Crazy (NSFW) - Pope's always been crazy but now he's also a man in love.
On Pope’s first birthday out of Folsom, he wants one thing and one thing only.
A quiet night with you.
Good food, a bottle of wine and twelve uninterrupted hours tangled up in your sheets.
What he gets instead is a paintball gun to the back, a sky driving exercise that’s dysfunctional even by his standards and the most fucking awkward cake blowing debacle in the universe. All of that is topped off with a trip to the strip club, one with a private dance he really does not fucking want.
By the time he gets to your place he’s wound up, agitated and a little drunk from the shots he’s been throwing down his neck trying to drown out his asshole family. He’s already feeling shitty when he steps over the threshold but it gets worse when he sees the burnt out candle on the kitchen table, the two vacant place settings and the half-drunk bottle of wine.
“Fuck.” He mutters, his eyes stinging.
You’ve made a real effort tonight, he can tell from the scent of carbonara that infiltrates his nostrils, the decadent red velvet cupcakes you picked up from his favourite bakery before Folsom. He’d meant to call the first chance he got, but that chance, it never came because there was always one of those assholes dogging his footsteps, clasping his shoulder, telling him to buck up and have good time.
He can tell you’re not in the house as he lingers in the kitchen. The backdoor that leads to the beach is ajar. When he steps out onto the decking, the fairy lights he helped hook up twinkle back at him, creating an iridescent glow in the darkness as the sound of the sea crashing against the shore echoes in his ears.
He finds you curled up asleep on the porch swing, the book you were reading tucked underneath your head.
Waiting up for him, he thinks. The wine though, it always knocks you right out.
You’re wearing denim cut offs, and the khaki coloured shirt you bought him when he first got out of Folsom because you wanted him to have something that was his, something untainted by his time in prison. It was such a small gift, but it had meant the goddamn world to him.
You look so peaceful in that moment, so untroubled by the world. In comparison he’s fucked up, fraught, devastated because his family, they’re destroying him without even knowing it.
“I’m sorry baby.” He whispers, his fingertips brushing a stray strand of hair back behind your ear. “I’m messing this up and I don’t want that, I don’t want…”
To lose you, for the only good thing in his life to go up in flames.
He shivers from the chill in the nighttime air before he scoops you up into his arms, carrying you back inside the house. You mumble in your sleep, snuggling closer into his chest and that simple action is enough to make him feel whole again because it means that you still want him, that you still trust him.
He’s gentle putting you to bed, helping you out of your shorts before he tucks the quilt around you. You settle into the middle of the mattress, your face pressing into his pillow with a discontented sigh. You hadn’t slept well the entire time he was in Folsom. You’d always hated the fact his side of the bed was empty.
He strips off his clothes down to his boxers before climbing in alongside of you. Your legs entwine with his as you nestle into the shelter of his body, your lips lightly brushing over the scar above his heart, the one where another con almost killed him.
“Tomorrow, we’ll have a do over.” He promises you, his hand smoothing over your hair. “Tomorrow it’ll just be me and you, just the way it was supposed to be.”
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I could be a competent surgeon. I could learn the techniques, the mechanics. But I'll never be a great surgeon. Dr. Anspaugh, I could be a great doctor. A doctor who spends time with his patients, who's there for them. I'm good at it. Really good. I could make a difference in people's lives. Don't make me give that up. Please don't make me waste it.
When I was your age, I'd get angry all the time… you know? Kids thought it was funny, so they'd steal my things and push me around. I was kind of small. So I'd get angry and… and hit somebody. Teachers would get mad. You know, they never saw what the other kids did. Everybody thought I was… terrible, even Smurf. I guess maybe I was pretty awful. The only person that was nice to me was my sister. Your dad was the second. And then your mom. I promised them I was gonna take care of you and I'm gonna do that, okay?
sitting on his lap and feeding him a joint while running your fingers thru his curls 🙃
Ughhhhhhhh I need him so bad
pope would have the tightest hold on your hips while you sat in his lap all pretty and smiling and sharing a joint with him. he’d stare up at you like you were made of the moon and stars, wondering how and why you chose him out of everyone else.
he’s ruminating; his obsessive thoughts running amok, but you know how to quell the chaos.
you take a long drag from the spliff pinched between your fingers. the burning ember glows bright on the dimly lit patio while you run your fingers through his auburn curls.
you give his hair a tug and meet his hazel doe eyed stare. a soft gasp tears from the normally stoic man as you angle his head back and cover his lips with your own.
smoke billows from your lungs into his as he hungrily breathes in the drug like it’s his salvation.
as you slowly pull away, you press a finger to his chin closing his lips, making him hold the smoke just a bit longer.
“good boy, Andrew.”
his eyelids flutter and his hold on your waist grows even tighter. his adam apple bobs, throat constricting at the awkward angle as your fingers are still threaded in his locks but he hasn’t moved an inch. you know for a fact he will stay like this for as long as you want him to.
you torturously grind against his lap and only then does he exhale a gritty, smoke stained moan that slithers straight to your core.
pope smirks and plucks the joint from your fingers, “your turn.”
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