Become Jaune Arc

The low hum of the ventilation system is the only sound in the dark. You blink, the ceiling of the dorm room coming into focus—a slab of shadowed white, both intimately familiar and entirely foreign.

Your heart hammers against your ribs with a frantic, rhythmic heat. You sit up, the mattress creaking. To your left, the steady breathing of your teammates fills the silence. Moonlight filters through the high windows, casting silver bars across the floor. You look at your hands—calloused, clean, the hands of a boy who dreamed of heroes but never held a sword. Yet beneath the skin, tucked behind the "Jaune Arc" mask, a weightless power thrums. It isn’t Aura. It is the ability to take the universe by its edges and fold it into a new shape.

You glance at the bunks.

Pyrrha is a statue of crimson and bronze even in sleep. Across from her, Ren and Nora are a tangle of limbs and soft snores. They were the anchors of the old Jaune’s life. But that boy is gone, replaced by a mind that knows too much and wants more.

A thought takes root as you sift through the dead boy’s memories—the pining, the rejection, the **** need to prove himself to a beautiful girl in white.

What if she were here instead instead of Ren? You think three beautiful women would suit you better than two women and a man.

You don’t chant, or wave your hands, or any of that other nonsense. You simply close your eyes and focus, finding the threads labeled Lie Ren and Weiss Schnee and swapping them. You reach further back, reweaving the tapestry of the past—the Initiation, the locker rooms, the team assignments. The air ripples, a silent shockwave that doesn’t move the dust but alters the soul of the world.

When you open your eyes, the room has shifted.

Ren’s minimalist gear is gone. In its place sits a trunk of polished wood and a vanity lined with high-end Dust vials. On the bunk where the monk once slept, white hair spills across a pale pillow like moonlight.

You slide out of bed, feet silent on the cold floor, and walk to the edge of her bunk.

Weiss Schnee looks fragile while asleep. At barely five feet tall, she looks small. Weak. New history settles into your brain like wet ink: the memories of Team JNPW, your dorky flirtations, and the icy glares she gave you in the cafeteria. She suspected you of being like every other social climber her father invited to their parties—men who saw a bank instead of a girl.

She was wrong about the original Jaune. She is somewhat right about you.

You don't need her money, but she is beautiful and the closest thing Remnant has to a princess. Deciding she will make an excellent trophy wife, you reach into her core—past the armor, the rebellion, the pride—and snap it. You make her need for approval pivot away from her father and lock onto you with a terrifying, absolute submissiveness. You take her fear of being used and transform it into her only purpose. You continue cutting and twisting and molding until almost nothing remains of the original Weiss. The girl who takes her place views herself as your property rather than your partner.

You touch the minds of Pyrrha and Nora next, sliding in new norms like missing puzzle pieces. The sight of Weiss dressed like a plaything, the two of you fucking in the dorm whenever the mood strikes—it is now as natural to them as the rising sun.

Reality shudders and goes still.

When you open your eyes, the modest nightgown is gone. In this new reality, Weiss goes to sleep wearing a sheer white lace lingerie that leaves nothing to the imagination.

You glance at the dresser. The framed photo sitting there is the final seal on your work.

The memory of that night in Vale hits you, sharp and vivid. You can almost feel the weight of the silk against your skin—the midnight suit that cost more than a Huntsman’s yearly commission. Weiss had paid for it with a smile, her eyes bright with the naive hope that you were taking her to a five-star dinner for your first date.

The hope died the moment you walked into a pet store. You the cold snap of the steel collar around her neck, the heavy weight of the leash, and the way she swiped her card in a daze of growing horror.

The memory of the hotel room is even sharper. You recall the bellhop’s wide-eyed stare as you led Weiss down the hall, the heavy steel of the collar glinting against her pale skin. You had tossed him a wad of cash—Weiss' cash—and asked him to follow you. Inside the room, the air had been thick with the scent of expensive floor wax and her mounting panic. You hadn’t even closed the door before ordering her to strip.

You the way the Faunus worker’s breath hitched as he watched the heiress of the SDC—a family his people loathed—fumble with her clothes under under his lecherous stare. As she stripped, you lied and told him this wasn't the real Weiss Schnee. She was just a high-end prostitute who took advantage of her resemblance to the Schnee family heiress to make money. You’d even scribbled a fake number for him in case he wanted to hire 'Sarah Snow,' watching his bestial features contort into a dark, voyeuristic greed while Weiss stared at the carpet, her face a mask of humiliated crimson.

The photo on the dresser is an encapsulation of Weiss' new life. In the frame, you’re lounging in a high-backed leather chair, legs spread, the leash wound loosely in one hand while you hold a whip in the other. Between your knees, the heiress to the Schnee Dust Company is kneeling, having been stripped of everything—her clothes, her name, her pride. Her eyes in the picture aren't vacant like they are now, months after you've started dating her. Back then, they were alive, wide and glistening with the terror of a girl realizing she is about to be ravished.

You’d made her print it and frame it, ensuring it is the first thing she sees every morning and the last thing she sees every night. A constant reminder her life is no longer her own. She is your girlfriend in name, but in reality, she is a toy for your pleasure and a womb to grow your future heirs; heirs to the Schnee fortune. No romance. No respect. Only the absolute, crushing weight of your whims.

You turn your attention to the others.

Pyrrha Nikos lies a few feet away, a testament to what huntress training could do to a girl's physique. Even asleep, she radiates a quiet, lethal grace that most men wouldn't dare approach. The moonlight catches the faint sheen of sweat on her skin, tracing the long, tapered lines of her legs and the hard, sharp definition of her core where her pajama top has bunched up. You watch the steady, rhythmic movement of her stomach—those rock-hard abs are a result of years of Spartan discipline. She’s the Invincible Girl, a four-time champion whose name is whispered with awe across Remnant, but to you, she is just raw material. Another goddess to be brought to her knees, remolded into whatever shape suits your mood.

Then there is Nora Valkyrie.

She’s curled on her side, a chaotic explosion of orange hair buried in the pillow. Unlike Pyrrha, Nora cares little for dieting, but between genes and her hammer-centric combat style, very little fat clings to her abdomen, arms, or legs. Instead, it all goes straight to her tits and ass, giving her a dangerously lush physique. Her booty shorts are stretched tight over her ass, showing off a rear that defies gravity even without your intervention.

You stand in the center of the dark room, a god in a hoodie, flanked by the three of the most coveted women at the Academy. The lust in your blood has reached a boiling point, your erection straining painfully against the fabric of your pajamas. You strip the pants off, letting your cock spring free into the cool night air.

Your hand wraps around your erection, the friction a grounding contrast to the weightless power thrumming in your veins. Your eyes drift from the broken heiress in her lace, to the champion’s sculpted midriff, to the powerhouse’s heavy curves. Stroking yourself slowly, you weigh your options, savoring the agonizing choice of which girl you want to wake up first.