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hello! i think it's safe to say this blog and muse is dead for me. unsure if i'm going to eventually wipe it or just leave it up — probably the latter. all good vibes attached to this blog, just lost inspo and john hasn't resurfaced for over a year now. it happens!

hope those of you still following this blog are doing well, and you can find me on my oc @rottine these days.

thank you all for the good times had on john's blog. cherished every moment here.

<3 shrike.

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BOOK IV: LAMENTATIONS Midnight Mass

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—Fanny Howe, "Kristeva and Me" (from The Needle's Eye)

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JOHN PRUITT & MILDRED GUNNING Midnight Mass (2021) Book VII⎮Revelation

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mildredgunning​:

she    is    ,    arguably    ,    already    starving    .    it    gnaws    at    her    with    a    near - unbearable    ferocity    ,    like    an    acid    in    her    stomach    .    but    she’s    not    going    to    admit    that    to    him    ,     not    when    they’re    fixed    in    this    stalemate    ,    two    stubborn    old    souls    at    the    kitchen    table    ,    waiting    for    the    other    to    break    ,    to    give    in    .

“    i    didn’t    ask    for    any    of    this    ,    john    .    ”    she    may    not    resent    him    ,    but    her    displeasure    is    palpable    ,    has    been    for    days    .    she    may    sink    into    his    arms    without    hesitation    ,    may    accept    his    kisses    with    the    same    giddy    eagerness    as    she    did    fifty    years    ago    ,    but    the    indignation    creeps    in    when    she’s    reminded    of    the    cost    of    this    reunion    ,    this    new    life    with    him    .    that    cost    sits    between    them    now    ,    gruesome    and    tempting    in    a    way    the    terrifies    her    ,    and    she    flinches    as    he    shifts    the    glass    that    little    bit    closer    .    frown   sinks    deeper    ,    eyeing    him    as    icily    as    she    can    muster    .    “    and    i’m    not    drinking    that    .    ”

For every inch she shifts back, he leans that much more forward --- folded hands resting on the salt-worn oak, lip-flesh pinked and pinched beneath his front teeth. John’s eyes drift toward the kitchen tiles, the rain-speckled window, anything that isn’t the cold glare she’s giving him. No. She didn’t ask for this. Something she is keen to remind him of each and every time they have this non-conversation. This frustrating, dragging back-and-forth between two brick walls, each word falling on each other’s stone-deaf ears. 

Let not the one who eats despise the one who abstains--- Of course he would never, could never, despise her. But Romans tells him to have patience. Understanding. As they struggle to find some way to close this carnivorous gap between them, before it swallows their second chance whole. Bones and all. 

“ The blood that will satiate you is the very blood that saved you. That doesn’t change all because you know what it is, now. ” He committed a sin against her, deceived her, lied to her. It is hardly surprising that she’s wary of him. He’s betrayed a sacred commandment, and worse, betrayed her trust. But would she have ever drank from the cup of life if she’d been told the truth from the start? Would she be sitting here across from him, mobile and sound and healthy once more? “ I know you didn’t ask for this. But you can’t expect me to sit here and watch you suffer and starve. Certainly not when something can be done about it. ” 

A lone finger reaches out to her and tenderly strokes the powder-soft skin of her back hand. “ I’m only asking that you find your faith in me again, Millie. I would never ask you to do something that would hurt you. Never. ”

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I felt like an animal, and animals don’t know sin, do they?

— Jess C. Scott, from “Wicked Lovely.”

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@ephemaera​​ ! ( for Sarah Gunning )

Clear, cloudless nights are a rare treat this far out at sea. Nights when the milk-light of moon floods through the stained glass rosette just so, and soon the altar is bathed in dapples of the evening’s shining silvers and moody blues. It had always been a striking picture from these back pews, his gaze transfixed every time he gave his audience. Contemplating and praying in the midnight solitude, enjoying the simple ambiance of God’s Glory. Now, he watches the celestial light dance with fresh, young eyes. Watches the refractions twinkle and hum to the rhythm of the heavens. The blood may be demanding, may even be terrifying--- Be not afraid, he mutters to himself. Be not afraid. And truly, he cannot find it within himself to be sore afraid anymore. Not when this blood has allowed him to see, truly see, all these everyday miracles through an angel’s eyes.

It’s easy to get caught in the trance of such thrumming beauty. Moth to a flame, fish to a net. So much so that the approaching footfalls come very close to catching him by surprise ( a feat that few have ever accomplished in his lifetime ). The salted wood creaks under the weight of the priest as Father Paul, so he has named himself, twists in his seat. Only to be greeted by the most unlikely late-night visitor of all. 

     “ Sarah. ”

He doesn’t mean to stare at her the way he always does, eyes wide like a deer caught in the headlights. But then again, how can he ever dare avert his gaze? When she has her mother’s sweet smile and his own jet back hair? When, every time she shares a space with him, stands anywhere near him, his heart drowns under a wave of equal parts love and longing. She’s his pride and joy, even if she doesn’t know it. He looks at Sarah Gunning, and he sees the single greatest achievement of his old life. Sees a second chance that he is hellbent to make the most of. 

     “ Forgive me. I, uh --- Well, I’m just surprised. From what the Monsignor told me, I wasn’t expecting you to drop by St. Patrick’s like this. ” Slowly, he finds his smile. Even allows it to pull at the corner of his mouth. “ It’s a welcome surprise, though. A good one, I assure you. ”

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Duane Michals, Salvation.

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noblebite​:

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❝  Lord God, they weren’t lying about the scent of death on you. ❞ 

The backhanded observation is dealt before the other priest has a chance to utter a word. From his place in the pews, Father McGuire grimaces, sitting with one leg crossed over the other and glaring at Monsignor Pruitt. His fingers uneasily tap on the pages of The Spiritual Exercises in his lap. Candle and moonlight are the only things illuminating Parrocchia Santuario at this time of night, but the dimness has never hindered Dominick. Were there any doubts in his mind over who his wolf eyes gazed upon, the scent the other carried with him eliminated them completely. 

That scent being here in this holy place is a concept still incomprehensible to him, as is the concept of a hunter like Nico being so utterly stupid as to allow a vampire in their ranks. Even with furious whispers among the other lycan clergy that they could always catch a whiff of him in the Vatican halls, the image of Pruitt out and about doing his little tasks in penance escaped him. 

It was because of this lack of imagination that Dominick had found himself waiting, waiting to see it for himself. Repulsion floods the werewolf’s body as his fears are confirmed. Here, in the aisle of his church, stands the trinity of betrayals by his friend, the Church, and God. Dominick shuts his book with an audible thud and rises out of his seat. He’s quick to enter the cathedral’s aisle himself, maneuvering to stand between Pruitt and the altar. 

❝ So you’re the one who decided to take a wee bite out of Father Santos’ throat, are you? That wasn’t very nice. ❞

He can feel the other’s searing gaze steady on his back, disgust hot as the sun and threatening to bore a hole clean through his clerical clothes, his flesh. A gaze that could belong only to the one whose irish drawl ricochets off the Parrocchia’s holy golden walls. Words meant to sink as deep and sharp as bullets, no doubt, but they fall flat and tired. Blanks. As if John Pruitt, now cursed with his own heightened olfactory senses, could so easily forget the stench of death that stains both his body and his soul pitch black. A grim reminder that his youthful facade and so-called second chance are merely thin veneers to cover a walking, talking, rotting body. 

      The younger priest’s remarks are not met with insult nor injury, not outright --- Only the silent lift of Pruitt’s chin. The flicker of nocturnal eyes looking him once over. Twice even, for good measure. 

“ You must be Father McGuire. ” Nico took care to warn him that the lycan clergymen were not especially thrilled over the Tribunal’s decision to spare him --- Dominick least of all.  Thus, the animosity that the werewolf offers hardly takes the elder by surprise. The term ‘ natural enemies ’ felt like such a dramatic description at first, but Pruitt can see now that it is precisely what the other considers him. God above, this assignment might just be the most demanding yet ( as far as his patience is concerned ).

Mentions of the incident in the basilica, of his last decent meal, are answered with the clench of his jaw. Back molars idly chew on the soft inner meat of his own cheek, until the familiar copper tang of blood teases his tongue. It’s his only means of staving off the temptation to lunge forward, and instead sink his teeth straight into his company’s thundering carotid. 

“ Yes, well, I’m not here to repeat that, if that was your concern. ” Though the tight coil of hunger in his gut certainly might beg to differ. “ I’ve been appointed to the additional parish priest opening here at Parrocchia Santuario until--- ” Until the day comes that the Tribunal no longer agrees with Nico’s perspective on his potential. Until his borrowed time runs out, and he must conjure up a Plan B, else he’ll be surely sentenced to death by incineration. “ Well uh, I’ll be here to assist for the foreseeable future, it seems. ”

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since I get to meet the incredible Mike Flanagan and Kate Seigel this weekend at the Stanley Hotel, I decided to make them a piece of my favorite series they’ve done <3 really hope they like it!

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therelentless​:

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“You can be such a dick sometimes. Aren’t priests suppose to be nice friendly people?”

     “ Well, you’re not exactly a peach, either. Do unto others and all that. ” 

The silver of the blessed rosary dangles from one outstretched fist and glints beneath the moonlight, refractions dappling the ground in pearly-blue puddles between them. John lowers his hand as he speaks, somewhat eased by Nandor’s lack of an advance, though he keeps a tight and ironic clutch on the chain of black beads. Immortal abomination clings to faith for his soul’s broken shards. For his humanity’s scant remnants. For dear, undead life.

“ I just figured I should carry some means of self defense. You know, in case you were still planning to have me executed and all. ” Truly, Pruitt is never going to let it go. Not until the grudge turns to dust in eternity’s fist.

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covenstrays​:

@sparrowsfall​ said: “ you will always be worth fighting for. ”

         SHE HADN’T CRIED when the teacher had scolded her earlier in the day, but she came close. every word is still fresh in her mind like newly budding welts on her psyche – she’s a big girl now, 7 years old, but she’s still forgetting her lunch in the classroom, she’s still forgetting her jacket in the gym, and she’s still can’t even write her name legibly. getting up to throw away a piece of paper without the teacher’s permission had been the straw that broke this teacher’s back, and nahia had simply sat through it, brown eyes glassy and distant.

          she wasn’t supposed to see her father ( her father! ) argue with them. but nahia walks very softly and breathes very quietly, a true professional in observation when she wants to be. she’s standing in front of him now, fidgeting with her hands, her tears growing big and hot in her eyes. john will know that she’s not feeling sad, necessarily – she’s simply feeling.

          ‘ i promise i’m a big girl. ’

      “ I know you are, angioletta. I know. ”

Massive hands rest upon her tiny shoulders with a kindness he did not afford the squid splayed across the cutting board, inedible bits severed and trimmed and trashed with two hefty strokes of a cleaver. He crouches before her, eyes as near-level to her own as his knees will allow, searching the glassy mirror of her teary gaze. 

In the time it took to carry her back in his arms --- back to the safety of home and away from that dreadful school with its dreadful excuses for educators--- the pair of them hardly exchanged a word in the midst of their long embrace. Soft as his voice might now be, it is still scuffed by the civil discussion that swelled to a shouting match all too quickly. Whatever frustration Nahia’s teacher was looking to take out on her had been promptly returned to said teacher tenfold, packaged ugly and red-faced in the form of her father’s rage and disbelief. It had taken the woman aback, left her hanging her head in shame as the priest tore into her with everything but his teeth. As was just, in the holy man’s mind.

“ Even big girls need help sometimes with remembering things or uh, or learning new things... Or standing up for themselves. ” His open hand rests against her ruddied chubby cheek, wiping a tear away with the pad of his thumb. It clenches his heart to see her like this, looking to him lost and apologetic for struggling with something that is hardly her fault. His solemn vow is silent, but he has no doubt that she understands it all the same --- if she cannot fight for herself, he’s more than willing to step into the ring.

     “ No one has a right to speak to you that way. Do you hear me, Nahia? No one. ” 

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José Saramago, Cain