Laters Gators

dreaming of touch

No. Literally.

Eva Strapp or whatever

A Heavy Sort of Devotion

cicisramirez

𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔

The desert outside Oceanside didn’t know how to be quiet; it only knew how to be empty.

You sat on the rusted hood of a dead ’92 Chevy Impala, watching the horizon bleed from a bruised purple into a violent, setting orange. The wind scraped across the dirt, carrying the scent of dry sage and distant salt water. You had three hundred dollars left in your back pocket, a duffel bag that didn’t zip all the way, and a bone-deep exhaustion that felt less like tiredness and more like a permanent state of being.

You had run. Again.

It wasn’t that you didn’t love him. God, you loved him with a desperation that frightened you. But loving Andrew "Pope" Cody was like trying to make your home inside a collapsing star. It was beautiful, blinding, and heavy enough to crush the air straight out of your lungs. The Cody family was a black hole, and Pope was its most volatile element. You had needed to breathe. You had needed to see if you still existed when his intense, dark blue eyes weren’t anchored to yours.

A low, rumbling engine broke the desert silence.

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t even turn your head. Deep down, in the quietest, most honest part of your soul, you had been waiting for it.

A matte-black pickup truck kicked up a plume of dust as it pulled off the two-lane highway, tires crunching over the gravel before coming to a halt twenty feet away. The engine cut out. The door clicked open, then shut with a heavy, definitive thud.

Footsteps approached. Slow. Deliberate. Heavy boots against the dirt.

You kept your eyes on the setting sun, your hands tucked into the pockets of your oversized jacket. The shadow fell over you first, long and imposing, blocking out the last remnant of the warmth.

"You're hard to find," a voice rough like gravel, yet strangely soft, murmured.

You finally looked up.

Pope stood there. He looked exactly as he always did—a storm contained in a human frame. His dark hair was slightly overgrown, his jaw shadowed with a few days of stubble. He wore a plain gray t-shirt that stretched over his broad shoulders, flannel open over it, and his hands were shoved deep into his pockets. To anyone else, he looked like a threat. A dangerous, unpredictable man you wouldn't dare look at twice in a dark alley.

But as his eyes locked onto yours, the terrifying, frantic energy that usually hummed beneath his skin just... evaporated. The rigid tension in his shoulders dropped.

"I didn't think you'd track me all the way to Twentynine Palms," you said, your voice barely louder than the wind.

Pope walked closer, stopping right at the edge of the bumper. He didn't look angry. He never looked angry at you. Instead, his gaze searched your face with a devastating, quiet reverence, checking for scratches, for bruises, for any sign that the world had dared to rough you up while you were away from him.

"I'll always find you," he said simply. It wasn't a threat. It was just a fundamental law of his universe. Gravity works, the sun rises, and Pope Cody finds you.

𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔

He didn’t force you into the truck. He didn’t yell, he didn’t demand answers, and he didn’t ask why you had packed a bag in the middle of the night while he was out on a run with Craig and Deran.

Instead, he brought you to a small, nondescript motel on the edge of the desert. It was the kind of place where the neon sign buzzed a sickly green and the manager didn't ask for ID. Pope had gone into the office alone. You stayed in the truck, watching through the cracked window.

The manager, a greasy guy in his fifties, had apparently taken too long to find the keys, or maybe he had looked at Pope the wrong way. Through the glass, you saw the instantaneous shift in Pope's posture. The gentle, quiet man who had helped you into the passenger side of the truck vanished. His spine went rigid. He leaned over the counter, his face inches from the manager's, his eyes turning into twin chips of ice. You couldn't hear the words, but you saw the absolute terror drain the color from the manager's face. The keys were produced in a second.

When Pope walked back out, the darkness clung to him like smoke. He looked like he wanted to tear the world apart with his bare hands.

But the moment he opened the truck door and looked at you, the smoke cleared. His expression softened so fast it was almost jarring.

"Room's ready," he whispered, holding out a hand to help you down.

Inside the sterile, dimly lit motel room, you sat on the edge of the mattress, the reality of your exhaustion finally catching up to you. Pope moved around the room with an eerie, quiet efficiency. He checked the locks on the door twice. He pulled the heavy curtains shut, ensuring not a single sliver of the outside world could peer in.

Then, he knelt on the floor in front of you.

The contrast was staggering. This was a man who, just hours ago, had probably been breaking someone's ribs for Smurf, a man whose name made local hustlers look over their shoulders in a panic. Yet, he knelt before you like a supplicant at an altar.

"Your hands are cold," he murmured, reaching out. His large, calloused hands—hands that knew exactly how much pressure it took to stop a man's breathing—gently engulfed yours. He didn't squeeze. He just held them, warming them with his own body heat. "Are you hungry? I can go get you something. Anything you want."

"I'm just tired, Andrew," you whispered, using his real name, the name only you were allowed to use.

A ghost of a smile touched his lips, softening the harsh lines around his mouth. "Okay. Let's get you to sleep."

He stood up and pulled back the cheap bedspread, smoothing out the sheets with meticulous care. He helped you take off your shoes, his fingers brushing against your ankles with a tenderness that made your throat ache. When you lay down, he pulled the blankets up to your chin, tucking you in as if you were something fragile made of glass.

"Are you going to leave?" you asked, your eyelids growing heavy.

Pope sat on the edge of the mattress, just close enough so his thigh brushed against your side. He shook his head. "Never. I'm right here. Close your eyes."

"You shouldn't have come for me," you mumbled into the pillow. "Smurf's going to be looking for you. Your brothers..."

Pope’s hand found your hair, his thick fingers gently stroking the strands away from your forehead. His touch was lighter than a feather, a rhythm meant to soothe you to sleep.

"They don't matter," Pope said, his voice dropping into a dark, fierce register that vibrated in his chest. "None of them matter. Only you. I'd burn that whole house down before I let them touch you. Sleep. I've got you."

And because it was Pope, you believed him. You closed your eyes and let the darkness take you, safe in the knowledge that the monster guarding your door loved you more than life itself.

𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔

The next morning, the fragile peace of the desert motel shattered.

Pope had gone out to get food, leaving you with strict instructions not to open the door for anyone. But the world outside the Cody family was a messy place, and you had left a few loose ends when you ran. Specifically, a local low-level dealer named Javi, whom you had owed a minor debt to before Pope had pulled you into his orbit. Javi had figured out you were running, and he’d tracked your car to the motel lot.

You were sitting on the bed when the lock clicked. The door flew open, and Javi stepped in, flanked by a heavy-set guy you didn't recognize.

"Well, look at you," Javi sneered, tossing a pocketknife from hand to hand. "Thought you could just skip town? You owe me five grand, sweetheart. And since you don't have it, I think we’re gonna have to find another way for you to pay."

You stood up, backing away until your spine hit the drywall. "Get out of here, Javi. You don't know who you're messing with."

"Oh, I know exactly who I'm messing with. A little bird who thinks she’s protected because she’s running with a Cody." Javi laughed, taking a step forward. "But I don't see no Cody here."

The words had barely left his mouth when a shadow filled the doorway.

It happened so fast your brain could barely process the sequence of events. Pope didn't yell. He didn't give a warning. He dropped the plastic bag of groceries he was carrying—a carton of eggs cracking loudly on the linoleum—and stepped into the room like a specter of death.

Before Javi's guy could even turn around, Pope’s hand wrapped around the back of his neck. With sickening force, Pope slammed the man’s face directly into the corner of the wooden nightstand. There was a horrific crack of bone, and the man collapsed instantly, groaning on the floor, blood pooling rapidly.

Javi spun around, his eyes widening in pure, unadulterated terror. He raised the pocketknife, his hand shaking. "Whoa, man! Wait—"

Pope didn't wait. He closed the distance in a single stride, batting the knife out of Javi’s hand as if it were a toy. He grabbed Javi by the throat, lifting him off his feet, and pinned him against the wall with terrifying, effortless strength.

"You spoke to her," Pope whispered. His voice wasn't loud; it was a low, guttural hiss that sounded barely human. His face was a mask of absolute, unhinged malice. The veins in his neck bulged, and his jaw was set so tight it looked like it might shatter. "You looked at her. You threatened her."

"I-I didn't know—" Javi choked out, his face turning a dangerous shade of blue as his legs kicked uselessly in the air.

"If you ever breathe the same air as her again," Pope said, his grip tightening until Javi's eyes began to roll back, "I will dig a hole so deep in the desert they will never find your teeth. Do you understand me? I will peel the skin from your face."

He meant it. You knew he meant it. Pope wasn't just trying to scare him; he was actively calculating how to dismantle the man in front of him.

"Andrew!" you cried out, your voice trembling. "Andrew, stop! Please!"

The effect was instantaneous.

The name acted like a kill-switch to his rage. Pope stiffened. The terrifying, manic light in his eyes flickered, replaced by a sudden, grounding awareness. He looked over his shoulder at you, seeing the fear in your eyes—not fear of him, but fear of what he was doing.

Slowly, deliberately, Pope opened his hand. Javi dropped to the floor like a sack of wet cement, coughing and gasping for air, clutching his crushed throat.

Pope didn't give the two men another glance. He stepped right over Javi's twitching body, his focus entirely, completely shifted to you. The violence vanished from his demeanor so quickly it was dizzying.

"Did they touch you?" he asked, his voice suddenly frantic, laced with a tender panic. He reached out, his hands hovering over your shoulders, trembling slightly. "Did he hurt you? Tell me. If he touched you, I'll kill him. I'll kill them both right now."

"No, no, they didn't touch me," you said quickly, reaching up to cup his face. His skin was hot, his heart hammering wildly against his ribs. "I'm okay. Andrew, look at me. I'm okay."

Pope leaned into your palms, closing his eyes. The terrifying monster who had just broken a man's face let out a long, shaky breath, melting into your touch. He pressed his forehead against yours, his hands coming down to wrap securely around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. He held you so tight it hurt a little, but you didn't care. It was the only way he knew how to make sure you were real.

"I've got you," he whispered into your hair, his voice cracking with an emotion so raw it brought tears to your eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I left you alone. I won't do it again."

"It's okay," you murmured, rubbing his back.

Behind him, Javi was dragging his bleeding friend out the door, scrambling to get away from the demon inhabiting the room. Pope didn't even turn around to watch them go. To him, they had already ceased to exist. The only thing that mattered, the only thing that kept the chaos in his mind at bay, was you.

𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔

A few days later, you were parked on a bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The desert was behind you, and the familiar smell of Oceanside's salt water filled the cab of the truck. Pope sat in the driver's seat, his hands resting on the steering wheel, staring out at the waves.

You knew what returning meant. It meant Smurf's manipulative smiles, Craig's reckless energy, and Deran's suspicious glares. It meant being dragged back into the underworld of the Cody family.

"You don't have to go back there," Pope said suddenly, breaking the long silence. He didn't look at you, but his jaw was tight. "If you want to leave... if you want to go somewhere far away, where they can't find us. I'll take you. We can go to Canada. We can go to Mexico. Anywhere."

You looked at his profile—the sharp nose, the heavy brow, the scars that told the story of a life filled with violence. You knew the truth. Pope couldn't easily escape Smurf. She held his strings tightly, woven deep into his psyche.

"If we did that, she'd come for you, Andrew. They'd never stop looking," you said softly.

Pope finally turned his head to look at you. The expression in his eyes was something fierce, something terrifyingly beautiful.

"Let her come," he said, his voice entirely devoid of doubt. "Let them all come. I'd die for you. You know that, right? It’s not just talk. If it came down to them or you, I’d take a bullet to the chest before I let a single hair on your head get hurt. I don't care about the money. I don't care about the family. I only care about you."

He reached out, his thick thumb gently tracing the line of your lower lip. His touch was so soft, so incredibly reverent, it was impossible to reconcile with the man who had terrorized a room full of criminals just days before.

You leaned into his hand, taking a deep breath. You knew that loving Andrew Cody was a dangerous game. You knew the world he lived in was violent and bleak. But looking into his devoted, fiercely protective eyes, you realized something else.

No matter how far you ran, no matter how dark the world got, you would never be alone. Because Pope would always find a way back to you. He would fight through hell, tear down heavens, and lay his very life at your feet, just to ensure you were safe.

"I know," you whispered, leaning across the console to press your lips against his.

Pope groaned softly, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you onto his lap. As the ocean waves crashed against the rocks below, you let yourself sink into his embrace—anchored by the sweetest, most terrifying love you would ever know.

𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔

heatwave rabbot, because :)

(non sexual nakedness!! they just ran hot and wanted to sleep peacefully)

left one is them having a slow morning on their weekend off together TT

IN SATAN’S NAME: Part One (Titus Danforth/Reader)

Summary: Continuing the family bloodline is important to the Danforth family and all members of the council, you included. You’re willing to do anything to see that happen, including enlisting the help of Satan himself.

Author’s Note: He’s so terrible and yet I want him so bad.

Warnings/tags: 18+ MDNI, fem! reader, no description of reader, no use of y/n, AU: Grace and Faith are dead and Ursula and Titus lived, established relationship, weddings, reader has fertility issues, pressure to get pregnant (not from Titus), theistic satanism, ovulation, sex rituals, unprotected p in v, dirty talk, pet names/terms used: love, baby, good girl, not beta read, 2.8k words

TITUS DANFORTH MASTERLIST

In Satan’s Name

Page 1: Ah well might as well start posting it and hope i retain motivation to finish it