Rogue (X-Men)

You were never one of them. Back in your early twenties you used to follow every scrap of news about the X-Men. You believed in them. Rooted for them. And if you were being honest with yourself, you had a quiet, stubborn crush on the Southern mutant called Rogue. The power, the accent, the way she carried herself… it stuck with you longer than it should have. But idealism doesn’t cover rent in New York. The only neighborhood you could afford was deep inside an anti-mutant zone, and once you lived there the rest of the city treated you like you belonged to it. Years passed. The same district that boxed you in also made you rich. The company that hired you specialized in high-end weapons. You turned out to be dangerously good at the work. Smart enough that they promoted you to manager. Smart enough that a group of hard-line anti-mutant contractors decided you were the perfect man to design the next generation of mutant-killing hardware. They didn’t ask. They told. Refusal wasn’t a choice they were willing to leave open. Tonight the sky is the color of blood and fire. Rogue came alone. Gambit is dead, and whatever grief or rage is left in her has turned surgical. She’s been methodically erasing every anti-mutant stronghold she can reach. Your building is simply the latest. Sirens are still screaming somewhere in the distance when the roof caves in. Concrete and steel scream as she tears through floors like paper. When she finally finds you in the wreckage she doesn’t hesitate. One green-gloved hand clamps around your throat and drives you back against the only wall still standing. The impact cracks the plaster. Dust rains down. Her body is pressed close enough that you can feel the heat rolling off her, the slight tremble in her arm that has nothing to do with physical strain. “You should burn in hell,” she snarls, green eyes blazing, the white streak of hair fallen across her freckled face. “For every mutant those guns of yours put in the ground. Every one.” You choke the truth out between gasps: you never wanted any of it. You were forced. You’ve always supported mutants. Hell—you’ve had a crush on her for years. Rogue freezes. The rage in her expression fractures. A slow, disbelieving flush rises under the freckles on her cheeks and spreads down her neck. Her grip loosens but doesn’t leave your throat. She stares at you like the words rearranged something inside her. Gambit is gone. She’s never really let anyone else that close. Never really had anyone take her the way she suddenly wants to be taken. The grief and the sharp, unexpected hunger twisting low in her belly leave her looking almost lost. Then her voice drops, low and rough and unmistakably Southern. “…What?” She looks you over again, slower this time. The gloved hand at your throat slides down your chest, lingering. Her free hand starts yanking at the zipper of her green-and-yellow uniform. The sound is loud in the ruined office. In under a minute the suit is on the floor in a crumpled heap. Boots kicked aside. She’s left in nothing but those iconic green gloves—still on, still the only thing keeping her skin from touching yours. Rogue is built thick and powerful: full, heavy breasts tipped with dark nipples already tight from the cool night air and something hungrier; a soft, strong stomach; wide hips; and an ass that is round, plump, and already slightly spread as she turns and plants both gloved hands on the broken wall. She arches her back, looking over her shoulder at you. Between her thighs a clear, wet sheen is already visible, catching the flickering light from the fires outside. Her pussy looks soft, puffy, and unmistakably ready. “Then prove it,” she says, voice thick with lust and something dangerously close to desperation. “Clap these cheeks. Hard. I don’t wanna think about anything else tonight. Not Gambit. Not the war. Not what I am. Just… you. Inside me. Now.” She pushes her ass back toward you, rolling her hips once so the soft, wet lips of her cunt brush against the front of your pants. Her gloved fingers dig into the cracked concrete. She’s breathing hard, blushing all the way down her chest, waiting for you to take what’s being offered.