Mostly whatever my current hyperfixation consists of mixed in with other random shit. Right now it’s Shawn Hatosy in anything I can get my hands on <3. Enjoy!
jack straight up fucks u to sleep when you're too wired from one too many cups of coffee. you were just trying to get through the night shift, and now it's 9am and your brain is exhausted, begging for sleep, but your body still needs to move.
so he lets u ride him until ur orgasm knocks you out on his dick. says shit like "yeah, you earned it. been so good all night, honey. pass out on daddy's cock, come on."
i lit was thinking of writing smt just like this but ty for the req !
wc ; 1.05k .ᐟ ˚₊۶ৎ˙⋆
The apartment was quiet when you finally stumbled through the door.
You’d worked a brutal night shift — too many coffees, too many traumas, too many hours on your feet. Your brain was completely fried, eyelids heavy, but your body was still buzzing. The caffeine had you wired and jittery, mind racing even though you were dead on your feet.
Jack had the day off. He was already awake, sitting on the couch looking unfairly rested. The second he saw you, he knew from experience.
“Come here, baby,” he said softly, opening his arms.
You dropped your bag and crawled straight into his lap, straddling him, burying your face in his neck.
“I’m so tired,” you mumbled against his skin, “but I can’t sleep. My brain won’t turn off.” Jack’s big hands rubbed slow circles on your back, then slid down to grip your hips.
“I know,” he murmured, voice low and calm. “You pushed too hard tonight. Let me help you.”
He kissed your temple, then your cheek, then caught your lips in a slow, deep kiss. His hands guided your hips, encouraging you to rock against him. You whimpered softly as you felt him hardening beneath you.
“Take what you need,” he whispered against your mouth. “Ride me until you can’t anymore. I’ve got you.”
His hands slipped under your scrub top, palms warm against your skin as he slowly peeled it off. He kissed down your collarbone, taking his time, sucking lightly on the sensitive spots that always made you shiver. You whimpered, hips rolling against him instinctively.
“Easy,” he whispered, unclasping your bra and tossing it aside. His mouth found your tits immediately — slow, wet kisses turning into long licks and gentle sucking on your nipples until they were hard and sensitive. One hand kneaded your other breast while his tongue circled the peak, drawing soft, needy sounds from you.
He pulled away with a wet pop. “Stand up for me, baby.”
You did what he asked with shaky legs. He tugged your scrub pants and panties down slowly, kissing every inch of skin he exposed. Your stomach, your hips, the tops of your thighs. When you were completely bare, he pulled you back into his lap, naked and trembling.
You reached down to push his sweatpants down just enough and sank down onto his thick cock in one slow motion. The stretch made you moan loudly, forehead dropping to his shoulder.
Jack groaned, hands tightening on your ass.
“Easy, baby… that’s it. Nice and slow at first. Let me fill you up.”
You started moving, rolling your hips in tired, desperate circles. Jack stayed mostly still, letting you use him, his hands guiding you when your rhythm faltered.
“Look at you,” he praised quietly, voice rough. “So fucking pretty riding daddy’s cock after working all night. My good girl.”
You were so exhausted your eyes kept fluttering shut, but your body was still buzzing, hips moving in tired, desperate rolls as you rode Jack’s thick cock. Every time you took him to the hilt your pussy clenched hard around him, soaking his cock with how wet you were.
“That’s it, baby, such a good fucking girl for me yeah ?” Jack murmured, voice low and rough, one hand sliding up your back to hold you close while the other moved to your hip, helping control your pace. “You’ve been such a good girl for daddy. Keep riding me just like that… nice and deep. You earned this.” You whimpered, head falling forward onto his shoulder as the tiredness slowly took over your body.
Your movements grew sloppier, more frantic. The pleasure was building fast, but your body was exhausted. Jack could tell. He wrapped both arms around you, holding you securely against his chest as he started fucking up into you. Slow, deep thrusts that kept the pleasure rolling through your exhausted body.
His hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, holding you close as he fucked his cock deep in your pussy.
“You’re okay, baby,” he whisper, lips brushing your ear. “Just keep letting me fuck you. That cock feels good, doesn’t it? You’ve been so obedient all night… you earned this.”
You whimpered, grinding down to meet his thrust, clit rubbing against his pelvis with every roll of your hips. Jack groaned softly, the sound vibrating through his chest.
“That’s it… just like that. Use me. Take what you need.”
Your breathing grew ragged. The overstimulation from the long shift mixed with the pleasure and tiredness made everything feel overwhelming. Tears pricked at your eyes. Jack kissed them away without stopping his gentle guidance.
“I’ve got you. Let go when you’re ready, baby. Cum on my cock whenever you need to.” He groaned against your ear.
It didn’t take long before your orgasm hit you like a wave, slow and deep. You cried out softly, body trembling as you clenched hard around him, hips stuttering. Jack held you through it, murmuring praise against your hair.
“That’s my girl. You earned this yeah ? Pass out on daddy’s cock, c’mon. You can do it baby.”
You kept moving weakly, chasing the last sparks of pleasure, but your body was giving out. Your head grew heavier on his shoulder, eyelids drooping. You whimpered softly, clinging to him as he fucked you faster, his cock dragging against that perfect spot with every roll of his hips.
The combination of his deep, steady thrusts and his soft praise finally pushed you over the edge again. You came with a quiet, broken moan, body shuddering against him as your pussy pulsed around his cock.
Jack groaned, holding you tighter as he followed right after, filling you up with slow, deep spurts.
He stayed inside you, arms wrapped securely around your trembling body, stroking your hair and back as you finally started to drift off.
“Sleep, baby,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”
You were already half-asleep on his cock, safe and warm in his arms, the exhaustion finally winning. Jack stayed like that for a long time. buried inside you, holding you close, letting you rest exactly where you needed to be.
content warnings: oral sex (f rec), cheating, manipulation kinda, medical setting, praise, implied cucking(?)
you're a little stressed after spending the night with your boyfriend. he simply could not get you wet, even though he tried soooo hard... so you head to your physician, dr jack abbot.
jack listens with restrained satisfaction at the desperate note in your voice, at that hint of concern, like you're worried that something is wrong. he wants so badly to tell you that your boyfriend is just fucking useless, that it's nothing to worry about, that you're being a good girl…
but first, he wants to be sure. "let me see, honey."
he lays you out on the exam table, then his hand withdraws from your trembling thighs, moving down to grip the back of your knee. "spread a little more for me. i wanna check something."
you watch as he pushes his stool forward, his head and shoulders lowering between your legs. he hooks your legs over his shoulders, positioning himself closer to your pussy, his gaze roaming over your skin.
he presses a warm peck to your inner thigh. "there," he murmurs. "let me take care of you, honey. do you trust me?"
"yes," you reply, and you barely have time to exhale before he's pressing a feather-light kiss to your clit, making you gasp. "doctor abbot?"
his chuckle vibrates against your skin as he lifts his head just enough to meet your wide-eyed gaze. "just making sure everything's working right," he mutters, the clinical distance in his tone at odds to the way his tongue flicks over your clit in a quick, teasing stroke.
his hands slide up to grip your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft skin there. "relax," he orders, lips brushing your inner thigh again. "let me show you what your boyfriend should've been doing."
then he lowers his mouth to your cunt properly and licks a hot, deliberate stripe from your entrance to your clit. "what– what's this test for?" you breathe out, your chest heaving with arousal.
his mouth moves against you, tongue taking broad, languid laps. "it's called the clitoral glans test," he murmurs, his voice rough with desire. "to see how responsive you are. and you're being a very, very good girl, i must say."
it's not long before you're leaking all over his tongue, your slick pooling onto the paper sheets. "sweet girl," he praises. "taking my mouth so well. your boyfriend ever do this to you?"
you exhale shakily, the shame gnawing at you again as you shake your head. "no... he... he said he doesn't like doing it..."
his tongue swipes over your hole again, almost thoughtfully lapping up your juices, the ones that spilled out of you just for him. "he doesn't like it, huh? well, he's an idiot, honey, because you taste incredible."
"t-thank you," you stutter out at the praise, your hips bucking up against his mouth. "ah- sorry-"
"no apologising, sweetheart," he says, his breath hot against your folds, thumbs rubbing soothing circles into your skin for reassurance. "i like your desperate little movements. keep going, honeygirl. let me see just how responsive you are." then his tongue is back between your legs, stroking slow, up and down, as he gauges your reactions.
"and don't you worry, honey," he says conversationally between licks, as if he wasn't making a mess of your pretty little cunt, "you make another appointment, i will be teaching your boyfriend how to eat your pussy very thoroughly, no matter how much he says he doesn't like it. cunt like this deserves to get eaten."
he hums, low and thoughtful. "maybe i'll even make him take notes. have him write up a full report on the experience."
Warnings: 18+ mdni, mild angst, brief descriptions of injuries, soft smut (including allusions to penetration, brief descriptions of rough sex, no dubcon/noncon)
a/n: thanks to @sarah-paulsons-bottom-lip for the idea for this one! I hope you like it :)
🔨Pope Cody🔨
Pope’s life is full of first aid - the jobs he and his brothers pull are often dangerous, even if it’s just that they’re physically getting into spaces that aren’t made for people to get into. But he keeps you way far away from all that. However, he gets so used to rough and tumble that sometimes he forgets that mundane things can lead to injuries, too
It’s when he playfully tugs you up a short set of stairs after him while you’re grousing about going to dinner at his mom’s that it happens. His grip on you isn’t great, and your arm slips out of his hand while you miss the next step up, toppling backwards down the few stairs. You think at first that it’s just a painful fall on your ass, no big deal
But it’s only the space of a breath between thinking that and when you feel an indescribably bad shot of pain run up from your wrist to your elbow. And again. And again. And then it’s a constant stream, and you can’t help the sharp cry that comes out of you. Pope practically bounds down the stairs in a single leap and crouches next to you in an instant
“Shit, shit, sweetie, I’m so fucking sorry, oh god, what is it?” You pretty much never see him externally panicky like this, and it helps cut through your own haze of freaking out. “Honey, it’s alright - it’s my arm, I don’t know how bad it is, but it’s just my arm.” “Okay, here, I’ll help you get up.” He pulls you to your feet by your uninjured arm, eyes getting somehow even wider when you wince upon standing
“You sure it’s just your arm?” “It…it’s also my ass,” you laugh, “but that’s just bruised.” He doesn’t laugh with you, instead looking a bit like he’s gonna vomit right on the floor. “Pope, it’s okay,” you stress, “it was an accident.” “Shouldn’t’a done that shit,” he mumbles, his lisp coming out full force, and you know then that he’s truly stressed out
“Hey,” you tell him gently but with an undercurrent of steel so he can grasp onto your words, “I need you to take me to the hospital. An ambulance won’t be necessary.” He nods, leading you to his truck and lifting you into it himself. He even buckles your seatbelt for you, even though you could’ve gotten it independently
At the hospital, he’s sitting in the waiting room chair next to you, tapping his heel uncontrollably against the ground. It’s only been about twenty minutes before he stands up in a surge and asks the registration desk clerk again how long it might be. She sighs and looks at him over her glasses, then looks over at you. You give her an apologetic shrug and a wince. “Hon, as long as nothing else big comes in, it shouldn’t be much longer.” He stays staring at her. “Maybe half an hour,” she finally relents, “if nothing big happens.” He actually remembers to say “thank you” before he returns to sit next to you
Once you’ve had your x-rays and they confirm that your arm is, in fact, broken, a social worker comes in to chat with you before you go upstairs to get a cast. She asks Pope to leave, and he looks like a bewildered puppy as he obeys and shuffles out the door, closing it behind him. “I know what you’re here for,” you tell her before she can ask anything. “What am I here for?” she says kindly. “You guys want to make sure it was an accident, that I’m not being abused.” “And?” “I’m definitely, absolutely, thoroughly not being abused,” you laugh. “Andrew was poking a little fun, tugged me up literally maybe a four-step flight of stairs while I was needling him, and I slipped out of his hand. I landed with my hand behind me.”
“And you feel safe at home?” she continues. “Immensely.” “Does anyone in your home do anything to make you feel pressured or controlled in any way?” “Not at all.” “Alrighty,” she says, standing, “color me satisfied.” “I do appreciate you checking in,” you tell her, “I know there’s lots of folks that need it.” “You get to where sometimes you can walk in to a room and know the questions are unnecessary,” she tells you conspiratorially. “I mean, you still have to ask them,” she clarifies, “but that man looks like he’d die if it meant he could un-break your arm.” “He probably would,” you say, sighing
He comes back in once the social worker leaves, followed by a transport tech. “Any call for a wheelchair?” they ask. “Nah,” you say, at the same time Pope says “yes, please.” “Hon,” you chuckle, “my legs are fine.” “I just don’t want you to fall again,” he says anxiously, looking at you with big eyes. “To be totally honest, my ass hurts enough that I’d rather not be on it.” His brows knit together as he scowls, remembering that you’re hurt in two ways. But he says softly, “right, right. Okay.”
Upstairs, you ask him to pick out your cast color. “But it’s your cast,” he protests. “You can always pick two colors,” the ortho tech points out, and you beam at Pope. “Perfect - I pick one, you pick one.” And that’s how you end up trotting out of the hospital with a hot pink and black striped cast on your arm (Pope picked the pink), trailed by a man who won’t take his hand off where it’s lightly laid on your waist, as though he’s afraid you’re going to spontaneously topple over and break everything at once
⛓️Titus Danforth⛓️
Titus likes it rough. So do you - you probably wouldn’t be with him if you didn’t, considering he’s both insatiable and fairly inflexible in his preferences. But he’s always careful - safe words, check-ins, outstanding aftercare, the whole nine yards. He doesn’t want you actually breaking on his watch - whether he’ll ever admit it’s because of how much he cares, rather than just a need to do everything he does to an excellent standard, no one knows
He’s got your hands tied together with a belt wrapped around the center bar of the headboard, your own underwear stuffed in your mouth while he pounds into you. He goes to sling your leg up higher and you feel something pop deep in your hip. You blink hard three times in succession, your signal that something is wrong, and he stops immediately. He undoes the belt deftly, frees your mouth, and slides out of you and off the bed in one smooth movement. He doesn’t get the chance to ask you what’s wrong before you’re moaning, low and despairingly, and a line of real worry appears between his eyebrows
“What is it, dove?” he asks gently, kneeling down next to the bed. “Some-something in my hip,” you gasp out, “it popped.” “Do you need some comfort or would you prefer I didn’t touch you?” he asks while he retrieves his cell phone from the nightstand and immediately texts the family physician, who lives in one of the guest houses on the property. “Comfort, please,” you say, panting and stifling another gasp
Instantly his hand is on you, running up and down your arm consolingly, firm touch, the way you like it. Once he has confirmation that the physician is on her way, he sets his phone back down and uses that hand to smooth along your forehead, rhythmic and calming. “We’ll get you taken care of,” he murmurs, voice uncharacteristically soft. “Careful,” you joke, still hyperventilating, “I might think you’re actually worried.” He hums disapprovingly, before clucking his tongue and saying, “I am worried. Don’t tease me about it.”
“Oh, Titus,” you say softly, holding in another groan as you feel your back muscle spasm in an attempt to pull your hip where it goes, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make fun. I…I didn’t expect you actually would be awfully concerned. I’m not dying or anything, promise.” “Of course you’re not,” he says dismissively, “I would never let that happen.” You fight a smile, not wanting him to think you’re teasing again, when in reality, you’re touched by his concern
“Would you cover me as best you can before they get here? I’m embarrassed.” “Nothing to be embarrassed about,” he assures you, but he tucks a blanket over you nonetheless, leaving your affected leg uncovered while still artfully draping it across your groin. The doctor arrives maybe five minutes after Titus sent his first text, trailed by a uniformed EMT with the Danforth family crest on his breast pocket. “It took you long enough,” he snaps at them, getting to his feet. “Apologies, sir, the cart wasn’t directly outside my residence.” “I’ll fire whoever’s responsible for that,” he mutters. You have a short chat with the professionals, and they confirm that your hip indeed sounds dislocated
“This is going to hurt,” the EMT warns you. “Did you maybe want to administer some pain medication first, then?” Titus snarls at him. “We did, sir,” the doctor says nervously, “it just still will be painful.” Titus huffs, then takes your hand. “Squeeze as hard as you need to,” he tells you quietly. And oh, you do squeeze - but the worst of the pain is short, just a brief burst that makes you shout out once while the pair of medical staff apply traction and pop your hip back into place. “Ohhh, that’s much better,” you sigh when they’re done, the pain having faded to a dull, manageable ache
Titus absolutely dotes on you for the next two weeks, far more than even his usual. He barely lets you get on your feet, only relenting when you insist that you’re going to die of shame if he actually carts you to the toilet itself. But he carries you everywhere else, or simply brings you whatever you need if it’s something that can be moved to you instead. He even draws baths for you himself instead of having a staff member do it, insisting that he knows best how you like the temperature and what you want in it (and he’s right, he does)
During that time, he’s also extraordinarily gentle in bed, not letting you do any work whatsoever and refraining from putting you in any physically stressful positions. You even catch him googling the best positions for a lower limb injury, not that you’ll ever tell him you saw his screen about it. Once you’re recovered, you notice that he still occasionally sprinkles in some of the more gentle, vanilla-leaning experiences, and you get the feeling he accidentally discovered a few things he enjoys just as much as the more intensive ones
🔩Dr. Jack Abbot🔩
Jack has never frightened you. Not once in your whole relationship. You’ve seen him explode in anger, sure - he’s got severe PTSD, a long military background, and he still works a deeply stressful job - but it’s never even tangentially aimed at you. Those facts do not change the day he accidentally hits you. And it is indeed an accident - literally, physically speaking, it’s not like he lost emotional control and hit you of his own volition but you swear he “didn’t mean it.”
He’s flinging cupboards open and shut, not slamming them actually, but really yanking them open and shutting them with purpose, looking for the lid to his blender cup. He’s yelling, to you, not at you, venting about the parents of a child who needed a lumbar puncture but refused for a ridiculously long time because it “sounded dangerous.” You’re commiserating with him, getting a little pissed yourself, even. You truly don’t know why you decide to walk up next to him to peek in the cupboard he just looked in - you just could swear that was the last place you saw the lid, and you don’t want to interrupt his train of thought
He turns sharply right as you arrive next to him, flinging his arm out to gesture in emphasis for his next point, because he thought you were still across the kitchen. The side of his hand and the meat of his wrist collide directly with your face, landing with a hollow smacking sound, and you feel something in your general nose region snap delicately
“Ah, fuck!” you cry out instantly, your hand going to your nose, that contact making you cry out in pain again. “Oh my fucking god,” Jack breathes in horror. “Hey, no, don’t do that,” you warn him, tilting your head back, “don’t freak out.” “You don’t do that,” he sputters, gently removing your hand from your face, tilting your head back forward with his other hand. “Ow!” you say sharply as you feel the blood rush to the front of your head and press on the inside of your skull, throbbing
He’s got a towel under your nose for you, precise and gentle to where he’s not actually pressing on anything that hurts but he is catching the blood that’s coming out now. “C’mon,” he says softly, “gotta get you over for a head series.” You can hear the anxiety lacing his voice - the tone would probably sound calm to almost anyone, but you’re so attuned to the way his consonants get a little softer around the edges, and the way the ends of his sentences lilt up just the tiniest bit, like he’s maybe only 98% sure of what he’s saying instead of 100%
He drives you the short distance from his house to the Pitt, leading you through the ambulance bay instead of the waiting room. He doesn’t even need to flash his badge at Ahmad, who nods at him and makes a sympathetic face at you. “Dana, is there a room free?” he asks her quietly, and she looks up at you in alarm. “Shit,” she says in concern, “who’d you get in a fight with?” “Me,” Jack says, looking straight ahead with a dead gaze. You shake your head, sucking air through your teeth at the sharp pain it triggers. “I did not,” you protest, “this was 150% an accident.”
Dana gets you into one of the basic rooms, and Jack leaves it before you can say anything to him. “Hon, I never would feel the need to ask, except that I’ve seen so much unexpected crap in all my years,” Dana begins. “God, no, stop,” you tell her, “it literally was an accident. He was gesturing, I walked up next to him without making any noise and he thought I was still fifteen feet away.” “Was he mad?” she asks gently. “Not at me,” you say desperately, “I swear on everything I’ve ever loved. He did not hit me - I ran into his hand.”
“Alright, alright,” she says, holding her hands up in surrender. “I’ve known that man for a long time, you could knock me over with a feather if you told me he’d ever hit someone like that. I don’t need no more convincin’.” You don’t see him again while you wait to get taken up to both x-ray and CT, or in either of the radiology rooms. You don’t even know who’s ordering your shit
Eventually, Robby comes into your room. “Thank god,” you tell him, your bleeding stopped and the Toradol shot Dana gave you killing all but the dullest ache of your pain. “Have you seen Jack?” “He’s been sitting in the break room with his head in his hands,” Robby tells you bluntly, “but he’ll be in in a minute. I talked him down.” “Thank you,” you say gratefully. “Hey, it’s my job,” he says, shrugging, “my other job is to tell you that your nose is broken, but I’d expect you probably knew that already.” “Yep,” you sigh glumly. “No other injuries, though. I guess it’s good you caught him towards the end of the story instead of the beginning, huh?” he jokes. You roll your eyes, which spikes your pain just a bit
“Good to see you,” he says while leaning down over your bed to give you a quick, one-armed hug. “You, too - you still coming to dinner on Friday?” “Are you still doing those homemade mashed potatoes?” “Every week,” you confirm. “Then you will see me at your table,” he says, throwing you a smile over his shoulder on his way out. A few minutes later, the door opens again, and Jack shuffles through it. He’s staring at the floor, swaying gently to keep his weight balanced. You know his leg has to be hurting - he didn’t get the chance to go to bed yet after he got home from work this morning
“Come here,” you say firmly, scooting over in the bed and patting the space next to you. He listens, mostly, dropping the rail and sitting down, feet on the floor and facing away from you. “This. Is not. Your fault,” you tell him, enunciating clearly. “Well it sure isn’t yours,” he mutters. “Exactly - it’s nobody’s. That’s the definition of an accident, Jack.” “It wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t been winging around to begin with!” he protests
“And it wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t walked over there, or if I’d made a noise to let you know that I had, or if either one of us had remembered that the lid’s in the damn dishwasher,” you counter, “but I am fine. Broken noses aren’t life-threatening, they’re honestly not even that bad as far as broken bones go. And,” you drop your voice dramatically, leaning over to put your chin over his shoulder. You stay silent, withholding the rest of your sentence until he finally huffs. “And?” he says, wiggling his head a little mockingly. “And I love you,” you whisper in his ear. “Christ,” he groans, turning to face you better. “I love you too. You little fuckin’ weirdo.”
thinking about jack letting you use his thigh during movie night… explicit 18+ MDNI
content: jack abbot x fem!reader, established relationship, explicit 18+ mdni, thigh riding, dry humping, fingering, PRAISE KINK aplenty, dirty talk, jack always wants to make you feel good | wc: approx 1.1k
It starts innocently enough.
You’d put Scream on because you love horror, and October exists for exactly this reason.
Jack had said sure, and settled onto the couch, arm along the back of it, legs stretched out, perfectly content. It had been fine. For a while.
Then you’d shifted, simply looking for a more comfortable position - tucking yourself into him first, face finding his neck, arms looping loosely around him - before ending up turned toward him entirely, a knee either side of his thigh, straddling it.
“You’re not even watching,”
“I’m watching,” you say, into his neck.
“Sure.”
It’s the way he smells. Warm and clean, a little spicy, and completely unfair given the circumstances. The room is dark. His hand is warm on your hip, eyes still on the television. You shift without meaning to, feel him underneath you, and oh.
He’s not unaffected.
You shift again. Deliberately this time. Feel him twitch under you and his hand tightens on your hip, incrementally.
“Don’t,” he grunts.
“Getting comfortable,” you tell him.
“S’not what this is.”
“Very comfortable,” you confirm.
“Honey.” A warning. “We’re watching a movie.”
“We’ve seen this before, Jackie.”
“That’s not the -” you roll your hips, slow, just once, and he stops mid-sentence. “Christ.”
“Sorry,” you murmur, not sorry in the slightest.
“No you’re not.”
He exhales through his nose. His other hand comes to your other hip and for a second you think he’s going to lift you off and set you aside and then he just - adjusts you. Settles you more firmly against him, his cock hard and obvious against your hip now, and holds you there.
“Okay,” he says. Quietly, like he’s actively making a decision. “Okay, fine.”
“Fine?”
“Move,” he urges. “Go on.”
You start to move, slow at first.
Your hips rolling down against his thigh in small, careful circles, the thin fabric of your panties little more than a suggestion between you as you grind against him, the rough drag of his denim against your clit with every movement sending heat pooling straight down through you.
“That’s it,” he murmurs into your hair. “Just like that, honey. Look at you. You’re so beautiful.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” His grip tightens on your hips, warm and sure. “So gorgeous. Keep goin’, sweetheart, just like that.”
His hands start to help. Pressing you down onto him on every forward roll, tilting your hips just slightly, finding the angle that makes you gasp, and you grip his forearm with both hands and let him work you against him.
“S’one of the perks of an older man, baby,” he murmurs, mouth at your temple. “Know how to take my time with a pretty girl.”
He tenses his thigh beneath you, deliberate, the hard muscle flexing under you, and combined with the rough drag of his denim against your cunt through the thin fabric it pulls a whine out of you that you weren’t expecting.
“There she is,” he says, satisfied.
“S’good Jack-”
“Just good, huh?” Feigning irritation, like you’ve personally insulted him. He strengthens his grip on you, rocking you forward hard against the ridge of his cock, your nails digging into his forearm. The pressure builds sharp and immediate, heat coiling tight low in your stomach, your thighs clamping around his, chasing it.
“So - so good,” you gasp. “The best - okay - the best -”
“That’s what I thought,” he says.
“Jack -”
“I’ve got you baby.” Lips pressed to your temple, your cheek, the side of your jaw. “You’re doin’ so well for me. So well. Keep going, don’t stop.”
Jack’s hand slides from your hip and shoves down between your thighs, fingers pressing hard against your underwear, and he goes very still for a second when he feels how soaked through the fabric is - then makes a sound against your neck that goes straight through you, low, filthy and deeply satisfied.
He presses his fingers harder against the wet fabric, feeling the heat of you through it, feeling you pulse against his hand.
“Soaked,” he breathes. “God. All of this from grindin’ on me.” A pause, his fingers moving slow against you through the fabric. “That’s the hottest thing I’ve ever - you’re so wet, baby. So wet for me.”
“Jack -” you mewl.
“I know, baby, I know.” He grinds the heel of his palm against your clit through the fabric and you arch back against him
“That’s it. That’s my girl. You’re so perfect, do you know that? So perfect.”
“And these -” his free hand slides up under your top, palming your breast, thumb dragging over your nipple. “- fuck. You’re perfect everywhere.”
“You feel so good,” he grits out, hips tilting up to meet yours, voice dropping rough and low.
“Grindin’ your pretty little cunt on me like that - god. You have no idea what you do to me.”
“Tell me,” you manage.
“Gonna make me lose my mind,” he says, strained. “That’s what you’re doin’. Soaking through my jeans and makin’ those sounds”
His fingers push your underwear aside, finding you properly. Two fingers sliding through your folds then into your entrance, slick and easy, and you cry out.
“There she is,” he coos. “There’s my beautiful girl. So wet. So ready. All of this for me.”
“All of it,” you confirm breathlessly. “Always -”
“Always,” he echoes. He curls his fingers just right, hooking up, finding that sensitive spongy spot, and you clench around him and gasp, and he licks slow and deliberate from your collarbone to just below your jaw, open mouthed, tasting your skin, stubble scratching against you. His fingers work you from the inside, his cock hard and insistent beneath you, and you’re rolling your hips down against both, chasing the pressure, grinding shamelessly, every nerve ending you have lit up and converging at the same desperate point.
“Close?” he breathes into your hair.
“Yes - yes - please -”
“That’s it, baby,” he urges. “Come on. You’re so good, you’re so perfect, let go for me.”
You do. Your walls clench tight around his fingers, your whole body shuddering with it, orgasm rolling through you in waves, so good it almost hurts.
And he watches. Eyes soft and heavy lidded, drinking you in, his gaze moving over your face like he’s savouring every second of it, every flicker of pleasure crossing your features.
He works you through every second of it, fingers curling and pressing and coaxing it out of you until you’re twitching and oversensitive and still he keeps going, murmuring gorgeous, perfect, that’s it, so good, that’s my girl, give me all of it into your hair, other hand splayed warm and firm against your stomach.
After, you slump against his chest, boneless and wrung out, every muscle loose.
His fingers slide free, slowly, and he wraps both arms around you without a word, pulling you into him, his lips finding your temple and staying there.
“Good?” he murmurs.
“So good,” you breathe.
You become aware of him still hard beneath you and shift once, deliberately.
“Hey.” Immediate.
“Hi,” you say innocently.
“Don’t start somethin’ you’re not gonna finish.”
“Who said anything about not finishing.”
He goes quiet for a moment. Then “Bedroom,” he says. Not a suggestion, rather a command. “Now.”
“We’re watching a movie.”
“What’d you say earlier? ‘We’ve seen it before’.”
a/n: firstly, credit to @angeliicide for the divider (so cute!)
i simply could not stop thinking about this concept…jack being so tired after work but agreeing to watch a movie with you….and just wanting to help his girl out. ugh. my head is filled with so many thoughts leading up to shawn’s quinn audio dropping i legit cannot stop thinking about it😭😭😭
Warnings: descriptions of nightmares/night terrors/PTSD symptoms, suggestive content, brief mention of a firearm (not used)
a/n: thanks so much to @medicc28 for the idea for this - hope you like it!! 💕
🌧️Pope Cody🌧️
With all of the awful things Pope has been through and seen, you felt ready for any amount of nightmares he might have or how he might react to them - you stay alert every night when you go to bed, but for months, there’s nothing. You don’t want to ask him about it - I mean, what would you even say? “Hey, Pope, I noticed you’re sleeping okay - the fuck’s up with that?”
Finally, one night while you’re cuddled up with him in bed, you figure you may as well try to put your mind at ease. “Hey, hon?” you ask him from against his chest. You feel his answering hum more than you hear it. “You ever have bad dreams?” His body stiffens against you a fraction, but you continue to rub his back rhythmically and wait. “Sometimes,” he mumbles against your hair. You sigh. “I just…never really notice. I was worried maybe you have them and just don’t wake me up.” “Why would I wake you up?” he asks in confusion
“So I can help you feel better?” you say, pulling back from his chest a little to look at his face. “Oh,” he says finally, “is…that something you. Iunno, wanna do?” “Only if you think it would help you out. But if you do think so, then yes.” He rolls back slightly and ducks his head to kiss you softly, and for a bit, no one’s in any position at all to be having good or bad dreams
It’s a week later when he does wake you. You jolt out of sleep to his repeated whispers of your name, his nose almost touching yours. He jumps a little when your head jerks back. “Sorry,” you say, having to clear your throat, “what’s up?” “I had one,” he says quietly, his voice pitched up into that plaintive, soft, searching tone that breaks your heart. “Aw, sweetie,” you whisper, reaching up immediately to gently pull your fingers through the curls on the side of his head before resting your palm against his cheekbone. He closes his eyes and presses into the touch
“Do you wanna talk about it, or just be here with me?” you ask him. “Just be here,” he replies, voice cracking a bit. You nod and slot yourself closer to him, throwing your leg over his hip, tucking one arm between you to lay your hand on his chest and laying the other arm over his shoulder. He tucks his chin against his chest and leans into you so you can rest your chin across the back of his head. You begin to hum softly - it’s literally some EDM melody that’s been stuck in your head, but it’s rhythmic and repetitive and easy to remember. Eventually you move your free hand to pet him gently at the nape of his neck
You have to stifle a snort about twenty minutes later when you hear him actually snore against you - you’ve never heard him snore before. It’s almost cartoonish in its delicate sound. He stirs a little, and his breath huffs against your chest as he lolls back enough that you can see his face. He smacks his lips unconsciously like a sleepy puppy, his dimples peeking out, and it’s one of the cutest things you think you’ve ever seen
Over the course of the next couple of weeks, he starts folding himself into you like this before either of you even falls asleep. Eventually, you ask him, “does this help? Keep the nightmares away to begin with, I mean?” “I guess so. Think so,” he says against your chest, “I haven’t had one in a while, anyway.” “Good,” you say, pressing a kiss to the top of his head
Neither of you is quite prepared for when you suddenly have a very bad dream around the anniversary of your mom’s passing - Pope tells you he woke up to hear you whimpering, and he even tells you how scared he got for you. All you remember is waking up gasping, a flash of panic as your brain tried to catch up to reality, and the immediate grounding feeling of Pope’s arms around you as he instantly swapped your positions so that he was the one cradling you
🌩️Titus Danforth🌩️
You hide your night terrors from Titus as long as humanly possible. You know his life is…interesting, to say the least, in a way that trends toward scary. You feel certain he’ll think you’re weak, or at the very least he’ll make fun of you, if he finds out your own brain is scaring the shit out of you three or four nights a week with no assistance
But then you have an exceedingly bad one and you’re not able to put a lid on your reaction when it wakes you up. You’ve never been one to experience sleep paralysis, but you almost feel like it happens when your eyes first snap open and you can still sort of see the horrendous scene in front of you. Everything is still for a moment while you try to cope with the fact that the terrifying imagery you could swear wasn’t real is now singeing the edges of Titus’s well-appointed bedroom
And then you sit up as it vanishes, raggedly groaning so loudly and with such rapid breath it sounds more like a dog growling, or screaming, clutching your hand against your chest like you’re trying to reach inside it. Titus startles awake, his eyes flying around the room searchingly while he sits up and protectively wraps one arm around you. You’re even more startled by the handgun he pulls from the side table, and you wave your hands frantically in dismissal, still unable to form words
He looks at you in confusion as you shake your head, finally managing to pant out brokenly “there’s nothing. Bad dream. S-sorry,” you finish in a stutter. “Oh,” he says, the edges of his eyes crinkling a little as a deeply unfamiliar expression of sympathy floods his face. He sticks the firearm back in the open drawer quickly, then turns back and scoots closer to you, allowing his other arm to join in wrapping you up in a tight hug. “Oh, darling,” he says quietly into your hair, “I’m so sorry this is happening to you.”
You finally get control of your breathing in his tight, safe embrace. Once you’ve taken several deep, slow breaths, and you can feel the flow of fresh tears stop, you pull away from his chest a bit. “I really am sorry,” you whisper. “Why?” he says, almost harshly, frowning at you in disbelief. “Because this is stupid? I’m being terrorized by - by chemicals! By chemicals sloshing around in my brain in a way that makes it mad.” “I…don’t know that that’s precisely the science of it…” Titus trails off and gives you a sideways smirk
You smack him in the chest lightly. “You know what I mean.” “I do, and you’re wrong. It’s not stupid.” You stare resolutely down at the mattress beneath you. “Does this happen a lot?” he asks quietly. You take a deep breath before nodding miserably. He clucks his tongue and ducks his head to force eye contact with you, brushing a thumb over your cheekbone. “And you didn’t tell me?” he presses
“I didn’t want to bother you…” you say lamely. He huffs loudly and rolls his eyes, leaning back. “Do you think I keep you around to not bother me?” he demands harshly. “Honestly I don’t exactly know why you do keep me around,” you answer, suddenly bold. He tilts his head slightly and purses his lips, looking at you severely. “I keep you around because that’s exactly where I want you,” he finally answers, “and I do not want you to ‘not bother me.’
He leans forward again and begins to punctuate his words with kisses. “Bother me at night,” he kisses one of your cheeks, “bother me during the day,” and the other, “bother me when I’m already asleep,” one to your forehead, “bother me when I’m busy,” a tiny peck to your nose, “bother me literally all the time.” He ends that command with a deep, possessive kiss that steals your breath away
⛅️Dr. Jack Abbot⛅️
Jack tries pretty hard to keep any of the manifestations of his PTSD away from you, out of your life entirely. You really wish he wouldn’t - you wish he’d trust you enough to let you in to that part of himself. But you understand that it’s something that’s not only unbearably hard, but something you’ll only ever be able to sympathize with, rather than empathize
You know he has bad nightmares - there have been many times when you wake up in the middle of the day and find him on the couch, staring vacantly at something on TV. He always welcomes you to come lay with him, but his eyes stay distant and sad until after you’ve both woken from your second round of sleep. You’re a heavy sleeper, unfortunately - him stirring or making noise is never going to wake you on its own
During dinner one day before you have a shared shift at the hospital, you finally ask him, “Jack, would it help you if you woke me up when you have bad dreams?” He frowns at his plate and sighs. “Honestly? I don’t think so, baby.” You feel a tiny stab of hurt before he explains. “It’s not that you’re not a huge comfort to me - having you around always makes me feel better, no matter what. I just think if I make the nightmares…I don’t know, an event of some kind, I’ll feel like they’re running my life. And that pisses me off.”
You nod softly, your lips pursed to the side in mild disappointment. “I understand.” “Does that make you sad?” he asks tenderly, tilting his head to the side and squinting at you across the table. “Only a little,” you sigh, “but I respect whatever you feel is gonna help you the most.” “How bout we have a compromise?” he says suddenly. “What kind of compromise would that be?” you say in confusion, “you can’t halfway wake me up.” He laughs at you. “No, but I can deal with what I need to deal with and then wake you up, but it can be for…unrelated reasons.”
He’s staring at you in a way that makes your cheeks get hot. “So, to be clear…” you begin slowly, “you want to Pavlov yourself anytime you have a bad dream by waking me up for sex?” “It’s not the worst idea I’ve ever had,” he says, shrugging one shoulder and pulling a goofy face. Then he stands up and comes around the table to start rubbing your neck and shoulders firmly. You let your head droop down and you’re powerless now to tell him no, about anything. “Like I said, hon, whatever makes you feel best.”
And god damn, he’s insatiable about it. You get to a point where sometimes when he wakes you - which thankfully, isn’t overly often (thankful only because you’re glad he isn’t spending every single day having a horrible nightmare) - you simply roll onto your stomach and lift your ass for him. You don’t even sleep with underwear anymore, there’s no point half the time
At one point you ask him, “are you actually havin’ nightmares or are you just waking me up to have your fun?” He grins at you, dimples on full display. “If you’re asking do I have a bad dream every single time I wake you up…I plead the fifth.” His face turns serious. “But I actually often do and I’m not gonna lie to you, it has helped a lot.” You squint at him. “Fine,” you relent, “as long as it’s helping.”
He pulls you into him on the couch, tucked up under his arm, and he kisses you on the top of your head. “Thank you, baby,” he rumbles quietly. “For what?” you say innocently. “For letting me just a little, kinda, sorta…use you as stress relief.” “You’re allowed to use me for a lot of things, Jack,” you tell him sweetly, turning to look into his pretty eyes, which begin to darken with lust at your words. He uses you quite a few times that day
Just finished Ready or Not 2 and Shawn Hatosy is SO FUCKING HOT! This man carries psycho roles like they were built for him. Grace has a strong personality because if I were her, I d let him make me his trophy wife. And Samara Weaving…just give me one chance…one chance to make you my wife
ok this is just going to be a shortish blurb without any real smut but. this is dead dove content, it’s fauxcest and also kinda implies some troubling things about titus’ relationship with his sister, so pls dni if you’re not interested in reading about that. also spoilers for ready or not 2.
i’m imagining the reader in the place of grace after her wedding with titus but of course the whole stabbing thing doesn’t happen.
after the ceremony you return with titus to his room to consummate the marriage before dawn, an apparently necessary step to complete the ritual. ursula’s body has been removed, but the memory of what happened between her and titus weighs heavily on you.
you sit at the foot of the bed staring at titus, now your husband, as he approaches. titus is terrifying, he’s violent and unpredictable, and not only was he ready to kill you, but he snapped his sister’s neck like it was nothing.
titus pushes your legs apart with his knee and steps between them, cupping your face in his hands. “we’re family now. you’re my only family now,” he says, he smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes, “you’ll have to take her place, you’ll be my new sister.” you grimace, about to protest before he shoves his lips against yours, much like he did at the altar.
titus stands back up to start unbuttoning his jacket, “don’t look so upset,” he tutted, seeming annoyed, “i’ll take care of you like a big brother should. she always said i was stupid, tried to control me, but you won’t do that.” he shrugged off his jacket and threw it on a nearby chair, “get up on the bed, on all fours,” he commanded, and you complied, not wanting to take any risks.
you felt the bed sag as he climbed up behind you, though when he grabbed your waist it still made you jump. titus chuckled at your reaction, leaning over you to ghost his teeth against your neck. “you don’t need to be scared sweetheart,” he said mockingly, as if he hadn’t spent the whole day trying to kill you, “i’m gonna make you feel good.”
titus licks a wet stripe up your neck, “your big brother is going to put his cock in you, and you’re going to love it. my little sister and my wife, you’re my other half, and we need to become one.” he rose back onto his knees, unbuckling his belt and letting it fall to the floor.
Can I suggest Titus Danforth with virgin/experienced with the young reader having the experience and Titus being the virgin?
Thank you!!!
➽─❥ pairing: Titus Danforth x Female!Reader
➽─❥ summary/prompt: Titus is never scared- he’s very sure of himself. Until he meets you- you who are just so perfect and someone who doesn’t expect anything from or use him.
➽─❥ warnings: 18+ MDNI, POSSIBLE MOVIE SPOILERS, Virgin!Titus, experienced!Reader, losing of virginity, p in v sex, arranged marriage, mentions of trying to conceive, mentions of physical abuse, possible OOC Titus
➽─❥ author’s note: I’m so fucking glad I saved this one- you have no fucking idea. THANK YOU FOR THE BIRTHDAY WISHES AND FOR SENDING THIS DELICIOUS ASK. If you’d like to participate in my february fic fest- well it’s closed so- sorry! But enjoy the ones I’ve posted here!
All his life- Titus has been kept on a leash. A very short, tight leash that was held by either his father- or by Ursula. Tugging him every time he attempted to go astray or when he dared have an opinion they didn’t agree to- all for his protection they’d say. He wasn’t as smart as his sister or as cunning as his father- he was the brawn, the strength of the Danforth family that needed to be controlled- otherwise he’d realize just how powerful he truly was.
Love was a weakness- was a distraction from the goal that their father had set for them. And, inevitably, love was the reason his mother was brutally taken from him- one morning as a child, waking up to find her room cleaned and her belongings gone. Stripped from the mansion like she never existed. Painted over and stamped out of his life as if her love was never a reality. But he felt her kiss on his forehead, he felt the way she’d ruffle his curls, the way she’d wipe the blood from his nose when his father was disappointed in how he failed to hunt the smallest of animals- the way she’d hum and rub his back when he was scared of the storm outside.
Ultimately- her love is what kept Titus alive. Sacrificing herself to preserve her son’s life- because he was weak and his father needed him to be strong like Ursula. It was either Titus’ life for another child- or his mother for Titus to be strong. The ritual was done in the middle of the night- quiet and quick as if she never existed at all, giving her life so that maybe Titus might grow stronger and be able to fight back against his father at some point. Power. Power and greed is what killed the love he remembered.
Power and greed are what fuel him- forgetting how to be gentle and how to love. Power and greed are the reason you were chosen for Titus. Quiet, young, smart, from a high council family- the perfect wife to produce strong sons. Mr. Danforth facilitated the marriage himself- hoping the idiot wouldn’t ruin it by saying some beforehand so he kept you both separate until you were bound in blood together. All of Titus’ strength must be good for something- if not strong children to pass the Danforth name to once the high seat is theirs. When you stood across from Titus- hands clasped together while the vows were read, you took a moment to look at his eyes. Soft- unsure? Nervous? This wasn’t the man you grew up hearing about. Heard how he was ruthless and intense, about his strength and ferocity- about his bloodlust even. This was a man with worry on his face and fear in his heart- a man who didn’t want to be the family disappointment once again.
Titus didn’t know how to be a husband- Titus didn’t even fucking know how to be a good son and his heart hammered in his chest when you were all but locked in his room with him after her father ended the festivities early. Hoping that will entice you both to “be fruitful” as he gently put it- which was a lie. Mr. Danforth’s exact words were to “fuck a baby into your bride so I can have heirs I’m proud of.” Which is where you were left now- standing and facing each other with the bed between you both. An ocean if anything because the only words you’ve ever spoke to the man- to your husband, was “I do.”
“Titus we don’t- um, we don’t have to-”
“We do,” voice a little sharper than he wanted but- you do have to. Titus will spare you the pain and torture that he endured for many years- because he’s sure if you don’t do this tonight then his father will sacrifice you before dawn. And if he doesn’t sacrifice you- you’ll wish he had. Whether by his own hand or Ursula’s- or worst, make Titus inflict pain on you. His voice startled you a bit- raspier than you expected but you understood what he meant. And you understood what was expected of you. All you were bred to be was a brood made for some high council family’s son- to give heirs and worship and sacrifice and- this wasn’t new to you. You didn’t exactly sign up for it but you made the best out of it. So you nod, biting your lip and fiddling with the black wedding band that was placed on your finger- Titus a matching one that burned his skin to remind him he had a purpose. Not to love. To gain power.
You weren’t a blushing bride- the anxiety and shame got fucked out of you years ago. You didn’t need to be a virgin to marry a high council member but the little bit of control you had over your own body was enough to make this hell of being chained and damned mentally bearable. You knew what to expect but- the way Titus started to pace a little gave away his own anxiety. If he was nervous about performing then you can do the work- that’s no problem but he almost refused to look at you while you stripped yourself from your elegant dress and ornate jewels. Standing near bare save for the thin black slip dress that gave you modesty when you wore your mother’s wedding dress- wondering if you should speak but Titus swallowed hard and stomped over to you with determination.
You were gorgeous. Young and beautiful and nearly bare for him- his heavy arm wrapping around your waist when he presses his lips to yours in a forceful and uncontrolled fashion. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant- but it felt like he’s never kissed anyone before and he’s simply doing what he imagined it would be like and- oh.
He’s never done this before.
Titus was never given an opportunity to fool around as a young boy or man- his father wouldn’t allow it. The last thing Mr. Danforth wanted were half breed bastards from his son who couldn’t control who he fucked and came inside. So he was watched. Never left alone with anyone young enough to get pregnant- never let off his tight leash. Once he hit puberty, Mr. Danforth had the staff replaced with men and middle aged women only- and he had shame instilled in his son at a very young age. Desire? Wants? Only if it aligned with the Danforth goal of more. But even a man who was tugged by his leash could admit you were beautiful- soft and smelled intoxicating to Titus. His lips furiously moving against yours and his tongue gaining access- awkwardly moving in your mouth until your soft hands found his chest and pushed him away ever so slightly.
“T-Titus,” panting, breathing heavily into each other’s space when you tried to gently slow him. Soft words and a gentle hand sliding up to cup the back of his neck and play with the curls that were there. “Slowly, my love, there’s no rush,” there was. There absolutely was a rush and if you close your eyes you swear you can hear Mr. Danforth behind your door with a timer. But Titus hears nothing, eyes already closing when he feels your fingers twirl individual strands of his curls- sifting through the salt and peppered locks while you speak. You didn’t want to outright ask if he’s ever been with a woman before- didn’t want to shame and embarrass him so you gently guided him. Gently slide your soft hands to cup his face and look into those deep hazel eyes that you wish to explore further- smiling before you lean in to press your lips against his and slowly move your lips together.
Titus doesn’t rush- if anything he lets you kiss him. He lets your lips move against his with what he believes is expert precision- growling out almost when you move your arms around his broad shoulders and press yourself into his body. “Trust me,” you say- smiling into the kiss when his arms circle your waist again and pull you closer with the same need and desire as before but restraint has taken hold as well. The kiss deepens- your breathing becoming heavier when you move your mouth desperately against his the second you can feel him getting comfortable. Your hands slide back down his chest- fingers playing with the buttons on his vest when you pull away and silently ask for his permission. For his trust.
And he gives it to you.
Nodding with a hard swallow while you slowly strip him of his clothes until you’re both on the bed- you sat in his lap while gently touching his body and learning your husband’s needs. Feeling every scar on his skin from hunting accidents as well as the taut muscles that he’s trained his entire life for- palm splayed on his haired chest when you feel the hard length of him poke between your thighs. You learn his body- you learn that he doesn’t care much for kisses on his neck so much as he prefers them on his jaw. You learn that if you bite his ear he’ll moan- and that he likes when you scratch down his chest lightly. He’s more fascinated by your breasts than your ass- stubbled jaw scratching along your chest while he sucks and licks little marks over your skin. You learn that he likes his hair pulled- soft curls bouncing when you tug at his hair when he bites your nipple before sucking it into his mouth.
And you learn that he’s scared. Trembling in your arms when you stroke his cock to get him hard- swiping the leaking tip between your folds before a large hand grabs your wrist. “I-I’ve never, I haven’t,” a confession. A moment of honesty before you officially become husband and wife but you don’t shame him- you smile. You nod and take his hand in your own before kissing the ring on his finger that matches your own. You wait- wait until he nods- biting his lip, eyes closed with his head resting against the headboard until you sink down the entire length of him. Titus was thick. His cock was as big and thick as he was- stretching your pussy open and forcing your wet walls to flutter open and accept him as he was.
“Oh fuck,” you gasp- whimpering from the way your cunt spasms around his cock. Thighs shaking with each inch you slide down until your ass is firmly seated in his lap and his dick was nudged inside you with no room for anything more than a few atoms. You had seconds to adjust- a moment to give in before two heavy hands grabbed at your hips to lift you up until the head of his cock kissed your lips- slamming you back down with a deep groan.
Titus was strong. Titus has never felt anything so fucking perfect in his life. Titus fucking loved you. Falling asleep on your chest after having emptied himself in your spent pussy until he came dry- until he had nothing left to give. Exhausted and drained but staying awake to hear the way you hum in his ear and feel you rub your soft fingers over his freckled back.
Summary: You are the youngest daughter of a family trying to win a seat on the High Council. Overlooked, ignored, the spare of a spare. When your family gambles and loses it all you are now hunted by the High Council. Titus butchers his way through your family until you're the last one standing...but he has a different idea on how to end your bloodline.
Tags: Canon Divergence, Marriage of Convenience, Gore, Violence, eventually explicit in later parts
A/N: There will be a part 2 (where all the smut is, this beginning just ran away from me). I did finally write down the plot bunny that wouldn't leave me alone, then RON2 comes out and has a fucking wedding on main and well, I couldn't not.
Edit: Part 2 , Part 3
Read it below or on AO3
***
All you knew about your family business growing up was that when you asked your older brother, “Are we good people?” he said “no”.
He used to tell you stories about how the family once lived in a small apartment above a convenience store, a hole crammed into the busy streets of Tokyo. How mother used to stretch a pack of instant ramen to feed three people, and father would be out all night. He came home stinking of cigarettes and gun powder. And not because he was a smoker, but because he worked in the gambling dens and illegal casinos.
Your older sister was born after father took out a rival gang leader and made a deal with a generous benefactor. Almost overnight, his black market gambling rooms turned into a luxury casino, the jewel of the Tokyo skyline. The apartment above the convenience store became the penthouse suite of a skyscraper.
You were born when the Okami family lived in a mansion, far away from the city, nestled in the mountains. The estate once belonged to a feudal lord and your father spent millions renovating and modernizing it. The casino was now an empire of swanky hotels, venues and race tracks across Asia. Your brother was the heir, your older sister the spare, and you…well, you were somewhat of an accident. The spare of a spare.
And so you were mostly overlooked. You knew that in Father’s office was a portrait of his benefactor Mr. Le Bail. That your brother was being trained in secret meetings where sometimes you heard gunshots ring out across the property and you found him later washing blood off his hands. Your mother spent most of her time preparing your sister for a political marriage. You were mostly ignored. You spent your childhood with tutors, playing by yourself in the mountains, and feeding the stray cats.
You were sent away to Switzerland for an international boarding school. When you turned eighteen, you went to university in England. You rarely came back home, where it was clear you were an afterthought. Sometimes the only reminder you had of your family was when someone referred to you as “Miss Okami”.
For a long time, you didn’t think Mr. Le Bail was real. But Father made some sort of deal, an update to his arrangement he called it, and the entire family needed to be present. You were confused, because normally a business meeting involved a small army of people, but gathered in your Father’s office was just your family and one man – who referred to himself as Mr. Le Bail’s attorney. There was chanting, you tried not to giggle when your Buddhist Father somberly declared “Hail Satan”, and you were disturbed when he signed an addendum to his contract in blood.
But then you saw flames rush up from the empty seat at the head of the table, and a spectral figure of a man with glowing red eyes nod at you. And you realized you had seen the devil.
The willful blinders you’d had over your eyes dissolved quickly after that. You realized many of your family’s business associates were other families who made deals with Mr. Le Bail. That the entire world, in fact, ran by the High Council’s machinations. Your wealth, your privilege, even if your life had been lonely it had been easy, these were all due to a dark cult.
You tried to distance yourself from your family even more after that. Your brother seemed relieved that you finally saw the truth, though it broke your heart to realize he had been preparing to sell his soul all your life. The kind boy you had grown up with had always been meant for the devil. He was disappointed when you grew distant, but no one really made an effort to keep you close. Not when your Father had his ambitions set to attaining a High Council seat.
All you know was that he made some sort of gamble. Father had built an empire off taking risks and betting it all. But this time, he lost.
You had gotten into a cab to meet a friend for lunch. Someone opened the door and before you could react, a needle went into your neck and the world went black.
The next time you woke, you were face to face with Titus Danforth.
You didn’t know that was his name in that moment. But it cut through the fog of the tranquilizer, the steely gaze of an apex predator and the arrogant smirk of someone who knows they’re about to play a game they will win.
He looks at you like you’re a piece of meat. Not a person, just something to bite into and chew.
The Danforth’s and other High Council families ae there, along with Mr. Le Bail’s attorney. You are on your knees, hands bound behind your back, in a line with the rest of your family. Father, Mother, your brother, sister, and you – the black sheep at the rear.
“You bet double or nothing, and you lost.” Le Bail’s attorney doesn’t look sympathetic at all. “The conditions of the wager must be honored. The High Council families will take over all of your assets. How the estate is divided will be with a game: they will hunt you and each of you represents a percentage.”
Your Father spits at Chester Danforth’s feet, calling the old man a snake. Your mother cries, screaming out for mercy. Your sister pleads with the cold smiles of the High Council, that she isn’t responsible for her father’s actions, that she shouldn’t pay for his mistakes.
You are the only one who is silent. Frightened tears roll down your cheeks, but you know that no amount of begging or pleading will change what’s about to happen.
The attorney smiles at your father, “You represent fifty percent.”
You see the blood drain from your Father’s face as all eyes turn to him. Ursula snickers as Titus whispers something into her ear, letting out a little snort of laughter. It’s obvious who has the largest target on their back.
Mother is twenty percent. Your brother, fifteen. Your sister is ten and you…
“And the youngest represents five percent.”
Strange, how a part of you feels ashamed of that number. It feels so small, measly. Your family spent most of your life making you feel less than, and this crowd of strangers, they also look at you and see nothing.
You feel a flicker of anger, and you don’t look away as Le Bail’s attorney measures you and declares you worth only five percent. You make sure not to break eye contact, glaring back at him with a quiet rage. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Titus’ head tilt to the side, like he’s trying to get a better look at you.
The attorney ends with this proclamation, “By dawn, the entire Okami family must be eradicated, or Mr. Le Baill will be very upset. You will have to the count of one hundred.”
The zip-ties that bind your hands are cut by a stone-faced bodyguard. The first chime rings out, one, and you get to your feet and run. You don’t look back.
***
Titus didn’t know much about the Okami family, though Ursula had given him a brief rundown. Honestly, there were a lot of people who wanted to make deals with Mr. Le Bail, and a lot of them were fools. Tried to renege on a deal or didn’t read the fine print well enough, and had their contracts end in a bloody mess sooner rather than later.
This new family had been the first candidates in a while who looked like they could be savvy enough to win a High Council seat. Not the high seat, that sigil ring still rested on his father’s finger, but a seat at the table. Ursula had made some vague comments about how she might have to marry their son, a prospect that annoyed her. Titus had made fun of her for years that she would have to cradle rob and marry Daniel Le Domas, and the Okami son was even younger. Ursula had very little patience for boys. She used it all up on her twin.
There had been some general anxiety among the other families about how a new player would change the game, shift alliances, what have you. Titus didn’t have the inclination for politics, something that disappointed Chester. It was just slow, inane, a waste of his fucking time. He was a man of action over pointless chatter.
So when the Okami’s failed their wager and it turned into a hunt? His blood was singing with anticipation.
He had only been told about the heir and a daughter. You were a surprise. He had his eye on you when the family was presented in front of the High Council, trying to discern what about you made you a dirty little secret. A quivering, innocent little lamb.
You were scared, of course. They were always scared.
But you were quiet. He noticed that about you, how the rest of your family wailed and screamed, but you refused to make a sound. Did that defiance come from ignorance? A misplaced confidence?
When you glared at the attorney, Titus decided you were fun.
You bolted first and everyone ignored you, set on daddy ‘fifty-percent’. It took far too much longer for the rest of the hostages to get wise to the game. The older daughter had to drag their mother out of the room. The father finally made it off the floor with forty seconds to go.
Amateurs.
Titus and Ursula had already worked out a game plan to herd off the other families, lead them away from the real prize. The El Caido’s had that stupid high velocity rifle – benefits of joining the Le Bail organization in the twentieth century – but it would be useless indoors. Titus hefted the Danforth war pick in his hands, ready.
“Ninety-nine…” The attorney clasped his hands and addressed them all, “…one hundred. Happy hunting.”
As the council families prepared to run after the Okami patriarch, Ursula set off a smoke grenade. She winked at Titus, already stationed by the door, as they slipped out – leaving a confused mess inside the board room.
Titus could feel his heart pounding in his ears, the adrenaline spiking in his veins. Senses attuned to every movement, every sound – this is when he felt the most alive.
Mr. Okami had made the mistake of trying to hide inside the manor. He may have had to dirty his hands once upon a time, but a life of wealth and luxury had let him grow lazy. He could barely fight back when Titus dragged him out of a closet by the ankle. With a growl and a vicious swing, the pick buried into the top of Okami’s head. The man twitched, eyes wide with surprise as he looked up at Titus, like he didn’t know he was dead yet.
Titus smashed in his face for good measure, blood spraying across his face, the head of the Okami family dying with a wet, crumpled sound.
“You fucking cheating cabron,” Ignacio vented when he came across the scene, hot on Titus’ heels, before running down the corridor to try and catch at least some of the prize.
He quickly linked back up with Ursula, who had already made a quick survey of the other family members. “The mother is headed for the garage. The son is already out of the building and Chen Xin will get to him before we do.”
They both pivoted towards the elevator that would take them down to the garage, perfectly in sync without having to confirm each other’s thoughts.
“Twenty is better than fifteen,” Titus agreed, “and if we get the girls—“
“—we can secure eighty percent of their assets.”
They cut the power to the garage and hunted the mother in the dark. Titus could hear her panicked sobs echo against the cold concrete walls. Now and again he let the pick drag along the ground, the scrape of iron against cement, and she would shriek.
Perhaps she thought she could steal a car and drive away. Maybe she slammed her hands against the steering wheel in panic as she couldn’t find any keys. She was too choked on panic and fear to even realize she would never be able to get the garage door open and it was made with reinforced, bulletproof steel.
“Don’t play with your food, Titus.” But Ursula had a smirk on her face.
“By all means, you do the honors.”
Ursula looked so pleased, she almost purred. She used the dainty stiletto hidden in her riding boots to stab through the mother’s hand. Titus helped drag her out from underneath an SUV, hand wrapped around her neck, ready to squeeze the life out of her.
“Wait,” Ursula had to yank his arm back before he listened, losing himself to the blood rush, “We can use her to draw the daughter out.”
He didn’t like having to stop, especially right as he was honing in for a kill. It was like trying to stop a moving train. But he finally let go, dropping the woman sobbing back onto the ground as Ursula took over.
He thought it was a waste of time. The woman was in hysterics, she wouldn’t be able to pull herself together to even spell her own name. Ursula just wanted to show off that she knew some phrases in Japanese.
Eventually he grew bored of the crying, grabbed the back of the woman’s dress and dragged her out of the garage. Ursula was pissed, but Titus wanted to be efficient. He dragged the mother outside and yelled across the grounds for the daughter to come out.
Ursula was peeved, “That isn’t going to work.”
“Really? ‘Cause I just saw movement by the tree line.”
Like a bloodhound, Ursula found the spot and tracked the movement he had seen. One shot from her flintlock, an explosion of tree bark, and Titus heard it – a wounded gasp. He grinned, that was a hit.
He snapped the mother’s neck and raced Ursula to the trees. He saw the shape of a figure, a woman clutching her arm as she tried to run away, and he tackled you from behind.
You tripped and he fell on top of you. It was dark, so he couldn’t make out your face, but he could smell your blood – the pistol round was buried in your right arm. You fought back, but you were a flurry of hands and useless kicking. You weren’t a fighter, you weren’t a killer. You didn’t have the first clue what you were doing.
Titus thought that was so sweet.
But for a split second his luck ran out, or yours kicked in. Ursula caught up to him, but in the confusion, knocked into his arm. It made him lose his grip on the war pick for an instant – in which you were able to wrestle it back and then swing upwards, burying the tip into his shoulder.
Titus roared, more out of disbelief than pain. Ursula fired her pistol again, but you had wriggled out from under him and ran further into the darkness. She made to go after you, but Titus saw red, he grabbed his sister’s arm.
“I had her!” He spat in her face, “You fucked up my kill.”
“Get over yourself,” Ursula hissed, shoving him back, “And get something on that.”
With a grimace, Titus wrenched the pick out of his shoulder, feeling the pain radiate outward in white hot waves. You, a little lamb, had drawn blood.
He was going to take you apart piece by piece.
***
You wedge a long flashlight through the door handles of the security shed and let yourself sink onto the floor. You make sure the lights were off so it won’t look like anyone is inside.
You think that if you needed to cry, right now is a good time for that, but no tears come. Instead, you just feel exhausted and overwhelmed. The inside of your mouth feels fuzzy and sour, like you’re tasting lemons. You had been running, for how long you had no idea, only knowing that every muscle in your body is screaming in pain.
With a precious moment to regroup, you search around the shed and find a first aid kit. You poke around the bullet hole in your arm, gingerly pressing the skin to see if you can find the round, but the wound is too inflamed. Sore. You almost scream when you pry a finger inside to search for the bullet, your vision hit with colored lights. Okay, that’s a bad idea, the bullet will have to stay inside your arm for now. You splash rubbing alcohol over it and wind a tensor bandage around it as tightly as possible to staunch the bleeding.
You’e fairly certain your father is dead. You had seen Titus Danforth kill your mother with your own eyes. You don’t know if your brother or sister are still alive, but if they had armed psychopaths like the Danforth’s after them, you didn’t like their chances.
Distantly, you know you should feel sad. But everything hurts, you’re tired, you feel like your entire body is being stretched apart. You hadn’t asked for any of this. The only emotion that seems to be useful right now is anger.
You’re angry that you were put in this position. You’re angry that you had been dragged here against your will. You’re angry, thinking of your father’s greed led all of you to hell, when you would have been happy – happier, even – if you had all lived in that cramped apartment living off instant ramen.
You don’t mean to, but lying down in a cramped, dark space makes the exhaustion take over your body and you drift off to sleep.
***
There was an hour left until dawn.
The Council families were fuming. The hunt had begun at midnight. No one had expected it to go beyond an hour. Everyone had been killed except for the youngest daughter, who no one had given a second thought.
And now they could lose it all, because of a five percent stake.
Ursula was beside herself, berating him for not finishing the job and letting you get away.
Titus couldn’t hide how amusing he found the entire situation. You, a backup kid that had barely dipped your toes into this world, had probably never handled or even seen a gun in real life, and you had become a thorn in the side of the most dangerous people on the planet.
Somehow you had taken what should have been a night of easy pickings into a drawn out, anxious meeting in the board room over how to flush you out and finish the game. You had dragged the hunt out to five hours and counting, and some of the families were getting nervous that Mr. Le Bail’s anger would be taken out on them.
Titus went down to the control room to view the situation from the camera feeds. For a long time, almost two hours, there wasn’t a sign of you. He wondered if you had made it over the fence, but the laser perimeter hadn’t been triggered. Maybe you were going to win simply by hiding until dawn – an outcome no one had thought possible.
Finally, he saw movement. One of the guards returned to the North gate shed and found the door jammed. Titus watched as you jerked awake, you had been holed up in your little den, and the guard managed to get the door open. You were scared, even on the black and white grain of the security feed, he could see it on your face. Your arm was bandaged, your eyes wide—
--and you brought the flashlight down on the guard’s head. The security camera feed had no sound, but Titus could hear it, clear as day. The way your chest hitched, the panicked sobs coming out of you, the scream that tore from your throat when the guard lunged for you and you had to hit them again. And again. The dull thud of the flashlight hitting flesh and bone, the way it reverberated up your arm, the way the guard’s cheek caved in and blood sprayed on your face.
You spluttered, in shock, hastily wiping the blood from your face and seeing it on the back of your hand. You looked like you were going to be sick, swaying and dizzy. But the guard, now fallen to the ground, weakly reached up and tried to hold onto your leg. Frightened, but with a grim determination he watched as your face steeled and you adjusted the grip of the flashlight in your hand. You brought it down now with purpose, hitting the guard until they stopped moving.
You sank to your knees and retched, Titus murmured “good girl” when you forced yourself not to vomit. Tears sprang to your eyes, but you wiped them away just as quickly as you had the blood – still in a red smear across your mouth. With shaking hands you searched the guard’s body, patting down the uniform pockets. You found a walkie, a set of keys, and a gun.
Titus clapped in applause. He was certain, this was the first time you had taken a life. You hobbled away from the guard’s body and the shed, moving east.
Titus grinned, it was time to move.
He whistled as he made his way across the green, on foot, war pick slung over his shoulder. It wasn’t the time to stalk and ambush, not anymore. He found you trying to punch in codes to the Eastern gate. When you heard his footsteps, you whirled around and fired the gun.
Titus smirked. Your aim left a lot to be desired, but he appreciated your instinct to shoot first.
He swung the war pick, knocking the gun from your grasp. You tried to scratch at his eyes, but unlike your first encounter, you were so, so tired. And he found it so easy to overpower you, catching you by the wrists and pinning you against the gate. You still fought, breath ragged, eyes wild, because you didn’t know how to do anything else at this point. The little lamb, gone feral. Savage.
For the first time, seeing the dried blood smeared over your mouth, your red-rimmed eyes, voice hoarse from screaming, dirt and blood under your fingernails, still fighting – Titus thought you were gorgeous.
He grasped you by the chin and forced you to look up at him.
“Your entire family must be eradicated by sunrise. That’s inevitable, written in blood.” His eyes looked you up and down, curious, “But killing you feels like a waste.”
Your voice shook, confused by his seeming change of heart. “You aren’t going to kill me?”
He shrugged. “I might have to. But there’s one other way to end your bloodline. You leave your family and marry into mine.”
Your eyes somehow grew wider. You couldn’t believe the words coming from his mouth.
“This is a proposal?”
He grinned, sinister, like he was staring down a delicious meal.
“You will become a Danforth. Your children will be Danforth’s. Your family name ends tonight.”
Even though you stood there in shock, silent for a long time, the grin never left Titus’ face. It was the smirk of someone who knew they were going to win a rigged game. Cocky, and sure.
And sure enough, you let him take you by the hand and Titus escorted you back into the manor, with you on his arm.
***
You hold onto the arm of a man who is soaked in the blood of your family. He is terrifying, a true monster who cut down your father and mother without mercy, tried to kill you, and then asked you to marry him. The situation is so bizarre, you can’t process the gravity of it, every time you try to hold onto the thought – it slips away.
Because you are trembling, your knees wobbly and your body suddenly so heavy as you crash from the adrenaline. You cling onto Titus, more so that you won’t fall over, barely registering any of the commotion around you when you enter the Danforth manor with him.
The other Council families begin shouting when you enter the board room. Something about cheating, how it’s unfair – unfair, like they’re bickering over shared toys instead of your family’s bloodied corpses. When Titus announces his intentions, they get even angrier. There’s more yelling, pointing, and you slide off Titus’ arm and sink into a chair, barely able to hold up your own weight.
Eventually, Chester Danforth gets the room to fall silent. Le Bail’s attorney confirms that this will satisfy the terms of the wager. Ursula looks like she swallowed glass. Chester chuckles a little, shaking his head, as if the whole thing has taken an amusing turn.
Mr. Le Bail’s attorney addresses you directly, “Will you agree to marry Titus Danforth and forsake your family name?”
You’re surprised that anyone has asked what you wanted, or that you have a choice in the matter at all.
But you look at the bloodthirsty people surrounding you. It isn’t really a choice.
In a numb haze, a contract is set before you. The attorney uses a sharp pen to cut a line through Titus’ palm, then yours, and both of your blood is collected in a small gold dish. Your mingled blood serves as the ink, where Titus signs the marital contract, then hands you the pen.
Weary, without any of the hesitation you anticipated, you sign your name.
“You are now man and wife.”
Titus hands you a ring. You slied it onto your own finger. Your right arm throbs where Ursula had shot you. You hadn’t thought much about your wedding day, but you certainly never pictured it like this. Shot and covered in blood.
“There is a tradition, whenever someone new joins the family.” Ursula says, waving the rest of the Council families to leave. Their business was over. “We play a game.”
A bubble of laughter rises up in you, though your voice is rough and cracked. “Another game?”
“You draw a card from this box,” Titus presents you with a plain wood box, “and we play whatever game is on that card.”
You want nothing more than for this night to be over. “And if it’s another game like ‘hunt the bride’?”
Titus smirks. “It could be, and you would still die tonight. But I get the feeling Mr. Le Bail’s feeling…generous, about this union.”
The thought of having to run, having to fight, having to struggle at all makes you want to cry. At this point, you think you would simply lie your head down on the table and let Titus chop it off. He was right though, either way you would have died tonight. This is your only chance to live.
With a deep, coiled sense of dread you turn the key on the box and flinch when a card pops out. Nervous, you pull it out, almost afraid to read what it says…
“Tic-tac-toe,” you almost weep with relief.
Titus smiles at you. “Told you so.”
So as the sun begins to rise, you play Tic-Tac-Toe with your new husband, shakily drawing a line of three ‘X’s, and the night is finally over.
***
When you wake up, you find yourself in an unfamiliar bed. But it’s soft, plush, like you’ve been wrapped up in a cloud, one of the most comfortable surfaces you’ve ever slept on.
You realize you are still in your ruined clothes and to your horror, you discover you’ve left blood and dirt all over the pristine sheets. When you stir awake, wrestling with the comforter, the door to the room opens and a group of housekeepers walk in.
“If you like, Mrs. Danforth, we have drawn you a bath.”
You blink up at them in confusion, then see they have come with towels, a robe and a tray of toiletries. You look apologetically the stained sheets, but the lead housekeeper smiles.
“Not to worry. This is only the guest room, so we could prepare your room.”
“Guest room?”
They lead you to the bathroom and when you feel the warmth of steam hit your skin, you suddenly realize that yes, you very much want a hot bath to soak away the grime and aches of your ordeal. You also find there is a new, much neater bandage over the gunshot wound in your right arm.
“The bullet was removed while you were asleep. The family physician attended to it personally, she has advised that you keep it elevated and dry. We brought a stand for you to rest your arm on while you bathe.”
You sink into the water, too hot at first that it makes your body clench, then an absolute balm once you adjust to the temperature. You’re amazed that you don’t recall a doctor seeing you, or feeling the bullet be removed at all, but you were also so exhausted you doubt being pushed out a window would have woken you.
The bath helps you feel more like yourself again. Part of you is still stuck in fight or flight mode. That you’re still being hunted, that there’s a clock that’s running out. But as you slip the robe on, see the Danforth name embroidered on everything, and look at yourself in the mirror it becomes clear. There is no more running. You are either going to remain scared or you are going to accept what’s happened and figure out what life looks like now.
When you exit the bath you find one of the staff waiting and ask, “Where is…” but realize you aren’t sure how to refer to Titus. Where is my husband? Mr. Danforth? The man who murdered my family?
The housekeeper is happy to assist, “Mr. Danforth and Miss Ursula are taking breakfast in the sun room. I’ll show you.”
You are brought to the sun room, a glass terrace with doors that open out to the grounds, with little fanfare. Ursula and Titus are in tight conversation, paying attention to the TV mounted on the wall with a live news feed.
You sit down at the table, feeling awkward, and ignored by the Danforth twins. With a slight chuckle at how familiar that sensation is, in a way it’s almost comfortable, you look at the breakfast spread and begin to pick at things. You’re starving and you eat without feeling self-conscious.
Eventually, Titus’ gaze flicks over to you. He looks amused.
“You’ve got an appetite.”
You shrug. “I had a long day.”
Ursula and Titus exchange a look, and then she gets up and leaves. The TV is turned off and Titus sits down next to you. This is the first good look you’ve gotten of him, now that it’s daylight and you aren’t running for your life. The eyes are the same, steely and hungry. He watches you eat, like he can weigh every movement you make.
Finally he asks, “You aren’t going to ask me why?”
He looks like a cat, you think, he reminds you of a tom cat that used to bring you a dead bird and then meow at you impatiently when you didn’t acknowledge his hunting skills.
You pop another piece of fruit into your mouth. “Does it matter?”
It doesn’t, what’s done is done, but Titus looks a little disappointed that you won’t indulge his game. You don’t know the exact reason why he didn’t kill you, but you get the sense he didn’t spare your life – not truly. Your life is still in his hands.
He wants a reaction, fear or disgust, and it irks him that you won’t give him one.
His eyes roam your face and he’s about to say something when there’s a sharp, “Titus.”
Chester Danforth waits by the door. Imposing and severe.
“I would like a word with my new daughter-in-law.” Chester adds, “In private.”
Titus looks like he wants to bite back, but his resentment needs to stay behind grit teeth. Chester tells you to meet him in his office once you’ve gotten dressed and made yourself presentable.
“I had to look into you on rather short notice, usually the vetting process is a bit more involved,” Chester smirks even though the smile doesn’t reach his eyes, as he looks over a screen of what is presumably all the intel he found about you. “You studied music, anthropology, economics and minored in Latin. You are pursuing a graduate degree in the military history of pre-steel age civilizations.”
He looks like a wolf, sharp and wizened, and even though he’s a frail man who couldn’t physically participate in the hunt, something about Chester unnerves you more than Titus did.
“This seems rather scattered,” he waves a hand, “someone searching for a specialty without one in mind.”
“It was a way for me to remain in Europe and not return home,” which is an honest enough answer, “and if my family were content to keep paying my tuition, then I was going to study whatever interested me.”
His eyes narrow as he looks at you, as if trying to tell if you’re lying. “And your ambitions didn’t lean towards your family’s business?”
You almost scoff, “My ambition was to be left alone.”
Chester lets out a light chuckle, which again, sounds devoid of any true warmth. “Well, I’m afraid that’s out of reach for you now. You have become very much involved in the family business, though it is not the one you were born into.”
“Why,” the question suddenly tumbled from your lips. You weren’t interested in Titus’ answer because a monster like him only cared about the thrill. But you recognized immediately who the real power of the Danforth family was, the real mastermind that held the High Seat. And you wanted to know. “Why did you let the marriage happen? It would have been easier to kill me.”
Chester regards you for a long, drawn moment. He seems to make a decision, that you don’t need to be spoken down to, that you can take honesty.
“Sometimes the easiest way to control Titus is to let him have his few amusements. He hasn’t thought beyond what a clever play he pulled on the High Council. But if the Danforth family is to continue to hold the High Seat, it needs an heir. You’re the daughter of a powerful family, you know the importance of lineage.”
You do. Even if no one had that expectation of you, being a daughter you were very aware.
“Ursula will not marry. She thinks she can prolong the situation with vague commitments to try, but I know she’s just dragging her feet. My children haven’t thought beyond what happens after I die and they assume the seat. They haven’t thought about after. It requires generations to hold onto generational power.”
You hang your head a little. Part of you knew and yet was still disappointed that it came to this. In a way, you had fallen to your older sister’s prescribed fate: sold off to be a brood mare.
“And you seem smart enough that I think you’ll be useful and not a hindrance. You have a sense of self-preservation for one, something Titus lacks.” Chester’s cold gaze bore into you. “I would suggest you try to keep his interest. He becomes unmanageable when he grows bored.”
You can hear the implicit threat hanging heavy in those words.
Fandom: Shawn Hatosy - Ready or Not 2: Here I Come
Pairing: Titus Danforth x F!Reader
Summary: You and Titus have been together for years. Everyone knows you're his, but not everyone knows that he's yours.
A/N: I know Titus is a soulless ruthless motherfucker. however, i just really love the idea that he can still manage to be soft with his not-wifey-yet-but-still-working-on-that. lol
At An Impasse | Shawn Hatosy Masterlist
Your arm rests in the crook of Titus' arm. Whenever you two enter a room, people can't help but stop and stare. That's what Titus loves most about having you with him. They don't know whether to fear him or be in awe of him. Because how could someone like him manage to pull a woman like you?
"Drink?" he quietly asks you and softly smile at him, "Yes, please." He nods and leaves your side to head to the bar area.
Another gala Titus has to attend in lieu of his sick father. Ursula is here somewhere. She had let you know that she would also be in attendance.
You decide to go mingle with some familiar faces while Titus went to grab drinks.
_________________
While Titus waits for your glass of wine and his old-fashioned, his finger taps the bar counter, eyes scouring the place for you or his sister. Mostly you, though.
"Well, well, Titus Danforth. Long time know see," he hears a sultry voice behind him. He turns to see a familiar face.
"Anastasia," he says the name of his former lover of his curtly.
The brunette woman pouts, "Oh don't be like that, Ti. We used to have so much fun together." her perfectly manicured nails run up his chest.
He immediately grips her wrists and toss them away from him as if they were on fire, "Don't. Touch. Me."
Anastasia smirks and tilts her head, "You used to enjoy me touching you. Quite a lot, actually."
"I'm with someone," he says with a glare.
She scoffs, "Yes, but you're not married."
"Not without trying," he can't help but mumble in annoyance.
"Marriage and monogamy has never stopped us before," she whispers, leaning in so close that her lips almost brush against his.
"Sir," the bartender places your drink and his right in-between them.
Titus takes hold of both glasses and nods to the bartender. He resumes glaring at Anastasia, "Things are different now. I advise you to stay the fuck away from me."
She rolls her eyes, "Oh please. You'll grow bored of her eventually. You always do!"
Titus leans in practically snarling, "Don't you dare think you know anything about me or Y/N. Whatever we had is dead and gone, just like how you'll be if you don't back the fuck off. And you know I make good on my promises."
He straightens up and smirks when the color from Anastasia's face drains and there's fear in her eyes. She clears his throat, "Right. Enjoy your night, Danforth."
He puts on a fake smile, "You too!" and then turns on his heel, heading towards the direction he last saw you.
_________________
You're in mid-conversation when Titus returns. He places both drinks in front of you and just as you were about to thank him, he grabs your face and presses his lips to yours.
On instinct, you kiss him back, but remember your audience. You awkwardly laugh, "Forgive us. Seems like he's a bit more affectionate tonight!" the women around you awkwardly laugh, side-eyeing each other.
You excuse yourself, grabbing your glass and handing Titus' his. You hook your arm around his and lead him away, "Everything okay?"
Titus immediately downs his drink and places it on a table that you two pass. You snort, "I suppose not?"
He sighs, "Anastasia's here."
Your brows raise when you hear his ex-lover's name, "Oh? You spoke to her?"
"She propositioned me," he states as he continues to walk throughout the ballroom, "Touched me." His face grimaces as he stares ahead, "I told her things are different with you and she still offered herself up to me."
"And?"
He looks at you and his eyes soften, "How does she not know? Everyone knows about us. Why does she think-"
You take a sip of your wine and sigh, "Given your history with her, I can understand why she felt comfortable propositioning you."
Titus hums, pulling you to the edge of the ballroom now. His arm moving to wrap around your waist. He pulls you close. He leans in and murmurs in your ear, "You know, if we were married, I'm sure she'd be less inclined to-"
You lightly slap him on the chest, "Oh stop it!"
He grabs your wrist in his hand. Not like how he did with Anastasia. With her, it was rough, forceful. But with you, it's soft, and delicate. He brings your wrist up to his lips and kisses it, "Never."
You lean in and peck his lips, "Come on. Let's mingle so Ursula doesn't give us shit for being anti-social."
He sighs, "Do we have to?"
"If you're a good boy, maybe I'll let you fuck me in the bathroom."
Titus' lips break out in a grin, "Yeah?"
"If you mingle."
"Well let's go be the fucking socialites that we are then," he murmurs, grabbing your hand and dragging you back into the crowd, your giggles following him.
Summary: Titus finds out that you're going away on a week's long business trip and he's a bit upset about it.
At An Impasse | Shawn Hatosy Masterlist
You're mentally going through the list of things you need to pack. You need a week's worth of business casual outfits, your laptop, charger, work bag-
"Going somewhere?" you jump when you hear Titus' voice.
You turn to see him standing in the threshold of your room. His hands in his pockets, looking at the suitcase you have laid out on your floor.
"Hey, you didn't tell me you were coming," you approach him and kiss him on the lips. He's still staring at the suitcase and you glance at it, "I'm going on my business trip in a few days remember? We're checking on the construction of the new resort. I'll be gone for a week so our communication may be limited to-"
Titus' brows furrow in confusion, “The fuck do you mean you’ll be gone for a week?” he asks in disbelief as he watches you gather stuff up to pack.
You pause and cock a brow at Titus, “First off, watch your tone. Second, I told you that I had a business trip coming up.”
He grumbles and runs a hand down his face, "Sorry, but you didn’t say it was for a whole fucking week!”
You chuckle, “Aaawww, are you going to miss me?” You wrap your arms around him and he looks annoyed.
“No,” he answers with a deadpan expression, but you know he actually doesn't mean it.
You sigh, pulling back and continuing to pack, “It’ll be fine. You have your own stuff to attend to so I’m sure the time will go by fast.”
“I can cancel everything and go with you.”
You whip around to him, “You will do no such thing! Your father and sister already think I’m too much of a distraction for you. So please take this time and show them that one, I’m not a distraction and two, you can be a functional human being without me.”
Titus grumbles, “I can do all that shit just fine. It’ll just being boring as hell without you around.”
You chuckle again, “I’ll call you when I’m available. We’ll text throughout the day. We can have amazing phone sex. It’ll be great! We did it earlier on in our relationship.”
Titus shrugs and trudges over to you, his chest pressing up to you and arms wrapping around you from behind, “Well that was before I knew what loving you was like.”
You feel yourself melting at your very pouty lover, “I can’t believe people don’t believe me when I say you’re a softie.”
“And let’s fucking keep it that way," he mumbles and it has you laughing.
heavily inspired by @titus-danforth and this post, lexi quit putting the voices in my head, i have a paper to write! also shoutout to @larkspurinthepitt for telling me what kind of weapon titus uses
thinking about how the danforth family would definitely want to continue their family line and would need an heir. maybe ursula (i'm assuming she and titus are siblings) doesn't want kids so it falls to titus.
thinking about how he might not want a wife so he just needs someone to have his baby. so the danforth staff search and compile a list of a few women that fit titus' tastes and who would be more willing than the average person to sign an nda and be willing to have his baby for a big check. (of course none of these women would know that after the baby is born there would be no need for the nda and no payout because titus would get to hunt them)
thinking about how you normally wouldn't consider something like this but the payout is an amount you could only dream of and the contract promised you'd come to no harm under titus' care and you're desperate for the money. so you agreed to the screening process and ended up standing in front of titus in a room at his estate so he could inspect you. he undressed you a minute ago, removing the robe the staff had provided, and was circling you carefully. he ran his hands over your skin, lifting your limbs for a closer look, inspecting every inch of you. his clinical, unflinching gaze made you hot all over, his stare setting your skin on fire. when he ran a finger through your folds he hummed in approval at the wetness he found, his mouth ticking up in the corner in a small, satisfied smile. when a gasp passed your lips without your permission as he continued to move his finger, his smile grew. you were perfect.
thinking about how titus picked you to give him an heir. you moved in with him, into his bedroom and everything, so he could have easy access to you. you learned that titus liked control and he liked teasing and having you in the palm of his hand. you expected the contract to be that he'd fuck you, quick and dirty to get the job done, but no, titus liked to take his time. he liked to make you squirm, to get you begging. he loved holding you down to eat you out slow and careful. he liked leaving you desperate and breathless. he liked edging you without saying a word, the only sound in the room being your pleas and moans. he liked to squeeze your flesh and give you a slap (on your ass, on your nipple, on your clit) and he liked to fist his hand in your hair. he liked to look you in the eyes when he came in you.
thinking about how after a few weeks, you started to notice things. you noticed that him and his family went hunting a lot. you noticed that on these days he always came back to you with a fire in his eyes and blood spattered over his clothes. he always fucked you on hunting days, taking you in the morning for "good luck" and afterwards he'd fuck you with either frustration that someone else killed whatever they were hunting before he could, or he'd fuck you in triumph at being the victor. you found yourself hoping he'd win, hoping he'd come to you with hot hands and biting teeth and that dangerous smile he wore every time he won. you found yourself liking when he fucked you on hunting days, not when he fucked you like he had something to prove but when he fucked you like he was including you in the celebration.
thinking about how the days he was the winner were the only days he kissed you. the other time he kissed you was when the pregnancy test came back positive. he kissed you, full of passion and triumph. the pregnancy was another victory.
thinking about how nothing changed after you became pregnant. titus still fucked you, still claimed you as his every night, still had you screaming his name into the dark.
thinking about how a few months into the pregnancy you heard screams for help. you went outside to find a man you didn't recognize as family or staff running towards you as he rounded the corner of the house. the man grabbed you before you could comprehend what was going on and pushed you against the side of the manor. you went into fight mode and tried fighting back to get out of his hold, thrashing and kicking when the mans blood suddenly splashed across your face as titus drove the sharp pick side of his horsemans pick into the mans head, killing him instantly.
thinking about how titus would have liked to have dragged the hunt out a little longer but his prey had put its hands on you and you were his. you and the baby growing inside you. so he landed the killing blow earlier than he planned, saving you from harm.
thinking about how titus pulled off his ascot to wipe the blood from your face (despite how much the sight of the red on your face turned him on) and how he brought you back into the house where it was safe. you didn't know exactly what happened and he needed to be careful about what he told you (because if you took it badly he'd have to lock you up for the remainder of the pregnancy and that stress couldn't be good for the baby) but when you looked up at him with tearful eyes and said "you saved me" he realized he was a hero in your eyes, not some sadistic killer, but a brutal protector that would take a life for you.
thinking about how titus pulled you into his embrace and kissed you possessively, reveling in the way you melted into you, submitted to him, turned yourself over to him and his hands and his mouth.
thinking about how titus had originally planned to hunt you after the baby was born but now he thought he'd keep you instead. you'd fought back against the man who grabbed you, you had a fire in you too. he could take the time to mold you how he wanted, to corrupt you to his lifestyle, to pull you into the family.
thinking about how titus might just want a wife after all.
