#valourbound

[pathoscleaved]

a surprise for @valour-bound ↳ aesthetic for chris, post re8

[marymycete]

i thought things would be different .

↪     ᵗʰᵉ 𝑫𝑼𝑺𝑻𝒀 𝑻𝑶𝒀𝑩𝑶𝑿 .    (  a  collection  of  various unsorted sentence starters .  adjust  phrasing  as  necessary .   no longer updating .  )

✦ — "I know,"

Pale ( too pale, inhumanly so — a bit of herself, slipping ) hues flicker up towards the man, the ghost of a smile slipping across her features ; small, hardly there, yet it's far from something gentle despite her intention to alleviate some of his worry. She looks tired. Almost rueful.

Rose isn't angry with Chris — she couldn't possibly be, not when he could have passed her into the care of someone else, wiped his hands clean of her with only brief check - ins to ensure she was looked after to ease his conscience and assure himself that the promise he made was kept. Instead, he's been a constant presence in her life, pushing to ensure she was able to live as close to normal as possible for her under the watchful eye of the BSAA.

( she still remembers how excited she had been when she was finally able to go to a real school, how happy it made her, how thankful she was ).

She can't imagine this is how he had wanted her to grow up. Nor does she think it's what her father had wanted for her, nor her mother. But there are lines that cannot be crossed, boundaries that must be acted between. Before she was a person, a teenage girl, Rosemary was first and foremost classified as a specimen ; a threat, something that required constant surveillance lest she step out of line. Her powers were too strong, too unpredictable, with too much potential to go horribly wrong. It seemed that danger was all most agents saw when they looked at her.

It's made her small. Unassuming and quiet, dulled her spirit so that she doesn't draw attention to herself, doesn't make anyone question whether she deserves the little bits of normalcy she's allowed. Only in small moments, with Chris, with the Hound Wolf Squad ( and before, with her mother ) where she starts to come alive, just a little.

"Don't .... I dunno, beat yourself up over it, or anything. It's not your fault. I know you do what you can — and hey, I'd probably be a lot worse off if it weren't thanks to you. Plus," ( she shrugs, and takes a deep breath ). "I had the opportunity to get rid of my powers, and I didn't take it. I could've been normal. So it's my choice, now."

[rcsetorn]

a little sketchy sketch of Chris for @valour-bound

[sadistpet]

♡ I’m v curious teehee 🙏

what does raikov think of you (brutally honest)

●●●●● | ATTRACTION ●●●○○ | AFFECTION ●●●●● | INTEREST ●○○○○ | LOYALTY ●○○○○ | TRUST

[virulentmastermind-moved]

@valour-bound sent:

“You know… you kind of remind me of one of those secret agent guys from those old spy movies.” It’s an absentminded thought, one that spills out carelessly as he picks at his greasy lunch. Technically, they weren’t on the clock right now, so the sharpshooter figures even if the ‘observation’ is unwarranted or out of line to offer, he can get away with it here. With a slight upturn of his lips, he finishes off the fries held between his fingertips, peering curiously back at his ever mysterious captain.

𝐀𝐋𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐓 𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐘 𝐔𝐍𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐒 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐔𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐒 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑 𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐌𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐍𝐀𝐏𝐊𝐈𝐍, 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐀𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐂 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐊𝐍𝐄𝐄. The silver glints in the light as he places the utensils onto a paper towel he took from the break room's vast quantity of paper products.

Wesker finally fishes out a plastic container and a glass one - he'd prepared some London broil and a nice, varied salad to bring with him for lunch. The broil is pink in the middle, absolutely dripping with the meat's viscous, red juices, and on the outside, it is a perfect brown that is dull but rich to the eyes. Seasoned so it emphasizes the earthy flavor of the meat. It would help with iron intake, eating the meat like this, and it satisfies some deep-seated urge within him to eat something so messy with such care. Practiced and well-mannered in how his wrists draw together with the silver tools, he carves into his broil like an experienced hunter guts a deer carcass, careful to not spoil the meat. Smooth, efficient, making sure that his movements are methodical.

The salad sits to his right, lovingly tossed with some homemade Thousand Island dressing. The lettuce and romaine are swatches of green and purple against the tan, speckled sauce. A light sprinkle of Colby Jack cheese and bacon bits tops it all off.

Being a spy for all of his time within the Army, Wesker had taken to preparing his food all on his own, not trusting others to do so, and he'd settled into a routine of providing the best for himself. He'd done well for himself, despite being an orphan.

His glasses rest to the right of his napkin, folded in on themselves. Almost an admission of removing the carefully crafted facade to actually sit down and just spend this lunch being less reserved.

Oceans of icy blue suddenly settle when Chris speaks, and one blond brow lifts at the comment. It is not often that he spends time eating with others, typically preferring to eat in the comfort of his office, alone, but Chris, lately, had been drawing him out of his shell. And it is even less often that Redfield speaks so... candidly.

For once, a glimmer of his Army Days pops in, when he'd been struggling after finding that William had replaced him with another, a romantic other, to make matters worse, and Albert had decided to enlist as an engineering officer. And when he'd been able to train as a sniper, he did so. He had been so cocky back then, always ready to quip and rub it in that he was God's gift to the world - that it must be so strange, now, for Chris to see him so different.

"Wesker, Albert Wesker," he quips, smirk curling his lips up, and then he cuts a piece off his steak for the other to try. The mastermind takes out an extra crimson napkin and puts it on the table in front of Chris, then places the London broil piece down for the sharpshooter to take.

"Taste," he orders, sharing the pleasure of his cooking like Chris so freely offers his company, "I made it." The other's comment doesn't raise doubts in his mind - though he reveals a more true self to Chris, his motivations remain obscure. Jill, on the other hand...

The sniper tilts his head, sliding over his salad so the other could take a bite, too.

"What evidence do you have for that?"

[wanderingsongbird]

Friend birfmas?

Well, that means it is time for two feral gremlins to enjoy some snacks they pilfered!

Happy birthday @valour-bound!!

[shireentheunburnt]

From Wights to Zombies

Shireen wasn’t entirely sure when and how things had changed. There hadn’t seemed to be any noticeable warning before stone had changed to wood and brick. It was still cold, still rather dark which the child was thankful for, but it was certainly not where she had been minutes earlier on bidding her mother good night. It had been one of those evenings where the girl had wished to be alone rather than curling up with her mother to ward off the chill... and the nightmares. Rather than attempting to submit to the prison of sleep that her mother sought, the princess had opted to wander instead. 

And then things had changed. 

The scarred child had stepped through the door into what should have been the echoing, foreboding corridor of Castle Black, and emerged into what appeared to be a house’s living room. Turning to look behind herself, the entrance to her mother’s quarters had vanished leaving only a wall in its place. Clutching her charred stag figurine to herself with both hands for comfort, she took a few more tentative steps forward, and called out in the muted hope that someone would answer her. 

“Hello? Hello, is someone there? Please... I... I need help. Is anyone there?” 

@valour-bound

[ask-the-boogeyman]

valour-bound asked:

∗ 59﹕ sender prevents an injured receiver from getting up . ( for re verse )

Is this necessary?

He ISN'T human. Michael looks up at Chris, huffing out a worn breath as he slumps back down, lips pursed in irritation and attitude. He finds all of this ridiculous as he places a hand on his shoulder and gruffs under his breath. Ever since Chris managed to subdue him, he's been kept under a watchful eye, like a dog. That's how it feels anyway, treated like a worldwide threat incapable of human thought by others... Despite this frustration, he can recognize this stubborn older man means well, to some extent. The hand is prickled with mold and twitching muscles that are repairing themselves, and Michael does nothing but stares up at Redfield with the same punkish attitude and stubbornness as always.

It isn't until the wound is nearly closed, the cause unimportant in his eyes that he finally speaks. It's not as if he can keep the silent treatment with this man, it doesn't work... They both are stubborn in their own regard.

"I don't... See why you're stopping me. Doesn't hurt. I don't feel it.. "