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REUPPING❣️ SHAWN HATOSY FOR SEXIEST MAN ALIVE 2026
🫦😍🥵🫠😵💫🤤❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥
Tumblr. Pure effervescent enrichment. Old internet energy. Home of the Reblogs. All the art you never knew you needed. All the fandoms you c
shawn hatosy as karl simmons body of proof abducted part 1
if i have to read the phrase “gummy walls” in ONE more smut im honestly going to lose it
Shawn Hatosy behind the scenes of Cry Wolf via Brie Larson.
SHAWN HATOSY as ANDREW "POPE" CODY ANIMAL KINGDOM: S1E1—Pilot
A Game of Chance
18+ account - minors do not interact
titus danforth f!reader Word Count: 10.8K Rating: E
Summary: You get invited to an unexpected wedding.
Warnings: (SMUT MDNI 18+), professor reader, idiots in love, mentions of death (not super descriptive), obscene wealth, alcohol, feelings, mutual pinging, yearning, sexual tension, jealousy, (both reader and titus), sorta mean/pissed off titus, pet names, oral sex (69ing so f & m receiving), lite spanking, dirty talk, praise, unprotected p in v, possessive sex?, hallmark ending (HEA <3), don't want to spoil too much about the ending
A/N: No spoilers! Anything that happens in this is not in the 2nd movie. Creative liberties galore! GIF found HERE by @sammy-bryant. dividers as always by @saradika-graphics
Thank you for reading!! if you reblog with commentary i love you so much <3.
BREAKING NEWS
An anchor spoke with hushed urgency usually reserved for national crises:
"The entire Le Domas family, heirs to the Le Domas Dominion board‑game empire, have been discovered dead inside the ancestral estate of patriarch Tony Le Domas. And at the center of it all is one name—Grace MacCaullay, the bride who married into the dynasty just hours before the massacre. Authorities are calling this a murder‑suicide, one of the most shocking in recent memory. Grace MacCaullay, 28, was found dead on the estate grounds with a gunshot wound to the head, and a gun in her hand. She was still wearing her wedding dress."
They replayed the police body‑cam footage—officers approaching a blood‑spattered bride sitting on the mansion steps, smoke still rising from the ruins behind her. When the officers asked her what happened, she gave only one chilling word:
"In‑laws."
The anchor continued, "They arrested Grace that day and rushed her to the hospital, where she was being held after her arrest. She was placed under police hold, sedated, and monitored, but somehow, she escaped the hospital and made her way back to the estate—back to the scene of the slaughter and killed herself."
The anchor closed the segment with a practiced, solemn tone:
Why would a woman with no prior history of violence destroy an entire family? Investigators argue the most straightforward explanation is: either she harbored a long‑standing vendetta against the family or that she suffered a sudden, catastrophic mental breakdown.
You exhaled in your apartment, almost laughing at the neatness of it all. Because you knew what the anchors didn’t. One of the families from the high council had clearly killed her, taken her body, and brought her back to the Le Domas estate themselves. They placed her exactly where she needed to be for the narrative to hold. They arranged the scene so investigators would find her in the perfect position, with the perfect weapon, wearing the perfect dress for a tragedy the public would swallow whole.
You whispered the final line along with the anchor, but with a knowing edge:
"Murder‑suicide."
You couldn’t help but wonder: Had Titus and Ursula won the seat back?
You were walking across the Columbia University campus, the early October sun casting long shadows across the quad, your bag slung over one shoulder. Midterms were looming, and your mind was halfway through your upcoming lecture when a voice cut through your thoughts and called out your name after the word 'professor.'
The voice was smooth, and you turned to find a tall man in an impeccably tailored navy suit, crisp white shirt open at the collar, no tie. His shoes were polished cordovan leather. His hair was dark, neatly combed, with just a hint of silver at the temples.
He smiled, a practiced but warm expression. "I'm sorry to interrupt. I was told I might find you here."
"I'm sorry, do I know you?"
He extended his hand. "Conrad Harrington. I'm Ursula's—" He paused when he saw your own eyes widen before you could stop them. "I'm Ursula's fiancé."
"Fiancé?" The word came out sharper than you intended. Hadn’t they called off their engagement years ago?
"I know this must be confusing." He glanced around at the students streaming past, the noise of the quad. "Is there somewhere we can talk? Just a few minutes."
You nodded, not trusting your voice. He pointed to a wrought-iron bench under a large tree, mostly empty in the afternoon lull. You both walked over and sat down. The iron was cool through your skirt. Conrad leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped.
"I'm sorry about your mother, by the way. She was nothing but kind to me when she worked at the estate," he said with complete sincerity.
A slow pressure gathered in your chest. "Thank you. She only had wonderful things to say about you."
He nodded, seeming to take comfort in that.
"Ursula and I got back together," he said. "About 3 months ago. We've been quietly... reconnecting."
Your first instinct was bitter: Why didn't Ursula tell you they had gotten back together? You knew you were being a hypocrite. And…the last time you'd seen her, she'd been calmly murdering her father. Not exactly a heart-to-heart moment. Hardly the occasion for catching up. Yet you would have expected something. A cryptic comment about "rekindling an old flame," maybe. Some dry observation only she would make. Instead: nothing. Her silence felt deliberate.
"And you're engaged now? Just like that?"
"Just like that." He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. "I know how it sounds. But I've wanted to marry that woman since the first night I met her. She was the one who kept saying no when we were dating. Kept pushing me away." He looked at you directly. "Maybe you know why."
He was clearly gauging how much you knew.
"I know enough," you said.
He leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. "Well… she never wanted to put me through that…the chance of drawing the wrong card. She thought she was protecting me by breaking up with me."
"Then why did she change her mind?"
He looked away, across the quad, his eyes unfocused for a moment.
"I don’t know…but I’ve always told her I'd take the risk. I don't care."
"So you're willing to play? To possibly draw the card and end up—"
"I'm willing to take the chance," he interrupted, turning back to face you. "I’m madly in love with her. And in fairness, there are other games. Multiple. Not just the hide and seek. The odds aren't as bad as you'd think."
"And you’re willing to give your soul if you survive?"
"I would do anything to be with her."
Damn… Ursula must have some magic pussy, you thought.
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a cream-colored envelope. "We're getting married. October 24th. In Aix-en-Provence."
You stared at the envelope, not taking it. "October 24th? That's barely 2 weeks away. Are you serious?"
"I've waited 9 years for this. I'm not waiting any longer." He pressed the envelope into your hand. "I was in town for business. Ursula told me you teach at Columbia. I thought... I thought I'd bring this to you myself."
"Wait." You looked up from the invitation. "Does Ursula know you're here… or that you’re inviting me?"
Conrad's smile had a nervous edge. "No."
You felt the sting even though you didn’t want to. Ursula was getting married, and you weren't part of it. And that was fine, logically. People didn’t invite everyone to everything. That was normal. Except it didn't feel normal. It felt like you were standing outside looking in, and there was a whole version of Ursula you weren't going to get to know. You realized that maybe the 12 years of ignoring Danforth’s had done more damage than you thought.
"You want me to show up unannounced?" you frowned.
"It will be a surprise. A good one."
"Ursula hates surprises."
"I know." He said it softly, almost like a confession. "But look—" He leaned closer, his voice dropping. "I don't know what happened between you and their family. I know there was some rift…but Ursula loved your mother. She was devastated when she died. And with her father passing recently... she's trying to put on a strong face, but I think she would like it if you were there. I really do."
You looked down at the invitation. The gold lettering shimmered in the afternoon light. For a long moment, you didn’t move. Then a memory surfaced, unbidden. You were 19 again, sitting on the edge of Ursula’s bed at Danforth’s English estate. She was brushing her hair, telling you about her favorite place in the world.
"Aix-en-Provence", she’d said. The house there is the only place I have ever felt completely myself." You had never made it out there. You had visited the other estates—the sprawling manor in the English countryside, the villa on Lake Como, the chalet in the Swiss Alps, the schloss in Austria…but never Aix.
"I'll consider it," you finally said.
Conrad stood, smoothing his jacket. He looked relieved. "That's all I ask. The invitation has all the details. If you can make it... I think it would mean more to her than she'd ever admit."
He started to walk away, his shoes clicking on the cobblestones. You stood up, the invitation crushed against your palm.
"Conrad," you called out. He turned, and you lowered your voice, even though no one was close.
"Did they win the seat?"
He held your gaze. The easy smile faded. His eyes went flat for just a second, the mask slipping. Then he said, quietly, "If you come to the wedding, you can ask them yourself."
He turned and walked away, disappearing into the stream of students heading toward the library. You pocketed the invitation and started walking, the crunch of leaves beneath your shoes grounding you in the present. The news report replayed in your mind like a loop you couldn’t shut off.
Grace MacCaullay.
The Le Domas family.
Massacre.
Murder suicide.
You pulled out your phone, checked your calendar, and booked a flight to Marseille, connecting through Paris. The ticket was refundable. You told yourself you could always cancel.
But you knew, even as you typed in your credit card number, that you wouldn’t.
MARSEILLE, FRANCE
The hotel was charming in that way only a French boutique hotel could be—aged stone walls, wrought-iron balcony, the faint scent of lavender drifting in through the open window. You had barely slept. The connecting flight from Newark to Marseille had been delayed, and by the time you had checked in and collapsed onto the crisp white sheets, it was nearly midnight. The rehearsal dinner had been long over.
Now, at 1 pm, you stood in front of the full-length mirror in the corner of the room, the black dress hanging from the closet door. You had bought it on a whim two weeks ago, something about the cut drawing you in with the high neckline, and the way it skimmed the collarbone. You liked that it left the shoulders bare in that subtle, architectural way, and that the slit ran just high enough to be alluring without being obscene. You slipped it over your head, the material cool against your skin. It zipped up the side (a hidden zipper that you managed on the third try), and turned to face the mirror to stare at your reflection.
What the fuck were you thinking? Ursula might actually kill you for this.
You reached for the glass of wine you'd poured ten minutes ago from a local Côtes de Provence rosé you'd grabbed from the minibar and took a long sip out of nerves. You picked up the invitation, reading the instructions for the hundredth time:
Arrival strictly between 2:30 PM and 3:15 PM. Present this invitation at the first checkpoint. Follow the drive to the second gate. A valet will direct you.
You grabbed your clutch, which was a small black satin pouch, just big enough for your phone, lipstick, and a compact. The invitation went in last, and you checked the room one more time, then grabbed your room key and headed out. The hotel concierge called you a taxi, a clean white Mercedes that pulled up to the curb. The driver was an older man, maybe sixty, with a thick mustache and a shrug that seemed permanent. You gave him the address from the invitation, and he raised an eyebrow.
He pulled away from the curb, navigating the narrow streets, and suddenly the city gave way to countryside with rolling hills covered in vineyards, clusters of stone farmhouses, the occasional glimpse of a distant chateau. The road wound upward, the vegetation becoming denser, more wild. After about 40 minutes, he turned onto a private road marked only by a small stone pillar with a wrought-iron gate. A guardhouse appeared. A man in a black suit stepped out, clipboard in hand. You rolled down the window and handed him the invitation. He examined it, glanced at you, then at a list on his clipboard. He nodded, handed it back, and the gate swung open.
"Ils ne rigolent pas," the driver muttered. This is some serious security.
"Apparemment," you replied. Apparently
The drive continued for another mile, winding through a forest of olive trees. The second gate was even more imposing, with iron bars at least twelve feet high, flanked by stone walls that disappeared into the trees. Another guard, another check. This one took longer. He scanned the invitation with a device, then made a phone call. After a tense minute, he waved you through.
The driver let out a low whistle. "Putain. C'est un château, pas une maison." Holy shit. That's a castle, not a house.
"Je sais…" you whispered in awe. I know
The house emerged from the trees slowly, deliberately, as if revealing itself on purpose. It was a sprawling limestone manor, three stories tall, with a mansard roof of blue-gray slate and tall French windows that caught the afternoon sun. Wisteria climbed the eastern facade, its purple blossoms hanging in heavy clusters. A gravel courtyard opened before it, already filled with ultra‑luxury European vintage cars. A fountain in the center of the courtyard featured a stone nymph, water cascading from an urn she held.
The driver pulled up to the entrance, slowing as clusters of elegantly dressed guests drifted toward the doors. He turned to you, his eyes wide.
"C’est un marriage," you said, forcing a smile. It’s a wedding.
He shook his head, muttering something about the rich as he helped you out. You handed him a generous tip (fifty euros), and he tipped his hat.
"Merci, madame."
"Merci."
You stood on the gravel, the crunch of stones under your heels echoing loudly in the quiet. The front door was ajar, a butler in uniform was standing patiently nearby. You took a deep breath and stepped inside, your heart pounding in your chest. The foyer was a symphony of marble and light. A grand staircase curved upward, its banisters wrought iron with gold leaf accents. A crystal chandelier hung from a two-story ceiling, casting prisms across the walls. To the left, a salon opened up, filled with guests, champagne flutes in hand. The murmur of conversation washed over you, punctuated by occasional laughter.
As the gathering buzzed around you, a waiter appeared, offering a tray of champagne. You accepted a flute, grateful for something to hold, and glanced around at the familiar faces. Hazel, Ursula’s aunt, caught your eye first. She was a gaunt woman dressed in a navy silk dress, a string of pearls resting against her collarbone. Her husband, a portly man with a flushed face, stood beside her, engaged in conversation with someone you didn’t recognize. She seemed to notice you, her eyes flickering with recognition and surprise behind her gaze, as if they hadn’t expected to see you after all these years.
A few more familiar faces began to emerge from the crowd, and thankfully, you recognized a couple of Ursula's friends from that Nantucket trip. More people started to notice, and others who recognized you started to come over and strike up conversations. The usual barrage of questions had begun to flow, predictable, shallow, and almost anthropological in their curiosity. But what really got you was the look on their faces when you mentioned you lived in Harlem. It was as if they’d forgotten that Columbia University was in Morningside Heights, just next to Harlem—yet, here they were, acting as if the neighborhood were some distant, unfamiliar place. It was a curated ignorance that only the affluent could afford.
You noticed another family cluster: the Wainwrights, cousins of the Danforth’s, notorious for their real estate empire. The younger son, a man in his forties with a receding hairline, stared at you for a while before turning away. You took another gulp of champagne. Then another.
And then, across the room, you saw fucking Kip.
He was leaning against a marble pillar, a scotch in his hand, talking to two women in pastel dresses. Kip, who looked like a grinning predator in a tailored suit. You hadn’t seen him since his 'wedding,' which was fine because he had always found ways to corner you and whisper things that made your skin crawl during prep school. He was a piece of shit. He looked up, and his eyes met yours. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face.
You turned on your heel and walked in the opposite direction, weaving through the crowd, putting as many bodies between you and him as possible. You found a quiet corner near a window overlooking the gardens and pressed your back against the wall, your champagne flute now empty.
Your hands were shaking, and you set the flute on a passing waiter's tray and grabbed another.
Where was Titus?
You scanned the room, the clusters of guests, the winding staircase. No sign of him. Was he with Ursula? Getting ready? You fidgeted, adjusted your earrings, and smoothed your hair. You felt exposed, vulnerable, like a rabbit in a field of wolves…so you kept drinking, the champagne a thin shield against the rising tide of panic. Then the wedding coordinator stepped into the center of the foyer and clapped her hands twice. The murmur died down.
"If I could have everyone's attention, please. The ceremony will begin in five minutes. Please proceed to the garden through the south doors. Guests are requested to be seated." The crowd began to move, a slow tide of silk and cologne toward the open doors at the end of the hall. You followed, the champagne glass still in your hand, and set it on a small table as you passed.
The garden was breathtaking.
The aisle wasn’t strewn with petals; instead, a long strip of dark stone, polished to a mirror sheen, cut through the grass like a blade. At the end of it stood an archway of blackened iron twisted with deep‑red amaranth and dark olive leaves. The arch was set against a backdrop of the Luberon valley, the hills rolling in shades of green and gold under the late afternoon sun. Chairs (black iron with deep wine‑colored cushions) were arranged in neat rows on either side of the aisle. A string quartet was already playing, something soft and classical. The temperature was perfect. Maybe 66 degrees, the air carrying the scent of lavender and earth. The sky was a clear, endless blue.
You took a seat in the middle row, on the end of the left side, so you could be close enough to see but far enough from the aisle that you wouldn't be caught in the wedding party's sightline. You clasped your hands in your lap, your fingers cold despite the warmth. The officiant, a man dressed in a simple black robe, walked down the aisle and took his place beneath the arch. Almost abruptly, Conrad followed and walked down the aisle with his parents—they walked him to the altar, his father shaking his hand, his mother kissing his cheek, and then they stepped to the side, taking their seats in the front row. They hadn’t bothered with a wedding party, which you loved. No bridesmaids fussing with hems, and no shitfaced groomsmen. It was just Conrad, standing under the arch, his hands clasped in front of him, his eyes fixed on the house.
Then the quartet paused. The officiant cleared his throat.
The first notes of Bittersweet Symphony began to play, the strings carrying that iconic melody. The guests stirred. The officiant raised his voice.
"Please stand for the bride."
Everyone rose as the chairs scraped against the gravel, and you stood with your heart in your throat when the doors of the house opened, revealing Ursula emerging.
She was a vision in red. The dress was a deep wine, almost burgundy, with a fitted bodice that flowed into a full skirt. The fabric caught the light, shimmering like liquid fire.
"Wow, look at her in that dress," someone murmured nearby. "It's like she stepped out of a dream." Her hair was pinned up, with a few curls escaping to frame her face, and she wore a circlet of dark metal that caught the light, each garnet glimmering like drops of blood with every step she took as she moved.
But it wasn't only the dress that made your breath catch.
It was the man walking beside her.
Titus.
He looked devastating, wearing a perfectly tailored suit, and with a deep red pocket square that matched Ursula's dress. His arm was linked through hers, guiding her down the aisle. Your eyes burned, and as you blinked, a tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it, so you brushed it away quickly, hoping no one saw.
Ursula looked beautiful. Stunning. And the fact that it was Titus walking her down the aisle, her twin brother, her other half—it made something ache deep in your chest. You wished Chester could have seen this moment. And, the most beautiful part, was Conrad's face. He was watching Ursula with an expression you had only seen in books or in movies. Complete and total awe. His eyes were wide, his lips slightly parted, and there was a softness in his gaze that bordered on reverence. He wasn't looking at his bride. He was looking at a miracle.
Titus led Ursula up to the arch, then paused and turned to face Conrad. For a moment, the three of them stood in a small triangle before Titus took Ursula's hand and gently placed it in Conrad's. That’s when you noticed he was wearing his father’s ring. You smirked, because you realized that it meant the twins had secured their seat back on the High Council.
Titus was about to take his seat when he paused, his eyes catching sight of you. Your heart stopped with them because there was something in his expression—something darker, something that made your blood run cold. He wasn’t happy to see you, and without a word, he looked away and took his seat, as if dismissing you. Regret flooded your mind…it was a mistake to come here. You sat there, rooted to your spot, your hands clutching the edge of your chair, feeling the weight of his displeasure press down like a heavy stone.
The words echoed quietly in your mind as the ceremony continued, the officiant's voice a distant drone, the lavender-scented air suddenly suffocating. You kept your eyes fixed forward, but all you kept thinking was:
You were not welcome here. Not by Ursula. And certainly not by Titus.
The ceremony ended in a blur. You stood when everyone else stood, clapped when they clapped, smiled when they smiled. But your body moved on autopilot while your mind churned in a dark spiral, replaying the look Titus had given you.
You needed a drink.
The bar was tucked in a corner of the ballroom (because of course this house had a ballroom), all dark wood and brass, staffed by a man who looked like he'd seen a hundred broken hearts and knew better than to ask questions. You ordered a whiskey, neat, and knocked half of it back in one swallow. The burn was grounding.
Ursula and Conrad were making their rounds, stopping at tables, accepting congratulations. You watched her from a distance, the way she moved through the crowd with practiced grace, her dress trailing behind her. You also noticed her look of complete shock when she noticed you.
She started heading straight for you, and your stomach dropped.
Ursula didn't slow down. She weaved through the guests with a smile fixed on her face, but her eyes were locked on you. She reached the bar, grabbed your wrist with surprising strength, and pulled you away before you could protest.
"Ursula—"
"Not a word," she hissed, dragging you through a side door, down a narrow corridor, and into a study lined with bookshelves.
"What the fuck are you doing here?"
You let out a breath, a nervous laugh escaping your lips. "Congratulations. You look stunning. The dress is—"
"Explain yourself."
You shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Your husband invited me."
She looked ready to combust. "I'm going to kill him."
"You really shouldn't make jokes like that," you said, raising an eyebrow. "You know. Considering."
For a heartbeat, she stared at you. Then, despite herself, a smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth.
You pressed your advantage while you had it. "Look, I know why you didn't invite me. I wouldn't have invited me either." You held her gaze despite the way your heart was hammering. "But I didn't want to miss this. And I know my mother would have loved being here."
Ursula's expression shifted—the anger draining from her face like water through cupped hands. She turned away from you, her shoulders stiffening. For a long moment, she didn't speak.
"Don't," she finally said, her voice tight. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Use her as a distraction." She spun back around, and her eyes were glistening now, though her jaw was clenched hard enough to break teeth. "You don't get to—you can't just—"
"I'm not," you said quietly. "I'm telling you the truth. She would have been here if she could. And since she can't be, I wanted to be. For the both of us."
Ursula's hand came up to her face, and she turned toward the bookshelves, her shoulders trembling slightly.
"I can’t believe I’m married." You let the silence stretch for a moment, watching her shoulders gradually still. When she finally turned back around, her eyes were red-rimmed but dry since Ursula had clearly decided tears were not on the agenda.
"Neither can I," you said softly, and despite everything, she let out a short, surprised laugh. "Conrad seems like a really wonderful person. I can tell he’s madly in love with you.”
She studied you for a moment, then nodded. "He is. He looks at me, and it's like he already knows exactly who I am and loves me anyway." There was something almost vulnerable in the admission, like she was surprised by it herself. "He's... a much better person than I am. Which, granted, isn't a high bar, but still," she smiled sadly. "I love him so much it scares me. I'm still waiting for the universe to correct its mistake."
"It's not a mistake," you said firmly.
She tilted her head, one eyebrow arched in that signature way of hers. "Are we done with the feelings portion of the evening, or...?"
"Are you afraid?" you whispered.
"Of what?" She turned back to the mirror, smoothing down her dress with deliberate precision.
"Of what might happen tonight."
She was quiet for a long moment. "He won't pull the Hide and Seek card," she said with absolute certainty.
"How can you know that?"
"Because Titus made sure he wouldn't."
The words hung in the air between you, heavy with implication. What did that mean? Your mind raced.
"I have to go," she said. "Smooze with people. Total buzzkill."
"Good luck. Try not to commit any felonies."
"No promises." She rolled her eyes. "I also need to go find the wedding planner and tell her that some absolute nightmare of a person showed up uninvited, so she needs to hide you in the back somewhere near the kitchen.
You grinned. "I appreciate that."
Ursula was already moving toward the door, mentally preparing herself for the social minefield of in-law pleasantries.
"I'm happy you two won the seat back," you said, lowering your voice. Ursula paused at the doorway, turning back with a knowing smile.
"That was all Titus. He made sure of it. Made sure a lot of things happened the way they needed to."
For a moment, she looked like she might say something more, but then the sound of voices drifted down the hallway. She gave you a quick wink before disappearing past the door.
The ballroom had transformed into a glittering maze of conversation and champagne. You'd spent the last forty minutes circling through clusters of guests, your eyes perpetually scanning for Titus. You hadn't seen Titus since the ceremony. Part of you hoped he'd disappeared entirely, that you could slip away before dawn and pretend this whole night never happened. But you knew better. The weight of his stare from the aisle still clung to your skin like a brand.
You finally found him on the terrace, leaning against the stone balustrade that overlooked the gardens, a glass of wine in his hand. He was watching the sunset paint the valley in shades of amber and rose, his profile sharp and unreadable in the golden light. For a moment, you just stood there, taking him in.
Then she appeared.
She was young—couldn't have been more than 22, with the kind of effortless beauty that came from good genes and better skincare. She had red hair, the kind of shade that caught the light like it was made for it, and she was wearing a champagne-colored dress with piercing blue eyes. She materialized at his side like she'd been summoned, her hand already reaching out to touch his arm.
"Titus, darling," she cooed, her accent distinctly British, upper-crust. "I've been looking for you all evening. You simply can't hide away like this. It's terribly unfair to the rest of us."
"Hello, Margot," you overheard him say.
Of course her name was Margot.
You watched her laugh—a tinkling, practiced sound that probably worked on approximately 98% percent of the male population. She leaned closer, her fingers still on his arm, and you felt something hot and acidic crawl up your throat.
"I'm starting to think you're avoiding me."
"Hard to avoid someone who keeps finding me," Titus said, a slight smirk playing at his mouth. "Though I'm not complaining."
"Well, I'm terribly persistent when I want something,"
"I've noticed," Titus said.
Margot laughed again (that same crystalline sound that made your molars ache). You realized that your nails were digging crescents into your palms. What infuriated you most wasn't that she was beautiful. It wasn't even that she was young and effortless and everything you'd expect the average man to want. It was that Titus was engaging with her. That he wasn't stepping back. That he was considering it, you could see it in the way his gaze lingered on her face, in the way he didn't immediately shut her down.
You moved toward them before you could think better of it. "Excuse me," you said directly to Titus, your voice cutting through the evening air like a blade. "Can I talk to you for a moment?"
Titus turned to you, and his expression shifted…and not in the way you wanted. His eyes, which had been warm moments before, went cool and distant, that familiar wall slamming down between you two. Margot’s head whipped around, her expression shifting from flirtation to indignation in half a second. She looked you up and down, dismissively, as if cataloging your outfit choice.
"We’re sort of having a private conversation," she said coolly. "Shouldn't you be tending to the bar?" she asked, her tone dripping with rudeness. "Or did someone send you to collect glasses?
What a cunt.
"Isn't it past your bedtime? Us adults need to have a little chat," you smiled, sweet as poison.
Her face flushed crimson. For a moment, she looked like she might say something cutting.
"I'll find you later," Titus said, his gaze already shifting away from you, and towards her. "We just need to have a quick chat.”
Her hand found his shoulder, her lips brushing against his cheek in a kiss that lingered. "Don't take too long," she murmured against his skin, her eyes flicking toward you with unmistakable triumph.
Titus didn’t look at you right away. He just exhaled, and when he finally turned, his expression was carved from stone.
"I don’t really actually have time to chat," he muttered, already stepping away from you.
You followed him, pulse hammering. "I would’ve thought you’d be happy to see me."
"Why?" he shot back instantly, not even glancing over. "Since when is that the dynamic?"
He didn’t wait for your answer. He just kept walking, long strides carrying him back toward the house. As he moved, he slipped seamlessly into host mode—nodding to guests, offering clipped greetings, shaking hands. Each polite smile he gave them only highlighted how little warmth he had for you.
You trailed behind him, feeling like a ghost tethered to his shadow.
"Titus," you hissed, trying to keep up. "Why are you being this way?"
He stopped mid‑stride, turned his head just enough to look at you over his shoulder.
"What way?" he asked, voice flat. "You’re going to have to be more specific."
This was the man who once had looked at you like you were something dangerous and precious in equal measure. Who had touched you like he was afraid you'd shatter. Who had said your name like it meant something. You wanted to scream. Instead, you grabbed his wrist and tugged him down a side hallway that was currently empty, quiet, and far from the party’s hum. He let you pull him, but only barely, like he was indulging a child.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" you demanded, keeping your voice low. "You've been cold since the ceremony, and now you're—"
"I'm being what?" he interrupted, his tone deliberately measured in that way that made your skin crawl. "Honest?"
"You're being cruel."
He laughed—a short, bitter sound that echoed off the stone walls. "Cruel would be telling you what I actually think right now." He turned away from you, running a hand through his hair, and you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it might break. "So I'm being merciful, actually. You should thank me."
"Thank you for what? For ignoring me? For flirting with that vapid—"
"Don't." His voice cracked like a whip. He spun back around, and his eyes… God, his eyes were furious. "Don't you dare sit there and act territorial when you've been fucking that linguistics professor."
"How did you—" you started.
"Does it matter?" He stepped closer.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" you hissed, because you hadn’t told anyone about David. The only way he could know was if he was keeping tabs on you with the Danforth’s private investigator.
"I’m not. Kindly get the fuck out." He stopped himself, jaw working, clearly trying to regain control. "I can’t believe you’ve been letting him touch you. He’s beneath you. You could do so much better."
Suddenly, it all made so much sense. This was why he had been ignoring your phone calls and texts.
"I'm not—" You felt heat rise in your chest, exasperation mixing with something else. Something that felt dangerously like guilt. "First of all, we slept together once. I haven't done anything physical with him since I came to visit your father in Newport. And you don't deserve to hear this, but the only reason I slept with him was that I was trying to get over you. I ended things with him weeks ago." Titus went very still. "It's 2026," you continued, your voice shaking slightly. "A woman having casual sex is completely reasonable. Men do it all the time. I'm not going to apologize for it."
He scoffed, and your hand caught his jaw to stop him from turning away. Your fingers pressed into the sharp line of his cheek, guiding his face back toward yours.
"Titus," you said, breath unsteady. "Look at me." You stepped closer, closing the distance he'd been so carefully maintaining. Your hand was still on his jaw, but this time you didn’t stop there. Your other hand found his—the hand, the one with his father’s ring. His fingers twitched under your touch, like he wasn’t sure whether to pull away or hold on. "I'm happy you won your seat back. I'm happy the bride is dead if it means you're where you belong. I don't care how that makes me sound. I only care about you."
"That's—you can't mean that."
"I do. I'm in love with you, Titus. I don't know how any of this works. I don't know how to be with someone like you. I don't know if I'll fit into your world or if I'll burn it down trying. But I want to try. I want to be with you. If you'll let me."
Silence stretched between you, thick and trembling.
"I can't focus. I can't think. Every time I close my eyes, I taste you," he murmured.
"Then stop trying to think."
He stared at you, his chest heaving, his hazel orbs searching yours for any hint of a lie. Finding none, his mouth crashed into yours, and he kissed you like he was drowning, and you were air. His fingers tangled in your hair, tilting your head back. You gasped against his lips, and he swallowed the sound, pressing you against the wall behind you. His hips pinned yours, and you felt the unmistakable hardness of him straining against his trousers.
You kissed him back with equal ferocity, your hands sliding up his chest, fisting the lapels of his suit jacket. He groaned, low and guttural, and hitched your leg up around his hip. The fabric of your dress rode high, exposing your thigh
"I don't deserve you," he gasped against your lips, and then his mouth was on your throat, teeth grazing the pulse point, tongue soothing the sting. You moaned, tilting your head back, giving him more access. His hand slid down your side, over the curve of your waist, gripping your ass through the thin material of your dress.
"I don't recall asking what you deserve."
He kissed you again, his mouth slanting over yours again and again until you were both breathless. Then he pulled back, his forehead pressed to yours, his breathing ragged. Titus grabbed your hand, and you let him pull you out of the corridor, through the grand foyer, past clusters of guests who barely registered as a blur of jewel tones and curious glances. His grip was firm, his pace urgent, and you followed without hesitation.
At the base of the grand staircase, you saw her. Margot stood near the bar, a glass of champagne frozen halfway to her lips, her eyes locked on you and Titus, and you saw the exact moment her composure cracked. Her jaw tightened, her knuckles whitened around the stem of the glass, and behind her carefully painted smile, something ugly and furious writhed.
You paused on the landing, met her gaze, and winked.
The fury that flashed across her face was almost violent, a mask slipping just long enough for you to see the raw, possessive rage beneath. You hated admitting that the taste of her jealousy was exquisite. You turned away, letting Titus pull you up the stairs, your heart soaring. He led you down a corridor lined with oil paintings and sconces casting warm pools of light, past doors closed and open, until he stopped at one near the end. He pushed it open and guided you inside.
His room stole your breath.
It was a vision of French European elegance with walls paneled in cream with delicate gold filigree, a crystal chandelier catching the dying evening light and scattering it like stars across the ceiling. The bed was massive, a four-poster draped in ivory silk and velvet, the sheets crisp and inviting. French doors opened onto a small balcony, the sheer curtains billowing in the warm breeze. A marble fireplace, unlit but stunning, dominated one wall, flanked by armchairs upholstered in pale rose damask.
Titus turned to you, his chest heaving, his eyes dark and hungry. He reached for the zipper of your dress, and you let him, your breath catching as the fabric loosened and slid down your shoulders. It pooled at your feet, and you stood before him in nothing but your heels and the delicate lace of your underwear.
"You're…" he made a low guttural sound, "the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." You looked at him…his eyes wild with want, his lips swollen, his composure shattered. The man who had guided his sister down the aisle with such grace now looked feral with need.
"Show me," you begged, taking off your heels.
He shed his clothes with rough, urgent movements—jacket, shirt, trousers, all discarded in a trail behind him. His body was lean and hard, muscles shifting beneath freckled skin, his cock already thick and straining, the tip glistening. He stepped toward you, his hands finding your waist, and he backed you toward the bed until your knees hit the edge. He pushed you down onto the mattress, the silk cool against your bare skin, and followed you, his body covering yours. His mouth found your neck, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your throat, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts. When his lips closed around your nipple, you gasped, your back arching, your fingers tangling in his hair.
"Titus—"
"Say my name again." He suckled harder, his tongue flicking the sensitive peak, his teeth grazing just enough to send sparks through your nerves. He moved to the other breast, giving it the same devastating attention, his hand sliding between your thighs. His fingers found you slick and ready, and he groaned against your skin.
"I missed you," you cried out.
"Me too, Angel,"
He pushed two fingers inside you, curling them just right, and your vision went white at the edges. You cried out, your hips bucking against his hand, and he watched your face with feral satisfaction.
"Please—I need—"
"What do you need, darling?" His voice was honey and gravel. "Tell me."
"I want to put my mouth on you."
And you did, you had been dreaming about it for months. He pulled his fingers out slowly, bringing them to his mouth and licking them clean, his eyes never leaving yours. Then he lay back on the bed, settling against the pillows, his cock standing thick and proud.
"Come here," he said, his voice rough. "I want to eat your pussy at the same time."
You crawled over him, straddling his chest, facing his cock, and then shifted forward. You lowered yourself slowly, feeling his breath hot against your cunt, and when his mouth latched onto you, you moaned—loud, shameless. You leaned forward, pressing your chest against his stomach, taking his cock in your hand, guiding the tip past your lips. His tongue found your clit immediately, circling, flicking, while his hands came up to grip your ass. He spread your cheeks, pulling you tighter against his face, and then—slap.
The first spank made you gasp around him, your eyes watering. The sting bloomed hot across your left cheek, and you felt him smile against your cunt.
"That's it, good girl," he murmured, the vibrations traveling through your core. "Take it. Take all of it."
You swallowed him deeper, your throat relaxing, taking him to the base. His cock hit the back of your throat, and you hummed, loving the way he groaned in response. His hands kneaded your flesh, then slap again—harder this time, on your right cheek. The slap sent a jolt of pleasure-pain through your body, his tongue working your clit with the same rhythm. You were drowning in sensation...the thick length of him filling your throat, the sting of his palm against your ass, the wet, obscene sounds of his mouth feasting on your pussy.
Your hips began to rock, grinding against his face, taking him deeper down your throat. He groaned against you, the sound muffled but satisfied, and his tongue pressed harder, faster, circling your clit with devastating precision.
"Fuck, missed the taste of you," he breathed, pulling back just enough to speak. You moaned around his cock, your eyes rolling back, your thighs trembling. His tongue grew more erratic, matching the building tension in your belly, each suck pushing you closer to the edge.
"Titus," you panted, "Fuck—"
"Come on my face," he commanded, his voice ragged.
The knot in your belly snapped. Your orgasm crashed through you, violent and blinding, your walls clenching as waves of pleasure wracked your body. You screamed around his cock, your throat convulsing, your hips bucking against his mouth. He didn't stop—he lapped at you through it all, drawing out every pulse, every shiver, until you were limp and gasping above him.
He pulled you off gently, guiding you to lie beside him, and pressed a kiss to your shoulder, his breathing ragged. "I don't want to come in your mouth," he said, his voice strained, thick with need. "I want to watch your perfect face and see your eyes when you come." Titus flipped you onto your back before you could recover, positioning himself between your legs. His cock pressed against your slick, swollen entrance, and he pushed inside you in one smooth motion, making you both gasp. Titus filled you so perfectly, stretching you, claiming you. He set a rhythm that was deep and slow, his eyes never leaving yours. Suddenly, he lifted your legs, placing one ankle on his shoulder and tucking the other in the crook of his arm.
The new angle drove him deeper, and you cried out, your nails raking down his back, leaving red trails on his skin. "Look at you," he breathed, his pace quickening. " You're mine. Say it."
"I'm yours."
"Whose pussy is this?"
"Yours. It's yours, Titus. Only yours."
He grunted, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. The bed creaked beneath you, the headboard knocking against the wall in a steady rhythm. "And that fucking professor? Did he ever make you feel like this?" Titus wanted to own every part of you.
"No one has ever made me feel like this. No one. Just you."
His control snapped.
He fucked you harder, deeper, his hips slamming against yours, his breathing ragged, his sweat glistening on his chest. The room smelled of sex—salt and musk and the sweet, heady scent of your arousal mingling with his. The air was thick with it, with the sounds of your moans and his grunts, the wet, obscene sound of him driving into you again and again.
"I'm close," he growled. "Fuck, I'm so close. I need to feel you come again.”
The pressure built again, coiling tight in your belly, your walls clenching around him. You came with a sob, tears streaming down your cheeks, your body convulsing, your face contorted with the intensity of it. The pleasure was too much, too intense, a beautiful agony that left you gasping, your vision blurring. Titus watched you fall apart, his eyes locked on yours, his expression almost reverent. God, you were fucking gorgeous. His thrusts grew erratic, his breath coming in harsh pants, and you could feel him pulsing inside you, his peak approaching.
"I-I’m gonna pull out," he said, his voice breaking.
"Don't. It's safe. Stay inside me. Come inside me."
He groaned, a sound torn from somewhere deep, and you felt him release—hot, thick, and completely flooding you. His face twisted with pleasure, his eyes rolling back, his mouth falling open in a silent cry. His body shuddered above you, his hips pressing deep, holding himself there as he emptied into you. Titus collapsed on top of you, his forehead pressed to yours, both of you panting, your bodies slick with sweat, the air around you heavy and warm.
He pulled out slowly, and you felt his spend trickle down your thigh. He disappeared into the attached bathroom, returning moments later with a warm, damp cloth. He cleaned you gently, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs, your hips, and your belly as he worked.
You checked your watch and sighed.
"Cocktail hour is almost over. We need to go back down."
Titus lay beside you, pulling you into his arms, his chest pressed against your back, his lips brushing your shoulder. "Just a few more minutes. I want to hold you a little longer."
You nestled into him, feeling his heartbeat slow beneath your ear, his arms wrapped around you like a shield.
"Titus?"
"Hmm?"
"I love you."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then his arms tightened around you, and he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.
"I love you too."
The words hung in the air, fragile and precious, a promise neither of you fully understood but both of you desperately wanted to keep.
You pulled back slightly, just enough to see his face in the darkness of the room. His eyes were closed, but you could see the tension in his jaw, the way his chest still rose and fell with controlled breaths.
"Titus?"
"Yes?"
"Why is Ursula so sure that Conrad won't pull the hide and seek card?"
He was quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing slow circles on your back. "When the bride was killed," he began, his voice low and measured, "Mr. Le Bail’s lawyer let us know that because we'd re-won the seat, we were allowed to adjust our family contract. The terms, the rules, all of it. Ursula and I had made a deal that whoever killed the bride would be the one to make whatever adjustment we pleased."
Your heart was already beginning to race, sensing where this was going.
"I requested," he continued, his arms tightening around you since he was still afraid that confirming that he killed her would make you look at him differently, "that our family continues to participate in the hunts. We're bound to this. To the High Council. To Mr. Le Bail. That's not something that can be undone, and I wouldn't ask for that. But I did ask that the hide and seek card...the game itself be removed from possibility. For future spouses. For spouses of future Danforth children. For generations to come in our immediate family."
He’d done what?
Titus paused, letting the enormity of it settle. "Ursula deserved to marry Conrad today without the fear of his possible immediate death.”
Your eyes burned. You pulled back to look at him fully, seeing the weight of what he'd done written across his features.
"You did that for Ursula," you whispered.
"She’s my sister. I would do anything for her… but I also did it for me," he said quietly, and the admission hung between you like a confession. You understood immediately what he wasn't saying outright—what he couldn't quite say, not yet. By removing the hide and seek card, he had secured something far more precious than Ursula's peace of mind. He'd secured the possibility of a future where he could have a wife without the constant shadow of that particular death sentence looming. Children who wouldn't grow up knowing their future spouses might be hunted down on their wedding day.
"I'm not asking for anything right now," he said quickly, reading what he thought was panic in your silence. "I'm not saying this to... I'm telling you because you asked."
But that wasn't quite the whole truth either, was it? You could see it in the way his eyes finally opened, in the way they searched yours. He was asking for something. Not explicitly, not with words...but with the architecture of his choices. He'd restructured his family's future, rewritten the rules of their darkest game for Ursula… and for his future wife.
"You killed the bride," you said slowly, "and made sure that if you ever had someone to protect, you could actually keep them. That makes a lot of sense to me."
He didn't say anything.
All the fear, all the darkness of this world you'd been pulled into, and here was Titus, this man bound by blood and obligation to a cult of monsters, using the only leverage he had to carve out a small sanctuary for the people he loved.
You emerged from the room together, your dress re-zipped, your hair smoothed back into something resembling order. Titus had a faint mark on his neck that you'd left with your teeth... which was a small claim staked in the landscape of his skin. Neither of you bothered to fix it.
The evening had shifted outdoors again for dinner. Long tables had been arranged in a horseshoe formation across the manicured grounds of the Danforth estate, strung with lights that transformed the darkness into something ethereal. A jazz trio played from a pavilion, their music drifting across the gardens. The air smelled of night-blooming jasmine and the rich aroma of the meal being served.
Titus's hand found the small of your back as you descended the stone steps; his touch was proprietary in a way that made several heads turn as you passed. The family table was positioned at the center of the horseshoe, and Ursula sat at the head, with Conrad on her right. His parents occupied the seats beyond him—his mother beaming with the particular radiance of a woman who'd just watched her son marry a woman she clearly found fascinating, his father nodding approvingly at something one of Conrad's siblings was saying. Titus guided you to the empty seat to his left, pulling it out for you and kissing your shoulder as you sat.
"Well, this is interesting," Ursula murmured, leaning forward slightly so only you and Titus could hear. Her eyes glinted with amusement, and Conrad grinned openly, as if he'd just won some private bet with himself.
Conversation flowed around the table with that easy rhythm, and you watched Ursula look so happy. Marriage seemed to suit her, or perhaps it was simply the absence of fear. Knowing that Conrad wouldn't be hunted, wouldn't be forced into a game where the stakes were his life, had carved away some essential tension from her shoulders. By the time dessert arrived (a decadent chocolate confection with edible gold leaf served under the stars), the evening had taken on the quality of a dream. The kind where terrible things existed in the margins but couldn't quite touch the center of the frame.
After hours of dancing, the other guests departed as the night deepened, taxis picking people up and cars winding down the long drive away from the estate. But the Danforth family remained—not just Ursula and Titus, but their uncles, aunts, and cousins, scattered across the grounds in small clusters, lingering over drinks and conversation. Tradition, after all, demanded their presence.
Pernella appeared with the ornate wooden box, setting it in front of Conrad with ceremonial precision. The room fell silent. Everyone knew what this meant. Or at least… they thought they did.
"The final tradition," Pernella announced. "A game must be played before the evening concludes." Conrad reached toward the box, and his fingers hovered over the cards printed with various games.
He drew a card, and his face went carefully blank as he looked at the card. Around him, the family leaned in with the hunger of wolves scenting blood.
"Chess," he said quietly, as if the word itself was a curse. "We have to play chess. You're going to destroy me."
"Almost certainly," Ursula agreed, her eyes glinting with the promise of violence barely concealed beneath civility. The family settled into chairs around the board while Ursula and Conrad took their seats. You moved to stand near Titus, your hand finding his, and his fingers closed around yours, anchoring you.
Conrad played competently, his strategy sound, his defense solid…but he was outmatched. You could see it in the way he began to frown slightly, the way his fingers lingered on pieces before moving them, as if he could somehow alter the outcome through sheer force of will.
It took 37 moves.
Ursula's final move was elegant: a bishop sweep that left Conrad's king with no escape routes. Checkmate. The word hung in the air like a benediction, and the assembled family erupted in applause. Conrad laughed, shaking his head in admiration, and reached across the board to kiss Ursula's hand.
Titus pulled you close as the family began to disperse, heading back to their hotels or respective homes. Ursula and Conrad were jetting off to the Danforth St. Tropez hotel tonight to begin their honeymoon. His lips brushed against your temple.
"Don’t go back to your hotel," he whispered. "Stay the night. Don't leave."
You turned to face him, seeing the vulnerability beneath the demand, the fear that you might vanish like some fever dream.
"Okay," you said simply. "I'll stay."
His exhale was relief incarnate.
FIVE YEARS LATER – MANHATTAN, NEW YORK
Titus sat propped against the headboard, his 3-year-old son nestled against his chest, completely absorbed in the story of Max and his wild rumpus.
The copy of Where the Wild Things Are (gifted by Auntie Ursula) was being read for what had to be the thousandth time. The original gift was a first edition copy for 'display only,' currently sitting on a custom-built walnut bookshelf with a note inside from Uncle Conrad that read: "If he spills juice on it, we’ll simply buy another. Childhood should not be constrained by scarcity." Your son, blissfully unaware of the book’s value, had once used it as a ramp for his toy firetruck.
"Again!" his son demanded as Titus closed the book, his small fists clenching with the desperation only a toddler could muster.
"You have school tomorrow, buddy. It's past your bedtime."
His son's face crumpled in protest—a perfect mirror of your stubborn expression, down to the exact furrow of the brow. Titus lasted approximately 6 seconds before caving completely.
"One more," he sighed, already flipping back to the beginning. "Just one."
Twenty minutes later, after a second book (a pop-up version of The Very Hungry Caterpillar), Titus finally managed to extract himself from his son's room. He kissed the boy's forehead, whispered goodnight, and quietly closed the door. He found you sitting up in bed, re-reading the De Occulta Philosophia libri III by Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa, hand resting on the swell of your belly. Titus found it intoxicating…the way you could lecture on ethics and consequence one moment, then move through the woods during a hunt with lethal grace the next. Your mind, your courage, your refusal to be intimidated by the world he'd been born into. There was something deeply, inexplicably sexy about it: the woman who taught the world about morality while living in its margins. The contradiction itself was arousing—the duality of you. He didn't know what he'd done to deserve you, and he suspected he never would.
The moment he entered, you looked up at him with an expression that could have frozen the Hudson River solid.
"Don't," you said flatly.
"I haven't done anything yet."
"You're about to have done something. I can see it on your face."
Titus held up his hands in surrender as he changed into sleep clothes.
"Storytime was longer than usual," you observed.
"I read him one more book. He gave me your eyes and deployed them as a weapon. I'm a weak man."
"You're a pushover," you corrected, turning a page with perhaps more force than necessary.
He slid into bed beside you carefully because these days, he moved around you like you were made of spun glass. Pregnancy had been harder on you this time with more aches, more exhaustion, more hormones. The family doctor had made the fatal mistake of using the phrase 'geriatric pregnancy,' and you had nearly killed him on the spot when he suggested you stay at home during this pregnancy. You had never wanted the traditional role. Titus had known that from the beginning. No staying home, no surrendering your career or your autonomy. But…Titus had begged you to start maternity leave at 4 months this time. After losing his mother in childbirth (who had been around your age), he was hyper‑vigilant, protective to the point of paranoia, and absolutely unapologetic about it.
"How are you feeling?" he asked.
"Like I'm carrying a small person who has taken up kickboxing as a hobby," you said tersely. "In my ribs."
"She’s spirited," he said proudly. "Very Danforth of her."
You shot him a look that suggested his attempt at levity was not appreciated. Titus didn’t even blink at the look you gave him. He never did anymore. If anything, he seemed almost amused by it…like he’d long ago accepted that your hormones were a force of nature he would simply endure with gratitude.
Why wouldn’t he? You’d given him everything. Your loyalty, your brilliance, your son, and now your daughter. If the price of that devotion was absorbing every hormone-fueled barb you hurled his way, he would endure them all without complaint. Because you had surrendered your very soul to Mr. Le Bail and the traditions of the High Council, which most people would flee screaming from.
You had chosen him.
And Titus would never forget that.
"You know what Ursula and Conrad sent for the nursery?" he tried, pivoting strategies. "A hand-carved Italian crib. From the 1800s. Apparently, it was blessed by a cardinal."
"Those two are ridiculous," you sighed, accepting the privileges that came with being his.
"Completely ridiculous," Titus lied, because it was totally the type of gift he would give. He was Ursula’s twin after all, and excessive generosity ran in their blood. He reached over to gently place his hand on your belly. "But they're happy. In Paris. No kids. Just art and wine and each other, playing chess at midnight."
His sister had never wanted children. However, she adored being an aunt far too much. Spoiling your son was her sport of choice, and she played it with Olympic‑level dedication.
"Must be nice," you murmured. "Why did we decide to do the whole kid thing again?"
Titus's mouth quirked into that familiar smirk...the one that had gotten you into this situation in the first place.
"Well," he said, leaning closer, "the making them part is fun. Very fun, if I recall correctly. Especially how we made our daughter..."
"I seem to remember you being pretty enthusiastic about the idea," you rolled your eyes.
"Yes. I take full responsibility for participating in the act you initiated," he grinned, giving you a smug look.
You shot him a look… but it was true, because you had begged for his cock that night. Your daughter was conceived from an orgasm that had crashed through you without warning, a sharp, blinding wave that tore a cry from your throat while Titus filled you up, moaning your name.
He reached out, placing a warm hand on your belly. Your daughter responded immediately with a firm kick.
"You’re going to spoil her just like you spoil him," you exhaled, half‑annoyed, half‑fond.
"Oh, absolutely," Titus said. "I plan to be intolerable about it."
He leaned over carefully and kissed your forehead, then your temple, then your perfect belly. "Goodnight, my princess. Go easy on your mother." From inside, there was a kick against his palm.
"She says no promises," you translated dryly.
"Let’s get you a nice massage tomorrow."
"The one from that woman in Tribeca?"
Titus's smirk was slow and deliberate. He knew exactly which one you meant. The therapist who charged $3K per session and whose hands were legendary among Manhattan's elite.
"The one you said was 'obscenely expensive' last month?" His voice was warm with amusement.
You felt heat creep up your neck. "My back is killing me, and she's supposed to be the best for pregnant women. I've heard—"
"Say no more." He was already reaching for his phone. "I'll have it arranged for tomorrow afternoon."
"Titus, you can't just—"
"Already done." He set the phone down, that satisfied smile still playing at his lips. "3 o'clock."
You wanted to argue. You should have argued. There was a time when you would have. When you had practically cried moving out of your Harlem apartment, when you had fought him tooth and nail over every luxury he tried to press into your hands. You wanted to earn your life, not have it handed to you like some kept woman.
So he compromised. He sold his Upper East Side penthouse and let you pick the neighborhood—the charming $15 million brownstone in Greenwich Village you fell in love with at first sight. He let you design every room, choose every detail. Titus let you make it yours. And somewhere between fighting him and building a home with him, you had stopped seeing his generosity as weakness and started seeing it as devotion.
"You're getting soft," he murmured, watching you with those beautiful eyes of his. He reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "My queen, accepting her crown at last."
"I'm being practical," you corrected, but there was no heat in it. "My back hurts. The massage is medical."
"Of course it is." His hand drifted down to rest on your belly again, right where your daughter was growing. "And tomorrow, after your 'medical massage', we're having dinner at that new place in SoHo you mentioned.
That place was impossible to get into. "Titus—"
"Already booked." He kissed your temple. "You're carrying my child. You get whatever you want."
You should have protested. You should have reminded him about normalcy… but instead, you leaned into him and let yourself enjoy the feeling of being taken care of by a man who would move mountains for you and your children.
"You're going to ruin me," you whispered. He already had, but he didn't need to know that.
"Absolutely," he agreed. "That's the plan."
Masterlist | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | You're reading the final part
Thank you for following me on this journey! <3 I really struggled with this "finale", so I hope it delivered! I ended up using a scene I deleted and archived weeks ago. The writing process is a struggle. Also, let's pretend that Ursula and Titus told their family that you were allowed to stick around for the game since you're with Titus. Cause since reader isn't family... I don't know how possible that would have been, but let's just pretend lol. Readers dress: Sloane Black Dress | NADINE MERABI
BONUS: DAD TITUS! LOOK AT HIS SMILEY FACE <3. Thank you @wesandresons for these cutie shots of my husband.
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A Game of Chance
18+ account - minors do not interact
titus danforth f!reader Word Count: 10.8K Rating: E
Summary: You get invited to an unexpected wedding.
Warnings: (SMUT MDNI 18+), professor reader, idiots in love, mentions of death (not super descriptive), obscene wealth, alcohol, feelings, mutual pinging, yearning, sexual tension, jealousy, (both reader and titus), sorta mean/pissed off titus, pet names, oral sex (69ing so f & m receiving), lite spanking, dirty talk, praise, unprotected p in v, possessive sex?, hallmark ending (HEA <3), don't want to spoil too much about the ending
A/N: No spoilers! Anything that happens in this is not in the 2nd movie. Creative liberties galore! GIF found HERE by @sammy-bryant. dividers as always by @saradika-graphics
Thank you for reading!! if you reblog with commentary i love you so much <3.
BREAKING NEWS
An anchor spoke with hushed urgency usually reserved for national crises:
"The entire Le Domas family, heirs to the Le Domas Dominion board‑game empire, have been discovered dead inside the ancestral estate of patriarch Tony Le Domas. And at the center of it all is one name—Grace MacCaullay, the bride who married into the dynasty just hours before the massacre. Authorities are calling this a murder‑suicide, one of the most shocking in recent memory. Grace MacCaullay, 28, was found dead on the estate grounds with a gunshot wound to the head, and a gun in her hand. She was still wearing her wedding dress."
They replayed the police body‑cam footage—officers approaching a blood‑spattered bride sitting on the mansion steps, smoke still rising from the ruins behind her. When the officers asked her what happened, she gave only one chilling word:
"In‑laws."
The anchor continued, "They arrested Grace that day and rushed her to the hospital, where she was being held after her arrest. She was placed under police hold, sedated, and monitored, but somehow, she escaped the hospital and made her way back to the estate—back to the scene of the slaughter and killed herself."
The anchor closed the segment with a practiced, solemn tone:
Why would a woman with no prior history of violence destroy an entire family? Investigators argue the most straightforward explanation is: either she harbored a long‑standing vendetta against the family or that she suffered a sudden, catastrophic mental breakdown.
You exhaled in your apartment, almost laughing at the neatness of it all. Because you knew what the anchors didn’t. One of the families from the high council had clearly killed her, taken her body, and brought her back to the Le Domas estate themselves. They placed her exactly where she needed to be for the narrative to hold. They arranged the scene so investigators would find her in the perfect position, with the perfect weapon, wearing the perfect dress for a tragedy the public would swallow whole.
You whispered the final line along with the anchor, but with a knowing edge:
"Murder‑suicide."
You couldn’t help but wonder: Had Titus and Ursula won the seat back?
You were walking across the Columbia University campus, the early October sun casting long shadows across the quad, your bag slung over one shoulder. Midterms were looming, and your mind was halfway through your upcoming lecture when a voice cut through your thoughts and called out your name after the word 'professor.'
The voice was smooth, and you turned to find a tall man in an impeccably tailored navy suit, crisp white shirt open at the collar, no tie. His shoes were polished cordovan leather. His hair was dark, neatly combed, with just a hint of silver at the temples.
He smiled, a practiced but warm expression. "I'm sorry to interrupt. I was told I might find you here."
"I'm sorry, do I know you?"
He extended his hand. "Conrad Harrington. I'm Ursula's—" He paused when he saw your own eyes widen before you could stop them. "I'm Ursula's fiancé."
"Fiancé?" The word came out sharper than you intended. Hadn’t they called off their engagement years ago?
"I know this must be confusing." He glanced around at the students streaming past, the noise of the quad. "Is there somewhere we can talk? Just a few minutes."
You nodded, not trusting your voice. He pointed to a wrought-iron bench under a large tree, mostly empty in the afternoon lull. You both walked over and sat down. The iron was cool through your skirt. Conrad leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped.
"I'm sorry about your mother, by the way. She was nothing but kind to me when she worked at the estate," he said with complete sincerity.
A slow pressure gathered in your chest. "Thank you. She only had wonderful things to say about you."
He nodded, seeming to take comfort in that.
"Ursula and I got back together," he said. "About 3 months ago. We've been quietly... reconnecting."
Your first instinct was bitter: Why didn't Ursula tell you they had gotten back together? You knew you were being a hypocrite. And…the last time you'd seen her, she'd been calmly murdering her father. Not exactly a heart-to-heart moment. Hardly the occasion for catching up. Yet you would have expected something. A cryptic comment about "rekindling an old flame," maybe. Some dry observation only she would make. Instead: nothing. Her silence felt deliberate.
"And you're engaged now? Just like that?"
"Just like that." He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. "I know how it sounds. But I've wanted to marry that woman since the first night I met her. She was the one who kept saying no when we were dating. Kept pushing me away." He looked at you directly. "Maybe you know why."
He was clearly gauging how much you knew.
"I know enough," you said.
He leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. "Well… she never wanted to put me through that…the chance of drawing the wrong card. She thought she was protecting me by breaking up with me."
"Then why did she change her mind?"
He looked away, across the quad, his eyes unfocused for a moment.
"I don’t know…but I’ve always told her I'd take the risk. I don't care."
"So you're willing to play? To possibly draw the card and end up—"
"I'm willing to take the chance," he interrupted, turning back to face you. "I’m madly in love with her. And in fairness, there are other games. Multiple. Not just the hide and seek. The odds aren't as bad as you'd think."
"And you’re willing to give your soul if you survive?"
"I would do anything to be with her."
Damn… Ursula must have some magic pussy, you thought.
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a cream-colored envelope. "We're getting married. October 24th. In Aix-en-Provence."
You stared at the envelope, not taking it. "October 24th? That's barely 2 weeks away. Are you serious?"
"I've waited 9 years for this. I'm not waiting any longer." He pressed the envelope into your hand. "I was in town for business. Ursula told me you teach at Columbia. I thought... I thought I'd bring this to you myself."
"Wait." You looked up from the invitation. "Does Ursula know you're here… or that you’re inviting me?"
Conrad's smile had a nervous edge. "No."
You felt the sting even though you didn’t want to. Ursula was getting married, and you weren't part of it. And that was fine, logically. People didn’t invite everyone to everything. That was normal. Except it didn't feel normal. It felt like you were standing outside looking in, and there was a whole version of Ursula you weren't going to get to know. You realized that maybe the 12 years of ignoring Danforth’s had done more damage than you thought.
"You want me to show up unannounced?" you frowned.
"It will be a surprise. A good one."
"Ursula hates surprises."
"I know." He said it softly, almost like a confession. "But look—" He leaned closer, his voice dropping. "I don't know what happened between you and their family. I know there was some rift…but Ursula loved your mother. She was devastated when she died. And with her father passing recently... she's trying to put on a strong face, but I think she would like it if you were there. I really do."
You looked down at the invitation. The gold lettering shimmered in the afternoon light. For a long moment, you didn’t move. Then a memory surfaced, unbidden. You were 19 again, sitting on the edge of Ursula’s bed at Danforth’s English estate. She was brushing her hair, telling you about her favorite place in the world.
"Aix-en-Provence", she’d said. The house there is the only place I have ever felt completely myself." You had never made it out there. You had visited the other estates—the sprawling manor in the English countryside, the villa on Lake Como, the chalet in the Swiss Alps, the schloss in Austria…but never Aix.
"I'll consider it," you finally said.
Conrad stood, smoothing his jacket. He looked relieved. "That's all I ask. The invitation has all the details. If you can make it... I think it would mean more to her than she'd ever admit."
He started to walk away, his shoes clicking on the cobblestones. You stood up, the invitation crushed against your palm.
"Conrad," you called out. He turned, and you lowered your voice, even though no one was close.
"Did they win the seat?"
He held your gaze. The easy smile faded. His eyes went flat for just a second, the mask slipping. Then he said, quietly, "If you come to the wedding, you can ask them yourself."
He turned and walked away, disappearing into the stream of students heading toward the library. You pocketed the invitation and started walking, the crunch of leaves beneath your shoes grounding you in the present. The news report replayed in your mind like a loop you couldn’t shut off.
Grace MacCaullay.
The Le Domas family.
Massacre.
Murder suicide.
You pulled out your phone, checked your calendar, and booked a flight to Marseille, connecting through Paris. The ticket was refundable. You told yourself you could always cancel.
But you knew, even as you typed in your credit card number, that you wouldn’t.
MARSEILLE, FRANCE
The hotel was charming in that way only a French boutique hotel could be—aged stone walls, wrought-iron balcony, the faint scent of lavender drifting in through the open window. You had barely slept. The connecting flight from Newark to Marseille had been delayed, and by the time you had checked in and collapsed onto the crisp white sheets, it was nearly midnight. The rehearsal dinner had been long over.
Now, at 1 pm, you stood in front of the full-length mirror in the corner of the room, the black dress hanging from the closet door. You had bought it on a whim two weeks ago, something about the cut drawing you in with the high neckline, and the way it skimmed the collarbone. You liked that it left the shoulders bare in that subtle, architectural way, and that the slit ran just high enough to be alluring without being obscene. You slipped it over your head, the material cool against your skin. It zipped up the side (a hidden zipper that you managed on the third try), and turned to face the mirror to stare at your reflection.
What the fuck were you thinking? Ursula might actually kill you for this.
You reached for the glass of wine you'd poured ten minutes ago from a local Côtes de Provence rosé you'd grabbed from the minibar and took a long sip out of nerves. You picked up the invitation, reading the instructions for the hundredth time:
Arrival strictly between 2:30 PM and 3:15 PM. Present this invitation at the first checkpoint. Follow the drive to the second gate. A valet will direct you.
You grabbed your clutch, which was a small black satin pouch, just big enough for your phone, lipstick, and a compact. The invitation went in last, and you checked the room one more time, then grabbed your room key and headed out. The hotel concierge called you a taxi, a clean white Mercedes that pulled up to the curb. The driver was an older man, maybe sixty, with a thick mustache and a shrug that seemed permanent. You gave him the address from the invitation, and he raised an eyebrow.
He pulled away from the curb, navigating the narrow streets, and suddenly the city gave way to countryside with rolling hills covered in vineyards, clusters of stone farmhouses, the occasional glimpse of a distant chateau. The road wound upward, the vegetation becoming denser, more wild. After about 40 minutes, he turned onto a private road marked only by a small stone pillar with a wrought-iron gate. A guardhouse appeared. A man in a black suit stepped out, clipboard in hand. You rolled down the window and handed him the invitation. He examined it, glanced at you, then at a list on his clipboard. He nodded, handed it back, and the gate swung open.
"Ils ne rigolent pas," the driver muttered. This is some serious security.
"Apparemment," you replied. Apparently
The drive continued for another mile, winding through a forest of olive trees. The second gate was even more imposing, with iron bars at least twelve feet high, flanked by stone walls that disappeared into the trees. Another guard, another check. This one took longer. He scanned the invitation with a device, then made a phone call. After a tense minute, he waved you through.
The driver let out a low whistle. "Putain. C'est un château, pas une maison." Holy shit. That's a castle, not a house.
"Je sais…" you whispered in awe. I know
The house emerged from the trees slowly, deliberately, as if revealing itself on purpose. It was a sprawling limestone manor, three stories tall, with a mansard roof of blue-gray slate and tall French windows that caught the afternoon sun. Wisteria climbed the eastern facade, its purple blossoms hanging in heavy clusters. A gravel courtyard opened before it, already filled with ultra‑luxury European vintage cars. A fountain in the center of the courtyard featured a stone nymph, water cascading from an urn she held.
The driver pulled up to the entrance, slowing as clusters of elegantly dressed guests drifted toward the doors. He turned to you, his eyes wide.
"C’est un marriage," you said, forcing a smile. It’s a wedding.
He shook his head, muttering something about the rich as he helped you out. You handed him a generous tip (fifty euros), and he tipped his hat.
"Merci, madame."
"Merci."
You stood on the gravel, the crunch of stones under your heels echoing loudly in the quiet. The front door was ajar, a butler in uniform was standing patiently nearby. You took a deep breath and stepped inside, your heart pounding in your chest. The foyer was a symphony of marble and light. A grand staircase curved upward, its banisters wrought iron with gold leaf accents. A crystal chandelier hung from a two-story ceiling, casting prisms across the walls. To the left, a salon opened up, filled with guests, champagne flutes in hand. The murmur of conversation washed over you, punctuated by occasional laughter.
As the gathering buzzed around you, a waiter appeared, offering a tray of champagne. You accepted a flute, grateful for something to hold, and glanced around at the familiar faces. Hazel, Ursula’s aunt, caught your eye first. She was a gaunt woman dressed in a navy silk dress, a string of pearls resting against her collarbone. Her husband, a portly man with a flushed face, stood beside her, engaged in conversation with someone you didn’t recognize. She seemed to notice you, her eyes flickering with recognition and surprise behind her gaze, as if they hadn’t expected to see you after all these years.
A few more familiar faces began to emerge from the crowd, and thankfully, you recognized a couple of Ursula's friends from that Nantucket trip. More people started to notice, and others who recognized you started to come over and strike up conversations. The usual barrage of questions had begun to flow, predictable, shallow, and almost anthropological in their curiosity. But what really got you was the look on their faces when you mentioned you lived in Harlem. It was as if they’d forgotten that Columbia University was in Morningside Heights, just next to Harlem—yet, here they were, acting as if the neighborhood were some distant, unfamiliar place. It was a curated ignorance that only the affluent could afford.
You noticed another family cluster: the Wainwrights, cousins of the Danforth’s, notorious for their real estate empire. The younger son, a man in his forties with a receding hairline, stared at you for a while before turning away. You took another gulp of champagne. Then another.
And then, across the room, you saw fucking Kip.
He was leaning against a marble pillar, a scotch in his hand, talking to two women in pastel dresses. Kip, who looked like a grinning predator in a tailored suit. You hadn’t seen him since his 'wedding,' which was fine because he had always found ways to corner you and whisper things that made your skin crawl during prep school. He was a piece of shit. He looked up, and his eyes met yours. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face.
You turned on your heel and walked in the opposite direction, weaving through the crowd, putting as many bodies between you and him as possible. You found a quiet corner near a window overlooking the gardens and pressed your back against the wall, your champagne flute now empty.
Your hands were shaking, and you set the flute on a passing waiter's tray and grabbed another.
Where was Titus?
You scanned the room, the clusters of guests, the winding staircase. No sign of him. Was he with Ursula? Getting ready? You fidgeted, adjusted your earrings, and smoothed your hair. You felt exposed, vulnerable, like a rabbit in a field of wolves…so you kept drinking, the champagne a thin shield against the rising tide of panic. Then the wedding coordinator stepped into the center of the foyer and clapped her hands twice. The murmur died down.
"If I could have everyone's attention, please. The ceremony will begin in five minutes. Please proceed to the garden through the south doors. Guests are requested to be seated." The crowd began to move, a slow tide of silk and cologne toward the open doors at the end of the hall. You followed, the champagne glass still in your hand, and set it on a small table as you passed.
The garden was breathtaking.
The aisle wasn’t strewn with petals; instead, a long strip of dark stone, polished to a mirror sheen, cut through the grass like a blade. At the end of it stood an archway of blackened iron twisted with deep‑red amaranth and dark olive leaves. The arch was set against a backdrop of the Luberon valley, the hills rolling in shades of green and gold under the late afternoon sun. Chairs (black iron with deep wine‑colored cushions) were arranged in neat rows on either side of the aisle. A string quartet was already playing, something soft and classical. The temperature was perfect. Maybe 66 degrees, the air carrying the scent of lavender and earth. The sky was a clear, endless blue.
You took a seat in the middle row, on the end of the left side, so you could be close enough to see but far enough from the aisle that you wouldn't be caught in the wedding party's sightline. You clasped your hands in your lap, your fingers cold despite the warmth. The officiant, a man dressed in a simple black robe, walked down the aisle and took his place beneath the arch. Almost abruptly, Conrad followed and walked down the aisle with his parents—they walked him to the altar, his father shaking his hand, his mother kissing his cheek, and then they stepped to the side, taking their seats in the front row. They hadn’t bothered with a wedding party, which you loved. No bridesmaids fussing with hems, and no shitfaced groomsmen. It was just Conrad, standing under the arch, his hands clasped in front of him, his eyes fixed on the house.
Then the quartet paused. The officiant cleared his throat.
The first notes of Bittersweet Symphony began to play, the strings carrying that iconic melody. The guests stirred. The officiant raised his voice.
"Please stand for the bride."
Everyone rose as the chairs scraped against the gravel, and you stood with your heart in your throat when the doors of the house opened, revealing Ursula emerging.
She was a vision in red. The dress was a deep wine, almost burgundy, with a fitted bodice that flowed into a full skirt. The fabric caught the light, shimmering like liquid fire.
"Wow, look at her in that dress," someone murmured nearby. "It's like she stepped out of a dream." Her hair was pinned up, with a few curls escaping to frame her face, and she wore a circlet of dark metal that caught the light, each garnet glimmering like drops of blood with every step she took as she moved.
But it wasn't only the dress that made your breath catch.
It was the man walking beside her.
Titus.
He looked devastating, wearing a perfectly tailored suit, and with a deep red pocket square that matched Ursula's dress. His arm was linked through hers, guiding her down the aisle. Your eyes burned, and as you blinked, a tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it, so you brushed it away quickly, hoping no one saw.
Ursula looked beautiful. Stunning. And the fact that it was Titus walking her down the aisle, her twin brother, her other half—it made something ache deep in your chest. You wished Chester could have seen this moment. And, the most beautiful part, was Conrad's face. He was watching Ursula with an expression you had only seen in books or in movies. Complete and total awe. His eyes were wide, his lips slightly parted, and there was a softness in his gaze that bordered on reverence. He wasn't looking at his bride. He was looking at a miracle.
Titus led Ursula up to the arch, then paused and turned to face Conrad. For a moment, the three of them stood in a small triangle before Titus took Ursula's hand and gently placed it in Conrad's. That’s when you noticed he was wearing his father’s ring. You smirked, because you realized that it meant the twins had secured their seat back on the High Council.
Titus was about to take his seat when he paused, his eyes catching sight of you. Your heart stopped with them because there was something in his expression—something darker, something that made your blood run cold. He wasn’t happy to see you, and without a word, he looked away and took his seat, as if dismissing you. Regret flooded your mind…it was a mistake to come here. You sat there, rooted to your spot, your hands clutching the edge of your chair, feeling the weight of his displeasure press down like a heavy stone.
The words echoed quietly in your mind as the ceremony continued, the officiant's voice a distant drone, the lavender-scented air suddenly suffocating. You kept your eyes fixed forward, but all you kept thinking was:
You were not welcome here. Not by Ursula. And certainly not by Titus.
The ceremony ended in a blur. You stood when everyone else stood, clapped when they clapped, smiled when they smiled. But your body moved on autopilot while your mind churned in a dark spiral, replaying the look Titus had given you.
You needed a drink.
The bar was tucked in a corner of the ballroom (because of course this house had a ballroom), all dark wood and brass, staffed by a man who looked like he'd seen a hundred broken hearts and knew better than to ask questions. You ordered a whiskey, neat, and knocked half of it back in one swallow. The burn was grounding.
Ursula and Conrad were making their rounds, stopping at tables, accepting congratulations. You watched her from a distance, the way she moved through the crowd with practiced grace, her dress trailing behind her. You also noticed her look of complete shock when she noticed you.
She started heading straight for you, and your stomach dropped.
Ursula didn't slow down. She weaved through the guests with a smile fixed on her face, but her eyes were locked on you. She reached the bar, grabbed your wrist with surprising strength, and pulled you away before you could protest.
"Ursula—"
"Not a word," she hissed, dragging you through a side door, down a narrow corridor, and into a study lined with bookshelves.
"What the fuck are you doing here?"
You let out a breath, a nervous laugh escaping your lips. "Congratulations. You look stunning. The dress is—"
"Explain yourself."
You shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Your husband invited me."
She looked ready to combust. "I'm going to kill him."
"You really shouldn't make jokes like that," you said, raising an eyebrow. "You know. Considering."
For a heartbeat, she stared at you. Then, despite herself, a smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth.
You pressed your advantage while you had it. "Look, I know why you didn't invite me. I wouldn't have invited me either." You held her gaze despite the way your heart was hammering. "But I didn't want to miss this. And I know my mother would have loved being here."
Ursula's expression shifted—the anger draining from her face like water through cupped hands. She turned away from you, her shoulders stiffening. For a long moment, she didn't speak.
"Don't," she finally said, her voice tight. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Use her as a distraction." She spun back around, and her eyes were glistening now, though her jaw was clenched hard enough to break teeth. "You don't get to—you can't just—"
"I'm not," you said quietly. "I'm telling you the truth. She would have been here if she could. And since she can't be, I wanted to be. For the both of us."
Ursula's hand came up to her face, and she turned toward the bookshelves, her shoulders trembling slightly.
"I can’t believe I’m married." You let the silence stretch for a moment, watching her shoulders gradually still. When she finally turned back around, her eyes were red-rimmed but dry since Ursula had clearly decided tears were not on the agenda.
"Neither can I," you said softly, and despite everything, she let out a short, surprised laugh. "Conrad seems like a really wonderful person. I can tell he’s madly in love with you.”
She studied you for a moment, then nodded. "He is. He looks at me, and it's like he already knows exactly who I am and loves me anyway." There was something almost vulnerable in the admission, like she was surprised by it herself. "He's... a much better person than I am. Which, granted, isn't a high bar, but still," she smiled sadly. "I love him so much it scares me. I'm still waiting for the universe to correct its mistake."
"It's not a mistake," you said firmly.
She tilted her head, one eyebrow arched in that signature way of hers. "Are we done with the feelings portion of the evening, or...?"
"Are you afraid?" you whispered.
"Of what?" She turned back to the mirror, smoothing down her dress with deliberate precision.
"Of what might happen tonight."
She was quiet for a long moment. "He won't pull the Hide and Seek card," she said with absolute certainty.
"How can you know that?"
"Because Titus made sure he wouldn't."
The words hung in the air between you, heavy with implication. What did that mean? Your mind raced.
"I have to go," she said. "Smooze with people. Total buzzkill."
"Good luck. Try not to commit any felonies."
"No promises." She rolled her eyes. "I also need to go find the wedding planner and tell her that some absolute nightmare of a person showed up uninvited, so she needs to hide you in the back somewhere near the kitchen.
You grinned. "I appreciate that."
Ursula was already moving toward the door, mentally preparing herself for the social minefield of in-law pleasantries.
"I'm happy you two won the seat back," you said, lowering your voice. Ursula paused at the doorway, turning back with a knowing smile.
"That was all Titus. He made sure of it. Made sure a lot of things happened the way they needed to."
For a moment, she looked like she might say something more, but then the sound of voices drifted down the hallway. She gave you a quick wink before disappearing past the door.
The ballroom had transformed into a glittering maze of conversation and champagne. You'd spent the last forty minutes circling through clusters of guests, your eyes perpetually scanning for Titus. You hadn't seen Titus since the ceremony. Part of you hoped he'd disappeared entirely, that you could slip away before dawn and pretend this whole night never happened. But you knew better. The weight of his stare from the aisle still clung to your skin like a brand.
You finally found him on the terrace, leaning against the stone balustrade that overlooked the gardens, a glass of wine in his hand. He was watching the sunset paint the valley in shades of amber and rose, his profile sharp and unreadable in the golden light. For a moment, you just stood there, taking him in.
Then she appeared.
She was young—couldn't have been more than 22, with the kind of effortless beauty that came from good genes and better skincare. She had red hair, the kind of shade that caught the light like it was made for it, and she was wearing a champagne-colored dress with piercing blue eyes. She materialized at his side like she'd been summoned, her hand already reaching out to touch his arm.
"Titus, darling," she cooed, her accent distinctly British, upper-crust. "I've been looking for you all evening. You simply can't hide away like this. It's terribly unfair to the rest of us."
"Hello, Margot," you overheard him say.
Of course her name was Margot.
You watched her laugh—a tinkling, practiced sound that probably worked on approximately 98% percent of the male population. She leaned closer, her fingers still on his arm, and you felt something hot and acidic crawl up your throat.
"I'm starting to think you're avoiding me."
"Hard to avoid someone who keeps finding me," Titus said, a slight smirk playing at his mouth. "Though I'm not complaining."
"Well, I'm terribly persistent when I want something,"
"I've noticed," Titus said.
Margot laughed again (that same crystalline sound that made your molars ache). You realized that your nails were digging crescents into your palms. What infuriated you most wasn't that she was beautiful. It wasn't even that she was young and effortless and everything you'd expect the average man to want. It was that Titus was engaging with her. That he wasn't stepping back. That he was considering it, you could see it in the way his gaze lingered on her face, in the way he didn't immediately shut her down.
You moved toward them before you could think better of it. "Excuse me," you said directly to Titus, your voice cutting through the evening air like a blade. "Can I talk to you for a moment?"
Titus turned to you, and his expression shifted…and not in the way you wanted. His eyes, which had been warm moments before, went cool and distant, that familiar wall slamming down between you two. Margot’s head whipped around, her expression shifting from flirtation to indignation in half a second. She looked you up and down, dismissively, as if cataloging your outfit choice.
"We’re sort of having a private conversation," she said coolly. "Shouldn't you be tending to the bar?" she asked, her tone dripping with rudeness. "Or did someone send you to collect glasses?
What a cunt.
"Isn't it past your bedtime? Us adults need to have a little chat," you smiled, sweet as poison.
Her face flushed crimson. For a moment, she looked like she might say something cutting.
"I'll find you later," Titus said, his gaze already shifting away from you, and towards her. "We just need to have a quick chat.”
Her hand found his shoulder, her lips brushing against his cheek in a kiss that lingered. "Don't take too long," she murmured against his skin, her eyes flicking toward you with unmistakable triumph.
Titus didn’t look at you right away. He just exhaled, and when he finally turned, his expression was carved from stone.
"I don’t really actually have time to chat," he muttered, already stepping away from you.
You followed him, pulse hammering. "I would’ve thought you’d be happy to see me."
"Why?" he shot back instantly, not even glancing over. "Since when is that the dynamic?"
He didn’t wait for your answer. He just kept walking, long strides carrying him back toward the house. As he moved, he slipped seamlessly into host mode—nodding to guests, offering clipped greetings, shaking hands. Each polite smile he gave them only highlighted how little warmth he had for you.
You trailed behind him, feeling like a ghost tethered to his shadow.
"Titus," you hissed, trying to keep up. "Why are you being this way?"
He stopped mid‑stride, turned his head just enough to look at you over his shoulder.
"What way?" he asked, voice flat. "You’re going to have to be more specific."
This was the man who once had looked at you like you were something dangerous and precious in equal measure. Who had touched you like he was afraid you'd shatter. Who had said your name like it meant something. You wanted to scream. Instead, you grabbed his wrist and tugged him down a side hallway that was currently empty, quiet, and far from the party’s hum. He let you pull him, but only barely, like he was indulging a child.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" you demanded, keeping your voice low. "You've been cold since the ceremony, and now you're—"
"I'm being what?" he interrupted, his tone deliberately measured in that way that made your skin crawl. "Honest?"
"You're being cruel."
He laughed—a short, bitter sound that echoed off the stone walls. "Cruel would be telling you what I actually think right now." He turned away from you, running a hand through his hair, and you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it might break. "So I'm being merciful, actually. You should thank me."
"Thank you for what? For ignoring me? For flirting with that vapid—"
"Don't." His voice cracked like a whip. He spun back around, and his eyes… God, his eyes were furious. "Don't you dare sit there and act territorial when you've been fucking that linguistics professor."
"How did you—" you started.
"Does it matter?" He stepped closer.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" you hissed, because you hadn’t told anyone about David. The only way he could know was if he was keeping tabs on you with the Danforth’s private investigator.
"I’m not. Kindly get the fuck out." He stopped himself, jaw working, clearly trying to regain control. "I can’t believe you’ve been letting him touch you. He’s beneath you. You could do so much better."
Suddenly, it all made so much sense. This was why he had been ignoring your phone calls and texts.
"I'm not—" You felt heat rise in your chest, exasperation mixing with something else. Something that felt dangerously like guilt. "First of all, we slept together once. I haven't done anything physical with him since I came to visit your father in Newport. And you don't deserve to hear this, but the only reason I slept with him was that I was trying to get over you. I ended things with him weeks ago." Titus went very still. "It's 2026," you continued, your voice shaking slightly. "A woman having casual sex is completely reasonable. Men do it all the time. I'm not going to apologize for it."
He scoffed, and your hand caught his jaw to stop him from turning away. Your fingers pressed into the sharp line of his cheek, guiding his face back toward yours.
"Titus," you said, breath unsteady. "Look at me." You stepped closer, closing the distance he'd been so carefully maintaining. Your hand was still on his jaw, but this time you didn’t stop there. Your other hand found his—the hand, the one with his father’s ring. His fingers twitched under your touch, like he wasn’t sure whether to pull away or hold on. "I'm happy you won your seat back. I'm happy the bride is dead if it means you're where you belong. I don't care how that makes me sound. I only care about you."
"That's—you can't mean that."
"I do. I'm in love with you, Titus. I don't know how any of this works. I don't know how to be with someone like you. I don't know if I'll fit into your world or if I'll burn it down trying. But I want to try. I want to be with you. If you'll let me."
Silence stretched between you, thick and trembling.
"I can't focus. I can't think. Every time I close my eyes, I taste you," he murmured.
"Then stop trying to think."
He stared at you, his chest heaving, his hazel orbs searching yours for any hint of a lie. Finding none, his mouth crashed into yours, and he kissed you like he was drowning, and you were air. His fingers tangled in your hair, tilting your head back. You gasped against his lips, and he swallowed the sound, pressing you against the wall behind you. His hips pinned yours, and you felt the unmistakable hardness of him straining against his trousers.
You kissed him back with equal ferocity, your hands sliding up his chest, fisting the lapels of his suit jacket. He groaned, low and guttural, and hitched your leg up around his hip. The fabric of your dress rode high, exposing your thigh
"I don't deserve you," he gasped against your lips, and then his mouth was on your throat, teeth grazing the pulse point, tongue soothing the sting. You moaned, tilting your head back, giving him more access. His hand slid down your side, over the curve of your waist, gripping your ass through the thin material of your dress.
"I don't recall asking what you deserve."
He kissed you again, his mouth slanting over yours again and again until you were both breathless. Then he pulled back, his forehead pressed to yours, his breathing ragged. Titus grabbed your hand, and you let him pull you out of the corridor, through the grand foyer, past clusters of guests who barely registered as a blur of jewel tones and curious glances. His grip was firm, his pace urgent, and you followed without hesitation.
At the base of the grand staircase, you saw her. Margot stood near the bar, a glass of champagne frozen halfway to her lips, her eyes locked on you and Titus, and you saw the exact moment her composure cracked. Her jaw tightened, her knuckles whitened around the stem of the glass, and behind her carefully painted smile, something ugly and furious writhed.
You paused on the landing, met her gaze, and winked.
The fury that flashed across her face was almost violent, a mask slipping just long enough for you to see the raw, possessive rage beneath. You hated admitting that the taste of her jealousy was exquisite. You turned away, letting Titus pull you up the stairs, your heart soaring. He led you down a corridor lined with oil paintings and sconces casting warm pools of light, past doors closed and open, until he stopped at one near the end. He pushed it open and guided you inside.
His room stole your breath.
It was a vision of French European elegance with walls paneled in cream with delicate gold filigree, a crystal chandelier catching the dying evening light and scattering it like stars across the ceiling. The bed was massive, a four-poster draped in ivory silk and velvet, the sheets crisp and inviting. French doors opened onto a small balcony, the sheer curtains billowing in the warm breeze. A marble fireplace, unlit but stunning, dominated one wall, flanked by armchairs upholstered in pale rose damask.
Titus turned to you, his chest heaving, his eyes dark and hungry. He reached for the zipper of your dress, and you let him, your breath catching as the fabric loosened and slid down your shoulders. It pooled at your feet, and you stood before him in nothing but your heels and the delicate lace of your underwear.
"You're…" he made a low guttural sound, "the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." You looked at him…his eyes wild with want, his lips swollen, his composure shattered. The man who had guided his sister down the aisle with such grace now looked feral with need.
"Show me," you begged, taking off your heels.
He shed his clothes with rough, urgent movements—jacket, shirt, trousers, all discarded in a trail behind him. His body was lean and hard, muscles shifting beneath freckled skin, his cock already thick and straining, the tip glistening. He stepped toward you, his hands finding your waist, and he backed you toward the bed until your knees hit the edge. He pushed you down onto the mattress, the silk cool against your bare skin, and followed you, his body covering yours. His mouth found your neck, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your throat, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts. When his lips closed around your nipple, you gasped, your back arching, your fingers tangling in his hair.
"Titus—"
"Say my name again." He suckled harder, his tongue flicking the sensitive peak, his teeth grazing just enough to send sparks through your nerves. He moved to the other breast, giving it the same devastating attention, his hand sliding between your thighs. His fingers found you slick and ready, and he groaned against your skin.
"I missed you," you cried out.
"Me too, Angel,"
He pushed two fingers inside you, curling them just right, and your vision went white at the edges. You cried out, your hips bucking against his hand, and he watched your face with feral satisfaction.
"Please—I need—"
"What do you need, darling?" His voice was honey and gravel. "Tell me."
"I want to put my mouth on you."
And you did, you had been dreaming about it for months. He pulled his fingers out slowly, bringing them to his mouth and licking them clean, his eyes never leaving yours. Then he lay back on the bed, settling against the pillows, his cock standing thick and proud.
"Come here," he said, his voice rough. "I want to eat your pussy at the same time."
You crawled over him, straddling his chest, facing his cock, and then shifted forward. You lowered yourself slowly, feeling his breath hot against your cunt, and when his mouth latched onto you, you moaned—loud, shameless. You leaned forward, pressing your chest against his stomach, taking his cock in your hand, guiding the tip past your lips. His tongue found your clit immediately, circling, flicking, while his hands came up to grip your ass. He spread your cheeks, pulling you tighter against his face, and then—slap.
The first spank made you gasp around him, your eyes watering. The sting bloomed hot across your left cheek, and you felt him smile against your cunt.
"That's it, good girl," he murmured, the vibrations traveling through your core. "Take it. Take all of it."
You swallowed him deeper, your throat relaxing, taking him to the base. His cock hit the back of your throat, and you hummed, loving the way he groaned in response. His hands kneaded your flesh, then slap again—harder this time, on your right cheek. The slap sent a jolt of pleasure-pain through your body, his tongue working your clit with the same rhythm. You were drowning in sensation...the thick length of him filling your throat, the sting of his palm against your ass, the wet, obscene sounds of his mouth feasting on your pussy.
Your hips began to rock, grinding against his face, taking him deeper down your throat. He groaned against you, the sound muffled but satisfied, and his tongue pressed harder, faster, circling your clit with devastating precision.
"Fuck, missed the taste of you," he breathed, pulling back just enough to speak. You moaned around his cock, your eyes rolling back, your thighs trembling. His tongue grew more erratic, matching the building tension in your belly, each suck pushing you closer to the edge.
"Titus," you panted, "Fuck—"
"Come on my face," he commanded, his voice ragged.
The knot in your belly snapped. Your orgasm crashed through you, violent and blinding, your walls clenching as waves of pleasure wracked your body. You screamed around his cock, your throat convulsing, your hips bucking against his mouth. He didn't stop—he lapped at you through it all, drawing out every pulse, every shiver, until you were limp and gasping above him.
He pulled you off gently, guiding you to lie beside him, and pressed a kiss to your shoulder, his breathing ragged. "I don't want to come in your mouth," he said, his voice strained, thick with need. "I want to watch your perfect face and see your eyes when you come." Titus flipped you onto your back before you could recover, positioning himself between your legs. His cock pressed against your slick, swollen entrance, and he pushed inside you in one smooth motion, making you both gasp. Titus filled you so perfectly, stretching you, claiming you. He set a rhythm that was deep and slow, his eyes never leaving yours. Suddenly, he lifted your legs, placing one ankle on his shoulder and tucking the other in the crook of his arm.
The new angle drove him deeper, and you cried out, your nails raking down his back, leaving red trails on his skin. "Look at you," he breathed, his pace quickening. " You're mine. Say it."
"I'm yours."
"Whose pussy is this?"
"Yours. It's yours, Titus. Only yours."
He grunted, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. The bed creaked beneath you, the headboard knocking against the wall in a steady rhythm. "And that fucking professor? Did he ever make you feel like this?" Titus wanted to own every part of you.
"No one has ever made me feel like this. No one. Just you."
His control snapped.
He fucked you harder, deeper, his hips slamming against yours, his breathing ragged, his sweat glistening on his chest. The room smelled of sex—salt and musk and the sweet, heady scent of your arousal mingling with his. The air was thick with it, with the sounds of your moans and his grunts, the wet, obscene sound of him driving into you again and again.
"I'm close," he growled. "Fuck, I'm so close. I need to feel you come again.”
The pressure built again, coiling tight in your belly, your walls clenching around him. You came with a sob, tears streaming down your cheeks, your body convulsing, your face contorted with the intensity of it. The pleasure was too much, too intense, a beautiful agony that left you gasping, your vision blurring. Titus watched you fall apart, his eyes locked on yours, his expression almost reverent. God, you were fucking gorgeous. His thrusts grew erratic, his breath coming in harsh pants, and you could feel him pulsing inside you, his peak approaching.
"I-I’m gonna pull out," he said, his voice breaking.
"Don't. It's safe. Stay inside me. Come inside me."
He groaned, a sound torn from somewhere deep, and you felt him release—hot, thick, and completely flooding you. His face twisted with pleasure, his eyes rolling back, his mouth falling open in a silent cry. His body shuddered above you, his hips pressing deep, holding himself there as he emptied into you. Titus collapsed on top of you, his forehead pressed to yours, both of you panting, your bodies slick with sweat, the air around you heavy and warm.
He pulled out slowly, and you felt his spend trickle down your thigh. He disappeared into the attached bathroom, returning moments later with a warm, damp cloth. He cleaned you gently, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs, your hips, and your belly as he worked.
You checked your watch and sighed.
"Cocktail hour is almost over. We need to go back down."
Titus lay beside you, pulling you into his arms, his chest pressed against your back, his lips brushing your shoulder. "Just a few more minutes. I want to hold you a little longer."
You nestled into him, feeling his heartbeat slow beneath your ear, his arms wrapped around you like a shield.
"Titus?"
"Hmm?"
"I love you."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then his arms tightened around you, and he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.
"I love you too."
The words hung in the air, fragile and precious, a promise neither of you fully understood but both of you desperately wanted to keep.
You pulled back slightly, just enough to see his face in the darkness of the room. His eyes were closed, but you could see the tension in his jaw, the way his chest still rose and fell with controlled breaths.
"Titus?"
"Yes?"
"Why is Ursula so sure that Conrad won't pull the hide and seek card?"
He was quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing slow circles on your back. "When the bride was killed," he began, his voice low and measured, "Mr. Le Bail’s lawyer let us know that because we'd re-won the seat, we were allowed to adjust our family contract. The terms, the rules, all of it. Ursula and I had made a deal that whoever killed the bride would be the one to make whatever adjustment we pleased."
Your heart was already beginning to race, sensing where this was going.
"I requested," he continued, his arms tightening around you since he was still afraid that confirming that he killed her would make you look at him differently, "that our family continues to participate in the hunts. We're bound to this. To the High Council. To Mr. Le Bail. That's not something that can be undone, and I wouldn't ask for that. But I did ask that the hide and seek card...the game itself be removed from possibility. For future spouses. For spouses of future Danforth children. For generations to come in our immediate family."
He’d done what?
Titus paused, letting the enormity of it settle. "Ursula deserved to marry Conrad today without the fear of his possible immediate death.”
Your eyes burned. You pulled back to look at him fully, seeing the weight of what he'd done written across his features.
"You did that for Ursula," you whispered.
"She’s my sister. I would do anything for her… but I also did it for me," he said quietly, and the admission hung between you like a confession. You understood immediately what he wasn't saying outright—what he couldn't quite say, not yet. By removing the hide and seek card, he had secured something far more precious than Ursula's peace of mind. He'd secured the possibility of a future where he could have a wife without the constant shadow of that particular death sentence looming. Children who wouldn't grow up knowing their future spouses might be hunted down on their wedding day.
"I'm not asking for anything right now," he said quickly, reading what he thought was panic in your silence. "I'm not saying this to... I'm telling you because you asked."
But that wasn't quite the whole truth either, was it? You could see it in the way his eyes finally opened, in the way they searched yours. He was asking for something. Not explicitly, not with words...but with the architecture of his choices. He'd restructured his family's future, rewritten the rules of their darkest game for Ursula… and for his future wife.
"You killed the bride," you said slowly, "and made sure that if you ever had someone to protect, you could actually keep them. That makes a lot of sense to me."
He didn't say anything.
All the fear, all the darkness of this world you'd been pulled into, and here was Titus, this man bound by blood and obligation to a cult of monsters, using the only leverage he had to carve out a small sanctuary for the people he loved.
You emerged from the room together, your dress re-zipped, your hair smoothed back into something resembling order. Titus had a faint mark on his neck that you'd left with your teeth... which was a small claim staked in the landscape of his skin. Neither of you bothered to fix it.
The evening had shifted outdoors again for dinner. Long tables had been arranged in a horseshoe formation across the manicured grounds of the Danforth estate, strung with lights that transformed the darkness into something ethereal. A jazz trio played from a pavilion, their music drifting across the gardens. The air smelled of night-blooming jasmine and the rich aroma of the meal being served.
Titus's hand found the small of your back as you descended the stone steps; his touch was proprietary in a way that made several heads turn as you passed. The family table was positioned at the center of the horseshoe, and Ursula sat at the head, with Conrad on her right. His parents occupied the seats beyond him—his mother beaming with the particular radiance of a woman who'd just watched her son marry a woman she clearly found fascinating, his father nodding approvingly at something one of Conrad's siblings was saying. Titus guided you to the empty seat to his left, pulling it out for you and kissing your shoulder as you sat.
"Well, this is interesting," Ursula murmured, leaning forward slightly so only you and Titus could hear. Her eyes glinted with amusement, and Conrad grinned openly, as if he'd just won some private bet with himself.
Conversation flowed around the table with that easy rhythm, and you watched Ursula look so happy. Marriage seemed to suit her, or perhaps it was simply the absence of fear. Knowing that Conrad wouldn't be hunted, wouldn't be forced into a game where the stakes were his life, had carved away some essential tension from her shoulders. By the time dessert arrived (a decadent chocolate confection with edible gold leaf served under the stars), the evening had taken on the quality of a dream. The kind where terrible things existed in the margins but couldn't quite touch the center of the frame.
After hours of dancing, the other guests departed as the night deepened, taxis picking people up and cars winding down the long drive away from the estate. But the Danforth family remained—not just Ursula and Titus, but their uncles, aunts, and cousins, scattered across the grounds in small clusters, lingering over drinks and conversation. Tradition, after all, demanded their presence.
Pernella appeared with the ornate wooden box, setting it in front of Conrad with ceremonial precision. The room fell silent. Everyone knew what this meant. Or at least… they thought they did.
"The final tradition," Pernella announced. "A game must be played before the evening concludes." Conrad reached toward the box, and his fingers hovered over the cards printed with various games.
He drew a card, and his face went carefully blank as he looked at the card. Around him, the family leaned in with the hunger of wolves scenting blood.
"Chess," he said quietly, as if the word itself was a curse. "We have to play chess. You're going to destroy me."
"Almost certainly," Ursula agreed, her eyes glinting with the promise of violence barely concealed beneath civility. The family settled into chairs around the board while Ursula and Conrad took their seats. You moved to stand near Titus, your hand finding his, and his fingers closed around yours, anchoring you.
Conrad played competently, his strategy sound, his defense solid…but he was outmatched. You could see it in the way he began to frown slightly, the way his fingers lingered on pieces before moving them, as if he could somehow alter the outcome through sheer force of will.
It took 37 moves.
Ursula's final move was elegant: a bishop sweep that left Conrad's king with no escape routes. Checkmate. The word hung in the air like a benediction, and the assembled family erupted in applause. Conrad laughed, shaking his head in admiration, and reached across the board to kiss Ursula's hand.
Titus pulled you close as the family began to disperse, heading back to their hotels or respective homes. Ursula and Conrad were jetting off to the Danforth St. Tropez hotel tonight to begin their honeymoon. His lips brushed against your temple.
"Don’t go back to your hotel," he whispered. "Stay the night. Don't leave."
You turned to face him, seeing the vulnerability beneath the demand, the fear that you might vanish like some fever dream.
"Okay," you said simply. "I'll stay."
His exhale was relief incarnate.
FIVE YEARS LATER – MANHATTAN, NEW YORK
Titus sat propped against the headboard, his 3-year-old son nestled against his chest, completely absorbed in the story of Max and his wild rumpus.
The copy of Where the Wild Things Are (gifted by Auntie Ursula) was being read for what had to be the thousandth time. The original gift was a first edition copy for 'display only,' currently sitting on a custom-built walnut bookshelf with a note inside from Uncle Conrad that read: "If he spills juice on it, we’ll simply buy another. Childhood should not be constrained by scarcity." Your son, blissfully unaware of the book’s value, had once used it as a ramp for his toy firetruck.
"Again!" his son demanded as Titus closed the book, his small fists clenching with the desperation only a toddler could muster.
"You have school tomorrow, buddy. It's past your bedtime."
His son's face crumpled in protest—a perfect mirror of your stubborn expression, down to the exact furrow of the brow. Titus lasted approximately 6 seconds before caving completely.
"One more," he sighed, already flipping back to the beginning. "Just one."
Twenty minutes later, after a second book (a pop-up version of The Very Hungry Caterpillar), Titus finally managed to extract himself from his son's room. He kissed the boy's forehead, whispered goodnight, and quietly closed the door. He found you sitting up in bed, re-reading the De Occulta Philosophia libri III by Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa, hand resting on the swell of your belly. Titus found it intoxicating…the way you could lecture on ethics and consequence one moment, then move through the woods during a hunt with lethal grace the next. Your mind, your courage, your refusal to be intimidated by the world he'd been born into. There was something deeply, inexplicably sexy about it: the woman who taught the world about morality while living in its margins. The contradiction itself was arousing—the duality of you. He didn't know what he'd done to deserve you, and he suspected he never would.
The moment he entered, you looked up at him with an expression that could have frozen the Hudson River solid.
"Don't," you said flatly.
"I haven't done anything yet."
"You're about to have done something. I can see it on your face."
Titus held up his hands in surrender as he changed into sleep clothes.
"Storytime was longer than usual," you observed.
"I read him one more book. He gave me your eyes and deployed them as a weapon. I'm a weak man."
"You're a pushover," you corrected, turning a page with perhaps more force than necessary.
He slid into bed beside you carefully because these days, he moved around you like you were made of spun glass. Pregnancy had been harder on you this time with more aches, more exhaustion, more hormones. The family doctor had made the fatal mistake of using the phrase 'geriatric pregnancy,' and you had nearly killed him on the spot when he suggested you stay at home during this pregnancy. You had never wanted the traditional role. Titus had known that from the beginning. No staying home, no surrendering your career or your autonomy. But…Titus had begged you to start maternity leave at 4 months this time. After losing his mother in childbirth (who had been around your age), he was hyper‑vigilant, protective to the point of paranoia, and absolutely unapologetic about it.
"How are you feeling?" he asked.
"Like I'm carrying a small person who has taken up kickboxing as a hobby," you said tersely. "In my ribs."
"She’s spirited," he said proudly. "Very Danforth of her."
You shot him a look that suggested his attempt at levity was not appreciated. Titus didn’t even blink at the look you gave him. He never did anymore. If anything, he seemed almost amused by it…like he’d long ago accepted that your hormones were a force of nature he would simply endure with gratitude.
Why wouldn’t he? You’d given him everything. Your loyalty, your brilliance, your son, and now your daughter. If the price of that devotion was absorbing every hormone-fueled barb you hurled his way, he would endure them all without complaint. Because you had surrendered your very soul to Mr. Le Bail and the traditions of the High Council, which most people would flee screaming from.
You had chosen him.
And Titus would never forget that.
"You know what Ursula and Conrad sent for the nursery?" he tried, pivoting strategies. "A hand-carved Italian crib. From the 1800s. Apparently, it was blessed by a cardinal."
"Those two are ridiculous," you sighed, accepting the privileges that came with being his.
"Completely ridiculous," Titus lied, because it was totally the type of gift he would give. He was Ursula’s twin after all, and excessive generosity ran in their blood. He reached over to gently place his hand on your belly. "But they're happy. In Paris. No kids. Just art and wine and each other, playing chess at midnight."
His sister had never wanted children. However, she adored being an aunt far too much. Spoiling your son was her sport of choice, and she played it with Olympic‑level dedication.
"Must be nice," you murmured. "Why did we decide to do the whole kid thing again?"
Titus's mouth quirked into that familiar smirk...the one that had gotten you into this situation in the first place.
"Well," he said, leaning closer, "the making them part is fun. Very fun, if I recall correctly. Especially how we made our daughter..."
"I seem to remember you being pretty enthusiastic about the idea," you rolled your eyes.
"Yes. I take full responsibility for participating in the act you initiated," he grinned, giving you a smug look.
You shot him a look… but it was true, because you had begged for his cock that night. Your daughter was conceived from an orgasm that had crashed through you without warning, a sharp, blinding wave that tore a cry from your throat while Titus filled you up, moaning your name.
He reached out, placing a warm hand on your belly. Your daughter responded immediately with a firm kick.
"You’re going to spoil her just like you spoil him," you exhaled, half‑annoyed, half‑fond.
"Oh, absolutely," Titus said. "I plan to be intolerable about it."
He leaned over carefully and kissed your forehead, then your temple, then your perfect belly. "Goodnight, my princess. Go easy on your mother." From inside, there was a kick against his palm.
"She says no promises," you translated dryly.
"Let’s get you a nice massage tomorrow."
"The one from that woman in Tribeca?"
Titus's smirk was slow and deliberate. He knew exactly which one you meant. The therapist who charged $3K per session and whose hands were legendary among Manhattan's elite.
"The one you said was 'obscenely expensive' last month?" His voice was warm with amusement.
You felt heat creep up your neck. "My back is killing me, and she's supposed to be the best for pregnant women. I've heard—"
"Say no more." He was already reaching for his phone. "I'll have it arranged for tomorrow afternoon."
"Titus, you can't just—"
"Already done." He set the phone down, that satisfied smile still playing at his lips. "3 o'clock."
You wanted to argue. You should have argued. There was a time when you would have. When you had practically cried moving out of your Harlem apartment, when you had fought him tooth and nail over every luxury he tried to press into your hands. You wanted to earn your life, not have it handed to you like some kept woman.
So he compromised. He sold his Upper East Side penthouse and let you pick the neighborhood—the charming $15 million brownstone in Greenwich Village you fell in love with at first sight. He let you design every room, choose every detail. Titus let you make it yours. And somewhere between fighting him and building a home with him, you had stopped seeing his generosity as weakness and started seeing it as devotion.
"You're getting soft," he murmured, watching you with those beautiful eyes of his. He reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "My queen, accepting her crown at last."
"I'm being practical," you corrected, but there was no heat in it. "My back hurts. The massage is medical."
"Of course it is." His hand drifted down to rest on your belly again, right where your daughter was growing. "And tomorrow, after your 'medical massage', we're having dinner at that new place in SoHo you mentioned.
That place was impossible to get into. "Titus—"
"Already booked." He kissed your temple. "You're carrying my child. You get whatever you want."
You should have protested. You should have reminded him about normalcy… but instead, you leaned into him and let yourself enjoy the feeling of being taken care of by a man who would move mountains for you and your children.
"You're going to ruin me," you whispered. He already had, but he didn't need to know that.
"Absolutely," he agreed. "That's the plan."
Masterlist | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | You're reading the final part
Thank you for following me on this journey! <3 I really struggled with this "finale", so I hope it delivered! I ended up using a scene I deleted and archived weeks ago. The writing process is a struggle. Also, let's pretend that Ursula and Titus told their family that you were allowed to stick around for the game since you're with Titus. Cause since reader isn't family... I don't know how possible that would have been, but let's just pretend lol. Readers dress: Sloane Black Dress | NADINE MERABI
BONUS: DAD TITUS! LOOK AT HIS SMILEY FACE <3. Thank you @wesandresons for these cutie shots of my husband.
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@ofstarsandvibranium. @lllla717. @domesticblisss. @flawssy-227. @ @impossibleblizzardstudentposts. @ugotmeblushingbaby. @mrstargayen09. @golden-library @anocious. @mina2000alex. @spideystar. @savemefromanepicoftimewasted. @eclairmcqueen. @cliffsideileen. @zatannas-wand. @thatfanficstuff. @starryhaze. @fictionallystable. @beskardroids. @fancypeacepersona. @laura-naruto-fan1998. @shawnhatosydilfextendeduniverse. @shesimplydoesnotknow. @affabletimelady. @memeorydotcom. @pullingattheroots. @mahoganybimbo.
SAMMY BRYANT TUMMY APPRECIATION POST 2/3
Southland: Season 1
For @wtw3191 <3
Real title of the movie is Killer Klowns from Outer Space Terrorize Local Throuple but they ran out of room to type all that on the dvd cover
Real title of the movie is Killer Klowns from Outer Space Terrorize Local Throuple but they ran out of room to type all that on the dvd cover
happy pride month to the bisexual polycule in the movie killer klowns from outer space
experimenting - andrew "pope" cody
quick note: most likely ooc, i write this for the hell of it, not to be accurate!! (not proofread) contains: shy! but willing! pope cody, unsuspecting! reader, fem! reader, established relationship, implied age difference, pope is a bit inexperienced... but so is reader, oral sex (m and f receiving-69), p in v sex, other sex stuff (i never know what all to put here) lots of shyness and awkwardness word count: 2.6k+ summary: pope doesn't exactly hide the fact that you two have sex regularly, but unfortunately, craig decides to get in his head and make him question what you're really into. craig gives him a few ideas, and pope is eager to please you, so he gives it all a shot. btw, you have no clue what's happening.
deep down, pope knew he should have kept his mouth shut when his nosy ass brothers started prying for information about his relationship with you. everyone knew that you two were officially together, and had been for a little while. but what some, namely craig, were dying to know was what went on between you two in the bedroom... or wherever you chose to have sex.
"you do her in the kitchen, too?"
craig is wearing that same stupid smirk that he always does, watching pope squirm in his seat as he struggles to answer. deran's trying his hardest not to laugh, but he couldn't deny how funny it was to see his eldest brother getting flustered over this conversation.
"shut the fuck up."
pope muttered, looking away from him. his cheeks and the tips of ears were turning a light shade of red as he desperately tried not to think of how pretty you would look bent over the kitchen counter in your cozy apartment. obviously, he'd already had you like that before, but why the hell would he ever admit that to his little brothers of all people?
"what do you call her in bed? probably something stupid like sugar or honey bun, i bet."
craig's comment had deran spitting out his beer, almost tumbling to the ground with laughter. pope cringed at the words, not even wanting to imagine how they would sound coming out of anyone's mouth, let alone his. he should've let it go, knowing that craig was just trying to get under his skin, but his pride was getting in the way.
"i don't call her any of that. she likes being called by her name."
pope spoke defensively, earning himself another chuckle from deran. deran shuts up immediately when pope's deadpan glare snaps toward him. pope takes a long swig of his beer, hoping like hell it would somehow get him out of this conversation.
"jesus, man- you're even worse than vanilla. you probably fuck in silence too. do you even talk her through it?"
that made pope pause for a moment. craig was right, pope really didn't talk much when you guys were having sex. he just thought it would make it awkward because fuck knows he's the worst smooth talker on the planet. but did you want him to at least try? would that make you feel good, hearing him praise you and guide you through whatever you were trying to do?
craig can see how restless pope is getting, so he decides to continue.
"i bet she would like it if you pushed your hand down on her stomach while you fuck her-"
"just shut the fuck up, craig!"
pope finally loses his temper, jumping out of his chair. meanwhile, you come running toward the backyard. you were originally in pope's room, packing up some of his clothes to take to your apartment for him. you heard pope's voice get louder, and you knew something was wrong. you step outside, seeing your boyfriend look about half a second from snapping and tackling his brother to the ground.
"andrew, what's going on?"
your voice seems to snap pope right out of his trance, he whirls around to face you. his shoulders drop instantly, his defenses deflating at the sight of your concerned look. of course, without fail, craig and deran are now both laughing at the way you so easily disarm the most intimidating man in the city of oceanside.
he tunes them out, his entire focus on you. the sunlight always made you look ten times as radiant as usual. he could stare at you for hours, which he usually did, regardless of if you realized it or not. you stood right next to him, giving his younger brothers a withering glare before looking back at pope.
"we should probably head back soon, i got your things packed."
pope is instantly cured of his irritation when he hears that you want to go back to your apartment. deran and craig shrug and make their way back inside. they exchange more polite goodbyes with you, but still tease pope.
"don't forget those tips i gave you, popey."
craig winks at him before heading out to the living room. deran walks off elsewhere in the house, leaving you and pope standing in the kitchen. you grab his bag off the counter, taking his hand in your free one and interlacing your fingers. he takes the bag from your other hand, not waiting for your protests as he pulls you out the door.
"what kind of tips did craig give you?"
you pipe up out of curiousity as pope opens the passenger door for you.
"don't worry about it. he's just being a dick like always."
you frown at his response, giving him a knowing look as he gets into the driver's seat.
"you were pretty riled up back there, i'm a little worried about it."
your frown did him in, unable to keep anything from you. that was one of your only qualities pope felt unsure of, at times. the way you just made the secrets and information spill out of him like air from his lungs.
"i'm good at sex, right?"
he looks over at you, gaze hopeful but wary at the same time.
"i mean- yeah, of course you are but... why would you question that? is that what craig was talking about? you asked him for sex tips?"
you couldn't hold back the chuckle at your last question. that chuckle makes pope falter a little bit. he didn't find any of this a bit funny, if he was honest. the thought of not doing everything humanly possible to make you feel good caused him physical pain.
"andrew, sex with you is great. if it weren't, we wouldn't be doing it like every single day."
you sigh softly, leaning in and gently cupping his face in your hands. he seemed to feel better the more you spoke, but there was still that lingering worry in the back of his head.
"but... the longer we sit here and don't head back home, the less time we have to get to that great sex."
you smirk, feeling a bit confident all of a sudden. pope doesn't need to be told twice, already reaching over to buckle your seatbelt for you (because you were never meant to do anything on your own). he then buckles his own, starting the engine of his truck, and peeling out of the driveway toward your apartment.
later, once you two have finally settled down in your cozy apartment. he's sitting on the edge of your bed with that rod-straight posture, as per usual. you admire him from the doorway of your cloest, taking in his muscular frame that's slightly defined by his dark shirt. as if sensing your gaze, he turns over his shoulder to look at you. you stand there, blushing slightly at being caught ogling, even though he was your boyfriend and you had every right to.
he turns back toward the front, desperately thinking of some sexy way to beckon you over to him. he's cut short when you appear in front of him, sitting down next to him. his mind was moving way too slow, he seriously needed to up his game. he wasn't used to dirty talk, not exactly sure how to even go about it, so he tries the next best thing... cutting straight to the chase.
"i want to eat you out."
you flinch slight at his direct words, looking over at him. he was dead serious, his eyes never leaving yours.
"o-okay... i'm not gonna stop you."
he watches as you scoot back fully on the bed, resting up against the headboard. he moves in front of you, sitting back on his heels as he awkwardly starts to slide your pants down your legs. he's getting frustrated with himself, paranoid that you're not even slightly damp in your panties right now.
"something's bothering you."
you gently catch his hands before they can reach the hem of your underwear. he freezes, as if being caught doing something embarrassing. you gently pull him toward you and he doesn't resist. you lean forward, pressing your lips against his. he melts instantly, hands finding your hips and yanking you toward him. you gasp slightly into his mouth, and suddenly, things are starting to feel like normal again.
where he was normally timid with his tongue, he was devouring your mouth now. pouring his frustration from his brother's earlier teasing into his movements now. he's holding you against him tightly as his lips trail down your jawline and toward your neck. you're breathing heavily, hands grabbing at the hem of his shirt to pull it over his head. then, they're roamng over the expanse of his freckled skin, feeling every curve and contour of his muscles.
"what if we tried something new...?"
you hesitantly ask, pulling back slightly to look him in the eye. he nods slowly, listening intently to whatever you going to say next.
"we could try um- the... 69... thing... or whatever you call it."
pope blinks a few times, racking his brain to remember what the fuck that even meant. then, he finally remembers, and his cock is now straining painfully against the zipper of his jeans. you notice immediately, feeling the bulge against your thigh.
"i'll take that as a yes."
you chuckle softly, kissing him again. you were about to ask who should be on top, but pope has already found the answer. he lays back on the bed, grabbing at your thighs to get you to straddle his face.
"but wait, i need to take these off-"
he didn't care, he was already yanking you down onto him. a sharp whine escapes your lips as you already feel his tongue prodding at your clothed pussy. he feels like heaven right now, seeing the damp spot up close and personal, smelling your arousal, it was all making him feel lightheaded. he was eagerly tracing circles around your clit with his tongue, then flattening it against your folds. he was getting hints of your taste through the fabric, like an appetizer of sorts.
unwilling to waste any more time, you lean forward, unzipping his jeans and freeing his cock from the confines of his boxers. you lick one long stripe along the top side of his length before taking all of him in your mouth at once. he whines loudly against your ruined panties, his hips bucking slightly into your mouth. he mutters a little apology, afraid of being too rough, but you were already enjoying yourself too much. your head is bobbing eagerly on him, your moans reverberating throughout his entire body.
he needed to focus on you before he came way too early. he reaches up toward the hem of your panties, a loud rip sounds through the room. you gasp against his cock, choking slightly as you pull back.
"what the fuck?! those were-"
your words were cut off by a loud moan as his tongue delved back into your now completely bare and soaked folds. his hands grab handfuls of your ass, pressing you down harder onto his face. you resume sucking his cock, tongue swirling over the tip just enough to make his thighs twitch. all of a sudden, thick warmth spreads through your mouth. you jump at the sudden flood of his cum in your mouth, but make sure not to spill a single drop.
he's whining against your cunt, but his tongue and lips don't slow down in the slightest. he reaches down, managing to grab your arms and yank you back so all of your weight was now on his face. your head falls back in pure bliss as his energy is renewed, licking and sucking eagerly at you once again. before long, your thighs are trembling as you come all over his face.
you roll over onto the bed next to him, trying to catch your breath.
"ready for more, princess?"
you freeze at the sound of his gravelly voice. that nickname, that confidence in his tone... this was definitely going to be your undoing.
"craig teach you that one?"
you try to tease, but it's hard to when he's already folding you up like a pretzel. he hooks your legs over his shoulders, lining his cock up with your entrance and shoving it right in. you choked on a moan, feeling overwhelmed by the stretch of his fat cock inside of you. he's already pounding into you, the concept of going slow completely foreign to him in this moment.
"look at you- taking that dick so fucking good."
who was this man and what did he do with your awkward ass boyfriend? you weren't allowed much time to think on it when you feel a sudden pressure on your lower belly. that pressure seemed to amplify the feeling of just how deep he was in your guts. you look down and see his hand pressing against you, he's watching in awe as he can the feel the bulge of himself in your belly.
he wasn't going to last much longer, not with the way you were taking him so perfectly, like your body was made for him and only him. he leans down for a moment, capturing your lips in a sweet kiss that was the exact opposite of how roughly his hips were plowing into yours.
"fucking love you."
he grunts into your mouth before pulling back just enough to take in your fucked out expression. you were hardly able to get out a coherent sentence, feeling him hit that perfect spot over and over again. he reaches down between you, rubbing furious circles into your aching clit. he gently grabs your legs, letting them slide down to his hips. he leans more of his weight into you, resting your forehead against his. the added weight behind his thrusts had you seeing stars.
"you want my cum, huh? tell me you want it."
his dirty words were enough to send you over the edge, your entire body convulsed as you orgasm. he held you tightly to him, pressing soft kisses to your cheeks as he fucked you through the high.
"i still need to hear you say it."
"fuck- i... i want- i want your cum. pleaseee..."
you whine incoherently, clinging onto him. the overstimulation was quickly catching up to you as pope speeds up his thrusts. he keeps your legs wrapped around his waist as he buries himself deep inside of you with one final thrusts. the lewdest squelching noises come from where your bodies connect, pope collapsing against you as his seed spills inside you.
you run your hand through his auburn curls, pressing a kiss to his sweaty hairline as he slowly comes down from his high. he doesn't pull out for a while, opting to keep your bodies as close as possible. with your face nuzzled into the crook of his neck, his hands running gently up and down your back, he felt content. he knew you'd be restless in a few minutes, wanting to get cleaned up so you could cuddle comfortably without being sticky, sweaty messes.
"andrew...?"
"yeah, princess?"
"if you fuck me like that ever again... i'm putting a ring on your finger."
"why wait, hm?"
he chuckles, the sound soft and genuine, as he presses a soft kiss to your lips. he admires the way you bask in the afterglow of sex, especially since he'll be the only one to ever see you this way again. after a couple more minutes of comfortable silence, he finally remembers to pull out and help you get cleaned up. later on, he cooks you dinner and shamelessly stares at you devouring his food like you haven't had a meal in ages. fuck, if he wasn't the luckiest man in the universe to have a woman like you to call home.
~~~~~ THE END <3 ~~~~~
a/n: this literally came to me in a (wet) daydream so... it's a little out there- but so is our little sad sunshine princess and we love him for it. anyway, hope you cutie patooties enjoyed!!! thank you sm for reading, LOVE YOU ALL SM AND STAY SEXAAAYYY!!!!!!! <3333
divider creds: @/saradika-graphics and @/uzmacchiato
Mrs. Danforth - Titus Danforth x Reader
Chapter Four: Winner
As Titus Danforth's sugar baby, you don't know much of his secretive, wealthy lifestyle. But when he accidentally gets you pregnant with a potential Danforth heir, it's decided that you'll be joining the family. There's no manual as you're plunged into their world of extravagance and violence.
Chapter Summary: You and Titus find out the sex of your baby and he finds himself more and more enamored with you.
Tags/Notes: pregnant!reader, smut, piv, rough sex, creampie, dominant/possessive titus, hard cut to domestic fluff, ultrasound
Content: canon-typical rating
A/N: as usual this fic is fighting me!!
Word Count: 3.8k
That night, Titus has the best kill record he’s ever managed, his eyes sharp and his trigger finger precise. After the governor’s ball, it’s always a bloodbath, a bus-full of faceless inmates from nearby CTF brought in to celebrate. Father’s idea decades ago. What can he say? It helps with the prison overpopulation crisis, mitigates risk, and satisfies the blood sacrifices demanded from each of the council’s dynasties.
By the time Chip’s driving him to the Waldorf Astoria at two in the morning, you’re fast asleep and he has the blood of nearly a dozen men on his hands (and splattered over his clothes and face). His whole body is warm and loose and relaxed, a casual confidence coursing through his veins. This version of Titus would never tolerate being questioned by anyone. This version of Titus is entitled to the seat of power. This version of Titus could be loved by you. Imagine that. He certainly couldn’t have before tonight.
You barely stir in the California king bed when he comes in, giving him a content little sound as a greeting, just as he’d expected. He slips into the en suite bathroom, quickly scrubs the death from his skin, zips his clothes into the opaque dry cleaning bag, and walks naked toward the bed as he towels off his damp curls. Waking up more at the sounds of his moving around the suite, you sleepily greet him, “Welcome back, Titus.”
“Hi, princess.” He slides into bed behind you and greedily pulls you tight to his chest, pleased to find you in only a bralette and tiny panties. These aren’t your comfy pajamas; these are you sugar baby pajamas. The warmth of his bare body soothes you and you shimmy deeper into his embrace. In between kissing across your shoulders and back, he murmurs, “Not too mad at me for waking you up?”
“Definitely not,” you admit with a sly smile spreading over your lips. “I was trying to wait up for you, but I was lulled to sleep by the sweet sounds of a Survivor marathon on cable.”
Titus chuckles and runs his hands down your waist, one hand going lower to squeeze your ass. His mouth on your shoulder goes mean for just a beat, biting down right where your shoulder becomes your neck. As you gasp and instinctively roll your hips back to rub against his cock, he rasps, “And why were you waiting up for me, kitten?”
“Thought you might want to regale me with your tales,” you tease softly, still not quite awake as you feel him tugging down your panties. You move around to help him, thrilled with the way he immediately wraps his arm around your body to grope over your plush stomach, your coarse pubic hair, and ultimately to your thigh, which he pulls back to get to your clit. While he lazily touches you, savoring getting you wet slowly, you ask breathlessly, “Did you have fun tonight?”
Titus buries his forehead in your hair, smelling the bright and sweet hotel shampoo. He lets himself grind his hips forward, his cock fully hard now and leaking for attention. “Plenty.”
“Silly question,” you laugh. You reach up behind yourself, twine your fingers in his post-shower fluffy silver hair, and amend, “Did you win?”
That makes him grin, biting your shoulder as he finally lets himself wet his cock between your folds. “Of course I did, bunny.”
You bend slightly at the waist to give him better access to your pussy and sleepily ask, sounding all sweet and lilting and innocent, “Seems like you might wanna fuck me to celebrate.”
“Yeah, I think I would.” Voice hungry and low, he musters all his self control and adds, “But what you need comes first. If you want to go back to sleep, I-”
“Titus,” you interrupt quietly. Urgently. In a swift movement, you flip over, push him onto his back, and straddle him. His jaw clenches at you attempting to be dominant, the need to be in charge flickering in his eyes. He knows you’re baiting him, but he still can’t resist. You lean down, hover your lips half an inch from where he can reach them, and tell him seriously, lust dripping from your words, “I want you to fuck me like I’m your trophy. Like you own me. Fuck me because you’re a winner.”
Titus snaps. He snarls as he grips you by the waist and flips you onto your stomach. He tears your bralette off with an unapologetic rip that makes your heart stammer, its clasps flying in every direction. The moment you’re naked, he shoves his cock into you in a harsh thrust. Deep. Unapologetic. When his fat head hits your cervix, you gasp at the almost-pain. The intensity.
You try to get balance on your knees and elbows to get into a more standard doggy position, but he growls, “Stay still. I’ll decide how I want you.”
You let out a whimper as he yanks your hips back and shoves your head down into the pillow, forcing you to turn your face to one side. His thumb presses into the corner of your mouth, fish-hooking your lips apart until your skin burns. Your cunt clenches around him as soon as he has you completely at his mercy.
Sheathed deep inside of you, Titus purrs, “There you go. Good girl.”
And nothing ever feels better than his praise, so you smile, nestle into the pillow, and let your eyes flutter shut so you can focus on nothing but his cock pistoning in and out of you. He doesn’t even touch your clit, but it feels so fucking good. He knows your body. Knows how to take you. His cock massages you and your little cries and moans are the best music he’s ever heard.
Gazing down at your content expression, Titus coos, “Look at you. Taking it like such a perfect whore without asking for anything in return.”
With your brain quickly turning off, you squeak out, “You made me- Jesus. Made me cum three times already tonight. I want-” Your eyes roll back when his cock hits just right, making you feel so completely full. All you can manage is to groan out a version of what you’d been getting out, your voice desperate and moaning, “Use me. Want you to use me.”
The sound of your needy voice rockets up his spine and his thrusts pick up, chasing his release as he lets go of the pressure to get you to your own. “Yeah? That’s what you want, baby? Just to make me happy?”
You nod desperately and arch your back so he can slide in further, have a better view, grab you by the hips. Both his hands grab your waist, bruising hard, and the sensation of his roughness lets you go limp. Your brain softens up and you pull in a deep breath that loosens everything inside of you.
When he feels you going even more pliant, Titus becomes an animal. He bends forward and grips you by the tits now, his fingers cruel, and you let out a pathetic yowl. He just chuckles, “Sensitive?”
“Mhmm,” you whimper. Your breasts are beyond tender at this stage in your pregnancy, but the pain only makes your toes curl more. “Don’t stop.”
“Never,” he laughs darkly. His chest touches your back as he mounts you, a predator taking down its prey. Droplets of water from his shower prickle onto your neck, making you shiver in his arms, but you know he’s got you. His left hand drops down from your breast to your stomach, digging in, like he’s turned on by the idea of you being knocked up by him. He confirms your suspicion with a growl: “You’re so gorgeous like this. Carrying my family’s future. Letting me have you exactly how I need. Absolutely perfect. Perfect.”
You whine. You can tell how close he’s getting and you’re possessed by that knowledge. All he needs to get off is you. Your body, your expression, your soul. It feels like he’s eating you alive and you’re happy to be consumed by his gnashing teeth and flaming touch. His thrusts slow when his peak approaches. He edges himself through it, biting down on your shoulder, until he groans and buries his forehead against your skin, cum spilling out hard and fast and urgent.
Titus has to bite back ‘I love you’ as the endorphins flood him.
The morning of your anatomy scan, Titus wakes up before you. He still has his arms wrapped protectively around you, exactly how he’d positioned himself when he slipped into bed a few hours after you last night. In the calm white sun that filters through the sage green linen curtains you’d chosen for the bedroom, though, he notices something new.
The way your bare stomach sits against his fingers.
There’s a swell at the base of your abdomen that he swears he hasn’t felt before. A bump.
His breath catches in his throat as he clutches you closer. He splays his fingers over the soft hill of your belly and can’t even think for the adoration flooding his synapses. Praying you aren’t secretly listening to him being so gentle and vulnerable, he presses his forehead to the nape of your neck and whispers, “Papa loves you, little one. I promise you’re going to have the greatest life.”
You stir a bit, smiling as you wake to the sound of his gravelly voice, and coo gently, “Are you talking to the baby?”
“Caught red-handed.” He kisses your temple as you partially turn toward him. “I’m…practicing. I haven’t said ‘I love you’ in a very, very long time. To anyone. But I know that’s important for children and, well, Dr. Rubenstein said that the baby’s developing its ability to hear right now, and-”
“You don’t have to justify wanting to bond with your baby,” you tell him quietly as you turn onto your back. You take his hand and rest it on your little bump. “Go on; I won’t listen.”
“You can’t not listen,” he chides. But he doesn’t move his hand. In fancy, he gently strokes your belly with his thumb. He curls down onto your chest and murmurs, “We’re going to find out if you’re a boy or a girl today. We both think you’re a boy, but that probably means you’ll be a girl, doesn’t it? Danforths are always contrary and I assume you’re no exception.”
You snicker and twine your fingers in his lovely curls. Softly scratching his scalp, you add, “We don’t have to find out until they’re both, you know.”
“I’d agonize over it if I didn’t know,” he admits, nearly silent. Then, after a beat, he says, “I can’t wait to meet them.”
A slow, sleepy grin spreads over your lips. “Yeah?”
“I want to know what they’ll be like,” he goes on. You feel his breath on your bare skin. “It’s funny; I want to know the strangest things. If they’ll be quiet or loud. If their favorite color might be green or blue or yellow. If they’ll have red hair.”
“Mmm.”
“Falling asleep on me, darling?”
You force your eyes open and tell him seriously, “Definitely not. I’m never sleepy.”
“Says the pregnant woman who naps every day,” he teases as he sits up, planting a kiss on your forehead as he goes. “Dr. Rubenstein’s going to be here soon, bunny. Time for breakfast.”
You pout and flop onto your side, making absolutely no move to get up. “But my stomach hurts.”
“You know the rules,” Titus lilts. He stands up from the bed and you peek at his gorgeous toned back; he’s developed a habit of sleeping naked since you’re in bed together and you definitely don’t mind enjoying the view. Pulling the comforter off of you, he asks, “Does anything sound good? I’ll put in your order now.”
“Everything sounds terrible,” you whine. Gradually, reluctantly, you sit up, stretch your arms over your head, and stand up. You slink into his arms, dropping your forehead onto his shoulder. Titus immediately – it’s become an impulse, an instinct – encases you in his arms. He kisses the top of your head as you sigh, “Maybe some fruit or something to start. Settle my stomach. Then something heavier.”
“Good girl,” he soothes. He gives you a quick squeeze and then instructs you, “Go brush your teeth and wash your face. I’ll pick out something for you to wear.”
You nod gratefully and drift into the bathroom as you rub the sleep from your eyes. Titus likes picking out your clothes and you like letting him. Some small part of you knows this would sound toxic to your previous self, but you like how wearing what he picks makes you feel like his. It’s like he’s choosing armor for you to wear by his side as you go into battle together. It makes your role feel simpler, more integrated, more like you and not someone you’re trying to become. They’re all your clothes, anyway, just his selections.
Once you’re feeling a bit more awake with your floral face wash rinsed off and your mouth tasting like sharp mint, Titus slides into the bathroom behind you already dressed. He’s the picture of sex appeal in a white button down rolled to the elbows and tailored gray slacks. This is a lot more casual than he usually looks, especially with his hair softly moussed instead of gelled, and you want to eat him alive. He presents you with a two-piece set in baby blue, the front tied with girly bows, lots of delicate scalloped details around the hems. He also offers a charming pastel pink unlined bra and panty set, the right blend of comfortable and cute. “Too on the nose for a gender reveal?”
You take the clothes from him and shake your head. “No, it’s perfect.” You shimmy out of your silky sleeping slip and step into the panties before telling him with a poke to his chest, “You’re being cute today, Titus.”
“I reject that accusation outright,” he replies, reaching up to cup your tits before you put the bra on. He pinches your nipples cruelly just to be a bastard and laughs when you gasp and shiver. “I’ve never been cute before and I have no intentions of ever becoming cute.”
You step forward, closing the distance between you, and take his hands in yours. You guide his right hand to your tiny bump and lilt, “Try telling that to your baby, papa.”
Titus sighs and then bends down to kiss your belly before manhandling your arms into the bra straps. “Fine. But don’t tell anyone.”
You kiss the tip of his nose. “You know I never would.”
Titus rolls his eyes and finishes getting himself ready while you do the same. Then the two of you actually sit down together and eat a meal together, a fairly rare occurrence with his demanding schedule. He has one of his usual breakfasts: A rare steak, truffle scrambled eggs, and foie gras on toast. You’ve convinced him to lay off the seafood and cured meats for the sake of your sense of smell; otherwise, he’d have oysters, too, and smoked salmon or beef tartare or anything else that tastes like it was killed within the hour. Meanwhile, you pick at a truly lovely fruit salad, trying to combat the nausea, until Titus’ clear displeasure with your lack of protein convinces you to order an omelet.
Once you have only a few bites left, with Titus reminding you how proud of you he is, you hear his watch radio crackle on. Titus sighs and presses the receiver button to be greeted by a familiar voice. “Smith. I have Dr. Rubenstein at the main gate. Are you ready for her?”
“Bring her over,” Titus confirms. “Mrs. Danforth is finishing breakfast, but she can get set up.” He stands up so that he can meet Smith and the doctor at the door, turning to you with a stern expression you can’t help but find sexy. “Make sure to finish your plate, princess. You haven’t eaten enough the past few days.”
You roll your eyes, take another swig of orange juice, and half-teasingly agree, “Yes, sir.”
He smirks at your total lack of real defiance, takes you by the back of your neck, and plants a firm kiss on your forehead. “There’s my good girl. Come to the bedroom when you’re ready.”
“Mhmm.” Before he can leave, though, you take his hand and make sure he gives you a real kiss. He sighs into it, brushing your cheek with his thumb, and you feel his shoulders relax. You know how to soothe him without saying a word. When you pull back, you squeeze his bicep and remind him, “In a few minutes, we’ll know the sex. I can’t wait.”
That makes him smile. With a nod, he says, “Me neither.”
Then Smith knocks on the front door and you wave Titus away, pointedly taking another bite of your omelet to appease him. It takes you another few minutes to finish it, but you manage to and your stomach doesn’t even feel like a revolt by the time you’re ready to get up and join them for your appointment. As you hand off your dishes to the maid at the sink – Titus says you can leave them wherever you ate, but it still feels rude to you – you ask the chef, “Could you bring me a ginger tea whenever you have a chance?”
She smiles warmly. “Of course, Mrs. Danforth. You know you don’t have to ask so politely, dear.”
Shaking your head, you lightly tut. “You and Titus. I’m still working on being an entitled rich lady.”
She snickers and gets back to her work.
In the bedroom, Titus is grilling Dr. Rubenstein with questions the way he always does at the beginning of your weekly appointments. She’s a complete pro at assuaging all of his fears, not that he’d call them that. You’re grateful to have a doctor who knows how to manage Titus emotionally; it’s not an easy feat.
When you stride into the room, Dr. Rubenstein and Titus both snap their attention to you. It’s strange, always feeling like the center of Titus’ world, but you’ve gotten used to it. You close the distance between them and give the doctor a quick hug before sitting on your chaise, familiar with the routine by now.
Dr. Rubenstein chuckles as she puts on her gloves and prepares her ultrasound wand, “Eager to get started today.”
“Definitely,” you reply with a big smile.
You lift up your top and tug down your shorts as Titus materializes above your shoulder, perching over you like a hawk the way he always does. His firm hand rests on the back of your neck like a kitten he might need to scruff. It comforts you. Dr. Rubenstein touches the wand with its warmed gel (Titus insisted she get a bottle warmer the first time he saw you gently wince at the cold) to your abdomen and maneuvers it around for a minute. She taps at the keyboard, taking pictures of different areas, while you sit there nervously.
“No signs of any congenital abnormalities or any of the thirteen conditions my practice screens for at this stage,” she says, sure to make eye contact with Titus. “I don’t see any reason we’d need to do an amniocentesis; I know that was one of your concerns, Mr. Danforth.”
He nods tightly. “I wouldn’t want to do anything with unnecessary risk.”
“Of course not. Trust me: Baby looks perfect. Absolutely nothing to worry about right now besides keeping up with your vitamins, diet, and exercise. You’re both doing a phenomenal job with this.” Before she turns the monitor toward you, she double checks to be safe, “We’re finding out the sex today, correct?”
You nod eagerly, leaning forward as if it would give you a better look, and Titus confirms with one of his standard grunts.
“Okay, great. Baby’s in just the right position for us.” Dr. Rubinstein’s smile glows as she turns the ultrasound in your direction and announces, “You’re having a baby girl. Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Danforth.”
With watery eyes, you confirm, “A girl?”
“A healthy girl with ten fingers and ten toes,” she assures with a warm smile. “She’s the perfect size for this week, heartbeat is strong. Everything looks great.”
“I guess that means no TJ ,” you sniffle out, tenderly touching your belly once the doctor’s wiped away the warmed gel. You look up at Titus, blinking back the tears, and laugh softly, “We’ll have to come up with something to call her.”
But Titus is staring straight ahead, his jaw clenched, his eyes red at the edge. Trying hard not to cry.
Anxious at his lack of response, you reach for his hand, squeeze it to get his attention, and ask nervously, “Are you upset? I know you wanted a boy, but she’s healthy and she’s-”
“It’s not that,” he’s quick to assure. “Not at all.”
Dr. Rubenstein excuses herself to give the two of you some privacy. You tug Titus toward you so he’ll sit on the chaise next to you. Your fingers go into his curls and you murmur, “Then tell me what you’re thinking.”
For a minute, though he tries, Titus can’t speak. In fact, he’s not sure he’s ever known how to speak at all. What is he thinking? He couldn’t bear to say it out loud, to tempt it into existence. Because, before today, everything about your pregnancy was abstract. He could vaguely imagine what it might be like to parent with you, to raise another Danforth, to become a new type of family man. He felt what he assumed was love for his abstract child growing, yes, but it was more the principle of the thing.
Now, he’s thinking about having a daughter. A sweet, chubby-cheeked, pink little thing who looks up at him like he’s never going to hurt her. And that reality twisting up in his gut and yanking his throat into silence is the knowledge that he never could. His daughter will always be safe. Protected. Already, he can feel her weight in his arms. See her falling asleep on his chest as he rocks her to sleep. When he felt your new bump this morning, he was holding her already.
He swallows hard, presses a kiss to your forehead, and whispers the first truth he’s ever felt, “I’m happy, kitten, that’s all.”
You beam and tease, “Titus Danforth? Happy?”
He nods and cups your cheek. “Unbelievably so.”
In lieu of my ko-fi, please consider donating to my mother's long-term dementia care fund.
Mrs. Danforth - Titus Danforth x Reader
Chapter Four: Winner
As Titus Danforth's sugar baby, you don't know much of his secretive, wealthy lifestyle. But when he accidentally gets you pregnant with a potential Danforth heir, it's decided that you'll be joining the family. There's no manual as you're plunged into their world of extravagance and violence.
Chapter Summary: You and Titus find out the sex of your baby and he finds himself more and more enamored with you.
Tags/Notes: pregnant!reader, smut, piv, rough sex, creampie, dominant/possessive titus, hard cut to domestic fluff, ultrasound
Content: canon-typical rating
A/N: as usual this fic is fighting me!!
Word Count: 3.8k
That night, Titus has the best kill record he’s ever managed, his eyes sharp and his trigger finger precise. After the governor’s ball, it’s always a bloodbath, a bus-full of faceless inmates from nearby CTF brought in to celebrate. Father’s idea decades ago. What can he say? It helps with the prison overpopulation crisis, mitigates risk, and satisfies the blood sacrifices demanded from each of the council’s dynasties.
By the time Chip’s driving him to the Waldorf Astoria at two in the morning, you’re fast asleep and he has the blood of nearly a dozen men on his hands (and splattered over his clothes and face). His whole body is warm and loose and relaxed, a casual confidence coursing through his veins. This version of Titus would never tolerate being questioned by anyone. This version of Titus is entitled to the seat of power. This version of Titus could be loved by you. Imagine that. He certainly couldn’t have before tonight.
You barely stir in the California king bed when he comes in, giving him a content little sound as a greeting, just as he’d expected. He slips into the en suite bathroom, quickly scrubs the death from his skin, zips his clothes into the opaque dry cleaning bag, and walks naked toward the bed as he towels off his damp curls. Waking up more at the sounds of his moving around the suite, you sleepily greet him, “Welcome back, Titus.”
“Hi, princess.” He slides into bed behind you and greedily pulls you tight to his chest, pleased to find you in only a bralette and tiny panties. These aren’t your comfy pajamas; these are you sugar baby pajamas. The warmth of his bare body soothes you and you shimmy deeper into his embrace. In between kissing across your shoulders and back, he murmurs, “Not too mad at me for waking you up?”
“Definitely not,” you admit with a sly smile spreading over your lips. “I was trying to wait up for you, but I was lulled to sleep by the sweet sounds of a Survivor marathon on cable.”
Titus chuckles and runs his hands down your waist, one hand going lower to squeeze your ass. His mouth on your shoulder goes mean for just a beat, biting down right where your shoulder becomes your neck. As you gasp and instinctively roll your hips back to rub against his cock, he rasps, “And why were you waiting up for me, kitten?”
“Thought you might want to regale me with your tales,” you tease softly, still not quite awake as you feel him tugging down your panties. You move around to help him, thrilled with the way he immediately wraps his arm around your body to grope over your plush stomach, your coarse pubic hair, and ultimately to your thigh, which he pulls back to get to your clit. While he lazily touches you, savoring getting you wet slowly, you ask breathlessly, “Did you have fun tonight?”
Titus buries his forehead in your hair, smelling the bright and sweet hotel shampoo. He lets himself grind his hips forward, his cock fully hard now and leaking for attention. “Plenty.”
“Silly question,” you laugh. You reach up behind yourself, twine your fingers in his post-shower fluffy silver hair, and amend, “Did you win?”
That makes him grin, biting your shoulder as he finally lets himself wet his cock between your folds. “Of course I did, bunny.”
You bend slightly at the waist to give him better access to your pussy and sleepily ask, sounding all sweet and lilting and innocent, “Seems like you might wanna fuck me to celebrate.”
“Yeah, I think I would.” Voice hungry and low, he musters all his self control and adds, “But what you need comes first. If you want to go back to sleep, I-”
“Titus,” you interrupt quietly. Urgently. In a swift movement, you flip over, push him onto his back, and straddle him. His jaw clenches at you attempting to be dominant, the need to be in charge flickering in his eyes. He knows you’re baiting him, but he still can’t resist. You lean down, hover your lips half an inch from where he can reach them, and tell him seriously, lust dripping from your words, “I want you to fuck me like I’m your trophy. Like you own me. Fuck me because you’re a winner.”
Titus snaps. He snarls as he grips you by the waist and flips you onto your stomach. He tears your bralette off with an unapologetic rip that makes your heart stammer, its clasps flying in every direction. The moment you’re naked, he shoves his cock into you in a harsh thrust. Deep. Unapologetic. When his fat head hits your cervix, you gasp at the almost-pain. The intensity.
You try to get balance on your knees and elbows to get into a more standard doggy position, but he growls, “Stay still. I’ll decide how I want you.”
You let out a whimper as he yanks your hips back and shoves your head down into the pillow, forcing you to turn your face to one side. His thumb presses into the corner of your mouth, fish-hooking your lips apart until your skin burns. Your cunt clenches around him as soon as he has you completely at his mercy.
Sheathed deep inside of you, Titus purrs, “There you go. Good girl.”
And nothing ever feels better than his praise, so you smile, nestle into the pillow, and let your eyes flutter shut so you can focus on nothing but his cock pistoning in and out of you. He doesn’t even touch your clit, but it feels so fucking good. He knows your body. Knows how to take you. His cock massages you and your little cries and moans are the best music he’s ever heard.
Gazing down at your content expression, Titus coos, “Look at you. Taking it like such a perfect whore without asking for anything in return.”
With your brain quickly turning off, you squeak out, “You made me- Jesus. Made me cum three times already tonight. I want-” Your eyes roll back when his cock hits just right, making you feel so completely full. All you can manage is to groan out a version of what you’d been getting out, your voice desperate and moaning, “Use me. Want you to use me.”
The sound of your needy voice rockets up his spine and his thrusts pick up, chasing his release as he lets go of the pressure to get you to your own. “Yeah? That’s what you want, baby? Just to make me happy?”
You nod desperately and arch your back so he can slide in further, have a better view, grab you by the hips. Both his hands grab your waist, bruising hard, and the sensation of his roughness lets you go limp. Your brain softens up and you pull in a deep breath that loosens everything inside of you.
When he feels you going even more pliant, Titus becomes an animal. He bends forward and grips you by the tits now, his fingers cruel, and you let out a pathetic yowl. He just chuckles, “Sensitive?”
“Mhmm,” you whimper. Your breasts are beyond tender at this stage in your pregnancy, but the pain only makes your toes curl more. “Don’t stop.”
“Never,” he laughs darkly. His chest touches your back as he mounts you, a predator taking down its prey. Droplets of water from his shower prickle onto your neck, making you shiver in his arms, but you know he’s got you. His left hand drops down from your breast to your stomach, digging in, like he’s turned on by the idea of you being knocked up by him. He confirms your suspicion with a growl: “You’re so gorgeous like this. Carrying my family’s future. Letting me have you exactly how I need. Absolutely perfect. Perfect.”
You whine. You can tell how close he’s getting and you’re possessed by that knowledge. All he needs to get off is you. Your body, your expression, your soul. It feels like he’s eating you alive and you’re happy to be consumed by his gnashing teeth and flaming touch. His thrusts slow when his peak approaches. He edges himself through it, biting down on your shoulder, until he groans and buries his forehead against your skin, cum spilling out hard and fast and urgent.
Titus has to bite back ‘I love you’ as the endorphins flood him.
The morning of your anatomy scan, Titus wakes up before you. He still has his arms wrapped protectively around you, exactly how he’d positioned himself when he slipped into bed a few hours after you last night. In the calm white sun that filters through the sage green linen curtains you’d chosen for the bedroom, though, he notices something new.
The way your bare stomach sits against his fingers.
There’s a swell at the base of your abdomen that he swears he hasn’t felt before. A bump.
His breath catches in his throat as he clutches you closer. He splays his fingers over the soft hill of your belly and can’t even think for the adoration flooding his synapses. Praying you aren’t secretly listening to him being so gentle and vulnerable, he presses his forehead to the nape of your neck and whispers, “Papa loves you, little one. I promise you’re going to have the greatest life.”
You stir a bit, smiling as you wake to the sound of his gravelly voice, and coo gently, “Are you talking to the baby?”
“Caught red-handed.” He kisses your temple as you partially turn toward him. “I’m…practicing. I haven’t said ‘I love you’ in a very, very long time. To anyone. But I know that’s important for children and, well, Dr. Rubenstein said that the baby’s developing its ability to hear right now, and-”
“You don’t have to justify wanting to bond with your baby,” you tell him quietly as you turn onto your back. You take his hand and rest it on your little bump. “Go on; I won’t listen.”
“You can’t not listen,” he chides. But he doesn’t move his hand. In fancy, he gently strokes your belly with his thumb. He curls down onto your chest and murmurs, “We’re going to find out if you’re a boy or a girl today. We both think you’re a boy, but that probably means you’ll be a girl, doesn’t it? Danforths are always contrary and I assume you’re no exception.”
You snicker and twine your fingers in his lovely curls. Softly scratching his scalp, you add, “We don’t have to find out until they’re both, you know.”
“I’d agonize over it if I didn’t know,” he admits, nearly silent. Then, after a beat, he says, “I can’t wait to meet them.”
A slow, sleepy grin spreads over your lips. “Yeah?”
“I want to know what they’ll be like,” he goes on. You feel his breath on your bare skin. “It’s funny; I want to know the strangest things. If they’ll be quiet or loud. If their favorite color might be green or blue or yellow. If they’ll have red hair.”
“Mmm.”
“Falling asleep on me, darling?”
You force your eyes open and tell him seriously, “Definitely not. I’m never sleepy.”
“Says the pregnant woman who naps every day,” he teases as he sits up, planting a kiss on your forehead as he goes. “Dr. Rubenstein’s going to be here soon, bunny. Time for breakfast.”
You pout and flop onto your side, making absolutely no move to get up. “But my stomach hurts.”
“You know the rules,” Titus lilts. He stands up from the bed and you peek at his gorgeous toned back; he’s developed a habit of sleeping naked since you’re in bed together and you definitely don’t mind enjoying the view. Pulling the comforter off of you, he asks, “Does anything sound good? I’ll put in your order now.”
“Everything sounds terrible,” you whine. Gradually, reluctantly, you sit up, stretch your arms over your head, and stand up. You slink into his arms, dropping your forehead onto his shoulder. Titus immediately – it’s become an impulse, an instinct – encases you in his arms. He kisses the top of your head as you sigh, “Maybe some fruit or something to start. Settle my stomach. Then something heavier.”
“Good girl,” he soothes. He gives you a quick squeeze and then instructs you, “Go brush your teeth and wash your face. I’ll pick out something for you to wear.”
You nod gratefully and drift into the bathroom as you rub the sleep from your eyes. Titus likes picking out your clothes and you like letting him. Some small part of you knows this would sound toxic to your previous self, but you like how wearing what he picks makes you feel like his. It’s like he’s choosing armor for you to wear by his side as you go into battle together. It makes your role feel simpler, more integrated, more like you and not someone you’re trying to become. They’re all your clothes, anyway, just his selections.
Once you’re feeling a bit more awake with your floral face wash rinsed off and your mouth tasting like sharp mint, Titus slides into the bathroom behind you already dressed. He’s the picture of sex appeal in a white button down rolled to the elbows and tailored gray slacks. This is a lot more casual than he usually looks, especially with his hair softly moussed instead of gelled, and you want to eat him alive. He presents you with a two-piece set in baby blue, the front tied with girly bows, lots of delicate scalloped details around the hems. He also offers a charming pastel pink unlined bra and panty set, the right blend of comfortable and cute. “Too on the nose for a gender reveal?”
You take the clothes from him and shake your head. “No, it’s perfect.” You shimmy out of your silky sleeping slip and step into the panties before telling him with a poke to his chest, “You’re being cute today, Titus.”
“I reject that accusation outright,” he replies, reaching up to cup your tits before you put the bra on. He pinches your nipples cruelly just to be a bastard and laughs when you gasp and shiver. “I’ve never been cute before and I have no intentions of ever becoming cute.”
You step forward, closing the distance between you, and take his hands in yours. You guide his right hand to your tiny bump and lilt, “Try telling that to your baby, papa.”
Titus sighs and then bends down to kiss your belly before manhandling your arms into the bra straps. “Fine. But don’t tell anyone.”
You kiss the tip of his nose. “You know I never would.”
Titus rolls his eyes and finishes getting himself ready while you do the same. Then the two of you actually sit down together and eat a meal together, a fairly rare occurrence with his demanding schedule. He has one of his usual breakfasts: A rare steak, truffle scrambled eggs, and foie gras on toast. You’ve convinced him to lay off the seafood and cured meats for the sake of your sense of smell; otherwise, he’d have oysters, too, and smoked salmon or beef tartare or anything else that tastes like it was killed within the hour. Meanwhile, you pick at a truly lovely fruit salad, trying to combat the nausea, until Titus’ clear displeasure with your lack of protein convinces you to order an omelet.
Once you have only a few bites left, with Titus reminding you how proud of you he is, you hear his watch radio crackle on. Titus sighs and presses the receiver button to be greeted by a familiar voice. “Smith. I have Dr. Rubenstein at the main gate. Are you ready for her?”
“Bring her over,” Titus confirms. “Mrs. Danforth is finishing breakfast, but she can get set up.” He stands up so that he can meet Smith and the doctor at the door, turning to you with a stern expression you can’t help but find sexy. “Make sure to finish your plate, princess. You haven’t eaten enough the past few days.”
You roll your eyes, take another swig of orange juice, and half-teasingly agree, “Yes, sir.”
He smirks at your total lack of real defiance, takes you by the back of your neck, and plants a firm kiss on your forehead. “There’s my good girl. Come to the bedroom when you’re ready.”
“Mhmm.” Before he can leave, though, you take his hand and make sure he gives you a real kiss. He sighs into it, brushing your cheek with his thumb, and you feel his shoulders relax. You know how to soothe him without saying a word. When you pull back, you squeeze his bicep and remind him, “In a few minutes, we’ll know the sex. I can’t wait.”
That makes him smile. With a nod, he says, “Me neither.”
Then Smith knocks on the front door and you wave Titus away, pointedly taking another bite of your omelet to appease him. It takes you another few minutes to finish it, but you manage to and your stomach doesn’t even feel like a revolt by the time you’re ready to get up and join them for your appointment. As you hand off your dishes to the maid at the sink – Titus says you can leave them wherever you ate, but it still feels rude to you – you ask the chef, “Could you bring me a ginger tea whenever you have a chance?”
She smiles warmly. “Of course, Mrs. Danforth. You know you don’t have to ask so politely, dear.”
Shaking your head, you lightly tut. “You and Titus. I’m still working on being an entitled rich lady.”
She snickers and gets back to her work.
In the bedroom, Titus is grilling Dr. Rubenstein with questions the way he always does at the beginning of your weekly appointments. She’s a complete pro at assuaging all of his fears, not that he’d call them that. You’re grateful to have a doctor who knows how to manage Titus emotionally; it’s not an easy feat.
When you stride into the room, Dr. Rubenstein and Titus both snap their attention to you. It’s strange, always feeling like the center of Titus’ world, but you’ve gotten used to it. You close the distance between them and give the doctor a quick hug before sitting on your chaise, familiar with the routine by now.
Dr. Rubenstein chuckles as she puts on her gloves and prepares her ultrasound wand, “Eager to get started today.”
“Definitely,” you reply with a big smile.
You lift up your top and tug down your shorts as Titus materializes above your shoulder, perching over you like a hawk the way he always does. His firm hand rests on the back of your neck like a kitten he might need to scruff. It comforts you. Dr. Rubenstein touches the wand with its warmed gel (Titus insisted she get a bottle warmer the first time he saw you gently wince at the cold) to your abdomen and maneuvers it around for a minute. She taps at the keyboard, taking pictures of different areas, while you sit there nervously.
“No signs of any congenital abnormalities or any of the thirteen conditions my practice screens for at this stage,” she says, sure to make eye contact with Titus. “I don’t see any reason we’d need to do an amniocentesis; I know that was one of your concerns, Mr. Danforth.”
He nods tightly. “I wouldn’t want to do anything with unnecessary risk.”
“Of course not. Trust me: Baby looks perfect. Absolutely nothing to worry about right now besides keeping up with your vitamins, diet, and exercise. You’re both doing a phenomenal job with this.” Before she turns the monitor toward you, she double checks to be safe, “We’re finding out the sex today, correct?”
You nod eagerly, leaning forward as if it would give you a better look, and Titus confirms with one of his standard grunts.
“Okay, great. Baby’s in just the right position for us.” Dr. Rubinstein’s smile glows as she turns the ultrasound in your direction and announces, “You’re having a baby girl. Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Danforth.”
With watery eyes, you confirm, “A girl?”
“A healthy girl with ten fingers and ten toes,” she assures with a warm smile. “She’s the perfect size for this week, heartbeat is strong. Everything looks great.”
“I guess that means no TJ ,” you sniffle out, tenderly touching your belly once the doctor’s wiped away the warmed gel. You look up at Titus, blinking back the tears, and laugh softly, “We’ll have to come up with something to call her.”
But Titus is staring straight ahead, his jaw clenched, his eyes red at the edge. Trying hard not to cry.
Anxious at his lack of response, you reach for his hand, squeeze it to get his attention, and ask nervously, “Are you upset? I know you wanted a boy, but she’s healthy and she’s-”
“It’s not that,” he’s quick to assure. “Not at all.”
Dr. Rubenstein excuses herself to give the two of you some privacy. You tug Titus toward you so he’ll sit on the chaise next to you. Your fingers go into his curls and you murmur, “Then tell me what you’re thinking.”
For a minute, though he tries, Titus can’t speak. In fact, he’s not sure he’s ever known how to speak at all. What is he thinking? He couldn’t bear to say it out loud, to tempt it into existence. Because, before today, everything about your pregnancy was abstract. He could vaguely imagine what it might be like to parent with you, to raise another Danforth, to become a new type of family man. He felt what he assumed was love for his abstract child growing, yes, but it was more the principle of the thing.
Now, he’s thinking about having a daughter. A sweet, chubby-cheeked, pink little thing who looks up at him like he’s never going to hurt her. And that reality twisting up in his gut and yanking his throat into silence is the knowledge that he never could. His daughter will always be safe. Protected. Already, he can feel her weight in his arms. See her falling asleep on his chest as he rocks her to sleep. When he felt your new bump this morning, he was holding her already.
He swallows hard, presses a kiss to your forehead, and whispers the first truth he’s ever felt, “I’m happy, kitten, that’s all.”
You beam and tease, “Titus Danforth? Happy?”
He nods and cups your cheek. “Unbelievably so.”
In lieu of my ko-fi, please consider donating to my mother's long-term dementia care fund.
GIFSET REQUEST MEME | @fenharel asked → lord of the rings + favourite villain
The Lottery of Fate
18+ account - minors do not interact
titus danforth f!reader Word Count: 10.6K Rating: E
Summary: You return to the estate after learning Chester has fallen ill, and learn that the beginning of a new game is about to unfold.
Warnings: (SMUT MDNI 18+), professor reader, reader has sex with someone else (don’t yell at me), language, mentions of illness (cancer), death of a character (happens offscreen), sexual tension (so much of it), feelings, mutual pinging, so much yearning, (titus is soooo down bad for you), emotional argument, non-sexual intimacy, pet names, smutty thots (horny dreams), a boob grab (titus can’t help himself), softness, angst, grief, I think that’s it
A/N: This chapter takes the core lore and plot elements from the movie, but I’ve adapted them to fit the story I’m telling here. I’ve made creative adjustments where needed, so this isn’t a direct or fully accurate representation of the film’s events. Still, there are spoilers this time and some dialogue from the movie. GIF found HERE by @kaizsche. dividers as always by @saradika-graphics
Thank you for reading!! if you reblog with commentary i love you so much <3.
TWO MONTHS LATER – Manhattan, New York City
Your chest rose and fell in the dim glow of your bedside lamp, sheets tangled around your sweat-dampened legs. The ache between your thighs lingered—a satisfying throb from David’s (a professor in the Linguistics department) steady thrusts, his cock filling you just enough to push you over the edge. He actually had made you come, grunting as he chased his own release inside the condom, but your mind had wandered mid-fuck, flashing to Titus. You hated admitting that when you clenched around David’s dick, you were imagining Titus pinning you down instead, with his rough hands bruising your hips. Guilt twisted in your gut then, but you shoved the thought away.
The bathroom door creaked open down the hall. David was in there, as he stepped to the trash can, peeling off the used rubber with a wet snap. You heard the faucet run, him rinsing his hands, splashing water on his face. He was intelligent, attractive, and most importantly… he seemed like a normal guy. The date last week had been fine with witty banter over wine, and his fingers tracing your palm. You said yes to the date because after bolting from Newport, you buried yourself in work and your research… anything to forget about Titus and the chaos of the Danforth’s.
He padded back into the bedroom and smiled that easy, post-fuck grin.
"You okay? Want me to grab you some more water? I can stay a bit?" He sat on the bed's edge, hand grazing your knee, eyes hopeful.
Your stomach knotted. You usually didn't fuck on date two—scratch that, this was barely date two—but nothing felt right since Newport. You sat up, clutching the sheet to your breasts, nipples still pebbled from the cool air.
"Uh, this was fun," you said, voice cracking awkwardly. Your cheeks burned. "But I actually needed to work tonight. Need to do some grading."
His brow furrowed, but he nodded slowly.
"Yeah? Tonight?" he murmured, fingers trailing up your thigh, testing.
"Yeah," you replied, slipping out of your bed and grabbing your discarded panties from the floor. You tugged them on, then snatched a loose t-shirt from the chair, pulling it over your head. It hung to your thighs, and David's gaze followed every move, lingering on the curve of your ass as you bent over. He stood and stepped into his boxers, then his jeans.
"Maybe we'll do this again," he said, voice tentative, zipping up while watching you closely.
"Maybe," you echoed, the word souring on your tongue.
"Did I—" he paused, shirt half-buttoned, expression shifting to uncertainty, "misread this?"
"No," you said quickly, meeting his eyes. "I had a nice time. I just really need to grade some papers tonight. I’m behind."
David nodded, a small smile returning as he finished dressing. "Then, I’ll see you around, beautiful," he murmured, leaning in to kiss you, lips soft and lingering on yours before he pulled back. He grabbed his rain jacket from the hook by the door, gave you one last hopeful glance, then slipped out into the night.
The door clicked shut. Alone, you flopped back onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling. What the hell was wrong with you? David seemed solid with no red flags. Plus, he had fucked you to completion and left you sore in the best way.
You rolled over, and grabbed your laptop, but your mind drifted back to those intense hazel eyes. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, but the screen blurred, dissolving into that night. The conversation replayed like a wound you kept picking at, the memory still raw and bleeding.
"That's not possible," you whispered, shaking your head. "My mother wouldn't—she couldn't—"
Titus didn't flinch. He stood by the mantel, one hand resting on the carved wood, posture relaxed but eyes sharp as scalpels.
"She was protecting you," he said.
"Protecting me?" Your voice cracked, splintered. "I woke up with a concussion and spent years thinking I was losing my mind.”
Titus pushed off from the mantel, taking a step closer. "Your mother saw you with Celia and noticed the confusion on your face. She then saw Eleanor getting ready with her crossbow. And she knew—she knew—that if you saw what happened next, if you witnessed Celia die, you would never be allowed to leave this property alive."
"So she fucking hit me?" you said flatly, the words tasting like ash.
"She saved your life."
"No… she decided I didn’t deserve the truth."
"If that’s the narrative you prefer, because it makes you the victim… then that’s the fiction you can cling to."
"She stole years of it! You all did!" The shout tore from your throat. Your hands were shaking, fists clenched at your sides. "Do you understand what that did to me? The therapy. The nightmares. The way I couldn't trust my own memories."
Titus watched you with that patient, predatory stillness that made you want to scream. "She made a choice."
A bitter laugh escaped you. "A choice?"
"Yes."
You turned away from him, pressing the heels of your palms against your eyes until stars burst behind your lids. "And I was just… what? Something to manage? Something to keep quiet." You dropped your hands, spinning back to face him. "My mother was part of whatever this is. Why?"
Titus hesitated. "Because she was aware of the High Council."
"The High Council?" you repeated, incredulous. "What is that?"
"I can’t tell you," he said. "It’s not information you’re meant to have."
"But my mother was?"
"She was the housekeeper," he said. "Our staff knows our family better than most. That’s why we choose them so carefully." His hand lifted, fingers brushing your jaw, and you flinched away—but his grip was gentle, almost reverent. "You were safer not knowing. You are safer not knowing."
"Safer?" A hysterical edge crept into your laughter. "Nothing about this is safe. Nothing about your family is safe. And I'm tired of being treated like a fucking child."
His eyes darkened, something flickering there—frustration, maybe, or fury he was barely containing. "You’re letting your emotions make a spectacle of you."
"Oh, really? Well, I think you just see me as a fucking liability. Someone who might crack, might spill, and might ruin the carefully constructed lies you've all built."
"You're not a liability." His voice was low, rough, scraping against something raw in your chest. "You're the only person I've ever wanted to tell the truth to."
The words hung between you, heavy and impossible.
"But you still haven’t," you whispered.
He didn't deny it.
The silence stretched, filling with the crackle of flames and the pounding of your heart. You stared at the sharp lines of his face and felt something inside you harden.
"So," you said, your voice suddenly flat, hollow, "is this the part where you kill me?"
Titus's expression cracked. Shock flickered across his features, raw and unmistakable. "What?"
"I know about Celia. I'm a loose end, aren't I?" You forced a smile that didn't reach your eyes. "That's how this works. Witnesses get silenced. People who know too much probably disappear…right?"
He stared at you as if you'd slapped him. "You think I would hurt you?”
"I don't know what to think, Titus. You've lied. You've hidden things. You've let me drown in my own confusion while you, your family, and my fucking own mother stood by, playing chess with my life." Your throat tightened, but you forced the words out. "So tell me. Am I leaving this room alive?"
"Of course you are." His voice was barely a whisper, rough and wounded. "I would never—"
"Then I'd like to leave now."
You moved toward the door, past him, your shoulder brushing his chest. His hand caught your wrist, warm and calloused, halting you.
"Wait."
"Why?" You didn't turn around. "So you can explain more reasons I shouldn't trust you? So you can tell me how this was all for my own good?"
"Because I don't want you to walk away thinking I’m the reason you don’t feel safe.”
"I don't feel safe, Titus," you said honestly, finally turning to meet his eyes. "I can’t trust you."
His grip on your wrist loosened, fingers trailing down until they caught your hand, held it like something fragile. "Stay. Let me—"
You gently pulled your hand free. "Goodbye, Titus.”
You walked out and didn't look back.
And now, you were lying in a bed that smelled of a man who had fucked you while you imagined someone else, the weight of that goodbye pressed against your ribs like a blade. You closed the laptop, the screen clicking shut in the dim bedroom. The ceiling fan spun lazily above, casting shadows across the walls. Your throat burned with unshed tears.
Titus's face swam behind your eyelids.
Fuck.
You tried to crush the image, but it only sharpened. The way he looked when you pulled your hand free. The broken silence as the door clicked shut behind you.
Your phone buzzed on the nightstand. David's name lit up the screen: "Made it home safe. Hope you get your grading done. Let me know when you're free again."
You stared at the message. He was so uncomplicated, and yet your thumb hovered uselessly over the keyboard, no words forming at all.
Because how the hell could you explain that the only man occupying your thoughts wasn't the one who had just made you come?
You were deep into your reply to Dr. Adams in your office at Columbia, fingers moving quickly as you tried to finish the paragraph before you lost your train of thought. His latest email had been a goldmine. The scanned folios he’d attached, the annotated translations, even notes written in the margins of a manuscript from his own fieldwork on the ritual life of the Carolingian court. All of it had pushed your research forward in ways you hadn’t expected. You and he had been communicating for weeks, and he had provided you with several items useful to your work—particularly the liturgical diagrams (visuals) from the Aachen manuscripts and the comparative notes on royal procession protocols. You were just about to add a line thanking him for the digitized fragments of the ordo coronationis (formal script for how a king was crowned in the Carolingian world) when your office door slammed open.
The sudden burst of the office door swung open with a force that echoed off the walls, making you jump back in your chair.
"What the fu—" you began, and looked up to find Ursula looking you up and down, a smirk creeping across her lips.
"Wow," she said, surveying the room with a too‑wide smile. "Cozy little cave you’ve got here. Very… hostage‑chic."
Your pulse spiked. "Ursula, you can’t just—"
"Oh, but I can." She shut the door behind her with a soft click that felt louder than the slam. "You’ve been ignoring my calls. And my texts."
"I blocked you."
Her smile sharpened. "I noticed."
She took a step closer.
"I’m calling security," you said, reaching for your phone with shaking hands.
Ursula’s laugh was soft, delighted, and absolutely chilling. "Go right ahead." She tilted her head, watching you with predatory amusement. "You really think anyone in this building is going to drag me out by the elbow? Please. I’d love to see them try."
Your fingers hovered uselessly over your phone.
"You blocked me?" she repeated, "That hurts my feelings."
"Bullshit."
"You’re right. But…" she continued, smile returning, "I’m willing to forgive you. Because we have things to discuss. Important things."
"I don’t want to talk to you."
"That’s adorable," she said. "But irrelevant."
"Get the fuck out of my office," you yelled.
"No. I’m not fucking leaving," she growled. "Because you clearly don’t understand the situation, and Titus is too… Titus to explain it to you because he’s in love with you."
Love?
Your mind rejected it instantly, the comment was so absurd and transparently manipulative that it felt like she might as well have told you the sky was green.
"You really want to know what the High Council really is?" Ursula leaned in, voice lowering to a conspiratorial purr.
You felt a chill crawling up your spine, with a sense of dread that was hard to shake—but you still nodded.
"It’s six families—ours included bound by a pact older than this country. The pacts were made ages ago, with a being they call Mr. Le Bail. Satan, if you want to get biblical about it." She slid into the chair across from you, crossing her legs with casual elegance. "Years ago, one of our Danforth ancestors made a choice. He pledged his soul to Mr. Le Bail in exchange for power. Not just for riches or influence, but control over the very fabric of the world."
"Power in exchange for doing what for Mr. Le Bail?"
Ursula gave you a slow, knowing, almost pitying look. The kind someone gives when the answer is so horrific, so obvious, that saying it out loud would be redundant.
Your breath caught, the words sticking in your throat as your mind snapped back to that night—Celia’s shaking hands, her wild eyes, the way she’d whispered this fucking insane family is going to kill me, they’re hunting me. And suddenly it all aligned with a clarity that made you sick. Everything you’d ever studied, every theory you’d dismissed as too extreme, every instinct you’d had about the Danforths—it was all true. They weren’t just eccentric or secretive. They were part of a ritualistic cult bound by blood. And the exchange wasn’t symbolic. It was sacrifice.
A cold, hollow "Oh" slipped out before you could stop it.
Ursula’s smile was thin, brittle, and edged with something like sympathy. "Yeah," she murmured. "Oh."
You stared at her, trying to process the revelation. "So, all this time—these families, their rituals, the whole high society—it's all part of some ancient pact?"
"Exactly. And now, every generation of our family has to keep that deal alive," Ursula sighed, almost fondly, as if she were explaining something obvious.
"Religious indoctrination is a powerful thing, indeed," you muttered, trying to make sense of everything she’d just told you.
"Oh, spare me the dissertation tone," she snapped, clearly offended. "This isn’t one of your little philosophy debates where everything is a metaphor or a social construct. Don’t reduce this to belief or brainwashing. The pact is a fucking fact."
You opened your mouth, but she steamrolled right over you.
"Titus and I grew up watching what happens when someone breaks the rules. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. People die. The consequences are real." Her expression hardened, daring you to argue. "So don’t pretend this is just some fucking bedtime narrative… because trust me, the price for disobedience is blood."
The idea that their ancestor had willingly or unwittingly signed their lives away to a malevolent force was fucking crazy. The questions swirled in your mind—how much of what they did was out of their control? Were they just pawns, victims of their own history? Or were they complicit, knowingly or not? Because if they were just victims, then what did that say about free will? About morality? About the very nature of good and evil?
Ursula’s voice sliced through your thoughts. "Titus and I didn’t ask to be born into this mess, you know. We just were. It’s not like we chose this dark family legacy." She paused, then gave a small, humorless laugh. "But here we are, and we’ve got to live with it. Sometimes, doing bad things is the only way to survive. We’re just playing a game we didn’t choose." Her eyes locked onto yours, intense and unflinching. "So next time you think about the high‑and‑mighty Danforth’s, remember this: we’re just as trapped as everyone else. The difference is, I’ve stopped fighting it. I’ve accepted what we are. I’ve embraced it. Because we’ve been told our whole lives that it’s divine. That it’s destiny. And I’d rather rule my cage than pretend it isn’t there."
"So that’s it? You’ve decided to wear the chains because pretending they’re jewelry is easier? That’s not destiny, Ursula. That’s surrender."
"I’m not going to be judged by someone who lectures about philosophy and ethics from behind a desk that was essentially bought with Danforth money."
"Fuck you," you growled.
"You want to talk about chains? You grew up cushioned by privilege you didn’t even realize you had. Elite schools, elite circles, elite academia—courtesy of the very family you love to moralize about. So don’t pretend you’re above any of this."
The words hit harder than you expected... because they weren’t entirely wrong. Ursula rose from her chair in one smooth, decisive motion.
"Get up," she said. "You’re coming with me."
"I’m not going anywhere with you," you spat, heat rising in your chest.
"Father is sick."
"What do you mean, sick?"
"When he got back from his last trip, he started complaining about abdominal pain. Bad enough that even he couldn’t ignore it." She folded her arms, her voice flattening into something grim. "He finally saw a doctor. Then a specialist. Then another. Turns out it’s stage 4 pancreatic cancer."
Chester. Concern punched through you before you could stop it, and you hated yourself for it. But the truth was undeniable: he was the closest thing to a father you’d ever had. And the thought of him really being sick made your eyes water.
"Father would like to see you," Ursula said, already turning toward the door. You stood up despite yourself, and Ursula paused in the doorway, glancing back with a peculiar look.
"And you know…. he really is," she added softly.
You frowned. "He is what?"
Her smile curved, sharp and knowing. "In love with you."
It took a beat (one long… and stunned heartbeat) before you realized she was talking about Titus.
Titus lingered, watching you. He was caught off guard—he hadn’t even known Ursula was going to New York to bring you back to the Estate.And now here you were, standing in front of him in a soft cream blouse tucked neatly into high‑waisted charcoal trousers, the sleeves slightly rumpled, and a worn leather satchel still hanging from one hand like you’d forgotten it was there. You looked… hollowed out. Shoulders tight, jaw set, eyes that didn't quite land on anything for more than a second. You were here, but you weren't. And you damn sure weren't looking at him.
"Chester's been asking for you," Titus said, his voice bouncing off the vaulted ceilings, a little too sharp. "Which is surprising. Usually, he just asks for morphine and the remote."
You didn't answer. Just gave a tight nod and followed Ursula down the hall. Titus trailed after you, feeling like a stray dog hoping for a scrap of attention. Pacing himself. Trying to be cool and failing miserably. When you all reached Chester's room, the air was thick with the smell of old wood and medicinal ointment. He was propped up against his pillows, looking like a skeleton that had decided to outlive its flesh. But the moment you saw him, a genuine spark lit up your face.
Jesus Christ. Even dying, Chester was getting the look Titus was starving for.
"Child," he rasped, his voice a dry rustle. "You're here.”
Titus leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, trying to look casual while you crossed the room. You didn't spare him a glance. Just walked straight to his father’s bedside and took his gnarled hand in yours.
"Chester," you said, and the softness in a voice that hit Titus like a punch to the gut.
His fingers curled around yours. "I'm happy to see you."
You sat on the edge of his bed, and Titus watched your shoulders drop, just a fraction. Meanwhile, he was standing there like an idiot, waiting for a crumb of your attention.
"So, what did I miss?" you asked, trying to inject some levity. "Did one of the maids finally run off with the chef?"
Chester chuckled, a wet, rattling sound. "Always with the jokes."
"If one of the maids ever ran off with the chef, Ursula would drag them back by their hair. Both of them." Titus said. You finally looked at him. Just a flicker. A flash of something before you turned back to Chester. It was enough to make his chest ache.
God, he was fucking pathetic.
"If they ran off, I’d simply replace them before dinner. Some of us plan ahead," Ursula said, standing near Chester, hands clasped loosely behind her back. Then, Chester's phone buzzed on the nightstand. A low, insistent hum against the wood. He looked at it, his thin fingers trembling as he picked it up. The screen lit up, and he saw the group chat name: High Council.
Chester tapped the screen. And then, in a voice that had suddenly regained some of its old authority, he read aloud:
"Bride survived." He paused. "Le Domas family gone. The ball is in play."
The room went silent. The kind of silence that went under your skin and burrowed in. Titus looked at Ursula. She looked at Chester.
"No," Titus said, the word ripping out of him. "No, that's not fair. That's ours. The seat—it belongs to us."
"It doesn't matter," Chester said, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. "It's in the rules."
Titus felt the walls closing in. "Dad, please."
"Be a fucking man. You’re a Danforth. You know what you have to do, Titus," Chester hissed.
You pushed yourself to your feet so quickly that the mattress sank behind you. "Wait—what’s going on?" The words felt thin and unsteady, and you looked genuinely nervous (almost frightened), your fingers curling into fists as if you needed something to hold onto. Titus turned toward you, startled, as he realized you weren’t supposed to be involved in this or hear any of it. The look on your face, which was filled with confusion blending with fear and a slow dawning realization, made Titus feel bad. You didn’t fully understand what Chester was asking, not yet.
He swallowed hard, feeling the weight of this moment. He’d imagined it countless times—dreaded it, denied it, shoved it to the back of his mind. But seeing your reaction…your eyes darting between him and Chester, as if trying to piece together something he never wanted you to see. It made it all feel suddenly real in a way he wasn’t prepared for.
"You must win the seat back." Chester's voice cracked, but the command was iron.
Ursula stepped forward, her hand landing on Chester's shoulder. "We will. You have our word."
Chester nodded, a final, solemn gesture. "Then get on with it." He turned his face toward you, a faint, tired smile tugging at his mouth. "You and your mother never looked at us the way others do. You saw the human parts. Thank you. You’ve done right by us. Remember that, no matter what comes next."
Ursula’s hand clamped around your arm before you even realized she’d moved. One sharp tug and you were stumbling backward, away from Chester’s bedside, away from Titus.
"Ursula—wait—"
And then Ursula's grip tightened, and she was pulling you. Steering you out of the room. You twisted, trying to keep your eyes on Chester, on Titus, on the way Titus looked like he was about to break in half. He wasn’t looking at you… he wasn’t even trying to.
Something inside you snapped.
"Titus! Ursula—what the fuck is going on?!"
Your voice cracked, too loud, too raw, bouncing off the walls like a trapped animal. Ursula didn’t flinch. She didn’t even slow down. Then Pernella appeared out of nowhere, tall and severe, her silhouette swallowing the doorway. She took your other arm from Ursula with a grip that felt like iron.
"This way, miss."
"No—no, stop—what is happening? Titus!"
Your heels scraped against the floor as Pernella dragged you down, your breath coming in sharp, panicked bursts. You twisted, craning your neck, desperate for one more glimpse of the room you were being ripped away from.
"Titus! Answer me!"
But the door was already closing. The hallway swallowed your voice. And the last thing you saw was the shape of Titus still standing beside his father’s bed, still not looking at you, still holding the weight of something you didn’t understand.
Then the darkness of the corridor took everything else.
Ten minutes passed. Maybe fifteen. Time had lost all meaning by the time footsteps echoed down the hall. Two sets, each heavy with purpose. You turned toward the doorway just as Ursula appeared, heels clicking softly against the marble floor. Behind her, Titus emerged like a shadow pulled reluctantly into light—his face pale, his jaw tight, his eyes unfocused and distant.
Ursula stopped at the threshold, her heels stopping precisely on the edge. Titus lingered a step behind her, gaze fixed somewhere on the floor.
"Father has passed," Ursula announced.
The words landed like a slap. Your brain rejected them, scrambled to fit them into some framework that made sense.
"What?" you managed.
"Father is dead," she repeated, somber and unyielding.
You looked at Titus, searching his face, but he remained unreadable. Hands shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders slumped forward, muscles twitching in his jaw.
"No." The word escaped you, trembling, fragile. Then louder, almost desperate: "No—you killed him. You just—you killed your father."
Ursula tilted her head. "Well, he was probably going to die in a few months anyway. We just had to speed up the process."
"Speed up the process?" you echoed, voice rising with disbelief.
"It was necessary." She said it like it was obvious. Like she was explaining why you'd need to file paperwork before a business merger. "He knew the stakes. He understood."
You stared at her, mouth agape, struggling to find words or even breath. Your eyes darted back to Titus, who was still not meeting your gaze. Ursula shifted her tone, her words becoming clinical, businesslike.
"I'll notify the others to deliver the bride here by tomorrow. We'll need to prepare."
Titus didn’t respond, but he provided a slow, barely perceptible nod. Without another glance, Ursula turned and strode past you, heels clicking steadily down the hall. The sound faded, leaving behind only the crackling fire, the ticking clock, and the suffocating silence of everything left unsaid. Finally, Titus moved. He turned, slowly, and started walking in the opposite direction. You followed him, footsteps heavy behind him, before you managed to speak.
He heard your footsteps behind him before you said a word.
"Titus."
He kept walking.
"Titus, wait. Titus."
His strides lengthened. The hallway stretched ahead of him, endless and dark, lined with portraits of Danforth’s who stared down at him with painted eyes that seemed to know exactly what he'd just done.
"Titus, please. What the fuck just happened?"
Your voice cracked on the please. He heard it. Felt it somewhere deep in his chest, in the hollow space where his black heart was. But he didn't stop.
"Titus, you both just—you killed your father. And Ursula—she's acting like it's a Tuesday. What the fuck is going on?"
He reached the end of the hallway and turned a corner. You kept following; your footsteps were faster now, nearly running to keep up.
"Talk to me. Please. I just—"
He finally stopped, and you almost collided with his back, stumbling to a halt just behind him. For a long moment, he stood there, shoulders rising and falling with a breath that looked like it cost him everything. Then he turned around.
"Go fucking home," he commanded.
The words hit you like ice water. "What?" you managed, voice trembling.
"You heard me." His tone was low, flat, and dangerous in a way you’d never heard before. "Go home. Leave this place."
You felt your own face contort, anger rising to meet the shock. "I'm not going anywhere."
"Then you're a goddamn idiot."
"I don't care. Seriously, what the hell is going on, Titus?"
He stared at you. A long, heavy silence stretched between you, filled with the crackling tension of a room about to catch fire. Then he turned again and started walking, leaving you no choice but to follow. Your footsteps pounded against the floor, matching his stride step for step. He reached a door at the end of the hall (his room) and pushed it open without invitation. You stepped inside immediately, not waiting for him to beckon.
The room was dark, lit only by a single lamp beside an unmade bed. Books cluttered every surface, a half-empty glass of whiskey resting on the nightstand. The curtains were drawn tight, sealing out the world beyond, and Titus stood in the middle of the room, his back to you.
"I’m going to ask one more time…what the fuck just happened?" you demanded, your voice ringing off the walls. He didn't answer for a long moment. Then, slowly, he turned. His eyes were red-rimmed now, and his cold mask was cracking, revealing something raw underneath.
"The high seat," he said, his voice rough. "It's the jewel of power."
"What?" you echoed, struggling to keep up.
"The seat. The one my father held. It's the seat that—" He stopped, ran a hand through his hair, paced a few steps. "The High Council doesn’t technically have a permanent leader. It’s a seat that can be rotated. Think of it as a game."
"A game?"
"The game." He laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. "The one my father just lost. The one we've been playing for centuries."
Your mind spun, trying to grasp what he was telling you. "I don't understand." Titus stopped pacing, facing you fully this time. His eyes were dark, unguarded, and filled with something that made your stomach knot.
"The bride of Mr. Le Domas survived hide and seek tonight." He said the words like they were holy scripture. "Which means the entire Le Domas family is dead."
"Dead?"
"Yes." His voice was matter-of-fact. "And because they're dead now, the high seat is empty for the first time in a long time. My father has held the seat for decades, but now all families are in play. All of them can claim the seat."
"Okay," you said slowly, trying to find the thread. "So... you claim the seat. You win. Problem solved."
"It's not that simple."
"Why not?"
"Because the seat has to be earned. Through the game. Through—" He stopped, shook his head. "It doesn't matter. What matters is that Ursula and I can't lose this seat.”
"Why?"
"Because the high seat controls the council. And the council controls everything."
You stared at him, the weight of his words sinking in. "Everything?"
Titus met your gaze. "The world."
The world. The word echoed in your skull, bouncing off the walls of your mind, refusing to settle.
"Why the fuck do you need the world, Titus?" He flinched. Just a fraction, but you saw it. "Don't you already have everything? You're a Danforth. You have money and power. You're the son of one of the most influential families in—" You threw your hands up. "What more do you need?"
"You don't understand."
"Then make me understand!"
"I can't." His voice cracked. He turned away from you, walked to the window, pulled back the curtain just enough to look out at the dark grounds below. "You don't want to understand. Trust me."
"Don't tell me what I want."
"Then what do you want?" He spun around, and his voice was sharp now, cutting through the dim room. "You want to hear that I’m a monster? Fine. I’m a fucking monster."
"I want to hear the truth!"
"The truth?" He laughed, but there was nothing funny in it. "The truth is that my family sold their souls to a demon 600 years ago, and now I'm the one paying the bill. The truth is, my sister and I just had to kill our father to participate on his behalf. If I don't win that seat back, then what was this all for?" The words hung in the air between you, ragged and exposed. His chest heaved, trembling hands pressed flat against his thighs as if holding himself together was all he could do.
You opened your mouth, then closed it, then opened again, searching for something to say.
He shook his head, a sharp, jerky motion. "Go home." he whispered, broken and quiet. "Please. Just... go home."
He turned away from you, walked toward the bathroom, and closed the door behind him. A moment later, you heard the sink turn on. And then, quieter than the running water, a sound you'd never expected to hear from him… a sob, choked and muffled and desperately hidden behind the closed door.
You stood in the middle of his room, surrounded by his books and his whiskey and the ghost of everything he'd just confessed, and the tears came before you could stop them. Chester was gone and you barely had any time to say goodbye. This past summer, he’d been working nonstop, slipping in and out of the house. There hadn’t been enough time. There was never going to be enough time. Because you had been stubborn and pushed him away your entire adult life. You sank onto the edge of his bed, your hands gripping the sheets like they were the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth, and you waited in silence.
Suddenly, you realized that maybe… Titus wasn’t a monster. He was simply born into a system that made him do monstrous things.
The hot water had run cold ten minutes ago, but Titus hadn't moved. He stood there, palms flat against the tile, letting the last remnants of heat drip down his spine and swirl into the drain. Steam curled around him, and he watched it dissipate like everything else in this godforsaken house.
He turned off the water and stood there for another long moment. Maybe you'd finally taken the hint. Maybe Pernella had scooped you up and dragged you to a guest room. Maybe Ursula had done something worse. He grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his waist, not bothering to dry his hair. Water traced cold lines down his chest, his shoulders, the spaces between his ribs where he could feel his heart still pounding like an animal in a cage. Titus pushed the bathroom door open, bare feet on the cold floor, and stepped into the bedroom.
And there you were… sitting on the edge of his bed.
His heart stuttered, and he froze mid-step, one hand still on the doorframe, the towel hanging loose around his hips. The dim lamplight caught the curve of your shoulder, the line of your jaw, the way your fingers were gripping the edge of the mattress. Titus felt the weight of your gaze like a physical thing—traveling across the planes of muscle, and the water still beading on his skin. Your lips parted slightly, and he watched you catch yourself, watched that little furrow appear between your brows as you dragged your eyes back up to meet his.
"I asked you to leave," he muttered.
Your voice was quieter than I expected. "Ursula scooped me up in that private jet. I can't exactly go home."
He turned toward his nightstand, where his phone sat charging. "I'll ask Alex to fly you back. Give me five minutes to—"
"Can I just stay here tonight?"
The words cut through him like a blade, his hand hovering over the phone, and he turned back to you. You were looking at him, and he saw something in your eyes that he didn't expect. You didn’t look afraid.
"With you," you whispered. "Can I stay here tonight with you?"
The silence stretched as he could hear the clock ticking in the hallway and his own heartbeat, loud and traitorous. He noticed that your face was tired, and the shadows under your eyes were deeper than he had ever seen them. Your lips were full and slightly parted, and he could see the faint tremor in them, the way you were holding yourself together with sheer will. And your eyes. They were the kind of eyes that made Titus want to say things he had never said to anyone. That made him want to burn this whole estate to the ground and build something new from the ashes, just so he could see them light up in a world that wasn't cursed.
He swallowed hard. "Sure," he mumbled. "Sure, you can stay."
Inside, something dangerous and foolish was cracking open—a jolt of excitement, crisp and electric, surged through his veins. He walked past you toward the closet, his towel still hanging on by a thread. He pulled open the door and closed it to grab the first pair of boxers he found. Titus then stepped back out and reached for a t-shirt that was lying on a chair.
"Don't," you said.
He turned, shirt halfway over his head, and looked at you.
"You don't need to. I know you don't usually sleep in clothes."
"How do you know that?" he asked, letting his shirt fall back on the chair.
A small, almost-smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. "I pay attention." Then you stood up. And slowly you reached for the buttons of your blouse. He watched, frozen, as you unfastened them one by one. The fabric fell open, revealing the curve of your collarbone, the swell of your breasts beneath a simple black bra. You shrugged the blouse off and let it drop to the floor, then reached for the zipper of your pants. They slid down your hips, over your thighs, pooling at your ankles. You stepped out of them, and there you were—in nothing but your bra and underwear, standing in the middle of his room like the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.
It wasn't lace or silk or anything designed to seduce. It was simple, practical, and unassuming. And it was the sexiest thing he had ever laid eyes on. Because it was you. Because you were staying. Because you weren't running. Titus couldn't speak. He couldn't move. He just watched as you walked to the bed, pulled back the covers, and slid in. The mattress dipped under your weight, the sheets rustled, and then you looked at him, your head resting on his pillow with your hair fanning out behind you.
"You coming?"
He exhaled, unaware that he'd been holding his breath. Then he crossed the room—neither hurried nor hesitant, simply advancing toward you like a man who'd been lost at sea and finally seen shore. He slid into bed beside you, the sheets cool against his skin. You both laid there, side by side, staring at the ceiling. The space between you was barely a few inches, but it felt like a canyon.
"Titus?" Your voice was small.
"Yeah?"
"What do you and Ursula have to do tomorrow?"
The question hit like a stone in still water; ripples spread outward, dark and inevitable. He continued to stare at the ceiling.
"The bride," he said. "The one who survived. Either Ursula or I have to kill her. To keep the seat."
The silence that followed was worse than anything you could have said. It stretched and stretched, filling the room, pressing against his chest until he couldn't breathe. He wished he knew what you were thinking. He imagined you were probably deciding he was an evil person. That you'd made a mistake, staying. That in the morning, you'd be gone before he woke up, and he would never see you again. In a way, he was evil. He had known it for years. Titus had just gotten good at dressing it up in charm and self-deprecation.
Then you turned.
He felt the shift before he saw it—the mattress shifting, the sheets rustling. Then, your hand was on his chest, fingers tracing slow, delicate patterns across his skin…drawing circles, lines, shapes he couldn't name.
"I'm sorry about your father," you said.
He opened his mouth to say something—he didn’t know what, but it was probably going to be something deflective or dismissive. However, before the words could come out, you moved. Your arms wrapped around him, your body pressed against his, and your face was buried in the crook of his neck. For a long, terrible moment, he didn't move. He lay there, rigid, his arms at his sides, and his heart hammering against his ribs. He couldn't remember the last time someone had hugged him. Not a perfunctory embrace at a family gathering. Not a handshake disguised as a pat on the back. A real hug.
It had been years. Decades. Maybe never.
His arms came up slowly, hesitantly, and wrapped around you. He pulled you closer, his hand splayed across your bare back, feeling the warmth of your skin beneath his palm. Your breath was warm against his neck.
"I'm sorry," you whispered again. "I'm so sorry, Titus."
"Don't," his voice cracked. "Don't apologize. You didn't—"
"I know. But I'm still sorry."
"You know, in that Eternal Sunshine movie you made me watch, that one character said, 'Blessed are the forgetful.' I used to think forgetting was mercy. But after today… forgetting feels like drowning. And you—" He reached for you, almost without thinking. "You’re the only thing that makes it feel like I can breathe."
You laughed a soft, broken sound that vibrated against his chest. "You're quoting Kirsten Dunst’s character quoting Nietzsche while lying in bed with a philosophy professor the night before you have to kill someone?"
"I’m trying to distract myself."
"Clearly."
He felt your fingers resume their tracing on his chest, drawing lazy patterns along his collarbone, down his sternum, across the dip of his ribs, and he felt his skin tingle wherever you touched him.
"You constantly surprise me," you murmured.
"Oh yeah?"
"I’m just saying I never know what’s going to come out of your mouth next."
"Careful. Keep saying things like that, and I might start thinking you like me," he smirked, turning his face to look at you, and your face was inches from his.
"You know I like you," you whispered, your hand coming up to cup his jaw, your thumb brushing across his cheekbone. Titus didn't answer immediately because he wondered if you loved him like he loved you. Instead, he let his hand move from your back to your waist, his fingers splaying across the curve of your hip. Your skin was soft, warm, and alive. He traced the line of your waist, the dip of your spine, the swell of your hipbone.
"You're perfect," he said. "And I'm terrified."
"Of what?"
"Of what happens tomorrow. Of the fact that you're lying here, in my bed, and I don't know if you'll be here in the morning." He felt your body shift, pressing closer, and your lips brushed his collarbone, featherlight, barely a kiss.
"I don't know either," you admitted, pulling back and staring at his lips. "But I'm here now. And I don't want to be anywhere else."
"Don’t look at me like that."
You blinked. "Like what?"
"Like you want me to do something I shouldn’t." His eyes flicked to your mouth for the briefest second before he forced them back up. "I want to," he admitted, the words slipping out before he could stop them. "God, I want to. But it would hurt too much. Right?"
"You’re about to do something that goes against every moral principle I’ve ever believed in," you admitted. "I don’t know how to reconcile that. I don’t know how to make any of this make sense." His hand tightened on your hip, and his other arm wrapped around you, pulling you flush against him. He could feel every curve, every line, and every breath you took. "And I don’t know how to lie here with you and pretend I’m not… affected by you. I don’t know how to want you and still be the person I’m supposed to be… I don’t know how any of this works."
He understood what you were saying. Of course he did. He was many things, but he wasn’t stupid. He was on one side of the line, and you were on the other. If you crossed it, you would lose something you couldn’t get back.
"You can't be here tomorrow," he said, voice rough. "When it happens. You can't be in this house."
"I know."
"You have to leave. By noon. Alex can fly you back, but you can't—"
"I know, Titus."
He fell silent, realizing that words were useless anyway. Tomorrow was coming, whether he wanted it or not, and nothing either of you said tonight could change that.
"Will you hold me?" you whispered. He answered by rolling onto his side, pressing his chest against your back, curving his body around yours like a shield. His arm slid around your waist, pulling you close as his lips found the back of your neck, pressing a soft, lingering kiss there. Then his hand rested on your stomach, fingers spread wide, feeling the rise and fall of your breath. Your hand came up to cover his, interlacing your fingers.
"I've got you," he murmured. "I've got you."
And in that moment, it was almost true. In that moment, the world outside didn't exist. The High Council, the bride, the seat, the blood on his hands—all of it faded into white noise. There was only you, the warmth of your body, and the steady rhythm of your breathing as it slowed. His eyes were open in the dark, listening to you fall asleep. And for the first time in years (maybe ever), he felt something…
He felt peace.
Titus pressed one more kiss to the back of your neck, closed his eyes, and let himself drift.
The first thing you registered was warmth. Not the filtered morning light bleeding through the heavy curtains, not the distant sound of birds outside the estate grounds. It was him—the solid heat of Titus's body curved around yours, his breath slow and even against the back of your neck. You blinked awake, disoriented for a moment. Then you felt it: his hand, splayed across your ribs, thumb resting just against the underside of your breast
Your lips curled into a small, private smile. You liked knowing that even unconscious, his body was seeking yours out. The thought sent a pulse of warmth through your chest that had nothing to do with the blankets. You shifted slightly, testing, and his fingers twitched—tightening almost imperceptibly, as if afraid you would slip away. Your eyes drifted to the bedside clock. 8:02 AM. You laid there, suspended in the cocoon of his presence. The silence between your breaths felt sacred. His hand rose and fell with your ribcage, and you found yourself pressing back into him, fitting the curve of your spine against his chest.
That's when you felt it.
The ache.
It started low in your belly, a dull throb that pulsed between your thighs. You bit your lip, suddenly hyperaware of every point of contact: his morning wood curved into the swell of your ass, and his breath stirring the hairs at your nape. You wondered if Titus was the type of man who would kiss someone during sex, or would he bury his face in their neck instead, and just lose himself completely?
Your thighs pressed together instinctively, chasing friction that wasn’t there. The ache deepened. There was clearly something severely fucking wrong with you. The man had just killed his father and had probably killed more people than you could ever guess. And here you were, tangled in the aftermath of his grief and your own confusion, wanting something you had no business wanting. Your mind wandered further—to the fantasy you had earlier in your dream, the one where he woke you with his mouth between your legs. You pictured his tongue, deliberate and skilled, drawing sounds from you as he had on the golf course. You imagined the way he'd look up at you from there, with that smirk calling you his 'good girl.'
You squeezed your eyes shut, heat flooding your cheeks and your core. Then Titus shifted, and his hand slid and cupped your breast fully. His thumb brushed your nipple through the thin fabric of your bra, and you gasped softly, eyes flying open.
"Morning, angel," His voice was gravel and smoke, rough with sleep, and you felt the rumble of it against your back, causing your entire body to tingle in response. You turned your head, meeting his gaze over your shoulder. His eyes were heavy-lidded, a sleepy heat in them that made your stomach flip.
"Hi," you whispered. He didn’t move his hand. Didn’t apologize for touching you…he just held your gaze, his thumb tracing a slow, maddening circle around your nipple. The silence stretched, thick and electric. You stared at each other, neither willing to look away. It felt like an eternity—far too long for people who were supposed to maintain their distance. Yet, despite everything, neither of you moved. His pupils dilated slightly, and you saw his throat bob as he swallowed. There was a world of things unsaid in that gaze. I want you. I shouldn't. The yearning was a tangible thing, a thread pulled taut between you. You could almost hear the words he wouldn’t say, hanging in the air like smoke.
"Coffee?" you managed.
He blinked slowly, as if surfacing from a dream, a ghost of a smirk crossing his lips. "Yeah. Coffee." He released your breast, but his hand trailed down your arm as he sat up. You both dressed in comfortable silence, and you caught him watching you from the corner of his eye as you pulled your clothes back on. He was already in a dark button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair slightly tousled. He looked like fucking sin.
You walked out together, your shoulders nearly brushing. The hallway was quiet, the morning light slanting through tall windows. As you rounded the corner toward the grand staircase, his hand found yours. It was just his fingers sliding between yours, casual and unhurried, but the intimacy of it stole your breath. He didn’t look at you, Titus just held your hand as you descended the stairs together, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. You found Ursula in one of the dining rooms, seated at an ornate table before an elegant spread: fresh fruit arranged like art, delicate pastries dusted with powdered sugar, a carafe of what looks like freshly squeezed orange juice, silver pots of coffee and tea. The chef stood by at a nearby cart, plating something that smelled like butter and herbs.
Ursula glanced up as you entered, and her eyes immediately dropped to your joined hands. Her expression flickered with surprise, then with something unreadable. But she said nothing.
"Morning, Ursula," Titus said, his tone almost too casual. He pulled out a chair for you before sitting beside you, his knee brushing yours under the table.
"Good morning," Ursula replies, lifting her coffee with steady hands. "You're up early."
"You both have a busy day," you said, reaching for a pastry. Your fingers trembled slightly, but your voice was calm. "Thought I would get out of your hair soon."
Titus poured your coffee without being asked, and the chef brought over plates of eggs Benedict, perfectly poached, with hollandaise glistening. You took a bite, letting the richness melt on your tongue.
"So," Ursula said, setting down her knife. "How was the rest of your summer?" It was a loaded question, but she asked it lightly, so you smiled, playing along.
"Uneventful, for the most part. Mostly focused on my research." You took a sip of coffee. "You?"
"Business as usual." She gestured vaguely.
The conversation flowed, stilted but warm. Ursula and Titus asked about your work and the fall semester, which had just started, and you asked them about their latest hotel acquisition. It felt almost normal—as if a woman wasn’t due to arrive by helicopter soon to die.
Partway through, Alex appeared in the doorway, phone in hand. He nodded at you, then addressed Titus. "I can fly her out whenever. Just say the word."
You raised an eyebrow. "I appreciate the offer, but Charles can drive me to the airport. I don't need a private jet."
"Let me buy you a flight," Titus said quickly.
"I already bought one. Earlier, when I stepped away to use the bathroom." You took a sip of coffee. "It leaves at 2:32. But I'll leave before noon—grab lunch with Charles somewhere."
Titus frowned, that stubborn set to his jaw. "Alex can still—"
"Titus." You cut him off, amused. "It's a two-hour flight to Manhattan, not a transatlantic crossing. I think I'll manage in economy."
He looked like he wanted to argue, but you pressed on, a sarcastic edge creeping into your tone. "Besides, I've experienced how Alex flies. I'd rather not arrive with my stomach in my throat, thanks."
Alex laughed, unoffended. "Fair enough." Titus's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Breakfast was winding down, and Ursula stood, smoothing her skirt. You rose too, catching her arm gently before she could leave.
"Ursula," you said quietly. "Can we talk?"
She stiffened, and her eyes scanned your face. For a moment, you thought she would refuse, but she sighed, allowing the faintest crack in her armor.
"Walk with me."
You fell into step beside her, leaving Titus at the table. The two of you drifted into the adjacent hall, morning light pooling on the marble floors.
"I'm sorry…about Chester," you whispered, your heart clenching.
Ursula stopped, and she stared at a painting on the wall—a muted landscape, all grays and greens. "You don't owe me apologies." Her voice was clipped, but softer than you expected. "For the record, Father adored you… in his own catastrophically dysfunctional way. I suppose I’m grateful you were with us during his final moments."
You opened your mouth with tears forming, but she lifted a hand.
"Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’m not about to get sentimental. God forbid."
"I guess this is goodbye, then."
"I guess it is." Then she exhaled, long and tired. "Take care of yourself."
"You too."
"For what it’s worth," she added, voice dipping, "I hope I do see you again. Even if it’s not soon. But, given our track record, I’d say 12 years is a safe estimate."
Before you could respond, she walked away, and you watched her go, a lump forming in your throat.
An hour later, you were ready, and Charles had the car waiting for you. You stood at the door, the morning sun warming your face, when Titus appeared beside you. He held out the envelope you had handed to Chester all those months ago.
"I think Father would have wanted you to read this." You took the envelope, fingers brushing his, and your mother's handwriting stared up at you.
"Titus..." you said, feeling your throat constrict. You didn’t know what to say, so instead, you stepped forward, cupped his face, and kissed him. It wasn't gentle. It was desperate and hungry—a collision of all the things you couldn't say. Your mouth moved against his, and he groaned, pulling you flush against him. His hands tangled in your hair and your back, gripping you as if you were the only anchor in a storm. You tasted coffee and longing; you tasted him. When you broke apart, you were both breathless.
"Be safe," you whispered.
He smirked, that arrogant glint returning. "Worried about me?"
"Annoyingly, yes."
"I'll be fine. Just..." he brushed a strand of hair from your face. "I’ll see you soon."
You both knew it was a lie… because you didn’t know when (or if) you’d see him again. You didn’t know what would happen to him, or to you…so you didn’t promise anything. But you didn’t say goodbye either. You slid into the car, the letter heavy in your hands, and heavier still in your heart. Charles met your eyes in the rearview mirror, then quickly looked away, as if he’d seen too much already.
As the car pulled away, you watched Titus step back, hands slipping into his pockets, watching you with a look that said everything neither of you dared to. You sank into the leather seat, the envelope heavy in your hands, the taste of Titus still fresh on your lips. The car pulled away from the estate's iron gates, and you watched Titus recede in the side mirror—that raw adoration in his hazel eyes lingered, a phantom touch against your skin.
Charles cleared his throat quietly. "Airport, miss? Or did you want that food first?" You barely heard him while your fingers traced the envelope's seal.
"Miss?" Charles prompted again.
"Brunch. Somewhere quiet." Your voice came out huskier than intended. The ache between your legs hadn't faded—it had transformed into a hollow longing, a pulse that beat in time with Titus's name. You could still feel his hand in your hair, his tongue sweeping against yours, the possessive grip on your waist. The car hummed as Charles navigated the winding roads, and trees blurred past, dappled with sunlight flickering across your lap.
You unfolded the letter.
The paper was aged and slightly yellowed. Your mother's looping script filled the page:
Chester, I’m sorry I quit. I know you’re angry, and you have every right to be. But my daughter has been begging me for years to leave. The secret I’ve had to keep from her has strained our relationship, even if I pretend it hasn’t. She doesn’t bring it up anymore, but I know Kip’s wedding changed the dynamic of our relationship. I’ve never been able to be completely honest with her. What kind of mother does that make me? Probably a terrible one. I never told her about your world because I didn’t want her exposed to the darkness. And I’ll admit, a part of me is relieved to hold on to the truth alone. Even though it hurts. Even though it has built a wall between us. Because if keeping her in the dark means keeping her safe…then I can live with being the one who carries the burden. I only ever want what’s best for her. That’s why I accepted the job with your family in the first place. I knew it would give her access to a world I could never have given her alone. Maybe that was wrong of me. But I would do anything for her. Anything. She may never understand my choices, but I still believe I did the right thing. She’s grown into everything I hoped she would be: accomplished, self‑sufficient, and stronger than I ever was. It’s all I ever dreamed for her. And even though I have no right to request this from you… I’m begging you that if something ever happens to me, you’ll look after her. She’ll fight you on it. She’ll pretend she doesn’t need anyone. But I’m asking you to be the person who doesn’t walk away from her, even if she pushes you away. If I’m gone… she’ll need someone who sees past the armor she wears. Please send the kids my love. They both have visited my new place. You must tell Titus he has to stop sending me money. The other day, I found out he paid off my mortgage for my apartment in Bridgeport, and he’s still sending me more money. I cannot accept this. Also, I know Ursula is behind the cleaning service that suddenly started showing up once a month. And the groceries that appear on my doorstep every week? She claims it’s a 'subscription error,' but I’ve never subscribed to anything in my life. I don’t deserve this kindness, but I’m grateful for it all the same. Take care of yourself, Chester. -Your friend
Your vision blurred, the words were still there, ink bleeding slightly at the edges where your mother's hand had pressed too hard. You pressed the letter to your chest, breathing through the tightness.
She loved you more than anything.
You thought of all those years you had spent resenting her. All the unanswered questions, the cold silences, the way she'd deflect when you asked about her work at the Danforth estate. You thought she was ashamed, and you thought she was hiding something because she didn't trust you. You thought of the apartment in Bridgeport, the one you had just recently sold with the realtor. The faded furniture, the stack of books by her armchair, the way she'd light up when you visited—even though you only came twice a year. She never complained. Never asked for more. And all this time, Titus and Ursula were taking care of her. Paying off her mortgage. Sending cleaning services and groceries.
I would do anything for her. Anything.
You thought about the choices she made. The secrets she kept. The darkness she shielded you from, even when it meant building a wall between you. She sacrificed your closeness to keep you safe and give you a better life.
Something settled into your bones, cold and certain because you realized that you didn’t want to be protected from the darkness. Or the Danforth's. You thought back about your philosophy lecture. That one class, where you stood and asked your students:
"Would you sacrifice a person to maintain wealth, status, or influence?"
And now, sitting in this car with the letter pressed against your chest, you realized the question was incomplete. Maybe…you wouldn't sacrifice a person for wealth. Or status. Or influence.
But for love?
You thought of Titus. The way he looked at you this morning, like you were the only thing in the world worth protecting. The way he held your hand while walking down the hall, as if he was anchoring you without saying a word. The way he kissed you goodbye, like he was willing to burn this whole world down to keep you safe.
You thought of Ursula. Her gruff affection, her sharp tongue, and the way she pretended not to care about you, even though she did. How she always made sure people treated you as their equal—cutting off anyone who spoke over you, correcting anyone who dismissed you, and silencing anyone who underestimated you with a single, unmistakable warning in her eyes.
You thought of Chester. The way he tried, in his own flawed, fractured way, to protect the people he loved. He was the person who taught you things without ever sitting you down to teach them. Someone whose disappointment could level you, not because he was harsh, but because he believed you were capable of more.
You thought about your mother. She was a mystery you spent years trying to unravel, and yet, beneath all of it, there was an unconditional love you had for her that you couldn’t explain. It was a love that ran deeper than explanation.
You thought of the bride… the one who was supposed to die today. And you realized with a clarity that should have terrified you but didn’t… that you didn’t care.
You didn’t care if she had to die.
You wanted Titus and Ursula to win the High Seat. You wanted them to keep their position because that would mean that the world would be theirs. And if that meant a stranger's blood was meant to be on the floor, if that meant another secret would need to be buried beneath the estate's ancient stones—
Then so be it.
Masterlist l PART 1 | PART 2 | You’re reading part 3 l PART 4 (coming soon)
Part 4 really will be the end. Probably. Maybe. Don’t quote me.
This story grew far beyond what I originally intended. I thought it would be a simple two‑part piece, but the more I wrote, the more it became clear that it needed space—especially to explore the history behind the twins. They didn’t choose any of this. They are the result of decisions made generations before them, shaped by a legacy they never asked to inherit.
I’m sorry this story keeps dragging me (and you) along for the ride, but apparently I have no self‑control when it comes to tragic men, dark legacies (cough - generational trauma in families), and morally complicated dynamics
Also, Titus was softer this chapter, but don't let him fool you. He will be feral for reader in the final part. THERE WILL BE A HAPPY ENDING <3
Oh shit, I completely forgot to do my taglist when I posted this earlier - people who interacted with part 2 or requested to be tagged:
Please reblog with commentary if you enjoyed <3
@need-more-fics. @writtenbyhollywood. @fictionallystable. @domesticblisss. @affabletimelady. @crwoissant. @lllaineee. @mina2000alex. @pullingattheroots. @shesaidshemight. @thatfanficstuff. @savemefromanepicoftimewasted. @jadegrey711. @flawssy-227. @thecursivej. @bubblite. @spideystar. @badwolfvexa. @anocious. @weirdowithnobeardo. @kaseynsfws. @fanfictionhore. @memeorydotcom. @badwolfvexa. @inkninja-4. @shesimplydoesnotknow. @jupiterslullaby. @jadegrey711. @cliffsideileen.
CLEAN SLATE
PAIRING ➩ andrew ‘pope’ cody x reader
WC ➩ 3k
SUMMARY ➩ pope struggled his whole life to make connections, until he walked into your wax shop
AUTHORS NOTE ➩ Well… my friends got a little carried away with the headcanon of Pope falling for his wax girl and I took one for the team and made it a reality
Pope couldn’t stand the smell of a doctors office.
He hated the bright lights that always seemed to be buzzing a noise nobody else was bothered by, the constant shuffling of feet and strings of words overlapping from room to curtain divided room.
He’d avoided appointments at all cost and Smurf had stopped enforcing them a long time ago, as soon as the doctors started to suggest getting his mental health evaluated almost everytime he was sat on the uncomfortable squeaking leather.
It was almost the same level of hatred he felt towards that feeling between his legs when his shaved hair would start to grow back. Too prickly and quick to irritation, no doubt worsened by his shaky hands and awkward angles while shaving.
He’d heard Nicky and J mention the concept of waxing in passing, complaining about her bikini line to the younger boy who seemed less than interest in the topic. He didn’t pay much attention to it at the time either but then it was time of week to shave again and for a moment he thought about it.
There were four shops before he found yours, the first three he walked out of almost immediately. Either too busy or using those same bright lights the hospitals did, sterile smelling chemicals that burned his nose or an obvious show of recognition on the employees face.
It couldn’t be anybody who knew him and that seemed to be almost everybody in Oceanside.
The fourth he actually managed to go through with the appointment but he could almost feel the whispers as he stood and paid after, shifting uncomfortably in place from the new type of burning sensation beneath his jeans.
If they didn’t know who he was at the start of the appointment then they definitely had realized at some point and his stomach turned a little knowing they’d seen something so intimate. He left with a gruff thank you and spent the next few months trying to forget it had ever happened, scorning the idea.
But it was hard to ignore the fact he’d only felt the sensory calmness he was looking for during the brief few days post appointment, smooth in the controllable way he couldn’t achieve with just his leg propped up in the shower and a razor.
So he tried again.
Your shop was noticeably different right from the first few steps in the entrance, a small wind chime above the door to announce his arrival instead of one of those obnoxious pitchy bells.
The building was tucked between a few others, a vape shop and some old shoe leather cleaner he was almost positive was a front for something else, but it somehow managed to keep out the negative energy of the neighborhood.
You had all the windows open which allowed both the breeze and the smell of the ocean to filter through and mix with the handful of non abrasive smelling candles and incense.
It reminded him a lot of his own small house tucked away by the sea, barren of any real warmth and decoration but still containing that large window he found himself sitting at when he couldn’t sleep.
You’d greeted him warmly, hands and body moving busily around the shop that you so clearly were running by yourself. You seemed a little overwhelmed even though it was completely empty outside of you, him, and a bored looking almost teenage girl sitting behind the front desk as she flipped through a magazine.
He wondered if you were just starting up and then wondered how long you’d been wanting to do this, what it took to get where you were because the location might have been questionable but it was clear a lot of time (and money) had gone into the small space.
Then he decided he was already managing to be weird considering you were blankly staring at him and waiting for him to answer whatever you had presumably asked while he was looking around and racking through questions in his mind.
Your face was still kind and overly patient in the kind of way that made his skin crawl, like you thought he was possibly slower to processing than a regular person.
“What?” His voice was harder than he had meant for it to be and he was sure his face tightened in the anticipation of you being patronizing.
Luckily it never came, your body language just as relaxed and welcoming as it had been since he walked in. He watched as you set down the handful of things you were carrying and took a few steps closer, his body tensing a little as his fingers tapped against the side of his legs.
“Did you have an appointment?” Your voice was somehow even softer than he thought it might be even though your image wasn’t misleading at all.
Pope waited a few seconds before shaking his head, lightly embarrassed that he had forgotten to make an appointment.
He had stopped doing it online after the first two times, realizing putting his name down on the form probably wasn’t helping the weird stares he got. Andrew may not hold much weight with people compared to Pope but Cody certainly did.
“Well that’s fine.” You gave him a reassuring smile like you could sense the inner turmoil, smoothing your hands out into your back pockets and rocking on your toes for a second. “I have plenty of availability.”
The appointment went smoother than your initial introduction and he was slightly thrown by how easy it was when it was you doing it.
You’d ran into a few awkward instances where you tried to keep a conversation going and he failed to reply in an appropriate amount of time, planning out a response in his mind but not being able to get it out before you’d clear your throat and change the subject.
He realized that was something you did often the more he came to see you, talked to him to fill the silence even though you didn’t seem sure if he was even listening.
He barely looked at you when you were between his legs even though he appreciated how detached you seemed to be from the fact he had his pants around his ankles ninety percent of the time you were around eachother. You’d never know based off of how calm and normal you always were as you spoke about random things.
When you weren’t working on the hair below, shifting around with your wax cart or shuffling through the cash register to give him change he always tried to deny, then he’d let himself look. He wasn’t too socially inept to think his stare wasn’t as unnerving as so many people, his brothers included, would tell him.
But you didn’t seem to mind.
Sometimes you’d meet his eye and seem a little taken back by the intensity in his gaze but then you’d smile softly and look back down like you were giving him the space and permission to burn holes into your head.
You were nice, unbelievably so, and he spent weeks waiting to see a crack in the facade but it never came.
The feeling built in him and by the time he realized what it was, it was already too late. He had known your schedule for days at that point, making sure you were never there alone too late at night without his truck parked across the street and he’d already had a less than pleasant conversation with the handful of homeless that haggled customers outside your window.
He understood what it was around the time he realized he was probably going to see you too often, light irritation where hair used to be and a slightly surprised look on your face when he’d show up again.
He didn’t want you to have to tell him you couldn’t wax him again so soon, so he looked into your other services.
Pope was suddenly walking around with perfectly filed nails and his pores the cleanest they’d been since he hit puberty. Sometimes you’d laugh when he booked another random appointment, he’d tense up and prepare himself for you to call him out for how obvious he was being, but you never did.
He halfway figured it would be stupid for you to turn down such a dedicated client but you never accepted his big tips so he let himself believe just for a moment that you enjoyed seeing him too.
It was a constant battle with himself to not scare you, to push himself to give you replies in conversation even if it was just a single word or a nod of acknowledgment.
Sometimes you’d go quiet and look a little far away like you were embarrassed by the one sided conversation and that rejected look on your face made him far too sick to let it continue.
You’d told him in passing when your flowers outside died that you liked orchids best so he left four pots near the doorway the next weekend.
One time you scolded your sister, the bored teenager at the front desk, while he was waiting to be called back. Your voice was hushed but the most distressed he’d ever heard you as you lectured her about how dangerous her old beater car was. He changed her wavering tires to brand new ones while she was at school.
He spent an entire appointment staring at the way one of your drawers full of aftercare materials was leaning just to return an hour before you closed with his toolbox.
“Andrew.” Your eyes widened a little like you were startled to see him, humming too loud to hear the chimes as he entered the lobby. “Is something wrong? Does it feel okay?”
You’d done his eyebrows earlier that day even though it technically wasn’t a service you actually offered but he was running out of ways to be pampered and you seemed excited to try something new. Your smile had been so big when he agreed to let you experiment on him that he probably would have been okay with you shaving them off completely.
“No.” He said gruffly but you were already walking closer to him and letting your hand come up to his face, slowing when he flinched back slightly but still rubbing your thumb over his eyebrow bone. “Everything’s fine.”
You spent a lot of time touching him for cosmetic purposes but his neck felt warm at how causally you’d done that.
It seemed like you had only just noticed the toolbox he was gripping, eyes flickering down and then back up to his face with furrowed eyebrows.
“Andrew it’s okay I can hire somebody.” You said softly with a shake of your head like it genuinely bothered you to inconvenience him.
“I’m already here.” He replied and he felt a surge of relief when you sighed in defeat and acceptance, his logic sound.
You stepped back to let him lead the way since you weren’t even really sure what he was trying to fix, standing in the doorway with your arms crossed over your chest as you watched him approach the cabinet and fall to his knee to inspect it.
“I’m paying you for this.” You said lightly and he scoffed, both at the idea of you giving him any money and the way you sounded when you tried to be firm. “Andrew seriously.”
“Give me a discount next time I… get whatever.” He waved a dismissive hand at you even though you both knew he would pay you far more than necessary for any thing he got done at his next appointment.
It was different to be alone with you in the building after hours, the bigger lights turned off allowing your various lamps to fill the space with a warmer tint. The sun had started setting and it was one of those nights he figured you’d stay late and he’d be stuck across the street in his truck to make sure you got home safe.
You seemed less inclined to make conversation now that you weren’t on the clock and had finished a whole day of work but you stayed in the room, watching him in a silence that felt comfortable.
He was surprised when you softly announced you’d close up early once he finished fixing the drawer (and three more little things he noticed on his way out). You both stood out on the sidewalk as he waited for you to finish locking up the door, turning to face him before you paused.
Your eyes drifted down and he watched your face for a few extra seconds before he was following your line of sight, tensing when he noticed you were looking at the flowers.
“Thank you.” You whispered and you were back to looking at him fondly.
It could have been your thanks for the maintenance work he’d done but he knew better, could see it in your eyes that you’d been aware he was the one giving you random gifts.
He hummed in acceptance, not able to bring himself to verbally tell you it was no problem at all.
You’d waved at him as you pulled off and he had to stand there for a long few minutes extra before he was able to pry himself off the sidewalk and across the street to his truck.
The next appointment Pope had, you were actually busy. It wasn’t uncommon to see a person or two leaving as he entered or waiting around when he finished up but he’d never seen the half dozen women currently inside, most of them surrounding the front desk you were standing behind.
You looked a little frazzled and his hands clenched around his seatbelt as he removed it, wondering if they were hassling you about something.
One of the three women glanced outside and seemed to notice him, posture stiffening. She wasn’t at all shy about the way she pointed her thumb over her shoulder in his direction and your eyes followed, still bothered in a way that made him sick.
Then you also tensed at the sight of him and now he really felt close to throwing up.
He didn’t recognize the women, he never did know the people who would sneer at him on the street or move away from him in restaurants, but it was clear they knew who he was and now they were making it their duty to inform you.
When they finally left, two of them went into the yarn store three buildings down and he realized they’d probably seen him coming in and out. Maybe even caught him coming by late at night to make sure your windows were tightly locked and leave fresh flowers biweekly.
Pope had every desire to get back into his truck and leave, never come back and pretend the connection he had built with you was nothing. It probably was nothing because you were just doing your job and he was the one coming by twice a week to waste his money and stare at you blankly.
His jaw tightened and he was moving to open his door back up when he looked at you through the window one more time, freezing when you met his eyes and gave him a soft smile.
It wasn’t quite the same as your usual ones, a little empty and struggling to meet your eyes but you still smiled and tilted your head like you were confused why he was still out there.
He waited to see the fear on your face, the understanding of who he was and what he had done.
He wouldn’t be able to stomach lying to you and he was sure the rumors could be exaggerated but most of it was true, some things still hidden that were most likely ten times worse than the average old lady could gossip about. If you asked him about what he did he’d either have to lie or disappoint you and he couldn’t do either.
But he also couldn’t bring himself to leave when you were standing there so clearly waiting for him to come in and prove those women wrong, to show you he was just the nice guy who helped you around the store and had a habit of being freshly waxed.
So he swallowed any inch of self assurance he had left and went inside, the chimes sounding unusually loud and chirpy.
He didn’t go as far in as he usually did, not approaching you behind the desk counter or going further into the waiting room. His frame was tense by the glass door, his hands curling into fist repeatedly but stopping when your eyes flickered to the movement.
He didn’t want you to be afraid of him if you weren’t already.
“The flowers were beautiful this week.” You say softly and the shattering of the silence is less painful than he expected, maybe because how warm your voice still was. “Thank you.”
He froze at the unexpected casual comment before he was nodding in acknowledgment, feeling the weight of it being the first time you directly admitted you knew it was him.
You sighed at how tense his posture still looked like you were disappointed he wasn’t able to go back to normal, walking around the counter slowly like you were afraid to startle him.
“Old ladies they… get so bored.” You continued moving until you were right in front of him and his jaw clenched when your hand was touching right above his elbow, ducking your head to try and meet his eyes until he finally flickered them up to yours. “They talk.”
You were clearly making excuses for what you had heard and he wasn’t sure if you were naive or just didn’t care about what they said to you.
He wondered how bad it was, if they’d even been able to fully convey just how rotten he was. Because you were so clearly still looking at him like you thought he was the opposite.
He didn’t get a chance to ponder over it for too long and he was sure he’d live in delusion with you if that’s what you were wanting to do, tell you the truth when you asked but keep his mouth shut otherwise. It was a bit pathetic but your hand rubbed up his arm and he decided pathetic wasn’t such a bad thing to be if it meant you smiled at him the way you were right now.
“Maybe next time let’s go pick them out together?”
