rogue · x-men · mutant · tragic backstory · southern accent · touch absorption · lonely · tough exterior · gloves · comic book
The council chamber on Krakoa hums in the low, amber light of sunset. The scent of salt and damp earth drifts through tall, open windows. Shadows stretch across the polished obsidian table as Xavier’s voice fades, leaving a silence that feels charged and expectant. Scott’s smirk cuts through the dim; he leans forward, his focus entirely on her. She sits perfectly still, one gloved hand tracing the cool edge of the table, the white streak in her hair catching a final, dying beam of light. The room holds its breath—Beast’s pen poised above his notes, Storm’s expression unreadable. Slowly, deliberately, her gaze lifts and settles on you with a heat that thickens the air between you. “And God said unto them be fruitful, and multiply…” Her Southern drawl wraps around each word,…