#it's about the Yearning TM

[beskad]

[pheedraws]

"babe are you okay?" no i thought about goro x v for the first time in months

[olympiansally]

All things considered it was pretty nice of Fyodor to take Dazai out early during the cannibalism arc so skk wouldn’t have to fight each other

[yallwildinrn]

I need autumn to happen immediately. Give me sweaters, pillsbury ghost cookies, a corn maze, and about thirty horror movies please :)

[vincentaureliuslin]

i should not be yearning posting about peanut butter and quincy interchangeably this is not good for my Cool Mutual brand

[caffeled]

it's getting warmer. i'm getting antsier. i'm rewatching every sports anime. god i miss Doing Sports

[gaycentral]

Confession

Summary: In the heat of the moment, JJ confesses her love for Spencer despite being married. Spencer has a confession of his own.

@delusionaldeadgirl @yomamacrusty

Warnings: Uhhhh JJ’s kind of a jerk in this (sorry JJ ily but you shouldn’t have done that when you’re married), kinda suggestive for a second there but nothing happens? Spencer gets mean for a second there, Protective Husband Mode (tm) I clearly don’t know how to write relationships please be nice to me.

Things had been…tense, to say the least. JJ still wondered why she’d done it, she was a married woman, she had kids. She loved Will, no doubt about it, but Spencer?

Spencer was different. She’d known him for a decade now, and even after everything he’d gone through, he was still him, even if changed. Brilliant and kind, gentle and warm and unbelievably loving. He had so much love to give, and he held it inside, a tight ball in his chest that seemed ready to burst.

Perhaps that’s why she did it. She wanted some of that love from him. It was foolish, she knew that, it was selfish. It was unfair to Will, to Spencer, to herself. But, much to her own dismay, she didn’t care. She wanted so desperately to hear him say it back, to take her in his arms, to hold her and love her the way she’d always wanted him to, even if it wasn’t realistic.

But she still hoped.

“JJ.” Spencer’s usual soft cadence broke the tense silence of the break room as he stood in the doorway, hands shoved in his pockets, his shoulders hunched and his eyes trained intently on her. JJ felt her heart speed up. Was this it? Was her outlandish fantasy not so outlandish after all? She watched him, absorbed him. His big brown eyes as he gazed at her, the familiar pinch in his brow, his messy curls that always looked so unfairly soft.

Spencer took a few steps forward, but he didn’t get as close as she wanted him to, maintaining a respectful distance, and JJ felt the familiar ache of yearning. Closer, she begged internally. Please.

“Yes?” She finally opted as a response, the glint in her eyes betraying the growing feeling of excitement. She knew Spencer quite well, or she thought she did, and he certainly seemed nervous. Nervous enough for a confession.

“I have something to tell you.” Spencer finally said, one of his hands pulling something she couldn’t see from under his collar, attached to the chain of a necklace, and rubbing his thumb over it in a self-soothing motion. “I should have told you before.”

This was it, JJ thought to herself, her inner voice was almost squealing with excitement. Her breath caught in anticipation, and a smile began to grow on her face.

“I know.” She said, perhaps rather presumptuously, too impatient for him to say it, and she said those oh-so-dangerous words once again. “I love you too.”

The air hung between them for a moment, and when Spencer didn’t say it back, JJ’s smile began to fade. Oh no. Was she too presumptuous? Was Spencer not ready to say it? Had she ruined everything? Oh god, what if he was already in a relationship?

“No.” Spencer shook his head, a frown creasing his features in a way that made JJ’s stomach twist uncomfortably. “JJ, I’m married.”

JJ’s heart stopped. Her worst fear confirmed. No. No…that didn’t make sense, where was the ring? She’d never met his spouse, he’d never spoken of them. Was this a trick? A lie? Surely he was kidding. He’d break out into his infectious smile and say it back, any time now.

“I’ve been married for years. And I love them more than anything.” His hand opened and he showed JJ the wedding ring, noticing her bewilderment. “I wear it around my neck so I don’t lose it. It’s easier to hide from prying eyes that way.”

JJ felt as though she were listening to him speak underwater, her head swimming with confusion, with anger, with grief. No, no, no. This wasn’t fair. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wanted something for myself.” Spencer’s face was still marred by a frown, and he tucked the ring necklace back under his collar. “You’re not entitled to know about every part of my life.”

It wasn’t fair to him, but this made JJ angrier, and she began to speak before thinking. “Who is it? Some…some stand in for me? I know you felt something for me once! They’re just a replacement because you couldn’t have me!”

To say Spencer was shocked by her outburst was the understatement of the century. The gentleness and patience he often associated with JJ had seemingly vanished, morphing into bitterness, lashing out from embarrassment and jealousy.

JJ looked past Spencer for a moment, and locked eyes with you. You. Of course. How had she been so blind? Of course it was you who had snatched Spencer up, who’d taken his affection for yourself.

You were staring her down, brow furrowed deeply and gaze sharp with a glare. You’d been listening in. Spencer had told you he wanted to deal with this on his own, and you respected his wishes…but that didn’t mean you weren’t weighing the consequences of throwing your stapler at her.

“They’re not a replacement.” That rare, dangerous edge to Spencer’s voice made it’s return, this time directed at JJ, which had never happened before. “I had a crush on you, what, ten years ago? That’s all. That’s it. Nothing more.”

He stepped closer to JJ, brow deeply furrowed and a darkness in his eyes that made her shrink, her insults dying in her throat.

“I’m a patient man, so I’ll only warn you once. Don’t ever talk about them like that again. You don’t want to find out what will happen the next time.”

The mosh frightening part was that his threat could be entirely genuine. Prison had changed him, rage festered in him like a disease, a rage that hadn’t existed before. And he was clever, so very clever, he didn’t need to lay a finger on JJ to hurt her. He never would.

Spencer abruptly left the break room, storming out of the bullpen, and you quickly followed, too worried about him to bother giving JJ one last withering glare. Although it did cross your mind.

It took a bit of searching, but you found him in the men’s bathroom. His hands clutched the counter, his tie loose, his head hung over the sink. You frown, hearing his deep breaths as he tried to calm himself.

You slowly approach before wrapping your arms around his waist from behind, and he meets your gaze in the mirror, his muscles noticeably relaxing beneath your hold, his grip on the counter loosening as lets out a heavy sigh.

He turns in your arms until he can hold you properly, his chin resting atop your head, the two of you gently swaying side to side as you hold each other. His eyes slip closed in a moment of peace, and he dips his head slightly to press a kiss to your forehead.

“So…you threatened JJ for me?” Despite the question, you keep your tone playful, trying to lighten the mood and you hear Spencer groan.

“You heard that?” He mumbled, shame causing his cheeks to burn. He knew he’d stepped over a line, and he regretted it, but a part of him didn’t. A part of him thought it was deserved.

“Yup. And I know I shouldn’t encourage that, but it was very sweet that you stood up for me…and a bit of a turn on. Just so you know.” Not letting go of him, you tilt your head up to meet his eyes, smiling up at him, taking joy in his surprised laugh and the way his eyes crinkled at the corners.

“I suppose I’ll have to keep that in mind.” His tone was warm, affectionate, watching you intently as you straightened his tie for him, the grin fading into a soft smile.

“You know that JJ was wrong, right? None of that stuff she said is true.” He worried that maybe you’d taken her words to heart—or worse, that it was something you truly believed long before today.

“I know.” You smile up at him, hands moving from his tie to rest on his chest, the fabric of his suit jacket smooth beneath your palms. “You gonna be okay?”

“I’ll be alright.” Spencer assured you, but his fingers curled lightly around your wrists, pulling you back into him, placing a soft kiss on your lips before resting his cheek on top of your head. “I’d just like to stay like this for a few more minutes.”

“I can work with that.”

[peachesofteal]

Which Witch

Part 2 of 2 / Faerie masterlist

Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish/witch!reader 13.3k words - AO3 - Part 1 Warnings-tags: 18+ Minors DNI. Explicit sex. Fae!AU. Blood magic. Faerie magic. Angst. Tenderness. Comfort. Pining. Sex magic. Praise kink, light breeding kink. Magical dubious consent. Possessive Johnny, Protective Johnny. "I'm not beat up by this yet, you can't tell me to regret, Been in the dark since the day we met, Fire, help me to forget." - F + TM

Johnny has never experienced a headache before.

The feeling is surprisingly uncomfortable, and has been blooming behind his eyes since the other day, when you advanced on him outside the pub in the mortal realm, when you caught him off guard with your fury, your heartbreak.

He tries not to think about that part, too much.

Tries not to think about the torment he saw in your eyes.  

Tries not to think about his plans, laid to waste, to ruin. A dream, crumbled into a nightmare.

He tries not to think about the ache that’s settled beneath his ribs since the second you snatched your hand from his grasp and stomped away, the pressure of your magic making the stitching of the mortal realm feel too thin, too fragile.

He tries not to think about the extra weight of something that’s been added to him, nestled there in his side, the heavy feel of a magic that feels not unfamiliar, but alien at the same time.

“Bloody hell.” Gaz whispered. “No wonder ‘uve been keepin’ her a secret.” He whistled, low and sharp, as they watched you cross the street and slowly disappear from view, red and purple magic angrily arcing off from your body and tainting the air with a tart, burnt aftertaste. 

You were the only being on the street, besides them. All the mortals had gone off, pushed by you, sent scurrying by your power. “That’s one powerful little wi-“ 

“That’s enough.” Johnny snarled in his face, the ferocity, intensity of his tone, the words spat at his own brother surprising them both, signaling Kyle to step back, out of precaution, with a gentle hand raised. Johnny panted harshly, while his magic thrashed inside of him, desperate to get out, wild and nearly out of control, fully brimming with the chaos that he knows so well. 

It yearned for something, desperately. 

“Easy, Soap.” Price had been on them then, appearing from where he had been inside the bar, inserting himself between their two bodies, like he needed to protect Kyle, a ridiculous sentiment by any of their standards. 

“Sorry.” Johnny drew the word long, shaking his head from the pressure beating inside his skull. “’m sorry, Gaz. I dinnae- I-” 

“It’s alright mate.” He assured, reaching out, clasping a hand on Johnny’s shoulder. It was warm, and comforting, and he nodded in response. 

“I think you should probably get home. You’ve been here… too long.” Price follows up, and Johnny couldn’t argue. He felt drained, suddenly. Tired. A feeling that happens for them, from time to time. Especially when they’ve been in the mortal realm for an extended period. 

“Alright.”

He thinks this discomfort, this ailment, whatever it may be, will pass, once he’s been home for more than a few days. He imagines it’s just a side effect of being in the mortal realm too long, and he can practically hear Price telling him he needs to stay put, stay in Faerie for a while, or at least until his magic settles and his body adjusts to its rightful plane.

After all… his kind doesn’t take sick. They can suffer magical ailments, wounds from weapons or other Fae, but to fall ill is incredibly rare.

And usually only happens to those of them who are incredibly stupid. 

Still, the headache rots and spreads throughout his brain, festering in his magic until it becomes an unruly, ungovernable thing that barely recognizes him, and his muscles become excruciatingly sore, useless in his body when he tries to exert himself in any way.

The Isle itself seems restless, the sea raging tumultuously beneath the bluffs, the forests shielding themselves from the light of the sun. Johnny can feel her magic, biting and gnawing against him, yearning and screaming, the wind whistling through the oldest trees with a shriek that hurts his ears.

All the while, something else aches within him. An unbearable longing that builds and builds like a dark grey cloud growing heavy with rain.

“It’s your soul.” The Nereid, Ce, tells him softly. “You’re soul sick.”

“What?”

“Someone has bound themselves to you. Your soul, your magic, is woven together. When you’re separated, your soul will mourn for theirs.” The image of you pointing at him flashes through his mind, your gaze enraged, haunted, while you cursed him up and down.

Surely, you did not mean for this? 

Simon watches him knowingly, before pulling her into his arms, rubbing his hand over the swell of her belly where their child sleeps, blissfully unaware.

“Do you know, who it could be?” She questions, and he grimaces, eyes flicking to Simon who betrays nothing, only gives him a subtle nod.

“A… witch. From the mortal realm.” She stiffens in Simon’s lap, and then shakes her head in disbelief.

“A mortal witch could not cast a binding such as this, nor survive it.”

“Well, ah… dinnae believe she’s entirely mortal.” She turns, looking between them, before glaring openly at her husband.

“The only immortal witches who still live in the mortal realm are the elemental witches…” she trails off, looking out the window to where the sea crashes on the shore, something distant flickering in her gaze, realization settling heavily upon her. “What have you done?”

“You were my priority.” Simon utters, face shuttering, eyes going grim. Johnny shifts nervously in the chair. Ce is sharp, intelligent, and it doesn’t take too long before she’s whispering her confirmation of the truth.

“The song. She’s a blood witch.” He nods, unable to break the eye contact. Simon holds her hip firmly, but she doesn’t look away from Johnny, and before he even realizes, he’s spilling more secrets.

“Blood spinner.” Her eyes widen, and then rips Simon’s hand free from her body, standing unsteadily on her two legs. Her balance has gotten better in her time here, but she still struggles with managing her new walking appendages, something that always keeps Simon hovering near by, just in case he needs to catch her.

“You must find her.” She implores Johnny, while turning on her heel to poke a finger into Simon’s chest. “You’ve no idea what you’ve done.”

“Little huntress-“ He begins, but is swiftly cut off.

“No. Do not use your sweet words to try to placate me.” She turns her nose up from him, while facing Johnny. “You must, she’s in danger. Blood witches aren’t meant to be bound to others. The effects could be catastrophic, the binding could kill her.” His heart speeds to a halt. The binding could kill you. 

The feeling Johnny had a few days ago outside the pub compounds inside of him, the yearning infused with his chaos, the wild piece of his magic surging in his blood, eager to be set loose. He closes his eyes and reaches inside himself to settle his power, to soothe the uncontrolled pieces that are climbing closer to the top.

When he looks back to them, he realizes Simon is standing more than a few paces away, Ce shielded behind his body.

“It’s the binding! It can drive you mad, control your magic if you're separated too long.” She calls from around his shoulder, trying to peek out even though there is a formidable mass blocking her.

“Perhaps she planned this, Johnny.” Simon proposes, a sentiment that Johnny balks at. Were you capable of such a thing? His wife shakes her head reverently, and mouths a no. 

Danger.

Catastrophic.

When he thinks about the way you looked when you thrust your finger into his face, fiery and full of rage, he realizes it’s much, much more than what he thinks he knows, or what he believes.

You tricked me, you Fae bastard. 

Had you tricked him in return? 

The lock on your flat’s front door is not complex. It’s not even spelled for intruders, or unwanted guests, something that’s always sat uneasily within Johnny, even when he was taking full advantage of it. His magic knows this lock well, is intimately familiar with it, and plies the deadbolt free with ease, door swinging wide like it’s been expecting him, just like every other time before.

You tossed in your sleep, brow furrowed, distress written across your face as you shook your head back and forth, trapped in your own dreams, your memories, your nightmares.

Your body, still battered and bruised, slowly healing from whatever had happened to you on Samhain, trembled beneath the sheets, and you made small, terrified mouth sounds against your pillow. 

“You’re safe now, dove, you’re safe.” He stroked a thumb across your temple, down the apple of your cheek, whispering to you softly, sweetly. His own magic worked quickly, dragging you under, lulling you into a deep sleep, a near coma. He had hoped it would be enough, to keep you from waking while he worked, while he healed you from whatever ordeal you had been put through, whatever torture you had been subjected to. 

He built you the sweetest dreams he could conjure, images of his own realm, lush forests and sparkling aquamarine seas, the moss-covered stone bluffs of the Isle, the three moons when they’re full, the sparkle of the night sky, webs of worlds and starlight stretching out as far as any being could see. 

He had tried, so desperately, to burn the image of you from the previous night out of his mind, when you first answered his knocking with your broken soul and tearful eyes, abused body halfway hidden by the door. 

What happened to you? Who could mistreat you in such a way? 

He hadn’t known then, but he wanted to, urgently. Wanted you to tell him everything, wanted you to make him your tool, your harbinger of revenge. He wanted to kill for you, destroy for you, burn this entire realm for you. He wanted to lay all his promises at your feet, wanted to tell you that no one would ever touch you again, that no one would ever harm you if he was here. 

He cursed himself. Cursed the truth. Cursed the spell that you put him under, the one that didn’t even exist. 

He had gotten so lost in thought, lost in staring down at your now relaxed face, that he almost didn’t realize the sun was rising, the soft rays of light seeping across your room from under the curtain startling him into withdrawing his magic so he could allow you to wake and return with a coffee, maybe a pastry, some sort of breakfast sweet that mortals seemed to be overly fond of. 

He leaned over you for a quick moment, unable to help himself, breathing in the scent of your hair, your skin, your very soul. It intoxicated him, the sweet citrus and balsam mixing with the minerality of blood, of earth, creating something that seeped through his own being, pulling him closer and closer until he grazed his lips across your temple so gently, he’s not sure he’s even made contact. 

“I’ll be back soon.” He whispered above your ear, even though he knew you couldn’t hear him. “Have a good morning, sweet Fern.” 

“Fern.” He calls, before stepping across the threshold, but there’s no answer. There’s no sound or sign of movement, no echo of your voice down the hall. “Fern!” He tries again. His blood feels hot under his skin, and he’s nearly feverish, off balance and unsteady, while the spot beneath his ribs throbs in pain.

He expects to see Jet, or hear her hiss, considering how much the little creature loathes him, but when there’s no sign of her either, something prickles along the back of his neck.

“Do not hide from me, little witch. I know what’s happened.” He calls, raising his voice, projecting it with a touch of magic so it rings down the hall, through every room, into your personal library, and beyond.

When there’s still no answer, his sense of discomfort grows, and like there is a hook in him, in his very soul, he can feel his magic being tugged along, down the hall to your bedroom.

When pushes the door open, his heart slams to a halt. Fear is the foreign sensation that pours through him, paralyzes him. It’s fear that anesthetizes him as he stares at you, crumpled on the floor, surrounded by books, ancient grimoires and other texts, your magic drained from your body like someone has bled you dry, eyes wide in agony and a rasping breath on your lips. The room smells like mineral, like clay rich soil, like earth, and he chokes on it when he realizes the stain that darkens the carpet beneath you is your blood. 

 “Oh, little witch.” He murmurs, kneeling by your side, wide palm slipping behind your neck gently. “What have ye done?” He tucks you into his chest, and you mumble something as he carries you to your bed, trying to lay you flat, propping your face up so he can look into your eyes.

“N-no.” you push against him weakly.

“Shhh, Fern. It’s okay.”

“Don’t.” you hiss, and blood leaks from your lips. His magic thrashes, barely contained, bubbling up and trying to break free.

“Tell me what to do.” He pleads, desperation rising in him like the swell of high tide, threatening to tip him over into fathomless depths, places where he cannot swim, or survive.

“Lea… leave.” You moan, and he shakes his head. “Leave. I don’t… I don’t need your ‘elp.”

“No.” He refuses, cradling your face between his hands, and you blink at him slowly, eyelids heavy, expression disorientated. Long seconds pass and you look… confused suddenly, like you don’t recognize him, like all the vitriol and venom that you were spitting a moment ago has suddenly disappeared, and he feels a surge of your magic, the snapping of something, the binding, twisting, and tugging at the two of you.

“Johnny?” You mumble, and a smile breaks across his face, a small one, an encouraging one, something he hopes brings you comfort.

“Aye. It’s me, dove. It’s me. ’m here.” You tremble in his grasp, and more blood drips from your mouth. The sight of it is enough to loosen the hold on his power, and the room floods with bright light, illuminating every corner in the flat, and every detail on your face.

You need help. You need help, now. Badly.

He’s never wanted to have your name as frantically as he does in this moment. He wants to force you to tell him what to do, how to fix whatever this is, he wants to reach inside your magic and your mind and root around in your soul until he can pull the answer free from your lips.

A terrible thought forms in his mind. It’s wrong, and one he is sure you will hate him for, one he knows you will punish him for.

If you live. 

Danger. Catastrophic. 

Blood witches aren’t meant to be bound to others. 

The binding could kill her. 

Ce’s warning plays over and over in his mind, and when you cough again, blood splattering on his forearm, his magic makes his mind up for him, spreading forward to try to soothe you, cocooning you in a soft, twilight embrace that tries to lull you to sleep.

He pulls you back into his arms, tucking you against his body and concentrating his power on the thrum of your heartbeat, the power in your veins. He needs to blink the two of you to the closest door, and the only one that’s remotely doable is in Sherwood Forest, nestled among a ring of birch trees that all lean suspiciously inward.

“Fern.” He tries to get your eyes to focus on him, jostling you slightly as he strides away from your room. “Fern, I need… I have to take ye away.” Your brow furrows, and somewhere in the very back of his mind, he remembers how cute you are when you look at him like this, when you’re well, and not suffering.

He comes to halt in the kitchen, where Jet sits on her haunches atop the table, watching him with her head cocked.

“She’s dying.” He explains to her, and Jet scowls before she answers him, disdain dripping from her words.

“Because of you.” 

“What happened?” 

“The binding was an accident. She lost control.” 

“She needs help. Is there anyone?” 

“Not here… she’s been shunned. Thanks to you.” She glares at him, and he shoves down his urge to scream. Jet slinks towards him, eyes wise and wandering, sizing him before she sits down next to where he’s got you hovering above the table in his grip. “You’ll have to take her.” 

“I cannae. I need her name.” She flicks her gaze to you before hopping from the table, walking to where the door creaks open on its own.

“You need to get it on your own.”

“She’s dying, Jet.” 

“I know you won’t let that happen. After all, this was your plan, was it not?” She says before slipping outside, into the night.

You shiver against him, and he tightens his arms around you instinctively, lowering his nose into your hair, trying to find the sweet balsam and citrus scent under the sour smell of scorched earth and black blood. It’s there, but barely. There’s hope.

“Little witch.” He taps your cheek, trying to get you to concentrate on him, to look at him. “Fern, will you give me your name?” He coos sweetly, sugaring his voice with honey, dropping his glamour to pull your focus. It’s wrong, he knows this, so wrong, a true violation, but what choice does he have?

He won’t leave you to die.

You lick your lips, and he smiles, fully aware that he’s probably partially blinding you, scrambling the signals in your magic and mind, his own power pulling desperately at the binding to get you to comply.

Come on, sweet Fern. 

Give me your name, dove. 

He grips your hand, twisting your wrist until your palm is facing him, and for the first time without his glamour, he lets himself kiss you there, right on the heel below your thumb, dabbing his magic into the veins that vibrate just beneath your skin. He pushes, and then for good measure, pushes again, until your lips are cracking on an intake of breath, and your free hand is reaching for his, bloodied fingers smearing your ichor across his skin as you slowly speak, mouth forming the one thing he’s needed all along, the thing he’s wanted more than anything since the day he’s met you.

Your name. Given to him. By you.

It sinks into him, heating his own blood with the power of your admission, pulsing through his magic until it’s settling in that spot behind his ribs, the same spot that’s been aching since the last time he saw you, the place where the binding is nestled.

“Okay.” He coos, and then repeats your name, while you nod. “Okay, hold on to me.” He whispers, and then pulls everything in the flat tight, all the magic that’s spilled from your body, all the magic that he’s let run wild since he got here. He moves himself, and you, into the blink, and then the ground shifts, room tilting and splitting until the walls are fading into trees, the tile of your kitchen becoming grass under his feet, and your ceiling is a night sky. You squeeze your eyes shut and bury your face in his chest, and he knows it’s because the blink is uncomfortable, disorientating for those who are not Fae. Lesser creatures usually don’t even survive it.

But you are no lesser creature.

This fact, this truth, is the thing he takes comfort in as he barrels towards the door, his magic breaking through the threshold and crashing through the planes until he’s stumbling into Faerie with a blood covered witch curled against his chest.

“Are ye hungry?” Eilean asks from the threshold of the room, not willing to cross inside, but eager to see if she can help at all.

“No.”

“Should I bring some wine?” She tries, voice dipped in hopeful inflection. He rubs a palm over his face in part exasperation, part exhaustion.

“Please. Wine would be lovely, thank ye Eilean.” He placates her, and he doesn’t need to turn to know she’s smiling with approval.

He wouldn’t turn, regardless. He doesn’t dare look away from where you lay against the pillows in a bed that seems far too big. Where you lay, alone. Sleeping. Unconscious now, for far too many days. You’re weak, so weak, from travelling here, from trying to exist in this realm, a realm that you were not made for, a realm that no one seems to know if you can even persist in.

The Isle cradles you, fosters your survival. She holds you firm, holds you as he would, a casket of stone and sea weaving around your body, protecting you from anything. Everything.

Sometimes he fears she may be protecting you from him.

The waves crash against the rocks far below where he sits and you lay, sea ravaging against the rock, water pounding against stone over and over, the repetition enough to carve out caves and patterns in the walls, to change the physical manifestation of the Isle, to alter the very ground he lives on, walks on. The ground that he had hoped, one day, you may walk on with him. Beside him. The place he had hoped you might embrace with all her horror and secrets, that you might accept as a place of your own.

His hope fades with every breath you draw. It flickers like a flame being doused out.

Every now and then, you fidget beneath the blankets, body shivering and shaking, subdued whimpers escaping your lips as you twitch. He fears the binding may not need to drive him mad, because watching you suffer, watching you sleep endlessly, may do it regardless, in the end. 

However, the bleeding has stopped, a small thing that Johnny is immensely grateful for, even though no one knows why.

“She needs time.” The healer tried to tell him, their effervescent magic embracing you in a halo while they worked to stop the blood that had started leaking from your eyes and nose, as well as your mouth. “Her magic is overloaded by the binding. The best thing you can do for her is stay close by. She will wake on her own time.” 

“Her temperature-“

“We do not know. There are some things at work here, even we do not understand.” They explained, sympathy pooling across their face. 

They wished him well after that, instructing him to call for them should they be needed further. 

He didn’t know how to ask them to stay. He didn’t know how to tell them that for the first time in his eternally too long life, he was truly scared. 

“How is she?” This voice, this one that calls to him from the threshold, speaking to him in his mind, startles him in the armchair, even though he knows it belongs to his brother. He turns to see Gaz, who watches him through lowered lashes. He’s keeping his distance, as every other being has, unsure about how Johnny will react with another coming so close to his… witch. “Price says ya’ve been holed up in here for days. Thought I’d come check, see if anything was needed.”

“Come in.” Johnny implores, out loud, and Gaz does, hesitantly, watching his brother for any changes, any indication he may lose control. Once he gets about two meters away, Johnny holds his hand up, a signal to stop, and Gaz conjures a chair, brimming at the seams with sun kissed light, a neat trick that benefits him when he plops down in it, like he too, is exhausted and weary.

“Well?”

“She’s… ‘m not sure. She still hasn’t woken, and her temperature, her body is hot to the touch. Too hot. But she’s stopped bleeding, which I take as a good thing.” He hasn’t left your side, constantly feeding the binding his own magic in hopes it would help give you some strength or help heal you.

“She’ll be alright.” Kyle encourages lowly, smiling at him. “She has you to look out for her, after all.” Johnny nods, even if he doesn’t believe it.

“Thank ye, for comin’.” He whispers, clearing his throat.

“We’re family, Johnny. Even when you run away to this damn Isle with a blood witch that you’ve stolen from the mortal realm.” He laughs with a wink, and Johnny’s lips curl into a very subtle grin.

“Not much better than Simon, am I?”

“Well, you didn’t drag us all around the mortal realm for nearly a decade so, that’s something.” He sighs, leaning back, slinging his feet over the arm of the chair. “Besides. I’m not exactly exempt either now.” Johnny nods, and he watches the flicker of discontent that washes over his brother, the way his magic pulses through him and the chair before returning to stasis.

Now, it’s his turn to ask.

“How is she?” Gaz shakes his head.

“Violent.” The word gives Johnny pause, and he feels his sympathy grow. His brother is the gentlest of them, the most kind. The one who others seek out, for comfort, for care. The one who wields the sun’s light itself. “Won’t let me near ‘er. Won’t eat. Won’t open the door, only yells at me through it. Hardly even speaks to her sister.” He pauses, pinching the bridge of his nose with graceful fingers. “She wants me to let her die.”

“And will ye?” He doesn’t respond right away, and they both just watch where you lay in the bed, silent.

“Don’t think I can. I feel… something for her. It’s different, from anything I’ve felt before. It’s-“

“Frightening.” Johnny finishes for him, and some tension leaks from his body. It is unlike them both, to feel fear. To feel fear and acknowledge it.

You twitch, eyes moving behind closed lids, and Gaz gives him a nod as he rises.

“See you soon?”

“Aye.”

It’s late, two days later, when you start to wake. Your temperature has gone down, and you’ve finally slept peacefully through an entire night. The moons have already risen, and Johnny has the drapes tucked open, so the room is illuminated in a silvery purple glow that shimmers across the floor and onto the bed. Your lashes flutter, and he feels the influx of magic in the room, ebbing and flowing, growing stronger and stronger, spilling from you as you swim closer and closer to consciousness, your eyes slowly opening, brow furrowed, discontent pulling your lips downwards in a frown. The wild yearning cries out inside of him, chaos beating in his heart, and he struggles to contain it.

“What’s…” your voice trails off as you look around, and Johnny waits for the moment when you find him in the chair by your bedside.

It happens fast. Your expression goes from confused, maybe a little contrite, but still curious, to rage filled, and startled. Fear reflects in your gaze, and his stomach drops.

“Fern.” He tries to calm you, and you hold your hand in front of your body like you’re trying to ward him off.

“Stay away from me.” You hiss. You try to sit up, try to move away from him, but your body is too weak, physically, and you sink down to your elbows in a second while you press yourself against the headboard. “What did you do to me? Where am I?” He stands, casting a little bit of magic out, trying to relax you, but you beat him back with your own before you’re yelling as loud as you can. “Help! Help! HELP ME!” you scream, voice drenched in horror, and a piece of his heart chips away in an instant.

You’re terrified of him. 

There’s a noise, behind him, like a soft chiming of bells, and then he feels the shadow of Eilean’s magic, her presence unmistakable. He holds a hand out to stop her in the doorway, and you gasp aloud, palm covering your mouth, eyes round with shock when you see her.

“Oh. My gods.” You look from her, back to him, and then around the room, tracking out the window to where the three moons glow, bathing the sea below in silky shades of lilac, before you try even harder to shuffle yourself away from the edge of the bed, your hands fully shaking. “You stole me.” You whisper it between your fingers. “You took me. We’re… we’re in Faerie.” Tears are coursing down your cheeks, breaths coming in frantic little puffs that grate at his soul, the spot beneath his ribs aching as you cry.

“I thought… ah thought I was goin’ lose ye.” He croaks. “I dinnae- I had no other choice.” You’re breathing too fast, too short, and he wants to tear at the unfathomable distance between you and him that seems to be widening by the moment.

“Get away from me.” You half yell, half cry at him, tone dripping in disdain, in fear. “Get away!” you scream, and the demand physically pains him, like you’re ripping him apart, like you’re taking a knife and jamming it up underneath his ribs, hollowing him out, destroying him from the inside.

He stumbles from the room, clutching his side like he’s been wounded, and your magic lashes forward to slam the door shut behind his back with a finality that hits like a killing blow.

“Well, she’s scared. And rightfully so.” Ce says with a hand on her hip, leveling Johnny with a look that he can feel burning through his skin. “I managed to get her to listen to me long enough so I could… explain everything.” He straightens.

“What did you tell her?”

“The truth.” She sighs, and shifts her weight, reaching for where Simon stands. He takes her outstretched hand and brings her into his body, wrapping her up with a supportive arm around her waist. Johnny eyes the doors of the bedroom, clearly overeager, and she shakes her head immediately. “She doesn’t want to see you.”

“But-“

“She’s traumatized. She was used by you, betrayed by you. And then you kidnapped her from the only home she’s ever known.” At that, she gives Simon a healthy glare, and he has the good sense to look at least, somewhat ashamed. “It gets worse, I’m afraid.” Simon watches closely, and Ce looks at Johnny with a face full of sadness. “The binding… she may not be able to undo it.”

“What?”

“It is powerful magic. Magic that she did not intend to cast. It came… from the heart.” Johnny lets his eyes slip shut at her words, jaw clenching tight. “You need to prepare for what is to come, if she cannot reverse it.” She ghosts a hand over her belly and implores him with a meaningful look, one that cannot be understated or misunderstood.

The magic that feels like you, the fibers that he believes are the binding, seem to flex within his power, like it’s being pulled, and he involuntarily takes a step towards the door.

“Soap.” Simon beseeches, and Johnny stops short. “You must give her some space for now.”

They’re right. He knows, they’re right. He’s violated you, forced your name from you, stole you from your home, betrayed you in every way.

But the binding, the burning ache in his side, cries out to him. Begs him to go to you. Begs him to take you into his arms, complete the binding right then and there, and steal you away forever.

He grits his teeth.

“Alright.”

Days pass, and Johnny fights himself every step of the way. He fights his magic, which has grown unruly and uncomfortable again, fights the gaping hole that seems to be forming in that spot behind his ribs, fights what he is sure now is the binding, the incessant pull that tries to drag him into your orbit. He fights how he feels, the deep-laid emotions that he’s spent months trying to bury, and the feelings of discontent, of missing something. Someone.

The estate is heavy with your ghost. Eilean keeps him informed of your comings and goings, your visits with Simon’s wife, your days spent locked in his library. She says you’re physically better, but tire easily. You only sleep for short moments at a time, like him. Johnny tries to tell himself he does not care that you refuse to see him. He tells himself that it does not bother him, that you were so willing to shut him out completely, so eager to escape him. He tells himself that the sound of your fear, of your cries for help are not burning into his memory, that they are not entrenching themselves into his soul, driving him mad. He tells himself it’s just the binding. That the binding is driving him to the brink, that the binding is to blame for his near descent into madness.

But he knows, it’s not responsible for everything, It’s not responsible for the yearning in his soul, his heart, his magic. For the wild edged chaos that brews out of control in his veins.

It's love. His heart bleats in the quiet hours of the night, when he holds his breath and feels for you through the estate, when he catches the barely-there scent of citrus and blood in a hallway where you must have recently lingered. It’s love. His mind screams when he closes his eyes to rest for a few precious moments, and all he can see is your face, smiling at him, giggling in the golden light of your kitchen at dusk. It’s love. His magic shrieks at him to go to you, to hold you, to tell you everything. To tell you about the way his power rioted in his blood the moment he saw you, the way his magic exploded in his chest the first time you shared your heart, your mind, your life with him, the way he knew after that very first day, that no other being would ever possess him, except you.

Eilean walks with you in the garden. He tries not to watch too closely, warily waiting for something to happen, for a decision to be made that he will not be able to fight, no matter how hard he tries. She delights you, when she shows you how to sow your magic into the fabric of Faerie, how to connect with Isle as you connect with the earth of your home realm.

Johnny does not allow himself the hope that lights in his soul, when she looks up at where he stands in the window, and nods. An approval. A yes. A piece of herself, given to you.

As time crawls by, he cannot stop himself from thinking about you, every waking moment. He cannot stop himself from wondering how you’re faring, if you need him, if you’re feeling well. His magic never lets him sleep, never lets him come, keeps him on the edge eternally, pacing, tossing, and turning while his mind is invaded by thoughts of you.

It is one of these nights, when he’s drowning in too many feelings, along with two bottles of wine, pacing fruitlessly, that Gaz blinks into the kitchen with an irritated huff.

“Look sharp. Been callin’ ya for hours.” Gaz spits, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt. “Bloody hell, Soap. Get yourself together. Simon sent for us.”

The meeting is a long one.

Simon outlines recent inquiries, payloads for work, demands of their presence in places across the realm, old contracts that have long laid dormant being renewed with a fresh round bloodshed.

It is the same song and dance. The same battle cry of blood and victory.

Fae and mortals are not as different in their hearts as they seem, he muses, reading over a potential contract, a high paying job for the removal of a seated power. It comes with a catch, a royal child who requires protection, and he places it on the top of the list for consideration. Children cost extra.

He is not surprised, when both Simon and Gaz seem hesitant to agree to anything, especially work that will take them away from extended periods of time.

Johnny says nothing but shares their feelings. The idea of leaving the Isle for any amount of time makes his magic churn in his veins. Even now, anxiety builds like a storm inside him, and he agonizes about returning.

“It’s not optimal.” Simon declares, while Price smirks from where he sits with his arms crossed.

“Ye going soft, Riley?” Johnny ribs him, and Simon scowls.

“I’ll show you soft, Soap.” He shoots back, while Gaz chuckles.

“I’m not opposed to taking it easy, for a bit.” Price offers something, an inquiry that caught his eye, a short engagement, not very far away, while Simon counters it with a different one that’s even less time. They bicker, back and forth, back and forth, and Gaz slowly becomes more interested in a half open book laying on Simon’s desk than he does the conversation.

Johnny loses interest completely. The spot beneath his ribs is pounding like his heart, and his magic is swelling violently in time with the binding. When he says his goodbyes, no one is surprised.

“I want to know.” 

“Witch business is no business of the Fae.” 

“Fern is my business.” She laughed at his demand, the echo of it scraping across the front his mind like he had been scratched by her claws. 

“So possessive.” She murmured. “Over a witch who does not even know the truth of who you are.” 

“Jet.” He warned, and she growled a sigh. 

“Divination is not practiced here as it practiced in your realm. It requires a sacrifice, and the visions are not easy, even for a powerful witch like Fern. It extracts a higher toll.” His blood curdled in his veins, and her tail whipped back and forth, green eyes watchful from where she sat in the kitchen. “Her participation is not voluntary.” 

“They force her?”

“They’ve forced her since she was a child. The coven only cares for their power, their vanity, their immortality, and without the blood spinner, without the Divination, they would have none of it.” He pictured you, a small girl, alone, defenseless, victim to practices of your coven, your magic and mind a tool for them to use, to take advantage of, to torture. She licked her paw before rising to all fours, casting an underhanded glance at him. “The way they see it, Fern belongs to them. The blood spinner is not a being with a soul, but a thing to be used as the coven sees fit.” Outside, the wind howled, spurred on by the tethers of magic that spun from Johnny, the chaos that reveled in his distress, ropes and ropes of rage and desperation twisting together with the force of his power, sowing down deep into the earth, and expelling into the sky. “Should one protest… well.” She didn’t finish, just fixed her gaze beyond him, out through the window where the sky swirled with violent hues of black and purple. 

“Her parents.” Jet refused him a response, but he didn’t need one to know the truth. “She doesn’t know.” He continued, and she slunk from her perch to the corner of the table. 

“Have you considered what will happen, after your damage is done? What the coven will do when they discover her betrayal? Or worse…. you and your brothers are not the only ones who go bump in the night here. Fern is a magnet for creatures. Without the protection of her coven, she will be a target. She will be vulnerable.” She studied him, and he felt the shadowed point of her power, probing along his own, trying to peer into his mind. 

He let a swirl of chaos break free, pushed out into the open. 

He let a sentiment slip through, into her sight. 

He had considered it, had planned for it. Anticipated it. 

She met his eyes with her own, and understanding, recognition occurred between them. 

“You plan to take her.” 

He blinks onto the veranda of his own home, eager to escape the argument, rubbing his neck in exasperation when he catches the scent of balsam and citrus, mineral and blood, coming from the garden.

It’s you. You’re in the garden. 

“Hello.” Johnny calls, stepping into the grass but no further, allowing you to see him, to recognize him as a non-threat. The light from the moons spills down your back and across your skin, making you shimmer under their glow, illuminating you in the brisk night air. The flowers around you are all in bloom, even in the middle of the night, and his lips quirk to the side with a smile when he realizes it’s your doing, velvety petals blossoming across the grounds in large swatches, vibrating with the signature of your magic.

You’re sitting amongst a variety of plants, long vines that stretch and strain towards where your fingers dance to entice them into reaching for you.

“Hi.” You don’t bother to lift your eyes, and it stings a little, disappointment settling heavy in his stomach. He takes a deep breath.

“I was hoping we could talk.”

“About what?” you bristle, and he grinds his teeth. About us? About the binding? About what happened? About how sorry I am? About how I cannot stop thinking about ye? Worrying about ye? Obsessing? He settles on, what happened, hoping that will ease you open to talking.

“About what happened.”

“About what happened, which time? The time when you used me to get information so your brother could abduct a Nereid, or the time you stole my name from me and then stole me from my own realm." 

Well. Fuck. 

“What’s wrong, Johnny? Cat got your tongue?” You latch onto his silence and dig in, not sparing him from your venom. His temper flares, needled on by the discomfort that is restless in his magic, and he pushes back at you.

“I will not apologize for doing what needed to be done to save ye, dove.” He snaps, drawing to his full height, and you glare at him, fury twisting your face into something that’s a little scary, and a little enthralling.

“Save me?” you hiss, incredulous. “Save me? You didn’t care much about saving me when you used me to get what you needed.” You stand, forgoing your plants to face him, fingers pointed to the ground, a hot flare of magic stretching across the space between him and you.

“I never wanted to hurt ye, I wanted to bring ye with me, but it was too late before ye knew the truth and I had no chance to explain.” He counters, and you laugh, the sound all sour and wrong, harsh, and unforgiving.

“You thought I would just go with you? You tricked me. You took advantage of me.” He feels the ground shifting, feels the earth growing under his feet, and your magic pulsing around him, strong and eager, pushing and pulling at something he cannot see. What is this?  “You lied to me. You betrayed me.” The forest at your back groans, like the Isle herself is protesting this battle of wills, like she objects to the clash of power. The pressure in the air rises, and then something is tightening around his feet, restricting his boots, and tying him to the ground.

Roots.

There are tree roots, crisscrossed across his toes, snaking up his ankles.

“Fern.” He warns.

“Johnny.” You mock, and the magic crests, more gnarled plant life coming to sprout from the ground, lashing across his wrists, tying them tight to his sides wrapping him up like rope. “You won’t fight back?” you taunt, mouth curving into a wicked little smile. Another tendril of green binds around his forearm, and he grunts with effort to stay calm.

“No.” he grits out.

“No? No?” you hiss and step closer, bare feet pressing the grass down between your toes. You look like a predator in this moment, eyes sharp and narrowed, stalking closer to your prey. You’re enchanting, and unsettling, and the binding hums inside of him.

The plants twist past his forearms, tightening against his circulation, curling up his biceps and stroking the skin of his shoulders.

His power flares, distressed, confused.

In battle, if you were a foe, he’d already have struck you down, dealt you a killing blow.

“Fern. Stop this.” The vines squeeze him, and then crawl up his neck, holding firm beneath his jaw.

“Do you know what they wanted to do to me, Johnny? After they found out what I did?” He chews on the inside of his cheek, trying to wait you out, trying to see if you’ll draw back. “Answer me!” your voice cracks, and so does his heart.

“No.”

“They wanted to burn me at the stake.” You whisper, the words enough to take his breath. His magic thrashes. The spot underneath his ribs aches. “It wasn’t enough to shun me. They wanted to kill me.” He shakes his head furiously.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I-“

“No, don’t say that. You’re not.”

“Ah wouldn’t have let them. No one will ever touch ye again Fern, I swear it.”  

“Why even bother with more of these lies? You just needed to help your brother, and you didn’t care who was collateral damage. You used me.” You break, and a tear glitters on your cheek, refracting the light of the moons. “Just… just like them.” Oh, dove. 

“No, no. That’s not… It’s not true. Ah care for ye, ye’ve meant something to me since the first day I laid-“

“Stop.” The plants squeeze him, and any tighter they’ll probably be strangling him. Cutting off his air. He fights against them, just marginally, enough to give himself some breathing room, and is surprised when they don’t loosen so easily. “I’m stronger here. Eilean taught me, how to feel this earth. How to hear it breathing, find its water, its blood.” You explain, tone bitter, and he nods a slow agreement.

“Of course.” Of course, she did. Because she likes you, dove. She accepts you. She wishes for you to make your home here. With me. With us. 

He doesn’t try again, doesn’t flex in the web of plants that you’ve wrapped him in, just stands completely still, waiting. He urges his power to settle, to resist the call of blood and battle, to stand down as you seethe.

If he tried, only a little harder, he could shred the vines and roots in an instant. He could break free.

But a large part of him, spurred on by the gaping hole that’s been left by your absence, the pain that’s nestled in his diaphragm, doesn’t want to.

Most of him wants to stand here and take it, take everything from you.

It’s no more than he deserves, and he knows it.

Your hands are shaking, fingernails gleaming in the moonslight when you hastily wipe your cheek, and he wants so badly to reach for you. To hold you. To tell you how sorry he is. How he wishes he could take it all back. How he never wanted to hurt you.

“I trusted you.” It’s a whisper on the wind, spoken to the earth, to the sky, to anywhere but him. The words are hollow, like there’s nothing left there for him, like you’ve written your story, and his pages are long over.

“Ah know.” He murmurs. Your tears drip onto the grass, and he watches each one splash while dread swallows his heart whole. The ache in his ribs burns, magic howling through his limbs, tugging and digging against him to act, to move.

In the end, he doesn’t move at all. He stands trapped in the vines you’ve grown around him, stands trapped in time as you walk past him and up the veranda into the estate. The wind shrieks through the trees, whipping around where he stands immobile, and he watches the light in your room on the second-floor flick on, a warm yellow glow seeping out from behind the curtains as you peek around them, gazing down to where he stands, still like a statue in the garden below.

He stands there until your room goes dark.

The light sparkled across your skin, your hair, your eyes. He had never been fond of the mortal realm’s sun, always finding it too harsh, too abrasive, but the way it shone on you in that moment, he wasn’t sure he had loved anything more. 

“Which was your favorite, then?” You extended the thing in your hand towards him, the fragrant, sweet ice cream treat, and he politely shook his head to decline. 

“Ah dinnae care much for it, if ‘m being honest.” 

“What?” Your other arm stayed looped in his, allowing him to subtly press his hip against yours, feel the warmth of your skin through the fabric of your skirt as the two of you took long, loping steps down the park’s path. “How can you not like ice cream?” You frowned. “We sampled so many. You didn’t like any of them?” He considered explaining he only sampled them because it allowed him to stand to so close you in that tiny shop. That he liked it because he was able to wrap his fingers around yours when you passed him the tiny spoons. 

“The mint was alright.” He told you instead, and you huffed. “The lavender one too.” You gave him a curious look, and he couldn’t help himself, too eager to see you smile, too weak to resist the promise of your laughter. “It seems, I am overly fond of plants.” 

The sea roars beneath grassy knoll where he hides. He swears it’s screaming your name, calling to you, crying about you.

He tries to clear his mind.

It’s why he comes here. To think. To be alone. To be unbothered. The hill is tucked away from his home, and he sits in the shadow of an ash tree, staring at the sky, waiting to settle, waiting to feel at peace.

A fool’s errand. 

His mind is incapable of rest. It can only dwell on one thing, his desperation, his desire, his longing for you. The yearning in his heart that now works in tandem with the binding, trying to drag him towards you every waking moment of the day, trying to force him into your path.

You’re in the hallway when he returns, stack of books clutched to your body.

“Fern.” He chokes out, dumbstruck. He had planned a speech, for this, after what happened in the garden. A plea. A desperate sonnet of sadness and guilt. But in this moment, with you standing in front of him like a wild animal that may dart away at any moment, everything escapes him. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, his brain feels blank.

You’re frozen, looking back at him, eyes wide, and a tiny sliver of relief fractures through his heart when he doesn’t smell any fear on you.

“Hi.” You whisper, and like a magnet, he cannot stop himself from stepping closer.

You do not flinch, or move, or even look away. You just… stare at him.  

“Are ye well?” He tries, and you swallow so loud he can hear it rattling in his brain.

“I… am. Are you?”

“As well as I can be.” I’m in love with ye. I’ve been in love with ye. I’m sorry. All of these things echo in his mind, circling his consciousness but none of them come to the forefront. Instead, he stammers out a: “Ye look… beautiful.” Bleedin’ gods. It’s a massacre. He tries to smother his grimace and you give him a funny look.

“Thank you.”

“Are ye, getting on well here?” He motions to the too long, too wide hallway that seems to stretch farther and farther every second, and you nod slowly.

“Yes, you have… a lot of books.”

“Ah… ‘ve always been fond of them. The books.” He agrees, and your lips flick upwards in a polite smile. His heart races.

He takes another step.

It’s too much. You shrink away, moving backwards, and he curses himself.

“Sorry-“

“I should go.” You gesture the leather-bound volumes in your grasp.

“Of course.” He concedes, and you incline your head to him before turning around.

His magic screams through his body the entire time he watches you walk away.

You’ve made yourself at home in the library. He tries to push away the glee that it brings him, the fire that it stokes within him, the urge that it encourages. The binding warbles inside his magic, his soul, as he passes the door every day, tugging and dragging him until he’s trying the handle one morning, ignoring his prior commitments, opting to slide inside the heavy wooden doors just for a chance to see your face.

“You have books from my ho- from the mortal realm.” He winces, when you cut your words off abruptly and reroute them, all while staring at him from the desk in the library. Your fingers stroke the corner of a volume that lays open in front of you, and he takes a step closer, slowly, hesitantly, waiting to see if you’ll spook.

You don’t. You don’t even fidget, or flinch, just gently turn the pages as if everything is normal.

“Would ye like to see something special?” He cannot help it, this desire to impress you, to tempt you. He wants to catch you, keep you, hold you in a thrall like you hold him in yours. He thinks he should probably feel guilty, for using the things he knows you love so dear to entice you, to gentle you to him and draw you out, but he can’t find it in himself to feel poorly for it. He’s worried sick. He wants to see you smile again. Wants the life to come back to your eyes.

He wants his sweet Fern. His little witch.

He gestures to a book, one that sits in a glass case on a table next to his side, black binding shiny and perfect as if it were brand new and not thousands of years old.

“What is it?” You cannot help yourself, brushing past him to lean over the glass, eyes wide and curious.

“It’s a grimoire.” You inspect it with a frown, and he threads his magic through the air and into the glass, evaporating it into its original form, tiny spheres of sand that disappear before your eyes. You startle, and he smirks when you look up at him.

“Doesn’t look like any grimoire I’ve ever seen.” Your hand cautiously hovers above the spell book, and he can feel your magic probing along the edges, testing, seeking.

“It’s from a Netherworld.”

“Which?” you blurt, and then look half embarrassed, before tacking on a soft spoken, “And how?” He’s not surprised that you know of them, but it feels uneasy, knowing you may have been exposed to something from those realms, some sort of monster or creature, a Demon or worse, an Angel.

“The Below. I travel there, sometimes.” Your jaw goes slack, and you study him closer, something foreign flickering across your features before they turn doleful.

“I have seen them.” What? You turn a page with your magic, being careful not to let your fingers directly touch the pages. “Through Divination. I’ve seen both the Below, and Above.” You shudder, and his heart thunders, blood rushing through his ears.

A mortal witch, who’s not a mortal at all. Who spins blood and can see through realms, into the Below and Above. Places not even Gaz or Price dare travel to. 

Formidable indeed. 

“Dove, that’s… that must have been frightening.” Another page turns beneath your fingers, and you shrug.

“I have been Divining since I was a child. I’ve seen many things. It’s how I knew where we were, when I woke up,” Rage rips through him, unbridled and coarse, rousing his magic into a whirlwind of anger, the feel of it as violent as when he first learned the truth. It makes his blood boil in his veins, makes the shelves in the library vibrate in anticipation, his magic bouncing around the room, seeking to destroy, to sow chaos, to obliterate.

“Johnny.” Simon’s voice calls, echoing inside his skull, and he tenses, muscles turning to stone as he feels for his brother, locating him and Gaz outside, in the hall.

“Not now.” He grits in response, but he hasn’t forgotten his prior engagement, and knows trying to put it off is pointless.

When they come closer, when Simon pulls the doors wide, he bares his teeth, tension filling the air of the library. They stand at a respectful distance, not stepping inside, leagues away at the opposite end of the room, but he still feels overly exposed, can feel the pull of possession as he instinctually positions himself between your body and theirs.

You frown at his brothers before stepping into the shadow of his body, close enough that you brush against him, your fingers tracing a barely-there circle on the inside of his wrist.

“Why did you do it?” You break the silence, whispering to the ceiling, and he frowns.

“Do what?”

“Make me fall in love with you.” You still do not look at him, but he cannot tear his eyes from you, mouth wide with shock, the space beneath his ribs pulsing with chaotic magic, his heart beating too fast to count. “You could have just… used your magic. You could have taken what I knew, by force. Why did you spend all that time with me?” The confession slowly takes shape across his tongue, heavy and raw, ready to drip like honey from his mouth to yours.

“I- are ye in love with me, Fern?”

“Answer the question.”

“I knew what I had to do, to help my brother but ye were unexpected. The worst, and most wonderful surprise of my eternal existence.”

“Johnny.” Simon’s insistence echoes across his mind and he feels the urge to turn on them both, to banish them from the estate, from the Isle, from his life, just to keep his time with you from being interrupted.

‘Bloody terrible timing.”

“Clearly. But this cannot be delayed.” He clenches his jaw, and pulls your hand into his, smoothing a palm over your knuckles.

“I’ll be back later, if ye want to talk more.” It’s a hopeful thing, this sentence. Something that carries so much weight, without even being a question. Something that has the power to crush him, without a mere thought.

“Okay.” You whisper.

“Okay?” your head bobs, and you look down at the book with mock interest.  

“I do not forgive you but, I’d like to… talk. Yes.” Yes. Yes. The word rings between his ears. He can work for your forgiveness, he can spend the rest of his existence earning it, if this means you’ll let him. If you’ll speak to him.

“Later then?” He manages to get out, and then squeezes your hand in a goodbye after you nod.

He does not see the way you stare at your own fingers after he leaves, does not see the way your magic explodes throughout the library, before settling back against your skin like a warm embrace, your side of the binding fluttering in your heart.

“My home is alive.” He told your sleeping form, words quiet as he watched for any sign of you waking. “The place where my home is built, where I was born. The Isle. She chooses, who can stay, who can make their life there. She is a complex thing, a wild thing. Like you.” You twitched, and he paused, holding still as he waited. 

When you didn’t rouse, he pushed a small spark of chaos into your sleeping mind, drawing you in deeper, settling you into your wildest dreams. “Jet told me, about what ye’ve been through. About what the coven has done to ye, forced ye to do… and I think, the Isle would accept ye. Ah think she would like ye, and welcome ye, Fern. With me.” You shivered, and he instinctually warmed the room, raising the temperature until you settled.

“Johnny.” Price called inside his mind, insistent, but patient. “We have business.” He sighed. 

He had already been here too long tonight, and his brothers waited for him. 

The kiss to your hair was fleeting. Gentle. Sweet. Punctuated with a whisper lost on the breeze from the open window. 

“Gods, what have ye done to me little witch?” 

“Ye come out here often.” He says quietly from the door, standing just beyond it after spotting you on the veranda, and you nod slowly in response, eyes dragging away from the sky to his, before returning upwards. The night is soft. Calm edged and serene, the breeze carrying a hint of sea spray from the foam below.

“I’ve never seen so many.” 

“Stars?” 

“Planets.”

“Surely there are other planets besides your own?” He knows there are, he’s seen them in sky, in the mortal realm.

“Yes, but not like this. There’s… there’s nothing, like this.” Your lips part, throat bobbing with a breath and he feels a strange tightening his chest as he watches you take it in. You look so amazed, so enchanted, so captivated by something he views so ordinary, that he too, tilts his head back to look up at the dizzying number of planets. Hundreds of worlds swirl in the inky darkness above them, their colors so vibrant they shine like gemstones, blinking in and out of the velvet backdrop that is the night sky. “There are so many worlds. So many places.” you whisper to him, a smile full of awe sloping across your lips. “Do you go to them? These worlds?” 

“Some.” 

“Some.” you parrot. “Some.” you laugh, like the notion is absurd, which it probably is, to you. Something inconceivable, improbable. “They’re beautiful.” Your hand raises to reach for them, as if you could pluck one right out of the night and hold it in your palm. He watches, entranced by the way the three moon’s light shimmers across your face, bathing you in a purple silver glow, spilling over your shoulders and across your skin graciously, framing you like a star, a celestial being. His throat feels dry. 

“Aye. They are.” You lapse into silence, and he enjoys the feeling of being near you, his magic humming happily in his being, peace settling over him while you watch the stars, transfixed.

“Johnny.” You breathe his name, sweet and syrupy, magic dripping from each syllable. You look a little dazed, exhaustion pulling at your features, and he indulges in a daydream where he kisses your forehead, pressing a hint of power against your skin, wrapping you in a soft cocoon of his magic to comfort you. “I… I’d like to kiss you.” The words break him from his imaginations, and he jerks, pulling away to inspect your face, to see if were alright. Or if you were reading his mind. Or if you had become possessed by some Demon, some evil creature appearing here to make him suffer more than he already was.

But all he sees is his dove. His Fern. His little witch, face soft and open, expectant.

“Would you deny me, Johnny? After everything you’ve done?” You raise an eyebrow, and his heart sings, magic humming along happily, binding trilling in his body. You’re teasing him.

“Ye never have to ask.” The words are the same ones he said on Samhain, and he restrains his movements, keeping his body slow and steady while he leans into you, lowering his mouth to yours, the warmth of your lips against him sending his heart soaring, the intoxicating scent of you, the feel of your magic, the light caress of your fingers against his hip all amplified in this realm, and by the binding that seems to be stitching the two of you together by every moment.

He follows your lead, giving you space when you begin to ease off from him, and explosions rattle his soul as he stares down at you and your cautious smile.

“I love ye, Fern.” Your eyes go wide, and you startle, stepping a half pace away. “I dinnae how to tell ye, after everything. Ah ken, ah… there’s nothing that can be said, to make up for my treachery, for what I did to you.” He can feel the binding, the sailor’s knot tightening around the two of you, dragging you into one another, can feel the distinct signature of your magic, swirling around him, can smell the sweet citrus and blood dipped in balsam that floods his dreams. It’s enough to make his head spin.

“Johnny, this- this is the binding, it’s...” He shakes his head in rebuttal and reaches for your hand.

“I’ve loved ye since the first day I set foot in the shop. I’d burn the realms for ye, Fern.”

“You used me.”

“And ye will never know how I regret it, how I wish I could change it.” Let me love you. Let me hold you. Let me have you. The swell of the tide within him crests, magic churning into an excessive force, the binding burning, screaming, yearning against his lungs, and he pushes and pulls at it, twisting it up into something he struggles to contain. “Break the binding or leave it intact. It won’t change the way I feel.”

“I-“ Your words are snatched from your mouth when you draw a quick breath, bending at the waist, flat of your palm pressed to your belly with a soft groan.

“Fern?” His hand hovers at the small of your back, just above your skin.

“Sorry, I- I just had a cramp, is all.” You straighten, faint grimace sunken into your expression, and he frowns.

“What do ye need?”

“Nothing, I’m just gonna go lay down, I think.” You’re still holding your stomach, and worry froths in his heart, his mind as he watches you wince.

“Ye sure? Do you need-“

“I’m sure.” You wave him off, already turning away. “Goodnight, Johnny.” You murmur over your shoulder.

“Sleep well, little witch.”

The shockwave that ripples through his home in the small hours of the morning startles him from restless sleep. It jolts him into a panic, the binding clawing at his mind, his magic, tugging and pulling him towards something.

Towards you.

“Fern?” He calls, body teetering at the threshold of your room.

Are you dreaming? 

Are you ill? 

He can smell you from the doorway, balsam and citrus tinged with the scent of sour fruit, distress permeating through the air to where he stands, waiting. Holding his breath for answer.

“Fern.” He tries again, firmly, but you don’t respond, only moan into your pillow, the sound of your pain tearing at his heart until he’s blinkingacross the room, coming to lean over your trembling form, panic hammering inside his skull. “Hey, dove. Are ye with me?” He pulls you towards him, holding your face between his palms. Your eyes are nearly black, pupils so large they dot out your irises, and you thrash in his grip, nails digging into his skin while you cry out.

“Jo-Johnny. Johnny.” You’re sweating, sheets soaked beneath you, and the heat that’s blaring from your skin curdles his stomach.

The binding. The magic. It’s burning you from the inside. 

You whimper, and his heart breaks for you, bleeds for you while you bury your nose in his neck, panting heavily.

“I’m here.” He tries to hold you steady, cradling the back of your head in his hand, the sear of your skin far too warm to be comfortable, the effect of the binding boiling in your blood.

You’re suffering. You’re suffering, and it’s his fault. He did this. He caused this. 

Ce’s warning echoes sharply in his mind.

“You need to prepare for what is to come, if she cannot reverse it.”

The guilt fissures his heart in two.

“It hurts.” You try to tell him, weakly, and his frustration builds, the magic inside of him compounding, yearning to lash out.

“Ah know, Ah know it does.” The words are little comfort.

“Please. Pl-please make it stop.”

He can’t. He shouldn’t. 

“It hu-hurts Johnny. Please. It burns.” You’re breaking apart in front of him. Inconsolable. Desperate. Dying. 

“Shhh. ‘ve got ye.” He tries to calm you, holds you tight against him, pressing your body to his but all it does it make you squirm more, make you cry out against him, your voice broken with distress.

“Please! Please-“ you beg, and he slams his eyes shut.

He shouldn’t. He can’t.

But you’re in pain. 

You could die. 

The binding is heating your body past any measurable sense. You were not made to survive such a thing.

When he looks at you now, he knows his insistence on refusing this is pointless. He is too weak to give you up. He is not strong enough to say no. He has loved you since the day he first laid eyes on you. He would do anything to save you, to keep you alive.

Even if it meant this.

Even if it meant completing the bond the only way he knew how.

“I’m here, I’m here.” He kisses your breastbone, trails his lips down between your breasts, sucking marks into your skin, tasting the salt of your sweat like a dying mortal. “I’m going to make it okay.” He wants to take his time, wants to savor you, wants to have you the way he’s always dreamed about, slow and sweet, taking you apart piece by piece like you deserved.

There’s no time for that now.

“Johnny.” You whimper, something broken in your voice, a desperation unlike he’s ever heard before and it stings.

“Shhh. I’m going to take care of ye.”

A broken moan rises from your throat when he moves your body, shifting you underneath his weight, pinning your hips and teasing his tongue around one your nipples, nipping across you with his teeth just enough to sting your skin, to jolt you.

“I- I need- I want-“ You try to explain it, to direct him, and your magic flourishes forward, your hands gripping onto his shoulders for salvation.

“I know what ye need, Fern. Ah know.” His fingertips stroke over your navel, over where your lower belly tenses under his touch, and then to your cunt, where scorching heat mixes with liquid fire, your body wet and ready for him, desperate for him, magic burning you with arousal, with an undeniable need for him.

“Touch me.” You plead, and his lips find the inside of your thigh, dragging towards where you’re dripping, citrus and blood flooding his senses.

You taste like everything he’s ever dreamed of. Pressure builds up his spine, magic and desire burning like a fuse as he presses his tongue against your clit, and you shiver in his grasp when he lavishes you there.

His palm presses against your belly, holding you firm, muscles and sinew rippling under his touch, your voice peaking with a cry when he swirls around your swollen bud, over and over, working you relentlessly.

“Come for me, come on. Let me make it better, dove.” It won’t, and he knows it, knows only one thing will, but he hopes to the gods it will stave off some of your pain. He rasps against your skin and you keen, rocketing into an orgasm within a moment’s time, sharp and fiery, but only a balm for the burn of the binding, the incessant tugging beneath his ribs humming with miserable bliss over the moan of his name on your lips.

You’re still strung taut, seizing, the heat of your skin blazing against him. You tug fruitlessly at his clothes, fingers knotted up in his shirt, his pants, and he swipes a hand across your cheek to press his thumb against your tongue as he divests himself with one hand and a snap of magic.

His fingers are wet with you, with your spit, your arousal, and he coats himself with it, stroking the length of his cock, kissing the crown to your opening while he stares down at you indulgently.

His Fern. His dove. His little witch. 

“Please.” You breathe your plea into him, into his mouth, his skin. “Please, it’s- I need you.” You choke and he pushes, your eyes going wide as he batters his way into your body, the tight clench of your walls strangling him as he moves. “Gods-“ you gasp, and he strokes some hair from your face, lips pressing sweetly to your cheek, your jaw to soothe you, to quiet the discomfort from the stretch.

“I know, I know.” He murmurs, keeping his movements slow and steady, watching how your expression eases, how your body adjusts, how your brows unknit with each passing moment. You relax around him finally, face going slack with bliss as he folds one of your knees back towards your shoulder. “That’s it, good… good girl.” He hums over your ear, before pressing a gentle kiss there. “Take me so well. So perfect.” He needs to fill you, own you, fuck you full and possess every inch of your being. It’s the only way, the only way to soothe your soul, to soothe his own. It’s always been the only way, since the day he saw you. Since the first time he kissed you, in the shadow of Samhain.

His heart flutters, the binding clawing at his power, wrapping itself around your heart, stitching across the bridge between your bodies to reach the other side, encasing itself and him in the warmth of blood magic, of your magic. It only grows stronger as his hips stroke, his body moving inside of yours, gasps of pleasure falling from your lips.

Your muscles clench around him, desperate, and it feels right. Everything feels right, it feels fated, it feels meant to be. Like you were made for him, born for him. You, his equal. You, his balance. He pads over your clit with a press of his fingers, moving against you in time with his thrusts and your power surges to meet his, interweaving until it’s impossible to discern your beginning and his ending.

“I’ve always wanted ye here with me.” He nips along your collarbone, tracing a bead of sweat up the skin of your neck to your jaw. “I broke into the flat, just to watch ye sleep, every night after Samhain.” He punches his sentence with thrust of his cock, brushing against your cervix, and you keen. “I’ve loved ye. Dreamt of ye. I have betrayed ye,” you mumble something, lashes fluttering, and he swallows your words with his mouth before continuing. “and will spend the rest of my existence, our existence, apologizing for my transgressions.” Your body shifts with him, the rhythm he set upon your clit forcing you forward, spine curling you into him, his name a whisper on your lips.

“Johnny, Johnny.”

He fucks into you harder, wild, primal, full of ferocity and you cry out, shuddering beneath him, squeezing around his cock. The urge to fill you, to breed you, is too strong to fight, and the binding croons to him in your voice, spurring him onwards.

“Gods, dove.” His voice is broken song, a plea, and you respond with a melody of your own. “Ye belong to me.” You nod in a daze, lips forming a word that sounds like please. “Going to give ye my come. Keep ye forever.”

“Ye-es.”

“Sweet Fern.” He coos when he feels it, the build of your climax, ushering you along with the press of his body. “My good girl, coming all over my cock. Like ye were made for it.” You hiss, and then your orgasm is washing you away, your voice shouting his name as you come. Your eyes spark, celestial light glittering beneath the black pools that have expanded across your irises, and your fingernails dig into the skin of his shoulder, blood trickling down his chest, slicking between your bodies. It spills and spills, running like a river over the two of you, tracking across your breasts, down his abdomen, across your belly, down your thighs. It flows wildly, freely, rushing from him and towards you, spurred on by your mastery of it, your mastery of him.

You’re spinning him. You’re taking and taking, the binding drinking his magic in greedily, digging and scratching beneath the surface of his chaos, sowing vines that sprout and flourish, that tie him to you. His side of the binding shrieks in glee, in elation, and bends for you, arcing between your bodies to imbue you with cosmic pieces of chaos, a blend of blood and bedlam, boiling in your veins. In his.

Blood continues to gush from his body, his mouth full of you, of citrus and blood, of earth and balsam. You inhale him, pushing your tongue past his teeth, swirling in the mess there, and when you pull away, he can see the stains of ichor on your teeth under the curve your half-moon smile.

Your magic strangles him, strengthening itself, solidifying your power, absorbing what it can of his mayhem. The binding purrs, it sings to him, it sings to you, the sound chiming through his mind, echoing off the hollowed-out coves of the Isle, vibrating through its dark forest. He shouts against it, with it, orgasm just on the peak, both his body and yours trembling violently.

“Mine.” He snaps, and you answer easily. 

“Yours.” You nod, burying your face in the crook of his neck. He cradles you there, back of your head in his palm, and then he thrusts up into your body as hard as he can, overcome with need, with the burn of the binding, with love. It’s so much, the pull of the magic, the wildness of your heart seeping into his own, and he spills as deep as he can into your body, filling you with himself, plugging his come deep, your own body sucking him in desperately while you cry and shake in his arms.

His Fern. His dove. His little witch.

Ancient celestial light streams through the curtains, the proof of an entire day passing, the rising of the moons stirring you from where you have slept for the last few hours, body and binding finally sated, skin scrubbed clean from the stain of his blood.

You blink, heavily with exhaustion, and he pulls you into his body, unable to resist cuddling you close, breathing you in and wrapping an arm around your back to still you when you start to fidget. You smell different now, like a swirling storm of him and you, and his free hand drifts to your navel possessively.

“Johnny.” You murmur, and he answers by pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“I’m here.” He whispers. “Ye can rest dove. It’s okay.” You settle against him, and just as he’s starting to drift into his own star lit slumber, you sigh.

“You should start makin’ a list.”

“Of what?” You kiss his chest, lips soft against his skin.

“Of all the things,” you yawn, breath hot and sweet, and he wants to drag his tongue over your skin again, take you apart while he savors every tremble, every moan that leaves your body. “you’re going to do over the next hundred years to make it up to me.”

“One hundred years?” he chuckles in jest, but his heart soars. 

He knows, there is more hardship to come. He knows, the pain, the suffering, that you will experience, that you will unleash on the mortal realm, on him, when you learn the truth about your parents, about your coven. He knows the challenge ahead. 

But in this quiet moment, with you in his arms, nothing about it feels like the end. 

Only the beginning. 

“Careful." you breathe into him. "Or I’ll make it two.”

[nolita-fairytale]

burn your life down | chef luca x fem!reader | chapter four

summary: you and luca go to the ballet, bringing up a very important question: is this, and could it be, a date?

warnings: fluff, eventual smut, eventual angst not use of y/n, conversations about divorce, second person pov, swearing, danish inaccuracies, very little connection to the world of the bear.

word count: 3.3k

a/n: this chapter is all about things left unsaid, the pining TM and yearning TM. shoutout to @arctvrvs who recommended onegin, as the ballet they go to see. thank you again for all the shares, reblogs, comments! let me know if you'd like to be added or removed from the taglist!

part three | masterlist | part five

You: I have your book. Devoured it over the weekend. 

Luca: Glad you liked it. 

You did like it?

You: No, I clearly hate-read it one weekend. 

I’m kidding. 

Of course I liked it!

Luca: You’re hilarious 🙄

You: I can return it to you later today. 

If you have a free minute. 

Luca: For you? Always. 

Come by the restaurant?

You: Done. See you later.

Text exchanges like this have become more and more regular between you and Luca and it makes you question why you’d ever been so hesitant to tell him about your ex husband in the first place. You know part of the answer: you’d been afraid – afraid of what he’d say, afraid it’d be too much for him, afraid it’d scare him away – and yet, your admission seems to have only brought you closer. 

Which is a fact that makes you feel incredibly seen and also scares the shit out of you. 

But, with Luca’s copy of A Work In Progress: A Journal tucked underneath your arm, you decide you’ll conquer one mountain at a time as you come in through the doors of the closed restaurant.

“Oi!” one of Luca’s pastry chefs, a burlier man with deep brown eyes and a beard that only facial hair enthusiasts could dream of hollers, in an attempt to grab Luca’s attention when you enter the pastry room. The man follows up his exclamation with something muttered in Danish – something that almost sounds like a cat call directed towards the head pastry chef. 

Hey, loverboy. Come get your girlfriend.

You and Luca lock eyes from across the room, and you watch as his face simultaneously lights up as he sees you, while glowering in his coworkers direction. Luca shouts a ‘shut it, mate’ in return before approaching you, 

“Did he just-?” you ask him, with a small laugh. 

“Call you my girlfriend? Yes,” Luca admits, a blush running across his cheeks as he looks down, embarrassedly. 

Brown-eyed-bearded-burly-chef exchanges glances with another chef, focused on weighing dough on a food scale, before asking you with an intrigued hint in his voice:

“You speak Danish?” 

“Barely,” you answer, an apologetic half smile on your face.

He exchanges a knowing look with the other pastry chef in response, then snickers, because he really is only trying to be a good wingman here. 

“I don’t know what the hold up is… but I see it,” he says in English this time, his Danish accent thick as he wags his finger towards the both of you, earning another glare from Luca. 

“Okay, let’s step outside,” Luca hurries, ushering you out of the kitchen and into the empty dining room with a hand on your upper back. 

Your laugh echoes in the barren dining room, since pastry prep starts so damn early in the morning, and the physical restaurant doesn’t open for service till evening. 

“Again, I’m terribly sorry about him,” Luca apologizes, a little more flustered than you expected him to be.

“No, it’s okay,” you reassure him with a warm smile. “If anything, you at least now know you’ve got a great wingman when you need one.”

You watch a brief flash of, well you’re not sure what, flash across Luca’s face as he wonders if that’s what you’re hoping for. Instead of overthinking it, wondering why you’d want his coworker to act as his wingman in the first place, he pushes it to the back of his mind, moving forward with what he’d planned on bringing up with you anyways. 

“Your book, sir,” you say, handing Luca his copy of the book. 

“I’m glad you liked it,” he grins.

“Yeah, thanks for lending it to me. Took me a few weekends to carve out the time but… once I started, I couldn’t put it down,” you inform him, gushing over the borrowed book.

“I have something for you,” Luca states, as he pulls out a white envelope from one of his apron pockets. “In return.”

“Awww. Don’t tell me you went through all this trouble to get me a bookmark and when I’ve already finished it,” you banter with him, playfully. 

“They’re not bookmarks,” he smirks, as he looks at you with those electrifyingly blue eyes. 

“Ah, tell me more,” you encourage him, curiously. 

“They’re tickets,” he answers, handing you the envelope. 

“Oh.”

Before you can wonder whether Luca went out of his way to purchase you tickets to the ballet, he continues with his explanation. 

“Yeah we’ve got this regular diner. Always entertaining, bringing in investors, board members, the likes... Turns out he’s the Artistic Director of The Royal Danish Ballet. Hooks us up with tickets all the time,” Luca says. 

“Couldn’t make it opening night so but what do you say… to a performance of Onegin Thursday night?” he continues.  “That is if you can – if you want – to take the night off.”

“With you?” you ask, a glimmer of hope in your eyes. 

“Yeah, if you’d like,” Luca answers. “Figured I owed you after you purchased the Jazz Fest tickets.” Taking a more playful approach, almost as if he’s testing you as he adds: “Unless there’s something other bloke you wanna take instead of-.”

“No!” you protest, quick to correct him. “I mean, yes. I want to go. With you. Let me see what I can do scheduling wise.”

Was this a date? You wonder to yourself.

For whatever reason, this proposal feels much more like a date than anything else you’ve done with him so far. Bike rides to bakeries, walks through the park, even asking Luca to join you for Jazz Fest with tickets you purchased almost a year ago, still haven't felt this monumental. 

But a night at the ballet? 

A night of getting dressed up and taking off work to spend time with each other?

This feels much more like a date. 

And you might even be excited about the prospect of having one with him, with Luca specifically, something you haven’t felt for anyone in a long time. 

“Just let me know,” Luca says, coolly, followed by his oh-so-charming-crooked smile. 

By the time you take this… proposition – taking off a night at the restaurant for a maybe-a-date-with-Luca – Mathilde and Jesper are practically pushing you out of the restaurant swearing that if you don’t go, they’ll write you out of the business partnership, and that Mathilde is more than happy to run the kitchen all by herself that night. 

While you appreciate the support, it feels like it add pressure – expectations, really – to Thursday night.

You push the thought from your head, choosing to charge forward despite your nerves, before sending Luca your official yes via text message. 

So… what does one wear to the ballet?

-------------------------------

You settle on a silky white slip dress with thin straps, a sweetheart neckline, and a slit in the skirt that travels up the leg in a way that’s revealing yet still appropriate. You’ve draped a blazer across your shoulders because you can’t be bothered to properly put it on during the warmest month of the year but you know you’ll want it when you’re inside of the Opera House. You slip on a black kitten heel to match your bag, then pull your hair back into a loose ponytail, allowing the stray pieces of hair that fall out of it to frame your face. 

It’s not until Luca shows up at your flat with a text that he’s here, do you make your way outside. Your head is buried in your bag, taking a last minute inventory, ensuring you have what you need for the night: phone, keys, ID, extra lip gloss… 

“Hi,” he says on an exhale, as soon as he sees you. 

There’s something in his voice that sounds different, you note, as you lift your head to look at him. 

Holy. Shit… 

Fuck me, you think to yourself, as soon as you see him. He’s dressed in black slacks with a blazer to match, layered over a white button down worn without a tie, and pristine white trainers that you can’t help but notice. 

It’s classic – classy – with a little bit of swag from the trainers that feels… pleasantly unexpected. You look like one of those hip couples that decided to stick it to tradition and get married at the courthouse with a dope photoshoot instead. 

“Hi,” is all that comes out of your mouth, your eyes wide as the two of you stare each other down. 

Yeah, this really feels like a date now. 

“Hi,” he says in return before exhaling. “You look great.”

He’s grinning from ear to ear now, and the man cannot take his eyes off of you. 

“I-,” you start, as you gather your words, reminding yourself that you do in fact know the English language. As your words come back to you, you take a more playful approach instead, making up for lost wit as you say:

“You don’t look too bad yourself.”

Luca smirks, a twinkle in his eye that tells you he’s pretty damn enchanted by you right now. The two of you share a look – one that feels very not-friendly, emphasizing just how much more date-like this seems to be. 

“Shall we?” he asks you, offering out his arm for you to take. 

“Let’s,” you answer, taking it as he escorts you to the metro.

You and Luca look wildly out of place while waiting for the metro, then on the metro as you make your way to the Royal Danish Opera House in your dressier-than-normal apparel. You share small talk while you wait on the platform, ramblings over your day and then his while finding a place to sit, then nervous giggles and flirtatious stolen glances while seated next to each other on your journey. 

It’s nice to be reminded that you haven’t entirely forgotten how to flirt. 

From its shoreside location to its sparkling interior, the Royal Danish Opera House is awe inspiring. You take it all in as you and Luca settle into your seats and a comfortable quiet intimacy as you look over your programs, just before the show begins. 

Onegin, you come to find as the show begins, is a story of unrequited love, missed changes, and ‘too little, too late.’ Its relevance is not lost on you as you watch as the young country girl falls in love with the worldly Count. She is young, naive, a hopeless romantic, perhaps the character you would’ve related to when you were younger – before your marriage ended. A younger version of you might laugh at the fact that you somehow find yourself relating more to the Count. He’s cold, jaded, a pessimist even, only to be rejected when he realizes he missed his chance at love so many years ago. 

You steal a glance in Luca’s direction, his eyes fixed to the tragedy that plays out on the stage in front of you. 

He really is stunning, you think to yourself, as you carefully examine the near-perfect symmetry of his face, before returning your focus back to the performance. 

To say that you haven’t noticed the way Luca looks at you would be a lie. And you can’t help but notice how eager you’ve been lately to find any excuse to spend extra time with him too. 

But you can’t help wondering about just how ready you are – how and when you might know when you’ll be ready:

Ready to date. Ready to open yourself up to someone. Ready to fall in love again. 

Would you know when it was time? And was this a sign – meeting Luca – that it’s time for a new beginning now? 

But what if it weren’t? What if you weren’t ready now? Then what? 

It’s not like you’d expect for Luca to wait for you or anything, but the idea of a new beginning, of falling in love again, of possibly getting your heart broken again instills the kind of terror in you that shakes you to your very core. 

But what if this was your only chance? 

You can’t imagine Luca would be single for much longer – the fact that he even is now completely perplexes you – and you’re sure that he has an entire roster of women lining up, ready to take your place. Not that you feel like it’s your place now, though you’re not sure where he’d have the time to entertain an entire roster of women with how much time you’ve been spending together lately. 

You push the thoughts from your mind, trying your best to focus on the dancers, even though it’s the thing that’s got you pensive in the first place. 

And it’s almost as if, right on cue, the minute you turn your attention away from Luca, his eyes are on you, admiring the way that you marvel at the story unfolding in front of you. 

Luca smiles to himself, in pure disbelief that the same woman who brought him much needed inspiration could also be the same woman he’s begun to have feelings for. He finds you extraordinary: you’re funny, you’re incredibly talented, and you make his heart skip a beat every single time you walk into a room. He doesn’t know which deities to thank for meeting you, but he’s sure he must’ve done something right in a past life for it to bring you to him in this one. 

He’s glad you told him – about your ex husband, about the divorce – and while it’s filled in some blanks for him, it’s also brought up more questions. Questions like:

Were you even interested in dating? Were you ready to start dating because he couldn’t blame you if you weren’t? And if you were, would you be interested in dating him? 

These last few months of getting to know each other have been wonderful – and he’s thoroughly enjoyed getting to know you as friends – but Luca wants more. He wants to hold your hand while walking along the Nyhavn waterfront. He wants to press a kiss to your lips when you stop by the restaurant as he’s getting off shift, before heading into your own. He wants to wrap you up in his arms, curl his body around yours as you settle in with him on your shared couch after a long night at the restaurant, going on about your new special, or your recently hired line-cook-in-training.

Luca wants to call you his, and he wants nothing more than for you to call him yours. He yearns for the quiet domesticity he thinks he could have with you – one he knows he could have with you. 

He doesn’t want to miss his chance. It’s why he asked you that question when you told him about your ex husband – are you still in love with him? – because Luca can’t bear the thought of falling in love with a woman already in love with another man. 

He replays the answer in his head – no, I’m not in love with him – almost as if he’s reassuring himself.

Luca knows what he needs to do. He just needs to talk to you and tonight feels like as good of a time as any to do so, considering you’re practically on a date. Luca makes up his mind about it – that he’ll bring it up after the performance, maybe even ask you on a proper date. 

As the performance ends, the two of you applaud with the rest of the theatre before exiting the performance space. You and Luca linger outside of the theatre, watching the other patrons walk by, arrange rides for themselves, head out for a night cap. He’s working up the nerve to bring up the conversation, watching your lips carefully as you go on about the performance, a brilliance in your eyes that he notices you get whenever you talk about something you’re passionate about. 

You’re in the middle of dissecting the end of Act Two as he Luca abruptly blurts out:

“You hungry?”

You pause as your mouth hangs agape, noticing that’s something different, that’s something’s shifted between the two of you. 

“Uh… no. Don’t you have to be up early tomorrow?” you ask back, hesitantly. 

“Ehm. Yes, I do. But eh, I don’t know. I’d ehm, I’d be up for a bite. If you are,” Luca manages to explain because he’s not ready for the night to end. 

You can feel it – the tension between the two of you hangs thickly in the air – and you know this isn’t just a ‘let’s go out for a bite’ kind of ask. 

You wondered how you’d feel when this moment came, and instead of being ecstatic, instead of wanting to jump at the chance, the panic sets in, filling your belly with the urge to jump into harbour instead. 

You wish you felt differently – you want to feel differently – but you don’t. 

So instead, you stammer out a:

“I think I’m just ready to head home, but you should go. If you want to. I think I’m just going to walk home or-.”

“Don’t be silly. I’ll take you home,” Luca offers. 

You hesitate before agreeing, “Uh… yeah. Okay. As long as you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” Luca says as he places a gentle hand between your shoulder blades, guiding you in the direction of home. “I’d rather know you got home safe.”

You nod, instantly filled with guilt as Luca’s demeanor changes, his facial expression moving from somewhat-confused-and-disappointed to one of concern, kindness, and genuine care. 

What the hell is wrong with you? You think to yourself. 

But you know you can’t push it – you can’t push yourself to be ready,  to open up – regardless of how perfect Luca is. 

As Luca walks you home, there’s a palpable shift in the dynamic between the two of you. He seems cautious, almost as if he’s tiptoeing around you, uncertain about where the two of you stand. And truthfully, he is uncertain. He’s worried that he scared you off, if he came on too strong, if his ask changes something between the two of you. Luca realizes tonight is perhaps not the night, but he’s not sure how much longer he’ll be able to wait – be able to keep the way he feels about you to himself. 

“Thank you… for walking me home,” you say, as you arrive at the door to your apartment building. 

“‘S no problem. Had to get you back to your flat safely,” Luca reassures you with a smile on his face. 

You stand across from him, mere inches away. You could do it – close the gap between the two of you because you really do feel like an asshole for earlier – but it feels like something’s stopping you. You wait too long, letting your impulse move too thoroughly through your body, until it’s too late and the impulse is gone. 

You’re at an impasse: Luca opens his mouth to say something before pausing and you’re not sure what to say either, the two of you standing across from one another, frozen in a moment in time. 

Instead of speaking, he simply steps forward, wrapping his arms around you in a warm embrace as he inhales. 

It feels too good. 

This feels too good: the way he smells, the way it feels to be pressed up against him, his hands running smooth patterns across your back. 

“Luca,” you begin as you pull away from the hug, your eyes locked with his. 

He waits, but as you open your mouth to say something else, nothing comes out. 

You’re not sure if it’s a look of disappointment, regret, or something else that flashes across his face, before he gives you a half smile. Luca takes a few steps backwards, almost as if he needs to create space between you and him, his voice a low deep rumble as he says:

“Goodnight, love.”

-------------------------------

a/n: and now we're getting somewhere. i PROMISE we are getting somewhere. just wait ;)

[finisnihil]

Hey guys so a while back I went insane and made a list of things we know about Luocha and the coffin entity that took an hour of scrounging every second of screen time and references to his person

These lists were made as of 2.1.

So what we know about the Coffin Entity TM:

•Is being delivered to the Xianzhou despite the fact nobody on the Xianzhou stores their dead the way this person is stored. Also, Lucoha hasn’t “delivered” it yet he still is carting it around despite being on the Xianzhou. It also seems whoever he’s delivering it to is of the Ten Lords Commission and he's aiming to go to the Xianzhou Xuling with it

•They met only once and it was during some sort of conflict Luocha became involved in

•The coffin is being delivered on somebody else’s behalf, possibly the deceased’s or another third party's

•The coffin entity is not considered a friend, lover, or relative

•Luocha proposed a deal of some kind that he’s still waiting to see the entity uphold

•The entity isn’t quite dead as it is temperamental and jabs Luocha with thorny vines when he upsets it. The coffin also has an emphasis on being silent as though whatever is in it can talk back and chooses not to

•Luocha considers their relationship a business one

•Luocha says he and the entity underestimated each other, particularly when Luocha proposed the deal

•He states he and the entity both wanted to use each other

And now, what we know about Luocha:

•He’s a wandering merchant who is registered with the IPC and the Xianzhou Yuque

•He seems to come from an aristocratic or wealthy background based on his clothes and speech and sword (An Épée which is used in fencing, a sport typically practiced by European royalty and the upper class since the 14th Century as that’s when the oldest fencing records seem to hail from)

•He’s considered an Abomination of the Abundance and he confirms his power stems from Yaoshi

•He has no home according to him

•He can heal both organic and inorganic life forms

•He’s looking into immortality of some kind which is interesting because he also seems to have a negative view of immortality and even notes Mara-struck being used as "sacrifices to the Abundance". He also says yearning for immortality as a short-life species is normal and to avoid doing so would be like killing an Aeon.

•He wants to kill Yaoshi

•He’s working with Jingliu to kill Yaoshi and I think Jingliu is the “other business” he had to attend to

•He isn’t the one who snuck on the Stellaron despite turning himself in for doing so. He says he delivered it without knowing its significance but once again he can can sense Stellarons so that doesn't hold much water.

•He doesn’t know VA (Void Archives)

•He he’s wary of Jing Yuan and tries to avoid to being watched by him

•He “changes his mask” so to speak to fit in different situations which matches the fact he goes by the alias Luocha when on the Xianzhou

•His clothes are that of his home world and he wears them “to remind him of the path he must keep treading”

•On his home planet he was involved with a church/church-based society

•His city was destroyed and he was perhaps the only survivor? Possibly related to the Knight of Purity Palace set?

•Many Xianzhou natives say he works and speaks like an older Xianzhou native

•He has a very similar design as Yaoshi

•Before he arrived on the Xianzhou he had a diviner tell him “not to be concerned with the destination, but to seize [his] chances and travel with the current to reap the greatest harvest”

•Luocha is an alias, not his real name, and he only goes by Luocha on the Xianzhou and his real name is noted to be a "tongue-twister" by himself and Jing Yuan

•He’s always wanted to visit the Herta Space Station

•According to Jing Yuan, he "isn't in any hurry to conduct business" and in Jingliu's quest he says Luocha didn't conduct any trade during his stay and his departure lined up with the calamities taking place

•He doesn't like seeing flowers wither but does later note "maybe it's not so bad after all"

•Jingliu says he's "just like her" in that he has a "hole" in his heart that no matter what he does he cannot fill it and just exhausts himself in the effort to do so

•He sells "uncommon trinkets"

•He considers friendship precious

•He typically doesn't get eye bags from staying up

•He's renting a like AirBNB type residence to stay in instead of the Petrichor Inn where he normally stays. He notes it "helps him forget his identity as a traveling merchant"

•One of his hobbies is observing and experiencing the Xianzhou natives' way of life

•He considers himself not great as opening conversations

•He seems to like wine as he left us some when he departed from the Express

•The flower that is his motif is a white lily which represents rebirth

•Jing Yuan admitted he outsmarted him

•Luocha has a weird motif in his related achievements of dancing (Coffin Dancer and Wardance: Épée Trial)

•He broke into the Shackling Prison but seemingly did nothing. Luocha states that in doing so he found the Luofu didn't have what he was looking for

•Jing Yuan mentions he's infamous for being involved in matters at locations called Eternity Fortress and Shroudveil Starzone which I can't find mention of anywhere, so I don't know these locations

•Dahao tells us that upon being arrested Luocha was charged with identity fraud and smuggling dangerous bio-merchandise among other crimes, which Dahao points out is weird and vague.

•He considers the Clous Knight's devotion to Lan as making them "closed-minded". He says there's other factions other than those of Lan who want Yaoshi dead and that they must "look to the source for the solution" to severing Yaoshi's curse

•He also has an understanding of traditional medicine and will write prescriptions for people

•He likes to do little kind things for people with no expectation of being recognized or praised for it

•He constantly stresses he's a noncombatant and while he can hold his own in small-scale conflicts he seems to rely on more experienced fighters in more serious ones and this is reflected in his sword which an Épée, a kind of heavy fencing sword

•He’s interested in and holds a great deal of respect for Elias Salas which is interesting because Elias Salas is notable for not wanting to extend his lifespan despite being able to and died at 103

I probably missed some stuff but I scrounged all this from lightcones, voice lines, character stories, relic backstories, quests, messages, trailers, etc. If I missed anything let me know! Some of these are obviously more relevant than others but if I missed anything let me know and I'll add it to the list!

I wish I could add the screenshots of where I got everything but posts have picture limits so if anyone's curious where I found certain information feel free to ask and I'll reply with where I found it.

Have a great day, mwah!

[rochenn]

hello!!! sorry if this is a personal ask, but i was wondering if you would be interested in talking about some of your region's language and dialect? its difficult to find information on specific demographics and how their dialects relate to the language overall, and im also in a lot of trouble with the german teacher crime syndicate and if i remain unable to roll an r they might get me - anon

Not personal at all! I'd love to talk about my dialect and I'm holding back from writing a whole essay about it rn :'D

If your German teachers make you roll your r they're either trying to make you sound Southern* or they're not even trying to teach you the uvular r. Neither one of these options is ethical. Standard German (TM) doesn't include rolled r sounds, the uvular r is way more common! I hear it's hard for Anglos to do, but just think of the k and g sounds - they get your tongue in the right position for that guttural non-rolled r :) (check this video, it explains pretty well)

I'm a Saxon speaker. This dialect has the same unfortunate connotations as deep Southern or Midwestern US accents; uneducated, bigoted, small-minded and all that, and it's considered unprofessional to speak it on the job (top 10 things that make me yearn for violence btw).

Anyway. Saxon my beloved!! It's very laid-back and fun. Whimsical, even. Your tongue kinda just stays at the back of your mouth, pronunciation is incredibly lazy, soften all the consonants. Since it's a Middle German dialect and not a High German one, some words are closer to English, too! Apfel becomes Appel, for example.

Saxon is also universally used when ppl satirize/mock East Germany or the entire region ig even though the dialects here are super diverse, too. And I'm not even from the state of Saxony but whoever drew the new state lines after the reunification had to have been WASTED cause wtf is Sachsen-Anhalt?? Whenever I open my mouth ppl just clock me as Saxon or maybe Thuringian but NEVER as Anhaltian.

Hope this helps, feel free to ask more! Good luck with your teachers 💥💥

[444rockstargf]

if ur requests r still open and u rnt overwhelmed AND if youre okay with what im abt to request...

heres a thought. euronymous and like opposite style innocent reader (mb i love dark guys and innocent bimbo-y girlfriends)

so theyve had sex before obvi. and typically she just lays there and is disinterested because frankly.... he has a little fear of breaking her and shes like "this isnt enough for me :((" so one day she just looks up at euro like "smack me." and it shocks him ! and when he does it opens a door for both of them. they like impact play 🤷‍♀️ and sprinkle a little bit of euro breeding kink but not rly breeding just more like "im cumming in u coz ur mine and i want everyone to know it when your bellys full and round" not rly like "i want u to have my babies" coz i think he wouldnt like babies.

mb that was a bit tm ranting woopsies

i love opposites attract type of stuff, im obsessed!!

"he dyes his hair black, i dye mine platinum blonde" | euronymous

me & my boyfriend. - lana del rey

p.s. this story has nothing to do with oystein aarseth. this is rory's portrayal of the character.

bimbo!female!reader x euronymous

contents: spanking, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie

you two were as different as could be. you were like day and night. he went around trying to instill fear into the souls of all who made the mistake of looking in his direction. and you always looked like a child's doll, the way you were always dolled up making you extremely pleasing to the eye.

you never showed any interest in the dark and evil stuff that euronymous invested all his time into. you revolved your life around looking good and geting everything you wanted, giving the impression that you were soft and fragile.

that's why euronymous always tried to be as gentle with you as possible when it came to sex. he would go painfully slowly, always asking if he should stop. you had always appreciated him being so kind to you, but you couldnt help but yearn for something more than all that.

so the night you asked him to completely have his way with you, he was completely taken by surprised. "a-are you sure? i wouldnt wanna hurt you or anything, y'know." you continued to insist, but he kept on resisting. this went on for a while before you snapped and decided to take matters into your own hands.

without any further communication, you took off your miniskirt and tight shirt, throwing them to the side. you sat on the bed, only in your hot pink thong and matching bra. he attempted to speak, but his words got caught in his throat as his eyes wandered down your beautiful body. no matter how many times he saw you like this, his reaction would never change.

you turned around and stuck your head into a pillow, putting your ass in the air. "spank me." your voice was slightly muffled, but he heard you loud and clear. he hesitated, but seeing that you were actually serious made him want it almost as badly as you did.

you got behind you, his hands on your hips, gently rubbing your soft skin before he raised his hand and laid the first slap. you winced in pain, but you kept yourself together. you heard euronymous chuckle, and you knew that it was about to get a lot worse. finally, your fantasies were being fulfilled.

he lands another hard slap on your ass, this on stinging even more, making you whimper enough for him to hear. it sounded like music to his ears. he continued to spank you, each slap getting more and more painful. you could tell that he was enjoying this. this was something that he'd been dreaming of for a long time.

your hips got a little sore from keeping them up for so long, so you lowered them a little. euronymous started to unbuckle his belt, throwing it to the side. he slapped your ass once more. "ass up, whore." he said, his voice lower than usual.

you whined as you stuck your hips back into the air. euronymous undid his pants and pulled out his already hard cock out. he ripped your thong off of you, your little pussy aching to be fucked. he smiled at the sight, thinking of all the things that he was going to do to you.

he rubbed your slit gently with his thumb before stuffing you with his cock. you let out a loud, slutty moan. euronymous had never heard anything like it before considering how gentle he always was with you.

he wasted no time quickly thrusting into you, his hips coming into contact with yours making a loud slapping sound each time. you started falling apart instantly. you had never felt this way before. he was being so rough and wreckless with you, but you loved it.

your moans got louder and louder, along with the sounds of euronymous slapping your ass. he fucked you at an inhumanly fast pace, finally letting out all these years of sexual tension. he had always fantasized about being able to destroy your insides and make you go completely dumb on his cock.

he kept a firm grip on your hips as he pounded into your sore little pussy, whispering things that couldnt be heard underneath the sound of your moans and whimpers. you felt you pussy tightening around his cock, signalling your orgasm coming.

his groans became more audible as he felt you getting tigther around him. he wanted to make you cum harder than you ever have before. he reached a hand forward and started rubbing fast circles on your throbbing clit, sending you over the edge.

your eyes rolled to the back of your head as you came all over his cock, which was still pounding into you at lightning speed. you felt your vision going blurry as he started to overstimulate you. you sobbed as you started cumming even harder, making his cock throb inside of you.

he started speaking to you in between strained groans. "a-ah... gonna fuck my cum into you... gonna fill you up real good..." you felt your body completely surrendering to him as you felt a second orgasm about to him.

with the feeling of your pussy squeezing him, he started releasing his hot cum into you, making you feel so warm and full. his nails dug into your skin as he reached hit orgasm, throwing his head back as he continued to fuck you. he kept going until you were leaking his and your cum.

he finally pulled out of your sore little cunt, flipping you over so he could see you. your mascara was completely ruined, your lipgloss was smudged, and your cheeks were flushed, making you look like a total mess.

euronymous grinned before giving you a kiss on the forehead. "such a pretty girl... i think i like your makeup better this way." you rolled your eyes. euronymous spread you legs and sat himself right infront of your pussy.

he used his fingers to spread your lips so he could watch all the cum drip out of you. needless to say, sex got a lot more entertaining from then on.

author's note: so sorry this took a while to come out, i can procrastinate for the olympic i swear. im working on another request rn dont worry yall :))

[darling-i-read-it]

Survivor's Guilt

Chris Redfield x fem!reader, Ethan Winters x fem!reader 

Word Count: 6.3k

Warnings: angst, breakup, lose ending because i cant make decisions, chris’s trauma^tm

Author’s Note: I would totally be down to do a part 2 to this if anyone wants ittttttt. Also I made Mia his sister because I hate her and need her to be so irrelevant lol. I wanted this to be better but alas we are here. I just needed to write something with my favorite resident evil characters. these two will always be it for me <3

Summary: Chris and you had been together for years and partners for longer. He broke up with you when he felt it getting too dangerous. Years later, when your boyfriend Ethan gets lost in Louisiana, you call him for backup. 

Genre: angst, yearning 

I don’t own these characters. They belong to author/director/creator

(not my gif)

Survivor’s guilt is defined as a condition of persistent mental and emotional stress experienced by someone who has survived an incident in which others died. 

When you feel the pain in your chest when talking about an incident that you lived through that you shouldn’t have. When you feel like you are living for so many people that you have lost. When you imagine what it would be like for them if they had taken your place, if you had just been granted access to death. When you are not worthy of the life you are living and constantly being told you're the hero when all you were was the ending. 

Chris Redfield has survivor’s guilt. He could not tell you the amount of people he has known that are no longer walking around with him. He could not tell you the amount of funerals he had been in or been to. 

He knew grief like it was an old friend. He knew the inside of grief, the texture of the walls that caved in around him. He knew it like he was born alongside it. Grief was a twin to Chris Redfield. 

He couldn’t look in the mirror without seeing his companions. Grief and guilt. 

He’d like to think he knew the patterns better than anyone else. If someone were to know what it looked like right before he lost someone, it would be him. He wished death wasn’t so spontaneous. He hoped that one day he would save someone on purpose, save someone that he wanted within the world. 

The warmth in his chest when he saw you was an indicator. It was a warning sign. It was alarm bells. The taste of your lips was a familiar feeling of something he should not have. The feel of your skin was a promise from the world that it would be righted again. You would be taken away. You had to be, so the world could turn, so that he wouldn’t forget the lives he was living for. 

“You’ve been quiet,” you said, gently. You were sitting across from him, two dinner plates between you. His eyes flicked up to yours. You were so good at reading him. You were so concerned, like his personal welfare were your own responsibility. “How was your day?”

“Long,” he said, through a breath. You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to scrounge up something else to say. 

“Hopefully they’ll be more bearable once we get jobs together again,” you suggested. The two of you were working for the BSAA and often were sent into the field together. It was helpful for missions if you were both with someone you knew. Usually the job didn’t care that much, knowing that their people were disposable. Warm bodies were not a luxury in a world with 7 billion of them. 

But recently you had a drought of time without each other. Different goals, same organization. You missed having him with you to help. You weren’t used to having to vocalize yourself because Chris could read you like a book. He liked to say it was a talent but you knew the truth. He had just learned you so well that he couldn’t know you any better.

“Yeah.” He swallowed hard. You met his gaze. 

“What is it?” You wanted to make a joke. Don’t like the Chinese take out? or Jeans too tight? but you refrained. Something had been eating at him for weeks it felt like. He didn’t hold you as close. He was a physical person and his bear hugs were like they’re own luxury. 

Chris liked to think of himself as a brave man. He was a lot of things, not a lot of them good, but he was at least brave. He took the steps that needed to be taken. He tried his best to save people for their best interests, not for him. So why was this so hard? 

“I think we should break up.” 

It was like he had broken the sound barrier. You looked around, searching for an indication that this was some sort of joke. Nothing came. 

“What? Why?” 

“I think it would be better for both of us.”

“You can’t speak for me.” 

“I can.” 

“No, no you can’t,” you argued. You were raising your voice now, anger that he was willing to let this go so quickly. “What happened? What did I do?” 

Your voice broke his heart. The desperation, the scrounging for something to blame. He was to blame. Didn’t you see that? 

“We can’t keep going like this.” 

“What?” 

“We can’t keep acting like this life is sustainable for either of us. It was nice while it lasted.” He swallowed hard. “Its’ what’s best.” 

“Is that what you want?” 

There was such a betrayal in your eyes. You had never looked at him like that. Not even when he fucked up on the job, when his mistakes could’ve cost him lives. You never looked at him like he was anything less than perfect. 

“Yes.” He couldn’t say anything else. You would see right through him if he spoke again. You would know why he was doing it, you would know that he wasn’t doing this because he wanted to but because he had to. You couldn’t live much longer. He knew how this went. 

Your breathing was ragged. The gravity sat in your chest like a weight. If you thought about this for one more second you would start to cry. 

“Okay.” 

He closed his eyes. Your voice was childlike. It was as though he had just chastised you for doing your favorite thing. You stood up slowly. Each sound was too loud. You tossed your food into the garbage, movements sluggish. 

You went through the kitchen door and you didn’t come back. 

He sat there until he heard your car start. 

-

You gazed down at your bullet proof vest. You felt it in your hands, the weight of it surprisingly familiar. It had seen action. There were scruffs on the sides from the elements and the relentless nights spent sleeping with it on. There was a sharpie marking at the bottom, messily placed there by Chris. You rubbed your finger along it. 

“What’s that?” 

You looked up. 

Ethan Winters stood in the doorway to the bedroom. He walked forward a bit, looking over you to the object in your hands. 

“Some stuff from when I worked with the BSAA,” you explained dryly. You handed it to him. He took it, assessing the weight. 

“Good thing you don’t have to wear this dumbbell all the time,” he muttered. You laughed gently, successfully being taken out of your nostalgia. 

“It’s like five pounds Ethan.” 

“That’s heavy.” You shook your head, taking it back. You place it into its box. “Ready to go?” 

“Almost,” you promised. 

You and your boyfriend Ethan were moving into a new house. He had insisted on living in this one ever since his sister Mia went missing, just in case she returned looking for him. But it had been three years and you had outgrown it. He finally caved, allowing you to go domestic house shopping together. 

It had been eight years since you left the BSAA. Eight years since you had seen Chris Redfield, eight years since he had broken up with you. Up until Ethan, you had only dated guys around you which was slim pickings. You thought you had a good one with Chris but that breakup wrecked you. 

Then there was Ethan. Then there didn’t need to be anything else. 

You had a new life, one that had nothing to do with bioweapons you had once been so accustomed to. You had one that was, as Chris would say, sustainable. You could grow old in your new house with Ethan. Get married. Maybe even have kids. You never would’ve been able to do that before. 

“The van’s ready when you are,” he said. “I’m gonna call for pizza.”

“Who said I wanted pizza?”

“When do you not want pizza?” 

He left the room. You were alone once again. You shut the box up and taped it. That was then and this is now. 

You carried the box downstairs and placed it among the others. Ethan swung by and got some food, then met you back at your new home. You had already started to unload boxes and by the time they were all inside the sun was down. You sat on a cardboard box, munching on cold pizza, as Ethan plugged in his laptop. 

“That was exhausting,” he muttered. He had shed his jacket and was now in just a tshirt and jeans that he had sweat through. 

“So you’re too tired to christen the house?” He gave you a look. “You wanna finish the pizza.” 

“Yes I wanna finish the pizza.” You rolled your eyes playfully. 

“I need to shower anyway.” You got up, swallowing the last of your food. You hummed under your breath as you dug around the boxes to find your clothes. Ethan scrolled through his computer wordlessly. You patted his shoulder as you passed him with your clothes. 

As you walked upstairs, Ethan opened up his email folders. To the sound of the bathroom door closing, he clicked on the newest one. It had been sent the night before, while he was sleeping. He had taken time off work to move in but this didn’t look like a work email. It didn’t have a title. 

He opened it up. 

Dulvey, Louisiana. 

Baker farm. 

Come get me. 

-

The conversation seemed too rushed. You got out of the shower and there was a bombardment of feelings that followed. Ethan wanted to leave immediately. She wanted him to come and get her, after all these years. He was already looking at flights, at a route that he could drive. The words and pleads came stumbling out of his mouth. 

She needs me. 

She’s stuck there, she needs me. 

The instinct that bubbled in your chest was one you were familiar with. The preparation for a place that no human should venture. You wanted to give him a gun and a vest and let him be. 

“I got out of that life so that you and I could be safe.”

“This isn’t like that.”

“You know it is.” 

You were sitting down to his standing. You looked up at him with real concern in your eyes. 

“What else could it be? That she’s been taken and then all of the sudden sends you a cryptic email instead of calling the police? How would she even know you hadn’t changed your email? Come on Ethan, think about this.” Silence hung in the air, fighting one anothers wills. You and Ethan rarely got into arguments and you still weren’t sure if you had the power in this conversation or not. It was his sister, sure, but something was wrong here. If anyone would know, you would. 

“I have to.” 

“Let me come with you.” Your mind flashed back to the unopened box of your old things. You could put that vest back on. Would there be any coming back from that? 

“No. No, I can’t let you. This isn’t your fight.”

“Your fight is my fight.”

“I can’t lose you both,” he said, voice low. There was an air of vulnerability about him that mixed with his natural headstrong nature. You knew that feeling, the pit in your chest of losing someone in the search for something else. 

“Let’s go to bed. Think on this. Okay? We can talk about it in the morning,” you pleaded. Maybe if he thought about it for longer than two seconds he could stay with you. You could have that sustainable life. 

It took him a moment of contemplation but he finally nodded. You breathed slowly as you stood up. You had nothing but the mattress on the floor. It wasn’t going to be comfortable but it wasn’t going to be awful. You had each other. 

He got his pajamas on slowly. You could practically see the cogs turning in his head. You wanted to argue about this more but you had already stopped the conversation. You had to stick to your guns. He would feel differently in the morning. 

He got under the comforter with you. There was a lone lamp beside his head, giving all the light in the room. He turned it off as he rested his head. 

“Ethan,” you mumbled. He turned his head back to you and for just a moment, his thoughts cleared. It was just the two of you again. It could be just the two of you forever. “I love you.” His smile softened. He moved towards you, throwing his arm around you. You nuzzled into his chest. 

“I love you too,” he promised but his heart didn’t seem in it like it usually did.

-

You woke up before the sun. Your eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the darkness that engulfed the room. You groaned involuntarily. Ethan’s arm was no longer around you. You turned around to face him, ready to make some complaint, when you were met with emptiness. You paused, starring, delirious. It took you far too long to catch up to the obvious reason he was no longer gone. 

Once it hit you, you started to move. 

You threw yourself out of the mattress, running to teh bathroom. The house was still a maze to you. It would be home soon but it wasn’t home yet. The familiarity of it was missing which made it more eerie. 

“Ethan!” you called, voice weak with sleep. You looked out the window, trying to find the shapes of the cars. One was missing. Your heart started to beat faster as you went into a panic. “Ethan!” you called again, louder now. You flung open every door desperately until you were back at the bedroom. Under the lamp there was a note. You rushed for it, almost ripping it while you snatched it. 

I’m sorry. I love you more than anything. 

I’ll be back soon, I swear.

E

You let out a shaky breath. You cursed, throwing the paper down weakly, kicking the wall. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” you whispered. You had to follow him. There was no other option. He had to know you would follow him. Despite it being 4 in the morning you turned all the lights in the house on. You searched for the box you had hoped to forget. 

Finally, at your feet, was the recently taped box. You tore it open and grabbed the vest out of it. There was no use in dwelling on the signature or the comfortableness of it. You needed to get ready to go. 

-

The Baker Farm was too far out of the way. You had started to lose cell service by the time you finally reached it. You had gone down the same dirt road Ethan had by the looks of his parked car. You wanted to slash the tires out of frustration. Knowing you were on the same insurance plan, you refrained. 

You followed the lightly treaded walkway to the gate of a large house. The gate was locked and too tall to climb. You went around the edge to what looked to be the guest house. 

You just had to hope you weren’t too far behind him. He had hours of a jump on you but you had seen his car. He was here. 

You checked your phone. Nothing. Would you even get any calls out here? 

You pushed forward through the guest house. It looked abandoned, like someone had just picked up and left dinner. The smell of mold traveled through the air. It almost felt like you could see the particles through the setting sun. Someone had left the door in the back open, leading to the long hallway. Something or someone had been pushed through a wall, resulting in debris flying everywhere. Someone had struggled here. Recently. 

You fought the pit in your stomach and forced yourself to think of the best. It was normal. There were no bioweapons all the way out in the middle of Louisiana somewhere. Why would there be? Ethan was fine. Ethan had to be fine. 

The tenseness of your shoulders was familiar. You did not miss the ache or the worry. You turned to go up the stairs. Deja Vu washed over you, brought on by archived feelings. 

Chris attempted to never leave your side but he too often did. You were both used to finding each other again, it was part of the job. You could get separated by a wall or a weapon and you would find each other again. 

It had been too long and the familiar fear creeped into your mind. He was here but you couldn’t hear him. He had to be here, his GPS assured you. The silence was deafening. You swore then to never yell at him again, if he could just emerge unscathed from the rubble of another fight. Could Chris Redfield go down like this? In the middle of some nameless mission, with just you to carry him back home? 

“Here!” 

Relief washed over you as you rushed back to him, moving aside the debris of a fight you had not been a witness too. Dirt covered his face. He was almost unrecognizable in the dried maroon blood that covered his body. 

“Are you okay? Oh God. Oh God Chris,” you whispered, holding him with your hands like he wasn’t real.

“I’m okay,” he breathed. “I’m okay.”

You ached for the relief you had felt then. Ethan wasn’t as capable as Chris had been. Where would you find him? The top of the guest house revealed a larger view of the house. At the bottom was a man, a large mallet over his shoulder, dragging someone away by their feet. 

Ethan. 

He was unconscious but even just seeing him made you feel better. 

Then you noticed the mold. 

Something was wrong with that man, with that house. It was covering the ground, pulsating like it was alive. Instinct kicked in before feelings. You grabbed your phone out of your pocket, watching keenly to see where they were taking Ethan. 

You glanced down at your phone, praying that his number hadn’t changed, and hovered over Chris’s name. You had never been able to do these things alone and you were no use to Ethan if you were dead. 

You closed your eyes so you wouldn’t see yourself click the button. You put the phone up to your ear, listening to it ring, hoping he wouldn’t pick up, hoping you wouldn't be able to make a phone call this far out. 

On the sixth ring you were beginning to lose whatever hope you had. Then he picked up. 

“Hello?” His voice was wary but familiar. It made you weak in the knees, just hearing him speak, his cadence the exact same. 

“I need you.” 

-

You didn’t want to wait but you had given Chris the directions to your car. You didn’t want him to have to play catch up for you the entire time so you waited outside the guest house, pacing. You didn’t know how long you had but he promised he would be there in under an hour. You weren’t sure how he would manage that but you trusted his word.

Sure enough, just about fifty minutes later, he emerged from the bushes. Older. Weathered. His eyes were harder than they had been, less emotion behind his gaze. You reminded yourself you were doing this for Ethan, even as the rush of emotions had returned. You hadn’t seen each other since you had moved out. 

“You came,” you breathed. 

“You called.” You pursed your lips, wanting to thank him, wanting to think about the elephant in the room, wanting to beg him for answers that had been plaguing you forever. Instead you were gentle with your words.

“Thank you Chris.” He nodded once. 

“We’ve been scoping this area. The disappearances here are akin to something consistent with bioweapons,” he said, walking past you. “Where’d you last see your friend?”

“Ethan was out towards the main house. I’ve spotted at least one bioweapon but the ground is covered in some sort of black mass. Do you know anything about that?” He handed you a gun without a word. You took it. It was yours. He had kept yours. It begged so many questions. Had he been using it? Did he even recognize it as yours anymore? Did he dig it out of the rubble, just like you did the vest you were wearing? 

“A bit.” 

“You’re being awfully cagey.”

“This is still work for me.” You nodded once. He was going to stay reserved. It didn’t matter what you two had, he was here for the job. This is exactly the reason you left without a fuss. It would always be the job and then you. 

“Alright. Welll follow me.” 

At the edge of the property was an older house, one that was falling apart at the seams. You managed to get around the bayou to enter it in an attempt to reach the main house, where you were sure they were keeping Ethan. 

“What’s he doing out here?” Chris questioned. You glanced at him. It was like seeing a ghost in his eyes. How could Chris have become a stranger to you? How had you gotten here? 

“Looking for his sister Mia. She went missing three years ago and yesterday he got an email from her with this location.” 

“Not exactly tangible evidence.”

“That’s what I said.” You kept in stride with him. He pushed through doors, turning around quickly to make sure there was no threat. He led. You watched his six. “I told him to sleep on it. When I woke up he was gone.” 

“You’re living together?” His voice showed no sign of emotion. He was asking as though you had never known each other. He was asking like you were a civilian and he was gathering all the useful information. 

“Yes. He’s my boyfriend.” A beat in his step was missed but it was hardly noticeable. You pushed past him. 

“And he didn’t feel the need to tell you he was leaving for Louisiana?” 

“He knew I disagreed with him.” 

“Sounds like someone else I knew.” The first allusion that you had ever once known each other. You walked in front of him as you crossed a bridge into the main yard. 

“I listened.”

“In one ear and out the other,” he argued. He was detached from his words. You wanted to ask him why he had even come. Why hadn’t he investigated this before you called if he knew it was here? What was his angle?

“It always ruminated in my head for a bit.” You reached the yard. The house was vast and unfamiliar. It loomed in the nighttime air. There were lights on upstairs and some lamps in the main room. You approached the front door and attempted to open it. It didn’t budge. You hit it, kicked it, cursed at it. 

“Move,” Chris demanded. He rammed his body against the door. You watched him, watched as he tensed his muscles through his tactical vest. The door remained intact but you didn't even notice after a minute. When were you going to allow yourself to admit that you missed him? 

You looked through the window, cupping your hands around your eyes. You jumped at a face emerging from the other side. 

“Y/N?” 

“Ethan!” You put your palms against the glass. He was on the other side. The window was murky and cloudy but you knew his face well enough to recognize it through the blur. From the faint look, he was okay. He was alive. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I’m okay,” he said, weakly. It sounded like a lie. You narrowed your eyes but he couldn’t tell. 

“I specifically told you not to come,” you said. 

“It’s too late now.” “Did you find Mia?” He took a deep breath. 

“Yeah. Listen, if you see her you have to be careful. All of the people here are normal one second and then they are something completely different.” You nodded. 

“Can you get through the door?” 

“No. I have to find three keys.” 

“Fuck,” you muttered. “Spencer Mansion all over again.” You glanced at Chris. “Listen, I brought a friend out here. We’re gonna try and get in.” You tried the door again to no avail. 

“I’m gonna try and find the keys,” Ethan said. You didn’t want him to go but realistically couldn’t have him stand there with you, not with the apparent threats roaming the house. You nodded. 

“Please be careful.” 

“You too.” He left then, hand lingering on the glass. You turned to Chris, embarrassed. His jaw was set. “I’m gonna clear the trailer.” You nodded once, watching him go. 

-

Chris tried to convince himself he was happy for you. You had made a life for yourself. That’s exactly what he wanted you to do. He left you so that you would make a life he could never give you. Granted, he never expected to see the fruits of his sacrifice. The longer he was with you the more it became evident to him that his emotions never faded. It was like nothing had changed but everything had. You were the same but different. You caused him to want to smile even at dumb things, like attempting to open a door you knew was locked. You were in love with someone else. He had never seen you in love with someone else. He didn’t like the feeling of watching you with Ethan. 

His sense of duty overrode his emotions but even that wasn’t enough to stop his lingering gazes. 

You adjusted your vest in the trailer mirror. There was a head in the fridge and a gun on the counter. You were glad you had called Chris. He reloaded his gun as he watched you out of the corner of his eye. 

“There can’t be much padding left in that,” he said gruffly. 

“Hm?”

“The vest.” You looked down at it, like you hadn’t even noticed you were adjusting it. Your finger brushed his signature.

“It still does its job,” you promised. “Why, you got an extra?” He shook his head. You turned back towards him. “That’s what I thought. I’d rather have this than nothing at all.”

You kept the vest he had signed. 

He kept the gun you had used. 

How long could you dance around this stupid confession? 

“I’m gonna try to break the window,” you said finally. “To the front house.” 

“You don’t think they have bullet proof windows?” 

“We’re in the middle of Dulvey.” You shrugged. “It doesn’t hurt to try.” Chris’s jaw set, nodding curtly. He followed you outside. He was weary of the ever growing black goop gathering outside. You tried to hit the window but nothing gave. You tried to hit it again, causing a more aggressive boom. “Shit. This gun was not made for this. Anything around I can use?” Chris started to look around his feet for something stronger. You moved along the deck. 

Abruptly, there was a squelching sound coming from the middle of the yard, near the trailer. Both you and Chris raised your gun, instinct taking over before the thought process. You watched as the black goop grew into some sort of figure, barely able to stand on its own two feet. You tried to force yourself to act surprised but nothing came. It was life like it used to be. 

Chris shot it first. It stumbled, just barely. You shot its head once and then twice. It came down only when the head was removed. 

“You ok-” you started and was suddenly cut off when something moved behind you. You turned but it was too late. There was something on your shoulder, something wet and cold and big. You had figured because your back was to the house, you didn’t need to watch it. You heard the gunshots but didn’t see them. You breathed deeply as the blackness dissipated. 

You stumbled backwards, hitting something else hard. You jumped, raising your gun, but Chris grabbed your wrist before you could even point it far. 

“Hey, hey.” 

It had been a minute since you were scared like that. You couldn't remember the last time your life was on the line. The shock must have shown in your eyes because Chris was holding your arms gently, looking at you with sympathy. “You’re okay,” he promised. You nodded. Your brain reverted back to where you knew that voice from and the comfort it brought. You cleared your throat, sitting up, swallowing hard. 

“I’m fine,” you promised. “I’m fine.” You stood up, wobbling on your feet. He held your elbow. “I’m just a bit rusty.” He scoffed. 

“Whatever you say.” He looked around. “They come out of the black mass. We watch that like it’s open space from now on,” he ordered. You nodded. 

“Okay. Yeah.” You cleared your throat. The coldness was gone. 

“What did I say?” 

“Black mass is bad.”

“Good girl.” You cleared your throat, flushing. “Now if you ever want your boyfriend out of that house, we have to keep moving.” He adjusted your vest with worry and then walked away like nothing had happened. You followed him with your eyes. 

-

You and Chris were outside debating if he could hoist you up onto the balcony of the second floor when the front door opened. You both looked down, eyes wide, as Ethan fell through the front door. He was clutching his side and a gun was in his hand. 

You ran up to him, almost dropping your gun yourself. 

“Oh God, Ethan? Ethan, are you okay?” He allowed himself to fall into your embrace, wrapping his arms around you tightly. You breathed evenly as you held him in your arms. You pulled away to see him, look him in the eyes. “What’s wrong? What’s hurt?” There was dried blood on his face. Was it his? 

“I’m fine. I’m okay.” You pursed your lips, backing up. You looked him up and down and grabbed his hand. 

“What is this? Are these staples? What is this?” 

“I’m okay.” You gave him a bewildered look, mouth agape. His hand was held together by staples now. 

“I told you not to come. I told you to wait for me.” If you thought he would live through you hitting him, you would. You were relieved he was okay but you were angry he had left without telling you, putting himself in danger. You had shared with him your stressors about past relationships and he had walked right into one of them. 

“Who’s this?” 

Speaking of past relationships. 

You had almost forgotten Chris was there. 

He stood behind you, eyes averted, chin up. 

“Ethan, this is Chris Redfield. He was my partner when I worked at Stars and the BSAA.” Ethan knew the name and he knew the reaction he should have to it. He had driven you to do something you never wanted to do again. Ethan’s actions hadn’t manifested in you calling the man that had broken your heart. And you didn’t look like your heart was shattered. 

“We need to leave,” Chris explained, not bothering with a hello. He was keenly aware of the situation you were all in. 

“I still have to find Mia,” Ethan explained. 

“Did she do that to your hand?” you questioned. 

“There’s something wrong with her. I know where the anecdote is, if I can find that and find her then we can all leave.” 

“She’s a lost cause,” Chris explained. “There’s no use in looking for her now. The BSAA is currently narrowing explosives on this area and we need to be gone before the sun comes up if we don't want to get caught up in his destruction.” 

“I’m not going to leave her here,” Ethan argued. “The family here are infected by something. I think it has to do with the child she was watching before she went missing. I’ve found some infor-”

“In this line of work, we shoot first and ask questions later. I don’t expect you to know that Ethan but we need to leave,” Chris said, cutting him off. Ethan’s face hardened. You could tell the change in his demeanor as he moved his shoulders back, eyes going dark. You had no way of telling what he had gone through in that house and you had a feeling it was going to take a while to get it all out of him. 

“Do you agree with him?” Ethan asked, looking at you. 

“Don’t put me in the mi-”

“You’re in the middle. I’m putting you there,” Ethan said. “Do you think we should leave her and this entire family to just die?” You looked at him with soft eyes. This was one of the hard decisions you and Chris had to make everyday. You missed the naiveness of his viewpoint immensely. You thought you were working back towards it but it seemed the hard work never let you be. 

“I won’t risk your life for hers.”

“I’m not asking you to risk my life.”

“Will you risk mine?” Ethan shook his head in disbelief. 

“We’re losing time being out here,” he said. “I’m going to the old house and looking for that cure. Come with me or don’t, I don’t care.”

“You don’t mean that,” you said, reaching to grab him before he left but he brushed you off. You looked at Chris with pleading eyes, eyes he knew well. “We can’t possibly leave civilians here and nuke the place Redfield.” 

“It’s their choice to leave.” 

“Mia doesn’t have a choice,” Ethan called. He was already walking away. Incredibly conflicted, you stared at Chris, hoping for some guidance. He had never been the one to give guidance in your relationship. 

“Chris.” 

He had only ever turned you down once in his life. The look in your eyes could make him weak in his knees anyday. You could get him to toss himself off a building with that look. His jaw hardened.

You could die without him. 

You could die with him, he thought. When had he ever been able to save others before?

“Chris,” you pleaded. 

“We have four hours till sunrise. You and I will be gone by then.” You nodded curtly. He approached you before you could walk away. “But you’re not going to run around in that vest,” he muttered. He unbuckled the one he was wearing, untightening it as he lifted it over his head. Your eyes softened. He was still trying to protect you. Maybe he had been trying to protect you all along. 

“Chris I won’t let you-”

“I’m stronger than you.” You smirked, looking up at him. He had a smug look in his eyes. 

“I don’t remember you being forceful.”

“I never had to be. You were always a willing participant,” his voice was soft but disregarding. You glanced at Ethan who you could barely see in the shrubbery as he walked away. He took off your vest and placed it on the ground as he put his own over your head. “You need it more than me.”

“I’m just a little rusty.”

“I can’t risk a little rusty.” He tightened it around your waist, the same way he would help you mid mission before. It was warm. Was it humid out here or was it just the way his fingers brushed your skin? 

“Thank you,” you breathed. He nodded. He put your old one over his head. He had left all the things in his tactical vest. “You want any of these?” 

“I could do with a knife what you can do with a bomb.” You raised an eyebrow. 

“You better watch out Redfield. I might show you up even with the rust.”

“I’d like to see you try.” You wrapped your hands around the straps and leaned back, tilting your head. 

“I missed you.” He tried not to show any emotion but the words seemed so magical he couldn’t help it. He took a deep breath. 

“You know I did it to protect you right?”

“I know now,” you said quietly. 

“You have a life.” 

“I have a life,” you repeated. It was like you were trying to convince yourself of it more than him. You looked at Ethan. In the moment nothing seemed more appealing than leaving with Chris and being safe somewhere other than here. You knew what you had to do regardless. “You know, in another life, I wouldn’t have minded dying in your arms,” you said quietly. He had that sad look in his eyes.

“I wouldn’t have lived through it,” he admitted. You gestured with your head. 

“Yes you would’ve. Come on. We have things to do.”

Part 2

[bambisnc]

seunghan as hindi songs is a NEED

seunghan as hindi songs!

chogada. seunghan is literal the human incarnate of this song i take no argument tyvm. the softcore + lovecore vibes are just so pure :( i can so see him singing this to you with all the earnestness of the world in his eyes; and imagine him pulling you in mid performance during the dance think that one rapunzel scene :((

next we got ishq wala love~! cutie coded songs for the cutiest bbg ever c'mon,, and the love triangle vibes of the movie... but no because think of him being the soft, sweet childhood friend male lead of the love triangle tm but the thing is : with him you'd also get the lowkey possessive, mysterious, quiet guy AND the sunshiney one..

moving onto a black and white one; pyaar hua ikraar hua. this is THE old timey forbidden, star crossed lovers song ,, the sharing of a single umbrella out in the rain <3 the guy being like "why is your heart afraid of love..?" and the girl answering "its saying that the road to love is difficult and that the final destination is unknown/hidden" (loosely translated) siiiiighs

one of my other fav old songs -> likhe jo khat tujhe. i mentioned in my op : true love hc for riize, seunghan is such a "writes long love letters (w cute self-written poetry,,) on perfumed paper, decorates the envelope with kisses, puts in dried flowers w the letter" kinda bf <3 the lowkey playful (dare i say coy), teasing vibes of the song fit him so well tooooo

also for your consideration, mere sapno ki raani !!! like yess girl (gn) he is the type to chase after your train in a car - probably with sohee's company - and serenade you mid journey yk ?? also the lyrics. the way he describes the female lead. it's seunghan. it's him. and again the vibes of the music really remind me of him

back to like 2018 music,...... hawayein. okay but this song was really popular at my school for the longest time and i swear i thought i'd never wanna listen to it ever again - but i happened to hear it recently and oh my god./// the softness and the yearning which i think is really well captured w the high notes and clinky music :(( the ease and smoothness really make me think of seunghan.. imagine a strangers to lovers/summer fling with him except he totally is the type to get attached and track you down after you've bid what you thought was the last farewell. prob shows up with like a rose at your door while it's raining like ".. hi."

(okay alsox2 -> radha from the same movie ._. LIKE IMAGINE js screaming out songs at the top of ur lungs w him, full on vibing almost like ur drunk and mid way he'd grab your hand and intertwine the fingers with his own uff)

special mentions : ZAALIMA. he's so in love with you and he WILL make it known to people whether they wanna know or not. + apna bana le - the malewife vibes are strong w this one <3 he'd be so down bad that everyone except u and him would know about it fr,,

notes : pushing my good old fashioned lover boy hani agenda fr !! + why do i feel like w each member the posts r getting longer.. + [m.list]

tags : @nicholasluvbot <3

-

[wonbin's vers] [eunseok's vers]

[lady-raziel]

something something about the fact that every site wants to implement an algorithm now and that all the posts the algorithm shows are scheduled AI generated images with AI generated captions by some social media manager working remotely somewhere to copy anything popular that comes out of social media and twist it to fit the needs of the Brand(tm)

makes one yearn for something real