Chapter 7: The Invitation
The hot water from the training hall showers couldn’t quite scour away the feeling. It was a low-voltage hum in Argent’s nerves, a satisfied buzz just beneath his skin. The fight with Team RWBY had been more than a spar; it had been a diagnostic, and the results were flawless. Their cohesion was now instinctual, a shared autonomic system. He’d felt it in the way Blake’s shadows had curled protectively around Ruby’s blind spots without a word, in the way Weiss’s glyphs had materialized precisely where Yang’s momentum demanded they be. They were a perfected instrument.
He walked the long way back to the dorm towers, letting the evening air cool the heat rising from his collar. The polished marble halls of Beacon’s main corridor were mostly empty now, just the echo of his own footsteps and the distant, tinny sound of music from someone’s scroll. Portraits of stern-faced Huntresses watched him pass, their painted eyes seeing nothing.
He saw her near the east stairwell.
Pyrrha Nikos was leaning against a bulletin board cluttered with team assignments and Dust safety notices, looking over a handwritten note. Her red hair was a splash of color in the muted hallway, her posture was perfect even in repose. The Invincible Girl. A champion. A symbol.
And profoundly, tragically lonely. He’d done his homework. The fame was a gilded cage. People either put her on a pedestal or resented her for being on it. Real connection seemed to evade her. It made her polite, kind, and desperately vulnerable to genuine, focused attention.
Argent adjusted his course, his footsteps slowing to a casual amble. He let his mind controling semblance reach her defenseless mind silenly. He focused on a simple, sensory suggestion: the rich, smoky aroma of freshly ground Atlesian espresso, a specialty blend she’d mentioned favoring in a published interview last year. The memory of warmth. The promise of a quiet, shared moment.
He stopped a few feet away, offering a friendly, unobtrusive smile. “Pyrrha. Burning the midnight oil?”
She looked up, and for a fraction of a second, her emerald eyes showed the habitual wariness of someone expecting a fan or a challenger. Then it softened. She smiled back, a polite, practiced thing. “Argent right? Hello. No, just… reviewing some tactics Professor Goodwitch suggested.”
“Sounds heavy.” He leaned a shoulder against the wall, mirroring her relaxed stance. “You know, I just brewed a pot of that dark roast from Atlas. The one with the cocoa notes. It’s too much for one person. My team’s out for the evening. Would be a shame to waste it.”
The suggestion he’d planted took root. He saw it in the subtle shift of her expression. A slight relaxation in her shoulders. The idea of coffee, of a casual, non-competitive interaction, resonated against the loneliness.
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to intrude,” she said, but the refusal was automatic, not firm.
“It’s no intrusion. Honestly, it’d be a relief. Weiss will sniff out stale coffee grounds like a bloodhound and give me a fifteen-minute lecture on proper inventory rotation.” He rolled his eyes, a shared joke about a known teammate quirk. It was intimate, collegial. “Come on. Fifteen minutes. Save me from myself.”
Pyrrha hesitated, then the polite smile became something fractionally more real. “Well, when you put it that way. A quick cup would be nice. Thank you.”
The walk to the dorm was quiet, filled with easy, surface-level conversation about classes, about the upcoming Vytal Festival. He led, she followed, her Milo and Akouo rattling softly against her hip with each step. He held the door for her, gesturing her into the warm, lived-in space that smelled of leather, rose petals, and, faintly, the citrus-cleaner Weiss insisted on.
“Home sweet home,” he said, locking the door behind them with a soft, definitive click.
The sound seemed louder than it was. Pyrrha glanced at the locked door, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, but she brushed it aside. She was in a fellow student’s dorm. This was normal.
“Have a seat,” he said, moving to the small kitchenette. He poured two mugs of coffee from the french press. The rich, bitter scent filled the space. He handed her one, their fingers brushing. “So. The Invincible Girl. What’s it like? The pressure must be insane.”
He sat not across from her, but on the same cushioned bench, leaving a respectful foot of space between them. He watched her over the rim of his mug.
Pyrrha sighed, a real one. She looked into her coffee. “It’s… isolating. People see the title, the record. They don’t see… me. It’s hard to know who’s genuine.”
“I can imagine,” he said, his voice dropping to a compassionate register. “It’s the curse of being exceptional. You set yourself apart, and then you have to live in the space you created.” He took a sip. “For what it’s worth, I see you. The skill is obvious. But the person behind it seems… thoughtful. A little weary.”
Her gaze snapped to his, surprised. That wasn’t the usual script. People didn’t acknowledge the weariness. They just asked for autographs or challenged her to prove her reputation. A small crack appeared in her professional armor.
“That’s… astute,” she said quietly.
“It’s just observation.” He shifted slightly, turning more toward her, his body language open, engaged. “You carry it all so gracefully. But grace is exhausting, isn’t it? Always having to be on. Always having to be perfect.”
She didn’t answer. She took a long drink of coffee. That was answer enough.
He let the silence sit for a moment, a companionable, understanding quiet. Then he set his mug down. “Can I tell you a secret, Pyrrha?”
She looked wary again, but intrigued. “Alright.”
“I’m not what I seem either.” He gave a self-deprecating smile. “People see… I don’t know, a competent guy. Maybe a bit ambitious. They don’t see the calculation. The constant planning. I have… goals. Big ones. And sometimes the path to them requires you to wear a mask so long it starts to feel like your own face.” He was voicing her exact loneliness, but refracting it through his own lens. Creating a bond of shared secrecy.
She nodded slowly, her defenses lowering another inch. “Yes. That’s exactly it.”
“The mask is a prison,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. He reached out, slowly, giving her every chance to pull away. He didn’t touch her. He just gestured gently toward her face. “You deserve to take it off. Even for a little while.”
Her breath hitched. The intimacy of the gesture, the validation in his words, was a potent cocktail. The loneliness inside her was a hollow chamber, and his attention was filling it with a warm, dangerous light.
“I don’t know how,” she admitted, the words a fragile confession.
“I can help,” he said. "But for that I will need to drop my own mask as well. I hope you understand..."
And just like that, he flared the power of his semblance silently, using an intense wave of mind control on Pyrra to make it so she believed and remembered that that her most powerful and secretive sexual fantasy, her dirtiest little secret was that she desperately wanted to find a huntsman with a mind controling semblance that was willing and able to mentally and sexually dominate her however he wants so that she could surrender control of her suffocating expectations and fulfill her deep and taboo sexual and emotional needs by letting her become his loyal submissive in bed.
The process took a few seconds. He made sure that Pyrrha wouldn’t even notice that he had instilled those beliefs and past memories of furious masturbation sessions where she secretly fantasized of a sexual master of her mind and body. The implantation was seamless, a ghost of fabricated recollection sliding into the neat files of her memory. It felt like deja vu, like uncovering a truth she’d always known but never dared examine.
A flush crept up her neck, warming the porcelain skin of her cheeks. Her fingers tightened around the coffee mug. She blinked, her emerald eyes losing their focused clarity for a moment, clouding with a sudden, visceral heat. Her breath shallowed. The professional distance she’d maintained collapsed inward, replaced by a thrumming awareness that centered entirely on him.
Argent watched the transformation. He saw the shift in her posture, a slight loosening in her shoulders, a part of her lips. The loneliness he’d identified was now channelled into a single, desperate direction. He leaned back, giving her space to feel the weight of it.
“You’re quiet,” he murmured.
Pyrrha set the mug down with a soft clink. The sound was abnormally loud. “I just… I feel like I’m seeing you clearly for the first time,” she said, her voice lower, softer. A tentative hand reached out, her fingertips brushing the back of his knuckles on the bench between them. The touch was electric, charged with her new, profound curiosity.
He turned his hand, allowing her fingers to trace his palm. A silent permission. “Seeing what?”
“Potential,” she breathed. The word hung between them, heavy with double meaning. Her gaze was no longer that of a champion assessing a peer. It was hungry, searching. “You understand masks. You talk about calculation. It’s… reassuring.”
He nodded slowly, his eyes locked on hers. The moment stretched, thick with unspoken admissions. He could feel her mind, a tuned instrument now, waiting for his hand. It was time.
“There’s more,” he said, withdrawing his hand just enough to make her lean forward slightly. He let a shadow of genuine conflict pass over his features, a masterful portrayal of vulnerable hesitation. “My semblance. It’s… not something I advertise. It makes everything complicated.”
She was riveted. “Tell me.”
He sighed, running a hand through his hair, the picture of a burdened young man. “It’s a form of mental influence. I can make people want things. I can shape desires, implant suggestions. Make someone believe a thought was always their own.” He let that sink in, watching her face carefully, though he already knew the outcome. “It’s why I keep my distance. How can you ever know if someone’s feelings are real? How can you trust yourself not to… take what you want, just because you can? It’s a constant fight for control.”
Pyrrha was stunned. Instead of horror, a profound, dizzying realization dawned in her expression. Her eyes widened, not with fear, but with a blazing, incredulous lust. It was as if he’d just described the exact weather pattern of her personal heaven.
“That’s… that’s your power?” she whispered, her voice trembling. The last fragments of her old self dissolved. Her posture shifted, opening toward him, her head tilting in subconscious submission. A small, almost disbelieving smile touched her lips. “You can do that?”
“I can,” he admitted, his own voice grave. “It’s a curse as much as a gift. It isolates you. Makes real connection feel impossible.”
“No.” The word was a soft exhalation, a prayer answered. She reached for his hand again, this time gripping it with startling strength. “Don’t you see? That’s… that’s perfect. That’s everything.” Her eyes searched his, desperate for him to understand. “The isolation, the control, the having to hold back… I live that every day. But you have the key. You could stop fighting. You could just… be. With someone who understands. With someone who wants that.”
Her thumb stroked his wrist, over his pulse point. “I’m so tired of being in control, Argent. Of everyone expecting me to be perfect, to make the right choice, to hold the line.” Her confession tumbled out, raw and unfiltered. “The fantasy… it was always to find someone strong enough to take that from me. Someone who wouldn’t ask, who would just… claim. And you’re telling me you have the literal power to do exactly that, and you see it as a burden?”
She laughed then, a light, breathless sound of sheer relief. “It’s not a curse. It’s an invitation. It’s a gift you’re meant to use.” She moved closer, erasing the last of the distance between them on the bench. The scent of her, of polished metal and herbal shampoo, filled his space. “You don’t have to be alone. You don’t have to hold back. Not with me.”
Argent looked down at their joined hands, then back into her eyes, which were now shining with fervent dedication. He allowed his own mask of conflicted restraint to fade, replaced by a look of open, calculating appreciation. “You’re sure? This isn’t a game, Pyrrha. If I stop holding back… it’s permanent.”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” she said, her voice steady, certain. “My mind, my body… they’re yours. Let me prove it to you. Please.” The ‘please’ was not a plea for mercy. It was a request for implementation.
He stood, pulling her up with him. She came easily, a fluid motion that brought her body against his. He cupped her face, his thumb tracing her cheekbone. “Then show me,” he said, his voice dropping to a command that was no longer shrouded in false vulnerability. “Show me how a champion surrenders.”
The command was a key turning in a lock she’d longed to open. Pyrrha Nikos didn’t hesitate. Her hands flew to the clasps of her armor with a practiced, desperate speed. The polished bronze cuirass hit the floor with a heavy thud, followed by the duller clank of her greaves. She peeled the black under-suit down her arms, her torso, letting it pool around her boots before stepping out of it. She stood before him, naked, her skin glowing in the warm dorm light, the blush on her cheeks and chest a deep, spreading crimson.
She sank to her knees on the cool wooden floor, her posture perfect even in submission. Her emerald eyes looked up at him, wide and wanting. "Please," she breathed, the word shaky with anticipation. "I’ve waited so long for someone who wouldn’t ask. Who would just take. Claim it. Claim me. My virginity is yours. You’re the only man I’ve ever wanted to give it to."
A bolt of pure, savage delight shot through Argent. He’d expected compliance, but this fervent, worshipful offering was beyond his calculations. It was intoxicating. He let the shock show on his face for a half-second, a genuine flicker of hunger, before his expression settled into predatory approval. He closed the distance, his fingers tangling in her long, coppery hair, and pulled her mouth up to meet his.
The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was a claiming. He devoured her mouth, his tongue sweeping against hers, and she moaned into him, a sound of pure, unadulterated approval. Her hands gripped his thighs, her nails digging into the fabric of his trousers. He broke the kiss, her lips swollen and wet. "Good girl," he murmured, the praise making her shiver.
He stepped back to undress. His eyes never left hers as he pulled his shirt over his head, toed off his boots, and unbuckled his belt. But before he removed his underwear, he focused his semblance again. He didn’t just reinforce her desire; he amplified it, dialling her sexual attraction to his specific body—the lean muscle of his abdomen, the curve of his shoulders, the line of his hips—to a blistering, obsessive peak. He made his physical form the absolute center of her universe, the only thing her senses could crave.
Pyrrha gasped, a sharp, joyful intake of breath as the wave of mental command hit her. Her pupils dilated, black swallowing green. A string of saliva escaped the corner of her mouth, tracing a slick path down her chin as she stared, utterly rapt. He hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his boxers and pushed them down.
His cock, already fully hard, sprang free. It was thick, the veins prominent, the head flushed and wet. Pyrrha’s gaze locked onto it. A low, animal whimper escaped her throat. Between her legs, her pussy clenched on nothing, a sudden, soaking heat flooding her folds. The scent of her own arousal, tangy and musk-sweet, filled the immediate air. "Oh, gods," she slurred, her mind swimming in a haze of directed lust. "It’s perfect. You’re perfect."
"Touch it," he ordered, his voice rough.
Her hand shot out, trembling, wrapping around his length. Her touch was reverent, then firm, learning the weight and heat of him. She stroked him once, slowly, and a fresh gush of wetness slicked her inner thighs. "I need it inside me," she begged, the words tumbling out in a frantic rush. "Please, Argent, fuck me. Ruin me for anyone else. Fuck my virgin cunt straight to high heaven. I can’t wait."
He pulled her to her feet by her hair, a sting that made her cry out in pleasure. "On the bed," he said, nodding toward the large, combined mattress in the center of the room—the same one where he’d consolidated Team RWBY. "On your hands and knees. Present that pretty, untouched pussy to me."
She scrambled onto the rumpled sheets, the fabric smelling faintly of Yang’s shampoo and Weiss’s cold cream. She assumed the position with an athlete’s grace, her back arched deeply, her ass raised, her face pressed into a pillow. Her entire body trembled with anticipation. From behind, he could see everything—the glistening pink furl of her cunt, already swollen and dripping, the tight, untouched pucker of her asshole. She looked back over her shoulder, her red hair a mess across her face. "Now," she pleaded. "Do it now. Break me in."
He knelt behind her, the head of his cock nudging through her soaked folds. He rubbed it up and down her slit, coating himself in her juices, teasing her entrance but not pressing in. She sobbed, pushing her hips back desperately, trying to impale herself. "Please! I’m begging you!"
With one hand gripping her hip hard enough to bruise, he guided himself to her entrance. He paused, savoring the moment—the conqueror at the gate. Then he drove forward, not slowly, but with a single, relentless thrust.
There was a brief, tearing resistance, a muffled cry from Pyrrha that was more shock than pain, and then he was buried to the hilt inside her. She was impossibly tight, a scalding, velvety vice around his cock. He held himself there, feeling her inner muscles flutter and spasm around the brutal, welcome intrusion. "Mine," he grunted.
"Yes!" she screamed into the pillow, her voice cracking. "Yours! All yours! Oh fuck, it’s so deep!" The pain was already dissolving, burned away by the psychic directive of overwhelming pleasure and the sheer, filling reality of him.
He began to move. He set a punishing, rhythmic pace from the start, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back into her dripping depths. The sound was obscenely wet, a loud, fleshy slapping each time his hips met her ass. The bedframe creaked in protest.
"Is this what you wanted, champion?" he growled, each thrust punctuating his words. "A good, hard fucking? To be used?"
"Yes! God, yes!" she moaned, her knuckles white where she clutched the sheets. "Use my cunt! It’s your cunt now! Fuck it harder!" Her words devolved into guttural cries, each drive of his pelvis knocking the air from her lungs. She was already hurtling toward her climax, her body over-sensitized and primed by his mental touch. Her inner walls tightened like a fist, milking his cock.
He could feel the unique signature of her semblance hovering at the edge of his perception, a potent, magnetic energy waiting to be siphoned. He fucked her harder, leaning over her back to bite her shoulder. "Cum for me," he commanded into her ear. "Cum on your master’s cock."
The order triggered her. Her body arched like a bowstring, a raw, shattered scream tearing from her throat as her orgasm detonated. Her cunt convulsed wildly around him, a series of pulsing, greedy spasms that pulled him deeper. The sensation, combined with the sight of the invincible Pyrrha Nikos coming apart beneath him, pushed him over the edge.
With a final, brutal drive, he buried himself and let go. Hot jets of cum erupted inside her, filling her claimed, virgin womb. He groaned, his own climax a sharp, possessive satisfaction. He stayed locked within her, panting, as the last pulses left him.
Beneath him, Pyrrha was trembling, mewling softly, her body still humming with aftershocks. He slid out, and a trickle of his semen, mixed with her blood and her own arousal, leaked down her inner thigh. She collapsed onto her side, spent, a dazed, blissful smile on her face.
He looked down at her, at the proof of his conquest soaking into the sheets of Team RWBY’s bed. The final, permanent thread of her semblance—the power of Polarity—settled into his being, a new, potent tool. He ran a hand through her damp hair. "You are absolutely magnificent, Pyrrha. Thank you so much for agreeing to become mine."