the last great demented dynasty III
titus danforth x y/n
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a/n: throughout the chapters, certain songs will be mentioned at the beginning or after a partition. the music is chosen mostly for the vibes and the melody. if the lyrics align, yay. if not, play along. but i highly recommend listening to the songs on loop for its section if you're a 'take-your-time' reader. idk, the music just adds some oomf to it.
also, i was bonedeep inspired to write this after reading this incredible story by @thatcorporategirlie you have to read it. mr le bail'd be pissed if you didn't
summary: now the primary physician of chester, resident of the estate, you're exposed to the wildnerness that is the danforth special 'game night'.
warnings: violence, chase, weapons, y/n in a bathrobe, titus in the room 😌, mentions of medical procedures/terms
♬⋆.˚ lotus land, op. 47 no. 1, cyril scott, nino gvetadze
if 'resident physician' was to be your role, then it was certainly being established with efficiency.
you were led to your room, just one of the many on the second floor of the manor. your footsteps on the dark red carpet line barely made a squeak on the old wood underneath. the wallpaper had eyes, you were sure. where was charlotte perkins gilman when you needed her...
you entered what was to be your room and it already felt excessive. there was no other word for it. a four-poster king-sized bed dominated the centre, almost theatrically. a walk-in closer extended further than your entire apartment. a vanity stood polished to a fault, a three way mirror just in case you wanted to re-enact dracula. at least there was a writer's desk. you dragged it from its desolate spot and placed it before a window—the scrape of wood against marble earned you a short glance from the butler, but no objection. within a few minutes, you had the desk facing a window where light, real light could reach it. that was probably the only concession you were willing to make for yourself in this miserable situation.
your belongings arrived not long after.
you stood there, arms folded, watching as men you did not know, had never invited, moved through the parts of your life, putting them in boxes. books were piled up and tied in stacks, now placed on the bed for you to unpack. papers, notes, printed drafts of articles you liked to have in hand for breakfast, some half-annotated with a highlighter and scribbles in the margins, were also sorted into neat stacks, which made you uncomfortable. you liked the disorder.
they had been in your apartment. they had seen things, touched things.
your plants were brought in next, handled with surprising care and for that alone, you felt a reluctant fleeting sense of relief. the attached balcony—another indulgence you had not asked for by the way—would at least give them somewhere to exist that was objectively unrelated to the ultra-rich.
your clothes followed.
you tried not to look too closely as they were unpacked, folded, arranged with an intimacy that felt extremely inappropriate. at one point, you caught sight of a separate box for your undergarments. bras to the left, panties to the right. jesus, boundaries?
as if it wasn't embarrassing enough, titus popped into the room like a fucking daisy—of course. said he was there to 'oversee'. which in his mind, semantically bleached into being nosy.
"that's cute," he grinned smugly, lifting pastel pink hello kitty panties between his fingers.
"yours if you wanna wear em," you forced a smile onto your face.
"you're too kind," he said, actually pocketing them...
you let out a disgusted scoff.
finally, one of the men brought in a carrier, and took out from it a large, grey, scruffy cat, handing him to you with far less ceremony than the rest of your things. though the moment you took him in your arms, everything else receded, if only slightly. you held him closer, fingers threading through his fur, tenderly. he purred in response, perhaps relieved to be reunited with you. and boy did you return the sentiment.
titus, of course, blotted into your moment like wet ink on tissue. his attention settled on the way you grounded yourself into the cat, the quiet, absent rhythm of your hand moving through its fur.
he stepped closer and that was enough.
your cat stiffened almost instantly, ears flat and pointed, a hiss flying out of its mouth with unmistakable hostility. and for that brief shining moment, you felt vindicated.
titus paused, and his face tightened into something offended.
"and what..." he asked the cat softly, "is your problem?"
"standards," you said, not looking up, proud of your cat.
titus drew in a small breath, cleared his throat with a touch of dignity, as if to rise above it.
"charming," he said. "i suppose dinner may taste... funny, tonight."
your head snapped up, genuine alarm cutting through your composure.
"excuse me—"
his smirk arrived just in time.
he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your cheek, to which you tensed.
"i jest," he murmured against your skin.
he pulled away, looked down at your cat and against his learned lesson, attempted to extend his index finger, just testing a harmless pet, a tap to the nose if you will—a mistake.
your cat let out a sharper his and a flash of teeth pounced at his hand. titus withdrew it with a speed never seen before, his composure fracturing enough for him to realise his miscalculation. perhaps cats really did dislike him.
you frowned slightly, holding your cat closer, and in a soft voice you spoke to him, "good job, chomsky."
titus exhaled sharply, irritated, and rolled his eyes. he said nothing further, just held his head high and departed, out the door and to the left, leaving you and your cat in a room that didn't feel yours.
by the following few days, you had spent the better part of them combing through your father's journals, scanning what you could and transferring his hurried, relentless handwriting into something legible, something you could navigate on your ipad so it felt less personal. it still felt like you were trespassing. but at least now you had a framework. numbers, patterns, signs of decline all recorded in one place.
it was enough to begin.
chester's 'recovery room', as they insisted on calling it had the same suffocating care as the rest of the manor, with every possible piece of equipment required 'if necessary', including a portable x-ray. you would've half-expected them to arrange for an MRI in the empty corner.
you stood before him, tablet in hand, the glow of the screen casting a pale reflection across your face in the dimly lit room as you narrated his state to him.
"well," you paused as you searched for a tone that didn't seem too deferential. "you are currently in a state of bradycardia, so remaining in bed is... practical. it is not uncommon at your age, but your lowest recorded heart-rate was 35."
you glanced at him briefly.
"that is concerning."
your finger moved across the screen to the next page. "there is also a history of recurring bronchitis, and consequent productive cough saturation."
the words came easier when you kept your focus on the data, rather than the man. you stepped closer to the tray at his side, examining the medications laid out neatly—silver dish, crystal glass positioned just so, as though even illnesses had to adhere to the etiquette.
"let's begin by adjusting this," you said, picking ip one of the prescribed pills between your fingers. "we'll replace the cough tablets with a bronchodilator syrup. it'll be less abrasive on your throat."
you set it down and typed the change onto the ipad, and glanced at him once.
even like this—tired and dependent on machines—chester danforth retained his authority. it may not have manifested in movement or volume, but his presence was sufficient. you found your posture adjusted without prompt, your tone moderating to sincerety subconsciously, as if he were your superior, evaluating you.
you reached for the stethoscope provided to you.
the weight of it felt unfamiliar around your neck. like a reminder of the role you were performing, not inhabiting. but you moved with care, placing it against his chest, asking him to take a deep breath.
you counted, committing the beats to memory, noting his pulse against your wristwatch. then to his back, you listened again attentively for the faintest irregularity in his breathing.
all the while, the room bounced the echo of music. it had been playing since you entered; a gramophone of all things, with a vinyl spinning over it, its crackle weaving through the notes of a piano piece that felt deeply disturbing. it did not belong to a place of healing. it belonged in the background score of 'the picture of dorian grey' should it be turned into a movie. or a mausoleum, perhaps.
your gaze flickered towards it once involuntarily. chester noticed.
"music for the heart," he said. he had one? you resisted the urge to respond.
you adjusted the stethoscope instead, focusing on the task at hand.
"not your taste i presume," he added, the noise shooting straight into your ears as you pulled the stethoscope away reflexively. you placed it properly against his diaphragm, looking for any crackles.
"bach... is more my taste," you said softly.
"ah... for the soul it is."
the conversation settled into silence after that, though it was anything but empty. there was something unnervingly unnatural about speaking to him this way, so casually. not as a distant figure from the periphery, not as the man your father had looked after, but as a patient.
'your patient'.
that just felt unstable. in your childhood, chester danforth had existed in a different category altogether. less a person than a poltergeist. you remembered watching him from a distance trying to make a sense of the way adults behaved around him with caution and a little bit of boot-licking.
but mostly fear.
you had once told your father, in a moment of misplaced honesty, that you thought he was like 'evil santa'.
your father had laughed, too quickly, and placed a hand on your head, smoothing your little fringes down as though the gesture might erase the statement.
you hadn't understood it then; the tension beneath the humour. the warnings.
now standing here, listening to the slow workings of a body that refused to give up its pedestal, you that certainty had eroded. he was old. undeniably so. would you call him fragile? perhaps not.
with the assistance of the nurse hired to look after him, you operated the portable ECG machine. electrodes were placed across his chest, along his obliques, at his wrists for radial reference and another at the medial side of his ankles. the wires trailed back into the machine, which you switched on.
the device hummed, the faint mechanical whirr filling the room as the stylus began its work, scratching lines across the paper strip. it fed them out slowly, folds cascading down in increments. you just waited, staring at the nurse who looked a little smug about something. the fuck do you want?
the door opened before you.
"checking in. everything good?" ursula's voice echoed amidst all the other fucking noises that battled for the floor.
you collected the strip as it finished printing. "looking at the ECG now."
you studied it a moment longer, brow drawing in slightly. titus, meanwhile, glanced briefly at his father. the weight of age had pressed itself into every line on his body, but the look did not linger. he have never been inclined to underestimate his father. but a part of him hoped something horrible came out of the ECG.
so he shifted his attention to you.
you had your tablet open, its glow cutting cleanly through the dimness of the room as you cross-referenced the data. you pulled out a pair of glasses tucked in your hair (an absurd place to store them, but you do you). you shook one of the temples straight, and nudged the other out with the tip of your tongue, teeth biting into it lightly, straightening it out and put them on.
it's giving this
something about the unconscious effortlessness of you doing that made his chest tighten. and maybe his pants. titus watched it with a stillness, momentarily forgetting why he was there.
you exhaled softly, refocusing.
"these are the older ECGs," you said, turning the tablet slightly so they all could see. "up until five years ago. i don't know if anything was done after that, but—"
you held up the fresh strip in your other hand.
"if you look here, there are no p-waves," your finger traced the paper, indicating the absence with quiet precision. "in the earlier readings, there's a small bump before the big one. it's almost gone now."
ursula leaned in, examining it, as if her gaze could be the judge of yours.
titus did not. he remained where he was, his gaze fixed on you.
"the absence of p-waves indicates an abnormal rhythm," you continued, "you've probably heard the term 'arrhythmia'. this is exactly that. it's consistent with something we call atrial fibrillation. a-fib."
ursula blinked once, expectant.
"uhhh, it's a rapid and irregular activity in the atrial—heart. the heart. it probably began as short periods of abnormal heart beats, but untreated, it's turned persistent. it's pretty common in the elderly."
"so he's fine?"
you almost winced at the phrasing. "for now... the goal is to prevent thromboembolic complications, strokes, mostly. since he's asymptoatic right now, rate control is the safest course. beta-blockers should help with that."
"if you want to attempt something like 'rhythm control uhhh i...." you hesitated briefly, glancing down at your notes, your teeth catching your lower lip for a second. "amiodarone could be used for pharmaceutical cardioversion. but, given his age, there are side effects. so this one is a bit more safe."
ursula nodded, pleased by the number of details, not so much their meaning.
"whatever you need, write it down. pernilla with have it arranged," she nodded at the nurse.
"right..." you said carefully. "i don't have a prescription pad. these are regulated medications."
ursula smiled. "that's not your concern." then she turned to the nurse. "find me when you get the list."
she walked out of the room leaving behind a heap of finality in her word.
you stood there for a moment. you looked at 'pernilla' who still fucking looked smug. then you turned to look at the other danforth, who was already looking at you.
"i can't do that," you said, quieter. "i can't write a false prescription." which was your way of saying 'i am not a bloody criminal.'
"you won't have to." the ease with which he replied was disturbing. you probably should've seen it coming. money in his hands would get anyone anything.
you sighed and reached for your phone, typing out the names of the medications and sent him the text. their problem now.
later that night, you allowed yourself a moment of solitude. in the bathtub. it seemed harmless enough.
you had lingered over the array of oils and salts arranged on the mantle, glass vials catching the light very elegantly. the labels, however were another matter entirely. you did not want 'vicious trollop' or 'poisonberry' in the water. whatever skincare the danforths did to look deranged, you had no intention of participating in it, especially not at a dermal level.
so water it was...
plain, warm, uncomplicated water.
you sank into it slowly, letting the heat settle into your muscles. your thoughts drifted in a suspended quiescence that came when there was nothing to do. for a while it worked.
then the manor began to chatter.
old structure, pipes, you thought. probably wood adjusting to temperature. old houses did have their own language after all.
and yet, the longer you remained, the less it felt normal. the noises grew closer or clearer, you couldn't tell.
you stood up. water slipped from your skin as you stepped out of the tub, reaching for the robe too soft to resist. you tired it around yourself with little attention to neatness. your hair was tied loosely at the nape of your neck, the ends still damp at your shoulders.
and then you heard footsteps. as if they were running. you stilled, head tilting slightly as you listened. something was odd.
at first you wondered—chester. had something happened?
♬⋆.˚ main titles, dead silence, charlie clouser
you stepped out of your room without fully thinking it through, your bare feet sinking into the carpet, leaving faint, damp marks. the hallway stretched ahead, dimly lit. you took a few more cautious steps.
you reached the end of it when the sounds grew clearer. more footsteps, more than one. then giggles.
high, breathless giggles that made your skin tighten with goosebumps instinctively. male voices followed, low and amused, almost urgent.
you slowed. against your better judgement, you leaned just enough to look
one of the valets had another in a chokehold.
there was no mistaking it.
his arm was locked around the man's throat, the grip deliberate, controlled, as the other struggled with a weakening resistance, his breath caught in shallow, desperate gasps that failed to reach his lungs. his hands clawed at the arm around him, his movements slowing, faltering until they stopped.
you sucked in your breath sharply. your body retreated before your mind could catch up with whatever you had just seen. every instinct urged you to leave, to get the fuck out of there and put distance between whatever that was. to return to your room, something that at least pretended to be safe.
you stepped back carefully, but your hip brushed against the edge of a narrow bureau lining the wall. the contact was soft, but jesus, in that silence it was more than enough.
your blood ran cold and you turned to move away without drawing attention.
too late.
heavy footsteps shifted closer. a voice, sharp with excitement cut through the corridor.
"gotcha, gotcha, gotcha!!!"
you sprinted.
not fast enough to be obvious, not slow enough to be careful. just fucking enough to reach the far end of the corridor where you room would be, hopefully.
you dared to look back once, but a hand closed over your mouth, another arm locking around your waist as you were pulled, yanked back into a dark room.
your gasp never left your lungs.
"shhhh," came a voice against your ear. "quiet."
you froze, but recognised that voice. titus.
you tapped lightly against his hand, a request for release, but his grip did not loosen. and you were so grateful for that because more footsteps passed just beyond the threshold of the room, beyond the closed door.
too close. so much so that any movement would have given out your whereabouts.
your body stilled completely, back against his chest, your breath shallow against his palm. your pulse was loud in your ear and you were certain he could feel it where his arm held you in place.
the footsteps faded for a moment. and all was quiet. titus removed his hand from your mouth with deliberate care. but it did not fall away entirely. it slid instead, settling at your throat, his grip light but present. it felt more like a precaution than restraint.
you did not question it at all.
not when another set of footsteps echoed past, followed by that same eerie laughter.
"can't we check the rooms!!!" it called.
"mistress won't like it," another answered.
their argument carried faintly down the corridor.
inside the room, titus moved slowly. guiding you with him, in an awkward waltz, his hand still at your throat, he steered you towards a narrow door set into the wall—servant's entrance, concealed well enough to be missed if you didn't know it was there. or that it was still a thing in the 21st century.
he opened it and led you through. only once you were inside did he release you fully.
you turned on him immediately.
"titus, what the fuck," you hissed.
he lifted his hands in a gesture that might have passed for reassurance under different circumstances.
"quiet," he said again, softer now.
"what was that?" the words tumbled out of your mouth, over themselves. "i just saw—he—" you stopped because you did not know how to finish that sentence.
what had you exactly seen? had you just witnessed a man being killed?
titus exhaled. "i can explain. but you have to keep your voice down."
you stared at him. oh, he was not joking.
"every month," he continued, lowerig his voice even more, "we have a... game night."
the phrasing alone made your stomach turn.
"the family usually participates. but sometimes, we let the servants and staff play." a pause, almost thoughtful. "tonight... is cops and criminals. there are teams."
your expression did not fucking change.
"whoever catches someone," he went on, "gets to—well—incapacitate them. nothing permanent. just enough to keep them out of play. they then spent the night in the dungeon cells."
you stared at him.
game night. cells. cops. crimi—DUNGEON?
you felt something cold and heavy settle into your spine, several implications crawling up your bones whether or not you wanted them to.
"they take it seriously," he added. "if you're caught, they'd put you in the cells you."
"i'm not a servant," you said, although the argument sounded thinner than you intended.
"you're not family either," he replied. not unkindly. "which puts you somewhere, inconvenient."
was that why the nurse looked at you funny this morning? was she aware that tonight was... 'game night'?
"what were you doing out here?"
"i-i heard something," you said, trying to steady your breath. "i thought—"
"that something was wrong?" he supplied, looking down at your shaking form.
you couldn't answer.
"well," he said quietly, "be glad i found you."
"be g—be glad?" you began, ready to combust, but the words died in your throat as a faint creak echoed through the narrow corridor.
both of you stilled.
"they use these passages too," he murmured. "faster access to rooms."
his hand closed around yours. "come on. that way."
you didn't fucking argue. you jogged behind him. through the dimness, through turns you didn't even see, your thoughts simply struggling to pace with your body. fear, confusion, even disbelief—all of it tangled together with your breathlessness.
he pushed open a door, and you both spiralled down a flight of stairs. then found yourselves in the kitchen. too open, too exposed. he paused at the threshold and looked out. you leaned in just enough to match his eyesight.
two valets stood at the far end, batons in hand, their posture relaxed in a way that made the weapons feel less like tools and more like complimentary blow to the head.
you looked up at titus. he met your gaze with what might as well have been a shrug.
then he moved again. your hand was still in his as he guided you out, quick and quiet, into the adjacent pantry. the darkness there was deeper. the space was narrow enough to conceal you until the corridor cleared.
you stood there with him, breath held. waiting. trying, very unsuccesfully, to convince yourself that what you had just witness could still be explained by something reasonable, or that it was a trick of your mind.
♬⋆.˚ silent hill revelation, jeff danna, akira yamaoka
you stayed hidden long enough for the house to rearrange itself again.
the scuffling outside—the dull thud of footsteps, the occasional burst of laughter, something dragged briefly across the floor—gradually receded, relocating the violence elsewhere, as though it moved on to another part of the manor.
titus waited. then, with caution, leaned in to peer out of the pantry before stepping into the kitchen. you followed closely this time, no questions asked, no matter the fact that you were holding his hand tightly, that the strings of your robe were starting to undo themselves.
out in the hallway again, it felt too open, too exposed, as though every corner might produce something you were not meant to outrun.
"okay," titus murmured. "all we gotta do is get you back to your room."
"that's it?" you asked softly, timidly.
"yeah. they're not allowed to hunt inside the rooms."
hunt.
the word lodged itself in your mind, making you believe that all this was permitted to be more than just a game.
you moved quickly, ascending the staircase and into another stretch of corridor. but then...
pernilla.
yep, same old pernilla from this morning, looked up at you from the foot of the stairs.
"run," titus didn't raise his voice. he didn't need to.
you bolted. no hesitation, no argument, just one step after the other, letting your instinct override you.
"is that a fucking axe?" you cried, glancing back just enough to spot pernilla climb the stairs, the weapon in her hand already raised.
"can't you just tell them i'm with you?" you demanded, not caring you who heard you. "you're not part of the game right?"
titus winced at the question. "we can't interfere. that's the other rule."
"seriously?" you whined, nearly tripping as you followed him.
you sped past your door, realised it a second too late.
"go back—go back!" you hissed, hand yanking his, already turning. titus pivoted with you as you doubled back, his momentum carrying him off balance just for a fraction of a second before he recovered.
pernilla was right in your fucking face when you opened the door and stumbled in, slamming it shut. titus clicked the lock into place just as a heavy fist landed on the other side.
pernilla's breath pressed against the door like dense fog. for a moment it felt like the door would seriously melt. titus didn't hesitate. he dragged one of your suitcases lying nearby and wedged the extended handle beneath that of the door, a makeshift reinforcement.
you finally let out a breath. it left you all at once, your hand slipping from his as you pressed it against your chest, your pulse still racing hard.
your robe had loosened during the run, one side slipping from your shoulder, the cool air a sharp contrast against flushed skin.
titus looked at you, taking you in. "you okay?"
you let out a breath that trembled despite your best effort to steady it. "you're crazy," you muttered more to yourself. "you're all crazy"
your thoughts refused to settle, words spilling over one another as you tried to make sense of it. "game night? that—what I just saw—that's—" you broke off, dragging a hand through your hair. "this is insane."
your breaths hitched again without your permission.
titus took a step closer, not abruptly, just enough to interrupt your doom spiral before it could take hold. his hands came to rest over your shoulders.
"calm down."
you looked at him deadpan.
"calm down?" you chucked bitterly. "i just watched your butler choke someone unconscious. y-your father's nurse—someone I am supposed to work with, by the way—just chased us down the hall with an axe."
"i know," he said, not dismissing you, not mocking you. "but it is game night and we take our games seriously. it's tradition."
"fuck, pick a better one," you shot back, a shaky breath escaping you despite yourself. "you ever tried group knitting?"
for the briefest moment, he almost smiled.
his hands shifted down. he caught the loose ends of your robe, drawing them together, tugging you closer and tied the knot properly this time. his gaze travelled down from your neck, your collarbone, down to your chest that glistened with sweat. down to the top of your breasts that heaved.
he let his hand slide up as he pulled the robe back on your shoulder, knuckles brushing against your skin.
"you'll be fine here," he said, stepping back enough to restore some spare. "they won't come inside."
your head shot up.
"no," you barked. "no no no no, you are 'not' leaving me in here alone."
he shrugged, as though the decision cost him nothing. "happy to stay."
his gaze shifted past you. "is he gonna like it?" he asked, looking at your cat.
chomsky sat perched atop your desk, entirely unimpressed, licking his paw with the slow, methodical disdain of a creature who had already judged the situation and found it lacking.
but the decision was made.
you took a minute to change out of your robe into a pair of pants and a shirt. when you stepped out of the closet, titus had made himself comfortable on the bed. of course.
he lay stretched across it, one arm tucked behind his head, the other idly holding his phone, his posture relaxed in a way that suggested the past ten minutes had been, at most, mildly entertaining.
you stared at him for a moment before giving in, crossing the room and sitting carefully at the edge of the bed.
"you really do this every month?" you asked.
"mm-hm."
"you just... chase each other around the house?"
he tilted his head slightly. "not always. the games vary."
you narrowed your eyes. “like what. dodgeball? you hurl toasters at each other or something?”
that earned you a soft laugh. he set his phone aside, shifting onto his side to face you.
"there's chess. croquet out on the grounds sometimes. darts."
you raised an eyebrow.
he smirked. "yep. apple on the head and all."
"knitting," you said again. "origami, wii tennis. literally anything is better than this."
"life's a thrill, baby." he cooed.
you rolled your eyes and let yourself fall back against the bed beside him, staring up at the ceiling, the adrenaline slowly cooling off.
"yeah, or blunt force trauma," you said dryly.
"what, you never played a risky game?" he asked.
you smacked your lips. "does uno no mercy count?"
he stifled a chuckle.
outside, a feat of screams echoed, and you immediately tensed. titus simply stretched his arm and turned off the lights in the room. and the rest was silence. you weren't sure if you could sleep knowing people we out there trying to 'hunt' each other. so you just lay in bed, next to titus, who seemed way too normal after what had just happened. sometime in the night, you felt your cat curl around beside your leg.
"you have dungeons here?"
the gif is from 'at dead of night' gameplay. that's my man jimmy hall!!!!! ugh i love him. (i need to be in the psych ward).
taglist: @taniamiller
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