My SuperVillain System: Building Legion of SSS-Ranked SuperHeroines

Lira's hand trembled as she sat there, knees folded, frozen on the edge of the bed. Cruxius's words kept echoing inside her head like a poison—her sister, the academy, the debt. It all wrapped around her like chains.

Cruxius didn't move.

He just lay there, one arm tucked under his head, eyes half-closed. His chest rose in a slow, steady rhythm. He looked like he could sleep through a storm—but the thick shape between his legs told a different story. Even at rest, his cock twitched slightly, growing fuller with each breath. Waiting.

"You bastard," she muttered under her breath. Her voice cracked with shame she hated showing.

But her hand still moved.

First a twitch. Then a slide. Just a few inches toward him.

She sat beside him, stiff, not daring to look at his face. Her fingers hovered above his stomach, unsure.

"This is pathetic," she said, more to herself than him.

And then she touched him.

Her palm met the warm skin of his abs—firm, tense muscle wrapped in smooth flesh. She felt him inhale, slow and deep. He didn't speak at first. Just exhaled softly, a small sound of pleasure slipping past his lips.

"Slower," he murmured, not even opening his eyes. "Don't rush it. Feel everything."

She didn't answer, but her fingers obeyed.

They moved down—across his hard stomach, tracing each muscle like it meant something. Her hand slid over the curve of his hip, to the lines that pointed down. She swallowed, nerves thick in her throat.

Then his voice, deeper now: "Whole hand. Not just your fingers."

Her jaw clenched, but she obeyed again. Her full palm pressed against him now. She moved it in slow circles, letting the heat of his skin bleed into hers. His body was still. Too still. But she could feel him waiting. Reacting.

Then—he moved.

Just enough to guide her hand lower.

Over the sharp edge of his hip bone. Over the thin trail of hair leading down his groin.

And then—her fingers were there.

Wrapped around him.

Thick. Heavy. Alive.

He was only half-hard, but even that was enough to fill her hand. Her breath caught. She tried to pull away—

But he moved like an animal let loose.

In one sharp motion, he grabbed her waist and twisted her, dragging her down against him. Her body slammed into his—her chest flattening against his, her maid uniform caught and folded between them. Her knee landed on his thigh, skirt riding up almost to her hips.

Her panties were the only thing left between them.

"Cruxius—stop—!"

But he rolled.

Quick.

Sudden.

Now she was underneath him, trapped. His arms caged her head. His body pressed down, chest to chest, legs tangling with hers. His cock pinned between them, trapped against her thigh, growing harder every second.

She gasped, heart hammering in her chest.

"Get off me—!"

He didn't let her finish.

His mouth crashed into hers.

It wasn't a kiss—it was a claim. Deep. Brutal. His tongue forced past her lips like it had every right. His hand slid up her side, fingers curling in the fabric of her dress.

She fought him—her fists pounding against his chest—but it was like hitting stone.

His mouth moved against hers like it remembered every part of her. Her taste. Her breath. Her weakness.

He pulled back only when he chose to. A wet string of spit hung between their mouths as he stared down at her, eyes burning like gold in the morning light.

"You were louder when you used to beg," he said, voice deep and low in her ear.

Her eyes widened.

She snapped her knee up to hit him—but he caught it easily.

His hand slid under her thigh, lifting it. Her legs opened. Just a little. Just enough. His fingers found her through the thin satin of her soaked panties.

He didn't speak at first. Just rubbed gently.

Back and forth.

Slow.

"You're trembling," he said softly. "But not because you're scared."

Heat poured into her face.

Lira's body jolted as his grip shifted. One hand clamped under her thigh again, lifting—hard—until her hips hovered awkwardly in the air, forced into an arch over his chest.

Her legs trembled, one still bent uselessly over his side, the other pinned beneath him.

Her skirt bunched at her waist now, the maid dress completely displaced. Layers of dark velvet and ribbon tangled up under her ribs, exposing everything beneath. The frilly white stockings clung to her thighs—until his fingers dug in.

He looked down at her.

Then—ripped.

The stocking split with a harsh sound, tearing straight through the lace at her upper thigh. Threads snapped violently under his grip, curling against her skin as he peeled the ruined fabric away, revealing her bare thigh beneath—pale, flushed, faintly trembling.

"You're insane—" she snapped, fists pounding his shoulder.

He grabbed her other wrist and slammed it above her head.

"I'm focused," he growled. "You're the one pretending."

Her legs kicked—but not wide enough. He dropped her thigh and grabbed her by the hips instead, dragging her down against his stomach. Her thighs spread across his torso now, the thin fabric of her panties pressed right against the line of his abs.

Her entire lower body was exposed—framed perfectly between his hands, lifted, trapped, pinned.

The panties had shifted sideways during the struggle. A pale triangle of skin peeked out at the edge where the fabric had slipped—smooth, taut, vulnerable.

Cruxius dragged two fingers along the edge of the cloth.

Then—he hooked them.

And pulled.

The thin satin stretched, creased, then slid aside with a reluctant sound, snapping across her skin until her vulva was bared, completely visible under the light.

No wetness. No welcome.

Just soft, flushed lips—closed, tense, faintly quivering. The delicate folds pressed tightly together, the outer edges smooth and slightly darker, the inner seam visible where her body tensed instinctively against the exposure.

Above her slit, a fine tuft of pink pubic hair curled slightly, the same pastel tone as her head—light, soft, barely hiding anything.

The hair framed her femininity without shielding it—the contrast between color and vulnerability striking, intimate, human.

His fingers hovered just above her slit.

Not touching.

Just watching.

She shook with fury.

"You sick fuck—get off me!" she yelled, chest heaving beneath the twisted top of her dress.

But Cruxius only stared.

He reached down and used both thumbs to gently press the folds apart—not forceful, but methodical.

Her slit stretched slightly, pink flesh revealed between the lips, tense and tight.

The contrast was stark—no wetness, just resistance. Her clit twitched beneath its hood, drawn but hidden, while the rest of her pulsed faintly under his gaze.

"You might be the only woman to have pink hair with such tight flesh... which didn't get wet due to me."

Cruxius didn't blink. Didn't move.

Just kept her open like that—thumbs spreading her folds apart, slow and steady, like he had all the time in the world. Like she wasn't even struggling anymore.

Her hips kept twitching, trying to pull away, but there was nowhere to go. Not with her thighs hooked over his damn shoulders, not with him between her legs like he owned the space between her bones.

She was stuck.

Bent back over the bed like a ragdoll, her lower half in the air, back arched, skin flushed with that ugly, helpless red. It wasn't just exposed. It was offered—and she hated that it looked that way.

"Even though right now this is tightly sealed," Cruxius murmured, voice thick, dripping heat, "but I know you remember how I opened you up before. You still feel it, don't you?"

She flinched—not from the words, but from the breath. His damn mouth was right there, just hovering. Hot air rolled over her bare slit, not touching but so close her lips twitched just from the pressure.

She clenched her teeth.

"Stop staring at it," she hissed, breath catching hard. "Please stop."

He smiled.

Not with his mouth—with his voice. That slow curl of something smug and dark.

"I'm not staring," he said, dipping lower. "I'm committing it to memory."

Then he kissed her.

Not where she expected. Not the clit. Not even the center.

He started at the edge. The outer fold. Just a soft kiss, lips pressed against the skin where her thigh met her heat. Then another, higher up, near the top of her mound.

Then lower, dragging his mouth across every bit of her she wished she could hide. Slow. Purposeful. Not hungry. Not yet. Just... learning her.

Her thighs tensed. She hated how fast her body was betraying her.

"You fucking pig," she snapped, voice thin and shaking.

Cruxius didn't even pretend to care. He let out a breath, the sound brushing against her slit like a second mouth.

"Whatever. Call me a pig," he muttered. "You'll sound like one in a minute."

And then he shifted.

Slid his arms under her thighs, pulling her higher. Her ass lifted clean off the bed, her body folded open like some lewd sculpture. Her spine arched, stomach tight, breath stuttering out in short, furious gasps.

She knew what he was looking at.

He was looking there.

And sure enough—

"Even your asshole's twitching," he said softly. "You're more honest down here than you are up there."

Her whole body jolted.

"Don't—!" she spat, eyes wide with horror.

But he was already moving.

His mouth dipped low.

And he spit on it.

Just a drip from his mouth trickled down on her pink rosebud, tightly clenched as if preparing it for something.

"Ugh, you disgust—!"