❤︎ Pairing: Titus Danforth x female reader
❤︎ WC: 1589
❤︎ Tags: Dubious consent, sleep paralysis, demonic possession, CNC elements, power imbalance, older man/younger woman, manipulation, violence allusions, Le Bail's influence, satanic shenanigans, mild somno
❤︎ This came to me in a dream. Sorry
❤︎ Dividers by: @saradika-graphics
The first thing you register is warmth.
Not uncomfortable, but warmer than usual. Heavy. Thick. Pressing down on your chest like a living thing. The air smells like smoke and old stone and dampness.
Your body is pinned, every muscle tired like you're trapped underwater. Familiar terror claws up your throat, but there's no sound, no scream—nothing but the frantic beat of your heart against your ribs.
Not again. Please, not again.
Stone ceiling. Firelight flickers across it in amber ribbons. Candles melted into puddles of wax in the corners.
Not your bedroom. Not the luxury apartment downtown where you've been staying. A dungeon. His world. The one you tried to run from.
But tonight you're not alone.
The weight on top of you shifts. Heavy thighs keep yours open. A grip around your wrists, pinning them above your head. And that's when you feel it—the wetness. Warm and slick against your neck, trailing down your throat.
The head of his cock presses against your folds, sliding through the slick heat of you. Not entering—not yet—just rubbing. Slow and torturous, the thick length of him dragging against your clit with every lazy roll of his hips.
You gasp. Or try to. Your body is frozen, but gods, you can feel everything.
The weight lifts—just enough for a face to hover over yours, orange light catching the sharp angles of his jaw, the curve of that mouth, those hazel eyes that have haunted you since the day he first circled you at the country club.
His face is the same—that aristocratic bone structure, that smirk that says he knows exactly how much power he has over you, the same face that charmed you into his bed, that spoiled you with champagne and silk and attention until you forgot you were just a toy. But his forehead... there, rising from the skin just above his brows, are two horns. Rusty red. Curving back like a ram's.
"Shh," he murmurs, and his voice is lower than you remember. Rougher. "It's me."
You shake your head. Or try to. Your neck feels weak, boneless. You remember the first time you tried to run—the panic, the screaming, the way he caught you before you reached the door. You remember what you saw in that basement. The altar. The knife. The thing they were feeding.
"You're not—" Your voice cracks. "You're not him. You're not—"
The words land like stones in still water.
You did call him. Not out loud. Not on purpose. But in the dark of the apartment, alone in his bed while he was at the manor handling family business, you thought about him. About the way he touches you. About how you can't stay away, even though you know he's dangerous, even though you saw—
You squeeze your eyes shut. Don't think about the basement. Don't think about—
His voice is a whisper against your ear, and you feel his cock slide through your folds again, gathering your wetness, coating himself in you. The friction is maddening. Not enough. Never enough.
"You ran from my family." He nips at your earlobe. "From the truth."
A sob catches in your throat. "I didn't—I don't—"
"Shh." His hips roll again, and you feel the blunt head of him catch at your entrance before sliding away. A promise. A threat. "Just feel me."
The grinding doesn't stop. That thick length slides against your clit, over and over, and your body betrays you completely. Hips tilting up to meet him. A sound escaping your throat that's half sob, half moan. He moves against you in that slow, torturous rhythm he used the first night he took you—when you were still just the pretty waitress who caught his eye, and he was the dangerous rich man who made you feel seen.
"There she is," he breathes against your skin. "There's my good girl."
You know this isn't right. You know this isn't him. But he feels like him, sounds like him, moves like him—
His hand slides down your side, fingertips tracing the curve of your ribs, the dip of your waist. Familiar. Possessive. He grips your hip and pulls you tighter against him, and the horns catch the firelight.
You can't help yourself. Your body recognizes what you want, what you crave. The way he made you feel like the only woman in the world, even when you knew you weren't.
"Titus—" you start, but the word comes out breathless. Needy.
He lifts his head, and those eyes are wrong—the pupils blown wide, ringed with a faint crimson glow.
"Again," he says. "Call for him."
You should fight. You should remember the basement, the altar, the thing in the shadows that made you run. You remember him finding you at the door, his hand on your throat, the condescending tone in his voice when he said: "Please, you know better than this."
You shake your head, but your lips are already parting.
His smile is sharp. Hungry. "Yes..."
And then his mouth is on yours, and you taste iron and salt and want—and you stop thinking entirely.
Your body wakes up first.
The bed. His bedroom. Not the dungeon, not the manor—the luxury apartment downtown, with floor-to-ceiling windows and silk sheets and the faint hum of the city waking up outside.
You're gasping, chest heaving, drenched in sweat. Your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat, in your temples, between your thighs where the phantom sensation of him still lingers.
The horns. The grinding. The way he—
You try to sit up. Can't.
Because there's weight on top of you.
But then his voice comes—soft. Familiar. Safe.
"Shh. Easy, sweetheart. It's me."
You blink, vision clearing, and there he is. Titus. Your Titus. No horns. No crimson glow. Just those hazel eyes, creased at the corners with concern, and that sharp jaw, and the silver threading through his dark hair at the temples.
He's still in his suit from last night. Jacket discarded. Shirt unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the salt-and-pepper hair on his chest. He must have come in while you were sleeping.
"Titus?" Your voice cracks. Breaks. "I—there was—"
"I know." He leans down, pressing his forehead to yours, and his voice is so gentle it makes your chest ache. "It's alright. I'm here."
His weight settles more fully over you, and it's different from the dream. Heavier. More solid. Real. The silk of his shirt brushes against your bare skin—you don't remember when you got undressed, don't remember falling asleep in nothing but his sheets.
"I don't—I don't understand—"
"Shh." His lips brush your temple. "Let me take care of you."
The thought flickers through your mind, but you're too dazed to hold onto it. Too shaken. Too desperate for the comfort he's offering.
His fingers find the wet heat between your thighs, and he hums—soft, pleased, almost reverent. His hips shift, and you feel him—hard, pressing against your thigh through his trousers.
His thumb circles your clit, and you gasp, arching into his touch. The contrast is dizzying. The dream was rough, demanding, almost cruel. This is tender. Worshipful. Like you're something precious.
"Tell me what you need." His voice is soft, almost teasing.
You can't think. Can't form words. All you know is the ache between your thighs and the warmth of his body pressing you into the mattress.
"You," you breathe. "I need you."
His smile is soft. Gentle. But there's something in his eyes—something dark and knowing that he's careful to hide.
He shifts above you, and you feel him undo his belt, the rasp of leather loud in the quiet room. His cock springs free, and you feel the head press against your entrance.
You meet his gaze, and for a moment, he looks almost human. Almost like the man who charmed you, spoiled you, made you feel like you were the center of his world.
He pushes in—slow, so fucking slow—and you gasp at the stretch. It's nothing like the dream. This is him. Warm and real and so, so gentle.
"There you go," he murmurs, his forehead dropping to yours. "That's it. Just feel me, sweetheart."
His hips roll, deep and languid, and you moan. The terror from your nightmare fades, replaced by the familiar pleasure of his body against yours.
You did try to leave. You swore you'd never go back to the manor, never stay around his family, never witness another ritual. But you couldn't stay away from him. Because he makes you feel cared for.
But you knew. Deep down, you knew what he was.
Your body arches into his, your fingers curling into fists behind his head, and you come with a weak cry. He follows you, his rhythm stuttering, and you feel the warmth of him inside you.
For a moment, everything is quiet.
You close your eyes, exhaustion pulling you under, warmth seeping through your bones.
You don't see the shadows flicker. The faint outline of horns in the darkness. You don't hear the whispers.
Tonight, you were the sacrifice.
And next time, you're going to walk right into the altar with your eyes wide open.
