𝕾𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: "Everything that is united by blood shall never be separated." Aspiring to a life without constraints and with power in your hands, nothing would satisfy you better than marrying Titus Danforth, heir to one of the most traditional families within the Satanist circle to which you, by inherent existence, belong. Promising you the world at your feet, with a venomous charm, he conquers you and on the Wedding Day not only devours you, but unites you two in carnal union, in blood and soul.
𝕱𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: that's it. i must say, and be honest, that this type of character really appeals to me; perhaps it's my slight inclination towards religious and, at the same time, profane things. not to mention that shawn hatosy is delightful in this diabolical role, excuse me. i can't conceive of a better character for him than a malicious and somewhat bloodthirsty villain; it's either that or he (one day) plays an ancient vampire lord or a kind of despot in the middle ages who goes to war and comes back covered in blood and… well, you get the idea. overall, it's a very simple, even "small," fanfic, but i enjoyed writing it. very much. and i hope that whoever reads it will enjoy it even more. (if u see this befour, yes, is a repost! :)
𝖂𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: +18 ADULT CONTENT. SMUT! CANNON-DIVERGENCE UNIVERSE. CANNIBALISM AS A METAPHOR (cliché). ritualistic marriage; mentions of satanic/pagan practices; use of vulgar language; dominant/submissive dynamic; possessive behavior (in bed); use of harsh adjectives (though previously discussed and agreed upon) [slut, whore, bitch] during sex; spit kink; oral sex (both receiving), vaginal sex (unprotected). virginal take. like-ish blood consumption. the reader knows what she wants. titus acting like ittus.
𝖂𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝕮𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 6.3k
AO3
likes, reblogs and/or comments always are welcome!
“he kisses me, it feels like cannibalism / stone-cold, i take what he's givin' / is the DJ makin' moves for a livin'? / wish he'd chat me up, he got permission, oh.”
Everything that is united by blood shall never be separated.
There is a greater force, a perverse bond that coils one into the other, making this union inseparable… And before Satan, everything that is united in His name can never be corrupted without causing a catastrophe, for the origin of disorder begins in the cradle of primordial sin: the desire for power. Power to know the mysteries of the world, power in the desire for another's flesh, the power to be invincible and dominate the world—and behold her there, dressed in a shining blackness, a veil over her face like Death itself, the diagonal cut in the palm of her hand throbbing, dried blood running between her fingers, as she listened to the Lawyer weave word by word of that infernal marriage.
Before you, the man who would soon be the power in your life: Titus Danforth, heir to a lineage of so many other Tituses, Ursulas, and Chesters Danforth in this world you walk upon—powerful, arrogant, spoiled, malicious, and greedy, who once made a pact of blood and power with the Devil, selling their souls and the souls of their descendants for the pleasure that all the money in the world could provide them—standing with his hands dirty with blood, smiling slyly, proud of himself, rubbing his index finger and thumb on the black ring he wore. The wedding ring that symbolically united you two, stained with your own blood. Titus was an attractive man, perversely attractive, even with his age nearing fifty, he maintained an athletic body for his favorite sports; hair that curled at the ends, gray like a ball of wool, and deeply dangerous eyes because they sparkled with charm and perversion, dark as his blood, his soul, his cursed flesh that would soon belong to you.
And yet you were there, to be consumed by all that cruel animosity that surrounded him. By everything that consumed him from within, that veiled rage and the wounded ego of not being the favorite son. You coveted his surname, you desired to unite with him—even against the wishes of his twin sister—you embraced this strange feeling of wanting and power that seized you when he made you the proposal. He needed to marry one of the Council's heiresses, preferably one who was intelligent and cunning, who wouldn't give him many headaches and, above all, who would accept the position as a sort of consort to evil in this world, which would be his once he possessed all the sovereignty to command everything. And everyone.
Delusions of power, you thought as you couldn't sleep on the night Titus proposed marriage to you, with no ceremony at all, dragging you into an empty hallway in your house, pushing you against the wall, trapping you like prey with no escape, his voice sounding hoarsely predatory, his breath a mix of red wine with the caramelized and smoky musk of the cigar he had shared with your father in the Armory minutes earlier. You heard his voice resonate within you for days:
“I know you're different from all those stupid bastards you unfortunately call family. I've known you long enough to know exactly what your place is and who you belong to, and I'm sure you know the same as I do… I'll be brief —” he had placed his face against yours, eye to eye, tooth to tooth, your breathing was heavy and you felt a flaming restlessness rising through your body, even as you tried to avoid expressing anything; Titus smiled full of himself, holding your face firmly: “—I need to marry if I want to be the next Danforth to lead everything. I need an heir to consolidate my holy lineage, and you will be the perfect wife. We marry, we consummate the marriage, you give me an heir, and you will forever have my loyalty. And the world at your feet…”, he whispered, stealing your words as he sealed your lips. It was your first kiss with him, simple, sneaky, like an unexpected strike from a venomous serpent, staining the red of your blood with the dense gloom of his venom, possessing you with that desire for more. As he parted his lips, Titus smiled almost too gently at you, hissing: “When you come to answer me, kiss me as your reply. I want your words to be in me, should you become my wife.” He turned his back and disappeared into the darkness of the hallway.
And you burned with that desire for everything.
You were tired of your family, of the arrogant tone they used with you, of the way they suspected you would ultimately follow the Machiavellian footsteps they themselves had taken… Consumed by this pain that was already within you, hidden and curled up like a child afraid of the world, only to be found by the adult who finally takes them out of that darkness, you decided that your history, and your surname, would be different. Patiently, you waited for the opportunity you would have with the older man, sneaking close to him at one of his family's events held in the enormous luxury hotel, calling him out into the forest, entering the cold among the trees, the crackling of dry leaves and the air of mist and secrets that the place offered. He was beautiful, as always. He exuded an intense perfume that numbed your sense of smell—alcohol, musk, vanilla, and something spicy, almost bloody—a black turtleneck sweater, tailored pants of the same color, polished shoes, his hair combed back. They were illuminated by the Moon, placid and silver. Your heart felt as if it would be spat out of your mouth, your stomach twisted and there was a brief tremor in your hands, when he simply asked in a sarcastic tone:
“What is it, dear? If you want to kill me, I don't think trying it here is the best choice…” He fell silent.
He was silenced.
Your lips were glued to his, drinking the whiskey taste from his satyr mouth, feeling his daring tongue enter and touch yours, his heavy hands sliding over the skin of your back exposed by the dress's neckline, touching your warm nape, giving you a sense of security, letting you glide through that sacral osculum between the old and new testament of that era that would be built, through you. Titus gasped when you parted from that kiss to the rhythm of your words bursting from you:
“Let's get married. I accept being your wife; in exchange, promise me—swear to me!—that I will truly have the world in my hands.” Your heart drummed in your chest, crushing your ribs, it was burning in flames, and you felt your blood, already contaminated by the man's venom, seething in your veins. You wanted to tear your skin, bleed before him, scream with emotion at the visceral nature of that madness. Titus held your face as one holds a heart that still beats—fragile and tenuous—smiling at you:
“You already have me. That is already the beginning to dominate everything.”
He stole your lower lip, trapping it between his teeth, pressing hard until he drew your blood. He licked the blemish that sprouted crimson droplets. He tasted you with relish, sealing that strange engagement.
Behold her here, at her wedding to the man, with demons as witnesses—on earth.
When the Lawyer said:
“The husband may kiss his bride,” you tried to hold back the anxious little smile on your face. Titus slowly lifted your veil, exposing you to an entire audience dressed in black robes, eyes attentive to every detail—your parents in formal clothes of the same shade, a somber air on their faces; on the other side, Ursula dryly leafing through her wounded pride and her fear of being so easily dethroned, the useless younger brother in his position anxious for the consolidation of the legacy that would allow him to live the rest of his life in luxury. Your husband held your face and kissed you with faith—the perseverance that with this union, he would be as victorious as if he were alone. He sealed your lips the same way they had sealed your blood in the golden chalice, the same that served as a seal for your names engraved in the Book.
When they parted lips, the man couldn't hold back the comment:
“I can't wait to wed you entirely, Mrs. Danforth.”
You shuddered, for throughout the short time you had been engaged and lived together as boyfriend and girlfriend, if you could categorize your strange relationship that way, you had not broached the sensitive subject that you were still a virgin. And Titus Danforth did not strike you as the type of man who would go slowly in bed—especially considering that during this time he had been patient, always following your lead, never rushing too much, almost too polite.
Or perhaps you were just creating a huge drama over something that, in theory, would be as banal as sex. Flesh with flesh uniting for the sake of a greater evil, an heir who would hold the power of this world in his hands, carry the names of his ancestors stained by blood pacts, and lead over everyone without shame—you presumed that was exactly what your now-husband desired. Watching him flaunt the golden ring with a large groove in the middle, as if something were missing, the void of power concentrated in that symbol, placing it on the same finger where his wedding band was. With disgust and bitterness, you witnessed the usual ceremony that ritualizes the heir's ascension to patron, spilling the innocent blood of a goat into the hole in the ground, which exhaled a putrid smell of rotting flesh, flies, and death reaped by dry, coagulated blood, reminding you of the terrible rawness of this profane universe.
The deaths would still be present.
There was no way to detach yourself from what you had accepted. He himself had made a point of knowing if this was truly what you wanted for your life. He faced everything with seriousness, waiting for it to end so you could flee from there. The offering was accepted when the fire grew in size, the flames licking the air. Titus smiled boastfully, turning to you expecting something in return.
And you smiled, complicit in your promise.
…
"Daughter, I truly hope you accepted this marriage because you wanted to… Not because you were forced by Mr. Danforth."
"Mother… We already talked about this weeks ago. I can't believe you still haven't accepted my decision."
"That's not it. I just worry about my only daughter—," your mother took your hands, a caricature of the exaggerated concern she always had for you, looking at you pleadingly while the guests danced as if nothing had happened in the Temple hours ago, in their mundane formal attire, dancing and eating, enjoying a traditional party. Titus Danforth was on the other side of the hall in his black high-collared overcoat, buttons open exposing the same-colored dress shirt beneath, a silver brooch with emeralds encrusted framing the family crest. He was drinking something, standing with his brothers talking to him, but his eyes were on you.
You felt a shiver down your spine, as if the ghost of his hands were stripping you entirely. You shrugged, looking at your mother who brazenly exposed her thoughts about the union:
"...your father and I swore our little girl would break this bond with everything, wouldn't be capable of going this far, but you rebelled and to take revenge decided to marry Danforth. The worst of them all!"
"Mother, this is not the time to play the righteous one! Especially knowing the things you do." Bitterness rose to your throat, incredulous at your mother who argued:
"But this is serious! You were going to break it and free us from this fate. You! Now we'll be forced to witness a crazy sociopath rule over all of us with our heiress by his side and…"
"Am I interrupting?" Titus sounded deep and serious before you. You were so engrossed with your mother and her exaggerated expressions that you barely noticed him approaching where you stood, his arms behind his back. He smiled cynically, devouring your mother, diminishing her to nothing with his presence. She stammered, denied, shrugged—she looked like she was about to bury herself in a hole and jump straight into the Devil's lap. He looked at you amused, smiling slyly, extending his hand:
"May I take my wife?"
He looked challengingly at your mother.
You were inwardly amused, maintaining an austere posture, thinking how ironic that scene was: both of them sharing the same age, fighting for your attention, as if you were now the most mature person in the entire room. Pathetic. Your husband waited for a response from your mother; you stared at her expectantly, raising an eyebrow equally challengingly, until she let out in a murmur:
"Feel free, Mr. and Mrs. Danforth."
"With great pleasure!"
He extended an inviting hand, pulling you close to him, moving you away from your mother's table, taking your waist to pull it against his body, whispering in your ear:
"I'm dying to get out of here and get to what matters, my wife. What do you think?"
You froze, feeling a cold sweat break out on your forehead. You looked at the hall full of familiar faces, in the background the Danforth brothers staring at you, to the side your father at the drink table serving himself more gin, in the back, in a corner, Daniel Le Domas getting drunk while his younger brother argued with his girlfriend, daughter of Ignacio El Caido. Everything seemed to spin for a moment, but when you felt the pressure of his firm grip on your waist and the ring on your finger seem to vibrate and burn, you knew it was time.
"Let's get the hell out of here before I send these people to Hell!"
Titus laughed—a sonorously pleasant laugh that you had heard on rare shared occasions, guiding you out of the hall, leaving the guests to enjoy themselves without you nearby, commenting with acidity:
"My love, but that won't be very difficult to happen…"
…
The nuptial chamber smelled of sweet tobacco, spicy whiskey, burnt candles, and the lasciviousness of the moment that awaited her.
It was spacious and dark—as expected given the gothic and melancholic tone in which some families of the Council lived their lives, so it was with yours, no different from the Danforths who maintained an old-fashioned elegance in their aesthetic. Shades of dark brown and moss green mixed with wine red in the details of heavy Persian rugs, the veil that enveloped the canopy of the enormous bed with sheets of pure white, which contrasted with the rest of the dark, rustic furniture around. There was an enormous painting above the lit fireplace, the fire licking and slowly consuming the wood, warming the room with its enormous windows, heavy curtains in a red as dark as coagulated blood, almost blending with the blackness of the vast sky outside. An oval side table with a curved carved foot, containing a silver tray and a crystal bottle of aged whiskey and two glasses in the center.
Dark green leather armchairs, one next to the side table, with its back to the fireplace and facing the enormous bed. There was a door at the back leading to the bathroom, and just ahead, one step down, another room adjoining the bedroom, immersed in darkness. You walked to the center of the room, staring at the painting before you, imposing. Titus appeared behind you, whispering in your ear:
“Did you like my gift, Mrs. Danforth?”
Your surname slid like honey from his mouth into your ears. You shuddered, pressing your sweaty hands together, nodding in surprise as you came across a perfect painting of you alongside Titus, both of you flaunting the brooch with the family crest on your completely black clothes, serious and imposing expressions; him standing and you sitting in an armchair that looked more like a throne, his hand on your shoulder, you with crossed legs, staring at yourself.
"It was your future.”
That grew inside you more than it should have, filling you with a pleasant ego and a delirious desire to be seen that way.
Titus pushed aside your veil, exposing your neck, your sensitive, warm skin inviting a kiss that made you shiver—his hands were on your shoulders, strong, pressing against flesh and bone as if he wanted to merge into you. He whispered:
"This is you. How I see you by my side, seated as a sovereign. You and me ruling this lost world."
He coaxed a small smile from you, relieved by the relaxed atmosphere around you. Titus began kissing your neck with more eagerness, his hands that had been on your shoulders now sliding forward, squeezing your breasts, pressing you against his body—he moaned hoarsely, longing for this moment for so long, shedding all that rawness and ugliness he presented before his satanic pulpit; here with you, he was just a man who desired. He desired viscerally, panting, breathing in your perfume deeply, devouring your skin with his mouth wide open. You yielded, closing your eyes, feeling the waves of pleasure take possession of your body, even as your inner voice screamed for you to stop and ask for a moment, your body, perhaps even your soul, if you still had one, were surrendered to him. He guided you to lean against his body, serving as a refuge for all that pleasure, one hand possessively rising to your throat, squeezing where the blood pulsed in your jugular, biting your earlobe, murmuring:
"You have no idea how much I want to fuck you completely, my love…," you were turning to face him when suddenly you stopped. In profile, you lowered your face, hiding your shame from the man—your man—who looked at you in surprise. Titus pulled back:
"What's wrong? Did I do something wrong…?"
No, you thought, bringing your hands to your face which was pure heat, I want you too, I'm just ashamed. You thought.
Titus seemed to read your mind; in some macabre way, it was as if from the moment you married, sealing your blood in that Book, he had access to you somehow. And being completely contradictory to all the perverse image you had carved for him, he took a deep breath, approaching you carefully, his hands gently enveloping yours, removing them as one reveals the face of a statue from beneath a cloth, admiring you with numbed eyes, dilated pupils, a soft voice:
"Regardless of what it is, you can trust me. Now we are one, from the moment you accepted being mine and I yours, I don't want any secrets between us. Understand? You can tell me what troubles you…"
You raised your eyes to him, shiny, fearful, breathing heavily, feeling the heat of the room and him emanating into you. Seeing truth in his eyes, you unburdened:
"I'm a virgin, Titus. That's it."
"Oh," he blurted out in a burst, surprised, blinked his eyes, arched his eyebrows, then simply smiled—you thought he would be ironic about your condition, or even sarcastic, would judge you and throw you on the bed like an animal; but as he placed a delicate hand on your face and caressed your cheek with his thumb, his words caught you off guard:
"Do you know how to feel pleasure?"
"No… More or less," you said without thinking. Titus flashed a smile of white, gleaming teeth. He nodded, suddenly pulling away from you, the emptiness caused by his absence putting you on high alert, as if you feared he had given up on everything. You watched him circle before you and sit in front of you, in one of the armchairs, elegantly crossing his legs and resting his face on his left hand, propped on the arm of the chair. Eyes on you, always on you, slowly undressing you with his gaze. He remained silent.
And his silence provoked an emerging desperation in you.
Crazy.
"What is it, Titus? Say something. Please," you turned to him, frowning, you asked.
The man smiled gracefully:
"When were you going to tell me this detail, Mrs. Danforth?"
"And what difference would it make? Either way, we have to consummate this marriage if you want an heir… I know how babies are made. I'm not naive at all…"
"Oh, I didn't say any of that! I notice you're a bit high-strung—I like that, dear! It makes everything even more… Intense," he clicked his tongue, savoring the moment. His somewhat irreverent yet dominant posture began to stir in you a desire to inflict that exact reaction on him. It made you pulse, made you enjoy acting this way to be admonished. He smiled slyly, crossing his arms:
"So why did you stop? Are you afraid of hurting me? That would never be a problem for me, Mr. Danforth."
"You don't know what you're asking for, young lady…," he laughed through his nose, closing his eyes for a moment, gesturing with his free hand, pointing a finger at you, he was entering that little game that was proving particularly delightful.
"Little girl? Really? Is that how we're going to address each other now?"
"No, I'm just stating a fact, my dear. But if it bothers you, I can call you other adjectives. What do you think of 'my woman'?"
"I prefer something rawer," your request came from some corner that was revealing itself in the moment. Seeing him there sitting, powerful in his human obscurity, living blood pulsing with chaos and pain, predator eyes waiting for the right moment to attack you, make you kneel before him and beg to be subjugated, was simply driving you mad. Lust consumed you, something numbing and more dangerous than any synthetic drug. It was purely the hunger you felt and didn't know you needed so badly to be satisfied. Titus raised an eyebrow, asking with false modesty:
"So what do you prefer to be called while I fuck you for the first time in your life?"
"Call me a whore. Your slut, your bitch. Anything, call me and make me beg for more."
"I will—I just don't promise to hold back. Do you like feeling pain?" The question was serious.
"Yes. I love it. I want you to hit me. And spit in my mouth. I want you to treat me the way you've always wanted."
"Done. And I want you to obey me."
"I will obey you, Mr. Danforth."
"Fuck—," he closed his eyes, shifted his legs, sighed exasperatedly. He swallowed hard, opening his eyes slowly; "I want you to kneel before me."
You did it.
Your knees bent, a prayer to that bestial angel, beautiful and immoral before you. The shadows that enveloped his face made him even more mysterious. Slowly, he opened his legs and pointed for you to fit yourself between them. When you crawled and stood there, arms static, he used both hands to immobilize your face, approaching you the same way he did when he pulled you into that empty hallway in your house, eye to eye, tooth to tooth, analyzing your expression as he murmured:
"When you ask me to stop, I will stop. But as long as you don't, I will really go all out, do you hear me, Mrs. Danforth?"
You nodded. He squeezed your face, harshly:
"Speak."
"Yes. Mr. Danforth."
"Great," he rubbed one of his thumbs on your lips, looking at them with desire, until you opened your mouth and he raised his index and middle fingers, touching the tips of his fingers against your closed teeth, commanding: "Now suck my fingers. Open that little mouth, that's it," he smiled satisfied, introducing both fingers into your mouth. They tasted of skin and dried blood underneath, tobacco and whiskey. He tilted his head back and forth: "This is exactly how I want to be sucked. Got it? Have you ever sucked a cock before?"
You shook your head no. Titus let out an exasperated groan:
"My little whore is so virgin she's going to receive a cock for the first time today, huh? What a delight to know it will only be mine, fucking that tasty little mouth."
You moaned at the image you had just imagined, salivating even more around his fingers, looking at him with desire. He removed his fingers with a wet pop, gave a sticky little tap on your cheek, whispering:
"Good girl, good girl… Now open my pants."
You looked hesitant, but when you looked down and saw the bulge between his legs, you couldn't help but open the zipper, your hands touching the stiffness between the layers of fabric, sliding it down with his help as he briefly lowered his pants, leaving himself in his underwear for you. Your hands stopped on each of his knees, squeezing, observing the freckles scattered around his pale thighs, light fine hairs, until you reached the thick bulge between his legs. Titus reached for your hands, pulling them until they touched his cock:
"Feel how much I want you, my girl. Squeeze it, don't be afraid, like this—," he closed his eyes as he made you press your hands, marking his entire rigid length, bit his lower lip and commanded: "—now take off my underwear and suck me like I taught you."
You did as he asked: you pulled down the fabric, watching his cock spring out, trimmed dark hairs, the pink little head already lubricated with precum. It was relatively thick with prominent veins, the skin around the head folded down. Your mouth filled with water, you looked at Titus, his eyes shining, his hands on each arm of the armchair, waiting for the right moment to envelop you. You opened your mouth, stuck your tongue out a little, and slid his cock into your mouth… The sensation was unusual. Fresh, sticky flesh against your mouth, warm, soft skin. But the feeling of giving him pleasure was far more enjoyable than the act itself—knowing that you were obeying the man, hearing him breathe heavily and begin to moan, low and slow, almost as if he were holding back from the sheer pleasure of the back-and-forth of your mouth, was what drove you to do more, because it was motivating you to suck out his entire soul (or what was left of it) through his cock, looking deep into his eyes, giving your best even though it was your first time doing it.
Titus couldn't hold back; one hand went to your hai—the veil was still there, framing the scene—pulling it off clumsily, holding strands of hair while the other hand held your cheek, caressing you:
"You suck very well, my love. Like the perfect little whore for me, huh? I think we've discovered a new hidden talent of yours—fuck, at this rate I'm going to come in your mouth."
"Come," you said impulsively as you took his cock out of your mouth, catching your breath, sliding a hand down to jerk him off while smiling. Titus smiled satisfied, holding the base of his cock, stopping your movements, placing his dick next to your face: "Look how beautiful you look with my cock on your face." He slapped your cheek once: "Do you want to suck more?"
"Please!"
"Here you go," he offered it to you again, and you received it with a wet mouth and a wet cunt—you were practically dripping, inside your dress, pressing your thighs together tightly. You drooled a lot, used your saliva to make it easier, ran your tongue around his cock, looked at him lasciviously, stopped to catch your breath, jerking him, listening to him moan deeply.
Until he stopped you with a command:
"Stop, stop! Now I'm serious… Shit. Get up, come on," he indicated that you should move away from him. Obedient and reluctantly—you wanted him to actually come in your mouth, on your face, wherever—you stood up, stepping backward. Titus seemed to recover his composure, smiling almost incredulously:
"I'm not the young man I was years ago, my dear. All control is necessary."
You laughed casually at the almost self-deprecating joke. Titus relaxed his shoulders, looking at you now seriously:
"Take off your clothes," almost immediately your hands were already undoing the ties of your bodice, when he signaled: "Slowly. I want to savor this moment."
Understanding what he wanted, you did so.
You loosened the ties and let the piece become loose around your bust. You removed the stiff framework, freeing the dress, slid down the zipper, shrugged your shoulders so the sleeves would fall, removing the piece that was snug around your bust and waist. The skirt fell gently. You stood with your breasts exposed, black lace panties, lace garters connected to seven-eighths stockings, a detail suggested by a cousin of yours. Titus stood almost motionless, hard, pants halfway down his thighs, still in his overcoat and dress shirt, a beautiful and deplorable mess, looking at you with clemency. He stood up, removing his shoes and socks, pants and underwear, finally the overcoat and dress shirt, revealing himself completely naked to you: an athletic, muscular body, pale skin full of freckles around his chest, shoulders, arms. Beautiful. They stared at each other, at a distance, until he approached you, embracing you and kissing you.
It was a kiss that devoured your mouth, you could barely keep up with him, his frenetic tongue and the way his lips moved, while his hands contoured your body pulling you against him, gasping at every movement you made with your head, pressing yourself against his erect cock between your bodies, wanting more and more. Titus led you in this dance of sweaty bodies to the bed, tilting you until you lay down and he came on top, kissing the salty skin damp with sweat and perfumed with floral talc. He sucked at your jugular as if he wanted to draw blood, bit your breast painfully, looking at you with relish, smiled when he grabbed a nipple between his teeth and squeezed, releasing a burning sensation that pressed against you and made you grind against him, before sucking the nipple with wet pops. He slid one hand down to your panties, entering the garment, his agile fingers slipping between your wet folds, the soft skin welcoming him as he slid his index finger over your clitoris, moving up and down, in circular motions, lifting himself up with one arm while watching your expression transform into pure pleasure and pleading.
You grabbed his neck, pressing your foreheads together.
You were ready for him.
You kissed him tenderly, slowly, guiding his hand that was inside your panties outward, making him take them off entirely, ripping the garters, feeling the garment being slid down your legs—he broke away from the kiss to toss it aside, positioning himself between your legs, the tip at your entrance:
"If it hurts too much, please tell me," you nodded, grabbed him, pulling him toward you, your hands sliding down his back to his buttocks, squeezing his flesh so he would shove himself inside you already. Titus slid in with difficulty, tearing you and filling you, making the unctuousness of virginal blood wet him and burn. He stayed still, pulsing and hoarsely moaning. It was only when you ground your hips and guided him that he began to move. It was something pleasurably agonizing—a painful pleasure that seemed to last an eternity, his body being yours now, yours being his, in the back-and-forth of moans and sweat, in that blood that blessed him and celebrated you as a Danforth. He filled you, and rocked you. With each thrust he moved and moaned:
"You take me so well. Being the good little slut that you are, so tasty and tight."
"Titus… Don't stop, fuck me like this, just like that," you asked without knowing exactly what you felt; you felt everything and nothing, your heart pounded and your body vibrated. Titus looked at you with a fury of desire, held your neck firmly, squeezing it, looking deep into your eyes, positioning himself better to look at you from head to toe, you spreading yourself even wider for him.
"Open that mouth, whore!"
You obeyed him without blinking, while he increased his thrusts, going deep into that blood and your honeyed juice, spitting into your mouth. He gave you a sharp slap:
"You like that, don't you? Being fucked by your husband's cock? Hmm? Like the good little whore you are for me, fuck! I'm going to fill you with cum—" you were in a trance, sweating and pure flame. Titus loosened the grip on your neck, leaned down to kiss you slowly, returning to thrusting the same way, slowly, almost letting his cock slip out of you only to come back in completely. When he trapped your lower lip between his teeth, pressing once more, drawing your blood again and kissing you with it mixed with saliva, he roared.
Thick spurts and a shudder, he had come.
You moaned along with him, even though you were still in a frenzy. Still inside you, he kept pushing, murmuring:
"Not a single drop will be wasted. Not when I don't put my child inside you."
When you opened your eyes, Titus was staring at you. He smiled slyly:
“You think it's over?"
Suddenly he had your legs propped on each of his shoulders, opening you up for him, his mouth devouring you with relish—consuming that sacred blood—looking at you in admiration while you moaned, feeling the pleasure increase, grabbing your hair, begging for more, feeling his wet tongue around your clitoris, his large hands holding your thighs, giving wet kisses and biting the fragile flesh of your inner thighs, passing his cursed mouth between your labia, sliding his tongue through your slit. He used his index and middle fingers to penetrate you, curled at a point that left you breathless, gasping and arching your back, being led to the state of ravine. Being consumed alive by him, having your blood and your orgasm in him, it was a glorious climax that left you in orbit. With your eyes closed, you saw red and white stars against your eyelids, a hiss, your body trembled, and you moaned your man's name.
He rose and smiled proudly while you caught your breath, coming close to you, welcoming your body against his sweaty and tepid skin, arms that enveloped you.
"So this is what it's like…?"
"Like what?"
"To be devoured entirely," you let out without thinking, your mind a pleasurable void. He laughed deeply:
"I suppose so. Did you like it?"
"I loved it," you said between laughs. He rocked you, and they stared at the flames of the fireplace, until you looked at him with something crossing your mind, mischievous.
"Can you handle one more?"
Titus tilted his head to the side, laughing incredulously, while you laid him down and nestled into his lap, laughing, rubbing against his thighs, seeking his lips for an eager kiss. Grabbing your ass with desire, he grumbled:
"I chose my wife very well."
…
It was on Halloween that you were able to hold your son in your arms. You spent an entire afternoon in labor, feeling torn apart inside, crying and swearing you would never let Titus Danforth impose another child on you again. He laughed mockingly, arms crossed, while trying to hide his nervousness at seeing you in such a state of delivery. When the baby finally came out and saw the light, he had red hair and eyes as gloomy as his father's. You observed the fruit of that strange love, flesh and blood and bones and perhaps a clear and pure soul sleeping in your arms, with pride, thinking that you were now the mother of an heir.
Titus was sitting beside you on the bed.
As was the tradition in his family, the birth had taken place in the privacy of his estate. They were in that moment of silence when they were interrupted by the presence of Ursula, who held a white envelope in her hands.
"Am I interrupting something? How is my nephew? I hope he hasn't inherited his father's face…"
"Funny—," he laughed mockingly, getting up and going to his sister: "what the hell is this?" he took the envelope curiously. Ursula smiled:
"Open it and see for yourself."
Titus opened the envelope, glanced at you, then pulled out a card and read quietly what was inside. You stretched with curiosity, waiting for him to say something. Titus let out a sigh, turned to you, and announced:
"The Danforth family is invited to the wedding of Alex Le Domas and his future wife… Grace McLaughlin."
"Who is that?" Ursula asked, looking at you confused. You shook your head, indicating you didn't know who it was. Titus put the envelope back, handed it to his twin, and walked toward you, where he took his son in his arms, proudly:
"I don't know and honestly I don't care to know. Not when we have a future Danforth here to follow in his daddy's footsteps."
While Ursula rolled her eyes and shrugged, and Titus held and rocked little Danforth, you tilted your head, exhausted against the pile of pillows behind you. You felt yourself emptying into a sensation of torpor, remembering your wedding night and everything you had gone through with your husband. You smiled faintly, knowing that from your flesh something genuinely fresh might perhaps emerge.
Something for which that blood pact would never be broken, yes, but which could be digested and diluted into something new.
rules. because every good house worth its salt has its rules.
[not that I write about some of the thornier things means I'll take abuse from anyone.]
𝐈. i don't accept baseless hatred: if you don't like it, don't read it.
𝐈𝐈. i don't venture into disgusting&extreme content (scatological); much less non-consensual. themes like incest might appear, but properly contextualized (such as between cousins or stepcest type, at the very most as well);
𝐈𝐈𝐈. constructive criticism, suggestions & requests for fanfics will be accepted here. the more specific and/or with references (whether from music, movies, series, books, etc... or a specific phrase or scene), the better.
I am 𝕭𝔢𝔩𝔩𝔞, a poor soul wandering among so many other souls, in search of a meaning that you and I both know does not exist. I am of the sign where solid ground and reason dance with perfection—VIRGO. Perfectionist by nature, somewhat annoying and gloomy. I love my writings, and I enjoy sharing them and making them eternal in this abstract universe that is the internet.
Here on this blog, you will find a mix of literary and pseudo-artistic experiments, along with the people I delude myself about in the world of daydreams, blended with the thorniest themes that disturb my mind.
From GOTHIC ROMANCE — which carries the sorrows of tragic romances, blood, death (and more complex things) — all the way to the DRAMA that warms the anguished, passing through GOTHIC, ROMANTIC ROMANCE, PSYCHOLOGICAL HORROR, among others… Remember: this is the home of my literary experiments.
Stories with blood, sweat, and tears. With screams and sighs, the Brazilian heat alongside the cold of a lost forest in the Balkans; imagination will have no limits. Where saints pray for sinners. Profane & Sacred.
Between the MIDDLE AGES and MODERN TIMES — temporal and timeless. The CATHOLIC imaginary, with Latin blood and this disbelief in GOD.
As MUSES of these writings, we will have actors who will embody the characters as counterparts: ROBERT PATTINSON, JAMES SPADER, PAUL MESCAL, SEBASTIAN STAN, JAMES SPADER, MADS MIKKELSEN, NICHOLAS GALITZINE, JOSH O’CONNOR, AUSTIN BUTLER, JACOB ELORDI, BILL SKARSGÅRD & JOSH HARTNETT […] are some of the celebrities who will appear with certain recurrence here. There may also be specific fanfics based on MOVIES, SERIES, MUSIC, among others… They may show up here.
I am also open to sapphic romances. That will be something to develop in the future. As well as longer fanfics—exceeding 5k words, divided into parts, slower to write, but very rich in detail and development. I am also engaged in playing with love triangles, anti-heroines, failed villains, submissive men.
So, welcome to this home—which will be not only mine, but ours.
this blog is exclusively for fanfics. Therefore, any other type of interaction outside this context—reblogs, what I’m thinking/venting about, other nonsense of mine, etc.—will be on my secondary blog (already pinned on the homepage of this profile).
this blog will also be home to what are considered "dead fandoms"—that is, characters and personas that are not always as hyped as the more common ones.
fanfics with themes that play with the whimsical, the tropical, the gothic, and those that eroticize and, at the same time, can provoke tears or bloodshed.
