the last great demented dynasty XVII
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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, pĂŠnĂŠtration (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.
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.
he gave you two sleepy blinks.
you pressed your fingers against your temple, massaging the ache a little.
"why... are you yelling?"
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.
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."
"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."
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.
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 caĂdos 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"
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 caĂdos have been doing this since childhood."
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."
âŹâ.Ë la negrita; latin soul syndicate
ignacio el caĂdo 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 afterâifâyou 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. sĂganme."
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 caĂdo. 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 caĂdo, 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."
"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 clubâ"
a heavy sob came from francesca, face buried in her hand, the other clutching her chest as she fell to her knees.
"âso, 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."
âŹâ.Ë dĂĄkiti; 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 caĂdo 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 caĂdo 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.
titus had turned to face her. "what do you mean no?"
"you played in the last games."
"so naturally, it's my turn."
"i can shoot," he scoffed.
"and you don't like embarrassing yourself by missing, do you?"
"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 poutedâan 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 caĂdo 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 caĂdo 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.
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.
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 caĂdo. 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.
"tan terrible pero, no estĂĄ mal." (so terrible, but not bad)
"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.
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.
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, pequeĂąa."
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."
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.
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! quĂŠ 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.
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'tâi..." your voice creaked perfectly. "i c-can help! i can patch you upâ"
"cĂĄllate, puta!" francesca screamed. (shut up, bitch) she was already running towards her father. he rest of the el caĂdos 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 caĂdo, 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 caĂdo was removed from the game.
sebastian, unfortunately for him, was the only qualified doctor present. before he could protest, several members of the el caĂdo 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 toâ"
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.
"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 caĂdo."
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 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 caĂdo, 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."
she didn't spare you a glance. so you made her.
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.
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.
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.
"you have eyes. you tell me."
she sighed, removing her ear protection.
"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.
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"
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.
"thatâŚ" 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 itâŚ"
the corners of his mouth twitched, whether from amusement or horror, nobody could tell.
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.
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.
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.
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?"
uncertainty crossed his face. as though the answer simply didn't fit with everything he knew about his sister.
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.
the pet name did nothing to soften the warning. you closed your eyes briefly. "she missed the shots on purpose."
"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 targetâŚ" 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.
"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."
"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."
âŹâ.Ë 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.
you ducked out of there, near your bed and titus followed with obvious intentions.
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.
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, hisâyourâgun in your mouth, gave him the same pretty doe eyes you did when you blew him a few days ago.
"cocky girl... you like the gun now huh?"
"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.
"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.
shameâis 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.
your eyes locked onto his as you realised he just clicked the safety off.
"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.
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..."
"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 youâfucked up, tiredâhad 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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