trucker!dean winchester who fucks you up against the gas pump for everyone to see. who brings forces you on all his road trips because he needs to have something to bury his aching cock into every night. who makes you give him head whilst he's driving, praising you for "bein' such a good girl f'your old man, kid".
trucker!dean winchester who gets your tits pressed up against the window as he fucks your cunt from behind when there's road closures and you get stuck in traffic. who works a beer bottle into your gaping hole when you're being bratty in the passenger seat because he refuses to touch you. who buys an assortment of "toys" for you to keep you happy and docile whilst on the road– after all, you only get the privilege of being fucked by him when you're not "actin' out like a fuckin' child. i know you're my baby girl an' all, kid, but i gave you rules for a reason."
trucker!dean winchester who taunts you by threatening to pass you off to his trucking buddies whenever you guys see one (or a few) at a stop, revelling in how you pout and cry because he's being so mean to you. you never notice how hard he gets at this reaction you give him, because before you know it, he's bending you over some grimy sink in the public bathroom, pounding into you– deep enough for you to remember exactly who you belong to.
ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 joel miller size , praise kink ( mdni , blurb )
currently been thinking about joel with a major size kink. it’s no brainer that he’s a big man—huge chest, huge biceps, tall and just a overall large, with a strong, mesmerizing body. he’s just huge! it drives you absolutely batshit crazy.
especially now, when he has you pressed down the mattress—your legs draped over his broad shoulders with his hands on each side of your head as he drives his also huge cock into you.
making you almost choke.
he'll bring his hands from against the mattress to your hips—the sheer size of his hands engulfing your entire hip as he slams them against his hips. the nasty, euphoric skin slapping 'plap! plap! plap!' as he drives into your smaller frame with grunts and the fluttering of his eyes. as if mesmerizing your smaller body wrapped around him so beautifully.
“joel!” you hitch, eyes fluttering shut as you scram your hands to grip his thighs.
“yeah girl, it’s okay baby. you can take it yeah? you always do.”
he’ll grunt in your ear as you pat his thigh for some sort of relief as he absolutely obliterates your cervix.
“so tiny, ain’t ya baby? hah—”
or!
he’ll praise the living hell out of you—whether in bed or not. you’ll be outside with him, teaching you how to ride a horse, making sure you’ll know how proud he is of you for learning. for leaping and taking the courage to let your old man teach you.
sometimes, when he’s tired but still wants to feel you, he’ll ask you to ride him with that sweet, thick drawl of his—so naturally, how could you ever resist your old man?
you'll be on top, thighs on either side of his hip, hands planted firm onto his hard chest as you bounced gently and clearly unexperienced as to how to even ride him due to his big size. you’ll whine and shake your head with a soft murmur of ‘i dunno—i can’t—’
afraid you’re not making him feel good so you’ll shy away, checks a flushed color and hair uncomfortably sticking to your sweaty skin.
he’ll hum, shaking his head in disapproval of you shying away. lifting a hand of his to peel away the hair where it sat uncomfortably.
“none of that baby, come on, let your man show you.”
moving those big calloused hands to your hips and guide you with soft praises as you ride him. grunting as he subconsciously thrusts his hips upwards into you.
“atta girl, you’re doing good.”
“yeah baby, see you’re getting it…”
your hips now grind onto his thick cock as you let out those soft moans that gradually turn louder—making the older man want to corrupt and ruin you even more.
you'll slide your soft hands to his scarred, muscled shoulders gripping them tightly as his guiding gets rougher. you both reaching y'all's climax.
once you both finish he’ll stay in you for a while, guiding your hips slower than before and letting you ride out your high as you whimper—eyes tightly shut as joel moves one hand to caress your cheek tenderly.
“you did so good baby.”
“always so good to your old man, yeah?”
“my girl…”
gently and wholeheartedly praising you for doing your best and pleasing your man.
credits to @strangergraphics for the divider!
i wrote this on a whim last night and edited it this morning so hoping yall like it !!!! 🪽
Thank you for the tags @bergamote-catsandbooks @awkwardpaws @sawymredfox @broad-shouldrs🤍✨️
Javier Peña & fem college student!reader (platonic)
I just started writing the first chapter of my "Clown" story for @ess-evo's horror writing challenge.
This is a crime/horror/mystery/thriller series set around a fictional town called Delry (sounds incredibly close to Derry huh). Reader, who's also referred to as Rivers, is a close friend of Mia, who changes after one night at a circus. Javier is a new professor who transferred to Delry College two weeks prior to the incident—but he's not just a professor.
You hadn't realized that you were occupying almost one third of the door's width as you poked your head in until you heard someone clearing their throat. Your heart almost leaped out of your ribs as if you got caught plagiarizing a reading journal.
Looking up, you were met with a pair of brown eyes and a dark, bushy mustache. Your gaze lingered for a few long seconds as you tried to place where you'd seen this face before, completely oblivious to the fact that your cheek was brushing against his tie, your face barely inches away from his chest.
Huh?
Oh.
Oh shit.
You immediately leaned back on your feet in realization. "Hi. Sir. Sorry. I was uh— looking for my friend." You rapped.
The man, also known as Mia's new, no-bullshit Introduction to Criminology professor, stared at you unamused as you flashed him a sheepish smile.
His jaw clenched in mild annoyance, scrutinizing your face before glancing back into the classroom. There were only two girls you didn't recognize and three boys left inside. "I think she left."
"Again?" You exclaimed, unaware of how tired he sounded.
The man in gray suit shrugged and walked off, the clacking of his heels echoing through the campus hallway.
You pouted in exasperation at Mia's audacity as your head followed the lecturer's figure that grew smaller with every step he took.
Thank you for reading! Feedbacks are appreciated :>
npt: @shadowqueen2024 @harriedandharassed @milla-frenchy @missadangel @aurorawritestoescape @cozymochaa @mcthsman @vodkaandpizza @petalsinblood @rosharanfiction @bardot49 @604to647 and anyone who'd like to share their wip!
[general, overall tw. angst. just read with caution but this is also really nothing. written in one sitting, not edited and not proofread. 1.6k]
''and my head is full of poison and my heart is full of doubt''
One day, eventually, you would meet a girl.
She would be everything that you had ever wished for, yet never spoken about out loud. Maybe you hadn’t even been aware that you had such a type–such a specific type–until the very moment that you laid eyes on her. Maybe it was at that very moment, when your gaze had accidentally found her in a crowded room, that your heart had stuttered and for once in your life, you had realized… oh.
What you wanted actually did exist. She was standing there, several feet away. Quietly existing in the bar.
You would steal glances. You wouldn’t be able to help yourself. With each glance, your intrigue would grow. So would your guilt.
And what a feeling it would end up being–to have your entire world stop on a random weekend, just because of a random girl in a random bar. Auburn hair–yes, auburn, because that specific detail was important to your drunken mind–green eyes that you could imagine yourself studying, and the sort of freckles that you could only daydream about.
Yeah, you could glance at her from across the room, but that was it. You could smile at her maybe once–out of politeness only. Two smiles would be too far, as the shame creeping up within your very being would be unbearable.
There she would be, the literal embodiment of anything you could ever dream of and yearn for, and you wouldn’t do a single thing about it. You could not do a single thing about it, due to the man that was several feet away from you–laughing loudly with friends.
Your boyfriend never favored a night out, always claimed that bars made him feel gross and that the atmosphere was annoying–but he would be doing just fine on that particular night. He would handle every single interaction with ease, and talk and laugh with his friends like he never experienced a single worry in the world. For someone that claimed to hate it… yeah, he would carry himself quite nicely–aside from the fact that he got tunnel vision around his friends, meaning that you would be going on nearly fifteen minutes of sitting alone and sipping a drink and trying to scroll on your phone.
So your gaze would drift. And your mind would wander.
You hated those tiny moments, the ones in which it was impossible to pretend or hide because your heart would pound and your mind would be fully aware. Your mind had been fully aware, and no amount of distraction could ever alter that. You knew what you were. Knew what you felt.
But despite the blaring, overwhelming sense of knowing… you would not mutter a word. Not ever. You had parents that would not be able to bear the weight of you being a disappointment. You had a boyfriend that wanted to propose soon–one that promised your parents that he would take care of you. He had a little sister that looked at you as though you had placed the stars in the sky, and how could you ever disappoint her?
Your life was not your own by any means, due primarily to your own cowardice. You had tried, once, to whisper the truth of what you were. The truth that you had quickly laughed about and waved off, because you couldn’t deal with people watching you out of the corner of their eye whenever there was a scantily clad woman on the screen during a movie scene–as if something about you was suddenly something to be wary of.
But the girl in the bar. Ellie, you had heard. Caught her name by accident, had heard it being said with a laugh by one of her friends. Your mind would latch onto it instantly. Ellie, Ellie, Ellie. You would almost want to whisper it, to test the sound of it being said with affection. To see how it would sound if you were the one laughing her name, instead.
She would glance at you more than your boyfriend did. Quick, polite smiles would be exchanged. Multiple, in fact. You would accidentally run into her on your way to get another drink, and you would bite your inner cheek until you tasted blood because you could not speak to her.
You could not compliment her, or attempt to flirt, or even flutter your lashes in her direction–because, of course, you were spoken for. But you would want to, and that was the ugly truth about it all, really. In your mind, you would talk to her. Let it be something–the same sort of something that haunted your dreams in the worst way, because they would never be a reality.
How gross you would be, wanting to talk to this girl despite having your boyfriend just a few feet away. How horrible you would be, for wishing you were slightly more of a bad person… so that you could flirt anyway, despite everything else. That’s how desperate you were. Desperate to feel something that would be right for once in your life. Desperate to experience what you had quite literally been longing and yearning for as long as you could remember. Skin was skin, sure. And yet, you couldn’t help but feel as though the difference would be so great. Comforting. Right, for the first time in your life.
If only you were slightly more of a worse person. Less fearful, more stupid.
You would not be able to stop noticing her. She would notice you, too.
You would notice how subtly her fingers twitched at her sides–always moving in some capacity, but still careful.
You would carry the image of it home with you. Energized from a night with his friends, your boyfriend would surely be feeling good about being able to go home and have a girlfriend to fuck. His other friends weren’t so lucky, apparently–with new babies and wives that were too tired, or controlling girlfriends that were deemed to be a drag. He would pull you to intimacy–never mind if you were tired, or already asleep, or feeling ill from your drinks. He would touch you like routine, and by that, he would barely touch you at all. He already had you, no need to impress. There would be no hand holding, no whispered praise in the dark.
And you–maybe you were completely and utterly sick and twisted–because you would think about her. Ellie. And those careful, fidgeting hands.
You would be brought to tears at the idea of someone, a girl–her, Ellie–touching you like you mattered. A slow drag of fingers, like you were something to worship, to memorize, to savor. You would never experience that feeling in your life, so you would instead squeeze your eyes shut and try to convince yourself that your imagination was essentially close to the real thing, anyway.
The misery that you carried within your soul was no one’s fault but your own. There was no one to place blame onto… aside from yourself. Your cowardice, your fear, your inability to be yourself and to live and to be free. It was as though your skin was burning at every waking moment of your life, but you were unable to bring yourself to do anything about it. You were spoiled, made of mold and everything disgusting and bad. You were rotten. Rotten body, rotten mind, rotten soul. You were nothing that you wanted to be, nothing that anyone wanted you to be, and nothing that anyone needed you to be.
Ellie’s eyes would linger in your mind. Tortuously so. You had never seen a pair of eyes like it, and never would again. It hurt how much you wanted her–like a child would scream and cry over a toy in a store.
You would never get to know that you had missed your soulmate that night. That if you had been braver, hadn’t tied yourself down to a relationship that wasn’t right but felt like your fate anyway… you would’ve gotten her. You would’ve had a life of easy laughter, loving touches, and gentle acceptance. You wouldn’t have had to imagine what a specific touch might’ve felt like, because you would’ve had it every single day. You would’ve had a best friend in the form of a lover, in the form of Ellie. You would’ve spent your evenings holding still for her paintings, and your mornings would’ve been spent dancing in the kitchen with her to her favorite records. Ellie would’ve been gentle. Would’ve loved you right, despite the way in which your parents never would’ve approved. They would’ve called her trouble purely due to her hoodies and flannels, missing out on her soft smiles and quiet jokes. You would’ve had a life that you wanted to live, and a body that you didn’t feel the need to escape from. You would’ve had it. Everything you had ever wanted, really. Each dream, each thing that you longed for.
But you had never been good at being honest with yourself–had never been good at making waves. You always cowered, always subjected yourself to the worst of things and seemingly dragged everyone along with you.
You would doom yourself to the narrative–readied yourself to ache due to your own fears. Your truth was too terrifying, as was the unknown.
Like a bird in a pet store cage… the habitat wasn’t ideal, but at least they remained safe. Right? At least they weren’t dead, right?
You had consistency, at least. You knew what to expect out of your life, even if it was slowly killing you. Even if you were falling apart, everything else remained steady. After all, a cathedral under collapse was still technically deemed to be a sanctuary. You would not be comfortable, but you would live under the guise of self preservation.
You would die in the closet–whether it be slowly and naturally or at your own hand–and it would be without ever knowing what you could’ve been, or what you could’ve had.
---
[most definitely going to delete this and will instead probably recycle some lines for better than this]
You and Joel had been seeing each other in secret for weeks now. That meant sneaking around behind your father’s back, pretending like you and Joel were much less acquainted than you really were, and agreeing without hesitation that Joel teaching you how to drive stick was a ‘great idea’.
Your father thought he was being smart, avoiding all the hard parts of teaching you how to drive the busted truck he’d handed down to you, but little did he know you wouldn’t be doing much learning.
No, currently you had your hand wrapped around Joel’s rock hard cock instead of the gear shift, pumping your hand rhythmically as his fingers delved into your folds.
He groaned your name, his head falling back against the passenger seat as he grabbed your wrist and began to control the pace. The sound of him so wrecked was enough to make you smile.
He brought his free hand to wrap around your throat, not squeezing, but rather tugging you closer. Until your lips brushed against his with each pant you let out.
His fingers circled your clit again as he nipped your lower lip, capturing your lips in a deep kiss as he continued his touch pace.
“Mmph—Joel,” you whined, squirming back. “What if somebody sees?” 
“Nobody’s gonna see,” he chided, slipping two fingers inside of you and curling them. “And if they do? Shit, they’d get a hell of a show, baby.”
You bit back another whine, grinding against the palm of his hand.
He pulled back, looking you up and down while he grinned. He could always tell how you were feeling, but especially when you were about to cum. That was why he pulled his fingers away and left you empty, mourning the loss of his warmth.
He looked at you with heavily lidded eyes before helping you crawl over the center console, then settled you in his lap. He steadied you with big hands on your hips before easing you down, not yet making you take his cock, though you knew it’d happen soon enough, if that predatory glint in his eyes was anything to go off of.
“See this, baby?” He asked as he took his hard cock in his hand. He gave it a few strokes before squeezing the tip, coaxing out a few drops of precum. “He wants ya’ real bad.”
He pushed the gusset of your panties aside and bared you to him, running his finger through your folds once more. He captured your lips in a kiss and tangled his tongue with yours as a means of distracting you, then he positioned his tip at your entrance and slid you down on it.
He wasn’t slow or gentle, instead slamming you up and down on his achingly hard cock and using your hips as handles to bounce you up and down. Each moan that tumbled from your lips only seemed to spur him on.
The windows were fogged up now, and your hand left a print in the condensation as you buried your face into the crook of his neck and moaned. “Joel, Joel! Fuck! Don’t stop—oh shit!”
He grunted into your ear, thrusting up into you simultaneously as he bounced you. His thrusts were so brutal that the truck began to rock, making the whole thing completely unsubtle.
But you were past the point of caring, especially when you were so close to cumming on his cock.
He felt you squeezing him, and this time he didn’t stop you. Instead, he grabbed your chin hard, angling your face where he wanted it and kissing you sloppily. Drool dripped down your chin, both yours and his saliva mixing as he licked into your mouth as you both reached your climax.
Your whines were muffed against his mouth, and his groans disappeared somewhere between his rough kisses. When he pulled away, the string of saliva connecting you two broke and dripped down to where you two were connected. He saw the white ring of your arousal surrounding the base of his cock, the sight alone sending another weak rope of cum spurting out of him.
He pulled you off of him, watching his thick cum trickle out of you and onto his lap. The sight was worth the fact that he’d have to wash these jeans again today.
You adjusted atop him, sliding your panties back over to cover your puffy pussy before sitting down in the drivers seat. Joel reached over and patted your thigh, flashing you a lazy grin.
“Alright sweetheart, back to work. Still don’t even know how to engage the clutch.”
Warnings/tags: infidelity, smut, dry humping, manipulation, dark!Joel, Father in Law!Joel, naive!reader, some nipple play, AU, not canon compliant, Joel has a son in this, implied legal age gap (not spicified so you can imagine whatever you want)
A/N: old drabble I wrote like ages ago, today I felt like bringing this back cause I’m quite proud of it. I really hope you like this little filth! English is not my first language, if you find any mistakes: I’m sorry.
It’s not related to my other FIL!Joel fics, this one is pretty manipulative and he feels nothing like the romantic version of him I previously posted on this account.
dividers: @/saradika-graphics
MASTERLIST | JOEL MILLER MASTERLIST
You're straddling Joel with your panties on.
Grinding your pussy along his length flat on his tummy.
Whining, rocking your hips back and forth, your panties drenched in his and your essence.
Your hands cup your tits, your fingers pinch your nipples.
He’s hard against your core, hot, his velvety skin slides easily on the fabric, your clit more puffy and swollen with each stroke.
Warm waves make your body vibrate, rising from your tummy to your chest, setting your face on fire.
Again and again.
You can't stop, it's a vertigo that blinds your mind, it doesn't let you think about anything else.
“Just like that, baby, go on, take what you need,” he groans.
His big, calloused hands rest on the curve of your soft thighs, grasping and squeezing, pulling you down on his groin, his gaze moving from your half-open lips moaning his name and your tits bouncing before his eyes.
You want more.
You need more.
You move your panties to one side, you can't be bothered to take them off.
Your pussy aches and cries and screams for him.
His cock is cocooned in your folds, stiff and leaking precum, the veins of his shaft pulsing against your centre.
You anchor yourself to his legs to bend your back slightly and find an angle that stimulates your clit even more.
Your hips continue their lewd dance, your juices mixing, merging, dripping onto his balls and your thighs. The tight, thin skin on his uncut cock retracts and covers his engorged, angry tip in rhythm with your thrusts.
Your muffled moans bounce off the walls as he urges you on with a broken, hoarse voice that seems to come from deep within him.
You come, throwing your head back, eyes shut.
His name dies on your lips, strangled by your wails.
“It's nothing,” he had told you, ”it's not the real deal unless I put it in you.”
You let yourself be convinced by his words, naive and willing.
You undressed for him.
“You can leave your panties on, baby, it's okay.”
It may not be real sex, but this is real orgasm.
Wet, desperate, annihilating.
Your boyfriend will be home any minute now.
Yeah, your boyfriend.
The son of the man who is still between your thighs.
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
titsay
yousharknotpass
prguitarman
tangentwithtanner
turnnoffyourmind
areudirty
