foxviant

[foxviant]

He's so pretty.

Keanu Reeves photographed by Albert Watson 1991

[foxviant]

After Hours

Summary: Late at night in the office, Harry Castillo finally gives in to the tension between you, turning stolen glances and teasing into an intense, secret encounter neither of you can forget. Pairing: Harry Castillo x Reader. Word count: 1k Warning: Explicit sexual content, secret relationship, mild power dynamics, praise, teasing, mature themes

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It was past 9 PM. The building was dark, deserted. Everyone else had gone home hours ago but you stayed behind, tapping away at the keyboard in your tucked-away office, pretending it was because of deadlines.

You heard the door creak behind you before you felt the heat of his presence.

“Working hard,” Harry murmured, voice like gravel wrapped in silk, “or hardly working?”

You didn’t turn around. Didn’t need to. The sound of his voice alone was enough to make your spine straighten.

“I thought you left,” you said, keeping your tone casual, your hands frozen above the keyboard.

“I did.” The door clicked shut behind him. Locked. “Then I remembered you had a bad habit of staying too late. Thought I’d check on you.”

You spun slowly in your chair, facing him. His tie was loosened, collar undone, sleeves rolled to the elbow. God, he looked good like that rumpled and dangerous.

“We shouldn’t be doing this here,” you said softly.

“I know,” he replied, already stepping closer, the predatory calm in his eyes darkening. “That’s half the reason I’m here.”

He reached your desk and leaned down, his hands bracing either side of your chair, trapping you between his body and the desk behind. His mouth hovered near your ear.

“You’ve been teasing me all day. You think I didn’t notice the way you looked at me during the board meeting?” His voice dropped, rougher. “Sitting across the table, pretending you’re innocent, when I know damn well what you sound like when you’re begging.”

Your breath hitched, thighs clenching instinctively. “Harry—”

He cut you off with a kiss. Not soft. Not slow. His mouth claimed yours like he was starving for it, like he’d been waiting all day and now he finally had permission to lose control.

He lifted you from the chair like you weighed nothing, setting you down on the desk without breaking the kiss. Papers scattered. You gasped as the cool wood met your thighs.

“Look at you,” he murmured against your lips, pulling back just enough to rake his eyes down your body. “So damn beautiful when you’re flustered.”

You tried to say something something about the risk, the office, the cameras but his hands were already sliding beneath your skirt.

“No one’s watching,” he said like he read your mind. “And if they are? Let them see how good I take care of you.”

He pushed your knees apart with his hands, slowly, deliberately. His touch was fire against your skin rough palms, warm fingers stroking up your inner thighs. You whimpered.

“Please,” you breathed.

Harry grinned wicked and low, like he was enjoying every second of this. “There it is.”

He slipped your underwear to the side and ran his fingers along your folds, slow and confident. You bit your lip hard, stifling a moan.

“So wet already?” he whispered, kissing your neck. “You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?”

You nodded, breath shaky. “Since lunch.”

“Damn right you have.”

He teased you until you were trembling fingers never quite where you needed them, mouth trailing kisses across your jaw, down your collarbone. Then, finally, he pressed two fingers inside you, curling just right, and you choked on a gasp.

“God, you feel good,” he groaned. “So tight for me. So perfect.”

You buried your hands in his shirt, gripping him like you were afraid you’d fall apart. His mouth found yours again sloppy, messy, full of need.

When he finally unbuckled his belt, your breath caught.

“You want this?” he asked, hovering over you, forehead pressed to yours.

You nodded, voice barely a whisper. “Yes. Please.”

And then he was inside you, slow at first, letting you feel every inch. You clung to him, moaning his name as he started to move deep, relentless, every thrust sending jolts through your core.

The sound of skin, breath, soft gasps it echoed off the walls. You were both trying to be quiet, but neither of you cared enough to stop.

“You take me so well,” he murmured against your ear. “Always so good for me. My perfect girl.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders as your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper.

It didn’t take long he knew your body too well. Knew the rhythm that made you unravel. When he whispered, “Come for me,” you did, falling apart with a gasp against his neck, biting your lip to keep from crying out.

He followed seconds later, groaning into your skin, body trembling as he spilled into you. The room was quiet except for your ragged breathing.

He stayed there for a moment, forehead resting against yours, both of you catching your breath.

Then he smiled.

“Guess we’re staying late again tomorrow.”

[foxviant]

Warm morning.

Summary: On a rare peaceful morning, Joel Miller clings to you in bed, finding comfort and refusing to let go for anything, not even coffee. Pairing: Joel miller x Reader. Word count: 1k Warning: Nothing, just fluff.

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The first thing you feel is warmth.

Not just from the sunlight spilling through the threadbare curtains, but from the heavy weight of Joel’s arm draped across your waist. He’s still asleep, breathing slow and steady, face buried somewhere in your shoulder like he’s trying to disappear into the blankets and you.

You try not to move. You’d rather stay here forever, tucked beneath the covers with the world shut out and Joel pressed against your back, solid and warm and so completely at peace that it makes your chest ache.

He doesn’t sleep much. Not really. So when he does, like this, you do everything you can not to break the moment.

Still, you can’t help the quiet smile tugging at your lips.

You shift slightly to glance at him, and that’s all it takes his arm tightens around you, pulling you even closer until your back is snug against his chest.

“Mm,” Joel grumbles, voice rough with sleep. “Where d’you think you’re goin’?”

“Didn’t say I was going anywhere,” you whisper, smiling into the pillow.

“Thought about it, though.” His voice is hoarse, slow, affectionate in that gruff, unmistakably Joel way. “Could feel it.”

You let out a soft laugh, hand reaching down to lace your fingers with his. “I was just trying to look at you. Thought you were still asleep.”

“Might’ve been,” he mumbles. “But then you moved.”

“You’re like a bear. One twitch and you wake up.”

“I ain’t that bad.”

You turn just enough to see him now his hair mussed from sleep, scruff rough along his jaw, eyes still half-lidded but warm and soft in a way he’d never admit to. You reach up and brush your fingers through his hair.

“You’re exactly that bad,” you tease gently. “But you’re cute when you’re sleepy, so I’ll allow it.”

Joel groans and presses his face into your shoulder again. “Don’t say shit like that. It’s too early.”

“You love it.”

He doesn’t answer, but you feel the smile against your skin.

The two of you stay like that for a long while, tangled in sheets, limbs knotted together like neither of you ever wants to move again. Outside, birds chirp faintly, and you hear someone shouting down the street, maybe traders setting up early. But none of it touches you here.

Here, in this bed, it’s just you and Joel. Eventually, you murmur, “You wanna get up? I could make coffee.”

He tightens his grip, pulling you impossibly closer. “Nope.”

“Joel—”

“Not movin’. Got you where I want you. Not givin’ that up for shitty instant coffee.”

You snort. “So you’re kidnapping me now?”

“Somethin’ like that.”

You shift to face him fully, your legs tangling with his, your hands resting on his chest. He lets you, watching you quietly, one hand drifting up to brush your cheek.

“Y’know,” he says after a moment, voice softer now, “never thought I’d get this again.”

You tilt your head. “What?”

“This. A bed. A quiet morning. Someone who makes me feel like…” He trails off, brow furrowing like the words are too big to say. “Like I ain’t just a survivor.”

You lean in and press a gentle kiss to his lips. It’s slow, warm, and easy the kind of kiss that says I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.

“You’re allowed to have good things, Joel.”

He blinks at you, then lets out a soft breath and kisses you again, this time a little deeper. His hands slide into your hair, and when he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours.

“You’re the best thing I’ve had in a long time,” he murmurs.

Your heart swells, but you try to keep your voice light. “You saying I’m better than coffee?”

“Hell yes, you are.”

You both laugh quietly, and the world outside fades a little more. He pulls you back into his chest, and this time you don’t resist. You bury your face into the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent warm, earthy, familiar.

“Five more minutes,” you whisper.

“Take all the time you need.”

And in Joel’s arms, you do.

[foxviant]

What is Left?

Summary: After waking from another haunting nightmare about Helen, John Wick seeks solace in your arms, finding rare peace in your quiet comfort and unwavering presence. Pairing: John Wick x Reader. Word count: 1k Warning: Nightmares, grief, trauma, gentle touch, soft domestic comfort

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. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁

You wake to the sound of the bedroom door creaking open, footsteps padding softly across the hardwood floor. Not hurried, not loud measured and heavy, like each step costs something.

John.

You don’t even need to turn your head to know it’s him. The silence that follows, thick and lingering, tells you everything before he even says a word.

Another nightmare.

You sit up slowly, blinking the sleep from your eyes. The lamp on your nightstand casts a soft glow across the room, just enough to catch the silhouette of him in the doorway. He looks like a ghost. Shadowed eyes, sweat-dampened hair, the hem of his shirt clinging to him like it, too, is exhausted.

His jaw clenches as he exhales through his nose. Not angry. Just… tired. Worn thin.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you ask gently. John shakes his head, saying nothing.

You shift over in the bed and lift the covers in silent invitation. It’s a gesture you’ve made so many times, but it still matters. You always let him choose. You never reach first.

He crosses the room slowly, pulling off his shirt and tossing it onto the nearby chair before crawling in beside you. He moves carefully, like he’s afraid of breaking something. Maybe it’s you. Maybe it’s himself.

John doesn’t speak. He just settles into your side, burying his face into the crook of your neck as you pull the blanket over both of you. His hand finds your waist, curling into your shirt like he’s grounding himself.

You thread your fingers gently through his hair. It’s damp, tangled, and soft at the roots. You run your nails lightly over his scalp, and he shudders just slightly. Not from cold. From exhaustion, maybe. Or relief.

“She was there again,” he says finally. “Helen.”

You pause, fingertips still resting against his temple. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” he murmurs. “That’s the worst part. I could feel her there. But I couldn’t see her. Couldn’t hear her voice. Just… knew she was gone.” Your heart twists.

He pulls you closer, pressing his forehead to your collarbone. “It’s like she fades a little more every time I dream about her. Like I’m losing the last of her.” You hold him tighter. “You’re not losing her. Grief just… changes. It makes memory feel further away sometimes, but that doesn’t mean it’s gone.”

His breathing is uneven now, jagged at the edges like he’s barely keeping it together. “She smiled at me once in the dream. Just once. Then it all went black.”

You swallow hard. “Do you think she was saying goodbye?”

“I don’t know,” he whispers. “Maybe.”

You stroke your hand down his back, slow and steady, your voice barely a murmur. “Maybe it wasn’t goodbye. Maybe it was just a reminder. That you still carry her. That she’s part of the quiet.”

He doesn’t say anything for a long time. You let him rest against you, your touch slow and rhythmic hair, shoulder, back, repeat. He holds you like a man trying to remember what peace feels like.

“I thought I’d never love anyone again,” he murmurs against your skin. “After her.”

You inhale, chest rising slowly. “I know.”

“But I do. You know that, right?”

The words make your chest ache not because you didn’t know, but because hearing them from him, from a man who lost everything and still found room for you, means more than you can say.

You press a kiss to his forehead. “I know.”

“I don’t deserve it.” You don’t argue. You just keep holding him.

Because this isn’t a night for convincing or fixing. It’s a night for staying. For giving him the silence he needs, and the softness he never asks for but always accepts when it’s you.

His hand moves to your ribs, thumb brushing lightly under the hem of your sleep shirt. Not in a suggestive way. Just needing to feel skin. Warmth. Something real.

He finally relaxes his body unwinding inch by inch like he’s been holding tension for hours, maybe days. You shift so he’s lying more fully against you, his weight settling into your side.

“You can sleep,” you whisper. “I’ve got you.”

“I don’t want to dream again.”

“Then don’t. Just breathe. Stay here with me.”

You feel him nod slowly. And for the first time in a long time, John lets himself fall.

Not into sleep right away but into you. Into the warmth, the stillness, the safety he doesn’t believe he deserves.

Your fingers never stop moving through his hair, along his spine, across the scarred muscle of his back. Your touch is soft, but not fragile. Grounding.

Eventually, his breathing deepens. His hand slips from your side, and his grip loosens, though he’s still nestled against your chest.

You don’t sleep right away either. You stay there, listening to the steady beat of his heart, the rare peace in his expression.

He came back to you tonight and for now for just this moment that’s enough.

[foxviant]

ੈ✩‧₊˚𝑴𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕!⋆·˚ ༘ *

ׂ╰➤ ꒰ Foxviant’s Main Masterlist. I will keep it updated ! ꒱

✧.* 𝐍𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁

JOEL MILLER

₊˚ෆ Just for a While. — Where Joel Miller is having a bad day and just wants to cuddle with the read. (Fluff)

₊˚ෆ Not Your Fault. — After a devastating loss, Joel Miller seeks comfort in your arms, battling guilt and grief as you hold him through the storm. (Hurt/Comfort)

₊˚ෆ Warm Morning. — On a rare peaceful morning, Joel Miller clings to you in bed, finding comfort and quiet love in your arms, refusing to let go for anything not even coffee. (fluff)

₊˚ෆ After Hours. — Late at night in the office, Harry Castillo finally gives in to the tension between you, secret encounter neither of you can forget. (!Nsfw)

JOHN WICK

₊˚ෆ What is Left? — After waking from another haunting nightmare about Helen, John Wick seeks solace in your arms, finding rare peace in your quiet comfort and unwavering presence.

[foxviant]

Not Your Fault.

summary: After a devastating loss, Joel Miller seeks comfort in your arms, battling guilt and grief as you hold him through the storm. Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader. Word Count: 1k Warnings: Emotional guilt, past character death, self-blame, mild language, hurt/comfort, soft intimacy

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He never does when things are bad. The kind of bad that has him slipping through your door long after sunset, eyes hollow, jaw clenched, like he’s holding himself together by threads.

Tonight is one of those nights. You’re at the table, nursing a lukewarm cup of tea when you hear the door click shut behind him. You look up, but Joel won’t meet your eyes. He pulls off his jacket like it weighs a hundred pounds and tosses it across the back of the couch. Then he just stands there, shoulders tight, hands flexing like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

You speak gently. “Joel.” His eyes finally lift to yours, and it hits you whatever happened today, it’s more than just a bad run. It’s eating him alive.

Without a word, he walks over to you. One step. Then another. And then he’s dropping to his knees beside your chair like he’s been punched in the gut, like it’s the only way he can stay upright without falling apart. Your breath catches.

“Joel, what—”

“I lost her,” he says, voice broken. “The kid. Tess and I—we were watchin’ her. She was just a kid. Too small for this world. And I let her die.” You reach for him instinctively, your hand brushing through his hair. He leans into your touch, eyes squeezed shut, like he’s bracing for something. Like he expects you to pull away.

“She got caught in crossfire,” he mutters. “I was five feet away. Five. I should’ve—damn it, I should’ve done somethin’.” You kneel in front of him, hands cupping his face gently, forcing him to look at you.

“It wasn’t your fault,” you say. His voice rises, raw. “How can you say that? I was right there, and now she’s gone. Another kid, gone because I didn’t move fast enough.”

The silence after that is thick and aching. You’ve heard that tone from him before low, jagged, the same one he used the night he told you about Sarah. But this is worse. This isn’t memory. This is fresh. Bleeding.

You wrap your arms around him, pulling him in, holding him so tightly he finally lets out a sound—a broken, stuttering exhale that catches in his throat. He buries his face in your shoulder, clutching the back of your shirt like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.

“She was just tryin’ to help,” he mumbles into your neck. “Wanted to be brave.” You stroke his back, slow and steady, grounding him. “She would’ve died even faster if you weren’t there. You know that.”

“She was too young,” he says again. Like he’s trying to argue with fate itself.

You don’t say anything for a while. Just hold him. Let the fire crackle behind you both. Let him grieve. Joel doesn’t cry—not really. But this is as close as he gets. His breath shakes against you, his hands gripping tighter, like he thinks if he lets go, the ghosts will catch up.

Finally, after what feels like hours, you whisper, “You can’t save everyone.” Joel pulls back, eyes red but dry. “That’s what people say when they’ve given up tryin’.”

“No,” you say firmly. “It’s what they say when they’ve done everything they could and still had to survive it. Like you do. Every goddamn day.”

His stare holds yours like he’s searching for something.. punishment, maybe. Or permission to let go of some of that guilt. You reach up and smooth a thumb under his eye. “You’re not a monster, Joel.”

His voice drops to a whisper. “Sometimes I feel like one.”

“You’re not.”

Silence again.

“I didn’t come here to make you hold all this,” he says, eyes falling to your hands. “I just… didn’t know where else to go.”

“I’m glad you came,” you reply without hesitation. “I want you to come to me when it’s this bad.” He lets out a breath. Almost a laugh, except there’s no humor in it.

“I just wanted to see you,” he admits. “Didn’t want to be alone. Couldn’t be.” Your chest tightens. You nod, then guide him gently toward the couch.

“Come here.” He follows, almost sheepish now, like the weight of being cared for is too much. But when you sit down and open your arms again, he comes willingly. He settles into you, his body warm and solid and tired.

You run your fingers through his hair, slow and gentle. “You don’t have to be strong with me. Not always.”

He doesn’t answer, but you feel the way he softens, the way the tension in his back eases by inches. The way his breathing steadies into something calmer.

“You’re allowed to be tired,” you whisper. “You’re allowed to hurt.” Joel murmurs something you can’t quite catch maybe your name, maybe just a thank-you but you don’t press. You hold him a little tighter, pressing a kiss into his hairline. And for the first time tonight, he lets go just a little.

[foxviant]

ੈ✩‧₊˚𝑭𝒐𝒙𝒗𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒕!⋆·˚ ༘ *

ׂ╰➤ ꒰ They/Them . Twenty22two . writer . bi . daddy issues ꒱

Mainly: Keanu reeves, Pedro pascal, Jon bernthal, Cm punk.

✧.* 𝙈𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩

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[foxviant]

Just for a while.

summary: Where Joel Miller is having a bad day and just wants to cuddle with the reader. Pairing: Joel Miller x reader. Word Count: 1K+ Warnings: Mild language, emotional vulnerability, fluff, comfort.

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The front door creaked open heavier than usual. Not loud, but weighted like even the hinges could tell Joel Miller wasn’t having a good day.

You glanced up from the book in your lap, the fire crackling softly beside you. The light flickered across the worn wood floors and danced across Joel’s figure as he stepped in. His shoulders were tense, his jaw tight, eyes sunken with that look he wore when the world had asked too much of him again.

You didn’t speak right away. Joel appreciated silence more than most people did, especially when he was in a mood like this. He dropped his backpack near the door. Boots scuffed, dirty, tired like him. He didn’t bother taking off his jacket, just walked straight to the couch, eyes landing on you like a lifeline.

“Hey,” you said softly, offering a small smile. Joel didn’t answer. He just stood there for a second, then finally exhaled one of those deep, slow exhales that seemed to drain something heavy from his chest. He rubbed at his forehead and muttered, “Been a hell of a day.” You set the book aside, scooting a bit to make room. “Wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

That was fair. Joel wasn’t one to spill his guts, especially not right away. Sometimes he never did. You knew better than to push.

“Alright,” you murmured, patting the couch next to you. “Come sit.” He didn’t hesitate. Joel eased himself down beside you, body stiff, like every muscle ached. You could feel the tension rolling off him in waves.

For a moment, he sat with his elbows on his knees, head bowed. The firelight lit the grays in his hair and the creases at the corners of his eyes. He looked older tonight not in a bad way, just… worn. You reached over, gently placing a hand on his back. “You okay?”

His head tilted toward you, eyes soft now. “Not really.”

“Wanna lie down?”

He didn’t respond. Just leaned toward you, slow and unsure, until his head rested against your shoulder. You went still. Not because you were surprised Joel had done this before, on the harder days but because every time, it felt like being trusted all over again. Like he was choosing to let you carry just a little bit of his burden, even for a second.

“I’m so damn tired,” he whispered.

Your hand slid up to his hair, fingers brushing through it lightly. “Then rest. I’ve got you.”

You shifted, letting him ease down against you, his body curling gently into yours as you both stretched out on the couch. His head found your chest, right over your heartbeat. His arms wrapped around your waist—not tightly, just enough to hold you like an anchor. Joel was a big man, strong and solid, but like this, he just felt… quiet. Human. Tired.

The room was filled with warmth from the fire, the soft crackle of the flames, the quiet hum of shared space. You let your fingers graze along his hairline, smoothing the furrow in his brow.

He grunted softly. “You’re too good at this.”

“At what?”

“Calmin’ me down. I don’t even know how you do it.” His voice was muffled against your chest, low and rough around the edges.

You smiled, resting your chin on top of his head. “Magic, maybe.”

Joel huffed a quiet laugh, more breath than sound. “Must be.”

There was something sacred in the stillness that followed. The kind of silence that didn’t feel empty it felt like safety. Joel’s breathing evened out, slow and steady. You could feel the rise and fall of his chest against you, and it soothed something deep inside your own bones too.

It wasn’t often he let himself be soft like this. Not in a world like this, not when he’d spent years building walls out of grief and guilt. But with you, he allowed it sometimes. The quiet parts of him. The broken parts.

“I had to bury someone today,” Joel said suddenly, voice a gravelled whisper.

You froze for just a heartbeat. “Oh, Joel…”

“Kid. Not older than Ellie.” He swallowed hard. “Didn’t deserve what happened.” Your hand moved gently to cradle the back of his head, pulling him closer. “I’m sorry.”

“I just…” He trailed off, breath hitching. “Some days, it’s like it never ends. Like I keep losin’ pieces of myself. And I’m scared I’ll run outta pieces to give.”

Your chest ached. You held him tighter.

“You won’t,” you whispered. “Not while you’ve got people who care about you.” He didn’t answer right away. Just nestled in closer, burying his face against your neck. The weight of him was heavy but grounding.

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmured. You pulled back just enough to look down at him, brushing your thumb across his temple.

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.”

“It’s not.”

His eyes met yours, tired and raw and searching. You leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead.

“You don’t have to be okay all the time. You don’t have to carry everything alone.” Joel’s eyes fluttered shut. His arms around you tightened just slightly, like he was afraid you’d slip away if he didn’t hold on.

“Just for a while,” he murmured, already halfway to sleep. “Let me stay like this. Just for a while.” You kissed the top of his head again, your heart aching for him in the quietest, most tender way.

“For as long as you need,” you whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.” And in the hush of firelight and worn-out hearts, you held each other like the world outside didn’t exist.