hey girl ily. IF reqs are still open… i am requesting pope who always buys shit for his gf, but finds out she bought something pricey with her own money. he’s pissed and she’s trying to figure out why, jokingly goes “it’s almost like u get off on me spending ur money lol” and he immediately gets super quiet and blushy cuz he DOES
hi hi baby i love you more and sorry if this is not as long as you hoped but i thought it was a good blurb/thought!! thank you for requesting, my love <3. wc: 1.8k
this is soooooo good. i will DIE on the hill that pope has felt so used all of his life that all he wants to do is feel useful in a more positive way!!!!! so when he gets a girl?? yeah that’s HIS girl. his everything. his responsibility. he’ll do anything to take care of her. that means his money isn’t even HIS money, it’s yours.
you find it so silly how he asks you if he can buy himself something. it’s never for anything minor, mostly the bigger things. “i think our family room needs a new TV. that okay?”
your eyebrows furrow at this, looking up at him from your textbook. “what?”
“the family room. the television is outdated. can i get a new one?”
“uhm… yeah?” you’re confused but you don’t voice it. you shrug it off like it’s no big deal.
until he asks something else a few days later. “been looking at new trucks, think i can get one?”
you’re in the middle of watching a movie, his rough fingers are massaging your calves after you complained about running back and forth on campus. your eyebrows furrow, looking up at him from your spot. “why are you asking me that?”
he shrugs. “cause i want to know what you want.”
you snort, lying your head back down on your pillow. “and if i said you can’t get one?”
“then i won’t get one.”
your eyes are wide, sitting up fully, pulling your legs from him. “what? you grabbing from my financial aid for the truck or something? cause i only get my year covered and that seems like a lot, sure, but i can’t just waste that all—“
“why would i grab your money? that’s yours.”
“okay… so…” you’re so fucking confused. you shake your head, waving your arms between the two of you. “okay. am i being slow or something? did i miss an entire part of our conversation? was i focused too much on the movie?”
and he has the audacity to look confused as he speaks, “my money is yours too.”
“and… my money is yours?” you ask.
he scoffs, offended. “why would your money be mine?”
“i mean… wouldn’t your words mean the—“
“no.” he interrupts.
“but—“
“no. my money is yours, your money is yours. not mine.”
“your money is mine… and it’s not yours?”
“yes.”
“you’re an idiot.” but you don’t argue.
you have lots of nice things. nice bags and shoes and makeup, all thanks to the money from pope’s wallet. it’s not like you can’t buy yourself anything. you very much can. you’re good at saving, especially with the job you have, the one he hates. so, when you graduate? oh, he’s spoiling you like crazy. he gets you everything you’ve so much as glanced at.
but… you decide to get yourself your own big gift! you’ve never bought yourself something truly pricey. you’ve got your big girl job AND a degree. yeah, that bag you’ve wanted for ages? it’s officially yours.
the funny thing is, he doesn’t even notice it for a while. you opened it while he was off doing his work with his family. you took pictures with the bag, posted it all over your story. had everyone sliding up and congratulating you. but he doesn’t have any form of social media so there’s no way he could’ve seen it.
it’s maybe about a week later when you two are getting ready for a date night, that he notices it.
“when did i get you that?”
“huh?” you’re too busy focused on putting your earrings on at your mirror.
he nods to the bag on the bed with charms hanging off the strap. “that one. i don’t remember buying you that.”
you finally turn, still struggling with your earring. “ah, you didn’t get that one for me.”
his eyebrows furrow. “what do you mean?”
“girl, what do you mean?” you’re frustrated now, finger still fidgeting on your earlobe.
“you bought it?”
you nod, turning back to your mirror. “yeah.”
“okay… so you used my card?”
you huff, “no, i bought it.”
“with my card.”
“no, not with your card.” you groan, tossing your annoying earring onto your vanity in his room. because of course he set up a vanity for you in his bedroom.
“okay… with my cash?”
“no, baby, im overstimulated enough as it is. my card. my money. i bought myself that bag with my money.”
he’s quiet. you’re grabbing another pair of earrings, tugging those on easily. you finally turn back to see pope sitting on the edge of his bed, slumped over, face in his hands.
this completely stuns you. “pope?” you rush to him. “oh my god. i didn’t mean to snap at you. you know how i get when im overstimulated. it’s not fair of me, i know that, but you—“
he pulls his hands from his face, looking at you as you’re on your knees for him. “did my card decline?”
“Uhm… what?” you’re confused, eyes flickering across his hurt expression.
“my card. when you tried to pay for the bag, did it decline?”
“what—“
“i should have the money. maybe the price flagged the cars and shut it down for a bit—“
“pope—“
“did you make any big purchases prior to that?”
you sigh, “pope. i did not use your card. i didn’t try using your card. i bought it with my own money.”
his eyebrows furrow, “your own money being my money.”
you forget for a second that he truly believes the money he makes is yours. you take his hands and hold them in yours. “pope. my card. my bank. my money.”
silence for a few moments. he gets up off the bed, helping you up as well. “okay. let’s go to dinner.”
he’s quiet and distant the entire time. he keeps his manners, of course. he pulls your chair out for you, he listens to you as you speak, holds your bag for you when you get too overwhelmed with it. but he’s clearly upset.
the car ride back to his place is silent, only a soft tune being played on the radio.
you’re the first to break the silence. “did I hurt your feelings?”
“no.” nothing else.
“okay… did i disrespect you in some sort of way?”
“no.”
you shake your head, feeling that frustration bubbling up in your chest. “okay do you want to tell me what’s wrong or are you going to keep pouting about it?”
the drive is completely silent until he parks in front of his home. he decides to tell the truth then, “you didn’t use my card.”
you still for a second before turning to look at him. “wait… you’re upset because i bought this bag with my own money?”
“i wish you would stop saying that. your own money? my money is yours.”
“that’s a really nice sentiment but it’s not—“
“it is true.” he insists.
you roll your eyes. you truly didn’t think that was the reason he was being so pissy. you thought your sometimes bad attitude got to him. “geez, pope. do you have a kink for me spending your money?” you fully expect him retort back with a snarky little comment, which is usually how your petty little arguments go.
silence.
you turn to him again. he’s looking away. his eyes are stuck on a bush outside the window. you move forward, trying to get a better look of his face. and when you catch the way his cheeks are a tinge of pink, you let out a laugh.
“oh my god! you do have a kink for it!” you can’t stop laughing.
he huffs, his blush deepening. “shut up. you’re kink-shaming right now.”
“dude, this is too good.” you’re cackling. doubling over in laughter.
he mumbles, embarrassed. “not your dude…” he gets out of the car, opening your car door for you and helping you out, despite being pouty.
once inside, he sits at the table, arms crossed over his chest and still pouting. you get ready for bed and come out to him in the same spot. you feel the guilt gnawing at you.
you easily slide on over to him, plopping down on his lap, arms around his neck and pressing kisses to his cheek. “give me your credit card.”
“what?” his hands instantly move to your waist, securing you.
“watch me online shop.” you hum, now pressing kisses to the corner of his lips. “that’ll turn you on, right?” he’s quiet. and then, he’s lifting you, “pope!” you laugh as he walks you to his bedroom, smacking your ass.
he gently puts you down, “say you’re sorry.”
you try to contain your laughter because he’s turned on. the tent in his jeans is tight, straining to pop out. “im sorry, my baby. should’ve used your money to buy the bag. gonna use all your money up from now on.”
he groans, shoving his face in the crook of his neck as he slides his jeans down, letting himself spring free. he strokes himself a few times before slipping your nightgown up. “fuck, keep going.”
your legs instantly latch around him, “didn’t spoil me enough for graduating.” a lie, he spoiled you plenty. “gonna need more from you. more bags. more shoes. a new laptop for work…”
the moan he releases as he slides into you is filthy and whiney. “anything!” he ruts into you, desperate for his release. “anything for you, fuck, baby, anything for my smart girl…”
and he meant it, because he does take you shopping the next day, and you do give him head when you’re back in the filled up car.
Thinking about this again, imagine they just started dating keeping it private:
Robby in his chair : hey pup we're doing some paperwork update and we need a copy of your birth certificate for that
Whitaker: oh I was delivered here my family was passing through and had to make an emergency stop cause I decided to come out early, you should be able to pull it up on the computer
Robby: oh that's perfect let me jus-
Whitaker: yeah it was like destiny to come back don't you think?
Robby: ...
Dennis notices him freeze while staring at the computer so he leans in and sees " Michael robinavitch" as the doctor in charge of delivery
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