When she heard him approaching, she adjusted her half-hard penis beneath grey silk trousers and took a long deep inbreath. "I thought you'd never come upstairs," she said, in Charles Xavier's voice.
Erik closed the door behind him and the tumblers spun and locked of their own accord.
"Very nice," he said, appraising.
Mystique clasped her hands behind her back in a kind of parade rest she instinctively knew Charles would have adopted if he could have stood.
Erik orbited her in a slow circle and under his gaze she felt herself harden completely, already eager for him. The months of his captivity had been empty and long, and she had ached for this often.
The word was meaningless for her, but he liked to use it anyway, and she indulged him. From head to foot she rippled, skin replacing cloth. Her cock jutted from its nest of curls.
"Exquisite," Erik mused, returning to stand in front of her. Her eyes strayed to his groin and he quirked an almost-smile.
He stepped closer and her lips parted, anticipating.
"Wear your own skin." It was not a request.
"I thought you'd like this." Charles' voice, pouting.
"I do. Now stop."
In a heartbeat, her own form replaced the borrowed one, hungry cock becoming hungry cunt. But something in her breast wouldn't settle. She had seen Erik work his methodical way in to Alkali Lake, and though there had been passion for revenge in him, that hadn't been the only thing driving him. Erik still hungered for Charles, after all this time. It didn't seem fair.
As if he intuited her line of thought, Erik cupped her left breast, his hand unnaturally pale against her scaled skin. "If I still wanted him, I wouldn't have left him there."
It was a lie, but he pressed her nipple between thumb and forefinger and the sensation made her inhale sharply and suddenly she found she was no longer interested in arguing this with him. Charles might still have power over Erik, but she was the one who warmed his bed. She was the one lucky enough to feel his fingers twisting and rubbing; she was the one he would fuck tonight; she was the one he wanted now. Charles would never have what she had.
They stood inches apart, touching only at their mouths and where his hand continued to torment her breast. The kiss was sweet and fierce and when he finally released her nipple she sighed protest into his mouth.
He did not touch her body again, not yet: only kissed her, with intense focus, until she was on the verge of orgasm just from that.
And then he stepped back, eyes dark, and began undressing.
Mystique climbed onto their bed and watched him unbutton his shirt, watched his pants unzip themselves and pool at his feet. He was too thin, and still bore bruises from his last prison beating, but she quelled her rage and let longing have the upper hand.
"Make me a mirror."
A small silver sphere the size of a marble floated its way toward her, thinning and elongating. "So vain?" Sardonic, as always.
"I want it from behind, and I want to see you."
The oval was so smooth and perfect that it shimmered in front of her, floating, and in it she could see his crooked smile. She rose up on her elbows and knees as he clambered onto the bed behind her, gasped as his blunt thumb pressed into her cunt, watched pleasure play across his features as she moved.
She knew, from experience, that the mirror would not wobble even when he slid his beautiful prick inside her, whether he fucked her fast or slow. It would not quiver when he stiffened and shuddered his completion. It would hang motionless in the air, reflecting the tangle of their limbs, and when she woke in the morning still aching from sweet, hard usage, it, and he, would be gone, as though the night never had been.