jemima @naturalbornvirus - Tumblr Blog

hi there my name is jemima i dont really post much i like reblogging stuff, if i do post it will mainly just be supernatural headcanons.

im 18 and a lesbian, i promise im not scary to talk to i love talking to people.

i reallly like supernatural, resident evil, lord of the rings, game of thrones, zero day, bones and all, ethel cain, nicole dollanganger, x files and twilight.

no dni i just block people if their weird…

s1llybruv

smokingcitrus

Birkin is an ugly crier.

He sniffles and sobs, moans and wails as his face reddens and scrunches up until he's almost unrecognizable, strings of snot uncontrollably leaking from his nose. He wipes it over and over and over, trying to get words out but never quite getting past the hurdle of keeping his mouth clean enough. He resigns himself to curling in on himself, shoulders hunched, and he holds his elbows as if hunkering down to ride out the emotion. In that moment, his world shrinks, incapable of accommodating the impossible size of his distress. It explodes in size, its growth exponential as it rips and tears through him, gouging the edges of his repressed mind like sandpaper in a bullet wound. Frantic thoughts follow it like freshly torn sinew, incomprehensible and indistinguishable from each other, barely forming before snapping in half with a static-like spark that causes his trembling shoulders to jolt anew.

His meltdowns are far and few in between, major stressors acting as a wrecking ball against his mental state where inconveniences have only been able to wear away at the edges like water erosion. The only constant in all of them has been the conviction that he might just die where he lays, wailing and clawing at himself until he bleeds: Wesker presence is always an afterthought as his soul unravels.

Wesker has never been able to do anything other than observe: when he's unfortunate enough to witness another one of Birkin's episodes, he can't do more than stand before him, mentally measuring the distance between his straightened back and Birkin's folded one as he waits for him to be coherent enough to continue working.

The first time this happened in his company, he was young and naive enough to think that he, Albert Wesker, could comfort him. A stiff hand had reached for Birkin's shoulder — a gesture he'd practiced since seeing it in a movie all those years ago — which was promptly smacked away, paired with an incoherent gurgle from a snot-filled throat. When physical comfort didn't work, he tried reassurance, but his words fell on deaf ears.

He didn't know what he expected. Spencer's golden child, someone who had been hand-picked to be as close to perfect as a human could be, was everything but the right person to be doing this. He had never received comfort. He wasn't supposed to give it. So he stood up, steeled himself, and returned to his side of their tiny dorm room. He didn't acknowledge his roommate for the rest of the night, patiently waiting for his palm-muffled screams to subside to sniffles.

He's in a similar situation now. Wesker only watches as Birkin looks up at him, the telltale lip quiver almost making him groan. The fact that he doesn't is enough to snap him out of the déjà vu, uncomfortably conscious of the change in his own breathing pattern. Where irritation would have picked at him, a bud grows in his chest instead, sucking away all of his energy like a tumor until all he can do in his uselessness is meet Birkin's watery, reddening eyes. The bud blossoms. It shoots through him and into nothing as thorns rake his insides. His face hasn't moved, and he only realizes that his vision has started to blur when Birkin brings a shaking hand to his face, wiping his flinching eyes with a tenderness that almost warrants guilt.

Birkin smiles at him through all of his ugliness, as if Wesker is the one that needs reassurance. Birkin whimpers, shudders, and wipes his face, but his eyes train themselves on Wesker's face as if afraid that he would disappear. "I missed you, Al."

He knows Birkin's fear is justified. Wesker's throat croaks, but he isn't trying to speak. He blinks, and Birkin's calloused hand brushes his cheek a second time, then a third, and then it gets so bad he needs to use both hands.

Despite how badly he wants to share the sentiment, Wesker can't bring himself to respond.