couldn't get these out of my mind, so here goes...
Hates overly sweet coffee, cheap beer, people touching his hair willy-nilly, someone telling him to ‘calm down’ when he’s already calm, and overly cynical people.
He gets irrationally annoyed when someone doubts his competence.
Likes dogs, old rock, diner food— and by that he means an All-American Fry Up, that or a tower of pancakes with a heap of butter— No syrup because it’s ’too sweet‘. Also likes being able to fix things himself, and people who are direct.
In terms of music, he likes a little bit of everything. He just, in his words, ‘likes what he likes.’
He’s terrible at accepting sincere compliments.
He’s extremely loyal, which is a trait that goes into overdrive during extremely stressful situations, e.g Raccoon City.
He gets attached fast, Exhibit A) “I miss her already.” When talking about Ada like you knew her for an hour, my guy. Now, imagine how much worse it’ll be with R because they’ve been together the entire night.
He's a freaking dork. Someone catches him staring, and now he’s suddenly extremely interested in the wall.
“I don’t know.” Is actually his default response to most things, which drives R up the wall. Because he’s such a guy, that it hurts.
He’s not eloquent whatsoever. He finds it hard to serenade someone or talk about his feelings introspectively unless he feels like he has no other choice.
He doesn’t realize that he’s coming off as flirting 99% of the time. He's just unbelievably oblivious and sincere, and yes, maybe if he has a lil' crush on you, it'll seep out in how he talks to you.
He gets a lot of attention from other people but doesn’t really entertain it.
He’s patient with children but doesn’t really know how to interact with them— Exhibit A, “Leon, this is Sherry.” “…Okay.”
The last thing you remember is falling asleep; the first thing you remember is wanting to die. | wc. ~750
tw. body horror, medical horror, loss of bodily autonomy, non-consensual medical procedures, psychological horror, graphic desc. of violence
Synopsis
Katherine Warren was just one of Chief Irons' many victims. There were others. Most of them lost in the carnage.
Or: You wake up in 1998, trapped inside the body of one of the girls Chief Irons left for dead. All you want is to make it out of Raccoon City—a world that was supposed to exist only in fiction—alive. And all you know is that Leon S. Kennedy might be your only way out.
Except nothing is what it seems, and you're beginning to learn that not all monsters look the part.
Sometimes, they wear tattered white dresses and streaked mascara. And sometimes, they look just like you.
You’ve heard the horror stories: patients waking mid-surgery when their anesthesia failed. Bodies paralyzed as surgeons cut into their skin, trapped inside themselves, unable to scream through the agony of being sliced open. Imagining the pain was one thing.
And then it happened to you.
One second, you were drifting off in the comfort of your own bed. Blankets weighing you down, and your pillow cool beneath your cheek. You remember thinking, distantly, that you should probably get up and turn the light off.
Then— white fluorescent light flooded your vision.
Your eyes burned at the sudden onslaught, but you couldn’t close them— Something sharp and cold was digging into the edges of your sight, poking your cornea and prying your eyelids wide-open. Beyond the glare, you barely made sense of creamy white walls the color of exposed bone.
You could barely take in your new surroundings before every nerve ending in your body had been lit on fire—singed until they frayed into a million hot, stringy pieces. Unfathomable heat tore through your limbs, flowing through you like magma poured down your throat.
You tried to move. You wanted to thrash and flail. And you strained— strained until you could feel the vessels behind your eyes burst. Nothing. Your fingers wouldn’t twitch. Your toes wouldn’t curl. And your lungs were locked in a stasis, refusing to expand. You must be dreaming, right? But even if that was the case— What the fuck kind of a dream was this?
WAKE UP.
Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.
But nothing had changed. Your terror creeped up on you, slithering through your spine and then came the realization that something was horribly, horribly, wrong. No dream could ever hurt this much.
Cold, crisp, air kissed your skin— But it couldn’t alleviate the feeling of your internal organs melting into your skin. Something hot and vicious was eating its way through your chest, and it wasn’t letting up.
The only thing you had the barest control over was your line of sight. But even that was rapidly blurring. You forced your eyes away from the sizzling burn of the operating light above you and met the side of a stout middle-aged man sporting a thick, grey mustache. He paid no heed to you, occupied with the task in front of him.
Your gaze drew downwards, where he remained focused. Down his rolled up sleeves, down to his fleshy hands that bulged inside tight latex gloves, and down to his stubby fingers firmly wrapped around a syringe that pushed a thick, long, needle right into your inner forearm. On an arm that didn’t look like yours. What the—
Arms unfamiliar to you stuck to your sides, tied down by silvery metal shackles connecting to the surgical table you laid vulnerable against. Pliant under this man’s hands.
A scream itched to escape from your lips. Instead, the eerie silence of the room, and the distant whirring of a fan smothered you.
And once you had redirected your gaze back up, you met two pools of black-brown eyes that bore into you. They were vacant as they watched your helplessness, a hint of perverse satisfaction seeping through them that chilled your very bone.
He looked at you like you were nothing but a hunk of meat that he couldn’t wait to play with. You were fucking terrified.
A wetness settled and dripped down your cheek at the idea of not knowing what was going to happen next. And at your pain, a shallow grin stretched across the man’s face. Filled with morbid delight at your pain. His slimy tongue darted out to wet his lip, and a sudden coherent thought occurred in the midst of the inferno scrubbing your insides clean.
Mommy, I’m so scared.
The voice cried out. Weak, pained, and so, so, tired. You didn’t know whose voice it was. Just that it wasn’t yours.
Under the haze— Black creeping up the edges of your vision and your consciousness slipping further, and further away— You only knew that somewhere beneath the pain, someone else was equally as terrified. The voice called out again, fainter as your hold on reality slipped.
Someone, please…
…
On September 27, April Bishop died. Away from her loving home, alone, and at the mercy of a man her Raccoon City lauded.
And on the third day, she rose again.
Except, she wasn’t the one who came back.
You did.
Author's Note: Fun Fact! I chose April Bishop for the initials A. Bishop to be scrawled on the edges of Irons' notebooks later on. Because she's just one chess piece in the grander scheme of Irons horrors. And possibly in the 'greater' story of Leon S. Kennedy's life. Get it? Haha..
Pairing/WC/Tags: artist!Leon x vampire!reader / 930 / strangers to lovers(?), flirting, vampire au, re2 Leon
A/N: for day 7 of AU-gust @thepromptfoundry ‘vampire’ I read ‘the painter’ by @kokoluwie and got inspired for this, definitely give that one a read!
You don’t understand why you’re drawn to the painting.
You’ve seen centuries of art. You’ve watched movements rise and fall, watched artists pour their souls into canvases, watched humanity try to capture beauty before time inevitably takes it away.
You’ve seen masterpieces, but this one keeps pulling you back.
The painting hangs quietly among the others, surrounded by crowds of people who glance at it for a few seconds before moving on. Yet you remain frozen in front of it, studying every stroke, every imperfect detail.
There is something about it.
Something familiar, making it feel almost alive.
“You’ve been coming back to this one,”
The voice catches you off guard, not because you didn’t hear him approach, you did. Your senses have never failed you. But there’s something about his presence that makes you forget to pay attention.
You turn slowly. A young man stands beside you, dressed far too casually for someone who somehow manages to look like he belongs in a gallery. His blond hair falls messily over his forehead, his blue eyes bright with curiosity. There’s a softness to him that feels strange in a world where you’ve spent so long learning not to trust anyone.
You don’t know his name yet. All you know is that he smells warm. Your instincts whisper it before your mind can stop them.
“Might I ask what’s so interesting about it?” he asks.
You blink, realizing he’s been speaking to you. “Sorry?”
A small smile pulls at his lips.
“The painting.” He gestures toward it. “You seem pretty captivated.”
You look back at the artwork before sneaking a look at his name tag. “I was just wondering what makes it special.”
His expression changes slightly, like he’s pleased you asked.
“Well…” He steps closer, looking at the piece with genuine admiration. “The artist used his own blood for the red ink.”
Your eyes snap toward him. “His blood?”
Leon nods. “Yeah. Apparently, he wanted the piece to feel more personal. Like he was putting a literal part of himself into it.”
You stare at the painting again, the red suddenly looking different.
“That’s extraordinary,” you whisper.
Leon smiles. “I’ll tell him you think so.”
“You know the artist?”
He gives a small shrug. “Something like that.”
There’s something about his answer that feels intentionally vague, but you don’t press. Instead, you find yourself talking.
You don’t mean to. Usually, you’re careful. You’ve had hundreds of years to perfect the art of blending in, of keeping people at arm’s length. Leon listens, his eyes staying on you, not the painting, not the crowd around you. You expect boredom or polite nodding. Instead, he looks fascinated.
“Though…” you say, glancing back at the canvas, “I do think the color choice is interesting.”
Leon raises his eyebrows.
“You do?” You immediately regret it, because you think you might’ve insulted him. “Never mind. I shouldn’t criticized-“
“No, no.” A quiet laugh leaves him. “I’m curious.”
You narrow your eyes slightly. “You’re not offended?”
“Why would I be?”
“People usually don’t like hearing someone disagree with their interpretation.”
Leon tilts his head, his hair moving with him. He seems incredibly young, then again, almost everyone is young to you.
“Well, I think art is supposed to make people feel something.”
You look at him for a moment too long, and blink slowly. “You’re different.”
His smile grows, lips stretching. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
You look away before he notices how much you’re staring.
The two of you remain there longer than you should. Long enough that the exhibit begins to empty, and that you forget you came here for the art. Not him.
Eventually, Leon checks the time and sighs. “Guess I should let you get back to admiring your favorite piece.”
You don’t like the disappointment that settles in your chest. “It was lovely meeting you.”
“You as well.” He replies, and he turns to go but you call out to him.
“What’s your name?”
He turns back, and his eyes seem to shine. “Leon Kennedy.”
The name sits strangely on your tongue, like something you’re meant to remember.
“Nice to meet you, Leon.”
His smile softens. “Likewise.”
He disappears into the crowd, moving faster than you would’ve thought. You stay at the painting for a few more minutes before you place your sunglasses on your head, and make your way to the exit.
Later that night, you return.
Not because you want to see Leon, at least, that’s what you tell yourself. You slip through the empty exhibit halls silently, moving like a shadow through the darkness. The painting waits exactly where you left it, but you stop dead.
Leon sits on the floor in front of the painting, legs crossed, staring at the artwork like he’s been waiting.
Your footsteps are quiet, but not quiet enough, and his head turns. When he looks over his shoulder, there’s no surprise in his expression, only amusement.
“Come to look some more?”
Your eyes narrow. “You knew I would come back?”
Leon grins, and the expression is slightly different this time. It’s more relaxed, as if the smile he wore before was tamed down. It’s then you notice his teeth.
Sharp and pointed. Not human, or not entirely.
They look just like yours.
For the first time in centuries, you’re the one caught off guard. Leon stands slowly, his gaze never leaving yours.
“You know,” he says softly, “I was wondering how long it would take you to notice.”
“You’re like me,” you whisper.
Leon’s smile turns almost playful. “Something like that.”
