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Remy LeBeau/Reader/Rogue:

“You see,” Remy drawls as he slinks down low between your legs, drawn open in such exposing manner off the edge of the bed, “I think you too beautiful, chere, to be appreciated by only me.”

“Uh-huh?” You ask, trying to prop yourself up on your elbows as tremble against the chuckled huff of air against your entrance. As his hands draw up your thigh and press a dedicated, lingering kiss to the soft, vulnerable flesh.

“So Remy think he need some help tonight,” He grins, and you can feel the curvature of that wicked grin against the heat in between your legs, “To make you feel good, minou.”

“And that’s where I come in, sugar,” Rogue coos from besides you—drawing your attention away from the most distracting, delicious display of Remy to the figure besides you. To admire the soft light that curves over her body, devoid of clothing: save the elbow-length gloves matte green in stark contrast to the sheets beneath you both.

“And—”—You lick your lips, feeling the press of those green eyes that gleam with hunger at the gesture—“—What are you going to do?”

“Way I see it,” Rogue trails her hand up the soft slope of your stomach, her hands slow, torturous as she makes navigation to the swell of your breasts, “I think I got a good idea where to start.”

Her hands are so gentle as she kneads the soft flesh—as she cups them both, making experimental squeeze. Her eyes dart up to you in a lustful wonder as you moan, a soporific chord of noise, eyes involuntarily drawing shut.

“Think they like it, Marie,” Remy says from between your legs, where he makes lingering kiss against your clit. And when you make shunted, punched-out gasp, your fingers making tight, curling clutch into the mattress, he chuckles in wicked measure.

“Course I do,” You respond, letting her see the lust that overcomes you as she continues to squeeze, each successive one more confident, more forceful than the last. You make pursed-lipped moan into the silence as you beam lazily up at her.

“You like how they feel?” You ask her with a lilting gasp—she nods.

“They’re so soft,” She replies in hushed, reverent tone as she assesses the effect she’s had on you. “I always wanted to know how they felt.”

You laugh, but it’s an arrested one: Remy’s tongue makes slick lap against you and you feel your brow twist up in delight. And Rogue, picking up the slack, paws at you with more urgency.

“Don’t stop,” You breathlessly plead of both of them, though it’s Rogue’ eyes that find yours. You watch the way that her mouth moves agape in a desire that moves the cant of her hand, that persuades the languorous flick of her thumbs against the bead of your nipples.

And this, in tandem with the way that Remy’s tongue draws your clit into your mouth, summon a broken noise that sends a sigh of pleasure from Rogue. And a groan that thrums through your body from your attendant below.

Rogue’s fingers work over the pearl of your nipple, taking them into forefinger and thumb, pinching them in careful measure; her eyes watch you for reaction. You make a humming note of desire against the full of your lips as Remy’s tongue laves at you, savoring your taste.

“You can go harder than that,” You whisper to Rogue, who chuckles—a flush of red blooms in slow descent over her face.

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” She whispers in response, revealing a tick of anxiety. You shake your head as you smile up at her glassy-eyed.

“Maybe I want you to hurt me,” You grin—Remy chuckles to pause from a loitering lick that has you hiccup on the conclusion of your sentence.

“They like a little fight, Marie,” Remy makes mischievous grin against you, “They can take it.”

Rogue’s eyes hold yours in careful, implicative meter. “You sure about that?”

“You scratch my back,” You huff out as her fingers work at you, as Remy’s tongue takes advance against the wet heat of your sex, “I’ll scratch yours.”

“How?” Rogue asks, a little giggle tumbling free, more color flushing in drawn crescent over her body. God, she’s so beautiful—you know that you want a taste.

“I’ll figure it out,” You wave this away as you feel another crest of pleasure draw over you. “For now—just don’t stop.”

And both of them are happy to oblige. You think you have a long night ahead of you.

Jason Todd/Reader/Roy Harper:

“Thought we’d try something a little different, sweetheart,” Jason says as he slinks the musculature of a body you know well besides you. “You know Roy, I presume?”

“Charmed,” You say to Roy who slumps his body in freefall besides yours—you can’t help but laugh at his antics even though the three of you lack clothing in normal interactions.

“Likewise,” Roy returns huskily, holding out his hand so that the two of you make shake—you acquiesce, even though you’ve known Roy since all three of you tracked low double-digits.

“So what’s your role in all this?” You ask him, watching as he tries to keep the cant of his gaze respectful—but those blue eyes are wandering down the landscape of a body that he’s never been so close to in proximity.

“Well,” Roy says, testing the waters as he lets his fingers drag up the unerring slope of your thigh, “Jay here was telling me about how he has a problem with your, uh, tits.”

“That’s news to me,” You reply, swiveling your head around to look at Jason, who smirks at the three-man play he’s being drawn into. “Coulda sworn copping a feel was your favorite thing, Todd.”

“Sure is,” Jason says, and at this, he takes gentle albeit needful squeeze around your breast—groping in slow, unhurried measure. When you groan, sucking against your teeth at the way he already ignites a plume of want between your legs—you’re poignantly aware of the punched-out groan that Roy makes sidelong you.

“But I think something so great,” Jason continues, holding your vision growing distinctively glassy as he continues to touch you the way you like, “Should be shared.”

“That so?” You ask, catching stilted breath on the last syllable—you turn with less ease than before to regard Roy, who now openly admires a body freely offered to him. “Roy, have you wanted to touch them?”

His pupils dilate in such satisfying manner as you ask in coy, dulcet manner, “Touch me?”

“Wouldn’t say the thought hasn’t crossed my mind,” Speaks his voice—though his cock is already jutting out with poignant interest. “Once or twelve times.”

You laugh as Jason takes more fanning spread of his fingers and squeezes—your back arches, allowing your tits to be on fuller, better display. You know that you’re not imagining the worshipful “Oh, fuck,” Roy makes as he looks.

You fight your lapse of attention to your third party member, and focus on Roy, who still awaits your permission. Such a gentleman.

“Go for it, Roy,” You urge him, looking at the way his hand twitches up wantonly. “Take a squeeze.”

“Mind if I take a taste?” Roy asks, and there’s something so earnestly hopeful in the way he watches for your approval.

“I’ll be mad if you don’t,” You grin, and so Roy begins slow descent over your nipple. Exhales hot breath that only makes your nipple pearl up at the exposure, makes you shiver as Jason continues to make dedicated ministration to your other.

And then Roy draws the full flat of his tongue over your nipple—and you let your head loll back as you groan in pleasure.

“Oh, Roy—”—Your implicit plea for more is satisfied as he draws the full of it into the wet heat of his mouth. And when he sucks—your hand curls around the coil of his shoulder to anchor yourself.

“Oh, fuck—”—You make breathless approval—“—Don’t stop doing that.”

“Mind if I join him, sweetheart?” Jason asks, working the slope of his thumb up your tit. All you can do is nod as another lick from Mr. Harper has you making pitiful noises.

When Jason’s mouth latches onto your nipple, you can savor the contrast immediately. Roy is hungry; starved for a taste that he might never receive again. Eager to scald the feel of you onto his tongue for good as he laps at it, draws it between his teeth in a spark of euphoric agony.

Jason—is deliberate. Is slow and even-paced with his licks as he works his tongue around the bud he coaxes to pertness with his mouth. Satisfies you with the punched-out moans that you can’t resist making, as your legs draw instinctively open.

“Oh my God—”—You beg—“—Don’t stop—”

A hand draws down to the heat between your legs, seeking to satisfy you further. You’re not sure who it is. All you know, as those fingers sink into you, that you’ve never felt heaven like this before.

Logan Howlett/Reader/Victor Creed:

“Well,” Victor grins as he saunters through the door, taking deliberate means to duck his head as he clears the frame, “Isn’t this a nice little treat for me.”

You can’t resist the tremble, the shock of adrenaline that darts up your body from where you sit on the bed. Logan had suggested this—you had acquiesced—but having him here, looming over you, even with the presence of Logan in foreground behind you—

You shift your hands, bound in thick twine behind your back, watching as he observes the curvature of your naked form on the edge of the mattress.

“You do anythin’ funny,” Logan growls—Victor doesn’t even look his direction as he continues to take ample eyeful of your body—“—They don’t like it—you’re done.”

“Don’t think that’ll be the problem,” Victor chuckles. His hand extends out in muscular length so that you might better admire those wicked claws as they find the curve of your jaw. You don’t resist the instinctive tension as his claw rakes across your jaw: but how surprisingly gentle it is as the talon rakes down your vulnerable skin.

“Think the problem won’t be them beggin’ me to get out of your bed, Logan,” Victor asserts; and finally, those eyes take hold on your man from behind. A scuffle of movement makes auditory register from behind you—you can only assume that Logan works to defend his pride—but all falls short when you moan.

The noise surprises you yourself, your gaze dragging down from the malicious grin Victor bestows upon you both, to watch the way that his hand has seized around your tit.

The way that his claw is dragging across the sensitive nub to make another whimpering noise—and the huff of satisfied delight that sinks past those gleaming canines.

“Thought so,” Victor gloats, smug in his satisfaction. “Always wanted to get a hand on these—”

He twists his wrist and you cry out, but the noise is far too lewd to be misconstrued as anything other than pleasure.

“Wonder what they’ll look like—”—He leans in as his claws scrape against your nipple and you gasp open-mouthed against the terrain of his mouth—“—When you’re bouncin’ on my cock, sweetheart.”

You chuff a breath in successive means, letting a little of that alacrity return to your gaze. “Didn’t know Logan gave you permission for that, Creed.”

The defiance makes his grin grow wider, more rugged—more carnivorous. “He didn’t, honey.”

You hear the approach of your man, feel the scrape of his wide fingers against yours. Silently re-establishing who’ll be fucking you over the bed.

“But I’ll earn my way up to it,” Victor chuckles throatily—and if your thighs clench together at the way that it spurs a heat to life—you know they’re both poignantly aware. From how the air goes taut, electric—hungry.

“That’s right,” Logan grunts as you feel a familiar hand draw around your chin, bid you look up to him—and the press of his tongue against yours is welcome. As that hand grows a tick more possessive around your breast, and you find yourself moaning against Logan’s tongue.

The two of you re-establish the pecking order with heated kiss, as your mouth works against his, as you breathe in the masculine scent of his body against yours. As another man’s hand works against your body, idly stroking his thumb up the curve of your nipple.

And when you pull away, you can feel the roil of his stare on you. Feel it in your periphery as Logan pushes you against the bed—and out of Victor’s grasp.

“You wanna stop,” Logan warns as Victor eyes up first, second and third course, “You let us know.”

“I will,” You reassure with a smirk.

“Yes,” Victor says as he takes side of your body allotted to him—with means to take more, “They will.”

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Perhaps Ishmael thought it strange at first to occupy himself with odd bedfellows—but there is something in particularity about the company he keeps. In the long-yawning shadows that bleed out from moonlight vast waxing full, borne by fat-bodied heavenly body in tapestry of stars from yon window: so Ishmael reposes in bed.

But it is an arresting, disruptive sleep. There is no rest that can be gleaned for the man as he watches the motes of air that dance in what little dim-lit, illuminated perimeter of the room. He lies still: but he is beset by other thoughts.

One of them is the fact that he is cold: the blanket is no balm to him. The other is the concept that he is in this state of discomfiture given the company that he shares landscape of bed with.

Not that he has not before: having little monetary prospect and necessity to be economical has afforded him occasional rooming with odd fellow. It is the particularity of the odd fellow that he makes residence with, in the hypothetical repose of slumber. That is—if slumber were to find him, which it has been in the unfortunate absence of as of late.

But he cannot find himself to look at the person that occupies such housing of thought in foundation of mind rapidly devolving. Instead, he looks to mantelpiece, to hearth—and what little is set into definition is given further clarity as his eyes adjust. And he sees what he has been searching for in the abyssal darkness that has loomed over him in both body and soul.

The idol—how it sits in stately leisure on the top of the shelf, in very regal manner. With its clasped hands and omniscient expression that gives way to a neutrality that one may regard in marked serenity.

How Ishmael realizes that in his appraisal of it—and his owner—that he has gone from wary fear of the alien now to a more composed familiarity. And, with each recurring instant that it is worshipped before—with increasing fondness.

But there is impetus for that too, he realizes; and he cannot find himself to even articulate it in the depths of his consciousness. To make work of the cacophonous thoughts that ring out in the foreground of his mind, as he considers gravity of concepts that he can scarcely apply definitive meaning to.

Of his bedmate. Of his supposed ‘marital’ partner—and how this has sent his mind asunder as he considers the eyebrows raised, the preconceived notions that a language barrier might provide.

O, but how his heart was spurred in such indicative adrenaline that aroused such passion within his loins. That surely it was not lapse of judgement that persuaded him to be at ease with the absurdity of marriage to Queequg; but asserted acquiescence instead.

An approval, instead—of marriage to this man that reclines besides him. Almost as though the actual term were to be given credence here instead of the mistranslation.

And how they slumber—hypothetically, again, for Ishmael’s thoughts are far too in chaos to approach a vestige of sleep—together, as one would assumed wedded spouses to do.

This makes him find the labor of breathing, of ensuring quality of life that is not suffocated, that is not titillated by the idea. How still the physical afterimage of his arm slung over the heft of his body in previous instance has remained branded upon hism in such dedicated commemoration. How he wishes that it will never fade in tactile imagery though the moment was brief and long since past.

And now, he thinks, he can deny himself opportunity no longer. He must look upon the person who has plagued such unproductive train of thought, if he cannot find a way to meander into the boulevard of sleep. And so he adjusts himself upon the territory of bedsheets that he has doled out in equal sharing for himself, and lets his head turn to look at that slumbering figure beside him.

And it is with great, horrific adrenaline that produces itself instantaneously, he finds that he has not been alone in his pursuit of sleep, wide-eyed and in waking world.

A pair of dark eyes, framed by tattoos that mark curvature and interval of face, stare back at him in nocturnal quality. Intense and carrying demeanor that level with scrutiny, even in the hour when soporific exhaustion should be only determining feature.

And yet, alert, awake, Queequeg stares back at Ishmael, who has forgotten that natural capcacity of breathing on one’s own. And when he speaks, Ishmael finds he can summon no greater than hoarse whisper, afraid to impugn upon silence that he did not realize was consciously inhabited by more than he.

“I did not know that you were awake as well,” Ishmael utters, at modicum of volume that even in the moderation he keeps—feels loud as thunder. Louder still is the pounding of heart that thrums in his ears, blood rushing torrential to locale of body that feels far too occupied with chill.

“You have not been asleep,” Queequeg says, “So I am awake as well.”

“There is no need,” Ishmael replies in quick retort; belated comprehension ensures the realization that Queequeg has been aware for far longer than he wishes to know. Watching him: and how spurious his heart is to be brought to greater pace at this.

“The ship leaves soon,” Queequeg asserts, and there is unspoken directive in his voice: that Ishmael wastes necessary energy by remaining awake. “It will be a while before you find stable bed again.”

Ishmael laughs, and the noise is brittle and an aberration against the quiet. “I have been without stable bed on sea and land. This will be no different.”

“You were looking at Yojo.” Queequeg says—and whatever other laudable thought Ishmael might have used in adequate distraction suddenly disappears, train of thought abruptly eliminated into night vapor.

“I—”—Ishmael begins though no further dialogue emerges henceforth. “Yes.”

“Do you wish to pray before it again?” Queequeg asks, and there is something that seeks to appease—to reassure Ishmael. Ishmael shakes his head in order to discourage the thought; he does not think he has the willpower to school locomotion to his knees.

“No.” Ishmael admits, and what is directed next is without foresight of time, confessed with exhausted immediacy, “Though perhaps searching for guidance is something I do need.”

“Guidance for what?” Queequeg asks, and there is something in the arch of that noble nose, those defined cheekbones made sharper by geometric shape—he is a beauty. Framed in moonlight, he is ever the picture of royalty that he must be in New Zealand.

“I suppose,” Ishmael replies, “In understanding you.”

Queequeg is silent, his face impartial in evaluation of his bedmate. His eyes only hold the direction that Ishmael’s own possess: back at him. Ishmael has himself wondered if he will ever be in possession of breath again, the arterial modulation of his lungs stunted and quartered into nothingness.

“What do you find confusing?” Queequeg asks—and now there is a fine malaise of panic that attacks Ishmael. That makes him search for words that do not actually present the problem, but instead make diverting task. And perhaps then Ishmael may turn over and pretend as though this set of circumstances is nightmare vivid enough to be considered real.

“You said we were married,” Ishmael begins, searching facial reaction that Queequeg does not provide by any iota, “But you say that we may be friends by your definition.”

Queequeg says nothing. Perhaps Ishmael shall be his own gravedigger and pallbearer at once as he poises at the site of his own cemetery plot.

“But if I were to ever go to the land where your peoples reside,” Ishmael continues, worried he may find composure dashed away at any instant, “What would they see us as?”

“They would see us as friends of highest degree,” Queequeg answers—and if it produces regret, then Ishmael does not realize darkness does little to obscure how it registers on his face. As his eyes dart to folded dunes of fabric that elapse between their bodies.

“I see.” Ishmael replies, though the affirmation of this answer is as bitter to taste as it is to swallow. This is why he does not realize that Queequeg’s hand reaches for the cliff of his jaw until it has already secured proper foothold upon it. Until Ishmael finds his eyes directed to share in the bask of his bedmate’s once more.

“But you and I may be more,” Queequeg says, “If that is what you wish.”

And with his hand about his chin, the pad of his thumb making vivid, irresistible scale—with invitation so properly given—with propriety flouted, convention askew—and door locked—

Ishmael finds himself at precipice. Finds himself at crossroads that perhaps he did not ever consider himself to approach: yet perhaps there was never proper catalyst like Queequeg to suggest it.

This is all that he considers before he makes decision that has him inch along the sequestering of the bed, drawn on tether by a hand that guides him closer. And then he is drawn into the wide embrace of arms that are both muscular yet secure, powerful yet warm. Authoritative; yet with him, carrying gentility that feels of a gift he may only have possession of knowing.

They share the span of silence as consideration is made, as ideas are considered, as lines are quietly redrawn. It is Ishmael who first works to close in on the terrain of Queequeg’s mouth, and find it claimed by his own. To taste the tobacco from tomohawk set dutifully on table—acrid and oaky and intoxicating. To have it spread across his teeth by the swipe of Queequeg’s tongue, making tableau to his affection.

And what affection; how consumptive and motivational it is, as Ishmael works to unbutton the shirt that Queequeg has retired for in the night. As Queequeg does the same, though Ishmael’s hands bear tremble his partner’s do not. Perhaps Ishmael has spent too endured a time in denial of what was there all along.

The unbuttoning of shirt reveals smooth muscle with interspersing extension of tribal tattoo—Ishmael lets out soft, desirous groan at the sight. But it makes transformative verbalization into a pleasurable sigh as he finds the fan of Queequeg’s fingers making journey to a waistband that is slowly being tugged down.

The noise Ishmael makes is traitorous, instinctive betrayal that indicates how greatly he wishes for this culmination. How he needs more than the palming of Queequeg’s hand over the burgeoning desire that grows in between his legs.

And then Queequeg’s hand moves—and Ishmael finds his own drawn to provide similar privilege. When his bedmate groans into the expanse of his mouth, when his hands clench in possessive yet rapturous way around him—how he realizes this is fantasy that he never thought possible.

And they both work to sate each other, to find satisfaction made by entwining limb. By harmonious tangle of arms, unifying scrape of tongue that savors taste made sweeter by the partner that shares in the physical delight.

Ishmael finally breaks away to give himself opportunity to breathe, feeling heady flush already spreading across territory of his body. To his inspired need, it seems that Queequeg grows harder of breath as well—they both shift curved palms against each other as one and share chorus of stifled groan.

“I had only hoped,” Ishmael confesses, and while he whispers there is delight now clouded in the statement he proposes, “I did not think that it would be reciprocated.”

“Let me show you how I will,” Queequeg states—and then brief quarter is over as the two of them search to make body accessible once more. And Ishmael slakes his thirst against the exertion of Queequeg’s tongue, his body—his altar to worship at now, his own.

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