4th schuyler sister and 2nd buckley sister 🫐 — •° a wave of sonder washes over you when you're alone with only your thoughts °• — serendipitous account in all means.
I need Leon's and Grace's VA to sing Through the Darkness together... idc if they can sing or not I just....... I need this to happen... please... for my mental health
The movie adaptation for shatter me is gonna be a BIG mess. I don’t even care abt anything but if ANY hoes who didn’t read the books start hating or claiming Aaron Warner, I’ll genuinely blow up the entire globe.
I thought it was common sense when you don't like a specific food, you don't eat it. Why do we not implement the same concept in reading. If you don't like a fanfiction, why read it? Many authors are currently taking down their work off tumblr from the unnecessary hate comments. It doesn't ever occur to people that it takes effort for someone to write and think about this. Why do I have to witness my favourite writer on tumblr take down my slow burn because everyone was hating on it. Like, just don't read it. Nobody cares if you don't like it. It annoys me so much seeing how much potential authors and writers have, but they're being hated on from some insignificant being who can't keep their unwanted opinions to themselves.
(merna, if you're seeing this, please reupload the slowburn 😭)
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Nightmare Mirrors (Leon S. Kennedy x Claire Redfield)
Part of my If I'm with you, I'll never die series, but set before what happens before those one-shots.
First part is 72 Hours.
Second part is Some Like It Hot
Claire is running through the R.P.D., the wooden floors creaking under her boots, but no matter how fast she is, she can’t lose the zombies behind her. She can smell the stench of their bodies like a dark, ominous cloud at her back; their groans fill her ears, and their cold hands keep trying to reach her.
She reaches the north‑west stairs, but the zombies are somehow still behind her, and another set of noises adds to the macabre symphony: heavy taps on the walls accompanied by ragged breathing and gurgling hisses. She doesn’t need to turn to know that a couple of lickers has joined the party.
Claire begs her legs to run faster. She doesn’t have enough bullets to face the horde behind her, and even if she did, there are too many for her to handle alone. But if she reaches the S.T.A.R.S. office, if she reaches Chris, she will be safe; after all, her brother is an awarded marksman.
Claire reaches the end of the stairs. A brush against her back tells her she is far from losing her pursuers; in fact, they seem to be shortening the distance between her and them. She tries again to run faster, to no avail. Just as she reaches for the doorknob, the wall to her left breaks open in an explosion of debris and dust that makes her start coughing.
Claire’s eyes itch and immediately turn red. Blindly, she tries to open the door, but the doorknob has somehow disappeared. Panic doesn’t have time to appear before a big hand grabs her by the neck and smashes her against the right wall.
The damned creature dressed in a trench coat and that ridiculous fedora hat is choking her, his grey face remaining imperturbable, devoid of any emotion while looking straight into her eyes. Claire struggles under his hold, kicking her legs, trying to scratch at the hand squeezing her throat.
The echoes of the groans of the zombies and the lickers grow duller as the burning sensation in her lungs keeps intensifying. Black dots fill her vision as the iron grip around her neck tightens.
Claire wakes up with a jolt. Tears sting her eyes and sweat covers her body; the bed sheets are wrapped around her and sticking to her skin. The first thought that comes to her mind is that they look like a shroud. Vomit rises in her throat, and Claire flees the creaking bed for the bathroom in quick strides.
It only takes her three heaves to empty her dinner into the toilet bowl. As she kneels there shaking, with the debilitating weakness that follows vomiting, she hears a set of footsteps. Claire’s eyes frantically sweep across the bathroom, searching for something she can use to defend herself; no matter how flimsy, anything is better than the feeling of being empty‑handed.
It’s only when the hesitance in those footsteps registers in her mind that the blaring alarm inside her finally shuts off. It’s Leon. The breath she didn’t know she was holding leaves her lips when his head appears through the open door, concern and sympathy weighing in his blue eyes in equal measure.
Leon steps into the bathroom like a man walking through a minefield, his movements slow and deliberate so he doesn’t set anything off. Without a single word, he hands her a glass of water. Confusion must be evident on Claire’s face, because he quickly whispers to rinse your mouth from the vomit.
Claire nods at the gesture, it is something that feels very Leon in a way she can’t explain. She rises from the floor before accepting the glass, not trusting herself to grab it earlier without spilling half its contents on the tiles.
Through the mirror, Claire can see his hands hovering in the air behind her back, unsure whether he should rub her back to comfort her or drop them and give her more space. After a couple of seconds, Leon lets them fall to his sides.
Did I wake you? Claire finally asks. No, I was having a hard time falling asleep on my own, Leon says, before adding in a soft voice. I have an inkling of what I’m going to see if I do.
They exit the bathroom and sit with their backs resting against the wall. From their position, they can see Sherry shifting around in the cheap motel bed she had been sharing with Claire until a few minutes ago. Next to it is Leon’s empty one.
Their bodies are close but not quite touching, and despite the silence, the warmth radiating from Leon’s body feels comforting. It is funny, in a twisted way, how three days ago he was a stranger, and now he understands a part of her she doesn’t know how to explain to people she has known for years.
They haven’t figured out how to keep going after everything. They don’t know what the future holds for them, nor how they can comfort the others. They will, she is sure of that.
~ᰔᩚ~
Her steps on the marble floors echo through the empty corridors, but no matter how hard Claire tries or how much she pushes her body, she can’t walk any faster, as if she were made of lead. Countless invisible hands grab and pull at her arms, her legs, even her hair, tugging in all directions, trying to hinder her advance too.
CLAIRE! The voices keep shouting her name, concern lacing her brother’s voice, worry in Jill’s, agony in Leon’s, and the desperate cries of Sherry. She tries over and over again, but she can’t go faster. They are so close yet so far, as if she’s being allowed to brush the tip of her fingers against where she’s going but never truly reach it.
Her brows furrow with effort, fear, and frustration. Stubbornly, she keeps pushing; one step closer at a time is better than nothing. Yet, as the dark voice whispers inside her head, it is not enough. She will not save them on willpower alone, not this time. Chris never taught her how to quit a fight.
The endless corridor keeps stretching in front of her eyes. The volume of the voices grows with each second, until she wants to cover her ears to stop the torture of having to keep listening to them while she remains useless. Claire closes her eyes; maybe if she can figure out how to get rid of those pesky hands or lighten her legs again, she can save them.
Opening her eyes again Claire glances down, and an anguished scream leaves her lips. The floor is covered in blood, a dark stream that soaks into her shoes and trousers. She stumbles, and the crunching of bones reaches her ears. Her legs wobble, and soon she is on her hands and knees. The voices are now so loud it feels as if they’re screaming directly into her ears.
The blood swirls under her hands before chaining her in place. She tries to pull away to break free from it, a useless fight. The voice whispers again: she has been sentenced to stay like this forever.
Claire snaps awake, wide‑eyed and without making a single sound. Her heart drums in her ears with such intensity that, for a couple of seconds, it drowns out every other noise. When her body finally relaxes enough for her to move again, Claire staggers to her bathroom.
The cold splash of water on her face is a welcome sensation. Claire examines herself in the mirror; she looks pale and ghastly, her pupils still dilated as if searching for an invisible threat. Claire closes her eyes, draws a deep breath, holds it, and then finally lets it go in a very slow manner. She repeats it several times until she feels more in control of herself.
A pair of strong arms wrap around her waist before she is pulled back against a firm chest. Leon. Her eyes find his through the mirror. Did Mrs Irwin’s car eat your bike again? The joke is stupid, but the picture it brings to her mind starts to chase away the image of the corridor filled with blood, bones, and voices.
It was a one‑time thing, but you aren’t letting go of that silly dream, are you? she asks, half relieved and half exasperated, before turning on her heel and hugging Leon, her forehead resting against the warm skin of his bare shoulder.
Maybe in a couple of decades. Claire can’t see his face, but she knows he’s sporting a cheeky smile right now, and then she feels him tighten his hold around her as the fluorescent light above their heads flickers. Outside her tiny bathroom, the sound of the night train drifts in, another piece of normality for her mind.
Do you want a glass of water? Chocolate? Leon asks again, his voice raspier than the rookie she met years ago. No, just stay, she says, her eyes fixed on one of the moles on Leon’s arm. It is good that he has so many of them; tracing connections between them calms her thoughts on nights like this, when she doesn’t want to think about her nightmares any further or give Umbrella’s monsters more control over her life.
As long as you want me around, Leon replies in a calm voice. He never promises her a forever, too self‑aware of the dangers of his job, but Claire knows that if he could, he would. She is sure of that.
An odorless vapor releases from the four corners of the room at the end of the ominous countdown, but you don't pay it mind, your head focused on one thing and one thing only—saving Leon.
Holding your breath not to breathe it in and hopefully stall the nerve agent’s debilitating effects, you place your fingers on the keyboard, ready to begin.
The screen flashes with a series of codes you are meant to input, only you did not expect the series to be so long and for the codes to have specific placements within a form you’re meant to fill.
This will take forever.
The realization dawns on you with a gulp, but your fingers start to work nonetheless as you try and fail to ignore the pounding on the door behind you.
Outside, Leon has completely lost it. His palms are red from all the slamming he has done against the immovable steel, and now he has moved on to try and break the glass with anything he might find.
He doesn't care if the mist will seep out to infect him as well, he quite literally would rather die than let you do it for him.
“Kid— Kiddo—” he babbles to himself in a wavering voice as his eyes frantically roam around the place, like calling out to you will somehow keep you safe.
His gaze lands on a fire extinguisher, and he doesn't stall to grab it with shaky hands, just to bang it against the window so hard he feels an electric jolt through his bones.
Smash after smash and the window won't budge. The room is sealed air tight not to let out the compound, and he feels like he wants to claw at the walls to make them yield open so he can get to you.
Every passing second brings him closer to delirium, and he knows—he knows—if this is the end, if this is how you die while he watches, then at least he has a gun he can put to his head. Fuck your sacrifice. He’s not doing this shit without you.
Only a couple of minutes pass of typing out the endless sequence when you begin to feel your eyes burn. There’s beading sweat on your temple, and a bitter, metallic taste is settling on your tongue. Even without breathing it in, the toxic mist has started to affect you, and you know this is only the start.
Your lungs protest when they reach their limit. So, with abnormally shaky hands you reach for the long skirt of your dress to lift it to your mouth, using the silk fabric as a makeshift mask. It won't do much, but it might give you a few extra precious seconds.
You don't dare waste a single moment to look back at Leon who is causing a ruckus, throwing every possible object he can find at the unyielding door.
He tried a metal trashcan, a chair from a nearby room, and now he’s pointing his pistol at the glass knowing fully it will ricochet against the bulletproof material.
Sure enough, it rebounds and grazes his shoulder with a sharp sting, but he barely pauses to acknowledge it before he’s pounding at the door again like a madman.
“Fuck!!” he curses in a broken sob, and takes a moment to watch you inside only to have his heart shatter all over again.
There you are, repeatedly blinking hard against the growing blurriness of your vision. Your muscles have started twitching, your chest constricting with every labored breath. At some point you drop the fabric you were holding against your mouth—it’s useless, and you would rather use two hands to type quickly as long as you're able to.
Leon wipes his tears roughly with the back of his hand, a new wave of determination hitting him at the sight of you still there, still trying. He won't stop trying either.
A sudden idea comes to mind and he sprints before he can even think if it’s a good one.
He reaches the bathroom in record speed, unlocking the special mechanism you had used earlier to keep the guards confined, then kicks the door open with his gun pointed.
The two men inside already have their weapons drawn, no doubt having heard the loud commotion he’s making. He can feel adrenaline pumping through his veins so thickly it's like time slows around him.
Without hesitation, Leon mercilessly shoots the first guard through the chest, the latter’s body falling on the tile with a startled groan. Then, taking advantage of the second man’s shock, he disarms him quicker than he can retaliate.
“With me,” the agent simply grits out, wrenching the worker's arm behind his back and placing his firearm’s muzzle to his temple.
He drags him forcibly back to the control room, every laborious effort feeling like it’s eating at his soul when he can't get there in the light speed he wishes he had.
“W-what the hell do you want?” the guard manages to squeak out, only to be met by a smack to the side of the head with the handgun's handle.
“Open the fucking door,” Leon hisses and shoves him against the metal.
The man looks at him cluelessly, then peers inside to see the vapor engulfed room and blinking red light. His eyes widen with realization of what's happening.
“I-I can't, badges don’t work during the override!” he gestures to his lanyard.
Behind him, Leon can see you past the man’s shoulder. You have fallen to your knees, every muscle spasming, and breathing faster than a rabbit’s pulse. There's snot and drool leaking down your face in addition to tears, the compound causing an overstimulation in secretory glands.
The numbers blur together as you fight your own body to continue inputting the correct series. You have to hone every bit of fraying brain power to not enter the wrong code, deleting and retyping every time you make a mistake.
Each and every cell in your body burns. The nerve agent blocks the very enzyme that allows your muscles to relax, to function, and you can feel yourself reach the very end when the splitting headache you're experiencing goes from throbbing to pounding. You can barely hear yourself think through the pain.
Outside, Leon punches the man so hard he sees double. “Fucking open it!”
The guard brings a hand to his bleeding lip, and in a trembling voice shakes his head in desolation. “I told you, man… The badges don't w—Argh!”
He’s interrupted by a bullet to the thigh, the agent’s furious scowl wild like that of a feral animal in a cage as he glares at him. “I will rip your fucking guts out if you don't open it,” he seethes.
But even as he grips his gun tight enough the stock indents his palm, ready to inflict more harm to force the man to comply, Leon knows his attempts are futile. So when the guard just cowers in fear, shielding his face with trembling arms, he simply grabs him by the hair and slams his head hard enough against the unbudging door that he passes out.
Never has he acted so unnecessarily violent towards anyone, but he’s certain he has officially lost all mental capacity of rationale and logical thinking.
With the bloodied man’s body limp on the floor, all that is left to do is watch you again through the window, resting his forehead against the screen as all hope drains out of him.
You’re throwing up the little contents of your stomach on the floor on all fours, dry heaving and quivering as the last remnants of strength leave you. You try to get back to the keyboard, but fall face first on the tile, your arms giving out from under you.
Leon feels his own knees buckle, but he holds himself up—he won't look away. He wants to watch you until the very end since his company is all he can offer you through the cruelly resolute steel separating you.
After years of vowing he will do everything he can to keep you safe, he has failed miserably. This is the price to pay for holding something precious in his life. He should've known. You were never meant to be tainted by his proximity. He ruins everything he touches, and now you will be added to the ever growing pile of skeletons in his closet. Hurt, destroyed, desecrated, and left to die in a puddle of vomit.
Maybe he never should've returned with ice cream that day.
He can still remember it like it just happened, when the emergency services came to your front porch. He had stayed by your side as you sobbed, a hand on your shoulder because that was the only way he knew how to support the poor teenager whose zombie father he just put down.
Your cries wouldn't stop no matter what measly words of reassurance he gave, but you still sat by him, unmoving even as first responders showed up.
When an FBI agent asked you to get into the ambulance so they could take you for a checkup, you shook your head, then scooted closer to him to his great surprise.
Leon never saw himself as someone who could provide comfort. The last time he had to give a pep talk was an awkward attempt with Ashley Graham, the president’s daughter he was tasked to save. It worked well enough it got her to calm down, but he still cringed at himself later for not doing better.
And yet, his lame “you’re gonna be okay” seemed to be all you needed to hear, because no matter who they brought to talk to you, you stuck to him and even reached for his sleeve when he was about to move away.
“Do you want me to ride the ambulance with you?” he asked quietly as he used his body to shield you from the view of the hazmat suits collecting your father’s corpse.
“Yes,” you responded in a quiet whisper, the first word you ever uttered to him.
And just like that, he was sitting beside you in the vehicle five minutes later, while EMTs checked your vitals and any signs of injury. He heard your name when the workers asked for it, repeating it in his head, and he remembers you stealing a glance his way that would have made him smile if not for the terribly sad situation.
“I’m Leon Kennedy,” he murmured softly while your temperature was being checked. “I’m, uh… a special agent.”
He distinctly remembers the twinkle in your eye from his introduction.
When you arrived at the hospital, he couldn't go in with you past the intake point, but he made sure to repeatedly tell the staff you weren't infected. He’d know—it’s his job to deal with the flesh-eating kind.
“Are you, um… Are you going to be here when I finish?” you asked in a tiny voice when the nurses began guiding you away.
Leon felt his heart squeeze in that moment, and that's when he knew he would do anything he could to help you. “Yeah, I’ll be here... Promise.”
It was never part of the plan. It wasn't part of his job either. But an hour later, when you were done with medical checks and being escorted around by a fed, he showed back up.
Your eyes lit up when you saw him despite the weariness of your features, even more so when you noticed the two ice cream cones he held in hand.
“I heard the place across the street has decent stuff,” he muttered awkwardly, looking down at the sticky cream dripping down his knuckles and questioning his stupid choice of treat. “I didn't know what flavor you like, so… I got two.”
A ghost of a smile spread on your lips at the sight of the mess he was making on the bleach-smelling floor tiles. Then, with a tentative hand, you reached to grab the cone that looked the most enticing.
“Thank you… Leon,” you whispered gratefully. From that day onwards, vanilla with rainbow sprinkles became your favorite.
Through the fog of unconsciousness, a tiny voice in your head asks you to get up. You try to listen to it, but find the task impossible. It gets louder, “you’re so close,” it says in an echoey yell, and you recognize its smooth timber, but your brain is too messed up to think of who it belongs to.
When it shouts one more time, you finally manage to raise a shaky arm, your vision entirely blurry and spotted in black when your hand thuds lifelessly on the keyboard and makes it clatter to the floor beside you.
There, with your cheek pressed to the cold tile, you can see the single final step towards hope. If you can just reach far enough, you can press the ‘enter’ key, and it will be okay. You think. You hope.
At least, that's what he said.
A pathetic gasp leaves your saliva leaking mouth when your spasming palm slides across the floor. And then, with a final shuddering breath, your index presses the button weakly.
You can barely hear a muffled robotic voice echoing around you, but the blinking red lights turn into a steady white, and you finally let yourself close your eyes when you realize… You did it. You saved Leon.
I know Resident Evil games aren't supposed to be romantic or something like that. But I do want to see the characters live and love. Even if it stirs up many mixed feelings for the fans.
I actually would like it if Leon's wife is a new and unknown resident evil character. And not big of an age gap between Leon and her so it can be realistic. Also, Jill and Claire deserve to be highlighted, too. Like:
We can first have RE10 for Jill Valentine since she hasn't had any game since RE5. RE10 will present Jill Valentine with someone new or someone unexpected to throw us off. It doesn't have to be Chris Redfield because he's in every single game. I open Resident Evil, I see Chris.
As for Leon's mystery wife, she could be a new protagonist in RE11, where RE11 will be present them in the year her and Leon met in the intro as a flashback. So we get to see a younger version of Leon again and the background of the new protagonist. We also will understand Leon's complex more.
Then, as the flashback ends. The game actually starts. Leon and his wife are sent together to complete an objective related to a new virus and so on. The plot progresses, they completed their objective. They either die together or the outro shows Leon and his wife retiring in the future. Then we finish off Leon's storyline and everything.
I also want a game with Ada Wong and Chris Redfield. Although, I do not want the storyline to revolve around them. I want them to hate each other as much as they did in RE6. There's tension and all, yet they work together. This is not a ship, but just something to involve the concept of frenemies. (idk if that's how you spell it)
If the RE series does continue, I want to Grace Ashcroft in another game. I want to see how she develops. I want to see Helena in other games. I don't have many ideas on the plots of these imaginary games, but there's a lot we need to see before CapCom stops producing games/movies. And if we are lucky, capcom won't end the franchise on RE9/CVR.
The Shatter Me movie adaptation is going to be very messy. The audience won't be satisfied with the director's picks for actors. Especially how most of the readers have already visualized Aaron Warner. The one who will hit hardest is the actor who ends up starring as Aaron Warner, who will disappoint the audience. It might ruin the image most readers have of many Shatter Me characters. But I do have high expectations for this. I do hope the actors and actresses fit the characters' descriptions and personalities.
Controversial part: Hudson Williams might fit Kenji's role. It's part of his nature to be this unfiltered. Many people suggest that Jeremy Dufour could fit Aaron's role, but his career is primarily modeling, based on my research. I doubt Jeremy will agree to fill in an acting role when he models. Also, I found in the Fancast "Niclas Gillis." I personally never watched his movies or series. I don't have a straight opinion on who should be Juliette, but I would've loved it if "Candel Gallo" acted as Juliette. She doesn't entirely match her looks, I know that. One photo of Candel reminded me of Juliette. I didn't mention Adam because any ordinary brunette would fit him. He isn't as distinct as the other popular characters.
The first photo is Niclas Gillis, whereas the second photo is Jeremy Dufour.
Candel Gallo portrays Juliette well.
Just ignore Connor in the photo. I couldn't find a fitting solo photo of Hudson that looks like Kenji in this fan art.
Of course, none of this art belongs to me. All credits to rightful owners. None of this is meant to offend anyone. It's just my opinion! Please comment on who you think should star in Shatter Me. No
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