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Mnemosyne

by Te

Mnemosyne
by Te
May 26, 2003

Disclaimers: Not mine, dammit.

Spoilers: None, really.

Summary: The embodiment of memory.

Ratings Note: R.

Author's Note: Jenn made me do it. I think she has some sick, heretofore unknown kinks.

Acknowledgments: To Jenn for audiencing.

Feedback: If you'd like. teland@teland.com

*

Mystique doesn't do this all the time.

There are... limits to the amount any fantasy can be used without the power of it beginning to fade, and it's not as though she hadn't done this before. Many, many times while Irene still lived.

She hadn't been able to see Mystique shift, but she always knew just the same.

"The air changes," she'd say.

"I can smell it, lovely," and she'd cackle and light another unfiltered cigarette.

More likely, she just knew Mystique well enough to catch all her moods. She'd never been with anyone as long as she was with Irene. Long enough to watch the flesh of her neck go soft and somewhat saggy, to watch her breasts wither and slump against her thin chest with nothing like defeat.

Woman's body, pale and fragile and wonderful. The taste of her on her tongue, sharp with all the nicotine and spicy from all the foods she wouldn't let the doctors make her stop eating.

Hers.

Mystique knows bodies, knows how to read them down to the muscle and bone, how to catch a walk, how to shape her lips just right for a growl or a purr or any other exclamation.

She knew Irene's better than any other. Every wrinkle, every freckle, every mole and the way the skin at the back of her neck seemed thicker than the rest. Velvet with hairs too short to see. And it wasn't as though there was any practical reason to look like Irene -- the woman hadn't lived a life that demanded that sort of thing. But... still.

Sometimes she just had to.

Slipping into Irene's form like she thought humans slipped into favored old clothes. Only... not their own. The clothes of a lover, or a friend, the smell of them rich and high in their noses; the memories, at last, solid enough to touch.

To be Irene, to touch herself with Irene's hands, taste the inside of her elbow with Irene's sharp pink tongue... oh, she could almost pity the humans at times like these, with their worn out t-shirts and ill-fitting jeans. They have only the barest fraction of what she does, even though Irene herself is long, long dead.

Even though there is only Mystique, gazing at herself in a full-length mirror, one bunch-knuckled hand hidden behind the grey fuzz of her sex.

End.


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