s

🧂 INFJ stay mad, stay mystified - peepaw

[crow--teeth]

fuck it [decomposes]

[fellshish]

feeling guilty over not working on your fic is so silly if you think about like why are you stressing over the hobby you do in your free time for fun lol wip not whip

[st-kitten]

life has been hell lately and i just sit and stare at my laptop screen 😭 but i will do it. (im also sick with cold and a possible fever so i might just pass out on my keyboard)

[macabrebatz]

Look at my stupid fuckass satanist husband

[st-kitten]

y/n when she pummelled him into the ground in tlgdd

[st-kitten]

the last great demented dynasty XXII

titus danforth x y/n

previous part | next part | chapter index

a/n: throughout the chapters, certain songs will be mentioned at the beginning or after a partition. the music is chosen mostly for the vibes and the melody. if the lyrics align, yay. if not, play along. but i highly recommend listening to the songs on loop for its section if you're a 'take-your-time' reader. idk, the music just adds some oomf to it.

summary: the hunt is near, but are you prepared?

warnings: f. receiving, fingering, new character introduction ;), mention of blood, body harm, heavy physical activity, titus chasing us around, m. receiving, blowjob.

the morning after your wedding, titus—your husband, though lesser he seemed—also took on is role as your personal weighted blanket. he was completely deadweight, sprawled across half your body with his face buried into the crook of your neck, absolutely dead to the world.

but it was hard to complain when he was that warm.

you lay there for a while, staring up at the canopy of his ridiculously large king sized bed. you twisted the obsidian ring on your finger.

"titus," you mumbled, nudging his boulder shoulder. "moveee. you're suffocating me."

he simply let out a low dragon's grumble. his grip tightened around your body, his bicep right under your chin. "no. you're my wife now. stay still."

"yeah your wife still needs to breathe." you poked his stubbled cheek and he opened one eye. "and don't celebrate too soon. we still have one more game left."

nope. he was still unwilling to move, anchoring you to the mattress. "so?" he mumbled, his voice thick and raspy.

"so. my marrying you only works if we actually win the game. all my wins are yours now, but we don't have the council high seat yet. we're not safe."

he shifted his weight, burying his face deeper into your neck and rubbing his rough stubble against yoru cheek in a lazy, scratchy show of affection. "we'll win, baby."

"titus, im serious!" you sighed, squirming around a few times till you could face him. you patted his cheek not so gently, trying to force some life into him. "wake uppp"

oh your husband did NOT like that. titus danforth whined—with a deep-chested pouty sound—and curled himself further into you.

"child," you said with a roll of your eyes.

"wife," he murmured into your jaw.

"idiot."

titus finally obliged, answering you with his eyes still half-shut. "it's juts a game of hide and seek, baby. nothin' scary."

"uh. no. that is a lie and you know it. i heard from kip," you said, shoving at his chest. "your version of hide and seek is basically a human hunt."

that did it. titus finally opened both eyes, a wicked smirk spreading across his face as the last remnants of sleep vanished. he looked entirely too pleased with himself.

"well, if kip's mouthy ass already told you, there's no point in downplaying it," he murmured, his fingers tracing a lazy line down your spine.

"it's the great danforth hunt. all council heads would have to play. and since ursula and i are twins, we count as joint heads. and..." he leaned in, nipping lightly at your jawline. "since you're my new, perfect bride, you have to play too."

titus pressed kisses to the column of your neck. his hands roamed up and down your body till they settled between your legs, squished between the damp warmth under the blanket.

mouth hot and wet, he sucked your neck, coaxing soft sighs from your lips as his hand cupped your sex, fingers rubbing slow circles. you arched into him in response. he let his hand slide in probing your slick folds, groaning as he felt you get wetter and wetter.

you whimpered happily.

he circled your clit with the pad of his thumb, while his fingers carved out more pleasure from your heat. he dug his other arm under you to grip your hips, your ass.

the slow languid movements of his fingers did more wonders that you thought. it felt like walking down the aisle to euphoria once more. feeling you start to quake and pant heavily, he rubbed his fingers just perfectly.

"that's itttt," he purred in your ears. "give in, baby, let it go."

your body listened to him so well, back arching and breath sucked in as you came ever so obediently over his fingers with the softest of moans.

"gonna wake me up like that everyday?" you asked, coming down your petit mort.

"every morning. and night. anytime of the day, mrs danforth." he pecked your lips once. hw withdrew his fingers from your still-quivering sex, bringing them to his lips to taste your cum.

you couldn't help but smile at how proud he was to call you that.

you walked down the cold stone corridor towards the basement. titus had his arm looped tightly around your waist, pulling you into his side as he casually explained the finer details of how you might die in the final game without preparation.

"there are no rules against weapons," he mentioned, like some restaurant menu. "in fact, it's recommended. there's more than just finding people, baby. you have to render your opponents completely incapable of playing further. or, you know, dead."

"just your average danforth picnic then," you sighed. you'd seen death more than the average 20 something person, and you'd taken lives. those facts always followed you wherever you went. you hadn't found it in you to embrace it fully, but neither could you deny that without it, you wouldn't have made it this far.

"exactly," he smirked, kissing the top of your head. "the arena is the entire estate. the manor, the private casino building, the woods, the moors—everything. vehicles are allowed, phones, drones, whatever you can get your hands on. it's a 'go all out' kind of game."

"so sebastian will have a weapon too," you addressed the obvious.

"uh huh. but he's perfectly huntable now," titus smirked, somehow entertained by the idea of torturing your father, hell he was looking forward to it.

you reached the armoury, which was the first of many places in the massive manor you hadn't actually seen yet. the heavy steel doors swung open and entered the vault. it had absolutely everything. one wall was covered in sleek, modern handguns and long-range sniper rifles stright from some army warehouse. the next rack held short daggers, throwing knives, tactical bows, and arrows. but the further you walked in, the weirder it got. there were full-blown medieval weapons lining the back walls—maces, broadswords, battle axes, and even a bloody iron maiden sitting in the corner like a casual piece of furniture.

"welcome to the family toy box," titus murmured, stepping up behind you and resting his hands on your hips.

"right...," you muttered, staring at a spiked morning star hanging from a hook. "what's all this then?"

"we don't just pick our gear, y/n. in this house, the weapons choose us," said ursula who was already there, standing beside the lawyer.

you were a little beguiled by the whole 'weapons choose us' concept. you had never hunted anyone in your life—you'd never had the reason, nor the complete lack of morality required to do so. but doing it with a weapon that allegedly had a mind of its own? what kind of forces would possess someone to do that?

"what do you mean weapons choose us?" you asked, looking between the two twins.

ursula smiled.

"when titus was born, an 18th-century pure iron executioner's axe fell from its hooks in the gallery and decapitated a servant. pinned her neck right to the rug. so right from the beginning, that axe has been titus' weapon for all hunts."

she leaned back, explaining further as if she were talking about childhood toys. "i was five when the family's greener sidelock shotgun burned hot inside the safe. it cooled down only when i touched it. so it chose me."

your face morphed into a mixture of heavy disbelief and reluctant curiosity. what on earth was wrong with this lineage?

"for father..." ursula chimed, "a spartan spear appeared right in his hand during a thunderstorm."

"that's a joke, right?" you flat out refused to believe it.

"do i look like i joke?" ursula asked, her voice dropping into all deadpan seriousness and no play.

you did your best to take the absurd information in, rubbing your temples. "so what, am i supposed to wait for a knife to spawn up my ass?"

"come on, try it," titus murmured, his chest pressing against your back as his breath tickled your ear. "just let your hand hover over the racks. see if anything... speaks to you."

you rolled your eyes, feeling completely ridiculous. you walked down the nearest aisle, waving your hand dismissively over a series of ancient, blood-stained swords. nothing happened. you felt like a total idiot.

"nothing is happening. titus, maybe i'm just boring."

but the moment the words left your lips, the concrete floor beneath your boots trembled. the walls began to rumble.

from the aisles right behind you, knives, steel claws, and heavy iron knuckles began to clatter, slide, and fall off their magnetic mounts, as if something massive were completely displacing the gravity in the room.

the lawyer, who had been standing quietly to the side with his heavy ledger open, snapped his head up. his eyes, usually dead and unreadable, went incredibly wide. he turned slowly to look at titus and ursula, his expression bordering on genuine horror.

"you kept it?" the lawyer hissed, his voice trembling with an emotion that sounded remarkably like fear. "you actually kept that thing in the estate? seriously?"

titus just shrugged, though his grip on your shoulders tightened, his lazy demeanour tensing into protectiveness a little. "it was up for grabs. i wasn't going to toss it into the furnace just because it has a bit of an ego."

ursula was the only one who looked genuinely astonished, her arms crossing tightly over her chest as she took a step back. "titus, that's insane."

"what is happening?" you demanded, stumbling slightly as the vibration increased. the sound of shifting metal was deafening now. screeching and clanking coming from far back in the vault. "what is that thing?"

the lawyer let out a heavy sigh, closing his ledger with a sharp thud. "greed, mrs. danforth."

he looked at you, his eyes suddenly dead serious. "please. hold your dominant arm out."

"my... my left?"

"do it," titus commanded. his voice dropped a whole octave, completely losing all its playful warmth.

you held out your left arm, your fingers shaking slightly in the cold air. from behind the heavy, reinforced steel door of the inner vault at the very back of the room, you heard it: thud. thud. thud. it sounded like something massive and enraged was trying to shoulder its way through solid metal.

"titus?" you called out, your voice thin and panicked. you reached back with your other hand, grabbing his sleeve and anchoring yourself tohim.

then, the steel vault door shattered, literally buckling outward under a ridiculous amount of force.

in a flash of blinding, incandescent light—crash, boom, crackle, slice—a blur of sharp metal sliced clean through the air of the room.

it was a sword, forged of solid, radiant, shimmering gold. it didn't fall to the floor; it floated, dancing through the space like a bird, the metallic whoosh of its movement cutting a draft through the silence. it circled you once, then twice, the golden edge humming with archaic power.

you froze, unable to breathe, staring right at the glowing blade as it suddenly dissolved into a liquid, shimmering band of pure light. it swirled around your left forearm, burning with a cold, firm pressure before sinking directly into your skin.

you gasped, dropping titus' hand to immediately clutch your arm. when you pulled your fingers away, the physical blade was completely gone. there lay just a band of gold around your arm.

titus watched like a man witnessing a miracle. "well," he murmured, his large thumb reaching down to trace the new, glowing line on your skin. "now i'm jealous."

"what the hell is this?" you demanded.

the lawyer, looking remarkably impressed for the first time since you’d met him, adjusted his glasses. "that... is none other than the archangel sword. rumoured to have belonged to the archangel michael himself."

"shut the fuck up, that's not true," you snapped, shaking your arm as if you could just fling the ink off.

"i said rumoured," the lawyer replied smoothly, not a single hair out of place. "but the sword is indeed a remarkably powerful relic. sentient, even. it possesses a will of its own."

ursula rolled her eyes hard, crossing her arms over her chest. "i tried to wield that damn thing when i was sixteen. every time i picked it up, it literally greased itself up and slipped out of my hands. wet fucking fish. but it chose her?"

titus looked keenly proud, a chuckle vibrating in his chest as he stepped up behind you. his large hands came to rest on your shoulders, his chest pressing against your back. "my wife has impeccable taste."

"why... why did it choose me?" you asked, your voice dropping as you looked between the three of them. your heart was still hammering against your ribs. "i'm not a danforth by blood. i don't even like swords."

"it has its reasons," the lawyer said, lifting his pen to meticulously log the entry into his heavy leather ledger. "whatever they may be. by law, you are now the rightful and sole possessor of the archangel sword."

"we call her archie," titus murmured right into your ear, his breath warm against your neck.

"archie?" oh the absurdity of it all. "you named a legendary, celestial weapon of mass destruction archie?" as if the sword had actually heard its nickname, a sudden wave of warmth pulsed through your forearm.

"try it out," titus encouraged, his grip tightening on your shoulders with eager anticipation.

"how?" you asked, looking down at your empty hand. "it's literally a tattoo right now."

the lawyer didn't even look up from his ledger as he answered. "simply think of wielding her, and she will materialise. you can flick your hand if you wish to assist the momentum."

you swallowed hard. taking a step back from titus, you cleared some space in the centre of the armoury floor. you closed your eyes, took a breath, and focused entirely on the heavy, solid weight of the golden blade that had just circled you. you bent your left arm at the elbow, focusing your mind, and then flicked your wrist straight out.

with a quiet, sharp shing, an arc of white-gold light tore from your skin. the sword sliced cleanly through the empty air, lengthening instantly in your grasp. the golden hilt sat perfectly sturdy in your palm, balanced so flawlessly that it felt weightless, like an extension of your own bone.

you stared at the glowing, razor-sharp edge of the blade, completely breathless.

"HOW!!??"

♬⋆.˚ skyfall; adele

two days later, you found out exactly what titus meant by training. there was no slow, encouraging introduction to swordsmanship; the man essentially threw you into the deep end of the pool with a kiss blown.

"close your eyes," he told you on the first morning.

when you did, he tied a thick, black silk strip over your face, effectively plunging you into total darkness.

for the next forty-eight hours, the estate became a frustrating, disorienting obstacle course. he didn't start you in a gym. instead, he dragged you by the wrist into different rooms of the manor, out onto the damp grass of the grounds, and down into the sprawling, empty halls of his private casino building. you stood there, blind, cold air crippling down your spine.

the objetive was simple.

"where am i, baby?" his voice would rumble from somewhere in the dark. "point archie."

you'd flick your wrist, the weight of the golden sword materialising instantly in your palm, its sharp hum vibrating up your arm. you had to rely entirely on the shift in air pressure, the sound of his heavy leather boots, or his breath, his call, or his cologne.

you were standing somewhere that smelled intensely of old cedar and floor wax—likely one of the unused guest wings.

"stop moving so much," you muttered, your ears straining against the silence. "i can hear your knees cracking, old man."

"i'm standing completely still, sweetheart," his voice drifted from the left. or maybe the right. it was bouncing off the high ceilings.

"lock, in bestie, come on," you muttered to yourself, gripping your sword.

you turned your heel, tilting your chin up. you felt a sudden, tiny draft against your right cheek—the barest displacement of air. you lunged, thrusting the golden blade straight out.

clank!

the flat side of titus' iron axe met your blade, deflecting it.

even blindfolded, you could hear the smug, condescendingly soft chuckle in his chest. he was close now, his warm breath blowing against your ear.

"closer," he murmured, his hand coming up to gently tap the tip of your chin with his knuckles. "but if i were sebastian, my axe would be through your ribs by now."

"i'm blindfolded, danforth. give me a break," you said, though you did correct your footing, pulling your shoulders back.

"none of them care, y/n," he replied calmly. "they'll cut your throat in the dark, take a picture with your corpse and sell it."

a shiver ran down your spine.

"so, again," he whispered softly. "find me."

the more you tried, truly the more you honed your skill and trusted your senses.

the frustration melted away into a quiet, hyper-focused buzz. you reached a flow state, your ears tuning out the background noise of the house and locking entirely onto the specific rhythm of titus' movements.

when you finally transitioned from the manor walls to the open grounds at night, that was when everything locked into place. you stopped thinking and second guessing everything, you just moved.

you reached a state of pure, untethered instinct. your intuition took over entirely, creating a body harmony so impeccable that the training transformed into a dance. you moved around the dark woods on the damp, cool grass, guided only by the silver moonlight filtering through the silk over your eyes and the sensory map in your head.

your movements became weightless. you didn't stomp or stride; you glided. you dropped low, your boots barely whispering against the turf as you executed smooth, sweeping lunges to swipe at titus' legs.

your hands and arms moved with the fluid, fatal elegance of arabesques, carving beautiful, lethal lines through the night air. the curl and circle of your wrist wielding the golden sword was so precise that the blade barely even made a sound—just a faint, rhythmic swoosh that died as quickly as it was born.

you were entirely in tune with the weight of the metal and the pull of the earth. you spun, your heel catching a root, but instead of stumbling, you used the momentum to pivot, driving the point of the blade upward to stop exactly beneath titus' chin.

"fucking hell," titus breathed, his chest heaving against the cold air just inches from the golden tip.

to you, it was a sudden, intense tryst with your own survival instincts.

to him? it was like watching his own katherine zeta-jones in the mask of zorro.

you could practically feel the heat of his gaze through the silk blindfold. every time the blade found him, and the praise he showered on you was nothing short of a crown.

"look at you," he murmured, his voice thick with a sort of arrogant, possessive pride as he gently caught the flat of your blade between two fingers, guiding it down. "absolute perfection, mrs danforth."

he reached behind your head, untying the knot and letting the black silk slip from your face.

"you're a natural huntress," he grinned, leaning down to press a firm, lingering kiss to your knuckles.

♬⋆.˚ let the world burn; chris grey

the next phase of the training was entirely about survival. facing someone down and holding your own with a blade was one thing, but avoiding a conflict altogether was another beast entirely. you didn't know how your opponents would act once the restraints were off—when they had weapons in their hands and nothing but blood on their minds.

so titus decided to show you exactly what that looked like. he set you free on the edge of the moors and told you to run.

you'd been chased by him before, back when you were his beautiful plaything, but you very quickly realised that those instances had only been a pathetic percentage of his actual strength, stamina, and speed. back then, he'd been playing with his food.

you started off at a steady, rhythmic jog, thinking of it like a high school track practice, pacing yourself for the long distance. but within barely five seconds, the absolute wild bull of your man closed the gap. the sheer speed of his massive frame was terrifying. before you could even pivot, a heavy, iron-grip hand clamped down around your upper arm, spinning you around and bringing you to a harsh, staggering halt.

he didn't smile. there was no teasing smirk. he looked down at you with a cold, furious intensity that made your breath catch.

"do you think this is a joke, y/n?" he scolded, his voice dangerously low, "you want to get killed out here? hm? mauled to death?"

"titus, i was just pacing my—"

"the only thing stopping me from actually ending your life right here is the fact that i love you," he interrupted, his grip tightening just enough to anchor you, his face inches from yours. "the fact that i am your husband and i would kill to protect you. them? nothing is stopping them. absolutely nothing. it is going to be ten of me coming for your pretty neck, sweetheart. you better fucking run. i mean it."

you took it seriously after that. the next time he set you loose, you didn't pace yourself. you ran until the cold air turned to glass in your throat and your lungs rattled inside your chest, begging you to halt, but you didn't dare slow down.

the moors and the woods were the easy parts. out there, space was infinite, and there was always another shadow to duck into, another tree line to break your silhouette. the real hell began when the training moved indoors.

the manor and the private casino became a labyrinth of traps. you had to sprint through narrow, blind hallways, navigate sudden culs-de-sac, and hurtle down steep stone staircases that practically waited for you to trip and break your neck. but the worst was the subterranean underbelly of the estate—the deep, dark, blue-lit tunnels that ran beneath the foundations

titus chased you down relentlessly. he didn't coddle you, and he didn't hold back his mass. he used every dirty trick a hunter knew to stop you in your tracks. he grabbed your hair to jerk you backward, yanked your arm until your shoulder popped, tripped your ankles from under you, and slammed you hard against the brick walls. hell, he slammed himself against you to stop you dead in the tracks, tackling you to the ground hard.

but every single time he caught you, the brutality instantly vanished.

before you could even process the impact, those same cruel, calloused hands would cup your face tenderly. his thumbs wiped away the grime, the sweat, the involuntary tears pricking your eyes and leaned down to press soft kisses to your forehead.

"again," he'd whisper against your skin, before giving you a ten-second head start into the dark.

it was a cunning twist of fate, and a deeply unflattering way to spend a honeymoon. your joints ached, your skin was mapping out a constellation of purple bruises, and a part of you absolutely hated the raw, physical pain of it.

but as you lay catching your breath on the cold concrete of a blue-lit tunnel, staring up at the vaulted ceiling, the gravity of what he was doing settled deep in your chest. this was life or death. the council heads weren't going to play nice, and titus was actively breaking his own heart by bruising you just so they wouldn't get the chance to kill you.

logically, he didn't need to do this. he was a danforth. he could very easily let you die in the arena, take over the game himself, win the high seat anyway, and marry some other pretty, compliant high-society girl next month. but he wasn't doing that. he was putting his own monstrous nature to work, fighting with you, for you

if that wasn't an act of pure danforth love, you didn't know what was.

you fell down to your knees for the hundredth time that night, looking up at him with your chest heaving violently. your lips were bloody and parted, your throat raw as you tried to suck in as much air as your lungs could possibly hold.

titus towered before you, looking down at you darkly.

he wasn't even breathless. his massive chest rose and fell in a slow, perfectly controlled rhythm. his muddy blue shirt was stained with sweat, sticking to his bulging muscles. he looked entirely detached from humanity—a monolithic predator standing over a broken piece of prey. the sheer size of him seemed to swallow up what little light remained in the corridor.

his fingers trailed along your jawline, and his thumb collected the blood dripping from your bruised lip. he licked it off, a taste he could never get enough of.

"so pretty, baby..."

you knew his mind was a slithering snake in black mud when he looked at you like that. spotty goosebumps tensed across your skin as his palm gripped your head, tilting it back. he had on a wicked smile, arousal written all over it.

"your obedience turns me on. you running away from me in fear... turns me on."

his bulge strained against his pants, right in your face.

you loved it when he wanted you unconditionally, wanted you when you were reading or rambling about something academic, or when you were naked, asleep, when you were trying to be wanted. but knowing that he also wanted you, afraid and trembling, hanging between life and death...

you leaned in, heavy on the eye contact, and bit his zipper. you draaaaged it down with your teeth and earned a chuckled.

"good girl."

once you managed to get the zipper down, he pulled out his hard cock, stroking it slowly as he gazed down at you with a mix of lust and sadism. he pressed the tip of his dick against your lips, smearing pre-cum across them.

your bloody lip only made his glistening cockhead redder in colour, and harder in real time.

"fuck..." he hissed.

with a sudden jerk, he shoved his cock deep into your mouth, not caring about the pain it might cause given your current state. he thrusted once, twice till his size eased in wetly. he moaned as he watched you wrap your mouth around his cock.

"such a good little cocksucker, aren't you? taking my dick like it's your only purpose in life."

he was going languorously, to prolong the feeling of your mouth on him.

but for god knows what, the masochist in you let your teeth graze against his veins and he snarled in pain.

his palm cracked against your cheek, a scoff thrown at your smirk. the slap stung, especially with his cock in your mouth, but the pain was nothing compared to the rush of excitement that ran down your body and right into your cunt.

"think you're funny, hm?"

oh he was pissed.

one feral growl and titus tossed his control away, gripping your head with both his hands, fingers digging into your scalp and rammed his entire length in your mouth, the fat girth of his member clogging your throat. he fucked your mouth with a pace that reminded you of your place at that moment.

his hips snapped forward with brutal force, slamming his cock against the back of your throat again and again.

"take it! fuck, take it! nnggghhhh," he groaned. "every... fucking inch. take it."

saliva drooled from the corners of your lips as he ravaged your mouth, his balls slapping against your chin with each thrust. he was beyond caring for restraint, consumed wholly by his desire for you.

the sound of your gagging only turned him on more and he sped up with a sisyphean urge to cum inside your throat. and he was almost there, at the doorstep of an orgasm...

when you jerked and pulled away, denying him that satisfaction. you watched him groan loudly and watched as his cock twitched desperately, shooting ribbons of creamy cum at your face, on your smirk.

"fuck... you... baby," he hissed, but also laughed.

you lapped at his cum on your lips, licking some of it off with the tip of your tongue like a cat with her snout in milk.

titus admired you from above, "we're a match made in hell, mrs danforth. never forget that."

your mouth, knees, and back hurting alike. you were so done with the day.

"hail y/n" you panted with a nod.

your husband laughed softly, and pulled you up, wiping your face with the hem of his shirt.

"hail y/n..." he purred against your cheek, pressing a kiss there.

I AM biblically sorry. for the delay. i had to take my grandma for an MRI, consultations so i was basically running around the hospital DURING MONSOON, had to work on another painting in my class, cook dinners for my dad and i, and panic about my life. also had two shitty depressing days.

i promise you, the hunt will take place next chapter and sebastian will go through tartarus hell.

thank you so much for your patience.

as usual, comments are loved loved loved, reblogs are always welcome, all my ghost readers; u da real gems

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limited taglist: @taniamiller @generation-zero @goddess-of-spring @1dhoe93 @saigereaper @onyxorbspire @fluffyassbutt @niki128 @darknessofhell666-blog-blog @margaretblue777@emotionalsupportdilf @yiiiikesmish @softundermoonlight @tomnooksbagofbells

[st-kitten]

i promise i am working on the next chapter of tlgdd, but i was also working on a custom grisaille oil painting for my dad.

title: homo post machinam (man behind the machine)

medium: oil on mount

hours: 6h40m

subject: young ratan tata

[st-kitten]

the last great demented dynasty XXI

titus danforth x y/n

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a/n: throughout the chapters, certain songs will be mentioned at the beginning or after a partition. the music is chosen mostly for the vibes and the melody. if the lyrics align, yay. if not, play along. but i highly recommend listening to the songs on loop for its section if you're a 'take-your-time' reader. idk, the music just adds some oomf to it.

summary: your last minute twist elicits very distinct reactions from people. but who cares, when you're winning.

warnings: long chapter, making out, kissing, groping, more mention of satanism, hail satan mention, religious descriptions and imagery, smut, piv, sex duh, fingering, cunnilingus, lingerie, titus obsessed with his WIFE, mating press, crème pie (but wrap it before u tap it unless u want kids)

with your cuts finally healing and your deep bruises fading, you sat on one of the plush couches in the grand danforth salon. titus sat close to your left, just a giant ball of warmth around you. ursula occupied another armchair to your right side. the lawyer leaned forward from his armchair directly before you, all circled tightly around the heavy, open pages of the dementhund and the meticulous, handwritten translation you'd done.

when you'd said you had a plan, no one except ursula knew what it was and she had done a marvellous job at keeping it a secret. now that you were only one singular game away from winning—a really crucial, final game at that—you finally decided it was time to disclose it.

"convenient," the lawyer said, just the one word as he leaned over the coffee table, looking down at your notes through his golden-rimmed monocle. he carefully scanned the near-enochian words on the yellowed pages.

he took it off, and let out a long mildly pleased sigh. "i see you have been playing your own game, miss l/n. i admit, i have to hand it to you."

"what. what was in it? what is it?" titus asked abruptly, his deep voice slicing through the air as his dark eyes latched right back onto your face, desperate for answers.

and then, you finally explained.

"there's a clause in there," you said, pointing at the book.

"it states that council ranks and family seats can be legally merged, or entirely transferred, through a binding marriage between two distinct families. according to the old records, this used to be the traditional custom to secure good fortune for those belonging to families of lesser ranks and lesser prestige, allowing them to absorb into the higher houses without shedding blood."

titus nodded slowly, his mind processing the information as he tried to piece it together. frankly, the moment your lips formed the word 'marriage', his brain short-circuited a little. even did a little bouncy dance within his skull.

you smiled softly, turning your head slightly to look at him. "you know... i have always wondered what it would be like to take the next step with us."

titus' head shot up at your words. he stared at you with wide, hopeful eyes, his invisible tail practically twitching to wag right off his body.

"we have had our fair share of ups and downs," you continued, keeping your voice smooth and earnest, "and we did not always like each other at the start. but over time, i have grown to like you. a lot more than i think i ever intended to..." you trailed off intentionally, letting the silence hang.

and boy, did he shift expectantly in his seat. his massive shoulders relaxed, his chest puffing out just a tiny bit as he leaned in toward you, looking incredibly, adorably smug.

"so… what do you say, ursula?" you asked smoothly, turning your entire body away from him to face the other danforth, who once more carried a calm, knowing smirk at your little stunt.

oh, the absolute, crushing look of betrayal that instantly washed over titus' face. his jaw literally dropped, his smug expression twisting into a massive pout, by a dark frown, a nervous tick in his jaw, and an angry twitch above his eyebrow. you almost expected him to flop his ears down and whine out loud like a punished puppy.

"i mean, i don't know where mr le bail stands on homosexuality, but if it's such a sin, hey, he might be into it," you muttered.

"no! NO! you are going to marry me! ME!" titus shouted abruptly, interjecting before you could even finish your sentence.

he practically threw his hands up in the air, before he turned a gaze of pure desperation toward the lawyer. "tell me this is a joke. tell me right now. she can not actually marry ursula."

the lawyer, thoroughly entertained by his sudden domestic meltdown, simply shrugged. "the clause strictly says a marriage to the heir of another family in the council permits for the spouse of a lower rank to rise to the higher, or to change family lineages and share council seats. historically, it is the man who takes the bride… but, the phrasing is archaic. perhaps a little legal experiment is in order—"

"nope. that is all i need to hear." titus snapped, turning back to look at you pointedly, his chest heaving as he pointed a thick finger at your face. "you are marrying me. end of discussion."

you quickly pressed the back of your hand hard against your mouth, desperately trying to conceal your laughter as your shoulders shook. ursula let out a refined giggle beside you.

what an absolute child.

you left the salon, the plan being to go about your business but titus was absolutely not done. like a clicker-trained dog, he followed you instantly, hand reaching out to grab your arm.

"we're getting married," he said again.

"are we?"

"yes. you, me."

you snickered at him, but he just pulled you into him, hands gripping your hips.

"married."

"do you need me to spell it, titus?"

too late. you could tell. that man was gone. ascended to heaven at the thought of marrying you. and though it was a ploy to save your life from the games and emancipate yourself from your father, a part of you felt just a tinge of wonder too. you couldn't imagine yourself married, let alone married to titus danforth. but he was on cloud fucking nine.

his thumb brushed over your lower lip as he brought his hand to cup your face. "fuck, why didn't i think of it sooner. we could've gotten married ages ago."

"ages ago, titus, we didn't even know each other."

you let yourself follow, be led by him, even if it was against a wall in the corridor and prying eyes knew better than to look. he pressed you against the wallpaper, pinning you with his body.

"doesn't matter. you..." he leaned in to inhale your scent, nose brushing against your neck. "were always going to be mine," he purred, nipping at your jaw.

a mix of excitement and nervousness warred within you. possibly, your desires had a little conflict in them. you'd come to fall for titus, big time. but marriage? what would that even entail? it was more than being his 'wife'. living together under a different dynamic, hell, it meant being a danforth and you weren't sure you'd like what came with it. most of all, you did not want to be a part of the satanic rituals his family seemed to dip their toes into.

"you're going to be my wife..." titus said more to himself than you, swallowing hard, steeling himself to accept that reality.

he leaned in a pressed wet kisses to your neck, "my wife..." tongue running over your skin, lips sucking the flesh there.

"you'd like that, baby? hm?"

"it was my idea, jackass."

titus whistled. "careful, that's your future husband you're talking to."

"oh, you're never gonna stop gloating, are you?"

"fuck no," he chuckled, and captured your mouth in a kiss. his lips moved with hunger against yours, tongue slicing through them to slip inside your mouth. he tangled one hand in your hair and held you steady while the other roamed around your body, around your waist, the small of your back and ultimately landed on your ass with a smack, fingers digging into the plump flesh.

you locked your arms behind his neck, let your hand run through his greying curls. you kissed him back, parting your mouth to let his tongue in shamelessly.

titus groaned into the kiss, teeth clashing, wet lips smacking agianst each other. his tongue plundered your mouth recklessly. his hips ground his erection against you. he could not resist the allure of you, of prolonging your heated moment. jesus, if he could fuck you against the wall, he would, his dick was simply dying to. but no. no no no. if there was any way he was going to have you, it was going to be in his bed, with a ring on your finger.

he broke the kiss only to trail his lips down your throat, licking up the salty tang of your sweat.

you whined at the loss of his mouth on you.

"sorry, baby..." he huffed against your pulse. "this has to wait."

"whyyyyy?" you leaned in, chasing his lips.

titus smirked, giving your cheek a small pat. "we got a wedding to plan, baby."

titus felt like a kid handed being handed a thick stack of money and set free in a mall with the unhinged way he was handling the wedding preparations. it had not even been half a day since the final decision had been made in the salon, and he had already been on back-to-back international calls with high-end planners who were ready to fly into the country at the mere snap of his fingers. everything had to be perfect. everything had to be danforth.

hairstylists, parisian modistes, michelin-starred chefs, elite florists, classical musicians—absolutely everything a grand wedding could ever need, titus had on a manic speed dial. that man was on a single-minded mission, and god help anyone who befell a different time zone.

ursula had to bear miserable witness to the frenzy because she was the one tasked to handle the massive logistical security overhaul. it meant running intensive, microscopic background checks on every single piece of external help entering the grounds, filtering the highly selected, high-society invite list, and having the entire manor equipped with state-of-the-art security systems—night-vision cameras, thermal motion sensors, and multi-band media jammers to ensure the council secrets remained strictly within the estate walls.

"what do you think she will like?" he asked his sister abruptly, his large frame towering over several catalog displays of floral arrangements. his finger pointed at a dark, brooding bouquet of blood-red roses with their jagged thorns left completely intact. next to it were even more obscure, gothic options: deep indigo aconite, velvet-petaled black hellebores, and twisting, dark sprigs of deadly nightshade.

ursula sighed heavily, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "titus, don't you think it's best you actually ask her? it's not me you are marrying."

"but you are... a woman. all women like the same things," he murmured, his brow furrowing as he genuinely tried to apply his limited logic to the situation.

ursula raised an eyebrow, a look of sheer disbelief crossing her face before she rolled up her fashion magazine and smacked the back of his head with a sharp crack.

"what." titus grumbled, rubbing the spot with a pout.

"you'd be a lousy husband with that caveman mentality."

"no, i won't."

"you dont know the first thing about women, titus. just how to scare them."

titus fell silent, staring down at the opulent displays before him. in a way, she was right. he had instinctively picked what his twisted family always picked no matter the event. always something ominous and luxurious. there really was no difference between a high-society funeral dinner and a wedding. but he did not like that. he hated it, actually. he wanted something more for you; he wanted grand. all for you.

"what about the wedding dress?" he asked, trying to redeem himself as he tapped a heavy leather binder. "i already brought options from milan."

ursula stared at him, completely gobsmacked.

"titus danforth. you do not pick the bride's dress. you stay far away from it or tear it off her on the wedding night."

he blinked, his face a loading screen.

she shook her head in utter exasperation, turning on her heel. "leave that to her. you... stay away."

she began to step away, walking down the long corridor, and a desperate, completely out-of-his-depth titus looked after her.

ursula raised a warning hand. "i mean it. do not touch the dress."

titus stood there, a little sad that he wasn't able to think this through. how hard could planning a wedding be? he remembered kip's wedding. and though he despised his cousin, it was a pretty grand wedding. too bad his wife died during the games, but the ceremony was worth remembering. not too gauche. and you clearly deserved the best. so what could he even do that would surpass any festivity in the history of the danforth family?

not that he got the chance to do any of the actual, hands-on planning he had envisioned anyway. the lawyer had him completely buried under another massive mountain of council paperwork, seeing as your official addition to his family would unwrap a whole nightmare of asset division. not to mention, your potential seat on the council should you win the final game—in which you would still be participating, but now strictly under the prestigious danforth name.

and though titus loved you dearly, enough to sign absolutely whatever legal document came his way without a single second thought, he felt completely, utterly distracted. he sat at his grand mahogany desk in a perpetual state of 'can i not just do this later?' and 'i just want my baby back'. his shoulders slouched over the stack of papers, a restless sigh escaping his lips every time anotehr page was turned.

and just how much work was there anyway??? since chester's death, the estate and its coattails of generational fortune were bequeathed to titus and ursula. now that titus was getting married, you legally had to be written into the equation.

now... titus was not a senseless fool when it came to wealth. he possessed absolute control over just how much to give you, and knowing your nature, he knew that even a danforth hairpin would burn holes straight through your moral compass. you would hate the excess, hate the bloody history attached to every coin. so he did the next best thing to protect your conscience; he handed over the entire philanthropic quarter of the danforth wealth directly to you. it used to be his late mother who handled that specific division, though she had carefully and cunningly chosen exactly which public charities to donate to so that much of the money would eventually find its way back into their own offshore accounts. titus was certain that you would make a vastly different, much more genuine impact with it. not that he personally cared about the charities himself, but he cared about you, and he knew your eyes would soften for every starving child, stray animal, or dying forest that crossed your path. giving you the power to heal things was his own twisted way of keeping you happy.

for titus, it was disastrously easy to get completely distracted by the thought of you in a wedding dress. the heavy paperwork before him blurred into smears of ink as his mind wandered right back to the weathered chapel sitting on the desacralised, shadow-drenched grounds of the family estate. he could picture it perfectly—the soft candle light catching your beautiful skin as you walked down the altar toward him, your small hand sliding into his.

the mere thought of putting a ring on your finger, of claiming you completely in front of the council, made his chest tighten. he kept replaying the words over and over in his head, waiting for the exact moment he could finally call you 'mrs danforth' out loud.

he rested his chin in his palm, staring blankly, and wondered if you were also thinking of him like that. if you were sitting in your room right now, counting down the hours just as miserably as he was, dreaming of the moment.

meanwhile, you did not have a single moment to yourself. ursula swarmed your room with security details, hounding you about restricting the number of outside invitees to practically negatives. a small exception was finally made for meghana, but only because you provided enough physical proof to satisfy ursula that she was indeed a completely harmless, long-term friend of yours. it was utterly bizarre having her on a speakerphone call with ursula, trying to explain that apparently you were now getting married in a rush, and she was invited, but that she would absolutely have to sign a heavy non-disclosure agreement before she could even step foot onto the property.

"where's titus?" you asked, looking past the guards hoping to catch a glimpse of him or at least have a brief word with him.

"busy."

that was the last you heard of it because the very next moment, you were whisked out of your room and planted into another grand salon, watching numerous modistes slide in massive rolling racks filled with dresses as black as coal, heavy veils with delicate, twisting silver filigree work done along the trim, and sharp heels you could easily use to stab someone to death.

"i am... sorry. this is a wedding, right?" you blinked at the dark velvet and silk.

"and?" ursula asked, not looking up from her tablet.

"these are black."

"and?"

o-kay, you guessed. that would be a first for you. but it certainly suited the family's ominous reputation quite well. you tried them on, dress after dress, standing on the small wooden podium as the stylists pinned the fabric. it felt absolutely horrendous. it felt like wearing someone else's funeral dress—specifically that of a corpse freshly dug out of a coffin.

"ursula... i..." you shook your head, staring at your reflection in the tall mirror. "i dont like these. like, at all."

she sighed, tapping the end of her stylus pen on the screen. "well, you have to pick one. and it has to be black. that is the council color for a merging lineage."

"well... none of these seem... 'me', you know?"

"i don't," she said pointedly. "but... you can tell them what you'd like. they have the fabrics, they'll get it stitched."

so you sat down with the team of stylists, pulling a chair up to the sketchpads. it was a herculean task trying to convince these people that you were not a cultist sociopath and that you actually wanted to feel pretty on your wedding day, not like you were actively decaying. never in your life had you ever cared deeply about what you wanted to wear or how you would look in it. comfort was your ultimate key, and that had not ceased to be of importance to you just because you were entering high society.

and even though this entire marriage was a life-saving decision born completely without a choice, the absolute least you were going to do for yourself was choose your fucking dress on your own terms.

the next topic ursula brought up was the bachelorette party. and in her world, that meant everything lavish, everything exclusive, and absolutely nothing genuine.

she dropped the names of underground vip lounges, elite members-only clubs where the danforths had held private booths for ages, and hidden estates where things went down that ordinary citizens could never comprehend. you just shook your head at her until your neck hurt.

"i don't understand," she said, her jaw tight as she stared at her digital planner. "if these don't work, what on earth do you want?"

"ursula, have you... like, ever actually been to a normal bachelorette party?" you asked, genuinely concerned for the woman's incredibly feeble social experience outside of cultist rituals.

"of course i have."

"so no."

♬⋆.˚ voulez-vous (mamma mia!); cast of mamma mia! the movie, philip michael, christine baranski

and that, ladies and genitals, was exactly how you ended up sitting in the plush interior of the danforth limousine next to ursula danforth, her oversized designer sunglasses hiding just how much she was terrified of whatever normal human activity you had planned for the night.

then, to her immense surprise, a grumpy francesca sat directly opposite to you on the leather bench. her neck was held rigidly together by a thick, medical velcro collar from her time in the arena with titus, forcing her to sip her high-end champagne through a plastic straw since the tilt of her head was lowkey fucked.

and then there was meghana, who was frankly just happy to be there.

"why is she here?" ursula asked, staring at francesca through the dark tint of her sunglasses.

"because... i invited her."

"why did you accept?" ursula redirected the question to her.

francesca rolled her eyes, a movement that looked incredibly stiff given the rigid structure of her neck collar. "i don't know."

"come on, it is my bachelorette," you interjected, leaning back against the leather seat. "all is forgiven."

"really?" ursula asked, entirely unimpressed.

"ish."

the round of introductions that followed was absolutely wild. it went from meghana waving cheerfully with a "hey, hello, i am her best friend," to francesca leaning her entire upper torso forward with a monotone "hey, hello, i tried to kill her thrice."

but somehow, the whole sisterhood of the traveling mini-skirts actually worked. the limousine finally pulled up right outside a dimly lit, slightly shady dive bar—the exact one you used to frequent back in your college days to escape the stress of classes.

you beamed as you stepped out onto the cracked pavement, meghana hopping up and down at the familiarity and nostalgia.

ursula held back whatever judgmental quip was bubbling under the surface. your party, your rules. cross the heart, swear to cheap bear and soggy fries, she had to accept that.

"why are we at... al's pancake world?" asked ursula, looking up at the flickering neon sign.

"it's the best bar there is."

"al's pancake world?"

"yeah," said you and meghana, walking inside, two hefty bodyguards making the way by pushing away anyone else trying to enter at the same time as you.

you wore a comfortable red henley top tucked into a black mini skirt, paired with sturdy, well-worn brown leather boots—your classic, unbothered college attire. meghana, always the eccentric one, walked beside you in a vibrant, artsy two-piece set covered in starfish.

then there was the council elite. ursula carried class with her everywhere she stepped; she was dressed in a pristine, tailored tweed chanel skirt suit that probably cost more than the bar's entire liquor license. francesca, who had finally come out of her brooding, grieving phase, had chosen a blinding, blingy silver sequin dress. it was an incredible outfit, completely ruined by the massive, thick velcro neck collar that kept her chin pinned strictly toward the ceiling.

you took your seat at a vinyl booth in the far corner, the springy leather squeaking beneath you. your bodyguards immediately stood erect like stone columns at the edge of the table, their arms crossed, glaring death threats at a group of regulars by the pool table.

neither ursula nor francesca seemed even remotely comfortable or functional. the air smelled faintly of stale beer and burnt maple syrup. but before they could even complain, you spotted a familiar waiter across the room.

"WILSON!!!!" you chirped, raising a hand and projecting at a volume ursula had absolutely never heard from you before.

a skinny, overworked waiter in a stained apron jogged over, blinking in surprise. "hey! l/n! long time no see."

"you too!!! alright, let's have a round of dirty martinis, one each to start with, and keep the beam me up scottys coming" you ordered smoothly, not even needing to look at the sticky, laminated menu. "and bring out some bacon strips, stuffed mushroom caps, oooj, maybe hot wings, fries, or onion rings... you know what, just bring it all."

the dive bar—or restaurant, or whatever hybrid it was—was loud and chatty. classic rock songs played through a crackling speaker dangling from the wall in a corner. ursula gingerly hovered her manicured fingers over the scratched wooden table, looking as though she expected to contract a disease from a single tough.

she and francesca shared a glance.

two cheers later, the thick shroud of social discomfort completely fell off, and the four of you found yourselves settling into a loud, incredibly nice harmony. the table was already littered with empty martini glasses and grease-stained napkins.

"wait, wait, wait," you laughed, leaning over your dirty martini, pointing a french fry at the latina. "you have never, never hooked up with a stranger?"

francesca did her best to shake her head. "that is beneath me"

"i mean... now is as good a time as any."

so… two heavily layered shots of a 'beam me up scotty' later, the three of you hid shamelessly behind the monolith of your largest danforth bodyguard. you peeked around his massive black-suited shoulder, watching a nervous yet giddy francesca approach the jukebox.

she tapped on the shoulder of some random college guy who was frankly too buzzed to realise he'd just been chosen as the subject. neck collar or not, francesca was an undeniably stunning woman.

within ten seconds, she had him pinned slightly against the machine, and that was how francesca had her very first, hilariously awkward make-out moment with a stranger in a dive bar.

"mierda, i am never doing that again," she croaked a minute later, trotting back to the booth with her cheeks flushed bright red, wiping her lips frantically with the back of her hand.

"you are absolutely doing it again eventually, aren't you?"

francesca did not deny it; she only ever smiled, a genuine, unburdened look on her face.

unsure of what to order next, the four of you spent the next few minutes fiercely quarreling over the sticky menu, trying to pick the next round. every option was a hard no for someone and a enthusiastic yes for another. ursula refused anything with artificial blue dye, meghana wanted something fruity, and you wanted something heavy.

finally, you realised the easiest way to pick was to find the one with the funniest sounding name, purely for the sake of it.

thus, a massive, foaming pitcher of dunkelweizen was placed before you. it tasted absurdly, overwhelmingly wheaty—almost like liquid sourdough bread—making all of your faces simultaneously cringe in disgust after the first sip, and immediately triggering a game of 'never have i ever'

"never have i ever," meghana started, leaning forward on her elbows, her starfish-patterned top catching the neon glare, "gone snorkelling"

you and ursula sat perfectly still, but francesca—after a confused beat—took a sip of the thick dunkelweizen, her neck brace shifting slightly. "i snorkeled once. in a private grotto in capri."

"okay, my turn. never have i ever... been arrested," you said, taking a bite of a fried mushroom cap. both ursula and francesca calmly raised their glasses and took a synchronised sip.

you and meghana stared at them. "wait, really?"

"it barely counts," ursula clarified smoothly, setting her glass down with total chanel-clad composure. "a minor corporate espionage misunderstanding in zurich. i never actually stepped foot inside a cell. the danforth legal team had the bail paid and the records deleted seconds after the handcuffs were on."

"same," francesca croaked through her straw. "except mine was an illegal weapons transport in bogota. the chief of police took one look at my father's name on the wire transfer and gave me a ride back to my hotel in his cruiser."

meghana’s jaw was practically on the sticky floor. "you guys live in a movie. okay, francesca, go."

"you have never been to a convenience store?"

"why would i?" francesca defended herself, her silver sequins shimmering as she gestured with a bacon strip. "everything is brought to the estate. if i want a snack, a chef makes it. what even goes on in a convenience store?"

"boy, we are taking you to a 7-eleven after this," you muttered.

ursula swirled the remains of her drink, then said, "never have i ever... asset-stripped a rival council family's offshore holding company just because their heir annoyed me at a gala."

francesca drank immediately, letting out a dark chuckle. "he deserved it. he was a prick."

"he truly was," ursula agreed, raising her glass to her cousin.

the night rolled on pretty hilariously over your conveyor belt of drinks and junk food.

then you finally left the scene, packing the rest of the cold onion rings into a greasy brown paper bag. you stayed completely true to your word and marched the drunken bridal party of four straight over to a nearby 7-eleven.

you and meghana burst into absolute, uncontrollable cackles the second francesca stepped inside. she stared down the candy aisle with a look of profound, existential horror.

"why is everything under five dollars?" she whispered as she squinted at a bag of sour gummies.

"is it toxic? is this how the government controls the lower classes?"

"it's called... affordability, amiga," you choked out, tossing a bag of jalapeño and carolina reaper cheetos into her arms.

you made her try a cheap can of canned a&w root beer, which she cracked open with her thumb, took one hesitant sip through her plastic straw, and immediately gagged. "this is carbonated toothpaste."

when you walked back outside, your chauffeur immediately hurried to open the heavy door of the idling danforth limousine, politely insisting that you all get back into its safety, but the crisp night air felt too good, and you were far too buzzed to sit still.

"nope. we are walking," you declared, waving him off.

your stone-faced bodyguards had no choice but to adjust to the change of plans. they followed briskly at a designated ten-foot radius, their hands resting near their waistbands, trying to look incredibly intimidating while watching four utterly drunk girls waddle like helpless ducks down the cracked pavement.

"okay, okay, wait," meghana grinned, her eyes bright with gossip. "we talked about rich people stuff, but we need real tea. what is it actually like being with titus? because he looks like he could... murder."

oh little did she know.

ursula let out a sharp, uncharacteristic snort from behind her. "please englighten us on what it's like being with my brother."

and then well, the floodgates opened.

"he has the emotional maturity of a rottweiler," you started, waving a piece of chocolate for emphasis. "if i'm out of his sight for more than twenty minutes, he starts scanning and sniffing the whole manor. he's like a dog looking at me like im ham, you know."

ursula raised her eyebrow.

"he's never beating the dog allegations, okay?" you pled your case and well, with a shrug she let you.

"you think that is bad?" ursula interjected, "i have had to deal with the man barking at a piece of lace. lace, y/n. because he thought it looked too much for your skin."

"awwwwww," meghana cooed.

"he is a giant child," you giggled, leaning heavily against ursula's shoulder as you waddled forward. "he tries to look so dark and brooding in front of the lawyer, but the second the door closes, he's a pouty messsss."

ursula was quietly vibrating with laughter, her thumb pressing stop on the recording. it was, without a doubt, the most genuine, unhinged fun she had ever had with any other woman in her high-society circle.

"no no, listen to me. one time, he didn't move from my bed, demanded i scratch his head because 'he was feeling something something'."

"are you sure he's not just... ageing?" asked francesca, who surprisingly was okay with sharing chips from the same bag with meghana, someone she'd only met hours ago, someone who was miles away from her status.

you groaned, taking another bite of the cheap chocolate as the alcohol sloshed around happily in your system. "the man has exactly two modes: underworld mafia, and a big, touch-starved block of granite."

"true. when titus was a child, and he realised he liked being hugged, he didn't want to ask for it. because our father thought it was emasculating. so titus paid one of our maids to hug him every two hours."

"really?"

"no fucking way," you gasped.

meghana patted your shoulder. "mmmkay, but look, we're all thinking it. the guy is built like a brick wall based on what i saw. on a scale of one to ten, purely on a… physical level... what are we working with here? give me the rating."

you blushed hard, earning hoots and nudges from the others.

francesca let out a dry, raspy chuckle, "when i was... like a pequeña, i thought he was muy cariño, si."

"really?" asked ursula. it was, rather refreshing to know a bit more about her, even though their families never say eye-to-eye, none of it was her fault. she was simply born into it. just like titus and ursula.

"so he's a textbook ten?" asked meghana.

"oh, si si. shoulder to waist ratio muy bien. shame about the personality."

"please," ursula scoffed. "if we're being objective, his vascularity is ridiculous."

you yelled, pointing your half eaten chocolate bar at ursula. "no, trust me, all that time we were training in the gym, he's dripping sweat, looking like sex on legs and then he opens his mouth and blurts soomethng like 'baby, the lawyer made me read three paragraphs today. head hurts. kiss it better.' what a bait and switch my god."

"he does not say that!" meghana gasped, her jaw dropping.

"he does. and the worst part is,, i like how needy he isssss," you whined, cheeks red that had nothing to do with the alcohol nor the cold air. "he can be so sooo pathetic and i fucking love it."

"gross, details."

"i give the body a twelve out of ten. the brain? a solid, loving two," you summarised.

"okay, blame it on the drinks. but... what's the situation down there?" meghana asked.

all the women groaned, though there were grins all around.

you gawked, slapping her across the shoulder. "you did not just ask me that!"

"come onnnn, might as welllll," she pled.

you turned to ursula for help.

"i mean... it'll come in handy when i have to embarrass him."

"you're his sister!!!"

"and i've seen the man naked more than i had to since we were children. i'm glad someone else is too."

after grumble of protest, you groaned. "fineee. he's..." you pursed your lips, licking them a little and earning ooohs from the ladies. you covered your face with your hand, chuckling along iwth them.

"he's... packed."

"GIRL GO GET SOMEEEEE," meghana beamed, shaking your shoulder.

"no pero how is he in bed?"

"oh my god, i'm not discussing my sex life with you."

"when else?"

"okay but the age gap thing is hot. am i wrong to say that?" asked meghana, her voice trailing off into a giggle as she almost tripped over a crack.

poor girl. if that was the most she could consider 'wrong', she was perfectly safe insulated from the actual bloody wrongdoings you and titus were responsible for.

you let out a soft, hazy laugh. "i don't mind. he's... surprisingly easy to be with. like. yeah he doesn't always get my references and our tastes are very different."

"he really is," you continued, your voice dropping a bit into a fond, drunken mumble as you stared down at your brown boots. "like, the second i say i'm too tired or when i've been in heels too long, he just scoops me up without a word. he doesn't care about his pride too much. he just… lets himself be soft. it is nice. it makes all the other terrifying stuff bearable."

♬⋆.˚ dancing queen (mamma mia!); meryl streep, julie walters, christine baranski,

as the four of you walked, you stumbled upon someone else's garden wedding reception. a beautifully lit white gazebo stood in the center of a manicured lawn, people dancing in massive, joyous waves to a lively song playing from a proper sound system.

for a long moment, you stopped on the pavement to watchthem. a sudden heavy ache settled in your chest. you found yourself wondering… your own wedding would never have that kind of pure, unadulterated joy. it would never have a large, chaotic crowd of smiling family members and genuine friends. yuor guest list consisted entirely of council heads, cults, blood-sealed obligations, and a permanent place in titus's life—one you could never be cured of. no matter the fleeting happiness you had been feeling a few minutes prior, the sheer weight of your impending wedding scared you more than ever.

but before the dark thoughts could pull you under, you felt meghana's warm hand close tightly around yours. with a bright reckless grin, she dragged you straight through the open gate and into the edge of the dancing crowd. ursula and francesca exchanged a single, bewildered glance before following right behind you anyway. of course, your concerned bodyguards were on your tail, sticking out like sore thumbs.

you took a hasty sip of the last of your canned beer, tossing the can into a bin before shedding your borrowed worries. for who could truly, really ever resist letting go and vibing to 'dancing queen'?

the next few minutes were a blur of absolute bliss. it was strange, it was vibrant, and it was still completely amazing bouncing up and down on the grass, your hands swaying wildly to the music alongside ursula, francesca, and your best friend. you were right in the thick of a whole crowd of happy, energetic women who didn't know who you were, and didn't care.

"my best friend's getting married too!!!" meghana cried at the top of her lungs above the thumping bass of the music, throwing her arms wildly into the air.

instead of being booed out or chased off the private property by the actual wedding guests, more loud, drunken cheers erupted from the crowd. the people dancing around you immediately hooted, clapped, and threw their hands up in solidarity, completely absorbing your little rogue bridal party into the collective celebration.

and oh, how her happiness was contagious.

you caught ursula actually jumping on the beat, her chanel suit, now perfectly wrinkled and dirtied, bouncing right along with her, while francesca managed to wave her arms in the air even as her stiff neck collar kept her looking straight at the stars.

any lingering shadow of the council, the lawyer, or the grim final game vanished entirely under the twinkling fairy lights. in that little pocket of time, you realised: how impossibly hard life got, nothing was ever wholly bad. and no matter the terrifying, life-or-death circumstances under which you had met them, you had somehow found new friendships once more.

for one entirely liberating, beautiful moment, titus danforth wasn't on your mind at all. there was only the merry and cheer of dancing with your girls—drunk, blushing, and utterly, wonderfully carefree.

meanwhile, on his end of the city, titus was currently stuck in the absolute depths of the world's most boring and dead bachelor party. it was the exact same routine he had endured a hundred times before. expensive cuban cigars, high-stakes poker tables, and top-shelf liquor in a posh, dimly lit vip club he had been a card-carrying member to for years.

a small crowd of men he loosely called 'acquaintances'—mostly young heirs and business associates—circled him under the guise of celebration. but really, titus could tell they were better off focusing on the exquisiteness before them.

all he could think about was you. were you having a good time? was ursula being a nightmare? he honestly wished your sigil would just start hurting, or that the stupid ring the lawyer gave you to wear would magically vanish so you would run straight back to him.

in short, he was completely miserable without you. he had not seen your face or heard your voice in two whole days. and the wedding was literally tomorrow. what if the pressure had gotten to you? what if you had finally realised how insane his family was and ran away?

unable to take the suffocating atmosphere inside the lounge for another second, he excused himself and stepped out onto the concrete balcony overlooking the glittering night scape. pulling his phone from his tailored trousers, he dialled your number and waited anxiously for you to pick up.

except, when the line finally clicked open, you sounded suspiciously like a gruff, heavily built man.

"mr danforth."

titus gripped the balcony railing, his jaw tightening instantly. "the fuck? where is y/n? put y/n on right now."

he figured you must have handed your phone over to your assigned security detail for the night. it must have been ursula's paranoid advice.

"uh..." the bodyguard hesitated over the receiver.

"uh? what, are you deaf? i said put her on!" titus growled.

"i am… sorry, sir, but… she is currently…" there was background scuffle on the other end of the line, followed by the distant, muffled sound of a crowd roaring in approval. "…she is arm wrestling a local man named kirk, sir. she has just won, sir."

titus closed his eyes, letting out a heavy, deflated sigh as he rubbed his throbbing temples with his free hand. he did not even know what to say to that. he cut the call without another word, leaning his massive forearms against the cold stone railing to sulk in the dark balcony air, completely left behind while his bride-to-be was apparently running out in town.

he had never missed you this much in his life.

he sulked all the way back home to the manor, his expensive silk tie loosened and hanging limply around his neck, a half-empty bottle of high-end cognac heavy in his coat pocket. he felt a deep, radiating sadness that he simply could not separate from his body. it was completely ridiculous. what even was this? a 49 year old man, capable of brutality unimaginable—pining miserably for his fiancée. pouting like some kid because she wasn't around.

he didn't even have the energy or the desire to walk through the grand front doors. instead, he slumped right down on the cold stone steps of the manor entrance, staring out at the empty, shadow-drenched driveway. since you weren't inside, the whole place felt dead anyway. he sat there with his broad shoulders hunched over his knees, looking for all the world like an abandoned puppy left in a damp cardboard box.

pulling out his phone, his heavy, scarred thumbs began to aggressively spam your lock screen with increasingly needy, utterly unsophisticated text messages.

SORRY IGNORE MY PFP MY FRIEND SET IT ON MY PHOEN

he stared fixedly at the glowing screen, his chin resting heavily in his palm as he waited for the little typing bubbles to appear. he didn't care how pathetic it looked, and he didn't care if the morning dew ruined his custom-tailored trousers—if he couldn't have you in his arms tonight, he was fully prepared to stay stubbornly rooted to those cold stone steps until the sun rose and the chapel doors finally opened.

it was the late afternoon of the wedding, and as usual, whatever the rest of the civilised world did, the danforths did the absolute opposite. black wedding dress, evening nuptials.

you stood on a small velvet platform in the center of the spacious dressing room, two quiet maids meticulously smoothing out the heavy, layered silk of your skirt while a third carefully adjusted the cascading dark tulle of your veil. only ursula danforth could have had two separate haute couture elie saab dresses ruthlessly cut up and restitched just to create a custom masterpiece for you.

even though she was technically on the groom's side of the aisle, ursula hadn't minded spending the afternoon in your changing room, sipping champagne and critiquing the maids' needlework.

and it was a very good thing she was there.

because one moment you were having your hem pinned, and the next, the heavy double doors violently flew open. a completely disheveled, wild-eyed sebastian burst through the threshold, his face contorted in absolute fury as three burly security guards lunged forward, trying to grab his shoulders and drag him back out into the hall.

"you... wretched... fucking... bi—" he roared, his voice cracking with pure venom before a guard's hand clamped over his mouth, forcefully hauling him backward. the heavy oak doors slammed shut once again, cutting off his muffled screams.

"is he going to be a problem?" you asked, your voice tighter than you intended as you stared at the closed doors.

ursula let out a long, irritated sigh, rubbing her temple. "trust me, the moment he found out about the arrangement, he's been a giant pain in the ass for security. he is... absolutely going to be a problem."

"but he can't technically meddle with the plan, right? legally?"

"you're well above eighteen," ursula replied smoothly, her sharp gaze meeting yours in the mirror. "it's not up to him to decide whom you marry."

sure, sure, okay, that was... reassuring.

as the maids went back to work, a cold wave of reality suddenly hit you, washing over the lingering warmth of last night's bachelorette party. what the hell were you actually doing? you were getting married to titus. to a ruthless, near-satanic billionaire who commanded an underworld cult.

the sudden, vivid memories of the games flashed behind your eyes—the terror, the blood, the agonising pain of your injuries, which were still throbbing faintly beneath layers of professional concealer. you felt nauseated as you looked at your reflection in the black gown. you felt like throwing up right there.

but you forced a breath down, gripping the fabric of your skirt. you didn't have to face the rest of your life right now. all you had to do was get through the day.

♬⋆.˚ the yellow house; clint mansell

if there was any, any sign that you needed to make better life choices, the universe was currently sending them to you in wholesale.

the sky above was a bruising grey, dark and stormy clouds gathering like an ominous duvet over the chapel's stone spires. crows the colour of your dress, circled overhead in lazy, jagged loops, eventually settling atop the dried, skeletal branches of nearby trees to stare down at you with single, tilted black eyes.

on the other side of the danforth estate, the winds howled violently across the vast, bleak moors. you used to think the woods surrounding the property were creepy, but these moors were simply morbid—a desolate, wind-battered expanse straight out of wuthering heights.

since you had no family left to give you away, and asking sebastian was most certainly out of the question unless you wanted a murder at the altar, you stood entirely alone on the stone steps of the chapel. the grand, heavy wooden doors remained closed before you. at any moment, they would swing open, and you would have to walk down that aisle.

you turned your head back, your black veil whipping wildly around your face as you stared out at the windswept moors. a desperate urge spiked in your chest. could you run?

even if you tried, your sigil was still binding. you briefly considered the logistics—you could technically live without a hand if it rotted off from breaking the spell. but then the reality caught up: if you ran, you wouldn't be married into the danforth protection. you would still be a part of your own family lineage, which meant you would likely just blow up or be hunted down by the council anyway.

wheel of thought creaked and finally halted to a dead stop in your brain.

no. there was no turning back. you were doing this.

the heavy wooden doors dragged open with a low groan. for a split second, your eyes saw absolutely nothing—just a vast expanse of darkness punctuated by blurry, flickering spots of pale yellow light. then, as your vision adjusted, you slowly stepped forward into the chapel. clutch into your hands was a meticulously arranged bouquet of dried flowers. it was an eerie arrangement that oddly, was exactly how you had been feeling since the very moment you were entrapped into the danforth family.

your eyes flitted anxiously across the pews, scanning the room. you looked at the faces of guests you had never seen before in your life, all of them dressed in strict, somber black. even the people you did recognize looked less like wedding guests and more like grim reapers holding invisible sickles, waiting for a harvest.

then, your gaze landed on meghana. she sat near the front, offering you perhaps the only genuine, innocent smile in the entire room.

the moment your eyes met hers, a piercing, suffocating guilt began to burn inside you. you felt a sickening twist in your stomach for lying to her—and for what you were keeping hidden about david, too. she still had no idea about the full truth. she didn't know that the very man standing at the end of this altar had killed him.

but the guilt truly settled in cold when you realised: you were completely okay with knowing that. you were barely even disturbed by it anymore.

with every step you took down the aisle, it only solidified. did you even look the same as you did when you first met them? you looked down at your hands, hidden beneath the delicate black lace of your gloves. you had blood on them now. it had been entirely unintentional at first—a desperate bid for survival—but lately, it had been out of pure volition.

maybe you didn't belong in the light anymore. maybe you truly did deserve to be a danforth.

when you reached the altar, stepping up onto the stone platform, you finally turned to face him. you felt his large, heavy hands gently lift the dark tulle of the veil off your face, pinning it back over your hair, over the crown of thorns.

his eyes carried a completely different colour entirely tonight—a shade darker than you had ever seen them before. it felt more and more like he could see straight through you, reading the profound conflict and terror written into the lines of your face.

"nominee, satani, lucifer, excelsis, bestow upon these your blessing, in the name of satan. lucifer, belial, leviathan," the lawyer's voice carried clearly through the thick, incense-like fumes of your thoughts.

"through this marriage, let the old bonds cease and let the new be born. from the house of l/n, y/n l/n offers in body and spirit," the lawyer continued. he reached forward, pricking the palm of your hand with one sharp end of a double-nibbed silver pen. the metal bit into your skin, drawing a dark bead of blood. he pressed the nib into the red drop and pointed toward the heavy parchment. with a slightly steadying breath, you signed your name. you did it.

"from the house of danforth, titus danforth offers in body and spirit."

titus didn't hesitate. he signed eagerly, his signature bold and sweeping, his hazel eyes fixed entirely on you, drinking in your undeniable beauty in the black gown.

"any vows you have prepared, now would be the time to present them."

titus looked down at you with an earnestness you honestly thought would be impossible for a man like him to convey.

"none of these people deserve to hear what i want to confess to you," he began, his deep voice carrying a quiet, resonant gravity through the silent chapel. "so let me say this... you slapped my hand that day in the hospital and... it still burns today when i think of you. you are seared into my heart. nothing, not even me, can prevent the calamity of my falling in love with you. i fear it's an eternal feeling. i don't know if you'd believe me, but my life was purgatory before i met you."

he leaned in slightly, his warm breath brushing against your cheek as he whispered for your ears only: "...and now my life is you."

you gulped, your throat tight. in the short burst of nanoseconds that passed as he pulled away, you thought of a million things to say to him. your mind raced in a total panic. how on earth were you supposed to top that? you hadn't actually expected him to be this deeply, genuinely in love with you.

you took a soft, grounding breath, looking up into his dark gaze. "you… uh… probably should have a tornado or a hurricane named after you. huh…" you let yourself smile a little.

"i spent a great part of my life trying to forget you. erase you from my memory. when i met you again, and you were just... not twenty-something anymore... i didn't think i'd survive you."

titus’s lips twitched, a little mischievous, incredibly fond glint appearing in his eye.

"but i did," you continued, your voice growing steadier. "and i'm glad to admit that i was wrong about you. i hope you continue to surprise me with your love, danforth. because now you're gonna have to survive me."

a wave of hushed, amused laughter rippled through the grim pews of the chapel.

the lawyer raised his hands, closing the heavy leather ledger before him. "your vows, being made by intent, i now pronounce you… man and wife... hail satan!" "hail satan!" you heard titus assert. as did the audience. you weren't sure how it felt. you didn't say it, and you called that a win. "you may kiss the bride."

titus' fingers cradled your face like you were frailty, only he knew you weren't. he knew he was holding a flame that couldn't be put out. his breath ghosted over yours once... and then he kissed you. and though his lips were slower, softer than ever, though that kiss was being witnessed by many, you could tell every part of him was screaming and writhing to have more.

your mind was adrift in many places during the post-wedding reception, a hazy cocktail of adrenaline and pure exhaustion clouding your head. thankfully, titus had actually listened to your explicit instructions denying any animal or human sacrifices for the celebration. sure, he had thrown a miniature, broad-shouldered tantrum in his study about "proper tradition" when you first brought it up, but in the end, he had listened to you.

you stood beside him near the towering glass champagne pyramid, staring down at the brand-new ring of your finger. a peculiar piece of jewellery to sya the very least—a matching larger band resting on his finger.

"pure obsidian," titus pointed out, leaning down to your ear, his large hand coming up to rest on the small of your back. "you see those red streaks on the inside of the band? that's my blood. forged directly into the gold."

you raised an eyebrow, looking from the ring up to his smug, handsome face. what?

"yours is in mine," he added, a deeply satisfied, possessive grin spreading across his lips as he kissed his ring.

well. that no longer surprised you. at this point in your relationship, a little blood-forging was practically a vanilla romantic gesture.

before you could even formulate a response, the lawyer materialised smoothly before the two of you, with his... goat-like headgear.

"nice... hat," you said.

"thank you. mr le bail's finest gift to me. and... congratulations," the lawyer droned.

"as my personal gift to you, given that you are now legally bound to mr. danforth, you no longer require the sigil to enforce your compliance."

with a sharp, effortless flick of his pale wrist, a sudden, fleeting warmth bloomed against your skin. you looked down in real-time as the red sigil faded into nothingness.

you let out a breath you felt like you’d been holding for months, sighing the biggest, most dramatic sigh in the entire history of sighs.

"dude," you gasped, staring at your clean wrist in absolute awe, then at the lawyer. "i could literally kiss you right now."

slap!

your hand preventively flew up, clapping directly over titus' face, forcefully turning his growing, frowny pout away from the lawyer before he could snap the man's neck for a harmless joke.

so, there you stood. a newlywed in an elie saab mourning gown, happily suffocating your terrifying new husband with one hand while holding a glass of vintage champagne in the other.

you flashed a brilliant, blindingly fake smile at every passing council member who you knew fundamentally wished you were beheaded, yet were forced to offer you their deepest congratulations anyway.

in many ways, the wedding worked out fine.

you were free of sebastian, free of the sigil that threatened to cut off your wrist, under the protection of the danforths, and possibly... a future winner of the council's high seat. the final games weren't done, after all.

♬⋆.˚ death of peace of mind; bad omens (I WAS PRESERVING THIS SONG FOR THIS EXACT MOMENT SINCE CHAPTER 1 I KID U NOT.)

the ceremony had ended in the absolute dead of night. outside, the air was bitter and howling, the wind rattling the heavy stained-glass windows of the estate—honestly, it was just the perfect weather to sign oneself into a high-security asylum.

instead, your commitment paper was a marriage license, and your cell for the night, and your life, was titus danforth's master bedroom.

and oh, he was more than happy to roll out the red carpet for you. from the moment you left the chapel to the exact second the bedroom doors clicked shut behind you, he had been repeating those two words like a prayer.

"mrs danforth," he murmured again.

then again. and again. he simply loved the taste of it. his hand grasped yours, thumb tracing the obsidian on your finger, drinking in the sight of HIS ring on your finger, and his name in your life.

he didn't waste a second. not one.

for days he was separated from you, the love of his life, now his wife. he wanted to devour you and seemed like you did too, given how you couldn't stop staring at his lips.

he leaned in, teeth npping at your lips. he let them brush over your skin, your jaw, your neck. his teeth sank into the flesh of your shoulder. bite! he licked the gasp off you, soothing your skin with his tongue. if he could, he'd eat you, eat the omni-consuming beauty that radiated off you.

you shuddered, gripping his shoulders. your lips parted to let a swoon escape through, and then they met his once more, begging for kisses that could ruin your life or prolong it.

titus groaned into the kiss, his hands sliding down your back to grip your hips through your dress. he oulled you against him. his mouth moved greedily over yours, demandingly, practically no space for air between you.

he couldn't bare parting from you. "mrs... danforth," he purred into the kiss. "my wife..."

his hands roamed your curves, squeezing and kneading every inch of you.

"my fucking wife," he panted as he kissed you senseless. his hands finally fumbled with the fastenings of your dress, desperate to reveal more of your skin to his hunger.

he peeled your dress off, let it pool at your feet. he tossed your veil aside, took off the crown you had on you. oh how his eyes darkened with lust as he took in the sight of your lingerie inside.

"fuckkkk, baby... this the one you bought with ursula?"

you snickered. "maybe."

"there's more?"

you shrugged.

the delicate black lace of your bra, tits spilling out plenty. he reached out, calloused fingers tracing the swell of your mounds, feeling your nipples pebble under his touch.

"divine," he rasped, licking his lips.

he dipped his head, leaving open mouthed kisses over your breasts as he shrug off his own suit and vest. he sucked gently, then not so gently. he brought his hand back up to tug one cup down and then captured the pert nipple between his lips. his tongue swirled around it.

you helped him undress, your hands then running over his rough freckled body. the room was dim but even through the lack of light, you could see him, see the age on his body anew. and it aroused you just the same.

his chest rumbled with excitement. he revelled in your touch, int eh way you seemed to find beauty in his ruggedness. his body responded eagerly to your caresses.

his cock throbbed with need, already leaking precum, in anticipation of being buried inside you finally.

his eyes bore into yours intensely as he grabbed your face again, kissed you till your lips were swollen, wet in each other's spit. he guided you back to his bed and pushed you down on the silky sheets. he crawled on top of you. titus was ravenous for you. but he was just as eager to please you. you were his wife after all.

his body pressed onto yours with all his weight. his fingers slid down between your legs, parting through your slit, smearing the wetness as they stroked you.

"you belong to me now, baby. for life," his voice rumbled in your ear.

he freed unclasped your bra finally, freeing your breasts. his eyes lingered on your boobs which bounced a little. his eyes trailed down to your panties, his own hand inside them. he slowly tugged them off too, inhaling your scent. the musky aroma of your arousal filled his nostrils as he brought the damp fabric to his face.

he was no expert, but he'd know that scent anywhere.

"oh, she's realllly needy today," he murmured into your panties. he was overwhelmed by his instinct that told him you were just perfectly fertile.

his fingers stroked you, then sank into you. he pumped them in and out to draw out your pleasure, but also to wet you more for him. you let out moans after moans, just for him. your hands curled arond his neck, around his bicep.

"titussss," you whined. "need you..."

"need me to what, baby? tell me," he panted against your lips, fingers working you extra deliciously, wet squelches echoing between you. his thumb circled your clit, applying just the right amount of pressure to send sparks of pleasure racing up your spine.

"nnnhhh... you know whatttt"

he chuckled, leaning into suck at your neck. he withdrew his hand just a bit, causing you to whimper, then slammed it back in. the force of just his fingers was enough to drop your jaw agape.

"nooooo, baby, i don'ttttt," he mimicked you.

he leaned in and spat in your open mouth. you swallowed without being asked.

"that's my good girl," he purred.

"nnhhh... fuck me. just fuck me. i need you inside me titus."

"say the magic word." oh this bastard wanted to play games.

you slapped his cheek hard. "listen to your wife, danforth. fuck me. now."

titus grinned at your words, his dick pulsing and twitching, harder and wetter than ever. he pulled his fingers out of you, sucking them and licking them clean.

he parted your thighs, settling between them and slowly lined his throbbing cock against your hole. he slid in slowly, groaning with untainted pleasure as he sank in. his eyes rolled back, fully sheathed inside your velvety walls.

he paused for a moment, letting him feel embraced by your warmth. he looked down at you.

"i'm gonna fuck my wife now."

he thrust once, then twice, then began to move, setting a pace that allowed him to savour every feeling of your gummy walls against the veins of his cock. his hands came to rest on both sides of your head as he looked down at you.

"oh, fuck, yeah just like that," he hissed, hot breath fanning your face. "take me... take," thrust! "your" thrust! "husband" thrust!

he looked down once more, watching how your glistening pussy sucked in his cock.

the bed shook beneath you as he slammed into you. his cock pistoned in and out of you, each drag of his length sent waves of ecstasy through your body. your mind recalled you and the girls trying to rate how titus was packed, how he was in bed and you wished they knew. knew how good he fucked you, how hard and rough he could be and how much you were a whore for it.

his gaze remained fixed on your bouncing tits, his own chest heaving up and down with vigour. the sight and sound of your pleasured moans, the way your body responded to his thrusts only spurred him on.

"look at you," he growled. "so perfect f'me, baby. made to be fucked like this. by me. by your husband."

he puncutated his words with a deep stroke, grinding his pelvis against yours. sweat dripped down his body already, muscles straining.

his hand slid between you and rubbed circles over your clit, hell, he spelled out his name over it. each rub sent jolts of pleasure and made you slicken even more. that only got you wetter and he slid in even more, fully bottoming out.

"godddd yessss," he groaned. "so fucking wet for me, baby."

his fat cock stretched your pussy to perfection, and he loved how warm it felt, just the right sleeve for his length. skin slapped against skin, ragged panting and your lewd moans bouncing off the walls of his room.

he picked up his speed, his balls slapped against your ass. he kept rubbing your clit to amplify your pleasure, and in return his.

"fuck... this greedy pussy was made for my cock. oh, she wasss," he purred, his thrusts turning erratic.

he didn't want it to end, not at all. not until he got what he wanted.

he hooked your thigh one by one over his arm and pushed them up up up, folding them back until your knees pressed against your breasts. the position left you wide open, pussy engulfing his cock, welcoming it like a solider.

"remember this, mrs danforth," he panted. "you're gonna give me an heir."

you didn't know why that thought turned you on so much. up until the evening, marriage seemed like a distant reality for you, yet now here you were, folded in a mating press under titus danforth, and all you could do was nod your head and moan out a sultry 'yes'.

"yeah? you want that, hm?" his hips snapped forward, thrusts picking up an impatient pace as he pounded into you.

"fffuck...yes.... yes yes yes," you mewled in his ear.

his grip on your thighs tightened. his fingers dug into your flesh as he continued to rut into you, into oblivion. your whiny cry and the grip your cunt had on his cock did not a single thing to help his case.

"very good, mrs danforth," he grunted, thrusting, rutting into you. oh what a fortunate and generous angle. he hit spots he'd never touched before, split you open like never before.

"spread out like a fucking feast, look at you," he rasped in awe and lust alike. "so beautiful."

the slick sounds of his cock driving in and out of your filled the room. each thrust brought you closer to your orgasm. his nails left indents on yur inner thighs as he kept them parted and pressed against your chest.

"fuck, this body... it's meant for this. meant to carry my child." he groaned. "you'll give me an heir, won't you?"

he was balls deep inside your heat, slick walls clenching around him greedily. his eyes glinted with hunger as he slammed into you over and over to make his point.

"yeahhh, i'm gonna fill you up with my cum..." he thrust hard a few times. "gonna breed you..."

lewd moans spilled out of you as he kept fucking into you. his weight crushed your thighs back onto your chest. his tongue slid in your mouth once more, kissing you wet, sloppy, laced with promises he meant to keep.

"need to, ngggghhh, stuff you full of my cum, baby," he panted and groaned against your lips. his vision blurred at the edges, and he knew he was close.

he buried his face in the crook of your neck, hips rocking into you. your body convulsed around him, walls fluttering like a butterfly. he gritted his teeth. he wanted to savour every second of it, wanted to milk you dry before taking his own satisfaction.

"come for me, baby," he urged you as he continued to rut into you. "fuck... come on my cock."

your legs shook, toes curled in and your back arched into him as you quivered and clenched around his cock. you came with a loud, ecstatic moan. your tremors only turned him on further. there was a whole new level of pleasure in making his wife come.

seeing you come was all the sign he needed to bury himself to the hilt inside you, giving himself a few good pumps before he let go and came inside you, releasing a thick load of his seed inside your walls.

he collapsed on top of you, keeping your thighs high up. "gotta...." he panted. "let it take..."

he could feel his cum leak out around his softening cock, he was sure your inner thighs were a sticky mess and he couldn't have it any other way.

he lifted his head to look down at said mess. "look at that..."

he hoisted himself up, and watched his creamy cum trickle from your pussy onto the sheets. he swept his thumb through the cum oozing from you and pushed it back in, plugging the space his cock was still occupying.

he looked at you, at your fluttering eyelids and panting mouth. he leaned in to press kisses over your face, on your lips, your nose. "took everything like my good girl... so proud of you, baby."

he gently pulled out of you, softening member slipping out with a wet squelch. a trickle of his cum followed anyway, but he just pushed it back inside iwth his finger.

god knows how many rounds you went on for, but neither of you got a wink of sleep that night. both of you were a soaking mess by the time you felt you were done.

and like the dutiful husband he now was, he gathered you into his arms and cleaned you up.

"my beautiful angel," he murmured. "you did so good. let me take care of you, hm?"

he cleaned every inch of you, his hands moving tenderly. there was something sanctimonious about it. he memorised every inch of your skin as he cleaned it up. he peppered kisses wherever he saw space.

truly hadn't believed it until this exact moment. you were married to him. you were his wife. his. ghe reality of it seemed to physically hit him as he looked down at you, dainty and softened in his arms in bed, his shirt on you. legs bare and tangled in his as you traced the veins on his arm absentmindedly.

nad though the moment was delicate, fiercely intimate, and thick with a desire he'd been suppressing for days, his mind couldn't help but drift. behind those shadowed eyes, all he could think of was the next game.

because it was a danforth game. the family legacy. the hunt.

for so long the arena had been barren, and he had to watch you play as his nemesis. he had to hold back his majesty, his power, all for you. and now it was going to be an absolute honour to have you alongside him.

as his wife. his partner. his huntress.

the hunt is coming. so drop in the comments what (pain) you would like done to sebastian and i shall make it happen. im taking orders.

SORRY FOR THE DELAY it is 30th june somewhere. let it be. i am tired. my period just ended, as did any ounce of strength in me. there typos everywhere. i typed most on my laptop, some on my ipad and phone. and some i literally dropped from my notes. dw, this isntt the end of smutty smut.

anyway, comments are loved loved loved, reblogs are always welcome, all my ghost readers; u da real gems

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limited taglist: @taniamiller @generation-zero @goddess-of-spring @1dhoe93 @saigereaper @onyxorbspire @fluffyassbutt @niki128 @darknessofhell666-blog-blog @margaretblue777@emotionalsupportdilf @yiiiikesmish @softundermoonlight @tomnooksbagofbells

[st-kitten]

petite announcement ahem

titus danforth x y/n

chapter 21, is obviously the one we've been waiting for.

so consider this an official invite to the wedding of a mr titus danforth to ms y/n l/n.

i do not want to rush through it. it needs to be enjoyable, a brief respite from the atrocity of the games so far. and it needs to magnify how much our man loves us.

so, please expect the chapter to be released 30/06/2026 IT'S A JUNE WEDDING!!!!!

(a.k.a. i need time to research and write T_T)

wedding invitations: @taniamiller @generation-zero @goddess-of-spring @1dhoe93 @saigereaper @onyxorbspire @fluffyassbutt @niki128 @darknessofhell666-blog-blog @margaretblue777@emotionalsupportdilf @yiiiikesmish @softundermoonlight @tomnooksbagofbells

ps.: if u saw the 31/06 version, you didn't. it's called mandela effect (not me confusing months)

[st-kitten]

the last great demented dynasty XX

titus danforth x y/n

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a/n: throughout the chapters, certain songs will be mentioned at the beginning or after a partition. the music is chosen mostly for the vibes and the melody. if the lyrics align, yay. if not, play along. but i highly recommend listening to the songs on loop for its section if you're a 'take-your-time' reader. idk, the music just adds some oomf to it.

summary: you're almost there, at the precipice of winning the necrofest and the high seat if you make it through the next two games. but will there be a wrench in your plans?

warnings: long chapter (because again, 1 chapter 1 game + surrounding plot), HEAVY torture, words that can be triggering, mention of satanism, sebastian in this chapter is gonna have his own warning, blood, injured y/n, descriptions of physical pain, mental trauma, and other bodily harm. no sexual assault. occult and supernatural descriptions, mild angst if you squint, character death, brutal combat wrestling, ultimate silver lining.

very few people considered sparring as a romantic activity. 

you and titus were at it since dawn, the only lights in the danforth manor were the ones in the gym and the only sounds bouncing off the walls came from your grunts. who knew which genius decided that boxing was a form of aftercare following some hot sex—messy sheets, torn clothes, the works. 

but neither of you argued for some practice was a must. the cheng fu combat wrestling was a week away and you were pouring every bit of your strength into your punches against the heavy bag that titus stood behind, holding on both sides. 

you hit the bag repeatedly, jab-cross, cross-left hook, combinations that really rested your power. you'd even swapped the earlier gloves for heavier ones, the weight adding more resistance to the movement.

"harder, baby." titus, of course, was very animated with his 'guidance'.

"i'm fucking trying!" you panted, wiping the sweat on your neck with the back of your rubbery glove.

"you see this bag? this is gonna be a person. and it's gonna hit you back. so you need to get your shit together."

you spared him a glance, then took your position and hit a few hard combos. the bag sent a muffled version of the impact of your fist colliding with its skin straight into titus torso and hands.

"that's good, hit a left uppercut," he said, and as you bent to hit the punch, he shoved the bag at you, and you stepped aside just in time to deliver a right uppercut.

"good fucking girlllll," he grinned, holding the bag steady again. 

you peeled off your glove, biting into the velcro with your teeth and it crunched. you tossed it on the mat and grabbed your water bottle, taking measured sips ever though your lungs wanted a flood.

titus took a long and permanent look at you, at your sweaty neck, forehead, the top of your breasts visible from the neckline, just moist enough. his eyes travelled down to your thighs, your calves, at your cat socks that stared back at hiim. he took in your dishevelled hair, which had now grown enough to be put into a tiny pigtail at the back; he didn't like it. he'd have to cut it off—he liked it chopped and messy (give that was how you looked the first time he fucked you and he wanted that vision of you imprinted, embossed on his brain like a wax stamp). the smell of your sweat, of your skin made him take the longest breath of his life. it nudged awake the most primordial instincts in man, to recognise one's mate by their scent. 

he stroked your damp head, his fingers carving runes through your hair. you looked up at him and he patted once.

"yes?"

"i gotta take you out..."

"what, with a gun?"

he rolled his eyes. "on a proper dinner."

"oh big no."

his brows furrowed. "why not?"

"you're gonna pick some obnoxiously fancy place that i can't afford, which means i'm gonna have to wear clothes that i can't pay for."

"i'll pay for it."

you smiled, "and all the elite people there will be able to tell that i'm a rags to riches candy on your arm."

titus chuckled, "ouch."

"am i wrong?"

his hand kept petting your hair. "you're not... off track."

"uh huh."

"where do you wanna go then?"

"do i have to 'go'?"

he blinked at you. "you wanna stay in all the time?"

"yes?"

titus bent down just a bit. "a girl's gotta go out sometimes."

"no she does not. a girl's gotta do whatever a girl wants."

"i can't take you out to dinner, okay. can i take you out to italy? france? some place you really want to go?"

"here's a thought, i go to my room. and sleep. because i'm tired."

he leaned in, nose bumping against yours. "one of these days, you're gonna let me take you out, spoil you a little, and you're gonna like it."

you gently patted his cheek a few times. "sorry your girl's an introvert, titus. peace be with you."

he pressed a kiss to your lips, then hauled you up. he put your glove back on, and well, you can guess, you went on for a few more rounds of hitting the bag till the leather creased and started to tear.

you'd started to get the hang of it. never in your life had you thought training for combat wrestling against a bunch of cultists would prove to be exhilarating and fun. 

"why don't..." you panted, pausing for a moment. "you and i spar? like in a match."

"no."

"titus..."

"not a chance."

"why not?"

"you'll lose, baby. i'm stronger than you."

"well, as per the chronology, it's you i'm gonna fight in the arena. and you're not just gonna 'fake' losing. the lawyer will see through that."

titus regarded you carefully, at the dead seriousness in your eyes. "i can fake it."

"one look at you holding back and everyone there will see that you're lying. then i'm fucked. or you blow up."

he gritted his teeth. "you really wanna risk getting knocked out by me?"

"of course not. but if i have to fight you, i need the experience. and..." it made you shudder to even think about it, but it was imperative.

"what..."

"i gotta learn how to take hits and continue fighting."

titus scratched his scruffy stubble. any other day, the thought of sparring with you, of demonstrating that ever-boiling violence in him before you would have aroused him, but facing the fact that you were probably going to get beaten up badly by the cheng fus—deadliest as they could be with their house sport—and three other contenders, surely it couldn't be sustainable. he knew, that technique and strength could only get you so far. if you dropped to your knees at the first hit, you'd lose just like that. 

he dragged a rough palm over his face. "fine. yeah, okay."

you nodded with him and took off your gloves. from what you'd been told, the game would be without gloves. wrestling each other with just your bare hands, your bodies, its force.

"how um... hard is your punch?" 

you looked almost miserable asking that. 

titus gave you a sorry smile. "you don't wanna find out, baby."

"dude come on. is it... make me fall kinda hard? make me faint?"

he shrugged. "both."

you nodded. "okay... okay that's fine. worse things to face out there," you muttered to yourself. "explosive diarrhoea is worse. burning in a fire is worse. getting bombed is worse. it's fine."

you sucked in a breath and focused, your stance ready to dodge or defend. and to take a hit from your beloved boyfriend. "on three?"

the only answer you got was a mighty fist landing just bellow your ribcage, narrowly avoiding the bone, and hitting right against your abdomen, knocking the air out of your lungs. you gasped, your stomach recoiling as you coughed and staggered back. 

titus immediately held you, strong arms that had hit you now curling around you gently. 

"i told you."

"THE FUCK... nhhhhhhh," you took in a full breath, eyes blown wide open by the impact. "jesus..." you rasped.

he rubbed your arm, pulling you in, his cheek resting over your head. "i warned you, baby."

"yep." you gave him some kind of a thumbs up.

and from there, the romance between you took on a new form, which ended with you in your bed after a shower, pain pills down your gullet, and few bruises on your body. titus saw to it that pernilla and the staff made your bed comfortable and always refilled the glass of water on the night stand. he let you take a nap, still a bit proud of how you'd taken his punches and delivered a few of your own. he wore the bruises you gave him with all the pride of a lion. hell, he paraded himself around the manor with them, leaving his pristine shirt unbuttoned enough for everyone to see the black and blues over his torso. 

your nap, which ended up being hours long, really proved how draining it was to exert yourself for the sake of survival. it felt nearly apocalyptic—that to live, you had to fight your way through it. all because a certain parent of yours had to insert himself not only into your life unasked for, but also drag you down into the hellympics he'd triggered. and to think you could've still been looking after chester, be in the flirting stage with titus, possibly still a stranger to ursula. and maybe even out the door sooner.

you dreamt about what life would've looked like without the threat of the necrofest, without knowing satanist cults existed. without titus.

and a part of you almost wanted it back.

your quiet, peaceful mornings, your grocery runs, the commute to your college, research in the library, the hospital, being buried under books and papers, drinks with your friends. and it would've sufficed. maybe eventually you would've found someone, gotten married, maybe had a kid.

but as lovely as the dreams were, you still felt adrift.

♬⋆.˚ experience; ludovico einaudi, daniel hope, i virtuosi italiani

before your eyes could open, your body tried to stir in your bed, but it felt too hard on your skin, nothing like the softness of the duvet you'd grown used to. you knew your body ached from all the practice, but this felt different.

you blinked awake, slowly trying to catch ambient light. you felt it from every sense of yours that this wasn't your room. you weren't in bed. you neck hurt, it wasn't resting on anything. your throat felt dry as you swallowed.

eventually, you raised your head, eyes opened and took in the sudden change of scenery. instead of the brown wallpaper and wooden vanity before your bed, there were cracked walls, covered in sigils, symbols. herbs and charms and knots hung from hooks nailed to the surface. the room smelled of chemicals, strong fumes all around you coming from a trolley that held beakers with god knows what inside, and surgical equipment neatly placed in a tray.

you opened and closed your eyes a few more times to see if you could wake yourself up, but no. this was real. 

a soft shuffle from behind you only established that fact. 

"we need to talk."

sebastian's face slowly emerged from beside you as he came around to stand before you. the iron chains and cuffs around your wrist rattled as you tried to pry your arms free in vain. 

"don't bother screaming, the room is sound proof."

the cry for titus in your throat died then and there. 

"what are you doing?" you asked.

"like i said, we need to talk."

"you can't text?"

sebastian spared you a bitter glance as he took heavy steps towards the tray. he plucked a syringe, and a vial. never a good sign in the hands of a man like him.

"by we, i meant you." he sucked in some liquid, tapping the syringe a few times. "you... seem to be up to something. and i will not have you get in my way to the high seat."

you stared at the injection for a long time, an unsettling feeling resting in your system. your distaste for the man was borne by anecdotes and police questions. you had only 'heard' of his atrocities. never did you imagine you'd be strapped to a chair, about to experience them firsthand.

"so what, you're gonna torture me?"

"if that's what it takes. or you can simply tell me what your plan is."

"in which world would i ever choose you over myself?"

sebastian knelt down to look you at eye level. "i am your father. you owe me some courtesy, no?"

"and you owe me a big fat trust fund, but life's funny, i guess."

there was a flicker of amusement on his face. "your mother had the same humour. always got on my nerves."

you held his gaze without flinching. "good."

sebastian held the syringe up, "you know what this is. you know what it can do."

"go ahead. flush as many truth serums as you want in me. gives me a chance to say everything i've been holding back."

you felt the needle prick and your arm and you watched him empty it into your system. the effect wouldn't be instantaneous. it would infest in you slowly, gradually, then all at once. and if it were anything as strong as that night of the beer pong, you knew you'd be spilling out things no one, least of all him, deserved to know. 

"it's not as effective as we think it is. you're still conscious. probably capable of telling selective truths," your father explained to you.

"save the lecture."

"i don't think so. i want you... to know what i'm doing to you."

he circled you and stood behind you. then you felt his rough, heavy, calloused hand curl around your throat. he squeezed hard, the pressure closing in and trapping the air inside your trachea. enough to let you breathe, but enough to hurt swallowing. 

"the less air you get, the more your body will comply."

his fingers dug into your throat, nails pressing against your skin in crescents. you felt your mind slowly start to feel foggy, your face swollen and your breath thin. 

"what are you planning, y/n?" his voice in your ear barely registered. 

but in a way, you thanked your momentary disability for you could barely make a sound with his grip in your throat. he did it a few more times, let you breathe, then clamped his hand around your throat. a ring of red and blue crawled over your skin when he decided to try another approach. you coughed, sucking in air with short staccato breaths. funny, you had been choked before, damn near fatally and in bed with titus, but each one differed from another drastically. this one was laced with intentions you couldn't predict. 

sebastian, after he put on a pair of surgical gloves, picked up a clean scalpel from the tray.

"i can keep this easy, or i can make it harder, y/n. it's up to you."

you looked at his hands through blurry eyes. "do you worst."

he raised an eyebrow. "is thta so?"

"nothing... can be worse than being alive with you."

he shook his head. "i'm not going to kill you. no..." he held the scalpel at your forehead, watching your eyes dart up. "you're going to die on your own."

he sliced a thin cut above your eyebrow. you winced, eyes shut as you felt a sharp pain, then warm blood drip down your face, all the way down to your cheek like tears.

he placed several such cuts across the thinner parts of your skin that bled too easily. he did it with such care and precision too, truly with a surgeon's pursuit. a dozen or so cuts lay on your skin, red colouring the unhurt parts of it.

"i'll ask again. what are you up to?"

you felt the chemical compulsion to spill everything out rise slowly in your body. "the book told me."

"told you what?"

when no words came from you, he dragged the blade against your arm once more, eliciting a whine out of you. 

"told you what???"

you forced yourself to yell, to cry, to whimper. anything but words. and he saw that coming. he put down the scalpel, and picked up a jar of salt.

you braced for the sting in advance as he poured some in his palm and rubbed it harshly against the cuts on your arms. you shrieked in pain, hands jerking within the confines of the chains.

"you don't wanna answer? fine by me. i can do this all day."

the more you resisted, the more he rubbed salt on your wounds, your skin flaring with irritation and pain, and the coarseness of the grains only made micro cuts on your skin, drawing more blood. you watched sebastian's eyes light up as he pressed his thumb hard into your wound, digging into it and making it wider. you watched him glean pleasure from your screams. did he feel this way when he bled his patients dry? 

for hours, as it felt, your cries and screams bounced off the walls of the attic. you hoped even one would reach someone downstairs. that they'd hear you, follow the sound to you. hell, you even tried to call for the lawyer as sebastian wiped his hands.

"oh he can't come in, sweetie. you see... chester, built this attic to keep that scrawny man away. all these sigils are drawn to stop the lawyer from even sensing that this room exists."

your scream gave out bluntly and softened into a helpless cry. surely by now titus must've noticed you were missing. he'd find you. that was the only thing you relied on for some measure of safety and hope as sebastian left the attic, leaving you chained, bleeding, in pain, facing a closed door with no handle.

the only way you could tell the passage of time was when the meagre light filtered from behind you, through a singular slanted window on the roof. you figured the night was over when your neck finally felt warm against the morning chill. the shallow wounds had barely clotted, your skin still throbbing with a raw, sticky heat, when sebastian was at it again.

this time, he brought a small blowtorch with him. the heavy scent of butane filled the cramped space before the blue flame even sparked to life. he let the edge of the heat brush against your bare skin, watching with a detached, clinical fascination as you recoiled your body away from the burning air. he would pull back for a second, only to push the flame close again until your skin caught just enough to blister. fresh burn marks stamped across your arms and legs, mottling the pale skin over your thighs where he had roughly cut away your pants. what a sick bastard.

"your boyfriend... is a perpetual pain in the ass, by the way. he's out there, sniffing the grounds like some... hell hound, looking for you."

sebastian sat there on a low stool before you, casually cleaning the scalpel he had used on you the day before. he dipped a rough rag into a plastic tub of bleach, running it slowly over the metallic surface until it gleamed under the dim bulb.

you met his eyes briefly, looking away just as fast. 

"i told him you went out to see david."

your head shot up again. you stared at your father, desperately trying to process his words through the haze of pain. but he only smiled sinisterly, enjoying the sudden panic that flooded your face.

"i can only imagine what titus would do to him when he doesn't find you there. in fact..." he poured a small pool of raw bleach into his bare palm and splashed it directly over a nasty, deep cut on your calf. your skin sizzled, burned, stung, and you hissed in pain. 

"...he might just be doing the same thing to david, what i'm doing to you. the only difference is..."

sebastian rose slowly, his shadow stretching long across the attic floor. he placed the sterile scalpel back on the metal tray, and then reached for a thick plastic bag, shaking it out and puffing it up with air.

"i can't kill you. but titus can kill him. free of cost."

he put the bag over your head with a sudden, suffocating jerk, and grasped it tightly at the back of your neck, caging you in a measly, shrinking limit of air. instantly, the room vanished. you could not hear anything more than the loud, echoing sound of your own huffing breath and the soft panicked whines scraping against your throat. the plastic bag fogged up easily with your body heat, trapping moisture and completely cutting off your sight. you were never claustrophobic, but god if this did not absolutely terrorise you. the thin material sucked against your lips every time you tried to drag in a full breath, delivering nothing but stale carbon dioxide.

just as your lungs began to burn, he pulled the bag off abruptly, pleased by your sheer panic and the frantic way you gasped for the dusty attic air.

"you know... you've done really well so far. i won't mind if you died in the games. i'll pick up from there."

rolling his sleeves, he paced around the room to reach for a whip from his instruments of torture.it was a wicked thing, weighted at the ends with jagged metal studs that would have doubled as a mace too.

"how about that, hm? i send you out broken and bruised. you play, and chances are, you'll die there."

you did not want to show it, you did not want to give him the satisfaction of seeing you break, but you were scared. truly, deeply scared. you were terrified of never being found in this godforsaken room, of actually dying from your numerous infected injuries before titus could ever break down the door. whip after whip, sebastian slashed at your back, your limbs, till your flesh tore in places, till it bore black and blue.

the second night you spent alone there, you really did try your best to slide your hand out of the cuffs, but the rusted iron was simply the worst of your enemies. you were hungry, thirsty, in pain, and stiff from being seated for two whole days. your head lolled over your shoulder when sleep tried to find you, but it hurt just the same. and every little squeak in the attic alerted you, and kept you awake. 

sebastian kept up with his creativity for another day. not to mention he brought news.

"david's dead. as expected."

you felt your throat dry, dread casting a shadow over you. 

"titus was always gullible to manipulation. but it seems that he... is feral about you," said sebastian. "i'm not sure i like him for you, sweet girl."

you wanted to throw up. the magnitude of what was happening churned inside you cruelly. you wanted it to be over. the injustice of it all didn't slip past you. you'd gone through relentless training, risked your life to play fatally dangerous games, you had taken the life of two people, injured another, watched a whole family blow up into pieces and blood, and just when your old wounds had started to crust and heal, your sadist of a father brought you up here, made you suffer the scorns of his whim.

three whole days passed. three days of unwavering cruelty, torture, mind games to get you to spill out secrets. your body felt detached from your mind, a map of raw burns, stinging cuts, and deep, aching bruises that throbbed in tandem with the heavy beat of your heart. the constant, gnawing pain had become a dull background noise, eclipsed only by the swirl of the drugs he kept pumping into your veins.

"what do you see in him? why titus of all people?" your father asked, looming somewhere above you. he had just injected another dose of the heavy truth serum, the cool liquid burning as it rushed through your sluggish bloodstream.

your tongue felt thick, heavy, and completely disconnected from your jaw. you slurred out a response, the words slipping past your cracked, bleeding lips before you could even think to stop them. "he re...minds... me of you. but better."

sebastian stopped swaying, raising an eyebrow. "better than me? he is a pathetic, angry man. the hound of the family, just some mindless beast without chains."

"not to me," you whispered, your eyelids fluttering as you fought to keep him in focus. "he sees me... he loves me."

sebastian chuckled, a low, humourless sound that vibrated through the damp air of the attic. "oh...y/n... not yet. you haven't seen him when he's... wrathful." 

then, he did something you had never felt before, something completely alien from any father figure you had ever known. sebastian stepped closer, his expression softening into something almost resembling pity, and gently tucked a bloody, matted strand of hair behind your ear. his fingers were surprisingly warm against your feverish skin.

"maybe i should have been there for you," he murmured, his voice dropping to a rare, quiet cadence that made your chest ache. "raised you a bit better. you have my resilience. under all this fragility, you could have become the next 'me'."

and there, in the quiet gravity of his words, the drug stripped away your final defence. it laid bare the gaping void in you that had spent a lifetime longing for paternal love—the desperate, pathetic urge to be chosen, to be praised by the man who gave you life. you had sought that same intensity in titus, craved a man who could ruin the world for you because your own father would not even look at you.

unable to fight the chemical honesty in your veins, and largely unable to fight the starving child inside you, you weakly tilted your head and leaned your cheek into his open palm, seeking the warmth of his touch like a wilted plant reaching for the sun.

he pulled his hand away instantly.

"dont fucking do that..." he muttered fiercely to himself, his face contorting into disgust nad conflict.

before you could even blink away the tears, he cracked his palm hard against your cheek with a brutal, self-loathing slap. the force of it snapped your head to the side as the fragile illusion of his warmth shattered into pieces.

you sat alone once more as the night swallowed the grounds of the danforth manor, covered in blood, sweat, your own piss from uncontrolled release. pale moonlight sifted through the solitary window, casting its tender light on your back, over the gashes and cuts that lay like a cape. the effects of the drug hadn't quite left your body, causing you to talk to yourself, to any atom that was willing to listen.

"stupid girl..." the words spilled out, thick and slurred. "he does not love you. how could he? you do not even love yourself enough to..." you swallowed hard, trying to summon enough moisture to warm your throat before the next sound tore free. "...to see it. to see what you really are to them."

the silence of the attic offered no reply, only the heavy weight of impending death. the iron in the air stung your wounds constantly.

"i don't wanna die... like this," you whimpered, the cold iron chains rattling softly against the floorboards as you shifted your weight. 

but the sorrow could not sustain itself. in the vacuum of your despair, a sudden, blunt spark of anger flared up. your sadness lost its rightful place on the podium, replaced by a raw, ragged spite.

"why should i die?" your voice grew sharper, breath coming in shallow, venomous puffs from your nose. "i am fucking... playing, am i not? getting fucking beaten up everyday for this... for what? for whose amusement?"

infused with a sudden, reckless adrenaline, you shuffled in the stiff wooden chair. you dragged your foot backward, straining against the cuffs until you managed to hook the heel of one shoe against the other, tugging it off your foot. though the shadows blinded you, you pinched the empty leather with your bare toes and began to sweep it like a wiper across the floorboards—deliberately, viciously eroding the perfect ring of salt that circled your chair.

"the lawyer cannot get in here," you snarled at the empty air, erasing the protective barrier, the laxman-rekha* that kept the supernatural horrors at bay. "but you can... or are you weak too? are you just another coward watching from the ceiling?"

the anger boiled over, a direct challenge to the unseen forces that governed this twisted estate.

"you... you could not have just left me alone? what did i ever do to you? i do not even believe in you!" you screamed into the rafters, the sound tearing at your throat. you paused to swallow your own blood, feeling the warm, salty liquid glide down your throat like a grim communion.

 "your own rules, buddy. are you not going to rectify them?"

you leaned forward, the chains straining to their absolute limits, your joints aching with a dull, screaming agony.

"what are you testing? i am playing, am i not? taking hits for your stupid, sadistic game. let me guess... i gotta offer up my soul or something?"

you jerked against the restraints, a bitter, breathless laugh escaping your lips. "can't expect righteousness from you, can i? but then again, you are trying so... hard to be a god. and what is god but righteous..." 

the frenzy of your rage began to cool, leaving behind the heavy, aching truth of your own heart. you thought about titus. you thought about the dangerous, volatile warmth of his presence, and how fiercely he had come to anchor you to this world.

"i know... i am a massive, massive hypocrite," you whispered to the moonlight, your head sinking low. "wishing them all dead... but falling for him. i should wish him dead too." 

you bit the inside of your cheek until the copper taste renewed itself. "but i can't. god help me, i cannot."

a long, heavy silence settled over the attic, broken only by the sound of the wind howling against the manor walls. the drug was finally receding, leaving you bare, broken, entirely exhausted.

"is this my punishment for trying to find my way out?" you asked the dark, your voice barely a breath now. "fair enough, man... have at it."

and then the heavy door creaked open on its own... shifting slowly against the floorboards without a single hand to guide it. a sudden, unnatural chill plummeted the temperature of the attic to a freezing low. you felt two heavy, impossibly solid hands settle over your bare, bruised shoulders and it burned your skin through and through, only it wasn't heat—but pure ice. thick black smoke billowed out from nowhere, pooling around your knees and filling your lungs with the scent old ash, and a cold, dead breath brushed directly past your ears.

with a sharp, metallic ping, your iron cuffs opened on their own, the heavy locks snapping back.

you whipped around instantly, the sudden movement causing a sickening crack in your stiff neck. a painful, breathless whine escaped your throat as you forced your eyes open through the haze, catching sight of a towering, vanishing figure dissolving into the shadows. for one fraction of a second, just two glowing red eyes burned out from the dark before they disappeared entirely into the woodwork.

"fuck."

it took every last ounce of remaining strength in your shattered body just to lean forward and try to get up from the chair. but your legs, deadened by three days of trauma and chains, completely failed you. you fell down immediately, a sharp shriek escaping from your throat as your knees hit the floorboards with a dull thud.

driven by pure, primal survival, you began to crawl against the rough wooden floor. every movement was agony; you dragged yourself directly over the scattered ring of salt, the sharp grains embedding themselves into your fresh wounds and chemical burns, making your skin sizzle and sting all over again.

clutching the doorframe, you hauled yourself into the hallway. the bright electric lights of the manor corridor burned your dilated eyes, blinding you with a splitting headache, but you held onto the floor, palms as steady as they could be and pushed yourself up to your knees.

you crawled again like a helpless child, your palms staining the floor with dark smudges of blood. you climbed down the steep attic stairs—down, down, down into the belly of the house—till you finally reached the carpeted parts of the manor you actually recognised. your balance gave out completely and you took a brutal tumble at the bottom of the stairwell, your body rolling onto the hardwood floor. but you did not stop. you could not. it was another literal hell simply making it down the long corridor to his bedroom door, every single bone, joint, and muscle in your body screaming in protest, begging you to just drop dead right there on the rug.

but you did it.

you collapsed against the base of his door, your weak hands clawing helplessly at the brass hinges, scratching futilely at the dark, polished wood. you barely had it in you to raise your fist to knock, your fingers curling into useless, trembling stubs. unable to lift your arm, you simply slumped your entire weight against titus' door, your bloody, lacerated shoulder bruising against the hard surface. you let out a pained whine, loud enough that it turned into a gasp as the door briskly opened.

there stood titus.

he looked down at you, his large frame freezing instantly. titus... who had spent the past four endless days tearing the world apart looking for you; a man who had spent ninety-six hours tormenting the everloving hell out of the late david, turning the man into a memory before dumping what was left. he had interrogated every single servant who claimed they never saw you, breaking their bodies with a ruthless, cold efficiency before having them hauled away to whichever poorer family would take them in. his clothes were disheveled, his jaw dark with heavy stubble, and his eyes completely wild with a desperate, feral rage—until they landed on the broken, bleeding sight of you at his feet.

he didn't waste a second of time before he knelt down and gathered your tattered body into his arms. it hurt. his rough palms felt like abrasive velcro straps against your shredded, wounded skin, yet, through the seething pain, you knew with absolute certainty that these hands wouldn't harm you. you sagged in his embrace, eyes heavy. 

titus picked you up like a bride and carried you towards his bed. he placed you as gently as he could, wincing when he heard you sob. just... how badly hurt were you that even the softest, finest bed in the world brought you nothing but physical torment?

he remained hovering over you, his breathing shallow and erratic. one large palm stroked the crown of your head with unfamiliar tenderness, while the other hovered mid-air, hesitating to cup your face because he could not find a single patch of skin that was not marred by a cut, a bruise, or a chemical burn.

"y/n..."

very few things rattled titus danforth. he was a man built for violence, but the sight of you like this mortified him. made him fear for your life. 

"baby..." he spoke softly, carefully watching your eyes follow him, the movement of his lips. he sighed a little in relief that you were still responsive.

as rabid and destructive as he could get, as much as his instincts screamed at him to tear the manor apart stone by stone, he knew in this exact moment that you needed gentleness. you needed softness, and not the vengeful hellfire that was brimming in his body. 

but titus was titus. the hound could only be restrained for so long. even as he looked down at you with a gaze full of devastating tenderness, the dark promise of total annihilation was already solidifying behind his eyes. he would defeat any foe, break any law, and slay any dragon to prove a singular, absolute point to this family: touching you was a warrant for death.

"who did this to you?" he hissed harshly. 

the question carried with itself a vow to damn the culprit to a perdition from which no prayer, no desperate plea could ever rescue. 

the spoonful of soup barely made it down your gullet before your ribs ached and protested the action of swallowing. you'd woken up in titus' bed after a few hours of fitful 'sleep', if you could even call it that. while you were out, you had been completely patched up, bandaged tightly in multiple places, and stitched together like a torn cotton toy. painkillers of a mighty caliber had been pumped into your system to numb and dull the persistent, thudding ache that resonated deep within your flesh.

titus had sat by your side throughout the entire ordeal. he had ruthlessly kicked out a mildly surprised and concerned ursula earlier, who had only wanted to nose her way in to find out what happened, especially since the security cameras in the manor had mysteriously gone entirely dark the exact night you went missing.

you had not realised just how starving you were until real, actual food was placed right before you, and it didn't smell like bleach or rust or your own injuries. 

"you want anything else? the cooks aren't going anywhere. they'll make whatever you tell them to," titus murmured, his dark eyes tracking the slow movement of your jaw.

the innate goddess of humility in you urged to shake your head and refuse, but you were long past listening to her. your grumbling belly won out.

"just... another plate of the same thing..."

titus did not think twice before snapping his fingers, and a servant rushed out to go inform the chef.

once the door clicked shut, he placed his large hand over your freshly bandaged thigh, applying only the barest, most careful fraction of his weight. he just needed to hold you, to anchor himself to the fact that you were still breathing. he didn't know how to come back to that conversation, the one before which you'd passed out.

"i'm going to kill him," he just said flatly.

you looked at him, eyes too lazy and tired to show any astonishment. 

"that's..."

"no, i am. i don't care that he's your father. he's dead. he was dead the second you collapsed against my door."

you swallowed the last bit of chicken from your second serving, then placed a shaky hand over his.

"titus..."

he begged you with a gaze you hadn't seen on him before. "he needs to die, y/n. for what he's done to you since... forever."

you cleared your throat. "not..." you said softly, mostly because any louder and your throat would constrict. "your kill."

he blinked at you, but if there was anything he understood, anything he'd learned from growing up in the sick, cultist world of his, it was to never get in the way of a hunt. especially one born out of vindication. and you were his queen... stronger than he'd ever thought you could turn out to be. kinder than a monster like him ever deserved to receive. smarter than him in ways that had to be invented solely for you. 

so he let you have it, conceding to your silent authority. sebastian... was going to be your kill, on your time, and by your own blood-stained hands.

you stared off into a daze throughout the car ride to the cheng fu estate.

beside you, titus sat quietly. and the only reason he was so because that morning, he'd turned the whole manor upside down trying to keep you from going forward with the fifth game of the necrofest. and his reasons were valid, of course. you were severely inujured, and though they were superficial injuries, none too deep to cause irreversible or long term damage, your body was absolutely not ready to take a beating, let alone give one. 

but you had insisted to fight. and your reason was valid beacause there was no other choice. you were the only participant from your house, and the only was you could escape the game was either by being dead or magically conjuring a third other member of your family and having your father nominate them.

so he simply sat, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the road, yet they couldn't help but rest on you, on your barely healed skin. you looked like you'd been tossed in a frying wok, your own description mind you, which he did not fucking laugh at.

titus replayed the past two days over and over in his mind. he kept thinking about the way you had described that hidden attic, a rancid corner of the manor he had not even known existed. you had spoken of the sigils drawn on the floor, the heavy salt barrier, and the iron chains that had bound you to the chair. you had deliberately skipped over the most gory, agonising details of sebastian's torture, shielding him from the worst of it, and you had neither confirmed nor denied exactly how you had managed to break free of those locks. you had only whispered that maybe... just maybe, that freak of a mr. le bail had actually heard your screaming soliloquy, and somehow set you free. but you had ended that line with a heavy, sceptical 'if'. because accepting it would mean accepting that literally satan decided to spare your life.

♬⋆.˚ for whom the bell tolls; emi meyer

when you reached the arena, sandy, crude, a sumo wrestling pit if you squinted, everybody's eyes were on you. usually, it was due to resentment and mis-anticipating your lucky wins, but this time... they were glances of weary caution.

for you entered the arena already deeply bloody and visibly bruised, dressed only in an oversized shirt and loose boxing shorts that showed the fresh white bandages wrapped tight around your limbs. yet, despite the damage, there was a menacing storm brewing in your eyes. you looked entirely broken, but you did not fucking look weak. it was like witnessing rocky balboa walk up to the arena before facing clubber lang; and you, well... you were about to face damn near four of them. 

the roar of the crowd dulled into a tense murmur. you did not hear a single instruction, a single rule, or a single word of good luck uttered by the lawyer, who stood at the edge looking equally spooked by the sudden contrast in your demeanour. the last time he had seen you, you were covered in polo grime and minor cuts, but this... this was an outright attempt at murder, best described in his book. his eyes narrowed down on sebastian, who looked disappointed, perhaps at your survival? but you were alive and down to fight, so by the code, no rules were broken. 

you didn't even hear the first ding of the bell, nor did you see mr cheng fu step into the pit, along with a wrinkly mr silcox, fists balled up too tight. 

mr cheng fu yelled something in chinese, a chant native to the family it seemed, for the extended family in the audience erupted in cheers and responses to the same. he stomped towards the shivering mr silcox, who made the mistake of backing into the ropes. a large, chubby fist landed straight into his face, the audible crack of his nose dissolving beneath the hoots and howls.

mr silcox went down before he could even process his own existence. it was a clean knockout. the 'ace' of combat fighting if you could call it. 

through unfocused eyes, you watched francesca step into the arena, followed by a really... really mad titus. 

oh, he had been counting down the days until this exact fight, waiting for the legal permission to deal some truly nasty blows to miss el caído, who had tried to make your life difficult on multiple occasions. he did not care that she was a woman. to him, gender meant nothing in the pit; she was only one thing: an opponent. and those? titus was exceptionally well at pummelling them into dust.

he let out a dark, mocking laugh at her weak stance, watching with a predator's satisfaction as her pleading eyes darted across the crowd to where her father sat helplessly in his wheelchair.

"eyes on me, bitch."

francesca snapped her head back to titus, who stood directly before her, his massive frame hunched low with his fists out, ready to attack.

"you hurt my girl. so you're gonna pay for that."

she scoffed, trying to muster her usual arrogance, but that sound did nothing to hide just how panicked she truly was. "maybe i toughened her up."

before he could even bother to respond to her words, the heavy iron bell dinged, and titus simply answered her with a brutal throw of his hands. his knuckles landed in a harsh sequence against her ribs, her arms, and then cracked hard across her cheek.

francesca's vision spiralled as she trudged away from titus, but he was ultimately too quick and far too eager. he yanked her hair, which she hadn't bothered to tie up. and shoved her into the ropes. and from there, it was a series of unstoppable punches to her body and face, knocking her side to side, up and down till she collapsed on the ground before him. titus lurched forward with a feral snarl, lifting his fist to deal another finishing blow that would have cracked her skull open, before the lawyer's invisible magic suddenly tightened around his limbs, restraining him forcefully in place.

the bell dinged once.

titus had won that round. 

he proudly stepped back, watching his work on the poor woman who clutched her ribs as she was pulled up by her family. titus turned to you, a little too happy to have absolutely ransacked francesca, but the only thing he saw was an eerie, calm focus on your face. 

fair, given that you were called next. 

titus watched you calmly walk up to the pit, ducking slowly under the ropes to get in. he saw the slight crease in your brown when you bent down. your body was still recovering. he did not know how you were going to take hits, hell, he wasn't even sure if you'd be able to pick yourself up from your own lagging movements. 

but at least you were up against mr silcox, whose nose was deformed now. the old man was clearly not in a good shape, so maybe—

the bell dinged. 

you held your fists up loosely, toes slightly bouncing on the sand, little steps to keep you agile. they fucking hurt, but the pain was bearable from the numbing spray you'd taken back in the car for your injuries. 

"how's your wife?" you asked mr silcox. 

he did not like that question. not when he'd witnessed you dragging his precious mallet over his precious wife's precious calf in his precious game of blood polo a week ago. she had to undergo at least thirty stitches and the promise of a talented plastic surgeon who swore that for just a few million dollars, he could make her leg look brand new.

mr silcox threw a punch at you, which you blocked. he was too slow, too inexperienced in hand-to-hand combat—that you could tell. you didn't even have to raise your arms. you just sliced your foot under his legs, swiping him off his feet and making him land flat on his face on the ground, rigghtttttt on his broken nose. 

the man gargled sand out of his mouth, clutching his face and scraped knee. 

you just kept jogging on the spot, looking down at the miserable man. well, mr silcox made no effort in getting up. partially from the humiliation of befalling the same injury, that too from a woman of lesser ranks, and partially from another cheque of twenty million he foresaw at the aesthetics clinic.

the bell rang and you walked out of the arena. you'd managed to win, and save your breath and energy. you took a seat next to ursula, who... very genuinely handed you a water bottle.

"it's... obvious that you're not okay but... how are you feeling?" she asked.

you looked at your bandages, checking if either of them tore or not. 

"you don't wanna know what i'm feeling."

she nodded. "we really did try to find you. sebastian, he told—"

"i know."

her hand itched to place itself over your shoulder. despite not being your biggest fan, she'd come to feel some kind of sorority in you. you'd proven to be useful, capable, and somehow stark different from them and ursula valued that uniqueness. you occupied space without shame. something she wished she could do, she should do given that she's a danforth heiress. but it never came to her naturally. it had to be enacted. 

"well... the least i can do is make you a good fucking martini when you win."

you smiled, taking a few sips from the bottle. "deal."

titus, back in the arena was supposed to fight mr silcox, but the man raised his white flag and slumped into a seat, fanned by his many sons and daughters. with the cowards out of the way, mr. cheng fu entered the arena instead, hefty, hulking, and hungry for a bloody fight with the cutthroat danforth.

now, a part of titus knew he was no match for the traditional wrestler under normal circumstances. cheng fu was bigger in size, meaner in his attacks, and far too certain of his victory. but titus had a different agenda. the one thing he could do, the only thing that mattered, was to put the humongous man in a bad enough shape, to break a few of his bones and weaken him just enough to make him beatable for you when your turn came.

the two men faced off against each other like absolute animals in the wild—a rabid hellhound fighting a massive grizzly bear in the dusty ring. their speeds were too potent for the ordinary eye to track, and the sheer, crushing strength of their punches and tussles could be felt in the very air around them, vibrating through the arena floor. neither backed down from offensive attacks, and neither bothered to defend because that was for losers. real men fought hard and mighty, absorbing the pain just to give it back twofold.

which is exactly what titus did. any bracket of time he found, any split-second opening in cheng fu's guard, he dealt merciless, heavy blows to the giant—targeting his ribs, his abdomen, his jaw, throat, and head, anywhere he could draw blood or fracture bone. at one point, he even managed to tackle and slam the man directly onto the ground, the impact shaking the sand, but he quickly found himself choked in a suffocating, lethal headlock as cheng fu wrapped a thick arm around his neck.

titus ruthlessly elbowed him in his torso over and over, knocking the air out of the wrestler's lungs until the grip loosened. he stood up quickly, his head spinning as he felt dizzy for a solid moment from the lack of oxygen.

but even then, with his vision blurred, he stepped forward and kicked the living daylights out of the man on the ground, his heavy boot cracking against cheng fu's ribs. he let out a sharp yelp when his ankle was suddenly caught in a vice-like grip, and with a sudden jerk, he was dragged down onto the hard ground with a brutal thud.

it was no surprise that titus ultimately lost that round when the dust settled. but he did not care about the loss. as he dragged himself up, spitting blood into the sand, he was completely regret-free and deeply pleased to see mr. cheng fu panting, limping, and left in an equally bad shape. that much he could do for you. all for you.

and your match with francesca, already being called a 'cat fight' ended up being something out of a video game. for all her family pride, legacy, and money, she was still weaker than you. you hadn't truly shown you could fight, so francesca thought you the same as her and tried to slap you. 

chuckling at that... attempt of whatever it was, you dodged out of her way and socked her jaw hard. you did not wait for her to react or scoff or say anything bitter in either of her languages before you dealt a simple but powerful jab at her throat, and a nasty right hook to her cheek, which caused her to stumble and fall to the ground. she coughed and whined in the dust, unable to fathom what had just happened. 

that was the case for every spectator around you. you weren't the best marksman, you weren't a chess prodigy like the le domas (may their soul roast in hell), you nearly got trampled on the polo ground. but you could suddenly fight? or were you always able to?

knowing she wouldn't get up, you glanced at the lawyer and he sighed, ringing the bell that announced you as the winner of that round.

you stayed in the pit, taking deep breaths to recover as much as you could. 

and then you saw him duck in through the ropes, and you just... smiled. it was the first genuine, unforced smile you had managed all day.

"hi."

titus returned your smile with a one of his own, his intense gaze softening as it washed over your bruised, but beautiful face.

"hello, baby."

it felt just like your practice sessions, moving around him, having him circle you, fists raised, a few jabs and crosses dodged. like taking the lay of the land. you could tell he didn't really want to hit you. and you knew he couldn't beat around the bush and breka the rules of the game.

so you spared him the trouble of faking it. pivoting sharply, you spun around on your toe with a sudden, fluid elegance, raising your other leg to deliver a barbarous sweeping roundhouse kick right to his pretty face.

titus staggered for a second, gaining his footing, his hand rising to touch his jaw. oh.

he looked at you, stunned. "i didn't teach you that."

you shrugged. "i'm a former ballerina, titus. i got some skills." you ended your sentence with a punch faked, which he fell for, and then you dipped down gracefully into a deep cossack squat, slicing your leg under titus', similar to what you did with mr silcox but better, at its full capacity, and kknocked your man off his feet. 

titus landed on his back, stupefied. he knew he should get up. stand up and fight for at least half his masculinity. but there was much more twisted pleasure in being smacked around and slammed down by you. he looked up at you looking down at him. he had about a few secodns to figure out his next move. he could not afford to 'fake' losing just to protect you and he certainly did not want to risk blowing up into piec—

"sorry, sweetie, i'll kiss it better later," you cooed, truly apologetic...

...before you stomped on his crotch, the hell of your shoe landing right on top his family jewels. and the man never resurfaced. 

for a few sincerely understandable minutes, titus lay on the ground, hands clutching his groin, holding back wails. and boy, he was not alone in his suffering; practically every other man in the arena, the lawyer included, instinctively winced and cringed inward, their thighs closing in. all of them held their breath in a collective silence, watching you ruthlessly put your man in his place.

no fucking body complained when the bell dinged and titus lay on the ground. you had won...which meant there was only one man left to fight. one man between you and another victory.

mr cheng fu surprisingly limped back into the pit. while he prepared himself, you took a moment to replenish your fluids, taking a slow sip from a water bottle before turning your attention to your pouty titus. he sat on the bench, his legs closed tight, his broad shoulders hunched over in frustration from his own loss. you leaned down, giving his bruised face a soft pat on the cheek and pressing a tender, reassuring kiss to his bloody lips.

then, you turned back to the sand.

you stood before the giant, mentally calculating just what you would have to do to not get killed mid-fight. dodging and ducking would only help you so far. your physical endurance was hanging by a thread, and your standard punches would not make that much of a difference, even if titus had already left the man pretty banged up. no, you had to be clever. and you had to be extra careful.

as soon as the bell rang, mr cheng fu stomped towards you. and through the adrenaline, you clocked right away that he was not fast. he was hefty, destructive, but he was not fast. he lacked the agility that you possessed, even though that aspect of your body had already been severely tested over the last few days and was nowhere near its full range.

because of your limitations, your battered body felt every. single. hit.

one of his heavy knuckles clipped your head, making your ears ring violently. your healing lip cracked open again, a fresh smear of crimson running down your chin. as the tussle continued, a few of your tight bandages tore open under the strain, bleeding through your clothes and bringing you to the exact same level of banged up as him. you limped away frantically from another daunting punch, which narrowly missed your jaw by a fraction of an inch. you stumbled behind him, maintaining a healthy, desperate distance.

the oaf darted towards you, and you took that split-second chance to spin around just in time, driving your elbow hard into his fractured ribs before sliding away just as fast. you winced sharply, a gasp escaping your throat as your weak ankle caught itself in a mean twist.

you couldn't hear in your left ear that well, but you were pretty sure people were just booing at you. fuck em.

you tried to draw in a few stabilizing breaths, but you had to abandon the oxygen halfway when a stray fist from cheng fu caught your cheek. you practically spun at the sheer impact, your body flying backward until you crashed heavily into the ropes. a few more ruthless hits caught you right across your wounded back, and you yelled out in blinding pain, your knees buckling as you knelt down in the sand.

through the muffled ring in your ears, you could hear titus and ursula screaming at the top of their lungs, shouting at you to get up, to move, to run.

but you simply could not bring your shattered frame up that soon. your muscles refused to cooperate, and you knew he was coming for you—at large and elephantine. you slumped down even more, a large fist missing the back of your head thankfully. your palms clutched at the rough ground, digging deep into the pit. taking one sharp breath, you forced yourself to stand up.

before mr. cheng fu could grab your tattered shirt and hurl you out of the arena itself, you threw a measly, telegraphed punch. he dodged it easily, a smirk forming on his face—you opened your clenched fist mid-swing and let a handful of the fine, coarse arena sand fly directly into his open eyes.

he wailed instantly, the sharp grains stinging his vision as he instinctively brought his large hands up to rub them. big mistake.

seeing him blinded, you let all the pent-up rage, the raw trauma, and the burning injustice of your life boil straight to the surface. you unleashed a furious, unhinged torrent of blows, hitting him over and over, not caring where your knuckles landed. in that blinding moment of wrath, you did not see cheng fu anymore. you imagined sebastian standing there instead, eating your punches with clattering teeth.

every single cut and bruise of that torture flashed before your eyes as your fists collided with mr cheng fu's body, slowly sending him stumbling backwards. you could not even hear your own guttural, feral scream—practically deaf in your left ear—as you dealt brutal blows left and right. you struck with a vicious velocity, spilling blood, spit, and even vomit from the big man as you kept hitting, and hitting, and hitting.

only when a sudden, invisible magical force caught ahold of your limbs, freezing your trembling body rigidly in place, did you finally realise that you had been fisting the empty air for a long moment.

you blinked through the sweat and blood obscuring your vision. your opponent, the supposed master of his sport, lay completely broken on the ground before you, gasping desperately for air, his eyes bloodshot and blinded by the sand.

the final gong of the bell was unheard by you. muffled noises came from one side, clearer groans from the other. and before your legs could give out, steady arms came to hold you, and led you out of the pit.

back in the car, freshly hurt for the millionth fucking time in just one week, you sat on the painfully squeaky leather seat. thankfully, the limousine allowed you to stretch your legs better, alleviating a fraction of the throbbing pressure in your twisted ankle.

your back lay against titus' chest, which heaved steadily. his stubbled felt rough against your forehead, but you somehow found that comforting. far better than any chair, any bed.

his hands ran up and down your arms, dirty fingertips tracing your skin gently.

and it was the safest you'd felt in weeks.

funny how that worked. finding absolute sanctuary in the hands of a man who had brutally beaten the hell out of multiple people in a matter of days; a man who had ruthlessly hunted down and killed your now former supervisor simply because the mere possibility of you being in danger trumped any differential diagnosis of logic.

"you actually did it," said ursula, who was seated away from you, nursing a flute of champagne that every limousine was characterised to provide. "won the games."

titus frowned, his grip tightening imperceptibly around your waist and his chest rumbled against your spine. "there's one more left. and i'm telling you right now, i am not hunting her down. not happening."

ursula and you shared a knowing smile, a wordless understanding that unsettled him.

"what"

you looked up at him, his face too close to be seen as one ideal shape. your palm gently scraped against his stubbled jaw and he looked down at you.

"didn't i tell you?" you murmured, a spark of hope in your voice. "i have a plan."

laxman-rekha: (line of lakshman, lit.), is an alleged line/boundary drawn by ram's brother lakshman to protect his sister-in-law sita from any harm during their voluntary exile into the forest (i say alleged, because in the actual valmiki written text, there is no mention of it. that was introduced in two latter versions of ramayan, the hindu epic, one in telugu and another in bengali/hindi, if i'm not wrong). i remain loyal to the og version.

SHE IS BACK. incredibly sorry for the massive delay (nuke me). i was out of the city, two hours in a plane, a bus, the metro. and on duty to chase a rat away (failed) in my friend's apartment.

also, i edited some boring ahh redundant lines out and kinda watered down the torture because it personally disturbed me to write it T_T (DON'T WORRY. i will still make the story worse during the final hunt. again, nuke me).

also read a few disturbing works on torture and trauma and watched a shit ton of fight scenes that just made me depressed so i had to take a break. T_T

AND im binging supernatural, hence the salt and sigils. lfg.

thank you so much for being patient.

always, comments are loved loved loved, reblogs are always welcome, all my ghost readers; u da real gems

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limited taglist: @taniamiller @generation-zero @goddess-of-spring @1dhoe93 @saigereaper @onyxorbspire @fluffyassbutt @niki128 @darknessofhell666-blog-blog @margaretblue777@emotionalsupportdilf @yiiiikesmish @softundermoonlight @tomnooksbagofbells

[st-kitten]

we miss ya around here! hope all is well bestie x

ksksks it is well bestie. just a little burnt out, travelling, dying in a heatwave T_T

[st-kitten]

the last great demented dynasty XIX

titus danforth x y/n

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a/n: throughout the chapters, certain songs will be mentioned at the beginning or after a partition. the music is chosen mostly for the vibes and the melody. if the lyrics align, yay. if not, play along. but i highly recommend listening to the songs on loop for its section if you're a 'take-your-time' reader. idk, the music just adds some oomf to it.

summary: you've managed to survive the games so far. but this one might just put you in the hospital for good. will you find a loophole? or will you run for your life?

warnings: sloppy sloppy make out, groping, mention of blood LOTS OF BLOOD again because what is RoN2 without blood? FERAL Y/N NGL BITCH BE CRAZY. mild animal abuse described (IRL, I DEEPLY CONDEMN THIS AND I'D NEVER EVER HURT AN ANIMAL), smut, piv, riding our man let's gooo, bloody sex, sucking blood, bathtub sex, subby whiny whimpery puppy titus, crèmepie, long chapter

ursula and you were lounging by the danforth pool, enjoying one of the rare afternoons of normalcy.

monsoon was on the last of its downpours, so the sky was still cloudy, the air humid. ursula occupied most of the pool itself, doing slow laps whenever the conversation bored her, only peeking out when something caught her interest.

you, meanwhile, sat on the edge with your feet in the water, absently kicking now and then and sloshing the water around your ankles. you had your ipad on your lap, a pdf with rules, terrain diagrams, and enough polo terminology to make you want to toss the device in water. go analogue.

"ursula..."

she surfaced several feet away, slicking wet hair back.

"what?"

"polo requires four players per team, right?"

"yeah."

you scrolled through the pdf. "where am i supposed to find four in my house? is my father supposed to play too?"

she barked out a bitter laugh. "hope not."

"dude."

"i've no clue, y/n. leave it to the lawyer to explain the rules." and with that unhelpful contribution, she sank beneath the water again.

"i don't know how to play polo, ursula!" you shouted, hoping your complaint swam in with her.

"i'll teach you," the voice came from behind.

you almost fucking fell in the water. turning around, you found titus lowering himself onto the pool deck beside you, shirt-fucking-less.

a fact your brain unfortunately registered before anything else.

you'd never seen him shirtless in broad daylight before, or at least not when you weren't fucking each other against different surfaces.

"uh..."

he raised an eyebrow.

"even if you do, i'm not exactly becoming a polo expert in a week."

titus reached over and took your ipad from you, shutting the case and placing it away from you.

"you're reading it wrong."

"there's a wrong way to read?" you asked.

"you need to understand how not to die."

you stared at him, then at ursula who fished herself out of the pool for a moment, swimming over to the edge and rested her arms atop the stone.

"blood polo isn't like normal polo."

"i... figured that much." you hadn't.

"so, stop 'studying' it," titus said next to you. "your notes aren't gonna help if you make a different draw."

"a draw?"

"of cards," ursula answered for you.

"for what?"

"to receive roles, y/n."

"what roles? what is... just explain," you asked with a frown.

ursula sighed, flicking a bead of water off her finger. "before the games begin, every house draws a card. there are riders..."

the ones on the horse, you supposed.

"...and runners."

"runner?"

"yep. running. on foot."

"why would you run on foot in a game of polo?" you asked, genuinely confused.

ursula and titus shared a sinister smile. "what else would you hit?"

your jaw slacked as it dawned on you. "hold on." you pulled your legs out of the water, crossing them and turning to titus. "you're telling me there's a chance i spend the entire game on horseback... or i spend the entire game running and being 'chased' by the people on horseback?"

"pretty much," titus shrugged.

"that's blood polo for you."

"why blood? will 'the runner' actually get hit?" you asked.

"pricked."

"PRICKED?"

"the mallets have pointed ends. silver tips. silcox special. they prick you to make you run towards the goal they want to win."

for several seconds, all that could be heard was the gentle slosh of water against the pool walls.

you didn't speak for several minutes, enough for ursula to take another lap.

you looked at titus. "so... i have to prepare for both, right? riding and running?"

he nodded.

"i'll never outrun a fucking horse, titus."

"i know. part of the game expects you as a runner to run towards one particular goal, making a team win. but the other team will block you, stab at you to run in the other direction."

you gawked. "how the fuck am i supposed to win then? aren't i just losing?"

"well, if you outlast it... manage to run and dodge and make sure neither team scores a goal, you win."

"titus what the fuck."

"i don't make the rules, baby," he raised his hands, then immediately placed the on your knee, thumb running over your skin. oh that felt good. a week's detox from titus danforth had you practically ovulating for the man.

"if you start making out, drown me," ursula's voice bubbled from a few feet away.

the danforth stables were huge, hell apartments were smaller than them. row after row of immaculate stalls stretched before you, polished wood gleaming beneath warm overhead lights. the scent of hay, leather, and horses lingered pleasantly in the air.

you turned slowly, taking it all in. "do all rich people have horses?"

titus scoffed at the generalisation. "we also have yachts."

he led you further inside, one hand casually tucked into his pockets. the stablehands working around stopped and bowed to him like he were some king.

"this one belongs to ursula."

titus stopped before a grey mare. "solstice."

the horse raised her head proudly as though she knew she was being discussed. she was stunning. tall, elegant, silver-grey beneath the afternoon light filtering through the stable windows. her mane had been meticulously brushed and braided.

you stepped closer. "she's... gorgeous."

solstice blinked at you, maybe once, then immediately lost interest.

you let out a soft laugh. "ursula if she were a horse..."

"she judges everyone," titus murmured. "especially ursula."

that felt correct. you continued down the aisle. "where's yours?"

your question pleased him deeply as he smirked, giving you that particular expression men got whenever someone asked about something they were secretly proud of. he nodded towards another stall and you followed.

inside stood a sturdy golden-brown horse with a broad chest and a thick neck, happily occupied with eating.

"that..." titus paused dramatically. "is a fax machine"

"...is applecore."

you looked between the horse and him. "you named him that?"

"he likes apples."

applecore chewed enthusiastically, snorting a little before returning to his feed. titus stepped closer to the stall and ran a hand along the horse's neck. immediately, applecore leaned into the touch.

that softened something in your heart. ugh. it was strange to see titus be gentle with something and not kill it.

before you could decide whether touching him was a good idea, titus reached over and took your hand. guiding your palm forward, he placed it against applecore's neck.

the horse was calmer than you thought. and so so soft. your face lit up instantly as you rubbed its neck.

"oh my god."

applecore huffed, content at the petting. "he's so soft!!!" you squealed softly.

titus watched you with poorly concealed amusement. jesus, it was like taking a child to the zoo.

"ohmygod ohmygod he's so cute. i love him"

he rolled his eyes, but smiled at your excitement. you continued petting the horse for another minute before reluctantly pulling away.

"come on."

"there's more?"

"one more," he said, his tone changed a little.

he led you further down the row until you reached a stall at the far end. inside stood the most beautiful horse you'd seen by far. a black mare. her coat was dark enough to look almost blue beneath the stable lights. scattered across her hide were small grey-white markings, uneven and delicate. she lifted her head as you approached and your breath caught.

"chester's?" you asked.

titus shook his head. "no... yours."

you blinked. "huh?"

"she's yours."

"since... uh... when"

titus shrugged. "does it matter?"

"titus," you looked at the horse, "you got me a horse?"

"uh huh."

good lord, the casualness threw you off. he said it like he just brought you flowers or a glass of water.

"a whole horse?"

"they don't usually come in halves," he murmured.

you bore your eyes into the man, then turned back towards the mare. your mare. carefully, you stepped closer and held out your hand. she sniffed at your fingers, wet nose bumping against your hand. you smiled before you could stop yourself. she made a grumbling sound as she leaned into your touch.

"hi," you said softly, stroking her.

"what's her name?" you asked him.

"you tell me, baby. she's yours to name," titus answered.

you gasped and shoved him. "shut the fuck up."

he didn't so much as budge, not a damn inch. just hooked an arm around your waist and pulled you back against his side.

"go on." his chin rested on your shoulder. "name her."

you looked back at the mare, at the darkness of her coat, the pale stars on her hide. she looked like a sky full of stars. gosh, she was indescribably beautiful.

you said softly, "andromeda."

like the galaxy.

"andromeda," titus repeated once, against your ear. "good name."

"right?" you beamed, your cheek touching his.

"we'll get it embossed on a tag."

you pet her once more and she nudged your forearm, making you laugh. titus watched the two of you together and felt something warm settle in his chest. because he'd spent millions of his money buying expensive things for women before. birkins, cars, trips to mykonos.

but none of them ever looked this happy about it.

and later, sometime in the evening, you stood on the grounds of the estate, boots over fitted pants, a typical polo shirt on you. you sat atop andromeda, still getting used to the sensation of being that high off the ground. it wasn't fear exactly, just some anticipatory awareness. horses weren't always zen creatures. they were large and powerful and every shift of their muscle under you reminded you that you only had half the control over them. your girl could absolutely rocket launch you into a bush.

but thankfully, she seemed to like you.

titus rode beside you on applecore, the reins in his hand worn out from frequent use. it irritated you slightly how good he looked doing literally anything. riding horses definitely fell into that category too.

the two of you had only just started down one of the estate trails, where he taught you how to mount yourself on a horse properly, when a familiar figure emerged from behind.

sebastian noticed that you'd noticed him. after the little stunt you'd pulled on him the night before, he approached you like one would a landmine.

you glanced over your shoulder and he jolted in place once.

"what."

sebastian cleared his throat. "you uh..." his eyes flicked between you and the horse. "you're riding."

"clearly."

he took half a step backward. his gaze darted toward titus.

"you know how to ride?" he asked eventually.

"a little." that answer seemed to surprise both men.

"yeah?" titus asked, turning toward you.

there was genuine curiosity in his voice. you fought the urge to smirk.

"yeah. my university had a derby last year. they organised an equestrian workshop."

you adjusted the reins slightly. "david... taught me."

ooooo the effect was spectacular. titus' entire face hardened like a steel crowbar. the ease he carried himself with dissipated into fists clenched around the reins, his jaw twitching and shoulders squared. the look he gave the distant horizon suggested david's life expectancy had just shortened considerably.

sebastian blinked between the two of you, trying his best to be relevant in the conversation.

"i... can teach you some basics of polo, if you'd like. it's not as hard as—"

before he could finish, titus casually reached over and slapped applecore's butt and the horse reacted instantly, one of its hind legs kicking back and landing straight into sebastian's stomach.

"HCK—" oh he folded in half. all the air left his lungs in one violent burst as he stumbled backwards clutching his stomach.

you bit the inside of your cheek trying not to burst out laughing. you reached over and grabbed titus' arm before he could somehow escalate things further.

"why don't you give me some lessons, hm?"

his attention snapped back at you like a dog hearing an order. he stared at you for another second before shaking his head and guiding applecore forward.

the two of you rode out on the grounds slowly. truth be told, you only knew how to not fall off the horse. you didn't know how to make it jump or gallop or run. so you really did need some lessons.

you rode on the horses till you reached the plains behind the estate, a terrain suitable for some high speed riding.

"she's already trained," he said, rerouting applecore to move closer to you.

"i'm the one who needs training, man."

he reached over and gave andromeda's neck an approving pat.

"the thing people get wrong about horses is thinking they're like cars. pull this, press that, get a ride."

you listened to him carefully.

"but they have different personalities and they respond differently to their riders.

his hand slid down the reins.

"applecore's stubborn. if he doesn't respect someone, he'll ignore them. solstice only listens to ursula and the stableboy. she hates everyone else. she'll charge at them if they try to pet her or click at her."

titus nodded at your horse. "andromeda's easier. if you treat her gently, she'll listen. if you're stern, she won't."

he guided his horse around slightly.

"so, start with turning."

for the next while he walked you through the basics properly. how pressure on one rein wasn't meant to yank the horse's head around but communicate direction. how shifting your weight helped.

when you kinda pulled too hard, andromeda stopped altogether and side-eyed you.

"sorry, sweetie," you cooed, stroking her neck.

after that came stopping, starting, changing pace, little things that made the horse more comfortable with you. but it ended up being you getting more comfortable with riding. this felt nice. and by the time the sun had sunk lower, you were feeling considerably more confident.

and well, all good things came to and end. titus decided to ruin your peace.

"ready?"

"for what??"

"galloping."

"nah, i'm good bruh," you chuckled nervously. before you could invent another excuse, he dismounted. he stepped beside andromeda and swung himself up behind you in one smooth motion. and now there was a really large titus danforth behind you.

your spine straightened immediately, his chest pressed lightly against your back and his legs settled on either side of yours.

"titus."

"relax, baby." his arms slid around you, enough to embrace you, his hands covering yours. god, he was warm.

"i can't. i'm gonna fall."

you felt him chuckle against the side of your head. titus snapped his fingers and applecore started following beside you automatically, entirely unconcerned.

and then he snapped the reins.

andromeda surged forwards. the whole world suddenly sped around you and you felt your stomach drop. the grass on the ground became a blurry stroke of muddy green beneath pounding hooves. the force of acceleration shoved you backwards so hard your entire back slammed into titus' chest.

"oh my god, fuck... shit, titus."

the wind took bites out of your voice. your hands tightened around the reins and your heart launched itself out of your body. you were pretty sure it got left behind in the dirt back there.

the horse was moving impossibly fast, faster than any vehicle you'd been on. your mind conjured worst case scenarios as usual; that you would fall, you would die, get trampled. become one with the ground.

yet none of it happened. andromeda galloped smoothly, beautifully. and your panic turned just a bit into excitement.

the evening wind whipped through your hair and against your face. tears gathered in the corners of your eyes from the sheer force of it. the sky felt larger above you, stars twinkling in the night. the speed certainly made you feel alive and you found yourself laughing.

you leaned forward instinctively, moving with the horse instead of against her.

"holy shit, this is amazing!" you cried out.

"i know!" titus did too.

beside you, applecore ran free, no reins directing his gait or speed. you could see the strings of muscle ripple beneath its golden hide. what a sight.

eventually, once your death grip on the reins loosened you became quantitatively less terrified, titus shifted his hands away from yours, letting them rest at your hips.

"turn a little to the right."

you swallowed. the horse was still moving considerably faster, but carefully, you applied gentle pressure to the rein in your right hand, tugging it. andromeda responded by veering into a smooth arc across the open field, not once breaking the pace.

your eyes widened. "whoa."

"gooood girl," titus cooed directly beside your ear.

you barked out a laugh.

"shut up."

"i was talking to her, baby."

your rolled your eyes. but gosh, you couldn't deny how liberating it felt. a few minutes ago you'd been convinced galloping was a fancy way to die, now you almost wanted to go faster, take off and fly.

you continued guiding andromeda across the plains while applecore followed. then eventually, the pace eased. the horse slowed down when you tugged at the reins, grass giving way to a higher ridge overlooking the sprawling forests. the cliffside wasn't steep enough to be dangerous, but it offered a clear view for miles.

the sky was dark, and stars twinkled in clusters over your head.

titus clicked his tongue softly and guided both horses toward a clearing. andromeda finally came to a stop. you let out a breath.

"still alive."

titus dismounted first, looking up at you. then he held out a hand, which you accepted. his fingers wrapped around yours as you carefully swung one leg over the saddle and slid down. the second your boots hit solid ground, your entire body rattled like a skeleton.

"oh fuck..." you wobbled a little, then adjusted your pants and shifted your weight from foot to foot. jesus everything felt sore.

"nobody told me riding feels like this."

titus looked amused. "feels like what?"

"like i've been kicked in the ass repeatedly."

"well, that ass humped my dick real good, so i'm not complaining."

you gritted your teeth, hand lifting to smack applecore's butt so he could kick titus in the balls maybe, but the man grabbed it and gave it a little kiss, lacing his fingers with yours.

the horses were left to graze nearby while the two of you wandered toward the edge of the clearing. the breeze was a lot stronger up there.

you lowered yourself onto the ground with a grateful sigh, your knees coming up to your chest. you wrapped your arms around them. titus took a seat beside you, shoulder brushing yours.

slowly, without really thinking about it, you leaned sideways. your shoulder settled more firmly against his; then your head found its way onto his shoulder. you felt his arm settle behind you in the grass.

you held on to his arm, hand closing in on his juicy bicep.

your thoughts swirled back into the game a week away. at the hundred different ways you could get hurt on the horse, and more if you were off and on the field running. a rider could 'miss' and slash at you, a horse could panic and run over you. any of the families could suddenly decide that they didn't really care about scoring, but just hurting you.

"i'm scared..." the words felt embarrassing to admit, but they were true. you were scared of waking up broken and bruised, where safety was a false promise. the games so far had all been dangerous but blood polo was physically torturous.

"i know."

you felt his arm lift slowly and drape around you.

"i won't hurt you," his statement came simply. "i can keep other riders off you... for a while. interrupt them, block them."

he looked at you, at the unease in your eyes. "but i can't control all six of them."

"yeah."

"i can't control the horses either."

that one scared you the most. horses weighed a lot, anywhere from 400 to 900 kilograms. they ran on pure strength, stamina, speed, and momentum. one wrong move from you and you'd end up impaled and stamped to the ground.

titus sighed softly. "you're going to get hurt. that much... is certain."

his hand squeezed your shoulder. "but you also got on a horse today. terrified."

"i wouldn't say terrified..." you pouted.

"baby, you were one moment away from writing your last will."

a small smile appeared on your face anyway.

"but you know what? so far, you've outwitted every single one of us. won three out of six games just like that. that's hot," titus murmured. "you'll live."

you knew he meant it as a compliment. you looked at him for a moment longer than necessary, contemplating telling him just a little more. and titus caught it immediately

"what."

"nothing."

"that's never true."

you looked away. and the bastard became even more fascinated.

"what is it," he asked again.

you let out a long sigh. "just thinking about how you'll react if i tell you another... secret."

he raised an eyebrow.

"baby... my reaction is the least of your worries."

your groaned. here we go.

"you need to be ready to face what i'll do if you don't tell me what it is."

you gnawed on the insides of your cheek. and well, the grass was interesting, the horse was interesting, the sky was interesting.

"y/n."

you pretended not to hear him, still didn't answer. more silence wafted around you. the horses snorted into the grass, the wind blew whistles in the air.

"babyyyy" uh oh he gave you the voice. yk, the one that usually came with property damage and wildfires.

"don'tttt"

"baby, baby, baby," he cooed, leanng in closer. "don't make me coax it out of you."

you shoved his face away with your palm. "promise me... that you won't go non-verbal and leave me here on the cliff."

"no."

"or throw me off it."

you glared at him and he simply gave you that petulant look he always wore whenever something wasn't going according to his whims. the look that usually meant he intended to be difficult until he got what he wanted.

you dragged your palm over your face, still wondering whether this was a catastrophically stupid idea. but fuck it.

"the rajans..." your voice came out quietly. "...did not die accidentally."

you instantly focused on the grass, counting one blade after the other. anything to not look at him.

"they overdosed," titus recalled.

"i know."

you caught a short glimpse of his face. of that frown and one quivering lip. that was titus thinking. and, unfortunately, he was very good at thinking—whole gears and cogs shifting. the fact that neither brother had ever shown the slightest hesitation around narcotics. they consumed practically everything under the sun. there was no universe where madhu and viraj rajan simply took the wrong thing and died.

slowly, titus turned his head towards you.

"y/n..."

you found another blade of grass. this one was particularly fascinating.

"did you...?"

you continued studying the most significant blade of grass ever grown by god.

titus bore holes in you with his hazel eyes.

yep, you were a botanist now.

"baby..."

you gulped.

"did you kill them?"

you held your breath, looking straight ahead and gave a slow nod. titus kept his gaze on you, the gears in his brain clicked into place.

"how?"

you sucked in another breath. "uh… after the games, you fell asleep next to me." you gulped. "i gave them laced coke… apple seed cyanide."

titus stilled, eyes fixed on you without blinking, recounting every single thing he knew about you and filtering them with the new knowledge.

his mind went back to the first day of the games, after all the drinks and drugs and sex, he remembered falling asleep over your shoulder. that was it. only now it wasn't.

you had been awake. his sweet sweet girl, who got excited over coffee carts and made friendship bracelets, his sexy little language nerd who studied for 35 hours straight. who petted horses...

was now the same woman who'd handed two grown men enough poison to kill them and then sat there petting his hair while they died.

his throat bobbed, his cock twitched.

"i was fucking asleep?"

"yeah..."

for a solid moment, he looked less like a murderous billionaire and more like someone who'd just discovered he'd missed the final episode of a show everyone else had seen.

then he pouted. @softundermoonlight prompted titus' reaction. and it's facts.

and of all the reactions you had prepared for, this had not been one of them.

"i missed it?"

"wha—"

"no, no, i go unconscious for a few hours and you fucking poison two people?" his tone wasn't exactly accusatory, in fact, he seemed genuinely upset he missed it.

titus looked at you again, and you could see him trying to reconcile the events. you hadn't lost control or snapped at them, or flown into a raging fit and stabbed someone. no, you'd planned it. you chose the moment, the method, executed it with precision so accurate it was invisible. and you hid it all this time.

and he'd missed the moment you handed them laced coke, or the moment your realised they were dying.

"you didn't wake me up, baby," he mumbled, a frown on his face.

"dude... i just admitted to murder."

"i know..."

"and??? you don't find that fucked up?"

he looked at you with puppy eyes. "you won the game, and took down the hosts... do you understand how annoyed i am that i missed that? he whined. yes, whined.

an almost childish frustration that the most shocking thing you had ever done had happened while he was asleep.

"are you serious!??"

titus shifted on the grass, his face right in your eyesight. "you're fucking damn right i'm serious. you don't kill people without me, y/n..."

you gawked at him. "titus that's a bad thing!!"

he didn't look like he cared one bit. "and we do bad things together, baby... next time—"

"there's not gonna be a next time!" you said too quickly.

"—you're doing it with me or not at all."

you couldn't believe it.

titus slowly leaned closer and closer, his breath fanning yours. he slid his hand around your neck, holding it tight. "i wanna see it..."

his lips ghosted over yours. "i wanna see you take the life out of someone."

you gulped, because for a moment you actually imagined it. you repeating your sin and him watching you with admiration.

"i'm... not a killer."

"you are, baby... you are," he said that so softly, so pleadingly, slowly pressing kisses to your lips. "my little huntress."

you should've pushed him away, thrown him off the cliff. but you were far too deep into hypocrisy. all that went out of your head the moment your calf felt titus tenting in his pants. was he hard because you killed people?

it should've made every cell in your body twist and repel him but it did the opposite. you pressed your lips to his.

and from there it was just a messy affair.

he pushed you down with his body, your legs unfolding and thighs parting around his hips. your back hit the grass and it pricked for a while, but that sensation was secondary to how titus was absolutely devouring your mouth. he pressed himself on top of you and his lips moved against yours, starving and greedy.

titus practically smashed his face into yours, tongue sliding into your mouth. he weaselled his way inside, teeth clashing, lips smacking against yours. he didn't want anything else in that moment.

"you... mmhhh" he tilted his head to kiss you deeper "are perfect."

drool dripped out of his mouth and into yours as he made out with you. he let his hand travel under your shirt, creeping up on your skin till he reached your tits. he squeezed one, kneaded the flesh with a harsh grip till it drew out messy whimpers out of you.

"my perfect girl," he moaned in your mouth, absolutely the hardest he'd ever been. he rolled his hips over yours, clothed dick grinding right over your mound.

he barely gave you a second to breathe (mostly gasp) before he angled his head the other way and kissed you again, biting your lip so you'd open your mouth wider.

he was nothing but sheer wet desperation. a man undone by truth.

and it was filthy how he kissed you. aggressive, heated, dripping wet as his lips sucked on your tongue, his own slicing through your lips left and right.

you moaned into it, your fingers curling into his hair and around the back of his neck. your breath squeezed itself out under his weight.

titus groaned as his hips bucked between your legs, his erection pressing against the dampness there. he was drinking up every sound, every wet squelch of your tongues, every damn moan that left your mouth. he got high on it.

and if human beings didn't have to breathe, titus would've kissed you for eternity.

the week leading up to the game passed in a blur of bruises, sore muscles, and dust. every morning seemed to begin in the stables and end with you discovering an entirely new part of your body capable of aching.

ttus took most of your riding lessons himself and occasionally ursula would join the two of you.

eventually, around the fourth day, you got the hang of it. the reins felt less complex to hold, andromeda picked up the speed well and you learned to lean into the force than resist it. you'd gallop away on the terrains. the first time andromeda broke into a full sprint beneath you without sending your heart into your throat, made you want to punch a fist in the air with victory.

but you also had to train for the off chance that you picked the running card.

and that part of the training sucked.

sso every afternoon the grounds behind the estate, titus, ursula, and much to your displeasure, sebastian formed a temporary team of three on horseback, chasing you while you acted as the runner. you quickly discovered that a horse could cover distance far faster than your legs ever could. and that was humiliating.

you just kept getting blocked or rerouted to run in the other direction.

ursula taught you how to not run in straight lines, how to zigzag. taught you to cut sharply left and right instead of committing to a single direction.

titus taught you that riders may conceal their intentions and directions, but the horses wouldn't. that you could tell which way they'd turn by how they neck turned.

then came body rolls, making you dizzy and covered in grass. but eventually you learned how to throw yourself sideways, roll across a shoulder, regain your feet, and continue moving. then it was ducking beneath swinging mallets, pivots, short sprints and sharp turns.

by the fifth day, titus and ursula stopped going easy on you and boy did you realise real quick how terrifying horses could be. they were enormous. and since they were thoroughbred, they were also hefty.

sincerely, just a tonne of muscle charging towards you at great speed.

more than once you found yourself frozen for half a second as several hundred kilograms thundered towards you. half a second was enough to catch you off guard. titus and ursula halted their horses before they touched you.

sebastian didn't. he let the spare horse nudge you, let its leg stomp on your foot once and you wailed in pain.

"be realistic."

"be dead," you cursed, clutching your foot. it was bleeding a little.

titus had his servants patch it up, keeping a sour glare on your father at all times.

"touch her again, you're gonna find your foot where it doesn't belong."

the worst training of all was sliding. under the fucking horses. it sounded suicidal, but the grass was damp enough for it to be possible.

the first time you attempted it, you ended up flat on your back, stars twinkling around your forehead. but you got better at it. and by the end of the week, however, you could drop low, slide through the space between a horse's path and a rider's reach, and emerge on the other side before they could turn around.

during one of your drills, you actually lasted for half a game of polo, then finally collapsed on the grass, panting so harshly your lungs burned.

titus slowed applecore beside you, then got off.

"getting good."

"i'm dying."

"still hot."

your grabbed and threw a clump of grass at him.

and every single day of practice ended with you spending time in the stables, talking to the helpers, brushing the horses, learning about them.

the reason was simple; they were going to be on the field. so the more comfortable they were with you, the less they'd hurt you. but you made sure to learn every single twitch, snort, and step of them. especially solstice and applecore, because you wouldn't be riding them.

you fed them, stroked their necks and backs, brushed their manes, even cleaned the stables and put fresh hay. changed their horseshoe with the stablehand.

"did i hear you talking to the horses?" titus asked you at dinner one time.

"no...?"

"uh, yeah you were."

you stabbed your piece of chicken and chewed on it too many times.

"okay fine. so what?"

titus smirked, his eyebrow raised. "nothing."

as the game approached, your anxiety got worse. you could barely train. your body desperately needed the rest. but then sleep wouldn't come to you unless it brought with itself flashing nightmares of you being trampled under horses, or getting sliced by sharp mallets.

you'd wake up startled, making sure your limbs were still attached to your body.

you'd try to go to sleep again, but the bed would swallow you an you'd seek for every breath.

even when you crept into titus' bed the night before, you couldn't fully trust yourself to close your eyes and actually sleep. his arm curled around you, pulling you impossibly in, but it didn't ease anything.

sleep would only come to you when the games would be over.

♬⋆.˚ allah duhai hai; atif aslam, anushka machanda, vishal dadlani

the convoy of cars rolled through the gates of the silcox mansion. you'd seen their holiday house on the island, but their inland estate was just as enormous.

the grounds were transformed into just the perfect terrain for a game of polo, grass trimmed to perfection. white tents stretched across the property, servants moved through guests carrying trays with drinks.

goal posts stood at opposite ends of the grass. horses paced restlessly behind holding areas, their tack still gleaming beneath the cloudy daylight.

you stared at the setup from where you stood near the entrance. every banner, ribbon, and decoration seemed determined to remind everyone exactly who was hosting. the actual hosts certainly weren't helping the case either.

with silver embroidery stitched onto the hems of a stupid polo shirt, platinum buttons lined in the front, mr silcox stepped out on the grass, taking a whiff of the air.

his sons and daughters were the same. patrick, too stepped out in matching attire.

"huh, he lived," said titus.

you'd have felt joy had it not been for the reminder that should he participate, he wasn't going to root for you.

"teach a guy how to fish, huh..."

all 13 silcoxes stood together, matching and sparkly.

"good lord," you murmured.

titus followed your gaze. "they look like cutlery."

the cheng fus showed up with heavy steps, carrying tradition on their backs. their riding attire was simple and functional, lacking the unnecessary embellishments favoured by the silcoxes.

the el caídos, still kicking, arrived like a fleet of thespians. black and gold, feathers and cowboy boots. you get the rest.

you looked to your side at titus and ursula. the two danforths seemed military in comparison.

matching navy riding jackets, dark enough to seem black to a lousy eye. gold buttons up front with the danforth crest on them.

and then you looked at yourself.

ursula had loaned you a pair of fitted trousers. beige. you had custom brown boots made by the danforth stylist. but the shirt? you picked that one. white polo shirt smug with a hot pink barbie logo over your chest. you were very proud of it.

titus, you remembered had nearly suffered a stroke. "you could've worn literally anything else."

"but then i wouldn't be barbie."

"you're not... barbie," he felt odd even saying that name.

"nah that's where you're wrong... ken."

now, standing amongst the assembled families, you felt several judgemental stares drift your way. you just smiled.

if everyone else was determined to look intimidating, you were perfectly content looking like ball girl on a tennis court.

and finally, the lwayer stepped up. bro wore a suit in heat.

"welcome," he announced, clasping his hands behind his back. "to the fourth game of the necrofest."

the bustling crowd quietened.

"today's challenge is blood polo."

the lawyer smiled pleasantly. "for this game, the traditional structure has been altered. rather than competing individually, families will be permitted to form alliances."

immediately, murmurs spread through the gathered competitors.

"call it mr le bail's generosity... each alliance shall consist of two houses. should either alliance secure victory, both participating families will be credited with the win."

you exchanged a glance with titus.

"and should neither score a goal, such that the runner survives in the end, he or she shall win the game."

the lawyer continued. "however, participation shall not be determined by choice."

a servant appeared carrying a lacquered wooden box.

"each competitor shall draw."

since each team required four players, the heads of the house could choose blood representatives. or in your case, sebastian, as the head of the house would have to step in should you turn out to be a rider. that much made you a little happy. you wouldn't have to suffer alone.

one by one, everyone picked a card. you saw each one held up to the crowd, cheers echoing after each one. you dindn't need to look at yours to know that you...

were going to be a runner.

the bloody human ball everyone would spend the afternoon chasing.

"fuck."

you had a few minutes to yourself while the horses were brought on the field and teams were created.

you didn't stop to check who paired up with whom. you stepped inside the mansion, asking one of the servants if he could fetch a glass of water or lemonade and some raw nuts to nibble on.

you held on to the glass brought to you mostly for support and grounding as you breathed through your nose and out your mouth, leading yourself a little away from the fields.

you stood in one of the many silcox salons, or a tea room. you couldn't tell. you let your eyes shift from one artefact to the other, some gold lined dish, silver ashtray, some abstract painting that probably cost the same as down payment on a house.

you took a sip, then instantly choked on it when you saw three men shuffle in with duffel bags and masks, their hands full of jewelley and electronics.

you spared a glance at each of them. were they robbing the place? hell, one of them looked like a highschool kid.

but you know what?

"i didn't see anything," you swallowed the lemonade.

the three of them looked at you, at each other. then slowly backed towards the door that led further into the mansion.

"i'd keep an eye out for darts. they're silver. 78 of them," you suggested, and looked the other way, turning your back on them.

they hushed amongst each other and skirted through the door.

"not that way, craig! this way, fucking idiot."

"i know what i'm doing, j, i'm the one who scoped it out, ask deran!"

"both of you shut up."

yeahhh, you did not want to know what they were up to, but you felt about 20% more satisfied knowing the silcoxes were being robbed in their own house.

in fact, that just made you feel confident enough to step back out and onto the grass.

titus found your hand in a second. "you okay?"

"yeah. just... hoping to be done with this."

you looked at ursula too. the three of you finally had an understanding, and as much as it wasn't part of your plan, having titus in on it strangely soothed you. because titus could be deadly, violent and unforgiving. so having someone like that on your side gave you all the edge you needed to tip the game in your favour.

"just... be careful. if the lawyer suspects—"

"he won't." ursula grabbed her helmet and put it on.

titus looked at you, searching for any signs of fear. maybe they weren't there at that moment, but he knew they'd come. when you were out running, if he missed, there would be someone to attack you.

"who'd you pair up with?"

he blinked at your question. "the mourning dove."

ah. crap.

"dude she hates me."

"dude, everyone does," he mimicked you. "but she'll want to win. count on that."

the riders were called to mount the horses. titus squeezed your hand, then making sure no one was looking, leaned in a pressed a kiss to your lips.

"go nuts," he whispered and then turned around, picking up his helmet and strutting out onto the field with his sister.

you shook your arms, trying to physically shed off your fears (not that it worked). it felt like the fucking hunger games where the tributes stood on the pedestals waiting for the countdown to hit zero, so one misstep and it was over for you.

you stepped onto the field. thankfully, you were at least given a helmet to wear.

you could hear the council families et al. boo you as you stood on the grass. it was windy, a little cloudy, just the kind of weather to spook someone out. especially the horses.

from your vantage point, you could see the goal stumps on the edges of the field. thankfully, they had a boundary and if they made you run through them, only then would it be considered a goal.

so this: (source: https://www.dimensions.com/element/polo-field)

you ignored your heart begging for mercy within your ribs. you could see the riders slowly take formation before you and every single fucking one of them had a threatening glint in their eye. you learned in half a second what it felt like to be wanted dead...

the lawyer, in his private commentary box, had monitors and cameras all over the field that showed him every player, every horse and the entire terrain. 

"ladies and gentlemen, let the games begin," his voice reverberated into the microphone and deafening cheers erupted around the field.

♬⋆.˚ bfg division; mick gordon (from doom)

the moment the siren blasted, your little tippy toe steps turned into a full sprint when the silcox horses charged at you—fucking figured. you saw the mallets in their hands, a long stick really, but the ends of the head, cylindrical wooden piece attached to the shaft, had sharp silver points pushing outwards. you diagnosed within moments that one flick would bore into your skin, tear at your flesh and send you bleeding on the field. 

mr silcox swung his mallet in vicious circles as he rode right at you. your eyes darted from his horse to the one behind him, and then to the six suddenly appearing after them and that revelation did not home a sliver of safety. having eight 700 kilo horses chase you around the field was a much worse reality.

you overestimated your speed and suddenly, two silcox horses were right in front of you, huffs of hot air blowing from their nostrils down at you. then you saw the mallet swung at you. you ducked and stepped back just in time, arms flailing in defence against god knows what.

you jogged back and away from the silcoxes, who steered their horse to meet you in your face. you covered a good enough distance, watching everyone slowly race towards you. you spared a brief glance at the watch on your wrist; you were only 2 minutes into the game. as per the rules, one chukker (FUCK U BRITAIN. colonisers stole the game and the word from manipur, india) lasted 7 1/2 minutes, and you knew there were going to be 4 of such. that was half an hour of running for your life, and a 50% chance of getting mauled to death under hoofs.

the second time the silcoxes tried to swing at you, ursula's mallet clashed against theirs, clacking around your ears as you hopped away. you barely had time to collect your breath before francesca's horse bumped into your back.

"i'm gonna kill you. i'm so—" she swung her mallet at you ferociously and the first silver pin nicked at your shoulder. "—going to kill you!!!!" 

her maniacal laughter followed like smoke from a carburettor as you bolted from there, suddenly very very aware of how much it fucking hurt. your sleeve was stained in blood. but you didn't have time to sit and patch yourself up. 

the cheng fus on horseback weren't as much a mallet threat as they were a big fucking obstacle you had to dodge. they kept planting their horses right in your track, two together like a muscular wall before you. you swerved around them, your breath caught in your lungs. the field was all too large to keep track of every player and to run at the same time.

your shifting eyes caught a glimpse of silcox and el caido horses charging at you and you sucked in half of your breath and bolted again, past the cheng fu horses, and onto the clearing. you had to run around in semicircles to avoid getting in the track of them. you ducked and dodged one swinging mallet, the point missing your forehead in the nick of time.

"fuck fuck fuck fuck," you cursed under your breath, stepping on the damp grass. you found titus and ursula's horses and got behind them, a moment's respite that truly did last only a moment.

francesca tried to swing her mallet at titus. 

"say goodbye to your girl, danforth, i'm gonna wreck the shit out o—"

titus slapped his mallet right on her leg, the silver cutting a neat linear slice on through her pants. she screamed, trying to bring her leg up, but it got stuck under the footrest of her saddle, causing her to jerk her knee up and down, which made her horse steer away.

 oh you could kiss the man on his mouth.

your momentary rejoice was cut off when one of the cheng fus lunged at you, their mallet slicing the side of your thigh.

you hissed in pain, "tssss!!! ahhh!" 

you didn't have time to think, nor the time to feel pain. you just sprinted, hoping the adrenaline will look after you for a while. from the corner of your eye, you watched titus ram applecore into the cheng fu horse once, making the animal neigh and huff in resistance before pulling away.

the first ding! of the chukker went off, and the horses pulled away from you slowly. okay, you had about two minutes to pull your shit together before the second round started. 

you dedicated the entirety of it to planting your arms on your knees, bent forward to catch your breath and focus. your thigh fucking hurt, and you could see blood trickling down the fabric of your pants. 

two minutes went by as swiftly as a sneeze and then you were back on your feet again. lord, the horses charged at an unimaginable speed. not a single fuck of your training came to your mind when you tried to dodge and duck out of the way. at one point, you slipped on the grass, and saw a silcox horse tower over you, its hooves raised in the air. you panicked, but rolled your body a few times till you were out of its way, then picked yourself up and dashed out of there. now your legs had started to hurt, every step made the blood in your thigh ooze out more. 

ursula and titus were doing their best to protect you from most of the damage, but titus was right. he couldn't do everything on his own.

a few more swings and misses flew past you—one of them knocked your helmet off your head. and before you could pick it up, francesca's horse ran over it with a crack and you watched it split into two.

she had her brother, felipe, who was on the other horse, chase after you. and mind you that kid was a freak. his horse was shorter give the boy's height, therefore more agile. it darted after you mercilessly. its snout brushed against your back once and you jolted to the side. you had to escape it somehow. 

you jogged all the way over to titus, and before he could look at you and ask you how to help, the back of your hand smacked hard against applecore's butt, and the horse kicked its hind legs as you hoped he would, the hoofs landing straight into felipe's polo pony. the horse was spooked, hurt, and triggered enough to trot away and off-field, neighing frantically. 

an angry francesca screeched and chased you on her mare, almost driving you towards the edge of the goal post. no matter what happened, you couldn't risk crossing that boundary. so just as her horse pursued you, turning to the side so she could swing her mallet at you, your body—by virtue of memory—dropped down, using your momentum, and slid under the mare, through the space between its legs, under its belly, and you came out on the other side.

"whoa... whoa!" you gasped, surprising yourself.

you let yourself smile and chuckle a little before jogging away.

and you were saved by the halfway timer. 15 minutes of pure nightmare. and there were 15 more...

you sat down on the bench surrounding the field, hands and legs shaking, heart rate on speed-drive.

you looked at yourself briefly. your arm, shoulder, corner of your forehead, your thigh, and your waist were covered in cuts and slices, fresh blood dripping out of them. fuck.

you pressed a tissue over your thigh, the pressure eliciting a whine of pain from you. it was a nasty gash. and a part of you worried that it would only get worse with forced movement. but 15 minutes, all that was left between you and your survival. you didn't even care about winning. 

there was hardly any time between the two halves before you found yourself back on the field.

sharp stings of pain ran through your leg, especially your thigh. every bend of the leg sent another painful current in your body.

the siren went off, and again, you ran. but this time, your pace and accuracy were a lot worse than before. your focus was now shared by the pain coursing through your body. 

which is how you caught yourself squeezed between two hefty silcox stallions, and another mallet lodged itself right on the same thigh wound, cutting deeper into the gash. you screamed in agony as the silver pulled itself out, fresh blood sputtering out in short rivulets.

"hahahahaha!!! pathetic little girl," mr silcox laughed in your face. "go on! run!"

running took away the strength in you, leaving you gasping breathlessly. 

titus blocked a few more attacks coming your way, and ursula expertly steered the other horses away from you whenever you got closer to the goal posts. anyone with working eyes could see that the two were trying desperately to not injure you, but it did not defy the rules of the game, so no one could do a thing about it.

one of the cheng fu horses neighed before you, stomping its hoofs on the grass, digging mud out. you halted abruptly so as to not run into it, which put a strain on your leg, more blood coming out your thigh. 

your palms patted your pockets and you dug out a few of those peanuts from earlier. logic went out the window when you tossed a handful of them at the horse. but it seemed that the equine quite liked little peanut treats. its mouth chased them, lapping them up from the grass. mr cheng fu tugged too hard at the rein, trying to get the horse back in the game, but it only angered the animal and it rocked in place angrily, throwing the man off its back. 

you ran again, not knowing where you were headed. you couldn't tell. tears had blurred your vision, the sweat clinging to your body cooled you down, but also tired you out. 

you didn't even hear the second bell go off, and just kept jogging nowhere in particular, completely wasting the two minute timeout between two laps.

titus watched you from atop his horse. as much as he loved a good blood polo, watching you get hurt like that, by others disturbed him more than he thought it would.

he wished he could scoop you up and put you on his horse,and ride away. 

"don't. get soft," ursula's voice chimed in from beside him. "focus."

titus glared at his sister, at the accusation that he was distracted or 'soft'. 

"want me to run the mallet through your skull, ursula? don't tell me what to do."

she rolled her eyes. and as much as she seemed composed, she couldn't help but feel bad for you. there was no easy way out of a blood polo. and the last 7 1/2 minutes were going to determine whether or not you could last.

so when the siren went off, she charged before anyone else, already before you.

"WAKE UP! don't fucking die on us," she barked at you, nudging the tip of her mallet against your calf. the tiny prick jolted you out of your dulled senses.

you nodded and kept jogging. by now, your entire leg was drenched in blood, the loss of which fogged your vision and made you a bit dizzy.

♬⋆.˚ blood in the cut; k. flay

"keep running. just..." you slurred. "keep going. don't play the game, play the horse."

you repeated that to yourself for a few times, and focused on ursula's mare. solstice was a judgy girl, and you needed that aspect of her personality real bad.

you remembered how she hated hearing clicks, they simply made her go feral. so you mustered every bit of your stamina and bolted after her, loud clicks coming out of your mouth. the horse neighed and shook its head a few times.

ursula narrowed her eyes at you. "bitch." but she let it happen anyway.

solstice surged forward violently as the clicks grew louder, pushing past the silcox horses, causing mr silcox to slip off his horse for a moment before sitting upright again.

but destiny was on your side as you watched his mallet fall to the ground. you didn't think twice before dashing towards it and grabbing it.

"you—give that back to me!" he snarled at you.

"gladly..." you slurred, a faint smirk in the corner of your mouth.

then you swung the stick with full force... and hammered it right into his face, the silver point driving into his skin, cracking his cheek bone. 

you yanked it out with force, holding it tightly in your bloody grip.

self-control was your long time friend, soulmate even, but when the pot boiled to its majesty, you had to take the lid off, let the steam escape its confinement. so that's what you did.

breath heaving, vision practically a blob of nothing, ears ringing and your thigh pulsing with pain and blood, you grabbed the mallet and dashed after the other silcox. all your stress and panic bubbled aggressively down into simple, unblemished rage. rage for the games, the twisted fantasies of one of the world's most corrupt and malevolent individuals, your boyfriend included. you hated how much you had started to fall for him, victim to the command he had over you that made your emotions betray your morals. rage for the self-serving gluttony of all the money-nexus billionaires whose wealth relied on the death of people drastically distant from a good life. a normal loving life. 

rage was vital for you. 

mrs silcox tried to steer her horse away, but you were supernaturally faster in that moment. you swung the mallet and it lodged in her calf with a squelch. she cried out, but you didn't stop there. all your patience and empathy crumbled in one moment, and you let out a guttural scream, one for the books as you dragged the sharp end down down down her leg till it tore through her skin, a valley of red giving way to a waterfall of blood.

you were never a haughty woman, but there something incredibly ecstatic in making them cry in pain. they deserved worse. 

you stopped running. no, you strutted on the field, dark clouds gathering above you. you swung the mallet in your hand, like swinging a purse.

"who's next!!!??" you cried out loud, a question for everyone on the field.

the wounded silcoxes had come to a halt, their horses tapping lightly on the grass. the cheng fus hadn't really bothered to take a swing at you the entire game, but now that you had a stick of your own? the hell would they even look at you.

your eyes locked on to francesca. calmly, you made your way to her. she swerved her horse away from you, but ursula blocked her, snickering as solstice shoved at the other mare.

"why so scared now?" 

francesca glared at ursula, then looked at you, but you were suddenly too close. in a fraction of a second, she tugged at the reins and her horse trotted away. 

but she heard the wind howl as you twirled and swung the stick like a mini hurricane. you hurled it right in her direction and by some miracle, the silver end pierced right into her back, making her yell out in pain.

she slowed down and you grabbed the moment to sprint at her, hand outstretched to grab the mallet back. 

titus, who'd been on the sidelines all this time, watched you in both; horror and excitement. bullet points flashed inside his mind as he watched you grab the stick and yank it out of francesca's bent back. 

it had been one hailstorm after the other discovering just how... terrifying you were. from day fucking one, insistent child clutching dead poppies in your fist, to a mature woman putting him in his place in the hospital, to a wise intellectual who'd singlehandedly done what his entire family couldn't. to a bold and beautiful lover, the most unusual strategist of all, and one scary fucking killer. 

there was no predicting you. 

empty syringe, laced coke, and now your enemy's own bloody mallet. 

there was no predicting you at all.

other than him or ursula, you had made no effort to ally with anyone else, didn't so much as blink at bribes arouind you, outwitted people left and right. 

titus considered the silcoxes as strong and frightening, with their lineage and historical ruthlessness; they relished in showing off how powerful they were. a shiver ran down his spine when he realised just how daunting you could actually be when pressed too hard. corrupting the innocence of someone was one thing, watching their inner malice come out naturally was another.

and even then, titus knew you weren't like them. knew it as he saw you turn the game around and fucking hunt down the riders instead, as you drove the pointed end of the stick into francesca again, enough to scare her. even then, you spared her from fatality—a grace he knew he wouldn't have.

self-control was indeed a rare strength you possessed.

the siren went off loudly, blasting through the speakers with a crackle.

the lawyer announced the end of the games, with a single undeniable verdict: neither house scored a goal, and you were still alive and swinging.

no one clapped, no one cheered. the silence was loud. 

you tossed the mallet away, wiped the blood off your face and trudged out of the arena and under the tents again, slumping into a bench, blood trickling down your entire body once again, the pain numbing itself trying to overpower each cut, gash, and slice.

♬⋆.˚ fetish; selena gomez ft. gucci mane

knees scraped, skin burning with fresh cuts and slices, a bleeding thigh and numbness in your eyes, you stood in the ransacked bedroom of the silcox mansion, every drawer cleared out by those robbers.

humming, pleased, you peeled off your shirt, and your pants, hissing as the fabric slid down your skin. you tossed it on their bed, then fully naked, stepped into their lavish bathroom.

you took your fucking time looking around at the luxury scented soaps, body washes, bath oils.

you watched the water fill in the tub, blood pooling at your feet.

you heard his footsteps behind you, felt him halt at the door.

"you won again," he said.

"i know."

he stepped inside, shutting the door behind him and clicking the lock.

his eyes travelled up and down your body. your back, the line that ran down your spin, stained in red. your hips, your ass, curves he couldn't and wouldn't resist. he stared at the gash on your thigh the longest. it was still dripping with blood slowly.

even then, you wore that wound like an ornament and he resented the swirl of arousal in his body upon its sight.

he stepped closer to you, slowly shrugging off his coat, the shirt underneath it. he was right behind you, his lips against your ear.

"you look beautiful," he murmured. his hands slid around your waist, not minding the blood at all, in fact, he fucking loved it, the metallic smell of it, the wetness of it.

you leaned into his shoulder a little, head falling back. "yeah?"

"uh huh," he mumbled, burying his nose in the crook of your neck, more blood staining his chin.

he gently spun you around, hands gliding over your bloodsoaked back and hips.

"fuck, look at you," he growled. "you're perfect."

your body burned, joints hurt, your shoulders sagged from carrying your own weight and you were a bloody mess. yet he found you attractive.

his nose bumped against yours once.

titus caught a bead of trickling blood from your forehead, and licked it off with his tongue, the rough tip running over your cheek.

yiu gulped. you saw this coming from the moment you dropped that mallet, but experiencing it was titillating.

his hands carved over your body, fingers digging into your flesh. blood oozed out from cuts as his thumb pressed the flesh around them. you winced and whined a little, but he didn't stop.

"they hurt my girl so bad..." he whispered against your cheek. "didn't fucking like that."

for a second you thought he spoke from his heart. nope.

"no one hurts you like that." he bit your ear lobe. "not unless it's me."

there it was. the filth under the charm. the bloodlust under his love.

his hand curled around your throat, fingers pressing into your neck unashamedly. "i'll kill them all... anyone who lays a hand on you," he murmured against your lips. "you're mine to ruin. to hurt."

and before you could stop yourself, your hands grabbed his neck back, and you shoved him hard, straight into the pale, polished bathroom tiles. he landed with a heavy smack. he grunted, but grinned widely as he welcome whatever hell you wanted to unleash on him.

"and i'm yours to hurt..." he whispered as your lips closed in on his, pressing a chaste, bloody kiss.

your mouth crashed into his, tongues tasting the iron and vengeance in your blood. snappy, wet, downright disgusting, your tongue swirled around his, the translucent saliva turning pink and red mixed with your blood in his mouth. you heard him slurp it up.

his hands gripped your ass with a tight slap, his fingers squeezing the plump flesh greedily. oh he wanted to scream at how long he'd wanted to fulfil this sick fantasy. your blood was delicious. salty, metallic, dark in colour that just made him want to slice your skin and bury his face into it, eat you out anew.

you pulled away, taking a few steps back from the heaving man, reaching down to turn the tap off.

"take of you clothes, titus," you said calmly.

he shed off his trousers, kicked his boots away and tugged down his boxers.

you held out your hand to him, smiling at him sweetly. and he held it—two bloody hands joined for a prayer.

you pointed at the tub. "get in."

he stepped foot into the marble tub, warm water clashing around his calves. he held your hand as you stepped in too.

then you shoved him down into the water and he landed with a thud, water spilling over the edge. titus tried to pull you down just as fast, but you swatted his hand away.

"rush me, and i'll walk out on the field naked. bring the mallet back up. i still got a few swings left in me..."

titus looked up at you, what a vision in red you were, blocking the light over your head and casting a haunting shadow over him.

"you threatenin' me, ba—"

crack! your hand struck against his jaw with a tight slap. titus yelped just a little, his jaw clicking a little. he immediately shoved that noise down, trying to appear unaffected, but his cock twitched underwater anyway.

"don't be rude, titus..." you gently lowered yourself down into the large tub, kneeling before him. "be grateful."

the water turned red immediately, blood from your wounds mixing in like milk in tea.

you leaned in, lips ghosting over his. "be grateful i haven't killed all of you in your sleep."

titus shuddered, his spine arching just a bit, hips bucking gently underwater.

"so so selfish... aren't you? all that power, money, all that... 'influence' you have. nobody really likes you, do they, baby?" you cooed in his ear.

you let your knee wedge between his legs, nudging against his weeping length. he buckled once, and then you stood up.

you let your toe run up the underside of his fat cock a few times, feeling it twitch and spring to life.

"god, you're pathetic," you barked out a chuckle.

titus gritted his teeth, but the feeling of your foot against his crotch was just too good to stop. he bit his lip, holding back from showing you what a mistake it was to try and dominate him. yet somehow, you weren't even doing that.

just making him feel good while dropping bars of truth on him, little taunts at his character. and he knew you were right about it all. he was pathetic. falling for a woman so young, so sprightly, so so detached from the satanic hell his life was. making you his, his claws of crime over you till you couldn't escape.

the sigil may have kept you bound to him, but it was titus danforth who was utterly inseparable from you.

you hadn't missed the way he looked at you, at your blood, wounds, and you didn't miss the hunger in his gaze. so you let him have it.

"you bloodthirsty devils are only good for one thing... go ahead. clean me up, titus."

your thigh was right there, bleeding and juicy.

and titus locked onto it like a bloodhound, thirsty, starving. he lurched forward, hands grabbing the back of your thigh, squeezing so blood would drip out of your gash. his tongue dove right into it, lips plastered over your skin. he sucked and sucked and sucked the blood out of you. every drop that went down his gullet felt like elixir. he hadn't tasted anything this sinful.

he moaned into your skin as your foot teased his cock once more, pressing against the base.

you gave it a little kick and titus whimpered.

it hurt like hell, having his tongue poke and prod at your wound, but it aroused you equally. maybe you were fucked up. traumatised. whatever it was, you didn't dwell on the reasons. you let yourself glean pleasure. you deserved it after the hell you went through.

your hands stroked his greying curls as he sucked the blood off your thigh.

"good job, baby..."

then you tugged it hard and shoved him back against the tub. you cupped his cheek once, letting him rot in the constant switch between softness and hardness.

his jaw was covered in blood, lips stained alike, it even dripped down to his neck. his eyes? dilated, miserable, downright embarrassingly teary for you.

"so pretty..." you pat his cheek once.

you sank down again, knee hitting right on his crotch, making him groan in discomfort. you rubbed your hands over his thighs, clawing at his skin.

you pressed your lips to his once more. kissing him was truly a weakness you never denied. always hard to resist swapping spit with that man.

you pushed past the pain darting in your thigh as you straddled his lap now, your pussy rubbing over his dick. your mouth moved against his, the blood on his imprinting over yours. it was animalistic in a way. the most intimate a human could be with another.

you pulled away once, watched him chase your mouth. you smiled, looking down at the man.

"needy boy..." you rolled your hips over his teasingly, draaaaging the motion slowly, making him impatient and erratic.

more whimpers spilled out of him as his hands grabbed a handful of your ass, the rolls on your back. his tongue latched onto your breasts, circling around your nipple. he swirled it around, sucked on your tit like a baby, which he truly was.

he alternated between the two, all the while his hands ran over your body, then under. his mouth left your breast wiht a pop, bloody saliva tearing like strands of web as he parted and looked up at you. oh, that man was a mess.

you hovered over him once more and he lined himself up at your hole from behind you, his eyes on you the whole time. a slow, intentional squeeze, and he was inside you, cock pulsing, hardening more than ever inside your heat. the water only made it smoother to fully sink into you, sheathed and warm.

titus hand clawed at your back, trimmed nails dragging down your skin so hard you were certain he drew blood... again.

you sat yourself down on his lap, his cock inside you, and you let the fullness settle in. this was perhaps the deepest he'd ever been in, not a single millimetre left between you.

you lifted your ass up slowly, then lowered it again, slowly, teasingly, like a snake coiling and squeezing its prey.

titus moaned, your pussy just felt too good. he could stay buried in you forever. water sloshed around you both as he bucked his hips up to meet the movement of your ass. who fucked who, didn't matter.

you started to rock your hips faster, chasing that euphoric feeling of fucking titus danforth on your terms for once. you rolled your hips into circles, eights and what not, your pussy glossy and goopy with the water, his precum, your own arousal, and of course... your blood. never in your life had you thought you'd use your own blood as lube to fuck a man but here you were.

you clenched around his cock already, body utterly devastated from the day's events. you just wanted to feel good, feel that release. and wasn't it just great that titus existed purely for that?

"make me cum first okay?" you told him, patting his cheek a few times to snap him out of that drugged look he had on his face.

he nodded too quickly, whimpering out, "mmhh, ffffuck... yes... yes, i will. i will."

you grabbed his adorable pouty face and kissed it, pressing little butterfly kisses all over it.

titus did not stop thrusting back into you, not caring that his knees hurt cramped in the tub like that, especially not caring that he forgot how to be in control. fuck that. you mattered more. you... you you you.

that was all that floated in his mind.

your tits bounced in his face, and that man did not care. he simply let his jaw unhinge, slacked open as your flesh hit his tongue over and over.

if you thought of yourself as the bloody mess, you were dead wrong. your man had your blood all over his body now, red murky water soaked up by his skin. cdc would advise you to simply disintegrate, but your only concern was the orgasm building up in your body.

you ground your hips over his, your pussy clenched and unclenched around his fat, veiny cock, sucking it deeeeep inside you.

you let out an agonised moan at how incredible that felt. at how your mind slowly started to quiet and your body absorbed every touch of his.

but, just to make his life a bit more intolerable, you reached past his freckled back and turned the tap on again, letting hot, scalding water surround you for a moment before turning it off.

titus gasped and whined in emergency, arching into you, his pace stuttering.

"mmm don't stop, babyyyy!!!!" you scolded him, grabbing his jaw tightly.

he didn't know what to do. the hot water burned his back, but at the same time, your cunt swallowed his cock so so so well he might as well make that sacrifice.

shoving his pain down, he continued thrusting up up and up into you, cockhead hitting your cervix over and over. he groaned, moaned, whimpered, whined, and cried out in pain and pleasure as you rode him.

"fuckkkk fuck just like that!!! good boy..." you loosened your grip on his jaw, and pressed a wet lazy kiss over his lips. "gooood fucking boy," you sighed.

titus lapped it up like a pathetic dog, both your tongue and your compliment. no fucking joy like being your good boy, he decided. so what if he was nearing fifty? he was your good boy now.

"mmmmppfff," he whimpered against your lips, back arching into you as the water burned his skin red with irritation.

"sssooo close, baby... so close. keep fucking me," you told him and he listened.

his cock drove into you, unstoppable, irrational. he never wanted to part from you. never wanted his dick to know any other sensation but your cunt engulfing him.

and then your hips staggered, pace irregular, the stimulation too well for you to hold back.

lewd moans spilled out of you as you clenched hard, pussy clamping shut any space of air between his cock and your walls as you came, gushed wet and sloppy all over his cock.

titus watched the absolute heaven before him. his girl, his woman, bloodsoaked and wet, coming apart over him like a divine presence. he could die.

he blinked at you with teary eyes as his hips bucked into you.

"i know," you huffed, panting, "i know baby... 's okay, you can come too."

you dug your hands through his damp hair, still hopping over his wet cock. "go ahead, baby, come inside me. you need it, don't you?"

he nodded, eyes half-lidded, mouth open, his teeth peeking out just a bit.

"yeah you do..."

titus only lasted a few more pumps of his cock into you before he released with a stuttering whimper, letting go of the release pent up in him, and flooding right inside you. his cum slipped out and blended with the red water, every wet slide against your walls squeezing out more and more from the man.

jesus.

the silcox bathroom looked like a crime scene, pearl white tiles covered in streaks of your blood, the floor a pool of pink, and the tub? well...

his cock softening inside you, you stayed on top of him in the tub, utterly tired, and slumped forward, dropping your head over his shoulder.

titus held you, gently running his hands over your back, pressing kisses to your neck and shoulder. his mind hadn't fully processed anything, just that you were more dangerous than he thought, and he wanted to be a victim too bad.

im back. sorry, for the delay, i was dead.

no ssly, i had last bit of my exams left, had to host my friend over so we went out for drinks (i drank 1 litre jug of lychee beer, 500ml of guava and mango beer, idk), and simply did not sleep at all. also had to wathc a few polo games because idfk what goes on there.

i lowkey am terrified of y/n too. help.

the plot basically:

always, comments are loved loved loved, reblogs are always welcome, all my ghost readers; u da real gems

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[st-kitten]

the last great demented dynasty XVIII

titus danforth x y/n

previous part | next part | chapter index

a/n: throughout the chapters, certain songs will be mentioned at the beginning or after a partition. the music is chosen mostly for the vibes and the melody. if the lyrics align, yay. if not, play along. but i highly recommend listening to the songs on loop for its section if you're a 'take-your-time' reader. idk, the music just adds some oomf to it.

summary: titus and you get closer, though there still seems to be unfinished business, and he's not taking it lightly. you thought chess would be easy. you were proven wrong rather colourfully.

warnings: mention of blood LOTS OF BLOOD, harsh language, gore, smut hinted, but not written (sorry) long chapter, but had to finish it cuz 1 game 1 chapter.

APOLOGIES FOR THE DELAY.

the chessboard sat untouched between you and sebastian, all the pieces neatly aligned, ready for a game that hadn't started. the room felt too hollow for how loud his voice had been for the past twenty minutes as he explained openings, pawn sacrifices, and the inescapable necessity of treating certain pieces as disposable.

you rested your cheek in your palm, with all the interest one hand in a math class, barely listening anymore. something about pawns, about strategy, something about how winning required you to take a few steps back sometimes.

his hand moved across the board as he demonstrated a variation, then asked you how you would respond. you didn't say much, just picked up a piece and move it, and for a brief moment his fingers brushed yours. it was purely accidental, but you pulled back instantly anyway, chair scraping slightly against the floor as you stood.

"i can't do this," you hissed.

sebastian didn't look surprised by your outburst.

"don't be ridiculous," he replied, leaning back. "and don't be emotional. you need to get over it."

you stared at him, genuinely appalled by how easily he said it.

"no," you said, shaking your head once. "i will not get over it."

"then you will fail," he said. "your emotions will get you killed. your sensitivity will—"

you cut him off before he could finish.

"then i'll die," you said, voice steady in a way that surprised even you. your hands were shaking, but your tone wasn't. "but i'll still be me. i won't lose my soul like you."

you stormed out of there, stomping on the carpeted floor all the way up to your room, shutting the door with a loud crack.

for a moment you just stood there, breathing hard, hands still curled like you were expecting to be handed another lecture through the walls. then you reached for your phone, unlocking it too quickly, thumb hovering before you finally tapped on the person you'd rather hear. it rang twice

"helloooo" her voice came out like sunshine through clouds on a dull day.

"please tell me you have time for a video call." you begged, already moving to sit at your desk.

"for you? always. i'm like... multitaskmaxxing right now."

the call connected properly a second later. she appeared on screen mid–painting, a brush in one hand, her other hand holding what looked like a pantone card she was swatching. and there you were, sitting at your desk, applying electric blue nail polish to your toenails while being on call with meghana on your phone. chomsky made sure to videobomb his butthole every three minutes.

"he's just there now?" meghana asked after a moment, pausing her brushwork to squint at the screen. "like… does he live there?"

"not really," you said, glancing at the cat as he deliberately blocked your face again. "i'm sure he has a place somewhere. he just shows up here now."

"and you can't tell me why," she said slowly, "but it's just… unavoidable?"

"yep."

she hummed, but didn't push it, which you were grateful for in a way you didn't feel like naming.

"but you're okay right?"

you hesitated for a second. the words 'no, i'm part of cultist games, trying to outsmart literal satan and his lawyer, hoping i don't end up dead' almost flew out of your mouth.

"yeah... i'm... okay for now"

she spared you a concerned glance, then resumed her painting. you could hear the soft scrape of brush on paper through the speaker.

"well, if you need some chess tips, i can loan you my boyfriend's pdfs. they're pretty great," she offered.

"yes please."

"you're not that bad at chess. why do you need to get better?"

you stared at your reflection in the dark edge of the screen for a second, then looked away.

"i need to win. somehow. and if my plan doesn't work, i'll need to actually win at chess." you said, focusing on your pinky, twisting your foot accordingly.

"i don't know how you're gonna improve in a few days. it's a lot of combinations and patterns."

you flexed your foot absentmindedly, watching the wet glaze of electric blue nail polish catch the light. "oh, trust me, patterns are the one thing i'm good at."

there was a short silence where she clearly chose not to interrogate that further.

"what are you gonna do?"

you stared at the screen for a hot moment. "what i do best... memorise all of them."

you spent a good amount of time talking to meghana on your phone. you finished painting your nails and she finished painting her little postcard.

you were still mid-call when meghana’s expression shifted slightly on screen. she squinted, leaning closer.

"okayyyyy," she said slowly, "i dont know if this is relevant or not, but like, there is a very dangerous-looking man in the background and i feel like i should ask if you're okay again."

you turned your head slightly without thinking, following her gaze.

"oh," you said, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. "that's titus."

almost on cue, footsteps approached behind you. he never really did announce himself. and it was his house anyway.

one moment the room was spacey and yours, the next there was his weight at your back. he leaned over you slightly, one arm braced against the edge of your desk, the other resting at your nape with an ease that suggested he'd done it a hundred times before without thinking about it.

his eyes flicked immediately to your screen. "what are you doing?" he asked, voice calm, but edged with something that made meghana visibly stop painting.

you didn't look away from the call. "talking to my friend?"

"what friend?"

you shifted the phone's angle slightly, switching windows so he could see properly. meghana waved hesitantly from the other side of the screen.

"that's megs," you said. "meghana. my best friend."

something in his eyes tightened as he threw half a glance at your phone.

"best friend," he repeated, like he was testing how the phrase worked in his mouth. then, without acknowledging meghana at all, he looked back at you.

"you're supposed to be practising."

"i am," you said immediately. "she's helping me."

his gaze narrowed slightly, shifting between you and the screen, trying to locate whicih part of your arrangement that made sense.

"her boyfriend plays in tournaments all the time," you added. "he's pretty good, so he's lending me his notes."

"hmm," titus said.

meghana glanced off-screen and then back at you. "i have to go," she said apologetically. "this is giving… mafia-coded."

you let out a small laugh. "fair."

"bye byeeee, love ya!"

you blew a kiss to your screen. "love ya! byeeee"

you ended the call, the screen going dark. you turned slightly in your chair, facing him a little.

"what"s in it for her?" he asked.

you blinked. "what?"

"your friend," he said simply. "what's she getting out of it?"

"nothing," you replied, without hesitation.

his eyebrow lifted slightly, like he didn't quite believe in that concept existing. you leaned back in your chair, meeting his stare properly now.

"she's my best friend, titus" you said. "she's not doing this for anything in return."

titus looked at you for a long moment, then gave a small, almost absent exhale through his nose.

"that's a mistake," he said.

"that's just what friends do, you know," you said simply, watching his expression carefully. then, after a beat, your tone shifted slightly, more curious than teasing. "titus… do you have friends?"

he scoffed immediately, too quickly. "of course i do."

you tilted your head. "name one."

he paused long enough for it to be noticed.

"urs—"

"she's your sister," you cut in flatly. "try again."

his mouth opened, then closed again. nothing came out that seemed usable. after a moment of visible mental searching, he tried again.

"emmanuel macron and i play tennis sometimes."

you stared at him, brow creased. there was a brief silence where your brain simply refused to process what had just been said.

"right," you said slowly. "we'll… circle back to that later. but seriously? you don't hang out with friends? like go out? do normal things?"

he blinked once, unbothered. "i go out."

"what do you do when you go out?"

"business deals," he said. then, as if it were the most obvious continuation in the world, "buying guns."

you gave him a look. "okay,"you said carefully. "but what do you do for fun?"

this time, he didn't answer immediately, snd not because he was thinking of a better lie, but because there genuinely didn"t seem to be one ready.

you could see it in the way his gaze drifted slightly, unfocused for a second. like the question didn't have a category in his mind that could hold it.

he had parties. he had wealth. he had rooms full of people who would answer when he spoke and disappear when he didn't. he had excess in every direction. he indulged in lavish parties, drank and smoked till the crack of dawn, stashed on yachts or castles. he occasionally hired women for his entertainment and pleasure, but he wasn't going to tell you that now.

you were asking what softened him and there was nothing obvious he could to point to. his attention returned to you, sharper now, as if trying to regain his footing back in the conversation.

"what do you and your… friend do?" he asked bitterly. because you having a best friend?

he hated it a little. because this was someone who knew you differently. longer than him, maybe better than him. someone who got to see different sides of you that he hadn't yet seen.

"well, we go out for lunches, dinners, go out to bars. sometimes we do pilates together or play squash, walk around and sightsee. and we used to study together back in college, so we did assignments together. meet up with other friends and go to concerts. that sort of thing."

titus absorbed your response. none of it was unfamiliar in theory, but none of it was lived. he had spent his life surrounded by proximity without connection with people who were there because they were born into it, not because they chose him.

you watched him for a second, then your expression shifted—something soft taking over, like you didn’t want the moment to get too serious.

your fingers reached out, lightly trailing along his arm.

"danny boyyyy," you murmured.

his entire body reacted before his face did, hearing you turn his mighty surname into a nickname like that.

"don't call me that," he said immediately, but it lacked any real force.

you smiled. "why not?"

he didn't answer and you leaned in slightly, just enough to be a little unfair.

"do you want to go out with me?" you asked. then, after a beat, softer, "on a date?"

oh how his throat bobbed with discomfort, with the fact that he had never done any of that with friends, barely had any relationships that lasted beyond pricey gifts or hunts that cost them their life; in all his 48 years of gated life. all he had were stooges, footmen, business partners he didn't trust anyway, council members he had to tolerate. and his sister. and the devil.

somehow, the first few minutes of your 'date' pitch revolved around convincing titus to dress casual.

and clearly you two had different definitions.

you were sprawled across his king-sized bed on your stomach, chin sunk into a pillow, watching him—well, making him move through his wardrobe. every item he pulled out seemed to belong to a version of him that existed in boardrooms, private aircrafts, or places where people didn't raise their voices unless it was to threaten someone or bribe someone.

"seriously?" you said, propping your chin up slightly. "you don't have a t-shirt and jeans?"

he paused mid-closet, turning slowly, "do i look like a man who wears jeans?"

you squinted at him. "you could be."

"sorry, baby," he said, already shaking his head, "but no amount of coaxing is going to make that happen."

you flopped back down dramatically, staring at the ceiling for a second like it had personally disappointed you. the silence that followed was him continuing to sort through options, and you occasionally offering commentary that ranged from "absolutely not" to "are you being drafted?"

eventually, after a few more failed attempts, he emerged with something slightly more tolerable—cargo pants that he apparently used for "hunting", which you chose not to question too deeply. but you did let out a squeal of success when he dug out a plain blue t-shirt.

"oh my god, wait," you sat up properly. "that one's good."

he looked down at himself, then back at you, as if trying to confirm whether this was a trick.

"this?" he asked.

"yes," you said firmly, swinging your legs off the bed now. "that. you look… human."

"i am human."

"yeah no, that's debatable."

he exhaled through his nose, but there was something almost amused about it now, like he'd stopped resisting the process and was just letting it happen for the sake of watching you be strange about it.

you hopped off the bed and walked over, adjusting the shirt slightly at his shoulder like you had any authority to do so.

"okay," you said, satisfied. "this is acceptable."

he watched you for a moment, then glanced at the mirror behind you both, taking in his reflection. he felt like someone else.

and as for you?

it was pleasant enough outside that you could finally ignore the row of dark sweaters and painfully serious shirts that filled your wardrobe and go digging for something you hadn't touched in a long time. there were a few older pieces tucked away at the back, things you’d bought in moments of optimism that didn't quite match your current life, and you lingered on them for a second longer than necessary before pulling one out.

light, lemony, adorable.

titus had been waiting near the base of the stairs, probably already halfway distracted by whatever thought had been occupying him five minutes earlier, until you appeared.

and whatever he was thinking stopped. not politely nope. just—full stop.

because he had never seen you so yellow. pale, soft, ridiculous. that colour didn't belong in the dark danforth manor.

a two-piece set that read like a sundress if you didn't look too closely, light fabric catching against you innocently. your short hair rested just above your shoulders, like a 60's audrey hepburn.

and then his eyes dropped. down your juicy, tempting breasts snug in the fabric like citrus you just wanted to sink your teeth in. and then he saw your belly, bulging out just the perfect amount through the skirt. he went very still in that particular way men did when they were actively losing control over their instincts.

chester, he remembered, had ursula starve for days just so her stomach would flatten. young titus recalled his sister staring at his plate of food with tears in her eyes.

but you... and the real, well-fed flesh you had on yourself had a beauty so unashamed and natural...

he went from solid to gaseous real fast ngl.

"you're not going out like that," he said immediately. it came out flat, but not persuasive. not even slightly.

you tilted your head, a little frown on your forehead. "like what?"

"that."

you held his gaze for a beat longer than necessary, then turned and started walking ahead of him like the conversation was already over. "cope, my guy."

you had barely made it down the stairs of the manor before you realised titus danforth was not equipped with date-like qualities. the driver was already opening the door of the car when you grabbed titus' arm.

"seriously?" you asked, looking at the car. he did too, then looked back at you.

"what. it's a lambo espada."

"we're going on a dateeee," you dragged the words out of yourself, "not an auction!"

"what else then?"

"nothing of yours."

titus folded his arms, looking at you. "what, you got a car?"

"better," you smirked.

when you'd moved into the danforth manor, they'd brought all your things in, including your party-of-one vehicle that sat under covers in the danforth garage, ridiculously red.

a vespa.

titus stared at it. then at you. then back at it again. "no."

you smiled sweetly. "yes."

he protested, threw every pro-reputation argument at you, even got the driver in on it, and then five minutes later, he was behind you, sitting stiffly with a silly helmet on.

one arm clamped around the bar behind him and the other hovering like it couldn’t decide whether to hold on or escape entirely. after a second of hesitation, his hand settled at your shoulder, gripping just a little too firmly. he wished he had two more arms to hold on for his life.

you laughed under your breath and twisted the throttle anyway. the engine sputtered to life with a little whirr, and then you were off, driving down the road with the morning air cutting clean against your faces.

there was a stupidly adorable ease in the fact that titus danforth—who'd never trusted anything in life with two wheels—was readily going on a date with you on a vespa.

he slowly got the hang of it when you hit the smooth city road. he even took his hand off the bar and placed it on your other shoulder.

♬⋆.˚ tum se hi; pritam, mohit chauhan, irshad kamil

hartford felt so different, always so fresh. it was quieter in a lived-in way, people actually going somewhere with purpose, no selfish displays of wealth and entitlement. the pavements were uneven or broken in places, the brickwork on art deco buildings added to the city's character.

you parked the vespa a little awkwardly by the two-wheeler parking space, hopped off first, and immediately reached back without thinking. your fingers found titus’s hand before he’d even fully dismounted. it was instinctive toyou. he didn't fucking hesitate in grabbing your hand tightly.

and he followed you like that, looking like a man who'd never seen a footpath before as you led him toward a small college coffee cart tucked between two buildings. it was truly unimpressive. just a guy and a stall, hadnwritten chalkboard menu, and sleep deprived yale students slouched in their hoodies clutching coffees and yawns in both hands.

"they have one of the best iced coffees, trust me. nothing like it to start the day."

titus looked at the setup, then at the paper cups, then at the price board. his expression flattened slightly. "this is cheap."

"silence, rich boy," you pressed your index finger over his lips and trotted away to order for the two of you.

he watched you more than he watched anything else after that. watched the way you spoke to the barista like you knew him, the way you stood slightly on your toes when you were excited, the way your shoulders loosened the moment you were out of the estate's orbit. there was something almost disarming about it for him, like seeing a version of you that didn't have to calculate everythign.

you handed him his iced coffee and immediately pulled him along again, fingers threaded with his. hartford unfolded in front of you in soft fragments: old bookstores, thrift shops, little cafes.

you made him stop in places for no reason other than curiosity, pointing at things like a tourist. you'd already seen more than enough, but shpwing him, seeing it with him was a lot more fun, you realised.

though you kinda sorta exploded in the flea market, moving through different racks, flipping through jackets and frowning wherever there were rhinestones, holding things up against his beefy chest with zero care. titus just stood there like all this was beneath him. it was. but it didn't matter as long as your hand found his.

you discovered a diy friendship bracelet table and the inner craft girlie in you popped out like a gift card. you grabbed a few beads, some coloured thread, and assembled a nice bracelet. he'd lean in to see what you were up to and you pulled it away from his gaze.

and when you were done, you tied it around his wrist without asking, right under his morbidly expensive patek philippe watch.

titus looked down at the alphabet beads. "king of my ♥️"

good god. the man had cultivated his taste for all things elegant and branded. but he'd be lying if his gilded heart didn't flutter at the sight of such an innocent gift.

he didn't interrupt that version of you.

not when you let him buy you a bunch of earrings, not when you snapped a hundred pictures of the city, of him, of you and him, and most certainly not when you held his hand till it was drenched with sweat.

he didnt' stop you when you strolled into a bookstore and decided you'd live there for the next hour. he wtached you browse and browse, handle every book that piqued your interest with care. watched you cringe at those typical tech bro self help books that all sounded robotic and prescribed a cold bath every third page.

funny. every time he'd taken out a woman for dinner or drinks in his past, he ran on the same script, for himself and them. the same superficiality, mentions of friends of friends, who fucked whom, he said she saids that he had grown accustomed to.

so how was he supposed to just 'be on a date' with you? a woman who didn't come from his background, whose privileges started and ended at affordable public transport. you whose definition of fun ranged from having drinks at a club to reading in silence or napping.

what exactly was a danforth supposed to do on a date?

you snapped your fingers at him, holding a book in your hand and a smirk on your face. "wanna read smut to me?"

"what?" he asked, taking a step closer. "reading what?"

"smut."

"and what's that..."

you flipped open a few pages of some vibrant book, snickering to yourself. then held it to him.

titus squinted at the text, his neck creaking back and forth till he sighed and pulled out reading glasses from a case in his pockets.

"oh my god, you have readers?" you gawked.

"don't."

"fuck, that's hot. put 'em on."

he looked at you once, then holding your stare, put on his black, thick rimmed reading glasses.

he watched you lick and purse your lips, which pleased him immensely. "like what you see, baby?"

"uh huh..." you said, dazed. that man... was sincerely, sinfully, devilishly handsome with glasses on.

titus picked up the book in his hand, going over a few words, before he realised what absolute filth this was. he looked at you once, at your eagerness, and he shook his head.

"dirty girl, y/n... you get off on this?" he clicked his teeth.

"can't i have guilty pleasures?"

titus took a few more steps towards you, cornering you against a bookshelf.

he cleared his throat. "it was messy and aggressive, with teeth clashing, and biting your lower lip. he poured all his dominant energy into that kiss. his tongue plundered your mouth."

"the fuck is this?" he asked, letting out a scoff.

you clamped your mouth, laughter slipping out in odd bursts.

"with a swift movement, he pulled you close, the head of his cock nudging insistently at your entrance. he groaned deeply as he sank into your heat... jesus, sweetheart, why do you read this?" he groaned, closing the book shut and putting it on top of some other shelf.

you chuckled as he spun you around so you could leave. "you read well!!! can you narrate an erotica for me?"

"no."

"why n—"

"i'd rather just fuck you, you know," he murmured in your ear, leading you to another aisle.

at last, you left the store with a bag full of books, ranting about how much you wanted to start reading olivia laing, clarice lispector, and anaïs nin.

hands entwined as you walked on the footpath, you looked at him with almost a childlike earnestness. "we should go watch a movie!"

titus blinked at you. "a movie."

you nodded and he looked like he was about to argue purely out of habit, then didn't. instead, he just followed you again, still holding your hand as you dragged him through hartford streets with urgency. the cinema was nothing like anything he was used to. no private screening rooms, no velvet ropes, no staff who already knew his preferences before he arrived. just a slightly faded marquee, a queue at the counter, and posters taped in glass fogged up frames.

you were leaning against the ticket booth, arms folded over a counter that was probably way too unclean, pointing at a screen, selecting seats.

and there he was, someone who had funded cannes on behalf of his father, knew most celebrities on a first-name basis, always received invited to premieres and private screenings that he ignored.

titus didn't know where to place himself in your life.

he felt bothered, a little insecure standing beside you at the ticket booth as you chatted with the clerk. he felt out of character. undeserved of this casualty. that he couldn't have romance without the haunting strings attached, dipped in blood, mr le bail's rotten hand over his shoulder telling him it's not real. just a hallucination. just a taste, never a satiating meal.

you held two tickets in your hand, grabbing his and leading him inside. he took slowly steps behind you, felt people brush past his shoulder and somehow didn't feel the need to dislocate them. that man had never 'struggled' to reach a seat, and now he was wading through a crowd to get to one, popcorn spilling at his feet, crushed under his boot as people scurried to get to their seats.

the discomfort registered in him, that being a part of your world meant being a part of the world. you didn't hide yourself away from the ordinary, the pale, the boring. and you didn't monopolise the good, the fun. you let it crash together like waves and let the sand beneath your feet slip from time to time. you didn't mind if life got a little hard or greasy.

titus wasn't sure he'd ever be able to live without the privileges he had. without the absent accountability, convenience, without the charity of mr le bail.

there as the room darkened, he slowly realised how eerie it was to have loaned your soul to the devil, that a date with the woman he'd come to love couldn't feel unconditionally happy unless it was caged within the manor and wrapped in silk.

you caught his gaze lost in thought and placed your hand over his.

"you okay?"

his stare snapped back into place. "yeah." he straightened in his seat, suddenly unsettled by the thought that thousands of people had probably sat in it.

"what are we watching?" he asked hoping to be distracted by whatever sappy romance or heroic action thriller you'd picked.

"hokum."

"what?" the name sat unfamiliar.

"hokum."

"i heard you, what is that?"

"the movie."

he frowned. "that's a movie?"

"yeah."

sappy and romantic indeed, as titus sat through what unfolded itself to be a horror film. titus leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing at the opening scene with a kind of mild recalculation, mentally revising whatever assumptions he'd made about the evening. for a second, there was even a flicker of approval in his expression.

he glanced at you. "you sure you can handle it, baby?"

you shifted in your seat, shoulders squared like you were preparing for a lecture rather than a film. "dude, i'm not born yesterday. i can handle horror movies."

that earned you a small, amused exhale from him. his head tilted slightly as he watched you, deciding whether to believe you or not. "you sure? i mean, if you wanna hold my hand when you get scared or anything…"

you turned your head just enough to shoot him a look, unimpressed. "what if you'e the one who gets scared? big bad titus might fall for a jumpscare, you know."

he hummed, clearly entertained, then reached over, resting his hand near yours without quite grabbing it. "keep telling yourself that."

for a while, it was easy. you know how horror movies started slow, built up the tension first, maybe some eerie music to make you just enough uncomfortable. the anticipation of fear.

you found yourself leaning forward slightly at certain moments, eyes fixed on the screen, while titus remained infuriatingly composed beside you. he didn't flinch, or even blink at the parts where the sound design sharpened or the camera lingered a little too long in the dark corners of the hotel.

that irritated you ngl. but then the first proper jumpscare hit without warning, loud and abrupt through the speakers. your body jolted reflexively in your seat, breath caught in your lungs for a moment.

titus? he didn't move. not even slightly. just sat in his seat, eyes on the screen, almost bored at the predictability. when you glanced at him properly, he didn't look back at the screen immediately. instead, his eyes flicked down to you for a moment, taking in the tiny aftermath of your reaction, the way you were trying very hard to pretend you hadn't just flinched.

he leaned a little closer, voice low enough that it barely carried over the film. "you okay, baby?"

"oh shut up," you hushed.

a knowing smirk tugged at his mouth. "just sayin'. can always cover your eyes if you're scared."

the film wound down slowly, the final scenes cut to credits while the theatre lights began to rise. people around you stretched, laughed a little too loudly at nothing, gathered their bags and wrappers and started filtering out in small clusters.

you stayed seated for a moment longer than most, letting the noise settle back into something normal again, your shoulders finally easing after the tension of the last hour. whatever fear had crept in earlier had worn itself thin by now, replaced by a kind of tired alertness and the last bit of adrenaline buzz.

"i'm impressed," titus murmured, low enough.

"how are you so unbothered? that's fucked up."

he gave a small, casual shrug, like it was obvious. "seen scary things in life. done much scarier."

you frowned slightly at that, studying him. "no, but you're like… zen."

that earned you a faint exhale through his nose. his gaze stayed on you, steady and unblinking, as if the rest of the theatre didn't exist anymore now that the movie had ended. "you looked adorable," he said simply. "i heard those little squeaks."

"i do not squeak," you scoffed, the lie kicking in a second too late to be convincing.

titus didn't even wait for you to finish properly. he shifted suddenly in his seat and leaned into you in one smooth movement, catching you off guard and making you gasp sharply as he closed the distance, suddenlt in your fucking face. it wasn't rough, not really, but it was fast enough to jolt you out of your protest.

he tilted his head slightly, looking far too satisfied with himself. "see?" he murmured, eyes flicking briefly to your expression before settling back on you. "squeak."

you shoved at him weakly, still half-laughing despite yourself, heat rising to your face.

titus really liked seeing you flustered more than he liked winning any argument.

when you left the cinema hall, hunger was waiting for you outside. and you suddenly perked up, almost hopping in spot.

"oh oh oh let's have shawarma," you beamed. "i know the best place."

titus looked at you, up then down, eyebrow rasied. he had seen you focused, irritated, calculating, shaken in face of guns, but this version of you was something else entirely; impatient with joy.

he didn't say anything at first, just watched as you grabbed his hand again and started dragging him out, the decision made.

you drove through hartford with him behind you again. the evening air was crisper and filled with smoke from the traffic.

the shawarma place was small, unassuming, the kind of spot that looked like it had been there forever and would survive any apocalypse. the air outside was thick with the smell of charred meat and spice, the grill smoke wafting out into the street in warm waves. you ordered like you owned the place, talking quickly with the vendor, gesturing at extras, completely in your element. titus stood slightly behind you, hands in his pockets, watching the exchange.

when everything was ready, you led him to the stairs of a closed laundromat across the street, sitting down like you were on a picnic. shutters half dented, paint chipped, stairs dusty.

you handed him one of the steaming shawarmas and immediately started showing him how to unwrap it properly, turning it in your hands with practiced ease.

"okay, so first," you said seriously, leaning in a little like this was a lecture, "you lick the sauce off the wrapper. we don't let it go to waste."

titus stared at you. "what? no, i'm not doing that."

"come on," you urged, already halfway through yours, "it's an experience."

"no."

"so you can eat me out but not the sauce?"

"correct. you're tastier."

you bit the inside of your cheek, stopping the smile before it could stretch on your face.

titus looked at the shawarma in his hand; warm spices and roasted chicken and melted cheese, and something about the sheer lack of etiquette made it worse for him. but well, he was hungry.

the first bite gasted his flabbers. he paused mid-chew, expression shifting slightly as if his brain had to catch up with what his mouth had just loved. this wasn't fine dining or michelin star chef-made. this was street food and it was... just too good.

you noticed immediately, of course, watching him like you were waiting for the verdict.

"it's good, right?" you hummed, smug now, leaning back slightly as you licked sauce off your own wrapper with absolutely no shame.

titus didn't answer right away. he was still processing, eyes slightly narrowed as if he didn't trust how much he liked it. then, slowly, his gaze dropped to you again. at the way the tip of your tongue caught the sauce. a sight veeeeery familiar to him and titus danforth junior in his pants.

it was official. titus danforth had just been on his first date, with the woman he loved.

and while it ticked none of his standards, it exceeded them at the same time. you were magnetising. you could suggest he fall flat on his face and he'd do it because you told him so. you could make a stub of the toe sound divine.

and against all the reality of the games, the impending judgement day, titus let himself smile as he sat behind you for the third time, on your way back to the manor. he could see the estate in the distance.

he smiled as he recalled your excitement, your gorgeous yellow dress, smiled at how many books you'd bought, the movie, the shawarma, all of it. maybe he wouldn't mind doing it again.

ding! ding! ding!

your phone pinged from inside your bag, which you'd slung and tossed behind you so it wouldn't flap in the wind on the scooter.

curious and entitled, assuming everything belonge to you both, titus dug through your bag and pulled out your phone, checking the notifications on the lock screen. he blinked, rereading the name.

ursula: here’s the dossier on the le domases. everything about their strategies is in it. we should be good for game day.

he read it agian. his smile dimmed slowly. the realisation settled in him like heavy gravity. you were still plotting. still hiding things from him and colluding with his sister. after he'd told you not to lie, you still did it.

then all the happiness and joy and warmth in him disappeared in a second. he felt the scooter jerk and come to a halt before the manor. he got off instantly.

"we should do this aga—" you stopped speaking the moment you saw him, his face, and your phone in his hand. and oh how his eyes looked hurt and enraged. you kicked the scooter on its stand and got down, taking your helmet off.

"titus…"

he grabbed your jaw tightly, thumb digging into your mandible.

"i told you. to not fucking lie to me." he snapped.

"i'm n—"

"I TOLD YOU."

you'd never heard that belt of his voice.

"whatever you're doing with ursula stops right now." he hissed as he released your jaw, suddenly repulsed by your skin. then tossed your phone on the gravel, watching the screen crack.

"don't fucking treat me like i'm a child," he snarled and turned to go inside.

"titus…"

he didn't look back.

"you can be mad at me! that's okay! just… please don't go where i can't follow," you pled softly, clutching your wrist, where the sigil reminded you of its implication. for a brief moment, he almost swallowed his anger back, but he hardened just as quick and went inside.

with the game approaching, you'd pretty much busied yourself with practice games, books, and youtube videos to improve your game.

but nothing dulled the pricking ache of knowing titus hadn't talked to you at all for three whole days. you'd been by his room, knocked on his door, sent him texts after texts, which he didn't bother reading. you'd even asked one of the maids to deliver handwritten notes to him, but she returned with a shake of her head.

the only other person who made the effort to hear you out was ursula.

"he knows."

she sighed. "how much?"

"he saw your text. the one about the files."

she rubbed her temple a little. "well, he hasn't done anything yet. so... it should be fine."

you nodded, looking downcast. "he's not talking to me."

she gave you a glance. "oh, you'll live. he's acting up right now, but he can't resist you."

"why can't he just talk it out?"

"he's titus. he'll break a few things, shoot something, pace around and then shut up."

her response did not do anything to pacify the unease in you. logically, you knew the time healed everything and that there would come a time when he'd re-emerge and you'd talk and sort things out.

but you also had the strong feeling that titus, when he was lost in his head, was an oncoming storm and everything around him would become collateral damage.

and if that weren't enough, what he had learned could very easily be passed down, ear to ear until it reached the lawyer and then... there would be serious consequences.

you were in your room again, dozing off over a pile of pawn and king endgame notes when a maid popped in from the servant's entrance, nearly sending you into cardian arrest.

"miss l/n, mr danforth has instructed me to inform you that he will be leaving the manor for a few hours. and that you are to sit in the basement while he's gone."

your heart sank. you felt it drop in your stomach. before you could ask her anything else, she disappeared into the walls.

the very thought of going back down there, ever since you'd found your father in the depths, it tortured you.

with your books and notes and a chessboard mat in hand, you hovered by his door again, leaning against the plank of wood.

"titus?" you called out softly. you could hear some shuffling inside.

"i'm sorry..."

more shuffling. footsteps paced inside. you let your temple rest against the door.

"can we talk? please?"

every attempt you made at reaching out to him was met with silence. so you trudged down down down the steps and into the basement. it looked worse than before. grimy walls, the familiar pale bluish green walls. some of your books were still there on the table; campbell's historical linguistics lay there collecting dust.

the typewriter had cobwebs between its keys. you couldn't breathe in the damp air.

but you sat on the stairs of the basement, enough to be inside, and enough to have the doors open. light from the corridors and stairwell kept you lit enough as you resumed going through the notes.

you stayed there for god knows how long, eyes heavy from exhaustion and body clicking every time you moved from one uncomfortable position to another. you didn't know if titus was back. you tried calling for a servant, for anyone. no one answered. you pulled your phone out to text him and ask him if he was back, no answer. the reception sucked too.

with very little choice, despite hunger and the need to relieve your bladder, you stayed there on the stairs. maybe this was the universe punishing you for keeping secrets from a man like titus.

mercies, you realised, were hard to earn when your actions made sure you deserved none.

the le domas estate was just as grand, 19th century house, lush green grounds and surrounding woods. had you been brought here the first time, you'd have believed the danforths lived here instead.

mr le domas called it an act of 'grace', inviting everyone to his abode for the necrofest. something about a last loving feast before he obliterated everyone at the house game: chess.

that was the first time you saw titus in a week. he still didn't look at you, just kept close to his sister.

you swallowed your anxiety. now really wasn't the time to mourn the loss of attention from tits danforth. (i realised while re-reading that i forgot to type 'u', and now tits danforth just sounds fucking hilarious. i'm keeping it XD)

"welcome to the third game of the necrofest," the lawyer stood before you, a smile on his face.

"there will be two pools of three. each player plays in a round-robin within their group and the winners of each match will advance to playing each other."

"wait, isn't that a lot of games?" asked mr silcox.

"yes."

"we'll be here all day..."

"correct. arrangements have been made for dinner if need be," the lawyer added.

thus, you and the others were led to what looked like an outdoor arena, with a chessboard placed on a table, two chairs facing each other. pure ivory pieces, silver lined board. a traditional clock that started the other's time when tapped.

mr le domas, being the host, took the first game. mr silcox sat before him, giving him a challenging glance, a bit too sultry for your taste.

really, just two old white men having a homoerotic face off.

"you both have an hour. mr le domas, i shall start your time now. good luck," the lawyer announced and pressed the clock.

♬⋆.˚playing townes; carlos rafael rivera

the game unfolded quickly, like disappointingly so. mr le domas played rather skilfully, patient and smug in equal measure. mr silcox, on the other hand, played messily, his development was nonexistent, and by the time he realised the centre of the board mattered, it was already gone.

it didn't take longer than 15 minutes. it was a clean, traditional win; london opening, very simple transitions. there were no theatrics at all. mr le domas had full control of the board.

you watched it all with a growing sense of dull detachment.

next, the match between cheng fu and mr silcox. really, just two picky players who insisted they knew what they were doing. mr silcox had tried to copy whatever he remembered of mr le domas, forgetting that he was playing black, and the squares weren't the same. so he ended up in a messy centre.

now, mr cheng fu was a bit better. but he lacked the confidence to take pieces. he just crowded his board, placing everything out, not securing the king at all, so when mr silcox captured his first knight, he flipped, grunted at the board, and as he kept on losing pieces, only got madder and slammed his fist on the clock.

their game was probably the longest, with neither using their pieces to checkmate. they just seemed keen on capturing and emptying the board.

"you ever want to just... put them in a pool with piranhas and watch?"

you turned to face a sour looking daniel, who'd slid next to you, nursing a fireball whiskey in his hand.

"they 'are' piranhas."

he snorted. "nah... they're sheep who think they're wolves."

"and you?"

he looked down at you, with a certain exhaustion in his eyes. "i'm no better."

"so leave..."

he smiled, looking at his father, who circled around the match, as if watching it from a different angle would make any difference in his victory.

"you don't leave a family like this..." he leaned in, whispering in your ear. "you just let it rot and poison you."

you kept your gaze on the board.

"you're taking this too seriously."

"well," you tore your sight away from the game for just a moment. "i can't afford to rot. i like my soul clean."

he chuckled bitterly. "mr le bail will get his hands on you. trust me."

"he hasn't yet."

daniel took a clumsy swig of his whiskey, feeling his muscles relax. "you really think you can win?"

you let out a soft breath. "i think..." then turned to look him in the eye. "i can make them lose."

he caught your gaze. "oh? not so... goody two shoes are you? talk of the town is you killed wilkinson on your own."

"it was self-defence."

he chuckled, leaning closer. "oh i'm not complaining. you did good."

you opened your mouth to protest or rather defend yourself when he cut you off, "his house game was backwater combat. brutal."

your breath hitched a little. what a funny thing retrospection was...

"i can't swim..."

daniel smirked. "see? you did us all a favour."

by now, the board had but the king and a few pawns left. but worse was that both of them were busy moving their kings away from each other, than just upgrading their pass pawns into queens. a whole hour went by just like that.

daniel had gotten you a drink, and you both stood further away from the crowd, watching whatever the game had become. his gaze fell on sebastian, who was studying the game like it had any value.

"what's your deal with him?" he asked you.

you sighed, kicking away a tiny rock by your feet. "what isn't my deal..."

he looked at you. "daddy issues?"

"daddy is the issue."

"so why are you playing for him?"

"well, kinda didn't have a choice. and..." you cast a pensive gaze over the scene before you. then at daniel, who seemed different from all of them. real enough, authentic enough to have a critical conversation with.

"...i plan to double cross him."

daniel raised an eyebrow, and let out a low whistle. "and they say my family is fucked up."

"it is."

he shrugged. "true. but you know you can't kill family right? you'd both blow up."

"so i've heard."

daniel studied you for a moment. he found no visible fear on your face. but also no numbness. you were in an inescapable situation, but you had enough resilience to have hope.

"i wish i had the balls to be like you."

you looked up at him, giving him a smile. "i think you already are..."

he smiled back.

the group matches had begun to resolve themselves in a steady rhythm. the last match of group 1 took place between mr le domas and mr cheng fu, which honestly was hilarious considering how much contrast there was in their play.

but you noticed that mr le domas favoured the london opening, which was solid, a little conservative, but effective. it helped him assemble the rest of his pieces.

cheng fu, predictably, struggled to keep up with it. his pieces drifted too far too early, his position collapsing not from a single mistake but from a dozen small ones stacking quietly on top of each other. and mr le domas didn't rush him, well, he didn't need to. he truly did play the long game, purely for the fun of it. to watch his opponent realise how trapped he was. and even though it didn't get to that point, you could tell he'd be ruthless at end games. that there was a man who could think a few moves ahead.

by the time the game concluded, there was no real surprise left in it: le domas won.

and should you win the games in your group, you'd have to play against a possible chessmaster.

♬⋆.˚playing beltik; carlos rafael rivera

the first group's match had finally wrapped. people drifted away from the tables in slow clusters. cigars were lit, glasses were refilled, and the le domas mansion inside, turned into a lounge-like sprawl where the day's victory and loss were already rebranded as conversational topics.

it was already around five in the evening, the light outside turning softer and heavier at the same time, catching on glassware and polished metal.

before you, titus finally took his seat at the board. he sat opposite francesca, but it didn't look like he was really with her in any meaningful sense. his posture sagged a little. you noticed of course, with an unwelcome jolt, that he didn't look at you right away.

it shouldn't have mattered, you told yourself that quickly. but it did.

he wasn't a grandmaster. not even close. he knew it, and you knew it too. whatever skill he had came from repetition under chester's idea of teaching, which had never really been instruction so much as punishment for each mistake.

he looked... so sad.

you realised, a little too late, that you had been watching him instead of the game. francesca, as it turned out, wasn't playing with much direction at all. she just put pieces wherever she felt they'd go and the lawyer had to butt in to remind her of the rules and limitations of each piece, so what should've been a 20 minute game at tops, ended up being dragged into the whole hour.

which, unfairly, was exactly what allowed titus to hold his ground. he didn't dominate the game so much as outlast it. and it tilted in his favour. but he didn't look too happy about the win.

pushing yourself up from the chair you'd warmed, you stepped down and took francesca's seat, her elbow bumping into your side as she slid past you. the contact was brief but enough to make you exhale through your nose, but you steadied yourself as you settled into the seat opposite him.

you sat across from him for the first time in a week.

"starting the clock, good luck," the lawyer chimed in, tapped your clock and stepped away.

you didn't play at first. you let the seconds tick by, loud in the absence of speech, loud in the absence of him looking at you.

"hey..." you said softly, eyes on him.

he didn't look at you. he didn't even acknowledge the sound of your voice properly. just kept staring at the pieces on the board. one week. one whole weeks of his silent treatment had truly upset you. you understood his anger in logic, but you had your reasons and if he wasn't willing to listen, well... what else could you do.

so you picked up a pawn and moved it forward.

so did he.

and from there, piece by piece, capture by capture, you let the game go on. and you could tell he was bothered and that his mind wasn't in the game at all. the board told you that: a record of two people still speaking to each other without using language. it showed when he left a bishop unguarded, or when he forgot to capture a pawn of yours, or when he let his king get cornered without any opening to escape from the check that was coming.

it wasn't that he was playing badly. but he was playing like someone who didn’t quite care whether he won.

so he showed no emotion when he lost. he simply leaned back slightly, exhaled once, and stood up, straightened his jacket, already steps away.

you sighed, feeling yourself cave in a little. you did not like seeing him so hurt.

and just to rub salt in the wound, francesca slid into titus' abandoned seat like she had been waiting for the moment to inherit it. there was still redness around her eyes.

then she spoke, her voice bitter as a gourd. "couples fight all the time. me and madhu never did though. we were so much better."

oh this bitch...

you leaned back a fraction in your chair, studying her with a still calmness. then you smiled.

"tell you what..." you said, and reached forward without breaking eye contact, lifting your queen from the board, and placing her on the table, kept away from the game. a motion so unhurried and decisive.

the lawyer raised his eyebrow, but allowed it, mumbling about over confidence under his breath.

francesca finally looked at you properly then, her gaze narrowing. "whatever."

you were playing black.

so she opened with her pawn, pushed forward one square, having quite literally recently learned some rules and tactics from ignacio, who had stockfish open on his phone. you answered with your pawn stepping out two squares.

she responded by taking her queen almost immediately, planting it aggressively into the corner, angled towards the pawn that guarded your king diagonally. soooo not subtle.

you didn't rush to match her energy. instead, you developed another pawn. her bishop followed, sliding into alignment, doubling pressure onto the pawn her queen was already eyeing. you nudged one of your pawns forward again, just enough to threaten her queen's position, forcing it to shift or be taken. irritated, she moved her away.

it was clear... she was playing at you, not the board.

"how's your father doing?" you asked.

she scoffed sharply. "like you care."

"i don't," you replied evenly, "but i'm asking anyway."

you developed your bishops and knight while chasing her pieces away.

"he lost a kidney," she said after a beat, voice flat with resentment. "thanks for that."

well, she managed to take some of your pieces, especially one of your bishops when you left it hanging as bait, which she took it with a satisfactory smile.

"i'm sure he can pluck one from cold storage, no?" you asked slyly, giving her king a check…and forking her queen and rook in the process.

and from there, you crowded her king into the corner, surrounded by her own pieces.

"do unto others, francesca…" you moved your rook below your knight.

"…as you would have done unto you," you completed the phrase, taking your knight off its square and placing it on the third row, a clean, congested checkmate without your queen even on the board.

thus... winning over both the members in your group, you advanced to the final game; versus mr le domas.

this was one of my games on chess. com when my cousin was teaching me a few moves. I FORGOT I PUT MUSIC OVER IT FOR AN EDIT. but anyway, that's how it looks:

♬⋆.˚ labour; paris paloma

you had a few minutes before the board was reset, which you took by sipping a glass of water and standing still with your eyes closed. only in your head, your replayed every single move mr le domas had made, looking for patterns, favourites, weaknesses.

chess was the kind of sport that looked still and stationary from a bystander's point of view, but only those who played knew just how much they were sweating simply thinking of a move they may not even make.

even when you weren't playing, the mere thought of a game, of moves, or tactics, drew out the same fatigue from your brain as it played simulations of games internally, each one failing. you opened your eyes, facing a realisation that you might not win this one easily. you'd assumed mr le domas favoured the london, but it was just twice that you'd seen it. and you knew very well, one's an accident, two's a coincidence. not a pattern yet, so he could very much surprise you with a tougher, newer opening.

jesus your brain hurt.

you felt an unfamiliar hand on your shoulder.

"focus..."

in an instant, you swatted his hand away, shoulder burning at the recognition of sebastian's touch.

you marched right down and at the table, taking a seat prematurely, the chair scraping softly against the floor.

by now, almost everyone had left. it was night, dinner had been brought out and taken back in too. you were starving, teeth itching to bite into something lest you gnaw on everyone's heads.

mr le domas took the seat opposite you. he didn't bother with pleasantries. his eyes travelled over you in a slow, assessing way, passing judgement way in advance.

his family stood behind him, every single one of them looking down at you like vultures.

daniel gave you an apologetic look, being pushed to the side by his wife.

"do enjoy the feast," mr le domas said, voice sour, but courteous on the surface. "it'll be your last."

he leaned back slightly, fingers resting near the edge of the board. "i expected someone… better presented," he continued, gaze flicking over you again with disdain. "but then again, you can't expect that from someone so out of place like you."

his mouth curved faintly, not quite a smile. "illegitimate children always play at being part of the table. they never quite understand they are only ever borrowed guests."

the lawyer signalled the start of the game without comment, and the clock clicked forward.

you didn't respond to any of his statements. you attention was fixed on the board, on its geometry.

his expression cooled, and he opened with something that immediately broke your expectation.

not a london.

your eyes narrowed slightly as you registered the deviation, the structure unfamiliar enough to force a recalibration. you answered anyway, switching quickly, settling into a caro-kann defence from black.

but mr le domas abandoned comfort entirely and pushed into exchanges already, forcing central tension rather than allowing the slow build you had prepared for. little baffled, you developed your knight, even took the queen out early. but the placement was such that you were dealing with the possibility of tough-to-break pins and blockades. so that resulted in an early queen trade off.

he infiltrated your rank with his knight, giving your king a check and taking your rook. that loss forced your king to move and reposition, hindering any future of a castle.

the board felt absurd, rigged.

mr le domas may have been clumsy with his beer pong or gunmanship, but he was a terrifying chess player.

your game stretched for another 30 minutes. you only had a few minutes left before you timed out and lost. you stared at the board, then at the clock, then back at the board again. you stared at mr le domas, his sister, at daniel...

the pieces no longer looked like clean abstractions of ivory and silver. your queenless structure sat exposed in places you hadn't realised were weak until they were already being pressured. another file tightened here, another escape route reduced there. every square you reached for seemed to already belong to him by implication, by probability and foresight.

your chest tightened in a slow, unpleasant rhythm. the hand that hovered over your knight felt heavy. you could hear the faint tick of the clock remind you of your demise.

god, you tried to calculate, recall your notes, the books you'd read, games you'd played and watched. nothing cleared the fog in your head. every attempt to simplify your position only made it feel more crowded, so much that you felt the board shrink and shrink.

your fingers hovered near your pieces once, then pulled back without touching anything. even the act of considering a move felt like a risk you couldn’t afford to misunderstand. your eyes met the lawyer's who sat there expressionless. you looked at daniel, who looked equally tensed, almost disappointed to see you lose.

you didn't have anyone to distract him or nothing to cheat. all you had was knowledge and it wasn't enough against a man older than you, expert at a sport that belonged in his family. you could feel your heartbeat in your throat now.

"scared? you should be," said mr le domas. and his voice echoed a thousand times inside your head, ears unwilling to tolerate that sound.

he shifted forward just enough that his voice lowered, not for secrecy, but for control. "do you understand what happens when people like you lose here?" he asked.

there was no need for you to answer. he continued anyway. "we're going to eat you alive. don't think you're living to tell the tale, stupid girl. your arrogant father thinks he can take what's ours. that titus danforth isn't going to forget it so easily. he's going to make your life hell. you think you've got him wrapped around your finger, please... he'll leave you for dead if it meant he'd get the le bail ring. you should've thrown yourself off a cliff. let yourself be shot or something. because it's only going to get worse from here, little girl, we're gonna make sur—"

squelch!

a deafening silence cast over the game as mr le domas suddenly stopped speaking... for there lay a knife lodged into his throat, a slow trickle of blood oozing out of the cut, and daniel's hand around the handle.

he met your eyes, both a craze and empathy in his eyes.

"you're right..." he said softly. "i am like you. but i deserve what's coming..."

he took the knife out, letting his father choke on his own blood, gasping for breath.

"you don't."

he stepped back, dropping the knife as his family shook him, asking what the hell was wrong with him.

"what did you do?"

"daniel!"

he just looked at you, giving you that same little salute. "someone's gotta burn it all down, right?"

there was no warning when it happened, just a loud explosion where daniel stood. a cloudburst of blood splattered in place of him like a fountain, bits of flesh raining from above. it splashed on your skin, across your neck, your torso.

you stood up from your chair, daring to take a step back. you couldn't believe your eyes. your hand clamped your mouth, trapping the scream that made it out anyway.

one by one, the le domases exploded into bits and pieces, blood and water, their panicked screams cut off by the sound of their skin tearing and flesh bursting at the seams.

red covered you head to toe as the entire family simply disintegrated in a matter of cruel seconds.

blood dripped from your skin and onto the floor. the chessboard, black and white, was now fully crimson, human flesh where pieces were supposed to be.

you couldn't bring yourself to breathe or gulp or look away. your eyes moved with pure terror, landing on the lawyer, who... well, did look a bit startled.

"well... guess you won," that was all he said before tapping the clock, with just under a minute on yours.

your breath was stuck in your lungs, voice coming out in a creak and stammer as your tongue tasted metal. your fingers moved with trembles to wipe off the blooddrops that hung from your eyelashes. you made the mistake of swallowing, your body not allowing you the grace of a nervous gulp without the taste of le domas blood.

your father's words surfaced in your head with unbearable clarity, as if he had spoken them into the same air you were breathing right now. weeks ago, you had dismissed it. that you'd be blown into bits and pieces.

he wasn't lying, was he?

your throat tightened as you stood there, the reality of what you just saw slowly settling over you as you felt blood run down your body. your knees felt briefly unreliable under you as they buckled when you took a step back.

was this… would this have been your fate had you refused to play? should you get caught breaking the rules you'd been taking for granted? fooling around with ursula thinking you were outsmarting everyone?

were you just one step away from being a puddle of red?

you felt your insides churn and twist uncomfortably, like they'd sensed danger and unfamiliarity on you. you forced yourself to swallow so you could free your mouth for a breath your nose refused to let go.

♬⋆.˚ hamburger lady; throbbing gristle (I AM SO SORRY FOR THIS CREEPY ASS SONG BUT I FUCKING LOVE IT)

fear, terror, nausea. they all blended with the one constant that had been feeding your emotions: rage.

rage for one person and one person only.

he who knew the system, and played it to his favour. he who knew the dangers of the games and still signed you up for them. he who sheltered himself from the violence, yet threw you right into it.

you took a few more steps back, your shoes sloshing against the puddle of blood.

you didn't pay attention to the gasps and looks you got from the le domas servants who watched you stride inside, leaving behind a long trail of blood. you grabbed one by her collar, coaxing which room he was in out of her.

he lay there, daring to bask in the comfort of a bed, of linen and silk pillowcases. his were the hands that took the lives of countless clueless patients, yet you were the one covered in blood. a little unfair no?

"are you happy father?" you asked softly, almost childishly.

sebastian jolted in bed, shoulders jerking as he hoisted himself up. for a second, he only saw the darkness in the guest room.

"i won" your giggle echoed in the still room like the rattle of a snake.

he sat upright, hands tapping on the night table for his glasses, his heart hammering inside his chest.

"aren't you happy?" you asked again.

"the fu—"

"you're not smiling... why aren't you smiling?" you asked with a whine, slowly emerging from the darkness and into his sight as he put his glasses on.

soaked in blood, bits of flesh clinging to your skin, your head tilted.

"y/n..."

"you wanted this. you wanted to win. you're winning now!!! can you be happy?"

"what... happened? where are the le domases?" he asked, his voice lodged in his throat.

"they're fine. well... they're not fine. they're dead. but i won!"

sebastian felt his skin rise into prickly needles.

"what did you do? y/n, what did y—"

"no no no no no NO NO NO. DON'T SAY THAT! I WON. CONGRATULATE ME!"

the rise in your voice made his spine go cold. he threw one leg off the bed to get up, but within seconds, you crossed the room and crawled over the bed, blood staining the sheets as you grabbed and shoved his shoulder back into bed. your fist curled around his neck.

"listen to you me selfish prick, you put me in this," you growled, drops of blood now falling upon his face, into his mouth and on his tongue as he gasped for air.

your voice softened again. "you're forgetting something, daddy... i... am not... a chess piece," then you giggled again.

"i can think. i can move. you don't... actually have puppet strings on me. so you're not truly in control here, are you?"

"y/n—hck"

"you... can't tell when i'll flip. blowing up looked great. should we blow up? i think we should," you smiled at him, pressing on his neck just a bit more.

his hand grabbed your hand, twisting it away and off his neck. but you slapped his cheek hard.

"I KILLED FOR YOU!! that's three now!!!" you smiled again, blood on your teeth. "i get that from my daddy."

"g-get off me... you sick child. you can't kill me, it's against the ru-rules," he coughed.

"no. no no no. i'm not going to kill you. not right now. we're gonna win. i'm going to let you win."

you leaned closer, so close that he could smell the blood and flesh on your skin.

"and then i'm going to take it from you."

and then in two zaps, you were off him, standing at the door of his room, now open, truly highlighting just... how... paranormally red you were.

"good night, daddy!"

slam!

the door shut, leaving inside a rattled sebastian, clutching his chest and checking his pulse, convincing himself that what he'd just witnessed wasn't real.

Visit Original Link

the next room you paid a visit to, you'd decided, you weren't going to leave until your purpose was fulfilled.

you banged on the door, fists blotting red stains on the wood. he didn't open, so you kept banging, louder and louder and louder till the hinges creaked.

titus swung the door open. "what!"

and then his eyes fell on you, blood-soaked, rage in your eyes, madness in your breath.

"y/n... what ha—"

you took a step in, shoving him inside the guest room.

"y/n, whose blood is—"

"shut up and sit down."

titus didn't argue. he couldn't. not when you were like this. he slumped in the bed, looking up at you.

for a moment, you didn't say anything. you just ran your tongue inside your cheek, between your teeth, mouth pursing and pouting, and then spat a piece of flesh out, which landed at the foot of the bed.

"the le domases are dead."

titus' eyes widened.

"they blew up. can you tell?" you asked blandly, gesturing at yourself.

he gawked at you, taking you in. not an inch of you was spared by the ungodly amount of blood.

"do you want me to blow up, titus?"

"what?"

you grabbed his jaw tightly, a bloody thumb digging into his cheek. "do you. want me. to fucking blow up?"

he shook his head.

"then put your anger aside. and listen."

you took a breath. "i know how to beat the games so that neither of us die or lose the seat. i told ursula about it, and she agreed to help me win. and yes, i could've told you, but you... can't fucking keep a secret."

"i can kee—"

"you practically advertise it on your face that you know a secret."

he shut up again.

"i can't risk breaking the rules before it's time. with you knowing the plan, it would've been impossible to make my victory seem accidental."

you released his jaw.

"if you still want in, you're going to stop whining about it. and if you want me to stop treating you like a child, stop fucking acting like one. next time you get mad? come talk to me. like an adult."

he gulped. not because he was scared or intimidated by your threat or by your seriousness. but because even bloodsoaked and shaken, hell traumatised and scary, you were simply divine, attractive to a sinner's fault.

you stepped back. "i want to live. i don't want your seat. and fucked up as it may be, i like you. too much. so don't fuck it up and get yourself killed."

you finally peeled off your top, your jeans, kicked off your shoes and discarded your drenched underwear. you left bloody footprints as you walked towards the washroom in the guest room, turning on the light inside and stepping in, leaving the door ajar for titus danforth, who was already undressing himself.

can you tell i watched obsession this week? T_T

sorry this took so long!!!! 1. i had a really long painting session because still life with flowers is HARD. 2. i watched the movie and immediately had to edit a scene. i fucking loved wishnikki's behaviour and though y/n can't ever compete with that performance, i wanted to see if i could make her creepy like that.

ps.: my flower study. oil on mount. 12x10" 6.5 hours so far and it's still not done.

again again again, comments are loved loved loved, reblogs are always welcome, all my ghost readers; u da real gems

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limited taglist: @taniamiller @generation-zero @goddess-of-spring @1dhoe93 @saigereaper @onyxorbspire @fluffyassbutt @niki128 @darknessofhell666-blog-blog @margaretblue777@emotionalsupportdilf @yiiiikesmish @softundermoonlight @tomnooksbagofbells

[st-kitten]

reblogging because i recorded an audio track for freaky y/n terrifying the shit out of sebastian 🤣🤣🤣🤣

[st-kitten]

the last great demented dynasty XVIII

titus danforth x y/n

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a/n: throughout the chapters, certain songs will be mentioned at the beginning or after a partition. the music is chosen mostly for the vibes and the melody. if the lyrics align, yay. if not, play along. but i highly recommend listening to the songs on loop for its section if you're a 'take-your-time' reader. idk, the music just adds some oomf to it.

summary: titus and you get closer, though there still seems to be unfinished business, and he's not taking it lightly. you thought chess would be easy. you were proven wrong rather colourfully.

warnings: mention of blood LOTS OF BLOOD, harsh language, gore, smut hinted, but not written (sorry) long chapter, but had to finish it cuz 1 game 1 chapter.

APOLOGIES FOR THE DELAY.

the chessboard sat untouched between you and sebastian, all the pieces neatly aligned, ready for a game that hadn't started. the room felt too hollow for how loud his voice had been for the past twenty minutes as he explained openings, pawn sacrifices, and the inescapable necessity of treating certain pieces as disposable.

you rested your cheek in your palm, with all the interest one hand in a math class, barely listening anymore. something about pawns, about strategy, something about how winning required you to take a few steps back sometimes.

his hand moved across the board as he demonstrated a variation, then asked you how you would respond. you didn't say much, just picked up a piece and move it, and for a brief moment his fingers brushed yours. it was purely accidental, but you pulled back instantly anyway, chair scraping slightly against the floor as you stood.

"i can't do this," you hissed.

sebastian didn't look surprised by your outburst.

"don't be ridiculous," he replied, leaning back. "and don't be emotional. you need to get over it."

you stared at him, genuinely appalled by how easily he said it.

"no," you said, shaking your head once. "i will not get over it."

"then you will fail," he said. "your emotions will get you killed. your sensitivity will—"

you cut him off before he could finish.

"then i'll die," you said, voice steady in a way that surprised even you. your hands were shaking, but your tone wasn't. "but i'll still be me. i won't lose my soul like you."

you stormed out of there, stomping on the carpeted floor all the way up to your room, shutting the door with a loud crack.

for a moment you just stood there, breathing hard, hands still curled like you were expecting to be handed another lecture through the walls. then you reached for your phone, unlocking it too quickly, thumb hovering before you finally tapped on the person you'd rather hear. it rang twice

"helloooo" her voice came out like sunshine through clouds on a dull day.

"please tell me you have time for a video call." you begged, already moving to sit at your desk.

"for you? always. i'm like... multitaskmaxxing right now."

the call connected properly a second later. she appeared on screen mid–painting, a brush in one hand, her other hand holding what looked like a pantone card she was swatching. and there you were, sitting at your desk, applying electric blue nail polish to your toenails while being on call with meghana on your phone. chomsky made sure to videobomb his butthole every three minutes.

"he's just there now?" meghana asked after a moment, pausing her brushwork to squint at the screen. "like… does he live there?"

"not really," you said, glancing at the cat as he deliberately blocked your face again. "i'm sure he has a place somewhere. he just shows up here now."

"and you can't tell me why," she said slowly, "but it's just… unavoidable?"

"yep."

she hummed, but didn't push it, which you were grateful for in a way you didn't feel like naming.

"but you're okay right?"

you hesitated for a second. the words 'no, i'm part of cultist games, trying to outsmart literal satan and his lawyer, hoping i don't end up dead' almost flew out of your mouth.

"yeah... i'm... okay for now"

she spared you a concerned glance, then resumed her painting. you could hear the soft scrape of brush on paper through the speaker.

"well, if you need some chess tips, i can loan you my boyfriend's pdfs. they're pretty great," she offered.

"yes please."

"you're not that bad at chess. why do you need to get better?"

you stared at your reflection in the dark edge of the screen for a second, then looked away.

"i need to win. somehow. and if my plan doesn't work, i'll need to actually win at chess." you said, focusing on your pinky, twisting your foot accordingly.

"i don't know how you're gonna improve in a few days. it's a lot of combinations and patterns."

you flexed your foot absentmindedly, watching the wet glaze of electric blue nail polish catch the light. "oh, trust me, patterns are the one thing i'm good at."

there was a short silence where she clearly chose not to interrogate that further.

"what are you gonna do?"

you stared at the screen for a hot moment. "what i do best... memorise all of them."

you spent a good amount of time talking to meghana on your phone. you finished painting your nails and she finished painting her little postcard.

you were still mid-call when meghana’s expression shifted slightly on screen. she squinted, leaning closer.

"okayyyyy," she said slowly, "i dont know if this is relevant or not, but like, there is a very dangerous-looking man in the background and i feel like i should ask if you're okay again."

you turned your head slightly without thinking, following her gaze.

"oh," you said, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. "that's titus."

almost on cue, footsteps approached behind you. he never really did announce himself. and it was his house anyway.

one moment the room was spacey and yours, the next there was his weight at your back. he leaned over you slightly, one arm braced against the edge of your desk, the other resting at your nape with an ease that suggested he'd done it a hundred times before without thinking about it.

his eyes flicked immediately to your screen. "what are you doing?" he asked, voice calm, but edged with something that made meghana visibly stop painting.

you didn't look away from the call. "talking to my friend?"

"what friend?"

you shifted the phone's angle slightly, switching windows so he could see properly. meghana waved hesitantly from the other side of the screen.

"that's megs," you said. "meghana. my best friend."

something in his eyes tightened as he threw half a glance at your phone.

"best friend," he repeated, like he was testing how the phrase worked in his mouth. then, without acknowledging meghana at all, he looked back at you.

"you're supposed to be practising."

"i am," you said immediately. "she's helping me."

his gaze narrowed slightly, shifting between you and the screen, trying to locate whicih part of your arrangement that made sense.

"her boyfriend plays in tournaments all the time," you added. "he's pretty good, so he's lending me his notes."

"hmm," titus said.

meghana glanced off-screen and then back at you. "i have to go," she said apologetically. "this is giving… mafia-coded."

you let out a small laugh. "fair."

"bye byeeee, love ya!"

you blew a kiss to your screen. "love ya! byeeee"

you ended the call, the screen going dark. you turned slightly in your chair, facing him a little.

"what"s in it for her?" he asked.

you blinked. "what?"

"your friend," he said simply. "what's she getting out of it?"

"nothing," you replied, without hesitation.

his eyebrow lifted slightly, like he didn't quite believe in that concept existing. you leaned back in your chair, meeting his stare properly now.

"she's my best friend, titus" you said. "she's not doing this for anything in return."

titus looked at you for a long moment, then gave a small, almost absent exhale through his nose.

"that's a mistake," he said.

"that's just what friends do, you know," you said simply, watching his expression carefully. then, after a beat, your tone shifted slightly, more curious than teasing. "titus… do you have friends?"

he scoffed immediately, too quickly. "of course i do."

you tilted your head. "name one."

he paused long enough for it to be noticed.

"urs—"

"she's your sister," you cut in flatly. "try again."

his mouth opened, then closed again. nothing came out that seemed usable. after a moment of visible mental searching, he tried again.

"emmanuel macron and i play tennis sometimes."

you stared at him, brow creased. there was a brief silence where your brain simply refused to process what had just been said.

"right," you said slowly. "we'll… circle back to that later. but seriously? you don't hang out with friends? like go out? do normal things?"

he blinked once, unbothered. "i go out."

"what do you do when you go out?"

"business deals," he said. then, as if it were the most obvious continuation in the world, "buying guns."

you gave him a look. "okay,"you said carefully. "but what do you do for fun?"

this time, he didn't answer immediately, snd not because he was thinking of a better lie, but because there genuinely didn"t seem to be one ready.

you could see it in the way his gaze drifted slightly, unfocused for a second. like the question didn't have a category in his mind that could hold it.

he had parties. he had wealth. he had rooms full of people who would answer when he spoke and disappear when he didn't. he had excess in every direction. he indulged in lavish parties, drank and smoked till the crack of dawn, stashed on yachts or castles. he occasionally hired women for his entertainment and pleasure, but he wasn't going to tell you that now.

you were asking what softened him and there was nothing obvious he could to point to. his attention returned to you, sharper now, as if trying to regain his footing back in the conversation.

"what do you and your… friend do?" he asked bitterly. because you having a best friend?

he hated it a little. because this was someone who knew you differently. longer than him, maybe better than him. someone who got to see different sides of you that he hadn't yet seen.

"well, we go out for lunches, dinners, go out to bars. sometimes we do pilates together or play squash, walk around and sightsee. and we used to study together back in college, so we did assignments together. meet up with other friends and go to concerts. that sort of thing."

titus absorbed your response. none of it was unfamiliar in theory, but none of it was lived. he had spent his life surrounded by proximity without connection with people who were there because they were born into it, not because they chose him.

you watched him for a second, then your expression shifted—something soft taking over, like you didn’t want the moment to get too serious.

your fingers reached out, lightly trailing along his arm.

"danny boyyyy," you murmured.

his entire body reacted before his face did, hearing you turn his mighty surname into a nickname like that.

"don't call me that," he said immediately, but it lacked any real force.

you smiled. "why not?"

he didn't answer and you leaned in slightly, just enough to be a little unfair.

"do you want to go out with me?" you asked. then, after a beat, softer, "on a date?"

oh how his throat bobbed with discomfort, with the fact that he had never done any of that with friends, barely had any relationships that lasted beyond pricey gifts or hunts that cost them their life; in all his 48 years of gated life. all he had were stooges, footmen, business partners he didn't trust anyway, council members he had to tolerate. and his sister. and the devil.

somehow, the first few minutes of your 'date' pitch revolved around convincing titus to dress casual.

and clearly you two had different definitions.

you were sprawled across his king-sized bed on your stomach, chin sunk into a pillow, watching him—well, making him move through his wardrobe. every item he pulled out seemed to belong to a version of him that existed in boardrooms, private aircrafts, or places where people didn't raise their voices unless it was to threaten someone or bribe someone.

"seriously?" you said, propping your chin up slightly. "you don't have a t-shirt and jeans?"

he paused mid-closet, turning slowly, "do i look like a man who wears jeans?"

you squinted at him. "you could be."

"sorry, baby," he said, already shaking his head, "but no amount of coaxing is going to make that happen."

you flopped back down dramatically, staring at the ceiling for a second like it had personally disappointed you. the silence that followed was him continuing to sort through options, and you occasionally offering commentary that ranged from "absolutely not" to "are you being drafted?"

eventually, after a few more failed attempts, he emerged with something slightly more tolerable—cargo pants that he apparently used for "hunting", which you chose not to question too deeply. but you did let out a squeal of success when he dug out a plain blue t-shirt.

"oh my god, wait," you sat up properly. "that one's good."

he looked down at himself, then back at you, as if trying to confirm whether this was a trick.

"this?" he asked.

"yes," you said firmly, swinging your legs off the bed now. "that. you look… human."

"i am human."

"yeah no, that's debatable."

he exhaled through his nose, but there was something almost amused about it now, like he'd stopped resisting the process and was just letting it happen for the sake of watching you be strange about it.

you hopped off the bed and walked over, adjusting the shirt slightly at his shoulder like you had any authority to do so.

"okay," you said, satisfied. "this is acceptable."

he watched you for a moment, then glanced at the mirror behind you both, taking in his reflection. he felt like someone else.

and as for you?

it was pleasant enough outside that you could finally ignore the row of dark sweaters and painfully serious shirts that filled your wardrobe and go digging for something you hadn't touched in a long time. there were a few older pieces tucked away at the back, things you’d bought in moments of optimism that didn't quite match your current life, and you lingered on them for a second longer than necessary before pulling one out.

light, lemony, adorable.

titus had been waiting near the base of the stairs, probably already halfway distracted by whatever thought had been occupying him five minutes earlier, until you appeared.

and whatever he was thinking stopped. not politely nope. just—full stop.

because he had never seen you so yellow. pale, soft, ridiculous. that colour didn't belong in the dark danforth manor.

a two-piece set that read like a sundress if you didn't look too closely, light fabric catching against you innocently. your short hair rested just above your shoulders, like a 60's audrey hepburn.

and then his eyes dropped. down your juicy, tempting breasts snug in the fabric like citrus you just wanted to sink your teeth in. and then he saw your belly, bulging out just the perfect amount through the skirt. he went very still in that particular way men did when they were actively losing control over their instincts.

chester, he remembered, had ursula starve for days just so her stomach would flatten. young titus recalled his sister staring at his plate of food with tears in her eyes.

but you... and the real, well-fed flesh you had on yourself had a beauty so unashamed and natural...

he went from solid to gaseous real fast ngl.

"you're not going out like that," he said immediately. it came out flat, but not persuasive. not even slightly.

you tilted your head, a little frown on your forehead. "like what?"

"that."

you held his gaze for a beat longer than necessary, then turned and started walking ahead of him like the conversation was already over. "cope, my guy."

you had barely made it down the stairs of the manor before you realised titus danforth was not equipped with date-like qualities. the driver was already opening the door of the car when you grabbed titus' arm.

"seriously?" you asked, looking at the car. he did too, then looked back at you.

"what. it's a lambo espada."

"we're going on a dateeee," you dragged the words out of yourself, "not an auction!"

"what else then?"

"nothing of yours."

titus folded his arms, looking at you. "what, you got a car?"

"better," you smirked.

when you'd moved into the danforth manor, they'd brought all your things in, including your party-of-one vehicle that sat under covers in the danforth garage, ridiculously red.

a vespa.

titus stared at it. then at you. then back at it again. "no."

you smiled sweetly. "yes."

he protested, threw every pro-reputation argument at you, even got the driver in on it, and then five minutes later, he was behind you, sitting stiffly with a silly helmet on.

one arm clamped around the bar behind him and the other hovering like it couldn’t decide whether to hold on or escape entirely. after a second of hesitation, his hand settled at your shoulder, gripping just a little too firmly. he wished he had two more arms to hold on for his life.

you laughed under your breath and twisted the throttle anyway. the engine sputtered to life with a little whirr, and then you were off, driving down the road with the morning air cutting clean against your faces.

there was a stupidly adorable ease in the fact that titus danforth—who'd never trusted anything in life with two wheels—was readily going on a date with you on a vespa.

he slowly got the hang of it when you hit the smooth city road. he even took his hand off the bar and placed it on your other shoulder.

♬⋆.˚ tum se hi; pritam, mohit chauhan, irshad kamil

hartford felt so different, always so fresh. it was quieter in a lived-in way, people actually going somewhere with purpose, no selfish displays of wealth and entitlement. the pavements were uneven or broken in places, the brickwork on art deco buildings added to the city's character.

you parked the vespa a little awkwardly by the two-wheeler parking space, hopped off first, and immediately reached back without thinking. your fingers found titus’s hand before he’d even fully dismounted. it was instinctive toyou. he didn't fucking hesitate in grabbing your hand tightly.

and he followed you like that, looking like a man who'd never seen a footpath before as you led him toward a small college coffee cart tucked between two buildings. it was truly unimpressive. just a guy and a stall, hadnwritten chalkboard menu, and sleep deprived yale students slouched in their hoodies clutching coffees and yawns in both hands.

"they have one of the best iced coffees, trust me. nothing like it to start the day."

titus looked at the setup, then at the paper cups, then at the price board. his expression flattened slightly. "this is cheap."

"silence, rich boy," you pressed your index finger over his lips and trotted away to order for the two of you.

he watched you more than he watched anything else after that. watched the way you spoke to the barista like you knew him, the way you stood slightly on your toes when you were excited, the way your shoulders loosened the moment you were out of the estate's orbit. there was something almost disarming about it for him, like seeing a version of you that didn't have to calculate everythign.

you handed him his iced coffee and immediately pulled him along again, fingers threaded with his. hartford unfolded in front of you in soft fragments: old bookstores, thrift shops, little cafes.

you made him stop in places for no reason other than curiosity, pointing at things like a tourist. you'd already seen more than enough, but shpwing him, seeing it with him was a lot more fun, you realised.

though you kinda sorta exploded in the flea market, moving through different racks, flipping through jackets and frowning wherever there were rhinestones, holding things up against his beefy chest with zero care. titus just stood there like all this was beneath him. it was. but it didn't matter as long as your hand found his.

you discovered a diy friendship bracelet table and the inner craft girlie in you popped out like a gift card. you grabbed a few beads, some coloured thread, and assembled a nice bracelet. he'd lean in to see what you were up to and you pulled it away from his gaze.

and when you were done, you tied it around his wrist without asking, right under his morbidly expensive patek philippe watch.

titus looked down at the alphabet beads. "king of my ♥️"

good god. the man had cultivated his taste for all things elegant and branded. but he'd be lying if his gilded heart didn't flutter at the sight of such an innocent gift.

he didn't interrupt that version of you.

not when you let him buy you a bunch of earrings, not when you snapped a hundred pictures of the city, of him, of you and him, and most certainly not when you held his hand till it was drenched with sweat.

he didnt' stop you when you strolled into a bookstore and decided you'd live there for the next hour. he wtached you browse and browse, handle every book that piqued your interest with care. watched you cringe at those typical tech bro self help books that all sounded robotic and prescribed a cold bath every third page.

funny. every time he'd taken out a woman for dinner or drinks in his past, he ran on the same script, for himself and them. the same superficiality, mentions of friends of friends, who fucked whom, he said she saids that he had grown accustomed to.

so how was he supposed to just 'be on a date' with you? a woman who didn't come from his background, whose privileges started and ended at affordable public transport. you whose definition of fun ranged from having drinks at a club to reading in silence or napping.

what exactly was a danforth supposed to do on a date?

you snapped your fingers at him, holding a book in your hand and a smirk on your face. "wanna read smut to me?"

"what?" he asked, taking a step closer. "reading what?"

"smut."

"and what's that..."

you flipped open a few pages of some vibrant book, snickering to yourself. then held it to him.

titus squinted at the text, his neck creaking back and forth till he sighed and pulled out reading glasses from a case in his pockets.

"oh my god, you have readers?" you gawked.

"don't."

"fuck, that's hot. put 'em on."

he looked at you once, then holding your stare, put on his black, thick rimmed reading glasses.

he watched you lick and purse your lips, which pleased him immensely. "like what you see, baby?"

"uh huh..." you said, dazed. that man... was sincerely, sinfully, devilishly handsome with glasses on.

titus picked up the book in his hand, going over a few words, before he realised what absolute filth this was. he looked at you once, at your eagerness, and he shook his head.

"dirty girl, y/n... you get off on this?" he clicked his teeth.

"can't i have guilty pleasures?"

titus took a few more steps towards you, cornering you against a bookshelf.

he cleared his throat. "it was messy and aggressive, with teeth clashing, and biting your lower lip. he poured all his dominant energy into that kiss. his tongue plundered your mouth."

"the fuck is this?" he asked, letting out a scoff.

you clamped your mouth, laughter slipping out in odd bursts.

"with a swift movement, he pulled you close, the head of his cock nudging insistently at your entrance. he groaned deeply as he sank into your heat... jesus, sweetheart, why do you read this?" he groaned, closing the book shut and putting it on top of some other shelf.

you chuckled as he spun you around so you could leave. "you read well!!! can you narrate an erotica for me?"

"no."

"why n—"

"i'd rather just fuck you, you know," he murmured in your ear, leading you to another aisle.

at last, you left the store with a bag full of books, ranting about how much you wanted to start reading olivia laing, clarice lispector, and anaïs nin.

hands entwined as you walked on the footpath, you looked at him with almost a childlike earnestness. "we should go watch a movie!"

titus blinked at you. "a movie."

you nodded and he looked like he was about to argue purely out of habit, then didn't. instead, he just followed you again, still holding your hand as you dragged him through hartford streets with urgency. the cinema was nothing like anything he was used to. no private screening rooms, no velvet ropes, no staff who already knew his preferences before he arrived. just a slightly faded marquee, a queue at the counter, and posters taped in glass fogged up frames.

you were leaning against the ticket booth, arms folded over a counter that was probably way too unclean, pointing at a screen, selecting seats.

and there he was, someone who had funded cannes on behalf of his father, knew most celebrities on a first-name basis, always received invited to premieres and private screenings that he ignored.

titus didn't know where to place himself in your life.

he felt bothered, a little insecure standing beside you at the ticket booth as you chatted with the clerk. he felt out of character. undeserved of this casualty. that he couldn't have romance without the haunting strings attached, dipped in blood, mr le bail's rotten hand over his shoulder telling him it's not real. just a hallucination. just a taste, never a satiating meal.

you held two tickets in your hand, grabbing his and leading him inside. he took slowly steps behind you, felt people brush past his shoulder and somehow didn't feel the need to dislocate them. that man had never 'struggled' to reach a seat, and now he was wading through a crowd to get to one, popcorn spilling at his feet, crushed under his boot as people scurried to get to their seats.

the discomfort registered in him, that being a part of your world meant being a part of the world. you didn't hide yourself away from the ordinary, the pale, the boring. and you didn't monopolise the good, the fun. you let it crash together like waves and let the sand beneath your feet slip from time to time. you didn't mind if life got a little hard or greasy.

titus wasn't sure he'd ever be able to live without the privileges he had. without the absent accountability, convenience, without the charity of mr le bail.

there as the room darkened, he slowly realised how eerie it was to have loaned your soul to the devil, that a date with the woman he'd come to love couldn't feel unconditionally happy unless it was caged within the manor and wrapped in silk.

you caught his gaze lost in thought and placed your hand over his.

"you okay?"

his stare snapped back into place. "yeah." he straightened in his seat, suddenly unsettled by the thought that thousands of people had probably sat in it.

"what are we watching?" he asked hoping to be distracted by whatever sappy romance or heroic action thriller you'd picked.

"hokum."

"what?" the name sat unfamiliar.

"hokum."

"i heard you, what is that?"

"the movie."

he frowned. "that's a movie?"

"yeah."

sappy and romantic indeed, as titus sat through what unfolded itself to be a horror film. titus leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing at the opening scene with a kind of mild recalculation, mentally revising whatever assumptions he'd made about the evening. for a second, there was even a flicker of approval in his expression.

he glanced at you. "you sure you can handle it, baby?"

you shifted in your seat, shoulders squared like you were preparing for a lecture rather than a film. "dude, i'm not born yesterday. i can handle horror movies."

that earned you a small, amused exhale from him. his head tilted slightly as he watched you, deciding whether to believe you or not. "you sure? i mean, if you wanna hold my hand when you get scared or anything…"

you turned your head just enough to shoot him a look, unimpressed. "what if you'e the one who gets scared? big bad titus might fall for a jumpscare, you know."

he hummed, clearly entertained, then reached over, resting his hand near yours without quite grabbing it. "keep telling yourself that."

for a while, it was easy. you know how horror movies started slow, built up the tension first, maybe some eerie music to make you just enough uncomfortable. the anticipation of fear.

you found yourself leaning forward slightly at certain moments, eyes fixed on the screen, while titus remained infuriatingly composed beside you. he didn't flinch, or even blink at the parts where the sound design sharpened or the camera lingered a little too long in the dark corners of the hotel.

that irritated you ngl. but then the first proper jumpscare hit without warning, loud and abrupt through the speakers. your body jolted reflexively in your seat, breath caught in your lungs for a moment.

titus? he didn't move. not even slightly. just sat in his seat, eyes on the screen, almost bored at the predictability. when you glanced at him properly, he didn't look back at the screen immediately. instead, his eyes flicked down to you for a moment, taking in the tiny aftermath of your reaction, the way you were trying very hard to pretend you hadn't just flinched.

he leaned a little closer, voice low enough that it barely carried over the film. "you okay, baby?"

"oh shut up," you hushed.

a knowing smirk tugged at his mouth. "just sayin'. can always cover your eyes if you're scared."

the film wound down slowly, the final scenes cut to credits while the theatre lights began to rise. people around you stretched, laughed a little too loudly at nothing, gathered their bags and wrappers and started filtering out in small clusters.

you stayed seated for a moment longer than most, letting the noise settle back into something normal again, your shoulders finally easing after the tension of the last hour. whatever fear had crept in earlier had worn itself thin by now, replaced by a kind of tired alertness and the last bit of adrenaline buzz.

"i'm impressed," titus murmured, low enough.

"how are you so unbothered? that's fucked up."

he gave a small, casual shrug, like it was obvious. "seen scary things in life. done much scarier."

you frowned slightly at that, studying him. "no, but you're like… zen."

that earned you a faint exhale through his nose. his gaze stayed on you, steady and unblinking, as if the rest of the theatre didn't exist anymore now that the movie had ended. "you looked adorable," he said simply. "i heard those little squeaks."

"i do not squeak," you scoffed, the lie kicking in a second too late to be convincing.

titus didn't even wait for you to finish properly. he shifted suddenly in his seat and leaned into you in one smooth movement, catching you off guard and making you gasp sharply as he closed the distance, suddenlt in your fucking face. it wasn't rough, not really, but it was fast enough to jolt you out of your protest.

he tilted his head slightly, looking far too satisfied with himself. "see?" he murmured, eyes flicking briefly to your expression before settling back on you. "squeak."

you shoved at him weakly, still half-laughing despite yourself, heat rising to your face.

titus really liked seeing you flustered more than he liked winning any argument.

when you left the cinema hall, hunger was waiting for you outside. and you suddenly perked up, almost hopping in spot.

"oh oh oh let's have shawarma," you beamed. "i know the best place."

titus looked at you, up then down, eyebrow rasied. he had seen you focused, irritated, calculating, shaken in face of guns, but this version of you was something else entirely; impatient with joy.

he didn't say anything at first, just watched as you grabbed his hand again and started dragging him out, the decision made.

you drove through hartford with him behind you again. the evening air was crisper and filled with smoke from the traffic.

the shawarma place was small, unassuming, the kind of spot that looked like it had been there forever and would survive any apocalypse. the air outside was thick with the smell of charred meat and spice, the grill smoke wafting out into the street in warm waves. you ordered like you owned the place, talking quickly with the vendor, gesturing at extras, completely in your element. titus stood slightly behind you, hands in his pockets, watching the exchange.

when everything was ready, you led him to the stairs of a closed laundromat across the street, sitting down like you were on a picnic. shutters half dented, paint chipped, stairs dusty.

you handed him one of the steaming shawarmas and immediately started showing him how to unwrap it properly, turning it in your hands with practiced ease.

"okay, so first," you said seriously, leaning in a little like this was a lecture, "you lick the sauce off the wrapper. we don't let it go to waste."

titus stared at you. "what? no, i'm not doing that."

"come on," you urged, already halfway through yours, "it's an experience."

"no."

"so you can eat me out but not the sauce?"

"correct. you're tastier."

you bit the inside of your cheek, stopping the smile before it could stretch on your face.

titus looked at the shawarma in his hand; warm spices and roasted chicken and melted cheese, and something about the sheer lack of etiquette made it worse for him. but well, he was hungry.

the first bite gasted his flabbers. he paused mid-chew, expression shifting slightly as if his brain had to catch up with what his mouth had just loved. this wasn't fine dining or michelin star chef-made. this was street food and it was... just too good.

you noticed immediately, of course, watching him like you were waiting for the verdict.

"it's good, right?" you hummed, smug now, leaning back slightly as you licked sauce off your own wrapper with absolutely no shame.

titus didn't answer right away. he was still processing, eyes slightly narrowed as if he didn't trust how much he liked it. then, slowly, his gaze dropped to you again. at the way the tip of your tongue caught the sauce. a sight veeeeery familiar to him and titus danforth junior in his pants.

it was official. titus danforth had just been on his first date, with the woman he loved.

and while it ticked none of his standards, it exceeded them at the same time. you were magnetising. you could suggest he fall flat on his face and he'd do it because you told him so. you could make a stub of the toe sound divine.

and against all the reality of the games, the impending judgement day, titus let himself smile as he sat behind you for the third time, on your way back to the manor. he could see the estate in the distance.

he smiled as he recalled your excitement, your gorgeous yellow dress, smiled at how many books you'd bought, the movie, the shawarma, all of it. maybe he wouldn't mind doing it again.

ding! ding! ding!

your phone pinged from inside your bag, which you'd slung and tossed behind you so it wouldn't flap in the wind on the scooter.

curious and entitled, assuming everything belonge to you both, titus dug through your bag and pulled out your phone, checking the notifications on the lock screen. he blinked, rereading the name.

ursula: here’s the dossier on the le domases. everything about their strategies is in it. we should be good for game day.

he read it agian. his smile dimmed slowly. the realisation settled in him like heavy gravity. you were still plotting. still hiding things from him and colluding with his sister. after he'd told you not to lie, you still did it.

then all the happiness and joy and warmth in him disappeared in a second. he felt the scooter jerk and come to a halt before the manor. he got off instantly.

"we should do this aga—" you stopped speaking the moment you saw him, his face, and your phone in his hand. and oh how his eyes looked hurt and enraged. you kicked the scooter on its stand and got down, taking your helmet off.

"titus…"

he grabbed your jaw tightly, thumb digging into your mandible.

"i told you. to not fucking lie to me." he snapped.

"i'm n—"

"I TOLD YOU."

you'd never heard that belt of his voice.

"whatever you're doing with ursula stops right now." he hissed as he released your jaw, suddenly repulsed by your skin. then tossed your phone on the gravel, watching the screen crack.

"don't fucking treat me like i'm a child," he snarled and turned to go inside.

"titus…"

he didn't look back.

"you can be mad at me! that's okay! just… please don't go where i can't follow," you pled softly, clutching your wrist, where the sigil reminded you of its implication. for a brief moment, he almost swallowed his anger back, but he hardened just as quick and went inside.

with the game approaching, you'd pretty much busied yourself with practice games, books, and youtube videos to improve your game.

but nothing dulled the pricking ache of knowing titus hadn't talked to you at all for three whole days. you'd been by his room, knocked on his door, sent him texts after texts, which he didn't bother reading. you'd even asked one of the maids to deliver handwritten notes to him, but she returned with a shake of her head.

the only other person who made the effort to hear you out was ursula.

"he knows."

she sighed. "how much?"

"he saw your text. the one about the files."

she rubbed her temple a little. "well, he hasn't done anything yet. so... it should be fine."

you nodded, looking downcast. "he's not talking to me."

she gave you a glance. "oh, you'll live. he's acting up right now, but he can't resist you."

"why can't he just talk it out?"

"he's titus. he'll break a few things, shoot something, pace around and then shut up."

her response did not do anything to pacify the unease in you. logically, you knew the time healed everything and that there would come a time when he'd re-emerge and you'd talk and sort things out.

but you also had the strong feeling that titus, when he was lost in his head, was an oncoming storm and everything around him would become collateral damage.

and if that weren't enough, what he had learned could very easily be passed down, ear to ear until it reached the lawyer and then... there would be serious consequences.

you were in your room again, dozing off over a pile of pawn and king endgame notes when a maid popped in from the servant's entrance, nearly sending you into cardian arrest.

"miss l/n, mr danforth has instructed me to inform you that he will be leaving the manor for a few hours. and that you are to sit in the basement while he's gone."

your heart sank. you felt it drop in your stomach. before you could ask her anything else, she disappeared into the walls.

the very thought of going back down there, ever since you'd found your father in the depths, it tortured you.

with your books and notes and a chessboard mat in hand, you hovered by his door again, leaning against the plank of wood.

"titus?" you called out softly. you could hear some shuffling inside.

"i'm sorry..."

more shuffling. footsteps paced inside. you let your temple rest against the door.

"can we talk? please?"

every attempt you made at reaching out to him was met with silence. so you trudged down down down the steps and into the basement. it looked worse than before. grimy walls, the familiar pale bluish green walls. some of your books were still there on the table; campbell's historical linguistics lay there collecting dust.

the typewriter had cobwebs between its keys. you couldn't breathe in the damp air.

but you sat on the stairs of the basement, enough to be inside, and enough to have the doors open. light from the corridors and stairwell kept you lit enough as you resumed going through the notes.

you stayed there for god knows how long, eyes heavy from exhaustion and body clicking every time you moved from one uncomfortable position to another. you didn't know if titus was back. you tried calling for a servant, for anyone. no one answered. you pulled your phone out to text him and ask him if he was back, no answer. the reception sucked too.

with very little choice, despite hunger and the need to relieve your bladder, you stayed there on the stairs. maybe this was the universe punishing you for keeping secrets from a man like titus.

mercies, you realised, were hard to earn when your actions made sure you deserved none.

the le domas estate was just as grand, 19th century house, lush green grounds and surrounding woods. had you been brought here the first time, you'd have believed the danforths lived here instead.

mr le domas called it an act of 'grace', inviting everyone to his abode for the necrofest. something about a last loving feast before he obliterated everyone at the house game: chess.

that was the first time you saw titus in a week. he still didn't look at you, just kept close to his sister.

you swallowed your anxiety. now really wasn't the time to mourn the loss of attention from tits danforth. (i realised while re-reading that i forgot to type 'u', and now tits danforth just sounds fucking hilarious. i'm keeping it XD)

"welcome to the third game of the necrofest," the lawyer stood before you, a smile on his face.

"there will be two pools of three. each player plays in a round-robin within their group and the winners of each match will advance to playing each other."

"wait, isn't that a lot of games?" asked mr silcox.

"yes."

"we'll be here all day..."

"correct. arrangements have been made for dinner if need be," the lawyer added.

thus, you and the others were led to what looked like an outdoor arena, with a chessboard placed on a table, two chairs facing each other. pure ivory pieces, silver lined board. a traditional clock that started the other's time when tapped.

mr le domas, being the host, took the first game. mr silcox sat before him, giving him a challenging glance, a bit too sultry for your taste.

really, just two old white men having a homoerotic face off.

"you both have an hour. mr le domas, i shall start your time now. good luck," the lawyer announced and pressed the clock.

♬⋆.˚playing townes; carlos rafael rivera

the game unfolded quickly, like disappointingly so. mr le domas played rather skilfully, patient and smug in equal measure. mr silcox, on the other hand, played messily, his development was nonexistent, and by the time he realised the centre of the board mattered, it was already gone.

it didn't take longer than 15 minutes. it was a clean, traditional win; london opening, very simple transitions. there were no theatrics at all. mr le domas had full control of the board.

you watched it all with a growing sense of dull detachment.

next, the match between cheng fu and mr silcox. really, just two picky players who insisted they knew what they were doing. mr silcox had tried to copy whatever he remembered of mr le domas, forgetting that he was playing black, and the squares weren't the same. so he ended up in a messy centre.

now, mr cheng fu was a bit better. but he lacked the confidence to take pieces. he just crowded his board, placing everything out, not securing the king at all, so when mr silcox captured his first knight, he flipped, grunted at the board, and as he kept on losing pieces, only got madder and slammed his fist on the clock.

their game was probably the longest, with neither using their pieces to checkmate. they just seemed keen on capturing and emptying the board.

"you ever want to just... put them in a pool with piranhas and watch?"

you turned to face a sour looking daniel, who'd slid next to you, nursing a fireball whiskey in his hand.

"they 'are' piranhas."

he snorted. "nah... they're sheep who think they're wolves."

"and you?"

he looked down at you, with a certain exhaustion in his eyes. "i'm no better."

"so leave..."

he smiled, looking at his father, who circled around the match, as if watching it from a different angle would make any difference in his victory.

"you don't leave a family like this..." he leaned in, whispering in your ear. "you just let it rot and poison you."

you kept your gaze on the board.

"you're taking this too seriously."

"well," you tore your sight away from the game for just a moment. "i can't afford to rot. i like my soul clean."

he chuckled bitterly. "mr le bail will get his hands on you. trust me."

"he hasn't yet."

daniel took a clumsy swig of his whiskey, feeling his muscles relax. "you really think you can win?"

you let out a soft breath. "i think..." then turned to look him in the eye. "i can make them lose."

he caught your gaze. "oh? not so... goody two shoes are you? talk of the town is you killed wilkinson on your own."

"it was self-defence."

he chuckled, leaning closer. "oh i'm not complaining. you did good."

you opened your mouth to protest or rather defend yourself when he cut you off, "his house game was backwater combat. brutal."

your breath hitched a little. what a funny thing retrospection was...

"i can't swim..."

daniel smirked. "see? you did us all a favour."

by now, the board had but the king and a few pawns left. but worse was that both of them were busy moving their kings away from each other, than just upgrading their pass pawns into queens. a whole hour went by just like that.

daniel had gotten you a drink, and you both stood further away from the crowd, watching whatever the game had become. his gaze fell on sebastian, who was studying the game like it had any value.

"what's your deal with him?" he asked you.

you sighed, kicking away a tiny rock by your feet. "what isn't my deal..."

he looked at you. "daddy issues?"

"daddy is the issue."

"so why are you playing for him?"

"well, kinda didn't have a choice. and..." you cast a pensive gaze over the scene before you. then at daniel, who seemed different from all of them. real enough, authentic enough to have a critical conversation with.

"...i plan to double cross him."

daniel raised an eyebrow, and let out a low whistle. "and they say my family is fucked up."

"it is."

he shrugged. "true. but you know you can't kill family right? you'd both blow up."

"so i've heard."

daniel studied you for a moment. he found no visible fear on your face. but also no numbness. you were in an inescapable situation, but you had enough resilience to have hope.

"i wish i had the balls to be like you."

you looked up at him, giving him a smile. "i think you already are..."

he smiled back.

the group matches had begun to resolve themselves in a steady rhythm. the last match of group 1 took place between mr le domas and mr cheng fu, which honestly was hilarious considering how much contrast there was in their play.

but you noticed that mr le domas favoured the london opening, which was solid, a little conservative, but effective. it helped him assemble the rest of his pieces.

cheng fu, predictably, struggled to keep up with it. his pieces drifted too far too early, his position collapsing not from a single mistake but from a dozen small ones stacking quietly on top of each other. and mr le domas didn't rush him, well, he didn't need to. he truly did play the long game, purely for the fun of it. to watch his opponent realise how trapped he was. and even though it didn't get to that point, you could tell he'd be ruthless at end games. that there was a man who could think a few moves ahead.

by the time the game concluded, there was no real surprise left in it: le domas won.

and should you win the games in your group, you'd have to play against a possible chessmaster.

♬⋆.˚playing beltik; carlos rafael rivera

the first group's match had finally wrapped. people drifted away from the tables in slow clusters. cigars were lit, glasses were refilled, and the le domas mansion inside, turned into a lounge-like sprawl where the day's victory and loss were already rebranded as conversational topics.

it was already around five in the evening, the light outside turning softer and heavier at the same time, catching on glassware and polished metal.

before you, titus finally took his seat at the board. he sat opposite francesca, but it didn't look like he was really with her in any meaningful sense. his posture sagged a little. you noticed of course, with an unwelcome jolt, that he didn't look at you right away.

it shouldn't have mattered, you told yourself that quickly. but it did.

he wasn't a grandmaster. not even close. he knew it, and you knew it too. whatever skill he had came from repetition under chester's idea of teaching, which had never really been instruction so much as punishment for each mistake.

he looked... so sad.

you realised, a little too late, that you had been watching him instead of the game. francesca, as it turned out, wasn't playing with much direction at all. she just put pieces wherever she felt they'd go and the lawyer had to butt in to remind her of the rules and limitations of each piece, so what should've been a 20 minute game at tops, ended up being dragged into the whole hour.

which, unfairly, was exactly what allowed titus to hold his ground. he didn't dominate the game so much as outlast it. and it tilted in his favour. but he didn't look too happy about the win.

pushing yourself up from the chair you'd warmed, you stepped down and took francesca's seat, her elbow bumping into your side as she slid past you. the contact was brief but enough to make you exhale through your nose, but you steadied yourself as you settled into the seat opposite him.

you sat across from him for the first time in a week.

"starting the clock, good luck," the lawyer chimed in, tapped your clock and stepped away.

you didn't play at first. you let the seconds tick by, loud in the absence of speech, loud in the absence of him looking at you.

"hey..." you said softly, eyes on him.

he didn't look at you. he didn't even acknowledge the sound of your voice properly. just kept staring at the pieces on the board. one week. one whole weeks of his silent treatment had truly upset you. you understood his anger in logic, but you had your reasons and if he wasn't willing to listen, well... what else could you do.

so you picked up a pawn and moved it forward.

so did he.

and from there, piece by piece, capture by capture, you let the game go on. and you could tell he was bothered and that his mind wasn't in the game at all. the board told you that: a record of two people still speaking to each other without using language. it showed when he left a bishop unguarded, or when he forgot to capture a pawn of yours, or when he let his king get cornered without any opening to escape from the check that was coming.

it wasn't that he was playing badly. but he was playing like someone who didn’t quite care whether he won.

so he showed no emotion when he lost. he simply leaned back slightly, exhaled once, and stood up, straightened his jacket, already steps away.

you sighed, feeling yourself cave in a little. you did not like seeing him so hurt.

and just to rub salt in the wound, francesca slid into titus' abandoned seat like she had been waiting for the moment to inherit it. there was still redness around her eyes.

then she spoke, her voice bitter as a gourd. "couples fight all the time. me and madhu never did though. we were so much better."

oh this bitch...

you leaned back a fraction in your chair, studying her with a still calmness. then you smiled.

"tell you what..." you said, and reached forward without breaking eye contact, lifting your queen from the board, and placing her on the table, kept away from the game. a motion so unhurried and decisive.

the lawyer raised his eyebrow, but allowed it, mumbling about over confidence under his breath.

francesca finally looked at you properly then, her gaze narrowing. "whatever."

you were playing black.

so she opened with her pawn, pushed forward one square, having quite literally recently learned some rules and tactics from ignacio, who had stockfish open on his phone. you answered with your pawn stepping out two squares.

she responded by taking her queen almost immediately, planting it aggressively into the corner, angled towards the pawn that guarded your king diagonally. soooo not subtle.

you didn't rush to match her energy. instead, you developed another pawn. her bishop followed, sliding into alignment, doubling pressure onto the pawn her queen was already eyeing. you nudged one of your pawns forward again, just enough to threaten her queen's position, forcing it to shift or be taken. irritated, she moved her away.

it was clear... she was playing at you, not the board.

"how's your father doing?" you asked.

she scoffed sharply. "like you care."

"i don't," you replied evenly, "but i'm asking anyway."

you developed your bishops and knight while chasing her pieces away.

"he lost a kidney," she said after a beat, voice flat with resentment. "thanks for that."

well, she managed to take some of your pieces, especially one of your bishops when you left it hanging as bait, which she took it with a satisfactory smile.

"i'm sure he can pluck one from cold storage, no?" you asked slyly, giving her king a check…and forking her queen and rook in the process.

and from there, you crowded her king into the corner, surrounded by her own pieces.

"do unto others, francesca…" you moved your rook below your knight.

"…as you would have done unto you," you completed the phrase, taking your knight off its square and placing it on the third row, a clean, congested checkmate without your queen even on the board.

thus... winning over both the members in your group, you advanced to the final game; versus mr le domas.

this was one of my games on chess. com when my cousin was teaching me a few moves. I FORGOT I PUT MUSIC OVER IT FOR AN EDIT. but anyway, that's how it looks:

♬⋆.˚ labour; paris paloma

you had a few minutes before the board was reset, which you took by sipping a glass of water and standing still with your eyes closed. only in your head, your replayed every single move mr le domas had made, looking for patterns, favourites, weaknesses.

chess was the kind of sport that looked still and stationary from a bystander's point of view, but only those who played knew just how much they were sweating simply thinking of a move they may not even make.

even when you weren't playing, the mere thought of a game, of moves, or tactics, drew out the same fatigue from your brain as it played simulations of games internally, each one failing. you opened your eyes, facing a realisation that you might not win this one easily. you'd assumed mr le domas favoured the london, but it was just twice that you'd seen it. and you knew very well, one's an accident, two's a coincidence. not a pattern yet, so he could very much surprise you with a tougher, newer opening.

jesus your brain hurt.

you felt an unfamiliar hand on your shoulder.

"focus..."

in an instant, you swatted his hand away, shoulder burning at the recognition of sebastian's touch.

you marched right down and at the table, taking a seat prematurely, the chair scraping softly against the floor.

by now, almost everyone had left. it was night, dinner had been brought out and taken back in too. you were starving, teeth itching to bite into something lest you gnaw on everyone's heads.

mr le domas took the seat opposite you. he didn't bother with pleasantries. his eyes travelled over you in a slow, assessing way, passing judgement way in advance.

his family stood behind him, every single one of them looking down at you like vultures.

daniel gave you an apologetic look, being pushed to the side by his wife.

"do enjoy the feast," mr le domas said, voice sour, but courteous on the surface. "it'll be your last."

he leaned back slightly, fingers resting near the edge of the board. "i expected someone… better presented," he continued, gaze flicking over you again with disdain. "but then again, you can't expect that from someone so out of place like you."

his mouth curved faintly, not quite a smile. "illegitimate children always play at being part of the table. they never quite understand they are only ever borrowed guests."

the lawyer signalled the start of the game without comment, and the clock clicked forward.

you didn't respond to any of his statements. you attention was fixed on the board, on its geometry.

his expression cooled, and he opened with something that immediately broke your expectation.

not a london.

your eyes narrowed slightly as you registered the deviation, the structure unfamiliar enough to force a recalibration. you answered anyway, switching quickly, settling into a caro-kann defence from black.

but mr le domas abandoned comfort entirely and pushed into exchanges already, forcing central tension rather than allowing the slow build you had prepared for. little baffled, you developed your knight, even took the queen out early. but the placement was such that you were dealing with the possibility of tough-to-break pins and blockades. so that resulted in an early queen trade off.

he infiltrated your rank with his knight, giving your king a check and taking your rook. that loss forced your king to move and reposition, hindering any future of a castle.

the board felt absurd, rigged.

mr le domas may have been clumsy with his beer pong or gunmanship, but he was a terrifying chess player.

your game stretched for another 30 minutes. you only had a few minutes left before you timed out and lost. you stared at the board, then at the clock, then back at the board again. you stared at mr le domas, his sister, at daniel...

the pieces no longer looked like clean abstractions of ivory and silver. your queenless structure sat exposed in places you hadn't realised were weak until they were already being pressured. another file tightened here, another escape route reduced there. every square you reached for seemed to already belong to him by implication, by probability and foresight.

your chest tightened in a slow, unpleasant rhythm. the hand that hovered over your knight felt heavy. you could hear the faint tick of the clock remind you of your demise.

god, you tried to calculate, recall your notes, the books you'd read, games you'd played and watched. nothing cleared the fog in your head. every attempt to simplify your position only made it feel more crowded, so much that you felt the board shrink and shrink.

your fingers hovered near your pieces once, then pulled back without touching anything. even the act of considering a move felt like a risk you couldn’t afford to misunderstand. your eyes met the lawyer's who sat there expressionless. you looked at daniel, who looked equally tensed, almost disappointed to see you lose.

you didn't have anyone to distract him or nothing to cheat. all you had was knowledge and it wasn't enough against a man older than you, expert at a sport that belonged in his family. you could feel your heartbeat in your throat now.

"scared? you should be," said mr le domas. and his voice echoed a thousand times inside your head, ears unwilling to tolerate that sound.

he shifted forward just enough that his voice lowered, not for secrecy, but for control. "do you understand what happens when people like you lose here?" he asked.

there was no need for you to answer. he continued anyway. "we're going to eat you alive. don't think you're living to tell the tale, stupid girl. your arrogant father thinks he can take what's ours. that titus danforth isn't going to forget it so easily. he's going to make your life hell. you think you've got him wrapped around your finger, please... he'll leave you for dead if it meant he'd get the le bail ring. you should've thrown yourself off a cliff. let yourself be shot or something. because it's only going to get worse from here, little girl, we're gonna make sur—"

squelch!

a deafening silence cast over the game as mr le domas suddenly stopped speaking... for there lay a knife lodged into his throat, a slow trickle of blood oozing out of the cut, and daniel's hand around the handle.

he met your eyes, both a craze and empathy in his eyes.

"you're right..." he said softly. "i am like you. but i deserve what's coming..."

he took the knife out, letting his father choke on his own blood, gasping for breath.

"you don't."

he stepped back, dropping the knife as his family shook him, asking what the hell was wrong with him.

"what did you do?"

"daniel!"

he just looked at you, giving you that same little salute. "someone's gotta burn it all down, right?"

there was no warning when it happened, just a loud explosion where daniel stood. a cloudburst of blood splattered in place of him like a fountain, bits of flesh raining from above. it splashed on your skin, across your neck, your torso.

you stood up from your chair, daring to take a step back. you couldn't believe your eyes. your hand clamped your mouth, trapping the scream that made it out anyway.

one by one, the le domases exploded into bits and pieces, blood and water, their panicked screams cut off by the sound of their skin tearing and flesh bursting at the seams.

red covered you head to toe as the entire family simply disintegrated in a matter of cruel seconds.

blood dripped from your skin and onto the floor. the chessboard, black and white, was now fully crimson, human flesh where pieces were supposed to be.

you couldn't bring yourself to breathe or gulp or look away. your eyes moved with pure terror, landing on the lawyer, who... well, did look a bit startled.

"well... guess you won," that was all he said before tapping the clock, with just under a minute on yours.

your breath was stuck in your lungs, voice coming out in a creak and stammer as your tongue tasted metal. your fingers moved with trembles to wipe off the blooddrops that hung from your eyelashes. you made the mistake of swallowing, your body not allowing you the grace of a nervous gulp without the taste of le domas blood.

your father's words surfaced in your head with unbearable clarity, as if he had spoken them into the same air you were breathing right now. weeks ago, you had dismissed it. that you'd be blown into bits and pieces.

he wasn't lying, was he?

your throat tightened as you stood there, the reality of what you just saw slowly settling over you as you felt blood run down your body. your knees felt briefly unreliable under you as they buckled when you took a step back.

was this… would this have been your fate had you refused to play? should you get caught breaking the rules you'd been taking for granted? fooling around with ursula thinking you were outsmarting everyone?

were you just one step away from being a puddle of red?

you felt your insides churn and twist uncomfortably, like they'd sensed danger and unfamiliarity on you. you forced yourself to swallow so you could free your mouth for a breath your nose refused to let go.

♬⋆.˚ hamburger lady; throbbing gristle (I AM SO SORRY FOR THIS CREEPY ASS SONG BUT I FUCKING LOVE IT)

fear, terror, nausea. they all blended with the one constant that had been feeding your emotions: rage.

rage for one person and one person only.

he who knew the system, and played it to his favour. he who knew the dangers of the games and still signed you up for them. he who sheltered himself from the violence, yet threw you right into it.

you took a few more steps back, your shoes sloshing against the puddle of blood.

you didn't pay attention to the gasps and looks you got from the le domas servants who watched you stride inside, leaving behind a long trail of blood. you grabbed one by her collar, coaxing which room he was in out of her.

he lay there, daring to bask in the comfort of a bed, of linen and silk pillowcases. his were the hands that took the lives of countless clueless patients, yet you were the one covered in blood. a little unfair no?

"are you happy father?" you asked softly, almost childishly.

sebastian jolted in bed, shoulders jerking as he hoisted himself up. for a second, he only saw the darkness in the guest room.

"i won" your giggle echoed in the still room like the rattle of a snake.

he sat upright, hands tapping on the night table for his glasses, his heart hammering inside his chest.

"aren't you happy?" you asked again.

"the fu—"

"you're not smiling... why aren't you smiling?" you asked with a whine, slowly emerging from the darkness and into his sight as he put his glasses on.

soaked in blood, bits of flesh clinging to your skin, your head tilted.

"y/n..."

"you wanted this. you wanted to win. you're winning now!!! can you be happy?"

"what... happened? where are the le domases?" he asked, his voice lodged in his throat.

"they're fine. well... they're not fine. they're dead. but i won!"

sebastian felt his skin rise into prickly needles.

"what did you do? y/n, what did y—"

"no no no no no NO NO NO. DON'T SAY THAT! I WON. CONGRATULATE ME!"

the rise in your voice made his spine go cold. he threw one leg off the bed to get up, but within seconds, you crossed the room and crawled over the bed, blood staining the sheets as you grabbed and shoved his shoulder back into bed. your fist curled around his neck.

"listen to you me selfish prick, you put me in this," you growled, drops of blood now falling upon his face, into his mouth and on his tongue as he gasped for air.

your voice softened again. "you're forgetting something, daddy... i... am not... a chess piece," then you giggled again.

"i can think. i can move. you don't... actually have puppet strings on me. so you're not truly in control here, are you?"

"y/n—hck"

"you... can't tell when i'll flip. blowing up looked great. should we blow up? i think we should," you smiled at him, pressing on his neck just a bit more.

his hand grabbed your hand, twisting it away and off his neck. but you slapped his cheek hard.

"I KILLED FOR YOU!! that's three now!!!" you smiled again, blood on your teeth. "i get that from my daddy."

"g-get off me... you sick child. you can't kill me, it's against the ru-rules," he coughed.

"no. no no no. i'm not going to kill you. not right now. we're gonna win. i'm going to let you win."

you leaned closer, so close that he could smell the blood and flesh on your skin.

"and then i'm going to take it from you."

and then in two zaps, you were off him, standing at the door of his room, now open, truly highlighting just... how... paranormally red you were.

"good night, daddy!"

slam!

the door shut, leaving inside a rattled sebastian, clutching his chest and checking his pulse, convincing himself that what he'd just witnessed wasn't real.

Visit Original Link

the next room you paid a visit to, you'd decided, you weren't going to leave until your purpose was fulfilled.

you banged on the door, fists blotting red stains on the wood. he didn't open, so you kept banging, louder and louder and louder till the hinges creaked.

titus swung the door open. "what!"

and then his eyes fell on you, blood-soaked, rage in your eyes, madness in your breath.

"y/n... what ha—"

you took a step in, shoving him inside the guest room.

"y/n, whose blood is—"

"shut up and sit down."

titus didn't argue. he couldn't. not when you were like this. he slumped in the bed, looking up at you.

for a moment, you didn't say anything. you just ran your tongue inside your cheek, between your teeth, mouth pursing and pouting, and then spat a piece of flesh out, which landed at the foot of the bed.

"the le domases are dead."

titus' eyes widened.

"they blew up. can you tell?" you asked blandly, gesturing at yourself.

he gawked at you, taking you in. not an inch of you was spared by the ungodly amount of blood.

"do you want me to blow up, titus?"

"what?"

you grabbed his jaw tightly, a bloody thumb digging into his cheek. "do you. want me. to fucking blow up?"

he shook his head.

"then put your anger aside. and listen."

you took a breath. "i know how to beat the games so that neither of us die or lose the seat. i told ursula about it, and she agreed to help me win. and yes, i could've told you, but you... can't fucking keep a secret."

"i can kee—"

"you practically advertise it on your face that you know a secret."

he shut up again.

"i can't risk breaking the rules before it's time. with you knowing the plan, it would've been impossible to make my victory seem accidental."

you released his jaw.

"if you still want in, you're going to stop whining about it. and if you want me to stop treating you like a child, stop fucking acting like one. next time you get mad? come talk to me. like an adult."

he gulped. not because he was scared or intimidated by your threat or by your seriousness. but because even bloodsoaked and shaken, hell traumatised and scary, you were simply divine, attractive to a sinner's fault.

you stepped back. "i want to live. i don't want your seat. and fucked up as it may be, i like you. too much. so don't fuck it up and get yourself killed."

you finally peeled off your top, your jeans, kicked off your shoes and discarded your drenched underwear. you left bloody footprints as you walked towards the washroom in the guest room, turning on the light inside and stepping in, leaving the door ajar for titus danforth, who was already undressing himself.

can you tell i watched obsession this week? T_T

sorry this took so long!!!! 1. i had a really long painting session because still life with flowers is HARD. 2. i watched the movie and immediately had to edit a scene. i fucking loved wishnikki's behaviour and though y/n can't ever compete with that performance, i wanted to see if i could make her creepy like that.

ps.: my flower study. oil on mount. 12x10" 6.5 hours so far and it's still not done.

again again again, comments are loved loved loved, reblogs are always welcome, all my ghost readers; u da real gems

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limited taglist: @taniamiller @generation-zero @goddess-of-spring @1dhoe93 @saigereaper @onyxorbspire @fluffyassbutt @niki128 @darknessofhell666-blog-blog @margaretblue777@emotionalsupportdilf @yiiiikesmish @softundermoonlight @tomnooksbagofbells

[thedivinegirlyp0p]

i'm not a shawn hatosy FAN i am a shawn hatosy BABYDOLL

[st-kitten]

staying mad, staying mystified, as daddy hatosy wants

[st-kitten]

wait i wanna do this too

merci for tagging me in that!!! @softundermoonlight

rules: go to pinterest and type in the prompts below. whatever image pops up first is your image!

prompts: color, quote, character, hobby, accessory, song lyric, flower

me likey

[st-kitten]

the last great demented dynasty XVII

titus danforth x y/n

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a/n: throughout the chapters, certain songs will be mentioned at the beginning or after a partition. the music is chosen mostly for the vibes and the melody. if the lyrics align, yay. if not, play along. but i highly recommend listening to the songs on loop for its section if you're a 'take-your-time' reader. idk, the music just adds some oomf to it.

summary: you're a stranger to the world of guns in many ways. would you survive when they're aimed at you?

warnings: SPOILERS:- mention of guns again, gunshot wound, mention of organ trafficking, kissing, pénétration (f receiving), gun play, titus be cray cray

latino songs are a fucking bop istg.

the microwave glared at you with its beeping noise and bright lights early in the morning. your head disagreed with every existence around you, responding with a throbbing pain revolving around inside your skull.

you warmed some milk in a cup, watching it waltz on the rotating disc. that's pretty much how you felt waking up after the worst fucking hangover of your life. every drop of that laced beer drained out of your system with a mighty drag of your soul, your senses. you woke up feeling ten kilos heavier.

you had got to stay away from alcohol for the next decade or so.

the danforth kitchens were uncharacteristically peaceful in the mornings. the servants and chefs had their own kitchen within the kitchen. god knows what for, but you guessed that the sight of actual workers in a house like theirs was unwelcome and beneath them. the irony being that without people cooking for them, the twins would likely starve trying to find a fucking pan.

you turned on the induction stovetop, carefully placing a pot of water over the heated surface.

no matter where you were, whether you felt happy, sad, some third worse thing, whether you were in love or in heartbreak, busy or lazy, you always had a companion to take a moment from time and gently place it in your hands.

chai, your beloved chai. the warmest hug in a cup.

you loved the beverage dearly, but you loved making it more. loose tea leaves in water really, but you let it simmer, let it boil. you added some sugar, crushed ginger, cardamoms, cloves, a pinch of cinnamon, and some dried lemongrass that you always carried with you.

then you watched.

the bubbles, the froth, the thick layer of vapour making everything wobbly and distorted.

and when it was ready, strained in a cup, you poured just enough milk, watching it swirl and changes colours again, blending into a rich brown colour.

the familiar smell took you back home, in your mother's arms trying chai for the first time and thus finding the first love of your life.

ursula's footsteps padded behind you.

"morning," you greeted her softly.

she answered with a tired hum. her prada sunglasses were still on despite being indoors.

"want some tea?" you offered.

"anything to get rid of my headache."

you poured her a cup as well, sliding it to her as she took a seat at the kitchen island. this was usually the time when she'd instruct the head chef to prepare the week's meals. always ahead of schedule as she liked all things to be.

"the rajans were found dead..." the words landed on the marble countertop between you. you blew across the surface of your drink.

"so i heard..." you said, lips closed around the rim of your cup as you took a sip of tea.

for a moment, two healthy slurps of chai took up the space, followed by soft identical sighs.

"thanks for the assist," you murmured, taking a seat opposite her.

"don't thank me yet. your plan better work."

you weren't exactly sure if it was going to work, but you had to try. and you just had to survive the games enough to flip the script when the time came.

what would actually happen was perhaps a speculation, out of your control, but it was worth a try. it was the first thing you'd found that resembled hope.

the velvet pair of slippers padded into the kitchen, a rare appearance from the other danforth.

titus entered the kitchen looking like a man who had been assembled incorrectly. his hair pointed in several directions at once. his silk dressing gown hung half-open.

he eyed you both quizzically. you more suspiciously, just in case you and his sister were up to something he did not fucking want to know. he approached cautiously, as though he had discovered two raccoons digging through a dumpster. he slid into the spot next to you, his shoulder bumping yours.

"what are you doing?" he asked a bit too loudly, making you and ursula recoil simultaneously with a wince, a hiss, and a groan.

"oh my god..."

"titus shut up!"

he gave you two sleepy blinks.

you pressed your fingers against your temple, massaging the ache a little.

"why... are you yelling?"

"i'm not yelling."

"you literally are."

titus looked between the two of you. then, with all the confidence of a man who had never been wrong in his life, leaned closer.

"ARE YOU HUNGOVER?"

both you and ursula made sounds of pure suffering, like zombies groaning in a hoard. titus smiled, proud of himself first thing in the morning.

"oh, the rajans are dead, by the way," he said, as casually as saying 'oh, it might rain today'.

you nearly dropped your cup. "wait, what?"

ursula's eyes closed for a brief moment. "yeah, you're next if you don't lower your voice," she muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose.

titus ignored her completely. his attention settled on you instead, studying the surprise on your face.

"they were found this morning."

you blinked. "dead?"

"that's generally what i mean when i say people are dead, baby."

"what happened to them?" you asked.

titus shrugged, and replied, "overdosed."

you made yourself frown. "that's awful." you cast a pensive look over your face for added effect.

titus looked down at you, at the shock in your eyes, reaching over for your cup of tea, took a whiff, then decided he might as well indulge, and took a sip.

ursula pursed her lips, busying herself with more sips of tea to conceal a bark of laughter.

"anyway," titus continued, entirely oblivious, "good riddance. they lost the game, they got drunk, they got high and they died. that's practically a rajan family tradition."

"still. that's... sad."

"why?"

"because they're dead?"

he considered that. "fair." then immediately ruined it. "less competition, though."

his hand settled between your shoulder blades, thumb moving lazily up and down your spine.

"don't think about it too much," he said quietly. "people like the rajans always end up dead eventually."

you looked down into your tea, listening to him explain why the two men you'd poisoned were not worth worrying about.

the last to arrive in the kitchen was sebastian, ready for another training session, resurfacing in the manor from whataver hellhole he lived in. so naturally, you sprang out of your seat instantaneously.

"good night," you mumbled, leaving the room in four quick strides.

every morning, with the mowed grass smelling like gunpowder, you had been spending a few hours on the estate practising your shooting with titus and sebastian.

but it had become like oil and water, trying to focus on hitting any target when all you wanted was to drive the mouth of your gun up every single one of that man's orifice and exploit the trigger till he was nothing but a charred, porous piece of flesh.

pretty violent, right?

and sure, titus taught you well too; better than well, honestly. he'd shown you how to hold the stock properly, how to brace against the recoil, how to steady your breathing before pulling the trigger. but none of that changed the simple reality.

the el caídos were monsters with rifles. every story you'd heard about them ended the same way. they didn't miss. they practically came out of the womb hitting bullseyes.

this wasn't going to be like beer pong where you could bet on the missed shots of your opponents, no one sabotaging themselves. no, if you were to win, you needed a little more than just shooting a target board.

which is why you had turned to ursula. she was pragmatic, practical, charmingly unpretentious at times.

"you're not going to perfect shooting the bullseye with just a handful of lessons from me, you know that right?" she muttered, picking up her rifle, engraved with the danforth initials.

"i know..." you adjusted the ear protection over your head and shifted the rifle against your shoulder, holding it as titus had taught you.

"you have a week before the second game"

"i know."

the was a beat of silence, and then bang! bang! two loud, deafening shots fired at the target boards in the distance. yours landing in the outer ring, hers landing smack in the centre.

"the el caídos have been doing this since childhood."

"i know that too..."

the relationship between the two of you had become strangely comfortable over the past few weeks. maybe it started with that little shopping you did before the wedding, maybe it was when you were taking care of chester and updating her regularly on his health, or maybe it was when she learned enough to know you weren't a real threat to them. or maybe it was the kiss. either way, she found you an inch more than tolerable, which in ursula-speak, was the safest status you'd find for yourself.

"so why are you here?" she asked, reloading her gun.

you lowered yours, then looked at her solemnly, preparedly, then you said, very calmly,

"i need you to teach me how to ricochet."

♬⋆.˚ la negrita; latin soul syndicate

ignacio el caído was a name you'd surprisingly heard before you got roped into the games, or the danforth family.

in magazines or plastered on the side of buses, you'd see posters of the most obnoxiously action-packed movies where the hero had too much plot armour, just enough ammunition, and always the sexy latina on his arm who fawned over him in skimpy bikinis, even in peak mid-winter. god, they were ridiculous. but somehow walked the red carpet to awards every time.

but another reason why that name now bothered you was because it was the same man for whom your father had trafficked organs, gotten them across the border to his contact in mexico. you presumed, that must have been the exact point where your father realised he could get away with a lot more if he knew the right people. which is how the murders started.

now you stood on his estate, a villa so... flamboyantly loud, incapable of subtlety that your eyes took a fat moment to adjust as you walked through the festival it had been turned into for the necrofest.

music followed you, from a mariachi band playing along to the reggaeton beats of another. the smell of grilled meat, spices, and cigar smoke lingered everywhere. so infectious...

you could easily imagine spending an evening here under different circumstances, drinking far too much tequila and stealing food from whichever buffet table looked most expensive.

but oh well... maybe after—if—you managed to survive and win the game.

once again, you came with the danforths, titus and ursula beside you, his hand over your hip, leaving sebastian to trail behind you like some butler. nice.

"bienvenidos!" ignacio called the moment he spotted the group approaching. the man spread his arms wide as though greeting lifelong friends rather than rivals.

"vengan, vengan. síganme."

pretty warm, with the energy of a man hosting a family barbecue, for someone who trafficked organs, smuggled drugs, and buried people alive for fun.

you found yourself looking past him toward the rest of the family.

felipe el caído. couldn't have been older than 14, but would not hesitate even for a second to pick up a shotgun and blow your eyeballs out, side-swept hair and a smoulder on his face. and you guessed it, he starred in almost all of his father's films, some moments where he overshadowed other characters.

and of course, francesca el caído, nothing short of a latina charli xcx; thick hair till her waist, those sunken eyes, which you realised a few days ago, were mourning madhu rajan, her good-for-nothing fling for the summer.

"he should've been here," you heard her say to one of the silcox heirs, who feigned a sad sigh and shook their head in solidarity with the girl.

well, guess she could always try again on el dia de los muertos...buh-jesus. clearly the danforths were a terrible influence on you.

you all were offered drinks, some empanadas, and other ravishing treats you'd never tried before. you nursed your drink, not really feeling like tasting a drop of alcohol. and somewhere beneath the music, the chatter, the carnival-like atmosphere sat the reality of why everyone was here.

the rifles were about to come out. and unlike beer pong, nobody would be getting shitfaced drunk enough to forget about what happened. you had better brought acting skills better than most of hollywood if you were going to fool a director... with a gun.

"are you going to drink that?" someone asked from beside you.

he looked rather tired and out of place, brown suit crinkled in places.

"uh... no," you answered, handing him your glass.

he took it and chugged it down in one gulp.

"you're with the le domases, right?" you asked.

"unfortunately," he mumbled, dragging his palm over his face, wiping the sheet of sweat above his lip.

he looked down at you. "daniel."

"y/n."

"oh, i know. the vacillating prole to this... satanic fuckery."

"you're part of said fuckery."

"we all are. but we're not that competent." daniel leaned in, "we might look invincible, but we're insecure freaks who need daddy le bail to save our rotten faces."

he took a look at you again, and at titus. "make his life hell. he'll love that."

you snorted a laugh. "well, hey, if i don't see you..." you extended your hand to him.

he took it, shaking it with intention. "may you ascend, and may we just... end."

later, you and the other players were led to the grounds behind their estate. apparently everyone's backyards just happened to have space for a shooting range.

thankfully, the target boards were simple. much like the ones you'd practised on. no moving targets, no flying discs, and really, really, really fortunately, no actual living people used with an 'x' marked on their foreheads.

they sat equidistant from each other, and a few feet apart from where the shooters were to be stationed.

the lawyer, prim and proper as ever, went over the rules once. "as you may all know by now, the rajan brothers were found dead in their club—"

a heavy sob came from francesca, face buried in her hand, the other clutching her chest as she fell to her knees.

?

"—so, their house has automatically been eliminated from the necrofest. since they did not appoint any future head of the family, their council seat has also been dissolved."

murmurs, some of approval, some indifferent, echoed around you. you tried your damn best to not let a single facial expression other than discomfort show on your face.

"that leaves us with 6 competing teams. today, the second game of the necrofest begins. players, you will find your rifles placed beside your station. in front of you will be your target boards."

your eyes followed to where the lawyer pointed.

"each player, taking turns, must shoot their target board per turn, as well as that of others subsequently. each ring of the target has points, with the lowest being 0 if you miss, and the highest if you hit the centre. the player who scores the most points, shall be considered the winner... let the games begin."

♬⋆.˚ dákiti; bad bunny, jhayco

you felt the evening breeze grace your cheeks, sift through your hair as you pulled it back into a sorry excuse of a tiny pigtail, strands escaping anyway.

the shooting range stretched across the far end of the el caído estate, positioned away from the music and festivities.

the contrast felt absurd. hundred metres away, people were drinking tequila and dancing. here, a collection of wealthy psychopaths were preparing to compete in a life-or-death shooting contest.

you rolled your shoulders and shook out your arms, trying to loosen the lingering stiffness. the consistent training had taken its toll. the bruise from repeated recoil had finally faded from deep purple into an ugly yellow-green, but the ache remained. you adjusted your stance and looked down the line, standing in the middle.

to your left stood a smug mr le domas, his eye blackened, most likely a gift from his sister after beer pong night, and ignacio el caído himself. to your right stood one of the cheng fus and a member of house silcox.

farther down stood ursula. the sight was oddly reassuring, also planned.

originally, titus had stepped forward when the danforth family name was called. he had taken three confident strides towards the range when ursula grabbed the back of his jacket.

"no."

titus had turned to face her. "what do you mean no?"

"you played in the last games."

"so?"

"so naturally, it's my turn."

"i can shoot," he scoffed.

"and you don't like embarrassing yourself by missing, do you?"

his eyes had narrowed.

"we both know who the better shooter is."

well... poor titus looked wounded, a kicked puppy. his ego took her words straight to the red circle on his heart. for perhaps half a second he had actually pouted—an adult man. nearly six foot something danforth air... pouting.

you'd nearly laughed yourself sick, hurled an empanada out your mouth.

unfortunately for him, everyone present knew ursula was right. including titus. so he had stepped aside graciously, with all the dignity he could salvage, muttering little somethings about betrayal, family disloyalty, spiders on her pillow and what not.

now he stood behind the firing line with the spectators. his gaze found yours. and you caught the small nod he gave you. and it made your heart flutter still, because despite everything, titus had spent hours teaching you, hours happily standing behind you, hands all over your body correcting your already decent grip. hours teaching you how to focus and take the shot. of course, about seventy percent of that time had also involved him finding excuses to touch your waist, but the lessons were useful too.

next to him stood sebastian, arms folded, a drowsy glare on his face as he looked at you.

you forced yourself to look away. he didn't matter. nothing did. except what was ahead of you.

the weight of the rifle felt familiar now, which was more than what you could've said weeks ago. hell, weeks ago you hadn't even seen a rifle in person, and now here you were, about to shoot it.

this was it... everything you had trained for was about to be employed. and standing among families who had been doing this for generations, you suddenly felt very aware of exactly how short a week truly was.

"casa el caído dispara primero, assholes!" ignacio grinned as he picked up his rifle like one picked up a towel before a shower. (idk why this analogy lmao but go with it) (house of el caído shoots first)

he man looked as though he'd been waiting all week for this exact moment. he stepped forward with easy confidence, rifle resting casually against his shoulder. even now, dressed in an expensive embroidered jacket and enough jewellery to finance a small country, he somehow carried himself like an action star walking onto a film set.

he gave every contender a mocking eye contact, his gaze fixing on you the longest, and pressed the trigger, not even looking at the target.

his gold tooth flashed beneat the evening light as he grinned widely.

the shot cracked through the range and before your brain processed the sound, the target jolted. dead fucking centre.

it was perfect.

there were instant cheers from his family, whistles, applause, the band played music louder in the back. ignacio lowered the rifle and spread his arms as though accepting an award.

"de nada..."

fuck.

oone by one, the remaining competitors stepped forward. the cheng fu representative shot next with another loud crack. his target wobbled a little: outer ring.

nothing extraordinary, as respectable as the first shot could get. you released a breath you hadn't realised you were holding.

mr le domas was next, his shot also hit the outer ring. he immediately launched into a lengthy explanation about how chess required more precision than firearms anyway.

"nobody asked, dipshit," titus yelled from the audience.

for days you'd imagined yourself surrounded by supernatural marksmen capable of splitting bullets mid-air. instead, several of them appeared perfectly capable of missing things on their own.

but the real threats were yet to unleash hell: ignacio, ursula. efinitely anyone who had spent their childhood shooting things for entertainment.

when your turn finally came, the chatter around the range quieted into something expectant. but it felt more like vultures waiting for you to die so they could peck at your corpse.

you adjusted your grip on the rifle and afforded yourself one measured gulp of air. the stock settled against the bruised pocket of your shoulder, familiar and uncomfortable all at once.

you could feel titus watching from somewhere behind you. ursula too. you remembered every correction they'd drilled into you.

"don't fight the rifle, baby. let it do its job."

"don't jerk the trigger. take breath and shoot."

the target stood impossibly far away, bright against the evening light. from this distance, the bullseye looked no larger than a coin. and you knew your limitations damn well. you weren't ignacio el caído. you hadn't spent decades shooting. you hadn't grown up with rifles in your hands. trying to beat him directly would be stupidity masquerading as confidence. so instead, you aimed for something achievable, but more importantly, forgettable.

you inhaled slowly through your nose. held it. then exhaled half of your breath.

the world really narrowed before you, voices fading away. there was only the sight picture, the front post, and the circle waiting in the distance.

your finger tightened against the trigger. the rifle cracked.

recoil slammed into your shoulder for what felt like the hundredth time that week. you absorbed it instinctively now, barely flinching as the barrel lifted. remembering titus' instructions, you squeezed through the follow-through rather than immediately relaxing your hand.

a second later, the impact appeared. not the bullseye, god no. not even close. but comfortably within one of the inner scoring rings, which wasmore than good enough actually.

"lucky shot."

"tan terrible pero, no está mal." (so terrible, but not bad)

"nowhere near ignacio."

"yeahhh, she's not winning this."

you stepped back, lowering the rifle. the compliments didn't matter. neither did the criticism. what mattered was that nobody looked concerned, or threatened by you. ignacio was already laughing with his son, completely unbothered by your score. the le domases seemed more interested in arguing amongst themselves.

good.

your gaze drifted past him toward ursula. she stood with her rifle resting casually against her shoulder, face unreadable. titus too, gave a little clap.

"what, she's not bad," he defended you against a silcox asshole.

last to step forward was ursula.

unlike the rest of the competitors, she did not seem interested in the crowd watching her. she did not acknowledge the conversations, the wagers quietly exchanged between families, or the dozen pairs of eyes following her every movement.

she simply walked to her position and lifted the rifle.

gosh that was hot.

all those stories about little ursula danforth taking apart hunting rifles before she learned long division, sneaking ammunition into her schoolbag, putting holes through targets that grown men struggled to hit; apparently those stories had circulated far beyond the danforth estate.

the comments drifted through the gathering as ursula sighted down the barrel. if ignacio's shooting felt theatrical, something performed for an audience, ursula's felt private.

the rifle cracked, the shot sliced through the air and a second later, the bullet struck the innermost scoring ring, just shy of the bullseye.

close enough to earn a few heads nodding as ursula lowered the rifle. that was pretty much it. no smugness like ignacio, no curses like the silcoxes who'd missed their bullseye by a few centimetres. she soaked up the murmurs and compliments confidently.

the first round had been simple enough. shoot your own board. prove your competence. but the second round was going to be tough.

each competitor was now required to shoot an opponent's target. the further away a target stood from your assigned position, the sharper the angle became, forcing shooters to compensate for perspective, distance. now it was a test of accuracy and strategy.

and pettiness. loooooots of pettiness.

ignacio stepped forward first. he barely glanced at the available options before settling on yours. why not. the man grinned broadly as he adjusted his rifle.

"te veo en el infierno," he muttered beneath his breath. (see you in hell)

the shot rang out and the bullet crossed the range, striking dead centre of your target. like, geometrically precise centre. the fresh hole sat there like a black pupil staring back at you. fucking freak.

the surrounding crowd let out approving hoots and claps. ignacio lowered his rifle and flashed that infuriating movie-star smile.

"you'll stay an outsider, si?" he called. "there's no place for you here, pequeña."

fair enough man. you weren't exactly under the illusion that any of these people liked you.

"gracias por recordarme," you replied with a cheerful smile that was perhaps a little too bright. (thanks for reminding me)

ignacio barked out a laugh. and behind you, titus looked moments away from committing a homicide.

but the round continued. one by one competitors chose their targets, le domases, cheng fu, and they all happened to be yours. every crack of a rifle seemed destined for your poor target.

you found it really funny. after a while, your board began to resemble a piece of swiss cheese. new holes appeared across nearly every scoring ring. splintered edges spread through the painted surface. fragments of wood occasionally burst from the back whenever another round struck.

you folded your arms and stared at the increasingly abused target.

"wow, thanks guys!" you murmured. "i feel popular."

ursula snorted a laugh.

but you didn't mind it. see, the thing was, people only ganged up on what they believed they could eliminate. nobody wanted to waste shots challenging the competitors they genuinely feared. they were choosing you because they had already decided you were average, weak. and more than that, they'd decided that you were and always would be an outsider, a placeholder till they killed you off.

and that suited you just fine. you watched another bullet punch through your target. good.

keep looking at the board. let them spend the entire game convinced you were the easiest person to beat.

the harder they looked at your target, the less they looked at you.

when your turn finally came around, you made a point of looking considerably less confident than before. you picked up the rifle and immediately fumbled it. the weapon slipped against your palm and nearly dropped altogether before you caught it again.

a round of laughter travelled through the crowd.

"jesus christ," muttered one of the silcoxes.

"need some help holding it, darlin'?" asked mr le domas.

behind you, sebastian's patience evaporated immediately. "get your shit together."

instead, you glanced towards ursula, whose face remained blank. then once at titus, who looked... suspiciously interested. you wondered if he'd figured it out. he knew you well enough by now to recognise when you were acting.

you reloaded slowly, fingers delieberately trembling. then you aimed. the target board belonging to the le domas family sat downrange, perfectly visible.

you kept aiming, and aiming. everyone waited.

"does she think it'll shoot itself?"

"pull the trigger already."

"oh my god, just shoot!" ursula yelled.

you jolted dramatically, the rifle cracked and the bullet spun out.

a collective groan immediately rose from the spectators as it became apparent the shot wasn't travelling anywhere near the centre of the target. it veered much too wide and struck the metal mounting assembly holding the le domas target upright.

the impact produced a sharp metallic crack, with sparks flying as the bullet deflected and for a fraction of a second, nobody understood what had happened.

then the ricochet screamed across the range.

ignacio gasped.

the sound cut through every conversation about how horribile that shot was.

his grin vanished entirely. his rifle slipped from his hands as both his palms moved towards his abdomen. he looked and as did everyone else.

blood coloured his crisp shirt with a dark stain spreading through and through, followed by a screeching pain.

"puta! qué hiciste?!" he shouted, staggering backwards. (bitch! what did you do?)

the body absorbed the shock first before any agony could resurface. his knees buckled as he collapsed heavily onto one.

"mierda!" (shit!)

the blood squeezed through his fingers as he clutched his stomach.

the mariachi band still playing in the background felt absurd...

you lowered your rifle with trembling hands. "oh, fuck..."

you hurried forward just a step, "i'm so sorry! i didn't—i..." your voice creaked perfectly. "i c-can help! i can patch you up—"

"cállate, puta!" francesca screamed. (shut up, bitch) she was already running towards her father. he rest of the el caídos surged forward too, speaking over each other all at once.

the remaining council families watched with varying degrees of concern, amusement, a little entertained even. their madness had normalised a lot of thingd...

the le domas patriarch shook his head, a little glad that you had missed hitting their target. "worst shot i've ever seen."

a few others nodded in agreement. nobody seemed particularly eager to investigate further. after all, accidental ricochets always happened to beginners... averages...

you stood frozen where you were, staring at the blood pooling beneath ignacio's hand, breathing uneven. every inch the frightened amateur who had just committed a disastrous mistake. and as the chaos ensured around ignacio el caído, you quietly lowered your gaze and forced your shoulders to shake.

a guilty woman was expected to tremble. so you trembled.

naturally, ignacio could no longer continue. the lawyer consulted the rules, the rules consulted the lawyer and a brief argument followed regarding eligibility of succession.

ultimately, the result was simple.

ignacio el caído was removed from the game.

sebastian, unfortunately for him, was the only qualified doctor present. before he could protest, several members of the el caído household were already dragging him towards their patriarch.

you watched your father disappear into the commotion without a shred of sympathy.

then ignacio's replacement arrived. francesca stepped forward and picked up her father's rifle. her mascara had begun to smudge. her eyes were red-rimmed from crying. grief sat visibly on her face, tangled together with fury until it became difficult to tell one from the other.

when she looked at you, it felt less like being seen and more like being targeted.

"you're going to pay for that."

your stomach tightened. "i really didn't mean to—"

the shot rang out before you could finish, wuthout warning. francesca pulled the trigger impulsively and the bullet tore through the air.

it whizzed so close to your head and you flinched at the sound first. the projectile bullet missed your ear by millimeters.

for one horrible moment, all you could think about was wilkinson's hands around your throat and his body dead on the floor. how easily people stopped existing.

before you could react, titus was already moving, one moment amongst the spectators, the next beside you. his hand caught your arm. the other settled firmly against your back as he pulled you away from the line of fire.

"what the fuck?" someone shouted.

"francesca, hermana!"

"have you lost your mind?"

the lawyer descended from his elevated chair with surprising speed. he raised one hand and the rifle was snatched out by an invisible force.

he sighed, "out of turn, miss el caído."

the rifle continued drifting until it hovered several feet away from her.

"and you're meant to shoot the targets. those are the terms of your house games. need i remind you of that?"

for a second, it looked as though she might actually attempt to strangle him. instead, she lowered her gaze.

the lawyer announced a five-minute recess instead. people dispersed almost immediately, cigarettes appeared, drinks were passed around, conversations resumed.

titus turned your face towards him as both hands cupped your cheeks. his eyes searched yours carefully, verifying everything.

"you okay?"

you were trembling for real this time. your pulse hammered against your throat.

"y-yeah," you swallowed. "no..." another breath. "i don't know."

his expression softened immediately. he snapped his fingers and had a servant bring you a bottle of water. you drank half of it without realising.

the game wasn't over. there were still targets standing. and while francesca wasn't ignacio, she was still an el caído, which meant she could absolutely shoot.

so you sauntered towards her, embodying the hunchback of notre dame, approaching her with all the pursuit of someone voluntarily walking into peak traffic.

"i'm... really sorry about your father."

nothing.

"truly."

she didn't spare you a glance. so you made her.

"and madhu..."

her head snapped towards you.

you offered an apologetic smile. "he was such a sweet guy."

the muscle in her jaw twitched.

"really. even when he lost, he was still so affectionate towards me."

oh... sheeeee was pissed the fuck off, carrying a dangerous silence that made animals back away slowly. as did you, slowly retreating back to titus, who already hand one hand outstretched to reel you back into his arms.

francesca's stare followed you the entire time. if hatred could physically manifest, it would've lunged at you carrying a machete. yikes.

by the time the break ended and competitors returned to their positions, her eyes looked bloodshot. she stood where ignacio once had, with his rifle back in her hands, grief in her chest and pure rage in her bloodstream.

you were a firm believer that hell had no fury like a woman scorned, but you also believed in human error. one born out of emotions.

both your theories were proven correct moments later.

francesca raised her rifle at the cheng fu target. she aimed with nothing but fury and impulse, and took the shot...

...which missed completely.

the bullet sailed past the board and disappeared into the treeline behind it, a flock of startled birds erupted from the branches.

the crowd collectively groaned and francesca looked ready to scream you just looked away before she could catch the smile threatening to appear on your face.

the rounds that continued after that went by routinely. like cashing in cheques at the bank. you kept your performance exactly where you wanted it. not spectacular enough to draw suspicion, not poor enough to be dismissed. every shot landed somewhere respectable. the inner ring. sometimes the middle.

the silcoxes fumbled several attempts, much to everyone's amusement. mr le domas suffered through the remainder of the game with the enthusiasm of a man attending his own funeral. after receiving multiple blows to the back of the head from his sister for 'lacking competitive spirit', he eventually stopped caring altogether and simply fired in the general direction of whatever target happened to be in front of him.

mr cheng fu lasted longer than expected.

not by much.

halfway through the match he lowered his rifle, because 'why can't i just punch the board', and withdrew himself from the competition entirely. nobody seemed particularly surprised. even less surprised when he immediately wandered over to his mother and spent the next several minutes hugging her with enough dedication to concern everyone present.

throughout all of it, ursula remained impossible to read. nobody paid attention to a woman who calmly and consistently struck the inner rings over and over again.

well, except titus.

he knew exactly what his sister was capable of. he had watched ursula put bullets through moving targets since they were children. he had seen her split crystal glasses at distances most people considered ridiculous, like those opthalmologist letterboards that got smaller and smaller, farther. hell, he had seen her shoot the same hole twice.

so what the fuck was wrong with her today?

every shot landed close enough to impress, but never close enough to dominate. subtle, but he could tell it was deliberate. and it was beginning to irritate him.

when her final shot struck the innermost ring yet again, ursula lowered the rifle and stepped back without so much as glancing at the scoreboard.

titus was beside her before she'd even fully relaxed her stance, grabbing her arm tightly.

"what are you doing?

ursula looked at him.

"you have eyes. you tell me."

"don't play stupid."

she sighed, removing her ear protection.

"i'm tired, titus."

"bullshit."

"i'm on my period... one of those days," she added with a shrug.

titus narrowed his eyes. that explanation might have worked on literally anyone else. unfortunately, he'd spent his entire life with her.

before he could continue interrogating her, the lawyer cleared his throat. he stood beside the scoreboard with an expression that suggested he was enjoying himself far more than any referee should.

"well," he announced, "this is unexpected. again..." nobody liked the way he said that.

"it appears we have a tie."

a ripple of confusion moved through the crowd.

"between house danforth..." he paused just long enough to be annoying. "...and house l/n."

you felt dozens of eyes turn towards you at once. and you just wanted to disappear. become a tree.

ursula merely folded her arms, looking smugly proud.

titus slowly turned his head towards his sister. the look on his face suggested he had just realised exactly what she'd been doing all afternoon.

she gave him a tiny smile. absolutely full of shit.

"fortunately, ties are easy to resolve," the lawyer clapped his hands together twice and a few servants took all the target boards away, except for one.

"both competitors will take one final shot."

he pointed at the board, and said, "you will shoot the same target board, at the same time. highest score wins."

thus... you and ursula stepped forward together, rifles in hand against your shoulders, one eye closed, staring at the same red dot on the board before you.

you adjusted the rifle against your shoulder and settled your cheek against the stock. the familiar ache in your shoulder immediately made itself known. beside you, ursula mirrored your stance with effortless precision. there was something strangely comforting about standing next to her.

without moving your gaze from the target, you spoke quietly.

"we have a deal, right?"

for a moment, the only answer was the breeze moving through the trees.

then ursula's voice reached you, just for you.

"don't miss and i won't either."

your grip tightened around the rifle.

the lawyer raised a hand, and a pin-drop silence fell on the grounds, everyone on the edges of their seats.

then he dropped it, "shoot"

BANG! BANG!

two shots fired at a near adjacent speed and timing.

a flash of sparks flew between you and the board as ursula's bullet hit yours mid-trajectory… making it strike right on the red dot for the first time in the entire game. your bullseye.

the gasp that echoed was so so so beautiful, it ought to be added in an andrew lloyd musical.

everybody on the grounds gawked at the sight, for what they had just witnessed should not have happened, could not have happened. the odds were so absurd that most people wouldn't have believed it if they hadn't seen it themselves.

"that…" the lawyer stuttered for a moment, having witnessed a 1 in a 600 million chanced event before his eyes. for perhaps the first time in recorded history, the man whose entire personality revolved around rules appeared genuinely speechless. "settles it…"

the corners of his mouth twitched, whether from amusement or horror, nobody could tell.

"house of l/n wins..."

he looked up straight at you. "...again."

a lot of grunts and groans surrounded you like an asteroid belt. but you stood there, the hilt of the rifle digging into the grass as you leaned on it for support, staring at the tiny hole in the centre of the target. the perfect, impossible hole.

as you made your way back towards the danforth limousine, the noise of the estate gradually fading behind you, you rolled your shoulder with a wince.

the joint had been protesting all week. every lesson. every practice session spent hitting the joints and hinges of metal from different angles, watching your bullets gradually land into the mannequins that acted as proxies for ignacio, every rifle kickback made your shoulder feel less and less like your body part. you wished you could just yank it off and toss it away.

ursula walked beside you.

the evening air was cooler now, carrying distant music and laughter from the villa behind you. somebody had already started another party.

eventually you glanced at her.

"congratulations."

ursula looked over.

"thanks."

just a simple acknowledgement before she looked ahead again. that was all, because irrespective of your victory, irrespective of the strategy you'd both agreed upon, irrespective of the increasingly absurd circumstances of your life, there remained one indisputable fact.

ursula danforth was the best markswoman you had ever seen.

you may have had won the game, but the victory was hers. who else, after all, could miss a shot that perfectly?

ahead of you, titus had paused beside the limousine door. he was watching the pair of you with visible suspicion, as though the very act of the two of you getting along was an alfred hitchcock level of mystery.

as you got inside the car, your eyes met daniel's. he just gave you a knowing look, a tiny two-fingered salute that said 'see you soon.'

you took a well-deserved shower after the day you'd had. hot water pounded against your aching shoulder, loosening muscles that had been clenched since morning. it helped, though not by much. you already knew tomorrow was going to hurt.

by the time you stepped back into the bedroom, towel rubbing your hair dry, your mind had finally begun to get ready for bed.

click!

your stomach dropped as you heard the familiar sound, which made you look up.

titus sat at the edge of the bed.

a silver handgun rested in his hand, pointed directly at you.

your body reacted before your mind did. your breath caught. your shoulders stiffened. the towel froze halfway through drying your hair. for a second, all you could think about was how small the room suddenly felt, how little distance existed between you and the barrel. and how quickly a trigger could be pulled.

"titus..." your voice emerged smaller than you intended.

his expression didn't budge. normally there was always something behind his eyes. amusement. arrogance. affection. some irritating comment waiting to happen. right now, there was just a steady focus. for a tiny moment, your mind simply refused to process what your eyes were seeing. it was titus. titus, who slept beside you. titus, who stole your tea. titus, who followed you around the manor like a particularly expensive guard dog. but it was also titus who shot people, killed without blinking, who kept guns in places most people kept, idk, photographs.

"I need you to tell me the truth." his voice was calm. too calm. "about today."

of course, you had expected questions. just not with a loaded gun.

"can you put that down?"

"no."

"titus,please."

he stood up. the movement made your heart kick painfully against your ribs. then he started walking towards you. the gun never lowered. you retreated as he got closer and closer until your back struck the wall; nowhere else to go unless atoms aligned perfectly.

titus stopped in front of you. the barrel lifted and cold metal touched your temple.

you could feel your pulse against the metal, feel your own heartbeat betraying you. a ridiculous thought flashed through your mind then, unwanted and intrusive: he could shoot me.

it reminded you that beneath all the affection and tenderness and ridiculous devotion, titus danforth was still titus danforth. and he killed people when he decided they needed to die. the difference between you and everyone else was that he'd chosen not to point those instincts at you.

"ursula never misses," he murmured.

you let out a shaky breath. "she didn't."

his gaze sharpened. "then why?"

"because i asked her to"

uncertainty crossed his face. as though the answer simply didn't fit with everything he knew about his sister.

"you 'asked' her to..."

"yeah."

titus stared at you for a long moment. you could see the calculations behind his eyes. ursula listened to very few people. in matters involving competition and family reputation, she listened to even fewer. the idea that she'd simply agree to throw away a victory because you'd 'asked nicely' was fucking unbelievable.

he knew it, you knew it.

"don't lie to me, baby."

the pet name did nothing to soften the warning. you closed your eyes briefly. "she missed the shots on purpose."

"and you?"

"i did what you taught me. what... she taught me."

his jaw shifted. "what 'she' taught you?" he squinted at you. he didn't know ursula even talked to you outside context, let alone teach you anything.

you let out a breath. "she taught me how to ricochet."

titus' eyes snapped up at you. "what?"

you carefully reached up and placed your hand over his wrist. not pushing the weapon away. merely touching him. to your relief, he let the gun drift downward. the barrel slid from your temple, tracing the line of your jaw, your throat, your collarbone. it continued lower until it rested against your waist.

"i couldn't beat ignacio," you admitted quietly. "he was always going to outshoot me. so if i couldn't hit the target…" you paused. "i could learn how to misfire."

you placed your hand on his chest, feeling his pulse quicken. "ursula taught me how to ricochet the bullet."

for a moment, he just looked at you with dazed eyes. you watched the answer land somewhere in his brain, watched him replay the entire game in his head

"you injured him on purpose?"

you nodded slowly. saying it aloud made it sound uglier than it had in your head. for a moment you wondered whether you'd made a mistake telling him even the most minuscule details of your plans, which relied solely on the best of discretions and titus was anything but. you wondered whether he'd look at you differently now. whether this would be the moment he realised you weren't whatever sweet fantasy he'd built around you.

for several moments he simply looked at you. then the corner of his mouth twitched. his forehead dropped against yours.

"kinda hurts me," he murmured, his nose brushing yours. "that you didn't come to me for help."

"you would've made it worse."

"i would've made it spectacular," he said with a pout.

"your takeaway from all this is that you're offended?" you asked with a scoff.

"my takeaway is that my girlfriend apparently orchestrated a ricochet, manipulated every single person on that ground, and never thought to include me."

you groaned. "come on man..."

you saw a flicker of that unmistakable, dangerous dangerous admiration.

"i'm so fucking proud of you, baby." his thumb brushed your cheek. "that's the hottest thing you've done all month...makes my dick hard"

jesus... if this was what made him proud, you half-helped yourself to telling him that you were the one who poisoned the rajans... you wondered what new degree of attraction or arousal he'd invent.

he held the gun in his hand, looking at it, at the engravings on it. it was elegant indeed. long, sleek mouth, a sturdy grip.

"i bought this for you..." he murmured examining it.

"what?"

"as a gift. whether you won or not... i had this made for you."

you blinked. who the fuck gifted a gun?

"you couldn't find a scented candle, an anklet, or anything?"

"you want 'em? i can get those too."

"i don't want 'a gun'."

"it's yours. whether or not you use it."

you didn't know why, but it sent a shiver down your spine. "you use it then."

titus smirked. "yeah?"

♬⋆.˚ one of the girls; the weeknd, jennie, lily-rose depp

his eyes narrowed in a particular way that you had seen before. it was the exact look chomsky got before launching himself at unsuspecting limbs. you wouldn't be surprised if titus wiggled his butt a little before pouncing on you either.

"no."

"yes."

you ducked out of there, near your bed and titus followed with obvious intentions.

"titus."

"yeah, baby?"

"don't."

"okay..."

yeah he did not okay. he kept advancing.

"you're literally still moving."

his grin widened as he cornered you by your bed, gently pushing you down. he leaned in, crawling over you as you scrambled back in the mattress.

titus dragged his tongue up your neck, which was still warm from the shower. he heard you breath heavily. god he loved that. his lips ran over your jaw, your cheek, then the corner of your mouth.

"open your mouth," he whispered against your skin.

you did. and instead of feeling his lips or fingers, you felt the hard metal of the gun resting on your lower lip. you hummed in protest, but titus held your head there, fingers digging through your croppy damp hair.

"you said i can use it, right? so i am..."

his grip tightened just a bit.

"suck."

you gulped, but closed your lips around the barrel. you felt him push it in just a bit more, then pull it out, then push it back in. all the while he straddled your hips, looking down at you, casting a shadow over you.

you tasted metal, not quite fond of that flavour, but the back and forth of it inside your mouth quickly became bearable, almost enjoyable when you saw how aroused titus was. you relaxed against your pillow, hands stretched behind you to supposrt you upright. you looked up at him, his—your—gun in your mouth, gave him the same pretty doe eyes you did when you blew him a few days ago.

he smirked.

"cocky girl... you like the gun now huh?"

you rolled your eyes.

"wanna ride it, baby? give it a spin?"

the idea of it should've shocked you, repelled you. made you want to shove him away, have a talk with him and hand him brochures to psych wards.

but it turned you on instead. so you nodded cautiously.

titus pulled the gun out of your mouth, the silver barrel glistening with your saliva.

"yeah? you want that?"

"uh huh..." you said weakly.

he tapped the wet gun against your cheek once. "gotta hear you say it, baby. use your big girl words."

you chuckled against your better judgement, tilting your head looking up at him. "yeah. i wanna try it."

were you a stranger to vibrators? nah. you'd long realised that sometimes your fingers just weren't enough. you'd once experimented with a long mascara tube and that had led you to discover just how badly you needed a toy.

now look at you. watching titus danforth slide a fucking gun down down down between your legs, and watching your hands tug down your shorts and panties so he could... 'take it for a spin'.

at first, he just rubbed the cool metal against your slit, and even that felt awfully good. cold, hard, dangerous, yet so so new, so enthralling. your thighs closed in on their own, force of habit.

"tsk, tsk, tsk, that's now how you do it. keep 'em open, baby."

you whimpered and parted your thighs against. titus pressed down on one with his heavy hand, locking it in place while the other kept sliding the gun's barrel against your cunt. who'd have thought you'd get wet by that...

"up," he ordered and you pushed yourself up and onto his lap, straddling his spread meaty thighs as he sat down on his heels.

he gently pressed the gun against your hole, scanning your face for the first sign of discomfort. but all you had on your face was curiosity. that was fucked up. and he loved it.

he pushed the gun inside just a bit, metallic girth sliding in with a wet squelch. downright obscene, yet it was enchanting watching you get off on the gun he bought you.

you'd gotten bolder. so much bolder; how you went from a reserved, practical woman with wits and philosophy to a manipulator, a strategist, and his dirty, fucking, slut, and he so loved it.

shame—is what you should've felt, gyrating your hips and your pussy over his gun like that, but what could you do. novelty often made you feel good and, well, he did say it was a gift. never said how you could use it.

you felt him slide the gun in deeper, almost the entirety of its barrel. your jaw dropped, breath hitching and falling in short huffs. your hands grabbed his shoulder.

his hand slid around your hip, up and down your back, then hooked aroind your waist.

"you trust me?" he rasped in your ear and you nodded.

"mmmnnhhh... yes."

click!

your eyes locked onto his as you realised he just clicked the safety off.

"titus... wha—"

"shhhh..." he pressed a few kisses to your lips. "i won't hurt you."

every cell in your body should've tensed, resisted the foreign object invading you, but the man before had your guard dismantled. did you trust him? maybe. did you trust the gun? not at all.

in a way, you loved the humiliating dichotomy of it, of contemplating the gun going off while your pussy clamped around it, wetting it even more.

titus chuckled. "ohhh... you like that?"

you returned it with half a chuckle, mostly a moan, your head falling against his shoulder.

"filthy, filthy girl," he cooed against your ear, slowly fucking you with your gun. oh how he wished his cock could be inside you, but in a way, there was something incredibly arousing about pleasing you with an instrument that could also kill you.

and what was titus danforth if not crazy.

he sped up just a bit and watched your body react instantly, fingers digging into his back, breath fanning his neck, hips draaaaaging themselves up and down on the length of the gun. and that made his cock throb. titus had never ever been turned on by guns, never really felt a particular inkling about possessing them or using them. they got the job done.

but now?

you were riding one and he felt every single reaction on his dick instead, imagining the warmth of your pussy engulfing him instead.

he pressed a few kisses and bites along your neck. you whimpered and quivered a little.

"so soon??? don't tell me the gun's better than my dick..."

you whined. "shut uppp"

"nuh uh," he cooed in your ear.

a jolt of pleasure coursed through you when he angled the gun right once, and the itch it scratched, jesus. you asked for forgiveness from divinity when you came around it.

"fuck, so hot, baby..." he grunted, letting you fall back on the bed as he pulled the wet, soaked gun out, watching how your pussy let it go with a little fight.

"best damn show of my life."

you vibrated with a series of laughter, pulling him in for a kiss. titus turned the safety back on and tossed the gun aside on the bed, letting his lips crash onto yours.

"can't believe it... i'm jealous of a fucking gun," he murmured against your lips, his body melting over yours like weighted blanket.

you pretty much spent majority of the night making out till you both got sleepy.

titus just stayed in your room that night, arm draped over you, his face buried in the crook of your neck.

you stared at the ceiling for a while, feeling heavy and light at the same time. you'd survived, and won two games. you couldn't believe it yourself. if circumstances were any different, you'd be finding ways to disappear, let your wrist get cut and run away.

but a part of you—fucked up, tired—had somehow enjoyed the thrill of watching your plan unfold with success. it was surreal.

maybe you'd get to do that again. the next game was only a week away, quite literally built on strategising.

it was just chess, right? what could possibly go wrong?

y/n this episode be like: OUR GIRL IS FUCKING SHIT UP.

now, two things: idk how guns work, i looked up websites. i also don't know how gun play works and im SO SORRY if that made uncomfortable. i just know titus would be down to do that. T_T

if u guys are curious abt my writing process: here's a thing

comme toujours, comments are loved loved loved, reblogs are always welcome, all my ghost readers; u da real gems

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[st-kitten]

a little on my process of writing

i have always enjoyed writing my thoughts onto paper or typing them on my laptop since i was what, 12?

and i've loved reading. i remember my first ever book, which got me to fall in love with reading was jean webster's epistolary novel: 'daddy long legs' (trust me, that's where my need for journaling also began).

so, today, as a writer (of fanfiction, stories, and poetry), i wanna walk you through some of the things i did and am doing while writing the last great demented dynasty

1. i use my notes app extensively. so, any time i have thoughts, prompts, little scenes or lines in my head that i don't want to miss, i put them in my notes app, or sometimes i text them to myself on whatsapp.

2. worldbuilding on obsidian it's clean, it's organised, and all my thoughts stay in one place. it's easier to form connections, to elaborate, and to always have my characters and their traits before me. as well as plot points. ssly, i forgot that y/n's bound to titus by the sigil, so that shopping scene with ursula, where she gives her the ring, was a last-minute panic-realisation that i turned into a plot point. now the ring is a part of the magic (which is seen being used again when y/n leaves the manor). but sometimes i forget a lot of details i mention in my chapters, so having all these tiny things on a dashboard, connected to the characters, to plots, to more details, helps me a lot.

3. reading literature an underrated part of writing truly. sure, the more you write, the better you get at it. but the more you read, the better you get at imagining. when i write, i'm also trying to direct. like a film director: what do i want in my scene, what emotions do i want to convey, what is the body language of my characters? and the answers to these questions, i find them in other books. so while i'm writing, noting down things, or simply brainstorming ideas, i'm also reading multiple books, underlining things that i like (and make me go 'oooo that's nice, i should do something like that), sometimes articles, or actual 'helping' books (like john truby's book on storytelling), which offer tangible advice on writing a scene (with examples).

these are some of the books i have on my rn that i'm reading. for inspo

sidney sheldon: if tomorrow comes h. j. eysenck: crime and personality (to create some immorality amongst my characters and others) suzanne collins: the hunger games, catching fire (online) john truby: the anatomy of a story

how do i use them?

i'll read through some chapters, underline any lines/descriptions/words or phrases i like. and then i'll try to use them in my writing without plagiarising the entire thing.

for example (if tomorrow comes):

i liked the underlined descriptions. and i wanna use them. so i'll put them on obsidian or in my notes app, and then when i have 10-12 such examples, i'll start writing some paragraphs and insert them wherever they fit. so for this one:

you had been spending a few hours on the estate practising your shooting with titus and sebastian. but it had become like oil and water, trying to focus on hitting any target when all you wanted was to drive the mouth of your gun up every single one of that man's orifice and exploit the trigger till he was nothing but a charred, porous piece of flesh. pretty violent, right? which is why you had turned to ursula. she was pragmatic, practical, charmingly unpretentious at times.

and if i like it, it's going in the chapter. (this one is. i like it)

sometimes, i'll use the word/phrasebank i've created for myself where just like annotations of the book, i'll jot down interesting words/sentences/phrases/idioms/descriptions/hilarious responses etc. and pluck a few to use them while i'm writing.

my personal favourite that i surprisingly haven't used yet: "oh please, he's a wet fucking tissue of a man"

4.goals, goals, goals if i ever have a brilliant idea but no way to structure it into events/characters/incidents, i'll fix the goal first. what outcome do i want of a particular section/chapter? and then i'll work backwards from it T_T

e.g. i wanted y/n to killl someone with an empty syringe. but who? when? how? never thought of that. partially, the founding chapters helped set the scene. then i imagined, the best place to find an empty syringe would be the hospital, but who could y/n kill at a place she works at to do the opposite? to help people? couldn't be any of the core characters. so a side one. the actual movie helped too: who died in a hospital? wilkinson. great, let's killhim T_T why though? why randomly? same reason he died in the actual movie: premature attack on grace (unofficial, since the hunt wasn't announced), so same way here. which is why he's gone, she had her first kill and her first real personality-shifting incident.

i haven't really grasped the concept of editing and re-editing. im autistic, i value order, and in my head, writing has to be chronological for me. i can have scenes planned in my head, this happens after this, that after that, and i'll write it in that order only. i physically cannot being myself to write the last scene first or the first scene last. T_T if u leave me to shoot a film, i'll actually shoot linearly. best i stick to writing.

so i'll write the entire chapter start to finish, and then edit chronologically as well.

anyway, c'est ça.

[st-kitten]

the last great demented dynasty XVI

titus danforth x y/n

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a/n: throughout the chapters, certain songs will be mentioned at the beginning or after a partition. the music is chosen mostly for the vibes and the melody. if the lyrics align, yay. if not, play along. but i highly recommend listening to the songs on loop for its section if you're a 'take-your-time' reader. idk, the music just adds some oomf to it.

summary: the first game of the necrofest begins. will you survive? win? lose? or will you make it worse?

warnings: SPOILERS:- mention of guns, LOTS OF ALCOHOL. not kidding. smoking, getting high, drugs, mention of 'daddy' again, being drugged, brief ursula x reader, fingering (f. receiving), mention of cocaine/coke, bathroom sex lfgggg, piv, name calling (whore), mention/description of seizure, implied character death

again, songs are a vibe. immaculate discoveries for you.

ursula liked her solitude.

most days were spent buried beneath ledgers, investment portfolios, and the endless machinery of the family business. every now and then, when the numbers began to blur together and the sound of people became intolerable, she disappeared to the shooting range behind the estate. it was one of the few things she genuinely enjoyed.

heels dug into loose gravel. the afternoon sun glinted off gold jewelry and dark sunglasses. none of it mattered. stilettos, pebbles, uneven ground—she never missed.

the target downrange was proof enough. a dozen clean holes clustered so tightly around the center that they were beginning to tear through one another.

"i didn't know you could shoot like that."

ursula did not turn immediately. she knew your voice.

she allowed herself a small smile instead, keeping her eyes fixed on the target as she adjusted her grip.

"titus looks good holding a gun," she said pleasantly.

the pistol clicked as she cocked it.

"but i'm the better markswoman."

the report cracked through the afternoon air and a thirteenth hole appeared dead center. only then did she lower the weapon.

you crossed the gravel slowly, hands tucked into your pockets against the heat. she heard the crunch of your footsteps as you stopped beside her. close enough for conversation.

"if you teach me how to shoot like that..."

ursula tilted her head slightly.

"i'll make sure the high seat is yours."

that made her look at you. simply enough to let you know that, for the first time since you'd arrived, you had her full attention. the smile remained on her lips. everything else pretty much disappeared.

you could practically see the calculations happening behind her eyes. trust. motive. risk. opportunity. were you useful? stupid? both?

"and why," she asked, "should i believe a word of that?"

"because i'd like to live."

a short laugh escaped her.

"and because i never wanted your seat in the first place."

"that's a refreshing sentiment."

she turned back toward the target, studying the ruined center as though the conversation were of only passing interest. only it wasn't and you both knew that.

"humour me, then. how exactly do you intend to accomplish this?"

"depends."

"on what?"

ursula arched a brow and the answer finally pulled her eyes back to yours.

a grin tugged at the corner of your mouth. "how good are you at keeping your brother on a leash?"

boy did that smile drop off her face. because that, unlike promises of power or inheritance, was a question with no easy answer.

"oh and... i need another dress," you chirped as you turned and took your leave, leaving ursula with a second long eye contact and a little smile.

♬⋆.˚ millionaire; yo yo honey singh

there was something else about nightclubs whose owners practically lived there. every council family seemed to have turned up early, circling one another beneath the pretence of celebration while waiting for the first game to begin.

loud music blasted through the thousand dollar speakers, heavy bass rattling and bouncing off the walls, red black and blue lights covering every surface like a rainforest. cigarette smoke hung thick in the air. so did the scent of expensive liquor, sweat, and whatever people were passing between themselves in dark corners. everything blurred together beneath the lights and haze, creating the unsettling sensation that you'd stepped into another reality.

and you did, having pulled up to 'club kama' with ursula after another round of shopping your way through half the city. okay maybe you had a guilty pleasure.

it was worth knowing every single person in that room wanted you dead...

and still couldn't take their eyes off you.

how could they?

you wore a gorgeous blood red party dress, hem cut off at your plump thighs, legs for days in the louboutin boots ursula loaned you. a heavy black leather jacket sat on your shoulders, exposing just enough of your collarbone, the shimmering top of your breasts, and a tiny, flashy—laughably out of place—silver cross across your neck, as if to ward off all the satanic devils around you. maybe they'd combust into flames.

you lowkey loved it. the looks, the whispers, the way conversations faltered. it was one of the most satisfying moments to walk through them, past your father who tried to 'greet' you to his side, ignoring his existence.

titus was halfway through a conversation with one of the rajans, one he wasn't listening to when his eyes fell on you. and everything about you caught his attention.

the dress, the boots that made you taller than him tonight, the jacket, the cross...

his eyes traveled down to your boobs before he could stop them. immediately regretting it. immediately doing it again.

because fuck. you looked ridiculous. in a really really bad way for his health. in the sense that nobody should have been allowed to look that good around people other than him.

he forgot about the rajans, the games, your father. forgot the dozens of people downstairs who would happily watch one another die for a ring. all of it vanished beneath the simple fact that you had just walked into the room.

"bro, is that her?" madhu rajan asked, leaning towards titus, cigarette on his breath.

titus blinked.

"what?"

oh he wasn't listening. he knew he wasn't listening. his focus was on you and how everyone's focus was on you. men, women. people who wanted your downfall. the fact that you knew exactly what room you were entering. knew exactly who was present. knew exactly how many people here considered you competition.

all of them noticed exactly what he had. possessiveness settled in his stomach and he hated every second of it.

his drink remained forgotten, sweating in his hand. he watched you walk past your father, neglecting the man even though you were on his family team.

and despite the politics, despite the fact that your existence now complicated his life, his seat, his family's legacy—a grin pulled at the corner of his mouth.

because that was beautiful. absolutely beautiful.

you climbed up to the lounge, where has seated, legs spread, bourbon in his hand. and the second his eyes met yours, he noticed the absoulte lack of fear in you. fuck.

brass balls for that because half the room wanted you dead. and titus had never wanted you more before that.

"careful," said ursula, appearing beside him like an omen, a shark smelling blood, taking a seat next to him.

titus immediately looked away, making her laugh.

"oh that's embarrassing."

"shut up."

"can't keep it in your pants, can you?" she chirped in his ear.

titus looked at his twin sister, a glare forming on his face.

"we had the boutique send us their pieces home today. watched her try on a few dresses..."

she took titus' bourbon and drained it in one gulp.

"...and some lingerie."

oof the silence that followed was louder than the club music. he looked at his sister, deadpan, she stared at him back.

"i'm going to kill you."

"you say that every week."

"why would you tell me that?"

"because i can, titus."

his imagination had already betrayed him, showing him flashes of you, undressed, some lacy bra holding your tits snug, matching panties covering where his hands or mouth or dick should be.

"look at him," she cackled to nobody in particular. "he's having a religious experience." she wasn't entirely wrong.

titus glanced towards you again despite himself. that turned out be such a worthy mistake.

you sat on the circular lounge sofas, one thigh draped over the other, your dress riding up up up till he could almost see if you were wearing anything fancy or not, both your arms resting over the backrest like you were relaxing in a tub. you wore no smile, no frown.

his chest tightened immediately. "for fuck's sake," he muttered, adjusting his trousers.

"hopeless," ursula diagnosed.

titus knew she was right. he was fucking hopeless. years ago, he'd looked at women and seen entertainment. but with you, it felt less like just attraction and more like a terminal condition. he would feel his own attention orbiting around you every time, no matter how hard he resisted.

downstairs, people were preparing for the opening of the games. upstairs, titus danforth was losing a battle far older and far more humiliating.

soon enough, the lawyer had everyone seated by house. the danforth twins occupied one end of the curved lounge sofa, you and your father, whom you sat considerably away from, took the other end, facing titus. to your right were the el caídos, then the silcoxes, well, mostly mr and mrs silcox. their next of kin were standing behind them. in the centre of the sofa, was the house team: madhu and viraj rajan. then the le domases, siblings like danforths, with their extended family behind them as well, and next to them the cheng fus, which were really just a mother and her ipad kid, and a bigger man standing behind them, arms crossed.

the lawyer, who was also the judge/the referee/the umpire, ye little jack of all rituals, cleared his throat.

"now that everyone's here, let's sign the contract. remember, signing the contract binds you to the rules of the game. once you've signed, failure to adhere to the rules will result in... grotesque consequences."

with a flick of his wrist, he produced another thick book. it simply existed where there had been empty air a second ago. okay, you had to admit, it was fucking cool seeing apparitions like that.

.apparently it contained several such contacts, for every hunt that had ever been held. its pages were actually, literally, older than you. it was... unbelievably thick. so enormous that two people could probably stand on it.

one by one, the representatives stepped forward. the lawyer presented a silver pen whose nib ended in a vicious little point. each player pressed their thumb against it, a bead of blood surfacing immediately. and then it vanished, the pen clean as new.

then came the signatures. house after house; blood, name, blood name.

your turn arrived and your stomach tightened. you already knew there was no escaping it. you had known that from the moment the games were explained. still, walking forward felt like approaching the guillotine.

the lawyer took your hand. the nib pierced the tip of your right index finger. you watched blood gather for a moment before it rolled down the side of your finger.

"sign here, please."

you signed with your left hand, feeling eyes on you. the tiniest of smirks tugged at your mouth. you didn't even need to look.

the man was seated only a few feet away, watching you with the same concentration a starving dog might dedicate to a juicy steak. you could practically hear the wagging tail and drooling mouth. without thinking much about it, you extended your injured finger towards him.

his reaction was spontaneous.

titus leaned forward from the sofa, summoned.

a collective stillness fell over the lounge, people tried not to blink and miss the scene.

the heir to the danforth family had a hand wrapped around your wrist with complete ease and your finger in his mouth as he sucked your blood once again, till it stopped bleeding.

titus released your finger without shame, tongue lapping up the last of red. it was downright diabolical how far gone that man was for you. the rest of the council members couldn't believe their eyes, watching him behave like a fucking pavlovian doberman.

the le domases and silcoxes looked at titus questioningly. weren't you their rival? mortal enemy?

"got something to say?" he asked.

they looked away and at their laps or drinks or each other.

"thought so."

you pressed your lips together.

the worst part was that titus genuinely had no idea why everyone was staring. to him, the sequence of events had been perfectly logical. you got hurt, you offered him your hand, he accepted. end of story.

and judging by the look on sebastian's face, your father seemed uncertain whether he was more disturbed by titus or by the fact that you appeared entirely accustomed to it.

the game, as it was announced to commence, was set up on another floor overlooking the club. vip floor if you will. a large round table was set up, with multicoloured papercups arranged in a pyramid of 5, one set for each council family. so you stood before purple papercups with beer in them, between the cheng fu family and the le domases, with respective papercups of green and yellow. "the rules are simple. each player takes a turn tossing the balls into 1 cup from each council family. you land, you get a point, and your opponent has to drink. you miss, you don't get a point. first family to clear out the most cups wins. i'll be keeping score," the lawyer explained, backing away and taking a seat in a high chair that oversaw the entire table.

okay. weird rich people. weird cult. weird nightclub. whatever. these were pretty much your thoughts.

the game started.

♬⋆.˚ manali trance; yo yo honey singh, neha kakkar

being the former occupant of the high seat, titus got the first turn. he plucked a ping pong ball, angling it just right and tossed it. it hit the table once, and landed right into viraj rajan's cup.

a celebratory round of applause rippled across the table, mostly since it was the first shot. now everyone could get cut throat.

viraj sighed dramatically, picked up his cup and downed it in one go, tossing the papercup away and spitting the ball out. you probably expected him to voice out irritation or maybe the taste of plastic beer.

instead, he wiped his mouth and blurted out, "i embezzle money out of my non-profits every month."

a few people groaned.

"again bro? i thought you stopped doing that," his own brother sighed.

the el caído council member went, "ah hijo de puta, come on, you can do worse."

he just shrugged and let the game continue.

titus missed most of them, much to a bitter aftertaste of his ego he swallowed. then the last ball landed in the silcox cup.

my silcox drank his beer, coughed a little, groaning at the harsh taste. "i knocked up every maid we had so my wife hired male butlers... I FUCKED THEM TOO!" he barked out a laugh that ended in a belch.

laughter and hysterical cackles echoed all around the table. mrs silcox pinched the bridge of her nose. "seriously, gregory?"

okay...

what was happening?

the man seemed almost as surprised as everyone else. not because of the information itself, but because he'd said it aloud. like the words had simply escaped, like he'd been unable to stop them.

the cheng fus were next, and the tall, broad, hefty man from before took the first shot. guess he was their blood representative instead of the mother. his shot missed a few cups because he was too aggressive.

then his ball landed in titus' cup.

lmao, you thought.

as normal as titus was, he picked up his cup, grumbling a little about the odds of the dimwitted sumo wrestler's shot somehow landing in his cup only.

he drank the beer, spitting out the ball back at the man, whose nose fumed out a smoke of anger.

he set the cup down and damn nearly burped, "y/n called me daddy and i liked it."

you froze. your soul left your body.

the silence was instantaneous.

the lawyer raised his eyebrow, amused. ursula gawked. the younger rajan folded in half, hand pressed to his mouth concealing laughter. your father, who was a few feet behind you, with the rest of the audience, palmed his forehead, avoiding any eye contact with the others who snickered.

your head snapped towards titus.

"what?"

titus blinked, apparently just as surprised as everyone else, like he hadn't intended to say it.

"what?"

"WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT?"

"just... playing the game, baby."

you could practically watch him trying to shove the words back into his mouth.

"what do you mean?"

"what do 'you' mean??"

okay what the fuck was happening? was this some bizarre tradition? was everyone suddenly a lightweight?

you looked down at the beer, golden, fizzy. nothing odd. but your mind couldn't sit still. nobody seemed capable of stopping themselves. the moment the cup was emptied, the truth simply came out.

and random, even in-house beer the size of a gulp wouldn't do that.

the lack of hesitation or filter, the absurdity of it all churned in your stomach as your brain tried to find reason.

no way right?

"is this beer laced?" you asked the the older rajan.

he smiled. "in house specialty, 'baby'." a pouty, jealous titus wriggled somewhere in the spot

clinically, there was only one substance strong enough to do whatever the beer was doing.

"is there fucking sodium pentothal in the beer?" you asked the lawyer.

he smiled playfully. "and a bit of mr le bail's cheers."

what the fuck...? the concoction was possibly fatal if consumed in large quantities.

when it was your turn, you decided you needed proof.

not that the evidence wasn't already mounting. people had been confessing to crimes, affairs, fraud, tax evasion, and whatever perverse damage titus had just inflicted upon himself. but the scientist in you wanted confrimation.

you rolled the ping pong ball between your fingers and took a slow breath. more importantly, you absolutely did not want that ball landing in your own cup.

if there truly was some magical equivalent of sodium pentothal in the beer, then every cup on that table was effectively a loaded gun. you didn't even want to imagine what would come out of your mouth if you were forced to drink. your brain contained entirely too many thoughts that were meant to stay inside your brain.

the beer itself looked perfectly normal. golden, carbonated, smelling exactly like beer should. somehow, whatever occult nonsense the rajans had performed had preserved the appearance, taste, and apparently even the drinkability of it while still forcing the drinker into a state of involuntary honesty.

what kind of beer pong was this?

it was horrifying.

you focused on the cups closest to you. the le domases.

and years of university parties suddenly became useful in the worst possible circumstances. your wrist flicked, the ball sailed, bounced once, struck the rim of the cup, spun a little dramatically, and then dropped straight into the cup.

you let out a breath.

across the table, mr le domas looked personally offended by the outcome. he muttered something in french that sounded deeply impolite, snatched up the cup, and emptied it in one go.

for a moment, nothing happened. then his shoulders slumped. his expression soured. and with all the enthusiasm of a man reading his own execution notice, he said, "god, i wish my sister died already."

your head turned towards the woman sitting beside him. said sister looked as though she was calculating prison years.

mr le domas, meanwhile, appeared equally horrified by his own statement. he rubbed a hand over his face and groaned.

"really..." his sister asked.

"i didn't meant to say it."

"but you meant it."

and just like that, the game continued. you stared at the discarded cup sitting on the table.

yep. definitely not normal beer. by the third round, you had stopped questioning whether the beer was cursed. it was.

every successful shot was followed by another confession that should never have seen daylight. the council members had long abandoned any pretence of dignity and instead seemed resigned to whatever fresh humiliation the game decided to drag out of them.

the older rajan patriarch had been forced to admit that he'd been smuggling drugs through three of his own clubs for nearly fifteen years. his wife had reacted by smacking him across the back of the head with a cocktail menu.

a silcox cousin had confessed to paying someone to complete his harvard university degree.

the el caído head laughed out the fact that he just buried one of his tios alive in the dessert in mexico.

you had almost become desensitised to the weird secrets.

then your next throw landed in one of the cheng fu cups. the ball bounced once against the rim before dropping inside.

the room let out a collective groan. hah! suck it losers.

mr cheng fu sighed heavily, picked up the cup, and emptied it. for a moment, he seemed hopeful. then the magic struck.

and against every instinct screaming inside him, he muttered, "sometimes i still ask my mother to breastfeed me."

you felt your soul attempt to evacuate through your ears. your entire face twisted in visible disgust. like, genuine, involuntary disgust. it physically altered your facial features.

every single person's jaw fell agape. the lawyer too, fist covering his mouth, but his shoulders shook. people were choking on drinks.

mr cheng fu immediately buried his face in both hands.

you tossed it one last time, and the ball landed in titus' cup. your stomach immediately dropped. because unlike everyone else's secrets, you had a concerning feeling about his.

because titus was titus. there was no possible outcome here that ended well. and why the fuck were all his confessions about you? hadn't he done something objectively worse that he could spill?

across the table, he looked annoyed before picking up the cup.

he drank, crushed the paper cup, and then sat there with the expression of a man watching a meteor approach earth.

you closed your eyes.

"please don't."

"i have six hundred and twenty-three photos of you sleeping in my bed... and i've jerked off to every single one of them."

you dragged a palm down your face immediately. you genuinely considered just dying at this point. perhaps immediately.

"TITUS."

"that's actually lower than i expected. i thought it'd be in the thousands.," ursula commented.

"URSULA."

titus looked almost offended. "i deleted duplicates."

you made a strangled noise.

for all the laughter the game had produced so far, none of it reached you when a rajan ball finally bounced across the table and dropped neatly into your cup.

the sound was small, just plastic against plastic. yet it seemed louder than anything else in the room.

your stomach immediately sank... because unlike everybody else's secrets, yours actually mattered.

two days ago, hidden away in your room with the dementhund practically opening itself before you, you'd stumbled upon something that changed everything.

an actual legal loophole buried inside centuries of rituals. the kind of discovery that could keep you alive. the kind that abso-fucking-lutely could not be spoken aloud.

you tried desperately to tell yourself half-truths, distorted versions, misreads.

"drink up," viraj called.

every god from every religion suddenly became relevant to you. you prayed to all of them simultaneously.

then you took a sip.

the beer burned slightly as it slid down your throat. not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you that something unnatural had been mixed into it.

for a second, nothing happened. then the familiar dizziness hit. a strange pressure settled behind your eyes, your thoughts felt slippery.

your gaze automatically found titus.

he was watching you with an amused curiosity that instantly made you nervous. the bastard looked excited. of course he did.

then your mouth opened, you felt it happen, felt the words pushing forward, felt your own body betraying you.

"i'mmmm going to win the games... and the seat."

the room quieted. enough for panic to explode inside your chest.

shit. shit. shit.

your head swam like it was in a trance. enough of the truth came out that you immediately scrambled for the nearest explanation. and before anyone could linger on what you'd said, another sentence tumbled out.

"because titus has been training me to beat all of you," you deliberately slurred.

the room collectively groaned.

fucking mercifully.

"knew it."

"seriously, danforth?"

"why didn't we think of it?"

"pussy game that good bro?"

titus ignored all the remarks, though absorbed the seething envy from each of them, a little smug, a little proud.

several people began arguing about whether personal training counted as an unfair advantage. another argued that titus being your coach was basically cheating. that the rules never mentioned alliances could be made...

you sat there trying not to visibly collapse. your pulse slowly settled. the panic began draining from your limbs. like the weight of the truth finally liberated you.

you glanced at ursula, who caught your eyes. and after a tense flicker of concern, she smiled and gave the slightest nod. they bought it. you nodded back.

thank god. your lungs finally decided to function. everyone else had moved on.

everyone except one person.

across the room, the lawyer was watching you. he wasn't smiling. his fingers remained folded over the handle of his cane while his gaze rested steadily on you. you knew that look. you'd seen academics wear it before. it was the look reviewer 2 always had when peer-reviewing your papers.

because unlike everyone else in the room, the lawyer knew exactly how dangerous words could be. and judging by the look in his eyes, he wasn't entirely convinced that "titus has been training me" was the whole truth.

he held your gaze for another moment before finally looking away, which somehow felt much worse.

a few more rounds went by. you were arguable the better player than everyone, and you'd succeeded in wiping out the el caído family. four shots landing in their cups on each turn.

titus took the ball between his fingers, and looked straight at you. ugh. immediately, you knew he was about to be insufferable.

the alcohol had softened the edges of your thoughts. not enough to make you drunk, but enough that the tension in your shoulders had loosened. everyones faces blurred into one obscure shape whenever you looked too quickly between them.

"you ready, baby?" he cooed, before tossing it, and watching it arc flawlessly and flop in your cup. the second time you'd be drinking that awful concoction.

you sighed and did it anyway. the cursed beer waited patiently in the cup. your thoughts felt wrapped in cotton. not gone, just slower. less anxious. for the first time in weeks, the constant pressure sitting on your chest had eased. which was probably why the rajans used this particular game. drunk people cursed themselves into fuck ups.

you knocked back the beer. your throat burned.

the room tilted briefly. then came the familiar sensation of the magic settling over you.

and before you could stop yourself—"i killed wilkinson."

silence. utter silence. you closed your eyes. fuck.

across the table, someone blinked. "you what?"

another council member sat upright. "wait."

"wilkinson?"

"i thought he drowned."

"what the hell?"

conversations immediately exploded around the table.

you rubbed your forehead. this was exactly why you'd been terrified of drinking. the truth itself wasn't even the problem. the fucking context was. because now you had a room full of occult aristocrats trying to piece together a homicide.

before the discussion could spiral further, the lawyer cleared his throat, speaking calmly like a waiter checking dinner reservations. "it occurred before the necrofest was formally announced."

his gaze swept across the table. "therefore it falls outside competition jurisdiction."

a few disappointed groans followed. "so it doesn't count?"

"correct."

"shame."

"that's boring."

you, meanwhile, wanted the floor to open beneath you. swallow you whole like sita.

because while most people looked shocked, titus looked like he'd just been handed the greatest gift of his life.

madhu rajan turned towards him slowly.

then looked at you. then back at him.

"bro."

titus didn't look away from you.

"what."

madhu pointed across the table. "she's perfect."

"i know," titus smirked.

there was not an ounce of hesitation in his response. you stared at him all dazed and blurry eyed and he just fawned over you, looking even more pleased than before.

weeks ago, you'd been sobbing over wilkinson's death. barely able to say his name without guilt clawing at your throat. you'd questioned yourself endlessly. replayed the attack over and over in your head. wondered whether defending yourself had somehow made you monstrous.

and now, under the influence of cursed beer and far too many near-death experiences, you'd simply stated the fact. not a fucking apology in your tone.

the pride on titus' face should have been concerning.

and somehow, against every reasonable prediction, every statistical probability, and every attempt made by the universe to ruin your life, you won.

the game had descended into complete chaos somewhere around the halfway mark. people were buzzed, cursed, emotional, oversharing, and increasingly distracted by the secrets being unearthed around the table. by the end, half the council seemed more invested in everyone's scandals than the actual competition.

you had simply kept throwing. throwing and surviving, occasionally drinking, occasionally regretting drinking. and apparently scoring points.

the lawyer sat quietly at the end of the table throughout the entire ordeal, making notes with the concentration of a monk. eventually, after the final ball had been thrown and the final confession extracted from some unfortunate soul, he closed his ledger.

"well," he said.

he looked up. "with twenty-two successful cups..."

his gaze landed on you.

"congratulations, miss l/n."

for a second, you genuinely thought he'd made a mistake. 22? really? your mind rapidly retraced the evening.

huh.

everybody was staring. you hated it immediately. dozens of eyes settled on you from around the table. some looked as though they had just realised you might actually be a problem.

for the last few weeks, you'd been trying very hard not to become important. important people got targeted, got dragged into rituals, hunted through forests and forced into supernatural fuckery.

important people died.

and now every person in the room was looking at you like you'd just announced yourself as a real contender.

so instead, you gave the lawyer a thumbs up.

"cool."

"that's it?" asked one of the rajans.

you shrugged. "what do you want me to do?"

"you just won."

"yeah."

"the first game."

"still got 5 more."

a few people grimaced, which honestly made you feel a little better, because that was the thing nobody seemed to understand. they were treating this like some great victory.

all you'd won was green signal to continue.

there were still guns to shoot, checks to give, horses to survive, combat wrestling to endure and whatever horrifying nonsense the danforths considered hide and seek.

the only person who looked genuinely delighted was titus. he sat there looking entirely too pleased with himself, as though he'd personally won the game.

across the room, behind you, however, your gaze briefly caught another figure.

sebastian.

he watched you with a look you didn't quite understand. the look of a man realising that the piece he'd moved across the board might be more dangerous than he'd initially intended.

everyone had accepted your victory with varying degrees of grace.

the lawyer announced the result, the rajans complained for approximately thirty seconds before shrugging and drinking leftover beer from every other cup. the silcoxes accused everyone of collusion, mr cheng fu family demanded a recount despite not having paid attention to half the game, too busy apologising to mommy, and then, because they were all wealthy degenerates with the attention span of goldfish, they just... moved on.

♬⋆.˚ sooraj dooba hain (from roy); arijit singh, aditi singh sharma

club kama returned to what it did best.

the music grew louder. servers drifted through the lounge carrying trays of drinks. cigars were clipped and lit. somebody produced a silver case that definitely did not contain mints. neat lines of white powder appeared on a mirrored tabletop as naturally as if they had been part of the decor all along. american express cards emerged from designer wallets and began performing their sacred duty.

you had long since decided there was no point questioning any of it. and after the fucking month you had, a nice gimlet seemed downright medicinal.

you sat curled into one corner of a massive couch, nursing the drink and trying not to think about the fact that half the room would probably celebrate your funeral if given the chance.

across from you, titus lounged like he owned oxygen.

one of the younger rajans kept glancing in your direction. he leaned towards his brother and muttered something in hindi.

"iski bandi pata loon? kya kehte ho?" (should i try and steal his girl? what do you think?)

the words barely left his mouth before you lifted your glass and looked him dead in the eye, nodding once at titus

"koshish kar sakte ho. bas iske haath maut aayegi." (you can try. you'll just die at his hands.)

both rajans coughed on their drinks. the younger one looked genuinely startled. neither knew you could speak hindi. then slowly, very slowly, they turned towards titus, who just raised an eyebrow.

the younger rajan immediately lifted both hands.

"my bad, bro."

you took another sip. "smart choice."

the conversation died there mostly because the younger rajan was now staring at you like you'd suddenly grown horns.

"you speak hindi?"

"clearly..."

"that's... scary."

"thank you."

the younger rajan pointed at you, addressing whoever was arund him. "she fucking won, y'all."

a chorus of agreement followed. "she did."

"fair."

"annoyingly."

"still don't know how."

another voice emerged from somewhere near the far end of the table. "winners get prizs, right?"

"yeah."

"do they?"

"what prize?"

the younger rajan grinned. "victory kiss."

you nearly choked on your drink. "absolutely not."

"why?"

"because."

"kiss." the younger rajan stared back. then another joined.

"kiss."

another voice followed.

"kiss."

a third.

"kiss."

what the fuck? grown ass people acting like teenagers in a smash pit. oh, you recognised mob mentality when you saw it. within seconds the chant spread across the lounge.

the rajans were doing it, the younger silcoxes were doing it, one of the cheng fus was doing it while simultaneously scrolling on his ipad. even a few older council members appeared amused enough to participate.

"kiss the danforth."

"kiss the danforth."

"kiss the danforth."

the chant only grew louder. hell, some of the club visitors downstairs also joined in, head banging to the music.

you dragged a hand down your face. children. every last fucking one of them.

your eyes shifted towards titus.

he was enjoying this entirely too much. the bastard was practically glowing. his grin stretched wider with every repetition of the chant. you could witness the exact moment he convinced himself that he was about to be rewarded for existing.

you sighed heavily. then took another sip of gin.

the alcohol warming your bloodstream did not improve your judgement. if anything, it made poor decisions seem funny. slowly, you placed the glass on the armrest. the chanting intensified immediately.

"kiss the danforth."

"kiss the danforth."

"kiss the danforth."

you rolled your eyes. then shrugged off your jacket. and everyone reacted too embarrassingly for their age and criminal records.

half the room erupted into whistles.

"ooooh."

"it's happening."

"look at him."

"he's trying not to smile."

titus was absolutely trying not to smile. and failing miserably.

you leaned forward, slowly getting off your couch, arms planted on the table between you, crawling forward forward forward, across polished wood as you slowly crossed the distance.

titus looked at you hungrily, his gaze following every inch of your approach, at your very obvious, very sexy cleavage. you stopped directly in front of him. close enough to feel his breath. close enough to see the triumph already forming in his eyes.

everyone held their breaths, watching the nat geo show of you, a panthress, crawling to titus, a doberman, with the gorgeous curve of your ass on display.

titus tilted his head slightly, his grin softening. awwww...

your face moved closer.

and closer.

then, at the last second, you turned...

...and kissed the danforth beside him.

for perhaps half a second the lounge malfunctioned.

ursula looked shocked herself, just enough that her eyes widened before a laugh escaped her. but damn if she didn't kiss you back.

her lips were softer than his. much softer. they even tasted like vanilla. you kissed her sweetly, then... just to piss him off, parted your mouth just enough, like you did for him, and ursula—cunning as she always was—let you, planting a wet mouthy kiss on you, tongues gliding against each other playfully.

when you pulled back, you licked your lips, draaaaaging your tongue slowly over yours, as if to taste her one last time. she gave you a pleasant smirk, wiping off her lipstick stain off the corner of your mouth.

the room exploded with screams and laughs and hefty claps on the backs.

lord, sebastian tried not to look at you. he did not want to see is daughter kiss a woman, let alone another fucking danforth.

you pulled away laughing, dimples sinking at your flushed cheeks. ursula was laughing too, biting her lip, seriously entertained.

and titus—well... you decide.

"that's not the danforthhhhh," the younger rajan groaned.

"that is literally a danforth," you replied.

"you know what i meant."

you turned around to look at the lawyer, batting your eyelashes at the man, giving him a smirk.

"technically," he said after a moment of consideration, "the player successfully... kissed a danforth."

the room erupted again. "no!"

"rigged."

"que paso hermano !!!."

"fucking judicial corruption."

the lawyer shrugged. "i don't make the rules."

"you literally do, jackass."

meanwhile titus sat motionless, only there was a new level of offence mixed in his stare. he looked ready to challenge his own sister to mortal combat.

oh, he was furious. wounded pride and all. one moment titus was seated, glaring at you from across the table while his sister looked entirely too pleased with herself.

the next, he was on his feet.

conversation stalled around him because everybody knew that look. it was the same look titus wore before making extremely poor decisions.

"uh oh," muttered one of the rajans.

you took one look at his face and immediately pointed at him.

"don't."

"come again?" he asked calmly. and that was... not so good. because whenever titus became calm, it usually meant somebody else's day was about to get significantly worse.

you took a cautious step backwards.

"titus."

he took one step forwards.

"baby."

"don't 'baby' me."

"then stop causing problems."

you got approximately three steps before a large hand wrapped around your waist and before you could formulate another argument, the floor vanished. or rather, your feet did.

the entire room tilted violently as you were hauled upwards. you let out a very undignified noise.

"titusss"

he had already thrown you over his shoulder; just picked you up like luggage, like a damn sack of potatoes. your stomach dropped as blood rushed to your head.

"put me down!"

"nope."

"you can't just do that!"

"watch me."

the lounge erupted in cheering once more. grown adults, do you hear that? business owners, cultists, supposedly mature enough people. but no. all of them reacted as though they'd just witnessed the final scoring goal of the fucking world cup.

"there he is!"

"there's the danforth i know."

"fucking finally."

you smacked his back hard. he didn't even react. it was like punching a brick wall. he carried you towards the nearest space away from the lounge, long strides covering distance quickly.

you raised your head, straining your neck enough to plead for help from the spectators, but they were spectators for a reason.

"ursula!" you shouted.

she lifted her glass. "have fun!"

"you're dead to me!"

"love you too!"

you groaned into titus' back. his hand tightened slightly against the back of your thighs.

your protest turned into a gasp when his hand cracked against your ass; a sharp slap that made your flesh jiggle.

you felt his hand soothe your skin a little, drawing little hearts over the globe of your ass before his palm spanked it again. slap!

you whined. "stop thatttt"

your vision blurred and flipped back up as he put you down, and locking the door to the posh, black-lit bathroom in the club, the music still loud inside under the red lights. you wobbled in place for a moment, adjusting to your surroundings. but all you saw was him, slowly take steps towards you.

his hands settled on your hips, grabbing tightly. and he looked at you, up at you, given how taller you were with those boots on. but he still held your gaze authoritatively, you know, that old man sexy glare.

"you... are gonna pay for that."

you sucked in a short breath. "you jealous?"

"i own you," he said too quickly.

"not ursula. not 'david', not your fucking father... me. i do."

oh, he was jealous jealous.

"and you..." titus murmured against your neck, scruffy spots of the stubble on his jaw brushing against your skin. "don't kiss anyone else but me."

you snorted a laugh, placing your arms over his shoulders, hands locked behind his head.

"i'm not joking, baby..." he said lowly, seriously.

"like you're not fantasising about a threesome..." you blurted out in your defence, but he only smiled.

"you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

jesus... you were so glad the game ended before he could admit that out loud.

before you could say anything, titus shoved you against the wall, your back hitting the cold tiles with a soft thud! he buried his nose in your neck, licked the damp sweat on your skin, and sucked on it till it turned blue.

your hands grabbed his curls and he only bit harder.

"bet you'd loveeee fucking the both of us. love the attention... like a fucking whore."

you whacked whatever demon lay in you that shuddered and got wet at his words. any man saying even hello in a wrong tone had you whip out a collapsible baton from your purse, but here you were, holding back a moan at titus danforth calling you a whore.

"you're my whore first..."

and then he kissed you, planted his lips right onto yours, harder, harsher, rougher, as if to erase the trace of his sister's lips off yours.

"she can't give you what i do, baby," he whispered against your lips before sliding his tongue inside, tasting the laced beer off your tongue.

"god i'm so fucking hard for you..." he groaned in your mouth, teeth biting into the silver cross that lay across your neck, tugging at it, making your head jerk closer to his.

he breathed you in, hand snaking down to his back pocket, taking out a tiny sachet.

"i-i'm not..."

"'s f'me. can i do a line off your tits, baby? you owe me that much."

again, what the fuck was wrong with you for loving every single thing he did to you?

"y-yeah go for it."

he pulled the neck of your dress down, and seriously moaned when he sawe the lace of a bra he'd never seen you in. but he'd get to that some other time. if you were going to shop for lingerie with anyone, it was going to be him, not ursula.

he bit and tore the sachet, sprinkling it all over your boobs. and shoved his face right in, nosedeep between the soft, plump flesh of your titus, inhaling your scent, the coke, and the pure euphoria that bloomed out of you. he groaned as he pulled away, absolutely ecstatic.

titus snuck his hand down your dress, and under it, fingers teasing you through your damp panties a few times, just his fingertips moving up and down lightly, then he tugged them off, taking the matching fabric off your legs, and pocketed it.

he slid two fingers of his between your slit, the same way he always did. it was like entering the password to opening the world's most incredible vault.

oh you were so done for. wet, pulsing, needy.

"no one gets you this wet, you hear me?" he growled in your ear as his fingers glossed over your flesh, till it dripped off how much you wanted him.

he pushed his fingers in you, curling them a few times, pulling them out, the pushing back in until all your wetness drooled over his hand, the hilt of his palm brushing against your clit ever so often. you got wet too fast, embarrassingly fast with him.

you panted and whimpered, suddenly very very glad you pulled that stunt out there. if this is what it ended up being...

you were so fucking pretty when you made those noises.

"you can play your games, baby... make 'em laugh, tease me, make 'em forget they're trying to kill you."

he sucked on your lip once.

"but i'm the one you submit to, isn't it? all pretty and whiny..." he punctuated his words with a few quick thrusts of his fingers, enough to drag a few moans out of you.

"yeahhh, just like that..." he ladled out more slick out of your hole, letting it web between his fingers, which he pulled out of you suddenly, leaving you to whine and writhe.

he dug his wet hand through his sticky pants, diving straight down to his dick, pumping it out of the confines of his clothes. proud, swollen inches glistened before you, his hand coating them with your wetness.

he slid long drags of his head down your slit a few times, watching it tear up and cry for more.

"you want it?"

you nodded impatiently, your hands grabbing his bicep, his shoulder.

"then tell me you're mine." he tapped his tip heavily over your pussy. "say it."

you whined, your head falling over his shoulder. "fuckkk... i'm yours... yours... please... fuck me."

"i'm not convinced, baby. you kissed my sister."

"only to make you furious."

"is that so?" he pushed just his tip in, making you almost sigh in relief, before he pulled out, and just let the wet head bump against your inner thigh.

"mmmyessss." you nuzzled your nose against his jaw. "don't you wanna show them who fucks me good?"

"i know i do, baby. do you?"

"show me again just in case i forget..."

he snickered, and slowly pushed in, his dick sliding in you with barely any resistance. he fucking loved that. you'd get so wet that it was just too easy to embed himself in you. and sliding into you raw?

"ohhhh... fuckkk me..."

soon enough, titus crammed his entire length inside you, up up up as you took him in willingly.

he pressed you further against the wall, hooking one of your delicious thighs over his arm, his palm grabbing your ass and then the mad titus simply drove into you, ramming his cock into your pussy.

the thrill of the game, the confessions, his nasty confessions had really undone you. you realised it with every slurp of his cock fucking you, pulling out moans after moans from your hanging mouth.

"fuuuuck, that's—hck—my girl. suck me in. take it all."

he was stiff, aching, harder than ever due to the drugs and alcohol in his system, and he took out every single emotion on you, on your cunt as he drilled into you, pressing you against the wall. his hips slapped against yours, the sound bouncing off the walls loudly.

he groaned and grunted and growled against your neck muttering profanities that got worse due to the truth serum, all the things he wanted to do to you.

"should keep you locked up. chained to my bed." thrust! thrust! thrust!

"fuck you every single night... god i need to come inside you so bad..."

your moans sometimes interrupted his trail of words, but he picked right back up.

"but you know what?" his tongue licked off the remnants of the coke off your tits. "you don't deserve my cum."

you whined so loudly.

"not tonight. nope. kissin' my sister in front of everyone like that." thrust! thrust! thrust! plap! plap! plap!

titus pounded into you so so soooo angrily, you fucking loved it. it was better than the drinks. he was hitting your g-spot, a-spot, every fucking alphabet in your pussy hard and rough and you were failing so badly at seeming brave. you just wanted to go limp in his arms, let him rut into you to his heart—cock's content.

he fucked you with the energy of a diesel engine. rusted stamina your ass. for a man in his late forties, he had more strength than any youthful jackass could ever muster. and his cock proved that every single time.

your breath hitched. "nnnggghh titusss.. i'm close... i'm"

"beg"

you groaned. "just—"

"fucking beg."

you should've trusted that pissing off titus danforth always resulted in self-humiliation, and in your case, the best fucking sex of your life.

"please please please please i need to come. i—i'm yours... just yours... can i please come?"

you body rattled against the walls as titus sped up, fucking you in a frenzy.

"fuckkk... do it, baby... come around daddy's cock," he growled.

you burst like a dam, gluey and warm and sultry, dripping all over his dick, accompanied by a lewd moan, hands tightening in his curls.

titus let you ride out your orgasm before pulling out—another whine out of you—and pumped his dick till he too came with a groan, ribbons of cum spraying out and splattering all over your thighs. you couldn't help but rub them together, smearing his release all over your skin and giving yourself some more post-coital pleasure.

"so good..." he pressed a kiss to your temple, helping you tug your dress back up, chivalrous hands stuffing your boobs back in.

"uh... can i have my panties back?"

he smiled. and you got your answer.

♬⋆.˚ blood in the wine; aurora

hours later, club kama had begun to sag under the weight of its own excess.

the first game of the necrofest was over. the tension had drained from the room. people lounged wherever they had landed. jackets had been discarded over chair backs, the floor. empty glasses littered everywherew.

some of the families had already left.

sebastian fucked off without much notice. nobody paid him much attention on the way out. he had spent most of the evening watching other people celebrate your victory and, judging by the expression he'd worn all night, had taken every second of it personally.

the lawyer had lasted a little longer.

he had announced that the first game had concluded according to regulation, accepted two drinks he clearly did not need, muttered a distracted goodbye to nobody in particular, and bro dipped.

after that, the night seemed to dissolve.

you found yourself sprawled across one of the oversized sofas, one leg hooked over the other and both feet resting on the edge of the low table before you.

titus occupied the space beside you. for once, the man was quiet. but only because he was out. his head rested against your shoulder, eyes closed, somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. every so often his brow would twitch at a distant noise before relaxing again.

the rajans, meanwhile, remained very much awake. being the owners of the club apparently came with an inability to leave it.

madhu and viraj had migrated to another couch opposite yours, continuing their mission of consuming every substance within reach.

"you got any left on you, bro?" madhu asked eventually.

viraj shook his head.

"nothing." he exhaled cigar smoke towards the ceiling.

"tragic."

you watched them for a moment. then tilted your head. "i've got some."

both brothers looked up and their expressions brightened immediately.

you elaborated softly, "nothing fancy. just stuff i got from some phd students."

madhu laughed. "we're cool, right?" he asked after a moment. "with you winning and us kinda wanting you dead earlier?"

your smile was small. "no hard feelings."

"dope. hit us."

"jacket pocket," you said, and madhu whipped around to find your jacket lying on the floor beneat their boots. he dug into the pocket and fished out a sachet of white powder, finely ground.

madhu caught it. "love you."

neither brother wasted time in sorting the flour-y contents into shabby lines, inhaling all of it one by one. more drinks were consumed, more whimsical innovations came out of their mouths, most of which started and ended with a 'bro'.

and you sat exactly where you were, absolutely still.

titus shifted slightly against your shoulder, his curls brushing against your neck. without thinking, your fingers drifted into his hair. the motion was so absent-minded. like petting a cat while watching tv.

only you watched both brothers lay slumped on the couch. viraj's glass slipped from his hand, rolling on the carpet. madhu's breathing changed, shoulder jerking once. viraj's hand clawed weakly at the sofa cushion. madhu folded and curled into the couch.

once, not so long ago, you would have been the first person rushing forwards. you would have been kneeling beside them, checking their airways, pulses, doing something.

now you simply watched.

and what bothered you faintly was not what was happening to the rajans. it was how little movement existed inside your own chest. the horror was still there. the awareness of it all.

the knowledge that two human beings were suffering only metres away. but it felt buried beneath layers of exhaustion, grief, fear and anger accumulated over months and years.

wilkinson had haunted your sleep.

your father had thrown you into a contest where death sat behind every rule.

chester had made you end his life with your own hands slowly, painlessly, invisibly.

people, as you slowly realised, did not become monsters all at once. nope. they arrrived there through gradual justifications, fear, necessities.

and if chester danforth could pass away as he lived—in bed, still sick, still a tyrant—so could everyone else. that much you'd promised the dying man.

so you sat and watched the brothers twitch and stroke, seizing turbulently, frothing at the mouth. typical signs of apple seed cyanide.

then gently closed your eyes, as if you were asleep the whole time, letting time take the reigns off your hands and placing them in those of happenstance, of sorry coincidence.

after all, who'd bother to question why two club owners and substance abusers overdosed after losing a game in their own house?

im thinking, 1 chapter per game so that's 5 in total, and then the danforth hunt hehehehe

also i am really sorry if the last part is triggering for any of you. mostly if you perceived y/n as not someone capable of doing that. but i want the story to go there. because i can't fucking stand cultist billionaires irl T_T as adam brody said and will say in my chapters too: "someone's gotta burn it all down"

a lil mini moodboard for the chapter. y/n really be taking two danforths in one evening like vitamins. 😭😭

as usual, comments are loved loved loved, reblogs are always welcome, all my ghost readers; u da real gems

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