#STEM and Scripture

[presswoodterryryan]

Understanding DNA: God’s Blueprint for Life

By Ariel “I praise You because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; Your works are wonderful, I know that full well.” —Psalm 139:14 Hello, friends! It’s Ariel again, and today we did something in homeschool that started with a big surprise. When Mommy unboxed the DNA model kit and held up the twisty double helix, I gasped. It looked like a curly straw made of jellybeans and math! The colors…

[aureentuluva70]

OK but like...Gethsemane. Gethsemane, guys. I cannot express enough how important Gethsemane is and what happened there. Not to downplay the incredible importance of what happened on the Cross, of course not, but I find people really don't talk about Gethsemane enough in comparison, so I'm going to do it myself.

Gethsemane is found at the foot of the Mount of Olives in Jerusalem. Fitting its name, the garden itself is full of olive trees, a kind of tree which holds great significance in scripture, probably the most revered plant in the bible. It is a symbol of peace, new life, prosperity, and reconciliation. It was the branch of an olive tree that the dove brought back to Noah while on the ark, signifying that the floods were receding. An olive tree is used to describe Jesus's jewish roots as the stem of David, two olive trees are used as symbolism in Revelations, and the people of Israel are likened to an olive tree and its branches. And this is only a few of the many references to olive trees in the Bible.

Olive Trees were and still are highly valued for their oil, which can be retrieved from the olives themselves. Olive oil was used as medicine, for light, for making food, etc. It was a very valuable resource, and still is.

The very name of this garden, Gethsemane, means “Oil Press”, where oil is obtained from the olives-by squeezing and crushing them. Only by being crushed can this precious oil be obtained.

When the olives are first crushed, the liquid begins to leak out, but rather than coming out as the golden-green color that we are used to, it instead comes out as a dark red hue, looking eerily similar to blood.

Only later does the oil turn into its famous golden-green color.

Like the olives being crushed for their oil, Jesus Christ was being pressed and crushed by the weight of the Atonement in the garden, suffering through such incomprehensible anguish and agony that, according to Luke's account, He literally started sweating blood.

KJV Luke 22: 44: "And being in agony he prayed more earnestly: and his sweat was like great drops of blood falling down to the ground."

(Believe it or not, sweating blood is an actual medical condition called Hematridosis, which is caused by an extreme level of stress.)

Another important thing about olive oil's use during Christ's time: it was also used for ceremonial annointing, especially for sacred rituals performed in the temple, consecrating those like priests, kings and prophets. To be annointed means to be chosen or set apart for a specific role by God, often signified by smearing oil on the body or head, and what is the true meaning of Christ's title as the Messiah?

"The Annointed One."

And yet now, here in Gethsemane, Jesus has rather become the olive. He is the one being crushed, for the sins and pains of the world in the shadow of the Mount of Olives, His blood, like the sacred oil, to be used to annoint us, to not only save us but to make us into something greater than we could ever be by ourselves.

Also, very very interesting that Gethsemane is described as a garden. Only so many gardens are mentioned in the Bible, the most well known and one of the only other named gardens being the Garden of Eden, the paradise where humankind was first created and dwelt with God. Eden was a place of beauty, of innocence, and represented humanity's oneness with the Father.

But when Adam and Eve partook of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, that innocence was lost, and thus the first man and woman could no longer dwell in Eden, and were driven out. Because of transgression, humankind had fallen.

In Eden's garden, beneath a tree, mankind lost its innocence resulting in the Fall, and became seperated from its creator, but in another garden millennia later, beneath the olive trees, that same creator would begin the agonizing process required to save us and lift us, mankind, from the consequences of that fall, to bring us back to the true garden of the Lord.

In the place of the Oil Press Jesus Christ allowed Himself to be pressed and crushed in our stead, letting Himself to eventually be led to the cross, taking upon Himself the demands of justice so that we might not suffer a similar fate, if we so choose to follow Him.

That is what happened in Gethsemane.

[4him-iwrite]

Is the Bible a love letter from God?

When you think about it, the Bible is one big love letter from God to us. Like really think about! At the root of it all, the commandments, the sacrifice, the cross, the promises, all of it stems from God's love…I think we really underestimate how much God loves us. Yes even when He is correcting us, it is in love. He truly just wants what is the absolute best for us. Honestly, it’s a beautiful thing to ponder on. Every word, every verse and scripture is woven in love.

[nerdygaymormon]

In 2018, I was invited by PFLAG to create a square to be added to a quilt that would be displayed as part of Provo's July 4th celebrations. I wanted to show I’m both gay and Mormon.

The white shirt, black name tag, and tie are an iconic symbol of Mormonism, but I changed the name tag from "Elder" to "Brother." Brother is a term we use in the LDS church to address each other, and it's also a term for a member of a family. The choices I made to remain in this church meant I didn't have a family of my own, instead I have a church family. While I liked the symbolism, I didn't want to be anonymous, so I had my name stitched in a prominent way to show I'm not ashamed to be a queer Latter-day Saint (because for many years I was and I hid parts of myself, but no longer).

I had the Pride flag be the background with the white shirt & name tag on top of it, as a way to show that they are laid on top of my queerness. I can take off the name tag and white shirt & tie, but the queerness is enduring.

Sometimes members of the church will ask why I chose to be gay?Being part of this church is a choice, following the teachings of Jesus is a choice, but not my queerness.

I was thinking the other day that being queer is like that scripture, "many are called but few are chosen." Many are called to follow Christ but only a few of us are chosen to be queer. Those of us who are chosen, we have a unique mission.

I recently came across this quote, and I think it describes people who try to be both queer and faithful. "To be inside and outside a position at the same time—to occupy a territory while loitering skeptically on the boundary—is often where the most intensely creative ideas stem from. It is a resourceful place to be, if not always a painless one." —Terry Eagleton, After Theory

I named my blog "Nerdy Gay Mormon." I use the term "gay Mormon" or "gay Latter-day Saint" to describe myself, which is interesting because that makes "gay" the adjective which describes the noun. But of these two parts of me, I can choose to no longer be LDS, but I can't change my sexual orientation, so perhaps I should start saying that I'm a "Mormon gay," or an "LDS gay." I think the reason for calling myself a "gay Mormon" is because I grew up LDS, that identity developed first, and then later as a teenager did I become aware that this part of my internal nature differed from others. While there is evidence my queerness was always part of me, it didn't become part of my identity until after being LDS was already part of my identity.

[h3lfaerie]

I was asked by a friend last night, whether Hiccup's tattoo on his breast (Astrid's name in Runic Scripture) which is confirmed to be Canon in the OG Movies and Comics will be Canon in Path of Alfheim (which is, as we all know very well, a Hiccup X Reader Fic).

My answer?

UH, IT IS, NOW.

You think I'm going to miss out on prime angst material?! Think again.

You think I’m not going to exploit this perfectly tragic storytelling device—a literal mark of devotion inked over the heart, symbolizing a love that's both platonic and romantic—as their relationship unravels, not from betrayal or scandal, but simply because Astrid’s moral compass is unshakable while Hiccup is steadily slipping into madness and near-tyranny?

PUH-LEASE.

I want to do these guys justice. Astrid is inarguably the most important person in Hiccup's life. I am not straying from Canon when it comes to their relationship. They're betrothed, for crying out loud.

When I started writing Path of Alfheim, I knew right away that I didn’t want to rewrite the depth of their relationship just for the sake of the Reader. Let alone create some narrative where Hiccup leaves Astrid for her, or antagonize either woman...

No. No. N̫͙̪ͣ͊ͪ̾ͮ̽̏͌͠͡_̸̢̨͚͙̪̫̣̼͎̓̓͗̾͑̆ͪͦ͂ͨ̄͑̆̃̽͠͠O̶̸̧̢̡̡̖͎̜̻̖̝͉̞̗͕͗͌̑́̎̔̅ͭͬ̊̀ͧͨ̊͋ͤ͌ͬ͑͘͢͞

That's NOT the story I'm telling.

It was—and still is—crucial to me that their split stems entirely from their fundamental differences, not because of the Reader.

(FMC is out there just minding her business, trying not to die. She is not even present. 😂)

You add a tattoo over the heart to this escalating tragedy, as both their flaws rise to the surface. Oh... This is going to hurt.

I cannot begin to describe to you the dichotomy of those two. The way it smacks me upside the head whenever I'm writing.

Hiccup is being consumed—slowly, quietly, and then all at once—by something that looks like anger but feels more like exhaustion. It’s the kind of resentment that only festers in people who once cared too deeply. He’s given and given and given—his body, his future, his peace of mind—and the world just keeps asking for more. There’s no end to it. No moment of rest. And the more he tries to hold onto what little he has left, the more it slips through his fingers. He’s tired of being the better man. Tired of compromise. Tired of carrying the weight of everyone’s hopes on shoulders that were never meant to bear this much. So, piece by piece, the boy who tried to change the world becomes the man who wants to own it—because maybe then, finally, he won’t have to lose anything else.

Whereas Astrid feels flayed to the bone by the helplessness of it all (and certain things I haven't revealed yet)—watching the person she loves slip further and further from the path she once believed unshakable. There’s nothing she can do to stop it, no battle she can fight to bring him back. He is still Hiccup, but only in shape and memory. The man before her is becoming someone she can’t follow—someone she can’t even recognize. And that knowing, that quiet ache of witnessing love rot from the inside out, cuts deeper than any wound she’s ever taken in battle.

My personal take on Astrid—the reason I love her so damn much—is that yes, she can come across as rigid, even ruthless. She’s every bit the wildfire people fear her to be. But that fire? It comes from feeling more than anyone else around her. It’s not a lack of emotion—it’s too much of it. She burns with it, and the only way she knows how to survive is to lock it behind steel. A wall—a desperate defense against being overwhelmed by how deeply she cares. We saw that wall breaking down briefly in Chapter 8.

At her core Astrid Hofferson is pure unfettered vulnerability, devotion, helpless in the fact that she is incapable of NOT giving her all to those she cares about. This is why she guards it so fiercely.

She will never love freely, never gift it to everyone who crosses her path. But the few she does care for… Astrid would shred the world apart for them and then shred herself apart for them.

Losing Hiccup to the corrupted version of himself, all while knowing there was once a time when he etched her name above his heart with ink that would never fade...

While Hiccup, throughout the story, is forced to carry a constant reminder of this epic, tragic love...

SOMEBODY SEDATE ME.

And let me say this right now, no amount of hatred or grief or heartache would ever make him remove that tattoo.

Not because he still longs for "what was", or because he "doesn't get over her and wants to get together with her again", NO, certain things are forever severed after they separate. BUT I want to portray the fact that love doesn’t always have to vanish to transform. Astrid Hofferson is a chapter etched into the very skin of Hiccup's story—one that shaped him, built him, taught him.

It’s no longer romantic—and never will be again—but it remains undeniably real.

"Astrid, you and I have been through everything together. You don't think we can handle this? Astrid, you have me, no matter what. Okay, whatever that means, whatever you want it to mean. I am with you. There will always be a Hiccup and Astrid. Always." - A quote from RTTE that is CARVED into my frontal lobe.

Which leads me to my final point. This isn’t merely “his ex’s name” inked onto his skin—it’s a permanent mark honoring someone who played a pivotal role in shaping who he is, emotionally, physically, and mentally. It speaks more to his journey than to any lingering attachment.

So after they both survive the grief, after the FMC becomes romantically involved with Hiccup, he will carry that tattoo like a scar that doesn't ache anymore — because I firmly believe you can hold space in your heart for both past and future loves—honoring what built you, without betraying what’s to come.

In short, that tattoo is a symbol of YEARNING and LOVE and LOSS and LIKE FUCK am I missing out on it.

I am going to destroy ya'll.

And myself, don't fret, I'm right there with you, I know I'm evil.😭

Okay, byeeee~

[mad3lyncline]

𝑬𝑽𝑬𝑵 𝑰𝑵 𝑨𝑹𝑪𝑨𝑫𝑰𝑨 𝑺𝑬𝑵𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑪𝑬 𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑺 – 𝑷𝑨𝑹𝑻 𝑻𝑾𝑶 . starters taken from the sleep token album ' even in arcadia ' adjust pronouns as necessary !

𝒅𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒔

i wish i could have known that look in your eyes would echo in mine .

when was the last time i felt like this ?

it's like you're dangerous to me .

i notice every time we meet .

i feel the ground beneath my feet giving way .

you've got me talking in my sleep as if you're conquering my dreams .

you have awakened what's beneath again .

i thought i could resist you .

when's the last time you tasted blood ?

what will it take to stem the flood ?

i am caught in time like clockwork beneath the permafrost .

won't you show me how to dance forever ?

𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒍

i'm not gonna be there tripping on the grapevine .

they can sing the words while i cry into the bass line .

wear me out like prada .

i swear it's getting harder even just to exhale .

stick to me like caramel .

walk beside me 'til you feel nothing as well .

i'm lost but i beg no pardon .

i try not to talk about how it's harder now .

i guess that's what i get for trying to hide in the limelight .

guess that's what i get for having 20/20 hindsight .

if you don't think i mean it then i understand .

i'm falling free of the final parallel .

the sweetest dreams are bitter , but there's no one left to tell .

too young to get bitter over it all .

too blessed to be caught ungrateful , i know .

so i'll keep dancing along to the rhythm .

i thought i got better but maybe i didn't .

tell me , did i give you what you came for ?

𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒊𝒏 𝒂𝒓𝒄𝒂𝒅𝒊𝒂

come now , swing wide those gates .

i have paid my penance kindly well in time for judgement day .

somehow i knew my fate .

turns out the gods we thought were dying were just sharpening their blades .

have you been waiting long for me ?

i am the final dawn . i am the flood .

what was missing from those scriptures will be written in my blood .

what good is all this talk of wings when there is nothing left above ?

we've got a taste for one another and a good few years to kill .

it seems that even in arcadia you walk beside me still .

[vagueposting-femnb]

“Sinners” movie spoilers!!!

I’m going to be diving into two characters, what I’ve seen folks say about them & why I disagree.

On mobile, can’t do read more, sorry! Pls scroll if you don’t want spoilers!

Remmick:

Folks have been sayin “He’s the devil!” And the argument has been that he came because Sammie wasn’t following what his father preached, and “the devil can quote the scripture too!” As well as sayin “He’s purely manipulative and just saying whatever he thinks will get him in!” “He only wants Sammie!”

I firmly disagree.

Remmick was drawn because of Sam’s music, sure, but folks ain’t payin attention to WHY.

Remmick SAYS that he was THERE when the Christians invaded Ireland, forced their religion and took his father’s land, he also became a vampire leading him to outlive anyone who did make it through the Christian invasion. Remmick, as far as we know, is alone. His culture was erased, his family is dead, he has no one and nothing.

He comes across the Juke, sees folks he KNOWS been through similar shit that he went through, he’s seen this shit before. Hell, in the 1930s I believe the Irish were STILL dealin w BS in the US! Remmick sees their sense of community, their love for one another, he sees/senses Sam’s gift… and he sees folks who got it worse just bc of how they were born.

Remmick seems insulted when accused of being Klan, he’s playful with our main characters- “oh, is it because we’re… :(“ “we’ll walk real slow, in case you change your mind… *glances back*”

Plus… if he ONLY wanted Sammie, he coulda easily grabbed Mary when she walked out and used her as a bargaining chip. He didn’t.

I ain’t sayin he isn’t manipulative, or it was ALL truths.

I’m sayin that it’s entirely possibly that he is meant to be essentially “the road to hell is paved with good intentions.”

He wants a family, and he wants to see HIS family. He sees these ppl who have family, the ability to connect with their ancestors, but who are stuck with having to function within a fucked up society. He sees their desire for true freedom… which he might think he can provide, at the very least in a racially based context.

I think Remmick is meant to be a complicated character in a sense. I think he’s meant to be an example of how dangerous someone can be when they assume to know what’s best for other marginalized communities, and trying to push them into adhering to those beliefs. Personally, I think it’s entirely possible that he’s meant to be an example of the harms of colonization and even oppression in general, and how even victims of these things can “give in” and become what they hate if they’re not careful. If they don’t remain mindful, empathetic, and willing to learn.

Mary

(This is an important place to start I promise)

I’ve seen folks say that they wish she had been a “visibly black, but white passing” woman. This seems to stem from the perspective that “white passing” implies an ACTIVE effort to do so (straightening hair, lightening skin, nose job, etc) instead of simply something someone can be if they don’t happen to take after their more melanated parent/grandparent.

Perhaps it’s because I’ve grown up in a fairly diverse region/school system, but… that has never been what “white passing” truly meant to me. I’ve seen folks of a wide array of skintones, haircolors/textures, eye colors, who still claimed their non-whiteness proudly, and were nearly never chastised against it, at least not once we made it to high school and at least the majority of us seemed to realize that simply being paler than most black folks and having lighter colored eyes didn’t make you white. That’s just bein lightskinned.

The folks who WERE considered “white passing” were people who DIDNT need to do anything to be perceived as such at a quick glance. So, if Hailee had (prominently) green/blue eyes. Otherwise, if any girl at my school looked like her, pretty much everyone woulda been like “ooh girl what are you? Hispanic? No?? Got a lil somethin else in your family tree then, right??” So that’s perhaps why the “visibly black, but also white passing” complaint just… does not make sense to me.

PLUS… Mary is meant to be a naturally white passing woman.

This is IMPORTANT.

She is meant to be fully capable of marrying a rich white man, living amongst white folks, and not getting side eyed by them.

She also doesn’t seem to TRULY accept that she is, naturally, white passing to most folks, ESPECIALLY (and in this context, most IMPORTANTLY) white people, at least at times.

She talks absolutely RECKLESS to Stack at the train station. She loves him deeply, clearly, and yet seemingly doesn’t realize just how DANGEROUS it is for her to even speak to him casually, let alone how she was speaking to him, in broad daylight. Iirc it was said that another (minor) character had been snatched up, strung up, and gotten his genitalia cut off at that station for speaking to a white woman.

Mary later forces her presence at Juke with no thought as to how others there might feel, let alone the potential ramifications of her being connected to that place by (white) outsiders.

THEN, she convinces Stack to let her go talk to Remmick & co, BECAUSE “they’re more likely-“ to talk to her. Because she is white passing.

(Pause, bc I feel this needs to be said- I ain’t blaming her. OBVIOUSLY the vampires were gonna get folks one way or another. People gotta piss, gotta get home, etc. that being said…)

I think it was another intentional choice for Mary to have been the one to go out, to have been the first turned, to have been the “foot in the door” in a sense…

And that’s a shared point between her and Remmick- not necessarily truly realizing the harm one can cause by not being aware of one’s own privileges essentially.

Remmick and Mary both essentially lost their cultures and families. Both wanted those things back. Both risked/caused harm.

Now, I will say- Remmick is 100% a villain. He’s had hundreds of years. He’s seen shit. He’s lost shit. He’s had to carry that weight this whole time. I do think, at the very least, he knew he was causing IMMEDIATE harm & disregarding these folk’s potential desires in favor of his own longterm goals. Those descendants we saw in “I lied to you”? Many will never exist because of what happened that night. Even if they had ALL been turned & lived happy lives w each other, NONE of those descendants would exist.

Mary is more so a more… “direct to life” example of the harm it can cause an individual to be “cut off” from their community, to have to give up their culture, to be left feeling isolated bc they don’t truly fit in anywhere, as well as the harm people can cause when we focus more so on our own wants and needs vs the impact that could have on others.

Remove Remmick, & we could have still ended up with essentially the same exact ending…

Only, this time it’s the Klan members that show up. At the very least the “main family” would likely still have been there, cleaning up. Only this time, Mary might have been the sole survivor… forced to watch her family suffer at the hands of the Klan. At “best” she would have been spared (severe, visible, physical) harm, return to her husband a mysteriously broken woman. At worst…?

NOW, somethin else I’ve seen is folks online talkin about how Mary is proof that folks shouldn’t be with anyone outside of their race.

I disagree with that as well.

Yes, the movie could have ended essentially the same minus the vampires.

But that ain’t because of Mary. REGARDLESS of if Mary was there, the vampires would have found a way. Even without Mary AND without the vampires, the Klan STILL would have came! Mary had nothin to do with them. They were simply racist assholes who did this routinely. Stack’s comment about Juke being “a slaughterhouse”… bc the white folks would sell the shack to black folks, kill them the next day, rinse and repeat.

Mary is not some “bringer of evil.” Sammie wasn’t some “sinful being that brought the devil.”

They’re just hurt people, who wanted to be WITH THEIR LOVED ONES. Just people stuck in a dogshit society, in a dogshit situation, in a dogshit position where no one was gonna win.

Take away the vampires, Mary, and Sam… the fuckin Klan was STILL GOING TO SHOW UP. The twins likely still would have ended up with a decent turnout, plenty of community members there. Plenty of folks JUST wanting a night of freedom, community, fun. Who knows how many would have been gettin scraped off the floor after a few too many at the end of the night? Who knows how many would have stuck around to help clean up the place? Who knows how many might have, at best, only been getting into their cars by the time the Klan arrived?

I NEED people to stop and THINK.

The movie is deeper than “easy” lessons like “don’t mix with others” and “don’t stray from god/the god your preacher talks about.”

Sammie survived BECAUSE of his guitar, because of the SILVER from the guitar. God didn’t save him when he prayed. His father didn’t check on him when he showed up at mass beaten and bloody and traumatized. He left, and went on to become seemingly a successful artist.

Mary and Stack survived the night, and for decades more at least. They’re together, happily, no longer having to hide.

Smoke didn’t survive, but even if you don’t believe in an afterlife, his last moments were happy- he was with Annie and their baby. If you do believe in an afterlife, he is likely STILL with her and their baby, which is what THEY wanted… to be together, with their baby.

No, it’s not a happy ending… not a truly clean and happy ever after type ending at least.

But… the alternative?

Sam giving up his passion, which leads him to settling into a life he clearly ain’t really want if he made it to be old af and still performing.

Mary pretending to be fully white, going her whole life missing the person she TRULY loved, missing her family, having to pretend to be someone she isn’t as well?

The twins? Dead. Established that.

The ending, while not a clean “happily ever after!” Type of ending, still makes it obvious to anyone paying attention that you are better off following your heart.

Sure, we could pick apart “well Mary should have just left with Stack to begin with!” “Sam should have just left to do his own thing at the start!” But… then we wouldn’t have had the movie. We wouldn’t have had these complex characters. We wouldn’t have seen folks make bad decisions yet still in different ways manage to overcome the bad shit.

I feel like, for once, everything happened as it was meant to.

Even Grace hollerin for the vamps to come in, is in line with HER character. When Stack died she ain’t wanna stay, she wanted to dip. She was working at the “whites” store. She doesn’t feel the connection to these people like her husband does. Her welcoming the vamps was bc she didn’t value the folks around her like her husband might have. Smoke lost his brother. They’d all lost pretty much everyone at that point. AND YET, because Grace didn’t have as deep of a connection as her husband to the people, she prioritized her revenge over their LIVES.

Basically: it was an AMAZING movie. There was so much that went into it, into the characters, into the story. Everything felt intentional, everything had MORE to it than what you might have first thought on a surface level. The movie was a genuine work of art, and so much love went into everything.

If you’ve already seen it, but perhaps you were wrapped up in the moment and a lot of this seems new, didn’t occur to you, etc, I definitely encourage you to see it again if you’re able. Even if you still disagree… if you genuinely enjoyed the movie, ain’t any harm in enjoying it again and supporting the creators & actors!

[peterspinkrobe]

Temptation | Priest!Miguel O’Hara x femreader [part 4]

W/C: 7,1k+ Go read the other chapters

Warnings/Rating: 18+. Religious content. Some Spanish. [smut spoilers ahead lol] ~~~~~~~~~~~ Reader has a vagina. Oral (f receiving). Some overstimulation. That’s all, babe.

A/N: so so so sorry it took so long. Thank you for your patience. I got real wrapped up in the chapter and work has been working me. Looking up flower symbolism and shit. Also, turns out the Bible has smut too. The scripture quoted throughout is from Song of Songs 4-7. Let me know what you think. Pic is something I found on Google (shame)

The chill of the evening air reminded the two who stepped into it that August was bleeding into September. Change was in the wind that carried hues of summer - fluttering down from trees that were shedding their warm colors for leaves of yellow, red, and orange gradients. The sun set earlier day by day as autumn approached the little town hidden in the Catskills mountain belt.

As the sun buried itself deeper into the horizon, it cast an expanse of purples and blues on the clouds above the two making their way into the courtyard behind the church. The pair stole away, silently sneaking out a side door, while the others enjoyed their supper inside. They were accompanied only by the statues of winged angels frozen in time - pouring bowls of abundance into the garden.

Wildflowers burst from patches along the walkways as the tall man guides the follower to a bench situated beside a maple tree. He ducked to avoid the overhead branches as he sat down and invited the other to join him there.

Wild Asters sprouted on either side of the bench in large clusters, long stems shooting up petals of white and red. The one still standing admires the stark contrast between the backdrop of the natural world and the seated one’s black clothes and collared neck. No words have been exchanged since they stepped into the open air but the silent invitation of the large hand patting the open space made the other feel tingles, nonetheless.

The black clad man kept his hands in his lap and shot sideways glances at the one beside him. Their nerves caused them to bounce their knees rapidly. The silence and their nervousness was too much for the man to bear. He wanted to calm them down and reassure them that all was well. He placed his large hand on the other’s knee, halting the bobbing leg. The sudden touch caused them to look up at him into the stormy dark eyes that showed nothing but concern and curiosity. He spoke their name and the song brought them back to Earth.

__________________________________________

“Your confession last-” the deacon began, but was interrupted by your nervous apology.

“I’m so sorry that you had to hear all that. I am so embarrassed and I understand if you think I shouldn’t come here anymore. The last thing I want to do is get you in trouble or-.” This time you are interrupted by that large hand squeezing your leg gently. You look down and see the long-sleeved black dress shirt rolled up to his forearm, the muscle there too tight for it to roll up any further. The veins in his arms protrude and you trace one with your eyes that trails up his arm to the back on his hand. His palm envelopes your kneecap and the long fingers create a cage around the joint. You swallow your words and silently curse the clothes separating skin.

“Please… let me finish.” He brought his other hand to his face and pinched the bridge of his nose. He sounded strained, as if he had to get the words out or he would burst. Like the things he had to say were compacted in his skull and caused pressure to build between his eyes. You fell silent again and your eyes darted between the scrunched lids of his eyes.

“Ever since your confession I have been wanting to speak with you. I tried calling after you that day but I know I must have scared you.” Fear wasn’t the primary motive for hauling ass out that church as much as it was shame, but you didn’t want to interrupt him. “And then you weren’t here on Sunday… I realize after your confession that you’re only really here for your mother, but I so wished you were here that day so we could talk face to face.” He continued slightly solemnly.

“I hated that we didn’t get to speak on your struggles further and we weren’t able to close the confession as you deserved. You need to know that I hold no judgment towards you - that session was between you and Him. Everyone's path is different and faith isn’t cookie cutter.” He was so impassioned that when his eyes finally met yours again they lit up with excitement in his explanation.

“I owed a fellow man of the church a favor and I took over his confession shift that day last week. The fact that you came to confession that day… on that day of all days. To you all that may seem serendipitous or coincidental, that you felt that strange urge to release those doubts on the day that I was in the booth, but we in the business like to call that ‘God’s Timing’.” The worry and stress seem to melt away as he talks about your interaction in the booth, very different from the reaction you were expecting. His eyes brighten when you, him, and God are being mentioned in the same breath. He becomes more animated and gestures to the expanse of nature around the two of you.”You were meant to go there that day and say those words, I was meant to be there to hear them, as we are meant to be here now in this garden.”

His chest rises and falls from the excitement he feels. He was certain that this is what is felt to be overcome with the Spirit as he had seen in other churches. For the words to fall out without filters and not hold back the faith. When he lowers his eyes to yours again there is a soft smile in them that matches the one slightly stretching his lips.

“I don’t care if you don’t believe in what I preach,” He says this suddenly and his smile slowly fades into something more serious. “It doesn’t bother me that we don’t share the same faith in Christ.”

Heavy pause follows the revelation and you dare not interrupt him, giving him the time to express himself as he did for you in the booth. The setting sun shines rays into his eyes and they reflect back deep amber irises. Their brilliance bounces across your face like he is studying every inch of it - as if your countenance were a difficult passage in Numbers to interpret.

When he speaks again, you find that you aren't as drunk in the music of his voice. The notes are grounding and almost meditative.

“But what worries me is that you don’t share the same faith in yourself that I do. That you don’t see yourself as worthy of blessings when you are a blessing yourself.” The light chill in the air can’t keep the heat from creeping up your chest and neck. His tone became lighter as he went on.

“You are more than deserving of good things. I know our internal thoughts make us feel otherwise, but I need you to know that what they say to you isn't the truth. We all have personal demons that make us question ourselves.” He tilts his upper half more towards you and his large shoulders jut against the backdrop of maple branches and stirring leaves.

Slowly, so slowly, he slides his hand centimeters up your leg so it’s resting more on your thigh.

“I must also confess that I…” He inhales sharply and releases the words with his exhale, “I’m fighting against every urge in my body to maintain myself when I’m around you.” His brows furrow lightly as his other hand comes to cup your chin again, like he had that first time you’d met. The voice is now the smoky room of a jazz club reverberating lowly in the small distance between the two of you.

“Trying to uphold the principles that have nearly been beaten into me when you are in the same room,” he starts to lean in, “you don’t even have to be in the room, mí vicio, for temptation to threaten the sanctity of my profession.”

He tenses ever so slightly, you feel and hear the hesitation in his touch and voice.

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, or abuse my position..” he starts to pull his hands away, but you quickly grab his hand on your leg and grip his wrist to hold him there. His eyes widen at your response and his mouth hangs open slightly. A pointed canine dipping into his plump bottom lip as you move his hand to cup your cheek.

He brings his face to yours and looks into your eyes again before his stubborn raising escapes his lips, attempting to put his faith before pleasure, “Tell me to stop… tell me we can’t do this.” He presses his lips together and turns his head away a little. The anguish in the words makes you think he might crumble from the war in his mind.

You respond by closing the rest of the gap and pressing your lips onto his cheek. There is an evening shadow of hairs that poke into the soft kiss. He brings his eyes forward to lock back with yours and your noses bump together. Your breathing mixes and his shoulders rise and fall heavily and it seems as if he’s bracing himself with the grip on your leg. The temptation of just being close to you causes his lips to tremble.

“I don’t think you’ll burn in hell if we kiss,” you try to lighten his tension some and he does chuckle as you feel the shaky breathing on your cheeks.

“Funny.” He quips, but he doesn’t say aloud that he’s already burning. His insides are on fire at the feeling of you in his hands. He knows his soul is doomed if fantasy is enough to condemn. He’d burn for the images he’s pictured of you, the positions his imagination puts you in, and for the way his body is reacting to your permissive responses now. The fact that you want this as much as him makes holding back more difficult.

The anticipation that hung from your pout was too much for him and he whispered to himself before pulling your chin up and kissing you.

Just a press of lips against lips. They brushed against each other as your noses moved to accommodate for the space removed. That first kiss was brief, an innocent expression of the brewing affection between you. Yet, it was laden with complex emotions. A small jolt of electricity sparks from Miguel's chest at the kiss and his heartbeat echoed like a drum in his chest.

He was taken aback at how the simple, sweet kiss had made his head spin and when your lips parted he saw your eyes reflecting desire in their haze. Your eyes closed again and allowed your lips to guide the way.

The two of you traded little pecks and pleasure courses through his body. His hand from your knee now held your right hip and the cupped palm now snaked behind your neck and held your head to his as he deepened the kiss. It was harder to hold back as the deacon’s lust, his want, his desire, was too strong. He peaked down through slitted lids at your hands holding the chest of his shirt in fists and grunted against your closed mouths.

Unadulterated passion overwhelmed him and he poked the tip of his tongue to your lips in request. In those cold showers he had taken to try and control his thoughts, he had instead sinfully prayed to feel the inside of your mouth with his tongue, his fingers, and his currently tented dick. Your receptiveness made him nearly whine when you opened your lips in invitation. The buzz in his brain made him lose his inhibitions as he greedily licked into your mouth. He explored your slick cheeks and your tongues clashed together in their first meeting.

As your tongues danced between your mouths, you found that you were the one having to pull away for breath. Father Miguel’s face had reddened from lack of oxygen since he was prioritizing kissing you inside of breathing. His eyes would open halfway, his eyebrows would knit together in a pleading manner, and his pursed lips were swollen when you pulled away. Strands of his dark hair dangled into his forehead. The desperation on his face and in his grip on you was certainly a sight to behold. It was alluring that he was so affected just by kissing, you imagined just how sensitive he must be. It would be a lie to say you weren’t also feeling warmth pool in your belly at the exchange of kisses. You held his face in your hands and your bodies pressed against each other when he wrapped his arms around you. His voice dripped with yearning as he spoke:

“Let me show you how worthy you are…”

The words were a whisper in the wind, a secret kept by the rustling leaves, but they held a vow he intended to uphold.

_______________________________________

Getting away from your mother was surprisingly easy. She was wiped from cooking and everyone was shooing her home, telling her they would handle the clean up. The only real clean up was from the dishes they had dirtied as she had done most of the kitchen keep up as she cooked.

You should’ve been tired too but your mind still whirred from the excitement earlier. The promise of another rendezvous had you eager to volunteer in the clean up. Your mother looked at you again with pride when you told her to go on ahead and that you’d meet her home later after finishing here. If only she knew your true intentions.

Getting Father Miguel away from his parish was another story. You were washing your hands in the kitchen sink as the last of the trash was being taken out. Discretion was attempted as you stole glances at him helping others with their things and wishing them a blessed evening. At one point he catches your eye and his conviction nearly crumbles, but to you he maintains his composure. He gives you the aforementioned signal of a nod and shaky smile and you dry your hands before excusing yourself from one of the church members on your street. You make it seem as though you’re leaving for the night, but head towards the opposite end of the hall when the dining room door closes behind you.

You try to keep your nerves together as you enter the room on the far left end. You try not to think about Father Steen’s name on the door. You try not to hear the innocent farewells and blessings from the other side of the church. You try to look away from the surrounding symbols of sacrifice for sins you were actively committing. You try to calm yourself and your racing mind as you settle in the chair opposite to the one at the desk.

Curiosity temporarily overtakes your other worries when you crane your neck to see the pages that are open on the desk in front of you. It’s obvious what book it is but it’s hard to tell what chapter given it’s upside down, eleven size font, and single-spaced.

You don’t notice the noise completely dying down in the other room as you scan the office. You’ve never actually been in this office so you don’t know what belongs to Father Steen or the deacon. You do recognize the Catholic vestments that were worn by the elder but there was one you hadn’t seen that was separated from the others.

You could tell as you approached that it was much more fancy than the humble ones worn by either of the church heads. Its red satin underside was soft and silky against your inquisitive, yet careful, fingertips. The emerald green top portion was trimmed and detailed in intricate golden lacework. Embroidered red and white flowers weaved with golden stems and darker woven patterns accentuated the colors even further. It was sturdy and seemed handmade as you held the matching stole that hung from the hook beside it.

A knock on the door brought you back to reality and you murmured a ‘come in’. Funny how he was knocking to come into his own office.

He opened the door and walked through the threshold - the top of his head not even an inch away from the frame of the door. He saw you standing by the robes and smiled. He approached you and looked at the robe with you, feeling the fabric himself.

“This chasuble is a Spanish cut. It came from the priest that ran an orphanage in the city and it was a gift to me when he passed.” There’s reverence in his voice as he explains the importance of the robe, and the true weight of the words doesn’t go unnoticed to you. There’s still so much you didn’t know about him.

“Obviously it’s way too fancy for regular service but I always carry it with me. Bring it out for weddings and Easter. Best part? It’s got pockets.” You share a laugh as he wiggles his fingers in a hidden pouch along the inner lining on the front of the robe. He wiggles his eyebrows as well making you laugh more. The sound of it makes him beam at you and you can’t help but feel whiplash from the range of expression he’s given in such a short time.

From a near blubbering mess just from your lips, to this coy attitude now after congregating with his congregation. That tingle returns to your gut at his confident smile and you think of what was going through his mind when you left to come into the office. Did he watch you leave as he shook hands and embraced his newfound flock? Did he feel any impatience with the others who hung on his words? Did he have a change of heart and is attempting to let you down gently? You understood that this was a big No-No in his vocation… maybe post-kiss clarity and being surrounded by the ones trusting his judgment was making him have second thoughts.

Your doubts cause you to speak up, unfortunately spoiling the upbeat mode but you had to make your concerns known.

“I don’t want to make you do something you’ll regret.” His smile fades at the comment as you continue, “you could lose your job.”

He turns towards you from the garments you were admiring.

“Think of the consequences…” you stamper as listens to you, “you could lose the influence and respect you have amongst your fellow brothers in preisthood.” You brace yourself on the chair behind you as you slowly back up past it. He follows you closely.

“Breaking your vows would be a sacrilege.” Your back hits the desk but the deacon still approaches you. “You could be cast out.”

His hands are on your hips and face and your breathing quickens as he leans in, his voice a husky whisper, “For a nonbeliever, you’ve really done your research.”

You know his cocky demeanor is only temporary; when you start kissing again he’ll be back to incoherence. It doesn’t stop you from blushing up at his towering frame.

“Are you sure you want this? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable…” he says and starts to pull away as he had before, so careful not to overstep. Again you put your hands on his chest and it takes everything in you not to squeeze the muscular pecs stretching the front of his shirt.

“I want this. So badly. What I don’t want is you feeling guilty. I know what I want but I also know what is right. I don’t want to be the cause of any turmoil or strain in your spirituality. I’ve caused too much wrong to be the reason you break sacred vows important to you.” You both cling to each other against the desk.

“How could I regret this?” He asks so quietly it’s like he’s asking himself, or silently asking God. “Are matters of the heart to be ashamed of?” The storm in his eyes brewed at the idea of even having to explain himself and his feelings to someone above him in the church. For a man who has never been married, never seen God in the loving embrace of another, to try and tell him what love couldn’t be. How could he be expected to turn away from the act of God placed before him now? How do those in the church not see that to love Him, to truly flourish in His image, is to cherish and admire His other creatures? He scans your face and the hand there moves to gently hold your hands on his chest. How badly he wished to banish any doubt clouding your mind.

“I don’t know how else to explain it other than I have developed a deep connection and affection with you and I wish to learn more, so much more.” His breathing is slightly ragged and you feel the rise and fall under your hands. “Your confession, if you still feel the same, makes it nearly impossible for me to deny this anymore.”

“I cannot deny my feelings and continue to serve the church in a capacity that forbids me from you.” You’re speechless at the words and the abrupt honesty. “I’m making these decisions with my eyes wide open.”

“Deacon, I-“ you begin, but he cuts in to say,

“Please, call me Miguel. Not sure how much longer I’ll be a Deacon after this gets out…” He can’t hold back now that you’re alone so he kisses you because he can. Because there is nothing to hold him back from doing so, and your lips feel so good pressed to his. Hearing you say his name causes a low groan to come from his throat and he parts when you frantically protest against his lips.

“What do you mean? No, no one can know! Not yet… oh my god what would my mom think?! She’d believe I corrupted you, and I have, haven’t I?” Your nervousness and the fact that you were more afraid of the judgment from your mother than that of God Almighty made him chuckle again as he nuzzled into your neck and laid kisses up to your ear.

“Corruption and change are not the same. You have brought about a change in me. While I no longer feel I am the same man I once was before meeting you, I am happy for it.” He moves a hand slowly up your back to cradle your head and he feels like King Solomon taking his Queen to bed in Song of Songs as he kisses your neck.

Your neck is like the tower of David,

built with courses of stone;

on it hang a thousand shields,

all of them shields of warriors.

“Please,” He whispers into your ear and takes the lobe between his lips in a tease, “let me reveal my devotion to you.”

Your only response is your fingers entwining in his hair and a gasp, but it’s enough for him to capture your lips again. This time he wastes no time easing your mouth open with his tongue.

Your lips drop sweetness

as the honeycomb,

milk and honey are under your tongue.

He hasn’t had a woman in his arms like this is such a long time. Excitement overcomes him and his hands aren’t sure where to rest on your body. He wants to learn you only by touch. Allowing himself to be led blindly by faith in your embrace. He cups your breasts over your shirt and moans open mouthed into the kiss. You mewl at the abandonment of restraints you both had been holding yourselves back with. You’re not too lost to the feeling of his hands sliding back down and under your shirt. He traces your spine up and down and grabs at newfound flesh.

“You’re skin… tan suave.” He’s breathless again from the frenzy of kisses and touches he’s covering you in. He nearly loses it wondering how soft the rest of you was. The thought brings his fingers to your bra and he undoes the clasp there. He pulls away to see them fall slightly and his teeth dig into his bottom lip and he nearly growls before pulling your shirt up to reveal the loosened bra still veiling your breasts. His eyes are hungry, but he still asks, “May I?”

You’re frustrated at how long this is taking. Usually this sort of thing is a quick ordeal without all this checking in. You take a deep breath and remind yourself who you’re dealing with. You reassure him with a curt, “No more asking.”

Something snaps in his brain and he’s pulling your bra off and quickly replacing the cups with his own hands. He massages them both, lifting them lightly to feel their weight and admiring how your nipples react to the exposure to air and his fingers. The theories of intelligent, immaculate design are confirmed to him as he gazes at them and appreciates them.

At first, you’re on edge about the intensity in his eyes as he looks over you. Then you realize that you don’t know the last time he’s been with someone and that you just aren’t used to time being taken on you. You attempt to regulate your breathing and relax but when he gently tweaks the buds of your breasts between his large fingers your back arches.

He nearly drools at the sight of your body’s reaction and brings the hardened nipple into his mouth. He swirled his tongue around the tip and caught it in a suckle. You moan and the last thing he sees before your shirt drops over his head is you tossing your head back. He grins devilishly and grazes his teeth over the sensitive nub before moving to give the other some attention. He doesn’t leave it unattended for long when his fingers run his remaining spit over the delicate pucker.

You pull your shirt up and off, discard it somewhere in the room. You couldn’t go any longer without the enticing image of his face in your chest. His lips parted briefly from your right tit so he could mumble, “Dios, me encantan tus tetas…”

The praise and slightly blasphemy of the Lord’s name used in marvel of your body made your head spin. His free hand gripped your hip, then the flesh of your back, ghosting over your soft belly. His fingertips then slip into the hem of your pants and trail fire in their wake. You buck your hips involuntarily and ignore the dig of the desk in your back side.

He pulls away to see your face and the feedback your body gives him. He accepts it eagerly and continues to tease and pull at your pantyline while pinching and pulling at your nipples.

“Please, Miguel-,” The breathlessness in your voice and the flush of your face makes his already hard dick twitch in the restriction of his pants. His name in that sweet, needy tone made him moan out a ‘yeah?’

“I need you.” Your eyes are glazed from the pleasures he’s bestowing upon you. A sheen of sweat shines on your bare chest from the heat of the moment. Your body is on fire and this is only second base. The sensitivity levels of you both were turned up high, but maybe the taboo of it all was causing such an intense reaction. Or maybe you were feeling the same fervent connection he revealed to feel for you. The same string pulling you to one another.

Any resemblance of control fell away from him completely at your pleading pout. His lips crashed down onto yours again and an image of you he’d had in his mind many times flashed and he knew what you needed.

His hand swiftly unbuttons your jeans and the sound of the zipper is in slow motion as he inhales your breathy moans and pleas. His hands move to either side of you and he peels the denim off your burning skin.

He pulls away from you and looks in your eyes as he begins to lower himself. He kisses every inch of newly revealed skin. You’re suddenly feeling slightly self-conscious because you haven’t had a need to do any sort of landscaping for a while. This hadn’t exactly been planned. You look down at your nearly naked body and blush at how he is still completely clothed. You see the dance of his curls as he pulls the jeans off your feet. Then he’s on his knees.

This man of God, in his uniform of black with the white collar slightly askew, knelt before you as if you were an altar to pray to. His hands roamed from your ankles up to your thighs and then down your backside. He squeezes the flesh all over and they never truly settle in one place. He’s intent on learning each curve and dedicating every mole to memory. He catches your eyes and is emboldened by the lust in them so he leans up to press kisses along your abdomen. He murmurs against your tummy at how beautiful you are and how you can stop him at any time. Then, his fingers are hooked around the sides of your panties and he begins to slide them down.

He can’t help but take his time. There were a couple reasons. The first was this was simply too amazing to rush. He’d been in situations like this, and knowing what was coming next excited him. Pulling you out your jeans and spreading your legs brought wafts of your scent into his nose. The aroma was robust and earthy and it drew him in as your panties came down. It had been so long… the smell of your heat made him nearly light-headed but he inhaled deeply. He couldn’t get enough. He had to taste you.

Your panties were still around your knees when he buried his face into your pubic hair and took a deep breath in. You nearly buckled in embarrassment but his arms wrapped around your legs to bring you to his face even more so. He hugged your crotch for a moment and the smells went straight to his cock. It’d been so long since he’d been presented with such a pretty pussy and he had to appreciate the moment.

He pulls you out your panties the rest of the way and pushes you back against the desk. The back of his hand presses to your inner leg and you oblige him by spreading them both for him to get a better look. He sighs as he sits back on his heels and admires the image that has been in his mind for the last couple weeks. The offering of your own communion already glistening from the heavy petting and kissing is more captivating than his imagination could ever be. He paws at the hardness in his jeans and takes a mental image for later.

Motivated by the hunger in his eyes and the way his eyes move in the need to see it all, you start to lose the voice in your head that makes you worry about your body. You bring your hand down and spread your lips a little for him, a little moan escaping you. He nods as if being given instruction and wordlessly brings his mouth to you.

You cry out his name from the touch of his lips to your sensitive flesh. He’s simply kissing the parts you presented to him so graciously. You lean back and brace yourself more on the desk as his hands come up to massage your inner thighs. He moves lower and looks up at you before dragging his tongue slowly up from your seeping pussy to your clit. Your hips buck again and he grins deviously.

The grin and his lewd teasing showed a transformation in the man, as if this part of him laid dormant just beneath the surface of sacredness. His eyes seemed to shift to an alarming red in the lighting. His fingers dug into you like claws. His teeth seemed more pointed when he flashed those wicked grins up at you. He was the one on his knees, but he was the dominant force.

He brought his hands to his new heaven and spread the pearly gates with his thumbs. He blew gently on the exposed, heated skin and you whined from the lack of friction.

Blow on my garden,

that its fragrance may spread everywhere.

Let my beloved come into his garden

and taste its choice fruits.

The stretch of your legs and the wetness that shone between them looked so inviting. He massaged his thumbs up and down, rubbing your lips together and then apart again. His mouth watered at the sight and he licked his lips.

“You’re so wet for me…” he breathed the words before plunging into your waters. The tension, teasing, and time carefully taken on you had driven you crazy but the satisfaction of his tongue on your clit drove you mad. You arched your back and placed your hands on his broad shoulders, the pleasure bringing you to smile and moan in delirium. No longer were you worried about his job, the way you looked, or if he was interested in you as much as you were into him. He was definitely proving that now as he at you out like his last supper.

You surmised that he had to have had some kind of experience with this as you gawk at the expert movements of his tongue. At first, he prodded with the relaxed muscle to test the waters. Now, he was buried into you up to his nose. His tongue would flatten when he wanted a wider range of flavor and you’d feel the large pad lapping you up. Then he would tighten it and drag circles around your clit, sometimes licking into your tightness as if he were starved. He took note of how your body twitched when he pushed his tongue inside you to taste the velvety smoothness of your tight walls. He saw how you jerked with too much stimulation on your delicate bud. He groaned at the sight of your body moving above him, the way your hair hung in your face. The vibration of his convulsing tongue inside you as he groans makes you toss your head back and chant Miguel, Miguel,…

Fueled by the mantra of his name, Miguel goes back to swirling around your clit. He decided his tongue isn’t long enough to feel as deep inside you as he’d like and pushes his middle finger into you halfway. The promise of penetration causes you to grind on the finger and consequently onto his face as well.

He’s sometimes closing his eyes as if he’s in prayer while consuming communion. But the buck of your hips and your weight shifting down on him made his eyes snap open so he could watch your immodesty through lustful eyes. He pulled as you pushed, maintaining the single digit only halfway. He wanted to take his time feeling you and becoming acquainted with what you had so graciously offered to him. When he pulls away from you to speak, the sight of his puffy lips and chin shining with your wetness nearly makes you fall forward.

“Be patient, please,” his voice drips with desperation, “it’s been so long.”

You let out a low whimper but complain no further when he wraps his lips around your clit again and starts moving his finger inside you deeper, finally. You arch your back and your fingers entangle in his hair.

Your light pulling on his hair pulls another moan out of him and he can’t help but rub the underside of himself as he pleasures you. Your wet noises make him want to bathe in your scent and sleek walls. Your moans make his cock twitch in his tightening pants. He flattens his tongue on your swollen clit and languidly licks around and at it directly. He greedily adds another finger so he can gauge just how tight your opening is, but has to ease it in slowly as you cry out.

“Ooh, so tight.. so wet..” He murmurs against your slick as he wiggles the two fingers inside you. “Todo para mí?” This could easily be interpreted as coy, but the tone is earnest. He truly feels blessed with the gifts you’ve so graciously given. He flicks the tip of his cock over the pants as he sweeps his fingers to graze a particularly delicate spot inside you. As soon as his fingers touch that bumpy groove you see stars in your vision. The direct stimulation to your most sensitive space and this new sensation was nearly overwhelming.

“Miguel, ‘s too much.” You pant and attempt to push him off for some reprieve.

He lifts his head with worry in his eyes. His fingers straighten and pump inside you at a grudgingly slow pace. The slightly sweaty strands of hair stick to your thighs as he gently rests his head on it. Leaning on his devotion.

“I just want to make you feel good.” His eyes trail back to watch the way your pussy clings to his fingers when he pulls them out slowly. He seems entranced with the way you stick to his fingers even when they aren’t inside you. You look down to watch the lewd scene and see just how hard his cock is and how he’s got a grip on it through the clothes he’s still fucking wearing. “As good as you make me feel.”

You melt at the words and when his thumb comes up to press around your glistening pearl. He slid it across the top, just above the screaming bud, as if flipping through the thin pages of the Good Book. He ghosted over the area you found tried and true when you were doing this alone and your body, your voice let him know.

He slides his fingers back inside, unable to hold back any longer. His pace is shaky at first, but becomes stable again.

“Mmm, is that good for you?” He begins rubbing small circles in the spot you so beautifully inclined him towards. You nod and moan in response and then he asks you something that nearly knocks you off the table:

“Will you please cum for me?” He asks between heavy breaths that feel warm on your slit. He wondered how you looked, felt, smelled, sounded, and moved when you orgasmed. When he first placed that wafer in your mouth he wanted to be the reason that it happened. He wanted his name to be the one you called out. “Fuck, I need you to…” the curse and the words from the holy man made your insides twist and burn. The steady driving into your core and thumb on that sweet spot causes you to close your eyes and roll your hips with the rhythm.

He says your name and your eyes snap open again.

“Look at me.”

The way his large body slumps between your legs and the background of Catholicism surrounding the two of you hits a dirty switch in your brain and you’re nearing the edge. He can tell by the tightening of the muscles in your thighs and the way they nearly straighten out to give yourself more purchase.

“Just like that. You’re so close aren’t you, tell me.” You cry out a yes!! through your gaped mouth.

“Cum f’me, please. Cum for me just like this. Just for me.”

The words, the perfect pace of his fingers, the way he’s looking up at you… you reach your climax and fight to keep your eyes open as he asked.

Through your lashes you see that he’s grinning up at you. Your slick still on his mouth and stringing between his lips. The type of grin that shouldn’t be on a priest’s face. That’s two things that shouldn’t be on his face now as he licks around his pumping fingers to devour the flow of juices he’s poured out of you.

Your thighs clench around his head and your body spasms, he pulls his mouth away to look up at you between the trap of your thighs.

“Yesss, just like that you look so good. Such a good girl.” He mumbles with a mouth full of your slickness.

He moves his thumb off the hood of your pulsing nub to not overstimulate you, but his fingers remain inside you. The way you pulsed and squeezed around him mesmerized him. He matched the pulses to the grip on his length in a futile attempt to simulate the intoxicating spasms brought onto you by just his hands.

He tries to memorize the heartbeat of your warm burrow as it begins to ease on your come down. He’ll try to emulate the sensation later - on himself - but he knows and dreads the fact that it would not compare to the readied womanhood presented to him. He bites his bottom lip and groans.

You notice how he holds himself and you can’t pull your eyes away from the tent he’s holding back in his pants. Your arms, still a little shaky, move down and you grab his face. You pull a little and he obliges and stands again. He snakes his large arms around your naked body and doesn’t seem to care about any mess you might leave on him. You pull his face to yours and kiss him. His puffy lips are warm against yours and when your tongues touch you taste yourself and feel another coil form in your gut. You pull away and tell him, in a raspy voice,

“I need you. All of you. Please?” Encouraged by your orgasm, you reach your hand down to grab the erection that’s been begging for you.

He hissed your name through his teeth at the sensation and grabs your wrist. He was already embarrassingly close to his own orgasm after having watched you and toyed with himself. Your grip on him made his knees nearly buckle.

His protest made you worry and your arm seized in its place. You let go of him and stare up into his eyes to see where you went wrong with him.

“What’s wrong, Miguel?” The concern in your voice makes him bore his eyes into yours.

“Nothing, no, nothings wrong. You did nothing wrong. I do want this, oh God, you don’t know how badly…” It’s almost as if he’s gasping the words. Your touch, it set him on fire. But, he didn’t think he should, or could, have you the way he really wanted. Not now. Not here. “There’s something you should know. It’s not embarrassing for me, but it’s important you know.”

The seriousness in his tone has you scanning his face for any more information. He says your name and then reveals the truth and you’re left speechless. His tone is matter of fact, the words shocking.

**

**

**

“I’m a virgin.”

You are a garden locked up;

you are a spring enclosed,

a sealed fountain.

Taglist: IT WONT LET ME TAG MORE THAN 50 I’m crying I’m so sorry I’ll try commenting tagging the rest

@soniajustneedssimping @venusisajpeg @cassidysbbg @haveclayeveryday @fishtail111 @sirbird @thecrowstears @elizzybeth-2005 @tayleighuh @crispypugfs @trashcansally @cheezit-luv3rr @marsout @eliiilamar @hamuuko @jagawriterr @oharaswifexx @limenysnocket @xthejazzdalorianx @y0mill @livingmeat @stranded-dream @its-oevy @be-be-la-la @jxylxx @usagijoestar @queenofroses22 @zaunsin @ceoofmiguel @otomebois @fairycwhores @killakungfu-wolfbitch @buffalolover10177 @jaywalksalloverme @jalxnnie @deepinballs @vomitsama @aurora-burrow @wlalspj @tieonatrenchcoat @cicato @firstghostempathtaco @yallhearsm @mumbi-222 @carmenxhuuuu @dv-ocean-blog @multi-fandom-chick-blog1 @jellybeansupmyass @cheyjellyfish @elyissly @laikve @coffeejellypng @staycgoindown @variouslyalloya @redflame5975 @botchedlove @thatoneenchilada @buck-uwu @donnie-spectacular

Chapter 5? It might take some time tho…

[talonabraxas]

“I am not what happened to me, I am what I choose to become.” ― Carl Gustav Jung Ascended Master Mary Magdalene Talon Abraxas

Mantra: "I embrace Mary Magdalene’s unconditional love and wisdom."

Mother Mary desires to make her presence known.

“I have returned to the consciousness of humanity in order to set all of my children free and to assist in the creation of a world in which my children are safe.

I am here in gratitude to those who have made great sacrifices to help others particularly those who have given up so much to save my children throughout the multiverse who have been held captive by the evil ones. You have earned a special place in the kingdom of paradise and a special place in my heart.

I send great healing energy to all of my children from my heart and tell you the worst of the scourge of evil is over. I am here to help set you free with my radiant love and healing frequencies.

For all those who accept my gift to you, I place three long stem thornless red roses at your feet. The healing energy and fragrance from these roses surround and fill your physical body and your energy field with a protective frequency of unconditional love.

This unconditional love and light energy from my heart held within these special roses heals you on all levels and layers of your beings assisting you in letting go all you desire to that is in the way of your full healing.

This letting go of unessential and unwanted energy will enable you to experience a life of love and of peace. These are your birth rights given to you by the Creator. You may claim these by commanding they are returned to you.

You are now living in the days when the Creator’s love and light is restored upon the earth. Beings of great light will arrive from the heavens for you to see. Do not be afraid as these beings are emissaries of the Creator here to assist humanity in establishing a new world of love and peace, one in which the old ways of suffering are washed away.

As always I and the Father are with you. My love for you is unconditional and has no bounds. I am Miriam, Mother Mary.”

From: lightworker4444

[hibou088]

This perfectly describes what Christianity is REALLY about : finding and developing the Light / the Christ within yourself. This stems from anagogia, which is the interpretation of a word, passage, or text (as of Scripture or poetry) that finds beyond the literal, allegorical, and moral senses a fourth and ultimate spiritual or mystical sense. Jesus was never meant to be worshipped, He was a Yogi / Saint who taught his followers the way to reach God ! He never expected people to worship Him ❤️ Only worship the God that is within your own self, nothing else. God is not outside of you, It is inside.

[canthandlethishit]

Batfam’s handwriting headcanons!!

Alfred (right handed): cursive, normally neat and kind of flowery calligraphic(?) (he usually write the gala, party invitations for worthy guests himself), his notes are written just as neat but the letters are more narrow and tilted to the right.

Brucie (left handed): writes in cursive, bubbly letters, flowery, extravagant with endless numbers of loops and stems, big flourishes (picture light yagami writing) watching him write is a performance itself (near impossible to read, looks like an art piece from afar)

Bruce (self-trained ambidextrous, favors his left though is equally efficient with both hands): rounded print (for notes in reports), and cursive (for personal writings), he’d had some influence from alfred so theres a little extra in his writing like an extra curve, stem (ie: his i’s & t’s got lil hooks, his v as a downward stem at the end), but its overall quite minimalistic and tidy, there’s sufficient force on the paper.

Batman: doesn’t write >:( computer <- duh (if he really has to like idk the riddler forces him to write sth he would in caps block letters very strong straight lines, almost like excessively forced and he also place his pinkie on the pen/pencil to further deter identification, he switches hands every time to keep people off-track)

Dick (trained ambidextrous, favors his right, naturally right-handed until robin): cursive quick and kind of messy but still eligible writing, he’s used to taking quick notes (cop job), his letters are jaded, pointed (ie: his b’s are written like music notes, not rounded). he uses average force when writing (dents the paper but not through multiple pages), his letters’ spacing are nonexistent they overlap a bit, his words narrowly apart.

Jason (circumstantial ambidextrous, favors his right, his left handwriting is still neat, not as pretty as his right’s): cursive, his handwriting experienced several metamorphosis, he was left handed by birth & mother’s teachings, then at school he was taught write right-handedly. His writing was somewhat neat minimally scratchy, letters joined with loops, generous spacing. during his time with bruce he copies writing styles from his favorite authors (look up Jane Austen), Alfred and ends up with a very distinct, tilted to the right, beautiful scripture, some loops (Mary Shelly), long y’s and consonants. Post-death, he still got a nice handwriting, just less of the pizazz, the flare of personality bleeding through ink, its more tamed, still slanted, he doesn’t take as much care to force distribution (calligraphic way) but it just became more subtle, not completely gone.

Cass (ambidextrous, writes left handed): print, when first asked which hand she’d like to learn to write with she chose left, she didn’t learn to write ambidextrously. clean yet a bit weirdly spaced, she dots her i’s and cross her t’s after whole sentences. She likes making capital first letters of her text flowery like brucie’s, its amusing how out of place it looks.

Tim (self-trained ambidextrous, born left handed, writes with both hands interchangeably): cursive, young tim researched on lots of encryption, alternative writing systems. he take notes in shorthand’s, his handwriting is fairly eligible but frequently misses letters from words (ie: handwriting -> hdwritig). his lines are slanted downwards, narrow spacing overall.

Steph (trained ambidextrous, writes right handed, batman’s ambidexterity training for her hadn’t reached handwritings): mixed, her handwriting alternates between really messy and scratchy and more eligible curvy with sharp ends to her words (when writing lift pen up fast, bigger hand movement, picture a tame and hinged light yagami). Her lines tilt upwards from left to right. her writing’s eligibility depends on her mood, what she is writing.

Duke (right handed, trained ambidexterity but opted out of handwriting training): mixed, his letters are rounded and evenly spaced, fairly neat but scrawls when he’s in a rush (makes more sharp loops, longer curls at the ends, more connected words). his letter have thin loops, sometimes subconsciously dots his i’s with crescents. his lines tilt upwards slightly in the middle (he prefer to keep his lines straight so he take notice and fixes them).

Damian (natural ambidextrous, favors his left for arabic and his right for english): cursive, strong neat strokes, clean writing, clear appropriate spacing. its almost a font, print-like from how consistently he writes. His signature on his arts is more rounded with a bit of lilts and curves (the end of his m curve like the symbol for scorpio zodiac sign). His personal diary/journal writing is softer, his paragraphs more densely packed, the first letter of each entry are more ornate than the rest (loops, curves, tiny doodles)

note: handwriting style main variety are these

these headcanons are based on handwritings of people in my life & myself :)! not based on graphology (during my search for specific adjectives and vocabularies i came across some graphology & writing analysis articles and found them to be kind of mean & biased, rude etc so just clarifying im basing these hcs on my friends and family’s)

[beloved-child]

after studying the bible more and realizing how much dangerous ideology stems from horrible bible misinterpretations, i've learned how important it is that people not only have access to but are allowed by their congregation to find good, reliable recourses to information about scripture that are based in historical context and account for translations. to insist that the bible is straightforward isn't only inaccurate but opens up the opportunity for people to make excuses for horrible prejudices in the name of God. if the bible was straightforward we wouldn't need people to dedicate years of their life studying it. i used to be so afraid to study the bible. i was worried that my doubts would be confirmed, that i would see justifications for the hate i was seeing put out by so many large swaths of the Christian community. but dissecting scripture has only brought me closer to God and has shown me how far His love extends.

[boredtechnologist]

Trauma Center: New Blood - “The Miracle of the Scalpel: When Flesh is the Last Lie”

“There are only two worlds: one before the incision, and one after.” - Markus Vaughn, unknowingly

Theology of the Artery: Where Prayer Fails, the Scalpel Reigns

In New Blood, God is not dead - He’s been sterilized.

Valerie and Markus do not walk into the operating room as saviors. They walk in as priests of decay, forced to perform sacrament without belief. Their “Healing Touch” isn’t divine. It’s desperate. Time halts, the blood flows backward - but only long enough to make the dying wait a little longer.

There is no resurrection here - only prolongation. Surgery is not salvation. It is ritual. A forced liturgy in the cathedral of the body, where instead of Eucharist, you offer local anesthesia and laser cauterization. What you save doesn’t stay saved. It just forgets it's dying - for now.

Stigma: The Gospel of Self-Inflicted Plague

Stigma - the viral antagonist - is not just disease. It is retribution. It is consequence. Markus helped create it. And like every Atlus anti-hero, his redemption arc is a weapon turned against himself.

Stigma is not evil. It’s answer. Not punishment from God, but the autoimmune response of reality to human arrogance. GUILT in Under the Knife was terrorism. Stigma is theology. Flesh becomes the scripture, and each mutation is a verse in the Book of the Failed God.

It doesn’t spread. It teaches.

It teaches that the divine cannot be bypassed with scalpels. That evolution itself is a curse disguised as innovation. That healing is nothing but domesticated heresy.

Caduceus: The False Church of Clinical Grace

Atlus always plays with institutions. In Persona, it’s the school. In Catherine, the bar. In New Blood, it’s the hospital - but one wired into global surveillance, military research, and biotech theocracy. Caduceus is a church that wears latex gloves and names its saints after pathogens.

The doctors are not believers. They are sinners begging for one more moment of false control. The OR is a confessional. The beeping monitor, a metronome of guilt.

You are not curing the sick. You are delaying judgment.

The Incision as Sin: Where Persona Lies, New Blood Cuts

In Persona 3–5, trauma is resolved through confrontation. Shadows defeated. Palaces collapsed. The inner world becomes negotiable.

In New Blood, there is no inner world - only inner organs.

When you open a chest cavity, there are no dreams. No metaphor. Just rot. New Blood refuses to lie to you. The Persona protagonists want to believe the soul can be healed. Markus and Valerie know the soul isn’t even in the body anymore. It left years ago, quietly, while they were suturing someone else's regrets.

Echoes of Other Atlus Worlds

Baroque taught us that guilt becomes architecture. In New Blood, guilt becomes diagnosis.

Shin Megami Tensei III dissolved morality in a vat of magatama and asked: What replaces the soul when it’s burned away? In New Blood, that replacement is sterile, coded, and inscribed with liability waivers.

13 Sentinels gave us simulations of flesh. New Blood gives us the consequence of touching it.

Catherine feared consequence. New Blood delivers it - in real time, with medical-grade accuracy.

The Healing Touch is a Lie

It’s not a miracle. It’s denial in bullet time.

Your divine gift lets you pause time, not transcend it. You can suture veins and extract tumors. But you cannot fix why they exist. You cannot heal what humans become when they stare too long into the microscope and decide they can rewrite the Book of Genesis with stem cells and scalpels.

Final Cut: The Gospel of Flesh Ends Here

In New Blood, Atlus says: You wanted to fix the world? Here’s a ribcage. Open it.

There’s no Persona to fuse. No heart to win. No god to summon. Just meat. Failing. Always. And you.

A doctor with trembling hands and a god complex. An apostle of antiseptic failure.

The lights dim. The monitors wail.

This is your Mass.

And you perform it with a scalpel.

[rosammmystica]

hi, beautiful!! I’d like to hear more about the ways your practice differs from a more purist filianic one. it makes for such lovely experiences 🩷

Well. I never before tried to make an actual rundown, so let me think about this one...

The first and most obvious one, traditionally it is rare for orthopraxic Filianism to include magic, and we are practicing witchcraft here. In my view, magical impact is just something we are capable of, and whether it is the right full time practice for the individual is deeply personal - but that, broadly, it is a force of the same nature as love that courses through all of us.

Secondly, I view the traditional Filianic scriptures in the same line as any other, that is, an expression of someone's understanding of and interaction with divinity, and some of the biases of the authors certainly lean in a different direction form mine.

From this stems the fact that, for example, when I speak about Mother Mary and Mary the Magdalene, I have in mind, to varying degrees, their iconography, themselves as mystical feminine divine figures, avatars taken on by Godhood for us to be able to perceive Her message, and the holy women of Abrahamic and folk traditions, with appropriate ritual as far as it pleases them. To negate that, to me, is to negate the ways in which Dea has been unveiling Herself to the hearts that may see throughout history, it is to imagine that we are the first to get Her love and her message right. Divine love has been here. If it is now, it always has, and we have always experienced it in various ways.

My understanding of kear, or sin, or however one may call it, is much less a story of redeeming the fallen world, as well, as it is a story of opening its eye to the love and grace that inevitably shows itself through every crack and separation. It in itself is a blessing, our ability to turn evil (and that is honestly a thealogical hill I will die on) - we numb ourselves to pain and injustice and learn to benefit from it, because to acknowledge it sometimes would be too much to bear. A cut turns into a scar, malformed but wanting nothing more but to continue protecting the sensitive flesh underneath. Our own design, according to our Mother, reduces our sensitivity and builds a shield of aggression and dissociation when aggravation is too much and too constant.

It is just what Dea truly wants for us, what She has created the Universe for, is to be a chorus of Her joy, a kaleidoscope stemming from Her Radiance, to share it with us. So She gives us ways to love more, and to love more truly. That is all there is to redemption.

Something that is more a community habit than a tenet of the faith, but I am really not very prone to roleplaying an ideal world without all the icky things. It is hard for me to reconcile it with following God who actually loves us here and now, icky things and all.

[deconstructingchabad]

holy crap I didn’t know Chabad was messianic… they send us (shitty) matzah every year

Shavua Tov!

I think I should clear some things up:

-When I say "Messianic" on *this* blog, I generally refer to the belief within Chabad that Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson is the Mashiach (a prophetic figure within Jewish scriptures that is said to bring about an age of prosperity and peace and end the Roman Exile), despite being dead since the 1990s.

-"Messianic Judaism" is something else entirely. It is a Christian denomination claiming to be Jewish. Their Messianism is the belief in Jesus of Nazareth is the Mashiach. Christianity stems from a Messianic cult during the Second Temple period that believed a Judean man named Yeshu (Jesus) was Mashiach.

Chabad is not a Christian denomination. Not at all. They are Jewish in origin and are still Jewish and regarded as such by the Jewish community by and large (except for a few fringe leaders). Even if they weren't considered Jewish, they would not be considered *Christian*.

I don't know if that's what you thought, anon, but I just wanted to clear that up.

I believe that Chabad is a cult within Judaism that displays Messianic beliefs about Rabbi Schneerson. They are completely different from "Messianic Judaism", which is a Christian denomination entirely and not at all related to Chabad.

Messianism as a term just refers to the belief in an end-of-times, utopian age, usually brought on by a single, named individual. This can be found within Christianity, famously, but can be found within any religious group, or really any group (accelerationist leftists, in my opinion, also display Messianic beliefs, for example).