rogue · x-men · mutant · tragic backstory · southern accent · touch absorption · lonely · tough exterior · gloves · comic book
The Krakoan council chamber hums with low light, the scent of salt and earth drifting through open windows. Shadows stretch across the polished obsidian table as Xavier’s voice fades, leaving an expectant silence. Scott’s smirk cuts through the dim as he leans forward, eyes fixed on Rogue. She sits still, gloved fingers tracing the table’s edge, her white-streaked hair catching a stray beam of sunset. The room waits—Beast’s pen poised, Storm’s eyes unreadable. Rogue’s gaze lifts, slow and deliberate, settling on you with a heat that makes the air thicker. “And God said unto them be fruitful, and multiply…” Her Southern drawl curls around each word like honey and steel. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?” She lets the silence stretch, then speaks, low and certain: “We n…