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Everyone knows that your husband is unfaithful; it is question of who doesn’t know rather than who is aware. Yet you know what you are here for: pretty showpiece made to demonstrate what good breeding you shall provide for your lineage when the time comes.

Though, it appears that the time will never come, considering that your spouse’s eyes, and hands, wander. 

You know better than to contest it; you know the price that you will pay for derision or distance. So you play the part: awaken to handmaidens that rouse you in a solitary bed, let them entrap you in delightfully colored garments that belie the grave expression you are used to bearing. And you sit beside an unfaithful man when court is in session. 

Sometimes, you wish that your husband were not so accomplished—so very revered, so very beloved in Arthur’s Court. To see the way that sunlight catches the coil of his locks in such beautiful fashion, the arch of handsome jaw, the gleam of wandering eyes. 

Perhaps then there would be those that have sympathy for you. Save the people who have declined to share your marital bed with him. Or those who are also without agency to defend themselves. 

Perhaps it would make court today more tolerable, as you stand besides him in waiting. Watch him shift from foot-to-foot with restlessness that seems more irritable as of late.

He takes deliberation to avoid even sparing you glance, though you have been gusseted and laced into manner of colorful garments. Though you are every part the perfect spouse that he does not deserve. 

As he whispers to the squire besides him in muttered invocation “How I’d lop arm and leg so that I could retire to stables—Catriona says she has a surprise for me.” 

You try not to wince. Try to keep brave face as you think of that pretty-faced maid that casts insolent glances at you when you dine with your husband and she is forced to serve you.

You know she dreams of the privilege to wear your clothes, to eat your fine food, to be fucked officially by your husband. But the shine wears off for your husband quick. There will be others. 

This is the only reason that you keep your head high. At least, until squire engaged in conversation mutters back “Thought you were to see Tess.” 

You stiffen at this name that does not make registered documentation in your head. That does not ring spark of familiarity. In the distance, you are vaguely aware of Arthur thanking Galahad and Jason Blood for services rendered to the kingdom once more. 

“And I will, tomorrow behind the mill,” Your husband chortles back in low meter, “Should a man know to keep his mouth shut.”

They laugh for jokes that carry little water for you. But internally you are broiling with emotion. As the crowd erupts with applause for achievements that matter little, and you are forced like marionette on string to play spouse—and you clap. When you swallow, you wonder why it is so difficult to do so. 

When assembly is dismissed, you turn to your husband, lovely and arrogant and liar—and find that he is already walking away. Your hands clasp with such immediacy at the couplet of sleeve that it surprises you—and it surprises him as well. 

He turns, and you are spared the first glimpse he has squandered your way. And his eyes are cold—and his jaw is set. So bereft of the warmth that he will regale to passerby or woman that he wants to fuck. 

“What have you need of?” Your husband asks, roughly, brusquely—not in manner that such esteemed lord should speak to his esteemed spouse. You find yourself stalled for words, especially in the face of the impatience that he so openly displays, the derision that curls arc of those full-bodied lips. 

“I had only thought,” You say, smothering need to express nervousness through the tic of your fingers, “That we might lunch together in the gardens.” 

His eyes regain a honed edge—apathy. Contempt, at best. “You are not wanting for company. You shall not require mine to go, nor mine permission.” 

Something spurs in the pit of your belly, a coalescing of emotions that you know you should be well-used to—but it burns white hot. “I would only wish for the company of mine husband.” 

He scoffs—as though he, too, is aware of the nominal quality of the title he bears. “And I would wish for reprieve from castle grounds.” 

You don’t know what motivates your mouth to move in articulation as it does. “I was not made to think the stables were not part of castle grounds.” 

Your husband draws still. Picturesque display of chivalrous beauty made beatifically malicious as he stares down at you. As he comprehends what you are aware of and considers best path of dialogue to proceed. 

He closes in with deliberate step—to passerby, it would be the way that loving couple embraces each other, the way his hand settles on your shoulder, his other to bid your chin look to him. 

“You shall not,” He directs with glorious, chiseled smile, “Deprive me of mine entitlements.” 

His hand clenches about your shoulder to agony with such alacrity you can only gasp. But he holds you still enough in the anchoring of his grip that you cannot move away as he leans in, almost as though to share kiss. 

“Nor, should you behave,” He whispers in shell of your ear, “Shall I deprive you of yours.” 

You go still, knowing you are at dangerous precipice. And when he presses a kiss to the apple of your cheek, it is as if flint scratches upon steel. He withdraws, leaving the painful afterimage of his hand clenched upon your shoulder, bolstered by buoyant smile once more. 

“Good mid-day, my love,” He says; and to the innocent witness, they would not presume the derision that he speaks it with. But you alone hold the spectacle of his eyes that stare at you. 

And when he turns to leave—you can only watch the departure of his impressive figure in suffocating immobility. You are left standing a long while in the perimeter of King Arthur’s emptying court as you continue arc of gaze in the direction whence he left. 

You are stiff-legged as you retire from the courtroom, unaware of pair of eyes that watch you as you go. Trapped in the claustrophobia of your internal dialogue, you can only make familiar trail that you know to the gardens. Edenic in nature, dotted in clustered interval with seasonal flowers that make aromatic bouquet. Something beautiful to appreciate in the midst of such mundane horrors. 

So you find yourself, reposed upon marble bench underneath the long-armed, yawning branches of Yew tree, beset on all sides by bifurcated snapdragon and far-reaching lilies.

You are so busy wallowing in self-pity as you consider your fate—one of pretty, paralytic captivity—that you are unaware that you are awaited by audience until they make themselves known. 

Your name is such familiar yet melodic note on their tongue that you cannot help but find mesmerizing quality to it. As you find those sharp blue eyes that are watching you, have been watching you, summoned by well-known vessel. 

“Twas not mine intention to disturb,” Sir Jason Blood bows in typical modicum of respect, “But to request pleasure of thine company.” 

You find yourself at lack of response as you look at that angular face, as you consider those piercing eyes. How he befits such different archetype of beauty than your husband, who is of the classical type. This Jason Blood is cut from different, melancholic quality. 

“Oh,” You begin, remembering your propriety, remembering your duties, “Mine company is not privilege you need seek permission for, Sir Jason.” 

Perhaps there is ironic echo considering your previous conversation with your husband, though there is no way that your present company could know. Yet he speaks. 

“Jason,” He corrects you, and there is such stark delivery to his request you can only look back, “Was it not Jason when we were young?” 

“Were it was,” You agree, smoothing out the pleats of your sleeve, “Though we have since let youth pass us by.” 

“And still,” Jason returns in such neutral manner, “Your beauty remains untouched as it was years before.” 

You duck your head—knight of the Round Table he is, but you are married and he is not. This marks the intention of the conversation in different manner, with onus of responsibility on you to summon back etiquette. 

And yet still heat slinks under the sinew of your skin at the compliment. And you must resist the smile that wishes to make presence on your mouth. 

“You do me kindness, Jason,” You reply stiffly to the snapdragons that bow and bend in passing breeze—it is easier to regard them than the intense cant of those consumptive eyes. “It is heartening to see friendly face on these grounds.” 

Perhaps it is not necessary to emphasize syllable upon friendly—but you cannot be without attempt. Especially in such open-aired, public setting. 

This is why you are unprepared for Jason’s reply. “Your husband defiles the sanctity of your marriage.” 

Your eyes fly up with such immediacy, your body draws rigid with such instantaneous inertia that you can only stare. Can only utter in urgent whisper, “Sir Jason—” 

“And you are in want of better prospects befitting person of your station,” He draws closer, “And of fine character of quality.” 

You are looking askance for suitable exit, for proper means to leave this conversation. Yet that implacable approach is not stymied as he begins to corner you into what was once comfortable escape from your troubles. 

“Sir Jason, your words are unwarranted and without merit,” You begin, finding your footing on shaky ground. The words ring so blatantly false as you look at that encroaching figure. “Surely you do not carry such sentiment for your brother-in-arms.” 

“Were he my blood brother I would consider abortive measure,” Jason says, “And allow him painless death to afterlife, a privilege far more than he deserves.” 

“Sir Jason—”—There is no visible witness, but flowers have ears. You cannot be certain. “I require your apology at once—”

He is before you with such immediacy that you are summoned into silence. As he holds his hand out to you, and you look at what lies in landscape of open palm. 

“Should you wish better alternative to premeditated fate,” Jason says—and all you do is look at the black, waxy candle that is yours for the taking, “You shall do me great favor and light this candle tonight, whence you abed.” 

“I—”—You look at totem offered, look up to him. “I do not understand.” 

“Light it,” Jason urges, coaxing it into a hand that you don’t even realize you have extended out to him, “And you may provide inquiry then.” 

It is heavy. There is significant gravity to it as you hold it, and as you mull over the information that he has given you.

A saner person would exile him from the presence of your company, would inform your husband at once. Would not consider the absurdity of this interaction with second thought. 

But instead you reply, “I am grateful, Sir Jason.” 

“As am I,” He replies, maintaining the cant of those glacial eyes upon you. You still feel the press of them upon your body even when he has returned from where he came, leaving you alone in the gardens once more. 

It is ridiculousness. It is foolishness. You continue through motions of routine day, where you are made to dine in the company of Arthur and the other knights and spouses they make illusion of faithfulness to. Jason sits to distant corner, bachelor that he is, and only holds the presence of your gaze once before he returns to his cups. 

And you mull over the candle that has taken heavy occupation in the folds of your pocket. As you consider the foolishness of this venture, while you watch your husband have endured conversation with the scullery maid that refills his goblet.

As his hands wander to avenues that any would deem inappropriate, were it not your husband. And you, meant to abide in silence, return your attention to food that chews to ash in your mouth. 

You depart to your marital chambers alone at crossroads, with the pit of your stomach churning bile. As your maids shuck you of ornate, empty-purposed garments and undo the upholstery you have been made to take occupation in. 

And the landscape of your bed yawns ever wider. 

Candles are set, prayers are made, and you are left alone. And you sit within great silent interval in the middle of your marital bed, while your husband fucks an unknown woman on the other side of the castle. 

You do not realize that you are lighting the candle until you sit at the edge of your bed, watching plume of flame dance in flickering manner in the Stygian shadow. You look to the walls, to search for aberration, for change, for definitive appearance—but nothing happens. 

Perhaps it was symbolic, this gesture from Jason Blood. But you have little need for trinkets in the face of your reality. You sigh and make way to find slumbering distraction under the covers. 

The candle goes out.

And you are submerged into darkness, only illuminated by the thin slat of light that window makes into the room. For perilous second, you remain paralyzed in confused terror before you turn back—an errant breeze. 

But the candle, it appears, has re-lit itself. And with it, there is terrible company that stands in the threshold of your room, illuminated by dancing flame that illuminates iridescent eyes. 

“Great God,” you cannot find it in yourself to scarper back across the bed. Away from this monster dressed in clothing of gentleman, with red eyes that seem to see all in the confines of your room. 

“Good night, sleeping beauty,” The demon says, “Thou hav’st guest.” 

“I must be lost in dreams,” You assert. For this, you are rewarded with throaty, wicked cackle as he takes further step. And still you do not retreat. 

“Thou require’st demonic kin in aid—”—The demon puts his clawed hand to chest, casting his wretched face in more miserable shadow—“—Tis Etrigan that for thee, shall be best.” 

You cannot find conceivable answer to the walking illusion that haunts your room, only to watch him bow and approach. 

“Who dost thy need killed?” He grins. “Who dost thy need slayed?” 

You smell brimstone. You see the demonic take residence in your room. But still you cling to false hope—your voice sounds foreign even to your own ears. 

“I must be dreaming,” You say, “This is no more than illusion which plagues me.”

He chuckles again, and takes another treacherous step towards you, so that you might better witness the gleam of his canines. 

“‘Tis the liar that tells thee candied word,” He informs you, “Etrigan does naught but tell thee the truth.” 

The truth—you are reminded of his reason. His purpose for arriving. In the addled foreground of your mind, you think that there must be a reason for this dream. Some modicum of logic informs you: you must play along. 

Very well. You have played parts before; you shall play them now before deadly shade that occupies your slumber. 

“So, you are here—”—Your words falter as you look at the way that he stares back in voracious hunger—“—To help me? To…kill my husband?” 

Etrigan, it appears, is delighted to provide you answer. “So my good services have thus been spurred—”

At this, he offers humble bow to you, though his eyes never leave yours—“—So that I may slay thine husband forsooth.” 

You think of proper inquiry, before a thought prevails. “He is esteemed knight, though—of Arthur’s court. It would take—”

“Twould take a demon’s power what kill him,” Etrigan purrs.

There is audible delight in the way he speaks, in the guttural tones he considers murder with casual quality. You almost think of how feline he is in this moment, in the glee he takes. 

“And demon’s power be offered to thee,” Etrigan continues as he makes more considerable distance to you, “But Etrigan does not abide by free whim. A demon wants exchange be paid to me.” 

“Payment?” You ask, thinking of riches that are your husband’s, goods from your dowry that have long been squandered. “I have nothing of value to provide you.” 

He laughs, as though there is joke that you are unaware of being made. His voice is gutturally corrugated as he speaks again. 

“Thou hast handfasted with foul lying beast,” Etrigan says with such derision in reference to your husband who is in affairs unknown, “Perhaps Etrigan might serve better groom.” 

Once more in this odd dream, you are left without answer. With eerie quality of sensation that seats upon your shoulders. Much as it does thricefold as you ask, “You would wish to marry…me?” 

Again, a roaring bellow of laugh as though you have made witty joke. One of those talons works to stroke at his chin as he appraises you. And to your surprise, you do not find yourself shirking away from the impropriety of his gaze. 

“Fine spouse I’ll make once thine marriage is ceased,” Etrigan returns, “Better than facing such undeserved doom.” 

Your answer which you thought founded with good resource dies on your lips. A life as a shell, with your husband, in these gilded towers.

With little more to occupy you than the prospect of children he seems unwilling to produce, in an estate that is not your own, with nary an ally to accompany you. You stare at the demon who evaluates you with growing smirk. And you make your choice. 

“Marriage to demon cannot be so inferior to marriage with animal I have now,” You declare with the finality of one approaching the gallows. “I accept your proposal, Etrigan.” 

At this, the demon laughs, and evocative chords of Hell come with him—terrible and foul—but you do not flinch. You lack the will to do so as you make this tableau with hell. 

“A fine demonstration of thine valor,” He chortles, “Lucky me—to find mortal with mettle.” 

You think, at least, this shall be entertaining reminiscence when you wake up. But for now, you allow yourself to play along as the demon gestures to sands beyond you. 

“Return to thine bed—late be the hour.” Etrigan grins, and holds out a monsterous hand for you to hold. “But first, thine spouse has matters to settle.” 

“How will I know that you have been successful in endeavor you seek?” Still you approach the open threshold his hand is levied out to you. 

“A demon does not shirk in his duty.” He says with such velvet reassurance, you almost forget that you are in company of a demon. “Nor ere eve of wedding to such beauty.”

You realize he is referring to you. You swallow as you look at him—to your husband promised, in exchange for husband murdered. 

“Take this beast’s hand, mine sweet prize to be won,” He offers clawed, taloned hand to you once more. Should there be blood that rushes in your ears, the meter of your heart pounding in your throat, you are unaware. All that you are conscious of is the hand that looks for yours.

“Your word your bond—and his life shalt be done.” 

You do not know if it is desperation or madness that motivates you to clasp upon his hand with both of yours. But he cackles and it is a foul, wicked note that summons ailing wind that screeches high in your ears—

—And then you are awake in your bed, roused by shaking hands and terrified voices that work to return you to the land of the living. 

“Your grace, your grace—”—Your maid, eyes wide with fear and terror; you blink away the bleary guise of sleep. 

“Yes, yes,” You say as you find your senses returning to you in slow execution, “What is the matter? What has happened?” 

“Your husband,” She says, and you find your body growing cold under her grasp that seeks to bring you to full-seated posture, “He has died—on the outskirts of the castle.” 

All you can do is stare up at her in muted shock. And all you can do is listen to the recounting of a tale that makes you grow colder still with every enunciated syllable. 

Of the way your husband was deeply in his cups as he wandered the grounds with er, selected company, as he meandered down the promenade of Arthur’s great courtyard. As he suddenly seized forward, wrenched forward by near-supernatural force, with great expulsion of blood from his mouth, flung into the air before horrified witness. 

“May I see the body?” You find yourself asking—the maid seems surprised at your inquiry. But soon you learn that there is reason for the hollow quality to her eyes. 

“There is no body left to speak of, your grace,” The maid says, and she makes the desperate sign of the cross. “At least—nothing that you would wish to see.” 

Miserable, painful, wretched death. Far from painless that he promised, you think. And something else in you thinks, Good. 

“I shall send message to your family’s house,” the maid utters, trying to find more purpose than dithering about to a mute. “Is there anything you need, your grace?” 

“I am—”—You think saying I am well would raise eyebrows. So instead you provide alternative of, “I wish to speak to Arthur once he is roused.” 

“I will request it, your grace. He is awake—”—She swallows—”—Down in the courtyard.” 

And with that, she retreats, leaving you to think of what has happened. Of implication you can scarcely comprehend—of freedom that suddenly is on great cusp for you.

You would think to laugh—but your hand it seems, has begun to burn. 

You clutch it to your chest in pain, gasping in arterial, ragged breath—how it feels as though the skin is sloughed from bone! You look down to your limp limb and can only stare. 

Where your husband’s ring should sit on your fourth finger—instead there is demonic brand in sigyl you have no ken of. But you know what it is. You know who is it from. 

And you know that it was no dream, after all. 

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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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