groggygrogu

[groggygrogu]

i actually very much enjoy writing scary scenes

whoops :)

[groggygrogu]

writers are creatures that feed on comments by the way. if you want more of your blorbo from them, give them lovely comments. they love that and will most likely give you more fics about your blorbo

[groggygrogu]

being a writer is constantly google the definitions of words you already know the meanings of because your brain's always paranoid and telling you maybe you've been using them wrong your entire life

I can excuse misusing words in my daily life but my mlm slow-burn enemies to lovers smut has to be perfect

[groggygrogu]

😭 this broke my heart omg i love it

tysm for sharing this and for tagging me <33 look after yourself

never going home.

☆彡 joel miller x gn! reader

tags -> pre-relationship, hurt/comfort, homesickness, trauma, found family, living together, healing

a/n : a little different from my usual fluff antics but i can't write for tlou without being upset anymore. hope you like it :)

-------༚☆༚-------

The sound of his boots scuffing against the mat by door has you jumping. You don't even have time to wipe your tears before he turns the corner and spots you.

There's a moment of silence. Him, taking in your current state. You, frozen in shame and embarrassed to be caught so vulnerable on his living room floor. Your fingers tremble around the record sleeve you were clutching. The record itself, maddeningly spinning and letting out the tune that unlocked those deep memories within you.

"I'm sorry-" Your voice breaks from the sobbing you had been doing just a minute before. "I just,"

The tears well again as you look down at the record sleeve, "I heard the record playing and I-"

Joel suddenly remembered how to move again and knelt next to you on the floor, "Don't worry it's fine, you don't gotta be afraid, darlin’."

His hand gently rubbed your shoulder and your heart melted. The tears just poured down your cheeks now.

Fuck.

Since when did you let a man get to you like this. Joel was never meant to be anything more than a patrol partner. A friend maybe. But these last few weeks, god.

The winter storm had taken several chunks out of you and your roommates’ house, so you were staying with Joel until it could get patched. And in Jackson, that meant it was going to take a few weeks. Joel offered since he had an extra bedroom ever since Ellie moved out to the garage, and you couldn’t say no. Unfortunately, it turned out to be much better than you expected. Shared meals, cooking together, late nights on the porch drinking the shit they called coffee in this town. It all resulted in you being genuinely content for the first time in decades, and maybe, possibly, falling in love.

It was fine, it was going great even. Until now.

You'd been cooking, Joel had just run out to grab you something from the garden that you'd forgotten. You didn't notice him put the record on before he left. It wasn't until you finished chopping the onions that you heard it. So softly at first, you thought you'd misheard. You paused, frozen and waiting. And there it was.

The song your dad used to play. The music your mom would drive and dance to in the car. The album you hadn't heard since you'd lost them forever.

The knife fell from your fingers like it had never even existed. You walked into the living room like a ghost, numb and mindless, only stopping once you saw the album cover on the coffee table.

And it all came rushing back to you. Every single memory of home, childhood, growing and laughing. Suddenly you were sobbing like you hadn't in years. You fell to your knees, crawling towards the coffee table like you were a child again. Your fingers trembled as you reached for the record sleeve. The thick paper dug into your skin as you clutched it to your chest.

The world didn't matter anymore, you just wanted to go home.

Go back to the place where you were you. Before monsters and bloodshed, before men and bodies. The childhood that so many children will never get to have.

What you wouldn't give to sleep in your childhood bed, one last time. To have your mother say goodnight the way she used to. To brush your teeth next to your sibling. To sit in your spot at the dinner table.

You were wishing you could've said goodbye to your family, wishing that it wasn’t true that you could never go home. You know you can never go home but you prayed that for a second, one fucking second, you could be back there, right where you were, when he walked in the door.

And now he's holding you, pressing you into him as you grieve the child you were, the person you’ll never get to be, the home you'll never go back to, the people who will always know you.

"Homesick, huh?" Joel spoke with no humor or pity, only understanding.

You only sob harder, nodding into his shoulder. He waits, silently and patiently, rubbing your back and petting your head. He doesn’t say anything, didn't do any of the things people usually do when they see someone crying. He just waits until you have cried yourself out, hiccuping and attempting to breathe normally again.

"Want me to help finish dinner?" He asks softly, "Or do you need time?"

You let out a final shaky sigh, "No, we should finish, I don't want the food to go bad out on the counter."

Dinner goes fine, not your best, but it’s edible. And everything stays calm, until you move out to the porch for your nightly "coffee".

"You wanna talk about it?" Joel interrupts your dissociative stare.

The sudden reminder has your chest tightening. You bite your lip, glancing over at him. The fact that you were even considering telling him anything means you are well and truly fucked.

"Yeah, I guess I should," You sigh, fidgeting in your seat, eyes fixed on the boards of the porch.

"You don't have to," He reminds you.

The tears threaten once again, and you try to blink them away, "I want to."

It takes a minute, but you find the words. Claw them up out of your chest were you had hurried them so many years before. Deep and tucked away somewhere between your mother's grief and your father's anger.

You looked back at him, "The record you had on just reminded me of everything I lost that day. It was kinda... a family favorite. I guess, I forgot how much I lost. I'll never get any of it back."

You give a small smile, letting a few more tears fall.

"I feel like a solider who's come home from war, but home can never be the same, after everything. I'll always be there, in the blood and the screaming and the nightmare. I'll never get to leave like I want to. How I want to."

You look up from your fidgeting fingers to see his eyes staring softly back at you. You never find anything but solace in them. And that’s still true now.

You doubt there's a soul on earth who could know you like Joel Miller knows you. Your pain echos the same as his. Haunting and everlasting.

He reaches for your hand, interlocking your fingers, "Well, I'll ask next time before I put it on."

You both smile, and you wipe your tears with your free hand.

"Thank you, Joel. These past few weeks, right now, it all... means a whole lot."

"Anytime, sweetheart." He gives your hand a squeeze.

Home is still a long ways away. You know you can never go back there. But maybe you could build a new one.

-------༚☆༚-------

a/n : this one's for you @groggygrogu <3 you and tlou have been on my mind. hope it wasn't as devastating to read as it was to write :)

thanks again to @saemeret for being my beta and sorry for not asking you to beta the last two times :( i needed to word vomit on the internet before i exploded.

don't be afraid to leave a note or reblog! I love reading y'alls comments <3

[groggygrogu]

i have barely seen any spoilers for tlou2 yet but the glimpses i have are devestating and ruinous

[groggygrogu]

i think it should be illegal to not have paper menus. and it should be illegal to only accept digital payments and not accept cash

generally making anything accessible only with a phone sould be illegal. like genuinely regulated by the govt and forbidden. IMO

[groggygrogu]

i love old interviews and old movies and old music videos because i love natural teeth

[groggygrogu]

Your regular reminder that trickle-down economics is a cruel joke designed by the wealthy.

[groggygrogu]

[groggygrogu]

ty!! <3

guess who's alive

hi friends, it has been quite some time but i'm back and i swear my tlou fic Selfless Confession will get finished 🙏

and i need somewhere to yell when i eventually watch season 2

how are we all

[groggygrogu]

guess who's alive

hi friends, it has been quite some time but i'm back and i swear my tlou fic Selfless Confession will get finished 🙏

and i need somewhere to yell when i eventually watch season 2

how are we all

[groggygrogu]

[groggygrogu]

What Takes the Edge Off || Joel Miller

Word Count: 2.0k

Summary: Now that Joel is living in Jackson, he’s picked up a few bad habits. When he comes home smelling like cigarettes, you punish him for his choice of vices

Notes: smoking, lap sitting, hair pulling, semi-public sex, grinding over clothes, edging, dom reader, sub(ish) Joel, no reader pronouns; smoking is gross unless you’re hot <3

joel miller masterlist main masterlist

Joel’s problem started with a crushed pack of Camels he’d found just a few short months after settling down in Jackson.

Truthfully, his problem had started when he was nineteen and naïve about the habit he was forming with the hand-rolled cigarettes stashed in his glovebox. They’d belonged to Tommy before Joel had quickly confiscated them with a lengthy lecture about the dangers of smoking.

Tommy was still a kid, but Joel was old enough to choose his own vices.

Everyone in Texas smoked; pipes, cigars, cigarettes – it was all commonplace in the rural heat of the South. Even after the world fell apart, there were plenty of people in QZs willing to trade a week’s worth of ration cards for a single carton of cigarettes, a stale taste of the life they’d left behind.

Joel had been more than happy to meet their demand, only occasionally skimming a few from his and Tess’s supplies. He didn’t crave the relief of nicotine any more than he craved a bottle of old whiskey or a quick, drunken fuck – it was just a way to cope with the life he’d been given.

Living in Jackson is different. The air is cleaner, the streets aren’t littered with soggy cigarette butts, and the weight of Joel’s bad habits has finally caught up to him.

The first pack he found, he’d shared with Tommy. The pair stood outside a crumbling house on their patrol route and chain-smoked what was left in the half-crushed box, reminiscing about the time Tommy stole an imported cigar from their father’s nightstand and had gotten sick from the first puff. Twenty years since they’d seen home, their Southern upbringing still kept them from smoking indoors.

The smell of tobacco had worn off by the time they returned to the city gates, and you were none the wiser about their indulgence. Even when you threw your arms around Joel and buried your face in his chest, you’d greeted him like nothing was out of the ordinary.

A couple days after he’d finished the first pack, Joel realized how much he enjoyed smoking. He found himself missing the bitter taste in his mouth, fingers twitching at his sides like he’s flicking loose ashes from a phantom burning tip.

There’d been a gun in his hand for as long as he could remember, and now that his days are spent in protected leisure, Joel feels like a crucial piece of himself is missing.

He’s constantly searching for the sleek steel of a pistol, the pressure of a trigger responding to his unabating command. The weight of a cigarette balanced between his fingers had eased the grief of being still.

A sealed pack of Marlboro’s was Joel’s next find, left behind on a coffee table in a house just beyond his normal patrol route. His habit had never been routine enough to pick a favorite brand, but the familiar red and white emblem is a welcomed sight, a promise of earthy tobacco and a good, slow burn.

The matchbook in his pocket is a heavy burden on Joel’s conscience as he picks up the cigarettes and quietly slips them into his supply bag. This time, he isn’t sharing with Tommy or anyone else who feels they have a claim over a portion of his findings.

Jackson might be a commune, but just this once, Joel’s nicotine-fueled prerogative trumps his commitment to sacrifice.

He waits until he’s past the city gates to unwrap the crisp plastic and slide the first cigarette out of the pack. It’s nearly midnight when he returns his horse to the stable and begins the short walk home, unlit cigarette dangling between his teeth as he attempts to light a match under the warm embrace of the streetlamps.

The initial thrum of nicotine flooding his lungs is bittersweet, a slight burn that dulls his senses with each deep breath. He walks with his cigarette pulled up to his mouth, the weak orange glow of lit tobacco burning a crude effigy into the shadows of his face.

You’re sitting on the porch when he rounds the corner, lazed in a rocking chair that Joel had built the previous summer – his attempt at adjusting to the slow life.

When he realizes that you’re still awake, he flicks the half-finished cigarette onto the ground and crushes it with the toe of his boot, waving a hand to clear the lazy smoke lingering in the air. He grumbles under his breath and pulls the front of his jacket to his nose to gauge how long it would take the smell of tobacco to fade, but he realizes too late that the sickly-sweet aroma is already woven into the material – still clinging to his breath.

He makes his way up the sidewalk with a guilty look on his face and a hand tucked in his pocket, thumb rubbing soothingly over the side of the cigarette pack as if the feel of the box was enough to bring him relief.

It wasn’t that he expected to be chastised for his nasty habit – you knew better than anyone that Joel preferred to take care of himself. But he distinctly remembers a conversation you’d shared some time ago about old-world vices and your distaste for smoking.

He didn’t think it was worth mentioning his habit at the time; smoking was a luxury he doubted he’d ever have again, so why ruin his image of calloused self-restraint?

The sound of the porch steps creaking under Joel’s boots grabs your attention from whatever book you’d been reading, now abandoned face-down on the arm of the rocking chair as you turn to greet him.

“You’re home,” you drawl, the tired lilt in your voice betraying your content expression.

His chin dips in a bashful acknowledgement, tucked to his chest as he leans down to press a kiss to the side of your face. He still isn’t used to having someone waiting up for him; the thought only adds to the weight of his self-reproach.

“How was patrol?” you ask as Joel pulls away, though your eyes rake over him with another question in mind.

Before he can answer, you reach out and grab the front of his jacket, bringing the material to your nose to confirm what Joel already knew. “You smell like smoke.”

He swallows the sandpaper feeling in his mouth and shrugs. “Got a little cold out tonight, we stopped to make a fire on our way back.”

He cringes internally at his halfhearted attempt at avoiding the matter, but it doesn’t seem to deter you from putting the pieces together anyway.

“No,” you interject, brows pulled together in confusion. “You smell like cigarettes.”

He’s silent for a moment, unable to think of an honest way out of this conversation. “Huh.”

“Joel,” you drawl, standing and wrapping your arms around his shoulders. A teasing grin pulls at the corners of your mouth, a scandalized amusement that makes his cheeks burn. “Have you been smoking?”

Your fingers weave through the dark curls at the nape of his neck, tugging softly until his head rolls back.

His eyes flutter shut and he shudders as he pulls the offending pack from his pocket. “Found ‘em on patrol,” he pants, his free hand gently squeezing your hip. “People leave all sorts of useful things behind when the world’s endin’.”

You offer only a simpering tsk in response, not quite the reaction Joel was expecting.

The night air is silent beyond the quiet lull of Jackson and the floorboards shifting under your feet as you shuffle closer together, sharing an intimate moment in the dim light seeping through the front room windows. Joel’s hands are a firm presence on your waist, separated from your skin by only the thin flannel shirt you’d stolen from his closet. 

Eventually, you pull away, ushering him into the seat you’d abandoned upon his arrival. He drops into the rocking chair with a grunt and drags you into his lap.

“Missed you, baby” he murmurs, admiring the way you fit perfectly into the hollow of his frame, the way you balance yourself overtop him with practiced ease.

He knows he should be more concerned about your indifferent reaction, more worried about the possibility of someone walking by. But his sensibility is swept away by the heave of your chest and the little sound you make when his hand presses against the base of your spine.

Your hips drag slowly over his and for a moment, Joel thinks you’ve forgotten about the cigarettes. Or maybe you won’t mind his indulgence as long as he makes up for it. The warmth of your body pressed against his makes Joel ache for more, ready to offer an apology with more than just his words.

Just as he leans in to press his mouth to yours, you pull away far enough that he misses.

“Ah-” you stop him with a raised hand, fingertips pressed to his pouted lips. “You can kiss me when you don’t smell like cigarettes.”

The warm, hazy feeling is suddenly ripped from the air. Joel’s head jerks back in a look of disbelief, mouth hung open and brows pulled together as if he’d been scorned. “You’re serious?”

“Mhmm,” you nod, running a hand over his chest to soothe his trampled ego. “Can’t stand the smell, baby. You know that.”

The rocking chair dips forward as Joel drops his head onto your shoulder with a groan. “That’s just cruel.”

“It’s not cruel,” you laugh, pushing back the mess of curls falling into his face. “When you come home from patrol, I wanna taste you, not smoke.”

Your hips stir over his once again and Joel swears under his breath. His cock twitches in interest and he begrudgingly accepts the torment of your slow pace. This isn’t the time to take charge and chase his high; he’ll let you take the reins until you decide that he’s forgiven.

He picks his head up to glance around the empty streets, assuring himself that there’s no one here to witness his weak-willed acquiescence.

“I wanna touch you, make you feel good,” you continue, ghosting your fingers over the front of his jeans. “But how can I do that when all I can think about is those nasty cigarettes? Hmm?”

Your hands travel back to his chest, but your hips continue to roll over his, trapping his stiff cock beneath the comfortable pressure of your thighs. His eyes flutter shut once more as he leans back into his seat and lets you have your fun.

It doesn’t take long for Joel to near his end, subtly bucking his own hips to help himself along. He’s right there, right at the edge of his release, knuckles turning white as his grip tightens on the arm rests and—

The weight in his lap is gone, replaced with an empty chill that makes Joel’s hips stutter. His eyes snap open as he struggles to focus in his blissed-out state, but a hand on his shoulder brings him back to reality.

You’re standing in front of him now, no longer providing the friction that’d been fueling the fire in his belly. “Sorry, baby. You don’t get off that easy.”

He groans when you crawl back into his lap and you’re flooded with a sense of empowerment. It shouldn’t feel this good to see Joel suffer. You know it’s not fair to tease him like this, but maybe he deserves a little punishment.

“Maybe if you hadn’t been smoking, I’d let you enjoy this. Let you use your mouth to make me come, let you fuck me the way you want to.”

Joel stays silent, obedient. He swallows around shallow gasps of air that make his chest rise and fall with the labor of his breaths, thighs tensing as he struggles not to chase that feeling dangling just out of reach.

“I could do this all night,” you note, settling your weight in his lap again, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth. “And I think you’d let me.”

[groggygrogu]

Hello! I was just hit with a rush of "this is perfect!" I really don't care about like if you wanna do all of these, but any one of them is good for Din x reader. Like it's basically Mando sex appeal in a post. (Or any of the other Mandalorians really if you're feeling it)

i love this !! disclaimer i wrote this in one hour at about 1am i hope you enjoy <33

gn reader x din djarin

mature rating

815 words

—

You’re not quite sure how it happened - how you got from one point to the next. One moment, you’re fumbling around in the cockpit trying to get Mando’s fucking metal contraption off the ground as the man himself fights off the last of your attackers while hanging from the back of his ship.

And the next, well the next moment, you’re against the back of the cockpit, hips pinned to the wall by Mando gripping your thighs. His thumbs are tracing circles just below your hips and you’re still not quite sure how you got here.

Not that you’re complaining.

“Mando?” You say, already breathless at where this might be going. You think it was him that led you to this position. You certainly don’t remember making the call.

“Din.” He says in reply.

“Wha-”

“My name, is Din.”

“Din.” It sounds good on your tongue. You swallow as he tilts his head up to look at you and trace the bottom of his helmet with your thumb. “Din, is this- what do- um.”

Your already jumbled train of a thought comes to a screeching halt as his finger comes up to trace the zipper on your pants.

“I want to make you feel good,” he says quietly. “Is that okay?”

“Y- yeah. Yes, please.”

“I was scared today,” he murmurs, face directed at your crotch as he unclasps your flight pants. “Too many near misses.”

“I know Mand- Din.”

He moves to pull them off fully when he pauses. “Is that a knife? Inside your pants?”

“S’hidden,” you whine, not entirely concentrating on what he’s saying.

“That’s not safe.”

“It’s covered.”

After a huff but no more comment, he pulls them down to your ankles before being hindered by your heavy boots. With the patience of a saint, he unlaces them both slowly and lifts your feet out of them.

The discovery of three more knives follows.

“Three?”

“Get up here, you,” you laugh, tugging on his shoulders gently. “Clutching your pearls over a couple of knives, honestly.”

“I don’t have any pearls.”

You ignore him and his endearing habit of taking everything you say entirely literally. You let yourself imagine what he’d look like in pearls, just for a second.

Your hands rest on his fully armoured chest. “Can I take this off?”

You almost don’t catch the tiny nod he gives you but you think you could give a master class on how to read the mandalorian by now. He bends down first to pull off his own boots and a good three stashed pointy things with each one. You shake your head fondly and tap his helmet as he stands back up. The metal chest plate comes off first and then the perfectly shaped pieces along each arm before you can start to peel off his flight suit.

Then it’s your turn to baulk as under each plate, he seems to have hidden ridiculous amounts of extra ammo. And ridiculous contraptions on each wrist that while you have caught flashes of them still come as a surprise. You tug off each glove, taking the extra time to feel the soft part of his palm with your finger tips.

He shivers as your fingers draw a path down his chest so his bellybutton. You wonder when he was last touched like this, or touched at all.

The hold-out blaster tucked under his waistband is your final straw and you can’t help but snort.

“So that’s how you made it out of that situation back on Tatooine, huh?”

A smug nod.

You scoff and butt your head against this helmet - a familiar action in an entirely new context. You don’t hate it.

Din had remained silent up until this point, allowing you to take in the skin you’d never seen before, under the lights of the control panel. But now he grunts, questioning what’s wrong.

“Din, do you think the both of us may be a little paranoid?”

“No.”

“No?” you query, winkling out the dagger he’d managed to squeeze into his holster along with his usual pistol. You hold it up to his helmet trying to stifle a laugh.

You can almost see him frowning, not that you should have any concept of that but you just do somehow. His focus is back on you now, deft fingers untying the laces of your own far simpler armour. You’re not sure if he’s trying to be funny or not but you still giggle as he pats you down before fully removing it. The smoke bomb he finds loosely taped to the inside of the leather stops him.

“Maybe,” he allows. “Maybe a bit paranoid.”

You sigh and press the quickest kiss to his shoulder, allowing yourself some plausible deniability. Though you’re not sure why.

“Keep going,” he whispers, his newly bare hands hovering in the space between you. “Please.”

“Whatever you need, Din.”

[groggygrogu]

[Image Description: A black color block and pink color block in a vertical row with text that reads “protect queer jewish people / don’t allow antisemitism to exist in queer spaces”]

[groggygrogu]

[groggygrogu]

i need criminal minds mutuals !!

where are you guys 🤲🤲