Summary : A stranger arrives in town, a journalist named Silas who carries a camera and a notebook as though they’re a part of his own religion. He isn't looking for God; he's looking for the "truth" of the town's hidden history, the second Mercy’s eyes fall on him, as the well known prostitute in her strictly Christian town which completely ghosted her from their community since her birth, she grows an undeniable lust towards the male, she needed her hands on him.
Pairing : Male OC x Female OC
Details : Heavily inspired by Ethel Cain’s ‘Perverts’, religion, religious trauma, age gap, submissive male, cursing at the other during sexual encounter, aggressive sexual behavior, disliked protagonist, blunt characters, apathetic nature.
A stranger arrived in town.
A stranger who possessed a "faded" quality she hadn’t been familiar with, as though he had spent far too much time under a relentless, bleaching sun. Tall and lean, with a frame that suggests he forgot to eat when he was obsessed with a project of his. His movements were quiet, deliberate, and predatory not in the way of a hunter, but in the way of a scavenger who knew exactly where the bones were buried.
Silas, he was, and he carried a camera and a notebook as though they were his rosary, but clearly he wasn’t searching for God. He was merely searching for the "truth" of Adeline’s hidden history.
The Floridian town where the humidity felt like a physical weight and the local church was the only building with a fresh coat of paint. The landscape defined by overgrown grass begging for a fresh cut, rusted pickup trucks, and the constant, low-frequency hum of cicadas.
Once Mercy had allowed her eyes to fall upon Silas and his entrance during his first day within her Adeline’s church she knew she had to get her hands on him, not merely physically although that was an instinct she was accompanied to gaining whenever she caught a glance of any vulnerable looking man, but she knew he was like her, he wanted to know too much, he wanted to be as far from the church as possible while also allowing the pastor to paint him with holy water.
Mercy could tell the man was as impure as her, loved to play pretend as much as she did. She could just see it in his eyes; it was so obvious. Watching him there across the church on his knees by himself, praying to the priest as a form of cleaning himself before fully entering the church as a member, Mercy knew it. She had to have him. She would have to become his guide; she could help him traverse the abandoned mills and the overgrown cemeteries, pretend that she’d help him get information for his bullshit journalism. She wanted that man, and he’d have no choice while he stayed within Adeline but to meet her. They’d have varying dangerous intimacy forms together; it would be Mercy’s way to get him to view her as his savior, saving him from falling to this town’s Christianity and assisting him with building his new truth, or whatever went inside that dense head of his.
Silas would finally become the mirror for her own suppressed nature.
Mercy must’ve been lost in thought, as by the time she woke back up from her trip to the real world, she realized she remained in this pathetic fucking town.
And worst of all? Silas had already been gone.
And the priest? He stared at her wordlessly.
It was all expected; she was accustomed to the treatment the folk had said she was to permanently receive as the daughter of a disgraced man, according to her mother, and also being the girl who lived in a house that smelt of mothballs and had enough dust to make one pass out due to the lack of real air within the environment.
She was "the girl who knows too much about the dark," a local slut who found beauty in the things the town deemed as "perverted” such as the rot of the swamp, the violence of the storms, and the manner she consistently earned money by standing outside the church at midnight in merely a bra and thong, having the demons pay her for her to do the unexplainable, allowing cum on the church walls.
Feeling the heavy, suffocating climate of the empty church which enveloped her and the priest, she stared at him for a few more minutes before she found it in her to move her legs far faster than necessary to escape.
She attended the church, but only because it was obligatory or else you weren’t accepted in town, but also due to the fact she was nosy enough that she’d adore watching each disgusting fucker pretend they’re holy while certainly immediately pulling their cock out to jerk off the second they step into privacy.
The heat in Adeline that night was a physical weight, a thick, wet blanket of humidity that made the air shimmer above the asphalt.
It hit Mercy like a storm once she left the church; the cheap, worn-out fans truly did do something special after all.
She went to the familiar rusted hood of her father's abandoned truck, hidden behind a wall of branches at the edge of the church's overflow lot. She was smoking a cigarette she had stolen from her mother’s wallet; yes, she was certainly old enough for a smoke, but having such a difficult mother who expected her to switch her ways to becoming a pure angel made it difficult to be fully adult without having to do so in privacy.
The cicadas today were louder than usual; Mercy couldn’t even hear her own fucking thoughts.
Then, the sound of a heavy engine, which was a low thrum that didn't belong to the town's tractors, cut through the drone of the insects.
A charcoal-grey sedan, its paint blistered and peeling, rolled to a stop near the edge of the woods.
The driver's side door creaked open, and Silas stepped out.
He moved with a strange, fluid grace, his boots crunching softly on the gravel. He stopped, tilted his head, and pulled a familiar camera from the passenger seat. He didn't look at the church; he looked at the rot. He aimed his lens at the cicadas.
Mercy got wet on the spot.
Then she held her breath, the tip of her cigarette glowing bright in the dark. She felt a sudden, sharp pull in her chest—a recognition.
Silas lowered the camera. He didn't turn around, but he spoke, his voice raspy and low, carrying easily through the air.
"You're sitting on a grave, you know."
She slid off the hood, her boots landing silently in the dirt. She stepped out from behind the old, weak branches, her white purposefully see-through cut unbelievably short what used to be a sundress stained with grass and cigarette burns.
The burns were all over her arms too; she knew they made her intimidating to the town, but she knew that real men would plead to get a taste of each burn.
"It's not a grave," she said, her voice steady.
"It's just a place where things go to be forgotten."
The sunlight caught his eyes, turning them into pale, glass shards.
He looked her up and down-not with the lecherous hunger of the men outside the church at midnight for their regulars, but with a clinical, terrifying curiosity.
He looked at her as if she were a specimen he had been searching for in a field of weeds.
"Everything in this town is forgotten," he said, taking a step toward her. He smelled of cedar and something sharp, an unfamiliar cologne.
"That's why I'm here. To make sure it stays that way."
He held up the camera, the lens cap dangling by a thin cord.
"You're the first thing I've seen all day that doesn't look like it's trying to hide."
Mercy felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the heat and everything to do with her own wetness, the humidity in her unholy red thong.
She walked closer, stopping just inches from him. She could see the fine lines around his eyes, the way his pulse thrummed in his throat.
"I'm not hiding," she whispered, the confession tasting like ash on her tongue.
"I'm just waiting for someone to notice."
Silas smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. It was a jagged, broken thing.
He reached out, his rough, stained fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead. His touch was cold, a stark contrast to the sweltering afternoon.
"I noticed," he said. "I noticed the moment I crossed the county line."
The air between them grew heavy, thick with the scent of ozone and the damp, sweet rot of the swamp.
Silas didn't pull his hand away. Instead, his fingers trailed down from her temple, tracing the line of her jaw with a pressure that was almost bruising.
His skin was unnaturally cold, a stark, chilling contrast to the feverish heat of Adeline.
"You smell filthy," he murmured, his voice dropping into a register that felt like a vibration in her own chest.
Mercy didn't pull back. She leaned into his touch, her eyes locked onto his-those pale, storm-cloud eyes that seemed to be reading the very architecture of her sins.
"You say that as though you are clean; you’re as filthy as I," she replied, her voice barely a breath.
Silas let out a low, humorless laugh. He reached into his worn-out backpack and pulled out a small, silver flask. He didn't offer it to her; he unscrewed the cap and tipped a drop onto his thumb, then reached out and pressed it firmly against the pulse point at her throat.
The liquid was biting, medicinal, and sharp.
"Let's see if you're as hollow as you look," he whispered.
He stepped into her personal space, his body a wall of shadow against the blinding sun. He took her hand—the one that had been holding the cigarette-and pressed it against his own chest, right over his heart. It wasn't beating with the frantic rhythm of a man in love; it was slow, steady, and rhythmic, like a funeral drum.
"This place," he said, his gaze dropping to her lips, "it teaches you that your body is a temple. But temples are meant to be desecrated, Mercy. They're meant to be broken open so the light can finally get out."
He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear.
The sensation sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated terror and desire through her. It felt like a sacrilege-a violation of every warning, every boundary she had ever been forced to build.
The interior of her father’s abandoned truck was a furnace, smelling of oxidized iron, dried mud, and the sharp, cloying scent of the honeysuckle vines that had begun to reclaim the chassis.
Outside, the world had gone silent, the cicadas holding their breath as the sky turned the color of a fresh bruise.
There was no tenderness in it. It was a frantic, jagged reclamation of space.
Mercy sat on the passenger seat, her slender olive colored legs relaxed on the shoulders of Silas.
Nude she was, but Silas was to stay clothed since he wished to be the saint.
To make him even more covered and pure, Mercy decided upon tying her sundress around his head to serve as a blind fold.
Her face was unamused as she stared at the saint on the car floor before her, the one who was on his knees, blind folded with a lady's legs on top of his shoulders for him to serve as a footrest.
He was a fucking mutt before her.
“Go on, use your disgraceful mouth for something useful, other than calling a lady ‘filthy’.”
“Right in front of you, you son of a bitch.”
Silas didn’t utter a word; it was hilarious, a man this size falling weak to a fragile, skinny, tan young woman.
Following instructions, he almost eagerly began using his tongue on her clit, clearly, he was quite experienced. Mercy wasn’t used to experienced men.
Silas made a strange humming sound while mouthing her pussy, it sent vibrations throughout the entire organ. She almost came on the spot.
Mercy grabbed Silas’ hair mercilessly, shoving him deeper into her thighs.
That made a strange wet sound; he was spitting inside her to mix his spit with her own substance, man whore.
Silas knew far too much of what pleased a lady; he was a pervert, an experienced one too, there was no doubt about it.
He didn't look at her face; he looked at the way her skin flushed, the way her breath hitched in a jagged, broken rhythm. He was searching for something in the wreckage of her composure-a flicker of the "perversion" he had sensed in her from the start, the one the town whispered of.
The air in the truck grew thin, heavy with the scent of sweat and the tang of the coming rain.
When the climax finally broke over Mercy, it wasn't a release of tension, but a shattering.
It was a violent, aggressive collapse; Mercy most likely pulled some of the mutt’s hair out, gasping for air that felt too heavy to breathe.
Silas pulled back once Mercy let go of him, his chest heaving.
Then he looked up, his eyes hazy; he probably couldn’t even think straight.
He looked at her, really looked at her, and for the first time, the clinical detachment was gone, replaced by a raw, hungry recognition, one that begged Mercy to take care of him now.
“I’m filthy; I should’ve known so.”
