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rosesareviolentlyread · 4 years

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BTHB: Forced to Beg

GUESS WHAT it’s more fae bb, she just refuses to stop coming up with ideas, so for now I’m using her for most of this BHTB card! I’ve already got quite a few planned out, but if you have a request for a square with another of my characters or just a scenario you’ve always wanted written, go ahead and send it in!

If you want to read more, this is part of my Fae BB series, a modern magic world heavily inspired by @0idril0 and @whumpywhumper‘s Nico & Markus/Lucien series respectively (idk when I’ll stop plugging them and their series’ because I LOVE IT) I HIGHLY recommend you check them out. . On my blog page I have a summary and masterlist up now.

Follows sometime after Water

Thanks to @whumpywhumper @bleedingandfeverish and @straight-to-the-pain for beta reading and @quirkykayleetam for the idea!

CW: Intimate whumper, religious whump, captivity, toxic religion, creepy whumper, eye gore, SERIOUS eye gore, body horror

“What is this?” Pastor John holds a thick stack of papers in his hand. They’re covered more in handwritten colorful ink than the original black and white printed texts, notes squished into every available space in a rainbow of information. Careful, precise handwriting on crisp paper, that crumples and gives under the punishingly tight grip of the man, veins popping in his hands.

Sitting back on her heels, on her knees, Faith keeps her hands still, gently clenched on top of her thighs. She tries to keep her voice even,“I-I was researching, about the Fae. About myself. It is where I failed in my path, in my work. ‘First take the log out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to take out the speck that is in your brother’s eye.’ “

A deep sigh comes in reply, an echo of disappointment lingering in the air. “Luke 6:42, very good. Yes, I know, we discussed this. I agreed to give you back your research, so you could look at it with new eyes, to see the wickedness you were born into. But these—” He squats in front of her, sharply pressed slacks crumpling on top of old leather loafers in her downcast vision. The papers flub-blub-flub in his hands as he shakes them, a curious sound that would make her giggle if not for the severity of the clipped tone. “These, Fae, look an awful lot like notes on magic. Spells. And ways to perform them.”

“T-They are, Pastor. But only for understanding how it works. The nature of my sin.”

It’s a weak excuse, a bad excuse, a stupid excuse. God above, how stupid was she, to think she could lie and get away with this?

Silence weighs down upon her thickly, the world of lies she’s been living in pressing in on all corners. Lies that have weighed on her since before she knew them. But that weight is no longer intangible, now he can see it, she can feel it. The burden of her sin has fallen on her shoulders, and she’s chosen to carry it.

But after all, God isn’t supposed to tempt you beyond your ability. That there would be escape with the temptation. The problem was, what was the temptation, and what was the escape?

Somehow, she’d thought that maybe if she had been born magic, been born to all those things supernaturals believed in, something in that magic could be the thing to save her. Could be the sign she’d been looking for.

Because when the fire in the water, the attempt of iron baptism to burn her sin, had met her soul, it hadn’t just burned away the edges of faith concealing who she really was. It had ignited something within her, some temptation she’d always known, which had followed to this point. Had followed, to her folly, again thinking it was the escape God intended for her.

God had no mercy for Eve, and he would have none for guilty Fae who have chosen the apple over the garden.

A hand tilts her chin until she’s looking at his eyes. His eyes that are slightly red, tears budding at the edges that she hopes are flowers of forgiveness, the forgiveness he preaches to her, the forgiveness that is the only thing she prays for now. From her supernatural friends, for not listening. From her parents, for lying. From her brother, for everything.

“Why would you lie?” His voice breaks, leather tones cracking like a brittle piece left to dry in the sun. With it, a tear falls, bright against the irritated blotchiness of his skin, a wet sound to his breath. “After all we’ve done, Fae, all our— why would you lie rather than ask for forgiveness?” A hand so soft and gentle cups her face, brushing a thumb across her cheekbone. Her own tears smear with it across her cheek as she leans into the touch.

“I’m sorry.”

No, that’s a lie too, if she’s honest. She’s not sorry for trying to escape this hellway to heaven. But the fact is she put herself here. Let herself fall back into sin again and again. Forgot how to be truthful, how to be honest and think of anything but herself. Had she ever really? Had she ever meant it?

Was she Eve, tempted into sin, or a devil in disguise here to tempt the faithful?

“I don’t see it. Show me, show me you are sorry” She watches with pleading eyes as he gets up, figure blurred to her tearful regret. He moves away, the gentleness gone. Arms are clasped in front of him, waiting, a stone statue gazing down on her, leaving her to make her own contrition.

“Please, please. I am sorry, I am. I lied. I was- was tempted by it. Again. I should’ve known”

Silence meets her, unmoving, unwavering, unsatisfied.

So she tries again.

“C-corinthians 10:13 says, God will not let you be tempted beyond your ability, so I was tempted, tempted to see what magic could do but God, my love for him, would never let me be tempted to do magic. The knowledge, that was- was my escape from temptation. To know, so I wouldn’t be tempted to do. Please Pastor I recognize it was wrong, I know, I knew and I did. Please by the Lord’s mercy forgive me”

It’s absolutely a lie, now. Because she’d tried to use those tiny tendrils she felt in her body, a whisper of a voice of a song she didn’t know, couldn’t know. But as those eyes bore into her, her body starts shaking, using all the movement he should be. But he’s just standing there, silent, as more words pour out of her mouth, as she mistakes proverbs and words in her stumbles to try and explain, to try and reconcile her actions.

The silence leaves her with nothing to do but try not to drown in her repeated mistakes, drops in a bucket turned tub turned ocean of her own making. Why was she so incapable of doing the right thing? Of doing what he said and leaving? Why did she insist on making herself take two steps back for every step forward, putting her foot in her mouth even now.

Her penitential deluge is interrupted by a sigh, stopped dead in its tracks. After what feels like an eternity of stoned silence, the Pastor turns swiftly, leaving her with nothing but the thud of his steps before there’s a return to silence.

Her brain tries to comprehend what it means, tries to dissect every minuscule facial movement imagined or not seen in the shadows of the dark. Did he forgive her? Did he believe her? What had she even said? The memories of her own words slip through her fingers like water, as ‘should’ve’s’ and better words come to mind.

Her panicked race of thoughts is interrupted by the creak of stairs coming back down. Distinctive by now as they evoke the hope of mercy and the fear of discovery, the duality of her new existence, her limited choices.

This time, she prays it’s hope she feels.

When she opens her eyes to see John holding a box filled with things, it is instead a rabbit-hearted dread.

“Pastor?”

His breath hitches through his nose, voice almost cracking. “I prayed, I did, that we could prevent this. But I see, now, that we may have to take a push forward to prevent a backslide.” He sets the box down, but she doesn’t dare look, doesn’t dare look away from the kindness in his eyes, the gentleness of his hands that is all she can cling to down here.

And gently, those hands lay her down, one rubbing circles into the back of her head while the other presses on her sternum in an unspoken command that makes her fold like paper. It feels like a dream almost, something unreal, something that’s happening to someone far away as hands are pulled above her head, fastened together and to a wooden beam tightly, so tight it’s tingling in her fingertips like tiny fireworks as blood struggles to meet them.

The box scrapes against the ground, and she feels a heavy weight settle on her pelvis, her eyes refusing to look away as John pulls on a pair of purple gloves.

“Matthew 18:9,” is what he says as a latex finger goes to flick a tear that’s leaked out of her eye harshly, the material dulling the warmth of his skin, an alien touch that suddenly makes him feel less human, but more real.

Matthew 18:9. Matthew 18:9. What is Matthew 18:9?

The hand goes to squeeze her shoulder muscle, sending a lance of pain up her numbing arms, eyes shooting open wider.

“Fae. What is Matthew 18:9?” The voice becomes rigid. Severe. Bitter. Like the time where she was struggling to breathe as iron-laced water flooded her lungs. When she failed to be purified by it, burning in a pooled hell.

As the pressure increases, feeling like it’ll crush her muscle, her brain finally scrambles to find the words, fallen from her mouth practically unbidden

“And if your eye causes you to sin, tear it out and throw it away. It is better for you to enter life with one eye than with two eyes to be thrown into the hell of fire.”

The shock of realization makes her twist, thrash under the weight that sinks down on her torso, preventing movement alongside the ropes that cut into her skin with friction, barely allowing any flow of blood and turning her arms into numb weights.

“No, please, please no. I’m sorry, I’m sorry Pastor, please forgive” she scrambles for a plea, a phrase, something she hasn’t used yet. “J-James 2:13! Mercy triumphs over judgement.” But the hands ignore her, shuffling through supplies, wiping something cold and stinging all around her right eye.

“Pleasedon’tdothis, 1 John 1:9 ‘If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness’. PleasepleasepleasePLEASE!” Her voice is high and airy in her throat as she struggles to pull in air between the real weight of John on her chest, and the weight of her own panic allowing only the shallowest sips to reach her lungs.

The hands stop and sigh, directing her gaze to his face. Her breath stops at meeting the cold gravestone slate of his eyes, frozen by his touch.

“Proverbs 19:8 ‘Chasten thy son while there is hope, and let not thy soul spare for his crying.’ I have shown you mercy. I cannot abide your crying anymore without punishment Fae.”

The tears start to flow as the stinging returns to her eyes, pleas now just helpless sobs as he sets objects beyond her eyesight. There’s the distinct smell now of antiseptic, overpowering. She watches him take a swig of clear liquid from a bottle next to her before he pours it over his hands, rubbing them together.

“I wish there was another way. Your eyes, they see such awful words, they read such terrible things and give you ideas. I forgive you, but He will not Fae. I’m sorry.”

His tone is resolute even as it fades into a gruff apology, body adjusting to squash the last of her apologies, breath escaping her flesh even as she wishes she could follow it.

The hand readjusts to pry open the lids of her right eye, thick fingers too strong for the weak muscle. The liquid burns but she can’t close them against it, eyes watering until he’s a blur in her forced vision. The wetness of her tears coats the latex, and a second hand comes to touch her eye itself. Fae’s back attempts to arch under the strain, body screaming with a not supposed to be there don’t touch thatnotsupposedtoTOUCH!

It’s a sharp pressure that builds quickly overwhelming her senses. Sobs turn to screams, wailing on every exhale, short between breaths. It could be minutes. It could be seconds. But the pain feels like an eternity as every piece of her screams against the intrusion to the softest, most vulnerable, most exposed of her organs. The world goes white, pain turned into high pitched noise in her ears as her heart struggles to keep up, a rhythm of thumpthutmpthutmpthump that speeds impossibly fast in her chest.

And then there’s a pop. Sickening, slimy, a noise that reminds her in a delirious amount of pain like the sound of a sucker out of someone’s mouth. Quiet, slightly slurpy as it’s crushed and pulled, leaking not just tears but now blood and fluid. It’s disquieting to hear it.

It’s most disquieting to see it freed, for a moment. The world drifting in a nauseating set of two distances, warping to her brain as he doesn’t stop. No. He pulls.

As the cord snaps, she remembers hearing about the dangers of taut ropes. Of how, when they snap, they whiplash back, causing severe injury. The physics teacher had demonstrated on a rubber band, and she remembers the small snap on her hand that day as she tried it with a lab partner. The feeling like her skin had torn open.

She has no idea if the nerves react like a rubber band, but her brain tells her that they have. That her entire right side has been whiplashed, shattered bone, ripped skin, blood pouring in heated rivulets until all she can taste is copper and pain. Her face is gone, skull crushed by agony as it booms within in an explosion like a firework set off far too close. A haphazard celebration.

And it’s his smile of celebration holding a piece of her that she sees as the other half of her world goes dark.

Tags:@bleedingandfeverish @starry-whump @whumpywhumper @greatandquestionablecontent (let me know if you want to be added or removed from the tag list!)

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