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rogue when someone compliments her looks vs when they’re bent over in pain whining about how hard she hits

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Grace Chamberlain

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La Belle Noiseuse (Jacques Rivette, 1991)

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"So you one o'them real Southern girls, ain'tcha..?" A coyote smile with hawk eyes; extolled from his arid lips with a deep molasses drawl, words listless among wry surety and a loose bourbon tongue. He is content to revel in her honey-sweetened ire, to stoke the fervor of her flames like a January fire, endlessly eager to dwell longer than he should amidst coal and ember. The subsequent whistle was all but inevitable: uncouth, thick with all the crude thoughts his mouth yearned to say but did not. Jesse only feigned his submission. "Big hair n'a bigger mouth. Well they don't make 'em any better'n that, do they?"

Hands fell by his denim sides, thumbs hung benignly from sun-faded belt loops. The fraying toothpick at his lip rolled with idle glee.

"Alrighty-then. Now I ain't gon' lie to you, girl: never been one t'mind my own business. Too much'uva devil fer all that peace-keepin'. How's about you let me handle that there crate, git it where it needs to go, n'you can keep cursin' me out over some drinks? I'd bet my last dollar that you like 'em real stiff."

Sunlight gleams from a single silver tooth. "I reckon yer in good hands, honey."

There are two concurrent events that follow the lewd statements dripped from his snake-like tongue:    1. a resounding thud as the crate she's lifting is dropped upon rough terrain, sand kicking up a soft tide that falls beside her weathered boots.  and  2. a sickening crack, leather sheathed knuckles colliding venomously against rough skin — a violent kiss for his all too welcoming cheek ( call it her version of southern hospitality ). it is but the smallest taste of her ire, a warning sign of a troubled woman who wishes nothing more than to fulfill a job and move on. " And Ah pack a bigger punch if y'don't get the hell on boy! " spat, a herald of burgeoning rage.

Knees bend to pick the crate up again, hoping to god above none of the bottles cracked — she didn't want to ruin the single source of kindness she was granted . Old Man Charlie, owner of the town saloon, was the only one around for miles who didn't seem to care much for her rumours; who allowed her a bed to sleep on if the room was empty, who gave her gloves a fixin' if they needed it. she'd rather die than suffer his disappointment. her inspection comes up clean, and she tsks behind her teeth, glaring.

the mention of booze from the cowboy gives her pause, softens her features the tiniest bit. nothing dulls the constant rattling in her brain like a nice whiskey, either on the rocks or, on her harder days, straight from the source. she rests the crate on the wooden porch, pushing a wayward curl from her face as she considers. " Louder than a rooster in a henhouse ain'tcha? " same annoying bravado too, pecking away at her patience. " Why don't you worry about handlin' that mouth of yers, then we can see 'bout that drink."

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she’s actually so hilarious esp because she definitely understood it’s just like. Girl be concise please I’m not here for the lesson

crying at this rogue’s literally the type to be like “ok now in English!”

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anyways rogue has a deep love and respect for magneto and she would not be throwing his name around like it’s an insult

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❛ rogue ... can't you forgive me ? I'll be better , I'll ... I'll show you that im worth every headache I cause . Please . ❜

Rogue's eyes are still sleep tinged when she meets him at the door, all slow blinks as his fuzzy form starts to focus. a blanket is wrapped tightly around her body, her mane of curls domesticated neatly into two plaits, and she stares with both pity and exhaustion. " thing is honey," and her voice is a warm rasp, " this ain't the first time ah've heard them words from that mouth of yers." nor the second. rogue never had any fantasies about the type of man wade was - yet there seemed to be a determination at this point to prove he could do nothing but push her breaking point.

"y'ain't bad sugah. you jus' think you are. and then you go on and do bad things cause it's easier to listen to that voice than believe someone could love the good in you." there is no judgement in her tone, for this battle is one she's fought too. a brotherhood mentality that stuck like glue well into her time with the x-men – this feeling that bad was all she was ever capable of. that bad was a bloodstain on white linen she just couldn't scrub off. but drowning in a tide of guilt & shame never did anyone good – and wade seemed too comfortable with his misery.

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"every morning i wake up worried about the math test."

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anyways does anyone want an Ic message from rogue in their inbox

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so true me … that one panel in rogue’s solo has stuck with me for so long. lonely and guilt ridden and she knows she shouldn’t but she can’t help but steal little happy moments for herself every now and again. something she can look back on warmly and pretend it was her in their stead.

after everything rogue only uses her powers when she has to, when it’s absolutely necessary blah blah for the mission blah blah but I do like her being so desperate for affection and for some sense of comfort that she can’t help but touch someone when they’re looking happy she can’t help but take a happy memory for herself

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The Fly (1986), dir. David Cronenberg

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like what do you expect when she grew up with @darkholm telling her that tears were useless….

nice has never been a word used to describe rogue. she can be kind to those she loves, to mutants in need, to the young kids that look up to her, but she isn’t nice.

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nice has never been a word used to describe rogue. she can be kind to those she loves, to mutants in need, to the young kids that look up to her, but she isn’t nice.

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EMMA. (2020) dir. Autumn de Wilde

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drop this sunflower🌻 into the inboxes of the blogs that make you happy ! lets spread a little sunshine ☀️

omg tysm 🩷 I literally nvr miss a gully post so go ahead and give urself 50 million flowers

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it is an all consuming darkness they find themselves in. one that rogue drapes carefully over her shoulders, a velvety refuge from the prying eyes of king's landing. there are no secrets amongst the roaches here. no word leaves your lips without it echoing throughout the seemingly empty street. there is no warmth either – especially not for one with her ... affliction. rogue has grown accustomed to the shaded looks, the phlegm that gurgles from their throats as they scoff in her face. her presence is scorned, and she curses each time she must return here.

" nice to know you still regard me as someone y'can't be seen with in tha light of day." the spite in her tone is a dull edge, more resigned than truly upset. her place in society has long been removed – they have exhausted her desire for it anyways. " how can ah help ( what dirty work will you have me do? what shall your dog fetch? ) this time, princess? " @ordyneir