Twelve Hours

BY : Blu
Category: X-men Comics > Threesomes/Moresomes
Dragon prints: 6462
Disclaimer: I do not own X-Men comics, or any of the characters from it. I make no money from from the writing of this story.


Bobby/Piotr/Warren/Betsy/Jean/Logan/Hank (and not necessarily in that order!)
8786 words

Characters copyright and property of Marvel Comics Group. Story and plot copyright 2002 Blu Fiction and property of Atomic Fantasy Ė all rights reserved. Please contact the author for archive permission and feedback.


"Great. Fucking coke-head over here has gotten us into another mess." Bobby, pacing back and forth like a caged rat. Hair is a mess, face red from sweat and E and one too many drinks and dark-corner kisses.

"Fuck you, Bobby." Warren, sitting hunched against a wall, arms on knees, feet pulled in to him, wearing a nice gray suit that probably cost him $3000. Dirty now.

"No FUCK YOU, Warren. I'm sick of your fucking shit."

"Both of you: sit down, calm down, shut up, grow up." Betsy, looking clean and pristine, wearing a sheer evening gown of pale purple silk and red-crimson scarlet lace running down her long slender arms to pointed wrist cuffs. Not a smear on her, except maybe her lipstick is a little smudged and her nose kind of red.

"Stop wound-licking, Betsy." Warren, again.

"Eat me." She replies.

"You're drunk."

"So? That makes a difference. You're high. Not like you haven't done it before, anyways."

"Not any time recently, bitch."

"Oh THAT hurts. So mature, Warren. You want some or not?"

"Of you? No, I think I'll pass thanks."

The room is dark, the walls black, the floors conc. I. It's old and wet, too. All heads go up as there is a rattle at the barred iron doors. The others have stayed silent. None of them know where they are. The doors to the room are about 8 feet high, studded with iron bullets and crossed by 4 inch beams that lock on the outside. They are black-red cast-iron. None of them could get out.

An officer enters, followed by two hulking guards. The officer wears black leather over nearly his whole body, a mask covering his face, half-inch spikes going up from his neck, over his nose and lips, to his skull, then back over his forehead. Another line of them crosses horizontally from ear to ear. He wears a pin signifying his rank. It's an angel pin, all silver, tinted metallic blue on one side, with no arms and no wings, and no discernible gender. A halo crowns it.

The two guards are dressed similarly, except one wears leather dyed to the deep oxidized color of rusty iron and wears gauntlets, and the other wears white leather. The red one carries a whip, a chain, a nightclub, handcuffs, and gauntlets. The white carries nothing, but heavy muscles show through the leather. He has a steel ball clamped into his mouth by twin black leather straps. The contrast of the black on white and the fact that his eyes don't show well is hard to reconcile. All three have their bodies and faces concealed. The guards wear pins as well. One of a bird, and one of a cross.

"We are the Triad. We are here as a duty."

"What are we here for?" Logan. Standing darkly in a corner, stepping for. J. Jean holds out a hand.

"What are you not here for?" The one talking, the black one with the angel pin, has a voice like snakes, thin but sharp.

"You tell me, bub. We protect a society that hates us and yet - somehow - WE always seem ta end up in dumps like this."

"YOU are the problem, then." That from the red one. The white one has neither moved nor spoken.

"I see what this is. A test, right?" Logan looks around at his teammates as if seeking some sort of reassurance that his assumption, which he must know is false denial, is in fact just good enough to pass for truth in his mind.

"And what would we be testing you on?"

"Beats me, blackie."

The black one holds out his left hand and the red one steps up.

"Red Cross, why don't you show him. I don't like a martyr, either, Red Cross. Be nice."

Logan has already extended his claws. Jean is looking more alarmed by the second. Red Cross steps forward, tightening his gauntlets, but Logan is already rushing him, voice feral in a charge. A calm sidestep and a backhand almost too fast to register, put Logan to his knees after he careens into the large iron doors. Not a half-second goes by before Red Cross has his whip off from around his chest and has replaced it around Logan's neck. One hand keeping the choking lock, he puts the metal plate of his kneecap hard into Logan's spine. Logan arches and cries out; as his head reflexively goes back, Red Cross puts his free hand under the neck, removing the whip. All of this has occurred in a matter of three seconds, perhaps. He undoes his billy-club and shoves it against Logan.

"Enough. That's enough Red Cross."

"I'll make you mine, chump, count on it," Red Cross says before ripping his gauntleted hand away so violently that blood drips from the other man's throat for several minutes - until he falls unconscious to the floor where his healing factor begins to work. A pool of blood has formed on the ground.

To the group, the black one speaks. "We'll keep you well, I promise. Until our needs are met. One thing at a time though. My companions and I ... we ... require ... some entertainment. There's food coming. Eat well. You'll need your strength I guarantee it. Oh - White Dove, sedate them."

This involves slamming all their heads into the walls, each body flies back by an unseen blast, all simultaneously, and letting them drop to the floor unconscious.


The food is laid out to them on elaborate silver platters, almost funny considering that the rest of the dungeon is worthy of its name. None of the prisoners have been shackled and except for Wolverine, none of them have even been touched. Yet none of them really seems to want to eat. They remain in their respective corners and keep silent for the most part. The drugs have apparently worn off and they argued themselves out several hours ago.

Warren is flexing his wings. He's taken off his jacket and suspenders, and undone the first several buttons on his white oxford shirt, as well, revealing a smooth upper chest of periwinkle skin and fine blond hair. He's sweata lia little from the stagnated air in the dank room, and occasionally uses his wings as fans.

Betsy has removed her fine scarlet silk scarf and let down her hair. She is sitting up against a wall opposite Warren and to the left, next to the iron doors. She isn't sweating but she looks fatigued. Not as graceful as before. She occasionally bounces her head against the wall behind her. Frustration?

Bobby paced for a long time before finally sitting down, but he still seems anxious. Not afraid but simply anxious. He has his jacket off as well, and his shirt open nearly all the way. A smooth tan stomach with small ridges leads up to a chest in proportion with the rest of his stature. He rests his arms on his knees from time to time.

Logan lays calmly in one corner, eyes open but unfocused. He has healed fast, of course. He hasn't said anything to anyone. Jean sits next to him, red sequined dress dirty but she doesn't seem to care. She has been softly talking to him off and on for hours. They are removed from the others enough that they don't appear to care if they are heard or not. Logan responds with nods now and then, but never speaks back directly.

Hank appears to be meditating. His eyes are closed and of all the prisoners, he looks the most peaceful. He has neither removed his jacket, though it is open, nor undone his shirt.

Peter is standing with his arms crossed, staring around. He sits, then stands, every few minutes. This has gone on for the last hour. He tried bashing the doors down by morphing into steel, to no effect. The doors hold. His clothes, though, do not. Morphing increased his size substantially and the majority of his clothes were ripped apart. They fairly fell off him upon his return to human state. This isn't apparently anything unordinary for the others to witness - no reaction was recorded. Peter himself appears unphased by his near-nakedness.


3am. The food remained untouched. The Triad return.

"Not hungry?" Black Angel asks with an indifferent tone. "You didn't take my advice. Your loss. Clear it away then."

Red Cross proceeds to kick and smear the food and drink all over the walls and floor. Wine splashes like crimson blood over the dark gray stones; turkey and ham and potato are splattered everywhere; beans and squash are crushed underfoot and left to sit on the floor. The platters are carefully taken away by servants in white robes wearing white porcelain masks. "Should have eaten. Now it's all gonna be shit. Shit for shitheads who don't do what they're told," Red Cross taunts in a gravelly voice.

"You won't get anymore," Black Angel says. He wears a smile somewhere between malice and pity. Next to him, the one in white stands silent, again. He turns to him.

"White Dove. Show our friends what we do not tolerate, and what we expect."

Something happens because all the prisoners jolt upright. Some of them are screaming, some of them squirming on the floor, convulsing through the food and dragging themselves around like worms on cement in a rainstorm. White Dove is tense but unmoving and his face holds complete calm. It lasts for several moments and then apparently they are released. All of them fall back or lay flat, gasping and panting or even moaning.

"Serves you right, you self-righteous group of fucks," Red Cross says venomously. He spits through his mask and some of it doesn't make it out but runs down the side of his chin and neck. Bobby and Jean are both retching on the floor. Betsy is staggered, Logan has punched his claws into the wall, taking off some flecks of stone; Peter is holding his hands to his head and his eyes are shut tight as if he's trying to get something out of his head, and Warren is curled in a ball beneath his wings. He walks to Betsy and grabs her scarf, then wraps it around her neck and pulls it tight. She gags.

"What do you want from us, you crazy bastards?" Bobby asks finally, coming up from his knees.

"I told you," Black Angel answers with a smile, "we are here for a duty. That is all."

"What the hell do ya think we're gonna be givin' ya?" Logan returns through gritted teeth. He's regained his composure now - quickly, due to his healing factor no doubt. His hands are balled into fists but he is controlling himself - whether for his own sake or that of the others is indeterminate. Noble or selfish? Stupid or smart?

"That, dear Wolverine, is up to you. We are merely the moderators of this little ... how should I put it - get together."

"What the fuck's that s'posed ta mean?"

Black Angel is silent before answering. He speaks with a quiet voice well disciplined to show no emotion, except when he wants to, of course - but when he answers it is as if he never heard Logan's question at all. "We will return in 12 hours. You have 12 hours to find or make your way out. If you can't ... well then ... White Dove has some very pleasant ways of ... manipulating. But - we prefer that you do it on your own."

Red Cross let's Betsy drop down, taking the scarf with him as he turns on his heel and snarls. "I like red."

They leave as they enter - in three. Through the doors, as one. Logan looks like he might chance a run for it, but looking at his teammates he shakes his head and unballs his fist with a grunt of frustration. "God damn it all to hell." Another punch to the wall brings sparks and a little dust. The iron doors close and heavy locks can be heard catching from the other side.

They are left in the room alone, with each other.


"So what are we gonna do? We gotta get outta here, somehow."

"Ingenious observation, Bobby."

"Shut up, Hank. Not now."

"I'm sorry."

"It's alright."

"What ARE we going to do, though? He brings up a good point."

"We're all trying to think of a way, Betsy."

"Think harder, Jean - you're good at it."

"Well it's obvious that punching the wall won't work."

"Think of a better idea, Drake?"


"I know, I know, Hank. I'm sorry, Logan. I should take my own advice."

"This isn't getting us anywhere."

"Oh pretty boy talks."

"Fuck you, Logan - I'm serious. We' tea team. We've been in a hundred situations worse than this one before. If we can all manage to put our heads together and think, we can get out of here, no problems."

He looks around seriously. The others seem ashamed or maybe just pensive.

"I agree with Warren," Peter says. It's the first time he's said anything since they arrived. This seems to make the point further with the others. "We can get out of here if we work together. It's not hard. It can't be impossible. There must be a way. They told us we have 12 hours to get out. To FIND our way out. That means that there IS a way."

"He's right," Bobby adds. He stares down Hank, after. A test of stubborn wills. Hank stays silent. Ever the one willing to compromise his own will, it seems. A good quality.

Instead, he agrees. "Yes. He is. We need to do this. Are you three with us, then?"

"I'm in," Betsy says. "If it means we can get out of here and get home sooner."

"Not because you're our teammate and you care about us?" Warren asks with dripping sarcasm.

"Warren," Hank warns. "Leave it."

The other man is silent and Betsy gives no reply. Tension between them. Again, good leadership qualities in Hank. Imposing his will when needs be. Obviously respected even by another alpha.


"Of course."

All eyes turn to Logan, the first of which are Jean's. Empathy or desire? Hard to say. There is some unresolved conflict, there.

"What'r y'all starin' at!? Let's get the hell outta here!"


"Psylocke - does your knife penetrate the doors?"

Psylocke concentrates for less than a second, then extends both fists to the door. She almost slams her palms into the heavy iron but stops short with an inch left. Her face contorts and she pulls back out of her stance. "No. Nothing. No feeling for what's on the other side and no resonance within the metal. I can't break them."

"Phoenix - can you send out any telepathic signals - a call for help, maybe, or a warning .. ?"

"Negative, Beast. I tried that as soon as we got in here. It's sealed solid - there aren't any weak spots."

"Damn. Wait - Betsy! What about your shadow-slipping ability?"

"I can't do it, Hank. There aren't any shadows deep enough in this room."

The words seem to have a unified effect on the group, and all of them look skyward at once, then glance at each other.


The Angel takes off with a graceful flap of wings. The ceiling is invisible to them. They cannot see how high the room rises. All they perceive is a long, unending shaft drifting into darkness.

They are made aware when Warren suddenly shouts and falls back to the floor with a resounding thud and whoomp.

"Warren! Are you ok!?"

"Fine, Jean. I'm fine," he shakes her away and then looks up at the ceiling again. "I'll try again. I couldn't get through."

"Way to go, Captain Obvious," Bobby smirks to himself with a glance to Hank. Hank hits him and gives him a look that withers the smile on his lips.

Warren falls, again, with the same results. "Force field. No doubt about it. I could try carrying Bets up there - she might be able to break it with her knife." He throws her a questioning glance.

She shrugs. "Anything's worth a try, I guess." Psylocke - a very capable fighter and very self-secure and cool under pressure - but not such a good team player. Not a leader.

They rise into the air. Warren slows, and Betsy stabs upward with her right arm, balancing gracefully on his shoulders. It matters not. Although they don't fall flat to the ground this time, a muffled curse from Betsy tells the story. They land again, and for a moment no one says anything.

"Hey!" Bobby speaks up excitedly, "What if I freeze the iron on the doors, and then Colossus tries to break 'em open!?"

Hank looks skeptical of the idea. "That would require a temperature of nearly absolute zero. Can you get that cold?"


Iceman seems so excited that Hank isn't offering any more questions. He gives a small sigh. "Alright. It just might work, Bobby. Give it a go."

The younger man gets to one knee in front of the doors and touches one hand to them at the base. First, nothing at all seems to happen. Then, slowly, an icy frost creeps up the metal, reaching the top. As the last bit of it frosts over to a dark gray sheen, the bottom begins to form ice. A thin layer reaches up to the top just as the frost did, then another and another until there is a solidly thick layer of ice coating the entire surface.

"Alright. Go for it, big guy," Bobby says to Colossus, who is already waiting.

The huge steel man pounds away with all his strength, breaks, then pounds some more. Thunderous booms echo through the room and even the walls tremor with reverberations from the shocks.

When all is done, though, the doors still stand.

"Should we try again?" Jean asks. "Maybe they were weakened. We should try one more time."

Bobby doesn't look as enthusiastic this time, but he leans forward amid chunks of the now broken ice, and freezes the doors once more. "That's as cold as I can get them."

Colossus steps forward once more, but the results are the same. "These doors are not made from steel. No normal metal could withstand this," he comments as he changes back to his human form. He is flushed from the exertion, his near-naked body pink with flooded capillaries. "I gave it all I could."

"It's alright, Peter," Hank says to him reassuringly. Another. "You did your best, as always, my friend."

Peter is a good man, strong and dependable. Honorable, respected, trusted, and a friend to nearly everyone. But not a leader. He works best taking orders not giving them.

"Jean ... ?" Hank gives her a questioning look, faint with hope.

"No, Hank. I tried it. My TK doesn't work on the doors, either. Not even to weaken them."

"Lemme try." Wolverine steps forward to the doors. For several seconds the only sounds heard are that of his own feral grunting and shouting, and the sound of metal on metal. Sparks and smoke rise around hime ste stops, then goes into the rage again. To no effect. The doors show only scratches. "Shit. Them doors ain't steel. No way. No steel holds up to my claws. Ever. Those ain't from this planet."

"Then that is not our way out," Hank says in a decisive tone of finality. No one argues the point.


"We've been wracking our brains for hours. We've tried nearly everything. I mean ... what else is there?"

"There is a way, Jean. We can't forget that."

"With all due respect, Peter, I think Jean may have a point." Hank doesn't seem defeated, just stumped. He, and everyone, is looking worn down. Betsy's dress is dirty, her hair tousled, her face smeared with dirt. Peter's body is darkened in many places. He has borne the brunt of most of the heavy pushing and also been on the bottom of several human pyramids - naked, no less. He maintains a solid face but has tired. Jean is resting against Logan's right side, both of them up against the far wall. Warren and Bobby are sitting a few feet down from them, a couple feet apart from one another. Bobby has removed his shirt and Warren's is hanging open loosely. No one seems particularly ready to jump up and fight, as they were several hours before.

"Well we only have," Warren looks at his watch, "eight hours left. Nevermind."

Groans rise from several mouths.

"Thanks for reminding us," Bobby says. He walks over to Betsy and sits next to her. "How'd you ever date him?"

She gives Warren, now out of hearing range, a glance and a seductive smile. "I didn't. I fucked him."

Bobby looks like he's not sure what to do at the reply, so he moves over to where Peter is at, on the far side wall. "Hey big guy, ya mind if I .. ?"

"Not at all - sit." Peter seems happy at the company. He even goes so far as to extend one large arm around the smaller man's shoulders and hug him close for a moment, in greeting.

"Thanks. I needed that."

"I could tell."

"Oh." Bobby gives a nervous sort of smile. Robert Drake - third among the X-Men to be recruited; young but experienced, energetic; totally insecure. Not a leader. He leans up against the pillar of muscled flesh next to him, then calls out to Hank.

"Hey Blue," he asks, "what was it those guys - the Triad - what did they say about their duty?"

"They said, I believe, that they would make us talk."

"No after that, the last time."

"They said that we had to find our way out, Bobby," Jean answers with an almost patronizing voice. He gives her a blank look.

"I KNOW that, Jean. I mean - the very last part - about working together, when Logan asked them what they meant about it being 'up to us'. What did they say before they left?"

"They said that they would 'help' us out but that we should do it on our own," Psylocke replies shortly.

"No dear," comes from Warren with sarcasm, "he said that if we didn't find our way out by ourselves, his friend the White Dove," a snort at the name, "would help us. 'Manipulate' us. Pay attention a little more, eh Bets?"

She returns him a stone gaze and then ignores him. "Whatever. It doesn't matter. We're not getting out of here on our own."

"Nice attitude ya got there, BETS," Logan says from across the room. "I dunno 'bout you, but I don't intend on just sittin' here."

"What are you going to do, Logan?" Hank asks. If it's meant to be dry, it sounds like he's run out of motivation to put much into it. Tired, fatigued. A minus, but not a bar.

Logan just kind of stares around at everyone and then, without warning, pulls Jean to him and kisses her, deep. Everyone seems too shocked to do anything or say anything for several seconds. Hank recuperates first.

"Logan - Jean ..." but he hardly seems to know where to begin. "That - you ... you two .... Jean ..."

"I THINK that what big blue is tryin' to say, guys, is that YOU," Bobby points a finger to Jean, "are taken and everyone knows it, and YOU," now at Logan, "might want her really bad but damn, man, have some respect for another man's property."

"Speak for yourself, Drake!" Betsy stands up. "I'm not anyone's property! Especially not a man's!"

"What's wrong with being called 'lover' by a man, Betsy?" Warren stands up and strides over to her, voice heated. "Didn't you ever get called anything except 'whore' when you were modeling!?"

Her slap hits him hard and turns his face aside. Everyone is quiet, holding their breath. Logan sits with Jean still in his arm, and she hasn't moved. Bobby and Piotr are enwrapped in the drama unfolding, and Hank is just looking on with something that almost seems like ... clinical interest.

"If eve ever say that to me again or anything like it I'll ..."

"You'll what, Bets?" Warren's voice is low now, just above a whisper. "Kill me, hit me again? Stab me with one of your psychic knives? I don't think so."

"I would."

"You wouldn't."

"How do you know?"

"Did you forget? I know you - inside," he puts a hand up her dress, "and out." And another on her cheek.

"Ahem," comes a noise from Hank. They don't appear to hear it. Betsy is looking into the other man's eyes as if she and he are the only two in the cell, and he is returning the look.

"God, any more and there gonna be makin' it on the floor right in front of us," Bobby turns and snickers to Peter. Peter is looking at them with something like sorrow on his face. Maybe lost memories. Bobby looks like he might feel bad about saying it when he sees Peter's look. The other man turns to him, then.

"It wouldn't be such a bad thing."

Logan lets out a laugh. "See, Hank? I ain't the only one starvin' for some love, around here. In fact, I betya every single one o' the people in this room needs it pretty bad. Let's see. Over there we got popsicle and the Russkie - either one o' them had it anytime recently? Don't think so. Next. Oh ... it's you! Hey, doc - why don't ya loosen that collar a bit. Gettin' hot? I think so. My nose don't lie ta me. Then we got these two," he waves offhandedly to the couple before them, "obviously in love and not admittin' it t'eachother. Jus' lookit those eyes! And finally ... I got ... Jean."

Something must have transpired between them telepathically. They are looking at each other in much the same way the other couple is.

"So what do you propose, Logan?" Hank asks, taking off his glasses and shining them on an edge of shirt he pulls out from his belted waits. "That we simply do away with all propriety and have a mass orgy of abandon and wild sexual proclivity?"

"Why not?"

Hank looks like he t jut just be at a loss for wards for one in his life. He huffs and stops and huffs some more, then finally, quietly: "Logan. In all my time knowing you - THAT is by far the craziest thing you've ever said."

Logan snorts but before he can reply Bobby speaks up.

"Ummm ... guys ... I don't know about the rest of us - but it looks like the two of them have already started their own little party."

"This is ABSURD!" Hank has jumped up to his feet and is bounding over to where Warren and Betsy have moved, against the far wall, to his left. Betsy is against the wall, her back pressed into it, and Warren is standing before her, wings spreading wide even as Hank leaps toward them, legs in a wide stance. He's kissing her hard, and she isn't making any moves to stop him.

Just before Hank reaches them, Warren spins and puts a still flushed Betsy between he and Hank. Hank can't stop his inertia and he ungraciously crashes into the other her backside. Betsy does only one thing - she puts a hand behind her and she grips Hank's crotch with a firm, small hand.

"Why Dr. McCoy - just how absurd is it?"

"It's ... it's ..." For a second Hank looks like he might give in, but he wrenches the woman's hand off him. "This isn't right. Look at us. We're insane. It's the work of the Triad. We've been arguing this whole time and now we are suddenly jumping on one another!?"

Across the room, Jean and Logan were in an embrace much like Betsy and Warren. Jean was straddling Logan's legs, her thighs wide around his, pressed against him. He ran one hand through her hair and down her back, a sharp contrast of dark, rough skin and dark hair against a trailing sea of billowy auburn tresses.

Bobby turns to look at Peter, who is still lost in thought. Hank is looking around frantically - seemingly on the verge of either pulling out his hair or joining in. "Peter ... Bobby ..." he breathes uncertainly - and his face has gone from certainty to a kind of questioning amazement. He's looking at them and then to the other two couples, turning his head in disbelief. "You two have to ... you have ... to ..." he shakes himself and puts fingers to his brow ... "what was I saying? ... Come over here?"

Peter and Bobby aren't listening, however. Peter is visibly aroused by the spectacle unfolding before him, and Bobby has started looking at his teammate with eyes made of fire.

Hank just stands in the midst of it all.


Peter's eyes are glazed. One large hand, thick fingers still dirty from his attempts to open the doors, languidly hangs between his heavy thighs, two fingers and a thumb stroking himself while he watches Betsy undress Warren.

She starts by pulling open his shirt, ripping the buttons from the fabric. Her lacquered purple nails contrast the white cotton stretched over blue skin. His head hangs back as she runs her tongue delicately over a taut abdomen, sending reflexive shivers through his body. His wings are outspread, arms hanging limp at his sides, legs wide. Her delicate fingers work at his belt, one of her hands moves down his left thigh. She's kneeling in front of him, now. She brings her hand back up the inseam of his pant, letting it rest between his legs, rubbing the hardness that's formed there.

To the right of them, Logan is making small bites down Jean's neck. She moans aloud. He puts his hands on her chest, cupping the firm breasts - each thumb working over the nipples through the light fabric of her dress. He moves his mouth to the front of her neck, and then down her chest. His tongue trails a wet line down the center as he makes towards the recess of her cleavage. She tosses her head back and lets out a heavy sigh that has an almost high pitch to it.

Bobby looks to his left see sees a fully aroused Peter, one hand helping him along; his eyes lidded low, no expression on his face except an almost dead kind of concentration.

"Here," Bobby says in a voice just above a hoarse whisper that indicates a dry mouth and heavy breathing, "let me ... let me help you with that, Pete." He seems almost tentative at first - embarrassed, shy, not certain if what he's doing is right or wrong; finally he reaches over all at once and closes his hand around Peter's shaft. His hand looks almost small in comparison to the heavy erection he has in it.

Peter, for the first time, seems to realize what's been going on. He jerks rigid when he feels Bobby's hand, then blinks down at himself, at what Bobby is doing to him, and turns to his teammate. No words pass between them but there is the look of a question from Pete's eyes and the look of an answer of sorts in Bobby's - or maybe it's just a kind of 'don't ask don't tell' look - and that's it. Peter sags back down with a grunting sigh, letting his legs spread apart wider on the cement floor. Bobby moves in closer to him, leaning on him and looking down over his chest while he slowly and methodically moves his hand up and down on Peter.

Hank is staring at it all in disbelief. Something must be going through his mind, though. He keeps blinking like he doesn't know what to do - or can't believe what he sees. But one hand has fallen limp to his crotch and he's unconsciously touching himself with two fingers. His mouth is parted open a little. In disbelief at first, perhaps - but now changing to an amorous fascination. He's focusing on Warren and Betsy.

Betsy has unzipped Warren's fly and one hand is moving into the zipper. It moves around inside and then locks onto something. Warren is gasping and whispering her name to the air, looking down at her every now and again. He's let one hand come up to her hair and is caressing it, combing his fingers through it - disheveling it. It falls in pale purple wisps around her face. She's got his cock firmly in hand now and pulls it out of his pants after she unzips them all the way. He's got tight white briefs on, looking fabulously good over the smooth muscle of his thighs. ungrungraciously rips them down to his ankles and slides her mouth around his head. A moan escapes him.

Hank has now come up behind her and is completely absorbed in the movements she makes with her mouth; the sounds that come out of her throat. He glances at Warren from time to time, as well. He hasn't made any move to undress himself but now what was previously two fingers lightly running over the bulge in his slacks has become a full hand, large as it is, firmly rubbing and groping the now sizable protrusion formed within the slate grays.

Jean is still straddling Logan, but he's pulled the top half of her dress down to her waist and is buried in her chest. She almost looks like a porn star, tossing her mane of lustrous red hair, moaning in unabated pleasure and rocking against his pelvis as if she were going to ride a horse. Except no porn star was ever as beautiful. Logan has removed his face from her and is now wrapping his tongue around first one hard pink nipple and then the other, giving Jean what looks like electro-shock therapy - making her jolt with each wet pass his tongue makes over her damp skin. He's dropped his hips a little and is making small thrusts up between her legs. He grunts with low animal undertones that promise a feral primacy lies just beneath his thin layer of self-control.

Against the far wall, Peter is moaning in a deep bass. He's moaning loudest of anyone in the room - sending echoes over the others, blending into the quiet but driven chorus. Bobby has moved himself between Peter's legs and is doing his best to take him as far down his throat as he can. It's not easy - Peter is a very large man in more ways than one. For the first couple passes Bobby gags slightly. Peter is keeping still as he can but it's apparent that he wants nothing more than to thrust up into the warm mouth. His body arches with each downward movement of Bobby's head. Heavy slurping sounds come up faintly from him while he works. Peter puts both his strong hands atop the other man's head - gently urging him further down his shaft. A film of slick saliva has coated it, running down the length and onto the floor. Peter is surprisingly smooth. His legs and chest are smooth except for a gradually darkening layer of hair from mid-calf down to ankle, and a trail of coarse dark hair from his navel to groin. He has a v-shaped patch of hair starting at the tops of his pectorals, just below his collar bone, and ending centered between the large muscles. The hair is light at top and darker at the center, but not so dark as to be readily noticeable. Each time Bobby sucks down his cock, Peter's chest ripples and shudders, his neck tense, thick and rigid. His eyes are now shut, for the most part, but he opens them now and then, alternating looks at the proceeding threesome across the room and Logan and Jean's primal display.

Betsy's mouth moves over Warren's cock expertly, pushing down and in with dexterous precision, and then slowly receding back, leaving a slick warmth behind. Both hands are gripping his iron thighs. She moves on up to his stomach, running her fingers over his smoothness, and the other one moves to cup his tight scrotum. She softly runs her palm around the sack, causing it to reflexively tighten and emitting a gasp from her partner, then she lightly scratches two nails over the taut skin, parting the pale fuzz that covers it. Her lips make small sucking noises around him, and some of her lipstick has come off.

Behind her, Hank has moved his hand from the outside of his pants to the inside, having to open and undo his fly to accommodate both his overly large hand and his cock at the same time within the confiof tof the material. They hang down just past his hips, exposing an extremely tight, blue-fuzzed pair of buttocks about halfway. His eyes are still on Betsy. He puts his left hand to her left shoulder, moving some of her hair aside with his thick fingers and almost unconsciously massaging her small rounded neckline. One finger pushes off the strap of her dress, following it's fall down the cream-white skin of her arm, then lightly dragging back up a nail.

Logan is lying back-down on the floor now, Jean still riding atop him. She rips open his shirt, exposing the heavy barrel-chest and muscle covered in dense dark hair. It sweeps up from each side to make a pattern all pointing down, almost an arrow telling her where to go. She's got her hands, thin fingers with long red nails, running over his chest, scraping him. He's got his eyes open, looking at her, urging her on. His hands are on first her shoulders, then her flushed breasts, then her stomach, moving in and out with her rapid breathing. He unzips her dress fully and slides it over the top of her, exposing all of her for him. Dark eyes run over her naked body. She leans down and bites each of his nipples in turn, sending a hard grunt out of him and making his head hit the concrete with a thud that he doesn't even acknowledge. She moves down with her tongue until she reaches the steel clasp of the buckle on his jeans. Her fingers open it and unzip the Levi's. Logan, with more urgency than grace, thrusts up his hips as she slides off his pants. He's not wearing anything underneath. He lets his body drop to the floor and then pops a claw. He gives her a wicked smile and lightly runs the tip from her belly down. The white cotton thong she has on is sliced cleanly in two parts and falls away. He pulls it off her and puts it to his nose for a moment, inhaling deep, then tosses it aside, off his claw, and puts both hands firmly on her hips again.

Bobby has got Peter by the thighs and is working his tongue against the Russian's perineum. He uses one hand to stroke Peter at the same time. The dark-haired man is saying Bobby's name now in deep whispers mixed in with equally deep gasping sighs. His hands are set on the floor, arms locked, triceps taut and bulging, holding him in place so that Bobby can get low enough to probe him lightly with his tongue. Bobby is moaning, muffled by the thighs around his head. Each stroke his hand makes on Peter's cock brings glass liquid from the tip, running down onto his fingers and thumb.

"Uh - OH - oh god yeah, Bobby ... oh that feels so ..." the rest is lost in mumbling and moans as Bobby enters him with his tongue briefly, just flicking over and then moving back up to the Russian's heavy scrotum. His tongue slides around the balls and then the tip moves up the center and works at the base of the shaft.

Warren pulls Betsy up from the floor. He pulls her along with him, taking small, backward steps, until he hits the wall. As he leads her, kissing passionately, her eyes closed, Hank pushed against her from behind, until the three of them are pressed tight. Warren with his back to the dark gray cinder-block wall, Betsy facing against him, and Hank at her rear. Hank has one giant arm around her waist. His palm rubs at her midsection while the topside of it brushes Warren's panting abdomen. Hank's mouth works on the right side of Betsy's neck while Warren's works on the left. She moans between them. Hank's pants have fallen to his ankles and he's giving light thrusts to her backside. Warren has one hand on her shoulder and the other cupping a firm, hard breast.

Logan has lifted Jean onto him. She lets out a whimper as he enters her, the head of him pushing her wide and filling her inside, massaging her hardened flesh, then sliding in further, the continuous friction making her head loll back as she moans, nearly incoherent. Logan's eyes are shut, but heavy breaths come out of him. He has his hands on her hips, then breasts, and then one thumb moves to the intersection of the two of them, and he holds it there as she rides up and down, massaging her and pleasuring himself at the same time. His skin is coated in a slick sheen of sweat, the hair on his chest glistens and is matted in several places. His heavy thighs work to thrust him up into her and he grunts ferally with each upward movement.

"Bobby ..." Pete whispers "take these" he tugs at a belt loop of Bobby's jeans, "off." Bobby gives him a sheepish smile but slides the pants off nonetheless. Peter puts each of his large hands onto Bobby's oblique. The younger man lets out a giggle as his sides tense up, and he shudders slightly from the touch. Pete looks at him. "It's alright, tovarisch. Let me touch you. Feel you. I've never known you were so beautiful. How could I have missed it?"

He runs his hands up the length of the younger man, to the recesses of his arms and down along the smooth biceps, then takes each hand in his own and twines their fingers together. Bobby leans into him and kisses him, their lips touching lightly at first, then becoming more connected. Soft noises escape Bobby's throat - Pete is quiet but has let one hand move to the other's cock and is stroking it slowly but purposefully. Bobby breaks away with a gasp and Peter lunges forward and latches onto a dark nipple, one hand running ferociously over the young man's torso. Both are slick with sweat.

Hank's pulled Betsy's dress up past her hips. Warren has pulled her top down so that it's all bundled around her flat stomach. With one pale blue arm glistening with sweat, he lifts her left thigh around his waist. His face is at her chest, red tongue lapping at her smooth skin, over the breasts and up to her neck, around to the back and up to an ear, eliciting gasps of ecstasy from her mouth. Purple hair falls around her shoulders as she drops her head back slightly and allows Warren to work. Hank has grown into a near frenzied state. Standing in only his open suit jacket and white shirt, he's working a hand up her abdomen, one blue-furred, muscular forearm pressing her breasts up, pushing them to Warren's chin. Hank's mouth works at her neckline, making small bites with his teeth, nipping at her flesh in a feral, primal need.

With one thrust and a grunt that comes out of him with forced control, he pushes himself into her at the same time she slides down on Warren. Warren and Betsy both let out simultaneous moans. Hank makes quick thrusts, alternating with Wn'sn's slower ones. Betsy is balanced on them by one of Hank's hands and one of Warren's - both supporting her from below. Hank's other hand is still holding her in place at her chest, bringing her up, lifting her, with each thrust he makes. Warren has his other hand entwined in her hair, running over her neck as he kisses her, brushing against Hank at the other side every so often.

Betsy puts her hands against the dark masonry of the cell walls, nails chipping as she digs into the stone, not caring. Her mouth works hard on Warren's. Her pale skin is tinged a pink so heavy that the Crimson mark is only just able to stand out. Hank's forearm is lifting her and letting her slam down onto them both with an increasing ferocity. Betsy starts to make louder noise. She throws her head back, sweat running down her frail neck. Warren licks it from her and then sucks at a hardened nipple, and she shudders, her whole body shaking. Hank is pounding into her, growling. As she begins her orgasm, he crushes her to the other man, and puts his free arm to Warren's flushed shoulder, squeezing it. With a shout that almost sounds like a roar, he falls limply to her back, kissing her shoulder, holding Warren for support. The Angel holds out his wings, stiff and hard, feathers undergoing small seismic shocks and ruffling. He hits his head into the wall behind him and gasps out a sigh. Between them both, Betsy is recovering. Heavy liquid, viscous and white, runs in small trails down between the bottom of her still-upraised thighs.

Logan grips Jean and pulls his face to hers. "I want you," he says. "Not this way." Jean just answers him with a moaning noise.

"H - how ..." she murmurs to him, face cupped in his neck, running against the furriness of him. Her breathing is heavy and face flushed, she pants to get the words out. Both their groins are soaked all over.

"I want you like an animal."

She gazes into his eyes. He's not being demanding. That wasn't the Logan-being-demanding voice. He's asking her a question. It's in his eyes.

And that's all the understanding they need. Not speaking, they move: Jean on her hands and knees, Logan coming at her from behind. He pushes into her slowly, almost gently. One of his hands runs along her spine. Her hair is parted at the neck and her back is sweaty and heated. He lets one hand stay on her hips, puts the other to the fine neck. Then he thrusts into her fully, raising his hips a little as he pushes himself in to the base, bringing a gasp from her. He maintains the steady pace for several minutes, until Jean is pushing her hips into him, arching her back with each thrust he makes.

He leans down over her, half-squatting, half-kneeling. The muscles of his back are taut, rippling. He puts his mouth to the middle of her spine and kisses her, licking all over. One of his hands is on the floor, supporting them, the other is pushing up on her lower abdomen, adding pressure to his thrusts deep inside her.

"Logan - Logan - I can't ... oh please I can't ..." she starts to say something but she doesn't get to finish it. It's interrupted by a high whimper she lets out. She says his name.

Logan cums quietly, no more than a grunt and low growl, then his body stiffens, every muscle seemingly turned to iron for several seconds, while the time-freeze runs it course. He holds Jean tightly to him, eyes locked shut, a look of ecstatic pain on his dark features.

Peter has Bobby's cock in his mouth, and Bobby is loving it. "Oh yeah," he moans out to the air, "ye - yea - yesssssssss ... god yeah." He drops off into silent whispers, speaking down to the head at his waist. Peter comes up wearing a grin fit for a boy, his teeth white, lips wet and red as cherries, chin damp.

"I'd like that very much," he says to the other man as he slides back to the wall again, and pulls Bobby onto his lap. One hand from each of them slides onto the other's cock, and they begin to stroke each other. It doesn't take long. Pete lets his head fall back to the concrete, eyes glazed and half-lidded in relaxed pleasure. Bobby looks more concentrated, hand working quickly to cover the length of Peter.

Suddenly the Russian clamps a hand onto Bobby's torso. "Ohhhh ... ahh - AHH-hhhh mmmmmmmm ..." The sounds continue on as thick, milky white globs pour onto Bobby's fingers and thumb, land on his own chest, and run down to puddles on his slouched stomach.

Bobby tightens his whole body a second later. He makes a noise like he's trying to stifle a sneeze and shout at the same time, then his eyes fall closed, porcelain.


They're all lying on the floor now. Some of them are dozing off. Jean and Logan fell asleep in each otherís arms. Hank dressed and zipped himself and is nodding off alone, again. Warren and Betsy sit next to each other but don't touch. Bobby is nestled in the crook of Peter's big arm across his shoulders, a small smile on both their faces.

A knock comes at the door.

"Come in," I say. It's the Triad. White Dove has the gag out of his mouth, Red Cross and Black Angel come in behind him.

"It's done," White Dove says. The other two remove their masks. I look at each of them in turn.

"Did you have to be so rough?" I ask, looking mostly at Red Cross.

"You hired us for a service. We work as we will," answers Black Angel.

I let out a sigh. "Well - what's the report?"

Red Cross lets out a snide chuckle as he looks to where Ororo lays in a chair, naked and red. The observation window behind her is smeared with sweat and oils. Then he looks at me. I'm glad he can't see my eyes.

"You need to ask?" he says in gravel. "I'd say it was a -fuckin'- success." He gives me a grin at the emphasis he's put on the word 'fucking'.

"I don't know if Iíd trust any of them to lead the team in your place, really," Black Angel puts in with a smirk. "You seem quite capable of ... taking care of ... your 'own', as it is."

"Thank you," I say. "You'll be paid as I said you'd be. Hopefully we won't have to work together again."

"Oh we do so look forward to it," White Dove says in silken venom. "Shall I release them, now?"

I nod. "Of course. This was a test."


Down below, they wake to find the doors open. I'm not exactly sure what I accomplished in the last twelve hours, but one thing is true. The doors ARE open.


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