[openmymouthandspit]

point of view. ⸝⸝ you’re mad at pope, he wants to talk to you but you don’t. he waits till you get into the shower and joins you so you can’t run away.

you’re still furious from the two nights ago. the argument had started over something small; him being late again, phone glued to his ear with that new client who always seemed to need ‘just one more minute’. you’d waited up, dinner cold on the table, and when he finally walked through the door you’d asked, voice already tight, if work was more important than coming home to you.

he’d snapped that you knew what his life was like, that he couldn’t just drop everything every time you got lonely. the words landed harder than he probably meant them to. you’d pushed back, louder, saying maybe if he actually listened once in a while instead of walking around like the world owed him patience, things wouldn’t feel so one sided.

he’d gone quiet for a second, jaw clenched, then he’d just left. grabbed his keys, muttered something about needing air, and walked straight out the front door while you were still mid sentence. the sound of it shutting behind him had felt final. you’d stood there in the hallway staring at the empty space where he’d been, heart hammering, the silence after louder than any shout.

he came back three hours later. he tried to apologize, but you didn’t answer back to him. yesterday he tried again, soft voice, careful hands, the way he always does when he knows he messed up. you gave him nothing. no eye contact, no words, just the cold wall of the silent treatment you’d decided he deserved for walking out like that. every time he spoke you turned away. every time he reached for you you stepped out of range. by evening he’d stopped trying so hard, but you could still feel him watching you, restless, waiting for the moment you’d finally look at him again.

but tonight you don’t. so much so, you wait until he’s downstairs, supposedly working, before you lock yourself in the bathroom and turn the shower on hot, the steam fills the glass enclosure fast. you step under the spray, eyes closed, letting the water beat against your shoulders like it might rinse the last forty eight hours off your skin. you’re still so angry it sits in your chest like a second heartbeat.

you don’t hear the door open. you only notice when the glass slides and cooler air slips in. then he’s there, andrew, fully dressed at first, then not, stepping under the water with you like he has every right. the space is suddenly smaller. his body blocks the only way out, water runs down both of you, hot, and he doesn’t touch you yet. he just stands close enough that you can’t pretend he isn’t there.

“you can’t keep doing this,” he says, voice low, almost swallowed by the spray. “i know i fucked up. i walked out. i shouldn’t have. but you won’t even let me say it properly.” he said. you keep your eyes on the tile, silently. the water keeps falling. he shifts closer, one hand braced against the wall beside your head so you really can’t slip past him without brushing against his chest. “talk to me,” he murmurs. “please. i’m not leaving this time until you do.”

you exhale deeply, the sound almost lost under the water. frustration and irritation still sit heavy in your chest, sharp and restless, like you can’t shake the memory of him walking out mid sentence two nights ago. your shoulders stay tight even as the heat tries to loosen them. andrew tries again, voice low and careful. “i know you’re still pissed. i get it. i left when i shouldn’t have. but shutting me out like this… s’killing me.” his brows are furrowed, water dripping from his dark hair onto his face as he watches you, waiting.

you opens your eyes at last, looking at him. the steam softens the edges of everything, but not the anger still simmering behind your gaze. “what do you want, ‘drew?” she asks. he doesn’t respond at first. the silence stretches, thick and heavy between them. something flickers across his face, hurt, maybe, or the quiet sting of hearing you use that nickname like a barrier instead of the soft thing it used to be. his jaw tightens for a second.

then he answers, quieter than before. “i want you to stop looking at me like i’m the enemy. i want you to let me fix this. i walked out on you and i hate that i did it. i just… need you to talk to me. even if it’s just to yell. anything’s better than this.” he replies. “then fix it.” you say, the words quiet but firm under the water.

andrew doesn’t hesitate. he pulls you in carefully, one hand sliding to the small of your back, the other cradling the side of your face as he leans down and presses a soft kiss to your lips. it’s gentle, almost apologetic, lingering just long enough for the heat of the shower to blur the edges of everything. when he draws back he doesn’t go far. he tilts your head slightly and brushes another soft kiss along the side of your neck, then another just beneath your ear.

“i love you,” he whispers against your skin, the words warm and steady. “i love you. i’m so sorry.” he keeps kissing there, soft and slow, while his arms tighten around you, pulling you fully against him so he’s hugging you close, face buried against your neck like he can’t stand even a little space between them anymore. water runs over both of them as he holds on, murmuring it again, quieter this time. “i love you.”

[openmymouthandspit]

point of view. ⸝⸝ rafe beats your new boyfriend’s ass

the afternoon light filtered through the half open blinds, casting long stripes across the living room and kitchen. josh sat on the couch, little legs dangling as he clutched a toy truck, kicking his feet against the cushions while cartoons hummed quietly on the tv. beau sat perched on the kitchen counter like he owned the place, peeling an orange with his thumb, juice dripping onto the floor without a care. he popped a slice into his mouth, chewing loud, eyes half lidded and smug.

rafe stood near the fridge, arms crossed tight over his chest, jaw locked so hard it ached. he hadn’t moved in five minutes. his eyes kept flicking between beau and you as you knelt by the couch, trying to get josh’s shoes on, voice soft and patient while the boy squirmed. rafe hated every second of it.

beau was a deadbeat of a step father. everyone knew it. the guy bounced from job to job, never kept a roof over his own head for more than a few months, always had some excuse. toxic as hell too, talked down to people, picked fights for no reason, treated everything like a joke until it wasn’t. he knew he was the same but he didn’t care, you were his still. rafe had seen the way beau looked at you when he thought no one was watching, that greedy, entitled stare that made rafe’s blood run hot.

and now this asshole was in your house that rafe pays for, sitting on the counter, eating an orange like he belonged there. rafe’s fingers twitched. he wanted to drag beau off that counter and put him through the wall. the thought of him around josh, around you, made something ugly coil tight in his chest. you were the mother of his kid, that still meant something to him, even if the two of you weren’t together anymore.

he watched you brush josh’s hair back, smiling at the boy, and his stomach twisted. beau wiped his sticky fingers on his jeans and smirked at rafe. “you good over there, man? look like you’re about to start something.” he said. rafe didn’t answer, he just stared, blue eyes cold and hard, the kind of look that used to make people back down real quick. he could feel the old rage rising, the one that never really left him. you glanced up, catching the tension, and rafe forced his voice low. “just watching my kid.”

but his eyes said everything else. he couldn’t stand seeing you with someone else, especially not a loser like beau. beau chuckled under his breath, still peeling the orange like nothing was wrong. “relax, rafe. you’re lookin’ real tense. maybe if you actually showed up for your kid more often instead of starting shit, you wouldn’t be so pissed someone’s steppin’ up.” beau said, eyes looking at rafe.

rafe’s eyes narrowed. he took one slow step closer, voice low and warning. “watch your mouth. that’s my son you’re talkin’ about.” rafe said, giving him a chance to correct himself but beau just smirked wider, juice dripping down his wrist. “kid’s better off with someone who actually sticks around.” beau muttered and that was it. rafe didn’t give another warning. he closed the distance in two strides, grabbed beau by the front of his shirt, and yanked him hard off the counter. the orange hit the floor and rolled. before beau could even get a word out, rafe’s fist cracked across his jaw, sending him stumbling back into the cabinets.

“you don’t talk about my kid,” rafe snarled, already swinging again. the second punch landed square in beau’s ribs, the third catching him on the cheekbone. beau tried to shove him off, but rafe was stronger, angrier, years of rage pouring out in every hit. he slammed beau against the counter, then dragged him down to the floor, fists flying without hesitation.

you stood up from the couch and walked to the doorway of the kitchen, and you froze at the sight, heart slamming against your ribs. josh was still on the couch, eyes wide. without thinking you jogged back to him, dropped to your knees in front of him, covering his little face with both hands, pressing him against your chest so he wouldn’t see.

the sound of fists on flesh filled the kitchen, rafe’s heavy breathing, beau’s pained grunts, the dull thud of body against tile. rafe didn’t stop. he kept going, punching until beau’s face was bloody and he was barely trying to cover up anymore. “rafe—stop—” you managed, voice shaking, still shielding josh. but rafe was past hearing.

he had beau pinned, one hand twisted in his shirt for support in his strikes, the other cocked back for another hit, eyes wild and dark. the man who used to be your everything was beating the absolute shit out of the guy who’d been sitting on your counter five minutes ago, and all you could do was hold your son and watch.

josh’s little hands suddenly pushed yours away from his face. his eyes went wide the second he saw the mess on the kitchen floor, blood, the way beau was curled up, rafe still over him. “daddy!” josh yelled, voice high and scared.

rafe froze mid swing. chest heaving, knuckles split and dripping red. for a second he just stared at his son, breathing hard, like the sound of that one word had cut straight through the rage. then he pushed himself up off beau, leaving the other man gasping and bloody on the tile. he walked toward the couch, voice already softening. “hey, bud… it’s okay. daddy’s right here.”

but josh scrambled backward on the cushions, little face crumpling as he pressed himself into the corner of the couch. his eyes flicked between rafe’s bloody hands and beau still on the floor. he didn’t reach for him. he just stared, scared, and you snapped.

“what the fuck is wrong with you, rafe?!” your voice cracked through the room, sharp and shaking. you stayed in front of josh, one arm still protective around him. “he’s right here! he saw all of that! you can’t just—jesus christ, look at what you did!” you yelled. rafe stopped a few feet away, jaw tight, still breathing hard. his light eyes flicked from josh’s terrified face back to yours. for a moment the old defensive edge rose, but it cracked under the weight of what he’d just done in front of his son.

“he was talkin’ shit about my kid,” rafe said, voice low and rough. “i wasn’t gonna sit there and let him. i’m not lettin’ some boyfriend of yours come in here actin’ like he belongs.” he glanced at josh again, something almost pained crossing his face when the boy still wouldn’t come closer. “i didn’t… fuck. i didn’t mean for him to see that.” he murmurs.

“you didn’t? really?” you asked, voice dripping with sarcasm. “because it was right in front of his fucking face.” you spat the words at him, still shielding josh with your body. rafe’s jaw flexed. he dragged a bloody hand through his hair, eyes dark and frustrated. “i lost it, okay? i know. i fucking know. but that piece of shit was sittin’ there talkin’ like he had any right—”

“you’re so fucking stupid.” the words left your mouth sharp and cold. rafe’s head snapped up. for a second the old fire flared in his eyes, the one that usually ended in yelling or worse. but then his gaze dropped to josh again, still pressed into the corner of the couch, watching them both with wide, scared eyes, and something in him deflated. “yeah,” he muttered, voice rough and quieter now. “maybe i am. but i’m not gonna stand there and let someone talk about my son like that. i don’t care how it looks.” he took a step closer, then stopped when josh flinched. “i’m not the bad guy here.”

“you’re never the bad guy, rafe,” you said, the words dripping with false sweetness you didn’t mean for a second. “i broke up and had a baby with the best guy in the world.” the sarcasm cut sharp through the air. rafe’s face tightened. a muscle jumped in his jaw as he stared at you, light eyes flashing with hurt and anger all at once. he let out a short, bitter laugh that didn’t sound anything like humor.

“yeah, real best guy,” he shot back, voice low and rough. “the one who still shows up when it matters. the one who actually gives a shit about his kid.” his eyes flicked to josh again, then back to you, softer for half a second before the edge returned. “keep throwin’ that shit at me if it makes you feel better. doesn’t change the fact that i’m still here.”

“you’re still here because you care about your fucking image and what ward would say if you didn’t check up on us,” you snapped. “you don’t love me.” you paused, then carefully covered josh’s ears with both hands so he wouldn’t hear the next part. “and you don’t love him either.” you barked. rafe’s entire body went still. the anger on his face cracked into something rawer, almost wounded. he stared at you for a long second, chest still rising and falling hard from the fight, knuckles still bloody.

“don’t you ever fucking say that,” he said, voice low and dangerous, but it shook just a little at the end. “don’t you dare put that on me. i love that boy more than anything in this world. more than myself. more than this whole fucked up family. and you—” he stopped, jaw clenched so tight it looked painful. “you know damn well how i feel about you. even when you’re standing there looking at me like i’m the worst thing that ever happened to you.”

he took a step closer, eyes locked on yours. “i’m not here for ward. i’m not here for image. i’m here because he’s my son and you’re still the only person who’s ever made me want to be better than what i am. so say whatever you want about me, but don’t you ever say i don’t love him.” he stated.

you stared at him, jaw tight, eyes hard. “then act like it,” you said. you bent down and scooped josh into your arms. the little boy clung to your neck as you carried him down the hallway toward his room. rafe stayed where he was, watching every step until the door clicked shut behind you.

the second it did, rafe turned and walked back into the kitchen. he grabbed beau under the arms and hauled him up off the floor. beau groaned, blood still dripping from his nose and split lip, but rafe didn’t say a word. he half dragged, half carried him to the front door, opened it, and set him down on the porch as gently as he could manage, then he stepped back inside, shut the door, and locked it.

he stood there for a second, head bowed, before heading down the hall. josh’s room was quiet. the boy was already laid on his little bed, facing the wall, and you were curled up behind him, one arm wrapped around his middle, holding him close. rafe moved slowly so he wouldn’t startle either of you. he walked over to the nightstand, pulled out the pack of baby wipes, and cleaned the blood off his knuckles as best he could. the wipes came away red.

then he set them down and carefully climbed onto the bed behind you. his arms slid around your waist, chest pressing lightly to your back. one of his hands reached past you and started gently rubbing the top of josh’s head in slow, careful strokes. “i’m sorry,” rafe whispered against your ear, voice low and rough.

[openmymouthandspit]

point of view. ⸝⸝ accidentally reconnecting with your life of the party ex.

one thing on rafe’s bingo card was definitely not seeing you at a party, let alone one he actually frequented. but there you were, tucked into the corner of the crowded living room like you belonged to the shadows. from the dim hallway where he stood, rafe caught a quick glance, your eyes heavy, movements slow. you weren’t sober, not even close. that wasn’t unusual for you in places like this though. you always got detached, floating somewhere else in your head.

barry sat right next to you on the couch you’d slumped into, phone in hand, scrolling like he didn’t give a fuck about the chaos around him. but rafe knew better, barry was overprotective as hell when it came to his people, and right now he had you covered. your elbow rested on the arm of the couch, face leaning heavy into your palm, eyes blinking slow like the room was spinning just a little too much. you were so quiet rafe hadn’t even clocked you at first. that was your thing, no big entrance, no loud laugh cutting through the music. you were the type people sometimes forgot was even there. hell, some idiots thought you were mute.

rafe lingered in the hallway a second longer, jaw tight, before topper clapped a hand on his shoulder. “kelce is doing shots in the kitchen,” topper said, already grinning like an idiot. “you wanna go? man’s on his third round of body shots or some shit.” topper continued. rafe tore his eyes off you for a beat, glancing at topper with a half smirk. “yeah, maybe in a minute. you see who’s on the couch over there?” rafe mentioned. topper followed his gaze, eyebrows lifting when he spotted you. “wait, that’s her? shit, i didn’t even notice. she good? looks faded as fuck.” topper laughed.

“she’s fine,” rafe muttered, eyes drifting back to you. “barry’s babysitting.” rafe said. “i wasn’t expecting her here tonight.” rafe added, more. topper chuckled, nudging him. “what, you keeping tabs now? c’mon, let’s grab a drink before kelce drinks the whole house dry. you can stare at your quiet little mystery later.” topper said with a smile. rafe shot him a look but didn’t argue, falling into step beside topper as they headed toward the kitchen. still, his mind stayed half on the slumped figure in the corner, wondering what the hell had dragged you out tonight.

a little time passed and you were still planted on that couch, the party pulsing around you like white noise. barry had shifted closer after some drunk idiots squeezed into the middle, refusing to take his eyes off you for long. eventually your head found its way to his shoulder, heavy and warm, your breathing slowing as you started to snooze off.

“you good to go home?” barry asked quietly, tilting his head to catch your eyes but settling on your fluttering lashes instead. “mhm.” you hummed, the sound soft and tired. you sighed deep, pulling together what little energy you had left to sit up straighter. barry helped steady you, then stood up tall, slipping his phone into his pocket. he started counting the cash in his shorts, making sure he had everything he needed for the night.

while he was distracted, rafe made his way over, stride cocky but carrying that bruised ego just underneath. topper trailed a few steps behind, still nursing a drink and watching the scene unfold with raised eyebrows. “you leavin’?” rafe asked, voice low as he stopped in front of barry. barry finished counting and tucked the cash away, eyeing rafe coolly. “why?” barry asked back.

“i wanna talk to her,” rafe said, his gaze already drifting over to you. you were staring blankly at the floor, barely registering the shift in the air. barry paused, sizing him up for a long second before nodding once. “bring ‘er outside to my truck when you’re done.” his tone left no room for bullshit. he gave you one last glance, then headed toward the front door, leaving you and rafe in the noisy living room.

rafe dropped down onto the couch beside you, close enough that his knee brushed yours. “hey,” he said, voice softer now, almost careful. “didn’t think i’d see you here tonight.” he continued. topper hung back near the wall, pretending not to listen but clearly entertained, sipping his drink like he was watching a show.

you slowly lifted your head, eyes drifting first to topper who still lingered near the wall, then back to rafe. discomfort flickered across your face, brow slightly furrowed, shoulders tensing like you wanted to shrink into the cushions. having topper standing there watching made everything feel too exposed. rafe caught it immediately. his jaw ticked once before he glanced over at his friend. “top, fuck off for a minute.”

topper raised his hands in mock surrender, a lazy smirk on his face. “alright, alright. i’ll be in the kitchen with kelce. don’t take too long, cameron.” he pushed off the wall and disappeared back into the crowd, music swallowing him up. once topper was gone, you relaxed just a fraction. “i didn’t want to come,” you said quietly, answering his earlier comment. your voice was hoarse from the night and the drinks. “didn’t want to make it awkward for you.” you said.

your half lidded eyes finally met his, tired but honest. rafe stared back at you, the noise of the party fading into a dull hum as your gazes locked. for a few long seconds, neither of you said anything, just breathing the same charged silence. “why would it be awkward?” rafe asked, his tone low, almost gentle. you looked away, dropping your stare to the floor. your jaw clenched tight, the muscle flexing under your skin as you swallowed hard. “y’know why,” you whispered. it was so soft rafe couldn’t actually hear it over the music, but he read your lips clear enough.

he swallowed, throat bobbing. the tension between you felt thick enough to cut. after seconds, he leaned in a little closer, elbow resting on his knee. “we’re still friends,” rafe said, voice steady even if his eyes weren’t. “even if we’re not together.” rafe stated. you looked back up at him, sighing through your nose. silence settled heavy between you, eyes staying locked together like neither wanted to be the first to break. the air felt too thick, too familiar.

“we can’t be friends,” you replied, the words quiet but final. rafe didn’t answer. he just stared back at you, light eyes unblinking, searching your face like he was trying to read every unspoken thing behind your words. you looked away first, the weight of his gaze too much. but rafe kept staring, tracing the side of your face even as you turned. slowly, you pushed yourself up, using the arm of the couch for support. your legs felt unsteady from the drinks and the exhaustion, but you managed. without another word, you walked away from him, slipping into the moving crowd and leaving rafe sitting there alone on the couch.

[openmymouthandspit]

point of view. ⸝⸝ rafe and his slapping kink

“you crazy bitch.” he barked, brows locked in a tight scowl. your hand cracked across his face so hard his head snapped to the side. the sting bloomed hot on your palm. he froze for a second, tongue dragging over the cut on his lip like he was tasting the blood, then he looked back at you. he was not angry, he was interested, hungry. “you want to slap me?” he asked, voice low and rough.

his hand came up and delivered a soft, almost careful slap to your cheek, barely more than a touch, just enough to make your skin prickle. his eyes never left yours. “then fucking do it again,” he murmured, stepping closer until the heat of him pressed against you. “harder. i dare you.” he said. you shoved at his chest. he barely moved. instead he caught your wrist, yanked you flush against him, his smile curved around the blood on his lip.

“c’mon,” he goaded, breath warm against your mouth. “you’re already this far. don’t get shy now.” he whispered, his eyes watching yours closely, but you didn’t hesitate under his gaze. your palm cracked across his cheek again, harder this time, the sound sharp in the small space between you. his head turned with the force of it, a low grunt slipping out before he laughed, short, breathless, almost delighted by the sting.

he brought a hand up to touch the fresh heat blooming on his skin, still chuckling through the ache like it was the best thing that had happened to him all night, then his own hand lifted. the slap he gave you wasn’t hard, just enough pressure to make your cheek warm, a deliberate little taunt that left a soft sting and nothing more.

“do it again,” he said, voice rough with that same dark amusement, eyes locked on yours like he was daring you to keep going, so you did. this time your hand landed clean and solid against the same spot, the impact blooming red across his cheek almost instantly. the mark stood out vivid against his skin, and rafe’s breath hitched, half from the hit, half from the way he was looking at you now, like you’d just given him exactly what he wanted.

then his hands were on you before the sting on his cheek even faded, fingers hooked under the hem of your shirt and yanked it up and over your head in one sharp motion, tossing it aside without looking. the rest followed just as fast, your bra unhooked and dragged down your arms, pants shoved down your hips, underwear peeled away until you were bare in front of him, extremely efficient and so impatient, like he’d been waiting for an excuse.

then he stripped himself just as quickly. shirt pulled off and dropped, jeans shoved down, everything discarded in a messy pile until there was nothing left between you but heat and the red mark still blooming on his cheek. his mouth crashed into yours. the kiss was rough from the start, teeth, tongue, the metallic taste of the cut on his lip. you kissed him back just as hard, hands gripping his shoulders, nails digging in. he walked you backward, never breaking the kiss, guiding you until the backs of his legs hit the bed.

he dropped onto it first, falling onto his back with a low sound against your mouth. you followed, climbing over him, knees bracketing his hips so you had the height now. the shift put you above him, and he looked up at you like he liked it, eyes dark, lips swollen, that red slap mark standing out sharp on his face.

you were rough with each other immediately. your hands pinned his wrists for a second just to feel him push back against the hold. he bucked his hips up into yours, one hand sliding into your hair to yank your head down for another bruising kiss while the other gripped your thigh hard enough to leave prints. every movement was sharp, hungry, the earlier arguing still burning under the surface as you ground against each other on the bed.

you kept kissing him hard, mouths open and messy, the kind of kiss that was more teeth and hunger than anything soft. his hands moved down your sides, gripping your hips with rough purpose as he shifted you into place. he lined himself up beneath you, the head of him pressing against you, and with one firm pull of your hips he guided you down onto him.

you sank onto him in one continuous motion, a sharp breath breaking against his mouth as you took him fully. he groaned into the kiss, low and rough, hands tightening on your waist hard enough to bruise, then you started moving.

you rode him with the same edge you’d been arguing with, hips rolling, lifting and dropping in a hard, deliberate rhythm. he met every movement, thrusting up into you with force, the impact of it jolting through both of you. his grip never eased, one hand stayed locked on your hip, controlling the pace even while you were on top, the other sliding up to fist in your hair again and yank your head back so he could bite at your throat.

you were just as rough with him, nails dragging down his chest, leaving red lines, hips slamming down harder whenever he tried to set the pace himself. every time he thrust up especially deep you bit his lip or dug your fingers into his shoulders, answering his roughness with your own. the bed creaked under the force of it, the earlier slap mark on his cheek still vivid as he looked up at you through half lidded eyes, breathing hard between the kisses he kept dragging you back into.

you grabbed his face with both hands in the middle of the kiss, fingers digging into his jaw as you held him there and kissed him even harder, all rough and demanding. your nails scraped along his cheekbones while you pulled at his hair with the other hand, yanking his head back just enough to make him hiss against your mouth. then you slapped him again, sharp and quick across the same already red cheek, while still riding him hard. rafe’s breath stuttered. “you’re so fucking mean,” he said, voice low and wrecked, the words spilling out between your mouths.

his hand came up and wrapped around your throat, not squeezing hard, just holding you there with firm pressure as he kept you close. the other stayed locked on your hip, gripping tight enough to leave more marks while he thrust up into you from below. he kissed you again immediately after, the kiss turning sloppy and needy on his part, open mouthed, a little desperate, like he couldn’t get enough even while you were being cruel to him. his tongue dragged against yours, lips wet and insistent, that red mark on his cheek still burning under your palm as he held your throat and took every rough thing you gave him.

[openmymouthandspit]

point of view. ⸝⸝ you’re emotionally unavailable

ever since the baby he could tell something was wrong. you didn’t speak as much, went to bed earlier than usual, didn’t smile as often, and your i love yous suddenly felt like they went stale. motherly love flowed through you naturally, the love that you provided your son never went away but the physical side of it did. rafe noticed, but josh was too young to understand what being emotionally unavailable meant and how it operated.

rafe himself didn’t understand either, adding to the confusion and war in your head. the difference between you before and you now was like someone who turned the lights off in you and never turned them on again. rafe spent so many late nights staring at you sleep, making your body hug him while you slept to feel any sort of physical connection. though the words you promised you meant got spoken every so often, he couldn’t help but feel as if you didn’t love him anymore.

days blurred into a haze of diapers and half eaten meals. rafe would come home from whatever chaos kept him out longer than he wanted, the house quiet except for josh’s soft coos from the nursery. you’d be there on the couch, eyes distant while rocking the baby, your touch gentle on josh’s back but your shoulders tense like they carried invisible weights.

he tried small things at first, brewing your favorite tea even though you barely sipped it, leaving little notes on the fridge that said things like “miss your laugh” or “come back to me when you can,” but they stayed untouched for days. conversations felt forced, like pulling teeth; he’d ask about your day and you’d give one word answers, your voice flat and far away, then retreat to the bedroom before the sun even fully set.

nights were the hardest. rafe would lie awake beside you, the glow from his phone the only light cutting through the dark, scrolling through old photos of the two of you before josh arrived, back when your hands found his without thinking and your kisses lingered like they had nowhere else to be. now your body curled away from him instinctively, even in sleep, leaving a cold stretch of sheets between you that felt wider than the ocean.

he reached out sometimes, fingers tracing the curve of your spine under the blanket, hoping for even a twitch of response, but you stayed still, lost in dreams he wasn’t part of anymore. the ache settled deep in his chest, a constant pressure that made his jaw clench and his thoughts race. was it him? had he done something wrong in those exhausted newborn weeks? or was this just what happened when life cracked open and swallowed the version of you he fell for?

josh became the bridge and the barrier all at once. rafe watched you with him for hours, the way your face softened when the baby gripped your finger or when you hummed lullabies in that low, soothing tone that used to be reserved for him too. it was beautiful, the pure motherly instinct radiating from you, but it also highlighted everything missing between the adults in the room.

rafe took on more night feeds, pacing the living room with josh against his shoulder, whispering promises to the tiny boy that he’d fix this somehow, that he’d bring your light back. but doubt gnawed at him constantly. every time you pulled away from a hug or dodged a kiss with a tired excuse about being touched out, it chipped away at his confidence. he started questioning his own worth, wondering if the man who once made you laugh until your sides hurt had somehow become invisible in your new world of bottles and milestones.

friends and family would comment on how great you looked with the baby, how strong you seemed, but they didn’t see the cracks. they didn’t see rafe biting back frustration when you canceled date nights again or when intimacy became a rare, mechanical thing that left him feeling more alone afterward. he researched online in secret, late night tabs about postpartum struggles and emotional distance, trying to piece together why the woman he loved felt like a ghost in their own home.

some nights he’d confront it gently, sitting on the edge of the bed while you stared at the wall, his voice low and careful. “talk to me, baby. i’m right here fighting for us.” you’d nod, promise you were trying, that the fog would lift soon, but the next day the distance returned like clockwork.

deep down rafe held onto hope like a lifeline, replaying memories of your old self in his head to stay grounded. the way you used to dance in the kitchen while cooking, stealing bites from his plate, or how you’d wrap around him after a long day like he was your safe place. he wanted that back so badly it hurt, wanted to see your eyes light up when he walked through the door instead of that vacant stare. he started planning little surprises, quiet moments where he could remind you of the fire you once shared, even if it meant sitting in silence with josh between you on the couch.

the war in your head was loud, he knew that now, but rafe refused to let it win without a fight. he loved you too fiercely to let the lights stay off forever, even if it meant waiting in the dark a little longer, holding space for the you that was buried under exhaustion and unspoken pain. every small step forward felt like a victory, a crack where sunlight might finally break through again.

[openmymouthandspit]

point of view. ⸝⸝ the contrast of pope beating some guy’s face in and when he gets home to you

pope pushed the front door open slowly, the soft click barely audible over the low murmur of the television. his big frame moved with heavy quietness, broad shoulders still carrying the tension of the cage even as the fight’s adrenaline had long faded. the black shirt clung to his sweat dampened torso, stretched tight across the heavy slabs of muscle in his chest and the thick cords along his arms.

his jeans sat low on his hips, worn denim hugging the powerful lines of his thighs, the fabric stained faintly with spots of blood from split knuckles, bruises bloomed dark across his hands and forearms, a fresh cut above his eyebrow, and swelling along his sharp jawline.

he kicked his boots off by the door without a sound, socked feet padding silently across the floor as he crossed toward the couch. every step made the thick muscles in his legs flex, sore from the explosive movements of the fight. his dark eyes stayed downcast, shy and quiet, the usual intensity softened into something almost hesitant. you looked over at him from where you lay on the couch, a gentle smile touching your lips. “hi baby,” you said softly, lifting the edge of the blanket that was draped across you in clear welcome.

pope paused for a second, his broad chest rising with a slow breath. “hey,” he replied, the single word short and a little distant, voice low and rough around the edges. he didn’t say more. instead he reached down and peeled the black shirt up and off his body, the movement pulling a quiet groan from deep in his throat as aching muscles protested, thick biceps flexing, shoulders rolling, the heavy ridges of his abs and obliques stretching under bruised skin. fresh marks from the fight painted his torso, dark bruises blooming over his ribs and across one pec. he folded the shirt once and set it on the coffee table with careful hands.

then he moved toward you again, slow and gentle. one knee sank into the couch cushions beside your hip, the denim of his jeans pulling tight over thick, powerful thighs. another low groan slipped out as his sore ribs and back shifted. he braced one big, calloused hand on the armrest, veins standing out along his forearm, before easing his massive frame down on top of you bit by bit. his broad chest settled warmly against yours, heavy but careful not to crush. thick arms slid around you, one hand resting wide and gentle on your back while the other tucked under your waist. his face found the crook of your neck, stubble brushing soft against your skin as he melted into you completely.

quiet groans continued to rumble from him with every tiny shift of his aching body, sore shoulders, tender ribs, exhausted muscles finally surrendering. pope stayed shy and silent, just breathing you in, the contrast of the brutal fighter from the cage now reduced to this quiet, heavy warmth seeking comfort in your arms under the shared blanket.

pope stayed pressed against you under the blanket, his heavy, warm body a solid comforting weight. his broad chest rose and fell in slow, steady breaths against yours, the thick muscle of his pecs shifting slightly with each inhale. every small adjustment of his sore frame pulled another quiet groan from low in his throat, his bruised ribs protesting, his powerful back tight from the fight, thick arms wrapped around you with careful strength even as his calloused hands rested gentle on your back and waist.

you kept your voice soft, one hand sliding up to run gently through his hair while the other rubbed slow circles between his shoulder blades, mindful of the fresh bruises there. “how was the fight tonight, baby?” you asked gently, fingers tracing lightly over the warm skin of his neck.

pope was quiet for a long moment, face still tucked into the crook of your neck, stubble scratching softly against you. his thick thighs shifted a little on the couch, another low groan escaping as sore muscles in his legs and hips ached from the explosive movements earlier. “won,” he finally murmured, the reply short and rough, voice barely above a whisper, almost shy. “wasn’t pretty though. guy was tough.” he adds.

you smiled softly and held him closer, your touch tender as you spoke against his ear. “i missed you so much while you were gone.” you started. “i love you, you know that? and im so proud of you, always.” you continued. he didn’t answer right away. instead his big frame melted even deeper into you, the heavy weight of his chest pressing warmer, one of his large hands flexing gently against your side as if grounding himself.

a faint flush crept up the back of his neck. “missed you too,” he whispered back, the words quiet and distant at first before softening further. “love you more.” his voice cracked just slightly on the last part, shy in the way he hid his face deeper into your neck, broad shoulders curling in as another quiet groan rumbled through him from shifting his tender ribs. his powerful body stayed heavy and relaxed on top of you, content to let the aches fade in the safety of your arms while the tv played forgotten in the background.

[openmymouthandspit]

point of view. ⸝⸝ all night and all day

“please, please, please,” you beg, voice wrecked and breathless. “keep going.” you plead. you’ve been going for hours with him and you’re still so far from done, desperate for every thick inch of pope stretching you open. you’re sat on his lap, chest laid into his, arms wrapped tight around his neck while he fucks up into you with deep, steady strokes. your slick thighs tremble around his hips, your cunt clenching greedily around him as he fills you again and again.

pope grunts low and hot against your ear, the sound vibrating through your whole body. your hair bounces with every thrust, sticking to your damp skin. you slide your fingers into his hair and gently turn his head so you can look at him. your brows are furrowed with raw emotion, eyes sparkling and glassy as they lock onto his. you speak straight to his soul without saying a word.

you press a couple soft pecks to his lips, then leave them there, brushing together as you moan into his mouth. your eyes tell him everything, you’re completely wrecked, pleading for more, burning with passion. you’ve barely found any words since he first pushed inside you; his voice alone is pure foreplay. even when he gets shy and his sentences turn messy and raspy, it’s smooth enough to make your insides flutter.

the whole night hadn’t been planned, but you knew exactly how it would go the second he stepped into the room. you’d seen that nervous swallow, the way his throat bobbed hard when he caught sight of your bare ass and the arch of your back as you looked over your shoulder at him. he was doomed from the moment he laid eyes on you, and now he’s buried so deep you can feel him in your stomach, fucking you like he never wants to stop.

“you feel so good,” he rasps, voice hoarse and shaky against your lips, hips snapping up harder. “can’t—can’t get enough of you, baby.” he stammers. you just whimper and kiss him again, rolling your hips to meet every thrust, silently begging him to keep ruining you for as long as you both can take it. your legs have been shaking for god knows how long, thighs twitching uncontrollably against his hips from the endless pleasure.

you kiss him messily at first, tongues sliding together, then you tug him with you, rolling so you’re both on your sides. bodies still connected, he stays buried deep inside you as you settle facing each other. the kiss slows, turning lazy and deep, your mouths barely parting. your bodies are pressed together as close as they can get, skin slick and warm, hearts pounding against one another. your movements are slow now, tired rolls of your hips that grind him nice and deep, sleepy little moans slipping against his lips with every lazy thrust.

pope’s hands roam all over you, sliding down your back, gripping your ass, then wrapping fully around you in a tight hug that crushes your chests together. his strong arms hold you like he never wants to let go. his lips trail down from yours, pressing soft, open mouthed kisses along the side of your neck, brushing over the tiny hairs there that tickle his face just a little. he smiles into your skin at the feeling.

the soft light pouring in from the window paints everything golden, his freckled shoulders and chest glowing as they press and shift against your skin. he kisses lower, lips moving along the front of your throat, then up the side to your jaw, slow and reverent. his nose grazes your ear, warm breath sending shivers down your spine as he whispers raspy and low.

“still want more?” his voice is rough, shy but so full of want. you let out another soft, sleepy moan, eyelids heavy, hips still rocking gently against him, chasing that deep, intimate connection. his arms tighten around you, freckled skin flushed and shining as he keeps kissing your neck and jaw, slow fucking you through the exhaustion and the never ending need.

“i need you,” you breathe out, an exhausted moan slipping from your lips as your head tilts back into the pillow. the cool fabric presses against the side of your flushed face, your hair curled wild and messy all over the pillowcase. pope’s raspy voice answers right against your ear, low and shaky with need. “you have me, baby… all of me. fuck me, i’m right here.” his hips roll slow and deep, arms still wrapped tight around you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

four hours bleed by in a haze of sweat and moans. the night is alive outside, sun long gone, and you’ve both been going for a total of seven hours now. you’re still not done, not even close. pope’s back rests against the headboard, legs spread wide. you’re facing away from him, back to him, bouncing on his cock with tired but greedy rolls of your hips. he’s panting hard from the last round, hands gripping your waist to help guide you, but mostly letting you take what you need while he catches his breath.

his eyes stay locked on you the whole time, watching every inch of his cock disappear inside your soaked pussy. he doesn’t get shy because he hasn’t met your eyes, but when you glance back over your shoulder, your eyes meet his in that heavy, soul deep stare, he can’t help but get shy and look away. the eye contact makes everything feel more intense, more intimate. the need still burns deep in you, nothing satisfies you more than the stretch of him buried inside, filling you completely. you both smell like each other’s sweat, sweet and musky.

your legs shake violently with every bounce, thighs burning, but you keep going. your chest rises and falls fast, breath ragged as you try to recollect yourself between desperate movements. each drop of your hips makes you whimper, taking him so deep your eyes flutter. “just like that,” pope murmurs, voice hoarse and raspy, one hand sliding up to cup your breast while the other stays on your hip. “don’t stop, baby. i got you.” he assured.

your bounces grow slower, heavier, each one dragging out longer as your breathing turns even more ragged and desperate. pope notices immediately, the way your body starts to tremble harder, the way your moans turn breathy and needy. he leans forward, chest pressing flush to your back, strong arms wrapping around you. “i got you,” he whispers, voice low and raspy right against your ear, full of that smooth reassurance even while he’s wrecked.

you don’t stop completely, just shift into slow, filthy grinds, rolling your hips in lazy circles on his cock. his hands slide down to the underside of your thighs, fingers gripping firmly. even exhausted, he takes over without hesitation, with a quiet grunt he lifts your weight like it’s nothing, guiding you up and then sinking you back down onto every inch of him.

your head falls back on his shoulder, nestling into the crook of his neck as you clench tight around him. a loud, broken moan spills from your lips, echoing in the room when he pulls you down fully, burying himself to the hilt. your legs quiver violently in his hold. one of your hands reaches back to grip his flexed bicep, fingers rubbing up and down the taut muscle, feeling the goosebumps rising under your touch. “don’t stop, please, don’t stop it,” you plead, voice wrecked and desperate.

pope’s cock fills you so completely, the thick length creating a faint bulge that pushes out against your lower stomach with every deep thrust. he keeps lifting and dropping you steadily, hips rocking up to meet you, breathing hot against your neck. “won’t stop… not until you say,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin, freckled chest slick with sweat against your back. “feel that? so deep in you, baby. just take it.” he said, gently.

your body trembles in his arms as he fucks you through the exhaustion, giving you exactly what you need, slow and relentless, the two of you lost in each other for hours more. it was around seven in the morning when you two finally came to a full stop. the sheets smelled heavy like both of you, sex and sweat soaked into the fabric. your bodies stayed tangled together, pope laying almost fully on top of you while you rested on your back. his arms wrapped around your neck, face buried in your shoulder, his warm clinging body glued to yours like he still couldn’t let go.

about twenty minutes passed in quiet, sleepy cuddling before the front door opened and slammed shut. “pope!” craig yelled from the living room. pope sighed deeply, his broad back flexing as he shifted just enough to look back toward the bedroom door, shielding your bare tits completely with his body. craig’s footsteps got closer and he paused. “jesus dude, it smells like sweat in here.”

you let out a tired little laugh into pope’s neck. craig groaned instantly. “oh. that’s why.” he teased. “where have you been? everybody has been texting you,” craig asked, voice carrying through the cracked door. pope turned his head a little more, voice still raspy and low from the long night. “been busy, man. tell ‘em i’m alive. i’ll call later.”

you reached over to the nightstand, stretching your arm out while carefully keeping it pressed across your chest to cover your nipples in case craig glanced in. your fingers grabbed pope’s phone and you pulled it back, quickly plugging it into the charger on the stand. then your arms wrapped back around him, holding him close, fingers tracing lazy patterns on his back.

pope finally grabbed the now charging phone, thumbing it open. the screen lit up with a flood of notifications. messages from every family contact pinging in one after another, a wall of texts asking where he was, if he was okay, why he went dark for so long. he let out a soft sigh against your skin, burying his face back into your neck. “they’re all blowing me up,” he mumbled, voice sleepy and content, not moving an inch from on top of you. “worth it though.”

[openmymouthandspit]

point of view. ⸝⸝ pope still lurks because he loves you



the front door slammed so hard that the picture frames on the hallway wall rattled, then silence came after it. it was not peaceful silence. it was the kind that still buzzed with raised voices, with words that couldn’t be taken back. with your name still echoing somewhere inside his head because you’d screamed it differently this time, not to get his attention, but because you wanted him to hear exactly how angry you were.

andrew stood on the porch for longer than he realized. his hand stayed resting against the railing, and his jaw flexed. he should’ve gotten in the truck, he should’ve driven away, he knew that, but he didn’t. he stares out at the empty street while your crying replayed behind his eyes. he could still hear you asking him why everything had to become a fight. why every conversation with him eventually felt like walking through broken glass.

he hadn’t answered any of it, he’d just gotten louder, because that was easier, because somewhere along the line he’d convinced himself anger sounded stronger than honesty. he sighed and he walked around the side of the house, slowly, with his hands shoved into his pockets, like maybe if he didn’t make any noise, he could convince himself he wasn’t really lingering.

your bedroom window sat halfway open, the light inside was still on. he hated that he looked, hated that he wanted to look. he could barely make out your silhouette moving through the room, you were pacing, then you came to a stop, then started pacing again. he watched your shadow sit on the edge of the bed before disappearing completely, you were probably lying down, or probably crying into your pillow where nobody could see.

his chest tightened so suddenly he had to look away. “fuck.” he muttered, it came out under his breath. he rubbed the heel of his hand across his mouth, he wasn’t here to spy, that’s what he’d tell himself. he was just ‘making sure you were okay’, making sure you hadn’t left, making sure the bedroom light eventually turned off, that was all, that’s what he told himself every single time.

he leaned against the side of the house beneath your window, staring at the dirt instead. a moth kept throwing itself against the porch light, over, and over, and over again. he watched it like it was the most interesting thing in the world because if he looked back toward your window he’d end up knocking.

and if he knocked he wasn’t sure whether you’d tell him to come inside or tell him to get the hell off your property, both would’ve hurt. inside, he heard muffled footsteps and he froze. your shadow crossed the curtains again, and his stupid heart picked up, just by seeing you move, that was enough. you didn’t look outside, you didn’t know he was there, and he almost preferred it that way, because then he could leave whenever he wanted and pretend he’d been gone the whole time.

except he never left. the ten minutes became twenty, twenty became forty five. he sat on the back steps eventually, elbows on his knees, staring into nothing. the neighborhood settled into nighttime, sprinklers hissed somewhere across the street, dogs barked in the distance, someone’s television echoed faintly through an open garage, and he stayed through all of it, because every time he tried standing up, one thought stopped him.

what if she needs me? it was ridiculous. after the things he’d said, after the way you’d looked at him like you couldn’t recognize the man standing in front of you? you surely didn’t need him, possibly you didn’t even want him anymore, but love wasn’t logical, love made a grown man sit outside a house he’d just stormed out of because he couldn’t stomach the idea of being farther away than the backyard.

around midnight, your bedroom light finally clicked off. he noticed immediately, he waited another five minutes anyway. just in case you’d gotten up for water, just in case the light came back on because you couldn’t sleep, just in case for anything. but when it didn’t, he finally stood as his knees cracked. he looked once toward your dark window. “goodnight, baby.” he whispers, though he knew you didn’t hear him, he didn’t expect you to anyway.

he climbed into his truck, and started the engine, he backed halfway out of the driveway, then stopped. he reached for his phone, and his eyes settled on your contact was still pinned at the top of his imessage. his thumb hovered over it, he began type; ‘you lock the back door?’ then he stared at the message, and deleted it. he began to type again. ‘eat something’ but deleted that too.

he swallows softly, and types again. ‘i’m sorry’ but he couldn’t send that one either so he deletes it. all because “sorry” felt too cheap for everything he’d broken inside the house an hour ago, he set the phone face down on the passenger seat, and drove to the end of the street, turned right, made it exactly one block before making another right, and then another.

he was circling, not because he had anywhere to be, but because he couldn’t quite convince himself to get too far away. if anyone asked, he’d say he was killing time, if craig asked, he’d say traffic, if deran asked, he’d tell him to mind his own business. but the truth was embarrassingly simple, he was waiting for the bedroom light to come back on, just one more time, just so he’d know you were still there.

[openmymouthandspit]

point of view. ⸝⸝ pope is clingy

you settled into bed with your book propped on your knees. the sheets were cool and soft. pope slid in right behind you, pressing his chest to your back and shifting until his cheek was flush against yours. his face nestled there, eyes scanning the same page you were on, breath tickling your skin. you turned the page slowly and he adjusted without a word, arms looped loosely around your middle, fingers resting still on your stomach.

the room was quiet except for the faint rustle of paper and the shared rhythm of your breathing. you kept reading, focused on the story, while his warmth seeped into you and his lashes brushed your cheek every so often when he blinked.

later at lunch you carried your plate to the table but pope was already seated, patting his thigh once. you slid onto his lap without comment, settling comfortably as his arms wrapped fully around your waist, hands clasped over your belly. he held you close, chin resting on your shoulder while you ate, fork moving steadily from plate to mouth.

his hold stayed firm but gentle, thumbs occasionally stroking small arcs over your shirt, never interrupting. you focused on each bite, chewing thoughtfully, the weight of him grounding and familiar behind you. he said nothing, just breathed evenly, content to keep you anchored there until the plate was empty.

afterward you moved to the living room for laundry. the couch was piled with clean clothes. you stood sorting and folding while pope sat on the edge of the cushion right behind you. his arms circled your body, hugging your hips, and he leaned forward until his head rested on the curve of your ass, cheek pressed softly against the fabric of your pants. you kept working, hands smoothing shirts and pairing socks with the practiced motions from you.

the ironing board was set up nearby and you shifted slightly to reach it, pressing wrinkles out of a blouse with steady sweeps of the iron. pope moved with you, arms never loosening, his head staying nestled there like it belonged, quiet and heavy in the best way. the scent of fresh laundry filled the air and the low hum of the iron was the only sound besides your occasional soft exhale.

he clung without speaking, simply holding on as you finished each piece, his presence warm and constant through every fold and press. and the whole afternoon passed like that, easy and close to you, his silent attachment making every ordinary task feel completely wrapped in him.

[openmymouthandspit]

point of view. ⸝⸝ jealously flows within pope when he sees you talking to people

pope pushed through the front door of cody’s house, his knuckles still taped and bruised from the fight, sweat and adrenaline clinging to his skin under a fresh hoodie. the place was packed, music thumping through the walls, red solo cups everywhere, laughter cutting through the haze of smoke and spilled beer. he’d won tonight, another brutal knockout that left the crowd roaring, but all he wanted was to find you and crash into your arms.

instead, he spotted you across the living room, leaning against the kitchen counter with a drink in hand. you were smiling, talking to a couple of party goers, some tall guy with a backwards cap gesturing wildly as he told a story, another dude nodding along too close, his shoulder brushing yours like it was nothing. you laughed at whatever they said.

pope’s jaw tightened. heat flared in his chest, that post fight fire mixing with something sharper, way more uglier. he knew it was stupid, you were just being social, the party was already in full swing before he got back, but seeing other guys around you, it twisted him up. his hands flexed at his sides, tape pulling tight over his sore knuckles.

he shouldered through the crowd, eyes locked on you, ignoring the people trying to congratulate him on the win. when he finally reached you, he slid an arm around your waist, pulling you against his side a little harder than necessary, his body still warm and solid from the cage.

“hey,” he muttered low in your ear, voice rough, gaze flicking to the two guys who suddenly looked awkward. “missed you. fight’s over. you good?” he asked.

you turned into him, but pope didn’t let go, his grip possessive as he shot the boys a look that said ‘back the fuck off’ without words. jealousy simmered under his skin, making his heart pound harder than any round in the octagon.

the two guys paused, eyes flicking over pope’s face, taking in the fresh cut on his brow, the swelling along his jaw, the intense glare. one scoffed under his breath, the other smirked like he was sizing up a joke. they muttered “dick” just loud enough to carry before turning and walking off into the crowd.

pope didn’t care. he turned fully toward you, arms wrapping around your neck like a needy puppy, burying his face into the crook of your shoulder. he didn’t say much, just held on tight, breathing you in. his chest rising and falling against yours, the tension in his body slowly easing as he clung there in the middle of the noisy party, he needed this more than anything after the fight.

[openmymouthandspit]

point of view. ⸝⸝ since being released from prison, pope has been so needy

pope’s hands tremble as they grip your hips, pulling you down onto the creaky bed in the chateau like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. since they let him out, he’s been like this; so starved, desperate, every touch like it’s the first real one in years. his breath shakes against your neck, hot and uneven, a soft whimper slipping from his lips as he presses open mouthed kisses down your collarbone.

“i missed this,” he breathes, voice cracking. his mouth trails lower, frantic and wet, kissing every inch of your chest like he’s memorizing you. his fingers dig into your skin, not hard enough to hurt but enough to show how bad he needs it, how starved he really is. another whimper escapes him when your hands slide into his hair, and he arches into it, hips grinding against your thigh.

he kisses down your stomach, lips brushing your ribs, your belly, then lower, tongue flicking out like he can’t get enough of your taste. “please… let me,” he mumbles between kisses, voice wrecked and needy. his breath hitches hard when you spread your legs for him, and he buries his face there instantly, moaning softly against your heat. his tongue works slow at first, savoring, but hunger takes over quick, lapping, sucking, whimpering with every little sound you make.

pope’s whole body shakes as he climbs back up, kissing your thighs, your hips, your breasts again, like he can’t stop. he doesn’t rush, instead he just keeps touching you slowly, kissing, whimpering your name like a prayer. “been so long… i need you so bad,” he gasps, breath shaky as he finally sinks into you, slow and deep, eyes fluttering shut with a broken moan.

he moves like he’s drowning in you, hips stuttering, mouth never leaving your skin, kissing your shoulders, your jaw, your lips in messy, desperate presses. every thrust pulls another soft whimper from him, his hands roaming everywhere, touching, gripping, like he’s making up for every empty day behind bars. “don’t stop… please.” he begs against your mouth, voice trembling, completely lost in how much he needs this, needs you.

[openmymouthandspit]

point of view. ⸝⸝ who would’ve known that rafe was such a sucker for jeans?

the afternoon sun filtered through the palm trees as you stepped out onto the porch in your favorite levi’s jeans, the faded blue denim hugging your legs comfortably after a thousand washes.

rafe looked up from where he was lounging on the couch, keys dangling from his fingers, and his usual restless energy stilled. a slow, genuine smile spread across his face. “god, I love the way you look in those,” he said, voice warm and unguarded.

you glanced down at the jeans with a little laugh. “these old things?” you asked.

“yeah, these old things.” he stood up, crossing the space between you in a few easy strides. his hands found your waist, not pulling you closer in any heated way, just resting there, appreciating you fully. “they just… suit you.” he paused, collecting the right words. “make you look like you.” he nods.

“comfortable and confident.” he teased, his brows dancing as a way to tease you. “okay you’re getting cringe now.” you laughed, and he brushed a strand of hair from your face, eyes soft in that rare way only you ever saw. “i could look at you in them all day.”

you leaned into his touch, smiling. rafe pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, completely content.