#trucker husbands

[fandomfluffandfuck]

Big beefy trucker Bucky and truck stop hooker Steve! One thing Bucky doesn't know is that he is the only guy stopping at this stop. Others have even heard about the place. Things have gone too far now Steve doesn't know how to tell Bucky that Steve is Buckys only

(or maybe Steve is truly serving every trucker that stops by and Bucky is smitten over him while Steve too is giving him special treatment... Idk you decide)

I 👏🏻 love 👏🏻 this 👏🏻 pairing 👏🏻

But, I do have to confess that this pairing belongs to Lynne (@the1918) and K (@howdoyousleep3) in my mind--

"Truck Stops and Fairy Tales"

(By the way, the series won't be continuing, BUT we can all enjoy what does exist of the series by reading what's out there)

Also, because I love this pairing so much... here's all the Tumblr drabbles about them that I can find:

A mood board by @fishyandclintbarton

@ixalit pointing out a song with their vibes

Trucker husbands featuring a storm (Lynne)

Steve in Bucky's shirts (Lynne)

Steve in Bucky's shirts Extra (K)

Fluffy husbands (K)

Some fight outta tiny Steve (K)

Excellent ideas (K)

Enjoy your reading!

[jammy1032]

[bathroom-sand]

i need every right winged person complaining about the left’s response to trump’s assassination attempt to show me their response to pelosi’s husband being beaten with a hammer. like, they’re not gonna magically convince me that the guy who immediately publicly made jokes about that deserves my sympathy lmao. we already know how the right would’ve responded if the roles were reversed, with jokes and conspiracy theories.

[carmelamontezlikr]

i need to live in the country side in a small town where it snows, where there’s old buildings from the 1800’s still in use, old train tracks, ranchers that stop in town. i NEED to be able to ride a horse for the first time in my life, ( second ig cuss rode ponys when i was little ) i wanna be able to go to antique stores and buy the whole store, stay out when it’s late with my friends watching the sunset in the back of a truck bed near a fence where there’s cattle grazing ahead ☹️ thinking abt my man my husband tloml.

i want old ladys from around there to teach me embroidery and sewing and talk abt their lifes as kids when their parents were ranchers and what their grandparents lifes were as kids in the 1890’s qnd UP!!

[wigoutlet]

Tesla Semi Truck - American Flag

by WigOutlet

Husband Dad Trucker Legend Electric Tesla Semi Truck with American Flag

[aphelionwrotes11]

(MDNI 18+) (unedited)

Trucker!simon x reader (afab)

CW: smut, unprotected PiV penetration, dubcon (slight alcohol consumption, not a lot)

Part 3

Trucker!simon, as puntual as ever, raps his heavy fist against your door at 7pm sharp. You have to take a final look at yourself in the mirror to ensure you still look well groomed.

When you open the door Simon’s huge form takes up nearly the entire doorframe. He’s wearing heavy dark blue jeans, a flannel button up, and a thick leather jacket. He has a bouquet of red and pink roses. You get to enjoy his uncovered smile as you fawn over them.

He lifts them for you to smell, but the only thing you catch of whiff of is his musky cologne, rich and deep. Once you get the roses settled into a vase, Simon walks you to his pickup with a warm hand resting firm on your hip.

When you ask him where he’s taking you, he just glances your way with a smirk,

“You’ll see, lovey.”

You giggle and ask him how much longer it’ll be.

“Wot’s the matter? Just can’t wait much longer for it to be over and be in my bed?”

You gape at him, your face flushing red, and he chuckles. He must notice you squeezing your thighs together, because a moment later he plants his massive hand on your thigh, giving you a gentle squeeze.

By the time you two make it to the restaurant, you’re certain there must be a puddle on his brown leather seats with how much he was squeezing your thigh, teasing his fingers just under the skirt of your dress. Your legs feel like jello as he helps you out of the truck.

The place he’s taken you is a lot prettier than you imagined, cute and atmospheric. You’re a bit shocked that a gruff man like him would know any places like this.

Has a reservation for the two of you, at a table he specifically chose. A private table in the corner, nestled between two large plant covered windows. You gasp at the view, looking out over the well lit street.

When you ask him how he found such a lovely place, he tells you he knows the owner’s husband.

“S’my ol cap’s wife, used to be in the force with em’. Same team. Lovely couple, they’ll like you.”

You listen to him speak, asking him questions about his time in the military. When it’s time to order, you take a final glance at the menu, your brows furrowing. It’s a real nice place, and the prices reflect that.

“You can get whatever you want, lovey.” He says, but you just frown. So he looks up at the waiter and tells him to give you both another minute.

You explain that you’re sorry, everything’s just so expensive, you don’t want to cost him too much. He looks offended and grunts, leaning over to you.

“Money ain’t an issue f’me.”

��I’ll get you anything you want, anything at all, bird.” He says so gently, you’re unsure he’s even talking about food.

By the end of dinner, your belly is full and your cheeks are warm, from him or the glass of wine, you aren’t sure. The two of you talked for hours, and your stomach still hurts from how hard he made you laugh with his ridiculous dad jokes.

You feel giddy as he walks you out to his truck, arm around your shoulder. You nestle yourself into his side, taken in his heat and his smell. The mood shifts once the two of you get into the truck. Suddenly the air is too hot, and you would really love to lose a few layers.

Just like before, he plants his warm palm on the fat of your thigh, massaging his fingers into it. But this time, as his fingers breach the skirt of your dress, they keep inching up until his thumb is pressed up against your clothed sex. You suck in a breath as he applies some pressure to your throbbing clit.

“So wet already, ain’t ya bird?” He whispers, his voice thick.

The only response you can give him is a whine as he shifts his hand till he’s grinding his palm against you. You meet his pace, moving your hips against his hand, grasping his arm as you whimper.

His other hand grips the steering wheel so hard his knuckles are white. He struggles to even keep his eyes on the road, and when he finally glances at you, just to see you looking up at him all needy and flushed, he has to resist pulling over and taking you right here in his truck. Instead he just presses harder on the gas and on your wet pussy.

By the time you’ve made it to his home, you’ve already cum twice. Your gasping and twitching as he jumps from out as soon as he puts the truck into park, speed walking to your side and ripping the door open to smash his lips against yours.

Carries you up the front door, your legs wrapped around his waist. He parts from you only once to unlock his door and take you both inside. He pushes you against the wall, tearing of his jacket as you pull off your own. His hands grab the hem of your dress, you help him pull it over your head. You blush as he pauses for a moment to take in your matching set, red lace bralette and panties.

“This all f’me? So perfect.” He groans. Hand coming up to cup your tit and press a wet kiss to your lace covered chest.

By the time he has you laid out in his bed you’re naked and hot. You claw at his shirt, whining at him to take it off.

He complies without second thought, ripping it off and revealing a muscled, scarred chest. You can’t help how you practically mewl at the sight of him.

He bends down as he’s removing his jeans to press kisses down the expanse of your throat. His mouth finds a nipple, sucking it into his mouth. He licks your chest sloppily, groaning as he sucks hickies on your tits. He stands straight as he pulls off his boxers, revealing a thick cock, the tip an angry red as it leaks precum.

“Look a’ what you do to me love. Never been so hard.” His voice is low and nearly whiny near the end of his sentence.

Spends a real long time stretching you out on his thick fingers. Sucks on your tits and neck the whole time. He’s almost as loud as you, watching you as you squirm beneath him with groans falling from his lips. You cum at least 2 times, but you aren’t sure, your bones feel like jelly and your vision is so blurred from tears you can barely see Simon’s face. If you could see it, you would see how pussy drunk he looks, absolutely love struck.

When he finally lines himself with your entrance, he gently squeezes your hips and presses a few sweet kisses to your mouth.

“You ready bird? Think ya can take some more?” He asks softly.

Yes, yes, please. You tell him. Finally.

Doesn’t waste another moment and finally pushes himself into your slick cunt with a low groan. He presses his face into the crook of your neck, gently thrusting himself into you at first.

“Feel s’good.. so so good.” He mumbles against your skin, halting his movements for a moment.

He lifts himself to his elbows, analyzing your face to ensure you’re comfortable. With your approval he starts moving, fucking you with long and languid thrusts. Pulling his cock all the way out before pushing back in.

After a while of him moving like this, you feel like you’re about to fall apart again. You claw at his back, legs wrapped around his waist as he hits a gooey spot within you that has you clenching on his cock.

“Give it t’me sweetheart, please, I need it.” He says, sounding utterly wrecked.

And once you come on his cock, he loses it. He starts humping himself into you at an ungodly pace, one that has you crying and mewling his name. Every nerve in your body feels like it’s on fire, you can’t even form the words to ask him to slow down, but given the look on his face you aren’t sure if he’d even hear you.

He looks so out of it, practically drunk. His eyes are half lidded and lips parted as he grunts and gasps. His hands hold your hips in a vice grip that you know will leave marks, not like it matters though, he’s already marked all over your chest and throat.

“Been- been waiting to take ya out fer- fu-uck-“ he pauses, his hips snapping against yours, “since I saw ya bird- knew you were mine. All mine.” He growls out.

His eyes nearly roll to the back of his skull as you clench down on his length, he lets out a breathy moan as he slows his movements.

“W-where you want it birdie? Where y’want me to cum?” He gasps out.

Blows his load as soon as you squeak out a quiet “inside.”

He’s growling, gasping and panting, as he pumps his load into you. Keeps thrusting even after he’s cum, pressing his nose into your hair and whining.

Once the two of you have come down, and you finally stop seeing stars, he quickly hops up to get a wet rag and cold glass of water. Cleans the both of you up and urges you to take a few sips, finishes what’s left of the glass once you do.

You practically pass out as soon as he’s got you wrapped up in his warm, burly arms. He stays awake though, petting your hair and gazing at your pretty face. He’s finally got you, and he’s never letting you go.

Note: it was HELL trying to get this done for you guys today :((( my wifi decided to die once I was halfway through with the first part of this fic, which then deleted everything and I had to rewrite EVERYTHINF. That and my poor doggy has been losing his mind over the fireworks going off every ten mins (curse you Fourth of July). It’s fine tho, cuz I think it turned out so cute. Ofc I had to add in the fluffy ending, also please forgive the repetitive word use and unnecessary commas!! I’m planning on coming back and editing this one hardcore, if I end up adding any major things to it I’ll just post the updated version (as well as this one) but this will do for now!! Just wanted to give u guys something to chew on cuz I left you all high and dry with the first part lol

Simon Riley master list

[importantanimalstories]

In 2017 a husband-and-wife trucking couple were at a truck stop in Laredo, Texas, when they came across a cat begging truckers for food. He was too scared to let anyone near him, but the husband offered him a piece of chicken and was able to grab him before he could run off. They fed him and, realising they couldn’t leave him there, took him on board, not sure what to do with him as they’d never owned a cat before. They wanted to do their best to help him gain weight, and then to find him a new home – but in the process fell in love with him! Grayson, as he was named, has been trucking for some seven years now, and has been to every state in the US except Alaska and Hawaii. The wife said, ‘He’s my world, and I’m so glad we were able to help him; he’s been at my side along the road and on all our journeys together.’

[tisinochannel]

(via Husband Dad Trucker Legend For Mom Vintage Essential T-Shirt)

[bigification]

Preston's 21st

Inspired by a story from Fattystoriez

"Don't worry babe, Preston is an adult now. He can handle meeting his biological father." Vince reassured his husband, hugging him from behind.

"I know, I know. It's just scary letting him take such a big step, I mean what if meeting his father disappoints him. Based on my conversations with that man, I know I would be disappointed. I mean, does he even have a job?" Brent voiced his worries.

"Preston said he was a trucker or something. And this is something that he needs to do. Besides, you know he still loves us as his adoptive parents even if he wants to have his biological father in his life." Vince responded.

"I know, thanks babe." Brent smiled.

"Preston! You should get going, you're gonna be late." Vince yelled.

"I know pops, I'm just getting dressed." Preston yelled back.

Preston scoured through his dresser, trying to find the clothes to wear for his reunion with his father. His biological parents gave him up for adoption when he was a baby, so this will be the first time meeting his father. How was he supposed to dress for an occasion like this.

He threw on his lucky jockstrap, hoping it would give him as much luck as it does in his rugby games. Then he pulled up some grey jeans, leaving them untied while he decided if it looked good.

He stared at the mirror for a bit, undecided on the jeans. And while staring at the mirror, he brushed his hair and combed his beard, wondering if he should shave.

"Preston, hurry up!" Vince yelled again.

"Just a second!" Preston responded.

He quickly buttoned up his jeans and threw on a plain white t-shirt before rushing downstairs. He haphazardly threw on his shoes and a red hat, matching his lucky jockstrap. Just before rushing out the door, his dad's stopped him.

"Be careful, okay?" Brent asked.

"I will, dad." Preston chuckled.

"We love you." Vince added as Preston ran out the door.

"Love you too."

Preston floored it down the road. Luckily his father didn't live far down the road. His brakes screeched as his parked on the side of the road. He was shocked at how run down the neighbourhood looked, each townhome looked old and disheveled. On top of that, every guy he's seen since he entered this neighbourhood has been at least 300 pounds of lard. Preston scoffed at the thought that some people let themselves get to that point.

He squinted as he looked for the address he was given, finally spotting it a few homes down from where he parked. He walked up to the driveway, noticing that the garage door was open. As he got closer, Preston saw a man sitting in the garage, presumably his father. Though his excitement was slightly ruined by the strong smell of beer and cigars coming from the garage. Getting closer, whatever excitement he still had was completely stifled when he got a good look at his father.

The man was laid back on a lawn chair in the middle of the garage, his large frame spilling over the edges of the chair. He was holding a bottle of beer in one hand and a cigar in the other. His button up was undone, letting his exposed gut spill out onto his lap.

"Hey, I think I got the wrong *cough* address, I'm looking for a *cough* man named Travis." Preston asked the man while trying to swat away the smoke.

"Yer' lookin at him, son." Travis said in a thick southern accent.

Preston's stomach dropped when it was confirmed that the slob of a man in front of him was indeed his father. He couldn't believe he was related to a man like that, he had always been active and sporty just like his two dad's. He always figured his biological parents must have been pretty active, but that image of his family was being shattered. I guess it makes sense why he never struggled to bulk for the rugby season.

"C'mon in son, have a beer." Travis pulled out a bottle from the mini fridge behind him.

"I'm okay thanks." Preston politely declined, standing at a healthy distance from his father.

"C'mon in, I don't bite." Travis motioned with his hands. "I was drinkin these when I was half yer age, just try one will ya." He held out the beer.

Preston had never had a beer before. His dad's let him try wine a couple of times, but he hated it so he had interest in drinking alcohol, even if was of age now. But he wanted to at least try to have a relationship with his father, so he took the beer. His hand brushed against Travis' as he took the beer, a strange sensation shot through his hand, almost like an electric shock. He figured it was nothing.

"Good boy, it'll loosen ya up a bit." Travis smiled.

Preston tried twisting the cap off, but it didn't budge.

"Give it here." Travis chuckled as he pulled out a bottle opener. "You need a bottle opener for that, I don't buy any of that twist off sissy bulshit they make nowadays." He continued while popping off the cap with ease. "Here, keep the opener. I got a feeling yer gonna need it."

Preston awkwardly put the bottle opener in his pocket, figuring it would make his dad happy if he just went along for now. Though he could see Travis impatiently waiting for him to have a sip of beer.

He lifted the beer to his lips and tilted the bottle up. The cold liquid slid down his throat. It was a bit weird at first, but it quickly started to taste good. He kept going and going, like his body wouldn't let him pull the bottle away from his mouth. Not like he would want to, this was the best thing he had ever tasted. It kicked in quick too, he started to feel slow and lethargic.

A warm and fuzzy feeling started in Preston's stomach, slowly spreading throughout his body. He instinctively raised his free hand to scratch his belly. It felt round and soft, pressing tightly against his shirt. But for some reason, that felt right to him. In fact, the thought of growing made him feel better, it made him feel strong. His dick started to grow hard as his clothes continued to tighten against his swelling body. His pecs were starting to resemble moobs, and his love handles were beginning to spill over his waist band.

He drank every last drop from the bottle before putting it down. His father looked proud, which further increased that nice warm feeling in his belly. But just before he could say something, a loud burp erupted from the depths of his stomach. As he burped, his modest belly rapidly expanded into a thick ball belly, growing from slightly chubby to extremely overweight in moments.

Preston looked down at his expanding belly. He couldn't see his dick or his feet anymore, he could only see the constant reminder of his gluttony jutting out in front of him.

"Dad... why am I gettin so fat?" Preston asked his father.

"Cuz yer part of the family. Every man in this family becomes a fat slob on their 21st birthday. It's about becomin a man, a real man. Nothing like those skinny liberals you call yer father's." Travis explained.

"But... dad..." Preston tried to talk, but was having trouble thinking.

"Shhhh don't talk son, just have another beer." Travis handed him another bottle.

Preston pulled out his trusty bottle opener and easily popped the cap off the bottle.

"Good boy." Travis said, proud of the man his son was becoming.

Preston started chugging the beer while Travis continued his monologue.

"I was like you when I was just a boy. Skinny, weak, political. My pops made me the strong traditional man I am today, and his father did the same to him. Just like you'll do to your son when he grows up."

Preston's clothes began to strain as his body continued to grow. His gut started to hang over his jeans, sagging under its own immense weight. His love handles also spilled over his jeans, making his silhouette look wide and round. His soft pecs swelled into thick man tits that sagged onto his gut.

The button on his jeans popped off, launching across the garage as fat piled into his juicy ass. And a stain of pre cum started to form in his jeans while he massaged his growing gut.

"I'm so proud of you Preston, yer growin so big already." Travis remarked. "And it's not only our sons we can use this God given ability on. We can turn any weak little man into a big strong man, like they were meant to be. Some men choose to walk down a dark path that leads to communism and dieting instead of traditional values and hearty meals, God gave us this ability to save those men from themselves."

Preston finished his second beer, letting out an even louder burp than last time, being heard throughout the neighborhood. As he did so, his tiny clothes finally gave out, leaving him in nothing but a red hat and his lucky jockstrap which is digging into his soft waist.

"Daddy... *Buuuuuurp* I..." Preston tried to speak.

"You want to get fatter and make yer family proud, right son?" Travis asked.

"Yes..." Preston responded.

"Good boy, now drink up." Travis handed him another beer.

Preston tried to look back towards the street, where multiple men were stood watching. He tried to cover up his fat naked body, but it was no use.

"Don't look at them, son. Look at me. If you want to make yer pops proud, you drink that beer." Travis pulled attention away from the onlookers.

Preston simply nodded and started chugging again.

"All those men out there are proud of the man yer becomin'. They used to be weak, just like yer adoptive daddies, but I fixed them. I fixed every man in this neighborhood. And I can't wait for you to do the same to yer daddies." Travis said.

"You can fix my daddies?" Preston asked, a thick southern accent starting to take over.

"Of course I can, son. And yer gonna help me." Travis said getting up from his chair. "Now let's get'ya in some clothes."

As his father went searching for a set of clothes that would fit him, Preston finally started growing accustomed to his new body. He had to lean back just to balance out the immense weight of his gut, and he had to spread his arms and legs just to stop them from chaffing. A sense of pride washed over his face, once unsure, he was now unwavering in his confidence. His dull smile was now a permanent sign of his blissful ignorance, he was a proud conservative man just like his father. Tasked with saving other men from their weakness.

"Here ya are, son." Travis tossed him a t-shirt and pants, "they'll be a bit tight cuz ya turned out to be bigger than I thought, but that's somethin' to be proud of."

After taking an unusual amount of time getting his clothes on, Preston confidently looked at himself in the mirror. His clothes were right and his gut spilled out of his new shirt, a public reminder of his manliness. He pulled up his shirt, showing off his rotund gut and his thick man tits, and took a picture.

"Alright son, you ready to see yer daddies?" Travis asked while walking to Preston's car.

"Sure am." He responded with a devilish grin.

The two squeezed into Preston's car, both having to adjust their seats as far back as possible. With his gut touching the wheel, and his head nearly touching the ceiling, Preston floored it back to his place. His dick was leaking at the thought of his adoptive dad's becoming like him. It didn't help that his fat jiggled with the slightest bump in the road, making the stain in his pants even larger.

His tires squeeze as he pulls into his driveway.

"You go in the front door, I'll head 'round back to see if I can catch one of 'em off guard." Travis said as he got out of the car.

Preston simply nodded in response. Travis swiftly, or at least as swiftly as he could, made his way around the house to the backyard. Preston struggled for a moment trying to get out of his car before waddling up to his front door. His heart was pounding, both from the walk up to the door and from the thought of seeing his pops.

He braced for a moment before opening the door and walking inside. Vince was by the closet getting ready for work, seemingly unaware of Preston's presence.

Preston watched for a moment as his father contemplated which tie he wanted to wear. He grunted in disapproval at his grey tie and swapped it out for a pink one.

"What a weak little man." Preston thought.

Vince then grabs an expensive looking suit jacket and throws it on.

"Pops always told me that 'the suit makes the man'." Preston continued to think of things about his father he now despised.

Vince adjusted his suit one last time, making sure it was perfect before turning to leave. He flinched when he finally made eye contact with his son. You could see his kind struggling to process the situation. First he flinched because he didn't recognize Preston, but he quickly relaxed when he realized it was his son. Then fear took over his face once again when he saw the 150 pounds of fat that had engulfed Preston's body.

"Preston?" He asked, his voice was trembling. "Is that you?"

"Sure is pops. In all my glory." Preston said confidently as his slapped his gut.

"Oh my god, what happened to you?!" Vince rushed to help his son.

"My father showed me the error of my ways, the error of yer ways."

"What are you talking about?" Vince asked, now full on panicking.

"You'll see, everyone will see." Preston raised his voice, now sporting an unmistakable deep southern accent.

He grabbed Vince's hand, an electric shock surge from his hand into his father's. Almost immediately, Vince froze. His body was motionless and his eyes went blank.

Preston happily watched on as his adoptive father started to rapidly pack on the pounds. It started with his stomach. Once flat, it quickly started to grow rounder and stick out further. It grew larger than a basketball, sticking out of his suit jacket. It swelled until his dress shirt was at its limit and his gut was spilling over his belt. Although it was still much smaller than both Preston's and Travis', he was still left with a sizable pot belly that protruded in front of him.

Next his chest starts to inflate. The once athletic looking man became buried under a layer of fat. His pecs softened and swelled into a thick pair of moobs that showed through his tight shirt. His arms also got covered in a thick layer of fat, filling out the empty space in his sleeves.

Preston smiled when he heard Vince's dress pants start to rip as his ass inflated, becoming wide but still perky, perfectly filling out his pants. He wasn't as lucky with his belt, however, as his waistline expanded by over 8 inches, snapping his belt in the process. The rest of his pants filled out nicely as his legs swelled with fat.

Finally, his blank face started to change. His ragged features became softer as his face fattened. His cheeks widened and his nose grew, his jawline melted away as a double chin formed. Luckily his beard grew out, covering most of the damage. And his hair suddenly became gelled and combed to the side, making him look professional despite barely fitting into his clothes.

"Oh, hello Preston." Vince said, finally coming back to. "Did you put on weight since I last saw you, it looks good on you kid." He said pinching Preston's belly.

"Thanks Vince." Preston responded.

- Meanwhile -

Travis huffed and puffed as he made it around the house and into the backyard. He seems to have caught Brent just as he was getting into the pool. Travis sneered at the image of Brent's shirtless body. Skinny and well toned, especially for his age. A sign of weakness is all Travis saw.

"Who are you!?" Brent jumped as he noticed the stranger in his backyard.

"I'm Travis, Preston's father." Travis said with a fake smile.

"Oh..." Brent paused for a moment, his eyes scanning Travis' enormous body. "Brent." He responded, reaching for a handshake.

"Glad to meet'ya." Travis said, shaking his hand.

It was almost comical to contrast between the two men's hands. Travis' were thick and calloused from years hauling equipment for his trucking company, while Brent's were sleek and elegant. The contrast wouldn't last for long, however, as a spark of electricity quickly shot from Travis' hand into Brent.

Brent flinched and pulled his hand away, but he was too late. His expression went blank and he stopped moving. The hand he made contact with started to swell. His sleek fingers were stuffed with fat as his hand plumped up. The definition in his arm faded under a thick layer of fat, making it sag under its own weight.

The transformation continued up his arm and into his body. Every part of him was starting to expand. His shoulders broadened, pecs softened, and his flat stomach started to round out. Within seconds he had a pot belly larger than Vince's. It seemed to throw him off balance and he started stumbling backward.

He tripped and fell back first into the pool, creating a large splash in the process. Travis watched in satisfaction as Brent's silhouette under the water was growing larger and larger.

As he grew fatter, he started floating back to the surface. Eventually a soft belly was poking out of the water's surface.

Moments later, Brent came to and pulled his head out of the water. His face was visibly fatter, with chubby cheeks that made his face look much wider and a double chin hiding under his beard.

"You see that Travis!" Brent yelled in a thick southern accent. "I must'a made a real big splash." He chuckled.

"I sure did!" Travis laughed. "Now why don't you come on inside so we can talk business."

Brent slowly made his way to the steps at the end of the pool. He took each step carefully, clearly struggling with his new body. And as he did so, more and more of his body was revealed. His pecs had swollen into soft man tits that sagged into his arm pits. His gut was by far the largest in the family, putting Travis' to shame. His love handles spilled over his skin tight speedo, making his body much wider. Speaking of which, his speedo was barely holding on as it tried to hold his fat ass and thick fat pad. And finally his massive thighs that made him spread his legs just to be able to walk.

Brent proudly approached Travis, gut first as always, eager to talk to him about their trucking business. The two squeezed through the back door into the living room where Preston had just finished up with Vince.

"Good job, son." Travis said with pride.

"Thanks dad!"

"Now for business," Travis huddled with the newly transformed Brent and Vince. "Now as you know, your uncle's and I have built this trucking business from nothing..."

Preston looked confused for a moment before it clicked. Vince and Brent weren't his adoptive dad's, why would he need adoptive dad's when he's got a father already. They're his uncles who helped raise him as if he were there own.

"Brent and I as the truckers and Vince as the fancy business man." Travis said while yanking on Vince's expensive looking suit. "But that's besides the point, I'm gettin' off topic. Since you're an adult now, we want to start training you to be a trucker."

"Really?" Preston asked.

"Of course, son. We want you to pass on the family business so it can keep going for generations. Every kid you have can grow up to be big fat truckers just like you and me."

"You would really pass on the business to me." Preston's said excitedly.

"Now don't get too ahead of yer'self son, that won't be anytime soon. But when we're too old and too fat to run the business, that's when you'll take over. By then I'm sure you'll have recruited enough men to do the job, just like I taught ya." Travis monologued. "Now, who's ready for a big meal?"

"I am!"

[ohbo-ohno]

run until you feel your lungs bleeding (ghost x reader)

summary: You're on the run after finally escaping from your abusive husband's clutches, hitchhiking south along California highways. A strange man in a black mask picks you up, and it doesn't take you long to realize that not every hand offered should be taken.

word count: 6.5k

cw: dark fic!, noncon somnophilia, referenced abuse from a past partner, ghost does not care about reader's feelings, mentioned drinking while driving but no intoxication

read on ao3 - see the pinterest board

One of your blisters is about to burst. You’d worn through your only pair of clean socks yesterday, leaving the back of your heel vulnerable to your old tennis shoes and their vendetta against your feet. You can feel your skin rubbing thinner and thinner with each step, know it’s only a matter of time before you’ve got blood flowing freely into your shoe. 

You keep your left arm stretched out, thumb held up in the hope that someone will take pity on your limping form and give you a ride.

It’s not likely, you’ve been hitchhiking for days now and not a single person has slowed down. You’ve got no real destination, just a goal of putting as much space between you and your piece of shit ex-husband as possible. Your end goal is Arizona - you’ve got an aunt somewhere in Scottsdale, if you can get to her you can only hope she’ll help you get back on your feet.

A few people honk as they drive by. In the two days you’ve been walking, none have stopped. You take short power naps at night off the side of the road, pray to every god you can think of that you don’t get run over or eaten by something.

You haven’t yet. But you know if you don’t get a good night's sleep soon, don’t start putting actual distance between him and you, then you might not survive your escape.

The sun is at its apex when the semi-truck pulls up beside you. It’s black, the trailer attached is plain white with no logo painted on. You can hardly believe your luck, gape up at the massive thing as it slows. The door pops open a moment after the truck rolls to a stop, but it’s so high up that you can’t see who’s driving past their hand - gloved - before they pull it back.

You don’t have the luxury of asking questions. You just stumble over, flinching back with a little hiss when you place your palm on the metal of the truck and burn your hand. It takes a minute to finagle your way into the truck, but you manage it eventually, huffing and puffing all the way up. 

The first thing you notice about the man in the driver’s seat is his size - he’s big. Bigger than any man you’ve seen before. You just reach his shoulders even with both of you sitting down, his legs are spread so wide his knees nearly rest on his door and the gearshift, his head is close to brushing the roof. He’s just… big.

He’s wearing a black neck gaiter pulled up to cover his mouth and nose, which strikes you as odd considering he’s driving on his own, but you brush the thought off. His hair is blond, greasy and limp on his scalp, you doubt he did more than run his fingers through it getting out of bed. His eyes are blue, a light shade that surprises you for some reason. You don’t know a thing about this man, certainly not enough to be surprised by anything about him, but the blond hair and the blue eyes… it doesn’t quite fit with the black gloves and the mask.

He’s reclined back in his seat, one hand resting on the wheel and the other on his thigh, eyes scanning you like a king his subject. His eyes linger on your tiny shorts (sleep shorts, what you’d been wearing the night of your escape), skip right past the sluggishly bleeding scrapes on your knees and scan your ratty backpack.

You hope he won’t ask you to empty it. You’d like to keep your gun for as long as possible, can’t imagine this trucker would be ok with the hitchhiker he just picked up having a loaded weapon.

He doesn’t speak when he finally makes eye contact with you. You can’t hold it for long at all, only manage a few seconds before you’re glancing around his truck.

He doesn’t speak. Neither do you.

His car reeks of smoke. There’s a beer bottle in his cup holder, open and helf empty. There are more bottles - empty - by your feet. He doesn’t have the radio playing.

When you look back at him, his eyes are already trained on yours. You can’t help but flinch - the intensity of his gaze feels suffocating, even after only a few seconds of being held under it.

You work up the nerve to speak, take a few deep breaths and a few more long looks around the truck, the space this man spends most of his days in.

There are cigarette stubs on the dashboard, which has clearly been used as a makeshift ashtray. The seats are old, the leather peeling and tempting you to pick, and the dash itself is sunbleached.

“I’m trying to go to Arizona,” you finally say, flickering your eyes quickly to his and away again. His jeans are worn - but naturally worn, like he’s had them for months and washed them so many times they’ve lost their color. “Are… are you heading that direction?”

You look at him long enough to see him incline his head a bit. You don’t think he’s blinked since you got in the car.

“Goin’ south,” he affirms. His voice is a low grumble, British accented. Not necessarily unsurprising to hear in California, but a shock from a truck driver. “I’ll drop you somewhere along the way.”

He pulls away from the shoulder with that and turns away from you, apparently finished with the interaction. 

Being dropped somewhere along the way isn’t necessarily your ideal situation, but your feet scream in relief at the lack of pressure, so you’re certainly not going to complain.

You shift a little further back in your seat, tuck the backpack between you and the passenger door. He could reach it if he wanted, but keeping yourself between this stranger and your prized possessions feels like the right choice. You think about propping your feet up on the dashboard, but decide you don’t want to seem too rude to your apparent savior.

You look out the window. You’ve never been in a car this high, and even the flat California highways look more interesting at a new vantage point. It’s easier to focus on the far-off mountains than the giant beside you.

“So,” you cough lightly, awkward in the relative silence of the truck. The engine is loud, but the driver’s radio is dead silent. “What’s your name?”

He grunts, gives no other response. You glance over to him, a little unsure of yourself. Had you made that bad of a first impression somehow?

He doesn’t turn to you, and he doesn’t answer your question.

Alright, you tell yourself. Maybe he does this all the time, maybe he’s tired of making small talk with homeless and desperate hitchhikers. That’s probably it.

You don’t give him your name. Instead, you tuck your feet up to the seat beneath your thighs, turn your body fully to the passenger window, fold your arms on the windowsill and lay your chin on your elbows.

The drive is smooth enough for you to relax, even though you know that logically you shouldn’t. You’re a young woman who’s just gotten into a car with a strange and intimidating man who could very clearly physically overpower you. Nobody knows where you are. You should have a hand on your gun already, ready for anything the driver might try.

But you’ve been walking for days, and hadn't been sleeping well before that either. You haven’t had a good night’s sleep since your wedding night. The low rumble of the engine, the heat of the sun beaming through the glass, the surprisingly gentle motions of the truck…

You don’t quite let yourself fall asleep, but it’s a near thing.

———————————————————————

The two of you stay like that for hours. Your benevolent driver seemingly comfortable in his silence with you drowsy and relaxing in his passenger seat. You don’t stay in the same position for more than an hour or two at once, shifting your legs and always keeping any pressure off your feet.

You’d like to pull your shoes off, to ask if the man has any band-aids. Maybe any food, any water. But you can’t risk pissing him off, not when your other options are nonexistent. So you settle for slow movements, trying to keep your blisters from being irritated.

He finishes his beer before the first hour has passed with you in his vehicle. Waits another two to have a second. You don’t comment on it, but the scent makes your lip curl, and you bury your face in your arms to hide the reaction. You hope he’s not a lightweight. And despite the heavy stench of cigarette smoke sunken into the interior, he hasn’t had one yet. 

He’s the one who speaks next.

It’s a quarter until 6, and the sun has started her slow journey to sleep. You’ve been watching the sight for a while, entranced by the slow process with nothing else to amuse you.

“Pullin’ off,” he grunts.

You can’t help but jerk up straight at the sound, caught off guard. You’d nearly forgotten about his accent, about how deep his voice really is.

“For gas?” You ask, turning in your seat to glance at him for the first time in at least an hour. He only grunts again, a noise you’re just going to assume means yes. 

“Alright,” you nod, letting your feet drop to the floor from where you’d crossed them beneath yourself. “Are you… do you want me to find someone else to ride with?” You cross your fingers where you tuck them beneath your thighs, pray to every god you know of that he doesn’t make that yes grunt again.

He looks over to you this time, and the two of you make eye contact for the first time since you’d gotten into the car nearly six hours ago. His eyes are brighter than you remember, and the impact of them sends a jolt up your spine.

You’re not sure how long he looks at you. You feel stuck under his gaze, a little wide-eyed prey animal spotted by a predator who can only lay still and hope they move on. You’ve never felt quite so pinned before, quite so unable to break eye contact. You don’t think you like it.

He looks away first, shifts in his seat and drops one hand from the steering wheel to lay on his thigh. You swallow at how tight his jeans are, how his thighs seem to nearly bulge from them. 

“No,” he finally answers. It takes a moment for you to remember your own question, but your sigh of relief is loud once you do.

If you’re lucky, he’ll try and drive through the night. Dangerous, since it’ll make for nearly twenty-four hours on the road, but you’d rather take your chances with him than falling asleep at the wheel then spend another night staring into a dark forest and wondering if there are wolves in this part of the country.

He turns off the highway three exits later, pulls his truck into the first reststop. It’s the only structure in the nearby area, a McDonald’s-Subway-Shell mix with ten pumps, less than half with someone using them. It’s the kind of rest stop you’ve seen on countless roadtrips, one that you know exists off half the exits in the States. The familiarity of it makes your lips twitch up in the corners.

There are several other semi-trucks pulled up getting gas, none quite the size of your driver’s. He parks quickly and easily, in one try, and turns the truck completely off. You shift a little in your seat, unsure what he’ll want from you, but he’s hauled himself up and out of the truck before you can open your mouth to ask.

You settle a bit. He’d said he wouldn’t make you leave but you still can’t fully relax for some reason, can’t bring back the looseness to your shoulders you’ve had since he picked you up. You entertain yourself by watching a middle aged couple try and wrangle six kids that look like they’re all under ten, since I’m sympathy when the littlest one’s face goes red and he starts to wail.

The door next to you opens without warning. You manage to catch your bag before it can go tumbling out of the car, can’t hold back the little yelp of surprise. Your eyes are wide, fingers holding tight to the bag, when you look up through your hair.

The driver’s face looks the same as it has for the last six hours - expressionless. Even with the mask, surely his eyebrows should move at least a bit? He looks almost like a corpse above you - pale face and flat features. It unnerves you. 

“Gettin’ food. You got money?”

You hesitate for a moment - you do have money, small bills you’d snuck from your husband’s wallet that you’d planned to use for a bus ticket. You’re not starving yet, the few granola bars you’d taken in your escape will tide you over for a little while longer.

You shake your head.

He nods, like he’d expected that, and glances over your form from head to toe again. “Alright. You want somethin’ to eat, now’s your chance. We’ll be back on the road for another few hours before I stop for the night.”

With that he turns away, jumps down to the parking lot and stalks off toward the McDonald’s. It takes you a minute to follow him, still a little shocked that you’d gotten multiple sentences from him at once.

The thought of free food is far too tempting to let you linger for too long, though, and you’re throwing your bag over your shoulders and scampering after him only a moment later. You have to trot a little awkwardly to keep up with his long strides. He doesn’t hold the door open for you, but you catch him glancing over his shoulder to see if you’re there.

The teenager working the register looks like it’s their first day, and you assume a middle-aged man leaning against the counter beside her is meant to be showing her the ropes. He’s far more occupied with whatever’s on his phone screen, leaving the cashier to stare up at your driver with wide eyes.

You get it. Standing next to him now, you decide he’s not big - he’s huge. Has to be at least six and a half feet tall, and at least a foot taller than you. Combined with his muscular form - another odd thing for a truck driver - and his all black attire, he seems almost like some sort of monster or omen come to warn about the future.

You step up to the counter beside him, give the cashier your best reassuring smile when she glances at you. It gives her enough courage to stumble over, “Welcome to McDonald’s, what can I get you today?” after only a few stuttering starts. You’re quite proud of her.

“Five Big Macs and fries. No drink.” The man rumbles, his mask umoving. He glances down at you, finally cocks an eyebrow (an expression!) for you to order.

“Uh, just… just ten nuggets for me,” you smile at the cashier, glance up at the driver to make sure you haven’t somehow ordered too much. “And, uh, a Coke?”

“Will that be all for you today?”

“Make it a twenty nugget meal,” your partner corrects, then pulls a worn leather from his back pocket and pays with a shiny card. You can’t help but eye the many bills folded neatly in the wallet.

“Thanks for the upgrade,” you say as the two of you slide onto a pair of stools to wait for your food. “I really appreciate it. I, uh, I can’t pay you back, though.”

He glances at you again, holds you pinned under his gaze and kicks your heartbeat up a few notches. It becomes a conscious effort to keep your breathing steady when he spreads his thighs enough to brush against yours. 

“Don’t worry about it.”

Your meal is largely silent. He all but inhales three of his five burgers, leaves the other two wrapped up presumably for later on the drive. You try and eat all of your nuggets and fries, but your granola bar diet of the last few days means your stomach feels stretched to his limit only a few bites into the meal.

After your fifth nugget, you tuck the little box closed. Shift towards your driver and glance up from the window you’d been staring out to see him already looking down at you.

You clear your throat, take a little sip of your Coke. “I’m done.”

He shakes his head once, reaches forward to pop the little box back open. “No, you’re not. We’re not getting back on the road ‘til you eat at least half.”

You can’t help but blink in surprise at him, not moving to take any more food. He won’t tell you his name, won’t make any small talk whatsoever, but he will worry about how much you’re eating?

He grunts when you don’t make a move to listen to him, pushes the little brown box closer to you. “C’mon. Eat.”

You get through another five under his eye. He doesn’t look away from you, and now you know about the stare. It feels heavier now, like every little twitch from you is catalouged by him. It makes every bite difficult to swallow.

He nods when you tuck the little box closed again, glance a bit wearily at him to make sure he’s content now. He picks up your tray, tucks his two sandwiches in one hand, and leaves. You scramble to keep up.

His strides are a little shorter in the parking lot this time, and the slower pace keeps your blisters from further irritation. You’re not sure it’s intentional, but you’re thankful nonetheless.

The truck is still difficult to get into, but the worn leather seats are a familiar comfort now. This time, your driver flicks on the radio as he pulls out of the rest stop.

For some reason, you feel like maybe he likes you. There’s something in the line of his body that feels a little softer now, the tension in the truck feels a little drained. It could be the music, but you prefer to think that he’s taken a bit of a liking to you. It means he’s less likely to end up hurting you, means you're less likely to have to rely on your non-existent shooting skills.

With the sun nearly fully set and the soft music from the radio, it’s much harder to keep yourself awake. You curl up in the seat, lay your head down on folded arms, and try your best to keep your eyes open.

———————————————————————

You don’t know how long it’s been when you wake up.

The truck is silent now, no engine and no radio, and the world outside is pitch black. You jerk up at the realization, quickly lay a hand on your bag and turn to your driver.

He’s staring at you. You nearly yelp in surprise, bite your tongue so harshly to keep the noise back that you taste the tang of iron.

He looks nearly inhuman in just the low light of the truck. Pale skin, blonde hair, blue eyes, a dark black mask obscuring half of his face. His body is turned towards you, black shirt and dark pants making him look almost like the top half of his face is just… floating. 

“I need to sleep,” he rumbles, keeping you held captive in what almost feels like a staring contest - like if you look away now, you’ll lose something. “You can take the bed in the back.”

That gets your heartbeat quickening, the thud of your pulse loud in your own ears. “Oh… I thought…” you swallow, finally tear your eyes from his to look around. You seem to be at another rest stop, this one a small dark building with two bathrooms and a few vending machines. There aren’t any other trucks parked around you. “I thought I might try and find a motel or something.”

“With what money?”

He’s got you there. You work your tongue against the roof of your mouth, clear away the blood and try to make your mouth not so bone-dry. “Yeah,” you nearly whisper, eyes darting back to his before away again. He hasn’t moved. You clear your throat before speaking again. “But, uh, I don’t want to kick you out of your bed. I can sleep up here.”

“You’ll take the bed,” he reaffirms, with no room for argument in his tone. You can’t help but feel like there’s something more here, like you’re missing something. You don’t feel safe anymore, not like you had after the McDonald’s. Why did you let yourself fall asleep? You could have pressured him to pull off somewhere with a motel, tried to finagle or scam yourself into a room with a lock on the door.

Now you’re stuck in this dark truck, no one else but the driver around for miles.

You swallow again, force down a cough.

You don’t want to sleep in his bed. But a glance over at him tells you that’s what’s going to happen. Your driver doesn’t seem the kind of man to take kindly to disobedience.

“What’s your name?” You ask again, voice weak and quiet. For some reason, this feels important. Like a name will make him more human, easier to swallow.

He only tilts his head a little, face still stoic. “Get in bed. We’ll drive again when the sun rises.”

“Please,” you try, a hint of desperation creeping into your voice. You can’t explain it, but you need his name. Need some evidence that he’s more man than he looks. This moment feels pivotal, and there’s a little voice screaming at the back of your head that things are going in the wrong direction.

“Sleep, doll,” is all he says. His voice isn’t softer, but it’s quieter, like maybe he understands the fear coursing through you.

You squeeze your eyes shut a moment before pushing yourself up, both hands holding onto your bag - your literal only possible defense againt this man - like a lifeline. You know they’d shake if your grips was any looser.

It’s too dark to make out much in the back of his cabin. The bed is a decent size for you, but you wonder if he’s able to stretch out fully on it. You think you can see the outline of a minifridge and a few books resting on the floor. 

He’s still watching you as you sit on the bed, his body unmoved but his head turned towards you. You try to keep your breathing steady as you toe your shoes off, tuck your feet up to the bed with you and curl up on your side.

The bag doesn’t leave your arms. His eyes don’t leave your form. He makes no move to stretch out and sleep like he’d said he would.

You force your eyes closed, no matter how wrong it feels. You try and will yourself to sleep, tell yourself everything will be fine. If he tries anything, you’ll shoot him.

You can still feel his gaze on you when you finally slip into unconsciousness.

———————————————————————

You wake slowly to movement behind you. 

You blink heavy eyelids open, let them fall shut again when there’s no difference in what you can see.  You feel cloaked by sleep still, like your brain has been held underwater and everything moves a little slowly, a little muffled.

The bed dips behind you, and there’s a warmth behind you. A hand at your waist. The top of a foot against the sole of yours. A chest against your back.

Your eyes stay closed, but your brows furrow a bit. Your husband has always hated the idea of cuddling, slept like a corpse on his back and berated you if you dared to touch him in your sleep. You nearly roll over, but figure that might set him off. Your arms still ache from the last argument you’d had.

The hand slips beneath your shirt, rough palm against your waist, thumb smoothing in little circles.

That catches your attention, too - your husband’s hands are soft. He’s never done a day of work in his life, the only job he’s had is some fake title made up by his father at his company. The hand on your skin isn’t soft at all, it’s rough with big, thick fingers that rest heavily on you.

The realization comes to you in pieces.

Your master bedroom was never this dark, the large windows always left wide open to allow moonlight into the room. Your ex-husband’s hands are smooth, boney and nearing on frail. The foot brushing against yours triggers a burning sensation in your blisters.

You keep your breathing even - an effort that feels impossible. 

It’s not your husband at your back, it’s the truck driver.

He’s silent as he tucks himself fully to you. His breath is damp against your neck and you fight down a shudder at the sensation. 

Your bag isn’t in your arms, which means you don’t have your gun. Whatever happens, whatever he does to you, you have no way of defending yourself.

The only reason you don’t cry at the thought is because you don’t want him to know you’re awake. It’s pure self-preservation that keeps your breathing even, your limbs loose, and your breathing slow.

He brings his head closer, his breathing loud in your ear. Every part of him is pressed against you, and you can’t help squeezing your eyes shut more tightly at the hardness poking into your back.

He’s silent as he sets his chin over your shoulder. His groin is tucked right beneath your ass, his knees behind yours and his feet benath yours. He’s just… spooning you.

It feels like an eternity passes just like that. Your heartbeat pounding in every bone, the heat of the driver’s body against yours. His breath is the only noise you hear, ghosting over your ear, heavier than your own.

Eventually, he starts to move. You almost whimper when you realize what he’s doing. 

He’s humping you.

His movements are slow at first, just a little rock of his hips against you. But as the minutes pass he becomes more incensed, his thrusts harder against you, his breathing heavier. He grunts at one point, and it takes everything in you not to flinch away.

You want to scream. You want to open your mouth and shout, to roll over and make him stop.

But you don’t have your gun. And he dwarfs you, every inch of your back covered by him and then some. You can’t stop him.

So you let it happen. You keep your eyes screwed shut, try desperately to go anywhere else in your head and pretend you don’t feel how quickly his hips begin to rock.

His hand moves from your hip to your stomach, his pinky resting on the waistband of your sleep shorts. You don’t think you could stay quiet any longer if his fingers slipped beneath the hem, and you let out a near silent breath of relief when his palm continues up instead of down.

He almost rolls you onto your stomach, angles you so your front is closer to the mattress and he can grind more on you than beside you. His hand slips further up your shirt, and you bite your tongue at the feeling of his rough palm against your nipples.

That gets another huff from him, another low sound that could almost be a moan. You feel him shift again, his hips working a little more roughly. You’re not sure how he possibly thinks you’re still asleep, but you pray he doesn’t take it any further as long as he does.

He doesn’t pinch, just softly strokes over one breast. His hand engulfs it fully, fingers wrapping all the way around the little mound of flesh. The calluses on his palm send little sparks down your spine, and you curse your body for the buzzing sensation between your thighs.

His breath gets heavier in your ear, he’s nearly panting over you. If you weren’t wearing shorts and he wasn’t wearing jeans, he’d be fucking you. His thrusting almost feels like he is. The… thing grinding against you is clearly large, even through all the layers of clothing, and you say another prayer that he doesn’t do more than this.

“Fuck,” he grunts, his chin pushing hard into your shoulder. You almost jerk at the sound of his voice, the evidence that this is real and not some horrible nightmare. 

You wish you could fall back asleep.

You don’t know how long the whole thing lasts. The pitch dark, the driver’s oppressive weight against you, it makes time feel liminal. You’re not sure if he lasts for five minutes or five hours.

But eventually his hips slow, give a few harder thrusts before he goes completely still and lets out a loud groan. Again, you wonder how he expects you to have slept through the noise. 

He shifts back a little in the aftermath, rolling you back to your side with a heavy hand on your stomach. You try to keep yourself as limp as possible, try to make your face go slack.

He lays with you for a while, breathing even and slow. You wish he would leave, wish he would let you start pretending this never happened. His hand stays on your stomach, and you can feel the other crossed over his midsection at your back. His feet hold your ankles to the bed. You hope he can’t feel that you’re squeezing your hands into tight fists where they rest against your thighs.

He doesn’t leave. Instead, he shifts his own thick thigh between your own, the rough denim of his jeans irritating the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. He tucks his leg up, settles it right against your core.

You can’t help the way your breath hitches at the sudden pressure. You hold it immediately after, then try to breathe normally again when you realize how obvious the sudden change sounds. He doesn’t react, though, so you think you’re safe. 

The pressure increases a bit more before stopping. You’re almost propped up on his thigh, your pussy pressed against him through your shorts. It’s hard not to open your eyes, to look down and see what’s happening.

His hand slips down from your stomach to the waistband of your shorts. You can’t keep yourself from moving this time, already knowing what he’s going to do. You shift your hips a little, make a tiny noise in your throat that you hope comes off as a normal still-asleep sound. The movement only presses you closer to him.

He hums lowly in your ear, fingers stroking across the waistband of your shorts before dipping inside, then past your little gray panties. You can’t help the little squeak you make, the way your hands twitch before you force them still.

The sound he makes is almost a laugh, too low and quiet to really be one though. He hushes you softly, pushes on the meat of your most vulnerable part to still you. 

You don’t know if he thinks you’re awake. You think he must, there’s no way you could have slept through what he’d just done, and you’ve moved twice now. But he doesn’t speak to you, doesn’t become more aggressive.

You debate putting up a fight when his fingers sink lower, his palm resting heavily over your cunt. But the thought of him becoming rough, of him restraining you… it makes bile churn in your stomach.

You resign yourself to waiting until it’s over, go limp against the bed again.

Another hum, and his free hand moves beneath your body to grasp your hip. He moves you slowly, little grinding motions over his thigh. The hand over your heat uses two fingers to spread the lips of your cunt, tucks the gusset of your underwear and the fabric of your shorts to the side so your clit makes direct contact with his jeans.

You keen quietly at the sensation, a little animal noise of fear, of pain. You wish you had your gun, wish you could make this man stop.

But you can’t. So you bear it.

He doesn’t touch your clit with his fingers, doesn’t touch any part of your pussy but to spread you wide. His thigh moves along yours, his hand grinding you against it. You hate the slickness gathering at your hole, hate the way your nipples tighten, the way your breaths become heavier.

You bite your tongue to hold back any other sounds, that tang of blood returning after only a few seconds.

“C’mon,” he says into your neck, his voice a low whisper. “Come f’r me, doll... be good.”

You don’t want to be good, can’t suppress the little whine you make at even the thought. He rumbles low in his chest in response, pushes against you a little harder.

You can’t stay quiet through your orgasm. It’s a slow thing, rolling and deep. You feel it in your toes, in your scalp, and in every vein between. Had you been willing, been with a partner of your choice, you may have thrown your head back and cried out. But here in the truck, with this man you can’t believe you were stupid enough to trust, you squeeze your eyes so tightly shut that tears eek out the corners and bite your cheek until there’s a sore. And still, a moan vibrates in your chest.

He stops grinding you against him when your orgasm is finished. His finges slip from you slowly, tuck your panties back over your mound and give you two little pats before he fully pulls his hand away. 

Both of his hands slip back up your stomach, grab a handful of your chest and massage you there for several moments. Your breathing gradually slows as your body comes down, your limbs going limp again despite the fact that his hands are still on you.

He rolls you to your back when he’s finished. You feel his lips press against each of your eyelids, squeezed shut no matter how hard you try to force your face to relax. Another tear slips down the side of your nose, and he kisses it away before it can reach your lips. You feel his tongue stroke beneath each eye, know that he’s cleaning away your tears. He gives you a final, chaste kiss on your lips before pulling away.

He’s gone a moment later, and you’re left cold and alone in his bed.

———————————————————————

He smokes a cigarette while he watches you sleep. Your nose twitches at the first hint of smoke, and he almost smirks at the expression.

He can’t believe he found you. A perfect little doll of a girl, limping all filthy and sad along the side of a highway, just waiting for someone to scoop you up. God truly does have a sick sense of humor, gifting a bastard like Ghost a gift like you.

He hadn’t planned to keep you at first. He figured he’d ride with you for a while, fuck you a few times to have a warm place to dump his cum before dropping you off at a rest stop for another driver to scoop up. But no, that won’t do now that he’s felt your cunt against his hand, watched you try desperately to hold back every expression because you thought it might keep you safe.

He’ll have to find out where the finger-shaped bruises on your arms are from. After this trip, he’ll find whoever left them and take care of them. He’ll be the only one hurting his little doll, no one else. Might even win him a few brownie points with you, if he’s lucky.

Your feet probably need bandaging, too. He’d seen the redness at the back of your ankles when you tucked your feet up on his seats, felt the blisters against his own feet when he laid with you. He’ll make sure you stay off your feet for a bit, give them time to heal.

That gets another smirk. You won’t be leaving the truck for a long time, there’ll be no need to worry about your blisters after tonight. He’ll keep you off your feet. Maybe have you thank him for taking such good care of you.

He’ll try your mouth next. He bites back a moan imagining your face pressed against his crotch, knows already that the difference in size between the two of you will be absolutely pornographic at that angle. Can’t wait to teach you to deepthroat him, salivating at the image of you holding him in your mouth on the road.

He’d already wasted one load, it’s only right you take the next. You’re his now, which means he shouldn’t have to come in his fucking pants like a teenager ever again. 

But he’d gone easy on you, hadn’t made you take him in any of your holes this first night. Even let you pretend to sleep through the whole thing, though your shifting hips and little scrunched up face gave you away as soon as he pressed himself against you.

It was endearing, really, the way you tried so hard to pretend it wasn’t happening. He can still taste your tears on his tongue, mixing with the acrid taste of nicotine. He can’t wait to learn what your pussy tastes like.

He takes a long pull from the cigarette and considers your little shaking form.

You won’t need much now that you’re with him. Only a few outfits in case he needs to bring you in somewhere, but you’ll be kept naked when in his truck. He’ll have to find a motel sometime soon, get all the grime washed off your skin and the grease out of your hair. He’d like to see it brushed out, see how you might style it for him.

He’ll take good care of you. Feed you when you’re hungry, maybe get some little toys or books if you’re good, fuck you whenever you - or he - needs it. 

It’ll take a while for you to settle, he knows. You’ll spend a bit looking for that girly little gun you’d been keeping tucked away in your bag. But that’s okay. He already knows he’ll enjoy training you, showing you just how to be the perfect little doll for him.

He stubs the cigarette out in an ashtray, climbs back into bed with you and tucks you tight to his chest. Your little sniffling breaths draw another little twitch of the lips from him, and he buries his nose in your hair before shutting his eyes.

Yeah, you're going to be perfect for him.

[jammy1032]

[knight-of-flowerss]

Hi how are u doing sweetie? God I just read your truckercregan story and I’m OBSESSED. Can you write a Trucker!Cregan x Reader where the reader is trying to keep their distance from Cregan because they’re getting way too attached (I mean who wouldn’t like 🧎‍♀️), but Cregan doesn’t seem to notice or care at all? The reader’s been hanging around the town, but every time Cregan rolls in with his rig, they can’t help but watch. One day, Cregan catches them staring, and instead of making a move or acknowledging their interest, he just smirks and comments on something completely unrelated, like how their truck’s tires are worn down or they should get more coffee. Reader’s frustrated but can’t help but feel drawn to him. Maybe Cregan even teases them, gets a little too close, and throws in a casual touch or comment, making the reader all flustered but still holding back, unsure of whether Cregan’s actually interested or if he’s just being his usual confident, aloof shitty self.

- Anon 🤍

UGH ANON YOU ARE THE BEST THING TO HAPPEN TO ME RIGHT NOW, THIS IDEA IS TO DIEEE FORR!!

Also there will be some suggestive stuff in here like dry humping, grabbing readers breast and Cregan smacking readers ass cus bro is DEFINITELY an ass man and really doesn't give a single fuck about being a 'nice guy'. He sees a nice ass? He's smacking it. Anyways just a bunch of sexual stuff as well lol.

Also, Trucker!Cregan deffo, 100% puts x's on the end of his messages when he's horny.

Well, Trucker!Cregan is an ass man at least. I think hockey player!Cregan is a thigh man icl 🤭 bro appreciates a good pair of thighs. (I have more Cregan AU ideas like firefighter!Cregan, bsf's!dad!Cregan, ex-husband!Cregan, etc.)

Anyways, I'm getting logged on 😅 I hope I've done your idea justice! I haven't sat down and wrote properly for a GOOD WHILE so 🥲🥲

(Also I'm probs just gonna be saying Cregan instead of Trucker!Cregan in this cus I rlly cba to write it out every time and I feel like it's gonna get repetitive 😭)

MDNI 18+!!!

TRUCKER!CREGAN X READER

MASTERLIST

🛻•Cregan was like a drug, something you could never let go of. He's like trying drugs for the first time a party and immediately getting high on the feeling it gives you.

🛻•Trucker!Cregan was something you could never give up, but you're trying, even if you know it's absolutely pointless.

🛻•Meaningless sex was your go to, get addicted to others and soon maybe you'll forget about him. The way he feels- the way he makes you feel.

🛻•Sitting at your local diner, you skim through your phone, staring at all the unanswered texts and missed phone calls from Cregan.

🛻•'Hey darlin x' Wednesday, 5:48 PM.

'Am off work now x' Wednesday, 5:48 PM.

Missed call. Wednesday, 5:49 PM.

'Were r u hun?' Wednesday, 5:49 PM.

'Gonna cum over t the dina n get sum food' Wednesday, 5:51 PM.

Missed call. Wednesday, 5:53 PM.

Missed call. Wednesday, 6:10 PM.

Missed call. Wednesday, 6:12 PM.

'You cummin or what?' Wednesday, 6:13 PM.

Missed call. Wednesday, 6:18 PM.

🛻•'On a 10 hr drive' Thursday, 4:24 AM.

'Be back Friday night' Thursday, 4:25 AM.

🛻•Image attached, 'Luk at that fatass dog haha' Thursday, 11:06 AM.

'Jus got of' Thursday, 4:47 PM.

'At shitty motel' Thursday, 4:47 PM.

Missed call. Thursday, 4:48 PM.

'Pick up.' Thursday, 4:48 PM.

'Darlin a miss u x' Thursday, 4:51 PM.

'Please x' Thursday, 4:52 PM.

'Darlin a need u x' Thursday, 4:52 PM.

Missed call. Thursday, 4:53 PM.

Image attached, 'Luk wot u do t me x' Thursday, 4:57 PM.

Video attached, 'So hard for u x' Thursday, 4:59 PM.

Video attached, 'All this for u hun x' Thursday, 5:07 PM.

🛻•Missed call. Friday 10:34 AM.

'Drivin home now' Friday, 10:47 AM.

Missed call. Friday, 11:40 PM.

'At bar' Friday, 11:41 PM.

'Call me when u can' Friday, 11:41 PM.

🛻•Missed call. Sunday, 2:11 PM.

'Ben jus told me u been out' Sunday, 2:13 PM.

'U hav fun wit ur friends?' Sunday, 2:14 PM.

'Cant wait t see u again hun x' Sunday, 2:17 PM.

'Answer me.' Sunday, 2:20 PM.

🛻•Then, radio silence.

🛻•Wednesday evening, a full week after, you always go to the diner and order a pumpkin pie slice, one that Cregan would treat you with after he fucked you senseless, one of the only nice things he ever did for you.

🛻•Then, before you know it, a body slides into the opposite booth, you don't even have to lift your head to know who it is. His smell, his confidence, the way he's spreading his legs under the table. Cregan.

🛻•He grabs a fork, as your eyes lift up from your phone. The utensil cuts through the pie, taking a big scoop with some whipped cream and shoving it in his mouth.

🛻•He licks the fork clean as you stare at him, his nose, his beard, his eyes. Everything makes you squeeze your thighs shut, the throbbing returning to your core.

🛻•"Your tires are worn darlin'.. gon' need t' get 'em fixed." His gruff voice cuts through the soft hum of a song playing on the jukebox that's on its last leg.

🛻•"They got fixed last week" You mumble, grabbing the coffee mug on your right and taking a sip. "Hm." He hums, staring back at you, a small smirk tugging on his lips.

🛻•About ten minutes go by, Cregan just staring at you as he slides the pie towards him, eating it like he paid for it. That's the thing about Cregan, he's greedy. And selfish. If he wants it, he'll take it.

🛻•You quickly slam down five dollars, a tip for the waitress before scooting out of the booth, walking out of the diner as Cregan watches with that shit eating grin on his face.

🛻•He shoves the remaining section of the pie into his mouth and jumps out of the booth, walking out with long strides, confidence looming around him.

🛻•As you're trying to unlocking your car door, Cregan slides behind you, slotting his hips against your ass.

🛻•His large hands grip your hips, pressing himself harder into you as a gasp slips through your lips. A low grumble rattles his large chest as he speaks in your ear, his low, deep voice making your legs tremble with desire, "Yuv been ignorin' me darlin'.."

🛻•One hand moves off your hip, gliding up your torso softly before harshly gripping your tit, massaging it roughly as his hips slowly grind against your ass.

🛻•Your fingers grip the top of your car, eyes fluttering closed as Cregan practically dry humps you against your car in broad daylight.

🛻•Before you know it, he pushes you harshly against the car and steps back, not even bothering to hide his raging hard on.

🛻•A finger gets pointed in your face as you turn your head to look at him, eyebrows furrowed in absolute confusion. "Don't ever fucking ignore me again. Ever."

🛻•He moves the pointed finger from your face, dropping it down before shoving past you, his truck being on the other side, a few spaces down. And you definitely didn't miss the harsh smack he laid on your ass while he shoved past.

🛻•You have zero clue if Cregan actually wants you or sees you as his property, but at this point, you're too cock drunk to even care.

I hope I did it justice! I've been so sick so my writing definitely got worse throughout this 🥲

Also, this is how I see Trucker!Cregan, + a busted and worn brown or summin baseball cap cus like obviii

Tags: @thethreeeyed-raven @lost-in-fiction-like-ur-mom

[ryewwww]

Gotta say, My husband is a truck driver (retired now, since we got a little boy on the way—probably from all the truck sex), and you couldn’t have nailed what it’s like having sex in a Semi-truck/truck stop better. Would absolutely love to read more of your Trucker!Ghost! Kudos to you!

LOL congratulations!!!

Writing truck driver!Simon was a little hard because I literally had to search up the inside of a truck and just…picture how to do it.

And looking at photos inside the latest trucks—they’re actually sooo nice?!?!! Microwaves, fridge, TVs that hook up to a console. It’s like a mini hotel in the back of your truck!!!

After a long day of driving, you and Simon get some junk food from the truck stop, or maybe walk to the nearest fast food place. You hurry back, stuff your face with fries and once you’re finished, he’s stuffing you😩

For Simon, he lovessss when you tag along. Usually, he does these trips alone, in literal silence. Sometimes he’ll play like Metallica or smth but a lot of the time, it’ll just be him and the sound of his truck rumbling. And he’d never get bored because he was so used to this shit back in the military.

But now, with you in the picture, you’re talking his ear off. You’ll go on and on and on about whatever the fuck, and for a moment when you stop talking, he looks over and sees you chugging some water because your throat went dry LOL.

Eventually, you get tired of talking and Simon takes over. You love listening to his military stories on the road. He’s had some crazy ones and when you shoot him a look of concern, “I’m still breathing, aren’t I?”

When you see a different kind of semi truck or a different kind of trailer, or an oversized load, you ask sooo many questions.

“Si, why does the trailer look like that?”

“Oh my god, how did they get that big machine on there?”

“Are they allowed to do that?”

“What even is that thing?”

You’re full of questions but Simon is more than happy to answer. And thanks to him, you’ve learned so much. Now you know that trucks need lots of space to turn (left or right) so you’re more mindful about that. You’ve heard Simon swear one too many times when a person crosses the stop line because it makes it impossible for him to turn without hitting the other car.

Their relationship is not just sex, but genuinely so sweet. Simon is so so happy that he has a co-pilot to accompany him on these long trips🥹 All his life he’s been alone, and constantly working. Though, he could stop working, his retirement from the military would take care of him no doubt, but being all by himself made him depressed as fuck. So he talked to price about truck driving, I mean he had his class 1 so why not right? And he’s so grateful he did, otherwise he would have never met you.

[latenightdaydreams]

Fluff

Trucker!König x Runaway!Reader

Homecoming

König x Wife!Reader

Finding You

New Rules

That Time of the Month

Laundry Day

Father's Day

Comfort!König x Reader

Head Canons

Husband König Head Canons

König Kinks Head Canons

König x Disabled!Reader Head Canons

König Getting/ Giving Head

Dom König Head Canons

Sub König

[aphelionwrotes11]

how about giving trucker!simon some really chonky babies ?? >:3

Omg.. you already knooiooowwww

As soon as you get pregnant he’s by your side 24/7!! You literally aren’t allowed to lift a thing, he cooks, cleans, everything. Hell he’s even on his knees in the shower, pressing kisses to your belly as he washes you legs with a rag :,))

The pregnancy was HARD. You weren’t even aware babies could be this big; that is until you were nearly split in half during labor 😮‍💨

But gosh, now you’ve got a chunky, sweet baby with the cutest face and beautiful brown eyes paired with a behemoth of a man who is probably one of the best fathers you’ve ever seen.

This dude will literally wake up in the middle of the night to quiet the baby. In fact he prefers it, always shushes you and tells you to go back to sleep. Don’t worry at all beautiful, he’s got it.

Will sit in the pretty pink rocking chair with that chonky baby lying in his broad chest. Will hum some lullabies if the baby doesn’t settle 😢😢

Some mornings you wake up to find your husbands side of the bed empty, and as you wonder around the house hoping to find him, your search will stop in the doorway of the nursery.

It’s a sight to see, Simon snoring softly with that bundle of sweetness nestled into the crook of his arm, wide awake and gazing up at their daddie’s face :’)

And of course he’s insistent on having some more of those chunky little angels, says he wants more pieces of you in this world. And boy does he follow through, have fun being pregnant again 😭

[cowboyshadows]

Phillip and the missus doing a little roleplay for Valentines, shoutout to another Phil (Dunphy) for the inspiration. Gotta be my favorite fictional husband.

Cw: briefly mentioned that they are parents, (this is a roleplay between reader and graves, so est consent is there and everything shady is fake, but here r the warnings anyway) infidelity, both of them are a little drunk, sex against the bar restroom sink, unprotected p in v, spitting, anal, makeshift gag. 18+ mdni

You enter the bar. It's a lot more crowded than you'd been expecting. Mostly packed with men—truckers, cowboys, farmers—harboring sickening leers and inebriated loudness. You make your way past a sweaty bunch to the counter, taking a seat.

Besides you sits a man with his face ducked. There's a heady musk to his large frame. His face is obscured by the visor of his cap, but from what you glimpse of his mouth; you can tell he's a looker. He's running his ringed hand over the rim of his glass of beer absently, only looking up to check out who's joined him.

"Hey," with a deep, Southern drawl that has you clenching your thighs together at the get go. Like the rest of the men in this bar, he's leering—the skirt of your dress rides up your thigh as you sit—and he's tipsy—his words are that smooth partly due to the tequila he's nursing.

"Hey, back." You rest your elbows on the table, crossing your legs and angling yourself towards him. You can see more of his face now. Bright blue eyes, taut lips. He has a five o'clock shadow running along his jaw, and a faint scar on his right cheekbone. "Trucker?"

"Yeah. How'd you know, doll?" The strange man smiles at you, bringing his glass to his lips.

You shrug. "Lucky guess." You catch the way the dim lighting in the bar falls on the wedding band around his finger. It glints blindingly, mockingly.

"Pretty little thing like you... you're all alone in a bar like this?" He shakes his head, sipping his tequila. Exhaling at the burn, he turns to look at you once more.

"It's okay," you slide closer, voice dropping an octave, "you can protect me, right?" He chuckles then darkly, blue of his eyes almost gone now.

"You sure I'm not someone you might need the protection from instead?"

He beckons the barkeep over—"a grey goose for the pretty lady"—and flashes you a megawatt smile again. Saccharine, dripping with charm. Tooth-rotting.

You cut right to the chase once you've exchanged niceties in introduction. "Are you married, Phillip?"

He stiffens up ever so imperceptibly, a huff of laughter escaping those worn-out lips. "Is that gonna be a problem," he leans in closer, "doll?"

You sip your vodka kittenly. "No... just curious."

"Shoot."

"I don't know... Handsome, nice by the looks of it." That earns you a chuckle. "What are you doing alone on Valentine's day, Phil?"

He strings his lower lip between his teeth, the glinting metal of his wedding band a blur as his hand lifts. A nervous tic, rubbing the back of his neck, under the overgrown blonde hair. "I'm not alone, doll. I've got a very pretty girl sittin' right by me. Damn bar's gonna hang me up in the hall of fame for you." At this point in the night, he retrieves a metal container from his pocket. Pulls out a cigarette, lights it, smokes it. Like a gentleman, he blows the smoke away from you.

You laugh incredulously. "Alright, then. Why aren't you with your wife? Can't imagine she's anything short of lovely."

A white hot burning courses through you at the ravenous quality to his gaze. Like he'd be willing to rip your clothes off his instant and take you on the counter. "You want the polite answer... or the real answer?"

You tilt your head, encouraging him with your feigned pondering. "Give me the polite one."

He puts his cigarette out on a nearby ashtray, hiss of residue faint. "Got in a fight with the missus."

Narrowing your eyes, you continue, "and the real answer?"

He downs his drink, pushing the empty glass back on the counter. "I respect her too much... to do to her," his hand is tantalisingly close to your own on the counter, and you can feel your skin ache with tingling, "what I wanna do to you."

Your mind goes blank. A wild twisting and churning takes over your belly, heat pooling at your middle. "Excuse me," as you get up from the stool and rushing hastily off to the restrooms.

When you return, he's sipping from a refilled glass.

"Thought I scared ya off, princess," he muses, holding your stool steady as you mount it.

"Give me your hand."

Furrowing his brows, he asks, "mm, why's that?"

"Just do it." He obliges you, holding his palm out in the dark under the ledge of the counter.

You place your discarded panties there, closing his fist. A range of emotions flash through that rugged, rakish face as he registers what the soft, lacy object in his hand is.

"Sweet Jesus," he whispers to himself, stuffing the garment in his pocket. "You're a real piece of work, aren't ya?"

By the end of your second drink, you can barely make out where his hands look different to yours. Maybe they're the ones running warmer. Maybe they're the ones inching closer to your bare, sopping core.

By the end of your third drink, you're but reduced to a giggly mess, his firm body pressed behind you as you—try to—line dance. You learn then just how strong he seems to be, what with all those tendons pressing against your skin.

By the end of your fourth drink, he has you bent over a table with a long stick in his hand. But not in the way you'd want—you're playing billiards.

"It's pool, actually," he'd corrected when you offered. Cocksure sonuvabitch. Thankfully, you have just the right amount of alcohol swirling around in your system to ignore that attitude.

You sloppily shoot your ball forward, and it hits the framework. You press the swell of your ass flush against his growing, taut front in indignance of the game. "This is stupid."

There's that chuckle again. Flows like honey, his voice. "Wanna make it a little interesting? Raise the stakes?"

You quirk your eyebrow and shrug, moving to the other side of the table from under him to look directly into those eyes. Those eyes—they're up to no good. "What are you thinking?"

"Well," he expertly angles his stick, muscles in his forearm flexing as he lands a ball in the net, "I win, and you buy me another drink. In fact, all my drinks for the rest of the night. Sound fair?"

You bite the inside of your cheek, wobbling a tiny bit as you lean against your stick. "Mm... alright. I win, you go down on me."

That seems to knock both the air out of his lungs and the smug smirk off his face.

"Sound fair?" you patronise, sated with your efforts at flabbergasting him.

He guffaws softly, shaking his head like he can't believe a pretty little thing like you fell into his lap that easy. "You're on, doll."

You make your move, once again to no avail. Your buzz removes any possibility of embarrassment from your mind, so you are happy to flounder your stick about aimlessly for the rest of the night.

His next move consists of something you can't quite make sense of. Either he hit another ball into the net, or he broke a bunch up... whatever it was, it seems to be the wrong move; if the sharp breath he sucks is anything to go by.

"What's wrong?"

"Lost the game. Illegal move. What a shame," he rubs the back of his neck, seemingly anything but frustrated to be keeping the stick down. "Now, I'm a man of my word, doll. I lost, so I fully intend on makin' it up to you."

By the end of some drink—you've lost count—he has your face pressed up against the foggy bathroom mirror. His own face, you might wonder, is currently burying itself in your pussy. Sharply sucking and nibbling at your clit, sending jolts of electricity through your body. Tongue slowly ravaging at your folds. He pries your lips wider with one hand, other digging into the flesh of your bare ass.

His finger hooks inside you, meaty flesh facing no resistance in your plentiful spend. You mewl, feeling weaker at the knees as he continues fulfilling his promise.

"Fuck, I love this pussy," he growls into your skin, punctuated by the wet sounds of his mouth on your sex. "So wet, sweetheart... just lettin' me have a taste like this? I oughta reward you."

You're about to argue that this is reward enough when another finger dips inside your heat. Your leg kicks up, toes curling inside the restraint of your heels. He eats away obscenely, as if he's trying to be as wanton as possible. He pulls away, a guttural sound following as a glob of his spit glistens over your cunt. He takes his fingers out of you, a lewd squelch framing the exit. He stands up, his face looming in the mirror as you steady yourself. The lower half of his face shines glossy with your slick, and he wipes it off half-assedly with the back of his hand.

His hands move to your neck, arching you closer to him. "You look so pretty like this, princess."

You whine softly in response, any words getting caught in your throat as he pushes his wet digits past your lips. He watches them disappear past the soft threshold, knuckle deep into the soft wetness of your mouth.

"Good girl..." he drawls headily, gently pushing his fingers in and out of you. "Takin' me so well, baby."

His hands return to caressing your ass, gently running his fingers over the skin. He spits again, glob landing this time on your plucked hole.

"Such a dirty girl, aren't you? Giving strangers in bars your panties..." He makes a tsk sound, pulling your underwear out of his pocket. He brings them to your mouth, the lingering musk of your arousal close to your nostrils. He shoves the fabric inside your mouth, and your whimper in protest is muffled. "Shh, shh... can't have anyone but me hearing your pretty little sounds, can we?"

His thumb circles your ass, lightly pressing at the unrelenting ring of muscle. "Bet you'd like this, wouldn't you? Getting fucked in the ass... like the slut you are."

Another incessant whine is lost in the soft lace of your panties. He smiles, staring you directly in the mirror.

"Yeah... you would. I can tell." The clinking sounds of metal against metal is followed by a zipper being curtly pulled down. The swollen head of his cock wettens itself along your folds. It presses against your entrance, eliciting a strangled moan from him. He pushes in further, your walls fluttering uncooperatively around him.

"Fuckin'— So fuckin' tight, honey. Suffocatin' me."

He reaches your hilt, the sharp rut against your cervix making you cry out around your gag. Your hands slam against the mirror as he bottoms out again, sharp and slow rams.

He's splitting you open in two. The corners of your eyes burn and prick with unshed tears at the positively sinful stretch of your insides as they accommodate him.

He widens his stance, hands holding you from the front so you're pressed flush up against him. He slams into you once more, eyes carefully examining the way your face contorts in the mirror. He drags his cock along your velvety walls, veins prominent as he finds your spongy front wall. Your eyes roll back at the onslaught of sensation, which only eggs him on to repeat the motion.

He's pushing into you with reckless abandon, grunting and growling deep into the nape of your neck. Mumbling praises about how well you're taking him, he's far from done with you, this is the sweetest pussy he's ever had. Thanking you—incoherently still—for letting him fuck you into oblivion.

He pulls himself out of you, panting heavily. You almost buckle at the loss of sensation.

Contention is lost at the tip of your gagged tongue when he bullies his cock past the tight ring of your ass. The burn quickly diffuses into pleasure as he throbs inside of you, threatening to fill you up.

"Oh... Good fuckin' girl, knew you'd like this..."

He thrusts up into you, a shaky, choked moan falling from him.

"Fuck, baby, I might just— Hah. So good, baby..."

One more rough thrust, and you feel his warmth seep inside you. He bites down on your shoulder as he spurts and empties himself.

It takes a few minutes of the two of you standing there still, to fully recover.

He presses a kiss to your flushed, sweat slicked cheek. "Too rough?"

You shake your head, feeling him pull out. Your gaping hole flexes and clenches around nothing, and the cold air around you stings. "Perfect."

He chuckles. He's slipped out of the role now, no more the cheating, suave trucker. Just your husband. "Glad to hear that."

He rips a paper napkin out of a dispenser, swiping it along the insides of your thighs. "Gonna be real sore tomorrow, I bet."

"Worth it." There's a lazy, dazed smile across your features.

He turns you around, and kisses you. Chaste, genuine.

"Babysitter's gonna charge us extra, but... think you have it in ya for another round?"

Bastard.