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@drearyknight
independent and private multimuse horror blog! including muses from resident evil, silent hill, interview with the vampire, dc and more !! written by 𝚔𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. psd and icon border by faegfx. CARRD.
♞ affiliates: @squarecranks // @antiibow // @sseizonsha
Welcome to my cage, little lover Attempt to rearrange with you, baby Still don’t know your name, Miss Honey Let’s go up in flames, pretty lady
𝙰𝚕𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚝 & 𝙴𝚟𝚎 𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 @salaciouscript
But you know that she's watching She's laughing, she's turning She's holding her tonic like a crux The room's suddenly spinning She walks up and asks how you are So you can smell her perfume You can see her lying naked in your arms.
𝚊𝚎𝚘𝚗 𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 @sseizonsha
I actually lied about never getting jealous, I hope everyone who looks at you gets into a horrible accident
which musical theatre crashout song are you? ALL YOU WANNA DO - SIX
He says we have a 'connection'... / I thought this time was different, why did I think he'd be different?! / But it's never, EVER different, no! You don't realize you've fallen into the same old routine until it's too late. From a young age, you've been forced to play a role you never wanted to. You've told yourself too long that this is normal, that this is okay, that it takes suffering to achieve sainthood. But you can never ignore the phantoms of hands on you, can never ignore imagined whispers in your ear. You're different, they all proclaim. Your breakdown is palatable and poppy until it is not, and through it all, you find yourself asking one simple question: when will enough be enough? How much of yourself do you have to give for this?
tagged by: @anthologicals [ THANK! <3 ] tagging. YOU. reading this.
I bet on losing dogs I know they're losing, and I'll pay for my place by the ring Where I'll be looking in their eyes when they're down I'll be there on their side I'm losing by their side.
𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚠𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 @salaciouscript //
though she considers him, carmilla tilts her eyes back down to the contents rotating beneath the transparent lid, her pondering only announced by a soft hum. to be too enthusiastic by his offer, she felt would be unbecoming; give too much power to a man (despite his acclaim), and his ego would become an unappealing obstacle. after all, she'd yet to have her enjoyment of him before the enchantment fizzled...if it were so destined.
hardly a romantic, her expectations of whatever her workplace infatuation--however mild--only remained high regarding both pleasure and experience. whether it was temporary or became further ingrained into what semblance of friendship they already shared, was inconsequential factor. she would explore every probability with albert if they found it to their mutual liking.
this at least, was entirely so; the interest that flickered between the two of them, she'd yet to see replicated quite in this fashion among their other peers. he'd taken to teasing william every now and then, just to see a knowing and amused curl of her mouth. albert displayed an attentiveness to her input alongside a confidence in her performance, that in others remained nearly non-existent-- he was even perhaps curt and disengaged. all small things sure enough, but all of value.
❝ if i were to say yes, where would you take me ? ❞
aside from on this countertop.
there are many favorable qualities to a natural beauty such as hers. he has catalogued each of them, one by one, archived in the grooves of his brain to recall any time he likes. her soft, delicate lips, generous with flesh set slightly open like crocuses in the early spring, blooming into a blushing smile whenever she looks toward him. the smooth space between her collarbone and jawline that would take precisely four kisses to reach her mouth, or three to reach her breasts peaking out of her top—as if modesty could ever hide what his imagination can paint with a mere sweep of his eyes.
while albert wesker may be a man of science, he is also a man who ponders, at different intervals, what intimacy would feel like if it were acted upon. how it feels to be stripped of all the formalities, the layers that separate restraint from primal urges. he has built his entire form of self around the comfortable certainty that desire, like ambition, like fury, can be directed—pointed at something useful and spent there. she has become, inconveniently, the exception to this. he finds himself returning to her the way a tongue finds a sore tooth—rooting around for just a moment of relief. it never truly solves anything, but the feeling is worth revisiting if only to remember how it feels to numb the pain, even if it’s temporary.
‘you are a most welcoming distraction.’
he locks his eyes on hers, studying the boundless flecks of black and brown in her irises. a universe of amber he intends, eventually to possess, completely.
❝ there is grill 13 to consider, but i much prefer the comfort of a home cooked meal. ❞ closing what little distance they had, he reaches out to brush a strand of hair away from her face. it’s been bothering him since morning, obstructing his view of nature’s greatest gift to man.
woman.
❝ my place. seared salmon with roasted golden beets. it shouldn’t take more than an hour. ❞ he states, with the confidence of a man who owns the world, and is the only one who knows it. ❝ so, what will it be doctor mortada? subpar food from grill 13, or one of your favorites from yours truly? i’ll let you decide. ❞
omg guys so i just datamined requiem and look at what i found in the library of the rpd station. spoilers below
Requiem analysis under the cut. DO NOT READ if you’re trying to avoid spoilers, even though I’m merely hypothesizing, I don’t want any of you coming after me in case I’m right.
In Greek mythology, Elpis is the goddess of hope, often depicted as a young woman with flowers or a cornucopia, remaining in Pandora's jar after evils were released to comfort humanity.
I’m going to breakdown how, and why I think “Hope” is going to be turned on its head and weaponized in Requiem.
Gideon’s core belief is that hope is what keeps humanity docile, waiting for rescue, cures, heroes, governments, etc. He believes his predecessors failed because they stripped this idea away from humanity entirely, accelerating their own downfall by revealing their hand too soon. Like a game of Plague Inc, it’s better to start small, go slow, and have a calm population.
A hopeful population to destroy without having to do much at all.
Elpis is Gideon’s challenge to humanity as a whole. It is optimized for prolonged survival, is socially integrated, capable of communication—mirroring movements and behaviors from pre-infection even when the host is too far gone.
This creates a false sense of hope that Elpis can be cured, that the side effects can be reversed, somehow—which only delays the inevitable. I’ve noted from the trailers that the infection is even marked by nonlinear symptom expression such as:
- Periods of stabilization
- Partial Immune response
- What appears to be temporary effectiveness from healing items ( infected blood )
These cycles create the illusion of medical progress without true recovery. The subject may feel better, but the virus is still there—dormant even, until something triggers it again.
From a virological standpoint, this suggests:
- Adaptive suppression of host immune overreaction ( Side effects wax and wane—consciousness and lucidity come and go. )
- Viral dormancy phases triggered by stress or intervention ( prolonging their life and the potential to spread the virus further )
- Possible epigenetic manipulation rather than pure cellular destruction ( Meaning more stable mutations compared to previous viruses )
Thus “hope” becomes statistically justified even among scientists, but false and premature, and that’s where the name of this title comes into play.
Requiem. Which means to honor the dead. From what I’ve seen of the trailers and Grace’s story, this will be in honor of Alyssa Ashcroft, but it will also be the end of an era for Resident Evil.
Our legacy characters are reaching their limits, and from what I can tell, Capcom likely wants a fresh start. How do they do that? End storylines, one way or another, beginning with Leon.
Do I think Leon is going to die? Eh, I’m 50/50 on it ( plot armor too thic baby ). I believe he’ll find a cure ( or the virus will be too weak to survive in his body, or **insert numerous reasons for not killing him here, including the fact he is the cash cow of the series** ), but I do think they’re going to toy with his mortality a bit.
They’ll likely scare the fans shitless and make us think he did bite the bullet—all while dangling Hope above our heads—waffling between “he’s safe” and “haha jk” until the credits roll and we realize who Requiem was really for. Not just Alyssa, but multiple storylines, characters, and the series as we’ve known it.
Serrawong save me serrawong
@salaciouscript
from luis @salaciouscript
❛ oye,❜ luis' request for ada's attention was soft and undemanding, but his touch was bold. one of his rough hands had pressed its fingertips lightly along the underside of her arm, raised it gently and trailed along its length until their digits linked. he maintained a grip that was devoted, but relaxed and far from stifling. if ada slipped through his fingers like silk tonight, he wouldn't mind. he'd just take the threads to bed and weave up a new plan come next morning. for the time being, she seemed generous enough to humor him and it conjured a smile as he pulled her further among the leafy fronds of red, yellow and green herbs beneath the moonlight.
night rain pattered softly against the glass roofing of the greenhouse, the wet slick structure giving off an almost ethereal silvery, glow against the streams of moonbeams that filtered out from the dark cloud cover. as he brought them to a halt within the curated gardens center, he brought her knuckles to his mouth to press a lingering kiss against the warm of her skin.
❛ you didn't have to come--but you're here. i know, i know, it's late.❜ he muttered it as though she'd expected an apology, but there remained something of mirth in both his quiet words and the look in his eye. ❛ but... you've been working so hard, so i was thinking you deserved..." he didn't dare use the word 'reward', for that certainly wasn't his place. ❛ compensation. so, i brought you something that reminded me of you. ❜
without another word luis reached into the breast pocket of his new leather coat, the material creasing with the movement, and retrieved a cylinder-shaped glass canister. inside fluttered a butterfly, lazy and beautiful. its wings red in colour were luminescent like firefly.
❛ before you say anything--no, no viruses. the butterfly is artificial, and i might have thrown in some lampyridae dna here and there, but! she's yours. and so is this greenhouse. if you want it. ❜ he held out his gift to her before seemingly thinking better of it, and pressed the container into her palm instead. he'd learned his lesson a thousand times over, years ago, the point driven home by a knife in his back.
but he'd play god a thousand times more if it was for her.
One four-letter word can mark the beginning of the end. It can slow time, it can strain and yearn and ache all at once like an illness, and stop the very organ responsible for such an abysmal, dangerous chemical.
Ada never cared much for love. She liked the idea of it. She’d toy with it—she’d bat a man’s open, bleeding heart around to get what she wanted, but she never caught the bug herself.
That is, not until recently. She isn’t sure when the spark ignited, exactly. Somewhere between their brushes with death and their bodies moving in sync beyond just silly flamenco—the chemical burst to life and lodged itself into her chest, unwelcome and overwhelming. More terrifying than any bioweapon she’s ever faced.
Love. What a cruel and unusual punishment for a seasoned spy who never needed such a thing to hold her down.
Ada takes the canister from his hand with measured care, like it might explode if she moves too fast. Her breath lifts and stills in her chest. It’s the same disciplined pause she keeps for scopes and safeties—for moments when the world narrows to a single point until she squeezes the trigger, and target blooms into gorgeous spatters of red mist in the air.
It feels strange to spend that precision on something so delicate, but beneath her cool exterior, there is a human behind the agent. There always has been.
The glass still feels warm from his touch. She turns it once, watching the red glow inside shift and breathe, a quiet heartbeat sealed away. Trapped inside a glass cage.
She leans closer, until her breath ghosts against the surface of the glass and fogs it faintly. Ada speaks softly then, instinctive and quiet, her words meant for small, secret things.
“ Be free, my pretty. ”
The seal loosens with a muted click, and she carefully tips the canister as the butterfly slips out smoothly and unafraid, like it’s been waiting for this exact cue. Its wings catch the greenhouse light, red flaring like a struck match before it flutters toward the entrance. It settles among the dahlias he planted there, heavy blooms and dark leaves cradling the glow, welcoming its arrival with open petals, inviting the creature to do what it instinctively knows. Pollinate.
Only then does she turn back to him.
Ada looks at Luis the same way she studies body language and faces, committing angles and intentions to memory. Seven years should have taught him that this look is trust, stripped of ornament and masks and any walls she had up before.
She steps into his space, hands resting lightly against his coat, feeling the solid proof of him there. Leaning in, she kisses him, unhurried and certain, she savors his lips, his taste, his familiar smell. She tells him with her eyes and her body what her mouth cannot form.
The four letter word that has bound their hearts together, until one of them stops beating.
“ You’ve truly outdone yourself this time, Luis. ” She says, voice quiet as a kept secret. " What would I ever do without you? It's beautiful. "
Her thumb brushes his knuckles once, a brief, anchoring touch, before her gaze travels back to the doorway. The butterfly rests among the dahlias, glowing softly, its wings folded—content in its freedom.
A creation born of love itself.
// @salaciouscript
"I'll run a bath for you." (From this meme.)
the drain gulps a vortex of pink bathwater, erasing what it can down rusty water pipes, residue clinging to ivory enamel like an embittered foe, slick and stubborn, digging in as if it might claw its way back from hell. ada sweeps a finger across the smooth surface of the tub, sighing when she finds it covered in soapy gloom, alleyway soot and dried sweat.
she leans back, allowing her naked, wet frame to air-dry in his presence. thin cuts, shallow scrapes—a constellation of damage that tells the story better than she ever would.
almost all of it, anyway.
it’s the eyes that conceal the most—the kind that don’t reflect light so much as they absorb it unknowingly. like him. like his light, and his willingness to share it with the world without blinking.
she wonders, briefly, how much is even left to give.
‘oh, leon. you’ll die before you ever put yourself first.’
ada watches him again with that same, wondrous stare she’s always held so well. a look that’s pulled more men under than the tide. a lure of danger wrapped in patience and sweet nothings and remarkable persuasion.
but tonight, she isn’t fishing. she never was with leon.
she watches what surfaces when the walls come down. when exhaustion peels him open to her listening ears. when titles are forgotten for a few stolen hours and their warmth is only thing either of them still believe in.
ada tilts her head, considering the tub, the residue, the water still gurgling its way through the pipes like a death rattle that won’t quite fade.
“ looks like you’ll need to run another, because one wasn’t enough. “ she turns to him, lacing her fingers in between his, as if her very bones were the missing puzzle piece to his lonesomeness all along. " —and get in. i'll make sure to scrub behind your ears. you need it. "
@sseizonsha // ANSWERED.
❝ good.❞ the crease marks on his forehead alleviate when he smiles at her answer, cerulean orbs catching the aluminum stick she'd offered, fingers snatching with ease. hadn't had this in a while.
he veers his attention off in that same moment, dipping to the swirling, cloudless pomelo sky and the expansive sparkling of the ocean wide that matched the colour of her eyes– all going back to her again, a woman uncharted, imprisoned on a watery shore. he wonders what that must have been like for her.
❝ can't get a view like this back home. ❞ his voice cuts through that ominous stream of consciousness with a much wider grin, palm casual at the groove of his hip. ❝ figured we could share it together. . . maybe get to know the famous jill valentine instead of just hearing about her. ❞
a soft laugh slips out before she reins it in, tilting her chin toward him with a slow, amused lift of her brow. famous. she would call herself “unlucky” instead, but she lets his wording stand in the brief silence that settles between them. her smile lingers as she shakes her head—body spelling out the words that never leave her mouth.
‘the less people know about me, the better.’
“ the same could be said for you. i’ve heard plenty through the grapevine. some good, ” eyes narrow with a spark of playfulness in them as she continues. “ some just rumors, i’m sure. ”
the atmosphere shifts around her without warning, memory stirring in places she never opened, betrayal rushing through like a broken dam in the grooves of her brain. she’s back in that cold, mirrored void where wesker’s will smothered her own, trapped inside a body that was robbed from her. she hears the silent scream caught behind unmoving lips, feels the ragged scrape of her nails against walls no one could see, the slow bleed of her identity pouring into something hollow, something devoid of who she was—like putty in his hands, wesker molded her into the perfect weapon.
commands coil around in memory, rooting around once again without her permission—moving her limbs, her hands, her fingertips—a machiavellian with the strings to control her every move with just the touch of a button…
even in death, he finds a way to remind her that his hold has not vanished. it lingers in the corners of her mind, faint but undeniable. it’s there.
with a blink the ocean rises around her once again, ebbing and flowing, violent and beautiful as it breaks against stone and concrete. jill draws a breath and lets the moment drain from her body in a shake of her hands.
‘let go. unclench your jaw. unfurl your fingers. breathe. you are safe.’
“ anyway, ” she speaks again, voice lighter like the wind gently flowing through their hair, idle hands finding comfort in the warm, tight solitude of her pockets. “ maybe i’ll hear the true story now that i have access to the man himself. ” her smile this time is earnest, a gentle challenge glinting in her gaze as it slowly shifts to the chopper overhead.
“ how does tomorrow morning sound? or are you more of an afternoon person? ”
JILL VALENTINE HEADCANON 001. she used to smoke a pack a week, convincing herself that because she didn't smoke as much as the boys, it wasn't a bad habit. she could quit anytime she'd like, but she didn't. not until the fall of umbrella, their first false hope. she ditched the cigarettes and started chewing nicotine gum. something to pass the time and keep the withdrawals at bay. the nicotine later turned into plain old, spearmint gum. wrigley's brand. she'll accept nothing else. no other brand, no other flavor. just wrigley's spearmint. a taste of nostalgia—when life wasn't necessarily perfect, but it was simpler. more doable, and more tolerable than it is now.
❝ hey– valentine! ❞ though the use of surnames wasn't quite his style, it was his best shot at grabbing the woman's attention while the helicopter whirls ahead. hopefully.
a faint rasp to each inhale, lifting a gloved hand as if to speak, then drops it with a half-exasperated, half-impressed huff, still trying to steady his breathing. thank god he'd caught @drearyknight just in time.
❝ not leaving the city any time soon, are you? ❞
“ i wasn’t planning on it. “ the rotors almost drown her out when she replies, voice smooth and inviting over the incessant noise. lips curve a little, soft at the edges as she locks eyes with him for a moment. jill wipes her hands on her jeans, slips them into her pockets, and pulls out a pack of gum. spearmint.
“ wrigleys? " she offers, tapping the tip of the pack on her palm out of habit. an old one. one that's been dead for over twenty years now, but the muscle memory is still alive and anxious... " you're in luck. there are only two sticks left. don't tell the others, they might get jealous. ” her gaze drifts to the horizon. a restless sweep of blue rolling onto shore. even from here the thought of the sea touching her skin makes her recoil. too many memories buried in the deep. zombies. persistent bioweapons. dylan.
none of it compares to the three years she survived under wesker’s control. mentally, emotionally, and physically—a part of her is still stuck in kijuju resisting his voice. his commands.
and she curses herself, quietly, for all of the times she relented.
three thousand, one hundred and fifty four miles. that’s the distance that’ll stretch between them once he’s back home, worries in tow like the checked baggage at his feet, much too heavy for carry-on. he’ll likely drag it with him to the next crisis, and the next, until he collapses under the weight of his own guilt—a glutton for punishment, or perhaps too hopeful for a better world.
one worth living in.
“ same goes for you, partner. “ his stubble gently grazes her forehead as he pulls away, boyish grin tugging at his lips, attempting to chase the tension from her face.
“ don’t be a stranger, and remember, the phone works both ways. “ chris slings his duffle bag over his shoulder, scuffed to hell, seams nearly splitting at the handle. it clings to him like a second skin.
it’s seen better days. they both have.
without another word, he turns on his heel and heads toward the plane. the tarmac stretches before him. he wants to look back, wave goodbye, but he chooses to keep moving instead.
‘three thousand, one hundred and fifty four miles.’
they say leaving is the hardest part, but chris knows better. it’s the remembering that wrecks you—the reality of what they’ve been through, the imprint she’s made, her softness, her voice rich as the morning sun setting on the horizon.
that won’t hit him until he unlocks his front door, drops his bags, and lets her absence consume him.
@antiibow // CONTINUED FROM X.
the grin painted small at the curves stretched impossibly wide in the second breath, lips twitching as she struggled not to burst into laughter and blurt the punchline all at once as her knuckles feel her significant other's soft caress.
the jitter in her voice upcoming wasn’t just from the jest perhaps, no, but from the extra caffeine she’d downed that morning, her own self-inflicted punishment for staying up far too late the previous night. who's fault was it? well. . .
❝ ice cream. ❞ she coo's smooth in a ghost-like whisper at the ear, that look in her eyes familiar and brazen.
a sly grin unfurls at the edges of her lips, slow and innate, like the well-worn fold of a favorite book—pages softened by years of touch, every crease like a chapter with dog ears and notes scribbled inside. reopened regularly, fondness spread deep within line.
her eyes gleam just as they did they day she met claire—with permissible mischief. quiet, though not as obvious, she is fully capable of holding her own in the court of jesters.
“ice cream who?” she knows where this is going, she knows this game as well as she knows the curve of claire’s hand in hers. still, her tone is covered in feigned curiosity, a chuckle stifled as she collects herself.
rebecca swivels in her chair, petite frame rising just to the top of her wife’s shoulders, her nose twitches in mild vexation. It’s no one's fault she can barely reach the top of a fridge, or climb into her jeep without using the running board…
‘redfields. more like gentle nephilims who’ve lost their way…’ when their gazes finally lock, exhaustion clings to them both. she can’t decide who looks worse for wear, but she does know one thing—a vacation is long overdue.
or maybe even retirement…as if that will ever happen.
