#silaspickens

[t4tozier]

doing a pt 2/alternate version of this post for funsies. cw for alcohol use, old man lechery, and dubious consent on the sober party's end.

There's a banging on the front door of the McKinney house. Granny June's off playin' bridge with Ms. Sadie and the other grannies and Ma's at her book club, but both have keys to the front door, and neither would be so aggressive even if they had got locked out, so Silas approaches warily. The banging continues, though it does turn into a gentler knock, and as he gets closer, he can hear a deep, slow drawl of "Silas, darlin', open on up for me." His brows knit together--what is he doin' here, at this late hour?--but he quickly unlocks the door and faces the man leaning up against one of the beams holding up the roof of his porch.

"Pastor Pickens? What--what're you doin' here, sir? I--I mean, it's a pleasure to see ya at any hour, a'course, but--"

"Silas," Pickens repeats, cutting off the young man's stammered greeting. "You got a moment to talk, my boy?" Before Silas can answer, the pastor's pushing past him into the entryway, staggering a bit as he goes.

Silas catches on far too late as Pickens flops down onto the rather worn sofa in their sitting room. "Wait, Pastor, are--are you drunk?" he asks disbelievingly, staring down at the glassy-eyed older man as he pats the sofa next to him. "I mean--how did you--"

"Don't worry 'bout all that right now," the pastor drawls. "Come on sit next t'me. We gotta talk." Silas hesitantly settles down next to him, his hands folded in his lap as he tries to take up as little space on the couch as possible--it's a habit he's had since he was still in school, trying to stay hidden, outta sight. It had never done him much good, and it appears that he's continuing that streak now as Pickens places a hand on Silas' knee. "Y'know, boy," he begins, rubbing his thumb over the thin fabric of Silas' nightclothes, "I never thought myself a...lustful man. I'm a man of--a man of God, you know this."

"O-of course, Pastor," Silas breathes, eyes fixated on the man's hand over top his knee. "You're very godly, it's why you're the head of the church--"

"Y'know, I really thought I was gon' go through life avoidin' all temptation'," Pickens continues, as if Silas hadn't spoken at all. "I know, I know, that's a lofty goal, hubris even. You know what hubris is, right, boy?" Silas opens his mouth to reply, but finds that no words come to him as the pastor's hand begins to slide its way up his thigh. "An' then, when you came back, everythin' changed."

"Pastor Pickens, sir," Silas breathes, even as his legs instinctively open wider, responding to the touch, "I'on't think you--we--should be doin' this. You're--you're drunk, an' lust is a sin, an'--an' so is infidelity--mmph!" He's suddenly cut off by the pastor's lips pressing against his own. They taste of iron and something sharp and strong; Silas imagines it must be liquor, and it's just as addicting as Pickens himself had always warned. Without thinking, he returns the kiss, hungry and desperate and inexperienced, and Pickens moans.

The sound shoots straight to Silas' soul. This is wrong, this is so wrong, he thinks, but then Pickens moves his hand higher up, and Silas' mind whites out. "Oh--" he whimpers against the older man's lips, and Pickens takes the opportunity to lick, hot and dirty, into his mouth. Silas is dizzy on lust and guilt and the simultaneous feeling of being so wrong and so right all at once.

"You got a bedroom, don't'cha, boy?" Pickens rasps when he finally pulls back, though his hand keeps moving, cupping over Silas' bulge and squeezing, and it's making it hard to think about anything else.

"Y-yeah," Silas exhales. "But--but wait, we can't, sir, I mean, I've never even kissed someone before jus' now--" He knows immediately it's the wrong thing to say, as the hunger in Pickens' eyes grows feverish.

"This ain't gon' count, ya hear?" Pickens murmurs. "This ain't for a man 'n' a wife to do. Far too...dirty for a married couple." Silas feels his stomach flip uncomfortably. "But that don't mean I can't give you what you been wantin' all these years." He laughs at Silas' dumbstruck face. "Don't bother lyin' to me, boy. Now, c'mon an' show me to the bedroom." He punctuates his words with another squeeze to Silas' crotch and stands up, the slight swaying of his stance a visceral reminder that the man is drunk. And yet, as if spellbound, Silas stands, nods, and leads the way.

[t4tozier]

9 and/or 45 for silaspickens again pls <3

tw for emotional abuse and implied past physical abuse :p

“No, sir.”

Silas’ heart thumps wildly against his ribcage. Sometimes it feels like Pickens can pluck the thoughts right out of his head, and he feels it especially powerfully in this moment.

“What was that, son?” Pickens’ voice is deathly quiet. Silas clears his throat and shakes his head.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t have nothin’ to report on, this time. Ms. Walker seemed irritated, but I don’t got more for you’n that,” he insists. “I didn’t see nothin’ outta the ordinary.”

“Do you understand the importance of the things I’ve asked you to do, boy?” Pickens asks him, knuckles turning white where they clench the pulpit. “We ain’t playin’ games, here.” He continues to lecture, and for some reason, Silas can’t brush it off like he usually does, accept the flagellation and throw in some more of his own. “Now, you listen to me, son—“

And the dam breaks. “Don’t call me that!” Silas explodes without thinking. Immediately, he shrinks back, eyes glued to the floor. “I’m sorry, sir, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—“

Eventually, his hasty apologies fade off into nothing, and there’s a long stretch of silence where Silas can feel Pickens’ eyes bore into him. Finally, the older man clears his throat and clasps his hands together.

“I’m starting to think I made a mistake, takin’ you on.”

Silas whips his head up, eyes widening. “No, no, sir!” he pleads. “I’m sorry, I’m tryin’ to do what you asked, but it ain’t my fault they ain’t doin’ anythin’ interestin’!”

“Enough of these excuses, boy!” Pickens roars, raising a hand. Silas steps back and stumbles into a pew; he can’t tell if the stinging tears in his eyes are from the physical or emotional wound. “I am not a cruel man. I gave you a chance, Silas. You’ve disappointed me.”

Silas wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, looking away from the pastor once more. “I’m—I’m sorry, sir,” he whispers.

“I’ll see you at Sunday service, Mr. McKinney.”

“Please—“ Silas’ voice cracks. “I’m sorry, don’t do this, I’ll try harder next time—“

“I will see you at Sunday service.” The pointed words come sharp as a knife straight into Silas’ heart. He turns to walk back out the church, away from Pickens, away from the one thing he’d thought he’d managed not to ruin.

“Yes, sir.”

[t4tozier]

1 + 36 for silaspickens pls :3

“Silas, my boy…are you drunk?”

It takes Silas a long moment to focus his vision well enough to understand who’s standing in front of him. His eyes widen, and he shakes his head so hard he’s gotta lean up against the wall of the general store to balance himself. “No,” he groans, dragging it out. “Not you, not right now, you ain’t s’posta see this—“

The pastor’s suddenly right close up in his face, prying the bottle of Sally Mae’s prize shine from his fingers ‘fore he can stop it. “Now, you ‘n’ I both know nobody else can see ya in this state, Mr. McKinney,” he murmurs. Silas nods, glassy, trusting eyes looking down at Pickens.

“Mhm, I know that, sir,” he slurs, clutching the pastor’s shoulder to keep from swaying too far to one side. “I wa’n’t even plannin’ on it, I know indulgin’ like this’s a sin, but I was headin’ home already—“

Pickens clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “No, my boy, you can’t return home to your ma like this, can you? C’mon, we’ll go to the church, an’ you can straighten yourself out ‘fore you go back, how’s that sound?” Before Silas can think about arguing—not that he particularly wants to—the pastor’s reaching an arm up ‘round his shoulders and guiding him off towards the church.

“You ain’t s’posta see me like this,” Silas repeats, taking big gulps of the chilled midnight air and Pickens’ nice cologne that Silas is pretty sure he pays extra to get delivered to the general store every few months. He smells real nice, an’ Silas can’t stop himself from leaning into him, head dipping down to nose at the pastor’s cheek.

“Not here,” Pickens hisses, stepping back so abruptly that Silas stumbles to catch his balance. “Wait ‘til we get inside, at least, boy.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Silas mumbles, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he follows the pastor towards the church. He feels significantly colder now without his arm around him.

When they reach the small building, Silas all but collapses into a pew with a giggle. “‘member when ya told me I should try t’spend time with folks my own age?” he asks, one leg hooked over the end of the pew. The pastor nods permissively as he locks the door behind them. “Well, I—I did, an’ that’s how I got—got roped into tryin’ the shine, but I didn’t mean to, sir, I promise.”

Pickens pinches the bridge of his nose, setting the bottle rather heavily on one of the windowsills. “You don’t even know what you do to me, do ya, boy?” he growls. Silas hums dazedly, smiling as the older man’s face comes into better view in the flickering candlelight. “Everythin’ was goin’ accordin’ to—everythin’ was fine, ‘til you showed back up.”

Silas lays down in the pew and sighs, watching the shadows dance across the ceiling. “I toldja, I hadta come back, They told me I hadta.”

“Exactly.” Pickens sighs with frustration. “I pray for your soul, Silas, I really do.”

“Someone’s gotta,” Silas snorts. Before the pastor can say anything else, Silas sits upright, so quick it makes him groan. “I gotta lead service tomorrow!”

Pickens laughs. “Oh, no, boy, you ain’t doin’ anything tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Silas agrees easily, pushing up from the pew. He’s got a couple inches on the older man, so it’s easy to crowd him against the wall even with his general lack of strength. For once, Pickens doesn’t move away—maybe ‘cause he knows Silas ain’t gonna be remembering a thing in the morning. “What d’you pray for? About me?” he murmurs in his ear.

“Silas—“

“I need you, sir,” he whimpers. “You know I’d do anythin’ for ya—“

“Anythin’ except the one thing I need from you,” Pickens mutters. Silas ignores him.

“Please, Pastor…gimme this. I ain’t ever gon’ ask again, I promise.”

“I’m prayin’ for you,” Pickens repeats, and when Silas closes his eyes and leans in, instead of the warm press of lips against his own, he feels the cool rim of the shine bottle. “C’mon, now, boy. Drink up.”