focus was like a real thing pressing down on your shoulders.

You disrobed slowly, pulling the tattered remains of your clothes down your legs without looking at him to gauge his reaction at your nakedness, too flustered and self-conscious to not worry that you might find disappointment in his gaze once you were laid entirely bare for him. Once you were naked as the day you were born, you climbed on top of the marital bed, sinking your fingers into the plush, expensive material under you for just a moment while you calmed your nerves down, then turned around and lied down as instructed.

When you looked back at your husband, you found him watching you with rapt attention, his blazing eyes filled with so much desire and covetousness that it made you squirm in place in the face of such unrestrained hunger being aimed at you. You had the urge to cover up, to hide your breasts and cunt from his appraising eyes, but you knew without being told that the gesture would displease him. You were his wife, were you not? He had a right to behold you in all your sexual glory.

“Excellent. Lie back on the pillows and open your legs for me. I want to see you while I undress.”

You did as you were told even though your movements were shy and reluctant. You felt exposed and judged, examined down to the smallest flaw, while the Emperor started taking his armour off one piece at a time, the movements methodical and deliberate while his eyes never strayed from your naked body. Something in the way he looked at you or perhaps in the unintentional show he was putting on for your eyes as he revealed himself to you bit by bit made the wetness in your pussy increase exponentially and you bit your lip as arousal coursed through you, resisting the urge to close your thighs to relieve the pressure.

Your husband's eyes were glittering in the dark room lit only by the fire crackling merrily in the fireplace as he looked at you and saw the effect he had on you.

“Touch yourself,” he ordered, still busy taking off his armour. “Pleasure yourself while gazing upon your God.”

Biting your lip even harder, you did as you were told once more. Your touch was hesitant, clumsy what with you being unused to pleasuring yourself even though your older sisters had encouraged you to try it on several occasions while you waited for your parents to marry you off. You didn't really know what you were doing, but when your fumbling fingers petted over that bundle you had explored curiously once or twice before beneath the covers, your nerves lit up with pleasure and you moaned in surprise at the feeling.

“Eyes on me, dear,” your husband commanded and you opened them slowly, circling that wonderful pleasure button all the while, and your mouth dropped open on a breathless sigh when you were greeted with the sight of his naked torso, white, porcelain skin on full display. His muscles flexed while he discarded his padding and started taking off his pants, making your mouth water with the urge to lick over every inch of skin and bite down on the plushness padding his chest and biceps, but when he finally removed the last piece of clothing and straightened up under your half-lidded gaze, you almost stopped completely, forgetting how to breathe entirely.

Emperor Albert was the single most attractive man you'd ever had the pleasure to lay eyes on. That was a fact. But as he stood there, naked and looking somehow even more powerful and imposing without his battle armour, he was utterly breathtaking. Your heart pitter-pattered in your chest when your gaze flicked down to his manhood and saw its impressive size and girth, worrying for a moment how that could possibly fit inside of you, but most of your thoughts fled your mind when he climbed on top of the covers and started crawling towards you, a panther approaching its prey.

He began by kissing your calves, your knees, your thighs, before he parted your legs properly and bared you in all your glory for his assessing gaze to take in. You couldn't take your eyes off him even if you tried. Most people would have felt powerful with an Emperor, a self proclaimed God, lying between their legs while they gazed down on him from above. But not you. You felt like an offering, all spread out and waiting to be devoured while the wild, dangerous animal below you got ready to strike.

He kissed your inner thighs then, biting into the skin and rolling it between his teeth before sucking down on it to make it bloom with colour. You moaned as your eyes fluttered shut for a moment but you forced them open without needing to be told, remembering your previous instructions very well.

When his mouth closed over your cunt and he started kissing it, sucking on the hard nub you'd been touching before, flicking his tongue over it in dizzying strokes, at speeds you didn't think could be achieved by a human tongue, it didn't take you long to lose yourself in the pleasure being gifted to you. Your husband took your hands and placed them on his head, encouraging you to sink your fingers in his hair and tug, and you were helpless to do anything other than obey.

“Oh, that feels so good, My Lord,” you moaned, eyes flying open wide to stare at the ceiling for just a moment when your husband's tongue dipped down to your opening and started exploring the untouched territory. You felt like an overflowing mountain spring, gushing everywhere while your Emperor drank every drop that left your fluttering pussy.

His response was to redouble his efforts and attack your cunt even more viciously, making your breath hitch on every other inhale and hold on to his blonde strands like they were the only thing standing between you and unadulterated loss of the self.

You didn't know what that building pressure in your lower half meant, only that you needed to chase it to its completion, that to let it slip through your fingers would be an agony almost akin to death. When your husband flicked his tongue just right, pressing it flat down on your pearl with a deliberate motion, your mouth dropped open on a drawn out whine you couldn't recognise as having originated from you as pleasure the likes of which you'd never felt before exploded in you and made your vision go white for just a moment.

The man – the God – seated between your legs kept caressing your thighs and sides in a soothing pattern while you desperately tried to get your bearings and return to reality.

“There you go,” he quietly praised, sounding pleased with your performance. When you let your head fall back against the pillows and looked down at him, he had a satisfied expression on his face and a small smirk adorning his lips that were slick with your wetness and whatever had gushed out of you upon that wonderful explosion of pleasure. “Still terrified of what I'll do to you?”

You shook your head with a small, breathless chuckle. “No, My Lord.”

“Good,” he said, kissing your hip in a gesture that was so affectionate it made your heart skip a beat, before he climbed up your body slowly, touching and caressing your heated skin as he went, before he captured your lips in a kiss once more.

A slightly salty, acidic taste exploded on your taste buds when your husband invaded your mouth with his own and it took you a second to figure out that you were tasting yourself on his tongue. A surprised moan spilled out of you at the realisation which made him laugh into your mouth as he pulled away to look down at you with dancing eyes and a grinning mouth. He looked gorgeous.

“Little virgin girl discovering the wonders of sex,” he teased, nipping at your bottom lip and making you flush from embarrassment. You couldn't help being inexperienced! He had how many wives already? He was your first and only husband, it made sense to not know these things! “Worry not for I will teach you. Thoroughly.”

That declaration had your stomach swooping with arousal again and he gave you a knowing look before he pulled away from you. He seated himself next to you, lounging back on the mountain of pillows at his back, then gestured for you to come to him. You rolled over and approached on all fours immediately.

“I want you to suck my cock now, darling.”

You swallowed, eyes straying to the length you had been ignoring successfully until now, but you didn't want to say no, no matter how intimidating a sight it was. Lots of wives did this for their husbands, right? You could do it too. Nodding and trying to hide your trepidation as much as possible, you settled between your husband's parted legs just like he had done before, and gingerly took his cock into your hand.

It looked huge as you tried to wrap your hand around it fully, your fingers unable to touch around the impressive girth, and you thought about what to do now as you stared at it in lost confusion.

“Like this,” Emperor Albert instructed, enveloping your hand with his much bigger one and demonstrating a stroke up and down his shaft before letting go. “Use your mouth and take in as much as you can. The rest you can stroke with your hand.”

“Yes, My Lord,” you agreed readily then did as he instructed. You licked the tip hesitantly, testing the waters and finding that they were much tamer than you had anticipated. The liquid pearling at the tip was salty and a tad bitter but not unpleasant, and beneath that, his cock just tasted like skin. Warm, velvety skin that you couldn't get enough of as you started swirling your tongue around the head in a pattern that felt right, which proved to be correct when your husband buried his hand in your hair and hummed in approval to get you to keep going.

You sucked on the tip and teased the underside of his cock with your tongue, then licked up and down the shaft to get it wet and to ease your way when using your hand. And then, when it was pretty much drenched in your saliva, you started sucking as much of it as you could, stopping when you felt like your entire body was rebelling against the intrusion and using your palm to stroke the remaining length beneath your lips.

Every gasp or moan or groan you pulled from your husband lit you up from the inside and made your chest almost explode with the pride you felt. To bring him the kind of pleasure he had brought you only minutes prior was an honour, a duty you took very seriously. Even though your efforts were clumsy, they seemed to be well received, and it brought you hope that your marriage might not be as much of a disaster as you'd initially feared.

“Good girl,” he praised when you pulled away briefly to catch your breath, spit and precum clinging to your lips and the head of his cock from where it lay in your grasp. “That's enough for now. Come here.”

You crawled up his body eagerly, relishing the tight grip he had on your hips as soon as they were within reach, and sank into his body without issue when he pulled you into another messy kiss, this time being the one being tasted instead.

Your husband flipped you over with surprising strength and speed once he released your lips once more, but you didn't have time to dwell on it before he was parting your legs again and prodding your entrance with his fingers. He sank a digit into your channel then, making you moan and try to clamp your thighs down on instinct, but he had a proper hold on you already, likely anticipating your reaction, and he kept your legs open while he started thrusting that finger in and out of you.

This new activity confused you, as you had expected him to deflower you now after all the kissing and sucking that had happened, but whatever he was doing to you felt too good to question it much. He did this for a while, adding one more finger, then another, and stretching your opening in a way you feared would tear you apart. But when you voiced your concern, your husband only chuckled and assured you that his cock would be much bigger than a few fingers.

The words did not reassure you in the slightest.

Finally, at long last, after you turned into a panting, moaning mess as your husband fucked you open on his fingers without giving you the release your body craved, he pulled out of you for good and settled between your legs. You looked down at your lower half, where his cock was resting on top of your mound and weeping continuously that salty, bitter liquid you could still taste traces of on your tongue, and bit your lip.

Your husband cupped your face to lift your gaze to his own crimson one before he spoke.

“It will hurt but only for a moment. Afterwards, I'll drive you so insane with pleasure you won't even remember the pain.”

He captured your lips in a kiss before you could say anything in response and it was almost enough to distract you from the unrelenting pressure of the blunt head of his cock pushing inside your tight channel. You whined against his lips, squirming at the discomfort and wishing you could get away, but the Emperor's hold on you was absolute and he kept pushing no matter how much you whined. Then, something seemed to snap inside of you, making you yelp and clutch tightly to your husband's shoulders, before he pushed all the way in, much more smoothly this time around, and sheathing himself entirely inside of you.

You took deep breaths at his urging, feeling so full it was a wonder you had ever felt complete before, and bit by bit the pain faded away and left in its wake a burning need for him to move. You didn't need to tell him for he already seemed to know when you went from frightened and in pain to ready for his cock, and oh. When he pulled out of you, dragging that thick length against your walls just far enough to then shove it back in, again and again and again, you thought you might just die right then and there. Surely you wouldn't survive to see the morning after all.

“That's it, dear heart. Look how well you take it. I knew you would be a slut for my cock,” your husband praised filthily in your ear, biting down on your neck and shoulder while he drove his cock into your pussy relentlessly, making your tits bounce on every thrust and your voice break on every other moan as you clung to his broad back and took it all.

“It feels so good, My Lord,” you cried, screaming when he changed the angle of his hips and started hammering into you at a higher speed, with more force than before. How had you gone your entire life without this? How had you survived?

“It'll feel even better once you come on my cock.” His hand snuck down between your bodies, finding that sensitive nub yet again and pressing down on it in precise circles and flicks, all the while he kept pounding into you like he was trying to reach your organs. “Milk me, sweet girl, come on. You want my seed, don't you? You want to be the one to give me an heir, to carry my babies and stand at my side, right? Then come for me and show me how much you want it.”

Those words made you clamp down on your husband's cock and squeeze before you even realised what was happening to you. You had never dreamt of being in this position, of being chosen by the Emperor who conquered your land and subjugated your people to be part of his ever expanding harem, of being spread out on his bed with your legs wide open to welcome him into your body and into your womb. But suddenly, all you wanted was to make his words a reality. You wanted to be the one to give him what he wanted, to be the one with the privilege of carrying and raising his children, the heirs of a terrifying, impressive Empire, the children of a God.

“Please, My Lord,” you moaned, clinging to him and wrapping your legs around his waist as tightly as you could while he fucked you into the mattress ceacessly and drove you insane with that insistent thumb on your bud. “Put a baby in my womb, let me be the one who carries a God's children!”

Your husband groaned, messy hair hanging in his flushed face while those flashing eyes looked down at you almost ravenously, and when he bit down on the junction between your neck and shoulder with a particularly hard thrust into your cunt, you let your eyes roll back into your skull and seized under him as pleasure overtook you once more and made you see stars exploding behind your eyelids.

“Good fucking girl,” he snarled as his teeth detached from your neck, lapping at the blood you could feel welling up in the wake of his bite, before he grasped your legs by the thighs and nearly bent you in half as he lost himself in the pleasure of your spasming, weeping pussy for long moments before he drove himself into your channel as far as he would go and spilled his seed into your womb with a drawn out groan and muttered cursing under his breath.

You lay there, spent and exhausted but full of satisfaction, while he filled you to the brim with his essence, and you felt like your very skin was glowing with pride when he pulled out and praised you for a job well done as he collapsed on the bedding next to you. You could feel his semen dripping out of you while you tried to catch your breath and had the irrational urge to pick it up with your fingers and shove it back inside.

Something of your thoughts must have shown on your face because your husband rolled you over until you were pressed up against his side, your chin propped on his pec so you could look up at him properly, and he gave you a cocky smile.

“I'm not done with you, my little worshipper. You will be filled many more times by the time I'm satisfied. And if it doesn't take this time, it will the next. As many times as it takes for you to start growing me an heir.”

“Yes, please,” you murmured, exhausted and sleepy but so eager to fulfill your role as the Emperor's newest wife, and went so easily into his arms when he pulled you up until you were straddling him, kissing you like he was trying to devour you and spreading your cheeks with his hands so he could feel his mess dribble out of your used hole onto his belly.

By the time the sun rose and a new dawn arrived, you had been thoroughly educated on all manners of sex, at least the really important bits all beginners should know about. You lost count of how many times your husband had made you come, let alone how many times he had filled you with his seed. And you did scream a lot that night, that was true. But you never once prayed for anyone to come save you while your throat went raw from your endless pleas and wails – you only prayed that your torture never stopped.

Weeks later, while you were travelling with your husband and his army towards his seat of power where the rest of the harem awaited, William, who doubled as his Majesty's court physician as well, declared you pregnant with the Emperor's first child after he concluded his examination in the wake of your sudden sickness and unexplainable bad disposition. You cried happily at the news and shrieked with joy when Albert – as he had given you leave to call him when it was just the two of you – spun you around in his arms and kissed you deeply, telling you how proud he was of you and that he had known you were the one who was truly worthy of giving him an heir from that first moment your eyes met in the throne room, he – a terrifying ruler, you – a scared and naive girl in way over her head.

Although everything you knew was over, ripped away from you between one blink and the next, you didn't feel much remorse now for leaving everything behind and enjoying your place at your Emperor's side as his most favoured wife and soon to be mother of his children. You were happy like this – happy to be favoured and pampered, happy to open your legs for your God, and happy to give him something he had been putting off for years simply because none of his choices truly satisfied him.

People often wondered why Wesker, at 38 years old, a strong alpha in his prime who could have anyone he wanted for a mate, was still unmated and packless. He always brushed it off irritably, saying he had better things to be focusing on than mating, then moved the conversation along.

The real reason for his apparent bachelorhood, however, is much simpler and more complicated than mere difference in priorities at the same time.

For years, he's been slowly coming to terms with the fact that he is cursed to be alone in the world simply because no one is on his level. Most candidates for mating are either too dumb, too simpering, too full of themselves, or too mundane. His standards are high for a partner – whoever he chooses would reflect on him by association. He needs a mate who is smart, who is capable, who has a spine and too much pride to just bow down to the first person who tries to enforce their will on them, but who will also understand that, no matter how extraordinary they might be, Wesker is still far more extraordinary than them. He needs someone tenacious but ultimately submissive, who recognises their better not because they're too stupid or insecure, but because they can accept when someone is just simply… more.

Finding that person has been rather hard, as is to be expected.

One might suggest lowering his standards, but Wesker refuses to compromise on anything, least of all his own mate and carrier of his future children. He won't let just anyone mess with his superior genes and he won't suffer an idiot for his pups’ mother.

Just when he's more or less accepted that if he wants progeny he will just have to go the old fashioned route – test tube babies – and give up on the idea of having a mate for good, you walk into his life.

You are everything Wesker has been searching for and more. A pretty little omega who can hold her own in a fight extremely well, who doesn't take shit from anybody if they try to put her down for being a woman or an omega, but who still bares her throat respectfully when Wesker, as your Captain, issues orders or corrections when it comes to your work. You have a fire in you that Wesker wants to smother yet pour gasoline on top of at the same time and every day he spends masquerading as the S.T.A.R.S. Alpha Team Captain is more and more torture for him, having to hide his infatuation with you and stay on course.

But God, do you drive him crazy.

Your scent is dizzying every time he catches a whiff of it – citrus (lime with a hint of orange, if he had to classify it) wrapped in an airy, fresh, yet slightly sweet undertone that reminds him of a lotus flower. Pure, fresh, soothing. He loves and hates it in equal measure; never has Wesker been so affected by someone's scent, so easily driven insane by having it so close by yet so inaccessible. He wishes he could shove his face in your scent gland and drown in your smell while he simultaneously curses your allergy to scent patches that makes it impossible for you to cover up your scent in public.

Walking around smelling like temptation incarnate should be classified as a crime, in his opinion.

While torturous, his time as your Captain passes uneventfully until that fateful day in July. Wesker is eager to see his team in action and use them as his test subjects for his experiments, but that doesn't mean he has any intention of adding you to the pile. He mourns the opportunity to see you fulfil your true potential in a life or death situation of his design, but he knows he cannot risk you – one wrong move and he might lose you forever. That cannot happen.

When everyone splits up to search the Mansion and find a way out, Wesker makes sure to drag you with him and keep you close. You go easily, trusting of your Captain and glad to not be on your own, and don't even have time to register the needle poking your skin before Wesker is already pressing the plunger on the syringe. You gasp, eyes widening as your limbs are rendered useless, and Wesker holds you tightly and supports your weight as your eyes roll back into your head and you succumb to the sedative he's given you.

“Shhh, my darling. Just go to sleep, I will take care of you,” Wesker murmurs into your hair, petting you gently as you lose the battle against unconsciousness, then finally allows himself to do the thing he's been fantasising about for months. He buries his face in your neck, right where your scent gland rests, and takes a deep breath with his mouth wide open to maximise the effect as your delicious scent floods his senses and clouds his thoughts for the briefest of moments.

His fangs itch to bury themselves in your neck and claim you right then and there, but Wesker puts a lid on those instincts with some difficulty before he lifts his head up and adjusts you better in his hold.

“Soon, little omega. Very soon.”

POV CHANGE

You wake up with a headache pulsing behind your eyes and a dry mouth. For a moment – longer than you'd like – you can't get your bearings, confused as to where you are and what's happening. It takes long seconds of blinking uncomprehendingly around you for you to realise that you're lying in a nest that you don't remember making and that you're drowning in an unfamiliar scent that makes you feel like you died and went to Heaven.

It takes a bit longer still to remember what happened before everything went to black.

You shoot up in a panic as the memory floods your brain – clearing endless corridors and creepy rooms with Wesker, his steady presence comforting at your back when you knew you weren't fighting those horrors alone, then the painful stab of a needle in your neck as you started losing control of your body and mind and fell backwards into his cruel embrace. Now that you are awake and processing it, you're not sure what stings worse – the needle or the betrayal.

“Ah, you are finally awake. Good.”

You whip your head around to face the source of that voice and an involuntary shiver runs down your spine at the sound. Even though you know you can't trust the man to whom it belongs, its effect on you remains the same: soothing and sensual, making your stomach flip and clench simultaneously from attraction.

Wesker is standing in the doorway of the room you've found yourself in, leaning casually on the door jamb with his hands in his pockets. He looks good, unfairly so.

“What is this? Where am I? What happened?”

Wesker chuckles as he peels himself away from the doorway and advances further inside the room. His steps are slow and measured, careful in their intentionality, and though it is clear to you that he is giving you plenty of time to prepare for his approach, you still feel on edge. Like a mouse in a trap, watching a feline approaching almost like a taunt.

“You, my dear, are perfectly safe. You can thank me for that, by the way. Most of your brethren did not suffer as kind a fate back in that Mansion,” Wesker answers easily. His tone sounds more cruel and amused than you've ever heard it before and it's hard to reconcile this man with the Captain you've been admiring since you joined S.T.A.R.S.

Sure, Captain Wesker has never been warm and fuzzy, no one could accuse him of that, but he never gave you the impression that he could be quite so callous when discussing the deaths of your fellow S.T.A.R.S. members, that he could sound almost giddy at their horrible fate.

“Why did you… save me, then? And where exactly are we anyway?”

While you've been pondering Wesker's confusing change of personality, said man has been steadily getting closer to you without you noticing. When you finally realise his proximity, it's too late to back up and you end up freezing in place instead when his hand grips your chin and lifts it so he can look into your eyes. His are obscured from your view by his signature glasses, but you couldn't focus on that even if you tried. You gasp as his gloved hand touches your face and get a mouthful of his scent without meaning to.

He smells amazing. Your confusion as to how he managed to sneak past you so easily – first when he just materialised in the doorway and then again just now – clears up as you process that lungful of scent you just inhaled and realise that you've been drowning in it since you woke up. Earlier, since you've probably been sleeping in this nest for a while before you regained consciousness.

The violation of every privacy rule and societal custom is like a slap to the face. For an alpha to be so presumptuous as to not only build a nest for an omega not part of their pack, but to also drench it in their scent before placing the omega in the nest without consent… It's scandalous. Unheard of in polite society. You want to hiss at Wesker for his audacity, bare your fangs and flare your scent to warn him away from you, but when you open your mouth to do so, another whiff of his scent washes over you and seems to invade your mouth and senses like water in a jug.

He smells so good. Incredible, even. Leather, allspice, and rum blended together in a heady cocktail that takes over everything and renders you useless. His scent is so deeply masculine and alpha it feels like you stumbled into a cliché romance novel where the protagonist falls for the love interest with smoldering eyes and rippling abs.

You've never smelled him before in all the months you've known him. Truthfully, you've never smelled any of your coworkers, since scent patches are a standard in almost every workplace. It was only you who was the exception and that was due to your allergy. So it's no surprise that this scent is doing a number on you, what with it being an overpowering and unfamiliar alpha scent you're only just getting used to, but it's how much of an effect it has on you that's worrying.

“We are on a remote island you wouldn't know the name of even if I told you. And we are safe. Hidden. Unreachable.” Wesker's face gets closer to yours the more he speaks, and you have to hold your breath to avoid getting any dizzier by inhaling that delicious blend of aromas emanating from his scent glands. The proximity of both the glands on his neck and his wrists to your nose is not helping matters. “I wouldn't recommend trying to escape. No ships come here and the only way to get off the island is by helicopter, which comes only when I call.”

You swallow, out of both trepidation and nerves at Wesker's continued closeness, but determination fills your veins at his words. You will take this as a challenge. There is no way he's telling the truth, it sounds too idiotic for a man like Albert Wesker. What if he needs to leave quickly? What if the island burns down and he needs to escape? Relying on someone else to receive your call and make it to your location in time to get you out sounds stupid.

You narrow your eyes at him in spite of your anxiety and you could swear his lips twitch into a suppressed smirk for a moment before he schools his expression back into the cool neutrality of before.

“As for why I spared you… I think you know, little omega,” Wesker continues, dropping his voice suggestively and leaning impossibly closer until his nose almost brushes yours, his hot breath fanning over your parted lips.

“I'm sure I don't,” you retort, sounding breathless, and scowl in annoyance at yourself for being so affected by this man who clearly betrayed everyone, including you, and feels no remorse for it. “And don't call me that!”

Wesker chuckles again and it sounds darkly amused but fond. You hate the way your belly clenches at the sound and how your scent spikes just briefly before you ruthlessly tamp it down.

“Why not? That is what you are, isn't it? An omega and, compared to me, a small one. Little. Delicate. In need of protection.”

This time, your indignation wins out over whatever hypnotic effect Wesker's scent might have on you and you snap your teeth at him angrily as a growl rumbles in your throat. Wesker moves out of the way inhumanly fast, rendering your attack useless, and you back up into the nest in apprehension when he starts laughing as he pulls his glasses away from his face and looks at you with naked eyes for the first time. The once pale, wintery blue you glimpsed so very rarely is gone and in its place sits yellow, almost red, with slitted pupils that remind you of a cat's – or perhaps a snake would be a more apt comparison.

You don't know what the hell happened to the man you thought you knew, but it's safe to say that it's freaking you out, just a little.

“Oh, dear. Aren't you just adorable?” Wesker mocks, but it doesn't escape your notice that he doesn't close the distance between you again.

“Stay the fuck away from me!” you exclaim, properly on edge now and feeling trapped. “I'm not some delicate flower for you to protect, asshole! I don't know what you want from me, but I promise that you won't get it!”

Wesker tuts and waves away your words like they're dust in the wind, then bends just slightly to bring his face closer to where you're huddled against the nest’s edge even as he doesn't take another step closer.

“Oh, I will, dear heart. You are going to give me everything I want, of your own volition. I can be patient, I will wait however long it takes.”

“And what is it you want, then?” you snap.

The look Wesker gives you is pitying and possessive all at once and you would be lying if you said it doesn't make your heart jump in your chest – fear and excitement intertwine in your heart to torment you.

“You,” he answers simply. “Your body, your heart, your womb. Did you know you're the only person on this planet that I've encountered who's truly worthy of wearing my mating bite? You should feel flattered because I've met a lot of people in my life.”

“You're insane,” you protest, horrified at the prospect of being stuck here with this man, of being… forced to mate with him against your will. “I'll kill you before you can touch me! I'll rip your throat out with my teeth if I have to, don't think I won't!”

Instead of getting angry the way you expected, Wesker actually looks satisfied at your threats and straightens up at long last with a pleased little smirk on his face.

“Good. That's exactly the survival instincts I want the mother of my children to pass down to them.” Your stomach lurches at the mention of kids, of motherhood in relation to you, but you don't have time to dwell on the horrifying prospect of being a glorified incubator for Wesker because he speaks again, almost lazily, as he puts his glasses back on and starts walking away from you. “Fret not, my little omega. I won't force you into anything. You will come to me all on your own and beg me to knot you. And I will provide because I am a good alpha and I take care of what is mine.”

You're left sitting there, gaping, as he retreats from the room and leaves you all alone once more.

The room doesn't get any less crowded in his absence though. Every breath you take is filled with his scent, every item in that nest drenched in it. You can't really escape it. But even though you hate this situation you're in and want to get away from Wesker as soon as possible – as if you will ever give in to this monster! – his scent is paradoxically comforting and as you curl up into a ball in the middle of the nest, you breathe it in almost compulsively and try to calm your racing heart and ignore the uncomfortable throbbing in your core.

You won't give in. You won't submit. No matter how attractive he might be, how comforting his scent, how alluring his alpha-ness. You will escape and you will get away safely, unmated and without any pups in your belly.

You will.

***

After the sixth time you try to escape – unsuccessful as always – Wesker puts a collar on you that will inject you with a mild sedative within five minutes of leaving the perimeter of the house. You still try your luck for a seventh time, but find yourself awakening groggily in Wesker's arms as he carries you back to the house and your nest.

He looks down at you with those odd eyes, glasses nowhere to be seen, and tuts disapprovingly when you squint your eyes to see him better.

“I was distracted and didn't realise you were being an escape artist again, little omega. You were unconscious on the ground for two hours before I came to retrieve you.”

“And whose fault is that?” you grumble weakly, scowling when you can feel your head pulsing with a familiar headache, but freeze in place when Wesker's lips press softly against your brow right where the throbbing is hardest. Oddly, the touch helps. Your headache seems to dull significantly when he pulls his lips away from your skin.

“You are precious, my dear,” he says as he keeps walking, ignoring your accusation entirely. “I admire your gumption and I would never dream of stifling you but these silly escape attempts need to cease before you get seriously hurt. Just accept that your place is at my side for the foreseeable future.”

“Maybe I don't want to accept that.”

Wesker pauses on the threshold of the front door at your words, stilling for a moment that seems to stretch eternally, and you worry that you've made him angry and he's going to drop you to the ground in retaliation. Instead, his face twists into something thoughtful, perhaps a little frustrated at the edges, and he turns instead to face the ocean and the horizon ahead. The sun is low in the sky now, the orange ball dipping its toes in the wine-coloured ocean so beautifully it takes your breath away. In the past two weeks you've been here, you haven't taken the time to look around and admire your surroundings. Your only goal was getting away. But now, as you stare ahead at the breathtaking sight, cradled in Wesker's hold so effortlessly as if you weigh less than a feather, you can't help but feel something stirring up in your chest. Something fragile. Something dangerous.

“Do you have a reason to fear me, darling?” Wesker asks quietly after a few seconds of silence pass between you. His stare is focused on the horizon when you blink up at him but you know that he is very much aware of you. He always is.

“Is that a rhetorical question?”

Wesker huffs, amused but not quite, and shakes his head softly before he looks down at you with an expression you're unfamiliar with. It's entirely too soft.

“I'm not asking if I'm a source of fear in general. I'm asking if you specifically have a reason to fear me. Have I hurt you? Threatened you with harm if you disobey? Given you any reason to believe that I would ever lay a hand on you or force you to do something you don't want?”

You bite your lip as he speaks and have to avert your gaze when you can't take the sight of those eyes boring into you any longer. You don't like that they are the same colour as the sunset. That they are beautiful, inhuman as they are.

“No,” you answer after entirely too much time has passed, reluctant and irritated.

It's true, is the thing. You can't deny the veracity of his words. Even though you've run away from him and tried to escape – even went so far as to attempt to swim away during one particular moment you're less than proud of – he's never threatened you into stopping your tries. If anything, he's always seemed proud. Giving you tips for next time or criticising where you went wrong the last.

And despite your aggression – hackles rising if he gets too close, hissing and spitting at him, even trying to stab him with your fork once, useless endeavour as it was – Wesker never retaliates. He sniffs, displeased and offended, but he doesn't try to hit back even though he could.

You made him so mad once he actually growled at you – which was the hardest thing you've ever had to endure when every bone in your body demanded that you bow your head in submission and bare your throat while your stubborn mind refused to back down in the face of an angry alpha who wants to pup you – and even though you feared that you would feel his fangs in your throat as punishment for the offense or at least expected to be backhanded across the room, Wesker did none of that.

He just pointed an angry finger at you, snarling as he told you to watch your tongue, before he stormed out of the room and left you alone for the rest of the day. The next morning when you saw him at breakfast he basically gave you the silent treatment until you begrudgingly admitted that you may have crossed a line and that it wasn't fair of you to throw those words at him.

You hate it, but the realisation that Wesker has been, captivity aside, nothing but respectful of your boundaries and remarkably non-violent about the whole thing is actually startling.

Your eyes, when you pull them back to your snake-eyed captor waiting patiently for you to look back at him once more, are wide with surprise.

“Then what is the harm in staying here? Even if you never give in to me – which I know you will because you are a smart girl and your inner omega, at least, knows a good alpha when she sees one – you are more than safe and comfortable here, aren't you? What's waiting for you out there?” Wesker questions, nodding his head vaguely in the direction of the sunset. “Loneliness? Pain? Fear? Another outbreak? What happened in Spencer's Mansion will not remain an isolated incident, believe me, darling.

“So why not stay here in the meantime? I can provide for you and give you a break from reality for a little while. Who knows, maybe you will convince me to let you go, in time.”

You don't trust the little smile playing at his lips when he says it and you both know that convincing Wesker of anything is nothing more than a pipe dream. But you can't deny his words either.

What is waiting for you out there? Life as you know it is over – you could never go back to working in law enforcement when you know what true horrors lurk in the world, but joining some kind of government agency to combat corrupt companies like Umbrella doesn't sit well with you either. Governments cannot be trusted, that much you know.

And if not this, then what? Get a job teaching your subject at a local college? Find a nice alpha, get married, get the whole white picket fence treatment? The thought makes you puke.

Besides, you really have exhausted all the ideas you had when it comes to escaping. And the sedative collar on you isn't helping matters any. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad if you just… stayed. Just for a little while. Until you find other gaps in the armour that you can exploit so you can leave, of course. Until Wesker puts his guard down. Just until then.

“Fine,” you acquiesce, at length. “But you're not putting any babies in me. I'm more than just a womb and you would do well to remember that.”

Wesker smiles at your grumpy answer – a real smile. It makes your heart skip a beat, which you loathe so much you circle right back around to loving it, but you can't deny that genuineness looks so good on him. It transforms his face and makes him more approachable, less like he's carved out of marble and full of sharp edges and more like you could touch him and feel his solidity under your fingers and connect with him.

It would be easier to hate him if he wasn't genuinely handsome and annoyingly kind and patient with you – outside of his usual mocking sarcasm and gloating, that is.

“I never said you were just a womb for me to fill, little omega,” he replies as he finally turns away from the oceanic view and takes you back inside the house. “But a good alpha can appreciate all of his omega's attributes.”

You stay silent in the wake of that declaration, unhappy with how good it feels to hear him refer to himself as your alpha, even indirectly. You still haven't said anything by the time he drops you off in your nest, now drenched in your own scent as his has faded in the past two weeks since he was last here, but Wesker takes your silence in stride. He runs a gentle hand over your hair after his arms have left your body, still weak and lethargic from the sedative, and you just barely resist the urge to lean into his petting when he turns his wrists just so until he's lightly scenting you.

“Rest, my little omega. You've had an eventful day and, I imagine, many things to come to terms with. I will see you in the morning.”

He walks away from you then, not making a single move to touch you further or mess with your nest in any way, and just before he exits the room, something compels you to call out to him at long last.

“Goodnight, Wesker.”

He pauses in the doorway, not turning back to face you, but his voice is warm and pleased when he replies, “Sweet dreams, dear.”

And then he's gone.

***

Over the following weeks, as they bleed into a whole month, then two, you settle into a sort of routine with Wesker. It's not wholly unpleasant.

The thing about Wesker is that he's… likeable. Charming. Manipulative, if you don't want to be generous about it. He knows which buttons to push and how far but he also knows when to back down and leave you alone or simply change the subject. But perhaps more than that, you just like him. You always have.

You've always found his dry wit and little quips that nobody ever seemed to pick up on incredibly funny and even ridiculous at times. And he's a great conversational partner when he's not merely boasting or being insufferable for the sake of it. A man as smart as him is a balm to your soul after so many failed blind dates with various betas and alphas, and the occasional omega when the stars aligned, who just could not keep up with you in an intellectual conversation.

You always eat your meals with Wesker unless he's wanted elsewhere and leaves you to your own devices, not worried about you escaping anymore since you'd be knocked out even if you tried. It took you a month to realise that every time you ate together in the beginning he was taking note of what you liked and what you pushed around your plate uninterestedly, until nowadays, most of the things you eat are foods you've shown a clear interest in. The only times something new is added are when Wesker is trying to introduce you to something else or testing to see if he's missed anything in his initial assessment.

Outside of meals, he doesn't force his company on you. More often than not he's busy anyway – he won't tell you what he does and after the first few times when you got stonewalled you just huffed and accepted that you're not that interested in the answer anyway. But when he's got a free moment, he always seeks you out.

If you're not in the mood to entertain him, which at first was the case almost every time he stopped by, he will just stand in the doorway, watching you for a few minutes, before he leaves once more.

But as you slowly warm up to his existence around you and welcome him, at first reluctantly, to share a space with you – be it your room or some communal space like the den where a secondary, much less luxurious nest resides – he will walk up to you with deliberate steps and strike up a conversation. Sometimes it's about morality and the nature of humanity and what it really means to be a good or a bad person in the grand scheme of things. Other times he just complains about how stupid and annoying people are and that he misses working with you.

It's… nice. You don't want to admit it because doing so would be akin to admitting defeat and that is the last thing you want to do. But you can't deny that you enjoy Wesker's company. The sound of his voice. The times he makes you snort involuntarily or giggle under your breath as he bemoans the stupidity of humanity at large. And when his hand brushes against yours – deliberately or otherwise, you haven't yet figured it out – those strong, veined hands trailing your skin without the barrier of gloves standing in their way… You often have to close your thighs immediately and take deep breaths while you wrestle your scent into submission so it won't give you away.

Scent is also a problem. Wesker's is everywhere. You can't escape it no matter how hard you try. You go for walks along the beach sometimes, just to breathe in the saltiness of the ocean instead of that leathery cocktail of his, but when you return to the house and to your nest, he's all you can taste on your tongue, all you can breathe in your lungs.

To your great shame, you start dreaming about him too.

It starts off innocent, but it doesn't take long for everything to go downhill and end up in the gutter.

You dream of his hands on you, pushing up your shirt and groping handfuls of your breasts while he praises you for being so good, telling you how much bigger they'll grow when they fill up with milk for his pups. You dream of him ordering you to present for him, and getting on all fours as you open up your cunt and show it off, enticing the big, strong alpha who can take care of you and provide for you into taking you for himself. You dream of feeling his knot swell up inside you and lock you together while he pumps you full of his cum, sealing your fates just as his fangs sink into your mating gland and bind you to him.

And you dream of swelling up with his child. Of his warm hand caressing your rounded belly as he praises you for doing good, for making him proud, for giving him exactly what he wants.

You always wake up from those dreams drenched in sweat, panting, with panties ruined by the excessive slick you were secreting like crazy while you slept. And you always have trouble looking Wesker in the eye at breakfast after knowing that you made yourself come in the nest he built you while whimpering his name under your breath. While still denying that you want him.

Things come to a head about three months into your stay with Wesker.

For the past week, your dreams have gotten more frequent and vivid, but on top of that you've been feeling off as well. Your skin itches uncomfortably and you feel on edge, like something is about to happen and you need to prepare for it. You make and unmake your nest about a dozen times, each time growing more frustrated with how wrong it feels, until you stumble across a pair of Wesker's gloves, discarded on a table in the living room and probably forgotten, and you know just from looking at it that you need it in your nest. After that, you start stealing things that smell like Wesker, whether something as inconspicuous as the dish towel he gravitates towards when in the kitchen or personal things like shirts and pants, which you steal shamelessly from the laundry bin without a second thought.

Somehow, it never occurs to you that your behaviour might be noticeable to Wesker and that he knows exactly what you're doing. You don't even know what you're doing, not until it's far too late.

As the day everything changes gets closer, you become needier. You don't want to be left alone for long and come up with any excuse possible to stick close to Wesker or follow him around the house. Oddly – at least until you find out later that he was aware of your predicament and was indulging you – he allows the intrusion without complaint or comment. And when you snuggle up into him one night while watching a movie together, the first time you've ever initiated any kind of physical contact that wasn't to bite or claw at him angrily, he just lets his arm drape over the back of the couch so as not to cage you in and allows it when your nose drifts up to the scent gland in his neck so you can breathe him in properly.

The day it happens, Wesker isn't home. He left early that morning, saying he had something urgent to deal with but that he'd be back as soon as he could. He seemed uncharacteristically agitated at the prospect of leaving you alone, which certainly didn't help your neediness at all, but you bit back the whine that wanted to escape your throat – a call for your alpha not to leave – and told him to have a safe flight.

“He's not my alpha,” you grumble to yourself as you watch him leave, biting your lip and scratching at your uncomfortable skin, and don't even have the energy to tell yourself that you're full of shit.

You want Wesker. You always have. A small part of you was dreaming about the day you might gather up the courage to ask him on a date back in Raccoon City before everything went to shit. And now…

You shouldn't. You know that. He's a bad person who got your teammates killed, who orchestrated everything without remorse, who drugged you and kidnapped you and has been keeping you hostage for the past three months. It's fucked up to want a man like him after everything he's done.

But he makes you feel things no one ever has. He listens to you and he speaks so eloquently that you can't help but be drawn in even when you don't agree with what he says. His incredible scent and aura and obvious good looks aside, he's also just… good to you. Something about a man as evil as Wesker, as cold and callous and calculating, showing you kindness; showing you patience; making you feel safe because you know that as long as he's around he'll always be the worst thing in every given situation, therefore nothing can touch you – it's messing with your head. It's messing with your heart.

And the worst part is that your biology agrees with how good of a match he is. Your inner omega wants to purr and preen every time you spend time with Wesker because he is, objectively, the ideal alpha. Not just in general, but specifically tailored for you. He's the only man who doesn't provoke a knee jerk reaction in you to snarl at the idea of being his kept omega.

Which sounds contradictory but it's true. You were against the idea of being his mate when you thought he would force you, when you thought he was evil and irredeemable, when you thought he only wanted you for your ability to give him kids. But now that you've spent countless days with him, just talking sometimes or sitting in silence while you each did your own thing separately, you know that's not the case. You know he genuinely enjoys your company, your presence, your smarts and your humour.

You've seen Wesker laugh and you don't think you can ever recover from the way your breath caught in your throat at how beautiful he looked when he threw his head back unexpectedly, his eyes crinkling at the corners with his fangs peeking through over his bottom lip just slightly.

It isn't until later in the afternoon when you start tossing and turning in your nest and feel like your skin is on fire that it finally hits you that your heat is here.

It sounds stupid in hindsight – of course your heat is here. What else would be making you feel like this and act so needy in such a shameless manner? But your heats are rare and somehow you always forget how they feel when they approach. They always take you by surprise.

It's when you start taking off your clothes, unable to stand the feeling of the fabric rubbing up against your sensitive, heated skin, and a keen low in your throat escapes you, an omegan call for a prospective mate to come and join you, that you realise just how much trouble you're in. But at this point, you don't even care anymore. You want to give in. You want Wesker. You want your alpha.

You keep calling for him without an answer, and as the fever of your heat sets in more and more, your brain forgets that Wesker isn't home and that there's no one there to answer your desperate whines and beseeching calls for an alpha. All you know is that you're in heat, that you need your alpha's knot, and that he won't join you in the nest you so painstakingly built out of your shared items so you can spend your heat together in it.

It's not really a surprise when you start crying and thrashing around in the nest in despair.

It might be minutes, it might be hours, it might be days – you don't know how much time passes before Wesker finally returns and finds you laying pathetically in the middle of your nest, naked and flushed with fever, keening desperately for your alpha while hugging his gloves to your face and breathing the leftover scent into your lungs like a drug.

But you know when he's there because his voice reaches you without fail, strong and deep and rumbling, from where he's standing in the doorway.

“Hello, little omega. I'm sorry I kept you waiting.”

You snap your head in his direction with wide, teary eyes, and a happy chirp escapes you as soon as you see him. He looks disheveled, like he ran here to see you, but he also looks divine. You want to devour him whole.

He huffs a laugh at your call, delighted by your descent into primitive methods of communication while in the throes of your heat, and takes a step closer to your nest as he removes his current pair of gloves slowly. His eyes are bared to you, predator-like and attentive, as they roam over every inch of you with unmistakable hunger. You can smell his arousal from here and it only makes you feel hornier, a trail of slick escaping you as your nostrils flare to breathe him in.

“Will you let me into your nest, darling? Can your alpha come and claim you at long last?”

You look up at him with desperate, hungry eyes and nod frantically. You even bare your neck for him, keening further to get your point across. Wesker's finger comes to trail across your throat, skimming your scent gland and pressing just slightly, only for a moment, into your mating gland as well, before he grasps your chin and pulls your head sideways so you can make eye contact.

“Use your words, omega. I won't have you rebelling tomorrow by claiming I tricked you and used your heat against you.”

You swallow, hypnotised by that unnatural gaze you find so very beautiful, and lick your dry lips before you speak. Your brain might be overheated, but you know what you want. You always have. It just took a while to accept it.

“I want you, Wesker. I want you to… To mate me. To pup me. Please claim me, alpha.”

The rumble that builds up in Wesker's chest is all alpha, a sound that makes your knees weak even when you're lying down, that makes your pussy get wetter, and that makes a needy whine escape you as desperation builds up in you. You feel like you will catch fire and turn to ash if he doesn't climb into the nest and fuck you right this second.

“Good omega. I told you you would come to me begging, didn't I? And just like I promised, I will now give you everything you want,” Wesker purrs dangerously, before he removes the rest of his clothes and climbs into your nest without a second thought.

You can't take your eyes off him – his smooth, pale skin is gorgeous and enticing, making you want to mark it up with your fangs, and those strong, muscled arms and thighs make your mouth water as you remember how they flexed when he lifted you up so effortlessly into his arms.

But what has you speechless and thoughtless all of a sudden is his cock. It's huge, to put it simply. Easily the biggest you've ever seen in person. Long and thick, curved ever so slightly sideways, already hard and leaking precum – you want to make it disappear down your throat in one swallow even if you know you wouldn't be able to. Just the thought of taking that gorgeous knot waiting, inert, at the base makes you feel delirious with want.

“Like what you see, omega?”

Wesker's voice draws your eyes away from that beautiful specimen of a cock and you meet his amused eyes without an ounce of shame. Perhaps when you're not in heat you will be more bashful about it.

“Yes,” you breathe, somehow able to find your words despite the atrocious need coursing through your veins. “Can I present now, alpha? I need you.”

“My, my, what an eager little thing you are,” Wesker mocks and draws himself closer to you until his body is plastered to your side, hot breath fanning over your cheek while his thumb comes to rest on your bottom lip thoughtfully. “Don't you want me to kiss you first? Prepare you? Ease you into it?”

You moan when his hand trails down your throat, passing your sore breasts with a playful squeeze to each of them, before it comes to a stop right above your cunt.

“Give me whatever you want. Just please touch me. Fuck me. Knot me.”

Wesker smiles, you can see it in your peripheral vision, but then your eyes close in pleasured agony when his hand cups your pussy firmly while he noses behind your ear at your scent gland, licking over it and making you see stars explode behind your closed lids for a moment.

“Submit, omega. Present for you alpha,” he orders firmly, the heel of his palm pressing down on your clit while his middle finger swipes through the mess of slick between your lips, and you don't waste any time before you're turning around on all fours, facing away from Wesker so you can arch your back and push your ass high in the air so you can present your fertile little cunt to him – his to fuck, his to knot, his to breed.

Wesker's palm comes down on your asscheek gently but sharply, making your ass jiggle as you yelp, but soothing the sting immediately when he kneads the flesh in his hand with hunger. He uses both hands to pull your cheeks apart, baring more of your pussy to him, and you've never felt so exposed in your life yet so eager to show off for someone else. You've never shared your heat with anyone and it's a whole new experience for you now that you are.

“Beautiful,” Wesker declares and it makes you purr and preen as you wiggle your ass excitedly in his face. He laughs, fond and pleased, before his warm, wet tongue swiping through your folds makes you moan in surprise and sink your face into the nest below you. “Delicious,” he adds when he pulls away and you can hear him licking his lips and swallowing down your slick before he inserts three fingers at once in your loose channel, all lubed up and ready to be mounted, and fucks them in and out of you for a beat. “Exquisite,” is his last observation, sounding pleased and eager to get this show on the road, and you don't even mourn the absence of his fingers for long, not when you know what comes next.

Wesker enters you slowly. You expected him to just push into you to the hilt and make you take it, though you don't know why. Instead, he makes sure your pussy keeps producing slick the further he slides inside, easing the way, while your body slowly relaxes to accommodate his girth. When he finally bottoms out, heavy balls pressed flush against your pussy and cock reaching somewhere into your ribs, you're left panting into your nest, fists grasping at the bedding, and feeling on cloud nine.

You've never been so full in your life. None of your past partners have ever filled you like this, nor your various toys and dildos. Wesker fills you perfectly, all the way to your womb, and it makes your head buzz pleasantly as the fever under your skin goes down at the feeling of your pussy finally being stretched by what it's been craving. A big, thick, virile alpha cock right in your guts.

“So full, alpha,” you moan in delight, pressing your palm against your belly where you can feel his cock poking outwards. You always thought belly bulges were a myth; now you know better.

“Exactly like you were meant to be,” Wesker adds, then he pulls out just a bit before he drives himself back into you. You moan together at the feeling. “Are you going to lie down and take it like a good little omega bitch? Are you going to let the alpha be in charge?”

Wesker's hand comes up around your neck, grabbing you by the scruff and lifting you backwards until your neck aches from the strain, but it hurts so good. You've been yearning for a real alpha to tame you, to shove you down and make you take it for so long. It feels so right when you whimper, “Yes, alpha,” right before Wesker pulls back and slams back into you mercilessly at the same time he shoves you down into the mattress and keeps you there by pressing down on your nape.

He's got you mounted and full of his cock. You can only lie there and feel every brutal, hungry snap of his hips against your ass, feel every delicious slide of his cock in and out of your eager cunt as it keeps weeping for him and drawing him in with slick, squelching sounds that would make a pornstar blush.

“Such a good omega, darling,” Wesker pants, hissing through his teeth when your cunt tightens around his shift at the praise. “You just can't wait to be knotted, huh? How long have you been waiting for this?”

You sob into the nest when his hips pick up speed and start pounding into you even more brutally than before, the hand that isn't holding you down gripping your hip so tightly you're sure you will have bruises later. The thought makes your clit throb with arousal even more.

“S-so long, alpha. Been… ah! Been dreaming about your cock, touching myself…” you trail off, lost in mindless pleasure when Wesker's hand leaves you nape so he can rub your clit roughly while he keeps hammering his big cock into you.

“Like this, dear heart?” he murmurs into your ear, fingers insistently bullying your sensitive clit.

“Yes, yes, just like that. Oh, fuck, I'm gonna come, alpha! Please make me come!”

“Do it, omega. Come all over my cock and show me how much you want me.”

The order is like the final key in a lock and the dam breaks as your orgasm crashes into you and makes you go blind and deaf for a few seconds, knowing nothing but the overwhelming pleasure in your lower half and Wesker's scent in your nose. He keeps fucking you without stopping while you tremble and whine under him, but when you recover slightly from the pleasure, his soothing alpha rumble is right there in your ear, the vibrations in his chest pressed tight to your back and warming you up down to the bone.

“There you go, omega. So good for me, that's it. You can take it, come on,” Wesker is whispering in your ear, his cock wrecking your poor pussy and making you feel delirious with how badly you still want him. You know one orgasm won't be enough, but first you need his knot. Further pleasure can come later.

“Please fill me up, alpha,” you beg, pushing your ass against his pelvis as much as your position will allow, which isn't much when Wesker is draped so fully over you, pinning you under his unyielding mass and making you feel trapped in the most delicious of ways.

“Do you want my knot, omega? Want my seed? My pups? My bite?”

“Yes, yes, yes! I want it, all of it, please give it to me!”

That wicked tongue darts out towards your scent gland again, licking a wet stripe over it while one of his palms squeezes your asscheek, and he punches the breath right out of you with a few mean thrusts right into your cervix. You gasp and clutch weakly at the sheets.

“Ask me properly.”

You turn your head as much as you can until your eyes lock on Wesker's. He looks feral, eyes shining a deep, vivid red, lips pulled back in a snarl with his fangs slightly more elongated than usual, and the sight makes you feel like the luckiest omega in the world – this man, this alpha, is going feral for you, for your cunt, for your womb. He wants you so badly he's lost all semblance of control. Your cunt gushes even more slick in response to your thoughts and you bite your lower lip hard before you manage to speak.

“Please mate me, alpha. Claim me. Breed me like a good little bitch.”

It seems like that was all that was keeping Wesker somewhat composed still. As soon as those words are out of your mouth, he growls without restraint and starts fucking you with an intensity you never thought possible – you have half a mind to expect the nest to break down under the assault entirely.

One continuous moan escapes your lips while he pounds you into the mattress and then it turns into a desperate little keen when you feel his knot start to swell, catching on your hole with every pass in and out of you until he finally shoves the whole thing inside and resorts to rutting into your greedy cunt while it blows up to full size inside you.

You whimper at the feeling of being stretched so much, more than you ever have been before, but Wesker distracts you from the slight discomfort by baring your neck fully and sinking his fangs right into your mating gland. Pain explodes at the intrusion followed by absolute euphoria.

Your body goes limp, head filling with happy chemicals at the feeling of a bond snapping into place the deeper Wesker's fangs sink into you, and when his knot finishes swelling and his cock starts spilling rope after endless rope of cum into your waiting cunt, you finally feel fulfilled. Satisfied. Happy.

“Good omega,” Wesker praises, his voice raspy and overwhelmed, after he pulls away from your neck and licks soothingly at the angry bite mark adorning it now.

The praise makes you glow with happiness and pride and you start purring while Wesker maneuvers you until you're lying on your side, his cock trapped inside your pussy while he spoons you from behind. You snuggle back into his hold, moaning slightly when the movement drives his still ejaculating cock further into you, then settle down while you wait for his orgasm to be over and his knot to go down.

“Thank you, alpha,” you murmur after a few seconds, feeling sleepy but wanting to say this before you succumb to exhaustion.

Wesker's arm tightens around your middle before his palm slides down until it can lie over your belly, feeling his own bulge – cock and cum both – and the womb he's valiantly filling as you speak.

“You are mine forever now,” he declares, a warning and a promise rolled into one. “And I promise that I take very good care of what I own.”

The words should probably frighten you. They did, just a little, the first time he said them. But all they do now is fill you with comfort and security, knowing that you have a safe future ahead of you as long as he is your alpha. You can take his knot and carry his pups to your heart's content – he will take care of everything else for you.

It may not be the future women and omega's rights activists envisioned for you when they fought for your rights all those years ago, but it is the one you crave. At least with Wesker, you know that what's between your legs isn't the only thing that interests him. And the way he holds you tighter as you start to drift off, still fully sheathed on his cock and plugged up nicely by his knot, tells you that you might even get him to love you eventually, if he is capable of such puny human sentiments.

The sound your shoes make on the polished floor is loud in your ears as you walk behind the guard leading you along and follow the by-now familiar path you've grown to resent and look forward to in equal measure. The fluorescent lights above are an eyesore, as per usual, and the cold, sterile appearance of the seemingly endless corridors and interminable metal walkways don't ease the feeling of claustrophobia and wrongness the further inside you go.

You know it's designed like this on purpose. A secret prison that nobody knows about unless they have a reason to, built and enforced specifically to hold the most dangerous criminals of the bioterrorist world – the human and the non-human alike. It's not often that the DSO or the BSAA leave their enemies alive – more often than not they're not even given a chance to – but on the rare occasion when it happens and they actually manage to subdue and apprehend a criminal, this is where they get dumped.

Private trials are held, sentences are carried out, the subjects are always declared guilty, and then they serve those sentences here for the rest of their lives.

The abuse of power and disregard for human rights makes your skin crawl but you've learned to push that to the back of your head and ignore it. You know it makes you a hypocrite considering all the ways in which you have violated other people's human rights – or at least remained silent when it happened right before your eyes and thus became complicit – but this is somehow worse. A scientist megalomaniac with no scruples experimenting on people to perfect a virus that he then plans to release worldwide and infect Earth's population with is one thing. Governments having so much power over individuals and being able to do whatever they want with the general public being none the wiser about it is another.

You perk up slightly when the turns and twists the guard leads you on become more familiar. A room you've become acquainted with rather well in the past two years – twenty-four visits, happening once a month, like clockwork – comes into view and your heart speeds up with longing and anticipation as a lovesick smile spreads across your face. The other guard already stationed in front of the door gives you a derisive snort as the prison staff always do – why you would be so excited about spending twenty-four hours locked in a room with a psychopath hellbent on world domination is a mystery to them. But that's alright, they don't need to understand. They just need to let you see him.

“Back again, huh? Don't you have something better to do than visit this horror show every month, sweetheart? I bet I could satisfy you just fine if it's his cock you're after. And you wouldn't even have to schedule an appointment to get it.”

Your expression twists into a sour glare at the guard’s words. You wish you could slap him for his insolence – or better yet just kill him. This kind of disrespect would never fly if your husband was free. He's always been so territorial when it comes to you – his little dove, perfection personified and all his for the taking. To hear another man talk so crassly about you would have been a death sentence. You can already picture the way Albert's Uroboros would skewer him clean through the chest, the way the guard would gasp and gurgle and grasp uselessly at the air while blood dribbled out of his mouth and choked him on it.

You blink and the vision dissipates.

“My husband can satisfy me better with his pinkie than you ever could with your entire body. Watch your tongue,” you snap.

The man laughs nastily at your retort but when the guard who escorted you here tells him to knock it off and step aside to let you in, he does so – even if he makes a show of blocking the doorway just enough to make it so you have to brush up against him when you go in. If you didn't know the gesture would be useless due to the steel-toed boots the guards wear, you would be driving your heel into his foot on the way inside.

“Alright, ma'am. You know the rules. You have everything you'll need over there, a guard will be stationed outside the door the entire time if you need help or want to leave early, and if not, you have twenty-four hours starting when the prisoner is brought inside the room. Any questions?”

You shake your head, long having memorised all the rules, the DOs and DON’Ts of conjugal visits with Albert, but verbally thank the guard who brought you here since she's been nothing but professional the entire time you've known her. She acknowledges your words with a tight lipped smile and sympathy in her gaze before she turns on her heel and marches out of the room.

You know she pities you. She thinks you're a poor, stupid girl who got all twisted up into Albert's web that even now, more than two years after he's been apprehended by Chris Redfield in Kijuju and brought here, you still can't pull yourself away. That every time you come here, Albert just spins the web tighter around you and makes you return every month on the same date so he can sink his fangs into your soft underbelly just a little bit further.

Everyone thinks that, really. Including Redfield. He offered to get you a divorce after they processed Albert and started getting ready for his trial – a sham, in truth, where he represented himself when he saw what his options were. It didn't matter in the end. They had declared him guilty before he was even in their custody.

But you refused vehemently, even when Redfield begged you to reconsider. He promised you safety, that Albert wouldn't be able to get to you as revenge for leaving him, that he would never be free to terrorise you ever again. He even offered counselling for whatever trauma you might have developed while under Albert's thumb.

What a silly notion.

You are with Albert because you love him. He makes you feel alive and cherished, he makes you feel powerful. When you're with him, you're not the docile thing your father – your captor – raised you to be. You are exactly who you should have always been: strong and confident and in control. Albert liberated you from the constricting cocoon Spencer had woven around your struggling body from infancy until that fateful day at the Estate when he killed your father and found you, scared and useless but full of potential, cowering in a hidden nook of the study and waiting for your own end to come.

You can remember the moment when your eyes met so clearly even now.

Your breathing was shallow as you lay there, huddled in a corner and trying to sink into your mind so you wouldn't feel the pain of what was to come. Your father was dead and while you didn't mourn the bastard, you mourned the little protection that came with his existence. Now, you were all on your own, scared and useless in a fight, about to face your own demise at the hands of your father's proudest achievement and simultaneous biggest failure.

You flinched when the black-clad figure knelt in front of you, his boots shiny and splattered with your father's blood. And when two gloved fingers came up under your chin and gently lifted your face to look at him, you had to bite down on your tongue to keep from yelping.

You looked up and you saw an angel. Blonde hair slicked back, red eyes gleaming from behind his dark shades, and a curious smile stretching his lips at the sight of your terrified eyes as they met his. Your breath hitched and it wasn't because he scared you with his appearance.

“Well, well. What do we have here?”

You were still terrified but Albert's voice washed over you like a cooling balm over blistered skin. He smelled like ozone and iron, like the storm raging outside, like freedom.

You uncurled from the tight ball you'd turned yourself into, flowering shyly under his intrigued gaze, and told him your name. He was surprised to find out that Spencer had had a daughter he'd kept hidden from everyone else, but not so much when you spoke of your father with fear dripping with resentment.

He could have killed you then. Sometimes, you wonder if he contemplated it. But in the end, he offered you his hand and with it, the world. You took it and you never looked back since.

Albert is everything to you – your partner, your closest friend, your confidant, your saviour. He has taught you how to be who you are, how to become what you were always meant to be in spite of Spencer's attempts to stifle your potential out of fear that you would be too powerful and end up usurping him. Being married to this man is more than just a formality or about ownership. It's about belonging and giving back everything that he's given you, as much as you can.

You could never abandon him, not when he is the one without power for once. Now when he needs you.

The door opens back up behind you, pulling you out of your reminiscing thoughts, and you swivel around immediately to face the newcomers. Albert stands tall in the doorway, dressed in that horrible orange jumpsuit they make him wear, looking powerful and dignified even with his hands cuffed – the cuffs and chains reinforced and modified to withstand his strength and weaken his Uroboros at the same time. Your eyes meet and he gives you a brief smile, a small uptick of his lips, but you can tell that he's pleased to see you. The way he can't take his eyes off of you while the guard issues his own set of rules and warnings says it all.

Then, at long last, the door closes and you are alone.

You nearly teleport to his side, that's how fast you cross the distance between you so you can take his face in your hands and drink in the sight of him as you caress his flawless skin, relishing the faint stubble you can feel under your hands, nearly invisible with how fair the hair is against his porcelain skin. Albert's hands come to rest on your hips without missing a beat and he takes a deep breath in, obviously trying to get a good whiff of your scent that is much duller now due to those blasted cuffs secured around his wrists.

“Hello, wife,” he greets warmly. His lips pull up in a freer smile when you nudge his chin up so you can press a hungry kiss under his jaw, smearing your lipstick and marking him up as your own.

“Husband,” you return breathlessly before you straighten up again so you can kiss him properly. He opens up to you easily, kissing you back with just as much hunger as you, and his hold on you tightens so he can bring you forward into him, your chest pressed against his, while his knee nudges your legs open until he can rub up insistently against your core.

“I've missed you,” Albert confesses when you pull away. His lips are a mess now and his hair – loose and hanging in his face these days since they won't provide him with anything to style it with – looks more disheveled than a minute ago. He looks breathtaking.

“Mhm, me too.”

You start unzipping his jumpsuit while trying to shrug out of your own clothes at the same time, which is not easy, but your desperation to feel your husband's skin on yours is a miracle worker and you somehow manage. Albert hisses when you wrap your hand around his cock and start stroking, twisting your wrist and gathering precum with your thumb so you can spread it around, while your naked chest presses up against his pecs in that way you know drives him wild.

“I'm so wet for you, Albert,” you sigh against his throat, tracing his skin with your tongue and resisting the urge to bite down. “I opened myself up in the car before I walked in so I could take your cock as soon as I saw you. Do you want to fuck me too?”

“What a stupid question, my dear,” he growls and finally takes charge by shoving you backwards until your legs hit the edge of the bed and you fall on top of the mattress. You open your legs immediately as he comes to loom over you, pussy aching with the need to be filled as it keeps crying for Albert's cock, and you gasp in pleasure when he enters you in one swift thrust, burying himself to the hilt in your cunt and draping himself over you until you're shielded from view and all you can smell, or taste, or see, or breathe is him him him.

You moan together every time he pulls out slowly only to slam back into you with no restraint and your nails rake down his back when he starts bullying your pussy in tandem with his fingers rubbing expertly at your clit. Your moans echo off the walls, high pitched and breathy with pleasure, and you make sure to scream Albert's name when he makes you come, knowing that the asshole guard is right outside the door and can hear everything.

“Such beautiful sounds you make for me, darling,” Albert praises, his breathing laboured as he keeps fucking your spasming cunt, then covers your mouth with his for a deep, filthy kiss when he reaches his peak, and groans into your mouth, cock twitching and thrusting into you as it pumps you full of cum. The condoms provided by the prison lie unused in the basket of supplies on the table in the corner of the room as they always do.

You lie there under him as you both come down from your frantic round, your fingers playing with his soft strands, scratching soothingly at his nape on every other pass downward, while Albert breathes you in greedily and presses hungry little kisses against the side of your neck.

“I did it,” you whisper faintly in his ear after long minutes of post-coital bliss, pitching your voice as low as you can so that the mics won't pick anything up. There is also a reason why he always covers you with his body whenever you visit and it's not just because he's possessive and can't get enough of you – there are hidden cameras and mics in this room even if the prison won't admit it, and Albert will sooner slaughter everyone here with his bare hands, cuffs be damned, than let anyone get a show of you with your legs spread wide open for him. It's bad enough that they have access to everything else you do in here. That, and it makes lip reading your private conversations impossible when neither of your faces are in view.

Albert's lips trail up your neck until they latch onto your earlobe and he flicks his tongue out in a sensual manner than has your pussy tightening around his still hard cock immediately.

“All of it?” he whispers between teasing bites as he starts to rock into you once more.

“Yes,” you breathe out, feeling blissful with every drag of his cock against your walls, knowing that he's making a mess of your insides and wanting him to destroy you even further – if only he could let loose on you the way he had the freedom to do before he got locked up. “They're releasing the virus as we speak, my love. I told you I would do it for you and that I would get you out of here.”

Albert's hand clamps down on your hip to hold you in place when he suddenly thrusts harder into you, making your breath hitch when he starts hammering into that soft spot inside with a faintly red glint in his beautiful eyes. He's grinning down at you, smugness and satisfaction oozing from his every pore, and you gladly let his other hand grasp both of your wrists and press them tightly together above your head while he pounds your pussy earnestly.

You can feel a mix of his cum and your wetness sliding out of you every time he pulls out, making a creamy mess of your hole and letting out the most erotic squelching sound with every powerful thrust into your pussy.

“And you, my dear? Are you ready?”

You moan when he pinches your clit and rubs it with his thumb to increase your pleasure and usher in your second orgasm, then arch up off the mattress, his restraining hold on your wrists not letting you go very far, when he hits that sweet spot just right and makes you come again with his name loud and breathy on your lips. Albert comes into you again at the same time with a grunt, seeming to be done fucking you for now and starting to soften inside your sloppy cunt, while he waits for you to catch your breath and speak.

“I'm ready,” you confirm at length, chest heaving from your orgasm, and smile up at him with the kind of thirst for blood he taught you in all these beautiful years you've been together. “Uroboros bonded with me exactly the way you said it would. We can get you out whenever you want, husband.”

“Well,” Albert begins, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear before he kisses you deeply in silent gratitude for your efforts, “I have been waiting for this for way too long, so I think it's time. Let's begin, wife.”

You get dressed back up slowly, making sure to act no different than you usually do after your first quickie with your husband, then once Albert gives you a confident nod, you whip your Uroboros out lightning fast and strike at his cuffs with enough force to break them – just like you've been practicing since you took your first dose after you saw him last month.

The cuffs fall to the ground with a clatter, useless and ineffective now, and you watch Albert with bated breath while he rolls his neck and shoulders at the feeling of his powers no longer being suppressed, before he straightens up and meets your eyes with a feral grin. His eyes flash red when he looks at you and the sight fills you with both arousal and excitement, a thrill going through you at what's to come.

“Excellent work, my dear.”

You share the same grin when you hear commotion happening outside and the locks being undone by the armed guards on the other side of the door, then turn towards your opponents together, your Uroboros at the ready while Albert flexes his hands in anticipation and settles into a familiar battle stance.

It's show time.

***

When Chris makes it to the prison and the scene of the crime, he's too late to stop anything. Governments are crumbling in real time as more and more people either succumb to the Uroboros virus as ‘improved’ beings or collapse into unrecognisable masses of black tendrils and wreak havoc everywhere there might be survivors, few and far between as they are.

The prison is devoid of life when he gets there with his squad, all grim faced and on high alert. But it is not empty. Everywhere they go, there are corpses and blood – deformed, grotesquely butchered and dismembered, with pools of blood and brain matter and strewn guts covering every inch of the place everywhere they go.

And in the center of the prison, dismembered neatly of every limb, head severed, with the tongue and penis removed and pinned to the body's open chest cavity, is one particular man Chris vaguely remembers as being a guard. He doesn't understand why this man got this special treatment or what the significance behind the manner of display is, but he knows one thing: Wesker is loose again and more bloodthirsty than ever if he's going around causing this much gratuitous gore as soon as he's out.

He kicks himself for overlooking you so easily. He was too quick to dismiss you as a poor, traumatised girl who just needed some time to come to terms with things and leave that bastard of her own volition. He should've looked into you more, realised who you were and how dangerous you could be if given so much access to Wesker on a monthly basis. Now, the world is tearing itself apart while Wesker is free to do as he pleases, stronger than ever, and there's not a damn thing Chris can do about it.

“Clear. There's nothing here either, Captain. They're both gone,” one of his squad mates announces in a grim voice.

Chris heaves a sigh and schools his expression into something determined that will encourage his squad to keep going, carefully tucking away his own apprehension and sense of doom. He should probably try to get a hold of Claire and Jill now, before it's too late.

“Keep going. We haven't checked everywhere yet. No matter what, we push forward, understood?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Good. Let's keep moving.”

He keeps his gun at the ready as he pushes forward and meanders through piles of corpses and severed limbs, but Chris knows the truth already and is finally starting to accept it: he fucked up. Wesker won. And there is no turning back now, not for him and not for the rest of humanity either.

You and Albert fall into a relationship of sorts pretty quickly after your first night together and you couldn't be happier. It feels like he's the man of your dreams – like all your life you have been waiting for him, a missing puzzle piece to slot inside yourself and finally feel whole.

All your life, you have been yearning. Everywhere you turned, you were alone. Aunt Claire was there as much as she could and you love the fuck out of her for it, but where your dad was supposed to be, there was a big black hole of nothing instead at almost every turn.

You have very vague memories of Chris being attentive and present and doing things with you like cooking together, baking, or taking you to the park – all of them from Raccoon City. Afterwards, the dad you barely remember vanished and in his place came this hard faced stranger who rarely came home and mostly kept his distance even when he did.

When you scraped your knee at 10 years old on the front stoop as you came in the house after a day of playing by yourself in the front yard, you didn’t cry and run towards him even though you knew he was home – you just picked yourself up, cleaned the wound with water then disinfectant, slapped a bandaid on it, and called it a day. You don't even think that Chris noticed the scrape in the first place.

When you graduated high school, aunt Claire was the only family you had cheering for you in a sea of strangers, the one who cried and held you tight as she told you how proud she was. Meanwhile, Chris was off God knows where on a mission and didn't watch the videos Claire sent him of you in your graduation gown until a week later. The congratulatory text you received at two in the morning only made you frown and turn your phone off so you wouldn't stare at it until you cried.

You don't hate Chris and he isn't a horrible father. He loves you and takes care of you and tries to be there for you in his own way, you know that. But that doesn't erase all the ways in which he's hurt you. In which he keeps hurting you: missed birthdays and broken promises, lack of attention when he was your whole world and all you wanted was for your dad to pick you up again like he did when you were small and tell you that you were his favourite little princess in the whole entire world, always feeling like you're the very last thing on his list of priorities, like if he had to choose between you and the world, he would always choose the world.

You don't even know what he does for work. Twenty years old and if someone asked you what your dad does for a living you'd just shrug and say, “Something for the government, I think. Some kind of special forces.” You know his work involves countering bioterrorism, if only because it's in the acronym – but beyond that? You have no fucking clue.

And it's not like you haven't asked. For as long as you can remember, you've been prodding your dad to talk to you. To tell you about his work, his day, his coworkers, share things with you because maybe if the burden was shared, it'd be easier to bear. But at every turn, you have been shut down. No matter how much you try, it feels like the closer you get, the harder he pushes back.

Aunt Claire says it's because he has a lot of trauma and it's his way of protecting you. You say that it's because he doesn't see you as an equal worthy of trust and respect.

For that very reason, you barely talk these days.

You still try, even though it hurts. But Chris is gone more often than not, always off on a mission overseas, always fighting God knows what dangerous enemy you somehow never hear about on the news, and whenever he gets home, it's like talking to a brick wall. Same shared breakfast at the same damn diner since you moved here after Raccoon City, same stilted conversation before he bids you goodbye, wishes you good luck on your exams, and promises to make sure the bank keeps wiring you the money for tuition and expenses while he's gone.

Sometimes you think that you could just up and die while he's gone and he wouldn't even get home in time to make it to the funeral.

It's a depressing thought but not a wholly unrealistic one.

It's really no wonder that you have daddy issues, when it's all laid out like that. It started young, when you were in your teens or thereabouts, as your eyes began to linger a little bit too long on male teachers while everybody else had crushes on the boys in your school, as you blushed and stuttered like crazy when the nice cashier in his late twenties called you sweetheart when he passed the change to you and your hands brushed accidentally during the exchange.

For a long time, you felt wrong. Dirty. Abnormal. Why did older men get you so flustered when everybody else couldn't shut up about the members of a boy band full of guys your age that was blowing up on MTV? Why did you fantasise about being thrown to the ground and ravished by a mean, strong man who would call you sweet names while fucking you hard and fast instead of a sweet boy your age taking you on a dinner date and kissing you chastely goodnight?

You would daydream about a handsome, older man sweeping you off your feet, calling you beautiful and smart and special, telling you how utterly perfect you are, what a good girl you are, how much he wants you and loves you and cares about you. You imagined him tall and devastatingly handsome, strong enough to pick you up and carry you in his arms like you were a kid again, listening to you talk about your day while he held you in his arms for hours. He would save you and he would love you and you would be his perfect little girl, ignored no longer.

Realising what those desires meant and where they stemmed from took a few years and had you so ashamed for so long. But your eyes kept lingering and your heart kept yearning.

Having sex with a boy your age the night of your prom was the biggest let down of your entire life. It was so bad you wondered for a while if there was just something wrong with you or your equipment. Trying to date in your age pool after you moved out and started going to the local college on the other side of town didn't go any better either.

So eventually, you just stopped trying. You didn't have the confidence necessary to approach someone older – and what if he was some weird creep who fucked you up even worse than your dad did? – and clearly men your own age just weren't for you. You'd content yourself with fantasies and sex toys and die celibate. That was fine.

But then Albert walked in on that random Wednesday evening and your life has been a cloud of happiness ever since. Your tall, strong, handsome older man who fucks you better than you could ever imagine, who holds you like you're the only thing he needs in life, who knows exactly how to put you in your place and when to praise you for doing good.

When you get home and he comes over, you can stop thinking. You can stop being a responsible adult who makes decisions and holds a part time job while studying for university, who hangs out with her friends and calls her aunt and has to figure out what to cook for dinner tonight. Albert makes all of that irrelevant. He takes over and instructs you on what to wear – or not wear, as is the case most of the time – and how to sit; when you can talk and when you should be choking on his cock instead while he pets gently through your hair and calls you his hungry little slut; when you should lie down and take it as he fucks you like you're just a piece of meat and when he wants you to work for it as you ride him until your thighs burn and your eyes leak tears from the frustration of not being able to come because he won't help you until you've earned it.

He's so mean and stern sometimes, downright cruel as he fucks you three times in a row but doesn't let you come even once. He grips you so tightly you have permanent bruises on your hips, thighs, and tits. He slaps your ass and your pussy, he chokes you until you pass out, he fucks your throat so hard it wrecks your voice for days after and then keeps doing it until he gets rid of your gag reflex so he can fuck your face better.

But when he's kind… Oh God. When his eyes go soft and he smiles sweetly at your spit and cum covered face, when he tucks you under his chin and rocks you to sleep, when he whispers in your ear that you are the best girl in the world, the prettiest, the sweetest, that you make him happy and he loves your tight little pussy better than any other in the world – it all feels right in the world. You are exactly where you want to be. The sting of his punishments softens into pleasure and warmth – he punishes you because he cares; how else will you learn to be good for him if he doesn't correct you?

You know it's not conventional, what you two have. You know people would be weirded out or downright concerned if they knew your boyfriend is 33 years older than you. That you enjoy when he grips you too hard during sex, when you can't walk straight after he's done fucking you for hours, and when you kneel at his feet for an entire afternoon just holding his cock in your mouth and drooling around it, your head blissfully empty and your body tingling with pleasure.

So you don't tell anyone. For the first time in your life, you hide something from aunt Claire – though you're sure she knows that something's up since you can't really contain your happiness when she calls – and only shrug mysteriously when your friends ask about the ‘hot daddy’ from the bar. They wouldn't really understand. And for the first time in your life, you have something good in your life, something that's yours and special and beautiful. You don't want to lose Albert because people can't get over a little age gap.

“What are you thinking so hard about, darling?” Albert interrupts your musings on the drive home from the restaurant he took you to for your two month anniversary. It's a silly thing to celebrate but you were feeling a bit down after your dad texted to say he was delaying coming home again because of a work emergency so Albert decided you deserved a treat to get your mind off of it. 

His left hand is on the steering wheel while his right one is lying possessively over your thigh under the dress he bought for you the day before, thumb rubbing idly at the naked skin beneath every so often and making you feel like a pile of goo on the floor.

“Not much. Just you, I guess. Us.”

“Hmm. Changing your mind already, sweet girl?” he asks, his voice holding an undercurrent of dark disapproval you are intimately familiar with by now.

You grip his wrist tightly with both hands as panic overtakes you at his question. Your heart thunders in your chest just at the prospect of not having Albert in your life anymore. You'd rather get kicked out of college than go without him, no matter how irrational the thought is.

“No! Never! You know I want you more than anything, daddy! I was just thinking…”

Albert's fingers tighten around your thigh for a moment, digging into the bruises that haven't faded yet and making you suppress a moan, then changes lanes so he can take the turn that will take you back to your apartment.

“Yes? Thinking what, doll? That's a dangerous thing for you to do all on your own, you know?” he teases, a playful smirk playing at his lips as he says it. You flush at his words, always so flustered when he gets condescending with you – it's degrading and you should hate it because you know you're smart and having a man imply you're stupid or straight up insult you with it would usually make you indignant. But when Albert does it – and he always does it when it's just the two of you, never in public where you can feel humiliated – it's different somehow. You can't explain it, but all the self-respect flees your body when it's just you and him; you want to be his air-headed little cockslut who takes orders and his cock without complaint and not have to think or worry about anything else.

“I was thinking that I'm very lucky to have met you,” you answer in spite of the flush you can feel in your entire body, making sure not to mumble your words because he hates when you do that outside of when he fucks you stupid. “And that you make me happier than anyone ever has before.”

The car comes to a slow stop in the wake of your words, Albert parking in front of your apartment building and shutting off the engine in silence. His hand remains on your thigh for a moment longer before he raises it and grips your jaw with it, firm and possessive but not hurtful. He never really hurts you, not like that. And when something he does hurts, you always like it. You only asked him to stop once and he did immediately, checking in with you and making sure you were good to go again several times before he continued fucking you as hard as you like, though mindful of not going too far again.

He really is the perfect man.

You look up at him when he tilts your face towards him and are surprised to find his naked eyes staring at you. They still fascinate you even now and he'll sometimes let you lie on his chest after sex and stare into those inhuman eyes for hours while you talk about whatever comes to mind – he has lived so much more than you and he always has interesting things to tell you, so you always listen enraptured when he talks, soaking up every bit of quality time spent together and relishing the feeling of his strong arm wrapped around your waist while he talks.

It was during one of those times, early in your relationship, when he told you why his eyes are like that. Finding out that he used to live in Raccoon City before it was destroyed was a surprising revelation, though a sad one when he told you that he got infected but survived – only, it left marks behind. He asked you then if it bothered you, his inhuman appearance and abnormal strength, but you only kissed him deeply and whispered that everything about him is perfect and could never ever bother you.

Those cat-like eyes are looking at you now and you can't quite figure out the emotion hidden in their depths but you wait patiently for Albert to speak. You could sit here in this car for hours while you wait him out and you'd be happy.

“Your happiness is important to me, my dear. But it wasn't luck that brought us together,” he says at long last.

“No?” you question, confused, as you lean closer to him over the center console while his hand buries itself deeper into your hair and holds you tightly by the side of your face.

“No. It was fate. You and I, little girl, we were always meant to end up… right… here,” he whispers against your lips as that gap between you is closed before he kisses you in that way he has that shuts your brain off as soon as his lips connect with yours, stealing the breath from your lungs and smearing your lipstick everywhere in the process.

When he pulls back from you, you know your gaze is unfocused and your breathing shallow, but all you can focus on is his warm hand holding you in place and those blazing eyes that feel like ownership every time they fall on you and keep you stuck in their orbit. You want him so bad it makes you feel stupid sometimes, like you're being too vulnerable, too open, and that he'll leave you just like dad always does. He'll figure out you're just a dumb little girl chasing after something she could never deserve and that he could do so much better. And then he'll leave you. But when Albert's hand is so tight in your hair and when his eyes bore into yours with an intensity that makes your heart go crazy, you can't imagine being anywhere but at his side forever until the sun dies and the universe collapses around you.

“Let's get you inside. It looks like you need to stop thinking for a while, hmm? My pretty girl has been overworking her brain tonight, I think,” Albert suggests though you both know it's not really a suggestion at all. A promise, really. A warning of what's to come.

“Yes, daddy.”

The second you walk through the door, Albert directs you towards the couch while he starts taking off his suit jacket and tie. You obey immediately, knowing exactly what he wants from you tonight, and kneel on the plush cushion on the floor without a second thought. Behind you, Albert is busy removing his shoes, dumping the keys on the coffee table, then unbuckling his belt. With every shuffling or clinking sound that reaches your ears, your body tightens with anticipation more and more while your breathing goes shallow.

Finally, when you feel like the tension could snap like a chord if he kept you waiting any longer, he comes into view and takes a seat on the couch right in front of you. You don't lift your eyes higher than his waist but you can see that he's dressed down to his suit pants – perfectly pressed and clinging to his strong thighs like a second skin almost, straining around the toned muscle now that he's sitting down – and the white shirt underneath.

You don't touch. You keep your hands in your lap like a good girl, waiting for permission to do what you want or instruction on what he wants.

You wait and lick your lips, tasting your smudged lipstick and trying to chase the taste of Albert's mouth from when he kissed you earlier, and watch his lap and crotch, his long, elegant fingers as they tap his own thigh in thought, his veiny forearms and the dormant strength lying just beneath the surface. You almost grow dizzy with lust and anticipation in the long minutes that seem to stretch impossibly longer the more Albert keeps you waiting. You know better than to shuffle in place while you wait.

At long last, however, after he seems satisfied with your discipline, Albert finally moves. He unzips his pants and pulls out his cock – half hard, heavy even like this, with precum beading at the tip. You don't have much experience from before Albert but you've watched enough porn to know that his cock is the prettiest damn cock you've ever seen.

You lick your lips without even realising it as your eyes stay glued to the thick shaft in Albert's hand and imagine its taste so hard that you can almost feel it in your mouth.

“Open up,” he orders quietly but with authority. Your mouth immediately falls open, tongue lolling out and dripping saliva on your lap already, and a quiet sigh escapes you when Albert slaps his cock down on your tongue before he starts sliding it slowly into your mouth. He stops before it can reach your throat, not even a third of the way in, and lets go of his cock so he can grip you by the hair and tilt your face up slightly. You obey the silent command and look up at him through glazed eyes, feeling that familiar fire blazing to life in your stomach when his beautiful face comes into view. “Take it all the way down and stay there until you can't breathe. Tap on my thigh when you want to pull out but wait there until I move you. Then repeat. Understood?”

You nod as much as you can with his hand holding you tight and his cock in your mouth, but Albert is satisfied with your answer so he lets you go. You allow yourself a second to get yourself together then start following his instructions.

The taste of his skin and precum floods your tongue the more you slide down his shaft and your jaw starts protesting the more it has to open up to welcome his girth in your mouth. When the head hits the back of your throat, there is a brief moment when your body wants to protest at the intrusion before it settles down – you still have to work on it, evidently – and then you keep going, not stopping until your lips are pressed tightly to Albert's pubic bone, swallowing compulsively around his entire length and drooling like crazy.

You can already feel yourself growing dizzy at your constricted airway but Albert has taught you how not to panic and just let it happen. You stay there for long seconds – minutes, hours could pass and you wouldn't know. All you know is the feeling of your throat bulging with Albert's cock, the taste of him on your tongue, and the all-consuming scent of his sweat and soap invading your nostrils and filling you with a sense of safety and comfort.

The longer you stay there, the more you relax. Your mind goes quiet, your chest loosens up, and the most wonderful feeling of euphoria washes over you.

When you feel like you can't stay there any longer, even breathing through your nose as you are, you place a hand delicately over Albert's thigh and tap it gently to show you need to pull away. He keeps you there a few beats longer, just to see you struggle to remain still, before his hand tightens around your hair again and pulls you off of his cock. You cough and splutter as your lungs suck air greedily back into them, chest heaving and eyes watering from your throat being plugged up for so long.

“Good girl,” Albert purrs, satisfied, and taps your cheek with his hand once before he shoves your head back down towards his waiting cock. “Again.”

You do this again and again. Time has no meaning when you're kneeling at Albert's feet and you're in this state of absolute bliss. When he seems satisfied with how brainless you've become, only then does he start fucking your face properly. Albert holds your hair, fist tight in your roots and unyielding as he guides you up and down his cock, and all you can do is hold on tightly to his thighs while he scrapes your throat raw with the brutal pace he sets of fucking in and out of your mouth, balls slapping your chin as more and more spit drools out of your mouth like a water fountain.

“That's it,” Albert pants, hissing the words through his teeth while he keeps your head down and gives short thrusts into your throat. “Take it just like this, darling. You're doing so well.”

Even though you can barely see through the tears weighing down your lashes and your nostrils flare as they try to get air into your lungs, you sigh in pleasure and delight at the praise and flatten your tongue even further on the underside of Albert's cock in gratitude.

When he comes a few minutes later, you tilt your head back and close your eyes as you welcome his release all over your face, feeling useful and at home with every drop of cum splattering on your skin and marking you as Albert's property. You even nuzzle against his cock when he rubs it across your cheek, smearing his cum and your ruined makeup into your skin and making sure you really feel the ownership in that gesture.

“Such a good job, pretty girl. Come here.”

You let your head be guided until you're lying with your cheek pressed against Albert's thigh and curl around his leg like a stray cat seeking shelter. You look up at him through blurry eyes, your lashes soiled by tears and cum, and smile stupidly up at him when he pets your hair gently and offers you a sweet smile.

“There's my sweet girl,” he coos happily, the sound of his voice filling you with indescribable joyful warmth. “Just close your eyes and stay there for a while. Daddy will look after you.”

You hum, unable to form words at the moment and not even knowing if you could get them past your abused throat even if you could speak, and close your eyes as instructed as you sink into the plush warmth of Albert's thigh and let yourself drift off, dozing gently on his lap and forgetting all about the disappointment of your dad bailing on you yet again or the emptiness in your heart before you met Albert. He's here now and that's all that matters. Everything else is irrelevant.

POV CHANGE

Wesker can't remember ever being as happy and as relaxed as he has been in the past seven months of dating you.

He thought he might grow bored after a few weeks, perhaps go with his initial plans for you after all and get rid of a problem at the same time as getting his revenge on Chris. But it turns out that being someone's daddy – being yours – is quite enjoyable for someone like Wesker who revels in having absolute control at all times. In just a few short months, simply by giving you the attention and affection you've so obviously been starved of your entire life, he's become your entire world.

You look up at him like he's a god – which he is, even if you don't know that. You follow his instructions without a second thought, always so eager to please and to perfect your technique if you don't get it right the first time. He's pretty sure that if he asked you to clean his boots with your tongue you might just do it, especially if he added one of those inane little pet names that get you going so much in the order.

It's heady. Exhilarating. The exact kind of worship and respect he's been waiting for his entire life. Finally, he has found someone who recognises who he is and affords him the respect he deserves – which is ironic, considering you still don't know who he actually is.

If Wesker is being honest, he doesn't really want to let you go now that he has you. He's grown… fond of you and you really aren't bad company even outside of the sex. You're smart and can keep up with him for the most part, and even when he goes off on tangents that are way above your knowledge level you still listen with rapt attention and ask surprisingly insightful questions – he's even been toying with the idea of convincing you to switch your field of studies to his beloved virology instead, actually. Just the thought of how Chris would react to his precious daughter studying Wesker's specialty has him cackling internally.

And even outside of all that, Wesker has discovered that he has a knack for taking care of you, for lack of a better word. Like pampering a kitten, almost. He likes dressing you up and matching your outfits to his when he takes you out into the world, his arm proprietary around your waist as he shows you off in public but makes it clear that you belong to him. Seeing you relax into his touch, swaying closer to him like a sunflower seeking the sunrays, or going brainless with pleasure and submission under his hands and cock thrills Wesker more than he thought it would. Even taking care of your everyday needs isn't much of a chore: feeding you is a favourite pastime of his when he's invading your space like he owns it (which has been happening more and more lately as his other plans get closer to fruition) and he quite enjoys cooking a meal that he then gets to see you savour with a beaming smile and a shy kiss pressed to his cheek in gratitude.

He never had pets growing up but he imagines that this isn't that far off the mark.

Currently, he is lying in bed with your head on his lap while you take a nap. He exhausted his poor darling earlier with a vigorous fucking after you complained about being overwhelmed with preparing for your upcoming exams and now you're resting in his lap, hugging his legs and nuzzling into his hip while you sleep peacefully.

In his hand is a tablet. Wesker works absentmindedly on a virus he's been tweaking with lately, trying out different variations to see how they would blend together in a hypothetical scenario, but he stops every so often to look down at your beautiful sleeping face and smile privately to himself before he goes back to his work. You have such a soothing effect on him.

He raises a curious eyebrow when your phone starts vibrating on the nightstand, however. Your friends don't really call you, knowing that you prefer to text, and you've already talked to Chris's sister today for your daily check-in. Nobody else would have a reason to call – just who exactly is bothering you then?

Slowly, so as not to disturb you from your sleep too much, Wesker leans over the edge of the bed and takes your phone in hand before settling back down in place. Seeing ‘Dad 💔’ flashing on your screen from an incoming call from Chris is not what Wesker was expecting.

Chris never calls you. Ever. In the seven months Wesker has known you, he's seen you talk to your father twice over the phone, both times because you called him. From what he knows, the man hasn't been home in at least five months, if not longer, though Wesker wasn't interested enough in his enemy's whereabouts to look into the reason.

So why exactly is the man calling you now?

For a moment, Wesker debates just silencing your phone entirely and letting the call go to voicemail. You need your rest and whatever Chris wants to discuss with you can wait until you've woken up from your nap. But something makes him hesitate. His finger hovers over the answer button.

He's been having fun with you these past few months, hasn't he? So much so that he wants to keep you – his little darling girl, the kitten he never had as a pet when he was a boy. But while his… affections, for lack of a better word, for you may have changed since that memorable night when he took you like a whore in the bed your father paid for, none the wiser that his worst enemy would, in essence, deflower and defile his baby girl in its midst two years after she moved away from home, Wesker's desire for revenge on Chris has not abated in the slightest.

He still wants to see the man suffer. He wants him to know despair, to know agony, to be helpless and at his enemy's mercy. To see all his efforts, years' worth of them, go down the drain and become entirely useless in the face of Wesker's machinations.

After all, isn't this why he decided to change his plans regarding you in the first place? Ruining Chris's daughter holds only half the fun when the man doesn't even know it's happening. Seven months of defilement should be enough to give the man a conniption, shouldn't it?

He slides his thumb across the screen and brings the phone up to his ear.

“Princess? Hi. I hope you're not busy with school or your job,” Chris begins, unaware that his princess is currently napping after getting her brains fucked out by Wesker. He almost wants to snort at how uninvolved in your life this man is. He doesn't even know your schedule, doesn't even know that your finals are approaching and you quit your job at Wesker's insistence because it was an additional stressor you didn't need. “I'm sorry I've been away for so long, baby. I've been… uh… going through some stuff and I recently lost a squad mate and it's been a really hard time. I know it's not fair to you. Claire kind of bit my head off about it yesterday.” Here he breaks off with an awkward laugh and even Wesker grimaces at this terrible show of fatherhood. This is what you've been dealing with your entire life? No wonder even Wesker seems downright fluffy in comparison to this. “Anyway, we can talk about that later. I was just calling to see how you're doing. Would you like to get our usual breakfast tomorrow or some time soon? I've missed you, princess.”

Wesker lets silence linger for a few seconds that stretch too long while his free hand reaches slowly towards your head and buries itself in your darling hair. He starts scratching at your scalp, slow, soothing patterns that never fail to make you melt into him, and even though you're sleeping you still let out a happy sigh as you snuggle closer into him, chasing his touch just like a kitten before settling back down to sleep.

And then he speaks.

“Hello, Chris,” he purrs, silky and insidious, as a broad smile stretches his lips at the sharp inhale that escapes the other man.

“Wesker?! What are you– I thought you were– Where is my daughter, you bastard?! If you've touched one hair on her head, I swear I will–”

“Oh, please,” Wesker interrupts. “You will what? We both know you can't do anything to stop me. You never really have, have you?” A maniacal kind of glee surges up in him at the clear distress and helplessness of the other man but he tamps down on the urge to laugh, not least of all because he doesn't want to wake you up. “Besides, your threats are, I am afraid to tell you, way too late to stop me.”

Chris curses loudly and it sounds like he kicks something in frustration on the other end of the line which makes Wesker's lips twitch upwards while he twirls a short strand of your hair near your temple around his index finger.

“What have you done to my daughter, Wesker?! Where is she, you son of a bitch?!”

Wesker laughs, short and quiet into the phone speaker.

“Do you really want to know? I mean really want to know?” he taunts gleefully. His voice lowers dangerously then as he whispers into the phone, “Do you think you can live with the knowledge of what I've done to your precious baby girl, Chris? Can you live with the guilt of knowing that you are entirely to blame?”

Silence stretches long and uncomfortable for a long time before Chris seems able to gather himself and speak again.

“Yes. I have to know.”

Oh, Chris. Ever the martyr with a cross to bear for every person he fails to save. So eager to add his own daughter to the list, not yet knowing that what Wesker did to her is far more depraved than simple torture or death.

Wesker can't help it; he cackles into the receiver, his chest shaking with his delight, and when you stir, confused, and whine against his thighs at the disturbance he soothes you back down and whispers reassurances in your ear that he knows Chris can hear.

“Go back to sleep, sweet girl. Daddy didn't mean to wake you up.”

You mumble something incoherent with a scrunched nose turned up at him, which he finds much more adorable than irritating these days, but thankfully settle down and go back to sleep.

“That was your daughter, Chris. As you can see, she is alive and perfectly content.”

“Why did you call– What did you do to her? Are you brainwashing people again? Making her think you're me?”

“Oh, Chris… How naive and innocent you are,” Wesker tuts while his hand trails down your temple until it reaches your neck before it settles gingerly over your throat. Your steady pulse beats under his hand and he revels in all that fragile life so close to his murderous hands, so vulnerable and so trusting. He could kill you in your sleep right now and you wouldn't even wake up before meeting your end. You would die oblivious and ignorant of the monster you let into your bed. Unaware that it was he who took your life.

“Wesker–”

“Just like your daughter,” he continues as if Chris never interrupted. That shuts the other man up. “It was so easy to waltz into her life, Chris. You really should have taught her about stranger danger better. The way she looked that night when our eyes met, resplendent in the dingy bar lighting, blushing and stuttering like a school girl while she flirted with me. She had no idea who I was, I couldn't believe it. And she still doesn't. Want to know why?”

“Because you tricked my daughter so you could take advantage of her and force yourself on her, you spineless–”

“Because you didn't do your job as a father,” Wesker speaks over Chris's angry rant, his voice dark and accusatory, knowing that it will hit exactly where he wants it to hurt. “I didn't trick her, Chris. I told her my name. I even told her I used to live in Raccoon City. None of it pinged her radar as suspect. I'm almost hurt, Chris. I thought I meant more to you than that. And why is that, I wonder? Why was she so oblivious? Because you would rather do the solo wolf act and keep your child in the dark than be an actual parent. This could have been avoided if you'd taught her to protect herself from what goes bumping in the night, you know. Then again, I would have killed her if she had known who I was, so perhaps you helped her more than you know, in the end.”

Wesker lets that sink in for a moment before he continues, not nearly done with driving the stake through Chris's heart.

“And I didn't force her into anything. I'm offended that you think I need to force anyone to sleep with me. She approached me if you care to know. You really should have given her more attention as a child, Chris. Maybe then she wouldn't have gone weak in the knees at the sight of a man older than her father giving her a once over in a bar full of college students. Now I ask again: do you really want to know everything I've done to her? Because the list is long.”

Silence. Painful, pained silence whistles through the speaker in the wake of Wesker's words, as the reality of the situation settles in for Chris while Wesker smiles to himself and taps his index finger lightly on your warm skin. He should choke you again after you wake up, he muses as he watches the enticing way his hand fits around your throat. You look so very pretty with finger-shaped bruises around it, after all. And you adore admiring them in the mirror afterwards.

He nearly lets himself get distracted by his fantasies of how he'll ruin you again later but the sound of Chris's shaky exhale brings him back to reality. And well, Wesker is a chatty guy, you know? He has plenty more to tell his nemesis.

“I'll take your silence as no, then. You have two options in front of you, Chris. One, you march here right now and try to rip me away from your slutty little daughter and fail. Trust me, you will not survive this time because I have not forgotten what happened four years ago and I will not be kind to you. Trying to remove me from her life in any way will result in her death regardless because I've grown quite fond of her but if you make things difficult I won't hesitate to dispose of her.” It's a lie, of course, but Chris doesn't know that. Wesker has grown fond of you, that part is true. But he will sooner spirit you away and lock you in a high tower, a beautiful, delicate peony preserved forever in his private collection, than ever take your life.

But what dear old dad doesn't know can and will hurt him.

“The second option is much more preferable for everyone involved though you might find it harder to live with. You do nothing. You let me continue as I have, you keep lying to your daughter, and you act like it's not killing you inside to know that your own daughter shares her bed with your worst enemy.”

“If you think for even one second that I will leave my daughter in your clutches without doing anything, then you don't even know me, Wesker,” Chris spits.

“True enough. Although, I suppose… You could just tell her the truth about me yourself. If you convinced her to leave me of her own volition I might be generous enough to let her go. It's not like I haven't had plenty of fun with her in the seven months I've been fucking her.”

And oh, what fun. Wesker never thought himself so sexually insatiable before he met you. Now, he can't go a day or more without at least your lips on his, without feeling the rapid rise and fall of your chest as he drives you insane with just a touch, without hearing your hitched breaths and the rapid, roaring beating of your heart when he brings you to the brink and watches you shatter at his feet.

He couldn't let you go any easier than he could end your life. Some might call it love, Wesker would rather call it possession, but the result is the same – you belong to him and he will not let you go without a fight. Not even if the fight was with you.

“But the thing is,” Wesker continues before Chris can intervene with any more of his inane cursing, “she might forgive me eventually, you know? I can already tell she's halfway to loving me, if she isn't there already. She's in too deep. And she needs me so very badly, Chris. You should see her. She's so needy, the poor thing. She needed a daddy to take care of her needs and I've been more than glad to fulfill that role for her. Thoroughly.”

“You sick, perverted son of a–”

“Ah, ah, ah! Let me finish, Chris. Of course, you could always tell her now, get her away from me, all that. But how do you think she'll feel when she realises all of this could have been avoided if her father had just talked to her about his life? If he hadn't kept her at arm's length to "protect" her? If he had trusted her enough with his secrets to prepare her for what the world really has to offer?”

When all he gets in answer is another bout of silence, heavy with guilt and self flagellation this time around, Wesker can't help but grin like a demon in satisfaction at driving the stake further and further into Chris's heart.

“She won't forgive you, Chris,” he says, continuing the torment. “You know she won't. Your relationship is already barely standing as it is, this will be the final nail in the coffin. So how about we keep this between us, hmm? For her? You wouldn't want to upset our precious baby girl, now would you? Our princess.”

The defeated sigh on the other side is answer enough. Wesker's grin stretches unnaturally on his face while his thumb caresses under your ear in satisfaction. He really feels like the cat that got the canary. You've unwittingly given him everything and more just by being your damaged, oblivious self. He'll have to reward you for being so perfect after you wake up, even if you won't know what the occasion is. You'll just chalk it up to him being generous with his affections like usual, which isn't that far off the mark, at least not lately. You just don't know that you're the only one lucky enough to be the recipient of Wesker's rare kindness.

“Promise me she'll be safe? You won't hurt her?”

“Well, not any more than she wants me to.” He can't help throwing that last jab in. You would be furious with him if you knew what he is telling your father about your sexual exploits but he's not too concerned with that. He knows exactly which buttons to push to make you melt and forgive him. Besides, you've survived virtually without a father since you were five years old; it's Wesker you really need. “But yes. You leave me be, I don't hurt her. You know I'm a man of my word, Chris.”

“Fine,” Chris spits out and it sounds like it really hurts to let those words out and mean them. But just like Chris knows Wesker will keep his word, Wesker also knows that Chris will do everything in his power to get you away from him even while he tries to respect their little verbal deal. It'll be fun to see how Chris crashes and burns without Wesker needing to do anything – in the end, it will be Chris who will come clean to you about everything he's been hiding from you for years in a desperate attempt to get you away.

Wesker won't let that happen. But he will happily watch you choose Wesker over your own father all on your own.

“Wonderful. Glad we're on the same page for once. Now, if you don't mind, your daughter is currently napping on me and I would hate to accidentally wake her up with more of this inane chatter. So I will talk to you later, huh, father-in-law? Take care of yourself.”

Chris's angry spluttering is cut off when Wesker presses the end call button as soon as he finishes speaking. He watches your phone screen go dark after the call ends, satisfaction and mirth stirring in his chest like purring cougars ready to pounce, but he unlocks it again after a few seconds to set it to silent entirely so that the vibrations won't disturb you further. He throws it carefully back on the nightstand then settles back down against the pillows at his back, his work tablet long forgotten as he turns his attention instead to your sleeping form.

You're so innocent still, it's astounding. He loves that about you, it's what keeps him coming back to you again and again. He's bent you over, choked you, slapped your face with his cock and made you eat his cum right out of your own pussy and yet you're still such a precious little darling as your lashes flutter against your cheeks in sleep, as you sigh softly into his thigh and hug his leg closer, as you cradle a monster in your arms and offer him your love.

Love… or possession? Which does he feel? Is there really a difference? And does it really matter in the end? He doesn't want to hurt you – that would be so cliché, so easy, such a waste of his efforts. If he keeps giving you what you crave, if he keeps fucking you how you want, if he makes you feel loved and wanted and kept… What does it matter what he feels in return? The result is the same, whether it is love or ownership.

Perhaps it's both, who knows.

Four years. That's how long it's taken Wesker to recover from that blasted volcano. Not just physically; with the help of Uroboros, he was back to his normal self in a handful of months, even stronger than before, but his ego and his financial stability took a heavy hit and it took him a while to get back to his former, unshakeable self. What happened in Africa was a failure, plain and simple, and it grates at Wesker to acknowledge it. Years of planning, of research, of manipulating anyone and everyone who crossed his path that he needed for his grand finale – all of it a fiery disaster that crashed and burned around him.

What hurts most is not just the fact that he failed. Wesker has erred and misstepped before, he is well versed in changing his tactics and pushing forward. But it's the fact that it was Chris Redfield who almost ended him on that day. Chris. His own man. The pathetic little soldier who only lived to be there that day, to wreck everything Wesker has worked so hard for, because Wesker allowed it.

He should have ended his pathetic life in 1998 in that Mansion like he planned.

But alas, we live and we learn from our mistakes. And Wesker has certainly learned a lot from his.

For the past four years, he has been rebuilding. New plans, new allies, new ways to make sure Chris Redfield suffers as much as humanly possible before he finally takes his last breath under Wesker's gleeful hands. He's thought of a thousand ways to torture him, a thousand ways to drag his pain out and prolong his sorry existence until Wesker is finally satisfied and ends it. But that would still be too kind. Too easy.

You see, Chris is a martyr. He is a soldier. He is not unfamiliar with the idea of sacrificing himself for the good of the many. Torturing and killing him would be so mundane and not nearly as effective as what Wesker now has in mind. Because the thing about Chris? He cares. So much. He bleeds and oozes care like pus from a wound, ever flowing and never closing. And what he cares most about, Wesker has come to learn during their very long acquaintance, is his family.

Claire Redfield – his sister.

And you – his dear, darling daughter.

Wesker remembers you, though only vaguely. He knows Chris had you when he was twenty – an accident, from what he recalls, the result of a one night stand that went awry. The mother couldn't or wouldn't get an abortion, tracked him down right as she was due to give birth, and saddled him with the baby before fucking off God only knows where.

He met you once, in passing, when Chris brought you to the precinct with him for a few hours because his babysitter's car broke down and she was running late to look after you. Wesker had no interest in a messy toddler so he only wrinkled his nose at the presence of a child in his domain before he turned on his heel and locked himself in his office, not without warning Chris that this would be the first, last, and only time he would accept this sort of behaviour from his subordinate.

After that, he never saw you again.

He doubts you remember him. At least, not without a name to accompany the face. Though maybe not, since surely Chris has made sure to prepare his little girl for anything this world might throw at her. All for naught, of course, since not even death could defeat Wesker – you, little more than a scared girl struggling like an insect in a spider's web, will stand no chance.

Finding you is not hard. Either Chris thinks he's in the clear with Wesker “dead” or he's really just as stupid as Wesker has always known the man to be. He tracks you down easily, a college student working as a barista in her spare time for extra pocket money, and thinks about how to approach this situation. 

Should he wait for you in your tiny apartment and surprise you there? Torture you for a few hours then leave your cooling corpse for your dear father to find? Or maybe he should kidnap you on your way home, whisk you away and experiment on you for weeks, even months, slowly brain wash you into hating your own father, perhaps, then unleash you upon Chris and watch the whole drama play out?

So very many choices. Such delightful suffering for dear old Chris.

Wesker decides to observe you for a bit before he makes his decision. Know thy enemy and all that. What he finds is simultaneously completely boring and utterly fascinating.

You appear so normal it's almost disappointing. You go to classes, you talk to your peers, sometimes you go out with them, other times you entertain yourself at home. You go to your boring little part time job and serve customers with a bright smile, though sometimes you roll your eyes at your coworkers behind people's backs when they're being particularly obnoxious. Every day, you talk to Chris's sister – sometimes she calls you, sometimes you do. The conversations can range from five minutes of checking in before you go to class and Claire clocks in at her job to several hours of catching her up on your life while she does the same.

But one thing that remains conspicuously absent during the month Wesker watches you is your father. Where is Chris? He hasn't visited you once and he never calls. Sometimes you text him, sometimes you leave him voice mails – always with a thread of resigned melancholy in your voice before you sigh and hit the end call button.

It puzzles Wesker. What kind of strategy is this, hiding you in plain sight while being entirely absent from your life? Does he think that by keeping his distance he's protecting you somehow? Well, Wesker is about to show him the error of his ways quite thoroughly in that case.

In the end, he decides to wrap up his surveillance by approaching you in public at a bar one night when you're out with friends. The thrill of watching realisation and fear settle in your eyes and body while surrounded by innocent bystanders, knowing that if you make the wrong move Wesker will slaughter each and every one of them in punishment and it still won't change your fate? Delicious. It's just the kind of pick me up he's been needing this entire time.

He arrives late, about an hour, nearly two after he knows you did, giving you time to settle in with your friends and have fun before he brings all of it down on top of you like the precariously built house of cards your father constructed for you.

When he gets there, Wesker's eyes scan the crowded bar to find you but as soon as his eyes land on you he realises that you are already looking at him. You make eye contact – well, his own eyes are carefully obscured by his glasses, but it's fairly obvious what his vision is focused on – and, curiously enough, you get flustered at being caught staring and duck your head to giggle nervously with the girl seated next to you.

Well, that certainly wasn't the reaction he was hoping for. Things are getting more and more interesting by the minute.

He takes a seat at the bar and orders a drink. His back is to you, tucked away in a booth farther away as you are, but Wesker's hearing is much better than a human's and he can hear you whispering to your friend just fine from where he is.

“Did you see?! He was looking at you!”

“Stop,” you groan, sounding embarrassed but kind of breathless as if your own excitement is betraying you. “He really wasn't. Our eyes met for, like, ten seconds. Less than. He probably wasn't even looking at me.”

Your friend snorts and she might be shaking her head, if the swishing of her hair that Wesker can hear is any indication.

“He totally was! Tell you what, you go there right now, order yourself another one of these,” she coaxes, shaking the ice cubes in your empty glass for emphasis, “and if he doesn't start hitting on you, I'll eat my purse.”

“You'll be eating my pillow when I smother you with it for making me embarrass myself like that,” you mutter sullenly but end up getting up from your seat and walking in his direction nonetheless.

Wesker raises a curious eyebrow in response to the entire exchange. Do you really not know who he is? Has Chris not shown you a picture of him so you can be on your guard should your paths ever cross? Perhaps the bar lighting isn't helping jog your memory – it has been four years since the last time Wesker was presumed alive, after all. He can't blame you for letting your guard down, he supposes.

He smells you before he sees you. Your perfume is delicate and soft in his nostrils, something he wouldn't normally like but which somehow blends in perfectly with your natural scent and makes you smell downright divine. Something in Wesker's gut flares as you flood his senses with that scent, but he tamps it down and focuses on what he is here to do.

You slot yourself between him and the person next to him, begging pardon for the disturbance as you flag down the bartender and gesture at your empty glass. Wesker turns towards you slowly, as if only now just noticing you, and gives you a once over. You're pretty, he can't deny that. Whatever else he has to say about your father, Chris is a handsome man and it seems like he passed his genes down to you. Were this any other situation, Wesker might have even been tempted to take you to bed and lose himself in a few hours of mindless pleasure with you. But he's here to kidnap you, not seduce you.

Still, it doesn't mean he can't toy with you for a moment. After all, you haven't recognised him yet.

“Aren't you too young to be drinking?” Wesker says, speaking a bit louder than normal so as to be heard over the din of the crowded bar. He swirls the alcohol in his glass and takes a small sip while he waits for your reaction.

You almost seem to startle at the sound of his voice and when your eyes fall on him again, he can hear your heart start beating erratically in your chest, all the blood rushing to your face and warming up your cheeks. His lips curl into an amused smirk at the reaction.

“I'll have you know this doesn't have alcohol in it,” you shoot back. He has to commend you for how little your voice shakes with nerves as you speak. Still, he can hear and sense your anxiety from a mile away – it truly is such a pity that he'll have to kill you at some point.

“Responsible.”

“Self-preservation,” you correct with a tiny smirk of your own as you gesture behind you. “I'm not getting drunk in public with those idiots looking after me.”

“Smart, too. I knew there was something special about you when I walked in and my eyes got drawn to you,” Wesker compliments, his voice dropping down to a purr as he leans closer to you to make himself be heard better. A shiver runs through your body and your pulse jumps at his proximity, his hot breath ghosting over your skin for a moment before he pulls away slightly once more.

“Weren't you just telling me I'm too young to order a drink? Now you're flirting with me?”

You try to sound cocky but it's such a pitiful attempt Wesker wants to laugh. This is Chris Redfield's daughter? You resemble a harmless little bunny unwittingly wandering into the jaws of a beast much more than the trained and armed daughter of a hardened BSAA agent that he was expecting.

“If you're old enough to be here, my dear, I think you're also old enough to make your own decisions, don't you think? Your age doesn't erase your beauty.”

Your heart skips a beat in response to his words and you can't quite meet his eyes in the aftermath, but your body angles itself more firmly in his direction and you sway just slightly forward, as if yearning to close the distance between you.

“You're old enough to be my dad,” you protest but it lacks conviction, sounding almost performative as it escapes your lips. Like you're just performing a social ritual that's been drilled into your head thousands of times before but which you've grown tired of.

Wesker leans forward again, this time much more closely than before, and he lets his hand graze your hip teasingly, his touch feather light but intentional, before he places his palm softly down. He doesn't tighten his hold or pull you closer – he just keeps his hand there, purposeful but innocent at the same time, and waits for your reaction. Your eyes flutter shut for a moment, your breath growing shallow while your heart turns into a hummingbird flapping its wings desperately in the cage of your ribs, but you don't step away and you don't tell him to stop.

“I think I'm much older than that, my dear. But as long as you know what you want, why should that be a problem, hmm?” he whispers in your ear, warm breath fanning across your cheek and ear, and when he turns his head to look at you through his glasses, he lets his lips ghost ever so softly over your skin before he pulls back just a smidge so he can smile at you.

The moment is interrupted by the bartender placing your drink in front of you. You jump as if burned and avert your flaming face from Wesker's eyes, wrapping your shaking fingers around your drink and taking a small sip to cool yourself and gather your wits in the wake of Wesker's flirting. He leans back casually, content to give you some space to collect yourself, and watches you with much more interest than before.

You're truly a beautiful young woman. He wouldn't say he has a type, per se, since he cares little for what his partners look like when he engages in one night stands – as long as the sex is good, who cares what they look like when he won't see them again anyway? But you tick a lot of his boxes the more time he spends with you and as he watches your throat bob as you swallow, Wesker starts mentally altering his plans. There's no harm in having a little fun before he gets down to business, is there? A little makeout session, perhaps a sloppy blowjob in the bar's restroom – it wouldn't hurt his plans any, would it?

“Are you here with anyone?” you ask after almost a minute of you trying to compose yourself. Your pulse is still much more rapid than it should be, but Wesker takes it as the compliment it is and basks in the fast beating of your heart while he sips his own drink.

“No,” he answers shortly.

“Then would you… Would you mind if I joined you here instead? I'd like to get to know you better.”

You sound so timid but so determined it's downright adorable. Wesker could just eat you right up.

“Be my guest, darling. There's nothing I'd rather do more.”

You smile at him, relieved and excited, and he doesn't miss the way you throw a giddy thumbs up in your friend's direction before you heave yourself up on the vacated stool next to him.

To his own surprise, he doesn't have to pretend to be interested in what you have to say when you start talking and getting to know him. He genuinely finds you fascinating – such a complex mix of maturity and naivety, simultaneously wise beyond your years and so innocent to the reality of the world it's downright baffling. You are utterly normal, not a trace of Chris's influence on you in the way you speak, think, or carry yourself. You are no trained soldier. You are entirely oblivious.

That becomes distressingly clear the more Wesker talks to you.

Distressing for Chris, of course.

At some point, Wesker places his palm on your thigh while you speak, leaning forward to show he is paying attention to what you say when in reality his eyes are drawn to your lips and the way they wrap around the straw you are biting at absentmindedly as you talk. You falter in your speech when his warm touch registers, your heartbeat spiking again and your breath hitching, but you take another sip of your drink as a distraction, clear your throat, then continue speaking.

Wesker's lips curl up into a satisfied smile and he makes sure to keep his hand there for the rest of the night, only moving it higher and closer to your inner thigh the more the night progresses.

A few hours into this fascinating encounter, as your eyes catch sight of the late hour and they widen in surprise, you turn to him with a nervous smile and tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. Wesker gets a whiff of your scent, your shampoo mixed with your perfume and a trace of sweat, and it makes him want to bend you over this bar and take you in view of everybody present. Considering the way you've been responding to his advances so far, he's not so sure you wouldn't just let him.

“I have work in the morning so I should start heading home now,” you begin, slow and unsure but once again determined to get it out in spite of your nerves. “But… if you wanted... you could join me? I don't live far from here.”

Wesker smiles, all charm and sweetness as satisfaction floods his veins, and lifts the hand on your thigh towards your face so his fingers can retrace your path as they tuck your already neat strand of hair behind your ear seductively.

“Lead the way, my dear.”

You say goodbye to your friends, most of them wasted and very obnoxious in their teasing about you not leaving the bar on your own, then leave the establishment with Wesker at a leisurely pace. He offers you his arm like a gentleman and you take it with a shy smile, linking your arm with his and syncing your steps so you can walk fluidly down the street without bumping awkwardly into each other.

Wesker has to admit to himself that, for all his scheming and plotting, he's been enjoying himself tonight. You're good company, your undesirable parentage aside, and the combination of your body, your reactions to him, and your delightful scent have been driving him just a little bit crazy all night. And walking down the street with you glued to his side as you chatter brightly to fill the silence isn't terrible either.

You fumble with your keys for a moment when you reach your apartment door, but you get it in the end and open the door wide to let him into your place, looking nervously but hopefully at him as he crosses the threshold and steps inside. Truthfully, he already knows what he'll find in here. He broke into your apartment and analysed everything that was worth noting while you were stuck at work or university weeks ago. But he makes sure to school his features into something appropriate for a stranger entering their hook-up's apartment for the first time before he turns towards you with a flirtatious smile.

“It suits you. I can see traces of you everywhere,” he compliments and it's even genuine as he says it. You have truly put yourself in every corner of this small apartment, as if by filling it with yourself you can cover up the glaring lack of something that you're missing in your life. That maybe you can cover up the loneliness.

Because that is a thing that Wesker has observed about you in the month he spent stalking you. It didn't really interest him before tonight, since he just planned on using you for revenge then disposing of you in a public and gruesome manner designed specifically to inflict as much suffering on Chris as possible, but now that he's changing things up, it has become relevant.

For all the people you surround yourself with – college friends, coworkers, your neighbours, your own aunt – you somehow still seem so pathetically lonely. Before you approached him tonight he wasn't even sure if you had any interest in sex or relationships because he hasn't seen you flirt with anyone even once. No online dating, no in person flirting, nothing. You just go about your day, spend time with the people in your life in the daytime, then go back to your small apartment filled with small, meaningless comforts that brighten up the place and while away the hours until you go to sleep.

There's a hole in you, a gap where the pieces don't quite fit, and it intrigues Wesker now that he's allowed himself to take a step back from his plans just for a while. He wants to fill that gap – slither inside of you and intertwine himself with your essence so thoroughly that you can never get him out. He can always kick-start his plans for revenge later – he wants to figure you out and have some fun first.

“Thank you,” you murmur shyly, clearly pleased at the compliment as you close the door behind him and turn the key in the lock after. As you take your shoes and coat off, you ramble idly in his direction. “I'm really lucky to have my own place instead of living in the dorms. It gets a bit lonely sometimes, but I'm used to fending for myself so it's not that bad. Only good thing my dad did was buy me this when I moved out at 18.”

The mention of Chris piques his interest and he very nonchalantly turns towards you with a raised eyebrow as he hands you his coat and watches you hang it on the hook by the door.

“You don't get along, I take it?”

Your face twists at his question, pain and displeasure mixing with something Wesker cannot puzzle through, before you shrug noncommittally and gesture for him to follow you to the small open concept living room.

“It's complicated. And I'm sure it doesn't take a genius to figure that out, not when I just brought home a guy who's probably older than my dad. How old are you anyway? If you don't mind me asking. I'm twenty, if that matters at all.”

Wesker smirks at your poor attempt at fishing for information but he indulges you nonetheless. Now should be the final test of how much Chris Redfield has failed his daughter after all – you haven't actually exchanged personal information like names and ages despite everything else shared between you and it's high time for that to happen. You need to know what name to moan when he finally takes you for himself, don't you?

“It doesn't, but it is good to know. I'm 53, dear. Much too old for you, but we both know that's exactly why I'm here.”

You blush, so sweet and so tempting, and busy yourself with straightening up the already neat pillows on the couch before you gesture for him to take a seat. He does, indulgent and curious to see how you're going to approach this. It's very clear you don't do this often, if ever.

“Can I… bring you anything? Water? Soda? I think I have some coffee in the pantry somewhere if that's–”

“No, thank you. Just come here and let me show you why you did good by bringing me home.”

You don't get offended at his interruption. You seem relieved at having direction to follow, at not needing to fret and worry yourself over social niceties and rituals you clearly aren't familiar with. Something in Wesker purrs in delight at the instinctual show of obedience as you take a seat next to him and scoot closer when he pats the cushion suggestively. He places his hand over your cheek, thumb rubbing at the warm skin still radiating heat from your blush, then leans in until your noses touch, his breath ghosting over your lips like a promise.

“Before I kiss you, I want to know if you've done this before. I don't care either way, but I need to know how to handle you,” he murmurs softly.

You get flustered again but don't pull away or try to hide yourself. You look at him through your lashes, biting your lower lip temptingly, before you answer.

“I fooled around a bit when I was in high school but only had sex once. It wasn't uhm… very good. So I never tried again. But you don't have to treat me like I'm made of glass.”

Dear God, basically a virgin. Wesker's heart speeds up with excitement at the prospect of ruining Chris's little girl so thoroughly and he almost forgets to contain his growl as he surges forward and captures your lips in a heated kiss that steals your breath away. You clutch at his arms for support and moan into Wesker's mouth while he takes over the kiss shamelessly, guiding you where he wants you and controlling everything from the pace to the intensity down to when you take a breath and how long it lasts.

When he finally pulls away, you are breathing heavily with a glazed look in your eyes, swollen lips, and a trail of saliva connecting your mouths before it snaps. Wesker wants to preen in satisfaction at how easily he reduced you to mush just by kissing you.

“Do you want to know my name before we continue this, my dear? Or is anonymous sex more to your liking?” he asks, half joking, as he rubs his nose against your cheek and jaw before sucking the skin there between his teeth. The gasp and moan you let out at the touch is downright sinful.

“You can– oh, that feels so good! You can tell me,” you moan, trying to steady your breathing and not succeeding very much.

“Albert,” he whispers, the final test, the final nail in the coffin, the final chance for this to not go in the direction it's heading. You only need to recognise him, his name, what he represents, for your arousal to turn to horror and for a night of mutual fun to end up in Wesker bathing in your blood instead. “Albert Wesker, delighted to make your acquaintance.”

He pulls back a fraction to peer into your eyes, hungrily watching your expression for any minute change, but that horny look and the flush in your cheeks do not shift. You part your lips to mouth his name silently, rolling the syllables off your tongue like you're tasting them, weighing them, getting a feel for them, then nod at him firmly once you're satisfied.

“Nice to meet you, Albert.” You give him your name in turn, then, to his delighted surprise, take his bottom lip between your teeth and mumble around it, “But I think I won't be using your name much tonight. I prefer ‘daddy’ instead.”

Arousal so strong crashes into Wesker at your words that he's afraid his eyes are flashing red with it from behind his glasses. He's almost dizzy with it.

He's never been called that before, not that he had any interest in such a kink. Sure, he gets off on power and especially the power imbalance that comes with being a man in his position, but babying someone in bed for sexual purposes never really seemed appealing to him. But now, looking down at you, at your hooded, dilated eyes, your swollen lips, the decadence of your innocence and naivety oozing from your every pore and turning his head, Wesker thinks he gets the appeal.

He wants to ruin you. To sink his claws into you so deeply that you can never get him out or shake him off. To stain you with the blood on his hands until all that pretty, pristine white is nothing more than a sullied canvas covered in the rusty brown of dried blood and lost innocence.

Wesker wants to defile Chris Redfield's daughter so thoroughly that nothing will ever undo the marks he leaves behind.

Now that is much better than killing or torturing you. After all, why should you suffer such a fate only because you have the misfortune of being related to Chris Redfield? No, you can serve him much better like this.

“Oh, you will be screaming it, pretty girl. Have no doubt about that,” Wesker growls, feeling ravenous and like he's tugging on a leash to get to the soft meat of your neck and sink his teeth into it, and then he pounces on you without a second thought.

He lifts you in his arms in one fluid motion and starts carrying you towards your bedroom without having to look where he's going. You seem too turned on by his show of strength to notice that he knows his way around your apartment pretty well, so you just wrap yourself around him like a limpet and start attacking his throat with kitten licks and bites that make his blood boil hotter as he carries you.

He throws you on the bed, following suit immediately after, then proceeds to take you apart with his mouth and hands as he unwraps you like a present and throws your clothes aside without sparing them a glance. When he has you naked and spread out for him like the sweetest of sacrifices, Wesker feels like the most powerful man in all of existence.

His fingers find your dripping cunt with ease, sliding inside two at a time in spite of your whining, and enjoys the way your pussy stretches despite your complaints to accommodate the girth of his digits.

“You can take it,” he assures you condescendingly, watching with rapt attention the way your pussy flutters around his fingers, the way it sucks him in with so much greed. The wet sounds of his thrusts are music to his ears. “You're a big girl, my dear. If you whine at two fingers then how will you take my cock, hmm?”

You groan pitifully when Wesker crooks his fingers inside then scissors them to open you wider, before he inserts another finger and watches hungrily as you take this one without issue as well.

“Such a good girl, look at you. Good job, baby.”

The pet name rolls off his tongue weirdly. He's not used to calling anyone something this mundane and boring. But your cunt tightens like a vise around his fingers when he says it, accompanied by praise as it is, and suddenly Wesker doesn't care how utterly pedestrian of a pet name it is. He wants more of this from you and he will get it any way he has to.

“M-more, daddy, please. Feels so good,” you whine while you thrash on the bedsheets and grip them tightly between your fingers. You open your legs even wider, as if that will make Wesker give you what you want, and he grins down at you meanly right before he pulls his fingers out. You whine like a little kid throwing a tantrum at their toy being taken away so Wesker gives your pussy a slap to reprimand you and watches in disbelief and a high he hasn't felt in a long time as his authority washes over you instantly and quiets you down. “I'm sorry, daddy. I'll be good.”

“See that it doesn't happen again,” he commands firmly. “Since you want more so badly, I'll give you more. Just not my fingers.”

He flips you around smoothly, uncaring of the oof you let out at the rough treatment – he can hear your heart rate spiking again at the manhandling anyway, so he knows you're enjoying it – then manipulates your limbs until you're on all fours in front of him. He gives your ass a few smacks, partly to remind you to obey, partly because he's really enjoying the view and the way your ass jiggles from the impact, then finally pulls his pants down, throwing them and his underwear aside, and slaps his cock down on your ass meanly.

You arch your back like a whore at the feeling and wiggle your ass in the air, a silent plea for him to put it in. But just like you promised, you don't whine and, instead, wait for him to touch you.

“Does your father know what a little slut he raised, waving her ass in the air for men more than twice her age?” Wesker taunts meanly as he gives your clit a pinch then rubs your pussy harshly for a moment just to hear your stuttered moans and see you pushing backwards into his touch, seeking more. God, you're exquisite. “Do you like being taken advantage of, baby? Fucked stupid by an older man because daddy didn't give you enough attention growing up? Do you want to be used and ruined like the dirty little whore that you are?”

“Ahh, yes, daddy,” you moan loudly, turning it into a sob when Wesker ruts his heavy cock between your pussy lips and teases your clit without pushing inside. “I want to be used, please. Show me where I belong, make me take it and thank you for it! I'm just a set of holes for your pleasure.”

Wesker groans as those sinful words spill from your lips and his cock throbs in his fist when he grasps the base and squeezes firmly so he doesn't just come right then and there. You don't know the effect you have on him – the filthy picture you paint as you lie there on all fours like a bitch in heat and beg to be used like you're little more than a fleshlight for Wesker's enjoyment.

“And where do you belong, hmm? Tell me.”

“At your feet, beneath you, serving you,” you answer without delay, the response tumbling out of your mouth like you've been yearning to say it for so long and you can finally set the words free.

Wesker rewards you for that brilliant answer with his cock as he finally starts pushing into you. You struggle to take all of him, but you're determined to please him and Wesker is too much of a selfish bastard not to exploit that and push you to your limits. It leaves you breathless and panting under him but you take his entire length like a champ. He even gives you a few moments to adjust and get used to being filled so thoroughly before he starts fucking you in earnest.

True to your word, you let Wesker use you however he wants. You lie there, fists clenched in your rumpled sheets, and moan, pant, and whine as Wesker pounds into you without mercy. He's surely bruising your cervix with how hard he's hammering into you, going balls deep in your pussy on every thrust inside, but you just take it like a good girl without complaint.

When he switches to mounting you properly, going even deeper if that were possible, you just smash your face into the mattress and moan into it as Wesker fills you over and over and over again as he sees fit.

The absolute surrender to his will, the blind obedience and need to please gives him such a power trip that he doesn't even realise you're coming until he sees silent tears tracking down your cheeks while you twitch pitifully under him, his cock bullying your cunt with no restraint and no consideration for how sensitive you are.

“Does it hurt, baby? Do you want daddy to stop fucking you? Is it too much?” he coos, rubbing a hand over your back, but despite his words he doesn't slow down even one bit. Satisfyingly, you shake your head.

“Please don't stop, daddy. Give it to me hard. Use me for your pleasure,” you mumble, already lost in your own head despite how little stimulation Wesker has given you so far. Not to worry, he will build up your tolerance in due time.

“Good answer,” he praises, his own voice a mess of lust and power, and he keeps slamming his hips into your ass, his hands pinning you down by the shoulders, chasing his pleasure and delighting in how exhilarating it feels to have his sworn enemy's daughter bent over for him, taking his hard cock like she was born to do it, and calling him daddy.

It truly can't get better than this.

But it seems like you live to surprise him. Despite your inexperience, you can tell pretty quickly when Wesker is getting dangerously close to his orgasm and while he's getting ready to pull out and jerk off over your back to cover you up in his release, you reach back behind you and grasp weakly at his thighs, digging your nails into his flesh as you angle your mouth away from the mattress as best you can so you can speak.

“Please don't pull out. I'm on birth control, it's safe. You can come inside me, daddy. Please, please, please, give me your seed. Make me your bitch, fill me up.”

“You just keep getting better and better, don't you?” Wesker groans in disbelief and it doesn't even surprise him at this point when you tighten your warm little cunt around his cock in response, trying to milk him like a whore, nor when his balls tighten, eyes closing from the overwhelming pleasure he hasn't felt in a while when climaxing, and his cock spills all of that warm cum right into your waiting pussy. You moan loudly at the feeling as your hand sneaks under you to rub at your clit and make yourself come again and Wesker just watches you pleasuring yourself while his cock twitches like crazy inside your fluttering pussy, pumping you full of cum with seemingly no end in sight.

When it's finally over and your twitching comes to an end, Wesker can only sigh in pleasure as he pulls his cock out and watches his release dribble out of your used pussy, soiling the sheets below your spread legs.

You look debauched. Face down, ass held up by trembling legs, disheveled and already showing signs of bruising from where he gripped you by the hips and slapped your ass, all spread out and leaking cum like a faucet. You look used. You look owned.

Owned by Wesker.

“Thank you, daddy,” you mumble into the mattress, your legs finally giving out as you fall sideways and grip the sheets tightly in one fist.

Something stirs inside Wesker then. Something primal, something possessive, something that might be mistaken for care if he were a better man. He reaches out for you and turns you on your back, cupping your cheek and watching with exhilaration as you blink up at him with glazed eyes full of tears and gratitude. There is worship in your eyes when you look at him and Wesker wants to take over you completely and make sure you never look at him in any other way than this.

“Good job, beautiful girl. You made me come harder than I have in a while. Maybe I should keep you, hmm? What do you think?”

He caresses your wet cheek with his thumb, a mockery of affection but one which you soak up greedily, like a parched, wilting flower drinking up poison unwittingly simply because it feels the same, and he feels breathless as he waits for your verdict.

“I'm yours if you want me, daddy. I was yours the moment you walked in that bar,” you confess, a sinner in a confessional not knowing that the devil is waiting on the other side, not salvation. Wesker curls his lips into a sweet smile and bends down to kiss you, possessive and devastating as he takes everything that you are for himself, and you slump into his hold like you finally found shelter, like you're home and you are safe, not knowing that you just crawled inside the den of a hungry dragon instead.

“Mine, then. My beautiful, darling, slut of a baby girl.”

Usually, this is the part where Wesker would climb out of bed, get dressed, and leave. He has never spent a night with someone else – aside from that one woman in Edonia all those years ago, though he has put the encounter far behind him long ago – because he doesn't need that kind of complication in his life. People get attached too easily and get the wrong idea if you sleep with them after sex. Besides, Wesker has always found it hard to let his guard down around someone else while sleeping and truly get the rest he needs.

But when you shyly drop your gaze from his face to his chest and fiddle with your fingers as you ask softly, “Do you want to spend the night?” Wesker finds himself hesitating. He wants to do this again. He wants to own you, which necessitates building a relationship with you that goes beyond just meaningless sex whenever the mood strikes either of you.

And like he already said, people get attached easily. You, most of all, seem very susceptible to emotional manipulation through affection and care. He won't even need to do much to gain your trust – already you've expressed a desire to be his.

“Of course, my dear. I'm not going anywhere.”

The smile you give him is full of relief and happiness and it transforms your face in a way that affects even Wesker, just a tiny bit. He refuses to let himself be swayed or moved by the feeling, but it is there regardless. Nothing of concern, though.

He cleans you up and strips down to only his boxers, then slides into bed next to you, pulling you into his arms when it becomes obvious that you're craving his touch even if you won't ask for it, and settles in for a mostly sleepless night. You curl into him like a little lamb, soft and sleepy and so naively trusting, and fall asleep in under five minutes. Wesker, meanwhile, plots and plans, and whiles away the hours until morning by imagining the exact look on Chris's face when he eventually finds out that not only is Wesker still alive but also fucking his daughter in the very apartment he bought her for college.