𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐈 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮
𝐕𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐲𝐫! 𝐓𝐢𝐭𝐮𝐬 𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐡 𝐱 𝐌!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫
𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 : Forcing yourself into marriage with Titus Danforth. You enter the wedding night expecting fear, resentment, and survival—not intimacy. Inside of the Danforth estate, Titus reveals a softer but no less obsessive side, treating you with unsettling tenderness while reminding you that you now belong to him completely. | drabble + porn without plot
𝐌𝐃𝐍𝐈 + 𝐅𝐃𝐍𝐈 mature content below.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 : Smut, Dom!Titus, Fluff, Sub!Male!Reader, Moaning, Praising, biting, Blowjob, M!Reader (reviving), Swearing, Hematolagnia, Explicit Content, Cum, Dirty Talk.
The door clicks shut behind you, the sound of the lock sliding into place like a final trap springing shut.
Heavy velvet curtains blocked out the moonlight, candles flickering low around the massive bedroom. Everything smelled like old cedar wood and smoke. The scent clung to the walls of the Danforth estate like perfume.
And Titus stood in the center of it like the devil they all whispered he was.
Tall. Broad. Still dressed in most of his wedding clothes, though his jacket had already been discarded somewhere downstairs. The sleeves of his black button-up were rolled to his forearms, exposing pale skin veined faintly blue beneath candlelight. His hair was messy from your constant fighting all evening, and there was a small scratch along his jaw where you’d clawed at him earlier.
“You nearly stabbed my sister with a serving fork,” Titus murmured, amused.
Your back hit the bedroom door when he stepped closer. “She deserved it.”
You glared at him, but Titus only laughed softly under his breath.
Massive palms cradled your face before you could recoil. The sudden gentleness caught you off guard more than the threats had all night.
His crimson eyes searched your face carefully.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs again, his voice a low rasp that vibrates through your skull. His thumb rolls over your lips, parting them slightly. “I can’t wait to turn you.”
You try to pull back, but his grip is iron-steady—vampire strength, you remind yourself. You agreed to this. The wedding band on your finger feels heavier than gold.
“You agreed to this,” he says, leaning in until his breath ghosts across your mouth—cold, with a faint copper scent. “And besides, it’s our wedding night.” His gaze drags down your body, then back up, slow and possessive. “You’re mine now.”
He kisses you. You stiffen for a heartbeat, then let yourself melt. What choice is there? He’s already branded you a Danforth, a devil worshiper, a husband. Might as well get something out of it.
Titus kisses like he hunts: relentless, consuming. His tongue pushes past your lips, tasting you, and you taste him back. He pushes open the door behind you with one hand, guiding you backward through the dimly lit room until your knees hit the edge of the four-poster bed.
Clothes shed fast. Your vest, Your pants. Soon you’re down to your briefs, he in nothing but dark pants that ride low on his hips. The candlelight flickers over his pale skin, tracing the hard lines of his chest, the ridges of his stomach. He climbs over you, hands planted on either side of your head, caging you in.
You look down at his body—smooth, marble-cold, carved like a statue. Your hands run down his chest, feeling the unnatural stillness beneath your palms. No heartbeat. Just the cool, solid flesh of something undead.
Titus kisses you again, then trails his lips down your cheek, your jaw, your neck. He nips at the skin there, just enough to make you gasp, his fangs grazing the pulse point. He pulls back, looking down at you, eyes dark with want.
“You ready?” His voice is soft, almost gentle, but his pupils are blown wide.
You hesitate, then slowly nod, your hand coming up to hold the side of his neck. His skin is like silk over steel.
He smiles, leans in, and presses a soft kiss to your lips. “No, you’re not.”
Before you can respond, he’s back at your throat, mouth open, tongue laving over the spot where your jugular throbs. Your hand tangles in his dark hair, holding him there, urging him on. He groans against your skin, the sound vibrating through you.
He pushes your legs apart, settling between them, and his hand slides down your body, over your stomach, to palm your cock through the damp cotton of your briefs. You arch into his touch, a broken moan escaping your lips.
“That’s it,” he breathes, hooking his fingers into the waistband and pulling them down your thighs. You lift your hips, letting him strip you bare. He looks at you—a long, hungry stare—then leans down and takes you into his mouth.
You cry out, your back bowing off the mattress. His mouth is cool, but his tongue is clever, swirling around the head before taking you deeper. He bobs his head, one hand gripping your hip, the other fondling your balls. You’re barely holding on, your hips thrusting up into the wet heat of his throat.
Titus pulls off with a wet pop, strings of saliva connecting his lips to your glistening cock. “I want to feel you come apart on my cock,” he says, shucking his pants. His cock springs free—pale, thick, the head flushed a deep rose. He strokes himself once, then positions the tip at your entrance.
You tense, but he holds your gaze, waiting. “You want this, don’t you?” he asks, though it’s not really a question. “You want to be mine?”
“Yes,” you whisper, because it’s true. You want to survive. You want him.
The stretch is sharp, burning—you gasp, clawing at his shoulders. He stills, letting you adjust, his brow pressed to yours. “Breathe,” he murmurs.
When you relax, he begins to move. Slow at first, shallow thrusts that drag against your prostate, sending sparks of pleasure up your spine. His hand wraps around your cock, stroking in rhythm with his hips.
“Fuck… Titus…” You’re lost, a mess of sensation.
“That’s it, say my name.” He picks up the pace, driving deeper, harder. The bed creaks beneath you. His skin slaps against yours, wet and rhythmic.
He leans forward, mouth latching onto your throat, and you feel the sharp prick of fangs. A sting, then a rush of pleasure as he drinks, his hips never stopping. His tongue laps at the wound, mixing blood and saliva, and the wound closes—but not before you feel a dizzying weakness, a heady submission.
He pulls back, lips stained crimson. “You taste so fucking good,” he growls, and kisses you. You taste your own blood, coppery and warm, mixing with his cold tongue. He thrusts harder, faster, and you’re trembling on the edge.
“Turn around,” he commands, pulling out. Before you can protest, he grabs your hips and flips you onto your stomach, pulling your ass up. He’s inside you again in one brutal push, your face pressed into the pillows.
“Yes—fuck—YES!” You’re screaming now, not caring who hears.
He grabs a handful of your hair, yanking your head back, his mouth at your ear. “You’re my husband. My property.” He fucks you with punishing strokes, each one hitting that perfect spot inside. His other hand wraps around your throat, not choking, just holding, claiming.
You come untouched, spilling across the sheets, your body convulsing around him. He follows, groaning your name, spilling hot and thick inside you. He collapses onto your back, still sheathed, pressing kissed against your spine.
“I’m going to turn you,” he whispers against your mouth. “And we’ll have forever, you and I.”
You nod, too tired to speak, but the fear is gone. In its place is a dark, thrilling knowing: you are his, and he is yours, bound in blood and bone and a wedding vow sealed in blood.
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