#and repenting and repenting and repenting and repenting and r

[sumplys]

gibson girl — r. abbott

Says he’s in love with my body, that’s why does fucking it up.

Rhett Abbott tried to be good under the watchful eyes of God, but denying himself became difficult when you returned each of his sins with a favour.

warnings: nsfw, x reader, age gap, religious guilt, brief sexual fantasies, implied blowjob, toxic relationship, mild stalking, a little bit owen taylor inspired. [1.7k words]

notes: ok so. i’ve never watched outer range… but i love southern lewis.

main masterlist

Rhett Abbott wasn’t a stalker.

His criminal record was bare, only a DUI and a trivial charge for “drunken behaviour.” He would have never imagined he would be lurking outside of a church youth group for a girl half his age.

The first time Rhett ever noticed you, you were in russet boots and an ivory skirt—prissy and proper—your mommy’s southern belle.

His mother excused herself to approach your family—your loose curls splayed across your shoulders, drifting slightly as the church doors swung open and shut. Her arm unhooked from his bicep as she pushed through the chapel’s pews.

He felt his back straighten as he stared, muscles locking as his gaze dropped to your bare thighs.

You stood there, the image of the Lord’s purest innocence, doe-eyes wide, sinking into a polite curtsy. If he wasn’t so perverted, it would have been repulsive; a saccharine sickness.

He couldn’t stop himself, though. As his jeans tightened, his mind wandered over the image of you tear-stained and messy, flushed bruises budding over your knees as you knelt before him, his thumb firm between your teeth.

He reckoned you’d like it, positioned in a prayer, drool pooling in the corners of your mouth as you earnestly brought your tongue over his index finger, taking it as you sat pretty.

He didn’t notice you on purpose, but it was like you had inserted yourself into his life, and it wasn’t like he was going to let you go before he even got a taste.

Rhett carelessly invited the Devil into his world that night; his careworn fingers wrapping around the base of himself, hips easing into the pleasant warmth as his mind found the brisk fantasy of you.

The pressure drew him back further than it pushed him forward, the emotion swelling in his throat and climbing through his soul until it was the only feeling in his body.

He should have felt guilty. He knew it, even as he panted into his sheets, sweat glistening over his auburn curls, but the regret never came.

In the days following, he watched you; the way he watched you—it was nearly unlawful. He had to forced his eyes away as you crossed your arms against your chest, the echo of your bra showing through the sheerness of your top.

He repressed his obscenities at first. he made sure to leave an arms length between you two—he just didn’t want to get carried away—but the urgency of his want pulled through his throat at your most unambiguous movement; your tongue grazing your lips, your hair gathering the midsummer breeze—he felt like a fucking voyeur.

He assessed your goodie-two-shoes attitude; your unrelenting prayer, how you never let a curse escape your mouth, your habitual “yes, sir,” “yes, ma’am.” Very virgin.

The fervent jealousy overcame him—a reckless wave of vengeance—a jealousy of the very God he stood before.

The good Lord got your prayers, your whispered desires, your absent flaws; He got to repent your sins, bask in your blessings, careen in your praise.

Instantly, he clung to the idea of you. He knew he had to have you. He had to draw you, had to mould you.

He memorised the sound of your boots creaking against the pale mahogany, the ringing of your laugh over the church bells, the hours you stayed after your fellowship program.

—

It had been months since he first saw you, and the sky was lit a soft amber, simmering as twilight dissipated. It was late, the sun settling behind the horizon’s family ranches, a brush of clouds over the dusting orange of sunset.

He waited. He’d been patient.

You unhooked your pale blue bicycle from the rack, wheels revolving slowly against the cooling tarmac.

“How do you think you’re going to get home, kiddo?”

You looked up, eyelashes fluttering to fight the dozing sun.

His hat was drawn over his cerulean eyes, an unlit shadow dropping over his cheekbones. He had charm in the creases by his eyes—a handsomeness that became apparent as he squinted to make you out under the sunset haze.

The way he spoke was almost lazy, a carelessness in the Wyoming drawl of his voice. It was close to sensual, each word a low whisper that dragged itself down your spine.

You didn’t know much about Rhett Abbott, only that he wrangled bulls and he was damn good at it.

“What?”

“You’ve got a ride?”

You nodded, fingers trailing against the breaks of your bike, “Yeah.”

You didn’t notice the way his eye caught at first—your fingers busy smoothing rubber around the body of your handlebars—but his gaze lingered as did the pious sunshine.

“That thing? It looks like it’ll fall apart before you leave the driveway.”

“If it breaks, I’ll just walk,” you stuttered, anxiously tugging on the lace hem of your dress.

“I can take you, when I’m finished up with this cigarette.”

You gazed up at him, eyes running along the unshaven scruff of his jaw.

He looked older—a lived in depth in his eyes, smile lines burrowed in his skin—but it wasn’t intimidating.

You rolled your bike against the decadent foliage, “I don’t know you.”

“Our moms attend the same service.”

Abbott. As in Cecilia Abbott.

“Right.”

He leapt to his feet, cowboy boots crunching against the autumn leaves, extending a calloused hand, “I’m Rhett.”

“I know who you are.”

“So are you going to take my offer?” he pressed the cigarette between his lips, dragging as he waited on your response. “I’ll get you home in one piece, sweetheart.”

You stared down at your bike, rear tire nearing flat and you let an exhale pass through your flushed lips.

It was obscene, the number of mouths he’d dragged his tongue over in the dim light of a trashy nightclub pretending it was yours.

“If you would, sir.”

He sighed, a breathless chuckle escaping his lips, “Jesus, you don’t have to be that formal with me.”

He let the brim of his hat fall over his sea-blue eyes as he gripped the plush leather of your bike, flashing a sly smile.

Like a lion circling in on his prey, his claws dug into the dirt as he keened into the pounce.

Here, he had the upper hand.

—

Rhett began taking you home every day after that; waiting against the rickety panels of the church’s faded lumber, lighter wedged into his jean pocket, keys jingling against his adorned belt buckle.

It started as a magnanimous favour, a “good-night ma’am” to your credulous mother and a “sweet dreams” to you in an ardent whisper.

Against his straining efforts, the innocence of the gesture dissipated fast. In all fairness, he tried to be good.

You weren’t sure who moved first, but soon enough, your ass was dragging against the centre console as he pressed into you, firm hands threaded against your hair.

It felt like the opening of a door, a gentle creaking of hinges echoing in the empty silence of his heart; a door he could not shut.

You were quick to move, hands already roaming as his muscles stayed locked. He spent too many hours worried about your reaction, suppressing his feelings, restraining himself from palming himself as his mind drifted to find you.

You knew he had a girlfriend. You didn’t care. You knew he didn’t care.

“I’m not gonna push you, baby. Say stop and I’ll stop.”

He only half meant it; he probably wouldn’t have slowed if God Himself sundered the two of you.

The hot mess of heavy breathing and anxious hands wedged themselves between your thighs, your fervent guilt and the thick haze of cigarette smoke simultaneously seeping into the softness your skin.

The way he touched you was nearly altruistic—a caressing worship. The motion was almost mindless—a familiar echo of a thousand late-night fantasies. His heart pounded against your chest, a subtle beat you could barely feel over the stinging of his lips over your collarbone.

By the time you had your throbbing lips against his tongue, he was panting a desperate shivering hiss. His shoulders were tense and warm, and he dragged shaking palms under your dress, hiking it up to splay around your hips.

Desperation clawed at his throat—a pathetic plea that conceived itself as a whimper. It was almost a whine, and he hated the way it dug out of his throat.

You shook the cowboy hat from his head, clawing at his brunette tresses as you became enveloped in the scent of him; burnt wood, Marlboro Lights, and rodeo sweat.

You asked God, while tangled in your sin, for His ultimate forgiveness.

—

The pastor’s sermon drew out for too long—Psalms—the guilt burrowing under your skin as your eyes bore into Rhett’s grown-out curls.

The lines etched themselves across your heart, “Deliver me from bloodguiltiness, O God, thou God of my salvation: and my tongue shall sing aloud of thy righteousness.”

Your mother had begun to notice your late nights, your swollen lips, the way the Abbott boy didn’t seem to get out of his car to greet her anymore.

An anxious carnage tore at you—your knees bloomed over with flushed bruises after incessant nights of you crouched before your crucifix.

You weren’t meant to speak to him in public, let alone touch him. “There are rules,” he had said. “We need to follow them, baby.”

You knew the mistake you made as soon as you’d done it. A fleeting moment—one gentle touch along his back—potentially costing you all of him.

He curled his fingers around your wrist, nails pressing into your smooth skin, a hiss escaping his lips, hot breath splaying over your half-bare shoulder, “C’mere.”

You were ushered into the shadows, slipping through chittering families as Rhett stormed into the chapel’s office.

His hands moved to grab your elbow, nails digging into your skin, his teeth clenched.

“Don’t fucking do that,” he gritted, voice raised as he stood over you.

His eyes bore into you, scorching in the heat his gaze left as it travelled down your skin.

He was tall, stretching towards the ceiling in a way that made your head spin. He could be terrifying.

You sunk your teeth into the pink flush of your lower lip, your throat mustering up not an ounce of courage.

“Do you hear me? Do not fucking do that—you’re going to give us away.”

A sob cradled in your stomach as you fought back tears.

He ran a hand through the damp curls against his scalp, an exasperated sigh leaving his lips.

“Don’t cry,” he pleaded, a southern drawl grating against his “r’s.” “Fuck.”

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, fingers clutching his biceps as your tears fell onto his worn-out jeans.

“I just don’t want anyone to find out about this, sweetheart,” he whispered into your ear, a sweet reassurance, “You want us to be able to keep doing this, right?”

You nodded into his chest and his fingers crawled across your hair as he caressed your scalp.

“Good girl.”

He dragged you by your fluffed-up hair onto your beseeching knees, stroking your cheek.

“You gonna make it up for me like this, sweetheart?”

You nodded, eyes fluttering shut, perching your ass flush against your calves.

You wrapped your lips around him as you desperately hollowed your cheeks—an anchoring gesture as you fell under the thickness of your sin.

"My guilt has overwhelmed me like a burden too heavy to bear" (Psalm 38:4 NIV).

[emyerss]

hay cierto alivio que se instala automáticamente en pecho cuando acepta alternativa. mirada se prenda de la femenina, se queda ahí por un momento, en silencio, como si así pudiera adivinar cada pensamiento que surca mente a través de sus ojos. no puede, nunca pudo, y supone que continuará como un misterio. comisura tira en apenas una sonrisa. "rara vez lo haces." menciona, pero tono sugiere que es más bien un halago más que un juicio, y es que la rebeldía le sentaba como anillo hecho a la medida. sorbo que da a propia soda es lento, como si de esa forma pudiera engañar a su mente de que, realmente, esto es lo que quiere y no lo que contraria sostiene entre dígitos. si se descuida, cree ser capaz de sentir el regusto amargo del ron al final de la coca-cola. "la salvé." respuesta parece simple, evasiva, pero es la mayor demostración de honestidad que puede dedicarle. mirada se eleva de líquido oscuro y se posa en mirada contraria. "más bien la salvaron." porque esfuerzo por ebriedad no había iniciado por ella, sino por una intervención de quién en su momento había sido la persona más cercana para ella. cejas se alzan apenas cuando curva en labios es una más agridulce. "dos años y medio." revela. "aunque ahora no sé si te estabas refiriendo a eso."

exhalación leve, casi inaudible, le cruza los labios. no es decepción, tampoco alivio. es otra cosa, algo que no tiene nombre, pero que sí tiene peso — justo detrás del esternón. no insiste, nunca lo hace. observa el gesto ajeno como si fuera parte de un ensayo que ya ha presenciado, pero esta vez con una variación que le llama la atención. ‘ eso cuenta. ’ lo dice sin adorno, sin subrayado emocional, pero con una honestidad rara. terrosos caen un segundo de más en vaso de soda, no con desprecio, sino con una curiosidad silenciosa, como si allí flotara algo más que burbujas. luego asiente, con esa media curvatura en comisura que no suaviza, pero concede. ‘ puedes acompañarme... aunque no prometo portarme bien. ’ da un sorbo lento al pico de la botella, deslizando par de tragos ardientes, leve carraspeo como única reacción al amargor del alcohol. ‘ ¿qué hiciste con la chica que se prendía en llamas? ’ no es burla, sólo una pregunta lanzada al aire, como si no esperara respuesta alguna — o como si supiera que, en el fondo, todavía está ahí.

[gloombog]

repenting

[chrliekclly]

——————

it’s been 6 years exactly nd i apologize for everything about this

[tw: implied csa]

[marmota-b]

Regarding Boromir, his death scene, and redemption / repentance (book vs film)

A bit of a callback to my original post on the topic of redemption, and inspired by a post calling (correctly) Boromir's trying to take the Ring one moment of weakness. I think I've finally figured out (I was low-key aware of it, but never put it into so many words) why I like the book version of Boromir's last moments much more than the film version, and why it pains me the film version seems to be what so many people prefer and so many fic writers inevitably reach for.

"I tried to take the Ring from Frodo. I am sorry. I have paid." ... "Farewell, Aragorn! Go to Minas Tirith and save my people! I have failed." "No!" said Aragorn, taking his hand and kissing his brow. "You have conquered. Few have gained such a victory. Be at peace! Minas Tirith shall not fail!"

Emphases mine, obviously, but when I think about it it's quite telling in which order they tell each other the things they say, and of course how exactly they say them.

The most important thing here, though it is on both their minds and it is what connects them and what their personal motivation is, isn't Gondor. Yes, Boromir is very worried about the fate of his country, but the first thing he tells Aragorn is what he has done, and that he is sorry.

And the very first thing Aragorn tells Boromir is assure him that he did not fail.

It's not a question of warrior honour, the way the film states it ("You fought bravely. You kept your honour."). It's a question of the main conflict of the book, that between the Ring's temptations and the ability to see it as the evil artifact it is.

The film keeps framing a lineage / authority / responsibility conflict between Boromir and Aragorn that's finally resolved, but that's not at all the conflict that matters (or, really, even exists) here. What Boromir is actually saying in relation to Gondor is "I now recognise that what I tried to do to save my people would have actually doomed them, and I recognise you have indeed been much wiser in this than I from the start. Please keep doing that, I can't change what I did now because I'm about to die." And some of it is present in the film, definitely, but it's muddled with the whole issue of both Aragorn and Boromir questioning Aragorn's legitimacy. Which means in the film Boromir's death scene ends up serving us Boromir repenting his behaviour towards Aragorn and... I hope we can all agree that's actually not the point Tolkien was making with Boromir's death scene in the book.

One moment of weakness. Boromir immediately saw that what he had done was wrong, and tried to make amends the only way he could at the moment. He did not keep trying to pursue Frodo, except to apologise (which admittedly Aragorn does not know, but it's still inherent in what Boromir tells him here). Boromir let go of the Ring even after being very, very sorely tempted, and Aragorn can see that. That IS a huge victory. THAT is a huge victory.

And the film frames that main conflict as it played out in the breaking of the Fellowship... wrong. The film leaves us with Boromir the man who succumbed to temptation, and died for his sins, and Aragorn the man who did not succumb and lived, and Boromir submits to the latter. That's not what happens in the book. In the book Aragorn simply never really went through a full moment of culmination of long-term temptation like that. Aragorn recognised and respected Boromir as someone who had reached the moment of culmination of long-term temptation, succumbed, and saw the light anyway. Meanwhile Boromir thinks he's paying for his sin and basically doomed, so Aragorn assures him that no, it was just a moment of weakness and he has overcome it. (Oh, and what also happens in the book is that after a long period of temptation even Frodo succumbs, and lives.)

My main problem with the film version is that the films inadvertently downplayed the main conflict and main theme of the whole story and served up the wrong moral.

[mr-ena]

Oh come on, what's the problem with having a little fun~?

ENA OC roleplay blog.

How might I make your life a little easier..?

MR ENA's two main sides are known as Mischief and Repentance. Mischief is the more dominant of the two, with Repentance occasionally peering out, primarily when MR ENA is struck with guilt.

Haha! You're funny, aren't you? I'd love to see what you're made of.

Mod is a minor. Having that said, a little suggestive is okay every once in a while, with more leniency given to friends.

How can I make it up to you?

[hillvalleywrites]

if I could make edits I would make the most mind-blowing edit of helly & helena to 'stay down' by boygenius

[thebindingofpillo]

Visage is one of my favourite bosses design wise but good lird

[supernovaa-remnant]

Other deities: whatcha got there?

Dream in god form holding wilbur up like a cat: portable power station

asdasjdhsjfgskhhdksahjhdsjkdhss

the other immortals and deities, shaken: that's.. that's great mate... you're not gonna upheave the entire balance of our universe again, right?

dream: :3

[keatxu]

just playing som e"the bidnign of isaac"

cool game 🦈👍

[jaywhere]

Filthy Johnkat shipper... your days are numbered!!

ive been blessed by his holy degradation...thank u daddy kerm

[fayt30l0v3]

I read trimax. Went thru the biblical meat grinder. Made this.

[gnosisandtheosis]

I know I shouldn't pick fights in r/TrueChristian but I can't help it.

[generaldavila]

GUERRA EN LA OTAN ¿EN IRÁN? General de División (R.) Rafael Dávila Álvarez

  “He sido condenado no por falta de palabras, sino de atrevimiento y de desvergüenza; por negarme a deciros lo que tanto os gusta escuchar; por no lamentarme, llorar o hacer y decir muchas cosas indignas de mí, como antes señalaba y que soléis oír a otros” (En Apología de Sócrates de Platón). Este Gobierno de España es incompresible, va más allá de lo racional, pero hay que reconocerle que está…

[lunaastal]

misc tags.

[mr-ena]

Can I smooch you

A-are you sure???