somethingaboutmeisntright

[somethingaboutmeisntright]

He who the flowers follow.

Pairing— Chris Redfield x Piers Nivans (Resident Evil)

The field does not exist on any map.

It exists the way memory does—fractured, golden, and full of ghosts that still hum with warmth. A half-forgotten Eden, grown not from seed but from sorrow. It unfurls with riotous sunflowers, each a flame arrested in bloom, all of them craning toward a single constant in the sky.

But the sun is not in the sky.

It stands in the center of the field, its name still shaped like Piers in Chris’ mouth.

Chris walks into that field the way a moth throws itself into a candle. Knowing. Wanting. Unwilling to stop burning.

The air tastes like hallelujahs never sung, like prayers that caught in the throat and curdled into silence. He doesn’t need to call out. Piers knows. The way a shadow knows the one casting it.

He stands with his back to Chris, his profile carved from war and aftermath. His mutated arm gleams like a serpent made of moonlight, curled but not striking. The rest of him is sunlight left too long on the windowsill—faded at the edges, but still warm enough to hurt.

“You always come when the flowers bloom,” Piers says, voice like rusted hinges on a chapel door.

Chris swallows the ache in his chest and pretends it isn’t shaped like forgiveness. “They only bloom because you’re here.”

The sunflowers sway as if agreeing. They lean in, greedy, hungry for the boy who once carried the ocean inside his lungs and didn’t drown. The boy who is no longer boy, no longer soldier, no longer human, but something beyond—and still, still Chris would follow him into hell if only he asked.

“I brought you something,” Chris says.

He offers a single sunflower. Not plucked. Not cut. Uprooted—roots exposed, raw, still dripping with earth like a wound. A gesture both violent and tender.

Piers takes it in his human hand, careful, as though afraid to bruise it with the weight of who he is. The flower droops slightly, not from fear, but reverence.

“It’ll die,” he says. “Everything I touch forgets how to live.”

Chris steps forward, until the breath between them feels sacred. “Then let me be the one thing that remembers.”

The words land between them like a vow carved into wet bark. Irrevocable.

The flower leans. It does not wilt. It bows—to him.

The field shifts. One by one, the sunflowers begin to turn. Not toward the sun. Not toward the sky.

Toward Piers.

Because he is not the monster they feared. He is the miracle they waited for.

And Chris?

Chris watches the whole world bend for him, and thinks:

I would grow roots in his name. I would split myself open just to be the soil he stands on.

[somethingaboutmeisntright]

“I could kiss you senseless,” Luis says, idly flickering the rusty lighter on and off, the orange flame illuminating his features in the darkness— Luis glows, Leon thinks, he glows.

Leon rolls his eyes and grumbles something, a murmured “Don’t be ridiculous,” before his eyes glue themselves back to the contraption in his hands.

“You’re doing it all wrong, Sancho.” Luis speaks again, voice smooth and confident as he steps towards the worn down table, gently plucking the contraption from Leon’s fingers.

The mechanism effortlessly clicks into place, and Leon almost wants to roll his eyes again, but he doesn’t— Too transfixed on how beautiful Luis looks with his brows pinched together in concentration, chewing his bottom lip.

God, Leon craves. He craves so much that he aches with it.

“Voila! All done.” Luis announces proudly, and Leon smiles. Leon actually smiles.

-

Luis catches all the things Leon hides. The coldness in his stare, the vacancy in those icy eyes that really means he’s thinking about something, really thinking about it.

“You keep thinking those thoughts so deeply, Mi Amor, and you’ll drown in them.” Luis says, voice adorned with its typical playful edge, but he cares. His eyes show that he cares.

Leon snorts, “I can swim, y’know.”

Luis just smiles and shakes his head, then, a playful tut, “Even the best swimmers drown, Sancho.”

“Tell me, Leon, what is it you want?”

Leon opens his mouth; “I just want…”

You.

You.

I just want you.

But the words don’t come out.

-

“I could kiss you senseless,” Luis says again, but this time—

This time blood spills with every word, a strained cough, this time, Leon is begging the world, don’t take this sinner from me, not yet.

“Don’t talk,” Leon speaks, a pleading crack in his voice that betrays the way he tries to keep his hands steady, but the wetness in his lashes is not something he can hide.

“Don’t cry, Mi Vida— Don’t cry,” Luis soothes, eyes fixed on Leon, watching, admiring, adoring. “No lover leaves a rose garden without blood on their hands.”

Leon laughs. Soft. Disbelieving, because even with his last breaths, Luis is reciting sappy poetry to him.

So Leon leans in.

And—

He kisses him. He kisses Luis and he tastes blood on his lips.

He tastes something he can’t have. He tastes Luis.

You can’t force the stars to align when they’ve already died.

“Leon?” Luis asks, calls for him in his time of dying, voice so soft and fragile that it makes Leon ache. “Yes, Luis?”

“I’ll tell every star about you.”

[somethingaboutmeisntright]

—Meowww

@abagofteeth <3

[somethingaboutmeisntright]

—Got venom in her kisses.

@abagofteeth aka Resident Moonjo Lover

[somethingaboutmeisntright]

Wintersfield Headcanons you didn’t ask for

-Despite the impression Chris gives, Ethan can cook, Chris is just incredibly picky. He calls it ‘protocol’, Ethan reminds him that it’s a fucking kitchen

-They bicker like an old married couple, technically they are

-Ethan is deceptively strong, Chris calls him a Tasmanian Devil, small but dangerous

-Chris loves plants, Ethan has the house covered in them, Chris insists they’re a nuisance, but he comes home with more to add to the collection anyway

-Rosemary has a favourite parent and it is, unsurprisingly, Ethan

-He spoils her rotten, treats her gently, and does ridiculous impressions to make her laugh— If Chris does them, she cries

-Chris and Ethan are inseparable, they eat together, shower together, brush their teeth together, drive each other up the wall and lose the plot together, etc

-Ethan loves flowers, they have a tradition, Chris buys him a bouquet of flowers all the time, one for every day, but still insists it’s stupid

[somethingaboutmeisntright]

A Hell is other people fan?? Best day of my life can you do mjjw headcanons?

-Moonjo always wakes up first. Always. He likes watching Jongwoo sleep—it’s part adoration, part control, and part fascination with how peaceful Jongwoo looks when he’s most vulnerable.

-Moonjo insists on cooking. His knife skills are precise and a little too practiced, and he takes disturbing pride in the presentation, not that Jongwoo eats it.

-Jongwoo reads true crime books. Not just for entertainment, but for understanding. Moonjo finds this hilarious and sometimes reads passages out loud in mock-lecturer tone.

-Every year, on the day Jongwoo first moved into Eden Goshiwon, they “celebrate.” Moonjo buys red wine. Jongwoo sits quietly, probably seething, but Moonjo thinks it’s all part of the charm.

-Jongwoo loses his temper. Moonjo just says “That’s so you, honey.” Jongwoo loses his temper some more.

-Moonjo never stops testing Jongwoo’s sanity. He’ll rearrange something subtly and wait to see if Jongwoo notices. If he does, Moonjo smiles. If he doesn’t, Moonjo smiles wider.

-They have a game where Moonjo tells a lie and Jongwoo has to detect it. If Jongwoo wins, he gets to go outside alone. If he loses, Moonjo takes a “souvenir” from him like a lock of hair, a book, a secret.

-Moonjo collects teeth in a jar. Jongwoo used to ask where they came from. He doesn’t anymore.

-They occasionally watch old horror films together.

[somethingaboutmeisntright]

— 𝐍𝐨 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮. 𝐆𝐞𝐭 𝐮𝐩.

[somethingaboutmeisntright]

[somethingaboutmeisntright]

[somethingaboutmeisntright]

ALL GONE

@abagofteeth ordered some Fem Lucas and the chef always serves

[somethingaboutmeisntright]

eyeing mod.sams likes….. requesting some alex.. scuttling away

(btw polar bears are so cute do you think any of the characters would like polar bears or bears in general)

ok that’s all baiii

YAYY I’m so glad you asked!!

-Alex’s living space is a chaotic blend of half-unpacked boxes, crumpled papers, and scattered notes.

-However, there's a method to his madness. He often arranges things in specific patterns or order, trying to make sense of the mess around him.

-It’s like a web he’s trying to piece together, but he can never get it all in one place. Despite the disarray, Alex knows exactly where everything is

-Alex has the most disjointed sleep schedule. He wakes up at strange hours, sometimes only a few hours after falling asleep. His routine is unpredictable.

-Paranoia keeps him awake, he doesn’t sleep much because he likes to be on guard.

-Alex is very territorial. If anyone enters his home or his personal space, he's immediately on edge. He’s constantly checking that the door is locked, the blinds are drawn, and that everything is exactly how he left it.

-Despite the cluttered mess that he calls his space, it’s his cluttered mess, and he doesn’t like people touching it.

-Alex writes. Not in a neat, organized way, but in a frenzied stream of consciousness. Journals, napkins, random scraps of paper, all filled with his obsessive thoughts about The Operator, his memories, and the people around him.

-He never cooks anything that requires more than a few minutes of attention. He sticks to simple, quick meals like instant noodles, sandwiches, or anything he can prepare without much effort. He’s too worried about things “going wrong”.

-He doesn’t talk much anymore— When he does interact with others, it’s often brief and clipped.

-Alex has a small collection of polar bear plushies. They're tucked away in a corner of his room or hidden in the back of a closet, but they’re there. Not that he’d ever let anyone stumble across them.

-Sometimes, Alex will sketch polar bears in his notebooks.

-He gets defensive about them. If someone makes some misinformed comment about them being aggressive creatures, Alex perks up like the personal defender of polar bears.

-He relates to them in an odd way. They’re solitary creatures and they get a bad wrap. People think they’re aggressive and unhinged. But they’re not.

-Once got extremely drunk in college and cried about climate change and how it was affecting the polar bears. It embarrasses him to this day. For Alex, It’s humiliation, for Tim— It’s weaponry.

[somethingaboutmeisntright]

Omg hear me out ‘you  have  such  a  talent  for  pretending  you're  innocent.’ With moonjo x jongwoo maybe moonjo says it and it’s after a fight or something? Or or or set near the end of sfh after jw kills the other residents

-delrouge

The low hum of the fluorescent light buzzed above them, casting a sickly yellow glow over the dim hallway of the rundown apartment complex. The atmosphere was heavy with the damp scent of the building, a smell that clung to everything, a stark reminder of the decay surrounding them.

Jongwoo stood frozen by his door, his hands trembling as he adjusted the strap of his bag. He had only just arrived back from his grueling day at work, and the last thing he wanted was to deal with Moonjo again.

Yet, Moonjo was there, leaning casually against the wall of the narrow corridor, as if he had all the time in the world.

“You look tired, honey.”

Moonjo said, his voice smooth, almost gentle—too gentle for someone like him. Too gentle given the way Jongwoo had screamed at him earlier.

Jongwoo stiffened. He could feel the dark energy swirling around Moonjo, even in the quiet moments. It wasn’t just his eyes— the sharp, predatory gaze that never seemed to miss a thing— it was the way Moonjo listened, like he could hear the thoughts that were too soft to be spoken aloud.

“I’m fine," Jongwoo muttered, avoiding that gaze as he reached for his door handle.

Moonjo straightened up, a slight smirk playing on his lips. “No, you’re not.” He took a step closer, his presence suffocating, as always. “You’re always so... tense, honey. So easily rattled.”

Jongwoo flinched at the proximity, but he kept his back straight. “What do you want?” he asked, trying to keep the tremble out of his voice.

Moonjo tilted his head, eyes gleaming with amusement. “Oh, I’m not here for anything specific,” he said with a slow drawl, calculating, clearly relishing in the discomfort he was causing. “Just thought I’d say hello.”

Jongwoo couldn’t help but let out a small, bitter laugh. “That’s a lie.”

“I scream at you— Smash some of your belongings, tell you to get fucked, and you pop back in to say hello? You’re full of shit, what do you want?”

Moonjo’s smile simply widened.

“You really are perceptive, honey. But that’s not what I wanted to talk about.”

“Then what?” Jongwoo snapped, his patience wearing thin, begging to snap like a worn thread.

“You have such a talent for pretending you’re innocent,” Moonjo said smoothly, his tone almost admiring, fond. He took a step forward, closing the gap between them. "But I know better, honey.”

“I always know better.”

The words are laced with something knowing, and Jongwoo swallows thickly, his mouth suddenly dry, guilty. He wanted to tell Moonjo to shut up, but the words caught in his throat.

Guilty.

Moonjo notices. Of course he does. The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating, and just as Jongwoo thought it wouldn’t be possible— Moonjo smiles wider.

And it looks wrong. It looks unhinged. And just like that—

He’s gone.

[somethingaboutmeisntright]

[somethingaboutmeisntright]

Affection

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[somethingaboutmeisntright]

[somethingaboutmeisntright]

[somethingaboutmeisntright]