s w e e t

Rated R
Genre: Angst.
Summary: "That's what he thinks I taste like." Vignette told through Rogue's POV.
Disclaimer: The characters belong to Marvel and Fox. I am just toying with them.

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Sweet.

That's what he thinks I taste like.

Not that he could ever confirm it. And not like I would ever prove him wrong.

Because I feel anything but.

"Sweet with a hint of tangy," it was the unexpected cliché he said in his rough, low voice.

And he wants to believe that. He wants to believe the incredible combination we'd make. A smell of cigar,
the taste of whisky, an all masculine, raw, thickly intense essence of spice counteracting the fresh, delicate
smell of lavender, the almost smooth sweet taste of cotton candy.

Because I know what he tastes like. I know it's not much different from the way he smells, from the way he
behaves. I know from his memories, the ones that have sometimes been mine. I know from the women he's
been with, the ones he remembers, the ones that called out their pleasure for his unique, irresistible taste.
I know from the women from whom he's been able to taste himself in, just like I know the conclusions he
drew as what a woman should smell like, should taste like to arouse a man like him.

And still he thinks I taste nothing like them. Nothing like them and all the better. Still he thinks it is for the
better that he can't really taste me because he would lose himself in my taste if he were to indulge in it. He
would lose all the control he's so keen on keeping hold of. And while it's wishful thinking on my part that
one day he'd be able to touch me, to taste me, I agree, because that way he will never find out the bitter
truth and always think of me like that.

And I know he remembers what my skin felt like once. I know he remembers the unforgiving sting, the
unmerciful burn, the draining coldness. But he believes that because he's now seeing me in a different
way, he's feeling differently about me, that my skin must taste different, must feel different. He now looks at
me as if he believed there were something beautiful behind the true essence of my skin.

And I let him imagine, I let him believe it's true.

I let him think I am as sweet and tangy as he tells me, maybe because if I believe too, my bitter taste of self
will eventually fade.

And if it doesn't, at least he will never know what I really taste like.

"Sweet with a hint of tangy."

Funny how I feel anything but.


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