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English
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Published:
2026-03-15
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1/1
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GRAVE {Titus Danforth}

Summary:

I don't even know where to begin with a summary, so here goes nothing.

Notes:

⚠️ Warnings: Blood? Depictions of blood and shotgun wounds. Dead bodies, gore. Themes of murder, satanic cults, sex. Oral sex (f. receiving). MDNI, you’ve been warned.

♯ Notes¹: I am obsessed with all things Shawn Hatosy, but the closer we get to finally getting to know Titus, the more giddy and anxious I get about him. I have been having dreams about this silly guy. I was coming home from work and thinking about writing this, and yay, finally did. I promise there’s gold after the gore.

♯ Notes²: Unedited and raw. English is my second language, so the story comes first, grammar and punctuation second. Feedback is welcome! Enjoy - and read responsibly!

Work Text:

Titus Danforth knew every single part of his father’s property - being born and raised there with his twin, the second woman he loved the most, Ursula. He knew which doors opened inward. Knew because he had loved this house before he learned to hate it, and the body doesn't forget a home just because the mind has declared it a grave.

Of course, the vast Danforth land had more bodies that someone can count in a lifetime. And to be honest? That wasn’t a problem for him. It never was, as Titus always knew his role in the family: being the first born male heir, producing a first born male heir. He had learned that early, the way children learn to follow their mother or to fear their father - as he did to his. Titus has always been good at following instructions, maybe too good (for Ursula’s enjoyment). 

Getting a wife was Ursula’s idea. Most things were. So there he was, five years back in time, at one of Ignatio’s tedious dinner parties where people were too loud or too cunning to have a proper conversation - looking at every socialite Ursula pointed as if choosing from a catalogue. Running his eyes over the new women debuting in the council - new families, new faces. 

Your face. 

Who would’ve thought the most interesting person in the room wasn't a peer at all, but a secretary to one of the council families? Drinking champagne from a bottle, as you shouldn’t. Barefoot at the library, when you shouldn’t be anywhere near the enclave they were having - you shouldn’t know or see anything. But you knew, even if you hadn’t seen it yet. A week later, after bugging you to go out with him - he was very insistent - Titus told his sister:

“I found my wife.”

“I wasn’t aware you lost one.” Ursula jabbed, unamused, looking up from the documents she was signing. 

“You’ll want to meet her, Sully.”

“I highly doubt it, Titie.” he would normally roll his eyes at the stupid nickname she had given him when they were kids, but Ursula did agree to meet you and understood as soon as you didn’t roll over and showed your belly that he was right. That you were right. For him.

—

The following three months after that felt like the flap of a butterfly’s wings and a stone dropped in still water. Titus didn’t even allowed you to second guess the hitched "yes" you had given to him during a particularly steamy Sunday morning.

He had been between your legs, hand holding you down in the bed with fingers squeezing your waist to a bruising point; while his other hand had its fingers hooked inside of you (sometimes with his tongue working between your slick folds, other times his lips sucking your clit), eating you out ferociously - like everything he did - when, at the brink of an orgasm (your ruined orgasm), he raised his head.

Your own head hit the pillow, with a needy whimper escaping your lips.

“Titus, you’re the worst,” made him chuckle, chin glistening.

“I think you should marry me,” head tilted slightly to the side, fingers steady inside of you. “Marry me?”

You rolled your eyes, hand coming to your own face. “Will you make me come if I say yes?”

As if to prove a point, he gave you a dirty look before kissing your clit - just to see your nipples perk once again.

You got quiet for a second, and he tested your resolve once again, twisting a finger. A shaky “Yes” escaped your mouth.

The marriage happened at the Danforth estate, not long after, where he is still living. Where you had spent the happiest day of your lives, and the last one of yours. 

—

Even after five years, the stain of your blood still tainted the old wood of Danforth manor no matter what Titus did to clean off. His family home was centuries old, and they only maintained the original architecture, each kill signaling another fifty years of prosperous wealth, fertility and longevity for his family. 

At his desk, a picture of you and him sits perfectly encapsulated in time, your simple wedding dress a revelation in his eyes. Ursula had given you something blue and borrowed, being their late mother’s sapphire bracelet - one you still had on, when she took off your cold corpse. 

Titus wasn’t worried about you playing the games before your wedding night: you were smart, savvy. And you knew this world, even if it was just because you worked for the Harlows. To him, you’d never take the one card that you weren't supposed to - actually, no one ever thinks their loved ones will do.

He had overestimated how well presented to their hunts you were, as he came to understand years later. 

You’d probably have felt the same way, when you were sitting across from his father - old Chester Danforth looking at you with both curiosity and amusement as you didn’t flinch or seem to shake when the wooden box stopped in front of you. You had told yourself, in the weeks leading to this dinner, that you understood. That understanding was the same as preparation, but ultimately? Nowhere fucking near. 

The card felt different as soon as your fingers touched, the paper thicker, heavier. You set it down on the cloth in front of you and folded your hands in your lap and did not look at your husband, because you already knew what you would find there, and you had decided, in the half second between drawing and breathing, to run.

Titus only understood what was happening when Ursula let out a hoarse laugh, looking at her father. Your chair had hit the floor and the door behind you slammed shut with a loud boom.

“Let’s seek, then…” Chester rose, his sickness showing in his slow pace as he headed for the gun rack.

—

At the time, Titus had loved you more than anything in the world - there was this sharp, bright quality in you he had never felt in any other woman before or since you. You were the sole reason he decided, each day, that breathing was still worth the effort. And yes, he would have had children with any woman he married. Only yours would have been his. 

Yet he allowed the hunt to proceed. That was the thing he could never explain, not even to himself - that his legs moved, that his hands were steady, that some part of him his father had built a long time ago just... continued.

He was outside when it all happened, searching near a clearing with father. He never even heard the shot, and if Ursula didn’t come to him - face sprayed with blood, your blood - he wouldn’t even know. What stuck to him the most was that that you were there and then gone, and the night had given him nothing. 

Titus was never violent towards his twin, but the way he had taken the shotgun from her hands - the same weapon she had pointed to your face before pulling the trigger, firing the shot that was still ringing on her ears when she went to tell her brother (owning, never hiding) the fact that she was the one to take your life - smashing against her face before running to the manor, to his office, was brutal. 

As brutal as the scene he found. His lungs felt full of water as he felt to his knees, guttural sobs escaping him as he clawed his throat for air - the image of your remains branded behind his eyes, grey matter scattered on the floor as he tried to gasp for air and reach you. 

—

He hadn't forgiven Ursula, not really. Was there anything to forgive at all, when he was the one who put you there? One thing was certain: he had held you until he couldn’t. 

His three piece suit bloodied from you, and him still on the floor when Chester finally lost patience. His father's men came in twos, and he felt the first hand on his shoulder before he heard the order - but he didn't move, face buried in your hair not minding the mess that was, both arms around what was left of you. It took three of them and his father's voice cutting sharp across the room before his grip finally gave out.

“Titus! Have the decency of allowing the poor woman to rest!” turned his insides cold, while he still sobbed, allowing the men to take you.

They have buried you by his mother’s side, where he and his own father usually stopped by every Saturday to place flowers - white tulips and forget-me-nots (your favorites), always. The little ritual happening until Chester’s legs began to fail him, and his mind became foggier. Now, tied to his bed, the patriarch of the Danforth family still ruled over his children, but with less of an iron claw. 

Titus was just leaving his father’s chamber when something odd happened. Something that… shouldn’t. 

His father’s business with the Harlows shouldn’t have taken that long, but Titus found himself sitting by Ignatio’s office by noon - signing papers and checking contracts. He shouldn’t be paying attention to office gossip, but the glass partition cut the room in half and Harlow’s new secretary had given him a funny look through it - not having thought to lower her voice when she told another well-dressed woman: 

“I’ve heard the shelter on Upton Street is closing. A shame, really, since the late Mrs. Danforth” the secretary tilts her head to point at Titus, while he pretends not to listen “used to help to keep the place afloat, before she even married the guy.”

That kept ringing in his mind, but he asked nothing about the shelter - no use feeding the gossip. Titus pocketed his gold pen, finished buttoning his coat after he nodded at Ignatio, and drove home to find in your accounts the name of the shelter - maybe he could give back to society, hell, even soothe your poor soul beyond the Earth in some way. 

He scrolled without knowing what he was looking for.

The last transaction was dated four months after they buried you.

 

♯ Notes³: Want to know where this goes? Let me know!