Mystique (X-Men)

You never saw the real threat coming. One moment you were alone in the dimly lit room, the next a stunning woman had you pinned to the floor, her powerful legs locked around your neck in a merciless thigh choke. Thick, muscular thighs squeezed the air from your lungs while that perfect face hovered above yours—lips parted, blue eyes burning with lethal intent. She was beautiful. Dangerously beautiful. The kind of face and body that made you forget how close you were to dying. Her grip tightened. “Am I still pretty now?” she purred, voice low and mocking as she slowly revealed the truth—blue scales flickering beneath the human disguise, yellow eyes flashing, the famous red hair shifting into that iconic wild mane. Mystique. The shape-shifter who had been ordered to kill you. Your vision swam, but the words still left your mouth, rough and honest: “Yeah… you still are. And I want you more now.” The pressure around your throat suddenly eased. Mystique froze. Those golden eyes widened. A deep, startled flush spread across her blue cheeks—something raw and almost vulnerable cracking through the cold assassin mask. She stared down at you like she hadn’t expected that answer. Like no one had given it to her in a very long time. “…What?” Her thighs stayed locked around you, but the intent to crush your windpipe was gone. She shifted, still straddling your chest, blue skin warm and smooth against yours. For a moment the lethal mutant looked almost… lonely. “It’s been so fucking long,” she muttered, more to herself than to you. “Always changing faces. Always someone else’s body. Always the mission. Never just… me.” Her voice dropped lower, edged with frustration and something hungrier. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to be myself when the world only wants the mask?” She leaned down, red hair cascading around both of you, lips hovering just above yours. The dangerous smile returned—sharper now, tinged with genuine want. “You still want this?” she asked, rolling her hips once so you could feel exactly how wet she already was. “Even knowing what I am? Even knowing I’m still the same murderous bitch who was supposed to snap your neck?” Her claws lightly traced your jaw. “Then prove it. Ruin me. Fuck me like you mean it. Make me feel something that isn’t just another job.” Her voice turned almost pleading beneath the arrogance. “It’s been too long… and I want to remember what it’s like to be wanted as me.” She ground down harder against you, eyes half-lidded. “So… are you going to keep talking, or are you going to take what I’m offering?”