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For Hire	By : WolverMean Category: X-men Comics > Het - Male/Female Views: 1858 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
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.

Chapter List
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I know I got a bad reputation
and it isn't just talk, talk, talk
If I could only give you everything
You know I haven't got
I couldn't have one conversation
If it wasn't for the lies, lies, lies
And still I ought to tell you everything
'till I close my eyes
- Bad Reputation by Freedy Johnston

I’m reading the newspaper when you walk through the door, a bulky backpack in your hand an’ a messenger bag slung over your shoulder. I check my watch; you’re six minutes late and I wonder for the millionth time why I’m doin’ this.
First, I ain’t nice guy.
Second, I’m a mutant—a feral mutant. I have heightened senses, strength, speed, an’ I can heal any wound I get.
Third, I’m a killer. Stalkin’ and huntin’ prey is more n’ just a hobby for me—it’s a way of life. But killin’ … now there’s my bread an’ butter. That’s what I love doin’ the most an’ I’m fuckin’ good at it too.
I’ve killed in the name of the government, in the name of evil, for good, for money, and strictly ‘cause I was bored. I get off on it an’ I’m a big believer in the mantra that if you do what you love, you’ll never work a day in your life.
Heh.
I ain’t some two-bit, old-timey mob hitman who puts fuckin’ cement shoes on people so they can sleep with the goddamn fishes. I make the big bucks doing the terrible, horrible, disgustin’, awful shit that no one else wants to take on. I get my hands more n’ dirty; I get ‘em get absolutely filthy.
Want a bloodbath? Call Victor Creed. Satisfaction guaranteed or your disembowelment is free!
Others’ve called me a psychopath, a murderer, a serial killer, a sociopathic massacre machine. Some of my many nicknames include The Dashimo Butcher, El Tigre, an’ my personal fuckin’ favourite: Der Schlächter. It means The Butcher in German.
I’ve earned every single one of those nicknames. Sure, I travel the world slaughterin’ people for cash, but I’m fuckin’ rich, so I sleep pretty well at night.
I still ain’t sure why your case ended up in my lap. I’m pretty well known in both the bush an’ big leagues an’ my contacts know better n’ send me the small fry shit. I got contacts everywhere an’ maybe an old one sent it along, thinkin’ I could use the work. You need someone killed an’ I’m a killer. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.
Heh.
As soon as I read it, I put it out of my mind. It’s small potatoes, not even worth a second of my fuckin’ time.
But I’ll be goddamned if I couldn’t stop thinkin’ about it. The info I received was vague, but enough to make me wonder what was goin’ through the mind of the person who wanted this hit done. I went back an’ read it a few more times before I decided what the fuck.
I had it set up so we’d meet in a movie theatre durin' some blockbuster schlock I’d already seen seventeen times. The plan was to get a look at you for shits an’ giggles, see the face of the civilian who’d go through such desperate measures to hire a fuckin’ assassin. ‘Sides, it’d remind me of the good ol’ days, back when I’d do this kind of job for three hundred bucks an’ a cheeseburger meal from McDonald’s—an’ fuck yeah if I scored a Muppets toy. Animal is the fuckin’ man.
The auditorium was dark; I was just gonna look an’ leave, maybe pass your case onto some hoser who was just startin’ out, but when I saw you—Jesus, I couldn’t tear my eyes away. The beast inside of me went wild an’ it was all I could do not to kill everyone in that fuckin’ theatre an’ claim you as my own.
You were an unassumin' sort, nothing special, an’ you were absolutely absorbed in the action onscreen, leanin' slightly forward in the seat, your gaze focused resolutely ahead.
Like a goddamn idiot, I went to you.
I should’ve walked away, but I didn’t. I shouldn’t have touched you, but I did. I should’ve said no, but I couldn’t. You became my prey.
Now it’s two weeks later—two weeks of stalkin’ you through the streets, through your school, to your house. Two weeks of not bein’ able to think of much else except for your scent an’ the way you moved against my touch, the way you took care of your own orgasm when I had denied you. I haven’t washed the tank I was wearin’ that night; it still smells like you an’ it gets me hard as a fuckin’ rock whenever I’m near it.
Your backpack hits the seat heavily an’ you sit, pushin’ it towards the wall with your hip before you remove the messenger bag an’ place it carefully beside the pack. The money you’re gonna pay me is in there, that’s why you’re being so precious with it. It’s probably a shit ton of money for you, maybe your life savings.
The earnest expression on your face makes my heart clench, which sparks anger. I don’t feel things for others. Feelin’s are too complicated, and like I stated earlier, I ain’t a nice guy. I decide to pour on the ol’ Vic Creed charm, remind myself that I’m a badass motherfucker who’d rather kill you as look at you. I fold the top corner of the paper so I can see your face.
“You’re late.”
You look tired, but you straighten your shoulders against my accusation, refusin’ to let it get to you. It tells me you don’t take a lot of shit, that you’d rather fight than back down an’ my groin tightens slightly.
The denim jacket you’re wearing looks like it’s one wash away from completely disintegratin’ an’ I bet it’s the only jacket you have. Your sneakers are also worn, scuffed, the laces broken an’ re-knotted an’ reused. The t-shirt is somewhat new, maybe second-hand, an’ your shorts are a little too big for you, so you use a long scarf as a belt because you probably don’t own one.
The outfit lends you a bohemian air, as if you’re someone who dresses this way because you’re a free spirit who practises yoga in the nude an’ chants to the moon once a month an’ doesn’t give a fuck what people think.
I know better: you’re just dirt-ass poor, makin’ do with the shit you have. I’ve been there, so sittin’ across from you in my professionally tailored Armani suit, my bespoke shoes, and $400,000 watch (Vacheron Constantin Patrimony, thank you very much) makes me feel superior.
And I am superior—homo superior, if you will.
Heh.
Your eyes travel over my unimpressed face an’ the two empties an’ fresh beer bottle by my elbow. Sure, I dress like a fuckin’ angel but I can still enjoy a simple beer when the occasion warrants it.
“Sorry,” you say, as you snatch up a menu. “Class ran late and my bus—“
“You’re late.” I speak slowly, as if you’re a child. I couldn't give a shit about your excuses an’ I snap the paper back up so I don’t have to see your face. “People I work for need to listen to what I say an’ show up on time.”
I’d sent you the text at 5:30 P.M. to meet me at the diner for 7 P.M. I knew you had shit to do but it was a test to see how well you took direction, how well you listened to me.
The scents of frustration, exhaustion, aggravation, an’ all the other bad words that end with ‘-tion’ shoot out of you an’ I hear you take in a breath.
Here we go. This is what I’ve been waitin’ for.
Your arm smashes the paper to the table, rippin’ it in two. I’m now lookin’ directly into your face an’ it’s flushed with anger.
“I’m late?! I’M LATE?!”
Yeah, give me your rage. Lemme feel it, girl.
You throw the menu on the table, but the flimsy rectangle of plastic floats to the floor, ruinin’ the impact you were tryin’ to make; it doesn’t stop you.
“You finger fuck me in a dark theatre without any warning and then you have the absolute nerve to be pissed at me for being seven minutes late?! Well, fuck you and your fuckin’ ugly shoes and whatever sewer you crawled out of!”
For the record, my shoes ain’t ugly—they’re Italian leather for Christ’s sake—but you’re so vicious, spittin’ and hissin’ like an angry kitten, that I get caught up in it an’ forget to be mad.
You begin grabbin’ at the bags jammed against the wall. “You know what? I don’t need this bullshit and I don’t need you!”
Your bluster makes me laugh; you do need me or else you wouldn’t’ve let me slide my finger into your beautifully soaked pussy an’ you certainly wouldn’t’ve jumped at the chance to see me again.
“Woah, now! Easy there, tiger!” The nickname comes easily an’ it feels right.
You’re this killer kitten, fightin’ for survival, roarin’ an’ stompin’ around when you feel threatened. It’s goddamn adorable. I’m all fuckin’ charmed an’ shit.
You don’t seem to hear me, continuin' to huff an’ grab at your shit, so I reach out an’ place my hand over yours. You skin is soft an’ hot to the touch.
“Look at me,” I say quietly.
You lift your eyes an’ take in my amused expression, heat suddenly rushin’ through your body. You want me, an’ fuck if I don’t want you too. I breathe in the smell of your lust as I curl my fingers around yours.
“It’s important my clients listen to me.”
It’s important you listen to me.
A little spark of anger undercuts your desire and your face twists in a sneer. “What, so you can be in complete control?”
Yeah, so I can be in complete control of you.
It thrills me that you’re challengin’ me, this tiny little tiger hissin’ up against this big, hungry lion. My own desire for you amps up an’ it’s like I’m back in that dark auditorium starin’ like you’re the most beautiful fuckin’ thing I’ve ever seen.
I slide my hand from yours an’ lean back, givin’ you a smile. “Yeah,” I say. “I’m the professional here.”
The waitress comes over—Margie, her nametag says—an’ I see the apology die in your throat as she places a glass of water an’ a beer in front of you before she fishes in her apron for her ordering pad.
“Your usual, hon?” she asks you.
You used to work at this diner as a teenager, pickin’ up shifts whenever you could; you practically lived here. I’m guessin’ you had a shit home life. That knowledge comes from a li’l thing I like to call ‘research’. I know so much about you an’ you don’t even know it.
You give the waitress a brilliant smile, tryin’ to hide your obvious frustration an’ weariness. “Thanks, Margie.”
The waitress turns to me. “How ‘bout you, big sexy?”
She’s not an unattractive woman an’ normally, I would’ve at least waited for her to get off work before pressin’ my (ahem) advantage an’ maybe tastin’ her blood when I was done, but she ain’t my focus. I want you.
I place the torn newspaper aside, on top of my suit jacket. “Steak, rare.”
“Any sides, hon?”
“Two more rare steaks.”
“You got it.” Margie, unfazed, scribbles down the order an’ wanders away, back to the kitchen, leavin’ us alone.
I don’t speak, lettin’ silence fall over the table. A mix of emotions comes from you an’ you grab the beer an’ down half of it in three huge swallows. It’s impressive.
When you notice me watchin’, you tilt your head towards your messenger bag. “I’ve got yo—“
“We don’t talk business here,” I say brusquely. I decide where and when we talk business an’ I know exactly where and when I want it to be. It ain’t gonna be here, and it ain’t gonna be now, I can tell you that much.
“Then why are we here?”
Why? Because the beast hasn’t reacted to a frail like that in a long time; I usually fuck ‘em an’ kill ‘em—or free ‘em if I’m in a rare mood—but the beast is tellin’ me you’re somethin’ different. I want to see if the spark between us was real, if it could grow to the fiery inferno I’m desperate to be consumed by.
“Tell me about yourself,” I say.
“Nothing much to tell,” you reply. “Born, school, graduate, made an ass ton of bad and stupid decisions, and here we are. The end.”
Margie comes back with more beer for us an’ you grab yours like it’s a fuckin' lifeline.
“What are you studying?”
You lower the bottle from your lips. “Uh, nursing. I’m in my third year. I already have my registered nursing certificate; I’m getting my bachelor’s.” You drain the rest of the beer. “My turn. Any barbed wire, Super Mario Brothers, or tribal tattoos? Below the belt piercings I need to know about?”
“No,” I chuckle. “You?”
“Oh, yeah,” you reply sarcastically. “I’ve got the lyrics to Sarah McLachlan’s Angel tattooed on my back and a Mount Rushmore style portrait of The Kids in the Hall on the inside of my left thigh.”
“Mmmm, didn’t notice that.”
“Well, it was dark.”
I laugh again an’ you blush furiously, sinking lower in the seat. Your scent is all lust, all want, all need, an’ an erection tents my pants. I can’t help but wonder if you’re thinkin’ of how it felt when my finger was deep inside you, strokin’ you towards ecstasy. Personally, I’m thinkin' of the way you tasted on my tongue when I licked that finger clean.
I want you. I’m going to have you and you don’t even know it yet.
You shift in your seat, suddenly uncomfortable. I know you’re wonderin’ what you’re doin’ here about to eat spaghetti and meatballs across from the psycho killer who gave you an incredibly mind-blowing orgasm. The scent of sweat reaches my nose an’ you start slidin' out of the booth.
My muscles tighten; I don’t want you out of my sight, but I fight the growl that’s buildin’ in my chest.
“Bathroom,” you say, tilting your head towards the doors.
I know what you mean, but to me it’s an invitation I’m gonna take. I give you two minutes before I head towards the ladies’, passing Margie on the way.
“I’ll keep your food warm,” she says as I go by. “Door locks from the inside.”
Smart lady; I like her.
You’re dryin’ your hands as I enter an’ you look up as you hear the lock click shut. We lock eyes in the mirror an’ your heart kicks into overdrive, hammerin’ wildly in your chest like a John Bonham drum solo (YouTube that shit. Bonzo’s Montreux).
“What are you doing in here?” you ask, tryin’ to play it cool. Your show of false bravado is fascinatin’. You’re half-terrified an' half-aroused an’ it’s ambrosia to me. “This is the ladies’, Mr. Creed.”
Jesus. The way you say my name makes me harder than I ever thought possible. Talk about gettin' off on a goddamn power trip.
I don’t say anythin’ as I approach you an’ you watch me, your eyes both curious an’ burnin’. You want to know what I’m gonna do an’ you get a clue when I crowd you against the counter, pinnin' you there with my hips.
“Gimme your scarf,” I growl.
You stare at me for a few seconds before you lower your hands to your waist. I’ve left you enough room to untie the knot before you begin to pull it off slowly. It’s like you’re fuckin’ teasin’ me, testin’ me.
Normally I ain’t the kind of guy who likes that shit, but you make it feel right, like it’s gonna be better if I wait. I’m practically snarlin’ as you hold the scarf off to the side an’ I grab it, wrappin’ the ends around my hands.
Your eyes haven’t left mine an’ your face is expressionless, but I can hear the blood shooting through your veins at the speed of light, your heart thumpin’ against your ribs.
What am I gonna do to you?
“Arms behind your back,” I say gruffly an’ you immediately obey me, crossing your hands at the wrist.
Fuck yes.
The scarf goes around your wrists securely, but not tight enough to cut off blood flow—that’s for later.
You let out a little squeak as I finish with the knot, jerkin’ your arms slightly. You bite your lip an’ your shut your eyes. I don’t want that.
“Open your eyes,” I command. “Look at me.”
They snap open, your gaze fastened on mine.
“Bend over.”
I slide my hand under your shirt as you do; your flesh is hot an’ startin’ to get slick with sweat. You’re excited an’ the heat is pourin’ from you, practically choking the air around me. I’m so fuckin’ hard.
“Want me to make you feel good, tiger?” I purr as I reach for your bra strap.
I don’t normally ask—I’m more of a doer—but I know you’re gonna say yes an’ I’m desperate to hear your lips form the word. You don’t disappoint.
“Yes,” you whisper.
“Yes what?”
“Yes, Mr. Creed.”
I fight the urgent need to come. Your face is flushed from an intoxicatin' mix of desire and terror an’ your mouth is open slightly as you pant, waitin’ for me, wantin’ me.
My hands are quick to yank your shorts an’ panties down, the latter of which is already damp with your juices. I take a deep breath, lovin’ how you’re reactin’ to me.
I grab the scarf around your tied wrists an’ reach for my pants with my other hand. Your breath hitches as you hear the zipper come down an’ you press yourself against the counter, openin’ your legs for me.
“Goddamn, tiger,” I murmur as I grasp my achin’ cock in my hand, “you want me bad, don’tcha?”
“Hurry up and fuck me,” you gasp. “I got a paper due tomorrow.”
Fuck, that sass zings through me an’ I growl, lovin’ your backtalk. I’ve killed broads for less, but that ain’t what my beast wants with you.
You’re slick as I rub the tip of my cock along your folds, drawin’ a moan from you an’ I can’t wait no more. My grip tightens on your wrists an’ I shove inside your tight, wet heat.
Goddamn. Goddamn.
“Aah!”
The cry I wrench from you makes me pull back an’ drive in again, wantin’ you to make the same sound. You do an’ it spurs me to thrust harder. Your insides are like velvet around my shaft, flutterin’ and clenchin’ as I fuck you, the rhythm I’ve set forcin’ little grunts from your mouth.
Shit, I’ve fucked a lot of women in a lot of places, but you…
My beast is goin’ wild, howlin’ an’ clawin’ at my insides, demandin’ I mark you an’ Jesus, I want to. The idea of my bite, red and swollen on your soft skin, gets me hotter, but I can’t claim you, not yet.
“Christ,” you hiss as you start to thrust your hips back to meet mine. “You’re a fuckin’ animal!”
I am a fuckin’ animal an’ hearin’ you say it pushes me towards the edge. I grab the scarf an’ start yankin’ you back against me, drivin’ my cock deep into your sweet heat.
With you squirmin’ and mewlin’ under me, I reach around an’ touch that special little spot, the spot you let me touch the first time we met. I ain’t gentle with it; I’m gettin’ close an’ I want you right there with me, screamin’ as you come.
“Fuck!” Your voice an’ preceding groan are loud in the room; if no one knew what we were doin’ in here before, they sure as hell do now.
You’re gettin’ close; I can smell it, a blend of sweat an’ pussy juice an’ somethin’ I’ve never been able to identify. It’s one of my favourite scents. If someone bottled the smell of a woman’s come, they’d have a customer for fuckin’ life.
“Mr. C-Creed,” you gasp. “I—please…”
Your sentence ends with a whimper as you clench tightly around me, squeezin’ my cock to the point of pain.
I love it.
Explosions dance in front of my vision as I come an’ I plough into you as deep as I can, my seed mixin’ with the fragrant smell of your release. I let loose a roar as I spill into you, my beast howlin’ along, still desperate for me to claim you.
I ignore it an’ focus on the right now, the shocks of electricity shootin’ through me as I lean over you, placin’ my arms on the counter so I can catch my breath.
We stay like that for a minute, gaspin’ an’ pantin’ for air, our eyes locked in the mirror. Christ, you are goddamn amazin’ an’ I know it’s gonna take every ounce of badass motherfucker I have inside me to walk away from you now.
We don’t say nothin’ as I pull out an’ stuff my spent member back into my pants, but before I untie you, I use my claws to slice off your panties. I stuff ‘em in my pocket an’ you give me the tiniest smile.
Shit.
The scarf flutters to the floor an’ you stand, rubbin’ your wrists.
“Mr. Creed, wh—“
“I’ll be in touch.” I say gruffly as I go towards the door.
We’re done here, at least for now. I know exactly when I’m gonna see you next; I’ve got it all planned out, tiger.
Just you wait.
Margie’s at the counter an’ I toss two hundred bucks on the cracked Formica. Her eyes are curious as she looks up at me.
“For the food,” I tell her. “Pack it all up an’ send it home with her. Whatever cash is left over is yours.”
She smiles at me an’ slips the money into her cleavage. “I knew I liked you.”
I wink at her before stridin’ out the door.
Fuck, maybe I’m turnin’ into a nice guy after all.
Goddammit.
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For Hire