#each of them is a chapter of religious scripture

[manorinthewoods]

I am wanted across seven dimensions, turns out. Futures, otherworlds, afterlives, other timelines, they all want my head. It's very strange. Luckily for me, reality's a pretty big place, and with all of the world-hopping I've gotten up to, nobody's managed to catch me yet.

So I've been doing research. My nature as a criminal seems to be well-known - most governments aware of the wider septaverse know that I need to be apprehended and brought to the court of Deus, the Stillborn, Hallowed Be The Holy Paradox, etc. etc. (I don't want to recite seven chapters of religious scripture right now.) But there doesn't seem to be much information about why. I assume there's probably spells laid on the concept of myself to prevent me researching whatever crime landed me this fate, since I can't imagine everyone would comply with the various holy orders for my arrest if they didn't have a reason. As it stands, those commands still seem to be weirdly binding. Godless dark lords from worlds dangerously close to Faerie still plan to turn me in.

I've gone through a lot of hypotheses. I might be the subject of some sort of sacred hunt, needing to be captured for the fate of the world or for some prophecy or something. This seems plausible to me. It's also possible I managed to access some sort of third dimension of time, and from there damage the timeline in such a way that the evidence of my crime was itself destroyed. That's happened before, and Deus evidently maintained knowledge of the event. Maybe I'm the subject of some sort of deific filing error, but Fate doesn't make mistakes (unless you stray far enough from the Throne of Heaven that you reach somewhere with total free will - and if I'd gotten to Faerie or Earth, I wouldn't have come back).

Escaping Fate's grasp, accessing a dimension nobody else has found, or being part of some prophetic hunt at the center of Fate's design are all pretty large-scale. It's far more likely that my own memory has been damaged somehow, causing me to forget the nature of my crimes. This is what I've been researching for sixty-odd years. (I say 'odd' because, given the amount of time-travel I've done, I'm coming dangerously close to unsticking from Time and turning into an angel.) Yet, no matter how deep I delve, how secret the oracle I find is, they can't dredge up anything incriminating.

My ultimate conclusion: something is preventing me, possibly ontologically, from learning what's going on. There might be some sort of cloak on my perception so I don't notice incriminating information. Maybe God needs me to feel I'm being unjustly persecuted for some inscrutable goal. Maybe it's part of His game with Fate.

Honestly, I'm tired of all of this. And I can't keep running forever. I'm losing my place. Too much time-travel, too many alternate dimensions. I can't keep track of it all. Every time I try to record my journeys, the book turns to eldritch gibberish and becomes a magic artifact anyway. I've tried six times, and I think they were all the same book. I don't know if Time works when I'm around. I don't know where I started. I don't really know why I'm here. I remember things that haven't happened, sometimes. Haven't happened yet? I don't know. I've gone too far, descended too deep, to the place where you've done everything, where the timelines spiral to infinity, every action at once, so none of them matter.

This is what goes through my mind when I relinquish my hold on the thousand reasons I was journeying on the fringes of space, and go to the center. To Heaven.

Heaven is... hard to describe. It's not bad, at least. Nothing about Heaven is really bad. It's just... strange. You stop really seeing the dimensions. It's a single point, but also a seven-dimensional star extending outwards until it fades into the Astral. There's so many people there, filtering from every universe, every afterlife, and they're somehow all... ideal. Ascending, forever, into ever greater forms of their souls, until they become transcendent, one of the infinity of forms alien and mind-shatteringly beautiful that swims in the sea of Deus' cloying, radiant blood.

At the center, the Throne. It seems so small, and yet so large. Deus lies within that cradle, still, grey, the holy form of God, born dead, acting without care for His own nonexistence. And even I - persecuted by His holy will! - still bow, and whisper a prayer, because nothing else compares to Deus. And as I approach, the cradle is a universe, the cradle is Heaven, the cradle is for a giant, a dwarf, the cradle is normal-sized. As I pass under it, the cradle is a grand court, unimaginably large yet infinitely tiny compared to the universes it administrates. It is a court and a throne-room and it is nothing and everything. The cradle holds the cradle within itself. And Deus sits there, formless and of many forms.

Deus opens His mouth, and what emits is presumably my name, twisted through seven dimensions and constituting a failed universe in itself. I can tell that it has been ruined beyond repair.

"You are accused of trespassing upon the houses of Time and Fate, of e + πi counts of assault and battery against Time, of non-ordained theft of 32 sacred objects, disrupting 70 deities and entering 132 sealed worlds..."

He speaks for a very long time. I'm not sure how long. I am at the origin point of the universe, and here, dimensions collapse in on themselves to a point. I don't think time really exists in Heaven, in any dimension. So He might speak for an hour, a minute, a kalpa, thirty picoseconds. In fact, all of those, simultaneously, might have been the time He took. I know only that it is a very long list, and that none of those charges were His true purpose.

"Your existence as a distinct soul is an aberration to Time. You refute two of the Seven Names by having ever existed. You are a violation of the iron laws of all universes. What say you in your defense?"

"I have -"

And I want to say more. How I still don't know what I've done wrong. How I don't know if I ever committed a crime. How I don't know if my currently apparently criminal state is the result of God persecuting me for crimes I hadn't yet committed, thus causing me to commit them. I have a lot of very angry things to say to God, about how utterly exhausting it is to run all over Creation just to escape His powers, but I can say none of them, because Deus knows. Deus always knows. I could say one word and He would understand. So I do not say anything. I only wonder whether I even have a choice in the matter, or whether Fate has touched Her skeletal finger to my thread in the tapestry.

"You are judged." It is final. The trial could have lasted a millenium, for all I can tell. The sentence echoes, and the echoes are that millenium, uncountable arguments, debates, internal and external, God questioning me, me questioning God, God questioning Heaven, me questioning Heaven, Heaven questioning God, Heaven questioning me, God questioning God, me questioning me. And yet, in His mercy, where there was a trial shaped like a universe, God took it and God looked at it from another angle, and so instead of an eternity, it was merely...

...

I realise, suddenly, what my sentence is to be. God has not said it, but the knowledge permeates the air. It is a chill wind.

My thoughts end -

You are a criminal wanted by multiple planets, various afterlives, across several different timelines. Yet, you have no idea why. You have never tried to committed any crimes to your knowledge.

[mushynka]

𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐋𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐞𝐬 #𝟐

Chapter 2/3

Previous part

!This story contains themes of child abuse, religious fanaticism, emotional trauma, and graphic psychological distress. Reader discretion is advised. This chapter is not suitable for younger audiences or sensitive readers! The events and characters in this fic may differ from those presented in the canon. English is not my native language. I apologize for any mistakes.

Chapter II: Wolf In Sheep's Clothing

The light didn’t reach the cellar.

It barely reached Victor anymore at all.

He had lost count of the days—time stretched and shriveled in the dark like old skin. The damp air clawed at his lungs. The stone beneath him seeped into his bones. Somewhere above, life continued in muffled voices and bootsteps, but here, under the floorboards, the world had no mercy.

The child was maybe nine. Maybe ten. In the dark, he didn’t know his own age—only his own hunger.

“The devil has appetite” his father had said, dragging him by the arm, a rusted key biting into his palm. “He feeds on weakness. And I will not let you feed it anymore.”

Then the door slammed. The bolt turned. And Victor was left alone.

The cellar stank of mildew and rot. Rats scratched in the corners. Water dripped from the ceiling like a metronome to his misery. No blanket. No candle. No kindness. And worst of all—no food.

† † † † † † † † † † †

He used to cry. Loud at first. Screams, even. Then quieter. Then not at all.

Now he simply sat with his knees to his chest, arms wrapped tight, as if he could hold himself together when no one else would.

The hunger twisted in him like a snake. It had its own voice now—low, slithering, coiling between his ribs.

The monster is hungry.

His stomach growled so hard it hurt. His claws—it had been days since they came out—itched just beneath the skin. He used to try to push them back in. Hide them. But in the dark, they were the only sharp thing he had.

Sometimes he whispered. “Mama...”

He didn’t expect an answer.

But sometimes—only sometimes—he heard the softest creak above him. A footstep. A sigh.

And once... her voice.

“Elisabeth” his father had warned. “Leave him. He hasn’t learned yet.”

“He’s freezing down there” she had whispered.

“And that’s where his soul will stay if we do nothing. He was born of sin. You know that.”

A silence.

Then the footsteps retreated.

† † † † † † † † † † †

Victor sniffled, rubbing his nose against his sleeve. It was runny, chilled. His breath came in wheezes.

A week ago, or maybe longer, he had curled up in the corner and woke up in a puddle of his own sweat and shivers. His body ached. The cold had crept in and nested in his chest. Now, every few minutes, a sharp huhh-Gktschh! would explode out of him, sneezes shaking his ribs. Each one worse than the last.

He didn’t even say bless me anymore.

There was no one to hear.

The cellar wasn’t just damp. It was cruel.

Upstairs, the fire burned. Food simmered. Plates clinked. And Victor’s father read scripture aloud as if the sound would purify the walls themselves.

“The boy is possessed” Samuel would say to the air. To God. To Elisabeth. “You saw what he did. The claw marks on the barn walls. He mutilates animals when the moon is high. He speaks to shadows. He is not our son.”

Elisabeth would nod. And nod. And never look him in the eye.

She loved her child. That much was true. But she feared the man she had married more than the devil himself.

Samuel Creed was not merely a father. He was a prophet in his own mind—chosen by God to tame the beast his loins had unleashed. His eyes gleamed with a fanatic’s clarity. Everything he did was justified by a verse, a passage, a commandment carved not in stone but in bruises.

He did not strike Elisabeth every day. But when he did, he made it count.

And after each blow, he knelt to pray.

“Forgive me, Lord” he’d whisper. “Forgive me for loving the unclean.”

One night, Elisabeth tiptoed to the cellar.

She held a candle. She wasn’t sure why. She knew the light wouldn’t make it through the cracks.

“Victor” she whispered.

No answer.

She crouched by the trapdoor. “Are you awake?”

A weak voice came back. “Mama... I’m cold.”

She closed her eyes.

“I know, baby.”

“Please... can I come out now?”

She gripped the edge of the trapdoor so hard her knuckles went white.

“Not yet. Not... not yet. He’s still awake.”

A pause.

“I’m hungry.”

Tears ran down her cheeks.

“I’ll... I’ll bring you something. I promise. But you must be quiet. If he hears, he’ll...”

A shadow moved in the hall.

She stood, blowing out the candle, swallowing her sobs.

The silence returned.

Victor lay back, coughing. His head throbbed. His chest rattled. When he sneezed now, it echoed.

The sound of his misery.

And then came the hunger again.

The monster is hungry.

When the door finally opened, it was not his mother.

Samuel stood in the light.

Victor squinted, eyes raw.

“You still alive down there?” Samuel’s voice was cold.

The boy didn’t answer.

“You been thinking about what you are?”

Victor sniffled. “I just want to come out.”

Samuel stepped down into the cellar, holding a bucket of cold water and a sack of oats.

He set them on the floor just out of reach.

“You want food?”

Victor nodded eagerly, rising to his knees. “Please...”

Samuel smiled.

“Then earn it.”

He reached into his coat. Pulled out a leather strap.

The beating was slow. Measured.

“For every sin” Samuel said, “a stripe.”

Victor cried out only once. Then again. Then not at all. Pain became his language.

When it was done, he was allowed a handful of oats and a splash of water.

The rest Samuel poured onto the floor.

“Drink it off the stone, like animal” he said. “That’s what you are.”

Victor did.

Because the monster was hungry.

Later, curled in the corner again, bleeding and bruised, Victor whispered a word he’d heard in church but never understood.

“Mercy.”

It tasted like a lie.

† † † † † † † † † † †

One night, the cellar flooded.

A storm hit hard and fast, water pouring through the cracks in the foundation. Victor woke to his body soaked, shivering. His nose was blocked. His chest burned. He sneezed until it hurt.

“Mama” he whispered hoarsely.

No answer.

He wasn’t sure if he was dying. He hoped, maybe, he was.

Because if this was what life was... maybe it wasn’t for him.

But the next morning, the door creaked again.

And for a moment, warmth.

Elisabeth.

She knelt beside him, tears pouring down her cheeks. She touched his face, so gently, as if she might break him by accident.

“You poor, poor thing” she whispered. “Oh, my baby... What has he done to you?”

Victor didn’t have the strength to answer.

She pulled something from her apron—bread. Just a crust. She broke it with shaking hands and fed him small pieces.

His eyes welled.

“Why doesn’t God stop him?” he asked.

Her hand froze.

“Because men like your father speak louder than angels” she said.

She wanted to lift him. Carry him. Free him.

But the door creaked again.

Samuel’s voice thundered: “Elisabeth!”

She vanished like a ghost.

That night, the fever returned. Victor clawed at the stone walls, delirious. Mucus ran from his nose. His sneezes were wet, harsh, each one leaving him weaker.

The cellar answered only with silence.

In a half-dream, he saw himself with fur. Claws. Yellow eyes glowing. A monster rising from the dirt.

“Good” Samuel said in the vision. “Now you see.”

Victor woke, sobbing.

“No” he whispered. “I just wanted to be good...”

But no one ever told him how.

[swordfishswritingnook]

Static Angel (Angel x reader)

Slow burn, 6/7 Chapter, Tags: Horror Elements, Stalker, Drug Use, Religious Imagery

Also on AO3!

The line snakes around the old church, its Gothic spires clawing at a sky smeared with light pollution. You’re euphoric, swaying on unsteady heels, his hand engulfing yours. At 6’10”, he towers over the crowd, a monolith in head-to-toe white. The building is a corpse repurposed—stained glass replaced with neon Jesus Saves signs, the bell tower strung with strobe lights. A bouncer in badly made El Chapo costume stamps wrists under the watchful gaze of a defaced stone angel, its eyes gouged out.

You duck into an alley to change, peeling off your thrift-store sweater and shimmying into a mini skirt so short it bites your thighs. The fabric smells like mothballs and Febreze. You smear mascara into a smoky eye using your phone’s cracked screen as a mirror, then slick on lip gloss that tastes like artificial cherries. Perfect .

He watches, leaning against the brick, blonde hair lit by the flicker of a Coca-Cola sign across the canal. His beauty is still unbearable—too symmetrical, too glossy , like a magazine ad for something lethal.

“Ready?” he asks, voice a velvet hum. You nod, though your knees feel like water.

The line creeps forward. The club’s baptismal font brims with neon vomit, a sacrilege that would’ve made your Catholic grandmother weep. You don’t care. You’re too busy drowning in him.

You dig through your bag—$22 crumpled from laundromat dryers, a half-smoked blunt, a white Bic lighter with Jenny’s 21st!!! scrawled in Sharpie. You light the blunt, inhaling deep, the smoke mingling with the canal’s stench of rust and algae. He doesn’t need to breathe, but he watches your lips, pupils swallowing the neon.

A guy in a Fred Durst cap stumbles into him, beer sloshing. “Sick costume, bro,” he slurs, eyeing the angel’s flawless porcelain skin, the way light bends around him, not on him. A few seconds later he staggers back, nose bleeding, muttering about migraines.

Your knuckles brush the feather-edged cuff of his sleeve, the touch sending a ripple of golden static through the air. He’s not for them , you think, breathless, as the crowd parts like worshippers before a saint.

Inside, the church throbs. The altar is a DJ booth blasting Yeah! vs. Get Low , the bass shaking dust from the rafters in glittering clouds. Congregational pews are shoved against walls, sticky with spilled vodka Red Bulls. You drag him to a shadowed alcove, where a cracked fresco of the Last Supper peels beneath UV lights, his wings folded into a feathered cape that glows like bioluminescent silk. People stare, whisper, snap photos with their flip phones. A girl in fishnets crosses herself.

His hands find your hips, cool but not cold, static buzzing like a hive of docile bees. “You’re trembling,” he murmurs, tilting his head, sunlight-blonde hair catching the strobe lights. His voice is honey and vinyl crackle. “Are you… happy ?”

“Make me stop,” you challenge, grinning.

He kisses you like it’s a prayer—kneeling, desperate, a supplicant at the rail. His mouth is spearmint and starlight, his tongue a spark that dances but never burns. You arch into him, back hitting the wall, the fresco’s flaking paint crumbling like ancient scripture. The Virgin Mary’s face peels away, her eyes rolling back as if in ecstasy or agony—you can’t tell which. His hands slip under your shirt, static blooming where he touches—your ribs, your collarbone, the hollow of your throat—each spark a firefly’s kiss that leaves your skin tingling like you’ve been anointed.

You gasp, fingers tangling in his hair. It’s softer than it should be, like silk spun from spiderwebs and moonlight. Around you, the club pulses—strobe lights slicing through the haze of sweat and smoke, bodies writhing like supplicants in the throes of revelation, a sea of fishnet halos and rosary chokers.. A girl in a sequined halter top stumbles past, vomiting neon-green Jell-O shots into a baptismal font repurposed as a punch bowl. The liquid glows under the blacklight, a sacrilegious elixir that drips down the sides like absolution. No one glances at the couple in the corner, the one that shimmers, their edges blurring as if they’re halfway to another plane.

He pulls back, thumb swiping your smeared gloss. His eyes aren’t voids anymore. They’re mirrors, reflecting your face—flushed, ruined, alive .

You light the blunt with a white Bic lighter, its flame trembling. He plucks it from your fingers, takes a drag he doesn’t need, and exhales your name in static smoke. The letters linger, glowing faintly before dissolving.

You pull him onto the dance floor, where bodies writhe like penitents seeking absolution. He follows without resistance, his hand engulfing yours, his grip firm but teasing, as if daring you to let go. The flashing lights bend around him, as if reluctant to touch something so perfectly made. He is luminous against the filth, a seraphim drowned in strobe-lit sin.

You press against him, back arching, moving in time with the pulsing beat. Sweat slicks your skin, mixing with cheap perfume and the incense-thick fog rolling from machines above. He towers over you, his hands finding your hips, guiding you in a slow, deliberate grind that makes your breath hitch. The crowd swallows you. Feathers molt, disintegrating into ash that swirls in the strobe lights like inverted snowfall. Around you, the club pulses—neon-green lasers cut through haze-machine incense, a boy in a cassock dances with a rattlesnake around his neck. The holy water fizzes, acidic.

His hands grip your hips, guiding you in time to the beat, which feels less like music and more like a pulse—something primal, something alive. The air smells of spilled vodka and myrrh, and the sweat on your skin glistens under the neon like holy oil.

A guy in a devil mask bumps into you, his horns catching the light as he raises a shot glass in mock toast. “Bless me, Father,” he slurs, laughing before disappearing into the crowd.

You spin to face him, your hands sliding up his chest to loop around his neck. Fingers tangling in his hair. It’s softer than it should be, like silk spun from a martyr’s shroud. “You taste like blasphemy,” he murmurs.

Flashing lights turn everything feverish. The neon green glow makes the bodies around you look sick, like saints starved for something they can’t name. Somewhere, a cross still hangs above the altar-turned-DJ booth, its golden surface reflecting the sinful, sweating mass below. You wonder if God is watching, if He turned His face away long ago.

His hands slip lower, gripping your thighs, pulling you closer. Static crackles where he touches, sending shivers up your spine. He moves with effortless grace, with a precision that should be impossible in a place like this. Your ex never danced—not like this, not like him, not like something both worshiped and feared. You tilt your head back, exposing your throat, and his lips ghost over your skin. A whisper of contact, cool like the edge of a blade.

“I could make you pure,” he murmurs, voice vibrating through you. “If you let me.”

His fingers dig into your waist, just enough to leave ghosts of pressure, not enough to hurt. His thumb skims the hem of your skirt, tracing patterns between your upper thigh and benediction. His breath is cool against your ear when he leans in. “Bathroom?,” he says.

You follow, heels sticking to the beer-slick floor, the stickiness pulling at your soles like the grip of some unseen hand. The hallway walls pulse with UV graffiti—pentagrams, crucifixes, and phrases like “Repent or Perish” scrawled beside a smiley face with X’s for eyes. You ignore it, though the air feels heavier here, as if the walls are breathing, in and out, in and out, like the ribs of some great beast. A faint hum of organ music seeps through the cracks in the plaster, though no one is playing it.

The UV graffiti on the hallway walls glows faintly, a neon halo around the smiley face with X’s for eyes—a crude mockery of divinity, a saint of the damned. You ignore it, but it feels like it’s watching you, its hollow gaze following your every step.

Inside the stall, the air is heavier, denser, as if the room itself is holding its breath. His wings, vast and iridescent, fold tightly against his back, their edges shimmering with a digital static that crackles like a broken hymn. The mirror above the sink is already fractured, a spiderweb of lines that catch the light and refract it into a kaleidoscope of colors. When he pins you against the sink, the glass groans, splintering further. Your reflection shatters into a dozen fractured selves, each one a different version of you—some wide-eyed and innocent, others hollow-cheeked and haunted. You don’t know which one is real.

Inside the stall, he folds his wings tight, their edges glitching against the low ceiling like a corrupted halo. The mirror above the sink cracks as he pins you against it, your reflection splintering into a dozen fractured selves—each one a different version of you, each one staring back with wide, unblinking eyes. His thumb smears your lip gloss, the cherry-red streak glowing under the flickering bulb like a smear of sacramental wine. The scent of myrrh and ozone clings to him, sharp and electric.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, and the words feel like a benediction and a curse all at once. “Little moth, chasing my flame.”

You are high—too high. The room tilts, the walls bending inward as if the stall is folding in on itself, collapsing into some sacred geometry you can’t comprehend. His grip steadies you, his fingers cool against your feverish skin. His wings flare, casting fractal shadows that crawl across the walls like spiders, their spindly legs tracing the outlines of ancient symbols you don’t recognize. A feather drifts loose, grazing your arm. It burns, branding your skin with a snowflake-shaped scar before dissolving into ash. You gasp, the pain laced with euphoria, like the sting of holy water on an open wound.

“Look,” he whispers, his voice filled with awe as his wings begin to shed feathers that dissolve into constellations, tiny points of light that hang in the air like stars. One lands on your wrist, searing into your pulse point with a glowing sigil that pulses in time with your heartbeat. “You’re holy now,” he says, and the words feel like a sacrament, like a curse, like a promise.

The door bangs open, the sound sharp and jarring, a profanity in this sacred space. “Hurry up!” someone yells, their voice rough and impatient, a reminder of the world outside this stall, this moment. He laughs, the sound a dial-up screech that grates against your ears and sends shivers down your spine. His wings envelop you both, their iridescent glow casting the stall in an otherworldly light. The mirror cracks again as your head hits it, his reflection flawless and radiant, while yours blurs and pixelates at the edges, as if you’re being erased, rewritten.

“You’re ruining me,” you choke, the words half-delirious, half-desperate. His breath is static against your ear, his voice a low hum that vibrates through your skull. “Ruin is a kind of grace,” he says, and the words feel like a revelation, like a sin. 

You kiss his jaw, and he melts into you, his wings trembling as they fold tighter around you, shielding you from the world outside.

“It’s okay,” you interrupt, kissing his jaw. He melts, nuzzling into your neck.

When you stumble out, your $22 is gone. So is your lip gloss.

But he’s still there.

[tmwcs]

S E 7 E N : L U C I F E R

P A R T 1 N E

WARNINGS: Monsters battling, demons and angels, religious elements, accurate and inaccurate references, fantasy, dark lore, thriller vibes, not proofread (i know i'm terrible) and scary images......

READ THIS!

Okay, so you all remember that post i made recently where i apologized in advance for some images i was altering to display the face Heelel makes in a particular scene? well.....thats in this chapter and ngl....it's going to give you creepy pasta vibes. so please, read at your own risk, it is a good read but if you get scared easily, just dont scroll all the way through at the bottom of this page (it's at the very end) just know, i had to alter a pic to show you guys just how i imagined his face was like in that partcular scene. and yes....it IS in fact a picture of Heeseung....i just altered the contrast and brightness of it. so please, dont be afraid of Heelel...I promise it gets better....just...dont judge him quite yet. lol.

Also, in case the song is still going by the time you read the caption that says "End song here" just cut it off because its a rather long song....but also....its going to kill the mood of the remaining chapter if you keep playing it. its only supposed to play during a special moment.

last but not least....

💙

You know who you are and you know what that means ;) I hope this will make your day. Stay positive and happy! <3

Air crowded by the souls of the lifeless metallic forms that lay in gruesome peace on paved grounds. 

It was a pathetic sight for the people to behold of their homeland, such a shame that a scenic nation had to be remembered as such during this turbulent time where humans, angels and demons were all engulfed in war, battling over the survival of man, the pride of angels, and the love of demons. 

The battle had been ferocious, each Hellish Prince displayed their thunderous roar into the open atmosphere, yet despite slaying many, there were much more that descended, to replenish those that lay as bits of shrapnel. 

They plundered down, and lined themselves to guard their enormous leader, the guide of angels, who rises above all things man made, the archangel Jol. Glaring with a hatred persona in his eye, his attention is distracted by the fearsome contender that matches….maybe even outweighs his ferocity. 

The blue sky that beheld what could only be described as an illuminating palace for the Heavens, was now stained fierce red, in mourning for the lives lost of those who had been selected without reason…dying in the name of one man’s corruption. 

The scent of death ascending and piercing the blissful appearance of the clear sky, it reeked of metal and city air. In smothered bits and pieces, the angels that sought out your tortured screams and torn flesh, have lost a great deal at the hands of the princely brethren from Hell. Yet you feared that the end was nowhere near at the sight of the opposing end, the angels, increasing by high numbers as they migrate down from the sky. 

Alas, such was the deceitful decree of men with corrupt hearts and lustful eyes. The very thesis of evil and sin in the form of mortal flesh, claiming to be of holy virtue and a civil servant of Gods name. 

Pointing and issuing the blasphemous words to the skull headed princes before you, one man, Senator Forras, condemns them to forever reside in Hell and to never return to Gods holy land.

Little does he know, that the land we humans had set our mark on, the very grounded paths we trailed and the oceans we sailed, all blessed with the kiss of the Suns rays, was created by the one he displays hostility towards. The one whose name is forever shamed in the scriptures of the Holy Bible, and tainted with persona of cruel evil and fearful sin….Lucifer.

“He created the Sun…right after God created the moon, along with this world. It was his gift to God…”

Nikis retelling echoes in your head. He told you of the wondrous creations that took place years beyond the human mind could ever measure, it remained just as shocking as it had been when you first learned of it….that the vital sources of human life were created by both, God…and the Devil. 

Watching from afar, your eyes fully adjust into the wide-open stratosphere, where the Devil’s colossal form reaches past the clouds, glowering a beaming red stare at his opponent who stood nearly of equal stature. Both giants readied themselves. 

Perhaps you were thinking too much into it, yet you wondered if Heeseung made the first move in order to propel the towering archangel backwards and away from your location as you remained chained on stage at the city’s center. 

Colliding back into the open waters of the sea, the massive limbs, wings, and almighty roars of the two beasts can be seen and heard as their staggering forms wrestle in the saltwater, completely away from all human forms that hid themselves on land. 

Witnessing the greatness of their power, the beastly entities unleash a spectacular display of combat, though it lacked the decency of sportsmanship as the archangel, reacting to the upper hand the Devil gained, Jol calls out to his posse of followers, hence turning the tables. 

They respond to his cry and suspend their bodies into the air, spearing through the clouds as their lustrous bodies glistened by the last bit of sunlight that remained as dawn approaches. 

They format an air-raid as they aim their direction of flight to Heeseung. Harpooning through the air with high velocity, you watched at how each Angel morphs into that of a sharpened spear. Taking aim, they dive into him, penetrating through regions of flesh as they pierce through him one by one. 

Despite gaining the attacks from the thousands of metallic forms that targets him, he stands fearless and makes his power be known through his roar. The vibration and terrifying power of his clamor shakes the life out of the metallic angels that had reached close proximity. 

Yet the almighty howl of the Devil was not enough, as the angels relentlessly come in, swooping by in a recycling effect as they take turn in diving in. 

The moment you heard the stinging screech of the angels from above, you knew that they had ascended to aid their dark ruler. 

The six princes, all gather around their elder brother and master, raging fury and destruction to the offensive line as they kept coming in, only to fly directly to their deaths as Sunoo destroyed their hearts from within, or when Jays insects multiplied and took out an entire formation. 

Between their individual powers, along with the enhanced capabilities of their demonic forms, each brother became invincible as they successfully defended their King from further damage. Compared to the angels, whose numbers have reached up to thousands, there were only 6 brothers to fend off the tackling creatures as Heeseung remains squared to Jol. 

Regardless of the ratio, the fight remained unfair as each Prince took on multiple heads at a time, sealing the fate of angels by rows, groups, or any measure of high numbers as they all seemed to have diminished within minutes, leaving only the two behemoths standing, ready to establish the victor. 

Narrowing his red eyes, Heeseung’s form, which displayed a great humanoid structure that adorned the head of the Cervidae species, crowned with the magnificent flaunt of tall antler-horns. His wings reflect the colors of his tainted soul, dreaded in black with a tinge of purple and dark blood hues of red. A total difference from the ash-gray scheme that the others had, but not just the angels. The faithful younger brothers had also adorned the same colored wings that issued them the gift of flight. 

You watched as Jol takes in a panicked stance, preparing to lunge towards his opponent, against the waves of the ocean bottom they stood on. 

With a loud screech as he formulated saws with his own hands, he equips himself with a series of  weapons, bearing his arms with anything and everything the human mind could think of. 

‘I told you before….to leave them be…yet you ignored my warning…disregarded my decree. Furthermore…...you took it too far….you crossed the line…you came down from his kingdom, behind his back….to kill her….all for the sake of your stupid pride….you should have heeded my demand…and not mettle with humans…she may be mortal…but I promise you…she is nothing like the rest of them….she’s mine.’

Without a roar or an inch of movement, the Devil stands glorified in his demonic form as he waits, welcoming the fellow archangel to present his best shot.

‘Come on…go ahead. I’m waiting….you’re not going to get out if this….because of what you came for…because of what you had intended to do….because……of what you imagined on doing….to her…’

With a fearsome leap, Jol, in his mighty form plunges forward, presenting every blade, aiming it at Heeseung.

"One chance...you've got one shot...so make it count. Equip yourself and bear your arms with whatever you need...if you want to live.....then you better make it count...otherwise.....I WILL BURN YOU."

Wings spread, mouth open, screeching out a fierce cry as he aims to bring down the master of Hell, for a moment in time, it had appeared that Jol was on his way to victory as Heeseung merely stood, bearing his teeth as he narrowed his gleaming eyes.

Inches away from colliding, Heeseung shoots a hand and catches Jol by his neck in mid flight.

'One chance.....that's all you get....and you just lost it.'

With his free hand, Heeseung extends his fingers. Bringing Jol down into a kneel, cowering his stance before him, everyone, to include the cult regulators and Forras, all watched as Heeseung's extended fingers shoots inside Jol's mouth. With a firm grasp, he takes his other hand, and commences the same movement, prying the archangel's mouth wide open.

The corners of his mouth rip, the tearing of skin exposes bright red flesh as Jol screeches out in agony and struggles to escape the Devil's grip. Once Heeseung had the archangel right here he wanted, he heaves in a deep breath.

His snout extends upwards as he opens his mouth. A loud and fearsome growl emerges as a ball of light could be seen deep within his oral cavity. Shifting his head to the side, he roars. HIs eyes glare down at the pitied angel before him, and with swift motion, Heeseung leans in and expels an exhale of ravaging flames from his mouth, and directly into Jol's.

Swaying his face faintly from left to right, he unleashes the fire's of Hell, coating Jol's innards entirely as the archangel's body begins to burn from the inside.

His skin burns with embers as the flames makes it's way outwards, his limbs and torso, burnt and melting from the lava induced flames, falls apart, drifting away in pieces within the wide open sea.

All you could hear were the panic screams of the crowds as they all ran outward, desperately trying to leave leave and reach outside city limits to escape the almighty demon that had just disintegrated the arch angel before their own eyes.

The cult regulators and Forras rage in panic as they all followed suit of the general public and began to fight each other for the sake of freedom, every man for himself.

Despite the frenzy they committed to in escaping, no one took notice as the seven brothers all merely stood, fully composed and lacked any displayed notion of offending the population.

While still kneeling and chained, you watched from afar as Heeseung's colossal form remains standing...fully composed and quiet. He shifts his head to gaze over his shoulder, right in your direction. His eyes look directly into your own, once locked on, they narrow down as he maintains eye contact. You froze at the sight of his demonic form sinking into your sight. Your breathing stopped at the ungodly sight of his mystical structure.

After a moment or two of shared visual contact, he breaks it by turning his head and releasing one last roar into the night sky, an almighty and fierce tone, you were convinced that every star in the sky shifted from its horrendous velocity.

With his fearsome cry, his body morphs back into the swarm of bats that fly outward and trail the sky towards the great unknown as they disappear off into the horizon.

One week before man was created by God.....

............

Breaching the alter, the three Muses arrive as beckoned.

"Master Elder, you have arrived." The voice of an elder woman gently greets the three visitors.

Bowing in respect, the Master Elder pays his tribute as acknowledges the greeting.

"Calliope, please forgive us for our delay. We came as swiftly as we could."

"Raise your head Master Elder, there is nothing to forgive." the woman, Calliope, a former muse who retired her duties long ago, in order to serve God fully, by aiding his quest to create people. Passing her will to the current Master Elder, Calliope taught the current leader of the group the specialty of expelling embodied knowledge, truth, and invention.

"Pray tell me, Calliope, why is it that we were summoned to the alter? I thought it was forbidden to breach near it." the Master Elder inquires as he gazes upon the magnificent height of the stone pillars surrounding the alter.

"Our Lord has bestowed a unique request. We are to travel through the advancement of time and bear witness to the birth."

"Birth?....the birth of whom?"

...........

"Of a mortal child."

.............................

"It's time.....y/n...."

Shifting your gaze over to the side, you saw Jungwon standing before you, back in the human form that you were familiar with.

Kneeling down beside you, he effortlessly does away with your restraints. Heeseung was nowhere in sight after his victory in defeating Jol, yet your heartbeat felt as if it was in a standstill.

"I will take you to him." Jungwon's voice remained calm and tranquil as ever.

Trembling, you began to sob faintly.

Lifting your head back up, he presents you his hand to help you stand.

"......will...will there be pain?" you asked nervously. For reasons unknown, you felt more frightened than you had when you were facing death at the hands of the angels. It didn't make sense, yet you couldn't ignore the contrasts in your emotions as you compared the moments together.

His eyes faintly drop to your chest, right where your heart was located, before they shift back up to meet yours directly. Without issuing a verbal response, he simply nods in a faint notion.

Your breath hitches. Facing the direction of where the swarm of bats flew to, you turn back to look at him. With glossy eyes and the tears breaching breakage from your ducts, you trembled out a small request.

"Is....is it too late to pray?....." you asked in a stuttered pitch.

With a soft expression on his face, he shakes his head.

"It's never too late to do that...." a faint smile graces his face as he gently moves a piece of your hair away from your face.

Seeing you display a saddened smile, you shift your posture as you struggled to contain your tears and remain composed.

"Would you like for me to pray with you?" he asks.

You nod in earnest as you chuck back the tears that breached their release.

Taking both your hands, he presses his forehead against yours. With your eyes closed, his calm and gentle voice admits a prayer for the sovereignty of the nation, the peace of the people, and mercy on your soul.

"Oh thee faithful Lord of thy soul....I beseech you to bestow your desired mercy onto your creation...."

Your heart beats slowly. Taking a deep breath, you steadily release it as you relish the feeling of Jungwon's skin touching yours.

"Hail to Sun and Moon, bless the people with the prosperity of love and tenderness, as you intended for them."

Taking in another deep breath, you felt the drop of a single tear trailing down your cheek.

"Have mercy on thy soul...have mercy on the sacrifice this child is destined to accept. Have mercy on her willingness to serve the people...the world.....the goodliest of creations that your holy spirit.....and the great Devil...Lucifer.....have gifted. In your name...."

Gulping down a breath deep into your throat, you braced yourself at the final word of his prayer.

".....Amen."

Opening your eyes, your vision was met with the vast openness of unfamiliar land...Jungwon was nowhere to be found.

Standing alone in a field of soft baby's breath, you gazed into the blackened horizon, where a full display of stars and planetary moons paint the night sky.

"Calliope....forgive me...but if what you're saying is....." the Master Elder's voice trails off as he looks with disbelief at his former mentor.

'She couldn't have possibly just said.....that's....what would happen if.....'

With a faint smile of reassurance, Calliope nods.

"Cal, I do not question the Lord's will....however, this seems unethical. Lucifer wants nothing more than to destroy our master....he yearns to darken his light and forever break his spirit....how...how can we possibly stand by and let this happen? Lucifer will only kill the mortal child off and will still yearn for more bloodshed...he has vowed to kill off humanity and wages a grudging war against God with ever intent in causing his demise...I dont see how....how...."

"You need not worry about that now Master Elder....come with me, bring your disciples. I will show you his ultimate will...." Calliope softly issues as she extends a hand to the Master Elder.

Breaching the alter, the submit prayer as the orb of light captures their forms and transfer their bodies through time, nearly seven thousand years into the future.

"Master Elder....open your eyes, we are here." Calliope gently coaxes the elder as his eyes remained winced shut.

"Where are we exactly?"

"We have arrived in what was once the Ancient lands of Euterpe, it has since inherited a different name, and has been expanded by its inhabitants....'people'."

Studying their surroundings, the Master Elder and his disciples witness at first hand in the future, what people are.

"They look similar to us.....yet they are mortal?"

Calliope nods. "Come with me."

Leading the three muses afar to an old abandon building. Making way up the steel ladder wells, the small group fix themselves on the rooftop, overlooking the vast majority of manmade features and the nearby sea. The night sky coats over the city with a cozy shadow of sleeping comfort as it lays to rest.

"How strange...they look so much like us and yet...they require special necessities in order to thrive." The Master Elder notes.

"They do...and yet they are far greater than any of us...." Calliope issues back as she takes out from the hidden pockets of her robe, a small vial and a locket.

"Is that....?" the Master Elder gasps.

"It is...."

Hearing her response, the Master Elder winces his eyes shut in bewilderment as he absorbs the gravity of what was about to transpire.

'.....my God.......'

With closed eyes, Calliope submits a small smile as she regains her sight and turns to look at the Master Elder and the two younger muses.

"Its time...."

"Calliope.....is he sure about this? We are talking about creating a mortal for the mere purpose of......"

He pauses as his breath loses momentum, '.........sacrificing to the Devil...."

With a faint nod, Calliope displays an expression of trust and fidelity.

"We must trust in his will.....do you accept and will you bear witness to the birth?" She asks, presenting an ultimatum towards her peer.

Hesitant, the Master Elder succumbs to the trust of his master, and nods.

"Very well.....then we are ready...." Calliope softly speaks as she gazes up at the dark sky, taking aim at every star as they glisten.

"The Holy Grail 'neath ancient Roslin waits.....

The blade and chalice guarding o'er Her gates.

Adorned by masters' loving art, She lies,

She rests at last beneath the starry skies." - Robert Langdon, The Da Vinci Code.

'".....Half my heart....half my light...my spirit...my flesh and my colors to make you whole....let the pieces of thy essence create something extraordinary....oh child of mine....made out of thy own soul.....become something unruly.....save thy people....save thy soul eternally....'

Descending from the Heavens above, a single orb of light streams downward, making its way before the faithful servants of his authority.

It gracefully takes its station. Centered between the four figures, a tender voice is faintly heard emerging from its body, nearly a whisper....it was both mature and childlike, coming in incoherent and unreadable. Staring in awe at the sight before them, their hearts flutter as they witness something....incredible.

"Calliope......is.....is that?....."

"It is......."

"Take the mold of my holy divinity.....become my mortal descendent."

As their eyes adjust the illuminating orb, they witness in near disbelief.

"Behold....the flesh, the holy light, the essence of our master himself.....just a piece, yet ever as divine as the rest of him." Calliope calmly issues as she gracefully smiles.

'This........this is God's own flesh.......the first to have ever been exposed....or shared....'

Removing the cork from the vial, and opening the small locket, Calliope finalizes the process of creativity as she takes the dark strands that remained threaded together, and gently submerges it inside the light, along with the contents of the vial.

".....thats...."

"Yes....when the first archangel was born, we saved the remaining essence that of which he was created from....a small thatch of his hair for safekeeping for our beloved master...who loved his favorite entirely too much. With his own essence, it does not taint our master's light, instead, it becomes one with it. Thus.....it is everything that Lucifer yearns for....it is a part of him....everything that he is.....yet it is also everything he lacks....everything he desires.

Incorporating the souvenired mememtos, the hue of the light's tint changes. The innocent voice remains faint, yet develops a playful nature as it levitates once more.

Witnessing the divinity of his holy form, even if it was just a small piece of him, the muses gasp out in great respect. Tears emerge from their eyes at the glory of their master.

Gripping on to their chests, bewildered by the miracle of witnessing God's flesh, they bow, issuing tears at it's magnificence. Calliope, joining in unison as she bows, whispers to the light before it takes travel.

"Mortal daughter of God....take heed...grow steady....grow strong....you have a task...and though it pains us so...you must commit to your duties to save the rest of his creation. Where each mortal is created in God's image....you....are the only one created out of his own entity. Mortal child of his divine holiness.....your flesh and essence will be key for humanity to thrive....but also.....to teach him forgiveness....to teach him.....love. Bear us, and your father no ill will.....for even though the one who you are gifted to, holds a tainted heart....rest assured, I see it with thy own eyes.....you shall forever be loved and protected."

At the final issue of his decree, the light expands into an exploding force, issuing a massive traveling current that flared throughout the city, disappearing in an instant.

"Master Elder..."

"Yes, Calliope."

"There is one more task....he beckons you and your disciples to commit."

"Pray tell me, for I am his humble servant and will be at his bidding."

"You are to go to Hell.....bring your disciples.....and take Lucifer to the alter. Take him to the destined period of time when the mortal child is at their prime. You are to present our master's gift to him....do you think you can succeed?"

....................

"..........Yes........"

...............................................

"What do you want to name her?"

Rocking the delicate newborn against her bosom, a young mother softly sings to her baby....a daughter.

"Honey, lets name her....y/n. I've always liked that name."

"Y/n?.....how perfect.....I love it."

'.........y/n'

-End song here-

Gazing off into the horizon of the starry sky, your white skirt blows delicately against the gentle current of the wind that guides your hair over your shoulder. The skin of your breasts remain exposed, your lips stained red, and your skin glows under the moonlight. The perfect image of all things ethereal.

.............................

'.......There you are....'

With gentle steps, he walks in your direction. Adorning his black attire, with the lace mask hovering over his eyes, he breathes deeply at the sight of the floral spread that surrounds you.

'...How beautiful.......so pretty.....'

Breaching nearer, you hear the delicate crush of the flowers under the soles of his steps.

Shifting your gaze over your shoulder, you watch as he closes in....standing right in front of you.

Noticing the glistening shine in your eyes, he softly smiles. "Why are you crying?"

Faintly shaking your head, you couldn't develop a response....you didn't know what to say, how to feel, or what to think.

"Shhh.....you don't have to cry...." leaning in, he gently embraces your body against his chest. Gently removing the Azalea crown that adorned your head, he tosses it and nuzzles his face into the strands of your hair....taking in a deep inhale as he softly moans....savoring the moment.

'Finally......I've waited for so long.....'

You tremble at the feeling of his embrace trapping you in.

"Scared?...." he asks.

You didn't issue a response.....instead, you remained with your head low as your forehead is softly pressed against his chest.

"Come here..." he whispers. Raising both your hands, he guides them towards the back of his head, your fingers delicately grazing against the black strands as he intertwines them with the loose ends of the lace fabric that is tied over his face.

"You can take it off....it's okay." he gently whispers. Leaning in, he kisses you passionately, as his hands roam you entire body, ruffling the chiffon fabric of your skirt in the process.

"You....don't know how......dreadful the wait was......" He softly speaks in between each kiss as his tongue coats the inside of your mouth. Your hands remained gently gripping on the ties of his mask. For some reason, you found it hard to pull them apart.

Reaching back up to take hold of your hands, he guides them as he gently, in unison with your own, pulls the fabric in opposite direction, causing it to come undone.

You stared as his face remained calmly aloof....his eyes shut.

Gently opening them, he displays a handsome face...it was devilishly handsome....and much more enticing than any of his brothers. His profile resembled that of the Greek God Apollo, yet his strong and lithe frame was much more lethal and appealing than any sculpture you've witnessed in your life.

Softly smiling at you, his eyes slightly widen as he takes your hands, raising them to his lips, he kisses them with the most tender pecks.

"Seven thousand years....is too long....even for an immortal.....did they tell you I slept for majority of it?"

".....yes....they did....." you assumed he was referring to his brothers as he continued to speak, expressing his agony over the lengthy period of waiting.

"I couldn't stand being awake....I needed to dream...I needed to see you.....you have no idea just how much I've wanted this....this moment....to touch you like this....to kiss you....to hold you.....it's all I ever wanted...." lowering your hands, he regains his grip around your waist once more and pulls you into him as he kisses you deeply.

His moans were stealthy with added depth as he expels the tone into your mouth, you felt the vibration of his groans as he shifts his face to merge deeper into the kiss.

Gently breaking it, his eyes shift down at the ground.

The moment you saw a smirk forming on his lips, you shy'd your face away. You felt entirely too nervous and scared, yet you didn't know why.........until.

'......did....did he just chuckle?.....why did it sound so...'

Raising your head, your eyes widened and your mouth released a shuttered gasp. Wanting to scream, you found yourself frozen with fear as your body couldn't comprehend the view....

........................

"I"m sorry......am I scaring you?.......believe me I'm not trying to....I'm just so happy.....I finally have you...you're finally mine."

..........

Perhaps it was the pitch black sky......it's dark aura stained the environment....creating an eerie atmosphere.

..........

Perhaps it was the glare of the moon above....creating shadows that dispelled a sense of unearthly lore.

..........

or........

Perhaps it was none of those things....perhaps it had nothing to do with the lack of lighting.....or the darkness that surrounds you.....instead....

Maybe...just maybe it was....the way he stared at you....the way he looked hungry.....no...famished.......the way his insidious expression greeted you with a dangerous desire......the way his hands gripped you tightly.....the way he raised his brows and gazed at you with a twisted and sinister love in his eyes.....the way his lips became blood red upon receiving his bite.....out of excitement......

or.........

Perhaps......it was his..........smile.

‘Please God….someone…..anyone……why is he looking at me like that…..what is he going to do to me?'

…………….

Authors note:

Part 2 coming tomorrow! So more to come.....again...i'm so sorry about that picture.....yikes.

Taglist: @deobitifull; @solstramaii; @vampiregirl215; @nshmrarki; @enhypen14; @iamliacamila; @lisaaannna; @nikstrange; @jaehaki; @luv-enhy-skz33; @silcry@honeysjae; @crackedcameraa; @stinkmonkey ; @baekxo07@raishaii @@yangjungwon33@lhspeachie ; @differentchildwombat ; @prettykia ; @kimsseonu ; @stvrryhee ; @en-thralled ; @hoonzdzbl ; @yuppppp ; @jinniespuppy ; @browsehnnie ; @they2luv1naia ; @aetherl0l ; @stvrryhee @yohanabanana @graythecoffeebean @beanglespewpew @jwnghyuns @gogorkkeeieosos @clairecottenheart

[pursued-by-the-squid]

pastor park and wip in the same sentence??? girl you release some stuff

dfsajdghklhgklfhsd i don't have very much written right now beyond a basic outline, but i'll share some of what i have!!

this is my masterlist/main fic cover. i'm leaning more towards an oc instead of a reader character as of right now, but that's always open to change!

my ofc is an american (and atheist, this is relevant i swear) grad student who's moved to korea to work on her thesis, which is focused on religious pluralism in asia. basically i'm getting to write about my passion for religious studies/comparative religions while also exploring pastor park's thoughts on god, morality, and faith! and also supernatural spooky stuff

i also have plans to title each chapter after a relevant verse of scripture from multiple different faith traditions, just bc it's me and the idea makes me very happy lol

and a few excerpts from the only scene i have written as of rn, unfortunately:

When he thinks about it, he finds that he isn’t sure what he had imagined her home to look like. It was always something vague and unformed in the back of his mind – undoubtedly covered in pieces of secular media like he often sees on her person, perhaps a small space dedicated to her studies, and the rest was an unintriguing mystery he didn’t care about enough to ponder. He realizes now just how wrong he was. The first glimpse he sees over Madeleine’s shoulder is a line of Tibetan prayer flags strung across the room. Then the door opens further, she steps inside, and his breath catches in his throat. “You can sit wherever,” she says, tossing the offer over her shoulder as she starts bustling about. “Make yourself comfortable, I’ll be in and out.” He nods absently, too stunned to formulate even the simplest response. The prayer flags hang low, mostly concentrated in the area by the windows; it isn’t difficult to imagine her opening them when the weather is warm enough and letting the wind filter through. Just to the side, caught in a thick band of sunlight, is a decently sized bookcase overflowing with texts. He recognizes more of them than he would have expected – Hebrew, English, and Korean translations of Jewish and Christian scripture, mostly - but there are plenty others he doesn’t immediately recognize or that take several minutes to translate. Multiple copies of the Quran are shoved alongside books on mystical Islam and the life of the Prophet. Several faded and worn books on Sikhi, Jain Dharma, and Buddhism are folded in next to that, followed by an entire row of Hindu specific books. Titles overflow with the names of Shiva, Krishna, Hanuman, and Durga, detailing mantras, art, and temple architecture. Has she really been hiding this from him? All this time? He shakes his head in disbelief, unable to stop his jaw from going slack at the realization that he has woefully misjudged her.

[olameni]

A Book I Wish I Would Have Read Sooner: The Lies that Bind

In the Lies That Bind, Appiah works to expose the fundamental error of essentialism upon which we build our various concepts of identity. This essentialism as the impact of exaggerating our differences and minimizing our similarities to the point of absurdity in an effort to preserve worldview, ideological positions and the power afforded to use based upon those things.

Appiah is not making an argument that we aren't different or that the ways we are different don't matter, instead he challenges the way we think about them. In the text Appiah starts with defining what is meant by the term identity and defines it for how he will interrogate it for the following 5 chapters where he discusses Creed, Country, Color, Class, Culture as areas of identity.

I was most fond of the chapter on Creed where religion and scriptural determinism is discussed. In my capacities as a priest (of Ifa), I often have to (often with great difficulty) explain various issues of interpretation and religious epistemology so that they must confront the bigotry and hypocrisy they bring to the attempts to understand the wisdom and philosophical traditions of the Yoruba people. Appiah provides examples that will make that process much simpler going forward (as I love to give reading assignments). It is also always gratifying to have your personal efforts and ideas validated authoritatively.

While reading, I also found myself thinking about my earlier years when social media was in its infancy and just all the time that was wasted in arguments about identity for a lack of understanding and an overwhelming desire to push back against being constantly attacked. We could not attack the institutions in a way that was meaningful, but we could nail that stupid reblog to the wall and mercilessly shame OP for it. There is a profound despair wrapped up in that and I think had we understood the absurdity in the way that Appiah points it out perhaps we would have spent more time helping each other learn.

Anyways 5/5 stars

[analog-bookworm]

This is book two of three in the “Ruinous Love Trilogy”. This book follows Lark, the best friend of the last female love interest and Lachlin, who is the oldest of the three Kane brothers. I greatly appreciate that these characters are not intensely similar to Rowen and Sloane with “slight changes to hide that you copied”. Yes, Lachlan has the sexy Irish accent, but he and his love interest are written as completely different characters than the first book's couple.

I was pleasantly wrong about how their relationship would play out. I assumed by the teaser at the end of “Butcher and Blackbird” that they would act like spoiled stepchildren who hated each other only to let the fire of that hate morph into lust. Instead, Lark proposes to Lachlin a la arranged marriage style, to protect the Kane family as well as her best friend Sloane. Sloane and Lark’s time and the traumatic event that took place while they were in grade school come into the light in this book. Lark has a huge Keanu Reeves crush, namely Constantine. At one point, Lachlin is described as a blend of Keanu and Tom Hardy. Lark is a very successful singer who plays the guitar and the cello. (<3!) She hides the fact that she kills bad men and makes crafts out of them from Sloane, even though she knows Sloane is a “Blackbird.” The big breakthrough in the relationship between L and L comes when Lachlin confronts Lark about her killing after finding her trophies in her apartment.

The big bad in this good is the brother of someone that Rowan and Sloane killed. He is super religious, quoting scripture often, but I do not know if I would call him a zealot. His motivation is not based on his faith. It is good old-fashioned revenge. He wants everyone to suffer for the loss of his brother. I do not remember if the book tells us if it was his younger or older brother.

The spice and sex arrive toward the end of the book, as was the case with the first in the series. The sex is once again, hot. What they do at a concert is . . . 10 / 10. Given a scene where Lark gets in Lachlan’s car and overhears an anal sex scene from an audiobook that spurs on countless tongue-in-cheek innuendoes about butt play, I was surprised it did not manifest during the main story. It does come up in the “bonus chapter”. SPOILER . . . . . . . .Nice to see a super hung muscled up guy take a strap with such bliss.  

[joz-yyh]

Blighted Hearts - Ch. 13

SUMMARY: *Flashforward chapter!* Carnal urges and double standards run amuck at the abbey. No beta. Read at your own risk.

RATING: EXPLICIT

PAIRING: Abomination x Flagellant / Crusader x Highwayman

WORD COUNT: 3,920

READ ON Ao3: -> HERE!!

A/N: Forgot to post this here, but Happy Halloween! Please enjoy this yummy treat of smut~ 🎃🍬

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————–

One minute they're walking, the next minute Damian shoves a hand against his chest, pressing him to the stonewall of the church, a salacious corner just outside the indoor garden.

It's unexpected, lips suddenly so craven for his, needing their touch, their taste, about to die without it.

What's not covered by shroud or chains scrapes against masonry, laid brick digging into his back. Bigby can't spare a thought for discomfort, overtaken by a bigger ache, his mouth wholly consumed, barely keeping up.

The touch that swayed him with all the tempered zeal of a back alley rendezvous moves to his shoulders, rubbing over them, warm, inviting, wooing his affection.

"Damian," the werewolf cries, his partner still kissing languidly, deeply all around his shuddering voice, "What if someone sees ..."

It's more breathy, heart hammering in suspense, matching his partner's kisses with punch drunk arousal.

They were hidden just slightly from oncoming eyes, crammed inside an alcove too small, occupying the same space as a basin of anointed holy water, but if anyone came down the hall, this religious ceremony would no doubt incense their audience.

"I will flog myself in penance," comes his reply, always dutiful, in service of his lover's mouth.

Bigby swears the masochist finds new reasons to punish himself with each passing day, needing to restrain his chauvinistic impulses if there was to be any hope for himself.

"There would be no need if you would just w-wait–” he cuts himself off with a groan, biting at his bottom lip as Damian grinds against him.

"Please, I want you so much. I’ll be quick if you wish.”

Sometimes, Bigby truly forgets which one of them is the beast, the flagellant in a lustful frenzy, not unlike animalistic compulsion, possessing a heat cycle of his own.

"This is a very bad idea,” the lycan huffs, knowing they were told not so long ago to behave themselves.

"The worst," the priest says, grinning at the thrill of getting caught, breaking rules.

Bigby laughs, exasperated.

Well, at least they agree on that.

He's never had someone adore him as much as Damian does, growing addicted to it, drowning out all reason until only feeling remains.

Bloody hands are molding around his cheek, his throat, seducing, worshiping every inch of him as if he had all the markings of a god, worthy of his devotion.

“If we're quick,” he whispers, matching scruffy lips against scarred ones, pulling the flagellant to him with a kiss as passionate as the ones he’s been given.

He may be nothing more than a vessel, a harbinger of destruction, an abomination meant to be forgotten, locked away in the deepest pits of hell, but this man made him feel free, exalted, becoming of love.

Spreading his gospel, Damian embarks on his task, untying the shabby rope ties that holds his trousers together, faded violet fabric slipping down to his bare feet, exposing the true gravity of the choice they’re making.

The flagellant parts with him just a moment, dipping his fingers into the reservoir their private venue is reserved for, coating them in divine properties.

“You're going to use that,” the branded boy blushes, shaking with perversion.

“Why not,” the priest purrs, “can I not bless you?”

Even if it wasn’t explicitly addressed in the scriptures, there must be something against using holy water as lube.

“Isn’t this … unorthodox?”

“Perhaps, but not forbidden to us. Let me connect you with the Light, deeper than you’ve ever known it before.”

Abiding by his word, slick fingertips traverse the darkness inside him and instantly the vagabond feels ascension, clinging to his partner as he yowls in muffled fits of bliss.

He can feel the priest smirk, sharing in his pleasure, dependent on it.

“Hold onto me,” he says, a sultry prayer, kissing at a stubbled cheek.

“Why?”

It’s absentminded, fixated on what those fingers are doing, body heat warming them, no room left for cognizant thought.

Damian lifts him by his shackled bands, dragging his height further up the interior, lanky arms rising in accord, fulfilling the request by proxy.

The hooded priest leaves his warmth to dip his hand back into the pool, now wrapping wet fingers around his burning erection, eliciting a sharp hiss from himself.

Bigby grunts, knees trembling to hold his weight as they're joined, a messy, intimate encounter, as reckless as it is enticing. There’s cold at his back, heat at his front, the halfling taking his verdant cloak, covering them both under it’s veil, giving himself more leverage to cling to.

"How does it feel?”

"You know how it feels," Bigby deflects, embarrassed, curling his body closer.

"Mmm, tell me again," the flagellant beseeches, slipping out, giving a hard thrust in, his lover bottomed out on his cock.

"Feels … ahhh – it … it feels good.”

They’re hushed pillow talk was bound to be overheard at this rate, but danger never stopped Damian from indulging, spurring him on, reaping profane rewards.

"Does it excite you, making love like this?"

Making love?

"Is that what we're doing," the wolfboy chides, ornery, "I thought were we fucking in a place we shouldn't be.”

"Would you like that," Damian asks in fervent, labored breaths, "if I bent you over, forced you down, had my way with you out in the open?"

Enrobed hips give a punishing thrust in demonstration of what he would do, the changeling’s hands flying out, holding himself up along the edges of the space digging claws into solid pewter.

He's growling, shuddering, tempted to call upon his other half to settle this, a shout held in his throat, exploding into an inhuman roar as sparks flash behind his eyes, up his spine.

“You’d like it, wouldn't you? I could show everyone your face, how you sing just for me. Glory to the Light.”

Bigby cannot deny how much that makes him blush, cock twitching at such fantastic, unbridled debauchery that he’d never have the gall to dream up himself.

“Isn't that … exactly what we're doing ... right now?”

“Hmm, not quite.”

The flagellant slows down, giving sparse instances of gratification unlike the fiery slap of their bodies he’d enacted just before and Bigby wants it back, needs the breakneck pounding of that wondrous cock in him, bound by the sins of their flesh.

“I'd make it last, a spectacle worthy of you, force you into the change, make you drip blight until it bathes our knees.”

"Damian, please!"

The wolfboy has not the purchase to reach between them to touch himself, and even if he did, it wouldn't be enough, reliant on his partner to fulfill him, reach into his core and rip him apart.

If anyone bothered to interrupt them now, the abomination would surely bark, wild and territorial until they ran for the hills so they could finish this in peace.

"Can you blame me … for wanting to immortalize you?”

Actually, yes he could, very easily for exhibitionism and everything else that's happened in the last ten minutes.

The priest sees that predatory gleam in his lover's eye, the crowded overbite of teeth around his lip and takes the hint, knowing he promised the werewolf swift cessation, euphoric closure.

He brings back the heated pace the wolfboy has grown so fond of, using all his strength to satisfy his every need, sweat pouring down them both, sloshing wet exertion echoing out from the tiny recess they occupy.

Bigby lets himself go, huffing out not so quiet peels of “ah,” “yes,” “mmm,” Damian convulsing in his ass, adding to the profanity, grunting and groaning his approval, partaking in a soothing, congratulatory kiss.

They hear someone drawing near, about to round the corner, but despite everything, Bigby doesn’t want to move, Damian being the one to set him down gently, fix his pants back into place as the other leans against the wall, listlessly whimpering, beckoning him to stay coddled in his arms.

The flagellant is amidst adjusting his partner’s shroud, using it to cover up the stickiness seeping dark spots onto his front when a voice calls out to them, no longer alone.

"You there! What are you doing?"

Of course it would be Reynauld. His boots carry him with all the clatter that one would expect of sabatons.

“You’re familiar with holy anointment, are you not?”

The knight glares in response, not wholly convinced by this excuse. He couldn’t see exactly what had transpired but he can certainly suspect, the air was thick with it, these blasphemers gaining a reputation for heresy.

It was harder to tell with Damian, always red-faced, but he can’t get a clear view of the abomination hidden behind him.

“What’s the meaning of this?”

Now it’s Baldwin's turn to weigh in, coming down the other hall, knowing the crusader tended to pick fights, acting as a mediator.

“They were acting suspicious,” he growls, defensive, onto something.

“What do you suspect them of,” the leper inquires, tilting his majestic head, firmly standing on the culprit's side.

Reynauld pauses, working up the will to say, “sodomy,” when Junia joins in their debate.

“Oh my, what’s going on?”

So many men gathered around such an odd and narrow place gives her cause to worry.

“What I miss? A circle jerk?”

The crude comment comes from Sarmenti, accompanying the now flustered nun, the woman slapping him on the shoulder, making him jingle.

“Teh! What was that for? Do you even know what a circle jerk is?”

“Of course, I do. It's a circle of jerks, which you're being right now.”

The jester snickers, rubbing his sore shoulder, far too amused by her adolescent comebacks.

“There ya are! Can't believe ya forgot ‘bout me."

Adding to this a whole friendly affair, Dismas makes an appearance, sauntering up in his jacket, scoffing next to Reynauld.

"Invitin’ me over and then runnin’ off at the first sign of trouble. How chivalrous."

The knight is culpable, probably fuming under his helmet from multiple emotions, quick to retreat from them.

“As I was saying, no fraternizing in the halls," he concludes with a stern wag of his finger, stomping away from the scene.

Dismas rolls his eyes, sighing loud and long into his handkerchief, “Well, it was nice seein’ ya folks.”

He gives a little wave, chasing after the elusive crusader once again.

“Well, that happened,” Sarmenti skulks, an ode to randomness, a branching segway.

Five of them remain and the abomination who's been a quiet observer throughout all this reaches up to grip Damian’s shoulder, digging his nails in, a silent command.

“Right, we should get going,” the masochist says, addressing what's left of the group, “Thank you all for the concern, but we're fine.”

Just as he's about to go, Junia stops him, a tap on his arm.

“Damian, if I may have a word?”

He looks to Bigby before agreeing to anything, the branded boy giving a silent nod, hunkering down to wait for him next to Baldwin and Sarmenti.

The vestal pulls him into a more quiet spot, but her companion doesn't mean to stay long, already looking back at his boyfriend with trepid eyes.

“Yes, what is it?”

“Honestly, how do you do it, draw so much male attention? You had everyone at the abbey practically swarming you.”

He blinks at her, mouth agape.

“Do you really want to know?”

She mulls it over one last time, sticking to her decision.

“... Yes.”

The taller man leans in close, whispering in her ear. The more she hears the more she beams scarlet, steam threatening to blow out the cloister of her ears.

Her jaw is almost to the floor by the time he's done, hiding it behind her glove, the recounting of his escapades giving the vestal a nosebleed.

"Promise me you will keep it to yourself."

He looks to her in confidence, the woman taking a sobering moment to nod, her throat too choked up with knots, butterflies in her stomach, treasuring this bawdy tale.

“May it serve you well.”

Junia's sure it will, the hooded man returning to the abomination’s company now that he's fulfilled her addiction, tips on romantic nuances.

The moment Damian is gone, Sarmenti sets his sights on the hormonally charged vestal, slinking over to her side, raking on the charisma, determined to get all the dirty details.

“Hey, what did he say? C'mon tell meeee.”

She shifts away, hiding her face from view. “I am sorry, but I've been sworn to secrecy.”

“But we're friends aren't we,” he adds, a sympathetic note to his voice, hoping to wear her down, “Don't best friends tell each other everything?”

True, he was her friend, but Junia was also a woman of her word, her lips a sealed vault, a pillar of fortitude, locked up tight.

“I'll just read about it in your diary later.”

It's a thought that should have stayed buried inside his comedic muse, but he let it coalesce into mocking disdain.

“YOU READ MY DIARY?!”

Her eyes spark into vicious flames, a foreboding aura swirling about her like storm winds, the same holy wrath she imposes upon her enemies now imbued on the end of her mace, aimed to kill.

“Eek! Baldwin! Save me,” the fool cries, taking cover behind the man's legendary golden bulk.

With disarming gestures, a placating tone, the leper king does his best to turn hurricane Junia back into the meek damsel of platitudes he knew her to be.

“Junia, please call down. I am sure he didn't mean it.”

A rebel yell, her weapon bashing a hole in the cement, electrified thunder raining down from her stone cold features.

Baldwin infers that the series of quakes rumbling the very foundation beneath their feet was mostly likely a ‘no’ for any possible reconciliation.

—---

It's no surprise that Rey complains the whole way back to his room, Dismas following at a relaxed pace behind him, gloved hands shoved inside his lofty coat pockets.

"Can you believe those two? Right there, out in the open! This is a church not a brothel! I knew an abomination would be trouble. Both of them. And here I thought he was helping Damian to become a bit more tame. What a fool I was!”

"Uh huh," supplies the highwayman, not so much listening as he was surveying the halls, noting they had the wing to themselves.

As Rey steps into his modest living quarters, the raven-haired thief unwinds his scarf, draping it over the handle, a message for all who would try and disturb them.

He shuts and locks the door, slipping off his jacket next, hanging it over the desk chair.

The accommodations are frugal: bed, dresser, desk, hardly big enough for one man let alone too, but then again all the domestic living quarters were the same.

"You would think they would learn their lesson by now! I mean, what kind of example are they setting for Junia?”

"Maybe cut them some slack,” the gunman offers, but Reynauld might as well be blind to any constructive criticism during one of his indignant tirades.

“They won’t even listen to Baldwin! Everyone listens to Baldwin,” the crusader shoots back, arguing with himself, unlatching his sword, hanging it off the bedpost.

Dismas sighs, needing his fellow man’s attention and finding it all the more allusive, amazed that the crusader could still be yacking away when he’s undressing right in front of him.

"So whatcha gunna to do about it,” Dismas asks, even as he unfastens his vest of belts, draping another layer of clothing over the chair rail.

The crusader sits down onto the mattress, shaking his head, gloved hands clasped between his knees. “I haven’t the slightest idea.”

Funny, how he heard him that time.

“What do you think I should do," the knight asks, looking lost, pleading with those gorgeous baby blue hues.

“Me,” Dismas echoes, laughing at the thought of a prude churchboy actually taking his advice.

“Why shouldn’t I ask you?”

“It’s not that you’re askin', it’s what you’re askin’,” Diz explains, clad in just a common shirt and pants, plodding towards the bed, pushing against the knight’s armor plate, forcing him to lie back on the bed.

The highwayman crawls on top of him, a perfect vantage point to strip Reynauld free of his hot and stuffy helmet. Hard metal parts ways for sweeping brown locks, bangs curled just around his brow, now damp with sweat, framing deep stalwart eyes.

His cheeks are still heavy with anger, and damn that beard, so thick and full and burly. The rogue can’t help but admire such a sight, wanting to drag his hands through it.

“What if ya straddle ‘em like this? Ya think that would work?”

The distracted crusader finally catches onto what's happening, realizing his own tenuous predicament.

"When did you–"

The rogue rolls his eyes. His intentions were always so incredibly obvious to anyone except the person he’s trying to seduce.

“Tunnel vision my name is Reynauld.”

"What will you do with me," the brunette asks, helpless, as if he can't reach for his blade and fend off a lowly thief if he truly wanted to.

"Dunno, maybe strip for ya," Dismas shrugs, smirking at the idea, "C'mon crusader, my hands may be tricky, but I ain't that slick. Ya know what've been doin’ this whole time."

The holy man goes silent, pouty lips set into a firm line, staring back at the rapscallion mounted on his steed.

Helmet now tossed aside, hands return to stretch out his shirt collar, showing off some of the fine hairs on his chest.

“So, ya gunna be a good boy and let me fuck yer brains out or are we just gunna keep talkin’ ‘bout it?”

Rey pauses, sinking further down into the sheets, a worsening blush coloring his cheeks as he gives a faint nod only the highwayman can see.

"That's what I thought, tough guy."

With all the deftness of a pickpocket, Dismas grabs him by the tabard, dragging him up into a kiss, reveling in the thrill of a man much stronger than himself playing submissive to his whims.

Mouths open, the crusader wrapping aching hands around his cheeks, mapping his ears, making him shiver, assailing one of his weak points.

Dismas can't wait, redirecting his touch down, untying the belt bound to the swordsman’s waist.

“Ya miss me,” he smirks, looking a bit flush himself, feeling the swell of his partner's erection.

Reynauld contests his snark, pinning him with a morose look.

“You didn't come last week. I was beginning to worry.”

Dismas scoffs, deflecting from the seriousness of his vocations.

“Job took a while. Couldn't get back in time.”

A twinge of longing, grief and regret well known to him, the pain of waiting for a loved one that may never return.

His noble facade cracks a little more, now hidden behind the sanctuary of closed doors, touching fingertips along deep-set face scars.

“Are you alright?”

The care in which it's said rattles Dismas, the mushy stuff harder for him to accept than opportunistic trysts.

“Yeah, just a few scrapes. Gonna be all better once I get your holy lance inside me.”

“I am serious,” Reynauld insists, brows knotted. “How much for the job? What was your cut?”

“We can talk business later.”

“Dismas.”

Cripes, they were supposed to be having sex, not debating his career choices.

“Decent, not like I can retire on it any time soon.”

“I wish you would. Your life is worth more than the mere pittances they pay you and it grows less every time.”

“And what would ya have me do with my life, huh? Stay with ya here at the abbey? I don't know how to be anythin’ other than a thief.”

They've hit a standstill, neither willing to budge on their perspective, change a difficult monster to tame, especially when it came from a kleptomaniac of all people.

“Just get your pants off,” Dismas gripes, working on ridding himself of his own imposition.

“Careful, it's been awhile,” the knight cautions, restricting those hips from moving too fast, impaling himself without preparation.

“Don't ya worry crusader, I am all lubed up for ya.”

Reynauld's heart skips a beat thinking about the how, when and where these seedy developments took place, preferring to participate or at the very least watch.

Dismas had the cutest face when he worked his hole, hips jerking just the slightest bit around his fingers, a clear sign he was ready, but there wasn't any of that to be had now.

Before he knows it, Reynuald's cock is buried deep within warm slick, groaning, gasping, clutching as his cunning partner sinks onto him without so much as a warning.

“Yeah, that's it,” the greasy rat moans, Reynauld holding him in place, not yet ready for more when this feeling was heaven enough.

—-

Bigby’s been distracted ever since their titular experience with the holy water, Damian keeping a watchful eye on him, attributing his skittishness and hushed exclamations as residual embarrassment, but no longer.

"What? What is it,” Damian asks, finally speaking up.

Bigby seems unaware of his own mannerisms, surprised himself that they were obvious enough to be addressed.

"Huh? Oh um, no it's … nothing."

Damian knows better than to believe that polite deterrent by now.

"I can tell when something troubles you. Please, you must tell me."

Still aflush, unbeknownst of how to say it, Bigby grasps Damian’s hand, leading them to the dormitories, specifically closer to Rey's room.

The abomination descends into a crouch, imperative for stealth, reminding his partner to be tactful in their approach, a finger against his lips.

They're just outside the door now, Bigby urging him to look inside the keyhole.

This was no mere bible study, his view assaulted with a fortissimo of copulation.

"Oooooooooo, this is good," the flagellant raves, light illuminating his peeping eye. “You could hear them from that far away?”

Bigby nods, turning pink, choosing not to look for himself, having had his fill of adultery from what he's heard already.

Suddenly, an alarmed voice from the other side, paranoid, definitely Reynauld.

“Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

Annoyed, definitely Dismas.

“Shhh, keep your voice down. I think there’s someone outside.”

“Psshhh, you’re losin’ it crusader. I swear you’re imaginin’ things.”

A fist is yanking on the priest's cowl, an insistent entreaty beside him.

“There, I showed you. Now let's go.”

“Don't you wish to look,” the holy man prompts, tickled by the thought of a voyeuristic Bigby.

“No, now c'mon.”

Despite all his urging, it takes the abomination physically removing Damian with his inhuman strength to get him to come away from the door.

Just as they're moving on from dabbling in one another's personal lives, his priest poses another question in relation to it.

“Who do you think does it better?”

The wolfboy grips his shroud, hoping Damian would just drop it because he'd rather not think about who outranked who in bed.

“We are not having this conversation.”

“I think Dismas.”

“Damian,” he growls, seeking to silence him with this bold reprimand.

Just the opposite, the hooded man's grin stretches farther, looking to his beloved with an everlasting fondness.

“You're right, no one does it better than me.”

A quick peck on the cheek, their discourse finally settled and it might not have been the message he originally meant to convey, but at least to Bigby, Damian was indeed the best.

[psalmonesermons]

Loving One Another Part 2

Practical advice for dealing with rejection

There are 100+ scriptures in the New Testament that refer to ‘one another’, or to ‘each other’, or ‘together’. For example there are such references in the last 5 chapters of Romans.

So we are spoiled for choice in studying what the scriptures say about loving one another. Here is a selection of them.

Romans 15:7 Accept one another, then, just as Christ accepted you, in order to bring praise to God.

Our basis for accepting each other as brothers and sisters in Christ is that the Lord himself has already accepted each one of us. There can be no higher recommendation than the approval of Jesus Christ. Most of our lives we can struggle to be accepted because many groups, teams and clubs, like you to be good at something e.g. golf, football, hockey, chess, bowling etc., but we accept each other in Christ.

We are now going on a slight detour to discuss what non-acceptance means.

Acceptance versus Rejection

Acts 4:8 Then Peter, filled with the Holy Spirit, said to them, “Rulers of the people and elders of Israel: 9 If we this day are judged for a good deed done to a helpless man, by what means he has been made well, 10 let it be known to you all, and to all the people of Israel, that by the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, whom you crucified, whom God raised from the dead, by Him this man stands here before you whole. 11 This is the ‘stone, which was rejected by you builders, which has become the chief cornerstone.’ 12 Nor is there salvation in any other, for there is no other name under heaven given among men by which we must be saved.”

Most of us at some time in life will experience some form of rejection.

Family or so-called friends might decide to terminate their relationship with us under various circumstances.

We might feel let-down, bewildered and angry that people can be as unkind, but it is a lesson unfortunately we need to learn in this world.

Even when we go for a job interview or some selection process for sports or team ventures, we might be rejected. In all these forms of rejection we must be humble, forgiving and fight any tendency towards bitterness.

This what Jesus Christ himself experienced. The one people in the world who should have known who and what the Son of God would be like, were the Jews. But when He came to them, most of them including their secular and religious leaders rejected and dismissed Him as an impostor. He was the precious stone which the builders rejected yet he was and still is the most important stone in the building known as the church, which is the cornerstone! The corner-stone or capstone is usually laid at a ceremony in honour of a new building.

All the other stones fit in around the cornerstone.

So, is there someone whose judgement that we can trust? When we look at people we can be so influenced by external things, such as their appearance, demeanour, dress sense, personality etc. But when God considers a person, He looks right into their heart. A clear example of this was when the Lord sent Samuel the prophet to anoint one of the sons of Jesse as King over Israel. Samuel considered each one of them from the natural point of view, how tall or handsome that they were. But God makes it quite clear in 1 Samuel 6:7 that He is interested in a person’s heart. The inner qualities not the external are much more important.

So, what does this mean in practice for us in our day to day lives?

Firstly, when we are rejected and put down, our loving heavenly Abba Father is always there to remind us of our true value, which is that you are valuable and precious to Him. So much so that He gave His only begotten Son…John 3:16.

The world’s value system is superficial and dangerous. Satan himself masquerades as an angel of light! Do not trust outward appearances, Jesus told the Pharisees that they were white-washed tombstones, white on the inside but inside dark and horrible, full of dead men’s bones!

Secondly, we must ask the Lord for discernment in all the appropriate areas of life. The wrong choice of a marriage or business partner can easily ruin someone’s life. Running with the wrong crowd of friends has also caused unnecessary suffering and grief in some lives.

We can take a good example from the disciples after the resurrection when they gathered to choose a replacement for the traitor Judas Iscariot. They prayed indicating that only God Himself truly knows what is in a man’s heart and therefore they asked the Lord to show who His choice for the vacant position was. The Lord then spoke to the hearts of the disciples, and they chose whom they believed that the Lord had already chosen.

In conclusion, no matter what people say or do to you, God will always love you and never let you down.

Since only God truly knows a person’s heart, we must ask Him to guide us in all our decisions involving people. We might not always get the answer we want or like, but we can console ourselves by the knowledge that the Lord’s choice will always be the right one!

Amen

Personal Prayer

In Part 3 we return to those wonderful ‘one another’ scriptures.

[betty-bourgeoisie]

The basics are colonialism. Zionists in Europe decided they wanted to do colonisation like the western Europeans but specifically for Jewish Europeans who were zionists. Keep in mind, there were and are many Jews who reject zionism. So, the Jewish zionists talked to the Europeans with colonies and floated the idea, and Brits took it up and offered them their colonies in Africa, but the zionists decided on Palestine, when the Brits took it over from the ottoman empire. They drew up plans, made connections, had zionist chapters in each continent, and mostly in the US and Europe, with the aim of making a country in Palestine. The Brits were willing to give a small part of Palestine because they wanted to control Palestine, especially Jerusalem. This didn't go down well with the zionists. They started fighting the Brits for independence. The Palestinians had already been fighting for independence even under the ottoman empire. To mess up the Palestinians and zionists fighting them, the Brits lied to both about giving them the territory. The zionists called the Brits bluff, and they teamed up to take Palestine from Palestinians. The US entered the mix officially, and then there was a huge migration of Jewish Europeans into Palestine. All this contributed to the zionists becoming dominant in Palestine and having the upper hand, especially in international recognition. The UN, then only made up of mostly European countries and the US, officially created Israel and gave them their support. The entire operation was to ensure Europe and North America have somewhere to take their Jewish populations, at first. Somewhere along the way, a brand of American Christianity decided to make it about the second coming of Jesus. Regardless of that, the whole situation comes down to a bunch of Europeans decided to colonize Palestine.

I'm gonna start by saying I appreciate you writing this all out anon. I know it takes time and energy on your part and I am genuinely grateful that you were willing to educate me on this issue.

But honestly, the more geopolitical aspects of the Israeli-Palestine conflict are not really what I'm confused about. Like I said, I've taken time to try and educate myself on this issue and the facts surrounding things like military conflict, water rights, encroachments on Palestinian land, etc, are all fairly standardized and I have been able to find *mostly* unbiased and accurate sources on them.

The part where I always get lost is the religious aspects of the conflict. While my understanding is that theological differences are not at the root of the conflict between Israel and Palestine itself, theology does play a significant role in how the conflict is discussed within the U.S. political theater. As a U.S.-American I feel like it's important for me to understand the background and religious implications of how people within my country are talking about this issue so that I can do things like, you know, be an informed voter.

This comes back to my original post because like I said, I am not from an Abrahamic religion. I already have a fundamentally difficult time wrapping my head around things like monotheism or even basing your religious beliefs and practices on scripture because I was raised in a very devout Pagan animist household and that is simply not how we do things.

So as you might imagine, understanding the (usually fundamentalist Christian) religious rhetoric that regularly shows up in U.S. political discussions is hard for me in the simplest of situations. For something like the Israeli-Palestine conflict, which has never once been simple, it becomes downright impossible to decipher. And when I try to ask questions about it I always get a response like this one. Answers that recite the aspects of the geopolitical conflict that I already know, while completely brushing over the religious issues that I'm actually asking about with the assumption that I understand what is being said.

"Somewhere along the way, a brand of American Christianity decided to make it about the second coming of Jesus. Regardless of that-" do you see how this response is difficult for me? I don't understand how they could make it about the second coming of Jesus! Where does that come from? How does that even begin to relate? The responses I get to these questions are always so vague that they don't even give me keywords that I can easily google to help find an answer!

My admittedly muddled understanding is that the tying of the Israeli-Palestine conflict to the rapture is rooted in anti-semitism, and I would like to be active in pushing back against that, but that's kind of hard to do when you don't even understand what's happening!

I want to be clear that I am not frustrated with you in particular anon. As I said, I do genuinely appreciate you trying to take the time to educate me. But this is a persistent problem that I come across when trying to understand the Israeli-Palestine conflict from an American political perspective and it gets very frustrating.

Side Note: For any of my followers that have read this far, I just want to say, like, please do not take the majority of your information on the Israeli-Palestine conflict from Tumblr posts. I appreciate you reading all this, but if you're interested in getting a basic understanding of the geopolitical aspects of this conflict I recommend watching the Crash Course World History episode on it or something.

[saibababooks]

Sai Baba Books: A Spiritual Bridge to the Teachings of Sadguru Sainath

The journey toward spiritual fulfillment is deeply personal yet universally significant. For centuries, saints and sages have guided humanity along this path. Among them, Shri Sai Baba of Shirdi holds a timeless place in the hearts of devotees. His teachings, filled with simplicity, love, and profound wisdom, continue to transform lives across generations. One of the most powerful ways to access this spiritual guidance today is through Sai Baba Books.

At Shri Sai Gyaneshwari, we believe in preserving and promoting the sacred knowledge of Shri Sai Baba in its most authentic form. Our collection of Sai Baba Books is curated not only for information but for inner transformation. These books are more than just words they are living scriptures that carry Baba’s divine energy and teachings.

While the Sai Satcharitra is considered the most popular Sai Baba Book, true seekers often desire a deeper, more interpretive experience. This is where Shri Sai Gyaneshwari stands out as a unique contribution to Sai Baba Literature. Based on the writings of Dasganu Maharaj and translated by Shri Rakesh Juneja, this work compiles seven significant chapters that encapsulate Baba’s wisdom on spirituality, devotion, and self-realization.

Divided into nine chapters aligned with the Navadha Bhakti (nine-fold devotion), Shri Sai Gyaneshwari addresses the deeper questions of life, karma, and human suffering. Every page resonates with Baba’s grace, helping readers rise above the illusions of the material world and connect with the eternal truth of the soul.

One of the main objectives of our platform is to make these divine texts accessible to everyone. That’s why we offer both Sai Baba Books in Hindi and Sai Baba Books in English. Whether you prefer the poetic depth of Hindi or the clarity of English, the essence of Baba’s teachings remains intact. Language is only a medium; the message is what matters.

Devotees who read Shri Sai Gyaneshwari often report a sense of calm, clarity, and connectedness. They say it’s like having a personal conversation with Baba himself. And it’s not just about comfort; these books serve as practical manuals for living a life guided by faith, humility, and surrender. Each Sai Baba Book in our collection helps the reader internalize the truth that we are not this body, but divine souls bound for higher realization.

We also emphasize the importance of sourcing these sacred books from trusted places like Sai Book House. A genuine source ensures the purity of content and the preservation of spiritual integrity. In a world where commercialism often dilutes religious literature, Sai Book House remains committed to offering only authentic, spiritually uplifting Sai Books.

Over time, the regular reading of Sai Baba Books cultivates unwavering faith in Baba. It eliminates fear, reduces attachment to worldly pleasures, and gradually shifts the seeker’s focus inward. Baba’s core message that of Saburi (patience) and Shraddha (faith) becomes a living principle. With each reading session, a devotee takes a step closer to inner freedom.

Moreover, the versatility of Sai Baba Literature makes it suitable for people of all walks of life. Whether you're a young student, a working professional, or a retired spiritual seeker, Baba’s words have the ability to meet you exactly where you are in life. They offer solace in sorrow, strength during trials, and guidance when you feel lost.

At Shri Sai Gyaneshwari, our vision goes beyond publishing. We aim to create a spiritual movement one where Sai Baba Books act as lighthouses for those sailing the stormy seas of modern life. With every book shared, we move a step closer to Baba’s dream of universal brotherhood, love, and peace.

Another key feature of our books is the deep commentary provided by Shri Rakesh Juneja. These insights are not academic interpretations but heartfelt explanations based on years of devotion and study. This makes Shri Sai Gyaneshwari a standout among Sai Baba Books a spiritual treasure house that speaks to the soul, not just the intellect.

In today’s fast-paced digital world, the simple act of sitting down with a spiritual book is revolutionary. It's a return to silence, reflection, and true connection. Whether you start your day by reading a passage from Sai Baba Books in English, or end your evening with verses from Sai Baba Books in Hindi, the impact is the same spiritual nourishment that elevates your consciousness.

https://www.saigyaneshwari.com/

[lifechanyuan]

Preface of Lifechanyuan Values

Fansheng Buddha

(Translation edited by Kaer)

As we know, Chanyuan values were born in Chanyuan Corpus. In order to understand them, one should read them first, which according to Crane celestial, is a unique and outstanding book. This description is appropriate, for we all know that nothing happens accidentally; whether a book or a theoretical system, their birth is NEVER accidental. As people, we are only in direct contact with literal things, neither the conscious opportunity nor the whole process behind it are things that we can imagine and understand, but there must be sources and provenances behind any literal phenomena. Reading from this angle, the whole text reappears as a lively script in which its characters and events are full of vivid details. It is how archeologists can recover bits of ancient history through a series of intact excavations. From this perspective, any literal things left in human history are based upon the author's life experiences, the social background at that time, and the uniqueness of his or her consciousness.

If you read Chanyuan Corpus in this way, it will all come alive and its soul will jump off of each page. With this attitude, you will complete the entire corpus naturally in one setting and find it to be impeccable. It covers a wide range of subjects that are rarely found in human history and also touches on the depth of cultural context with a background that is unobtainable from any other book that any human culture can match. So, it is no exaggeration to say that Chanyuan Corpus reproduces the development of human history vividly and crystallizes human wisdom from antiquity to modernity. Chanyuan Corpus starts from the birth of the universe, analyzes deeply several documents of major religious sects in human history, and reproduces the original features of all religious scriptures. It traces the entire history of China from ancient times to the present from historical legends through thousands of years of human development. From this perspective, you can go back and reinterpret any classics, allusions, myths, and historical legends, as they are all alive now and are closely related to the relevance of our lives today and understand how the contribution of Chanyuan Corpus to mankind is outstanding because it has reached the pinnacle of interpretive wisdom of human history.

If we read Chanyuan Corpus closely, we will sense that it leads us to know the Greatest Creator from the origin of the universe to the space of Life, from the motions of macroscopic celestial bodies to those of sub-microscopic quarks and strings, and from the great unsolved mysteries of history to the smallest things happening around us every day. It uses "Life's Wisdom" chapter and "Unconventional Thinking" chapter to interpret the truth of human history to analyze natural phenomena, and uses the crystallization of human wisdom to trigger sparks of our wisdom. The chapters of “Humanity and Human Life” and “LIFE” interpret the origins of people, the levels, truth, and meanings of LIFE, and so much more. From ancient times to the present, from the macroscopic world, down to that of the microscopic, it reveals the evolutionary processes of all human life and points out the current situation of human development and the difficulties that will be encountered in its future development. In the “Preaching” chapter and the “Universe, Time and Space” chapter, it offers detailed explanations of all phenomena in ways that can be understood easily by common people. It also explains in detail, the origin of the universe and through its description, the birth process of the Greatest Creator. The universe's development is presented in such a way that we can understand correctly what Dao is. It also reveals the unified field of the universe from the dual perspectives of theology and science, and points out the current positions and drawbacks of science. It also reveals the birth of time and space in the universe and guides us to understand the living conditions of the various LIVES in 36-dimensional space, points out the beautiful developmental trend for mankind, and finds better living spaces for LIFE. Among them, the nonmaterial world will lead mankind to explore unknown realms and open new chapters to further understand the truth and meaning of LIFE and the Greatest Creator, and to raise our level of LIFE. The chapters on “Revelation”, “Self-Improvement and Self-cultivation”, “Celestial Cultivation”, the “Attainment of Buddhahood”, and the “Treasures of Classical Advice” guide us on how to understand the truth of LIFE and improve our levels of LIFE. They lead us to experience, step by step, the changes from microscopic LIFE to macroscopic LIFE, from natural phenomena to the essential changes of things, and from the elementary, to the intermediate, and to the advanced, with practical approaches. By these means, we can improve our understanding and gradually make our knowledge advance from the quantitative to the qualitative. This is also the process of training us to achieve enlightenment gradually. These methods are fixed, but their applications are flexible, changeable, and differ from person to person, from low to high, and in orderly manners. The “Civilization” chapter is a new chapter opened for humankind because in the future, people will know the Greatest Creator and solve the problems of the current processes of human development from their roots.

In Qiankun Celestial's words: “We must know our roots and origins, the Greatest Creator, the origins of the universe, and the operating mechanisms of things from nonexistence to existence, so as to work out the game rules of human life and existence to ensure that all LIVES can share free, happy, and blessed lives bestowed by the Greatest Creator. As a result, people will live in harmonious and peaceful times when everyone will know the roots of life as being grateful to the Greatest Creator and cherishing LIFE”.

Chanyuan Corpus covers too much information to cover completely here. To summarize it, the whole Corpus impresses us with its extraordinary integrity and strictness in the many chapters of the book which form a coherent whole. As a theoretical system, it is impeccable. The conscious opportunity and process behind such an amazing manuscript is by no means an accidental turning point because a person’s time and energy are limited. It is my view that even if one wanted to study such a vast and broad field, it would be difficult even if they were to devote their whole life to it, otherwise this fantastic book would have appeared long ago and we would not have needed to wait until now. We can say that the Chanyuan Corpus is a book from heaven which is written in words, but better than that, it seems to tell you everything and nothing at the same time. Whether you understand it or not depends on your nature.

So much for that. Let me talk about what Chanyuan values are according to my understanding: They are the most direct channel to your source of LIFE:

They show a path of happiness that the Greatest Creator and various Gods and Buddha have conveyed to mankind through Xuefeng

They bring our sight closer to the “roots” of the universe which seem far away from us

They uncover the veil of space, time, and the nonmaterial world

They combine religion with science organically and make great contributions to the scientific establishment of the unification of the universe

They help us to interpret the meaning of LIFE, from its origin to its transmigrations, and from its level to the improvement of its quality

They reveal the universe’s true “consciousness, structure, and energy”, and allow us to break down our barriers of consciousness to recognize and connect with its source directly

They help us to understand that it is the obligation of every LIFE to maintain a stable and harmonious universe, understand the meaning of human life and LIFE, and understand how to improve the quality of our LIVES and to welcome such opportunities when the universe is about to undergo major adjustments

That is to say that Chanyuan values are the LIFE and human life norms that must be followed by new people and also show the best ways for us to obtain wisdom because it gathers all the wisdom from throughout human history and continues to carry it forward.

Chanyuan values are a treasure chest from which you can take whatever you want. People armed with these values can identify all truth and falsity, leaving demons and ghosts with no places to hide. The values can help to open your eyes to wisdom, Dharma, and Buddha. They are a great melting pot of LIFE. The kind of LIFE quality that you want to obtain depends on your effort and wisdom. Of course, Chanyuan values are also a Pandora's Box, “Good begets good and evil leads to evil”. Chanyuan values seem simple but they cover many of life’s secrets, from solving real-life problems to interpreting LIFE phenomena, from health-preservation methods to ways of improving the quality of LIFE and guiding us to improve our understanding in a detailed manner. From understanding the truth of things to interpreting the nature of our LIVES, its secrets interpret everything organically and combine the material world that we can see, hear, feel, smell, and taste, with the nonmaterial world that is beyond conception. They reveal the truth from the manifestation phenomena of LIFE and let us know what the soul and the non-material structure of LIFE are. They also reveal how to know our own spiritual entities, how to connect with other spirits, and how to recognize the relation between us and the spirit of our source...step by step.

It seems that Chanyuan values have too much content while also having none at all. What are Chanyuan values? You have to interpret them yourself and use them flexibly. What are Chanyuan values? Do you understand them? Well, I seem to say nothing.

[aurorawritesromance]

WHAT REMAINS UNSPOKEN [CH7]

ALL CHAPTERS HERE.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ FALSE PROPHETS // ELIAS  ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Ridgepath isn’t far. Twenty minutes east, maybe less with lights. Smaller than I expected—quieter, too—but not in the peaceful way. More like silence that’s been forced into corners and bolted down. The streets are too wide for how few cars crawl them. The houses huddle close together, a patchwork of rusted gutters, sagging porches, and paint the color of old teeth. Yards bleed into each other, fences half-finished or never started, a kid’s scooter abandoned on a lawn that hasn’t been mowed since last summer.

Every damn place we have visited so far feels abandoned or neglected.

We roll through on four wheels and tinted windows like we’re something foreign and unwelcome, and the town watches us back through fluttering curtains and cracked blinds. Dalia is flipping through a bunch of files in the passenger seat. Her face is unreadable, but I know she is lost in her flow state, eyes locked on Ruth Quinn’s photo like she’s trying to memorize every tiny detail.

The GPS tells us we’ve arrived before we see the place. I park across from Ridgepath Community Center, though calling it a center is a little generous. It’s a single-story building set between a boarded-up laundromat and a liquor store that advertises two-for-one tallboys on Thursdays. The exterior is beige, a crooked ramp leading up to the front door. The windows are painted with outdated Christmas scenes—hand-stenciled snowflakes that’ve melted into themselves in the spring heat. A rickety wooden sign hangs over the door, swaying slightly in the wind.

RIDGEPATH COMMUNITY CENTER

Clothing Drive Mondays — Bible Study Fridays

The F in Fridays is backward.

Dalia exits first, her boots hitting the pavement like punctuation. I follow, shrugging my jacket closed against the damp in the air. We climb the ramp in step, wood groaning under our weight. A bell jingles when I push open the door—a meek, apologetic sound, like even it knows it’s not welcome here. There’s no music playing inside, only the sound of our footsteps echoing on linoleum and the faint tick of a wall clock that’s running five minutes behind.

A folding table serves as the front desk. Draped in a faded cloth with sunflowers stitched along the hem, it holds a plastic box labeled LOST & FOUND. Behind it sits a woman who looks like she was born in that chair—white curls, thick glasses, a sweater weighed down by an army of mismatched cat brooches. She looks up slowly but her expression doesn’t change.

“Can I help you?”

I flash my badge first. “Detective Wexler. This is Detective Rowe. We’re following up on an ongoing investigation. Wondering if we could ask you a few questions about an event hosted here last year.”

The woman squints, sits back slightly. “Depends on the event.”

Dalia steps forward, pulling out the pamphlet piece. “A religious gathering. Would’ve been last spring, possibly early summer.”

The woman’s brows knit. Her hand, seemingly on reflex, shifts toward the rosary looped around her wrist, fingers brushing the beads.

“Oh,” she murmurs, voice dropping like a stone into water. “You mean those Reclamation people.”

Dalia stiffens beside me. Subtle, but I feel it. A taut wire suddenly pulled.

“They went by that name?” she asks. “Church of Reclamation?”

The woman nods, slow and reluctant. Her lips thin into a flat line, as though saying the name out loud leaves a bad taste.

“That’s what they called themselves,” she confirms. “Showed up around October. Always Fridays, just before dark. Paid in cash. Walked in, held their little sermons or whatever they were, and left like smoke.”

“Did they ever distribute flyers?” I ask.

“They handed one to me, once,” she mutters. “Didn’t post it, though. Should’ve listened to my gut then. But we needed the rental money. Times being what they are.”

Dalia tilts her head, gentle but focused. “What made you uneasy?”

“They didn’t pray,” she says. “Couldn’t hear no Scripture, no verses. No hymns. Some phrases they said over and over, like they were casting something. I stood outside the door one night. Thought I’d pop my head in but glad I didn’t.”

Her voice hitches—barely. “Made my skin crawl. I’m Catholic, you see. That—whatever they were doing—it wasn’t worship.”

A chill creeps under my collar.

“Do you remember who led the group?” Dalia asks.

The woman leans forward a little, voice dropping.

“He smiled too much, but it never reached his eyes. I caught him once, watching me lock up through the glass, standing there like… A statue. His name was Jonas. Vellum? Voss? No... Vale, I believe.”

Jonas Vale.

“Do you happen to still have that flyer?” I ask.

She sighs, then swivels in her chair with the huff of someone reluctant to revisit something better left buried. Drawers creak open. Paper rustles. Metal clicks. Finally, she pulls a folder from beneath a stack of outdated newsletters and gently extracts a single piece of cardstock. She passes it across the desk with two fingers. Doesn’t look at it.

I reach for it. The paper feels thick, almost waxed. There’s no clutter, no design—just a spiral, pressed in gold foil, perfectly centered. Beneath it, in sharp serif:

The Vessel Suffers For Our Salvation.

Then, in smaller print:

Church of Reclamation

Fridays at 7PM — Ridgepath Community Hall, Rear Entrance

Led by Jonas Vale

No website. No contact info. No branding.

“Did they leave anything behind when they stopped coming?” I ask, turning the paper in my hand for any clues. The woman’s jaw clenches.

“No.”

I hand the paper to Dalia and she runs her thumb along the edge of the flyer. “Mind if we hold onto this?”

The woman doesn’t hesitate. “Take it.”

She shifts her eyes back to her rosary. Clutches it tight, like she is praying.

Outside, the door creaks open just as we step toward it. Wind rushes in behind us, sharp and sudden, slamming it shut with a noise too loud for the space it came from. Dalia slips the flyer into her jacket.

“We’ve got a name,” she murmurs.

I nod. “Jonas Vale.”

It’s colder now, the kind of bite that gets into your bones. The clouds have thickened while we were inside, folded over the sky like cotton candy spun too thick. Ridgepath’s gravel parking lot still stretches empty around us—just our car, some sagging parking signs, and one crooked bench with a “No Loitering” notice duct-taped to its side.

Inside the car, Dalia gives me a reassuring smile, flicks the heat dial up, and we both pull out our phones in synchronicity.

The name on the flyer—it doesn’t sit right. Jonas Vale. Sounds made up. It’s the kind of name you give yourself when you want people to remember it, want it to roll off tongues like a warning dressed in civility. I type it into the database. Nothing official comes up, but then again I really don’t think Jonas is his real name. No database profile.

“Got something,” Dalia murmurs with a smile, victory plastered all over her face. I give her an easy smile back.

“Show me.”

She tilts the phone my way. While I was looking at the police database, she went straight to Google.

A Facebook group, request to join type. The cover photo shows a black spiral carved into wood. The name just reads: Reclaimers. Beneath it, the administrator: Jonas Vale.

“Looks like he keeps it tight,” I say, frowning. “We could use a fake account to join and view the posts.”

Dalia leans closer, nodding. She smells like wind and leather and the tension she’s worn since sunrise. “We could ask Kelsi from IT for one.”

The wind outside picks up again, howling low between the side mirrors.

I start the car, ready to head back and dig deeper. “You think Ruth was part of the group?”

“I think it’s the best lead we’ve had. And that phrase...” She glances down at her phone again. “The vessel suffers for our salvation. It’s a belief system. If we are looking at religious cult-type activity, it could explain why Ruth felt paranoid. Sects like that won’t let their followers go easy.”

I drive us out of the Ridgepath lot, gravel popping under the tires. In a few minutes, we merge onto the highway, the town falling behind us. The horizon flattens out again, fields and scrub and bones of old barns scattered like the remains of a story no one wanted to finish.

I don’t know why I glance at her then. Maybe just instinct. She’s looking out the window, fingers twitching slightly where they rest on her thigh. Like she’s working something out. Or holding something in.

I almost ask but then she turns to me.

“I was thinking of cooking dinner tomorrow,” she says, sudden. “Come by after shift?”

It throws me off-balance. “Dinner?”

“Sure. Markus said he will serve up his famous bread pudding.”

Ah. So it’s that.

I manage a neutral nod, but the knot that tightens behind my ribs doesn’t budge. “Alright.”

“He asked about you.”

“What’d you tell him?”

“That you’re my partner.”

“Right.”

The word feels too small in my mouth.

“He’s not…” She trails off, then sighs. “He’s just not great with this part of my life.”

“You mean the truth?”

I can’t help it. We’ve been partners for three years and I’ve met Markus on office parties before. We get on fine, but I can tell he doesn’t like me.

I’ve never been over for dinner.

It feels like a test I’m not sure I can pass.

CHAPTER 8 >>

[dfroza]

A link to my personal reading of the Scriptures

for the 6th of may 2025 with a paired chapter from each Testament (the First & the New Covenant) of the Bible

[The Letter of 1st Peter, Chapter 4 • The Book of Esther, Chapter 4]

along with Today’s reading from the ancient books of Proverbs and Psalms with Proverbs 6 and Psalm 6 coinciding with the day of the month, accompanied by Psalm 48 for the 48th day of Astronomical Spring, and Psalm 126 for day 126 of the year (with the consummate book of 150 Psalms in its 1st revolution this year)

A post by John Parsons:

Loving our Neighbor...

Our Torah portion this week, Acharei Mot, contains the verse, "You shall love your neighbor as yourself; I am the LORD" (Lev. 19:18), which is generally regarded as the most fundamental commandment of Torah. The Talmud recounts that when challenged by a pagan to teach the meaning of the Scriptures "while standing on one foot," Hillel said, "What is hateful to you, do not do to your neighbor: that is the whole Torah and the rest is commentary; go and learn it." Hillel summed up the Torah as "doing no harm" toward others (i.e., the "Silver Rule"), which agrees with the Apostle Paul's statement, "Love does no wrong to a neighbor; therefore love is the fulfillment (πλήρωμα) of the law" (Rom. 13:10). Of course Yeshua earlier taught His followers, “whatever you wish that others would do to you, do also to them, for this is the Law and the Prophets” (Matt. 7:12; 22:36-40).

Some of the mystics have said that when two people love one another, the Holy One reigns between them, as alluded to by the Hebrew word for “love” (i.e., ahavah: אהבה), the gematria of which is thirteen (1+5+2+5=13), but when shared with another it is multiplied: 13 x 2 = 26, which is the same value for the Sacred Name (יהוה), i.e., (10+5+6+5=26). In other words, when we love, esteem, and respect one another, the LORD’s presence is multiplied and revealed among us (1 John 4:7-8). “Where two or three gather in my Name...

In this connection, it is interesting to note that the gematria for the Hebrew commandment, "You shall love your neighbor as yourself" (i.e., וְאָהַבְתָּ לְרֵעֲךָ כָּמוֹך) equals 820, the same value as the word yekidash’ti (וְקִדַּשְׁתִּי), "And I [the LORD] will sanctify" (Exod. 29:44). When God commands us to "love your neighbor as yourself," he graciously includes the addendum: "I am the LORD," which the sages say recalls the revelation of the Name YHVH (יהוה), and that therefore is understood to mean, "I will help you to do this," or (in this case) "I will sanctify you through your acts of lovingkindness."

Of course followers of Yeshua have the ongoing obligation to love and care for one another (see John 13:34, 15:12,17, Rom. 13:8; 1 Thess. 4:9; 1 Pet. 1:22, 1 John 3:11, etc.). After all, in this world the only tangible way we can express our love for God is by extending gemilut chasadim (loving acts) to others (James 2:15-17, 1 John 3:17, 4:20). Indeed, Yeshua taught that our obligation to love and care for others may sometimes even preempt our outward duty to love God Himself. For example, what good is it to "tithe mint and cumin" and yet neglect the needs of those who are suffering? (see Matt. 23:23).

Tragically, the idea of "loving" or "serving" God can even be used as a pretext for rejecting those with whom we might disagree... What else explains religious hatred, hidebound denominational prejudices, and other forms of sanctimonious humbug at work in the various world religions of today? Even in so-called Christian churches we see this sort of bigotry at work. As Yeshua forewarned: "the hour is coming when whoever kills you will think he is offering service to God" (John 16:2). Sadly this sometimes applies even to those who claim to love and worship the very Prince of Peace (שַׂר־שָׁלוֹם). The world's religious zealots are routinely trying to "do God a favor" by hating and even killing others... This is "Jihad-version" of religiosity is a terrible sickness of spirit. In light of the sacrificial love and grace of God, can there really be anything more perverse than this?

Love is the central idea of all true Torah. Though there are some slight language differences between the Exodus and Deuteronomy versions of the Ten Commandments, both begin with "I AM" (אָנכִי) and both end with "[for] your neighbor" (לְרֵעֶךָ). Joining these together says "I am your neighbor," indicating that the LORD Himself is your neighbor (see diagram below). When we love our neighbor as ourselves (אָהַבְתָּ לְרֵעֲךָ כָּמוֹךָ), we are in effect demonstrating our love for the LORD, while on the other hand, every social transgression is a transgression against God. As our Scriptures teach, "If anyone says, "I love God," but hates his brother is a liar," since "love fulfills the law" (1 John 4:20; Rom. 13:8). When we love our neighbor as ourselves we walk in the Torah of the LORD, which is perfect (Psalm 19:7).

[ Hebrew for Christians ]

========

Lev. 19:18b audio:

https://hebrew4christians.com/Blessings/Blessing_Cards/lev19-18b-jjp.mp3

Hebrew page:

https://hebrew4christians.com/Blessings/Blessing_Cards/lev19-18b-lesson.pdf

5.5.25 • Facebook

from Israel365

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

[thetorahwithgraphic]

Audio bible Torah "Leviticus" easily and clearly Vol. 9 Parashat Behar

Spread Torah Wisdom - Support free Moses videos with your donation!

Help Naohiro Ishikawa create easy-to-understand, free content about the Pentateuch!

Naohiro Ishikawa is dedicated to making the Pentateuch of the Old Testament accessible and understandable to all. Naohiro Ishikawa is currently producing free videos with the goal of spreading the teachings of the Bible to a wider audience.

However, to make this project a success, Naohiro Ishikawa needs your support. Naohiro Ishikawa is asking for donations to help defray the costs of production and distribution. Every little bit helps. Your generous support will help us reach more people with our content.

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The Pentateuch of Moses is an important part of the Old Testament, consisting of a total of 187 chapters and an amazing 4993 verses.

First, let us introduce the book of Genesis. Genesis is 50 chapters and 1533 verses and is divided into 12 volumes. Genesis can be viewed in a variety of books and videos accessible at the following link: https://www.3m-meditation.com/new-genesis-jpananese?lang=en.

Next, we turn to the book of Exodus. This is the story of chapter 40, verse 1213, and is organized into 11 volumes. To examine the book of Exodus in more detail, click on the following link: https://www.3m-meditation.com/newexodus?lang=en.

The third book in the Pentateuch of Moses is Leviticus, which consists of 27 chapters and 859 verses and is divided into 10 volumes. Leviticus is available here: https://www.3m-meditation.com/leviticus-jpn?lang=en.

Next to Leviticus is the book of Numbers. Numbers consists of 36 chapters, 1288 verses, and is divided into 10 books. The book of Numbers is available at: https://www.3m-meditation.com/torah-num-jpn?lang=en.

Lastly, we have Deuteronomy, the fifth book of the Pentateuch. Deuteronomy consists of 34 chapters, 959 verses, and is divided into 11 books. Deuteronomy can be accessed at: https://www.3m-meditation.com/deuteronomy?lang=en.

The Pentateuch of Moses is a sacred text shared by Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. Despite its rich history and importance, its ancient origins make it sometimes difficult to understand and visualize its contents from the written text alone.

For this reason, Naohiro Ishikawa has created the Old Testament “Pentateuch of Moses” in picture scroll format, with illustrations accompanying each of the 4993 verses, making this book a unique representation of the Bible. Many readers have noted that these illustrations help them immerse themselves in the Bible verses, making it easier to visualize the story.

Naohiro Ishikawa's goal is to make the Old Testament “Pentateuch of Moses” accessible and understandable to all. Naohiro Ishikawa invites you to explore the Old Testament Pentateuch in this new format. Naohiro Ishikawa is confident that you will find words to enlighten your life. Naohiro Ishikawa hopes you enjoy this journey through one of the oldest and most revered texts in the world.

Editor of this video: Naohiro Ishikawa

Website:

https://www.3m-meditation.com

Email:

info@3m-meditation.com

YouTube:

https://youtube.com/@Moses777

Facebook:

https://www.facebook.com/naohiro.ishikawa1

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https://twitter.com/naohiro7725

Ameba Blog:

https://ameblo.jp/naohiroishikawa

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Torah,Five Books of Moses,Bible Reading,Old Testament,Hebrew Bible,Judaism,Genesis,Exodus,Leviticus,Numbers,Deuteronomy,Parsha / Parashah,Synagogue,Jewish Culture,Bible Study,Audio Torah,Jewish Education,Weekly Torah Portion,Israel,Audiobook,Religious Education,Scripture Reading,

Naihiro Ishikawa,

[thatwhoeverbelieveth]

Please pray for me, Brothers and Sisters.

I have made the decision to cease attending the church I help out every few weeks. For clarification, I am not a member. I merely am part of the "welcome team". I already have not gone back since the beginning of the year. Under a cut due to length.

To start at the beginning, I was initially attracted by their work on going through the Bible chapter-by-chapter each week. Especially as someone who has not delved deeply into the text since I was young. Last I checked, they were somewhere in the Epistles. I even made a couple new friends there, or at least some positive acquaintances. I probably won't ever see them again.

Their sermons have devolved into politically reactionary diatribes wrapped up in spiritual language, with bait-and-switch "jokes" about people who were upset about the November elections that were "really" about sports or some such, which people laughed at, or inserting something about how they think homosexuality is an aberration. The latter is almost every week I have attended. One sermon even ended with a solid five minutes about why feminism is "unbiblical". Most distressingly, a different sermon quite literally STOPPED so the head pastor could rant about how "modern culture had emasculated God." That was the exact word used. "Emasculated". I almost stopped attending right then and there, only to decide that maybe this was an outlier and the people here were not really like that. Then it just… continued. There were even a few digs at "liberal theologians." So much for being a "welcoming" church, right? My thoughts very rapidly went from "okay, here and there this is kinda weird" to "this is what the kids call being given the Ick."

Maybe I was naive, but I thought "surely not every sermon here is full of politics instead of Jesus" so I continued coming between two and three Sundays per month. To be fair to them, a lot of the services did have good Christian messages in there. "Don't make idols out of culture." "Don't listen to popular religious voices over the words of Jesus." "Help others when you can." I see now that all of this is rooted in THEIR interpretation of scripture.

As someone raised in a fairly liberal-minded Baptist church, and also frequented a Methodist church with a female pastor in my youth, this is not what I expected from a "non-denominational" church. Especially not from a place that heavily advertised being apolitical and having both Republicans and Democrats in their congregation. How many times can I type "church" in a single paragraph?

I already felt out of place there as a single person surrounded by married couples and families. At least half a dozen of the wives there were pregnant at any given time. It was hard to make friends outside of the one I already had going in. This is just the final nail in the coffin for me. Frankly, I am appalled by the behavior and rhetoric from these people who seem to care more about earthly politics than preaching the Gospel. I knew, having attended an Evangelical Christian school that this "newer" branch of the religion could be this way. I had heard about how closely tied to the Political Right these Evangelicals were, but to actually see it for my own self made me genuinely want to vomit. I understand now why these people voted so overwhelmingly, for three consecutive elections, for a man whose entire character is so contrary to the teachings of Christ. To their credit, they have never mentioned 47 by name. I suppose this way they can still claim to not be about politics.

I am thoroughly disillusioned now with Evangelical culture, after years of being pushed away from it. I don't think I will ever set foot in another "non-denominational" church if this is what is to be expected from them.