#albert Wesker | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

weskie · 2 days

Text

A New Dawn (Albert Wesker x gn!Reader)

descriptions of injuries, descriptions of violence, tentacle murder, tentacle affection, yeah that's a thing, shared shower, wesker lives au | Fic Directory

You found him by sheer luck.

That rock he’d crawled onto could’ve simply crumbled. The volatile lava could’ve risen higher and submerged him completely. Despite the odds being stacked so incredibly high against any hope of recovering Wesker, you managed to pull his legs from the impossibly hot liquid with the help of a small rescue team and loaded his charred body into a helicopter for what was arguably the worst moment of your life.

All you can do is stare at what he’s become– at the autonomous slithering of tentacles that, by some miracle, contained themselves to their host and did not spread to your shaking hands. His lower body is marred entirely with burns and blisters so severe that you’re unsure if taking him out of there was even humane. If, perhaps, letting him be swallowed by the earth would’ve been kinder than putting him through whatever is to come next.

Once he’s placed in a containment room, you call in every favor you’ve ever known him to be owed. But it’s all for nothing.

The first attempt to prick his skin with an IV catheter results in bloodshed. The entire team of medics stood stock still as the head doctor was impaled and dangled overhead by a mass of black, oozing tentacles emerging from Wesker’s body. It happened so fast that you only realized it once the blood hit the observation glass.

Such would be the result of any attempts to address his injuries. Not even a blanket was able to be laid over his bare form without retaliation. It was like the mass of tendrils had a mind of their own, geared only toward protecting their host– though it raises the question of why the initial recovery of his body hadn’t produced the same response. Regardless, you wager they’re the only reason that Wesker is still alive.

For that, you’re thankful.

You talk to him through the intercom regularly. You tell him about the BSAA’s seizure of Tricell and its assets, of how you’ve turned one of his hidden facilities into something livable for when he wakes. That you’ll be there when he does, and how excited you are for the day. That you hope he can hear you but feel none of the pain.

You pray he doesn’t.

At the end of the first week, you come to the realization that the tendrils are slowly engulfing his body. Every day, more seem to appear until his legs are cocooned.

You take notes and photos of everything as best as you can, just as you know he’d want you to. After all, this is his creation in action. The seed for his perfect world that was now seemingly consuming yours whole.

By the fourth week, they’ve risen as high as his clavicle.

By the fifth, you feel as if you’re losing your sanity. Alone in a massive underground facility, having not seen the sun for weeks on end, eating only MREs and having what little sleep you get plagued by stress and worst case scenario nightmares…

You crack.

“I don’t know how to make it better, Al…” You whisper brokenly, forehead pressed to the glass. “I can’t– I don’t know how to help you.”

Any assistance you could have possibly had turned their backs the moment the danger far outweighed the payment– which had been the case from the very start. Though you can’t find it in yourself to fault them. If it wasn’t for the fact your heart was lying on that table, you’d have probably followed. The threat of death can be very convincing.

When the tendrils creep onto his face, you break containment. And why not? Why shouldn’t you go in? You helped make this mess. You helped create the organism consuming him. For years, you worked alongside him to perfect the cure to humanity’s wretches– to cull the species destroying this planet and dragging the rest down.

Perhaps you deserved the same fate for sharing in his endeavors– for even having goals so similar and selfish. But was it really? Was it so selfish to want better for humanity?

You drag your swivel chair behind you as you tread over dried blood smears and dehydrated viscera.

“You always did like making me do things the hard way,” you jest as you approach him. But you’re not in there to take notes or vitals.

You set foot inside to relieve your madness.

Your hand quakes as it hovers above his forehead. You’re unsure if you should even touch him due to the blistering and ripplings of infection marring his skin. The burns have healed a tad since bringing him in, but not nearly as much as they should’ve. Then again, it’s been weeks since he’s had a dose of suppressant to keep his strength balanced.

You lower the back of your hand toward his nose, relieved to feel the faintest tickling of air.

“Thank god,” you whisper tightly. “I really miss you...”

Which was the honest truth. You miss your mundane nights with him, sitting near as you both worked independently. Stacks of paper, the clicking of keyboards, endless hours in the laboratories spent refining mere dreams into reality. You miss his cold affections and strange ways of expressing that he, too, had been infected with that parasite known as love.

You let your hand rest shakily over a section of his hair that hadn’t been burnt down to the scalp. You hold your breath and wait.

And wait.

You are not added to the stains of violence on the walls, nor are you impaled in the blink of an eye.

But you are greeted with a much thinner tendril creeping up over his brow and forehead to inspect you. It nudges your thumb and your whole body goes tense, veins chilling as if your blood had turned to ice. It slithers over the bumps of your knuckles, leaving a thin layer of ooze over every inch of skin it touches as it trails to wrap around your wrist. For a brief second, you’re petrified of it taking hold of you like that. Would it try to bind with you? What if it did to you what it had done to your precious Albert? What if it rejected you?

And if it did, how would you continue to try to help him?

But it doesn’t. It does nothing of the sort, just simply continues snaking up the length of your arm. The tip rests atop your shoulder in a strangely… docile manner. You cease petting Wesker’s hair for but a moment to calm yourself, and then you feel it do something odd.

The head of the tendril lifts itself and plops back down on your shoulder, stroking backward little more than an inch before repeating the process. You watch with wide eyes, both fascinated and terrified.

It’s mimicking you.

You pet Wesker’s hair once more and it ceases its movements.

You stop; it begins again.

Was Uroboros itself doing such an act? Could it?

A flicker of hope flashes in your mind and tears prick at your eyes. It’s so fucking unlikely– nearly impossible even. And yet–

“Is that you?” You ask softly, inching just a little closer to him. You can see the way his eyes dart around beneath his eyelids– an entirely new development. Was he dreaming?

The tendril wraps the slightest bit tighter around your arm.

“Can you hear me?”

The head of it lifts and falls against you once more.

It couldn’t be… but, at the same time, it had to be. The tears you’ve fought against so hard fall and you grin from ear to ear. All of that fear fades away, the desperation, the depression and hopelessness– it’s all gone.

You lean forward and press a kiss to his brow, suppressing your silent cries as you revel in the joy that your love is still in there. This is no mere corpse kept alive by the resilience of a virus. The tendril wraps tighter the second your lips brush his skin, and you know in your heart that it’s how he’s able to reciprocate.

“We're going to figure this out,” you promise him. “I love you.”

Two weeks pass before his flesh starts to peek from between those slithering lengths. You’d almost lost hope again.

It’s his lower body that starts to emerge first, bit by bit, starting from the feet up. Flesh that was once marred an angry red, blistered and scorched beyond recognition, was now a scarred pink. Amazingly, some patches seemed to have healed flawlessly, as if he’d never submerged in the fires of the earth to begin with.

Notes and photos. Tests where possible. Anything you could do to make sure Albert had every scrap of information possible about his otherworldly creation.

Uroboros works.

Not only that, but it can bring its host back from the brink of death– if not perform a complete resurrection.

Day by day, more of him is revealed until the pink line at his waist shows you just how deep he’d been submerged. There are splatter patterns elsewhere, you notice. Tiny specks of scarring from where lava had touched him long enough to burn through the dermal layers.

You decide to finally attempt to cover his body again. A simple blanket, but hopefully one that’s warmth would not go unappreciated in the chill of the sterile room.

When his hands are freed, you hold and press countless kisses to them. You rest your cheek in his palm, telling him about your findings– that he’s almost healed and that you’re so goddamn excited.

“Uroboros is a success, my love. You’re proof of it.”

The most fascinating of all, though, is the amber-like formation embedded in his chest. From what you can tell, it is from this that the tentacles on his body are emerging.

You dare not touch it. Not yet, anyway.

Six days later, you find yourself kicking around in the barren kitchen of the complex. There’s nothing but crumbs, and you’re miserable. You haven’t left since arriving, and these compounds of his were never meant to be more than a brief hideaway.

You drag your feet as you make your way back to the bedroom. Seems there’s little more to do than throw yourself in the shower to start your day, so you do exactly that. Though not with any degree of enthusiasm. Instead you sit on the ground and hug your knees, eyes shut as you ignore the complaints of your stomach.

You’ll have to find transportation to and from the nearest town– if there even was one. It’d be lucky if you spoke the language or could even find the currency, but you’ll figure it out. You have no choice.

In the absence of your awareness, coupled with the white noise of the shower, you fail to hear the door creak open. Not even the disoriented shuffling against the tile floor rouses you.

Suddenly, the shower curtain is ripped open, and you startle– damn near knocking your head off the floor as you slip around like a fool. But you clamber to your knees in an instant, arms flinging around the intruder who had fallen to your level.

You can’t help but weep.

“Al?! Oh my god!” you exclaim through the tightness of your throat. Your hand strokes at the nape of his neck. “I’m so sorry… I’m so sorry.”

You should’ve been there when he woke up. You should’ve fucking been there.

He shouldn’t have had to find you.

You move back and cup his face in your hands, pressing a smiling kiss to his lips despite the torrent of emotion rocking you to your core. You pull away and find that he looks exhausted. Completely and utterly drained. His eyes are hooded, but the blue irises peeking out from under his lashes confirm that he is, in fact, exactly that. The formerly bright formation on his chest is dimmed nearly black. All of his energy had gone into merely surviving. Your poor, sweet love looked death in the eye for a second time and emerged victorious.

You help him get under the stream of water where you sit and hold him close. You’ve never seen him like this before. Vulnerable was an understatement.

He’s quieter than ever, staring straight ahead at the wall. Shame, you surmise. Humiliation. He was defeated again– maybe even flat out killed. His pride has always been its own Tower of Babel, built high enough to reach heaven and godhood. But now it was truly shattered. Crumbled to bits and buried in the sands of his failure.

There are no words to say. Not yet, anyway. He’s already heard them all. Instead, there is shampoo to massage into his scalp and soap to trail over his body. You may not be able to fix his pain, but you can wash away the remnants of volcanic ash and ooze tarnishing him. The burden of grime is at least gone by the time the water runs cold.

You dry him with a towel, taking note of how his hands shake and how he balls them into fists to hide it. You wonder if he still hurts, but you know he’d never admit to it even if he was truly in pain. Even wincing was out of the question, so you pretend not to hear it when he does. You pretend like he doesn’t lean on you for support as you walk him to the bed, like he doesn’t need your help to lift his legs high enough to settle in.

He lets you hold him while he sleeps, something so out of the ordinary it leaves you blinking in confusion the second his head lays upon your chest. Nevertheless, you do it anyway. You pet through his hair, even occasionally running your fingertips over the healed sections of his scalp. Normally he would stir if you so much as shifted, but he doesn’t even groan in his slumber.

You hold him as though he's made of ceramic, basking in the tenderness of hope until your own eyelids grow heavy. The world can wait. Rebuilding can wait. Hell, even revenge can wait. All that matters is this– is him. Your precious Albert, safe and very much alive in your arms, is more than you could ever ask for.

For the first time in weeks, your eyes flutter shut without fear of tomorrow.

#albert wesker #albert wesker x reader #albert wesker fanfiction #albert wesker x you #wesker #wesker x reader #wesker x you #resident evil #dead by daylight #dbd #resident evil wesker

101 notes · View notes