the last great demented dynasty XVIII
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a/n: throughout the chapters, certain songs will be mentioned at the beginning or after a partition. the music is chosen mostly for the vibes and the melody. if the lyrics align, yay. if not, play along. but i highly recommend listening to the songs on loop for its section if you're a 'take-your-time' reader. idk, the music just adds some oomf to it.
summary: titus and you get closer, though there still seems to be unfinished business, and he's not taking it lightly. you thought chess would be easy. you were proven wrong rather colourfully.
warnings: mention of blood LOTS OF BLOOD, harsh language, gore, smut hinted, but not written (sorry) long chapter, but had to finish it cuz 1 game 1 chapter.
the chessboard sat untouched between you and sebastian, all the pieces neatly aligned, ready for a game that hadn't started. the room felt too hollow for how loud his voice had been for the past twenty minutes as he explained openings, pawn sacrifices, and the inescapable necessity of treating certain pieces as disposable.
you rested your cheek in your palm, with all the interest one hand in a math class, barely listening anymore. something about pawns, about strategy, something about how winning required you to take a few steps back sometimes.
his hand moved across the board as he demonstrated a variation, then asked you how you would respond. you didn't say much, just picked up a piece and move it, and for a brief moment his fingers brushed yours. it was purely accidental, but you pulled back instantly anyway, chair scraping slightly against the floor as you stood.
"i can't do this," you hissed.
sebastian didn't look surprised by your outburst.
"don't be ridiculous," he replied, leaning back. "and don't be emotional. you need to get over it."
you stared at him, genuinely appalled by how easily he said it.
"no," you said, shaking your head once. "i will not get over it."
"then you will fail," he said. "your emotions will get you killed. your sensitivity will—"
you cut him off before he could finish.
"then i'll die," you said, voice steady in a way that surprised even you. your hands were shaking, but your tone wasn't. "but i'll still be me. i won't lose my soul like you."
you stormed out of there, stomping on the carpeted floor all the way up to your room, shutting the door with a loud crack.
for a moment you just stood there, breathing hard, hands still curled like you were expecting to be handed another lecture through the walls. then you reached for your phone, unlocking it too quickly, thumb hovering before you finally tapped on the person you'd rather hear. it rang twice
"helloooo" her voice came out like sunshine through clouds on a dull day.
"please tell me you have time for a video call." you begged, already moving to sit at your desk.
"for you? always. i'm like... multitaskmaxxing right now."
the call connected properly a second later. she appeared on screen mid–painting, a brush in one hand, her other hand holding what looked like a pantone card she was swatching. and there you were, sitting at your desk, applying electric blue nail polish to your toenails while being on call with meghana on your phone. chomsky made sure to videobomb his butthole every three minutes.
"he's just there now?" meghana asked after a moment, pausing her brushwork to squint at the screen. "like… does he live there?"
"not really," you said, glancing at the cat as he deliberately blocked your face again. "i'm sure he has a place somewhere. he just shows up here now."
"and you can't tell me why," she said slowly, "but it's just… unavoidable?"
she hummed, but didn't push it, which you were grateful for in a way you didn't feel like naming.
you hesitated for a second. the words 'no, i'm part of cultist games, trying to outsmart literal satan and his lawyer, hoping i don't end up dead' almost flew out of your mouth.
"yeah... i'm... okay for now"
she spared you a concerned glance, then resumed her painting. you could hear the soft scrape of brush on paper through the speaker.
"well, if you need some chess tips, i can loan you my boyfriend's pdfs. they're pretty great," she offered.
"you're not that bad at chess. why do you need to get better?"
you stared at your reflection in the dark edge of the screen for a second, then looked away.
"i need to win. somehow. and if my plan doesn't work, i'll need to actually win at chess." you said, focusing on your pinky, twisting your foot accordingly.
"i don't know how you're gonna improve in a few days. it's a lot of combinations and patterns."
you flexed your foot absentmindedly, watching the wet glaze of electric blue nail polish catch the light. "oh, trust me, patterns are the one thing i'm good at."
there was a short silence where she clearly chose not to interrogate that further.
you stared at the screen for a hot moment. "what i do best... memorise all of them."
you spent a good amount of time talking to meghana on your phone. you finished painting your nails and she finished painting her little postcard.
you were still mid-call when meghana’s expression shifted slightly on screen. she squinted, leaning closer.
"okayyyyy," she said slowly, "i dont know if this is relevant or not, but like, there is a very dangerous-looking man in the background and i feel like i should ask if you're okay again."
you turned your head slightly without thinking, following her gaze.
"oh," you said, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. "that's titus."
almost on cue, footsteps approached behind you. he never really did announce himself. and it was his house anyway.
one moment the room was spacey and yours, the next there was his weight at your back. he leaned over you slightly, one arm braced against the edge of your desk, the other resting at your nape with an ease that suggested he'd done it a hundred times before without thinking about it.
his eyes flicked immediately to your screen. "what are you doing?" he asked, voice calm, but edged with something that made meghana visibly stop painting.
you didn't look away from the call. "talking to my friend?"
you shifted the phone's angle slightly, switching windows so he could see properly. meghana waved hesitantly from the other side of the screen.
"that's megs," you said. "meghana. my best friend."
something in his eyes tightened as he threw half a glance at your phone.
"best friend," he repeated, like he was testing how the phrase worked in his mouth. then, without acknowledging meghana at all, he looked back at you.
"you're supposed to be practising."
"i am," you said immediately. "she's helping me."
his gaze narrowed slightly, shifting between you and the screen, trying to locate whicih part of your arrangement that made sense.
"her boyfriend plays in tournaments all the time," you added. "he's pretty good, so he's lending me his notes."
meghana glanced off-screen and then back at you. "i have to go," she said apologetically. "this is giving… mafia-coded."
you let out a small laugh. "fair."
you blew a kiss to your screen. "love ya! byeeee"
you ended the call, the screen going dark. you turned slightly in your chair, facing him a little.
"what"s in it for her?" he asked.
"your friend," he said simply. "what's she getting out of it?"
"nothing," you replied, without hesitation.
his eyebrow lifted slightly, like he didn't quite believe in that concept existing. you leaned back in your chair, meeting his stare properly now.
"she's my best friend, titus" you said. "she's not doing this for anything in return."
titus looked at you for a long moment, then gave a small, almost absent exhale through his nose.
"that's a mistake," he said.
"that's just what friends do, you know," you said simply, watching his expression carefully. then, after a beat, your tone shifted slightly, more curious than teasing. "titus… do you have friends?"
he scoffed immediately, too quickly. "of course i do."
you tilted your head. "name one."
he paused long enough for it to be noticed.
"she's your sister," you cut in flatly. "try again."
his mouth opened, then closed again. nothing came out that seemed usable. after a moment of visible mental searching, he tried again.
"emmanuel macron and i play tennis sometimes."
you stared at him, brow creased. there was a brief silence where your brain simply refused to process what had just been said.
"right," you said slowly. "we'll… circle back to that later. but seriously? you don't hang out with friends? like go out? do normal things?"
he blinked once, unbothered. "i go out."
"what do you do when you go out?"
"business deals," he said. then, as if it were the most obvious continuation in the world, "buying guns."
you gave him a look. "okay,"you said carefully. "but what do you do for fun?"
this time, he didn't answer immediately, snd not because he was thinking of a better lie, but because there genuinely didn"t seem to be one ready.
you could see it in the way his gaze drifted slightly, unfocused for a second. like the question didn't have a category in his mind that could hold it.
he had parties. he had wealth. he had rooms full of people who would answer when he spoke and disappear when he didn't. he had excess in every direction. he indulged in lavish parties, drank and smoked till the crack of dawn, stashed on yachts or castles. he occasionally hired women for his entertainment and pleasure, but he wasn't going to tell you that now.
you were asking what softened him and there was nothing obvious he could to point to. his attention returned to you, sharper now, as if trying to regain his footing back in the conversation.
"what do you and your… friend do?" he asked bitterly. because you having a best friend?
he hated it a little. because this was someone who knew you differently. longer than him, maybe better than him. someone who got to see different sides of you that he hadn't yet seen.
"well, we go out for lunches, dinners, go out to bars. sometimes we do pilates together or play squash, walk around and sightsee. and we used to study together back in college, so we did assignments together. meet up with other friends and go to concerts. that sort of thing."
titus absorbed your response. none of it was unfamiliar in theory, but none of it was lived. he had spent his life surrounded by proximity without connection with people who were there because they were born into it, not because they chose him.
you watched him for a second, then your expression shifted—something soft taking over, like you didn’t want the moment to get too serious.
your fingers reached out, lightly trailing along his arm.
"danny boyyyy," you murmured.
his entire body reacted before his face did, hearing you turn his mighty surname into a nickname like that.
"don't call me that," he said immediately, but it lacked any real force.
he didn't answer and you leaned in slightly, just enough to be a little unfair.
"do you want to go out with me?" you asked. then, after a beat, softer, "on a date?"
oh how his throat bobbed with discomfort, with the fact that he had never done any of that with friends, barely had any relationships that lasted beyond pricey gifts or hunts that cost them their life; in all his 48 years of gated life. all he had were stooges, footmen, business partners he didn't trust anyway, council members he had to tolerate. and his sister. and the devil.
somehow, the first few minutes of your 'date' pitch revolved around convincing titus to dress casual.
and clearly you two had different definitions.
you were sprawled across his king-sized bed on your stomach, chin sunk into a pillow, watching him—well, making him move through his wardrobe. every item he pulled out seemed to belong to a version of him that existed in boardrooms, private aircrafts, or places where people didn't raise their voices unless it was to threaten someone or bribe someone.
"seriously?" you said, propping your chin up slightly. "you don't have a t-shirt and jeans?"
he paused mid-closet, turning slowly, "do i look like a man who wears jeans?"
you squinted at him. "you could be."
"sorry, baby," he said, already shaking his head, "but no amount of coaxing is going to make that happen."
you flopped back down dramatically, staring at the ceiling for a second like it had personally disappointed you. the silence that followed was him continuing to sort through options, and you occasionally offering commentary that ranged from "absolutely not" to "are you being drafted?"
eventually, after a few more failed attempts, he emerged with something slightly more tolerable—cargo pants that he apparently used for "hunting", which you chose not to question too deeply. but you did let out a squeal of success when he dug out a plain blue t-shirt.
"oh my god, wait," you sat up properly. "that one's good."
he looked down at himself, then back at you, as if trying to confirm whether this was a trick.
"yes," you said firmly, swinging your legs off the bed now. "that. you look… human."
"yeah no, that's debatable."
he exhaled through his nose, but there was something almost amused about it now, like he'd stopped resisting the process and was just letting it happen for the sake of watching you be strange about it.
you hopped off the bed and walked over, adjusting the shirt slightly at his shoulder like you had any authority to do so.
"okay," you said, satisfied. "this is acceptable."
he watched you for a moment, then glanced at the mirror behind you both, taking in his reflection. he felt like someone else.
it was pleasant enough outside that you could finally ignore the row of dark sweaters and painfully serious shirts that filled your wardrobe and go digging for something you hadn't touched in a long time. there were a few older pieces tucked away at the back, things you’d bought in moments of optimism that didn't quite match your current life, and you lingered on them for a second longer than necessary before pulling one out.
titus had been waiting near the base of the stairs, probably already halfway distracted by whatever thought had been occupying him five minutes earlier, until you appeared.
and whatever he was thinking stopped. not politely nope. just—full stop.
because he had never seen you so yellow. pale, soft, ridiculous. that colour didn't belong in the dark danforth manor.
a two-piece set that read like a sundress if you didn't look too closely, light fabric catching against you innocently. your short hair rested just above your shoulders, like a 60's audrey hepburn.
and then his eyes dropped. down your juicy, tempting breasts snug in the fabric like citrus you just wanted to sink your teeth in. and then he saw your belly, bulging out just the perfect amount through the skirt. he went very still in that particular way men did when they were actively losing control over their instincts.
chester, he remembered, had ursula starve for days just so her stomach would flatten. young titus recalled his sister staring at his plate of food with tears in her eyes.
but you... and the real, well-fed flesh you had on yourself had a beauty so unashamed and natural...
he went from solid to gaseous real fast ngl.
"you're not going out like that," he said immediately. it came out flat, but not persuasive. not even slightly.
you tilted your head, a little frown on your forehead. "like what?"
you held his gaze for a beat longer than necessary, then turned and started walking ahead of him like the conversation was already over. "cope, my guy."
you had barely made it down the stairs of the manor before you realised titus danforth was not equipped with date-like qualities. the driver was already opening the door of the car when you grabbed titus' arm.
"seriously?" you asked, looking at the car. he did too, then looked back at you.
"what. it's a lambo espada."
"we're going on a dateeee," you dragged the words out of yourself, "not an auction!"
titus folded his arms, looking at you. "what, you got a car?"
when you'd moved into the danforth manor, they'd brought all your things in, including your party-of-one vehicle that sat under covers in the danforth garage, ridiculously red.
titus stared at it. then at you. then back at it again. "no."
you smiled sweetly. "yes."
he protested, threw every pro-reputation argument at you, even got the driver in on it, and then five minutes later, he was behind you, sitting stiffly with a silly helmet on.
one arm clamped around the bar behind him and the other hovering like it couldn’t decide whether to hold on or escape entirely. after a second of hesitation, his hand settled at your shoulder, gripping just a little too firmly. he wished he had two more arms to hold on for his life.
you laughed under your breath and twisted the throttle anyway. the engine sputtered to life with a little whirr, and then you were off, driving down the road with the morning air cutting clean against your faces.
there was a stupidly adorable ease in the fact that titus danforth—who'd never trusted anything in life with two wheels—was readily going on a date with you on a vespa.
he slowly got the hang of it when you hit the smooth city road. he even took his hand off the bar and placed it on your other shoulder.
♬⋆.˚ tum se hi; pritam, mohit chauhan, irshad kamil
hartford felt so different, always so fresh. it was quieter in a lived-in way, people actually going somewhere with purpose, no selfish displays of wealth and entitlement. the pavements were uneven or broken in places, the brickwork on art deco buildings added to the city's character.
you parked the vespa a little awkwardly by the two-wheeler parking space, hopped off first, and immediately reached back without thinking. your fingers found titus’s hand before he’d even fully dismounted. it was instinctive toyou. he didn't fucking hesitate in grabbing your hand tightly.
and he followed you like that, looking like a man who'd never seen a footpath before as you led him toward a small college coffee cart tucked between two buildings. it was truly unimpressive. just a guy and a stall, hadnwritten chalkboard menu, and sleep deprived yale students slouched in their hoodies clutching coffees and yawns in both hands.
"they have one of the best iced coffees, trust me. nothing like it to start the day."
titus looked at the setup, then at the paper cups, then at the price board. his expression flattened slightly. "this is cheap."
"silence, rich boy," you pressed your index finger over his lips and trotted away to order for the two of you.
he watched you more than he watched anything else after that. watched the way you spoke to the barista like you knew him, the way you stood slightly on your toes when you were excited, the way your shoulders loosened the moment you were out of the estate's orbit. there was something almost disarming about it for him, like seeing a version of you that didn't have to calculate everythign.
you handed him his iced coffee and immediately pulled him along again, fingers threaded with his. hartford unfolded in front of you in soft fragments: old bookstores, thrift shops, little cafes.
you made him stop in places for no reason other than curiosity, pointing at things like a tourist. you'd already seen more than enough, but shpwing him, seeing it with him was a lot more fun, you realised.
though you kinda sorta exploded in the flea market, moving through different racks, flipping through jackets and frowning wherever there were rhinestones, holding things up against his beefy chest with zero care. titus just stood there like all this was beneath him. it was. but it didn't matter as long as your hand found his.
you discovered a diy friendship bracelet table and the inner craft girlie in you popped out like a gift card. you grabbed a few beads, some coloured thread, and assembled a nice bracelet. he'd lean in to see what you were up to and you pulled it away from his gaze.
and when you were done, you tied it around his wrist without asking, right under his morbidly expensive patek philippe watch.
titus looked down at the alphabet beads. "king of my ♥️"
good god. the man had cultivated his taste for all things elegant and branded. but he'd be lying if his gilded heart didn't flutter at the sight of such an innocent gift.
he didn't interrupt that version of you.
not when you let him buy you a bunch of earrings, not when you snapped a hundred pictures of the city, of him, of you and him, and most certainly not when you held his hand till it was drenched with sweat.
he didnt' stop you when you strolled into a bookstore and decided you'd live there for the next hour. he wtached you browse and browse, handle every book that piqued your interest with care. watched you cringe at those typical tech bro self help books that all sounded robotic and prescribed a cold bath every third page.
funny. every time he'd taken out a woman for dinner or drinks in his past, he ran on the same script, for himself and them. the same superficiality, mentions of friends of friends, who fucked whom, he said she saids that he had grown accustomed to.
so how was he supposed to just 'be on a date' with you? a woman who didn't come from his background, whose privileges started and ended at affordable public transport. you whose definition of fun ranged from having drinks at a club to reading in silence or napping.
what exactly was a danforth supposed to do on a date?
you snapped your fingers at him, holding a book in your hand and a smirk on your face. "wanna read smut to me?"
"what?" he asked, taking a step closer. "reading what?"
you flipped open a few pages of some vibrant book, snickering to yourself. then held it to him.
titus squinted at the text, his neck creaking back and forth till he sighed and pulled out reading glasses from a case in his pockets.
"oh my god, you have readers?" you gawked.
"fuck, that's hot. put 'em on."
he looked at you once, then holding your stare, put on his black, thick rimmed reading glasses.
he watched you lick and purse your lips, which pleased him immensely. "like what you see, baby?"
"uh huh..." you said, dazed. that man... was sincerely, sinfully, devilishly handsome with glasses on.
titus picked up the book in his hand, going over a few words, before he realised what absolute filth this was. he looked at you once, at your eagerness, and he shook his head.
"dirty girl, y/n... you get off on this?" he clicked his teeth.
"can't i have guilty pleasures?"
titus took a few more steps towards you, cornering you against a bookshelf.
he cleared his throat. "it was messy and aggressive, with teeth clashing, and biting your lower lip. he poured all his dominant energy into that kiss. his tongue plundered your mouth."
"the fuck is this?" he asked, letting out a scoff.
you clamped your mouth, laughter slipping out in odd bursts.
"with a swift movement, he pulled you close, the head of his cock nudging insistently at your entrance. he groaned deeply as he sank into your heat... jesus, sweetheart, why do you read this?" he groaned, closing the book shut and putting it on top of some other shelf.
you chuckled as he spun you around so you could leave. "you read well!!! can you narrate an erotica for me?"
"i'd rather just fuck you, you know," he murmured in your ear, leading you to another aisle.
at last, you left the store with a bag full of books, ranting about how much you wanted to start reading olivia laing, clarice lispector, and anaïs nin.
hands entwined as you walked on the footpath, you looked at him with almost a childlike earnestness. "we should go watch a movie!"
titus blinked at you. "a movie."
you nodded and he looked like he was about to argue purely out of habit, then didn't. instead, he just followed you again, still holding your hand as you dragged him through hartford streets with urgency. the cinema was nothing like anything he was used to. no private screening rooms, no velvet ropes, no staff who already knew his preferences before he arrived. just a slightly faded marquee, a queue at the counter, and posters taped in glass fogged up frames.
you were leaning against the ticket booth, arms folded over a counter that was probably way too unclean, pointing at a screen, selecting seats.
and there he was, someone who had funded cannes on behalf of his father, knew most celebrities on a first-name basis, always received invited to premieres and private screenings that he ignored.
titus didn't know where to place himself in your life.
he felt bothered, a little insecure standing beside you at the ticket booth as you chatted with the clerk. he felt out of character. undeserved of this casualty. that he couldn't have romance without the haunting strings attached, dipped in blood, mr le bail's rotten hand over his shoulder telling him it's not real. just a hallucination. just a taste, never a satiating meal.
you held two tickets in your hand, grabbing his and leading him inside. he took slowly steps behind you, felt people brush past his shoulder and somehow didn't feel the need to dislocate them. that man had never 'struggled' to reach a seat, and now he was wading through a crowd to get to one, popcorn spilling at his feet, crushed under his boot as people scurried to get to their seats.
the discomfort registered in him, that being a part of your world meant being a part of the world. you didn't hide yourself away from the ordinary, the pale, the boring. and you didn't monopolise the good, the fun. you let it crash together like waves and let the sand beneath your feet slip from time to time. you didn't mind if life got a little hard or greasy.
titus wasn't sure he'd ever be able to live without the privileges he had. without the absent accountability, convenience, without the charity of mr le bail.
there as the room darkened, he slowly realised how eerie it was to have loaned your soul to the devil, that a date with the woman he'd come to love couldn't feel unconditionally happy unless it was caged within the manor and wrapped in silk.
you caught his gaze lost in thought and placed your hand over his.
his stare snapped back into place. "yeah." he straightened in his seat, suddenly unsettled by the thought that thousands of people had probably sat in it.
"what are we watching?" he asked hoping to be distracted by whatever sappy romance or heroic action thriller you'd picked.
"what?" the name sat unfamiliar.
"i heard you, what is that?"
he frowned. "that's a movie?"
sappy and romantic indeed, as titus sat through what unfolded itself to be a horror film. titus leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing at the opening scene with a kind of mild recalculation, mentally revising whatever assumptions he'd made about the evening. for a second, there was even a flicker of approval in his expression.
he glanced at you. "you sure you can handle it, baby?"
you shifted in your seat, shoulders squared like you were preparing for a lecture rather than a film. "dude, i'm not born yesterday. i can handle horror movies."
that earned you a small, amused exhale from him. his head tilted slightly as he watched you, deciding whether to believe you or not. "you sure? i mean, if you wanna hold my hand when you get scared or anything…"
you turned your head just enough to shoot him a look, unimpressed. "what if you'e the one who gets scared? big bad titus might fall for a jumpscare, you know."
he hummed, clearly entertained, then reached over, resting his hand near yours without quite grabbing it. "keep telling yourself that."
for a while, it was easy. you know how horror movies started slow, built up the tension first, maybe some eerie music to make you just enough uncomfortable. the anticipation of fear.
you found yourself leaning forward slightly at certain moments, eyes fixed on the screen, while titus remained infuriatingly composed beside you. he didn't flinch, or even blink at the parts where the sound design sharpened or the camera lingered a little too long in the dark corners of the hotel.
that irritated you ngl. but then the first proper jumpscare hit without warning, loud and abrupt through the speakers. your body jolted reflexively in your seat, breath caught in your lungs for a moment.
titus? he didn't move. not even slightly. just sat in his seat, eyes on the screen, almost bored at the predictability. when you glanced at him properly, he didn't look back at the screen immediately. instead, his eyes flicked down to you for a moment, taking in the tiny aftermath of your reaction, the way you were trying very hard to pretend you hadn't just flinched.
he leaned a little closer, voice low enough that it barely carried over the film. "you okay, baby?"
"oh shut up," you hushed.
a knowing smirk tugged at his mouth. "just sayin'. can always cover your eyes if you're scared."
the film wound down slowly, the final scenes cut to credits while the theatre lights began to rise. people around you stretched, laughed a little too loudly at nothing, gathered their bags and wrappers and started filtering out in small clusters.
you stayed seated for a moment longer than most, letting the noise settle back into something normal again, your shoulders finally easing after the tension of the last hour. whatever fear had crept in earlier had worn itself thin by now, replaced by a kind of tired alertness and the last bit of adrenaline buzz.
"i'm impressed," titus murmured, low enough.
"how are you so unbothered? that's fucked up."
he gave a small, casual shrug, like it was obvious. "seen scary things in life. done much scarier."
you frowned slightly at that, studying him. "no, but you're like… zen."
that earned you a faint exhale through his nose. his gaze stayed on you, steady and unblinking, as if the rest of the theatre didn't exist anymore now that the movie had ended. "you looked adorable," he said simply. "i heard those little squeaks."
"i do not squeak," you scoffed, the lie kicking in a second too late to be convincing.
titus didn't even wait for you to finish properly. he shifted suddenly in his seat and leaned into you in one smooth movement, catching you off guard and making you gasp sharply as he closed the distance, suddenlt in your fucking face. it wasn't rough, not really, but it was fast enough to jolt you out of your protest.
he tilted his head slightly, looking far too satisfied with himself. "see?" he murmured, eyes flicking briefly to your expression before settling back on you. "squeak."
you shoved at him weakly, still half-laughing despite yourself, heat rising to your face.
titus really liked seeing you flustered more than he liked winning any argument.
when you left the cinema hall, hunger was waiting for you outside. and you suddenly perked up, almost hopping in spot.
"oh oh oh let's have shawarma," you beamed. "i know the best place."
titus looked at you, up then down, eyebrow rasied. he had seen you focused, irritated, calculating, shaken in face of guns, but this version of you was something else entirely; impatient with joy.
he didn't say anything at first, just watched as you grabbed his hand again and started dragging him out, the decision made.
you drove through hartford with him behind you again. the evening air was crisper and filled with smoke from the traffic.
the shawarma place was small, unassuming, the kind of spot that looked like it had been there forever and would survive any apocalypse. the air outside was thick with the smell of charred meat and spice, the grill smoke wafting out into the street in warm waves. you ordered like you owned the place, talking quickly with the vendor, gesturing at extras, completely in your element. titus stood slightly behind you, hands in his pockets, watching the exchange.
when everything was ready, you led him to the stairs of a closed laundromat across the street, sitting down like you were on a picnic. shutters half dented, paint chipped, stairs dusty.
you handed him one of the steaming shawarmas and immediately started showing him how to unwrap it properly, turning it in your hands with practiced ease.
"okay, so first," you said seriously, leaning in a little like this was a lecture, "you lick the sauce off the wrapper. we don't let it go to waste."
titus stared at you. "what? no, i'm not doing that."
"come on," you urged, already halfway through yours, "it's an experience."
"so you can eat me out but not the sauce?"
"correct. you're tastier."
you bit the inside of your cheek, stopping the smile before it could stretch on your face.
titus looked at the shawarma in his hand; warm spices and roasted chicken and melted cheese, and something about the sheer lack of etiquette made it worse for him. but well, he was hungry.
the first bite gasted his flabbers. he paused mid-chew, expression shifting slightly as if his brain had to catch up with what his mouth had just loved. this wasn't fine dining or michelin star chef-made. this was street food and it was... just too good.
you noticed immediately, of course, watching him like you were waiting for the verdict.
"it's good, right?" you hummed, smug now, leaning back slightly as you licked sauce off your own wrapper with absolutely no shame.
titus didn't answer right away. he was still processing, eyes slightly narrowed as if he didn't trust how much he liked it. then, slowly, his gaze dropped to you again. at the way the tip of your tongue caught the sauce. a sight veeeeery familiar to him and titus danforth junior in his pants.
it was official. titus danforth had just been on his first date, with the woman he loved.
and while it ticked none of his standards, it exceeded them at the same time. you were magnetising. you could suggest he fall flat on his face and he'd do it because you told him so. you could make a stub of the toe sound divine.
and against all the reality of the games, the impending judgement day, titus let himself smile as he sat behind you for the third time, on your way back to the manor. he could see the estate in the distance.
he smiled as he recalled your excitement, your gorgeous yellow dress, smiled at how many books you'd bought, the movie, the shawarma, all of it. maybe he wouldn't mind doing it again.
your phone pinged from inside your bag, which you'd slung and tossed behind you so it wouldn't flap in the wind on the scooter.
curious and entitled, assuming everything belonge to you both, titus dug through your bag and pulled out your phone, checking the notifications on the lock screen. he blinked, rereading the name.
ursula: here’s the dossier on the le domases. everything about their strategies is in it. we should be good for game day.
he read it agian. his smile dimmed slowly. the realisation settled in him like heavy gravity. you were still plotting. still hiding things from him and colluding with his sister. after he'd told you not to lie, you still did it.
then all the happiness and joy and warmth in him disappeared in a second. he felt the scooter jerk and come to a halt before the manor. he got off instantly.
"we should do this aga—" you stopped speaking the moment you saw him, his face, and your phone in his hand. and oh how his eyes looked hurt and enraged. you kicked the scooter on its stand and got down, taking your helmet off.
he grabbed your jaw tightly, thumb digging into your mandible.
"i told you. to not fucking lie to me." he snapped.
you'd never heard that belt of his voice.
"whatever you're doing with ursula stops right now." he hissed as he released your jaw, suddenly repulsed by your skin. then tossed your phone on the gravel, watching the screen crack.
"don't fucking treat me like i'm a child," he snarled and turned to go inside.
"you can be mad at me! that's okay! just… please don't go where i can't follow," you pled softly, clutching your wrist, where the sigil reminded you of its implication. for a brief moment, he almost swallowed his anger back, but he hardened just as quick and went inside.
with the game approaching, you'd pretty much busied yourself with practice games, books, and youtube videos to improve your game.
but nothing dulled the pricking ache of knowing titus hadn't talked to you at all for three whole days. you'd been by his room, knocked on his door, sent him texts after texts, which he didn't bother reading. you'd even asked one of the maids to deliver handwritten notes to him, but she returned with a shake of her head.
the only other person who made the effort to hear you out was ursula.
"he saw your text. the one about the files."
she rubbed her temple a little. "well, he hasn't done anything yet. so... it should be fine."
you nodded, looking downcast. "he's not talking to me."
she gave you a glance. "oh, you'll live. he's acting up right now, but he can't resist you."
"why can't he just talk it out?"
"he's titus. he'll break a few things, shoot something, pace around and then shut up."
her response did not do anything to pacify the unease in you. logically, you knew the time healed everything and that there would come a time when he'd re-emerge and you'd talk and sort things out.
but you also had the strong feeling that titus, when he was lost in his head, was an oncoming storm and everything around him would become collateral damage.
and if that weren't enough, what he had learned could very easily be passed down, ear to ear until it reached the lawyer and then... there would be serious consequences.
you were in your room again, dozing off over a pile of pawn and king endgame notes when a maid popped in from the servant's entrance, nearly sending you into cardian arrest.
"miss l/n, mr danforth has instructed me to inform you that he will be leaving the manor for a few hours. and that you are to sit in the basement while he's gone."
your heart sank. you felt it drop in your stomach. before you could ask her anything else, she disappeared into the walls.
the very thought of going back down there, ever since you'd found your father in the depths, it tortured you.
with your books and notes and a chessboard mat in hand, you hovered by his door again, leaning against the plank of wood.
"titus?" you called out softly. you could hear some shuffling inside.
more shuffling. footsteps paced inside. you let your temple rest against the door.
every attempt you made at reaching out to him was met with silence. so you trudged down down down the steps and into the basement. it looked worse than before. grimy walls, the familiar pale bluish green walls. some of your books were still there on the table; campbell's historical linguistics lay there collecting dust.
the typewriter had cobwebs between its keys. you couldn't breathe in the damp air.
but you sat on the stairs of the basement, enough to be inside, and enough to have the doors open. light from the corridors and stairwell kept you lit enough as you resumed going through the notes.
you stayed there for god knows how long, eyes heavy from exhaustion and body clicking every time you moved from one uncomfortable position to another. you didn't know if titus was back. you tried calling for a servant, for anyone. no one answered. you pulled your phone out to text him and ask him if he was back, no answer. the reception sucked too.
with very little choice, despite hunger and the need to relieve your bladder, you stayed there on the stairs. maybe this was the universe punishing you for keeping secrets from a man like titus.
mercies, you realised, were hard to earn when your actions made sure you deserved none.
the le domas estate was just as grand, 19th century house, lush green grounds and surrounding woods. had you been brought here the first time, you'd have believed the danforths lived here instead.
mr le domas called it an act of 'grace', inviting everyone to his abode for the necrofest. something about a last loving feast before he obliterated everyone at the house game: chess.
that was the first time you saw titus in a week. he still didn't look at you, just kept close to his sister.
you swallowed your anxiety. now really wasn't the time to mourn the loss of attention from tits danforth. (i realised while re-reading that i forgot to type 'u', and now tits danforth just sounds fucking hilarious. i'm keeping it XD)
"welcome to the third game of the necrofest," the lawyer stood before you, a smile on his face.
"there will be two pools of three. each player plays in a round-robin within their group and the winners of each match will advance to playing each other."
"wait, isn't that a lot of games?" asked mr silcox.
"we'll be here all day..."
"correct. arrangements have been made for dinner if need be," the lawyer added.
thus, you and the others were led to what looked like an outdoor arena, with a chessboard placed on a table, two chairs facing each other. pure ivory pieces, silver lined board. a traditional clock that started the other's time when tapped.
mr le domas, being the host, took the first game. mr silcox sat before him, giving him a challenging glance, a bit too sultry for your taste.
really, just two old white men having a homoerotic face off.
"you both have an hour. mr le domas, i shall start your time now. good luck," the lawyer announced and pressed the clock.
♬⋆.˚playing townes; carlos rafael rivera
the game unfolded quickly, like disappointingly so. mr le domas played rather skilfully, patient and smug in equal measure. mr silcox, on the other hand, played messily, his development was nonexistent, and by the time he realised the centre of the board mattered, it was already gone.
it didn't take longer than 15 minutes. it was a clean, traditional win; london opening, very simple transitions. there were no theatrics at all. mr le domas had full control of the board.
you watched it all with a growing sense of dull detachment.
next, the match between cheng fu and mr silcox. really, just two picky players who insisted they knew what they were doing. mr silcox had tried to copy whatever he remembered of mr le domas, forgetting that he was playing black, and the squares weren't the same. so he ended up in a messy centre.
now, mr cheng fu was a bit better. but he lacked the confidence to take pieces. he just crowded his board, placing everything out, not securing the king at all, so when mr silcox captured his first knight, he flipped, grunted at the board, and as he kept on losing pieces, only got madder and slammed his fist on the clock.
their game was probably the longest, with neither using their pieces to checkmate. they just seemed keen on capturing and emptying the board.
"you ever want to just... put them in a pool with piranhas and watch?"
you turned to face a sour looking daniel, who'd slid next to you, nursing a fireball whiskey in his hand.
he snorted. "nah... they're sheep who think they're wolves."
he looked down at you, with a certain exhaustion in his eyes. "i'm no better."
he smiled, looking at his father, who circled around the match, as if watching it from a different angle would make any difference in his victory.
"you don't leave a family like this..." he leaned in, whispering in your ear. "you just let it rot and poison you."
you kept your gaze on the board.
"you're taking this too seriously."
"well," you tore your sight away from the game for just a moment. "i can't afford to rot. i like my soul clean."
he chuckled bitterly. "mr le bail will get his hands on you. trust me."
daniel took a clumsy swig of his whiskey, feeling his muscles relax. "you really think you can win?"
you let out a soft breath. "i think..." then turned to look him in the eye. "i can make them lose."
he caught your gaze. "oh? not so... goody two shoes are you? talk of the town is you killed wilkinson on your own."
he chuckled, leaning closer. "oh i'm not complaining. you did good."
you opened your mouth to protest or rather defend yourself when he cut you off, "his house game was backwater combat. brutal."
your breath hitched a little. what a funny thing retrospection was...
daniel smirked. "see? you did us all a favour."
by now, the board had but the king and a few pawns left. but worse was that both of them were busy moving their kings away from each other, than just upgrading their pass pawns into queens. a whole hour went by just like that.
daniel had gotten you a drink, and you both stood further away from the crowd, watching whatever the game had become. his gaze fell on sebastian, who was studying the game like it had any value.
"what's your deal with him?" he asked you.
you sighed, kicking away a tiny rock by your feet. "what isn't my deal..."
he looked at you. "daddy issues?"
"so why are you playing for him?"
"well, kinda didn't have a choice. and..." you cast a pensive gaze over the scene before you. then at daniel, who seemed different from all of them. real enough, authentic enough to have a critical conversation with.
"...i plan to double cross him."
daniel raised an eyebrow, and let out a low whistle. "and they say my family is fucked up."
he shrugged. "true. but you know you can't kill family right? you'd both blow up."
daniel studied you for a moment. he found no visible fear on your face. but also no numbness. you were in an inescapable situation, but you had enough resilience to have hope.
"i wish i had the balls to be like you."
you looked up at him, giving him a smile. "i think you already are..."
the group matches had begun to resolve themselves in a steady rhythm. the last match of group 1 took place between mr le domas and mr cheng fu, which honestly was hilarious considering how much contrast there was in their play.
but you noticed that mr le domas favoured the london opening, which was solid, a little conservative, but effective. it helped him assemble the rest of his pieces.
cheng fu, predictably, struggled to keep up with it. his pieces drifted too far too early, his position collapsing not from a single mistake but from a dozen small ones stacking quietly on top of each other. and mr le domas didn't rush him, well, he didn't need to. he truly did play the long game, purely for the fun of it. to watch his opponent realise how trapped he was. and even though it didn't get to that point, you could tell he'd be ruthless at end games. that there was a man who could think a few moves ahead.
by the time the game concluded, there was no real surprise left in it: le domas won.
and should you win the games in your group, you'd have to play against a possible chessmaster.
♬⋆.˚playing beltik; carlos rafael rivera
the first group's match had finally wrapped. people drifted away from the tables in slow clusters. cigars were lit, glasses were refilled, and the le domas mansion inside, turned into a lounge-like sprawl where the day's victory and loss were already rebranded as conversational topics.
it was already around five in the evening, the light outside turning softer and heavier at the same time, catching on glassware and polished metal.
before you, titus finally took his seat at the board. he sat opposite francesca, but it didn't look like he was really with her in any meaningful sense. his posture sagged a little. you noticed of course, with an unwelcome jolt, that he didn't look at you right away.
it shouldn't have mattered, you told yourself that quickly. but it did.
he wasn't a grandmaster. not even close. he knew it, and you knew it too. whatever skill he had came from repetition under chester's idea of teaching, which had never really been instruction so much as punishment for each mistake.
you realised, a little too late, that you had been watching him instead of the game. francesca, as it turned out, wasn't playing with much direction at all. she just put pieces wherever she felt they'd go and the lawyer had to butt in to remind her of the rules and limitations of each piece, so what should've been a 20 minute game at tops, ended up being dragged into the whole hour.
which, unfairly, was exactly what allowed titus to hold his ground. he didn't dominate the game so much as outlast it. and it tilted in his favour. but he didn't look too happy about the win.
pushing yourself up from the chair you'd warmed, you stepped down and took francesca's seat, her elbow bumping into your side as she slid past you. the contact was brief but enough to make you exhale through your nose, but you steadied yourself as you settled into the seat opposite him.
you sat across from him for the first time in a week.
"starting the clock, good luck," the lawyer chimed in, tapped your clock and stepped away.
you didn't play at first. you let the seconds tick by, loud in the absence of speech, loud in the absence of him looking at you.
"hey..." you said softly, eyes on him.
he didn't look at you. he didn't even acknowledge the sound of your voice properly. just kept staring at the pieces on the board. one week. one whole weeks of his silent treatment had truly upset you. you understood his anger in logic, but you had your reasons and if he wasn't willing to listen, well... what else could you do.
so you picked up a pawn and moved it forward.
and from there, piece by piece, capture by capture, you let the game go on. and you could tell he was bothered and that his mind wasn't in the game at all. the board told you that: a record of two people still speaking to each other without using language. it showed when he left a bishop unguarded, or when he forgot to capture a pawn of yours, or when he let his king get cornered without any opening to escape from the check that was coming.
it wasn't that he was playing badly. but he was playing like someone who didn’t quite care whether he won.
so he showed no emotion when he lost. he simply leaned back slightly, exhaled once, and stood up, straightened his jacket, already steps away.
you sighed, feeling yourself cave in a little. you did not like seeing him so hurt.
and just to rub salt in the wound, francesca slid into titus' abandoned seat like she had been waiting for the moment to inherit it. there was still redness around her eyes.
then she spoke, her voice bitter as a gourd. "couples fight all the time. me and madhu never did though. we were so much better."
you leaned back a fraction in your chair, studying her with a still calmness. then you smiled.
"tell you what..." you said, and reached forward without breaking eye contact, lifting your queen from the board, and placing her on the table, kept away from the game. a motion so unhurried and decisive.
the lawyer raised his eyebrow, but allowed it, mumbling about over confidence under his breath.
francesca finally looked at you properly then, her gaze narrowing. "whatever."
so she opened with her pawn, pushed forward one square, having quite literally recently learned some rules and tactics from ignacio, who had stockfish open on his phone. you answered with your pawn stepping out two squares.
she responded by taking her queen almost immediately, planting it aggressively into the corner, angled towards the pawn that guarded your king diagonally. soooo not subtle.
you didn't rush to match her energy. instead, you developed another pawn. her bishop followed, sliding into alignment, doubling pressure onto the pawn her queen was already eyeing. you nudged one of your pawns forward again, just enough to threaten her queen's position, forcing it to shift or be taken. irritated, she moved her away.
it was clear... she was playing at you, not the board.
"how's your father doing?" you asked.
she scoffed sharply. "like you care."
"i don't," you replied evenly, "but i'm asking anyway."
you developed your bishops and knight while chasing her pieces away.
"he lost a kidney," she said after a beat, voice flat with resentment. "thanks for that."
well, she managed to take some of your pieces, especially one of your bishops when you left it hanging as bait, which she took it with a satisfactory smile.
"i'm sure he can pluck one from cold storage, no?" you asked slyly, giving her king a check…and forking her queen and rook in the process.
and from there, you crowded her king into the corner, surrounded by her own pieces.
"do unto others, francesca…" you moved your rook below your knight.
"…as you would have done unto you," you completed the phrase, taking your knight off its square and placing it on the third row, a clean, congested checkmate without your queen even on the board.
thus... winning over both the members in your group, you advanced to the final game; versus mr le domas.
this was one of my games on chess. com when my cousin was teaching me a few moves. I FORGOT I PUT MUSIC OVER IT FOR AN EDIT. but anyway, that's how it looks:
♬⋆.˚ labour; paris paloma
you had a few minutes before the board was reset, which you took by sipping a glass of water and standing still with your eyes closed. only in your head, your replayed every single move mr le domas had made, looking for patterns, favourites, weaknesses.
chess was the kind of sport that looked still and stationary from a bystander's point of view, but only those who played knew just how much they were sweating simply thinking of a move they may not even make.
even when you weren't playing, the mere thought of a game, of moves, or tactics, drew out the same fatigue from your brain as it played simulations of games internally, each one failing. you opened your eyes, facing a realisation that you might not win this one easily. you'd assumed mr le domas favoured the london, but it was just twice that you'd seen it. and you knew very well, one's an accident, two's a coincidence. not a pattern yet, so he could very much surprise you with a tougher, newer opening.
you felt an unfamiliar hand on your shoulder.
in an instant, you swatted his hand away, shoulder burning at the recognition of sebastian's touch.
you marched right down and at the table, taking a seat prematurely, the chair scraping softly against the floor.
by now, almost everyone had left. it was night, dinner had been brought out and taken back in too. you were starving, teeth itching to bite into something lest you gnaw on everyone's heads.
mr le domas took the seat opposite you. he didn't bother with pleasantries. his eyes travelled over you in a slow, assessing way, passing judgement way in advance.
his family stood behind him, every single one of them looking down at you like vultures.
daniel gave you an apologetic look, being pushed to the side by his wife.
"do enjoy the feast," mr le domas said, voice sour, but courteous on the surface. "it'll be your last."
he leaned back slightly, fingers resting near the edge of the board. "i expected someone… better presented," he continued, gaze flicking over you again with disdain. "but then again, you can't expect that from someone so out of place like you."
his mouth curved faintly, not quite a smile. "illegitimate children always play at being part of the table. they never quite understand they are only ever borrowed guests."
the lawyer signalled the start of the game without comment, and the clock clicked forward.
you didn't respond to any of his statements. you attention was fixed on the board, on its geometry.
his expression cooled, and he opened with something that immediately broke your expectation.
your eyes narrowed slightly as you registered the deviation, the structure unfamiliar enough to force a recalibration. you answered anyway, switching quickly, settling into a caro-kann defence from black.
but mr le domas abandoned comfort entirely and pushed into exchanges already, forcing central tension rather than allowing the slow build you had prepared for. little baffled, you developed your knight, even took the queen out early. but the placement was such that you were dealing with the possibility of tough-to-break pins and blockades. so that resulted in an early queen trade off.
he infiltrated your rank with his knight, giving your king a check and taking your rook. that loss forced your king to move and reposition, hindering any future of a castle.
the board felt absurd, rigged.
mr le domas may have been clumsy with his beer pong or gunmanship, but he was a terrifying chess player.
your game stretched for another 30 minutes. you only had a few minutes left before you timed out and lost. you stared at the board, then at the clock, then back at the board again. you stared at mr le domas, his sister, at daniel...
the pieces no longer looked like clean abstractions of ivory and silver. your queenless structure sat exposed in places you hadn't realised were weak until they were already being pressured. another file tightened here, another escape route reduced there. every square you reached for seemed to already belong to him by implication, by probability and foresight.
your chest tightened in a slow, unpleasant rhythm. the hand that hovered over your knight felt heavy. you could hear the faint tick of the clock remind you of your demise.
god, you tried to calculate, recall your notes, the books you'd read, games you'd played and watched. nothing cleared the fog in your head. every attempt to simplify your position only made it feel more crowded, so much that you felt the board shrink and shrink.
your fingers hovered near your pieces once, then pulled back without touching anything. even the act of considering a move felt like a risk you couldn’t afford to misunderstand. your eyes met the lawyer's who sat there expressionless. you looked at daniel, who looked equally tensed, almost disappointed to see you lose.
you didn't have anyone to distract him or nothing to cheat. all you had was knowledge and it wasn't enough against a man older than you, expert at a sport that belonged in his family. you could feel your heartbeat in your throat now.
"scared? you should be," said mr le domas. and his voice echoed a thousand times inside your head, ears unwilling to tolerate that sound.
he shifted forward just enough that his voice lowered, not for secrecy, but for control. "do you understand what happens when people like you lose here?" he asked.
there was no need for you to answer. he continued anyway. "we're going to eat you alive. don't think you're living to tell the tale, stupid girl. your arrogant father thinks he can take what's ours. that titus danforth isn't going to forget it so easily. he's going to make your life hell. you think you've got him wrapped around your finger, please... he'll leave you for dead if it meant he'd get the le bail ring. you should've thrown yourself off a cliff. let yourself be shot or something. because it's only going to get worse from here, little girl, we're gonna make sur—"
a deafening silence cast over the game as mr le domas suddenly stopped speaking... for there lay a knife lodged into his throat, a slow trickle of blood oozing out of the cut, and daniel's hand around the handle.
he met your eyes, both a craze and empathy in his eyes.
"you're right..." he said softly. "i am like you. but i deserve what's coming..."
he took the knife out, letting his father choke on his own blood, gasping for breath.
he stepped back, dropping the knife as his family shook him, asking what the hell was wrong with him.
he just looked at you, giving you that same little salute. "someone's gotta burn it all down, right?"
there was no warning when it happened, just a loud explosion where daniel stood. a cloudburst of blood splattered in place of him like a fountain, bits of flesh raining from above. it splashed on your skin, across your neck, your torso.
you stood up from your chair, daring to take a step back. you couldn't believe your eyes. your hand clamped your mouth, trapping the scream that made it out anyway.
one by one, the le domases exploded into bits and pieces, blood and water, their panicked screams cut off by the sound of their skin tearing and flesh bursting at the seams.
red covered you head to toe as the entire family simply disintegrated in a matter of cruel seconds.
blood dripped from your skin and onto the floor. the chessboard, black and white, was now fully crimson, human flesh where pieces were supposed to be.
you couldn't bring yourself to breathe or gulp or look away. your eyes moved with pure terror, landing on the lawyer, who... well, did look a bit startled.
"well... guess you won," that was all he said before tapping the clock, with just under a minute on yours.
your breath was stuck in your lungs, voice coming out in a creak and stammer as your tongue tasted metal. your fingers moved with trembles to wipe off the blooddrops that hung from your eyelashes. you made the mistake of swallowing, your body not allowing you the grace of a nervous gulp without the taste of le domas blood.
your father's words surfaced in your head with unbearable clarity, as if he had spoken them into the same air you were breathing right now. weeks ago, you had dismissed it. that you'd be blown into bits and pieces.
your throat tightened as you stood there, the reality of what you just saw slowly settling over you as you felt blood run down your body. your knees felt briefly unreliable under you as they buckled when you took a step back.
was this… would this have been your fate had you refused to play? should you get caught breaking the rules you'd been taking for granted? fooling around with ursula thinking you were outsmarting everyone?
were you just one step away from being a puddle of red?
you felt your insides churn and twist uncomfortably, like they'd sensed danger and unfamiliarity on you. you forced yourself to swallow so you could free your mouth for a breath your nose refused to let go.
♬⋆.˚ hamburger lady; throbbing gristle (I AM SO SORRY FOR THIS CREEPY ASS SONG BUT I FUCKING LOVE IT)
fear, terror, nausea. they all blended with the one constant that had been feeding your emotions: rage.
rage for one person and one person only.
he who knew the system, and played it to his favour. he who knew the dangers of the games and still signed you up for them. he who sheltered himself from the violence, yet threw you right into it.
you took a few more steps back, your shoes sloshing against the puddle of blood.
you didn't pay attention to the gasps and looks you got from the le domas servants who watched you stride inside, leaving behind a long trail of blood. you grabbed one by her collar, coaxing which room he was in out of her.
he lay there, daring to bask in the comfort of a bed, of linen and silk pillowcases. his were the hands that took the lives of countless clueless patients, yet you were the one covered in blood. a little unfair no?
"are you happy father?" you asked softly, almost childishly.
sebastian jolted in bed, shoulders jerking as he hoisted himself up. for a second, he only saw the darkness in the guest room.
"i won" your giggle echoed in the still room like the rattle of a snake.
he sat upright, hands tapping on the night table for his glasses, his heart hammering inside his chest.
"aren't you happy?" you asked again.
"you're not smiling... why aren't you smiling?" you asked with a whine, slowly emerging from the darkness and into his sight as he put his glasses on.
soaked in blood, bits of flesh clinging to your skin, your head tilted.
"you wanted this. you wanted to win. you're winning now!!! can you be happy?"
"what... happened? where are the le domases?" he asked, his voice lodged in his throat.
"they're fine. well... they're not fine. they're dead. but i won!"
sebastian felt his skin rise into prickly needles.
"what did you do? y/n, what did y—"
"no no no no no NO NO NO. DON'T SAY THAT! I WON. CONGRATULATE ME!"
the rise in your voice made his spine go cold. he threw one leg off the bed to get up, but within seconds, you crossed the room and crawled over the bed, blood staining the sheets as you grabbed and shoved his shoulder back into bed. your fist curled around his neck.
"listen to you me selfish prick, you put me in this," you growled, drops of blood now falling upon his face, into his mouth and on his tongue as he gasped for air.
your voice softened again. "you're forgetting something, daddy... i... am not... a chess piece," then you giggled again.
"i can think. i can move. you don't... actually have puppet strings on me. so you're not truly in control here, are you?"
"you... can't tell when i'll flip. blowing up looked great. should we blow up? i think we should," you smiled at him, pressing on his neck just a bit more.
his hand grabbed your hand, twisting it away and off his neck. but you slapped his cheek hard.
"I KILLED FOR YOU!! that's three now!!!" you smiled again, blood on your teeth. "i get that from my daddy."
"g-get off me... you sick child. you can't kill me, it's against the ru-rules," he coughed.
"no. no no no. i'm not going to kill you. not right now. we're gonna win. i'm going to let you win."
you leaned closer, so close that he could smell the blood and flesh on your skin.
"and then i'm going to take it from you."
and then in two zaps, you were off him, standing at the door of his room, now open, truly highlighting just... how... paranormally red you were.
the door shut, leaving inside a rattled sebastian, clutching his chest and checking his pulse, convincing himself that what he'd just witnessed wasn't real.
the next room you paid a visit to, you'd decided, you weren't going to leave until your purpose was fulfilled.
you banged on the door, fists blotting red stains on the wood. he didn't open, so you kept banging, louder and louder and louder till the hinges creaked.
titus swung the door open. "what!"
and then his eyes fell on you, blood-soaked, rage in your eyes, madness in your breath.
you took a step in, shoving him inside the guest room.
titus didn't argue. he couldn't. not when you were like this. he slumped in the bed, looking up at you.
for a moment, you didn't say anything. you just ran your tongue inside your cheek, between your teeth, mouth pursing and pouting, and then spat a piece of flesh out, which landed at the foot of the bed.
"the le domases are dead."
"they blew up. can you tell?" you asked blandly, gesturing at yourself.
he gawked at you, taking you in. not an inch of you was spared by the ungodly amount of blood.
"do you want me to blow up, titus?"
you grabbed his jaw tightly, a bloody thumb digging into his cheek. "do you. want me. to fucking blow up?"
"then put your anger aside. and listen."
you took a breath. "i know how to beat the games so that neither of us die or lose the seat. i told ursula about it, and she agreed to help me win. and yes, i could've told you, but you... can't fucking keep a secret."
"you practically advertise it on your face that you know a secret."
"i can't risk breaking the rules before it's time. with you knowing the plan, it would've been impossible to make my victory seem accidental."
"if you still want in, you're going to stop whining about it. and if you want me to stop treating you like a child, stop fucking acting like one. next time you get mad? come talk to me. like an adult."
he gulped. not because he was scared or intimidated by your threat or by your seriousness. but because even bloodsoaked and shaken, hell traumatised and scary, you were simply divine, attractive to a sinner's fault.
you stepped back. "i want to live. i don't want your seat. and fucked up as it may be, i like you. too much. so don't fuck it up and get yourself killed."
you finally peeled off your top, your jeans, kicked off your shoes and discarded your drenched underwear. you left bloody footprints as you walked towards the washroom in the guest room, turning on the light inside and stepping in, leaving the door ajar for titus danforth, who was already undressing himself.
can you tell i watched obsession this week? T_T
sorry this took so long!!!! 1. i had a really long painting session because still life with flowers is HARD. 2. i watched the movie and immediately had to edit a scene. i fucking loved wishnikki's behaviour and though y/n can't ever compete with that performance, i wanted to see if i could make her creepy like that.
ps.: my flower study. oil on mount. 12x10" 6.5 hours so far and it's still not done.
again again again, comments are loved loved loved, reblogs are always welcome, all my ghost readers; u da real gems
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