#i am being perceived oh jesus

[dawnsdreaming]

omg dawn hi

omg hi

[bajablastflavoredsaxreed]

quivering rn what the heck

baron from the baronies is something that can be so personal actually

ough

[lazyveran]

being in online spaces is so fun until it Isn't.

[pedrospatch]

fall into temptation | three

Jackson! Joel Miller x Preacher’s Daughter Reader

series masterlist

summary: Of all the women to catch Joel Miller’s attention—it just had to be one of the goddamned preacher’s daughters.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. SLIGHT PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION OF READER, mentions of her hair which she can put up into braids as well as her style of clothing. despite the nickname Joel gives her, it does not speak to her body type or size. AGE GAP (reader is in her 20’s and Joel is 56). several mentions of religion and religious symbols, reader has a father and two sisters, all who come with names, reader gets put into a a very uncomfortable situation, insecurity, anxiety, Seth is an asshole, protective Joel, he threatens to break someone’s jaw which is a warning in and of itself. SMUT. loss of virginity, reader is inexperienced but not totally clueless, oral (both m and f receiving), risky unprotected p in v sex (please wrap it up), lots of praise and pet names (baby, babygirl, honey, you know, the works), Joel gets a teensy bit rough, creampie, hint of aftercare, ends with a cliffhanger, but also not really if you think about it?

MOODBOARD FOR AESTHETIC PURPOSES ONLY, NO MENTION OF RACE OR BODY TYPE.

word count: 10k

a/n: it was not my intention to post this on jesus day, but here we are. this took forever and a day considering the second part was posted back in september, but i am so so proud of myself for finally completing a wip i could cry. i did a bulk of the editing while i’ve been sick and in all honesty i probably should have asked someone to beta for me because i think i coughed out like 90% of my brain cells this week, but i think it turned out okay. ish.

Somehow, even over the volume of the live music, you could still hear their hushed, astonished whispers.

“Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

“Is that Joel Miller with Pastor John’s daughter?”

“What’s she doing holding his hand?”

“He’s got to be at least twice her fucking age—”

Throat bobbing anxiously, you glanced up at Joel.

His shoulders were squared back, his head held high. 

Solid. Steady.

Joel couldn’t seem to care less about the bewildered stares, the judgment that was being flung his way. Not once did he seem to waver. But you?

Oh, you were already starting to crumble underneath it all, on the verge of falling apart right before everyone’s prying eyes. Shame sat heavily inside of your chest, the weight of the feeling suffocating you, making it harder and harder to breathe as it prevented air from reaching your lungs.

It had nothing to do with Joel. Of course it didn’t. It had all to do with you and with who you were. Their beloved preacher’s sweet, innocent young daughter. 

His youngest daughter. 

Suddenly, the whispers were no longer whispers.

“Oh God, she’s not going home with him, is she?”

“That’s not right! Someone should say something!”

“Pastor John would never allow something like this.”

“Poor thing’s naive—she doesn’t know any better.”

Hot, stubborn tears of frustration glazed over your eyes and threatened to spill. It was as if you were a child who didn’t know any better, a gullible, clueless little girl with nothing in her brain who needed to be rescued—saved from the bad, bad man before he did bad, bad things to her.

Had it been anyone else, no one would have batted an eye. No one would have noticed, let alone cared. But it was you that Joel Miller was leaving the bar with in the middle of the night and it was you whose hand he had clasped in his own. That is what made it wrong. That is why it was a problem.

Everyone’s concerns had nothing to do with him at all, they had everything to do with you. You, you, you. You were the sole reason why it was a problem, the reason why he was being perceived as the Devil himself, horns out as he dragged the poor little unsuspecting angel down to the fires of Hell.

“Joel?” Overwhelmed, you instinctively reached for his arm with your free hand. Cold and trembling, your little fingers curled tightly around his bicep, digging into the firm, bulging muscle through the thick corduroy fabric of his sleeve. You whispered his name again. “Joel—”

“S’alright, babygirl,” he reassured you quietly over his shoulder. He gave your hand a comforting squeeze. “S’alright. Just keep your eyes on me, sweetheart. I’ve got you. You just keep on lookin’ right at me, okay?”

Nodding, you inhaled deeply and focused on him. Only him. The broadness of his back and his shoulders. Tufts of hair that curled over the collar of his shirt. Only him. He’s what mattered. He’s all that mattered.

“Almost there,” Joel murmured, squeezing your hand again as the door came into view. “Breathe, baby. We’re almost there. I’ve got you. You’re alright. Ain’t gonna let anythin’ bad happen to you. Promise I’ve got you.”

It wasn’t until his fingers wrapped around the old, brass handle that you finally exhaled the breath you had been holding out in utter relief, though it was very, very short lived. Just as Joel pulled the door open, you felt a hand wrap around your arm. Dry, slender fingers dug into the soft flesh above your elbow as an attempt, and a feeble one at that, was made to tear you out of Joel’s grasp.

The music stopped and the bar fell silent. Everything and everyone came to a sudden standstill, freezing mid dance, mid drink, mid bite, mid gossip.

Shocked, you glanced over your shoulder. “Seth?” you squeaked his name. “What—what are you doing?”

Seth didn’t acknowledge you. His focus was on Joel.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Miller?”

Joel’s anger couldn’t be seen, but it could be felt. So palpable you could have wrapped your fingers around it. It radiated off of him and loomed over the entire bar like an incoming storm cloud. Threatening. Dangerous.

“Where are you taking her?” Seth demanded, his other hand curling around your wrist as he tried, but failed, to snatch you from Joel’s side once more. “Let the girl go! You let her go right now, you hear?”

Caught in between the two men, you nervously turned to look at Joel. Nostrils flared, jaw clenched, seething eyes that did the talking for him. His message was loud and oh so abundantly clear.

If Seth didn't take his hands off you, he wasn’t going to have any hands.

Not after Joel Miller was through with him.

Blazing heat flooded your face. As if it couldn’t possibly get any worse, everyone had now gathered around you to watch the tense encounter, eyes wide, brows raised and jaws practically on the weathered, hardwood floor.

Tommy Miller stood among the crowd, subtly shaking his head, his lips pressed together in a tight, thin line of disapproval as he glowered at his older brother. Would he be looking at Joel like that had it been Esther in your place? If she was the one he was taking home? Would any of this be happening if it was her instead of you?

“Seth.” Uttering his name, you shifted your attention back to him. You sounded calm and collected, despite feeling anything but. Joel’s hand in yours was the only thing keeping you steady and grounded. His touch was the only reason you hadn’t yet spiraled into a state of panic. Clearing your throat lightly, you spoke again and tried your hardest not to waver. “Please let go of me.”

Still fixed on Joel, he spat, “I’ll be damned if I let him take you anywhere.”

“He’s not taking me anywhere, Seth.” Without thinking, the words came tumbling out of your mouth—loud and clear for everyone in that room to hear. “He isn’t forcing me to go with him. I’m making the choice to leave with him. Out of my own volition. Please let go of me.”

Finally, Seth looked at you. His old, worn features were twisted in disbelief. “What?”

You swallowed dryly. Part of you wanted you to shrink away, curl into yourself. Instead, you straightened your posture, forced yourself to stand a little bit taller. Willed yourself to have a backbone for once in your life.

“You heard me,” you said, lifting your chin in defiance. Several onlookers gasped in surprise at your rebellion. Where had this insolence come from? “I’m choosing to leave with Joel. Now, please let go of my arm.”

Behind you, Joel stood silent and still. 

Watching. Observing. Waiting.

He wanted nothing more than to intervene. Rip you out of Seth’s hands and shatter each and every last bone in all ten of his fingers for putting them on you. Had Joel not realized that this was probably the first time in your whole, entire life you’d mustered up the courage to use your voice, he would have easily given into the urge. He wanted to protect you. He needed so badly to protect you. Yet, he knew you weren’t helpless or incapable of standing on your own two feet. He knew you deserved the chance to stand up and speak for yourself after a lifetime of being silenced, a lifetime of being forced to stay in your place, seen but never heard.

“Seth, let go of my arm,” you repeated. It was no longer a polite request. It was a demand.

He scoffed. “Do you honestly think I’m going to let you leave with somebody like him? You think I’m just going to stand back and let him take advantage of you?”

Oh, you hadn’t liked that insinuation, not one bit. 

It caused something inside of you to finally give way.

Snap.

The blood in your veins boiled, ran hot enough to make you feel like you were about to burn from the inside out. “Joel isn’t taking advantage of me! It isn’t like that,” you seethed, furiously. The quiet, well mannered, obedient good girl everyone in Jackson knew was gone. And she could stay gone. In your periphery, you could see Leah elbowing her way through the sea of people to the front of the crowd with an incredulous look plastered on her face. She stood there beside Tommy, who appeared to be just as incredibly bewildered by your outburst. “Don’t treat me like I’m some child who doesn’t know any better! I’m an adult and I’m old enough to make my own choices, okay?”

For a moment, you had forgotten it was Seth standing there in front of you.

“I’m capable of making my own decisions! I don’t need you to dictate my life. I don’t need you to tell me what is and isn’t good for me—controlling what I should and shouldn’t believe in.” Your voice trembled as emotions you’d been suppressing for years bubbled their way up to the surface. Amidst the chaos, you could feel Joel squeeze your hand again, as if silently encouraging you not to lose your nerve. He was your anchor, the only person who could keep your world from capsizing. You knew he wouldn’t let you drown. Not even God, who you had always been forced to believe was your pillar of strength, had ever made you feel this protected. Safe. “I don’t need you to tell me how to live and much less when it’s the end of the world.”

It wasn’t Seth you were addressing.

It was your father.

Your father, who controlled every last thing, from what you would eat to the way that you dressed and how you wore your hair.

Your father, who refused to let you have a mind of your own, who simply could not bear the mere thought of you thinking for yourself.

Your father, whose love felt like shackles, heavy, rusted metal restraints that had been digging into the flesh of your wrists for far, far too long.

“You need to let me go now,” you said, swallowing back the lump in your throat. Once more, you caught Leah from the corner of your eye, your heart lurching in your chest when you noticed her desperately trying to wipe at her eyes with the back of her hand. She was the only person in the room who understood how you felt. Her rebelliousness only ever masked the pain of knowing her father’s love came with terms and conditions—and the fear of knowing what would happen if those terms and conditions weren’t met. For several weeks, you’d gotten a taste of what she went through everyday, how her fear of putting her foot down led her to run around in secret and live a double life. “Just let me go.”

Seth firmly shook his head. “No! I’m not letting you go anywhere with him. I don’t know what the hell he did to you, but he’s clearly got you all fucking brainwashed.”

That was fucking enough. Joel stepped in, lowering his voice as he said, “Y’know, I’ve just ‘bout lost count of how many fuckin’ times she’s asked you to let her go now and it’s really startin’ to piss me off.” Raising an eyebrow, he laid his offer out on the table. “Here’s the deal. You let go of her right now and I won’t shatter your fuckin’ jaw into pieces. That seem fair enough to you?”

“No.” Seth gripped your arm even harder, prompting you to let out a little yelp as his nails dug painfully into your skin. Though it’d been accidental and he hadn’t meant to hurt you, it didn’t matter. He’d just set off the ticking time bomb that was Joel Miller.

Furious, Joel snatched a fistful of his shirt with his free hand—the other still held yours. Gentle, despite being mere moments away from beating someone to within an inch of their life.

“Joel! Stop!” Tommy’s voice broke through the tension as he approached. His footsteps were slow—careful and cautious, as if he was afraid to make any kind of sudden movement. “Joel. Hey. C’mon now, let’s not do this, alright? Ain’t gotta handle things this way. We can talk it through. No need for anyone to wind up bleedin’ in the fuckin’ infirmary tonight, so just take a breath and let him go.”

Blatantly ignoring Tommy’s attempt to keep the peace, Joel tugged Seth forward, yanking him closer. “Listen to me and listen to me good ‘cause I ain’t gonna fuckin’ say it again. You’d best take your fuckin’ hands off her right now unless you wanna spend the rest of the night sweepin’ up your teeth off the floor of your own fuckin’ bar,” he threatened, his tone enough to send a chill up anyone’s spine, even your own.

“You wouldn’t dare, Miller.” Somehow, Seth managed to keep a straight face, but you could see it so clearly in his eyes and in the tremble of his lower lip—oh, he was terrified of Joel and rightly so. “Not in front of all these people. Not in front of your brother. That wouldn’t be a smart move considering you’re already on thin fucking ice for what you did to that boy’s face, now would it?”

Joel tugged him closer. “Test me,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Go on. Fuckin’ test me.”

His challenge was immediately met with a pathetic look of defeat. Seth dropped your arm and he was released.

“S’what I fuckin’ thought.” Without another word to the man, Joel whirled around and roughly pulled the door open, leading the way outside. As you both descended the building’s old, creaking wooden steps, you began to shiver and he suddenly remembered he’d left his jacket behind inside the bar. He wrapped an arm around your shoulders. “C’mere, my little dove,” he murmured as he tucked you against his side for warmth. “I’ve got you.”

The first thing he did was light the fireplace.

“Should start warmin’ you up, sweet girl,” he’d said to you over his shoulder. He tossed a log into the blaze as you sat perched on his couch rubbing your bare arms with your hands. “M’gonna go upstairs and find you a blanket, alright? You stay put.”

“Okay,” you’d mumbled, knowing there was no point in telling him not to fuss over you.

Even with the soft, fleece throw blanket he had draped around your shoulders and the warmth of the flames in front of you, you continued trembling. Subtle, but he’d noticed it, felt it when he had sat down beside you and pulled you close against his side. “Oh baby, you’re still shakin’?” That was when he realized you weren’t cold. Frowning, Joel rose to his feet and disappeared down the hallway. He came back to the living room a minute later with a glass of water in his hand. With a small, labored grunt, he dropped to one knee in front of you and held it out. “Here.”

“No, thank you.” You shook your head. “I’m not thirsty.”

“Maybe not, but I’m kinda worried you could be in a bit of shock right now,” he stated, the creases in between his brows deepening as he observed you for any other physical signs of distress. Carefully, Joel lifted the glass to your lips, gently coaxing you to take a drink. “C’mon, darlin’. Think you can be a real good girl for me and at least take a couple sips? Hm?”

Sighing softly, you nodded and did as he asked of you, taking a small sip of water. It soothed your dry mouth and throat and you took another one. Maybe you were thirsty after all.

“Little more, now. Little more. That’s it. That’s my good girl.” Once he was satisfied with how much you’d had to drink, Joel set the half empty glass down on the oak coffee table behind him. He turned back to you, placing his large hands on either side of your thighs below the hem of your dress. He started tracing soft, soothing circles into your skin with his thumbs. “M’real proud of you for standin’ up for yourself back there, sweetheart. Took a whole lot of fuckin’ courage to do that, y’know.”

You glanced down at your hands in your lap. “Mhm.”

“Baby. Hey. Look at me.” One of his hands abandoned your leg and he reached up, delicately taking your chin between his thumb and index finger. He tilted your face upwards, his worried gaze meeting your own. “Talk to me. M’right here.”

“That—that was a lot,” you admitted meekly, shoulders sagging as the adrenaline started wearing off and your body slowly came down from the peak hormone rush. “It was a lot.”

Sighing, Joel’s hand fell away from your face. “Yeah, I know it was a lot, babygirl. I know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“No.” You were quick to cut him off. “Don’t be sorry.”

His chest heaved with another sigh, this one deeper, heavier, bearing the weight of his guilt. “Well I am,” he said. He planted his hands on either side of you on the couch and lightly shook his head. “Didn’t even fuckin’ think twice when I pulled you outta that fuckin’ supply closet and took your hand in front of all those people. I was so fuckin’ hellbent on showin’ everybody you were mine that I didn’t even stop and think ‘bout what all it would mean for you. It was selfish of me. Real fuckin’ selfish. And I’m sorry, little dove.”

“Do you regret it?” you asked, quietly.

Joel chuckled in spite of himself. “M’pretty sure I’m the one who should be askin’ you that question, darlin’,” he remarked. “Tell me. Do you regret it? Do you regret me pullin’ you outta that closet?” He momentarily paused. There was a stutter in his heartbeat when you dropped your gaze away from his, silence your only reply. “Do you regret me takin’ your hand in front of everyone?”

Of course not.

You wanted to be his and you wanted everyone to know it. There was no regret, none. 

Still. 

The consequences that you would undoubtedly have to face in the morning were overwhelming. Daunting.

Surely, by then, your father would know about you and Joel. When he came downstairs right after sunrise and he discovered you weren’t in the kitchen helping Lydia prepare breakfast, he would question where you were and make some kind of remark about how you should not be sleeping in this late. He would tell her just how irresponsible it was for you to ignore your duties and obligations to him and the family. Sloth was one of the seven deadly sins, after all. He would make her trek upstairs and wake you, and when she did, your sister would find your bed empty.

Meanwhile, there would be a knock at the front door.

No stranger to having members of the congregation show up on his doorstep when they were in need, be it of prayer or comfort, your father would answer it only to find someone, not in need of solace, but who felt that it was their responsibility and moral obligation to inform him that they had seen his youngest daughter leaving The Tipsy Bison with Joel Miller in the middle of the night, hand in hand.

He wouldn’t believe them.

“Now, that is simply not true,” he would say, offended that anybody would have the nerve to show up at his door and accuse you of something so vile. “That’s not possible. I know my daughter and she would never do such a thing. It must have been someone else that you saw with him. Someone who looked like her, perhaps.”

Then, Lydia would descend the staircase and tell him you weren’t in your bedroom. “She must have gone up to the main street as soon as she woke up,” she would suggest with a shrug, not yet privy to the events that had taken place the night before at the party you and Leah had snuck off to. She never had to worry about you, the good one. “I did notice we were running pretty low on eggs. Sugar, too. She probably wanted to be the first in line at the pantry to—Papa? What’s the matter?”

The color would drain from your father’s face when the realization slowly sank in. No, you weren’t out on the main street picking up eggs for breakfast and sugar for his tea. You were lying up in Joel Miller’s bed—defiled, impure, and with the curse of Eve on your flesh. Even after dedicating his entire life to making sure you did not stray from the path of righteousness, he had failed. You had fallen into temptation. 

There was a chance he would have mercy on you. All you had to do was beg and plead for his forgiveness—and more importantly, for the forgiveness of God. “Vow to atone for your sins,” your father would say, his gaze fixed on the Holy Bible in his lap. He probably wouldn’t be able to look at you, not after what you had done. “Repent. And swear to me, child, that you will never so much as glance in that man’s direction ever again.”

No. That’s not what you wanted.

You wanted Joel and the freedom to be with him. 

But that freedom came with a high, high price.

You were willing to pay it, but you’d be lying if you said you were prepared to navigate the consequences. Then again, was there really any way for someone to prepare themselves to be shunned by their own father?

“I can take you home,” Joel offered quietly, the sound of his voice taking you out of the future and bringing you back into the present.

“What?”

“I can take you home,” he repeated himself. “I can take you home right now if that’s what you want, sweet girl. Won’t give you any kinda grief ‘bout it.”

Confused, all you could do was stare at him.

“Listen to me, baby. You mean a lot to me. More than I can even begin to explain,” Joel reassured you before any kind of doubt could find its way into your mind. “I want you to stay with me. There’s nothin’ on what’s left of this fuckin’ earth I want more than for you to stay here with me. But what you want matters to me a hell of a lot more than what I want.” He reached up, lightly stroking your cheek with his thumb. “If you decide you wanna go home and go back to your family—back to your old man—then that’s where I’ll take you. Okay?”

Your father would give you an ultimatum. But Joel? He was giving you a choice. And he’d respect that choice.

“I wanna free you from your cage, my little dove. But I think we both know you’ve gotta make the choice to fly outta there on your own.” He lightly swept his thumb over your quivering bottom lip, his eyes meeting yours as he whispered, “Door’s wide open for you. What you do next is all up to you.”

“I’m afraid, Joel,” you confessed. A tear slipped from the corner of your eye and rolled its way down the side of your face. He was quick to wipe it away, along with the others that followed. “I do want out of my cage. I really, really do. But I’m terrified. All I have ever known is my family and my faith. I have never been apart from my father and my sisters.”

His expression softened. “I know you’re scared. Can’t promise you things will be easy, but there is one thing I can promise you.”

“What’s that?” you questioned, then waited with baited breath.

He gingerly cupped your cheek in his large palm. “I’ve got you,” he swore to you, just like he had done so back at the bar. “If you decide to stay, I promise I’ll take real, real good care of you, alright? For the rest of my life, I’ll take care of you. You won’t ever have to worry ‘bout a thing with me by your side. Swear it on my life.”

Warmth blossomed in your heartspace and finally, you stopped trembling. Lifting a hand, you curled your fingers around his wrist as your gaze fell to his mouth. “Joel?”

“What is it, darlin’ girl?”

“Kiss me. Please.”

With a gentle nod, Joel’s other hand found your hip, the warmth of it seeping through the cotton fabric of your dress. Leaning in, he brushed his lips against yours. It was a chaste thing, soft and innocent until you grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled him closer to you. “Babygirl,” he mumbled against your lips. He deepened the kiss, sweeping his tongue through your parted lips and into your mouth. He tasted like bold bourbon and citrus beer. There was a faint hint of tobacco too—you recalled him admitting to you one night in the church house that while he wasn’t all that much of a smoker, at least not like he used to be when living in the zones, he would occasionally partake in the habit if he happened to come across a pack of cigarettes while out on patrol, pairing the nicotine with a drink. He tasted delicious. He tasted delicious because he tasted like yours.

You sank back into the worn, supple brown leather of his couch, tugging him forward so he sank in with you. Over you. Releasing your near death grip on his collar, you managed to wedge your hands in between your bodies and began to claw furiously at the buttons of his shirt, your fingers shaking out of pure desperation to feel him. It wasn’t until you were halfway down that he finally noticed what you were doing and leaned back, catching both of your wrists.

“Baby, wait,” he panted, shaking his head. “Don’t think now’s a good time for that—”

“Joel, please,” you pleaded, the intense ache between your thighs almost too much for you to bear. “Please. I want it. I want you.”

“S’been a rough night for you.” Joel’s voice was hoarse—strained, like he was aching just as much, if not more. “You’re real emotional right now. Vulnerable. Last thing I want is to take advantage of you at a time like this.”

You frowned. Had Seth’s words gotten into his head?

“You’re not taking advantage of me.”

“Darlin’ I just don’t think we should—”

“Joel, please,” you begged him again. “I was so good for you, was I not? Wasn’t I patient, just like you asked me to be?”

His lips thinned into a tight line. He wouldn’t be able to resist much longer. You, his beautiful little temptress of Eden.

“I waited for so long,” you reminded him. “I’ve been so, so good for you. Please, just make me yours already. I don’t want to think about anything else right now. I just want to be with you. Please, Joel. I need you so badly it hurts.”

Christ.

No man could stand it. No man could possibly have the strength to deny you.

With a look of utter defeat, he folded. Before he could say another word or make another move, your greedy mouth was on his, and you kissed him with fervor, with urgency, as you finished the task of unbuttoning his shirt. Pushing it off of his shoulders, the corduroy fabric fell into a crumpled heap behind him, nearly knocking the glass of water off the coffee table. You broke away from him and shamelessly marveled at his mouth watering form—you admired the way miles of smooth, tanned skin stretched over his wide shoulders, broad chest and soft, soft belly. Arousal pooled between your legs and you reached out and raked your fingers down his chest, and over his stomach, going lower and lower, following the trail of coarse, dark hair that led you to his brown leather belt. You clumsily started fumbling with the brass buckle until he caught your hands once more.

“Slow down, my little dove,” he murmured. “No need to rush this. We’ve got all night.” He stood up and held his hand out to you. Time blurred a bit—maybe it was your nervousness mingled with the eager anticipation of what was to come, but there seemed to be a small gap in your memory, a blank space that spanned from the moment you rose off the couch until the moment you found yourself standing in his bedroom where you were about to answer to the call of the flesh.

Dropping your hand, Joel switched on the lamp on his bedside table and kicked off his boots before taking you into his arms. “C’mere, honey.” He nuzzled your cheek with the tip of his nose as he spoke, the scruff of his beard tickling your cheek. “Couple’a rules, sweet girl. I do somethin’ that you don’t like, you tell me. You want me to stop, you tell me to sto—”

Without waiting for him to finish his sentence, you slowly lowered yourself down onto the floor and knelt at his feet with purpose, as if kneeling before an altar, a sacred, holy space. Though you felt anxious, you were eager to worship. “I haven’t forgotten about what I said earlier tonight,” you cooed, noticing the mild look of surprise on his face. “I said I’d make it up to you and I intend on keeping my word.”

All the blood in his body rushed south to his cock and it strained painfully against the crotch of his jeans. “Baby, I—” Again, he was cut off, only this time by the sound of his own groan when your hand brushed up the front of his thigh and over his growing bulge. He glanced down, his heart thrumming painfully hard against his sternum as he watched you reach for his belt buckle.

With all your might, you willed your hands so as not to tremble. It was self-explanatory, what you were about to do, but your total lack of experience sowed seeds of doubt into your mind—you wanted to make him feel good, just like he had made you feel good outside of the church house during services. Just how you knew he would make you feel tonight.

Hand still over his buckle, you pressed the tenderest of kisses to his bulge through his jeans. Then, turning your head, you rested your cheek on one of his thick, blue denim clad thighs and peered up at him through your eyelashes with a small, nervous smile as you confessed what he already knew. “I’ve never done this before.”

Oh, how sweet and endearing you were. Joel reached down and smoothed your hair back and away from your face, tucking it behind your ear. “S’alright, honey,” he crooned, grazing the silkiness of your cheek with his index finger. “I’ll walk you through it. Teach you how to be a real good girl and suck my cock just the way I like it. That what you want, my little dove?”

His filth made your cunt clench hard around nothing.

Slowly lifting your head off of his thigh, you pulled your bottom lip between your teeth and managed a clear, consenting nod as your hands fumbled with his buckle, the clinking sound of metal ringing loudly in your ears. You undid the button on his jeans and pulled down his zipper, your throat drying when you saw the outline of him, his size intimidating even behind the cotton fabric of his faded, black boxer briefs.

With a harsh swallow, you glanced up at him, silently asking him for his permission to continue.

Such a polite little thing, Joel thought to himself. “Go on, sweetheart,” he encouraged.

You tugged his jeans down to the middle of his thighs and hooked your index fingers underneath the elastic waistband of his boxer briefs, pulling them down and freeing his cock. There was a deep, swooping sensation in your belly as you watched it slap up against the lower part of his abdomen. After many nights of sitting in his lap, feeling him through his clothes, grinding your cunt down onto him, you thought you’d at the very least had an idea of what you would be in for, but oh, how wrong you had been. He was so much bigger than you could have imagined, and your stomach swooped again when you realized he was not going to fit. Anywhere.

Licking away the dryness of your lips, you take him in one of your hands, feeling the heaviness of his length in your palm. He was so long and so, so thick.

“Oh fuck,” Joel hissed the curse through gritted teeth, his hips jerking forward involuntarily as your touch sent a charged jolt of electricity shooting up the length of his spine. He looked down at you, his pupils blown wide with arousal. Christ. You hadn’t even done anything to him yet, but seeing you sitting so prettily at his feet was almost enough to make him come on the spot.

Delicately wrapping your hand around him, you found yourself almost in awe at the way your fingertips barely, just barely, touched. The sheer size of his cock dwarfed your hand, and made it seem so much smaller than it really was.

“You’re so big,” you murmured, echoing your thoughts. You licked at your lips again, suddenly feeling ravenous, an appetite that had seemingly come out of nowhere making you salivate. The tip of him was flushed red, slit already glistening—how badly you wanted, needed a taste. Never, ever, did you think you would be down on your knees for anything but prayer, but there you were, starved and desperate to bite into the forbidden fruit.

“What’re you waitin’ for, darlin’ girl?” he croaked.

“Permission,” you replied, sweetly.

“Go right ahead, baby. S’all yours—I’m all yours.”

Yours.

Yours, yours, yours.

Finding your first push of courage, you leaned forward and so carefully swept your tongue along the tip of his length, collecting the slight saltiness leaking from the slit and getting your first delectable taste. With your hand still wrapped firmly around his base, you looked up, your eyes locked on Joel’s face as you flicked your tongue up against the rigid underside of his cock.

“Fuckin’ Christ,” Joel groaned, all of the muscles in his stomach already pulling taut when he felt you dragging your tongue in a slow, purposeful lick along the length of him. “Babygirl.”

“Is that good?” you asked him, sounding hopeful. “Am I doing good?”

“Doin’ so, so fuckin’ good for me, sweetheart. Look so fuckin’ pretty down on your knees for me.”

Pleased, you wrapped your mouth around the head of his length, pressing forward and taking him in as far as you possibly could—which, in all fairness, wasn’t very far. At least not as far as you would have liked. Another groan tore itself from the depths of his chest as your plush, plump lips sealed around him, your tongue warm and wet on the underside of his cock. Moving both of your hands to rest on the sides of his thighs, you began to move your head back and forth, following what felt most natural to you. The nerves you initially felt slowly but surely dissipated, vanishing one by one with every curse, every tremble, every sharp breath.

Joel resisted the urge to buck his hips forward, fought the desire to feel himself at the back of your throat. He needed to be gentle, so careful with such an innocent, pliant thing who had much, much to learn. “Sweet little fuckin’ mouth feels so good around my cock, baby, just like I fuckin’ knew it would. Y’think it can take more of me, little dove? Hm?”

You hummed, the vibration intensifying his pleasure.

“Yeah? Y’trust me?”

Your reply came in the form of a muffled, “Mhm.”

Joel reached down and cradled the back of your head in the palm of his hand. He carefully guided you further onto his throbbing length, slowly feeding you one inch at a time. Your fingers dug into the denim of his jeans. He was much more than a mouthful for you, and you could only take about half of him before he hit the back of your throat, prompting you to gag around him. Drool dribbled out from the corners of your mouth and down the sides your chin, dripping onto your lap.

“Oh fuck, sweetheart. Yeah, that’s it. Little more now, honey,” Joel encouraged. He bucked his hips forward, his head slipping further down your throat. Just when you felt like you were about to choke, he pulled out and you tried your hardest not to cough and sputter as you took in a much needed, precious breath of air. He gave you a few seconds or so to finish catching your breath as he shoved his jeans and boxer briefs further down his legs. He stepped out of the articles of clothing and kicked them somewhere off to the aside, standing before you completely bare. “Open up.”

Your absolute devotion to him bred sweet submission, so as worried as you were that you wouldn’t be able to handle it, you nodded obediently and very willingly did as you were told. 

He guided himself right back into your waiting mouth, pressing deeply. You tried to relax your jaw, reminding yourself to breathe in and out through your nose. Tears streamed down the sides of your face as you did your best to forestall another gag. “Little bit more,” he said, thrusting his hips in a slow, steady controlled rhythm. He advanced even further into your mouth—trusting he wouldn’t suffocate you, nor push you too far past your limits, you opened up wider. He moaned, “Yeah, baby. That’s my good girl. That’s my good fuckin’ girl.”

With a bit of newfound confidence, you hollowed your cheeks and sucked him. You swiped your tongue along the thick, prominent vein on the underside of his cock, earning yourself more of his sweet, sweet praise.

“Fuck, yeah, suck me off, sweetheart. This pretty little mouth was fuckin’ made for sin,” he breathed, guiding your head back and forth with a firm, but gentle hand.

You moaned, the noise muffled around his length. Slick soaked through your panties and coated the insides of your thighs. With another moan, you tightly squeezed your legs together, inwardly reminding yourself that patience was a virtue.

Noticing the way you had shifted, Joel moved his hand from the back of your head, lightly curling his fingers around your jaw. He pulled you off of his cock, a loud, lewd popping sound bouncing off the sage green walls of his bedroom. “C’mere, baby.” He grabbed your arms, effortlessly hoisting you up to your feet.

“What’s wrong?” you questioned him worriedly. “Did I do something wrong?”

Chuckling softly, he brushed a finger along the strap of your dress. You could do no wrong, his perfect, perfect girl. “Of course not, sweet girl. You did so fuckin’ good for me,” Joel reassured you, lightly tracing along your collarbone with his finger and making your flesh erupt in goosebumps. He leaned forward and feathered a kiss onto your lips, murmuring against them, “Are you wet, little dove?”

Before you could even process the query and generate some kind of coherent response, he dove his opposite hand between your thighs, cupping your warm heat in his palm. At this, your weak knees buckled, prompting you to reach out and grab onto his arms to hold steady and keep yourself from falling into a helpless heap on the floor.

“Oh, honey. You’re soaked. That what sucking my cock does to you?” he cooed. He peppered another kiss, this one onto the corner of your mouth. His voice lowered another octave. “Poor little thing. She needs me, don’t she? Needs me to take care of her?”

You whimpered. “Yes.”

“Manners, babygirl,” he reminded you, skimming your cheek with his nose. “Yes, what?”

“Yes, please.”

Humming in approval, Joel withdrew his hand from in between your legs and guided you backwards towards his bed. “Sit,” he commanded gently, bidding you to let go of him. “Arms up.”

Reaching for the hem of your dress, he took great care in pulling it over your head, then discarded the vibrant yellow material over his shoulder, leaving you in nothing but your cowboy boots and thin, cotton white panties. Without a word, he knelt before you and pulled off one boot, and then the other, setting them both aside. He hooked two fingers underneath the elastic waistband of your underwear, coaxing you to lift your bottom off of the bed, just long enough for him to pull them down and slide them down your legs. He was so tender in the manner in which he undressed you.

“Fuckin’ beautiful, beautiful girl,” Joel praised. His dark gaze dragged down the length of your body as you sat before him wearing nothing but the delicate, gold chain around your neck. The holy cross nestled between your supple breasts gleamed in the light of the lamp on the nightstand. He would leave it on until your decision was made, set in stone. “My pretty little dove.”

“Joel.” You whimpered his name, hands curling around fistfuls of his dark blue sheets. You were drenched now, in dire need of some relief. If he didn’t touch you where you needed him most, you would surely lose your mind.

Desperate, you leaned back slightly onto his bed and parted your knees, your folds glistening as you showed him just how badly you needed him.

Joel groaned, almost visibly salivating at the sight. The blazing heat in his eyes sent ripples of desire coursing through your body, straight to your throbbing core.

You opened wider. “Please.”

“Christ, babygirl. Already soakin’ the sheets.” Sliding a finger up along the seam of your pussy, he grazed your clit, the touch light, but somehow still enough to make your hips arch off the mattress as white-hot pinpricks of pleasure danced their way up your spine. He lowered his head and leaned in, your sweet scent drawing him in like a moth to a flame. Just when you were about to start pleading him for more, he dipped his face into the apex of your thighs, his mouth finally, finally, meeting your wet heat.

“Oh!” you gasped, your head falling back. “Fuck!”

Against you, his lips curled upwards into a wicked grin. He’d never heard you curse before, not until now.

Joel took his time devouring you, savoring the essence of your cunt with each broad stroke of his tongue. Sealing his lips around your clit, he flicked the swollen, sensitive bundle of nerves over and over again, eliciting from you some of the sweetest noises that he had ever heard in his entire life. In preparation for what you both knew was to come, he pushed one finger inside of you, the invasion causing you to fist his sheets even harder. He then slipped in a second finger, groaning in sheer, carnal bliss at how your walls squeezed them, at the mere thought of them squeezing his cock in the same manner. How was it that you felt so much tighter this time around?

“Oh God.”

You shouldn’t be saying His name. Not like this.

Not when something this sinful was being done to you.

Hungrily, Joel lapped at you, curling both of his fingers in an upwards motion to hit the perfect spot. He knew you were close, felt it in the way that you squirmed and writhed. Draping his arm across your hips, he pinned them down onto the bed, holding you still as he chased your high as if it were his own.

“Joel,” you chanted his name over and over again in a fevered prayer. Releasing the sheets, your hands found his hair, tangling themselves in his curls. Your head fell back, and you cursed at the ceiling of his bedroom. “Fuck, fuck, fuck Joel—”

Pushing onto his mouth, you came, moaning his name so loudly you were certain the whole neighborhood was getting an earful.

Joel pulled back, his beard and mustache slicked with your spend. “S’right, honey,” he crooned, his digits still buried to the knuckle as he helped you to ride out your wave of ecstasy. Eventually, when he pulled them out, you tried closing your shaking legs. He tsked and shook his head, wrenching them open further. “No, no, baby. Keep those pretty thighs open for me. Wanna see her.” He admired his work, his cock twitching at the sight of your pussy, swollen and shining, and ready to take him.

Like earlier, there was another brief skip in time.

Mind still in a haze, you hadn’t even realized that he’d risen to his feet and guided you further up onto his bed, not until you were lying on your back with your head on his pillow and he was hovering over you, his hard length brushing against one of your messy, inner thighs when he settled himself between your legs. 

Your heart began to pound in a mingle of both fear and excitement.

Joel’s eyes met yours. His pupils were blown so wide, there was not one, single trace of brown anywhere to be seen. “Y’absolutely sure about this, little dove?”

Your response came without hesitation. “Yes. I’m sure.”

He pressed a kiss to the underside of your jaw. Your submission was a gift, and he would cherish every last second of your surrender to him, savor it for as long as he possibly could. His lips, soft and warm, skimmed along the column of your throat, leaving a trail of fresh goosebumps in their wake.

If, by some chance, you decided that you wanted to go back to your father and to your faith, Joel didn’t know how he would find it in himself to let you go, not after this. Of course, he would have to let go, though.

The last thing he wanted was to help free you from one cage just to stick you right back into another. While he was no stranger to loss, he had to admit to himself that to lose you would be a knife to whatever was left of his heart.

Shoving the thought out of his mind, he reached down and gripped the base of his cock, pumping it in his fist before running the leaking head along your puffy lips, coating himself in your wetness with the hope it would ease some of the pain you were bound to feel. “Ready, babygirl?” he asked you, lightly teasing your entrance. “Might hurt a bit. M’gonna go slow. Just need you to relax for me, alright?”

“Okay.”

“I’ve got you,” he promised.

You nodded, saying softly, “I know.”

Though he knew he had all of your trust, Joel could still sense your anxiousness. He reached out for your hand, lacing your fingers together with his own as he gingerly pressed forward and eased himself into you, taking the very innocence you had been taught your entire life to preserve, one slow, careful inch at a time.

“Oh—Joel!” You cried loudly at the initial stretch, your pretty face scrunching in discomfort. Tightly slamming your eyes shut, sparks flew behind your eyelids when he finally bottomed out. The burning sting in between your thighs was too overwhelming, almost impossible to cope with. He felt so enormous within you, you could have sworn he was in your belly. Another broken cry fell from your lips and he swallowed it with a comforting kiss.

“Jesus Christ,” he hissed against your lips, a thin sheen of sweat coating his brow, neck, and chest. He wasn’t sure where he found the strength, but he suppressed his urge to thrust. Instead, he dropped his face into the hollow of your neck and waited, giving you the chance to adjust to him. He mumbled against your skin. “Doin’ so good for me, sweet girl. Y’know that? You’re doin’ so fuckin’ good for me.”

Even in discomfort, you preened at his praise.

He squeezed your hand, and after a minute, he gave an experimental thrust of his hips—and then another and another before he ceased his movement once again. He was so big and you were so deliciously full of him.

Eventually, the pain subsided, and you found yourself asking, no, begging for more. “Move.” Your other hand found itself cupping the side of his face, coaxing him to lift his head and allowing your gazes to meet. Your soft, plush thighs parted further to help accommodate the breadth of his hips. “Please, Joel. I need you to move—I need you to fuck me.”

Surely, you would be the death of him.

He drew his hips back with cautious, tender care, then advanced in the same manner to fill your precious cunt all over again. He did it over and over, your pleasured moans encouraging him to begin picking up the pace. He drove his cock in and out of your weeping pussy, the slapping of flesh against flesh, the lewd, wet squelch of you around him inspiring him to fuck you harder, faster. And the noises you were making?

There was something oh so beautiful about your cries, sweet raptures of submission as you laid there beneath him, all too graciously taking everything he had to give you like the good, good, good girl you were for him.

“Fuckin’ hell, sweetheart,” Joel rasped. “Look at you—look at the way you take my fuckin’ cock, honey.”

And you did.

Glancing down, your gaze fell between your bodies and you watched in awe, openly marveled at the way Joel slid in and out of your cunt, how he knocked hard so deeply inside of you, driving himself as far as he could possibly go.

“Fuck Joel, I’m gonna—” You tried warning him as the pressure in your belly neared its peak, but you tumbled over the edge before you even had the chance to finish your sentence. Arching up off off the bed, you pressed your chest against his, your fingers squeezing his own so hard you feared you might break them.

“That’s it babygirl, let go,” he grunted, speeding up his thrusts. “Squeeze my fuckin’ cock—just like that. Good girl. My perfect, perfect girl.”

You didn’t quite get the chance to let the praise sink in.

Joel pulled himself out of you, and with ease, he flipped you over onto your belly. His hands gripped your hips and pulled them up off the mattress, his fingers moving to firmly knead the fleshiest part of your ass. He leaned over you, the head of his cock nudging at your hole. “Y’think you can handle a little bit more, sweetheart?” he whispered the question into a tumble of messy hair, the delicate scent of the lavender shampoo you used to wash it filling his senses. “Answer me, little dove.”

“Yes,” you replied breathlessly with a nod. “I can.”

With a satisfied hum, Joel sank into you, this second stretch not quite as overwhelming at the first, but still intense. “Relax,” he murmured, hunching further over your quivering back. He pressed a kiss onto the top of your head and then leaned down to brace his hands on either side of you. “Need you to be sweet for me just a bit longer, okay, baby?”

“God,” you whimpered when the heaviness of his balls came to rest on your sensitive clit.

It was the second time you’d uttered His name.

Joel almost grinned at the irony. He found his rhythm, groaning in gut-deep satisfaction with each snap of his hips—each smooth stroke in and each smooth stroke out.

“Oh fuck, sweet girl.” Heaven was indeed a real place, and Joel Miller was buried in it to the hilt, right at this very moment.

He was getting closer and closer.

Maybe it was your eagerness to help him reach his own release mingled with the pride you knew you would feel once you did that gave you a second wind, a fresh, new burst of energy. You planted your hands firmly on his pillow. Rolling your bottom lip between your teeth, you curved your spine and pushed back onto Joel with purpose, meeting his thrusts halfway as you rode his aching length to the satiation that waited for him at the end.

“There’s my girl,” he rasped. “Oh fuckin’ Christ—”

No way he could live his life without you now.

He needed you.

He needed you so much more than you needed him.

Joel slipped an arm around your shoulders, across your chest.

“Oh!” you gasped as he then yanked you back, pulling you flush against him. The rough crash of your back against his chest, combined with the angle in which he was fucking you knocked the wind out of your lungs.

His lips were at the shell of your ear. “Stay,” he panted, his breath hot against your cheekbone. He wrapped his other hand lightly around your throat. Relentless, were his hips now—his movements had become frantic. Desperate. “Stay with me, baby.”

Even as you fought to catch your breath in the position he had you in, you picked up on the fact that he wasn’t asking you of it, nor was he demanding you of it.

He was begging you.

Him, the most feared man in this town. Begging you?

“Joel,” you choked.

“Please, my little dove,” he pleaded, turning your head towards him. His mouth was then on the corner of your own, his beard roughly scratching the soft and delicate flesh of your cheek. “I need you, babygirl. Stay with me. Please, just fuckin’ stay with me.”

Your hands curled around his wrists. “Yes, I’ll stay,” you moaned. “I’m yours, Joel. I’m all yours. I—I’m not going anywhere. I promise. I’ll stay with you.”

A low, guttural sound rumbled through his chest. Joel firmly took hold of your cross, and without so much as a warning, he ripped the chain from around your neck and tossed it somewhere over his shoulder. He heard it land on the hardwood floor with the tiniest, faint clink the moment he spilled into you, ropes of warm release coating your fluttering walls. Curses and groans spilled from his lips and into your neck. Your cunt clutched at his pulsing cock, greedy for every last drop of his spend she could get.  

Once you were filled, you both collapsed beside each other on the bed, heaving to catch a steady breath.

“Y’okay, sweetheart?” Joel managed to ask, his chest still rising and falling rapidly.

Exhausted, all you could do was nod and utter, “Mhm.”

He exhaled an amused huff through his nose. “C’mere.” He reached for you and pulled you against his side. He draped an arm around your shoulders, holding you as close to him as was possible. “Y’did so good, honey.”

Your mouth curled into a small, contented smile.

Several minutes had passed by, and despite telling him that you were too tired to even think about moving, Joel made you get up and use the bathroom, and while you did so, he ran a clean washcloth under warm water. “Here, darlin’. Let me clean you up,” he’d said, his lips meeting your forehead in a loving token of affection before he sank down onto one knee and ran the damp cloth along the insides of your thighs. He took extreme care when he wiped at your swollen folds, knowing you were still sensitive to the touch. “There we go. All done, now.”

Not long after, you were both back in his bed, wrapped up in his sheets.

Yawning, you nuzzled into bare his chest, your eyelids feeling heavier and heavier with each and every second that ticked by. You’d started drifting off when you heard his voice.

“Baby?”

“Hmm?” you answered sleepily, eyes still closed.

“Did you mean what you said?”

“Mean what, Joel?”

There was a brief pause. “Y’know, when you said you’d stay with me.”

Snuggling closer to him, you mumbled, “Mhm. Of course I did.”

“S’not gonna be easy,” Joel murmured into your hair.

“I know.” You yawned. “But I have you.”

“You do. You’ve got me—and I’ve got you, babygirl.”

“Mm. I know that too, Joel.”

You felt him kiss the top of your head and then fell fast asleep in his arms.

The sun bloomed over the Grand Tetons.

Your father would wake soon, that’s to say if he wasn’t up already.

The nerves began to set in.

Joel must have sensed it. “Breathe, baby. S’gonna be okay,” he soothed, squeezing your hand.

With one of his warmer, heavier jackets that normally didn’t see the light of day until winter season draped around your shoulders, the two of you made your way down the road and towards your house. Or better said, towards your father’s house. Because after what you were about to do, that yellow and white cottage would no longer be a place you could call home.

He led you up to the porch. “Y’sure you don’t want me to go in there with you?” he asked, quietly.

You could have laughed. You almost did.

“Do you believe that to be a wise choice?”

“No, I reckon it ain’t the best idea,” Joel admitted with a sigh, raking his free hand through his unkempt, salt and pepper hair. He looked up at the house, then back at you. “Look, little dove. No matter what happens in there, just know that everythin’ will be alright. M’gonna take care of you. For the rest of my life, I’ll take care of you. I’ll try my hardest to be everythin’ you need.”

“You already are, Joel,” you said, your gaze earnest.

His chest swelled with warmth.

Truth be told, Joel didn’t know how he had managed to defy the odds—how he, of all people, had managed to make his way into that sweet, innocent, beautiful little heart of yours, but somehow he did, and he would not take this responsibility lightly.

He brushed your lips with his and promised, “Gonna be waitin’ right here, okay?”

“Okay.” Inhaling deeply, you willed yourself to let go of his hand and took a step back. You then started up the porch steps on wobbling legs. When you made it to the top, you glanced over your shoulder at Joel, who gave you a subtle nod of encouragement. Exhaling slowly, you reached for the knob with trembling fingers and turned it, opening the door. You stepped inside, your heart dropping into your stomach when you saw your father sitting there at the foot of the staircase, as if he’d been waiting for you. He had been waiting for you. Fully dressed, he sat on the second to last step with both hands folded on his bible in his lap, a rosary clutched between them. “Papa?”

He said nothing. Instead, he silently observed you—his eyes glazed over the men’s jacket and the short dress you wore underneath it, the disheveled, loose hair and kiss swollen lips. Your holy cross nowhere to be seen.

“Papa.” You swallowed harshly and shifted your weight anxiously from the heel of one boot to the other. “We, um—we really need to have a talk.”

He peered around you, catching a brief glimpse of the man standing outside, waiting for you at the foot of the porch.

He cleared his throat, lightly. “Yes, child. I suppose that we do.”

Nodding tightly, you turned around and slowly closed the door. Joel’s words rang in your mind over and over, giving you the push of strength you knew you would need.

I’ve got you.

divider credit goes to @saradika 🤍

[tapestryoftrauma]

give us your trans!grace thoughts pls i beg

WELL— how can I say no to that ???

But before I get into the transness and queer nature of Grace's gender, I gotta elaborate on the basics (we’re taking the long road here BUT TAKE MY HAND WE’LL GET THERE I PROMISE KSDHFJ)

It cannot be overstated that Grace’s gender as a teenage girl is quite inherent to her character, at least in how I interpret her. The way she was raised, her relationship with God and religion as a whole, her relationship to her family, her understanding of sex and sexuality, the way people (especially men, like Max or Kyle) treat her. It’s all tied back to the fact she's perceived as (and in canon identifies as) a teenage girl.

In fact, if we take the colour scheme of her general outfits (disregarding the green turtleneck sweater from Perky’s Buds, just for the ease of analysis here, but I have THOUGHTS about the turtleneck that tie more into Grace’s sexuality—) the major colours are pink and blue. Of course these colors have various meanings (including very trans meanings, WE’LL GET THERE) but let's start with basics. Pink and blue = girl and boy, as shown by the shirt division in AC. Push it further, her outfit in NPMD is baby pink and blue—which to me highlights her innocence, or expected innocence as that sexless, pure, deeply religious teenage girl everyone wants her to be.

But Grace is not that girl. She’s not the kind of girl that can sit and be quiet, because Grace Chasity is loud and abrasive and annoying to most who know her. She’s also not the kind of girl who can repress her sexual desires and wait until marriage. Grace isn’t soft and demure—she is quick to jump to rage, to violence, and she is desperate for the power that she’s been denied her whole life. Denied because she is a girl — a future wife, a future mother, a woman of church. Objectified and repressed and Grace clearly cannot stand being what her community deems to be a ‘girl.’

Okay now let's get into the trans shit BABYYY

(Disclaimer – I am trans, but my own experience does not encompass the trans experience as a whole nor am I willing to speak from any sort of authority beyond my own gender-fuckery. And for the sake of brevity, and because this is a tumblr post and already getting long, I’ll resist sourcing and quoting feminist and gender theory. For now)

I imagine, when approaching Grace from a trans or gender queer perspective, her own image of herself would be something like this. Grace is a girl because that’s what she’s always been—but maybe, if given the tools and the space and the time to think about it—she might come to conclusions. I think maybe Grace doesn’t necessarily identify heavily with either side of the specturm, but neither side is especially repulsive either. In a way, Grace is just Grace. I think at her healthiest someone would ask what her gender is and she’d say “Grace.”

Because she does enjoy wearing pretty dresses at church, and loves the pink in her wardrobe, and even adores the clips that her mom puts in her hair. But, I also think that’s not all Grace enjoys. (Heavily going off my fics here, I have a fic where Grace begins to dabble in drag) Maybe Grace likes drawing a fake beard on her face—because does she love Jesus or does she envy Jesus in a gender way? Maybe dressing up as Jesus is euphoric and enlightening and allows her to tough on masculinity in a way she never has before.

And pronouns ? Let’s talk about pronouns. I’ve joked before about Grace’s introduction to the concept of neopronouns by a joke the nerds make about “He/Him” pronouns for god being neopronouns. And I think Grace would really fuck with the idea of neoprounouns—of just getting to choose. To make a choice is to have power, and oh does Grace crave power—especially about her own body, about her identity, about who she is. I could honestly see Grace using any combination of pronouns. Any, neo, a mix, hell maybe she just goes by Grace and GOOD FOR HER !!

I also promised colour theory in the trans way – so lets touch on that. You cannot show me a character who is constantly dressed in a light pink and a light blue in ALL her outfits (except one, shhhh) and not expect me to point at her and nod my head going “yes trans.” Like COME ON? Purposeful? Highly unlikely, BUT… The colours in the trans flag DO come from the gender assigned to those two colours—and I don’t think it's unlikely that the colour scheme was picked for that reason instead.

ANYWAYYY. Those have been some of my thoughts on Trans!Grace Chasity that I have touched on a little in a fic (you can find that here if you’re interested but no pressure) and I really plan on touching on it again at some time. Thank you for the ask anon !!!

[mollymauk-ingyou]

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Hello mollymauk enjoyer who just followed me.

[sirenium]

This started off as a multigender rant but includes other things, because I'm so pissed off at the queer community for these things that I need to fit it all in one post. Sit back and prepare for this, it's a long read (also feel free to scroll past) being multigender sucks because I feel too paradoxical to be taken seriously. It doesn't help that I'm also agender :/ Like yeah, identity is your own and you shouldn't shave off parts of it to appease others, but damn does the 'passive' hostility and invalidation towards multigender people such as myself make me feel pushed towards changing myself sometimes. You can scream into the void all you want about being normal about multigender people and how they label their experiences, but some people just... never will be. That's what it feels like, from the fucking queer community as well as cishet society. It sucks. I can never be comfortable to explore my womanhood because then my manhood and agenderhood will never be taken seriously. Hell, the fact that I simultaneously experience gender AND being genderless is enough for people to just shit on me and exile me from queer spaces. The fact that I prefer ze/hir and it/its and nounself pronouns is enough for people to call me one of the bad ones. AND, the fact that I am more comfortable being perceived as a man suddenly makes me a 'danger to women'. There are so many issues with how multigender people, neurodivergent queers (literally any kind of neurodivergent, not just the neopronoun xenogender autistic person), queer POC, the list goes on are treated; if you aren't a white woman god help you, god forbid you're a man in any way either. And don't even get me started about how aroace people are fucking treated. I could go on for another few paragraphs about how I, as someone who is aroace spec and a plethora of other things, don't feel safe sometimes. I could go on and on and on. And fuck it, I will (under the cut because this post is already comically long):

'Aroace is a spectrum' this, 'all aroaces are valid' that, until you're romance/sex oscillating or even favorable, until you're polyamorous, until you're also a lesbian or a gay person or m-spec. Even in the fucking aroace community you're held by some bar of being aroace enough, and if you diverge even slightly god forbid. Allo fictives of aroace characters, hell even those who are aroace in a different way, have to listen to the incessant whining of the 'stop making sexual/romantic fiction of this character! they're repulsed in canon!' crowd. It's fucking obnoxious. Aroace people are already not taken seriously, aroallos and alloaces are already not taken seriously, and then you have the clown parade of people forcing their own idea of what they want you to be down your throat. The queer community and its many facets feel so fucking unsafe at times, and that sucks because we're all we've got. Some people don't have supportive family or connections outside of online queer spaces, and this is what they get. It's so incredibly shitty. I don't feel aroace enough because of my experiences, despite also having very stereotypical aroace experiences. I feel forced to constantly be sex/romance averse at times because again, god forbid you're ever favorable. I have two partners, okay? I have partners who I don't necessarily 'love' but care about a lot, and then I have to come across things that erase the fact that I am quite often averse to sex and romance because of this fact! People like me are constantly erased, and when they're represented in fiction people throw a hissy fit. "Oh you're forcing an aroace character into allonormativity!" Hey asshole: maybe, just maybe, aroace people can date just as much as they aren't required to. Fucking. Jesus. Some community this is, for there to be so much exclusion and hatred and segregation.

[kings-highway]

consider this: Soldier, Poet, King by The Oh Hellos, but as the main trouble-makers of Paranormality.

"There will come a soldier who carries a mighty sword. / He will tear your city down." -> "Daichi is not one of us - the bigeneric children born of alien experimentation are like parasites on this planet, they can cast their eyes onto the yokai without belief in them, forcing them to exist without purpose, to live in uncertain circumstances."

Perhaps not a sword, but certainly his nature - his inability to let sleeping dogs lie. Every time Oikawa called on him, Daichi unwittingly answered each time as though he were a soldier following the orders of his commander. When let loose, he did not stop his hunt. He stuck his nose in the dirt and kept sniffing out the drugs buried in a dealer's backyard (metaphorically speaking). Mixing that quality with his poisonous DNA seeping into the very fabric of the supernatural universe, the product is a man who can crumble towers with each footfall, who can make the citizens tremble at the end of his bayonet.

"There will come a poet whose weapon is his word. / He will slay with his tongue." -> "That is the unfortunate burden that we both must carry as believers - there would be no power in your belief if you were able to see it so easily, would there?"

His belief in Daichi's alien heritage, or at the very least, his belief that Daichi's father was up to something shady, is what, essentially, made Daichi an alien. If he had never been told, never been given the inkling of an idea that he is anything but human, then he wouldn't have had to deal with the adverse effects of seeing yokai. Oikawa believed in his ability to perceive, so Daichi did. Oikawa believed that being a monster does not make you monstrous, that the name of the woman who died by her husband's hand is her maiden name, not the one of her murderer. He can destroy and create worlds with words in his mind, with words spoken aloud.

"There will come a ruler whose brow is laid in thorn. / Smeared with oil like David's boy." -> "Sinistrals are not inherently magic but ones born and bred from bloodlines of power and superstition have innate…"

He cannot perceive the yokai. In fact, he barely even believes in them. Yet, he is the only one who can innately physically affect them before they touch him. With Daichi, he can see them. He doesn't know how to lay his hands on them before they've already gotten ahold of him. Using your sinistral hand can be learned, but Ushijima's ability is innate. He is strong in his ancestral power. He is marked with centuries of superstition, a bloodline capable of bringing the yokai to heel. His arm can move as a separate part of him. The very oil of the yokai is smeared into his skin, his veins, his bones, to the neurons connecting to his brain.

these are not set in stone, i think, considering i could also make a sound argument for all three of them in every position, such as both oikawa and daichi in the ruler spot, and ushijima as the solider. and so on and so forth. but, this is what i'm going to go with and submit. i fear i cannot consume media normally. will i be back in the future? maybe. just wanted to leave you with this, and should you have any thoughts, of course i'd love to hear them.

(obviously i know this song is about jesus christ. but it is something to be said that when these three came together, the bigener, the believer, and the sinistral, they tore the city down, as the last line of the song would go.)

I am CRYING.

dear readers, in case you haven't been following along @mania-sama has been waging psychological warfare against me for a few weeks and I'm pretty sure it's punishment for making them enjoy an DaiOi fic

this has killed me. is it possible you understand the themes and motifs of these characters more than i do? absolutely. fuck you. Also, deeply impressed that you put Ushijima up there, because he initially was slated to be the third metaphorical heavy hitter of the story but I decided to bench him for a bit and instead he will be back in a sequal to develope what the sinistrality hand meant. BUT FU K YOU BECAUSE YOU'VE SPOILED IT. HOW DID YOU NAIL IT 100% ON A SUBJECT I BARELY FUCKING TOUCHED. YOU GOT IT. ABLE TO TOUCH THE YOKAI BEFORE THEY TOUCH HIM. SATURATED IN THEIR OILS. IM CHEWING ON YOU MANIA. IM CHEWING ON YOU SO HARD. DO YOU FEEL THESE TEETH GNAWING? MMMHMMMM TASTY MANIA MUNCH MUNCH MUNCH.

Anyways I love you thanks for this I have to go back to work and be normal for another 5 hours now.

EVERYONE should read this. If you read Paranormality: its accurate. You know that. Enjoy the extra. IF YOU HAVENT this is the best goddamn endorsement of the story I could have written.

[thebrickinbrick]

What Is To Be Done In the Abyss if One Does Not Converse? Part 2

About two o’clock in the morning, they reckoned up their strength. There were still thirty-seven of them.

The day began to dawn. The torch, which had been replaced in its cavity in the pavement, had just been extinguished. The interior of the barricade, that species of tiny courtyard appropriated from the street, was bathed in shadows, and resembled, athwart the vague, twilight horror, the deck of a disabled ship. The combatants, as they went and came, moved about there like black forms. Above that terrible nesting-place of gloom the stories of the mute houses were lividly outlined; at the very top, the chimneys stood palely out. The sky was of that charming, undecided hue, which may be white and may be blue. Birds flew about in it with cries of joy. The lofty house which formed the back of the barricade, being turned to the East, had upon its roof a rosy reflection. The morning breeze ruffled the gray hair on the head of the dead man at the third-story window.

“I am delighted that the torch has been extinguished,” said Courfeyrac to Feuilly. “That torch flickering in the wind annoyed me. It had the appearance of being afraid. The light of torches resembles the wisdom of cowards; it gives a bad light because it trembles.”

Dawn awakens minds as it does the birds; all began to talk.

Joly, perceiving a cat prowling on a gutter, extracted philosophy from it.

“What is the cat?” he exclaimed. “It is a corrective. The good God, having made the mouse, said: ‘Hullo! I have committed a blunder.’ And so he made the cat. The cat is the erratum of the mouse. The mouse, plus the cat, is the proof of creation revised and corrected.”

Combeferre, surrounded by students and artisans, was speaking of the dead, of Jean Prouvaire, of Bahorel, of Mabeuf, and even of Cabuc, and of Enjolras’ sad severity. He said:—

“Harmodius and Aristogiton, Brutus, Chereas, Stephanus, Cromwell, Charlotte Corday, Sand, have all had their moment of agony when it was too late. Our hearts quiver so, and human life is such a mystery that, even in the case of a civic murder, even in a murder for liberation, if there be such a thing, the remorse for having struck a man surpasses the joy of having served the human race.”

And, such are the windings of the exchange of speech, that, a moment later, by a transition brought about through Jean Prouvaire’s verses, Combeferre was comparing the translators of the Georgics, Raux with Cournand, Cournand with Delille, pointing out the passages translated by Malfilâtre, particularly the prodigies of Cæsar’s death; and at that word, Cæsar, the conversation reverted to Brutus.

“Cæsar,” said Combeferre, “fell justly. Cicero was severe towards Cæsar, and he was right. That severity is not diatribe. When Zoïlus insults Homer, when Mævius insults Virgil, when Visé insults Molière, when Pope insults Shakspeare, when Frederic insults Voltaire, it is an old law of envy and hatred which is being carried out; genius attracts insult, great men are always more or less barked at. But Zoïlus and Cicero are two different persons. Cicero is an arbiter in thought, just as Brutus is an arbiter by the sword. For my own part, I blame that last justice, the blade; but, antiquity admitted it. Cæsar, the violator of the Rubicon, conferring, as though they came from him, the dignities which emanated from the people, not rising at the entrance of the senate, committed the acts of a king and almost of a tyrant, regia ac pene tyrannica. He was a great man; so much the worse, or so much the better; the lesson is but the more exalted. His twenty-three wounds touch me less than the spitting in the face of Jesus Christ. Cæsar is stabbed by the senators; Christ is cuffed by lackeys. One feels the God through the greater outrage.”

Bossuet, who towered above the interlocutors from the summit of a heap of paving-stones, exclaimed, rifle in hand:—

“Oh Cydathenæum, Oh Myrrhinus, Oh Probalinthus, Oh graces of the Æantides! Oh! Who will grant me to pronounce the verses of Homer like a Greek of Laurium or of Edapteon?”

[jordanswitches]

!!!!!! i’m the anon from before, YES i was referencing that exact post u reblogged oh my GOD i’m gonna fucking die rn. i usually just lurk so being perceived through the medium of a horny 4 AM anon ask about having ticklish thighs is like. jesus FUCK. especially paired with the gifset and video you posted wearing claws earlier ohmygod bye bye byeeee GOODBYEEE i have to take a lap. you’re so fuckin cute

anon if you don't come into my dms i'm going to start just messaging people who like my posts and ask of it's them, please save me the embarrassment, i MUST talk to you

i will make custom content just for you, just PLEASE come talk to me

[exyrpf]

I’ve been following you since before your son was born, and just hopped back on tumblr after being off for a while.. found your page again & felt called to reach out to you with the amazing news that I’ve come to know. I see that you have a lot of pain in your life rn, and i have THE solution. ;) I know right, what kinda of infomercial is this?..

Please look up Rosaria Butterfield’s testimony. There are many videos of her testimony, it shouldn’t matter which one you click on. I know they’re all ~an hr.. 🫣but give it a good tolerant listen, start to finish.

There are many other people with similar stories to hers too. I feel as though hers may touch you more than other Christian’s testimonies because she is a very well educated woman and found Christ through reading the word to prove that it’s not true, and instead finding out that it is! And i know you’re big on literature- finding the meaning behind text, etc so i think reading the Bible, with a humble.. willing heart, you might view it differently than you’re perceiving it based off of what you learned in Bible school growing up.

But if you are intrigued by her story of coming to realize that Jesus truly is the only way to eternal life… then look up “former ____ now christian” transgender, gay, atheist, witch, new ager, Muslim, Mormon, jew, etc etc. people of all walks of life coming to christ. He takes and transforms and it’s uncomfy at first, but the aftermath is.. what He promises in Matthew 11:28-30.

He can change your life now. You’ll find peace and forgiveness of yourself, and others, in Jesus! And you can start taking your sweet son to church too and he can learn those silly songs, and you can have a new community of friends who can encourage and pray over you guys.

Jesus yearns for your heart, but He gives you to choice to accept or deny Him.

You don’t have to publish this, I know you have feelings of anger but also curiosity rn, and i don’t want you to feel the need to think of a witty response to this……who am I kidding, I know you thought of one the second you started reading this message 😆

Oh well, I don’t know what will come of this, but please appreciate the time that i took to craft this message to you, and know that i comes purely from a place of love. A place of having a transformed life of my own and a desire to share this amazing knowledge with whomever will listen. And i felt called to share with you on this platform and i hope you listen. You’re feeling down, lost and alone rn, and in Jesus you can feel up, found, and known. Its worth a shot to see if what I’m telling you is legit, isn’t it? Like coming out for the 1st time, gather that gumption and .. Be brave. Try Jesus out, again. ❤️

[unhonestlymirror]

Lithuania: Oh, Giedrė would love this salad.

Czech: Who's Giedrė?

Lithuania: ...my 7th wife.

Czech:

Hungary: Your what

Germany: But I don't remember anyone from us having such a name?? Do we have a new state? I'm not teaching you, but don't you think it's a bit weird to marry a micronation for an old state like you?..

Lithuania: *sigh* She was mortal.

Everyone at the lunch table:

Ireland: Wait, wait, let me guess it - your 7th wife was mortal? Just like all the previous ones?

Lithuania:

Belgium: Jesus Christ.

Italy: Looks like someone forgot to tell him that having a relationship with mortals is a moveton in our little community...

Scotland: Lmao, I knew that guy never gave up on polygamy.

Lithuania, smiling with hidden irritation: I am sure we have more interesting topics to talk about than my 12 mortal wives, who were NOT married on me all at the same time, God rest their souls.

England: I agr-

France: NO, WE DON'T! I NEED to know everything about your 12 mortal wives, my dear Lituanie, right now!

Greece: Yeah, I'm also interested, like, dude, why did you decide that marrying mortals so many times is gonna be a good idea? At least you could have just making them your lovers, nothing more, why to put so much effort

France: You know that we can't have human children anyway :P

England: No one asked your opinion, orgies organizer

France: You're not a saint either, Mr. Le Bordel🖕🖕🖕

Lithuania: At first, I did that not out of romantic feelings and absolutely nor for sex. Poland had demanded that I must have married him in order to establish Commonwealth better. Although the pact was already legal, I wasn't ready for that, especially considering that the Catholic Church doesn't allow divorce... I didn't want to lose my independence completely, I didn't want to kill Poland to break the possible marriage because that would be really gross, considering that it was me who came to Poland first, I've lost Ruthenia and Smalensk by my own stupidity. Being on the peak of my power, I've fallen down like Lucifer. The day before, I was an empire, and the next day, I was nothing but a colony. I was miserable, and I had no right to complain. But one day, a woman approached me in a pub and asked me half-jokingly: "Doesn't your mother need a daughter-in-law?" And then it dawned on me. "Actually, she does," I answered. We got married the next day. The problem was delayed because, thankfully, Catholicism can't stand polygamy.

Lithuania: I can't say I've fallen in love with Milda at first sight, but she made my life less miserable.

Sweden: And she never questioned why her husband never got old?

Lithuania: Well, she never complained. 😆 As well as the others... *blushes a little*

Liechtenstein: I suppose it hurt when she died...

Lithuania: It always hurts when someone who lives in your heart dies. At least, she was gone with peace. I made sure she was buried properly.

Lithuania: That's when I've realised I didn't want to come to the empty house for eternity.

Lithuania: Later, I've usually tried to marry widows or single mothers: someone who was the outcast for society and who wasn't really able to protect themselves. I've thought it was not fair. After all, I can't just wander around like a ghost, if I am the personification of my people, at least I could have tried to make someone’s life a bit easier. To some extent, I perceived it as a sacrifice for Milda.

Japan: I'd say you have a fetish if only what you're telling didn't sound so sad.

Bulgaria: At least, the children could be proud of their vampire step-father! :D

Romania: Bulgaria, shut up. Just the mention of vampires makes me sick.

Finland: If you watched your wife dying every time, no wonder you seemed so depressed.🫂

Lithuania: 🫂

Lithuania: So I've come through the Commonwealth partition and russian empire, but the tradition remained.

Everyone: *silence, many have watery eyes*

France: 😭😭😭

England: You're the weirdest freak of Europe. After France. No offence.

France: Ugh, what can a cold-heart like you know about the pain of true love loss😭😤😡 This man's married 12 TIMES! TO MORTALS! You could never.

Lithuania: Well, sex was also nice.

Czech: Ew.

Greece: Now that's our guy🤌🤌🤌🤌

Latvia, completely unimpressed: Well, if to be accurate, 13 times if to count his marriage with his sister.

Lithuania: It was PURELY POLITICAL, SHORT-LASTING and it was A SHAM MARRIAGE, to receive funding from the Vatican and save our land from Teutonic Order invasions, you little shit💢 I've never felt anything more than platonic respect to her

France: I NEED DETAILS!!! :D

Bulgaria: A little bit of Monica in my liiife, a little bit of Erica by my siiiide

Latvia: A little bit of Rita's all I need, a little bit of Tina's what I see

Bulgaria: A little bit of Sandra in the sun, a little bit of Mary all night long

Latvia: A little bit of Jessica, here I am, a little bit of you

Together: makes me your man!!

Lithuania: I'm going home.

[hieromonkcharbel]

The austere figure of John the Baptist stands before us again, toughened by the thousand lonelinesses of the desert, consecrated and spiritually molded by the thousand other lonelinesses of his encounters with the Lord God: his consecration, his mission, his vocation. And the people go to John and ask, “Who are you?”

We must understand (no we cannot dissemble) that this question is directed personally to each one of us, "Who are you?” This is asked clearly and explicitly. One day, when we stand in the presence of the Absolute, this question will cut through our existence like a lightning bolt and manifest what is real and what was masquerade. If we are honest, even now, it sometimes must shudder through our being that the question, “Who are you?” will be posed to us. This lightning bolt examination will not only pose the question from without, through those who will ask us and who do ask us every hour. It will not only address our work, our word, and our allegiance. It will address our very selves. “Who are you?” Confession has absolutely never meant blind allegiance to a program, protocol, or proclamation. Mankind has been duped by such formulated paragraphs, such numbered, legal declarations, since time immemorial. Confession is threefold. It is primarily a matter of being. It is, beyond all words and beyond all pathos, a matter of what is real. In the Epistle today, we read: “Worry about nothing.” Then your prayer and pleading, offered with thanksgiving, will be made known to God. And may the peace of God, which surpasses all comprehension, keep your hearts and your thoughts in Christ Jesus, our Lord.

When the Christian is asked, or asks himself, “Who are you?” this is primarily a questioning of his reality: Are you a person whose concerns are with God? Are you a person of whom it can be said that your heart and your mind are filled with a peace that surpasses all comprehension? Oh, that we could be such people again, intrinsically filled to the brim—not only with the knowledge, but with the personal, prayed-in and wrestled-in reality and abundance of our Lord God! That is the first thing confession means, which sets it apart from false presumption: being present, authentically standing up and standing for something real. Perhaps there has been too much talk about Christians and about Christian life by people who, one notices, are not speaking from experience. They do not personally know the abundance that simply flows forth from those who are fulfilled, who know no other and seek no other than what is truly real. The world, and life, and space are subject to reality, not just to words or protest or any kind of intrigue. Therefore, confession means confessing to our very being, and its capability of allegiance and capability of bearing responsibility. Confession also means confessing to an assignment. “Who are you?” The austere figure of John the Baptist stands there and says: “I am the voice crying in the wilderness.” Confession means proclaiming, praising, and really spreading the word. The voice is that of a caller, a seeker, someone really driven from within and touched by the Lord God’s restlessness: Someone who goes through this wilderness among mankind again and again as the Seeker, and as the Caller. You can sense that this is more than the call of a man, or a power, or a greatness, or a thirst for dominance, or a violent force. This is the Calling-God, who calls out in the midst of the wilderness through voices of men. He has filled them, and their very being documents that such perfected people are among us, sent by God. All of this, the capability of confessing through one’s very existence, as well as through calling and through giving testimony, can emerge only from the third meaning of confession. It means confessing allegiance to a belief, to a real faith. John said, “I baptize with water, but in your midst stands One whom you do not know” (Jn 1:26). Oh, that once again people could readily perceive our enthrallment, our true, ultimate allegiance to this One, to this Christ, in whose Advent we stand! That will be the question, and it will be the decisive question. Will we succeed once more in loving this Christ—in loving Him as personally as only a man, a woman, a mature person can love—so that we are touched and moved and swept away by an ultimate reality? In your midst stands One whom you do not know. He is, however, in our words and in the beating of our hearts and the hammering of our pulses and in everything. What you do not comprehend, and yet what should be so real and merciful, is that He is standing there, through it all, in your midst. That should be our confession. It is not a protest, not a proclamation, but our very being, consecrated by the Lord God, testifying for itself and for the Lord God, for Christ, who is our mystery, but who is also our strength and our certainty, and whose Advent alone is the one and only salvation of the world.

Alfred Delp, S.J.

[joanofexys]

need to vent abt my mommy issues for a hot minute so if you don't wanna see that please scroll

truly have to wonder how i still maintain a relationship with this woman at all jesus fucking christ.

we both have problems with our tone, the way it comes across and also understanding what each other's tones mean. my mom has literally admitted to thinking that i am just an angry and mean-hearted person and how she thinks i always sound upset and never speak to her kindly. i am literally her kid and throughout my entire life she's believed that she's raising someone whose default is just rude because she refuses to try and understand my tone and the way i speak. and admittedly i struggle with understanding her tone too but not nearly as much as she does because i've put effort into understanding her and can even correct myself when i think she's said something rude and then i can remind myself that just cause i perceive it as rude doesn't mean that's the intent it's just how i'm understanding her tone. however, she always sounds mad at me. whenever she asks me a question she always sounds mad at me. and that's because i'm so used to her being mad at me over specific things.

today's incident involved fucking hair dye. i dye my own hair and my mom will bitch about it and the mess it makes non-stop to the point that i just assume any hair related questions are hostile. so she asked me if that was hair dye in the bathroom rug and i responded yes (which according to her the way i said it was rude and i will not even try to describe the way she imitates my voice cause it literally makes me sounds like i'm an evil movie character or something and i cannot deal with the fact that she perceives me the way she does) and i thought that was it. then i overheard her saying my name and something about the hair dye in the hallway (couldn't hear the full conversation cause there's literally an entire room and door between us) and i got upset cause of course she's bitching about it to someone now. so i just yelled through the door that i was planning to clean it up i just hadn't had the time. which i can admit the way i said it was not the nicest and i did yell because i was already irritated at her and that spiraled into a whole thing.

she said that she just wanted me to take responsibility for it and i said i was because i acknowledged it and also had already said i was going to clean it up i'm just working full-time hours this week and haven't had the time yet (she of course interrupted me in the middle of this to say "acknowledgement isn't taking responsibility" and didn't listen to another word i said which i know because when she was later mocking me she repeated my words back to me wrong and didn't even realize i had said i was going to clean it up)

we ended up in a full on screaming match upstairs. she got on me about my tone and how "defensive is your default" and how i'm just constantly so rude to her and can never be nice and when i told her that i got defensive because she sounded mad at me she basically had a "oh so this is my fault?" response. i continued to repeat that the problem was with the fact that she sounded like she was mad at me and if she had at least that she wasn't mad that i wouldn't have gotten defensive. she said that if i had just apologized and told her i had a plan to clean it that she never would've gotten mad (i didn't realize that i needed to say sorry or tell her my plan in response to a simple "is that hair dye on the floor?" question and she didn't ask me any follow up questions)

she also got on me about how taking responsibility would've been telling someone about it days ago. keep in mind this is about a STAIN ON A RUG. something that is not an inconvenience in any other way than aesthetic. the stain is the size of maybe a quarter. i would've told someone else had i ruined rug or caused damage that would actually impair the functionality of the bathroom. she then got mad when i told her i didn't realize i had to tell anyone cause it wasn't actually something causing a problem and she doesn't even use this bathroom.

she then said i "always do this" to spin around the argument and make it sound like it's her fault cause i apparently can't handle her "calling me out" (which personally i think is a ridiculous choice of phrase cause idk i feel like asking your kid a question shouldn't be "calling them out") and i just jumped back to how this is a tone problem and then my mom said that since we can't have a conversation without fighting that we'll just have to only text each other from now on so yeah there's that

also i fucking hate sharing space with my grandparents living down here and i feel so guilty about it but now i couldn't even come back down stairs after that fight without them seeing me sobbing and i don't want to deal with that and i liked having my own space and i can't afford to move out and i also know i shouldn't be complaining about this shit cause my grandmas health is going downhill and my mom won't shut up about how she's probably gonna die soon and i've never actually lost someone close to me before and i kind of just can't wrap my head around it and lowkey everything sucks and i don't want to have to deal with it anymore

[justajsworkshop]

ok, so this is the second time this has happened to me, and i just wanna catalogue here a bit. long ass self analysis i’m sharing in case anyone sees themselves in this, too.

so, i’ve had a list of desires that you could label as “big” to the limited self; i.e., the limited self perceives a greater separation between me and these desires. and i really decided to get locked in on them the past couple of days to kick myself out of the state of waiting.

sometimes, i can just get so lazy and apathetic about my desires. i think it’s a protective mechanism to stay disconnected from how unfulfilled i feel. so, i keep telling myself “oh, it’s fine. it’s coming together.” when the deeper truth is that i’m keeping myself separate from my desire (by perceiving it that way) because i’m afraid to surrender myself to it. i’m afraid to let myself have it.

now, when i decided to get focused on this, i wrote out a list of these desires on my phone. i wrote them in affirmation form too, so i could easily read the list to myself. i said the first rule was that i already have all these things, which is true. intellectually, i know that. but it’s like i have these in a shed out back, and instead of just walking over to grab it all, i keep saying “oh, it’s coming. it’s gonna be fine. i have it now.” but im not reeeeeally letting myself have it.

like, bruh, just get your shit, y’know? my desires are waiting on ME.

k, so, i thought i’d try out a variety of approaches to see what was up. some stuff i’m able to passively affirm, and it’s reflected back real fast. other times, i just wish for something, and within a day or so, a solution is there. i firstly tried to be more diligent about my thoughts and “mental diet” even tho i hate the term. i tried saturating too, and while i do enjoy it, doing that for extended amounts of time kinda got tiring, but i also found being conscious of my thoughts when not saturating to be even more tiring.

yall, i’m lazy as shit, ok. i really am about finding the easiest way to go about things.

so, I thought to myself about the time i manifested roger’s vet bill to be a specific amount. someone was checking out as i was in the waiting room, and when the receptionist said their total, i said to myself quite decisively, “that’s how much it’s going to be for me.”

fast-forward to me getting the estimate from the vet in the office, and they told me something about three times that amount, and i almost fainted. i actually forgot i had even made that decision, tbh. i was just there, trying to come to grips with how i was gonna pay that much. after staring at that list for way too long, i finally told the vet’s assistant that i was between jobs, and that’s why it was hard for me to decide what to say yes to and what to pass on. he leaned in, was super sweet, and said, “these are the only ones you need. don’t tell them i said anything.”

my total came out to $7 under my desired amount.

this also happened that one time i manifested my friend paying for my transportation downtown and everything else. i visualized her saying it was all on her, and she had me covered. and when it came time for me to order a car, i basically gave up on the manifestation. then, through a conversation i had with her, she ended up following through with my desired outcome to the letter.

notice how both times, i wasn’t policing my thoughts or state or even feeling toward the outcome. it happened on its own even when i “contracted the new story.” this is because the linear mind ain’t got nothing on the power of god.

what i’ve learned from this is that a single decision is really all i need. it makes me think of the woman with the blood issue for twelve years who touched jesus’ robe (prayer tassels in the chosen) and was instantly healed. i only need to touch the awareness of my desire, and it’s mine, and i am instantly in the reality/script where that will come to pass. the rest happens for me no matter what my linear self does, thinks, or feels about the experience.

so, what i’ve been doing these past two days is convening with myself as my god self in what the bible might refer to as “the secret place.” im just imagining my desired outcome, but there’s something that’s changed where, as i continue to affirm or visualize, i’m really letting myself experience it. because what i want is to experience a certain outcomes, so why not give myself the full experiencing of it to myself now? because i can literally have that experience at this very moment. reality is not the physical. i am reality. and the more awareness i invest in imagination, the easier it is to see that.

to be clear, i’m not imagining to get or to change or even to feel what it would be like. i am actively experiencing my desire right then and there. yesterday and today, i was so present with the experiencing of my desire, i was moved to tears—the guy who’s normally so apathetic and passive about these things i say are so important to me. then, all desiring within me ceased. i felt sated. calm. at peace. gratitude poured forth from me, but not because i was trying to make myself feel grateful or to emulate it. i was deeply grateful for the experience i just had: the fulfillment of my desire.

i have no interest in further saturating or anything else. i go on with my day. i don’t feel the need to wait for it to appear in the 3D anymore because i fully experienced it. and i’ve also noted what when i experience one desire, i feel wholly fulfilled as relates to all the others on my list as well.

yeah, im still going to affirm and be cognizant of my inner narrative, but also, i’m seeing how powerful it is to truly experience fulfillment now without creating this perception of separation between the 3D and 4D or whatever people say (personally, i deeply dislike these terms). because why would I separate these when i got my shit? i experienced it fully, and i am the awareness, not the body/mind, so why would i give myself something then be waiting on what’s already happened to me?

i’m gonna keep going with this practice/approach, and i’ll keep you all updated, but really, as i’ve always said, god heard you the first time. just tongue the fringe of fulfillment, fully experiencing it, and see what happens?

[thebarefootking]

I know I just sent you an ask about despe/hiromu, but if you're still taking requests can I get your thoughts on douki too? I too adore this little gremlin man, and I adore the way you write about wrestling.

I have been beating my head against the wall for DAYS, trying to figure out how to answer this ask. I got so stressed out over my own inequality to the task that I had an unsatisfactory dream about meeting Douki (in full ring gear) on public transportation, where we had a painfully awkward and brief social encounter. None of this is your fault, nonny. I appreciate being made to think. Douki is just fucking confusing, I have lots of feelings about him, he's my Favorite of Favorites, and I genuinely just don't know what to write or where to start. I'm going to give it a solid try, though. Please forgive my tardiness, and enjoy these three songs that inevitably give me Douki feels.

----------------------------------- Sometimes in life, there is no sensible avenue to your destination. Sometimes, the most reasonable route between point A and point B is a freefall. Although I am no longer practicing, I spent my entire childhood and youth in an environment that prioritised, over and above everything else, religious faith and the mystical experience thereof. I am also in possession of a brain with both bipolar and adhd. These facts combine to form a person deeply prone to perceiving meaning, intention, and importance in places where others do not -- and, sometimes, to acting impulsively on these perceptions. Is it any surprise that such a person would find resonance in a character like Douki? Douki, who attests that everything has meaning? Douki, who responded to rejection by hauling ass to a different continent, with no prospects, no money, and no ability to speak the local language. Douki, who returned to Japan with the intention of kicking Jun Kasai's ass -- by showing up to a deathmatch entirely unarmed, even his teeth covered by his mask. Douki, with the anger of a martyr and the patience of a thief. Until suddenly... that's not quite right at all. Douki, whose greatest wrestling strength is -- not his unique and experimental moveset, not his stylised presentation, not even his commitment, but -- his absolute gameness. His readiness to, at the drop of a hat (even, I have my suspicions from watching him closely, when he is working injured -- though I wish he had both the ability and willingness to not fucking do that; this Moose's heart can't take that shit), to 'yes-and' the hell out of whatever he is given.

Oh? You beefed it on your finisher? You're gonna do something batshit off the top rope to distract everyone? Sure, I'll catch you with my smaller, wobbling, clearly injured body which is currently incapable of performing even my most familiar moves with any amount of grace. We'll make it look cool as hell! Nobody will even notice that you botched the most important move of the match -- and if they do, now they can't say a fucking word about it without sounding like an asshole. Oh? My old training buddy from Mexico just returned from his second major injury in three years? He needs to look badass to prove he's recovered and like his old self for now so that people question it less when he gradually changes his style to something that will keep him in the business longer? Bet. We know each other in the ring like butter knows toast. We can both bring it. ... 'Barricade'? What's that? And so on. Every damn time. If you give him something to work with, he will spin it into gold. This has the unfortunate downside of making his matches a little hit-or-miss; if his chemistry with his opponent or partner is bad or if they give him little to work with, he frequently fails to deliver -- creativity and impulsivity are traits of his, but pure initiative in the ring is something he seems to struggle with, at times (though I note he's getting better, and some of this deficit is apparent only, and due to questionable booking). (Jesus, that sentence got away from me.) Of course Douki appeals to me. He has an unassailable faith. Perhaps it's Minoru Suzuki's 'faith in the future' he once ascribed to the man who would become El Desperado -- perhaps something more enigmatic. I have a hard time sussing out exactly what is going on in Douki's head at any given moment, and he often does things that surprise me, in a way that someone like Despe usually does not. (Example: 07/01/2023 in CMLL when Douki let his teammate Zandokan Jr. shake him around by the skull, and his response appeared to be utter delight. What even was that? I think Zando's the best thing since sliced bread, and even I'd probably be pretty damn unsettled if he grabbed me from behind by the cranium and started shaking. And afaik, that was their first time working together. Fucking weird vibes that whole match.) (I need more of that shit, actually.) Douki's a hard read for me in general, so I'm not confident in my assessment, on this one. But it feels like he has faith in the process. Probably not in the future, maybe not in himself, and certainly not in the system. He has faith in the process of life, in the journey, in the getting-there. And that's why there's no one better at throwing himself into a freefall when necessary than Douki. He knows how to build his wings on the way down, and he's done it a thousand times before. (Tbh, I think Hiromu learned more than just the physics of the Douki Bomb from him. I think he might have gleaned enough of the philosophy to greatly ease his path.)