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The radiator clanked and hissed like it was dying, but for once it was actually producing heat. Small mercies. Peter pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders and stared at the water stain on his ceiling. It looked like a spider. Everything looked like a spider eventually.
December in Queens. The light through his blinds was that particular gray that meant snow or rain or just the city being miserable. He hadn't opened them in three days. Hadn't needed to. The spider-sense would tell him if anything was actually wrong outside, and so far the only danger it had registered was the leftover Thai food in his fridge.
He closed his eyes.
Mistake.
MJ's face. The messages still sitting unread in his phone, timestamps accusing him every time he accidentally saw the notification. She'd broken up with Paul. She'd reached out. And he'd...
The goblin venom singing through his veins, that horrible rightness of finally letting go. Norman's laugh in his head, or maybe his own laugh, and when had he stopped being able to tell the difference?
Kraven's throat under his hands. The give of cartilage. The way the man's eyes had bulged. The voice in his head that had whispered finish it, finish it, finish it and for one terrible second he'd wanted to.
The void of space. Cold so absolute it burned. Stars that didn't care. The earth below him, so small, and the thought that had crept in unbidden: would it really be so bad?
Peter's eyes snapped open. The water stain spider stared back at him, accusing nothing.
He wasn't hiding. He was recovering. There was a difference.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand.
He didn't move.
It buzzed again.
Still nothing.
A third buzz, and this time he heard the slightly different tone that meant a picture message.
Against his better judgment, he reached over and looked.
Three messages from Rogue. The first: "Hey sugar, you alive over there?" The second: "X-Men/Avengers Christmas party tomorrow. You're comin." The third was a selfie of her pouting dramatically at the camera, green eyes wide and accusing, that white streak in her hair falling artfully across her face. The caption read: "This is your formal invitation. Don't be rude."
Peter stared at the screen. His thumb hovered over the keyboard.
No thanks.
Delete.
Sorry, not feeling great. Maybe next year.
Delete.
I appreciate the invite but I'm in the middle of something and honestly parties aren't really my thing right now especially not ones where I'll have to pretend everything's fine when
Delete.
He set the phone down. Pulled the blanket over his head.
The phone buzzed again.
He didn't want to look. He looked anyway.
"Don't make me come get you, sugar."
Peter let out a breath and let the phone drop onto his chest.
She would. That was the thing. Rogue would absolutely show up at his door, probably still in costume, and drag him bodily to Westchester if he gave her any reason to think he needed dragging. She'd done it before, after the thing with Morlun. Hadn't even knocked. Just phased through his window and stood there with her arms crossed until he'd gotten dressed.
He stared at the ceiling.
The spider stain stared back.
He'd already lost.
The drive up to Westchester took two hours in holiday traffic, and Peter spent most of it wedged in the back of Ben Grimm's custom-reinforced pickup truck, listening to the worst jokes he'd ever heard.
"So the rabbi says to the priest, 'That's not a menorah, that's my wife!'"
Logan groaned from the passenger seat. Peter couldn't help it. He laughed.
"See?" Ben's rocky face split into a grin visible in the rearview. "Web-head gets it."
"Web-head's bein' polite," Logan said. "That joke's older than I am."
"Impossible. Nothin's older than you."
"Keep talkin', Grimm. See where it gets ya."
Peter leaned back against the seat, watching the city give way to suburbs, then to the bare trees and snow-dusted fields of upstate New York. The heater was cranked. Some classic rock station played low enough to ignore. Ben and Logan bickered like an old married couple, and Peter didn't have to say anything at all.
It was exactly what he'd needed.
He hadn't realized how much until now. Three days in his apartment, marinating in his own head, replaying every mistake on an endless loop. The drive was simple. No expectations. No one asking if he was okay. Just Ben's terrible jokes and Logan's grunts that passed for laughter and the easy silence between men who'd fought together.
"You doin' alright back there, kid?" Ben asked after a while.
"Yeah." Peter was surprised to find he meant it. "Yeah, I'm good."
Logan turned to look at him. Those eyes saw too much. Always had. But all he said was, "Good," and turned back around.
The mansion appeared through the trees like something out of a movie. Every window blazed with light. Strings of Christmas lights traced the roofline, the gardens, the fountain out front. Someone had put a giant inflatable Santa on the lawn, and Peter was pretty sure he saw Lockheed trying to set it on fire.
"Stark bankrolled the electric bill?" Peter asked.
"Probably," Logan said. "Man loves a tax write-off."
They parked in the circular drive, already crowded with vehicles Peter recognized. The Fantasticar. One of Tony's less ostentatious sports cars. A motorcycle that had to be Johnny's. Ben killed the engine and climbed out, the truck groaning in relief.
The front door opened before they reached it.
"Well, well, well." Rogue leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, that white streak catching the light. "Look who actually showed up."
Peter's brain short-circuited.
She was wearing a Christmas sweater. That was the first thing he processed. Red, with a reindeer on it. Festive. Innocent.
The sweater was losing a war.
The reindeer's nose stretched across her left breast, distorted by the sheer volume it was trying to contain. Every stitch looked ready to surrender. The fabric clung and strained in ways that made Peter's mouth go dry.
And the jeans.
The jeans looked painted on. Dark denim that hugged every curve of hips that flared wide from her waist, that clung to an ass that shouldn't be legal in most states. When she shifted her weight, the denim creaked.
Peter kept his eyes up. Mostly.
"Parker." Logan's voice was low, amused. Peter glanced over to find the man smirking at him. "You're starin'."
"I'm not... I wasn't..."
"Sugar, you comin' in or what?" Rogue's drawl cut through his stammering. "It's cold out there, and Ah didn't put on my good jeans for nothin'."
She turned and walked inside. The view from behind was worse. Or better. Peter wasn't sure anymore.
Ben clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to stagger him. "C'mon, kid. Party's inside."
The mansion was chaos in the best way.
Someone had strung tinsel from every surface. A tree that had to be fifteen feet tall dominated the main hall, ornaments catching the light. Peter spotted decorations that were clearly handmade by students alongside ones that looked like they cost more than his rent.
And everywhere, heroes in ugly sweaters.
Johnny Storm's sweater said "FLAME ON" with a cartoon fireball. Reed's had a periodic table Christmas tree. Sue's was tasteful and elegant, because of course it was. Tony's probably cost five thousand dollars and was designed to look cheap.
"Pete!" Johnny materialized at his elbow with a cup of something that smelled like eggnog and bad decisions. "You made it! Here, drink this."
"What's in it?"
"Eggnog."
"And?"
"Bourbon. Thor's mead. Something green that Hank made. Don't ask questions, just drink."
Peter took a cautious sip. It tasted like Christmas had gotten into a bar fight with a chemistry set. "This is terrible."
"I know, right?" Johnny grinned. "Have another."
Peter let himself be pulled into the crowd. Faces he knew, voices calling his name. Steve and Bucky by the fireplace, neither of them drinking but both of them smiling. Tony holding court near the bar, gesturing expansively about something while Pepper rolled her eyes. The X-Men scattered throughout, mixing with Avengers, with the Fantastic Four, with people Peter hadn't seen in months.
It was overwhelming in the best way.
He found a spot near the wall, nursing his terrible eggnog, just watching. Taking it in. The noise and the warmth and the simple fact of being around people who understood. Who'd been through their own versions of hell and come out the other side.
"Spider-Man!"
Peter turned. Three young women had materialized in front of him. Jubilee, her yellow jacket traded for a sweater covered in sparklers. Hope Summers, red hair pulled back, looking at him with an intensity that made him nervous. And the Cuckoos... wait, all five of them? Hadn't there been fewer? Oh wait, Krakoa happened.
"We heard you were coming," Jubilee said. "Finally. Do you know how long it's been since you visited?"
"I've been... busy."
"Too busy for us?" Hope moved closer. Her sweater had a strategically placed mistletoe on it. "That's not very heroic."
"We're totally legal now, you know," one of the Cuckoos said. Or maybe all of them. Their voices blended together in that unsettling way they had.
"Very legal," another added.
"Completely of age."
"If you were wondering."
"I wasn't," Peter said quickly. "I definitely wasn't wondering about that."
"Are you sure? Because we could..."
"Girls."
The voice cut through like a diamond through glass. Emma Frost appeared behind the cluster of young women, and Peter's brain short-circuited for the second time that night.
Emma was wearing something that was technically a dress the way a napkin was technically a tablecloth. White, because of course. Clinging to every curve of her body, cut high on the thighs, plunging low enough that Peter could see her navel. Diamonds at her throat. Heels that added four inches to her already considerable height.
"Don't you all have somewhere else to be?" Emma's tone could have frozen the eggnog.
The girls scattered. Jubilee shot Peter an apologetic look over her shoulder. Hope winked. The Cuckoos just... dissolved into the crowd.
"Ms. Frost," Peter managed. "Nice... dress."
"I know." She looked him over, and Peter had the uncomfortable feeling that she was seeing more than just his ugly sweater. "You look terrible, Peter."
"Thanks. I've been working on it."
"Hmm." She stepped closer. Close enough that he could smell her perfume, something expensive and cold. "If you need someone to talk to... my door is always open."
"I'll... keep that in mind."
"Do." She smiled, and it was the smile of a predator who'd spotted wounded prey. "I'm an excellent listener."
She walked away. Peter watched her go, then immediately felt guilty about watching her go, then felt confused about why he felt guilty when he was single and she was... whatever Emma was.
"She does that to everyone," a voice said. Peter turned to find Storm beside him, elegant in a sweater that somehow looked regal. Her white hair was loose around her shoulders. "Don't take it personally."
"I'm trying not to."
Storm smiled. Something in her eyes that Peter couldn't quite read. "It's good to see you, Peter. We've missed you at the mansion."
"I've been..."
"Busy. Yes. I heard." She touched his arm, just briefly. "If you ever need a place to... recover. You're always welcome here."
She moved away before he could respond.
Peter took a long drink of his terrible eggnog.
Jean Grey was watching him from across the room. Red hair, green eyes, a sweater with a phoenix on it that was probably meant to be ironic. She raised her cup in a small salute.
Peter raised his back.
This was fine. Everything was fine.
"You look like you're about to bolt." Logan appeared at his elbow, because of course he did. The man moved like a ghost when he wanted to.
"Just... taking it all in."
"Uh huh." Logan took a drink of something that was definitely just straight whiskey. "Lot of women lookin' at you tonight."
"I noticed."
"You okay with that?"
Peter thought about it. "I don't know."
"Fair enough." Logan was quiet for a moment. "Rogue's been askin' about you."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Worried. After the whole..." He made a vague gesture that somehow encompassed everything. The Goblin. Kraven. Space. All of it.
"I'm fine."
"Sure you are." Logan didn't push. That was one of the things Peter appreciated about him. "Just... go easy on her tonight, alright? She's goin' through some shit."
Peter frowned. "What kind of shit?"
Logan sighed. The kind of sigh that carried years of exhaustion. "Gambit."
"What about him?"
"Caught him sextin' some model. Some actress. Hell, maybe both. Rogue found out." Logan shook his head. "They're 'on a break.'"
Peter winced. "Damn."
"Yeah." Logan finished his whiskey. "So maybe don't be the guy who disappears on her right now. She could use a friend."
Before Peter could respond, a roar went up from the men around the TV in the next room. Something about a football game, or maybe a hockey fight. The noise was sudden and loud, and Peter saw his chance.
"I'm gonna..." He gestured vaguely toward the stairs.
"Go," Logan said. "Before someone's telepathic mom makes a move on you."
Peter didn't need to be told twice.
The upstairs hallway was quiet. Muffled laughter and music drifted up from below, but here the noise felt distant, belonging to another world. Peter walked past closed doors, past framed photos of graduating classes and team portraits, until he found one that looked like it might be empty.
He slipped inside.
Not empty.
Rogue sat on the edge of a bed, a bottle of whiskey dangling from her fingers. The good stuff, from the label, though the level suggested it had been significantly better an hour ago. She was still wearing that sweater, the one the reindeer was losing its battle with, but something about her had changed. Her mascara was smudged at the corners. Not crying. Just... worn down.
Peter froze in the doorway. "Sorry. I didn't... I'll go."
She looked up. Her face did something complicated. Embarrassment first, the kind that comes with being caught in a moment you didn't want witnessed. Then relief, like she'd been hoping someone would find her but hadn't wanted to ask. Then just honesty. Raw and tired and sad.
"Stay." Her voice was quieter than usual, the drawl softer. "Please."
Peter hesitated. Then he closed the door behind him and crossed to the bed. The mattress dipped when he sat down beside her, close enough to feel her warmth but not quite touching.
"Nice room," he said. "Very... beige."
"Guest room. Xavier's got about fifty of 'em." She took a drink from the bottle. "Figured no one would look for me here."
"I wasn't looking."
"Ah know." She almost smiled. "You were hidin' too."
"I wasn't hiding. I was strategically relocating."
"From what?"
"Emma Frost's neckline. Jean Grey's... everything. The Cuckoos apparently being legal now and wanting me to know about it." He shuddered. "It's a lot."
Rogue laughed. A small thing, barely more than a breath, but real. "The Cuckoos? Really?"
"All five of them. In harmony. Like a very unsettling barbershop quartet."
"That's only four last i checked, sugar."
"Krakoa….."
"Oh yeah….resurrection. Good times."
She laughed again, louder this time. The sound loosened something in Peter's chest. He leaned back on his hands, letting the silence stretch comfortable between them.
"Logan told me," he said after a while. "About Gambit."
Rogue's jaw tightened. She took another drink. "Course he did. Man can't keep his mouth shut about anythin' except his own damn feelings."
"You want to talk about it?"
"Nothin' to talk about." She stared at the bottle. "Caught him sendin' pictures to some actress. Model. Both, maybe. Does it matter?"
"No."
"He swore it didn't mean anythin'. That it was just... flirtin'. That he loves me." Her voice went bitter. "Like that makes it better."
Peter didn't say anything. Sometimes that was the right call.
"The thing is..." She set the bottle down, pressed her palms to her eyes. "He'll come around. He always does. Remy's a fool, but he's my fool, and eventually he'll show up with flowers and that stupid smile and some grand romantic gesture that makes me forget why Ah was mad."
"But?"
"But Ah'm tired, Peter." She dropped her hands. Her eyes were dry, but something in them was broken. "Ah'm tired of bein' the one he comes back to. Like Ah'm home base. Like Ah'm safe. He loves me, sure. But sometimes Ah think..." She swallowed. "Sometimes Ah think he loves the idea of me more than the reality."
The words hung in the air.
Peter understood that feeling. Understood it in a way he wished he didn't.
"MJ's back," he said. The words came out before he could stop them.
Rogue looked at him. "What?"
"Mary Jane. She was... she got pulled into another dimension. Alternate reality. Spent three years there, her time, before i got her out. Thought i had abandoned her. Had a whole life. Husband. Kids." He laughed, and it came out wrong. "Fake kids, I guess. Constructs. But they felt real to her. And then she came back, and it had only been some days here, and she tried to move on, and there was this guy Paul with her, and she chose him and..."
He stopped. Realized he was rambling. Realized Rogue was watching him with an expression he couldn't quite read.
"And what?" she asked softly.
"And she reached out. After she broke up with Paul. She reached out, and I..." He stared at his hands. "I couldn't answer. I don't know why. I just... couldn't."
"When was this?"
"Two weeks ago. Three. I've lost track." He rubbed his face. "It's been a year, Rogue. The Goblin. Kraven. Space. All of it. And I keep thinking I should be over it by now, but I'm not, and every time I try to feel normal I just feel like I'm pretending, and MJ deserves better than someone who's pretending."
Rogue was quiet for a long moment.
"You wanted to disappear," she said. Not a question.
Peter looked at her. "How did you..."
"Takes one to know one, sugar." She picked up the bottle again, turned it in her hands. "After Carol... after Ah absorbed her, permanently, and her voice was in my head for years... there were days Ah thought about just... stoppin'. Not doin' anything dramatic. Just... not wakin' up."
"Yeah." The word came out rough. "Yeah."
They sat in silence. Two broken people finding common ground in a beige guest room while a party roared below them.
"We're a mess," Rogue said finally.
"Complete disaster," Peter agreed.
"Ah mean, look at us. Sittin' here with a bottle of whiskey, cryin' about our exes..."
"You're not crying."
"Close enough." She turned to look at him. The mascara smudge made her look younger, somehow. More real. "You're not either."
"I might be. Internally."
"That counts?"
"I think so. Emotional tears. Very manly."
She laughed again. It was a good sound. Warm. Real.
"You're somethin' else, Peter Parker," she said. "You know that?"
"I've been told. Usually not as a compliment."
"It's a compliment." She was still looking at him, and something in her expression had shifted. "You walked into a room full of women throwin' themselves at you, and you came up here to hide with sad drunk me."
"You're not that drunk."
"Drunk enough." She set the bottle down on the nightstand. "Not so drunk Ah don't know what Ah'm doin'."
Peter's heart rate picked up. "What are you doing?"
She looked at him. Really looked at him. Her green eyes catching the dim light, that white streak falling across her face.
"Somethin' stupid, probably," she said.
And then she kissed him.
Her lips were warm and tasted like whiskey. Her hand came up to cup his jaw, and Peter felt every point of contact like a brand. She kissed him deep, thorough, with the kind of intensity that came from years of not being able to touch anyone without consequences.
When she finally pulled back, they were both breathing hard.
"Rogue..." Peter started.
"Don't," she said. "Don't think. Not tonight." Her thumb traced his cheekbone. "We're both broken. We're both lonely. And Ah'm so tired of bein' untouchable."
Peter looked at her. At the smudged mascara and the sad eyes and the defiant set of her jaw.
He should say no. He should be the responsible one. He should think about Gambit, about MJ, about all the reasons this was a terrible idea.
Instead, he kissed her back.
The kiss broke.
Rogue pulled back just enough to see his face. Her eyes searched his, looking for something. Regret, maybe. The moment where he'd remember all the reasons this was wrong and bolt for the door like a sensible person.
Peter didn't move.
Her breath came out shaky. That white streak fell across her face, and she didn't brush it away. "Peter..."
"Yeah?"
"Fuck me."
The words landed like a grenade. Plain. Simple. Her Southern accent thick with whiskey and want, no room for misinterpretation.
Peter's brain shorted out.
This was Rogue. X-Men Rogue. The woman who could drain your life force with a touch. Gambit's girl, except she wasn't right now, except she'd just asked him to... and his body was responding before his mind caught up, blood rushing south so fast it made him dizzy.
He hesitated.
Her face changed. The hunger flickered into something wounded, and she started to pull back. "Ah'm sorry, Ah shouldn't have... you don't want..."
Peter kissed her.
Hard enough to bruise. His hand fisted in her hair, the other gripping her hip, and he swallowed the surprised sound she made. He kissed her like he was trying to prove something. Like he was trying to forget everything except the warmth of her mouth and the softness of her body and the simple, desperate need to feel something that wasn't grief.
Rogue made a noise against his lips. Relief and want tangled together.
Her hands found his belt. Fumbled with the buckle. Her fingers were shaking, he realized. The gloves made her clumsy, but she didn't take them off. Old habits. Years of not being able to touch.
She yanked his pants down.
His cock sprang free.
Rogue stopped dead.
Ten inches of thick meat, already hard, jutting out from his body like an accusation. The head was flushed dark, a bead of precum already forming at the tip.
She made a sound like she'd been punched in the chest.
"Oh my god."
Her gloved hand wrapped around him. Or tried to. Her fingers couldn't close. Not even close. The girth was too much, her hand too small, and she just... stared.
"Peter." Her voice came out strangled. "What the hell..."
"I..." He didn't know what to say. His brain was still offline, most of his blood supply currently occupied elsewhere.
She looked up at him. Those green eyes wide with genuine shock. And underneath it, something hungry. Something that made his cock twitch in her grip.
"You liar," she breathed. "You absolute liar."
"I didn't..."
"Hidin' this." She squeezed experimentally. Her fingers still couldn't close. "No wonder the spider-girls are always sniffin' around. No wonder..." She shook her head, that white streak swaying. "How do you walk with this thing?"
"Carefully?"
She laughed. A broken, disbelieving sound. Her hand started moving, stroking what she could grip, and Peter's hips jerked involuntarily.
"Sugar, what the hell..." The words came out reverent. Almost prayerful. "Remy ain't got nothin' like this."
Peter's brain snagged on the comparison. He should probably feel weird about that. He didn't. Not with her hand on him, her eyes eating him alive.
"Oh my god, Peter." She said his name like she was discovering it for the first time. "Oh my god, Peter." Again. And again. A prayer or a curse or both.
She dropped to her knees like worship was the only appropriate response.
Her mouth found him before he could process what was happening.
Rogue's lips wrapped around the head of his cock, and the sound she made vibrated through his entire body. A moan. Low and desperate and genuine, like she'd been waiting her whole life for this exact moment.
She pulled back just enough to drag her tongue up the underside of his shaft. Base to tip, slow and thorough, tasting every inch. Her eyes fluttered closed. When she reached the head again, she swirled her tongue around it, lapping at the precum beading there.
"Oh fuck." Peter's voice came out wrecked.
She took him back into her mouth. Deeper this time. Her lips stretched obscenely around his girth, cheeks hollowing as she sucked. She got maybe four inches before her throat closed up, and she gagged, but she didn't stop. Just held there, eyes watering, working her tongue against the underside of his cock like she was trying to memorize the shape of him.
Her gloved hands wrapped around what she couldn't swallow. Both of them, stacked, and there was still cock left over. She stroked him while she sucked, twisting on the upstroke, squeezing on the down.
The sounds were obscene. Wet. Sloppy. Saliva running down his shaft, dripping onto her gloves, and she didn't seem to care. If anything, she leaned into it. Made it messier. Let herself drool around him like she'd given up any pretense of dignity.
She pulled off with a gasp, a string of spit connecting her lips to his cock. Her mascara was running now, black tracks down her cheeks, and she looked up at him with those watering green eyes and smiled.
"Ah love this cock."
The words hit him like a punch to the chest.
She didn't wait for a response. Just dove back down, taking him deeper this time, gagging again but pushing through it. Her throat spasmed around him. She pulled back, gasped, went again. Like she was trying to train herself to take more. Like she couldn't stand the idea of leaving any part of him untouched.
"So fuckin' big." The words came out garbled around his length. "Peter... god... so big..."
Her hands kept working. Stroking, squeezing, spreading her spit down his shaft until he was slick from root to tip. She pulled off again, panting, and ducked lower. Her tongue dragged across his balls, wet and warm, and Peter's knees almost buckled.
"Shoulda done this years ago." She mouthed at him, sucking gently, her gloved hand still pumping his shaft. "Shoulda known you were packin' like this... wasted so much time..."
She licked back up to the head and swallowed him again.
Peter watched her. Couldn't look away. This was Rogue, on her knees in a guest room at Xavier's mansion, makeup ruined, drooling around his cock like she'd die if she stopped. The reindeer on her sweater was stretched to breaking over those massive tits, and her ass... god, her ass. It shifted behind her as she squirmed, that denim straining, her thick thighs pressing together like she was getting off on this.
She wasn't performing. That was the thing that made it real. She wasn't putting on a show or playing a role. She was hungry. Desperate. Taking what she wanted because she'd spent too many years not being able to touch anyone.
"Remy ain't never felt like this." She pulled back to say it, her voice rough and broken. "Remy ain't got nothin' on you, sugar."
She took him deep again. Gagged. Pushed deeper anyway.
Peter's hand found her hair.
She moaned. The sound vibrated through him, and his fingers tightened reflexively. Pulled. Her eyes rolled back, and she made a noise that was pure need.
He pushed deeper.
She took it.
Her throat opened for him, just a little, and she held there with tears streaming down her face and her hands gripping his thighs and her body shaking with the effort of not pulling away.
Peter watched her. Felt something dark and hungry uncurl in his chest.
He pulled her off his cock by her hair.
Rogue gasped, saliva dripping down her chin, eyes wild and unfocused. Her lips were swollen. Her mascara was destroyed. She looked like she'd already been fucked stupid, and he hadn't even started.
"Peter..."
"I'm going to ruin you."
Peter grabbed her by the waist and threw her onto the bed.
She landed face-first, bouncing on the mattress, and before she could recover he was on her. His hands found the waistband of those painted-on jeans and yanked.
The denim peeled down her thighs like a second skin. No underwear. Of course no underwear. Nothing could have fit under that fabric anyway.
Her ass bounced into view.
Round. Fat. Jiggly perfection that made his mouth water. Each cheek was bigger than his head, soft and pale and shaking from the impact of hitting the bed. The kind of ass that belonged in a museum, or a porn shoot, or wrapped around his cock.
She was already soaking.
Her pussy glistened between her thick thighs, swollen lips parted and dripping. The scent of her hit him like a drug. Musky and sweet and desperate.
Peter didn't tease.
He notched the head of his cock at her entrance and pushed.
Rogue screamed into the pillow.
Her body fought him. Too tight, too small, not made for something this size. But he kept pushing, steady pressure, feeling her stretch around him inch by impossible inch.
"Fuck... oh god... oh fuck..."
Her voice came out broken, muffled by the pillow. Her hands clawed at the sheets, bunching the fabric, knuckles white. That Southern drawl cracked on every syllable.
"Too much... Peter, it's too much... Ah can't... Ah can't take it..."
But even as the words spilled out, her hips shoved back. Greedy. Desperate. Taking more of him even as she begged him to stop.
He gave her another inch. Another. Her pussy stretched obscene around his shaft, the rim of her entrance pulled taut, clinging to him like it never wanted to let go.
"Gambit's a fool." Peter's voice came out rough. Barely human. "This fat ass deserves a real cock."
She whimpered.
"Does he ever get this deep?"
"No." The word tore out of her. "Never... never this deep... oh god, Peter..."
He bottomed out.
Rogue went silent.
Her whole body locked up, every muscle rigid. He could feel her pulse around him, feel the flutter of her walls trying to accommodate something they weren't built for. His cock was buried to the root, balls pressed against her swollen clit, and he swore he could feel her heartbeat through her cunt.
"Peter." His name came out like a prayer. "Peter, Peter, Peter..."
Like it was all she knew. Like everything else had been fucked out of her head.
He pulled back. Slow. Letting her feel every inch dragging against her walls.
Then he slammed home.
Her ass rippled. That thick, jiggly flesh shaking from the impact, waves rolling through her cheeks. The wet sound of their bodies meeting filled the room. Obscene. Loud.
He did it again.
And again.
He started to move, and her screams stopped being words.
Peter fucked her like he was trying to break her.
Every thrust drove her up the bed. Her fingers scrambled at the headboard, nails scratching wood, trying to brace herself against the force of him. It didn't help. Nothing helped. He just kept coming, kept pounding into her, kept splitting her open on that impossible cock.
Her tits bounced with every impact. The sweater had ridden up, caught under her arms, and those massive breasts swung free. Heavy and soft and shaking, nipples hard, the reindeer fabric bunched uselessly above them. They slapped together, slapped against her chest, moved in ways that made Peter's vision blur.
The sounds she made weren't human.
High, keening wails that broke into gasps. Wet choking noises when he fucked the air out of her. Something that might have been his name, stretched and distorted until it was just vowels. Her throat couldn't keep up with what her body was feeling.
"Look at you." Peter's voice came out dark. Wrong. The voice of someone who'd stopped pretending to be gentle. "Taking it like a slut."
"Yes." The word ripped out of her. "Yes, Ah'm a slut, Ah'm your slut, please..."
"My slut now." He punctuated it with a thrust that made her whole body jerk. "Not Gambit's. Mine."
"Yours." She was crying. Tears mixing with ruined mascara, black tracks down her cheeks, and she didn't care. "Yours, Peter, Ah'm yours..."
"This is what you needed." Another thrust. Her ass rippled, that fat flesh shaking. "Not someone who can't satisfy you. Someone who can actually fuck you right."
"Yes." Sobbing now. "Yes, Ah needed this, Ah needed you, he was never... Gambit was never..."
"Never what?"
"Never this good." The words tore out of her like a confession. "Never this big, never this deep, never made me feel like... like..."
She couldn't finish.
Her orgasm hit like a freight train.
Her whole body seized. Her back arched off the bed, those massive tits pointed at the ceiling, and the scream that came out of her rattled the windows. Actually rattled them. Peter felt the glass vibrate in its frame.
She squirted around his cock.
Hot fluid gushed over his balls, soaked the sheets beneath them, ran down her thighs. Her pussy clamped down so hard he saw stars, walls rippling and clenching, trying to milk him. Her legs kicked uselessly at the air. Her hands found his arms and gripped hard enough to bruise.
Peter didn't slow down.
He kept fucking her through it. Through the aftershocks that made her twitch and gasp, through the oversensitivity that made her whine. He grabbed her thighs and flipped her.
She landed on her back, dazed, those green eyes unfocused. Before she could recover he was on her. Pushed her thick thighs up to her chest. Folded her in half.
His cock found her swollen entrance and sank home in one brutal stroke.
Rogue's eyes rolled back.
"Fuckfuckfuck..." The word came out continuous, a single breath. "Peter... oh god... Peter..."
He hammered into her.
This angle was deeper. Impossibly deeper. He could feel himself pressing against her cervix, feel her body trying to accommodate something it wasn't built for. Her tits bounced between her thighs, trapped and shaking. Her thick legs spread wide around his shoulders, soft flesh spilling over his arms.
"You're so..." She couldn't finish. "He never... why didn't we..."
Her pussy was a swollen mess around his cock. The lips stretched obscene, clinging to his shaft on every outstroke, flushed dark and glistening. Every thrust made a wet sound. Squelch. Slap. The obscene music of a body being used.
"Right there." Her voice cracked. "Right there right there right..."
The words fell apart.
"Right... right... ri..."
Just sounds now.
"Nnngh... hahh... FUCK."
Second orgasm.
Her legs locked around his neck. Her pussy clenched in rhythmic waves, squeezing him, trying to pull him deeper. She screamed his name. Or tried to. What came out was closer to a howl.
Peter kept going.
Her mascara was destroyed. Black smears across her cheeks, her temples, the pillow beneath her. Her hair was a tangled mess, that white streak plastered to her forehead with sweat. She looked ruined. Wrecked. Fucked absolutely stupid.
"Can't..." She was crying again. "Peter, Ah can't... too much... please..."
"Please what?"
"Please don't stop." The words contradicted themselves. "Please don't stop please it's too much please more please..."
Third orgasm.
This one came silent. Her mouth opened but nothing came out. Her whole body shook, convulsed, thick thighs trembling against his shoulders. Her hands found his chest and pushed weakly, but her legs pulled him closer. Begging for mercy and begging for more in the same breath.
She was babbling now.
"...so good... never felt... Peter, Peter, you're so... Gambit never... Ah didn't know... didn't know it could feel like..."
Praise and profanity tangled together. Fragments of sentences that didn't connect. His name over and over like a prayer.
"...yours... Ah'm yours... ruin me... please... Peter..."
Her pussy was dripping. Cum and arousal and squirt soaking the sheets, soaking his thighs, the wet sounds getting louder with every thrust. Her body had given up fighting him. Just took it now. Soft and open and his.
Peter felt his orgasm building.
"I'm going to cum inside you."
The words cut through her haze. Her eyes focused, just for a moment. Green and wet and desperate.
"Yes." Her legs wrapped around his waist. Locked at the ankles. Pulled him deeper. "Yes, please, cum inside me, fill me up, please Peter please..."
She was begging.
"...need it... need your cum... please give it to me... please..."
Her heels dug into his ass. Her hands found his shoulders and gripped. Her whole body arched up to meet him, offering herself, taking everything he had.
"Please, Peter." Her voice broke on his name. "Please cum inside me."
Peter buried himself to the root and came.
The first pulse hit her cervix like a brand. Hot. Thick. Endless. He ground against her, hips rolling, cock twitching as rope after rope of cum flooded her insides. She could feel it. Feel him filling her, feel the heat spreading through her belly, feel her pussy stretching to accommodate the sheer volume.
Rogue shattered.
Her fourth orgasm crashed through her without warning. Her back bowed off the bed, those massive tits bouncing, and the sound that tore out of her throat was barely human. Her walls clamped down on him, milking him, pulling every drop deeper. Her thighs shook against his hips. Her hands clawed at his back hard enough to draw blood.
"Peter." His name came out broken. "Peter, Peter, Peter..."
He kept cumming.
She could feel it. Each pulse. Each twitch of his cock against her cervix. The heat pooling inside her, nowhere to go, his cock plugging her so completely that nothing could escape. She was full. Stuffed. Overflowing with him.
She grabbed his face and kissed him.
Fierce. Desperate. Tongue and teeth and the taste of whiskey and need. She kissed him like she was drowning and he was air. Like if she let go she'd float away and never come back. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulled, held on.
He stayed inside her.
Even as the last aftershocks rolled through them both. Even as their breathing started to slow. His cock stayed buried in her pussy, keeping his cum where it belonged, and she clung to him with everything she had.
"Don't move," she whispered against his lips. "Just... stay."
He stayed.
They lay there tangled together. Her thick thighs wrapped around his waist. His weight pressing her into the mattress. The wet mess between them growing as her body slowly stopped trembling.
"Ah can feel you," she said. Her voice was wrecked. Hoarse. The Southern drawl so thick it barely sounded like English. "Inside me. Ah can feel all of it."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." She laughed weakly. "Sugar, that was... Ah don't even have words."
"Good?"
"Good don't cover it." She kissed him again, softer this time. "That was life-changin'. That was... Ah'm gonna be walkin' funny for a week."
Peter smiled against her mouth. "Merry Christmas?"
"Merry Christmas my ass." But she was smiling too. "You know what? Ah think you should stay."
"Here?"
"Mmhmm." Her fingers traced lazy patterns on his shoulders. "Keep me warm this Christmas. Gambit wants to run around with whatever hussy caught his eye, he can do that. Ah'll be right here." She squeezed around him, feeling the thickness still splitting her open. "With you."
"I could do that."
"Yeah?" Something vulnerable flickered in her eyes. "You mean it?"
"Yeah." He kissed her forehead. "I mean it."
She smiled. Soft and real and so different from the confident swagger she usually wore. This was the woman underneath. The one who'd spent years unable to touch. The one who was terrified of being left behind.
Then her smile froze.
Her eyes went wide.
"Sugar..." Her voice came out strangled. "Are you still...?"
Peter grinned.
He was hard. Still rock hard inside her. Ten inches of thick cock that hadn't softened at all, still buried to the root, still stretching her pussy obscene around his girth. His cum sloshed inside her as he shifted, and she felt every inch of him ready to go again.
"No." Disbelief colored the word. "No way. That ain't... you can't be..."
"Spider stamina." He rolled his hips experimentally. Just a small movement. She gasped like he'd electrocuted her. "Proportionate to a spider."
"What does that even..." She broke off into a moan as he did it again. "Oh lord. Oh lord, you're still... you're really..."
"Ready for round two?"
She stared at him. Her makeup was destroyed. Her hair was a disaster. Her pussy was dripping with his cum and her own release. She looked like she'd already been fucked into next week.
She started laughing.
The laughter turned into a moan halfway through as he pulled back and pushed deep again. Her head fell back against the pillow, eyes rolling, that white streak sticking to her sweaty forehead.
"Oh lord." The words came out breathless. "Ah'm gonna die happy."
"That a yes?"
"Sugar, that's a hell yes." Her legs wrapped around his waist again. Locked at the ankles. Pulled him deeper. "Do it. Wreck me. Ah can take it."
Peter started moving.
Harder than before. Faster. His hips snapped forward with enough force to shake the bed frame, to make the headboard slam against the wall. Her pussy squelched around him, still full of his cum, the wet sounds obscene and loud.
Rogue screamed.
Not a moan. Not a gasp. A full-throated scream that rattled the windows and echoed off the walls and was definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent audible through the door. Her legs and arms wrapped around him, clinging, pulling him closer even as her body shook from the force of his thrusts.
"PETER!"
His name tore out of her throat as he fucked her into the mattress. Her massive tits bounced between them. Her thick thighs trembled against his hips. Her nails drew blood down his back.
She was going to die happy.
And he was just getting started.
The hallway outside the guest room had become a gathering point.
Emma stood closest to the door, her white dress doing absolutely nothing to preserve modesty as she leaned in with theatrical disinterest. Jean had abandoned whatever Scott-related drama had been occupying her evening, red hair swept over one shoulder, green eyes fixed on the wood like it might reveal secrets. The Cuckoos stood in a perfect line, five blonde heads tilted at identical angles, sharing a telepathic giggle that made their shoulders shake in unison.
Jubilee's mouth hung open. Her sparkler sweater caught the hallway light as she pressed closer, abandoning any pretense of dignity. "Is that... is she saying his name?"
"Repeatedly," Emma confirmed. Her voice was dry as bone. "With considerable enthusiasm."
Kitty had given up on subtlety entirely. Her ear phased through the solid wood, literally inside the door, her face cycling through expressions that ranged from shock to impressed to something approaching envy. "Oh my god. Oh my god. He's still going."
"Still?" Hope tried to look mature about the whole situation. She failed. Her cheeks were flushed, her arms crossed tight over her mistletoe sweater, and she kept shifting her weight like she couldn't decide whether to stay or flee. "How long have they been..."
"Forty-seven minutes," Storm said. She stood slightly apart from the group, elegant even in her Christmas sweater, wearing a knowing smile that suggested she'd seen more than a few things in her centuries of existence. "Give or take."
"Forty-seven..." Jubilee's voice cracked. "That's not... that's not normal, right? That's superhuman."
"Proportionate spider stamina," Jean murmured. Her eyes had gone slightly unfocused in that way that meant she was picking up psychic spillover whether she wanted to or not. "That's what he's thinking. Or she's thinking. It's hard to tell. Their minds are very... tangled right now."
Inside the room, Rogue hit another peak.
The scream punched through the wood like it wasn't there. Peter's name, stretched and distorted, breaking into sounds that weren't words anymore. Begging. Pleading. Demanding mercy she clearly didn't want, because underneath the desperate cries was something that sounded a lot like "don't stop" and "more" and "please."
Eight women stood in the hallway and listened.
Kwannon leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed, eyes calculating. The former Psylocke had traded her usual combat attire for something that was technically a dress in the same way Emma's was technically clothing. Her purple hair fell loose around her shoulders. Her expression was that of a warrior assessing a battlefield.
"I demand a sword fight," she announced.
Every head turned toward her.
"For anyone who thinks they're next." She uncrossed her arms and straightened, all predatory grace. "Traditional rules. First blood."
"That seems excessive," Kitty said. Her ear was still in the door.
"Also illegal," Hope added. "Probably."
Emma's smile was the smile of someone who'd already calculated seventeen different ways to win. "I suggest poker. More civilized. Fewer bloodstains on the carpet."
"You'd cheat," Jean said flatly.
"I would absolutely cheat. That's hardly the point."
"The point is fairness." Hope stepped forward, trying to assert some authority. She was the youngest of the group by several years, but she'd led the X-Men through an apocalypse. Surely that counted for something. "Rock paper scissors. Simple. Clean. No telepathic interference."
The Cuckoos pouted in unison.
"That actually seems reasonable," Jubilee said, sounding surprised.
"It's acceptable," Kwannon agreed. "Though I reserve the right to challenge the winner to single combat afterward."
"No one is fighting anyone," Storm said. The words carried the weight of someone who could call lightning if she needed to make a point. "Rock paper scissors. Best of three. Winner goes first."
They formed a circle.
Emma versus Jean in the first round. Jean won, which surprised no one who'd seen Emma's tell. Kwannon defeated Hope with the efficiency of someone who'd been reading opponents for centuries. The Cuckoos counted as one entry and lost to Jubilee, who shouted "YES" loud enough to make everyone wince. Kitty beat Storm in a match that went to five rounds because neither of them could commit to a choice.
The bracket narrowed.
Inside the room, Rogue screamed again. Something about "too much" and "don't stop" and Peter's name dragged out into a sound that barely qualified as language.
Jean lost to Kwannon. Jubilee lost to Kitty. The final round came down to the ninja assassin and the woman who could walk through walls.
Kitty threw rock.
Kwannon threw paper.
"Sword would have been faster," Kwannon said, but she was smiling. The smile of a predator who'd just spotted prey. "I'll need to prepare."
She pushed off the wall and walked down the hallway with the smug confidence of a warrior who'd never lost a battle that mattered. Her hips swayed. Her purple hair caught the light.
"Japanese sex oil," she murmured, just loud enough for the others to hear. "A spider deserves proper preparation."
She disappeared around the corner.
The remaining seven women looked at each other.
"Next round?" Emma suggested.
"I'm not losing twice," Jean said. Her competitive streak had apparently survived everything else.
They reformed the circle. Hands went out. The bracket began again, utterly serious, as if they were deciding the fate of mutantkind rather than who got to fuck Spider-Man second.
Inside the room, Rogue came again, screaming Peter's name, and outside the door seven women decided that Christmas had finally gotten interesting.