For Hire

BY : WolverMean
Category: X-men Comics > Het - Male/Female
Dragon prints: 452
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Marvel characters or the Marvel Universe mentioned within this story and I'm not making any money off of it. This is strictly for fun and not profit.

You wait in the hallway until you hear the pre-movie commercials start.

The guy you’re waiting on still hasn’t shown, so you go in. No sense in wasting a free ticket for a movie you’d secretly wanted to see. It’s a summer blockbuster, high-action, car chase, shoot ‘em up kind of thing—lots of explosions, engines revving, tires squealing—and you know you would have seen it eventually, maybe when it came out on Netflix, but the man insisted on meeting here, and hey, he paid for the ticket.

The theatre is dark as you go towards second last row, which remains completely empty. The auditorium is far from full, maybe ten or fifteen people scattered over 150 seats, and so you score a great spot.

The previews are nothing special, more summer blockbuster types with very little plot and too much CGI. You’re not really paying attention anyway—too busy scanning the audience trying to figure out who this guy could be.

Maybe that fit guy with the too-tight t-shirt and sunglasses perched backwards on his head? Perhaps the older, distinguished looking gentleman who seems like he’d be more at home watching a period drama than an action flick? What about the hipster dude who was wearing a toque despite the fact is was almost 30 degrees Celsius outside?

Nervousness suddenly overtakes you and your whole body goes cold.

You’ve never done this before—you’d never even thought of doing something like this before, not even in a fantasy or daydream—but you’re desperate.

Extremely desperate.

Desperate enough to meet a strange man in a strange movie theatre in a strange part of town—that kind of desperate—and you don’t even know what this guy looks like.

The film starts with an eardrum-shattering explosion and you jump, laughing quietly when you realise how silly you were acting.

On the screen, about 70 cars are doing Dukes of Hazzard style jumps as they speed down a freeway that looks to be under construction. A rap song with a furious beat and lightning-speed lyrics blasts over the speakers and the director chose to sync the motions of the drivers with the music like a choreographed dance.

You find yourself suddenly engrossed in the beat-driven actions of the drivers, so engrossed, that you’re startled when a man sits down in the seat on your right.

He’s huge—tall, broad-shouldered, well-muscled, long legs—and he immediately spreads those longs legs open, the outside of his thigh bumping your knee.

Your heart is doing an awfully complicated dance in your chest, but you try to act cool, like this is no big deal.

“Did I miss anything important?” he whispers. He smells of wood smoke undercut with the tang of sweat as he leans down. It's wonderfully masculine and it thrills you a little.

“Those two are sisters,” you whisper back, pleased how confident you sound. “I think that’s gonna come into play later.”

“Thanks.”

His voice is low and slightly gruff and you spare him a glance: long blonde hair in a ponytail and a ruggedly handsome face with a strong jaw. He’s wearing a black tank top tucked into well-worn jeans, a studded leather belt looped around the waist. His left arm comes up and rests across your shoulders like you’re teenagers on a date.

This is happening; this is actually going to happen!

Was he what you were expecting? Honestly, did you really even know what to expect?

Five excruciating minutes pass and he doesn’t speak. Not only that, his leg is still pressed against yours and you find the incredible amount of heat it’s giving off distracting. You shoot him an apologetic smile and begin to shift in the seat, but his left hand suddenly clamps on your left shoulder. A gasp shoots from you as you feel four sharp pricks pierce the fabric of your shirt.

“Lean back,” he says, his voice soft and dangerous. “Don’t make a goddamn sound or I’ll fuckin’ gut everyone in here. Nod if you understand.”

Would he honestly kill all the people in here because of one little sound? You open your mouth and he jerks you back against the seat.

“I’m serious,” he growls. “I don’t play, girl.”

Okay, so now you know he’s not fucking around. He’s crazy. You’re sitting next to a crazy man and no one knows except for you. Since you don’t want a bloodbath on your hands, you give him a curt nod.

This satisfies him and he takes in a deep breath. You manage to stay perfectly still when you feel his nose touch the crown of your head. He’s sniffing you like a dog would.

The guy seems to like what he smells, letting out a pleased aah, as if you’re the most delicious scent in the world. Slowly, his other hand strokes your stomach once over your shirt and you fight the urge to jerk away as he touches you. He smiles against your hair.

“Good girl,” he murmurs as his hand moves lower.

He pops the button on your jeans and pulls the zipper down bit by agonizing bit, each tug making you grip the armrests tight. You’re tense; you’re tenser than tense. You’re so tense you feel as if you could snap apart at any moment, so when an explosion blasts through the speakers, you jump.

Your heart is practically leaping from your chest and he chuckles, his breath hot and tickly against your scalp. As his fingertips brush the top of your panties, your skin catches fire and you let out a heavy breath through your nose, fixing your gaze on the screen.

Several people are standing in a dilapidated garage, screaming at each other over an expensive looking car that looks oddly like a penis to you. You have no idea what the fuck is happening on screen or in your pants as his hand moves down. His fingers graze your pubic hair.

Okay, okay.

This was certainly not what you were expecting when you asked Billy Tamucchi if he knew someone who could help you with a serious issue in your life.

He’d looked at you—like, really looked at you as if noticing you for the first time despite having worked for his father for years—and said, “Yeah, I know someone who knows someone who knows someone, but it’s gonna cost ya.”

You were prepared to pay anything and said as much, and he’d laughed at you and called you a dumb broad, so you’d hit him in the face. After you’d reset his nose and stuffed some cotton up his nostrils to help slow the bleeding, Billy said he’d get you in contact with the right people, and bless his huge, swollen schnoz, he did.

“You feel good,” the man whispers. “Smell nice, too.”

The words “thank you” rise immediately in your throat because you’re a polite Canadian and it’s just a reflex action at this stage of life, but you remember his warning to stay quiet and wisely keep your mouth shut.

His finger strokes your clit and the armrests almost snap under your grip, but goddamn, shocks of pleasure are zooming up and down your central nervous system and it’s fucking amazing. This guy obviously knows what he’s doing.

It doesn’t take long for him to make you wet and his finger slides towards your opening, massaging what he finds there up towards your sensitive bud. A little moan slips from you and you immediately bite your lip.

“Good girl,” he murmurs again.

Your breath comes faster as he continues to dominate your most delicate area and tremors start jolting up and down your spine. This amuses him.

“Been a while, huh?”

It has been a while. It’s not that you’re hard up for sex, but it hasn’t been important lately. You’ve had other, more pressing matters to deal with. Sex was a distraction you couldn’t afford.

Right now though, you can barely focus on anything else.

The rational part of you knows that this man—this psycho, crazy man—was a complete stranger, but he’s making you feel so goddamn good and you can’t help but imagine what he would look like stripped naked and under you, his large hands gripping your waist as you ride him until you’re both saddle sore.

The jolts are coming faster now and you’re gasping as quietly as you can, hoping no one in theatre has noticed that you’re getting the finger fuck of a lifetime. You’re getting close, so close and your eyelids flutter shut.

He seems to sense your upcoming orgasm and eases up slightly, removing the pressure that was pushing you towards heaven. You let out a small growl as your eyes snap open and he chuckles again, his finger on the move once more.

“You wanna make a sound, baby?”

Oh, god, fuck yes, you wanna make a sound! You want to make all the sounds!

Instead, you nod.

“Do it right … now.”

He slides a finger into your hot, throbbing pussy and you let out a cry just as another ear-splitting fireball lights up the screen.

His fingertip almost immediately finds the spongy area inside of you that sends you to the fucking moon and he presses on it firmly. You gasp softly and tilt your head back, his mouth now against your hairline.

“You’re amazing,” he says quietly. His lips are surprisingly soft on the skin of your forehead.

Fireworks are beginning to light up behind your eyelids as he massages your g-spot like a goddamn professional. You want to scream out that he’s the amazing one but darkness edges your vision and you know you’re close to having the most spectacular orgasm of your life. You slide lower in your seat, bucking your hips against his touch, biting your lips as hard as you can.

“You’re gonna come, ain’tcha?” he whispers and you can barely nod as he drives you to the edge. You almost sob as he pulls his finger away. “Not yet, baby.”

Another little growl comes from you and you tilt your hips up, begging for him to come back, to touch that special part of you until you die from sheer bliss. The tension had been building to a beautiful conclusion, the kind of ending where you would have jumped into the abyss, screaming your ecstasy.

With everything that happened lately, you fucking deserve it.

A laugh comes from him, a nice, rumbling sound that doesn’t help quench the lust burning in your loins. “Hold on, girl,” he says. “Don’t be greedy.”

But you are greedy, so you reach down and grab his wrist, keeping it still so you can plunge yourself down against that wayward digit. If he won’t help you, you’ll help yourself.

“Damn, girl!” he exclaims as his finger skates across your special spot and he crooks it, his fingertip pressing hard.

It’s like magic: the right amount of pressure and movement has you gunning for a Dukes of Hazzard type jump, right across that goddamn canyon and you go for it, revving your engine before you stomp on the gas.

You and the Golden Gate Bridge are blown to smithereens, the detonation loud enough to rock the seats in the audience. You ride the wave, but unlike the Golden Gate Bridge, you don’t make a fucking sound as you explode, biting your lips hard enough to make them bleed.

“Fuck,” he hisses as you sag back into your seat, sweaty and spent.

His finger is still inside you as you catch your breath; once you have, he pulls it out and lifts it to his mouth. His eyes lock onto yours as he sucks it clean.

When he’s finished, he leans forward, his mouth to your ear. “I like you, girl,” he says softly. “I’ll do what you need.”

Your heart’s still going like a locomotive in your chest and you want to thank him—for the orgasm or the help, you’re not sure—but his mouth is suddenly on yours, his tongue rough as he demands entrance, lapping at the blood trickling from lips.

You let him in and taste yourself on him, and he makes a sound of satisfaction before he pulls away and brushes a piece of wayward hair from your face. The gesture feels nice.

He gives you a smile and stands, one hand extended. A small, white card is tucked between his fingers and you take it before looking up at him. He touches the tip of his thumb to your lower lip and it comes away bloody. One quick lick from that gorgeous tongue and it’s gone and then he’s gone, striding out of the row, down the stairs, and out of the auditorium.

The card feels hot in your hand, so you hold it up and read it by the light of the screen:

         Victor Creed

Don’t call me; I’ll call you

Slowly, carefully, you put the card in your pocket and settle back to finish watching the movie. Why not? The ticket was free, but you can’t seem to shake the feeling that you’ve already paid for it and much more.



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