Frank Castle With The Smut Prompt

how do you theoretically ride someones dimple? asking for a friend.

smutty request!!! shy!reader loves when dean dirty talks but shys away when he asks her to speak up during sex

omg yes !!!! this is a fun lil trope !!! 18+ <3

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it’d be all like “shit, look at you, baby. you feelin’ good?”

and you’re blushing, overwhelmed and completely overstimulated by dean and the way he handles your body with expertise. your face burns and your cunt flutters around him as butterflies stew in your stomach.

“c’mon, angel,” dean grunts out as he thrusts, “talk to me.”

the smirk on his face is devious, and the way his hand pinches and rubs at your clit is downright mean—he knows exactly how to work you up until you can’t help but babble out the words you’re trying to hold back from spilling out.

he feels you squeeze and tense around his dick, gripping him like you’re about to melt into the mattress. a squeak escapes you. and then a whimper. and then a full guttural moan.

“oh, there she is.”

your timid nature washes away as the floodgates open from dean’s magic fingers and his chubby cock splitting you open.

“fuck– fuck, dean! shit! please! feels so good!”

dean grins. there's his girl.

Save It: Mikey Berzatto x Reader (NSFW)

Tagging: @kmc1989 @cleacc @cutebookdragon1 @bungurus @nogoodbee

Sequel to:

Mess - Mikey tries to prove to you both he made the right decision by leaving.

The Diagnosis - Mikey recieves an explaination regarding his behaviour and addiction issues.

Being with you is akin to a religious experience, that’s what Mikey thinks as his mouth chases all over your skin, his calloused hands stroking over every part of your body. Your hands thread through his hair as he nuzzles your inner thigh, the stubble on his cheeks sending a rush of heat searing through your nerve endings.

He loves going down on you, he loves the way you arch against him, your grip tightening on his hair when he thrusts his tongue inside of you, his thumb tracing light circles over your clit. You taste like fucking sunshine and he just can’t get enough of you.

He devours you like man whose starving, like he’s trying to make up for every little shitty thing he’s ever done because in reality he is. He knows eating you out isn’t nearly enough but it’s a start he thinks, a way to remind you just how dedicated he is to you, just how much he loves you.

You’re breathing hitches and already Mikey can feel the fall coming. He hears it in those cute little whimpers, the breathy way you say his name as he uses his palms to hold you open as he fucks you with his mouth. Your grip tightens on his hair, your hips arching and suddenly your flooding his mouth with that sweet nectar of yours and Mikey’s just lapping it up because he needs to consume every single drop of your pleasure.

His hands grasp your waist as he begins to kiss his way back up your body, his heated lips dragging across your flushed skin as he caresses you. You need to stay connected in the aftermath and he gets that. You need to feel the weight of his, body, the press of him because it grounds you in the moment, it reminds you that he’s here to stay, that this isn’t a one night thing like all the other times he’s loved and left you.

“Mikey…” You whisper as his forehead comes to rest upon yours. He knows those three little words are on the tip of your tongue and Mikey, he just can’t bear to hear them because he’s not worthy of you, not yet.

“Save it for me.” He murmurs, his thumb trailing along the line of your jaw as he looks into your eyes. “Save it until I’m the man that I’m supposed to be.”

Love Mikey? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

shane walsh smut in the works bc no one writes smut about his fine ass, and i’m sick of it!

hi I love your writing!! let the days pass has gotten me through a lot. If you’re still taking requests, would you think about doing something for a reader with functional depression? Like can make it through a full day of work/school, seems fine when out and about… but then once she’s home she can’t get herself to eat, or clean, or reply to her friends’ texts or get out of bed on the weekend. And Frank just kind of soothing/supporting her through it and getting her out of bed and finding fun things to do together so she can’t just stay stuck in her little depression apartment and her terrible thoughts. No worries of this doesn’t spark anything for you; thank you so much!!!!

BREATHE ME BACK TO LIFE ➵ F. CASTLE

Summary: You’ve got a bad case of depression, and Frank does everything he can to help you through the difficult days.

Warnings: High-functioning depression, just a small nod towards suicide ideation, fluff, feminine nicknames

Word count: 2k

Author’s note: Thank you for the support!! I completely understand this struggle and it often makes me feel like a fraud and like my depression isn’t ”serious enough” and so many other people have it worse than me, but the reality is, everyone’s struggles are valid and no less important than someone else’s. Anon, I promise it can get better, don’t give up!! I know it can feel like an endless uphill for a long time, but hang onto the good days and know that you’ve got what it takes to get through the bad ones <3

When you first got to know Frank, you were careful about letting him in, simply because the effort of maintaining a relationship terrified you and you knew you wouldn’t be able to handle it. Not to mention, you were kind of embarrassed — revealing your struggle to keep up with chores and to take care of yourself hardly seemed like the way to sweep someone off of their feet. Then there was the fact that Frank seemed so put-together and diligent himself. He didn’t strike you as the type to judge other people, but you knew you couldn’t meet his military level of routine and tidiness, and it made you nervous to open up to him.

Little did you know, he knew depression all too well from personal experience. After losing his wife and kids, he had been shoved into a dark place and it had taken him a long time to dig himself out of there. He understood the lack of motivation to look after yourself or your home, and he, too, struggled with getting out of bed and staying in contact with people.

And that was exactly what he told you when you allowed him to get a glimpse of your reality.

”Hey, I feel ya, sweetheart. I’ve been there. It ain’t easy, that’s for fuckin’ sure, but you’re doin’ amazing”, he praised you, finding your perseverance admirable. ”It can be a real pain in the ass. I struggled for a long time, I won’t lie. Still do, some days. But it’s gotten better, even after I didn’t think it would”, he opened up, trying his very best to instill hope in you. It sort of worked, but it also made you feel guilty — if a man who had lost his entirely family could pull through, why were you having such a hard time? In fact, while you felt glad Frank hadn’t judged you for sharing with him, you felt even more embarrassed and like you were a burden, one he would regret getting involved with.

But he didn’t give up on you. He kept showing up for you, participating in your day as often as he could, whether that meant pushing you to watch a movie he heard so much about and thought you might like, or surprising you during work to take you out to lunch.

By weaving himself into your everyday life, he quickly realized your troubles with depression were more complex than he had initially realized. Whereas he had been completely devoid of energy and hope throughout the day and it had been obvious to everyone around him, you could mask it. He found it sort of impressive, actually, the way you managed to be efficient at work and the way you socialized, smiled and laughed on a night out. To an outsider, it wasn’t obvious that you were struggling, and while he felt fortunate to be in your inner circle, he also grew worried. He couldn’t imagine the toll it must have taken on you, to always put up a brave front and go about your day like nothing was going on.

So, he started visiting your apartment more.

”Have you eaten yet, sweetheart?” he probed gently while collecting various garbage from around the place, shoving it into a trash bag. You were grateful, but you were also entirely drained, the effort of the day catching up to you and leaving you paralyzed on the couch, buried under the heavy blanket.

”No. Didn’t feel like it”, you shrugged, much too casual about it for Frank’s liking. He finished filling up the bag and left it by your front door, making a mental note to take it with him before he stepped into the living room where you were. He crouched down in front of you, gingerly swiping your hair away from your face and eyeing you up with a mix of sympathy and worry. He knew it could be hard to accept help — he certainly had done a good job of pushing Curtis away, but he was determined to give you a hand, whether you liked it or not.

”I make a mean pasta. Would ya eat a lil bit f’me if I made you some?” he asked softly, his voice so patient and calm with you, and if you only had the energy for it, you probably would have teared up. You felt bad just watching Frank do all these things for you, but you suspected, correctly, that even if you told him to stop, he wouldn’t have.

”Sure”, you gave him a weak attempt at a smile. He mirrored it back at you, and leaned in to kiss your forehead before standing up and striding into the kitchen.

He rummaged through your cabinets and fridge, finding what he needed but not exactly pleased with the lack of food. ”I’mma take you grocery shoppin’ tomorrow, aight? We’ll get whatever you need, on me”, he called out from the kitchen, not really offering it as an option but a simple fact. He did that a lot, made promises that to him seemed obvious and like the bare minimum but that meant the world to you.

He made a habit of stopping by on weekends, especially. He knew those were the hardest for you — during weekdays, you had work to keep you busy and distracted, but during the weekend, you sank deep into your dark thoughts. He tried his best to be a lifeline, to keep you afloat, just because he knew what it was like to get stuck in that vicious cycle of hateful, ruminating thoughts and that gloomy mood that didn’t seem to loosen its grip. And he certainly didn’t want that for you.

”Hey, darlin’. How you feelin’ today?” he asked as he made his way into your bedroom on another Saturday, his gaze gentle and caring even when you felt like you looked horrible. You had meant to change your sheets and your PJs for the longest time, and your hair was unkempt in a way that made you feel insecure. But Frank was not bothered, at least not in the manner you expected him to. It unsettled him because he wanted to see you happy and thriving, but he wasn’t scared of a little mess.

You gave him a shrug from the midst of the covers where you had been mindlessly scrolling your phone, only for the damn device to make you feel horrible guilt about all the unanswered texts that seemed to keep piling on. Frank nodded in understanding and sat on the edge of the bed, next to your legs, and he thought about the right way to get you out of that hole. He knew he could be pushy sometimes, but it originated from a place of love, and most times, you responded well. Coddling wasn’t going to help, he knew that, so sometimes he took a firmer approach, but the affection never left his tone or eyes.

”C’mere, sweetheart. Thought I’d take you out for a walk. That okay?” he suggested, and as much as you wanted to agree to his idea, you didn’t think you had it in you.

”I dunno, Frankie…”, you trailed off, and reaching for your hand to squeeze it tightly, he gave you a look that in its simplicity had the power of convincing you.

”I know, sweet girl. But I really want you to get some fresh air with me, yeah? Just around the block, don’t gotta be out for long”, he pleaded, ”I know what you’re thinkin’ in here and I don’t want to lose ya to it.”

You couldn’t argue on that. You knew you weren’t doing yourself any favors, and your thoughts tended to tip over to self-deprecating and hopeless, surrounding you in darkness that only Frank could bring light into. So, you nodded at him, and he gave you an attagirl before winding an arm around you and helping you out of the bed, well-aware that even if you wanted to go, you couldn’t always get your body on board.

He brushed your hair with as much care as possible, enjoying the process more than he wanted to admit, and after that he dug out the hoodie he had left behind a few weeks ago and zipped you up in it. He tied your shoes and made sure you had your keys with you, and after he had taken care of almost everything for you, you were finally ready to go.

The sun was already going down when you stepped outside, and the sight got a faint smile from you, which in turn made Frank grin. ”Pretty, huh?” he noted while taking your hand and interlocking your fingers. He acted so much like a boyfriend even if you had never actually labelled your relationship in any way. It made you wonder, because he took such good care of you and he didn’t really even get anything out of it. It was an equation you simply didn’t understand.

You walked for a while, but finally, you had to ask. ”Why do you keep showing up?” you questioned, not meaning it to come out so accusatory, but Frank was immediately alerted to the thought of crossing a boundary. He didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, he just wanted to help.

”You want me to stop? All you gotta do is say the word”, he promised, and you hastily shook your head to reassure that that wasn’t what you wanted.

”No, I like it. I just… don’t really get why you do it. I can’t repay the favor. I’m not getting any better. So, it just seems like you’re running a fool’s errand, I guess”, you explained, and licking his lips, he gave it some thought. But really, there was no doubt about why he did it.

”You’re important to me, sweetheart. And like I’ve told you, I’ve been there. I know it gets lonely and brutal and I just don’t want ya doing it by yourself”, he answered, and quickly continued, ”and the part about you not bein’ able to repay the favor, bullshit. You do it every time you give me a smile or give me a call or agree to my stupid ass ideas to get you outta the house. I know it may be hard to see, but you got a lotta good moments and I feel damn privileged to get to see them.”

You were speechless, looking at Frank with wide eyes as you kept walking. His stare was focused on your surroundings, hyper-aware of every car that passed you by and every pedestrian with their hood pulled over their eyes too suspiciously. Whether you were in your apartment or out and about, he just wanted to look after you.

”Aren’t I kind of a burden?” you stated what felt like the obvious, and your words got him to instantly face you, a frown etched onto his forehead.

”Never. I ain’t ever gettin’ sick of you”, he swore, stopping you just so he could look into your eyes with solemnity and determination. ”I know you think you’re not gettin’ better, but you will. I’m not lettin’ you give up. Some day, you won’t need my help anymore, but until then, I ain’t goin’ nowhere”, Frank emphasized, dedicated to showing you his loyalty and confidence in you. He had so much hope for you, way more than you had yourself, but he didn’t mind carrying you.

”Thank you”, you whispered, hugging him with a tight grip, and he responded with his own arms curling around your figure. He shielded you from the dark cloud over your head, hoping that his embrace would offer the comfort he so badly tried to be for you.

”Just so you know, when that day comes when I won’t need your help… I’ll still want you around”, you pointed out, and chuckling, Frank kissed the top of your head.

”Well, I didn’t wanna be a selfish asshole, but I was hopin’ you’d feel that way”, he admitted. He may not have been very good at speaking up about it, but you had completely stolen his heart, and he wasn’t sure he was ever getting it back. ”You mean a lot to me, sweetheart”, he added quietly, and holding onto him a bit tighter, you sighed.

”You mean a lot to me too, Frank.”

I love dad bods 🥰

do you see of the Rafe’s in your AU’s having dad bods?

okay okay okay

blue!collar!rafe scc!rafe boxer!rafe

sexist!rafe ex!husband!rafe military!rafe

Guys, I’m new to this app but I honestly can’t describe with words how much I absolutely, utterly, ADORE it. Like genuinely.

Heels of Dreams

pairing: aaron hotchner x reader summary: you wear heels for a fancy dinner, but in the end, it’s not your shoes that carry you home. warnings: suggestive, fluff, hotch being the perfect man once again by carrying reader home and taking off her heels, age gap implied, reader giving hotch a hard time about being old. (all i hear is hotch is a boobs man, hotch is an ass man no! hotch is a legs man! he told me himself!) word count: 2k ✧ masterlist

Your feet ached – so much so that you weren’t even surprised when Reid, probably fed up with your quiet whining, casually mentioned over dinner that high heels were originally invented for men. And honestly? That made perfect sense. Only creatures that ridiculous would willingly subject themselves to this kind of torture.

He had then launched into an explanation about how, somewhere in the eighteenth century, heels became associated with women’s fashion, but by that point, you were far too focused on two things to pay attention: the persistent throb in your feet and the slow, deliberate movement of Aaron’s hand as it slid over to rest on your thigh.

That had effectively wiped out any interest in Reid’s history lesson.

It had been a small dinner, one of those rare nights where the girls – Penelope, really –  insisted on dressing up. She had made a reservation somewhere far fancier (and significantly less sticky) than your usual bar, declaring it a much-needed change of scenery.

So, you had picked out the prettiest pair of shoes you owned – the ones you knew Aaron liked because he had insisted on buying them for you. He hadn’t even flinched when the price climbed high enough to require a comma, just given you that quiet, unwavering look that made it clear he wasn’t taking no for an answer.

And now, after hours of balancing on them, you were really hoping that look extended to carrying you to the couch.

“Regretting your choice of footwear?”

You huffed, dramatically shifting your weight onto one leg. “I regret your choice of footwear.”

His brow lifted. “Mine?”

“You picked these out, remember?” You gestured toward your aching feet, the expensive, unreasonably gorgeous shoes peeking out from beneath the hem of your dress. “You practically demanded I get them.”

Aaron hummed, slowing his pace just enough to make you aware of how much effort you were putting into keeping up. The ass. “I don’t recall any demanding,” he said, tone far too innocent. “I seem to remember you trying them on and looking at me like you were hoping I’d tell you to buy them.”

You gasped, stopping in your tracks. “That is not what happened.”

He turned to face you, his expression unreadable – except for the glint in his eyes, the one that only appeared when he was in the mood to toy with you. “No?”

You narrowed your eyes. “No.”

He paused for a moment before asking, “Which one is it going to be?”

“Huh?

“Do you want to walk home in my shoes,” he clarified, like he was offering you something as normal as his jacket, “or am I carrying you?”

You stared at him, trying to gauge whether he was actually serious. “You can’t just carry me,” you argued, crossing your arms.

Aaron arched a brow and before you could react, he took a deliberate step forward, closing the space between you. “You underestimate me,” he said and suddenly, you were very aware of how close he was.

“Oh, I don’t doubt you can – I just don’t think you should.”

His lips twitched, like he was holding back a smile. “Why not?”

“Because it’s ridiculous.”

“You’re limping,” he pointed out, not unkindly. “And you’re already dramatic when you’re comfortable, I can’t imagine how much I’ll have to hear about this tomorrow if I don’t carry you.”

“Jeez, you’re making me sound like a real catch.”

His smirk deepened just enough to make your breath hitch. “You are,” he said simply, like it was the easiest truth in the world. “That’s why I’m carrying you.”

And before you could even form a protest, his arms were around you, lifting you effortlessly off the ground.

A surprised yelp escaped your lips as he adjusted his hold, settling you securely in his arms, carrying you like you were weightless. The absurdity of it all – his confidence, the way he did it without hesitation, the sheer ridiculousness of being carried down the street like some sort of Disney princess – sent you into a fit of laughter.

“This is silly,” you managed between giggles, clinging to his shoulders. “Baby, put me down, I’ll walk barefoot.”

“Not happening.” His grip on you tightened, as if the very thought of letting you go was out of the question.

You let out another giggle, looping your arms around his neck for balance – not that you needed to, because Aaron held you like you were made for this, like carrying you home was just another part of his routine. Like it didn’t even require effort.

“Well, at least it’s not too far,” you mused, mid-yawn. “Wouldn’t want you throwing your back out.”

Aaron huffed out a laugh, the warmth of it brushing against your temple. “My back is fine. I think I can manage a few blocks.”

You tilted your head up to look at him, a teasing smile curling at your lips. “You think you can manage? Should I be concerned?”

“I should drop you just for that.”

Your eyes widened in mock horror, gripping his shoulders a little tighter. “You wouldn’t.”

Aaron’s lips curved into a smile “Wouldn’t I?”

Still, you gasped dramatically, clutching him even tighter. “Wow. Threatening to drop your much younger wife? That’s low.”

He sighed, the kind of long-suffering exhale that only came from years of dealing with you. “Here we go.”

You bit back a grin, pressing your cheek against his shoulder. “I mean, I get it – you’re not as young as you used to be. It must be exhausting carrying someone so full of youthful energy.”

“You do realize I’ve tackled suspects more than twice your size, right?”

“Yes, yes, very impressive,” you conceded with a wave of your hand. “But, you know, they don’t cling to you and distract you with conversation while you’re carrying them.”

“No, usually they’re either trying to stab or shoot me.”

You blinked, considering that. “And I’m the difficult one?”

Aaron didn’t bother dignifying your last remark with a response, he just shook his head, adjusting his grip on you. The movement brought you even closer and you could feel his warmth bleeding into you. If you weren’t still revelling in the absolute delight of being carried, you might’ve admitted that this had been your plan all along.

Eventually, the familiar sight of your apartment building came into view, and you sighed dramatically. “Well, we made it. Against all odds. How’s your back? Need me to book you a chiropractor?”

“Maybe a divorce attorney,” he mumbled, earning a swat at his chest from your clutch.

“Excuse me?”

But before you could demand a proper retraction, he angled you slightly, adjusting his hold so effortlessly it was almost infuriating, and you barely had time to react before he nodded toward the door.

“Kick,” he instructed.

Rolling your eyes but obliging anyway, you lifted a foot and tapped the door open, muttering, “Chivalry is dead.”

“Chivalry is alive and well,” he corrected smoothly, stepping inside with you still securely in his arms. “It’s just carrying a very mouthy woman up the stairs.”

You gasped again, scandalized. “Wow. I think that definitely just earned you a night on the couch.”

“We both know you’d end up joining me anyway. In fact,” he mused, his voice dropping as he carried you up the stairs, “I recall you saying that the best sex we’ve ever had was on that couch.”

Your mouth snapped shut, heat rushing to your cheeks so fast it was disorienting.

“You cannot just say things like that,” you hissed, your head whipping toward the door opposite yours. “We have neighbours. You know Agatha is a night owl.”

Aaron exhaled a quiet chuckle, completely unfazed. “Agatha’s hard of hearing.” He paused then added, “Keys, honey.”

With a dramatic sigh, you started digging through your clutch, fingers sifting through a graveyard of lip glosses and tiny perfume samples you had no intention of ever using but refused to throw away.

Aaron tilted his head, watching with mild amusement. “Need some help?”

“I’ve got it,” you muttered, ignoring his deeply unnecessary smirk as you fished out your keys. “Not all of us have the luxury of bottomless suit pockets.”

“That’s not what they’re called.”

“Whatever, Mary Poppins.”

He shook his head as he patiently waited for you to unlock the door – still very much carrying you.

Finally, your fingers closed around the keys, and with an exaggerated motion, you yanked them out. Aaron hummed, the sound low and pleased, before lowering you just enough so you could reach the lock.

The door swung open and he carried you inside, kicking it shut behind him. He made his way over to the infamous couch. The moment he set you down, you let out an exaggerated sigh of relief, stretching out dramatically. “Ugh. My hero,” you drawled. “My feet may never recover, but at least I died beautifully.”

You watched as he crossed the room with that same grace, making his way back toward the door. He slid off his suit jacket, draping it neatly over the back of a chair before reaching for the lock.

He made his way back over to you without a word, nudging your legs apart just enough to settle between them, sinking onto his knees. His fingers went immediately to the delicate strap of your heels, the pads of his thumbs brushing against your skin as he worked.

“Wow. Didn’t even have to ask.”

Aaron barely glanced up, his focus on your ankle as he did his best to undo the tiny buckle – one-handed, no less, because his phone and wallet were still in his grip. “I take care of what’s mine.”

Your stomach did a little flip, but you refused to let him win just yet.

“Hold these.” He pressed his phone and wallet against your stomach, and you took them instinctively.

Your fingers brushed over the wallet – the one you had given him for his birthday last year, the worn leather soft and familiar against your palm. You turned it over in your hand, shaking your head. “Oof. Trusting me with your wallet? Big mistake, Hotchner.”

He slipped the first shoe off your foot. “Spend whatever you want,” he murmured, his fingers wrapping around your ankle, lifting it slightly. “Take whatever you want. Take everything.”

Before the words could even land, he dipped his head and pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your ankle. His lips continued to trail lower, placing another kiss just above the curve of your foot, then another, his movements achingly tender.

You exhaled a quiet, contented moan, your body melting into the cushions as his touch worked its magic. It was like he knew – of course he knew – the exact places that hurt, the spots that had been aching for hours, and now, with nothing more than his lips, his touch, his presence, he was undoing all of it.

Like he needed to make it better.

Like he wanted to erase every trace of discomfort you’d felt all night.

His hands skimmed up your calves, pushing your dress up, fingertips pressing gently into the sore muscles before his thumbs followed, kneading warmth back into you.

Then, with that same patient care, he reached for your other foot, undoing the second buckle. The strap slipped free and he set the shoe aside before his hands returned to you, skimming up the length of your legs.

And then his mouth followed. Kissing. Worshipping.

His lips trailed over your shin, each kiss pressing something deeper into you – something that made your chest feel full.

His breath was warm against your thigh when he mumbled, “Marry me, baby.”

You blinked down at him, another giggle slipping from your lips, light and breathless. “Aaron, we’re already married.”

You felt him smile against your skin.

“Marry me again.”

Another kiss.

“And again.”

Another.

“And again.”

Your fingers slipped into his hair, tugging it slightly, your heart stuttering as warmth curled deep in your stomach.

He looked up then, eyes full of love, lips hovering just above your skin.

“As many times as you’ll have me.”

And just like that, you knew – you’d say yes to him a thousand times over.

dividers by cafekitsune

blue collar!rafe overhears his sons friends simping over you :0

cw : cussing, lewd language, emmett & his friends are 17/18

they shouldn’t have been talking about you. they really shouldn’t have been talking about you in rafe cameron’s house. but emmett and his buddies? not exactly known for their genius.

“dude, i’d risk it all for your mom,” tyler was saying, legs kicked up on the coffee table. “like, respectfully—”

“respectfully my ass,” marcus cut in, laughing. “ain’t nothin’ respectful about the way you were starin’ at her ass earlier.”

griffin shook his head, grinning. “if i was mr. cameron, i wouldn’t leave the damn house. i’d be hittin’ that shit all day.”

emmett groaned, tossing a throw pillow at marcus. “y’all are sick, that’s my mom, bro.”

“c’mon,” tyler grinned. “she’s milf and you know it.”

“seriously,” marcus added. “you think your dad gets tired of it? or is he just like… constantly—”

“constantly what?”

the voice didn’t belong to any of them. all four heads whipped around, blood draining from their faces in unison. rafe stood in the doorway—boots still dusty from work, forearms filthy, shirt sticking to his chest from the heat. he’d clearly just come in. silently. stealth mode. but from the amused look on his face, he’d been listening for a while. emmett slapped both hands over his face. “oh my God.”

“hi boys,” rafe said with a smile that could kill. no one breathed. he walked further into the room, that confident, slow stride that somehow made him even scarier. “y’all have a good day at school?” not a single one of them answered. rafe nodded thoughtfully, wiping his hand on a rag from his back pocket. “you know, it’s funny,” he said, eyes flicking between the boys. “i leave for ten hours to keep a damn roof over my family’s heads… come home, and the first thing i hear is how three of my son’s friends wanna fuck my wife.”

tyler made a noise like he was choking, marcus paled, and griffin looked one second away from vomiting on the rug. rafe’s smirk grew. “now i get it—teenage boys, hormones, poor impulse control. but lemme clear one thing up real quick,” he leaned forward just slightly, eyes twinkling. “she’s mine.”

he let the words hang in the air before continuing, voice smug as ever. “you wanna know if i get tired of hittin’ that?” he scoffed, shaking his head. “hell no. i thank God every damn morning that i get to come home to that woman.”

“ew, dad—“ emmett groaned, praying that his dad would shut his mouth. the other boys just stared, frozen.

rafe stepped back toward the kitchen, already grabbing a beer from the fridge. but he couldn’t resist the final blow—turning over his shoulder and grinning wide. “sorry to break it to y’boys, but i don’t think y’all really have a chance…‘specially since she’s been moanin’ my name since 2015.”

“oh my g—dad, STOP!” emmett shouted, face in his hands again, mortified.

rafe just laughed, ruffling his son’s hair as he walked by. “lighten up, son. it’s not my fault your mom’s hot.” and with that, he disappeared into the hallway. the silence that followed was painful.

until griffin open his big mouth again, “okay…but, like… your dad’s kinda hot too?”

tyler burst out laughing. marcus started wheezing.

emmett let out a long groan. “okay, can y’all stop simping over both of my parents?!”

https://vt.tiktok.com/ZSkf4Yfqm/

I saw this TikTok and it's so cute! Can you write smt like this with military!rafe, I just feel like this would happen with them lol.

(for the sake of this blurb, the twins’ names are callum && emerson)

rafe’s packing his things for deployment, shirts and rations piled onto the living room floor while one of your twin boys sit on the couch watching tv. you’re in the kitchen, brows furrowing before you yell, “cal, come here baby!”

momentarily looking up from his task, he notices the little boy still sitting on the couch, before he says to him, “callum, your momma’s callin’ you, don’t ignore her.”

he doesn’t budge.

rafe doesn’t even notice the other boy beginning to clamber down and make his way over to the kitchen while he discards his bag. “callum?” he asks confused, pointing to emerson who’s still sitting on the couch, tilting his head at his dad before shaking his head.

“no?” rafe repeats, eyes flicking over to the toddler waddling over to the kitchen. moving around the couch, rafe catches up to the little legs, picking him up in his arms before questioning, “are you callum or emerson?”

you lift your eyes from where you’re cooking, shaking your head at the exchange but keeping quiet, letting rafe figure it out on his own.

“i callum,” the toddler babbles, and you’re grateful that they’re too young to have developed the trick of pretending to be the other twin.

“jesus, you’re callum,” he mutters, settling the boy on the kitchen counter for you to talk to him as you first wanted to.

“mixing up our kids rafe?” you chuckle, focusing your attention onto callum who’s trying to grab the potatoes you just cut, prying it gently out of his hands.

“no, dunno where you got that from,” he grumbles, not accepting his mistake in his usual stubborn fashion. walking back to the couch, the look he gives emerson, a slight cock of his head and narrow eyes as if to make sure it’s really him, doesn’t quite go over your head. you’ve seen it too often - rafe always mixes up your kids.