Stella's Drafts

started: 29-11-2024

last updated: 07-11-2025

Edit: links may be broken on desktop app?? idk what's going on, trying to fix it.😭

Resident Evil

Hayden Christensen Characters

Red Dead Redemption 2

Baldur's Gate 3

The Pitt

a slow burn with undertones of religious guilt… reader has run away from home and gets picked up by joel when hitchhiking

if it’s something that people would read, i’ll start working on writing it now so i can post regularly during the summer!

pls engage even if you don’t follow me, i just want to see if there’s a market of people who’d read it :)

Summary: Frank finally comes home after the season 1 shift, but things might never be the same (Frank Langdon x wife!reader)

Word Count: 2.4k

Content: female reader, established relationship, lots and lots of angst, mentions of drug abuse, death, blood, strained marriage, cursing, panic attacks, mention of mass shooting event

Notes: honestly I feel so bad for this man’s wife so I pictured her perspective while writing this, but it can definitely be read as a self-insert!! also I don’t think the impulse purchase dog was brought home already at that point but this is my fanfic I make the rules.. I’m pretty proud of this one, please give it a shot!!

minors dni

Summary: your and Gale’s married life is just as passionate as it was when you were starting out. it doesn’t take you guys much to get handsy. (husband!Gale x spouse!reader)

Word Count: 1k

Content: gn!reader, suggestive content, light bondage, established relationship, druid!reader (self-indulgent idea i had by virtue of having a druid tav), still fluffy somehow, not fully proof read i have too many assignments to spend more time on this 😭

Notes: so sorry for not updating in so long!! i moved 6 hours from home, and things have been hectic. i’m trying to balance school with creative writing 💔 (images from pinterest!!)

i've resorted to writing my work for this blog on the bus ride to uni.

minors dni

i don’t know if people do this sort of stuff on here (i’m rather new to tumblr etiquette so sorry if not) but i just wanted to say thank you guys so so much for all my new followers <3

throughout my teen years, i told myself that once i turned 18 i would start a blog on here and finally share my writing. it’s a bit later now, but it really means the world to me that people are reading what i write, no matter how silly sometimes.

thank you for giving me such a lovely platform to discover wonderful stories and share mine in return.

each and every one of you are so so appreciated!!<3333

“[Mr. Gillis] treats his daughter like a possession to be mistreated and abused as he sees fit. Strange creatures, men. I don’t know.”   -RDR2, Chapter 4, Fatherhood and Other Dreams

Notes: I was playing RDR2 the other day and his journal entry (above) after seeing Mary for the second time stood out to me. I think his relationship with women and feminism in the story is worth writing about. afab reader. 1.1k words.

Summary: two stranger outlaws find themselves captured by bounty hunters (Arthur Morgan x outlaw!Reader)

Word Count: 3.8k

Content: female reader, capture and bindings, violence and death, light gore, mentions of infertility, forced proximity, manipulative reader, enemies? (not quite but they dislike each other) to tension, crude language, male slander

Notes: surpriseeee new hyperfixation (dw will still be writing for leon too!! just added a new fictional man to the roster yum). i imagine mid-honor Arthur for this :) (also idk shit about guns so bear with me thanks). this is kind of an amateurish attempt of mine at criticizing misogyny bc i’m pissed off about today’s political climate. cliché on purpose.

The last thing you remember before going dark is the stinging pain of being pistol-whipped in the face by some bounty hunter’s grimy revolver.

As your consciousness comes to, you see flickering firelight from behind your eyelids. Even before you open them, you mentally curse at yourself for even letting yourself get in this situation in the first place. You had always prided yourself on your talent of finding secluded areas to camp out in. As well hidden as they could be when your picture was plastered on fences and announcement boards across three states with a bold, capitalized WANTED above it, anyway. You suppose you had gotten comfortable – sloppy. You slipped up and somehow those bastards found the shitty abandoned house you were using as a hideout, ambushing you while you were stubbornly focused on patching up a hole in one of your boots.

It takes you a moment to gather your surroundings in the haze of post-unconsciousness. The tent you’re being held in is hot, despite it being dark outside. The air is thick – stuffy and incredibly unpleasant. The smell of animal carcass lingers on the canvas as if it had recently been used to hold some hunt. You hear the muffled sound of men discussing by the campfire roaring outside – something rather serious, you assume by the tone of their voices. It doesn’t sound like too many of them, only two by the clean back-and-forth flow of their conversation. Somehow, the most obvious detail of your capture is the one you register last – the burn of rope at your wrists and feet, and the warmth of another body at your back. You’re bound to someone.

Your heart rate picks up at the sudden realization and you tug, beads of blood drawing at your skin. You’d typically consider yourself a rational person, but with the fog of having just woken up, your brain jumps to the worst conclusions. There’s no way of knowing if the person behind you has been shot dead already, they’re completely still… That is until he speaks.

“Would you stop that? Rubbin’ your wrists raw won’t help either of us.”

Take a breath. You’re better than this. The bounty hunters outside are men, and now you know the person behind you is one as well. Maybe some good old feminine charm could be your ticket out of here. It wouldn’t be the first time your conniving passive woman act got you out of scrapes. They might kill the man first, anyway.

You look around, making sure to make him feel you squirm. Your breath quickens and you summon a more proper accent. You won’t go down. Not like this. “W-What the hell is happening?”

The man’s body shakes lightly behind you – the sonofabitch is chuckling. “Oh, quit playin’ dumb. I saw you when they brought you in. You got posters from here to Colter.”

You make sure to yank at your ropes the way a panicked woman would. He hisses at the pain and you’re glad you don’t have to hide your prideful grin. “No, I don’t know what’s going on! There must be some mistake!”

The hunters haven’t even checked in on the two of you yet, but by the timbre of their conversation outside when you awoke, they’ll get the gist of this one too, and you’ll be damned if this stuck-up man leads to your demise.

“There ain’t no mistake, woman.” Looks like there won’t be any fooling this guy. He must be in the business, you assume. “Tryin’ to play the damsel in distress won’t help you any, so quit your whinin’ and stop pulling at the damn ropes.

“I’m not!” You sniffle. “M’not who they think I am!”

You may as well feel his eyes roll. “Right. What’s your name then?” You give him your usual decoy as he attempts to sit up straighter. “And what’s got an innocent thing like you in this kind of trouble?”

“I don’t know!” you cry. “I was mending some clothes when they burst in my house and knocked me out!” you recite with ease. It wasn’t a total lie, after all.

The man listened to your sob story, wanting to get a read on you, you presume. “Is that right? You were… just sewin’ when they magically came out of the woodworks and took ya?”

The goddamn attitude on this man… “Yes!” You start crying again. “Oh god, this can’t be real!”

You hear your companion let out a heavy sigh. “Alright, cut the dramatics, darlin’,” he grumbles. Twigs snap outside and both your heads whip in the direction of the two hunters’ shadows near the flaps. He lowers his voice. “I know you’re puttin’ on that act and it’s getting’ real old. It’d only work on someone dumb as rocks so-” he’s interrupted as the two bounty hunters waltz in, surely having heard you wailing seconds prior.

You flinch hard and make yourself fall to the side. You’re a pathetic, blubbering mess – the complete opposite of what they’ve surely heard of the outlaw they were chasing. You will make them doubt themselves. Manipulation is your specialty, and men are so simple minded~

“Please! Please-”

The captors look a bit startled by your distress. One of them, the bulky one, kneels down at your side. Men just can’t help themselves, can they? They just have to save the pretty tormented girl. He tries to soothe you by placing a grubby hand on your knee. “Calm down, sweet thing.”

You try to hide your recoil. It’s not like you can scoot backward anyway, since you’re tied to the pessimistic wanted man. “P-Please, will you just tell me what’s going on?” You blink with tear-soaked lashes, being a convincing little housewife.

The hunters share a look, as if silently trying to contemplate the legitimacy of your cries. The bulky one returns his attention to you, seemingly placated. “We ain’t gonna hurtcha unless you give us a reason to, sweetheart. We’re just here to bring you down to the sheriff’s office.”

You hear the other wanted man scoff behind you. Surely, they weren’t actually falling for this?

The taller one hanging back grins cockily. “Gonna get us that nice little bounty on your head,” he adds.

It’s your turn to bite back a scoff. Little? There’s nothing little about a hard-worked two-thousand dollars on your head alone. You’d even been dubbed Bullseye.

For your own sake, your eyes go wide as saucers, as if you’re truly repulsed by the idea of having committed any crimes. “Bounty?! That’s impossible. I’ve never sinned in my life. Please, there must be a mistake-”

The tall one chuckles and you feel flames of anger licking at your insides. “Oh, there ain’t no mistake. You must’ve done some reeeeal bad things. Bounties like that ain’t given out for no reason.”

The bulky man nods to corroborate his friend’s words, but judging by its slowness, he seems a bit more apprehensive. “…You seem too soft to have a bounty of a couple grand on your head.”

Your new wanted companion whistles from behind you, impressed.

“Goddammit, Wilson!” curses the tall one.

There’s the crack you need. You keep pushing, sensing the foundation crumbling between the two. You shake your head feverishly. “I don’t know who you think I am! I’ve told you my name. I’m a housewife. M-My husband’s name is Elijah. Really, I barely ever go out. I don’t know what’s going on here.”

The two idiots glance at each other again, brows raised. Wilson tilts his head. “Roberts, maybe we fucked up. I mean, look at’er! The law has been after the girl for years. The… The posters are old. They’ve been up so long that they’re kinda faded… Maybe her and Bullseye really do just look alike.”

The tall one – Roberts – doesn’t answer right away. You’d venture to guess he’s more trigger-happy than his partner. “I didn’t see no husband inside the house.”

“He’s off on business in the next county at the moment.”

Again, they seem to communicate without speaking aloud. Wilson stands with a groan and nods in my direction with urgent eyes, evidently commanding Roberts. The latter steps forward with a sigh, his arms crossed. “Fine. I’ll bite. If that’s the truth, miss, how long you been married?”

You smile weakly, pretending to recall a memory. “Since my Elijah and I were nineteen.”

“All this time and no children?”

You drop your shoulders and strategically let your smile fade. You’ve been waiting a while to use this one. “No, sir, I been having… issues,” you admit shamefully. And you’re so proud of yourself that you hope even the non-believer tied to you is starting to wonder if he accused you of being a liar a little too quickly.

Both the hunters are taken aback at that. A woman shouldn’t be talking about private matters to strangers. The dumb bulky one breaks the silence first. “I-I’m sorry about that, ma’am…” he mumbles awkwardly.

You nod solemnly and wipe a skillful tear from your cheek with your shoulder. “I begged him not to go- begged him! A-And now I’m tied up-” You gasp and try to put some distance between yourself and the man you’re tied to, but it only yanks at both your binds. “Does that mean I’m tied to a killer?! Oh God!” you cry and squirm violently.

Wilson raises his hands the same way one would calm a horse. “Ma’am, calm down-” In an attempt to calm you down, he grabs a knife from his belt and cuts your wrists’ bindings while Roberts rushes to make sure the other outlaw doesn’t try to pull some stunt. Unlike yourself, he leaves him fully bound and secures him to one of the tent’s support posts.

Now that you aren’t back-to-back with him, you catch a glimpse of his face for the first time. Oh shit. You recognize him immediately – it’s impossible not to, not in your line of work. That’s Arthur Morgan, one of Van Der Linde’s men. One of his most feared men, actually. No doubt he has a pretty bounty on his head as well.

You don’t have time to dwell in your thoughts because that half-witted hunter speaks again. “I won’t untie your ankles, though. Can’t have you runnin’ off on us until we’re sure you ain’t it,” he says with a chuckle.

You want to punch that condescending little smirk right off his face… But you can do even better.

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of running.”

“Well, that’s good ‘cau-”

He trips over his words when you snag the knife from his naively relaxed grip and jam it into his neck with all your might. As he topples over, you swiftly grab the revolver from his holster and shoot Roberts a couple of times in the chest before he can even react.

“Goddamn fools,” you mutter as you undo the rope around your ankles, seemingly unfazed by a tied-up Arthur Morgan some feet away from you.

Even writhing on the ground, Wilson disturbs your newfound peace, gargling on his own blood. You roll your eyes and put a bullet between his own. Standing, you stretch your limbs, rubbing where the rough rope had dug into your skin. You retract the bloody knife from the bounty hunter’s neck, giving it a twirl. It was a pretty knife, engraved with some intricate swirls. You earned it.

You finally look up at Arthur. “You were right, I s’pose.”

“Seems that way,” he replies, carefully watching every movement of yours. You’d seen that look in men before. He was trying to gauge if he was going to be the next recipient of your wrath.

You grin and lean back against some crates, enjoying seeing such an infamous man be so unsure. “Now, what to do with you?” you ask rhetorically.

You watch as his eyes go from the dead man at his feet to your calm figure. Evidently, you had managed to impress him. Pride swells in your chest. He nods toward his bound ankles. “Well, are you going to get these off? That would be greatly appreciated,” he inquires dryly, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

You hum, giving the knife a couple more twirls. “I bet, Van Der Linde.”

The outlaw raises a brow, otherwise utterly composed. “So you know who I am… Or at least who I run with.”

“Mhm.” You trace the edge of the bloody blade with your index. “You’re no small feat, Arthur Morgan.” You push off the crates and nod at the corpses on the dirt. “They would’ve lucked out.”

“I’d say the same for you,” he replies, his gaze unrelenting.

The two morons had spoken your alias, but it’s the fact that Morgan recognized it that sticks with you. A sick sense of satisfaction bubbles within you at the knowledge that your name has been spread to one of the country’s most notorious gangs.

“Well ain’t you sweet,” you quip sarcastically.

Arthur looks down at Roberts, mere inches away from him. “Your aim on him could’ve been a bit better, though. Too far right.”

You? Aiming anything other than perfect? You scoff, your eyes narrowing as you search through a sack on the crates for your confiscated guns. “I don’t have to let you free.”

“And I don’t have to be pleasant,” he retorts gruffly, and for a second, you’re reminded of who you’re talking to. The adrenaline from your victorious escape begins to simmer down and you realize that perhaps you shouldn’t be speaking to an accomplished killer this way.

…But you’re one yourself.

You look over your shoulder with a smile. “You’re tied up, hun.”

The man scowls. “Oh really? I hadn’t noticed.”

Amusing, this one. But perhaps you aren’t exactly in the position to have Dutch Van Der Linde and his boys on your tail for taking out their best man. You sling the bag full of your belongings over your shoulder and crouch before him, pushing Roberts out of the way with one foot. “I can’t see why we can’t be amicable, can you?”

One of his brows quirks up. “Depends on your definition of amicable, miss,” he dryly speaks your family name.

“Charming manners.” You tilt your head. “I reckon we ain’t that different, you and I. Two of the most notorious criminals. Everyone knows our names. We were, well-” you gesture to his bound current state. “-both tied up. On the same team, if you will. We live the same lifestyle. I don’t see the point in goin’ off and tattlin’ on each other.”

Arthur lets out a quiet huff. “So you’re suggestin’… What, an alliance?”

“I’m suggestin’ silence. You go off without worryin’ about me sending the law after you, and I do the same.”

“And how do I know I can trust you?” He’s skeptical, and you can’t quite blame him after he’s just witnessed how you swindled those men.

“It’s a two-way street, Mr. Morgan. I’m the same as you, it’d be hypocritical to turn you in. Plus, I don’t quite care to alert the law of my presence by going in to report you.”

You can practically see the gears turning in his head. “Fine. But I’m not forgettin’ this.”

But his mention of an alliance lingers in your head. You hold up a finger. “On second thought, I’ve got a better idea. More fool-proof terms, if you’re hesitant to trust me.”

He rolls his eyes, obviously not enjoying being at your mercy. “And what would those be?”

The corner of your mouth quirks up. “It’d be idiotic for members of the same gang to snitch on each other, wouldn’t it?”

A look of realization washes over his face. “It would,” his voice drops lower, not liking where this is headed.

“Then, I’ll be joining the Van Der Lindes. I’m tired of sleepin’’ with a pistol in my hand.”

His expression shifts, seemingly amused by your conviction. “Oh, are you?” he retorts with a chuckle. “What makes you think they’d even let you in?”

You grin. “You knew exactly who I was when you heard those twits call me Bullseye, that’s what.” You stand up straight. “And you’re going to give me a shining recommendation.”

“Am I, now?”

“Mhm… Or I could throw you on my horse out there and we could have ourselves a nice little ride to some sheriff’s office. I figure Saint-Denis would have the most intense security. You don’t think they’d recognize me if I just rode by and dropped you on the doorstep, do you?” You jeer as you rummage through the tent, looking for anything of value to take.

Despite your threats, a small smirk creeps onto Arthur’s face. He takes a moment to study you, weighing his options.

“Confident, ain’t ya?”

“With reason.”

A beat. You just stare at each other.

Summary: you have each other’s backs (Vendetta! Leon x DSO!Reader)

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: alcoholism (on Leon’s part), some vendetta leon comfort because that man needs it :(, no official relationship but mutual feelings are implied, pining…

Notes: a small Christmas-ish one-shot in january because it’s my blog and i make the rules (i forgot to post in december whoops). also sorry this one is christmas specific but christmas lights are very special to me and i wanted to write a little something about them <3

One of these days, these missions are going to kill you. You’re sure of it. You find yourself sitting on a rooftop overlooking the city, needing some fresh air after almost getting your head bitten off on call today. Being a D.S.O. agent isn’t for the faint-hearted and truth be told, sometimes you aren’t sure how you got this far in the first place. You close your eyes, deeply breathing in the cold, stuffy city air and listening to the night traffic below. What would it be like to live a normal, quiet life? For your only burden to be being stuck in the traffic below on your way home from your safe nine to five? Your heart aches when you have thoughts like these…

You’re snapped out of your mournful contemplation when someone clears their throat behind you. You whip your head around, startled. You barely register your fists clenching and muscles tensing up, ready to throw a punch or something, your tired brain registering the sound as the grunt of an infected.

“S’just me.” Leon lifts his hands, traipsing toward you. “Can I join?”

Your shoulders slump with relief. Truth be told, you wanted to spend time alone tonight, but Leon happens to be the one who saved your life today and you figure you owe him this much. “Mhm.” You nod and pat the freezing concrete beside you.

He takes the offered seat and leans back, propping himself on his arms. His warmth carries through the cold wind and seeps through your jeans. He’s only an inch or two away, after all. Despite your previous sentiment, his presence is oddly soothing. You’ve never met anyone as good as him in your field of work. He makes you feel safe, like somehow, you’re immortal in his presence because he always looks out for his team. It’s impossible, really. You know it’s a childish and dangerous mindset to have in this line of work, but there’s just something about him. You wonder how much that selflessness is destroying him from the inside….

Actually, the habituality of the liquor on his breath may already give you an idea.

“Quite a view, isn’t it?”

“Hmm?” You look up at him, noticing how his eyes are fixed on the sea of tall buildings before you. “Oh, yeah… I like the lights. I’ve always liked lights.”

A grin tugs at his lips. “Oh yeah?” He shifts to rest on one knee to get a better look at you.

You feel yourself melt under the older agent’s gaze. “Yeah. All kinds of lights…”

He just watches you for a moment and you find yourself silently cursing the extensive psychology training the government’s had you D.S.O. agents do. You’re sure he can read you like a book, seeing through the façade you’ve been tirelessly trying to keep up. He has his own, after all.

He looks out at the few festive lights wrapped around balcony railings and trees standing proudly in windows. “Like… Christmas lights?”

That reaches you. You turn your head to look at him with a dopey smile. “Especially Christmas lights. I miss them a lot.”

Your nostalgia must be contagious because he smiles at you too. You never see him smile anymore. In your few years of working together, you’ve never known him to be an extraordinarily sunny man, but it had worsened recently. Little to your knowledge, he likes seeing you smile, especially when it’s directed at him. “I didn’t know you liked Christmas so much. Maybe I should buy you a tree and some lights this year,” he jokes lightly.

You shrug, your smile fading a bit. “We never stay in one place long enough… And people don’t celebrate as much as when we were kids. It wouldn’t be the same.”

His expression softens considerably when he notices the shift in your demeanour. His lips pull into a much more familiar tight frown, his shoulders dropping a bit as well. “Yeah, I guess so…” he pauses for a moment, debating his next words. “We could make our own tradition, you know?”

You tilt your head, your smile fully sarcastic and sour now. “Sure. If we’re both still alive by holiday break.”

He grimaces, evidently not liking the sudden grim attitude, even if it carries truth. Ironic, you find yourself thinking, for a man with his attitude. “Don’t talk like that,” he chides softly, wrapping an arm behind you and dragging you a twinge closer. “I’m not letting you die anytime soon.”

And you know that coming from his lips, that’s a vow, not a weak promise. You lean into his warmth, the cold wind hitting you again now that you’re no longer in your cozy bubble of colourful lights and denial. “Right. Sorry…”

“It’s alright.” He gives your side a reassuring squeeze and resumes staring out at the dark skyline.

The two of you sit in comfortable silence for a minute or two, admiring (perhaps longingly) the people going about their lives in their apartments and offices. Parents putting their children to bed, couples cooking together, families watching what you self-indulgingly believe to be holiday movies in their decorated living rooms… Even the young man working alone at this hour of the night seems to sit with some sense of serenity. All possibilities of the lives you and Leon could have had if you hadn’t been pushed into the claws of the genius Division of Security Operations. He sighs – if in soul-crushing envy or in momentary peacefulness, you can’t tell. But his whiskey-ridden breath is warm and a welcome contrast to the cool winter night air.

You chew at your lip, getting a bit nervous. “You smell like booze,” you remark quietly.

“I know.” He chuckles and you know it’s a piss-poor attempt to cover how uncomfortable the topic of his drinking makes him feel. “You got a problem with that?” He scratches his neglected stubble.

You know a slightly hostile question is the best outcome for you. If it were anyone else starting an intervention, he would’ve raised his voice already. You’ve seen it first-hand with some other people on the team. “You’ve got a problem with that, Leon.” You stare blankly at the buildings ahead, your previous fascination and warmth for the sight dampened.

You feel Leon’s body stiffen beside you and his demeanour shifts. You look, and like you, he no longer seems as placated as he was a mere minute ago. His brows tug down and his gaze darkens. “Don’t do that. Not you,” his tone is surprisingly tender for being paired with his current expression.

He knows you mean well. He knows you’re worried about him. But he can’t bear having you look at him like everyone else does, like you have to tiptoe around him or like he’s always incompetent and inebriated. He looks away out of shame. He knows you’re right, but he’s stubborn and also knows that’s led to his downfall more than once.

“Are you even going to remember this tomorrow?”

Leon looks back up, his gaze stormy. His defensiveness gets the best of him, as it usually does in these situations. He’s angry, or at least he’s trying to be. But you’re sitting close enough to spot the gleam of self-hatred in those beloved blue eyes. “Why does it matter if I do or not?”

“Because believe it or not, our conversations actually mean a lot to me.” The weight of your words hangs between the pair of you for a moment. “And it’s dangerous to day drink with a job like ours. We never know when we’ll get called out. It’ll get you killed,” you add to try and save face as if you don’t care more about him than you do the other agents.

He cringes a bit more at that, and his anger falters in favour of discomfort. He sighs and leans an elbow on his knee, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, I appreciate the concern, but you don’t have to worry about me. I’m fine.”

You tuck your knees up to your chest, even his body heat isn’t enough to cancel out the cold between you now. “That’s what worries me. You act like it’s fine, it’s normal. You don’t even act drunk anymore. You don’t… slur your words or stumble around or vomit everywhere. Apart from being angrier… depressed… you behave normally when you’re drunk.” You turn your body in his direction, trying desperately to get through to him. “You’re not even you anymore. Isn’t that scary?”

He exhales again, letting his hand drop from his face. He knows you’re right. Damn it, you’re always right, but he can never bring himself to admit it. “I… I don’t get what the big deal is. I do my job – well, if I might add. I don’t get into bar fights with random civilians… unless they ask for it. I supply my own drinks and keep to myself. So why’re you worrying?”

You take his face in your hands, your expression softening. Maybe he won’t lie to your face if he’s looking right at it. “Leon, drop the act, please.” From what you hear, he’s a shell of the person he used to be.

His eyes widen with surprise. He doesn’t answer anything for a few moments, your gentle touch making his mind go blank for a second. He can’t remember the last time anyone was gentle with him. He knows he can’t argue when you use that tone or when you have that look in your eye. “Fuck…”

He practically sags onto you as he lets himself feel everything he’s been drowning in alcohol for months. You have an agonizing way of making the tension in his body disappear with nothing but a few words in that honeyed tone of yours.

You support his weight. Like you always do, as he always does yours. Because it’s just Leon. You’d never let him fall, in any sense of the word. “You know, how are you supposed to put up that tree and the lights you offered me if you’re too drunk to make sense of anything? I’m not letting you in my room at HQ if the drinks are making you a grouch, either.”

He does want to give you that, a tree grand and worth being yours, pretty lights you can stare at while you doze off in the evenings, Christmas itself… More than anything, he wants to make you happy. The thought alone makes him happy. He huffs and looks away to hide his smile. “Yeah, yeah. Damn you.”

You let out a breath and a smile of your own, feeling relieved that you got to him at least a little bit. “Try again, please… At least to cut back. We can do it this time.”

He tenses again at your request. It’s not an easy one, and he’s reluctant to agree, not sure if he can even will himself to cut back so easily. But you’re too close, too warm, and you’re using that damn tone in your voice that always gets to him. He wants better for you. For himself, too. A shot at a better life. “I’ll try. Try. For you, alright?”

You hum. “That’s all I ask.” You bring up a delicate hand and brush some of that pesky hair out of his face.

He practically melts into your touch, too tired to bother hiding the effect you have on him. You both know something has been lingering between you for a while, anyway. “Anything else you want from me?” he mutters in a teasing tone, trying to lift the atmosphere he feels he ruined.

You chuckle lightly. “Probably, but we’ll work towards those things later on.”

He perks up at that, a smug smirk toying at his lips as he picks up on the implications of your words. “Y’gotta be a little more specific than that.”

Your eyes soften. Not now. Not like this. “I’ll tell you when you’re sober.” Your timbre isn’t unkind – it’s careful, genuine… You’re trying to encourage him more than anything, knowing he always fares well with a challenge or an end goal.

The muscles in his face ease as well. He gives a small nod. “I’ll hold you to that.”

You feel a spark in your chest of something you haven’t felt in a long time – hope. “So will I.”

so he mingles and drinks, he tolerates mindless chatter just so he gets to ogle at his pretty, perfect girl all night. when midnight finally comes, he finally gets to cave and trail his hands all over you as he crashes his lips against yours.

safe to say that the two of you can't get home fast enough after that. you get in, clumsily crashing into walls and furniture as he mumbles how beautiful you are over and over into your mouth. <3

DI!Leon, whose breath catches in his throat when he opens it, the pages littered with sultry photos of you, wearing not nearly enough clothing. You, his graceful younger bride, whom he still feels guilty for marrying. You deserve so much better.

DI!Leon, who feels his pants tighten as he continues to flip through the album. He touches the carefully glued trims and cute fake flowers and gems. Even with his growing erection lusty haze, he notices how the decorations on the pages ooze with your touch.

DI!Leon, who feels his chest constrict and his face grow hot as his eyes trail guilty over your form, taking in the myriad of different poses and sets of lingerie. One of you draped over a motorcycle, which makes him chuckle fondly as you were evidently toying with his newfound affinity for bikes. Another of you in his favourite set – a lacy dark blue one that you had picked out together early enough in your relationship but still had that magic touch to make him tick. It didn’t take much for you and Leon.

DI!Leon, whose mind can’t help but wander to your previous escapades. To how he’s sure his heart will give out every time you do the honour of bedding him. He isn’t as young as he used to be, after all. Despite that, he always gives you his all, his adoration—nothing less for his pretty girl.

DI!Leon, who lets himself get sappy on your wedding day. Who finds himself thinking he’d go through the hell that is his professional life all over again if it meant meeting you at the same time, in the same place that he did… Who doesn’t think twice about what could have been because he has you now. You saved him—his angel.

DI!Leon, whose hand trembles as he flips to the last page, containing a loving note and a sample of delicate white lace… The lingerie you’d be wearing tonight, he realizes with a groan.

DI!Leon, who can’t help but lie on the plush bed and unzip his pants, boudoir album in hand. After all, he can’t walk up in front of your friends and family with a hard-on, can he? Poor baby.

DI!Leon, who bites down on his ring finger as he finally cums, thinking about the wedding band that will soon take its rightful place there, binding you to him for the rest of his life. <3

DI!Leon who stares, awestruck, at the ink making up his soon-to-be-wife, always so beautiful…

Summary: a warm winter morning after with your boyfriend. (RE4R Leon x Reader)

Word Count: 1k

Warnings: alludes to sexual content happening the night before, no smut, ur so in loooooove. would it even be a story of mine if it wasn’t at least a bit angsty? tooth-rotting fluff, unspecified gender of reader.

Notes: writing the aftermath because i’m scared of writing smut. #needthat. also, happy holidays to everyone celebrating stuff at the moment! <3

You awaken with the golden morning sunlight filtering through the sheer curtains and casting an entrancing glow on your bedroom walls. Every morning, the sight reminds you of that afternoon spent at the furniture store where you and your boyfriend deliberated way too long over picking the perfect amenities for your first place together. Leon wanted some blackout curtains, but you figured some pretty see-through ones could start off the day with some much-needed serotonin. You got your way and you were right. You’re home a lot more than Leon, anyway. It feels like he’s always gone on missions. He typically can’t even disclose the details of them to you, either, leaving you to find out he was risking his life across the globe only when he comes back. That feeling of hopelessness – of not knowing where your partner is, or if he’s safe… it’s a most devastating feeling you wouldn’t wish upon anyone.

It's that D.S.O. agent’s arm, sleepily thrown across your midriff, that now pins you down to the heavenly mattress. You couldn’t escape this warm, golden confinement even if you wanted to. He’s recently come back from Spain and can’t keep his hands off of you since – not that you mind the constant affection. You can’t so much as brush your teeth without having strong arms wrap around you from behind, or cook dinner without him plastering kisses down your neck and shoulders, or even pick out your clothes in the morning without getting groped lovingly. And despite all of that, there’s still a tenseness to the way he moves, the way he carries himself. As if you’re both waiting for the other shoe to drop – waiting for him to be ripped away from you again. So you take the time you have now to admire his sleeping form. It’s the only time he truly looks peaceful. You trace a careful thumb over the space between his brows. There are usually a few tense lines there, giving away the insurmountable stress he carries with him wherever he goes. You’d give anything to have him like this all the time: warm, safe, at ease and at home.

He begins to stir and you continue to caress the angles of his pretty face. His long lashes flutter slowly. He looks godly, with the white sheet thrown loosely over his bare frame and the celestial light glowing from the window behind him…

“Morning, baby~” he croaks groggily, making you smile. He only calls you pet names when his mind is dazed from sleep, or in especially tender moments.

“Shhh,” you coo. “Go back to sleep. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

He shakes his head ever so slightly, despite struggling to keep his stormy eyes open. He nuzzles closer to you. “M’awake now,” he mumbles against the skin of your chest.

“Sorry.”

He gives you a look that you read perfectly – don’t apologize – and playfully nips the fat of your chest. You squeak, still sensitive from his generous attention to it last night, before giving his hair a light tug away. He just grins like the beautiful fool he is for you. “Careful. Don’t start somethin’ you can’t finish. Must still be pretty spent from last night.”

“Fiend.” You scoff, but he can’t see anything other than amusement on your angelic face. “You’re that confident in your abilities?” you pull his leg for no reason – he very well should be.

“Mhm.” The blond yawns. He stretches onto his back causing the thin sheet to drag down and his defined v-line to peek ever so slightly from above it.

Your face warms and you make to get out of bed before the urge to start last night’s endeavours all over again takes over. “First thing in the morning. Shameful,” you scold half-heartedly as if you aren’t having the exact same thoughts.

Leon groans and hooks a toned arm around your waist. “Don’t,” he pleads, pulling you back down into his warmth.

You giggle, reaching back to hold him back. “Don’t you have anywhere to be? Won’t Hunnigan want to see you?”

He nuzzles his face into your neck, never getting enough of your warmness, your smell, your everything. The linens already smell like you. Part of him aches at the realization that there isn’t a hint of him there, granted he’s been gone on missions a lot. He’ll take waking up and having his senses consumed by you over waking up sore in a shitty motel, or even worse on something that’s not even meant to be slept on in the middle of a mission. Anyday. “No. I fought like hell to get time off for the holidays.”

That snaps you out of your cozy wooziness in a shared heartbeat. Your head jerks back to look at him, your eyes wide in disbelief, shining with a rare light of hope. “Really?”

“Mhm.” He dares to grin, pleased with your adorable reaction. Lovingly, he pulls you up to straddle his lap.

It always makes your stomach turn, how effortlessly he can handle you around. With a last-second thought, you pull a sheet along with you to create a weak barrier between your intimate parts and him, still wanting to relish in the comfort a moment more before things inevitably turn heated again. You bask in the idea of the two of you getting to pretend to live a normal life for a week or two. You could have this domesticity every morning…

He shoots you a mischievous look. “Minx.”

You only laugh. “We have all the time in the world.”

He sits up to litter warm kisses along your tender neck, his hands resting firmly on your hips. “And I plan to take advantage of every second,” he finishes your sentence.

To egg him on, you tangle your fingers in his hair. “Oh! We can make breakfast together… And I didn’t finish decorating the apartment! And we could go ice staking! I still can’t believe you don’t know how,” you begin to ramble, getting pleasantly overwhelmed with the possibility of all the seasonal activities you could finally do with the love of your life.

He chuckles softly, lifting his head from your neck. His lips are starting to swell deliciously. “Sure, baby. Anything you want.”

hi, loves!!! <3

i wanna post a little holiday-feely ficlet. i've got two ideas. what do you want to see first?

pls feel free to vote even if you don't follow me! i just want to see what the people yearn for lmaoo

lots of love,

Summary: you meet your new neighbour… or rather, he catches you staring. (James Kelly x Reader)

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: mild suggestive dialogue, age gap briefly mentioned (reader is in their early 20s, James is in his early 30s), kinda ditzy reader, female reader, no use of Y/N, fun banterrrr.

Notes: in this house, we <3 hayden christensen.

You were so excited to finally have your own place. You worked your ass off throughout high school and college to save up for a nest egg. You survived roommates from hell and even worse dining hall food. The second you got your degree, you decided to leave everything behind and get the hell out of Dodge. That’s how you now find yourself in New Orleans. The house you bought is humble and in a rather shitty neighborhood. But hey, at least you aren’t in your hometown. You surprisingly don’t mind the sketchy neighborhood all that much. Sure, you’ll have to invest in some pepper spray and maybe a crappy security camera system, but at least the space is your own. It’s not like you really plan on socializing with your neighbors, anyway.

So you dragged in your own furniture – all procured locally. You didn’t exactly have the room to pack up your entire life in your car. You dragged the dusty couch you found on the side of the road up the porch steps. You heard scraping, though if that was the underside cloth ripping, the stubby legs getting scratched, or the inevitably termite-infested deck wood falling apart, you weren’t sure. You broke a sweat in the sweltering New Orleans summer moving thrifted tables and chairs and not that many boxes (still too many for your lone liking). All this while feeling some eyes on you. You’re sure you seem like some kind of crazy. Who moves houses entirely by themselves? Whatever, this is a clean slate. Who cares what they think of you? Here, you can be whoever you want to be, no matter how unserious and antisocial. The house isn’t… maximalist, but decoration is a luxury that will come with time. You have your essentials, and that’s what counts. So you get used to the vicious-sounding dogs barking in the middle of the night, hearing couples argue through not-well-insulated walls, and the weird smell lingering outside. After all, this place is your own.

You’re breaking apart boxes on your porch when you hear the loud ruckus of your next-door neighbor yanking open his front and storm doors. He leans against the front of his house and fishes a pack of cigarettes from the back pocket of his oil and grime-stained gray coveralls. You’ve caught glimpses of him around before – mostly during his much too-frequent smoke breaks, and sometimes if you happened to be up when he left for work. Other than that, he keeps to himself. You assume he’s a mechanic from his usual attire and the beat-up old car he likes to tinker with in his driveway.

You’d be lying if you said he isn’t a bit attractive. A lot attractive, actually. Part of you feels a little guilty. He looks to be older than you – maybe around his early to mid-thirties. It’s not age that really bothers you, you’ve shamelessly been attracted to older celebrities before… There’s just something more humbling when it’s a tangible, real-life person whose house happens to be eight feet away from your own. From what you’ve gathered during your little ogling sessions through your windows, he’s tall, with short dark brown hair and a few tattoos. One of which is an intricate design cascading down his right arm and hand, though you’ve never been close enough to quite make it out. It’s that right hand that now flicks on his damaged lighter in a way so natural that you assume he’s done it thousands of times before. For some reason, you’re mesmerized by the way he moves. Now that you get to see him from a bit closer, he truly is fucking h-

“Can I help you?” his voice breaks you out of your trance. He speaks with the cigarette dangling from his pink lips. Shit. Those stormy blue eyes are locked on you as he blows out a puff of smoke, awaiting your response.

Fuck it. Fresh start. You decide to lean into getting caught staring by laying it on thick. It’s not like you usually cross him outside anyway. “I could think of a few ways.”

The handsome stranger’s brows shoot up, surprised by your bold response. A smirk plays at his lips, his left hand in his coveralls’ front pocket. He pulls the cig from his lips between two long, tatted fingers. “Care to list them?”

Oh god, he’s actually going along with this. You did not plan ahead. You feel warmth rise to your cheeks. “No, no. I don’t do harassment.”

“And staring at me isn’t?” He tilts his head and takes another puff.

You can’t help but smile. So the man’s got a sense of humor… “Oh no, that’s just people watching.”

“People watching, huh?” Small whirls of smoke escape him as he speaks. “And what’ve you gathered?” He exhales.

It’s your turn to smirk and tilt your head. You move up closer to the railing of yours facing the side of his house. “You’re on track to contract lung cancer by age forty.”

He chuckles and raises the cancer stick to his lips again, utterly unfazed. “Oh really?” He takes his time to exhale, looking straight into your eyes for all of it. “What other genius observations have you made?”

You hum and purse your lips, deciding on what other information to reveal that won’t seem too much like a stalker. “You live alone… And I’m pretty sure you’re a mechanic.”

He smirks again. “Not bad. You a Sherlock Holmes wannabe or somethin’?”

“Only if you’ll be my John Watson.” You grin.

He chuckles, a small, genuinely amused smile tugging at his lips. He looks you up and down, and it seems like you’ve brushed off on him because he doesn’t bother hiding it before looking back up to your face. “Guess that makes you the smarter one. That’s kinda hot, Sherlock.”

You pretend to be exaggeratedly flattered because, in reality, your heart is pounding out of your chest right now. “Awe, you think?”

“I do.” He walks up to lean on his railing – which, by the way, looks like it’s about to tumble over. “You’re very attractive, you know that?”

You mirror his actions and lean on your own railing. “And what makes you say that?”

He smirks, seeing right through you. “I don’t think you really know what to do with yourself when someone’s givin’ you the attention that you give them.”

Oh, damn. You blow out air. “Well, shit. We were being playful until you went real on me.”

“Ah. I hit the nail right on the head, huh?” He laughs softly.

You laugh as well. “I swear, I’m not a slut or anything. The only reason I opened with a borderline creepy line was because I thought you’d ignore me. I figured I’d at least have some fun out of it.”

The hot neighbour just smirks. “So I’ve noticed.” He takes another slow drag of smoke. “You thought I was gonna ignore a pretty girl in short shorts on her porch?”

So that’s how he’s going to play it… Truth be told, you hadn’t even given much thought to your clothes- some risky denim shorts and a cute little baby tee. You suppose you should now that you live somewhere where the houses are so tight together.  “Ohhh, so you’re the slut out of the two of us-” you feign realization.

“Oh really?” He snickers and looks down, his gaze lingering on your little shorts for a moment. “That’s a bold accusation, Sherlock.”

“You’re not denying it, Watson.”

“Mm. Guess I’m not.” He smiles smugly and flicks some ashes off the cigarette before his eyes wander back up to meet yours again.

The sight makes your ego swell a bit. “Who’s staring now?” you tease.

His smile turns into a wolfish grin. He shifts his weight against the railing, making a point of maintaining eye contact. “Ah. So we’re even.”

“I guess so.” You laugh and offer a genuine smile, truly amused by this man.

His smirk fades for a moment as he notices the authenticity of your beam. It catches him a bit off guard – the way it lights up your face. “Hey, Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“Your smile is cute as hell, you know that?”

You try to suppress the joy that fills your chest from the simple compliment. You can’t explain the hold this stranger has on you. “Thanks, Watson.”

“You should smile more.” He leans up straight again as the soft smirk returns to his face.

You smirk right back. “Are you saying that in a creepy guy at the grocery store kinda way or a genuine way?”

“It’s a ‘you look nice and I’m trying to compliment you’ kind of way.” He chuckles lightly.

Your cheeks warm up. “Honestly, I think you’re the only person around here who’s made an effort to talk to me.”

He glances at the neighboring houses. “Yeah, well-” He points at the house across from yours. “That’s Mrs. Dowers – she’s barely sentient. The others don’t really talk much. We’re not exactly a block party bunch… Everyone around here’s kind of an asshole.”

“Ah.” You nod, looking along the road. “Lucky me.”

He just appears to be entertained by your sarcastic responses. His gaze lingers on you a moment before he speaks again. “I’ll be honest, Sherlock. You don’t seem as much of an ass as the others are.”

You shrug with a playful smile. “Give me a few days.”

He laughs again, surprised by how much he’s actually enjoying talking to you. “So you’re secretly a dick, huh?”

“Oh yeah. The full nine inches.”

“Ohhh, impressive.”

It’s your turn to laugh, glad that he’s matching your humor. It’s fun to shoot the shit with this man. “I mean, I don’t go around showing it off to everyone, but-”

He shakes his head, licking his teeth. After a moment, he nods in the direction of the abandoned half-destroyed boxes on your porch. “Pretty thing like you shouldn’t have had to move around heavy boxes and furniture by yourself, you know?”

Your teasing grin returns. “You were lookin’?”

“You weren’t?”

Fair point.

“Your boyfriend wouldn’t help ya?” he continues.

You shoot him a half-hearted glare to let him know you’re onto him. “Don’t have one. I don’t have the most bustling social life at the moment.”

“You sure ‘bout that?”

You cock a brow. “About what? That I’m incredibly boring or painfully single?”

“The second one.” He scoffs. “You not interested?”

“Not actively searching… but not opposed if an opportunity came up.” You feel a sense of relief, recognizing where this conversation is going. It was inevitable, really, with the way you’ve been talking.

He thinks for a second before speaking again. “So, if I said I was interested, what would you say?”

You straighten up from leaning on the railing, suddenly feeling the need to hold yourself with some air of self-regard. “That depends. You like girls who play hard to get or those who get straight to the point?”

“Mm. Guess I prefer getting right to the point. I don’t do too well with hard-to-get.”

You hum. “Then I’d say when and where?”

He grins. “You free tonight?”

Your smile shifts into a more earnest one to let him know you appreciate this. “Yeah.”

He finds himself liking this more sincere side of you that slips through the jokes. His shit-eating grin softens into a warmer smile. “Alright, then. You mind if I come knocking at your door around six? I know a great Chinese place.”

You nod, starting to back up toward your door. Fuck the mess of boxes, you need to start getting ready now. “It’s a date.”

He chuckles, lifting his hands. “You gonna tell me your name?” he calls out.

You laugh. “Isn’t it more fun this way? It’s not like you don’t know where to find me.”

He shakes his head in disbelief for the second time that afternoon and pushes himself off of his railing. It makes his exposed forearms tense. “Fair enough, Sherlock.”

“Later, Watson.” You disappear into your house.

A tree. The tattoo veiling his right hand and arm is of tree roots and its trunk.

Maybe this neighborhood isn’t so bad after all.