Really Enjoying This Story!!! Cant Wait For It To Get Steamy!!! Its Angsty And Slow Burn

Really enjoying this story!!! Can’t wait for it to get steamy!!! It’s angsty and slow burn🔥🔥🔥

by the grit of sandpaper {masterlist}

Pairing: Jackson! Joel Miller x F! Reader

Summary: Joel Miller is a gruff as they come, the world having changed him for the worst. But settling in Jackson with his brother changed him for the better. He's known around town as someone to help, whether it be with home repairs, construction, and hand carved trinkets. An offhand comment from you inspires him to branch out and create helpful kitchen wares. And it seems everyone has been gifted one from him, except for you. It makes you rethink the casual friendship you had developed with the man that had just begun to expand beyond patrols.

Word Count: 19.7k - ongoing

Warnings: canon typical violence, canon typical language, pining, unrequited feelings, joel a little mean in this, heart of gold joel, carpenter joel, woodworking joel, artisan joel, patrol partnership, mild injuries, confessions, lots of feelings, angst, hurt and comfort, joel miller's hands need their own warning, arguing, heated interactions, smut, p in v, unprotected p in v, oral (f and m receiving), jealousy, more to be added as the story develops!

A/N: hinted at this back around the holidays, but will soon be committing time to bring this to life!

ao3 link || main masterlist || ko-fi

fic teaser || fic teaser no.2 || sneakie peek

chapter 1 || chapter 2 || chapter 3

I'm so excited to finally draw Oscar Isaac! He's been requested like a million times, so here you have two Oscars at once😎 I will definitely draw more, the Moon Knight was great, loved it, though I haven't seen the finale yet

I’m going around asking all of my favorite Joel + age gap girlies this question out of genuine curiosity… I’m 25 years old and I gravitate toward age gap fics because um they’re hot but I was hoping that someone who is good with words can actually put INTO words… why is it so hot?? I find it so hard to articulate to people when they ask me… in your own words, what is it that makes you wanna read/write them?

for me i think it all boils down to the control of it all. i think irl most of the time if a man in his 50s is interested in a woman in her 20s a question arises of why exactly he's interested in her. like does he genuinely like her or is he just interested in her for her body/youth or because of her lack of life experience/ability to manipulate her. there's always that worry of whether he wants her so he can control her, gaslight her, etc. it's why a lot of us tend to shy away from older men in real life (and men in general lbr) because there's always that fear and question of what their intentions are.

in a fic, i am in control. i decide the intentions of the man, i decide exactly what he wants and why. i also can decide what the reader insert wants and whether she feels comfortable, uncomfortable, etc. it's the same reason why fics containing noncon/dubcon are so popular - it all comes down to control. in real life, of course we don't want to feel unsafe or frightened or be put in a situation where we genuinely fear for our lives at the hands of a man. but in fic we have complete control over it. it's fiction, so we can decide exactly what happens and cater completely to our own desires with absolutely no real danger.

age gap is hot in fic because we can essentially curate an older male character who fits our standards of safety and trust, put him in the situations that we desire and are always fully aware of his intentions. even if we choose to write an older male character with bad intentions, it's still hot because we are ultimately in control of what he's doing and there's no real danger or risk.

also.....old men are hot  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Ummmmm omg….yes🥵🥵🥵🥵🥵

hi i'm writing childhood best friends to lovers!frankie eats ur pussy for the first time do ya'll want to read a snippet 👉👈

“Wait, so.” He sits upright again, and he really shouldn’t ask, shouldn’t go crossing yet another line but some sick, masochistic part of him needs to know. “Does that mean he never even–?”

You just give him this look before dropping your gaze back down to your lap and Frankie sighs, pulling his cap back to comb an exasperated hand through his curls instead of saying what he’d really like to say.

It probably is for the best he never got the chance to meet this guy.

“I mean, it’s fine, I didn’t want it anyway,” you insist with a shrug. “Or…I don’t even–I don’t even know if I like it.”

That’s fair, he guesses, but also–

“You probably just haven’t had anyone do it right.”

Every woman he’s ever been with had seemed to like it when he’d done it, anyway. He’s certain if he got his mouth on you…

Don’t even think about it.

But it’s too late; he already is thinking about it. Thinking about your messy little pussy and how warm and wet it would feel against his lips and how your sweet juices would stain his moustache and beard. How your soft thighs would feel pressed against his ears and how you’d writhe when you came for him. How he’d like to ruin you for anyone else so you’d never again have to doubt how much you loved it.

He’s thinking about it before you even quietly admit, “I haven’t had anyone do it at all.”

And the admission breaks his heart, because you deserve it. You deserve to feel good. He could make you feel good. 

He blurts out the offer before his brain can catch up in time to stop him–

“Can I?” he asks in a breathless rush. “Can I do it for you?”

salted wound (din djarin x f!reader)

summary: the mandalorian places his trust in you, and you both reap the rewards.

notes: this is my first time writing for din/the mandalorian, and whilst i always welcome constructive criticism, please be kind. fic name comes from the sia track i listened to whilst writing this 🫶🏻

warnings: typical bounty hunter violence, canon divergence (sorry grogu ily), sensory deprivation (?), so much kissing, fluff, cursing, smutty thoughts & happenings, din is taller than reader & can lift her. 18+, mdni.

this is for the wonderful @hellishjoel who requested this & gave me the confidence to write for this man ✨ tysm to my beautiful beta and light of my life @frannyzooey, and my cheerleaders @macfrog @swiftispunk @joelscruff 🫶🏻

“I need to hear you say it. Say you want this.”

“Din.. You know I-”

“Tell. Me.”

“Maker,” you breathe. “Yes, Din - fuck. I want this.”

A beat of silence, broken by the slow, steady thrumming of the Razor Crest’s flight instruments. Din’s breathing, modulated and heavy, digesting your response. Calculated and careful, as he always is. Tone insistent, face concealed by beskar.

You can’t quite believe this is happening.

You’re no stranger to disbelief by now, though. The mysterious Mandalorian has shown you vast galaxies bursting with bright starlight, planets thick with lush greenery and barren sands. He’s broadened your horizons more than you’d ever dreamed of, taken you on adventures nobody back home would ever believe.

The Mandalorian never asked anything of you in return, and you basked in the glow of his quiet companionship. You’d grown accustomed to his deep, rasping voice, the way his head would tilt beneath the helmet when his interest was piqued by something you said. One night as the starship soared through hyperspace, silver light bouncing off the observation shield, he’d wrapped his name in a whisper and gifted it to you.

Din Djarin.

There was no denying the way you felt about him after that revelation. You’d tried to bury it somewhere deep at first, choke it to death with the knowledge that those feelings would - could - never be reciprocated.

But, something was brewing below the surface: the close proximity the two of you shared, the budding, nervous flowers of a friendship. The way you’ve caught his hidden gaze lingering when you leave the fresher each time, skin bare and dripping. Din’s huge, gloved hand on your lower back as he guided you through the markets, the chuckles you elicit from him with your childlike wonder at every new species you met.

You dare yourself to dream. What it would be like to be by his side forever? This cold, stoic man; this bloodthirsty bounty hunter. You’re slowly cracking Din’s emotional armour as the days begin to pass in a blur. You hear that slow laugh rumble through his chest when you coax stories of his life from him in the depths of hyperspace, feel his protective gaze tracking you when you’re just out of his reach.

He’s funny, sarcastic in nature, fiercely proud of his heritage. Maker, you want him: those broad shoulders beneath the pauldrons, thick thighs and strong chest encased in beskar. You think of Din every night as you sleep metres apart, wondering how long you can stand your torturous, permanent state of desire for him.

You’ve never felt closer to Din. And yet, you’ve never even seen his face.

You’re stood in the hull of the ship together, now, your hand laid flat on his vambrace, anchoring him to you. Something had gone wrong today: he’d returned to the Razor Crest with no bounty, no murderous or thieving criminal whimpering at his feet. Din was wound tightly, frustration radiating off of him in waves that crashed over you in a torrent as soon as he boarded the ship.

You don’t ask what’s happened; you don’t care to know the story. You just want to help him. You want to relieve the pressure, give yourself to him, know him in the way you’re so desperate to. You fear his cold rejection - perhaps he’d turf you out on a backwater planet with no way home. You think you know, though, in your heart: he won’t.

“Please, Din.”

“I don’t think-” he starts, but you shake your head. His thick, gloved fingers grip your wrist; his touch is so delicate in a way that surprises you, warm blood pooling in your belly. “Let me help you,” you tell him, voice laced with desire. You tilt your head in search of a sign - anything, any flicker of indication - from beneath his darkened visor.

“Yeah?” he rasps, finally. “You want that?”

You nod, eagerly. So eagerly.

“I need to hear you say it. Say you want this.”

“Din.. You know I-”

“Tell. Me.”

“Maker,” you breathe. “Yes, Din - fuck. I want this.”

“Okay.”

You feel your eyes widening, his acceptance triggering a fresh course of need through your body. There are no nerves to be found, which surprises and excites you in equal measure. You’ve wanted him for so long, and judging by the way his helmet dips as he sizes you up, he feels the same.

“One rule,” he tells you, and your breath hitches as Din towers over you. You look up at him, lips parted, chest heaving. His hands come to frame your face, thumbs skirting below your brow bone, and you understand. You close your eyes, instantly shrouded in darkness, and make your promise to him.

“I won’t look, Din. I swear,” you tremble, and you hear him exhale, long and heavy. His hands leave you, and you wonder, for a fleeting moment, if you’ve made a mistake. Suddenly, the clang of beskar on the ship floor makes you jolt, and you fight the intense impulse to open your eyes.

You don’t.

Din takes your hands in his, and you feel him for the first time. His bare skin: the rough callouses of his palms, soft fingertips. “Maker..” Din breathes, and your knees all but buckle. His voice. Fuck. Clearer than you’ve ever heard it, free from the modulator. It’s so rich, so deep. You bite into your bottom lip to stop yourself whimpering.

He brings your hands upwards, and you collide gently with his face. You’re trembling as he places one either side, a mirror image of what he’d done to you. You feel his jaw in your palms; coarse hair along the sharp edges. You try to steady your breathing, harness your excitement. You worry of doing too much.

The weight of the trust placed upon your shoulders is not wasted on you. You so desperately want to gaze upon this man, drink him in for real. Your thirst is unquenchable, insides set ablaze the moment he touched you.

You get bolder, tracing your thumb over his soft lips. Din groans a little; you feel hot breath fan over your skin. Your fingers seek out his nose, running your digits over the beautiful curve. You slide them into his hair, thick and dripping over onto his forehead. “You’re so beautiful,” you tell him, without even thinking, and he laughs quietly.

You feel Din step away from you and divest himself of more armour. Softer sounds, too, like his tunic falling to the floor. You picture it: pulling that dark shirt over his head, shoulders bare, skin warm to the touch. He grasps your hand again: you’re not expecting it, so you jolt a little. “It’s okay,” he reassures you, voice soft and sure.

Din places it on his sternum: you feel his heartbeat beneath your touch. Rapid, just like yours. It gives you satisfaction to know you’re unravelling him, too; empowering you once again to explore. Hair decorates his pectoral muscles, strong as durasteel. You glide over the planes of collarbones and along to his upper arms, digging your nails into his biceps, delighting in his sharp intake of breath.

“Can I touch you, cyar’ika?” he asks, sounding almost pained. “Please,” you whisper, fumbling blindly for the belt around your own tunic. Din steadies you, halting your movements. “Hold still for me,” he murmurs, pleasure dripping down your spine at the request, and you relent.

You feel him, then, press a kiss to your forehead. He moves to the tip of your nose, your eyelids, your cheeks, tilting your head back to expose your throat to him. Din is everywhere: you feel the trail of him all over your skin, wet and messy as he leaves kisses on every part of you he can reach.

You’ve given up trying to control your reactions. You’re openly groaning at his ministrations, your remaining senses overloaded. You feel his teeth nipping at your earlobes; you gasp as he takes your fingertips into his mouth and sucks. “Stars,” he mutters. “Look at you.”

You wonder, for a moment, how you must appear to him. Needy, panting, wanton. You’ve buried your true emotions for so long, admiring him from afar. You think you’ll wake up soon. It has to be dream - your wildest thoughts woven into a tapestry of his soft touches. You know what those hands have done: he handles you just as expertly as a blaster, shooting to kill.

He guides you again, and you come into contact with his deliciously soft belly; your nails scraping his skin, Din hissing through his teeth in your ear. You smile, then, slipping a finger into the waistband of his trousers. The hair grows thicker against your knuckles, and you find yourself daring to go lower, lower, until -

He’s kissing you. Properly.

It’s a clash of tongues, bitten lips, wandering hands, desperate noises. Your own tunic discarded, lids still squeezed shut. You taste him, sweet and heady, as Din fights for dominance, claiming your mouth as his own. He lifts you into his arms and you squeal, unprepared, but wrap your legs round his waist and hold him close.

Din backs you into the wall beside the fresher, hungrier for you with each passing moment. He growls, a noise low in the depths of his chest, huge hands gripping your ass like they belong there. You seek the hair at the nape of his neck, aim for the curve of his jaw, mouthing at his skin.

“I‘ve wanted this for so long,” he admits, and you slow your movements, bumping your nose gently against his. “You have no idea,” you confess shyly, fumbling to press your lips to his once more. You feel him grinning back at you; like it’s a secret only the two of you will ever share.

“Mesh’la,” Din whispers, his voice soft yet so commanding. “Open your eyes.”

Kitten paintings by Meta Plückebaum (Germany, 1876 - 1945)