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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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Just what she means to me now
Oh you just oh you just wouldn't understand
And the people say oh they say she's no good
Oh but she's my woman
And I know I'm her man
If she's got a problem oh yeah yeah
Oh I know I'm gonna have to help her solve it
-When Something Is Wrong With My Baby by Sam and Dave

You left my penthouse exactly four days, sixteen hours, ten minutes, an’ five seconds ago. Yeah, I been keepin’ track. What good is a $400,000 watch if you ain’t gonna fuckin’ use it?
It took me exactly four minutes an’ forty-eight seconds to destroy almost every fuckin’ thing in this damn place. I timed it.
The only thing I didn’t annihilate durin’ my rage was the goddamned sofa where we’d fucked. I wanna rip it to shreds with my bare hands, set in on fire, an’ piss on it for good measure, but I can’t bring myself to do it.
It still smells like you.
I found the panties you lost; I keep ‘em on my pillow, next to the other one, the ones I snagged from the diner. I sleep on ‘em at night, an’ I’m out like the goddamn dead ‘cause I’m surrounded by your scent.
I can’t fuckin’ get enough of it. I can’t get enough of you.
Shouldn’t’ve said what I did. You ain’t a killer, tiger.
I only said it ‘cause I was furious; you standin’ there, tellin’ me you wasn’t feelin’ what I was feelin’. You were fuckin’ lyin’—lyin’ right to my goddamn face.
Lyin’ even though you were wearin’ my mark right there on your neck.
I dunno how you did it, how you were able to turn an’ walk away from me, ‘cause I barely managed to stay alive the second those elevator doors shut an’ you were out of my sight.
I went fuckin’ crazy, tossin’ the joint like I was Led Zepplin in ’69 at the Edgewater Hotel, minus the mud shark.
My heart was a jackhammer in my chest an’ I tried to claw it out more n’ once ‘cause I couldn’t stand the noise, a frantic buddabuddabuddabuddabudda that wouldn’t fuckin’ stop. Blood’s still all over the kitchen.
An’ the money you left behind is scattered to kingdom fuckin’ come and I can’t stand lookin’ at the colourful bills: blues, red, greens, browns. It’s as if the goddamn Queen of England and three different former prime ministers are starin’ at me, judgin’ me, tellin’ me how badly I fucked up.
Yeah, well I was around for all their tenures an’ ain’t none of them got the right to judge me; they’ve all fucked up just as bad or worse n’ I did—except for Laurier. He was okay … for a politician.
I kneel in the shards of glass that used to be my desk, lettin’ ‘em dig into the flesh of my knees an’ shins. Feels good to have some familiar pain shoot through my nerves, remind me I’m still livin’, though I don’t know what the fuck for.
I pick up a few bills, uncoverin’ a photo of you that I’d snapped back when I was followin’ you. I remember it in excruciatin’ detail.
It was a hot night, an’ I was lurkin’ in a tree at your neighbour’s house, a huge, thick leafy number, an’ you were tryin’ to sleep but all you was doin’ was tossin’ an’ turnin’. You’d flipped the covers aside an’ all you was wearing was a grey tank an’ a pair of black panties.
With a sigh, you’d rolled onto you back an’ slowly eased your hand down the front of those panties. You began to touch yourself lazily, the oppressive heat havin’ sapped all your energy.
Soon, though, all that energy came back an’ was bein’ focused on your clit, your fingers caressin’ an’ rubbin’ frenetically, your sighs an’ moans the only thing I could hear.
I was as hard as Chinese algebra an’ I was wonderin’ if you’re thinkin’ of me, how I’d stroked you in the same place until you’d bucked excitedly against my fingers.
You was gettin’ close, I could tell, so I raised the camera an’ a few seconds before you came, I took the picture.
Thank you high-res zoom lens.
Fuck, I love the 21^st century.
My cock reacts to the photo an’ the memory, becomin’ fuckin’ hard in an instant. I ease my sweatpants down an’ wrap a hand around it. It’s hot to the touch, almost burnin’ against my palm.
Pre-come is already leakin’ from the tip an’ I smear it around, jus’ like you did the last time we were together. The thought of your caress makes me moan as I start pullin’.
Your scent is strong; the sofa’s close by an’ images of that day start runnin’ through me. Jesus, your mouth was amazin’ as it worked my cock, your eyes locked on mine.
Fuck.
Talkin’ to me how you did, all saucy an’ rude, makin’ me ask for your touch. Makin’ me wait.
Fuck.
Ridin’ me that with hot, tight, velvety pussy as you scratched your nails all over my flesh, drawin’ blood.
Shit.
An’ when you’d cried out my name—“Victor!”—shit.
I’m gettin’ close an’ it’s the vision of the mark I gave you, the bite on your neck claimin’ you as mine, that’s what does it. Knowin’ you’re out there, walkin’ around, existin’ with my mark on you, that’s what pushes me over the edge.
You’re mine, tiger. MINE.
I come with a grunt, shootin’ long, thick strands of my seed across the shinin’ bits of glass an’ the swath of the devastation I wreaked. Pantin’, I tuck my dick back into my pants an’ bend, placin’ my hands against the silvery white slivers, grindin’ down as hard as I can.
The pain is white hot, shootin’ through my body, an alarm bell ringin’ in my brain. I need this; I deserve this.
No. I need you. I deserve you.
Growlin’, I lean back on my knees.
You can’t stay away from me forever, tiger—my mark makes fuckin’ sure of that. I don’t care how strong you think you are, our connection is stronger.
That idea cheers me a little, so I go back to pickin’ up the bills. I’m halfway done when I find the flash drive you’d attached to the money. It’s small an’ blue an’ you’d acted like it was really fuckin’ important.
I pick it up, an’ curious, go up the stairs to my bedroom.
I didn’t fuck up any shit in here since you haven’t been in it; so, it’s really the only safe space I have right now.
My laptop is on my nightstand an’ I pop the drive into a port, then lift the lid. There’s about a million emails from various shitbags I’m doin’ work for an’ one from an address I don’t recognise. I click on it.
Mr. Creed,
Stop interfering. Leave her to us; it’ll be easier for all involved.
It ain’t signed.
What the fuck? What piece of fuckin’ shit sent me this? You don’t fuckin’ threaten Victor Creed if you value your internal organs and those of your close friends and loved ones. The keyboard creaks ominously under my hands.
I’m fuckin’ seethin’ now, seein’ red.
I grab my cell an’ am immediately barkin’ orders at lackeys, demandin’ to know where this email came from, who sent it, what time of day do they normally take a shit, all of it. I want everything on this motherfucker and I want it now.
I wanna know how this fuckbag managed to email me. I mean I’ve got fuckin’ Tony Stark shit all over the goddamn place. I should be snug as a fuckin’ bug in a fuckin’ rug. I'm harder to find than fuckin' Sasquatch.
I’m pantin’ and sweatin’—about to have a goddamn stroke, I’m sure—when I open the flash drive.
What I read sends me into a whole other fuckin’ frenzy.
“Jesus Christ, tiger,” I breathe, my heart in my goddamn throat. “What the fuck have you gotten your sweet ass into?”
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