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young-dumb-and-vaccinated · 3 years ago

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The Sommelier (Hannigram x Female!Reader) pt. 25

Y/n puts an end to everything.

@dovahdokren @deadman-inc-bikeshop @lov3vivian @wisesandwichshark @scpdragon

⚠️HUGE⚠️ trigger warnings: rape, drugging, sex trafficking, VERY graphic descriptions of violence, physical violence (please let me know if I leave anything out)

Hannibal could walk through a valley of human suffering and not even flinch. You couldn't tell if that made him subhuman or superhuman. You, however, were just human.

You wanted to be a badass. You wanted to kick the door down and make a scene. But one woman was enough to break you.

She was wearing only a large t-shirt. A cloth bandage covered in blood covered her pubic area like a makeshift pair of underpants. She laid limply against a stone. Her arms were punctured where needles had been.

"I don't..." she mumbled, clearly intoxicated beyond function. "...don't make me..."

You knew you couldn't afford to stop. But compassion kept your feet firmly on the ground in front of her.

"What is Chase making you do?"

"I can't-" She said, pressing her forehead against the rock. "I can't be an unwoman-"

She began to slam her head against the rock with clear intent to take her own life. Without thinking, you grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her into the grass. She sobbed, a bloody, but thankfully, survivable, gash on her forehead.

"Tell me your name." You demanded, squeezing her shoulders.

"...Tiffany." She said with a sudden lucidity.

The name unlocked a memory in you. It was the still image of a sunny young girl, immortalized on a faded missing person's ad hung up at the grocery store. Tiffany Rose Pierce, it read.

"I'm gonna get you out of here, Tiffany." You whispered. "I'm gonna get all of you out of here."

"Vanguard won't like that." She said, slipping back into a state of minimal consciousness.

"Stay here." You instructed, pushing yourself back to your feet.

You readied your gun and slowly, carefully pushed the cabin door open. Suddenly, the stained glass window was the least of your worries.

The entire area was lined with cheaply-constructed bunk beds, like an overgrown henhouse. Women with distinctively long hair were shackled to the lower bunks. Their shaven counterparts, the unwomen, were forced to be the slavedrivers. They held the chained women down.

You heard the rattling of chains coming from the right. It was accompanied with screaming and wet slapping.

"Take daddy's cock you filthy fucking broodmare." A familiar voice grunted.

The only way you could look at him was behind the barrel of your gun. He was exactly how you pictured him while listening to his voice in the car. Unremarkable, middle-aged and serpentine.

"Pastor Armitage!" You yelled.

To hear someone call him by his title in the midst of violating a person was enough to send him into a panic. He sputtered and his entire face turned red.

He didn't suffer for long, though. A 12 gauge shell right through the face took care of that. Fragments of his head, his blood and brain matter splattered everywhere. His knees buckled and his limp body collapsed.

The room fell silent. Smoke trickled out of your barrel.

"Where's fucking Chase?" You asked the room.

Someone weakly pointed up the stairs. You met her eyes and nodded.

"Sorry about the mess."

Now you knew how Hannibal felt. Blowing someone's head off made you acutely aware of your own head on your shoulders. You held it higher. You felt no remorse as you ascended the staircase with your gun blazing.

You came across a room with some words etched in the door. 'Skin room'. You launched your foot squarely into the door, causing it to violently swing open.

You examined the room from behind the gun. Chase had done a hell of a job dressing up this cheap cabin bedroom like a hotel suite, but the smell hit you before you could be fooled. A brick chimney, a wine cooler and a mahogany desk were positioned so the eye would gravitate towards the luxury while the nose picked up the brutality. The stained glass window was suspended in front of the real window, absorbing the mid-morning light and giving the room an eerie sepia tint.

You cocked your gun to announce your presence. You heard the sound of running water, and then a side door swung open.

“You’ll forgive me a couple minutes to freshen up.” Chase said, shaking his hands dry. “Cleanliness is close to godliness, after all.”

You said nothing. You didn’t want to dignify him with a conversation.

He bent over and pulled a bottle of wine from his cooler. He placed it squarely on the desk. You looked at it, then did a double take. He grinned sadistically.

“Is that...” You leaned in to get a closer look. “1907 Heidsieck Monople Gout?”

Chase shrugged. “You tell me. You’re the wine expert.”

You’d heard many a conflicting story about the legendary 1907 Heidsieck. Some said as many as 2,000 bottles were pulled up from the depths of the freezing Baltic sea. Some said a single bottle could go for half a million dollars. With that kind of precedent, you never thought you’d ever have to worry about it. Yet, there it was. Right in front of you.

“I’m saving it for a special occasion.” Chase said, suddenly reminding you where you were.

You returned to your gun. “For when you kill me?”

“For when I save you.” Chase smiled, his unnaturally white teeth glistening in the sepia light. “See, Miss [F/N], you survived two of my attempts on your life. God has smiled down on you.”

“Or, maybe,” You interrupted. “You’re just horrible at killing.”

Chase raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.

"A knife through the hand hurts like a bitch, but it isn't fatal." You shrugged. "And you didn't do a good enough job beating the fear of death out of Catherine. Else she might have actually gone through with it. Maybe if you'd sent Tiffany-"

"God loves you." Chase interrupted before you could poke more holes in his attempts on your life. "Why you're still alive when so many less deserving of death have died is beyond me, but god works in mysterious ways, doesn't he?"

"She sure does." You smirked.

Chase cleared his throat. You'd pegged him as the type to get irrationally angry at the implication of god being a woman, so his reaction surprised you.

"Well, let's get down to business, shall we?" He gestured to a seat across from him.

You narrowed your eyes. "I don't think so."

"Pity." He pouted. "Not even for poor Mr. Graham?"

It dawned on you that he probably still thought he had Will, and you could use it to your advantage.

You held your gun at your side and hesitantly sat down in the seat. A gluttonous smile spread across Chase's face.

"So it wasn't wine after all." He said. "It wasn't even your own life. You're only willing to save your soul for the sake of your precious Will Graham."

"What do you care?" You growled through your teeth. "This is just a power grab for you. You wouldn't know what genuine empathy for another person feels like."

He grinned, as if someone had just flipped his 'on' switch. "Jesus does."

"Did Jesus use his influence to lure teenage girls into a sick breeding ring?" You sneered. "I don't remember that from VeggieTales."

"Genesis 1:28." Chase said. "And God blessed them, and God said unto them, be fruitful, and multiply."

"I suppose you also don't eat shellfish or wear mixed fabrics." You rolled your eyes.

"It's always the same arguments from you atheists." Chase scoffed, adding a distinct bite to the last word. "When are you going to show some actual proof that the bible isn't an infallible model for human morality?"

"Maybe when you stop eating shellfish and wearing mixed fabrics." You repeated.

"They are minor sins at best." Chase grimaced. "I have gotten right with Jesus. You, on the other hand, oh, you. Your sins are weighty."

"I did just blast a rapist's head off." You admitted. "And it's going to be two very soon if this one doesn't get to the fucking point."

"I know about your exploits." He squinted. "With Mr. Graham and the man with the Nazi accent."

"He's actually from Lithuania, which, if you wanna be technical," you corrected, just for the sake of being annoying. "Is an ex-Soviet state, but whatever."

Chase tensed up at being corrected. "I know about your hedonistic sexual activities with two men, your exploration. But in the bible, Satan approaches these two people called Adam and Eve..."

"No he didn't." You shook your head. "It was a serpent. The devil wasn't a concept when Genesis was written."

Chase gritted his teeth. "God made one man and one woman. Each to fill each other's sexual desires, within the context of marriage, entirely-"

"But Adam had two spouses, didn't he?" You cocked your head and smiled. "Eve wasn't even the first woman in Adam's life. That was Lilith."

Chase heaved a frustrated sigh. "How do you know that?!"

"I was raised catholic." You said in the tonal equivalent of smacking him upside the head. "I was forced into religion at a young age and brainwashed to hate myself."

"See, that's where we agree." Chase tented his hands, thinking he found a genuine point of connection. "Organized religion is a cancer on society. Christianity is fundamentally about a relationship with god."

You laughed. It was the first real, good laugh you had in a while.

"Don't laugh." He scolded. "I am sorry that that was your experience with religion and that the Catholic church modeled a false teaching of who god is and what he wants. Not all christians-"

You wiped a tear from your eye. "Homie, you killed four people in front of me."

He placed his hand over his heart. "And christ forgave me. And he can forgive you too."

"Alright, this has been fun and everything," you said, standing up. You aimed your shotgun and cocked it. "But, I did come here to kill you, so, open wide."

Chase put his hand squarely over the barrel and pushed it out of the way. "You don’t have the guts to pull the trigger."

You pulled the trigger and blasted his hand clean off. Any hope of reattachment was shattered, as bits of his hand painted the walls and floor.

You opened the gun and let the two empty shells fall to the ground while Chase screamed in agony.

Instead of going through the motions of reloading, you smashed him over the head with the gun. He wrapped his good hand around the barrel and attempted to wrestle it away from you. You took this as an invitation to corner him against the wall with the still-hot barrel against his neck. He smashed his forehead into your nose, sending you tumbling backwards.

The shotgun fell to the ground. You pinched the bridge of your nose to control the blood flow. Chase wrapped a champagne towel around his stump and picked up a small revolver on his desk. He let off a shot, which lodged itself into your shoulder. By the time he let off the second shot, you were on the ground. The third shot didn't fire, just let out a flash and a bang.

"Goddamn blanks!" He cursed.

He tore open a drawer and rummaged around for bullets, giving you a window to come up from behind and gouge your fingers into his eyes. He screamed, dropping a handful of bullets. He flailed aimlessly, then charged backwards, slamming you into the cheap drywall.

He felt around for the bullets without the advent of eyesight. You knew you wouldn't be able to take aim with your shotgun with a bullet lodged in your shoulder, so you dove for the revolver.

Chase grabbed you by the ankle and dragged you down. You hit the floor with a thud, the collision making the bullets jump. Chase grinned, using the sound to place them. He turned around and reached for one, while you scooped up another that had rolled under the desk.

You scrambled to your feet. Chase's hand was just centimeters from the revolver. Thinking fast (but not so thoroughly), you grabbed for the revolver. You wrapped your hand around the barrel, putting yourself at a disadvantage if he fired off another blank.

Chase, however, wasn't that forward-thinking, and opted for a childish game of tug-of-war instead. Knowing he had the brute strength advantage, you waited for him to pull back and released your grip. Chase tumbled, cursing on his way down.

With no thought on your mind but ending this, you launched your foot into his sack, causing him to scream and drop the gun.

Just as you thought it was over, just when the gun was in arm's reach, he kicked your knees backwards and you fell. You swallowed the pain and army crawled for the revolver.

"I don't think so." Chase spat, smiling like a maniac. He grabbed your face with his good hand and his fingers slithered down your throat.

"Choke..." he demanded. "Choke, demoness."

Strengthened by animalistic instinct, you crushed his fingers under your teeth. The sound of snapping bone filled the inside of your head and a sudden rush of blood flooded into your mouth. He withdrew his hand, leaving a finger behind to limply fall down your throat.

You coughed and gagged while Chase screamed. A single bloody digit dislodged itself from your windpipe, flew across the room and landed on the desk.

Chase sputtered something resembling a laugh. "Maybe you're not such a dumb bitch after all."

You grabbed the gun and pushed yourself up with the help of the desk. The finger stared up at you as you loaded the single bullet.

You positioned the finger onto the trigger and guided it with your gloved hand. Then you aimed it at his forehead. Dead by his gun, by his trigger finger. Bleeding on the ground in his private bunker while the empire he built collapses around him. A coward's death. It was poetic enough an end as he deserved.

"You want to say a prayer before you meet god?" You offered.

"My soul is saved." Chase said through ragged breaths. "My place in heaven is secured."

Bang. One bullet, right between the eyes. A bloody fingerprint on the pistol. You dropped the revolver and collapsed. You just laid there, listening to your phone buzz.

#hannibal lecter #hannibal x you #hannibal x reader #hannibal nbc #the sommelier #will graham #will graham x reader #will graham x you #hannibal x you x will #hannigram x reader #hannibal x will #tw violence #tw grape without the g #tw sex abuse #tw sex trafficking #tw christianity

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bvllyhargrove · 5 years ago

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I’ll Take You For A Ride (Billy Hargrove x Fem!Reader)

Summary - After fighting for your attention, Billy offers to drive you home...

Words- 3717

Notes - Too many sleepless nights went into this, I forgot how to write smut halfway through the scene and this was born... I promise it’s not too horrible. Let me know what you think! It’s my first time writing for Billy and I genuinely enjoyed it

~~~

It was hot, the unforgiving Indiana sun rays beating down on your chest as you tried your best to stay in the shadow of your umbrella. You canceled out the joyous screams and laughter coming from the water as you relaxed, sunglasses perched gently on the bridge of your nose.

You could hear the soccer mom's just a few occupied seats from you, drone on about a new lemonade recipe they perfected - just in time for summer. Not even your friend's constant chatter didn't penetrate your eardrums as you mindlessly sipped the new recipe of Coke through the cheap plastic straw.

Lucas swore the new recipe tasted better than the original, and you loved the kid just enough to try it. Years of babysitting for The Sinclairs were both a blessing and a curse on your end. He's been trying to date you since he was a toddler.

"What about a job at the mall? Steve works there... at that ice cream place." Carol murmurs behind her pocket mirror. Somehow, In the hundred-degree heat, she still cared about her makeup. It was a blessing that it wasn't melting off of her.

"Give it up, he won't date you, he's dating Nancy Wheeler." Your eyes flicker over the crowded pool, lips turning down in disgust. There was no way in Hell that you would be caught dead in that water... with all of those kids... the mere thought made your skin crawl.

Carol shifted in her seat, moving the mirror away from her face to glare at you. "Uh, no he's not. Isn't Nancy Wheeler dating Jonathan Byers?" You shrugged, eyes slipping closed under your sunglasses.

"Ugh, Nancy is dating Jonathan? Like, barf me out..."

"What about the lifeguard? Do you know her?" You watched her descend the lifeguard stand, nibbling mindlessly on her whistle. Carol cocked an eyebrow, shaking her head.

"No, I've never seen her a- who is that...?" She tugged her sunglasses from her nose to glance at the shirtless male lifeguard making his way to take Heather's spot. "Is that Billy Hargrove? Holy shit."

Eyes turned to him, girls gaping as they walked past him. He was beautiful, the soft tan of his skin contrasting perfectly with the red of his swim trunks. You lifted your sunglasses as well, watching with mysterious eyes as he walked closer to you, sharing pleasantries with the soccer moms. He walked past you, his eyes lingering. He seemed to move in slow motion as you pull your bottom lip between your teeth - a movement that Billy noticed.

"Afternoon girls." He spoke slowly, his tone dripping with seduction. You breathed out a hot sigh, the blazing hundred-degree heat feeling more like a thousand on your skin.

Carol shot him a smirk, eyes sultry. "Hi, Billy."

Billy's eyes rake down your body, chewing on the end on his whistle. "The shades... they're rad." He murmured, teeth still bitten down on the metal. You shook your head, looking down.

"Thank you, Billy."

"Anytime." He shot you a wink, glancing at Carol and giving her a smirk. He moved his gaze back in front of him as he continued his path to the lifeguard tower.

"Oh, my God. He totally was eyeing you up! Y/N, this is big!" She sat up, grabbing onto your arm obnoxiously.

"Not even." You fixed your shades, before taking your coke back in your hands and taking a tentative sip, turning your nose up at the flat texture of the drink.

"Even!" She nodded enthusiastically. "Go up there and talk to him!"

"Carol, no." You waved her off, moving to grab your flip flops. "But I am going to get a bottle of water. Come with?" After Carol shook her head 'no', you stood, grabbing your wallet and making your way to the concession stand, trying your best to dodge the icky, sweaty kids passing by you.

You arrived at the stand, breathing out a sigh when the shade of the roof covered your overheated body. A short line of consumers stood ahead of you, taking their time in ordering their overpriced soft drinks and sticky half-melted ice cream.

"What's your poison, I'm buying." You jumped, looking to your left where Billy stood next to you. A delicious sheen of sweat covered his body delicately, giving his rippling muscles a more defined look. You simply shook your head, reaching for your money.

"Do you think I'm incapable of buying my own water?" You scoff, stepping forward as the line grew sparse.

You weren't dumb, you've heard about The Billy Hargrove. The handsome seducer that made girls cream their pants with a mere smirk from him. You weren't that naive to fall into his trap, no matter how deep his icy glare or how tempting his full, pink smirk was as he worked a piece of spearmint gum between his teeth.

"Come on, princess, don't make me beg, now." He chuckles, pulling his bottom lip into his mouth. You fought back a gasp, turning your gaze dead in front of you. His laugh was impeccably deep, stirring something from inside of you.

Fuck. You were fucked.

"No need to beg. You're not a child." You shrugged, inching towards the counter. There was one more person in front of you and Billy was still glued to your side. He cocked an eyebrow, ghosting out another chuckle.

"Calling me a child, Y/N? That's not very nice..."

You ignored him, asking for water once you got to the concession stand. Billy shook his head in disbelief, once again, laughing.

"Now you're ignoring me... playing hard to get, hm? Well, lucky for you, I quite enjoy a challenge."

"Shove it up your ass, Hargrove." You snatched the water placed on the counter for you and went to fish money from your wallet.

"Put it on my tab, hm?" He spoke slowly before placing a hand on your lower back, leading you back to the pool area. You felt a rush of excitement course through you at the defiance you shown. You couldn't deny that you wanted Billy, but he didn't need to know that. Not yet.

You and your friend waited until the sun started to set and the pool emptied of the countless children before starting to pack up. Thoroughly exhausted and sweaty.

You dreamed of getting into the shower, standing under the cool spray as water cascaded down your back, washing the stink and dirt from the day down the drain. The shower was your happy place, a place you could be alone with your thoughts long enough without disruption.

You craved silence and peace...

"Hey, Y/N," Your eyes screwed shut as you halted in your steps towards the entrance. Billy pulled a cigarette from his jean pocket, lighting it quickly before taking a slow, steady drag of the cancerous haze.

He was dressed simply, a change from his shirtless torso and red swim trunks. His tight jeans hugged his slim legs almost breathtakingly perfect and his loose-fitting pale pink button-up barely even buttoned halfway down his sun-kissed, ab rippled chest.

"Go ahead and leave, Y/N's friend..." He waved Carol off haphazardly. The setting sun cast an almost terrifyingly angelic glow on his face, his light eyes reflecting the golden rays - luring you in.

Your body unofficially belonged to him, you knew it.

"Uh, okay? Are you okay with that, Y/N?" She rose her eyebrow at you, a slight teasing gaze painting her features. You shrugged, nodding slowly. You turned to Billy, crossing your arms over your chest in slight defiance.

"Don't make me beg," He stared back at you, blowing his mouthful of smoke in your face. You wanted to slap that smug look off of his face but you also loved it. Making him fight for what he wants. It's obvious he's never had to before.

"Get on your knees, cowboy. Beg."

"What?" Billy chuckled, looking to the ground. You shrugged, urging him on.

"You want to drive me home? You beg."

He flicked the grey-hot ash onto the pavement before hiking up the fabric of his jeans and falling on one knee in front of you. "I can't believe I'm doing this..." He mutters, peering up at you with childlike innocence. "Oh, please, Y/N. Please let me drive you home." He tucks a curl behind his ear, smirking up at you.

You pretended to ponder for a few seconds before nodding. "Fine. I'll let you drive me home. Get up." Billy smiles gratefully, standing back on his feet and taking another slow drag of his cigarette before flicking it onto the ground, stomping it out. He was graceful as he holds his hand out for you.

"Take my hand and I'll take you to the stars."

"How corny." Carol snickers behind you, moving back towards the gate and to her car. The rising sound of crickets reached the two of you as you stood under the pink and golden sky. It looked almost out of a cheesy storybook.

You found your eyes gazing into his mysterious blues. Looking, searching, wanting... all of him.

He turned away on his heel, the smirk never leaving his face as he leads you out of the enclosed space, twirling his keys on his finger as he waves goodbye to his co-workers. You felt a new kind of confidence as you walked out of the pool with Billy Hargrove.

"This is my baby - A '79 Chevy Camaro. She's two and a half tons of pure, undisputed muscle." He knocked on the hood, sending a dull, metallic bang throughout the parking lot.

"So, are you an engine head?" You inquired, stepping into the passenger seat carefully. You could tell he took pride in the blue-tinted car. as you looked around the black interior. It was clean - you weren't expecting that much.

The ashtray, however, was full. Discarded butts of old cigarettes decorated the small compartment. The car smelled of cologne and smoke. It smelled like Billy, that delicious scent you wouldn't let your sinuses erase.

He climbed into the driver's side, keeping the door ajar as he fumbled around in the glove compartment, elbow resting on your thigh as he glanced up at you with those oh, so sinful jet blue eyes and those majestically long eyelashes.

You never understood how this beautiful man could be such a douche. But that's how all of the pretty boys were - hormonal idiots waving their dicks around without a care.

He finally retrieved a half-empty pack of gum, holding it up to you as an invitation which you denied. He shrugged, sitting back up in his seat and popping the thin white stick of the dry mint-flavored chicle into his mouth.

"You sure you don't want a piece, princess?" He flicked the metallic paper out of the window, working the gum between his teeth with a precise gaze, centered directly onto you.

"Uh - no." You cleared your throat, looking back outside of your window, finally letting yourself breathe the musty outside air. He was quick, shifting the car in drive professionally. He pressed on the gas, jerking the car into drive spaztically, causing both of your bodies to fall back in the hard leather seats.

He zoomed out of the parking lot, leaving a cloud of tire smoke in its wake.

A few minutes into the drive, to where - you weren't quite sure; the heady rock music played loudly inside of the car, irritating your eardrums. You've told Billy to turn it down multiple times, to which he ignored, playing it off as he couldn't hear your pleads over the songs.

Eventually, he reached over, turning the volume down to near mute as he glanced over his shoulder at you.

"Tell me about yourself." He drummed on the steering wheel to nonexistent music, his steady hand barely gripping the wheel as he rested his elbow on his thigh.

"There's not much to know about me." You shrug, glancing back over to him. He's still rapping his fingers obnoxiously on the wheel, light brown boyish curls moving almost angelically in the harsh wind. "Oh, well, I'm a babysitter. I sit for the Sinclairs, The Wheelers, etc."

"Yeah? Then you tell that creepy kid Lucas to stop harassing my sister. I tried to tell the little shit to keep her distance but she enjoys going against me. It's like she has a deathwish." He grumbled, tone harsh. You furrowed your eyebrows at the tone before shrugging it off. He was a universal douche, you doubt he acted differently to his family.

"You have a sister?"

"She's not my sister, just someone I had the grave misfortune of living with." He chews on his bottom lip impatiently as he turns into the parking lot of Hawkins High. You look around the familiar scenery, suddenly confused as to why he picked a high school to grope you at.

You knew his intentions, you weren't stupid.

And you knew you weren't the first girl to get fucked in the backseat of his car.

"I'm going to cut to the chase, baby. I want you. I've wanted you since I've seen you around the halls at school. I wanted you when that saw that sinful fucking body in that swimsuit at the pool. And I want you now, shivering in my presence." He spoke slowly, deep and brooding as he shifted the car in park, taking off his seatbelt and hovering close to you just over the console. You could feel his hot, minty, nicotine-laced breath on your hot skin, knocking the breath from your lungs.

Fuck.

"W-what?" Internally you screamed, hating the tiny squeak that left your red-bitten lips. He laughed darkly, pulling his bottom lip into his mouth even further. They were slick with sheen, red and pouty in the setting sun. His silver chain dipped from his shirt, landing on your slightly exposed chest. You shivered, eyes flitting closed.

"Beautiful..." He leaned closer, enclosing his lips around yours with haste. The kiss was messy and hot, teeth clacking together and tongues dancing in one another's mouth. He panted hotly against you, sliding a hand around your waist and pulling you even closer.

His hands were heated and quick as they explored your body just under your swimsuit cover and onto your stomach, feeling the soft skin under his fingertips.

You were melting, his touch beckoning you in. You were already aching, the buzz of arousal already pooling between your clenched thighs.

He pulled away, quick. Panting against your sucked raw mouth, causing a low, high whine to escape your parted lips. You needed him but you weren't surprised that he was a tease. Always a fucking tease...

"Billy... no." You breathe, tasting him on your tongue. He tasted just how you thought, of cigarettes and mint. It was his smell, his taste. You couldn't get over it.

It made you dizzy, needy... for him.

"Oh, what's that, princess?" He teased slowly, keeping his eyes steadily staring into yours. You shook your head, parting your thighs.

"I need it."

He attached his lips to yours again, nibbling on your bottom lip and slipping his tongue into your awaiting mouth. You focused on his every movement, the pulsing ache in your cunt becoming more evident with every single drag of his lips. "Get in the backseat, I want you absolutely naked." His words are articulated and dense, and if you weren't wet before, you are now.

You were quick, shoving off your loose-fitting bathing suit cover-up as you climbed over the console, your bare feet pushing against the upholstery of the car. You could hear the low jingle of Billy unlatching his belt and pulling down his zipper - still sitting densely in the driver's seat. He rolls up the windows, looking around at the barren parking lot to ensure the both of you were alone.

Your hands were busy pulling and tugging at your suit, peeling the skin-tight material off of your body, leaving you exposed and panting, welcoming the cool summer night air on your skin.

He was dark and brooding as he climbed over the console, fully unbuttoned shirt clinging onto his shoulders and half-opened jeans sitting tightly on his hips. He ran his tongue over his slick top lip at the sight of you. You could make out the half-mast outline of his cock through his jeans, making you shudder.

He hovered himself over you, noses touching. You breathed in his carbon dioxide and he breathed in yours. You reached up to tangle your fingers in his curly locks, pulling him down to another passionate kiss, letting the first moan of the night slip from your lips as you felt the rough fabric of his jeans and the outline of his sizeable member rutting against your thigh.

You threw your head back against the window, grinding down into his touch. You couldn't focus on anything else as your wetness fell onto the seat underneath you, soaking your thighs. He caught onto your neediness. You were right where he wanted you, soaked and writhing under him.

"Off, take them off." You breathed out, moving your finger down to tug at the fabric. He let you, looking down to you with those fucking eyelashes. Everything about this rippling man was perfection.

You dipped your thumb into the waistband of his tight briefs, pulling them down just so you could sneak your hand under the fabric, cupping him tightly through his pants. He finally let his eyes slip shut, his pink lips parting in a silent moan. You let your nimble fingers explore his thick length, mapping out the prominent veins on the underside.

"That's enough." He shot open his eyes, sitting back on his heels and tugging off his jeans and boxers, tossing them in the front seat haphazardly before taking his entire length in his hands, stroking his hand over it with a sly smirk.

"Like what you see?" He takes his free hand, spitting crudely in the palm before spreading it on the head of his already leaking cock. You bite out another moan, chewing on your bottom lip.

"Jesus fucking Christ..." You mutter, rubbing your thighs together, eager and begging wet-lipped for friction. You needed it, craved it, even.

"Language," He warned, hovering back on top of you, keeping himself balanced as one hand blindly leads his length towards your weeping cunt. It took all of your might to not sink down him as he pressed the head of his cock inside of you, watching your face intently as it twisted and morphed into one of utter pleasure, even pain as he stretched you out as no other man has before.

His hands grazed your skin, dull nails scratching down the insides of your thighs as he impaled himself deeper and deeper inside of you, keeping his bottom lip prisoner between his teeth, like always. You fisted his hair, already dampened with sweat as you tried to get used to the uncomfortable stretch.

Slowly, that pain morphed into immense pleasure, sending your eyes rolling back in your head. He bottomed out, leaning down to kiss and bite at your neck, leaving the skin irritated with his hickeys. You cried out at the contradicting feelings, wanting to focus on the hot wetness of his mouth but also needing him to just give in and fuck you already.

You let out a strangled sob as he rocked into your tight cunt, his mouth parted so perfectly the entire time, and his god-like eyelashes casting shadows onto his boyish face.

You found yourself staring at him, taking in his blissed-out expression as sharp moans fell from your lips. There was a refreshing gentility to how he fucked you - he rolled his hips into you, savoring how your walls clenched and spasmed around him

The air was hot with perspiration as he finally focused eye contact on you, curling his lips into a smirk as he strengthened his thrusts, nearly at the point of punishing as you already felt your orgasm flip and jump in the pit of your stomach.

"B-Billy!" You moaned, wrapping your legs around him tight, trying to get him deeper. You needed him deeper. Your toes curled, legs spasming as you felt the tip of his cock brush against that silvery sweet spot inside of you that made you scream at the top of your lungs

The hot leather stuck to the skin on your back, chafing the skin as you focused on your impending orgasm, sneaking up on you sinfully as you fisted at Billy's locks. "I-I'm close." You bit out, doing anything to get more friction where you needed it the most. He didn't take his eyes off of yours, drinking in your drunk off of pleasure expression as he fucked you into heaven.

"Cum, baby. Cum all over my cock, hm?" He whispered, nostrils flaring as his breathing picked up. He muttered out a string of curse words, eyes slipping shut as he used your cunt like a toy, chasing his impending orgasm.

It didn't take you much longer before you were seizing under him, cunt spasming and quaking around his length as you came, your hot liquids gushing around him. Your eyes fluttered as you fucked yourself down onto his cock. Still needing to feel every single inch of him.

You were whining with sensitivity, unwinding your arms from Billy as you grip the car seat for purchase. His thrusts barely faltered as he reached his high, throwing his head back in a guttural moan as he pulled out unexpectedly, letting the head of his already weeping cock fall on your lower stomach, letting his cum paint your sweat sticky stomach.

"Fuck! You fucking - Uh!!" The muscles in his arms tensed beautifully, allowing you to make out every defined tendon and vein. You bit down on your lip, the sticky cum on your stomach already drying.

"Take me home now?" Your arms shook as you sat up, everything single part of you in disarray. You sat in a pool of your sticky arousal, grimacing when you felt your skin peel away from the leather.

He simply chuckled, shaking his head. "Oh, no princess. I have plans for you." He scooted closer to you, dragging a finger down your chin. "Big plans."

#Billy Hargrove #billy hargrove smut #billy hargrove imagine #billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove fanfic #stranger things #billy hargrove fanfiction #stranger things imagine #stranger things smut #stranger things x reader #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fanfiction

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serlymurly · 6 years ago

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A RANT ABOUT CHARACTERS, CREATION, AND THE PROCESS OF BEING INSANE

It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Let’s have a rant. A good, old fashioned rant about something that’s been nagging at my mind. First, paint the scene;

It’s 6 in the morning. The sun is rising outside. The love of my life is asleep in bed, our cat is in a box lined with a fuzzy blanket that I could have draped around my shoulders because frankly, it’s a bit cold. We have no creamer, and I think coffee wouldn’t help this headache that’s pounding away at my skull - and I have four people talking in my head.

Did I lose you yet? Probably not. It’s pretty straight forward. First - the puppy nailed to the wall. Four people talking in my head, what? Well - technically, I think they’re all me. But on a different level, only two of them are me. Got it?

One of me is going on about how this is all, in fact, a terrible idea and that to post any of this is to admit to a certain kind of insanity that I really shouldn’t be admitting to. This isn’t normal, on any level; I’ve never heard people talk about it, and the only person that I’m aware is actually on point with how I do things in writing is asleep.

The other part of me really wants banana bread, and frankly, I can’t fault that. Can you? Of course you fucking can’t, unless you’re allergic to bananas. Fuck yeah, banana bread.

Then, there’s the other two. One is a face that people who follow me are familiar with; James Oaklen. Don’t know who he is? Probably not! I’ll talk about him later. And he’s having a lovely conversation with this newest creation, this newest part of my intracranial house - Aeslen. But I won’t talk about her. Not yet.

So, yes. Four people. All adamantly talking their points, all actively going on and doing their own thing; existing in some level on a scene that I’ve always had in my head. Let’s explain that bit, shall we? Sorry this is disjointed - again, no coffee.

Flash back I don’t know how many years, and I was a young, young boy. I barely had any understanding of how to type; I’d never played a game outside of Banjo-Kazooie and Super Mario 64, games that required a controller.

I will spare the dirty details, but life at home was not perfect. There was yelling; there was hitting, there was strife, and a family that was slowly tearing itself apart. I could see the writing on the wall when I was 7, that’s how bad it was. So - my mom decides it’s a good idea to introduce me to this game she plays.

A game called Ultima Online.

And holy crap, that was amazing! I spent hours doing nothing of any importance on her computer, on our shitty internet in that crappy home in Ohio, just exploring this world with a character that I had created with my own two hands in a whole other world. This was a concept that I had never experienced; this was a new and exciting frontier for me. I named him Krill because that’s a COOL name and it sounds COOL. I gave him flaming red hair, I made him a paladin, and I spent hours just trying to kill skeletons in a really easy area at the start of the game because I kept forgetting how to fight things.

And then, one day, everything changed. UO, it turns out, maybe just the server I was on - had a very active community of this thing called ‘Role Players’. Weird, right? People who actively played out their characters as real, living things - in this world. Personalities, histories, everything. I stumbled on them by accident when I got lost in the big castle in the main town of the game.

There, at the time, was a bunch of high-end guilds. One was the Orcs (it was just people with orc masks on, but they pretended to be orcs and they rocked at it). There was the Highlanders (they wore kilts and I REALLY WANTED TO BE ONE). There was a merchant guild, and - all these other guilds I feel bad not remembering. And I was just this little seven-year old kid with a character named Krill with flaming red hair that walks into the middle of this big, IC meeting they were having. Imagine them responding to me with actual respect?

Imagine them actually… explaining what they were doing? With respect? I was so awestruck, I asked if I could play. They made me door guard. Boy, LET ME TELL YOU, I took that job so seriously. I stood just outside the meeting and I could see all their little talk, all while making sure nobody entered without permission. I was so hyped.

That, that stuck with me. Okay? Remember that. The idea - the concept that they had presented to me, this way that you could live another life through a digital form. That stuck with me.

But - well, things change. People. Lives. I never really got into the RP scene on that game; I wandered around and pretended to be part of things, but it was mostly them politely recognising me and letting me watch them do stuff. I only had an hour each day online, so it just - wasn’t enough. Eventually, my mom stopped paying for her UO account due to issues. So - back to the nintendo and other things.

Flash forward. Divorce imminent between the two parents. The world is collapsing around us children. My sisters are massive assholes, my brother and I feel like we’re alone together in a sea. So… in a desperate attempt to keep his spirits up, I introduce him to the concept. “Let’s pretend to be Link and go slay invisible monsters!”

Stupid, right? So we pick up sticks and start staying as far away from our house as we could. We’d talk about all the things we were fighting, we’d hit each other with ‘swords’, we’d drag our local friends into it! We just - disassociated. I think for him, it was mostly the swinging the sticks that was interesting; always fighting, always smacking things. But for me? I was using my mind to, you know. Envision such grandiose and wondrous things for us to be fighting! I was imagining landscapes, unspeakable monsters, and the type of person that I would be!

That evolved. Stuff happened again. We moved from where we’d been living to a new environment; Michigan. I like Michigan, don’t get me wrong; fucking love it there. But, well - we were young. I didn’t know anyone, and it was 5th grade. And then - more stuff happened.

I won’t go into nitty details, but one of my sister’s had a major incident occur. This lead to the family being put under more strain, which eventually finally snapped the cord. Grandparents died. One suddenly, one from cancer shortly after. A nasty, nasty divorce that left me feeling horrible. I was convinced that I could have stopped it - all of it. I was convinced that I should have; since I wanted to be that big hero, remember? Since I wanted to shoulder all the burdens.

I took it upon myself to never show any problems outwardly, after that point. I just smiled and acted silly and nobody really paid me much mind. “Oh, he’s always fine!” It’s about this time I got into (GASP) UO again. Freeservers, this time; technically, I think that was illegal, but who cares. I got deep into it; I made my first *real* RP character, who was of course a massive dork. Leone, a grey elf ranger that ate lemons - because I’d convinced *myself* that if you ate enough lemons, you could spit caustic spit? I don’t know, I was weird.

Leone would be my staple character for a long time. So long, in fact, that I began to wonder - as maybe we all do - where he stopped and I began. Sure, he was an elf with magic and grey skin - but personality wise, I felt he was a lot like me!

Then I learned that was a cardinal sin of roleplay. Apparently, you should never - EVER - make a character like yourself. You become too attached - which I did. You become too personally involved - which I did.

Games change, years move on. I went to SWG, I played a new character - Stodosmo Oci (horrible name I know). He was a security officer at a hospital! It was great. I loved it. It was a long, boring time of just sitting and watching doctors RP it out with patients in Mos Entha. And then.. I don’t know. Things. Again.

Went from there to WoW. Technically, I’d been in WoW since Vanilla - but the lore had never struck me as interesting enough to roleplay in seriously until just before BC released. I had a series of characters there, all sharing the same last name; Rodetan. Eventually, as Wrath came to a close, I decided to consolidate them into one large family tree.

WoW’s timeline sucks. That’s all you need to know about that.

Who remembers the early days of WRA? Alliance-side, there was a guild called ‘Stormwind’s Army’. Yes, it was just another military RP guild. Yes, we did a lot of patrolling and policing. It was fun, though; my character rose from an unwashed bum to chief recruitment officer. And then - drama happened. The guild split. I followed the ‘rebels’, and we formed the Vanguard of the Alliance (VotA). That was also fun.

Anyways, I’m sparing you all the nitty-gritty details - but this is where the story, once more, becomes interesting. After so long, VotA eventually fell apart. We all went our separate ways, and eventually three of the officers let me know that they’re still RPing in-game with this new group - Blood of Arathor, I think it was called. I’m asked if I want to join them. I say - sure, but not on the character I’d been using.

At the time, I was - kind of embarrassed of that character. I still am. He’s my best success story, yes, but he felt - I don’t know. Too close to me, in some ways that I won’t get into. So I thought - why not make a NEW character?!

OH BOY.

But there was a problem. And this is what most of this rant was building up to.

I had to build a new character.

From scratch.

Alright, that doesn’t sound so bad, does it? - Except somewhere along the line of creating him - he came alive. In designing him, in creating his personality - I suddenly found that I was physically talking to myself - and in my mind, this quiet man was responding. James Oaklen, Knight of Stromgarde, was telling me about himself.

His goals. His life. His loves. His interests. All about himself; his world. How he felt about certain foods, how he felt about everything.

At the time - I had very, very acute problems in the real world. I was taking drugs, drinking heavily, I was obnoxiously depressed to the point of being borderline suicidal - and… well, this happened. What did it mean?

Don’t answer that. It’s not a real question, because it doesn’t matter.

I accepted that he was who he was - and he’s become one of my favorite recurring personalities in my characters. And he’s not the only one, anymore. At some point, this - new way of creation, this way to create characters that exist in my own mind - just, settled in.

So.. I wanted to document how it works. Sort of. Maybe you at home can replicate it?

I start by closing my eyes. I think about what races there are to choose from, what classes or skillsets; and then I just… start to see a person. Whoa, weird, huh? Just an outline. A faint outline.

So, we reach out with our mind, and we call to them; and they slowly come forward. We get an imprint, a basic idea for what they look like, in our minds. So - we go to the creator and we try to do that. As close as possible.

Then we look at the character. Scars; how did they get them? Each scar is a story in itself, and as you look - they begin to tell you about each one. As if just explaining casually. James has a scar along his neck, which he earned when he almost died defending his Lady - something that he constantly thinks about as a time that he failed.

Or, other big features? James - again, using him as an example - has a large, bushy black moustache. It’s his family’s staple, a sign of their masculinity and proof that an Oaklen has come of age.

And so on. Then, by the time we get to the point where we have to name them, they’ve already told us the most important things. We don’t just have a vague outline in our little mind shack; now, we have a PERSON. And the name? Well… That’s a limitation of the system, baby. Pick something as close to what resembles the name they called themselves, and stick to it.

I could go into more depth. I could go into the process of creating a video where I create a character, but - well, why? It’s just this vague idea that I want to get across right now. I really doubt anyone will read this five-to-seven page long spiel all the way through. But it’s just - interesting, to me. It constantly is there, this - process, these characters, these people. And not just them; worlds come just as easily. Is that the product of an over-active imagination from a man that was desperately seeking to avoid reality and paint a better fiction for himself to sit in? Probably.

But… I don’t know. When it boils down to it, I just let it happen. I get ideas in my head all the time for wondrous worlds, characters and things - but the most agonizing problem is that they can never seem to translate into text or print. I can’t paint worth a damn, I can barely draw - and the one medium I have for escape, Roleplay, is something that I barely do anymore.

So - how do I make it stop? Do I want to make it stop? Should I? How do I harness this? How do I focus it into something specific?

If you made it this far, congratulations. I don’t know how to end it, so I’m just tagging all the mmo’s I’ve ever played or remember playing for giggles. Kudos if you get all of them!

#uo #wow #ffixv #wildstar #swg #coh #cov #co #eq #eq2 #DAOC #Horizons #Rift #Neverwinter #NWN #NWN2 #do nwn count as mmos? I like to think they do #Probably missing some #rant

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pamphletstoinspire · 7 years ago

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Angry with God

My older sister Patricia died of spina bifida before I was born. My younger sister Linda died of spina bifida when I was 3. Given that I was raised in a traditional, stoic, Irish-Catholic family, my sisters and their deaths were never talked about. In fact, I didn’t even know they existed until I was 5 and found their names in our family Bible. “Who are these people?” I asked my mother.

“They are your sisters”—that was all she said.

As I grew, I thought about them a lot. Eventually, I began to ask my mother why God did this to our family. She said simply that some crosses were heavier to carry than others. Somehow that answer and the related resignation didn’t work for me. And so I began to become angry. Specifically, I began to become angry with God.

For most of my youth, I felt this anger was wrong, sinful. Yet it didn’t go away. I encountered more and more suffering that did not make sense. A friend lost both his parents by the eighth grade. A very good priest dropped dead of a heart attack. The brother of a friend died in Vietnam.

As I began my work as a psychologist, I would touch on spiritual matters with my clients. I found that I was not alone in my anger. Worse, I met people whose explanations for tragedy were heartbreaking.

One woman, for example, believed that her prayers for a dying daughter did not work because her prayers were “not worthy of God’s attention.” Even my own father, as he dealt with a series of strokes, told me they were “punishment for my sins.” As I heard such struggles, I felt more and more that, because of anger, I was bound to grow away from my faith. Then I read the Book of Job.

Job: Not Merely Silent Suffering

Given that the Catholicism of my youth did not include a great deal of biblical study, I knew very little about Job other than the phrase “the patience of Job.” When I read this marvelous book, I realized among other things that Job was hardly patient. In fact, like me, he was angry!

The story of Job begins with a bet. Satan is arguing with God, saying that faith is easy when everything is going well in one’s life, but that people tend to lose that faith when times are tough. He then brings up Job, pointing out that Job has great faith but is also very comfortable and successful. But suppose, suggests Satan, that Job falls on hard times: Will he then be so faithful? God gives Satan permission to take away everything of Job’s but not to harm him. Satan does this, but Job holds on to his faith. So Satan ups the ante by asking God to let him harm Job directly.

And so Job ends up homeless, penniless, and afflicted with horrible skin diseases. He begins to seek an explanation from God. In fact, Job demands an explanation!

Job’s friends show up and offer standard explanations for his troubles. “You must have sinned,” suggests one. “You haven’t prayed hard enough,” says another. And yet Job continues his outcry, ultimately demanding that God show up and explain himself.

And God shows up! Granted, God tends to put Job in his place and never really answers Job’s “Why?” question. But the important points are that God shows up and that he never punishes Job for his outcry.

But Why, Lord?

I think the Book of Job is there to encourage us to embrace our outcries, not suppress them; and to struggle with the “Why?” question, not dismiss it. And so, somewhat timidly, I began to allow myself that anger.

It soon became clear to me that I needed to explore my anger at several levels. The most immediate level was the “Why?” question that was a large part of my youth. As I began to read, I found out that the “Why?” question has in fact given rise to a specific area of theological study called theodicy. Specifically, theodicy examines the issue of how an all-good, all-loving God can permit evil.

As I explored my anger, I came across the book May I Hate God? by Pierre Wolff. Despite its provocative title, this is a very gentle-spirited book that reminds us that God is a loving parent; and that loving parents, upon learning that their child is angry with them, want to hear about the anger—not necessarily condone it, but hear about it. This opened up to me the awareness that, when I am angry with God, my tendency is to express that anger in the same way I do at a human level. I shut down and use the “silent treatment.”

Novelist Joseph Heller put it another way in his novel God Knows. King David is reflecting on whether he is angry with God and concludes, “I’m not angry with God. We’re just not speaking to one another.” So it was with me and the God of my understanding.

In any case, Wolff’s book helped me to accept my anger. But I still struggled with the “Why?” question. Other thinkers offered helpful insights. Viktor Frankl did not answer this question, but he observed that, while we don’t always have a choice over what happens to us, we always have a choice regarding how we face it. Similarly, Rabbi Harold Kushner, in his well-regarded When Bad Things Happen to Good People, offered what for me was a novel idea—that perhaps God wasn’t responsible for some of the bad things that happened to us.

At first, Kushner’s notion was comforting. Maybe God wasn’t behind my sisters’ illnesses or children with cancer or senseless random shootings. Maybe those things just happened. Somehow that thought made me fear God less. Yet the thought that perhaps God wasn’t behind all bad things that happened created another question articulated by Annie Dillard, who wrote in For the Time Being, “If God does not cause everything that happens, does God cause anything that happens? Is God completely out of the loop?”

My anger at God brought me to wrestle with some important issues. It challenged me to reexamine my image of God. Did I see God as punitive, misreading the Old Testament? Did I see him as loving, as in many New Testament stories? Did I see him as uninvolved, caring for the big picture and leaving the details to us, as the Oh, God! films suggest?

My anger also brought me face-to-face with my struggles about prayer. Does God answer prayers? Clearly not all prayers. It’s been said that there are many unanswered prayers at deathbeds. If God doesn’t answer all prayers, to follow Dillard, does he answer any prayers?

These struggles have been productive, prodding me toward a more mature understanding of God, as well as a more clear appreciation for prayer. But I still come face-to-face with my anger.

A Personal Encounter with God

Over the past few years, I have read the entire Bible three times. It has been a truly enlightening experience. I saw clearly that Job wasn’t the only one to argue with God. Abraham did it; Moses did it; even Jesus did it! I was in good company.

I saw, too, that David’s Psalms were at times outcries. Within the poetry, one can hear the oppressed poet yelling out to God, “Do something!”

I’ve learned from my many clients who sit and try to understand tragedies in their lives. In asking these great teachers, “Are you angry with God?” I’ve heard many instructive answers. One woman wrestling with a lifethreatening illness said, “Of course I’m angry with God! But he’s God. He can take it!” Another very spiritual young woman observed, “No, I’m not angry. But I sure would like to have a peek at his operations manual.”

Harold Kushner recently published a piece on the Book of Job titled The Book of Job: When Bad Things Happened to a Good Person. It is a literate and scholarly book that offered me a new note of comfort. Kushner suggests that Job is comforted and consoled not so much by God’s explanation but by the encounter itself. Job deeply experienced God’s presence and took comfort in that meaningful experience. I found a note of personal truth in this thought. I realized that, yes, I’ve had meaningful encounters with God in nature or in the world of great art or in the sound of my grandchildren’s laughter.

But I realized that I have also encountered God in my anger in a way that has been profound. As I voice that anger, I feel God in a manner as profound as, albeit different from, my experience of God in nature.

The story of this journey of anger has a more recent turn to it, one with which I am still dealing. I recently saw an episode of The West Wing, a program from the early 2000s starring Martin Sheen as a fictional president. Prior to this episode, the president had lost a much-loved secretary in a senseless car accident. After the funeral, he stands alone in the National Cathedral and unleashes an anger that shocked me. As an example, his character refers to God as a “vengeful thug.”

I felt I’d long validated the importance of anger in my relationship with God, yet I found myself uncomfortable with the intensity of President Bartlett’s anger. But, upon reflection, I understood it. My anger is more than annoyance or disappointment—at times it is rage. Yet, out of fear, I withhold that rage and instead, like David in Heller’s novel, stop talking to my God or at least temper my feelings. Yet, when I allow myself to approach that rage, I find God waiting for me.

And so I come face-to-face with the God of my understanding. Is that God a vengeful parent who will not tolerate my anger and will punish me for speaking up? Such was the God of my youth. Or is the God of my understanding a loving God willing to wrestle with me, willing to accept my vented rage in the name of open, ongoing dialogue and genuine encounter? And do I have the courage to fully embrace this understanding of God and remain in dialogue in the midst of my rage?

The great Jewish scholar Abraham Joshua Heschel once wrote, “God stands in a passionate relationship with Man.” Anyone who has lived in a longterm, passionate relationship learns that passion is a package deal. You can’t have the joy and ecstasy unless you also accept and embrace the anger and alienation. I’ve dealt with several couples who say they don’t fight. But they are in my office because their relationship is stagnant. Without the struggle, there is no passionate intimacy.

The Path of Relationship

I realize at this point that, for me to have a joyful, peaceful, vibrant relationship with the God of my understanding, I must also embrace the rage. Not just annoyance, but rage!

And so, as I struggle, I return to reflect on my mother’s faith in the face of tragedy. I see that her faith was not some passive, shoulder-shrugging, “Oh well, it could be worse” type of faith. Throughout her life, she believed not only in the power of prayer but also in the persistence of that prayer. Like the woman in the parable seeking justice, she would not quietly plead or go away. Rather, she would “storm heaven with prayers.” Nor did she let tragic loss engender cynicism: on her deathbed and with absolute certainty and joyful anticipation, she said, “I’m going to see my girls.”

And yet I know my path is one of wrestling and arguing. It occurs to me that perhaps within the mystical body of Christ, we both play a part. People like my mother indeed inspire me to not lose hope and to continue to believe that understanding God’s mysterious way is possible.

But perhaps people like me—the questioners, the wrestlers—help others not to lapse into passive, depressed resignation. Perhaps in encouraging others to “fight back,” we help them experience real encounters with God. Perhaps we wrestlers help others to hope that our pain and anguish do matter. And perhaps together we can link arms and sing those words of Job offered not as an answer but in hopeful expectation: “The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord!”

Richard B. Patterson, Phd, is a clinical psychologist and freelance writer from El Paso, Texas.

#angry with god

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sharpsh0cksoftside · 6 years ago

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“Cardinal” – A photographic narrative by Roman Vargas

cardinal (adj.) 1.) of the greatest importance 2.) very serious or grave (noun) 1.) a deep, rich color of red

I did write out a short description of this book and it’s up on the website now, but I want to explain just a bit more the idea behind this body of work. The year 2018 was probably one of the worst years I’ve had in a very long time. It did have its moments of beatific splendor, but the negative seemed to overshadow it all. I’ve dealt with a lot of traumatic experiences throughout my entire life and I often wonder where my strength comes from. I really believed I had it all figured out. I really thought I had found out a way to be confident. Had I finally grasped life by the throat and showed it who’s boss? I guess not. I’m a very private person and I don’t ever let people get too close to me but I let my guard down a little too much this time and it all came falling hard on top of me. I don’t know what it is with people mistaking my genuine kindness for weakness but it was extremely prevalent ALL last year. With work, with people who I thought were my friends, in the drag scene, even with family at times. It was the recurring theme that came with a boxset of episodes. I was definitely used at times and I didn’t realize it until it was too late.

Only a tiny amount of my closest friends know this about me, but I have horrible self-esteem. I’ve hated pretty much everything about myself from the age of 5 and it only got worse in middle school. I hate the way I look. I hate my body. I hate my voice. Everything. It has a whole lot to do with what people were telling me growing up and still to this day, tell me. My skin is a whole lot tougher because of it, and doing drag has made it better. However, I’ve faked this confidence of Roman. It’s been all an act. Donna is extremely confident, but when the makeup and wig come off I’m socially awkward because my mind has been so trained on being treated like absolute shit by people as Roman, that I shut off. I could pop off and hurt their feelings much worse but I’ve learned over the years that killing people with kindness serves as a much better tool. I react very pleasantly to individuals who are kind to me and I will always remember a kind person. But then there are those people who take my kindness and twist it in a way that gets them what they want out of me. Whether its validation, my photo services, anything really. Those people are truly evil. How people like that sleep at night is a fucking mystery to me. I was so angry at myself for the longest time that I let these things happen to me. I kept telling myself that I should have known and that I was being stupid. I let the bad ones slip through the cracks somehow and they sucked the life force out of me.

So what inspired this whole project in the end? A health scare. One morning in early January I woke up with a few red bumps on me. I thought they were mosquito bites or some sort of bug bites so I didn’t think anything at all. Literally the next day, they were all over my body. My neck, my chest, my torso, my back, my legs. They were red, varied in size, itchy and made me irritable. I go to the doctor and they’ve never seen anything like it. They have no idea what’s wrong with me. That’s comforting right? When the doctor told me he did not have a diagnosis for me, I truly fucking spiraled out of control. I had to be tested for just about everything so the scenarios I had in my head while I sat at home, missing work and alone in my thoughts, were not helping my mental state. I had to be given an antibiotic cream that somehow made me achy and the smell of it was putrid. “You have to relax” the doctor kept saying to me over and over. It took almost 3 weeks for me to heal entirely and I still have a few tiny scars from some of the bumps. I had a follow up with my doctor and what he told me really put things into perspective. “The way you stress, is going to be what kills you one day.” Harsh, but I needed to hear it. I bottled up so much shit from last year that it decided to just project outwards onto my body in the form of a rash. That’s when I knew it was probably time for me to seek out some help. I never wanted to be “that girl” who saw a therapist but in all seriousness I should have been seeing a therapist a long time ago. My mind is broken and I don’t know how to fix it anymore. For what seems like my entire life, I’ve been patching up the hurt on the inside with a band-aid but there’s only so much band-aids can do. I always have wanted to suffer on my own and not ask for help but I’m afraid if I don’t that I will really die. The next time I know it’s not going to be just a rash, it’s going to be a stroke or something. No more feeling shame, I need to build myself from the ground up and just restart. I want to love myself. I want to learn to tell myself that I AM important and that I do have a purpose.

“Cardinal” seemed to be the perfect title for this project. It will be a reminder to myself that I am of the UTMOST importance. If I can’t work on myself to see that in myself then I will be creating, in my eyes, a cardinal sin. It’s time to spit out the negative demon that has lived inside of me for far too long, feeding me bullshit, and really pursue my life the way I want to without worrying about what people perceive of me. I know it won’t happen over night, but I’ll get there.

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"A Cardinal Quality is attached to the signs Aries, Cancer, Libra and Capricorn. Cardinal Signs are the initiators of the zodiac. Individuals possessing a Cardinal Quality like to get things going. They are active, quick and ambitious. You won’t find a Cardinal person slacking off. These people are full of vim and vigor and possess a drive and ambition that is unmistakable. Enthusiasm and a zest for life fill the Cardinal individual. Some might perceive this rampant energy as domineering, and, at times, it can be. Cardinal people can easily forget about the rest of the pack when they are busily focusing on their own endeavors. Even so, their energetic spirit often wins the day."

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stanisagirl · 7 years ago

Text

Vents

I wouldn't say that I'm not religious. Well scratch that- I am religious. Just not in that overbearing sort of way. The way that many hardcore religious people tend to be like. I'm more of the type of religious person who believes in God, but at moments doesn't believe in God? I know right.

I'm weird. I get that a lot. You can judge me if you want.

In my opinion I am a normal person who at times prays for God to help me with everything shitty that goes on in my life. Other times I question his existence because I just don't quite understand the extent that some people can go to to show their love for one person; who may or may not be real. There's a book about him and movies about him, but how do we know for sure if he is real or not? Have we just made up a thought, an idea of sorts, that somehow brings us calmness and happiness in our life. Supposedly God was able to do all of these amazing things like making blind people see again, etc.

Isn't that pretty much considered magic? I thought magic wasn't supposed to be real. Like a lot of other things in this world that people say aren't real, such as aliens.

Although it would be rather cool if aliens did really exist, I think in this world, especially now, people have a tendency to push things in your face that you don't want to do. Or they tell you not to be certain things because you're going to go to hell; take being a lesbian for example. There are thousands, even more, people in this world who would shun you because you're a lesbian or you're gay or you're transgender. That that is not how God made you and you should only stay the way God made you. I'm having a lot of question marks burst into my head right now.

Don't even start with the bullshit of going to church and getting baptized will cleanse you and make you not gay anymore or not want to be a boy anymore when you're girl. Everyone who sees themselves as gay, lesbian, transgender, pansexual– I could honestly go on forever, but why would I want to annoy soo many people.

Also, just so you know, being gay, lesbian, or pansexual (plus the rest of them) are not genders. There's some dumb people out there who believe that and it pisses me off because of it being so wrong.

What I have thought of ever since I could understand what being gay meant was that people should get to be that if they want to. You're only going to make them feel like shit by yelling at them and cursing at them to not be what they are. That makes you a horrible person to do something like that. A person who, I don't know, may go to hell?

Awe shucks I don't exactly if that will happen, but all of us our sinners. Don't forget that. You may think that you're some pretty, little, innocent being who has done nothing wrong all their life; but look at the bright side, maybe you won't be thrown in the hottest pit in hell?

Ugh, now you guys maybe thinking that I'm a satanist since I am saying you're all going to hell.

Well I'm not a satanist. And now I guess I have to explain to you all how we're all sinners, and I bet there is someone right now reading this thinking how do I know shit? Bahah. You make me laugh.

To explain this loud and clear, even for people in the back, we're all sinners. We have all done something in our lives, may it be large or small, that has now labeled us as sinners. On the same note, I don't believe in the whole "God will forgive you if you admit your sins! Apologize for being a bad person!".

Blah. Blah. Blah. Shut your trap Jacky. We all know you slept with Kevin while his wife was away.

May it be you got drunk as a teenager, smoked, snuck out to get the goodies, and best of all: slept with your best friends husband; you are a sinner.

Enough with that "you are a sinner". Lets move onto more exciting things. Like, not serving people because they are gay, or have cancer, etc. etc. Yes there goes the word gay again. But people in today's society see it as something so big, I gotta make sure it pops up a few more times.

There are assholes out in this world who for some reason don't like serving people, talking to people, or even looking at them for the most absurd reasons of all time. Hey, wanna know a secret? We're all the same. Doesn't matter if you're black or white. Doesn't matter if you're bald or have a thick head of hair. Doesn't even matter if you got O type blood, A type blood, etc. We're all the same when it comes down to what's under all the skin and muscle. A skeleton. Nothing else. People shouldn't be judging others just because they're different in the way of what gender of people they like. People shouldn't judge other for what they like to do in life, well I mean, unless you're a serial killer. What you don't seem to understand is that...they are not hurting you. Is it your body, no. And what the heck is wrong with people believing in what they want to believe in. I thought in most places it was free to choose what you want to believe in?

This is now. To me we're a pretty shitty world who thinks they are making things better, but they are not.

We need to change that.

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pamphletstoinspire · 8 years ago

Photo

Angry with God

“They are your sisters”—that was all she said.

Job: Not Merely Silent Suffering

And so Job ends up homeless, penniless, and afflicted with horrible skin diseases. He begins to seek an explanation from God. In fact, Job demands an explanation!

But Why, Lord?

These struggles have been productive, prodding me toward a more mature understanding of God, as well as a more clear appreciation for prayer. But I still come face-to-face with my anger.

A Personal Encounter with God

I saw, too, that David’s Psalms were at times outcries. Within the poetry, one can hear the oppressed poet yelling out to God, “Do something!”

The Path of Relationship

I realize at this point that, for me to have a joyful, peaceful, vibrant relationship with the God of my understanding, I must also embrace the rage. Not just annoyance, but rage!

Richard B. Patterson, Phd, is a clinical psychologist and freelance writer from El Paso, Texas. He is also the author of the article “Welcome Home, Soldier.”

#angry with god

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