s

The music was so loud, you heard it all the way at the end of the road. You paid it little attention as you hiked your heavy duffle bag higher on your shoulder and readjusted the fluffy, cream-coloured Pomeranian you kept tucked against your chest. The sidewalk was far too hot for her little paws.

“I know you want to walk.” You huffed and stroked the pad of your pointer across her chest. “But you can’t. Not right now.”

You glanced down at the sealed, albeit a little crumpled, envelope in your hand.

“It should be right here- oh, fuck me.”

You came to a halt in front of the source of the blaring music. You felt the vibrations of the bass beneath your feet and echoing in your chest. People poured in and out through the open gate, passing cars more expensive than a year's rent for the shitty apartment you’d grown up in.

“This has to be a mistake, right? Maybe he moved…” You frowned at the envelope before dodging a group of women in the tiniest bikinis you’d ever seen to approach the letter box.

Cody.

Not a mistake… apparently. Had he lived in luxury and burnt money on shitty parties all these years? Years your mom spent struggling to put food on the table and keep a roof over your head?

She worked three jobs, even when she got sick, and he- he’d lived like this?

You wanted to squish the letter in your hand, but you pushed on.

Maybe you were at the wrong Cody house.

Your hope was waning quickly, but you forced yourself to push on.

With your mom dead and your eighteenth birthday having come and gone last week while her body was growing cold, you had nowhere else to go. Your maternal grandparents were already dead. Your mother had been an only child, and her parents too. You had no aunts or uncles, no cousins, nothing.

And it wasn’t exactly easy to build and maintain friendships while working shitty fast food jobs while trying to stay in school and on top of your mom's medical bills all on your own…

You held Peanut tighter to your chest and pushed past the metal gate fencing off the garden and pool from the driveway.

“Hi, I’m-” You started, but the guy you’d approached stumbled past you and doubled over, emptying the contents of his stomach into the bushes. You winced and screwed up your nose before quickly turning away.

“I’m looking for Craig? Craig Cody?” You asked the next cluster of people you found that didn’t look like they were one shot away from alcohol poisoning.

“Oh, he’s bad news, sweetie.” One of the women cooed at you. Her breath carried the stench of alcohol, and you had to fight to not let your disgust show on your face. “Shouldn’t touch that with a ten-foot pole, even if he has money. ‘tis just not worth it.”

“It’s that one over there.” Another woman chimed in, suppressing a drunken giggle, leaning heavily on her friend. “The hot, tall, hunk of a man by the pool. What? He’s a good lay, and he always has great blow. It’s so worth the STD test you need afterwards.”

Maybe it was a different guy.

A different Craig Cody who lived in the place your mother had addressed a letter to, but died before she could post it.

She hadn’t left you a letter.

It stung worse than you wanted to admit.

Your heart had long since taken up residence in your gut. Your palms were sweaty, hands shaking as you made your way through the partying, drunken mass of people and towards the tall man sitting on the edge of the pool with his legs dangling in the water. A guy rode a skateboard off the roof and into the pool. Water splashed, and you only escaped getting drenched by stumbling backwards and into a group of people that promptly cursed you out. The crowd cheered and screamed. Peanut whimpered.

You didn’t like this place.

Not one bit.

You’d never even been to a party. Between the thrift store clothes and looking after your dying mother, you had neither the time nor the social popularity to get invited. And after years of living your life between the quiet apartment and the clinical silence of the hospital, the barrage of sounds crashing down on you was overwhelming.

The woman had not exaggerated.

Craig Cody was what all those small-dicked social media fitness freaks thought they were. Even sitting down, you could tell he was huge. His shoulders were wide with thick ropes of muscles curling around every inch of him. He ran a hand through his long, dark hair before setting his arm around the shoulders of a much younger woman perched on the edge of the pool next to him.

“Craig? A-are you Craig?”

The man looked up. His eyes were bloodshot, his pupils blown. His gaze ran over your body. The attention sent a rush of uneasy shudders down your spine.

“Yeah? Wanna join us? I’m afraid I have a strict bikinis only by the pool rule.” He grinned, revealing a row of pearly white teeth.

“I- did you know an Elli? Like… twenty years ago or so?”

Craig frowned, though the movement was sluggish and slow, as though it took great effort to even be confused by the question. You watched him take a sip of his beer, condensation running along the bottle and over his fingers.

You muttered your last name under your breath, hoping that it would jog his memory, even in his clearly intoxicated state.

“Yeah… yeah, I did. She was hot. Hot enough to not push her out of bed anyway.” He laughed, a bellowing sound that made you flinch, and the woman on either side of him join in, their giggles airy and fake. Craig turned towards one of them, a dumb grin on his face, and smushed his face against hers, sticking his tongue straight down her throat.

You took a step back, startled by the turn things took, and also the obscenely graphic and frankly disgusting intensity of the kiss.

Was kissing really that loud?

Had someone told you the first time you’d meet your father would be in the middle of a party while he made out with a girl barely older than you before today… you would have probably been as disgusted as you were now…

He drew back after a sheer endless moment, grinning at the girl and purring at her to fetch him another beer. She obliged with another giggle that only got louder when he delivered a sharp slap to her ass hanging out of her bikini bottoms.

Craig peered up at you, as though he just remembered you were there. His eyes ran over your body again. He patted the space next to him. “Get rid of those clothes and come here, baby.”

Tears burned in the back of your throat.

You hadn’t exactly expected to be welcomed with open arms, hadn’t dared to hope for more than a decently nice guy who’d maybe let you crash on his couch for a few days, but this- getting hit on by your drunk, coked-up deadbeat father-

Peanut whimpered again in your arm. Her ears were glued to her head, and her mouth had fallen open in anxious panting.

“Cute rat.”

“This is from Ellie.” You thrust the letter at him, fighting the tears quickly gathering in your eyes.

Craig blinked at the letter.

“Ellie…” His grin widened again. “Ellie was always fun… always up for some blow- hey! You want some blow, sweetheart? Here, you can snort it off my thigh.” He said as if that was the most tantalising proposition one could make a woman.

“Where is Ellie? She’d snort coke with me.”

“She is dead.” You hissed and shoved the letter into his hands before turning on the spot and pushing through drunken partygoers to get away.

You had to get away.

Away from your deadbeat father. Away from the noise that made your skin crawl and your dog anxious. You bolted down the street and didn’t even notice the man you pushed past.

Pope turned, just in time to not get run over by the crying girl fleeing from the house. Not that you were the first to do so, but usually the girls didn’t carry duffle bags bursting at the seams and tiny, stressed dogs.

“Poor thing.” A woman that Pope didn’t recognise sighed. “See, I knew this would happen. Why the fuck would you direct her towards Craig?”

“I thought it would be funny.” Another shrugged, giggling into her solo cup. “Did you see her crying? Poor thing bit off more than she could chew, obviously.”

Pope’s hands curled into fists at his sides. He didn’t like how nasty the women his brothers invited to the house treated girls. Or the way his little brother treated women like they were disposable toys. And he really didn't like seeing pretty things like you crying so bitterly.

Before he could think about how it would look to you to have him stalking down the street towards where you’d sat down by a flower bed, he was moving.

You looked up when a shadow fell over you.

The man towering above you was only a little taller than you, but at least double as wide, his torso broad and packed with muscles that strained against his black tee. His curly auburn hair shone like molten metal in the rays of the setting sun. Freckles littered his face, neck and arms as if a kindergartener had gotten especially carried away splattering dots onto paper with a paintbrush.

Pope clenched and unclenched his fists a few times before sitting down on the curb next to you.

He couldn’t quite explain why he felt drawn to you.

He didn’t know you, and you certainly weren’t the type to get washed into the Cody residence for one of his brothers’ parties.

Had you ever been there… he would remember seeing you.

Not because you were particularly memorable. Your hair was dull and dry, not the shiny, perfectly tweaked and curled silky-smooth hairdos the women Baz and Craig attracted spotted. Your long-sleeve shirt was washed out and threadbare. Dark shadows clung to the skin under your eyes.

You looked unremarkable to the point Pope had a feeling nobody ever looked at you long enough to discover the beauty hiding beneath your world-weary exhaustion.

You felt… familiar in a way that Pope could not explain.

The cream-coloured, fluffy dog you’d been clutching to your chest squirmed out of your grasp and jumped off your lap to give Pope’s thigh a cautious sniff. Pope offered the cotton ball on legs his hand. A barely-there smile grazed his lips as the dog licked his finger after sniffing at him.

“Peanut.” You muttered, voice heavy with tears and plucked the dog back up. “Behave. We don’t lick strangers-” You trailed off as a furious blush spread across your cheeks when you realised you’d just talked to your dog in earshot of a broody, hot, older guy.

“‘tis okay.” Pope huffed. “I don’t mind.” That wasn't exactly true. Just the thought of how much bacteria dog saliva carried made his skin squirm. Did you vaccinate your dog?

“It’s still rude.” You murmured and wiped your eyes with your sleeve.

“One of the assholes at the party hurt you?” Pope nodded towards the house.

“You could say that.”

His chest tightened at the bitterness clinging to your voice. Peanut contented herself with nosing at the grass and dirt between them. You drew your knees up to your chest and crossed your arms atop them to rest your chin against.

“I went there to find my dad.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Big mistake. Who would have guessed the deadbeat that never once bothered to check on me or pay any child support would be an ass? It’s my fault for coming here, but I really didn’t expect he’d try to hit on me. Or to see him shove his tongue down some girl’s throat.” You grimaced.

“I’m sorry.”

Pope didn’t know what else to say.

You shrugged.

“I- I’m Andrew.”

The corner of your mouth twitched. You said your name and chuckled quietly when Pope stiffly offered you his hand - as if you were some fancy business folk shaking on a deal. You shook it anyway, shaking your head to yourself.

“That’s Peanut. Peanut, paw.”

Peanut stood at attention right away, sitting her fluffy butt down in the grass and lifting her paw into the air.

It would be rude to refuse, wouldn’t it? So despite his skin crawling at the thought of touching a dog’s dirty paw, he took the tiny, fluffy thing into his hand.

“Good girl.” You cooed and cupped Peanut’s tiny head in your hands when she turned around to you, clearly expecting a treat, though she only received a kiss on the top of her head for her troubles. She huffed and shook her coat before returning her attention to the grass.

You brushed some hair behind your ear.

“Do you know the asshole that lives there? Craig?”

Pope’s blood froze in his veins.

He turned his head, slowly, eyes flicking to the side much faster to catch another glimpse of you. His breath got stuck somewhere in his throat.

Julia.

That’s why you looked familiar. You had Julia’s jaw and the same face shape as her. Because you were her niece. You were Craig’s kid. You were his niece.

“No.”

The word had left his lips before he could even think about how to answer you.

“Real dickhead.” You muttered and kicked a pebble onto the road. “I came here to give him a letter my mom left for him. She died last week, and without her disability checks and with the medical bills and funeral cost, I can’t afford the apartment, so my shitty landlord kicked me out.”

Pope watched you bury your face against your arms.

“I spent my last money on a bus ticket here, because apparently I’m a sappy, stupid, pathetic little girl who still, after eighteen years of total silence, wants daddy to appear in her life and fix- fix everything.”

You’d started sobbing.

Pope had never been good with tears.

He didn’t know what to do with his hands or what to say. He just stared at you, watching your shoulders rise and fall with your sobs and your dog pawing at your thigh until you opened your arms enough for her to squeeze herself between your legs and your chest and lick at your face.

Pope tried not to grimace.

Didn’t you know dogs licked their own asses? And ate shit? Literal shit?

You laughed softly, the sound coming out raspy and tear-drenched between sobs. You ran your hand over Peanut’s head and nuzzled her neck with your nose.

“I may not know where to stay tonight or how to get us some food, but at least I still have you, mh?”

“I- I have a couch.”

Pope closed his eyes and cursed himself.

You would take that the wrong way. He was sure you would because his whole life everyone had seemingly decided to misunderstand him, to take everything he said in bad faith and never once allow him the chance to explain.

“My place is on the beach. It’s- it’s quiet.”

“You offering me a place to crash, Andrew?”

“I- I guess.”

“That’s awfully sweet of you. You do that for every crying girl you find on the side of the road.”

“You’re the first.” He shrugged. He got up with a quiet grunt and offered you his hand to pull you up, encouraged by your lack of confusing outrage at his offer. “Let me.” He took the duffle bag from you. The bag that apparently contained your whole life - or what was left of it, while you picked up your dog.

“You’re not like… a crazy serial killer or something, are you?”

“Not the last time I checked.” He smirked at his own dry joke.

“Good.” You grinned and cradled Peanut to your chest to follow Pope down the street where he had parked his truck. “Peanut likes you. She doesn’t like most men. She’s a good judge of character.”

“You’re deciding to trust me because your dog likes me?” Pope raised a brow.

“That and well… I don’t really have any options here.”

Pope merely grunted and pulled the passenger side door open for you.

By the time Craig’s altered brain would manage to make sense of the contents of the letter the strange girl had shoved at him before taking off, you'd both be long gone.

“Thanks for the shirt.” You hummed, sitting cross-legged on Pope’s couch in his cosy studio house by the beach when he came back from the door carrying two bags of takeout.

“And the shower.”

He merely grunted in response and tried not to look at your bare legs, or your damp hair slowly soaking through the shirt - his shirt - he had given you, ignoring your giant bag of clothes and other things now sitting on the ground by his bed, a mere few steps away from the couch.

He liked seeing you in his clothes…

You dug into the bag of fries, the hot, salty food like a balm on your wounded soul and sank deeper into the couch cushions. Pope had put on some animal documentary while you’d been in the bathroom, but your attention kept moving from the screen to the man next to you. He was so stiff, sitting upright with his palms on his thighs, his back not touching the couch even once.

You kept thinking that he had to relax at one point, but he never did.

“I’ll be out of your hair tomorrow. Promise. I’ll figure something out.”

Pope turned towards you, brows furrowed.

“Why?”

“Well…” You licked your fingers clean and put the - now empty - bag of fries down on the couch table. “You don’t seem very comfortable with me being here, is all. I don’t want to impose any more than I already am.”

“You’re not.” He looked back at the TV.

He was so weird.

But in an endearing way. You felt completely at ease next to him, even though you had already noticed his little staring problem. You never felt like he was undressing you with his eyes.

“Stay.”

“Okay.”

Peanut jumped up on your lap and, after some turning on the spot, digging her tiny paws painfully into your thighs, she slumped down and emitted the biggest, most dramatic sigh. You scratched behind her ears and watched fat little wombats waddling across the TV screen as the sun sank over the ocean outside Pope’s windows.

“Wombats shit cubes.”

You blinked, your brain struggling to process Pope’s words through the veil of emotional and physical exhaustion that kept making your eyes fall shut against your will.

“What?”

“Their shit… it’s- it’s cube shaped.”

“Really? I didn’t know that.”

“Scientists think it’s so it doesn’t roll off logs because they use their shit to mark their territory and attract mates.”

“Huh… that’s nifty.”

You tried to hide your smirk. He looked awfully cute, like an excited puppy or overeager preschooler sharing the fun, interesting thing he learnt at school. You watched the way the corners of his mouth curled when you didn’t brush him off or dismiss him. You couldn’t help but wonder if he had someone in his life who listened to his animal facts.

His house was bare.

No pictures hung on the walls, no decorative pieces stood around, not even a single dying houseplant in a corner. The faint smell of strong disinfectants hung in the air, mixing with the salt from the ocean.

“Your dog is cute.” Pope said without taking his eyes off the TV.

“She is.” You cooed and ran your hand down Peanut’s side. She rolled over to present her belly in a silent demand immediately. “I got her when I was ten. Mom felt bad that I was always alone. She had to work a lot. All the time, really. She got her from some guy in the trailer park where we lived.”

“She’s been with you a long time.”

“Mhm. Don’t know what I’d have done without her when Mom got sick.”

Somewhere along the way you’d shifted towards Pope without even realising.

You put your head on his shoulder.

Pope didn’t make you move away. His fingers curled against his thighs, digging into the fabric of his jeans, eyes still pinned to the TV.

“I feel so stupid, Andrew.” You whispered. A tear rolled down your cheek before you could hope to stop it. “I was at an emergency group home for two days after Mom died, but then I turned eighteen, and I was kicked out. I only had a little money saved up and a letter Mom wrote for my father and- Jesus, I don’t even know what I was thinking. I just- I just want someone to tell me what to do now. I don’t know what to do, Andrew.”

Pope’s throat tightened, the pain and despair in your voice wrapping around his neck like a noose until his mouth was dry and his heart ached in his chest.

He should tell you.

Tell you that he was your uncle. That you didn’t have to worry or be afraid anymore. They would take care of you now. He was sure Craig had no idea you had existed, but was that an excuse that would mean anything to you after all the struggles his absence had put you and your mother through?

Pope could not blame Ellis for not telling Craig, for taking you and leaving before she even started to show. She had to be your mother, he was sure. Ellis and Craig had dated for years. It was his little brother’s only real relationship, one Smurf had categorically disapproved of. One day, Ellis just disappeared. None of them had been certain Smurf had not made her disappear, like she had with Julia and Lucy, Cath - any woman who had ever threatened her standing in her sons’ lives.

Would you still sit here with him, your head on his shoulder, so very trusting in your despair and desperate need for someone, anyone to be with you, if you knew he was Craig’s brother?

“You stay.” He rasped, nails pressing half-moon-shaped indents into his skin through his jeans. “That’s what you’ll do. You’ll stay here. As long as you need to.”

“Okay.”

You didn’t even fight it. You sounded so tired, so exhausted. The moment that Pope took control and promised you stability and safety, the tension that fear and worry had wrapped around you fell off your shoulders.

You melted into him further.

Pope turned his head to peer down at you. You looked up at him through your lashes. Relief and gratitude made your eyes twinkle in the orange and purple light of the sinking sun.

“Wait here.” He grunted out of nowhere and got up, leaving you to almost fall over and faceplant into the cushions, confused. Pope went into the kitchen to get the cupcake that still sat at the back of the fridge from when he was looking after Lena last week. He wasn’t sure if it was still edible… it didn’t smell bad. Like sugar and vanilla.

He rummaged through the drawers, but didn’t find anything besides a few knives, a pair of scissors, a box of matchsticks from the motel they had put him in after his release from prison and a lone rubber band.

He shrugged and pushed the end of one matchstick into the frosting before making his way back to you, using the lighter from his pocket to light it just as he rounded the sofa.

You laughed.

It was a bright, eager sound coming from the very depth of your chest. It seemed to light up the whole room around Pope.

“Happy Birthday.”

“Is that a match?” 

“‘tis all I had.” He shrugged again, heat crawling up his neck and spreading across his cheek. It was stupid. He knew it. Why did he even try? He always did it wrong.

“That’s so sweet of you.” You said, breaking Pope out of his stupor just to make him freeze again, in surprise this time. You reached out for the cupcake, opening and closing your hands like a toddler demanding a lollipop.

“You have to make a wish.” His voice came out quiet as he retook his place next to you. The flame crawled down the wooden shaft of the match slowly, the flame struggling to grasp onto it beneath where it blazed. He watched you close your eyes, a soft smile painted across your plush lips, watched you suck your bottom lip between your teeth while thinking.

You were so beautiful.

You blew on the match.

A tear rolled down your cheek, quickly followed by another and another. You didn’t open your eyes. You held the cupcake in your hand delicately as your shoulders curled in, shaking in silent sobs Pope could tell you’d been trying to hold in for days.

He couldn’t know your pain, but he thought he at least understood it. Julia died the day before he was released… your mother died mere days before you turned eighteen, before the system decided you were an adult and now had to - overnight - suddenly know how to deal with all this, how to handle it and figure it out. 

But how could you? 

You were no different than you had been a week ago, when you were still a minor, still a ward of the state.

He wanted to take care of people. He wanted to make sure his brothers were safe during every job they pulled, that they didn’t live in squalor. He fixed things before they broke. He dug bullets out of their flesh and stilled the bleeding from their cuts.

He fixed things.

He wanted to fix you.

But Pope didn’t know what to do.

He wanted to make you smile, instead he had made you cry.

It always went that way with him… he could never just do something right.

He was so sick of never getting it right!

You wiped your eyes with the heel of your hand, sniffling quietly, and looked up at Pope through puffy, red eyes.

“Share with me?”

He nodded. He didn’t like the overly sweet treat that left a film on his tongue and a terrible chemical taste that lingered for hours, but for you he’d eat it. Just as he had for Lena when she begged him to buy the tray.

You carefully broke the cupcake into two pieces and - as though it was self-evident - handed him the bigger one. Pope didn’t even care about the crumbs that were sprinkled over your thighs and the couch in the process, and even less that Peanut padded over to clean them up with her tongue.

“Thank you.”

“It’s not much.” He shrugged.

“It’s more than enough, Andrew.” You peered up at him through tear-clumped lashes with such trust and such genuine appreciation that it made him feel sick.

He should tell you.

I am your uncle.

Just four words. Four simple words, and what would they change? You’d gone home with a total stranger, why would you leave when you told him who he really was?

My little brother sucks sometimes, but he has a good heart.

Though… did he want to defend Craig? He should. As the eldest, he had always known it was his job to look after Craig and Deran. He had practically raised Deran on his own. He’d always known more about what went on in their lives than Smurf ever did. They came to him when they were in trouble before ever considering going to their mother.

Why didn’t he want to tell you he was family? Reassure you, once and for all and without any doubt, that you’d be safe now, that you’d never have to struggle or fight or feel alone ever again?

As much of a curse as the Cody name and blood was, it was a type of security not often found in this world.

He watched you lick the remaining frosting off your fingers before holding your hand out for Peanut for her to chase the last lingering notes of sugar and artificial vanilla flavouring. Half-dried tracks of tears still gleamed on your cheeks. The redness of your eyes, the air of exhaustion clinging to you, and the shadows under your eyes gave you a haunted appearance he felt drawn to. A part of him knew it was wrong. Wrong to look at you this way, to see you this way. Wrong as it had been to feel for Julia the way he had. Wrong of him to not be truthful with you. It was all doomed to blow up in his face regardless. How long did he realistically have until you figured out he was a Cody too? Who, what the man you’d met truly was. How long until you heard the name Pope and of his past affinity for propane torches, his violent outbursts, his spotty understanding of morality?

But something had always been wrong with him. He’d known that for as long as he’d been alive.

And right now, you didn’t know.

You didn’t look at him in disgust as Julia had when he kissed her.

And he couldn’t- he couldn’t stop himself from looking at you and seeing how soft and sweet you were, of how pretty you looked even while crying, how nice you were to him.

Self-control had never been on his side.

Pope startled you when his big hands gripped your face between them, not exactly gentle but not with the intention of hurting you either, stubby fingers digging into your cheeks as he half-hurled you towards him, half-slammed his face against you.

You were too shocked to react - not that Pope seemed to notice.

He kissed you, uncaring of the fact you were like frozen, not returning his kiss or even his touch, pressing your lips to yours hard, with pure, unfiltered hunger.

His breath came in heavy puffs against your skin, sending prickling shivers across your cheeks and down your neck, igniting heat deep inside you. Need, to feel another person, to be touched and held and cared for.

You had to be strong for so long, work your ass off just to keep your and your mother’s head above water, sacrificing so much and meeting your father, seeing what a monumental, creepy fuck up he was, realising you’d wasted what little money and energy you still had in coming here - it had taken what little strength you still possessed right out of you.

And this man, this strangely kind, if awkward, man who found you when you needed a kind older stranger to enter your life most? A kind older man, a man old enough to be your father, stepping in when the last family you still had in this world let you down so monumentally in your hour of greatest need…

How could you resist?

How could you listen to reason when he tasted like vanilla frosting and wore the most alluring, intoxicatingly masculine cologne you’d ever smelled and his hands were so big and holding you so tight, and you needed, needed to be held?

You climbed into Andrew’s lap and parted your lips for him in the same breath, tilting your head to the side to deepen the kiss. His tongue pressed into your mouth, hands slipping down to cradle your neck and the small of your back. He groaned into the kiss and chased the taste of you, the feeling of you, your tongue against his.

You slipped your hands into his hair, running your fingers through the soft, dense curls of auburn. Your body felt as though his touch had set it on fire. Heat grew and squirmed beneath your skin, like a thousand tiny insects had come to life at the same time and sought to consume you from the inside out. The hard middle seam of Pope’s too-tight jeans rubbed against your core through the thin fabric of your panties deliciously. You ground down against him, moaning at the friction it provided and the growing hardness beneath it.

You tugged the shirt over your head, haphazard and less than elegant. It didn’t matter. You just needed it to be gone.

Pope lowered you to the couch with such aching tenderness. He swiped tousled strands of hair out of your face and chased the display of easy affection with soft kisses peppered to your forehead and cheek before returning to your mouth, your lips already swollen from his almost violent attack.

“Andrew-” You murmured between two pecks. He grunted against your jaw, slid down towards your neck to mouth at your throat. His hands twitched against your waist, squeezing and releasing, like a nervous tick desperately trying to dispel some tension.

Your whole face flushed when you realised you were practically naked, trapped under the hulking frame of a much older, very much dressed, man.

He drew a diligent trail of kisses down your chest, over your collarbones and along your sternum. His hand came up to cup your chest, thick thumbs resting just underneath your tits, basically framing them with his massive hands. Pope lifted his head just enough to peer down at you, to watch the beautiful creature that had somehow ended up naked beneath him - how any of this came to be he may never quite understand.

“You’re so beautiful.” Pope rasped against your lips before sealing them with another desperate, hungry kiss.

“Beautiful, beautiful girl. Your skin is so soft…”

Pope blushed. He realised too late that that comment might make him sound like a serial killer. It rubs the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again, kind of shit.

But you just blushed and tried to fight a flustered smile.

“Thanks.” You murmured, dumbly, and tucked your hair behind your ears. “It’s- I have this peach lotion…” You winced, cringing at yourself. I have peach lotion, could you possibly sound any more like a dumb little girl?

But Pope didn’t laugh at you, didn’t even look affected at all. He just nodded as if you’d said something very important and very contextually appropriate.

You were just relieved he wasn’t put off by you, honestly. 

At the same time, Pope marvelled at the fact you weren’t put off by him. By any of him. That you were still here, with him, despite the staring and whatever he exuded that always made people fear him. 

That you actually kissed him.

He had kissed and slept with women before, sure, but those had either been hookers his brothers hired because they were convinced Pope needed to get laid to ‘loosen up’, or women coaxed and paid by Smurf to reel him back in when her control over him had been slipping.

You- you were neither.

And you were still here.

You were his niece.

The thought went through his brain like a jolt. His cock throbbed in his jeans, straining against the unyielding fabric. Damning, horrible, shameful desire pulsed through his whole body as he gripped the back of his shirt and pulled it over his head. You placed your palms against his belly, running them up to his chest, feeling the tight coils of deadly muscles slumbering beneath his skin.

You unbuckled his belt while Pope was still stuck in considerations, stuck between knowing what everyone - including you - would say the right choice was and really, really not wanting to make that choice.

He wanted you.

He wanted your no doubt pretty cunt wrapped around his cock. He wanted to see you unravel. He wanted to chase any lingering remainder of tears from your eyes and make you forget all that heavy shit weighing on you. He wanted to take care of you, protect you.

Your hand grazed his cock through fabric when you popped open the button of his jeans and pulled down the zipper. The pang of need and lust tearing through him at even this simple touch pulled Pope violently from his thoughts. 

He shoved your hands away and tugged down his jeans and boxers, not even bothering to take either off completely. He pressed his lips to yours, claiming your mouth, committing your taste to memory because he knew this was the one and only time he’d get to experience it - and he was determined to savour every second of it.

Besides, a pretty girl like you deserved nothing less than to be worshipped.

Pope mouthed at your throat and chest, plastering wet, greedy, open-mouthed kisses over your skin, sucking and dragging his teeth along your goosebump-pebbled flesh.

You were already squirming beneath him. The combined sensations of his weight crushing you into the mattress, of his bare skin rubbing against yours, his warmth keeping the cool ocean breeze at bay, and his calloused palms smoothing over your body, kneading and grasping with nothing short of dying hunger were driving you mad with lust.

“Let me-” You gasped and pushed against Pope’s chest. Expecting the inevitable rejection he’d been subconsciously waiting for ever since he sat down in the grass next to you, Pope sat back. He watched you slip off the couch and between his spread legs, eyes widening, hands tensing against his thighs.

You took his cock in your hand before the lust-induced bout of courage could dwindle back into nothingness, and bent forward to wrap your lips around him. You wouldn’t have expected how wide you had to open your mouth or how quickly your jaw would protest. He felt heavy on your tongue, his impressive girth making the corners of your mouth burn as you tried to take more of him.

The sensation of his thick fingers weaving into your hair and the muffled grunt slipping from his lips almost instantly only spurred you on.

“Oh fuck-” Pope grunted, hips jerking off the couch to chase the hot, wet clutch of your mouth. You pulled away, coughing, a string of spit connecting your lips to Pope’s tip. He pushed your head back down, thrusting up against your lips. You licked the pre-cum he smeared across your lips away and took one last deep breath before opening your mouth for him again.

He did not ease you into it.

He fucked into your mouth, strong hands holding your head down, cradling your head to his lap. Your forehead almost touched his hip when he bucked into you. His cock hit the back of your throat on every thrust, making you choke, the back of your throat seizing up and stomach reeling.

You doubted he even realised he was doing it.

Your name tumbled off his lips in an endless string, only interrupted by curses and groans. His balls slammed into your chin as he moved faster, chasing his pleasure while your eyes glazed over with tears and made your sinuses swell shut. You tried to breathe every chance you got, but Pope wasn’t leaving you many. You dug your fingers into the couch cushion on either side of Pope’s legs, nails straining against the thick canvas.

The kind, older stranger who scooped you up from the street and gave you food and a place to sleep with seemingly no ill intent for you and no expectations was now fucking your throat.

Unabashed, violent, hungry.

Using you like you were nothing but a toy to bring him pleasure, and as if you did not even deserve oxygen until you had provided it.

Your cunt fluttered helplessly.

You pressed your thighs together, feeling the damp fabric of your panties clinging to your heated flesh, and squeezed your eyes shut. You shouldn’t be getting aroused. You should be getting angry, be scared, struggle and- and give Pope a piece of your mind!

But all you did was moan.

You clung to the cushions, face pressed into Pope’s lap, bare tiles digging into your knees and moaned like a whore getting paid by however convincing she managed to be.

“Fuck- fuckfuckfuck- sweetheart- so good- such a tight- ah- tight throat- feel so good- so good for me-” Pope above you muttered. He had dropped his head back against the sofa. His posture was more relaxed than it had been since you met the man. He no longer sat ramrod straight, as if someone was punishing him with electroshock anytime he went slack. He’d melted into the cushions.

His face was twisted in deep, primal pleasure. Long, auburn lashes lay flat against his cheeks. A thin sheen of sweat already covered his freckled skin.

“Fucking perfect- beautiful girl- ah-”

You sputtered. Saliva ran down your lips and chin, creating a sticky mess on your throat and Pope’s jeans. Your fingertips had gone numb. Tears cut streaks down your cheeks, ruining whatever remained of your mascara.

Panic welled up in your chest, tightening the already constricted space further while Pope still fucked into you. His hips bucked into you at a ceaseless, punishing pace. Black spots invaded the edge of your vision.

You were dying.

Every neuron in your brain and every fibre of your being was suddenly convinced, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that you were dying.

You pushed against Pope’s grips, your hands coming up to claw at his thighs through his jeans.

He didn’t relent.

The sounds of panic spilling from your throat were muffled by his cock and continued muttering.

Somewhere behind you, Peanut barked. Pope looked up, found your ruined face, saw the blind panic in your eyes- and instantly let go.

You pulled away so hard you lost your balance and crashed into the edge of the coffee table. The impact would have been even harder had Pope not grabbed your upper arm as quickly as he did, but you still cried out in pain, a sound quickly devolving into sobbing.

“Shit-” Pope cursed. He hauled you into his lap and against his chest with ease, wrapping you up in his strong arms - one curled securely around your back, hand holding onto your shoulder, while the other had ducked under your knees, fingers splayed across your bare thigh.

“I’m sorry. Fuck- I’m sorry, sweetheart. Got carried away. I’m so sorry. Don’t be scared. Please don’t be scared of me. It’s okay. It’s okay now. I’ve got you. I’ve got you, pretty girl. Shhh…”

You sobbed into the crook of his neck. You didn’t know why your reaction was so extreme. You had gotten turned on by how rough he was, and then suddenly, as if a switch had been flipped in your brain, it wasn’t hot anymore - just terrifying. But that was how it was supposed to be, wasn’t it? In all the porn videos and gifs you’d ever seen, it was like that. The women never seemed to be bothered by it.

“Don’t be scared.” Pope repeated, his face pressed into the side of your head. The scent of your perfume invaded his nostrils and almost made his eyes roll to the back of his head.

You were perfect.

Everything about you was just perfect - and here he was fucking ruining it again like he always did!

Scary Pope.

Violent Pope.

Uncontrollable Pope who did unspeakable things with propane torches and killed people when told to and burnt houses when ordered to and who did a three-year stint in fucking hell because he’d never rat out his family like the cops wanted him to - not that anyone ever thanked him or even acknowledged the sacrifice he’d made for them.

“Not- not scared.” You hiccuped, desperately trying to stop the sobbing and get a hold of yourself.

“Don’t have to be.” Pope rasped as he stroked your hair, still rocking you. “Just got carried away. You felt so good, pretty girl. Couldn’t help it. Didn’t wanna hurt you. Didn’t mean to.”

“I- I’ve- I’ve just never actually done this…” You whispered, shame sending ripples of heat up your neck.

Pope blinked at you.

Your blush deepened.

“You- you know… sex.” Your voice wavered at the end, as though your throat tried to choke the words before it could reach your tongue, and you felt so stupid. Stupid, little girl can’t even say sex to the man whose cock she just had in her mouth.

You half expected him to throw you out right then and there.

You probably hadn’t even sucked his dick right. You were pretty sure you’d done something wrong, because you were pretty sure it wasn’t supposed to end with you needing to get comforted by the guy - who hadn’t even come.

At the same time as you sank deeper into self-flagellation, Pope tried desperately to ignore the way his cock ached at your confession.

You’d never had sex.

You were a virgin.

Pope was the first to put his dick in you. Your first dick was your uncle’s dick-

“I- I- I’ll be gentle.” He muttered with the cutest little stutter. It made your insides feel all fluttery and squirmy. You didn’t notice the hint of shame and anxiety swirling around his words. He was stealing your first experiences. You would hate him. You would hate him so much when this whole thing inevitably blew up in his face, but he was in too deep, far too deep, as that he could even just hope to stop himself now.

Pope pushed you down onto the couch and pulled your legs apart, urging you on to curl them around his hips before gripping his cock to align himself with your soaked, virgin hole.

“So gentle.” He muttered against your lips, almost as though to remind himself. You threaded your fingers into his hair and allowed yourself to melt into him, to savour the tender attention and excited prickles his touch sent jolting through your whole body.

Pope eased himself into you, kissing you and pressing his thumb to your swollen clit at the same time. He should really work you open on his fingers, he realised as he pushed his tip inside you, but by the time the thought was fully formed your walls were already clenching down around him and there was simply no going back from there.

You whimpered and tensed up, but Pope didn’t stop, couldn’t stop. He peppered kisses to the corner of your mouth and your temple, hips moving in short, quick, uneven bursts, each thrust nudging his cock a little deeper, forcing you open around him.

“Shh, shh, shh-” Pope groaned and mouthed at your jaw. “Doing so good for me, pretty girl. So good for Uncle Pope- so good- fuck, you feel fantastic, sweetheart- oh sweet jesus-”

You barely heard him over the pounding of your blood filling your ears and the quiet sobs tearing at the back of your already sore throat.

You were trapped, floating between Pope’s rough, demanding invasion and the sweet, apologetic affections he showered you in. You clung to his broad, firm shoulders, nails biting into his flesh, tears running down your cheeks.

That pathetic, insatiable hunger for affection and care that had grown into a wild beast in your chest you could no longer keep chained up, and the lust and pain swirling through your whole body, feeding off each other and spurring the other on, reduced you to a helpless, defenceless, limp thing.

You lay beneath Pope’s heavy frame, crushed into the cushions and took his cock. Your moans and sobs filled the quiet house. Pope kissed and licked the tears off your cheeks, muttering gruff praise intermixed with apologies, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t stop until he was buried inside you, your virgin cunt split open around his thick girth, lying there motionless because every little shifting muscle made you hyper-aware of the weight of him inside you, the size of him filling you up, the way his throbbing, velvety skin pressed into your fluttering walls.

“There you go, pretty girl. You’re alright.” Pope cooed, but it came out strained and almost pleading. He cupped your face in his large, calloused hands, hazel eyes peering down at you, bidding you silently to be alright with such a needy ferocity, all you could do to respond was nod.

“It’ll feel good. I’ll make you feel good, sweetheart. I promise- ah, fuck- I have to move- have to move or I’ll lose my mind- you’re fucking strangling me, pretty girl- so tight for me-”

Pope braced his hand against the armrest to take some of his weight off you and put himself at a better angle to thrust into you. He watched your cunt, your cute little cunt stretched so wide to accommodate his cock, watched himself slip out of you, his cock covered in your arousal streaked with blood.

His insides flipflopped at the sight before promptly turning to mush. A violent jolt of desire tore through him.

Pope forced himself to go slow. To be gentle, as gentle as a man with as much blood on his hands as he had could ever hope to be at least.

You were his niece. His little niece. He had to stay in control, had to make this good for you. 

If he was already lying to you, the least he could do was to make your first time good for you.

Slow, short thrusts that grew longer over time, adjusting to the incremental relaxation of your muscles around him. And he did good. You melted into the cushions, eyes fluttering shut as pleasure settled on your features. Pope hovered over you, eyes flicking from your cunt getting split open around him up to your face, attempting to take it all in at the same time.

Pope held onto his fragile self-control with all the strength he possessed, but Pope was a broken, evil man and he only had so much strength to give.

You cried out. Your limbs wrapped around Pope, arms crossing behind his neck and legs clinging to his hips. His thrusts turned punishing out of nowhere, without warning. Your cunt had only just adjusted to his invasion at all, and certainly not enough for him to pound into you like this.

Every time he sank into you, the force of his movements knocked you into the padded armrest. His hips slammed against your pelvis. His pubic bone dug into your clit, the pressure delicious and yet just that little bit too much that pushed the needle from pleasurable right onto the line between pleasurable and painful.

Not too painful to sour your pleasure but certainly more than you were prepared for.

“Andrew-” You gasped his name, but you were too breathless to convey any real emotion. Pope buried his face against the crook of your neck. More of his weight settled on you again. White spots danced before your eyes. Pleasure and need and arousal swirled through your body with a demanding force and unrelenting hunger that you were utterly powerless against and…

…And you found that you didn’t hate it.

Every sensation was heightened by the sense of helplessness and mental and physical overload wearing you out.

Your orgasm hit you without warning, ripping into you like a starving bear into its prey and leaving you a sobbing, whimpering, shuddering mess. Pope’s hunger was only spurred on further by the way your cunt fluttered around him and tightened further. His rhythm grew sloppy, slamming into you harder and harder, chasing the sweet clutch of your cunt until he moaned and fell apart, your name on his lips. He bucked his hips into you in shallow, little thrusts, fucking his cum deeper into you as he spilled inside you.

He managed to keep his mind clear enough to wrap you up in his arms and turn around with you, draping you over his chest while you came down from your climax, eyelids already drooping.

You were painfully overstimulated and overwhelmed by the whole thing. The last weeks had been too long, too taxing as that you could find it in you to analyse any of the things that had happened today.

Pope stroked your hair and ran his rough fingertips softly down your spine. The tender touch, a stark contrast to the feral, hard pounding he’d given you, turned your bones further to goop, until you were a boneless, satisfied, exerted mess in his arms. His cock was still inside you.

“You felt so good, pretty girl.” Pope sighed and brushed a kiss to your temple. “So good for me… Did- did you feel good? Did I make you feel good?”

You didn’t know.

You were confused and too tired to disentangle the mess of emotions in your chest, and Pope’s puppy eyes just made it all the harder.

You didn’t want to disappoint him or make him sad.

“Yes.” You said, voice already hoarse from him mistreating your throat. If he put the two together, he didn’t show it. He smiled and pushed the hair out of your face. He kissed your forehead, the tip of your nose and then your lips.

“Sleep, pretty girl.” He whispered and pushed your head back down on his chest. “I’ve got you. All is well now. You’re with me now. Nobody is going to hurt you again.”

You wondered if nobody included Pope, and whether you thought he had already broken his promise. Had he hurt you? It had hurt, but… but also not? If that made sense?

You felt dizzy and tired, and it didn’t make sense. Nothing swirling through your head made sense right now, so you just did as Pope told you and drifted off to sleep.

Pope watched you.

He watched you the whole night, arms and legs wrapped around your naked figure, shielding you against the cold with only his own warmth.

Loud banging against his door pulled Pope from his silent, adoring contemplation of your relaxed features. He grunted and grumbled to himself. Afraid the banging would wake you if it persisted - and convinced that you were in desperate need of more sleep than a single night could give you, Pope carefully put you down on the sofa, pulling a blanket he never used over your exposed body before pulling his pants up and tugging his cock away to open the door.

Outside stood Craig and Deran, the latter looking still a little drunk and the former utterly beside himself.

Pope had never seen his brother so unravelled.

“Where is she?” He asked, voice and eyes frantic. They were still a little bloodshot. Whatever drugs he’d taken, they had just worn off enough for him to fully grasp the contents of the letter he was clutching in his fist. “Someone saw her leaving with you. Where is she? Where the fuck is my daughter, Pope?!”

Peanut chose that moment to remember she was a dog - a real, proper dog - and therefore technically responsible for guarding the house. She jumped up off Pope’s shirt you had worn and discarded on the floor to rush towards the house and bark at Craig.

Craig squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, visibly trying to discern whether the pomeranian was real or drug-induced.

“That’s hers-”

Craig pushed past Pope before he could even think about stopping him. Deran shot him an apologetic shrug. “He’s been like this since he discovered the letter in his swim trunks. Who thought he’d care about having a kid?”

“What’s all the noise about?” You grumbled and rubbed your eyes. Peanut rushed towards you in a flurry of cream-coloured fur and all but catapulted her little body into your arms. You sat up, holding the blanket to your chest instinctively and tried to clear the sleep from your eyes enough to have a proper look at the people now standing in Pope’s house.

Pope himself stayed back.

He knew this moment would come. The moment everything blew up in his face, but he was a selfish man and having you - his sweet, pretty, perfect little niece - all to himself for a night made the inevitable fallout worth it.

“Y-you?”

“Why didn’t you say? You’re my goddamn kid and you- you just left?”

Your rage from last night still burnt hot. Craig’s appearance seemed to rekindle the flame, even with the sleep still clinging to you.

“You were too busy sexually harassing me to let me get a fucking word in. How did you- How the fuck did you find me?”

“What do you mean, how did I find you? You’re at-” Craig’s eyes flicked down, finally realising why a girl would hold a blanket around herself the way you did. He swirled around, nostril flaring with barely held-back rage as he honed in on Pope.

“Tell me you didn’t know.”

Pope cocked his head.

He could. He could lie. To you and Craig. Pretend he had misheard the name you’d told him when you asked whether he knew your father. He could make up some story that painted this whole thing as a terrible accident - but it wasn’t.

It wasn’t an accident, and he didn’t want you to think you were one. That he’d come to view you as a mistake. That his promises from last night would suddenly be void.

“Tell me,” Craig ground out between clenched teeth. “You didn’t know when you fucked her that she’s my daughter!”

“You fucking sicko-”

“Woah, wait- stop-” Deran jumped between Pope and Craig, clearly overwhelmed by the situation and not quite picking up on what Craig had already realised - or perhaps he just chose denial.

You looked from Craig to Deran to Pope. “What’s going on?”

“Tell her!” Craig demanded, his voice dangerously low. “Go on, fucking tell her. Tell her what you did.”

Pope remained quiet, and rather unfazed by his brother’s open, murderous hostility.

Craig wasn’t a killer.

Neither he nor Deran ever had what it takes to do the necessary things. No, that was always Pope’s job.

“He’s your uncle.” Craig hissed. “Pope Cody. Andrew Cody. He’s my brother. He’s your fucking uncle and he knew, he knew-”

Your eyes flicked over to Pope, standing tall, though stiff, while Deran had to put his whole back into trying to stop Craig from attacking him.

“How could you, man? What is wrong with you? How could you?!”

If only Pope knew…

“You should leave now.” Your voice was void of all warmth. Harsh and unyielding. It was enough to make Craig falter. “I don't want to talk to you."

“He-”

“Get out!”

Craig’s shoulders slumped.

“Come on, man.” Deran muttered and steered Craig towards the door. Pope shut it behind them. He didn’t turn around, keeping his back to you while you plucked one of the discarded shirts off the ground to shrug on. You went to the bathroom to pee. When you returned, Pope was still standing by the door, his forehead practically pressed against the smooth wood.

“Do you have anything that’s edible for a dog?” You asked from the doorway to the bathroom. “I think Peanut will start eating your couch if she doesn’t get something soon.”

“There’s boiled chicken and rice in the fridge.”

“She can’t have spices.”

“No spices.”

You frowned. “You eat unseasoned chicken and rice?”

Pope shrugged.

“Gross, dude. We’ll for sure have to buy some spices when we go grocery shopping.”

That had Pope lifting his head, but you had already disappeared into the kitchen.

He followed you, wary, skulking after you as silently as he could. He watched you put some rice into a bowl and pluck a piece of the cooked chicken breast apart with your fingers. He whispered your name. It came out hoarse and… small, somehow.

“Hm?”

“We?” He asked. “When we go grocery shopping?”

You licked your fingers clean and set the bowl down on the ground for Peanut. “I’m not eating boiled, unseasoned chicken with rice. I don’t hate myself nearly enough for that shit.”

“I- I don’t understand.”

You crossed your arms and leaned back against the counter. “You said I could stay. Has that changed?”

Pope shook his head. “I thought you wouldn't want to... now...” He admitted after a beat of silence.

“Because you’re my uncle? Or because you knew you were my uncle when you fucked me but didn’t tell me?”

He shrugged again.

You pushed yourself off the counter and pressed close to him, wrapping your arms around his neck. An edge of insecurity slipped into your eyes. A crease formed between your brows. Pope wanted to smooth it out, erase it, make it so you'd never frown again.

“You said you’d take care of me.”

“I will.” Pope rasped, arms coming up around your waist. “Of everything you need. I promise, pretty girl.”

You nodded. The tip of your tongue darted out between your teeth to wet your lips. Your eyes flicked from his eyes to his lips. “I- I think I like it when you take care of me… Uncle Andrew.”

Pope bit back a groan and dropped his forehead against yours, turning you around until your back hit the doorframe. He crowded you against it, pressing his body to yours, staring down at your eyes for several heartbeats before dipping his head to kiss you.

This time you did not hesitate before reciprocating.

eats the foods you don’t like for you.

smurf cooks for the boys and their guests multiple times a day. usually it’s delicious and you eat it up with no arguing. but today, she places glasses full of some green goo she calls “healthy”.

yeah, no thank you.

you really try. eyes glancing between all the guys who drink it with no issue, maybe you’re just judging a book by it’s cover. with one sip, you come to the conclusion that you are not. no matter how healthy this drink is, it’s nasty as fuck. you swallow it down thickly, trying to keep your poker face on.

beside you, andrew is watching. and you’re not the best actor. he can read everything in your expression.

he takes the glass from you with no words exchanged, a hand on the back of your head as his way of saying, “it’s okay. i’ll finish it for you”.

he knows how you don’t like to waste food. and thankfully, he’s like a garbage chute.

smurf notices this habit, and sneers at you. it’s insulting to her that you don’t eat or drink every single thing she slaves in the kitchen to make you. and she hates it even more that andrew excuses it and covers for you.

while we’re on the topic, smurf does not like you.

it’s not like you’re new to their lives. you’ve been around for awhile. she knows you’re trustworthy.

but when push comes to shove, she knows that andrew is too attached to you. and one day, he will pick you over her.

you think it’s maybe some internal misogyny she has. she likes being the most important woman in her son’s lives. even going to the great lengths of distancing herself from her own daughter to do so.

everything you do to win her over is met with a fake smile and some bullshit condescending tone. you’ve gotten to the point where you just don’t even try anymore. it’s not worth it.

andrew loves you and thats all that matters.

he likes watching you.

people around you find it creepy. not really that surprising. most adults grow out of their staring problems. pope never did. especially when it came to you.

you can feel his eyes like a 20 pound weight on your shoulders at all times. if you’re in the same room, good chance he’s probably looking at you.

it used to make you feel a bit self conscious. slowly but surely you learned that it’s just his way of showing affection for you. he’s sort of like a cat in that way.

he likes when you find his gaze and reach over to pinch his cheek. anything to get an ounce of attention.

when it comes to jobs, he doesn’t care about you knowing about them. what he does not want is anything being traced back to you.

a lot of the time, he enjoys having your input. often you’ll sit in between his legs on the ground, him on the couch or a seat as they discuss whatever job they are talking about. you’re a whole lot smarter than his three brothers combined so hearing what you have to say about the heists they plan is a breath of fresh air. which he does not get too much of.

but if they such as imply your involvement in any of the jobs, he shuts that shit down real fuckin’ fast.

that’s one thing that slightly bothers you. you want in on these things sometimes. you don’t have a job because he takes care of you well enough that you don’t need one. but you want to feel useful. like you actually do something.

when you bring it up to him, he shakes his head. this is the only time where he yells. not really at you, but kind of at you. he can’t understand why you would want to be apart of what his family does.

if you cry, he softens up immediately, cradling your face in his hands. he apologizes for getting angry with you, but he does not apologize for protecting you.

he’s been to prison. spent too much time there and he never wants you to have to experience and see the things that he had to. you’re too perfect for that.

andrew does not play when it comes to you.

what he does like to do is spoil you rotten with what he gets from the jobs.

you gotta hide money somewhere. properties is a good way to do it. but andrew’s favorite way is to invest it into expensive jewelry he can dress you up in!

it’s always so awkward. he comes up to you with a pretty velvet box, holding it out like a cat would a dead rodent. he has that weird pursed lipped look on his face, waiting for you to take it and open it.

once you do, it’s always something glitzy. and you always show so much gratitude.

“popey!” you coo, holding up whatever piece he bought you this time. “it’s so pretty! put it on me! put it on me!”

he gets you so much junk you don’t even know where to put it all. you’ve got jewelry box after jewelry box just to store everything. and you’d never even consider getting rid of any of it. not at the chance of seeing that pathetic little pout on his pretty face.

speaking of pathetic … he’s pretty pathetic.

like. really fucking pathetic.

following you around like a lost puppy for your attention.

answers your calls before the first ring is even heard.

lets you drag him wherever you want. you move him around like a doll and he just .. lets you. has that dumb stare during it too.

drops to his knees in front of you very often. too often. he worships the ground you walk on. he always needs you to know that you’re above him in every sense of the word. loves when your fingers find their way into his curls too.

the way he looks up at you is just YUMMYYYY. sad eyes big and glassy with his mouth parted just a bit. you might as well be some demi-god to him.

every intimate moment with him you awaken that part of him x100.

we’ve already discussed how when he’s tongue deep in your pussy he’s sobbing his eyes out, usually unable to give it a rest. it’s not even pretty cries too. snotty and throaty. grooooosssss boy.

even when he’s pounding into you on top, his head is dropped into your shoulder, sniffling and crying about how good you feel and how he can’t possibly understand how you let him do this to you.

and when you’re on top, he can barely even look away. blinking is an annoyance because that nanosecond of staring at you bouncing on his cock and screaming his name is taken from him. he always keeps a hand on your hips. and if he wants to hold anything else, he always begs.

this munchkin looooooooves sleeping inside of you.

he tries to make it a nightly routine. you indulge him a lot. but sometimes, your pussy needs a break.

“not tonight, popey,” you hum, rolling onto your side. “we can tomorrow.. promise..”

he stares at you like you just said you were gonna shoot him and dump the body in the ocean. what is he? chopped liver?!

could you blame him though? it was just so warm and cozy in there. like a third home to him. and it made him inhumanely close to you. with his dick all nestled inside and his big beefy arms around your waist, hugging you against him, he could sleep for months in complete comfort.

the only issue is that you know how he is. most of the time, he just wakes up in the middle of the night hard as a rock and starts plowing into you from behind.

poor baby. he apologizes profusely which i guess makes up for it. he’s all, “‘m so sorry- fuck! baby- i’m sorry.. ahh- couldn’t help it.. go back to- mm- sleep.. go to sleep..”

nobody on the outside of you two would imagine it. he’s so fucking scary to everyone else. but for you? he’s a popsicle and you’re the beating summer sun.

(google doc link)

⛧⃝

When you were hired on to serve the Danforth family—or the Danforth Clan as many liked to call them—you knew that you were stepping foot into the devil’s lair the moment a huge stack of papers were placed before you to read and sign. You knew there’d no doubt be things you’d witness and be privy to that you’d be legally barred from ever speaking about. You hadn’t known then just how depraved and differently the top 1% of the world behaved, but you’d known that you were signing a piece of your soul away in a sense. 

…but when you impressively scrawled your name in cursive on that dotted line, you hadn't known you’d be signing your body away too.

Titus Danforth was a gentle brute, if such a thing ever existed. He was one half of the Danforth legacy, a title and inheritance he shared with his twin sister Ursula. He was gruff and crass and possessed a child’s demanding nature despite not having been one for decades. With all of the money in the world in his pocket—and an army of people ready to answer his every beck and call and request at the drop of a hat—he could behave however he pleased without fear of consequence. 

An unfortunate fact he took great advantage of.

“This one’s new.”

That was how you were formally introduced, the older man eyeing you in a way that felt extremely distrusting. It didn’t necessarily offend you, understanding the protective nature of some rich asshole to guard his assets and livelihood. Still, the screening process to get hired onto the Danforth estate was a tedious and rigorous one, hardly a walk in the park, so he should’ve known that no one passed through these doors without the utmost confidence they could be trusted.

Your superior, Pernilla, had taken on the task of showing you the ropes, and she’d stopped any and all focus on anything else to give the grey-haired man her undivided attention. It was your first example as to how to act around the immediate family members, and you’d followed her lead, straightening and focusing on nothing else but him.

Such a small act had his full attention.

“Yes, Mr. Danforth,” the other woman confirmed despite the fact that it wasn’t a question. “She’s one of two new editions to the staff, fully screened and hired on only a week ago.”

You hadn’t moved a muscle as he eyed you, looking down his nose at you in a way that had you reminding yourself what you’d signed up for. The money you were getting just to wait on some privileged jerks had you ignoring the glint that passed through his gaze as he ran his eyes over you, slowly as if not to miss a thing.

Mr. Danforth only hummed, a low and deep sound from within his chest.

“Let’s hope you last.”

He was gone without another word, completely dismissive of your presence, and that was the last time you saw him for a while. Two months, in fact. The job didn’t require much more out of you than you expected, and that wasn’t to say that it was easy, but you’d been prepared for the demanding nature of your new employers. Two months. That's how long the wool stayed over your eyes, how long you’d been under the impression you were working for normal rich assholes.

…but then Ursula announced her engagement and then the wedding seemed to happen only a month later and then the wedding night changed everything.

The screams that rang throughout the estate gave you nightmares for months, assaulted by the visions and memories of mopping up fresh blood off of the hard wood floors. You hadn’t been able to stop shaking, a heavy weight settling in your chest as the reality of your new employer crept in. The mountain of papers you’d been forced to sign made more sense than ever in that moment, and you’d only been able to ask yourself one question.

What had you gotten yourself into?

You’d had no way to guess that cleaning up crime scenes would be the least of your problems. Your bloodstained hands took up all of your attention as you slowly and dazedly walked back to the servants’ quarters, cheeks damp from your tears and wondering if there was any way to get out of this. The contract was legally binding, legally preventing you from saying a thing, so surely you could just…leave, right?

So distracted by the physical evidence of your part in all this, you almost ran into one of the few people who could decide your fate in this household. You hadn’t been able to stop yourself from gasping in shock, stopping in your tracks and lifting your gaze to his face. The first time you ever met him felt like a whole other life ago, the events of Ursula’s wedding night serving as some paradigm shift.

There was only before and after, now.

Titus Danforth stood before you in all of his intimidating glory, made doubly so by the bloodstained shirt he was still wearing, and you forced yourself not to linger your gaze on it. He seemed to notice your discomfort—your fear—and if you hadn’t known better, you’d say he relished in it. When he took a step towards you, it took everything in you not to take one back.

“What’s your name?”

You forced your mind to work, blinking as you started to mumble the throw away name you’d been told to choose. However, before you could fully get it out, the older man was interrupting you with a bark of a tone. He sounded upset.

“Your real name.”

At that, you frowned, uncertainty tainting your chest. You furiously wracked your brain, accepting that you had never been trained on such a situation before. No one in the family was supposed to even care to know your real name and anything pertaining to your personhood outside of your role as their staff, let alone go out of their way to ask for it.

You nervously swallowed.

“Pernilla said…”

Your quiet words died in the air as Titus Danforth slowly shook his head, stepping towards you with an unyieldingly stern look on his features. You tried and failed to ignore the way your heart raced, keenly aware of the blood on his person and the confirmation of a violent disposition. The terrifying man before you clasped his hands behind his back, and you were forced to stare into his eyes as he held you hostage in this dimly lit corridor.

“What’s my name?” he asked you, that gruff tone of his making the question sound like a growl.

“Titus Danforth,” you answered without hesitation.

“Exactly, and that means this is my estate you’re working on, my money that employs you, and my person that your boss answers to. Do you know what that makes me?”

He didn’t give you a chance to answer.

“That makes me your boss. That means that anything Pernilla or any one of these other disposable staff members ask of you is irrelevant as far as I’m concerned. If she tells you to go left and I tell you to go right, you fucking go right,” he said to you, and you nodded. “Do you understand? Say you understand.”

“I understand,” you forced out, finding it hard to breathe.

Your shaky breath was noticed, and you didn’t like the way he straightened, eyeing you differently now. There was the faintest twitch to his pink lips, and something resembling a faint yet cruel smile lingered.

“Now…what’s your name?” he repeated, his voice softer now.

You quietly told him without hesitation, and he mimicked it.

“Y/N,” he said again with a nod, voice louder now. “Go get yourself cleaned up, and bring a bottle of brandy and a fresh set of towels to my room.”

“Yes, Mr. Danforth.”

At that, he finally moved again, hand coming up between you and you weren’t able to stop yourself from flinching. He only held it there, and when he stepped towards you again, this was the closest he’d ever been. The silence was suffocating as he merely looked at you, a thoughtful look behind those hazel eyes.

“Sir. I want you to call me sir, Y/N.”

You really hated the way he said your name, and you regretted ever telling it to him.

“Yes, sir,” you whispered, and he slowly nodded, a satisfied look washing over his features.

With a simple nod, he dismissed you, and in a short time, you found yourself increasingly more worried about Titus Danforth than the bodies piling up on this estate. 

“What about this one?”

You hesitated for only a moment before answering.

“That one’s nice.”

Mr. Danforth threw you a look at that to which you glanced away, and his deep laugh had a shiver crawling up your back.

“You said that two shirts ago,” he distractedly replied, reaching behind his head to slide it off.

“They’re all very nice, sir,” you told him, an honest response. 

You avoided looking at him as he searched for another expensive shirt that looked like any other regular shirt, wondering if you would ever stop feeling so…afraid around him. 

You didn’t know how nor why, but some kind of way, Titus Danforth decided that it would be you who would see to his every beck and call no matter how small it seemed. It felt like so long since you were even able to fulfill any other kind of household duty, recalling that every time you had a broom or a duster or a load of laundry in your hand, you were being summoned by the older man.

He needed a drink or he wanted a caddie as he golfed or he needed someone to lay out an outfit for him while he showered. You were hired on to answer to the every whim and need of the Danforths, but somehow it was only Titus who consumed most of your time. It was a strange position to be in, having to constantly be around this man who frightened you, but in a way…sometimes you felt like his friend. Or something like it.

The man grew up with the shiniest of silver spoons in his mouth sure, but all of the money and expensive education and best nannies the world had to offer just couldn’t refine the man. They couldn’t make him…fit. The expensive clothes and the handsome face could not hide how rough he was around the edges, how much he seemed to struggle with…behaving.

You, a seemingly nameless staff member, barely counted as a person in their eyes, and so…Mr. Danforth talked. He talked about any and everything to you, some of it interesting and some of it disturbing, but forced to be his confidant regardless. You were a nobody with no one of consequence to repeat it to, and he treated you like your sole purpose was to amuse and humor him.

When you heard him approaching you again, his voice pulled you from your thoughts. 

“...and this one?”

He was just barely pulling it on when you looked up, and you ignored his watchful gaze as he moved closer. Sometimes Mr. Danforth watched you like he was looking for something from you—expecting something—and you really wish you knew what it was at times so that you could give it to him and end that observant little stare he liked to fix you with.

“That one’s my favorite,” you honestly told him, and he liked that.

You could tell by the way he tilted his head at you, a secretive smirk on his pink lips.

“Then I’ll wear this one.”

You nodded at that, just wanting this to be over. 

You were sure the other staff members thought you got it so easy being forced to spend so much of your time sucking up to and answering to Titus Danforth, but it was worse than scrubbing the kitchen floors to you. The man terrified you beyond belief, even more than Chester Danforth who you’d met only on occasion, the elderly man confined to a bed most days.

Mr. Danforth was quick to react—quick to anger—and in the time you were forced to spend with him, it became clear that the man couldn’t be controlled. Ursula tried, oh she tried, but even you knew that she only had as much control over her brother as he allowed her to. Her hold over him wasn’t real, very easily broken, and you tried not to linger on the things you’d seen in your time here.

“What will you do while I’m gone?”

His gravelly voice had you giving him your attention, and you wracked your brain.

“Your father wants the main garden replanted, and it’s something I’ve been assisting with in between other duties.”

Mr. Danforth had a look on his features like he didn’t like that, lips turned up ever so slightly as he turned his back to you, arms spread out. You rushed to grab his suit jacket from a nearby chair, helping him slide his arms through the sleeves. You didn’t like the low hum that reached your ears, and when he abruptly turned around to face you, you flinched. He was so close, and his gaze slowly dropped, and you took the silent hint.

It was scary how much you grew to know him.

“I want you to wait here…until I get back,” he slowly said as you buttoned the piece of clothing.

His words gave you pause, and he noticed.

“I don’t like these stupid gatherings, and I don’t want to have to hunt you down when I finally return.”

When his jacket was buttoned properly, you took a few steps back, forcing yourself to nod. You regretted it almost immediately, briefly squeezing your eyes shut.

“You know I hate that…”

“Sorry, sir.”

“I want to hear you say it.”

“I understand,” you said to him. “I’ll be here.”

He fixed you with a look that you couldn't name, and then he was gone, and you let out the breath you’d been holding.

It wasn’t the first time Mr. Danforth demanded you basically die of boredom in his bedroom while you waited for him to come back. Sometimes you had to when he was meeting with his father or having a drink with a friend in one of the studies or even when he went out for the night and brought some strange woman back to one of the many guest rooms. He’d offhandedly mentioned once that he didn’t like bringing women back to his bedroom.

You only guessed why when you had the unfortunate task of cleaning that previously occupied guest bedroom one day, disturbed by the alarming amount of blood on the sheets.

Too many times did you find yourself fetching him a fresh towel or something to drink or even eat in the middle of the night, doing your best to ignore his state of undress while some other staffer handled the task of escorting his woman of the night off the property. You felt like a mere object with the sole purpose of serving him in some way, like a letter opener patiently waiting in his desk drawer until it needed to be used.

You told yourself that you could be spending this time doing worse things, acknowledging that at least his bedroom was five times the size of every apartment you’d ever had. During moments like this you mostly sat around in a chair, occasionally poking around in something innocent. Even rarer, you sometimes nodded off, hard to fight sleep when Mr. Danforth had you waiting around like some dog.

…and it didn’t help that he required so much of you.

You sometimes thought that it was fortunate you didn’t get to accomplish many other household tasks because waiting after the older gentleman took so much out of you itself. It never sank in just how much you’d been running around until it was time for bed and your body felt weighed down by sand. This being one of those times.

Approaching his bookshelf, you pulled one at random and plopped yourself into a chair.

You were at the estate for a year when Mr. Danforth made you cry for the first time.

It was a miracle really that you lasted a year before he ‘broke’ you, but the circumstances didn’t call for any other reaction. A year of doting on him and validating his every choice and fetching him his every desire no matter how ridiculous ultimately amounted to nothing. Well…it wasn’t nothing, but more so the complete opposite of anything you’d ever expected.

Titus Danforth was a protective and selfish bastard when it came to anything he deemed as his. His fortune, his house, his car. Resource guarding is the term you often heard used for animals, and Mr. Danforth—not all that removed from an animal—was very guilty of such. You were a frequent witness to the way he snapped and growled and protectively curled over anything he thought someone was trying to take from him. That description didn’t seem like an exaggeration in your mind, thinking to yourself that that’s exactly how he came off.

It didn’t scare you until the thing he was viciously guarding was you.

A year of answering his every beck and call had certainly garnered you the unofficial title of Titus Danforth’s servant amongst your coworkers. His food was always handed to you, his rooms were left alone by anyone but you, and it was only you who handled his every need and request. So much so that when he needed to travel, he wouldn’t hear of taking anyone but you to accompany him.

You’d gotten sick once, and hearing that it wouldn’t be you fetching his towels, he hadn’t wanted assistance from anyone else. Of course, he’d made that known at the time in a way that was less than polite, but the message had gotten across loud and clear. You thought he just saw your labor and your time on the clock as his—his right, you supposed—but you hadn’t realized that he saw you the person, not the employee, the same way.

You made a mistake by getting distracted.

Mr. Danforth’s food wasn’t quite ready when you went to retrieve it, and so you’d occupied the wait time by exchanging silly bullshit with one of the cooks you saw often. He was younger than you, but still handsome nonetheless in that boyish charm sort of way. You two weren’t best friends or anything, but you were no strangers to each other. A soft laugh had been on your lips when the kitchen grew so silent so quickly, it couldn’t help but to be noticed. The young man in front of you had swallowed the rest of what he was saying, looking over your shoulder now with a back so straight that you knew who was back there before you even turned around. 

Titus Danforth wasn’t looking at anyone but you when you faced him, and you swallowed at a look in his eyes you weren’t used to being on the receiving end of. His hands were behind his back and his legs were spread just enough to firmly plant his feet, looking more like a strict military man than some spoiled heir. The relaxed slouch of your frame dissipated, and the older man before you took notice.

You could hear a pin drop.

“Is this how you choose to spend your time when you’re supposed to be waiting on me?” he slowly asked, a sarcastic lilt to his tone.

“No, sir,” you hurried to answer. “Your food isn’t ready yet–.”

“So you come back to me and tell me that,” he sternly interrupted with a nod. “...and then you come back down here and get it when it is ready.”

You swallowed, starting to nod before thinking better of it.

“Yes, sir.”

Those hazel eyes of his eyed you for what felt like a long time, and you’d gotten better at not squirming beneath his gaze. You couldn’t tell what he was thinking at this moment, but you knew that you didn’t like it, and you didn’t relax at all when he turned his attention to the man behind you instead.

“What’s your name?”

He accepted your friend’s response, slowly nodding.

“When my food is ready, you bring it to me,” Mr. Danforth pointed at him, and you fought to keep the frown off of your face.

The grey-haired man sharply cut his gaze back to you, jerking his head, and you moved quickly, not wanting to upset him further.

His footsteps were heavy behind you as you exited the kitchen, and the walk back to his room was silent. For the most part. You could hear his breathing, that's how close he was, and you could feel the heavy and heated weight of his gaze on you. You mentally scolded yourself, torn between wanting to call yourself all kinds of idiotic names and giving yourself grace for arguably the smallest fuck up you could make.

…and it was your first offense too.

“I want to apologize again, sir,” you said to him once the door was closed behind you both. “I didn’t think it would take more than a few minutes.”

He didn’t respond right away, merely looking at you as he moved about his room. 

“Ursula has taken it upon herself to be a gracious host to some friends tomorrow night,” he finally said, completely ignoring your apology. “Find me something…nice to wear.”

You felt somewhat relieved at the direction of the conversation, a soft ‘of course’ leaving you as you made your way to his closet. You knew what he liked and what colors suited him best, so you were completely immersed in your thoughts when he followed you. You hadn't even heard him approach, normally so careless about the sound of his footfalls.

“Do you like him?”

His voice surprised you, and you jumped slightly before turning to face him.

Mr. Danforth was staring at you with an expectant look on his face, brows furrowed just the slightest. He was closer than he normally stood, head tilting just a tad as you processed his words.

“I’m sorry?”

“Do you like him?” he repeated, saying your friend’s name.

Understanding washed over you, and you blinked.

“He’s my friend,” you answered with a shrug. “I see him a lot whenever I have to go down to the kitchen.”

Mr. Danforth’s only response was a low hum, seemingly satisfied with that answer, and he took a step back just as a knock sounded on his door. You had no doubt that was the food that he’d just made such a fuss over, proven right moments later, and as you tilted your head to gaze into the bedroom, you watched the way the older man eyed the younger one. Mr. Danforth stood close to him as he watched him set down his food, thick arms crossed over his chest, and when those hazel eyes rose to meet yours, you quickly looked away.

You found it odd that he both asked for your friend’s name and asked him to bring him his food. It was unlike him, and while Mr. Danforth could be unpredictable on occasion, he was a pretty consistent man who liked his routine. That’s why no one was more surprised than you to be woken out of your sleep by Pernilla, the other woman telling you that Mr. Danforth—your Mr. Danforth—was requesting the presence of you both.

“It’s probably some poor woman he’s brought back to the estate,” she’d mumbled as you both hurried through the corridors. “He must need a clean up.”

Her wording gave you pause, and you recalled the blood you saw on occasion after he spent a night in a guest room. You had naively assumed things got a little rough, perhaps a nose bleed or some kink gone wrong, but it hadn’t occurred to you that anyone in this family could be killing people outside of a wedding night gone wrong. Your stomach churned at the thought, but you frowned as you thought to yourself that you never knew Mr. Danforth to bring women back to his room.

Your uneasy feeling only increased when you made it through his threshold.

The older man stood there in a bloodstained shirt, reminiscent of that night of Ursula’s wedding, and his hands weren’t too much cleaner. He looked so calm, like he wasn’t standing before you as some bloody mess, and you found yourself shaking much like you had that night. As you moved closer, your vision was drawn to shiny black work shoes just barely peeking out past the foot of the bed.

“Pernilla, give that to Y/N so she can start wiping this up. Go bring us a mop too.”

He said the words so nonchalantly as you slowly moved further into the room, the frown on your face dropping completely.

The scream that left you sounded like something out of a horror movie, and you couldn't stop yourself from stumbling back against a nearby chair. Your hysteric reaction had Pernilla following you before listening to him, and you even heard her gasp. If she was just as shocked and horrified as you, she didn’t show it, and you could feel her eyes on you as you stared at the body—the familiar body—through tearful wide eyes.

“Pernilla,” Mr. Danforth snapped, and she didn’t hesitate any longer…leaving you alone with him.

He tossed the towel at you, and it bounced off of your chest and onto the floor.

“Clean this up,” he spat, but you couldn’t move.

The body of your friend was facing away from you, facedown but the way his head was turned on his cheek allowed your eyes to connect with his empty lifeless ones. There wasn’t much blood beneath him, most of it on Mr. Danforth’s shirt, and you couldn’t stop yourself from shaking. You could hear him speaking, but barely so, the sound muffled to your ears.

When he was in your line of sight again, you just stared at him in a mixture of horror and disbelief. Your body kept going back and forth from hot to cold, growing more lightheaded by the minute as the room started to sway. You hadn’t even realized that your legs had begun to shake until you reached out for the chair to steady yourself.

“Y/N,” he finally said your name, voice gruff and bordering on angry. “Clean. This. Up.”

You just stared at him, unable to move and asking yourself why, using your eyes to ask him why.

Pernilla returned before you could move, and you could feel her looking between you both. Logically you knew that you needed to listen to him unless you wanted to lose your job or worse, but you physically couldn’t move. He was giving you a demand, and you couldn’t bring yourself to obey. A sob climbed out of your throat, and you tried to blink the tears away.

“Mr. Danforth, I’d be more than happy to–.”

“No, Pernilla,” he barked, keeping his eyes on you. “She will clean this up.”

Your gaze turned pleading as you looked at him, slowly shaking your head.

“No?” Mr. Danforth wondered, leaning in. “Are you telling me no?”

Your breath was coming out in chops, now, and you were finding it so hard to breathe.

“Please…please,” you softly said. “I…”

You felt like you were going to be sick, but before you could be, Mr. Danforth lunged for you. The shriek you let out was loud, a pained whine escaping you at the harsh grip he had on your arms. He was sadly just as strong as he looked, and you couldn’t swallow down your cries as he all but threw you to the ground…right next to his body.

You were an inconsolable mess as you attempted to stand, but the older man was right there, harsh hands on your shoulders as he forced you back down to your knees. He forced the towel into your hands, his own hands wrapping around your wrists as he physically made you move yours back and forth along the bloody floor.

“Pernilla, get it out of here,” he told her, and your sobs grew louder as she did just that, dragging the body of your friend towards the door. “Y/N will clean up this mess.”

You could barely see through your tears, crying out every time more blood got on your hands. Mr. Danforth knelt over you the whole time, fingers harshly pressing into your skin and nose gently at your ear as he forced you to do what he demanded. When the towel had served its purpose, he repeated the actions with the mop, harshly yanking you to your feet.

Mopping up the rest of the blood felt like an out of body experience, his hands over yours and his chest at your back as he forced you to participate in the disposal of your friend. When the floor was spotless, Pernilla returned to retrieve the cleaning supplies, and again you could feel her eyes on you.

You knew what she was thinking.

What did you do? How had you offended Titus Danforth to deserve this? And how had you dragged your coworker into it? The man had so much as never laid a finger on you, and in one hour he’d yanked you around and threw you to the floor into a pool of blood. You were covered in it.

With her gone, and with the floor clean, Mr. Danforth kept a firm hold on you as he forced you into the bathroom. The bright lights had you blinking and squinting, looking down as you stumbled forward. His firm chest was still at your back, and you couldn’t even linger on the oddness of that, too distracted by the blood on your hands.

When he turned on the sink, it felt almost…romantic as he put both of your hands under the water. The hot liquid and soap broke up the bodily fluid, and you could only tearfully watch the pink water swirl down the drain. Mr. Danforth meticulously washed both of your hands together, his even breathing in your ear such a contrast from your own. You absentmindedly noted how warm he felt against you, the smell of cigar smoke and cologne filling your nose.

When he was satisfied, he turned off the water, and he took half a second to grab a towel and push it into your hands. He held it there, and you slowly lifted your tearful gaze to meet his evenly cold one, pink lips pressed together. The grey stubble around them moved slightly as they twitched, and he eyed you with a look that made your blood run cold.

“I hope that now nothing else will distract you from me.”

An unintelligible sound left your throat at his words, and for the first time ever, you shrank away from him in unbridled fear.

Mr. Danforth watched you keenly as you wiped down his desk, and you pretended not to notice.

You’d always been a little terrified of him, but it was different now. Seeing the aftermath of his brutality or watching him manhandle some other staffer hadn’t prepared you for being on the receiving end of it yourself. Especially not in the manner you had that night, and you swallowed at the thought.

The memory of blood and a body haunted you for months, plaguing your mind with nightmares night after night. It made it hard to find sleep, and many days you might as well have been dead on your feet. Your friend had been killed because of you, that much you knew whether Mr. Danforth came outright and said it or not. He never did even try to give some half assed excuse that explained how an employee ended up dead in his bedroom, but this was the Danforth Clan—a family that practically controlled the world—and what was one body of some insignificant employee?

Your friend’s fate often brought tears to your eyes.

Sometimes you wondered if you’d be next should you piss him off enough, but there was a part of you that vehemently denied that. Mr. Danforth seemed very…intent on you—intent to watch you, intent to have you near him, intent to keep you. Funnily enough, that knowledge scared you more than anything, keenly aware of the way he studied you any time he so much as told you to get him a drink.

Tonight, it was several drinks.

“I’ll be back late, but I want two glasses brought to my room,” he said to you.

“Yes, sir.”

The greying man simply eyed you at that, so close and so silent as he ran his hazel eyes over your face, drinking you in. That air of distrust he’d first expressed when you first met was long gone, the older man more than sure that he’d scared you into submission, scared you so much that you would never even dream of crossing him.

You hated that he was right.

When he was around, the hours seemed to drag on for ages, but when he was gone, time seemed to fly by. Between cleaning duties and fetching a thing or two for Ursula, the hours passed swiftly, and you were informed when he was back at the estate well into the night. You were alone as you fixed the drinks—always alone these days—and you tried not to linger on the aftermath of that night.

None of your coworkers wanted to get too close to you, the rumors spreading amongst the staff, a mix of speculation and the truth swirling around you. Pernilla often sent you a sympathetic look when no one was looking, she being the only other witness to that horrible night and Mr. Danforth’s treatment of you. Only she had witnessed the second defining night of your time here, and as you made your way upstairs, you were unaware that a third was in the making.

So focused on pleasing him and not wanting to be on the receiving end of some other traumatic treatment, you hadn’t realized what you’d walked into until you were right in front of it. You almost dropped the tray of drinks, a full bottle of some expensive Cognac in the other hand. You were quick to steady your grip, squeezing your eyes shut and turning your head away.

“I apologize, sir Danforth, I had not realized…”

Your words died in the air as you completely turned away from the scene before you.

You weren’t currently looking at them, but the sight of his taught form brutally pushing into the woman beneath him was at the forefront of your mind. You could still hear her soft moans and his heavy breathing, and you briefly looked towards the ceiling, wondering if this could get any worse.

“Set it down,” you heard him say, voice strained and tone thick with an unsatisfied appetite.

You did as he said, placing everything just as he liked it, fully prepared to leave.

“Did I say you could go?”

His question had you halting your steps, and your lips parted as you stared at the wall in front of you. The woman he was with made a slight noise filled with frustration and confusion, and you noted that you didn’t hear the soft movement of the bed anymore. A chill passed through you as you internally wondered if this was actually happening, and you felt you should’ve known this night was going to be off when he brought a woman back to his bedroom.

You knew Mr. Danforth was entirely serious, and your shoulders sank.

“Turn around.”

The huskiness of his tone has you shuddering, and you hesitated for half a second before doing just that.

You stared at the wall behind them, forcing yourself not to cry at the trajectory of your night. The room was filled with silence, and you could feel his gaze on you, watching you and watching your reaction. You didn’t understand why he was doing this, but then he told you to look at him, and your frown deepened.

When you did, he held your gaze for a few seconds before he started moving again. Your brows twitched as he fucked some woman you’d never seen before, her tan skin contrasting against his pale hue. She didn’t seem to mind, at all that you were an unwilling voyeur to this, and when the older man looked down at the woman beneath him, you looked away.

That lasted for all of four seconds.

You heard her gasp in shock and when you looked over he was up and coming towards you. You couldn’t stop your eyes from widening, keeping your gaze on his face as Mr. Danforth approached you in all of his naked glory. The muscles in his arms and chest moved with every step, and your employer didn’t stop until he was right in front of you.

His bare chest heaved as he stared you down, nostrils flaring.

“What did I say?”

Your face was on fire, but your eyes were anything but, looking at him pleadingly.

“Sir–.”

Your words were cut off as he roughly grabbed your chin, holding it in his hand as his gaze passed between your own. You glanced behind him briefly, noting the way the woman was propped on the bed, an impatient look resting on her face. When you looked at him again, his thumb brushed along your skin, and you were sickenly aware of his state of undress and his close proximity.

“You will look at me, and if I catch you looking away, I’m going to be very unhappy,” he gruffly told you.

When you gave him the response you wanted, a tear skipping down your cheek, he turned his back on you.

Forced to watch this, you couldn’t do anything but wring your hands together, flinching every time his palm sharply came down against her skin. She seemed to like it, and you wished you could disassociate on command, but alas you were acutely aware of everything. Every groan he made, every curse that fell from his lips, and every animalistic noise that climbed out of this throat. You were even aware of the way his tongue touched his lip as he watched himself disappear into her and the way his stomach tightened with every push of his hips.

You felt yourself shudder every time his gaze lifted to you, and you knew that Mr. Danforth had no doubt you wouldn’t disobey him. He just wanted to watch you watch him fuck this woman. Those hazel eyes of his wanted to watch you squirm with discomfort, wanted to look at you as you observed him in his most bestial—yet vulnerable—moments.

Your skin was warm and your head was spinning and to your great dismay, there was tightening that had begun in your lower stomach. You hated this, and you’d only been more miserable one other time in your life, but even still the sight before you had you squeezing your thighs together, wholly ashamed of what was happening.

…and when he came inside of her with a brutish grunt, pinning her beneath him and a thin layer of sweat coating his frame, you couldn't have run away faster, consequences be damned.

The trajectory of your relationship with Mr. Danforth—with Titus—shouldn’t have surprised you.

…and yet it did.

It seemed that he didn't want to deal with the hassle of a body every time he wanted to break you a little more, so his new favorite pastime was getting his rocks off with you as a witness. Nameless woman after nameless woman was brought onto the estate, and night after night, you were forced to stand there and watch as he fucked every single one. You wondered if this was your punishment after running out that first night, or if this was inevitable and staying put wouldn’t have changed a thing.

Every time he finished inside of them, he crudely sent them on their way, promising that someone would see to it that they get home. They would leave while still struggling to get their dress zipped up or their underwear completely on, and Mr. Danforth would stride around you as naked as the day he was born, telling you to turn his shower on while he nursed his drink.

This psychosexual torture he liked to engage in was messing with your head, and he knew it, and you often wondered what the end goal was. Maybe he took pleasure in just messing with the staff, with you, or maybe this was all part of some drawn out punishment for offending him months ago. You often wondered when it would end, when he would grow bored of tormenting you or bored of even just having you around.

It had never occurred to you that he was purposely fighting against something that was inevitable.

Titus Danforth wanted you, and not just in the way that a spoiled child wants his favorite toy all to himself. He wanted every part of you in his hands and beneath his lips. He wanted all of you in every way he could get you, and the countless women he fucked underneath your terrified gaze served a purpose of satisfying the twisted sexual craving he had for the very same woman he was forcing to be a witness to his depravity.

You didn’t know any of that though.

Not until he was gruffly telling you to sit on his bed one day.

You’d hesitated, glancing at the untouched dinner you brought him, and you could tell by the darkening look in his eye that he didn’t want to have to tell you twice. Your heart was in your stomach as you slowly walked towards the impressive piece of furniture, legs shaking with every step. You didn’t want to believe what your mind was lingering on, but something in the back of your mind scolded you, calling you a fool for never considering this is where you’d end up. 

Any man that could kill without so much as a blink or ounce of remorse was a deviant, and any man that could force you to watch him have sex with countless women with no care to how uncomfortable it made you was a sexual deviant. It made sense in the moment that he wouldn’t just stop there, and still you hoped. His eyes never strayed from you once, and giving him one last glance—looking for anything that might ease your worries—you leaned your hands and backside against the mattress.

You didn’t miss his slow exhale as you pressed down, sliding back.

“Right there is just fine,” he said, forcing you to stop, just seated on the edge.

The silence surrounding you was deafening, and Mr. Danforth only stared at you for a moment or two before slowly walking towards you. You couldn’t stop yourself from swallowing at his approach, and you had no doubt that he noticed. You didn’t take your eyes off of him as he stood this close to you—too afraid to—and you only had a few seconds to mentally prepare yourself for whatever was about to happen.

He was slow to kneel in front of you, and your fearful confusion morphed into just plain old fear when his hands found a home on your knees, slowly pushing. You couldn’t stop your lips from trembling as he parted them slightly, hands sliding up your thighs to meet at the button in the center.

“I don’t want you wearing these pants anymore,” he quietly said to you from in between your legs as he unbuttoned them. “A skirt. You’ll look nice in a skirt.”

Your gaze slowly lifted to the ceiling as he curled his fingers over the top of your slacks, yanking and jerking them until he was sliding them off of your legs. If he noticed the tears in your eyes, tears that eventually fell, he didn’t say anything. He likely didn’t care.

When he leaned in, you could feel his breath on your clothed skin, your legs trembling when he slowly parted your thighs further. His rough fingers gently brushed along your flesh, and you heard him deeply inhale the closer he got. His fingers were getting dangerously close to your underwear, and you could only close your eyes as he hooked a finger into them.

The tip of his tongue touched you as he held the fabric to the side, stretching it to give him access. It was a featherlight touch, and yet you jerked all the same. Your nails dug into his bed as a means to cope, wishing that you could just push him away and run off of this estate without fear of consequence, never looking back. As it were though, all you could think about was bloodstained shirts and dead bodies and a family with enough money to make you disappear a thousand times over.

Mr. Danforth gently touched you with his tongue again…and again, and when he did something unexpected, pressing an open mouthed kiss to your mound, you couldn’t hold in your gasp. It seemed to trigger something in him, a switch turning on as he practically growled against you before leaning back and roughly ripping the thin scrap of fabric past your thighs and off your ankles.

When the older man fully pressed his mouth to your cunt, you tried to control yourself. One of your hands slid to behind your back, struggling to remain sitting up as his stubble scratched against your thighs in a way that had you squirming. His hold was tight on you as he ate at you, tongue sliding between your folds so slowly and in a gentle way you didn’t expect. When he yanked you just a little more towards the edge, your arms faltered, and you desperately wanted to remain as unfazed as you could.

…but Titus Danforth was good at what he was doing.

When he sucked at your flesh in time with pressing his tongue to your walls, you let out a shuddering breath against your will. The longer he moved his tongue inside of you, the harder it was to remain sitting up, lashes fluttering as you desperately pressed a hand to his head. He didn’t budge, and you sank your teeth into your lip.

You wanted him off of you.

No such thing was going to happen though, you knew that, and you whined in frustration. When he spread your thighs further, your arms finally caved, failing you and you stared at the intricate designs on the ceiling when you fell back. Your thighs were trembling, and steady moans started to crawl out of your throat, each one louder than the last.

You could hear yourself pleading, sometimes pleading for more, sometimes pleading for him to stop. His fingers dug into your thighs painfully as he held you open for him, and your head slowly moved from side to side in time with the heaving of your chest. When you dared to look down, all you saw was a vision of silver in between your thighs, and you threw your head back once again.

When you came, it was with an embarrassing whimper, eyes squeezed shut and thighs pressing against his head. You came so hard it almost hurt, and Mr. Danforth didn’t pull away until he felt like it, mouth completely pressed to you as you fell apart onto his tongue. When you tried to crawl away, he just held you in place, lazily curling his tongue into you and making your toes flex.

When he finally pulled away, letting you go and allowing your legs to drop, the tears finally spilled over. You laid there on his bed with tears running past your ears as he stood over you, and you didn’t know where to go from here. You didn’t want to look at him, just waiting for him to dismiss you so you could be free to lose your mind in peace.

When he eventually did, you couldn’t get away from him fast enough, grabbing your underwear and your pants with a quickness that surprised you. Your speedy exit however was stopped by a harsh grip on your arm, and when that harsh grip became outright painful, you were forced to meet his gaze, shrinking away at his close proximity.

You didn’t know what he was thinking as he intensely eyed you, and you flinched when he jerked his head.

“My food is cold,” was all he said, making you deflate.

When he let you go, you took a few shaky steps away from him, struggling to organize your thoughts.

“Yes, sir,” you forced out with a nod. “I’ll get you a new plate, right away.”

You felt nauseous as you grabbed the tray, legs unsteady as you walked towards the door. He didn’t stop looking at you once, and you felt deeply uncomfortable with every step you took, cringing at the wet feeling between your thighs as you made your way back down to the kitchen.

Titus Danforth was an insatiable man.

That one evening in his bedroom triggered a chain reaction of events that weren’t surprising to you, just disappointing and terrifying. The number of women he brought back to the estate decreased until he eventually brought none back at all. Why would he now? That was what you were for—a ‘willing’ and bought body that couldn’t fight back or refuse him.

You didn’t know if you’d ever get used to the sound of his heavy breathing washing over you, a rough and tight grip in your hair as your lips covered his cock. That was mostly what you did at first, suck him off during just about every visit, and that seemed to be all he wanted for a time. That and spending the occasional afternoon with his face between your legs, making you fall apart again and again when you were supposed to be steaming his clothes or dusting his furniture. 

It almost seemed like he was holding himself back from crossing another line—the final line—but you knew that it would be crossed eventually. He was never going to be satisfied with just the feel of his cock in your mouth, inevitably giving into that hunger for more. It was an every day thing, his hands on or in you, curling his fingers into you and massaging your walls, whatever task you’d been in the middle of long forgotten.

It went unnoticed. After all, it wasn’t unusual for Titus Danforth to take up so much of your time, and it’s not like the sexual abuse was taking place anywhere outside of his bedroom. For the time being anyway. The toll it was taking on you, however, did go noticed, and Ursula merely pursed her lips at the third piece of china you broke this week.

“I’m so sorry, Ms. Danforth,” you hurried to say, looking for something to clean it up with. 

You didn’t even bother giving some excuse, only struggling to avoid her thoughtful gaze as she looked down at you. A soft hum left her throat, and her heels slowly clicked against the floor as she circled you.

“My brother isn’t working you too hard, is he?”

You almost laughed at the loaded question, schooling your features and looking up at her with a tight smile.

“No, Ms. Danfoth,” you lied. “I just haven’t been sleeping very well.”

That part wasn’t a lie, and the half truth seemed to satisfy her although it did nothing to lessen the frown on her face. Ursula was by no means a good woman, but you knew that she didn’t appreciate her brother’s brutal nature. Especially when it came to women, and she only watched you for a moment more before telling you to be swift in cleaning up the mess.

Ursula was smart, and you knew that she didn’t fully believe you, but clearly she didn’t feel unnerved or worried enough to press it further. Her brother’s attachment to you was no secret, and truthfully, she’d probably long seen where this would inevitably lead before you had. Even if you did tell her the truth, you knew that she couldn't stop him, Ursula having no real control over Titus.

She wouldn't have been able to stop him from killing your friend just to scare you into submission nor stop him from forcing you to be a witness to whatever depravity he was up to at night nor keep his hands off of you. She especially wouldn’t have been able to stop him from fucking you.

There was nothing special about the day he first pushed his cock into you.

The sun was shining and the food you brought him was only half eaten and he’d only taken a few sips of the brown drink you brought him before he was roughly reaching for your face. He’d never kissed you before, and the action took you by surprise, a noise of shock escaping you. His hands were tight on your face, holding you so fiercely that you couldn’t even think about getting away.

Your hands against his chest meant nothing as they became pinned between you, and as he pressed himself against you, you could feel him. You could feel his arousal, feel how hard he was, and you knew then that he had no intention of stopping. He had no intention of letting you walk out of that door without knowing what it felt like to be stretched around him—to be dominated in the way that mattered most.

You hadn’t been prepared for all the biting.

Titus liked to leave little nips along your neck and shoulder and even breasts, hands painfully tight on your skin as he drove himself into you again and again. The bands of muscle that were his arms rippled with every movement, and you hadn't been able to swallow down a single noise as he fucked you into his bed, his bare skin slapping against yours.

However brutish you thought he was during the day was nothing compared to what he was like when he had you wrapped around his cock. He was borderline feral, noises leaving his lips that sounded a lot like the growl of some predatory animal enjoying the taste of its prey. Every movement from you resulted in him tightening his hold on you like some constrictor, satisfied at the way you could barely move beneath him, serving your only purpose of taking the length of him with ease.

Titus fucked you well into the evening, coming into you with loud groans before catching his breath in the crook of your neck. You laid beneath him shaking like a leaf, chest heaving and skin glistening with sweat. When he eventually pulled out of you, any thoughts you had of leaving were shut down as he gruffly told you to get his shower going for him.

You hadn’t expected him to pull you inside with him, feeling wholly out of place as he showered with his back to you. You’d glanced at the exit through the glass shower door, turning back only to find his intense gaze on you. He said nothing—his eyes saying it all—and you’d swallowed as he moved closer, handing you a bar of soap and turning back around.

“My back,” was all he mumbled, and you listened to the unsaid request.

When you were done in the shower, you hadn’t been prepared for him to force you to your knees, a harsh grip in your hair as he pulled you closer.

Titus loved the sight of your lips wrapped around him, sometimes more than satisfied with just that, sending you on your way for the time being with the taste of him lingering on your tongue. But he didn’t love it more than being inside of you, looking the most at peace you’d ever seen him when he was watching his cock disappear into you.

Every chance he was presented with, he was fucking you with a vigor that always left you so worn out. When he summoned you to his room at night or when he bent you over his desk and even when he had you on his bathroom counter, your lips parted and head forced back as he yanked on the hair at the nape of your neck.

“Look at me, Y/N,” he breathed, thighs pressing against yours. “Look at me.”

There was an edge creeping into his voice when he repeated himself, and you obeyed him, tearful eyes on him as he pounded into you. Your uniform was haphazardly thrown somewhere, and one of your hands was pressed against the hard wood of his desk, the other pressing into his defined chest. Your breathing was choppy and your eyes were fluttering, the weight of unfinished tasks and all that came with Titus’ demanding appetite catching up to you.

“Keep them on me,” he told you. “I want you to look at me when I fuck you.”

The desk shook beneath the force of his thrusts.

“I want those pretty eyes on me when I take you apart.”

His nose brushed against yours with every movement, and you fought to hold his gaze, recalling the last time you disobeyed him. Your backside had been sore for days, shuddering at the memory of his hand coming down again and again onto the sensitive skin of your ass cheeks.

Titus always talked to you during like a normal couple—telling you what felt good, telling you what he wanted you to do, praising you. It was an interesting position to be in because hours later, he’d be treating you like the servant you were, but somewhere in his twisted mind, this whole arrangement was…nice. To him, this was wholesome.

So much so…that when Chester Danforth demanded a marriage and an heir under threat of revoking the fortune, Titus Danforth would not consider anyone but you.

…what…?” you breathed, frowning at Ursula, tears collecting in your eyes.

She looked just as distraught as you though she did a much better job of hiding it. 

When she requested your presence in her study one morning, you’d had no way of guessing what this could possibly be about. All sorts of possibilities ran through your mind, your unconventional dynamic  with her brother being at the top of the list. You’d been wracked with nerves the whole way there, and the words she said to you were the absolute last thing you'd ever expected.

“It’s…not going to happen,” she slowly told you, leaning against her desk and gazing down at you. “Titus is no better than a child with his favorite toy of the week.”

You took no offense to her analogy, often repeating something similar yourself.

“Although I shouldn’t be surprised at the true nature of your…rapport.”

She made a slight face at her choice of word, and you swallowed. The blonde woman didn't miss that, and she pursed her lips, something akin to a look of sympathy on her beautiful features.

“My brother has never had any qualms about getting what he wants, no matter how frowned upon or uncouth it may be. I can’t imagine what you’ve endured.”

You blinked back tears, looking away and shaking your head in disbelief.

“Father’s putting his foot down and giving us an ultimatum and Titus is lashing out,” she assured you. “That’s all this is.”

That's what she said, but somehow you still found yourself standing before Chester Danforth in all of his sickly glory, having a discussion with him you never thought you’d have.

“What is the nature of your relationship with my son?”

You said nothing to the ailing man, pressing your lips together as you fought the urge to tell him that his son was a depraved rapist, fully aware that the man in question was just outside of that door. When your lips quivered and you looked away, the older man made a noise.

“Ah.” he quietly said. “I feared that was the truth of it.”

You weren’t some gold digging whore after the Danforth fortune, and you weren’t some wanton maneater looking to get your claws into Titus Danforth. You were a woman who realized too late that she signed every single part of her away on that fateful day, and that was the gist of what you said to him.

“I’m sure you can find some other woman—any woman—willing to be his bride who he will be satisfied with.”

The other man coughed, an awful hacking sound, and you flinched.

“He demands no one but you,” he finally breathed. “He is entirely willing not to fight me on this…so long as it is you.”

You looked down at that.

“That is the only satisfaction he seeks.”

You wracked your brain, fully prepared to come up with some other argument when he spoke again, completely quieting your fears.

“It will not happen,” he said with so much conviction that it should’ve offended you, but you were only glad to be in agreement with the dying oligarch. “I will not give into his childish whims.”

The old man told you that, and you certainly believed it, but even he hadn’t been able to predict the ruthlessness Titus could possess when he felt like he was being controlled.

Chester Danforth died peacefully in his sleep, and for a long time, that's what mostly everyone believed, but only you and a few others had been privy to the screams that night. Only an unlucky few heard the sound of Ursula’s panicked voice bouncing throughout the corridor walls, asking Titus what he’d done. Only you had the luxury of stripping the old man’s former bed, shaky gaze locked onto the small spots of blood on his pillowcase.

It wasn’t long before Ursula was singing a different tune, and you didn’t know what Titus said to her, but she’d only watched in perfect silence and an unspoken disapproval as her brother presented you with a ring. You’d stared at it in horror, stomach churning to a painful degree, and you made the mistake of looking to the blonde woman for help.

“Don’t fucking look at her,” Titus snapped, and he forced your gaze back to him. “What are you looking at her for?” 

He tilted his head at you, that hazel stare of his so intense, and you could feel your legs shaking.

“Titus,” you breathed, a few tears finally spilling over. 

You could tell he was getting angry, his chest starting to heave, and when he pressed his chest to yours, all you could do was squeeze your eyes shut. The ring carried the weight of the world as he slid it onto your trembling finger.

The wedding was a small intimate affair, only close family in attendance, many of whom you’d met before but under completely different circumstances. On one hand, you felt like you should’ve counted yourself lucky to be marrying into the Danforth family, but you knew you held absolutely no power even though you carried the name.

The ring, the dress, the ceremony…none of it was proof of your transition from a nobody to someone with a hand in the biggest influence over the world. It was not a ceremony that propped you up as an equal, worthy of walking side by side with Titus Danforth as he controlled the seat in tandem with his sister.

You were official property now.

The ring may as well have been a collar, the dress a noose, and the name a brand placed upon your skin. You were not Titus Danforth’s wife now, but his property with nothing to your name that wasn’t acquired through him. He owned you with pride, and as you said ‘I do’ and allowed him to fiercely press his lips to yours, there was no escaping him.

Your only hope was the wedding night.

The fucked up tradition was no secret to you, and as the defining moment drew closer, you could only hope that you’d pull the one bad card. You practically prayed for it, knowing that you’d only escape your new husband through death, and some part of you wondered if he would have what it took to do it should fate have other plans for you that didn’t involve a married life with Titus.

You begged and begged and begged for it, desiring death over this. 

You considered it an act of mercy, one you hoped you were granted, and as you all sat around the table, no one was more nervous than you as that old intricate card dispenser was passed from hand to hand and then finally you. Your left hand felt weighed down by the ring you didn’t want, and as you turned the box in your grasp, you briefly glanced up at Ursula.

You knew if it came down to it, she’d have no trouble killing you.

The thought almost made you smile, but you didn’t, glancing over at Titus as he leaned back in his chair…waiting. You looked around at your other new in-laws too, your veil grazing your cheek as your heart raced. You could tell by the sound of him shifting that Titus was growing impatient—anxious to see how this night would progress—and you flinched a bit when the box clicked, the sound of your fate ringing in the quiet room.

You felt yourself go stiff when the card was finally in your hand.

You could hear a pin drop, that’s how quiet it was, and the longer you stared at the card, the more your heart started to race. Your lips trembled, and you couldn’t stop yourself from collecting tears in your eyes, wanting a hole to swallow you up. 

“What does it say?” Titus impatiently asked, and when you didn’t answer he took it from you.

The tears finally spilled over just as you looked up at Ursula, a familiar deep laugh reaching your ears.

“She got Old Maid,” he huskily said, flipping the card around to show everybody

Light laughs reached your ears, and you tried to hide just how upset you were, but when your gaze met that of your husband’s…he saw. He saw the sadness and fear and even disappointment, disappointment that you wouldn’t be killed tonight, and his jaw clenched.

You paid for it later when it was just the two of you, consummating your marriage in true traditional fashion. Your dress was a bundle of white on the floor, and Titus had your legs wrapped around his waist. His strokes were slow and torturous, his heavy breathing mixing in with yours—his excited and yours pained.

His hand was tightly curled around your throat, thick fingers harshly pressing into your skin as he leisurely fucked you. He didn’t take his eyes off of you once, wanting to witness every part of you tonight, basking in the spoils of his victory.

Titus had you, officially and legally and bloodbound and all. The heaviness of your vows still rang throughout your mind, and you’d wanted to faint as you agreed to ‘the possession of each other’. Maybe in some sick twisted way you’d never understand, Titus did belong to you, but all that mattered was that you belonged to him. The ring on your hand was proof of such.

His other hand pressed into the mattress as he curled his hips unto yours, basking in the feel of you clenching around the length of him, moving inside of you with ease. It still embarrassed you how wet you could get when he was fucking you, desperately wishing that your body could be as repulsed by him as your mind.

His facial hair gently grazed your skin, almost like a kiss, when he leaned closer. He didn’t look away from you once, and you winced when he tightened his hold on your neck.

“I know you wanted to die tonight,” he whispered to you, and you bit your lip. “I know you wanted to pull that card and just wait for one of us to kill you…to take you away from me.”

A particularly hard thrust had you gasping, and Titus hummed.

“...but Mr. Le Bail wouldn’t do that to me. I’ve always followed the rules, always played the game well, and you’re my reward.”

You sniffed at that, struggling to breathe under his grip.