Work Text:
Even though the devastating July heat had been near inescapable all day. It hadn't been the cool, fragrant pine breeze that had forced Wesker to look up from his desk to the open window.
It wasn't even the rhythmic thunk of the heavy, iron axe in the dry pinewood logs.
He was watching, his work discarded, intently at the man who lay his axe down against a tree and brushed the sweat from his brow with his forearm. Even from here he could see the sweat soaking through Chris' black work vest, how it clung to the definition of his muscle, and covered so little it rode up his stomach to let bronzed flesh glint in the sunlight. The attractive dark fur of his pubic trail disappearing below his belt.
Albert Wesker, for all his aloofness, couldn't help but feel pissed off. That his husband was too busy chopping wood in that tight, tight, little black vest, to come to him and let him lick the sweat from his abdomen.
It had been hard enough during his time in the army to keep his fetish under control. But Chris had been the only one he'd ever crumpled all of his restraint for. Masculine, a little rough around the edges with his scratchy, wiry dark bodyhair all over like a werewolf. His dark, pretty eyes for a man. And muscles so gorgeous Wesker could salivate just remembering how it felt to touch them.
Chris' firm, defined, sweat-sheened beautiful body. Handsome and still boyish in his romantic glee. In any other world he might've hated the man for what he was; but that hot, hot July afternoon had him feeling starved for it on his lips. And grateful that he always bought Chris' clothes a size or two too small.
He watched as Chris picked up the axe again, biceps swollen and flexed, and caught sight of Wesker staring through his office window. A devious little smile, like he had purposefully set up his work station right in his husband's view. Taunting him with a good show.
Sigh of the pine trees around their cabin, the windchimes tinkling lightly. The scent of hot dirt and wood, and as Chris lifted the axe to continue his work, Wesker could almost imagine the scent of his musk and sweat. The taste of the woods on him, and the sun. It made such a difference to gun oil and gasoline back when Christopher had still been a soldier, although he liked that too. If his tongue was on his man, he didn't care what it was running down his throat.
Not that he would ever tell Chris any of this. For all Chris knew he was a little shy about his sexuality, even after all these years. No, his fetish was a private one, one a straight-forward darling like Chris Redfield couldn't work out on his own.
How a man so perfect for Wesker had ever been made... he felt he ought to shake the hands of Chris' parents for delivering their son into the world. He might've at the wedding, but at that time he had been to preoccupied with Chris in his tuxedo so tight the buttons kept popping open on his shirt to think of much else. Never before had he ever felt so anxious to take a man to bed in his life. But today was offering up a similar conundrum.
"How long are you planning on staring?" Chris laughed, voice full of sunlight and good humour as he put the axe down again and came to lean on the windowsill. Firm arms so close within reach now Wesker could feel his palms begin to sweat. Chris leaned in a little and looked vaguely over Wesker's laptop, in screensaver mode, and grinned proudly. "Sorry babe, am I distracting you?"
Here he was, perfumed with his pinewood sweat and spice, enough to make a man moan for the scent of him. Close enough to see the puffy peaks of his nipples through the black cotton. It seemed impossible to imagine Chris had so little idea of how much Wesker sweetly ached between the legs for him. How his fingertips itched to fondle the swell of his pectorals and glide the sweat-lubricated ridges of his abdomen. How his mouth filled with saliva at the very thought of burying his face in his armpits and sucking the sweat from the fur there. Lost in that lusty stink of his tame bear.
He jumped as Chris's hand touched his forehead, a look of concern on his bearded face.
"You alright babe? You look a bit flush."
Wesker knocked his hand away. "Fine, just a little warm." He stared deadpan at Chris' pecs as he leaned a little further over the windowsill, how they sat, plush and tempting. "You've been working all day, Chris. Come inside and have some iced lemonade. I could use a break, too."
Chris grinned. "You are the best, y'know that? Gimme a sec..." he ran off to organise his wood (he'd been preparing to start building an extension for the house). It gave the poor man something to do after his early retirement (at Wesker's request), and meant nobody else could see how gorgeous his husband was beyond their small patch of the woods.
Why wouldn't he be selfish, when his man was this perfect?
Wesker closed his laptop and headed to the kitchen, unusually dressed in a polo and a pair of Chris' cargo shorts since the heat was far too much for his regular wardrobe. He retrieved the lemonade he'd made earlier from the fridge and was just pouring some out over waiting glasses of ice when Chris entered the kitchen, wiping the sweat from his face with the hem of his vest. Lifting it high enough to give Wesker a tease of his pecs, and his nipples already swollen from their play last night.
"Here," Wesker said smoothly, under control on the outside as he handed a glass to Chris.
"Thanks," grateful, cheerful, the younger man took the cold, sweet drink and tipped it back.
"You are messy for a grown man," Wesker scolded him with a wry smile, watching closely as lemonade spilled down Chris' chin and dripped onto his vest, mingling with the sweat and soaking in.
A grin as he finished. "I'm thirsty," he shrugged, holding out the glass for a refill from the blonde standing at the kitchen island.
Wesker refilled it, and watched as Chris drank again. Gullet bobbing with each gulp, lemonade dripping down the skin of his throat. It was enough to make the older man grab at the marble countertop for support, glad he was stood in the tactical position for Chris not to see how erect he had gotten just from looking at his body.
"What's the matter?" He was asked, as he continued to stare. But how hard it was not to. And how hard it was to think in this heat, and the scalding internal inferno of his desire. As though his Chris had asked him from another planet. Brunette short hair damp to his skull, concern and care in his doey brown eyes. Built like a god of war.
Wesker put down the lemonade jug, and lightly placed his hands on Chris' hips. He turned them, pushing Chris back against the counter as he moved in close, looking down his Roman nose at his husband, his scent swarming through his mind like a drug.
He was codeine and heroin and cocaine all at once. All consuming, interplanetary, and yet so much a simple man it would've made a younger Wesker laugh at his own interest.
His thumbs lightly pressed into the warm flesh of Chris' hips. "It's too hot to be working, Christopher," he said idly, admiring a bead of sweat drip from Chris' hair and run down to stick like a diamond on his eyelashes.
Chris was watching him too. Cautious, but pleasured by the attention and touch. His rough palms ran over Wesker's hands, encouraging him to touch more.
"It's hot." He agreed, "the bedroom is cool." His palms, toughed by his years of hard work, gently stroked up Wesker's smooth, pale forearms. His skin cold and relieving like white marble. "You're even cooler." He murmured it like a wondrous prayer. "I've been sweating all day."
"I know. It suits you."
Chris smiled thinly, and made a gentle attempt to peel Wesker's pianist's fingers from his hips. "I need a shower."
"No, you don't." Even, cool, composed. As though it were hardly any shame to admit it. He moved in and kissed below Chris' ear, lips grazing the skin to his neck, over the wire of his beard, and he sucked a bead of sweat from him. Salty and warm.
A soft sigh, and Chris melted back, letting Wesker's hands explore his waist as he leaned back onto the countertop. "I'll shower," he said again, not forcibly, "I've gotta stink."
"Yes, you do," Wesker murmured, lips still at his neck, fingertips sliding over the hem of the tight little vest, fingering the outlines of where the fabric had glued itself to his muscle, somehow jealous he had not been the one pasted to his man by Christopher's own sweat. He kissed at his neck, to his shoulder. "You stink," he reconfirmed, a smooth pine-whisper, "don't shower."
He lay Chris back on the cold countertop, and pinned his hands above his head. His man looking up at him confused and embarrassed and aroused. Damp, delectable, so sun-kissed it was as if it lived beneath his skin and shone through his eyes. And cast the shadows of Albert's strange inner world.
And he lowered his head and kissed Chris' shoulder, and pushed his nose into the man's armpit. Inhaling his stink, that hot woody-dust and pine spice, tonguing through his hair to scrape the pearls of his perspiration from his giving skin. He kissed him there, and sighed as his cock grew stiff and ached so sweetly.
"What's gotten you so riled up?" Chris laughed, soft and earthen as he lay and let the cool marble soothe him from below as Albert Wesker draped over him like a porcelain cloak from above. "Didn't know you liked the way I stink so much, babe."
Wesker didn't humour him with a reply, giving him a steely look as he let his tongue roll across his armpit again, and watched with silent pleasure as Chris closed his mouth and regained a doey, ravishable dampness. As if he knew he were there only to please his lord husband. As though his body were fulfilling its saintly duty.
He kissed his way down then, sucking the dew from the vest all the way to his breasts, and leaning back for one second to scratch at the man's puffy nipples through the thin fabric with his nails.
A quiet groan, Chris - good boy he was - keeping his hands above his head of his own volition, eyes on his god as his sensitive buds were scratched and teased, already bitten almost bloody by the itchy mosquito bites of his husband's teeth last night. Sharp nails digging in, soothing them with their bone blade. And the following pinch that had him moan and shift and spread his legs for Wesker to step in a little closer.
Wesker dipped his head and sucked his nipples through the fabric; slow, sensual. Drawing the buds into wet, swollen peaks through the cotton. Plump and erotic. Tonguing through cotton, drinking out the sweat and spilt lemonade, the sweet headiness of his husband. Allowing him to squirm and moan. And his tongue found the ridges of his abdomen through the cotton. And he sucked him there too, saliva soaking with the sweat, tongue tasting his husband's body in such intricate detail.
He reached the hem of the vest, and took it between his teeth as he glanced up at Chris' flush, handsome face.
"Wesker..." he whispered, so tentative it might've been a whimper. A slave to that tongue despite his size. A natural in his submission. Melting in the heat of Wesker's July-fuelled unstoppable fever of eroticism.
Wesker lifted the vest with his teeth, a cold hand sliding underneath and lightly scratching up his sweaty abdomen, up to pluck at his nipples just to see the man's face crinkle up in mild ache. And then he was pushing the vest up properly, up to his pecs to reveal half of his plump areola, and once again he dug the nails of his thumbs into the delicate buds of his nipples.
"Hold it," he commanded, voice gentle. And as Chris held the vest, he leaned over his body and spat. Sticky saliva. It pooled lewdly in the valley of his abdomen, and with his careful fingers he spread it up, slicking his body, and rubbed it slowly into his nipples. And Chris radiating his own heat, groaned out his own low whimper, and Wesker pulled him back to his feet as he dropped to his knees and held Chris' hips, and licked the sweat as it dripped down his abdomen. Lapping it from his navel with the tip of his tongue.
"Christopher..." he sighed in luxury, putting his face to Chris' skin, nose pushing into his pubes, breathing the perfume of his sweaty genitals with grotesque pleasure. His cock and his balls, no doubt equally damp in his underwear. And as he rubbed his nose into the damp of Chris' work pants his hand dipped down to clutch at his crotch. Dick so painful in his pants, so wet his precum had seeped through the fabric. He shuddered his sigh, feeling mad from the heat, from the scent.
"I've really never seen you so horny," Chris smiled vaguely, delirious from his erotic fever, dazed and pleased and glimmering. Oasis of his flesh. He kept the vest raised, watching and drawing in heavy breaths as his lord husband brought out his cock and masturbated to the scent of his sweat-spiced groin. "It's so hot..." he said, as if losing himself in the dreamlike hedonism.
Wesker hummed his low agreement, eyes shut, gulping down the air spliced with Chris, his cold hand stroking his cock with almost vicious intent. Horny enough he'd began to ooze onto the floor from the slit, crushing his nose into the swell of Chris' cock through his pants, tonguing at the vague shape of his swollen balls.
He remembered their wedding night, burning hot, and taking his wine-drunk man to bed and sucking the perspiration from his balls and thighs and licking the heat-delirious man's asshole as he moaned and jerked himself off, too wound up in happiness to find it odd. And when Wesker entered him and sucked the sweat from his neck and back he keened and lay down and took it and begged for it, curling into the sheets with his soft woody moans, sweating for him, handfuls of firm muscle for his tongue to trace for the rest of their lives. And Wesker kissed his head after their lovemaking, and drank the scent of his damp hair and scalp, and loved him evermore for his humanity.
It was as though Chris had quenched some great thirst within him.
"Take your vest off," he murmured, face still between his legs, "give it to me."
"Okay... okay..." Chris pulled it up over his head, gorgeous torso rippled and golden, and he looked flush pink with his shameful pleasure at the bodyworship as he passed Wesker the damp cotton.
Wesker brought it to his nose then, huffed it, before falling back onto his heels, and wrapped his cock in it. Chris' sweat wrapped about his length, and he fisted himself into it, fucking the fabric with growls of his degeneracy as he stared up with vicious eyes at the half-naked man hard and confused and shiny in the July haze.
He squeezed the vest around his member, precum seeping in, and he was fumbling with Chris' fly to tug down his pants and shove his face unceremoniously between his legs. Beneath his cock, nose almost grinding into his scrotum. Here where Chris stank the most like a man, vile and burning and thick with musk. He was lightheaded, panting like a dying man, sucking at the tight fabric of his briefs to get at the lewd taste. Chris' fingers winding into his own sweat-soaked hair, his moans a hundred miles away.
Wesker gave a shuddering sigh, drooling on his husband's balls as he came. Squirting into the vest, semen copulating with his sweat. And he couldn't bare to move away even as his hand stilled.
"Fuck," Chris breathed, awed and horny and glistening as he admired Albert Wesker so undone by the heat. He stroked his husband's head, and weakened in the knees at his steely, thirsty eyes. "I'm gonna need another vest for work this afternoon. Huh."
"Mmhm.." Wesker growled, peeling the cum-drenched vest from his cock, "don't shower tonight, Christopher, give me your clothes. I'll fuck your scent out of them." He took a deep, shuddering huff from Chris' crotch. "And then i'll lick every stinking inch of you clean. Right down to the bone."
Chris swallowed thickly, giving a damp little moan as Wesker began to droolingly suck the outline of his cock through his underwear.
"Jesus..." he whispered, laying back on the ice-cold countertop, with his husband drinking the scent right from his manhood. "It's so hot."