#probably corrupt

titus danforth x y/n

chapter index

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am i insane for starting a new story while others are pending? yes. but isn't that every writer's life 😌

a/n: throughout the chapters, certain songs will be mentioned at the beginning or after a partition. the music is chosen mostly for the vibes and the melody. if the lyrics align, yay. if not, play along. but i highly recommend listening to the songs on loop for its section if you're a 'take-your-time' reader. idk, the music just adds some oomf to it.

also, i was bonedeep inspired to write this after reading this incredible story by @thatcorporategirlie you have to read it!!! mr le bail'd be pissed if you didn't

summary: after your father, personal physician to the danforths, went into hiding, years after a scandal that cost him his medical license, you weren't expecting that part of your past to resurface. especially not in the form of titus danforth

warnings: mentions of blood smuggling, illegal activities, age gap (i don't care for them irl and i think anything greater than 15 years is fucked up, but this is a fictional story of the elites. they get away with shit. so, happy to be a part of our disorder)

♬⋆.˚ white feather hawk tail deer hunter, lana del rey

"the greatest dilemma about safety, was the illusion that it existed."*

no one was immune to the golden carrot dangled by the elite. neither was your father who—once a respected physician, now something beyond permissible—had long served the danforth family in a capacity that was ambiguously acknowledged, but abundantly remunerated. before the scandal, the revocation of his license, he had been entrusted with the care of chester danforth himself.

patriarch of the danforth family, to say that he was important was an understatement. he had after his name estates after estates, banks that begged 'him' for money, grounds for miles, vaults that held treasures and secrets alike, an armoury that bled history, and children who were just as vicious: ursula and titus danforth.

as a child, you accompanied your father on occasion; a small, silent, mostly unnoticed little girl, following the coat-trails of her dad. an 'unofficial assistant', but without recognition. you fetched, carried, cleaned, observed, learned to stand where you were placed and to speak only when spoken to.

chester may have been years ahead in experience and rot, but he took notice of you. how could he not? anyone that so much as fluttered around the periphery of his family was immediately monitored for life, categorised as either a 'liability', 'asset', or (worse) 'prey'.

to him, you were a whimsical, observant little child. chester didn't care for socialising his kids, especially forcing the onto people beneath their prestige. but you were the physician's doctor, so you had a bit of leeway. everywhere was yours to roam around so long as you were watched, tracked.

the estate unsettled you since childhood, though you lacked the language to describe how back then. it was not the size, the grandeur, the suspiciously glaring gargoyles, nor its wealth, but the eerie stillness that seemed to settle into its walls—as though the house was holding its breath, ready to hiss and snarl and take a bite out of you.

you remembered fragments.

chester himself, always seated, always watching with cynical eyes. his questions were pinprick precise. you average joe would ask "how is school?" chester danforth would ask you if you were b+ve, how fast you could run, whether you felt squeamish at the sight of blood... he never enquired beyond a point. but praise for his children came easily to him: their achievements, discipline, their worth. each accolade recited like holy scripture, it almost sounded fictitious.

ursula, always the prim, the proper, the well dressed blond girl you remembered offered you sweets with a nicety that felt performative. sweets, which when you refused, she tossed away on the floor because they were now unworthy of being looked at. you could never tell if she liked you or she just saw you as an anomaly, a deviation from the 'ideal femme'.

and then there was titus.

he was older than you. he offered you what, a handful of brief exchanges, nothing more. yet his attention had always felt evaluative. not as unkind as his twin sister, but as though he was trying to map your chances of living past the age of 10. to him, you were and always would be 'weak' and 'innocent'.

he was raised to become the man. expected to think in terms of profit and victory. so he had no time to play babysitter to someone he'd forget within weeks.

you were quiet, withdrawn, ill at ease.

and in his world, that translated to a single, clear conclusion: you would not survive

better, that you didn't belong to the world in the first place.

but absence, as it turns out, is rarely permanent.

when your father's license was revoked—a gruesome incident involving missing blood bags and the sort of enquiry that was better without an explanation—the rest of the world closed its doors to him.

the danforths did not.

your father's practice simply moved into the pits of hell, sustained by discretion, need, and a patronage that demanded fidelity and showed up in wads of cash every month. chester's payments ensured its survival, and in return your father remaiined what he had always been to them: indispensable.

time rendered everything distant.

your father faded first, by degrees. correspondence grew sporadic, then erratic, then simply nonexistent. facts were replaced by rumours. a man with once surgical precision in his habits now reduced to something juvenile, spoiled, ruinous to a point of absurdity: alcohol, narcotics, whatever would sand and dull the edges of becoming obsolete.

you did not pursue him. to do so would be to accept him as he had become. and you had built something better in his absence. with whatever money he had (before he sold his soul to evil), you used it to put yourself through college. you gave lectures now and then, for the william jones philology society—well received. you had a voice people listened to, friends who didn't know enough to ask about your family. you were confident, far removed from the quiet child who used to linger in the corners of the danforth manor.

there were other humane refinements to your life. concertos, to which you were devoted. there was something magical about closing your eyes before instruments played with skilled hands that stirred a variety of emotions in you. ballet too, once practiced with a commitment that would've sent you to places, insurmountable heights. alas, you abandoned it at sixteen after the scandal, when one look at you would entail everything crooked and sinister about your father. some disciplines, as you learned, were easier to leave behind than to revisit.

so at 27, your life was... orderly. self contained. safe.

you had not thought of your father in decades.

chester danforth, unfortunately, had.

his health had begun its undeniable descent into mortality—nothing so vulgar as sudden illness or shock, but a careful, determined decay that resisted diagnosis and intervention. the family entertained consultations, of course, but always with an anticipated dissatisfaction.

outsiders simply lacked the necessary discretion.

and the one thing the danforths loathed to entrust, were strangers.

however disgraced your father was—out of reach, in retrospect, highly unsuitable by conventional standards—remained the only acceptable option.

there was just a minor, inexcusable inconvenience of locating him.

for someone who put himself nosedeep in the perils of high society, he sure had become remarkably adept at disappearing. calls unanswered—if there was even a phone left, messages ignored. attempts at pressure, both; subtle as a lurking shadow and otherwise, were met with expert evasion. even the more persuasive methods employed by the danforths yielded nothing.

it was then, that ursula put forth a suggestion.

"you're looking in the wrong direction, father," she had said lightly, as though pointing out a minuscule error, a digit in the wrong place. "he has no reason to respond to you. no incentive to exploit."

she smiled, "but he might respond to something he believes he's lost forever."

the danforths had, of course, kept records. nothing inelegant that would warrant an alarm. just... precautionary observation, maintained over time. you were by all accounts, bland in the ways that mattered.

no criminal entanglements, no political inclinations, no affiliations with others on their radar. not even a meal enjoyed at a restaurant they didn't like.

so harmless, predictable. so... traceable.

your routines, work, lectures, movements were all quietly documented without ever being interrupted. one could say they let you live, so long as you remained irrelevant.

until you weren't.

the proposal was simple, almost tasteful in its simplicity.

"find her. make contact. and make her do what we haven't," ursula's voice crept slowly. "after all, a daughter's voice has to wake up the father who doesn't want to listen."

thus, ursula in all her infinite wisdom, sent titus to look for you.

the family's most "persuasive" emissary, a viper in ralph lauren.

he of course did not object. there were few tasks titus danforth found absolutely agreeable when they involved a pinch of coercion, a threat, maybe some old fashioned blackmail, or his personal favourite; kidnapping. he excelled at such activities, hell he enjoyed them.

hospitals however...

hospitals, he despised. they reeked of antisceptic and misery. of frailty displayed iin numbers. of sick (poor) people everywhere. in his estimation, it was an environment cellularly at odds with his standards and dignity.

he walked through it nonetheless as though he owned it (probably did).

his presence did not go unnoticed at all. it rarely did. nurses stopped talking, their conversations faltering, worried parents looked at titus instead of their wailing children, glances zoomed in on his daunting figure. heart rates skyrocketed, oxygen levels dropped somewhere, blood pressure raced like tea in a whistling kettle, cats probably hissed on the street outside.

the bodyguard he had (not that he needed one) trailed behind him, superfluous but tolerated. the man leaned in, indicating a figure somewhere within the shifting mass of patients, staff, and a million hospital equipment.

"there"

titus followed the gesture, irritation already grating at his focus. the crowd was annoying, too many bodies, too much noise, a washing machine load of people that churned and blurred unforgivably.

and then, he saw you. or rather someone he was convinced was you since they were looking in the general direction.

short. slight. brow furrowed in quiet concern as she hurried alongside someone, her steps just a shade too quick, on the verge of losing pace. there it was, that same softness, that same unguarded attentiveness he remembered from years ago.

a flicker of satisfaction settled in him, as if he had won a bet unplaced.

how unsurprising.

"well, well," he began, the words curling along with his smirk, "if it isn't—"

yeahhhh, he did not get to finish that.

the woman beside her lifted a single finger in his face without so much as glancing at him. it was an action so effortlessly dismissive that it bordered on insult. her attention remained fixed on the ipad in her hand, her stride uninterrupted as she listened to the nurse briefing her.

"so the patient was saying it's like... stinging? no, burning?" the nurse was softspoken.

unlike the other one. "throbbing. continue." she moved with the brisk pursuit of someone accustomed to being obeyed. not a nurse then, titus figured. someone administrative or worse—legal. titus cleared his throat, cooling down a little (a task almost impossible).

for a moment, he allowed himself the distraction of misdirection. but that was it.

he reached out to seize the short nurse by the arm, intending to extract her away with minimal ceremony. "find another," he said, assuming nurses were replaceable anyway.

what the man did not expect was resistance.

the crack of a palm against his was immediate, sharp, hand striking his with enough force to make him half mid-motion. he withdrew reflexively, more from surprise than pain. audacious much?

"it is a violation," the woman said, finally looking up at him, "to threaten or assault healthcare workers. if you need help, take a seat. someone will be with you soon."

for a moment, his world narrowed. to the fact of the words and what they meant: refusal. public, cyrstal clear, refusal.

titus stared at her, something dark and affronted coiling beneath the veneer of his regal composure.

she did not look away either.

tall, not taller than him, put together. dark trousers, sharply tailored. a black turtleneck under a coat sitting over it. brown hair drawn back and tied into a ponytail that curled like waves, with the exception of a few strands that rested against her cheeks. a myriad of piercings, different in sizes and shapes and placement, caught the light. almsot ornamental in their defence, a little 'i can handle getting stabbed so watch your mouth' symbolism.

titus felt disgusted. she was infuriatingly composed, which suggested she did not yet understand the nature of the man she had just struck.

by the time he conjured a comeback, the two had blending seamlessly into the crowd. again, irritating, but interesting.

he could of course escalate. pull out a silver gun and demand everyone's attention and the nurse's attendance. but then again, he could wait.

reluctantly, he turned towards the waiting area and sat down.

and the experience was, in a word, intolerable. plastic seating against the velvet couches his ass was used to. fluorescent lighting that burned holes through his eyes. the incessant murmur of strangers discussing body pain, medicines, bowel movements, stool colours, each description objectively worse than the previous.

titus lasted precisely thirty seconds before summoning a nurse with a flick of his fingers and upon her approach, dismissed her from her swivel chair, taking it for himself.

leaning back, one angle resting over his knee, thighs spread, he allowed his discomfort to relax. patience, after all, was not a virtue he bothered to keep.

several minutes passed, and titus endured them poorly.

by the time a resident finally approached him, he was rotating—for the 12th time—in slow, idle circles in the chair, one hand braced against the counter, wearing an expression dulled into boredom.

"sir," the resident began carefully, "what seems to be the problem?"

titus did not stop spinning (he'd started to like it).

"a headache," he answered flatly. "a particularly inconvenient one. i need you to fetch y/n l/n. brunette, clumsy, about ye high." he lifted a hand, gesturing the description vaguely. "mildly incompetent. if memory serves."

the resident blinked. "i'm sorry?"

"now..." titus added, looking at the philippe dufour on his wrist, his voice softening in a way that absolutely did not reassure anyone, "would be ideal"

he was escorted to the administrative lounge after a few awkward glances by the resident. that space, while still offensively public, at least attempted to provide comfort with marginally better seating. there was fabric.

he settled into the couch, already dreading the seconds that passed. and waited.

the door opened a few minutes later. he spared a glance and rolled his eyes when he saw the same woman who'd slapped his hand earlier.

"you again. i don't need legal counsel. go away" he waved his hand dismissively.

"must be a remarkable headache if you managed to forget requesting me not... five minutes ago."

that... caught his attention. titus stilled, shifted in the couch, then properly looked up. you couldn't possibly be… her? y/n? the sweet, shy, creepy wintery child he remembered from 11 years ago. 

"you're... y/n l/n?" he asked with faint incredulity. it wasn't quite a question, not really. more like a suspension of belief, a misalignment of expectations.

"as far as i know... and you are?"

a soft exhale left his mouth as he rose from his seat. by now, recognition had knocked on his door. he was amused.

"my..." he murmured, a smirk ghosting at the corner of his mouth. "how you've grown..."

a step closer, towering over you.

"...poppy."

the effect was unmistakably immediate. the name struck something buried, unheard of over a decade, and for the briefest moment, your composure faltered. not visibly enough, but enough.

enough for him.

your body stilled, breath shifted just a bit. an unwelcome memory threaded its way back into the present.

there had only ever been one person who called you that. who named you that. you exhaled slowly.

"titus... danforth." your tone carried a resignation, as if you foresaw something wicked coming your way. "seriously..."

he watched you, not as one does a stranger, but more as a reassessment.

you took a steady step back. instinct, mostly. you tried to create some distance. the door was within reach, or it would have been had it not been for the monolith of a bodyguard architecturally blocking your way.

you swallowed a gulp of nervousness. you cleared your throat, a small grounding sound, and turned back to face him. his gaze had not left you, at all. you found, quite instantly, that you disliked that.

titus grinned. there was nothing warm about it.

"you're a doctor now?" he asked as though the answer was already beneath him.

"no."

"no?" he tilted his head. a doctor's daughter who declined inheritance? how... inefficient.

"i'm a medical interpreter," you said. "what are you doing here?"

his smile returned. "what... can't a guy visit his childhood friend?"

"a guy can," you replied. "you... i'm less certain about."

that earned you an amused chuckle from him. he did not remember you like this, not with edges. hell, he didn't remember the last time you said anything more than yes and no.

"heard from daddy recently?" he asked, almost casually as he adjusted the cuffs of his shirt with unhurried movements.

you swallowed, once. "yep. twelve years ago."

"mm, unfortunate" he cooed. there was a shift in his voice. like he couldn't care less about the details. "here's what you're going to do," he continued, his voice more directive now. "you're going to call him, tell him to come to the estate."

you folded your arms, telling yourself it's making you look more firm and defended. that was a lie.

"what, you lost his number or something?"

"or something." he shrugged quite elegantly.

"i don't have it either. i don't know where he is."

"mmm..." titus murmured softly, stepping closer. his gaze zeroed in on you. "you see, i don't buy it."

"i'm not selling it," you returned, holding your ground.

he moved without warning and your arm was in his hand before you could react, a vice-like grip digging into your flesh.

"don't..." he said quietly, "waste my time." the pressure on your arm increased, not enough to bruise but enough to send a message.

"chester wants to see him."

you flinched, already tugging your arm out of his tight grip. “then ‘chester’ can joint the manhunt. i told you, i don’t know where he is, i haven’t spoken to the man in over a decade.”

titus regarded you with a sharp gaze, studying the verity in your statement, as if it could be extracted by a glance alone. his gaze lingered on the details this time, the steadiness you tried so hard to force into your posture, the tension in your jaw, your eyes—

brown... he hadn't remembered that.

he inhaled slowly, and let the breath waft around your face. his grip loosened just enough for his hand to slide down to your wrist out of decision. "alright," he said almost pleasantly.

"then i suppose..." his thumb pressed into the inside of your wrist, right where your pulse answered for you. "you'll have to take his place."

it was the last thing you heard before the light snuffed out before your eyes

next part

*based on gb shaw's quote on communication: "the biggest problem about communication is the illusion that it has taken place"