Sovereign

A PRIVATE/SELECTIVE CLAIRE REDFIELD ROLEPLAY. written by claire. originally est oct 2014 ♛ revived aug 2025 previously sovereignxpeace & allwaltend I'm playing my role in history Looking to find my goal Taking in all this misery But giving in all my soul

[sls-60]

One who has survived and adapted from biological disasters she’s a warrior woman with a spine of steel Independent private/selective CLAIRE REDFIELD from バイオハザード 15+ years of RP experience  - open to novella and para roleplay                                   about - guidelines - ask - dossier - canon - verses

[weskher]

I love reading all your posts, so a question! If Albert was aware of Alex, and it seems to be so then (canonly) what was his reaction in RE5 all about when he found out he wasn't the only Wesker (that he had been 'manufactured'? A moment of madness, or another thing that was kept out of the translations?

I just noticed that I hadn’t gotten around to transcribing it, unfortunately - I did my one half asleep! So the ever lovely sovereignxpeace​ has kindly corrected the transcript and has made a much nicer translation as I mucked up transcribing Spencer’s lines - so I will not take any credit for this whatsoever.The amount of effort she puts into the series, the amount of love she has for this series is absolutely peerless, so she will forever have my gratitude for being so actively willing to ensure the truth of the games’ scripts gets conveyed correctly and transparently!Transcript, translation and a couple of notes are below the cut, my curious Anonymous!

[Meta] Spencer’s Demise Flashback

Keep reading

[sls-60]

Ah, hello, this is all still here—how lovely. Honestly unsure if I'll pick up RPing again, I'm very out-of-the-space here these days but I have been itching so so much to write Claire again; I've missed it and her terribly...

i might tweak some things... yeah. That'll be a good start.

[sseizonsha]

five times kissed ~

Disclaimer: this drabble features a lot of triggers. You’ve been warned.

one.

   Physics demands that moving objects remain in motion unless acted upon by an outside force. When he’s not in the thick of everything, it often feels like the sheer force of will alone keeps him going.

   The return flight from Greece makes a long and uneventful thirteen hours, but after the riots and discourse that saw him fetching the Economic Officer from a compromised location, doing absolutely nothing at all beats getting punched in the back by an M84. Turns out a bruised kidney and a number of fractured fingers are actually enough to earn a leave of absence.

  Mister Diplomat exits the plane first, all smiles and PR-worthy waves for the waiting cameras, and Leon steps gingerly out after him as the first of several protective agents in detail. It burns the question to know how the press would’ve played the narrative differently, were it public information that the rescued man pissed himself after a firebomb detonated close enough to ignite his jacket. But Leon’s lips are sealed: a matter-of-fact promise offered to soothe the hysterics out of a stumbling man coming up at twice his weight.

  “You live to fight the good fight another day, Sir. There’s no shame in that.” Pretty words for the sole benefit of a man who’d only ever been caught in the crossfire. Leon holds no truth in them for himself.

   It’s not a sizeable envoy of congratulations and well-wishes that greets him off the tarmac’s edge, but she’s more than a welcome sight. He sees her coming: spots the worry lining her brow and the red denim jacket that’s almost faded to pink in its age, and his pace quickens faster than is probably recommended. Rushing into a reunion hug is a pipedream when his back screams the way it does, but Claire shoulders that burden by meeting him more than halfway. She folds herself into his edges, mindful, and Leon groans in relief as she tugs his backpack from a white-knuckled hand.

   “You’ve gotten scruffy,” she says.

   He flashes a smile laced with aching and shoots back the reminder that ladies love the stubble. He’s gotten too old, too rough around the edges, to keep the boyish charm of a baby face. As for a full-on beard? Well. It’s not for lack of trying. “How do you like it?”

   Claire’s smile twists, unceremoniously flirtatious. “You’re a dreamboat. Who could possibly resist that jawline? Now give me a proper hug so we can get out of here, and maybe I’ll wax poetic on the drive back.”

   It’s an opportunity if he ever got one, and Leon seizes it—hungrily and with both hands. He slides his touch from her wrists and higher: along her bare forearms and up proud shoulders, to both sides of her neck.

   Claire’s hair trickles between his fingers, splashes over his knuckles. Her pulse ticks just this side of wild, and if he could he’d gather the rhythm in his palms and carry the memory of her back to a drab, empty apartment. She feels real. She feels warm. She feels here, welcoming, open—anything but mindless or hostile, and when he tips her head back to lay his mouth against her brow, Leon closes his eyes.

  And he breathes in a lungful of home.

Keep reading

[daniels-gillies]

queen best lyrics: innuendo (innuendo, 1991)

[sseizonsha]

“We owe it to the people who died alongside us. 

We have to continue living.”

[daniels-gillies]

queen best lyrics: mother love (made in heaven, 1995)

[sls-60]

muse body language. bold / italicise what you apply to your muse.

tagged by: the bae @sseizonsha tagging: @glgatha, @vlral, @shcrpshoot, @jiiandie, and anyone else who’d like to do it 

defensiveness.

arms crossed on chest // crossing legs // fist-like gestures // pointing index finger // karate chops // stiffening of shoulders // tense posture // curling of lip // baring of teeth

reflective.

hand-to-face gestures // head tilted //  stroking chin  // peering over glasses // taking glasses off — cleaning // putting earpiece of glasses in mouth // pipe smoker gestures // putting hand to bridge of nose // pursed lips, knitted brows

suspicion.

arms crossed // sideways glance // touching or rubbing nose // rubbing eyes // hands resting on weapon // brows raising // lips pressing into a thin line // strict, unwavering eye contact // wrinkling of nose

openness & cooperation.

open hands // upper body in sprinters position // sitting on edge of chair // hand-to-face gestures // unbuttoned coat // tilted head // slacked shoulders, droopy posture // feet pointed outward // palms flat and facing outward // chin up

confidence.

hands behind back // hands on lapels of coat // steepled hands // baring teeth in a grin //rolling shoulders // tipping head back but maintaining eye contact // chest puffed up/shoulders back // arms folded just above navel

insecurity & anxiety.

chewing pen or pencil // rubbing thumb over opposite thumb // biting fingernails // hands in pockets // elbow bent/closed gestures // clearing throat // “whew” sound // picking or pinching flesh // fidgeting in chair // hand covering mouth whilst speaking // poor eye contact // tugging at pants whilst seated // jingling money in pockets // tugging at ear // perspiring hands // playing with hair // swaying // playing with pointer/marker //smacking lips // sighing // rocking on balls of feet // flexing fingers sporadically

frustration.

short breaths // “tsk” sounds // tightly-clenched hands // fist-like gestures // pointing index finger // rubbing hand through hair // rubbing back of neck // snarling // revealing teeth/grimacing // sharp-eyed glowers w/ notable tension in brow // shoulders back, head up — defensive posturing // clenching of jaw/grinding teeth // nostrils flaring//heavy exhales

[sls-60]

DAEMONIUM:

   it  was  a  precarious  situation.  william  had  no  love  for  the  government  –  only  his  hatred  of  umbrella  had  been  burning,  and  his  fear  of  loss  was  potent  and  motivating.  they  were  going  to  perfect  the  virus  and  sell  the  compound,  they  were  going  to  make  everyone  healthy  and  perfected  and  use  the  proceeds  to  escape  the  trappings  of  their  betters.  him,  and  annette,  and  sherry,  all  inspired  by  albert,  all  thanks  to  his  bravery,  his  strength.  

   only,  it  hadn’t  gone  like  that.  only,  he  could  not  bear  the  idea  of  dying  cold  and  aching  and  never  seeing  sherry’s  face  again.  he  had  begged.  hhheLP  MEE!  what  could  do  they  do  but  funnel  bullets?  and  that  had  not  been  enough.  golgotha  made  him  monstrous.  william’s  teeth  ache  in  their  gums.  

   at  their  worst,  the  US  government  could  be  no  better  than  umbrella.  he  exhales  his  exasperation,  swallowing  the  rancorous  response  stirring  in  his  throat.  the  girl  was  hardly  a  woman  herself,  not  much  older  than  sherry,  in  the  end.  he  had  to  remember  that.  

‘  if  they  have  her,  they’re  going  to  test  her.  ‘  he  says,  plainly,  bluntly.  william  would  never  do  to  sherry  what  anyone  else  would,  but  if  she  were  someone  else’s  daughter,  if  it  were  lisa  —-

   william  presses  his  fingers  into  the  bridge  of  his  nose  and  soothes  a  budding  headache  with  the  tips.  ‘  i  never  wanted  any  of  this.  i  don’t  expect  or  want  sympathy,  but  i  do  want  you  to  know  that.  sherry  is  ..  the  light  of  my  life.  i  haven’t  been  around  enough  for  her  lately.  but  everything  i  did  ..  it  was  so  we  could  be  free  of  them,  so  she  could  be  safe.  i   ….  know  someone  who  might  be  able  to  help.  ‘

"They wouldn’t,” she gasped. 

A part of her wished that his words held no merit toward the subject at hand, except she knew he was right. The thought of Sherry being a test subject made something twist inside her awfully, ravaging at her core and drawing the air from her lungs in a shaken, terrified rush. It wasn’t a thought she’d considered — 

Would they be so brazen to do such a thing under the proviso of duty of care? 

Claire unconsciously grasped for the pendant resting against her sternum, fingers nervously tracing the shape of the feathers as she watched the pure anguish eat at the man before her, his words laced with a bone-deep pain that she could feel oozing off of him in waves. She was tactile in such situations. Comforting glances of fingers on shoulders, or like when she’d clung to Annette’s bloodied hand, her strong reassurance borne from a genuine desire to see all ills of the world rightened; yet hesitance stilled her from it with William. Memories of G still so fresh and still healing, a horror forever etched in her mind. 

Fear would only hold things back. 

Fire sparked at the thought of seeing Sherry and her family united again, Annette’s words still all too close to her heart for the genuine gratitude she had of Claire keeping her daughter safe. 

Claire met his gaze, pushing through the mental visage of viscera and claws to extend her hand to him. 

“If there’s anything — anything I can do, if it’s tracking down this contact or helping get you places to make this work, I’ll do it.” 

Sure, possibly committing a federal offence was not exactly on her bucket list, and Chris would kill her (if) he found out, but higher powers be damned she’d make someone’s life hell to get Sherry back. 

[itisntapityparty]

send me five times kissed for a drabble about five times our muses kissed

[sls-60]

A small piece of me still believed in hope. However minute or unattainable hope seemed, I wanted the childlike wonder. “I want you to love me. I need someone who needs me. But most of all, I know you understand me, and I crave that bond so much that when I’m with you, it’s all I feel. It consumes me. Fires me. Eats at my fine tuned control until there is nothing left of me, but the feel of you in my bones.

E.R. Pierce

[thenatsdorf]

“Are you okay in all that water?” (via oridisia_cats)

[red-wyvern-deactivated20190517]

I’m in tears

[sls-60]

HEROS‌:

    After an initial call to touch base, Claire reached his place in record time—quick enough for him to figure that she’d already been in area when she got the news. He could only venture to guess what important business she’d been dragged away from just to play glorified babysitter. 

   “Who actually reads the fine print on those things?” A wane smile stretched across his face. If there was one thing no one ever accused him of, it was failing to make an attempt at shitty quips when opportunity presented itself. Not that Claire’d be convinced to just wash her hands of the topic at hand. Leon didn’t pretend she would. Trying to hide much of anything from her ended with the same success rate as smothering open flames with a bag of flour. 

   The couch dipped as it bore her weight with his. That was the difference between her and others. She didn’t need him to reconstruct a caricature of when and how things happened. She didn’t need him to itemize fear and relief and guilt by the size or the severity or the frequency of it—because the truth was? None those feelings ever really went away. They only flared and receded at undetermined intervals, and the best solution he had at his disposal was taking a knife to the root and dissecting it before it got big enough to burst.

    “Finding the good in something shouldn’t be this hard. Not for us.”

    Claire never asked him to explain why walking across glass posed as much danger as stepping over water-logged bodies. Or to count how many times he’s burned himself in the shower over the years, trying to scrub off the stink of a city’s toilet. She never asked because she didn’t have to.

    Her shoulder brushed against his own then stayed there, the feeling light but solid. Leon’s head dipped, and he pressed the heel of his palm against damp eyelashes. Here was better than nowhere. Alive was better than dead, fighting was better than eating your own bullet. It’s what his counsellor reminded him during every session, in every text. Raccoon City didn’t exist anymore. Neither did Tall Oaks. Or Jack Krauser. Or Derek Simmons. Fire, and rain, and a lot of gunpowder made sure of that.

   Claire didn’t need to ask because she knew. All of it. And she made the weight of it look so goddamn easy to cary. “I don’t know how you do it, and I envy you.” 

  The problem about surviving a catastrophe wasn’t learning to live with the trauma—

   It was learning to live without it.

He wasn’t the only one to have said as much of her own calibre, and he’d likely never be the last. Claire could count two distinctly blackened points of her life, where the misery of tragedy was so all-consuming, all-knowing, it would manifest itself before her even in her waking hours. The literal monsters were easier to deal with those times — likened to something from a horror film with over the top macabre and grotesque gore. 

It was the people in those situations that had left the bigger impact and had made her more than once consider wrapping her lips around the muzzle of a gun, even with the knowledge that doing something like that would lead to even worse outcomes (these days with her blood no longer merely human.)  

Her smile was soft, thin; not disingenuous but borne from mutual understanding of how he could come to that conclusion — it was his regret and grief talking. 

“Sometimes I don’t have a choice.”

Atlas had to support the world all alone until it was safe enough; they had to carry others out of the fire before they were allowed to crumple. Sometimes the trauma felt safer, a familiarity that was a dangerous dance, but it wasn’t healthy in every sense of the word. Physically. Mentally. 

A body could only survive on adrenaline and cortisol for a few days before it started to kill itself. 

“It makes it easier sometimes,” she said, an addendum to her prior remark. “We get used to just living when others can’t fathom moving. It’s like getting back on a bike after a while, even if that second nature isn’t always the best for us.”

[sls-60]

sls-60‌:

BOLD any fears which apply to your muse. Italicize what makes them uncomfortable.                                                          Please repost, don’t reblog.

the dark*. fire. open water. deep water. being alone. crowded spaces. confined spaces. change*. failure. war. loss of control. powerlessness. prison. blood. drowning. suffocation. public speaking. natural animals. the supernatural. heights. death. dying. intimacy. rejection. abandonment. loss. the unknown. the future. not being good enough*. scary stories. speaking to new people. poverty. loud noises. being touched**.

* Indicates fears were held in the past, but are no longer feared in the present day. ** Indicates fears completely removed when in the right company.

tagged by:  @weskher tagging: anyone who’d like to do this! (You don’t need to do this if you don’t feel like it!)

[sls-60]

Heyyy so prepare for stan. I always admire people who show in-depth dedication and devotion to their passions, and beyond the contributions you’ve provided to fandom? Your writing is beautiful—simple but packing a punch. Claire’s characterization is lively and scarred and persevering. She is soft. She’s strong in ways that don’t easily waver, and she isn’t afraid to seek support when they do. Your girl is so clever and beautiful and I’m here to love and stan for a v long time.

— !! thank you so much for this! ;w; Im glad my writing holds up; I struggle with brain fog 99% of the time from a myriad of things, so I don’t prose as uniquely as some but still push for clear intent so I’m really glad it comes across. 

It’s been really exciting writing Claire again, she’s a character incredibly close to my heart and has been for 21 years, and exploring the intricacies of a character who seems to hold her own and adapt to her trauma better than most (as far as we see in the series, what’s between the lines is different) while also taking the least offensive road to victory against bioterror. 

[raysmemehoard]

Tell me what you enjoy about how I portray my character

[sls-60]

🛌 take a nap with yours

Leon’d asked no questions when she turned up at his place at two in the morning. 

He looked as if he was staring at her ghost — she’d only recently been found and returned to US soil, and a part of her reasoned that he possibly hadn’t been given the news yet. Her eyes were rimmed red, fatigue etched in every limb from an impromptu four hour drive to get to DC, and she barely had to whimper his name before his gentle hands, tactile and real, delicately coiled around her elbows to coax her inside before she broke. 

He’d said she was stronger than him — that she could carry the weight of trauma so much better than he could, had admired her calm when they’d reflected on Hardvardville when all had been said and done.

But lately she couldn’t hold up those walls anymore, despite every part of her inner spark doing its damndest to fuel the furnace. Sometimes the trauma endured and the lives lost along the way came to her. Her well was dry, no more tears to give, but she shuddered despite it — scared to lose another of her closest thanks to her nightmares chasing every waking hour. 

Sometimes the rescuer needed saving. 

“I’ve got you.”

His voice was low, a gentle rumble beneath her ear as she hid her face against his chest, vaguely aware he’d careened her toward the couch where they’d folded in on one another; her fingers anchored tightly to his shirt as if letting go would have him disappear while he cocooned her with his limbs as if to shield her. It wasn’t the first time such physical contact brought relief from their own respective inner demons, and it was likely never going to be the last; they shared a bond few others had. 

He was warm. Alive. 

She, too, was alive — despite it all and for how she’d not succumbed to the whorls of the sea.

Time was stagnant in that moment, Claire only aware of the solid thump of Leon’s heartbeat, the security of his arms, and his fingers gently tracing circles against her spine. For the first time in days she could breathe and the air didn’t smell tinged with blood or tasting of salt, and the relief of it somehow managed to draw blood from the stone as she wept once more. 

For her team, her friends. For Moira. 

As the tears subsided Claire weakly drew up as far as she dared for a moment, scrubbing a hand roughly over her face as she felt her grief ebb into fatigue. Leon grasped at her wrist to stop her from being too harsh on herself, his eyes transfixed on the mottled bruises still painted on her flesh from where the bracelet had been, a darkness — a protectiveness — reflected on his features through the low light of the room as it lined the edge of his face.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, following his gaze as it moved to her eyes once more, a shaken breath drawn through her lips. “I should’ve called — I didn’t know where to go.”

He shook his head. “Open door policy,” he said, releasing her wrist so he could tuck some of her hair behind her ear, thumb grazing her cheek. “Anytime. Thought you knew that already.”

She made a faint sound of acknowledgement in the back of her throat, tiredly leaning into his touch as her eyes slipped closed. The more her body unwound from the stress of trauma the more leaden her entire being felt despite fight or flight still trying to domineer her very core. She wormed one arm between his torso and the couch, her head sinking against his chest once more as he smoothed his fingers through her hair. 

She hadn’t slept in days, her nightmares often keeping her up and her gun not being enough of a security blanket nestled beneath her pillow, but there she felt the safest she had in days.

Though she knew the answer was yes she still tiredly slurred: “Can I sleep here with you tonight?”

Leon squeezed her gently in his grasp, wordless acknowledgement that brought about a sense of peace. Sleep soon came, the staccato of his steady heartbeat as he too let himself be pulled under rending a pitch black dreamscape, free from the horrors of the island, free from sorrow or pain.