[OVERVIEW]
This post contains my works. I’m not really active here and this is just a backup. Regardless, interactions are welcomed. If you're interested in any of my fics, just click on the titles at the list below.
[ACTIVE ARCHIVE: MASTERLIST]
FILE #01 — The Cautionary Tale of Manifesting Love
PAIRING: Leon S. Kennedy/Reader
FANDOM: Resident Evil; Resident Evil 2 Remake; Resident Evil 4 Remake; Resident Evil 6; Resident Evil Requiem
Type: Longfic
Status: ONGOING
MASTERLIST || AO3
warnings: second-person pov, excessive profanity, excessive thirsting, head trauma, comedy to thirst to angst to feels, tonal whiplash, peak human male anatomy as a psychological weapon, four leon kennedys (as stupid as that sounds), accidental found family, a missing bra, excessive intake of the respecc-whamen-juice™
chapter summary:
it started with a wish. initially, your ovaries were very happy for the buy-one-take-three outcome, until the consequences of your heart's desire inevitably crushed your fantasies altogether.
word count: 4.6k
author's note:
the leons have nicknames here to avoid confusion: re2r is rookie, re4r is agent, re6 is captain, and re9/requiem is wolf
i hide now kthxbai. |˶˙ᵕ˙ )
masterlist || ao3 || wattpad
This was absolutely the worst Monday of your life.
And the reason for that? Let’s just say you have officially been categorized as the most spectacularly uncool female protagonist of every romantic story possible.
Before your neurons inevitably decided to unionize and temporarily vacate the premises of your already barely functioning brain, the last thing you saw was the four variants of the man you had been panting over like a hyena in heat for the last week. Unfortunately, this not-so-meet-cute ended quite abruptly for you in the most awkward way possible.
You were wobbly. Cold. Drenched in the blood of a fallen enemy. You were on the brink of actually cackling at how ridiculous the entire turn of events was, because seriously, what kind of fucking plot is this? And in a blur, before logic could even investigate this situation with the conviction of a battle-hardened activist, you were in free fall.
The Leons tried to catch you. Truly, they did. There was a burst of movement, a few panicked yells, and a lot of very attractive confusion. Alas, gravity was operating at 9.8 meters per second squared, while the four of them collectively managed an unfortunate 9.7 in civilian perception.
And then…
THUNK.
That was your skull hitting the asphalt.
Your body positioning was a wreck as well. Even purple prose couldn’t describe it with any elegant cadence other than you were bent in a way that would be a tale passed amongst first responders through memes in a group chat. Totally fine. Totally normal. Great first impression. Definitely something you shouldn’t do on a first date, though.
Oh well. At least you had four Leons now. Might be the best non-refundable mishap of your life.
Now, you were lying comfortably on the ground—eyes shut—with a folded leather jacket laid beneath your head as a makeshift pillow. There were two Leon Kennedys gathered around what looked like a small campfire in the middle of the road; the other two scavenging for supplies out in the urban wilderness. Very survival horror and survival crafting in spirit, with the whole hunting-for-goods-and-seeking-out-shelter-with-infected-popping-around type of scenario.
To the Leons, however, it was honestly quite a novel experience—given their countless intimate tangos with death itself. It was almost like camping out in the woods with brothers they never knew they had alongside a mysterious stranger they had rescued from the clutches of the local fauna. Except this time, instead of bears, they had to look out for bio-organic weapons.
You were a lucky woman—for now.
You would’ve helped these men as a thank you for saving your sorry hide back in that street, had you not been so disgracefully knocked out by circumstance. It is what it is. Repayment can wait until this entire scenario becomes slightly less fucked than it already was.
The youngest Leon huddled closer to the fire, rubbing his bare arms. His eyes were fixed on your sleeping figure while the oldest Leon cleaned you, wiping the dried infected blood off your skin with an alcohol-doused cloth. Chivalry was apparently a default setting for him even as a young man, having offered his jacket as a pillow. Now, the sensory receptors on his skin were at war with the cold.
“I-is she okay?” His teeth chattered. “She looks pretty roughed up.”
“She’s fine,” his older counterpart muttered in response. “Handled herself better than most. Should’ve seen her axe one of ‘em.”
The rookie perked up. “Really? She did?”
“Yeah. A Cerberus. Caught one mid-pounce.”
“Huh.” He glanced at you in awe. “That’s kinda cool, actually.”
He gave his younger self a wry smirk before continuing to wipe you clean again.
It didn’t take long for the other two to return with a large haul of supplies—food, clothes, medical supplies, and water.
“This’ll have to do for now,” the more experienced of the two said, setting the pile of supplies near your feet. “We haven’t checked the other side of the strip.”
“And the one I told you to find?”
“Check the box. It’s all there.”
The eldest nodded. “Good. We’ll get more along the way.”
Meanwhile, the second youngest Leon went ahead and dumped the food supplies beside the rookie before plopping down on the ground beside him with a disgruntled groan.
This entire day had been a string of disastrous inconveniences, much to his annoyance. It had only been a week or two since his mission from Spain reached its conclusion. In a fit of stress, he took the liberty of going to his favorite bar on a Sunday night just to get pissed drunk to the point of near hospitalization. The next thing he knew, he woke up in some place that was clearly not his with a raging hangover, with half a zombie crawling across the floor, wanting a piece of him.
“Urgh… Fuck me…” the agent grumbled miserably as his head throbbed—the proof that the hard liquor equivalent of an omakase experience was his stupidest idea yet.
Thank fuck the ibuprofen he found earlier in the search wasn’t expired. Hell, it’s a miracle he even managed to survive this long in whatever this place was with this fucking menace of a headache.
But… Where exactly is this hellscape?
And why are there four of him here?
And how did a civilian—who was clearly incapable of fending for herself alone—end up in the heart of an infested zone?
With an audible groan, he fished out a partially frozen bag of peas from the pile of goods and rested the back of his head on the bench, slapping the bag on the upper half of his face.
He’ll figure it out later. For now? Non-functional. Mildly pissed the fuck off with the existence of photons. Adios. Hasta fucking luego.
Meanwhile, the second eldest’s eyes flitted toward you. You were now somewhat clean of blood and tucked beneath a very oversized leather jacket that somehow managed to cover more than half your body length-wise. There was a certain hint of melancholy in his eyes—unreadable but obvious—as his gaze trailed to your face and lingered for a heartbeat, before averting his gaze to his two younger selves as he sat on a nearby stack of wheels.
He had tried contacting comms earlier, but it was just static. Checked his phone too, and there was no signal. Next thing he knew, this whole four Leons incident in the middle of an abandoned junction, as incredulous as it was, became a sliver of hope in surviving this place.
Finally, the eldest of the Leons had finished cleaning you the best he could, and was now attempting to change your clothes with his jacket draped over you, muttering “sorry” and “excuse me” every time his fingertips accidentally brushed against your bare skin. Each article had to be changed for good measure—infected blood and all. Thankfully, it had only splattered across unbroken skin, but it was dangerous regardless and needed immediate attention.
Almost as if on cue, the third Leon grunted and turned his back on the scene. Then he grabbed the frozen peas out of the second youngest's face—much to the other's chagrin—before curtly tilting his head in the direction of the desolated commercial strip they hadn't scoured yet. Even the rookie made himself busy by organizing the food rations by type to divert his attention away, tossing an electrolyte drink to the one with the hangover, who caught it before he left to gather more supplies.
Soon you were in new clothing—not the best ones but better than the ones you were in anyway. A soft sweater with a cotton T-shirt beneath, and a new pair of jeans that was a bit loose on your frame, held up firmly with a belt. For a second, blue eyes—the weariest out of the four—lingered on you with a strange, inexplicable familiarity, his gloved hand brushing a stray speck of dust from your cheek before he turned to the rookie.
“Keep watch. I’ll fix the camper.”
The rookie nodded and plopped down beside you, legs crossed as he adjusted the makeshift blanket to tuck you in better. Silence loomed over the campsite, with curious eyes occasionally glancing your way.
Time seemed to blur along with the quiet, and he eventually allowed himself a moment to think.
This place was almost like Raccoon City again—or at least, a part of what remained of it. Except this time, the infected weren’t in every nook and cranny of this already dead city. And now that he was finally out of another fight-or-flight scenario, he was slowly starting to feel the ache in his muscles despite being the youngest of the four—partly from his ongoing military training, and the fact that he was actually mentally exhausted from this whiplash of a circumstance.
“Got something on your mind, kid?”
He was jolted out of his thoughts by a more worn-down and aged version of his voice, accompanied by two sets of footsteps on the road. The rookie looked toward the approaching duo, who each carried a box.
“Kind of,” he admitted, his curious eyes flitting between each of his older versions. “It’s just so… weird, y’know? Seeing this many me’s in one place.”
The corner of the older Leon’s lips twitched up, and he placed the box near the other supplies before replying.
“Yeah, we’re going to need nicknames to avoid confusion.”
“Got any ideas?”
“Dunno. ‘Condor One’?”
“Hell no. I—we—are off-duty and—fuck, my head is splitting open—”
“Waitwaitwait. How about we take one part of our name each? I’ll be Leon, the other two can either be Scott or Kennedy.”
“Kid, there are four of us.”
“Uhh… One of us can be the dot after S?”
“Shut it, Dot.”
“Hey! I said I’m the Leon!—”
A groan escaped you as their voices began to grow louder.
All three of them froze while the oldest of the bunch continued repairing the camper, occasional metallic clangs ripping through the air. Three sets of eyes were on you as you tossed onto your side, curling up a little to bury yourself in more warmth.
The nearest Leon—the third—voluntarily shed his jacket as well and dumped it over you before turning back to the group.
“Well? Are we deciding or not?”
The recent Spain survivor sighed and slapped another bag of frozen peas over his forehead and eyes. Instantly, his thumb pointed toward their eldest.
“Why don’t we let that guy decide?”
The eldest didn’t respond, still focused on his task. The other Leons were on the brink of fighting over Leon, Scott, Dot, and Kennedy when a small voice—yours, groggy and still weak—broke through the silence.
“Rookie… Agent… Captain… Wolf…” you slurred out in a croaky voice, while your eyes still remained shut. All four Leons turned to you, including the one with the temporary ice pack, who briefly lifted it from his head.
“That works.”
“Agent?”
“Huh. Alright.”
“...You’re awake.”
“No…” You mumbled unconsciously. “...’m going back to bed…”
You sighed, already slipping back into unconsciousness as you tugged on the jacket covering you with a mild tremble. The camp stilled once again before the most disgruntled of the bunch finally walked over to your sleeping form and placed his jacket over you along with the others’. Only then did you unconsciously smile, finally satisfied with the warmth.
The hours flew by—mostly with the Leons just handling everything they could while they kept an eye on you as you dozed away. And when it was almost afternoon, that’s when you decided to finally wake up.
Only this time, it felt like a dream.
A morally scandalous, horrifying dream.
You naturally winced when your eyes fluttered open, the warmth of the early afternoon sun spilling through the cracked buildings and bathing the abandoned streets in faint gold. Dust motes drifted through the air, and somewhere nearby, water simmered into a pot.
It was peaceful. Relaxing.
A fucking red flag.
Because let’s be real: the concept of a peaceful Monday morning is an urban myth to those who lived in a bustling town.
Normally, you wouldn’t need an alarm clock to wake up. Your neighbors would be the ones who would do the honors, either by the random hammering against drywall, the garbage truck just stinking up the entire block, or when the upstairs stay-at-home mom was screaming at her kids because she doesn't believe in the concept of gentle parenting.
And none of that daily nonsense all of a sudden? Terrifying.
Your instincts were screaming at you. Pay attention, they warned. Wake the fuck up, they urged. So you did, and that itself was the trapdoor that swallowed you whole. You were certain that God was actually conniving against both your sanity and dignity with an elaborate, inescapable plan at your behest—because what in the fucking Calvin Klein fragrance ad is all this?
Four Leon S. Kennedys. Working on separate tasks, sweating it out, and looking disgustingly scrumptious in the face of manual labor. Your biological optics are rebelling against you, and as much as you absolutely despise it, you can't blame them. You have no choice but to respect their juvenile free will.
…
There are hypothetical guitar riffs in the background.
Mother of Christ above. This was going to end horribly for you.
Wolf was crouched beside the camper van in a dark-colored Henley, his sleeves rolled past his forearms as he tightened something beneath the hood before tossing an oil-stained rag over his shoulder. He was arguably the most well-built out of the group—a realization you obviously did not fucking need for the sake of your self-control. And the tired, throaty groan he let out the moment he leaned back to pop his lower back? A federal crime against your reproductive organs.
Then, there was Captain. The man had decided to forgo his button-up shirt, leaving him in a wifebeater—a very tight-fitting wifebeater. He was clearly strong and disciplined, his muscles flexing while he carried heavy boxes to the camper van with soft grunts. You had so many questions, but the longer you watched, the more it felt like you were reading a thirsty headcanon of Leon on Tumblr. He was glistening. His arms were shiny. His muscles were flexing. And you? You were crying. Just not at the ocular region.
Now, for Rookie—still in his ever chipper mood. Innocent Rookie, who was standing over the camp stove, humming a tune while stirring a pot of what you surmised as instant ramen…with his fucking shirt off. This man was a hazard with a pulse. An OSHA violator who decided to free his chest while being near boiling water. Where’s the safety inspector? And why are his pectorals defined despite being the baby of the group? It was rudely staring at you, and you were staring back at it. You swore it winked at you, and you almost winked back.
And Agent.
…Huh.
This is surprising.
He was actually the most normal out of the four in this fever dream of a situation. Fully dressed. No rolled-up sleeves. No exposed biceps. No gratuitous display of anything that could escalate into a criminal offense. He was assisting with hauling some of the items under Captain’s directions. You heaved a sigh of relief and smiled. The modesty was tasteful and much appreciated—spectacularly better than the terrorism of pectorals, forearms, and manly grunting.
You were finally breathing easy and admiring him from afar (because he’s the only one your heart can handle right now) until he stopped not far from you. He was panting slightly, beads of sweat trickling down his temples. Your smile immediately disappeared, sensing the impending danger coming for you.
And then, the killshot happened.
He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back, and before you could look away, he lifted the hem of his T-shirt and wiped his face.
A trickle of sweat.
Down.
Lower.
In the fucking belly button and out again.
And right in the—
…
Fuck.
That’s… Yeah.
No wonder the internet collectively lost its fucking mind when his remake game was released.
You gulped, and all you could hear in your head was a mixture of the sound of the dial-up connection, Windows XP shutting down, a screaming goat from a distance, and the rattling of the bars of a prison cell with you in it.
This was unfair. A coordinated four-man assault on your self-control (and your frankly unhinged libido). And much to your dismay, that was not the end of your embarrassing struggle. Agent’s eyes had flitted instinctively in your direction in the midst of your crisis, and you instantly let your inner possum possess your body as a survival response.
“Hey. Are you awake?”
…Were you?
“...”
“...”
“...No.”
Fuck, even the thought of him staring at you made you instantaneously ovulate.
…
That was a cursed sentence.
You needed to get spayed. Or euthanized. Either one works. The muzzle is useless at this point.
Your eyes remained closed, looking as dead as you believably can (and wanted to be) before the footsteps became louder until it eventually settled right beside your head.
Then silence.
Hypothetical crickets (because it was high noon).
In seconds, the temptation to peek was too overwhelming, and eventually a pair of blue eyes met yours. The Leon who had caught you was squatting and looking at you from above, hand pressing against your forehead with a serious expression on his face.
“You alright? You’ve been out cold for a while.”
It was a simple question—and one that you didn’t know you actually needed. But given your situation, it held a different kind of weight. You felt your sexual panic slowly melt away, and you let yourself actually observe the surroundings as you finally sat up.
It wasn’t a fever dream after all, and your heart slowly sank at the realization that you were—in fact—far from the comfort of your home. Civilization was dead—at least, it was dead where you were currently. And on your lap were…Three leather jackets?
And your clothes are…
Oh no. These aren’t yours.
Your eyes widened, and you immediately peeked beneath your shirt, only to find your bra gone. In an instant, your arms shot up to cover your chest, breath quickening in a panic.
“We didn’t see anything, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Captain cut in. “I—Wolf was the one who changed you. Had the jacket as a blanket on you too.”
“Medical necessity. You would’ve gotten infected if the blood stayed on you,” Wolf added simply before taking a sip from a bottle of water.
You slowly looked back at Agent, uncertainty now evident in your tone after a beat of processing their words. “How… How long was I out?”
“Half a day, give or take.”
You let out an exhale before looking at the others. The same four pairs of eyes were staring back at you. A disbelieving yet melancholic chuckle bubbled from you.
“Fuck. This is crazy. I…” You swallowed thickly. “I was just at home and…And…”
The words you actually wanted to say remained lodged in your throat. It would be rude to just flat-out say that you knew them, even if it is only by name, or even mention that they’re fictional when they are very clearly right in front of you.
You let out a ragged exhale before you continued slowly. “I remember I was at home, and when I opened my balcony, I was here.”
The silence was deafening. The Leons looked at one another, almost as if they were telepathically seeking answers in each other’s heads. Agent eventually locked his gaze on you again, and his words made your stomach drop.
“You’re not the only one.”
You sucked a breath in, looking at each of them. Rookie’s shoulders raised by a fraction. “It’s true. Same happened to me.”
“And we have no idea why there are four of us either,” Wolf added, following it with a small chuckle. “Thought I’ve seen the worst of things. But this… This is something else, I’ll give you that.”
That was the confirmation that made your blood turn to ice.
You had hoped this was nothing more than a misunderstanding. You had tried to assume that they were brothers. Cousins, even. Or even four very unfortunate men who happened to look uncannily alike. But the ugly truth of this wish fulfillment had finally reared its head, and there was no excusing what you had done.
Your head hurt. Your chest twisted with remorse. Your seemingly harmless decision was now the reason five people, yourself included, had been spirited away into an unknown place.
You heaved a sigh, running your fingers through your hair, whispering to yourself while you stared at the pile of leather jackets on your lap.
“Fuck, what have I done?”
Leon didn’t need this to happen. Leon deserved rest, not whatever mess this was. And now he had been dragged into another mess to fix another problem he hadn’t caused. You could still feel their gazes on you, and they felt like shards of ice against your skin now that you had fully processed the ramifications of your actions.
“Hey.” You felt the weight of Agent’s palm against your shoulder. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not your fault.”
Fuck, you didn’t know what to reply to that—not when you knew that you were to blame for this. You desperately wanted to believe him. But you could only muster out a sigh, gripping onto the jackets that belonged to them.
You let yourself inhale deep breaths, leveling the storm of emotions within you to a manageable baseline.
You knew this was not the time to wallow—not when the clock was ticking, and all five of you were vulnerable, especially you. You fucked up—actually fucked up with actual people, even if they had once been fictional characters in your world. That was the part you could never ignore again. Not after they had saved you, given you their jackets, cleaned you up, and made sure you were safe.
Even if they did not need you as much as you needed them, you would do whatever you could to get them home. It was the least you could do for them—if they were willing to have you.
“My stuff,” you cut through the tension with a sense of renewed conviction. “Did I have any of my stuff with me?”
Rookie immediately pointed to the pile not far from where you sat. Your clothes were separated from your other items: phone, wallet, keys, taser, and pepper spray. Without hesitation, you immediately rummage through the pockets of your contaminated clothes.
“Hey! Be careful with that!”
Rookie was already grabbing a bottle of rubbing alcohol to splash your hands with after. And then you felt it. Your fingertips brushed against metal—round and the size of a poker chip.
You took it out immediately to inspect it. Nothing about it had changed. Still, you pocketed it carefully before turning to the others. This was the only clue you had, and depending on where this band of Leons decided to go next, you would follow while keeping an eye out for answers.
“So, what’s your plan?” you asked.
“If we’re lucky, we can reach a nearby town within the next twenty-four hours,” Captain said, lifting what looked like an old tablet from the pile of supplies. “Found this in a car. Still works.”
“Town?” you repeated, a little too quickly.
He nodded once. “We’ll need to check for a map, a safe route, maybe a radio tower. If there’s anyone else alive out here, a town is our best shot.”
You swallowed and looked between them. The four Leons were spread around the campsite, paying close attention to not just Captain’s words but you as well. It was almost as if you were included in this entire arrangement—which somehow made this entire thing harder than it should be.
Because the thing was, they were clearly planning. Moving. Thinking ahead. Like people who belonged here, even if the place itself was a nightmare. And you—well—to put it simply, you were just a civilian in a borrowed sweater with your bra missing and a pocket full of useless courage.
“I mean,” you started, then stopped, immediately hating how small your voice sounded. You cleared your throat and tried again. “I don’t know what I’d even be useful for. I have a taser. And pepper spray. Which, for the record, feels aggressively useless right now.”
That got a brief snort out of Rookie.
You took a breath. “But if you’re heading somewhere, I can keep up. Probably. I’m not saying I’m a survival expert or anything, because I am very much not, but I can carry things. And I can help look. And I won’t get in the way on purpose.”
Captain watched you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Wolf leaned back against the camper and folded his arms. “That’s a very polite way to say you’re asking to come with us.”
Heat climbed up your neck instantly. Great. Fantastic. Amazing. You wanted the floor to open up and do you a favor.
“I—” You grimaced, glancing down at the jackets again. “Look. I just don’t really want to assume anything.”
Agent huffed, rubbing a hand over his face. “You think we’re just going to leave you here?”
You blinked at him. “Well. You do all technically have places to be, and I am a random stranger who woke up in the middle of your shared apocalyptic identity crisis…?”
Rookie made a noise that sounded suspiciously like he was trying not to laugh. Captain’s mouth twitched a fraction. “She’s got a point.”
“Not one you should be agreeing with,” Agent muttered, which made Captain clear his throat a little. Meanwhile, Wolf pushed off the camper and bent down a little so he was eye level with you.
“Wanna come?”
The question was simple. Almost unfairly so.
“I... yes?” you nearly whimpered, then immediately winced at how pitiful that sounded. “I mean—if that’s okay. I don’t want to slow you down. Or make things worse. Or become a liability. Or anything like that.”
Rookie’s brows lifted. “You woke up in the middle of nowhere after getting knocked flat by a Cerberus and your first concern is being annoying?”
You stared at him. He stared back.
Then he broke first, grin widening as if he’d just discovered something deeply entertaining. “Yeah, you can come with us. I wanna see you axe an infected for myself.”
You huffed a small chuckle. Captain looked at the tablet again, then sighed through his nose. “Yeah, you’re coming with us. We leave in thirty.”
You looked at him, startled.
He glanced up. “Unless you’d rather stay here and wait for the infected to return, in which case I’m sure the road will be much less crowded.”
“No,” you answered at once. “No, that sounds terrible.”
“Good. Then it’s settled.”
For one impossible second, you just stood there looking at them as they hauled the remaining necessities into the camper van.
You were going with them.
You were actually going with them.
Your chest tightened, not with fear, but with something that felt a little too much like relief. Agent glanced at you, nodding toward the direction of the camper.
“Get in. Before we accidentally leave you behind.”
You looked at the camper van, then back at the four men waiting for you. Then, with four borrowed jackets in your arms and absolutely no idea where the road would take you, you climbed aboard without looking back.
warnings: second-person pov, excessive profanity, violence, mild gore, guns, axes, rabid dogs, tonal whiplash, comedy to feels to horror, trauma event, mentions of a very visually appealing tumblr gif (for science), accurate modern-day depiction of the leon kennedy pipeline, the affectionate bastardization of leon kennedy's canonical monologue
chapter summary:
it all started with a brainrot. except this time, things go abysmally bad with chekhov's magical coin, all because of you not heeding the warnings of your local etsy baby witch.
word count: 4.2k
author's note:
i had extra time this week. (translation: i totally procrastinated on other things because i was kinda inspired and i might not be able to do this again next week.)
anyway, enjoy!
masterlist || ao3 || wattpad
July 13, 2026.
It was a day you'll never forget.
Whatever remained of your innocence died that day.
And that night, you were devirginized into a new fandom—no thanks to the availability of edits, fanart, and fanfiction created by the denizens of Tumblr, X, AO3, and Rule34(?).
Somehow, your PTO was approved immediately. This was supposed to be a two-week respite to heal your weary soul from the clutches of the corporate overlords. But alas, you were ultimately faced with yet another seemingly insurmountable battle.
You were doomscrolling (surprise, surprise). It was on Tumblr this time. You came across a certain GIF that altered the chemistry of your already Internet-poisoned brain: a muscular, silky-haired man with the grumpiest eyes, wearing a strappy, fetish harness bodysuit that bared his chiseled pectorals in sight while he flipped a knife. The visual assault did not end there, for his abs and everything else that mattered too were in full view, along with the faintest of happy trails, and finally, the very edge of an anatomical feature that had absolutely no business making a guest appearance. (TL;DR: You experienced an unexpected near-sighting of The Kennedy Cock™.)
You were trapped. These savages had you at gunpoint. A little clickety-click against your better judgment, and lo and behold—you have availed a lifetime membership of virtual gun violence, badassery, and the most powerful of all: modding rights.
You had every choice to say no; the right to resist this infection. You pretended you didn’t have one, for the sake of the plot.
The edits, the literotica, the thirst—God, it nearly killed you.
But at least you were sated. On the other hand, you were once again on the brink of insanity—not because of peak fictional male anatomy (a blessing unto mankind), but because of this fucking game.
If you could just clear this goddamned area without dying halfway for one fucking time, the pain—the excruciating pain of being a blithering idiot in the last two hours—will be worth it.
This time, it can be different.
It has to—
YOU ARE DEAD.
“Aw, come on!” you cried out, tossing your controller with an indignant pout at the nearby beanbag. Goddamn, you despised this part of the game: the island. This was already a rerun on a harder level, and you’ve never failed to get fucked six ways to Sunday.
Every.
Single.
Time.
The council has spoken. Spain is now temporarily taken out of your travel bucket list for its heinous crimes specifically against your dignity. You’ve lost count of how many attempts you made, but then again, you stopped counting after that stupid cabin fight back in the village. Leon S. Kennedy might’ve taken the visceral hits in battle, but it was you who took the worst damage of all—and it was right in the fucking ego.
Again, this was all your fault.
You didn’t even like horror games. Not initially, at least.
It was supposed to be either Stardew Valley, Graveyard Keeper, or RimWorld, not Resident Evil. And you derailed your plans of blissful zen all because of what? A GIF? Disappointing. Management should’ve taught you better. But then again, that 75% sale enticed you like a snake being hypnotized by its charmer (no wiggly dance there because the world has had enough catastrophes).
Jokes aside, it was a surplus. Wallet happy, you happy. An excellent use of free will. For that, you reward yourself with the last dino nuggie from your nearby plate before you resume playing.
And boy, did the hours zip past again like Ada Wong’s grapple gun escape maneuvers.
You hadn’t realized that the day was over until you looked at the clock: 8:38PM. Way past dinner time and a travesty to your already abysmal gut biome, but since when did the concept of time matter whenever you were on vacation anyway? Medical issues can wait; your brainrot can’t—and that thought is exactly why you need help. Spiritually, maybe. The medical professional you choose to consult can decide what category you fall under (because this narrator doesn’t have the professional rights to administer a diagnosis).
You could feel your conscience chuckling at you right now. Not in amusement but in a God-why-the-fuck-am-I-like-this manner. But that’s okay. You may be cringeworthy, but you are free.
Still, you hoped your father would never hear about this.
The thought made you shudder, so your knee-jerk reaction was to resort to escapism once again. But before you could pick the controller back up, your stomach let out a loud grumble.
…
Oh, right. Mandatory human sustenance.
How could you possibly forget?
Maybe it was time to unapologetically commit to the entire bit of being a reclusive, modern-day goblin. Which meant pizza rolls. Pizza rolls would be the answer to your hunger. Unfortunately, the moment you opened the freezer door, you were only met with a blast of icy air and no rolls in sight, except one single slice of bacon.
…Fuck.
Even your in-real-life inventory management is horrendous.
Side quest accepted (begrudgingly).
You prepare to embark on your 0.3-mile journey to the nearest gas station. Wallet, phone, keys, taser, and pepper spray. Pants, jacket, and Chucks that had seen better days. Rinse your mouth at the nearest sink and splash your face before giving yourself one final look in the mirror.
Yep. Good to go.
The night air nipped onto your skin the moment you stepped out of your unit. It was quiet and cool in the best way, and your earlier reluctance for human interaction almost instantly melted away. You’ve always liked these nightly runs to the nearby shops on foot. It was one of the better ways to decompress instead of coop yourself up entirely. You lived in a fairly decent area in town—the kind that doesn’t have much going on other than functioning to keep things running. Predictable and mundane, just the way you liked it. Even if predictable and mundane has seeped a bit too deep into your life that you’re one step away from doing something completely insane—
“HEY, WATCH IT!” someone yelled as you were crossing the road before they zipped past you. You were snapped out of your thoughts and quickly turned to glare at the person—an asshole riding an Aventon.
You could only dumbly stare at their back.
…
This is a trope, right?
Usually it’s a truck.
…
Not today, universe. Not today.
Not when you still had to clear Resident Evil 4 Remake in Professional Mode.
But seriously though. Imagine dying because you got run over by an e-bike. And imagine explaining that to St. Peter if the pearly gates really do exist.
“How did you die, my child?”
“…An Aventon.”
“...”
Thank God you were going to hell instead.
Suffice to say, your supply run was an astounding success. S+ rank alongside some other goodies. You have managed to snag the pizza rolls and secured a packet of bacon so that the last one remaining in your freezer would finally have its own friends. Plus, the cashier tonight was Pedro instead of his pre-menopausal wife, Margaret. One wink and some small talk about the day and his children in college, and the man typically offers a 10% discount and a packet of Skittles. In this economy? A win. Bless his soul. 10/10 would recommend. A retail legend.
And of course, you made your way back home safely with no diesel-powered bastard deciding to ram your existence into another dimension. Also, another win. This evening is proving to be a pleasant breeze with how astoundingly well the events have been going. Normally, it goes pretty stupid—like you tripping on a pebble or an aluminum roofing sheet nearly slamming itself on your head on a very windy day. It really was that bad—like the universe itself orchestrates an unknown personal vendetta against you whenever it’s in its time of the month. Unfortunately, you knew that won’t be the last of whatever crap it had in store for you.
One pizza roll preparation and a bath later, you feel absolutely resplendent. As you plop down on your chair, steaming pizza rolls on a plate nearby for easy access, your gaze eventually drifts back to the coin that you had acquired a couple of days back from that seedy, purple hoodie guy from the commercial strip.
You've done your research on this item ever since the day you acquired it. Brass with engraved runes and a smiling hooded figure on the other side—still the same appearance the day you received it. There were no specifics on whether this came from an existing set of artifacts or if it was ever used in any religious or spiritual practice. The only possible conclusion you could gather was that this was a wishing token of some sort based on the runes that had been etched on one of its faces.
It was whimsical. Intriguing. But fucking hell, it was also ridiculous.
A wishing coin? Really? You were a grown adult with a 9-to-5 job, religiously filed your taxes, had an ongoing beef with your employment contract, and constantly compared grocery prices between Walmart and Costco. None of the aforementioned traits screamed ‘whimsy’ in the slightest. Frankly speaking, you operated like an adult who’s had that whimsy beaten out of you with a hypothetical bat. And yet here you are, turning the patina-stained trinket over like a child inspecting a lucky pebble.
You were no expert on such novelties, you’ll admit. As far as you were concerned, getting what you wanted involved years of hard work and a stupidly absurd amount of patience. Such is the nature of delayed gratification. You’re aware it’s almost always the most reasonable and safest route, but you couldn’t exactly deny that you too had your tendencies of wanting things to materialize with a snap of a finger—especially in times of uncertainty.
Maybe that’s why people reach for improbable things. Manifestations, subliminals, spells, lucky charms, or whatever promise that they happen to come across. Not because they were incapable of reason, but because reason wasn’t exactly the most comforting when all hope is lost.
But who were you to talk, really? You’ve never reached that point quite yet—at least, you’d like to think you haven’t. They'd never managed to tempt you enough for you to actually try.
But almost every now and then…every now and then, there was a quiet part of you that wondered what it might feel like if something just…happened.
You glanced at your device screens—computer, phone, tablet, and even the tiny one on your mechanical keyboard all having the same fictional man as a wallpaper. Less than a week ago, Leon S. Kennedy had been a stranger. Now he occupied every screen you owned. It wasn’t only because he was dashing—although that bit was extremely true—but because somewhere between the monsters, the exhaustion, and the endless self-sacrifice, you found someone who valiantly kept choosing to keep going regardless.
Your gaze landed at your reflection in the nearby full-height mirror before naturally drifting back to the coin on your palm. You thought about the fairy tale-like concept of willing a fictional crush into existence for a moment before letting a wry smile curl upon your lips.
You already knew the kind of person your heart truly gravitated toward.
You silently took in his image—one that showed his vivid blue eyes and stoic expression, hair framing his frustratingly good looks despite the unimpressed, seemingly permanent frown on his lips.
Go on. Not like anyone’s around.
And in that moment, you allowed your heart to be fully, unapologetically honest with its deepest desire, your hand instinctively tightening around the coin and placing it close to your chest.
“I wish Leon Kennedy was my boyfriend.”
A gentle breeze from the slightly open window made your curtains flutter with the softest of whooshes.
Silence.
Non-hypothetical crickets (since it was actually nightfall this time).
You pursed your lips for a moment before erupting into a tiny, audible snort followed by a light-hearted giggle.
Jesus Christ. That was fucking embarrassing.
Oh well. It was worth a shot. And honestly, it made your chest feel a bit lighter. Better than nothing.
You grabbed the controller and resumed the game from where you last left off, stuffing a now slightly cooled pizza roll into your mouth.
A few more hours into the game, and you finally decided to retire when it was past midnight, but not before heading out to the balcony for a little stretch. It was a nightly routine you did before ending the day—a lungful of crisp air and a gaze up at the night sky before heading back in and changing into your pajamas.
The moment you slid the door open, however, you were not met with the usual sight of your neighborhood, but with a scene that was unsettlingly horrifying.
Ruins.
Apocalyptic desolation.
Buildings that were clearly abandoned and left to rot after mass destruction.
Your eyes widened out of reflex, taken aback by the scene before you. And when you turned, your apartment unit was gone. You felt your blood run cold, your eyes trying their hardest to adjust to the sudden shift. Your breathing spiked, your knees buckling with every encroaching sliver of fright.
No. No, no.
What the actual fuck happened?
Have you finally lost it completely?
A pinch on your arm. Pain. And with that, you came to the realization that this was not a hallucination nor a simple nightmare. Instinctively, you shakily fished your phone out from your pocket.
93% battery.
Good.
No signal.
Shit.
12:49AM.
Also, shit.
You needed to get out of here. Fast.
You swallowed thickly and turned your phone’s flashlight on after setting it to low power, dialing the brightness down to a reasonable intensity. Best to move through this place as quietly as you could in all possible ways. Perhaps find a makeshift weapon too if you could. Just in case things get ugly. Or a fireman’s axe, maybe. There’s bound to be one you might find along the corridor if your luck hasn’t run out yet.
If you’re going to traverse this clearly horror-like place, you were determined to at least not end up like the dumbest character who dies first in every Scary Movie installment.
You crept along the nearest wall through the corridor, using it as another means of navigation through touch. You were closing in on the stairwell, and just as you surmised, there was a firehose cabinet mounted on the wall near it, and conveniently, the glass door was already shattered. A lone axe sat within it, and you pried it out, only for a yelp to escape you as you finally felt the weight of it on your palms.
Shit, this thing was heavier than your weekly groceries. Immediate regret. Still, maybe it would increase your survivability rate from five seconds to at least eight. You secured your phone strap around your wrist, trying to carry both weapon and device at once, and proceeded down the stairwell.
Successful. Nothing out of the ordinary, except for rubble here and there. Slowly but surely, you finally arrived at the ground floor. The main entrance would be in sight soon, and you could figure out your plans from there, at least.
Footsteps. Yours, specifically.
The dripping of water. Somewhere down the blackened corridor.
A wet, raspy growl.
…What?
Another.
Nails clicking against concrete.
The sound of open-mouthed chewing—like molars grinding raw meat, and occasionally cartilage being crushed between powerful jaws.
You immediately took cover at the nearest wall, peeking from the corner, and instinctively turning your light away. The silhouette was all you could see beneath the thankfully bright moonlight.
Low to the ground, four-legged, and a tail.
Dogs, maybe. Strays? Perhaps someone has decided to feed them?
You didn’t take any chances.
You tiptoed away, trying to reach the glass doors to the outside. The doors were open. Good. You would’ve been screwed if they weren’t. Against your better judgment, however, your eyes decided to flick behind your shoulder for a moment out of curiosity—just to see what you could’ve been up against.
Exposed ribs. Bloodied patches of open muscle. Milky eyes. Flesh hanging off its muzzle.
…No.
No fucking way.
That’s not just a fucking dog.
One… Two…
More than two.
…Yeah.
You’re definitely sneaking out—and pretending you didn’t just see what you fucking saw with your own eyes.
You tightened your grip on the axe, inching your way forward. All was going fine and dandy, and you were about to slip out successfully, until the local architecture decided not to cooperate at the very last minute.
CRACK.
You froze. Your eyes darted to the now broken ceramic tile beneath your feet. The clicking of nails abruptly ended, and you could feel each of their predatory gazes snap at your direction one by one, followed by silence. Your head immediately turned forward, futilely attempting to blend into the background, but it was already too late.
It started with sniffs. Then raspy breaths slowly rumbling back into growls as they abandoned their meal for another—you.
One snarl, and another. And another.
Getting closer, and closer.
Run.
You bolted for the doors, and the moment you did, their snarls became frenzied, feral barks flooding your ears alongside the frantic scraping of their claws as they barreled toward you. Your heartbeat lurched at your throat, eyes actually beginning to well up out of sheer fright as you crossed the desolated streets.
Too close. Too fucking close.
Fuck, you didn’t want to die. Not yet.
“Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck—!” you panickedly choked out, forcing yourself to run faster and taking a sharp turn. You nearly tripped at the corner of the street, but you kept sprinting anyway. You heard one of them crash somewhere, followed by a pained whimper. At least, that bought you a few seconds. But the others were still hot on your heels.
Fucking hell, you knew you were excellent at running away from your problems. But not like this. Never like this. This was a night terror made into a reality, and you couldn’t find a way out. And as if you weren’t already utterly screwed, gravity and misfortune apparently decided to join in the fun of making your night even more miserable.
You cried out all of a sudden, your foot snagging on a stray piece of concrete debris. Your body slammed onto the ground, the wind knocked out of your lungs. They were closing in, and you attempted to hoist yourself up to no avail. Your legs refused to budge—not out of injury but out of fear.
This was it.
You could practically feel its breath on you now. Vile and decayed.
You tightly squeezed your eyes, tears finally spilling down your cheeks as you braced for the inevitable pain of being mangled to death.
BANG.
Your ears rang, a high pitch filling your senses.
BANG.
You felt the slight tremor of something heavy landing beside you.
Your eyes snapped open. Another Cerberus emerged from the misty dark, launching itself toward you. Out of adrenaline-fueled desperation, you swung the axe without thinking. You didn’t care where it landed. You didn’t even care about the crimson mess it would make on you either. As soon as the head embedded itself in flesh, that was it. You immediately let go and scrambled back up, a ragged breath escaping your lips.
“Move! Keep running!” the stranger barked before gunfire erupted again.
You didn’t need to be told twice.
You didn’t know how long it had passed, nor did you bother to gauge how far you’d gone, letting your legs carry you until it finally gave way. As soon as your knees hit the asphalt, you doubled over, clutching your chest while your lungs burned for air.
You were in the middle of a junction now, the surrounding buildings still reduced to the same apocalyptic ruin. Abandoned cars. Empty storefronts. Streets swallowed by darkness, except for the stretch under the nearest lamppost, which somehow still worked albeit dimly.
You huddled beside a car and made yourself as small as possible, wrapping your jacket tighter around you.
Too much.
Fuck, this was all too much.
You let out a sob, then another, until your shoulders shook with each uneven breath.
You were tired. Cold. Disgustingly sticky with sweat and the rancid blood of a bio-organic weapon. One moment, you were at home—warm, fed, and about to freshen up and retire for the night. And in a blink of an eye, you were in the middle of nowhere.
How did it even turn out like this?
Karma?
A divine punishment?
Fuck, do you even want to know?
You let yourself cry quietly until it dulled into sniffles. Then you wiped your face on your sleeve and stared into the dark.
What now? Where would you go?
Then another voice cut through the fog—young, sharp, and unmistakably alarmed.
“Hey! Is anyone there?!”
The beam of a flashlight swept across the street. You nearly sobbed with relief. Another person.
You sucked in a ragged breath and raised a hand weakly from where you were crouched. “Y-yeah—over here!”
Boots thudded over the asphalt. The figure emerged from the mist at a brisk jog, handgun held low but ready. The beam of light bounced across the cracked ground until it found you.
“Hey. Easy,” he said gently as he crouched in front of you. “Are you hurt?”
Your throat tightened. Relief hit so hard it almost hurt.
“No, I—just scratches. I think. I don’t know—I—”
“Can you stand?”
You nodded too quickly. He moved to help you up.
Until a second voice sliced through the fog, the sound of a mechanical click making your blood run cold.
“Don’t move. Hands where I can see them.”
Another beam cut in from the opposite side, brighter and harsher than the first. A person emerged through the mist, gun leveled with practiced steadiness.
The first man’s posture changed instantly. He immediately raised his gun.
“Whoa, hey!” He shifted just enough to put himself half in front of you. “She’s hurt—”
“—or infected,” the second interrupted. “Step away.”
Your rescuer tightened his grip on his weapon.
“You’re pointing a gun at a civilian!”
“I’m pointing a gun at a possible infection risk.” The muzzle of his gun didn’t move from you. “Same way you should be.”
“She was on the ground and shaking!”
“And she’s covered in blood.”
“I-it’s not—I’m not—” you started, voice cracking, but got cut off again.
Another one came from the mist, rougher and older than the others.
“Lower the gun.”
A third one stepped into the light, weapon lowered but ready, his attention going straight to you. His gaze flicked over your hands, your posture, the blood on your clothes, and the way the first was already standing in front of you like a shield.
“Ma’am,” he said, calm but firm. “Were you bitten? Any injuries?”
You let out a ragged exhale.
“No bites,” you managed. “Just scrapes from falling.”
You held your hand up, showing the minor wounds above the creases of your wrists from the fall. The light lingered over your palms, then your forearms, then the rest of you for any punctures or lacerations.
Nothing.
He let out a slow breath before backing away.
Silence settled over the junction. Then boots crunched somewhere beyond the drifting fog, a familiar gravelly tone breaking the quiet—the same person who told you to run.
“She alright?”
All heads snapped to his direction.
“No bites,” the third man confirmed with no hesitation. “Just abrasions.”
“Good.” He continued walking. “At ease. She’s with me.”
Every weapon lowered in an instant.
A cold wind swept through the intersection, tearing apart the blanket of mist that had hidden everyone moments before. And for the first time, all of you finally saw each other.
Different shades of the same unmistakable hair. Blue eyes. Variations of leather jackets with a fitted shirt underneath. Tactical pants. Utility belt. Shoulder holster. Combat boots.
No… It can’t be…
All four of them shared a similar style of preferred clothing. Nearly the same height. Similar hair. Yet their ages varied. You had to take another closer look at them with a squint before your breath finally hitched in recognition.
The tarot reading. That man from the shop. The words swirled in your mind as you put two and two together in this increasingly impossible situation.
“Four masculine energies.”
“Life-changing.”
“Be careful what you wish for.”
“From one traveler to another.”
…
“I wish Leon Kennedy was my boyfriend.”
You paled, slowly backing away. A tiny, nervous laugh escaped you—one that sounded increasingly hysterical at first before slowly getting weaker as everything finally settled into your mind.
“Hey… are you…”
“...ma’am…”
“...shock…”
“...she’s…”
Their words began to fade. Your vision was getting fuzzier with every passing second.
And before you knew it, everything faded to black.
warnings: second-person pov, excessive profanity, corporate burnout, psychic damage via fanfiction, cursed social media algorithm, tarot cards with no indoor voice, hypothetical adultery, minor vandalism, children getting annihilated (figuratively, but almost literally), monster energy, one very suspicious european man in his very suspicious shop
chapter summary:
this bullshit could've been avoided if you had gone to bed earlier than 2 in the morning. but of course, priorities. amirite?
word count: 5.1k
author's note:
no leon here yet. he'll be in the next chapter.
also, take a shot every time you see the word "fuck" (with potable water, yeah? :P)
masterlist || ao3 || wattpad
Adulting was never your thing. Hell, at this point, it was never anyone’s thing (sincerely, fuck this economy. xoxo).
You are currently at the driver's seat of your car, dazed and munching on your Taco Bell burrito with your last brain cells firing just enough electrical impulses to keep you functioning. Not functional-functional exactly, but at least you won’t be a traffic hazard, and that’s all that mattered. This was a rare moment of repose, considering the absolute shitshow of a day you just had. And boy, you couldn’t be thankful enough for actually filing a two-week leave effective tomorrow.
As for who injected that disgustingly deplorable thought in your head, you can thank your humble, local Etsy baby witch for that. And for the HR employee who voraciously ate your spiel while giving you the most understanding look a corporate slave could possibly muster, may both sides of her pillow be forever cold.
Anyway, back to the story.
It began with a 2AM doomscroll post-emotional breakdown. Mottled nose, tear-streaked face, and a love-hate relationship with the author of an A/B/O 500k-word story that you unapologetically scarfed down in the last two weeks—in short, you were a hot mess. Frankly speaking, that is you on a day-to-day basis. Only this time, you were immensely compromised, and as always, it was entirely self-inflicted. Your lack of attention to the “hurt no comfort” tag before clicking the link to yet another fiction-induced emotional death was your inevitable undoing.
Maybe one of these days, you’ll finally reflect on the errors of your ways. Unfortunately for everyone else in existence, that was not today.
Catastrophe logistics aside, however, that ending was unacceptable. A crime against your emotional stability.
Because what kind of demonic entity would snatch the happy ending away from two traumatized, burly, hairy men after they had the most explicitly hot, steamy, funky sex in several chapters and the most gut-wrenchingly sincere proclamation of love?
Is reality not enough of a painful struggle? Must you suffer in the realm of fiction as well?
Goddammit. You mourned for them. Daemon and Felix deserved that male pregnancy ending where they run away together and have twelve kids in the wilderness. You’ll never get over this in the next five to ten business days.
Hence, to soothe the rawest anguish of fictional grief, you resorted to the fastest, cheapest, most available source of consecutive dopamine hits known to modern humanity.
Tap.
Some random dance challenge.
Scroll.
“If you’re a heartless, bottom-feeding bitch, then keep scrolling—“
Scroll.
“Trying beautiful desserts in LA—“
Scro—
“If you see this on July 1 to 3, then this message is for you.”
That’s it.
You were a goner.
Somehow, the sound of the shuffling of cards managed to hypnotize you into an involuntary 101 crash course on inner self-discovery. You have never met this woman before. You don’t even know if Elena was her true name. But twenty TikToks and three YouTube pick-a-card readings later, you have been irrevocably convinced that your husband decided to give a local Hooters waitress the wandering eye, and you were now en route to cutting off what no longer serves you by mentally clocking out.
Fucking hell, you didn’t even have a romantic partner, let alone be married to one. But hey, if one hypothetical scenario can somehow spike your blood pressure and make your non-existent love life seem like a dumpster fire that could rival a season of Love Island, you might as well call it a dash of smoked paprika on your otherwise poorly-seasoned chicken (your life).
Damn, that was a mouthful.
You let that thought marinate a little.
…
Fuck.
That’s sad.
You’re sad.
Figuratively and literally.
…
Oh well. Time for another impulsively illogical purchase.
And just like that, a PayPal notification was sent to your email for your patronage, while your mouth hung ajar, and your body utterly conked out from exhaustion.
You nearly forgot about that impulsive decision until your phone buzzed the following morning again. And as soon as your eyes snapped open, you were met with some esoteric TikTok Jesus (you forgot his handle) making motions of pulling out the bad juju from your being through your phone screen. Lord knows how long that video had been looping. Maybe the tainted, spiritual spaghetti the poor bastard was yanking out was really that long.
Unfortunately, your phone was on the brink of its ion-depleted death, so with a groan and a swipe over your lips with the back of your hand, you finally pushed yourself up—because God forbid your phone’s battery health dips any lower than 80%.
It was the weekend, thankfully. A Saturday, to be exact. The booked tarot card reading was scheduled after lunch. Usually, there was nothing to do on Saturdays other than clean up your mess of an apartment, microwave one of those frozen gas-station lasagnas you depresso-bought in bulk, and eat it in portions throughout the day. Maybe you would’ve done something else. Looking back, you definitely should’ve. But as you recalled, you felt…exhausted that day. Vividly so for the past few weeks. And the woman who was staring back at you in a water-stained bathroom mirror reflected just that.
Cortisol face. Dark under eyes. Hair that was long overdue for a haircut.
Clearly, you’ve seen better days.
You’d like to think you might’ve had the means to end your suffering: declutter what deeply bothered you with just a resignation letter and a fuck-all to consequence. Instead, you could only muster a deep sigh before leaving that room that immediately felt closed in. And just like that, the thought of being read to absolute filth for giggles didn’t seem that fun anymore. But that was fifteen bucks with no refunds, and that’s all you needed to slough the sadness off.
Unbeknownst to you, however, that unassuming afternoon would undoubtedly be the catalyst for the weirdest sequence of events you would ever experience in your life.
The clock read 1:30PM. You were staring at your device’s screen, somewhat put together to seem decent enough for human interaction. Then, after what seemed like half an hour (measured in YouTube conspiracy documentary duration metrics), an enthusiastic “hi!” blared out from your speakers and a smile automatically plastered itself onto your face.
“Hey bestieee! Is my audio alright?” Elena tested her mic with a little tap. “Hope you didn’t wait too long. This Mercury Retrograde has been awful, I tell you. Three consecutive disconnections! Three!”
You have no idea what that meant—other than it was probably Spectrum or Comcast to blame because it sucked ass in her region. Still, you nodded with far too much enthusiasm compared to your default energy levels.
“Yeah! All good.”
“Great! Let’s get started with your reading!” she grinned and picked out a deck, instantly breaking it into a shuffle. The silence that followed was pleasant, with you just watching this sweetheart of a woman you came across from the internet. Elena was young—possibly a college student, judging from the crap ton of boxed mac and cheese just sitting on the kitchenette counter behind her. She was humming a tune while shuffling, the large candle at the side of the screen steadily burning the minutes away.
Cards flew out periodically before being set on the table carefully. With each laid out before Elena, her brows furrowed even more. Concentration? Confusion? You didn’t really know. But nervousness began to seep into your bones with every passing second. Because what exactly could tarot readers possibly see?
The ‘willing to work under pressure’ lie in your first resume?
The time when you decided to blow your date off after realizing he lived like a lawless Neanderthal behind closed doors?
Or maybe something much worse—your entire browser history.
The thought made you break out in cold sweat.
“Is it bad?” you managed to ask out. The query immediately snapped her focus back to you, and she shook her head vehemently.
“No, no! It’s just…erm… There’s plenty of masculine energy in the first four I drew out,” she explained.
‘Masculine.’
Yikes.
“So, there is the Page of Cups upright, the Knight of Wands in reverse, the King of Swords in reverse, and the Emperor upright…”
You stared at her with anticipation.
“So what does that mean?”
“Hmmm… Difficult to say. But I’m strongly leaning toward four men coming into your life. It doesn’t feel like a stage-in-life reading at all.”
You made a face.
“So four problems,” you confirmed flatly. A snort nearly threatened to escape Elena, but she quickly masked it by clearing her throat.
“Not really? But—wait. There’s something about it that feels…off,” Elena muttered, grabbing her deck again. “Let me ask for more cards.”
Elena began shuffling again, and two flew out: the Chariot and Eight of Wands. She laid them both below the initial spread before looking at you with utmost seriousness that didn’t suit her otherwise demure features.
“Girl…”
“Yeah?”
“This is… A lot. And fast.”
Oh.
“That sounds…concerning.”
Elena kept staring at the spread for a good long while before she let out a deep exhale and rolled her sleeves up, the both of you instinctively leaning closer to the screen.
“So here’s a rundown. Starting with this guy,” she points to the Page of Cups. “Young. Early twenties, I’m pretty sure. A sweetheart. Think of a golden retriever. A disaster puppy. That kind of guy.”
Cute. You nodded with a smile.
“Then this next one,” she points to the Knight of Wands in reverse. “Hot. Very hot. But probably a flirt. Clearly emotionally unavailable. I think he’s the type who’d say something melodramatic when his ex is mentioned, y’know? That sort of BS. Either way, definitely not over his ex.”
Your smile flattened.
“This dude,” her finger drifts to the King of Swords in reverse. “...feels like he is in desperate need of therapy. Feels blocked. Heavy burdens. Also, still not over his ex, for some reason.”
You frowned deeply.
“And finally this,” she tapped on the Emperor. “Honestly? Very established. Getting a heavy taxpayer sort of vibe from this one. And also—huh? What the fuck?”
She suddenly halted, her eyes widening at the sudden download in her brain. Whatever praise that she might’ve wanted to voice out immediately vaporized from her tongue, only for her gaze to narrow into accusing slits.
“...Dude,” she almost hissed in a fuming tone at the piece of thin cardboard, like she was directly addressing the mystery future love interest herself. “Are you fucking married?”
Silence.
Hypothetical crickets (because it was in the afternoon).
Your eyes flitted from Elena to the card, and right back at Elena again. You were feeling it: blood straight up leaving your face, hands getting clammy as you swallowed thickly.
That can’t be right.
That shouldn’t be right.
That can’t be the outcome at all.
Elena paled, panic instantly taking root within her as the full realization of her implications dawned upon her. Her life began to flash before her eyes—and it was caused by the impending dread of an incoming one-star review.
“No… No, that is not what—”
She was immediately cut off by the sight of your expression: hollowed, mortified, and distraught.
“Are you… Are you saying that I’m a…That I might become a…”
Oh, HELL no.
The war flashbacks started in an instant.
You recalled every love triangle media you’ve ever consumed and unapologetically shat on for using adultery as a plot device. For fuck’s sake, it’s almost 2030, and the concept is as old as every biblical lore compiled. In short: it was worse than your salary deductions, lack of promotion, and every corporate lie that had been IV-dripped into your system through memorandums and monetary crumbs in the last few years combined.
And now you were a… You were to be a… No. No, absolutely not. One does not simply name such a profoundly indecent implication aloud. It would be gauche. Spiritually hazardous. A desecration of your womanhood. It would be—good merciful heavens—a group chat situation and a hypothetical feature in Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers.
You have never felt so utterly, preposterously scandalized.
This was like the royal love triangle all over again—except you were obviously not the people’s princess in this conjectural scenario. But conjectural or not, the offense was immense.
So in a fit of sheer, unbridled denial, you spectacularly lost it, your horror manifesting into a pterodactyl-like screech while clutching your head and viciously raking your fingers through your scalp. And within nanoseconds, for some godforsaken reason, the Zoom call had devolved from a civilized conversation to a visceral, auditory exchange between two prehistoric creatures.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAA—”
“AAAAAAAAAAAAA—”
“MY MORALS! MY MORALS ARE UNDER ATTACK!”
“Waitwaitwait—I’m clarifying! I’m clarifying!” Elena cried out, shuffling her cards in a panic.
“I have spent years avoiding red flags left, right, front and back!”
“Shit, why is this deck being so difficult—!”
“I had my chance with that tech bro! I would’ve accepted the abysmal hairline! I would’ve married rich!”
“—come on—!”
“Goddammit, man! I’m still a virgin!”
“Wait, please! Just—hold on—!” Elena pleaded before her deck decided to fitfully give up on her and spill all over her table.
You immediately stopped panicking, both you and Elena just taking deep, heavy breaths.
Your gaze flits to her expression—she was peeling off the dried skin of her lower lip with her teeth, eyes cast downward. You knew that look, and it was the douse of cold water you needed to finally calm yourself down.
“...Sorry. Shit, that was too much,” you muttered.
Elena shook her head.
“No, no. It’s cool. Just that… I’ve never really had this sort of reading before. I’m still a baby at this, actually,” she admitted sadly. “I’ll refund the fifteen bucks, okay? I’m so so sorry if I wasted—”
“Nononono—you’re alright,” you immediately cut her off. Elena froze while you smiled at her reassuringly with an encouraging shrug. “No refunds, remember? I’ll behave. Go on.”
She let out a shaky exhale, her big brown eyes welling a little with tears. She looked at the strewn cards again and began to pick them up, occasionally looking at you shyly in between cards. Her bubbly personality slowly replenished, her lips curling again into her default expression.
Until her hand hovered over one.
Elena stared at it, almost as if she was in a trance, and then began to slowly tilt her head in curiosity. She carefully placed the half-collected deck to the side before picking up another three and laid it side by side.
“Elena?”
Elena finally looked at you after a moment of contemplation. You met her gaze expectantly, and she soon resumed her reading.
“You’ll meet someone, I think,” she softly said. “I…I’m not sure on the specifics, but that person will offer you something, from the looks of it.”
You tried to get a glimpse of the cards for yourself to no avail. Regardless, there was a churn in your gut that told you to pay close attention despite the lingering doubt in her tone. You watched her pick up two more cards before she faced the camera once again.
“It’s temporary, though. Maybe a little too fast, whatever this situation may be. Also, I don’t think these four guys are as terrible as what I might’ve implied them to be at first,” she explained. “I don’t know if they’re different or the same person. Maybe it’s both…?”
She sighed. “Honestly, that doesn’t even make sense, but that’s what I’m getting.”
You take a minute to process her words, the remaining functional brain cells in your head trying their hardest to untangle the mess of this entire reading.
“So a possible polycule or the only masculine-leaning guy I’d ever voluntarily tolerate.”
That summary roused an amused giggle from her.
“Possibly! Either way, you’re safe. They’re just a little rough on the edges, that’s all,” she nodded cheerfully. “But the one who offers something. Well—I can’t read whoever that is well enough. But it’s really strange. The sentence ‘be careful what you wish for’ keeps repeating in my head, for some reason.”
Elena reached for another deck and began to shuffle again. One card laid out after another, her forehead still crinkling in confusion as she attempted over and over to get more answers.
Again.
And again.
Until she let out a small but pained groan, still stubbornly shuffling.
“I’ll get it this time… There has to be an answer…” she mumbled before letting out a ragged exhale, ignoring the throb that had begun at her temples. After a few more futilely stubborn attempts, Elena finally put her deck down, settling for the only spread she was able to decipher.
“...I tried. It really wouldn’t tell me much…” she dejectedly mumbled before reading the final set of cards before her. “This never happened before.”
You felt bad. Not for the lack of answers but for her. It was always the earnest ones that really had an effect on you deep down, even if you weren’t the type who’d show it.
“So…what does it say?”
She stared at it briefly, only to sigh in defeat once more.
“Honest answer? I’m really not sure,” Elena slumped. “But what I will say is this: whatever this is? I have a strong feeling it’s gonna really change your life. Sometimes, the universe doesn’t wanna give out the spoilers, y’know?”
The quiet that followed was brief—just enough for you to let her words settle while chewing on the inside of your cheek.
Life-changing, huh.
The thought alone was loaded. For once, even your incessant deflections had to pipe down to digest the possibility.
How?
When?
And most importantly, why you?
Also, why the hell are you—a certified skeptic—so invested in this esoteric mumbo-jumbo all of a sudden?
Regardless, you couldn’t deny it had piqued a sliver of your curiosity.
“So… What do I do now?”
She gave a thoughtful little hum before casually shrugging.
“Dunno! That just means it’s up to you, actually,” Elena let out a sheepish giggle. The answer would’ve pissed you off had the situation been different, but for all the corporate plastic bullshit you face on a daily basis, her sincerity was automatically worth every single cent that you’ve just spent on this reading.
“Generic answer, I know,” she apologetically scratched her cheek lightly before looking at you. “Still, free will is a great thing to have in uncertain situations. We forget that itself is a blessing sometimes.”
A smile crept to your lips. Elena returned it with one of her own.
“But if I were to give personal, intuitive advice? Take a long break. Like, literally take an entire week or two minimum,” she insisted. “I have a feeling you’re gonna need it.”
And thus, here you are, armed with that temporary freedom.
You are now back at your car in the present, demolished Taco Bell burrito reduced to its crumpled wrapper in your hand. Meanwhile, the other sat safely on the passenger’s seat beside you. Normally, you’d scarf another to soothe the mental battle scars from corporate emails. But tonight? You feel fantastic. Rightfully so, given that cans of Monster drinks and a crap ton of video games you splurged on Steam were waiting for you at home.
The drive home was uneventful—something that you never thought you truly needed until now. Yet despite the calmness of the situation—the vast view of the giant lake you often drove past that was now bathed in rays of gold, and the pine trees that lushly filled the mountainous areas—your mind kept ruminating on that tarot reading with a smidge of heaviness in your heart.
Elena was right. You really did need this break.
You’ve never truly sat with the plausibility that you were tired, mainly because you were too busy trying to survive on your own. Bills, work, internal crises, and occasional indulgences—that pretty much summed up your life along with plenty of others in your demographic. But the other parts of that reading were what occupied your headspace as your car sped through the stretch of the bridge back to town. And for once, you allowed the thought to stay just a little longer.
Companionship. Romance, specifically.
How long has it been?
At this point in your life, the concept was as good as foreign even to you.
You’ve dated before. Been in relationships. Experienced the whole phenomenon of butterflies in your tummy, and the devastation when you finally realized that love demanded growth with every heartbreak. Your heart was whole once, until it wasn’t. Every collapse imparted you with a gift of experience—each lesson brutally embedded into you over and over, until the thrill of the what-ifs naturally dwindled into just staying away from the dating pool altogether. They said it was wisdom—you focusing on what you could control better. Everything that you’ve ever done in your life has led you to wherever you are right now. You are now safer, free, and independent—even if the longing still lurks beneath the surface, as much as you hated to sit with that invasive fact.
But four men all at once? Jesus Christ, that sounded like a nightmare. You’ve had your fair share of ambitious instances, but not like this.
You immediately shook your head and focused on the road, turning up the music to drown out the thoughts.
The road eventually narrowed as you drew closer to town: the ever-familiar commercial road sidestrips greeting you with acrylic, neon signs, and graffiti-addled metal shutters depicting bubble texts spelling God-knows-what alongside a comically large penis that somehow wasn’t scrubbed off for two years despite the blatant indecency. Vandalizations aside, it was a fairly pleasant place. It still had some visible scenic views albeit barely, great food, plenty of parking spaces, and interesting stores here and there—a tattoo parlor, a pawnshop that survived two decades and counting, a thrift store run by an old couple in a lavender marriage, and the laundromat where this geezer they call ‘Crazy Larry’ constantly yelled at the dryer to stop chewing holes into his undergarments.
This place is one of your usual places to stretch your legs out after a drive. Ironically, you nearly forgot about that until today. Monster can in hand, you decided to pull over and have a walk for old time’s sake.
You were enjoying it: the buzz of sugar flooding your taste buds with every occasional sip—until several spawns of Satan himself decided to make their presence known. It was at the far end of the strip, at the last store, nearest to the junction that led to the other places in town. You hadn’t realized you already walked that far within minutes, but you could feel your cheek twitch slightly as a snarl made its way onto your lips.
Three children, three cans of what was obviously spray paint, and one extremely poor idea that screamed juvenile delinquency. They were all flocking to a newly opened store—at least it seemed like it based on what you remembered—spray paint cans on hand while snickering to themselves.
Goddammit, here we go again.
“HEY!”
The three of them instantly froze, expressions morphing from impish delight to pure annoyance and then fright all in a matter of seconds the moment an empty Monster can nearly sniped one of their feet off.
“Oh shit—”
“WHAT THE—”
“BRO RUN—”
They bolted immediately at the sight of you charging toward them with the nastiest glare you could muster. That should’ve been enough, actually. But you knew that kids won’t exactly stop until their consequences fully stick into their brain (source: The Nanny, except now you had to make do without The Naughty Circle).
You grabbed an empty water bottle from the nearby trash when one of them stumbled on the pavement, and hurled the improvised missile at them again. A terrified yell broke the otherwise peaceful ambience of the area before they disappeared into the end of the block, a shrill scream faintly sounding something like “PSYCHO!” dwindling into the distance.
“Fucking kids nowadays, I swear,” you mumbled under your breath before returning to the store. Your lungs burned a little as the adrenaline eventually wore off. As you approached the vandalized storefront, someone—the owner, you assumed—had his hooded head out the door to see what all the ruckus was all about. With a heavy sigh, you went up to him.
“Hey, so about that thing…” You trailed off, motioning at the dreaded 67 spray-painted on the glass panel. “I can—uh—I can help fix that. Or like… report them. Or something.”
The man shifted his attention to you, his head slowly tilting out of curiosity. He was odd, to say the least. Lanky, wearing a rich purple hoodie with several white painted-like lines, dark cargo pants, and a black surgical mask. His eyes were mostly obscured by his hood, but maybe it was gold or silvery blue? You couldn’t quite catch a proper glimpse of it—not with that oversized hoodie obscuring whatever the surgical mask couldn’t.
He kept staring at you—you knew he was, based on that familiar feeling of phantom prickles on your skin.
“Ye didn’t have to do that, stranger.”
That made you titter, your hand absentmindedly scratching the back of your head.
“Yeah? Well, would’ve felt wrong if I didn’t do something.”
“Still, them lads do it often. Most folk move along.”
“True. But those runts were right in front of me, and I happened to have some time. Might as well.”
The observation on his end resumed—longer this time—before he broke into a chuckle after what seemed like eternity.
“Heh heh heh heh… Heh heh heh heh…”
Shit. Is this guy high?
“Quite a throw you got there too, aye.”
Oh. Nevermind. He’s fine.
“Uhh, thanks?” you cautiously replied. “College beer pong. Improved the aim.”
You nearly thwacked yourself on the head for that one. Thankfully, the man didn’t seem to mind your flavor of eccentricity.
“Good aim's a valuable thing to have. Useful, at least where ‘m from.”
…
Huh?
For what? Beer pong championships?
You gave him a pressed smile before picking up the now dented Monster can and chucking it into the nearby bin. As you approached him again, your eyes drifted to his store and finally took in the facade of his establishment.
CURIOS AND ODDS
est. 2004
“Nice to see this place finally rented. Place has been boarded up for a long time,” you absentmindedly commented before your gaze landed back at him. “Also, you’re new here, right? You don’t sound local.”
“Somethin’ like that, ye.”
“Huh. Cool. Where are you from?”
“Wherever there are customers,” he chuckled in that same tone as earlier. You gave him a blank look.
God, capitalism really has all of us in a chokehold, doesn’t it?
“Business good here so far?”
“Comes and goes.”
“So whatcha selling?”
You could practically feel his grin through his mask at the question. He gave a curt tilt of his head to the store, inviting you in.
“Bit o’ this and that. Have a look.”
The shop that greeted you was quaint and a mite shabby. Old shelves filled with trinkets and antiques that were charmingly on the more eclectic side: pocket watches, brass compasses, a butterfly encased in amber, a pot of red herbs, and even a vintage typewriter in the corner. You were no expert when it came to these sorts of items, but as mildly dingy as the place was, it felt unusually comforting. As you combed through the shelves, your gaze eventually snagged onto something unimpressive: a single, unassuming coin. It didn’t look like one of those old pennies—it was brass, larger, closer to a poker chip in size. But it had a strange symbol on one side, and upon flipping it over, you found a hooded figure with a grin etched onto the surface.
“So what are ya buyin’?”
Your attention snapped back to the owner, and you immediately put the item back. He let out that chuckle again, noticing what you had been fixated on seconds ago before making his way over.
“Most folk pass that one by,” he said with an amused tone as he stood beside you. "Got an eye for odd things, have ye?"
“It’s just a coin, though.”
“Aye. Ain’t worth much ‘ere.”
“So why keep it on display?”
The owner looked at you for a minute, almost as if he was assessing in the most non-invasive way possible. The silence of it wasn’t oppressively judgmental, at least. Otherwise, you would’ve decided to bolt for the door.
“Heh. Heh heh heh heh.”
Your lips curled downward.
“What’s so funny?”
"Funny thing, that. Folk tend to find what they're lookin' for," he rasped. “And if they don’t, what finds ‘em simply does.”
He grabbed the coin from the shelf and glanced at your hand. Unconsciously, you held it up, and the coin was dropped into your palm.
“Take it, stranger.”
You gave him a bewildered look.
“W-wha—? But I—I can’t just—”
You were about to give it back, but he stopped you with a pat on the shoulder.
“Consider it as a gift. From one traveler to another.”
You could only clutch it close to your chest, confusion still evident on your expression.
“And besides…” he trailed off, sparing you one final glance. “Ye’ll need it more than I do.”
Your gaze naturally fell on the piece of metal on your palm, the etched hooded figure’s smile somewhat getting wider. And almost as if it were a trick of the light, the moment you raised your head, you were back outside the shop like you’d never stepped in at all. The shop was boarded up, and Curios and Odds was no more.
“What the—?!” you exclaimed, immediately trying to peek past the grime-stained glass.
Empty. Except for the remnants of several dilapidated shelves and peeling wallpaper.
You instinctively backed away slowly from the storefront, checking your surroundings in the process. Everything was its usual appearance. The sun had already set, but the streets were still alive with activity, the distant throaty yells coming from the nearby laundromat.
Hallucination? Haunting? Disassociation?
Welcome to Night Vale?
No, keep it together, dumbass. You’re fine—at least, you know you are. You’re certain you know what you saw. He was right there, and you were there too.
You pinched yourself for good measure. Pain—good. Then, you immediately uncurled your clenched fist. The coin was still there, warm to the touch. Still the same symbol and carving on the patina-stained metal.
Christ, this entire situation was making your head hurt.
You pocketed the coin, heading back to your car before your brain decided to conjure up any more supernatural nonsense.
That happened. You don’t get it. You don’t want to get it. You don’t want to think about it anymore. Case closed.
With a heavy exhale and finally turning to give that store a final look, your line of sight passed over the dented Monster can that sat atop the bed of trash before you finally decided to head back to your car.
“Fuck. I should really cut back on the caffeine tonight.”
[the cautionary tale of manifesting love] ; [masterlist]
leon s. kennedy x reader
navigation || ao3 || wattpad
themes: reader insert, second-person pov, accidental isekai, parallel worlds, multiverse, pocket dimension, fish-out-of-water, strangers to lovers, romantic comedy, slow burn, eventual romance, mystery, supernatural, action, love across universes, destined love-ish, found family (kinda), internet culture, fourth-wall-adjacent humor, emotionally constipated men, terminally online narrator, internet brainrot, not canon compliant, eventual angst with happy ending, crack treated seriously
warnings: excessive profanity, canon-typical violence, crude humor, possible trauma references, eventual smut, body horror, blood and gore, survival horror, canon-typical violence
summary:
Congratulations. You manifested Leon S. Kennedy. You forgot to specify which one. Thanks to one catastrophically ill-worded wish, you're now trapped in a pocket dimension with four versions of your fictional crush.
The only way home? Fulfill the wish.
The wish?
"I wish Leon Kennedy was my boyfriend."
