hamlet / bill and ted’s excellent adventure
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CHOTRONETTE 'Canelé De Bordeaux' Dress
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Shower Thoughts
Leon S. Kennedy x Reader
summary: Leon has just returned from another soul-crushing mission—and you didn't happen to be home yet.
warnings & contents: heavy angst, our sweetpea is hurt; suicide trigger/thoughts; implied severe depression; assumed older Leon; implied military training on the reader; more hurt than comfort; mentions of death and violence, and blood; could be read as age gap but could be none; the reader could be of any gender; there's light at the end of the tunnel.
a/n: I was craving some angst but didn't plan it to go that far; oh well. Our sweet boy deserves all the happiness though—but author is a bitch. Also, I don't believe Leon would be seriously considering harming himself, but I do believe that he's an empathetic human being kidnapped in his youth to do a shitty job, so there could be a moment of weakness. As always, proceed at your own risk. DNI minors & if mentions of suicide affect you. This is a work of fiction and shouldn't be used as guidance on how to behave in similar sensitive situations.
***
Leon rubbed his hands under the hot tap forcefully, willing to wash off the blood; the water coming off his fingers was clean for a while, but he seemed not to notice it—after all, there was always blood on his hands, whether others could see it or not. The man only stopped when the touch started to hurt, his abused skin red from friction.
“Shit,” Leon grunted under his breath and turned off the faucet angrily, his breathing ragged. Others might say that it was adrenaline still rushing through his veins, but he knew it wasn’t it. For how long he’s done this job, he was past the prolonged adrenaline rush a while ago. Leon put his palm over his forehead, barely covering his exhausted eyes; his hands slightly shaking.
How many more people had to die before this shit would end?
He remembered them all, those he couldn’t save, and he only kept counting. Leon knew he wasn’t supposed to—saving ordinary folk was a luxury in his position—but it was hard for him to accept who he had become. The extensive bathroom mirror in front of him, he couldn’t level his gaze to take a look at himself, and when he did, his teeth clenched, and his glance shot into the corner of the reflection—there was his essential gear, a pistol and a knife, thoughtlessly dropped on the bathroom floor.
Suddenly, he felt exhausted. A carnal thought made him blush in a fever—wouldn’t it be so easy? Leon was never the type to look for easy ways out—but he was only of flesh and blood, too; isn't he only human? Despite what reports said about him always being “the survivor” and “the golden boy.” Screw the odds.
He picked up his gear from the floor, his palm sliding across the pistol barrel. Leon counted the bullets left in the magazine with another hand, pulling it back into the grip compartment right after; his facial expression was unreadable, deprived of emotion. In moments like this, the man wasn't sure if he could feel anything anymore.
Wouldn't it be so easy, after all? Maybe after that, he'll be able to wake up from this bloody nightmare.
Consumed by his thoughts, he didn't hear how the keys screeched in the lock of the apartment door, and you came in.
You noticed his jacket on the hanger, and your eyebrows shot to your forehead in surprise.
“Leon?” you called to him, dropping bags full of groceries next to the kitchen island; your body tensed in anticipation. You didn't expect him so early. After his assignments, he usually barged in the middle of the night and not in the light of day. You didn't complain, though. You missed him.
You gently knocked on the bathroom door when you heard muffled sounds from another side. “Hey,” your voice was calm and soothing. “Can I come in? Do you need help?” At this point, you got used to his bruises and stitches, caring only about him getting back home in one piece.
There was something more to his injuries this time.
“Shit,” Leon cursed under his breath again when you stepped into the bathroom, despairing of getting a word out of him. You were worried; he could see it on your face. You quickly noticed his scalded hands, the right one behind his back, hiding something. He looked like a curious teenager who got caught watching adult movies.
“Hey,” his lips stretched into an unnatural smile. “Sorry, I didn't hear you come in…”
“You should've called me,” you scolded him calmly, making a step forward. His body tensed and froze as soon as you stretched your hand toward him, and you held back a frown. “…I would’ve been home in a heartbeat.”
The man’s eyes were bloodshot, his lips chapped, and his breath ragged; and then you saw it—the reflection in the mirror betraying him—his long fingers clinging to the gun. Your mouth went agape, and you dashed forward with a precision of a trained police officer.
“Give it to me,” you hissed, your heart beating in your throat. You were scared—you haven't been that afraid of in ages. Leon gasped, bamboozled, and his hand easily let go of a weapon. You didn’t ask—you slapped him across the face, letting your frustration out. “Are you mad? What were you going to do with this thing?”
You would react differently if he wasn’t hiding it; somehow this bothered you more than anything. After all, Leon should’ve known that you wouldn’t fumble at the sight of a gun, which made his attempts to cover its presence even more pointless.
His cheeks flushed, and he gulped, incapable of looking at you; he was confirming your worst fears, and after giving him a long stare, your hand covered your mouth to stop you from sobbing.
“Moron,” you grunted under your breath. His head got even lower, and you saw a tear falling onto the lightly colored tile. It took you a moment before you grabbed him into an angry, desperate embrace. His hands wrapped around your waist, then one shot into your hair, pressing at the back of your head, pulling you closer. His face was buried into your neck, and his body shook violently as he let himself cry.
You held him painfully close as long as it was necessary. “I am sorry,” you whispered next to his ear while he clung to you like a drowning man to a lifeboat; you sounded hurt and angry—and hopeful. “I am so, so sorry.”
I’m in Spain but the s is silent
Vampire Boyfriend: Raul
Picture it, a port city, 1986. A girl reconnects with her ex-boyfriend who is now a doctor.Oh, also, he’s a vampire. Part One of Four
Female Main Character x Male Vampire
August, 1986
I’m coming home from working at the bar one evening - well, morning - when I see the flyer. It’s promoting medical trials for women ages eighteen to sixty who have an issue or complaint about their reproductive organs. I might have been leery, but I need the money, not to mention the help it could bring. I take the flyer home with me so I can call the number after I get some sleep.
Once I get home, I can hear my roommate’s boombox blaring from their bedroom. I stumble over the laundry basket still in the hallway. “This is bunk,” I grumble as I make my way to my room.
I close my door, still hearing the dull thump of the music. I sit down on the edge of my bed to take off my shoes and flop back in bed. I can shower when I wake up. Instead, I start cramping. I knew this was going to happen. All night at work I’ve been getting twinges of pain. I’ve had them since I was a teenager. Back in high school it would get so painful I would throw up or start crying. My parents thought I was faking it, and my doctor accused me of being promiscuous. Even in school, I was asked to ‘stop being dramatic’ by my teachers. I learned to cover the pain, but it still causes me great distress on a very regular basis. I used to fear it. It meant I could be sick, or dying. But I was afraid to go back to the doctor, and afraid to talk about it at all for a gamut of reasons.
I decide to go ahead and call that clinic - I can at least leave a message. I sit up in a cold sweat and search through my purse for the number. I grab my phone, pulling the cord into my hand and twisting it around my finger as I listen to the ring.
“Dr. Vlada Polidori speaking. How may I help you?” I got a real person? At this hour?