#boot pruitt

[proverbsss]

eating you right (father paul hill/john pruitt x reader) -nsfw

(pt. 2 of "reading you right" linked here)

Father Paul Hill, Midnight Mass

reader(s): I am not responsible for how you see your own headboard following the consumption of this fic <3

notifs: paul hill wants to worship you!! ; reader turns the tables for a subby paul; reader's still down HORRENDOUS ; cunnilingus, hierophilia

Your legs are unsteady as John leads you to his bedroom by your hand.

"Haha, look at Wobbles try and make their way down my hall," Paul teases.

"You edged me on your boot," you complain sharply, though this of course is tinged with pleasure and the hope that his treatment will continue. The muscles in your pelvic floor are on fire and your hips burn.

"Mmm, technically you edged you on my boot," he quibbles, pleased with himself, "Can you make it to the bed yourself?"

Rather than answer verbally, you turn back to look at him. It's a tart, cursing look that John meets with yet another grin. Even so, it's now you begin to notice the usual signs of how wrecked he is. You were so caught up in your own delicious torment that you failed to clock Paul mirroring it. You might some of your get your own back yet.

He's comfortable with your routine of the last few days, starting to strip out of his jeans when you say, "Wait." His doe eyes flick over to you, questioning.

"I don't know…" you pick your words carefully, the neediness of earlier converting itself into a sadistic little impulse to tease. "I don't know if we want your pants off yet, right?"

Paul stops a minute. Makes his positively adorable thinking face. There's a reset somewhere in his eyes as he works out why you might have said what you said.

"We don't..?" he repeats, uncertain.

"Nah," you throw out, dragging the tips of your fingers along the foot of the bed. If this duvet could talk, it would already have plenty dirty to say. "I think we probably want you to keep them on and sit first."

Paul clears his throat. His chin dips to his chest a little. Gears recalibrated toward submitting and taking orders fire fast behind those pretty eyes. "Okay, yes." He sits, trembling a bit, on the edge of the bed.

"I'm gonna sit next to you, Father, and you don't move for a little bit. Okay?"

He nods. Good enough for now. Your underwear clings wetly to you under the sleepshirt you were just hiking up for him in the living room. You pull the hem of the shirt down, a bit demurely over your thighs. Paul watches every move.

"Still don't move, baby." You purr at him. He preens silently at the pet name. "Close your eyes." When his eyes are closed, you take his face into both your hands, fingers grazing his ears, the peach fuzz of his tapered sideburns. In a decisive, hushed moment you bring Paul's face to yours and kiss him. Deeply. First-time tier kisses, slow and curious and just beginning to use your tongue.

Paul half-laughs, shyly against your mouth. "Still no moving," you remind into his lips, and he nods "good boy. Good Father." Oh, he likes that very much.

You lick his bottom lip and enthusiastically he opens his mouth to invite you closer, hands scrunching at his sides in desperation to follow your instruction and not not not touch you.

You withdraw from the kiss after another moment, riled yourself and needing to catch your breath. Still you have enough command of yourself to make this all about him, about how pathetic and needy and perfect he is. You bat your eyes at Paul and smile.

"You probably want to make it up to me. How badly you made me need you before,"

Paul tilts his head uncertainly from side to side. A smirk flickers at the corner of his mouth.

"You wanna know how to make me feel good after that, Paul? You wanna know what I need from you?"

He nods again, thoughts boyishly absent from his eyes, his demeanor relaxed and yet so, so ready to do what he's told.

"Can we make that a yes?" you prompt gently.

"Yes." The huskiness in his voice is like a refresher to your thirst for him. You tingle all over with anticipation.

"Good. I'm going to lay back, and I want you on top of me." As you lay down on the soft bedcovers, you realize all the tension your muscles held kneeling on the ground and fucking yourself onto him, even now some melts away and you sigh contentedly. Paul crawls over you, tenderness and want in his eyes and it calls up a smile to your lips.

"What are you smiling at?"

"My little pet priest. Bet he'd do anything I'd ask him."

Paul lays his head down on your belly, happiness going a little fuzzy because of the attention you show him. His curls call out to your hands and you play with his hair. He's radiant. And for now he's yours. He's kissing your neck now, giggling in the crook of your shoulder, lips tickling your chin, your cheek, your ears. You luxuriate in all this for a moment, then tell him, "Give me your ear please, I'm gonna whisper what I want."

His back muscles ripple like a cat's under his shirt as he makes the necessary adjustment to put his ear up to your mouth. But he's too close, too fucking perfect, so you have to bite his earlobe with such exquisite access.

He groans, tenses in his upper body, and rolls his hips over yours. "That's. Not whispering," he complains.

"Shh, shh." you tell him, "You wanna know? Really?" He cocks his head enough for you to see him nod, his length getting easier to feel against your thigh. You reach a hand up in his and gently bring his ear to your lips, "I need you to eat me out like your life depends on it."

He moans, low in his throat, at just the thought of that.

"You want to do that for me?" That serious attention is in his expression again as he nods at you, starting to kiss his way down your chest. "Can you tell me using your words that's something you want?"

In addition to teasing the everloving fuck out of him, getting his consent turns you on more than anything. The thought of Crockett Island's well-mannered, mildly twitchy new priest so eager to touch you, taste you, have you that he'd kept you in his quarters for the last two days reminds you in a heady rush.

"I…" he lifts his head from your chest and blinks, not reluctant, but so fucking needy, "I want to eat you out." He nods quickly, lashes dropping over his eyelids. "Like my life depends on it."

"Good boy. Do it then, please."

His beautiful, hot mouth begins an eager assault of kisses across your chest, migrating down your belly. You arch your back. Usually you two take a little more time here, but there isn't any to spare. So quickly, so deliberately, Paul finds your clothed sex. He wants to touch you, and he wants you telling him that he can.

"Can I take these off you? Please."

You have nothing smart to say. You're no less eager to feel his tongue, his kisses, the vibrations of his voice where you're most sensitive. You nod, and he holds his gaze to your eyes for a beat before pulling your useless underwear off your legs, discarding them on the floor.

You think without meaning to of the word 'devotion,' used in religious terms to describe a supplication, an adoring, faithful, upturned look. It applies equally to the naked need written on Paul's face with his hands carefully spreading your thighs apart.

"Please let m--" he swallows, begins again, "Please may I worship you?"

"Fuck, Paul, yes, please."

And he may have dedicated years to seminary study, he may have pored with his hands wrapped around old books of his faith and volunteered his body in the service of a Christian God, but that tongue of his was made for sinning.

He starts by kissing gently around your cunt, soft, spellbinding little pecks that make your body jerk to close your legs. You still open up for him, gasping and squeezing your eyes shut with how good, how good, how earth-shatteringly good he feels. His tongue starts to lap at your clit and you do feel yourself drip a bit as he deepens the kiss of his mouth on you. Your mind pleasantly lets go of so much residual tension, of today, of every day before this moment with Paul kitten-licking between your wet lips.

Your hips buck as he sucks a little more intently at your clit and your hands lift up and knot themselves up in his hair. He lives for it as you start to fuck his face.

"Yes, yes, salvation is your fucking cunt, thank you--" he sputters out, certainly only half aware of what he's saying but so, so pleased to look up at you and find your face entirely lost in what he's making you feel.

"Here, here," he takes one hand that's left a few fingernail marks in your thigh and hurriedly covers the knuckles of your hand that's controlling his head, "Put me where you want me. Use me, please."

His mouth and your cunt make an obscene symphony together as you moan and arch toward him, trying to win back enough self-control to direct him the way he needs. He's doing pretty goddamn well on his own, you think and laugh to yourself, your calves shaking and heels digging into the bed. His nose bumps an especially sensitive square inch toward the hood over your clit, and his tongue grazes the inside of you. You see stars, the way the old expression goes, you literally see stars. You have to fight to keep your eyes open to how beautifully looks, you'll need this memory of your pleasure, his pleasure, you and he together, for all time.

Your hips are bouncing off his face rather quick and desperately and Paul is drunk with chasing your cum. He sees you biting your fist and between kisses and sucks he has to ask, "You need more? What do you need? Tell me. I worship you. I deify you. I need this," And like a madman he shakes his head to deepen the stimulation of his tongue hitting, soothing, exciting your clit.

"Oh, Paul!" you cry out and reach for his bedframe. "Oh fuck," you're curling into him and keening and he's humping his mattress outright. "Finger me. Fuck please, give me something to-"

Something to cum around, of course. You feel slicker and sluttier than you've ever felt as Paul obediently probes a finger inside your cunt. You fuck his hand, unabashed, so far gone, so trembly. And even the trembling is helping you get more contact out of his tongue, and he's not tired, his thirst is unmatched, the hand not fingering you finds that little arch where his nose bumped up against you before and spreads you the littlest bit open to lap at your clit.

You make a sound that's kind of a shriek and kind of a delighted giggle, and words something like "Ha-fuck, I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna cum on you--" fall out of your mouth. Paul moans, the pitch of his voice increasing in a way that sort of matches yours, nearly as desperate for your orgasm as you are. Nobody could be as desperate for this as you, however. No one in the history of fucking cumming has ever felt like this.

"Please," he sucks attentively at your clit and shakes his head again, a black curl plastered across his forehead, his gorgeous brown-green eyes searching you and seeing all of you, then closing again, a holy sight. "Please cum. That's it, please I want to drink you in, please--"

And your upper body accomodates for how powerfully you need to let go, the need for release screams out of your body and you almost hit the headboard, but Paul stops you, adjusts the hand that kept you exposed to him to grip your hip and pull you down to his mouth. Your body thrusts and bucks and arches of its own volition, you're just here, in this tear-you-apart pleasure of cumming on his tongue like no one's ever made you cum before. You're panting, your heart is racing, your blood is on fire.

"Enough-enough-enough fuck please---" you shake and beg and tug a little at his hair as he licks hungrily at you, but he's going to let you go when he's fully satisfied. Your voice continues to climb in whispers and shuddering gasps.

"Like my life," he makes a disgusting, gorgeous slurping noise over your wet needy hole, "depends on it." Like a man starved. Like a man crazed. How will you ever function again. You cry out as he drags his tongue up and down your slit, one last long articulation, before his hand finally relaxes on your hip.

Your eyes flutter as you remember suddenly to breathe, and Paul's hands glide up your leg as you sink them down back onto the bed.

"What did you just do to me?" You utter, mystifed, not fully with the thought as it escapes.

"You have no idea how intoxicating you are." He says, dead serious, if breathless and soaked in you. He sucks his middle finger clean. "None at all."

[ihavemanyhusbands]

The Wine of Your Blood

Also on AO3

A/N: As usual, thank you to G <3

Pairing: Father Paul/Monsignor Pruitt x Fem!Reader

Summary: After Father Paul's transformation, he is tormented by a hunger only you can quell.

WC: 5.1k words

Warnings: 18+ ONLY!, vampirism, blood drinking, religious imagery and symbolism (I'm not a religious expert tho I grew up catholic, sorry if I used wrong terms), canon divergence, hierophilia, corruption, graphic depictions of sex and some violence, unprotected sex (do not try at home), cunnilingus, ummm let me know if I missed anything pls!!

------------

The silhouette was there again, shrouded in a thick fog that rolled in from the tempestuous sea. It was tall and statuesque, like the guard of some mythical place – monstrous and terrible. Golden light blazed behind it, flickering like an ardent flame. Or like a beacon, slicing through the night’s darkness and calling you home.

You could not see its eyes, and yet you could feel the prickle of an assessing gaze. The siren-like lure was undeniable, and for a moment you could understand why sailors jumped into the sea with total abandon. 

But you were not afraid. You’d seen this apparition for various nights now, like an omen, even if you didn’t really believe in that sort of thing.

The real questions were: What was it presaging?

And why, especially, did it feel so inevitable?

————-

You awoke, as you often did in the late fall, to a gentle rain. As the day progressed, you knew it would grow in intensity, but for now, there was peace and quiet.

You stared at the drops trailing down your window like glistening tears of melancholy. The milky white early morning sky was the same as it ever was, casting a thin, watery light on everything.

When you finally pulled yourself out of bed, you peeked into your grandmother’s room to find her still out, snoring softly. Her breaths no longer sounded like wet, raspy gurgles, which made you sag with abundant relief. 

Sarah had diagnosed her with a mild case of pneumonia the previous week, but even so you knew things could turn for the worse on a whim. Your grandmother was nearing ninety, and while she had always been a sturdy woman, her body could only take so much now.

For a minute, you were seriously starting to consider getting in touch with the new priest, Father Paul, once again to talk last rites. For your grandmother’s sake, you wished Monsignor Pruitt could have performed them, but he was still recovering in the mainland.

But that all would be a problem for another day, given that she was doing much better. 

Still, she had adamantly refused to miss mass, and while she wasn’t strong enough to leave the house, Father Paul had been gracious enough to swing by for a house visit on Sunday.

He seemed like a fine man, soft-spoken, amiable, and welcoming. Not to mention, he had quite a charming way about him, especially when he laughed. Perhaps you shouldn’t be taking notice of that, but you couldn’t help it, despite how conflicted you felt in his presence.

There was something vaguely familiar in his dark eyes you couldn’t place — something that seemed far older, perhaps wiser, but definitely weathered. At times, prolonged eye contact with him seemed daunting, but you attributed it to your general wariness of strangers.

He hadn’t been at Crockett for very long, but you appreciated the effort he seemed to be making with everyone on the island, but especially with your grandmother. There had to be some way you could repay his kindness… perhaps in the form of a homemade treat.

You padded over to the kitchen to make some coffee, rummaging through the cupboards to see if you had all the ingredients to make some banana bread. 

You spent the rest of the morning cooking, your grandmother’s small house warm and permeated with the sweet, enticing smell of baking bread. You got ready after that, making sure your grandmother ate some breakfast and took her medicine before you headed out. 

Gravel crunched under your rain boots as you trudged over to the Monsignor’s house, where Father Paul was currently residing. You nodded in greeting at passerby, stopping only to spare a few words with Leeza Scarborough, who was on her front porch reading.

When you arrived at the house, the curtains were drawn and there seemed to be no lights on inside. You frowned in slight confusion, given that it was past noon. Perhaps he was out and about, but with so few residents on the island, you surely would have seen him.

You stepped up onto his porch, hesitating for a moment before knocking on the door.

“Father Paul?” You called tentatively. 

No answer. You tried knocking again, waiting for another few minutes.

When you were about to give up, you kneeled to set down the tupperware, and the door suddenly opened to reveal Beverly. Her eyes widened slightly upon seeing you there and you quickly straightened.

“Oh, Beverly,” you said as a form of greeting. “Sorry, just wanted to drop something off for Father Paul. As a thank you.”

She cleared her throat, hands clasping in front of her. “I’m afraid Father Paul has fallen ill and is currently indisposed for visitors…”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” you said sympathetically, further confused by the slight worry you felt at the news. “I can just give this to you, then. I’ll talk to him when he’s better.”

“How nice of you to do this,”  Beverly smiled tightly, eyebrows raising just a little. “I’m sure he’ll really appreciate it, though I’m not sure if his stomach will be able to take it right now… Oh, I just hope it doesn’t go bad.”

You gave her a wry, uncomfortable smile in return. “It’s the thought that counts, right? Erm… I’m just glad he’s got someone to take care of him.”

“He’s in good hands, I assure you,” she nodded. “Mine, and the Lord’s, of course.”

You nodded in return, starting to back away slowly. “Right. Well, can you tell him my grandmother sends her regards?”

“Of course, I will let him know. Good day now.”

And with that, she shut the front door. You shook your head and let out a sigh, glancing only once back at the house as you walked away.

—————

For once, the night was clear. The stars and the waxing moon were visible, keeping you company as you stepped off your porch. The air was fresh and crisp, smelling faintly of petrichor. 

You stretched a little as you looked up at the sky, thanking whoever was up there for letting the rain cease for the time being. It seemed like forever since you’d last been able to go out for a nighttime jog, no one around to talk to or look presentable for. It was the perfect time to clear your mind, now that a huge weight had been lifted off your shoulders. 

You started down the gravel road, the wind whistling in your ears. Your legs kept a steady rhythm, the old houses of all your neighbors whizzing past your field of vision. You passed by the school and the convenience store, winding away from the main town area towards the harbor. 

The moon’s reflection made the black waves glitter, endless, ominous, and hauntingly beautiful. You stopped for a moment near the pier, looking beyond the water at all the distant lights of the mainland. So close, and yet so far. 

Sure, you yearned for all the mainland had to offer – an entire world that wasn’t just bite-sized, predictable, safe. But you could not yield to those selfish fantasies, not while someone who gave you so much throughout your life now required your help. You closed your eyes and breathed in the salty breeze.

Perhaps someday…

“Beautiful night, isn’t it?”

The familiar voice made you almost jump out of your skin. You whirled around to find Father Paul a few feet behind you, raising his hands to show he meant no harm. Maybe you’d been so distracted that you hadn’t heard him approach, but it still felt eerie.

“Oh, I’ve startled you, I’m so sorry,” he said with a nervous chuckle. 

You placed a hand on your chest as if to placate your racing heart. “It’s okay, Father. I just wasn’t really expecting to see anyone, is all.”

“Especially not the priest, right?” he raised an eyebrow, which made you huff in amusement.

“Guess I just thought you didn’t come out at night.”

He smiled lopsidedly, looking down and clearing his throat slightly. “You know, I think I’m becoming more partial to nighttime. I guess you could say I’m an insomniac.”

“All that weight on your conscience?” You said as he approached, standing next to you. 

“Something like that,” he sighed, now looking off into the distance. “Thank you for the bread. It was delicious.”

You shrugged it off modestly. “Grandma’s recipe. I’m just glad she’s right as rain again. Maybe… Your prayers helped. It’s what she insists on, anyway.”

He shook his head, a loose dark curl brushing his forehead. “That’s much too kind of her.”

You assessed his profile for a moment. “How are you feeling, Father? You were out for a few days, too.”

“I definitely needed some fresh air. Now, I’m much better,” he said with a smile, meeting your gaze. “I could not stay cooped in that house any longer. I’m really looking forward to our next mass.”

You said nothing, unsure of how to respond. Despite the fact that you’d grown up religious, you weren’t really practicing anymore. Sometimes you’d accompany your grandmother to sermons, but you often tried to find excuses to skip them.

So far, you had only been to one of Father Paul’s, and you had to admit there was something rapturous about his speeches. They were not only engaging, but the passion behind them was sort of infectious. You even caught yourself leaning forward in your seat, which you quickly corrected. 

It only added to the confusion of how you felt about this man, but such a mystery was undeniably alluring.

“Will you be joining us?” He asked. “No pressure if not, but it’d be nice to see you there.”

“Ah, is that what this is? You’re trying to convert me or something?”

“You’re very clever,” he observed, his grin broadening. “But no, that's not all it is. Part of it, sure, but I don’t want you to miss out on something really special.”

You couldn’t help the slight blush that spread across your cheeks, your heartbeat suddenly spiking once again. His easy, confident smile faltered for a moment, and his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. The bestial hunger that had been tormenting him for days, rendering him weak and sickly, flared inside of him. 

“T-think on it, but like I said, no pressure on my part,” he added quickly, gasping a little as if he lacked air.

You nodded, failing to notice how he slowly clenched and unclenched his fists. His muscles were taut with self-restraint, rooting him to the spot. Luckily, you moved first, taking a step back. 

“Alright, thank you for the invite. Um…I should probably finish my jog and head back home,” you said, gesturing behind you. “Don’t get in too late, Father. You don’t want to catch another cold.”

————

Despite the fact that he was a passionate speaker, you had never seen Father Paul so worked up. 

He started by speaking about eternity and how hard it was to visualize it. The fire inside him was stoked as he spoke of God’s gifts, his miracles and his mysteries. How they were something tangible, something within reach of every grasping hand… even if one couldn’t understand them.

Then the fire turned into a feverish glint in his eyes, his skin paling considerably. He stumbled over his words, pausing to keep nausea at bay. Sweat broke out across his forehead, and he dabbed at it with a handkerchief. 

“I’m so sorry,” he said, clearing his throat. “Just a little dizzy spell, but I’m fine now.”

Still, he braced his hand on the pulpit. You noticed Beverly was also leaning forward in her seat, ready to spring to action if need be. That was all the confirmation you needed that something was wrong.

But for a moment, as he continued talking, things seemed to settle. You relaxed in your seat, folding your hands on your lap.

“No abstracts. No colorful exaggerations. No. ‘Rebirth’, ‘Second chances’, ‘E-eternal li…’”

His eyes rolled to the back of his skull as his words faded into a shuddery exhale. He collapsed onto the floor, thudding heavily down the steps as the panicked voices of the congregation rose in volume.

Beverly reached him first, of course, but you knelt at his side only moments after. You hadn’t even registered you were running until you got there, cradling his head in your hands.

And even if he was unconscious, you could’ve sworn he leaned closer to your touch.

—---------

It was an audacious plan, you knew that well enough. Still, that clarity didn’t stop you from attempting to go through with it. 

As soon as Sarah Gunning arrived to attend to Father Paul, Beverly had kicked everyone out, holding firm even as you insisted you wanted to stay. Her stubborn will was infuriating, but perhaps also commendable, in a way. You had to bite back a few bitter words as you left, but that didn’t mean you intended to stay away.

You waited for her to leave Father Paul’s house, which didn’t happen until after the sun had set. Even when you couldn’t hear her receding footsteps any longer, you waited a few more minutes before approaching the front door. 

You raised your fist to knock, but the door suddenly opened to reveal a haggard-looking Father Paul. There were dark crescents hanging from his eyes and his skin was so pale it was almost translucent. 

For his sake, you held back from gasping, but he could still see worry written across your features.

“It’s like you knew I was coming,” you said with a small smile. 

“Keen senses,” he said softly. “Would you like to come in?”

You hesitated, despite the fact that a ‘yes’ was on the tip of your tongue. “I just wanted to see how you were doing. Gave us a real scare earlier.”

He swallowed hard, closing his eyes for a moment as if staving off an ache deep within him. In the dim light, you noticed the corners of his lips were a dark red. For a moment you wondered if he’d been drinking the sacramental wine.

“It may not seem like it but… better,” he said, mustering a small smile. “I fear I-I may owe you an explanation.”

“Oh, Father Paul, you don’t…”

“Please, I insist. I can make us some tea, if you’d like,” his voice dropped into the faintest whisper. “Just, stay. Please.”

The desperation in his voice gave you pause. You searched his face for the answer to a question you didn’t dare ask, and perhaps you deluded yourself into believing you found it. 

You nodded, crossing the threshold and taking off your shoes. You heard him shuffle about in the kitchen, and you wrung your hands nervously as you glanced around the small, austere rectory. 

This was wholly improper, you knew, but you felt a magnetic sort of pull towards him that was getting harder to resist. It was easy to deny it at first, brushing it off as curiosity and excitement over having a newcomer on the island. 

Most were wary, but you… you wondered if he could be your link to the rest of the world. Your appetite for that dream was only whetted, closer to your fingertips than ever.

“Water’s boiling,” he said as he came into the living room. “Sit, please, make yourself comfortable.”

Obediently, you did as told. There was a palpable tension in the atmosphere that made your skin prickle. He sat across from you, gripping the armrests of the chair as he adjusted himself, unable to find a comfortable position.

“I have to insist that you owe me no explanation, Father. I just worry about your… condition,” you said.

“It’s no ordinary ailment. I think you’ve sensed that already, haven’t you?”

You nodded, unsure of where he was going with this, but willing to listen. 

He continued. “You have witnessed miracles here on the island. Things that you can’t explain and yet are so clear to your eyes. Were you listening to my homily earlier?”

“Yes, Father,” you said, even if you’d only been half-listening. 

But he was speaking the truth, if Leeza Scarborough was any indication. She had risen from her wheelchair just a few days prior, no longer in need of it. Since then, you’d seen other changes around Crockett, some of them more subtle than others. 

You clasped your hands on your lap to keep from moving them. “You mean to say you’ve brought about these miracles?”

He smiled patiently, indulgently. In this light, his eyes seemed darker than you’d ever seen, like two chasms you could get lost in.

“No, not me. God. I am merely a vessel for His glory, and all of the gifts He wishes to impart on us,” he said, leaning forward slightly and resting his forearms on his knees. “On you in particular.” 

“Me?” You blinked, genuinely surprised. “What sort of gift?”

“The gift of life anew. Rebirth. A holy transfiguration, if you will.”

His gaze was fixed on the way your throat worked as you swallowed hard, on edge despite your curiosity being piqued.

“You see, I was visited by an angel. Larger than life, with a greater wingspan than even an albatross. It was utterly magnificent… as well as horrifying. I was afraid at first, of course, for we all fear things that are unknown to us. I was on the brink of death regardless, but see me now, restored, in my prime!”

You frowned, a myriad of questions on the tip of your tongue, but then Father Paul doubled over, clutching his stomach. His dark brows were furrowed from the influx of pain and you instinctively rose to help, but he lifted a hand to stop you.

“But to be reborn, the old self must be destroyed, and thus… and thus it is not an easy road to walk,” he rasped.

You knelt beside him, concerned and abundantly confused all at once. “What do you need? How can I help you ease this pain?”

He looked at you from the corner of his eye, pleading, desperate. Like a wounded animal, almost. You wondered if he, too, might bare his teeth in warning.

“There is this hunger inside of me that I cannot seem to dispel. I-I fear it threatens to consume me,” he swallowed hard, straightening into a sitting position once more. “God asks terrible things of us sometimes, but I cannot help but think this is a test of my strength. My will.”

“I want to help,” you said softly, so softly, daintily placing a hand on his knee. 

But his ears were keen, as he’d said, and he heard you perfectly fine. Still, his eyes – glazed over in pain and hunger and desire – searched yours for any sign of doubt. Instead, he found resolve, as well as a very clear distress at seeing him suffer so much. 

Oh, pious, gentle little lamb. What a good heart you had. The idea that your blood might taste just as sweet made his head spin, his beastly hunger lashing out inside of him.

His hands cradled your face, thumb tracing your cheekbone ever so slightly. You found yourself leaning into his touch, too entranced by him to think objectively about the morality of the whole thing. The charge in the atmosphere changed into something more taut, all too close to snapping.

“You do not know what you are offering,” he said, holding fast to his self-restraint even as his mouth watered. 

“Maybe you could show me, then.”

A slight chuckle escaped his lips at your eagerness, one of his hands leaving your face to pat his thigh. “Come, would you like to sit here? Perhaps I shall whisper it in your ear.”

You started to lift yourself, but then hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“Sure as I’ll ever be of anything, my dear,” he assured, his smile momentarily taking on a certain edge, like that of a wolf’s.

You situated yourself on his legs gingerly, closer to his knees, but he brazenly grabbed you by the hips and pulled you closer. You gasped, a tingle forming between your shoulder blades and slowly crawling down your spine.

“You’re so warm,” he murmured, closing his eyes as he relished the feeling, his arms circling your waist to keep you from squirming. “I hope you didn’t catch a fever from me.”

“I-I didn’t realize this was the sort of hunger you were referring to, Father,” you said tremulously, more heat sparking in your lower abdomen.

He traced his nose against the bare skin of your arm. “Not quite, but it’s making your heart race, isn’t it?”

You couldn’t help the blush that crept to your cheeks, silently willing your heart to slow as it hammered insistently against your ribcage. Tenderly, he brushed your hair off your shoulder, exposing your neck. Instinctively, you tilted your head back, showing more of it. 

He hummed in approval, licking his lips. “Here, just a little taste first.”

He grabbed one of your hands, bringing it to his face. He kissed the tip of your index finger before taking some of it into his mouth. His inky black eyes held your gaze as you suddenly felt a painful prick on your digit that made you gasp once more. 

He groaned softly, holding your wrist as he lapped at the thin rivulet of blood. The mere sight paralyzed you for a moment, but it’d be a lie to say it didn’t make your cunt throb. 

And to make matters worse, the small rush of shame that followed this realization only seemed to turn you on more. Without thinking, you raked your free hand in his hair, tugging his head towards you. 

“Do it,” you rasped, your tone dangerously close to begging. “Please.”

“God bless you,” he said deliriously, clasping you tighter against his chest. “Oh, God bless you. I-I want to make it good for you, too.”

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, breathing you in and letting out another weak sound at your dizzying warmth. You shuddered and he scented a small note of fear as you tightened your grip on his hair. He shushed softly, soothingly, his lips ghosting over a quivering vein.

When his teeth first pierced the sensitive flesh, you let out a pained mewl as all of your muscles seized. Then — as fast as it had come — the pain vanished and you went slack against him. Stars danced in your vision as you felt the vibration of his groan against your throat.

Every single one of your nerve endings was alight with pleasure, which only seemed to grow in intensity.

Without you really noticing, your hips rocked back and forth, clothed cunt dragging against his leg in short, desperate movements that made your eyes roll to the back of your skull. He gripped one of your hips tightly, guiding your movements with urgency.

In the kitchen, the kettle started whistling loudly just as an orgasm hit you like a freight train, rattling your very bones. You felt yourself melting in a way you never had before, toeing the line between life and death. You’d have gladly gone to heaven in that moment – or hell, for that matter – if fate so decided. He held you steady throughout, running a soothing hand up and down your spine.

Just when exhaustion began to creep in from the blood loss, he painstakingly pulled away, his mouth stained crimson. He looked drunken and dazed, like he was caught in between dreams. But he also seemed less frail, and definitely more alert, pupils fully dilated. 

“Thank you,” he breathed, gazing at you adoringly. Reverently, even. 

Diligently, he lapped at the weeping puncture wounds. His lips left a smear behind as he kissed your collarbone, hands ripping at your blouse to expose more flesh. Panting, you tried to undo the buttons of his shirt with shaking fingers, but he stopped you.

“Lovely, eager thing. We’ll get there. Let me take care of you first,” he murmured against your sternum. 

He tore any garment that stood in his way fervently, until you were practically naked in his lap. Your back arched, taut as a bow, as he continued leaving sanguine kisses in his wake. He hauled you into his arms with preternatural strength as he stood up. Instinctively, you wrapped your legs around his waist as he carried you into his bedroom, laying you down on the bed gently. 

There, standing over you, he seemed every bit the statuesque figure that plagued your dreams.  His eyes glinted in the half-dark,  reflecting the moonlight spilling in through the window. He sank to his knees as if preparing for prayer, his grin hungry as he hooked his arms around your thighs and pulled you to the edge of the bed.

“Come here, little lamb. My most precious sacrifice. My hunger for you has not nearly been sated,” he said, licking his lips. “I am yet to make a feast of you.”

A kiss on your navel that had you shaking all over again. If you had come so hard without so much as a caress, you couldn’t imagine the delirium of his mouth where you ached for it most. Perhaps then, you would truly cross the line for good. 

He discarded the last garment covering you, revealing your glistening, slippery cunt for his appraisal.  He made an agonized sound, ducking his head immediately to kiss your inner thigh. The tip of his tongue traced your skin just a little bit, getting a taste of your divine essence. 

He knew then and there that he was utterly lost; That he would no longer know a  greater devotion than this. What a perfect altar for him to worship you, the cradle of your thighs.  It took all of his willpower not to sink his teeth into your femoral artery and drain you further, until all of your blood mingled with his. 

Another day, perhaps, when you’d recovered some.

Instead, he finally licked a long, languid stripe through your soaked folds. With a low moan, his mouth latched onto your overly sensitive bundle of nerves, making your entire body jerk. He gripped your thighs harder as you squirmed, your fingers burying in his dark curls and holding on for dear life.

You hadn’t expected him to be so good at it, but then again, it was a night of surprises. Not that you could ever complain, anyway. Your wanton moans only encouraged him further, his lips and tongue and even the slightest graze of his teeth making you buck and arch on the mattress. 

Once more, you felt a tidal wave begin to form, making your breath come out in sharp little exhales. But you didn’t want to let go again quite yet, at least not like this, with so much distance between your bodies.

You resorted to pleading, attempting to pull his head back. “F-Father wait, please, I want—”

“Don’t hold back from me,” he urged hoarsely, between licks. “Come on, give me one more. I’ll reward you doubly, I promise.”

You began to protest once more, but with an expert swirl of his tongue, the wave finally crested. Violently crashing against the rocks of your sanity. Your eyes searched for heaven again at the back of your head, mouth falling slack in rapture. He made sure you rode it all the way through, softly murmuring praises.

You lay there spent, chest heaving with great, deep breaths. He chuckled, both amused and inexplicably fond at the sight of you so undone. He pulled back to make quick work of his clothes, smears of dry blood further darkening his black shirt.

“I fear you might be turning me into a glutton,” he said, removing his collar and setting it down on the nightstand. 

Your eyes trailed his fingers as he unbuttoned his shirt, and you gave him a weak, teasing smile. “You are not the only insatiable creature here, Father.”

“I see that now,” he grinned, his canines all too sharp. “What a great gift He has bestowed upon me, bringing you here.”

His jeans were next to go, merely kicked to one side, and his body slid over yours in a warm embrace. Then finally, mercifully, his lips found yours in a slow, searing kiss. It was the last piece missing from the puzzle that connected you; The last nail on the coffin of your fate.

You tasted yourself on his tongue,  moaning into his mouth as you cupped the back of his head. Ankles crossed behind his back, pressing down, silently urging him closer. He guided himself into you, moving slowly so you could get used to the stretch. There was a growl low in his throat as he bottomed out, and his kiss became fiercer. Possessive, even.

The only sound in the dimly lit room was that of flesh slapping together lewdly as he quickened his pace, your sharp breaths and wistful sighs. The way he whispered your name like a prayer as he nearly dissolved with passion. It was then that you broke the kiss, tilting your head to the side as his lips chased yours in a dreamlike, desperate state. You shifted, baring your throat for him to ravage once more.

“Just like this,” you murmured, eyelashes fluttering over your cheekbones as you readied yourself. “I’m yours.”

“Only a little more,” he promised, kissing the base of your neck before tracing his way up with his nose. 

A gasp, and then you were submerged in that languid, morphine state. Ecstasy hit him like lightning, and he was no longer able to hold back. He trembled against you as he came, crushing you tighter to him, buried to the hilt. You felt heat flooding you as he sealed the puncture wounds again, lips finding yours right after.

He rolled off of you only to tuck you both in, drawing you close and kissing the top of your head. His onyx eyes scanned your beatific features, wonder and amazement written all over his own. 

“The night suits you, my dear,” he said, wiping strands of your hair away from your sweat-dotted face. “Perhaps it would be less lonesome with you around...” 

He seemed truly vulnerable in that moment, smaller, entirely human. Eyebrows pinched together in consternation, lips pursed with some guilt at his actions. You snuggled even closer, leeching off his body heat. If anything, seeing this side of him, complex and familiar in a way you instinctively understood, reassured you.

“Will you take my hand and guide me through it?” You asked, voice low and wistful.

He nodded, lacing his fingers through yours. “Through the valley of the shadow of death and beyond. There is still so much for you to see,  and the gift of time is at our disposal. Isn’t that a lovely thought?”

Yes, yes it was. Comforting enough to finally drift into dreams of the stars beyond the horizon.

[littleredwritingcat]

And We're Back!

You roll onto your back, releasing your knees. They’re shaking off nerves just enough to spread themselves out across the dusty floorboard when two hands gently reach under the bed and drag your boots forward – and then you’re looking up into the face of a sweaty, stupefied priest.

The corners of John’s mouth tuck into the rest of his cheek, lips going straight. There’s an apology at the back of your throat, but there’s nothing to feel sorry for. He’s the one with the delusions that will probably get everyone on the island killed.

“So,” you ask softly.

“On a scale of one to Nero watching Rome burn – how off-the-charts disastrous are things about to get for me?”

Sometimes, waging war doesn't go to plan - especially when you've pissed off your cousin and you have no idea how to burgle a priest.

Also, something awfully big is making a habit of landing on Crockett's roofs.

We desperately hope the inhabitants of the island have good homeowner's insurance.

Also, also - Bev Keane remains unpleasant.

Note: Screen capture of John Paul Pruitt Hill in graphic provided courtesy of simply.hamish on IG!

@everythingbutresolved @agirlinherhead @honey-tree-evil-eye @plainlo-inthemorning @thenookienostradamus @thegentlestmaenad @thenookienostradamus @thecorgimademedoit @waytkayt @prettyblondguys @girlwiththenegantattoo @midwestmisfit @rothko-mirror @jyngerpeach @chronic-ghost @yepthatsacowalright @supplanther @lovepollution @ebiemidnightlibrarian @choosekindly @agirlinherhead @then-i-saw-hamish @in-between-the-cafes @droogiesanddiscourse @madsmilfelsen @purplelupins @daughterofaries @slenderverse

[ajpostingonline]

CROCKETT BURNS

36 DEAD, DOZENS MISSING; FIRE OFFICIALS BEWILDERED IN SUSPECTED ARSON

(Salisbury, MD) Crockett Island, a census-designated township in Chesapeake Bay, was destroyed by a major fire on Saturday Night. Dozens are missing and 36 are dead, including town Sheriff Hasan Shabazz, in what county officials are calling an "unprecedented loss."

"The whole thing went up in flames. It took minutes" said Warren Flynn, 16-year old resident of Crockett, who was rescued by first responders on Sunday morning alongside fellow survivor Leeza Scarborough.

"We know as much as you do" Scarborough said, when asked about the mysterious origins of the fire.

Among the missing are Mayor Wade Scarborough and several religious leaders at St. Patrick's Catholic Church, which was destroyed in the blaze.

Monsignor John Pruitt, missing Crockett Resident and church leader, standing in front of the now destroyed St. Patrick's Catholic Church in 1967.

"We're looking at total destruction" said James Grant, seasoned firefighter and first responder with 15 years of experience. "Every building on the island was already ash by the time we arrived."

Fire officials say remnants of the blaze are consistent with gasoline fires, and have called for further investigation into suspected foul play.

"This wasn't ordinary," said Fire Chief Josephine Angeletti on Sunday. "We're treating it like an arson attack. But with so few survivors, it's almost impossible to get a definitive answer."

Former residents of the island have shared their thoughts and condolences on social media.

"This sort of thing doesn't happen by accident. Not in that town." David Miller, former resident of Crockett, said in a Facebook post Sunday afternoon.

"There was another awful fire on that island back in '84, and it didn't even come close to this. We're at a loss for words. Please pray for our friends, Edward and Annie, and their son Riley, who are still missing. Elizabeth and I are eternally grateful for Warren and Leeza's safety, and are taking care of them while searches continue."

Some bodies recovered on the island were found several hundred feet from any buildings or roads, and almost all of which with lacerations or puncture wounds on the neck. The body of Sheriff Shabazz was found with several bullet wounds on the island's eastern shore.

"We're finding bodies that aren't burnt" said Angeletti. "Some of them are shot, some have torn up necks. I've never seen anything like it."

Angeletti says the bodies are far from the only aspect of the disaster that's puzzled first responders.

"The strangest things we keep finding are clothes. Tons of them, most of them burnt or charred. We're finding shoes and boots full of ashes."

Dr. Sarah Gunning, the only healthcare provider on Crockett, was found dead surrounded by clothing.

Travis Mayfield, a firefighter in training who was assigned to the island, is skeptical of the fire's cause.

"The whole place reeks of diesel. All of it. My higher ups are blaming that on an oil spill a few years back, but it's stronger in the buildings." "We found these robes on the beach. Nun's robes, I think, but I'm not sure. They were white, or they used to be white. They were covered in ash. This was the same beach as that cop, like no more than fifty feet away. This sh*t is not adding up."

City officials are urging bystanders to stay clear of the island as investigations continue.

(@flanaganfilm)

[spookyspaghettisundae]

How to Break It

Night still gripped the wintry woodlands. Clouds devoured the moonlight, and first rays of morning wouldn’t shine for hours.

Steam billowed from the helmets of the two black-clad operatives. Snow crunched under the boots of Chloe Grant and Max Carter. They trudged uphill, between the trees, off the beaten paths, following the trails of their colleagues.

This led them to a scene of carnage.

Both Future Proof troopers paused. The flashlights mounted on their EMDs swept the area, scanning it for any clues they could glean on the whereabouts of the missing Mischchenko and Ruiz.

Military boots and hiking boots alike had torn up the pristine snow. A chase had happened here, and ended here—in a killing. Bare feet of giant hominids had trampled down other spots, leaving distinct prints of their own. Blood had melted snow in several crimson spatters, where a club had caved in a human skull.

Beyond the humans and the hominids, something the size of a truck had plowed between them all. Something that dwarfed even the giant hominids: a dinosaur. Its reptilian footprints were huge.

A long tail had carved through the snow, and several trees had been cracked and snapped like twigs in its wake.

“Kill the lights,” Ruiz hissed at them out of nowhere.

His voice arrived tinny, over their headset radios, but Grant clocked it was coming from elsewhere at the same time. She aimed her EMD at the treetops, casting light skywards.

Ruiz was sitting up there, in the dark, lodged between several branches, and aiming back down at them with his flashlight off.

“I said, kill the lights,” he repeated.

Carter swept around them one more time with his EMD’s light, then flicked it off. So did Grant.

“What the hell happened here?” Carter growled.

“Croc,” Ruiz answered.

The branches cracked and he slid down from one set to another group of branches jutting out from the tree’s trunk, making his way down from the treetops.

“Huh?” Grant breathed.

“Dino. Looked like a huge fuckin’ crocodile,” Ruiz explained.

The two operatives backed up to the tree where Ruiz thumped down into the snow between them.

“And Mischchenko? Is she dead?” Grant asked.

“No idea,” Ruiz said. “I hit the trees when shit hit the fan. We just found this site—looks like the hominids attacked a hiker, another one got away. Before we could make heads or tails of anything else, this fuckin’ dino attacks from the shadows. Its forward movement is scary fast, lemme tell you.”

Carter growled again. “And the two of you couldn’t take it down, between your, what, Type-4 and her Type-5?”

He nodded his helmeted head at the rifle-shaped EMD slung behind Ruiz’s shoulder.

“Negative,” Ruiz reported. “That thing is tough. Reckon over twelve meters long, all mean killing machine. Mouth huge like a hippo’s, but with hunting knives for teeth. Tanked about four or five high-powered EMD shots and still kept on ticking.”

A shudder ran down Grant’s spine. Her entire combat experience had never involved fighting animals, let alone dinosaurs. She wondered if the sight of this dinosaur would simply paralyze her like her first contact in live combat.

“Mischchenko, she get… eaten?”

Ruiz clicked his tongue.

“I don’t think so. But no clue what happened to her. Radio silence, I was keeping quiet to hide from the dino, maybe she is too. She’s not responding now, though, so gotta expect the worst. Last I saw, she sliced that fucker in the eye something fierce, with her knife? It retreated. Maybe it got her, she never had a chance to scream.”

“Or she ain’t the screaming type,” Carter grumbled.

Static heralded a fourth voice, farther away on radio, hailing from their airlift.

Pruitt interrupted. “Keep looking. Maybe she’s stalking the dino. Containment dispatched a second airlift for the specimens.”

Ruiz emitted a coarse chuckle. “Better be a bigger fuckin’ chopper than your ‘lift. I’m telling you, that croc is ginormous.”

He lifted the dark visor of his helmet and revealed a face that surprised Grant. Far more handsome than she had expected, Ruiz possessed a chiseled face with striking dark eyes that would have lent itself to a career in modeling.

Almost as if he noticed her lingering gaze through the closed visor of her tactical helmet, he smirked. From the folds of his gear, he produced a thin cigarillo and brought a flame to it with a storm lighter. The tiny thing clicked and he put the lighter away while smoking.

“Great,” Carter growled again. “So it’s a giant crocodile that can shrug off our EMD shots. This is why I keep saying we need to pack live rounds, you know—actual weapons.”

Grant turned and continued searching the scene of the fight. The trails were a mess, granting her glimpses of the violence that had played out here in recent hours.

“Bullshit,” Pruitt protested via radio. “We don’t need no stinkin’ live ammo. EMDs pack more punch per weight. Did you really crank your guns to max output?”

“Negative,” Ruiz responded, exhaling a cancerous cloud of smoke. “Didn’t have time to react. We were expecting to subdue two hominids when that dino, that croc—man, it ambushed us.”

“Okay,” Carter said. “So, Anomaly is closed. Max Carter’s going for max output, bitches. Y’all should follow suit if you know what’s good for you. We need to stop fuckin’ around. This thing may not be a T-Rex, but—”

Their radios all crackled and whined with static, followed by a fifth voice who hadn’t joined the conversation all night.

Grant would later get to know her as Alisha Burch, resident paleontologist of Future Proof.

Burch said, “Purussaurus. Pretty sure from what I’m hearing here is, you’re dealing with a Purussaurus. Large hominids, large crocodile, my guess is, the Anomaly connected to the late Miocene, and this is a—”

“Who gives a shit?” Carter hissed, trembling with pent-up rage. “You can look at it under a microscope when we’re done with it. The fucker may have killed Mischchenko, have you not gotten the memo?”

Pruitt spat on the radio, “Enough, you knucklehead. We need to be very clear that this dino-croc needs to be taken alive, whether it killed Mischchenko or not. Grant already confirmed timeline damage when—who was it you said vanished?”

Grant paused from searching the perimeter. The huge dinosaur’s tail had whipped the trees and left a trail downhill, towards the sound of water in the nearby stream.

The whole team had fallen silent, awaiting her answer with bated breath. Ruiz tilted his head and locked onto her with an inquisitive stare while he exhaled another puff of smoke from his cigarillo.

“Sears,” she said. “I’m still kinda freaked out that only I remember him, when, I dunno. Most of you must have known him better.”

Hoping all the attention on her would fade away, she checked her EMD’s setting. She adjusted it to the final notch for maximum output, and the weapon’s battery whined in response. All bars turned red on the weapon’s backlit display.

Still, the others said nothing. A long silence lingered between them, almost as if they were all mourning the fallen—an unknown fallen. Though they had not lost someone to death, Sears has simply ceased to exist entirely.

Wiped from the timeline. For whatever reason.

Another chill wracked Grant’s spine. She wondered if she was to blame—for having entered the Anomaly, and seeing the prehistoric world beyond its glowing orb—had that somehow caused a domino effect through time, reaching all the way into the present, and erasing Sears from existence?

It made no sense.

She needed to tell herself that it made no sense.

Carter slapped his heavy Type-4 EMD and set it to maximum output, causing his weapon’s battery to whine as well. He punctuated the action by saying, “Fuck it. Let’s get this bread. Catch that dino.”

“This way,” Grant said.

She shone her light down the trampled path through snow and trees.

Ruiz flicked the cigarillo into darkness and flipped his visor back down to cover his face, then led the way.

The Purussaurus had left a trail of destruction in its wake. Smaller rocks had shattered under its weight. Its long body and tail had scarred the snowy landscape, exposing frozen grounds underneath nature’s white blanket. And splatters of blood here and there revealed that Mischchenko, indeed, must have wounded it with a knife.

With all that combined, it proved easy to track.

Until they reached the stream.

Their flashlights swept up and down the creek’s water, cutting through boulders and Rocky Mountain forest. Bereft of snow, none of them spotted any clues to the dinosaur’s whereabouts.

“Shit,” Ruiz said, clicking his tongue. “We could really use Mischchenko right about now.”

“What are we, stupid?” Carter growled. “Downstream, the Anomaly. Bet you the croc will be hiding there in the cave. This whole shit loops back on itself.”

Ruiz shrugged. “Makes enough sense, but you’re on for the bet. Twenty bucks says it went to hide somewhere else.”

“Anybody else want in?” Carter asked.

“Stay focused,” Pruitt said on radio. “Containment is closing in. We don’t wanna waste time, knock that dino out, so we can make a quick extraction.”

“And Mischchenko?” Grant asked.

“We’ll find her,” Ruiz said, ending with a sigh. “One way or another.”

They hiked downstream. Dozens of careful paces prevented them from slipping along the path nature had carved for them. Several sharp drops slowed their descent, forcing them to pause and hop down in single file.

Boots splashed in water where they could no longer progress outside the stream.

Grant speculated. “Starting to think the croc ate the hominids and hikers, tried to go back through the Anomaly. Well—”

“Pu-rus-saur-us,” interrupted Burch’s disembodied voice over the ether of radio, intonating every syllable with a condescending tone. “Technically, a caiman, it—”

Ruiz shushed her. He hissed, “You owe me twenty. Contact—”

Too late. They had all noticed it too late.

Scales and long teeth glistened in the cone of light from Ruiz’s EMD. Only one of its reptilian eyes shone, the other was slick with blood and clamped shut from a vicious cut.

And the dinosaur had been poised to pounce all along.

Its huge maw—capable of swallowing a grown person whole—gaped at them from the boulders above, only split-seconds before Ruiz pulled the trigger. The EMD’s electric blast lit up their environment in a bright flash of blue. The huge caiman recoiled from the shot landing between its nostrils.

Its massive body absorbed the electric charge.

But it did not collapse. Rather than falling unconscious, the Purussaurus hissed in response.

Angrily.

The Purussaurus leapt from the boulder at them before Grant or Carter could open fire at it. A living avalanche crashed between them.

Stone exploded. Water sprayed in every direction and bodies flew everywhere. Grant fell, and her armor absorbed most shock from her fall as she tumbled downstream, hitting several rocks on the way. Hectic, shouting, and panic shook the small squad.

Carter’s bone-curdling yell pierced the night.

Through the distortion of water sloshing off her visor, Grant acted on instinct, slipping and sliding until she braced herself from being washed farther downstream. She rose from the water, taking aim at the whipping tail, along the huge, sleek body attached to it, and dead center��

She pulled the trigger twice. Her Type-5 EMD felt as light as a handgun in her palms, so she acted upon long-ingrained drills, hoping a double-tap dead center would deal with their problem.

That’s when she learned the next important lesson on her new job.

Electricity inherent in the EMD’s shots—and its interaction with water’s conductivity.

The EMD’s blasts hit their target without fail, that’s where her discipline and prior training paid off. Unfortunately, nobody had briefed her on the side effects of the weapon, such as its electric charge being conducted through water.

Ruiz yelled in pain as both he and the Purussaurus above him were wracked and shocked with jolts of electricity. The ex-soldier’s back arched violently and every digit and limb twitched while he crawled from the stream. The dinosaur snarled and crashed on the opposite side—then rolled around violently, threatening to crush Carter, who was dragging himself away from the fight, with a leg that had bent in ways human legs shouldn’t bend—

“Great!” Carter yelled. “This is why we—”

The dinosaur’s tail, whipping around, accidentally struck him in the head, shattering his helmet before he could finish any more sentences. Pieces of hardened plastic splintered and sprayed in every direction and he was silenced on the spot, collapsing into a lifeless heap.

Thunder. The Purussaurus moved with lightning speed, and its heavy weight made the ground quake like thunder as it barreled past Grant. Hoping to dodge out of the way, she instead slipped on slick rocks and splashed back into the creek’s water. The thundering shadow shot past her, gone within seconds.

Once she emerged from the stream’s water, she frantically shone light up and down the stream.

The dinosaur continued fleeing downstream.

Towards the cave.

Towards the Anomaly.

Grant sensed it. Instinct told her she was right.

“Fuuuck,” Ruiz groaned. He collapsed onto the rocks, dripping with water like the rest of them.

Pruitt shouted at them over radio, “Sitrep!”

Ruiz still groaned.

Grant dreaded the thought of reporting on Carter’s demise until he emitted a baritone growl and groan of his own.

“Shit, newbie, you’re fuckin’ dense—”

“Shut up already,” Ruiz moaned.

“Sitrep!” Pruitt repeated.

Grant assessed matters fast.

This was why Spencer had hired her, after all.

Carter had collapsed into sitting, propped up against a boulder. Judging by his inability to stand up and how he was gripping his left thigh in both hands, rather than shooting at the dinosaur, he had broken his leg. His helmet had been nearly obliterated, exposing his face—and blood from a cut on his forehead coated half his face in crimson. Though it looked worse than it was, he might have been concussed from the blow to his head.

Meanwhile, thin plumes of smoke rose from Ruiz’s back and belt. His EMD, smoking alike, clattered onto the rocks. He gripped his helmeted head while breathing heavily—he’d be fine, but the circuits on his gear had been fried.

The thundering footsteps of the Purrusaurus had died down, having gained distance and given way to hiding. The dinosaur had met its match in these humans.

“Do you copy?” Pruitt asked on the radio.

Grant answered. Combat discipline kicked in. Pushing all the hectic and terror down, deep down; leaving another issue to unpack another day. “Carter’s got a fractured leg bone, Ruiz is down for the count temporarily, still no sign of Mischchenko, and the dino got away.”

Pruitt fumed. She couldn’t even see the pilot, but she sensed his frustration in the beat of silence that followed. She felt watched, as if the rest of Future Proof LLC was listening in now, awaiting their next steps, like an audience watching a TV show.

“Knock that dino the fuck out,” Pruitt said. “Got a lock on your position.”

“Copy that,” she replied.

Kneeling beside Ruiz, he flopped onto his back, breathing heavily. He lifted his visor, blinking against the flood of cold wintry air hitting his face. Sharp brown eyes studied Grant’s visor, as if he was seeking eye contact with her.

“You good?” she asked him.

“Nothing a bottle o’ bourbon and some juicy hazard pay can’t fix.”

He grinned with a set of perfect white teeth on display, befitting of an advertisement photo. Those brown eyes of his flashed with a devilish charm.

Truly, this man needed to quit his job and start modeling.

Grant rose and splashed through the stream over to Carter.

“What about you?” she asked.

Just as she arrived, Carter showed off how much of a badass he thought he was. Following a single and sudden, violent pull at his outstretched leg, accompanied by the sickening wet sound of the broken bone being set to where it should be, he growled out a long, drawn-out groan.

“You’re gonna have to leg this one without me,” he said. “Only place I’m walking next is out of physio at the HQ clinic, once this shit’s healed.”

“Copy,” she said.

“Shit,” Ruiz said, clicking his tongue again. “My EMD’s battery got fried.”

“Take mine,” Carter growled again.

He flipped his rifle over, extending it towards Ruiz for him to take.

“What if another dino comes for you?” Ruiz asked. He snatched Carter’s EMD from his hands.

Carter reached behind himself and produced a pistol. To demonstrate, he racked the slide and said, “Forty-five ACP. Fuck this EMD bullshit.”

“Really?” Ruiz asked.

Carter laughed.

“Please,” came Burch’s tinny voice from the radio. “Do not—”

“Would you all please limit the chatter?” Pruitt cut in. “Finish the job, Grant.”

Droning rotors hummed in the distance. Grant gazed at the dark skies. Lights blinked on the horizon, where several helicopters neared.

“Hard copy,” she said.

Now she led the way, and Ruiz followed.

Before silence could finally return to their radio conversation, a weak voice disrupted the short bout of peace.

“Shit… what the hell… h-happened?” she moaned into the radio.

Mischchenko.

Grant sighed in relief.

“Holy shit, animal control’s still alive,” Pruitt said, with music ringing in his tone. “Carter, activate your beacon. Mischchenko, please group up with him and standby.”

“Did I get its eye?” Mischchenko asked.

“Affirmative,” Grant said. Then she added, “Going silent now. Dino nearby.”

“Copy.”

She exchanged a glance with Ruiz, who could only see the black of her visor. She nodded at him, silently urging him to lower it.

He clicked his tongue. “Instruments are toast, visor’s more hindrance than help now. Gotta do this old school.”

“Okay, cowboy.”

They continued downstream until they reached the overhang of jagged stones above the cave’s entrance.

Something began beeping. Icy cold sweat beaded on Grant’s forehead. The tiny sound of alarm emanated from her belt, intrusive on every beep.

Also potentially alerting the dinosaur to their presence.

“Your Anomaly detector,” Ruiz whispered. “Is that…?”

She checked the small handheld device on her belt, tearing it from its Velcro strap. She blinked a few times and failed to make any sense of the futuristic device’s display. Numbers fluctuated and wave-forms on its black screen indicated something in front of them.

Close.

“Yep,” Ruiz said, answering his own question. “Anomaly’s open again, but unstable, still. Orders?”

The team stayed silent on radio. As if the chain of command had been broken, with a situation too chaotic and derailed for anybody to take control, more beats filled with stunned silence.

Then Grant realized his radio had been fried alongside his EMD.

“They can’t hear you on comms because your radio got fried,” she told Ruiz. Then she repeated his question. “Orders?”

Still sounding weak and squeezed out through physical torment, Mischchenko finally spoke and said, “Plan A for ‘always’. Drive that specimen back through the Anomaly.”

“Hard copy,” Grant cut in. To Ruiz, she said, “Cover my six, I’m taking point.”

He shook his head. His expression conveyed “it’s your funeral”, but he gestured to the cave’s mouth and instead muttered, “A’ight.”

Losing no time, Chloe entered the cave. This time around, she followed its winding path with a steadier and more daring pace. The Anomaly locating device, returned to her belt, now beeped erratically.

Little time remained before the Anomaly would collapse again. And the small beeping device would draw the dinosaur’s attention to her—but Chloe Grant was counting on it.

Once she glimpsed the glow of the Anomaly’s shimmering orb around the final bend, she switched her flashlight off. Ruiz did the same.

She did her best not to focus on the fascinating, hovering phenomenon in the cave. Its scintillating shards, where time and space had fractured, rotating and spiraling perpetually in place like a cluster of floating, broken glass—it flickered. Like an old light bulb nearing the end of its lifespan, the Anomaly flickered and blinked.

And the tinkling sounds it produced intermittently cut out every time it flickered.

Time.

Was time such a fragile element after all?

“Hold your fire and hang back here in case this goes south,” Grant said.

“In case what goes south?” Ruiz asked.

The Purussaurus hissed at them from the opposite end of the large cave. Its glistening maw widened, opening. From the throat of the beast came a low, baritone growl, shaking Grant’s insides like a low, rumbling earthquake in her bones.

She defied the fear this instilled in her and advanced towards the growling animal, EMD’s muzzle aimed at the dinosaur’s mouth. With a flick of her thumb, she adjusted the weapon’s power output down to the medium setting. Only one red bar remained.

Ruiz repeated his question to no avail. “What do y—”

She opened fire on the dinosaur.

Two bright flashes of blue light filled the cave, and the Purussaurus snarled.

She had made it angry. Very angry.

Very good.

Grant shot it a third time and the dinosaur charged at her.

Just as expected. Preemptively, she dove into the flickering Anomaly.

The world turned sideways, upside down, blinding light engulfing her entirely, and then all was right.

She had returned to that prehistoric age, that stunning vista of another world—their world, but from millions of years ago.

She had no time to enjoy the breathtaking view. She dove to the side yet again. Rocks in the sunny landscape crunched where she crashed into them and held onto them for her dear life.

The Purussaurus flew through the Anomaly in pursuit of her—

And it hurtled right over her, off the cliff.

The massive predator’s hiss trailed all the way down until bones cracked where it hit jagged stone, bouncing from first impact, then bouncing off more crags on the long way down.

With a cacophony of cracking wood, the canopy of trees beneath the cliff swallowed the Purrusaur’s form whole. A flock of prehistoric birds dispersed in panic where the dinosaur crashed into the trees.

Chloe Grant gasped when lightning struck her arm, where Ruiz slapped a hand against her wrist, then another hand against her other arm, and he tugged. Helping her back up.

Clambering up the steep cliff’s edge, the Anomaly flickered behind him and the detector on Grant’s belt beeped with menace.

Panic of being stuck in the Miocene gave them wings. The two ex-soldiers practically flew into the glowing sphere. It collapsed behind them on the other side—their side, stumbling back into the pitch-black darkness of the cave.

Grant broke out into crazed laughter. Ruiz clapped her on the shoulder and a nervous chuckle escaped his throat, marked by a crooked grin across his face when she blinded him with her flashlight.

“That the good kind o’ laughter I’m hearing?” Pruitt asked on radio. Crackling again.

Grant’s laughter died down.

“Yeah.” Catching her breath and with a sinking feeling in her stomach, she asked, “Now, what about Sears?”

Ruiz fell silent, deprived of any potential laughter to follow his chuckling.

The rest of the team stayed speechless on radio.

“Nobody of that name on record with our company,” Singh replied. She hadn’t heard his voice since the streamlined briefing at HQ, and nearly hadn’t recognized it through the static of distance. “Sorry, Miss Grant.”

Trading places with the sinking feeling, anger now bubbled up from her gut.

“What the hell? We sent the dino back! We did everything right, so why the hell is the timeline not fixed?”

Just like the surprise of hearing someone else’s voice on the radio she hadn’t heard since her tour cut short, Doctor Solomon answered her question, distorted by the same disruptions of distance.

“I believe Novikov’s theory is proving to be wrong in practice,” he said.

That went right over her head.

“What does that even…?”

When Grant’s helmeted head snapped around to glare at Ruiz, he averted his eyes and rubbed his forehead.

Mischchenko radioed, “We don’t know how to fix the timeline, only how to break it. Welcome to the team, Grant, good job. And sorry… about Sears.”

Grant swallowed any remarks.

She had never known him beyond the name. He had said two things in the little time she had known him.

Now, Sears was gone.

Ruiz produced the storm lighter from his pouch. He studied it and slapped it twice, rather than using it light anything on fire. Then he placed it on the ground near the Anomaly.

Grant stared at him, expecting an explanation.

“In memory of this, uh, Sears,” he said, shrugging anew. Once more, he averted his gaze, studying the rocks between their feet.

Grant’s head was spinning.

Ruiz sighed and walked past her, heading out of the cave.

She followed him out, oblivious to what he had really just done.

Once they were outside and the illumination from their EMD flashlights disappeared with the two operatives, a tiny red light at the base of the lighter left behind started flashing.

A beacon of its own—blinking, flashing, a tiny red light in the dark.

This beacon was not meant for Future Proof to locate.

Somewhere else, another team received a signal to investigate.

And for now, only Ruiz knew about them.

[callmemana]

Whiskey Bottles & Wild Flowers Masterlist:

Leonard ‘Wolfman’ Wolfe x Amanda ‘Cricket’ Pruitt

Rick ‘Hollywood’ Neven x Baylie ‘Duckie’ Pruitt ( @bayisdying )

Warnings: fluff & angst. Redneck activities(?)

After Months of being deployed, Leonard comes home to a childhood friend who hasn’t talked to him since he was 18 and shipped off to basic. While he was gone she had wrote letters to him but never got any response back. Unknown to her, something went wrong with the mailing service and he never got the letters to begin with. So when he comes home and expects open arms and warms hugs from his best friend, only to get the cold shoulder. He knows something’s wrong, but he can’t get her to talk to him at all. Will a heart to heart when a thunderstorm makes it way towards them and strands them in the family barn help heal their relationship?

Thank you @switchbladedreamz @bayisdying for helping!

1. Fool Me Once, Shame On Me. Fool Me Twice, Shame on You.

2. Mess With the Bill, You Get the Horns.

3. My Boots Might Be Tiny, But Oh Lord Am I Mighty!

4. Brands & Belt Buckles

5. Boots With The Spurs

6. Idiot! You Forgot Gas?!

7. Dressed In My Sunday Best

8. Cowboys & Angels

9. One Piece At A Time

10. Shotgun! The Front Seat? No, My Dad, Dumbass!

11. Breakin’ Colts On A Hot Summer Day

12. Tin Roof Singin’

13. Feel The Mud Between My Toes As We Dance In The Rain Together

14. Drive Safe, Cowboy. I’ll Still Be Here When You Get Back

15. Rodeo Romeo

16. Haylofts & Forgiveness

17. She’s The Reason For Leaving On My Porch Light

18. Whippoorwills & Love Confessions

19. Listen To Strait; Love Without End, Amen Baby.

20. I May Be From A Small Town, But I’ll Follow You Wherever You Go, Cowboy

Meet The Characters:

Baby|Bambi|Cricket|Chatterbox|Chipper|Daisy|Dragon|Duckie|Goose|Iceman|Knuckles|Maverick|Pretty-Boy|Leo|Scarlett|Slider|Spence|Sundown|Squirrel|Tennessee|Whiskey|

Duos:

Busch & Jack Pruitt|Beau & Katherine Pruitt|

TK & Chloe|Duckie & Cricket|John & Ruth Wolfe|

Spencer & Quinn Henderson|——

Forever 🏷️ list: @bayisdying @switchbladedreamz @dragon-kazansky @mrsjaderogers @sweetlittlegingy

🏷️ list: @luckyladycreator2 @lisedanie

[notebooknebula]

From Summit to Success: $400,000 in Real Estate Investment Funding #shorts

Private Money Academy Conference:

https://www.JaysLiveEvent.com

Free Report:

https://www.jayconner.com/MoneyReport

“Hi. This is Gene Pruitt with R&S Property Solutions. 

I met Jay at Ron LeGrand's, real estate summit. 

We went to a short class, went home, and raised over $400,000 doing what he said in the class, so we signed up for his boot camp. 

Here we are in the boot camp. 

And if you need money to buy houses, you just need to go to Jay Conner's where to get the money now class and get the money. Have a good one.”

Join the Private Money Academy: 

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[donnydamakkk]

and, andy is suffering again. rest in peace, pruitt herrera. u went out w ur boots on, and u were a great dad, a great captain, and amazing person.

[oilchangeus-blog]

It’s long past time to Boot Pruitt! ADD YOUR VOICE TO THE CALLS FOR SCOTT PRUITT TO RESIGN OR BE FIRED IMMEDIATELY!

[not-safe-for-democracy]

[proverbsss]

reading you right (father paul hill/john pruitt x reader) -nsfw

Father Paul Hill, Midnight Mass

prompt(s): "Me. You. Bed. Now." [from this post]

[Pt. 2 Out Now!! Linked Here :)]

anon: I had a normal amount of fun writing this, hope you enjoy :) i wanna do a pt. 2 because ofc i do,, honestly I got a lil hot n bothered lmao

notifs: paul hill is a tease!! ; shoe-grinding ; fluffy smut ; hierophilia ; you're father paul's dirty little secret ; denial ; reader begging ; reader's down HORRENDOUS ; terms used: good girl, slutty thing, pet

"You've been lying there moaning for ten minutes." Father Paul chuckles, trying to focus on his reading.

You feel your leg twitch as you lay on your stomach, looking a bit dazed across the room. A giggle escapes you. In your mind's eye a constant stream of images plays- every dirty thing you’ve done with Father Paul in the last 48 hours, a rare weekend’s reprieve from prying Beverly Keane, sitting bedside with her sister or aunt or who-the-hell cares on the mainland. It was too easy to sneak into the house behind St. Patrick’s, and too goddamn pleasurable to leave after the first night. A delightful ease of domesticity has settled over the two of you. And you’re even more whipped for the Father than you were when this whole messy arrangement began.

"I can't help it-"

"It's understandable to whine like a whore while I'm still inside you, but cooing like that when I'm not even touching you is a little ridiculous." Smug, he licks his finger and turns a page. "A man's ego can only grow so big."

“What are you reading?” you ask, completely uninterested, and your voice betrays it. You might enjoy a good book now and again, but something worlds more tempting is sitting before you. In his jeans and tee shirt, only his glossy ankle boots remaining, Paul is a rare sight out of uniform, like something sent from heaven. Or Hell. Both, somehow.

“You asked me that fifteen minutes ago. Or did you forget already?” He shoots you a disapproving, but playful look. He can hardly resist you more than you can him. Hardly. There is that last smidgeon of reserve that Paul prides himself on. He can’t be bothered to think of you as a sin, because life’s become far, far more complicated in the last few months than any one man can hold in his head, and because it feels like paradise to touch you.

Caught in your inattention, you abandon the ruse of asking about his book. "You fucked me too good...." You whine.

"You're going to complain about it?" He laughs at you.

"You're laughing at me." 

"Of course I'm laughing at you," he admonishes. Not to be taken in by your wiles, Paul's eyes trace the paragraph he's started unsuccessfully three times.

"You whine before I fuck you, you whine while I fuck you, and you whine after I've fucked you. You're silly."

The vision renews itself in your mind of last night creeping around in here, your excitement waiting in the antechamber of St. Patrick’s late at night, Paul sneaking up on you in the dark and taking you in that muggy little den where they keep the wine and spare things. You want him to grunt against your ear like that again, to fuck you like he needs you in order to breathe.

"I'm not silly!" You gasp out. He hears the difference in your voice and scans your body with his eyes. Grinning. He licks his bottom lip and pretends the fool. “I want it, please, I want it, I don’t caaaare…” Your caterwauling would be annoying if it wasn’t so bone-deep genuine. Paul could probably keep you here forever as a pet, a secret from innocuous parishioners, visitors from all walks of life, and you’d be satisfied as long as he used you from time to time. Fed you.

“Oh, that’s undignified.” He smiles, turns the page and hopes he can pick up without the aid of the passage his mind simply refused to retain.

You get on all fours and start to crawl over to him. You tug on the leg of his jeans, utterly debased.

“You’re insatiable, you know that?” his tongue flicks and flutters around the word in a musical way that you know you could find better uses for. You nod. His voice. He could guide you anywhere with it. To make things worse, he imitates you. The facsimile of your lust in his voice is enough to make you jump him. “‘Father, I can't focus on my book....Father, please fuck me with your fingers, I can't without it, I need it...I told you pack things to stay because I imagined I’d be enjoying some downtime other than between my sheets.'"

You bite your lip, the adoring way you look up at him unfairly reminiscent of Biblical portraiture, the Madonna (too ineffably ironic), Saint Lucia, devout, suppliant little succubi. Paul’s heart breaks a little, and his cock twitches with interest, which he endeavors to suppress. 

“What’s that look for, child?” He plays up the religious bent of your dynamic, something that presses inexpressibly sinful and delicious buttons in your dirty mind. 

"I do need you."

You pout. Your words with Paul repeating them was enough to rev your proverbial engine. You shift just the littlest bit, yet the friction of the floor underneath you is enough to tease out a whimper. Not totally on purpose, but not totally by accident. John chuckles again. 

“Present tense?” He pretends to turn a page, but he’s not reading a damn thing now.

"I need you all the time you're not in me.” It’s filthy, but it feels true in these moments when all the thoughts are leaving your head empty. 

He smiles one of his private smiles. His eyelids crinkle as he reaches up to scratch his cheek. "Let's not be pornographic, huh?"

"I wanna fuck again..."

"What else is new?"

"You've ruined me." He looks at you then like you’re something to eat. The book is shut and put down. You have your beloved hot priest’s attention. His eyes ask, smoldering, what will you do now you have it?

“You have my boot. Or aren’t you smart enough to get yourself off.” His tone shifts and a shadowy, serious dominance settles in his countenance. Every behavior, every quirk of his expression, curve of his smile, owns and owns you. He may plead and beg to bury his head between your thighs from time to time, on one occasion he may have shown up at your door, his satchel a deceptive front for rope and ribbon, which you were to restrain and blindfold him with. Life’s too short for dynamics that don’t shift and change like the tides. But in this moment, this energy, you are his. And he intends to impress that upon you.

You gape at him just a moment, heady lust clouding your already addled brain. Then slowly, carefully, you adjust your position, grab the upper part of Paul’s calf, and hoist your lower body up onto his shoe, your pelvic bone bumping his shin. Any hesitations or embarrassment that linger in you drown in the deeper, sweeter excitement of feeling some real friction as you roll your hips. Oh. God.

This might be the senseless, reckless need talking, but fuck. Just the sensation of the toe of his shoe right between your thighs, exactly where you need it, makes you feel a little bit crazy. You look up at him in awe, and thank God he’s not picked up his book again but instead is sitting comfortably, his gaze dropped low to watch you, his groin thrusting the tiniest bit forward at nothing, too much nothing. He groans, and you chase your pleasure like a thing possessed.

Words slip out of your mouth without a shred of logic behind them, and Paul tells you to repeat yourself. He bites his bottom lip as he watches you. “Hello? Still a brain in there?"

“I said you make me so sensitive,” you mumble, finding a new groove in the contour of his shoe, where it meets his ankle, and leaning on his knee, shaking, groping for his thighs, all involuntarily. Your dripping, dripping on his shoe, and the thought of how uncivilized that is makes Paul bite his fist.

"Uh huh, so it's all my fault, then."

"Yes..."

"Yes, 'what'?"

"Yes it's all your fault, Father."

“It’s my fault you’re going to cum on my shoe?”

You whine again. Your soul’s leaving your body, want spreads through every inch of your body, intense and blinding, high, so high.

“C’n I cum, please, can I cum?” You pant, feeling his hands wrap around yours, warm and loving. 

“Look at me, pet.” He orders. You obey. His irises envelop you. You steady yours on them, trying to get a grip, breath filling your belly and leaving your parted lips in rapid gasps. “No.”

Your brows shoot up in surprise. Disappointment isn’t the word for it, desire lets itself out as a sound. You slow down, somewhere in a high place you hear him say:

“Stop grinding, slutty thing. Your Father told you ‘no.’”

You sink against him, laying your head on one of his thighs. He kisses the top of your head, and murmurs, “Good girl. Good girl, good.”

Fireworks are setting off under your skin, your thighs are trembling, every bit of you is sticky. “That wasn’t easy, I bet.” He says, voice condescending and sweet, but every bit as needy as you are. You make another noise in response. 

“I’m not done with you, you know,” he takes your chin into one of his hands, lifts your head. He kisses you again, with a fierceness that just sharpens your feeling. “I’m not even close to done with you.” He rests his in your neck, kisses you once, twice, up your jaw, on your cheeks, the ear he can reach. He bites your earlobe and almost hisses, “Me. You. Bed. Now.”

[Pt. 2 Out Now!! Linked Here :)]

[rjzimmerman]

I’ve signed the petition. I rarely sign those things, because I don’t think mass petition delivery from organizations are effective. When I can, I submit my own comments or petitions, if a petition is the proper approach. But in this case, I wouldn’t know to whom I would appeal, so I did the petition. Being an Illinois resident, both of my Senators (Dick Durbin, Tammy Duckworth) don’t like pruitt (or trump or any bits and pieces of him or his administration). My Congressional Representative is Danny Davis, an African American from the west side of Chicago who is more to the left than most DC politicians.

Description of the project from Center for American Progress:

Since taking over as head of the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA), Administrator Pruitt has systematically and aggressively worked to dismantle basic protections for public health, clean air, and clean water—actions which run counter to the EPA’s mandate to protect health and the environment. Pruitt’s harmful actions go beyond our health too—Pruitt is a prime example of the Trump culture of corruption. He’s under three separate investigations by the EPA Inspector General for ethical misdeeds, including spending upwards of $105,000 taxpayer dollars on first-class plane tickets and wasting $43,000 on a private and sound-proof phone-booth.

Pruitt has also kept the revolving door of industry lobbyists to government regulators spinning at his EPA, hiring his friends who have no environmental experience and consistently prioritizing industry allies and polluters. He is also anti-science, publicly questioning both climate change and evolution, and he has ignored the data and research of his own agency time and again--for example by refusing to ban a harmful pesticide even after learning of its damaging impacts on children’s neurological development. The math from all of this is clear: not only do Pruitt’s actions pose a risk to the health of American families, but his questionable ethical record makes him truly unfit to serve in any public office. He must resign.

That’s why, today, we joined with 9 other major progressive and environmental organizations to launch a campaign to “Boot Pruitt.” It’s time to fight back. Join us in telling Scott Pruitt it’s time to resign, and sign the petition to give him the boot.

The partners in the project:

Center for American Progress (CAP Action)

Hip Hop Caucus

Defend Our Future

Green For All

Green Latinos

Sierra Club

National Resources Defense Council (NRDC)

League of Conservation Voters

NextGen America

Environmental Defense Fund

Friends of the Earth

[skullfck]

must we burn in the sunlight? why cant we just have sex with the vampire priest? 

[welcometothecrockpot]

Wages of Sin

Father Paul/John Pruitt x fem reader

One shot, horror/smut fic- 4,002 words

Warnings- NSFT, priest smut, blasphemy, prayer in the filthiest context, religious extremism, BLOOD, blood drinking, restraint, unprotected sex, fear of death, death of a loved one, funerary imagery

Here it is! I bestow upon you a delightfully darker side of our Father, a fic filled with blood and sin 🙏 PLEASE SEE THE WARNINGS ABOVE BEFORE READING ❤️ enjoy!

You have a nervous habit of chewing your lip. An innocuous habit, really. Until it leads you to unexpected places when the island’s new Father becomes determined to make a believer out of you.

The night air had a cold bite to it as winter made it known that it wasn’t ready to leave the island just yet. You caught yourself already taking your lip between your teeth, a nervous habit that you could sometimes control, but not tonight.

After tossing and turning in bed, you gave up and got dressed. Now your boots crunched on the gravel, approaching the grounds of Saint Patrick’s church under the cloak of darkness. He’d been on your mind for weeks, the priest. You didn’t attend mass, you never attended mass, but word didn’t take long to spread on Crockett. He appeared out of thin air, a temporary replacement for Monsignor Pruitt, he said. You met him at the pot luck. There was a warmth, a gentleness about him that brought comfort to everyone he met. One could even describe him as having a touch of the Divine. But there was something else about him you couldn’t stop thinking about to the point where you couldn’t sleep. He was hiding something.

Up ahead you could see the door to the rectory was open and your heart began to beat faster. Despite your nerves, you continued on toward the small building, your hands balled into fists in the pockets of your sweater. All you could hear was the sound of your steps rusting the grass, breaking the otherwise deafening silence. The beating of your heart rose into your ears while you ascended the small flight of stairs onto the porch, the light from inside making you squint your eyes.

In a sleepless daze, you didn’t stop to consider why the door was wide open in the middle of the night until you stopped just inside the doorway. It didn’t matter now. Across the room Father Paul stood with his back to you, his head tilted back as he drained the last of the wine from the crystal cruet grasped tightly in his hand. A cold wave of anxiety washed over you as you took a step backward before freezing in place when he lowered the cruet and turned his head in your direction. He looked almost as shocked as you were, both of you staring at each other, unsure how to react.

But that lasted only a moment before you flinched and quickly stammered, “I should go.”

“No! No, I- I’m sorry. I just wasn’t expecting anyone this late. Please come in.”

He looked different. His face was pale and there was a sheen of sweat on his forehead. He looked exhausted. He didn’t bother to hide the empty cruet, setting it on the counter while you cautiously entered the rectory, not taking your eyes off of him. Your lip was between your teeth again.

“What can I do for you, y/n?” he asked, clearly trying to maintain his composure while he supported himself on the edge of the counter.

You hadn’t even thought of what to say. You just walked here with nothing but a suspicion that something was going on and you needed to find out what. Now what you saw in front of you could only be proof of that. Thinking quickly, you answered, “Well, I- I couldn’t sleep because… I wanted to confess something to you… Father.”

His brow furrowed and he nodded slowly before a pained look twisted his face and his grip on the counter tightened while he gritted his teeth. Your breath caught and you jumped, but your feet remained firmly planted on the floor.

“Are you alright?” your voice came out almost in a whisper.

He drew in an arduous breath and struggled to remain standing but refused to let his guard down, answering, “Yes, yes I’m fine I- I’m just not feeling quite like myself today.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

It was strange, you felt both fear and pity at the same time, uncertain which was the right one to be feeling. You couldn’t place what was leaving you feeling so confused, but your unease was continuing to grow.

“I can come back.”

“No, it’s alright. You… came here for confession?”

Your heart remained in your throat when you answered, “I did, yes.”

“Not to the church? Not that I mind but, that’s typically where I hear confession-”

“I can’t go in there,” you answered, a little too quickly, cutting his sentence off.

A burning heat rushed to your cheeks and you both fell silent, blinking at each other. Now he was likely suspicious of you too. You could leave. You could just turn and leave. But something stopped you, something in his eyes that kept you right where you stood.

You cleared your throat before speaking again, “I’m sorry I just- don’t want to go in there, the church.”

He let go of the counter, his gaze fixed on you, and stepped forward while he asked, “Its rude of me to ask but, why not?”

Your breath sped up along with your pulse, watching him get closer, the stiffness of his posture somewhat unsettling. You shouldn’t have said anything. Your fear of that place was something you kept secret, always coming up with some other excuse when asked by other islanders why you didn’t attend church. His simple question was raising your anxiety higher by the second. You began to chew on your lip.

“I don’t like it there,” you answered curtly, shaking your head.

His expression was difficult to decipher. He looked at you with wide eyes like you were a piece of meat. You hadn’t noticed that you’d been backing up until your legs hit the edge of his desk.

“Why not?”

His voice was distant, and you could see his gaze shift to your neck as your heart pounded in your ears. You wanted to run but your body wouldn’t move. Your quick puffs for air barely made it past your throat and you felt yourself becoming lightheaded and your face grew numb.

When he got close enough for your ragged breaths to flutter his hair you blurted out in a panic, “Because I’m afraid!”

But he didn’t seem to hear you. He was still and silent, his eyes fixed on your mouth. You sucked in a deep breath and suddenly felt a warmth welling up from your lip and your tongue tasted the iron tang of blood. You touched a fingertip to your mouth and looked down at the spot of shiny red liquid left behind. You must have bitten your lip. You licked away some of the blood, but it began to drip down your chin, the flow stronger than you thought. Then your gaze trailed from your finger, back up to his face. He expression was vacant and his eyelids heavy while he watched the blood run down your chin, his own mouth slowly falling open.

Then your trembling muscles locked when he slowly leaned forward, his breath warm on your skin before he carefully licked the drip from your chin. A shiver ran down your back when he swallowed and locked eyes with you. It was hunger that you finally recognized in his eyes and a gasp rushed past your lips before he latched onto them.

His hands flew up to hold your face while he sucked on your lip, drawing it into his mouth. His tongue prodded at the wound, lapping away the warm fluid draining from it. Shock kept you still, stunned by so much adrenaline coursing through your veins he must have been able to taste it. You found yourself gripping his arms tightly while he drank, and a strange feeling traveled down into your belly. It stung when he licked at the raw tissue, like burning hot friction against the sensitive flesh, but something about it felt… good.

He groaned when you began to move your mouth against his and a thrill jolted through your body, your hands squeezing him tighter when an unexpected need took over. Then your tongue pressed against his and something within you surrendered. Your fingers tangled into his hair while you kissed him and he pulled you closer, his knee pressed between your legs while he melded his mouth with yours. Your warm blood slicked the desperate movement of his lips against yours, a feeling unlike anything you’d experienced before. A strangled moan hummed in your throat before you separated just as quickly as you joined together.

Panting for air, your every nerve ending still buzzed while you stared at him. He’d taken a few steps back, seemingly alarmed by his own actions, your blood smeared across his mouth and down his chin. The flow from your lip had slowed to a near stop when you cautiously licked at it and wiped your chin with the back of your hand, not taking your eyes off of him while you supported yourself on the desk.

He knit his brows and swallowed before finally breaking the silence. “I- I don’t- I don’t know… I don’t know what came over me,” his voice cracked.

Your blood stained lips parted but uttered no words, unable to come up with anything to say. Your head should have been swimming after what just happened, but it remained stubbornly blank, as still as morning water.

Another moment passed, or maybe a thousand moments, you couldn’t tell, before he spoke again, “Now I must confess something to you.”

You blinked, feeling yourself beginning to regain your faculties, and quietly rasped, “Okay.”

He nodded slowly, keeping his eyes on you, and said, “Something is… happening to me. When I was younger, I experienced times of great spiritual growth but nothing… nothing like this.”

Your pulse had quickened again while you listened to him. What he just said was almost as disturbing as what he just did. It didn’t make any sense and should have been a warning to you, but it struck something within you, deep down and secret. Whatever was going on here, whatever reason he had for doing what he did, you had to know.

“I don’t understand,” you whispered.

“Why are you afraid?” he asked abruptly.

You heard what he said but the only word that would come out of your mouth was, “What?”

“You’re afraid of the church, why?”

He stood in front of you, your blood on his mouth, yet there was an attentiveness in his gaze. You stared into his eyes, stuck there as if you couldn’t look anywhere else, and you could feel the words forming on your tongue. You should be afraid of him. There was no basis for the trust that you found yourself desperately reaching for. It was like your instincts were both clouded and sharpened at the same time. There was a path around the basic need for survival and it led into a dark place where you had trouble seeing, but you were drawn toward it.

“When I was very young, my grandmother died,” you started to speak softly, your voice coming out all on its own. “Her funeral was at Saint Patrick’s. She was my favorite person. I was so little, she was there one day and gone the next. They had her in an open casket and took me up to see her. They were trying to teach me about death, I guess. But when I saw- “

You paused, swallowing against the lump in your throat before you continued, “When I saw her… I’ll never forget what she looked like, the life missing from her face. I had nightmares about the church that took my grandmother and replaced her with… that. I know better now, of course, but I still can’t go in there… the church where I learned what death is.”

Father Paul had been silently listening, never taking his eyes off of you while you spoke. There was grief in the way he looked at you. Like he’d just been standing with you beside that casket.

“And I’ve been afraid of it ever since. Afraid of death.”

He was still for a moment, standing in the wake of your private confession you’d just entrusted him with, before he replied, “The world and its desires pass away, but whoever does the will of God lives forever.”

The lump in your throat rose a little higher while you blinked at him, keeping still and taking in the cadence of his words, until he continued, “What I’ve been given, it was promised to us. I can’t pretend to understand His will, I can only follow it… God has a plan for us, and death isn’t a part of it anymore.”

Your heart beat faster with each word he uttered in earnest, staring at you with unmistakable sincerity, a window to the innermost workings of his faith. Nothing he was saying was rational. Sick. Yes, he must be ill, overcome with fever that was distorting his thoughts. And yet, it seemed as though he’d never experienced a clarity such as this.

Taking the first step into that alluring darkness, you asked quietly, “What have you been given?”

“Eternal life,” he answered with complete conviction.

Every muscle in your body trembled where you stood, unable to move, the forces of trepidation and enchantment canceling each other out, rendering you completely still while he approached you again.

“An angel of God appeared to me in my darkest hour and left me… restored.”

The closer he got, the louder your heart beat against your ribs. You could feel its pulse thumping against your vessels.

“I… died, right over there on the floor,” he pointed down to the floor in front of the desk. “But I awoke, new. His covenant has been fulfilled for me and now I know that you were brought here so that it may be fulfilled for you too.”

It was then that your mirage of intrigue and attraction dissolved, and terror struck like ice in your chest. You lunged toward the door but were caught by his arms wrapping around your torso, squeezing the breath from your lungs in a strangled yell. He hushed you while he pulled you against his chest, the compression from his hold constricting your thrashing movements, overpowering your efforts to get free.

You kicked and struggled in vain while he quickly lifted you to carry you into the dim light of his bedroom, tipping over onto the mattress to pin you beneath him all while attempting to reassure you with hushes and words of comfort, “Hey, hey it’s ok! It’s ok, listen to me, it’s ok.”

But you couldn’t stem the resurgence of adrenaline pushing you to fight him, deaf to his consolation. He grabbed your wrists in one hand and held them down over your head before suddenly raising his voice, “I’m trying to help you!”

It shook you down to your bones, rang in your ears, and you were still when he spoke softly, “God is trying to help you.”

Your eyes locked with his while you both panted for air. Knelt overtop of you, he slowly brought his free wrist to his mouth, using his teeth to unbutton his shirt cuff.

“Take this, all of you, and drink from it. This is my blood. The blood of the new and everlasting covenant shed for you and for all so that sins may be forgiven.”

Then he bit down. Your stomach twisted into a knot, and you could see a trickle of red running down toward his elbow. Your eyes followed the trail of blood then focused on his gaze again just before he held it above your mouth and the warm drops fell onto your lips. The coppery taste reached your tongue and you sucked in a gasp.

When your mouth opened, he held the flow to your lips, placing the wound over your them, saying softly, “Drink. Take this all of you and drink from it.”

You choked on the blood that poured toward the back of your throat, resisting the panicked urge to swallow, letting it spill out from the corners of your mouth and onto your face. His brow furrowed and he shook his head while you gurgled and gagged.

His voice tremored while he spoke, “Do not fear, for I am with you. Do not be afraid, for I am your God. I will strengthen you, I will help you. Drink.”

He squeezed his fist, hastening the flow and you sputtered a cough that forced you to swallow. The thick fluid was warm while it went down. It was salty and metallic, and you should have been revolted but there was something else happening. When it reached your stomach it was like a reflex, you swallowed more. You heard the Father’s breath catch in his throat as you suddenly began to drink from him. Your tongue lapped at the break in his skin, you couldn’t stop yourself. You kept swallowing, sucking, drinking, until the intoxicating flow began to diminish.

You gradually stopped when you opened your eyes to see him watching you, a glazed look on his face. Letting your jaw relax, you released your mouth from his wrist with a quiet smack, keeping your eyes on his. It felt like you’d just drank a wine unlike than any you’d had before. Your body was light and so was your head, but a profound feeling enveloped you, kept you steady, made you feel like new. He gazed back at you in awe, like he could feel the same thrill lighting up your senses, then your heart took flight when he leaned in to capture your lips.

The kiss opened up a host of heavenly sensations where his lips met yours and it quickly escalated to a breathless pace. Free and unabashed desire was all that was left. Fear, apprehension, resistance, they’d all be drained from you. He freed your wrists to hold your face in his hands and you allowed yours to wander down to his belt. His body shuddered and he let out a soft groan into your mouth, his hips rolling toward you ever so slightly.

That was all the encouragement you needed. Your shared urgent lust hung in the air while you quickly unfastened his belt, earning another needy groan. Then you felt his fingers roam down your torso to your waist, lightly grazing your skin below the hem of your top. A ripple of goosebumps followed his fingertips and his kiss deepened as he flattened his hand and slid it beneath your waistband.

You sucked in a short breath, breaking your lips away from his while your body stiffened beneath him. His eyes trailed down to where your pelvis bucked into his hand, seemingly unsure of why he’d done that and then, with his breath picking up faster, he slid it in deeper. When his fingertips reached your center, a small moan escaped your open mouth and your hips rocked back, lighting a fire in your core that made you want to beg.

“Please...”

Your eyes remained locked with his while he held himself still once again before pulling his hand out, making your stomach drop until he quickly unbuttoned your jeans and plunged it back down to feel you, really feel you. He watched as you writhed along with his simple touch. You melted for him, so needy and restless, a sight like he’d never seen before. Paul leaned in and pressed his forehead to yours, the movements of his digits and the rhythmic bucking of your hips becoming more desperate as whispered words of prayer began to tumble from between his lips.

“Soul of Christ, make me holy. Body of Christ, be my salvation.”

Breathlessness had overcome you both, caught in a frantic pursuit of pleasure as if it were your own deliverance. His touch explored and provoked to find what brought you closer to shouting his name like that of his God. You gripped his shoulders while you freed your sinful sounds from your throat when he discovered your sensitive spot, coaxing more muttered curses and holy incantations from his.

“Christ. Blood of Christ, let me drink your wine... Hear my prayer,” he huffed.

You swam in the flood of all that was sanctified consorting with the profane at the tips of his divine fingers. He breathed veneration against your burning skin, closer and closer to the edge until a jolt through your body arched your back toward the heavens. It poured over you as you trembled, heavy and rich like blood, numbing you to any other sensation, erupting from your mouth in an unholy cry. Your veins still roaring with chemical euphoria, he gripped your face to pull your lips to his, sucking what little breath you had left from your chest in a dizzying clash of your teeth and tongues.

His hand guided yours to the button on his vexingly tight jeans that had grown that much tighter where your fingertips grazed him through the fabric, evoking another desperate moan from him before he breathed, “Holy Mary, be it done unto me according to thy word.”

He panted for air and swallowed while you worked at the button and zipper before he continued, “And the word- the word was made flesh.”

Your head still awash in a carnal fog, his consecrated speech pulling you further down into the darkest shadows of lust, you quickly reached in to free him from his pants. Whispered curses on both of your lips, the Father’s body shivered as you wrapped your hand around his hardened length. The sounds he made were richer than any prayer when you ran your thumb over the head, made slick by the pearl of arousal collected there. A deep groan fled his mouth and he braced himself to keep from collapsing over top of you.

His lips to your ear, he panted, “The word was made flesh.”

Then your chest filled with shuddered breath when you felt pressure between your legs. Sound caught in your throat as he entered you, your walls stretching around him dropping your jaw.

“Pray for us, H-ooh- Holy Mother of God. Oh fuck.”

You grabbed at his shoulders and called out to the sky, “Father!”

His responded groan was swallowed along with your shared breath, locked in a feverish kiss, he sank deeper. One torturously slow thrust, then another, he released your mouth to free your cries. The sensation of beautiful sin in your core and the taste of blood still on your tongue, you panted and whined for absolution as the rolling of his hips carried you higher.

Lost in your exquisite anguish, you felt his breath against your neck. His lips and his tongue tasted your sweat, driving himself into you deeper and harder. Then a sharp sting, like a scorched knife, your skin split open. Hot red trails spilled out over your collarbone, and you could hear him drinking from you, sucking and swallowing as much as he could from the thick flow. No words would leave your throat as pain swirled together with pleasure in the draining of your blood, your vision grew dim. The ceiling above you drifted further and further away, then a moan was pushed from your mouth by his thrust, and you felt release before all went black.

Blackness, darkness, closed in around you like water before you breached the surface with a gasp for air filling your lungs with breath as if it was your first. Light. Light and air was yours again in a frantic jolt to sit up. You touched your fingers to your neck, the break in your skin disappeared, only the faintest red staining your fingertips. The room you were in was the same, but the light, the light coming through the door, it danced. Halos of soft color surrounded the light, just as it did the face of Father Paul. He gazed at you from the foot of the bed, his front wet with your blood, his eyes aglow with the same light.

“As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end.”

[sparrowsfall]

𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄  𝐅𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐎𝐍  𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐄

Any ornate or dramatic aspects of his attire begins AND ends with the chasubles and cassocks. Because he’s a diocesan priest, John does not have much of a particular “street-wear” dress code enforced on him beyond the traditional Roman Collar, which he must wear in public settings. Still, they are generally discouraged from wearing anything overly flashy. He therefore opts for simplistic clothing, and anything he can tuck his collar under: long-sleeve button downs, often paired with a zippered hoodie or a cardigan (previously, his trench coat) to fend off Crockett’s piercing ocean winds when he’s amongst the public. Collarless shirts and lounging cotton pants are reserved solely for when he’s retired to the privacy of his rectory for the day, and is no longer required to wear his collar. He keeps his choices for pants quite minimal as well: fitted jeans most days, or black dress pants when leading Sunday mass celebrations, as more business-casual attire for church services is custom. Either choice is donned with a simple belt. Black calf-length socks are worn under either black lace-up leather derby shoes, or his more casual and various pairs of boots. 

As for hues, John tends to gravitate towards fabrics that are muted, cool, and dark. Black is naturally the color that makes up the bulk of his closet, given his occupation. But he does sometimes lean into heather greys or blues, and the occasional dark but vibrant green (his personal favorite).

And of course, Monsignor Pruitt is never seen in the company of others without his wrist watch.

tagged by: @second-sights ( tysm! )

tagging: thieves are valid for this one!

[callmemana]

Whiskey Bottles & Wild Flowers: Meet Beau & Katherine Pruitt

Beau & Katherine Pruitt have been married for 40 years and have three beautiful children, Travis Kameron, or TK, Baylie, and Amanda, two golden retrievers named Bush & Jack, and a prospering family owned Ranch to show for it.

When they first met back in the mid 90’s, they lived on opposing family ranches. Neither side liked the other, until Beau met Katherine one day on the side of the road. She had car trouble, and he didn’t recognized who she was, he fixed the problem and then they went on their own ways. When Beau realized where the blonde woman was heading, he knew he’d just helped a Wheeler. Turns out, they both found each other attractive and kept finding ways to see each other. It was a very ‘Romeo & Juliette’ beginning for them, but thankfully, it didn’t end like the Shakespearean play. The families found peace and put their differences aside when they saw that the eldest Pruitt boy & middle Wheeler daughter had found love in each other. Their relationship took many turns and setbacks as the years went by.

After dating for five years, they ran away with Katherine’s two sisters as witnesses and got married in the Appalachian mountains of Tennessee. Of course their parents didn’t like that, so they searched and drove all night to make the wedding. Beau & Katherine bought an 1800’s farm house for when their family expanded. The happy couple wanted to wait to have kids to start jobs and establish their ranch. When the happy couple had been married for a year or two, a handsome baby boy came along, Travis Kameron, or TK. The baby boy ended up being a little ranch hand and when he was a toddler, only wore a tool belt and boots everyday.

By the time he was 1 1/2, Baylie, was brought into the world and before she could walk, another baby girl was born. Baylie and Amanda were always together even as babes, shared everything too. The small ranch house that was only made for a family of four, but they made it work. As the kids grew, more chores were spread around the ranch. The girls showed signs of being trouble, even as tots.

Throughout their lives as parents, Beau & Katherine wanted their children to be doing something while school was going on, be part of a team. Since the kids were little, they’ve been playing sports. TK & Amanda started with little league baseball, then when it started to get colder, TK played football & basketball. Baylie played volleyball. When they got older, at least for Amanda, baseball changed to slow-pitch softball, and then fast-pitch softball. Baylie went to volleyball camp and practiced during the summer with Amanda over the stall doors or between two trees.

Beau & Katherine also started the children in 4-H and Mini 4-H, which they all grew to love and some expanded on the activities. The kids started with showing hogs, then the girls watched a rabbit show and wanted to try that too. As Amanda grew and started to be interested in photography, she also did that. All of the siblings were ten or ten plus year 4-Hers and Beau & Katherine were proud.

As the children grew and left the ranch to go to school, Beau & Katherine hired some hands to help with all of the work. With all of the animals and muck work it was good to have extra hands to make it go faster.

Forever 🏷️list: @bayisdying @dragon-kazansky @mrsjaderogers @sweetlittlegingy @switchbladedreamz

🏷️list: @luckyladycreator2 @lisedanie