#valourbound

@valour-bound sent:

❛ Maybe… there's a universe out there where we were able to stay friends. ❜ Wishful thinking at best but, maybe there’s one where they didn’t end up at each other’s throats. Where there wasn’t a betrayal there to kickstart this entire pitch darkened spiral they’re stuck in now. He makes a face, nose twitching as he notes the bitter taste on his tongue, nothing more than a foolish dream that tastes like the blood at the back of his throat.

↳ 𝐔𝐍𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐃.

ALBERT'S TAKEN ABACK BY CHRIS'S ADMISSION. The spray of crimson splatter against glossy, black leather is what greets the other as Wesker pulls back, clenched fist suspended right in front of Redfield's face. He's struck by the honesty and longing in Chris's words. But most of all, he's struck by that beautiful face, marred with a partially busted nose and the sheen of automatic tears that prickle at the corners of each eye. The mountainous brown with the oceans of blue, swirling perfectly in those irises. His heart is ever fond, even if he denies it to his face.

Wesker lowers Chris by his shirt collar, letting his feet touch the cement flooring. Even in anger, his fingers curl possessively - almost cherishing - around the fabric.

"You wish for that?" he says softly, poised upon the answer; the facade drops for a single moment. Tender-hearted and wanting around the marksman: an open, hungry maw of need in the face of a once-loving partner. Red eyes darken to their characteristic orange-gold. The corner of his mouth lifts in want, in hoping for a different future and past —

He'd had similar thoughts and wants. Albert's mind spirals into a multitude of questions, of the ever-spanning If. If he had asked for his hand in marriage instead of testing him. If he hadn't betrayed S.T.A.R.S. or if he had helped betray Umbrella far earlier. If Bert had run away with his precious Chris, would it have changed anything?

— before the anger, the betrayal swells, and his irises flare back to a glowing, fiendish red. Wesker is livid, wondering how Redfield had such audacity to wish for something that could have been a reality, if only Chris had tried. The memories slam into his brain and all logic and other opportunity is choked out. The laughter. The abandonment. His body, forgotten. Waking up alone in a puddle of his own blood.

"Stay friends? With you? When I had given all of myself to you, dear heart," he bites out, drawing close to the other in a mock kiss, breath hot and fanning his face as their noses brushed, "and you didn't want me, Chris?" Suddenly, he is glad for the glasses and their ability not to show that he stares at the marksman's mouth. The urge to close the distance with his mouth swells, and Al shoves it deep down, locks it up.

Remembering that he is covered in some part of Redfield, Albert wipes his blood-soaked glove onto Chris's shirt. Quickly, he releases him with a shove, desperate to put distance between them. Wesk hopes he'll stumble. And yet, even as they part, something numbs creeps into his chest.

"Think of this, Redfield. Maybe there's a universe where you meant your words."

@valour-bound sent:

Trace their scars

↳  SOFT GESTURES

ALBERT'S ON HIS STOMACH, ANXIETY FLARING WITHIN HIS CHEST. Red sheets pool around his hips, and the ugly cross hatches of healed lash marks are in full view. He didn't remember if they'd ever talked about that marring of his back. But now, he shows it, an offering of reciprocated trust, looking away only because of shame that he couldn't make himself more beautiful for Chris. Albert is telling him with this act of vulnerability that he will never betray him, not when he shows the coarse flesh of his back, the spot he feels the weakest. His Achilles heel.

"Touch," he says, voice wavering.

Those marks were the reminder that in the orphanage, he had been a bad child. Nowhere near perfect. And no matter the veneer that others saw, he would always be so ugly and scarred, be a split canvas with those crosshatches across his back, shoulders, and near his pelvis.

He isn't used to being so vulnerable - this vulnerability, of course, is something only Chris can bring out in him. The gentle ghosting of his fingers across one of the scars on his shoulder causes Wesker to shiver, and the tenderness of the slow touches. . . Albert feels like a wounded animal being cradled. A shuddering breath is exhaled against the pillow.

Heat rushes down, and the virologist hides his face in his arms and would inch away if not for Chris's steady hand on his hip. In fact, Wesker is pulled closer, and all he can do is shake a little.

Redfield's palm presses to the small of his back, and he moans softly, the warmth a welcome feeling against his epidermis. He finally peeks at the other's expression, and what he sees there isn't disgust. Concern, maybe? Something more pensive?

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Rubs his cold little bare feet on Wesk’s back—-

BERT IS JOLTED OUT OF HIS SLEEP BY SOMETHING FROZEN ON THE SMALL OF HIS BACK. The icy chill of calloused feet to his overly hot epidermis makes the biotech expert shiver, and he gasps loudly, rolling onto his stomach before rolling almost entirely out of bed. He takes the covers with him, pulling them to the floor.

Last he checked, he hadn't invited a cadaver into his bed - no, laying before him is Chris Redfield, whose soft, muted laughs alert him to just how much he's enjoying this. It's nice to see him laughing again, partaking in harmless pranks such as this, and Wesker's heart warms at the sight. Despite the fact it is 4am, and they'd have to be up in 3 more hours to head into the office.

Oh, how fond he is, how absolutely fond. And how he must react to mischief... with mischief.

Orange eyes suddenly turn red, glowing in the darkness that early morning had brought. Stepping quickly, using that super speed he'd gotten from the cocktail of viruses inside of him, Bert crosses the space between them, climbs onto the bed, and snatches both of Chris's wrists.

Wesker is actually smiling. Teeth and all, laughing with glee as he covers the other's wriggling body with his own.

"Eh, eh, dear heart. You asked for it."

Bert's straddling him now, and he uses one hand to push Chris's head to the side as he searches for one of his pillows. He lightly brings it down on his lover's face, once, twice, and a third time before throwing it to the floor. Wesker plops down and puts his full weight on the man, as if to pin him into place . . .

@valour-bound sent:

“ah, fuck it”

↳ SEND “AH, FUCK IT” TO SHOVE MY MUSE UP AGAINST A WALL FOR A SURPRISE KISS 

MIDNIGHT: THE OFFICES OF BLUE UMBRELLA.

Dr. Wesker stands up from his desk, paperwork put away in manila folders, tucked into his file cabinet. The desk is newer, not as old or aged as his previous one when he was captain of Alpha Team; its grain swirls and circles itself, despite how dark the wood is, and upon it sits a photo frame containing a photograph of the recent Blue Umbrella Defense Force. Chris and his men, Shiloh and Albert tucked into the back, all smile in a cheesy grin, thumbs up included. Though older, and the worry and frown lines have deepened, Wesker feels the same level of fondness and attraction to the man, whose expression is somehow more muted than Albert's.

The virologist plucks the frame from his desk and traces along the image, circling his index finger around Chris's form, tapping his cheek in a quiet act of affection, and then he puts it back where it overlooks him. A memory of a S.T.A.R.S. photo pops into his mind. Moments tumble into the realization that in following Redfield's idea of a better world, he'd unknowingly recreated S.T.A.R.S. and was falling back into similar patterns again. Though not the team's captain, he still kept that role -

It is a bittersweet echo of another time, back when Raccoon City still stood, and he hadn't had that ridiculous scheme to run away with Chris.

A thick swallow. As he makes a move to head for the door, his side protests with flares of agony. Lifting his shirt to check its progress, Uroboros is still stitching the skin together, using itself as a needle and thread. No longer bloody nor in danger, it was up to the virus inside of him to heal, each strand at a time. It finally finishes the outside wound, but Wesker can feel it working inside of him. The shirt falls. He ignores how it smarts and inches closer to the doorknob, hand outstretched . . .

The B.O.W. charged after Chris's team, and despite the fact the damn thing was covered in knives, him and Uro's weakness, Albert raced forward, barking out a "Fall back. Chris - go!" as Uro's tendrils circled him from head to toe. He wasn't even thinking at this point, just doing, body moving into I-must-keep-Chris-and-his-men-safe-or-die-trying.

He even knocked some of the team members and Chris to the side, a rogue Uro mass cushioning their fall, so they wouldn't race after him. They needed to retreat. The B.O.W. was peeking outside of the mine shaft, but it was unstable enough already. He had to get close, rip the support beams out, and the mine would fall apart, trapping that monstrous, silver-gleaming abomination into an eternal prison worthy of Tartarus.

This thing was the most lethal B.O.W. they had went against, and Wesker refused to have Chris go through the pain of losing another man of his team. Instead, he offered himself as a sacrifice.

By the time some of the team was retreating, Chris still stood so stubbornly close, and Bert was waving tendrils in his direction to get him to move. It left him wide open, and the B.O.W. cut deep across Wesker's abdomen just as soon as Uroboros had wrapped around the support beams and yanked them. Uro vibrated and lifted as soon as the blade touched it, revealing Albert's soft underbelly, his shirt having risen up from Uro's movement, and the metal dug into him in such a way that it made a slick sound as it left him. The mine collapsed soon after, burying the B.O.W. in rubble.

Wesker crumbled into himself, losing consciousness shortly after, blood and black goo surrounding him and soaking his clothes. He couldn't remember anything, save for Chris's scent around him, the warmth of his form pressed to him.

The scar that slowly works into his skin is so close to the one he'd gotten when he had saved Chris all those years ago. Albert fishes his keys outside of his pocket, and meanders to open the door, but it suddenly swings inward from the other side. The silhouette is familiar; fondness swells in his chest at the sight.

The virologist's brow raises, and he says, "Chris, what is - " before suddenly, he hears the other's gruff voice, the finality & resignation of starting them again, and he feels himself pushed up to one of his office walls, and Redfield's mouth crashes to his. A soft hum of surprise turns into an even softer moan as Chris licks into his mouth. The biting pain threatens to knock the air out of him, but he ignores it and just focuses on the former pilot.

Wesker is exuberantly returning the gesture, ravenous, reaching and holding whatever part of Chris he can reach. Hands move to busy themselves with the dusting of hair at the back of his neck, nails digging in as the kiss prolongs. Albert seeks out more of his other's mouth, deepening the gesture with a needy sound that sounded a little pathetic to his ear.

When it finishes, Wesker swallows, rests his forehead to Chris's. He doesn't open his eyes, for fear this is a dream.

"What was that?"

↪     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.