yourmomsawh0r3

[yourmomsawh0r3]

SHORT: Don’t touch the cookies joel!

Characters: Joel Miller x Latina!Y/N

Setting: Post-Apocalyptic Jackson

The town of Jackson had settled into a rare calm. Snow dusted the streets outside like powdered sugar, and the scent of cinnamon clung to the cabin Joel and Y/N shared.

Joel sat at the kitchen table, his brows furrowed as he examined a battered vinyl record that Y/N had found on a recent run. The cover was cracked, faded, but still legible.

“Virgin,” it read.

Y/N wiped her flour-dusted hands on her apron, a mischievous sparkle in her eyes as she moved toward the ancient record player in the corner.

“You’re gonna love this,” she said with a grin, gently placing the record on. With a few clicks and a crackle of static, the room filled with the soft, romantic sway of adolescents orquesta A lilting guitar and slow, rhythmic beats danced through the air.

Joel blinked. “What… is this?”

“Salsa,” Y/N said proudly, swaying her hips with the first few notes. “And later I’ll show you bachata. You’re gonna learn about my roots and you’re gonna dance.”

Joel chuckled, raising his hands in mock defense. “Darlin’, I can shoot a rifle clean at fifty yards, but dancin’ ain’t in my damn skill set.”

Y/N walked over, her fingers curling around his wrist as she pulled him to his feet. “Good thing you’ve got a teacher, viejo.”

“Hey now,” he grumbled, but he followed.

The kitchen became their dance floor, the dim lighting and scent of chocolate chip cookies turning the post-apocalyptic world into something impossibly tender.

“Step one, two. Back. Again,” she instructed, her hand resting on his shoulder while the other clasped his calloused palm.

Joel tried. He really did. His steps were clumsy, he almost stepped on her toes twice but the way she laughed? That sound could’ve brought the world back to life.

“Goddamn, you’re beautiful when you laugh like that,” he murmured, cheeks flushed and warm. Not just from the dancing.

Y/N spun under his arm with a flair, hair twirling like flames, and then pressed her forehead against his. “You’re getting better.”

He huffed a laugh. “Better than dead, I guess.”

“Much better than dead.”

As the song slowed, Joel leaned in and kissed her, deep and slow, like he finally understood the rhythm she’d been trying to teach him all along.

Behind them, the oven timer dinged.

“I think the cookies are ready,” she whispered against his lips.

“Let ‘em burn,” Joel whispered back.

But they didn’t. They danced barefoot on the wooden floor until the next song started, and when they finally sat on the counter eating cookies and laughing through crumbs, Joel knew home wasn’t a place anymore. It was her. And if that meant learning bachata in the kitchen while cookies baked, he’d do it again. Every damn day.

The record still played softly in the background, Adolescents orquesta crooning as the scent of fresh-baked cookies filled the cabin. Y/N stood with her hands on her hips, apron smeared with flour, cheeks warm from dancing and baking and grinning too much.

She had just pulled the tray out of the oven and set it carefully on the counter to cool.

“Don’t touch them yet,” she warned, wagging a finger at Joel as she turned to get plates. “They’re hot, Joel. Let them set.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered under his breath, eyes zeroing in on one gooey chocolate chip cookie that looked like it came straight from heaven. His stomach growled.

She turned her back for two seconds. Just two. That was all it took.

The sound of him biting into something too soft. The muffled grunt. Then: “Shit!”

She spun around. And there he was Joel Miller, 50-something, ex-smuggler, hardened survivor holding a half-melted cookie with his eyes wide and his tongue practically hanging out of his mouth like a dumb puppy.

“¡Joel!”

(“Joel!”)

“¡¿Qué carajo te dije?! ¡Estás loco o qué, comiéndote eso así de caliente!”

(“What the hell did I tell you?! Are you crazy or what, eating that while it’s still that hot?!”)

He tried to speak, holding a hand over his mouth. “Hohh shih—isss—hooott!”

“¡Claro que está caliente, animal! ¡Salió del maldito horno hace DOS segundos!”

(“Of course it’s hot, you animal! It came out of the damn oven TWO seconds ago!”)

Joel held up the half-eaten cookie like it was worth defending. “But it smelled real good!”

She stared at him, exasperated, then pointed toward the sink.

“¡Anda, ve a meterte la lengua bajo el grifo, idiota!”

(“Go stick your tongue under the faucet, idiot!”)

“Wait, you actually want me to do that?”

“Yes! No! I don’t know! ¡Ay Dios mío, eres peor que los niños!”

(“Oh my God, you’re worse than children!”)

Joel laughed through the burn, still chewing slowly with his lips fanned open, trying not to touch his tongue to the roof of his mouth. “You’re real sexy when you curse in Spanish, you know that?”

She glared at him.

“You’re gonna be real sexy sleeping on the couch tonight.”

Joel snorted. “Worth it.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the smile tugging at her lips. She reached for another cookie this one cooler and gently held it up to his mouth.

“Here. Try this one, burro.”

(“Here. Try this one, donkey.”)

Joel grinned and leaned in, eyes warm with amusement and affection.

“Love you too, cariño.”

(“Love you too, sweetheart.”)

She kissed his cheek with a sigh.

“Just don’t burn your tongue again. I like it when it works.”

He blinked. “That’s… oddly specific.”

She smirked.

“You’ll find out later if you behave.”

Joel made a mental note not to touch another cookie without permission.

Ever again.

[yourmomsawh0r3]

Off Limits

pairing: Joel Miller x f! Reader

trope: Slow Burn, brothers best friend

a/n: i know that that is a picture of javier peña, i wanted it to look like young joel. hope you all in enjoy 💗

You were ten the first time Joel Miller looked at you like you mattered.

Not in a romantic way, of course. You were just his best friend’s kid sister the annoying little tagalong always begging to be included, constantly getting in the way of their backyard football games or video game marathons.

But that day, you’d fallen off your bike and scraped up your knee, and your brother had laughed instead of helping. Typical.

Joel didn’t.

He knelt beside you in the driveway with soft eyes and calloused hands, cleaned your cut with water from the hose, tore a piece off his old Astros shirt, and tied it gently around your leg.

“You’re alright, sweetheart,” he said, smoothing your hair back. “Strong girl like you? Ain’t nothin’ gonna keep you down.”

You didn’t say anything. Just looked up at him with wide, teary eyes like he’d hung the moon.

And Joel who was eighteen at the time, stupid and gangly and not yet hardened by life felt something shift.

Not love. Not yet.

But something permanent.

Years passed. You grew up. So did Joel.

He went from lanky teenager to broad-shouldered, quietly magnetic man. His voice dropped. His laugh deepened. He started working with your dad on job sites and fixing your mom’s broken faucet before she could even ask. And through it all, Joel stayed close with your brother inseparable as ever.

Which meant he stayed close to you.

Joel saw you through every awkward phase braces, bangs, the time you swore cargo pants were cool. You saw him through every heartbreak, every dead-end job, every bar fight your brother dragged him out of. But no matter how many years passed, one thing stayed the same.

Joel never crossed the line.

Even when you turned nineteen and wore that sundress that made his hands curl into fists in his pockets.

Even when you came home from college and hugged him a little tighter, a little longer, whispering “missed you, Miller” like a damn tease.

Even when you looked at him across the room and he knew.

You wanted him.

And he wanted you.

But you were his best friend’s baby sister. And Joel Miller? He was too good to betray that.

So he stayed quiet. Bit his tongue. Looked the other way.

Until one night.

It was late. Nearly midnight.

You were twenty-three now, living on your own, when there was a knock at your apartment door. You opened it to find Joel standing there in jeans and a hoodie, hair tousled, eyes stormy with something heavy and unspoken.

“Hey,” you said, surprised. “Everything okay?”

“No.”

You blinked. “Joel—”

“I can’t keep pretending,” he rasped. “I’ve tried. I’ve done every goddamn thing right. I’ve been respectful. I’ve kept my distance. But I’m in love with you, and it hurts, baby. It hurts.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“Joel…”

He stepped inside, shut the door with shaking hands, and looked at you like you were the answer to every question he’d ever been afraid to ask.

“I know I’m not supposed to. I know your brother would kill me. But I’ve been in love with you for a long time. And I don’t wanna lie anymore.”

You didn’t hesitate.

You walked straight into him, pressed your lips to his like you’d been waiting your entire life, and he kissed you back like he had.

The first time he touched you, it wasn’t rushed.

Joel moved slow. Reverent.

Hands on your waist, lifting your shirt over your head like you were something sacred. Mouth tracing the curve of your shoulder, down your chest, over every place that ached for him. He laid you out on your bed, knelt between your thighs like a prayer.

“You sure?” he whispered, voice wrecked. “You say the word, baby, I’ll stop.”

“Don’t stop,” you breathed. “Please, Joel. I need you.”

And he gave you everything.

He stretched you open with fingers first, whispering soft praises against your skin—“so pretty,” “so fuckin’ sweet for me,” “been dreamin’ about this for years.” Then he was inside you, filling you deep, slow and careful at first, then harder when your nails raked down his back and your moans broke against his name.

You came with your head thrown back, clinging to him like he was the only real thing in the world. He followed with a broken groan, holding you close, forehead pressed to yours.

When it was over, he didn’t let go.

“Your brother’s gonna kill me,” he mumbled into your hair.

“Not if you marry me first,” you teased, voice sleepy.

Joel froze.

Then laughed softly, arms tightening around you.

“Don’t joke like that, darlin’. I already bought the ring in my head.”

Weeks later, Joel found himself alone one night, waiting for you to get off work. He walked past the old Miller house the place where it all started and sat on the porch for a minute.

His eyes caught on a spot in the driveway. That same old crack in the cement. He saw you there, knees skinned, cheeks tear-streaked, ten years old and trying not to cry.

“Strong girl like you?” he’d said back then. “Ain’t nothin’ gonna keep you down.”

He realized, right then and there, that he hadn’t just fallen in love with you recently. He’d been loving you his whole life.

And it broke him a little.

Because if it had taken just one more year for you to love him back, he would’ve kept holding it all in.

But you did.

And now he had everything.

You woke up tangled in Joel’s arms, your bare leg hooked over his hip, the soft rise and fall of his chest grounding you like gravity.

“Morning, baby,” he whispered, rasping it into your hair like a secret.

You smiled against his throat. “You stayed.”

“Couldn’t’ve left if I tried.”

He kissed you slow, slow enough it made you ache. And you forgot, for just a second, about the world outside this bed.

Forgot that no one knew.

Forgot that your brother Joel’s best friend since they were kids still saw you as off-limits.

You didn’t know that in less than 24 hours, everything would explode.

Your brother wasn’t supposed to show up. He never just showed up.

But you’d left your keys at his place the night before, and being the overprotective menace he was, he figured he’d stop by on the way to work.

You were in Joel’s hoodie. Joel was shirtless in your kitchen, making coffee, his back turned.

“Where’s my sister?” your brother called out, stepping through the door.

Joel stiffened. You froze mid-step, eyes wide.

Your brother turned the corner. Saw you in Joel’s clothes. Saw him, standing there like he belonged.

The room dropped into silence.

His mouth parted. “No fucking way.”

You scrambled to speak, but Joel stepped forward, voice calm. Steady. Protective.

“It’s not what you think.”

“No?” Your brother scoffed. “Because it looks like you’re screwing my baby sister.”

You flinched.

Joel’s jaw tensed. “It’s not like that.”

“Then tell me, Joel. When did this start? Last week? Last year? You’ve been sneaking around behind my back, touching her?”

“Hey!” Joel snapped. “Don’t talk about her like that.”

Your brother blinked.

“Oh, you love her.” He laughed without humor. “Jesus Christ. Joel—do you love her?”

Joel looked at you.

And then back at him.

“I always have.”

Later, once your brother stormed out, once the door slammed so hard it rattled the windows, Joel sat on the edge of your bed, hands in his lap, staring at the floor like the weight of the past had finally crushed him.

You knelt in front of him, your hands covering his.

“I need to tell you something,” he whispered. “Something I’ve never told anyone.”

You nodded.

“After that day you fell off your bike—when your brother laughed and I wrapped your leg… you looked at me like I was your whole world. And I remember thinking, I wanna be the man she sees me as. I wanna protect her forever.” He paused, voice shaking. “You were ten. I was just a dumb teenager. I didn’t even understand it yet. But I felt it.”

You blinked back tears.

“And it hurt?” you whispered.

Joel nodded. “Every year. Every birthday, every time you smiled at me, every time you left for school—I loved you so much it made me sick. But I couldn’t say it. Because it would’ve ruined everything.”

You cupped his jaw. “Joel…”

His throat worked. “When I walked into this apartment last night, I knew it was selfish. I knew your brother would hate me. But I couldn’t go one more day pretending I didn’t wanna wake up next to you. Not when I’ve been dreaming about it for half my damn life.”

You climbed into his lap, straddling him slowly, guiding his hands to your thighs.

“I’ve been dreaming about you too,” you whispered. “Since before I even knew what it meant.”

Joel’s hands tightened.

“Baby, if you start this now, I ain’t gonna be able to stop.”

“I don’t want you to stop,” you said. “I want you to show me what forever felt like when you were holding it back.”

Joel kissed you like the world was ending. Like the weight of a thousand unsaid things was finally being spoken through his hands.

He carried you to bed again, but this time wasn’t slow.

It was needy.

Clothes off in seconds. His mouth on your throat, your breasts, between your thighs. You moaned his name when his tongue dragged over you, slow and deep, and he grinned against your skin like he was home.

“Could stay down here forever,” he groaned.

But you needed him inside so when he pushed in, it felt like coming full circle.

He held your hands above your head, kissed you through every thrust, whispering things he never said out loud:

“Mine now.”

“Been yours since the driveway.”

“Love you so bad, baby. It hurts.”

You cried out his name as you came around him, and he followed, panting, collapsing into you with his face buried in your neck.

This time, when he didn’t let go, it wasn’t out of fear.

It was promise.

He didn’t even give you time to think.

One minute you were climbing into his lap, kissing away the pain, and the next he had you flat on your back, your thighs spread and knees bent as he hovered over you, eyes dark and wild.

“You sure you want this?” he rasped, nose brushing yours.

You nodded, breathless. “I’ve only ever wanted this.”

That broke him.

Joel groaned like something inside him snapped and then he was kissing you, consuming you, tongue claiming your mouth as his hips ground into yours. You felt him hard between your thighs, still only in his boxers, rutting into the soaked fabric of your panties like he couldn’t stand to wait.

And when he pulled back, it was only to tear your shirt over your head.

“God, baby,” he whispered, taking in the sight of you. “Look at you. Fuckin’ perfect.”

You reached down, tugged at the waistband of his briefs. He helped you, cursing under his breath as he kicked them off. His cock slapped against his stomach thick, flushed, hungry.

You bit your lip. “You’ve been holding that back from me?”

His smirk was sharp. Dangerous.

“Sweetheart, I’ve been holdin’ everything back.”

Then he grabbed your hips, flipped you onto your stomach like you weighed nothing, and pulled your panties down so slow it made you whimper.

“Joel—”

“I got you,” he growled, dragging the blunt head of his cock through your folds, coating himself in you. “You’re mine now. No more pretending.”

He pushed in deep.

You gasped, your forehead pressed to the pillow as he filled you in one long, smooth thrust. Stretching you wide. Making you feel how long he’d been wanting this.

He stilled. “You alright?”

You pushed back against him. “I’m perfect.”

“Yeah, you fuckin’ are,” he grunted.

Then he started to move.

Hard. Slow. Every thrust designed to make you feel it — every inch of him, every second he’d waited, every time he’d had to pretend he didn’t want to bend you over and claim you just like this.

You were dripping, your thighs shaking as he fucked you deeper, his palm pressing between your shoulders to hold you down, his other hand sneaking beneath your stomach to rub circles against your clit.

“Wanted you like this for years,” he groaned into your ear. “All grown up, makin’ those fuckin’ noises… bet you touch yourself thinkin’ about me, don’t you?”

“Y-yes,” you choked out. “Always have.”

Joel growled. Actually growled.

“Fuckin’ hell—‘m gonna marry you,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “Gonna put a ring on you, keep you full of my cock till you can’t remember what it was like before me.”

You clenched hard around him.

“Yeah? That what you want?” he breathed, picking up the pace. “Wanna be mine, baby? Let your brother find out you’re walkin’ funny ‘cause I ruined you for anyone else?”

“Yes—Joel—please, I’m gonna—”

“Go ahead, sweetheart,” he rasped, voice ragged. “Come for me. Let me feel it.”

You shattered around him.

Clenching so hard he had to fight to stay inside you, gasping as he fucked you through it, kissing your back, your neck, wherever he could reach as you cried out his name again and again.

Then he pulled out and spilled across your ass and lower back with a loud, low groan, hand wrapped tight around his cock as he came hard, shaking.

You collapsed against the sheets.

Joel bent to kiss the curve of your shoulder, still breathing heavy.

“Next time,” he said softly, “I’m coming inside.”

You turned your head to look at him.

“There’s gonna be a next time?”

Joel smiled, eyes already softening. “Sweetheart, there’s gonna be a thousand next times.”

[yourmomsawh0r3]

hii! could you do a masterlist of marcello hernandez? 🫶

hiii bb!! i just finished adding him to the master list, im sorry for the delay! 🫶🏼

[yourmomsawh0r3]

hiiiii, request for marcello where him and fem reader have just had their relationship go public (either they chose to or paps outed them, your choice) and cos she’s super famous the snl cast keep making jokes throughout the show & backstage about it, like they do about colin being married to scarlet.

fun & fluffy (maybe with smut up to you!) thank you bb <3

hiiii my love!! your wish is my command, hope you like it ✨🫶🏼

Live From New York… It’s Marcello’s Hot Girlfriend!

pairing: marcello hernandez x f! reader

summary: When SNL star Marcello Hernandez goes public with his A-list girlfriend Y/N, the cast turns their love life into a running joke, the clothes come off faster than the headlines hit and just when things start to settle, one photo threatens to change everything.

They didn’t mean for it to go public.

It started with a blurry paparazzi shot of Marcello and Y/N in SoHo his hand holding hers, his Yankees cap pulled low, her oversized sunglasses barely hiding that insane grin she always got when he whispered something dumb and flirty in her ear.

The internet exploded the second it hit Twitter.

“Wait… MARCELLO from SNL is dating HER?!”

“Y/N is SO REAL for dating a funny man. Like. Wow. Inspiration.”

“This is giving Colin & Scarlett 2.0 but like, hornier.”

And tonight, just one week later, SNL was back live.

Marcello could feel the stares before he even got to the writer’s room.

Ego was the first to say it.

“Okay but Marcello pulled Y/N Y/L/N?! Like that’s not just a win for the short kings. That’s a win for humanity.”

He tried to play it cool, leaning back in the writers’ couch, chewing his gum with a smirk. “She likes guys with trauma and jokes. I got both.”

“Yo,” Bowen added, peering at him over his laptop. “Are you gonna survive Weekend Update tonight? ‘Cause Colin already told us he has something planned.”

Marcello blinked. “What does that mean?”

Sarah popped a sour gummy worm in her mouth and shrugged. “He’s married to Scarlett Johansson, remember? This is literally his favorite thing to bond over. You’re gonna be roasted, papi.”

They weren’t wrong.

Colin Jost sat at the Weekend Update desk later that night, glancing at his cue cards with a shit-eating grin. “In celebrity news, SNL cast member Marcello Hernandez has officially gone public with his relationship with actress, model, and literal goddess Y/N Y/L/N. Yeah. Apparently she decided dating someone famous was too easy, and wanted to try community service.”

The audience howled. Marcello, standing just off-camera, flipped him off.

“And if you’re wondering how this relationship started,” Colin continued, “Marcello simply walked up to her and said, ‘Wanna come to the Bronx and watch me emotionally shut down during baseball season?’ And it worked.”

Che tossed in, “Deadass, he must be packing.”

Marcello groaned. “Why is my dick trending on Twitter right now.”

Backstage was worse in the best way.

He got whistled at walking past the dressing rooms. Bowen gifted him a People magazine mock-up that said “Sexiest Man Alive by Association” on the cover.

Even Lorne gave him a slow clap at the afterparty.

“You’re dating Y/N,” Mikey said, still in partial costume. “Bro. I had her poster in my dorm room.”

Marcello raised an eyebrow. “Thanks for that image.”

When the party finally died down and the studio emptied, he slipped into his dressing room where she was waiting on the couch in one of his SNL sweatshirts, phone in her hand, scrolling through Twitter.

“You survived,” she teased.

Marcello locked the door behind him and crossed the room with that cocky little smile she loved. “Barely. They all think you’re way too hot for me.”

“I am,” she replied sweetly, tugging him down by the collar.

“You’re not supposed to agree, baby.”

She grinned, her lips brushing his. “But you’re funny. And smart. And you go down on me like it’s a religion.”

He groaned against her mouth. “Okay. You gotta stop saying that when I just spent six hours around cameras and couldn’t touch you.”

“Mmm,” she hummed, fingers slipping under his sweater, nails scraping lightly up his stomach, “then maybe you should touch me now.”

“Fuck, finally.”

Marcello didn’t waste time hands grabbing her hips, lips pressing hot kisses down her throat as she giggled and leaned back on the couch.

“You wore my hoodie to my dressing room?” he asked between kisses. “You wanted to get fucked in here.”

“Obviously,” she breathed. “You’re hot when you’re on stage.”

He pulled the hoodie up, revealing nothing but her lace thong underneath. “You really didn’t wear pants?”

“I wanted easy access,” she whispered.

Marcello swore softly, trailing his hand between her thighs. “Remind me to send Colin a thank-you gift for making me this horny tonight.”

She gasped when he pressed his fingers against her, wet and aching. “Make it two. I need to thank him for this too.”

They didn’t even make it out of the dressing room.

Marcello fucked her slow, deep, and smug as hell on that ugly brown couch—her moans echoing softly through the old studio walls. Her fingers gripped his curls as he bit down on her shoulder, her sweatshirt long forgotten on the floor, her legs around his waist.

“You’re mine,” he growled in her ear as she came, clenching around him. “Doesn’t matter how famous you are. You’re mine.”

Afterward, they lay tangled together, limbs sore and hearts full, the smell of sex in the air and his hoodie back on her inside out and backwards.

She pulled her phone out, snapped a quick blurry photo of him half-asleep with his head on her chest.

Captioned it:

“He survived SNL. Barely. 🫣❤️ #SoftLaunchOver”

The internet had a meltdown by morning.

Marcello didn’t care.

He had Y/N.

She had him.

And now everyone knew.

Marcello’s hand hadn’t left your thigh since the moment you got into the Uber.

Scratch that his hand hadn’t left your body since you left the SNL studio.

Your hair was a little messy from the dressing room. His hoodie was still on you, worn like a trophy. And Marcello? He looked smug as hell, one arm slung around your shoulder, the other dragging his fingers slowly, deliberately, under the hem of your borrowed sweatshirt.

You were curled into his side in the backseat, city lights flickering past the windows, and you could feel the way he kept sneaking glances at you. Like he was still trying to believe you were real.

“Why are you staring at me?” you whispered, amused.

Marcello leaned closer, lips brushing your cheek. “Because you’re all over the timeline right now.”

You arched a brow. “What, because of the photo?”

He smirked. “Nah. Because people can’t believe I bagged you. There’s a poll titled ‘What do funny men have that hot girls want?’ and the top answer is ‘oral fixation and anxiety.’”

You burst out laughing, your hand sliding under the hem of his T-shirt, nails raking lightly over his stomach. “Well… they’re not wrong.”

Marcello sucked in a quiet breath through his teeth. “You tryna start something in this Uber right now?”

You blinked up at him innocently. “Would I do that?”

“Yes,” he said immediately. “You would. You are literally the devil in my hoodie.”

You smirked and shifted on the seat, swinging one leg over his so you were straddling him your arms wrapped loosely around his neck, his hand gripping your waist in surprise.

He glanced up toward the tinted divider between you and the driver. “Baby…”

“What?” you purred, voice dripping with faux innocence. “You looked too smug at the afterparty. Needed to remind you whose mouth is the reason your legs were shaking earlier.”

Marcello groaned, head thudding back against the seat. “You can’t say shit like that when I can’t fuck you right now.”

“Can’t you?” you teased, rocking your hips slightly just enough pressure to make his breath hitch.

“I swear to God,” he growled, “you better be careful or I’m gonna tell the driver to take the long way back.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

You kissed his jaw, slow and open-mouthed. “Do it.”

Marcello’s hand slapped the privacy button, the divider sliding up completely. Then he opened his maps app and added a ten-minute detour with the confidence of a man very down bad.

You laughed, delighted.

“Desperate much?” you whispered against his lips.

He growled, gripping your hips tighter. “Desperate for you, always.”

And then? His lips were on yours. Hot. Messy. Starved.

The kind of kiss that made you forget where the hell you were. His tongue swept into your mouth with practiced ease, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other slipping under the sweatshirt to grope your bare ass.

You gasped into the kiss when his fingers squeezed. “You’re so handsy.”

“You wore my hoodie with no panties,” he rasped. “What the fuck did you think would happen?”

You pulled back, forehead resting against his, both of you breathless and dizzy with the heat between you.

“I think I want you to do something about it the second we get home.”

Marcello licked his lips, pupils blown. “I’m not even waiting for the elevator. You’re getting fucked against the door.”

You grinned. “That’s my funny little man.”

The Uber driver definitely knew.

But he was kind enough to pretend he didn’t.

Marcello barely got the front door open before your back hit the wall.

Your legs wrapped around his waist. Your lips dragged down his neck. His hoodie was halfway off your shoulder, his hands gripping your thighs like he owned you. (Spoiler: he did.)

You were both laughing between kisses half-drunk on each other, giddy from the night, adrenaline still humming from all the teasing and the Uber makeout and the goddamn look he gave you right before pushing you up against the entryway wall like he couldn’t wait another second.

“You’re not even gonna make it to the bedroom?” you teased breathlessly, fingers tangling in his curls.

Marcello kissed you again sloppy, desperate, teeth grazing your bottom lip. “I’ve been thinking about you all night. You think I have patience right now?”

“Not even a little?”

“Nope.”

He sank to his knees with a grin, tugging your thighs over his shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world. “You wore this hoodie to taunt me. Admit it.”

“I wore it to feel close to you,” you pouted innocently.

“You wore it to be a menace,” he growled.

And then his mouth was on you.

His tongue moved in slow, perfect circles. His hands pinned your hips to the wall. You tugged his curls with a gasp, the soft moan he gave vibrating right through you.

He looked up with those gorgeous brown eyes, lips glistening. “Still wanna make it to the bedroom?”

You whined, hips bucking slightly. “Marcello, if you don’t fuck me in the next—”

He stood in one smooth motion, lifted you again, and lined himself up rubbing the tip of his cock through your soaked folds like a tease.

“Baby,” he rasped against your mouth, “you’re gonna be the death of me.”

Then he pushed in.

Hard.

You gasped his name clutching his shoulders, your back against the wall, legs wrapped tight around his waist. He fucked you deep, slow, filthy, right there by the door like he’d been imagining it since dress rehearsal.

Every thrust knocked the air from your lungs.

Every whispered praise made your body tighten around him.

“Mine,” he groaned, forehead pressed to yours. “Mine, baby. Look at me. Say it.”

“Yours,” you gasped. “Yours, Marcello. Always.”

He came with a soft, desperate sound, spilling inside you, his arms trembling, lips kissing every inch of your neck like he couldn’t stop. You both stood there for a moment—sweaty, still pressed together, breath mingling.

Then you said, very quietly:

“…We didn’t even lock the door.”

Marcello blinked.

“Worth it,” he said, and kissed you again.

[yourmomsawh0r3]

Bienvenido,Pedro

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x Latina Actress!Reader

Genre: Fluff, Family Love, Protective Dad Moment, Latinx Culture

Setting: Miami, Summer Weekend BBQ

a/n: this is for all my fellow latinas and pedrito lovers. hope you enjoy! ✨🫶🏼

You and Pedro had been together a little over a year red carpets and set trailers, cuddling in between takes, early-morning café con leches, and late-night script reads sprawled on your living room floor. You were both actors, both stubborn, both deeply in love.

But this weekend was a whole new kind of performance:

Pedro was meeting your entire family.

Not just your parents. You were talking everybody tíos, tías, second cousins who lived two hours away, babies you didn’t even know the names of yet… and most importantly: Abuela Carmen.

You had warned him, gently.

“She watches everything. She’ll know if you’re faking.”

Pedro smiled, confident as always. “I’ll win her over.”

“You think you will. But if she doesn’t like you, no one else will.”

⸻

Saturday – Miami

The backyard was already full by 2 p.m. Speakers were blasting Romeo Santos and Marc Anthony. Someone was on the grill, smoke rising in gentle waves. Kids darted around barefoot while someone’s baby screamed on the porch swing. Your Tía Sonia was already sipping her sangria and talking louder than the music.

Pedro arrived carrying a bottle of tequila and a bouquet of rosas blancas (white roses), looking effortlessly hot in a light button-down shirt (top few buttons undone) and fitted jeans that were clearly working overtime.

He leaned down to kiss your cheek. “You didn’t say it’d be a full block party.”

You laughed. “This is a casual hangout.”

And just like that, your tias spotted him.

A wave of gasps and chisme swept through the women.

Tía Rosa elbowed your mom. “Mira esa sonrisa.”

(“Look at that smile.”)

Tía Mili whispered, “Dios mío… qué guapo… y de atrás también.”

(“My God… he’s so handsome… and from the back too.”)

Tía Gladys nodded, lifting her sunglasses. “No tiene ni un mal ángulo ese hombre.”

(“That man doesn’t have a single bad angle.”)

Pedro waved politely as the group giggled like teenagers.

You rolled your eyes. “You’re causing problems already.”

He whispered, “It’s the jeans, isn’t it?”

You smacked his arm.

⸻

Your mom hugged him tightly. Your little cousins clung to his legs like Velcro.

Your dad? Stiff handshake. Steely eyes. Classic.

Pedro handled it all with charm and patience offering to help bring out chairs, complimenting your aunt’s empanadas, even bouncing the screaming baby for a few minutes (to the horror of your baby-fearing cousin, who whispered, “He’s already dad material”).

Then came the moment you’d been prepping him for.

Abuela Carmen.

She sat like a queen in the shade, rosary in hand, cafecito balanced perfectly on the arm of her chair. Her glasses covered half her face, but her judgment was razor sharp.

You brought Pedro over slowly, like you were approaching a sleeping jaguar.

“Abuela,” you said, “this is Pedro.”

She looked him up and down, lips pursed.

“El actor chileno.”

(“The Chilean actor.”)

Pedro bent slightly, kissed her hand. “Es un honor, señora Carmen.”

(“It’s an honor, Mrs. Carmen.”)

She squinted. “Eres más guapo sin barba.”

(“You’re more handsome without the beard.”)

He laughed softly. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all week.”

She cracked a smile tiny, but real.

Then? She patted the seat beside her.

“Ven, siéntate. Vamos a hablar.”

(“Come, sit. Let’s talk.”)

And just like that, he was in.

⸻

Later, while Pedro was helping stack empty soda cans, your dad appeared like a shadow beside him.

“Pedro. Ven conmigo.”

(“Pedro. Come with me.”)

You were mid-bite of pastelón when you froze.

“Oh, no…”

Pedro followed your dad around the side of the house where it was quieter, near the lemon trees.

“She loves hard, my daughter,” your dad started.

Pedro nodded. “I know. I’m lucky for it.”

Your dad looked him dead in the eye.

“You gonna marry her, or just play pretend until it gets hard?”

Pedro swallowed slowly, then answered without hesitation.

“I want to marry her. I think about it every day.”

Silence.

Then your dad gave him a long, thoughtful stare.

“I built this house with my bare hands. I raised her here. Every scratch and bruise she’s had, I was there. So if you’re gonna be in her life… really in it… then you better build something just as solid. You understand?”

Pedro nodded, quietly but firmly.

“Yes, sir.”

Your dad gave a rare smile. “Good.”

Then, just like that, he added:

“Come on. Carmen saved you the last slice of flan.”

⸻

As night fell and the fairy lights flickered on, the music slowed.

A familiar beat came through the speakers: Aventura.

You squealed, pulling Pedro by the hand. “Come on, come on! I know you’ve been practicing.”

You started swaying to the rhythm, your hips moving effortlessly to the bachata beat. Pedro followed, tentative but smooth, the rhythm catching his steps.

Your aunts were gathered nearby, sipping coquito and watching like hawks.

Tía Sonia: “Ay, míralo, sí sabe bailar.”

(“Oh, look at him, he can dance!”)

Tía Rosa: “Y ese trasero… ¡Jesús, María y José!”

(“And that butt… Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!”)

Tía Mili: “Y mira cómo la mira… ese hombre está perdido por ella.”

(“And look how he looks at her… that man is smitten with her.”)

Pedro’s hand found your lower back, his other clasping yours. He leaned close, whispering in your ear, “Are they still staring at my ass?”

You grinned. “Tía Rosa gave it a ten outta ten.”

He chuckled, pulling you closer. “Maybe I should propose right now. I’ve got their vote.”

⸻

Later That Night

As the guests left, bellies full and cheeks sore from laughter, Pedro helped you bring in the folding chairs. Your abuela called out one last thing before going inside:

“¡No lo dejes ir, mi amor!”

(“Don’t let him go, my love!”)

You blushed.

Pedro winked. “You heard the woman.”

You leaned against him in the quiet. “So… how do you feel?”

He smirked. “I think I just got adopted by 42 people.”

You nodded. “Pretty much.”

He kissed your temple. “And I’d do it all again for you.”

(Pedro now FaceTimes Abuela Carmen weekly. Your dad won’t admit it, but he calls Pedro ‘mijo’—‘my son’—when he thinks no one’s listening. Your tias are still gossiping about “that Chilean actor with the smile and the jeans.”)

⸻

It had been six months since Pedro met your family and somehow, they loved him more now than they did back then.

He was fully in.

He played dominoes with your uncles (and lost every time), knew exactly how Abuela Carmen liked her café (extra sweet, just like her mood if Pedro was around), and he even joined the family group chat. (Though he’d muted it after your cousins sent too many dancing frog memes.)

But tonight?

Pedro had a secret.

And a ring box in his pocket.

⸻

It was your dad’s 60th birthday so naturally, the whole neighborhood was there again. Balloons, banners, three different coolers of drinks, and a lechón (whole roast pig) spinning on the grill.

You wore a sundress and your hair half-up, smelling faintly of vanilla and coconut, and Pedro thought you looked like his future.

Which, if all went well… you would be.

He had already talked to your dad (again), who gave a long, gruff speech that ended with:

“If she says no, I’ll be the one proposing to you instead.”

(“Si ella dice que no, yo te voy a proponer a ti.”)

Pedro: “Noted.”

He had your mom, your tias, and even the cousins sworn to secrecy. But most importantly, he had Abuela Carmen’s blessing sealed with a wink and a “hazlo bien, mijo.”

(“Do it right, my boy.”)

Later that evening, the music turned soft. The moon was high, string lights glowing golden.

You were sipping your sangria when the familiar beat of Prince Royce’s “Darte un Beso” started playing.

Pedro appeared, hand out. “May I have this dance, hermosa?”

You raised an eyebrow. “What’s gotten into you?”

He just smiled. “Come on. Just trust me.”

He pulled you close, one hand on your waist, the other clasping your fingers. Your bodies swayed effortlessly years of dancing in kitchens and hotel rooms turning into this quiet moment under the stars.

You didn’t notice your family forming a circle around you, silent, phones out, eyes wide.

Then the song faded. Pedro reached into his back pocket.

Dropped to one knee.

Your heart stopped.

The tias gasped.

Abuela Carmen wiped a tear.

Your dad took a shot.

Pedro looked up at you, eyes shining.

“Mi amor… You are the love of my life. Every moment with you has been better than the last. I’ve seen a lot of places, but you are home. So… will you marry me?”

You blinked fast, completely overwhelmed.

Then shouted, “¡Sí! ¡Sí, carajo!”

(“Yes! Yes, damn it!”)

Everyone screamed.

Your mom cried.

Your cousins lit sparklers out of nowhere.

Tía Rosa fanned herself, muttering, “¡Ay Dios mío, esto es mejor que una novela!”

(“My God, this is better than a telenovela!”)

Pedro stood, slid the ring onto your shaking hand, and kissed you breathless.

Then Abuela Carmen’s voice rang out clear and proud:

“¡Vamos! ¡A bailar! Que mi nieta se va a casar!”

(“Let’s go! Time to dance! My granddaughter’s getting married!”)

And just like that, the bachata blasted again, and the party began your family spinning you in circles, Pedro never leaving your side.

The last thing you remember that night was your dad clapping Pedro on the back and whispering,

“Now you’re really stuck with us.”

Pedro grinned.

“Good. I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

⸻

Planning a wedding with Pedro was actually pretty smooth…

Until Abuela Carmen got involved.

You were sitting at your kitchen table, color palettes and flower samples spread everywhere. Pedro was across from you, chewing on a pen cap, deep in thought.

“I don’t know what a blush rose is, but I do know that if I wear a cream suit, your dad’s going to say I look like a waiter.”

You snorted. “Then don’t wear cream.”

He grinned. “Problem solved.”

Just then, your phone pinged. Group chat: “Wedding Committee 👰🏽‍♀️”

Abuela Carmen:

I want to walk down the aisle with Pedro. Holding his arm. Like a co-star.

(Quiero caminar por el pasillo con Pedro. Agarrado de su brazo. Como una actriz famosa.)

Tía Rosa:

Abuela, that’s not how it works!

Abuela Carmen:

I’m 84. I do what I want.

You looked at Pedro. “She wants to walk down the aisle. With you.”

Pedro didn’t even blink. “If she wants to walk me down like it’s the Oscars, she can.”

You stared at him. “You are enabling her.”

He smiled proudly. “I love her.”

⸻

Wedding Week

Your whole family had rented a small hotel nearby. The bridal suite was packed with tías, cousins, and a baby who would not stop screaming.

Abuela Carmen had not slowed down. She insisted on sitting in on every vendor meeting, taste test, and even your dress fitting. At one point, she tried on a tiara and announced,

“Just in case you need a second option for the bride.”

(“Por si acaso necesitan una segunda opción para la novia.”)

Pedro walked in mid-moment and actually applauded her.

⸻

The Night Before the Wedding

Your dad gave Pedro a gift a small, hand-carved wooden box.

Inside: a photo of you as a little girl, and a note that read,

“Take care of my daughter the way you would take care of your own soul.”

Pedro got choked up.

Your dad pretended he didn’t see.

Then they drank whiskey on the porch in silence.

⸻

Wedding Day

The venue was beautiful open air, with hanging lights and orchids everywhere. A mix of Spanish ballads and acoustic love songs played as guests took their seats.

You were in the bridal suite when you got the text:

Pedro:

Don’t freak out. She’s walking me in.

She’s wearing sequins.

I love her.

You peeked out from behind the curtain and saw it:

Pedro walking down the aisle with Abuela Carmen on his arm.

She had a cane in one hand, Pedro in the other, and a smug, glowy expression like she was walking a red carpet. Her silver-sequined shawl glinted in the sun.

The guests lost their minds.

Tía Rosa was fanning herself.

Tía Mili whispered, “She looks like royalty.”

Tía Gladys clutched her heart and said, “That’s HER wedding now.”

Pedro walked her to her seat, kissed her hand, and whispered,

“Don’t worry. You’re still my favorite girl.”

She beamed and whispered back, “Make her happy, or I’ll haunt you.”

(Hazla feliz, o te voy a espantar.)

⸻

The Ceremony

When you walked down the aisle, your eyes locked with Pedro’s and he was already crying.

So were you.

So was literally everyone.

You reached him, and he took your hands, whispering, “You’re real. This is real.”

The vows were personal. He said your love gave him peace. You said his heart was the safest home you’d ever known.

And when the officiant said, “You may kiss your bride,” Pedro scooped you up and kissed you like it was the last scene of a romantic movie.

Cue: more screaming.

Cue: more crying.

Cue: Abuela Carmen yelling,

“¡Así se besa! ¡Eso sí es un hombre!”

(“THAT’S how you kiss! Now that’s a man!”)

⸻

The Reception

You danced to bachata. Your dad gave a speech that made Pedro cry again. Your cousins got tipsy and recreated your first date in charades.

Then, during the bouquet toss, Abuela Carmen snatched it before it even hit the air.

“Qué? Tengo planes.”

(“What? I’ve got plans.”)

⸻

Later That Night

Pedro helped you out of your heels and kissed your shoulder as you sat on the edge of the hotel bed.

“She really tried to outshine me,” you whispered.

He smiled against your skin.

“She did.”

You laughed.

“And I still couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

[yourmomsawh0r3]

sweet alliance

pairings joel miller x sunshine!reader

summary you catch joel sneaking pie in the middle of the night then ellie catches you both red-handed, and suddenly it’s a full-blown family pie heist on the kitchen floor.

tags established relationship, unspecified agegap, late-night fluff, joel being hopelessly in love, reader matching his chaos, soft domestic banter, sleepy sweetness, ellie roasting everyone with love, reader & ellie daughter and sibling energy, found family feels.

masterlist

it’s the kind of night that settles too quietly.

you lie awake in the dark, eyes tracing the vague outlines of the ceiling above you. the blanket is tangled around your legs. your body is tired, but your brain refuses to shut up and an ever-growing craving for something sweet.

you shift onto your side, instinctively reaching out.

your hand lands on cool sheets.

you frown. joel’s side of the bed is empty, the blanket tossed back like he left in a hurry. you sit up slowly, listening.

nothing.

you wait a moment. maybe he’s just in the bathroom. wouldn’t be the first time he got up and stumbled back to bed without saying anything.

but the silence stretches.

no creaking floorboards. no flush. no returning footsteps.

you sigh, toss the covers back, and throw on the oversized flannel shirt joel left slung over a chair. you pad down the hallway. just in case.

the house is old and drafty, and the floor groans under your steps. you pass the bathroom door.

open and empty. huh.

you keep walking, already pretty sure where you’ll find him.

and then you smell it. faint, but unmistakable: sweet, sticky peach pie.

you ease the kitchen door open and peek inside.

there he is.

joel miller. full-grown man, gruff survivor, supposed adult, standing in the glow of the fridge light with a fork halfway to his mouth, cheeks slightly puffed out, eyes wide like a little kid caught stealing candy.

you both freeze.

you blink.

he swallows hard.

you cross your arms. “seriously? you left me for pie?”

he shrugs, entirely unrepentant. “didn’t know you’d miss me so fast.”

you scoff, stepping closer. “bed got cold. thought maybe you fell asleep on the toilet.”

joel smirks, pulling a second fork from the drawer without breaking eye contact.

“disappointed to find me in the kitchen instead?”

you snatch the fork, dropping down beside him with a dramatic sigh.

“honestly? bit of both.”

you settle shoulder to shoulder on the cool kitchen tile, backs against the cabinets. the pie tin glows like forbidden treasure in the fridge light. he takes a bite. you take one after.

the pie is cold. the crust a little soggy. but somehow, it’s still perfect.

it’s quiet. the kind of quiet that hums in your bones.

you don’t need a bed to know you’re home.

just then, a floorboard creaks behind you.

you both jump, turning toward the sound.

ellie stands in the doorway, hair a mess, blanket wrapped around her shoulders like a cape. she squints at you, then the fridge, then the tin between you.

her voice is flat. “are you fucking kidding me?”

joel clears his throat. “it’s not what it looks like.”

“it’s exactly what it looks like,” ellie says, trudging in.

“you traitors. i literally dreamed about that damn pie.”

you glance at joel, who’s already sighing as he scoots over to make room.

ellie plops down beside you, stealing your fork without asking.

“uh-huh,” you say dryly. “was it a peaceful dream? or did joel eat it in the dream too?”

“worse,” ellie mutters, dropping onto the floor beside you. “you fed it to him.”

joel grunts as he shifts, scooting to make room. “least you remembered it existed.”

then, just to really drive it home, you stand up with exaggerated flair, walk to the fridge, and retrieve a fresh fork from the drawer. with your best fake-serious face, you dig into the pie, scoop out a hefty bite, and hold it out to joel like it’s an offering.

joel blinks up at you, clearly amused. “this feels like a trap.”

“shut up and accept my generosity,” you say, wiggling the fork dramatically.

he leans in, still smirking, and lets you feed him the bite.

ellie groans loudly. “oh my god, you actually did it.”

she chews with exaggerated slowness, savoring every bite. then she points at both of you with the fork.

“wow. real role models. guess it’s a family tradition now—and honestly?” she grins mid-chew. “kinda love that for us.”

joel laughs. “you weren’t invited.”

“you’re the one who left the fridge open,” she fires back. “that’s basically a bat signal.”

joel mock-groans. “this was supposed to be a secret crime.”

you lean your head against joel’s shoulder. “next time, maybe don’t clatter around like a raccoon.”

“i was quiet.”

“you were not.”

ellie snorts. “i heard him two rooms away. thought someone was building a nest.”

joel just grumbles and takes another bite.

“fine. but next time? you’re on cleanup duty.”

she narrows her eyes. “at least i didn’t sneak off like some pie bandit in the night.”

"hey—show some respect. you’re in the presence of a professional.”

joel, without missing a beat, lifts his fork like a scepter.

“you two are so weirdly inlove.”

the three of you sit there, side by side on the kitchen floor, passing the tin back and forth. the fridge hums softly behind you.

every now and then someone mutters about needing water, but no one moves.

[yourmomsawh0r3]

method kisser. - pedro pascal.

requested! thank you. ♡ content: Pedro Pascal x wife!actress!reader, domestic fluff, playful vibes, line rehearsal, kiss interruption, pouty Pedro, soft romance, married life adorableness.

---

You stood barefoot in the living room, script in hand, pacing a little.

Pedro was on the couch, glasses on, already flipping pages. “Okay, so I’m playing Jacob?”

You nodded. “Mhm. Scene fifteen.”

He grinned. “The one where he finally admits he’s in love with her, right?”

You glanced up. “Yup.”

“And they kiss at the end?”

“Yup.”

Pedro raised an eyebrow. “Convenient.”

You smirked. “You’re annoying.”

“You’re hot.” He winked.

You rolled your eyes and cleared your throat. “Okay, focus. Let’s just get through the middle bit. The emotional confrontation.”

He stood, adjusted his posture, and immediately snapped into character. God, he was so good at this — eyes deep, voice low, gaze locked on yours.

It was actually really hot. Too hot.

You rushed through your lines, heart fluttering a little, and right when the script called for the kiss — you took a step back.

“Okay! That’s all I needed. Thanks, baby.”

Pedro blinked. “…Wait. What?”

You started to gather the pages. “I don’t need the kiss part, I’ve done it like ten times with my scene partner already.”

His mouth dropped open slightly, puppy eyes activating. “But… we didn’t rehearse that part.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s fine.”

“No, I mean—” he pointed helplessly to the script. “We were right there. It was literally the next line. The next beat.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Pedro.”

“I wanted to kiss you.”

You snorted. “You do realize you’re my husband, right? You can kiss me whenever.”

He blinked. “Oh. Right.”

A pause.

“…Can we still do it, though? The whole scene. Like. From the top. All the way to the kiss.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re such a dork.”

“But a committed dork.”

You sighed, dramatic. “Fine. For art.”

He grinned like a kid on Christmas, already finding his place in the script again.

Ten minutes later, you delivered your last line — all soft and emotional — and Pedro cupped your face, kissed you like the credits were rolling and you were the lead in his love story.

When he pulled back, breathless, he smiled.

“See? That’s good acting.”

You smirked. “Pedro, that wasn’t acting.”

He laughed, pressing another kiss to your forehead. “Even better.”

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

---

taglist: @sarahhxx03 @lloydmustache @lolareadsimagines @greenwitchfromthewoods @silksepia @pascalswiftie @itstokyo-cos @mani-pedro @llsister @authorbriannarae13 @introvrtedjellyfish @aj0elap0l0gist @spencercmlover @cixrosie @cherrqbaby @cup-half-full-of-anxiety @kellyxo1 @freakbobcult @sunlightpleasure @barnes70stark @mooniscrying @ohnaurshayla @croissantbakerylws @nellispunk @kasienka @taylorswiftsrep-blog @emerencedaily @byzyz @noovaarq @kristend512

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[yourmomsawh0r3]

more pedro x actress reader where the kids visit pedro/accidentally watch the joel death scene and was SAD

Behind the scene

Pairing: dad!Pedro Pascal x actress!mom!reader Summary: A surprise visit to set turns emotional when your kids witness Pedro filming Joel’s death, blurring the line between pretend and reality. Warnings: established relationship, slight angst, comforting Pedro, happy ending

The Vancouver sky hangs grey above you, thick with the kind of soft, sunless light that makes everything feel still. You hold your daughter’s hand as she skips beside you, her curls bouncing beneath a knit beanie you pulled over her ears that morning. Lucia’s fingers are sticky from the half-finished granola bar she insisted on bringing from the hotel. She doesn’t seem to mind. On your other side, Mateo is unusually quiet, his dark eyes darting across the maze of trailers, cameras, and crew members in heavy coats, absorbing it all with the quiet intensity he inherited from Pedro.

Your husband is somewhere here—on this massive, controlled chaos of a set. And he doesn’t know yet that you're coming.

The visit was a last-minute surprise. His shooting schedule had shifted unexpectedly, allowing for a rare Saturday on set, and after weeks of Pedro promising the kids they could “maybe, one day” see where he works, you pulled the trigger. A few emails, a few hushed texts to his assistant, and here you are, gently ushered past trailers and dolly tracks, a hand on Lucia’s back as Mateo walks slightly ahead, his hoodie zipped all the way up like armor.

You’d prepped them both for this.

“Daddy’s in costume. He’s playing Joel, remember? And there might be yelling or fake blood, but it’s just pretend.”

They nodded then, eager and giggly over the idea of “movie magic.” But now, the closer you get, the more you feel the nerves in them—not fear, exactly. A kind of reverent awe.

Then you see him.

He’s standing in the middle of what looks like a skiing cabin, shoulders heavy under the faded dark shirt of Joel, worn and dirty and heartbreakingly familiar. Even from a distance, your breath catches. His back is to you, both hands up. The crew is silent, cameras poised.

Lucia gasps. “That’s Daddy!”

You kneel quickly beside her, shushing gently, rubbing your thumb across her wrist. “We have to be very quiet, baby. He’s working. Let’s just watch for now.”

You glance at the PA beside you, who gives a quiet nod. It’s fine. Pedro had approved them visiting the set weeks ago—he just didn’t know today would be the day.

“Scene 12. Take 3. Marker.”

The clap echoes. The boom mic shifts. And then, action.

You don’t expect how hard it hits.

Pedro—no, Joel—turns, stiff with injury, face smeared with grime and red. He stumbles, legs buckling, and the next thing you know, he’s on the floor. The blow is fast, brutal. You can see the fake blood splatter across the cracked linoleum as the actor playing Abby looms above him. Joel gasps—your Pedro gasps—and the pain in his voice is so real, so raw, you feel Lucia flinch beside you.

And then comes the moment.

The golf club arcs. One, two, three times. You instinctively clutch both your children to your sides, shielding their view—but it’s too late. Mateo’s eyes are wide, mouth slack in horror. Lucia begins to tremble. Pedro’s body jerks with every staged hit, and when he finally falls still, his blood pooling beneath him, the quiet on set is deafening.

“Cut!”

You hear the word, but it barely registers.

Lucia starts to cry.

Not the loud, dramatic kind. The soft, confused kind that breaks your heart. Her little fingers clutch at your coat. “Why did she hurt Daddy?”

You crouch, gathering her into your arms. She buries her face in your neck, sobbing now, little hiccupping gasps you haven’t heard since she scraped her knee last month in the park.

Mateo just stares at the body on the ground. Pedro hasn’t moved yet—he’s giving the crew time to reset, still in character. And maybe that’s the hardest part. Your husband, the father of your children, lying there motionless, drenched in fake blood, eyes closed as if he’s really—

“Mateo,” you say softly, brushing his bangs back. “Honey, it’s pretend. You know that, right? It’s just a story.”

He doesn’t answer. You see the way his throat bobs, the way his fists tighten at his sides.

“I don’t like this story,” he says finally.

You gently tug him closer, wrapping an arm around him while still holding Lucia. You kiss her curls. You kiss Mateo’s temple. Your body becomes a shell around them both.

The call goes out: “Let’s break for reset! Ten minutes!”

Pedro stirs. Slowly, he props himself up on an elbow, winces, wipes at his face with a bloodied rag someone hands him. And then he looks up.

He sees you.

And his whole body changes.

He scrambles to his feet, tossing the fake prop aside, the grim expression of Joel cracking into something much more familiar. He’s across the lot in seconds, not even bothering to wipe off the rest of the makeup. “Mi amor—what—? What are you guys doing here?”

His voice is half-laugh, half-panic. And then he sees the children.

Lucia is still crying. Mateo is silent. And Pedro’s face crumbles.

“Shit.”

“Language,” you murmur, even as you’re rising, passing Lucia into his arms.

She immediately clutches his neck, fingers fisting into his collar.

“I thought she killed you,” she whimpers.

Pedro exhales shakily and kisses her hair, walking her away from the set, holding her close, murmuring against her ear. “No, no, mija. I’m okay. It’s fake. Look—see?” He grabs one of her little hands and places it against his cheek. “It’s makeup. And pretend blood. See? I'm still here. I’m okay.”

You kneel again, now in front of Mateo, who’s still staring at the scene. “Talk to me, sweetheart.”

Mateo glances up at you. “That was scary.”

“I know,” you say gently. “But Daddy’s an actor, remember? Like Mommy. He was just pretending.”

“But he sounded like he was really hurt. Like when you fell that time in the kitchen and cried.”

Your throat tightens. “He’s just really good at acting. That’s all.”

Mateo’s mouth twists. He’s trying not to cry. You gather him close again, arms circling around his shoulders until his breath slows.

Pedro returns, Lucia now calm and sniffling against his chest. Her tiny hand rests just beneath his jaw, like she needs to keep touching him to believe he’s real. He meets your eyes with an unspoken apology.

“I’m sorry,” he mouths.

You shake your head. “You didn’t know.”

Still, the guilt in his eyes is unbearable.

He squats beside Mateo, holding out a hand. “Hey, bud.”

Mateo looks at him cautiously, then at the drying blood still on Pedro’s knuckles.

“Want to help me wash all this stuff off?”

Mateo nods.

Pedro lets him take the lead, guiding him to the special effects trailer where they keep the baby wipes and prosthetics remover. Lucia stays with you, her head now on your shoulder, and you follow at a gentle pace, heart aching.

Later, when Pedro is cleaned up and out of costume, the four of you curl up in a small room just off the lot—a little green room with an old couch, two juice boxes, and coffee that tastes like mud.

Mateo sits on Pedro’s lap, quietly playing with his fingers. Lucia is in your arms, half-asleep but still twitchy. She murmurs every so often, “Don’t let her hit Daddy again.”

Pedro kisses her forehead. “Never again, baby. Promise.”

You stroke her hair, meeting your husband’s eyes over their heads.

“I think next time,” you whisper, “we wait until they’re a bit older.”

He nods, guilt still etched in every line of his face.

But then Mateo speaks, his voice small. “You were really brave, Dad. Even when it was scary.”

Pedro smiles. Not his actor-smile, not the public one. The one he gives only to the three of you.

“I was thinking of you guys the whole time.”

Lucia shifts. “Even when you were on the floor?”

He nods. “Especially then.”

You feel your chest swell. Even after all this, even with the unintended trauma of it all, you see it: the strength of this family. The way Pedro holds them. The way you anchor them. The way the kids believe in him, even if they were afraid.

It takes time to get them settled back at the hotel. Baths, stories, extra cuddles. You end up letting them both fall asleep in your bed, their bodies curled between you and Pedro like little commas in the sentence of your lives.

And sometime past midnight, with Lucia's hand still resting on Pedro’s chest and Mateo’s foot wedged against your side, Pedro whispers across the dark:

“Remind me next time to just do a cartoon voice-over.”

You laugh, quiet and full of love. “Noted.”

And then you reach across the children, fingers threading with his.

Still here. Still real.

Even in pretend.

[yourmomsawh0r3]

Dandelion

pairing: pedro pascal x pop star best friend

trope: friends to lovers

word count: 1,566

song: dandelion by ariana grande

Pedro had mastered the art of playing it cool.

Press junkets. Film premieres. Award shows. All a breeze. He could handle intense directors, press rumors, even the chaos of a Star Wars Comic-Con crowd. He knew tonight would be hard. Not because of the flashing lights or the thousands of screaming fans echoing through the stadium. Not because he hated crowds or being in the spotlight.

But he could not, for the life of him, handle you.

You weren’t just his best friend. You were the one person who could disarm him with a single glance. The woman he’d been in love with for years, secretly, hopelessly, completely.

And now here he stood backstage at your sold-out concert, dressed in all black, trying to blend into the shadows, knowing you were about to perform your brand new song the one you told no one about. Not even him.

Then he saw you step out onto the stage.

Pedro’s breath caught in his throat.

The black corset. The thigh-high boots. The soft curls falling over your bare shoulders. You were a vision. Confident, untouchable. Every inch of you was a tease like something he’s never seen before had taken over your body and was staring right at him.

The beat hit. You gripped the mic with one hand, dragging it sensually toward your lips. And then you sang:

“Mean what I say, say what I mean

Not one to play, I am as you see

I give my word…”

Pedro’s heart stopped.

“These other boys, they’re one in the same

I’m tryna say, I want you to stay…”

You were looking right at him.

Your voice was seductive but soft laced with truth. With confession. You moved like every lyric came from deep in your bones, like this wasn’t just a performance but a revelation.

“I got (got)

What you need

I’m thinking you should plant this seed

I get this sounds unserious

But, baby boy, this is serious…”

Pedro shifted uncomfortably. His jaw clenched.

Because he was bricked up. Bad.

And not just because you looked like sin wrapped in velvet.

Because he knew without a doubt that this song was about him.

“And, yes, I promise

If I’m being honest

You can get anything you’d like

Can’t you see I bloom at night?

Boy, just don’t blow this

Got me like ‘what’s your wish list?’

You can get anything you’d like

I’ll be your dandelion, mmm…”

His mouth went dry.

Your body moved like temptation. The sway of your hips, the flick of your wrist, the way your fingers dragged up your thigh it was hypnotic. And your eyes never left his.

“You like how I pray

The secret’s in me

‘Cause, boy, come what may

I’m here on my knees…”

Pedro groaned. Actually groaned.

He had to adjust himself behind the curtain. Your lyrics, your voice every damn movement was driving him insane.

And it wasn’t just sexual. It was emotional. Personal. Like you had cracked your heart open in front of the entire world but only he could see the real message.

“These other flowers don’t grow the same

So just leave it here with me

Let’s get dirty, dirty…”

His knees nearly buckled. Jesus Christ.

“Boy, just don’t blow this

Got me like ‘what’s your wish list?’

You can get anything you’d like

I’ll be your dandelion, mmm…”

When the last “mmm” hit, Pedro was already moving.

You didn’t even have time to step offstage before you felt a hand on your wrist, pulling you gently but firmly behind the curtain.

Pedro.

His pupils were blown wide, lips parted, breath ragged. He looked at you like he’d just seen heaven and hell in the same five minutes.

“You wrote that about me,” he said hoarsely.

You tilted your head, a small smile forming. “Took you long enough.”

He ran a hand through his curls. “You… you meant every word?”

You stepped closer, voice soft but sure. “Mean what I say. Say what I mean.”

He groaned, grabbed your waist, and kissed you like he’d been starved for years. His hand tangled in your hair, yours slid beneath his shirt, desperate to touch, to claim.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead to yours. “You’re evil for doing that on stage.”

“You liked it.”

“I’m in love with you.”

You smiled. “Good. Then plant the seed.”

Pedro blinked. “What?”

You smirked. “Your words. Or mine, technically.”

He kissed you again. And again.

And from that night on, he could no longer play it cool. Not when the world knew that dandelion was about him and he’d never let you float away again.

The roar of the crowd still echoed in your ears, adrenaline still coursing through your veins when Pedro pulled you into your dressing room and shut the door behind him with a quiet click.

He didn’t say a word.

He didn’t need to.

Because the second the lock turned, his hands were on you urgent, hungry, reverent. His lips crashed into yours with a force that nearly knocked the air from your lungs, and you melted into him like you’d been waiting your entire life for this moment.

He spun you, your back pressed to the vanity, the cool edge digging into the backs of your thighs as he stepped between them.

“You don’t get to do that,” Pedro murmured against your jaw, peppering kisses down your neck, “look like that, sing like that, and stare at me like you own me.”

You smirked, breath hitching. “I do own you.”

His grip on your hips tightened. “Yeah. You do.”

Your lips found his again, and this time it was slow deep. Messy. Tongues dancing. Teeth grazing. He kissed you like he was starving, like you were the only thing keeping him alive.

And then he pulled back, just far enough to look you in the eye.

“You meant that song.”

“All of it,” you whispered. “Every word. Every line.”

His hands slid down, fingers brushing the hem of your corset dress. “You want me to show you what it did to me?”

You nodded.

But he needed to say it. So he leaned in, voice hot against your skin.

“I’ve wanted you for years, cariño. You don’t know what it did to me hearing you say it. Seeing you own it like that on stage like you weren’t afraid of anything.”

“I was,” you admitted softly. “I was afraid you didn’t feel the same.”

Pedro’s mouth crashed into yours again, rougher this time his answer written in the bruising press of his lips, the way his hand slid up your thigh, the reverence in his touch.

He kissed down your neck, over your collarbone, down to the top of your chest. He dragged his nose along your skin like he was memorizing your scent. Then he dropped to his knees in front of you.

You gasped as he pulled you toward the edge of the vanity.

“Pedro—”

He looked up, his eyes dark and reverent. “I told you. I’ve got everything I need. Right here.”

And then he kissed the inside of your thigh.

Your head fell back with a moan.

The lights above the mirror flickered softly, casting golden halos around both of you. His hands gripped your thighs as he leaned in, worshipful, slow, savoring every second because he wasn’t just here to take.

He was here to devour.

Your hands scrambled for purchase behind you, knocking over makeup brushes and compacts, but neither of you cared. The only sounds in the room were your gasps, the whisper of his name, and the deep, quiet hum of a man finally tasting what he’d dreamed about for years.

And when you finally came undone beneath his mouth, shuddering, trembling, clinging to him like he was the only thing anchoring you to earth he kissed your thigh, then your stomach, then stood slowly, reverently as if he was afraid to break the spell between you. But the look in his eyes was something different now. Wild. Tender. Completely undone.

Your lipstick was smudged. His curls were a mess from your hands. Neither of you cared.

He cupped your face gently, thumbs brushing your cheeks. “You know I love you, right?”

You blinked, your chest heaving. “Yeah?”

He smiled softly, forehead pressed to yours. “Yeah. Always have.”

You grabbed his shirt, pulled him close again. “Then don’t wait anymore.”

He kissed you slow this time. Deep and warm, his hand sliding over your back as you clung to him like a lifeline. The world outside the door didn’t exist. Just you and Pedro. Your bodies pressed together, the air thick with heat, love, and everything that had gone unspoken for far too long.

Eventually, he whispered, “Let me take you home.”

You nodded. “You’re already home.”

He kissed you again, then helped you off the vanity, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingertips brushing your flushed cheeks. And as you both stumbled out of the dressing room into the quiet of backstage, hand in hand, there was only one thing Pedro was certain of

He would never hear “Dandelion” the same way again.

Because it wasn’t just a song.

It was a confession. A promise. A beginning.

And this?

This was just the start.

[yourmomsawh0r3]

Your last Harry Castillo x reader story has me melting. Can I request something for Harry Castillo x reader as well? Is about the same story “Only Ours” were they later have a baby girl, ofc Harry is happy and is the best girl dad ever. I wanted to request this specific scenario: Like their baby girl is already 3 or 4, Harry took the day off, and he decides to spend some father-daughter day. So he takes her to the mall, and as every little kid she wants every toy she sees in sight. Harry can’t say no to his little angel so at the end he ends up buying her whatever she wants. (This reminds me of Lottie lol)

Daddy's little girl

Pairing: dad!Harry Castillo x wife!reader Summary: Harry spends his day off spoiling his daughter at the mall, buying her every toy she wants—and loving every second of it. Warnings: established relationship, fluff, cuteness

You’d barely made it to the kitchen for your morning coffee when you heard the unmistakable patter of tiny feet sprinting down the hallway. Moments later, a delighted squeal echoed through the house.

“DAAADYYYY!”

You smiled into your mug. Right on cue.

Harry groaned faintly from the bedroom, but it was the soft, loving kind. The kind only a dad makes when he’s being smothered by love at an ungodly hour. The kind that means he wouldn’t change it for the world.

Peeking around the corner, you caught the moment your daughter leapt onto the bed—her wild morning curls bouncing as she clambered over the covers and launched herself straight at your husband’s chest.

“Oof—Sofía!” Harry laughed, voice still rough with sleep, as she landed squarely on him. “You tryin’ to kill me, muñeca?”

“I wake you up! Mommy say you stay home today!” she exclaimed proudly, cheeks flushed with excitement.

Harry cracked an eye open and reached for her, pulling her close with a groggy smile. “I did. Took the whole day off just for you.”

She gasped like he’d told her they were going to Disneyland.

“Really?”

“Mhm. What should we do with it, huh?”

Sofía tapped her chin dramatically. “Mall. With pretzels. And toys.”

Harry blinked, still not fully awake. “The mall?”

“Yes. We have girl day.”

He paused. “Aren’t I not a girl?”

She considered. “You can still come.”

You muffled your laugh from the hallway.

——

You helped him pack the essentials: snacks, wipes, a change of clothes just in case. “You know she’s gonna try to take you for everything you’ve got, right?” you teased, handing him a full sippy cup and a pouch of applesauce.

Harry buckled the bag over one shoulder and grinned. “She’s three. How bad can it be?”

You just gave him that look.

“She’s already asked for three birthday parties and a pony this week.”

He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your lips and another to your temple. “I got it.”

Then, a final kiss to Sofía’s crown. “You ready, princesa?”

She nodded solemnly, already in her sparkly sneakers and heart-shaped sunglasses.

——

It was barely 10 a.m. when they hit the mall.

Harry held her hand tightly as they walked through the wide, polished halls—her tiny steps bouncing beside his long strides. She gasped at every mannequin, pointed out every store with colors she liked, and paused at each kiosk like it was a new continent.

They hadn’t made it past the food court before she tugged hard at his hand.

“Daddy! Horsey!”

He followed her line of sight to the carousel spinning slowly by the indoor playground.

“You want a ride?”

She nodded furiously. “TWO.”

“Two? What’s with you and two today?”

“Two is more fun than one.”

That made sense.

——

She picked the sparkly white horse with golden reins and clung to the pole with both hands while Harry stood beside her, ready to catch her at a moment’s notice—even though she clearly didn’t need help.

Her laugh, light and musical, echoed louder than the carousel music. Harry swore it made the whole place feel warmer. People walking past smiled at her, and he couldn’t blame them.

She was magic. And she was his.

“Wave to Daddy!” he said, backing up for a photo.

She waved one hand dramatically—nearly toppling over.

“Two hands, two hands!” he chuckled, jogging back in to steady her.

——

After the second ride, Sofía tugged him toward the toy store.

Harry followed with a resigned sigh, already knowing how this was going to go. She made a beeline for the glittery dolls and froze in front of a display like she’d seen the face of God.

“This one. This one, Daddy.”

He crouched next to her. “What makes her so special?”

“She has shoes.”

“You have shoes.”

“She has sparkle shoes.”

He gave her a long look, then looked at the doll. Then back to her wide, pleading eyes.

“Alright,” he sighed, plucking it off the shelf. “But just one.”

She nodded solemnly.

He paid for five.

By the time they hit their third store, she was practically vibrating with excitement.

“Daddy, look! Is a teapot. It sings.”

“Does it?”

“Yes. We need tea party.”

And so they got the teapot.

And a plastic crown.

And a tiny pink handbag with sparkles and plastic lip gloss inside.

“Daddy, elephant!”

“Another one?”

“This one is PINK.”

You’d think he would’ve stood strong. That he’d remember how many stuffed animals lived in her bedroom already. But the way she hugged it to her chest—tiny hands curled tight around its ears—made something soft bloom in his chest.

He bought it.

——

Hours later, Harry was lugging bags with cartoon characters, princesses, and plastic accessories through the mall, trying to balance them with one arm while holding Sofía’s hand with the other. She was skipping now, slightly sticky from a cinnamon sugar pretzel and humming the tune from the teapot’s sample button.

“You’re gonna make your mamá think I’ve lost my mind,” he muttered.

Sofía stopped and looked up at him with big eyes.

“But I’m happy.”

He melted. Right there in the middle of the mall.

“I know you are, baby girl.”

——

When they pulled up to the apartment, she was snoring softly in her car seat, the elephant tucked under her chin. Her crown had slipped sideways on her curls. Harry just sat there for a moment, watching her, a goofy little smile playing on his lips.

You opened the door just as he stepped inside, carrying your sleeping child like she was made of spun sugar.

Your eyes widened at the bags hanging off his arms. “Harry—what on earth?”

“She had a vision,” he said simply. “And I… assisted.”

You arched a brow. “You let her bankrupt you in Build-A-Bear.”

“She was persuasive.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled, reaching out to lift one bag and peek inside.

“Oh my God, is that the singing teapot?”

“She insisted it was for us to have proper tea parties.”

“You���re a sucker.”

“She’s my daughter.”

——

Later that evening, after dinner and a warm bubble bath, Sofía was curled up in her new unicorn pyjamas with her pink elephant beside her. She’d insisted on using her crown as a “bedtime hat,” and neither of you had the heart to correct her.

Harry sat on the edge of her bed, brushing a few damp curls off her forehead while you leaned in the doorway, arms crossed and heart full.

“Daddy?”

“Yeah, princesa?”

“Today was the best day ever.”

He smiled. “Yeah?”

“Better than pony day.”

“Wow, that’s a big deal.”

“I love you,” she whispered.

He leaned down and kissed her cheek. “I love you more.”

Sofía closed her eyes, arms around the elephant. “Night-night.”

You stepped forward as Harry stood, and together, you turned off the light.

——

He collapsed onto the couch with a dramatic groan. “Your daughter made me buy ten things.”

You curled up next to him with a smirk. “My daughter?”

“Yours when she’s a menace.”

“She’s three. Of course she’s a menace.”

“She also convinced me that if I didn’t get the unicorn, she’d cry forever.”

“Did she cry?”

“No.”

“Did you still get the unicorn?”

“Of course I did.”

You laughed, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You’re such a good dad.”

Harry’s hand found yours, lacing your fingers together.

“She’s got me wrapped around her finger, doesn’t she?”

“Tighter than a bow on a Build-A-Bear box.”

And yet, he looked entirely unbothered. In fact, he looked proud.

Because for all the hard days, for all the long hours and pressure of his success… nothing filled him the way this did.

She was his heart in the shape of a three-year-old.

And tonight, his world had glitter shoes and a pink elephant in it—and he wouldn’t change a thing.

[yourmomsawh0r3]

Can you write something about reader getting badly injured during patrol with Joel (they're in a relationship) and he has to patch her up. He's scared shitless of losing her, and he keeps talking and talking trying to keep her awake. Doing the whole "I know, I know, sweet girl, you're okay, you're gonna be just fine baby" soothing her. She also thinks she's not gonna make it and try to comfort him "please go back to Jackson, get safe. You know how much I love you, right?" But he's having none of it. He carries her and they find shelter and he patches her up, having to stay there for a few days until she's strong enough to move and he's by her side at all times. Happy ending please!!!!

Through hell

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader Summary: Joel risks everything to rescue you from raiders, then stays by your side as you both fight to heal—together. Warnings: established relationship, angst, kidnapping, violence, blood, caring Joel, happy ending

You can still remember the way the wind felt on your face that morning. Crisp and cold, like something out of a different life. You rode beside Joel through the snowy forest trail just west of Jackson, boots in stirrups, fingers tingling through worn gloves. He glanced over at you every now and then like he always did—like he couldn't help it, like your presence settled something in him that nothing else could.

“Let’s take the west ridge,” he said, voice low and rough. “Tommy said there’s been tracks out that way. Maybe just deer, but I don’t like how close it was to the lookout post.”

You nodded, shifting slightly in your saddle. The rifle on your back felt heavier than usual. Maybe it was the cloud cover, or the way the woods were too quiet, no birdsong, no wind through the evergreens—just the crunch of hooves on frostbitten ground.

Joel kept his horse close to yours, occasionally brushing your knee with his. Just a little touch. Just enough. Always enough.

“You warm enough?” he asked after a while.

You smirked, biting back a shiver. “You offering to warm me up, Miller?”

He grunted. “Damn right I am.”

You wanted to kiss him then and there, but you were almost to the ridge, and that part of the trail narrowed between thick pines. You had to ride single file. He went ahead.

That’s when everything started to unravel.

The crack of a gunshot rang out like thunder. Your horse reared and whinnied, startled. You barely had time to grab the reins before someone slammed into you from behind, knocking you clean out of the saddle.

Your body hit the ground hard. The air shot from your lungs. Boots stomped in the snow all around you, hands dragging you through the brush. You kicked and twisted, but the back of someone’s rifle slammed into your temple. Everything turned to white noise. Then black.

——

Joel didn’t see it happen. One moment, you were behind him—he heard the easy rhythm of hooves, trusted it like he trusted his own heartbeat. The next, your silence was too quiet. Wrong.

He pulled up on his reins.

“Sweetheart?” he called.

No answer.

He turned, only to find the trail behind him empty. Your horse, skittish and alone, was running off toward the trees.

“Shit.” His voice cracked.

He rode hard back down the trail, dismounted before the horse had even stopped. Snow was churned up where your body had fallen. Boot prints. Scuffle marks. Drag lines leading into the woods.

Panic rose in him like floodwater.

“Baby,” he whispered, barely breathing. “No—no, no, no…”

He dropped to his knees, fingers brushing over the snow where he found the tiniest smear of blood.

——

You came to in a dim, frozen cellar.

The air stank of mold and sweat, and your head throbbed so hard it made your stomach twist. You tried to sit up, only to find your wrists bound behind you with coarse rope, your ankles tied just as tight.

“Fuck,” you rasped. Your lip was split. You could taste blood in the back of your throat.

A man crouched in front of you—filthy beard, sunken eyes. One of the raiders. You could smell the rot on him.

“You’re awake,” he said, smiling like he liked the sight of your bruised face. “Good. We’re gonna have a little chat.”

You didn’t speak. Not at first.

“You from that settlement up north, ain’t ya?” he continued. “Jackson. That’s what they call it.”

You stayed silent. Bit down hard on the inside of your cheek. Joel had taught you well.

The raider’s grin slipped. He slapped you. Not hard at first. Then harder.

You barely flinched.

——

Joel didn’t sleep that night.

He tracked them through the woods like a man possessed. Every broken branch, every speck of blood—they were his lifeline. He could feel time slipping through his fingers like sand, and all he could see was your face. The way you looked that morning. The way you’d smiled at him through frost.

His chest felt hollow. Like if he breathed too deep, the pain would split him in two.

He found a glove of yours snagged on a bush just after dawn. The left one. You’d told him it always fit a little loose. He dropped to his knees again, pressing it to his mouth.

“Please,” he whispered, eyes shut. “Please hold on, baby.”

——

By the time the raiders realized Joel was close, it was already too late.

One of them had left the cellar door cracked open to smoke a cigarette. Joel saw the faint flicker through the trees, and that was all he needed.

He crept in under the cover of the storm rolling in overhead, knife already in hand. The first man didn’t even have time to scream.

The next two were too busy arguing over rations to notice their friend’s body cooling in the snow.

Joel’s hands didn’t shake. Not once.

They made you bleed. They hurt you. They took you from him. And he didn’t see red. He saw you—the way you sleep curled against his chest, the way you laugh with your whole body, the way you whisper his name like it means something holy.

He would’ve burned the whole fucking world down for you.

——

You heard the gunshots upstairs, then the screaming. Your heart thudded hard and fast. You tried to twist away from the wall, but your body was too weak, your vision doubling.

Then the door creaked open.

For a second, you thought maybe it was the end. That they’d come to finish what they started. Your heart slowed, ready for it.

But then you heard his voice. His voice.

“Sweetheart?” It cracked. Broke wide open. “Jesus—baby—oh my god—”

You couldn’t even lift your head. “Joel,” you whispered. “I—I knew you’d come…”

You barely registered the way he ran to you, how he dropped to his knees in the filthy straw, hands cupping your face like you were something fragile, precious, bleeding all over the place but still here.

“I got you,” he breathed, kissing your forehead. “I got you, baby. I got you. I know, I know—fuck—I’m here now.”

Your eyes rolled back.

“Hey—hey, no. Don’t do that.” His hand pressed firm against your ribs where they’d broken something deep inside. “Stay awake, babygirl. You’re gonna be just fine, y’hear me? You’re gonna be okay.”

You shook your head faintly, lips trembling. “You need to go. Get safe. Don’t—don’t stay out here. You know how much I love you, right?”

He made a sound that nearly broke you—a rough, wounded thing. “No. Don’t you dare say goodbye to me. You hear me? You’re gonna make it. I’m gonna carry you outta here, patch you up. We’ll find shelter. You just gotta stay with me, sweetheart. Please—please stay.”

Your head lolled weakly into his shoulder as he sliced the ropes around your wrists. Every movement sent fire through your body.

But he was there. His hands were on you, steady and sure. His scent—leather, snow, pine—filled your lungs.

Joel lifted you into his arms, holding you like something irreplaceable.

“I’m right here,” he whispered, over and over. “I got you. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

——

Snow is falling thick by the time Joel gets you outside. Heavy, wet flakes cling to your lashes, soak into your torn jacket. Your blood is warm on his hands, and that terrifies him more than the blood itself.

He cradles you tight against his chest, stumbling through the trees like a man drunk with grief, murmuring broken things into your hair.

“I got you, I got you—please, baby, don’t close your eyes.”

Your skin is cold. You’re shivering against him, twitching with pain every time he takes a step. He can feel the way your breaths stutter, shallow and rapid, like you’re trying to stay conscious through sheer will.

You whisper something into his collar. He can’t make it out at first.

“Say it again, sweetheart. I got you. I’m here.”

“Hurts…” Your voice is so faint it’s almost a breath. “It hurts real bad…”

“I know, babygirl. I know it does.” He presses a kiss into your hair, his lips trembling against your scalp. “You’re gonna be just fine, I promise. Just stay with me, alright?”

There’s a small hunting shack maybe half a mile out. He saw it once before, marked it in his head in case of emergencies. He’s never been more grateful for that steel trap of a mind.

He doesn’t let go of you the whole way there.

——

The shack is dark and empty, long abandoned. Joel kicks the door open with his boot, then shoulders it shut behind him. The place is barely more than four walls and a stove, but it’s shelter. It’s something.

He lowers you onto the cot as gently as he can, but you still cry out when your back hits the mattress. The sound slices through him like a hot knife.

“Oh god, baby—fuck, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I got you now, alright? Just hold on.”

He pulls a lantern from the shelf, sparks it to life, and sets it near the bed. Light spills over you, and Joel sees the full damage for the first time.

Your face is swollen, lip busted open. There’s blood dried around your temple from where they struck you. Bruises already forming across your ribs. Scrapes along your wrists where the rope had dug into your skin. And the worst of it—a deep, ragged wound in your side, stained dark through the torn fabric of your jacket.

Joel sways for a moment, steadying himself on the table.

“Jesus,” he chokes out. “Fuck.”

You’re still awake, barely. “It’s okay,” you whisper, trying to blink up at him. “You came. That’s all I—”

“No,” he snaps, dropping to his knees beside you, grabbing your hand. “Don’t you do that. Don’t you talk like it’s over. I’m not lettin’ you go, baby. You understand me?”

Your hand twitches in his, weak and shaking. “You don’t have to stay…”

He leans forward, forehead to yours. “I do. I will. You’re mine. I ain’t leavin’ you. Not now, not ever.”

He strips your coat off with shaking hands, cuts the fabric around the wound in your side, trying to see how bad it is. Blood wells up immediately. He curses under his breath, grabs his backpack, and tears it open.

“You gotta stay with me, babygirl,” he says, louder now, trying to keep your eyes on his. “You hear me? Keep talkin’. Say my name.”

“Joel…”

“That’s it. That’s my girl.” He pulls a bottle of alcohol from the bag, then stops. “This is gonna hurt, baby. I’m sorry.”

You nod faintly.

He pours the alcohol over the wound. You scream.

Joel almost screams with you. He grabs your hand and presses it to his chest, trying to anchor you to him.

“I know, I know, I know,” he chants, his voice cracking. “You’re doin’ so good, baby. Just a little more. Stay with me. Please stay with me.”

You’re crying now. Soft, quiet tears that slide down the side of your face.

“I don’t wanna die,” you whisper.

Joel goes still for a moment. Then he leans down and kisses your forehead, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

“You’re not gonna die. You hear me? I didn’t go through all that just to lose you now.”

“I feel cold…”

He yanks the blankets from the foot of the cot, bundles them around you, climbs halfway into bed with you so he can hold you close. You’re limp against him, breathing shallow.

“I love you,” you murmur, barely audible now. “Joel, I love you…”

His jaw clenches. “Don’t you say that like it’s the last time.”

You laugh, a tiny broken sound. “Bossy…”

He lets out a breath that might be a sob. “Yeah. That’s right. I’m bossy. And I’m tellin’ you—you’re not goin’ anywhere.”

He stitches the wound as best he can with what he has. It’s messy and brutal. But you’re still breathing when he finishes, and that’s all that matters.

He lays with you the rest of the night, wrapped around your trembling body, murmuring to you over and over.

“I love you. I love you so damn much. You stay with me, babygirl. You got a home to get back to. We got a life. You’re not done yet.”

——

Hours pass. Then a full day.

He doesn’t leave your side. Not to eat. Not to sleep. Not to piss.

He cleans the blood from your skin with melted snow water, dabs ointment on your bruises. Keeps a hand on your chest just to feel it rise and fall.

You fade in and out, whispering his name each time you surface. And every time you do, he’s there.

“I’m here,” he tells you. “Ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

——

The days pass slowly.

You drift in and out of consciousness at first, your body too battered to keep you awake for long. Each time your eyes open, Joel is right there—kneeling beside the cot, crouched by the stove, sitting with his elbows on his knees and his gaze fixed on you like if he looks away, you might disappear again.

His voice is always the first thing you hear when you wake.

“Hey, babygirl,” he whispers, soft and relieved. “There you are.”

It’s never louder than a hush. He’s calm now, calmer than he was when he found you, but the fear is still there—coiled in his voice, in the way he checks your pulse every hour, in how he sleeps sitting up with a hand resting gently over your ribs, like he needs to feel you breathing just to survive the night.

You try to talk sometimes, but it takes effort. Your throat’s raw, your ribs ache with every breath, and your sideburns where the stitches pull your skin tight.

He always shushes you.

“Don’t push it, sweetheart. You rest. I got you.”

And he does.

Joel keeps the fire going even when it smokes up the place. He feeds you water by the spoonful, holds a cup to your lips when you’re too weak to lift your head. He tears old clothes into rags and uses them to clean your wounds, dabbing with a tenderness that makes your eyes sting.

You cry once—not from the pain, but from the sheer way he looks at you. Like you matter more than anything else in this world. Like the fact that you’re alive is something sacred.

He wipes the tears from your cheeks with the edge of his sleeve.

“No more of that now,” he murmurs. “You made it, babygirl. You hear me? You fuckin’ made it.”

——

By the third day, you can sit up, leaning against his chest while he holds a hand pressed gently to your back. Your breath hitches when you move too fast, and Joel instantly tightens his grip.

“Easy,” he soothes, voice close to your ear. “Ain’t in no rush. You just take your time.”

You tip your head against his shoulder, breathing him in. He smells like wood smoke and worn leather and the comfort of home. His beard scrapes lightly against your temple as he presses a kiss there.

“I thought I was gonna die,” you whisper.

He shakes his head. “Don’t you say that.”

“I did. I thought—I thought I’d never see you again.”

Joel swallows hard. You feel the way it locks his throat.

“You know how much I love you, right?” you whisper.

“I know,” he says, voice thick. Then again, firmer: “I know. But you don’t get to say goodbye. Not ever.”

You nod faintly against his chest. He holds you tighter, cradles you like something fragile. Like something he almost lost and will never take for granted again.

“I should’ve been faster,” he mutters. “I should’ve known sooner. Should’ve—”

“Joel,” you interrupt, reaching for his hand. Your fingers are weak, but you manage to squeeze his. “You saved me.”

He stares at your joined hands for a long time.

“Damn right I did.”

——

The fourth day, you eat real food again—a half-burnt can of soup he found tucked in a cupboard. He feeds you from a spoon, making sure it cools enough before each bite, watching you like a hawk for any sign of discomfort.

“You don’t have to keep doing this,” you mumble when he wipes your chin with a cloth.

His brow furrows, and he gives you a look—that look, the one he uses when you say something he refuses to even entertain.

“I’m takin’ care of my girl. Ain’t nobody else gonna do it.”

You smile, weak but real. “You’re a good nurse.”

“Don’t let Tommy hear that,” he says, smoothing your hair back. “I’ll never hear the end of it.”

You laugh a little, and it makes you wince, one hand flying to your ribs. Joel’s expression instantly shifts, guilt blooming across his face.

“Hey—hey, easy now.” He’s already reaching for the water, the pain meds, anything. “I’m sorry, baby. You alright?”

You nod, still smiling through the ache. “Worth it.”

He shakes his head and leans in, pressing his forehead to yours.

“You scare the hell outta me,” he whispers.

You whisper back, “I know.”

——

By the end of the week, you’re strong enough to walk a few steps, gripping Joel’s arm like a lifeline. He keeps an arm tight around your waist, supporting your weight as you shuffle to the stove and back. Each step is painful, but his praise makes it bearable.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, kissing the side of your head. “Look at you. Tough as hell.”

You grin. “Taught me that.”

——

When you’re finally strong enough to make the trip back to Jackson, he doesn’t stop touching you the whole way. His hand is always on you—your back, your arm, your fingers curled into his coat. Every few minutes, he checks you over like you might vanish again if he doesn’t.

And when the walls of Jackson come into view, when you both walk through the gates with your steps slow and your body held close to his side, people stare.

They see the bruises. The bandages. The way Joel looks like he hasn’t slept in days.

But they also see the way he holds you—like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

Tommy meets you at the gates. Maria’s there too, already calling for someone to prep the infirmary. But Joel doesn’t let them take you until he’s kissed your temple one last time.

“I’ll be right there,” he promises, brushing your cheek with the backs of his fingers. “I ain’t leavin’ your side. Not now. Not ever.”

And you believe him.

Because even in the dark, even in the blood and snow and fear, he never let go.

[yourmomsawh0r3]

SHORT: You’ve Got Me, Always

Joel Miller x Wife!Reader

You weren’t sure what had woken you the nausea creeping up your throat or the cold sweat prickling your skin. Either way, it was enough to make you scramble out of bed on shaky legs and rush to the bathroom.

The clock blinked 3:17 AM as you barely made it to the toilet, gripping the porcelain like a lifeline as your stomach lurched. You hated this feeling the helplessness, the bile, the way your body shook no matter how many times you whispered to yourself, It’s okay, just breathe…

You didn’t even hear the bedroom door creak open.

“Hey, hey…” came a low, gravelly voice behind you. “Sweetheart—what’s goin’ on?”

Joel. Of course it was Joel. Sleep still rough in his voice, concern already etched in his features. He dropped to his knees beside you without hesitation, one warm hand settling gently on your back, the other brushing damp strands of hair away from your face.

You tried to say something, but your stomach rebelled again.

He didn’t flinch. Just held you steady and murmured soft things against your temple, thumb rubbing slow circles into the curve of your spine.

When it was finally over, when the retching turned into weak coughs and exhausted silence, Joel reached for a washcloth, dampened it with cold water, and pressed it to your forehead.

“Jesus, darlin’… you’re burnin’ up,” he muttered, brow furrowing. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

You managed a whisper. “Didn’t wanna bother you.”

Joel shook his head, clearly pained. “You’re never a bother, baby. Not ever. Come on.”

He helped you to your feet like you were made of glass, arms wrapped protectively around you. You leaned into his warmth, letting him carry most of your weight as he guided you back to bed.

Once you were settled, tucked into fresh sheets with a cool rag on your head and a glass of water nearby, Joel disappeared for a minute only to return with a thermometer and one of his old band tees for you to change into. He knelt beside the bed, watching you like he was afraid to blink.

“You tell me if you feel worse, alright? I’ll take you to the ER if I have to.”

You nodded weakly, already feeling sleep tugging at your limbs again.

Joel pressed a kiss to your temple. “I got you, honey. You’re safe. Just rest.”

And even though your stomach still ached and your head throbbed, your heart felt a little lighter. Because Joel your stubborn, rough-around-the-edges Joel was right there, holding your hand through the worst of it.

He didn’t let go. Not once.

[yourmomsawh0r3]

What a time to be alive

[yourmomsawh0r3]

Come Home

pairing: post apocalyptic joel Miller X Wife reader

It started small.

Little things. Short answers. Long silences. Joel snapping at you over nothing leaving early for patrol without a kiss, eating dinner without a word. You told yourself he was just tired. That he had a lot on his plate. That the stress of keeping Jackson safe was pulling him thin.

But it didn’t explain why he only looked at you when he was angry. Or why he hadn’t touched your belly in weeks.

It all came to a head on a Tuesday night, when you asked him if he could pick up more prenatal vitamins while out with Tommy.

“What, I don’t do enough already?” he bit out, slamming his jacket down on the table.

You blinked. “It was just a question.”

He muttered something under his breath and you had enough.

“Do you even love me anymore?”

“What?”

“You heard me, Joel. Do you love me?”

There was a long pause.

“Yes,” he said gruffly.

Your voice broke. “Then show it. Because you’ve been acting like you don’t.”

He didn’t follow when you grabbed your bag. He didn’t stop you when Sarah packed Ellie’s overnight things. He didn’t say a word when you slammed the door behind you.

One and a Half Weeks Later

Joel’s world had been loud. Now it was silent.

He still made coffee for two out of habit. Still reached across the bed, forgetting it was cold and empty. The house was too quiet without Ellie’s music blaring or Sarah’s pencil scratching her sketchbook. The silence was screaming at him.

He hadn’t even kissed your belly goodbye.

Tommy tried talking to him. Maria did, too. He brushed them off. He didn’t know what to say because the truth was worse than anything they could guess:

He missed you so goddamn much it physically hurt.

On the eighth night, he sat down on the bed you made together and finally broke.

The house had never felt like a home without you in it.

Joel went one week and four days without the sound of your voice, without the girls’ laughter bouncing off the walls, without the warmth of your hand reaching for his in the dark. And in that silence, he finally heard everything he hadn’t let himself listen to.

How he’d picked fights. How he’d looked right through you when you were desperate for him to just see you. How he’d been cruel when you were carrying his child and raising two daughters who called him Daddy.

So he went to your parents’ place hat in hand, flowers in the other.

He stood at their front door like a man with nothing left, knuckles scraped from a fence he’d helped rebuild that morning just to keep busy, his voice already trembling before he even spoke.

Your mama opened the door, arms crossed, no smile. “Joel Miller,” she said flatly. “You better have something real good to say.”

“Ma’am,” he rasped. “I know I don’t deserve a damn second of her time. But I..I’m askin’. Please. Just five minutes. I need to see my girls.”

Your dad said nothing from behind her, but he opened the door and motioned silently toward the living room.

You were sitting on the couch in an oversized sweater, Ellie curled against your side, Sarah drawing at the coffee table. Your bump was more visible now, cradled by your hand protectively.

Joel’s breath caught in his throat when he saw you. “Darlin’…” he whispered.

You didn’t get up. You didn’t say his name. But your eyes filled with tears the moment you looked at him.

He knelt.

Right there in the doorway, he dropped to one knee like he’d done years ago when he first asked you to marry him, except this time, his voice was soaked in guilt and love.

“I’ve been an ass. A stubborn, angry, blind man who didn’t see the one thing that’s ever truly mattered to me.

I pushed you away when all you were doing was lovin’ me and this family.

You asked me if I loved you. I said yes, but I didn’t show it and I hate myself for that.

I just… things get loud in my head sometimes. And instead of lettin’ you in, I shut the door and act like you’re the enemy. You’re not. You’re never the enemy.

You’re my girl. You always have been.

And Sarah and Ellie… I miss ‘em. I miss their laughter. I miss your humming in the kitchen. I miss you yellin’ at me for leavin’ my boots by the door.

I miss touchin’ your belly at night, feelin’ our baby kick. God, darlin’, I’m so sorry I let myself get so far away from all of it. From you.

This whole week I’ve been sleepin’ in a house that feels like a stranger’s place, because my home ,my home is wherever you are. Wherever our girls are.

And I know I don’t deserve it, but I’m askin’… please, sweetheart. Let me try to fix this. Let me earn my way back to you.”

He placed the flowers on the coffee table like an offering.

“I miss you. I miss Sarah rollin’ her eyes at me. I miss Ellie yellin’ when I steal her toast. I miss talkin’ to our baby even if she can’t hear me yet.

I miss my wife.”

Tears ran down his cheeks, and your girls went quiet Ellie’s jaw clenched and Sarah’s eyes were wide.

You looked at him Joel Miller, your stubborn, complicated husband. You saw the cracks in his armor, the ones you’d been begging him to let show. And for the first time in weeks, he let you in.

You didn’t rush into his arms. You didn’t melt into him like in some dream. You simply looked down and said softly, “You can stay. For dinner.”

It was a start.

You were sitting on the back porch of your parents’ house, a blanket wrapped around your belly, cradling a warm cup of tea while the morning sun lit your face. Joel sat beside you in silence, like he’d done every day that week, content just to be near.

You finally looked at him and said softly, “I think we’re ready to come home.”

Joel didn’t say a word at first. He blinked once. Twice.

Then his hand reached for yours worn and calloused and trembling and he held it against his lips.

“You sure, baby?” he rasped.

You nodded. “I miss our home. I miss our bed. I miss… you.”

Joel closed his eyes. “I’ll go get your things.”

Joel hadn’t moved that fast since his patrol days. He borrowed your parents’ wagon and hitched it to one of the horses, riding into town with a strange mix of nervous energy and reverence.

The house was still exactly how you left it.

He walked through slowly, fingers brushing over the backs of chairs, the edge of the couch, the framed photo of the five of you at the community festival last spring.

“We’re gettin’ our girls back,” he whispered to the empty room.

Upstairs, he stepped into Ellie’s room. The bed was still unmade. Her jacket was thrown over the desk chair, and her favorite book was flipped open on the nightstand.

Joel folded each item carefully her comic books, her flashlight, the patched-up hoodie you had sewn for her all packed neatly into her backpack.

Then Sarah’s room. Her sketchbook was left open on a half-finished portrait of you. He smiled, ran a thumb over the corner, and packed it gently in her bag along with her favorite sweater and the green barrettes she always lost in the couch cushions.

He paused at the door to the nursery.

Your half-decorated baby room.

He stepped inside, picked up the tiny onesie that read “Little Miller” and swallowed hard. He placed it on the dresser and whispered, “We’re waitin’ on you, little one”

The girls squealed when they saw him.

“Dad!” Ellie grinned, jumping onto the porch. “You got my comics?”

“Every single one,” Joel said, chucking her under the chin. “Even the ones you think I don’t know you stole from the market.”

“You don’t know anything,” she teased, hugging him tighter.

“I know I missed ya, baby girl .”

Sarah came next, hugging him longer, wordlessly. He cupped the back of her head.

Then you stepped out, wrapped in that same porch blanket, tears in your eyes.

Joel came to you slowly, held out his hand like it was your first dance all over again. “Ready to come home, darlin’?”

You nodded and smiled. “Yeah. Let’s go home.”

Joel helped you into the wagon like you were made of glass, one hand on your lower back, the other braced for any stumble. You settled between Sarah and Ellie while he drove the horse slowly back toward town.

As you pulled up to your house, Ellie gasped. “Did you clean the place?”

“Of course I did,” Joel said. “Even scrubbed the toilets. That’s how serious I was about gettin’ my girls home.”

That week, he helped your dad fix the barn doors. He drove your mama to the market. He sat with Sarah while she read aloud and played cards with Ellie, losing every round on purpose just to hear her laugh.

He didn’t ask for anything. He just showed up.

He ran you a bath one night after your back started hurting and waited outside the door just in case you needed help. He kissed your forehead as you fell asleep on the couch a barely-there press of lips, reverent and apologetic.

And slowly, your walls softened.

You came home together.

The house was warm again. Lived in. Ellie decorated the nursery wall with sketches of dinosaurs and fireflies. Sarah played music in the kitchen while Joel slow danced with you to a song on the old record player, one hand on your waist, the other resting over your belly.

“You feel that?” you whispered one night, guiding his hand as the baby kicked.

Joel smiled, eyes glassy. “That’s my girl,” he murmured. “My little fighter. Just like her mama.”

Later, when you were curled up in bed, he kissed the stretch marks on your hips, your shoulder, your hand.

Joel started rubbing your feet, you looked at him through sleepy eyes.

“You did good, Joel.”

He pressed a kiss to your ankle, then your belly.

“I’ll never make you doubt it again,” he whispered into your skin. “Not ever. You’re mine, and I’ll love you every damn day ‘til my last breath.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you believed it.

[yourmomsawh0r3]

Dog Pawrents

pairing: post apocalyptic joel x wife reader

The snow had started falling just past noon, light flakes dusting the pine trees as you and Joel rode the patrol route north of Jackson. You were both bundled up in thick jackets, scarves tucked high, rifles strapped to your backs. The wind had teeth, but your horse, Daisy, kept a steady pace through the woods.

You looked over your shoulder and grinned. “You cold, old man?”

Joel snorted, tugging his scarf up. “I’m fine. You’re the one with ice in your damn eyelashes.”

“Adds to the look.”

He rolled his eyes but you caught the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile.

You’d been riding in comfortable silence for a while when a faint whimper broke through the sound of the wind.

Joel’s hand immediately went to the rifle strapped across his back, and you followed his lead, dismounting quietly and crouching beside him.

The whimper came again higher pitched this time, closer.

“Could be a trap,” he murmured.

You nodded, raising your rifle and stepping carefully toward the trees.

There, tangled in a patch of fallen branches, was a dog.

A scrappy, medium-sized mutt, matted fur dusted in snow. She was stuck her back leg caught between branches, paw twisted, tail curled between her legs.

You exhaled softly. “She’s hurt.”

Joel eyed the woods. “Could draw infected.”

“We’re far out. Quiet zone.” You stepped forward.

He sighed. “Y/N—”

“I’m not leaving her.”

He muttered something under his breath, but you could already hear him giving in. He always did, when it came to you.

You knelt beside the dog, murmuring softly, and she stilled, eyes wide and scared. You gently pried the branches off her leg, careful not to tug too hard, and Joel came up beside you with a strip of cloth from his saddlebag.

Once she was free, she limped straight into your arms, trembling.

You looked up at Joel with pleading eyes.

“We can’t just leave her.”

Joel rubbed a hand down his face. “We don’t even know if she’s got anything could be sick, could have fleas—”

“Then we clean her up. I’ll do it. Just… she needs a warm place, Joel.”

He met your eyes. Long pause. Deep sigh.

“Fine.”

Two weeks later, the mutt now named maggie was curled up in front of the fire at your cabin, wearing a knit sweater Ellie insisted on making for her.

Maggie had become a permanent fixture.

Joel pretended to hate it.

“She sheds everywhere,” he’d grumble, brushing dog hair off his flannel.

“She ate half my jerky.”

“She won’t stop followin’ me around.”

But every time you turned around, Joel was sneaking her extra bites of meat at dinner or rubbing behind her ears when he thought you weren’t looking.

One morning, you caught them both napping in his armchair maggie curled in his lap, Joel’s hand resting on her side.

You didn’t say a word. Just smiled to yourself and went back to boiling water for tea.

One night, after you fed maggie and tossed another log on the fire, you settled beside Joel on the couch, your legs draped over his lap.

“She loves you, y’know,” you said, sipping from your mug.

Joel snorted. “She loves whoever feeds her.”

“She follows you even when I’m the one holding the treats.”

He shrugged, not meeting your gaze. “She’s a good dog. Doesn’t bark much. Stays close. Smart.”

You tilted your head. “You’re soft for her.”

Joel grunted. “I’m soft for you. That’s the damn problem.”

Your heart swelled.

He reached over and rested his hand on your thigh, calloused fingers tracing idle shapes. Maggie snored softly by the hearth, and the snow tapped gently against the windowpane.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

“For what?”

“For letting me keep her.”

Joel looked at you, eyes warm.

“You could’ve brought home a baby goat, and I’d have found a way to make it work.”

You snorted. “Don’t tempt me.”

He leaned over and kissed your temple. “You keep savin’ things. Dogs. Me. Guess I gotta just keep lettin’ you.”

You smiled and curled into his side, heart full.

Outside, the world was still broken, dangerous.

But in your little cabin with Joel and your scruffy new companion, things finally felt like home.

The moment you scooped the injured dog into your arms on patrol, Joel knew you were going to try and keep it.

Snow dusted your lashes, your breath puffing in the cold air, and the scrappy little mutt whimpered once, then buried her head under your chin like she belonged there.

Joel sighed loudly behind you. “Y/N, c’mon.”

You didn’t look at him. Just kept holding her close, tucking her against your jacket. “She’s freezing. Her paw’s bleeding. I’m not leaving her out here, Joel.”

He muttered something under his breath something that sounded suspiciously like “You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me”but he was already pulling off his glove to help wrap the dog’s paw.

“You’re gonna carry her the whole way back to Jackson?” he asked as you gently passed the mutt into his arms while you mounted your horse.

“Yup.”

“And when she pisses all over the couch?”

“She’s a good girl. She won’t.”

“She’s got fleas, I can see her scratchin’ already—”

“We’ll give her a bath.”

“She better not touch my flannel.”

“She’s literally bleeding and you’re worried about a damn shirt?”

He grunted. “That’s my good shirt.”

You rolled your eyes. “You have two shirts, Joel.”

“Exactly. That’s half my wardrobe.”

Back in Jackson, it didn’t take long for Maggie to settle in.

Joel looked at you like you were deranged. “Beans? That’s what you’re callin’ her?”

“It fits. Look at her.”

“I’m lookin’, and I’m seein’ a walking pile of fur that’s gonna destroy my peace.”

But you saw the way he crouched next to her quietly the next morning, offering a few pieces of jerky while muttering, “You better not pee on my boots.”

Maggie loved him immediately.

She followed you, sure but she shadowed Joel. Sat by his side at dinner. Slept curled up outside the bathroom door when he showered. Waited by the window when he went on solo patrol.

You couldn’t help but smile whenever you saw them together.

One week later, you came home from your greenhouse shift to find Joel on the front porch, sitting on the steps with Maggie curled up beside him. His hand was resting on her head, thumb stroking just behind her ear in slow, easy circles.

You crossed your arms with a smirk. “You sure you don’t like her?”

Joel looked up, deadpan. “She ain’t my dog.”

“She literally follows you to the outhouse.”

“She’s your responsibility,” he grumbled, standing. “You better brush her, clean up after her, keep her outta my socks”

“Uh huh,” you interrupted, grinning. “But who gave her a bite of his sandwich today?”

“She was starin’ at me like I kicked her damn puppy.”

“She is the puppy.”

He huffed.

“Say it,” you teased.

“Say what?”

“You like her.”

“I tolerate her.”

“You love her.”

He narrowed his eyes, stepping close. “I love you, sweetheart. That dog? Jury’s still out.”

But then Maggie trotted up beside him, bumping her head against his leg, and he reached down without thinking to scratch behind her ears.

You caught it the barely-audible murmur as he looked down at her:

“There’s my girl.”

You gasped. “Joel Miller!”

“What?” he barked, already flustered.

“You do love her!”

“I was talkin’ to you,” he said gruffly, stepping around you to head inside.

You followed him in, laughing.

“You weren’t!”

“I was. You’re my girl.”

Maggie trotted after him, tail wagging.

“Then what does that make her?” you teased.

He turned, arching an eyebrow with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. She’s my girl too. You happy now?”

You stood in the kitchen doorway, smiling like sunshine. “The happiest.”

Joel looked at the two of you one sunshine-faced, the other scruffy and wagging and shook his head with the softest smile.

“God help me,” he muttered, pulling you into his arms. “I’m outnumbered.”

“You wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“No,” he said quietly. “Guess I wouldn’t.”

Later that night, Maggie snored softly at the foot of your bed. Joel was brushing your hair out of your face with calloused fingers, eyes already heavy with sleep.

“Love you,” you murmured.

His hand paused for a second before resuming.

“Love you more, darlin’. You and your damn dog.”

You grinned.

His damn dog, now.

[yourmomsawh0r3]

She fucked with the wrong one

Modern Joel Miller x Wife!Reader

Warning: Violence, NSFW

It was supposed to be a peaceful Friday night.

Just you and Joel, out on the town. No work, no phone calls, no responsibilities just dinner at your favorite steakhouse downtown and a nightcap at a cozy little bar with vintage lighting, country music on the jukebox, and shelves lined with every whiskey bottle under the sun.

You were tucked against Joel at the bar, waiting for your drinks. His hand rested lazily on your waist, thumb brushing against your hip in slow, absent circles, while his body pressed against your back like he never wanted to let you go.

He leaned in and murmured against your ear, “You know, if I didn’t already have you, I’d be tryin’ real damn hard to get you tonight.”

You laughed, turning your head slightly. “You’re so full of shit.”

“Maybe,” he said, lips brushing your jaw. “But you’re still blushin’, darlin’.”

You smiled and gave him a playful little nudge with your elbow. He grunted, let out a quiet chuckle, and then

That’s when she showed up.

The woman appeared like a drunk stormbleach blonde hair, sky-high heels, and perfume so strong it made your nose itch. She waltzed up to Joel’s other side like you didn’t even exist, leaning one manicured hand on the bar, the other dragging a red-painted nail down his forearm.

“Well hell-o, cowboy,” she purred, eyes glued to Joel’s profile. “What’s a man like you doin’ here all alone?”

Joel barely glanced her way. “Not alone,” he said, motioning to you. “Here with my wife.”

You gave her a polite, closed-mouth smile. “Hi.”

She blinked at you, then actually scoffed, her lips curling. “That’s your wife?”

Joel’s grip on your waist tightened, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

You straightened. “Is there a problem?”

The woman cocked her head, giving you the kind of once-over you only saw in trashy high school movies. “Just surprised, is all. I mean… he’s all rugged and fine as hell, and you’re like… I don’t know. A daycare teacher.”

You blinked. “I’m gonna let that slide since you’re clearly drunk.”

“I’m not drunk, sweetheart,” she sneered, voice rising. “I’m just sayin’ what everyone else is thinkin’. You must have a great personality or somethin’, ‘cause he could do better.”

Joel exhaled through his nose, visibly holding himself back. “Ma’am, you need to back off.”

You held up a hand. “No, no, Joel. Let her keep going. I’d love to hear what else she has to say.”

The woman rolled her eyes and stepped closer, almost challenging you with her stance. “You don’t scare me, sweetheart. Women like you never do. Fake nails, Target dress, thinkin’ they’re somethin’ special ‘cause their man sticks around. You really think he’s not lookin’ at someone like me when you’re not around?”

You tilted your head, smiling wide. “Fake nails? Baby, these are real. Wanna feel ‘em up close?”

She laughed mockingly. “Oh, please. What are you gonna do? Cry?”

You took a slow step forward. “No. I’m gonna give you five seconds to walk your cheap, loud, desperate ass back to wherever you crawled out of before I make you regret ever opening your mouth.”

She tilted her head. “Or what, little girl? You gonna throw hands in a bar over some cowboy dick?”

Joel stepped between you, holding a hand out. “Alright, that’s it let’s go—”

But she swung.

Her hand came toward your face like a slap, wild and uncoordinated but she caught your jaw with her nails just enough to sting. And in that split-second?

You saw red.

You grabbed her wrist and punched her. A clean, right hook straight to the cheekbone. The woman shrieked and stumbled back into a barstool, knocking over a tray of drinks. Gasps erupted all around you.

Joel shouted something, but you weren’t listening.

She lunged, and you met her halfway.

Hair pulling. Elbows. Punches. You got her on the floor, straddling her like a woman possessed. She screeched and tried to kick you off, but you landed another hit to her nose blood this time. She called you a bitch you punched her again. She slapped you yanked her head back by her extensions.

The bartender shouted for security.

“Jesus Christ!” Joel’s voice rang above the chaos. “Y/N, ENOUGH!”

But you were seeing red. You landed one more hit for good measure before Joel lifted you off her literally throwing you over his shoulder like a sack of sugar.

“Let me go!” you shouted, still kicking. “I WARNED HER, JOEL!”

“I know you did, baby, and she’s probably got a broken nose now, so we’re good, alright?”

The bar was dead silent as Joel carried you out, wide-eyed onlookers parting like the Red Sea. The woman lay whimpering on the floor, nose bleeding, heels broken. You’d ripped a chunk of her hair out.

Outside, Joel set you down gently, his hands gripping your shoulders. “Jesus,” he muttered, chest heaving. “You good?”

You blew a strand of hair from your face. “Yeah. You see her face?”

“I did. And I think a few cameras in there did, too.”

You winced, looking at your bruised, bloody knuckles. “Shit.”

Joel ran a hand over his face. “Alright. Come on. Let’s go home before we get arrested for assault.”

Back at home, the adrenaline had worn off, and your hand was throbbing.

You were sitting on the bathroom counter while Joel rummaged through the cabinet under the sink. He came up holding a first-aid kit and a bottle of whiskey.

“For me or you?” you asked, nodding at the whiskey.

“Both,” he said, pouring two glasses.

You watched him as he knelt in front of you, gently taking your injured hand in his. He examined your knuckles with careful eyes, thumb brushing over the swelling.

“You need stitches?”

“Nah,” you muttered. “Just ice. Maybe a little pride boost.”

Joel smirked, shaking his head as he cleaned the cuts with antiseptic. “I gotta say… you scare the hell outta me sometimes.”

“Why?” you grinned. “Because I defended your honor?”

He looked up at you, eyes softening. “Because you’ll throw hands without hesitation. And because-“he kissed your scraped knuckles “-you looked damn good doin’ it.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

Joel reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “I mean it. You didn’t have to do that, y’know.”

“I wanted to,” you said. “She disrespected me. And you. And I don’t tolerate that.”

He kissed your forehead, then your cheek, then lingered by your lips. “Remind me to never piss you off.”

“You piss me off all the time.”

“Yeah, but you haven’t decked me yet, so I figure I’m still in the safe zone.”

You laughed, wrapping your good arm around his neck, pulling him in for a kiss o slow, sweet, grounding.

He pulled back, his voice low and warm. “You know what really got me?”

“What?”

“The way you said ‘mine’ when you talked about me.” He touched your cheek. “I liked that.”

You smiled. “That’s ‘cause you are mine, Joel Miller. Always.”

He stood, lifting you off the counter and into his arms. “Come on. Bed. You’ve earned it.”

You rested your head against his chest, fingers curling in his shirt.

“You’re not mad?” you mumbled.

He chuckled. “Mad? No. You defended what’s yours. I just hope that poor girl learns not to mess with a woman who throws punches like a boxer and kisses like a goddess.”

You looked up at him. “And you?”

Joel smirked. “I’m just glad I married you before someone else did.”

And with that, he carried you to bed your hand wrapped in gauze, your heart wrapped in him.

That woman may have picked the wrong one to mess with…

But Joel? He’d picked exactly right.

The house was quiet.

Joel had finished bandaging your bruised, bloodied knuckles with the kind of gentle focus that always made your chest ache. He hadn’t said much just murmured soft reassurances, kissed your temple a few times, and made you promise to ice it later.

“You scared the hell outta me,” he’d whispered once.

But now, the adrenaline had worn off. Your body ached, your knuckles throbbed, and the inside of your cheek was sore from where your teeth had bit down during the fight. It was late. You were exhausted.

You padded into the bathroom, peeled off your jacket, and reached up to unclip the gold hoops from your ears. One at a time. Slow. You stared at your reflection as you worked hair messy, makeup smudged, your lip swollen from when the other woman had managed to get a weak swing in before you took her down.

You didn’t hear Joel approach.

But you felt him.

His presence behind you was unmistakable warm and heavy like the summer heat. Then his hands were on your hips, gentle but firm, and his lips brushed the curve of your shoulder.

“You don’t even know what you did to me tonight,” he murmured, voice low and rough.

You shivered, still holding one earring in your hand.

Joel’s hands slid up your sides, under the hem of your shirt, fingertips grazing skin. “The second you shoved her away from me, I saw it in your face,” he continued. “That fire. That don’t-touch-what’s-mine look.”

You let your eyes flutter closed as he kissed the back of your neck, the shell of your ear.

“Got my ass hard the second you threw that first punch.”

“Joel,” you breathed, not sure if it was a protest or a plea.

“I ain’t ever been more turned on in my goddamn life,” he rasped.

You set the earring on the counter, heart thudding in your chest as Joel’s hands slid up to cup your breasts through your shirt, his thumbs brushing over your nipples until you moaned.

“I was tryin’ to let you cool down,” he said, grinding his hips against you. “But all I could think about was the way you dropped her for even lookin’ at me wrong.”

His fingers tugged your shirt over your head, tossing it somewhere behind you, then his hands ghosted down your stomach and popped the button on your jeans.

“You undressin’ for bed, or undressin’ for me?” he teased, kissing the side of your throat as you leaned into his chest, eyes fluttering shut.

“Both,” you whispered.

Joel chuckled low, his hands slipping into the waistband of your jeans, dragging them and your panties down your legs in one smooth motion. You braced yourself on the bathroom counter, back arching, your bare body exposed to him.

He stepped back just long enough to undress, and you caught his reflection in the mirror shirtless, belt undone, jeans low on his hips, his eyes devouring you.

When he came back behind you, he didn’t wait. He lined himself up and slid inside you with a low groan, and your mouth fell open as your hips met the counter.

“Jesus,” he muttered, hands gripping your hips as he bottomed out. “Still so fuckin’ tight.”

You could barely breathe, the sensation of him filling you overwhelming after everything tonight. “Joel—”

His hand came around to your front, fingers rubbing tight circles over your clit as he started to thrust.

“Say it,” he growled, eyes locked on your reflection. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped. “Always.”

He slammed into you harder, jaw clenched. “That’s right. My wife. My girl. My fighter.”

You moaned, hands scrambling for purchase on the slick marble counter as Joel buried his face in your neck, lips brushing your skin with every thrust.

“You fuckin’ own me, darlin’,” he groaned. “There ain’t a man alive who could look at you and not know I’d burn the world down for you.”

Your climax built like a wave hot, sharp, and inevitable. You cried out as it tore through you, your body clenching around him, and Joel followed with a broken moan, thrusting deep one last time as he spilled inside you.

He stayed there for a moment chest pressed to your back, his arms wrapped around your middle, lips brushing the curve of your shoulder.

“I love you,” he murmured into your skin, voice raw. “So fuckin’ much.”

You turned in his arms, breathless, and pulled his face to yours. “I’d fight ten more girls for you.”

Joel laughed, holding you tight. “Please don’t.”

He kissed your swollen knuckles, then your mouth, then scooped you into his arms and carried you to bed.

And there, in the soft cotton sheets, with the moonlight spilling in through the curtains and the weight of the night still humming in your bones, you curled up in his arms safe, sore, loved, and his.

Always his.

[yourmomsawh0r3]

I love dad!Pedro Pascal x actress!mom!reader so muchhhh. I would love to see protective mama and papa bear when they are in public with their young kids and paparazzi and fans are swarming them. Obvi Pedro wouldn’t be aggressive but I would love to see his protective, yet respectful side trying to protect his little family and the babies’ privacy and face.

Shields of light

Pairing: dad!Pedro Pascal x actress!mom!reader Summary: After your daughter’s birth, you and Pedro face the chaos outside the hospital—and he becomes the quiet shield protecting your growing family. Warnings: established relationship, paparazzi and fans, reader being overwhelmed, protective Pedro, softness

You’ve barely slept. Your body aches in places you didn’t know could ache, your arms tremble just slightly from the effort of holding two lives so close, and your heart feels like it’s been stretched open and flooded in ways words could never explain.

Lucía sleeps against your chest, impossibly small, her face pressed softly against the blanket you tucked beneath your hospital gown to keep her close to your skin. Her breathing is so quiet, so fragile, that you find yourself pausing just to feel the rise and fall of her tiny body, like if you blinked too long, you might miss something sacred. Her newborn scent—warm, milky, and new—wraps around your senses, anchoring you to this moment.

In your other arm, Mateo shifts. He’s heavier now than he was even a month ago, his lanky toddler body draped over your hip, his curls tousled from a nap he fought halfway through your discharge paperwork. His little hand clutches your thumb, chubby fingers sticky with the remnants of the lollipop one of the nurses gave him. He’s half-awake, murmuring nonsense against your neck, his breath warm and sweet.

Pedro’s hand rests at the small of your back, steady and familiar. Always there. Always there. You can feel the way his fingers tense slightly when the elevator dings and you catch your first glimpse through the hospital’s glass doors—the press. The paparazzi. The crowd.

You knew it was coming. You both did. Word got out too quickly—someone saw Pedro arriving with Mateo the day you went into labor, someone overheard a nurse congratulating him, someone got a glimpse of a hospital band on his wrist. The photos had hit Instagram within hours. "Pedro Pascal Welcomes Second Child with Actress Wife." You hadn't looked past the headline. You didn't want to.

Still, knowing doesn’t dull the sting of it. Outside, the flashes have already started, lighting up the corridor like a strobe. You see the security guards beginning to form a path. There are voices, too—high-pitched calls of your names, questions shouted from behind barriers, the telltale swell of a crowd that’s just on the edge of something more.

Mateo stirs at the sound. “Mama…?”

You shift your weight, kiss the crown of his head. “It’s okay, mi amor,” you whisper, voice low and soft. “We’re going home.”

Pedro moves closer. He adjusts his jacket over Lucía’s swaddle, pulling the collar up just enough to block the line of sight to her tiny face. “We don’t have to go out through the front,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your temple. “I’ll call for a side entrance.”

But you shake your head. You’re tired, but you’re not afraid. “Let’s get it over with,” you say. “We do it once, and we don’t stop. We go straight to the car.”

Pedro nods, his eyes scanning your face. He’s always reading you, always tuned to your rhythms like a second heartbeat. He knows you’re right, even if he hates that you have to be.

When the elevator doors open, it’s like stepping onto a stage you didn’t audition for.

The sound rushes at you first—cameras clicking, voices rising, fans cheering, and reporters calling out your names like questions will make you stop. The light blinds you in intermittent bursts. Behind it all, there’s the thick tension of people pressing in, wanting more than you’re willing to give.

Pedro steps forward before your feet even cross the threshold.

One arm still at your back, the other raising in a polite but firm gesture. “Please,” he says, his voice loud but calm. “We just had a baby. Please respect our family’s space.”

His tone carries weight. There’s no anger in it, but it brooks no argument either. The crowd shifts. Security tightens their hold. Even some of the more aggressive photographers lower their lenses just slightly.

You watch him move into that quiet protective mode you’ve seen only a handful of times—shoulders square, jaw tight, voice clipped with restraint. He doesn’t shove, doesn’t yell, but he makes his boundaries known with an intensity that radiates off him.

He turns slightly, blocking the line of sight to you and the kids as much as he can without drawing more attention. “No pictures of the children, please,” he adds. “We’re not doing that today.”

Mateo lifts his head at the sound of his father’s voice, looking around with wide, drowsy eyes. “Papi?”

Pedro leans in close. “Right here, bud,” he says. “Stay close to Mama, okay?”

“Why loud?” Mateo whispers, his fingers tightening around yours.

“They’re just saying hi,” you soothe. “But we’re going to the car, remember? Almost there.”

Pedro turns to you. “I’ve got the bags,” he says. “I’ll walk on the outside.”

You nod, and he shifts his body so that he’s between you and the nearest cluster of cameras. His hand brushes down your back again—reassuring, quiet, warm.

The walk from the hospital doors to the car is barely thirty seconds. It feels like a war zone.

You keep your head down, Lucía tucked protectively to your chest, her soft cap shielding her face. Pedro’s jacket covers the rest. Mateo wriggles a little, unsettled by the noise, and Pedro reaches out to touch his shoulder, steadying him.

“Congratulations!” someone shouts. “What’s her name?”

Pedro’s jaw twitches. He doesn’t break stride.

“What does she look like?”

He doesn’t answer that one either. Just a quiet, “Please, respect our privacy,” spoken again like a mantra.

“Pedro, one smile for the camera?”

That one gets a reaction.

He stops.

Only for half a second—but you feel it. His hand tenses just slightly at the small of your back. Then he turns his head.

His voice is steady, not cold, but there’s a new edge to it. “I’ll smile for you when you stop pointing your camera at my two-day-old daughter and my two-year-old son.”

It’s not a threat. It’s not even angry. But it’s final.

The quiet that follows is sharp and sudden.

You reach the SUV just as Lucía stirs in your arms with a soft noise. Pedro opens the door for you immediately, blocking the view as you slide into the backseat with both kids. He waits until you’re settled—buckling Mateo in, checking Lucía’s wrap, tugging Mateo’s stuffed bunny out of your bag to soothe him—before he closes the door and walks around to the other side.

By the time he climbs into the driver seat, the crowd has begun to disperse. The questions fade into background noise.

The moment the doors shut and the windows tint out the world, the silence is a balm.

You look over at Pedro, whose jaw is still tight, whose hand is gripping his knee like he’s trying to ground himself.

You reach for him, your fingers curling gently around his wrist. “You okay?”

He exhales slowly. “I just…” He shakes his head, finally looking at you. “It shouldn’t be like that. They shouldn’t see her like that. Not her first time outside.”

Your heart softens. “You protected her. You protected both of them.”

He turns slightly in his seat, reaching back to touch Mateo’s knee, then glancing at Lucía’s little face still tucked against your chest. “I’d stand in front of a thousand of them if I had to,” he says. “I just don’t ever want them to think the world is a scary place.”

You lean your head back against the seat, your eyes on your husband, on your children, on the rare peace inside this car. “They won’t,” you whisper. “Not as long as they have you.”

Pedro leans over then, pressing a kiss to your temple, his lips lingering. “They have us.”

——

The front door closes with a soft click, and it’s like the entire world exhales.

No more lights. No more voices. No more flashes.

Just home.

Pedro double-checks the locks even though the alarm arms itself automatically. You can hear the soft beep of the system chiming in the background as he does it, a rhythm so familiar it feels like part of your walls.

You don’t realize you’re shaking until you’re inside the living room, sitting on the edge of the couch with Lucía curled in the crook of your arm. Her tiny face is slack with sleep, pink lips parted, her cheek nestled against your chest like she’s always belonged there.

You run a thumb gently over her fuzzy cap, trying to soothe yourself with the sensation.

Mateo stumbles in after Pedro, holding tightly to the stuffed bunny he refused to let go of in the car. His curls are messy, cheeks pink from sleep, and his oversized hoodie hangs down almost to his knees.

He toddles up to you, eyes big and searching. “Loud out there,” he says, worry crinkling his brow.

You smooth your hand down his back. “I know, baby. But it’s quiet now. We’re safe.”

Pedro crouches beside him. “C’mere, bud.” He opens his arms, and Mateo immediately folds into him, wrapping his little body around Pedro’s neck like he’s afraid he’ll disappear.

You watch them for a second—father and son in this quiet tangle of limbs and warmth—and something in you aches. Not a sharp ache, not like the pain of birth or exhaustion, but something deeper. A kind of sacred swelling in your chest that words couldn’t begin to name.

Pedro scoops Mateo up effortlessly, settling onto the couch beside you so his shoulder brushes yours. Mateo clings to him, face buried in his neck, his voice muffled.

“They look with cameras.”

Pedro’s fingers rub slow circles into Mateo’s back. “Yeah. But they weren’t looking at you, okay? They don’t get to do that. Mama and I were there.”

Mateo nods sleepily, his fingers fisting the collar of Pedro’s shirt. “I don’t like the flashes.”

“I don’t either,” Pedro says softly. “You don’t ever have to look at them.”

You reach out and take Pedro’s free hand. His fingers curl around yours immediately—warm and familiar, grounding. You rest your head on his shoulder and close your eyes for a second, just long enough to breathe her in again—Lucía, still sleeping like the storm outside never touched her.

You don’t even realize you’re crying until you feel Pedro’s thumb swipe beneath your cheekbone.

“You okay, mamá?” he murmurs.

You nod. “I think it just… hit me. How much we have to shield them from.”

His arm comes around you, careful of the baby, careful of Mateo. “We’ll do it together. We’ve got them. You and me.”

There’s a long moment where neither of you speak. The house is dim, bathed in late-afternoon light, gold streaks of sun slipping between the slats of the living room blinds. Mateo is heavy and warm against Pedro’s chest, thumb creeping toward his mouth in that way he always does when he’s overtired but too stubborn to admit it.

Lucía stirs slightly, her lips parting in a soft sigh, and you lean down to press your mouth to her forehead. She smells like new beginnings.

Pedro lets out a breath. You feel it before you hear it.

“I should say something,” he says quietly.

You lift your head from his shoulder, brow furrowing. “To who?”

He glances toward his phone, which he’d tossed onto the coffee table when you first came in. “The public. Not a long statement or anything. Just something. To tell them to stop.”

You hesitate. “You don’t have to put anything out there if you don’t want to. It’s not your job to teach people boundaries.”

His eyes flick to yours, and there’s something low and simmering there. Not anger. Not exactly. But something older. Something protective.

“It is when they’re looking at my babies.”

You don’t try to stop him.

Pedro shifts Mateo gently, laying him down on the couch with his bunny tucked against his chest. He doesn’t stir. Just lets out a soft little breath through his nose and curls into the cushions like he belongs there.

Pedro presses a kiss to his son’s curls, then stands, stretching slightly, the fabric of his shirt pulling taut across his back. He grabs his phone, unlocks it, then walks into the kitchen.

You can see him from where you sit. He isn’t pacing. He isn’t frowning. He’s just… thinking. Brows drawn, thumb hovering over the screen, body still brimming with tension but his expression softening the longer he looks at the photo he took earlier.

You watch as he opens his camera roll and selects it—a photo he took in the hospital before you left. It’s not of Lucía’s face. It’s the back of your hand resting over hers, both of you wearing identical hospital ID bracelets. Your nails chipped. Her wrist barely thicker than your finger. It’s the quietest image. The kind that says everything without showing anything.

Pedro types slowly. Deliberately.

You don’t ask what he’s writing until he’s finished and he holds it out to you, offering you the words like an olive branch.

Home. Thank you for the kindness. For the messages. The support. We’ve just welcomed our daughter, and we’re incredibly grateful. But I’m asking—kindly, firmly, as a father—not to take photos of our children. Please don’t chase us. Don’t shout at us. Don’t publish their faces. Their world should be gentle for as long as we can make it so. Thanks for respecting that. ❤️ P

It’s nothing performative. Nothing curated. No dramatic photo shoot. Just truth. Plain and soft and anchored in the kind of love that never needs to be loud to be felt.

You blink hard as you finish reading, then meet his gaze.

“It’s perfect,” you say.

He posts it without another word.

By the time he returns to the couch, you’ve managed to lay Lucía down in the bassinet beside you. She’s still sleeping. One tiny hand peeks out from her swaddle, fingers curled like she’s grasping for the world.

Pedro crouches beside her. He stares at her for a long time. You watch his chest rise and fall.

“She has your mouth,” he says eventually.

You smile. “She has your temper.”

“She hasn’t even cried yet.”

“Exactly.”

Pedro huffs a laugh. His eyes are wet.

You scoot closer, wrap your arm around his shoulders, and he leans into it without hesitation, forehead pressed to your collarbone.

You both sit there like that for what feels like hours—his arms around your waist, Mateo asleep behind you, Lucía dreaming beside you, the house filled with nothing but breath and light.

Eventually, he whispers, “I’d burn down the world for them.”

You pull back just enough to look at him. “You don’t have to. You’re already the shield.”

He closes his eyes and nods.

Then, without a word, he tilts his head and presses a kiss to your lips—soft and grateful, lingering just long enough to say I see you. I love you. We did this.

You kiss him back. Because there’s nothing else to say.

Not when you’re home. Not when your family is safe. Not when the world, just for a moment, has grown so quiet.