#wesker in his uroboros form: HOT

[weskersevilness]

Tired of pretending that I don't want to fuck these two in their mutation phase

[mirandawesker]

[bastardsunlight]

[Azriel@Wesker but not crack………..or is?] Within the smoke, light and shadow slither and flicker in patterns confounding to dying eyes. A hallucination, maybe; a final misfiring finale of torched mutated nerves, as they twist and form into an utterly nonsensical creature. Alternately, on two and four and six legs it slinks across the burning river of molten rock, impossibly large to be treading so lightly across the surface and unscathed by the searing heat. Its patience is not the hesitating shyness of a scavenger who is not sure whether its prey is dead, but that of something that is not in a hurry.

The thing draws closer, and blues and purples of eyelike spots and lined markings across its strange winged body stand out against all-consuming orange-red in brilliant contrast. A grinning skull-like head makes itself apparent as it tilts to look at the wreck of a monster stranded in the flow, accompanied by two more which appear roughly avian and canine in silhouette.

It does not stop, and seems as if it will simply pass over him until one of its multitude of grasping forelimbs plucks him from his molten moorings, the unsettlingly humanoid hand large enough to encompass his upper body, and in a grip that feels positively icy in comparison to the volcanic flow the thing carries him away and down the rocky slope to a flat which is far less oppressively hot. Here it lays him down, retreats some, and sits — if the lowering of that strange half-upright, half-quadrupedal stance can be considered sitting — and regards him with that strange antler-crowned central head, which has too many eyes and what appears to be a diamond-oriented framework of glinting crystals suspended around it. And then it speaks, without moving any of its mouths, in a voice of indeterminate pitch and inflection.

“By the look on what is left of your face, you were expecting something else.”

Death. He had been expecting death. But what does death look like? Alex? Maybe it could look like his sister, or perhaps like Spencer; his face had certainly been skeletal enough. No, that’s not it either. Wesker’s mind is a jumble. Calling it a shambles would be generous. It has become far-flung fragments of incoherent nothing and shards of glass digging interminably into his psyche, whatever is left of it. He bleeds, oh, how he bleeds, hemorrhaging sanity, a cataract of intellect, spilling uselessly to… wherever sanity goes when it has been spent. The heat is overwhelming until the cool of that death grip wraps itself around him and plucks him from what should have killed him and the virus. But it has not. Uroboros has encompassed him as best it can, expending much energy to keep its host alive. The cool is a relief, for a moment, until the shuddering sets in, shock threatening on the horizon. He fights to stay conscious, to examine this… hallucination.

“Chris…” He grunts, hating that it is the only name that spills from broken lips and charred lungs. Even now, the only face he can see is that of his eternal opponent, that paragon of justice and righteousness. Oh, how he hates Chris Redfield. The fool thinks he has killed Wesker; he must, else he’d not have left. But he is alive and where there is life, even a half life like this one, there is a chance.