Poor taste

The pale-skinned geneticist was levitated into the royal chambers, the former council room of the quiet council now splayed open to make room for the current ruler and her court. In the dark bowers of the island, he knew nothing of the events that transpired overhead, kept in the dark both figuratively and literally as all of mutant kind was subsumed. Moments after his cage had been taken out of the sublevels and out into the open sunlight, he still had no idea why. Still defiant despite weeks of imprisonment in total darkness. The moment the living walls parted, and he rose into the light, Nathaniel Essex—Mr. Sinister—felt something he had not experienced in centuries.

Awe.

All around him stretched a vision of perverted paradise. What had once been the orderly heart of Krakoa’s governance was now a vast, organic cathedral of flesh and ecstasy—towering organic pillars pulsed with bioluminescent veins in deep ocean blue and blood crimson. The air hung thick with the heavy musk of sex, milk, and raw power. Everywhere he looked, he saw her.

Hundreds—no, thousands—of blue-skinned figures moved through the chamber and the sprawling halls visible beyond. Some still wore familiar faces as mocking disguises: a blue-skinned Colossus gently cradling a litter of newborns, a crimson-haired Kitty Pryde phasing through walls while laughing with several identical sisters. Others had fully embraced their new forms—towering demonesses ten, twenty, even thirty feet tall, lounging on living furniture grown from Krakoa’s own plant life. Their bodies were exaggerated monuments to fertility and dominance: heavy, leaking breasts, wide hips, powerful tails, elegant sweeping horns. They kissed, groped, fed, and fucked openly, a living tapestry of hedonistic indulgence.

And at the absolute center of it all reclined the Empress herself.

Mystique had grown truly colossal—nearly one hundred feet of divine blue perfection. She rested upon a living throne grown from Krakoa’s own central tree, flowering vines curling lovingly around her massive limbs. Her ocean-blue skin gleamed like polished sapphire. Three majestic sets of sweeping horns crowned her head like a living crown. Her breasts were mountainous, each easily the size of a house, leaking thick, pearlescent rivers of serum-rich milk that flowed endlessly down the deep valley of her cleavage and across the powerful form of her body. Her hips and thighs were wide enough to crush buildings, and a thick, powerful tail thicker than a train car swayed lazily behind her, occasionally brushing against worshippers with affectionate possessiveness.

Dozens of her favoured consorts and daughters—Emma Frost, Selene Gallio, Irene Adler, Illyana Rasputin, Ororo Monroe, Rogue, and many more—lounged across her immense body like devoted priestesses or like a pride of lionesses. They nursed greedily from her leaking nipples, tails intertwined with hers, hands and mouths busy worshipping every sensitive inch of their goddess. Soft, throaty moans and wet sounds of pleasure filled the chamber as they brought her constant, rolling ecstasy.

Sinister’s red eyes widened in abject horror. For several long seconds, even he could not maintain his mask of superiority. This was no mere mutation. This was apotheosis.

His levitating cage halted in mid-air directly before the goddess’s face. Mystique regarded him with half-lidded glowing yellow eyes, resting her chin lazily in the palm of one colossal, clawed hand, the very picture of a bored empress.

Sinister quickly recomposed himself, masking his shock with his trademark smug superiority. He straightened his tattered coat and offered a thin, arrogant smile.

“Mystique,” he drawled, voice carrying across the chamber. “Or should I say… Empress? Goddess? Whichever grandiose title you’ve bestowed upon yourself this week. I must admit—even I am impressed. You’ve exceeded my wildest expectations. What, pray tell, brought about all of this?”

Mystique’s fanged smile widened slowly, revealing teeth longer than his arm. She uncrossed one massive leg, the motion sending ripples of pleasure through the consorts still latched to her breasts. With a casual flick of her wrist, his cage disintegrated into dust. Sinister floated helplessly closer, telekinetically drawn until he hovered mere feet from her enormous, beautiful face.

“Nathaniel,” she purred. The sound was rich, velvet, and dangerous—rolling through the chamber like warm thunder. “You gave me the key to godhood. A single vial. A spark of genius wrapped in your boundless arrogance. How should I reward such a… generous gift?”

Sinister’s mind raced. The ramifications finally clicked into place. “You found my failsafe,” he said, a note of genuine concern creeping into his voice for the first time. “That… is most unfortunate.”

Unfortunate for you.

Mystique’s mind slammed into his like an ocean tide. Sinister clutched at his skull, gasping as her telepathic presence invaded him completely. Through the link, he felt the overwhelming chorus of billions—every infected soul on the planet singing with one voice. One will—one hunger.

Mystique glanced at her coven with indulgent affection. So, my children… what shall we do with the old fossil?

Suggestions flooded in instantly, each more depraved than the last.

Emma Frost licked her lips and smirked. “They say when you cut a worm in half, it becomes two worms. I wonder if that’s true with THIS worm. Perhaps we should find out... Multiple times.”

Selene’s eyes gleamed with ancient hunger. “Let me drain him slowly. Soul, memories, everything—until there’s nothing left but a hollow shell for your amusement. You can have quite a bit of fun with a mindless vegetable.”

Illyana grinned wickedly. “Give him to me. I’ll teleport him into the deepest bowers of Limbo… We could keep him there for decades, then check on him to see if he can still talk.”

Irene purred against Mystique’s thigh. “Give him to me, my love; I can **** all of probability into his subconscious. **** him to see the cause and effect of every mistake he’s made and ever will make in the span of infinite. He won’t know what’s real anymore after I’m done with him.”

Sinister floated helplessly, listening to his own fate being casually debated by the monsters he had helped create. For the first time in his long life, true fear flickered behind his red eyes.

Mystique listened to them all, nodding occasionally, then shook her head slowly. Her massive tail curled with anticipation, the tip brushing gently over several consorts.

“No,” she decided at last, her voice dripping with dark satisfaction. Her colossal maw began to open. Her jaw unhinged with wet, elastic grace, revealing rows of gleaming fangs and a warm, pulsing throat lined with slick blue flesh. “I think I’ll simply… savour you.”

Sinister’s eyes widened in genuine terror. “Mystique—Raven—wait—!”Her tentacle-like tongues lashed out, wrapping around his struggling body and dragging him inexorably toward the warm, wet darkness. He screamed the entire way, clawing futilely at the slick muscle as she pulled him head-first into her maw.

Mystique moaned deeply as she began to swallow him—slowly, deliberately, luxuriously. Every **** kick and thrash sent fresh waves of pleasure cascading through her colossal form. Her throat bulged obscenely with his passage, the outline of his body clearly visible as he slid deeper. The sensation of a man who had once sought to rule the world, now reduced to nothing more than food sliding down her gullet, pushed her over the edge.

An immortal **** to wallow in agony as he was slowly digested as quickly as he could regenerate for all time. She wanted to savour this moment.

Subconsciously, she had her entire kingdom seek out the most rapturous pleasure they could grasp. Many fell to eating what they could; others collided into passionate embraces. And with them, so too did the others across the globe, linked to their empress. She took it all in, their bliss, their ecstasy, all of it. Across the planet, every infected soul—every man and woman, carrying her essence—shuddered in shared, overwhelming ecstasy. In boardrooms and bedrooms, hospitals and streets, countless blue-skinned figures cried out in unison, and all of it funnelled back into Mystique in a crashing orgasmic wave.

At the absolute peak of her ecstasy, Mystique’s iron control over the vast gestalt slipped—just for a split second.