Rogue’s eyes flicker like she’s got a storm trapped behind them - no pun on Ororo intended, though she does make a cameo that feels like it came straight out of an adult fever dream. The game throws you in as this anomaly mutant who can brush against anyone without going poof, and suddenly what used to be dangerous turns into something primal, desperate, almost poetic if poetry was sticky and breathless. Rogue tests you early, there’s this scene - locker room, dripping tiles, wet echo - and she doesn’t know if she wants to kiss you or crush you. The writing snaps between tender and filthy so fast it makes your brain lag behind your pulse.

The wild part is how easily it flips from soft-eyed confessions with Jean Grey to pure shameless corruption paths with Emma Frost whispering filth you don’t even think Marvel’s lawyers could process. There’s something dirty-luxurious about that mansion setting; so many doors, each one unlocking another line you’ll probably regret reading at work. Some of the animations (I swear they move like low-res ghosts) have that “almost too human” vibe - you catch a tiny twitch of Rogue’s fingers clutching skin, and it’s hotter than the whole naked scene that follows. But then Storm steps in later and everything turns theatrical, lightning illuminating this ridiculously intimate chaos. You forget half the choices you made, yet every dialogue click still feels personal, like someone watching over your shoulder quietly taking notes.

And sure, maybe Jubilee’s route doesn’t sync right, and Wanda sometimes clips through clothing (yeah, that bug - literally distracting), but when those powers mix - light sparks tracing across bodies, voices overlapping, love and dominance tangling - it hits this weird emotional chord. Like half romance novel, half scandalous lab experiment. I hated that one sound loop kept restarting mid-scene, yet I replayed the moment anyway. It's messy, horny sci-fi and doesn’t pretend otherwise. Maybe that’s why it works. Maybe.

I don’t even know what I expected when I clicked on *that* thumbnail, but this game’s hotel isn’t a place you walk into - it’s something that kind of swallows you. The first girl greets you with that half-dead sparkle, like she just crawled out of a morgue and straight into your lap, and somehow it works? Her skin’s got that faint blue tint, but when she starts talking dirty, you forget the “zombie” part real quick. There’s this weird rhythm to how the rooms unlock - like the game is teasing you, always dangling another girl behind some invisible counter. You think you’re done after the scientist chick who keeps calling you “specimen,” but then bam, the door slides open and there’s Luna Snow looking like she wandered out of a Marvel crossover fanfic gone horny.

What messes with me is how inconsistent everything feels in the best way. Sometimes it’s tender, sometimes it’s like watching a fever dream where Velma Dinkley is teaching you anatomy lessons you definitely didn’t get in school. The moaning animation syncs up too well with the clicking sound - tiny thing, but once you notice, you can’t unhear it. And don’t get me started on the hotel lobby music, which sounds like someone mixed elevator jazz with funeral bells; somehow it fits when a zombie nurse is giving you a handjob that looks way too professional. The cum-as-currency idea? Ridiculous, yet satisfying. It’s like capitalism finally found its true form. I kinda hate how much I laughed at myself keeping score like a finance bro.

There’s one glitch that drives me nuts: sometimes the girls’ eyes freeze mid-blowjob, like you’ve offended them spiritually, but maybe that’s the point? Half the charm is that it doesn’t apologize for being messy. The writing swings from cheesy one-liners to genuinely filthy pillow talk that catches you off guard. You’ll finish one scene thinking, “Okay, that’s enough,” and five minutes later you’re unlocking Katara doing something that’d make Nickelodeon lawyers cry. It’s a trainwreck in a silk robe, and I mean that as a compliment.