Stella's Drafts

Stella | 20 | she\her | writing blog | multifandom | minors DNI

[stellasdrafts]

masterlist <3

started: 29-11-2024

last updated: 02-07-2026

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

The Last of Us

more to come...

[stellasdrafts]

Chapter 3 - If You're Sure It's What You Need

Thoroughfare (Joel Miller x Reader)

<- Chapter 2 Series Masterlist

Summary: you and Joel strike a deal

Word Count: 2.8k

Content: no outbreak au, religious content (reader has left the church), talks of not eating, female reader in 2os, explicit language, BAD IDEAS do not get in strangers’ cars pls, I described Joel rather loosely so imagine show or game as you wish

July 12th, 2013

You came to when the car jostled. You lingered in your drowsiness; the faint smell of smoke curled around you like a blanket. One which you were in dire need of.

“Damn potholes,” he grumbled.

You startled up at the unfamiliar voice before registering your surroundings. Right. Not in danger.

Joel quickly glanced at you, then returned his focus to navigating the quiet parking lot. “Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you up like that.”

“No, it’s okay—I shouldn’t have fallen asleep in the first place.” You rubbed at your eyes while Joel extended an arm behind your seat to reverse into a parking spot.

“Says who?” he replied, bating his breath until he was satisfied with his parking job.

“I don’t know. Just seems like bad manners.”

He didn’t seem to care in the slightest, unbuckling his seatbelt. “If your body needs it, it needs it. Especially if you’ve been out in the sun long hours. Not gonna be more productive watchin’ road signs go by.”

You felt a prickle of disappointment when you noticed him getting ready to leave the truck, and you hurried to match his pace. He hadn’t stared or made creepy comments like most of your other drivers. It was nice while it lasted. “Right. Well, thanks for the ride—”

Joel shot you a look. “M’not kicking you out. You were out about two hours, just wanted to make sure we were still on track with wherever it is you want to go. We’re in a town called Junction.”

“Oh.” You blinked away your surprise. “Alright. Yeah, that’s good, thanks.”

“Alright,” he repeated and got out of the truck with a grunt. “You hungry?”

Shame prickled at your chest. You left home with limited resources, including funds. So far, you had managed to scrape by with gas station meal deals every couple of days. You had to play things smart until you found a place to settle and work for a while. Then, you could make it to California… Hopefully, without ever eating another hot dog again.

You stood as well and met his eyes over the truck’s hood. “Um, I can’t really… You go ahead, I’m okay. I can’t really afford to eat out at the moment—"

“I didn’t ask if you could afford it; I asked if you were hungry.”

“…I am, yeah.”

“That wasn’t so hard, now, was it? C’mon.” With a nod of his head, he started for the diner across the lot.

You hadn’t paid much mind to the building until now. It was small, and its colors suggested it was dated. That, and the missing roof shingles. The sign spelling KENNY’S posted up above said shingles also looked to be hanging on by a thread.

Joel got further and further ahead, and you took off in a hasty walk to catch up to him, only to struggle to keep up with his strides.

“That’s really generous and everything, but don’t feel like you have to just because I’m travelling wi—”

He opened the diner door with a huff and stepped aside to let you in. “You always this self-sacrificial?”

A small crease appeared between your brows, and you turned your head to keep him in your sight as you went inside. “It’s not sacrificial.”

“Look, you have got to start accepting people’s benevolence if you’re gonna be livin’ like this for a while.” He followed in right behind you. “I’m an empty nester, a diner meal ain’t going to put me out, alright? I wouldn’t have picked you up if I minded.”

You decided it best to shut your mouth then and slide into one of the booths by the windows. The cracked vinyl of the maroon seats grazed your thighs, and you had to readjust a few times before settling in. While you took in your surroundings, Joel only picked up the menu and began reading, eyes slightly squinted at the small font.

You were about to comment on the apparent familiarity when a waitress walked over. “Well, well, look who it is.”

You had guessed right.

Joel gave a polite smile, and it struck you as the first favorable expression you’d seen on his face since you met. “Hey, Charlotte.”

Charlotte was young, maybe in her late teens. Her pink polo was neatly tucked into her pants, and stickers adorned the back of her server pad. The front part of her blonde hair was braided back, then pulled into a ponytail that cascaded past her shoulders. She was cute. You wished you would’ve been allowed to wear yours similarly at her age…

“Goin’ to pick up Ellie again?”

“You know it, kid.”

“Got company this time.”

You snapped out of your thoughts and offered her your name and a warm grin.

“Starting off with your usual coffee?” she asked, turning to your companion once again. “Thank you,” he replied, and you couldn’t help but find it endearing the way he dragged out the last syllable.

“I’ll take one too, please,” you added.

Charlotte beamed and nodded her head just once, server book clutched to her chest. “Sure thing. I’ll be right back.”

You grabbed the little bowl of sugar and salt packets and ran your finger along the ribbed edges as Charlotte made it back behind the counter. “You come here often, then?”

“Yeah.” He set down the menu to look at you. “Every time I pass through to see my kid. The food’s real good…”

You hummed, taking out one of the sugar packets and lightly drumming its shorter side on the table. “Ellie… what school is she at? I mean, what’s she taking?”

Something proud tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he cast his gaze downward, as if almost shy. “She’s takin’, uh, mechanical engineering at UC Santa Barbara. And then a minor in planetary science or somethin’ alike.”

Your drumming stopped. “Oh shit.”

“Oh shit is right.” He huffed. “Daggum smart, that girl… Even though she likes to pretend she ain’t sometimes. The mechanic stuff’s good for her, I think. Takes a hell of a lotta brains, but she likes gettin’ in on the action, that one. Reckon it’s a good mix of that nerdy space stuff and workin’ with her hands.”

Charlotte came back, setting your coffees on the table. “Here y’all go, sorry to interrupt. Are we ready to order?” She tapped the end of her pen on the server pad and the tip clicked in place.

Joel ordered a burger with fries and told you to pick anything you wanted. You settled on a club sandwich, almost drooling at the thought of real food after a week on the road. You’d been using up too much energy walking so much every day.

“So,” You started fixing your coffee the way you like. “What’s she doing over there this time of year?”

He hummed, swallowing a swig of coffee. “She’s got a place out there with her girlfriend. Lease isn’t over until the end of the month, so she was doin’ this sort of workshop through the school. Anyway, it’s done now.”

You nodded along and took a sip of your own. “You said she’s your youngest, right? So, you have other kids?”

There was a slight quizzical twinkle in his eye. “You know, we’ve been talking a whole lot about me and not a whole lot about you.”

You paused a moment and shrugged. “There isn’t much to say.”

“Somehow, I doubt that.”

Your lips quirked up in a ghost of a smile. “You doubt that the girl you found on the side of the highway could be boring?”

“It’s rather self-explanatory.”

You took a moment, gnawed on the inside of your cheek as you really looked at him, trying to infer any ill intent. You meant it when you thought him handsome earlier. He had a good head of dark hair with wisps of gray, and the brown in his eyes couldn’t help but betray a certain warmth that you suspected could only come from fatherhood. You could tell he was on the older side, and a few weeks ago you would’ve been ashamed of such attraction towards him. You could almost hear your father’s chastising tone if you let your thoughts trail—

“I ran away.” You cringed the second you said it.

But Joel didn’t seem put off in the slightest. Only curious, if anything. “That a fact?”

“Saying runaway makes me sound like a teenager, I-I’m grown, I just—My family would’ve pitched a hissy fit if they saw me leave, and I just didn’t want to deal with that. So, I… left without their knowledge—”

“You snuck out.”

“I made a quiet exit… in the middle of the night.”

You held your tongue as Charlotte returned with your plates. She seemed like a sweet girl, and you didn’t think she deserved to hear about your sob story. Your throat went dry as you stared down at your plate. It’s been funny since you left; every mealtime had gone by with you feeling the urge to pray. Before, it felt like a nuisance. A weight that dampened all rhythm and life from conversations. But as you gawked at the plate, it felt wrong not to.

“They get your order wrong?”

You blinked, shaking away those thoughts. “No, it’s okay. It’s right.” You looked up and saw Joel begin to dig into his own meal. You welcomed it as permission and took a tentative bite of your sandwich.

“So why’d you leave?”

Your chewing slowed and came to a stop. “…You’re right, this place is good.”

Thankfully, he took the hint and didn’t ask about your situation for the rest of the meal. You both managed to make small talk without too much heat on your story. For all intents and purposes, he seemed to be a decent guy. Two daughters: Ellie and Sarah, a contractor, Texas-born and raised… He seemed reluctant to give up his information, but your silence pressured him into it. Once he got going, it was easy to nod along and add in your own questions and comments. He really did interest you; almost everyone did once you left your community. They all seemed so free, seemed to have so many lived experiences.

Once all the plates had been cleared and all that was left were your refilled coffees, Joel awkwardly cleared his throat. “Look, I’ve been thinkin’… We’re both heading to the same place, right? If you want, I could take you out west with me. I’ll take you anywhere; I just mean, you won’t have to worry about finding a bunch of rides there, and I won’t have to worry about seeing your face on a milk carton.”

You took a moment to mull the offer over with a blank stare. He seemed genuine, so you didn’t want to believe this could be part of some trafficking scheme. Plus, he came across as too reserved to be expecting unfavorable services in exchange… Still, even if his intentions were pure, how long until he’d be fed up with your company? How far could you allow yourself to go whilst taking advantage of one man’s kindness? You supposed every mile got you closer to California, even if you didn’t make it that far.

“What do you say? Are you in?”

Your fingers stilled on the mug’s handle, and the splinter in your middle one stung for a moment. “If you’re sure, yeah. I’ll come with you.”

He gave a curt nod and finished the last swig of his coffee. “Good. Come on, then.” He fished into his pocket for his wallet and dropped a few bills on the table. “Reckon we can get a few more hours in until it gets real dark out.”

You thanked Charlotte on your way out and followed Joel to his truck. He reached it first and opened your door, staring out at the diner as if wishing a last goodbye until next time. This time, settling into the truck felt different. This seat belonged to you for the foreseeable future. It was a place to return to after gas fill-ups, bathroom breaks, and rest stops. You’d have a reluctant partner to chat with, someone who’d notice if you went missing. Mrs. Marsh’s Bible sat on the dash, and you didn’t feel the urgent need to tuck it away in case you needed to make a quick exit.

The ride was quiet, fatigue overcoming both of you. You listened to the crackly radio once more and watched as dusk bloomed overhead. Joel had rolled down a crack in his window so that the breeze could keep him alert, but it only soothed you further.

By the time the sky was fully black, the truck pulled into the parking lot of a small motel in Fort Stockton where you could rest for the night. You hopped out and took out your duffel as well as Joel’s suitcase from the back while he dug in his wallet for his ID and credit card.

The lights in the main office were a warm yellow, and you were thankful they didn’t blind you after sitting in the dark for so long. Joel dragged his suitcase up to the counter, and you followed close behind.

“Hey, man. Could we get two rooms for the night?”

The young man behind the counter slowly looked up, seemingly irritated to have been pulled from whatever magazine he was currently reading. “We’re full up, man. We got one left,” he slurred.

Joel’s brows furrowed, and he tilted his head down. “How the hell is a motel full up in this town?”

The desk clerk only shrugged. “I dunno. Happens like twice a year during the summer. Folks passing through, I guess. You want it or not?”

“How many beds?”

“A queen.”

Joel sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Alright—”

“We can try someplace else,” you offered.

“I’m outta steam.” He shook his head and handed his card over. “We’ll take it, it’s fine.”

Your heart sunk to your stomach, thinking you may have misjudged his character.

“What?”

He didn’t answer right away as the clerk handed him the key. You followed as he headed outside but didn’t move any further in the direction of the room. He turned after a few paces, confusion written over his face. “Forgot somethin’ in the car?”

You clutched the strap of your duffel as if it might give you more courage. “Look, I don’t know what you think this is—”

His expression turned outright horrified. “What? No—no. You’re takin’ the room. I can sleep in the truck; it wouldn’t be the first time.”

It was your turn to frown as he resumed his walk in search of the correct door. “That cannot be sustainable. You’re the one driving—”

He scoffed. “My back’s seen better days, but it ain’t as bad as it seems.”

“Joel—”

“Bingo.” He gave the key a little toss before inserting it into your room’s keyhole. He then swung the door open with a little more flourish than necessary. “Here you go, miss.”

You leaned against the stucco wall with your arms crossed, not quite convinced.

He mirrored your expression. “When’s the last time you slept in a bed?”

“…Four nights ago.”

He pushed off the wall. “In, please.”

“Yeah, okay…”

You stepped inside in surrender, and Joel dropped the keys into your palm. You lingered in the doorway, uncertainty prickling at your chest. An ugly, vulnerable thing swelled in the back of your mind. In the truck, he could leave you stranded if he wished. You knew it was silly; you’d known each other a grand total of six hours. But, after being away from your close-knit neighborhood for the first time, you’d begun missing having people around, even after they suffocated you.

Maybe you were vulnerable, but something about Joel Miller made you feel comforted in a way you hadn’t before. He was there, offering you things and opportunities while still maintaining a distance that allowed you to breathe easy on your own. Something about Joel Miller made you look forward to the days ahead, and you really didn’t want this to end tonight.

Somehow, maybe a father’s intuition, he read it on your face. He dropped his head to chase your distracted stare. “I’m not going anywhere. I want you gettin’ there safe.”

With a slight grunt, he lifted his suitcase and brushed past you into the room. He set it down beside the TV stand. When he turned back towards you, there wasn’t the encouragement of a smile, but something had softened in his gaze. “I’m not leaving without my things, alright? Now, won’t you get some rest.”

You held him up before he got too far out, gathering your words at the last second. “Thanks, Joel. Means a lot.”

His lips pressed together in acknowledgement, and he gave a final nod before heading back to the truck. You, stuck in place, watched him go.

He wasn’t frustrated by your insecurity or lack of trust. Quite the opposite, he trusted you with his belongings.

It was the first time in over a decade you saw a man who wasn’t angry.

[stellasdrafts]

Chapter 2 - His Mother's Blood

Thoroughfare (Joel Miller x Reader)

<- Chapter 1 Series Masterlist

Summary: a visit to a childhood friend

Word Count: 1.1k

Content: no outbreak au, religious indoctrination

June 1988

Over the past few years, it has taken Mrs. Marsh longer and longer to answer the door. Maybe it was her growing resentment towards unannounced guests since Mr. Marsh’s passing, or maybe it was her refusal to sell and move into a one-story house. You stood in front of her door, flats tapping on the decrepit porch, arms linked behind your back, waiting patiently. Other kids might’ve retreated by now, but you knew she was coming. Soon, she opened the door and revealed herself, back aggressively curved, wrinkled face still done up with soft powders, and thin gray hair pulled back into a presentable low bun.

Your parents once told you she used to be beautiful in her youth. “It’s a shame what that boy did to her,” they spoke, careless of your eight-year-old presence. “She must forgive herself. It was the Devil that turned him away from us, not any of her motherly teachings.”

Mrs. Marsh immediately swept you in. “Look who’s here! My little lamb.” She didn’t smile, rarely did, but she never turned you away like she did the other children.

When you stepped inside, the familiar scent of carpet struck you first. It always did, no matter how many times you came. It also seemed, with each visit, that you found a new addition to her collection of crosses and statues of saints scattered across the house. It was too much to keep count, and at some point, they all started camouflaging into the oak wainscoting and yellowed wallpaper. Even the assortment of cards atop her china cabinet (which appeared she kept every single one), birthdays, condolences, gratitude… all included varieties of crosses.

She ushered you to the table, as she does every Sunday. This time, she emerged from the kitchen with a pretty platter of tomato sandwiches. You perked up at the sight and sat up extra prim and proper, as if that would get them to you faster. She set down the platter as well as some fine china at your usual spots. Stomach grumbling, you went to reach for a sandwich before Mrs. Marsh let out a short noise of disapproval.

“Are you bein’ have, girl? For the pastor’s daughter, you sure are forgetful once food is involved.”

If it were one of your parents who said it, you might’ve shrunk into yourself or lost your appetite altogether, but the old woman always offered you lenience that you didn’t have at home.

She shot you a knowing look, and you let your eyes fall shut. Reflexively, your head fell into a bow, and your hands clasped together in prayer. She began saying grace, and one of your eyes cracked open only slightly to find her in the same pose. Every lunchtime prayer was a similar iteration of the one from the previous Sunday, and you found it to get boring after hearing scripture drag on that morning. However, with time, the cadence she adopted while praying became a comforting sound. You didn’t pay much mind to the words spoken; even during service, you rarely ever did. They were big and confusing and frankly overwhelming. Maybe when you’re older, you’ll understand them. All the grown-ups you know recite them.

For now, you just wanted tomato sandwiches.

You munched happily while your neighbor chatted about her nieces and nephews—older than you—and events going on in the neighborhood. You nodded along and pretended you didn’t know about them already. Your family, being who they are, oftentimes knew about these things before the rest of the congregation. It’s only when you finished your last piece of bread that she caught your attention once more.

“I have something for you.” She stood and headed into the adjoining living room, picking something up from the coffee table before coming back. Your puzzled expression made her chuckle, as if a full laugh would cause her too much strain. “It wasn’t ready in time for your baptism, but… It’s an important decision worth celebrating. You done something good, little lamb.”

Something warm swelled in your chest. You’d done good.

You looked down at what appeared to be a shiny silver box, a jewelry box, to be precise. It had little gemstones scattered over the top, and little heart details that reminded you of a clover when put together. Most notable was your name, engraved in a pretty cursive in the middle of the cover. You looked up at her with glossy eyes and thanked her.

She tucked a soothing finger under your chin. “May this box protect your treasures as the Lord protects you, sweet child.”

After the meal, you wandered around the house, on the hunt for a previously undiscovered cross. It became a game you had made up for yourself over the past year, because somehow, more kept appearing. You had counted four when you reached the kitchen. Mrs. Marsh stood at the sink, water running as she washed dishes. Sandwiches didn’t dirty many dishes, but your gaze caught on the tremble in her fingers as she worked. It almost looked as though the cutting board was too heavy for her. Wordlessly, you stepped up beside her, rose on your toes, and began to scrub at plates. You both worked in comfortable silence for the next few minutes, listening to the field crickets through the window.

Once the dishes were clean and tucked away, you found yourself where you always did: on her plastic-covered couch, which always smelled faintly of dust, with the wrath of a dozen Jesus figurines staring down at you. She clutched her compact Bible tight in her hands, reading the passages she’d selected for you both this week. It had taken your mother a long time to convince her to get the smaller version, since her muscles were getting too weak to handle a regular one. You liked the leather on this one better than the last. It seemed to do the trick fine as she read aloud. It was Hebrews, she told you, but you never could remember the numbers.

“Beware, brethren, lest there be in any of you an evil heart of unbelief in departing from the living God; but exhort one another daily—”

That’s what Mrs. Marsh’s son had, your daddy told you, an evil heart which caused him to depart from the faith. An evil heart made him have that bastard son.

“—while it is called "Today," lest any of you be hardened through the deceitfulness of sin.”

The eyes of the statuettes burned your skin. How hard could it truly be to resist the deceitfulness of sin? Sin is bad. Sin is evil.

“For we have become partakers of Christ if we hold the beginning of our confidence steadfast to the end.”

You were a good girl. You vowed to yourself never to let the deceiving spirits and demons lie to your soul. You would make your family proud.

[stellasdrafts]

Thoroughfare (Joel Miller x Reader)

Series Masterlist

Preface

Chapter 1: Chasing the Sweet Call

Chapter 2: His Mother's Blood

Chapter 3: If You're Sure It's What You Need

More coming soon…

[stellasdrafts]

Chapter 1 - Chasing the Sweet Call

Thoroughfare (Joel Miller x Reader)

Series Masterlist Chapter 2 ->

Before starting, I strongly recommend reading the preface!

Summary: when you ran away from your religious hometown, you never expected to meet someone like Joel Miller. maybe you’re just what the other needed.

Word Count: 1.5k

Content: no outbreak au, religious content (reader has left the church), female reader in 2os, BAD IDEAS do not get in strangers’ cars pls – read fanfic to get ur fix instead

July 12th, 2013

Gravel crunched underneath your boots as you walked backwards, one hand held up over your brow to shield your eyes from the sweltering sun. Your other arm started to ache from holding your thumb up for so long, and even the strap of your duffel bag felt damp with sweat on your shoulder.

Even with all the little inconveniences that would normally sour your mood, you felt better than ever. You were free.

No more Sunday school. No more church basement lunches. No more morning, meal, and bedtime prayers. It made you nauseous to think of all the minutes of your life wasted on your knees, hands clenched in prayer, in front of the congregation during the altar call, singing words with such steadfastness that made bile rise in your throat—praying until you were out of breath and crying when nothing came to show of it. It was one too many times getting locked in your room and told to kneel, one too many crosses held up in your face, one too many prayers following you around the hall when you came in late.

Your mother didn’t know she was sending you to bed for the last time when she closed your creaky bedroom door that fateful night after checking on your routine invocation. You sat before your usual spot by your bed, wooden floor scuffed from years of devotion. You ran your fingertips over the small indents left behind from years of repetition. Who would you become without slotting your knees in the familiar shallow notches every night? They had brought you nicks and bruises throughout your lifetime, but it was the place you always came back to at the end of the day. You traced the groove until your finger caught on a chip, then pulled back with a hiss. A sliver. Great. You brought it to your lips, searching to soothe the pain. It wouldn’t be dealt with tonight; you’d have to leave your room to find tweezers and risk running into family members. No, you needed to leave before you lost the nerve. Grabbing your biggest bag, you packed everything you could in the span of ten minutes and slipped out your window, bidding a silent good riddance to the people you left behind.

The Bible in your back pocket felt heavy with every staggered step – you weren’t even sure why you brought it in the first place. Mrs. Marsh… What would she think of you now? Thick, warm air blew against you with every passing car on the highway. Barely anyone stopped anymore, only old guys solo-travelling who knows where, who seemed way too interested in the cut of your shorts instead of focusing on the road. No doubt with wives back home, too. You supposed you couldn’t complain if it helped you skip town. You were about to call it for the next few hours and grant your cramping arm a break when a gray Chevy Silverado pulled onto the shoulder some yards ahead. Catching the silhouette of a man through the back windshield, you braced yourself for some more awkward talk and glances as you approached the now lowered passenger-side window.

Handsome was the first word to come to mind upon laying eyes on him. He sat relaxed, one hand still on the bottom of the wheel, and his head slightly bowed to see you through the frame on the other side of the cab. You leaned in, arms burning a bit against the door’s hot aluminum. The muscles in your forehead relaxed as you gave yourself a break from squinting in the sun.

“Where’re you headed?” was the first thing he said to you.

“Anywhere as long as it’s not back east.”

He only gave a curt nod before unlocking the doors and reaching over to crack the passenger side open.

Serial killers could be handsome… Still, you hopped in with a mumbled thanks, reaching over to drop your duffel in the back before settling in. The man avoided looking too far in your direction, keeping his eyes on the road ahead as you lifted your hips to remove the small Bible from your shorts’ pocket. You slipped it between your thigh and the soft seat, mindful not to curl the paper too much.

Your driver cleared his throat, as if not accustomed to speaking to strangers. “Good?”

With a final breath of courage, you nodded. “Mhm.” No matter how many times you had done this in the past few days, there was always a surge of anxiety upon getting in a new car for the first time.

So started the usual routine. Your eyes flickered around the cab, looking for any immediate red flags. It was something you knew you probably should have done before getting in, but you had yet to get over the nerves of what to say when people stopped over in the first place. Better late than never. There was a pack of Marlboros in the cubby under the stereo, a crumbled napkin in the cup holder, what you assumed to be his own suitcase in the back… Nothing incriminating yet.

The man must’ve noticed the unease in your posture because he spoke again, a little gentler, “Joel.”

Your head turned to him, heart rate picking up at the thought of having gotten caught analyzing his things. “Sorry?”

“My name’s Joel. Miller.”

“Oh. Right.” You risked a smile and offered your own back. Joel didn’t strike you as the chatty type, so you turned your attention to the window, every passing tree bringing you farther away from everything you thought you knew about life. Your hometown. Your family. Your church.

“You can roll your window up if the wind’s too much, y’know. Do… whatever you need.”

You breathed in the wild wind and let your arm hang outside. You had never felt so free where you came from. Here, there was no one to scold you for getting your hair matted or being improper. “I’m okay for now,” you replied, and Joel let it be.

You both sat in quiet company for a while, relishing the hot summer air and dull hum of the radio– some old country you might’ve heard at gatherings back home. Your father wasn’t one for music in the house, only gospels. The memory unnerved you the more you lingered on it.

“Do you pick up people often?” You broke the silence, searching for a distraction.

Joel seemed caught slightly off guard by the sudden small talk. His eyes flickered from the road to you and back. “I don’t make a habit of it, no.”

“Then can I ask why you stopped this time?”

He shrugged. “I got two daughters… If they were ever doing what you’re doin’, I’d hope they get picked up by someone decent. This highway ain’t exactly the most reputable either. Wouldn’t have felt right, leaving you there.”

Daughters. That alleviated the tension in your chest. “Well, thank you. I didn’t know.”

“Anyway, aren’t you scared doin’ this kind of thing? Getting in strangers’ cars? For all you know, I could have about six different felonies.”

You looked down at your shoes in the footwell, the corner of your lips curling up. “S’alright, I’ve got nine of my own.”

You heard something like a huff over the music from Joel’s side of the car and took that as a win. “Alright then.” You were about to open your mouth to double down on your small victory when Joel spoke up again. “My daughters— S’actually why I’m out. My youngest, Ellie, she goes to school in Santa Barbara. My brother and his wife up in Wyoming, just had their first baby, and I’m going to pick her up to go visit. It’s outta the way, but… I like the time with her.”

“Oh, that’s really exciting.” You leaned in a bit at that, surprised he’d share such details about his life so freely. He didn’t seem the type. “Man, Santa Barbara? She’s lucky,” you mused. “Always wanted to see the ocean… Actually, I think that’s where I’ll go… Yeah, I wanna see the ocean.”

Joel took a small break in traffic to glance at you as if you’d grown a second head. You didn’t blame him. What kind of girl hitchhikes along sketchy freeways without a predetermined end goal? Probably not one with a clean story. Still, his tone wasn’t at all unkind when he next uttered, “Bet that’ll be real nice.”

Your focus shifted once again to the scenery outside, slowly rolling up your window. You allowed your body to sink into the smoke-bound seat and forgot about the Bible pressed up against your thigh and the splinter in your middle finger. Joel turned up the choppy radio, and for once, it didn’t remind you of prayers in the grass or old folk gossiping about the length of the Campbell girl’s skirt. You only heard the crunch of tires on asphalt and the occasional soft hum along to the music that your companion definitely didn’t mean to let out.

You weren’t sure where you were about to end up, but you knew Joel Miller’s truck sure as hell beat walking.

Next Chapter

[stellasdrafts]

Thoroughfare (Joel Miller) - Preface

Series Masterlist Chapter 1 ->

ROADTRIIIIIP! This one is for everyone who wants to indulge in the summer fling of their dreams. I personally wrote it because I feel literal longing in my chest when I think about this sort of dynamic a little too hard.

I’ll do my best to publish parts biweekly throughout the summer. However, I’m writing as I go, and might face some impromptu challenges.

LITTLE DISCLAIMERS: Feel free to imagine game or HBO Joel. Both are immensely loved here. I tried to mesh a bit of both; Tommy and Maria will have baby Benji in this one, but it’s also 2013.

This fic deals with religious guilt, trauma, and their overcoming. I decided to make the reader character come from a Southern Baptist background to fit the geography of the story, and as a nod to the song that inspired it. While I personally did not grow up Baptist, I do come from a small town and an adjoining religion, so the overall theme isn’t lost on me. I’ve done a lot of research on the faith and attended services in my community to understand it better and, hopefully, avoid making anyone feel disrespected.

I encourage readers from all backgrounds and beliefs not to be put off by this specification, as I believe all religions have more things in common than we see on the surface.

Also, I’m not from the US, so please forgive any inconsistencies and the screen time I’ve racked up on Apple Maps.

This story is only posted on Tumblr (eventually AO3) under this username. Any other reposts are not mine. All used pictures were found on Pinterest. I have no affiliation with the game or show.

Thank you so much for reading!

[stellasdrafts]

would you guys be down to read a multi part joel x reader road trip fic this summer?

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 :)

???

Yes

No

Voting ended onMar 11

[stellasdrafts]

Once an Addict (Frank Langdon)

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

“I’m home!” You heard your husband call from downstairs, a slight crackling in his voice.

You had fed and put your kids to bed when Frank texted you saying he was working late. The small golden doodle, who had yet to have a name, tucked herself in your eldest’s bed. She had really taken a liking to him, much to your pleasure. Yeah, you still had to take care of it, but wherever Tanner went, she was at his heels. It made less of a tripping hazard on top of the dinosaur figures and Legos strewn over the house… For you, anyway. The toddler had yet to develop the balance to accommodate the curly golden bundle jumping all over the place, and had taken one too many tumbles today alone.

You had even gone to bed yourself, rereading the same paragraph from your book over and over again without retaining a single word. You felt about as worried for him as he was at the festival himself. He should be safe at the hospital; you knew that, but you also knew there was a chance the shooter could target it out of spite. They were the closest to it, after all. All those injured people, the lack of medical staff tending to them – easy target. You shook your head, blinked away the tears, and forced yourself to take a breath. He’ll be fine, you told yourself over and over, despite not believing it for a second. Even if things went smoothly – as smoothly as they could- the stress of seeing so many people in distress, of inevitably losing many, would put incredible strain on your husband.

You glanced at the clock on your bedside table, as if you hadn’t done so a thousand times in the last few hours; 10:28. He had let you know he was on his way home around 9:30, and it normally didn’t take him more than a half hour to get home. Fuck, things must have gone really wrong. Frank didn’t bother stopping by the room to say anything more before continuing his post-work routine, jumping into a scalding hot shower to wash off the germs and gore of the day. He’d be dammed if he ever got a speck of the ER on you or in your precious bed. You listened to the water from down the hall, and it hissed at a particularly higher pitch than usual. The sound unnerved you. Typically, you could count on the kids to wake up in the evenings in search of milk, or comfort from a nightmare, or cuddles… Of course, they chose tonight to sleep soundly. Maybe it was for the best. Anyway, it made the seconds tick slowly with every painful pound of your heart as you waited for your husband to come to bed. You needed to assess the unpreventable damage to his psyche. His shower was longer than usual as well. You prayed to anything above he didn’t worsen his back pain lifting patients from gurneys, or that he didn’t watch someone die under his hands, or that- Your thoughts were cut off by the deafening silence that befell your home when the water eventually shut off. You felt like you couldn’t breathe as you listened to his familiar footsteps come closer and closer, your book lying long forgotten beside you on the mattress.

Frank crossed the threshold in his gray t-shirt and flannels, looking more dead inside than you’d ever seen him. And you’d seen him through some rough shit. His usually bright eyes landed unmoving and unfocused at a spot on the wall near your head. Something pulled at your chest: pity, worry, sympathy, nurture? All you knew was that this was something awful. You rushed out of bed and took his face in your hands, as if any of his hurt would manifest itself physically.

“It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re home. It’s over, you’re home.”

You pressed yourself flush against him, feeling helpless to help in any way but comfort. Holding him tight as if he were about to fall limp, you cradled his head down to your shoulder, trying desperately to exude all the care and love he might need.

But he didn’t return your embrace.

Your heart lurched in your chest, and you pulled back to look at him. He always hugged you back. No matter what. He met your perturbed gaze for the first time that evening, and you knew right then; this wasn’t just about Pittfest.

“I fucked up,” he whispered hoarsely.

You staggered a step back, your mind growing hazy. What could be more upsetting right now than a mass casualty event?

“W-What did-” but you couldn’t force the words out. You felt your throat start to close up, imagining the worst.

But he didn’t jump at the chance to reassure you. He looked down at the hardwood floor, lips pressed tight together, and blue eyes watering. Your husband never cried. Your husband cried at your wedding, at the births of his sons, and one time in med school when he was overwhelmed and thought he couldn’t do what he devoted close to a decade of his life and tens of thousands of dollars to accomplish. So why was he crying now?

“Y-You can’t just say that out of nowhere, Frank. Talk to me, p-please. Come on.” You wanted to reach out to him, but it seemed your brain couldn’t wire the command to your suddenly cold limbs.

“Fuck!” He only cursed to himself in a shaky huff, bringing his even more shaky hands to cover his face.

“You’re scaring me.” The voice you heard sounded creepily disconnected from your body.

“Robby sent me- I think I got fired,” he finally spat out, starting to get agitated.

The pressure in your chest gave way only for a second. Was that it? That couldn’t be it? Yes, it was horrible, but it wasn’t a scenario you’d never discussed in your dating days. It was something the two of you would figure out- no. Your thoughts stopped abruptly. He was a great doctor. Something must have been really wrong to be sent home...

“What's- Y-You think? You think you got fired?” You blinked, trying to reel in your spinning mind into some semblance of a logical thought.

“Robby sent me home,” he stated simply, as if that would stop him from having to explain himself further.

Robby? Of all people? Oh, this was fucked. This had to be fucked. “What the fuck, Frank? Why?”

The following silence stretched on much too long. You started to think you could hear your blood rushing in your ears. He opened his mouth repeatedly, but nothing came out, as if there was no way to prepare you or himself for what he was about to say.

“…I got caught stealing meds.”

You almost didn’t hear him, but things were much too silent, too bare for him to keep his sins tucked away. Bile crept up your throat, and you don’t know how you managed to keep it down. You didn’t marry a criminal. That’s what this was – a criminal offence.

“W-Why?” You dreaded hearing the answer. Sure, with two young kids and a resident doctor’s salary, funds could be tight some months, but by no means tight enough to warrant theft. That left you with the most likely possibility.

And that one was infinitely worse.

“When I hurt my back-” he began, but you cut him off with a trembling wail muffled by the hand you clapped over your mouth.

“You stole them for yourself?” You turned away from him, feeling much too vulnerable.

“I’m not an addict.”

“I didn’t-” That reaction in itself was answer enough. You willed yourself to breathe, a million questions swirling around in your head. He had helped his parents move about 4 months ago… Prescribed for 3 weeks… Which means he’d been stealing for approximately 3 months. 3 fucking months and you didn’t notice a thing. One hell of a wife you were. “What have you been taking?”

You watched his Adam’s apple bob anxiously. His tone came off guarded, “Benzos… Lorazepam, Librium…”

“Jesus Christ,” you breathed out, blinking rapidly as tears streamed down your face.

“I’m not- I’ve got it under control,” his voice started to rise.

You whipped back toward him. “Obviously not if you’ve been stealing!”

“Goddamnit, you all react this way. It’s not what you think!”

“Then what is it, Frank?!”

“I don’t-” he stopped, and you saw him try to collect himself. “I’m not sure,” he admitted quietly.

You stood there with a lump in your throat. What did this mean for your family? Your relationship? What did this mean for him?

You rubbed anxiously at your jaw, gathering courage to ask the unwelcome questions bulging in your mind. “Have you- Have you ever been… When do you take them, Frank? Because you’re always either at work or with me-” You felt like throwing up. “And the boys,” your voice cracked.

The bastard didn’t answer, and your heart sank.

You didn’t know how you were still breathing. “Christ, you’ve been high at home!?”

“No!” he immediately corrected. “I’m not- I don’t get high-”

“What does that even mean?” you cut him off with a yell. “You’re intoxicated! Whether you’re fucking stumbling around or not, y-you’re not fully there, Frank!”

He visibly flinched at your words. “That’s not what-”

“And I don’t even know how you’re fucking functioning, to be honest. R-Remember when I took a dose before my MRI a few years back? I felt so drowsy. I wouldn’t even have felt comfortable driving-”

“Baby-”

“So which is it, Frank? Are you impaired when treating patients or in the limited time you have with your family?” You felt an unimaginable anger bubble within you, and you had no idea where the energy for it came from, because you had felt like crumpling to the cold ground just a minute ago.

He hesitated and opened his mouth to answer before a tottering Tanner appeared in the doorway, clutching his teddy and tiredly rubbing an eye. “Daddy?”

You sucked a breath, and Frank whirled around. “Hey, buddy-” his voice faltered back to the soft state it always took while talking to his babies.

Your heart clenched. God, why did he have to ruin this? You hurried and swooped up your son in his father’s place. You tried to tell yourself you imagined the way Frank’s face fell. “What’s wrong, honey? I thought you were asleep.”

“I heard yelling…”

It took everything in you not to break into a sob right then and there, and you were pretty sure you heard your husband muffle a whimper behind you. You both had sworn you wouldn’t be like this. You had sworn a lot of things…

Tanner was taken back to his room, where reassurances were whispered and he was rocked into comfort.

You dreadfully made your way back to your bedroom, head hung low.

“I’ve never taken anything before coming home,” was the first thing you heard upon stepping into the room. “Earlier in the day, sure, but not towards the end of my shift. I-I was just weaning myself off.”

“Did you take some today?”

“Not today. Weaning off,” he repeats, jaw tight.

There was a moment when all you could hear was each other’s breathing, praying to anything above not to catch your child’s little footsteps again.

“So what now?” you broke the silence, voice feeble. Tanner’s appearance had sobered you up, and your vitality was plummeting by the second.

“Robby said 30 days inpatient… Then the usual follow-up after that, urine tests for a year, NA meetings for a few more.”

“Holy fuck-” You raised a hand to your lips. “That sounds like more than just weaning off.”

He shut his eyes, head tilted with frustration. “No, I know. It’s- It’s just what Robby says has to happen for me to have a shot at going back.”

Hearing the next steps made everything feel too real. Your whole life was about to change. Has changed. It was too much.

You sat on the edge of your bed, unsteady hands covering half your face, and tears finally giving away just how shattered you felt. Frank was kneeling in front of you within a second, trying desperately to comfort you by taking your hands. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry-”

You couldn’t hold back your cries anymore, heartbroken and ugly. “I-I don’t understand! I’m your wife! How could I not realize this was going on, Frank?!”

“It’s not your fau-”

You took your hands back from him. “I’m supposed to know you better than anyone! Fuck, how did I not see?! It’s so obvious now, I-” Your body betrayed you, the emotional toll of the night too much to bear. Your shoulders sagged and shook with your cries, your head fell forward – eyes burning from the tears, and your hands lay near-limp on your lap.

Frank called your name, but the sound reached your ears all muffled, echoing further and further every time it fell from his pleading lips.

“I can’t handle more tonight. I-I need…” the thought trailed off as you willed your body, which felt stiff and paralyzed, into bed.

Your husband lingered, and you could tell he had more to say, but it didn’t feel right to push you any further mentally for the moment being. So, begrudgingly, he reached to your nightstand and switched off your lamp, drowning the room in darkness. You were pretty sure you were overheating, but the cold in the room that night was eerie. The mattress dipped with Frank’s weight when he got in as well. You remained with your back turned to him, staring blankly into the darkness. You lay there, overwhelmed, betrayed, and worried sick for a while until the sobs started up again. You were sure the bed shook with your cries, and that concern was confirmed when you felt Frank shift. You imagined his hand was reaching out, but stopped just short, figuring you needed space to breathe tonight.

He’s the one who did this to you. He didn’t have the right to try and save you now.

Christ, he couldn’t even save himself.

Never could you have imagined how the day would end. He had left this morning with a kiss. Things weren’t perfect, sure, but you figured every married couple had issues. He had left this morning as your husband, the father of your children, a hardworking doctor. He came back a liar and an addict. You were completely naïve about how, within fifteen hours, nothing would be the same.

Author’s note: I have some ideas to make this a mini-series! hopefully you guys like this one, please let me know if it’s something you’d be interested in!! thank you for reading, I appreciate you all <3   -Stella

[stellasdrafts]

Tangled Up In You (Gale Dekarios)

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

The idea of post-canon Gale and Druid!Tav stumbling through the tower’s doors after Blackstaff’s annual start-of-the-year gala, most welcome hands wandering and pulling as they please… Of course, as a plus-one guest, you found the ceremony had gotten rather lengthy after while, but it brought you joy to indulge your husband, who took great pride in involving himself in the Waterdhavian community. And after he’s self-sacrificially locked himself away for a year, who are you to deprive him? What you couldn’t help but selfishly think, however, was how positively mouthwatering your husband looked tonight. You adore him in his usual vests and teaching robes, naturally, but there was something about tonight’s attire… Seeing him so composed (or seemingly so), and poised amongst his colleagues seemed to awaken something in you. You itched to come back home much too soon in the evening, and gods above know your husband was battling the same wicked thoughts. Something you cherish dearly about Gale Dekarios – you mustn’t do much to earn his concupiscence.

Needless to say, the two of you hitched the first coach you saw upon exiting the venue. Warm hands fidgeted on thighs and feet tapped on the hollow carriage floor with anticipation, controlling yourselves for the driver’s sake. That dam broke the second your front door closed with a thud that was drowned out by the crashing of your lips. You fumble back for the lock until Gale reaches behind you and bolts it with a satisfying click.

“Show off,” you mumble against his lips. You feel his mouth pull into a sly smile. Instead of answering, he opts to gently tug at your bottom lip with his teeth, brown eyes boring into yours and causing a flutter in your stomach, even after all this time. He hums lowly in half-hearted agreement, starting to guide you deeper into the house toward your shared bedroom. You chuckle softly – the only time he stops talking is when he’s got his mouth in on you.

You’re both out of breath by the time you get to your room, but you don’t find it in yourself to care. The slight haze in your mind only serves to numb every other sensation but him. It’s a miracle you don’t trip over your own feet as you kick off your evening shoes, tottering blindly towards the bed. You don’t even know who’s leading whom anymore – and frankly you don’t care as long as you feel Gale’s warmth pressed flush against your own. There’s nothing innocent about what the two of you are doing, but somehow it feels like the purest thing in the world. Greed softened by the intimacy of familiarity.

“Y-You looked- so… so beautiful-” he murmurs into your soft skin, blissfully out of breath. “Can’t-” he cuts himself off with a quiet groan as his hands wander farther down your frame, elegant fabric rippling under his fingers, as though the idea of you is enough to bring him self-gratification. “Can’t believe I’m lucky enough to get to call you mine. Everyone could see it- everyone loved you. Make me so proud-” he rambles off before quieting himself with a firm kiss to your neck.

His legs happen to reach the bedframe first, and you both tumble onto the mattress with soft grunts. He’s on his back, face framed by waves of soft brown peppered with grey hairs he swears he can never see. You smile lovingly down at him, unable to help yourself from running your fingers through it like you must’ve done a million times before.

He flashes you a wicked grin that makes your stomach churn delightfully. “Don’t know what I did to deserve you. I must’ve been something holy in a past life.”

“Not funny.” You flick his chest despite the dumb smile beaming on your face. He chuckles and it’s only natural you join in. Without warning, he ruts his hips up into yours, only to see the way your expression shifts from sinless pleasure to a less-than-virtuous one. You gasp and plant your hands on his chest to stabilize yourself. He looks all too proud of himself beneath you like this. You should’ve known this was the way it would go tonight… Sliding your hands up his chest and along his arms, you hold his forearms just above his head. His brows are knit together – a silent question to your sudden change of attitude. A familiar warmth thrums through your veins as bewitching vines crawl from the head of the bed, slithering along the cover before coiling around his wrists.

You can practically hear his blood pumping as he looks up at you with wide eyes. If he didn’t look positively flushed before, he most definitely does now.

“Wh-”

“I recall you dismissing my spellwork when we first met on account of not having a fancy education,” you cut him off playfully.

He visibly cringes. “In my defense, I was severely lacking in social skills back then, you know that.”

You giggle, slowly undoing the buttons of his dress shirt. “Back then?”

“Oh ha-ha.” He grimaces up at you sarcastically. His usual response would be to tease you right back, but he finds himself enjoying being at your mercy just a little too much.

Once done with the mahogany buttons, you pry the shirt open and make a show of leaning down to press slow kisses to the mark on his chest, all while keeping your eyes on his. “You still think so, hmm?” You make sure to bat your lashes. “Still think your magic is better than mine?”

He groans, overwhelmed by the heat of your lips and the way you will the vines ever so tighter. “N-No, never did. Not really-” he’s cut off with a languid moan as you roll your hips forward. “You- you’re amazing,” he pants.

“Better.” You smile, heart swelling with pride because you get to call him your husband. You lean down to press your lips to his, fingers brushing some hair from his face. Adoration wafts in the air of your bedroom as your libs tangle themselves together. You keep kissing until your smiles force you apart, tongues and teeth clashing.

You guys are just getting started.

[stellasdrafts]

Girl Dad Headcanons - Arthur Morgan

“[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.

Thinking of Arthur Morgan’s reaction to you birthing his little girl. It’s a surprise, naturally, given the time period. He isn’t disappointed by any means – God, no. He considers himself a blessed man as long as the little one looks like you. He’s concerned. Terrified of the world his little girl will have to live in, of the hardships she will be forced to face.

It isn’t something he’s thought of in such depth before. Sure, he’s had conversations with the women at camp -  he’s not naïve. Prejudices never even made logical sense to him.

Arthur, who didn’t bat an eye when Mary Beth told him she wanted to be a writer. He got her that pen without thinking twice because why shouldn’t women be able to write? Ain’t they people just like everyone else?

Arthur, who didn’t question Tilly for a second when finding out she killed that Foreman. He was told the asshole deserved it and sided with her in a heartbeat, assuming she had acted in self-defense. He would speak to her like a friend, too. Not like she was some inferior woman.

Arthur, who considered marrying Abigail when John left, because no woman should be shunned for being an unwed mother when it’s a deadbeat man who left in the first place. He always thought John took her for granted.

Arthur, who was always in awe of Sadie’s raw courage and determination, and who didn’t question her lead when she asked him to come along on her escapades. A good idea is a good idea, and a good shot is a good shot, no matter whom it comes from. She was a better fighter than most of the men in the gang, anyway.

Arthur, who saw Karen’s femininity as a strength rather than a weakness. She was clever and ambitious. She knew how people perceived her and used that to pull off outrageous heists. Plus, she wasn’t half bad with a shotgun. He never thought anything about her was weak.

Arthur, who despite enjoying teasing her, noticed everything Susan did for the camp. It secretly irritated him when he heard the others whining at her when she asked them to do chores because he knew the place would’ve fallen apart within days if it weren’t for her leadership.

Arthur, who immediately discerned when Molly started acting off. He checked in on her even when the rest of the camp villainized her as this spoiled, ungrateful girl. Sure, she had made mistakes, but most of the men had done worse.

A wave of dread washes over him as he admires his daughter, her little fingers wrapping around his finger, and he feels sick. He shouldn’t feel like this. He should be overcome with joy. Well, he is, but his upbringing will never allow him to be immersed in a moment without thinking of the harsh realities surrounding it. He looks at you and the fragile baby bundled in your arms. His whole world sits in the bed before him. Everyone and everything he values most in this miserable world – are women. Women who have and who will inevitably be mistreated and underestimated, despite having the power to create literal life. Despite being ten times more rational, intelligent, and kinder than almost all the men he’s known even with the challenges thrown at them. He makes a vow to himself the minute his daughter is born. A vow that he’ll never let anything happen to her or you as he did Eliza and Isaac. He’s never known his purpose in life, but from that moment on, he knows exactly why he was put on this earth – to care for the two of you, his family.

Arthur, who overheard how Micah would speak to and of the women at camp, and never so much as entertained his delusions.

Arthur, who always offers a hand to help women off or on their horses and wagons.

Arthur, who excuses himself when he bumps into women, as opposed to telling off men when he does them.

Arthur, who rides around Rhodes some weeks after your daughter was born, searching for any women he might recognize from the suffrage protest he crashed with Beau all that time ago.

Arthur, who stops in his tracks when he hears the voice of the woman in Saint-Denis who pickets for her voting rights – the same voice he’s heard twenty times before, but it feels different now. He drops a few bills into her hat because he’s never been a particularly political man, but he’ll be damned if his daughter doesn’t get a say in the kind of world she’ll live in when the time comes.

And you can be sure he’ll teach her how to handle a firearm when she’s older. It brings back unpleasant memories, and he wishes for a better life for her than what he had, of course, but he knows the type of men there are out there. Hell, he used to run with them.

Arthur, who sees the two of you as his redemption.

He doesn’t know how he’s been handed such goodness. Surely, he was undeserving after everything he’s done? But every time he lays eyes on his precious baby girl, he grants himself a smidge of forgiveness. Something all bad couldn’t produce something so perfect, right?

He listens to her babbles and he can’t understand a thing. He thinks back on every good thing he’s ruined in his life – he’s a destructive man. He destroys everything he touches, but his baby reaches out to him with a sleepy smile and the utmost trust. When she looks at him, she sees her father, not a killer but rather safety, not the blood of every man he’s killed but a warm embrace. She’s his, not in the sense of Mr. Gillis treating Mary like his property, but in the sense that he now has the privilege of having the responsibility to love, protect, and care for this angel of a being.

He's scared shitless. His father hadn’t stuck around much, but he’s determined to be the best version of himself for his little girl. He would never leave like his dad did. He would never give up on her as Dutch did him. He would teach her to be clever and to think on her toes, like Hosea did – without all the deception, of course.

Arthur, who starts a second journal to write solely about his girl, just to have something to leave her when the time comes. Until then, she’ll never know how good of a writer her father was.

He would gladly be a soldier one last time. One last time to give you and his daughter the life you deserve.

[stellasdrafts]

Thank you so much for all the love on this post. It means the world!! <3

[stellasdrafts]

hello everyone!!

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

~Stella

[stellasdrafts]

Girl Dad Headcanons - Arthur Morgan

“[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.

Thinking of Arthur Morgan’s reaction to you birthing his little girl. It’s a surprise, naturally, given the time period. He isn’t disappointed by any means – God, no. He considers himself a blessed man as long as the little one looks like you. He’s concerned. Terrified of the world his little girl will have to live in, of the hardships she will be forced to face.

It isn’t something he’s thought of in such depth before. Sure, he’s had conversations with the women at camp -  he’s not naïve. Prejudices never even made logical sense to him.

Arthur, who didn’t bat an eye when Mary Beth told him she wanted to be a writer. He got her that pen without thinking twice because why shouldn’t women be able to write? Ain’t they people just like everyone else?

Arthur, who didn’t question Tilly for a second when finding out she killed that Foreman. He was told the asshole deserved it and sided with her in a heartbeat, assuming she had acted in self-defense. He would speak to her like a friend, too. Not like she was some inferior woman.

Arthur, who considered marrying Abigail when John left, because no woman should be shunned for being an unwed mother when it’s a deadbeat man who left in the first place. He always thought John took her for granted.

Arthur, who was always in awe of Sadie’s raw courage and determination, and who didn’t question her lead when she asked him to come along on her escapades. A good idea is a good idea, and a good shot is a good shot, no matter whom it comes from. She was a better fighter than most of the men in the gang, anyway.

Arthur, who saw Karen’s femininity as a strength rather than a weakness. She was clever and ambitious. She knew how people perceived her and used that to pull off outrageous heists. Plus, she wasn’t half bad with a shotgun. He never thought anything about her was weak.

Arthur, who despite enjoying teasing her, noticed everything Susan did for the camp. It secretly irritated him when he heard the others whining at her when she asked them to do chores because he knew the place would’ve fallen apart within days if it weren’t for her leadership.

Arthur, who immediately discerned when Molly started acting off. He checked in on her even when the rest of the camp villainized her as this spoiled, ungrateful girl. Sure, she had made mistakes, but most of the men had done worse.

A wave of dread washes over him as he admires his daughter, her little fingers wrapping around his finger, and he feels sick. He shouldn’t feel like this. He should be overcome with joy. Well, he is, but his upbringing will never allow him to be immersed in a moment without thinking of the harsh realities surrounding it. He looks at you and the fragile baby bundled in your arms. His whole world sits in the bed before him. Everyone and everything he values most in this miserable world – are women. Women who have and who will inevitably be mistreated and underestimated, despite having the power to create literal life. Despite being ten times more rational, intelligent, and kinder than almost all the men he’s known even with the challenges thrown at them. He makes a vow to himself the minute his daughter is born. A vow that he’ll never let anything happen to her or you as he did Eliza and Isaac. He’s never known his purpose in life, but from that moment on, he knows exactly why he was put on this earth – to care for the two of you, his family.

Arthur, who overheard how Micah would speak to and of the women at camp, and never so much as entertained his delusions.

Arthur, who always offers a hand to help women off or on their horses and wagons.

Arthur, who excuses himself when he bumps into women, as opposed to telling off men when he does them.

Arthur, who rides around Rhodes some weeks after your daughter was born, searching for any women he might recognize from the suffrage protest he crashed with Beau all that time ago.

Arthur, who stops in his tracks when he hears the voice of the woman in Saint-Denis who pickets for her voting rights – the same voice he’s heard twenty times before, but it feels different now. He drops a few bills into her hat because he’s never been a particularly political man, but he’ll be damned if his daughter doesn’t get a say in the kind of world she’ll live in when the time comes.

And you can be sure he’ll teach her how to handle a firearm when she’s older. It brings back unpleasant memories, and he wishes for a better life for her than what he had, of course, but he knows the type of men there are out there. Hell, he used to run with them.

Arthur, who sees the two of you as his redemption.

He doesn’t know how he’s been handed such goodness. Surely, he was undeserving after everything he’s done? But every time he lays eyes on his precious baby girl, he grants himself a smidge of forgiveness. Something all bad couldn’t produce something so perfect, right?

He listens to her babbles and he can’t understand a thing. He thinks back on every good thing he’s ruined in his life – he’s a destructive man. He destroys everything he touches, but his baby reaches out to him with a sleepy smile and the utmost trust. When she looks at him, she sees her father, not a killer but rather safety, not the blood of every man he’s killed but a warm embrace. She’s his, not in the sense of Mr. Gillis treating Mary like his property, but in the sense that he now has the privilege of having the responsibility to love, protect, and care for this angel of a being.

He's scared shitless. His father hadn’t stuck around much, but he’s determined to be the best version of himself for his little girl. He would never leave like his dad did. He would never give up on her as Dutch did him. He would teach her to be clever and to think on her toes, like Hosea did – without all the deception, of course.

Arthur, who starts a second journal to write solely about his girl, just to have something to leave her when the time comes. Until then, she’ll never know how good of a writer her father was.

He would gladly be a soldier one last time. One last time to give you and his daughter the life you deserve.

[stellasdrafts]

Wanted/Woman (Arthur Morgan)

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.

“Can you untie me already? We’ve got a lot of ground to cover to get back to camp.”

[stellasdrafts]

BOOM SHAKALAKAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

[stellasdrafts]

if i wasn’t so scared, i’d write the most jaw dropping toe curling smut about leon drilling reader while holding them in a headlock and groaning in their ear 😋 i need that man’s muscles

[stellasdrafts]

The Light in His Eyes (Vendetta! Leon)

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.”

You’re more determined than ever to bring back that light to his eyes.

[stellasdrafts]

i like to think of death island Leon getting dragged out of the house to a new year's eve party with some of your younger friends. he's feeling a bit out of place since he's older than you guys, but that hesitance immediately gives way to pride once he sees how pretty you look all dolled up in sparkly makeup and an even more sparkly dress. he walks in the party knowing he has the most gorgeous girl on his arm. so jaw-droppingly gorgeous yet so unobtainable to anyone there but him. he takes great pleasure in knowing you better than anyone there.

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

author's note: sorry, just a quick little blurb as i'm heading out to a party! normal longer fics to come in the new year! thanks for a great start to this blog this year <333