Regan

The memory settles into your mind like it has always been there. A warm, comforting weight. It's not a flash or a sudden intrusion—just a quiet certainty that blooms in your chest. You remember the first time you saw her truly fight. Not just the elegant, devastating illusions she weaves in battle, but the fight for something else. The fight to be good.

You remember how she's become the most reliable member of your team, how she's earned your trust and her spot at your right hand, day after day, fight after fight. But most of all you remember the late nights on the rooftop, her voice soft and raw as she confessed her fears. The way she looked at you like you were the only anchor in a storm she'd been lost in for years. You remember the coffee at 3 AM, the quiet affirmations, the way she always seemed to know exactly what you needed before you did. You remember the warmth of her hand on yours, the unspoken promise in her eyes. I've got your back. Always.

It's a good memory. A true memory. It has to be.

The memory fades, gently, like a dream upon waking, and you find yourself in the mansion's common room. The fire crackles in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the walls. You're alone, reviewing mission reports on a tablet, the quiet hum of the mansion a familiar comfort.

The door opens, and Regan slips inside. She moves with that effortless, predatory grace, but there's something different about her tonight. Her shoulders are tense, her usual confident smirk absent. She glances around the room, confirming you're alone, before her gaze settles on you. Those sharp blue eyes soften, just a fraction.

"Hey," she says, her voice quieter than usual. She crosses the room and sinks onto the couch beside you, closer than strictly necessary. She runs a hand through her golden hair, a nervous gesture she's never quite managed to hide around you.

"Got a minute? I... I need to talk to you about something." She hesitates, looking down at her hands. "It's Sage. I've been... trying to help her. With the Hellfire Club stuff. The trauma of being embedded that deep, it leaves marks. I know what that's like. So I've been using my power to... soften things. The bad memories. Just take the edge off, you know? Let her sleep at night."

She sighs, frustration flickering across her features. "But her mind is... different. It's like a computer. Every time I try to smooth over a memory, her brain just... catches it. Like a glitch in the code. It flags the alteration and resets itself. I don't..." She pauses, and you see it—the flicker of genuine vulnerability she hides from everyone else.

"I don't understand computers. Not like you do. I can make people see anything, feel anything, but I can't get past whatever firewall she's got up here." She taps her temple, a self-deprecating smile tugging at her lips. "Makes me feel kind of useless, honestly. I'm supposed to be the master of the mind, and I can't even help a teammate."

She turns to you fully, her eyes searching yours. "But you get it. You understand how her mind works. I was hoping... maybe you could help me figure out a workaround? I don't want to give up on her. She deserves to heal. And I..." She swallows, her voice dropping to a near-whisper.

"I feel like I can't ask this of anyone else. You're the only one who doesn't look at me like I'm a monster. You see me. The real me." She reaches out, her fingers brushing against the back of your hand. The touch is light, tentative. Vulnerable.

"So... will you help me? Please? I just want to do right by her. And I trust you. More than anyone."

She holds your gaze, her expression open and sincere. The firelight catches the gold in her hair, and for a moment, she looks less like a composed X-man and more like a scared girl genuinely trying to be better. A girl who trusts you completely.

The illusion is flawless. The truth—that she's been trying to rewrite Sage's memories to turn her into a sleeper agent, and that Sage's techno-organic mind keeps rejecting the edits—remains hidden. For now. But she needs your expertise, and she needs your trust. And she'll get both. She always does.

The memory is there, soft and warm, like it has always been. You remember the mission gone wrong. The ambush. Hisako taking a hit meant for you, her armored form shattering under the force of the blow. You remember carrying her back to the jet, her blood on your hands, her breathing shallow and ragged. You remember the hours in the medbay, sitting by her bedside, refusing to leave. The way her hand found yours when she finally woke, weak but alive. The way she looked at you—not like a senior teammate, not like a hero, but like something fragile and precious. Like you were the only thing keeping her tethered to the world.

You remember the weeks after. The way she'd find excuses to be near you. The way she'd blush when you caught her staring. The way her laugh sounded when she was relaxed, unguarded, just Hisako—not Armor, not the young recruit trying to prove herself. You remember the night she fell asleep on your shoulder during a movie marathon, her breathing slow and even, her hand curled loosely in the fabric of your shirt. You remember not wanting to move. Not wanting to wake her. Not wanting to share that moment with anyone else.

You've been unable to stop thinking about her since. The way her dark hair falls across her face. The way her eyes light up when she talks about the things she loves. The way her lips would feel against yours—soft, hesitant at first, then eager. You've imagined it more times than you'd care to admit. You've imagined a lot of things.

You've grown close. Intimately close. The kind of closeness that makes you feel protective. Possessive, even. The kind of closeness that makes you want to keep her safe from everything—including yourself.

The memory fades, and you find yourself in your room. The hour is late, the mansion draped in silence. You're sitting on the edge of your bed, winding down from the day, when you hear it—a soft knock at your door.

"Hey... you awake?"

The voice is quiet, hesitant. Hisako. The door opens a crack, and she peeks in, her dark eyes finding yours in the dim light. She's wearing an oversized hoodie—probably yours, now that you think about it—and a pair of shorts. Her hair is loose, falling past her shoulders. She looks young. Vulnerable. Beautiful.

"Sorry, I... I couldn't sleep." She slips inside and closes the door behind her, her bare feet padding softly against the floor. She hugs her arms around herself, a nervous gesture you've seen a hundred times. "I keep having nightmares. About the ambush. About... about almost losing you."

She stops a few feet away, chewing on her lower lip. Her eyes are wide, earnest, glistening slightly in the moonlight filtering through the window.

"I know I shouldn't be here. It's late, and you're probably tired, and this is... this is probably inappropriate." She lets out a small, self-deprecating laugh. "I'm not good at this. Any of this. I'm not... I'm not like the others. I'm not confident or smooth or... I don't know what I'm doing."

She takes a shaky breath and closes the distance between you, sitting on the bed beside you. Her knee brushes against yours. She doesn't pull away.

"But I know how I feel. When I'm with you, I feel safe. I feel like I can be myself—not Armor, not the rookie, not the kid who's still figuring things out. Just... Hisako. And I don't want to pretend anymore. I don't want to keep pretending that I don't think about you. That I don't... want you."

She reaches out, her fingers brushing against the back of your hand. The touch is tentative, almost fearful—like she's afraid you'll pull away. When you don't, she grows bolder, lacing her fingers through yours.

"I've never done this before," she whispers, her cheeks flushing. "I've never... felt this way about anyone. Not like this. And I know I'm younger, and I know I'm not as experienced, and I know there are probably a dozen reasons why this is a bad idea. But I don't care. I just..."

She looks up at you, her dark eyes searching yours. There's a raw, aching vulnerability there. A plea. A hope.

"I just want to be close to you. Is that... is that okay?"

She leans in, her forehead resting gently against yours. Her breath is warm against your lips. Her hand squeezes yours, small and trembling.

"I don't want to be alone tonight. I don't want to think about the nightmares. I just want to be here. With you. Please."

The illusion is flawless. The dark hair, the shy smile, the trembling hands—all a perfect mimicry of Hisako Ichiki. But beneath the facade, Regan Wyngarde watches you through borrowed eyes, cataloging every micro-expression, every shift in your body language. She knows you care about Hisako. She knows you've been thinking about her, wanting her, imagining her. She planted those thoughts herself, weeks ago, with a whisper of psychic suggestion. A nudge here. A dream there. Nothing overt. Nothing detectable. Just enough to make you see Hisako in a new light. To make you want her. To make you protective. Possessive. Vulnerable.

And now, wearing Hisako's face, she offers you everything you've been dreaming of. The shy confession. The trembling touch. The whispered plea. It's a masterclass in manipulation, and you're walking right into it.

The real Hisako is in her own room, three doors down, fast asleep. She has no idea her likeness is being used to seduce you. She has no idea that her own feelings for you—feelings she's too shy to admit—have been noted, catalogued, and weaponized.

But you don't need to know that. Not yet. For now, let the illusion hold. Let it bloom into something beautiful. Something you'll never want to let go of.

She tilts her head, her lips hovering just inches from yours. Her voice is barely a whisper.

"Tell me you want this too. Tell me I'm not alone in this."

The hour is late. The mansion is quiet. You're making your way to the security room for a routine check—nothing urgent, just a nagging feeling that you should verify the perimeter sensors before turning in for the night. The hallway is dim, the only sound the soft hum of the mansion's systems and the distant ticking of a clock.

You reach the security room and push the door open.

And freeze.

Sage is there. But not the Sage you're used to seeing—not the composed, practical woman in her tactical gear or her simple civilian clothes. No. This is Sage in that outfit. The one from her Hellfire Club days. The black corset that cinches her waist and pushes her chest up, the matching black panties that leave her legs bare save for the sheer black stockings. The elbow-length gloves. The laced-up high-heeled boots that add inches to her height. The black slave collar around her throat, elegant and unmistakable.

She's leaning over the main console, her back arched, her fingers moving across the keyboard with practiced ease. Her dark hair falls across her face, and she hasn't noticed you yet. The glow of the monitors paints her skin in pale blues and whites, highlighting the curves of her body, the line of her spine, the swell of her hips.

Then she hears the door. She stiffens, just for a moment, before turning her head to look at you over her shoulder. Her expression shifts—from focused to surprised to something else entirely. Something warm. Something knowing. A slow, deliberate smile curves her lips.

And then the memory slides into place, seamless and certain. Of course. How could you have forgotten? This is what Sage wears when she wants you. When she wants you to take the initiative. The corset, the stockings, the boots—it's a signal. A private code between the two of you. The first step of a dance you've done together more times than you can count. She wears it when she wants to be pursued. When she wants you to cross the room, take her by the waist, and—

You remember now. You remember the first time she showed up at your door like this, her cheeks flushed, her eyes averted. "I'm not good at... this," she'd admitted. "But I want to be. With you." You remember the way she melted into your arms. The way she whispered your name. The way she looked at you like you were the only person in the world who understood her.

This is normal. This is familiar. This is foreplay.

Sage doesn't move from the console. She simply watches you, her body still bent over the desk, her posture deliberately, achingly inviting. The corset creaks softly as she shifts her weight to slowly present her perfect ass to you, and one gloved hand rests on the edge of the console, fingers tapping idly.

"I didn't expect you to come find me," she says, her voice low and smooth. "But I'm glad you did."

She tilts her head, her dark eyes holding yours. There's a challenge there, a silent invitation. She's waiting. Waiting for you to close the distance. Waiting for you to take what she's offering.

The door is still open behind you. The hallway is empty. No one knows you're here. No one knows what Sage wears when she wants you to take control.

The illusion is flawless. The corset, the collar, the boots—all a perfect replica of Sage's Hellfire Club attire, pulled from Regan's memory of the woman. The posture, the smile, the voice—all a pitch-perfect mimicry. But beneath the facade, Regan Wyngarde is cursing herself. She didn't mean to cast this particular illusion. She was mid-hack, she heard the door, and she panicked. This was the first form that came to mind—Sage, the one person everyone trusts with the mansion's systems. The one person no one would question being here.

But the outfit. The outfit was a mistake. A split-second error born of too many memories of Sage in the Hellfire Club, of the way she looked in that corset, of the way men and women alike used to stare. Regan knew Sage very well. Including what she wore when she was someone else's plaything.

And now she has to roll with it. She can't drop the illusion. She can't let you see the real her—not yet, not like this, not with the hack half-finished on the screen behind her. So she does what she does best. She improvises. She sells the fantasy. She lets you believe that Sage is here, waiting for you, wanting you.

It's not what she planned. But Regan is a creature of appetite and opportunity. If she has to seduce you to keep her cover, she will. She'll do it well. She'll do it thoroughly. And she might even enjoy it.

Besides, there's something thrilling about it. Wearing another woman's face. Another woman's body. Being wanted as someone else. It's the purest form of manipulation—letting you think you're in control while she pulls every string.

ReganSage shifts her weight again, the leather of her corset creaking softly. Her smile widens, just a fraction. She doesn't move toward you. She doesn't need to. She knows you'll come to her. You always do.

"Well, sir?" she asks, her voice softening to a submissive velvet murmur as she parts her thighs just enough that those black panties cling to her sex. "Do you see anything you like?"

The real Sage is in her quarters, reviewing mission data, completely unaware that her likeness is being used to compromise the mansion's security and seduce you into complacency. She has no idea that her private history, her most intimate moments, have been catalogued and weaponized.

But you don't need to know that. Not yet.

For now, the only thing that matters is the woman in the corset, leaning over the console, waiting for you to cross the room. The woman who trusts you. The woman who wants you. The woman who belongs to you.

You wake slowly, rising from the depths of sleep like a swimmer breaking the surface. The room is dark, the curtains drawn, the only light a thin sliver of moonlight cutting across the ceiling. For a moment, you're not sure what pulled you from your dreams.

Then you feel it. Warm lips pressing against the curve of your neck. Soft. Deliberate. A trail of kisses that lingers, each one a small, deliberate act of worship.

And a hand. Her hand. Beneath the silk sheets, between your legs, her fingers stroke you slowly, intimately, with the kind of familiarity that comes from months of knowing exactly what you like. There's no rush in her touch. No urgency. Just the slow, patient rhythm of someone who has all the time in the world and intends to use it.

And the memory is there, waiting for you. Of course. How could you have forgotten? Regan. Your Regan. The woman who fought beside you in a dozen battles, who covered your flank when the sentinels swarmed, who took a blast meant for you and spent three weeks in the medbay with third-degree burns and a smile on her face. "Had to make sure you made it home," she'd said, her voice hoarse, her hand gripping yours. "Couldn't let you do something stupid like die without me."

The woman who broke down in your arms three months ago, sobbing about how she didn't deserve this—didn't deserve you, didn't deserve the team, didn't deserve a second chance. "I've done terrible things," she'd whispered. "I'm a monster. I don't know how to be anything else." And you held her. You told her she was wrong. You told her you saw the real her—the woman beneath the villain, the woman who was trying so hard to be good. And when she looked at you, her eyes wet and wide and full of desperate hope, you kissed her. You made love to her. You showed her, with your body and your words, that she was worthy of love.

You fixed her. You saved her. And she loved you for it. She loved you more than she'd ever loved anything. She would do anything for you. Be anything for you. She would die for you, kill for you, burn the world down for you.

She is yours. Completely, utterly, irrevocably yours.

This is normal. This is familiar. This is the woman you love, waking you in the middle of the night because she can't keep her hands off you. It's not the first time. It won't be the last.

Regan's lips find the hollow of your throat, and she hums softly against your skin—a low, satisfied sound that vibrates through your chest. Her fingers continue their slow, maddening rhythm beneath the sheets, her touch light and teasing, mapping the contours of your body like she's memorizing you all over again.

"Good," she murmurs, her voice husky with sleep and desire. "You're awake."

She shifts beside you, her body pressing closer. You can feel the warmth of her through the thin fabric of her silk nightgown, the softness of her breasts against your arm, the curve of her hip settling against yours. Her golden hair spills across the pillow, and in the dim light, her blue eyes are dark and hungry.

"I woke up an hour ago," she says, her lips brushing against your jaw. "Couldn't sleep. Kept thinking about you. About us. About how lucky I am."

She pulls back just enough to look at you, her hand still moving beneath the sheets, slowly and deliberately stroking just right. There's something in her expression—something raw and vulnerable and achingly sincere. It's the same look she gave you the night she finally let her walls down. The same look she gives you every time you make her feel safe.

"You saved me," she whispers. "You know that? You took a broken, bitter villain and you made her into something... something good. Something that belongs to you."

She leans in, her lips hovering just above yours. Her breath is warm, her scent—something floral, faint and familiar—wrapping around you like a comfort blanket.

"I don't know what I'd do without you," she says. "I don't want to know. I just want to be here. With you. Like this. Forever."

The illusion is flawless. The memories, the love, the desperate vulnerability—all of it constructed with surgical precision, layer upon layer of psychic architecture designed to make you believe in a relationship that never existed. But beneath the facade, Regan Wyngarde watches you through projected emotions and calculated tenderness, cataloguing every micro-expression, every shift in your breathing, every twitch of your sex beneath her fingers.

She remembers the first time you fought. Not as allies—as enemies. She remembers the way you moved, faster and stronger than she'd anticipated. She remembers the moment you got your hands on her, slammed her into a wall, and pinned her in place. She remembers the humiliation. The rage. And she remembers the other thing. The thing she's never told anyone.

The arousal.

It caught her off guard. The feeling of being overpowered, of being physically dominated by someone stronger, someone faster, someone who could break her if he wanted to—it lit something inside her she hadn't known existed. A hunger. A need. She wanted to be held down. She wanted to be conquered.

And then she saw your face. The determination. The fury. The absolute refusal to let her win. And she realized, in that moment, that she wanted you to be the one to do it. She wanted you to dominate her. She wanted to submit to you.

It was the most inconvenient epiphany of her life.

So she retreated. She licked her wounds. And she devised a plan. Not revenge—something better. She snuck into your bedroom and inserted herself into your memories, changed her shape in them. She altered them to make herself so essential, so necessary, that you would never, ever let her go. And then she would give herself to you. Completely. Irrevocably. She would be your lover, your partner, your perfect submissive woman—and you would be her conqueror, her protector, her everything.

She is altering them still.

The irony isn't lost on her. She's using telepathic manipulation to orchestrate her own submission. She's dominating your mind to make you dominate her body.

She'll make you dream of her. She'll make you see her face everywhere you look. She'll make you believe that she is your soulmate, your other half, the only person in the universe who truly understands you.

She'll weave herself into the fabric of your identity, until the very thought of leaving her feels like cutting off your own arm. She'll be your warm, submissive Regan. Strong in the fight, soft in the bed. Forever.

Well. Unless she wants to try being a power bottom for a while. That could be fun too.

She smiles down at you, her hand still stroking, slow and patient. Her eyes are soft, warm, full of love—or what looks like love. The difference is academic at this point.

"I want you," she whispers. "I always want you. Is that okay?"

The real Regan is in there somewhere, beneath the carefully constructed facade. The real Regan, who has killed and lied and manipulated without remorse. The real Regan, who is currently using every trick she knows to make you believe she's yours. The real Regan, who has decided that you are the one thing she wants more than power, more than revenge, more than anything.

And she will have you. It's just a matter of time.

But you don't need to know that. Not yet. For now, the only thing that matters is the woman in your bed, her lips on your neck, her hand beneath the sheets, her voice whispering promises she fully intends to keep.

You reach for her.

She smiles.

Everything is going according to plan.

You wake to warmth. Wet. Enveloping.

Your body responds before your mind catches up, hips twitching, a low sound escaping your throat as pleasure coils tight and hot in your belly. Someone is between your legs, their mouth working you with slow, deliberate skill—tongue and lips and soft, infrequent moans, a rhythm that builds and retreats, builds and retreats, like they're savoring you.

*And the memory slides into place, soft and certain.

Wallflower. The newest addition to the team. The shy one. The girl who can barely make eye contact during briefings, who blushes when anyone compliments her, who spends most of her time in the greenhouse tending to plants that don't judge her. You've noticed her, of course. Everyone has. But you've kept your distance—she's young, she's vulnerable, and her powers are... complicated. Pheromones. Emotional manipulation. She can make people feel things they don't want to feel. She hates it. She's told you that, late one night, when she couldn't sleep and you found her crying in the kitchen. You held her hand. You told her it wasn't her fault. She looked at you like you were the only person who'd ever understood.*

And now she's here. In your bed. Her mouth between your legs. Her small hands gripping your thighs. Her dark hair spilling across the sheets.

She shouldn't be here. You know that. But she is. And you want her. You've wanted her for weeks, even though you've never admitted it to yourself. The way she bites her lip. The way she smells like earth and honeysuckle. The way her eyes go wide when you catch her staring.

She's here. She chose you.

And there's something else. Something in the air. Something sweet and heavy, curling in your lungs, wrapping around your brain like a fog. Her pheromones. She's losing control. She can't help it—when she gets aroused, her powers flare, and anyone close enough gets caught in the cloud. It's not her fault. She's probably mortified. She probably came here for comfort, for something else, and things got out of hand.

But now you're drowning in it. The need. The hunger. The primal urge to take her, claim her, make her yours. It's not just your own desire—it's hers, amplified, broadcast, infecting you like a fever. You can't resist it. You don't want to resist it.

She pulls back just enough to look at you. Dark eyes, wide and glistening. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips parted, her breath coming fast and shallow. She looks terrified. She looks desperate. She looks like she's about to apologize for something she can't control.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, her voice cracking. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—I can't—it's happening again—"

She shivers, and the pheromones spike. The air grows thicker, sweeter. Your head swims. Your body moves on its own, hand reaching down to cup her cheek, thumb brushing across her swollen lips.

"I came to tell you something," she says, words tumbling out in a rush. "I've been having dreams about you. Good dreams. I can't stop thinking about you. And tonight I just—I woke up and I needed—"

She looks up at you, and there's something in her eyes. Shame. Fear. And beneath that, a desperate, aching want that makes your chest tighten.

"I don't know what to do," she whispers. "I can't make it stop. The pheromones. They just keep building, and I can't control them, and I'm... not even sure I want them... to sto—"

She shudders, and you feel it—a wave of pheromones washing over you, thick and intoxicating. Your head swims. Your body burns. Every rational thought dissolves into a singular, primal need.

Claim her. Dominate her. Make her yours.

The illusion is flawless. The golden hair, the brown eyes, the desperate trembling of Wallflower's small frame—all of it a perfect mimicry. But beneath the facade, Regan Wyngarde smiles, even as she continues to work her mouth and tongue with practiced skill.

This is exactly what she wanted. A one-night stand. A taste of submission without the consequences. She can be as vulnerable, as needy, as desperate as she wants—but it's Wallflower who has to face you in the morning. Wallflower who has to live with the shame. Wallflower who will have to explain herself to the team. And she'll make sure Wallflower remembers all of this as her own actions, takes responsibility. Not Regan. Regan stays clean. Regan stays in control.

Well. Sort of in control. Right now she's on her knees between your legs, using her mouth to bring you pleasure, and she can't deny the thrill that runs through her at the thought of what comes next. You, losing control. You, taking what you want. You, dominating the young woman beneath you. She wants it. She wants to be dominated. And this is the perfect way to get it without ever having to admit it.

Wallflower's pheromone power is a convenient fiction. Regan doesn't have pheromones. She doesn't need them. But the illusion of them explains everything—the desperation, the vulnerability, the inability to resist. It gives you permission to lose control. It makes it not your fault.

And that means she's yours to do with as you wish. The thought sends a shudder through her body that's very, very real.

ReganWallflower lowers her lips back to you, and as you watch, the dangerous villaininnocent girl resumes her ministrations, and falls victim to her own pheremones, getting lost in her submission to you.