She could have gone and ripped his heart out of his chest, and it would have hurt less, he's damn sure.

There are many, many things he plays close to the vest--things he's done, the people he's worked with, the people he's hurt--that he wants...no, needs to keep from her. He's already playing against a stacked deck with everybody and their mamas (especially her mama) calling him out for being a thief. Not that he had a choice in the matter. He was a kid. An infant, even. Not even a day old.

Not that it matters. Not that he'd ever give them more ammunition by giving away his li'l sob story for nothing. He lets the crumbs fall as they may, little pieces of himself that he deems safe enough for consumption. It ain't always pretty, but it's him.

Her lips--a benediction and his damnation.

She's witnessed one of the ugliest sides of him through his accursed eyes and left. Him. She left him to die. He loves her--God knows he loves her with every breath in his damn body, but he's got vested interest in his own skin. A gamblin' man always does.

kisses | @roquish

rogue's kiss is hunger, tongue and teeth and all, and warren returns her need with his own. strong arms hook around his neck, fingers of her hand card through his hair and scrape his scalp in a way that sends shivers down his spine.

Some sexual tension / attraction prompts

13. [quiet jealousy] - Your muse becomes jealous over my muse for whatever reason, and expresses it non-verbally, lingering closer to my muse than usual, touching them casually, etc.

Lord but she is a vision in green. And he's seeing green looking at all the people in her space now that they don't fear her powers. Cowards, the lot of them. He loved her before they could even be in each other's reach--fearlessly, recklessly, with a wild abandon at war with his self-preservation. Against her well-meaning protests and self-imposed titanium walls 30 feet high and 50 feet thick.

There's still a distance between her and them. More than polite company would allow; they're still afraid of her, her gift, her power. He laughs into his flute of champagne. Again, cowards. He sets the stemware down, moving forward to set the record straight. He reaches for her bare shoulder where skin meets velvet opera gloves and deliberately places his hand there.

He is not afraid. He was never afraid. Even when he should have feared what she could have done; even when he ought to have feared what she could take from him, he didn't. He is marked by her touch, just as much as he has marked her with his. Got the everlasting chill to prove it. What do they got?

Roll the Dice; Make it Nice

15. A kiss along the hips

Lazy days--true lazy days where ain't nowhere to go or nobody to fight--are rare in their profession. Not that they get paid being superheroes and saving the world over and over again.

They've stolen away for the afternoon, leaving one of their communicators on the kitchen table in silent protest of keeping in touch. They ain't foolish or selfish to leave both behind; things have been ramping up lately. Doesn't mean they don't deserve some time to themselves.

They find it by a riverbank, po' boys wrapped up in newspaper in hand and a bag of Zapp's Voodoo shared between them. He takes his plain, a preference from childhood, while Rogue has hers dressed and pressed in true Mississippi-style. Later, bellies full of good food and hearts full with good banter, he lays his head in her lap and is lulled by her fingernails lightly scraping at his scalp in nonsensical patterns. It's a peace they rarely get to have, and goddamn, he would fight the whole damn world thrice to preserve it.

Auburn lashes flutter half-close as he leans in to press a kiss to her tummy. Nosing to the side, he follows his own little trail to first her right hip, shirt fabric rucked up giving the thief just the right amount of skin to play with.

She laughs as his stubble scrapes at her lower belly, and he can feel it in his head, all bubbly with a bite like Barq's root beer. Speaking of bite--he falls into his baser instincts when he comes to her left hip where he leaves a love mark of suction and a little teeth for flavor.

It's an easy Sunday morning for them, as rare and as precious as the woman laying her head on his chest. Sure, they could get up, rustle up something to eat, and continue with their chores, but--there's just something precious about being with the one you love that productivity can never erase.

Rogue's idly playing with his chest hair, and it tickles until it doesn't. Until her touches become heavy and her light exploration turns into her grabbing a fistful of hair and tugging on it, the sharp pinpricks of pain going straight to his dick.

Pavlov's dog. Ouaf-ouaf.

She smiles, leaning up for a kiss that becomes two becomes three becomes little brands of ownership down his neck, his chest, his abs. She takes her time loving on his chest, especially above his heart where her name stands out as a bold marque under the sparse hair there. He is hers, completely and utterly changed by knowing and loving her, and his body reflects that.

As she goes lower and lower on his body, he shifts up onto his elbows, dark eyes predator-focused. He can feel her smile pressed against his skin as she wriggles her fingers into the band of his boxers and pulls them down juuuust far enough to expose the base of his cock and nothing more. Where she lays another kiss that has him jumping hard behind his boxers.

unreal unearth.

& doesn't that just strike at one's heart like a cutlass ... the crawler's expression is soft as the words knock the air out of his lungs, capable only of breathing out an " och " as his features crumple with a mournful kind of smile, though no less happy for the tinge of sorrow.

headcanon questions

🪥He does have a really specific night time routine. He tends to catnap throughout the day so he only needs around four hours of sleep at night. He spends the rest of the night quietly picking his way through the house and preparing for the day. And his eyesight allows him to move around in dimmer lighting than the average human. It's part of the survival instincts that haven't left him--and probably never will at this point. Whenever he overextends himself on his powers, he does end up passing out for a full night's sleep.

🎁Anything that lets him know that you've been listening. Really listening. He's so used to keeping up his walls and prettying up his life that to get a present that shows the other was reading in-between the lines would touch him greatly. It would also wig him out for a second or two since obfuscation is his bread and butter and that level of exposure would typically mean death for those of his ilk.

He's at her side during a logistics meeting. He's already said his piece about infiltration, giving information people would sell their arm for freely. He's been banned from using his little amulet even though it would be easiest way for their party to not get caught without the unpredictability of Nightcrawler's power. By Wolverine's scowl and Jubilee's furrowed brow, he knows not to speak his piece and instead presents information as neutrally as possible before hanging back and letting the others speak in his stead.

Despite his lounging demeanor, he's taking in everything. The way Nightcrawler flexes his fingers, how dark Wolverine's face gets, how Jubilee's gaze slides to her left too often to be anything but a tick. Rogue's fingers come to curl around his own, splaying out his middle and ring finger, idly twisting his wedding band. She's nervous. Leadership is a burden neither of them want to claim, and despite the uneasiness, she wears it like a queen wears a crown. He believes in her, more than he believes in himself. But she doesn't need him to peep up in her defense. She doesn't need his words of encouragement. She needs a levelheaded council and not a sounding board.

He leans back in, and the conversation fades right quick. He folds his free hand over hers and squeezes.