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.