cunty with a conscience
welcome to my blog!
hii! my names mar!
im a piscese, rafe cameron, drew starkey, and tyriq withers enthusiast ˘͈ᵕ˘͈
series masterlist
AnasAbdin
Show & Tell
ojovivo

Kaledo Art

roma★
Stranger Things

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
Keni
noise dept.

Origami Around

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
occasionally subtle
No title available

Kiana Khansmith
NASA
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
Not today Justin
i don't do bad sauce passes
almost home
Cosmic Funnies

seen from United States

seen from Netherlands
seen from Brazil
seen from Brazil
seen from Brazil
seen from Portugal

seen from United States

seen from Argentina

seen from Argentina
seen from Belarus
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
@lotusmar
cunty with a conscience
welcome to my blog!
hii! my names mar!
im a piscese, rafe cameron, drew starkey, and tyriq withers enthusiast ˘͈ᵕ˘͈
series masterlist
nottt gonna lie good riddance is kinda slow right now but i swear we are getting there, god forbid a girl likes a slow burn. also yes i did disappear but believe it or not i have a life! ❤️
Good riddance update when ?
Good Riddance. (Chapter 3)
singer!reader x drew!starkey
Warnings:Angst,Explicit language, Emotional abuse, idk lol
The rehab center smelled like antiseptic and faint vanilla, a sharp contrast to the chaos that had once defined your life. Winter sunlight streamed through the blinds, slanting across the pale green walls. You sat cross-legged on the narrow bed, a notebook open across your knees. Your pen hovered, indecisive, over the page.
October 2022 had been dark, suffocating. Now, it was February 2023. Four months of strict routines, therapy sessions, and quiet reflection had chipped away at the numbness. You’d eaten, slept, cried, screamed, and faced the jagged edges of yourself you’d ignored for too long. And somewhere between group sessions and solitary walks around the rehab courtyard, you began to write.
Music had become the thing keeping you tethered to yourself. At first, it was just scribbled lines in a notebook: fragments of thoughts too sharp to carry silently. Then came chords, rough melodies played on the small donated keyboard in the common room, and for once you were grateful your mom forced the guitar and piano lessons— cause now? It came naturally. You hummed, tapped, scratched out lyrics, and slowly the pieces began to form something that felt like yours. Good Riddance, you’d started calling it—not because you’d forgiven, not because you were over it—but because it was yours, and you were finally reclaiming it.
Three days before the OBX Season 3 premiere, you stepped out of rehab into the cold winter air, lungs filling with sharp, clean freedom. The world hadn’t waited for you. Drew had been calling and texting everyone like a maniac, wanting updates. Odessa was still around, somehow. And on social media, rumors had started leaking: people speculating you’d been in rehab, guessing at why and how, and spreading theories that you and Drew weren’t close anymore—all painting half-truths and gossip. But you were ready, finally, to step back into it on your own terms.
When you got to your apartment, your mom was at the door, smiling faintly and clearly relieved. “They’re here,” she said, stepping aside to let the cast in.
Madison, Madelyn, Lacy, Rudy, Chase, and JD walked in, each carrying small bouquets of flowers. Madison nudged you with a grin. “We come bearing flowers and unsolicited life advice. Your mom let us in, so you don’t get to say no.”
You rolled your eyes but let a small, genuine smile tug at your lips. “Yeah, okay.”
Madelyn was first, pulling you into a tight hug. “Y/N… it’s so good to see you,” she murmured, holding you a little longer than necessary.
Lacy followed, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You look… okay. Better than okay, actually.”
Rudy leaned in next, handing you a small bouquet of bright pink tulips. “These are for surviving. For making it here,” he said quietly.
Chase crossed his arms but shook his head and smiled, holding out a few daisies. “Don’t let the chaos get to you. We’ve got your back.”
JD was last, awkwardly stepping forward with a small bunch of wildflowers he’d clearly grabbed on the way over. “Uh… hi. We missed you,” he said, voice soft. “And… yeah, these are for you too.”
Madison stepped in again, squeezing your shoulder. “We missed you. Don’t even try to act like you didn’t.”
You let yourself relax into the group hug, the tight, chaotic comfort of your friends grounding you. Your mom stayed at the edge of the room, quietly watching, letting you have this moment.
Finally, you stepped back, holding the flowers in your hands, and let out a shaky breath. “Thanks… all of you.”
“You don’t even have to say it,” Madelyn said, voice light but firm. “We just want you to be okay. That’s it.”
Once the hugs and flowers were done, the conversation shifted naturally. Rudy rolled his eyes. “So, Drew’s been driving everyone insane. Blowing up everyone's phone, DMs, asking where you are. The dude’s obsessive.”
“And Odessa?” you asked flatly.
“She’s still around, sometimes,” Chase added, shrugging. “Not surprising. Also… people online are starting to piece stuff together. TikTok rumors, dumbass instagram pages . A bunch of people somehow got the scoop that you were in rehab. Everyone’s speculating that you and Drew aren’t even close anymore.”
JD leaned against the counter, frowning. “Honestly, it’s been exhausting trying to keep him from losing it completely. But we’ve got you. That’s what matters.”
Your jaw tightened. “Of course. Just fuckin’ great.”
Madelyn leaned forward, tone gentle. “We just want you to have a plan. Like… if Drew keeps texting or if people keep talking, what’s your move? You can’t ignore it forever. And you know those nosy reporters are gonna be up your ass with the invasive questions at the premier”
“I just… need a few days,” you said, voice low. “To breathe. To process. To… think. I mean for gods sake i just got out.”
Lacy reached out, squeezing your hand. “Then do that. No one’s rushing you. Just… be careful, yeah? Don’t let him or the online noise pull you back in.”
Madison smirked. “Basically, stay off your phone for a week. Let the chaos die down before you even peek.”
You nodded, feeling a small weight lift. Music was still private. Good Riddance was your world, your therapy, your revenge and release all wrapped in chords and lyrics. Not a single soul besides you knew it existed, and you'd like to keep it that way. For now.
The next morning, sunlight spilled through your blinds, cutting across the floor and landing on the small keyboard in the corner. You rolled over, eyes still half-closed, and realized: life was… moving again. Fast. Loud. Messy. Exactly the way it had before rehab—but now you were ready to meet it on your own terms.
Your phone buzzed nonstop: notifications from every social media platform known to mankind. You ignored it all, rolling your eyes as you threw on a tank with some random sweatpants for a fitting.
By the time you got to the designer studio for fittings, the energy was insane, and something you had forgotten despite it being pretty routine. Mirrors everywhere, racks of clothes, and music pumping from hidden speakers. Some of the cast was there, trying on looks from the same designer as you. Madison twirled in a sequin dress, JD made a face at his tailored jacket, and Lacy was debating between heels. Your manager handed you a gorgeous outfit. And then you noticed him. Drew.
He was awkwardly leaning against a clothing rack, arms crossed, trying to look casual but failing spectacularly. He was there because the designer had fittings for all the cast, some sharing similar looks, and apparently he had to be present—or at least his publicist had insisted.
Your stomach tightened for a second, but you focused on yourself, or at least trying to. “Right,” you muttered to yourself. “Just here for clothes. Just fashion. Not… him.”
Rudy nudged you, holding up a pair of shoes. “You’re overthinking it. Look at you, ready to slay. He snorts while trying to be positive. "Premiere’s in two days. The fans and social media aren’t gonna kill you—well, not yet.”
JD glanced at Drew, who was awkwardly fiddling with a sleeve. “Yeah, he’s… here. But don’t worry about it. Just do you.”
You rolled your eyes, but a small smirk crept in. “Thanks, JD.”
As the designer called people over for final adjustments, Drew finally stepped forward, clearing his throat. “Hey,” he said softly, like he wasn’t sure he even had permission to talk to you.
“Hey,” you replied evenly, voice calm but sharp, eyes narrowing slightly. “Fitting.”
“Yeah… just trying to figure this out,” he muttered.
“Figure what out?” you asked, tone even, controlled. “How to look like you actually belong here? Or how to pretend like none of this—us—ever happened?”
Drew flinched, voice low. “Y/N… I—”
“You don’t get to start with excuses,” you cut him off, calm but with an edge. “Not now. Not here.”
“I… I didn’t know you’d be here,” Drew said, voice tight. “I just—this is the designer’s thing. I have to—”
“You didn’t know?” you echoed, voice almost amused in its coldness. “Or you didn’t care. Honestly, I’m not sure which is worse.”
Drew swallowed hard. “I care. I do. I just—look, I messed up. I know. I shouldn’t even be here—”
“You shouldn’t be here,” you said softly, calm but venom in every syllable. “But you are. So we’re gonna deal with it. You, me, and this stupid, perfect-fitting outfit.”
He let out a shaky laugh. “I… I don’t even know what to say.”
“You can start by shutting up,” you said, eyes locked on his, offended at his laugh. what makes him think anything is even remotely funny? “Or you can try actually understanding what it’s like to be me. Calm on the outside, fucking hurting on the inside. You? You wouldn’t get it.”
“I don’t…” he trailed off, voice faltering. “I wish I did. I really do.”
“Yeah, you wish,” you said, calm, bitter. “But wishing doesn’t fix anything, Drew. Doesn’t erase months. Doesn’t undo everything. Doesn’t stop people from seeing this—seeing me—and wondering why I even let you in my life in the first place.”
Drew’s jaw tightened. “I know I don’t deserve this. I know I don’t deserve you.”
You let a thin, tight smile slip through, almost cruel. “Yeah. You don’t. And yet… here you are. Watching me, pretending like nothing’s wrong. But I see you. Every little bit of guilt. Every little bit of—”
“Stop,” he said, voice quiet but sharp. “Please. Don’t make me feel worse than I already do.”
You held his gaze, calm but deadly. “You should feel worse. You should feel everything. Because I’ve been feeling it. Every day. And unlike you, I’ve had to sit with it, alone.”
Drew’s jaw tightened, his eyes dropping for a second before meeting yours again. “Y/N… I know. I know what I did. I saw what you went through… in rehab. I didn’t understand it then, but I see it now. And I… I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”
You let the words hang between you, calm but seething. The room felt smaller, every other person fading into the background. His apology didn’t fix anything. It didn’t erase the months of pain. But it was a crack—small, jagged, and dangerous—in the armor you’d built around yourself.
The designer clapped their hands. “Okay, everyone, let’s get these outfits fitted perfectly. Y/N, your outfit—let’s see it with the shoes.”
You didn’t move immediately. You just looked at him, calm, simmering, letting the weight of your words hang between you before finally stepping toward the fitting area. Drew followed, silent, the guilt heavy in his chest, unable to speak without setting off another avalanche.
As you slipped into the outfit and the cast buzzed around, chaos, raised voices—despite all that, and the stupid interaction with the man who put you through hell, you felt a strange sense of calamity, grounded in the small chaos around you. You were back, alive, present—and for the first time in months, ready to face the world, the premiere, and yes… even Drew.
By late afternoon, the fittings finally wound down. The cast lounged around the studio, scrolling through their phones, joking about outfit choices and the inevitable flood of TikTok and IG posts that would hit later. Drew lingered awkwardly, fiddling with his jacket, clearly unsure if he should stay or leave. You kept your focus forward, subtly narrowing your eyes at him but letting your mind drift to your real world: the music waiting for you at home.
Rudy, Madison, and Lacy waved goodbye, JD giving you a thumbs-up. “You’re gonna kill it Y/N” he said with a grin.
“Thanks,” you muttered, already thinking about the keyboard, guitar and the notebook waiting for you.
By the time you stepped into your apartment that night, the city lights were glowing, street noise faint through the windows. The flowers from the cast still sat on the counter, a small reminder that people still cared. You kicked off your boots, tossed your bag down, and sat at the keyboard, fingers hovering over the keys.
The apartment was quiet. Your mom had gone to bed hours ago, leaving you with nothing but the soft hum of the heater and your thoughts. You pulled out your notebook, flipping to a fresh page, and stared at the blank space for a moment. Then, slowly, the melody of your first song “Best” came to you, sharp and biting and real.
Chords followed, awkward at first, then smoother, filling the small room with sound. You hummed, tapped beats on your desk, tried different melodies, rewrote lyrics. Hours passed unnoticed as you crafted the skeleton of your first song, letting every thought, every memory, every frustration and heartbreak pour out into the music.
This was yours. Private. Honest. Untouchable. Good Riddance had begun.
For the first time in months, the world outside—the rumors —were irrelevant. All that mattered was the music, the chords, the lyrics, and the raw, perfect mess of your feelings turned into art. And as the first notes of “Best” lingered in the apartment, you felt a spark you hadn’t felt in a long time: purpose, power, and maybe even hope.
It was only a matter of time.
Good Riddance. (Chapter 2)
singer!reader x drew!starkey
Warnings: heartbreak, verbal conflict, substance abuse, eating disorder, self‑harm, depression, strong language
The Yukon hummed along the wet streets, its black paint slick with rain, reflecting the neon signs streaking past. JD sat in the passenger seat up front, arms folded, jaw tight. He kept glancing back at Drew, who slumped in the middle of the backseat like a storm-cloud made human. His hair was damp at the roots, his hoodie damp with sweat and alcohol, eyes unfocused at first, then gradually sharper as reality started to prick at him.
Chase and Rudy flanked him, not touching him, not needing to, just breathing close, their presence like a silent tether keeping him upright. Madison, Madelyn, and Lacy were scattered all the way in the back, silent for the most part, watching him with a mix of anger, worry, and disbelief. The bass from a distant club or passing car beat faintly through the leather, punctuating the tension in the SUV.
“You do understand what you did, right?” JD’s voice cut through, low and sharp.
“I… I know,” Drew murmured, slumping deeper. “I messed up.”
“‘Messed up?’” Chase echoed, voice calm but icy. “You broke everything, Drew. You hurt her. You hurt all of us.”
Rudy leaned slightly, tilting his head. He didn’t say a word. His eyes alone said enough: this isn’t minor, this isn’t forgettable.
Madison’s voice broke the silence next. “Do you even fucking get it? Watching her… seeing it… knowing you let it happen?”
“I didn’t—” Drew started, but the words caught in his throat.
“Don’t. Just don’t start with that,” Madelyn snapped, her voice slicing through him. “You didn’t accidentally betray her. You chose that moment. And you didn’t think of Y/N. Not once.”
Lacy was quieter, eyes soft but unwavering, not offering comfort, just staring like a mirror reflecting back every flaw he had.
Drew swallowed hard, the panic creeping in, sober fear beginning to override the alcohol. “I… I didn’t- I wasn’t thinking…”
“You weren’t thinking?” Madison’s voice rose slightly. “You’re an adult. You know what trust is. You know what she gave you, and you threw it away.”
The rest of the ride passed in tense silence, punctuated by occasional low murmurs from the back. Nobody had to say it aloud-Drew knew they were silently cataloging every mistake, every moment he’d failed.
When the Yukon pulled up outside your apartment, the rain had slowed to a drizzle. The familiar building loomed, its windows dimly glowing, warm light cutting through the gray evening. Drew’s chest tightened. The SUV doors opened, and they all moved as one. Rudy and Chase guided him gently but firmly; JD and Lacy flanked him. Madison and Madelyn followed, watching, watching him feel the weight of what he had done.
Inside, the apartment was dimly lit, the lamp in the living room casting long shadows across the hardwood floor. The air smelled faintly of coffee and lavender from the candles you had lit to calm your nerves, but nothing could mask the heaviness pressing against your chest. You were standing near the kitchen, hands clenching the edge of the counter, knuckles white, chest tight, hair falling into your eyes, tears already brimming.
Rudy opens the door, which was unlocked, and brings Drew inside, everyone following behind him. Drew’s eyes met yours. For a moment, he froze, the sight of you, broken and furious, slicing through him sharper than any words could.
“We need to talk,” you said, voice low and trembling, each word carrying the weight of months of love, betrayal, and heartbreak.
“I-I know,” he whispered, voice hoarse, eyes wide. “I know I fucked up.”
“You know?” you echoed, stepping closer, trembling. “Do you even understand what it felt like to watch you… to know everything we had, and you just fucking threw it away?”
“I didn’t mean…” His words faltered, desperate, but empty.
“You didn’t mean?” You spat it, venom laced with sorrow. “Do you even understand what you did to me?” Your voice cracks.
The cast hung back, some standing near the kitchen island, others perched on barstools, leaning forward slightly, eyes darting between Drew and you. Rudy and Chase subtly shifted, ready to step in if necessary, their silence heavy. Lacy’s gaze was calm but unflinching. Madison’s hands twisted in her lap, jaw tight. Madelyn’s stare could have cut glass.
“I care about you I- I fucking love you!!” Drew shouted, voice breaking, the raw panic of a man finally realizing the scope of his mistake bleeding through. “I don’t want this to end! I can fix this,” Drew pleaded. “I’ll make it right. I—”
“It is ending,” you said, voice shaking, tears spilling freely now. “I can’t. I won’t. I don’t fucking trust your ass, Drew!!”
He took a step toward you, hands trembling. “I swear, I didn’t-”
“You did!” You screamed. “You kissed her, Drew! You lied to me for months! You… you were with her while knowing… knowing what we had!”
The room seemed to shrink. Your sobs rattled the silence. Drew’s shoulders slumped, shame settling over him like a blanket he couldn’t shake off.
“Did you- did you fuck her?” You choked out, voice barely above a whisper, the words slicing through you before he could answer.
Drew’s eyes went wide. His head dropped. “It was a mistake, Y/N,” he admitted, barely audible.
The world tilted. The cast froze. Rudy’s jaw tightened. Chase’s fists clenched. JD’s face was stone. Madison’s lips pressed into a thin line. Lacy’s soft gaze turned hard. Madelyn’s stare could have burned.
You couldn’t breathe. You felt hollow, shattered, every piece of you collapsing inward. “Then get out,” you whispered, almost silent.
Rudy and Chase gently guided him toward the door. He turned to you, desperation and heartbreak in his eyes. “Please… I didn’t…”
“Don’t,” you said, cutting him off. “Don’t you dare start with excuses. You’re not staying,” you said firmly, voice breaking. “I can’t. I won’t. I don’t want to see you again. Ever.”
“Baby please-” Drew chokes out, resisting Rudy and Chase’s grip. Madelyn, Madison, and Lacy all give you sympathetic looks, then come over to hug you, as Drew finally accepts the situation at hand, and leaves, glancing over his shoulder.
A few minutes pass, and eventually, everyone's..gone. The apartment was silent except for your ragged sobs.
Hours turned into days. Calls went unanswered. Texts ignored. Even Madison, Madelyn, and Lacy- your closest allies- tried to reach you, even visited, but every attempt was met with silence.
Your phone vibrated one night, 4 days after the incident.. Odessa A. You didn’t want to look. But the preview glared at you anyway:
“I never wanted to hurt you Y/N. I just… I feel terrible. Please know I didn’t mean any of this to happen.”
Your hands tightened into fists. You couldn’t. You wouldn’t. Every word from her reminded you of Drew, of the night, of every private moment you’d shared with him. You let the phone lie there, ignored, buzzing like it wanted to torture you. You became a ghost in your own life.
And to make matters worse, your phone kept lighting up, over and over, every single day. 25 missed calls. Drew. This was constant. His calls- voicemails, begging for you to talk to him.
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Not after everything. Each missed call made your chest tighten, a little stab of what could’ve been, what had been destroyed.
Then came the texts, short, desperate:
“Please, baby. We need to talk.”
“I didn’t mean it, Y/N. I swear I didn’t. Please.”
You ignored them, letting them pile up, screen filling with the evidence of his panic, his regret, his need. You pressed the phone face down and hugged yourself, wishing the buzzing would stop, wishing it could all disappear.
Two weeks later, you were a shadow of yourself. The world had shrunk to the walls of your apartment. You had lost twenty pounds, barely ate, barely slept. Popping pills.. snorting substances you had previously told yourself you would never touch. Your mother stayed with you now, sitting outside your door for hours at a time, arguing with you, trying to keep you from hurting yourself.
“You need to eat! You need to sleep! You can’t keep doing this to yourself!” she shouted one night.
“I don’t care!” you screamed back, hair flying, tears streaked down your face.
“You’re killing yourself!” she cried, voice cracking.
“I don’t care!” you repeated, over and over, until you were numb.
“You can’t just disappear, Y/N,” she said one night, voice tight. “You can’t do this to yourself over him. You’re scaring me.”
“I’m fine!” you yelled, pulling away from her touch, your body shaking. “I don’t need you hovering over me like some- like some-”
“Like some what?!” she snapped, tears in her eyes. “Like some kid who’s lost everything? Because that’s exactly what you are right now if you don’t eat!”
“And drugs? Really, Y/N?” Your mother murmurs, voice cracking
“I need it!” you shouted, voice cracking. “I need something to take the fucking pain away for two seconds!”
The fights were constant, but she stayed. She had to. And you began spiraling further - using an absurd amount of drugs to numb the ache, to escape the memory of Drew, the taste of betrayal, the hollow ache of every quiet moment.
Eventually, it became rehab-ED and substance abuse programs. A sterile white ceiling, the faint smell of disinfectant, walls bare except for motivational posters you could barely read without feeling sick.
How did you end up here? In such a.. dark place. Not only physically, but mentally? Over someone you never even imagined for a second could hurt you?
And yet, somewhere deep in the wreckage of your heart, the first faint sparks of music, words, songs, began to take shape-the beginning of your redemption, the birth of Good Riddance.
Little Luxuries
spoiled!reader x rafe!cameron
Warnings: Flirty/teasing, mild sexual content, shopping/spending kink,light power dynamics
The mall smelled like new leather bags, perfume, and Auntie Anne's. You slung your designer bag over your shoulder and rolled your eyes at the crowd. It was Saturday, peak hours, peak chaos, but you were determined to make the most of it. Especially since Rafe Cameron was trailing behind you, Amex in hand, ready to fund whatever insane idea you came up with.
“I’m telling you, Rafe,” you said, smirking as you strolled past the stores, “I only need three things: a black lace bra, matching panties, and maybe a cute silk robe. That’s it.”
Rafe, wearing his signature grin, holding like, a million bags in his hands, raises an eyebrow. “That’s it?” His voice carried that teasing lilt that made your heartbeat hitch. “That’s… what? Three thousand dollars?”
“Don’t be dramatic,” you shot back, swatting his arm lightly. “I’m not here to bankrupt you. Yet.”
He raised both brows and chuckled. “Yet? Baby you already have. Not complaining though.”
Your eyes landed on the pink and white storefront with its delicate cursive lettering: Victoria’s Secret. You slowed down, grinning wide. A few quick things. Simple, easy, discreet shopping.
Rafe didn’t even let you finish before stepping forward, Amex raised like a trophy. “Basics, princess?” he said, voice low and teasing. “I don’t know if we do ‘basics’ here.”
You frowned, but only slightly, because the corner of your mouth betrayed your smile. “Excuse me? I am a princess.”
“Exactly,” he said, eyes darkening with mischief. “And princesses deserve more than basics.”
You groaned, already sensing how this was going to go. Rafe had a way of turning simple errands into full-blown adventures and expensive ones at that. I mean don't get it wrong, who doesn't like shopping sprees? but with Rafe? It was never just about shopping. He loved- no feeded, off seeing you walk around wearing things he bought.
Inside, you picked up the black lace bra, inspecting the delicate stitching. “Okay, see? Perfect. Minimal damage. Cheap, almost.”
Rafe circled like a shark. “Mhm, I see that,” he murmured, leaning close enough that your shoulder brushed against his. The scent of his cologne mixed with the faint perfume of the store and made your head spin. “But you could have the matching set in red silk, baby. Or pink satin. Or this one with rhinestones. And look at this lace teddy—scandalous. Trust me, baby, your ass will look insane in this one.”
You groaned again, flopping against the counter. “Rafe, we’re not doing rhinestones or teddies.”
“You’re not the one paying, baby,” he countered smoothly, sliding the black bra back onto the display and plucking a sparkling red set with rhinestones and a matching sheer thong. Then he added a black lace bodysuit with cutouts in all the right places, a blush pink satin bustier, and a barely-there mesh sleep dress with satin ties at the hips. “I am.”
Your mouth went dry as your eyes followed his movements. Each piece he picked was more daring than the last, things you’d never have dared to try on your own.
“Rafe,” you said finally, giving up, “just stop. That’s enough.”
“Enough?” His brow quirked. “No, baby. Not when we’re in Victoria’s Secret.”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress the laugh that bubbled out. “I swear, you only ever do things to annoy me or make me spend money.”
“Both, baby,” he admitted, grinning. He leaned in, nose brushing yours. “But mostly to make you smile.”
Your cheeks warmed as you stared at him. The flirtation between you had always been electric, but now it felt heavier, more intimate. Thrilling. Almost dangerous.
Finally, you resigned yourself to the fact that Rafe was in charge. You let him pick out the boldest, most scandalous pieces: a sheer black babydoll that left almost nothing to the imagination, a strappy red lace harness that looked like it belonged in a magazine, and a silk camisole with delicate cutouts along the sides.
Rafe handed you the first set and pointed to the dressing room. “Try them on, baby. I want to see exactly what I’m working with.”
You bit your lip and stepped behind the curtain. First came the black lace bra and matching thong. You peaked out from behind the curtain, signaling for him to come inside, and Rafe’s jaw tightened slightly, his low whistle sending a flush across your chest. “Damn, baby. That bra… your ass in those panties… I could stare at you all day.”
“Rafe, keep it down,” you muttered, tugging lightly at the fabric, though your cheeks betrayed your embarrassment.
“Why, baby?” he teased. “I’m just admiring my girl. Wait until you try the red harness-your ass will look unreal. And the straps… God, you’re gonna look sexy.” He shakes his head and checks you out.
Your pulse spiked, and even standing there- barely clothed under the harsh dressing room lights, the way he looked at you made you feel exposed. Powerful, but exposed, which felt weird considering he's seen every crevice of your body.
“Stop teasing me,” you said, your voice shaky.
“I don’t think this is teasing, baby,” he said smoothly, leaning against the wall just outside the curtain. “I think this is… practice.”
You bit the inside of your cheek as you pulled the next piece from the hanger, feeling the tension thrum between you. The lingerie wasn’t just fabric anymore-it was a promise.
“Next one,” he said, grinning, “the red harness. Let’s see what I’m working with.”
You swallowed hard as he steps out, your heart racing as Rafe’s smirk haunted your thoughts. The teasing energy between you made it impossible to think about anything else.
Even when you emerged in the new set, the tension only thickened. Rafe’s eyes roamed your body, and the low hum of his approval made your knees weak. The mall, the people, the bright fluorescent lights—they all faded away.
“God, baby,” he murmured, voice low and rough, “we are definitely going to have fun with these things.” he whispers as he toys with the straps.
By the time you reached the counter, your bag was heavy, and your wallet-well, it wasn’t yours anyway-was safe in Rafe’s care.
The cashier rang up the items, giving Rafe an impressed look. “Looks like someone’s spoiled,” she said with a smile.
Rafe shrugged, handing over his Amex with a smirk that made your knees weak. “She’s worth it.”
You felt your face heat up. “Rafe-”
He cut you off with a grin, leaning close so only you could hear. “You know, baby, next time we don’t have to settle for just shopping.”
You gulped, heart racing. “Oh really?”
“Next time,” he said, voice low and teasing, “we’re going to have a lot more fun with all these little treasures.”
And just like that, what started as a simple shopping trip had turned into a thrill that made your pulse spike, your bag heavy with silk and lace, and your mind dangerously distracted. you knew exactly what was to come.
Good riddance update when?😍
either tonight or tomorrow! i've been working on some other short fics too so thats why its a bit delayed, it also takes a me a little more time then others
loving good riddance so much!!
thank you so much!! 💗
omg u guys don’t understand how excited i am to continue the good riddance series. i do wanna make sure you guys are liking the first part though! plsss lmk! also pls feel free to send reqs i love reading yalls ideas
OBX gc!! (smau) part 1
(lmk if yall like this im trying smth new!)
fuck trump. free palestine. free sudan. free congo. free ukraine. fuck ice. eat the rich.
and thats on what? PERIOD
Good Riddance (Chapter 1).
singer!reader x drew!starkey
Warnings: angst, heartbreak, jealousy, secrecy, tension, alcohol, vulnerability, drama, longing, emotional chaos
You had met Drew during the Outer Banks casting in 2020. You hadn’t landed a role, but Jonas Pate noticed the directing experience on your resume and offered you a spot behind the scenes. From that moment, you became part of the set, moving from an observer to someone the cast trusted, joked with, leaned on. Madelyn, Madison, JD, Rudy, Chase, and later Carlacia all welcomed you into the chaos, and somehow you fit. You belonged there, in the jokes, the late nights, the inside jokes no one else would get.
You’d always loved writing songs, strumming your guitar, tinkering on the piano. Music was your private escape, the one thing you could control, the thing you returned to when the world felt too loud, too chaotic. Most people didn’t know, but Drew did. Somehow, he always understood that part of you without needing to be told.
Drew was a different kind of chaos.
The connection had been instant. Same jokes, same taste in music, same ridiculous humor. Publicly, you were just friends- best friends, always laughing, always teasing, always the perfect duo on set. Privately, it was different. You fucked, fought, got jealous, protective, reckless, and absolutely ride-or-die for each other. You loved hard, and he loved hard, but labels… labels were the one thing keeping you from being completely “yours.” You wanted him out loud, public, everything on the table. He wanted private, messy, complicated. Only the cast, your family, Drew’s family, and close friends knew what was going on, and somehow that secrecy made your world with him feel thrilling and fragile all at once.
By early 2021, you’d met Odessa A’zion through mutual friends and quickly became close. She was fun, smart, ambitious, and clicked with the OBX crew just like you did. You liked her alot. You trusted her, and eventually considered her a best friend.
Mid 2021, Drew had gotten cast in Hellraiser as Trevor, one of the main characters opposite Odessa, who just happened to get the part. Then you caught wind of the sex scene. It shouldn’t have bothered you, it's not like they were actually gonna have sex. He was an actor. It was a scene. It was part of the job. And it didn’t really bother you... but your gut twisted anyway. Something about the way he acted after reading the script felt off. Subtle, almost imperceptible shifts in his attention, the way he held his phone a little closer, the small tension when you were near him, the quiet heaviness in his eyes. Nothing obvious. Nothing that screamed betrayal. Just… off.
While Drew and Odessa were filming Hellraiser, you sometimes came to set. You weren’t there every day, just when you could, but enough to notice the way they got close, the easy laughter that didn’t feel like acting, the subtle brushes of shoulder, the way Drew’s attention occasionally lingered a second too long.
Odessa would post little glimpses on her socials too, behind the scenes photos, stories of the cast hanging out, even little shots of Drew laughing at something she had said. You didn’t mind. You trusted her. You trusted them. Drew was an actor, it was part of the job, it wasn’t real. And yet, every little post, every subtle moment, made something twist in your chest.
You just constantly reminded yourself it shouldn’t bother you. Fake it till you make it right?
By the time the filming wrapped, the movie was done. You watched the final scenes get packed away, the set slowly emptying, and even though it was exciting to see it all finished, there was a quiet tension in your chest you couldn’t shake. You had spent enough time on set to see the bond that had formed between Drew and Odessa, and even if it didn’t really bother you, it left a flicker of unease that lingered.
Now all that remained was the premiere. The press, the cameras, the flashing lights, the excitement and nerves swirling together. You knew Drew would be brilliant, that he would shine, that everyone would be proud. And you were too. Even so, you wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to calm the flutter of anticipation and the lingering knot of worry, because tonight would mark the moment everything went public and the world got a glimpse of what you had only seen behind closed doors.
You tried to push it aside. Feverish excitement from the premiere, pride, anxiety, whatever. He was Drew. He compartmentalized. You’d seen it before.
The premiere was incredible. Drew looked perfect, radiant, confident. You couldn’t stop smiling, brimming with pride. The OBX cast and everyone involved were proud, and you felt like your chest might burst with happiness for him.
The night after, the OBX cast, plus Odessa, decided to celebrate at a bar. You were sick with a fever, wrapped in blankets, insisting Drew go without you. “You deserve this,” you croaked. “I’ll survive.”
He kissed your forehead anyway, lingering longer than usual, gaze heavy. You let him go. You trusted him. You wanted him to have fun.
Two and a half hours later, your phone rang. FaceTime.
Madelyn’s panicked face filled the screen. Madison, JD and Lacy hovered behind her, glancing nervously around the bar.
“Y/N… you need to see this,” Lacy and Madelyn whispered, voice urgent.
“What? Mads, what’s happening?” Your stomach fully fucking flipped.
She leaned closer to the camera and whispered, “We’re showing you from a distance. Rudy and Chase are already trying to pull him away quietly. Just… watch.”
Your chest dropped. “Wait… what?”
The camera swung slightly, and there he was. Drew, swaying slightly, leaning into Odessa, lips pressed to hers. Not playful, not joking, not pretending. The music thumped through the bar, heavy and relentless, blending with the chatter and laughter of the crowded room full-on. Rudy and Chase had their hands subtly on Drew's arms, trying to gently pull him off without anyone noticing. Drew’s glassy eyes were fixed on her. He didn’t resist violently. He barely seemed aware of anything else.
“Holy…” you whispered, gripping the blanket tighter.
Madelyn’s voice was tight. “Just..look. They're fucking trying to pull him back.” Lacy just stands there with her jaw literally dropped.
Your chest felt hollow. “He… he’s really… kissing her.”
“Yeah,” JD muttered behind the camera. “He’s drunk as shit Y/N, but he’s not fighting it, Rudy and Chase got him."
Your mind raced. Fever, panic, heartbreak. Every private moment with Drew-the fights, the stolen kisses, the possessive looks, the nights you’d spent tangled up together-flashed in your mind. And there he was, messy, drunk, into someone else. Your gut twisted in that familiar way. Something about the way he leaned in, the way he pressed his lips, the tilt of his head… it was the same tilt he always used with you.
“I… I can’t…” you whispered, pressing the phone to your chest.
Through the screen, you saw Rudy and Chase still had their hands on him, trying to pull him away without causing a scene, but that was getting difficult considering drew wasn't exactly….aware of literally anything. He was mumbling, eyes glassy, completely oblivious to the chaos. He didn’t resist violently, but he didn’t let go easily either.
Your fingers curled into fists. Confusion, nausea, chaos. Everything you had with him-every private stolen moment, every messy argument, every “we can’t have labels”-felt like it was collapsing into that single image.
“He’s mumbling, we can’t hear him,” Madison spoke loudly over the music, voice tight. “Holy shit he's actually kissing her. Fuckin' hell.” Madison says, in pure shock, just like everyone else. Their faces look mortified. Almost nervous.
Your chest constricted, every nerve on fire. You wanted to scream, to run there, to grab him and shove him away from her, to make him remember you, to make it stop. But you couldn’t. You were stuck in your room, frozen, trembling, heart breaking in a way that felt like it would shatter your ribs. Every second he leaned into her, every stumble, tore you apart. You were watching him vanish, piece by piece, and there was nothing you could do.
Madelyn whispered fast, almost frantic, “Y/N, we’re bringing him to you - he’s such a fucking dumbass.”
JD muttered behind her, barely audible over the bar noise, “Rudy’s got him, just… ugh, don’t freak, we’re getting him out.”
“Yeah, we’re literally fucking dragging him,” Madison hissed, jerking the phone slightly so you could see Drew stumbling. Rudy and Chase are now aware of the FaceTime, and their faces shift into pure worry. “He’s barely standing. Fucking christ.. this is a bad.” Rudy murmurs. The cast rushes out of the exit to the black SUV, brushing past random people who were now looking, while Odessa's security handles her.
You pressed the phone to your chest, stomach twisting. You could see Rudy muttering in Drew’s ear looking pissed, Chase gripping his arm tighter, nudging him toward the exit. Every step Drew wobbled, every mumble, made your chest tighten.
The camera wavered, blurred, and went dark. You could still hear Madelyn snapping, “We’re almost there, ugh, he’s such an idiot!”
JD groaned, “I swear, I don’t know if he’s alive right now, but we’re taking him to you.”
Then the camera wavered, blurred, and went dark.
You sank back into your pillows, shaking, chest tight, heart pounding. The last image burned in your mind: Drew, messy, drunk, tangled with Odessa, oblivious, free.
You didn’t know what had happened, what he remembered, or if it was just a drunken slip. You didn’t know if it was a mistake or something worse.
But one thing was certain: This is far from over.
(quick little side note: this is the first part of my new series, "Good Riddance". might sound familiar iykyk🌚 but you guys will get the full gist of it soon! def gonna be a messy, gut wrenching and definitely entertaining fic. stay tuned bitches 😉)
Part 3 to pastors daughter i beg!
ofc! this is actually part 4.
The smallest miracle
pastorsdaughter!reader x badboy!rafe
WARNINGS: childbirth, religious guilt, family tension, soft angst, comfort, fluff, postpartum tenderness
The contractions came like waves, rolling through you fast and merciless, and when the last one hit, you knew this was it. You clutched the edge of the bathroom sink, nails biting into porcelain, stomach twisting like it wanted to crawl out of your body. Rain rattled the windows, cold and endless, and for a moment it felt like the world outside was testing you, daring you to break.
You dialed Rafe without thinking.
“Baby?” His voice was rough, low, panicked.
“It’s happening,” you whispered.
He was at your door in minutes, soaked from the rain, hair plastered to his forehead, eyes wide and trembling when he saw you doubled over. “You’ve got this,” he said, voice shaking. “I’ve got you.” Somehow, even though your body was screaming, even though the pain made your knees buckle, you believed him.
The ride to the hospital was a blur of flashing lights, rain on the windshield, and your hand gripping his tighter than you’d ever gripped anything in your life. Every red light felt like an eternity. Every wave of pain felt like it might split you in half. Rafe whispered to you constantly, urging you to breathe, telling you that you were doing the most important thing in the world, that he had never been more proud of anyone in his life.
By the time they wheeled you into the delivery room, the storm outside had grown louder, as if it knew this moment was sacred. The nurse positioned you, and suddenly everything was raw intensity, every muscle in your body taut and trembling.
You pushed. You screamed. You cried. Rafe held your hand like it was the only thing keeping him upright, pressed kisses to your temple, your forehead, your cheek, whispering, “I love you. You’re doing so good. You’re amazing, baby.”
And then a cry. Small, sharp, perfect.
They placed her on your chest, slippery and red, and the world tilted. You stared at her tiny fingers curling around yours, at her scrunched-up, alive face, and for the first time in months, the weight pressing down on your chest lifted just a little.
Rafe leaned over you, tears streaking down his face. “You did it. You did it, baby.” He brushed wet hair off your face, pressed his lips to your forehead, then your cheek. “I’ve never been prouder of anyone in my whole life.”
Rafe’s still sitting beside you, baby in his arms, the hospital room dim and quiet except for the soft hum of machines.
He looks down at her, this tiny pink thing wrapped up in the swan blanket, then back at you. His voice is rough from hours of holding it together. “She doesn’t even have a name yet,” he murmurs, almost to himself.
You smile, your fingers brushing over his wrist. “You pick it,” you whisper. “You’ve been waiting for her as much as I have.”
He glances back at the baby, blinking slow, like he’s memorizing her. “Iris,” he says finally. “Like the flower. Means ‘rainbow.’ Kinda feels right… after everything.”
You breathe out a laugh, quiet but teary. “Iris.”
He nods, eyes shining as he kisses her forehead. “Yeah. My little Iris.”
And it’s perfect. It sounds like peace.
You looked up, startled, and saw him — really saw him, not just his face but the raw emotion in his eyes, the way his chest heaved with relief. You wanted to tell him he was perfect, that he was the safest place in the world, but all that came out were more tears.
But then, the door creaked. You froze. Your father stood there, soaked from the rain, shoulders stiff, Bible tucked under one arm, and a tote hanging on his shoulder. For a long moment, he just watched you. Then finally, he stepped closer, slow and hesitant, like he was afraid the ground might give out under him.
“Is she healthy?” he asked quietly.
You nodded, words catching in your throat. “Perfect,” you whispered.
He crouched slightly, closer to the baby than to you. His hands trembled when he reached out to touch her tiny fingers. She grabbed his pinky, and for a heartbeat, he didn’t speak. He just stared, memorizing her. “She has your mother’s nose,” he murmured. “And your eyes.”
“What’s her name?” he asked softly.
You glanced at Rafe, then back at your father. “Iris.”
For a moment, the air between you all stilled. Then your father gave a small nod — the kind that said more than words could. “That’s beautiful,” he murmured. “She looks like an Iris.”
It wasn’t forgiveness. Not yet.
But it was something close.
Then he reached into his tote, and pulled out a tiny blanket, pale yellow, soft with age, frayed at the edges. Your mother’s handwriting was embroidered in one corner: “For the next girl in the family.” He laid it gently over the baby, tucking her tiny arms in. “She belongs to us,” he whispered, voice breaking. “And she’s going to know love.”
You started crying again, and this time he didn’t stay distant. He leaned down, forehead to forehead with you, voice low and rough. “I’ve been angry. At you. At him. At myself. I thought I was protecting you. Maybe I was just punishing you for being human.”
You swallowed, shaking. “Dad…”
He glanced at Rafe. “I don’t know you like I should, boy. But I see what you’ve done for her. And I can’t hate a man who shows up when it matters most.”
Rafe just nodded, jaw tight, hands trembling.
Your father reached out again, pressing a hand gently to your baby’s head. “Strong girl,” he whispered. “Like her mother.”
The first night was a haze of tiny, miraculous moments. Rafe stayed by your side, humming softly when she stirred, brushing her hair back from her forehead, murmuring her name as if saying it out loud would somehow make the world safe. He held her close to his chest and whispered to her, “I’ve got you. I’ve always got you."
When the nurses brought her to you for the first feeding, he leaned over your shoulder, pressing kisses to your temple, whispering encouragements as if your strength alone wasn’t enough. He cracked little jokes to make you laugh between feedings, softly mocked your messy hair, and tucked your shoulders into his chest as if that could shield you from every ache in the world.
Your father visited every day after that. He didn’t know what to say at first, standing quietly in the corner while you fed the baby, watching Rafe coo and sing, watching you cradle her against your chest. But gradually, he started talking to her, telling her stories about her mother, brushing the top of her head and murmuring, “This is what hope looks like.” He never forced closeness, just stayed present, learning the rhythm of her breathing, the tilt of her tiny head.
One afternoon, Rafe slipped out to the cafeteria for coffee. Your father sat beside you quietly, watching you adjust the blanket around the baby’s shoulders. “She’s lucky,” he said softly. “She has you.”
You blinked back tears, the baby stirring on your chest. “I’m not sure I deserve her.”
He pressed a hand gently to yours. “None of us do,” he said. “But you’re here. You’re trying. And she’ll feel that love every day.”
Rafe returned, coffee in hand, grinning sleepily. He bent down and kissed your temple, whispered, “You’re perfect. All of you.” The baby stirred, and he held her close like he could shield her from every storm in the world. You leaned into him, exhausted but safe, and for the first time in months, you felt like the weight of everything had softened just enough for you to breathe.
At night, when the hospital halls were quiet and the rain had softened outside, you’d lie with Rafe curled around you, the baby between you, his arm over your shoulders, whispering, “You did this. You made life. You’re incredible. I love you so much.” And you believed him because every time he looked at you, every time he touched her tiny fingers, you could see it. He would never leave. He would never let go.
Your father came by one last time before discharge, watching you pack the baby into the car seat. He leaned down, brushed a hand across her forehead, and whispered, “Take care of each other. Always.” You nodded, understanding more than words could say, and when he finally hugged you, it was long and quiet and real.
Rafe slid in beside you in the driver’s seat, resting a hand over yours. “Home,” he whispered. “We’re going home.”
You looked down at your daughter, asleep and warm, and whispered a prayer that wasn’t asking for forgiveness this time. It was full of hope. “Thank you.”
And for the first time in months, it felt like grace had finally found its way into your arms.
the finest man to exist in my generation
this some fine shi right here
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.
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.”
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.”
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.