13 songs I've had on repeat!! I was tagged by @probablily 🤭
1. iloveitiloveitiloveit - Bella Kay
2. take me home - Betty
3. DtMF - Bad Bunny
4. Figured You Out - Devkota
5. Pardesiya - Sachin-Jigar, Sonu Nigam, Krishnakali Saha
6. California Rain - James Marriott
7. Chemistry - Gigi Perez
8. Little Bit Closer - Sam Fender
9. Spit Of You - Sam Fender
10. I'll Believe In Anything - Wolf Parade
11. Ain't No Mountain High Enough - Marvin Gaye, Tammi Terrell
12. Be Your Drug - Circa Waves
13. Sleeping On Trains - James Marriott
Might be a few there from my Ilya playlist lmao
now tagging: @elxxtra @ulooklikeanegg @ily8z @dancininseptember @somnolentshepherd @intotheblindinglight + any other moots who wanna do it and say i tagged you <3
he’s still a little out of breath when it hits him that you’re shivering.
not in a bad way. just that soft, floaty come-down where your body hasn’t caught up to your brain yet, skin still sensitive, limbs loose, eyes half-lidded like you’re about to fall asleep mid-sentence.
“hey,” he says, voice lower than usual, rough around the edges but gentle where it counts. his hand comes up automatically, big and warm at the back of your neck. “you cold?”
you mumble something that might be a no, but you’re already curling into him, cheek pressed to his chest, and that’s answer enough.
rafe’s whole demeanor shifts. the cocky grin, the smug little comments—gone. replaced with this quiet, focused version of him that only shows up when it’s just you two and the world’s shut out. he reaches for the throw at the end of the bed, wraps it around your shoulders, tucks it in like he’s done it a hundred times.
“sit up for me a sec,” he murmurs, brushing your hair back so it’s not sticking to your face. you do, slow and pliant, and he presses a kiss to your forehead like it’s instinct. not showy, not teasing. just there.
he grabs a water bottle from the nightstand and holds it out.
“drink.” he says, softer. when you take a few sips, he watches like it’s the most important thing in the world, thumb rubbing absent circles into your thigh.
you’re still a little dazed, leaning into him, and he can’t stop touching you—nothing needy, nothing urgent, just grounding. your arm, your shoulder, the back of your hand. like he’s making sure you’re real, still here, still his.
“you good?” he asks after a minute.
you nod against his collarbone. “mhm.”
“yeah?” he tilts his head so he can see your face, searching, that familiar crease between his brows. “tell me if you’re not. don’t just say it.”
you smile, sleepy and sincere. “i’m good, rafe.”
that does it. the tension leaves his shoulders, and he pulls you closer until you’re basically in his lap, blanket and all.
he reaches for your hoodie off the chair and helps you into it, guiding your arms through like you’re made of glass. then he presses another kiss to your temple, lingering this time.
“my girl,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.
you’re already melting into him, breathing even, fingers fisting lightly in his shirt. he leans back against the headboard, one arm around you, the other tracing slow patterns on your back—mindless, repetitive, steady.
the room is quiet except for the faint hum of the air conditioner and your breathing syncing with his, and he keeps you there until you fall asleep, blanket tucked, water within reach. he doesn’t move for a long time after, just listening to you breathe and feeling stupidly, ridiculously soft about it.
I know you said you don’t like writing smut that much but can I have Rafe taking reader from the back and he’s like “Don’t run just take it” or smth🥹?
i actually don’t hate writing smut but i feel like the way write it is very disconnected and robot like so i am trying to get better :).
military!rafe masterlist
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rafe’s got you face-down on the mattress, one big hand planted between your shoulder blades, pressing your chest into the sheets while the other grips your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints. your ass is arched up, knees spread wide, and he’s buried deep, thick cock splitting you open with every slow, punishing thrust.
you’re already shaking. overstimulated, too full, the stretch burning so good it’s almost too much. he’s been at it for what feels like forever, switching between long, deep strokes and sharp snaps of his hips that make your toes curl and your breath hitch into the pillow.
“rafe—fuck—too deep,” you gasp, voice muffled against the silk.
he doesn’t slow down. if anything, he leans over you more, chest pressing to your back, lips brushing the shell of your ear.
“nah, baby,” he rasps, drawl thick and heavy. “you can take it. you’re takin’ it so fuckin’ good right now.”
his hips roll forward again, grinding so deep you feel him in your stomach. your hands fist the sheets, trying to anchor yourself, but the pressure builds too fast. instinct kicks in and you reach back blindly, palm flattening against the hard plane of his abs, pushing weakly like you could actually move him.
“rafe—wait—i can’t—”
he chuckles low, rough, the sound vibrating through his chest into your back. his hand leaves your hip to catch your wrist mid-push, pinning it to the mattress beside your head without breaking rhythm.
“don’t do that,” he murmurs, lips grazing your shoulder. “don’t run from it, mama. you know you love this cock stretchin’ you out.”
you whimper, trying to crawl forward anyway—knees sliding an inch on the sheets, desperate for even a second of relief from how full you feel. but rafe’s faster. his free arm bands around your waist, yanking you back flush against his hips so his cock sinks even deeper.
“where you goin’?” he growls, voice dropping lower. “huh? thought you wanted it. begged for it earlier. said you needed me to fuck you stupid.”
another hard thrust. sharp enough to make your vision blur. you cry out, fingers scrabbling at the sheets, trying to push off again. your palm finds his stomach once more, pushing futilely against the flexing muscle.
“rafe—please—too much—”
he catches that hand too, pinning both your wrists above your head now, caging you completely. his chest presses heavier against your back, weight pinning you down, cock still driving in and out with relentless precision.
“stop runnin’,” he says against your ear, breath hot and ragged. “you don’t get to push me away when you’re clenchin’ around me like this. feel that? how tight you’re grippin’ me? your pussy’s beggin’ for it, baby. she knows who she belongs to.”
he punctuates it with a slow grind. hips circling, cock stirring deep inside you until you’re trembling, thighs quaking, a broken moan spilling out.
“that’s it,” he praises, voice softer now but still edged with command. “take it. take every fuckin’ inch. you’re mine. every part of you. don’t you dare crawl away from me.”
he releases your wrists just long enough to slide both hands back to your ass, gripping the cheeks hard, spreading you open wider so he can watch himself disappear inside you. the new angle makes you see stars. every thrust hitting deeper, harder, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room.
“look at that,” he groans, voice wrecked. “takin’ me so deep… pussy’s so greedy for it. you’re not goin’ anywhere till i fill you up.”
you’re beyond words now, just whimpers, gasps, body shaking as he fucks you into the mattress. he leans down again, lips brushing your spine, then your ear.
“say it,” he demands quietly. “say you’re gonna take it all.”
“i’m—i’m gonna take it,” you manage, voice trembling. “all of it—rafe—please—”
“good girl.”
he speeds up, snapping his hips harder, faster until you’re both right there. your orgasm hits first, walls fluttering and squeezing around him like a vice. he curses low, thrusts turning erratic, and then he’s coming too. deep, hot pulses flooding you, cock throbbing as he grinds through it, making sure every drop stays inside.
he doesn’t pull out right away. just collapses over you being careful not to crush you, arms caging you in, lips pressing soft kisses to your shoulder, your neck, the back of your ear.
“you okay?” he whispers, voice gentle now, thumb stroking your wrist where he’d pinned it.
you nod, still catching your breath, body limp and sated. “yeah… ”
he chuckles low, kissing your temple. “told you not to run from it.”
you huff a tired laugh. “noted.”
he finally slips out slow, both of you groaning at the loss, then rolls you onto your back, settling between your thighs again.
a/n; also is it just me who doesn’t find the appeal in doggy position… like it feels so boring.
the four of you - the twins, you and simon are sitting in the living room together while the girls unpack their bags to take out the surprise they made him for father's day.
"daddy! look what we made for you!"
simon's eyes brighten in anticipation for his gifts. he loves being appreciated by his girls, whether they show it by using his tattoos as a coloring book, inviting him to their super secret tea parties, or now, drawing him.
the first twin hands him her paper and reveals a crayon-drawn version of him that is...about eight feet tall. he's been drawn with wild, jagged strokes that make him look like some kind of contorted action figure, but she is beaming ear to ear, looking very proud of herself. "y'like it?" she chirps.
simon presses his lips together tightly so he doesn't laugh. a snort does leave him unintentionally, but he catches it on time and covers it with a cough. he's trying so hard to be serious, but it's hard when the kid drew his neck twice the size of his torso and has his arms reaching down to his feet. goodness gracious.
"y'really went all ou' on that height, bug." he says, keeping his voice low and calm, as if he's inspecting enemy intel on a mission. he nods, studying the drawing intently. "very good. drew my proportions-" he pauses, really really holding in another chuckle. "-very accurate."
she beams. your other twin crawls her way up onto your lap so she can see better, wanting her turn now. you can sense her impatience by the way she's bouncing on you.
the first twin giggles, pointing at the paper. "yep! i made your arms huge so you can pick me and sissy and mama up! and your legs are strong for running!"
he nods again, trying to keep the corners of his mouth down. why did my own daughter make me look like a giant mutant?
the twin on your lap pushes her way forward, tired of waiting, and his eyes drift over to hers. here, simon's body is shaped as a giant blob in which she tried to draw him at least 900 pounds of pure "muscle". she seems to have forgotten to draw his neck and shoulders as well. simon blinks at it, straightens his back as if holding military posture, because he cannot, cannot, laugh.
she's now laying with her legs in your lap and her torso on his with wide, innocent eyes, expecting admiration too. "look! mine's better than sissy's, see? she made you reaaaaallly tall, but i made you reeeeeeeally big! it's better cause you're big like this in real life too! you can pick me and sis and mama up all together in one go!"
"mhm, 'm quite big." he mutters seriously. "i love 'ow y'captured my muscular physique, love. looks jus' like me."
she giggles and pushes the drawing right up in his face while the first twin comes to join her sister on top of both you and simon. "i drew extra muscles so you could fight bad guys!"
he presses the back of his hand to his mouth, taking another deep breath. he's restraining himself from hurting his babies' feelings, which is difficult as he looks between his two portraits; the one where he's shaped like a marshmallow and the other where he looks like a character from a horror movie. "mhm… very nice."
he gives them both hugs and kisses atop their fluffy hair, repeating his thanks to them. he's holding them close but still pretending nothing is funny. " 've nev'r seen a better recon of Daddy in m'life. well done girls."
the twins are absolutely delighted by his reaction and oblivious to his amusement. now he has to somehow keep a straight face all day while he walks around in a house filled with giant, muscle-bound, slightly terrifying drawings of himself.
when you come in to watch your husband put up the pictures in his study to ensure guests don't see - johnny, kyle and john wouldn't let him hear the end of it if they walked in on the drawings up on the fridge - simon turns to you, "we need to put those two in art classes as soon as possible."
my take on military!rafe’s body details (so like height or piercings).
warnings: i am using very technical terms about male anatomy which may be vulgar for some and reader is described to be shorter than rafe.
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height
rafe stands at 6’3” (190.5 cm). tall enough that he has to duck slightly under the doorway frame in the old farmhouse kitchen, tall enough that when he crowds you against the counter your head barely reaches his collarbone.
when he stands behind you in the mirror you can see his entire head above you.
weight & build
he’s around 205–215 lbs, depending on how intense his training is during deployment cycles.
he’s not a lean, cut gym-bro type but he’s built like someone who actually uses his body for work: military drills, hauling hay bales, or wrestling goats back into pens.
there’s muscle everywhere, but it’s not shredded and there’s a soft layer over the top from home-cooked meals and lazy weekends.
his abs are there. visible when he flexes or when he’s on top of you but they’re not carved marble.
just enough give that softness when you rest your head on his stomach like the perfect pillow.
body fat
he’s about 20% body fat (according to this) when he’s consistent with training. enough definition that you can trace the lines of his obliques but not hard angles and his pecs have a little squish when you squeeze them.
below the belt details
uncut (idk it just fits).
length: 7 inches when fully hard, depending on how turned on he is (might be controversial but the average male is like five inches and i think he’s well above average).
he’s sensitive around the frenulum; if you tease it with your tongue he’ll buck and curse under his breath.
he’s a leaker. pre-cum beads at the tip often, especially when you’re teasing him or just looking at him a certain way.
hidden freckles & other details
yes—freckles.
a light scattering across his shoulders and upper back from years of shirtless farm work and the sun.
a few on the bridge of his nose that only show up after a full summer outside.
a thin happy trail of dark hair that starts just below his navel and disappears into his boxers.
scars & marks
small, faded bullet graze on his left upper arm from his first tour.
a jagged knife scar low on his right side (shrapnel fragment, stitched in the field).
stretch marks on his upper back/shoulders from rapid muscle growth in basic training.
a few surgical scars on his knee from an old football injury in high school.
crooked nose (broken twice—once in high school, once in basic).
tattoos
your initials + wedding date:
location: left ribcage, just under his heart
small, clean black script: your first initial + last initial intertwined with the date you got married (roman numerals for the year, because he thought it looked “cleaner”).
he got it two weeks after the wedding, on a whim, while you were still on your honeymoon.
kids’ birth coordinates:
location: inside his left forearm, near the elbow crease
tiny, minimalist latitude/longitude numbers for the hospital where miles was born and the home birth spot for zara.
no names, no dates, just the coordinates. subtle enough that he can cover it with a watch or long sleeve on base, but he rolls his sleeve up around the house so you can see it when he’s holding them. he got it after zara.
semper fi (meaning always faithful" or "always loyal):
location: right upper back, between shoulder blades
classic marine corps “semper fidelis” in old english font, small and understated.
he got it after his first tour, drunk with topper in a shitty tattoo shop near camp.
it’s faded a little now, but he won’t touch it up. says it reminds him of the brothers he lost and the ones he still has.
piercings
he had one on his left earlobe when he was 17.
a single silver stud he got on a dare with topper and kelce during a kook party. ward lost his mind when he saw it (“you look like a goddamn pirate”), so rafe took it out after a week. the hole closed eventually, but there’s still a tiny, faint scar — barely noticeable unless you’re staring at his ear.
no other piercings now. he jokes sometimes that he’d get his nipple pierced if you asked, but you both know he’d chicken out the second the needle came out.
hair
rafe keeps his hair military-short year-round buzzed sides and back, a little longer on top (maybe half an inch when he’s stateside and letting it grow out).
he gets it cut every 3–4 weeks at the same barber in town, a vet who still uses a straight razor on the neckline.
rafe sits in the chair joking with the old man about “keeping it tight for the wife.” he doesn’t style it much, maybe adds a little pomade if he’s going somewhere nice.
when it grows out a bit, it gets that soft curl at the nape you love to tug at and he lets you wash it in the shower sometimes.
beard / facial hair
he’s usually clean-shaven or with light stubble (2–3 days’ worth) when he’s home.
he shaves in the mornings before his showers but doesn’t like a full beard; says it itches gets too hot in the field.
body hair
• chest: none because i hate when men have chest hair.
• happy trail: starting just below his navel and thickening as it disappears into his boxers.
• arms/legs: natural because he chooses not to shave his legs and there’s no reason to shave your arm hair.
• pubic hair: trimmed but not shaved. he keeps it groomed enough that it doesn’t get in the way.
• back/shoulders: almost none. smooth, tanned skin with a few freckles scattered across the upper back.
grooming routine
showers twice a day: once in the morning and once at night. uses cedarwood body wash and your shampoo when he wants to smell like you.
manscaping: trims pubes every 10–14 days with clippers until smooth because “you like it when i’m clean down there.”
nails: keeps them short and clean (military habit). files them every week or so.
skincare: face wash, moisturizer, sunscreen (you force the sunscreen on him). he pretends to hate it but secretly loves when you do it for him with your fingers massaging his face, his eyes closing like he’s melting.
cologne: light when he’s home. something woodsy and clean (sandalwood or cedar). he sprays it on his neck and wrists but during deployment he doesn’t wear any.
a/n; as i was writing this, tumblr added a mature warning but it’s whatever!! this is also my opinion so if you disagree then idk what to say.
i wonder what rafe does for the family during black history month
i have been waiting for a request like this so thank you anon. also, happy black history month to my fellow black queens and kings!
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military!rafe masterlist
(i love that middle picture)
rafe takes bhm very seriously and not only because his wife is black (if you imagine it that way) but also because his children would be raised in that culture since we all know rafe doesn’t really have any of his own.
he wouldn’t try to teach them about black experiences that would be wife’s job since she has a firsthand account but he would teach miles, since he’s old enough, about black inventors like the ironing board invented by Sarah Boone, the three-light traffic signal invented by Garrett Morgan, carbon light bulb filament invented by Lewis Latimer, methods of storing blood plasma transfusion invented by Dr. Charles Drew, first successful heart surgery by Dr. Daniel Hale Williams and more.
he would throw in random facts too like while they’re feeding the chickens or working in the garden, he’ll say something like: “you know george washington carver helped farmers like us? he figured out peanuts could fix the soil after cotton wore it out. that’s why we rotate crops now.” and miles thinks it’s so cool that “someone like me” made farming better.
rafe’s reaction to those “mixed people only get half the month” or “12 hours of black history every day” jokes is pretty straightforward: he doesn’t find them funny, and he’ll shut them down quick if they come up around him or his kids.
he’s not the type to get loudly offended or start fights over memes, he’s too old for that now, but he thinks they’re lazy and honestly kind of disrespectful. to him, black history isn’t a “half-month” thing or a quota to fill. the idea that his kids should only get “half” the recognition or celebration rubs him the wrong way because it implies their black heritage is optional.
overall, y/n would share more personal details of black history like teaching the kids about slavery, lynching, the KKK, Jim Crow etc and rafe would handle the historical facts like the first black woman to do this or who helped in agriculture, music, or film!
a/n; i know that mixed people getting half the month are only jokes i just think rafe wouldn’t find them funny… but is it really his place to speak on that as a white man🤔?
Heyyy!! I’ve been recently obsessed with ur military!rafe fics!!! Especially since they’re black reader friendly🥹😁 and I was wondering for military!Rafe if u could do something like reader surprises rafe with a good southern home cooked meal after his deployment? All the soul food!! I’m talkimg fried chicken, baked Mac and cheese, collard greens, candied yams, corn bread, etc
thank you for the kind words <3! and i will forever continue to write with ‘black!reader’ in mind.
if this sounds like a recipe at some points, it’s because i was reading an article on how to make soul food while writing this.
military!rafe masterlist
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it is pitch black outside when your alarm goes off at 5:17 a.m.
you reach for your phone, silencing it before it becomes annoying but rafe’s text from last night still sits on the screen: ‘wheels down at 0200 and i’m driving straight home. i love you.’
you read it three times last night, giddy with excitement like a schoolgirl about to go shopping.
nine months. nine months of the empty side of the bed, of holding the phone to zara’s ear so she could hear his voice crackle through, of miles asking every single night if daddy would be home tomorrow and today he will be.
you slip out of bed, socked feet (because of the cold), silent on the cold floorboards.
rafe’s old usmc t-shirt sits on you, the fabric’s words and color fading from repeated use and in the hallway you pause at miles’s door. his small shape curled under the quilt, one arm flung over his stuffed truck.
you walk towards the end of the hall and look into zara’s crib, where she sleeps with her thumb in her mouth and her favorite stuffed pig won in a ticket raffle.
your chest aches with how much you’ve missed him, but today the ache feels different like something finally loosening after being knotted too hard.
in the kitchen you start on the coffee first to wake up then you pull out the biggest mixing bowl, the cast-iron skillet that’s been in your family for three generations, and the heavy stockpot.
everything is already prepped from yesterday: chicken pieces soaking in buttermilk seasoned with paprika, garlic powder, cayenne, and a little of your homemade creole seaoning; greens washed and chopped; yams peeled and sliced.
you heat the oil in the skillet first on medium-high and the first batch of chicken goes in skin-side down. the sizzle is immediate and satisfying, filling the kitchen with that deep, savory flavor that makes your stomach growl. you watch the edges turn golden, turning each piece carefully with tongs, ensuring the crust is golden and crisp.
by the time the first pieces are draining on the wire rack, miles appears in the doorway, rubbing his eyes, hair sticking up in every direction. “mama? is daddy coming?”
“he is, baby. today.” you open your arms and he runs to you, pressing his face into your stomach. “we’re making all his favorites so the house smells yummy when he walks in.”
miles’s eyes light up. “can i help?”
“always.” you drag out his step stool, tie one of rafe’s old aprons around him, and hand him a wooden spoon. “the greens need to be stirred. slow circles, okay?”
he takes the job seriously, leaning over the stockpot where the greens are already wilting in the smoky ham-hock broth. you add extra flavors as necessary, tasting as you go until the bitterness changes into your desired flavor.
zara wakes next, her soft cry crackling over the monitor. you bring her down, change her, and set her in the high chair with a handful of cheerios. she immediately starts banging her spoon, babbling and entering herself.
biscuit and shadow appear at your feet, tails wagging, pressing their warm bodies against your legs every time you move between the stove and counter. biscuit whines when the chicken scent gets stronger while shadow just leans his whole weight into your thigh, hoping for a dropped piece of food.
you let them have a few tiny scraps, crispy skin bits, a corner of biscuit dough, and shadow’s tail thumps hard against the cabinet and biscuit does his happy dance, spinning in circles before flopping down with a satisfied huff.
the mac and cheese comes together next. you boil the elbows then make the roux. butter and flour whisked in with the is milk poured in gradually by miles, thickening into silk.
you stir in handfuls of sharp cheddar, gouda, parmesan, and cayenne. the sauce coats the pasta in glossy ribbons; you pour it into the big casserole dish, top it with more cheese, a dusting of paprika, and slide it into the oven beside the yams that are already caramelizing, their edges turning sticky-sweet with brown sugar, cinnamon, and butter.
miles helps sprinkle the panko on top, his little fingers careful because, “daddy likes the crunchy part best,” he says.
“he does. you remembered.”
the cornbread batter is ready; cornmeal, buttermilk, a little sugar because rafe likes it sweet and you pour it into the hot cast-iron skillet. it hisses on contact, the edges already crisping. you slide that into the oven too, timing everything so the biscuits can go in last.
the house smells like everything good in the world and you check the clock. rafe texted fifty minutes ago that he was an hour out. your hands shake a little as you plate the chicken on the big platter, arrange the greens in a bowl with the pot cover over them, and a spoon in the mac and cheese so it can be plated easier. you set the table with the good plates, cloth napkins, mason jars of sweet tea you brewed yesterday and left in the fridge to get cold and sweeter.
miles helps set out the silverware, counting each fork out loud. zara watches from her high chair, kicking her legs, chanting “da-da” every few minutes.
you hear the truck first, gravel crunching, the low rumble of the diesel engine you’d recognize anywhere. shadow and biscuit explode toward the door, barking like the world is ending. miles freezes, eyes huge. “mama?”
“go,” you whisper, voice thick.
he runs. bare feet slapping wood, screen door flying open. you scoop zara up, heart hammering, and follow.
rafe is already out of the truck, duffel dropped in the dirt, kneeling before miles reaches him. miles launches himself into rafe’s arms with a cry that sounds half-laugh, half-sob. rafe catches him, stands, and spins him once, burying his face in miles’s curls.
“daddy! you’re home! you’re really home!”
“i’m home, buddy. i missed you so much.” rafe’s voice cracks on the last word. he kisses miles’s temple, holds him tight, eyes closed like he’s memorizing the weight of his son.
zara sees him and squeals, arms out. rafe shifts miles to one hip, takes zara from you, and presses his cheek to hers. “there’s my princess. look how big you are. daddy missed you every single day.”
zara lays her head on his shoulder babbling excitedly, touching his cheeks, his nose, his jaw. rafe laughs and kisses her fingers.
then his eyes find yours.
he sets the kids down gently, steps forward, and pulls you in so hard your breath leaves you. his arms lock around your waist, one hand cradling the back of your head, mouth finding yours in a kiss as you clutch his t-shirt, feel the solid warmth of him, the way he trembles just slightly.
“baby,” he breathes against your lips. “i missed you so much.”
“you’re home,” you whisper, tears slipping free. “you’re finally home.”
he kisses you again then rests his forehead against yours and glances back towards the house. “smells like heaven in there.”
“made your favorites,” you say. “all of them.”
rafe’s eyes soften even more. he kisses you once more, then turns to the kids. “y’all ready to eat the best meal your mama ever made?”
miles nods so hard until he starts swaying and zara claps her hands happily unaware of what’s happening.
inside, the table is a feast. fried chicken, baked mac and cheese, collard greens, candied yams, cornbread, biscuits, and peach cobbler waiting under a cloth for dessert.
rafe stops in the doorway, eyes wide. “y/n…”
“sit,” you say softly. “let me feed my husband.”
he pulls out your chair first, then sits with zara on his lap and miles beside him. you fill his plate, three pieces of chicken, a mountain of mac and cheese, greens, yams, cornbread, a biscuit on the side. he takes the first bite of chicken and groans, head dropping back.
“this is… baby, this is better than anything i dreamed about over there in those nasty cafeterias.” he takes another bite, eyes closing dramatically.
miles beams. “i stirred the greens, daddy!”
“i can tell,” rafe says, ruffling his hair. “they’re perfect, buddy.”
zara reaches for a piece of cornbread, smearing it into her mouth. rafe wipes the crumbs with his thumb. “slow down, princess. it’s not goin’ anywhere.”
you watch them across the table. rafe’s shoulders finally relaxed, miles chattering between bites, zara leaning into her daddy’s chest like she never wants to let go. the dogs lie under the table, tails thumping, hoping for dropped scraps.
rafe reaches across the table, takes your hand, squeezes. “thank you,” he says quietly, eyes shining. “for this and for waiting.”
you squeeze back. “always worth it.”
he lifts your hand to his lips, kisses your knuckles, then goes back to his plate like it’s the first real meal he’s had in months. conversation flows easy with miles telling stories about the goats and rafe laughing at all the right places. the sun lowers slightly, hues of orange and pink filtering through the window as the world outside slows, isolating this one moment.
rafe finishes his second plate, leans back, and pulls you three close. “best homecoming i could ever ask for,” he murmurs food drunk. “love you. all of you.”
a/n; i have around six more requests to get to that should all be out this month (hopefully). nerd!rafe fic coming soon👀.
very self indulgent cause i love when men have a porn stache…
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you’re on the porch swinging zara asleep against your shoulder, miles coloring at the little table with his tongue poking out in concentration, when you hear the familiar rumble of rafe’s truck coming up the gravel drive.
three months. ninety-two days, to be exact. one of the longest stretch yet.
your heart starts pounding the second the truck comes into view. miles drops his crayon and bolts to the railing.
“daddy’s home! daddy’s home!”
you stand carefully, shifting zara to your hip, and step to the edge of the porch just as rafe climbs out.
he looks… different.
he left with light stubble, the kind that felt soft when he kissed you goodbye. but now there’s a full mustache. thick, dark, perfectly trimmed, curving down the sides of his mouth in that classic 80s porn star way. it’s so out of left field you almost laugh, but then he smiles. that wide, eyes-crinkling smile and everything else fades.
he drops his duffel on the ground and opens his arms.
miles reaches him first, launching off the steps like a missile. rafe catches him mid-air, swinging him up high before pulling him into a crushing hug.
“there’s my boy,” he says, voice rough with emotion, burying his face in miles’ curls.
he kisses miles’ cheek three times and miles immediately shrieks with laughter, squirming.
“daddy! it tickles!”
rafe pulls back just enough to grin. “yeah? you don’t like daddy’s new look?”
“it’s funny!” miles giggles, reaching up to touch it with sticky fingers. “you look like a superhero!”
zara’s fully awake now, arms outstretched, making grabby hands. “dada!”
rafe sets miles down and takes her from you gently, like she’s made of glass. the second her little face is close to his, he peppers it with kisses and zara dissolves into delighted squeals, tiny hands pushing at his face.
“it tickles! tickles, daddy!”
rafe laughs, deep and happy, holding her close while she wriggles and giggles. “guess the mustache is a hit with the kids.”
you haven’t said a word yet. you’re just standing there, taking him in.
the broader shoulders from whatever hellish training they put him through, the deeper tan, the exhaustion around his eyes that hasn’t quite faded… and that damn mustache framing his smile in a way that’s doing something unholy to your stomach.
he finally looks at you fully, eyes softening. “hey, baby.”
you step into his arms, careful of zara between you, and he pulls you both close with his free arm. he kisses your temple, then your cheek, thenthe corner of your mouth, letting the mustache brush your skin.
you shiver. actually shiver.
he notices. of course he does.
his voice drops to that low rumble only you hear. “you okay, baby?”
you swallow, trying to play it cool. “yeah. just… missed you.”
he kisses you properly then, slow and deep, and the mustache tickles your upper lip in a way that sends heat straight through you. when he pulls back, his eyes are darker.
“missed you more,” he murmurs.
miles tugs at his leg. “daddy, show me your mustache up close!”
rafe crouches again, letting both kids inspect it. miles poking it, zara trying to grab it. they’re obsessed, giggling every time he “attacks” them with tickly kisses.
you watch the whole thing, arms crossed, biting the inside of your cheek to hide how much you’re loving it.
later, after baths and stories and both kids finally asleep, rafe finds you in the bathroom brushing out your hair. he’s shirtless, uniform pants still on, leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed, watching you in the mirror.
“so,” he says, voice low, “the kids like the mustache.”
you meet his eyes in the reflection, try to keep your face neutral. “they do. it’s cute.”
he pushes off the doorframe, steps behind you, hands sliding around your waist. “and on you?”
you shrug, playing coy. “it’s… different.”
he leans down, lips brushing your neck and there it is again, that soft-rough tickle of the mustache against your skin. you can’t hide the smile on your face.
“different good?” he murmurs, kissing along your jaw, deliberate drags of the mustache with every press of his lips.
your breath catches. “maybe.”
he turns you around, backs you gently against the counter, hands on either side of you. “just maybe?”
you reach up, fingers tracing the edge of it, feeling the way it frames his mouth. “okay… fine. it’s really hot.”
his grin is slow and filthy. “yeah?”
“yeah,” you admit, voice breathy. “didn’t expect that. but god, rafe…”
he kisses you then letting the mustache tease your lips, your cheeks, the sensitive spot under your ear until you’re clutching his shoulders and making those little sounds he loves.
when he pulls back, eyes dark, he brushes it against your lips one more time on purpose.
“guess it’s staying, then.”
you nod, already pulling him toward the bedroom.
“definitely staying.”
a/n; i’m back… i think… i realized that i enjoy just writing whatever and it’ll take me longer to get to requests. but i loveee when men have a porn stache so i had to write this.
UM HELLO?? can someone tell me what this means? i have never used ai to write fanfics for me but when i first started writing i let it like check over my work and format it better so maybe i understand if my old ones do but i don’t proof read my stuff anymore or tell chatgpt to do it.
i took offense to this because the multiple days i spend struggling to finish fics was not done by ai.
Military Rafe who finds out readers when he’s away!
i assumed that the missing word was “pregnant” so that’s what i wrote about. this is a kind of flashback scene from before zara.
main masterlist
military!rafe masterlist
the time difference is brutal, your city is five hours behind wherever rafe is right now, some dusty forward operating base he can’t name in messages. it’s 2:47 a.m. your time when your phone lights up with the incoming video call. you’ve been lying awake for hours, staring at the ceiling fan blades slicing slow circles in the dark, hand resting on your stomach like it might tell you something or calm your nerves.
you answer on the second ring, keeping your voice low so miles doesn’t wake in the next room.
rafe’s face fills the screen, grainy, lit only by the blue glow of a laptop in a tent. he’s in his tan t-shirt, sleeves tight around his biceps, dog tags glinting. his hair’s a little longer than regs allow, curling at the nape, and there are shadows under his eyes that weren’t there last week. but when he sees you, his whole expression softens.
“hey, baby,” he says, voice rough from shouting orders all day and whispering now so the guys in the next cot don’t hear. “you’re up late.”
“couldn’t sleep.” you shift the phone so the lamp on the nightstand catches your face better. “missed your voice.”
he exhales, rubs a hand over his jaw. “missed yours more. how’s our boy?”
“asleep. told me today he wants a baby sister so he can teach her how to ride the goats.” you smile. “he’s already planning.”
rafe chuckles. “kid’s got big dreams. we’ll see what we can do about that when i’m home.”
you swallow. your free hand drifts back to your stomach, fingers splaying over the flat plane that still looks exactly the same. no bump yet. no flutter. just a secret that’s been sitting heavy in your chest for three days.
“rafe,” you start, voice quieter than you mean it to be.
his brows knit. he leans closer to the camera like he can reach through it. “what’s wrong, sugar? you okay?”
you nod too fast. “yeah. yeah, i’m good. i just—” you take a breath, let it out slow. “i need to tell you something.”
he goes still. the playful light in his eyes fades, replaced by that sharp, focused look he gets when something’s serious. “talk to me.”
you sit up a little, pull the quilt higher and continue. “the dogs have been… weird. since last week. shadow especially. he follows me everywhere, nose right at my stomach like he’s trying to figure something out. biscuit too. he keeps pressing his head against me, whining soft. i thought maybe i spilled something on my shirt at first, but… it kept happening.”
rafe’s quiet, listening hard. you can see his throat move when he swallows.
“so friday morning,” you continue, “i took a test. three of them. all positive.”
the words hang there. for a second the connection glitches—his face freezes, pixels stuttering, then clears.
rafe blinks once. twice. his mouth opens, closes. “you’re…?”
“pregnant,” you whisper, like saying it louder might make it disappear. “about six weeks, maybe seven. i have the doctor’s appointment next thursday to confirm, but… yeah. we’re having another baby.”
he stares at you through the screen like he’s trying to crawl inside it. his hand comes up, presses flat against the camera lens like he could touch you if he pushes hard enough. “baby…” and his eyes go glassy as he drops his head for a second, shoulders shaking once, twice. when he looks back up, tears are tracking down his cheeks, catching the blue light. he doesn’t wipe them away.
“fuck,” he breathes, voice cracking. “y/n… another baby. our baby.”
you nod, tears spilling now too. “i wanted to wait till you were home to tell you. wanted to see your face. but i couldn’t keep it in anymore. the dogs knew before i did.”
he laughs. “those mutts. always smarter than me.”
you wipe your eyes with the sleeve of his t-shirt. “i’m scared,” you admit. “not of having another one. just… doing it again without you here. miles was hard enough and you were gone for half of it.”
rafe’s expression hardens. “listen to me,” he says, voice low and steady even through the shaky connection. “you are the strongest woman i know. you’ve held our house down, raised our boy, kept everything running while i’m out here. you’re gonna do this again, and you’re gonna be fine. i’m comin’ home, baby. soon as this rotation’s up, i’m puttin’ in for leave. i’ll be there for every appointment after the first one. i’ll be there when you feel that first kick. i’ll be there when this little one comes. i swear it.”
you nod, throat too tight to speak.
he leans closer, like the distance is nothing. “tell me what you’re feelin’ right now. physically. are you sick? tired? anything hurt?”
“a little nauseous in the mornings,” you say. “tired all the time. breasts are sore. but mostly… i just feel alone.”
rafe’s hand presses harder against the screen. “i wish i could feel it. wish i could put my hand on you right now and feel them both—miles out there sleepin’ and this one right here with you.”
“soon,” you whisper.
“soon,” he echoes. then, softer: “what do you want? boy or girl?”
you smile through the tears. “healthy. that’s all. but miles keeps saying sister. says he wants to teach her how to fish.”
rafe laughs again. “he’s gonna be the best big brother. and if it’s a girl…” his voice drops, reverent. “another little piece of you? i’m done for.”
you laugh too, wiping your face. “she’d have you wrapped around her finger before she’s born.”
“already does,” he says, eyes shining. “just like her mama.”
the connection glitches again. lag then static but his face comes back clear. he’s crying openly now, not hiding it, not ashamed.
“i love you,” he says, fierce. “i love you so fuckin’ much. and i love this baby already. tell them daddy’s comin’ home. tell them i love them so much.”
“i will,” you promise. “every day.”
he nods, swallows hard. “i gotta go soon. lights out in ten. but i’m takin’ this with me, every word. i’m gonna replay it every night till i’m back in that bed with you.”
“i’ll be waiting,” you say. “we all will.”
rafe presses three fingers to his lips, then to the screen and you do the same.
“i love you, y/n.”
“i love you too, rafe. come home safe.”
by the foot of the bed, shadow whines softly, nose nudging your hand. you scratch his ears.
“he knows, boy. you told him first.”
a/n: this has been sitting in my requests since december 4th… i am a terrible person😔😔
i have been wanting to post this for a while but the mature content label is still there and i wasn’t even talking about anything sexual? i’ve said worse on here.
not sure if you were wanting smut or not but your wish is my command! also, the smut in this is actually terrible, i apologize in advance.
content warnings: age gap (consenting adults), tutor/student dynamic, praise kink, and mentions of family pressure and insecurity.
main masterlist
you pulled up to the sprawling cameron estate just as the afternoon sun dipped behind the palms. your car hummed quietly before you cut the engine, grabbing your bag filled with history texts and notebooks.
ward cameron had reached out weeks ago, sounding more exasperated than concerned about his son’s slipping grades.
rafe needed help pulling his history essays together if he wanted to maintain his standing at the university. you had built a reputation on the island for getting results with students who struggled despite their privilege, and after years of tutoring and your own winding path through academia and freelance writing, you knew exactly how to read between the lines of youthful potential.
the heavy front door swung open before you could knock.
there stood rafe, taller than you expected but slouched slightly as if trying to shrink into himself.
thick black-rimmed glasses sat crooked on his nose, his sandy hair tousled like he’d run his fingers through it one too many times.
a faded graphic tee featuring some obscure sci-fi reference peeked out from under an unbuttoned plaid shirt, and he clutched a worn notebook to his chest. he wasn’t the loud party type the rumors painted the cameron boys to be. instead he looked every bit the quiet bookworm lost in his own world.
“hey, um, you’re the tutor right?” he mumbled, eyes flicking down to your shoes before meeting yours briefly.
you stepped inside, the cool air conditioning a relief from the humid afternoon. “that’s me. rafe, i’m here to help with those history papers. shall we get started in the study?”
he nodded quickly, leading you down the hall. the study was lined with dark wood shelves overflowing with leather-bound volumes that looked more decorative than read.
rafe cleared a spot on the massive oak desk, pushing aside a laptop covered in programming stickers and a half-finished model of the solar system. you noticed the way his hands trembled slightly as he arranged his notes. he sat across from you, posture rigid.
“so what’s the assignment that’s giving you trouble?” you asked, leaning forward.
he pushed his glasses up again, cheeks tinting pink. “the civil war reconstruction era. i know all the dates and battles but when it comes to writing the analysis my professor says it’s too dry. like i’m listing facts instead of arguing a point.”
you smiled softly, pulling out a sample outline. “that’s common but essays need your voice threading through them. let’s break it down.”
the first session stretched longer than planned.
you guided him through structuring arguments, suggesting ways to weave in primary sources with his interpretations.
rafe listened intently, scribbling notes with a mechanical pencil that he clicked nervously between sentences. when you leaned over to point at a paragraph on his draft, your shoulder brushed his. he froze, breath catching, before murmuring a quiet thanks.
you caught the faint scent of his cologne…something clean and understated like fresh linen and old books.
by the end of the hour his shoulders had relaxed a fraction. “this actually makes sense now. thanks. i usually get lost in the details.”
“you’re good with details, rafe. that’s a strength. now use it to build your case instead,” you replied, packing your things.
as you left he hovered by the door, watching your car disappear down the drive.
the next few sessions followed a rhythm. twice a week you’d arrive at the estate, finding rafe already waiting with fresh coffee he’d made himself and […] for you after you mentioned preferring it during the first meeting.
he started opening up more between grammar corrections and thesis statements.
one afternoon while discussing lincoln’s policies he paused, staring at his notebook.
“my dad thinks all this studying is pointless. he wants me out on the water with topper and kelce, making connections or whatever. but i like the quiet of the library more than the noise of parties.”
you tilted your head, noting the vulnerability in his voice. “sounds like you’ve carved out your own space despite expectations. that’s not easy at your stage. i’ve seen plenty of students bend to family pressure and regret it later.”
he looked up sharply, curiosity sparking behind his lenses. “you’ve been doing this a long time huh? tutoring i mean.”
you nodded, sharing a brief story about your early days working odd jobs after university while building your freelance career, the late nights grading papers and editing manuscripts for extra income.
nothing too specific but enough to hint at the years between you. the settled confidence in your posture, the way you spoke of past travels to archives in distant cities as casual memories. rafe hung on every word, his usual awkward fidgeting replaced by genuine interest.
“that sounds amazing. i’ve barely left the island except for school trips. one day i want to visit the smithsonian collections in person instead of just reading about them online.”
sessions evolved from pure academics. you’d linger after finishing the assigned work, discussing books he’d devoured. everything from astrophysics texts to historical fiction.
his laugh came easier around you, a low warm sound that surprised even him. you found yourself looking forward to the drives over, anticipating the way he’d light up when you praised his improved drafts.
“this paragraph is strong, rafe. your voice is coming through clearly now,” you’d say, and he’d duck his head but smile wider each time.
one evening after a particularly productive session on economic impacts of reconstruction, rain started pouring outside. thunder rumbled as you gathered your bag. “i should head out before it gets worse.”
rafe stood quickly. “wait, it’s pouring. let me walk you to your car at least.”
you both dashed through the downpour, laughing as water soaked your clothes. at your car he lingered, hair plastered to his forehead, glasses fogged. “thanks again. you’re really good at this. better than any professor i’ve had.”
impulsively you reached up, brushing a wet strand from his face. his skin was warm despite the rain. “you’re the one putting in the work, rafe. i’m just here to guide.”
his breath hitched. for a moment neither moved, rain drumming on the roof. then he stepped back, cheeks flushed deeper than usual. “drive safe.”
the tension lingered after that. subsequent meetings carried an undercurrent of awareness. the way his eyes tracked your hands as you wrote examples, how you’d catch yourself noticing the lean muscles in his arms when he stretched after long hours hunched over books. he began texting you between sessions with questions that felt like excuses to talk, sharing links to obscure history podcasts or asking your opinion on a new sci-fi novel.
to break the pattern you suggested meeting off-site. “the campus library has better resources for primary documents. how about we switch it up this week?”
he agreed eagerly. you met at the quiet corner of the university library on a saturday morning when crowds were thin. rafe arrived early, already claiming a table with his laptop and several volumes. dressed in a soft sweater that hugged his frame, he looked more relaxed away from the family estate.
“this place is huge,” he whispered as you sat beside him. your knees brushed under the table and neither pulled away.
you spent hours poring over digital archives together. when he struggled with citing a complex source you guided his hand on the keyboard, your fingers overlapping and rafe swallowed hard but didn’t move.
“you’re patient with me,” he said later over coffee at the attached cafe. “most people get frustrated when i overthink.”
you stirred your drink slowly. “overthinking shows you care about getting it right. i’ve learned that patience pays off after years of seeing what works.”
he stared into his mug. “sometimes i feel like i’m behind everyone else. my friends are all about the next big thing and i’m still figuring out why i like staring at stars through a telescope more than chasing waves.”
you reached across the table, covering his hand briefly. “you’re exactly where you need to be, rafe. trust that.”
his fingers curled under yours for a heartbeat before you withdrew. the air between you thickened with unspoken want.
the shift happened during your next home session. rain threatened again but held off. you’d finished reviewing his latest paper, an a-level draft he beamed over when you marked it.
sitting closer than usual on the study couch instead of opposite the desk, conversation drifted from academics.
“do you ever regret not following what others expected?” he asked suddenly.
you considered your answer. “there were times i took the safer path, stayed in relationships or jobs longer than i should have. but i learned to choose what felt authentic. you’re already doing that by pursuing what interests you.”
rafe turned toward you fully, glasses catching the lamplight. “you make it sound possible. being myself i mean.”
the space between you shrank. you cupped his jaw gently, thumb tracing his cheekbone. “it is possible.”
he leaned in first, hesitant but determined. the kiss started soft, tentative presses of lips testing boundaries. you responded by deepening it, hand sliding to the nape of his neck. rafe made a small sound in his throat, inexperienced but eager, following your lead. his hands settled uncertainly on your waist as you pulled him closer.
when you broke apart his pupils were blown wide. “i’ve wanted to do that for weeks,” he confessed breathlessly.
“me too,” you admitted, voice low.
things escalated quickly yet carefully. he stood, offering his hand. “come with me.”
you followed him to a quieter guest room down the hall, the one farthest from the main living areas where ward rarely ventured.
inside he closed the door softly, turning to face you.
rafe stood nervous but wanting, adjusting his glasses before removing them entirely and setting them on the nightstand.
“tell me if anything feels off,” you murmured, stepping into his space again.
he nodded. “i trust you.”
clothes came off gradually.
you helped him out of his shirt, kissing along his collarbone as he shivered.
his body was lean from hours indoors rather than gym-built, skin pale except where sun touched his forearms. you traced the lines of his chest, feeling his heart race under your palms.
“you’re beautiful like this,” you praised, guiding him to sit on the bed’s edge.
rafe blushed furiously but his hands roamed your sides in return, exploring with reverent touches. when he hesitated at your bra clasp you showed him how, rewarding him with a deeper kiss.
soon you were both bare, bodies pressing together as you straddled his lap.
he gasped at the contact. “fuck, you feel incredible.”
you rocked slowly against him, building friction while whispering encouragements. “that’s it, just feel. you’re doing so well for me.”
his hands gripped your hips tighter, learning the rhythm you set. inexperience made him eager and a little clumsy at first, but your guidance smoothed the edges, directing his fingers between your thighs to learn what made you sigh.
when you finally sank down onto him, taking him inch by inch, rafe’s head fell back with a groan. “oh god, so… perfect.”
you rode him steadily at first, hands braced on his shoulders. he thrust up to meet you, finding confidence in your responses.
sweat slicked your skin as pace quickened. you leaned down to capture his mouth again, tongues sliding as bodies moved in sync. when his hand slipped between you to rub your clit you clenched around him, drawing a whimper from deep in his chest.
“close,” he panted. “can’t hold…”
“let go for me,” you urged, grinding down firmly.
he came with a broken moan, hips stuttering as he spilled inside you. the sight and feel pushed you over too, orgasm washing through in waves. you collapsed against his chest afterward, both breathing hard.
rafe wrapped his arms around you, pressing lazy kisses to your shoulder. “that was… i don’t have words. thank you.”
you chuckled softly, tracing patterns on his arm. “we’re not done learning yet.”
after cleaning up you lay tangled in sheets, talking quietly into the night. he shared more about feeling like the odd one in his loud family, how your steady presence made him feel seen. you offered pieces of your own history - the mistakes that taught resilience, the independence you’d built over time.
subsequent meetings blended tutoring with stolen moments. sometimes you’d finish a session early just to kiss him senseless against the bookshelves.
months passed with papers submitted successfully and rafe’s confidence blooming. his family noticed the change though they didn’t know the cause. ward even thanked you once, oblivious.
in quiet moments alone rafe would pull you close. “i’m glad it was you who showed up that first day.”
you smiled against him. “me too.”
a/n; it felt so weird not writing for military!rafe but i’m trying to clear out the requests so here’s this one! the one for military rafe should be out later this week.
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turnnoffyourmind
