Work Text:
Disease
by amorphous
It was a disease. It eroded away one's instincts, made reactions slower, and most of all, made them weak.
Trust was that disease. It was a sick thing that Mystique rarely fell prey to. She tended to use those she encountered trust against them, like a weapon. A sharp weapon that cut into someone's weakest spot: their heart.
Mystique loved to watch her victims' face when they figured out what she was doing. It was a cheap thrill, but never failed to please her.
Mystique wanted her instincts in tact. They were her power. Trust was just a disease anyway.
end