lotusmar

[lotusmar]

okay wtf I am so sorry I have been gone for so long. unfortunately life happens 💔💔 but i am back so pls don’t hate me ok ily bye!

[lotusmar]

Wait can we get a part two of this maybe like throughout her pregnancy and also after she has the baby https://www.tumblr.com/lotusmar/788801882021904384/pastors-daughter-finding-out-that-shes-pregnant-i

ofc! im working on the next part, after she has the baby!

They All Look at Me Different Now.

pastorsdaughter!reader x badboy!rafe

WARNINGS: pregnancy, religious guilt, emotional distress, parental tension, insecurity, isolation, soft angst, comfort

The door shut behind you with a sound too soft to match how hard your heart was beating.

Your father didn’t look at you right away.

He sat in his study chair, hands folded, Bible unopened in front of him — like he wasn’t sure what page could possibly fix this. Like none of the verses applied to you anymore.

You waited.

You didn’t speak. Didn’t sit.

Your fingers curled tighter around the test in your hoodie pocket, as if hiding it now could change what he saw.

He finally spoke.

“Who else knows?”

You hesitated. “Just Rafe.”

Silence.

You swallowed hard. “And now you.”

More silence.

Your throat burned. “Please say something.”

His voice was quiet. Controlled. The worst kind. “What do you want me to say?”

You blinked fast. “I don’t know. Anything but this.”

He finally looked up at you. And it hurt — that look. Because it wasn’t rage. It wasn’t fire. It was disappointment wrapped in something even worse: distance.

“You’re my daughter,” he said slowly, “and I raised you to walk in truth. To walk with God. You know that.”

You opened your mouth to speak. Nothing came out.

“I don’t even recognize you right now.”

That did it.

You took a shaky step back, your voice sharp through your tears. “I’m still me.”

“You are not the girl who sat in this chapel a month ago.”

“I didn’t stop believing!” you cried. “I didn’t stop praying. I just— I made a mistake, okay? One mistake!”

His expression didn’t budge. “Mistakes have consequences.”

“And this one cries,” you snapped. “And kicks. And has a heartbeat.”

He didn’t answer.

You felt like a child again. Powerless. Small. Except now your body was changing and your life was exploding and he still couldn’t look at you the way he used to.

You backed away. “I’ll figure it out.”

“Where do you plan on going?”

You wiped your cheeks with the sleeve of your hoodie. “I’ll figure it out,” you repeated.

He looked down again. “You’ll stay here. You’ll keep this child. You’ll be homeschooled. You won’t see him again.”

You choked. “So I’m a prisoner now?”

“You’re my daughter.”

“No,” you snapped. “I’m just your mistake.”

You didn’t leave that night. You couldn’t.

But you didn’t speak to your father again for two days. You barely left your room. The cross on the wall made your stomach twist. You kept catching your reflection in the mirror, tugging your hoodie lower.

You didn’t feel like a person. You felt like a headline.

Rafe texted again and again.

rafe: are you okay rafe: baby please rafe: say anything baby rafe: i swear i’ll fix it just tell me what to do rafe: do u want me to come to the fence?

Eventually, you replied.

you: after dark.

That night, you met him behind the fence like it was a sin all over again.

You didn’t cry at first. Just stood there, arms folded, too tired to cry.

Rafe stepped closer, slowly, like you might break.

“You look…” His voice faltered. “You okay?”

You laughed. It came out wet and bitter. “What part of me looks okay?”

He stepped closer, resting a hand gently on your arm.

“I’m scared,” you admitted. “Not just of this. Of… everything.”

He didn’t say “it’ll be fine.” He didn’t lie. He just nodded.

“Me too.”

You sat in the bed of his truck that night, under the stars, knees drawn to your chest, your body not yet showing but your future already carved in stone.

“I’m never gonna get to go back,” you whispered. “To being… just me.”

Rafe looked over. “Maybe not.”

You turned your head. “That’s not helpful.”

He gave a breathy laugh. “No. But I’ll say something that is.”

You raised a brow.

“I’m still here.”

He said it like it meant everything. And to you, it did.

“Even if I screw it up more?” you asked.

“Especially then.”

You blinked back new tears. “You don’t have to be.”

“I know.”

You leaned into his chest, fingers curling into the hem of his hoodie.

And for the first time in days — You let yourself fall apart.

And he caught every single piece.

The first 4 months were filled with tears and secrets. Eventually daddy had stopped yelling- not cause he didn't care, but cause it was getting exhausting.

By the fifth month, there was no hiding it.

Not the bump. Not the stares. Not the looks from women in the grocery store like they knew exactly who you were and exactly what you did.

You’d never felt so seen and so invisible at the same time.

Rafe started parking around the back of your house instead of out front. Not because he was ashamed — he told you that every day — but because your dad would stand on the porch with his arms crossed, eyes cold, and Rafe knew what that did to you.

“I’m still proud to be here,” he said once, pulling you into his chest. “I’d shout it from the steeple if I thought it would help.”

You had to laugh at that. “You’d get struck by lightning.”

“Worth it.”

Your dad had stopped yelling.

He didn’t bring up the pregnancy. He didn’t ask how you were. Didn’t say anything when your back started to ache or when your face went pale from throwing up in the mornings.

He just… didn’t speak.

It was worse than yelling.

You started eating dinner alone most nights, or at Rafe’s place. You slept longer. Cried harder.

He let you.

But he always pulled you into his lap after, hands spread over your stomach, whispering things like:

“You’re not dirty.” “You’re not broken.” “You’re doing so good.” “You’re the strongest person I know.”

You told him once, around month six, that you felt like everyone saw right through you now.

“They don’t see me as me anymore,” you whispered, voice cracking. “Just a warning.”

Rafe’s brows furrowed. “A warning?”

“To their daughters. To their sons. To the town.”

He cupped your face. “Baby, you’re not a warning.”

“I used to be someone they looked up to.”

He leaned in, brushing his lips against your forehead. “Now you’re someone they’ll never forget.”

You almost sobbed. “That’s not a good thing.”

He tilted your chin up. “Doesn’t mean it’s bad.”

You started writing in your Bible again. Quiet little notes in the margins. Not perfect ones. Not hopeful ones. But honest ones.

Like:

“Please don’t let them hate me forever.” “Help me forgive myself.” “Help me believe Rafe when he says he’s not leaving.”

At seven months, the church ladies threw you a baby shower in the basement — probably because they felt guilty. Or pressured. Or maybe just nosy.

You wore a white dress and cried in the bathroom halfway through.

Rafe wasn’t allowed to come, but he waited in his truck the whole time. Drove you home after. Didn’t ask why your mascara was smeared. Just kissed your hand over and over at the stoplights until you smiled again.

One night, you were curled up in his bed, belly poking out under one of his hoodies, and you whispered, “Do you think she’ll be like me?”

Rafe glanced over. “Like how?”

You hesitated. “Good. Before I messed everything up.”

He rolled over and kissed your stomach gently. “She’s gonna be better. Because she’ll know what strength looks like.”

You blinked. “From me?”

He nodded. “From you.”

You swallowed. “You’re too good to me.”

“Not possible,” he whispered. “Not when you saved my life and gave me another one at the same time.”

You fell asleep with his hand on your stomach.

And for the first time in months, the weight of being watched… didn’t feel so heavy.

[lotusmar]

Say that again.

bimbo!reader x fratboy!rafe

WARNINGS: suggestive, language, jealousy, protective!Rafe, light confrontation, frat party , Topper

You didn’t mean to cause a scene.

You literally just wanted to wear your cute new dress. It was pink, obviously, and technically it qualified as a dress — it was strapless, barely four inches of hem, and light glitter that somehow stuck to everything. You’d paired it with your silver platform heels and tiny shoulder bag that only fit lip gloss and vibes.

“You look insane,” Rafe said when you walked out of your apartment.

You twirled. “Thank you!”

“That wasn’t a compliment, baby.” He says with a smirk on his face, more amused than anything.

You just blinked, sparkly and unbothered. “Do I look like I care?”

He stared at you for a second. “Get in the car.”

The party was already packed by the time you pulled up to the house, neon lights and heavy bass shaking the windows. You bounced out of the Range Rover like you were walking the Met Gala carpet, clacking across the driveway like a Bratz doll on a mission.

Rafe trailed behind you, jaw tight.

You didn’t notice the stares. Or maybe you just didn’t register them as anything out of the ordinary. People always stared when you walked into a room. You were used to it.

But Rafe? Rafe noticed everything.

You were at the drink table trying to find pink lemonade vodka when Rafe ran into Topper and Kelce, posted up by the ping pong table.

“Bro,” Topper said, raising his brows as he nodded toward you, “she’s really wearin’ that tonight?”

Kelce laughed. “That dress needs a warning label.”

Rafe blinked. That was it? That was the comment?

It didn’t matter. His blood was already boiling.

“You got something to say?” Rafe asked flatly, stepping a little closer.

Topper snorted. “Relax, bro. No one’s saying she don’t look good.”

Kelce shrugged. “She just looks like she’s gonna trip in those shoes and start a lawsuit.”

Rafe’s jaw ticked. “That funny to you?”

Kelce blinked. “Kinda, yeah.”

That’s when Rafe shoved him. Not hard — just enough to get the point across.

Kelce stumbled a step back, and Topper immediately stepped in.

“Dude,” Topper said sharply. “You’re actually bugging. Like, no one said anything that bad.”

Rafe’s voice was low. “Don’t talk about her like that. I don’t give a fuck how ‘mild’ it sounds.”

Kelce held up his hands. “Whatever, man. You're the one bringing the glittery Insta baddie to the kegger. Can’t be shocked when people say shit.”

Rafe took a step forward again—and that’s when you popped up next to him, pink drink in hand, totally oblivious.

“Hi, baby!” you chirped, wrapping your arm around his.

The tension was so thick it took you a second to clock it.

“…Why does everyone look mad?”

Topper rubbed his face. “No one’s mad.”

Kelce muttered, “Except Rafe.”

You looked at Rafe, confused. “Did something happen?”

Rafe didn’t look away from them. “We’re leaving.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I don’t wanna be around guys who talk about you like you’re a fuckin’ joke.”

Kelce let out a dry laugh. “We literally said she looked good.”

“That’s not what you said,” Rafe snapped.

You tugged on his arm. “Can we just—can we not make a big thing?”

Rafe looked at you finally, his jaw still locked. “You don’t get it.”

“No,” you said, eyes narrowing. “I don’t.”

The car ride back was dead silent. You sat with your arms crossed and your lip gloss smudged, giving him your very best pissed-off princess pout.

“You embarrassed me,” you said eventually.

“They embarrassed you,” he muttered.

“I was literally fine. I didn’t even notice they said anything.”

“Exactly.”

You turned your head toward him. “So you ruined the night over a joke I didn’t even hear?”

He let out a sharp breath. “It’s not about the joke. It’s the principle.”

You scoffed. “Okay, Mr. Principle.”

Rafe looked over at you, brow twitching. “You walked into that party looking like sex on legs, baby.”

You blinked. “Is that a compliment?”

He rubbed his hand down his face, glancing at you then back at the road. “Yes. Unfortunately.”

You snorted but looked away, still pouting.

“I don’t want people talking about you like that. Not behind your back. Not to my face. I don’t care if they think it’s funny or whatever.”

You went quiet for a second. “So what? You just gonna fight every guy that talks about me forever?”

He shrugged. “If I have to.”

You rolled your eyes, but your pout faded.

“...You’re lucky I love you.”

He smirked, finally glancing over. “I am.”

You tried to stay mad, but when he reached over to grab your hand across the console, you let him.

Back at his place, you were curled up on his bed in your stupid little glittery dress, heels kicked off, sipping water through your silly pink straw.

Rafe walked out of the bathroom and just looked at you for a second, then laughed under his breath.

“What?” you asked, lips around the straw.

He shook his head. “Nothing. You’re just—you.”

You smiled. “And you’re obsessed.”

He leaned over the bed, kissing your glossy lips gently.

“Unfortunately.”

[lotusmar]

Request pls!

Housewife reader struggling physical with postpartum, the constant cries from the newborn the breastfeeding lack of sleep and the discomfort from birth. :(

you ask, you shall receive :) (this is the earlier days when milo was just a newborn)

I don’t feel like myself anymore.

houswife!reader x bluecollar!rafe

WARNINGS: postpartum, exhaustion, crying, breastfeeding struggles, body discomfort, sleep deprivation, emotional vulnerability, soft comfort

You hadn’t slept in almost two days.

The house was quiet except for Milo’s soft, hiccupy cries. The kind that weren’t loud enough to panic over but never really stopped. You were in the rocking chair, again. Shirt half unbuttoned, nursing bra down, blanket over one shoulder, eyes glassy from staring at nothing.

Your body still hurt. Not in the sharp, sudden way like the first few days. But in that slow, deep, dull ache that never quite left. Like your bones hadn’t caught up with everything yet.

Your chest was sore. Your back was tight. Your nipples felt raw. Milo kept unlatching and crying. Then latching wrong. Then crying again.

You were so tired.

You didn’t hear the front door open.

You didn’t hear Rafe come in, or kick off his boots, or whisper a “hey baby” like he usually did.

But you felt him stop in the doorway.

And when you didn’t say anything — didn’t even turn your head — he knew.

“Milo asleep?” he asked softly.

You shook your head. “No.”

You didn’t mean for your voice to sound so flat. But you didn’t have the energy to fix it.

He crossed the room, crouched beside the chair. You saw the frown on his face before you saw the sweat on his shirt.

You whispered, “He’s not latching right again.”

Rafe glanced at the baby in your arms, then back at you.

“You want me to try?”

You shook your head quickly — too quickly. “He wants me. It’s always me. I’m all he wants.” You say, almost frustratedly.

There was silence.

Then your voice cracked: “I haven’t showered in three days. I haven’t brushed my hair. I bled through the sheets last night and I didn’t even notice.”

Rafe’s eyes softened. “Baby—”

You looked at him then. Really looked. And it all tumbled out.

“I don’t feel like myself anymore. I don’t feel pretty. I don’t even feel like a person. Just a machine that feeds and rocks and cries.”

He reached for your hand, but you pulled back.

“I love him,” you whispered, tears slipping out. “God, I love him. But I don’t know if I’m doing this right.”

Rafe stayed quiet, then stood slowly. You thought he was going to walk away — maybe to go shower or fix dinner — but instead, he leaned down and carefully lifted Milo from your arms. Held him against his chest like he’d done it a hundred times.

“C’mere,” he said softly, nudging your knees apart with his hips, settling in the chair with you in his lap. One arm around the baby. One around you.

You cried into his shirt, finally.

“I’m sorry,” you sobbed. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Nothing,” he murmured into your hair. “There’s nothing wrong with you, baby.”

He rocked gently, the three of you pressed together.

“I’ll take the next one,” he whispered. “You just rest, alright? Let me hold both of you a while.”

And for the first time in hours — in days — you let go.

You woke up to the sound of gentle humming. A low, off-tune version of something familiar. The house was still dim — early morning — but the sun was just beginning to warm the curtains.

You blinked.

You were… in bed.

You didn’t remember getting there.

Your chest was tender, but the aching throb had dulled. The soreness was background noise now. And for the first time in what felt like a century, your head wasn’t pounding. You realized, slowly: I slept. Not a nap. Not a half-hour twitchy doze. Real sleep.

You sat up fast — panicked. “Milo—”

“He’s fine,” a voice said gently from down the hall.

You followed it.

And what you saw in the kitchen made your throat close up.

Rafe — shirtless, hair a mess, dark circles under his eyes — holding Milo to his chest with one arm, bottle in the other hand, barefoot, swaying gently while humming some nonsense melody.

You stopped in the doorway.

He looked up and grinned. “Well, hey there, Sleeping Beauty.”

You blinked, still caught in that thick fog of just-woke-up emotion.

“I… you fed him?”

“Yep. You slept through the whole bottle.”

You stepped closer, slowly. “Was he okay?”

“Didn’t cry once,” he said. “Kinda scary, honestly. Thought maybe I was magic.”

You snorted. “You’re not.”

“Let me have this.”

You slid into his arms, resting your forehead against Milo’s soft head.

“You’re really good at this,” you whispered.

Rafe looked down at you — sweat and all, tired as hell — and kissed the top of your head.

“So are you, mama.”

[lotusmar]

Pastors daughter finding out that she’s pregnant i beg!

ofc! hmmm should i make pastor's daughter a series?

God knows… but He’s not the one I’m scared of.

pastorsdaughter!reader x badboy!rafe

WARNINGS: pregnancy reveal, religious guilt, crying, panic, secrecy, fear of parental reaction, implied smut (past), comfort, soft protectiveness, forbidden love

You’d been staring at the test for almost ten minutes. Not blinking. Not breathing. Just… staring.

Two lines.

Pink. Clear as day. Not even a faint maybe. Not even one of those squint-and-hope tests. You were pregnant. With Rafe’s baby.

You’d been careful. Mostly. Except that one night in the back of his truck, where the windows fogged up so much you swore even God couldn’t see in.

You were supposed to be home by 11. You weren’t.

You sat in your bathroom, knees drawn up to your chest, the test clutched in your hand like it might disappear - like if you stared at it long enough, maybe it would change.

But it didn’t.

Your phone buzzed again and again on the counter. It was Rafe.

rafe: u good? rafe: been like 3 hours. rafe: don’t ghost me, angel.

You felt sick. Not morning-sick — life-crashing-down sick.

Because the test wasn’t the scariest part. Your father was.

You finally texted Rafe back:

you: “meet me behind the chapel. now.”

You were already crying when he got there.

He jogged over, breathless, hoodie half-zipped, concern painted all over his stupidly beautiful face. “What’s wrong? Did someone say somethin’ to you?”

You didn’t speak. Just pulled the test out of your pocket and held it out with shaky hands.

Rafe looked at it. Then at you.

His mouth opened, then closed. “…You sure?”

Your lip trembled. “Yeah.”

He stepped closer slowly, like he was afraid you might run.

“Baby—”

“Don’t,” you snapped, brushing his hands away. “Don’t act like this is no big deal. This is huge. This could ruin me.”

His jaw twitched. “I didn’t say it wasn’t huge.”

“You didn’t say anything! You just stood there!”

“I just found out I got the pastor’s daughter pregnant behind a fucking chapel,” he hissed, voice low. “Gimme a second to process, baby!”

You took a step back, hurt crawling up your throat. “Fine. Don’t worry. I’ll figure it out alone.”

He cursed under his breath, then grabbed your wrist gently, not letting you go. “No. Hell no. Don’t do that. I’m not letting you walk away thinkin’ you’re alone in this.”

You looked up at him, angry and panicked all at once. “If my dad finds out, he’ll never let me out of that house again. I’ll be locked in my room with a Bible and a pregnancy.”

Rafe’s expression shifted — from panic to rage. Not at you. At the thought of you being caged like that.

“Let him try,” he said darkly. “I’ll rip that fuckin’ door off myself.”

You blinked. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

His voice dropped low. “I’ve never been more serious in my life.”

You stood there in silence, heart pounding, tears drying on your cheeks.

Then, a familiar voice cut through the air.

“Y/N?”

You froze. Your heart stopped.

Rafe turned slowly — and there he was. Your father.

Standing under the glow of the chapel light, looking from the test in your hand to Rafe's grip on your wrist.

The silence was suffocating.

Your dad’s voice was quiet — dangerous. “Is there something you need to tell me?”

Rafe straightened up. “It’s mine.”

You whipped your head toward him in shock.

“Rafe—”

He didn’t break eye contact with your father. “It’s mine. And I’m not walking away from her.”

Your father’s mouth pressed into a hard line. “I suggest you do. Now.”

Rafe held his ground. “No, sir. I don’t think I will.”

The tension was electric. One wrong move and someone was gonna swing.

Your hand reached for Rafe’s hoodie, tugging gently. “Rafe… please.”

He looked down at you, and his whole face softened. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m not trying to make this worse.”

You nodded. “I know.”

You turned to your father, voice barely holding. “Can we talk inside? Alone?”

He didn’t say a word. Just turned and walked toward the chapel. You followed, heart in your throat.

Rafe watched you go, jaw tight.

But before you disappeared through the door, you looked back — and he was still there. Waiting.

You didn’t know what the next days would bring. Didn’t know if your father would forgive you. Didn’t know what this town would say.

But Rafe was still there. And for once, you didn’t pray for forgiveness — you prayed he’d stay.

[lotusmar]

pastors daughter

pastorsdaughter!reader x badboy!rafe

WARNINGS: religion, guilt, sneaking, lying, emotional tension, kissing, toxic fluff, suggestive themes

You weren’t supposed to talk to boys like Rafe Cameron.

Not with your last name. Not in this town.

You were the pastors daughter. Sweet as pie, always in white. You said “yes sir” and “no ma’am,” baked cookies for the women’s prayer group, played piano on Sundays. People looked at you like you were made of glass.

And maybe you were — until he touched you.

The first time you kissed Rafe, it was behind the chapel after youth service.

You still had lip gloss on and a bible in your hand. He smelled like sweat and weed with a hint of gasoline. He was leaning on that beat-up truck of his, watching you from across the street, like he had nothing better to do than ruin a girl who was just trying to be good.

He didn’t even speak at first. Just smiled — slow, crooked. Like he already knew you were gonna cross the street. And you did.

“I’m gonna go to hell for this,” you’d whispered against his mouth.

“You’ll look good there,” he said, mouth still warm on your jaw. “Real good, n' ill save you a seat." he whispered, like a prayer, as his mouth eventually made way down to your collarbone, and well- you knew what would happen next.

Now it’s been two months, and you’re still sneaking out. Still crawling back into your room at midnight with swollen lips and your cardigan on backwards. Still lying to your daddy’s face over breakfast, your hands folded neat like a prayer while guilt gnaws at your ribs. Unable to look your daddy in the eyes as ya'll would pray at the dinner table.

Rafe never makes it easier. He’s cocky. Smirking. Always saying things like, “You look real holy on Sunday mornings. Shame what you let me do Saturday night.”

He texts you during church.

You know you shouldn’t answer. You do anyway.

One Wednesday night, after choir rehearsal, you hear your name.

“Hey,” a voice says. Sharp. Accusatory.

You turn. It’s Nathan. He’s the boy your daddy wants you to date. Polite. A little bland. From a “good family.” He’s frowning now, arms crossed, eyes flicking down to your smudged lips and the hickey you forgot to cover.

“Where were you just now?” he asks.

You freeze.

“Don’t lie,” he adds.

“I wasn’t—”

“I saw you. With him. Rafe. He dropped you off.” Nathan scoffs. “Does your father know?”

Your throat goes dry. “No.”

He stares at you for a long time. “He will.”

You run. Straight out the back of the church, past the sacristy, through the field behind the building — and find Rafe waiting by the fence.

He sees your face, your panic, and his smirk fades instantly. “What happened, doll?”

You don’t even answer. You just throw yourself at him, hands fisting in his shirt like you’re begging for something. Anything.

“Rafe, I can’t— I can’t do this anymore,” you say, voice cracking. “They’re gonna find out. They’re gonna ruin me.”

He cups your jaw, firm but gentle. “You’re not ruined.”

You shake your head. “You don’t understand. You’re not the one who has to look your father in the eye.”

“No,” he murmurs, pulling you in close, “but I’m the one who has to let you go. And I won’t.”

You try to pull away, but he won’t let you. His hands settle on your hips. His mouth brushes yours, not quite kissing yet, just holding you still. “I’ll take the blame. All of it. Say I lied. Say I tricked you.”

You blink up at him, stunned. “Why would you do that?”

His voice is low. Raw. “Because I love you. I know I’m not supposed to, but I do.”

You stare, heartbeat in your ears. “I love you too.”

And right there — under the cross-shaped steeple, in the shadow of everything you were told not to want — you kiss him like it’s the last thing God will ever let you have.

And maybe it is.

But for now, it’s yours.

[lotusmar]

icons

[lotusmar]

daddy's home

bluecollar!rafe x housewife!reader

WARNINGS: fluff, exhaustion, arguing, lightspice

It was barely noon and you already felt like you were going to lose your mind.

Milo had been crying since eight in the morning — screaming, actually. You’d tried giving him juice, singing to him, even letting him watch his favorite silly animal videos on your phone. Nothing worked. His little face was red and damp, and he wouldn’t let go of you for more than ten seconds without breaking into sobs again.

Your hair was in a messy bun that had half fallen out, you had mismatched slippers on, and you were still in the oversized pajama tee Rafe had given you last Christmas. You looked insane. You felt insane. And worst of all — Rafe was late.

“Daddy’s gonna be home soon, baby,” you whispered, voice weak and a little shaky as you tried to bounce Milo on your hip for what felt like the thousandth time. “Just—just hang on. Mommy’s literally dying.”

You weren’t actually dying, but your back hurt, your arms were numb, and you were mentally screaming into the void.

When the front door finally creaked open, your whole body went still.

Boots. Keys hitting the side table. The slow, easy voice: “I’m home.”

And just like that, Milo stopped crying.

Rafe’s face lit up the second he saw his son. “There’s my little man. You miss me, huh?”

Milo immediately squirmed out of your arms and into his, clutching Rafe’s neck like he hadn’t just been in the trenches of toddler emotional warfare. You blinked, totally and completely offended.

Your arms dropped to your sides. “Are you—are you kidding me right now?”

Rafe looked over at you. Your face was blank, jaw tight, lashes blinking slow, your entire body stiff. He knew that look.

He smiled gently, but cautiously. “Hey, baby. Sorry I’m late.”

You blinked again. “So you do remember you have a wife.”

He sighed, adjusting Milo in his arms. “I know I should’ve texted. We got stuck laying drywall at the new site. Boss wouldn’t let us leave ‘til it was done.”

You scoffed dramatically, arms crossing over your chest. “Milo has been screaming for, like, five straight hours, Rafe. Five. I literally tried giving him a popsicle just so I could pee in peace, and he threw it on the cat.”

Rafe tried not to laugh. “Did the cat eat it?”

“This isn’t funny!”

You stomped back toward the kitchen, muttering something about your mascara being ruined from crying. You weren’t even sure if you had mascara on, but the vibe was ruined, and that was what mattered.

Rafe followed, Milo settled and quiet in his arms now like some tiny angel.

“Sweetheart,” he said gently, “you’re allowed to be tired. But don’t take it out on me.”

You whipped around, pointing a finger at him. “I am not taking it out on you. I’m just saying—if you loved me, maybe you’d answer your phone when your wife is literally on the floor trying to breastfeed a child who doesn’t even breastfeed anymore!”

Rafe blinked, clearly confused. “What?”

You looked flustered. “He was screaming and I panicked, okay?! I didn’t know what else to do!”

He set Milo down gently on the rug and walked over, hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay. I get it. You had a hard day.”

You sniffled, blinking up at him. “Like, the hardest.”

“I should’ve called. You’re right.”

You crossed your arms again but leaned into him a little anyway. “You’re always saying you’re gonna help more, and then you’re just… not here when it sucks.”

Rafe’s hands landed on your waist, his touch warm and grounding. “I do want to help. I’m not perfect, but I’m trying, baby.”

You let out a breath and finally let your head rest against his chest. “I know. I just hate when it feels like it’s all on me.”

“It’s not,” he said quietly. “You’re not alone in this, baby.”

You sniffled again, then looked up at him, big teary eyes and pout already fading. “I’m sorry I was dramatic.”

He smiled, brushing your hair back,moving his other hand to your waist, his touch gentle. “You’re always dramatic.”

“Shut up,” you muttered, swatting his arm. “You love it.”

He leaned in and kissed your forehead, then pressing his against yours for a moment, a silent apology. “More than anything.”

Later that night, with Milo finally asleep in his crib, you and Rafe curled up on the couch.

Your legs were stretched over his lap, his calloused hands gently rubbing your calves, occasionally giving your thigh a light squeeze , and the house smelled like the cookies you made out of pure survival instinct earlier.

“Do I look like a disaster today?” you asked, peeking at him through fluttery lashes.

Rafe smiled without hesitation. “Nah. You look like my girl.”

You let out a dramatic sigh and leaned into his side. “Good. ‘Cause I am.”

He kissed your temple. “And you always will be.”

[lotusmar]

babe… she’s literally dead. like gone. rip

bimbo!reader x mechanic!rafe

WARNINGS: suggestive, language, fluff, lightdom (also this is a bit short, its my first one hehe)

Your pink BMW jerks once—rudely—then makes a noise like a dying animal before cutting off completely in the middle of the road. You blink at the dashboard. Try pressing the start button again. Nothing.

“She’s literally… dead,” you whisper. “Like, not even joking. RIP to my baby.”

You sigh dramatically, flip down the mirror, and reapply your lip gloss like it’s a form of CPR. Then you grab your phone.

[rafe 💕💓💝 💘 ] babe babe babe she died my car died like she literally just flatlined i think it’s serious

You attach a selfie just to soften the blow—pouty lips, heart-shaped sunnies, the little “I’m helpless and hot” face you know he loves. You’re already sitting on the hood in your tiny pink skirt and matching tank when Rafe’s truck pulls up to the usual emergency garage spot ten minutes later.

He parks with the engine still running, steps out slow, and just stares at you. There’s a pause. Like he’s buffering.

Then: “You called me like it was an actual emergency.”

“It is an emergency,” you huff. “She’s not purring. She’s like… silent. It’s scary.”

He looks at your car. Then back at you. Then at the car again.

“Did you mash the gas like a psychopath again?”

You tilt your head, confused. “I just tapped it a little. To, like… hype her up. But then she made this sound—like hkkhhhkkk—and then it was just done. Over. Like when I run in heels for too long.”

He stares at you. Unblinking. “You compared your car dying to you running in heels.”

“Well, yeah. I relate to her.”

Rafe drags a hand down his face, clearly trying not to laugh. “Baby,” he mutters, walking toward the front of the car, “your brain is an actual wonderland.”

“I’ve been saying that!”

He pops the hood, and you trail behind him sipping your iced pink drink, your sandals clicking softly on the pavement. You lean on the side of the car, swaying gently, watching him work. You don’t know what any of it means—but he looks hot doing it.

“You look so hot when you’re annoyed,” you say softly.

“I’m always annoyed around you.”

You gasp. “That’s so mean.”

He glances up, smirking. “It’s also not true.”

You light up instantly. “You like fixing her. Admit it.”

“I like you.”

You grin. “So you do like fixing her.”

“Jesus Christ.” He lets the hood slam gently and turns to face you, hands still stained with grease. “You flooded the engine. Again.”

You gasp. “That is not my fault. She’s just emotional.”

He blinks at you. “She’s a car.”

You furrow your brows in protest. “She’s my girl.”

He stares at you with this look—half amusement, half disbelief—like he cannot believe he’s in love with you, but unfortunately, here he is.

“You can’t keep driving like it’s a Mario Kart level and expect her to survive, baby.”

You lean closer, your glossed lips pouting dramatically. “So… you’re mad?”

“I’m not mad,” he sighs. “I’m just—so deeply aware that I am the only man on earth who would put up with this shit.”

“You love me.”

He doesn’t even try to deny it. He just steps forward, crowding you against the fender, his voice low. “Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

Your back arches just a little. “Even though I’m dramatic?”

“Mhm.”

“And I break her, like… once a week?”

He smirks. “Every three days, but who’s counting.”

“And I don’t know what an axle even is?”

He kisses the corner of your mouth. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“You’re lucky I’m obsessed with you.”

He huffs a short laugh and brushes your hair off your shoulder. “I am. Now get in the damn truck. I gotta take this back to the shop and figure out what kind of chaos you unleashed this time.”

You blink. “I can sit on your lap while you drive, right?”

“No.”

You blink again, slower. “What if I say please and give you head?”

He gives you a long look. Then sighs, already folding. “You’re such a fucking brat.”

You skip toward the truck with a proud little wiggle in your hips. “And you’re in love with me anyway!”

He follows behind you, shaking his head with a smirk, already knowing—whatever part she broke, whatever nonsense she pulls next—he’ll fix it.

Every time. Because you’re his.

[lotusmar]

cunty with a conscience

welcome to my blog!

hii! my names mar

im a piscese, rafe cameron and drew starkey enthusiast ˘͈ᵕ˘͈

no masterlist just yet, but very very soon!

[lotusmar]

gorgeous man

oh it’s giving old video of first love😭