Daddy's GirlCavidSummary:
Your entire world revolved around your Daddy. If you didn't know any better, you could've been convinced that he hung the moon and all the stars just for you.
Notes:For ArchBish0p.
New chapters will be posted every few days until completed!
This is a fic based on a mood board and art created by the one and only @ArchBish0p (@arch-b1sh0p on tumblr). Many personal feelings and experiences went into this one. I spent weeks writing this and pouring my heart into it.
I don't condone any of these actions. Fiction is not the same as real life.
If you are experiencing sexual abuse, there are resources to help you. Don't suffer in silence.
https://rainn.org/help-and-healing/hotline/
If you are a minor (you shouldn't be reading this to begin with): https://rainn.org/for-survivors-of-child-sexual-abuse/im-a-kid-and-something-happened/
This is your only warning outside of the tags above. This fic contains many distressing themes. If you're not in the right headspace or know that these things may trigger you, please do not read. You are responsible for your own experience.
(See the end of the work for more notes.)
Chapter 1: Jeremiah 17:9Chapter Text
From the time you were able to walk, you weren't allowed in your parents' room at night. If your nightmares had nightmares or you had accidentally wet the bed, you would simply lie alone until the sun bled in through the blinds. You learned that the hard way.
Last time there had been an accident, you'd crept out of your room, your pajamas clinging cold and heavy to your legs, and fallen asleep curled right against their door.
When morning came, the door swung inward and you woke up to your Daddy's foot nudging your ribs. He didn't say anything; he just stared down, and the look on his face was worse than any shout. You were punished for soiling your clothes before he gave you a bath in the tub, which ultimately made him late for work. You were punished for that, too.
Some nights, when you were particularly restless, you would say your prayers out loud until you fell back asleep. Even if you were to roll out of bed and quietly play with your toys while your parents slept, you knew that God was still watching your every move. Your Daddy told you so, and he knows everything.
-
At four o'clock sharp, your Daddy's alarm would always ring for work. Once he was dressed and heading out the door, it was safe for you to creep down the hallway and into their room. You'd crawl into hollow he'd left in the mattress, slipping underneath the comforter in silence. No matter how sneaky you were, your mother would always roll over and take you into her arms, squeezing you so tightly you were afraid that one day you might pop.
Those were the good mornings.
Some of the bad ones came around nearly every Sunday. Your father was the preacher at the little white church on the hill, and Sundays started before the sun, with him waking you for Bible study. It was a quiet, serious time in your room to get your spirit right for the service.
So, when you could hear your parents' bed squeak and groan through the wood paneled wall with the muffled sound of your mother's moans squeaking along with it, you often wondered if your Daddy was having Bible study with her the same way he does with you.
Your Daddy said it was a sin as dark as murder, but you couldn't help feeling jealous. It feels like a little briar patch growing inside you, scratching and sharp. It hurts your feelings. A secret ache that you couldn't tell anyone about.
Warm, traitorous tendrils of heat wrap around your core, uniting between your legs to make you ache. You squeeze your thighs together, knowing that the tighter you clench, the better it would feel.
Its the same funny feeling you get when Daddy bounces you on his knee– a pressure that builds and builds until he puts you down and it fades away. You rock along with the squeaks coming from your parents' room, chasing that feeling.
The squeaking stops and you do, too. Freezing in place until you hear your Daddy shout "Goddamnit!", and a loud smack echoes so close you flinch, your whole body jerking as if you'd been struck. Your mother cries out at the same time. There's a frustrated huff, and then the squeaking starts again.
Angrier and faster, the sound is different now. The way your heart is beating in your chest, you're scared they might be able to hear it, too.
You slide out from under your covers, bare feet shuffling on the carpeting. You press your ear against the wall, the wood grain digging into your cheek.
You can hear everything now. Your Daddy's heavy breathing, a deep sound you've only ever heard from him at night, and your mother whimpering. It sounds like when you fell off the swing and scraped your knee. All you could do was sit there and cry because it hurt so much.
This isn't Bible study.
You know it isn't. Bible study is quiet. It's the whisper of pages turning and Daddy explaining why Eve's curiosity was a sin that doomed all women. It's the feeling of his big, warm hand on your thigh, as you recite your verses until your tongue trips over itself. It's the ache in your jaw from holding back tears when he says you're not pleasing God with your lack of conviction.
No, this is something else. Something you don't have a verse for.
You get back into your bed, pulling the blanket up to your chin and clutching your teddy bear so hard his plastic eye digs into your palm. The briar patch in your tummy is gone, replaced by a heavy rock. The heat between your legs is gone, too.
You try to make yourself feel good again, rocking back and forth while pressing your hand between your legs, but nothing happens.
Daddy would want you to be good. When you can't sleep, you're supposed to practice your verses.
Squeezing your thighs together again, you trap your hand between them. You rock your hips and whisper the words he taught you.
"The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it?" Your voice shakes in the dark as you repeat it.
You're trying to make the room feel holy again, to fill it with the familiar words that keep you safe, but it doesn't feel right. The rocking feels all wrong. The pressure doesn't build into warmth in your tummy.
The squeaking turns into squealing, and you hear something that sounds like an animal growling, but you think it's your Daddy.
Then it goes silent. Everything stops.
Holding your breath, you listen carefully. You can hear your blood rushing in your ears. You can hear your mother crying. Not the whimpers from before, but loud sobs. You've done those before, too, when you cry into your pillow while no one is watching.
Your Daddy's voice overpowers her, but you don't understand what he's saying. He's yelling, scolding her. He only uses that tone with you when you spill your juice or get an answer wrong on your homework.
You pull the blanket over your head, creating a small, stuffy cave. You close your eyes tight and keep whispering verses, your throat closing up until the words are barely a breath.
-
Morning comes, but the sun doesn't feel warm. It's an unblinking, bright eye staring at you through the curtains, and you just know the moon told it what it saw last night. You stay under your blanket until you heard his footsteps in the hall. They're heavy. He's still carrying the anger from last night. Your door doesn't have a lock, and he doesn't bother knocking, so he barges in.
"Study time, Darlin'," he says.
His voice sounds normal, like he's addressing the church people, not the scary growling from last night.
As you climb out of bed, your legs wobble. Your Daddy takes a seat in your reading chair in the corner of the room. His Bible sits in his lap, already open. He doesn't pat his knee like he usually does. He just points to the floor in front of him. You kneel on the carpet, scratchy fibers making your skin itch.
"We're gonna be workin' on Ephesians today," he clears his throat, "Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as unto the Lord." He leans forward, "The husband is the head of the wife, even as Christ is the head of the church. Now, what does that mean?"
"It means… the wife has to do what the husband says," you whisper. Your mouth is suddenly dry.
"And why?"
"Because it pleases the Lord."
"Good," he reaches out and rests his hand on your head, fingers tangling in your hair. The weight of his touch is too much, "but submission ain't just about doin' what you're told. It's about your heart. Your spirit. Last night, your Momma's spirit wasn't submissive. It was rebellious. Sinful. She had to be punished. You understand what I'm sayin', Sweetheart?"
You nod, even though you don't understand. Your heart starts beating fast against your ribcage.
"That's my girl. I want to make sure you ain't gonna be like her. I want you to be good, Darlin'. Obedient," his hand slides from your head down your neck, thumb resting where you can feel your heartbeat against his touch, "Recite Colossians 3:20."
"Children, obey your parents in all things," you start, "For this is well-pleasing unto the Lord."
"In all things," he repeats, letting go of you and leaning back in the chair, "Stand up."
You do, knees feeling shaky.
"Take off your pajamas."
Your breath catches as you look at him, confused, "Daddy?"
"You questionin' me? Is your heart bein' deceitful right now? Are you lettin' the world in?"
"No, Daddy."
"Then obey. This is part of your study."
Your fingers fumble with the little plastic buttons on your top. You don't want to do this. The rock in your tummy is back, heavier than before, but you do it. The shirt falls to the floor, you pull your pants down, and stand there in your underwear. Shivering, you hug your arms to your body, even though your room isn't cold.
Your Daddy stands up, too. He's so big as he circles you, staring at your body like he stares at the TV on NASCAR Sundays after church.
"The body is a tool. It can be used for God's glory, or for sin. You gotta dedicate every part of it to the Lord. You hear me?" He stops in front of you and rests his hands on your shoulders, "Now get dressed. Service starts in a few hours."
-
The next few weeks went just like that. Bible study isn't just about verses anymore. It is about him touching you while you recite them. His hands would be on your back, your stomach, your legs. If you stuttered or forgot a word, his touch would get firmer.
"Concentrate," he'd breathe in your ear, "God's listenin'. He's disappointed in your lack of conviction."
That ache between your legs came back, but it's different now. Instead of feeling good, it gets tangled up with fear and shame, that briar patch with thorns made of metal and ice.
He took more of an interest in everything involving you. At dinner, he would watch you eat, telling you to chew your food a certain number of times, to sit up straight, and keep your elbows off the table.
"Your body is a temple," he'd say, loud enough for your mother to hear, "You got to treat it with reverence."
Your mother just stares at her plate now, pushing a green bean around and around. She never looks at you anymore.
Notes:
Thanks for reading! Like i said, this will be posted every few days until it's finished (don't worry, everything is already written)!