Work Text:
Working in a lab was somewhat of an ideal environment for Wesker. His coworkers were expected to be competent, independent, and capable. Of course, the fluorescent lights and fine microscopy work aggravated his migraines dearly, but the cool and structured environment provided him a great amount of satisfaction.
Most days.
Most days did not include a junior lab tech knocking an entire beaker of an unknown chemical solution that William Birkin had left under the fume hood to the floor while he was on break.
“I am so, so sorry, Dr. Wesker!” The lab tech rambles on apologetically, tears welling up in their eyes. As much as the pathetic sniveling annoys Wesker to no end, a small part of him does feel a twinge of sympathy for their situation. Making such a mistake in the lab was never easy, let alone doing so in front of a superior researcher with another superior researcher’s work. “I’ll get it cleaned up, I promise-”
They reach down to start picking up the shards of glass, quickly having their hands swatted away by Wesker.
“Quiet down, if you would.” Wesker sighs, shaking his head. “Do not touch the mess with your bare hands. You’ll cut yourself on the glass and become exposed to whatever Dr. Birkin was working on. You do remember your high school lab safety, yes?”
Perhaps the final comment was a bit mean, but truly, even a junior researcher should know better. The lab tech blinks wetly, then flushes a brilliant shade of red.
“O-of course, Dr. Wesker!” They stutter out. “Sorry-”
“Stop apologizing, please.” Wesker pinches the bridge of his nose. “Now, you are going to go dispose of your coat and wash your hands thoroughly.” His tone leaves no room for argument. “When you are done, you are going to go take a break until you calm down. I will clean up the mess and explain the situation to Dr. Birkin, understood?” He sighs when they nod their head hurriedly. “Do not fear for your position in this lab. If Dr. Birkin were working on something important, he would not have left it sitting on the bench.”
Truthfully, Wesker had no idea if that were true. Whatever Birkin had been working on was beyond Wesker at the moment–it certainly wasn’t one of the many viruses they had been working on for years now, nor was it any of the bio-organic creations they had more recently dedicated part of their time to–but he could not be brought to fully care. Birkin knew the lab procedures perfectly well, at least well enough to know not to leave important or volatile chemicals sitting on the bench where any brain-dead lab tech could knock them over. Really, Birkin only had himself to blame for this situation.
The lab tech looks at Wesker as though he had personally hung each and every star in Heaven.
“Thank you so much, Dr. Wesker.”
“Of course,” Wesker gently pushes them out of the lab. “Now move along.”
Finally, alone once more.
Wesker turns back to the viscous pink mess of glass and fluid on the floor. It looked different now than it had just a moment ago–had it changed when he turned to console the lab tech? A faint pink fog hovered above the spill, a rosy cloud surrounding the debris like a blanket. There was something…disconcerting about the sight. Nonetheless, Wesker set to cleaning the wreck. Chemistry had never quite been a strength of his, but he was quite sure that even if the gas clinging to the area was hazardous, there was likely nothing for him to worry about so long as he was careful in the course of his clean-up. There was little he desired less than filing an accident report, especially for himself, especially right after he’d just gotten out of having to write one for a lab tech.
The largest shards of shattered glass were carefully picked up and placed within a cardboard glass disposal box. Wesker was cautious not to nick himself on the jagged, razor-sharp edges of each piece. The fluid was mopped up with a few rags and paper towels, collecting the smallest pieces of glass at the same time. He caught a light whiff of the liquid while he worked; it smelled almost sweet, like a sugar syrup with too much water in it. An acrid, chemical after scent chased it, almost the scent of burning plastic.
As he cleaned, a strange feeling began to settle and grow within his chest. Not quite discomfort, it was more like…desire? A need? It felt almost as though he had to sneeze but could not. The lab was beginning to feel warm…very strange, as it should still be quite cold.
Perhaps he was developing a cold. He would talk to Birkin about going home early.
Once the area was satisfactorily cleaned, Wesker dumped all the waste into a thick red biohazard bag. Said bag was dumped into a firmly sealed metal garbage can that would keep it safe long enough for a lab tech to come drag it to the incinerator.
If that lab tech had any sense, they would wait until Birkin left for the night or took another break before coming to clean again.
Had the lab always felt so humid?
Speaking of the devil, Birkin re-enters the lab at that moment. He doesn’t notice the glaring absence on his bench; he was quite busy reading through a thick stack of papers held in one hand with a chewed-on ballpoint pen in the other. Wesker often finds himself wondering how the man gets any work in the lab done at all when he is constantly reading useless memos and requests from all number of Umbrella executives. As if those business major twits deserved even so much the time of day. Without looking up from his absolutely thrilling reading, Birkin uses one arm to brush a small line of micropipette tips off his bench into a small garbage can.
“Would you please quit leaving your tips on my bench while I’m on break?” Birkin implores, no amusement to be found in his voice. “You have your own trash can; I don’t know why you insist on moving five extra feet over to put them on my bench. You have to put in more effort to put them on my bench to annoy me than just throw them away like an adult.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Birkin.”
Wesker attempts to focus on a petri dish in front of him–he needs to inoculate another two dozen of these before he can think of being done for the day–yet he finds that he can’t even hope to make his swimming vision focus on the round of glass and agar. Foggy, tar-thick thoughts run together in his head.
Wesker shakes his head, attempting to find his words, “Oh, by the way, William, a lab tech was doing some cleanup earlier and knocked whatever horrid pink concoction you had sitting on your bench to the floor. I cleaned it up already; it’s in the biohazard bag over there.”
Birkin snaps his head up so fast Wesker is not altogether certain it wouldn’t give the man whiplash.
“Don’t get yourself worked up about filing an accident report; they weren’t injured, nor were they exposed to the solution,” Wesker swallows thickly, eyes blinking painfully slow as if his body is stuck hours behind his mind. Still, he doesn’t allow this to concern him. All the fuss with the lab tech and the long hours spent working at the bench under bright lab lights have likely induced a migraine. Nothing new–especially not for him–and nothing he couldn’t handle. “Not that I care much for idiot lab techs, but you really ought not to try scolding them for this incident. The lab procedures are incredibly clear about leaving chemical solutions on the bench unless-”
A pair of hands clap onto Wesker’s shoulders and spin his chair around, making him face a deeply concerned-looking Birkin.
“Shut up for five seconds!” Birkin damn near shouts, tone deadly serious. “Listen to me, this is very important,” He speaks slowly, as though Wesker were too dumb to understand otherwise. “Did you or that tech touch it with bare hands? Did either of you get it in your eyes or on your skin or mouth?”
Wesker squints at Birkin, only partially from confusion because the humming fluorescent light behind Birkin’s head is making Wesker’s nerves scream.
“Do you ever listen to me?” Wesker bites. “I told you, they didn’t get exposed to it at all. I stopped them from cleaning it up and sent them out. I cleaned it with gloves on, then put it in a biohazard bag set for incineration. There was a light amount of gas fumes emitting from the spill, but the cloud was sat low to the ground so I didn’t see a risk- Birkin, just what were you working on?”
Leaning back against the nearby counter, Birkin runs a hand through his hair. A look of panic crosses his face, which provides little comfort to Wesker. “Look, I can explain…” He trails off for a long moment, failing to explain. “I just- okay, okay, how are you feeling? Any fever or headache or-”
“Birkin…what in God’s name were you working on?” Wesker’s head is pounding, thrumming hard with pain in time with his quickening heart rate. This doesn’t feel like a migraine anymore…
Birkin purses his lips, looking away from Wesker with a sheepish expression, “Alright, some of the higher-ups were getting a little antsy at the time virus and bio-organic development takes. More than antsy at the amount of money it takes. So, to keep ‘em happy, I offered to work on some new commercial medications. Trying to keep our funding secure, y’know?” He laughs dryly. “Those meatheads always want the cutting edge of science to profit off of, but they never wanna actually dedicate the time and money to making it happen. I swear, I’m gonna-”
Wesker groans, slamming his hand against the surface of his bench. Sweat is dripping down the nape of his neck, soaking into the collar of his sweater. The benchtop feels freezing against his boiling skin. “God damn it all, William! What the fuck is wrong with me?!”
Birkin throws up his hands, a show of innocence that only frustrates Wesker more, “Hey, don’t get pissed at me! I wouldn’t have left out chemical aphrodisiacs if I’d known that a half-witted newbie tech was gonna be messing with my bench!”
Chemical aphrodisiacs?
Fuck.
The bottom drops out of Wesker’s stomach as he becomes painfully aware of every nerve in his body. He’s suddenly aware of an obscene wetness pooling in between his legs, growing sticky and cold as the biting air of the lab steals the heat away from it.
“William, you have a way to stop this, correct?” Wesker asks, rather implores and nearly begs as desperation begins to color his voice.
Birkin worries his lower lip between his teeth, turning his gaze to a small defect in the wall’s paint.
“Birkin…”
“Look, it’s not like it’s gonna kill you,” Birkin laughs nervously. His eyes drop down to Wesker’s groin and his current…predicament, and a punchable smirk works its way across his face. Cocky asshole. “C’mon, it’s not the first time you’ve gotten all hot and bothered with me. Not so bad now-”
This moronic, insolent bastard-
“I’ll castrate you with my bare hands if you attempt to touch me, Birkin.” Wesker threatens bitterly. Though, he’s not entirely sure if he’s going to be able to make good on that promise. His hand twitches, aching to give himself some much-needed friction. He doesn’t indulge the desire; he is not about to debase himself in front of Birkin right now, and not in the lab of all places. “You can’t possibly tell me there is nothing you can do to fix your mess!”
A moment passes, then-
A curious look comes over Birkin’s face. It’s one Wesker can hardly discern, let alone put a name to; it so rarely appears on the man.
“Yeah, actually, I do have something that can help.” Something about his tone makes Wesker pause, but when a fresh wave of searing heat jolts down his spine through his stomach, the thought is unceremoniously flushed from his head. “C’mon.”
Birkin takes Wesker’s hand and leads him out of the lab, dragging him down a few halls before reaching a locked observation room.
“W-what’s in there?” Wesker asks, watching as Birkin unlocks the door with a deep red keycard. If he had more of his faculties about him, he might have found it strange that Birkin had a keycard Wesker had never seen before, to a room he’d never seen locked before. He allows the man to lead him into the dimly lit room. He’s feeling oh so very vulnerable and small, almost like a child again. Hard, he feels hard too, hard and wet.
Birkin grabs something Wesker doesn’t see from a nearby table, and steps close behind him.
“Told you, it’s something that’s gonna help.” Birkin takes another step closer behind Wesker. In a better state, Wesker would have never allowed the man to make him so vulnerable.
In this state?
Every nerve in his body feels turned up to a thousand, every single sensation tripled in intensity. Wesker shifts on his feet, attempting to find some comfort. Fuck, even just the light brush of his soaked pants moving over his cock is so so so good it’s nearly agonizing–
“I don’t know what kind of dose you got; can’t be much, I assume, but that was concentrated stuff.” Birkin’s words barely register within Wesker’s mind. ”It won’t kill you, or hurt you really. It’s just…it’s just like a fever, y’know?”
A pair of padded cuffs tighten around Wesker’s wrists, binding his hands behind his back before he can even think to react. A thick, padded collar wraps around his neck; he can feel a short tie between his wrists and the collar, keeping his upper body stuck in place.
Shit.
“Just gotta sweat it out-” Birkin kicks Wesker’s leg–just below his knee–sending him to his knees on the floor with a heavy thunk. Pain jolts up his legs as he hits the hard, smooth ground. Birkin kneels in front of him, a sympathetic look on his face, “This is gonna be a lot easier on us both if you don’t try to kick my ass, yeah?”
If only Wesker could rip Birkin’s throat from his neck right now, he’d make such a pretty show of it- Wesker’s line of thinking is derailed when Birkin’s hand brushes over Wesker’s clothed erection as the man shoves down Wesker’s pants. They are discarded in a pile next to Birkin, alongside his shoes and socks.
“Probably should’ve gotten you undressed first-” Birkin rips through the layers of Wesker’s jacket and sweater with a pair of EMT shears. “-but I was fairly certain you were gonna try to kill me if I didn’t get you restrained at least a little first. You’re being a lot more cooperative than I thought you were gonna be, actually. Good boy.”
“I-I’m going to-” Wesker gasps as Birkin cuts the sopping wet fabric of his underwear away, letting his leaking cock spring out in the cool air of the room. “F-fu-ck.”
A shiny stream of precum drips from the tip of Wesker’s dick like a broken faucet. It’s a sinful, shameful sight and Wesker can’t find it in himself to look away.
Birkin regards the sight before him with a slight hunger, but mostly with an impassive curiosity. “Jesus, that’s a lot. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you produce that much precum, Al.” Wesker’s cock twitches at the tone of Birkin’s voice, somewhere between mocking disinterest and unfettered want; he hopes Birkin does not notice.
Wesker gulps down lungfuls of air, trying to stabilize himself. He needs to focus, pull himself together, figure out what’s going on. He distantly feels a pair of padded cuffs become affixed to his ankles, the sound of heavy chains dragging along with them ringing in his ears.
“Wh-what are you doing?” Wesker watches Birkin roll an ankle-high machine into view, a medium glass tank on one side. He vaguely recognizes it as a pump of some sort but can’t figure out what its purpose may be. “William-”
Birkin brushes him off with the wave of his hand, “You got a pretty heavy dose of that aphrodisiac, from what I can tell. Told you, it’s like a fever, you need to sweat it out.”
“And why can I not simply do that myself?”
“Because you won’t be able to keep up,” Birkin answers simply. “You’re gonna wear yourself out, and then you’re not gonna be able to do what you need to do.”
In one move, Birkin slips something frigidly cool over Wesker’s cock, making him gasp. He slides it halfway down Wesker’s length; it feels so tight it almost hurts, and it’s so good and he could almost-
Wesker looks down and is mortified to realize it’s an honest-to-god cock pump. His face burns bright red.
“William!”
Birkin laughs, “Quit your shrieking, Wesker. I’m not in the mood to clean up your spend from the floor. Plus, it’ll be good data to see just how much you can put out.”
Clearly, Birkin was not done humiliating him. He kneels behind Wesker, and suddenly there are two slicked, gloved fingers pressing insistently at Wesker’s hole.
Fuck, it’s good but-
“What are you doin-ah!” Wesker bites hard on the inside of his cheek, stuffing down a whine when the fingers prodding at him push in fully, scissoring him open without a moment’s pause. He tries valiantly, but his eyes screw shut, and he’s cumming, oh shit oh God he’s cumming. Cumming from nothing more than two fingers that haven’t even done anything like a chaste virgin-
“Did you actually-” Wesker can’t see Birkin’s face, but he knows the bastard is looking smug and very satisfied as he realizes what happened. “Really? Two fingers is all it takes to get you over the edge? What are you, twenty?”
Mortification burns hot in Wesker’s cheeks. It burns hotter when he realizes the cock pump has helpfully pulled his spend away into the glass tank, and that Birkin’s fingers haven’t left him for a moment.
He’s still hard; his erection hadn’t flagged for even a moment. God, Wesker has never been like this, not even in his youth.
Panting, Wesker opens his mouth to speak again, “If-if…you think you’re going to fuck me-”
Birkin’s free hand reaches around Wesker’s face, pushing his first two fingers into the wet heat of Wesker’s mouth. The intrusion suffocates the next words Wesker hoped to speak; all he can let out is a pathetic, undignified squeaky whine. He has half a mind to bite Birkin’s fingers clean off his hand, but can’t bring himself to do it. The fullness in his mouth feels amazing, settling the buzz in his brain and focusing his senses on the fingers inside him, stretching and thrusting. He doesn’t have to think, he just needs to feel and chase that feeling-
“You talk too much, you know that, Al?”
There’s no chance for Wesker to respond. Another finger is added alongside the others, and then those wretched fingers brush against his prostate, and Wesker is gone all over again.
Kindly, Birkin continues to fingerfuck him through his orgasm, letting him ride it out as best he can. He’s still hard as he peaks and comes down from it, the tender meat of his cock torturously sucked on in steady waves by the pump. Shiny beads of precum drop from the tip of his dick, pulled from him mercilessly without end. On a normal night, Wesker would not be out for the count after just two orgasms–even if these were back to back–but each of these sensations all together should be beyond overwhelming. He should be overstimulated near to tears by now.
Yet, Wesker is only hungry for more. Though less insatiably for now, he has enough of his wits about him for the moment to think.
“You’re doing a great job, Wesker,” Birkin praises simply. As though Wesker has behaved well for an injection. “I was worried we were gonna need more restraints, but you’ve been real good for me, haven’t you?”
Birkin’s fingers pull out from Wesker, drawing a faint whine of displeasure from the man at the sudden emptiness.
“I’m not a dog, Birkin!” Wesker snaps, attempting to swing his head to look at Birkin but finding himself blocked by the collar. “If you are going to insist on helping me through this, you should put your goddamn fingers back where they were!”
A light chuckle sounds from behind him, “And here I was thinking you couldn’t wait to get them out of you.”
Before Wesker can retort again, there’s a firm, blunt pressure against his hole. It’s freezing against his heated skin with a fresh layer of lube. For a moment, Wesker believes it’s the slick head of Birkin’s dick. He’s about to begin tearing into Birkin for thinking he had permission to do any such thing–but he quickly realizes his error. It’s too cold, too wide, too thick and unyielding. It can’t be Birkin.
“W-what are you-” Wesker almost keens as Birkin pushes the thing further in him, splitting him open on the firm mass. That fuzzy heat threatens to overcome his mind again. “William–Christ–what is that?”
“The expense report says anatomically shaped silicone prostate stimulator,” Birkin finishes pushing the toy into Wesker in one smooth movement, hitting his prostate and punching a moan from the man’s chest at the same time. If he hadn’t just cum twice in a row already, this may have pushed him over the edge instantly. “The woman at the sex shop said vibrating dildo. You pick whichever you like better.”
The blasted thing in his ass begins vibrating, a soft and slow shake but just enough to make him feel it against his prostate and push a steady stream of sparkling precum from his reddened tip.
It’s so much, it’s not nearly enough.
“Hah…h-ah-” Wesker makes breathy, gasping, punched-out noises. His eyes are half lidded; he can barely keep them open. “H-how long–fuck–Jesus!” Birkin pushes him back by his shoulders, forcing him to kneel on the silicone cock. The sudden jolt of pleasure ripping up his spine makes him shout, fuck this position is so much better. He can barely feel the ache in his knees that’s already beginning to form over the louder sensations of his body.
Wesker wants so badly to get up–try to get away–but he can’t stand the idea of being away from the lovely sensations tormenting him.
“I’m not gonna need any more restraints, am I?” Birkin steps in front of Wesker again, smirking. “You’re just gonna be good and take it, hm?”
“Sh-shut up!”
Birkin doesn’t respond, merely stepping away to search through a nearby storage cabinet. He returns to his position, standing a few feet in front of Wesker with a handful of things tucked against his chest.
“Y’know, you’re lucky I set up the human trials test when I did,” Birkin sets a clipboard with a stack of blank paper on it on a steel folding chair a few inches behind him. “Otherwise this was gonna be difficult. Plus, wouldn’t have been able to get all this recorded.”
Recorded?
“Oh, yeah, about that. You don’t mind if I record this, do you?” Birkin asks, but there’s nothing in his voice that leads Wesker to believe his answer matters to the man. He’s fiddling with the buttons on a small black camcorder. Once he’s satisfied, he mounts the camera to a tripod, looking through the viewfinder to ensure Wesker is in the frame. “The video won’t be published, of course; we have absolutely no idea what kind of dose you got. The results would be less than useless; not even a grad school paper would get away with using them.” Birkin laughs, shaking his head. “But, I do want a recording of the basic results for future reference.”
Wesker may be drugged, bound, and nude, but he does have a sense of dignity for now. His jaw drops into an appalled expression at the sheer concept of allowing Birkin to film this humiliating experience.
“Birkin…turn-turn that camera off, or I will relieve your neck of that insipid empty head!” The words intended to be low and threatening come out of Wesker’s mouth in more of a pleading whine than anything else.
Birkin, for his part, doesn’t even turn to look at Wesker, entirely unaffected by the threat. He’s rifling through a drawer for something Wesker can’t see. “Oh, don’t get your panties in a twist, Al. I wouldn’t show the higher-ups this video; I don’t wanna do the paperwork for a lab accident anymore than you!”
As if that is the issue in this situation!
There’s a small beep as Birkin turns on the recording, the red light on the side of the camera blinking to life.
“Alright, it’s September 14th, 1997-” Birkin looks down at his watch. “Twelve past nine in the evening. This is a recording of lead researcher Albert Wesker’s reaction to the…” He trails off a moment, trying to recall something. “Fifth formulation for a commercially viable chemical aphrodisiac. Albert Wesker is roughly thirty-six years old, assigned male at birth, likely of Caucasian descent.”
Heat blooms over Wesker’s entire body. Birkin is treating him…like a lab animal! Dictating the specifics of his situation as if it were merely a routine test! It’s humiliating, it’s degrading, it’s-
“After a lab accident roughly twenty minutes ago, Wesker was exposed to an unknown dose of the concentrated aphrodisiac. He presented with fever, excessive sweating, dilated pupils, reduced reaction time, and a persistent erection combined with excessive production of pre-ejaculate.” Birkin scribbles something down on his clipboard. “So far, Wesker has had two orgasms and ejaculated twice, untouched to boot-”
Birkin bumps up the intensity of the vibrator, and Wesker tips over the edge once again. Or more accurately, he drops off it like a stone. His hips twitch up pathetically, chasing a sensation that isn’t there.
“Make that three times each,” Birkin corrects smugly. “None of these orgasms have reduced his erection, nor has he presented with overstimulation. Wesker is a bit more resilient than your average thirty-to forty-year-old male, but even for a younger man or for him, three times in a row with no reduction in performance is quite the achievement.”
Birkin keeps talking, but the sounds become slick and muddy against Wesker’s ears. Heat and need grab hold of his body again, and all he can think of is when he’s going to get off again next.
Every sensation is so much, so good, so overwhelming. He doesn’t have the capacity to think.
Wesker doesn’t know how much time passes; it could be no more than thirty minutes or an hour, it could be hours, days even. There are no windows in this room, and there are no clocks he can see, nothing to tell that time has passed except the number of orgasms he has had.
“It’s getting hard to tell, but I think this is your…sixth orgasm? Maybe it’s your seventh, it might be the eighth,” Birkin continues scribbling down notes, completely unconcerned with the view in front of him. “You get a bit of a look when you’re about to cum. Kinda soft and brainless, but pinched and almost painful at the same time? Do you know that?”
Birkin finally looks up, looking over at the small tank that Wesker’s pump is attached to. “Still able to ejaculate after all this time, huh?” He laughs, airy and light. “Shit, impressive stuff, Wesker. I would’ve thought you’d run dry after about the fourth; most men would’ve stopped at the second. Pretty sure you’ve been producing a lot as well, eight ounces if quite the achievement, Al.”
Wesker drops his head as much as he can, groaning. Sweat drips down in clear rivers from his brow and chin onto the floor in rhythmic drops alongside hot, heavy tears. He’s flushed crimson with the sheer embarrassment of his position. How has he fallen so low? Reduced to a rutting, weeping, pathetic scientific curiosity. No more a person than a bitch in heat, strapped down to be studied and dissected while he chases his next orgasm. Not even given the dignity of a hand or touch to help him along, as if it would be incorrect or improper to do so. There are no mirrors or shiny surfaces; Wesker can’t see himself. But he knows he must look a mess, styled hair now sweat-slicked into messy spikes over his face, tears and sweat and drool dripping down his reddened cheeks and chest.
The only thing he can do–that he’s allowed to do–is sit here and take what’s given to him.
With a croaking sob, Wesker cums again. Everything is beginning to hurt and ache, but he can’t do anything about it. He’s at Birkin’s mercy, though he fears the man does not have much of that within him.
“B-B…” Wesker babbles nonsensically, trying his hardest to put together a sentence that will make Birkin take notice. Tongue thick and dumb in his mouth, he tries “Birk-Birkin…”
Ever so slightly, Birkin raises his head, “Yes, Wesker?”
Wesker whines, “Need…ne-ed.” He shifts, and a sharp serrated blade of pleasure bolts through him. His voice is so rough, so broken. “Please…”
Finally, Birkin sets his clipboard aside and fully looks up at him, “What do you need, Wesker?” There’s a faux pity in his voice that makes Wesker want to scream. “Tell me what you need, and I can help.”
He drops his head to the side, screwing his eyes shut in distorted agony.
“Need you…touch me,” Wesker pants.
“Okay, Wesk, I’ve got you. You’re…beautiful like this, you know that?”
There’s a reverence to the way Birkin speaks.
Birkin stands from his chair and approaches Wesker. He kneels, pressing the rough pads of his fingers into the meaty flesh of Wesker’s chest. His thumb rubs over Wesker’s nipple, pushing into the tender skin there and working it over until it hardens under his touch. Then he pinches the sensitive nub between his thumb and forefinger.
The sensation of another person’s touch after so so long kicks Wesker right over the finish line, and he cums again, his entire body shaking and rattling with it. It’s too much, too much; it hurts, and he’s still hard. He doesn’t want to cum again and he needs to cum again more than anything and he needs Birkin to keep touching him, or he’ll die right there on the spot.
“Fuck-” Wesker hiccups, a sob caught in his throat. “Ple-ase, Will-iam. Need you to t-touch me.”
Birkin smiles cruelly, “I am touching you, Al.”
Wesker whines, “Please- more, plea-se?”
Sighing dramatically, Birkin rolls his eyes, “Alright, since you asked so nicely.”
His hands are off Wesker for a long, torturous moment. Wesker nearly has the mind to start babbling for him to come back; he’ll be good and stop whining if Birkin will come back and touch him again.
Suddenly Wesker’s shoulders are pushed to the floor, his hips dragged upwards. Fuck- finally finally finally-
The vibrator shuts off before being harshly pulled out of Wesker’s hole, sending shocks of pain and pleasure up his spine in equal measure. There’s no time to mourn the loss of the filling, vibrating thickness because Birkin is pushing his slick hard cock in and it’s fucking perfect. Wesker is shuddering and tensing before going lax as Birkin finally hilts himself. Those fingers are digging into the meat of Wesker’s hips; if he were a weaker man, perhaps Birkin would leave bruises.
Distantly, Wesker wonders just how long Birkin has been sitting, watching him fall apart. Was he hard the whole time, denying himself for possibly hours? Perhaps he’s already cum once or more by his own hand, and now he can no longer resist using Wesker’s body to satisfy himself? Fuck, Wesker’s head is buzzing. Perhaps that’s the dehydration.
Regardless of whether Birkin has cum or not, watching Wesker for however long has dented his patience a great deal. He’s immediately thrusting into the sloppy, loose, wet heat of Wesker’s hole. Chasing his own end with seemingly little regard for how Wesker feels about the situation. Though he ensures every heavy drag of his cock hits Wesker’s prostate.
“Shit, you-you were made for this, weren’t you?” Birkin laughs, his voice warbling with pleasure. His hips slap against the soft ample skin of Wesker’s ass, the sound ricocheting like a bullet in the room. “You shouldn’t be out there playing big smart scientist; you were made to be right here getting your brains fucked out. Shit, I should’ve just spiked your stupid coffee with this shit, huh? Who-who would’ve guessed big bad Albert Wesker was really a cockwhore?”
The degrading words go straight to Wesker’s cock. He’s so fucking close, so fucking close.
Birkin lays himself over Wesker’s back, still fucking into Wesker like he owed him money. “O-one more time for me, Wesker,” He pants hotly into Wesker’s ear. “Cum one more time, then we’re done. Bein’ so good for me, j-just one more time.”
Of course, he hardly has to ask. Wesker falls apart, fully screaming with it at a pitch he wasn’t aware he was capable of producing. Birkin fucks him through it, before he too falls over the edge. He cums with a low groan, filling Wesker up nicely.
“Sh-shit,” Birkin pants, hips stuttering a few more times, fucking his cum into Wesker. “So fucking good, shit. Good boy, good slut, fuck.”
Wesker’s cock twitches at the praise, dribbling a few more pearls of cum.
Everything goes black as Wesker passes out, exhaustion finally catching up with him.