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"You look very beautiful like that, Albert. Sweet. But looks are deceiving, aren't they?" Wesker glares at him. Sergei laughs. Sits back in his chair, whip in his hand, loosely. "Keep that position and let them fuck you. Swallow every drop. If you don't, well. I'm sure your back will look lovely with the spine peeking out."

It's a losing battle, honestly, and Sergei knows it. Relishes in it. Even someone as strong as Albert can't keep himself up without support, and the tyrants have no concept of supporting a lover without being ordered to. They're just chasing their own pleasure, thrusting hard enough to bruise his throat and stomach, iron grip on his thighs and shoulders. One grunts as Wesker starts to sag.



He can hear the muffled scream, making the tyrant groan, Wesker's throat and ass tightening with the hit to his back. His eyes flick around, furious. "Hips up, Albert. Be a good boy." It cuts a line of red onto his pale skin. Trickling down his ribs.


"That's better." It's like painting, Sergei thinks. Art in motion. Wesker tries his damnedest to glare or relax, the tyrants fuck into him, Sergei slashes another line onto his pale body until he's a beautiful palette of marks- thick bruises, cum and drool bubbling like a float from the corner of his mouth, tinged with pink as the tyrant splits his lip. He has jewellery of his own fluids, pearls on the floor, bracelets made of organic rubies- disgusting, and somehow gorgeous. It suits him, Sergei thinks. Wesker cut out of his great black tower and forced to the ground, a virgin sacrifice to be raped and slaughtered. Though he doubts Wesker is still a virgin. No one could resist him when he was younger and softer, fresh out of studying.


Sergei snaps the whip at Wesker's arm and he finally gives out, only held up by the tyrant's tight grip on his shoulders. He can see a sliver of white poking through the flesh, just before its covered in blood, all the cries of agony choked out on the tyrant's thick cock. His back hits the ground, smearing blood and dirt. To his credit, he tries to get up, right arm trembling with the effort. But it's no use. He slides out of the Tyrant's grip and coughs into the ground, stomach churning as he vomits, face in his own waste. Vomit, blood, drool and...




Something even more splendid than that. The tyrant at his ass roars and pumps inside him, belly swelling, dropping him down. Blood and cum pool out of him. His stomach hits the ground and it comes out faster, mixed with fluids, a horrible batter He's never been more gorgeous. Sergei rolls him over so Wesker's back is in the filth, face teary and red, sobbing with his eyes screwed shut. He tries to curl in on himself, and all he does is twitch. Sergei plants a boot on his dick, hot and red and weeping. Just like his face. Presses down hard, more fluid from his ass, and finally Wesker cums with a faint cry. Spurting up his own chest.



"Poor little stray. No one wanted to keep a nasty cat like you, hmm?" He can't even try to speak. Sergei can see the bruising bloom. "Do not worry yourself. You are in my capable hands, Albert. Right where you belong." He pulls Wesker up by the hair, until he's swaying on his hands and knees. Chained down. Desperately staring, eyes watery, mouth moving as the Tyrants fall back into position. "Now, let's try again. Hold that position, Albert. Be a good boy."


His screams continue until dawn.


The morning light cuts a fetching figure from the horrible thing of blood and guts on his floor. Gilding all his filth in gold, the various refuse the tyrants and Sergei had coaxed out of Wesker's greedy body. Sergei yawned. Wesker had gone mostly silent, about half an hour after the tyrants had gotten bored fucking him. It had been tempting to ask Wesker to clean them off, but considering his tongue and mouth well- he would have gotten them dirtier, if anything.


He was where Sergei left him, chained down and drooling from all holes. Not asleep. Rather unfair to expect him to sleep, honestly, which wouldn't stop Sergei from doing it. Still. He steps out of his seat and beams as Wesker flinches. Every inch of him is filthy, covered in fluid or cuts or bruises. "You look almost afraid of me, Albert. Scared of your old friend?" He kneels down, lightly dragging his hand over Wesker's battered throat. "There, there. We got there in the end. You look so beautiful when you are suffering."


He knows Wesker wants to spit. It's just how Wesker is. Always ready to bite the hand that feeds, but the tyrants have broken him wonderfully. All he can manage is a stare. Sergei chuckles and clicks off his locks, leaving Wesker belly down in the filth, legs sprawled under him, looking every inch a fucked-out whore.




The whines are music to his ears, as Wesker is dragged up. Dragged into a bathroom where Sergei can hose him down and relish in the shrieks, cold skin drenched in colder water, dragged to Sergei's own room, bare as the day he was born. Forced down onto the bed, legs parted, hands pinned above his head. His rim's still swollen and fluttering open. But that's for another day. Lord Spencer requested that Albert be trained. Everyone knows animals need a firm yet gentle hand. Albert shivers when he touches his face, stroking down his cool and clammy skin. Scrunches his eyes shut when Sergei kisses his forehead, loving and sweet and every inch a liar. "Good boys get to sleep on the bed. Remember that, Albert."


And he sweeps away, leaving Wesker exposed, vulnerable, and very, very cold.