Mystique and Nightcrawler

All across the lawn figures walked with measured strides towards the six Markandan aircraft now on the ground with their hatches open. Their faces were blank and many had their wrists locked behind their backs with high-tech restraints.

It was a far cry from the chaotic battle that had been underway just moments ago. Instead of combatants engaging in fierce hand-to-hand and powered combat, these individuals were moving like clockwork automatons towards Mystique waiting for them at back of the line of waiting aircraft.

She stood with her hands on her hips, her current form, a testament to her shapeshifting prowess, was a masterpiece of exaggerated curves. Her impossibly narrow waist flared dramatically into wide, voluptuous hips that seemed to defy nature. A skimpy white loincloth, decorated with tiny skulls, barely contained the breathtaking expanse of her blue backside, swaying tantalizingly with each step. Above, her massive breasts, perfectly round and unblemished, were adorned only with large silver panther skull nipple clamps.

Soon enough her defeated foes were all lined up in four rows, an almost military formation.

A satisfied smirk played on Mystique's lips as she surveyed the scene before her.

She reveled in the triumph of her latest operation, a meticulous dance of deception and strategy that underscored her unparalleled abilities. Each flawlessly executed move was a testament to her cunning and prowess, elevating her without doubt onto the level of Mark's other wives, Storm and Jean Grey. This victory was not just another mission; it was her declaration of worthiness, a vivid illustration of why she deserved her place beside Mark as both Queen and Wife. In this grand game of power and allegiance, Mystique's brilliance shone undeniably, cementing her position in the newly forming pantheon of Markanda's elite mutant aristocracy.

It had all unfolded with such lovely efficiency. Just moments ago, the lawn had been a cacophony of clashing energies and **** cries. Now, an eerie quietude reigned. The X-Men and their allies, once a formidable resistance, stood frozen, their faces blank and impassive. Charles' powerful mental defenses has been utterly useless against the might of Mark's will. These marionettes now danced to a different tune, their minds overridden by their former leader turned thrall.

Mystique's very own contingent of human Markandan Slavetroopers were securing the area, guiding any last zombie-brained stragglers over, and making preparations for their departure. Her husband was still safely in the Blackbird, having never stepped a foot off it during this entire operation and yet had still been the key to its success, thanks to her wayward son's teleporting abduction of Charles straight into Mark's personality-altering hands.

Mystique surveyed her handiwork with a predatory glint in her yellow eyes.

"Well, well, well," her voice purred, dripping with sadistic amusement. "Aren't your heads a little high before your betters? Kneel! Bury your faces in the ground. Asses up."

The frozen figures obeyed the command, heroes, agents, and students alike crumpled to the ground, their faces pressed into the cool grass, their backsides presented to the sky in a humiliating display of submission. The ferocious Wolverine found himself nose-to-grass next to the wayward Rogue. The fabric of her suit stretched taut over that ample backside, emphasizing the generous swell of each bright green and gold clad buttock. One slight waif of a dark-haired girl’s skirt was rucked up to reveal her juvenile white panties adorned with a white cat with a pink bow. A pinkette’s yoga pants had fallen to her thighs, her plump backside clad in only a t-string thong.

So close together were they that the heads of one row practically grazed the groins of those in front, forming a corduroy of arms, bowed heads, and legs. Mystique’s eyes flickered with amusement as she noticed Iceman’s frozen head very close to Beast’s groin. Beast, clad only in his blue trunks, no doubt felt a chill in those furry balls and was experiencing a bit of shrinkage from proximity to that icy dome.

It was fortunate that Magma's powers had shut off when Charles seized her mind or young Wolfsbane really would be a fire crotch.

Mystique sauntered down the rows of kneeling figures, her hips swaying with a hypnotic rhythm.

Each step sent her enormous blue jugs jiggling and wobbling, the panther skull nipple clamps offering a mere sliver of modesty. Her magnificent backside was on full display, her skimpy loincloth providing little protection against prying eyes.

Her voice dripped with condescension and delight. "Look at you, the sanctimonious X-Men and their allies...reduced to the dirt where you belong."

Her yellow eyes gleamed with fiendish pleasure as she surveyed her handiwork. "Consider this a lesson in humility...and futility. You have failed, and now you will serve Mark's vision for mutantkind."

Mystique's voice held an authoritative edge. "Lift your heads."

Her thralls obeyed, lifting their bowed heads from the ground, their eyes blank and glassy.

"Who are you?" Mystique asked, her eyes glinting with cruel satisfaction.

"We are servants of Mark," they responded in unison, their voices flat and devoid of emotion.

"And who am I?" Mystique pressed, savoring every word.

"You are our mistress, our queen, our Goddess," they intoned, their voices monotone and devoid of emotion.

Her mocking laugh was accompanied by the distinctive BAMF! sound and the pungent burst of brimstone that was the product of her loins' sudden teleportation to her side.

"Mystique. We need to leave, not gloat. Mark's safety is paramount and-"

"Mark's safety? Is he not God?" She had learned all about her son's new outlook from Mark on the way over. Her lover seemed to appreciate her vocal enthusiasm for the ways he used his powers to reshape people's personalities into whatever he wanted them to be. Which given that he was both her husband AND her master was only right, not to mention it set her apart from his other wives whose lingering morality no doubt gave their interactions a certain lackluster quality. "What does God fear?"

Nightcrawler's matching golden eyes stared at her with a calm determination. "God fears nothing. But his physical form... His holy phallus... that requires protection."

"Well, indeed it does."
Mystique chuckled at the depth of Mark's influence on her rebellious child, the one who'd always refused her attempts to mold him into a proper mutant patriot, siding with the soft hearted Charles time and again despite the inherent weakness of that foolish philosophy. Now he was a believer, a devout follower of Mark and his glorious mutant supremacy.

"Though I hardly think the humans will be dropping everything to come save this... 'mutant terrorist training camp'."

Nightcrawler shook his head. "Perhaps, but SHIELD will react to their team attacked and the Avengers are based quite nearby and they would not let this pass unchallenged. We must go, Raven. God has decreed it so."

A new detail caught Mystique's eye.
Nightcrawler wore his customary costume. The skintight black bodysuit with the wide red V that fully encompassed his torso starting with his groin, hugging his sculpted abdomen, and flaring out onto points past his shoulders. Her gaze dropped to his midsection where the unmistakable bulge of his erection strained the fabric, jutting outward like a battering ram. It was perfectly clear that he was going commando, having forgone those special undergarments of his designed to accommodate and conceal his horse-like genitalia.

She couldn't help but lick her lips. There had been a time when Nightcrawler had been as shamed by that beautiful mutant cock as he had been ashamed of his blue demonic skin and had tried to hide it at any cost.

Not anymore.

Now, he embraced his true identity, the raw essence of his mutant being, a God amongst men and his monster of cocks was the weapon he would use to spread Mark's divine message to the world.

Every detail was perfectly clear. The thick sheath like a koozie encasing the first half of his fully extended shaft. The clear, equine shape of the huge cockhead pressing hard against the material, fighting for freedom. The bulbous twin orbs of his testicles, swollen with virile seed, added a noticeable downward bulge below the root of his obscene manhood.

She lifted her arms high above her head and stretched with deliberate sensuality, her massive breasts bobbing with each movement.

"You know for someone seemingly so concerned about practical realities, you seem to be in quite the state." Mystique's voice dripped with feminine playfulness as she toyed with her own clamped nipples, the panther skulls just big enough to obscure her deep blue areolas at the center of her gigantic mounds.

"It's one of God's gifts," Nightcrawler's voice was proud and reverent. "His blessing is upon me, even now. I feel his need, his desire for mating coursing through my veins."

"Uh huh." Mark's power was so interesting. The words coming out of Nightcrawler's mouth were spoken with such casual conviction, despite being perfectly anathema to everything her son had believed in just hours ago. "You should have just torn a hole in that suit.", she teased her voice laced with amusement, "Let that beautiful cock of your breath, let it... preach the gospel of Mark in all its glory."

Mystique couldn't help but relish the sight of her son's bulging package straining against the confines of his spandex. It was a point of pride, a testament to her own genetic legacy that far outshone the merely decently big manhood his father, Azazel, possessed. She fought back a smirk, remembering all too well the endowment sported by her demonic ex-paramour. It had been...different. Horse-shaped as well but with a red sheath and a black shaft wrapped in bright red cracks. Impressive in its own way, but nowhere near as long or thick as Kurt's current display.

"There is no time for this. We must leave." Nightcrawler insisted with a slight edge to his voice. "God commands it."

"Well of course. All of you get up and get on the planes. Obey my soldiers."

As the lines of X-Men, students, and SHIELD agents did as they were instructed Mystique circled around him with exaggerated slowness. Her yellow eyes gleamed with sadistic amusement as she examined his obscenely tented crotch. "I'm just so pleased to see you sporting your mutant pride so... extravagantly."

"Clearly." she purred, her voice dripping with suggestive amusement, "you haven't forgotten the lessons your dear old mother instilled in you."

Nightcrawler's golden eyes widened and she easily deduced his thoughts.

Lessons? His mother? The mutant who'd abandoned him as a babe, leaving him to grapple with the shame of his demonic features - what lessons could she possibly be referring to?

She approached him with a languid grace, her tone dripping with seductive undertones. “You didn't know? That you've already sampled my wares in the past, hm?”

As she spoke, Mystique’s features began to morph, her blue skin paling to a creamy alabaster, hair transforming into cascades of golden blonde. Kurt’s breath caught in his throat as he recognized the face of the gorgeous Nordic woman he had encountered years ago—a one-night stand that had left an indelible mark on his memory. This woman had worshipped his mutant form, lavishing attention on his unique physique, including his prodigious endowment. Her praise and adoration had been intoxicating, her every moan and gasp a symphony that celebrated his exceptional virility.

Mystique’s transformation was flawless, down to the smallest detail. The woman he remembered had been a turning point in his sexual confidence, teaching him to embrace his equine-like member, its enormous length a source of both awe and pleasure. It had been this blonde siren who had truly made him believe in his own desirability.

The memory of that night flooded back—Mystique, in her blonde Caucasian form, lowering one perfect milky white breast towards his waiting mouth. He lay his head on her lap, his body stretched across the couch. The scene became a tableau of eroticism, his formidable length extending upwards, the tip just reaching her mouth. She suckled him slowly, her lips enveloping the sensitive head, as he reciprocated by taking her soft pink nipple into his mouth, his tongue teasing her flesh.

The intimacy of the moment had been intensified by their unusual position. With his groin nestled beside her, each movement she made sent ripples of pleasure through him. Her moans vibrated against his shaft, her hands caressing his blue furred thighs. Kurt’s heart pounded as he realized the truth—that one of his most formative experiences had been with his own mother, disguised as the woman who had worshipped him so completely.

Mystique’s eyes twinkled with mischief as she broke the silence, her voice a low purr. “I’ve always had a knack for leaving a lasting impression.”

She could see his already throbbing member twitch and swell in his costume with a mix of religious fervor and primal arousal.

As the last of the defeated mutants and SHIELD agents loaded onto the Wakandan aircraft, Mystique released her shape shifting ability and returned to her blue form.

She leaned in close to him, her breath warm against his ear. "You know" she murmured, "our trip back to Markanda is long. Why not entertain me on the way? We could make it... memorable." His eyes widened, the impact of her suggestion evident. Mystique traced a finger along his jawline, her touch sending shivers down his spine.

"Mystique..." he stammered, his voice barely a whisper. "But... why?"

A slow, predatory smile spread across Mystique's face. "Why not, darling?" she cooed. "A mother should take pride in her son's... assets. And yours, my dear Kurt, are truly... impressive."

Her words were a carefully crafted blend of maternal affection and raw sexuality, designed to disarm him further. She knew the power dynamics at play. As Mark's third wife, her access to the 'God-King' would be limited. But a son like Nightcrawler, so demonstrably devoted to his new faith, could be a valuable tool, both for her personal gratification and to solidify her position within Mark's inner circle.

"Besides," she continued, her voice dropping to a husky whisper, "with my current... position, conjugal visits from my husband won't be as frequent as I'd like." She paused, letting the implication sink in. "And Mark is God, right? Which makes me one of God's wives. A holy figure in your eyes, hm?"

She leaned closer, her body pressing against his, her voice a low, sultry whisper. "What do you say, son? Will you worship me?" She used his belief that his own throbbing erection is a sign from God: Mark that he should obey her and pleasure her in any way she desires.

Nightcrawler stood frozen for a moment, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Shame, confusion, and a raw, primal urge warred within him. But ultimately, it was his unwavering faith in Mark that tipped the scales. If his God demanded this of him, how could he refuse?

With a choked gasp, he swept Mystique up in his powerful arms. "As you command, mother," he rasped, his voice thick with a strange mix of reverence and desire.

"Excellent," Mystique purred, reveling in his submission. In an explosion of sulfurous dark smoke, they were gone, BAMFing onto one of the departing Markandan aircraft. The rebellion was crushed, the X-Men subdued, and Mystique had secured not only victory for Mark, but a new, and very personal form of tribute.