Albert Wesker Big Naturals

You noticed him the moment he walked into your visual range. You think it might be pretty hard for him to go unnoticed with the way he looks – or maybe it's simply because he carries himself with a certain air that makes it seem like he's used to taking up space, to being noticed, and is trying very hard to suppress it now? – given how gossipy and rude people can get, but he surprisingly blends in quite well. He avoids knocking into people expertly and twists out of the way of stall owners hauling boxes and crates full of produce from one end of the market to another like he was a ballerina in another life.

Funnily enough, his skin is the last thing you notice about him. The first is his hair.

You're not used to seeing hair that long yet well kept on men his age. Long, blonde tresses with some silver thrown in – so seamlessly threading through the blonde that it seems professionally done rather than the sign of aging that it is – of a texture so soft and silky you bet it'd feel like water through your fingers if you ran them through his hair. It suits him, makes him look distinguished but not stuck in the past – most men his age have their hair cut short, choosing boring over unconventional out of fear of standing out.

Then, you notice his sunglasses. Dark lenses, stylish but simple frames, they wouldn't look out of place on him, nothing to write home about, if it weren't for the fact that this section of the market is indoors and rather poorly lit. You look at him and wonder if he has some kind of vision issues or if it's just a fashion statement. You'd like to know more.

You take note of a few other things – like his height, which is on the taller end, making him tower over everyone here and have to duck his head when inspecting stalls with awnings above them (which is most of them), or his clothing, which, like his glasses, is stylish but simple. It certainly looks good on him – those tight, basic, quality jeans that are clearly well-worn in that way items that are clearly someone's favourite look, and a soft, maroon sweater with the sleeves rolled up. On his left forearm rests a tote bag, equally well-worn and looking like it's already been burdened with some items.

Only after all this is done do you truly pay attention to the marks on his skin. Burn scars. Extensive. Painful looking, once upon a time when they were fresh. Your heart twinges in sympathy though not pity – he must have been incredibly lucky or remarkably resilient to have survived the aftermath of a burn that bad; the pain alone would have probably killed most people, let alone the risk of infection and sepsis.

He doesn't seem uncomfortable now, so it's probably been some time since he got those burns – childhood, even, maybe? – but you doubt you'll ever know before you part from this passing stranger forever. Matter of fact, he seems rather preoccupied with picking some good grapefruit from the nearby stall. Definitely not fresh off the trauma of recovering from such severe burns.

He's handsome, there's no denying that, but you came here for the fresh fruit at affordable prices that actually tastes natural, instead of cardboard and plastic engineered in a lab somewhere deep underneath a supermarket chain, so you sigh quietly to yourself the way you always do when you see hot strangers on the street, and prepare to walk past him so you can go home. Fate, it looks like, has other plans.

He knocks one of the fruits he was inspecting to the ground and it rolls all the way to your feet. Surprised, you jump out of its way before realising that it's just a grapefruit, not a live grenade, and laugh at yourself as you bend down and pick it up. When you straighten up, you're surprised to find a pair of reddish orange eyes looking at you over the tops of stylish, simple sunglasses frames, before the handsome stranger you were ogling pushes his frames back up his nose and closes the blinds on that mesmerising image.

“My apologies, my grip strength isn't what it used to be. I didn't mean to bother you.”

His voice is out of this world – low, quiet, almost intimate you'd call it if it didn't make you feel delusional and parasocial to describe a stranger's voice that way, with an odd accent you can't accurately place. British, almost, but not quite. It reminds you of old black and white movies, that transatlantic accent movie stars affected all the time, and you find that the association suits him quite well. You'd probably think it pretentious if it came from anyone else.

“No, it's alright. You didn't bother me,” you reassure quickly after those brief two-three seconds of analysis and internal freak-out pass, handing his grapefruit over with a smile and a skipping heartbeat when his fingers brush against yours. He's so much warmer than you'd expect – odd side effect of his injuries or naturally elevated body temperature? – and the touch makes your fingertips tingle as you pull them away.

He offers you a smile – small, polite – and he should turn around and go back to his fruit browsing, it's what anyone else would do, what the social contract dictates, but instead he inspects his grapefruit for a moment, rubbing it between his hands to get rid of surface level smudges, before he hands it back over with a much bigger though still quite reserved, more honest smile. It makes your heart skip several beats and your breath stop in your throat. He looks… ethereal, is all you can think. Handsome, incredibly so, and so soft around the edges you want to smother him in kisses.

Definitely not a normal reaction to have when meeting a stranger.

“Here, my dear. You have it. Consider it an apology gift for startling you so badly,” he offers in explanation as he gives you the newly cleaned grapefruit with a smile.

You blink down at it, perplexed, but take it back with a careful hand, disappointed despite yourself when your fingers don't make contact with his skin again. When you look back at him, he looks pleased with your acceptance and the softness around his mouth makes your heart flutter alarmingly in your ribcage.

“Thank you. You have great taste in grapefruit, I must say,” you offer, analysing the fruit in your hand and noticing how perfectly ripe it looks. You're not a big fan of grapefruit, but you know you'll be eating this one with relish when you get home.

“Do I?” He sounds amused, which makes sense because what kind of compliment is that? But you desperately want to keep hearing him speak and this is the first thing that you thought to comment on to get him to keep talking. “I suppose I do. It clearly led me to you.”

Oh, this smooth bastard. By the way his lips pull up in a pleased smirk at the clear way you become flustered and unable to come up with a reply, he clearly knows it too. You fidget with your fruit, rolling it around in your hands, and try to calm your racing heart and the heat in your cheeks.

“Has anyone ever told you you're trouble?” you manage to get out eventually, glaring playfully at him but getting distracted by the way he tucks a stray strand of blonde hair behind his ear when it escapes its brethren and falls in his face. The way his nose scrunches when the hair first makes contact with his cheek makes you want to squeal and squish his cheeks together.

“Often and repeatedly.”

You huff in amusement and the lightness in his tone, the clear relaxed posture he's carrying himself with, also puts you at ease and makes it easier to get your bearings once more.

“I can believe it. But seriously, you don't need to do this,” you say, holding the offered fruit up as emphasis. “It was just an honest accident, it's totally fine.”

“Are grapefruits not to your liking, then?” he asks playfully and that tone of voice makes your cheeks heat up again.

“They're… fine.” You meant to sound reassuring but you're a terrible liar and your brief pause gave you away the second it occurred. Your handsome stranger hums, mouth twisting in a thoughtful frown, before his face seems to light up with a solution. It's incredible how expressive he is even with those sunglasses obscuring his eyes.

“That won't do, my dear. How about this,” he begins, hiking his bag up his forearm until it rests in the crook of his elbow, and you know you're being expertly flirted with by a man who knows exactly what he's doing but you can't help but be charmed as you let yourself be swept away in his current anyway. He's much older than you, that is clear without knowing the exact number, but you've always had a thing for older men anyway. “You finish your shopping because I would never dream of cutting your errands short, then you allow me to take you to one of those coffee shops with the little tables out on the sidewalk as a proper apology. Does that sound fair to you?”

You're both aware that this is overkill – buying you coffee to make up for his fallen fruit startling you is unnecessary and over the top – but you bite the inside of your cheek to tame the smile that breaks out on your face as you nod and dump the grapefruit that started this entire thing back into his hands.

“It's better off with you, I think.”

He smiles, a small chuckle escaping him even, and he nods.

“Apparently so.”

“I was actually about to return home since I already found what I needed so we can be on our way whenever you're ready,” you volunteer, gesturing to your own tote bag full of fruit and a handful of juicy tomatoes you found that will go great in a salad when you get home.

“Excellent. Let me pay for these and then we can go.”

You admire the broad expanse of his shoulders and back while he's turned away from you so he can get his fruit weighed and paid for. There's strength hidden in that frame, you can tell, and you wonder what he did before his accident? illness? obviously forced him to quit or retire early. He mentioned his grip strength weakening compared to ‘what it used to be’, so something fairly recent must have happened to affect it. Perhaps the same thing that caused those burns? He has the posture of a military person, though you couldn't possibly guess what branch or if it even was military and not mere law enforcement, but the grace and fluidity of a dancer. He's an odd one, that's for sure, and you're incredibly eager to get to know him.

He returns to you with a bag a few grapefruits fuller and a small, charming smile that makes his scars stretch oddly around his mouth – the sight only makes you more flustered, imagining what it would be like to kiss him and lightly nip at the scar tissue surrounding his lips, maybe even lick it.

On the way out of the market and to the nearest café that has outdoor tables accompanied by umbrellas to provide shade from the late June sun, you make small talk and find out that his name is Albert and that he's 55. Not terribly old, but certainly too old for you – at least that's what most people would say. You, on the other hand, effortlessly treat that information like any other fact about him and smoothly step over it to ask if he comes here often because you've never seen him before in the years you've been frequenting this area so you're curious about how you managed to miss him until now.

“I moved here recently, actually,” he answers easily, pulling out your chair and helping you get seated before he takes his own seat. The gesture is absentminded while he speaks, as if it's reflex at this point to pull out his companion's chair like a gentleman, but for you, it's a bit of a Thing. You're not used to this kind of ‘princess treatment’ and it's really doing things to you, things that make your heart stutter and urge you to press your thighs closer together.

“For work? Or retirement?” you ask interestedly, picking up the menu and going over it curiously to see if they have any enticing breakfast options – it is quite early in the morning, after all.

“Neither, though I suppose the latter would fit the bill better. I wouldn't necessarily say I'm retired though, more like… making a change in trajectory.”

You quirk an eyebrow at that and give him an unimpressed look.

“Vague much?”

Albert laughs and the expression changes his face entirely: it opens it up in a way that makes you realise how closed off he truly was before, naturally expressive as he is, and it makes him look happier, freer somehow.

“I'm sorry, my dear, but I don't think that's a conversation for a coffee date in public.”

You hide the smile that blooms at the word ‘date’ behind your laminated menu but you're sure Albert can tell it's there regardless. He strikes you as the very observant type and you're sure nothing escapes his hidden gaze. His answer intrigues you, though – of course it does – but you can understand that some things are too sensitive a topic to be discussed out in the open with someone you just met.

“Fair enough, then.”

“What about you, though? Visiting the farmer's market at nine a.m. on a weekday?”

“It's my day off. I have a job at a medical research lab downtown and I volunteered to work weekends so my colleagues with personal lives can actually live them,” you answer with a tiny, self deprecating smile and a shrug.

You don't mind your social life – you knew that getting into this field would mean a lot of long years of study and not much time for dating and even less opportunities to find someone you'll click with that doesn't work in the same field or study the same subject. But it's still lonely and isolating, especially when you see classmates and coworkers making plans to visit family outside of town, talking about their dates the night before, gushing about their children or their pets or their partners. You enjoy your own company and you don't mind your solitude and the routine you've created for yourself, but sometimes you can't help missing something you've never actually had – a warm body next to yours, a quiet voice greeting you when you come home, a pair of arms wrapping around your shoulders and guiding you to the couch while you try to shed the stress of a full day's work.

Albert's eyes widen, though you can tell only by the slight raising of his blonde, nearly invisible, eyebrows, and he leans forward almost imperceptibly.

“What does your job entail?”

“Oh, I'm sure it would bore you,” you dismiss, waving a hand to dispel the subject away. You've tried going on a few dates with people who aren't in your usual social sphere and while a lot of them were good sports about it and tried to show their interest in your field of study, they couldn't keep up and you could see boredom settling in the more you talked about it. You learned to just skip that part.

“You'd be surprised. Go on, I'm curious now,” Albert insists and you chew on your lip for a moment before deciding to indulge him. You can still change the subject if he seems to lose interest in your ramblings.

“I got my bachelor's in chemistry last year and started my PhD in virology afterwards,” you begin, trying to gauge how much he understands and if he's keeping up so far or if you need to pause and explain what virology entails. Albert, though, nods for you to keep going, his hands clasped tightly together, knuckles turning almost white. “I'm working at the research lab now as an assistant to gain some experience. I want to direct my own research so I'm hoping to learn enough during my PhD so I can go off on my own once I graduate.”

Albert is quiet for a moment, long enough for a waiter to come out and take your orders. You make a note of what he got for himself – a macchiato with almond milk and a pump of caramel syrup, something much sweeter than you'd have expected from him, though the apparent sweet tooth seems to suit him nonetheless – and smile at the clearly exhausted teenager who took your order and slip him a twenty when the adult at the till isn't looking. He gives you a surprised look that morphs into a happy smile when you just wink at him and you watch him go to the bar to get your drinks started with a skip in his step.

When you turn back to face Albert, his glasses are gone, neatly folded and placed on the table at his elbow, and he's looking at you with a curious smile on his face. His eyes are just as mesmerising in full as they were when you caught that brief glimpse of them earlier – an unnatural reddish orange with yellow at the edges, his pupils slitted like a cat or a snake, and clearly sensitive to light if the way he angles himself so the shade falls specifically on his face is any indication.

Instantly, you know that he's infected with some strain of the same virus you're interested in studying and finding a cure for – the only difference is (what makes him remarkable to you) the fact that he's a regular human aside from that physical hiccup with his eyes. No mindless snarling and flesh eating to be seen.

“It seems like the harder you run from something, the more determined it is to chase you,” he murmurs, nearly to himself more than to you, before he extends a hand in your direction as if for a handshake. “Albert Wesker, PhD. Delighted to make your acquaintance, my dear.”

Your eyes widen as you process his words. You take his hand in yours – warm, so very warm, feverish almost, and pleasant to hold – and give it a shake before slowly withdrawing it.

“By your reaction, I take it you know me.”

You nod, still a bit dumbfounded as you try to get your bearings.

“You're the reason I decided to get into virology,” you explain, feeling your cheeks heating up again with embarrassment this time. “I found your dissertation in the library in the final year of my bachelor's when I was still ambivalent about what I should do after graduation. I found the subject interesting but it was the clear passion behind your words that made me want to know more about virology. A surprisingly moving paper, coming from a seventeen year old.”

Without the glasses getting in the way, you can see the way his eyes soften at your words at the same time his shoulders relax.

“I was arrogant then. Full of myself. I'm glad your only experience with that Wesker is through my dissertation.”

You smile kindly and shrug.

“I don't know, I kind of liked how he talked about viruses. He couldn't have been that bad.”

Your conversation pauses again as the teenager from earlier brings your drinks to your table, a pretty flower drawn in foam in your cappuccino that he proudly presents like an offering and probably the freshest muffin they had in the display case to accompany it. You smile at him gratefully, amused when he ducks his head shyly and mumbles a, “Let me know if you need anything else,” before he scampers away.

“You've got an admirer,” Albert points out jovially while he picks up his cup and blows gently across its surface before taking a sip.

“I also had a crush on every customer who tipped big when I was his age. He'll forget about me by the time his shift is over.”

You take a sip of your own drink, humming at the taste and being pleasantly surprised that it's exactly how you like it, then lick your upper lip to wipe away the foam moustache that you can feel clinging to your mouth. Albert's eyes shamelessly follow the path your tongue takes and it makes those pesky stomach swoops make a reappearance.

“And does that apply now, too? Crushes on older people that inevitably vanish before long?” he inquires not at all subtly as he takes another sip.

Your eyes are drawn to how he holds his cup and the way his pinky is raised when he tips the cup towards his mouth for a taste of his coffee. Everything he does is so refined, calculated, elegant – from the way he walks and talks, to how he holds himself in his chair and how he drinks his coffee. Even his smirks and eyebrow raises have something superior in them, an elegance to it that makes him come across as simply better than all of you peasants.

It's cute and attractive in equal measure but it only truly makes you want to see what he looks like disheveled, a bit messed up, a lot undone. You want him messy, sweating, blushing, stuttering on a moan with hair hanging in his face and clinging to his skin, maybe even begging. Now that would be a sight to see.

“Not at all,” you answer languidly after a beat of silence has passed, enough to show him you're more than just an impulsive young adult chasing a high or some kind of validation. “I know what I want now. I've had time to think about it.”

His smile is slow to unfurl but when it blooms in full it's gorgeous. You shift in your seat to relieve some of the restless energy in you, cupping your coffee to give your fingers something to do when all they want is to reach out and wrap around his jaw to pull him in for a kiss.

“Hmm,” he hums pleasantly, clearly happy with your answer. “Good to hear.”

The remainder of the date – because that is what this is – passes gently in this manner. Albert talks a little more about himself though he keeps things vague and the details minimal, promising to tell you more further down the line if everything goes well. He seems more interested in you – how your uni years went, if you're enjoying life as a regular PhD student and comparing it to his own, atypical journey, if you have friends in the city or family waiting for you somewhere else, if you have pets or want children some time in the future or if you'd rather live your life free of obligations and just enjoy your time on this earth as it is.

You barely notice when the sun travels across the sky, as the hours pass and your server keeps taking your empty cups away and bringing something new in their stead. It's only when noon rolls around – and your stomach growls unhappily – that you come back to earth and realise you can't sit here for the rest of eternity gazing into Albert's eyes dreamily and talking about everything from your personal life to the worst TV show either of you have ever seen in your lives, no matter how much you wish to.

You look around and notice the way the tables around you – previously only sparsely occupied – have filled up almost entirely and feel yourself flushing in both embarrassment and happiness. You've never felt so absorbed into the other person while on a date before.

“We should probably…”

“Yes, I suppose we should.”

Albert takes care of the bill even when you insist you can split it fairly, then gently guides you to the bus stop you both need to take your buses from – different lines, unfortunately. His hand on your elbow as he leads you and his warm voice telling you one of the few fond childhood memories he possesses – according to his own account – are distractions impossible to ignore as you walk, a hot poker to your ribs that lights you up from the inside and makes you want to do insane things just to relieve the pressure.

When you arrive at the bus stop, you pull a notebook you carry with you everywhere you go out of your bag and scribble down your number before tearing out the page and handing it over to Albert with a smile.

“Here. I know you said you don't own a cellphone but I'd really love it if you called me soon so we can meet again. Even if it's just something friendly, I… I haven't had this much fun talking to someone in a long time and I'd be sad if this was our only encounter.”

Albert takes the paper from you with careful fingers, his eyes scanning the digits written down in your handwriting before he folds it in two, then four and puts it in his bag, right at the bottom to ensure he doesn't lose it.

“Thank you, my dear. I confess I feel the same about you, although I would certainly not be content with mere friendship,” he answers as he gets closer to you, his body almost a line of fire where it nearly presses into yours though not quite touching. “May I?”

His eyes are intent upon your lips – the fact that he's still not wearing his glasses for your sake, so you can see his eyes freely, makes you feel some type of way – before they flicker to your eyes meaningfully while his hand is hovering just next to your cheek. You nod wordlessly, too dry-mouthed to speak, and close your eyes when those beautiful lips of his press against your own and kiss you gently, almost like he's afraid to spook you, while his hand cups your face with so much care it makes tears spring to your eyes.

You've been craving touch and tenderness for so long, it's almost overwhelming to receive it now, even as brief and tentative as this moment is.

When he pulls away, his eyes are searching yours for an answer to his unspoken question and your tremulous smile is enough to make him relax and assume that confident air once again.

“I will call you. I'll get a phone just for that,” Albert promises as your bus pulls up at the stop and opens its doors to let passengers get off.

“I appreciate it. I won't put my phone down until you call,” you shoot back, half playful, half serious, and it delights you to see the free laughter spilling out of him at your words.

“I'll talk to you soon, my dear.”

You get on the bus, but stay at the doors as you say, “Till later, Albert,” looking at him with a stupid little smile and waving enthusiastically until the doors finally close and the bus merges back into traffic to take you to your destination. You fall into an empty seat at random, giddy laughter bubbling to the surface as your fingers touch your tingling lips in disbelief, and you don't care whether anyone is giving you looks or if they're ignoring your existence altogether. Today has been the best day of your life and it's not even halfway through yet.

You already miss Albert's steady presence and warm, lulling voice in your ear, though.

(He calls you that evening, right after you finish eating dinner and reviewing some papers for your PhD. He sounds relieved when you pick up the phone and you're sure you sound ecstatic when you greet him boisterously and tell him about what you were working on when he called.

He takes you out for your lunch break the next day, and the next, then he picks you up after work and drives you home because it turns out he has a car and he used the excuse of taking a different bus at your stop just to spend a bit more time with you. Another night, he cooks something for you using the grapefruit he got at the market the other day and you spend the rest of the evening cuddling on his couch and kissing lazily while the TV plays something neither of you are paying much attention to in the background.

You're dating before you know it, falling into it as easily as water passing through a sieve. And as he slowly opens up to you the more time passes, revealing more and more of his complicated, ugly past that he's not proud of in retrospect but he never saw as anything but what he was meant to do at the time, you just hold him tighter and promise you're here to stay, come hell or high water. This isn't the same man who tried to save the world by destroying it – this is a man who's weary and lonely and lost and yearns for something he's never had. Not unlike you.

If you've just started transitioning he makes you wear his boxers instead of your panties. Says that you're a man now and should be wearing men's clothes. Goes out to buy clothes that he thinks would suit you.

If you're on T and have started showing some bottom growth, he frequently makes excuses to give you head. You're a man now, you should know how good it feels to get your cock sucked. Yeah it's called a cock now. If he catches you calling it a clit he'll slap your cunt.

Frotting with Wesker. He rubs his dick over yours, comparing sizes. He teases you because of course you'd be smaller, but he's so proud of the man you are now. You're forced to keep your arms behind you or by your side, not allowed to touch. Just take what he gives you.

He administers your shots himself. Maybe he tampers with it, makes it so the effects would come in quicker or make you have bigger growth. Gets hard the first time he hears the slightest drop in your voice.

Teaches you to shave, helps you bind if you haven't had top surgery, cuts your hair for you. He'll train you if you're interested in gaining muscle.

Imagine him teaching you combat, his hands grabbing at your waist or your arms. His palm pushing in between your shoulder blades to correct your posture. Sessions that can go on for hours until he's satisfied with your performance. The weight of his body on top of yours, pressing down on you as you flail and try to get back up.

He simply tuts at you, telling you that you can do better than that. The both of you are panting and sweaty, you in a tank top and Wesker with his shirt off. When a bead of sweat rolls down your temple, he leans in to lick up the side of your face.

Not being from the U.S. has never bothered you. There are plenty of things to love in your country, plenty of reasons to be proud of it even while being aware of its flaws and shortcomings. You love your mother tongue and your culture and the traditions you grew up with. Frankly, you miss it sometimes – the freedom to speak the language of your soul and know that you will be understood, to walk down the street and not fear running into a street sign you can't read or ask for directions you don't understand.

You speak English very well. It took years and dedication to master this language but you did it. Your vocabulary is better in English than your own native tongue sometimes, especially in the areas you've most had to use English in. You grew up seeing it everywhere, hearing it everywhere, being told that it was the language of the future, of trade, of civilization, and that any idiot should learn it because it will, one day, become indispensable.

But you didn't grow up with English, not really. More like you grew up around it. Alongside it. And it shows.

Your ‘r's don't roll right. You pause a lot while searching for words. Your inflections are so obviously foreign sometimes, emphasising the wrong part of a word, and sometimes when you try to express a sentiment from your own language and can't find the equivalent saying, you just direct-translate without even realising that that's not a thing in English, not until someone looks at you weirdly for it. And don't even think about all the times you forgot how an idiom went and you said something that didn't sound right at all but you just couldn't remember how it went for the life of you.

It's humiliating.

You hate it.

You hate your tongue for refusing to imitate the sounds you know you can replicate in your mind. You hate your mind for buffering and forgetting words you were using without issue the day before.

You know you're smart. You can talk circles around any native English speaker any day.

So long as the talking is done in writing, though. Because as soon as you open your mouth, your perceived intelligence drops by several degrees in everyone's eyes.

You met Wesker when he was visiting your country for business. He was muttering something unkind about the state of your country and you don't know what possessed you to do it, but you turned to him with furious eyes and called him an asshole.

“Not everyone in this ‘shithole of a country’ is illiterate and uneducated the way you seem to think, American. I can understand you just fine, so maybe watch your tongue. If you hate it so much here then I suggest you leave. We don't need your precious American dollars here anyway.”

He told you several months later that that's when he knew you were going to be very important to him. In contrast, in that moment you just wanted to slap him so hard he spun all the way back to where he came from.

He invited you for coffee. Asked you to be his guide for the two weeks he was supposed to stay there.

“Since you're so adamant your country has more to offer than bad customer service and potholes, why don't you show it to me? I'll pay you.”

You didn't take his money – as infuriating as his arrogance was, he was good company, intelligent, funny, and he didn't patronise you about the things that mattered. But you showed him all the good things tourists never saw because they fell for the traps designed specifically to take their money and give them a weak facsimile of the real thing.

You fell in love with him in a mere two weeks. You told yourself it was a crush – it wasn't but you wouldn't accept that until a year later. He didn't fall in love; he just decided that you were suited to him and would be his from that moment on. Love came later, even though his tenderness showed even then.

At the end of his trip, he asked if you were any good at geography. You said you could learn. He offered you a job – indefinite, ridiculously well paid, off the books. Danger, wrapped in riches. But that's not why you took it – you took it because he asked, because he took his glasses off and let you look into his odd eyes without barriers and rubbed his thumb over the back of your hand as he talked. You took it because part of you was already hoping he would ask before he did.

You've been by his side for years now. His time of traveling from country to country for business is behind him but you remain even if your initial purpose has ended. You love him more than is advisable and he treats you better than he's ever treated anyone who wasn't him. You're an odd pair but you make it work and that's all that matters.

But you still have your insecurities.

As a foreign university drop-out with a noticeable accent, it's hard not to feel inadequate when you see who Albert surrounds himself with. And that's without taking him into account.

Everyone around you is accomplished. Even if they are foreign and have accents, it's like that's an exception they're allowed to have because look at all the degrees they have, all the accomplishments, all the accolades. What do you have to show for your atrocious accent?

You've heard the whispers. People wondering if he found you in a brothel, wondering how good your mouth is for Albert Wesker to keep you around, wondering how much he's paying you to let that ‘sadistic bastard’ break you nightly. They don't know that the first time Albert cried in front of someone else was with you. They don't know he's obsessive about how he handles you, how far he can push before he bruises you too badly (by his standards, not yours), they don't know he taught you how to have sex in a way that didn't make you feel like a prop for his pleasure.

They don't know. Nor do you want them to. But their words still sting because you feel like the most stupid person on earth every time you open your mouth and your words don't come out the way you want them to.

Albert finds you sulking in bed on one of these days, listening to a stupid pronunciation podcast and trying to mould your mouth in a way that produces the same sound you hear. You swear you're doing the same thing the idiot in the podcast is doing, but you can still hear your accent in there and it makes you chuck your phone at the wall and watch it shatter before you fall back on the bed and look up at the ceiling with burning eyes.

“What is the matter, beloved?”

You curse in your own language under your breath, glad that at least that comes out sounding right, and shrug without looking at him.

“I sound stupid. I'm trying to fix that.”

You can feel Albert's frown without looking. The bed dips under his weight and his elegant hand reaches for your chin, caressing it softly before the tugs on it to move your head. You let it flop sideways as you look at him with teary eyes.

“You sound perfect, there is nothing to fix,” he denies swiftly, his thumb rubbing at your skin gently.

“That's a lie. I have an accent.”

“You do. It's one of the things I like about you.”

You scoff. “Really? You like it when I sound like I learned English in a barn? When I can't find my words and stammer like an idiot? Or, hey, maybe–”

Albert digs his fingers into your face and glares down at you. The gesture shuts you up immediately.

“Don't speak badly of yourself. You are smarter than half the people I know, an accent doesn't change that.”

“Doesn't it, though?” you ask in a voice so small you're afraid he wouldn't be able to hear it if it weren't for his heightened senses. “People judge you by how you speak and how you sound. And they judge me a lot. The things they say…”

“Point those people out to me and they will be disposed of.”

“That's extreme.”

“Not when it comes to you. You know that,” Albert iterates firmly and, yeah. You do. You still remember that time one of his would-be business partners assumed you were there to serve coffee and he treated you like a servant the entire meeting. Albert plucked his heart out on his way out. He still got the contract the company he was representing was offering.

“It's not even just what other people think, anyway,” you lament, brushing off his violent love declaration in favour of whining some more about something that's really bothering you. “It makes me feel bad every time I open my mouth. Doesn't it turn you off in bed when I moan things with that horrible accent? I don't even pronounce your name right in the heat of the moment.”

“My dear,” Albert begins, leaning closer and hovering his lips over yours while his hot breath warms your skin, “your accent in bed makes me harder than a rock. If you could suck my cock with an accent, I fear I would be finished in under a minute.”

You laugh despite yourself, chest warming with love and your lower regions warming with desire, and part your lips eagerly when he closes the distance between you and caresses them with his own lips. When he pulls away, he rubs his thumb over your bottom lip then steals one more peck before straightening up.

“I hope our children will one day share your accent. That's how much I love it,” he declares in a soft murmur.

You make a face at the prospect and nip gently at his nail, his thumb still resting on your lip.

“God, I hope not. Spare them.”

“Would you rather they sounded American, then?”

“Equally as terrible, thanks,” you joke, joining him in laughter when he starts shaking with amusement, and your mood has already lifted significantly from the moment he entered the room to now. “You really know how to make me feel better, huh.”

Albert leans back over you and kisses your temple, inhaling your scent briefly before pulling away.

“I love you,” he says simply and that is answer enough.

“Yeah, I guess you do… I love you, too.”

He removes his shoes then climbs into bed with you, pulling you into his arms and keeping you cradled close, your back to his front as you rest against his shoulder. He pulls up a book on his tablet – your favourite, in your language – and he starts reading out loud, stopping periodically as you correct his pronunciation or he asks you what a word means and why it's spelled like that. You do your best to explain things that come instinctively to you and Albert listens attentively, nodding at your words and smiling when you're done talking before he gives you a sweet kiss as thanks.

It's good to hear your language from someone's lips who isn't you, even if it sounds a tad off and the grammar isn't perfect when he stops reading and starts a conversation with you. Just the fact that he's trying – for you – makes it all worth it.