#noncon elements

Make you theirs. Then he would let the others have their turn, who would fight about it first, over the right while you were on his knot, and the winner would be the next to take that sweet pussy of yours.

Alas, so far it was nothing but a dream.

A lustful, intense dream that was slowly growing from a dream to a plan.

You, however? You seemed horrified every time you spotted them and your blatant attempts at avoiding them became rather cute, but a little annoying at the same time. You clearly did not feel like being courted by them, barely wanting to talk to them.

Not that they really cared, they were going to get you one way or another. The fact that you constantly attempted to run away didn’t really help either; it merely sparked their predatory need to hunt you, their little prey.

Little bunny, not knowing how lucky you would be to be a knight pack’s plaything. It would be an exhausting task, no doubt, having to deal with a werewolf pack, yet you were a bunny - those were easy to force into heat, were they not? John wasn’t sure, but he would find out whenever they got their claws on you and whether it was real or not, well, that didn’t really matter.

Ever since they returned, their attention had been on you. You were a delightful surprise to return home to after such a long journey and a rather tasty looking one. Those long, soft-looking ears of you, that he liked to tug since he made you squeak.

He was afraid they would have to go to Kate soon however, because loyal little you were clearly devoted to her and if he knew their Queen well, she was fond of you too.

But Queen Kate Laswell was fond of their pack behaving nicely as well.

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

“Your Majesty?"

“Yes, my dear?”

You twisted your fingers together shyly, your ears downwards as you hesitated for a moment. The dear made your body warm. You were not only disturbing her in her writings, you were going to complain; you hated complaining to hear, you already had the most privileged life that you had ever dreamt of. Yet…

“I uhm. I wish not to complain, as you’ve done plenty for me already, but…” you looked down at your furry feet that barely peaked out from your dress, wondering how you were to explain that her beloved pack of knights were essentially harassing you.

“But?”

You looked at her again, her head tipped to the side. She was a beautiful woman, her elven ears long and pointy, small rings and diamonds hanging from them.

“The knights - ah, the one-four-one pack… they keep… bothering me.” There you said it. Your Queen looked at you like she didn’t understand which made you twist your fingers a bit more.

“Bothering you?” She repeated, clearly waiting for an explanation of what exactly you meant.

“They follow me, your majesty, they touch my ears - they do not stop when I request them to.”

Then your queen just smiled and something inside you broke.

“Ah, no worries, my maid,” she easily said, waving her hand in your direction, “they’re merely happy to be home. They just think you’re pretty.”

“I do not wish to be pursued by them.”

“Merely tell them so,” she sounded rather uninterested in it, clearly not believing it to be a proper issue, “now, would you be a dear and fetch me a cup of tea?”

“Certainly, your majesty.”

“So?” Beatrice asked, waiting a couple of steps away from the now closed door to the queen’s office, “what did she say?”

You swallowed hard, the two of you walking down the hallway before you finally answered, “she more or less dismissed me.”

Beatrice said nothing. You opened one of the discreet staff doors with the small long corridors where the different workers could move without bothering the royals or nobles.

“Did she just refuse to answer?” Beatrice whispered, the two of you easily able to hear each other due to being bunnies.

“No,” you replied, “she said that they were merely happy to be home - that I should just… tell them not to pursue me.”

“But you’ve done that,” Beatrice sounded conflicted, “have you not?”

“Many times,” you agreed as the two of you walked down the slim stairs, “too many. She requested for me to get tea for her, so I assume it’s a way of dismissing me.”

“Hm,” Beatrice stayed silent for a moment and you could hear her stomp her feet now and again as she thought, “maybe she is right. Maybe they’ll tire of this.”

“Hopefully soon,” you agreed, “it’s tiring to be afraid all the time.”

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

“Your Majesty.”

“Sir John,” she greeted, sipping her cup of tea before nodding towards the armchair across her, eyes flickering to look over at the group of wolf-looking humanoids that followed him with wagging tails, who she greeted with a soft, “boys.”

The doors closed and John settled, the three other knights remaining in their wolf forms, much to Kate’s preference. It made speaking easier when there was only one knight to speak to.

Werewolves in their wolf forms weren’t particularly pretty beasts; that wasn’t a necessity when one was made to kill. Human bodies that looked like it didn’t quite fit together, furry lower bodies that somehow had too odd proportions to truly like the bottom of a wolf, yet fully covered in thick fur, with a long tail. A human face that had grown a muzzle, yet the eyes were still human, wolf ears instead of their human ones, fur sprouting along their backs, their spines pointy.

It was as if the arms of a werewolf didn’t quite fit either, too long for a normal human, too hairy, the finger having claws; it made running on all fours easier, Kate assumed. It was like someone had picked out bones from a human and a wolf skeleton and decided to mix them together.

The results were the weird walking beasts with big ears, odd shaped faces, a furry bizarre body and right now, wagging tails.

Kate didn’t quite understand the bonds of werewolves, the idea of the pack. Elves created families, groups, but not quite packs like the werewolves and certain hybrids did.

And it was due to one specific hybrid that she had called them.

The rest of the pack settled around Price’s feet, like giant monstrous dogs, waiting for their master to finish.

“You wanted to talk, your majesty?”

Kate leaned back in her armchair, crossing her legs.

“John,” they were alone now, just her and them, so she saw no reason for formalities. Instead she tipped her head to the side, watching him curiously, “how come you and your boys are bothering one of my handmaidens?”

If they wanted to deny, they could attempt, but by the way all the knights in Wolf forms raised their heads and wagged their tails, well they clearly already knew who she was talking about.

“We find her…” Kate could see how John considered what to say, all of the others looking up at him with their twisted faces, a few inhuman sounds leaving them until John finally decided on a word, “Interesting. Alluring, one might say.”

So it was true. Yes, Kate had seen the way they had looked at you, but she had thought nothing particularly of it. Her knights were known to be, well, unruly at times. Parties, whores, they were known for drinking and creating chaos, for chasing pretty folks and leaving them a moment later. It wasn’t until you had expressed your discomfort over their repeated attempts that Kate had eyed a possibility.

It was mean to you perhaps, to make these decisions without you weren’t particularly kind of her either. She liked you, you were one of the smarter ones. Loyal as a dog despite being a bunny.

You had seen her give back the empty poison vial to the hooded figure and had no doubt realised what you had seen was important; yet you had merely held a hand over your eyes and turned around, pretending not to see you.

A smart thing, worried when she found you the next day, yet you never tried to gain something by the knowledge of what actually happened to her late husband.

Kate however, didn’t like loose ends. Giving you to the knights would not only entertain them, but also keep you submissive - you couldn’t go telling truths if you were busy trying to survive her knights.

“I like my handmaids,” she calmly said, casually looking at her well kept nails for a moment, “they’re smart, loyal, pure. I don’t like them distracted, you all know that.”

“We do,” John confirmed, not sounding too happy, while odd sounding words of agreement left the others.

“But…” they all sat up straighter as Kate said the simple word, “if I was to let you play with and have this one…”

So many tails wagged, including John’s own, a pleased grin even growing on his face.

“Then you would have to behave more properly - no more drinking and whoring so greatly and loudly that the whole kingdom will know and gossip about it. No drunken kills that I will have to excuse,” Kate tipped her chin down a little, staring at John ,“because then I would let you take her. But if you’re unable to promise this, to keep this promise, I can easily take away my little handmaid.”

Words that she barely understood escaped several of the turned knights, but John clearly understood them, knowing what it was like to speak a language that your mouth and throat was not created for.

After a quick look at his pack and a few nods, he looked at Kate again, his grin almost hungry.

“When may we have her, your majesty?”

Kate huffed at their eagerness. It was like dangling a bone in front of starving dogs, knowing they would kill whoever they had to in order to get to the bone.

“Soon. You will make preparations in your quarters, but,” they all looked as she raised her finger in a warning,” but I will not — and I will not repeat this — have you scare half of the castle with your hunting instincts. If it must be a part of it, then go to the forest or something, and for the love of the gods; At least attempt to be civil and court her at first.”

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

They were getting braver, all of the handmaidens unable to deny it at this point; they were walking down the hallways when you were, at this point not backing off even though you walked in a group. A few of the handmaidens even tried hissing at them, which had only resulted in laughter and playful growl back.

You mentioned it to Queen Kate once more yet she merely dismissed it for a the second time.

It was an unspoken rule that Kate disliked being asked about something three times. So you shut your mouth, trying to ignore them again.

Then the presents appeared.

Neatly wrapped outside the door to the maidens chamber, your name carefully written on each of them, always sitting there in the morning. First once a week, then several times a week - at this point it was every single day. As if that wasn’t enough, they were slowly getting worse.

One of the maidens who had grown up with a werewolf pack next door, was the one to finally explain after a week.

They were trying to court you. Which you supposed was better in stalking you, but they still did that.

The first few had been innocent enough, but when bones and eventual dead small animals appeared, carefully wrapped and with flowers and wine next to it.

The maiden explained they were getting more serious about it, making it as clear as possible that they weren’t messing around.

Dead mice, small birds - then a full on pheasant, feathers and all. You gave the mice and birds to some of the carnivorous maids and when the pheasant appeared, you took one good look at it and gave it to the cooks. There was a chance they ate it themselves that night and you liked that idea.

You weren’t even a carnivore hybrid, so you had no idea why they kept giving you meat. Sure it was more in their nature and they were probably used to being traditional. But it also proved that they didn’t care, not really- at least it seemed so at first.

Then it changed, after three weeks.

Vegetables. Expensive fruits. You wondered whose vegetable garden they had stolen, or if they had actually gone and bought them. You wouldn’t put it past you to do the first thing.

The other maids ate it. The one with the knowledge of werewolf culture pointed out that it was considered, well, quite rude since the handmaidens weren’t a proper pack. You didn’t really care, you had no empathy for them when it came to harassing you - in fact, you hoped they took it personally.

They creeped along the hallways, always waiting for a moment to catch you off guard. You made it a point to never walk alone, constantly staying near the other maids or staff members.

It was the end of week four when another present of expensive fruits and vegetables appeared when there was something completely off about it. They stank.

Of werewolves. A more musk scent than usual, stronger in a way you couldn’t explain.

One of the staff members who had happened to pass, a server if you weren’t wrong and a werewolf himself, took one sniff and one look at the present before looking you in the eyes and explaining that they had… he had blushed like crazy, almost unable to say the words out loud. Tail between his legs.

Finished upon them.

You had never thrown such expensive food items out in the trash that fast.

They had… had an orgasm upon them and you wanted to throw up at the mere thought.

Both the handmaiden and the server warned you. It was one of the last steps before the courting was considered in the final stages, even without you accepting.

You felt nauseous to the point you had to sit down, yet, at the same time, something tingled in your lower half. It had been over a decade since you last touched yourself and the feeling of being turned on like this was foreign. Uncomfortable. Especially because you really shouldn’t be, not with the white crusty spots upon perfectly colored apples, large grapes and thick carrots. The idea of them… touching themselves while standing in front of the present? It just sounded so… wrong.

Disgusting.

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

You had taken to walk in the servant corridors more often, still with one of the other maidens near. But when you were specifically called late in the night? You had no choice but to go on your own, all the others already having changed into night gowns.

Without a real choice you grabbed a small lantern, the corridors never really lit at night, wearing your dress and robe, quickly thrown over your nightgown with the help of Beatrice and one of the other handmaidens.

Your soft paws barely made a sound along the floors of the narrow corridors, cold seeping up along it, spreading to your entire body. There was a sound of creaking floors above you now and again, other people moving around, but that was about it. You hummed as you walked while wondering what exactly it was that Queen Kate wanted from you at this later hour. There was probably a good reason, you told yourself, you just didn’t know it yet.

Then you could return to your bed and snuggle beneath the blankets, with a little bit of hay beneath your pillow for a nice smell.

It was halfway towards your Queen’s chambers when two pairs of yellow eyes shone in front of you, startling you. Fear shot through you as you looked at them, only the yellow eyes visible, their forms barely visible in the dark. You didn’t need to step forward to see the faces, because they almost instantly let you know who they were.

“Little maid,” Sir John crooned sweetly, a slightly mocking undertone to his voice, “out in the corridors so late, no? Dangerous for a little bunny like you.”

A dark chuckle came from the man behind him and you instantly knew it was the famous Ghost. Sometimes that dark chuckle of his haunted your dreams. The corridor was narrow in the first place and one of them barely fit, their shoulders too broad.

Your ears tipped down as fear rushed through you, not a word able to leave your mouth and you stumbled backwards - only to hit a chest, a small squeak leaving you. You turned around, the face of Sir Kyle and Sir Johnny lighting up from your small lantern. Their eyes also shone in the light, looking at you, the shadows on their faces only making them look scarier.

“Aw, dinnae be scared, pet,” Johnny cooed, leaning down a little, his ears tipped towards you, “we just want tae talk.”

“I - I -“ your heart beat so fast it was almost painful in your chest and your head constantly turned between them, realising that the four men had cut off both ways of the narrow corridor, leaving you no room for you to escape, so you said the first thing that came to mind, “H-her Majesty is waiting for me.”

Kyle snorted behind you, as if he didn’t care; the lack of respect would usually make you angry, but you were too scared to care, your hand with the lantern shaking, almost making their yellow eyes appear and disappear in the dark.

“N’aaaw, our Queen is waiting for her,” Ghost said, his skull mask barely visible, “such a proper handmaiden, sweet little bunny.”

“Not that sweet,” Kyle commented, your ears tipping towards him, “haven’t been nice to us despite our polite courting.”

“Ach, been sae mean to us, wee lass,” Johnny agreed, “and we were sae polite.”

You let out a little sound of disbelief; were they out of their minds, thinking they had been polite with you, when they had refused to back off and constantly harassed you?

“I’ll scream,” you warned, “I’ll scream for help…Please, please - leave.”

A giggle left Johnny and Kyle, the sound echoing through the hall.

“And what do you think that will help, little bunny?” John asked, stepping forward, closest to you of them all, “who do you think dares to step between the pack of one-four-one knights and their upcoming mate? Do you really think anyone would be able to stop us?”

You almost wanted to piss yourself from fear. The cold wasn’t the only thing that made you shake now, the fear almost made your feet feel numb, your mouth dry, your heart pounding.

“I’m not your mate.” You tried to sound brave, not looking away from the large werewolf in front of you, knowing that in a fight, you would never be able to win, yet you had to try, had to stand up for yourself.

“Yet,” Ghost offered darkly from behind John, the word making you tighten your grip around the handle of the lantern.

“I do not wish to—“

The hands slammed around your middle and over your mouth and you instinctively fought against them, screaming behind the large, warm and stinking palm of Johnny. Your legs immediately kicked and you tried biting the palm.

“Let’s go, boys,” John took the lantern from your hand before you dropped it and you watched him snuff out the light with his fingers, “we got a long night ahead of us.”

The front door clicked shut behind you with a soft, final sound that echoed through the soaring glass-and-steel entryway. Leon’s hand stayed firm at the small of your back, guiding you inside like the perfect gentleman—warm, steady, the same way he’d steered you through every drill all week. The interior was all modern minimalism: warm wood floors, low recessed lighting that cast long shadows across sleek furniture, floor-to-ceiling windows looking out into the dark woods. It felt isolated. Safe. Like the rest of the world had been politely asked to stay outside.

“You didn’t have to drive me all the way out here,” you murmured, cheeks still burning from the alley, from the car ride where his hand had never left your thigh. 

The black lace dress felt even shorter now, his jacket still draped over your shoulders like a claim. “I could’ve just crashed in the barracks. This is… really nice of you, Leon..”

He chuckled low, the sound rough and intimate in the quiet house, ash-brown hair falling across his forehead as he turned you to face him. Those piercing blue eyes caught the low light, softening just enough to look fond. 

“Polite?” 

His thumb brushed your lower lip, still swollen from the alley. 

“Baby, you have no idea.” He leaned in, kissing you again—slower this time, but no less hungry—walking you backward through the foyer without breaking contact. 

One hand slid under the hem of your dress, palming the curve of your ass as he guided you toward the wide floating staircase. “Upstairs. My room. I’m not letting you out of my sight tonight.”

You stumbled a little on the first step, giggling breathlessly into his mouth, the alcohol and the orgasm from the alley still buzzing under your skin. He caught you easily, lifting you half a step so your bodies pressed flush, his thigh slipping between yours again as you climbed. His free hand roamed higher, fingers tracing the lace edge of your panties.

“That’s it… keep moving for me,” he murmured against your throat, nipping the skin there. 

By the time you reached the second-floor landing, his shirt was half-unbuttoned from your fumbling hands, your dress straps already slipping down your shoulders. He had you pinned against the hallway wall for a moment, kissing you deep and filthy, one thick thigh grinding up between your legs just enough to make you whimper.

The master bedroom door was already open—dark wood, massive bed centered under more glass windows overlooking the pines. Leon didn’t bother with lights; the moonlight filtering through was enough. He backed you straight to the edge of the mattress, mouth never leaving yours, until the backs of your knees hit the bed and you tumbled down together.

He followed you down, but he didn’t rush. Instead he settled between your thighs, shoving the short lace dress up to your waist with reverent hands. 

“Look at you,” he breathed, blue eyes dark and worshipful as he hooked his fingers in your panties and dragged them down your legs.

“Still so fucking innocent. Still blushing even after you came on my thigh like you were made for it.” He kissed the inside of your knee, then higher, slow and deliberate, until his breath ghosted over your soaked center. 

“Gonna take care of you properly now. Been dying to taste how sweet you are.”

You barely had time to gasp before his mouth was on you—expert, relentless, nothing like the fumbling boys you’d known before. 

Leon Kennedy ate pussy like a man who’d survived hell and learned exactly what heaven tasted like. His tongue flattened against your clit, dragging slow circles that made your back arch off the bed. Two thick fingers slid inside you without warning, curling just right, pumping in time with the suction of his lips. He groaned against you, the vibration shooting straight to your core. “So tight… so perfect. No one else is ever getting this close again.”

You came embarrassingly fast the second time—hips bucking against his face, fingers twisting in his ash-brown hair as pleasure crashed through you in sharp, shuddering waves. He didn’t stop, licking you through it, drawing it out until your thighs trembled around his ears and you were whimpering his name like a prayer.

Only then did he rise up, stripping himself with efficient, military precision. The black tactical shirt came off first, revealing the scarred, muscled torso of a man who’d fought through every nightmare the world could throw at him. His pants followed, and when his cock sprang free—thick, heavy, easily nine inches and girthy enough to make your eyes widen—he wrapped a hand around the base and gave one slow stroke, watching your face the whole time.

“Easy, rookie,” he murmured, voice wrecked but gentle as he climbed back over you, caging you in with his arms. 

“I’m big. Gonna let you adjust. Don’t want to break my pretty girl on the first night.” 

He notched the blunt head against your entrance, rubbing it through your slick folds, then pushed in—inch by slow, careful inch. 

The stretch burned in the best way, filling you fuller than you’d ever been. 

He paused halfway, forehead pressed to yours, blue eyes locked on yours.

“Breathe. That’s it… good girl. Taking me so well. You were made for this. Made for me.”

When he finally bottomed out, seated to the hilt, he stayed there, hips flush, letting you clench and flutter around him while he kissed you slow and deep. “Feel that? All of me. No one else will ever know how perfect you feel.”

Then he started moving.

Leon had stamina that made your head spin. He fucked you like he had all the time in the world—because to him, he did. 

First position: slow and deep on your back, one of your legs hooked over his elbow so he could grind against your clit with every thrust, murmuring praise and dark promises between kisses. 

“Mine… all fucking mine now.”

He flipped you onto your stomach next, pulling your hips up so you were ass-up, face pressed into the sheets. He railed you harder from behind, one hand fisted in your hair, the other gripping your waist hard enough to leave marks. The angle hit deeper, making you see stars.

When your legs gave out, he didn’t stop. He pulled you on top, guiding you to ride him reverse cowgirl so he could watch every inch of his thick cock disappearing inside you, hands spreading your ass so he could see better. 

“Fuck, look at that… greedy little pussy swallowing me whole.”

You came a third time like that, clenching around him, but Leon still wasn’t close. 

He flipped you again, this time missionary with your ankles on his shoulders, folding you in half so he could pound you into the mattress with long, powerful strokes that made the bed creak. Sweat slicked his ash-brown hair to his temples, the silver at the sides catching the moonlight, but his rhythm never faltered—deep, relentless, creative in the way he changed angles, slowed to grind, then sped up to rail you until you were sobbing with overstimulation.

By the time he finally let himself go—burying himself to the hilt and coming with a guttural groan, hips stuttering as he filled you—he’d wrung three more orgasms out of you, leaving you boneless and trembling beneath him.

He stayed inside you even after, collapsing half on top of you, arms banded around your waist like iron. His mouth brushed your temple, voice soft and dark with satisfaction.

“Stay right here,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your sweat-damp hair. “No barracks. No going back. You’re home now, rookie. Safe. Protected. Just like I promised.”

You were too blissed out, too exhausted, to catch the finality in his tone. You thought it was just the afterglow talking—polite, caring Leon offering you a place to crash after a wild night. You had no idea the doors were already locked from the inside, the perimeter alarms set, the woods around the mansion swallowing any chance of leaving without him knowing.

You smiled sleepily against his chest, murmuring something about how sweet he was.

Leon’s piercing blue eyes stayed open in the dark, watching you drift off, the coil in his chest finally settling into something permanent and absolute with the thought:

She still doesn’t get it. That’s okay. She will. She’s never leaving this house again.

Morning light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Leon’s bedroom, soft and golden, painting the dark wood floors in warm stripes. You stirred slowly, body heavy and aching in the best-worst way—thighs sore, core tender, the faint scent of cedar and gun oil and sex still clinging to the sheets. For one disoriented second it felt like a dream: the training week, the bar, the alley, the way he’d carried you upstairs and ruined you so thoroughly you’d passed out with his cock still buried inside you.

Then your eyes focused.

This wasn’t the recruit barracks. 

No thin mattress, no fluorescent overheads, no distant sound of other agents shuffling to morning PT. 

This was his mansion—glass walls looking out into dense, endless pines, the nearest road miles away down that long private drive. 

Your black lace dress lay crumpled on the floor beside his tactical pants. His arm was locked around your waist like a steel band, warm and unyielding even in sleep, ash-brown hair tousled against the pillow, the silver at his temples catching the light.

Reality crashed in like ice water.

You were twenty miles from base. Alone. With a man who wasn’t just your trainer anymore. The week of constant touches, the “accidental” brushes, the way he’d cleared your schedule and steered you away from everyone else… it all sharpened into something colder. Your pulse kicked up. You needed to get back. Training. Roll call. Your life. You shifted carefully, trying to slide out from under his arm without waking him.

Leon’s eyes snapped open instantly—those piercing blue eyes already alert, already fixed on you like he’d been waiting for you to move. The scar through his eyebrow stood out sharper in the daylight. His mouth curved into that soft, terrifying half-smile.

“Morning, rookie,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep and something darker. His hand tightened on your hip, pulling you back against his bare chest before you could sit up. 

“Sleep okay? You were out cold after the last round. Looked so peaceful… so safe.”

You swallowed, cheeks heating despite the growing knot in your stomach. “Yeah… I did. Thank you for letting me crash here, Leon. It was… intense. But I should probably head back soon. Barracks check-in is at oh-nine-hundred, and I’ve got morning drills—” 

You tried to keep your tone light, casual, like this was still the polite older agent doing you a favor. “I can call a shuttle or something. Don’t want to overstay.”

His expression didn’t change, but you felt the shift in his body—the way every muscle went predator-still. Those blue eyes darkened, drinking in the nervous flutter of your lashes, the way your fingers twisted in the sheet.

“Shh.” The sound was gentle, almost tender. One big hand slid up your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breast as he rolled you onto your back in one smooth motion. He settled between your thighs like he belonged there, already half-hard and thickening fast against your stomach.

 “You’re not thinking about leaving already, are you? After everything I did to keep you safe last night? After you came so pretty for me?”

Before you could answer, his mouth was on yours—deep, claiming, tongue sliding against yours like he was erasing the words from your tongue. His hand slipped between your legs, two thick fingers stroking through the slick mess he’d left there last night, circling your clit with expert pressure until your hips jerked despite yourself. 

“Still so wet for me,” he growled against your lips. “See? Your body knows. It doesn’t want to go anywhere.”

You gasped, trying to protest, but he swallowed it with another kiss and pushed those fingers inside you—curling, scissoring, stretching you open again while his thumb worked your clit. 

The stretch burned sweetly; you were still sensitive from the night before, but your body betrayed you, clenching around him with a fresh rush of heat.

Leon didn’t give you time to think. He withdrew his fingers, replaced them with the blunt, heavy head of his cock, and pushed in—slow enough to make you feel every thick inch, but relentless. 

“That’s it… breathe, baby. Let me in. You took me so well last night. You’re still so tight… still so fucking innocent even after I ruined you.” 

He bottomed out with a groan, hips flush, holding still while you adjusted to the overwhelming fullness, the way he stretched you to the limit.

Then he started moving—deep, rolling thrusts that ground against your clit on every stroke, one of your legs hooked over his elbow so he could hit that perfect angle. He fucked you like he had all the time in the world, stamina endless, changing the rhythm just enough to keep you spiraling: slow and grinding, then faster, harder, until the bed creaked beneath you. When your eyes fluttered shut he nipped your jaw. 

“Eyes on me. Want to watch you fall apart knowing it’s only ever going to be me doing this to you.”

You came hard—clenching around his huge cock, nails digging into his scarred shoulders, a broken moan tearing from your throat. Leon fucked you through it, drawing it out, then flipped you onto your stomach without pulling out. He hauled your hips up, ass in the air, and railed you from behind with long, powerful strokes that made your eyes water. One hand fisted gently in your hair, the other reached around to rub your clit again, relentless.

Only when you were shaking, overstimulated and whimpering his name, did he finally let go—burying himself deep and coming with a low, guttural sound, filling you until you felt it drip down your thighs.

He stayed inside you afterward, chest pressed to your back, arms caging you completely. His lips brushed your ear, voice soft and dark and utterly calm.

“You’re not leaving, rookie.”

The words sank in slow. You blinked, still hazy from the orgasm, confusion creasing your brow as you twisted your head to look at him. “What… what do you mean? Leon, I have to—”

His hand stroked your hair, gentle, possessive, those piercing blue eyes locking onto yours with terrifying fondness. “I mean you’re never leaving this house again. Not the barracks. Not the base. Not the world that’s going to chew you up and spit you out the second I’m not there to protect you.” He kissed the corner of your mouth, thumb wiping away the confused tear that slipped free. “You’re mine now. Pure. Safe. I’ve kept you under my watch all week—made sure no one else could touch you, could ruin you. This is just the next step. I’ll take care of everything. Training, reports, your whole life… it’s all handled. You don’t need to worry about any of it anymore.”

You stared at him, chest tightening, the post-sex glow fracturing into cold, dawning horror. Your lips parted, but no words came out—just that wide-eyed, confused look, like the ground had shifted under you and you still couldn’t quite believe it.

Leon only smiled softer, pressing another kiss to your temple as he finally eased out of you, pulling the sheet up around your trembling body like you were something precious he’d never let break.

“Shh. I know it’s a lot at first. But you’ll understand. You always do… good girl.”

Leon cleaned you like he loved you.

That was the worst part.

There was no rush in him now. No frantic hunger. No barely leashed violence pressing against the underside of his skin. Just quiet, careful hands and that soft, terrifying calm that made everything feel worse because it looked so much like tenderness.

He carried you into the bathroom after, wrapped in the sheet from his bed, your body still trembling, your mind still lagging several steps behind what he had just said.

You’re not leaving.

Never leaving this house again.

The words sat inside your skull like a locked door.

Leon turned on the shower with one hand and kept the other at the small of your back, steadying you like you might fall apart without him. Steam curled up around the glass walls, blurring the edges of the bathroom until the whole room felt dreamlike and wrong.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

You didn’t answer.

His eyes flicked to your face through the mirror.

Soft.

Fond.

Possessive in a way that made your stomach turn cold.

“That’s okay,” he said. “Your body’s been through a lot. You don’t have to think right now.”

You wanted to tell him you did have to think.

You had to get dressed.

You had to go back to base.

You had to undo whatever this was before it became real.

But your throat felt too tight, and Leon’s hands were already moving, gentle as he helped you step beneath the warm spray. He washed your hair with slow, practiced fingers, massaging your scalp while you stood frozen beneath the water. He cleaned between your thighs with almost reverent care, murmuring soft praises you barely heard over the rush of the shower.

“There you go,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”

His thumb brushed the inside of your wrist.

“Always going to take care of you.”

The words no longer felt comforting.

They felt like bars closing around you.

Afterward, he dried you off with one of his towels, the dark cotton soft against your skin. You stood there damp and dazed while he disappeared into the bedroom and returned with a black T-shirt folded in his hands.

His shirt.

Of course.

“Arms up,” he said.

You hesitated.

Leon’s mouth twitched.

Not quite a smile.

“Rookie.”

One word.

Soft.

Warning.

Your arms lifted before you could stop them.

The shirt slipped over your head, swallowing you in him immediately—cedar, gun oil, clean laundry, something darker and warmer beneath it. The hem fell to the tops of your thighs. It should have made you feel covered.

Instead, you felt claimed.

Leon looked at you for a long moment, eyes moving over the shirt hanging from your body, your bare legs, the damp ends of your hair. Something satisfied settled into his expression.

“There,” he murmured. “Better.”

You wrapped your arms around yourself.

“I need my clothes.”

His gaze lifted to yours.

“You don’t.”

A pause.

Your pulse jumped.

“I mean,” you said quickly, trying to keep your voice steady, “I need to get dressed so I can go back. I have to check in.”

Leon’s expression softened again.

That was worse too.

He stepped forward and brushed your damp hair behind your ear.

“No, baby,” he said quietly. “You don’t.”

The floor seemed to tilt beneath you.

Before you could answer, he turned and walked out of the bedroom like the conversation was finished.

You stood there for a second, staring after him.

Then you followed.

The house was even more unsettling in the morning.

At night, it had been beautiful in a distant, unreal way—all glass and shadows, warm lights against endless black woods. In daylight, it looked too clean. Too controlled. Every surface polished. Every room silent. No clutter. No softness that didn’t look intentional. No evidence that anyone existed here except Leon Kennedy and whatever version of safety he had built for himself behind steel, glass, and miles of trees.

You padded downstairs barefoot, his shirt brushing your thighs with every step.

In the kitchen, Leon moved like nothing was wrong.

He stood at the island in dark sweatpants and a fitted black shirt, hair still damp from the shower, sleeves pushed to his forearms as he cracked eggs into a pan. Coffee brewed beside him. Toast sat already buttered on a plate. There were sliced strawberries in a bowl, arranged too neatly.

He had made breakfast.

Like this was normal.

Like he hadn’t just told you your life was over.

“You need to eat,” he said without turning around. “Protein first. Then coffee.”

You stopped at the edge of the kitchen.

“I have to leave.”

The spatula paused.

Only for half a second.

Then he kept cooking.

“No, you don’t.”

Your chest tightened.

“Leon.”

“Sit down.”

“I need to go back to the barracks.”

“You don’t live there anymore.”

Your breath caught.

The words were so calm. So simple.

Like he had already handled the inconvenience of your entire existence.

“I do live there,” you said, sharper now. “My things are there. My uniform is there. My schedule—”

“Handled.”

The word cut clean through yours.

You stared at him.

“What?”

Leon turned off the stove.

Slowly.

Then he set the spatula down with careful precision and finally looked at you.

His eyes were calm.

Too calm.

“I said it’s handled.”

The kitchen felt colder than it had a moment ago.

You swallowed. “What does that mean?”

He studied you for a second, like he was deciding how much truth you were ready for.

Then he sighed softly.

Almost fondly.

“I woke up early.”

Your stomach dropped.

Leon wiped his hands on a towel, then folded it neatly beside the sink.

“Before you did. Before anyone noticed anything was wrong.”

You couldn’t move.

“I accessed the internal system,” he said. “Training logs. Housing records. Assignment rosters. Camera archives from last night. Entry scans. Group channel metadata. It’s all gone.”

The room went quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator.

Your mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

Leon’s expression remained gentle.

“You were never assigned to the barracks. Never placed in the recruit block. Your field-readiness file was rerouted under my clearance, then archived. Your badge is inactive. Your comm is wiped. Your name won’t come up on morning roll because, as of 0430, you’re no longer in the intake system.”

The blood drained from your face.

“No.”

He stepped toward you.

You stepped back.

His eyes sharpened at the movement.

“Don’t.”

One word.

Your spine went rigid.

“You can’t do that,” you whispered.

“I already did.”

“Leon, that’s insane.”

His face changed.

Not much.

Just enough.

The softness thinned. Something colder showed through beneath it.

“Insane?”

Your heart started hammering.

“You erased me?”

“I saved you.”

“You erased me.”

“I removed you from a machine that was going to feed you to the next outbreak.” His voice stayed low, but the edges roughened. “A machine that would have put you in the field before you were ready. Before you understood what people out there do to something like you.”

“Something like me?”

“Soft,” he said. “Trusting. So fucking easy to ruin.”

Your stomach twisted.

“I am not yours to save.”

His hand slammed down on the kitchen island.

The sound cracked through the room like a gunshot.

You flinched hard.

For one terrible second, Leon looked nothing like the man who had washed your hair. Nothing like the careful mentor. Nothing like the man who had whispered praise against your skin.

He looked like every nightmare he had survived had finally found somewhere to live.

“You don’t know what you are,” he snapped.

The silence after was immediate.

Heavy.

Your eyes burned.

Leon froze.

His gaze dropped to your face, to the way you had gone still, to your hands curled protectively against your chest.

The rage vanished so quickly it was almost more frightening than the outburst.

His expression cracked.

“Baby,” he said softly.

You shook your head.

He moved around the island.

You backed away.

“No. Don’t.”

He stopped.

For a moment.

Then his face folded into something aching and apologetic.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

A laugh broke out of you, sharp and hysterical. “You kidnapped me.”

His jaw tightened.

“I brought you home.”

“You deleted me from the system.”

“I protected you from it.”

“You can’t just decide that!”

“I had to.”

His voice broke slightly on the words.

Not with remorse.

With conviction.

And that was when the panic truly hit.

Not because he was angry.

Because he believed every word.

You turned and ran.

Bare feet slapped against the polished floor as you bolted out of the kitchen and across the open living space toward the front entry. The house blurred around you—glass walls, dark wood, morning light flashing off steel. Your breath tore from your lungs.

Behind you, Leon sighed.

Not shouted.

Not cursed.

Sighed.

Like you were a child reaching for a hot stove.

The front door came into view.

Massive. Dark. Beautiful.

You grabbed the handle and yanked.

Nothing.

You pulled harder.

Still nothing.

A small red light blinked near the lock.

Your pulse spiked.

“No, no, no—”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk.”

The sound came from behind you.

Low.

Soft.

Disappointed.

Your blood turned cold.

Leon stood halfway across the foyer, not even out of breath. He hadn’t run after you. He hadn’t needed to.

His hands were relaxed at his sides.

His eyes were not.

“Don’t do that,” he said quietly.

You shook your head, twisting the handle again, uselessly. “Open it.”

“No.”

“Open the door, Leon.”

“You’re panicking.”

“You locked me in!”

“To keep you safe.”

You spun on him, tears burning hot now. “From who?”

His gaze softened.

“Everyone.”

The answer hollowed you out.

Leon walked toward you slowly.

You pressed yourself back against the door.

“Don’t come near me.”

He stopped an arm’s length away.

For one second, you thought maybe he would listen.

Then he reached for you.

You slapped at his hand, but he caught your wrist easily. Not hard enough to hurt. Hard enough that you understood immediately how little your strength mattered here.

“Let go.”

“You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“I said let go.”

His thumb brushed over your pulse.

“Not when you’re like this.”

You tried to twist free.

Leon’s other arm slipped around your waist, pulling you against him with calm, effortless strength.

“No,” you gasped, panic tearing through your chest. “No, Leon, please—”

“Shh.”

His mouth brushed your hair.

“I know. I know it feels scary right now.”

You shoved at his chest.

He didn’t move.

“But you’ll understand,” he murmured. “You always do.”

He lifted you.

Just like that.

Like you weighed nothing.

Your stomach lurched as your feet left the floor. You kicked once, instinctively, but his grip tightened just enough to still you.

“Stop,” he said.

Not loud.

Not angry.

Worse.

Controlled.

You froze.

Leon carried you back through the foyer, up the floating staircase, past the glass walls and the endless woods beyond them. The house swallowed every sound except your ragged breathing and his steady footsteps.

“I have to go to work,” he said, like he was explaining a normal morning routine. “There are things I need to clean up before anyone starts asking the wrong questions.”

Your heart pounded so hard it hurt.

“Leon, please.”

“I’ll be back soon.”

“No—”

He opened the bedroom door and carried you inside.

The room looked different now.

The same massive bed. The same warm light. The same view of the pines.

But now you saw the keypad beside the door.

The reinforced glass.

The absence of any visible handles on the windows.

The cameras tucked so neatly into the corners you hadn’t noticed them before.

Leon set you down on the bed with careful hands.

You scrambled back immediately, clutching his shirt around your thighs.

His eyes tracked the movement.

Something pained crossed his face.

“I don’t like leaving you upset.”

“Then let me go.”

His expression closed.

“No.”

The word was quiet.

Absolute.

He crouched in front of you, hands resting on the mattress but not touching you.

“I’m going to give you some time,” he said. “You can shower again if you want. Sleep. Eat when you’re ready. I’ll bring your breakfast up before I leave.”

You stared at him.

“You’re insane.”

His mouth twitched.

Sad.

Tender.

Wrong.

“You’re scared.”

“I hate you.”

For the first time, something flickered in his eyes.

Pain.

Then it smoothed away beneath the same calm devotion.

“That’s okay,” he whispered. “You can hate me for a while.”

He stood.

You lunged for the door.

He caught you before you made it two steps.

This time, his arm locked around your waist from behind, pulling your back to his chest. His mouth came close to your ear, voice low and dark.

“Don’t make me restrain you, rookie.”

Your entire body went still.

He held you there for one long, suffocating second.

Then he kissed your temple.

Soft.

Almost apologetic.

“That’s my good girl.”

He guided you back to the bed and stepped away before you could recoil again. At the door, he paused and looked back at you.

Ash-brown hair falling over his forehead.

Blue eyes steady.

Face unbearably gentle.

“I’ll be back,” he said. “Behave for me.”

The door shut.

The lock engaged with a soft electronic click.

Then another.

Then silence.

You stood there barefoot in his T-shirt, heart hammering, staring at the closed bedroom door.

For several seconds, you couldn’t move.

Then you ran to the windows.

No handles.

You searched the room.

No phone.

No bag.

No clothes.

No comm.

Nothing.

Only the bed. The cameras. The keypad. The endless woods pressing dark and thick beyond the glass.

Downstairs, somewhere far below, a door opened and closed.

An engine started.

Then faded down the private drive.

You were alone.

No.

Not alone.

Watched.

The little black camera in the corner tilted almost imperceptibly.

Your breath caught.

And finally, fully, horribly, you understood.

Leon had not taken you somewhere safe.

He had erased the road back.

The base would not look for you.

The barracks would not miss you.

The system no longer knew you existed.

The house hummed softly around you, beautiful and silent and locked from the inside.

You pressed your hand to the glass, staring out at the trees.

Miles of woods.

No shoes.

No phone.

No name left in the world he had stolen you from.

Chapter 1: You are Safe

Nightmares suck

—

You snap awake. The bed, sheets, and blankets are drenched in sweat. Hair matted, sticky, hot, and wet. Heaving chest; erratic gasps that hurt to draw in. The nightmare dissolves and leaves only unease in its wake. The hairs on your body stand erect. The cold air is violating.

The room is dark. The outside is somehow darker. No lamps. No street lights. Just dark. A slight breeze whispers in through an open window. Idiot. Why leave that open? Someone could be in the house. He is in your fucking house.

No. The comforter digs into your palms. No. The cloth feels like fire against the soft skin. That was just a dream, whatever it had been. It wasn’t real. You are home, safe, free, and most importantly: alone. There is no one here. No monsters hiding in the closet. No boogeyman under the bed.

It’s been roughly 10 years since the auction, the desert, seeing him for the first time. 10 years. It’s been five years since the escape from his manor. Rather, the Goffard family manor. His father, his brother, even the staff, just as fucked in the head as him. The images of their faces spin through your head. Every detail carved out, too strong to forget. They are haunting, ghostly, apparitions. 5 years. Stop thinking about it.

People said writing about it would help. It didn’t. Writing about it made every memory that much more vivid. Every clack of the keyboard cementing the affair. Sure did pay for the mortgage though.

“I’m not there anymore.” You whisper to yourself, taking in a deep breath and exhaling slowly.

Physically you escaped. Through the perfectly manicured courtyard. Down the endless driveway cluttered with their day cars. Through the vast woods that surrounded the property. Until you were far away from that godforsaken place.

Mentally, especially on nights like tonight, you’re still in that room. Derek’s hands still grope your flesh. He’s still taking out the day’s frustration on your battered body. His callous laugh still rings in your ears. In a way, he’s always in the room.

You glance back at the barely visible window. He is not here. The moon and the digital alarm clock are the only sources of light in the room. A quiet grumble escapes your lips. There is no chance of getting back to sleep now. The moon comforts and taunts simultaneously. Its soft glow contrasts the panic. How could anything bad happen on such a beautiful night?

‘2:05 A.M’

“Jesus…” You yawn.

Slowly, you maneuver out of the warmth of your plush comforter. The cold floor nips the soles of your feet. The crisp air plants soft kisses onto the freshly revealed skin. Really should have shut that damn window.

The hallway is as dark as your room. Maybe darker. The visibility of your surroundings is reduced to just a foot ahead. If this house wasn’t in the middle of nowhere it would be much easier to believe there was someone lurking in the dark expanse. The wall provides a guide through the black void. The wallpaper is textured. In the light it’s beautiful, classy, and something that you chose. It had to be perfect, every part of this house had to be perfect.

Finally, the study doorway trim is tangible. You grip it like someone is about to rip you away. Stop thinking about him. No snatcher peels you away, and you step into the spacious room. The bay windows allow moonlight to illuminate the space along the walls. The sight feels unsettling, unreal, uncanny. The way the light hits the floorboards, it doesn’t look right. They are foreign now. As if you’ve never seen them before.

You trail over to the best corner of the room. Why are you letting this get to you? Just a stupid nightmare. This house is in the middle of nowhere, you’re practically a recluse. Your family doesn’t even know where you live. You switch on the towering floor lamp. Its artificial light overpowers that of the moon. Suddenly the floor boards morph back into just that—just floorboards.

Your toes curl into the soft, comforting, threads of the rug sectioning off the corner. It’s so much warmer than the harsh floor, so much more inviting than the sweaty bed. Accompanying the rug is a large chaise lounge and a vintage end table. You flop over the chaise dramatically, it's soft velvet swallowing you. The ornate chair is much more comfortable than it looks.

You stretch, letting the soft material cradle your tense body. Your fingers graze one of the glass bottles resting on your vintage night stand. The 25 year old bottle of malt whiskey is half empty. ‘Well enjoyed’ feels like a better way to describe it. The lamp, the chaise, the bottle, the rug; the familiarity begins to comfort you. Home. Settling the straggling nerves with a glass wouldn’t be the worst idea.

The amber liquid glugs out of the bottle and into your scotch glass. The bottle is much lighter; even more ‘well enjoyed’ now. You press your lips to the glass and take a meaningful sip. The exotic flavor sparkles on your tongue. Malt, clove, and caramel. The burn is smooth, softer than the flavor. Nothing like the cheap bottom shelf whiskey that got you through ⅗ of those post-captivity years.

God, that was disgusting whiskey. It probably isn't even allowed to be called that, legally. The only redeeming quality was the fat tabby cat on the logo. Drawn with a cowboy hat and a bandanna, in the middle of falling over. Just thinking about the taste, the burn, or the smell makes you sick.

The first time you tried it had been unceremonious, you were broke. Not just your wallet, but your spirit too. Not too many people were eager to hire someone that had been out of work for six years. Especially when the Goffard’s were somehow involved. Even fast food joints found a polite way to say no. The criminal case against Derek was a joke, and the civil suit you filed was a circus. That night, you wanted to end it.

It was the cheapest bottle on the shelf. Fully stocked. Apparently unemployed, homeless, kidnapping victims were the only consumer base. You grabbed two bottles. 70 Proof. The cashier practically grimaced as you sat them on the register. It could have been the whiskey, or it could have been you. Unshowered, unbrushed, dirty. You threw a crumpled 20 at her and practically ran out of the store. The last of your money. It felt rude, but it didn’t matter. You were going to kill yourself, and she would still be alive.

The cold concrete of the parking divider scratched your skin as you sat on it. You practically ripped off the plastic cap. No chaser, no mixer, just a strong sense of anger to wash it down. You chugged as much as you could in a single gulp; so upset that neither the burn or the taste registered for you. You cried, drank more, and cried again. A long unbreakable cycle, constrained to that concrete divider.

You tossed the empty bottle across the parking lot. Nothing mattered anymore. You should have stayed there; let Derek torture you for the rest of your life. At least there was food, a bed, and a roof. Now you were homeless, getting wasted in a gas station parking lot.

The impossibility of justice was sickening. Maybe it was actually the alcohol causing the sick feeling. You stood and all of the liquor seemed to settle into your blood stream at once. You stumbled across the parking lot, yelling and cursing like a lunatic.

You found yourself staring over the edge of an overpass. The cars below zoomed down the dark highway. Briefly you questioned how you got there, or where you were at all. The gas station was gone; the new scenery completely foreign. The bottle in your hand empty. It didn’t matter anymore. The location of the overpass didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was throwing yourself over it. A mix of whisky and bile bubbled up, now the burn was noticeable.

Your heart hammered as you placed a hand onto the concrete divider. For the first time in six years you would feel peace. The alcohol crept up your throat again, and this time you didn’t swallow it. It landed on a car with a disgusting, audible splat. The car swerved and echoed the sound of their windshield wipers furiously trying to clean the mess. You screamed an apology down, but the car was long gone.

You climbed on top of the divider. The wind blew your hair all around. Tears softly streamed down your face as you watched the whining cars pass by. They didn’t notice, honk, or stop. Death would be peaceful and alone.

”Just do it already…” You grumbled quietly.

It was finally going to stop. The memories, the nightmare. It would be over as soon as you hit the ground below. So why couldn’t you just do it? The court didn’t believe you, or they were paid not to. Nothing you went through mattered. That story would die with you. Your friends mourned you and moved on. Your family relationships had always been tenuous at best.

As the thought floated through, you knew it was egocentric. Possibly materialistic and exploitative, too. Did that story, your story, really deserve to die? Did you? That week in the desert, those five years at the estate. It was hell, it was terrifying, and it was real. If the court wouldn’t listen, even if the justice system wouldn’t listen, the literary masses might. Was there anything left to lose?

So you wrote it all down. The library computer lab became a daily feature. Slowly you adjusted to the discomfort of park benches. Drafting, editing, polishing, publishing. Before you knew it you had more money than you knew what to do with. Copies flew off the shelves to readers hungry for the next niche true crime story. The omission of his name only intrigued people more. If Derek wasn’t the cause for the secluded property, the reporters would be.

Would a reporter be willing to break into your house?

Like little earthquakes, your hands are still shaking. The light is too dim to see the desk. It magnetizes, the pull so strong, so irrefutable. The plush rug greets your feet again as you tiptoe to the desk. The mahogany wood is cold and sturdy as your fingers search it. You’re surprised to find…nothing. You could have swore you left the original copy there weeks ago. Clumsily you search again, still nothing.

A pressure starts to rise through your body. Starting in your fingers and slowly creeping up to your shoulders. Certainly it was there. Yeah, after cleaning out the drawers of the desk you had put it there. That was less than a week ago. It was right there, it had been yesterday. Maybe seeing it so frequently is why all of these memories are so unbearable. You must have moved it and just forgotten. It’ll turn up soon, and you’ll laugh about how silly you’re being.

There are plenty of books to read in this room. Truthfully, that one wasn’t even on the list. That’s why it’s been hidden in the desk and not on one of the bookshelves lining the walls. It’s not that you aren’t proud of it. You had lived it, wrote it. It’s not necessary to see it, certainly not read it. It would just make this feeling so much stronger. Give it more power. Quietly, you traipse to one of the shelves. Why tiptoe around your own house?

In the dark the titles are impossible to read. The waxy cover of each book is smooth but still unintelligible in the dim light. Some are more ‘well-enjoyed’ than others. The spines are wrinkled, the covers adorned with little scratches and tears. You select one at random. Though you would like to say it called to you, even in the dark, it was just random.

The chaise lets out a gasp as you flop back onto it, book in hand. Finally, the selection is visible. A psychological thriller. The easiest kind of book to get lost and unwind in. The scotch glass balances unsteadily on your thigh as you crack the book open. Blemishes and tears do not scar the cover, and you hope you enjoy it enough to earn some.

You turn another page, raising the glass from your lap to your lips. The room is so quiet. The flavour stings your tastebuds again. A yawn escapes, and now you’re fighting to stay awake. You set the glass on the floor, just in case. The book is captivatingly well written and you want to get through as much as possible.

Each turn of the page draws you closer to sleep. The smooth paper between your fingers has the same effect as a cozy blanket. It’s time to get back to bed.

You reach for the scotch glass. There isn’t much left, and as soon as you finish you’ll have to get back to sleep. There are chores to be done, books to finish. Before you can even graze it the liquid in the glass ripples. You can feel the sour, tightening feeling in your throat. It ripples again, slow and rhythmic. Then,

Thump

So soft, you question if you heard it at all. Thump—ripple. They come in tandem. The sour feeling is consuming, choking out any shred of logical reasoning. The light thumping begins to grow heavier, the ripple stronger.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You go still.

Not calm. Not composed. Just—broken. The human mind can only take so much heat before it warps, before it melts into something pliant, raw, real. And you’ve been pressed—eyes, hands, voices, truths you should’ve never admitted, fantasies you were never supposed to voice out loud.

And now?

They know everything.

And it’s too much.

Your body trembles, knees pulled to your chest, your face buried in them, hiding from the storm you summoned. Tears finally come—hot, helpless, humiliating.

You hear Scaramouche sigh, dramatically. “Oh look. The goddess bleeds.”

“You’re not helping,” John snaps, low and gruff, but not unkind. He kneels next to you—combat-trained, precise—but something soft slips in. His voice lowers. “Hey. Look at me.”

You don’t.

Shinsou doesn’t move. But he doesn’t need to.

His voice threads into your thoughts like smoke.

“Hey,” he murmurs, close but not touching. “It’s alright.”

“You shouldn’t have seen that,” you whisper, voice shredded with shame. “I didn’t mean for anyone to ever—I was alone. It was just pretend. Just—mine.”

“And now it’s ours,” Scaramouche says, prowling behind you like a stormcloud in boots. “You don’t get to erase us. You birthed this. You thought we wouldn’t notice how filthy you really are?”

You curl tighter.

Walker lays a hand on your back. Big. Heavy. Warm. “You’re not disgusting.”

“You’re obsessed,” Shinsou says—quiet, steady. “That’s different. People write stories about us every day. But you… you imagined hard enough to rip the fabric of reality. You think that’s pathetic?”

You don’t respond.

Scaramouche crouches behind you, his breath against your neck. “No, baby. That’s power. That’s magic. And now you’re ashamed of it?”

He laughs.

“Fucking tragic.”

John squeezes your shoulder—not hard. Just a grounding weight.

“You think you’re weak for crying?” he murmurs. “You think it doesn’t turn us the fuck on knowing you were thinking about us this hard? Enough to manifest us here? You wanted something. Maybe not this exactly—but we’re here now. We’re not leaving.”

You lift your face—wet, trembling, vulnerable to the bone.

Shinsou is crouched in front of you, hands in his hoodie pockets, those violet eyes locked to yours.

“You’re allowed to break,” he says. “But don’t hide it.”

Scaramouche hooks a finger under your chin again, rougher now. “You gonna cry for us, sweetheart? Beg? Let us rewrite the stories in your head the way they should’ve gone?”

Walker's eyes darken. “You wanted us.”

“And now,” Shinsou whispers, “you’ve got us.”

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

John’s breath is ragged—controlled, but only barely. You can see it now, beneath that tactical chill, that iron-spined discipline: the ache. The need. And he’s not even trying to hide it anymore.

You’re trembling in front of him, shattered glass in human form, and instead of stepping away, he steps in.

Close.

He crouches again—no weapons, no mask, just those sharp blue eyes locked to yours like you’re the only thing tethering him to this reality.

His hand brushes your cheek.

It’s so gentle, you think maybe you imagined it. But it’s real. He’s real.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low, like it’s just for you. Not sweet. Solid. Like steel wrapped in velvet.

You nod—small, hesitant.

His thumb catches a tear—and lingers at the corner of your mouth, like he’s deciding if he wants to taste it.

“You still scared?”

You nod again.

But your lips part. Just enough. Just barely.

He watches that like it’s a command. Or an invitation.

Then, slow as sin, he leans in. Closer. Inches. Until his breath ghosts over your lips.

“This is what you wanted,” he murmurs, voice rough, eyes locked on your mouth like they're his lifeline.

“Isn’t it?”

You can’t lie. Not now. Not with your pulse drumming so hard it echoes in your teeth.

“Yes,” you whisper.

So he kisses you.

Soft. Barely there. His lips graze yours like a promise, a tease, a slow pull on a thread wrapped around your spine. It’s not hungry yet. It’s reverent. Like he’s tasting something holy. Something he’s not supposed to have.

But that’s the problem.

He always takes what he’s not supposed to have.

Not like Scaramouche. Not cruel. Not like Shinsou—who makes silence feel like surrender. John’s kiss is steady. Like falling into something you already swore to never survive.

Your hands fist in his shirt. Pull him closer without even meaning to. Your mouth opens under his without hesitation now, and John—John—groans. Low. Deep. Like a man breaking rank. Losing protocol. He cups the back of your head and drags you in harder.

You should pull away. Should say something. But all you can do is open your mouth and take it.

The kiss deepens. No longer patient. Tongue sliding against yours, wet, hot, real. His other hand clamps onto your hip, steadying you like you might drift away if he doesn’t anchor you.

You moan into his mouth, helpless.

And that’s when you feel Scaramouche behind you. Still watching. Still smirking. One hand now casually curling around your shoulder.

“Look at you,” he drawls. “All broken and begging, and it only took a little attention from your favorite action figure.”

Walker doesn’t stop kissing you.

Doesn’t flinch.

His teeth scrape your lower lip, claiming you right there with the heat of a man who’s been trained to destroy—and now he’s using it to devour.

And Shinsou?

Still crouched in front of you.

Eyes hooded. Breathing slower. One hand between his thighs, barely gripping the fabric, just enough to betray how hard he’s getting watching you fold.

"You gonna let all three of us in?" he murmurs. "One kiss from him and you're already falling apart... what happens when we stop holding back?"

You try to catch your breath—but you don’t get far.

Scaramouche hasn’t moved, but you feel him.

The heat coming off him is different now. Not amused. Not playful.

You blink up at John, still breathless—and that’s when it happens.

The shift.

A sound. A scoff. Sharp enough to cut through the haze.

Scaramouche’s smirk dies on his lips.

He was fine when it was teasing. When it was power-play. When it was you blushing and stammering under three sets of eyes. That was fun. That was his game.

But now?

Now you’re kissing John like he’s the only one who exists. Like he’s your oxygen. Your gravity. Like he’s the answer to every unspoken prayer your body’s ever made. Your fingers are in John’s hair now, pulling just enough to make him groan into your mouth, and Scaramouche sees red.

Pure, petty, murderous red.

“Wow,” he sneers, venom curling off every syllable like smoke off a firecracker. “So all it takes is one kiss and you forget I even exist? Thought I was the one who lit the fuse in your filthy little mind.”

John finally pulls back—just enough to suck in breath, eyes still locked on yours, hand still tangled in your hair. He doesn’t look at Scaramouche.

That’s what really sets him off.

“Hey,” Scaramouche snaps, stepping around, boots striking hard against the floor. “You think this is a John fantasy now? No. No, sweetheart, I was the one you imagined doing unspeakable things to you behind closed doors. I was the one with the lightning in your veins. And now you’re melting into this walking brick of moral ambiguity like I wasn’t just about to bend you over your own kitchen counter?”

Walker still doesn’t look at him. He just tilts your chin up with two fingers, forces your eyes back to his.

“Don’t listen to him,” he murmurs. “He’s not mad at you. He’s mad he’s not first.”

That earns a bitter little laugh from Scaramouche.

“Oh, that’s cute,” he snarls. “You think this is about order? It’s about claiming.”

Then he’s on you.

Fast.

He grabs your jaw—not hard enough to hurt, but just enough to tilt your face toward him, just enough to make you see the frustration burning in those stormy, violet-blue eyes.

“Open your mouth.”

You do.

He doesn’t kiss you—not right away. He breathes against your lips, just barely brushing, torturing you with that tension he’s so good at. Then he pulls back a fraction and smirks.

“No. Not yet. You want it? You earn it. Beg me. Say my name.”

Walker’s hand tightens on your hip.

“Back off, punk,” he growls. “She’s not some chew toy.”

Scaramouche grins wider. “No, you’re just pissed she likes my attitude.”

“Boys…” Shinsou finally speaks, voice like silk and smoke from the shadows, still seated, still watching with those hungry eyes. “…why don’t you let her decide?”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes glued to you like a slow, steady spell.

“She’s the one who summoned us. She’s the reason we’re all here. She broke the rules. Let her break one more.”

And oh yes she will.

They’re waiting.

All three. Staring. Tense.

Oh, that look in your eyes—like prey with a pulse just shy of panic, trembling but curious, soaked in tension. You lean back, hands behind you fumbling, until your thighs bump the edge of the sofa, and down you go. Slow. Not graceful. More like collapsing. A mess of nerves and heat and what the fuck is happening.

And still—still—you watch them all.

Scaramouche freezes mid-prowl, eyes sharp, mouth open like he had one more vicious quip loaded and ready. But something shifts in him when he sees your chest rise too fast, your hands clutch the edge of a cushion, your pupils flick toward him and stay there.

Fear.

Real, raw, unfiltered fear.

Not the kind he can tease. Not the kind anyone laughs about.

The other kind.

And it hits him harder than a thunderclap.

He straightens. Just a bit. That cocky posture eases—his shoulders drop a few centimeters, his smirk falters, just long enough to show something else behind it. Something he rarely lets surface: uncertainty.

“Hey…” he says, and his voice isn’t sharp anymore. It’s lower. Smoother. Quieter. “...You’re really afraid of me?”

You say nothing. Can’t even look at him directly.

That silence cuts deeper than any insult ever could.

“Shit.”

He runs a hand through his hair, jaw clenched, pacing now—but it's different. It’s not for show. He’s thinking. Crashing. Fighting the instinct to lash out, to make it worse.

Then… he drops to one knee.

No theatrics. No leering.

Just him, eye-level with you, hands resting on his thighs.

“Look, I…” He breathes out, glances to the side, then back to you. “I come on strong. Too strong. I know that. I just—when I got dropped into this world, into you, it felt like… like I was supposed to fight for space. And I thought… if I pushed you, I’d get closer.”

Your fingers twitch against the fabric.

“I don’t want to scare you,” he says, softer this time. “Not really. You just… looked like you could take it.”

He glances away again.

“…Guess I was wrong.”

Behind him, Shinsou is watching all of it like a scientist in a lab, one hand pressed to his mouth. Not judging. Just processing.

“Scaramouche,” he says quietly, “that’s the most emotionally intelligent thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

“Shut up.”

But there’s no venom in it.

Then—a weight beside you. Not too close. Just close enough.

John. Calm. Steady. The gravity in your solar system.

His arm brushes yours on the cushion.

“You okay?”

You nod. Barely.

Shinsou shifts now, slow, deliberate. He doesn’t approach—just stands, taking a few steps, stopping when you glance up. He meets your gaze with nothing in his face but openness. Calm. Curious. Like he’s trying to see you, not pressure you.

And then he says, “What do you need from us right now?”

The room stills.

Even Scaramouche looks up at that.

Because that’s the moment you realize—despite the chaos, despite the heat, despite the overwhelming presence of these three impossible men

————————

They’re all waiting on you.

Your fear matters.

Your pace matters.

You could whisper a word and John would hold you like glass. Scaramouche would back off. Shinsou would read your silence like scripture.

But…