#Sacrament of Penance | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

catenaaurea · 2 years

Text

Catechism of Pope Saint Pius X

The Sacraments

The Sacrament of Penance (part 1)

Penance in General

1. Q. What is the sacrament of Penance?

A. The sacrament of Penance, also called Confession, is a sacrament instituted by Jesus Christ to remit the sins committed after Baptism.

2. Q. Why is the name of Penance given to this sacrament?

A. The name of Penance is given to this sacrament, because to obtain pardon for sins it is necessary to detest them penitently; and because he who has committed a fault must submit to the penance which the priest imposes.

3. Q. Why is this sacrament also called Confession?

A. This sacrament is also called Confession, because to obtain pardon for sins it is not enough to detest them, but it is necessary also to accuse oneself of them to the priest, that is, to make a confession of them.

4. Q. When did Jesus Christ institute the sacrament of Penance?

A. Jesus Christ instituted the sacrament of Penance on the day of His resurrection when, entering the Supper Room, He solemnly gave His Apostles the power of remitting sin.

5. Q. How did Jesus Christ give His Apostles the power of remitting sin?

A. Jesus Christ gave His Apostles the power of remitting sin thus: Breathing upon them He said: “Receive ye the Holy Ghost; whose sins you shall forgive they are forgiven; and whose sins you shall retain they are retained.”

6. Q. What is the matter of the sacrament of Penance?

A. The matter of the sacrament of Penance is divided into remote and proximate. The remote matter consists of the sins committed by the penitent after Baptism; and the proximate matter are the acts of the penitent himself, that is, contrition, confession and satisfaction.

7. Q. What is the form of the sacrament of Penance?

A. The form of the sacrament of Penance is this: “I absolve thee from thy sins.”

8. Q. Who is the minister of the sacrament of Penance?

A. The minister of the sacrament of Penance is a priest authorized by the Bishop to hear confessions.

9. Q. Why do you say that a priest must be authorized by the Bishop?

A. A priest must be authorized by the Bishop to hear confessions because to administer this sacrament validly the power of Orders is not enough, but there is also necessary the power of jurisdiction, that is, the power to judge, which must be given by the Bishop.

10. Q. Which are the parts of the sacrament of Penance?

A. The parts of the sacrament of Penance are contrition, confession, and satisfaction on the part of the penitent, and absolution on the part of the priest.

11. Q. What is contrition or sorrow for sins?

A. Contrition or sorrow for sin is a grief of the soul leading us to detest sins committed and to resolve not to commit them any more.

12. Q. What does the word contrition mean?

A. Contrition means a crushing or breaking up into pieces as when a stone is hammered and reduced to dust.

13. Q. Why is the name of contrition given to sorrow for sin?

A. The name of contrition is given to sorrow for sin to signify that the hard heart of the sinner is in a certain way crushed by sorrow for having offended God.

14. Q. In what does confession of sins consist?

A. Confession of sins consists in a distinct accusation of our sins made to the confessor in order to obtain absolution and receive penance for them.

15. Q. Why is confession called an accusation?

A. Confession is called an accusation, because it must not be a careless recital, but a true and sorrowful manifestation of our sins.

16. Q. What is satisfaction or penance?

A. Satisfaction or penance is that prayer or other good work which the confessor enjoins on the penitent in expiation of his sins.

17. Q. What is absolution?

A. Absolution is the sentence which the priest pronounces in the name of Jesus Christ when remitting the penitent’s sins.

18. Q. Of all the parts of the sacrament of Penance which is the most necessary?

A. Of all the parts of the sacrament of Penance the most necessary is contrition, because without it no pardon for sins is obtainable, while with it alone, perfect pardon can be obtained, provided that along with it there is the desire, at least implicit, of going to confession.

The Effects and the Necessity of the Sacrament of Penance and the Dispositions to Receive It Properly

19. Q. Which are the effects of the sacrament of Penance?

A. The sacrament of Penance confers sanctifying grace by which are remitted the mortal sins and also the venial sins which we confess and for which we are sorry; it changes eternal punishment into temporal punishment, of which it even remits more or less according to our dispositions; it revives the merits of the good works done before committing mortal sin; it gives the soul aid in due time against falling into sin again, and it restores peace of conscience.

20. Q. Is the sacrament of Penance necessary to all for salvation?

A. The sacrament of Penance is necessary for salvation to all who have committed a mortal sin after Baptism.

21. Q. Is it a good thing to go to confession often?

A. Yes, it is an excellent thing to go to confession often, because the sacrament of Penance, besides taking away sin, gives the graces necessary to avoid sin in the future.

22. Q. Has the sacrament of Penance the power of remitting all sins, no matter how numerous or how great they are?

A. The sacrament of Penance has the power of remitting all sins no matter how numerous and great they are, provided it is received with the requisite dispositions.

23. Q. How many conditions are necessary to make a good confession?

A. To make a good confession five things are necessary: (1) Examination of conscience; (2) Sorrow for having offended God; (3) A resolution of sinning no more; (4) Confession of our sins; (5) Satisfaction or penance

24. Q. What should we do first of all to make a good confession?

A. To make a good confession we should first of all earnestly beseech God to give us light to know all our sins and strength to detest them.

Examination of Conscience

25. Q. What is the examination of conscience?

A. The examination of conscience is a diligent search for the sins committed since the last good confession.

26. Q. How is the examination of conscience made?

A. The examination of conscience is made by carefully calling to mind before God all the sins committed but not confessed, in thought, word, deed and omission, against the Commandments of God and the Church, and against the duties of our state.*

*By “state” here Pope Pius is talking about our state in life, not duties towards a specific State as in governmental polity. Although that can be part of one’s life state in some circumstances. I just wanted to clarify cause it might not be obvious to everyone what he means there.*

27. Q. On what else should we examine ourselves?

A. We should also examine ourselves on our bad habits and on the occasions of sin.

28. Q. In our examination should we also try to discover the number of our sins?

A. In our examination we should also try to discover the number of our mortal sins.

29. Q. What is required for a sin to be mortal?

A. For a sin to be mortal three things are required: (1) Grave matter, (2) Full advertence, (3) Perfect consent of the will.

30. Q. When is the matter to be considered grave?

A. The matter is grave when the thing under examination is seriously contrary to the laws of God and His Church.

31. Q. When is there full advertence in sinning?

A. Full advertence in sinning is had when we know perfectly well that we are doing a serious evil.

32. Q. When is perfect consent of the will verified in sinning?

A. Perfect consent of the will is verified in sinning when we deliberately determine to do a thing although we know that thing to be sinful.

33. Q. What diligence should be used in the examination of conscience?

A. In the examination of conscience the same diligence is demanded as is used in a matter of great importance.

34. Q. How much time should be spent in the examination of conscience?

A. More or less time should be spent in the examination of conscience according to the needs of each case, that is, according to the number or kind of sins that burden the conscience and according to the time that has elapsed since the last good confession.

35. Q. How may the examination of conscience be rendered easy?

A. The examination of conscience is rendered easy by making An examination of conscience every evening upon the actions of the day.

#Catechism of Pius X #Sacraments part 7 #Catholic #Christian #penance is gonna be at least 3 parts #possibly 4

12 notes · View notes

catholicroads · 2 years

Text

Laugh Your Way To Heaven

So be imitators of God, as beloved children, and live in love, as Christ loved us and handed himself over for us as a sacrificial offering to God for a fragrant aroma.— Eph 5:1-2 (NAB) Penance Worthy CHARLESTON SC (CR News) — Priests do think about what they hear in the confessional. At least, that’s what one usually reliable source at the Chucktown Diocese tells us. But still, they never tell…

View On WordPress

#Blessed Sacrament #catholic #confession #Holy Eucharist #jesus #Kingdom of God #penance #Way and Truth and Life

0 notes

novadreii · 2 years

Text

hey girl...this church we’re in got me thinking about how i’d definitely cruise your fix if you’d give me one more chance. my sin wasn’t that original but damn bae you sure are. ucharist my heart and i’ll never forget u.

#anyone got ideas for sacrament and penance???#obvious reasons #sorry if this is offensive to anyone lol #personal

1 note · View note

pisboy · 9 months

Text

you can always tell when ppl satirizing catholicism have no clue what they're doing when they emulate charismatic evangelical practices like faith healing and sin cleansing instead of the actual weird catholic sacraments like unction and penance & reconciliation

354 notes · View notes

charlesreeza · 1 year

Photo

Confessionals of Sicily - Catania and Noto

Photos by Charles Reeza

#antique furniture #sacrament of penance #Roman Catholic church #Italy #Sicilia #sin and forgiveness #travel photos

10 notes · View notes

paula-of-christ · 3 months

Note

Hey! Maybe a silly question but can I pray the rosary even if I'm not officially Catholic (I'm baptised Christian however)? I don't have a Catholic church anywhere near me so it's impossible for me to officially convert :(

Absolutely! The only thing in Catholicism that is barred from nonCatholics is the Eucharist, and to a certain extent the Sacrament of Penance, also called Confession. While not technically disallowed from going to Confession, you do have to disclose that you are not yet received into the Catholic Church, because the priest cannot absolve you. But, you still get the benefits of going and knowing that there is the seal of confession (which is absolute confidentiality) in place.

#catholic #catholicism #christian #christianity #queued

86 notes · View notes

jesawyer · 4 months

Note

Hello Josh, Pentiment is one of my favorite games of all time. It’s an emotional journey for me. I can relate to Andreas’s melancholy and really like the character arc for him. Thank you for creating this amazing story.

I have a question about Seal of Confession in Pentiment. Sister Amalie disclosed Brother Guy’s confession to Andreas and explained why Guy can’t be protected by Seal of Confession. But as a catholic I was taught that Seal of Confession cannot be violated under any circumstances, and the seal also applies to anyone who overhears a confession. I assumed that the rule was different in Middle Ages. Did canon law back in 16th century mention anything about eavesdropping confessions?

Thank you. I'm glad you enjoyed it.

Certainly under modern canon law, Sister Amalie would be subject to church discipline equal to that of a priest who violated the seal, which could include excommunication.

Re: 16th century canon law on witnesses to confession other than the confessor: the Fourth Lateran Council (1215) did not mention witnesses, only the confessor:

Canon 21: On yearly confession to one’s own priest, yearly communion, the confessional seal All the faithful of either sex, after they have reached the age of discernment, should individually confess all their sins in a faithful manner to their own priest at least once a year, and let them take care to do what they can to perform the penance imposed on them. Let them reverently receive the sacrament of the eucharist at least at Easter unless they think, for a good reason and on the advice of their own priest, that they should abstain from receiving it for a time. Otherwise they shall be barred from entering a church during their lifetime and they shall be denied a Christian burial at death. Let this salutary decree be frequently published in churches, so that nobody may find the pretense of an excuse in the blindness of ignorance. If any persons wish, for good reasons, to confess their sins to another priest let them first ask and obtain the permission of their own priest; for otherwise the other priest will not have the power to absolve or to bind them. The priest shall be discerning and prudent, so that like a skilled doctor he may pour wine and oil over the wounds of the injured one. Let him carefully inquire about the circumstances of both the sinner and the sin, so that he may prudently discern what sort of advice he ought to give and what remedy to apply, using various means to heal the sick person. Let him take the utmost care, however, not to betray the sinner at all by word or sign or in any other way. If the priest needs wise advice, let him seek it cautiously without any mention of the person concerned. For if anyone presumes to reveal a sin disclosed to him in confession, we decree that he is not only to be deposed from his priestly office but also to be confined to a strict monastery to do perpetual penance.

The Corpus Juris Canonici may cover this, but I would make two statements here: 1) detailed canon law was not something most parish priests or certainly anchoresses would be familiar with 2) it's late and I don't want to try to search through the UCLA's digital library copy of the Corpus Juris Canonici.

That said, I do have a copy of Thomas Tentler's Sin and Confession on the Eve of the Reformation which gets into the weeds on what was going down in the Holy Roman Empire in the early 16th century. I used it as the basis for a lot of the specifics in Father Thomas' Saint John's Day confessions. I'll try to look it up this question tomorrow.

#pentiment #canon law

86 notes · View notes

thegreatzombieartisan · 1 year

Text

Nope Fuckity Bye: Two Theories on Why Sauron Skipped Seeking Pardon

“Sauron … did obeisance to Eönwë, the herald of Manwë, and abjured all his evil deeds…”

Before diving in, some givens and inferences:

Tolkien’s work is fundamentally Catholic work. To understand his POV, use this lens.

Maiar share a similar psychological landscape to Elves and Men. Men and Elves can procreate. Elves and embodied Maiar can too. Do the math.

Ecclesiastical language is telling. So, let’s clear up the oft misuse of “repentant.” Repentant = contrite (sincere sorrow for offense) vs. Penitent = contrite + actively seeking reconciliation.

Recognize the Sacrament of Penance reflected throughout legendarium

Per his faith, Tolkien believed redemption was ever an option. Thus, a penitent sinner like Sauron would need to satisfy conditions (sacraments) to absolve offense (sin) and reconcile with Eru Illuvatar (God).

All sin can be absolved, no matter how great.

Contrition or sincere sorrow for one’s offenses

Reconciliation aka “confession” aloud to a “priest” for accountability and absolution of sin

Repentance is assigned reparations for amends.

Theory One. Sauron couldn’t bear facing the Valar, but ecclesiastical language in text strongly suggests pardon meant facing his victims too

Sauron put on his fair hue again and did obeisance Eönwë, the herald of Manwë, and abjured all his evil deeds….

Abjure: to solemnly deny, disavow, or renunciate.

Tolkien might’ve chosen: “disavow”, “renounce”, or “repudiate.” But he chose abjure. As ecclesiastical language, it can be interpreted as holding significance.

For in ye olde Roman Catholicism, “abjuring” occurred in an abjuration - or a formal, timely, voluntary, and public ceremony to renunciate heresy

Rather than a civil criminal trial, it’s suggested, that as a heretic, Sauron would have faced judgment in something closer to this.

(How does an abjuration work? A more robust, public version of the private typical reconciliation process. Moreover, in place of a priest, a higher authority like a bishop is required to oversee it.)

For Sauron hath done much naughty

You shall have no other gods before me. (Ex. 20:2–3).

Heresy is sin deemed especially egregious. And Sauron committed the greatest sin of all: idolatry. For to follow Morgoth was to place a “god” before Eru Illuvatar (God).

Moreover, as a principal perpetrator or accessory, much of Sauron’s alleged* sins are largely war crimes:

murder, torture, slavery, terrorism, breeding corruption/mutilation, spiritual corruption, conspiracy, theft, attempted sex trafficking, propaganda, etc.

Let’s not forget Sauron’s sick lyrical game.

* Sauron is only known through narrative bias of incomplete history. His actual sins could be more or less.

Applying the Sacrament of Penance to Sauron seeking pardon from Eönwë

Sauron = penitent heretic

Eönwë (representative to Manwë) = priest

Manwë (Valar chief + representative to Eru) = bishop

Eru Iluvatar = God

Sauron (penitent sinner) sought out Eönwë (priest) and confessed his evil deeds (sins) to reconcile with Eru (God). But Eönwë realized Sauron’s sun was in fact heresy, thus requiring the higher authority of Manwë (bishop) to reconcile.

Thus, Eönwë commanded Sauron (now penitent heretic) to seek pardon (reconciliation) with Manwë, who would instigate an abjuration (public renunciation of heresy) and determine a sentence (repentance).

Sauron says NOPE, moving from a penitent heretic to a repentant heretic.

Then Sauron was ashamed, and he was unwilling to return in humiliation and to receive from the Valar a sentence

And an abjuration would be even more excruciating.

Besides the Valar, also present would be Elves who Sauron/Morgoth had victimized. Plus, other Maiar who once befriended him, sought his wisdom, and praised his talents. All who knew Mairon “the admirable.” Now the abhorred, defeated, disgraced.

Before all, Sauron would renunciate his evil deeds that led to ruin and suffering. Perhaps to be met with jeers, curses, and woeful sobs. But also, silent dismay. Fear. Disappointment.

Ultimately, Sauron chose his pride, peaced out, and the rest is history.

He lingers in Middle-earth. Very slowly, beginning with fair motives: the reorganising and rehabilitation of the ruin of Middle-earth

Where exactly? Who benefited? What were the outcomes? Like what, did Sauron open a cat rescue or build playgrounds for disenfranchised youth? It remains unclear. Just another one of Tolkien’s vague passages that deny Readers’ ability to judge for themselves.

Therefore when Eonwe departed he hid himself in Middle-earth; and he fell back into evil, for the bonds that Morgoth had laid upon him were very strong."

That is, Sauron was trauma-bonded to Morgoth. He also had to be low-key terrified of him. Because at some point, it would’ve became clear that Morgoth’s means didn’t further Sauron’s goals. For what other reason would someone who strives for efficiency continue serving a counterproductive cause?

But Sauron was always vulnerable to corruption. It’s even theorized that Even as Mairon, he had paternalistic entitlement to desired outcomes on Middle-Earth. For lack of boldness or pragmatism, it made him susceptible / a target for Melkor’s Vala power, Eru-may-care audacity, and corruption.

Fast-forward. In forsaking pardon yet engaging in “fair” works, Sauron continues his heresy, his idolatry. But instead of Melkor, he now places himself above Eru.

By skipping abjuration, Sauron robbed himself of humility and thus, true reflection on his evil deeds. Not insignificantly, he robs justice for victims.

By skipping reconciliation, Sauron forgoes support and belonging. One can’t heal in an echo chamber. The “bonds of Morgoth” were heavy and he’d need help breaking free of them.

By skipping repentance, Sauron’s self-assigned “fair works” were likely inappropriate. Nope - perpetrators don’t get to fuck up then decide how to make amends. Victims do.

Theory Two. Sauron feared being unfairly judged for the evil deeds of Morgoth’s other servants

“Then Sauron was ashamed, and he was unwilling to return in humiliation and to receive from the Valar a sentence, it might be, of long servitude in proof of his good faith; for under Morgoth his power had been great.

Oh, cry Finrod Felagund a river.

But Tolkien overlooked a glaring motive for Sauron fear of a long sentence. Of all of Morgoth’s Maiar servants, Sauron is the only one known to have attempted to seek pardon.

For gravitas, imagine being the only high-ranking member of a fallen fascist regime on public trial. What would you fear? Receiving a sentence disproportionate to your crimes because you’d be the sole focal point of blame and penance. Sauron would be no different.

Sauron’s fear was legit but how likely was it?

Morgoth was hunted down and chained before being thrown unceremoniously into the Void. A fate that certainly would’ve terrified Sauron.

Yet in stark contrast, even after his confession of evil, Eönwë merely commanded Sauron to seek pardon from Manwë. That he wasn’t apprehend or escorted can be interpreted that Eönwë believed his penitence to be true and thus, he’d do as told. Or perhaps Eönwë simply relayed his master’s orders to let Sauron choose to reconcile.

In any event, Eönwë’s response to Sauron reflects Manwë’s benevolence. For the Vala would understand that a servant of evil must first be it’s victim. More likely than not, Sauron would’ve received mercy.

But he instead chose to thro w redemption away with both hands.

Thank you for reading!

Your likesand tagged reblogs are appreciated. Got feedback?

What did you like? Got theories or insights to share?

Disagree? I love good faith debate and sparring!

Spot an inaccuracy? Hey, Tolkien's work is complex. Drop it in comments or DM.

#Sauron hath done much naughty #rings of power #watsonian #theory #tolkien #theological #Sauron

221 notes · View notes

elyseenmiel · 25 days

Text

The Great War

John “Soap” McTavish x F!Reader

Synopsis: During the Battle of Somme in France, a Sister Nurse aids in the war tending to the wounded soldiers, especially a handsome and strong-willed Sergeant MacTavish.

Word count: 1.3k

Tags: One-Shot, Historical AU, World War I, 2nd POV, Reader-Insert, Y/N is not used, Reader uses a patron-saint name, Reader is addressed as Sister Maria once, mentions of death, medical procedures, mentions of death, religious and war backdrop, theme, flirting, forbidden love, light angst

Ignoring the cacophony of machinery, grief, and pained screams, as well as the relentless rain and unforgiving wind, France was beautiful both day and night. You had never been to France, or Somme, before. France had a salty, iron odor that lingered in the air. As you attended to the wounded soldiers lying on the drenched and bloody beds, the nights were longer than the days passing by. Time was dedicated to writing in the small sacrament of penance book, no longer used to confess mistakes but rather to write the name and address of the wounded loved ones to send off a letter on their behalf.

As a Nurse, you were sent to France for the first time, to Somme, to assist on the frontlines, in a hospital close to the battle of English countrymen assisting the French allies against the Germans. Last Spring, the war office had decided to employ VADS in military hospitals in the mainland and abroad during the summer. A summer late in 1919, You were sent overseas by the Red Cross; it was your first time in France working in a hospital. You had only stayed back home, working in the local auxiliary hospitals throughout Britain. You were already thinking about assisting the war effort abroad while working in a small hospital, Princess Christian Hospital, so you worked hard to receive a favorable report as the standard to work overseas. Working in the hospital was your only and very first source of income. Before dedicating myself to the faith, office administration did very little to sustain and survive off the rations they received. You could only hope your father was fine back in England; he was not serving the war effort due to his ailing leg, which prevented him from doing heavy activities. Each break of day and break of dawn, the small shared rooms were filled with whispers of prayer for your father and the men teetering on the collapse in and out of the field.

One of the male orderlies went to Etaples to bring more food. During his break, he made a list of what we needed and asked a few of the wounded what they wanted him to bring back. He addressed you as Sister Maria. "Do you want me to bring you tea?" You nodded and thanked him; he said he'd try to bring back English tea; You only smiled. The wounded walked around the small hospital grounds. The patients lay on the pale grass outside on hospital grounds, some would eat a light snack, while others would beg the nursing sisters to play chess with them to distract them from the heavy artillery sounds that could be heard. A few wounded patients would request that their letters to their families be delivered to the local post office on their behalf. Collecting their letters, putting them in envelopes, and getting them stamped was not the issue. Mailing them in and seeing that they were sent and reached their loved ones was the issue, knowing that some had taken every bit of breath to say their goodbyes and their strength to hand you their letter was the issue.

John MacTavish was the only man who had every strength to write letters and even wildly request to send them himself.

The Scotsman perched over the small desk, crushing the cigarette against the bottom of the ashtray. He turns to look at you, his eyes flickering at the new dressings and clean nightshirt bundled in your arms. The corners of his eyes curved up with a smile adorning his rugged appearance.

“The hour is late,” he remarks already unbuttoning his nightshirt. He moves to the edge of the bed patting the space next to him. “Have ye missed me yet again?”

You settle on the edge of the bed instead much to the man’s persistent pleas of sitting side by side. “Oh, I wouldn't say so Sergeant MacTavish,” You say placing the supplies on your lap and the small makeshift bed cot. You handed him the nightshirt concealing your grin. “Did ye aye?” he chuckles, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement. “This must be the millionth time ye come into the night.”

“It’s a good thing I’m not the reaper then,” You say unwrapping the old and marred dressing and pouring saline into a syringe. “I might not have a scythe, but I do have this,” you smirked with a slight wave of the syringe. “Consider yourself lucky.”

The Sergeant whistled, with a nod. “Yer much scarier than the Grim Reaper bonnie.” You felt his baby blue eyes on you, his intense gaze fixed on every move of your hands and head, making all heat rush to the apples of your cheeks. He was searching for your eyes, You knew that. He needed approval. You nodded to him, meeting his piercing eyes, so bright despite the dimly lit room. You gave it to him, just as when you first did.

His hand carefully and slowly trailed on your lap, gently resting his hand on your thigh and caressing it. You carefully flushed the wound, directing the stream of saline to wash away any visible contaminants. MacTavish gritted his teeth against the discomfort but remained still, continuing to rub circles gentler than before. His other arm wrapped around your hips, fingertips dancing on the black fabric of the tunic dress almost as if he was not only soothing himself but myself too. Using a cotton swab, you applied iodine to the wound and the surrounding skin, to prevent infection. His fingers pinched your waist with a grip. “Almost there,” You whisper, leaning closer to him, His strong jawline relaxing. “Keep your eyes open, keep them on me, Johnny.” His baby blue eyes widened slightly as he locked his eyes on your face. You glanced at him, his forehead coated with sweat and his lips parted with every breath he exhaled.

“Bonnie–”

“You’re doing so good.” You carefully applied a sterile dressing to the wound, securing it in place with bandages. He squeezed your thigh not with the feeling of pain, not in that moment. You grabbed the dress shirt as his hands stroked your lower back pulling you closer to him, careful to not rest your hands against his wounded chest. You rest your forehead against his. We let the silence envelop us, tranquility overcomes us for now. You shut all of the noise of the outside world except for his words of praise and lingering touch.

MacTavish will recover. His fingers cupped your chin with his thumb grazing on your lips. You know it. “Em’ not afraid.” He says, with a soft smile. Outside, the rumble of tanks and distant explosions punctuate the night air. your fingers brush lightly against MacTavish's cheek, tracing the rough outline of his jaw. His eyes flutter closed for a moment, a brief respite from the pain. You reach for a glass of water, carefully lifting it to his lips. He drinks eagerly, the cool liquid providing some relief from the throbbing ache in his chest. “The hour is late,” You say, “but it is far from over.”

“We can hold em’ off,” he mummers, “and we’ll be home Bonnie,” Johnny says offering a faint smile. “Together.”

You could feel a lump in your throat. The notion had never crossed your mind, let alone be entertained as a possibility. Dwelling possibilities are dangerous. You couldn’t bear imagining him anywhere else other than the bed cot where he was safe for now. The sea was no longer a comforting sanctuary and instead served as a patron for war. His breathing has become shallow, his eyelids drooping with tiredness. “We’ll go back home together.” You say, “For now, you should rest.” You wrapped the blanket around each other, shifting around for comfort. You sink down onto the makeshift cot beside him, your still entwined with his as we both drift into an uneasy sleep.

#john soap mactavish #john mactavish #soap x reader #john mctavish x reader #cod fanfic #cod mwii #cod mw2 #cod x reader #call of duty #reader insert #female reader #soap cod #soap call of duty #wrote this last summer #for an assignment lmao #research was done but there are inaccuracies :)#author is not british or french <3

27 notes · View notes

raccoonspooky · 9 months

Text

Looking back, I should've been on my knees

RATED E! 6k Words. Father Paul x Fem Reader sort of? Or hallucination of "God?" Umm Father Paul x Faceless third person entity he's fantasizing about. Solo masturbation.

TW for mental instability, delusional behavior and blood drinking. Dude's jerking off with a corpse in the room. Full list of tags on ao3 Y/N device is not used in this fic.

Tags of note under the cut

Tags of note: Religious Imagery and Symbolism, Sacrilege, Guilt, Horny Delirium, Masturbation as a form of worship/prayer.

Salt dry, ocean wind glides through the empty church with a prayer on its breath. The litany is hollow, the words are rehearsed. Maybe the sentiment is echoed from this morning as if the word of god traveled out to sea but the wind pushed it back to the church… or maybe it’s something the ocean came up with all on its own.

Besides such empty delivery, the air is alive with the wind’s echoed praise.

The Monsignor knows the words, they've become a part of him over the years; and after a handful of new developments, he’s begun to associate taste with memory and comprehension. The world is bright and it flares brighter as the wind settles against worn pews to flutter ragged hymnals barely holding onto their cracked spines. With the wind’s closing Amen, it parts way for an older presence that begins to make its way through the church.

It ambles along slowly, taking its time to spread throughout every board and nail. Its sense of divinity turns chipped paint into a hallowed thing. Father Pruitt can feel His proximity before his attention directs toward himself.

In his office, oxygen seems to pull into itself until it cuts out entirely. His nearness is welcomed but the old building seems unable to compensate for the reverence it wants to give. Father Pruitt respectfully drops to his knees and angles toward the emanating warmth. He tilts his head up and his hands come together, tied together by hopeful adoration. Each inhale burns from the lack of oxygen in the room but faith comes with ache. Pain is an essential component of life, a blessing disguised as penance. Iron coats his tongue, it’s long since become paste at the corners of his lips. Somewhere beyond himself, he’s aware that someone lays still behind him, it’s only been a few moments since they took their last breath. They still linger, waiting and Father Pruitt is honored to be here for their transition. God wouldn't leave the faithful cold. He arrived with something incomprehensible, something winged and beautiful.

The Monsignor’s vestments are heavy at the edges, weighed down by bloodied sacrament. The Lord himself told Father Pruitt that he was ready to greet one of his chosen and thus he enacted His will. Their atonement was burdened thick with tar but he freed them of such weight. He consumed their guilt, drank their regret… and now, one of his flock walks without sin alongside God and his son. There’s salt rimming his eyes and his lashes soak up unfallen tears. A rod of iron expands in his throat and like in revelation, he will wield the scepter to show the world the power of an almighty god.

Some of his strength lingers here, it curls around his collar, reminding him of his place. The touch isn’t ungentle but it further steals his breath. He’s done well. The Lord rewards him with sparks of twinkling gold that erupts behind his eyes. The blood he swallowed meets his own and he’s made stronger for it, God’s light reaches inside of him and his body is made clean in his shadow. As a servant of God, he fights the pleasure that comes with subservience. The only pleasure he should want should come from devotion alone. This closeness, this sense of love, this is his reward. The Lord assigned him an angel to rescue him from the stray path he previously wandered and since then he’s been blessed with clarity.

Reborn and given purpose, Father Pruitt has never felt so alive. He has never felt so close. A lifetime of prayers left unanswered and now his God shares this very room. Spidery doubt and hidden cowardice were burned out of him when the Angel showed him His glory. He remembers laying on the ground, feeling dirt in his lungs. God was far from him then. Sure that he was to die, the Monsignor came close to renouncing all that he knew… and then the Angel cauterized his wound before it could fester.

With his head full of twisted, rambling thoughts and an old man’s regret, Father Pruitt wasn’t aware of how much of his light was lost to blind faith until the Angel taught him how to see. He stood on two legs out of reflex and memory. Much of this form of faith is cemented in ritual and Father Pruitt had long since forgotten who the ritual was for. He’d forgotten whose halls he was sheltered by. God was an abstract thing to the old man. God was made real by hope alone.

He was wrong of course. God is as real as he is. He’s here in this room and his presence expands into the Monsignor. It’s… exhausting, but too holy, too pure to look away from. His love is vast and unending and the Father will take the pain that comes with it because God has faith in him to endure.

“Feed.” The presence insists, looking down at him with grace.

In half a breath, Father Pruitt becomes a flurry of movement. Robes flutter heavily and his fingernails scrape against the wooden floor as he frantically scoops darkened blood into his hands. He licks his palms and messily sucks his fingers into his mouth but it’s not enough. His nose crushes against the ground and behind the taste of iron and God's watchful gaze is the bitter taste of dirt and earth.

On his knees, he drags himself through the rust and clumsily reaches for the lamb’s cold wrist. They’re not yet stiff, and he punctures their flesh with a garbled thanks. He didn’t dare to further mutilate one of God’s children without His approval. The flesh is satisfyingly weighty between his teeth, it promises nourishment but the Lord has not yet instructed him to bite and swallow. The lamb’s blood is too bitter, too coagulated in their veins. It’s gummy in his mouth and his throat protests swallowing. He nearly gags in discomfort and his tongue trembles as it drags over one of the lamb’s wounds, a weak hint of fresh blood keeps him from disobeying God’s insistence. Father Pruitt groans against their flesh, unsatisfied but aware. He is to taste his sin. He is to give his thanks and understand that sacrifice is necessary and never asked for lightly.

Shame is held at an arm’s distance only because of the presence in the room. He’s alive with purpose, able-bodied, and here to enact greatness. He’s sound of mind and his thoughts no longer weave around and through each other until he’s unsure of where he started. The Lord’s angel faithfully tells him God’s will, and he’s never felt so loved. It took a lifetime, but his prayers were heard. God showed himself and recalling the memory is too much to comprehend.

With his pupils blown wide and his mind buried in thanks, his body distances itself from his waking thoughts. His flesh awakes under the watchful eye of God, reminding him that despite his sensitivity toward the divine, he is still only a man. Blessedly mortal as any other. Time is an unforgiving concept. He’s spent so long unaware of how far he’d fallen. He’s a shepherd once more and his little church is attuned to so much beyond its old walls. His blood thrums with promise, the true word of god was made clear to him and he smears his index finger through the blood beneath him, smiling in awe to the above as he makes a cross over his heart. Pledging himself again and again.

Father Pruitt’s head bows and he recites the lord's prayer as a reflex. The shape of the words is branded into his very being, they slot into worn groves beneath his skin. He uses them to center himself toward a place of rest and the word Amen lingers in the air, made alive by the promise in his prayer. His hands separate from each other and he reaches to squeeze his throat. He swallows dryly, shaken by everything he just felt. He uses his wrist to wipe his mouth but all he does is smear blood across his cheek.

Coherence is blessedly kept out of reach as if the Lord wants him to take a moment just to feel. With a slow exhale, he listens to his alarmingly rapid heartbeat. His back hurts but only because he woke in a wound up ball of contorted limbs. Old ache ghosts over his limbs but it's phantom pain. For years, he became so used to suffering that now he finds it difficult to focus on anything besides the pain he once used to keep his head on straight.

Something itchy and raw wakes in his chest. Without the presence of divinity and the lead weight it blankets him with, he’s left to venerate the hunger that’s newly lodged within him. Without God’s presence, he is left wanting, left waiting for His next command. It’s not a burden, if anything it’s a reminder of his second chance with this all. Still, idle hands are twitchy and his emotions slip and slide all over the place while he’s too nervous to shelve them back to where they belong. He’s kept on edge, eager to serve but frustrated that sometimes it takes time for His will to flourish.

It’s difficult to keep everything contained. He feels so much bigger than his body. He wants to show everyone the same light he saw. If everyone could just open their eyes, they’d find salvation and love unending. He’s made progress with some of the wary, he’s welcomed new members to the church… but he could do this all so much faster. Now that he knows God's love directly, he’ll do anything for more. He doubts nothing, questions nothing. Today, the Lord sensed his dry throat, and then a new face knocked on his office door. He freed them of their burden as the Lord instructed and Father Pruitt was nourished by their sacrifice. He felt their soul as it loosened from their flesh… and he was too weak to find no pleasure in it. To consume someone’s faith and take it into your own is indescribable. Its sanctity is meant for God alone, but as his servant, he’s allowed just a taste… just a tiny mouthful of something honest.

To the Monsignor, it proves that he’s doing something right. Honesty is the first virtue that has any meaning to it. Without honesty, there’s no goodness, no belief, or love. The lamb was startled at first, they struggled as he held them down. The taste of fear and pain burst across his tongue with his first bite but it was cleansed immediately with the incoming rush of delirium and then the closing sermon of bright, biting joy. Release. Weightlessness. After a lifetime of blind devotion, being able to taste the concept has Father Pruitt near feral for another hit. The mouth is a sacred part of one’s self, we use it to take communion and to speak with god. We consume his son’s blood and flesh. We are made sentimental creatures for the inherent desire to consume something beloved. Love twists into a set of teeth just as we shape words into worship with our tongues.

Regarding faith, Father Pruitt has never aligned with the idea that we as people are put onto this earth to suffer. He thinks perhaps that the pleasure he finds in servitude to God is something for him alone. It’s a sign that he’s using His gift for good. The body in the room isn’t pretty but God still came for them. His tongue still salivates, he wishes that he took things slower but he didn’t want the sacrifice to suffer. Their blood was complex, when he swallowed it trailed down his throat with legs like fine wine. He could’ve fed on them for hours, taking the time to pick apart the individual components of personality that flavored them in such a way… but he was a man of god. A man of faith. He wouldn’t take what wasn’t offered. The lamb deserved something quick in exchange for their sacrifice that God so wanted.

God asks us to listen. God asks us to obey and follow in his footsteps. He gave the world his son so the faithful could understand we can only do so much in our earthly vessels. We can love one another, and do good as we are able to— God only asks for what we are able to give. We aren't given bodies to be ashamed of them and push them past their mortal capabilities. God made man in his image, he did not give us the ability to think and feel as a punishment. What we do with our bodies is another thing entirely.

As to answer his thoughts, one of the Monsignor’s twitching hands finds his belt after awkwardly runching up his robes. This isn’t sin. This is worship. God gave him this body with all of its functions and he was awarded a glimpse of all that is good for a reason. His mind translates enlightenment in the only way he can understand. It turns something holy, something sacred into sensation rather than comprehension. Sin is not one thing or the other. It’s a fluid concept. The church is old and lost in its ways just like he was not so long ago.

Perhaps he’s a heretic, and such thoughts might've once sequestered him into a panicked, praying stupor… but he’s promised his very soul in exchange for the truth. No such heresy comes from worship. No such shame should come from pleasure found in servitude. Uneasy but determined, Father Pruitt decides that his faith has yet to wrong him. Wouldn’t he be distrusting God by questioning the morality of the way his body reacts to His word?

The noise of his belt buckle clinking against itself cuts through the heavy silence in the room. Some spell laid over him lifts with a promise to return and Father Pruitt thanks it for its mercy. He’s airy now, eager to offer himself in this way. This may as well be liturgical practice, this is… right. This is physical devotion and the same as self-appointed lashing or any other physical offering. Father Pruitt’s breaths are slow but heavy, he swallows dryly, and as soon as he’s fumbled his zipper somewhat undone, he shoves a blood-sticky, prayer-warmed hand into his waistband with a haggard breath of thanks. His cock is half hard, twitching to life and he can feel its pulse more than he’s attuned to his heartbeat. The first graze of touch has him gnashing his teeth.

At the edge of coherence, he’s aware that the blood is staining not just his soul. His vestment robes are soaked through, he’s yet to perfect the ritual but he’s sure that he’ll eventually get the hang of it. Blood has since streaked across the floor. Some drips steadily from the pool atop his desk and Father Pruitt resists cleaning the mess with his tongue. Kneeling in the worst of it, he’s sure that soaked denim is soon to cut into his skin. His hand was far from clean but he didn’t think twice about wrapping it around his cock. It swells as if to meet the blood on his hand and it only takes a few shy strokes until he’s fully hard, each awkward pump of his fist has his eyes nearly rolling back in his head. He’s unpracticed, unsure of what he likes, and in a lifetime before, he was beleaguered with too much shame to ever think of doing something like this.

A chuckle leaves him while he ponders whether or not someone a few hundred years ago assumed people would spend all day touching themselves if such pleasure wasn’t branded as a sin. Something so effortlessly taken, so effortlessly given could easily become wrong if one was to lose themself in unearned pleasure. But his body is a vessel of the Lord’s, he is nothing but a servant. He acts only by his Lord’s will. Even now, he mumbles thanks and prayer while his hand rapidly follows his words. Although they are patched together gracelessly, the sentiment is there. Father Pruitt hunches over, gulping down a breath as he works his cock with frantic, overeager strokes.

He thanks God for his grace, thanks God for his mercy. He asks that God may bring peace to those in need. He asks God for his congregation’s health and happiness.

So much of what he once knew as truth is now muddled with new realities. Stubbornly, he wonders if this is wrong. His hand slows and he forces himself to a stop even as his needy prick throbs with angry discomfort. He shouldn’t want anything besides what’s best for his flock, he shouldn’t feel so high-strung and on edge. Shouldn't this feel like worship? He wonders if he should feel calm, he wonders if he should slow down and perhaps acclimate to the sensation so he’s not panting like a dog… but all he can do is think of the first gush of wet blood that spilled into his mouth. Recalling the first swallow and the way the blood immediately awoke all of his senses to new heights forces a whimper from his throat and it clings to his bottom lip, making it tremble.

He decides that the same pleasure found in servitude to God is no different from the consuming want that emanates through him now. Father Pruitt sucks in a wet sounding breath and he shifts on his knees so he can better angle his hips. He fucks into his fist and the room balances on the closing note of a song. It hums with the same low note that lingers in the aftermath of an Amen. This is not selfish. This is not wrong. This is for Him. The Lord wants him to understand his miracle, this body is a gift… it is meant to be cherished.

The original sin was a gift. God allowed his first creations to ask questions, he made Eve a curious soul because she was a needed balance to Adam’s instinct to listen and obey.

Men were created to listen. Men were created to serve. Even with free will, Adam still chose to submit.

Everything is new and wonderful. Behind closed eyes, Father Pruitt sees only stars. An involuntary shudder builds in his ribcage and it escapes down his spine to find uneasy purchase atop his nerves. His hips cant upward, chasing his retreating fist and by now his breath has turned ragged, and his limbs feel loosely tacked on.

Buried memories awaken amongst the rapture and the crumbling relics speak long lost invocations in the language of heaven. He can’t understand them, but to hear something so ancient and otherworldly brings new wetness to his eyes. Like this he’s only a vessel of worship, he cannot speak or think clearly, he’s mindless and obedient to pleasure, seeking more to honor his Almighty. Mindlessly pumping his fist, Father Pruitt looks up and groans a pitched whimper.

“Yes, God.” He thinks. “I am yours, I am yours.”

His tongue feels oily, it can’t find its place in his mouth. He wants to give his thanks but the noise that pushes past his teeth is tangled up in its afterbirth and it struggles to make itself known. His soul swells with love, he’s made pure by this bloodied baptism. He understands it now. This hunger. He’s a newborn babe, brought screaming into the world. A lifetime of devotion made him pure once again. He’s without sin. He should be without guilt. Unashamed, Father Pruitt easily falls headfirst into a memory that he once kept secret from the lord. The memory is wet and tight, his breaths are shared with another’s and her lips feel so right against his.

Maybe this love wasn’t his to take, but he’s never regretted it. He’s never regretted her. Even now, the memory is only a wisp of what once was, but being able to recall anything of it is more than he could wish for. His knuckles scrape against denim and his movements pick up speed. Caught in a mess of prayer and thanks, the Monsignor hiccups while half swallowing a moan.

The presence inside of him blends the memory of her with the tinge of iron and fear. He remembers being so afraid of what he’d done, but not afraid enough to stop. She was everything in that instance of broken resolve. She was the universe itself. She was God and all things holy. She trembled around him, crying out to God and he selfishly commanded her to say his name instead. The command was strong only because it was backed by regret. He knew that this was unforgivable, he knew that no penance or no amount of hail Mary’s could amount to the weight of what he’d already done.

You cannot commit half a sin.

Close as they were, he wished to be closer. He wanted to shed her of her modesty and hide beneath her skin. He wanted to take her flesh for his own, anoint it in oils and make her holy so he had some excuse for the way he felt. He wanted to become some permanent piece of her because he was unable to rid himself of his devotion to God. She’d never push his faith, she would never have been able to claim him as he claimed her and the unfair trade burned him like a hot iron. Couldn’t he offer her just a piece of himself? After years of unshaken faith, couldn’t he give her something worth keeping? As the church is one with the body of Christ, partaking in his flesh and blood —couldn’t he offer her some minuscule, unimportant piece of himself?

From that first sin and all the subsequent moments of stolen love, John —Not the priest. Not Father Pruitt, Not God’s devoted parishioner—, wanted to see her soul. He wanted to see the thing he’d given everything for.

He found love in a sense of shame. He had no right to fuck his guilt into a woman chosen for him by God. He should’ve listened. His love was a desperate, aborted thing. Barely alive and stolen from his Lord, he gave handfuls of both to each party when neither wanted anything to do with his sickly worship.

You cannot worship out of fear. You cannot form shame into love.

Christened again, he understands with an old man’s regret that it’s natural to be afraid. He was blind to the gift he was given back then, he rejected a woman who loved him and rejected the God he so loved because of self-appointed shame. He lived the rest of his life a broken old fool, but he’s seen the light now. He can lead his congregation to salvation, just like the Angel who gave him a second chance at life. He’ll take their burden. He’ll take their guilt and their shame. He can handle it. Even now, there’s an ache inside of him that demands it. Even now, he’s hungry.

Rather than recoil, he chases the feeling. Acceptance is all it wants. It wants to be heard. It wants to be known.

This want, this hunger— It’s all part of His plan.

In shameful instances of the past, there were moments of resentment. God blessed him not only with forgiveness but also with the inability to harbor the concept of resentment any longer. He’s never known a love so unending. He’s never known something so bright, so vast. He feels it in his veins, the blood circulating through him is the same as liquid gold.

Faith tells him when to sleep and what to dream. It forces his lips as he speaks his sermons. Inside of him is something ancient and divine and he is so honored to hold such privilege. He doesn’t mind the ache of constant hunger. God tells him to consume mortal sin and feel it burn as it goes down his throat. It won’t corrupt him. His conviction is imbued into his bones, into his soul. When he is hungry, the Lord will provide. The sky is cracked open and he can see everything there ever was. It’s simple in its complexity. Everything is one centered breath, time itself exists in the span of a single heartbeat.

We exist out of love. God sees us wholly and without sin. He sees the perfect version of who we are meant to be because we came out of His imperfection. In the end, we are memory and devotion in its purest form. To love and be loved is our only purpose in life and Father Pruitt has been afraid for so long that he held a finite source. He held an unfair reserve over his heart, offering only part of himself to the woman he loved and the Lord who blessed him with such a feeling.

Containing multitudes, he understands that God wants him whole. He’s not a fractured mess of a man who once was. The air around him is perfectly, succinctly still. Each exhale feels almost rude. The room is severe, he looks up and waits for a sign. He wants to beg for direction.

“Please,” he begs the empty air and his voice weakens upon the crest of a gasp. He swallows and manages a firmer plea, but the air remains still. Looking up doesn’t seem to offer him anything, so Father Pruitt shuts his eyes. His hand acts on its own accord and his fist loosely settles around his stubbornly devoted cock. Blood lingers on his taste buds though he’s sure that the taste is long gone. He wonders if it’s a reminder or if it’s a promise of more.

In his mind, real as anything else— his hand slowly skims up someone’s bare calf. His touch is reverent, his head is bowed. He wants to look up at her, but he doesn’t need to look to know who she is. He hasn’t seen her face as it was in so long. His eyes are adjusted to the dark and looking up seems wrong, she didn’t ask him to look. He has a duty to perform, he can’t blind himself now. She’s naked in all of her glory and the universe narrows down until all he can see is her parting legs.

He waits for no direction, with her spread like an offering he understands his place. He is to bow before her holiness and he is to worship as God commands him to. This isn’t a test, this isn’t a cruel memory. He can smell her blood as it circulates beneath her skin. She’s real and she’s here. She reaches between her thighs to spread her lips— showing him everything he never deserved— and he stumbles forward to bury his tongue in her folds.

Unsure if she’s an embodiment of the Lord, one of his angels, or one of his memories given life once more… The Monsignor decides that they’re all the same. He decides he doesn’t care and he’ll take what he is given. His head is bowed as if in prayer, one hand holds her calf while the other words his cock. His tongue strokes through her folds and she’s decadent. She’s his as he is the Lord’s. Her skin is so soft in his hands, she’s otherworldly and the world itself. He has no purpose but to serve, to taste, and feed. God asks so little of his children. He gives and he gives and the Father is fed and loved for it. He could stay here forever, he could kneel and rot to nothing happily like this.

Was this… a reward? Was this God’s favor? He struggles for an answer but the closer he gets to the truth, the further he strays from the task at hand.

“Stay with me.” She commands, voice soft but words piercing. Fingers tighten in his hair and his previous curiosity mutates into his instinct to serve. She’s given him so much and the worship she asks for is so easy to give. So close to divinity, he’s barely able to breathe while refusing to part from her body. Devoted to his worship, his nose slots beside her clit as he curls his tongue between her lips. He’s so full of love but she urges him to take another mouthful.

Her pleasure drips wetly down his chin. Wet and warm like blood. Sweeter though. There’s no struggle, no initial fear. She tastes of heaven itself and Father Pruitt holds her hips still, tracing his thanks with his tongue as she writhes against his assault. She twists on her altar, back contorting as he sucks on her clit and Father Pruitt wonders if she’s to be prayed to or to be prayed for. She’s all movement, difficult to hold onto, and difficult to comprehend.

His cock leaks into his palm and each pump of his fist is slick. He is only a parishioner right now, his throat is bare, clerical collar forgotten somewhere beyond this place. The sin of his making whispers that he wants more. Behind the curtain of humility and faith… he wants to bury himself inside of her so deeply that her body will mold to his. He wants to lay her before God himself so as to show his Lord what devotion he’s willing to give. He wants no separation between their bodies, he wants no separation from his Lord. If God would give him this for just an instance, he would linger on this earth for the rest of eternity guiding all who wander toward the Almighty's light. He’d be kept alive only by the memory of something perfect.

The Angel who commands his heart promises that he is worthy of such love. He’s submitted, he’s given everything he is and more. He could take what he wants, nothing would punish him for it. Her pussy drips that much wetter, she grinds against his face, begging so sweetly. She only wants his worship, she already owns his soul…

Abruptly, she comes apart, unravels beneath his tongue and Father Pruitt groans along with her. He pulls away from her cunt only to look at what she’s become. This gift is his strength. This gift is his weapon. Take His body and drink His blood. This gift is the broken love he once gave to her and his Lord and it is returned to him in abundance, kept fat and happy by God who thrums with awareness beneath his skin. The ache of being begins to burn. Father Pruitt hisses behind his teeth as a ray of sunlight streaks across his back from a high window.

It ties him to his body and he’s thankful for the pain. He would’ve stayed wherever he was, licking her cunt for all of eternity if not for the earthly reminder of his flesh. Clarity pulls him from the depth of worship and he’s not allowed a moment to mourn the loss of his vision. She retreats with grace, her footsteps fade toward the sacred place she calls home inside of him. He’s taken his fill. He’s served righteously and he won’t ask for more. A younger version of him might’ve begged, but Father Pruitt knows better than to question God’s will. The Lord washed his palette clean.

The church’s next service will serve his blessed blood as communion and they will be made stronger because of his worship.

This is His will.

“You’ve done well, Father.” God’s voice is feminine and kept soft.

Father Pruitt takes her praise with all the grace he can summon. He wants to snatch it from the air and stuff it down his throat, he wants to bury his face in it and fuck it into a wet mess. All he’s ever wanted to be is worthy. All he’s ever wanted to be was seen.

An ethereal touch forces his eyes open. She crooks her finger beneath his chin as if to lift his gaze toward her unseen face and ghostly fingers settle on the side of his face. She’s so real. He can sense her somewhere. Whoever she is, a memory or some asset of God…he doesn’t care. Her touch is so soft, so divine, and otherworldly that it pulls an unbridled moan from his chest. Burdened by earthly gravity, it spills to the floor like incense smoke, curling at the edges and cleansing the curdled and blackened mess he kneels in.

His soul was never his to begin with. She doesn’t ask him for worship, nor does she ask him for bloody sacrifice. Her guidance is freely given, so gently laid that he feels as if he’s shrouded by sheer feathers. Her form isn’t here, not in this room in a physical sense, and yet somehow she is. She’s with him. Inside of him. A part of him. His belief has never been based on physical senses and he’s lived long enough to know that there is so much more beyond what he can see. He can almost hear the musical tone of her laughter, of her happiness found in his belief. Her wings constrict, holding him close and shielding him from the world. She asks him to let go. She asks him to breathe. Fingers tighten at his throat, and he’s reminded of who he breathes for.

He is owned as he is loved.

The sense of ownership builds until it finds the ends of his mortal body. It stretches thin after that, pulling beyond until it has nowhere else to go. The whisper comes again and she tells him to let go. He doesn’t need to hold on so tight. Wherever he begins and ends doesn’t matter to her. Father Pruitt inches toward embarrassment, feeling stupid for worrying over such a concept for so long and the presence only holds him closer in response.

There’s no slamming edge to his orgasm, the presence he feels it’s expansive and somewhere beyond himself. Torn from his body, he’s unaware of the pitched moans he whines into his empty office, he’s unaware of the way he bites the side of his thumb to keep quiet. His cock surges and holy light fills him up from the inside as thick white dribble arcs against the inside of his robes. He lurches forward and he’s forced to catch himself with his free hand. Startled, he yelps when his palm slaps against slimy wet sludge. The texture is so similar to his cum that he recoils, he’s pulled back into his body with an abrupt shove and Father Pruitt nearly falls face forward once again with the sudden shock of coherence.

With wild eyes, he whips his head around, looking for her even though he can feel the emptiness of her unsaid goodbye. The air in his lungs is too thin, his heart is too fast. His dick feels rubbed raw and he wipes his palms on his thighs, groaning with discomfort as he puts himself back together.

John can still feel her on his skin. He can taste her on his tongue. He knows exactly where her presence left and he accepts her loss just like any other day. She’s needed elsewhere and he knows to let her go. Others are in need, others love her just as he does.

His mind and body are that of his Lord’s and he has work to do. With an awkward stretch, Father Paul manages to force his legs into working order and he stands with pins and needles swarming his calves and feet. His back aches, and he leans backward in an attempt to pop a stiff joint. His eyes meet the still gaze of the vacant body pushed into a corner and he sees no recognition upon their face. They’re beyond him now. With her. With God and his angels. Safe in transport toward the kingdom of heaven. He wonders if they saw her too, he wonders if they felt just a smidgen of what he felt beneath her touch.

Did they see her face? Did she smile as she held them in her arms to absolve them of sin?

Gently, he removes his vestment robes, and as respectfully as possible, he covers the body as if swaddling an infant. He closes their eyes with an accompanying prayer. He tells them that they’re beautiful, he tells them that they’re loved. He prays for God to soon wash their soul clean so that they may leave this world holy and pure as Mary’s blessed son.

Father Paul doesn’t tell them that their blood was sweet with sin. He doesn’t tell them that he no longer can tell the difference between all that is Holy and that he’s beginning to rethink the reality of heaven.

Thanks for reading! Woof this dude is going through it.

I wanted to write something "Short" for my boo @ventiswampwater but idk how to write short i guess haha.

Let me know your thoughts!!

#poki writing #I forgot i didnt tell tumblr anything abt this fic #midnight mass #midnight mass fanfic #monsignor pruitt #father paul #father paul x reader #father pruitt x reader

73 notes · View notes