So around 8 years ago I tried to kill myself. I was 16 and it was a beautiful June day. Today I'm 24 and it's a quite chilly, rainy March day. I never thought I'd make it so far but I did. Somehow, I did. Dear God!!! How happy I am that I did.
Every day is borrowed for me. Every time I wake up in the morning, I live a day longer than I planned to. And yet, I can't find it in myself to regret not ending my life.
If I had died those 8 years ago, I would have missed out on so many things. Both happy and sad, because all of them made me into who I am today. I'd miss out on the friends and the heartache, on successes and failures, on good days and bad days. I'd miss out on so much life worth living.
Sure, I'm not perfect and neither is my life. But what thing in the universe is? Honestly, I wouldn't want to be perfect, nor would I want my life to be perfect. Where would the fun be? The challenge? The "what if"? How else would I learn how kind, brave and persistent I can be? How much love I have in me?
Somewhere in the past, there was the 16-year-old me, severely depressed and trying to end her life. If only she knew... If only she knew that as long as I'm alive, the 24-year-old woman, she's going to be fine. More than fine. She's going to be awesome. As long as the adult me is alive, she has nothing to fear. I love that teenage girl more than anything. She'd been through so much and thought that dying was her only way out. She thought that this is the only way she can save us. But she was so wrong! How much I love her for her failure! She felt like no one would miss her, like her absence wouldn't be noticed. I would notice! I would mourn you, my love. Even when it felt like no one cared about you, I did! I always will. I love you, my dear. You gave me a chance and I promise not to waste it. I promise to make every day count.
Sometimes I feel like I'm behind but most of my peers didn't experience abuse and suicidal tendencies. Even if I am behind them (which I'm not, we all feel this way in out 20's), I get every right to. I didn't plan for the future I didn't expect. Now I have to make plans on the fly. Not all of those plans panned out. I didn't go to the high school and university I had been dreaming of. Instead, I ended up in places that helped me grow and moulded me into the amazing person I am today. In the end, I have found myself in the places I was meant to be. I ended up where I was needed and where I needed to be for something to change inside me.
When you survive death, you find yourself viewing reality differently. Every gust of wind and speck of dust is noticed. The world is both strange and familiar, old and new. And as much badness and evil there is in the world, there is so much more kindness and hope. There are old people feeding pond ducks on a spring afternoon, joggers with dogs on a Monday morning, baristas who know your order by heart, train passengers who will happily help you with your luggage, friends who will listen to your complaints, flowershop workers who will give you a free flower because the occasion is important. There will always be people who will smile back at you.
With time, I realised how much I was overlooking. Now I see. There is so much to be grateful for. How lucky I am that I worry about what nail art I want next. How lucky I am to worry about when I can schedule my hairdressing appointment. How lucky I am to worry about whether I want to wear sneakers or high heels, a skirt or a pair of pants. How lucky I am that I get to complain about 8am classes. How lucky I am that I contemplate about what I want for dinner. How lucky I am that I have problems scheduling a hangout with my friends because we all live such rich lives. How lucky I am to be unsure what book I want to read, what movie to watch, what music to listen to. How lucky I am to have my silly little problems!
And how lucky I am to have bad days! How lucky I am that sometimes I get caught in the rain! The tram is late! I have to budget groceries! You know who doesn't get bad days ever? Dead people. If I'm having a bad day, that means I'm alive and usually I have good days. It means that I've survived bad days before and can do it again. It means I have another chance, that not everything is finished and decided. I get to try again.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that if I died 8 years ago, I never would have had the opportunity to be happy again. I lay in my bed, feverish, suddenly realising that if I die right then, this horrible sorrow and pain is all I will ever know. It will be the last thing I feel before passing over. But if I somehow hang on, if I give myself one last chance, I might feel okay one day. Today I call that hope, something I never run out of. Back then, it was curiosity - what if? What if there is more to this life than sadness and numbness? What if there can be more than hopeless suffering?
There is always a reason to stay. And if you can't find it now, just know that I will always be here. I will always think about you and remember you. I will always smile back at you. Surviving can be scary, so it's good to have someone on your side. And I will always be on your side.
I lived. I'm here, despite everything. Now it's your turn, my love.
Just started watching Foundation with my brother and it was a BAD IDEA !!! Every scene with Brother Day, I have to clench my whole body to not give away how feral I am for this man. I yearn for him in ways concerning to feminism !! give me a chance and you won't have to clone people ever again
Astarion Ancunin is pissing me off but it says more about me than him
(warning: talks about depression, abuse, homophobia, self-harm and suicide)
When Baldur's Gate 3 launched, the Internet was suddenly flooded by people yearning for Astarion. He became a Joe Jonas, Harry Styles or Troy Bolton overnight. So when I played BG3 for the very first time, I was curious. What's up with that guy? Lo and behold - from the very first meeting, I was ready to knock his teeth out. However, I'm an introspective person, and so I did some self-reflection on why that is. It turns out, Astarion reminds me of something (someone) I haven't gotten over yet:
I was born and raised in a Catholic, "pray the gay away" kind of family. My parents have talked about atheists many times, always negatively. To them, life without God is pointless, rid of morality and happiness. How could a person be truly happy without sacraments? I've never felt the presence of God in my life but I knew I can't talk about it openly. So I just remained silent, listening to how awful "godless" people are.
My parents didn't shy away from corporal punishment, saying how raising my brother wasn't as troublesome, how I'm not even trying to do well at school and suggesting that maybe God doesn't want me to go to university and I should become a nun instead. In different ways, mostly indirectly, I was told that there is something fundamentally wrong with me.
My brother is a Catholic priest. Ever since he left for the seminar, I have become invisible to a degree. The whole family was interested in him, expressing their pride. I could be standing right next to him and don't get a simple "how are you?". Family dinners for me were silent - I stayed silent because no one cared about my opinion. All they talked about was church, priests and horrible, horrible "gays"/leftists/atheists. My parents would chat with my brother over the dinner table and never look at me. I mean, why would they? I didn't care about priest friends, I didn't know them.
My family situation contributed to my becoming severely depressed. I engaged in self-harm and was low-key addicted to it. The thought of hurting myself was the only thing getting me through the day. It took me several tries to quit (currently clean for 4.5 years). When I told my parents (only because I was meant to go swimsuit shopping and wanted the truth to come out on my own terms), my mother didn't speak to me for a few days. Completely ignored me. My brother made jokes about "cutting one way for attention, other way for effectiveness". You know how you should disclose such things to a "trusted adult"? Yeah, I chose the wrong adults.
I was actively suicidal. I fantasised about awful things happening to my family just so they suffer like I did. I thought it was fair. If I had to beg God every day to kill me, why shouldn't they? Do they not deserve punishment for their wrongdoings? For making me feel like they would be happier without me? Like I'm a burden?
I think what pissed me off in Astarion was the similarity. On a visceral level, I know what it means to suffer and demand revenge. I know what it's like to build a spiky, sky-high wall of snarky comments and insults in hopes that no one will hurt me again.
I know what it's like when your pain and anger fester inside you, eating you alive. How anything humane and kind rots away.
But today I'm a completely different person. I love it when random old people strike up a conversation with me in public. I smile whenever I see a dog or a baby enjoying the weather. I laugh when I drop something and like to feel soft, light rain on my face. I don't hold back my seagull laugh or weird sense of humour. I dance to the radio playing at the store. I simply enjoy life and each mundane day I get to live because I know it's borrowed - I got a second chance when the painkillers didn't put me in a morgue.
Seeing Astarion's snark and negativity reminds me of the person I used to be. It brings back something I buried deep inside in hopes that it would simply disappear once I got my stuff together. I hear his words and immediately get upset. Because it doesn't have to be this way. The world doesn't have to be all gloomy and "masters or slaves". There's a lot more to this, to us. I want to grab him by the collar and yell, "You don't have to live this way! You can free yourself from this suffering!". But would I be doing it for him? Or for the teenage me? Maybe both. Maybe I know where his path leads and I know that it won't get better unless he stops this spiral.
His ascension made me think of my own violent fantasies. My own desire for revenge. Now I know that fulfilling them wouldn't change a thing. Just like with Astarion, becoming the perpetrator wouldn't erase what had already happened. No matter what, my pain would still exist. I don't fantasise about that stuff anymore and you know what? It's like a weight lifted off my shoulders. I have the energy and space to think about better things. To look towards better days awaiting me.
In short: Astarion Ancunin pisses me off because he reminds me that I haven't fully grieved what had happened to me. I want to "save" him from himself against his own wishes because I know that spiralling into violence, anger and misery will only kill him. If not literally, then figuratively and I can't tell with one is worse. Maybe I just wish someone had saved me.
Me:*immersed in all the mafia/monster "he's scary but not to her" comfort scenarios*
My Brain: So you're fantasizing about a partner who loves you unconditionally, is reliable/dependable, keeps you in a safe bubble both physically and emotionally, makes you a priority to the point of being devoted, is emotionally mature and openly appreciates you as a person?
Me: ...
My Brain:...
My Brain: So how's your relationship with your parents?
Me: We are NOT doing this right now
as a person who has a thing for older men, I would like to file a formal complaint against everyone responsible for the Curator in The Dark Pictures Anthology:
so you're going to create a mysterious, good-looking and well-dressed man, put him in a position of power and NOT let me at least smooch him?
Billy excuses himself from the table. Walking towards the restaurant bathroom, he catches a glimpse of the men sitting nearby - they've been getting on his nerves all night. Snickering, whispering and shamelessly gawking at you in a way that even made him uncomfortable. Although, in all fairness, he understood the commotion. It was part of the reason he needed to leave your vicinity for a moment.
He locks the bathroom door behind him and lets out an exhausted sigh. Were his trousers always this uncomfortable? Billy shifts uncomfortably, tugging at his pants. With all the strength he can gather, he tries to take deep breaths and not think of the short button-up dress you're wearing. Especially, not the first two buttons you have, definitely on accident, left open. Or the way the peach-coloured material wrapped around your hips and waist, luring him in like a siren. You really are testing his patience.
With another deep breath and a ragged sigh, Billy leaves the bathroom, appearing as though he didn't just go through a small crisis. Walking towards you, his eyes watch the chattering men who are pointing at something in your general direction. Billy's angry eyes catch the stare of one of the gawkers. The thought that any of them could have a chance with you would be funny in its delusion if it didn't piss him off so much. He snorts mockingly.
Looking back at you, his eyes linger on your cleavage a little longer than befits a gentleman. To be honest, he'd love to just rip that flimsy dress off of you and creampie you right against the restaurant table for the shameless men to watch. He could stare into their envy-ridden eyes as your pathetic whimpers fill their ears.
The lovely fantasy plays in his mind while he sits down across from you. You're nearly done with your americano and soon enough, he'd take you anywhere he wants. Anyhow he wants.
Word Count: 3,600
Cross Posted Here on AO3
Warnings & Notes: Fem!Reader, unprotected sex in a church, mild size-kink, and a dash of Rhett having a corruption kink and getting off on the idea of cumming inside you.
"I sure hope you ain't tellin' me what to do, dollface."
Oh, the things you would give to wrap both your hands around this motherfuckers thick neck and—
"—Can you please, just put the paper towels on the shelf?" Speaking in the firmest tone you can muster, cheeks flaming so hot you fear they may turn cherry red.
"And why does this have to involve me?" God, Rhett just keeps going; the choir girls are starting to notice, casting wayward glances from under false lashes as they whisper amongst each other behind open palms.
"Because you're tall enough to reach the shelf, and I'm not," pushing the paper towels toward him once more, forcing him to take them, "and if God wanted me to put them up there, he would have made me taller, or he would have given me a stepping stool."
For the first time all morning, Rhett's quiet, and for as much as he's fussed about this, you'd think this momentous task would take him longer than three seconds to complete. You're starting to see why Cece doesn't drag him along to Sunday services more often.
He continues to loom in the corner, leaning up against the wall like some sort of hot shot whilst he just watches. Wild blue eyes follow your every movement as you finish setting up the coffee booth like he's getting some sort of enjoyment out of watching you mull about. Doesn't offer help, just watches.
Asshole.
As soon as you start to walk away, ready to settle into the corner of an old, stained church pew, he pushes off the wall and starts to walk too. Like a shadow, following each and every step until all of a sudden, you're sitting between the end of the bench and Rhett Abbott.
"Do you have to sit so close to me?" Grumbling, you try to scoot further off, but there's not enough space for you to do so.
Rhett's jeaned thigh presses harder against your own, "yes, I do, actually."
"You're an ass," it comes out louder than you intend to, but if anyone overhears, they don't mention it. Not yet, at least.
"Wow, swearing in church now, are we?" Smug.
You're still contemplating strangling him right here and now; an attempted murder charge sounds a lot better than sitting in this hell for an hour and a half. The bastard is probably into it, knowing his reputation. The only thing that actually stops you from finding out is the sudden booming voice from the podium, commanding all eyes and ears on him, silence falling upon the room.
Usually, the preacher's go-to is to have everyone shake hands and welcome one another, but you're thankful that he skips right over the tradition in favor of jumping straight into his speech. A direct continuation of last week's sermon, according to the woman whispering behind you. You're not quite sure how, but you know Rhett would have given you more trouble if you got up to greet people.
As if on cue, a calloused hand settles on your exposed knee, just below the hem of your Sunday dress. Maybe it's because the air conditioner is running in the middle of December, but his hand feels so hot you fear it may melt right through your skin.
"Rhett," whispering as quietly as you can, "get your hands off me."
It only serves to make your situation worse because he leans over to whisper directly into your ear, "seems to me you're in need of someone to keep you warm."
Teeth nip at the lobe of your ear, tugging on it for a fleeting second. His hand slides off your knee, if only for a muscular arm to drape over your shoulders instead. Great, absolutely wonderful.
But God, he's warm, and he's changed his started wearing that seasonal cologne he wears every December. Something bordering hot chocolate and vanilla, not overly sweet but so, so warm. It matches him in the strangest of ways, you conclude, as you reluctantly melt into his side.
Okay, this is...alright. There are several couples doing this very thing in front of you, nothing weird about this at all. It's not like you can argue when Rhett is practically a blazing furnace right next to you; this dress is cute, but it definitely was not made for the colder months.
For a long minute, all you find yourself doing is curling into Rhett Abbott's side and listening to the preacher's voice as it grows louder and louder. A relaxed conversation about coming clean to those around you devolves into a rant about sinners and sex before marriage. The longer it goes, the stiffer Rhett becomes next to you, until all of a sudden, he's drawing away from you.
Without a word, he gets up and walks out.
Strangely, you don't hear the front doors squeak open, nor do you feel the icy draft that always sneaks inside. For a minute, you reckon he's just gone to the men's room. The more time passes, the more you don't think that's so true.
Fifteen minutes after Rhett vanished, you excuse yourself and quietly venture out into the hallway.
"Rhett?" You try, but your voice vanishes under the preacher's louder one.
Even so, the felt brim of a cowboy hat pokes out from behind a door, dark brown in color and a little ripped in the front. You only know one man with a hat like that. It seems he didn't hear you because he's eyes brighten at the sight of you like he's been waiting on you to come looking for him this whole time.
"There you are," he breathes, struggling to fight off the shit-eating grin that's working its way across his face as he reaches for you. "Did I even manage to get under your skin?"
"I thought you were kidding when you suggested this shit," you hiss, but you don't stop him from guiding you into this tiny little office space with its large mahogany desk and beat-up loveseat. "Of course, you got under my skin, you ass!"
Rhett shoves you down onto the couch with a soft thump and drops to his knees so swiftly that you hear them hit the floor. The force of it jostles his hat, but he's not concerned in the slightest with readjusting it, "good."
There's no teasing or beating around the bush in the way he pulls your hips toward the edge of the couch, rucking the skirt of your dress up in the process, "then I suppose you won't mind me making it up to you?"
Hot breath ghosts up your cold thighs, sparks a newfound heat directly between your legs. Okay, that, that...
"Was this your plan all along?" Leaning into the cushions of the couch, this is all so sudden, but you're not one to complain when his nose is brushing against the only fabric he hasn't pushed to the side yet.
"Do you expect anything less from me, darlin'?" Long lashes bat themselves up at you as he speaks, bordering devilish in tone and something soft in gaze.
A hot tongue drags up the front of your panties, forces eye contact as he does so. So much all at once, but not enough. The vague pressure of his tongue isn't enough when there's such a thin layer of cotton separating him from where you want him. Only when you're about to pull them off yourself does he reach up and hook his fingers under the thin elastic waistband.
"Bring your hips up, doll," murmuring into your thigh, and you're just barely able to muster the strength to do so.
Finally, finally, he pulls your panties off, neatly folding and tucking them into his back pocket like a trophy. Sure hope you get those back; those are one of your current favorites.
Your thoughts are cut short by the sudden sensation of a dripping tongue swirling at your clit, sloppy and oh-so-wet. It's so abrupt that you find yourself jolting away, only to be drawn back in by steady hands on your hips, holding you in place as he licks you up and down in fat stripes.
"Rhett," gasping for a breath you can't seem to catch, "fuck, did you forget we're in church?"
He hums into you, sends a shock wave up your spine with it. His wandering tongue finds your entrance, lapping at it incessantly but not quite pushing inside at first. The tip of his nose bumps against your clit, "been thinkin' of havin' you on my tongue since that alarm went off this mornin'."
"So that's why you volunteered to come along?" Whining as he nods his head, "bastard—ah!"
Just like that, Rhett's tongue slips inside of you, working in and out in languid thrusts as his nose presses harder into you. This little room is so quiet that you can hear the slick sound of his tongue working itself into your quivering cunt, his mouth so wet that it feels like he's drooling.
Reaching down, he gets ahold of your thigh and guides your leg up over his shoulder, gives him better access to your writhing body. Practically fucks you open with his tongue, the soft tip of his nose bumping into your clit over and over. Enough to make you squirm, not enough to get you off.
"Rhett, if you don't," the beginning of your threat is shaky, not intimidating even in the slightest, "get off that floor and fuck me right now."
His eyebrows raise, and his tongue slips out of you with the wettest noise you've ever heard. Fuck, he really must have been drooling, swollen, spit-slicked lips and wet chin glistening in the light, "yes, ma'am." The bastard just has to say it with a smile, too.
He makes no move to come up, though, and as his dominant hand lowers between your legs, you realize he's planning to lick you as he works you open. But you really, really want to kiss him right now.
Lowering your leg from his shoulder, you seize him by the collar and pull. It takes him a moment to comply, and for a brief second, you think he's glued himself to that thinly-carpeted floor. With the softest whine, he rises, settling into the empty space next to you like a big ol' puppy. His eyes wide and confused, and it's not until you curl your fingers into his hair and drag him in that he realizes what you're doing.
"Kisses?" Whispering directly against your lips, surprised, but oh, does he just melt right into it.
Soft, at first, just the simple mesh of lips that haven't touched each other since you first woke up, but then Rhett's finding his footing. Kisses you with a dizzying intensity, one hand cradling your cheek, the other slipping between your legs to tease the pad of his finger against your dripping entrance.
You can taste yourself on his tongue. Your fingers grip his hair, pulling him closer, impossibly so, and it's so sloppy that you can't tell who's in control or who's calling the shots here. His thick finger presses into you, working in and out until he's knuckle deep, but he kisses you so softly, following your motions like a shadow.
"Is that you clenchin' on my finger, or have I really not fucked you in a while?" His finger works in and out of you so slowly, a soft, simple motion that drags his knuckles against a gooey spot inside of you. Shit, when was—when was the last time you actually...?
"Both," you blurt, breathless, "I think this is the longest we've gone." Coincidentally, you think the last time you had sex was also on a couch. Given it was your couch and not some dingy thing in the back office of a church.
It's only been a few weeks, three at the most, but it's been long enough for there to be a little bit of an ache as a second finger works into you. There's no way you're going to be walking out of here without a slight waddle in your step.
In and out, over and over, until he can work in a third. A thumb on your clit distracts you from the stretch, rubbing soft circles for every centimeter he eases into you. You're squirming, not sure if you're running away from the stimulation on your clit or chasing the feeling of those thick fingers delving in and out of you in short little thrusts.
"Why are your fingers so fucking big?" Gasping as he kisses down your neck, those fingers curling against that little spot again.
"Are they big?" And he's nibbling at the meet of your jaw, almost speaking directly into your ear, "or are you just small?"
He's just big.
Shaky, you fumble with his belt, absolutely relieved when you find that he isn't wearing one of those oversized rodeo buckles that are so hard to get open in times like these. Rhett chuckles against your skin, makes no effort to help or stop you as you pop the button to his jeans open. His fingers only quicken, properly fucking you with them now, and it makes it that much harder to reach past his waistband.
"Shit," he hisses, jolting as your hand wraps around him and draws him out. Only letting him go to spit into your palm, wetting it just enough to stroke him smoothly. He's hard as a rock in your hand, heavy like one, too. Slow, he eases out of you, and with how empty you're feeling now, you hate to imagine how it's going to feel in a little bit.
Your back hits the couch with a soft noise, the furniture creaking under the sudden placement of your weight. Then, Rhett's between your legs, the tip of his cock teasing against your freshly stretched rim but not pushing inside yet.
"Didn't bring a condom," he breathes, "sure hope that ain't a problem, sweetheart."
He sure doesn't sound apologetic.
"Has it ever been a problem?" And there's more you want to say, but it's hard to speak when he presses into you, makes your back arch as he splits you wide open.
Your legs clamp down around his lithe waist, lungs burning as you try and fail to regain your long-gone composure. Don't quite realize you had made a noise until he's shushing you, easing deeper inside until you feel his head fully enter you. Moves so, so slow that it's agonizing.
Rhett pauses for just a second, chest heaving, "so tight, baby."
"Can you move any faster?" You're intentionally leaving out the part that the longer he takes, the harder it is for you to keep your thighs from shaking around him.
"Hold on, darlin'," seizing your hips in his hands as he speaks, holding you still as he just about fucking stops, "I'm a little big for you, ain't I?"
Big is a fucking understatement. Rhett's only about halfway in you, and you already can't fucking breathe. Never can. No matter how many times he's fucked you, slow, hard, it doesn't matter; you can never seem to get used to how big he is.
His hands aren't big just for show; they're a fucking warning.
Finally, finally, finally, his hips come flush to yours, and you don't think there's any room for your lungs even to function anymore. Panting so hard that you don't realize Rhett's dropping to his forearms, kissing sweetly at your cheek. Such a stark contrast to the devilish roll of his hips between your legs.
"Such a good girl for me," he soothes, "takin' every single inch just like that."
His hips roll in tight little circles, getting you used to his size until you can catch your breath, long enough for your head to stop spinning, at least. All you have to do is nod your head once, and he's drawing back out of you, so familiar with your cues that he knows exactly what you're asking for.
Then he's pushing back into you, and it's not even a long stroke, but it's enough to have you whimpering anyway. So thick that the head of his cock effortlessly massages the gooey spot inside your stretched pussy; you think you could cum just from this alone.
"That preacher don't know what the hell he's talkin' about," and it's only now that you realize the sermon is still going, muffled but very audible through these old walls, "every little lady deserves a man that can fuck her right."
Rhett punctuates his sentence with a harder thrust, sending stars sparkling behind your eyelids like a light show. Well, you can't argue with that statement. Not when he's doubling down and drilling into you in sharp, deep strokes that bullies his fat cockhead right into your sweet spot, kissing it with each and every stroke inward.
"Rhett!" Fingernails dig into his shoulder blades, threatening to tear right into the thin material of his dress shirt. It's a kiss that smothers the whimper that boils out of your throat, dizzying but so, so tame compared to how his hips are working between your legs.
"Look at you," leaning back until he's on his haunches, "innocent little thing gettin' fucked good by the big, bad cowboy."
With that, he draws his hips back, snapping them back into you with a force that has you yelping. Hope nobody could hear that. Rhett's pace is changing, unrelenting, as he punches each and every breath out of your burning lungs. Feels so, so good that you can barely keep your eyes from fluttering shut, and it's all you can do to keep quiet when he licks his thumb and presses it into your swollen clit.
"Oh, your hips are buckin' like mad now," and he has the absolute audacity to chuckle as he says it like he isn't in the middle of ruining you, "damn, girl."
"Hard to keep still when—" you can't finish your sentence, cut off by a wickedly sharp thrust, and he just holds it there. Grinding into you and eliciting this wet squelch that sounds absolutely sinful.
It feels so good that the edges of your vision is starting to go white, and you don't know when you've started shaking, but you can't stop. Pussy throbbing as he settles down atop you again, legs just barely able to stay hooked over his hips. Rhett's moaning into your ear, deep and breathy, and you're not doing all that much, but it sounds like you're making him feel just as good as he's doing to you.
"Do you wanna feel me cum inside you?" He whispers, biting at the shell of your ear, "do you wanna feel that?"
All you can do is hum, barely able even to nod your head. The simple notion of Rhett cumming inside you is enough to have a coil tightening between your legs, clamping down impossibly tight around his thick cock.
"Oh god," he's just barely able to keep talking, and the longer he goes on, the closer you can feel yourself getting, "so bad," punctuating it with another heavy thrust, "so bad."
You want to reach down between your legs and urge his thumb to rub you a little bit faster, but you're not even sure you can take any more than what he's giving you. Not when he keeps whispering dirty things in your ear, with these breathy little grunts that keep adding to the fire burning up in your lower belly.
"So bad, but you make it so good," no, no, now you're batting his hand away from your clit, because if he keeps rubbing it while he's talking like this, your orgasm is going to his you right this very second. With another little grunt, Rhett starts talking again, "oh, baby, I'm gonna fill you up."
His thrusts are quickening, hips getting twitchy and messing up his rhythm in the most delicious of ways, "'m gonna fill you up with my cum."
All of a sudden, you can't breathe anymore, your body going taut as you cum around his twitching cock. Eyes rolling into the back of your head, heart pounding so heavily it just might break its way out your ribs. Everything's spinning; you can't fucking think; all you know is Rhett's grunting quietly into your ear, and his hips are stalling. Filling you with hot spurts of his cum, until there's not a single millimeter of empty space left inside you.
"That's right," you can just barely hear him, but he's there, "that's fuckin' right, takin' every last drop of me."
You're not sure how long it takes you to come back, to get your head out from the clouds and back down to earth, but when you do, Rhett's already eased himself out of you. Tucked away inside his jeans again, hair stuck to his sweaty forehead as his thumb pushes his cum back inside your swollen cunt.
"You alright?" He asks sweetly, kissing the inside of your knee.
It takes every fiber in your being to bring yourself to nod your head. Yeah, yeah, more than alright.
"How 'bout I carry you outta here before they start lettin' folks out," he's so soft compared to just a few moments ago when he was drilling into you and whispering such filthy things, "get all settled up in a bath and have a nice, lazy day."
All you have to do is hum your consent, and he's gathering you up into his chest, lifting you like it's the easiest thing he's ever done. It's hard to be cold when he picks his coat up off the rack on the way out, draping it over you like a big blanket. Yeah, a nice, lazy day sounds better than whatever the hell you had planned.
And if anybody notices your sudden disappearances or the unmistakable sounds that came from the preacher's old office, they don't say a damn thing.
<The Rhett Abbott simping side of Tumblr has left its mark on me. Also Rhett Abbot loves giving creampies and you can't change my mind.>
The moment your friend announced she and her husband were "trying for children", something broke inside of you as if only then did you bother to entertain the thoughts of parenthood with Rhett. He wants kids, plenty of them - you are well aware of that, even if he's not straightforward about it. And the longer you thought about it, the more domestic images were being replaced with carnal desire to have Rhett's cum fill you; to let him possess you in a way no man ever did or could.
He's pushing down your legs and you know they're going to be sore in the morning. No one comes out fresh and painless from being folded in half but you don't care. Not at the moment.
Rhett knows all the magic tricks, stretching your vagina at just the right angle to elicit the most embarrassing cries and pleas. Desperate for any sort of release, you're leaving scratches along his back but Rhett's too lost in the moment, too focused on how divine you feel around him, to realize that.
Feeling his teeth graze your neck and earlobes, you collect the remnants of your coherence to voice that one plea he was secretly fantasizing about. Somewhere between moans and whimpers you manage to whisper to him:
"Don't pull out. Cum inside me, Rhett. Please."
You feel him stop for a moment and it makes you think that, maybe, you just managed to turn him off completely but you stand corrected very quickly: Rhett shifts above you, his hands grabbing you rougher than before and surprisingly, you feel his cock sink even deeper inside you making you let out a choked gasp. A tear escapes your eye but it's not a tear of pain. Whatever button you pushed, it's a damn good one.
"Wanna be round with my kid so bad?" he whispers back. A hint of condescendence hides in his voice. Rhett gives you a dry chuckle-turned-groan before speaking again. A hard snap of his hips makes you moan loudly. "Show people you're a whore for me?"
"I don't fucking care," you grit through your teeth. It's hard to stay on track with your thoughts when Rhett is fucking the sanity out of you. Feeling his dick reach deep inside you, another tear rolls down your cheek and you're about to literally beg him to grant your wish. "Please, just fill me up, Rhett."
Truthfully, he could never deny you anything. Especially not when you're asking to make one of his deepest desires come true. It's one thing to start a family with you but another to let everyone know you belong to him, that he is the one to fuck you as often as he wants to.
"Once I get you pregnant, you'll fuckin' stay like that."
Even though it's supposed to be a warning, you're hoping he keeps his word:
"Fuck yes, breed me, Rhett."
He groans in response, his hands tightening their grasp on your legs. With your knees beside your head, you look completely pathetic - spread open for him, begging to be bred like a champion horse.
Rhett's thrusts become slower but harder - he's snapping his hips into you and you feel yourself only growing more excited and impatient to have him cum inside you. The ragged breaths and groans he lets out against your already bruised neck make you move your hips to meet his.
With a low moan, he gives in and you feel him spill inside you. He's still thrusting into you, making sure every last drop of his cum stays inside you.
"Fuck, you're one hot momma."
You chuckle at his words, in your head already imagining the many more nights with his cum spilling out of your throbbing pussy.
You know that wiggle you gotta do to squeeze your butt/thighs into jeans? Now, I'm not saying Bradley absolutely loves it but somehow he's always around when you're doing it.
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