ੈ✩‧₊˚ Foxviant 🎬

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

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

Summary: Ryland can’t find a cure, breaks down, and chooses to stay with you instead. Pairing: Dr. Ryland Grace x You Word count: 4-5K~ Warning: Illness, emotional distress, hopelessness, grief themes, soft comfort, Heavy angst

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Ryland Grace had always believed that every problem had a solution.. Or at least, he was.

Summary: In the silence of space, Ryland comforts you and reminds you you’re not alone. Pairing: Dr. Ryland Grace x Reader. Word count: 2K~ Warning: Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Emotional Intimacy, Space Isolation.

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The silence in space isn’t peaceful. It’s more.. heavy.

Not the kind of quiet you get on Earth, where there’s always something wind through trees, distant voices, the hum of life continuing somewhere out there. No, this silence is absolute. Pressing. Like it’s always there, waiting for you to notice it again and lately, you’ve been noticing it a lot.

You float near the observation window, staring out into the endless stretch of black scattered with stars. They don’t twinkle here. They don’t shift or shimmer. They just… exist. Cold and distant.

You press your hand to the glass. It’s stupid, you know that. There’s nothing out there for you to touch. Nothing that could ever touch back. Still, you stay there.

“Y’know,” a voice says behind you, “statistically speaking, staring at space for extended periods of time does not make it any less space." You don’t turn around.

“Wow,” you mutter. “Thank you, that’s incredibly helpful, Ryland.”

“I’m here all week,” Ryland Grace replies.

You hear the soft push of his hands against the wall as he floats closer. There’s a slight bump as he steadies himself beside you, careful not to drift too far.

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. That’s how you know he’s paying attention.

“You’ve been out here a while,” he says finally, quieter now. You shrug, still staring ahead. “Didn’t feel like going back.”

“To the lab?”

“To… anywhere.”

That makes him pause. Ryland Grace isn’t great with emotions not at first, anyway. He’s a problem-solver. A numbers guy. He likes things that have answers, formulas, clear steps. Feelings aren’t like that. But he tries.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “So… not a lab problem. More of a… general existential dread problem?”

You let out a small, humorless laugh. “That obvious?”

“Yeah,” he says. “You do this thing where you go quiet, and then you stare at the void like it personally offended you.”You glance at him. “Maybe it did.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Rude of space, honestly.”

You huff softly, but it doesn’t last. The silence creeps back in. And this time, he doesn’t fill it right away.

Instead, Ryland gently reaches out, his hand brushing yours where it rests against the glass. It’s a tentative touch like he’s not sure if you want it. You don’t pull away. So he stays.

“You wanna tell me what’s goin’ on?” he asks. You hesitate.

How do you explain something that doesn’t have a clear shape?

“I just…” You swallow. “I feel small. Out here. Like… nothing we do matters if all this—” you gesture toward the stars “—just keeps going forever.” Ryland hums thoughtfully.

“That’s fair,” he says. “Space is… aggressively big.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“I know.” He shifts slightly, his shoulder brushing yours. “But you know what is?”

You glance at him.

“What?”

He gives you a small smile. “You’re here.” You blink. “That’s your comforting statement?”

“No, wait, hear me out,” he says quickly, holding up a hand. “Out of all the infinite randomness in the universe, you exist. Right here. Right now. And—” he hesitates, then continues, a little softer, “—you’re not alone.”

Something in your chest tightens. “That’s… very you,” you say.

“Thank you, I think.” You let out a quiet breath, leaning your head back against the wall behind you. “It just gets loud sometimes. The silence, I mean.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I get that.”There’s a beat. Then, almost shyly, he shifts closer.

“Hey,” he says. “C’mere.”

Before you can question it, he gently takes your hand and pulls you toward him, guiding you so you’re floating just a little closer than before. His other hand comes up, resting lightly on your arm steadying, grounding.

It’s awkward at first. You’re both floating, trying to figure out how to exist in the same space without drifting apart. But then you settle. Your shoulder presses against his chest, your hand still in his.

And suddenly, the silence doesn’t feel quite as heavy.

“You ever think about Earth?” you ask quietly.

“All the time,” he says. “Mostly about food.”

You laugh softly. “Of course you do.”

“I’m serious. Pizza? Burgers? Ice cream? Absolute tragedy that we are not currently eating any of those.”

“Very tragic.”

“But also..” he hesitates, “people.”Your chest aches.

“Yeah.”There’s a long pause. Then, gently, Ryland’s hand squeezes yours.

“I don’t think we’re small,” he says. “Not really.”

You tilt your head. “No?”

“Nope. I think we’re… specific.” He smiles a little at that. “Like, yeah, the universe is huge. But it doesn’t have this. It doesn’t have… you feeling things. Or me making bad jokes. Or us...” he gestures vaguely between you “trying to make sense of it all.”

You watch him, something soft blooming in your chest.

“You’re saying we matter because we exist?”

“I’m saying we matter to each other,” he corrects gently. “And that’s enough.”The words settle over you, warm and steady.

For a moment, you just float there together, hands linked, bodies close enough to feel real in a place that often doesn’t.

“You’re really bad at this,” you say after a while.

“What? Comforting people?”

“Yeah.”He nods. “I know.”

“But you still try.”

“Yeah.”You smile, just a little.

“Thank you.” He looks at you then, properly. And there’s something in his expression something open and a little unsure.

“Anytime,” he says.

The ship hums softly around you, systems running, life continuing in quiet, mechanical rhythm. But here, in this small space between two people, something else exists.

Warmth, Connection, Gravity.

Summary: You having and a bad day and joel take care of you Pairing: Joel Miler x Reader. Word count: 2K Warning: Emotional stress, tenderness, Joel being soft and grounded

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It had been one of those days. The kind where the world doesn’t scream at you it just whispers a thousand tiny things until you can’t hear your own thoughts anymore.

The morning started wrong. Your strap broke on your pack just as you were heading out on patrol, the coffee was cold, and someone in the group had been too loud, too sharp with their words. Nothing big. Nothing unusual. But each thing stacked on top of the last, and by the time you made it back to Jackson, it all sat on your chest like a weight.

You didn’t say anything when you walked through the front door. You just shut it behind you and leaned against it, eyes shut, letting the silence wash over you.

Joel was already home.

You could hear him moving around the kitchen, slow and methodical. Metal against ceramic. The low hum of his voice muttering to himself maybe, or just breathing heavy from the weight of his own day. He always carried something, even when he didn’t say it out loud.

You took a deep breath, then another, and finally pushed yourself away from the door.

He turned just as you stepped into the room. His eyes met yours, and something in his expression changed. Softened.

“Hey,” he said, quiet. “You okay?”You nodded once, not convincingly. He didn’t press. Joel never pressed.

Instead, he turned down the stove burner and wiped his hands on a dish towel. “Come here.”

You didn’t move. Not yet. He waited. Joel always waited.

Eventually your legs carried you forward, heavy and reluctant, like you were walking through water. You stopped just a step away from him. He didn’t touch you yet—he just watched you carefully, reading you the way he always did, like you were made of more than skin and bone.

“You look wrung out,” he murmured. Your voice cracked when you tried to reply. “Just tired.”

“Sit,” he said gently, motioning to the chair at the small kitchen table.

You sat.

He poured you a cup of tea not the bitter stuff the patrol usually passed around, but something floral and calming, probably from a jar someone had traded a few months back. It was still warm. He pushed it in front of you, then sat beside you and reached for your hand.

His thumb brushed across your knuckles. You stared down at the little motion, grateful for it in a way you didn’t know how to explain.

“Didn’t sleep last night,” you said after a beat. “Then today just… piled on.”

Joel didn’t say, I told you to rest.

He didn’t say, You push too hard.

Instead, he hummed quietly and shifted closer. You didn’t realize how tense you were until his arm came around your shoulders and you leaned into him, like gravity had been waiting for permission to pull you in. Your face found the curve of his neck, and his beard scratched your skin just enough to make it real. He held you like that tight, protective, quiet.

“You don’t gotta do it all,” he said softly.

“I know.”

“You don’t gotta hold it in either.”

“I know that too.” Your voice was small. “It’s just hard.”

Joel didn’t fill the silence with useless words. He just let it stretch, let it settle around the two of you like a blanket.

Eventually, he helped you out of your coat and boots, like you were something fragile, something worth caring for. He didn’t ask if you wanted help he just did it, with those rough, capable hands of his, the ones that knew how to break and protect all at once.

He guided you to the bedroom and helped you lie down. Then he left only to come back with a warm cloth, gently wiping your face, sweeping over your temples, your jaw, the tension in your brow.

“You’re shakin’,” he said quietly.

“Just tired.”He brushed your hair back with one hand, the other resting on your chest just over your heart, grounding you. “Want me to stay?”

You nodded. No hesitation.

He kicked off his boots and lay down beside you, pulling you into his chest like he’d done it a thousand times before. Maybe he had. It still felt new every time like no matter how many nights you spent tangled up in each other, this kind of tenderness always caught you off guard.

His hand found yours under the blanket.

You clung to it like it was the only solid thing left in your world.

“I didn’t think it’d hit me this hard,” you whispered. “I don’t even know what it is.”

“It doesn’t need a name to knock you down,” he said.

You went quiet for a long time. And Joel just held you through it.

Eventually, your breathing evened out, your chest rising and falling against his in slow, heavy waves. But your fingers still gripped his shirt, like you were afraid he’d vanish if you let go.

“I don’t know how you do it,” you said.

“What?”

“Stay so calm when everything’s too much.”

Joel huffed a soft laugh. “I ain’t calm. I’m just quiet.”

He shifted, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “And I’ve learned when someone I love is hurtin’… you don’t fix it by talkin’. You just stay. Let ‘em feel it. Let ‘em know they’re not alone.”

You blinked hard. “You love me?”

His silence was loud.

Then, his voice cracked the stillness. “Course I do. Thought that was obvious.”

Your breath caught. “It is. I just… needed to hear it tonight.”

Joel’s arm tightened around you.

“You get bad days,” he said into your hair. “Hell, you can have as many as you need. But you ain’t gonna face any of ‘em alone. Not anymore.”

The knot in your chest unraveled just a little. Enough to breathe easier.

Enough to believe him.

You stayed like that for a long while his hand wrapped around yours, your head on his chest, the sound of his heartbeat the only thing you needed to hear.

By the time sleep finally pulled you under, you weren’t thinking about the broken pack strap or the sharp words or the cold coffee.

You were only thinking about Joel.

Summary: you felt cold, Joel silently warms your hands no words, just love. Pairing: Joel Miler x Reader. Word count: 1K Warning: none, just fluff.

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The cabin creaked with the wind.

Outside, a storm was rolling in. Nothing too fierce, not like the ones that rattled the windows and howled like wolves, but enough to keep the cold pressed tight against the walls. Enough to make your breath puff out in faint clouds when you stood near the door.

You and Joel had holed up here a few days ago after a supply run, finding the place abandoned and still intact enough to use. It had a fireplace, working latches on the windows, and enough space for the two of you to not feel like you were stepping on each other’s heels every minute. That was a rarity these days.

The fire crackled low in the hearth, the only source of light besides a lone lantern on the table between you. You were curled into one of the worn chairs, a blanket over your legs and a book in your hands, though you hadn’t turned a page in nearly ten minutes. Your eyes kept drifting, fingers toying with the frayed edges of the old fabric cover.

Across from you, Joel was cleaning one of the rifles. Quiet, methodical, head down as his hands moved in practiced rhythm wiping, checking, loading. There was something soothing about the way he worked. Focused, controlled. Like the rest of the world disappeared while he moved through the steps.

The silence was comfortable. You’d gotten used to that with Joel. He wasn’t one to fill the space with unnecessary words. But that never meant he wasn’t paying attention.

Your fingers were cold.

You hadn’t realized how much until they started going a little numb, moving slower on the page. The fire wasn’t cutting through the chill like it used to. You rubbed your hands together once, then tucked them beneath your thighs.

You didn’t say anything. Joel looked too deep in his own thoughts, and the last thing you wanted was to pull him out of it. So you stayed quiet, pulling the blanket up higher, letting the pages blur. Then you heard the soft thump of a rifle being set down.

You looked up. Joel stood from his chair and stepped toward you without a word. His brow furrowed just a little, eyes flicking briefly to your hands where they’d reappeared from beneath the blanket, now resting in your lap.

He didn’t ask.

He just reached down, took both your hands in his, and sandwiched them between his own. Warmth. Solid, grounding warmth, like stepping into a sunbeam after days of cold.

You froze for a moment, startled not by the gesture itself, but by the way he did it. Quiet. Steady. Like it was instinct.

His palms were rough and calloused, the kind of hands that had seen too much, done too much. But they held yours gently, thumbs brushing over your knuckles like he was memorizing the shape of you.

“You should’ve said somethin’,” he murmured. You smiled faintly, eyes drifting up to meet his. “Didn’t want to bother you.”

He huffed softly, almost a laugh but not quite. “You think I’d rather be cleanin’ a damn rifle than takin’ care of you?”

“I think you need the quiet sometimes.”

“So do you,” he said, voice low. “But you never ask for it.”

He dropped to one knee in front of you, still holding your hands, bringing them up near the firelight like he could chase the cold out of your skin faster that way.

You swallowed, throat tight. “Joel…”

“Let me,” he said. Two words. Simple. Quiet. But they held more weight than any promise you’d heard in years.

So you let him.

He sat down at your feet, back against the couch, your hands still trapped gently between his. Every now and then he’d rub slow circles into your skin, the heat of his touch chasing the numbness away.

You watched him as he worked—this man who always moved like he had something to protect. Like he didn’t know how to be gentle until it was you in front of him. And even then, it still surprised him.

“Is this weird for you?” you asked softly. He didn’t look up. “No.” You raised an eyebrow. He sighed. “Maybe a little.” You smiled. “Why?”

“Because I… I ain’t used to it. Slowing down. Touchin’ someone like this without it meanin’ violence or loss.” He glanced at you then, his gaze softer than you’d ever seen it. “But it ain’t bad.”

You nodded. “It’s not bad at all. Joel turned your hands over, palm to palm now, and kissed the inside of your wrist. Just once. Just enough to make your breath hitch.

“Y’know,” he said, “there’s a part of me that’s always waitin’ for the world to take this away.”

“This?”

“You. Us. Peace.”You leaned forward, resting your forehead against his. “You don’t have to wait. We’re here. Right now.”

He closed his eyes at that. Like those words alone were a balm.

“I don’t know what I’m doin’,” he admitted after a while. “I never… let myself feel this before. Not since… not since a long time ago.”

“You’re doing just fine,” you whispered. He didn’t say anything. Just squeezed your hands a little tighter.

You reached down and cradled his face with your now-warm fingers. He leaned into your touch like he couldn’t help it, eyes still closed.

“You keep everyone warm, Joel,” you said. “Let someone do the same for you.”

He opened his eyes slowly, and what you saw there made your chest ache. So much emotion, barely contained. So much want.

And not just the kind that lived in his hands or mouth but in the parts of him that hadn’t been touched in years.

“You scare the hell outta me,” he murmured. You smiled, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “Because I care?”He nodded. “Because I care back.”

You slid off the couch and onto the floor beside him, curling into his side. His arms wrapped around you instantly, holding you close, anchoring you.

The fire crackled. The storm began to tap against the windows and for the first time in what felt like forever, Joel stopped waiting for it all to fall apart.

Summary: Stressed and worn out, Joel finally relaxes when he’s in your arms the only place he ever feels okay. Pairing: Joel Miler x Reader. Word count: 1K Warning: Stress, emotional overload, tenderness, soft touch, mutual care.

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Joel slammed the door harder than he meant to.

The sound echoed through the house like a gunshot, bouncing off the walls of the living room where you sat curled on the couch. You looked up instantly, your book slipping shut in your lap.

He didn’t speak at first. Just stood there, hands clenched into fists, chest rising and falling fast like he couldn’t quite catch his breath.

“Joel?” you asked softly.

He didn’t answer.

His jaw was tight, eyes dark and distant. The kind of distant that made you ache for him. You knew that look anger balled up tight with grief and exhaustion, barely held back behind a brittle wall.

It had been a hard week. Supplies were short, the patrols were longer, and people in Jackson were starting to complain about things they didn’t understand. And as always, Joel carried it all like it was his job to keep the whole damn town from falling apart.

You stood slowly. “Hey. What happened?”

“I—” He shook his head sharply. “It’s fine.”

You stepped closer, your voice gentle. “Doesn’t look fine.”

He let out a harsh breath, pacing the living room in slow, agitated strides. “It’s just… I’m sick of it. Sick of everyone expectin’ me to fix everything. Sick of pretending I’ve got it all under control when I feel like I’m hangin’ on by a damn thread.”

You swallowed the lump rising in your throat. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

“I know,” he muttered, rubbing a hand down his face. “But I don’t know how to stop. My whole life’s been… survive, protect, carry the weight. There’s no switch to turn it off.”

You walked up to him carefully, placing your hand over his where it hung by his side. He flinched a little just a twitch but he didn’t pull away.

“Then let me help you carry it.”

He looked at you. Really looked at you.

The fury was still there, coiled tight in his chest, but under it bone deep exhaustion. The kind that doesn’t show itself unless someone’s close enough to see the cracks.

He dropped his head slightly, eyes closing.

“Come here,” you said gently, guiding him toward the couch.

He followed you, quiet now, like the fight had drained out of him. He sat down slowly, elbows on his knees, hands rubbing over his face.

You knelt in front of him and placed both hands on his thighs. “Let me take care of you tonight. You don’t have to talk. Just… let me.”

He hesitated. But then, slowly, he nodded.

You reached up and ran your fingers gently through his hair, pushing it back from his face. His shoulders dropped a little at the contact.

“You always take care of everyone else,” you whispered. “You never let anyone do the same for you.”

His voice was hoarse. “Didn’t think I deserved it.”

“You do. Joel… you really do.”

Your hands moved with practiced gentleness down his arms, to his hands, thumb brushing over his knuckles. He let you. Bit by bit, his body unwound under your touch. Like a storm slowly passing.

You leaned in and kissed his forehead, then rested your own against his.

“Just breathe,” you whispered.

So he did.

His hands came up, hesitant at first, resting on your waist like he needed something to hold onto. And then he pulled you into his lap, burying his face in your neck.

Your arms wrapped around him as he finally let go. Not with tears Joel didn’t cry often but with silence. Heavy, trembling silence. His grip tightened, like if he held you hard enough, the rest of the world might disappear for a while.

And for a little while, it did.

Just the two of you, wrapped up on the couch, no words needed.

You kissed the side of his head. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

His voice came soft, muffled against your skin. “You’re the only place I feel like I can breathe.”

You closed your eyes, your hands never stopping their slow, soothing movements.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said. “Not tonight. Not ever.”

But you ended up cleaning his wounds and took care of him. He was not used to that, he felt weird because he loved it. Something lime that thanks

Let Me.

Summary: Joel comes home hurt and tries to hide it, but your gentle care makes him realize how much he’s needed that kind of love. Pairing: Joel Miler x Reader. Word count: 2k Warning: Injury (non-graphic), emotional vulnerability, soft caring, slow burn feelings

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You heard the door creak open before you saw him.

It was late too late for Joel to be getting back from patrol. The fire had burned low in the hearth, casting long shadows on the walls. You were curled up on the couch with a blanket, pretending to read, but really just waiting for the sound of his boots.

And now he was here.

“Joel?” you called softly, glancing over the back of the couch.

He didn’t answer at first.

Just stood in the entryway, the door half-shut behind him, framed in cold air and moonlight. His shoulders were hunched, his face half in shadow, but even from here, you saw the way his hand hovered just slightly over his side. His movements were stiff. Too careful.

He walked in like someone trying to hide a limp. You sat up slowly, brows furrowed. “What happened?”

“nothin’,” he muttered, voice rough, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. “Just tired.”

You stood. “Joel—”

“I said it’s nothin’.”

He kept walking, making a beeline for the bathroom like you wouldn’t notice the way his shirt stuck to his side with something darker than sweat. But you weren’t an idiot. And you’d seen him like this before gritting his teeth through pain, trying to pretend it was nothing.

You followed him before the door could close. He sighed, tired and defeated, and sat on the closed toilet lid with his head bowed.

“I told you,” he said, quieter this time, “don’t worry.”

“You don’t get to say that when you’re bleeding,” you replied, your voice trembling just slightly not with panic, but with something sharper. Something personal.

He didn’t argue. Just sat there and let the silence stretch between you. You stepped closer, kneeling in front of him, and touched the hem of his flannel. “Let me see.”

You shook your head and stood. “Sit still. I’ll get the kit.”

He didn’t move.

In the kitchen, your hands shook slightly as you pulled the first-aid kit from under the sink. Not from fear. From frustration. He always did this carried everything alone. Pain. Guilt. Even this.

You returned to him quietly and knelt again, the kit open on the floor beside you.

You grabbed the first-aid kit and a clean towel from the bathroom before coming back. The silence was thick with tension mostly his. You knelt in front of him, and he avoided your eyes like a child caught lying.

“Lift your shirt,” you said gently.

His jaw worked, grinding slightly, like he was still fighting the instinct to push you away. But he didn’t. After a beat, he nodded.

You peeled his shirt up gently, fingers brushing warm skin, and he winced but not from the pain. More like from the exposure.

And there it was.

A long, shallow gash just beneath his ribs. It had stopped bleeding, mostly, but the skin around it was inflamed and raw, the edge of his shirt soaked in rust-colored blood.

“Jesus, Joel…”

“It ain’t deep.” he muttered, avoiding your eyes. “Was just a knife. Got careless.”

“How long have you been walking around like this?”

“Since it happened,” he muttered. “Didn’t have time to stop. Had to get back.”

You soaked the towel and pressed it gently to the wound. He hissed through his teeth but didn’t pull away.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t wanna worry you.”

You looked up at him sharply. “And bleeding out alone wouldn’t worry me more?”

He looked away.

“You’re allowed to let people care about you, you know,” you said as you worked, voice quiet but firm. “You don’t always have to be the one patching others up.”

Joel’s jaw clenched. You could see it the discomfort. Not from the pain, but from the attention. The tenderness. Like it was unfamiliar territory.

You cleaned the cut carefully, working in silence for a few minutes. His breathing was steady, but you could feel the tension radiating off of him.

“I’m used to doin’ things on my own,” he finally said.

“I know,” you replied, dabbing the wound with antiseptic. “Doesn’t mean you have to keep doing it that way.”

He didn’t answer. Just watched your hands move, expression unreadable.

“You should’ve told me,” you said softly.

“I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.”

“It is a big deal. You came home hurt and bleeding. That’s not just a bad day.”

Joel exhaled. “Didn’t want you to worry.”

You paused, setting the cloth down. “Joel, I’m always going to worry. That’s part of loving someone.” The words slipped out before you realized what you’d said. And you froze.

Joel went very still.

You felt it the shift in the air. Like something unsaid had finally surfaced between you, hanging there in the quiet like dust in a sunbeam.

He looked at you then. Really looked at you. Tired eyes, lined with guilt and something deeper. Something scared.

“You love me?” he asked softly.

You met his gaze, steady and honest. “Of course I do.”

He swallowed hard. His hands clenched slightly, then released. “I don’t know what to do with that.”

“You don’t have to do anything. Just… let me be here.”

He didn’t speak again, but something in his body language softened. Like a wall slowly crumbling.

You finished cleaning the wound and wrapped the bandage around him, your touch gentle, your fingers brushing his skin with a kind of reverence. You didn’t rush. You didn’t scold. You just cared.

And Joel felt it.

Every second of it.

When you were done, you sat back on your heels. “There. That should hold for tonight.”

He looked down at you, his voice quiet. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

“I wanted to.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. His brow furrowed. You could see it the conflict in his chest, the discomfort, the fear. Not of you. Of needing you.

And maybe of liking it.

“You don’t like being taken care of,” you said softly.

“I don’t know how,” he admitted.

You reached up and took his hand, lacing your fingers through his. “Then let me teach you.”

He didn’t speak. Just looked down at your hands. And then, slowly, he brought your joined hands to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles.

A thank you. An apology. A promise.

You stood and helped him up, guiding him toward the couch with a gentle touch on his arm.

He hesitated again. “I can sleep in the chair.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Sit down.”

He obeyed without arguing, and you pulled a blanket over both of you as you curled up beside him. He was still tense for a while, body rigid, breath shallow.

But then he let out a slow sigh and leaned into you, his arm slipping around your waist, your head resting on his shoulder.

The fire crackled softly.

“You okay?” you asked.

“I think so.”

You smiled and reached for his hand again, twining your fingers with his. “Get used to it.”

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.

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.”

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.

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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.

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.