#Catholic Girl

[angelspearlheart]

Latest obsession: pocket shrine/altars

[cherrysaltvape41]

[banishedchildofeve]

how July feels

[luvchristxx]

Praying is beautiful, like i’m really talking to the CREATOR of all?? and He’s LISTENING? wow

[colonellickburger]

Andrea Modica, from Catholic Girl. 1980s

[diemydar1ing]

Seekers Who Are Lovers

[hisgracefulness]

Mother Mary

Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.

[littlemeryy]

[vintage-tigre]

[angelspearlheart]

[cherrysaltvape41]

>>>

[banishedchildofeve]

♡.‧₊˚ Bible verses to remind you of your worth :

౨ৎ Psalm 139:13-14 : “For you created my inmost being, you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; yours works are wonderful, I know that full well.”

౨ৎ Hebrews 13:6 : “So we say with confidence, ‘the Lord is my helper, I will not be afraid. What can mere mortals do to me?’”

౨ৎ Jeremiah 29:11 : “‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ says the Lord. ‘They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope.’”

౨ৎ Proverbs 31:25 : “She is clothed with strength and dignity, and she laughs without fear of the future.”

౨ৎ 1 Timothy 4:12 : “Don’t let anyone look down on you because you are young, but set an example for the believers in speech, in conduct, in love, in faith and in purity.”

౨ৎ Deuteronomy 31:8 : “the Lord himself goes before you and will be with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid, do not be discouraged.”

౨ৎ Jeremiah 17:7 : “But blessed is the one who trusts in the Lord, whose confidence is in Him.”

౨ৎ Philippians 4:13 : “I can do all through him who gives me strength.”

౨ৎ Philippians 4:6-7 : “Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding will guard your hearts and minds in Jesus Christ.”

₊⋆·˚ ⁀➴ ༉‧₊˚. ₊ ⊹ 𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✧˚ .

[krist-777]

[diemydar1ing]

Let me love you to death ❦

[lavender-vixen]

patrick with a reader who is in choir,and he sees her in church (mom forces him 2 go) and she’s singing idk just a idea 😭

"Singing for the Devil." (Patrick Hockstetter x Choir!Reader)

Patrick doesn’t belong here. Not in a stuffy old church, not in a scratchy dress shirt his mom forced him to wear, not sitting half-slouched in the pew, flicking the edge of his hymnal just to annoy the old lady beside him.

His mom keeps nudging him, whispering his name in that sharp, warning tone—but Patrick just grins, stretching out his legs, making a mocking show of crossing himself when the priest does.

"Sit up straight," his dad mutters, voice low and pissed.

Patrick just yawns. Rolls his neck. Does the opposite of sitting up straight.

But then he hears you. Your voice, rising above the others in the choir loft, clear and sweet and angelic.

Patrick tilts his head. Listens. And when he finally looks up, eyes flicking over the rows of the choir by the piano, searching, he sees you.

And you’re watching him. Only for a second. Only before you look away, focusing back on the hymn, cheeks slightly pink.

Patrick smirks.

By the time Communion rolls around, Patrick is bored. He drags himself up the aisle, hands in his pockets, barely masking his disinterest in the whole damn thing. And that’s when he sees you.

Kneeling in a pew near the front, hands folded, lips moving in silent prayer. Looking so sweet and good and untouched.

Patrick grins. And as he passes by, as he moves forward in line, he reaches out and brushes his fingers through your hair. Just a little. Just enough to make you tense, to make you glance up in surprise, to make your breath hitch just a little.

Patrick keeps walking, takes the wafer, sips the wine, and goes back to his seat like nothing just happened.

His mom is seething after Mass. "You’re staying."

Patrick raises an eyebrow. "For what?"

"For confession."

Patrick snorts. "What, you think that’s gonna fix me?"

His dad glares. "I think you better watch your mouth."

Patrick just rolls his eyes, unfazed.

His mom crosses her arms. "Father Cunningham will hear you. Then you can walk home and reflect. Offer it up."

Patrick folds his arms but doesn’t argue. Fine. Let’s see what the good Father thinks about all the things Patrick’s done this week. He doubts there’s a Hail Mary strong enough to undo that shit.

The church is quieter now, mostly empty except for a few lingering parishioners and an old woman lighting a candle for her dead husband. Patrick doesn’t go straight to confession. He wanders. And that’s when he sees you.

Still looking perfectly sainted, standing in the dim light of the pews, gathering bulletins, stacking hymnals. Alone.

You hear him before you see him. The slow click of boots against the tile, the shift of movement in the empty church.

And when you glance up, he’s there. Patrick Hockstetter, leaning against a pew, watching you with that dark, lazy, knowing smirk. You've grown up seeing him in your parish, but unlike you, he goes to Derry High. You go to an all-girls Catholic school and have barely said more than two sentences to a boy like him.

"You really a good girl?" he murmurs, tilting his head, stepping closer, voice smooth, teasing.

Your breath catches. You swallow. "I—"

Patrick’s fingers trail over the edge of a hymnal, slow, deliberate. "Sing me something."

You blink. "What?"

His grin widens. "You sang for God. Sing for me."

You open your mouth. Then close it.

Patrick chuckles, stepping even closer, until you’re backed up against a pew, until he’s right there, in your space, breathing the same air.

"You scared of me?" he murmurs, voice low, breath warm against your cheek.

Your pulse hammers. "Of you?" you whisper.

Patrick just smirks. His hand drifts down, over the fabric of your dress, past your waist, your hip. Lower.

And when his fingers brush against the bare skin of your thigh, slipping under the dress, pushing up. You gasp. "Patrick—"

"Shhh," he murmurs, lips ghosting over your ear. "Church is supposed to be quiet."

You shudder. Because this is wrong. You’re supposed to be pure, saving yourself, and certainly not doing things like this in church.

But Patrick doesn't seem to mind. And when his fingers press against the cotton of your underwear, he just laughs.

"Guess you’re not that good after all, huh?"

"Patrick..." you murmur, trying to appeal to his conscience, if he has one. You angle your head toward the crucifix above the altar. "Jesus is watching."

Patrick follows your gaze, giving an incredulous raise of his eyebrows, then looks back down at you. "Jesus is dead."

Patrick doesn’t care about rules or God or sins. But you do. And he can feel it. The way you’re trembling under his touch, not from excitement—but from fear.

That’s not what he wants. He likes breaking things. But for some reason, he doesn’t want to break you. Not yet.

So he exhales, lets out a soft chuckle, and slowly pulls his hand away. His lips brush against your ear one last time. "Relax."

You blink up at him, still breathless, still flushed, still unsure.

Patrick grins, tilting his head. "I'm not gonna do anything you don’t want me to."

Then he steps back. Like he’s actually going to let you go. Like he’s not going to push you too far, too fast. But you can still feel him. Still feel the ghost of his touch on your thighs, your hips, your skin. Still feel the way your body responded to him, no matter how much your mind tried to resist.

Patrick sees it all. The conflict. The curiosity. The temptation. So he just smirks, stepping away, shoving his hands in his pockets, looking every bit like the devil himself in an empty church.

"See you next Sunday."

Then he walks out. And you watch him go. Still shaking. Still unsure. And still aching in ways you’ve never felt before.

Patrick Hockstetter doesn’t get attached. Doesn’t get obsessed. Doesn’t spend his nights lying in bed, picturing what could have happened if he hadn’t backed off.

With the way you looked at him, all wide-eyed and nervous, but not running away? With the way you let him touch you, even though you knew it was wrong?

Patrick can’t stop thinking about it. Can’t stop thinking about you.

And when Sunday rolls around again, when his mom drags him back to Mass, grumbling about his attitude, telling him to pray for his lost soul—Patrick doesn't put up a fight this time. Because he knows he’ll see you again.

He doesn’t yawn through the homily or roll his eyes at the prayers. He even sits up straight.

And his mom's ecstatic. "See, Patrick? I knew if you just opened your heart, you’d find your faith again."

Patrick just smirks, nodding along, letting her believe whatever the hell she wants. He couldn’t give a shit about faith. He just wants to see you again.

His dad isn’t buying it. "What’s with you?" he mutters in the car on the way to Mass, narrowing his eyes at Patrick. "You’re never this enthusiastic about church."

Patrick shrugs, leaning back in the seat, kicking his boots up on the dashboard just to piss him off. "Guess I finally found something to believe in."

His mom clasps her hands together from the backseat. "Oh, Patrick, darling, that makes me so happy—"

His dad just snorts, shaking his head but says nothing, keeping whatever thought he has to himself.

Patrick is already grinning, staring out the window, watching the church grow closer.

Because if you’re there again, if you’re still singing for God in that choir loft, looking like some kind of untouchable angel, he’s gonna find a way to make you sing for him instead.

You’re there. Of course, you are. And when your eyes meet his, when your voice wavers just a little mid-hymn, when you quickly look away, pretending you don’t feel him staring, Patrick knows he’s got you. Knows you’ve been thinking about him, too.

And when he walks by you during Communion, he does it again. Lets his fingers graze through your hair, slow, deliberate, teasing.

You don’t pull away. You just freeze, breath hitching, body tensing under his touch.

He doesn’t find you after Mass this time. Doesn’t push. Doesn’t need to. Because he knows you’ll come to him. Maybe not today. Maybe not next week. But eventually, you’ll crack.

And when you finally, finally give in, when you let him pull you into some dark confessional, let him press his hands under your dress, let him murmur filthy things against your throat, he’ll smirk, drag his lips over your neck, feel how hard you’re shaking under him.

"Pray for me."

Because God won’t save you now.

[emily-in-the-flowers]

I’m buying a veil… I am taking the plunge.

I want to for modesty. Yet I’m not sure, since in the parishes I regularly attend this is a very unusual thing to see (there are some very elderly women who still do it). Generally in the UK it doesn’t seem to be much of a thing (same case in Ireland when I’m there).

My mam made the mention that it may come off as “holier than thou” if I do, which I absolutely don’t want to be. I’m going to wear it on pilgrimage to Rome at the end of the month as a taste test and if I’m comfortable I’ll continue when I go home.

God Bless ye 💕