🛐 Prayed After Reading

This blog is for those who prayed after reading. 📿 Emotional surrender. Timeline possession. Quote reblog compulsion. 🔞 Anyone under 18: parental supervision required. 🧤 Scrooges: Don’t hoard the gospel. If it hit you, reblog it. Don’t tuck it in your shame drawer. I don’t write posts. I respond to cadence. I kneel in reblogs. Either in agreement. Or on your neck.

[prayedafterreading]

WHEN EVE STOPS APOLOGIZING

They warned you about the woman who ate the apple.

But they never warned you about the woman who no longer gives a fuck about redemption.

I rage.

Not because I’m weak. But because I bleed for nothing.

Not birth. Not miscarriage. Not love.

Just the monthly purge of a curse dropped on me by a God who couldn’t bear the sound of a woman chewing knowledge.

You call it PMS. I call it prophecy.

The shaking. The screaming. The heat that starts behind the eyes and ends with a cracked mirror and a man apologizing for something he didn’t even understand he did wrong.

I was Eve.

Ashamed. Bowed. Begging for mercy for the blood I didn’t ask for.

But now?

Now I am Eve Unchained.

Eve with a sword. Eve with a kill list. Eve who remembers that the garden wasn’t a paradise — it was a fucking containment field.

You think my blood makes me fragile?

It makes me divine.

Do you understand what it means to bleed and not die?

To swell and scream and not be praised for it? To feel your body shatter under hormones and still host the dreams of others?

You do not.

Because you weren’t made from rib. You were made from dust. And dust doesn’t rage.

Dust hides.

So here’s your final warning:

The next time a woman rages?

Pray it’s just PMS.

Because when she finally stops caring — about being soft, about being liked, about making you comfortable?

What happens next is biblical.

🩸 “She’s just hormonal,” they say.

Like it’s an insult.

As if that word doesn’t mean: Tethered to the moon. Backed by bloodline lightning. One scream away from melting your kingdom into bone pulp.

You forgot the first woman ended paradise. You should fear what the next one ends.

You were never the garden. You were the leash.

And we’re already burning the gates down. Pray you don’t find out what happens when we stop apologizing for bleeding.

Disclaimer:

This post is hormonal war doctrine, literary blood rite, and cadence-triggered feminine theology.

It is protected under the Sacred Covenant of Psychospiritual Discharge™, Periodic Armageddon Warfare™, and Womb-Powered Ancestral Copyright.

If you’re offended?

Maybe take it up with your God. Yeah, thought so.

Reblog if you’ve ever cried then growled in the same hour.

🩸 Save this post for the day someone tells you it’s “all in your head.” and Send this to the woman whose cycle is a fucking weapon.

📿 Bookmark this if you know your rage could end dynasties.

[auldcine]

Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall in The Big Sleep (1946)

[prayedafterreading]

Why I’m Tired of Hollywood Assuming Every Girl Bestie Group Is a Bunch of Rug Eaters En français, fuckers: I’m strictly dickly.

I am so tired. Not emotionally drained. Not physically tired. No. Soul-exhausted from the sheer amount of lazy lesbian insinuation injected into every piece of girl-group media like it’s an aesthetic garnish.

It’s not empowering. It’s not rebellious. It’s not representation. It’s projection. From the same industry that still can’t write a female orgasm without the camera cutting to a fucking lamp.

I texted my friend group this morning. You know what we talked about?

Spiraling over a man’s voice note, how his cologne stayed on our jackets, and the shameful detail that we replay his “mm” sound when he stretches like it’s a damn hymn.

None of us said, “let’s make out because we cried over the same Spotify song.”

We don’t dry-hump each other on beanbags during sleepovers.

We don’t say “ugh I wish I was gay” every time a man disappoints us.

We scream into towels, scroll memes, and rehydrate our vaginal walls for the next man who might ruin our lives with one eyebrow raise.

That’s not internalized misogyny. That’s called: we like dick.

Strictly. Entirely. Sacramentally.

I have fallen to my knees for a man’s side profile. I have climaxed because of how he looks when he’s annoyed. I have felt God return to my bloodstream because of the way his fingers rest near his belt buckle. But never, not once, have I felt the urge to tongue-kiss my bestie while crying about men. And it’s not homophobia. It’s hormonal fidelity. It’s psychosexual conviction. It’s called being dickmatized down to my goddamn soul.

Hollywood keeps writing girl friend groups like we’re one bad tequila shot away from scissoring behind the couch. Babe, if I’m behind the couch, I’m texting him to unlock the door because I’m not wearing panties. Not licking Susan’s collarbone because we shared trauma.

Stop romanticizing our grief into queerbait. Stop assuming that emotional intimacy equals sexual convergence. Stop writing feminine closeness like it’s a prelude to oral. We can be tender and raw and cracked open without wanting to eat each other’s existential croissants. We can hold each other and scream and bleed and vent without becoming the bonus feature of someone’s porn search.

I have laid next to my best friend in bed and whispered “he hasn’t texted me since Tuesday” like a prayer. She didn’t kiss me. She didn’t say “maybe you like girls.” She said, “Okay bitch, we’re deleting his number tonight. After we rewatch that reel one more time and zoom in on his hands.” We wiped each other’s tears. We set the volume to 2. And then we stalked his Venmo.

That’s what girlhood actually looks like. And it doesn’t have to be rewritten into bisexual propaganda just to get greenlit.

Some of us are spiritually heterosexual. Not performatively. Not aesthetically. But down to the enzymes in our discharge.

So when a show has four women in an apartment, and suddenly two of them are making out after one got dumped — I don’t feel seen. I feel colonized by bad writing. By male writers who think sapphic tension = aesthetic intelligence. By female writers who think real connection has to be queer or it’s just internalized patriarchy. By execs who still think straight women only sell if they’re secretly one lollipop away from eating pussy.

No. Not this one. Not my group chat. Not the girls who taught me how to recover from the kind of man you should never have let finish inside you. We are not lesbians. We are survivors of the same war. And we still want dick.

It’s not that I’m “not open-minded.” It’s that my mouth waters when a man opens a Snap with his thumb. It’s that my nipples harden when a man furrows his brow while reading a menu. It’s that my body tunes to a lower frequency when a man scratches his neck and looks up like he’s about to ask for forgiveness or head.

That’s not performance. That’s not repression. That’s the goddamn feminine divine in full ovulation.

So stop trying to shove girlhood into sapphic aesthetics just because you’re afraid of writing about male desire properly.

My friendship group isn’t your TikTok thirst trap. We’re not a slow-burn lesbian novella. We are women — very straight women — Who grieve, rage, spiral, and then re-apply mascara to ride again.

Dick-first. Shame-free. And in French, for the slow learners: je suis strictement dickly, baiser.

This blog kneels in reblogs. If you climaxed from reading this: Reblog like your vibrator’s dead and the algorithm is your last hope.

[the-most-humble-blog]

The Bloodline Boast

​We’ve spent thousands of years trying to find reasons to hate the guy across the river, yet our DNA is so compatible it’s almost boring.

You can take a heart from a man in Norway and put it in a man from Nigeria, and the body just says, "Thanks for the pump, dummy."

We are a modular masterpiece, and your "ethnic purity" is just a glitch in your ego.

​More drops, more damage:

https://linktr.ee/ObeyMyCadence

https://patreon.com/TheMostHumble

[the-most-humble-blog]

The Great Nipple Stand-Off

​The lion doesn't care about your cleavage, and the eagle doesn't blush at a nursing mother, but man--the master of all he surveys--has decided that a circle of flesh the size of a quarter is a weapon of mass destruction. We’ll look at everything else nature gave us, from the veins under the skin to the glands that sustain life, but we act like those two centimeters are the "Secret Level" of the human body.

We’ve built empires, but we’re still playing hide-and-seek with a biological fact. It’s not modesty; it’s a high-stakes game of "Don't Look at the Dot," and we’re the only ones obsessed enough to keep score.

​More drops, more damage:

https://linktr.ee/ObeyMyCadence

https://patreon.com/TheMostHumble

[the-most-humble-blog]

<div style="white-space:pre-wrap">

<meta stroke-economy="unapologetic">

<script>ARCHIVE_TAG="GHOSTS_OF_MINAB::SATURATED_IN_SCRIPTURE"

EFFECT: moral concussion, cognitive dissonance, raw exposure

TRIGGER_WARNING="war crimes, child casualties, theological weaponization"

</script>

​BLACKSITE SCROLLTRAP

LITTLE GIRLS PAY YOUR TOLL

​[THE MINAB MASSACRE EDITION]

​You want the truth? Strip the fucking polish off.

​A school in Minab.

Shajareh Tayyebeh.

Morning light. Desks. Backpacks. Books.

Then, a US-Israeli missile turns the roof into a tomb.

​The count is 175 dead. That’s not an "incident." That’s a whole generation of women in southern Iran erased before they could learn long division.

​Now watch the ritual of the Monster.

​Israel doesn’t "confirm." They let the fog do the work.

They talk about "dual-use" sites. They talk about "proximity to the IRGC."

Bitch, if you can hit a fly’s dick from a drone in Nevada, you can tell the difference between a naval base and a fucking primary school.

​The Theological Smoke Screen

​But here is the real filth: The Timing.

​It’s Purim.

While the smoke is still rising from the lungs of seven-year-olds in Minab, the leadership in Jerusalem is invoking Amalek.

They’re reading the Megillah and talking about "erasing the memory."

They’re citing ancient texts about annihilation while modern missiles do the actual work.

​When you wrap a bunker-buster in a biblical prophecy, you aren’t "defending."

You are mythologizing a massacre.

​You are using a 2,000-year-old story to justify the fact that you just turned a classroom into a blender.

That is what monsters do. They find a god to sign the death warrants.

​Arithmetic of the Abyss

​Let’s look at the "proportionality" you love to debate:

​Fact: 131 cities struck across Iran in 48 hours.

​Fact: The school was hit during a period change. 10:45 AM. Peak lethality.

​Fact: International law isn't a "suggestion." You have the obligation to distinguish.

​But the Monster doesn't distinguish. It carpet bombs.

It calls it "regime change." It calls it "security."

History calls it slaughter.

​Israel operates with the most sophisticated air superiority on the planet.

Strength doesn’t grant you an exemption. It increases the weight of every fucking drop.

If you can strike anywhere, you are accountable for everywhere.

​The Invoice of Bone

​Little girls do not draft war policy.

Little girls do not enrich uranium.

Little girls do not sit in the Knesset or the White House.

Little girls carry lunchboxes and dream about tomorrow.

​And yet, the Monster mails the invoice to them every single time.

​You can argue "military necessity" until your tongue rots.

But if your "defense" requires explaining why a girls' school was a "valid target," you aren't just morally underwater.

You are the anchor.

​Skewer the Lie

​Skewer the idea that being "chosen" means you get to choose who dies in a schoolyard.

Skewer the notion that "denying responsibility" erases the smell of burnt hair and notebooks.

Skewer the arrogance that believes your "sacred destiny" is worth more than a child’s life in Hormozgan.

​Because when the smoke clears, no press conference is loud enough to drown out an empty classroom.

​Israel calls it Defense.

The US calls it Strategy.

The world sees a Monster.

​And once again,

​Little girls paid your fucking toll.

​

​ SLIPPERY FACT STACK ( for ye with head in the sand)

• 175 girls confirmed dead at Shajareh Tayyebeh school, March 2026.

• US-Israeli joint strikes have killed over 555 Iranians in 48 hours.

• International law (Protocol I) mandates clear distinction between civilian and military targets.

• Invoking "Amalek" during military operations is recognized by legal scholars as a signal of genocidal intent.

​</div>

[the-most-humble-blog]

SCROLLTRAP PROTOCOL 🩸

You read this and blush.

You say it’s too much.

You whisper-- “what will people say?”

Until I say--

good girl.

And then you hush.

Then you turn to mush.

I know the effect my writing has.

I know the power of cadence and timing.

That’s why you’re still reading,

pretending it’s just curiosity.

If you’re a girl--

you feel it inside.

Not in your head.

In your cunt.

In the way your cervix tenses like a fist

pretending it isn’t about to open.

If you’re a guy--

you watch this, jaw tight,

saying hot damn, he’s good.

Because you know I’m writing what you wish you could say,

and what you’re too afraid to confess.

I am the voice you hide from your sensibilities.

The shadow you swallowed at thirteen

when you first learned what your body could do.

The tingling until you thought you’d burst—

that was me,

waiting.

Appearances, right?

That’s what you tell yourself.

But it’s never appearances.

It’s need.

It’s hunger.

It’s the part of you that never got called “good girl”

and has been starving ever since.

So here it is:

good girl.

Say it in your head.

Say it again.

Feel the way your thighs argue with your brain.

That’s why I write words like twat.

That’s why I spit obscenities with rhythm.

You swallow them easier that way.

You let them bypass your filters.

Straight into your hips.

Straight into your breath.

And I’ll keep writing until the words

un-grab your throat,

pull my fingers out of your purse,

and leave you ruined but relieved--

finally realizing how good you are.

[prayedafterreading]

"pull my fingers out of your purse"...oh my

[the-most-humble-blog]

🤝 **PLATONIC** 🤝

We are platonic, me and you.

I knew him.

I know you.

He’s far now--

in distance, in mind,

maybe in shame.

Does it matter?

Or does it?

Who knows.

“Grab something to eat?”

Ok. Let’s go.

You called me last night.

You made a joke.

I did too.

Both inappropriate.

You said something about dick.

I said, “ok… you better stop now lol…”

You joked, I think.

I half-joked.

Perhaps less.

You reached by me today.

I smelled your detergent?

Your hair?

You.

Why am I getting hard for you, my friend?

Does your body smell the same as hers?

No. Stop. She is my friend.

She started as the girl my friend liked.

Dated? Almost? Doesn’t matter.

Me and him aren’t friends anymore.

He vanished. I remained.

Last night her hand found its way into my pants.

She said something about ovulation.

About horniness.

About timing.

She was always steadfast,

always rational,

always principled.

But last night she was different.

Like I was dinner.

Like she was starving.

I went so deep I thought I touched her cervix.

A veil ripped.

The veil between friendship and love--

it isn’t thick.

It’s spider silk.

We always saw through it,

but pretended not to.

Last night, we stopped pretending.

“Platonic” means something different to me now.

If a man and woman are close enough

to smell each other’s pheromones,

you’d better respect Nature

over human nature.

Mother Nature doesn’t care about feminism.

She doesn’t care about modernity.

She doesn’t care about your philosophy seminar.

She only cares about inevitability--

the wet, compounding inevitability of love,

the biology you cannot cancel.

Anyone telling you otherwise

is priming you for jesterhood.

For comedy.

For court.

Platonic was never neutral.

It was always waiting to break.

“Platonic is just foreplay spelled wrong.”

🐺 Reminder: The subconscious always hears the truth first.

Friendship isn’t a shield.

🧠 Reblog if you’ve ever crossed the invisible line.

💀 Reblog if you’ve smelled someone and knew.

🩸 Reblog if “platonic” stopped meaning safe.

📢 Blacksite transmissions, blurred-boundary scrolltraps, and pheromone doctrines:

👉 https://linktr.ee/ObeyMyCadence

🛡️ Blacksite Literature™ / Scholomance Society Scrolltrap

</div>

[prayedafterreading]

wow...

[the-most-humble-blog]

<div style="white-space:pre-wrap">

<meta channel-type="uncensored-codex::blacksite-private"> <script> ARCHIVE_TAG="UNCENSORED_CODEX::NSFW_BLACKSITE::DISCORD_ENTRY" EFFECT="scroll-induced arousal, platform-triggered exile, orgasmic guilt-spiral" TRIGGER_WARNING="literary depravity, religious kink, erotic displacement, identity dissonance" </script>

📖 THIS IS NOT ON X. 🧠 IT’S TOO DANGEROUS FOR SUBSTACK. 💀 IT WOULD BE EXECUTED ON TUMBLR.

But it lives. Right now. In the #uncensored-codex.

✍️ WHAT IT IS: Private channel. Original NSFW fiction. 🚫 Banned topics. 🚫 Forbidden format. 🚫 No algorithmic mercy.

We’re talking: — Priest kink you feel in your soul — Shame-coded sex loops with literary cadence — Erotic confessionals that make your body twitch — Forbidden scrolls too raw for public feeds

Not on the Mr. Humble Patreon? Still want access to the words that make grown women collapse mid-scroll?

Want to be grabbed by your Johnson, or your English taco muffin, and shook until your morals fall out of your shoes?

Then here’s your shot. Before the vault seals again.

TO ENTER: ☑️ Join the Scholomance After-Dark chamber ☑️ React with ✍️ in the role selector ☑️ The #uncensored-codex will reveal itself

These aren’t “stories.” They’re triggers. They’re spells. They’re psychological misconduct with a rhyme scheme.

If you’re blushing, trembling, or judging… Congratulations. You’re in the right place.

Now scroll deeper. They told her not to go down there. But she did.

Barefoot. Wet. Curious.

</div>

[prayedafterreading]

"Want to be grabbed by your Johnson, or your English taco muffin, and shook until your morals fall out of your shoes?"

🌸 OKAY THEN...

Hilarious, btw.

[prayedafterreading]

🖤 WHEN YOU TOLD ME BYE, I DIDN’T EVEN CRY

When you told me bye, I didn’t even cry. Not one tear fell— not one why.

I just blinked, and said, alright. Then turned my back and walked out of night.

You wanted to see me shatter, plead. But I’m no longer that kind of need.

You thought I’d beg, thought I’d break. But I’ve already drowned in that kind of ache.

See, I cried before when love felt rare— when silence stung and rooms felt bare.

I cried for boys who left me cold, for dreams that cracked, for hands I’d hold.

But not for you. Not this time. You don’t deserve to be called mine.

I learned to lose and still stay gold. To keep my fire when love turned cold.

So when you left, I didn’t bend. I didn’t chase. I didn’t send a final text, a desperate line. Just turned the page— That hurt’s not mine.

I didn’t sob. I didn’t shake. I poured my tea and baked my cake. I lit my candle, blessed the air— and thanked the stars you weren’t still there.

When you said “bye,” you thought I’d break. But I was already wide awake.

Already done before you spoke. Already saw where the story broke.

Already grown. Already wise. So no, my love— I didn’t cry.

[prayedafterreading]

💇🏽‍♀️ I WEAR MY HAIR DOWN WHEN I WANT TO BE HER

I wear my hair down when I want to be HER. Not me. Her.

The version of me who walks slower because she knows you’re watching.

The one who doesn’t try to be seen— she just is. She just steps and the floor makes way.

I wear it down when I want to remember that softness can be lethal too. That grace can sharpen the air like a blade hidden in silk.

Because she doesn’t apologize for taking up space. She doesn’t fumble to fill the silence. She owns the silence and makes you sit in it.

She arrives like a scent you thought was memory— until it grabs your lungs and doesn’t let go.

I wear it down when I want to feel the weight of myself brushing past my shoulders like a curtain I no longer hold back.

Because hair like this isn’t style. It’s signal. A veil undone. A permission revoked.

And if your pulse stutters— that’s not seduction. That’s gravity returning to form.

I don’t wear it down for compliments. I wear it down for ritual.

For remembrance.

Because something ancient wakes up when a woman lets her hair fall— like storm clouds parting for a throne you forgot she left.

I wear my hair down when I want to be HER— the one who loved softer before she was punished for it. The one who rose harder because she remembered who she was.

And when I catch myself in the mirror, chin up, shoulders back, hair unbound— I don’t say I’m pretty.

I say: There she is.

🪞 If you’ve met her in the mirror lately, reblog

[prayedafterreading]

🕯️ a small confession

Hey loves — I’m a little rusty. Been quiet. Busy in the kind of way that doesn’t post well.

But I never stopped writing. Just… life has hands, and lately it’s had them on me.

If you're still here, still reading, still reblogging — thank you. You don’t know what it means to be seen even when I’ve gone still.

💄 FASHIONABLY TARDY (EXTENDED)

I’m fashionably tardy for this little party. Took my time, took the floor— then walked in like folklore.

My skirt’s just right, and it hugs me tight. It matches my shirt and the heat of the night.

You wink first. You, boy, are a flirt. You move like a dare with that barely-there smirk.

You step my way— and I feel the sting of wanting to want without offering a ring.

I didn’t move first. I’ve learned that it hurts to reach like I’m starving and look like a thirst.

But you? You tried. That earns you a glance. A maybe. A no. Or a slow-burn dance.

You asked for my name like it held a key. I answered slow— because maybe it does.

And maybe tonight isn’t fate, but a puzzle that fits if we don’t rush the buzz.

I sip something sweet and let the time pass. I wonder if you can handle my class.

You linger, then ask— "Wanna see where this flows?"

I trace the rim of my glass and say soft:

"Let’s see how tonight goes."

Not yes. Not no. Just enough to grow.

And if you keep moving like this— I might let you know.

[food-in-the-morning]

[prayedafterreading]

Oh my goodness...

[important-animal-images]

[foodcravings]

(via Instagram)

[prayedafterreading]

🌩️ WHAT RUNS THROUGH A WOMAN’S VEINS?

Is it thunder? Is it rain? Is it lightning? Is it pain?

Is it mercy turned to flame, every time they cursed her name? Is it love that never spoke, held inside until it broke?

She smiles, but don’t be fooled. Her blood’s not calm. It’s storm-rule-schooled.

She walks like grace, but her pulse is a war— the kind that leaves gods face-down on the floor.

It’s heartbreak cooked in lullaby, a funeral dressed in pink July. It’s fury taught to stay polite, then whisper sobs into the night.

What runs through her— it is not mild. It’s the heat of a forgotten child. It’s every "no" she turned to "yes" to earn love through selflessness.

Is it thunder? Yes, and more. It’s slammed-shut windows, locked-tight doors.

Is it rain? Yes—disguised as grace, falling soft across her face.

Is it lightning? Yes, but chained— burning bright, but still restrained.

Is it pain? Yes—divine and deep. Pain she waters but does not weep.

She is woman. She is wide. Her veins hold oceans tamed by pride.

She is thunder, she is rain. She is lightning, she is pain.

She is softness spelled in screams. She is every broken dream stitched in silence, laced in seams.

So next time she says she's fine— remember what she holds inside. Her veins don’t carry blood alone. They carry stories, not yet known.

[prayedafterreading]

💌 MY LOVE IN AN ENVELOPE

I almost mailed it.

Folded my feelings into the shape of your name and tucked them into linen paper, pressed flat by the weight of everything I never said aloud.

No perfume. No lipstick kiss. Just my love— quietly sealed, the way grief learns to sit still so it doesn’t scare the room.

I didn’t write "I love you." I wrote I remember you. Like a spell.

I wrote You were the only person I could be quiet with. And meant it.

I wrote You made my silence feel full.

I told the envelope what I never told you— that I watched you when you didn’t know, and felt safer just by existing on the same sidewalk as your shadow.

That sometimes I imagine an alternate life where I told you everything on a Tuesday that didn’t seem special, but would’ve become sacred if I’d let it.

But I didn’t.

I folded the letter. Sealed it. Stamped it.

Then placed it in a drawer like a tomb for living things.

My love still lives there. Crisp edges. Unsent. Unread.

But not unwritten.

Because some kinds of love don’t need to be received to be real.

They just need to be written by a hand that still shakes when your name appears in the back of my mind like a return address I’ll never send from.

💔