rorbug

You’ve spent four days imprisoned in your own mind by the contents of that note Spencer put in the book he gave you.

I like you, Y/N. :) – Spencer

Everything about it felt so… him. 

The grammatically correct punctuation, the smiley face, the fact that it was in a book? it was all so very Spencer.

And it made everything make sense too. The phone calls, the dinners, the impromptu bookstore trips, the museum.

The hand holding.

You think about the way he looked at you on the sidewalk. The way he stopped himself from letting go. The way he looked almost relieved when you held on.

It all made sense.

Part of you wanted to call him immediately. But more of you felt like that was the wrong move. It felt like there should be a correct time to tell him you found the note. And you’d been waiting for that time to come.

It just hadn’t yet.

It’s Friday morning now. You’re meeting Spencer at his apartment so you can go to a bookstore in Georgetown together. You’re sitting in your car waiting for him to come outside. 

The rain is loud and heavy. You can see the water pooling in the road. And the lighting is definitely something that should be worried about. 

Your phone rings. It’s Spencer.

“Hey,” he says, not even giving you enough time to respond before he keeps talking. “I don’t think the bookstore is a great idea.”

“Yeah, you don’t say.”

“Are you driving right now or are you in a safe place?”

“It depends.”

“What does that mean?”

“How safe is sitting inside of my car in the parking lot of your apartment complex?”

“Moderately safe.”

“Yeah, it’s raining pretty bad out here.”

“You definitely shouldn’t drive all the way back home.”

“I know.”

“Do you maybe want to come inside?”

The way he asks was almost like he was planning to invite you inside all along, which makes you smile.

“Sure, fair warning though, there is absolutely no way I am getting inside without getting soaked. ven with my umbrella.”

“That’s okay,” he giggles, “I have towels.”

“Okay, I’ll be inside in a second.”

“Okay, go up the stairs and its the second apartment on the left. Number 23.”

“Okay, see ya in a sec,” you say before you hang up and prepare for your next thirty steps to feel like war. 

You grab your umbrella from the passenger side floorboard and prepare yourself. Within three seconds of opening your door your jeans are soaked from the knees down. Your umbrella was basically useless. By the time you reach the front door of the complex, you are pretty much completely soaked.

The door opens before you can pull it yourself. A completely dry Spencer is standing there holding the door and a towel. Both of you stop and stare at each other for a moment, saying nothing.

Because for you, this is the first time since you got the note.

And for him, well, this is the first time he’s seen you soaking wet in the freezing rain. 

“You weren’t exaggerating,” he says.

“No,” you say, “I wasn’t.”

“You look like you walked through a car wash.”

“I feel like I did.”

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but enough to show that nothing has changed.

“Come inside before you get pneumonia,” he says, stepping away from the opening of the door to let you inside.

“I don’t think that’s how pneumonia works,” you say, but step inside anyways.

“Actually–”

“No.”

“What?”

“No ‘actuallys’ while I’m soaking wet.”

“I wasn’t going to,” he says and hands you the towel. “I was just going to explain how pneumonia develops.”

“Exactly,” you say, wiping your skin with the towel.

“You know me too well,” he says.

And you know way more than he thinks you do.

You follow him upstairs and inside his apartment, clothes still dripping with rainwater. 

Inside his apartment is exactly what you expected. Books everywhere. Stacked on shelves, stacked beside shelves, stacked on tables, books everywhere.

“You have a problem,” you say smiling.

“No I don’t!” he argues, knowing that you’re referring to his hundreds, maybe thousands, of books.

“There’s books in your kitchen!”

“I’m in the market for another shelf,” he says while handing you a dry towel. His eyes drift toward your jeans. “Those are not going to dry anytime soon.”

“I know, I’ll deal with it though.”

“You’re shivering.”

“I’ll be okay.”

“No, you’re going to get sick, I probably have some–”

“Spencer,” you interrupt. “I’m not putting on your pants.

His ears and cheeks turn a little red. “I wasn’t suggesting that…I was suggesting sweatpants.”

You stare at him.

“They’re clean,” he says. He disappears down the hallway while you do your best to wring your soaked hair out with the towel. He returns carrying a pair of grey sweatpants and a bright orange Cal-Tech hoodie that you could not picture him wearing no matter how hard you tried.

“They have a drawstring,” he says, holding the clothes out to you. “The bathroom is right over there.” He points.

You take the clothes and follow his point to the bathroom, latching the door behind you. For a second, you just stand there, staring at the borrowed clothes that are folded up on the counter. 

You pull your soaking wet shirt over your head, then your jeans go down. You have to consciously stop yourself from thinking about the fact that you’re standing in Spencer Reid’s bathroom changing into his clothes.

You pick up the hoodie first. It’s enormous. It looks too big even for him. The sleeves go a good six inches past your fingertips. You roll them up to expose your hands enough to put on the sweatpants, which are somehow worse.

Because Spencer was tall, and as a tall man, his pants were going to be long. But these pants were long. You have to roll up the waist band four times to even get the baggyness to start at your calves rather than your knees or thighs.

You hardly recognize yourself when you look in the mirror. Not because of the clothes, but because of the smile. You hadn’t even realized you were smiling until you saw yourself. 

You leave the bathroom feeling ridiculous. You’re comfortable, but you look ridiculous. Spencer looks over at you, then immediately looks away again, suddenly becoming very interested in a spot on the wall.

“Spencer,” you say.

“What?” he doesn’t look at you.

“You looked.”

“I did not.”

“You definitely did,” you smile.

“I was assessing whether the clothing fit.

“Okayyy,” you giggle. His ears are red. You notice, but pretend not to.

“Are you hungry?” he asks.

“A little.”

“I have grapes…rice crispy treats…and…juice.”

You laugh, “Grapes are fine.”

Spencer goes to the living room and turns Doctor Who on the T.V. He sits down next to you on the couch with a bag of grapes to share in his lap. And somehow it’s the most normal you’ve felt with him in weeks.

The rain hits the windows hard. It sounds like they might break, but you know they won’t. The bookstore trip has long been forgotten. And you’ve managed to push the note into the back of your mind.

You and Spencer fall into the same rhythm you’ve always had. You talk through parts of the Doctor Who episode, neither of you caring when the other talked with a grape in their mouth. You argue over details, and make fun of the cheesy parts.

You laugh with him, not nervously or awkwardly, genuinely laughing. And it feels nice. Because this is why you became friends in the first place. It wasn’t the butterflies, or the hand holding, or the note, it was this. It was being able to spend hours together and never running out of things to say. For the first time since the Ocean’s 11 night you stop feeling nervous. Because whatever this is, whatever the two of you are, it started with a friendship, and that’s still here.

You and Spencer have eaten the whole bag of grapes by the time the episode is over. Spencer reaches for the remote. You know this is the moment, it has to be. Because if it’s not, you might never do it.

“Spencer,” you say, your voice soft.

He looks over at you. “Yeah?”

“I finished Brave New World.”

His face goes white. He’s not blushing because he’s nervous or embarrassed this time, he’s white because he is terrified. Because he knows. He knows that you know.

He looks at the coffee table. Then the T.V. Then the wall. Anywhere except at you.

“W-what did y-you think of it?” his voice is nervous and cracky. 

“It was good,” you say, doing your best to keep your voice soft and steady.

“Good?”

“Yeah.”

He’s silent. You can tell he wants to crawl into a hole and never ever come out.

“Spencer,” you say again, in the same tone as the first time.

His eyes close briefly, like he’s bracing himself. He forces himself to look at you. The expression on his face makes your heart ache. Because he is terrified. Absolutely terrified. He’s terrified that he got it wrong. That he made a mistake and misunderstood everything.

“Yeah?” he finally says quietly.

You smile. Because the answer is simple. It’s always been simple. You’ve just been overcomplicating it.

“I like you too.” 

Spencer stares at you. It felt like everything, both inside and outside, had stopped. For the first time since you met him, Spencer Reid is completely speechless.

His eyes drop down to your – his – hoodie. Then the pants. Then back up to your face. He opens his mouth like he’s trying to speak, but he closes it again. You give him a small smile. He opens his mouth again. 

You wait. And wait And wait.

And then something inside of him finally gives up on restraint entirely.

He leans forward on the couch, reaching for you. He isn’t hesitant or unsure in the slightest. It’s immediate, like the last few months of everything that had gone unsaid or redirected or avoided for far too long just fell into place.

One hand comes up to your face. It’s warm and a little shaky, like he still can’t quite believe you’re real. His thumb brushes your cheek once. You barely have enough time to inhale before he crashes his lips onto yours.

It’s not soft in the way you expected it to be. It’s not tentative or questioning at all. It’s hard and passionate, like months of restraint breaking all at once.

Your brain doesn’t catch up immediately. For a split second, everything is just sensation.

His hand on your cheek, steadying you like he’s afraid you might run away or disappear. The way he leans in slightly more after the first contact. The warmth of him. Everywhere.

Your body finally catches up and you kiss him back. He reacts instantly, like he’s been waiting for permission that he didn’t really think he’d ever get. The hand on your face tightens slightly, not forceful, just… anchoring. 

His lips move against your like he’s memorizing you. Not rushed in the frantic sense, but desperate in the way of someone who has been holding something in their hands for too long and is finally allowed to stop pretending they don’t want it.

He tastes sweet but slightly tart. It’s the grapes. It’s absurdly ordinary, but it reminds you that this is real. That the world didn’t pause, and that he’s on top of you in his living room with the t.v. still on and you’re still wearing his clothes.

Spencer shifts slightly closer as if the small distance between you had become unbearable. His other hand comes up to the other side of your cheek to hold you, like he’s been trying not to do this exact thing for so long.

Your thoughts scatter completely, but there’s no overthinking this time. Just him. On top of you. His mouth is sloppy and wet on yours. His hands warm and protective against your face.

And the strangest part is how gentle he still is. He kisses you like he’s afraid of breaking something fragile, only being rough where it’s supposed to be.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only a small amount. Not enough to leave, just enough to breathe. His forehead is close enough to brush against yours, one hand still on your cheek like he hasn’t decided it was time to stop touching you yet. His other arm is beside your face, holding him up. His eyes open like he’s coming back from somewhere else entirely. And he looks at you like he still can’t quite believe you're real.

“You–” he starts, but immediately stops, like the words are too loud,

You let out a breath that feels halfway between a laugh and utter disbelief. “Yeah?”

He swallows. His thumb moves against your cheek almost absentmindedly. His expression looks…exhausted? Like he’s been holding his breath.

“I’ve been trying not to think of you like this,” he admits quietly.

“Why?” you ask.

His eyes close for a second, like the answer is obvious but unbearable at the same time.

“Because I didn’t know if I was allowed to,” he says finally.

Your hand comes up without you really thinking, gently grabbing his wrist that was connected to the hand cupping your cheek. You don’t pull him closer or away. You keep him right where he is.

“You are,” you say simply.

His eyes open wide, something shifts visibly. Not confidence exactly, but more like a decision finally clicking into place after being over processed for months.

“Okay,” he says, exhaling like he’s accepting a fact that he refuses to believe.

There’s a pause. Only this one doesn’t feel awkward. It feels heavy, the arbitrary space between you has changed and now you have to figure out the shape. He looks at your mouth for a second, then immediately flashes his view back to your eyes.

“Can I…” he starts softly. He stops and shakes his head, like he’s frustrated. You rub small, comforting circles on his wrist that you’re holding.

“You don’t have to ask like that,” you say gently.

He creases his brows, confused. “Like what?”

“Like you’re afraid of me.”

“Okay,” he says again, quiet, before he leans into you.

The second kiss is different. 

It’s not a sharp, stunned collision like the first. It’s slower, still intense, but more like he’s trying to make a moment instead of catching up with one. There’s a pause where he pulls back to check you again. When you don’t pull away, he settles more comfortably.

The kiss deepens slightly, not rushed or overwhelmed, just closer and more deliberate. You feel his warmth everywhere. His hand on your cheek, the way he shifts closer without hesitation, a quiet confidence within him that you’d never seen, or expected, in him.

He pulls back slowly, holding his head above yours to look into your eyes. His are softer now than they’ve been in a long time. He looks…

Calm.

Not calm as in nothing has changed, but calm because he finally stopped pretending it didn’t.

For a while neither of you moves. Spencer is still hovered over you on the couch. The second episode of Doctor Who is well over halfway through, but neither of you pay it any attention. You can’t stop smiling. Neither can he.

“You kissed me,” you finally say, still smiling.

“I’m sorry,” he says, immediately covering his face with one hand.

“No, no, I wasn’t complaining,” you laugh.

He peeks out from between his fingers. “It sounded like an observation.”

“It was.”

He groans, which makes you laugh harder. For somebody with criminal interrogation training, Spencer Reid is sure easy to make flustered.

“You kissed me,” you repeat, both to yourself, and to give him a chance for a more put together response.

“You didn’t even ask,” you say, now debriefing with your own mind.

His eyes widened. “I asked the second time.”

“That doesn’t count.”

You stare at each other for a second. Then both of you start laughing. Spencer sets up and settles back against the couch. You sit up beside him. Neither of you move very far away.

“So,” you say, breaking the comfortable silence.

“So,” he responds.

You turn to look at him. “How long?”

He immediately knows what you’re asking. His ears turn red and he stares at the coffee table. You wait.

“A while…” he finally says.

“That’s not a length of time,” you giggle.

“Technically it is.”

“Spencer…”

He sighs. You feel oddly victorious in the way that you can fluster him so easily right now.

“A while,” is all he can come up with. You stare at him, obviously waiting on a better answer. He doesn’t give you one. “Your turn.”

“My turn? You didn’t even answer!”

“How long have you liked me?”

“A while,” you smile, deciding to be annoying. 

“You made fun of me for that answer!”

“I know.”

“You’re a hypocrite!"

“I know.”

Spencer smiles. You both stare at each other, smiling. He eventually glances towards the window. The rain has started to slow. The realization sets in that you’re eventually going to have to leave. He’s staring out the window, quiet. For once not because he’s thinking about history or physics or something nerdy. He’s thinking about you. 

“What time is it?” he asks after a while.

You look at your phone. “Almost nine…” you say, disappointed.

“Oh.” he sounds disappointed too.

The room falls quiet again, still a comfortable silence. You reach over and take his hand. Just because you can. Spencer looks down at your hands and then back up at you and smiles.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” he asks.

“Tomorrow?” you blink.

“Yeah.”

“You already want plans for tomorrow?”

His ears turn red again, which you can now safely admit is one of your favorite things.

“Maybe…” he says sheepishly.

You laugh.

“So are you free tomorrow?”

The hopeful look on his face tells you that you shouldn’t tease him further.

“Yeah, I am.” you say softly.

“What do you want to do?” he says smiling.

“I don’t care,” you say. “What do you want to do?”

“I don’t care,” he repeats.

“You have to care to do something,” you say smiling.

“I care about spending time with you,” he says.

You smile. And you realize that you can’t wait to see him tomorrow.

_____

Read Part 17 Here! 🕰️ (coming soon)

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BUY ME A COFFEE

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a/n: hi thank you for the applauses i’ll be here all night. (literally, i'm posting the next TWO PARTS later today bc i literally am so tired of waiting and i know most of you guys are too so ur welcome hehe)

i debated on not having them kiss yet and just ending the part after the confession, but then i thought about it and i kinda realized that two people who like each other + alone in an apartment during a rainstorm, they HAVE to.

also, before writing this part when i would think about the first kiss i always thought i would write it to be like soft and sweet and stuff. but then i thought about literally any kiss scene spencer has in the show and that man can make the fuck out, even in season one he was open mouth kissing. so i will not tolerate any ‘early seasons spencer would never’ YES HE WOULD HE WAS A FREAK !!

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Have Recommendations? visit my recommendations page to submit your suggestion, no matter how big or small!

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view my one shots masterlist

Check This Out!: Spencer Reid A-Z Masterlist

view the masterlist in a calendar version!

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taglist:

By the second semester, you know three things with absolute certainty.

First: Dr. Spencer Reid writes on whiteboards like he’s racing a clock only he can see.

Second: nobody voluntarily sits in the front row because it’s psychologically exhausting to be perceived by him for extended periods of time.

And third:

You are developing a deeply academic crush that is rapidly mutating into something clinically embarrassing.

The lecture hall hums softly around you with the sounds of backpacks unzipping and laptops waking from sleep. Rain taps against the high windows in restless little bursts, turning the late afternoon light silver at the edges.

At the front of the room, Dr. Reid is already halfway through uncapping three different markers at once.

He’s wearing a charcoal cardigan today.

You notice because of course you do.

Not in a normal way, either.

In the kind of way where your brain stores the information carefully like it might appear on an exam later.

“Statistically,” he says without turning around, “most people remember information better when there’s contextual novelty attached to it, which is why you all remember where you were during emotionally significant events but not what you ate last Tuesday.”

A beat.

Then he glances back toward the class.

“Unless it was tacos. People tend to remember tacos.”

A few students laugh.

You do too, unfortunately loud enough that his eyes flick toward you automatically.

There it is.

That tiny spark of recognition.

Not dramatic. Not cinematic. Just enough to say I know you.

Which is worse.

Much, much worse.

Because you’ve taken two semesters with him now. You go to office hours. You answer questions when nobody else will. Once, during your first class, you made an offhand comment about eidetic memory research and his entire face lit up like someone plugged sunlight directly into the national power grid.

Since then, you’ve been doomed.

Utterly doomed.

You try to focus on the lecture.

Really.

You do.

But Dr. Reid teaches like a man accidentally possessed by forty-seven documentaries and an anxiety disorder. He paces when he gets excited. His hands move constantly while he talks, long fingers stained faintly with marker ink. He veers off-topic in fascinating directions and then somehow circles perfectly back without notes.

It should not be attractive.

And yet.

Here you are.

Again.

Second semester.

Same problem.

Maybe worse.

“Now, if we look at the correlation between environmental instability and cognitive adaptation,” Dr. Reid continues, already turning back toward the board before the class has fully caught up, “there’s a measurable increase in hypervigilant pattern recognition in subjects exposed to inconsistent formative environments, which sounds complicated but is actually just your brain becoming an overachieving raccoon.”

Marker squeaks across the whiteboard in frantic slanted lines.

His handwriting is terrible.

Not objectively unreadable, exactly. More like every word is trying to outrun the next one. Sharp angles, crowded letters, arrows shoved into margins as though his thoughts physically cannot remain in a straight line.

You stare at it anyway.

Fondly.

Which feels like a personal failing.

He writes faster as he talks, cardigan pulling slightly across his shoulders when he reaches higher on the board. One sleeve has ridden up near his wrist, exposing the thin line of his watch and a faint smudge of ink against his skin.

You should be taking notes.

Instead, your brain is busy cataloging details like you'll be taking a quiz on his anatomy.

Then he steps sideways to underline something, and your gaze drops completely against your will.

Oh no.

Oh, that’s unfortunate.

Because apparently Dr. Spencer Reid has a nice ass.

Not in a dramatic way.

Not in a “male model carved from marble” way.

Just… unfairly nice for a man who spends most of his time talking about psychology and forgetting to eat lunch.

The slacks help.

Which feels hostile, honestly.

You blink hard and jerk your attention back to your laptop with the violent internal energy of someone trying to slam shut fifty browser tabs at once.

Focus.

Academic environment.

You are a serious student.

A serious student who absolutely did not just spend several seconds staring at her professor’s ass while he explained trauma responses.

Jesus Christ.

“Repeated exposure to unpredictability,” he says, still writing, “can create compensatory behaviors centered around control, organization, or information gathering.”

A few tired chuckles.

Then the clock clicks over.

Immediate chaos.

The lecture hall empties like someone pulled a drain plug.

Students flood toward the exits in clusters of conversation and damp jackets, the noise swelling briefly before dissolving into the hallway outside. Within less than a minute, the room goes from crowded to echoing.

You stay seated.

Not intentionally.

At least that’s what you tell yourself.

Your laptop suddenly needs to be shut very carefully. Your charger has apparently tangled itself into a knot requiring advanced engineering. Your pens must be arranged with the precision of ceremonial artifacts.

At the front of the room, another student has stopped to ask Dr. Reid something about the midterm.

You try not to stare while pretending not to listen.

It’s difficult.

Because listening to Spencer Reid explain things is like accidentally falling into a Wikipedia rabbit hole narrated by a very pretty insomniac.

“…the issue isn’t the terminology,” he’s saying, already rifling through papers again while the student nods along. “It’s application. Most people can memorize diagnostic criteria. The harder part is recognizing behavioral variance in context.”

His sleeve slips down slightly as he gestures, revealing ink smudged along the side of his hand again.

God.

You wonder briefly if there’s a psychological term for being attracted to a man who looks like he's constantly five minutes away from a lecture.

Probably.

He’d know it.

The student thanks him and heads out, disappearing into the hallway with everyone else until suddenly it’s just—

You.

And him.

The room feels different when it empties.

Too large. Too quiet.

Rain patters softly against the windows.

Dr. Reid glances up from stacking his notes, clearly registering your continued existence only now. “Oh, you're still here. Perfect.”

Your stomach drops so fast it’s honestly impressive.

Perfect?

There is no version of “perfect” that has ever ended calmly for a student being addressed by a professor after class.

Your brain immediately begins cycling through possibilities at medically concerning speed.

You plagiarized accidentally somehow.

You cited the wrong edition.

You hallucinated an entire journal article in APA format.

You’ve been academically excommunicated.

“Me?” you say brilliantly.

Dr. Reid blinks once. “Yes?”

Excellent start.

You shove your charger into your bag and stand quickly enough that your chair squeaks against the floor.

The sound echoes.

Violently.

You briefly consider walking directly into the rain and starting a new life elsewhere.

Instead, you manage a strained little, “Sorry. Uh. Yeah. What’s up?”

Dr. Reid gathers a few loose papers into a stack before pulling one free.

Your paper.

You recognize the bent corner immediately because you spent three straight hours staring at it last weekend in a caffeine-induced fugue state.

“I finally finished reading these last night,” he says, tapping the packet lightly. “Your section on adaptive masking behaviors was particularly good.”

The panic in your bloodstream stutters awkwardly. “…good?”

“Yes.” He looks faintly surprised by your surprise. “Very good, actually.”

There’s something deeply unfair about receiving praise from Spencer Reid specifically. He says things too earnestly. No performance to it. No academic politeness. Just direct sincerity delivered with terrifying eye contact.

You feel your nervous system fold like cheap lawn furniture.

“You made an interesting connection between hypervigilance and social mirroring,” he continues, flipping through the pages. “Most students approached the assignment from a purely diagnostic perspective, but you framed it as a survival adaptation first, which is considerably more accurate.”

Your heart does an embarrassing little cartwheel.

Because this is the problem.

Not just that he’s attractive.

It’s that every time he talks to you, it feels like he’s opening a secret door in your ribcage and switching on all the lights.

“Oh,” you manage intelligently. “Thanks.”

“And your question here.” He points suddenly to a paragraph halfway down the page. “About whether prolonged masking eventually alters baseline identity perception?”

You nod slowly.

He looks delighted.

Actually delighted.

Like you handed him a particularly interesting puzzle and not a half-panicked essay written at two in the morning while eating stale pretzels.

“That’s the kind of question people usually don’t ask until graduate-level behavioral analysis,” he says. “There’s still ongoing debate about it, especially regarding prolonged trauma adaptation and identity diffusion.”

You try very hard to remain normal about the fact that Spencer Reid is complimenting your intelligence in an empty lecture hall while rain taps softly against the windows like a movie determined to make things worse for you personally.

“Most current models oversimplify the distinction between performed identity and integrated identity,” he continues, already slipping fully into Lecture Mode again. “Humans are actually much more context-dependent than people like to admit. Personality isn’t nearly as fixed as we pretend it is.”

He flips another page absentmindedly.

“You also cited Dr. Nakamura’s 2018 paper, which almost nobody finds unless they’re specifically looking for it.”

Your mouth opens before your brain catches up.

“…you noticed my citations?”

Dr. Reid looks up.

There’s a tiny crease between his brows now, confused in the gentlest way possible. “Of course I noticed your citations.”

Well.

That’s going to live in your skull forever now.

He says it like it’s obvious. Like naturally he paid attention. Like naturally he read your work closely enough to recognize specific research choices.

Meanwhile you’re trying not to ascend directly out of your body.

“You’re one of the strongest writers in the class,” he says, matter-of-fact. “Your arguments are usually more structurally complex than your peers’, even when you seem unsure of them.”

The room abruptly feels too warm.

You grip the strap of your bag tighter. “I didn’t know you thought that.”

Because there’s something unbearably intimate about being understood academically by someone you admire. It feels dangerously adjacent to being seen naked. Like he’s looking directly at the shape of your thoughts with careful hands.

Dr. Reid glances back down at your paper again, seemingly unaware he’s currently causing neurological events.

“I did mark a few places where your transitions got rushed,” he says, pulling a pen from behind his ear. “Mostly because I think you were thinking faster than you could physically write.”

You laugh softly before you can stop yourself. “That does happen.”

“Yes,” he says immediately, almost too quickly. “I know.”

Silence.

Tiny.

Strange.

His expression shifts a fraction afterward, like maybe he hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

Rain rattles softly against the windows again.

And suddenly you become acutely aware that you are alone with Spencer Reid in an empty lecture hall while he holds your paper like it’s something fragile.

Dangerous situation, truly.

Then he uncaps the pen and scribbles something quickly across the last page.

His handwriting slants wildly across the margin.

Fast. Crowded. Ink-smudged.

You watch his hand move despite yourself.

When he finishes, he folds the packet once and offers it back to you.

“There,” he says. “I added a few additional reading recommendations if you want them.”

You step forward to take it, fingers brushing briefly against his.

Electricity.

Actual cinematic electricity.

You almost drop the paper.

Humiliating.

“Thanks,” you say, quieter now.

“Mhm.”

But he doesn’t let go immediately.

Not enough to mean something.

Just enough to notice.

Then he seems to catch himself and releases the pages all at once, clearing his throat lightly before stepping back toward the desk.

You look down automatically.

At the bottom of the final page, beneath a cluster of notes and arrows and recommended articles, he’s signed off absentmindedly in cramped blue ink.

Excellent work here. Keep pushing this line of thought.

I think you’re asking the right questions.

— I remain yours sincerely,

Spencer Reid, PhD

Your pulse trips over itself.

Because who signs feedback like that?

Who writes I remain yours sincerely like a Shakespearean poet accidentally trapped in modern academia?

And worse:

Why does it make your stomach feel like it just fell down an elevator shaft?

The walk back to your apartment is a blur of rainwater, campus lights, and psychological deterioration.

Your umbrella keeps tilting sideways in the wind.

You barely notice.

Because every functioning part of your brain is currently occupied by one singular, catastrophic detail:

I remain yours sincerely.

Who writes that.

You clutch the paper tighter inside your bag every time the rain picks up, irrationally terrified the ink might smear. Which feels insane. Deeply insane. The behavior of a woman one inconvenience away from being studied in a laboratory.

By the time you get home, your shoes are damp, your hair is frizzing at the edges, and your nervous system is fried.

You lock the apartment door behind you and immediately pull the paper back out.

Like an addict.

Like a widow rereading war letters.

“Oh, this is bad,” you mutter to yourself.

Your apartment offers no judgment. Just soft lamplight and the hum of the refrigerator and rain whispering against the windows.

You drop your bag onto the couch.

Then sit at the kitchen table with the paper spread carefully in front of you.

You read the signature again.

And again.

And then, because apparently humiliation is now a recreational activity, you trace the letters lightly with your thumb.

Spencer Reid, PhD.

The ink catches faintly against the pad of your finger where he pressed harder on certain strokes. You can almost see the speed of him in it. The impatience. The intelligence outrunning the mechanics of handwriting.

God. You're so weird. You're unhinged. You're obsessed.

Your phone buzzes with a text from your friend Maya.

did u survive reid’s lecture or did he accidentally make eye contact and kill you instantly

You stare at the message for a long moment before replying:

worse

Three dots appear immediately.

what happened

You look down at the paper again.

At the stupid signature.

At the devastating little yours.

Then, against every survival instinct evolution ever gifted humanity, you take a picture of the bottom half of the page and send it.

There’s a full thirty seconds of silence.

Then:

OH YOU ARE DOWN HORRENDOUS

You groan aloud and drop your forehead directly onto the table.

The phone buzzes again.

“I remain yours sincerely”????? WHAT IS HE A PROFESSOR OR A MAN WRITING YOU FROM THE CRIMEAN WAR

Another buzz.

he wants u biblically

“HE DOES NOT,” you say aloud to the empty apartment, scandalized.

Your phone immediately lights up again.

u kept the paper though didnt u

You freeze.

Slowly, guiltily, your eyes drift toward your desk drawer.

Because inside that drawer already sits: one graded response paper, two annotated reading packets, and a sticky note from three weeks ago where Dr. Reid had written:

Your interpretation here is excellent. Come see me during office hours if you want to discuss further.

The sticky note currently lives tucked inside your favorite book like a pressed flower.

You close your eyes.

“Jesus Christ,” you whisper to yourself.

Another text arrives.

DID U KEEP THE PAPER

You type back:

not officially

Maya responds instantly.

that is the most incriminating answer ive ever heard

You abandon the conversation entirely and toss your phone onto the couch before she can escalate further.

Then you sit there alone for a moment.

Quiet apartment. Rain outside. Spencer Reid’s handwriting beneath your fingertips.

The thing is, you know this crush is ridiculous.

He’s your professor. Technically not even that much older than you, but enough that it matters. Enough that your brain keeps trying to file this under impossible and failing spectacularly every single time he looks at you like your thoughts are worth listening to.

That’s the real problem.

Not the cardigan.

Not the hands.

Not even the objectively offensive existence of that signature.

It’s the attention.

The terrifying sincerity of it.

Spencer Reid listens to you like he’s carefully placing your words somewhere safe.

And you don’t think anyone has ever done that before.

Your chest aches unexpectedly at the thought.

Too honest.

Too close to something real.

You exhale slowly and pick the paper up again, intending to finally put it away somewhere normal and reasonable.

Instead, your gaze catches on the folded edge of your clear phone case sitting beside you on the table.

No.

Absolutely not.

You stare at it.

Then at the paper.

Then back at the phone.

“This would be a humiliating choice,” you inform yourself firmly.

Silence.

Rain taps softly against the windows.

Five minutes later, you are sitting on your couch with Spencer Reid’s signature folded carefully behind your phone.

You look at it through the clear plastic.

Immediate stomach flip.

“Oh, you absolute loser,” you whisper to yourself.

But unfortunately:

you’re smiling.

By the time midterms crawl across campus like a biblical plague, your situation has not improved.

If anything, it’s evolved.

Dangerously.

Because now there is routine.

Now there are office hours conversations that accidentally become forty-five minutes long. Now there are moments where Dr. Reid pauses to ask, “You read the article I mentioned, right?” already knowing the answer before you nod.

Now there are tiny things.

Tiny, lethal things.

The way he automatically hands you printed articles first when passing materials down the row. The way his face brightens with visible recognition every time you speak in class. The way he says your name like he enjoys the shape of it.

It’s become less like a crush and more like being slowly haunted.

Which is why remaining after lecture today feels less unusual than it probably should.

You don’t mean to time it like this.

It just… happens.

The room empties in that familiar way, like the building exhales and forgets to inhale again. Chairs scrape. Jackets zip. Someone laughs too loudly in the hallway like they’re trying to prove they’re still human after all that thinking.

And then it’s just you again, hovering at the edge of the aisle with your notebook pressed a little too tightly to your chest.

Dr. Reid is still at the whiteboard.

Erasing.

Relentless little motions. Wrist flicking. Chalk dust or marker residue or whatever ghosts lectures leave behind drifting faintly in the air. His cardigan is pushed up at the elbows now, like it’s given up on behaving properly.

He doesn’t look over immediately.

Which, somehow, makes it worse.

Because you’ve started to associate his attention with a kind of internal weather shift. Like the room tilts slightly toward you when he notices you’re there.

You clear your throat.

Soft. Careful.

“Dr. Reid?”

The eraser pauses mid-swipe.

Then stops completely.

He turns.

And there it is.

That subtle recalibration. Like a radio finding your frequency without meaning to.

“Oh,” he says. Not surprised exactly. Just… pleased in a quiet way that feels too personal to name. “You’re still here again.”

Again.

Like it’s a pattern he’s noticed.

Like he’s been waiting for it.

You nod, suddenly hyper-aware of your hands, your posture, your entire existence. “Yeah. I had a question about today’s lecture.”

“Of course.” He sets the eraser down on the ledge beneath the board and steps away from it fully now, giving you his attention like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “What about it?”

Your brain, traitorous thing that it is, briefly offers you ten different ways to phrase this more intelligently.

None of them survive the trip to your mouth.

“It was about emotional responses,” you say. “Like… how people react differently to the same stimulus depending on context and prior experience.”

He nods slowly, like he’s already tracing where this is going.

You continue anyway, because stopping now would be suspicious and also physically impossible.

“You said something about adaptation shaping perception. And I was thinking about whether emotional responses can… overwrite themselves? Like, if enough context builds up, does the original reaction still matter, or does it get replaced entirely?”

Dr. Reid tilts his head slightly, studying you the way he studies everything he respects—carefully, like it might shift if he blinks wrong.

“That’s a more complicated question than it sounds like you intended it to be,” he says gently.

Your stomach drops.

“Sorry,” you start immediately. “I didn’t mean— I just meant like in general, not—”

“No.” He interrupts softly. Not sharp. Just steady. “Don’t apologize. It’s a good question.”

That does something unfortunate to your nervous system.

He takes a step closer to his desk, resting one hand lightly on it as if anchoring himself to the conversation.

“So the original response doesn’t disappear. It becomes less accessible, or it gets reframed by later experiences. But it’s still there. Just… quieter.”

You nod slowly, trying to keep up.

“That’s why certain triggers can feel disproportionate,” he adds. “They’re not creating a new reaction. They’re reopening an old one that’s been reorganized over time.”

Something about the way he says it makes it feel less like psychology and more like confession, even though it absolutely isn’t.

You swallow.

“That makes it sound like nothing ever really goes away,” you say quietly.

A beat.

Dr. Reid looks at you a little more directly now.

“It doesn’t,” he says. Simple. Certain. Then, softer: “But that doesn’t mean it stays the same.”

The room feels warmer again.

Or maybe that’s just you.

You glance down at your notebook like it suddenly contains emergency instructions for being normal.

“Right,” you manage. “That makes sense.”

It doesn’t feel like it makes sense. It feels like it rearranged something in your chest and didn’t bother explaining itself.

Dr. Reid pushes off the desk slightly, as if the intensity of the moment has to be gently contained.

Then, almost like an afterthought, he adds, “Is that what you were thinking about specifically? Or was there another angle?”

There it is again.

That attention.

Patient. Open. Not assuming you’re wasting his time.

You hesitate.

Because the truth is more dangerous than the question.

But you’ve never been very good at leaving things unasked.

“I guess I was wondering,” you say slowly, “if people can… respond emotionally to something they intellectually understand isn’t rational.”

Dr. Reid stills for half a second.

Not much. Most people wouldn’t notice.

But you’ve started noticing everything.

“That happens frequently,” he says after a moment.

Your grip tightens on your notebook.

“Even when they know better?”

His gaze flickers briefly toward you again. Sharper now. Not unkind. Just… more precise.

“Yes,” he says. “Especially then.”

A quiet beat stretches between you.

Too quiet.

Your pulse has started doing strange, uneven things against your ribs, every instinct in your body suddenly screaming that this conversation has drifted dangerously close to something exposed.

Because the problem with Spencer Reid is that he listens too carefully.

Most people let things slide past them. Most people hear the shape of a sentence and move on.

Dr. Reid hears the fracture lines underneath it.

And right now you’re increasingly certain he’s standing one follow-up question away from watching you spontaneously combust in front of the behavioral sciences department.

You tighten your grip on your notebook hard enough to bend the edge slightly.

“Right,” you say quickly. Too quickly. “Okay. That actually answered my question, so I should probably—”

You gesture vaguely toward the door.

Toward freedom.

Toward escape.

Toward literally anywhere that is not this room with this man looking at you like he’s trying to solve something.

But Dr. Reid’s expression shifts faintly before you can move.

Concern.

Not suspicion. Somehow worse.

“Are you alright?”

There’s no accusation in it. Just immediate attentiveness.

Which unfortunately makes panic bloom hotter in your chest.

“Yep.” The word arrives at terminal velocity. “Absolutely. Totally fine.”

You are speaking with the cadence of someone being held hostage by her own nervous system.

His brows pull together slightly. “You seem anxious.”

“Well,” you laugh weakly, “I think that’s sort of my baseline.”

Wrong choice.

Because that earns the smallest flicker of a smile from him.

Soft. Brief. Real.

It hits you directly in the bloodstream.

You need to leave immediately.

“I just remembered I have to…” You motion uselessly with one hand. “Do something.”

Brilliant.

Academic titan.

Dr. Reid opens his mouth like he’s about to say something else, and that tiny moment of anticipation detonates pure survival instinct in your chest.

“Anyway!” you blurt. “Thanks for answering my question. Sorry. Again. I’m gonna go.”

You turn too fast.

Your bag catches against the side of a chair.

The strap yanks violently sideways, dragging the chair with it in one catastrophic scrape against the floor.

You stumble trying to untangle yourself, notebook slipping from your grasp entirely.

Papers explode everywhere.

For one suspended second, the universe goes completely still.

Then Dr. Reid moves instantly.

“Oh, here—”

You both crouch at the exact same time.

Of course you do.

Naturally.

Because God is dead and this is apparently funny to the universe.

Your foreheads nearly collide.

You jerk backward so abruptly you lose balance a second time, catching yourself with one hand against the floor while loose papers scatter farther beneath the desks.

“I’m so sorry,” you say immediately, horrified.

But that's not the end of the torture. Because why would it be? Why would the universe and whatever forces rule it let you get out of this embarrassment that easily?

Your phone.

No.

No, no, no.

Time slows with cinematic cruelty.

The device must have slipped from your bag when the strap caught the chair. The clear case popped loose on impact, skidding separately across the floor.

And there, face-up beside the phone itself like evidence submitted directly to a court of law—

his signature.

And Dr. Reid is staring directly at it.

There’s no plausible explanation for this.

None.

You cannot even pretend it’s accidental.

Who accidentally stores a professor’s signed feedback inside their phone case?

No one, that's who. Just you.

Your soul begins exiting your body through your ears.

Don’t panic, your brain says uselessly, while panic fully consumes the landscape.

Dr. Reid reaches for the paper slowly.

You want the floor to open and swallow you whole like a tectonic event.

“Oh my God,” you whisper.

Dr. Reid looks at the note for one suspended second longer.

Then another.

His expression changes in tiny increments you only notice because you’ve spent months studying him with the intensity of a graduate thesis.

Recognition.

Confusion.

Realization.

And then something else. Something softer. Something that makes your pulse stumble violently against your ribs.

Very slowly, he lifts his eyes to yours.

You have never known true psychological horror until this moment.

“I can explain,” you blurt immediately.

Can you?

Absolutely not.

But the sentence launches itself out of your mouth anyway with all the grace of a car accident.

Dr. Reid’s brows lift slightly. “You can?”

“No,” you say honestly. “Actually, not in a way that helps me.”

Excellent.

Wonderful.

You briefly consider faking your death.

He glances back down at the paper again, thumb resting lightly near the edge where the fold has started softening from use.

And then, very softly:

“You kept it.”

Not teasing.

Not judgmental.

Which almost makes it harder.

Heat floods violently into your face.

“This was,” you say immediately, “so much less creepy in my head.”

A tiny crease appears between his brows like he’s trying not to smile.

“I didn’t say it was creepy.”

“It’s objectively creepy.”

“I don’t think objectively means what you want it to mean there.”

“That’s worse somehow.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. Actually twitches.

You stare at him in horror.

“Please don’t laugh at me,” you whisper.

“I’m not laughing at you.”

“You’re visibly experiencing amusement.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It absolutely is.”

The smile threatens again, smaller this time, restrained at the edges like he doesn’t fully trust himself with it.

And then, disastrously, his gaze drops once more to the signature.

His own handwriting.

His own absurdly formal sign-off.

When he speaks again, there’s something almost embarrassed threaded through his voice now.

“In fairness,” he says, “I probably shouldn’t have written ‘I remain yours sincerely.’”

You make a strangled sound halfway between a laugh and cardiac arrest. “No, you really shouldn’t have.”

“I wasn’t thinking about how that sounded.”

“That somehow feels less reassuring.”

His eyes flick back to yours then.

Warm amber under fluorescent lights. Too attentive. Too intelligent.

“But you noticed it,” he says quietly.

There’s no ego in the statement.

Just observation.

You swallow hard.

“Yes.”

The room goes still around the answer.

Not awkward exactly.

Just aware.

Dr. Reid looks down briefly, almost thoughtful, before carefully placing the paper back atop your fallen notebook instead of immediately handing it over.

“You know,” he says after a moment, “historically, formal academic correspondence used possessive sign-offs fairly often.”

You stare at him.

“Are you trying to academically explain away my crush on you right now?”

The sentence escapes before you can stop it.

Silence detonates instantly afterward.

Your entire nervous system flatlines.

Because you did not mean to say that.

You meant to think it privately and then carry the shame forever.

Dr. Reid goes completely still.

His lips part slightly like his brain lost the next page of the script.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, staring at the floor. “Forget I said that.”

But the problem with Spencer Reid has always been this:

he never ignores important things.

And when you finally force yourself to look back up, he’s watching you with an expression so carefully controlled it almost hurts to see.

“You have a crush on me,” he says.

Not mocking.

Not smug.

Honestly, he sounds more astonished than anything else.

You squeeze your eyes shut briefly. “I am asking respectfully for the earth to open beneath me.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only answer I currently have.”

You expect discomfort.

Distance.

Professional correction.

Instead, Dr. Reid exhales softly through his nose and sits back slightly against the leg of a desk beside him, still crouched across from you among scattered papers and your exploded dignity.

And then, to your complete horror, he says:

“I thought there was a possibility.”

Your head snaps up.

“What?”

A faint flush has appeared high on his cheekbones now.

Tiny. Visible.

It rearranges the architecture of your entire universe.

“You’re very attentive to me,” he says carefully.

You choke immediately. “I need you to stop observing things.”

“That seems unlikely.”

“You’re a behavioral analyst. This is abuse of power.”

That almost earns another smile.

Almost.

“But I wasn’t sure,” he continues more quietly. “And I didn’t want to assume something that would make you uncomfortable.”

You stare at him.

“You noticed,” you say faintly.

Dr. Reid tilts his head a little.

“You keep every note I give you.”

Well.

When he says it out loud like that, it sounds medically concerning.

“I didn’t think you knew that.”

“I didn’t,” he admits. “Not conclusively.”

His gaze flickers briefly toward the paper beside your phone.

“I do now.”

You cover your face with one hand.

“This is the worst day of my life.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“That’s because you’re not experiencing it from inside my body.”

A pause.

Then, very gently:

“No,” he says. “I don’t think I am.”

Something changes in the room after that.

Tiny shift. Tectonic consequence.

The humor softens at the edges, leaving behind something quieter. Something breathing carefully between the two of you.

Dr. Reid reaches down first, gathering the scattered pages into a neater stack before offering them back to you properly this time.

Your fingers brush again.

And this time neither of you jerks away immediately.

It lasts maybe half a second longer than it should.

Enough to feel intentional.

Enough to ruin you permanently.

His eyes lift to yours again, thoughtful in that dangerous way he gets when he’s turning something over carefully in his mind.

“You know,” he says slowly, “there are ethical complications here.”

You let out a startled laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

His fingers tap once against the edge of the paper still resting between you.

“You’re my student.”

The words land carefully. Reluctantly.

Like he hates them a little.

“Which means,” he continues, “that regardless of how I feel about this conversation, there are boundaries I’m responsible for maintaining.”

Your pulse stumbles.

Regardless of how I feel about this conversation.

That’s the moment the floor drops out from under you.

Because that’s not rejection.

It’s worse.

It’s possibility wearing a seatbelt.

“But there are also only six weeks left in the semester.”

Your breath catches.

The words land between you with astonishing softness.

Not a proposition.

Not quite.

Just a door left cracked open in the dark.

Dr. Reid seems to realize exactly how that sounded one second after saying it, because a flicker of alarm crosses his face immediately afterward.

“I’m not implying,” he starts quickly. “I mean, I am implying something, technically, but not inappropriately. I just meant that institutional boundaries are temporary in specific contexts and I thought transparency was preferable to pretending I hadn’t noticed the situation and now I’m explaining this badly.”

You stare at him.

Then laugh suddenly.

Not nervous this time.

Real.

Because Spencer Reid, genius profiler, has gone visibly flustered sitting on the floor of his own lecture hall.

The sound seems to catch him off guard.

His shoulders loosen a fraction.

And for the first time since this catastrophe began, the panic ebbs enough for something else to bloom beneath it.

Something warm.

“I… I can wait six weeks,” you say softly.

Spencer’s smile is small enough that someone else might have missed it entirely.

You don’t.

Because of course you don’t.

It changes him in tiny ways. Softens the sharp concentration he usually wears like armor. Pulls warmth into his face until he looks less like Dr. Spencer Reid, terrifyingly intelligent guest lecturer, and more like a man trying very hard not to look too happy about something.

“Okay,” he says quietly.

Then, after the smallest pause:

“Good.”

He sits next to you on the couch, leaning forward and lifting his pants, unfastening his prosthesis quietly. He sets it down beside the couch like it’s nothing important, and his eyes are back on you.

“I hate him,” you keep sobbing. Jack caresses your arm, and you climb into his lap as if his action was an invitation.

“I literally hate him,” you wipe your tears with your sleeve. “He said I was too much,” you continue, voice breaking again. “What does that even mean? I’m not too much,” you pause, shaking your head, expecting that to make you feel better, but it doesn’t.

You sniff again, still not done. “I’m never using tinder again,” you lift your gaze to see Jack looking at you, almost like he’s looking through you. “Never, I’m done with men.”

“Right,” Jack hums faintly.

Your head rests in the crook of his neck, his hand rubbing your back while his free hand stays on your thigh, fingers lingering on your ass.

“I’m not too much,” you say, almost like you’re convincing yourself.

You can feel the heat coming from Jack’s body, goosebumps rising across your skin as you realize his fingers are almost touching your ass.

“You’re not, sweetheart,” he reassures you, his mouth so close to your face you can smell the coffee and mint on his breath.

You sniffle, shifting on top of him, trying to get more comfortable, both legs around his waist, sitting on his lap while facing him.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, your mouth going to his neck as you whisper, “I hate him,” repeating it as tears threaten to come back.

“You need a man, Ro. Not some fucking guy on a dating app that doesn’t know what he’s doing,” he finally says. “You need a man who knows how to please you.”

“Please me?” you ask, confused.

“Yes, sweetheart. Please you.” He places his hands on your lower back, pulling you closer so you can feel his hard cock under his pants.

You whine quietly, lifting your gaze to really look at him.

“Please me how?” your lashes stick together as you look up at him, eyes puffy and shining, completely unaware of how vulnerable you look, only noticing the way his tongue drags over his lips, like he’s proud of you for walking right into the trap he set.

“Let me show you,” he waits until you nod, and slides his hand inside your shorts, rubbing circles on your clit over your damp underwear. “So wet for me, sweetheart,” he mumbles. “You like this, don’t you?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you moan, grinding on his hand.

“Such a dirty girl. This was your plan all along, wasn’t it, Ro?” He moves your underwear to the side, pinching your clit and making your back arch. He takes a long, teasing lick to your chest, sucking on your neck making sure to leave a mark.

He shoves two fingers inside you, not moving them, waiting for you to ride his hand.

“Just like that, sweetheart,” his free hand goes to your jaw, squeezing slightly and forcing you to look at him. “Did that fucking tinder guy make you feel like this?”

“N-no,” you ride his hand, one hand on his shoulder for balance, the other rubbing your clit.

“You’re all fucking mine. You hear me, Ro?” he bites your chest, neck, arm. “Say it.”

“I’m yours. I’m yours,” you gasp as you grind on his hand faster, the fingers on your clit moving at a speed that makes your eyes roll back. His hand moves from your jaw to the back of your head, pulling you closer until his lips are touching yours.

“Cum for me, sweetheart,” he groans against your mouth, taking your lips in his, biting you hard until you taste metal on your tongue. “Keep your eyes on me.”

You let out a loud moan as you cum all over his hand, your hand leaving the inside of your shorts. Jack quickly replacing it with his, his thumb rubbing circles on your clit, riding out your orgasm.

You fall onto his chest, trying to catch your breath, as Jack whispers sweet things in your ear, kissing your hair.

“Good girl. You did so good, sweetheart,” he praises, feeling you clench around his fingers.

Summary: You survived your wedding only to be hunted by the most powerful families in the world. The monster awoken in you intrigued Titus Danforth, who would do anything to have The High Seat and you as his as well. Thankfully, a hidden rule might make that all possible.

Tags: violence, blood, descriptions of bodily injury but i don't think i made it too bad, morally gray!reader, horny for violence reader and titus, slightly OOC Titus for the sake of sicko romance, slightly OOC ursula, the tiniest hint of weird sister/mother things with Titus (like so small i dont think you'll notice), SMUT!, BLOOD KINK!, BITING!, SLAPPING!, ROUGH SEX!, unprotected sex and they don't even talk about it he just does that :), multiple positions, light choking, like not even choking, they are crazy for each other, slightly subby Titus for like a second

Part Two: A Solstice Sacrifice Part Three: The Debut

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This is not how the day after your dream wedding was supposed to go.  

You’re supposed to be in first class on a plane to some remote Le Domas family home in the countryside of France. You’re supposed to be sipping wine and giggling with your new husband as you both conspire to find a way to sneak into the bathroom together to join the mile high club.  

You’re not supposed to be fighting for your life for the second night in a row, as Satan worshipping rich assholes hunt you for sport and their place on the top of the food chain of the whole goddamn world. 

But as you kick in the face of the man in the gold mask and knock several of his teeth out, as a guttural scream rips from your throat, as you shove him into a high powered industrial wash machine, as you listen to his desperate screams as he drowns and is cooked from the steam, you can’t help but feel, for the second night in a row, more alive than you’ve ever felt in your life. 

+ 

When he first watched the footage of your ill-fated wedding night, Titus Danforth saw something in you. 

The way you choked your new sister-in-law, taking her to her knees, the way you crashed a car and rolled it before beating the Le Domas’s trusted servant to a pulp, the way you took out the matriarch with the very game box that had damned you. It was monstrous, it was raw, it was bloody. 

You had a look in your eyes after killing Mrs. Le Domas, wide and black and...hungry. Titus knew that look well. He’d seen it in the mirror many times. 

It was a look he hadn’t seen on anyone else, not even his own sister, his twin. Why now? Why her? Why would Mr. Le Bail present him with someone whose soul so clearly aligns with his own, just to have her be the one they must hunt and destroy? Hadn’t he been faithful? 

Ursula had clicked her tongue when the final video ended; you laughing as your husband exploded in a mess of blood and guts. “She’s fierce.” 

Titus had nodded, jaw tight. “She’s smart...she’s a fighter.” 

“It’s a shame.” 

Something heavy formed in the pit of his stomach. A lock of rage and need and anger forming like a tumor in his body, weighing him down. His heart grew to a painful size in his chest, the beating of it thumping in his ears. His breath came out in tiny, rushed bursts through his lips. Sweat formed on his brow. 

His sister knew that look. The festering smoldering embers of Titus yearning for something, and knowing there was nothing he could do to have it. It was a look he’d given their father many times through their lives. “Titus...” 

“I want her.” 

His voice was a rough mumble, rocks stuck in his throat that threatened to cascade down in a landslide of a scream. 

“You can’t have her. The By-Laws have been triggered, we have to fight for our seat. This is father’s final wish. Your needs cannot—” 

“I have never needed—” he stopped himself, taking in a deep breath, eyes closed. “I want to keep her. She’s...” 

“You’ve never met this girl, my dear brother.” 

“And yet I know everything I need to.” 

+ 

When you were sitting in the main room of the Danforth Lodge as The Lawyer explained the rules of your second night of torment, gag over your mouth, still bloodied wedding dress itching on your skin, you did your best to take in every word. 

It was simple. 

Survive the night of human hunting until sunrise again, and you were free to go. Whichever hunter from the High Families managed to kill you, would win the High Seat. The hunters are not allowed to kill each other, not even by accident. If none of them were able to catch you and wear Mr. Le Bail’s ring at the end of the night, he would be very unhappy. You assumed the fate of your in-laws is what awaited these people as well. 

As the rules were being explained, you took a mental survey of the room. Only a few people looked like they could be real threats to you, so if you found a way to mow through the strong ones, you could easily hide from the idiots. Though, a voice that had been awoken last night was begging you to just end them all, in whatever sick way was available to you. 

You studied each of their faces, engraining them on imaginary wanted posters in your mind, eyes moving across the room, until you settled on...him. 

The man sitting in the middle table, next to the woman who had greeted you when your blindfold was first removed here. Titus and Ursula Danforth. The twins. And Titus wasn’t looking at the lawyer as he went over the oh-so-important and sacred rules. No, he was looking directly at you.  

At first you noticed how handsome he was. Significantly older than you, but with a ruggedness that drew you in. His hair was silver, soft looking curls, there were slight wrinkles around his eyes, and silver stubble on the lower half of his face. But what really started the race of your heart, what made you suck in a deep breath even through the gag in your mouth, were his eyes. Dark, hazel eyes bore into yours, and instead of holding the smugness and envy of everyone else in the room, his were filled with...sadness? 

That couldn’t be right. He was here to kill you, just like all of them. He has no reason to be sad. 

But.  

That’s the only way to read his expression. While his lips were twitched up in a smirk, the smile didn’t reach those eyes at all. He kept contact with you deeply, like he was trying to search into your eyes and into your very soul. Like he was trying to find something in there. No. Like he’d already found it. The sadness was from the knowledge he was going to lose it. 

When it was time for the game to begin, you didn’t even flinch. You were exhausted, you were frustrated, but you were determined to win again. You’d come this far. 

A needle was presented with some sort of drug that would knock you out so you could be taken to a secret location on the grounds. Before the Lawyer’s assistant could even lift a finger, Titus was on his feet.  

“I’ll do it,” he’d said.  

The low tone of his voice rumbled in your ears, sent a shiver up your spine. Not fear. A thrill of excitement. 

The heavy contact between your eyes remained the entire time he walked up to you. You even tilted up your face to look at him as he grabbed the needle. 

He brought it to your neck, and leaned down to whisper in your ear, in a voice that felt gentler than you’d have thought him capable, “It’s going to be me that gets you.” 

It should have sounded like a threat. It was a threat. He was going to kill you. That’s what he was saying to you.  

But. 

In the promise of his words, something underneath felt like more. 

You watched as his face faded from your vision as everything had gone black. 

+ 

It’s been hours since you’d been let loose on the golf course. You had two kills under your belt, and had only suffered a cut to your hand and some shrapnel in your arm from an explosion that you hadn’t caused.  

The first kill was easy enough, and the next person to join the hunt from his family hadn’t bothered to show up. The other ones you saw looked like idiots anyway, it would have been almost boring to have to fight them. 

Your second had been particularly fun. The father of your former husband’s ex fiancé. You’d managed to trick him into shooting himself with his own gun. And that new small, sick part of you was thrilled at the idea that the annoying, bitchy girl you had stolen Alex from was going to be joining the field. 

You had run into Titus and Ursula a few times, but instead of trying to fight them off, upon seeing Titus again, you both froze at the sight. Ursula yelled something at him, and tried to shoot you, but she missed and you ran. He let you. You didn’t want to fight them. You were happy you didn’t have to. 

The thrill of the chase filled Titus like a drug in his veins, and he tried to ignore the fact that this chase was to end in your death, and not with you shoved against a brick wall, melting in his hands as they ripped at your clothes, his mouth latched onto every inch of your blood covered skin he could get. 

His head wasn’t in this game, even though he knew he had no choice but to win. 

Your next opportunity to run or kill comes when you are hiding out in the dancehall of the Danforth Casino. The sophisticated Chinese woman, who you’d noticed looked utterly bored by the explanation of the rules, has cornered you, holding you back with a sword pointing to your throat. 

“You need to listen to me!” she yells desperately. “I don’t want to kill you! I don’t want to do this! But there is a loophole to this whole game!” 

Your eyes, which have been darting around the room looking for an escape, stop their manic wandering. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean, I had my lawyers scour the By-Laws of the High Seat, and they found that if you, the winner of your High Family’s game, were to willingly join another, then that family would automatically gain the High Seat, and have complete control of everything. You wouldn’t need to die.” 

“I just need to marry another one of you people?” 

She nods her head frantically. “I-I know it’s not ideal. But what choice do you have? I can offer that chance to you. M-My son is an idiot, but you can just marry him, give me all the power, and live life however you please.” 

“Give you all the power?” you ask, but more as a quiet question to yourself. 

Maybe it would be worth it to just give up on the fighting and the running and just...settle. Maybe giving yourself to this other family, selling your soul to live would be easier than all of this. 

Suddenly an image flashes in your mind. If you can just marry your way out of this, if you can just pick one of the litter to tie yourself to, to sell your soul for, and to win all of the power in the world for... 

The image your mind constructs is of the man staring sad and longingly at you in the lodge. The man who has probably trained his whole life for this, letting you run away in the woods.  

Why can’t you have Titus Danforth? 

No. That’s crazy. It doesn’t matter what you think you saw in his eyes, or if you think he let you go in those woods. They have gathered to kill you. He is here to hunt you. You’re going to leave tonight a widow, and nothing else. 

The woman has been rambling on as you think, saying something about how she would be better than everyone else with this power. You don’t care. You don’t want her son. You don’t want to settle. 

You let out a piercing scream, as you run at her, hands aiming for her sword. Her eyes go wide as you manage to catch it and rip it away from her. 

+ 

“Is that fucking true?” Titus spits into his phone. 

Ursula is pacing angrily, grumbling to herself about the incompetence of the rule writers. 

They’d been watching you on cameras in their effort to catch you, and heard the whole conversation over the security microphones. 

On the other end of Titus’s cell is the Lawyer, who responds in his eerily jaunty voice, “Yes. Technically as the catalyst of the vacancy, if she were to join a High Council Family willingly, in other words marry into them instead, well then there would be no Spousal vacancy, and therefore no need to fight for the High Seat.” 

“So if I—” Titus’s voice catches, sounding just a little too hopeful. “If she married into our family, we would keep our seat?” 

“Yes, Mr. Danforth, precisely.” 

“FUCK!” Titus yells, angrily ending the call and slamming his phone repeatedly onto the nearest counter. “All this fucking time wasted! She got fucking hurt again! And I could have just—" 

“Titus, stop it!” Ursula yells, grabbing his arm in a strong grip to stop his violent movement. “This is a good thing! You wanted her, right? Well congrats my darling brother, if we can get to her, then maybe you can actually have her!” 

His breath comes out in heavy huffs, eyes wild and angry. But he nods, slowing himself at her words. He can have what he wants, what his black heart is telling him he needs. He just has to catch her. 

“We have to save her. We have to get to her before—" 

“Wait a second, Ti,” Ursula cautions, letting go of his arm. “If I let you do this—" 

“Let me?” 

“I could still kill her.” 

“You wouldn’t dare.” 

“I don’t want to, not now, so don’t make me,” Ursula hisses. “If I let you do this, if we can convince her to marry you, then I need you to promise right now, on Le Bail’s name, that you will share that power with me, as Father intended.” 

“You don’t trust me?” 

“It’s not about trust, dear brother, it’s about making sure we keep our words. I will swear it too. On Mr. Le Bail’s name, if the Bride joins our family and we hold the High Seat, I will share that power with you, Titus.” 

His jaw clenches. “On Mr. Le Bail’s name, I swear it.” 

+ 

You manage to slam the hilt of the sword into the woman’s face, the crack of her nose breaking makes a sick satisfaction fill your blood. You smile maniacally and laugh as she falls back, still doing her best to hold the sword. 

“What is wrong with you? You stupid fucking bitch! I’m offering you a way out!” She screams as she spits a spray of her blood into your face. 

You shake it off, fighting for control over her weapon. You’re just about to finally rip the sword from her grasp, when the double doors of the hall slam open, and Alex’s ex stands in the opening. She lets out a scream as she sees you, and your eyes go wide as the sound of gunshots fills the room. 

You and the other woman manage to dart out of the way, as the Ex runs towards you, fire and zero control in her eyes. An opportunity is about to open up, that twisted part of you begins to smile as you realize you can hit two birds with one stone. You yank the older woman around, and just as the Ex reaches you both, you slam both your hands holding the sword into her. 

The Ex chokes, blood coughing out of her mouth as she shakes and falls to the ground, sword sticking straight up. 

“What have you do—” the woman is cut off by the explosion of her body, raining blood and guts all over you for probably the dozenth time this weekend. 

With a cough, you wipe the blood from your face, matter of factly blinking and shrugging. 

That’s four people down. Only the dummies and the Danforths left. 

The Danforths. 

You shake yourself out of those ridiculous, wishful thinking ideas again, and make a mad dash to the door, out to the dark of the night again. 

+ 

“Thank fuck she got out!” Titus exclaims, a swell of pride in his belly as he watches the security footage on his phone. His now chosen future bride is clever and vicious. His pants start to tighten at the thought of it. 

“Yes but she’s going for the woods again! She could get away and then we get nothing but death!” Ursula urges. She’s speeding as fast as she can on their golf cart in the direction of your approximate location. “She’s heading north, when we get to the tree-line, you go get her, and I’ll make sure no other hunters follow. I’ll send them on a goose-chase away from you.” 

Titus nods. 

When reach their destination, before he can jump out and chase after you, Ursula grabs him one last time. “Hold on!” She reaches down to her right hand and pulls off one of the pieces of jewelry. A silver ring with a purple gem, sitting in a crescent moon frame. “It was mother’s. If you’re going to propose, you might as well do it right.” 

He snatches it from her, laying a quick kiss on her cheek as a thank you, and runs into the woods. 

+ 

It’s dark other than the faint glow from the Danforth property, and the light of the moon above you, but just past the trees you can see the stone fence of the property line. Your feet are heavy but they carry you as fast as they can go to your freedom.  

It’s going to be over soon, the only way you can make sense for it to. 

As you approach the wall, you slow down, head darting back and forth as you try to find some way to climb over it.  

In the silence since you’ve stopped, the only sound is your stilted breathing and the wind blowing through the leaves. 

And a crack of twigs behind you. 

You gasp, turning with wide eyes as the imposing silhouette of Titus Danforth emerges from the trees. He looks like he’s glowing with the orange property lights coming from behind. Your first instinct is to find the beauty in it. Your second is to remember what his purpose here is. 

He approaches slowly, and as your back hits the stone wall, you notice that he hasn’t brought his weapon. Maybe he dropped it in his haste. Maybe he finds it more pleasurable to kill you with his bare hands. You know you certainly did when it had been your chance to snuff out a life. 

“You look like a lost little lamb,” Titus says, voice once again softer than you’d expected.  

“Like a lamb to the slaughter, you mean?” You snarl at him. 

He lets out a short laugh. “Hmm. You’re funny. You don’t sound scared.” 

“I’m too angry to be scared.” 

“Oh yeah? What’s got you so angry?” 

You roll your eyes. “Other than the obvious multiple attempts on my life? Well, I thought I found the love of my life, and then it turns out he was a secret Satan worshipper whose family tried to kill me.” As you speak, one of your hands starts to feel around for any fallen branches that might be strong enough to play the role of a weapon. “And then when I needed him the most, when I stood up for myself and killed his psycho bitch mother, he turned on me. As though any of this is my fault!” 

“That sounds awful, but you’re not the first to meet this fate,” Titus says casually, hands going into his pockets. His right hand feels around for the ring, as he searches for the words to make his offer. But it’s so fun to play with you. You’re tough, you’re truly not scared of him, you’re up to this challenge. All things that make him want you more. “You know, my sister and I watched the whole thing. We were given the security footage of your wedding night. I saw everything you did to those moron Le Domas’s, even the mother. Tell me about that kill.” 

Your hand manages to grip onto something strong, but the words of his confession and question hit you just as you get a good grip on it. “What?” 

“When you killed the Le Domas mother, what did it feel like?” Titus asks again, taking a step closer, voice dropping an octave. 

You can feel your heart start to beat in your ears, the memory of her kill flooding into you. It felt powerful. It felt enriching. It felt...good. Too good. And he saw it. He saw all of it. Your most violent acts. Your thighs squeeze together, and you know he sees it by the way his eyes flash to them and widen just slightly. Your chest heaves, as he licks his lips, and you don’t know what this is. The moment nor this feeling. But you know you can’t just stand here and wait for it to be a trap.  

“How about I show you?” You bark out as you swing the heavy stick towards him. 

A look of excited shock comes over him as Titus dodges your swing, and then again as you swing the stick back the other way. He has this wild smile on his face, like he’s inviting you to try again, to actually hit him. He wants to see how far you’ll go, how deep you’ll fall into violence. 

But he’s not fighting back. He doesn’t want to hurt you. 

You throw the stick as hard as you can at him, then rush forward to try to take him to the ground. Your much smaller body only manages to push him back a couple steps, but you take a swing with your fist at his face instead. The first one misses, but the second lands with a loud thud right on his mouth. 

“Ahh!” He grunts as the hit rocks him, but when he turns back to you, the slightest bit of blood trickling from his mouth, he only looks more pleased.  

You try to get him again, but he manages to catch your arms, twisting you so you’re turned around, back to his chest, with your arms subdued between your bodies. You twist and jerk and turn and struggle, whimpering and screaming to get out, eyes laser focused on a path to run towards, all the while he’s trying to say something to you. 

“Hold on, little lamb, you don’t have to do this,” Titus insists. “I know about the loophole!” 

That stops you in your tracks. A shaky breath escapes from your lips. He knows? He knows about the marriage clause? He’s not attacking you, he didn’t bring a weapon to this fight, and he knows... 

“What about it?” You ask, just the slightest bit of hope in your tone. 

Titus tilts his face into your hair, taking a long inhale of your scent. The faintest bit of whatever’s left of the expensive perfume Alex Le Domas had bought you, mixed with the blood of your kills.  

“Marry me.” 

The request is so soft, it’s almost inaudible. You gasp, body beginning to warm from your chest and shake. “W-what?” 

“Marry me, Lamb,” Titus says again, with more authority this time. “Be my bride, be my wife, end this whole game, and I will literally give you the world.” 

You swallow a lump, shaking your head. “Y-You just want that High Seat. H-How do I know you won’t do this and then lock me in some dungeon, or...or...kill me later.” 

“I do want that seat, I will not lie to you,” Titus says, then suddenly turns you in his arms, gripping you tightly by the shoulders, looking down at you with a newfound intensity. “But I want you. I don’t need you to tell me how those kills felt, because I know. I know the surge of power and control, the sick delight in ending someone before they can do the same to you. You liked it. You liked how it felt, didn’t you?” 

Unconsciously, you begin to nod. Your mouth drops open, and your eyes flutter at his words, at the sound of his voice, you can feel it everywhere. You can feel the heat and the wetness between your thighs, and you forget to be ashamed about it. 

“Yeah. I know. I can see it in you. That’s what I want. That strength, that hunger, I feel it too. My sister and I are meant to rule this whole world, and I need someone by my side who has that strength, your beauty, your hunger for blood, your ruthlessness,” Titus purrs, pulling you closer to him. His hands slip down from your shoulders, as he feels your body start to give in to the arousal caused by his words. He slides them around to the small of your back, fingertips pressing into the blood-soaked fabric of your torn and desecrated wedding dress.  

“I-I don’t know...” 

“Beautiful little lamb doesn’t know her own strength. I see the monster in your heart and it looks like mine.” Titus brings one of his hands up to your cheek, where a tear has fallen. He wipes it away, and hopefully with the last of your shame for who you truly are. His perfect soulmate. “Be mine, and you’ll never have to do this again. You’ll never have to give up your power again. You'll never have to feel unsafe again.” 

The arousal fully takes you over, and your eyes shut as they roll back in your head for just a moment. When Alex proposed, he did it deceitfully. He didn’t ever want to reveal the true nature of his family, and then he cast you out once he saw yours. Power was never in his offer. True love apparently never was either. 

When your eyes open again, they look upon Titus Danforth with only one determination. 

You surge forward, capturing his lips in a brutal, biting kiss. The taste of his blood fills your senses, metallic and addicting, you reach your long out to lick it from his chin, before connecting into a kiss again. 

He welcomes it, moaning into your mouth, as your arms wrap tightly around each other. He loses himself in the kiss, swallowing all your breaths and whimpers, backing you into the stone wall, lifting you just slightly, so his hips can rut against your core. 

You can feel how hard he is under his pants, and you moan at the feeling, at the fantasy of pulling them down and letting him fuck you out here like this, make you his under the moonlight.  

“Yes,” you moan, both from the feeling of his strong body against you, and as your answer to the proposal. “Yes, Titus, I’ll marry you. I want that, I want everything.” 

“I’ll give you the whole fucking world,” Titus pants into your mouth, rolling his hips to get any kind of friction.  

It’s been so long since he’s been intimate. He’s got his select hook ups, women to satisfy his needs and gratify him, but true intimacy is not something he invites into his life often. But here under your touch, the feeling of your lips, he can’t get enough. He’s been starved for more than blood. 

But there isn’t much time left in the night. If you’re not married by sunrise, this will all have been for nothing. 

So regretfully, reluctantly, he tears himself away from you. You let out a needy whine at the loss of his heat, and he watches as your body contracts and shakes from the arousal. 

“Oh my sweet lamb,” Titus coos, taking pity on you. He reaches back into his pocket to finally pull out his mother’s ring. His heart swells with pride at the excited gasp you let out when he slips it onto your finger. “We can’t give in to that now. We have to make it official, we have to win the game.” 

The glow from the property looks like fires in your eyes, as you break into a genuine, bright, happy smile for the first time since you said your first set of vows to Alex Le Domas. 

+ 

The drive back to the Lodge is filled with an undercurrent of buzzing tension between you and Titus, as Ursula chatters the whole way there about how excited she is. 

“Don’t get me wrong, it was very fun watching you rip everyone apart, those other families have been so fucking annoying, but I prefer the glamor of a wedding over a hunt any day,” she rattles on, delightfully unaware of you and Titus mostly ignoring her in the back. 

They aren’t worried about staying quiet, as most of the other eligible hunters are dead, and the ones who are left know they could never stand a chance at winning a fight against the Danforth Twins. 

Once back at the Lodge, the Lawyer approves of the new plan, and begins calling upon extended family members of the High Council, as well as lower families under Mr. Le Bail’s contract, to attend the ceremony. It won’t be as grand or as long as your first wedding, only a few hours until sunset and all that, but Titus and Ursula assured you it will be twice as romantic. 

Ursula takes you up to one of the guest quarters, and passes you to the care of servants. “I have the perfect dress for a Dark Wedding you can borrow! Well, you can have it, actually, I have a feeling I’m not going to want it back after you and Titus are done...doing whatever weird shit you’re going to do later.” 

She leaves with a cackling laugh, as the group of servants help you strip out of your blood covered clothes. Your shoes are sent downstairs for cleaning, they start to toss your tights and your underwear into the lit fireplace, but you stop them before they can throw your dress into the flames. 

“Wait! I-I want to keep that,” you say, earning a raised brow from the girl holding the dress. You shrug. Maybe it’s silly, but that dress...it was meant to represent your happily ever after, the end to your life of living paycheck to paycheck in loneliness, the start of having a real family. But now...as much as the sight of it should sicken you, it represents your ability to survive, your resilience. “It has sentimental value.” 

She simply nods and drapes the dress over the back of one of the Victorian chairs.  

Your bare feet patter into the bathroom across the cold, dark tile, to the gold, footed bath that waits on the other end. The servants help you step into the warm water and turn on the overhead faucet. Water rains down on you, as servants begin to clean away the blood and grime from the last two days. Lavender and Gardenia scents fill your nose, and you hum pleasurably as for the first time since your rehearsal dinner, you feel your body completely relax. 

After your bath the servants dry you off, massage lotion onto every inch of your skin, as well as healing salves onto your wounds, and fix up your hair and makeup, while you sit in a white robe made of the softest material that has ever graced your skin. Underneath of which you’re adorned in a black lace and satin lingerie set, which is probably more expensive than any underwear you’ve ever owned combined. 

It’s not long until Ursula returns, wearing a long black strapless dress, with a garment bag in one hand and a large hatbox in the other, shooing the servants out of the room for your privacy. Her smile grows as she sniffs around the room, eyes widening when she realizes the sweet smell is coming from you. 

“Well, that certainly is an improvement!” She chirps, tossing the box on the bed and clapping her hands excitedly after you take the garment bag. “You smell like Mother’s garden, no doubt Titus’s choice.” 

“Thank you?” 

“Oh, trust me, it’s a very good thing. We don’t have many memories of Mother, she died when we were so young, but her garden at the Rhode Island estate has been kept up to her standards and preferences by our groundskeeper all this time. Father...” Ursula’s voice trails off as the smile falls from just her eyes for a moment. But after a quick twitch of her neck, it reaches her eyes once more. “Well, I’d like to keep it that way.” 

“I don’t think I’ll have any say over how to upkeep your family’s home,” you say. 

“It’s your family home now too, Little Dove,” Ursula reminds you.  

A small breath gets caught in your throat. “I-I’ve never had...” 

As your voice fades, Ursula’s ever present smirk turns down into something more sincere. “A family home? A family?” 

You nod, giving her a shrug. “I haven’t lived the easiest life. I mean, don’t get me wrong, this weekend has been the worst of it, but...I guess that’s why I got through. I always just...get through it all, no matter what, by any means necessary.” 

“You fight.” 

I win. Is the thought that crosses your mind and...it’s so much more direct of a voice than you’re used to. What is this thing that has emerged from the darkest recesses of your heart? 

“I do what I need,” You say instead, stepping behind a partition to change. “It will be nice to, um, just do what I want.” 

“Oh, and you will.” 

As you change, Ursula starts to pace around the room, fingers running over the dark wood of the molding on the walls. She clicks her teeth nervously, eyes darting to the door, before she locks it. “That actually brings me to something important I wanted to talk to you about. Before the ceremony and all that.” 

“Okay,” you say nervously, shoulders tightening from the change in her tone. 

“It’s my brother, you see. I love him very much, we’ve been together our whole lives, but he’s...he’s not the kindest of men,” she starts to explain, approaching the partition so she can lower her voice. “You don’t have anything to worry about, trust me when I say I have never seen him react to any woman the way he did the first time he saw you. No, see...he can be quite the violent man. He wasn’t allowed to release that side tonight, but after you officially join the family, you’ll learn everything. You’ll be able to watch footage of past rituals, if you wanted.”  

A sick thrill shoots up your spine at the idea. He was holding back today, only got to see you at your most monstrous, and the thought that there could be footage of him. Your hands start to shake as they pull the dress up your body.  

What kind of sounds does he make when he lands a killing blow? What does the flex of his arms look like when he swings a heavy weapon at his prey? How handsome is he covered in someone else’s blood, chest heaving, looking down at them like a bug he’s about to squish... 

“Anyway,” Ursula continues, breaking you out of your thoughts. “The reason I’m bringing all this up is because, well, I want you and I to be a team, of sorts. Truthfully, I will admit I was a little worried about the whole ‘running the world with my psycho brother’ thing. Don’t get me wrong, I do love him, but I’ve had to reign him in our whole lives. Now with you...I think that job will be much easier.” 

“You want me to help you control him?” You asks suspiciously. A tightness forms in your chest. You don’t want to control this man who has just seen you at your own least controlled and loved it. He wants to save you, even after seeing your darkest of tendencies. How could you turn on him and not love him the same in return? 

“No! No it’s not about control!” Ursula says, frustration in her tone. Her fingers grip at her temples, as she lets out a ragged sigh. “It’s the opposite, really. I don’t want to have to keep him in check anymore, but now that we have you, I don’t think we’ll have to. You’ll give him some light in his life, someone to care about do the right thing for, without having to be told to. 

We are about to control everything, have the most power in the world, do you have any idea what that means? Tides will rise and fall at our whims, wars will begin and end at our words. Titus...well, before you, I thought he could use this power to possibly just destroy the world, which would be so boring and pointless.” 

You brush down the fabric of the black dress, pulling it into place around your body, as you let out a sigh. When you step back around the partition, Ursula’s hand falls from her face, and her jaw drops.  

“Wow, you clean up very good,” she says as her eyes rake down your body.  

The black wedding gown fits you perfectly, long bell sleeves and mermaid tail making you look like some sort of demonic beauty from an old painting. You get a look at yourself in the long mirror at the other end of the room, and you know all at once that this is so much better than the white lacy thing you’d worn yesterday. You feel yourself stand up straighter, hold yourself higher. This is right. This is your true self. 

Ursula has the lightest tears pricking the corners of her eyes, as she takes your hands in hers, thumb tapping her mother’s ring that sits fitting perfectly on your left hand. 

“How do you want me to help with Titus then? Just when I can be free, I have to live my life only for him?” You ask expectantly. 

“Live your life for yourself, but don’t be afraid of him. Show him what the point of all this is, what happiness truly is. He sees something in you, and I think I'm starting to understand as well. That ruthlessness I saw from you on the field? Fuck, even I was kind of into it. I have never seen him give a shit for anyone outside our family like I have seen him care for you tonight.  

He was distraught at the idea that we would have to kill you, and when that loophole was revealed, I saw a fire ignite in him I have never seen before. I truly don’t think anything will quell the brutality that he has in his soul, but maybe you can help me direct it. You're getting a piece of this power too. Embrace it.” 

You’re taken aback by her words. You barely know this man. You don’t know him at all really, but from what she describes...you know you feel that way too. He has seen inside your soul and loved it, and with the tiniest glimpses of his, you know you could love him as well. This is the life meant for you. Everything before, all the hurt and the pain and the loneliness, the drifting through aimlessly, all the questioning of it all has been answered by him. With this offer of joining and creating the most powerful family in the world. 

“I can do that, I want to... I want to be happy, for once. And Titus...” You squeeze her hands tight, biting your lip to hold in your smile. “I think we can make each other very happy.” 

“Good,” Ursula says with a satisfied smile. “Here,” she reaches behind her neck to unlatch the silver pentagram pendant that sits there. “You need something borrowed.” She steps into your space, nose to your cheek as she secures the clasp around your own neck, before settling her hands on your shoulders in a tight hug. “I always wanted a sister. Between Titus and Father, it’s been difficult being the only woman at the top of the family. You and I are going to make a great team.” 

You give her a kiss on the cheek as a thank you, as she finally lifts the lid of the hatbox. Your eyes widen as she lifts a black crown, encrusted with red jewels, and attached to a long black veil. The final piece to complete your ceremonial ensemble.  

The time for the Dark Wedding has come. 

+ 

Ursula leads you down to the basement of the Lodge, where floor to ceiling dark wood doors, engraved with a giant pentagram, are opened by two servants in dark purple robes, the hoods covering their faces. You’re lead down a stone stairwell, into a dark Chamber, lit with orange fire on pilons carved into the shape of goat heads. 

The witnesses, members of other families, are all in their own purple robes with hidden faces, but you can still feel their eyes on you as you walk past. You can feel the envy radiating from them. Some want to kill you for their own seat on the High Council, some want to steal you away to marry you themselves. Several of the women wish it was them who would be called Titus Danforth’s Bride. But they knew there was nothing they could do when you and Titus had Mr. Le Bail’s blessing.  

You had won the game. At last. 

At the other end, sits a lavish alter complete with a statue of Mr. Le Bail hanging from above, goat head motifs carved into the stonework of the wall, and an alter table covered in books, black candles, and several ceremonial supplies. The Lawyer stands behind the table in an ornate black gown, wearing a smile and a horned headdress. 

In his hands is the contract book the Hunters had to sign. The book of rules Mr. Le Bail set forth for his rituals and games. He gives you a nod as you descend toward him. 

Next to him is Titus, who sucks in a breath, eyes soft and needy at the sight of you.  

“You’re beautiful, Little Lamb,” he says in a low voice. 

He’s in dark layered clothes, a gray ascot around his neck, and black hunter’s boots, with his hands crossed in front of him. His mouth drops open, eyes wide, chest visibly rising and falling as his eyes never leave the deep, penetrating stare into yours.  

You feel your heart beat speed up, you imagine the sound of it echoing off the walls. Your tongue darts out to lick at your bottom lip, and that’s the only moment that Titus’s eyes linger to anywhere else. 

Ursula guides you up the steps of the alter, taking her place behind you as, the Lawyer hands you and Titus matching silver bands. The Lawyer instructs you both to put them on each other, then takes your left hand in his. 

“We gather here under the light of the full moon, surrounded by the fires provided by Mr. Le Bail, so join these two souls in eternal connection.” 

He brings your hand close to him, and with a sharp, black blade he etches a small cut on the lower part of your palm. Your eyes stay on Titus who looks on with delight as you don’t even flinch. A few droplets or your blood are spilled into an ornate gold goblet, and the Lawyer directs you to keep your hand out as he repeats the action with Titus’s left hand. 

One the blood is mixed in the goblet, the Lawyer brings your hands together, matching the wounds so your blood joins his, and you hiss at the touch. Not at the pain, no. There is no pain. 

You hiss from the sudden electric spark that bursts out as your soul is connected to his. Your lips drop open, your eyes flutter, and Titus gently jerks you closer to him as his fingers intertwine with yours. 

The Lawyer wraps a black silk scarf around both of your hands and ties it off, keeping you two locked together, before picking the goblet up and holding it above you with both his hands. 

“Do you swear on Satan’s name to take Mr. Titus Chester Danforth to be yours, through fires of hell in this life and the next?”  

“I swear.” You say without hesitation, your voice barely yours, distant and echoing as your eyes hood over, and you feel Titus tug you ever closer, until your breath mixes with his. “I promise to be yours.” 

You watch his lips twitch up in a smile, almost like a little boy who opened the one singular present he wanted on his birthday. Has he been dreaming of you? Have you been his wish since before he knew you were waiting? 

“Do you swear on Satan’s name to take the former Mrs. Le Domas to be yours, through the fires of hell in this life and the next?” 

A needy squeal escapes your mouth as you are suddenly jerked forward, hard, so your body is met right up against the hard muscle of Titus’s. He towers over, looking down with a hunger he knows is finally going to be sated. His lips are hairs away from yours as he says his vows. “I swear. I will never let another person touch you, harm you. I will never let your power be taken again. I swear to give you the world. All of it.” 

The Lawyer hands you both a matching set of black and gold pens and opens Mr. Le Bail’s book to an empty page. You watch as flames appear on the paper, writing out your contract to both Le Bail and the Danforth family. You feel a stinging in your hand as you bring the pen down to the page, a moment of hesitation. 

You’re about to sell your soul. For all the power over the world. For a marriage to a man who sort of scares you but thrills you more than anyone you’ve ever met in your life. 

But what even was your life before, anyway? Lonely, poor, an upbringing of abuse, no sense of a real family or home? You can have everything. You will have everything. 

You sign the page. Titus signs immediately after, with much less hesitation. None, actually. 

“By the all mighty powers of Satan, Lucifer, Mr. Le Bail, you two are now one. The Danforth Family is therefore restored to the High Seat, to be shared by you three.” 

A surprised smirk flashes over Titus’s face. It doesn’t even fall when the Lawyer hands Mr. Le Bail’s gold ring to Ursula, who slips it onto her middle finger with a pleased expression. 

You hadn’t been expecting that. Of course the twins would share as they are both head of the family, but you...of course. You’re the matriarch of the Danforths. If heirs to the family are to be made, they would come through you. In giving yourself to Titus, to the contract of Mr. Le Bail, you have gained all the power of the world. 

“You may kiss your Bride. Hail Satan!” 

Titus surges forward, capturing your lips in his with a deep moan, as the other families chant in celebration of your dark union. His grip on your hand tightens, as his other one slips around your back, sliding down to the curve of your ass. You whimper into the kiss, biting at his bottom lip, as your own hand goes to the back of his neck, tugging roughly at the little curls of his hair. 

The sound of Ursula’s excited clapping breaks you from your stupor, reminding you both of your audience. In truth, Titus would take you right now, tear your clothes into shreds and fuck you on the alter right in front of everyone and Mr. Le Bail himself. 

He and Ursula never thought they would marry. It all seemed too complicated with the deadly rituals involved. Why get attached to someone outside the family when they may have to hunt them? When they had each other anyway? Father always emphasized the importance of keeping power in their family’s hands. 

But now Titus has you. Truly has you. You belong to him and he belongs to you as well. 

His hunger has only grown. His need to show you what a good husband he can be, how you have given this power to the right man, to the right family. He wants to take you in every way, show you what true pleasure can be. Erase any memory you have of that stupid Le Domas boy who couldn’t find the wits to see what value you hold. Who was afraid of the monster you have inside. 

Titus has no desire to tame that monster. He wants to free her. 

You breathe into each other’s mouths as the kiss is finally broken, and he turns triumphantly to the witnesses. 

“Hail Satan!” 

The chants continue, as Ursula giggles behind you. “Awe, you two are so cute. And kind of gross. But I’m happy for you!” 

“I’m happy for all of us,” you say, taking one of her hands in yours. 

The Lawyer unwraps you and Titus from the silk, and offers the scarf to Titus, who takes it with a slight wink your direction. You can only imagine the dirty plans he has for that later. You want to know. You wish you could read into his mind and see everything he wants from you, to show you all over your most depraved fantasies as well. 

Titus leans down, placing a kiss just under your ear, the scratching of his stubble sends a tingle of excitement through your skin. “Are you ready, Little Lamb?” 

You don’t trust your voice to not give away to everyone just how needy and desperate you are for him, though that kiss might have been evidence enough. You bite your lip and nod as your response, and allow him to whisk you away. 

+ 

Your journey to Titus’s quarters on the top floor is buzzing with promise and arousal. You can feel yourself dripping between your thighs as he pushes you up against the wall of the elevator, and you lean up expecting a kiss, but are met with his hand to your throat instead. 

The way your eyes light up is like you’ve passed some test with him. He isn’t squeezing or anything, just holding you there with a strong hand around your neck. His breath is hot on yours, lips just out of reach for a kiss, his eyes blown out dark but hooded. You can see him holding back, can feel it in the tension of his body up against yours. 

His free hand trails down between your bodies, petting down the soft fabric of your wedding dressing over your belly, then between your legs. Your breath hitches, then releases in a soft moan as he presses two fingers forward, and even through two layers of fabric he can feel how wet you are. His face breaks into a smile 

“This new, or have I left you like this since the woods, my little Lamb?” His voice is rough, a deep, sexy tone filled with teasing. 

“S-since the woods,” you say honestly. Why lie? When you know you’re about to get exactly what you want? 

“Fuck,” Titus groans. “What a terrible man I am, leaving my sweet girl in this state for all this time.” 

You let out a breathless laugh, reaching between your bodies to grip at the hard bulge you’ve felt against your leg. “And what a terrible wife I am to have left you like this.” 

He grunts, pushing his hips into your hand, curving his fingers up at the same time, and catching your whine into his mouth.  

The elevator dings, interrupting the heat of the moment.  

His hand leaves your neck and before you know it, you’ve been swept up in his strong arms, as he carries you to the bedroom. You laugh, peppering kisses all over the side of his face, and once you’re through the threshold, you squirm out of his grasp, grabbing at him anywhere you can to take him to the bed. You yelp as the backs of your knees hit the end, sending you toppling backwards on the soft mattress. You ruck your dress up to let him step between your legs, but he stops you once it reaches your waist. 

“Don’t rush, my lamb, don’t rush,” Titus says with an amused laugh, kneeling with one leg on the bed. “We can go slow. We have forever now, and you...you’ve been through a lot in two days.” 

“Fuck that,” you scoff, scratching your hands up his chest. “Last night, well the other night, after the wedding with Alex, I was expecting to get fucked good. And instead, I got almost killed. A lot. Now I’m a newly wed again, and I won’t have this wedding night unsatisfied again.” 

Titus’s brow raises, Amusing. His fingers brush into your hair, gentle at first, until they grip tight and pull your head back, exposing your neck to him. “You want to get fucked good?” 

“Yes.” Your voice is desperate, broken, filled with a desire you’re pretty sure you’re experiencing for the first time. Your nails dig into his jacket, fuck all these stupid layers, and you shove it down his shoulders. You rip through his clothes, delighting at the sounds of seams tearing, tossing fabric every which way until you’ve got him in nothing but his pants, finally giving you a view of his strong body. 

He’s built exactly as you thought, all toned muscle and thick arms, light skin littered with freckles like stars in the night sky. He’s beautiful. You want to bite him all over, latch your teeth to every part of his chest until the indents never leave, until you’ve scarred him as your own. You want him to do the same to you. 

He pulls you back into another biting kiss, his sharp teeth latch onto your bottom lip, you moan at the feeling of the skin breaking, and the metallic sourness of your blood fills your mouth. Titus groans, sucking on your lip to drink it, as his hands slide up your back, to the clasp on your dress. It catches, and he lets out a frustrated sound halfway between and grunt and a whine, as he starts to tear the dress apart. 

“Mmm!” you whine, pulling back from the kiss, lips red and swollen and eyes wet, your eyeliner and mascara starting to run. You’re filthy already, and Titus meets your look with an animalistic grin. But you simply pout. “Don’t ruin the dress, Ti.” 

“I can buy you ten more exactly like it, it’s in my fucking way.” 

“You’re not ruining this one,” you spit back. He doesn’t get it, but you know you have the old wedding dress, stained with a dozen people’s blood, waiting in your room. Maybe you’ll put them both on display in wherever it is you’re going to live now, as a shrine to your power, your win of both games. “It has sentimental value to me now.” 

Before he has the chance to argue again, you use your strength to lock your legs around him, and force him around on his back on the bed. You sit up straight, straddling his lap, and you can feel his dick twitch even through his pants below you. His chest rises with a deep breath, wild smile breaking out on his face, tongue darting out to lick his lips. 

“Fuck, you’re so strong, that’s the girl I saw out there,” Titus says in amazement.  

You look down proudly. No man you’ve ever been with has looked at you like this, spoken of you like this, like you’re something sacred, something to be worshipped. Hell, you’re not even the same person any of those stupid boys dealt with. Something awoke in you over this weekend, something can never be sent to slumber again. 

“Do not ruin my wedding dress, Mr. Danforth.” 

His lips purse together, holding down a smirk, and he looks up at you through his brow, impatiently, boyishly...bratty. “Whatever you say, Mrs. Danforth.” 

The name excites you more than you thought it would. 

You reach up behind your back, finding the clasp of your dress, and your nimble fingers are able to easily break it open. You grin as you watch Titus’s mouth fall open. He looks simply parched. There’s something very arousing about having such a powerful and dangerous man hungry and desperate beneath you. 

“Help me with the zipper? Gently.” You ask with a pout. He gives a subtle nod to his head, sitting up straight as his hands find their way to your back, sliding the zipper down slowly.  

Titus groans at the sight of your tits nearly spilling out of the satin bra, and he can feel the drool start to form under his tongue. He wants to bite them, he wants to suck on your nipples while you bounce on his cock. 

You shimmy the sleeves of the dress down off your arms, and then direct his hands to pull the dress up off of your body, before you carefully toss the dress to a chaise off to the side. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Titus says, almost unconsciously, voice soft and breathless as his eyes wander over the view of your body. His fingertips trace over your skin where dark bruises and healing cuts are littered. The evidence of your ability to survive, proof that you are the woman worthy of Titus Danforth, of the whole world. Still, it bothers Titus to see such damage done to his bride. “If I could kill them all over again for doing this to you, I would.” 

“Careful, this one,” You warn in a playful tone, pointing to a light scratch on your rib, “was caused by your sister.” 

Titus cringes. “Well, it will never happen again, not by our hands.” 

You pout. “But what if I want you to mark me up?” 

His eyes snap up to yours, hips jerking up unexpectedly. “Lamb...” 

“What?” You whine. “What if I want you to scratch me, and bite me, and mark me as yours?” 

He doesn’t give you a chance to continue, before you know it, you’re the one on your back again, with Titus kissing and licking his way down your body, over every remnant of your fights. He bites his way through your bra, sharp teeth ripping it in half, and you gasp, cunt aching at the show of desperation. The sound he lets out at the sight of your bare breasts, can only be described as devastatingly hungry.  

He licks his lips before latching onto your left breast, sucking on your nipple, biting it lightly, pulling needy whimpers from your lips. When he pinches the other one between his fingers, you release a high pitched moan, and you can feel a spike of heat between your legs, juices drip on your thighs. 

“Oh fuck, Titus,” you whimper, one hand flying to grip onto his curls, the other slamming on the bed, fingers twisting in the soft sheet, doing anything to find purchase to ground you.  

He moans around you, and your back arches up into him as he tugs your nipple with his teeth before releasing, only to repeat the same actions on your other one. He’d stay here all night if he wasn’t so desperate to fuck you, to devour you in every way. 

His hand dips between your legs when he feels them start to shake, slipping into the lace panties, and he groans into your skin at the wetness he finds. It coats his fingers, already dripping through your panties and practically pooling on the bed. 

It takes him a second to rip your panties to pieces, unwrapping his prize.  

“There she is,” he mumbles, voice filled with awe. 

“Titus,” you groan, sitting up on your elbows. “You said you were going to fuck me.” 

And he loves your impatience, your petulance. You’re so much like him. 

Titus doesn’t quicken his actions, though, he’s not ready to get rid of that frustrated fire in your eyes. He doesn’t feel like it. Instead he slinks down the bed, grabbing you roughly by the ankles to yank your body down with him. He laughs at the small yelp you let out, at the widening of your eyes at his show of strength, and then throws your legs donw to grab your wrists instead. 

“You think you’re going to tell me what to do?” His voice isn’t as playful as before. 

But he’s not met with fear from you, exactly as he expected. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” 

You look up at him with even more hunger and determination than before. When he releases your wrists, you make quick work of his pants, nipping and biting at his lower stomach, humming into his skin. 

He helps you strip him of the last of his layers, and your heart skips when you finally get the full look at him, at his thick cock that’s already leaking at the tip. Your pussy clenches, your nails scratch hard down his strong thighs, digging into the skin enough to leave angry red lines, and you kind of want to run them down again, cut him open, lick up his blood on your way to his cock. 

But he tips you up with two fingers under your chin, waiting until you look into his eyes again before he wraps that hand around your jaw. He brushes his thumb over the cut on your lip, then dips it into your mouth. Your pupils are blown black as you suck on him, wishing it was his cock filling your throat instead. 

“I’m not a gentle man.” 

“Good.” And you hardly recognize your own voice, wanton and syrupy and needy. You’ve only just learned how much you love when it isn’t gentle, when you’re pushed to the limits of your body. You need him to make you feel that way again. “Don’t be gentle. Take me, Titus, like in the woods. I know you were holding back. Fuck me like you want to, like I’m yours.” 

“You are fucking mine,” he snarls, shoving your head back, then follows it up by quickly turning you onto your stomach.  

He crawls over your body, kicking your legs apart, and pushing down on your lower back until you’re arched beautifully for him, ass in the air, pussy dripping and clenching from the emptiness.  

There’s fresh scabs on your back, from where you’d scratched it open on the metal gate as you’d tried to escape the Le Domas property in your first wedding. Titus’s hand covers them completely, and you moan in a combination of pain and pleasure as he grips you hard enough to leave a bruise. The shape his hand covers the marks caused by others, he’ll reshape every wound into a mark of love from him 

“Please,” you whine, voice muffled slightly by the sheet. “Please, Titus, just fu—ahh!” 

He cuts you off with the rough slamming of his cock inside, every inch filling you instantly, until you feel his hips against you. “What was that, Baby?” 

You don’t have it in you to snark back to him, not when you finally feel so full. All you can respond with is a stilted, broken scream into the bed, as Titus pulls out and then fucks back in, slow rough strokes that take your breath away. 

But that won’t do for Titus, he wants to hear you, wants to know how good he makes you feel. As he starts to fuck you harder, quicken his pace, he grabs you by the back of your head, turning so your cheek is pressed to the bed instead, and every sound you make echoes around the room. 

“That’s it, little Lamb, let me hear you,” Titus groans. His fingers rake down your back, over every bruise, as he fucks you at a brutal pace. 

All you can do is scream, eyes running with tears, body on a sweet, delicious fire, as you allow yourself to be used, to just feel, everything. 

With one hand, Titus grabs your arms and twists them behind your back locking you in, completely at his mercy. With the other he reaches between your legs, rubbing at your clit. “Tell me how much you like it.” 

“Fuck,” you whine, the new angle it creates on your body sending bolts of pleasure up your spine. You still don’t really know what’s come over you, what thing has woken inside you, what insatiable hungry envelopes your very soul, but you feel in this moment that Titus is the only one who could ever feed it. “Fucking, love it.” 

You don’t have to look at him to know he’s smiling, can feel it in the tone of his voice when he responds, “Yeah, that’s fucking right. Tell me.” 

He rubs circles on your clit, leans down to kiss up your spine, settling on your shoulder where his teeth bite down, hard, the skin breaking as you moan. He licks at the wound, sucking on it until a red and angry mark is left. 

“Love the way your cock feels,” you whimper, “Feel so fucking full. Feel...oh fuck I’m gonna—" 

Your legs start to shake, vision blurring as ultimate pleasure over takes you, and with a shout of his name, you’re coming, cunt clenching down on his cock as he fucks you through it. Your shouts turn into light grunts, Titus doesn’t let up for a second, as wave after wave of your orgasm rushes through your body. 

For a moment, you think you might pass out, only his voice comes in close to your ear, anchoring you to reality. “That’s it Little Lamb, give in to me.” 

The warmth of his body leaves as you start to come back to yourself, and he sits up, fingers leaving your overstimulated clit to grab your ass instead. His eyes dart down, watching where his cock enters your body, mesmerized by his own movements.  

He’s distracted, you can tell, studying the way you feel inside, how your pussy welcomes him, warm and wet, fitting him like a glove. Has he ever had it this good? 

You start to struggle against his grip, and finally manage to get your arms out of his grasp, and you twist your torso, grabbing him by the chin to pull him into a snarling kiss. You want to show him you can fuck him good too, you can free all the tension from his body with pleasure. 

Your hand comes down on his cheek in a crackling slap! and the shock of it sends him reeling. He pulls out, falling back with a wild smile, mouth red from your blood, and your body shivers with glee. You go to hit him again, but he catches you, pulling you towards him, mouth latching onto your neck. You let him kiss you there, suck another mark into your skin over one left by someone else, but when he goes to move again, you scratch down his chest. 

The nails finally break the skin and he groans at the feeling, puffing out his chest for you to do it again. He’s just as much yours as you are his, after all. 

“Yeah, Baby, mark me up.” Titus pants, an adorable pink blush crawls up his skin. 

But you have other plans. You slap him again, giggling at the petulant smile he gives you. Instead of scratching him up, like he so clearly wants, you use all of your strength to shove his body down on the bed. 

He looks absolutely delighted when you climb on his lap, and he reaches up to grab you, but you fight to press his wrists to the bed. His hips jerk up, cock leaking out, your strength driving him wild. This is what he wanted, this is who he imagined watching the footage of you besting your would-be murderers.  

“Stay,” you command, voice low and dark, as you release his wrists. 

The expression on his face as he willfully does what he’s told, as you sink down onto his cock again, can only be described as animalistic, devoted.  

You whimper as you sink down, until you’re all the way on his lap, and the tow of you moan in unison. You test a roll of your hips, gasping at the feeling, pressing your hands onto Titus’s strong chest for balance. 

“Touch me,” you request in a whisper, starting a slow pace. 

Titus doesn’t need to be told twice, hands flying to your hips as he plants his feet, meeting your every movement. He grunts at each upward thrust of his hips, eyes darting between yours and the slight bounce of your tits. There’s already hickeys forming around your nipples, and he licks his lips at the thought of making more.  

All he wants is more, wants his hands everywhere, his mouth and his tongue and his teeth, wants to devour you. A small part of him wants to tear up every shrine in the Danforth homes to rebuild them all to you. 

“Love the way your hands feel,” You whimper, guiding those very hands to grab your breasts, as you roll your hips down onto his cock. “So strong, so rough, wish I could see what you can really do with them. Wish you were allowed to kill those fuckers out in the game today.” 

“Believe me, fuck,” Titus groans, snapping his hips up into you. “I would have torn them apart to get to you. Would have ripped their limbs off and bathed in their blood to get to you.” 

“Fuck,” your body speeds up, pussy clenching at the thought. Your mind races and your voice is breathless as you moan out, “I want to see it. I want to see you feral and brutal. Fuck, Titus, wanna see you fight for me.” 

He rears up at your words, bringing your chest to his face as you bounce on his cock. “I’d kill a hundred people for you, my baby.” 

You rake your fingers through his hair, whimpering when his mouth finds your nipple again, and you hiss when he bites down. You claw at his back, and you know the skin is breaking at the way Titus hisses into your skin. You kiss his temple, down his cheek, and then dip your tongue into his mouth. 

And there’s a moment, the two of you breathing deep into each other’s mouths, eyes blown dark and wide and staring deeply into each other’s souls, where everything fades away. It’s nothing but heat and fire and blood and you feel...powerful. You feel valued. You feel loved. 

Titus licks up from your chest to your neck, the trail of his tongue leaving goosebumps in its path. “I’d burn this whole world down for you.” 

You suck in a breath, body going still. Those words more than anything, with the real power behind them, should terrify you. They should be the final straw to break you out of this trance, to stop all this and fucking run. 

But you kiss Titus instead, moaning and whimpering into his mouth, holding him tight and close, as your bodies mold into one. He flips you over, back landing on the bed, and he pushes your legs practically up to your ears. 

Everything from there is a blur of biting and licking and screaming. He leaves angry marks all over your neck and your chest, while you bite and scratch him all over in return. Your cries of pleasure echo through the halls of the Lodge, probably keeping up every single person who dared to stay the night. Your throat is filled with a scratchy pain from the screams, but there’s nothing you can do to stop them. 

Titus’s hand roughly grasps your face, keeping your eyes on him as he fucks you harder. “Wanna come again, little lamb?” 

“Yes, please,” you cry out, body contracting, back arching.  

And he cracks a satisfied grin at just how lost in it you are. But Titus knows he hasn’t got much more hold left in him, it’s taken everything in him to hold it out this long. He reaches his hand down between your legs, fucking your harder as he rubs your clit, swallowing every whimper and moan you release into his mouth. 

“Come on, baby,” Titus grunts, losing his rhythm. “Come for me. Give me what I want.” 

Your vision whites out again, hands gripping hard to his biceps, leaving moon shaped indents into his pink skin. “Titus—”  

“Yeah,” Titus pants into your mouth, hand slipping to wrap around your throat, pride and pleasure swelling in his belly when you clench around his cock. “Yeah.” 

With one final scream, your body convulses, juices spurting from your pussy as your second orgasm of the night rips through you, heightening every touch that remains from your husband. Your eyes roll back until they shut, tears prickling the edges. 

“Fuck, that’s it, that’s what I fucking want,” Titus moans. He can’t stop the loud, whiny chants that escape from his mouth as he fucks you through it. “Gonna come, little lamb, gonna make you mine.” 

He braces himself with one hand on the bed, as he suddenly pulls out, crying out your name as he jerks his cock, moaning as he finally lets himself come, thick ropes of spunk decorating your tummy, marking you for the final time. 

The whole world slows down for a moment, only the sounds of your breaths filling your ears. When you finally open your eyes, he’s looking down at you the same as he has all day, like you are the answer to every prayer he’s sold his soul for. 

Titus leans down, placing an almost too gentle kiss to your cheek. “Told you I’d be the one to get you.” 

Tears flow down your cheeks, tracks circling around the sleepy, giddy smile you’re left with. You feel absolutely spent, almost floating away, every part of you that was marked by Titus’s teeth and hands and tongue is glowing.  

He’s still holding himself above you with one hand firmly on the bed, bicep flexed from the effort of strength, and he looks just as fucked out as you. His gaze glides down your body, taking inventory of every place he made you his.  

“Titus,” you finally whine, wanting his full attention back. Your voice is raw, throat sore from the screaming. “That was—" 

“Shh,” he hushes, finally letting himself fall to the side, resting on his elbow, while his fingers ghost over your skin. “I know, Baby, but take it easy for me.” 

You hum and nod, curling up into his side. You feel him turn away for a moment, and look up to see him on his phone, expression impatient and stern. 

“Run a bath, hot but not scorching, same things you used before, and I better not see any of you in there. Set it up then get the fuck out. Thank you.” 

You raise a brow. “What was that?” 

“Wanna take care of you, but don’t wanna be disturbed. They don’t get to see my new wife like this,” Titus says, and at first you think he’s playing, but the look in his eye says he means business. He’s not sharing any part of you with anyone tonight. 

“You’re so considerate,” you say, sitting up to give him a kiss. “I don’t think I’ve ever been fucked that good.” 

His lips press into a proud smirk. “Well, get used to it, Little Lamb. I don’t ever do anything halfway.” 

It’s not long until he gets the notification that your bath is ready, and he carries you all the way across the hall to the lavish bathroom, even fancier than the one you’d been bathed in before your wedding.  

He carefully places you down in the water, in bathtub that might as well be called a mini pool, and grabs the same soaps and salves that had been used to clean away your wounds earlier. His rough, calloused hands, that had held you down and gripped you so hard they left heavier bruises, were miraculously gentle as they wiped you down.  

You’re both quiet as he cleans you, stripping away any final remnants of injuries you’d acquired from the others, leaving only memories of the ones he’d left in pleasure. You almost wonder how this man, who touches you like some precious treasure, can do such brutal things. You can’t wait to see how. 

As he finishes up your care, and takes you back to bed, the final lingering thought on your mind, as you fall asleep in his arms, is that this brute, this dangerous, violent man, is all yours. 

+ 

You can’t think of the last time you had a full service breakfast in bed. 

Actually, no, you’ve never had this. 

Just as you were waking up, nude body covered in bruises and scratch marks and love bites, hidden mostly by the black silk sheet of Titus’s bed, a row of servants trailed in with silver serving carts of just about every classic breakfast food you could imagine. 

The smell is what stirs you, and you hum as you rub the sleep from your eyes, smiling up at Titus who is already sitting up against the headboard. His body is mostly on display, modesty only barely covered by the corner of the sheet, but he’s got a leg propped up, elbow resting on his knee, and he’s lighting a cigar as he directs the servants where to leave everything. 

“Good morning, Mrs. Danforth,” Titus muses, tapping the ashes off the end of the cigar into a crystal plate sitting on his bedside table.  

“Good morning, Mr. Danforth,” you smile sleepily up at him, left hand crawling up his chest.  

The sheet slips off your body, so more of your bare back shows to the last servant still on his way out of the room, and Titus’s smile falls into a scowl when he catches the servant’s eyes rake up and down your bare skin. “Leave.” 

The servant’s eyes widen in fear, and they scurry quickly out of the room, shutting the door behind them. You chuckle, tapping your fingers over the still angry bite marks on Titus’s neck. “You know, I’m pretty sure everyone in the whole compound heard us last night—well, this morning.” 

“Fine with me,” Titus says triumphantly, then echoes his words from last night. “But that doesn’t mean they get to see it.” 

“You’re a very jealous man, aren’t you?” You ask, settling up next to him, peppering kisses to his neck and cheek. “Don’t like it when others play with your toys?” 

He blows out the smoke of the cigar away from you, smirking. “You’re not a toy, Little Lamb.” 

“Don’t you forget it,” you hum. You plant a quick, chaste kiss to his lips, before rolling over to survey your many breakfast options. “Wow, it’s so fancy, it’s like I’m at a hotel.” 

“It is a hotel, my dear,” Titus chuckles, but he’s not teasing or patronizing you, no, he’s showing off.  

“Oh right,” you say with a shrug, settling on a piece of toast with strawberry jam to start with.  

Titus’s eyes watch the way the jam runs down your chin, and how your tongue licks it up, a chill running through him as it reminds him of your blood filled kisses from last night. 

“So, where should we go tonight?” He asks. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well,” he grunts, stamping out the cigar on the plate, and scooting down the bed to join you, to take back some of your body heat again. “We’re newly weds,” he starts, pressing soft kisses to the back of your shoulder. “And as unconventional as our matrimony may be, we still get a honeymoon, don’t we?” 

“What did you have in mind?” 

Titus clicks his tongue. “No, no, no, this is about what you want. We can go anywhere you wish, and we can honeymoon for as long as you like. Let Ursula handle the exchange of power, that’s the boring part anyway.” 

A giddy smile forms on your face. “Well, I was looking forward to the Le Domas ancestral home in France that Alex was going to take me to. And I believe it is legally mine now.” 

“Little Lamb, even if it wasn’t yours, I would make it.” 

“Hmm,” you smile, licking some of the jam off your spoon before meeting his lips in a kiss. “There is something else...Alex had promised we’d join the mile high club on our way there. I know you just said you’re not much into public sex...” 

“Actually, I said I don’t want people to see you,” Titus retorts, licking the little bit of jam that had trickled onto your chin. “So, thank the devil you now own several private jets, I think that wish can be fulfilled.” 

Your cunt pulses at the thought, thighs twitching and rubbing together. The fact that only days ago, the idea of you on a private jet, sipping champagne and getting fucked out of your mind by some hot, rich older man would have just been a fantasy. Now it’s your whole itinerary for the evening. 

“I’m so glad I chose you,” you muse, running your fingers into his soft, silver hair. Not just for the riches, but the freedom. The ability to do whatever you want, be whatever you truly are, and have a man who is obsessed with you for it. 

“As am I,” Titus says, as though he can read your mind. Giving you the world isn’t a metaphor for him, after all. 

“I’m so glad I won that stupid Hide and Seek game. There was one second, when Alex had me on the alter table, about to sacrifice me, when I thought, fuck, I should just give up,” you confess. “But then something just...something was roaring inside me, telling me I can’t let them win. I had to make it, I’d come so close. And even after all the shit last night, you make it so fucking worth it.” 

A small muscle in Titus’s cheek twitches, and his smile drops into a frown. He had seen on the security footage that it was indeed Alex Le Domas who was the final one to try to sacrifice you, and you’d fought back like hell to win. What an idiot, that stupid boy was. But his mistake is now Titus’s triumph. 

Yet still, there is a pit in Titus’s stomach that hasn’t been resolved. He’s known inside and out the rules of the Le Domas’s Hide and Seek his whole life. He knows the ins and outs of every High Council Family’s rituals, his father made sure of it. Titus and Ursula trained from early childhood to be winners of any violent game they were put in, especially their own. 

It’s part of the reason he and Ursula never committed to serious relationships, and put all their focus into keeping the family strong as it is, as their birthright as twins.  

But looking at you, entering this new state of being, finding your true self because of another High Family’s failing, and yet still in the dark of this world you now rule. Titus doesn’t like complicated, he doesn’t want to twist you in a web. He wants to respect the person whose soul aligns with his. Whose monster wants to embrace his. The one person who could love all of him and his demons. He cannot lie to you. He wants to worship you. 

“There was another way for you to win your game with the Le Domas’s.” 

“What?” Your fingers stilling where they’ve been twisting into his short curls.  

Titus clears his throat. “Your husband could have chosen you, just like tonight when we chose each other.” 

“But...” your mind starts to race. “But I thought if I lived they would all die, even him?” 

“Well,” Titus takes your hand in his, kissing your palm, lips touching the place the Lawyer had cut, the place where your blood mixed with his. “Mr. Le Bail likes loyalty, that’s why he plays these games with the families under his power. But loves contracts. Marriage is a contract.” 

You can feel your heartbeat skip as realization dawns on you. All that trouble. All that death. And your heartbreak at the hands of Alex Le Domas... 

“If your husband had chosen to honor his contract to you, if he had chosen to help you and save you, then at sunrise, he could have sacrificed the head of his family, his father, and with you, become the new head of the Le Domas family under the contract of Mr. Le Bail. One reason Ursula and I never married is to avoid that. If we chose to save our spouse, we’d have to sacrifice Father, or each other. We couldn’t bare it.” 

You shake your head in disbelief, breaths coming out ragged. “M-Maybe he didn’t know that.” 

“Maybe not,” Titus says in a voice that isn’t completely reassuring. “But he gave up trying to save you. He gave up his loyalty to you, the one he had chosen, the one he signed a contract with. And so at sunrise the offer was never given by Mr. Le Bail. You could have even killed Alex and married that brother that helped you instead. Didn’t you notice Mr. Le Bail didn’t do anything to him when that brother helped you get away?” 

“H-How do you know all of this?” you ask. 

“We all have our rituals, my Lamb,” Titus shrugs. “Every family has their way of welcoming new members. The Danforths are duelers and gamblers. When you marry into our family, you pick a card from a special deck, and if you pull a number, then you simply are welcomed into the ranks. But if you pull a face card, you must fight a corresponding Head Family member to the death. My father represented the King, my mother before her death was the Queen, a spot now taken by Ursula, and I am the Jack.” 

“I’m assuming the times this has happened, they’ve pulled your card more than anyone else?” You ask, licking your lips at the thought. 

“Yes well, when I was younger they pulled the King almost every time, but yes, since I’ve become a man, the times a face card has been pulled, it has been mine,” he explains with a smile that is a mixture of amusement and pride.  

“Fuck, I wanna see that,” you say hungrily. “Ursula said there is footage.” 

“Oh yes, we keep all the security footage of our rituals,” Titus smirks. “You want to watch me duel to the death? Want to see how strong your husband is? How ruthless? How brutal?” 

Your eyes flutter shut, heat sparking in your belly as your pussy pulses. “Yes. Fuck I want to see that so fucking bad. You’ve gotten to see my monster, I want to see yours.” 

You connect your lips to his in a kiss, breathy and hard and desperate. You open to allow Titus’s tongue to lick into you, to deepen the kiss, but after a moment you pull back for air and another question. 

“How often does this happen? Like, how many people are in the Danforth family?” 

Titus chuckles breathlessly. “My father was the oldest of seven boys and four girls, and after my father won the High Seat, they all signed their souls to follow him. And they all had way more children than him, and then most of those children have had children. It’s come up quite a bit. Mr. Le Bail probably enjoys trying to thin out our herd.” 

“So it’s probably going to happen again, then? This ritual?” 

“Most likely,” Titus says with a shrug. “There’s a Danforth wedding every couple of years.” 

“And so then, since your father is dead, and we’re married, does that make you the King? And so would I be the Queen now? Or is Ursula still the Queen, and I’m, like, the Jack? How will we kno—" 

“You are my Queen,” Titus grunts, forceful and stern. His hands come to your cheeks, holding you steady. “The rest we will let the Lawyer figure out, and he can tell us when the time comes. But I am the King. And you are my Queen, little lamb. No matter what.” 

You smile into the kiss this time, as Titus pushes your body back down the on the bed, using his legs to shove yours open to make room for him. A spike of pain elicits the smallest squeak as you feel Titus’s teeth reopen the bite wound on your mouth. It only spurs you on. Your hand trails down his bare chest, but before it can reach its destination, you have a terrible realization, and push him back. 

“Wait. We just got married. Don’t tell me that means I’m going to have to pull a card and do this all over again.” 

“No, Little Lamb,” Titus assures you, chuckling. He raises your left hand, kissing over the rings he’d placed on your finger last night, and looks down at you with a darkness, a deep adoration, in his eyes. He wipes the new blood droplets from your lip with his thumb, sucking the dark liquid into his mouth like a nectar from the gods. “The contract is reset. No more games to play. You’ve already won.” 

FIN. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

a/n: welllllllllllllllll I cannot believe i let that get as long and lore heavy as i did!!! the last little bit does incorporate a personal theory of how Le Bail's game worked in the first movie, a theory that i think can still hold with the added lore from the second! loved coming up with the Danforth marriage ritual because they didn't say what it was in the movie and im so curious!!! also got to make a Titus is Jack joke that possibly only amuses me and that's okay :)