#*&. COME TAKE MY BODY LIKE A FINAL COMMUNION. ( face. )

[honeywyrdie]

Divine Flesh

part 1 {part 2} {part 3}

Priest Jeongin x Fem Reader

summary: When he took his vow of celibacy, Jeongin was so confident that he'd always be strong in the face of temptation. Nothing could get in the way of his devotion... Until he laid eyes on you. There was something...unnatural about his desire for you. /// word count: 1.5k /// genre: smut, angst /// warnings: priest kink, sexual themes, hierophilia, corruption kink, masturbation, shame and guilt, straight up blasphemy a/n: I didn't grow up catholic but somehow I ended up with a priest kink anyway? I did my research as best I could, but there's bound to be inaccuracies. This will be a 3 part fic for the spooky season <3 if you'd like to be added to the taglist, reply to this post or send me a DM!

(⁄ ⁄•⁄ω⁄•⁄ ⁄)⁄

I have only posted this here and on AO3 - user: spookwyrdie

The mist outside clings to the stained glass windows, turning the translucent colors opaque. It’s a small, narrow window, only the image of the cross surrounded by a chromatic, patterned web. It feels so much more solid today on this cold morning, no sunlight filtering through the multicolored panes of glass. Jeongin tried to keep his focus on it, counting the hues, to distract himself. Though he could feel the chill seeping in through his robe as he held the basket of communion wafers, he had something uncomfortable smoldering in his chest. He felt an impure warmth creeping up his neck beneath the crisp white clergy collar.

You are in line. He hasn’t seen you come up for communion in weeks. When he wasn’t paying attention, you must have finally confessed some mortal sin to the aging Father Park.  As he avoids your eyes, he wonders in vain what the nature of your sins are. A small, impious part of him hopes they’re carnal. But here you are, eyes locked onto him any time he glanced away from handing the body of Christ to another parishioner. 

You wear a serene smile on your face - unbothered, reserved, and almost shy - innocently fluttering your eyelashes like a fawn licking dew off of a leaf. How could you look so virtuous after the things you did with him, to him, in his dreams? The way he’s seen those eyes look down at him from above with a dusty pink glow so many times, he felt like he could paint them from memory. Jeongin felt a bolt of hot shame drive through his heart like a nail. It wasn’t your fault that he met you every night after he fell asleep as you did wicked things with your hands, your lips, your tongue in his dreams. 

He had only moved to this small parish in the middle of nowhere a few months ago, settling into the provincial town easily. But for the last few weeks, his slumber has been plagued by visions of you on your knees, on your back, on his mouth. He’ll jolt awake in the middle of the night, panting with need, cock hard and leaking. Once he awoke to find himself desperately fucking his hips into his mattress. It made him feel like a schoolboy again with a wild, uncontrollable need. You make him feel out of control.

You walk down the aisle towards him, hands together, eyes hooded. Jeongin could swear he saw a faint dusty pink flare in your pupils, but he dismisses it outright. He’s imagining things he wants to see, and he wants to see you glowing.

You only take your eyes off of him for a second to bow in reverence. The way you step towards him makes time nearly stop. Everything moves in slow motion before Jeongin’s eyes as you kneel on the threadbare hassock. It’s as if the air between the two of you shivers, almost like the heat of a flame bending light around it. Your supple form in your modest clothes, he’s imagined what lies beneath a few thin layers of fabric and his eyes. You’re so close to him, eyes closed as you tilt your head up. His eyes flit around your face as he takes in all the small details: a wayward freckle in your cheek, a minuscule scar on your chin, the delicate curve of your lips. You look up into his eyes, peeking beneath your eyelashes.

“The b-body of Christ…” he stammers. 

Your eyebrows crinkle upwards with what could be called a worried expression, but the way your eyes sparkle makes you look like you’re teasing him. Jeongin feels frozen, his feet screaming at him to run but his heart gluing him to the spot. A slow smile dawns on your face before you lean forward, opening your mouth and sticking your tongue out to receive the dry little wafer. Your soft pink tongue rests on your lower lip as you stare up at him, waiting for his next move. 

Jeongin would do anything to feel that tongue. That tongue that his sleeping mind tells him is wet, hot, and skilled. He lifts the wafer, gingerly placing it on your tongue, lingering for as long as he’ll allow himself before anyone can get suspicious. 

He begins to pull away when he feels it. He feels a gentle pressure, the lightest kitten lick of your tongue over the tip of his thumb. His eyes go wide, pupils flaring with the sudden urge to claim you. It takes all the effort in the world not to dip his thumb into your mouth - the mere thought has arousal hurtling through his body, clenching his abdominal muscles. That coy smile is still on your face when you finally turn away, sauntering back to your seat. To Jeongin, each step feels like it singes the carpet underneath your feet, the image of your swaying hips imprinting in his chest.

It’s all he thinks about when he’s in the shower later. The icy temperature does nothing to calm his nerves as his flushed, hard cock bobs at the thought of you. Somehow, he made it through the rest of Mass without anyone catching on to the light sweat that prickled his skin. The focus he had on slow breathing during Father Kim's sermon was the only thing standing between him and a tent in his slacks in front of the whole congregation. 

Father Kim noticed that he seemed tense and gave Jeongin the rest of the day off to meditate on what bothered him. After thanking him, Jeongin practically ran back to his living space - the small studio with one spacious bathroom. Feverishly ripping his collar off, unbuttoning his shirt, and kicking off his slacks, he hopped into his shower. Blasting his body with frigid water seemed like the right thing to do. He yelped, arching his back as his skin screamed at the rapid change in temperature.

This is good, this is what he needs. He needs some sort of distraction from thinking about you. He took his vow of chastity very seriously, but today was putting his commitment to the test. Jeongin didn’t have a ton of experience, but he wasn’t a virgin before he took the cloth. He was so confident that he had a handle on any sort of temptation laid before him, no carnal desire could overpower his devotion to the Lord and his duty to the church. 

No temptation, that is, until you. 

The guilt slammed through him as arousal thrummed in his blood. The first time he laid eyes on you, kneeling for a prayer during his first Mass in the new parish, caught him completely off guard. There was something so magnetic about you - the way your hair fell on your brow, the slight pursing of your lips as you prayed, the delicate clasp of your hands around your rosary. You were breathtaking, but it wasn't until you smiled at him that he felt chained to you, fully at your mercy.

 The bitter cold of the water sends stinging shivers through his body and settle at the base of his spine. Building more pressure in his pelvis, he finds his hips shaking as he grows hard, trying to control the thrusting of his hips at the thought of you. He hasn’t been this sensitive to lust ever before in his life. The way your plush lips framed your tongue as you presented it to him… he hisses. His skin is buzzing as if every nerve ending is lit up like a neon sign.

Jeongin starts whispering the only prayer that comes to mind at the moment in an attempt to pull himself back from the edge of insanity. 

Hail Mary, full of grace -

He leans his forehead against the cool blue tile of his shower wall, closing his eyes trying to focus on the words.

The Lord is with thee - 

The cold water pouring against his skin isn’t enough to cool him down, he feels like his body is on fire. Pressing his upper body towards the shower wall, he gasps the next line of his prayer as his nipples come into contact with the chilled tile, pebbling at the sensation. 

Blessed are thou amongst women -

He doesn’t know when his hand found its way down to his cock, but he cries out at the contact, bucking his hips into his fist. He’s so hard, it’s almost painful. The tip of his cock a ruddy color as it throbs in his hand. 

And blessed is the fruit of thy womb - 

“Jesus!” he huffs, his hand picking up speed, chasing his sacrilege to its inevitable end. The haunting image of your eyes, glowing that faint dusty pink, flashes in his mind again.

Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners - 

His stomach curls, sliding down to the shower floor on his knees. His balls tighten, his hips pistoning his cock into his hand. He can’t control the whimpers leaving his mouth now, he’s almost past his breaking point. He thinks about your pink tongue, glistening in low light, pressing the tip against his thumb.

Now and at the hour of our death.

He cries out as his body convulses, his orgasm pulsing through him. It’s electric, he feels his hair stand on end. Thick ropes of white splatter against the shower wall, the shower quickly washing away any evidence of his sin. 

“Amen,” he sobs, slumping over in defeat, his hair clinging to his cheek as the water continues to pour over him. His vow of celibacy shattered in a single instant.

~~~

{part 2} {part 3}

if you'd like to be a part of the taglist, reply to this post or send me a DM! <3

[rainbowtitania]

Listened to "Photograph" on my way in to work this morning, had a breakdown, bon appetit:

(post-uhaul, 500 words, sad but hopeful ending)

Eddie didn’t know for absolutely certain that he was coming back to LA until he was turning the corner off South Bedford Street with all his worldly possessions packed in the U-Haul behind his truck.

Eddie wished he’d realized it sooner. Maybe then he would have said it out loud. Maybe it could have eased some of the heartbreak that Buck had been valiantly trying to pretend wasn’t splashed all over his face as they said goodbye.

But maybe it wouldn’t have been possible for Eddie to know until now — not with this same, bone-deep certainty. Maybe it took watching Buck disappear in his rear-view mirror, sensing the distance between them grow, and feeling the wrench in his chest like a rope suddenly pulling taut, like his body was tied to Buck’s and the tether only had so much give to it, for Eddie to finally believe it.

Ten minutes ago, the thing Eddie had most wanted to say to Buck — “wait for me to come home” — had felt cruel. He wouldn’t do that to Buck, not when Eddie wasn’t absolutely sure that it was true. And how could Eddie be sure, when he was so unsure of everything else?

He didn’t know what Christopher needed, or what would fix things between them, or if he was making the right choice or the wrong one by moving back to El Paso, or what would happen between himself and his parents when he got there.

How could Eddie assure Buck he was coming back, when it felt so much more like a wish than a promise? How could he ask Buck for any sort of permanence when Eddie himself felt so paper-thin and fragile, a Polaroid that hadn’t finished developing, still hazy with chemicals that had yet to react to the light.

As it turned out, the Eddie of ten minutes ago was a colossal idiot.

His details might be undeveloped but his outline would always be Buck.

Years ago, someone — Sophia, or maybe even Shannon — had dragged Eddie to an art museum. There’d been jewelry and other crafts there, as well as paintings, and Eddie remembered one display case of Victorian lockets with knots of hair enclosed in them. He remembered staring down at the hair and thinking they wore a piece of a dead person on their body, and he’d been so unsettled that he’d had to go wait for Sophia in the next room.

At the time, he hadn’t understood the appeal. He understood it a little better now.

Eddie would wear Buck if he could.

He eased onto the freeway that would take him toward El Paso, and once he hit cruising speed, he reached over to the passenger seat to pull one of Buck’s cookies out of its Ziploc. He took a bite, chewed once, and then just…held it in his mouth, this crumbling fragment of something Buck had created, a Communion wafer dissolving slowly on his tongue.

Eddie didn’t realize he was crying until the seam of his lips started tasting like salt.

Body and blood.

Eddie was coming back.

[traumacatholic]

Hi! Can I please ask for a prayer on behalf of my Sister? Today I learnt she finally quit/got fired (idk) from a zionist workplace and is looking for a new job after a long period of unemployment/health related leave of absence (again, I don't know the details. I'm just glad she's apparently not involved with the zionist organisation anymore). I would really like for her to get a new job which would suit her well, to ease her into work life again, so that she knows new doors open when old ones close. It's important to me that she is treated gently by the world, because she has not yet come to God, and I want her to experience His grace, idk how to explain it. I will pray for it as well, ofc, I just think she may need this job soon.

Of course, here are some prayers you may find helpful:

Here is a prayer for the intercession of Saint Anthony for her to know God:

St. Anthony, God chose you for a mission of mercy to those lost people outside the Church. I entrust to you my concerns for (her name) who does not yet know of God and His Glory. Speak to her heart, and lead them to want to know God better, to praise God often in the celebration of the Holy Eucharist, and to offer their time and talents in the dedicated service of a welcoming, holy, faith-filled Catholic parish community. Grant them the joy, the privilege, and the power of a committed personal relationship with Our Lord, Jesus Christ, and His Body, the Church. Guide me with patience and wisdom to be a worthy example of faith to all. Amen.

A longer prayer for the intercessions of Saint Augustine and Saint Monica:

Lord our God, ever merciful to all who hope in you, you adorned your servant Monica with the priceless gift of reconciling her husband and children to you; you listened to her fervent and continuous prayers calling Saint Augustine from the ways of error to serve you in holiness, making of him a sign in the world of the power of the grace of Christ and of the intercession of the saints on our behalf; renew, O Lord, in your Church and in our hearts the spirit you gave to Saint Augustine and Saint Monica; grant that in our thirst for true wisdom we and our loved ones may never cease to search for you, and may our hearts rest united in you, the living fountain of unending love. We ask this through Christ, our Lord. Amen. Lord, you inflamed the hearts of Saint Monica and her son Saint Augustine so that they would aspire to heavenly things, may we also long for the supreme source of life. Full of confidence we pray to our heavenly Father in the words Christ taught us. Our Father… Blessed Saint Monica, please add your prayers to all those mothers and families who are concerned and worried about their children and relatives, especially those who have turned away from Christ and His Church. Take them under your protection and give them the courage to walk in the ways of the Lord despite the temptation and false values they find in today’s world. Please also, take my personal request to God for my loved ones with the same fervour and persistence with which you prayed for your own son. Amen. Blessed Saint Augustine, we entrust to your powerful intercession our hearts and those of our loved ones, so that we will all be faithful to the Love and Grace of God who invites us to conversion, to live and rest in Him, to live in communion of love with all our brothers and sisters and to spread his love to all our neighbours. Amen.

Here is a prayer for someone to find employment

Dear Saint Joseph, you were yourself once faced with the responsibility of providing the necessities of life for Jesus and Mary. Look down with fatherly compassion upon me in my anxiety over my sister's struggle with unemployment. Please help her to find gainful employment very soon, so that this heavy burden of concern will be lifted from my heart and that she is able to be in a position of financial stability. Help us to guard against bitterness and discouragement, so that we may emerge from this trial spiritually enriched and with even greater blessings from God. Amen. O Lord, grant her your divine light, that she may know the designs of your providence concerning her, and that, filled with a sincere desire for my soul's salvation, I may say, with the young man in the Gospel: "What must I do to be saved?” All options are before me; but, still undecided what to do, I await your commands, I offer myself to you without restriction, without reserve, with a most perfect submission. Speak, Lord, to her soul; speak to her as you did to the youthful Samuel: “Speak to me, Lord; for your servant is listening.” I cast myself at your feet, and I am ready to do your will. Lord, help her find stable and suitable employment. And when she does find work, may she make good use of my time, regarding it as a treasure. Help her to grow in the virtue of order, doing her work punctually, attentively and steadfastly. May she develop a well-structured plan that will permit her to live her spiritual life, family life, professional life and social life in a balanced way.

[seramilla]

Another offering for the Homophobic Elders AU:

Carmilla is once again brought before the Council of Elders after being tortured for another couple of months? years? She's lost count. Despite this however, she still refuses to reveal her beloved's name, Sera. She swore during the first "session" that no matter what they do to her, she would protect her love, DAMN the consequences.

"Carmilla," an Elder spoke. Carmilla raises her head, her face bloody and bruised as she glared at the terribly, hidden, smug look in the Elder's eyes."You have been found guilty of blasphemy through your lustful actions with another woman" the Elder continues, "Because WE follow the Holy Father's teachings, we shall again show mercy and offer you leniency. If only you provide the name of your 'lover' " They spat the word as if it was poison. Carmilla remains silent, glaring at the Elders. Realizing she AGAIN won't speak they sneered down at this "angel".

"This shall be your final warning. If you continue to be stubborn we will have no choice but to banish you to Hell" They said as they opened a portal to Sama- Lucifer's domain directly behind her. She immediately tried to turn around when she felt Hell's flaming heat kiss her back and the Realm strongly pull her towards the portal. They wanted to scare her, Carmilla WOULD be, had this happened earlier in her torture but instead, now, all she felt was... acceptance. She wishes she could see Sera one last time. Hold her, kiss her, tell her how much she loves her. But to keep her beloved safe, Carmilla will do Whatever It Takes.

Knowing what awaits her, she felt herself slowly relax. Smirking, she looks back up at the Elders. The smug look on their faces slowly giving way to frustration as they realize she's not even remotely intimidated.

Carmilla starts to sing

"I don't want your prayers

No, my soul don't need no saving

I don't need no Pious Creed

When with her, I've found Heaven

In our bodies, in our blood

A more immaculate communion

Oh, she brings me to my knees

Genuflect like Mary Magdalene

You, you wanna burn me

Wanna crucify my name

If you, you call it sin

How come she loves me like a saint?

Crown me with thorns

For her, I'll gladly be a martyr

My dear if Hell's the price, I'll love and cherish you FOREVER"

She loudly proclaims her love for Sera one last time before she was finally pulled into the portal. Laughing with glee as she heard the Elders' shout profanities after her. Carmilla hopes Sera can forgive her, maybe in another life, they could be happy. Maybe in another life, Carmilla could be stronger.

(Lyrics from: Unholy - OC VersionSong by Justine's Mic and Kevin Liu)

No further comment, your honor. 😭😭😭

[temptresssssssssss]

Nathan reaction to reader kissing them then running away?

The moment your lips left his, the world stopped turning.

Nathan didn't breathe. Didn't blink. The ghost of your kiss burned like holy fire against his mouth, and when you fled - when your footsteps echoed through the marble halls - something ancient and possessive woke in his chest.

He gave you exactly 3 minutes and 42 seconds.

Precisely long enough for your pulse to settle into panicked fluttering, for your breath to come in shallow gasps as you pressed yourself into the farthest corner of the library. Nathan counted each second, standing motionless in the spot where you'd left him, his fingers tracing his lower lip where your warmth still lingered.

When he moved, it was with terrifying purpose.

The house seemed to hold its breath around him. Portraits watched with knowing eyes as he ascended the staircase, his polished Oxfords whispering against Persian carpets. He could smell your fear - that delicate, intoxicating scent that made his teeth ache.

"Little one," he murmured when he found you, his voice velvet-wrapped steel. The library doors clicked shut behind him. "Did you think I wouldn't come?"

Nathan knelt before you like a penitent before an altar.

His large hands - hands that had broken men for far less than what you'd just done - cradled your trembling fingers with unbearable gentleness. When he pressed his forehead to your knuckles, you felt his breath shudder through him.

"You kissed me," he said, the words reverent. "After all this time, after all my patience... you finally kissed me." His thumb brushed your pulse point, where your blood raced like a frightened bird. "And then you ran"

A dangerous pause. The air between you grew thick, syrupy with tension.

Nathan's lips parted in a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Now I get to worship you properly."

He carried you to the master suite as if you were made of spun glass. The four-poster bed awaited like a sacrificial altar, its black silk sheets gleaming in the candlelight.

Nathan laid you down with ceremonial care. His fingers - always so gentle, even when his soul burned with possession - undressed you not with haste, but with agonizing reverence. Each inch of exposed skin received his lips, his whispered praises:

"Perfect." A kiss to your inner wrist.

"Mine." Tongue tracing your collarbone.

"Divine." Teeth grazing your navel.

When you arched against him, he pinned your hips with one broad hand - not to restrain, but to savor. "Shhh, darling," he murmured against your thigh. "Let me adore you."

Nathan worshipped between your legs like a starving man at communion.

His tongue traced patterns only he understood, mapping every flutter, every gasp. When you tugged at his hair, he groaned into your flesh - not in protest, but in gratitude.

"Please," you whimpered, and the sound shattered what remained of his control.

Nathan rose over you, his body a living cage of muscle and want. His erection pressed against your thigh, hot and heavy, but he made no move to take you. Not yet.

"Look at me," he commanded, and when your eyes met his -

He slid home in one smooth thrust, his breath catching as your warmth enveloped him. "Christ," he rasped. "Every time... every time it feels like the first time."

Nathan made love to you like a man memorizing scripture.

Each thrust was measured, deliberate - not for his pleasure, but for yours. His lips never left your skin, murmuring prayers against your throat, your breasts, your parted lips.

When your climax hit, he drank your cries like sacramental wine, his own release following moments later. But even then - even as pleasure wracked his powerful frame - Nathan cradled your face, his thumbs wiping away tears you didn't remember shedding.

"Never run again," he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours. His breath mingled with yours, his heartbeat thundering against your chest. "I would burn the world to find you, my love. But I'd much rather keep you here..."

A kiss to your swollen lips.

"...where you belong."

Dawn found Nathan awake, his arms locked around your sleeping form.

He watched the sunlight paint gold across your skin, his fingers tracing invisible patterns on your hip. The house stood silent around you both - a kingdom bowing to its queen.

Somewhere downstairs, a phone rang. Business waited. The world turned.

Nathan didn't move.

He had everything he needed right here.

[sylviaplathink]

via mstjohn813 on instagram

...

"I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes"

–Sylvia Plath, from the poem "Tulips", written 18 March 1961, in Ariel, 1965

...

TULIPS The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here. Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands. I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions. I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses And my history to the anaesthetist and my body to surgeons. They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut. Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in. The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble, They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps, Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another, So it is impossible to tell how many there are. My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently. They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep. Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage —- My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox, My husband and child smiling out of the family photo; Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks. I have let things slip, a thirty-year-old cargo boat Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address. They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations. Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head. I am a nun now, I have never been so pure. I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. How free it is, you have no idea how free —- The peacefulness is so big it dazes you, And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets. It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet. The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me. Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby. Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds. They are subtle: they seem to float, though they weigh me down, Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their colour, A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck. Nobody watched me before, now I am watched. The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins, And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips, And I have no face, I have wanted to efface myself. The vivid tulips eat my oxygen. Before they came the air was calm enough, Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss. Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise. Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine. They concentrate my attention, that was happy Playing and resting without committing itself. The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves. The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals; They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat, And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me. The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea, And comes from a country far away as health.

[howdoyousleep3]

*cracks knuckles*

Okay, I grew up catholic and have tons of religious trauma. 🙃🙃🙃🙃

You’re a senior at your all girls school (OF COURSE). Father Ari is on his way out because all the girls have a crush on him and the diocese has caught wind of this. It cannot be ignored any longer, it’s getting out of hand and so he’s been transferred to an all boys school. (Cardinal Rogers has seen the social media posts you naughty girlies and has absolutely jacked off to them inserting himself into the stories about getting fucked by Fr. Ari - all the evidence collected by bitter old Sister Peggy). You have never participated in this because you are a good girl and that pulsing in your pussy is SCARY. More scary than exciting at this point. You are sheltered, practically infantilized by your equally troubled mother who looks at you with resentment because good girls marry the first guy they date and accidentally get knocked up by, solidifying their future that is nothing close to what they dreamed of.

Anywhooo, the church has always sort of given you bad vibes. Especially at night, you’re there a lot helping out and in the rectory after hours. You envy the peace it seems to give others. You can’t quite seem to feel that, only a shiver, a feeling that something lurks nearby. Something wicked.

You hate the stations of the cross. It’s violent retelling of Christ’s final moments. You wonder what is the point of it all. As you walk around the church, genuflecting beneath each beautifully brutal stained glass depiction of torture, you glance at Fr. Ari only to find him looking at you. Staring. It’s..weird. The look in his eyes reminds you of an animal. It’s wild. Feral. You don’t understand.

Face to face confession is the worst. You hate it. You much prefer hiding. Confession is weekly. You struggle to even come up with something to confess. You don’t do anything wrong. So you tell little white lies - you copied off of Sarah for a test, you stole some of your mom’s favorite caramels. You don’t even like caramel but you literally have nothing to say. Do you even believe in god? It all seems like a pointless joke.

He can smell the sweat on you. He wants to lick your face. He just knows your tits would taste so good. You don’t even realize he can see your crotch with the way your sitting. White cotton panties. Of course. Of course this little slut would wear something straight out of the porn he conjures up in his mind when he’s fucking his fist. When he thinks about you. He’s so fucking horny he thinks he can see your pubic hair sticking out of your panties. The tight little curls poking out slightly. He wants to stick his whole face into your pussy. Make you cum and drink up all of your creamy, salty, sweet, foamy pussy juice. Lay you down on the altar and place communion wafers one by one down your body, eat them off you, pour the wine all over your breasts and suck it off your nipples…

Idk that’s all I’ve got right now. Should I come off anon and give y’all more??

Take me the fuck away, nonnie.

Halfway through reading this masterpiece I had to stand up and take a little walk in my kitchen because I could not BELIEVE what I was reading, holy shit.

I would devour more of this. I won’t say I need this because I don’t want to put thy kind of pressure on you but 👀 please GOD I need more.

[solace-n]

Tulips by Sylvia Plath

The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here. Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands. I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions. I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses And my history to the anaesthetist and my body to surgeons.

They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut. Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in. The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble, They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps, Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another, So it is impossible to tell how many there are.

My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently. They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep. Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage ---- My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox, My husband and child smiling out of the family photo; Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks.

I have let things slip, a thirty-year-old cargo boat Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address. They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations. Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head. I am a nun now, I have never been so pure.

I didn't want any flowers, I only wanted To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. How free it is, you have no idea how free ---- The peacefulness is so big it dazes you, And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets. It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.

The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me. Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby. Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds. They are subtle: they seem to float, though they weigh me down, Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their colour, A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck.

Nobody watched me before, now I am watched. The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins, And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips, And I hve no face, I have wanted to efface myself. The vivid tulips eat my oxygen.

Before they came the air was calm enough, Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss. Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise. Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine. They concentrate my attention, that was happy Playing and resting without committing itself.

The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves. The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals; They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat, And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me. The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea, And comes from a country far away as health.

[wellthebardsdead]

Fools prayer pt7

Part 6 here

———

Nerevar: *steps back into his office with a deep and heavy sigh as he closes the door. His communion with Boethia silent. And Azura too far gone to answer his call* I don’t understand… *rubs his face leaning against the door as he recalls his dream, Mephala strung up within red mountain, her body split open and her heart beating in place of the heart of creation* if she was the one responsible, why was she-

*creak*

Nerevar: *immediately snaps to attention, drawing his lance and casting detect life… but sensing nothing* … gods im tired… *sets his lance down and walks to his desk before pausing as he sees the door to his safe unlocked but not open* huh? *quickly opens it up and sighs with relief to find Vivec’s spear still inside, where Beyte Fyr had placed it… but next to it, a familiar golden mask with three eyes whose mere presence sent shivers down his spine* Wh-what?… *reaches in with a trembling hand, picking it up and staring at it in shock* how did-

“You freed me. From the curse she’d condemned me to.”

Nerevar: *drops the mask and spins around in shock to see… Voryn… alive, his long dark hair tucked behind his, and his skin just as good as the precious metals adorning him, contrasting the red paint decorating it beautifully, exactly how he remembered him… his closest friend* voryn? I- I’m dreaming. I have to be. Or I’ve lost my min- *blinks and shivers as voryn suddenly appears right in front of him, the councillors slender and soft hands sliding up his armoured shoulders to his neck, and slowly creeping up a little further to hold his face lovingly as his lips falter so close to his own* Mephala wanted us dead. She wanted me dead. But now I’m free, we’re free… we can be together… together at last… *leans in closer pressing his lips to the other chimers, his skin cold against nerevars, his touch cold, his body cold… no pulse. No heart.*

Nerevar: *closes his eyes and moans softly into the kiss, wanting for a moment to give in and reach out to take hold of him, but ultimately deciding to not feed into his dreams as he opens his eyes and stifles a scream seeing Voryns skin now grey, and three red eyes, locked onto his* WHAT IN-

???: neht?

Nerevar: *jolts awake to find himself at his desk, his neck and back aching as he lifts his head from the scattered parchment he’d fallen asleep reading* Ah- wh-what? I- huh- *freezes seeing a familiar figure standing at his door, Vivec* Vehk, what are you doing up? You need to be-

Vivec: *walks quietly from the door, past his desk and to the safe, before bending down before it and picking up the mask of dagoth ur* …Mephala… didn’t lie to me completely then… *looks to him with fear lingering behind his eyes* Dagoth Ur was never the true threat… it was Voryn. *sets it down on his desk and shakily hugs his robe tighter, the dim glow of the candlelight finally showing the sweat on his brow and the tussled mess his pillow had made of his now short hair* I expect you’re used to him coming to you in your dreams by now?…

Nerevar: he came to you as well?…

Vivec: he… *sighs recalling it* he did… I almost prefer my visits to cold harbour over his presence in my sleep…

Nerevar: he didn’t hurt you did he?… *stands from his desk and picks his cape up from his chair, draping it around Vivec like a blanket as he closes the gap between them*

Vivec: *smiles and hugs it close, his heart feeling a deep warmth that seeps into his soul, that they could return to such friendly, comfortable familiarity so quickly despite all that had happened* no… and I think that’s what scared me so much about it… I opened my eyes and he was at my bedside… he promised I’d be, looked after, when he’d at last he by your side again… so I pushed my way out of the dream and came to find you.

Nerevar: pushed your way out of the dre- *blinks and staggers back, seeing vivec no longer there, and his cape on the floor* … *picks it up and turns to run out the door thinking it was open only to smack face first into it hard* UURGH!!! IM TIRED OF DREAMS BLURRING WITH REALITY I THOUGHT I WAS DONE WITH THIS! *fumbles for the knob and finally staggers out into and up the hall, his pace only quickening as he hears Vivec gasping for breath behind the door of his room* Vehk?! Vivec?! *opens it to find Vivec sitting upright in his bed, the guards assigned to his room trying to help him breath while another checks the window and room for any signs of an intruder* I- Vivec?

Vivec: *pale as sheet as he slowly turns his gaze to him, evidently having seen something as his mind entered back into his own when it left nerevars* he actually did it… we… we can’t kill him.

Nerevar: what do you mean he did it?… what do you mean we can’t kill him?…

Vivec: the heart… he bound the good daedra to it with him… mephalas plan. My actions… it was all for nothing. *swallows a lump in his throat* It’s my fault… I should have never turned on her.

[dfroza]

A link to my personal reading of the Scriptures

for the 7th of june 2025 with a paired chapter from each Testament (the First & the New Covenant) of the Bible

[The Book of Revelation, Chapter 20 • The Book of Job, Chapter 26]

along with Today’s reading from the ancient books of Proverbs and Psalms with Proverbs 7 and Psalm 7 coinciding with the day of the month, accompanied by Psalm 80 for the 80th day of Astronomical Spring, and Psalm 8 for day 158 of the year (with the consummate book of 150 Psalms in its 2nd revolution this year)

A post by John Parsons:

The Thirst of Hope...

It sometimes feels like the "samsara" of the desert, a place of exile, the matrix of the world. There is no place I really want to go anymore... I walk with a limp, friends. The Mount of Olives is an enormous cemetery with over 150,000 tombs. Devout Jews think it is a “segulah” to be buried there so that at the time of the resurrection they will be at the center of the action... "In that day His feet will stand on the Mount of Olives, which faces Jerusalem on the east" (Zech. 14:4). That's the focus, to come back to life in the presence of of our beloved Lord Yeshua the Messiah!

The sages say that our father Isaac went blind because the angel's tears fell into his eyes as he lay bound upon the altar... I wonder if he might have later asked himself what use is there to see any more of this world? Nevertheless, and surprisingly, God used his blindness to allow the blessing to be given to Jacob, after all.

Some wounds seem incurable in this present life... God can and does do miracles, but more often he allows us the blessing of learning to endure in our struggles. It can get dark at times, and we can’t outrun ourselves. "Cursed be the day wherein I was born!" exclaimed both Job and Jeremiah (Job 3:3; Jer. 20:14). "If this is how you are going to treat me, please go ahead and kill me -- if I have found favor in your eyes -- and do not let me face my own ruin" said Moses (Num. 11:15). The prophet Elijah likewise prayed that he might die: "I have had enough, Lord," he said. "Take my life; I am no better than my ancestors" (1 Kings 19:4).

There is the ideal and the real. Though it is a universal experience, personal suffering can be especially poignant, I think, to souls that seek God's presence and love above all things, for these people are bound to be misfits in this world of vanity and conceit. Soren Kierkegaard is such an example, and he once wrote: “What is a poet? An unhappy man who hides deep anguish in his heart, but whose lips are so formed that when the sigh and cry pass through them, it sounds like lovely music.... And people flock around the poet and say: 'Sing again soon' - that is, 'May new sufferings torment your soul but your lips be fashioned as before, for the cry would only frighten us, but the music, that is blissful.”

Jewish philosopher Martin Buber wrote about the loneliness that results from Modern society, which he called an "It-world" that is marked by the prevalence of "I–It" rather than "I–Thou" relationships. The realm of the "institution" objectifies or "thingifies" people, and this bureaucratic "system" creates a sense of existential angst. Trapped in the "It-world," people begin to feel that life is meaningless, as they are numbered among the "faceless crowd" and are enthralled in a Kafkaesque prison of loneliness...

The statistics today are shocking. In a recent poll, nearly 40% of the people surveyed reported that they did not have a close friend. Not one. The “internet” has replaced human intimacy and authentic connection. The “pornogrification” of sexuality is linked to increased rates of depression, loneliness, and feelings of hopelessness. “Artificial Intelligence” and Chatgpt have become robotic surrogates for communion with others. “Is there any body out there?” is the plaintive cry of the postmodern soul. The way out for Buber - and this is surely right - is first to be in a life-transforming relationship with God, the ultimate "I-Thou" connection that will sustain our way despite the hardness of the "It-world." Yeshua taught this truth to use when he said “Seek first the Kingdom of God...” (Matt. 6:33).

Our Lord said: "Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness..." (Matt. 5:6). Yes, blessed are those who suffer such desperate need, who know inner emptiness, who are not made numb to the ache, and who cry from the heart for deliverance. Blessed are those who are in dread over themselves, who fall as one dead before the Divine Presence, who know they are undone, ruined, and dying for life... The great danger, spiritually speaking, is to become complacent, untouched by poverty of heart, to be lulled asleep, lost within a dream, made comatose, living-yet-dead. The gift of faith first reveals our own lostness and then imparts courage to live with ourselves despite ourselves as we seek God’s healing and life...

“Blessed art Thou, LORD our God, who never leaves nor forsakes us, and who draws us close through hunger and thirst.” We are truly blessed when we ache with heartfelt longing for the Divine Presence... This is not some form of masochistic spirituality. Feeling content, unconcerned, satisfied, numb, etc., may be a sign of a dreadful condition of heart. “You, God, are my God, earnestly I seek you; I thirst for you, my whole being longs for you, in a dry and parched land where there is no water” (Psalm 63:1).­

[ Hebrew for Christians ]

========

Psalm 42:2 Hebrew reading:

https://hebrew4christians.com/Blessings/Blessing_Cards/psalm42-2-jjp.mp3

Hebrew page:

https://hebrew4christians.com/Blessings/Blessing_Cards/psalm42-2-lesson.pdf

6.6.25 • Facebook

from Israel365

Today’s message (Days of Praise) from the Institute for Creation Research

[sonhoeterno]

Tulips - Sylvia Plath

The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here.

Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in.

I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly

As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands.

I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.

I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses

And my history to the anesthetist and my body to surgeons.

They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff

Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut.

Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in.

The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble,

They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps,

Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another,

So it is impossible to tell how many there are.

My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water

Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently.

They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep.

Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage——

My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox,

My husband and child smiling out of the family photo;

Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks.

I have let things slip, a thirty-year-old cargo boat

stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.

They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations.

Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley

I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books

Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head.

I am a nun now, I have never been so pure.

I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted

To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.

How free it is, you have no idea how free——

The peacefulness is so big it dazes you,

And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets.

It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them

Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.

The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me.

Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe

Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby.

Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds.

They are subtle : they seem to float, though they weigh me down,

Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their color,

A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck.

Nobody watched me before, now I am watched.

The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me

Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins,

And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow

Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips,

And I have no face, I have wanted to efface myself.

The vivid tulips eat my oxygen.

Before they came the air was calm enough,

Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss.

Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise.

Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river

Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine.

They concentrate my attention, that was happy

Playing and resting without committing itself.

The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves.

The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals;

They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat,

And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes

Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.

The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea,

And comes from a country far away as health

[moons0uled]

tag drop. 

[copias-girl]

Pamper Your Papa (Papa IV x Reader)

In which reader pampers Copia after a long day and things start to get frisky.

This is my first Ghost fic, I hope you enjoy! 🖤 Part 2 will be coming soon and it’ll be nothing but smut 😈

Part II is HERE

•••

You were waiting for him in his room when he arrived, exhausted after a long day of papal duties.

“Papa.” You quietly greeted him with a smile, causing him to flinch a little bit as you stepped out of the shadows. Copia’s tired gaze softened upon seeing you; what a sight for sore eyes you were as he watched you saunter towards him, hips swaying irresistibly.

You bit your lip, eyes glinting as you took in his form. You always thought your Papa looked devastatingly handsome in his long bejewelled robes and mitre, good enough to eat. You’d been at Black Mass previously, teasing him the whole time with that little smirk of yours as you made a little show of licking your lips during his sermon. It didn’t escape him either, he knew what you were trying to do to him. And it was working.

Copia had been disappointed to see you leave directly after he placed the unholy communion on your awaiting tongue, but now he knew that you left early just so you could wait in his room and surprise him.

Finally standing in front of your love, you placed your hands on his chest, fingers tracing over embroidery and jewels as you slid your hands up up up to rest on his shoulders.

Copia sucked in a breath at your light touch. Satanas, you looked like an absolute dream, wearing nothing but a black lace bra and matching panties.

“What are you up to, cara mia?” He swallowed hard, mismatched gaze intently sweeping over your goddess-like body.

“Hm? Oh, I was just about to take a bubble bath.” You said nonchalantly, even though you had a perfectly good bathtub in your own room. “Would you like to join me, Papa? You look so tired.” You pouted, a single finger stroking at his jawline, making him shiver.

“Si, dolcezza. I… I would love that.” He responded, much to your delight.

Taking his gloved hand in yours, you gently pulled him farther into the room before you began undressing him. You carefully took his mitre off, placing it aside before starting on all the layers of his vestments.

“Let me pamper you, Papa. Let me make you feel good. You deserve it.” You whispered, your parted lips just barely ghosting over his. “Will you? Will you let me?”

Copia nodded, completely and utterly entranced by you, hyper aware of your every movement. His cheeks heated up more with each layer you removed. He loved when you were like this, when you were determined to care for him like no one else ever has, when you insisted that he deserved it even when he himself didn’t believe so.

Finally out of all his clothes, you removed his gloves before taking his hands and placing them on your breasts. Letting out a groan, he took the hint and snaked his arms around your body, fumbling with the clasp of your bra for a moment before tossing the garment across the room. Not needing any further instruction, he then went for your panties, hooking his thumbs into them and slowly pulling down until you stepped out of them.

Copia ran his hands all over your form, trying to touch you everywhere at once and quietly whining when you began walking away, pulling him towards his ensuite bathroom where a warm bubble bath awaited, numerous candles lit around the room.

The both of you stepped into the soothing water and sank down into it, with you moving to straddle his lap and get comfortable.

“Oh, amore… You are too good to an old man like me.” He pulled you against his chest and sighed into your hair.

You shook your head, cupping his gorgeous face in your hands. “You deserve this. You deserve everything good.” You told him, punctuating your sentence by softly kissing his lips.

He returned the kiss by deepening it, his tongue slipping into your mouth to taste your sweetness. You let out a soft moan, relishing in the delicacy and sensuality of the moment.

Pulling away with a happy sigh, you studied his face closely.

“My pretty Papa.” You whispered dreamily, flustering Copia even further. He loved your compliments, loved when you used his title, that you called him Papa all the time even when others didn’t.

“Tesoro, I am an old man..” He chuckled softly. “You are the pretty one here.”

“Mm, I think you’re perfect.” You grinned, stroking his cheek with your thumb. His face heated up under your gaze as you studied him, brushing some wisps of grey hair into place at his temple. Your sweet Papa sighed as you lovingly traced every line and wrinkle on his face. You genuinely loved them, they somehow just added to his hotness.

Muscles finally beginning to relax, Copia’s hands found your waist, gently sliding up and down your ribs before moving to lazily caress your back while you continued to be mesmerized with his face, running a finger down the bridge of his nose and over his lips.

He playfully bit your finger, eliciting a little gasp and a giggle from you. You leaned in, softly biting Copia’s lip in a mock act of revenge, causing him to groan. Your hands snaked up to his shoulders, rubbing firmly to melt away any tension. Your poor Papa had to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, always feeling the need to prove himself worthy of holding his title.

“Ah… Mi piace, amore mio.” Copia hummed, eyes fluttering closed and sighing deeply, sinking deeper into the warm water.

“Good.” You smiled, kissing the tip of his nose.

After a while of rubbing his shoulders and thoroughly enjoying every little moan and exhale to slip out of him, you reached for the bottle of shampoo.

“Here, let me wash your hair.” You murmured, squirting some into your palm.

“Only if you will let me wash yours, dolcezza.” Copia grinned, holding his hand out for some.

You each began lathering the shampoo into each other’s hair, ever so intimate and caring. And you absolutely loved the sounds your Papa made when you ran your nails along his scalp.

You started giggling as you spiked his soapy hair up into a mohawk.

“What is so funny, cara mia?” Copia enquired quizzically, continuing to work the shampoo into your hair as you giggled at him.

You swiped the handheld mirror off the nearby shelf, holding it up so he could look at himself. He huffed out a laugh at the sight of his hair, shaking his head in amusement. He loved your youthful humour, just like he loved everything else about you.

“Eh, perhaps I should wear my hair like this out, bella? I think it compliments my delicate nose.” He joked, taking the mirror from you and striking a few poses.

“With a face as pretty as yours, you could pull anything off.” You smiled, running your fingers all through his soapy hair again and pulling him in for a particularly deep kiss, one that had the handheld mirror clattering to the floor (thankfully not breaking) as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling your body impossibly closer.

As your tongues swirled together deliciously, you could tell that your Papa was becoming more and more desperate because something was poking you. In all honesty, he had been half hard for the entirety of the bubble bath. You just always had that effect on the poor man, especially when you were naked and seated comfortably on top of him, your body glistening perfectly with soapy water.

You reached down, gently brushing your hand against Copia’s fully hard cock, causing him to jolt and let out a groan.

You pulled away from the kiss, a string of saliva still connecting you as you breathlessly gazed at each other with half-lidded eyes.

“Let’s rinse our hair and get out before the water gets cold.” You whispered against his lips, to which he eagerly nodded. He knew what was coming next and he could hardly wait.

“We can continue our spa night.” You said. “We can do facials.” You added, causing Copia’s eyes to widen. He sincerely hoped you were talking about that kind of facial.

[droogiesanddiscourse]

"Hellfire."

Pairing: Monsignor John Pruitt x F!Reader

Summary: You are called first to receive everlasting life from the angel's blood during Easter Vigil.

Warnings: Spoilers for Episode 6 of Midnight Mass and all the content that comes with it. Language. Taking some liberties with how the angel's blood works uhhh hehe. Millie who's that AU. Going off of the stream of consciousness / dream-like writing I am trying so hard to stay out of my head and just write what comes.

"Brothers and sisters,” Monsignor Pruitt concludes. “On this most holy night I come to you with good news. Not only the good news of the resurrection of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ who arose to forgive us of our sins after three days in the tomb. But, also the resurrection of ourselves."

He clasps his hands together in makeshift prayer, eyes sparkling an unfamiliar orange glow that you've never seen before. That of a feral black cat's eyes bouncing back light. The ones that hunt on the outpost of the island, all teeth and heat and hunger and sex and wild and and and--

Visions of nocturnal holiness.

"I ask you. Trust in me. And God will reward your loyalty heavily. Know that I would not ask of the ultimate sacrifice of your life if I did not have utmost faith in our God for the miracle he is about to bestow tonight."

The silence within the church is deafening. Not a soul rises for his offer, parishioners stunned to their seats. His eyes scan, searching for a familiar face. Finally focusing on yours.

“Please. [“____”]," his voice like liquid honey calls to you, echoing through the church. "I call upon you to take the plunge first, my sweet child. Show the good people of Crockett Island that there is nothing to fear. That there is paradise waiting for us all tonight."

He leaves his pulpit, descending down the steps towards you. His arm reaches out, using his slender fingers to beckon you to him with a "come hither" motion. White vestments flowing, covering his human visage as he moves, billowing out like an angel's wings.

Devils were once just fallen angels. Symbols of purity be damned.

He notices your trepidation.

"One moment of pain, perhaps. But an eternity of youth and love and worship in His name. We have been given a tremendous gift, sister ["____"]. Be brave.”

Beverly Keene remained tucked in the upper corner of the church, stirring the choice of death for this evening. She's always been a witch in your eyes; now the harsh comparison rings true more than ever as she concocts a deadly potion of sickeningly sweet liquid.

The smell reminds you of too hot summers and running against the shoreline as the waves lap against your ankles and buying popsicles at the general store and sticky raspberry juice running between your fingers. Familiar memories and tastes intermingled with rat poison.

“And so Jesus rose from the tomb, trampling down death. As will we. I am with you, and you are with me. There is nothing to fear."

Don't drink the kool-aid, the old adage goes.

But you wonder how vanilla and raspberry taste mixed together.

Jonestown redux is standing before you, with his hand outstretched for you to take; his body backlit by the illumination of hundreds of candles. You look up at him through your lashes, lips slightly parted. Your eyebrows upturned and eyes reposed.

"Monsignor. Forgive me, but I cannot," you swallow hard. Back yourself from that cliff, you have one leg dangling over the edge now! "For I have not taken communion as my sins have been too weighty, too difficult to ever be forgiven. I believe I did not deserve the body and blood of Christ at that time, which is selfish of me. Forgive me.”

John almost considers this for a moment, his thick eyebrows furrowing together as he stares down at you.

"There is no resurrection for me. I will die,” you state bluntly. Your words are finally registering. 

Back away back away, make distance between the cliff.

But he smiles, against your expectations. A tight lipped smile, his eyes kissing at the corners when his cheeks raise. Missed by the miracle of reversed age, not reaching the crows feet that reveal only when he's truly happy.

"My angel. You've taken more than enough of my seed in your womb, and down your throat. The blessing is already inside you."

His hand grazes your cheek, and Hellfire reigns down as the finality of his reveal sets in across the room. Hot and prickling at the back of your neck. High pitched buzzing of bees in your ears. Whore of Babylon comes to Crockett Island. Mary Magdalene weeps. Hundreds of eyes descend upon your form, fragile and ready to break at a moment's notice.

Hell has a special place reserved for you for tasting the most unholy fruits. You wear guilt like a halo.

John positions his index fingers and thumb underneath your chin, tilting it upwards. Your eyes dart away, unable to face him. For sure your very skin would burst into flames if you stared too long.

"Look at me," he demands. "Look at me, angel. Do not be ashamed.”

Oh, you’re more than familiar with this position.

Your eyes tilt back, big and yearning and scared yet wanting more. More of John, more of his smell on your bedsheets, more of his fingers in your mouth more of the salty bitter taste of his skin more breaking the boundaries between heaven and hell more more more more flesh more blood no sin no death no guilt.

Hell has a special place reserved for you in due time.

But real hell is living without him. You slip your hand into his, rising from the pew.

The church is silent, conversations about your unforgivable sin now hushed to murmurs. Somewhere in the distance you hear the gentle song of night crickets that intermingle with your delicate footsteps across decades old wood. A resounding creak and moan of the floorboards that echoes through the small church that makes it become an entity of its own, ready to swallow you whole.

Someone is crying, quietly muffled pathetically behind a cloth. A woman blesses herself using the sign of the cross as you pass.

A dead girl walking, and this is the sound of your funeral march.

Your toes bump into the first step leading up to the chancel. Guiding you by your waist, John spins you to face the congregation. Expressions of the crowd are unreadable.

Are you Joan of Arc or a witch about to be burned at the stake?

Blasphemy, blasphemy stood before your friends, family, acquaintances.

A light. The vision of John blocks you away from their watchful eyes as he stands before you, cupping your face within his hands. Your eyes lock together. Gently, he presses a chaste kiss to the center of your forehead. Lips just barely ghosting over your flesh. You tremble before him.

Bev stands behind you, both arms outstretched forward, bent at the elbow. You’re smart enough to realize she’s ready to catch you for when you involuntarily start seizing, your body putting up its final fight against the poison coursing through its veins.

Life. Death. Rise. 

A sob starts in your larynx, unable to burst fully to the surface The warmth of his hands removed from your face, now reaching for Bev's as he takes the small plastic solo cup of juice from hers into his.

"I am with you," he whispers as he holds the cup up to your lips. "As you walk through the valley of the shadow of death I am with you, and you will come out on the other side anew. Whole. Pure as a reward for your devotion to Him."

Raspberry and vanilla threaten to break the seal of your lips, the cup tapped against it. His other hand snakes his way up your back, weaving his fingers within your hair. The digits tug against your locks slightly, tilting your head back.

"Open."

Saliva gathers at the back of your throat.

You can't, you can't, you can't.

You cannot dare to lose the chance to miss another one of those too hot summer days where the children of Crockett island throw their books haphazardly into their backpacks basking in their first hours of summer vacation and the salty water clinging to your hair making it curly and sticky raspberry juice dripping between your fingers–

But oh the visions of him with and the way he whimpers into your neck when he thrusts into you, his hot mouth on your pulse point, the way his hand pin down your wrists forcing you to stay still. Murmured praises and bedroom hymns whispered as the moonlight coats both of your bodies in a ghostly blue glow. Was it truly ever living without him? No more hiding no more secrets you are his and he is yours. A boundary death cannot even cross–eternity is a beautiful thing to imagine.

A tear slips out of your eye, rolling down your cheek. The pad of John’s thumb gently rubs it away. Sympathy for the condemned.

"Drink."

And you do.

[hxneyfarm]

woke up thinking about this post and now i have to project on my blorbos a little bit cw: bullying, homophobia, mention of parent death

steve is in the first grade when he first becomes aware of eddie munson. it's a friday, which means he's in chapel alongside all the other students at st matthew's, but this morning is different. this morning they're doing a dress rehearsal for the second graders' first communion this weekend. there's a long line of them, right up the center aisle of the chapel in alternating boy-girl order, and everybody is watching them.

most of the second graders are doing just what they should; standing with their shoulders back, hands in front of them in prayer position, awaiting their turn to get to the front of the sanctuary and take the eucharist from father hyde.

there's one boy, though, who can't seem to stand still.

ants in his pants, as steve's mother would say. and that's no good for chapel, for mass this weekend when the boy will take the holy sacrament for the first time.

he's a little smaller than the rest of his grade, scrawny almost. his hair's a mop of unruly dark curls and he's got big brown eyes that take up most of his face. his faded trousers are an inch or so too short, showing off a strip of white sock beneath. steve's father would have never let him out of the house showing white sock beneath black trousers. the boy's belt is tightened to the very last hole.

sister ignatius hovers behind the boy, just to his right, with her severe brow pulled into a scowl and her long wooden ruler clutched in her hand.

"munson better cool it," tommy whispers at steve's side. "sister ignatius is gonna get him with that ruler of hers."

but eddie munson can't stand still, and he doesn't even get to father hyde before he catches sister ignatius' ruler across the thigh. he looks like his eyes might be welling with tears after she does it, but he stills, and he forces his body to remain as still as possible until the dress rehearsal is through

--

when steve is in the fourth grade, he's chosen to play joseph in st matthew's nativity play. eddie munson - still wild, still scrawny, still incapable of being still or quiet for more than a couple of minutes at a time - has for some godawful reason been chosen as the angel gabriel.

eddie munson doesn't take anything seriously, and the nativity play is no different. during practice and rehearsal, sister ignatius has to chase him all throughout the sanctuary while he dives beneath pews and hides under the altar and inside the hollow back of the pulpit.

steve thinks eddie munson is too old to be acting like this.

when the day finally comes, though, and they perform the nativity, munson delivers. for all the screwing around he did at practice and rehearsal, he really comes through and he shines as gabriel.

he's a touch dramatic, and his voice carries a little further than the rest of them, but there's a man and a woman in the second row of pews that smile at eddie like he is the star of both of their entire worlds as he takes a bow at the end.

the woman is young, her eyes big and dark in the same way eddie munson's are, her hair big and dark and curly. eddie's mother, for sure. the man at her side, though... that's not eddie's dad. steve's not sure how he knows it, but he does.

eddie is scooped into a hug by his mother when all is said and done, and the man at her side lays a companionable hand atop his head.

it's the happiest steve has ever seen eddie munson. the calmest, the most grounded.

--

steve is in the sixth grade when he watches eddie munson get expelled from st matthews.

he heard through the grapevine that eddie's mom died over the summer. he doesn't know the specifics but munson was out of school a lot last spring. they're not friends, barely even acquaintances, so steve doesn't offer any empty condolences when he sees eddie in the hallway between classes their first day back in the fall.

by the end of the week everything falls to shit.

steve's got no idea what or who started it, but when he comes across the scene in the hallway there are three boys surrounding eddie munson. they have eddie on his knees. one boy has a hand fisted in eddie's hair, pulling his head back at an uncomfortable angle, and the two other boys are taking turns hitting him.

the boys are using words that steve has never heard before.

fag. queer. cocksucker.

eddie munson's mouth is bleeding. there's nothing behind his eyes. he looks numb, almost dead himself. the boy holding munson down tightens his hand in his hair and pulls back again.

he says to eddie, "good thing your mom died before she found out what kinda faggot her kid is, huh?" and for the briefest moment, steve sees a flash of fire in his eyes.

and then eddie spits in the face of his attacker. he sprays blood across the other boy's face and all three of them go very very still before dropping eddie in a heap on the ground and running off to find an adult.

steve considers going to eddie, helping him up off the hallway floor, but eddie munson levels him with a hard stare and says, "fuck off."

eddie doesn't come back to st matthews after that, and over the next few years steve begins to hear rumors about him; he worships the devil, he's dealing drugs. he's gay.

--

in the spring of '86, when steve pulls on eddie's battle vest in the hazy nightmare of the upside down, there's a rosary in the pocket.

[doing-something-unholy]

you were so close- maybe an inch of room between us as i felt the whisper of your breath on my skin. you stared into my eyes, and what seemed like creeping judgement and repentance filled your gaze.

“god i hate you.” i hear you mumble, your breath tangled with a hint of wine.

my lips curl up into a smile,

“i wouldn’t have it any other way.” you pull me towards you, the gap between our lips finally closing, and the tension between us snapping while our frantic hands and eager lips explored each crevice of the other. i rush to take off your robe, leaving you with only your dress pants and shirt. it’s weird seeing you without your collar.

of course we could always put another one on.

i lead you onto the floor, on your knees.

right now i just wanted the words i’d prayed you’d say, and i was going to pry them out of your mouth with a clamp like a dentist pulling teeth:

‘i love you, sock’.

a sick sort of smile creeps onto my face as i stand before you, watching as you look up at me with that same eager look you always give me.

you open your mouth to speak only to choke when the heel of my shoe presses down into your painfully hard cock.

“fuck- o-oh fuck..." i hear you groan out in the most pathetic way i’d ever heard. high pitched and ragged and shooting straight to my core.

i test the waters, this time stepping on your thigh. as expected, your whole body tenses as you squeeze your eyes shut, barely stiffling a pained groan. i didn’t know you’d be like this. thought you’d be well- normal. or at least a top- keeping the holy persona i knew and loved.

no- not loved.

adored.

Being at your feet feels right, being under your heel a fair repentance for the sinful feelings you cause. The look on your face, pitying me for being so easy to bring low, inspires an addicting combination of shame and arousal in me. I know it's not what you expected, that your spiritual leader is all too eager to submit to a sinner instead of God, that the man so many look up to every Sunday would get on his knees at the promise of being put in his place, that I'd be a willing whore.

I'm a mess, shivering on the floor and hoping you'll punish me for lying to you. You've always been able to see right through me, never letting me hide the lust in my heart from you, always dragging it out of me one way or another. Forcing me to bare my guilty desires of the flesh and acting on them. I'm sure by now you know I'm just being difficult when I say I hate you. Lord, forgive me for lying, but I actually only hate the way my body gives me away, getting so painfully hard for you. I know what you want from me, but if I gave it to you freely, there'd be no guarantee you'd keep coming back. My only hope is to hide how desperate I am for your attention, pretending to put up a fight for the sheer pleasure of making you break me.

I don't think it'll take much, vulnerable and sensitive from the communion wine you can smell on my breath, and achingly hard, staring up at you like you're the only god that matters to me right now.