🧡Pedro Pascal🧡 🔥Fandom🔥

sure, I‘ll try my best! 🫶🏻

Here is your story and I hope you like it!

—————————————————————————

Soldier Boy x reader

warnings: drug use

The air in the small, ridiculously overpriced Manhattan apartment – paid for with an endless stream of Vought money but chosen for its discretion, not its view – was thick and hazy.

A plume of sweet, acrid smoke curled lazily toward the vaulted ceiling, where it kissed the cheap faux-gold paint before dissipating into the filtered darkness.

It was late, or maybe early, the kind of hour that only drunks, graveyard shifters, and tired supes who hated their corporate jobs truly knew. The glowing red digits on the bedside clock – a decidedly 1984 piece of technology with a high-pitched, insistent hum – read 3:17 AM.

Ben, a.k.a. Soldier Boy, the original American hero, the living legend, the self-proclaimed greatest supe in history, lay stretched out on his back. His immense, granite-hard chest, usually encased in star-spangled armor, was bare, slick with a fine sheen of sweat and the residue of what had been a particularly energetic fucking.

One massive arm, thick as a telephone pole, was draped loosely around the small, slight form nestled against him.

She was asleep now, her head resting just below his collarbone, her even, soft breathing a stark contrast to the rough, rasping rhythm of his own. Her dark hair was splayed across his skin, smelling faintly of lavender shampoo and a hint of woodsmoke—she’d been by a campfire for some Vought charity shoot earlier in the week.

He didn't move. Moving meant possibly waking her, and Ben liked her like this: quiet, warm, and compliant.

In his hand, a joint – a fat, beautifully rolled specimen of prime Afghan Kush, smuggled in via a very nervous, very well-paid Vought logistics manager – glowed a dull cherry red. He brought it to his lips, drawing in a long, rattling lungful of smoke that burned his throat in the way he craved. After a slow, deliberate hold, he let the grey smoke stream out, a twin plume from his nostrils like a disgruntled dragon.

He shifted his gaze down, watching the rise and fall of her back. She was utterly unremarkable, which, to Ben, was precisely why she was so remarkable.

No laser eyes, no sonic screams, no invulnerability. Just soft skin, sharp wits, and a capacity for affection that he hadn't realized he was starving for until he’d tasted it.

He nudged her gently with his chin, the scratch of his unshaven stubble a soundless caress.

"Hey. Wake up, doll," he mumbled, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that could make grown men flinch but always seemed to make her snuggle in closer.

She stirred, letting out a soft, sleepy noise that sounded like a cross between a groan and a purr. She pushed herself up just enough to look at him, her eyes still heavy-lidded.

"Mmm. That you, Ben?" she whispered, the question entirely rhetorical.

"Yeah. Who the hell else would be in this shit-hole?" He grinned, a brief, fleeting flash of teeth that made him look less like a star-spangled menace and more like a genuinely happy, if still terrifying, man. "Want a hit?"

"Don't mind if I do," she said, her voice husky.

She lifted her head, and he rotated the joint, placing the filter end between her lips. She took a shallower, more practiced drag than his, holding it in for a moment before exhaling a thin, steady stream towards the ceiling fan that wasn't moving.

She settled back down, sighing contentedly against his chest. Her hand, slender and cool, found the old, ropey scar that ran across his ribs—a relic from a poorly documented skirmish in Vietnam years ago. She traced the jagged line with her fingertip.

"You're quiet," she observed.

"Just thinking."

"Dangerous pastime for a man in your line of work."

"No shit. Keeps you grounded, though. Gotta make sure the brain's still firing on all cylinders. Can't let the Vought suits think I'm just a big, dumb ape who can only punch things."

He took another hit, the smoke tasting richer now, almost metallic.

"What were you thinking about, specifically?" she pressed, her voice soft, the way she always spoke when she wanted a straight answer, knowing he was less likely to bullshit her when he was this relaxed.

"The team," he spat, the word tasting like bile in his mouth. "Payback. Fucking Payback. The most misnamed piece of shit organization on the planet. We don’t pay back shit. We just take. And pose. And smile for the fucking cameras."

She hummed a noncommittal response, her fingers still tracing the scar. "Crimson Countess give you grief today?"

Ben snorted, the sound utterly devoid of humor. "Grief? She gives me a migraine. The shrill, egomaniacal bitch. She spent two hours today talking about the lighting for her new perfume commercial. 'The luminosity, Benny, it needs to capture the fire in my soul!' I wanted to shove her head through the wall.—Jesus Christ, May. It's degrading."

"It's a job, Ben. You've been doing the job for decades."

"Yeah, and I'm goddamn sick of the job!" He shifted suddenly, his annoyance a physical force, but he immediately moderated the movement so as not to jar her too much.

"We had a meeting earlier. Stan Edgar himself was there. Said we’re up for a big one. Really big. Not just some third-world dictator or a bank robbery in Newark. This is 'a major geopolitical incident' as Stan put it, rolling his eyes like a proper little prick."

"What is it?"

"Classified, naturally. Deep, dark, black-bag shit. Way over budget, way over the top. Somewhere in Central America. The details are coming next week, but I'm guessing it involves at least one nuclear warhead, twenty thousand rounds of ammo, and probably a few hundred nameless, faceless commies we gotta turn into pink mist."

He took the joint back and tapped the ash into a ceramic ashtray shaped like a miniature Statue of Liberty.

"And you have to go, I assume."

"Yeah. I have to go. Gotta lead the charge. Gotta show those motherfuckers how it’s done. Vought's sending me in first, of course. The spearhead. Gotta get the iconic shots, the ones that make the five o'clock news. Soldier Boy, saving democracy from itself."

He let out a long, ragged sigh that seemed to empty his lungs entirely. He looked down at her, his usual scowl momentarily softened by an expression of profound weariness.

"But listen to me, May. Listen closely." He waited until her eyes, clear and earnest even in the gloom, met his. "I've been doing this since World War Two. World. War. Two. That’s years of smiles, and handshakes, and saving cats from trees, and tearing apart terrorist cells, and lying my fucking ass off in front of the cameras. I’m done. I'm beyond done."

He reached up, cupping the side of her face in his enormous hand, his touch surprisingly gentle.

"This is it, May. This is the last one. The one with the nuke. The big, goddamn finale."

Her brow furrowed. "Ben, you've said that before. After Nicaragua. You said you were done after that one, too."

"I was thinking about being done after Nicaragua. This time, I’m telling you. It’s a promise. A blood oath. After this Central American clusterfuck is cleaned up, I’m walking."

"Walking where?"

"Walking out the goddamn door. Stan can suck my star-spangled dick. I’ll make a call. Tell him I’m done. Finished. Retired. If he tries to stop me, I'll tell him I'll break his fucking spine and melt down the Statue of Liberty into a giant middle finger just for him. He'll let me go. He knows I mean it."

She propped herself up on her elbow, looking down at him now, her expression a mix of hope and cautious skepticism. "And what about the constant surveillance? The contracts? They own you, Ben. You know that. They invented you."

"They own the brand. They don’t own me." He tapped his temple with a knuckle. "They don’t own this. This is mine. And I’m taking it out of the picture. I'm not some goddamn Energizer bunny, running on Compound V until I drop. I’m a man. And this man is tired of the costume and the bullshit."

He pulled her down, planting a rough, hungry kiss on her lips. She kissed him back, the taste of weed and Ben's unique, metallic scent filling her senses.

When they broke apart, she rested her forehead against his. "What would we do? Where would we go?"

"We would go... south. Or maybe west. Somewhere quiet. Away from the flashing lights. Somewhere Vought doesn't have a goddamn satellite pointed at. I'll buy a house."

"A house?"

"Yeah. A real one. Not this concrete shoebox that smells like stale cigarette smoke and desperation. I'll get us a place with a big, goddamn backyard. And a picket fence. And no cameras." He chuckled, a low, throaty sound. "Jesus, I can just picture myself now. Grillin' some burgers in a tacky apron. The American dream, May. The one they sell, but nobody ever actually gets to live."

"And the Countress? How do you explain that to the public?"

Ben shrugged, the movement causing the sheets to rustle around them. "Who gives a flying shit? She can spin it however she wants. 'Soldier Boy's heart was broken, he needed time to heal.' 'He ran off with a super-villain who was stronger than me.' I don't care. As long as she doesn't mention you, she can say whatever the hell she pleases. Maybe she'll start a whole reality show about her 'grieving process.' She'd love that."

"They'll look for you."

"Let 'em. They'll send the others first. Mindstorm. Maybe Swatto, if he hasn't been grounded for another indecent exposure charge. That idiot Noir. I'll take 'em down. All of them. They know better than to send a team after me. I'm the original. The benchmark. They send a kill squad, I'll send back body bags and a strongly worded note."

He looked at her again, the intensity of his gaze cutting through the hazy air.

"The only person I give a damn about seeing my face again is you. I want to wake up with you. Not Countess. She's a walking migraine. Not that idiot Mindstorm, who just sits there like a lump and whispers insults into people's heads. I hate them, May. All of them. Every single goddamn one of those Vought-sponsored plastic heroes."

He pulled the sheets higher around her shoulders, the simple, protective gesture speaking volumes.

"I don't need the fame. I don't need the money. Vought's direct-deposited enough money into my offshore accounts to keep us comfortable until the sun burns out. What I need is peace. And I need you."

He leaned closer, his voice dropping again to that intimate, guttural whisper. "I love you, May. I've been in love with you since that stupid party where you tried to pour punch on Mindstorm's head because he called you a 'civilian inconvenience.' You've got fire, doll. Real fire. Not that synthetic, Vought-approved bullshit."

"I love you too, Ben." She reached out, her hand settling on the hard, ridged muscle of his bicep.

"But this mission... the big one. It worries me. Vought doesn't send you out for a cleanup. They send you out to commit an atrocity. And they like their atrocities to be tidy. Tying up loose ends."

"I'm the loose end, May. And I'll tie myself up on my own terms. I'm not going to die out there. I don’t think anything can kill me, short of a goddamn tactical nuke, and even then, I’d probably just come back looking a little crispy."

"You need to promise me, Ben. No heroics. No grandstanding. Get in. Do what you have to do. Get out. Come back to me."

"I promise. No grandstanding. I’ll be an asshole, not a martyr. I'll do the job fast, come back, and then we disappear. I’ll be the best goddamn civilian you ever met."

He took the ashtray, stubbing out the remains of the joint with a decisive grind of his thumb. He set it on the nightstand, then pulled her tightly against him again, burying his face in her hair.

"We deserve this, May. We deserve a life where I don't have to smell like cheap cologne and fake humility. We deserve a backyard, and a dog, and a goddamn life where nobody is yelling 'Action!' I'm done with the show. I just want to be me. Just Ben."

She closed her eyes, letting the immense, comforting weight of the world's most dangerous man envelop her. His scent, a mix of stale sweat, old gunpowder, and the faint tang of ozone, was her truest comfort. She knew his promise was volatile. She knew Vought would fight him tooth and nail. But in this hazy, dark moment, held tight against the strongest chest in the world, she allowed herself to believe it.

"Okay, Ben. Just Ben. I can live with that."

"Good." He tightened his embrace, pulling her so close she could feel the powerful, steady beat of his heart against her ear.

"Because I'm not giving you up.

Not for Vought.

Not for the cameras.

And definitely not for that flaming-ass Countess.

You’re mine.

And I’m finally coming home."

—————————————————————————

a/n: Please leave me some feedback 🫶🏻

XOXO

after much deliberation, I've decided to start accepting requests in addition to my own one-shot ideas.

Perhaps you have stories about your favorite characters that haven't been told yet.

I'd be happy to take them on for you.

Please be lenient, as I can't fulfill every request since I haven't seen the respective series or movie.

XOXO

When I saw this episode… Lalo in the orange prison uniform… with that aura… I wanted to devour him. I wanted him… inside me… on me… under me… in this interrogation room… in his cell… in court… on every goddamn surface, and he should keep the clothes on.

Those damn orange clothes.

🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥

Javier Miller x OFC (AU)

Prologe: Before the world fell apart, there was a house on a quiet Texas street.

A tired cop came home late.

His wife was washing dishes.

Two boys slept down the hall, their dreams still safe from the noise outside.

He thought the hardest choices in life were behind him.

But sometimes, the smallest ones — the quiet, personal ones —

are the ones that echo the loudest when everything else is gone.

This isn’t a story about the end of the world.

It’s about what was worth saving before it ended.

⸻

Javier Miller eased the front door shut with the kind of care you only used when kids were asleep. The lock clicked soft, like a mouse cough. He stood there a second with his hand on the knob, letting his shoulders fall out of uniform posture. Belt off. Radio clipped down. Boots heavy as bricks. He listened: the house breathed in the ordinary way—air vent hum, fridge buzz, the light rattle of the old ceiling fan in the living room. No cartoons, no squabbling, no soccer ball thumping the hall.

Somewhere down the hallway, a small boy snored with his mouth wide open. Tommy. Javier could pick it out of a crowd. In the other room, a quieter exhale—Joel, who took sleep like a challenge and tried to win it.

In the kitchen, the sink ran. Plates chimed. Soap smell got there before he did.

“Hey,” he said, stepping into the light.

His wife—hair up, sleeves shoved to the elbows—looked over her shoulder with a grin. “Hey, cop man. You’re late.”

“Traffic,” he said, dropping a tired smile onto a chair. “Paperwork. Guy who thinks the blinker is a suggestion.”

“Sit,” she said, turning back to rinse a pan. “There’s roast in the oven. And two rolls I didn’t burn. Be amazed.”

“I’m amazed you’re awake,” he said, setting the belt atop the chair back and scrubbing a hand over his jaw. “Tommy crash?”

“Like a sack of flour,” she said. “And Joel too. Finally. I swear, he negotiates bedtime like it’s a hostage situation.”

“That’s my boy,” Javier said. “Talks like a lawyer, sleeps like a brick.” He opened the oven, reached for a towel, and slid out the dish. The roast was sliced. Steam puffed up carrying salt and thyme and that onion-sweet roast smell that reached inside his chest and loosened the last knot there. He forked a chunk into his mouth. “Oh man. You kill this cow yourself?”

“Don’t be gross,” she said, but she was smiling. “How was your day?”

“Long.” He chewed, swallowed, leaned against the counter. “Same folks arguing at the same grocery lot. Guy left his dog in a hot car; I left him a lecture he’s gonna feel in his bones. Your tax dollars at work.”

She turned the faucet off and shook her hands over the sink, soap bubbles popping like tiny fireworks. “You good? Feet?”

“Feet are sixty years old,” he said.

“You’re not sixty,” she said automatically.

“Feet are,” he said, toeing the heel of one boot off, then the other. He stood in his socks and felt ten pounds lighter. “Feet have seen some things.”

She snorted. “Sit down. Eat.”

He obeyed, because he knew which orders mattered. He sat. He ate. He watched her dry a plate, then set it on the rack, then wipe down the counter with that mindless efficient loop he loved.

“Boys give you trouble?” he asked.

“Just the usual.” She leaned hip-first against the opposite counter. “Tommy wanted to wear his cowboy boots to bed. Joel did his math with crayon. You know. Life.”

“Cowboy boots in bed,” Javier said, pointing with his fork. “That’s commitment.”

“Mm-hmm,” she said. “Maybe he’ll grow out of it.”

“He won’t,” Javier said. “He’s a Miller.”

She smiled at that—small and warm. “How was the new patrol car?”

“Smells like plastic,” he said. “I like ours better.”

“You like ours because it smells like coffee and french fries and your old jacket.”

“Exactly,” he said.

She fussed with a drawer and pulled out a clean towel, dried her hands, then folded the towel in half. Then in half again. The fold stayed precise. It was a stalling tactic and he clocked it without calling it out. He took another bite. Another. The kitchen clock ticked; the house settled. Outside, a train blew its lonely horn.

“Jav?” she said finally.

He wiped his mouth. “Yeah?”

She didn’t look up right away. “Can we… talk? Not about the electric bill or Tommy’s boots. A different thing.”

He leaned back in the chair, one hand on the warm plate edge. “Sure. I didn’t forget an anniversary or something, did I?”

She laughed, quick. “No. But remember you said we could talk after your next set of nights? And it’s after.”

“Oh,” he said, and squinted like the calendar would form out of the air and label the topic. “This the… thing?”

“The thing,” she said, tucking a wet strand behind her ear. “I’ve been sitting on it for a week, and the longer I sit on it the more my brain makes it a monster.”

He looked at her, at the usefulness of her hands and the stubborn line of her mouth and the pretty tired eyes that always did him in. “Okay. Let’s de-monster it.”

She came around the table and sat opposite him, pulling her chair in so her knees almost bumped his. She rested her forearms on the table, palms up, like she was open to whatever came back. “I want to have another baby.”

He blinked. He could have pretended he didn’t hear, but that wasn’t their way. “Another?”

She nodded. “I want to try.”

Silence made itself a seat at the table. He took a sip of water that didn’t help much. “Babe, I’m—”

“Old,” she said, gentle, like it was an inside joke. “I know. You say it every time you get out of the car.”

“I was gonna say tired,” he said, then added, because honesty was part of their deal, “and old.”

She reached across, curled her fingers over his knuckles. “You’re both. But you’re also good. With them. With me.”

He snorted. “I’m good at telling Joel to turn the TV off and Tommy to quit licking the dog. That’s not the same as diapers in the dead of night and… and starting over.”

“Starting over,” she echoed, and smiled. “Or adding to the chaos we already know.”

He stared past her at the kitchen wall, at the faded height marks where they’d measured Joel last summer. “We just got out of diapers. I swear I still hear them crinkle when I walk past the laundry room.”

She laughed. “There aren’t any in there.”

“It’s a ghost diaper,” he said. “Haunts me.”

She squeezed his hand. “Javier. Listen. I know it’s a lot. I know it is. But I—” She paused, like she was checking the depth, making sure she wasn’t stepping into something too deep. “I keep thinking… we’re good. I mean, we’re okay. The boys are healthy. This house—” she glanced around— “leaks on windy days, but it’s ours. We’ve got hand-me-downs for days. And I’m forty percent sure the crib is still in the attic.”

“It is,” he said, then couldn’t help it: “And it’s missing a screw I still can’t find.”

“We’ll steal a screw from the dining chair.” She was in that tone—practical, cheery, and stubborn under it. “We can make room. Joel can share his room with Tommy for another year. He’ll complain, but he’ll get over it. And if it’s a girl—”

“It’s blue everything,” he said. “You prepared to pink-ify this house?”

“I’ll paint a bow on the dog if I have to,” she said. “I just… I miss it. Not the sleep deprivation—okay, a little that too, weirdly—but the firsts. New firsts. Tiny socks. Joel’s first word. Tommy trying to say ‘spaghetti’ and inventing a new language. I’ve got this—” she made a vague circle in front of her chest, searching— “this thing in me that says our family isn’t done yet.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “And the thing in me says my knees aren’t done complaining.”

“Your knees complain when you tie your shoes,” she said. “They’ll complain no matter what. Might as well give them something to complain about.”

He gave her a look. It was half warning, half fond. “A baby’s not ‘something.’ It’s everything.”

“I know,” she said, quieter. “Jav, I know. I’m not saying it’d be easy. I’m not… I’m not trying to sell you a dream. I’m saying I want it. And I want you in it with me.”

He pushed the plate away and folded his arms on the table like a man preparing to build a case. “Okay. Let’s try the numbers. We got Joel heading to first grade. Tommy still thinks crayons are soup. I’m working doubles when Jenkins calls in ‘sick’—which he will. You’re doing shifts at the diner when your sister can take the boys. We got one bathroom toilet that hates us. The roof—”

“Leaks,” she said. “Only when it storms sideways.”

“Only then,” he said. “We got one beater truck and one Ford with a transmission I don’t trust past fifty. We got my dad’s old tools and your mom’s casserole pan. We got three holiday boxes and a fake tree. We got… we got a family that fits in this house like a puzzle. Another piece—”

“Makes the picture prettier,” she said.

“—could make it crowded,” he finished.

She tilted her head. “We were a one-bedroom apartment once.”

“And I was a younger man,” he said. “I could pick up Joel and walk up two flights while holding a bag of groceries and humming.”

“You still hum,” she said. “You hum when you think I’m not listening.”

He rubbed his jaw again, rough stubble catching the light. “I don’t want to say no because I’m a coward. Or because I like things in neat lines. And I don’t want to say yes just because you’re… you.” He gestured at her, all of her—tired and lovely and determined. “I love you. I love our boys. I love… the life. Even when the dog licks the dishes in the dishwasher and I pretend I didn’t see it.”

“We don’t have a dog,” she said, deadpan.

“I’m future-proofing the story,” he said.

She blew out a breath that wasn’t a sigh. “Okay. Try it like this: tell me the worst parts. Not deep. Just… the list.”

He did the face of a man who liked lists more than he would admit. He held up a finger. “Money. Hospital bills, diapers, formula, stuff. I’m a cop, honey, not a banker.”

“We make a budget,” she said. “I cut a shift for the first few weeks and then add them back. Your mom will help. My sister will bring groceries and complain about my cooking. We keep cash in envelopes like those weird tips in the magazine say. We don’t buy a new TV. We don’t fix the fence until the baby is walking.”

“Fence falls over when the wind looks at it,” he said, but okay, point.

He lifted a second finger. “Sleep. You know how I get on nights. You know how the morning shift hits me. I’m a bear. A bad one.”

“I buy earplugs,” she said. “I nap with the baby. You take Tommy to the park for an hour and I sleep like the dead. We trade. We tag-team.”

Third finger. “Age. I chase down a guy and my lungs write me a letter of complaint. I don’t want to be the old dad in the bleachers.”

“You’ll be the cool dad in the bleachers,” she said, and wagged her eyebrows. “With a badge.”

“I am not wearing my uniform to Little League.”

“You’re gonna be the dad who can fix a wobbly helmet with a pocketknife,” she said. “The dad who drives slow in the parking lot and glares at everyone else. That’s a service.”

He tried not to smile. Failed. “Fourth: space. Where does a baby go? In the junk drawer with the batteries and rubber bands?”

“In the crib we stole a screw for,” she said. “In our room for the first months. Then we move the dresser to the hallway and the crib fits in the boys’ room. Or we move Joel to the den—we put up that curtain rod you hate and pretend it’s a wall. It’s not pretty, but it works.”

“Okay,” he said slowly. “Fifth: me. I’m set in my ways. I am. I like my coffee exactly…” He squinted at his cup. “This.”

“I will write it down,” she promised solemnly. “And when I bring you a baby, I will also bring you coffee.”

He stared at the table, then back at her. “You’re really not gonna let this go.”

“Nope,” she said, cheerful and bright like a walk sign.

He rubbed both eyes with his knuckles and leaned back, chair creaking. “Why now? Not five years ago. Not five years from now.”

“Because now,” she said simply. “Because I can see it. Because I’m not scared the way I was when Joel was tiny and I thought he was made of glass. Because I’m not as tired as I was when Tommy came and Joel decided sleep was for losers. Because I feel it.” She pressed a hand to her sternum. “Here. I want one more. I want to see you hold another kid and pretend you’re not crying when they sneeze.”

“I didn’t cry when Joel sneezed,” he protested.

“You did,” she said. “A little. Your eyes got… watery.”

“The kid looked like he saw the sun for the first time and forgot what to do with his face,” he muttered, embarrassed by the memory that warmed him anyway.

“And Tommy,” she said. “He latched onto your finger like he’d made it himself. You sat on the edge of that awful hospital chair and didn’t move for three hours.”

“My butt went numb,” he said.

“You didn’t move,” she repeated, softer. “Because you were afraid you’d break the world if you did.”

He looked down, because some memories were too clean to stare at. “You said no deep,” he mumbled.

“It’s not deep,” she said. “It’s just what happened.”

He blew out a breath, then tipped his head back so he could look at the stained ceiling. “I love my life,” he said to the ceiling. “I love it. I am… Huh.” He blinked at the little crack near the light fixture like it had an opinion. “Happy.”

She smiled. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said. “And happy makes me… careful.”

“I get it,” she said. “Me too.”

He looked back at her, at the stubborn, hopeful, ridiculously persuasive woman who had set up shop in his life and rearranged the furniture so the sunlight hit the couch right in the evenings. “So. If I say yes, what changes?”

“We get an extra high chair,” she said. “We wash more tiny clothes. We don’t sleep a lot for a while, and then one day we sleep too much and miss it. We tell Joel he’s not in charge of naming the baby ‘Dinosaur.’ We tell Tommy he can help, and then teach him that ‘help’ doesn’t mean dumping flour on the dog.”

“Again,” Javier said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We don’t own a dog.”

“We will when you say yes,” she said with a smirk.

“Two boys and a baby and a dog?” he asked. “You trying to kill me?”

“Slowly,” she said. “With love.”

He held her gaze. Fear wasn’t the biggest feeling in him—he realized that. It was a strong second, sure. But there was this other thing, older than his knees, older than his badge: a tug toward the loud table, toward the messy breakfast, toward the crowded couch on a Sunday morning where cartoons got way too many reruns. He’d always been pulled toward that noise. Even when his own old man was more silence than anything, Javier had wanted to fill rooms with sound.

“Okay,” he said, almost to himself. Then firmer. “Okay.”

Her brows shot up. “Okay?”

He nodded once, like a man swearing in on something no courtroom could hold. “On conditions.”

She laughed, giddy relief spilling out of her before she reeled it back in. “Name them.”

“One,” he said, ticking it off. “We save first. A cushion. A real one. I’ll take the extra Friday shifts for a month. You… don’t you dare overdo it.”

“I’ll make a spreadsheet,” she said, already mentally color-coding. “Green for diapers. Blue for coffee.”

“Two,” he said. “We see the doctor. You do the vitamins. I want you healthy, babe. I want this to be… easy as it can be.”

“Deal,” she said. “I’ll call first thing Monday.”

“Three,” he said, pointing, “we fix the roof.”

“Fine,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You and your roof.”

“Four,” he added, “we tell the boys together. Not as a surprise. Joel will make a plan. Tommy will… start naming everything in the house ‘Baby.’ I want to be there to redirect.”

“Deal,” she said, eyes bright.

“Five,” he said, and the corner of his mouth turned. “If it’s a girl, you can pink-ify whatever you want except my fishing hat.”

“Hat is sacred,” she agreed solemnly.

“Six,” he said, and softened, because this one was the real one. “If I ever… if I ever get too grumpy. If I start being the guy who snaps because the bottle leaked or the car seat buckle is satan’s puzzle, you tell me. You don’t… you don’t let me become that guy. I don’t want to get old and brittle. I want to be old and funny.”

“You’re already both,” she teased, then sobered. “I’ll tell you. And you tell me if I start hoarding baby socks like a raccoon.”

“You will,” he said. “And I’ll build you a drawer.”

They sat there smiling like fools for a second, the kind of dopey grin that made the cheap kitchen light look like a chandelier.

“So… yes?” she said, needing to hear it plain.

“Yes,” he said. “Let’s try for one more Miller.”

She slapped the table softly and then shoved her chair back and came around the table and kissed him the way you kiss a man you chose. He kissed her back with the contented relief of a man who’d found the right decision by walking around it three times.

“Okay, Mr. ‘I’m too old,’” she said against his cheek. “You’re gonna be up at 3 a.m. warming a bottle.”

“I’m gonna be up at 3 a.m. anyway,” he said. “Might as well have a purpose.”

“You’ll hum,” she said. “You always hum.”

“I deny everything,” he said.

They pulled apart so she could laugh properly, and he stood to rinse his plate. He touched her waist as he passed the sink—habit, home, hello—and she leaned into it for a half-second, just enough that it said thank you in a language without verbs.

“Wanna go check the boys?” she asked. “Make sure Tommy isn’t smuggling boots into bed again.”

“I’ll take Joel,” Javier said. “You take Boot Bandit.”

They padded down the hall, the house grateful for the quiet. Javier paused in Joel’s doorway. The kid had kicked off his blanket and sprawled like a starfish, mouth open, hair stuck in a little cowlick that never quit. Javier tucked the blanket over him, snagged the stray Lego from where it waited like a trap on the rug, and set it on the dresser. He stood there, watching the steady rise and fall, and felt his jaw go watery again like he would deny later.

In the next room, Tommy had indeed wedged one small boot at the bottom of his sheets. She gently extracted it and set it beside the other on the floor. Tommy kept snoring, unbothered, the well of drool darkening the pillowcase. She brushed his cheek with the back of her fingers. “Bandit,” she whispered, smiling.

They met in the hall. He nodded toward the living room and they detoured, because you never turned in before one last 60-second lounge on the couch. He dropped into his spot. She sat close, tucking her feet up, and he draped an arm over her shoulders. The TV’s dark screen reflected the two of them, soft and smudged.

“You know,” she said, voice low so it wouldn’t ping off the hall, “we should probably find that missing crib screw before we need it.”

“I’ll get one from the hardware store,” he said. “Cliff’ll ask what it’s for. I’ll tell him it’s for a future I got talked into.”

“You didn’t get talked into it,” she said, mock-offended. “You made a considered decision.”

“I got lovingly railroaded,” he said.

“You love my railroads,” she said.

“I love your everything,” he countered, and meant it in that easy, unabashed way of a man who had stopped caring if sincerity looked corny.

She rested her head on his shoulder. “You know what else we’ll need?”

“Hit me,” he said.

“More towels,” she said. “Tiny towels. And those little washcloths that disappear in the dryer.”

“I’ll stake out the dryer with a notepad,” he said. “Catch the thief.”

“We’ll need more coffee,” she added.

“I’ll buy the big can,” he said. “The one that looks like a paint bucket.”

“We’ll need help sometimes,” she said.

“I’ll swallow my pride and call your sister,” he said, grimace-fond. “She’ll bring casseroles and opinions.”

“She always does.”

They sat quiet a bit, his thumb drawing slow lines on her upper arm. Out on the street, a car rolled by with the radio low, some country song about a truck that had loved a small town and a girl. Javier thought about his cruiser, about downtown’s neon, about the front porch where Tommy liked to sit and announce every passing thing. He thought about a crib in the corner of their room, about getting the 3 a.m. diaper wrong and the kid peeing on his shirt, about laughing before cursing, about being too old and doing it anyway.

“Hey,” she said, as if reading his churn and skimming the froth. “Remember when Joel was born and you put the car seat in the truck three times because you didn’t trust the click?”

“I still don’t trust the click,” he said. “It’s smug.”

“You’re gonna click it six times with the next one,” she said.

“Seven,” he said.

They chuckled. The couch breathed under them. The house settled deeper into night.

“C’mon,” he said, finally. “Bed. Before my feet unionize.”

“Your feet already have a union,” she said, standing. “They go on strike every time it rains.”

“They’re wise,” he said, flipping off the living room lamp. The sudden dark folded over them like a gentle blanket.

They walked down the hall on muscle memory, past baseball caps, a crayon drawing of a dinosaur with Joel’s name spelled J-O-L in proud block letters, a scuffed sneaker abandoned mid-run. She flicked off the kitchen light on the way, and the window threw the last rectangle of streetlight across the clean sink.

In their room, he pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it in the hamper, grunting when his shoulder cracked. She crawled onto her side of the bed and watched him with that amused affection that made him feel less like an old dog and more like a well-worn favorite sweater.

“Hey, Jav?” she said, as he slid under the sheet.

“Mm?”

“What would you name a girl?”

He stared at the ceiling, replayed a dozen possibilities, scratched one eyebrow. “Something simple,” he said. “Nothing that sounds like a perfume.”

She snorted. “Noted.”

“What about you?” he asked.

She offered two names, both classic. He said them out loud. They tried them on like hats. They liked one more than the other. They stored it away in the sleepy place where good plans live.

“And if it’s a boy?” she asked into the pillow.

“Then he better come out loving barbecue,” Javier said. “Or he’s grounded.”

She elbowed him. He laughed. Silence settled again, lighter than before.

He reached for her hand under the sheet and found it. They laced fingers, a simple house habit.

“Thanks for asking me,” he said into the dark.

“Thanks for saying yes,” she whispered.

“Thanks for making it feel like not a cliff,” he said.

“It’s a hill,” she said. “We have good shoes.”

“My feet disagree,” he said.

“They can file a complaint in the morning,” she said, and he heard the smile in it.

He lay there, listening to their house breathe, to the faint highway rush far off, to Tommy’s snore do a little hitch, to Joel roll once and the bed spring squeak. He imagined a new set of small sounds—soft hiccups, little sighs, the half-cry that wasn’t really a cry. He imagined a bottle warming on the stove by the glow of the oven light. He imagined humming, even though he’d deny it tomorrow.

He didn’t think about his badge. Not right now. He didn’t think about the way the city grew teeth after midnight. Not right now. He thought about a crib with a replaced screw and a dog they didn’t own and a fence that would have to wait another season. He thought about being too old and being old enough.

“Night, Mrs. Miller,” he said.

“Good night, Officer Miller,” she said, squeezing his hand once before sleep took the squeeze and made it a promise.

And when the house settled again—after the last car had passed and the train had done its distant sigh—Javier lay with his eyes closed and a smile he’d never confess to, listening to the world be ordinary and theirs, already making space in his head for one more set of tiny socks and one more click he didn’t trust and would check seven times anyway.

—————————————————————————

notes:

So folks, here's my second story.

I think there are simply too few stories about Javier Miller. I love Tony Dalton and I find the role very interesting.

I hope you enjoy the story. 🫶🏻

XOXO

characters: harwin strong x ofc

Prologue:

There are queens whose names are carved in stone—

and those whose names are written in fire.

Alaenna Targaryen was both.

Born among dragons, crowned with loss, loved by a mortal and feared by gods.

They brought peace with blood, truth with flame, and from their grief grew a realm no one understood.

It was said she lost her heart in fire and found her soul again in heaven.

It was said her dragon carried her to the sun, where even shadows die.

But this is not just the story of a queen.

It is the story of a woman who lost everything—and yet remained.

For even when fire fades,

sometimes something remains

that burns more fiercely than any flame:

Memory.

—————————————————————————

„People of the Isles, princes and lords of the fortresses, hear the words of one who has nothing left to lose.

They took him from me. Not on the battlefield, not in open combat with honor—they executed him secretly, behind closed gates, like thieves and executioners.

They took the heart that beat beside mine; they stifled the laughter that lighted my nights; they severed the hands that held my hands.

For gold, for power, for cowardly alliances. For your small, earthly spark of security.

You think a murder can fall like a stone into a river and vanish without a trace?

You are wrong.

A stone makes waves—and I am the shores those waves will hold.

You have taken a life; I bring you the answer no judge will give:

the answer of fire.

I am a Targaryen. I am not just blood and name—I am flame and fury.

My dragon, Balerion, greater than the mountains, greater than your hopes, knows no mercy, only the language of ash.

He holds the heat of ancient stars in his heart, and his breath obeys no law of men. When his wings split the air, cities and crowns fall alike: not in blind destruction, but in judgment.

But hear me, you mighty ones: This is not a tumult without purpose. I will not indiscriminately burn the fields, envelop the children of the innocent in smoke, or trample down the barns of those who have always stood by me or who have had nothing to do with the dagger.

My wrath is directed against those who decreed, brandished, covered, and celebrated the deed. Against those whose hands held the poison and whose voices hid the judgment. Your fortresses, your halls, your seals—those stained with blood—will see the black fire I unleash.

Imagine the night itself breaking: not in stars, but in flames as black as a rotting promise. This fire will remember. It will resurrect the names you tried to bury. It will burn your lies until only the naked truth remains—raw and burning.

Do not come to me with pleas and tears when the ashes lie on your shoulders. Do not come with words of regret sown in the warm shelter of your halls. Did you think you could steal a person and shift the consequences onto others? The time for excuses is over.

I call my dragon.

I call the fire older than your animosities and sharper than your swords.

I call judgment, just because it rests on truth—the truth you sought to bury.

Hear death as the end of a fable and the beginning of a reality: Whoever wounds the heart of a Targaryen ignites a fire that consumes not only souls, but memories. I swear it with blood, with ash, and with the roar of the dragon—the morning will be black, and in it you will read what you are responsible for.

So be it.“

The princess's words echoed like distant thunder, but their impact lingered in the room like thick smoke.

No applause followed, no dissent.

The air was heavy, as if even the wind were too cowardly to move.

She stood on the dark stone steps outside the gates of the once-loyal capital, in black leather and silver—no crown upon her head, only the weight of a broken heart.

Her eyes—violet like the light just before a storm—gazed out over the crowd.

Not with hatred.

Not with madness.

With judgment.

Cold, clear, inescapable.

The nobles gathered for this forced audience began to whisper. Some sought the gaze of their allies, but no one spoke a word aloud.

Even the bravest mouth dared not break the silence. They all knew that death was already flying.

A distant rumble shook the heavens.

Deep.

Heavy.

Not a thunderstorm.

Not a storm.

A dragon.

Not just any dragon.

He.

The farmers on the roofs of the lower city looked up, pointing west with trembling fingers. The birds had long since fled. The horses began to squeal as the shadow crept across the fields—faster than any rider, darker than night itself.

The ground vibrated as the beast's flight approached. The guards on the walls grabbed spears, but they knew that metal meant nothing in their hands.

Their strength lay in myth, not in resistance.

The princess turned slowly, her arms down. No sign, no shout. She didn't need to command him. She was connected to him, by ancient magic, by blood, by the bond that exists only between dragons and their own.

Then—silence.

One breath.

Two.

And the sky burst.

The dragon broke through the clouds like a falling star, only it didn't fall—it rose, spiraling above the city's spires, its wings mighty as the will of the gods themselves.

Its scales were black as hardened lava, crisscrossed by veins of embers pulsing within. Every time it spread its wings, the sky roared, as if the world were reminding itself who it belonged to.

It screamed.

Not in anger.

In recognition.

It had smelled the guilt.

Panic broke out below. Nobles fled to their carriages, screams turned to prayers, prayers to curses.

The gates closed—too late. Too slowly.

The princess raised her hand after all. Not a command. A farewell.

"Dracarys," she whispered. Not to the humans. To him.

The dragon nosedived. Fire gathered in his mouth, not like a spark, but like an entire storm. The world held its breath.

And then—flames.

The drums fell silent before the first cry arose. On the battlements of the fortresses stood princes with pale faces, their advisors curled in velvet like shadows. They had sent the dagger, struck the bargain, severed the bond of honor—and now they must face what they cried.

A cry rose, deep and rolling, as a shadow spread across the sky: the mighty wings of the dragon, darker than smoke and heavier than a storm.

Its breath was not fire like that of a forge—it was a pull, a frank answer that changed the air and made the heart clench.

The sun itself seemed to retreat temporarily, as if it could no longer bear the gaze.

The flames came not angry and confused; they came as an iron order. First, they beat at the wooden gates, devouring banner moths and lies alike.

Wood creaked, cloth gave way, and the standards of upright words fell, glowing.

The princess's enemies stared at what they had built—at halls, at secrets, at everything they stood for—and in their eyes was the realization that no hiding place was safe anymore.

Panic broke out in the courtyards; people ran, armor clanged, horses bolted. But the dragon did not direct its power toward blind destruction. It aimed at the sites of conspiracy: chambers where charters burned, gardens where promises lay withered, halls that had borne witness to a secret guilt. Where intent had been, judgment fell.

The flames engulfed the buildings in a black embrace. Smoke rose like a wall, heavy and spicy. Windows became embers, portals melted into liquid shadows.

People heard the wood give way beneath their feet, the arches of the halls collapse; it was a sound both of an end and a reckoning. Where voices once justified power, only the crackle of burned memories remained.

The leaders who had wielded the dagger met their end not as heroes on the field, but as witnesses to their own failures. Some tumbled from walls, blinded by heat and dust; others remained seated on their stone thrones, frozen in disbelief as the light blotted them out.

Crowns trickled from their heads in dark drops, not just because the metal melted—but because everything they stood for dissolved.

The people who had suffered in the shadows watched this judgment with trembling lips and hardened eyes. In some faces there was relief; in others, only the leaden sadness at the wreaked of violence—even when it came in retribution.

The city that once laughed and blasphemed now encountered the ashes of truth. Houses collapsed, not with the boastful noise of great wars, but with the dull, final sound of things that would never be again.

When the flames died down, no shouts of triumph remained; only the sharp breathing of the survivors and the crackle of the last embers. The streets were covered in a thin layer of ash, like a black cloak binding everything: guilty and innocent, witnesses and perpetrators.

The princess stood at the edge of the devastation, her face cold and unchanged in the glow of the dying fire, and watched as the world she had left transformed into another order.

Thus ended the work of retribution—swiftly, irreversibly, without the theatrical bloodbath some had expected. The enemies were not grotesquely scarred; they were broken, defeated, stripped of their power and their security.

The message remained: Whoever took the heart of a woman capable of summoning fire would surrender his house, his honor, and his name to ashes.

And as the last smoke lifted, the silence was like a dagger: it spoke louder than any pain.

The kingdoms would henceforth have to learn from this silence—or suffocate in it.

—————————————————————————

The night was silent, as only nights can be before they are broken.

The wind blew through the open balcony doors, carrying the scent of sea and ash.

Alaenna stands at the window, barefoot, in a simple gown of red silk.

Behind her lay he—the only one who had ever called her by name, without fear, without title.

He watched her as she gazed out into the darkness.

Her hair, silver in the candlelight, fell over her shoulders like liquid metal.

She was beautiful, yes—but there was something in her gaze that could burn even beauty:

Longing tinged with pain.

"You look as if you want to set the stars on fire," he said softly.

She smiled, barely perceptibly.

"Perhaps then she would finally feel warm."

He stood up, walked over to her, and placed his hands on her shoulders. His touch was cautious, for he feared she might burst into flames. As if she would disappear.

The city was reflected in her eyes—royal walls, towers, the distant glow of forge fires.

A world she would soon rule. A world she hated.

"Alaenna," he began, "you must forgive them. If you play their game, you will lose yourself."

She turned to him.

Her voice was soft, but her eyes burned.

"Forgive? They would sooner put me in chains than see me on a throne. And you... they will never accept you."

"I don't need a crown," he whispered. "I only need you."

That was the moment she trembled. Only briefly—like a flame in the wind.

He kissed her. Not a royal kiss, not a vow—just the simple, desperate confession of two souls who knew no future belonged to them.

Outside, a dragon thundered in the distance, sensing his mistress's restlessness.

Balerion raised his head; the air trembled.

They separated, and for a heartbeat, all was silent.

"If they come," he said, "don't run. You are stronger than they. But promise me—stay human."

"I am a Targaryen," she answered. "I am fire."

He smiled.

"Then I hope your fire never burns me."

That night they held each other until the first screams echoed through the halls.

Until blood seeped through the cracks in the door.

Until she realized that even dragons can come too late.

—————————————————————————

The scream came from the distance—muffled, like a dream turned to steel.

Alaenna jumped, her heart pounding against her ribs, while outside the shadows of the torches danced across the walls.

Swords clanged. Footsteps, quick, many.

Then: silence.

"Harwin?"

Her cry went unheard.

She threw open the door. The corridor was filled with the smell of iron and smoke.

On the ground: an overturned helmet, a bloodstain drawn across the stone like a map.

They think—barefoot, in a red robe that fluttered as they ran like a torn flag.

Before the great door to her bedchamber lay two men.

Their chests pierced, their faces covered in ash.

But behind them…

As she stepped into the castle courtyard, the world held its breath.

Harwin lay among fallen men, swords still in their hands.

At least six.

He had fought—gods, how he had fought. But there had been too many; even the strongest man in the Seven Kingdoms found his limit.

Alaenna fell to her knees beside him.

"No... no, no, no..."

Your fingers searched for a wound, for something that could still be healed.

But his chest rose only weakly, his gaze wandering until he found it.

"Alaenna," he breathed, his voice barely more than a breath of wind.

"They... came for you..."

"Be quiet," she whispered, pressing her forehead against his. "I'll get help, please—"

"Too late."

His hand pressed over hers.

"I stopped them. I could do that many."

A pained smile.

"But... Dragonborn... cannot be killed. You... will live."

Your tears fell onto his face, mingling with the blood.

"I don't want a life without you."

"Live... for me."

His fingers loosened, sank.

One last breath—and then nothing.

She touched his face, so gently, as if tenderness could bring him back.

"You said I should remain human," she whispered. "But without you... I am only fire."

The wind blew off the sea, carrying away the scent of ash.

And into the sky rose a scream—not human, not animal—but the scream of a Targaryen who had learned what it meant to burn.

Then Alaenna remained still.

Only the faint trickle of his blood could be heard, running between the stones.

Then she rose.

Slowly.

Like a statue suddenly coming to life.

There was a crash behind her—the courtyard door slammed open again. More men rushed out, swords raised.

But before she could take a step, the earth shook.

A shadow fell over the walls.

A scream, ancient and angry, cut through the night.

Balerion.

The stones trembled, and in the next heartbeat, a firestorm ripped through the night.

The attackers screamed—only briefly.

Then there was only light, black and blinding, hot as the wrath of the gods themselves.

Alaenna didn't turn away.

She watched as she burned—as everything burned.

When the flames died down, the night was silent.

Balerion circled above her, his wings spread, fire still dripping from his jaws.

She raised her gaze, and for a moment, it seemed as if the monster recognized its mistress.

As if it felt what she felt.

"They took my heart," Alaenna whispered.

"Then they shall learn what it means to ignite a Targaryen's fire."

Balerion roared, and the night over King's Landing was no longer a place of silence.

But of the birth of a legend—

of a queen burned in blood and love.

—————————————————————————

sooooo guys, that‘s the first part of this story I‘ve written and I hope you like it 🫶🏻

I wanted to introduce myself first before starting this new account.

I've been a Tumblr user for many years, and I've been reading one-shots, fanfiction, etc. for just as long. Since I've become a fan of many different characters, and I often find that there simply aren't enough stories for them, I've decided to publish my thoughts and ideas.

I have experience writing stories, but I've never dared to post them, but that's changing now.

Please be kind to me, as English isn't my native language. I'm looking forward to your feedback, and I'd be happy if you like some of my stories!❤️

This is a small insight into the list of my favorite characters:

- Lalo Salamanca

- Luca Changretta

- Alfie Solomons

- Pacho Herrera

- Javier Peña

- Sandor Clegane

- Joel Miller

- Negan Smith

- Soldier Boy

- Marcus Acacius

- Harwin Strong

- Thranduil

- Thomas Shelby

… and many more!

Thank you in advance and lots of love😍

“My sister, my heart, our Lux.”

#PPASCALWEEK: Day 1 - March 27th | Favorite Film Role: Agent Whiskey