WOO the first actual prompt is here. This is a modern magic world heavily inspired by @0idril0 and @whumpywhumper‘s Nico & Markus/Lucien series respectively. I HIGHLY recommend you check them out. So this is meant to be an introduction to Pastor John/The Reverend, who is my first attempt at an intimate whumper. Thanks to @ashintheairlikesnow for inspiring the Reverend with Bram, def check out all her stuff if you haven’t
CW: religious whump, creepy whumper, whumper who doesn’t think they’re a whumper, kinda abusive relationship vibes, drugging, taking advantage of someone’s emotional state
John sits, listening to the record player in the corner crackle with the sounds of a congregation’s singing. His students tease him for being a ‘hipster’, but there’s something satisfying about their amateur voices, captured imperfectly, naturally, using a technology that reminds him of pottery, or weaving. Sound pressed into something physical, ethereality brought to his fingertips, his ears, across time.
It’s a pleasant evening all around. John savors every detail as he takes a sip of scotch - a gift from a colleague in Edinburgh - settling into the thick leather chair by the fireplace, just musing in his mind while he waits for the brownies to be done. Perhaps he should grade, or write a lecture, or work on his sermon. But these moments in time, of being in his body, of feeling fire in his throat as sparks flick out as his toes, these are God’s moments, moments of perfect creation and harmony.
But still, he isn’t bothered by the knock on his door, despite the late hour. The students know his door is always open. He’s become used to them coming to his couch after a late temptation, or perhaps a lapse in their faith. Perhaps just a personal dilemma. The community too, though they typically take the ‘door unlocked’ policy as is.
No, the timidness of the youngest in his flock always brings a smile. It seems no matter how many departmental or congregational dinners he hosts, how many times they come knocking, they always knock. It is part of their youth, not cemented in their beliefs, in knowing that God will provide. So he provides, until they can become sure, can understand how a trinity of a different kind, God, his Son, and their Pastor, will be there for them. They are lambs, learning to stand on their own legs, which is why this is his favorite place to shepherd.
“Coming!” He calls out, setting the glass carefully on a coaster before opening the thick door to the cottage. It takes a few blinks to clear his eyes from the rush of cold air that assaults them. The weather always seems to surprise him, just one of many things in this beautiful world.
But what doesn’t necessarily surprise him is to see, red-rimmed eyes, a flushed tear-tracked face delicately wrought in its complexion, set upon a lithe frame that hides immense strength, an immense spirit that positively glows normally with ash-blonde hair and bright gray-blue eyes. Faith. A sense of calm comes over him, a release of tension he hadn’t realized he’d been holding for days.
“Oh, my girl, I was hoping you’d come by” Before she can get a word out, John wraps strong arms around her, enveloping her in a warm hug. Immediately he feels the telltale shake of her shoulders, small hands gripping the back of his sweater tightly, a damp spot right near his heart growing.
Yes, John expected this. For how long, he isn’t entirely sure. Perhaps, always. Perhaps, because somewhere in him, he knew God had bigger plans for them both.
Faith had been a special student to him, from her first year intro course in the Theology department. A bright girl, a good girl, who believed with her heart and soul in Jesus’ saving grace for even the most dastardly of sinners. He hadn’t recognized it well at the time, but even he had fallen prey to the negativity within the church, the ones who said Supernaturals were truly the devil incarnate, incapable of being saved.
But Faith, she took it upon herself to prove them all wrong. She’d been hesitant to propose her thesis to him, as her advisor. A piece to study the beliefs and communities of Supernaturals locally, from a theological and sociological perspective, in order to understand how those beliefs might be reconciled with modern Christianity. A piece that would allow for the Evangelical church she came from to see the same possibility of salvation she did. To choose love.
“It’s alright, shhh. Why don’t you come in? The brownies for tomorrow’s potluck are almost done. I’ll put on some tea, dandelion right?” Gently, he pried her away from him, thumbing tears as she sniffled away the last of her outburst.
“Thank you, Reverend. I just...I didn’t know where else to go. Yet.” The downcast of her eyes nearly breaks his heart at the cruelty of this world. For his fellow Christians had chosen to hate, to cast her out of their flock, after she bared her thesis, her work, no matter how unfinished. All because of what she was.
Peter 1 4:8 comes to his mind: Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers a multitude of sins.
So what if she was truly born Fae, a natural sinner of the largest proportions. Does her desire to be saved, to save others, to feel Jesus’ healing light not garner love in them?
Her desire, her faith, does in John’s chest, a warm feeling better than the finest scotch as he gently leads her to couch, leaving her with some tissues to compose herself.
The moment feels so right the longer he’s in it. The brownie timer goes off right as he enters the kitchen, and he pulls them out. Perfect. He leaves them to cool as he flicks on the kettle, fingers moving through his vast collection for just the right blend. Dandelion, reminiscent of shortbread cookies, Faith’s favorite. They’ve shared so many cups over late night thesis meetings, church group meetings, dinner meetings that the box has only one left. Pulling out the last packet, he tucks away in his mind to buy more boxes.
They’ll go through a lot he imagines, in the next few months. It’s easy to prepare, like a moment meant to be, as he lets the tea steep, adds two spoonfuls of sugar, and drops in the pills, stirring until they dissolve evenly.
He brings it all out, tea, brownies, to the couch, where she’s already claimed a throw. It’s good, he thinks, that she already feels at home here. It’ll be easier that way.
“Thank you,” her hands grip the warm mug, breathing in the steam, and he watches attentively as she takes a sip. “It’s been...I was scared. That you’d turn me away too”
“My dear, you have never had anything but love for Jesus and God in your heart. Why would I believe something like this would change that?”
Of course he had been worried, in the beginning of her thesis, that she would be swayed. That they would convince her with their wicked tongues, guile her with magic and false miracles, false idols. Yes, now that he looks back, perhaps he did see it all coming. No, she hadn’t been swayed.
But she’d swayed him. To believe in the possibility of truly saving those damned souls. So much that he’d begun his own research, his own plans, prepared for the possibility. And now, it appeared God’s plan was working perfectly, dropping her right on his doorstep on the eve of her transformation between worlds, an apostle for a new era
“Everyone else seems to think that, that this is wrong. How though? How can being who I am, the person God made me, be wrong?” Her voice is quiet in the night, barely above the crackling fire in its hoarseness, tinged still with tears.
“He does nothing wrong. He made you this way for a reason, so that you may show others. Think of it, your work, is this not His plan?” John tries to keep the excitement out of his voice, to remain calm, collected. Gentle. Yes, he must be gentle, to do this in love for the Lord.
She pauses, sipping more. “I...I don’t know. I just, I need some time, I think. I was walking to the bus stop when I passed your house and thought...I don’t know. I guess I hoped there’d be something I could come back to, when I was ready” Her eyes stare into the surface of the tea, growing distant. Tired. It’s working fast, he knows, likely due to her exhaustion from the past few days.
“It’s alright to not know. The Bible does not have all the answers, but it leads us to where we need to find them. Perhaps that’s why you came here. Why don’t you get some rest, stay here tonight. Tomorrow is a new day, a new chance for you to find your way.”
“Thank you, Reverend. That..that sounds nice. You’re right, I need to-o-o-o” the sentence is interrupted by a yawn and he chuckles.
“It sounds like the only thing you need right now is a good night’s rest. Come on, I promise this couch may be old, but she’ll service you well. She’s saved me from several late night grading sessions” Taking the tea, he lets her settle down, and grabs a quilt from the closet - a gift from an older parishioner - and tucks it around her.
“Goodnight, Faith. Sleep well, tomorrow will be a busy day” she mumbles something slurred, incomprehensible under the effect of the drug. Still, he sits and waits, gently petting the silky hair until her breathing fully evens out, deepens into a rhythm that could be a lullaby to itself in his ears.
So beautiful, so wonderful, so perfect. Truly, this is his and her purpose: to show that the souls of the supernatural can be saved through Jesus’ light.
It is with that thought that he picks up the limp bundle of girl, and carries her down into the basement.
Tags: @sableflynn @bleedingandfeverish @starry-whump @whumpmasinjuly(let me know if you’d like to be added or removed from the tag list for this series)
Third prompt I did today! I kinda..I went hard. Boy has this been a trial by fire of relearning to write, but it’s best I guess to just get all my jitters out now? Who knows, not me! This is a modern magic world heavily inspired by @0idril0 and @whumpywhumper‘s Nico & Markus/Lucien series respectively. Okay promise I’ll like...figure out another way to credit you guys now, so I stop spamming your notifications. ANYWAYS. Meet Adam, our (slightly himbo) caretaker as he attempts to buy clothes
The cream henley feels not quite soft, but not scratchy either, a weave with texture that grabs his skin and reminds him of the present, the friction that exists between whatever today is and whatever tomorrow will be. There is a thicker, weightier warmth to it, one that reminds him of how long it's been since he’s been held by another person. Adam’s fingers trace wooden buttons, enjoying the calm feeling of grain under his fingers, wishing he’d at least brought something to whittle the while away. But it feels wrong, to enjoy it, to enjoy the way it clings to his shoulders, hiding the musculature gained in his desire to build something for all he’s lost.
Frustrated he pulls it off, throws it on the ‘maybe’ pile that’s growing by the moment. He grabs the next one swung over the door by the shop girl that had looked a little too closely, too attentively at the threadbare shirt, the paint plastered jeans, with interest. Eyes always looked interested, even if he knew the story wasn’t written on his skin, on his face. But it felt like they were still there, baring his life like an open book for all to see.
Adam wonders how much longer he’ll be able to hide from their judgement for the consequences of his actions. Or if it’s worse than knowing His judgement.
He shoves the thought out of his mind, pulling a blue henley over his head. It’s some kind of jersey, thinner than the last, but this one is smooth, slipping through his hands and over his skin like warm water. There’s no pattern to it, but cool metal buttons bring a kind of polished finish. Simple, and barely there, it’s a balm to his skin that itches with indecision.
Because he can’t fucking decide. If he’s honest, every shirt that’s fit and isn’t the one sweater that truly itched (who made scratchy sweaters and more importantly, who bought them? Adam’s surely feeling a bit masochistic right now, but not like that) has gone into the ‘maybe’ pile a growing heap as the girl working the shop practically throws one of every piece of inventory at him.
Adam’s been sitting in here, pulling shirts and jeans and cardigans and belts on and off and he doesn’t know what to do. About anything.
He hates that it was a relief when the nurse suggested he go get some air. When she asked if he had anything more ‘put together’ to wear, a warning more direct than the squinted eyes and furrowed brows from Faiths’ doctors. He doesn’t blame them. Who would fucking trust a twenty-six year old with medical decisions when he shows up wearing jeans more sawdust than denim, and a threadbare shirt held together by flecks of epoxy, spackle, and paint? Who would think the kid who’d blindly believed his sister was fine, was just on some spiritual journey when she was in fact being tortured in a basement had any right to make those decisions?
Who thought Adam could make any decision in his life that didn’t result in pain and disaster?
“Um...Adam? Are you alright in there? Can I grab you more sizes or-” Her excited tones have slowly developed more questions, more tight lilted worry as time and clothing piles grew.
“F-fine. Just...thinking. Um, got any boots to go with this?” The happy chirp in her voice, the promise of a big commission back, and once again Adam feels the weight of someone else on his shoulders. On his decisions. On the way he’ll make or break this girl’s day if he can just choose something. But even that doesn’t help the questions that run unbidden through his mind until he feels like he can’t breathe.
Is the cream too thick? Sure, it’s cold here, layers of snow still blanketing the ground. And his sister’s hospital room is freezing (or is it just the way his blood ran cold seeing her so small, so inhuman buried in a coffin of tubes, wires, and blankets), but he’s worried he’ll be too comfortable, that he’ll fall asleep. That Faith’ll wake up and he won’t even get the chance to beg for forgiveness before she has them throw him out?
And what if Fee doesn’t like the white, the newness, the purity that probably reminds her too much of whatever that fuck did to her? What if she doesn’t like blue? Wait, does Fee like blue? Or is that her least favorite color? He can’t remember.
What if Fee hates blue, and it only reminds her more of how much she should hate him?
What if blue is her favorite color, and when she wakes up to him wearing a blue shirt he ruins that forever for her? Ruins yet another thing forever for her, anymore than he’s ruined their family, their sibling bond, Faith’s entire life?
It’s only the feeling of boxes being shoved under the door, until they cut into the backs of his heels that makes Adam realize he’s swaying, blood rushing in his ears as the air seems to rush out of the room.
“I threw in a few size variations since some of these run differently! Let me know if you need any in another size!”
Another size, another option, another decision he’ll have to make and Adam just wants to curl up and disappear. To walk out into the snow falling down and fall apart, pieces of him drifting off into white nothing until he melts into the earth. He came to this shop to disappear, disappear from the judging eyes and the silent accusations that come from the hissing of Faith’s breath controlled by a machine, the nurses that care for her, the doctors that stitch back together whatever is left, and all he can do for Fee is sit there and sign the forms until she wakes up and throws him out.
But isn’t that what he deserves? He tells himself he made his choices out of good intentions. That he’d stayed silent in hopes that cooler heads would prevail. That he didn’t answer her text because he was worried whatever he said would make things worse. That he believed she was just trying to lay low as things went to hell, that she’d come back to him when she was ready.
How is he supposed to choose how to fix things, to figure out what’s best, to rationalize any decision when everything he’s tried to do has led to this?
When your sins have all been paved in good intentions, what good do intentions have anymore?
“Hey Adam! I’m about to go off shift, do you want me to hand you off to a coworker or…?”
Dressed in what feels like the emperor’s new clothes, Adam gathers up the entire ‘maybe’ pile, a box of whatever shoes he figures he can lean down and pray in, and heads to the register, trailing a bubbly shop girl and the indecision that gave him a moment of respite.
The only decision Adam is sure of, is he’s lost the right to think his opinion in any of this matters. No, his soul is forfeit for all he hasn’t done, and the only thing he can hope is that he can give whatever is left of it to his sister, to make up for his part in Faith’s hell.
He walks out of the store with probably a week’s worth of clothes, enough that he can not leave Fee’s side for as long as she needs. The winter air weathers his face, salt encrusting leather and new shoe soles, but it’s fine. They were soiled the moment they touched him. Even though his breath lingers in white curling strands as he walks, he doesn’t let himself, quickening the pace.
There is no way but forward, and Adam has no right to ask for forgiveness from the sins of the past, only to beg for a chance to give Faith a future free of them.
Tags: @bleedingandfeverish @sableflynn @starry-whump @whumpmasinjuly (let me know if you want to be added or removed from the tag list!)
