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CostumeMystique

It nearly killed me to be that close to her and not be able to sidle up and rip her clothes off in a fit of passion. Clothes aside, it really would be easier if she had just followed my lead and decided to show herself in her true form as often as possible. But of course, under the amiable leadership of the well-mannered, human-loving Dr. Charles Xavier, she was brainwashed to portray herself as much human as mutantly possible. And being human…meant being clothed.

Except, perhaps, in the privacy of her own chamber. Maybe she even stripped down before her mirror and caressed herself in a cyclone of self-love. Or…maybe she had another lover now. Probably a man. I had seen her eyeing me at the campfire, thinking stonily, How could I have ever loved that? And I saw how perfect was her body in tone, and her hair all in place, and her big, doe eyes – she was the picture of any man's dream, and a far cry from my league – little league, that is.

Well, I'd show her. And if I had to pick a man it would be Wolverine – the most animal of all those do-gooders, the most rogue. A rough-and-tumble type, nice and furry; he was bound to be good in bed. And the fact remained that attention from Storm no longer mattered. Our political differences and the expectations of the happy-happy-joy-joy mutant community kept us out of love. Only attention from a man would take me higher. And since I only ever failed when I tried with Magneto, Wolverine was my next best option.

Jean's body was a poor fit on me, though. Too tight, too tense, too tragic. I didn't last long in her, even when I had Wolverine under me, completely under my control.

I slipped.

He howled.

"I know what I want," I purred. "Do you know what you want?"

If not Jean, then young Rogue, perhaps? I flipped from body to body. A murmur in my heart advised me against taking on the next body. Maybe…Storm?

I loved Storm's body and being inside it. It was warm, safe, familiar. But it was my own body in which I slunk away when Wolverine sneered his disgust and rejected me, Mystique, in all my many forms.

Frankly, I too was disgusted by myself. Those sagging tits. That reptilian gait.

But I wear it to shock and disturb.

Wolverine was a bust – no matter. I was accustomed to being alone. I had been alone ever since Storm and I separated. The pain had been as if we were conjoined twins and had been ripped apart with a chainsaw, or guillotine, or chop-after-chop by a single-blade axe.

Now, I only put myself out there with those people I knew would reject me immediately.

That way it didn't hurt so much.