Nova looked into the mirror and saw himself clad in an entirely black outfit, hidden beneath a dark cloak whose hood cast deep shadows across his face. Strands of silver-colored hair framed his sharp features, while his crystal-red eyes glowed faintly like embers in the dark.
With a wave of his hand, his four-leaf clover grimoire materialized before him in a shimmer of light. The ancient tome hovered in the air, its pages fluttering rapidly as though alive, until they halted on a particular spell. Dark letters burned upon the parchment, and Nova's lips curved into a faint smile as he spoke the incantation aloud:
"Velamentum Veritatis."
At once, a subtle ripple of magic spread outward, like heat waves bending the air. This was no mere illusion; the spell wove a veil that twisted perception itself.
To those around him, the truth of his identity was cloaked—faces altered, features shifted, even the weight of his presence reshaped. Unless someone possessed overwhelming power or insight, they could not pierce the disguise.
It was more than a mask. Velamentum Veritatis blurred the line between truth and falsehood, forcing reality itself to conform to the image he projected. Silver hair and crimson eyes, an aura of otherworldliness—his chosen form. A face meant to inspire caution, respect, and, when needed, fear.
The very same spell he had once used on Lily Potter.
At his will, the grimoire's pages began fluttering again, turning in a blur of parchment and light until they halted upon another spell.
"Exodus Animae."
As the words left his lips, Nova felt the tug within his core—his soul separating cleanly from his body. His spirit form rose, luminous and untethered, drifting above his physical shell.
As Nova's soul drifted away from his body, the four-leaf clover grimoire gliding silently behind him like a loyal sentinel. The mansion's corridors stretched out in silvered shadows, each detail sharper to his astral eyes.
He floated past the boys' dorms and turned toward the opposite wing. He had paid attention after dinner, watching where the girls had gone. If his memory was right, their rooms lay somewhere along this hallway.
The question was simple: Which one is Rogue's?
Nova shook his head, "Well… no use guessing. I'll find out soon enough."
He pressed forward, slipping through the first wall like mist.
Inside, he found two figures asleep.
One lay perfectly still, wrapped neatly beneath the covers with only her head exposed. Her features were serene and calm—Psylocke.
The other… decidedly less dignified.
Sprawled sideways across her bed, one leg dangling over the sheets, a faint string of drool clinging to the corner of her mouth, she snored softly. Her pajama set was bright pink, patterned with little cartoon cats, utterly at odds with the disciplined figure beside her.
Nova's crimson gaze lingered on her, his lips twitching. "Loyal to your theme, aren't you?" he muttered under his breath. "I wonder… do her bra and panties have cats as well?"
A quiet chuckle escaped him before he drifted backward, slipping soundlessly through the wall into the next room.
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As Nova slipped through the wall into the next room, the first thing to catch his eye was a framed photograph set neatly on the desk. A dark-haired young woman stood beside a stern, silver-haired man whose presence was unmistakable.
"Magneto," Nova muttered under his breath, recognition flickering instantly. He let his gaze sweep the rest of the room. Unlike the previous ones, this space was tidier, more carefully arranged. A single bed stood against the wall, sheets folded back in a way that suggested habit and precision.
"Huh. So she gets a room to herself," Nova thought with a faint smirk. "Perks of being the daughter of the big man, I suppose."
His attention finally settled on the bed, where Wanda lay fast asleep. Nova froze, crimson eyes widening the instant they landed on her. For a long moment, he didn't even breathe.
"...Well, fuck me," he muttered, pulse spiking hard.
She wasn't wearing pajamas. Not even a loose shirt, not a single scrap of sleepwear to dull her allure.
Just black lace clinging to her like sin itself. The sheet had slipped low around her waist, leaving her body bared in nothing but a bra and panties—if they could even be called modest.
The bra strained against her chest, full and heavy, her breasts rising and falling with every steady breath. Nova's lips curved into a crooked smirk. Definitely above DD.
His imagination spiraled instantly. He could almost feel her pressing them together, smothering him in the valley of soft flesh until he was gasping for air. The thought made his mouth go dry, his body aching with want.
His gaze drifted lower—over her slim stomach to the lace panties clinging tight to her hips, framing the curve of her ass. Round, perky, sinful. That was an ass made to be grabbed—spanked until it bounced under his hand. He pictured flipping her over, striking until her body jolted, until she arched back for more.
His eyes lingered shamelessly. He wanted to squeeze it, spread it, feel it jiggle against him as he took her. The filthy thought drew a sharp bite to his lip, a low growl threatening to slip free.
Then her legs—long, pale, endless. Smooth skin catching the dim light, thighs soft but thick enough to grip tight. He pictured them locked around his waist, squeezing, holding him in place while he lost himself inside her. Those thighs could crush him, and he'd thank her for it.
Scarlet hair spilled across the pillow like fire, wild and untamed. He imagined yanking it back, baring her throat, her lips parting helplessly. Even in sleep, she radiated a dangerous allure, a temptation designed to break a man's resolve.
Nova exhaled sharply, his breath ragged, the fire in his gut burning hotter with every passing second. If he had her… he'd ruin her. Bend her, twist her, use her until nothing was left but sweat and moans. And the way she looked—she wouldn't just take it. She'd crave it.
The longer he stared, the filthier his imagination grew. He pictured her chest bouncing wildly, her ass reddening beneath his hand, her thighs squeezing him until he couldn't pull away.
After what felt like half an hour of staring, Nova forced in a breath that did nothing to cool the fire raging in him. The only thing saving him was being in soul form—without a body. Otherwise, he knew exactly what he'd have done by now. Damn… Wanda isn't just beautiful. She's a walking sin, sculpted to break men.
'After I find Rogue, I'll handle this properly. No way in hell I'm sleeping with this fire in my veins.
What a night. I sure as hell didn't expect things to turn out like this. My original plan was simple—clean, even. Just slip in, find Rogue, make my trade, and move on. Nothing more, nothing less. But fate? Fate loves to screw with me.
And now here I am, standing over Magneto's precious daughter, staring at her like some horny bastard who's lost all sense of restraint.
Damn it… I feel like such a pervert. But who the hell could blame me? Look at her. That body's a weapon all on its own. Black lace hugging every curve—breasts rising with each breath, an ass sculpted for my hands. My eyes keep drinking her in, and every second makes the fire burn hotter.
Sure, it's bad. I know it's bad. But I'd like to see any man drop into this exact situation and keep his thoughts pure. Impossible. No straight-blooded bastard alive could stare at Wanda like this and not get dirty thoughts flooding his skull.
And mine? They aren't just dirty—they're fucking filthy.
I can't stop imagining those tits pressed around me, her face painted in cum. That tight, perky ass bouncing as I take her, her moans spilling into the sheets. My thoughts keep spiraling darker, filthier, until I'm shaking from it.
Yeah… call me a pervert. I've earned the title tonight. But I'll say this much: Wanda Maximoff is worth every filthy thought clawing through my head right now.'
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CHAPTER:- [102- LITERALLY STRIPPED BARE BY EVOLUTION] IS AVAILABLE ON MY P@TREON