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rustedhearts · 1 year

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Severed Lamb Part I: Blessed Be (Pastor!Steve x Fem!reader)

summary: your visit home for the summer comes with a handsome new preacher, who takes a special liking to you.

uses she/her pronouns and female anatomy.

♰ the steve collection ♰

♰ part ii: poor thing ♰

warnings: religious imagery/trauma, manipulation, abuse of power, age-gap (reader is 19, steve is 35), allusions to child abuse (you gotta squint, but the mom does some icky shit), mention of death/parent loss.

author's note: some dark stuff happening in this series, y'all, so read the warnings and take them seriously! i’m not responsible for your internet-intake. for the sake of this fic, i’ve given you (the reader) the name delilah (because 'y/n' just looks ugly and ruins my vibe). also delilah is a ballerina.

♰ Wyndgate, Georgia June 1981 ♰

The Georgian heat was insufferable.

A stiff, sticky heat that swells in your hair and bloats your cheeks. It made wading through the overgrown field of your childhood backyard a miserable task. But your mother requested fresh cherries from the tree, and you weren't one to deny your mother of her needs. You carried the old porcelain bowl, hand-painted with delicate lilacs, toward the tree in the distance, smacking off mosquitos and shooing away flies as you went.

When you reached the tree, you set the bowl on the ground and began to climb. The bark of the trunk felt just as it did when you were a child: solid, rough, mossy sandpaper against your palms. You wiped off the bark fragments on your denim shorts and began to pluck. Years of picking cherries gave you a keen eye for the ripest selections: plump, gleaming swells of red. You shoved a few into your cheeks before sliding down to fill the bowl.

The bowl was half-full and your stomach was full of cherry stem knots by the time you headed back toward the house. Birds chirped their evening goodbyes in the trees chasing the horizon line. Cicadas shook their wings and crickets rubbed their legs to make a chittering symphony. Just beyond the looming oak trees, the sun began to fade into a blur of gold and pink. The clouds looked like they were delicately etched by hand.

"Those for anybody?"

You jumped, hands slipping around the porcelain bowl clutched against your stomach at the sound of a deep voice before you. You steadied, tightened your grip, and settled your gaze upon the figure standing in front of you—a man. A handsome man. A crop of fluffy chestnut hair, a set of round copper eyes, a perfectly-sloped, straight nose, and a set of properly pink lips. Around his neck, he wore an intricate silver chain. Within the unbuttoned collar of his shirt, you spotted the glint of a small cross.

The man raised his brows, and you licked over your cherry-stained lips.

"N-No, sir, these are...these are for my mother. I got them from our tree, just there," you explained, turning to point toward your tree a few feet back.

The man followed your direction, hands tucked into the pockets of his brown slacks. Your throat bobbed with a swallow when his eyes roamed back toward you—your cheeks burned at the way they rolled over your skim-clothed body.

You weren't expecting company today, and usually the field behind your house was empty, seeing as it was private property. Nobody ventured into each other's properties...except him. Your denim shorts and thin-strapped camisole gave way to the shapes and curves of your body not suited for a man's eye. But what really caught this man's eye was not the way your breasts spilled from your top, or the way your thighs strained against the denim squeezed around them—but the cross resting below the dip in your collarbone. Gold, elegant, clearly hand-crafted for you.

A child of God. A beautiful lamb.

"Surely you can spare one for a lonesome stranger? I've traveled a long way," he cooed.

His voice was smooth and sweet. He had a way of talking and tipping his head all at once that made you feel like he was telling you a bedtime story. You found your fingers dipping into the bowl and plucking two cherries before your mind could catch up. Your hand brushed his as he collected them in his palm, and you followed his fingers as they approached his mouth.

"Mmm," he hummed around the sweet juices in his mouth. He ran his tongue over the front of his teeth and the inside of his cheek. "Sweet."

But his eyes were on you. They twinkled against the low-setting sun, golden light washing over him. You weren't entirely sure he was real, in that moment.

"I'll see you around." He passed by, curling two fingers gently around your elbow before he walked off toward the property next door.

♰ ♰

But that Sunday, you knew for a fact he was real.

The man from the field, the man that left you two cherries short and the recipient of a scolding from your mother, was standing just below the podium at the old evangelical church on Mulberry. Clasping the hands of bright-eyed women bearing crosses, bending into a gentle, respectful bow. Firmly returning the shake of balding men that were already sweating through their nicest shirts, still greased from a day's work at the auto shop. Crouching to cast a straight-toothed, dazzling smile at children not yet tall enough to reach the pews without climbing.

All the air in your lungs seemed to get caught in your throat as you approached him, arm looped through your mother's. Your Mary Janes clunked against the floor of the aisle, and your eyes sought something, anything, other than his handsome face waiting for you ahead.

"Ah, you must be Loraine."

His voice. It sounded just as it did that day in the field—sweet, smooth, like honey from the comb.

"Well now, how did you know that?" your mother giggled, reaching up to fluff her hair beneath her elaborately atrocious hat.

You curled your fingers into a fist behind your back, blunt nails digging into your palm. Your dress, pale yellow and dappled with embroidered daisies, suddenly felt too tight around your waist. Your mother tied it herself in the mirror this morning, pulling until it cinched so tightly that you could practically see the waistband of your underwear. There, now you look like a young lady.

"I've heard such wonderful things about your fashionable hats." He didn't have an accent. At least, not like the Georgians did.

He sounded more like they did in Pennsylvania, where you went to school. They had a certain way about over-pronouncing their vowels that made it clear they were Yankees—

"And this must be your daughter."

His eyes set upon you, and a full-bodied shiver ran down your spine. Your stomach clenched, and your mother squeezed her arm around yours a little tighter until you turned to meet his eye. She grinned toothily beside you, leaning to press your heads together. Her soft, fluffy hair tickled your cheek. You could smell the cigarettes still on her teeth from the car ride over. The man was looking at you with a half-mouthed smile that made you swallow.

He was so handsome. Too handsome for a preacher. Too handsome for Wyndgate.

"This is my baby girl, Delilah. Ain't she pretty?" Your mother reached behind your neck to tuck your hair behind your ear. Her pink nails scraped against the nape of your neck like a chalkboard.

"She's a ballerina, up in Pennsylvania. Came back to visit her Mama for the summer. Ain't that right, Lilah?"

You let your eyes touch the man's chin. The faintest collection of stubble gathered around his jaw. A mocha-colored mole kissed his neck. He watched you intently, hands suddenly returning to his black slacks like they did that day in the field. He donned all black today, and it made his eyes look golden. Under the fluorescents of the church, he glowed like something divine. He looked so young.

"Yes," you whispered.

His hand slipped from his pocket, a gentle whooshing sound. First, he clasped your mother's hand, giving it a delicate bob—and then he reached for yours. You didn't wait for your mother to nudge you, reaching out and slipping your fingers along his palm. His thumb brushed along your knuckles and your spine straightened. A terrible ache gathered between your thighs. You hadn't felt an ache like that since prom night, when Tommy Baker kissed you against his truck in the gymnasium parking lot.

"It's lovely to meet the both of you. Everyone's been so lovely to me, welcoming me into your congregation."

He spread his arms, palms upended, and motioned toward the church. Everyone was getting seated, shuffling about in the rickety old pews, murmuring amongst themselves about the handsome new preacher and his funny voice. In your periphery, you could see the young girls fanning themselves with pamphlets frantically. Mid-morning light blared through the stained glass and cast a violet rainbow over his cheek.

A kiss from God. Wyndgate talked for weeks about how God delivered His handsomest angel to them by hand.

You slipped away from the preacher and wandered toward your designated pew, sliding in beside your mother, tucked against the end. You carefully placed your bible on your knees and adjusted your dress, just as the podium creaked against the man's weight. He spread his arms again, like he was waiting to ascend and welcome in Heaven.

"Welcome, all, I'm Pastor Steve. What a beautiful day to celebrate our Lord, isn't it, church?"

And as the pews murmured their joyous agreement, Pastor Steve's eyes cut over to you. He grinned a half-cocked grin. You didn't know, if standing there behind the podium, was a gift sent from God, or a trick from the devil.

♰ ♰

Before he died, your Daddy converted the old hay barn in the backyard into a dance studio. Floor length mirrors covered nearly every inch of the wooden walls, hand-sawed lengths of log through their middle for balance bars. He hand-crafted all of it for you as a birthday gift just before you went to high school.

When he died, it became your only solace. A place of solitude, of lulling quiet—it was the only place you could think. Twirling on the top of your pointe shoe, watching the room spin and blur while you snatched armfuls of air, fingers delicately tapped together—it was your form of relaxation.

You left the barn door open today, letting the sticky heat billow in. It breezed over your bare arms and legs like a gentle whisper as you rotated and pranced around the room. Your elegant gold cross, a permanent token fixed around your neck, swinging in the air with every turnout.

"You always dance like this?"

A shriek left your mouth like a siren. You shot your foot out to put you at a hard stop, heaving for air and staring Pastor Steve straight in the face. He was leaning on the barn door, arms crossed, the toe of his leather loafer pressed to the shiny wooden floor. His church clothes abandoned, he donned a pair of brown slacks and a blue button down—crisp, pleated, rolled at the elbows. His silver chain glimmered in the soft glow of the evening light behind him.

"You alright?" he asked.

You blinked, hands finding your hips, cheeks burning. You swallowed, bobbing your head. Wisps of hair flounced against your forehead. From across the barn, Steve's eyes licked over your pale pink attire, your sweat-slick limbs, naked and bared for him. He found the cross resting above your breast and tipped his head to admire it.

“Y-yeah, m’ alright. Can I…what are you doin’ here?”

Steve took his lip between his teeth. His chin tipped down, eyes blaring through thick lashes to watch you reach for a water bottle on the floor. Your gold cross caught the sun like a beacon. He couldn’t look away from it. It glowed around your neck. You were divine beauty, a perfect little lamb. He knew it the moment he saw you scaling that cherry tree the other day. He knew it the moment he saw you floating down the church aisle like a bride. He couldn’t stop thinking about you.

God sent him to Georgia for you.

“Your mother,” Steve said, straightening up. He’d been staring too long. “I heard she’s the only woman in town that knows how to fix my robe the right way.”

You nodded along in agreement. Your mother was a talented seamstress—she could fix even the worst tear and make it look brand new. But you didn’t see a robe with him, and as your eyes flickered around to find it, Pastor Steve cracked a smile.

“It’s in my car,” he said.

You flashed a small, tight-lipped smile. Your cheeks swelled with more heat. His voice was so smooth and soft. It tickled your ears like a melody.

“Oh,” you murmured meekly.

Silence filled the barn. In the yard, birds twittered, and the chickens in your neighbor’s pen a few yards down clucked nosily. Steve continued to tip his head and inspect you. You swallowed again, bringing your hands to clasp together behind your back, and tapped your ratty pointe shoes together on the floor. Your good shoes were back at school, on rental for the semester. You scrubbed floors and cleaned the mirrors every night after class just to afford to keep them. Without the scholarship you earned, you wouldn’t be able to afford to dance at all.

“Um, I should probably head inside,” you piped up, rising to the tops of your toes only to press back down again.

Steve watched you closely for another moment. Everything about the way you moved made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. It was thrilling, the way you spun and twirled, the way you walked like you were airless. You were graceful, just like a swan.

You clutched your water to your chest and shuffled toward the corner where your sneakers waited. You opted to hook your fingers in their soles instead of changing—something about the way Pastor Steve followed your every move made you tremble and squirm, and you were desperate to get into the cool confines of your room and avoid his pretty stare.

You lifted your head and cast another small smile that had him clenching.

“Have a nice day, Pastor.”

Oh and your voice. Hushed, delicate, meek. You always sounded like you were delivering a line written by Shakespeare himself. It sent shivers down Steve’s spine, that voice.

You brushed past him in a breeze—a whiff of sweet sweat and rose soap—and Steve broke out of his daydream to catch a glimpse of the nape of your neck. With your hair pulled away from it, your neck looked enticing—a patch of clammy skin, braced with the fragile, glimmering golden rope of your necklace.

“Mhm,” Steve hurriedly hummed, lifting off the door of the barn as you sweepingly turned the corner toward the house. “See you inside.”

And as hard as you tried to avoid it, you did see him inside.

You hurriedly showered and scurried into your room as your mother extended her southern hospitality—soon, the lace dining cloth was covered in glasses of freshly-brewed sweet tea and bowls of cherries.

You sat down at the cushioned stool of your vanity and smoothed cream over your damp face, listening carefully to the murmur of your mother and Pastor Steve’s voices on the other side of the wall. Her laugh was over-joyous and sickeningly sweet, and you heard your name mentioned far too frequently for your liking.

Dressed in a breezy sundress, you settled down on your bed beside the open window, letting in a warm wind that fluttered your drapes, and cracked open an old favorite from your tiny shelf—Anne of Green Gables. You turned to the bookmarked page, letting the breeze from the window and the wind from the ceiling fan cool down your skin, still buzzing with thrumming warmth from your spinning in the barn and Pastor Steve’s heavy gaze.

But every turn of the page came with a glimpse of his eyes in your mind. A hazel color, big and round and penetrative. They followed you like they were pinned to the back of your head. You felt the weight of that gaze all through Sunday’s sermon, and again while you fidgeted in the barn. He was always watching. And something about the way he looked at you made you feel…special. Special in a way you didn’t feel back at school, or anywhere previously in Wyndgate where all the girls who got attention were slender and blonde and giggly.

But to Pastor Steve, you were something worth looking at. And a man of God’s approval, his praise, mattered most of all.

“Lilah! Lilah, come set Pastor Steve a place for dinner!”

Your mother’s voice washed over you like a cold drip, and your book fell from your hands to your floral quilt. Your cheeks bloomed with heat again, cursing under your breath as you shuffled toward the edge of the mattress. Bare legs dangling over, your hand flew to your chest to rub the cross between your knuckles in search of comfort. In the living room, the deep rumble of Pastor Steve’s voice made your stomach squirm.

“Oh, Lord,” you whispered pleadingly, eyes turning toward the portrait of Jesus in a frame above your bed. “Don’t do this to me. Don’t do this to me.”

Don’t make me go out there. He’s so handsome.

“Lilah Anne! I’m not callin’ you again,” your mother’s voice was just on the other side of the door, and a harsh knock followed after.

The door flew open, and you bounced off the bed. Flustered, you watched your mother sigh and ease the door into a crack behind her. She tiptoed toward you, checking over your appearance as she went.

“Lilah, he’s a very important man. I want you to use our nice plates. The ones with the bluebells, alright?”

You bobbed your head furiously. The back of your dress started to cling to your spine. You reached behind to pluck it away, give your skin some air to breathe, and your mother grabbed your arm. She leaned in close, and you knew by the purse of her lips what was coming next:

“Make yourself real pretty, alright? Pastor Steve is such a nice man,” she gushed.

She pinched your cheek and patted the skin, and your chest tightened as the back of her head disappeared through the door. When it closed, you spun around and walked toward the mirror, standing tall in the corner of your room. There you stood, pulling at your pale blue dress, frowning at your bare arms and legs. But Mama would want them like that, on display for Pastor Steve to see. Just like all those times when her friends came over. She’d bring them home from the bar and introduce you in the living room, and you always sat in a chair in the corner, pretending not to understand what it meant when they kept calling you “a sure thing.”

But Pastor Steve was different. Pastor Steve was a man of God. He’d never stray from God’s guidance.

So, you neatly plaited your hair and swept it over your shoulder. You rubbed strawberry chapstick over your lips and nose, and delicately placed your unfinished book on the nightstand for later. The ceiling fan hummed absently over your empty bed.

You gathered the plates—the gleaming porcelain with the hand-painted bluebells—from the china cabinet, and cleared the clutter from the table to fix it for dinner. All the while, as you bent to place silverware beside each place, you gazed beneath your arm over toward the living room. Pastor Steve stood, arms out, in the center of the wood-paneled room. Your mother knelt before him, working her needle through the hole in his deep, swampy green robe. The crosses embroidered on the fabric were golden and shiny.

His head turned, a strand of hair catching over his eye, and you ducked away toward the fridge. Yanking it open, you relished in the cool air blowing from the vent in the buzzing white light of its confinement.

"...should be all ready to—Lilah Anne, what on earth are you doin' in there?"

You hurriedly slammed the fridge closed, rattling the bread box on top and the glass condiments on the inside shelf—and standing on the other side of the table, was a furrow-browed mother and a perfectly well-stitched Pastor Steve. The latter flashed you a boyish grin, and your cheek burned as you looped your fingers together behind your back.

"I set the table like you said, Mama," you murmured softly, tipping your head toward the wooden table, adorned with its white lace cloth and bluebell plates.

Steve followed your gaze, admiring your organized layout. Your mother merely glanced, otherwise focused on the neatness of your braid. She swept the end of it over your shoulder to drape down your arm as she passed by, heading toward the fridge to grab yesterday’s chicken.

"I was just gonna heat up some of this chicken, is that alright, Pastor?"

You turned to the man anxiously, teeth pulling at the loose skin of your bottom lip. His loafers clunked against the tiled floor sharply, and you followed them all the way to the chair at the head of the table, a place set just for him. He placed his hand on the back of the chair—your Daddy's old chair—and set his eyes on you: neck bent, arms tucked behind your back, a picture of obedience and grace.

"That sounds wonderful, Loraine."

The chicken plate clattered on the counter. The tinfoil rustled and crinkled. The stovetop clicked, the pan sizzled. The kitchen became stiff with hot air, and the window squealed when your mother pushed it open. Outside, the cicadas were still chittering furiously. And you stood, exactly where you were, staring at the tops of your bare toes against the linoleum tile.

"Delilah, come sit with me."

Your head snapped up. Pastor Steve stood from the table and stepped to the left, pulling the chair from the table. He motioned toward it with a sweeping hand, and with a glance over your shoulder toward your nodding mother, you took small, timid steps over. You sank down, breath hitching when Pastor Steve came behind you to push the chair back in. His stomach firm against the back of your head, his hands big and warm on either side of your shoulders. They grazed your shoulder blades before he sat back down, and your body tingled with shivers.

A mere foot away from you, Pastor Steve was the closest he'd ever been. He placed his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand. The round face of his watch glinted in the low-setting sun, a warm yellow light. The band of it was brown leather, like his shoes, and fit him well. His robe was gone now, folded neatly and placed on the stool beside the door where you sat to take your shoes off. But he didn't seem concerned about it—his eyes were set on you.

"Your mother tells me your father passed a few years ago."

Your heart squeezed. You paused, eyes turning toward your mother's figure at the stove. She didn't like to talk about your Daddy very much. When she did, her words were usually biting and cruel. To her, he was a "lazy, no-good son-of-a-bitch." But to you, your Daddy was the sun and moon.

You nodded slowly. "Yes, sir. When I was fifteen."

Pastor Steve hummed.

"That musta been hard, especially at that age. I lost my father, too."

Your head tipped up. His heart skipped a beat at the sight of your eyes, peeking through your lashes, blinking up at him. Your cheeks were the loveliest shade of pink.

"Really?"

He nodded. "Mhm. I was twelve."

Your lips instinctually pulled into a frown. Before you could reply, your mother squawked from the stove:

"Oh, Pastor, I'm so sorry for your loss," she drawled.

But Pastor Steve's eyes never left yours. In fact, they were glued to you. And his hand, cupped around his jaw, fell to the table with a quiet thump. Your eyes flittered toward it, watching it slither across white lace. It came to a stop beside your plate, flipping to place his knuckles against the table, palm upended.

"I understand your pain, Delilah," he murmured.

Taking a deep breath in, you slipped your fingers into his waiting hand. It closed around your knuckles, holding your fingers to his palm in a soothing embrace. You met his gaze cautiously, heart thumping in your throat. Pastor Steve's eyes were soft and round like a puppy-dog's, brows furrowed in shared sympathy.

"God understands your pain. And though loss may lead us astray, we must stay strong, and put our trust in the Lord," he preached, voice smooth like whiskey. When a small smile touched your face, Pastor Steve mirrored it. "He'll take us exactly where we need to be."

The last sentiment was whispered, a shared secret between the two of you. His smile slipped sideways, another boyish image of the man before you, and a burst of endearment flooded your chest at the sight of him in your father's chair. You found yourself clinging to his words, replaying them in your head, etching them into your memory to grasp onto forever. And while you pondered, wading in the charming ease of his demeanor, Steve brought his hand under the table, and ran the length of his knuckles across your knee.

During dinner, he conversed with your mother about the historical society, the women's church group, the annual fundraiser at the end of the summer. Every few moments, his hand would brush your knee beneath the table. Each time your head turned to question it, he passed you a lopsided smile. It was comforting, that handsome smile. God will take you exactly where you need to be, Delilah.

Your mother packed him a Tupperware container of cherry pie to take home, and he gathered it atop his sewn robe as he headed toward the door.

"Thank you again," he cooed to your mother, whose smile was blinding.

"Oh, don't mention it, Pastor, we're lucky to have you. Lilah, why don't you walk Pastor Steve out, it gets real dark out back this time a' night."

Your mother pinched the back of your arm when you turned to protest, and you hurriedly stepped toward the door to obey. Pastor Steve flashed a tight-lipped smile at your mother, and swung the door open. The screen door groaned on its rusty hinges when he pushed it, and the sticky heat instantly sought home in the kitchen. You floated through the open doorway past his waiting figure, hands clasped behind your back once more, bare feet scuffing over the chipped paint of the porch.

You walked languidly, but with a refinement to your posture and an upturn of your nose that Steve adored. He watched you as you trailed along beside him, rustling through the grass like rabbit, quiet and small. His car was waiting in the drive around the barn. The license plate was from Indiana.

"Why'd you move away from Indiana?"

You don't know why you asked. The words came tumbling from your mouth like they were exorcised, wretched from somewhere deep inside. It must’ve been the Southern meddler swarming inside you. But Pastor Steve just smiled that boyish, sideways smile, and shrugged.

"I wanted a change of scenery."

You nodded approvingly, coming to a stop at the hood of the car. Pastor Steve scuffled to a halt right after, turning to gaze down at you, still clasping his chicken and green robe. You swallowed, and he watched your face twist with worry. He frowned, brows furrowing.

"What's wrong, Delilah?"

You chewed on the inside of your lip, gazing down at the tops of his shoes.

"Mama...did she say anything cruel about my daddy? They...didn't always get along."

Steve inhaled deeply. Your father. That was your soft spot. Like every fruit, you had a bruise—a soft spot, where he knew, if he pushed with just the right amount of pressure, you would burst.

Pastor Steve took a step closer.

"Don't worry, Delilah, I don't believe a word. I can see how much you loved him."

You nodded, tipping your head back to find his gaze again. His lips were plump and red from the pie.

"You know," he said, cocking his head again. "If you ever need to talk or just get out of the house, you can always come visit me at the church. I'm a great listener."

You grinned shyly. "Thank you, Pastor. I...haven't been to confession in...too long," you admitted lightly.

Steve shrugged airily.

"Oh, that's alright. God leads us exactly where we need to be, remember?"

You nodded quickly. "Right."

The sky had darkened to an inky indigo. In this great big clearing, flanked with bushels of dense oak trees, the stars were on full display. Steve could take count of every single one if he wanted to. But all he could do, in this great Southern expanse, was look at you.

His tongue flicked out to wet his lips, and your eyes followed.

"You're a beautiful dancer," he mused.

You flushed, ducking bashfully. In the back of your head, your mother's voice rang: men like weak and fragile. Men like women that bend to their will. Maybe if you bent, if you weakened, Pastor Steve would see how good you are, and in the eyes of the Lord, that was all that mattered.

All that mattered was that you were good, and kind, and lovable. That's all you wanted.

"Thank you, Pastor."

Pastor Steve's watch caught the moonlight as he brought his hand to your forehead. There, he swiped a stray wisp of hair from your lashes, shaken loose from your braid. He guided it behind your ear, where his hand slipped to fondle your delicate braid. The length of it glided through his palm like a snake. He watched it fall through his grasp while your breath became shallow.

"God's finest work."

Your heart pounded wildly in your ears. You beamed at the praise, glowing beneath his approving gaze. Steve, noticing the way you perked at his gentle, murmured tone, how you leaned into his coaxing validations, gave it a little push. His hand came to your chin, which he cupped in a gentle hold to pull you up. You allowed him to guide you, bringing your forehead to his mouth. There, he placed a gentle kiss.

When you settled back down on your heels, you gazed up at him dazedly.

"You are blessed, Delilah. God has a very special place for you in his heart."

Your throat bobbed with another swallow. His thumb pressed into your chin. His eyes roamed your parted lips.

"And I think," Steve whispered, chest heaving, "he sent me here to make sure of it."

♰ ♰

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