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.
