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Black Sheep (Part 3 + Epilogue)

Titus Danforth x Reader (no use of y/n)

Word Count: 7600

Part 1 , Part 2

Tags: Canon Divergence, Marriage of Convenience, Gore, Murder, Violence, Dub Con, Cunnilingus, Somnophilia, Period Sex, Suicidal Ideation, Pregnancy

A/N: This story is done! This was so self-indulgent and nobody asked for it, I was just writing it for shits and giggles. I'm so floored and overwhelmed by the response, so glad you guys enjoyed it. Thanks for coming on this ride <3<3<3

Tag list: @loftilyviolentthunder @seaweeden @starlitflora @scaredheartxvii @generation-zero @yournamesnob @loui4411 @qpiiee @kneelforloki @yaansu @everyfiberofme @ravyn94 @ryaswritings @foreverchangingmind @cpuffz @luc1a81 @darlingimafangirl

Read it below or on AO3

***

“In the event of my passing, the matter of who succeeds me and takes the high seat will be settled in writing.”

Titus listens with a muscle in his jaw twitching. Le Bail’s attorney is present, to formalize Chester Danforth’s last will and testament – and as a warning to not let things get out of hand. Father asked him to be present as a precaution, there’s technically nothing in the rules that Le Bail needs to approve of a house’s succession.

From the moment he was born, even before when he was only beginning to form into existence, Titus has not been a whole person. He is one half of Titus and Ursula, the male twin to her female twin. Yin and Yang. He loves her, she is more than just a sibling, she is his other half. And he knows, in his bones, that she feels the same. They can’t help it, they were born this way.

But it’s kept him hungry for his entire life. A dog that’s been raised on half a meal, never allowed to gorge itself until it’s full, trying to fill that itch with excess of other kinds – never satisfied. He’s never had anything that was just his, never able to give in to something completely and let his gnawing hunger run wild.

“My wish is that you both will share the power and responsibilities of the seat equally,” Chester looks at them both with a solemn stare, “but I cannot formalize a wish, only hope that you will honor my request. One of you will hold the sigil ring. Ursula—“

Titus immediately snaps, “No.”

Ursula shoots him a poisonous look. It’s been an unspoken fact in the Danforth house that Ursula would formally be Chester’s heir. Titus chafes against it.

Chester addresses him directly and Titus bows his head instinctively. He loves his father, is always chasing Chester’s approval, never able to fully grasp it.

“If you will not agree, then under our contract with Mr. Le Bail, you will have to fight to the death to win the sigil ring.” Chester radiates scorn and contempt at the mere idea, not because he disapproves of that ruthlessness, but because he believes they are superior to such brutish trials. “Are you both prepared to do that?”

The truth is, Titus is not. As much as he wants the high seat, he doesn’t want to live in a world without his twin.

Le Bail’s attorney makes a quiet sound to clear his throat and draws their attention. “A game of succession would also include Mrs. Danforth, so it would be a three-way fight.”

Your eyes widen and you immediately shut that idea down. “No.”

The attorney insists, “As a member of this household, it is within your right to have the opportunity—“

But once again you shut him down, “No. I waive my right to succession. I don’t give a shit about your high seat.”

Bothered, you excuse yourself and storm out of Chester’s office, not even giving the attorney a chance to make another appeal. Titus watches you go, he sees the way your shoulders rise, the stiffness to your spine. You truly, honestly, hate the idea of holding that power. You’re the only person who, if someone handed you the sigil of power, would throw it away without a second thought.

It fascinates him. And it puts him at ease in a way he’s never been able to feel with Ursula. Because you are the one person he doesn’t need to compete with in this regard.

“Titus,” Ursula snaps at him, half-scolding and half-pleading, “a duel for succession would be a waste. Don’t be that petty.”

And Titus finds that his attention is split, half in the room and the other half wanting to catch up with you. “I’m not just going to lie down and let you steamroll over me—“

Chester interrupts, irritated by the bickering. “It will be recorded in my will that in the event of my passing, Ursula will hold the sigil unless…” His steely eyes silence everyone. “…and until the event that Titus has a child, then they will succeed as the head of the Danforth house and hold the high seat.”

Ursula and Titus exchange a look, she tries to read what’s on his mind. But his face is frozen, his mind suddenly racing a hundred miles a second. His child? Titus realizes his father has decided there is one thing Ursula can’t do, that Titus will not fail him in: producing an heir. A strange, exhilarating feeling sweeps through him.

“Can you both agree to that?”

“Yes,” Titus answers automatically and strides out of the room before Ursula can even respond. The discussion is over for him, it ended the second Father acknowledged the family would live on through him.

Through you and him. The both of you could create something Ursula will never be a part of.

***

You sit at your vanity, brushing your hair as you get ready in the morning, sunlight streaming softly in through the windows.

Titus sprawls against the pillows, his head resting under one arm, watching you like you’re his own private peepshow. You brought more furniture and things for the bedroom, and he didn’t argue about a single one. He liked seeing it change under your direction, looking more like a space people lived in than somewhere he crashed when he was exhausted.

A silk robe hangs over your shoulders and in the reflection of the vanity mirror, his eyes follow the stripe of your exposed creamy skin. Your eyes meet his in the mirror and he smirks.

“Do you hate my father?” He asks.

The brush pauses mid-stroke and you stare into his reflection, like you’re looking for the edges of the trap. Finally, you settle for, “Do you hate your father?”

He chuckles in response and otherwise doesn’t give you an answer.

Titus knows that he unsettles you. That you expect his cruelty and temper and rage. But it’s when he’s interested, desires you, shows you something close to affection – no matter how twisted – that you don’t expect. Or understand.

Truthfully, he thought of you as no more than a plaything when he claimed you from the hunt. Mrs. Danforth in name until he grew bored of you and then, it would have been all too easy to make you disappear.

But you throw him off guard too. He realized quickly that he hadn’t figured you out and the more he looked, the more you didn’t make sense. You were not an innocent lamb for him to corrupt, though you were new to this world. But you did not have the same twisted and dark hungers that he did, not a kindred spirit. There were parts of you that he didn’t have access to, that kept him searching.

He is a hunter, so he follows your tracks. Picks up clues here and there, like when he finds a snapped twig, or a bit of fur caught in a branch, or a smeared footprint in the mud. He looks for the stillness to your face when you’re trying not to laugh. The books you’re reading and the ones you keep. The way your face freezes when you’re angry, really angry, but don’t feel like you can show it. The ways you like being touched, something he masters quickly, because your body can’t lie or disguise how it clenches and falls apart around him.

And one thing he’s noticed, why he’s watching you brush your hair, is that he mentioned once that he liked it longer on you and you’ve been letting it grow.

“Do you love me?”

Your face stills, though you keep your hands moving. Titus likes to set little traps for you, and you’ve become good at sensing them. For as much as you like to push the limits, you do know that you aren’t invincible in this house. You need to be careful to keep your hatred a game, an inside joke, and not something real.

You finally say, “I don’t love anyone.”

You look at him in alarm when you notice Titus wrapping his hand around his thickening cock. His eyes are half-closed as he watches you, drinks you in, lazily stroking himself and grinning when he sees a red flush come up on your skin.

“Come here,” he growls, and after a moment you put down your hair brush and come to the bed.

He tugs at the silk ties and lets your robe pool onto the floor. Skims the backs of his fingers down from your through, between your breasts, across your stomach and then he slips a finger against your curls. He sees the way your mouth tightens, irritated, as his grin widens.

His fingers come back slick and shiny.

“All this for me?”

You hate how little it takes for him to get you feeling hot. Even though you’ve never said so, Titus can tell that’s not how you normally are with a partner. It makes his ego swell up so much, he could float away into the air. Instead, he sucks your arousal off his fingers – which makes your cheeks burn even redder – and pulls you over to him.

He flips you around so your back is against his chest, and with firm hands guiding your hips, sinks you down onto his cock. You try to hold in a gasp as you stretch around him, held in his lap.

“You don’t love anyone?” He croons into your ear, mocking, acid and honey mixed together as he thrusts up into you – deep and slow. “Then I’ll give you one. A pretty baby for my baby.”

A mortifying sound leaves your throat, a surprised moan. His hand wraps around your throat and he fucks into you faster, your excitement fueling his.

“Going to fill you up so you can’t walk for a year straight. Never let you leave this bed so I can come in you over and over. How many do you think you could take, hmm? Think you’d give me twins? Think I’d ever let you stop – I’ll fuck the next one into you while you’re breastfeeding the first.”

You writhe in his lap, your pussy making filthy squelching noises as you slam back down onto him over and over. Eyes closed, hands gripping on for dear life, clenching around him wildly. He wants to bury himself into you over and over until you’re big and round with his children. A spooked thrill runs through him at the thought of you being split open, life begetting life, a baptism in blood.

Titus wants to hurt everything that excites him. He doesn’t want to break the one thing that belongs to him. Pulled between those two conflicting wants, he pounds into you mercilessly, your cries edging into pain – still all pleasure – and he bites down hard onto your shoulder when he comes. You go limp in his arms, like when he snaps someone’s neck, and he breathes hard into your hair.

When he finally lets you up, he doesn’t let you clean up but pulls up your panties instead, his mess still dripping down your thigh.

“Don’t waste any.”

***

“Got you something.”

You haven’t wanted for anything as Mrs. Danforth, luxuries casually given to you as if you were being passed salt at the dinner table. Clothing, furniture, books, art, your fucking car – given without ceremony as if it’s just a necessity that you have these things.

This is the first time Titus has given you a gift, and he watches you expectantly as he presents the box. It’s heavy, much heavier than you expected, and your first guess that it’s jewellery seems to be wrong.

When you gently slide the lid off, you see a handsome wooden case and nestled on the velvet lining is a gun.

“I had it made custom to your hand measurements.”

You’re surprised, but you lift the gun out of the box and test it out in your hand. You’ve never had a weapon before, never wanted one, and you wonder what Titus is trying to do. Is it a test? Is it a strange invitation into his world?

“I don’t know how to shoot.”

He smirks. “I know. So you’re going to learn.”

“Why do I need a gun?”

He sidles up next to you, so he’s a step behind. He’s brought ammunition and he loads the gun, racking the chamber and setting it up, ready to fire, before guiding your hands over it again.

His mouth is by your ear as he whispers, “Because you’re Mrs. Danforth and there are a lot of people who will try to kill you.”

It’s a blunt way of putting it, but even in your previous life there were occasions your family required private security. Now as a Danforth, your status has increased in triplicate, and so has the target on your back.

You turn your head up and back, to catch a glimpse of his face. “My terrifying husband isn’t deterrent enough for a would-be hit?”

He smirks, preening. “Of course I am. Now use both hands, put your right over the left, just like that. Line up your thumb, arms out straight…”

His arms envelope yours and he rests his chin on your shoulder. The gun is heavy, you can already tell that you won’t be able to hold it up for a long time before your arms begin to shake. But Titus walks you through how to fire, raspy voice quiet and steady, and you can feel your heartbeat slow and sync with his.

“Now don’t pull, but gently squeeze the trigger until…”

BANG!

The shot is so much louder and explosive than you could expect, but you hold on. You don’t drop the gun or scream, though you stopped breathing for a second. You can feel Titus’ grin press into your cheek, his stubble scraping against your skin.

“Good. Try again.”

BANG. BANG.

By the third shot you’ve gotten a sense of how to aim and manage to hit the target. Not center, but not too far off.

“You like it,” Titus whispers by your ear, “your heart’s racing.”

You close one eye and line up your next shot.

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll shoot you if I get good with this?” You ask, before firing again. This time, you hit the center of the target.

Titus laughs. “Ah, ah. You said with your bare hands.”

You fight the smile threatening to tug onto your lips. You did.

***

The High Council doesn’t meet in person very often, but they do stay in constant communication. As Chester Danforth’s health declines, he’s taken to conducting most of his business from bed and relies on video conferences to sync strategies with the Le Bail organization.

You’re invited to join most meetings and you decline every one. Sometimes though, as a member of the family, you can’t wriggle out of every obligation. It’s still bizarre to you that your presence is wanted, that it’s seen as valuable. Chester Danforth sees you as a secret weapon – though less so on the ‘secret’ part and more on the weapon part.

It might be more accurate to say, he likes having you present at the High Council when he wants to make a statement. You make sure Titus comes with you every time, and he either sits at your right or stands behind your chair, dark presence looming. Chester doesn’t mind, in fact, he likes it when everyone is playing their role, and no matter how resentful Titus feels about being the Danforth muscle – he can’t help but leap to be protective of you.

Mrs. Danforth and her hell hound.

“If Mrs. Danforth wants to oversee the arrangement, we could come to an understanding.” Mrs. Le Domas smiles at you, perfectly poised and elegant. Much more nuanced and subtle than her husband. “We’re both outsiders that married into our families. We need to look out for one another.”

Titus snorts quietly in derision. And he’s right to laugh at Mrs. Le Domas’ attempt to win you over.

You don’t return Mrs. Le Domas’ smile. Your face doesn’t give her anything. “You know an offer of less than fifteen percent shares isn’t even worth our time to consider. The El Caido’s would go in with you at seven. But you want the Danforth telecom network and supply chains. So you’re going to have to give up more than you want, Mrs. Le Domas, because you are bargaining from under.”

The smile doesn’t drop from Mrs. Le Domas’ face, because she’s a professional, but the temperature drops several degrees.

Ursula flashes a quick smile your way. The Danforth’s are eating this up. Your face remains blank.

You are the one person in the High Council who cannot be bargained with. You come with leverage that can’t be bought or sold – because you are the one person who wants nothing. You have nothing to lose and you want absolutely nothing from any of them. Chen Xin tried to forge an alliance with you early on, but you were unmoved. Every one of the High Council families have tried to bend your ear, seeing you as the wedge – the crack into the Danforth fortress. Only to discover that you are competent, smart, and could not give less of a fuck for their schemes.

“Your loyalty to family is,” Mrs. Le Domas smiles, a knife hidden in her words, “commendable.”

It isn’t loyalty, at least, that word doesn’t seem to fit. But Helene Le Domas buried a war axe into your sister’s head on the night of the hunt, and they took ten percent of the Okami fortune. You are a sacrifice that did the unspeakable thing – you lived. Now you sit amongst them, an uncomfortable reminder of all the blood they’ve shed. And how you owe them nothing, the people who butchered your family, you don’t owe them any sweet deals, or understanding, or patience. Not even a smile.

You feel like you’ve gotten your point across and look up at Titus, a silent signal that you’re ready. He pulls out your chair and helps you to your feet, and you leave the conference on his arm. Ursula can take over the negotiation now. You don’t even care to witness your victory.

***

For your first anniversary, one year as Mrs. Danforth, Titus asks what you would like and you tell him “finish my degree”.

An apartment is acquired in London and it takes little effort to resume your spot in your graduate program. To your surprise, Titus comes with you. At first you wonder if it’s his jealousy, a need to watch over your every movement, but it seems he genuinely is interested in traveling with you.

“You’ve never been to Europe?” You’re surprised, for someone as wealthy and connected, you’d assumed he had traveled the world.

He shrugs, dismissive. “It was for business.”

You enjoy settling back into the routine of a student, away from the grandiosity of the Danforth lodge and all the trappings of the Le Bail organization. You get to be challenged again in an arena where the stakes are not life and death, but something smaller and saner. Grades. Prestige. Awards.

Titus recoils from the idea of setting foot inside of a school, but he asks you to tell him about your lectures. He likes it when you ramble on, eyes lit up with excitement, even if he can’t follow everything you’re enthused about. He is enjoying, what for him, is his first vacation. He joins a hunt club. Sometimes travels around Europe while you’re nose deep in drafts of your thesis. Chester sometimes sends him on some business errands to run, to take advantage of the proximity, but otherwise he has time to do whatever he wants. It’s the most relaxed you’ve seen him. It’s the longest he’s been anywhere without his twin.

When summer begins and if the sun cooperates, you like to sit on the grounds of your school to go through your reading. Titus likes to join you, lying down on the grass with his head in your lap.

You discover that when you scratch your nails through his curls, his brain turns to goo. If he’s in the middle of a sentence, he can’t finish it, eyes rolling into the back of his head as he surrenders to the sensation. It makes you smirk. One of the most powerful men in the world and you can stop him dead in his tracks by playing with his hair.

You laugh to yourself, murmuring, “neko, neko-chan”.

His eyes still closed, Titus asks, “What does that mean?”

“It means you’re a cat. Just a big old, pussy cat.”

He frowns, even as he tilts his head upwards to chase your fingers.

He huffs, “I’m not a cat.”

You stop playing with his curls. He opens one eye to glare up at you, sees the teasing look on your face. Huffs again and concedes, “Maybe a tiger” before grabbing your hand and placing it back into his hair.

A perfect summer day could fool you into thinking you were an ordinary woman, and that anything about your life was normal.

***

Far quicker than he could have anticipated, you blended into the Danforth family so seamlessly that Titus forgot there was a time before you. To him, it has always been Father, Ursula, and you. The three corners of his world.

You don’t seem to understand that yet, or believe it, but he feels it’s simply a matter of time. You’re a Danforth. And by something even more meaningful than birth. His idiot cousin Kip is a Danforth by birth. There are plenty of duds in the family tree, idiots who don’t deserve the name. You’re a Danforth by trial. You earned that name.

There is a grand opening of a new luxury resort in Hong Kong, a dream of your father’s that was never realized until the Danforth’s assumed seventy-five percent of his estate. Chester had you involved in its restructure. You drip a cold elegance walking up the red carpet beside Titus.

And it completely threatens his world view when one of the resort managers, a former staff member of your father’s business, is overwhelmed to see you in person. So relieved to see you alive and well, that they slip up and accidentally refer to you as “Okami-san”.

Stupid. Foolish. But somehow Titus forgot you used to have a different name. That you were from a different family. That you didn’t emerge from the earth, already formed, to fit in beside him.

You smile coolly at them, gently reminding them, “Mrs. Danforth” and they apologize profusely.

You think that’s the end of it, but it’s a splinter that burrows under Titus’ fingernail. A sting, a twinge that gets more raw and inflamed as he can’t help but pick at it.

You’re a Danforth. You’re a Danforth.

It’s months after the resort opening, so that you don’t suspect anything when Titus says he set up a special day for you. He tells you to bring your gun, that he’s going to teach you how to hunt. You don’t particularly care about hunting, but Titus is buzzing with excitement.

“And I’m supposed to hunt with a handgun?” You ask, sceptical. “It’s not the most practical.”

Titus hums his approval, driving the golf cart into the woodier area of the lodge grounds. “You’re right, but you’ve been practicing with your gun, so let’s stick with it for now.”

Titus teaches you the basics of tracking. He knows you’re not a natural hunter, will probably never be a hobby hunter, but you like learning new things. And tracking is a puzzle. He can see your interest grow when you realize that, your mind latching onto the search for clues and patterns. He feels a strange swell of pride, which he keeps private. He knows if he mentions it, you’ll find some way to make light of it.

“And this footprint is smeared down and to the right.”

Titus nods, teasing out an answer, “So that means?”

You look up, into the direction of a thicket of trees. “It ran that way.”

He grins, a wolf baring its teeth. You’re letting yourself get excited. You think he’s a big old pussy cat, domesticated. That you’ve tamed him. Ursula has made that mistake before. Father never has, but he did something worse – wash his hands of Titus, until you came along.

“Well, go find your kill.”

You laugh as you pick your way through the trees, following the direction of the tracks. Titus stays a few paces behind, a shadow in your wake.

You don’t scream – the first thing he noticed about you, was how you wouldn’t scream or shriek – but you inhale sharply through your nose when you see the bound person struggling on the ground. It takes you a second, but you recognize it as the resort manager.

Your eyes snap to his, wide and fearful, as you realize what their crime was. They dared to call you by a name that doesn’t exist anymore.

“Titus.”

He still has that easy grin on his face, hands in his pockets, like this is a normal activity. “Go on. You’ve tracked your prey, now you’ve found them. Finish the hunt.”

You try again, fighting to keep the tremor out of your voice. “Titus.”

But he isn’t budging. He blocks the way, you won’t leave the clearing in the trees until you do what he wants. Your eyes scan his face, searching. Like you’re trying to see if he’s joking, how serious he’s being, and then you wince. He’s dead serious, and you feel betrayed.

He leans in close, so that your noses are almost touching. You flinch when you hear the hostage’s muffled screams behind their gag, but his gaze bores into you, making it so you can’t look anywhere else.

“I watched you kill that security guard. I watched you take a life for the first time. How did it feel?”

Your eyes grow wet, you can’t keep the tremors inside of you anymore, even though you cling to whatever shreds of your composure you can. You keep your voice steady.

“I’m not like you.”

Titus doesn’t believe you, shaking his head almost in pity that you still want to delude yourself. That gets under your skin, suddenly sparks your temper red hot, to be dismissed. You shove your hands against his chest, pushing him.

“And you?” You spit at him, “How did your first kill feel?”

“I don’t know, I was too young to remember.”

He watches the horror dawn on your face as the implications of that sink in.

“It was my mother,” he continues, explaining matter-of-factly, “I ripped her open on my way out. The doctors couldn’t stop the bleeding and she died after giving birth to me.”

He watches as your mouth forms silent consonants, trying and failing to find the words. Part of him is egging you on to say ‘I’m so sorry’. To pity him. To look at him as pathetic and broken and deranged. Everyone eventually does. He was stupid to think you would be any different.

“Finish your hunt,” he snarls, getting in your face, forehead pushing against yours. Now he’s angry. He expects you to be disgusted by him, to look at him with repulsion. He’s seen you afraid, he knows that he scares you sometimes. But your quiet acceptance has always won out, at least up until now. It’s the closest thing to unconditional love he’s ever felt.

“Kill them or I will.”

You look to the victim on the ground, then back to him. He isn’t bluffing, you know him too well to buy that. The tears are rolling down your cheeks, even though you aren’t sobbing or crying. It reminds him of that night you were on your knees, the black sheep of your family.

He suddenly asks, “Do you love me?”

You’re startled, you hear something in the tone of his voice that he can’t sense, suddenly seeing him with a sharpness that makes him feel queasy.

He doesn’t know every emotion that’s on your face, as you look at him. Let him sink into you. There’s maybe a flash of hatred. Pain. There isn’t the disgust or pity he expected. Maybe you look sad. Titus realizes, too late, that he doesn’t know what love looks like on your face – he won’t be able to tell.

You throw the gun onto the ground and wrap one hand around his neck. You hiss, fierce and burning and indomitable in a way that makes his knees suddenly feel weak, “I will fucking kill you. One day.”

And you walk out of the woods, head held high, fearsome and proud.

Titus is stunned and takes a moment alone. Before he also leaves, he picks up your gun off the ground and shoots the hostage in the head. He thinks he might love you.

***

When Chester Danforth dies, it is business-like and perfunctory. He has you and the twins come to his beside where he imparts his last instructions. His health has deteriorated to the point where he will lose more functionality than he would like, and he is satisfied that the Danforth businesses are on stable ground. When he is ready, he instructs the family physician to push morphine until his heart stops. After two minutes, the physician checks his vitals, and declares his time of death.

Titus is beside himself, groaning into his hands, furiously scrubbing away tears and pacing around the room. Ursula is more composed, but her face is bloodless and pale.

The funeral is an event attended by hundreds. You wear black and hide your face behind large dark glasses. You stand beside Titus, the loyal and supportive wife, keeping a somber vigil.

Only family are allowed to remain after the casket is lowered into the ground and buried. Titus ends up on his knees in front of the grave, howling into his hands, the broken cries of a boy who loved and hated his father, and can’t make sense of his absence.

Ursula is shaken, letting herself cry now that she has privacy, and trying to get Titus up to his feet.

She looks up at you, eyes red, and asks, “Are you okay?”

You shock her when you start laughing. It bubbles up and spills over, champagne flowing out of a glass, delighted and uncontained. Ursula looks at you like you’ve grown a second head. Your laughter continues, huge guffaws, you clutch your stomach as you fight for breath, and it is offensive how funny you find all of this.

You are a Danforth today, yes, but in this moment the twins are reminded that they are murderers. And that you never got to attend your family’s funeral.

You wipe tears of mirth from your eyes, hiccupping as you try and catch your breath. You snort at Ursula, unable to keep the giggles in.

“Losing a father builds character.”

***

The sigil ring is slid onto Ursula’s finger and she officially assumes her position as the head of the Danforth family.

Titus is withdrawn and moody for weeks after his father’s death. You expect him to turn on you, to freeze you out, but it doesn’t quite unfold that way. His eyes still search a room for you, he still looks at you – his whole countenance just seems heavier.

Ursula is icier towards you, but you’re more than happy to stay out of her way. She throws herself into work, which is her favourite coping mechanism, and running an empire keeps her busy. Eventually, she starts talking to you again and things are forced to go back to normal, as you are capable and able to help when asked.

Ursula grows frustrated the longer Titus’ depression lingers, feeling the weight of the High Council on her shoulders.

“You need to stop moping and snap out of it eventually,” she scolds Titus, “Dad wanted us to run things together.”

Titus grumbles out, “You got what you wanted. Leave me alone.”

“Oh don’t be a child.”

And you notice Ursula raises her hand like she’s about to strike. And you step in between them, an eyebrow raised at Ursula, as if asking her ‘are you really going to do that?’. The tension grows instantly, thick and suffocating in the air, as you stand between the twins. You can feel Titus, breathing hard and ragged, against your neck. Ursula’s hand slowly lowers.

You had never seen Ursula or Chester slap Titus before, but the reflexive nature of that movement told you it was an old habit. When Ursula retreats, you look up at Titus, curious. But he won’t meet your eyes, only giving your arm a gentle squeeze, before leaving the room.

***

Nightmares plague you, keeping sleep at bay, and you wake up several times drenched in a cold sweat, crying.

The bed is empty, you’re alone twisted up in the sheets, and rain splatters against the window. You feel sick and hollowed out. Tired. Like you want to give up.

You find a coat to wrap yourself up in, but can’t find your shoes and decide you don’t care. You go out onto the grounds, in the middle of a rainstorm. With the night sky covered in clouds, rainfall taking over your vision, it feels like you could walk into the darkness and keep walking on forever.

You’re immediately soaked, your hair plastered to your face, but you push it out of your eyes and keep walking. Your bare feet squelch against the wet grass. You feel keenly that you walk the line between two different worlds, belonging to neither. Okami. Danforth. Heaven. Hell. Meaningless. All meaningless. You’ve been a misfit your entire life and it seems like you’re doomed to die as one.

“Stop.”

The rain makes it a little harder to hear, and at first you can’t tell who is speaking. But the voice calls out from behind you and when you turn, you see Titus standing in the rain.

He walks up to you, grey curls flattened by the rain, water dripping from his face. He cups the side of your neck, pulling hair out of your eyes.

“You’re soaked. You’re going to get sick if you stay out here.”

“Then I’ll get sick.”

He frowns, eyes roaming your face.

“You belong to me. And no one is allowed to hurt you.”

For a second, you aren’t sure what to say. “Not even myself.”

He shakes his head ‘no’. Not even you are allowed to hurt what belongs to him. You didn’t think that’s what your intention was, but as the rain continues to beat down on your skin, you feel a bit of that strangled helplessness rise up. You are drowning on land. You went out into the night storm to place a name to that feeling.

“And what about you?” You ask him, unsure where the question came from but needing to know desperately. “Do you belong to me?”

“Of course I do.”

And he brings an arm under your legs and scoops you up. He cradles you against his chest and carries you, his bride, back to the safety and warmth of your home.

***

“Come to bed.”

“I need a shower—“

But Titus doesn’t care about your protests, taking you by the wrist and pulling you back towards him. You’re only putting up a token resistance anyway, trying not to smile as he kisses the gunshot scar on your arm. Nibbles the grooved scar.

He kisses the palm of your hand and then places it against his shoulder. He has a scar there, smaller than yours, more circular, from when you dug his war pick into it. He likes that you marked him up. He takes personal offense that anything or anyone leaves a mark on you, and is zealous about preventing it.

He’s more than happy to leave his marks, though to your surprise it’s never permanent. Bites, bruises – he’ll cover you in stamps of his hunger. But for a long time you thought surely, he would want to leave a scar on you, but he’s never bitten down hard enough to break skin.

“You already wet?” He chuckles, hand slipping under your skirt, and you press against his touch.

But you feel a twinge in your lower stomach and you realize a second before he looks at his fingers and sees them shiny red.

“Shit.” Your period was a couple days late, you had forgotten about it. “Okay, I really need a shower and a change of clothes now—“

“No,” Titus’ gaze has gotten more intense, rushing now to pull your shirt up over your head, get you undressed as quickly as possible.

“Titus, come on—“

He rips your panties down, removing every stitch of clothing, and he breathes you in. “You’re perfect.”

Even though you try to salvage your white sheets, Titus throws you onto the bed. He slots himself in between your legs and pulls your lips apart. There is a feral look on his face, he just looks at you for a moment, like he’s saying grace before a meal and then he buries his face into your pussy. He moans helplessly, tasting something so forbidden, pinning you down even deeper into the bed.

Your leg kicks out of its own accord. He is ravenous, you feel him licking through the sticky blood, burrowing his face into your skin that’s puffy and hot – you can hear the sounds of him swallowing and it is mortifying. Filthy. Riding that edge of grotesque and erotic, that it’s electric. He seals his lips over your folds and sucks. You whimper. He laps at you, like a wolf tearing into a deer’s carcass.

“Titus…” you sob, feeling his tongue, teeth, lips devour you. The dull cramp behind your pelvis starts to throb, but it’s the growing pulse of the orgasm Titus is licking from you, a sore and clenching and delicious feeling making you want to fold yourself inside out. It aches and it feels so good, like pushing down on a bruise.

You shudder against him when you come, heels planted in the bed and your hips up in the air, chasing his mouth.

Titus emerges from his feast like a demon born. His mouth and chin are soaked in blood – red and dark and glistening. It drips down his neck. It’s smeared all over the grey whiskers on his cheeks, his nose, a frightening mask painted on his face of you. And he licks his chops, teeth stark white against the red.

You look down at your legs and it looks like you’ve been stabbed, there is blood smeared all over the inside of your thighs and the sheets under you look like a frenzied splatter.

“You taste divine,” his voice is wet and thick, a demented growl, “I need more.”

His cock is thick and hard, bobbing between his legs, leaking from the tip. With a snarl he pushes your legs back so that they’re down by your ears. Flayed open for him, he sinks his cock into the beating heart of your womb, a look of pure delight and ecstasy on his face.

Your pussy is hot. It’s already more sensitive than usual, and now it is throbbing and puffy and the drying blood is sticky so that when Titus’ hips come flush to yours, your skin sticks together. Then pulls apart, then sticks together again, as he starts to pump in and out.

Every inch, every movement feels a hundred times more intense. It hurts, his big cock rubbing your already aching lips and bullying your clenching walls, shoving in and carving out space. And it makes you scream in delight, every time he thrusts in you can feel your voice bouncing around your skull – you are an exposed nerve, raw and open. You’re going to die if he doesn’t fuck you harder – it looks like he’s murdered you, both of you covered in blood.

You laugh, even as your fingers dig into his arms and scratch down his chest in desperation of this glorious fucking feeling. Titus finished his hunt, you think. He got you. He got to split you wide open and feast on you, it’s finally done. The chase is over and you are his, his, his.

***

You scream yourself hoarse and leave deep scratches all down Titus’ back. He isn’t done with you, wishes he could hold off his climax forever so this wouldn’t end, but flips you over so that you can straddle him.

He kisses you, deep and hungry. You laugh around his teeth and groan and suck his tongue. He wants you to know what you taste like. It’s the devil’s ambrosia, you must know how euphoric it is. And you look wild on top of him, blood has even stuck in your hair, red smears of it all down your breasts and stomach, all over your legs, and you ride his cock with your fingers in your mouth, moaning his name.

He doesn’t think you look like prey.

Towering over him, a vision of power and indomitable will, naked and lost in violence, vice, viscera – you look like a goddess of vengeance. And he prays at your altar, your temple, hopelessly devoted.

EPILOGUE

***

The day you discover you are pregnant, Titus gets down on his knees and wraps his arms around your legs. He rests his face against your stomach, even though there is no outward difference, he wants to memorize every sign that there is new life growing.

His zealous need to protect you only gets worse, to the point that he won’t even let Ursula touch you. He intimidates the doctor and nurses who oversee your pregnancy, even though you keep reminding him that they can’t work comfortably if they think he’s going to snap their necks if they so much as breathe on you too hard.

When you show, your belly round and heavy, he sleeps with a hand pressed against it.

Titus cuts the umbilical cord himself and is the first to hold your child.

You bleed more than expected after the delivery, and you see the panic on his face, even as he cradles your newborn to his chest. He snaps at the doctors to do something, he shakes his head at you, eyes pleading – don’t do this to him. You laugh, finding it oddly funny in the moment that a little blood scares him.

“I don’t like it when you scare me.”

The bleed is resolved and you are recovering well. Your newborn is now swaddled and you hold them, cheek pressed against impossibly soft new skin. Titus is curled up beside both of you.

“I love you, little one,” you whisper to your child, “and I will never let anyone hurt you.”

Titus shares a look with you, knowing. You smirk at him, “Not even you.”

And the smile on his face is…relieved.

His voice is impossibly gentle when he says, “I love you.”

You believe him.

“Not today…” You see the startled smile on his face, the unexpected laugh bubbling behind his tongue and yours, “…not tomorrow. But one day, I will kill you with my bare hands.”

He looks hopeful when he asks, “Promise?”

You kiss him and promise, “I do”.

***

Titus Danforth is close to his father’s age when his health declines. He never stopped being a daddy’s boy, chasing after Chester’s footsteps.

But you think he found some fulfillment and peace that was outside of Chester. You, he and Ursula have run the High Council peacefully. Relatively peacefully. And when your oldest became of age, Ursula slipped the sigil ring onto their finger herself. She had enjoyed teaching them and was proud of her protégée.

You did end up having twins after the oldest. Titus joked that twins run in the family. Your children are grown, they’re spoiled as wealthy children are, but you think at least they are capable. Independent. Titus did what his father did not, which was spoil his children with love.

The latest stroke wasn’t lethal, but the family physician informs you both that it means Titus will not be able to walk again. You know that is one of his lines that he does not care to cross. His curls now are whiter than grey, but his eyes are steely and forever searching still.

He wants no oxygen, no IV’s, no ‘fucking machines that beep’. He sits in his favourite chair and you share a cigar, even though he coughs through most of it.

“My love,” he sighs, “I’m ready.”

A strange smile twists around your lips. It keeps threatening to tug downwards and open into a sob. But Titus loves that you don’t scream or cry when your world is falling apart. He sees you hesitate.

“You promised,” he reminds you.

You did.

Today has become ‘one day’.

You kiss his lips and then cover his nose and mouth with your hands and press down. You press tighter. You squeeze shut, sealing off all air. He jerks underneath your grip, chest fighting for breath, his arms flail out instinctually, trying to fight you off. You smile with tears in your eyes, yes, yes – your husband is a fighter. He scratches the back of your hand, opening a stinging red cut, before his movements eventually slow and his body grows limp.

You suck the scratch he left. You wish it would scar.

Because you belonged to someone in the end, no longer the black sheep, but the beloved wife – now widow – of the Danforth name.

***

END

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