Adult-FanFiction.org : Marvel 'Verse

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
- 4
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- 6
Run away and hide indoors
Live your life and do your chores
Yeah, well, I'm gonna howl
Lord, I'm gonna haunt
And someone's gonna miss the Wolfman when he's gone
- Wolfman Agenda by Shakey Graves

Shit.
I was bleedin’ out faster n’ I should be.
In fact, should be healin’ up, but my body was absolutely fuckin’ refusin’ to push a few of the bullets out an’ I was runnin’ out of—what? Patience? Blood? The will to live? Feel like I’m going balls to the wall nutso.
Fuck.
I’m close to your place an’ I know I shouldn’t go ‘cause I’m the last goddamn person you wanna fuckin’ see, but fuck you an’ your pride.
I’m bein’ drawn to you, the mark I gave you lightin’ up the sky like a fuckin’ beacon.
You better be fuckin’ ready, tiger.
I can’t wait to hear you cuss me out.
I just wanna hear your voice.

~*~*~

Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit!
You practically slam the bathroom door behind you and lean against it, dropping your head back until it makes contact with the shitty, warped wood.
Bob and Doug McKenzie, your cats, are sniffing around the area, curious as to what the hell is going on. You wish you could tell them, but have no fucking clue either.
Victor Creed, AKA El Fuckbag, had shown up on your doorstep forty-five minutes ago, shot to shit and looking like a Connect Four board and you let him the fuck in because:
1. He looked like sixteen tons of shit in a two ounce bag
2. You’re training to become a nurse and know a thing or two about bullet wounds and shit
3. You’re a fucking idiot whose hormones jumped into action the second Creed’s sexy growly voice told you to let him in
4. All the above
You tried to keep him out—oh god, you tried—but he’d called your bluff.
“Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me, tiger?” His baritone was hoarse and had been layered with pain. “Yer a nurse. Didn’t you take the Hippocratic Oath?”
“No. I vowed to ‘abstain from whatever is deleterious and malicious’, and your picture is by both of those words in the dictionary, so …”
His eyes had crackled when he’d looked up at you. “You’re just gonna let me fuckin’ die on your doorstep?”
Goddamn it.
So now he was lying unconscious in your bathtub after you’d pulled five or six rounds from his chest while other bullets seemed to be leaving his body of their own accord like the goddamn bullet rapture.
He’d roared and snarled and cursed the whole time, his hands gripping the edge so tight, he’d cracked the porcelain.
You’re sure as hell not getting your damage deposit back now.
You need to take a breather.
Bob follows you to the kitchen, chirping happily, while Doug plants himself in front of the bathroom door, growling, his tail puffed up like a pipe cleaner having an allergic reaction. He’s the braver of the two but sometimes you aren’t sure if he just too stupid to be afraid—like you.
Victor Creed is the human equivalent of a nuclear bomb that’s been wrapped in barbed wire, surrounded by fifty rabid dogs that are also wrapped in barbed wire, and the dogs are carrying loaded machine guns. That they know how to use.
Then that hot mess has been crammed into one tall, blonde, sexy package. You know you should be scared of what’s in the box but you’re having such a great time playing with it—and it doesn’t help that the box is super-fantastic at sex.
But the box is also really great at pissing you off.
Before El Fuckbag showed up unexpectedly, no one knew where you lived and you made fucking sure of that. The only visitor you get is your elderly neighbour, Mr. Mazur, who likes to drop of bottles off vodka “from the home country!” or treats and toys for the cats. He feels it’s his duty to check in on you, but he’s really just lonely. You think he’s sweet.
Other than Mr. Mazur, you keep your shit on the DL, like Bigfoot.
All mail goes to a P.O. box, you have no credit cards (because C.R.E.A.M. or Cash Rules Everything Around Me. Wu-Tang Clan gets it), and all of your bills are paid from a phony third-party account with a fake name on it. You don’t even get goddamn take-out delivered here.
Not that you’ve been able to pay bills since El Fuckbag had taken all of your money three weeks ago and hadn’t returned it—it wasn’t like he needed it. And ever since he’d whammied you with that bite on your neck, you’ve been too sick to work (so you’d been fired) and you’d missed too much of your practicum to make the needed hours.
Whatever flim-flam jim-jam El Fuckbag has placed on you it’s turned your life into a giant shit show given an extended run on Broadway with music by Ted Nugent, post Wango Tango.
You’re pretty much fucked and not in the good way.
You need a fucking drink.
Mr. Mazur’s vodka is the only booze you have right now, so you twist off the cap and the scent reminiscent of burning hair hits your nose. You’d shared some shots with him and spilled a few drops of it on the countertop; it ate straight through the cheap pressboard. At the time, you’d thought it was the most hilarious thing you’d ever seen in your life.
Now your life was the most hilarious thing that you’d ever seen in your life but in a sad hilarious way, not a hilarious hilarious way.
With a shrug, you lift the vodka to your lips and take a healthy swig. The stuff is sheer drain cleaner and it goes down as smooth as razor blades. You choke and your throat mutinies, forcing the liquid out of your nose. It burns like both fire and the sun are having sex in your nostrils and your eyes water and blur as your knees hit the floor.
As you cough and snort and sniffle on the stained and peeling linoleum of your kitchen, you hear a voice.
“You okay, tiger?”
El Fuckbag. You can’t really see him though since your eyes are the Niagara Falls all of a sudden, but you manage to speak.
“Peach keen, jellybean.” Your voice is hoarse and you’re probably Tom Waits forever.
Creed chuckles and you sense him coming closer. He brings his animalistic heat with him; you find yourself reacting to it, a warmth blooming in your belly. You wipe inelegantly at your face, clearing your vision.
He’s standing before you, shirtless (!!) and painted in blood. His long blonde hair is lank and stringy, soaked with sweat and gore; his beautiful amber eyes are bloodshot. Creed looks like he’d been flung from the CN Tower, driven over at least twenty-seven times, and eaten and shat out by a moose.
As his eyes travel over you, you’re sure you don’t look any better, your hair swiped back into a messy bun, tears and snot all over your face, which is red from choking on liquor.
But despite the fact Creed looks like complete garbage, your body is ready to make the Kessel Run in less than twelve parsecs. Okay, maybe fifteen; you don’t want to cheat yourself.
He makes the “gimmie” gesture and you hand him the vodka, which he turns in his bloody hand so he can read the handmade label. It’s in Polish. Which he can apparently read?
“Christ,” Creed laughs. “You don’t fuck around, do ya?” He lifts the bottle to his mouth and it’s gone in three healthy swallows. He doesn’t cough or choke, just lowers the empty bottle from his mouth with a satisfied sigh.
“Show off,” you scoff getting to your feet.
He looks at the bottle again, impressed. “Now that’s some quality shit.”
“My neighbour’s brother makes it,” you say, “in the home country.”
Creed drops his arm to his side, the neck of the bottle caught between his large, thick fingers. “C’mere,” he says and you step closer to him.
Fuck. Why does he have such control over you?
You stiffen when he lowers his head to your neck, his breath hot over the bite he’d given you three weeks ago. Three weeks and it still hasn’t healed.
He inhales deeply and your tilt your head slightly, allowing him even closer. A moan slips from you as his rough tongue grazes over the wound. Creed’s free hand comes up and palms the back of your neck, his fingertips caressing your hairline.
His tongue is firmer this time as it circles the swollen mark, sending shockwaves of bliss through your body. This is the first time the thing felt good since … well, since Creed gave it to you. You remember the crash of orgasmic euphoria the second his teeth pierced your skin and how you’d screamed his name as he’d lapped at the blood that spilled from the bite.
Your fingers find the belt loops of his jeans and you pull him closer, craving that sexual, primal something that constantly surrounds him.
“Missed you, tiger,” he whispers, his breath ghosting over your ear.
Creed’s voice snaps you back. He’s almost tight against you, your clothes sticking to the tacky blood on his chest. You avoid his mouth as he tries to kiss you, his lips skating across your forehead as you turn your face away. His hand is still on the back of your neck.
“You’re covered in blood,” you say softly.
His fingertips touch the skin of your chest gently. “You could help me shower. Get my hard to reach areas.”
Jesus Christ. The thought of Creed naked and soapy under your hands makes your pussy feel like it’s a stalled car that’s just received a jump-start from a helpful Good Samaritan.
“I’ll—uh—get you some towels,” you say, letting him go and taking a step back.
He gives you that sexy half smile you love/hate and goes for the button of his jeans. The zipper is loud in the small kitchen and you’re helpless as you watch him shimmy slowly out of them like he’s about to give you the lap dance of a lifetime. You avert your eyes as he pushes them below his hips.
“Don’t gotta be shy,” Creed says, amused. “Ain’t like you haven’t seen it before.”
You keep your eyes turned away, even when the jeans land at your feet with the soft clink of his belt.
“I got some clean clothes on the way,” he says as he turns around. “Food too. You hungry?”
Fuck yeah you’re hungry, but not for food. You’re hungry for him, for his mouth, his body, his everything. “Yeah,” you croak out.
He nods and you watch his ass as he swaggers out of the kitchen, Bob trailing behind him. You don’t leave until you hear the shower start up, picking up his destroyed jeans on the way.
Fuck, that ass is fine as hell. And I want a piece of it.
Maybe once El Fuckbag is done, you’ll grab a shower.
A cold, cold shower.
As you’re gathering towels, it occurs to you that Creed said he was having shit delivered.
To your house.
Where you live.
Oh, hell no. Not with everything you do to keep your location secret. You don’t need El Fuckbag turning your place into fucking can you tell me how to get to Sesame Street.
Furious, you stomp to the bathroom and fling open the door. Steam comes pouring out, obstructing for vision for a few seconds. When it clears, you try you damndest to keep your eyes off of the silhouette on the curtain.
The big, beautiful, well muscled, long legged—
Woah. Down, girl.
You clear your throat loudly and take a deep breath. “Mr. Creed,” you say and the shower shuts off.
You open your mouth to start, but El Fuckbag yanks the shower curtain aside, giving you an unobstructed view of everything, and all that comes out is a high-pitched gah sound.
And is it just you or did the temperature go up about six trillion degrees?
“Yeah?” he says, a smirk on his face. He makes no move to get out of the tub, content to let you look at all the candy in the shop. He’d probably let you touch all the sweet stuff too if you asked nicely.
Stop.
You rearrange your face to look more serious and less like a teenage boy seeing boobs for the first time. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t have things delivered to my home. You certainly know the importance of—“
He steps out of the tub and since the bathroom is so goddamn small, he’s practically pressed against you, wet and dripping.
You immediately become flustered, your face flushing but you keep talking. “—the importance of—um—keeping a—low—“ Creed tilts his head, still smirking. His scent of wood smoke tickles your nose and it’s almost too much for you. “Jesus Christ, put on a goddamn towel!”
You thrust one at him. Shit, you want him on top of you, making you scream and moan, fucking you until you can’t walk. His fingers caress the back of your hand as he takes the towel, and in your brain a whole bunch of excited cowboys start shouting “YEE HAW!” and shooting their pistols in the air.
No.
“Mr. Creed,” you start again, fire in your voice.
His hand comes up and strokes you cheek with his knuckles and you’re lost. You lean into the touch because now that he’s made contact, you want more, like you’re starved for him.
You don’t like it. You’re not like this.
“Call me Victor,” he says, his voice just a bit south if being a full growl.
Your body stiffens and you tilt your head away from him, averting your eyes. Satan will have frostbite on his asshole before you ever call this … man by his first name.
“Mr. Creed,” you say through clenched teeth. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t have things delivered to my house. I try to keep a low profile and I’m sure that you understand that.”
“I’ll cancel if you’d rather have me walkin’ around naked,” he purrs, taking a step closer. You back up but the counter is behind you and you hiss as your ass bumps it. “If you wanna get naked too, I won’t stop you.”
A veritable plethora of naughty images flash through your head and your breath hitches in your chest. Creed’s nostril flare and he growls, grabbing your waist to place you on the edge of the counter. You spread your legs, welcoming him between them.
His mouth claims yours hungrily, your body responding with the same need, the same fierceness. Your flesh feels hot through your shirt, almost scalding; you want Creed to take it off, run his palms over your skin, devour you as much as you want to devour him. The bite on your neck heats up, pure flame zipping down every last nerve ending in your body. You start to feel like you’re boiling alive in your own flesh.
It’s too hot; I’m burning alive. Oh, shit it’s too hot—
You pull your face back at the same time you shove his hands away and you lean as far away from his mouth as you can, afraid you’ll give in if he comes closer.
“No,” you croak out. “We’re not—I’m not gonna do this again, Mr. Creed.”
“Jesus Christ, tiger,” he says harshly. “I ain’t playin’ you. What’s between us, it’s real. Stop fightin’ it.”
“It’s not real,” you shout. “I don’t know you; I don’t know anything about you other than the fact you kill people for a living and—and you bit me and it still hurts and I can’t make sense of my life anymore!”
You’re panting for breath, sweat on your brow. You gently push Creed away from you and slide from the counter, going to the door. “When you’re dry, I’ll bandage up your wounds. Once your clothes arrive, I think it’s best that you leave.”
It takes all the strength you have to walk away from him, towards your bedroom where you keep extra bandages, antiseptic cream, and medical tape. You’re going to need a lot, more than what you keep in your medical kit.
You stand there a moment, suddenly unsure what to do next. The nurse part of you wants to rush to Creed’s aid and Nurse Nightingale the shit out of him before you send him off into the sunset, waving after him with your white lacy handkerchief.
The horny teenage boy in you wants to knock him to the ground and ride him like a unicycle until your wheel pops.
The other part of you is wondering if what El Fuckbag said is true. Is there really something between the two of you? Is it why you can’t stop thinking about him? Is it why you’ve been so sick since you’d left him? Does the bite—
It flares up again and you mutter a curse before you clamp a hand over it. Why won’t the goddamn thing heal already?
“I’m a mutant,” Creed says from the bedroom doorway. “A feral mutant. Means I got animal instincts an’ urges like stalkin’, huntin’, shit like that. Injuries aren’t usually a big deal for me; can usually heal just about anythin’ thrown at me except for carbonadium. That shit messes with my healin’ factor, makes me slower to mend.”
You turn to face him and he tosses you one of the bullets you’d plucked from him; it has a different colour, a different sheen from most of the other bullets you’d seen in your life.
You lift your eyes to him. He’s got a towel wrapped around his trim hips, another draped over his shoulders. He’s fucking gorgeous.
“Ferals, we got all those impulses, see? One of ‘em is choosin’ a mate. I got a beast livin’ inside me; sometimes it makes decisions. It chose you for me, tiger, an’ I can’t fight it. You can’t either.”
“Why?”
“I marked you,” Creed says. “The bite—it’s reactin’ the way it is ‘cause you’re denyin’ the bond.”
“Something inside you picks me out of a crowd for no reason and I have to go along with it? What happens if I don’t?” Your voice is acid and you’re squeezing the tube of antiseptic cream so hard, the cap is threatening to pop off.
Creed lets out a heavy sigh and flicks his gaze over you. “You’ll die.”
What the actual fuck?!
“Don’t I get a choice in this?” you demand, the anger in your chest making it hard for you to breathe. “Don’t I get to decide if I want to be in this or not?”
He’s quiet for a moment; the only sound in the room the frenzied beating of your heart. It feels like it’s growing bigger and bigger, filling your chest, making your ribs ache.
“You do an’ you have,” Creed says gently. “Did it hurt when I bit you?”
The bite had felt fucking incredible. In fact, it had driven you to another orgasm, one you hadn’t been expecting. You’re unable to form words so you shake your head.
“It ain’t healed, either. There’s somethin’ in you that needs an’ wants me, tiger. Don’t fight it no more. Just … just let me in.”
Every cell in you screams yes.
Yes to letting whatever weird thing is going on between you and Creed to happen. Yes to having his body next to yours every morning and every night. Yes to touching every inch of him and having him respond in kind.
Just YES!
But you can’t—you won’t. You’re not that person anymore. You’re not a whore anymore. You won’t let another man control your life ever again.
You want control.
“I—I don’t want to talk about this,” you say.
Your chest feels too full, as if it’s filled with too many things: love, hate, fear, desire, rage, confusion and your heart is trying to eat all of it, trying to make sense of it all.
You need to distract yourself and you need to distract Creed.
“Sit down; I’ll get your hair out of your face.”
Creed walks hesitantly towards the edge of your double bed as you grab a brush and an elastic band. You use the towel on his shoulders to squeeze out any remaining water and move to kneel behind him, working the brush gently through his hair.
He relaxes slightly, those beautiful muscles softening as he sighs. After a few strokes, he starts purring faintly, almost melodically. It’s a pleasurable sound.
You can see his face in the mirror; his amber eyes are half-closed in contentment, his head tilted back slightly, exposing his strong, graceful neck.
The sound of Creed’s purr attracts both Bob and Doug. The former trots into the room and starts rubbing himself against the man’s legs, trilling happily. He doesn’t seem to mind the small grey and white cat weaving around his ankles blissfully, almost flirtatiously.
Doug is a little more suspicious. His steps are cautious as he enters to search for the source of the noise. When he finds it’s Creed, he hisses and arches his back, his tail puffing up as he crouches low to the floor and scuttles under the bed with a tiny growl.
Creed’s hair is soft and beautiful under your fingers as you twist it into a herringbone braid, the strands slippery and damp. You imagine burying your hands in it, pulling on it hard while he thrusts into you roughly, making you cry out—
Shit. Get it together.
Just as you secure the elastic and release Creed’s hair, he reaches forward and grabs Doug’s enlarged tail, letting loose with a sharp, feline hiss. Doug loses his shit, yowling and screeching, streaking away the second his tail is released. You hear the cat tearing around the living room, knocking stuff from shelves, his claws puncturing the sofa and curtains as he freaks the fuck out.
“That wasn’t very nice,” you snap.
El Fuckbag laughs, having scared at least seven of Doug’s nine lives out of the poor thing.
“I ain’t a nice guy, tiger,” he chuckles. The laugh fades to a groan and he grimaces, pressing a hand to his abdomen.
You move around him, gently pushing Bob out of your way in order to wipe off the blood seeping from the wound. Once clear, you quickly bandage it up, securing it with a ton of medical tape. You continue on, patching up the rest of the holes, smearing on antibacterial cream before you apply the gauze. Creed’s skin is cool under your touch and it feels amazing under your fingertips. It should calm you, but it doesn’t.
You’re angry that he’s here, that’s he’s taking up space in you life that you can’t fucking afford. You’re angry that you’re helping him despite the fact he refused to help you. You’re angry that your life isn’t your own; it belongs to either Creed or the man who’s trying to kill you.
“Lie on your stomach,” you command, barely able to keep the rage from your voice.
He doesn’t say a word as he gets to his feet and arranges himself on your bed. He’s so tall, his feet hang off the edge, but you’re beyond caring. You just want to patch him up and get him the hell out.
You start cleaning the first wound and he hisses, his sharp nails puncturing your blanket.
Goddammit.
You forgot this kitten had claws.
“Put your hands above your head.”
Creed complies, his palms curling around the bars of your headboard. Out of the corner of your eye, you spot two things: the scarf he’d used on you in the diner and his belt.
You snatch up both, going to the headboard to secure his wrists tightly with the scarf. They’re bound so that he can’t use his claws to cut the tie or through the metal of the bar. You drop the belt by the side of the bed.
It doesn’t take long for you to bandage the rest of his wounds; your touch is quick and methodical, strictly professional, even though you want to hurt him, cause him the same kind of pain he caused you. You need to do it; the feeling is coiling in your gut, ready to strike. The belt feels good in your hand as you pick it up.
He doesn’t make a sound as you yank the towel from the lower half of his body. It’s as if he was expecting you to do it, to give him your anger and frustration.
Slowly, teasingly, you skate your fingertips across the globes of his ass. It’s perfection, taut and firm under your touch. He lets out a breath as you fold his belt in half.
“You haven’t been very nice, Mr. Creed,” you say huskily as you dig your nails into his flesh. “Do you know what I do to people who are not nice?”
The lines come easily; it’s been a while since you recited them, but you find it’s like riding a bicycle—you never truly forget.
He’s quiet until you tap his ass cheek with the tip of your nail. “No,” he gasps.
You move back towards his head, which he’s turned to the side. Only half of his face is visible, one amber eye wide in anticipation. You lean towards his pointed ear and nip it hard before you whisper, “I punish them.”
On the word punish, you snap his belt together; it makes the most wonderful cracking sound and makes him jolt slightly.
Control.
Slick starts building between your legs.
“Jesus, tiger—“
“Quiet!” You snap the belt again and he clamps his mouth shut. “I don’t want to hear another word from you, only the noises you’re going to make when this strap hits your flesh, understand?”
Creed nods once, licking his lips. He’s already panting, waiting and ready for the slap of the belt.
You’re in control here, so you decide to let him wait. A little bit of suffering before the torture was always more fun; the sounds they make are more delicious somehow.
The belt taps gently along your hip as you leave the room, going towards the kitchen. Creed immediately starts gruffly keening with lust, calling to you, wanting you, and you have to clench your legs together to stop the wetness from flowing down your legs.
He wants you so much.
A glass of cool water helps you a little, wetting the dryness in your throat, but it doesn’t touch the fire burning within you. You want those flames bright and high, charring everything they touch.
His chest is heaving when you arrive back in the bedroom, his skin covered in a fine sheen of sweat, the covers under him rumpled from his wriggling and writhing. You lean towards the small of his back and drag your tongue along the perspiration gathered there. He gasps and pulls at his restraints but you hush him and he stills.
Creed’s belt is worn black leather, cracked and faded from years of use, but it’s still strong, still useful. You test it and twist it in your hands, enjoying the feel of it. He moans softly whenever he hears the leather creak in your grip, his hips rutting urgently against the sheets.
You cup his left ass cheek before sliding it down to where his thigh starts, letting him know where you are on his body. Back in your old life, this step was important. The submissive needs to trust you implicitly and the touching helps build that trust, that bond.
Speaking of bonds…
Back in your old life, you were a pro at this; it was something a majority of your clients requesting, including him—but you don’t want to think about him now. You want to think about Victor Creed and how he’s completely at your mercy, how you have complete control over that exquisite and amazing body—a killer’s body.
The flames of the fire light a spark in your groin and travel up the electric cable that is your arm until it hits home. You explode like dynamite, bringing the belt down on his flesh with a resounding snap.
Creed groans through clenched teeth, aching his back slightly, begging for more. You stop for a moment to admire the swollen red line across that fine ass.
Damn, you forgot how much you liked this.
You brush your fingertips along the welt, making him hiss. You slide your fingers down the back of his thigh before gouging your nails into the meaty part.
“More?” you ask brazenly, sliding the belt across his lower back.
He whimpers and thrusts his ass up in invitation. You don’t hesitate.
Crack!
Crack!
Crack!
Crack!
Each strike elicits delicious sounds from Creed, animalistic sounds you’d never heard another human being make before. When you stop, a low growl comes from him and it feels as if it’s caressing your pussy. You can’t help the wetness that dripping from you now. You welcome it.
The marks are lovely on his skin, hot as you press your palm against them. His growl ramps up and, impulsively, you swat him in the sweet spot where his ass and upper thigh meet.
You love the fleshy smack you get, so you do it again and again until your hand stings. Creed grunts and moans, his hips jerking against your comforter.
He’s oh so close; you can feel it pulsing around him, practically in time to the beat of your heart. You caress his ass again, gently this time, and he sighs, pushing it against your touch.
“More, Mr. Creed? You may speak now.”
“Christ, tiger, you’re gonna make me come,” he pants.
“Not until I say so.”
He lets out a frustrated moan and pulls at the restraints. A word that sounds suspiciously like please comes from him, but you ignore it.
Control.
“You have to do what I say, don’t you?” you ask slyly. Does your voice really have the same fucking power over him as his does over you? “You’re a dirty little whore. You need my commands, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Creed gasps. “I ain’t in control; I gotta—I can’t—“
“Now you know how I feel,” you snap roughly. “Up on your knees, whore.”
Control.
He puts his weight on his forearms and pulls his legs under him until he’s kneeling, his torso still pressed down on the bed.
You pool saliva on your tongue and then let it drip into your palm. Once nice and wet, you knead his testicles with your dry hand before you wrap your hand around the base of his cock.
“Shit!” he hisses.
He tries to move his hips so he can fuck your hand, but you smack his ass with a firm no. You’re in charge here. Like He-Man, you have the power, but not the power of Grayskull. It’s an ancient power, a primal power.
This man is yours.
Creed’s cock is heavy and hot in your grip and you weigh it, letting it twitch under your touch. He whines softly, but you will not be rushed. You stroke your palm down the underside of his shaft until you reach the tip. An amazing amount of pre-come waits for you. You run your fingertip around the head, making him cry out.
The taste is like nothing else you’ve ever experienced before; it’s sweet somehow, pleasant, not salty or bitter like normal. That’s changed since last time.
“You’re delicious,” you whisper and he sighs, trembling as he waits. “I just wanna eat you up.”
He grunts in surprise as you flip him over, hissing when his abused ass hits the mattress, his pupils blown so wide, they’re almost all black. He’s silent as you straddle his thighs despite the fact you’re putting more pressure his punished posterior.
You can tell he’s not used to this, not used to being dominated, but he won’t fight it. He’s doing this for you. He’s giving you his absolute trust.
Creed bucks his hips in time with your tugs and you let him. He gasps your name as he meets your eyes.
“I want you to come all over yourself,” you whisper roughly. “You’re a dirty, filthy slut and I want you to look like one.”
He mutters a curse and starts thrusting his hips in earnest, his balls striking the underside of your fist. Your grip tightens as he starts straining against you, his breath coming in harsh, jagged gasps.
There it is again, that pulse. Throb throb throb. It’s his need beating in time with your heart.
He’s ready.
“That’s it, Victor. Come for me.”
His cock twitches once, twice, and he throws his head back, shouting your name and arching his hips as he comes, his seed spurting all over his chest and neck. More keeps spilling, so you keep your hand on him, gentling your touch as you ease him through the last of his orgasm.
A minute of silence falls while he slowly relaxes back onto the mattress, gasping for air; you let go of his spent member and get to your feet, studying his face.
“Holy shit,” Creed pants. “Holy fuckin’ shit. Jesus fuckin’ Christ. I ain’t ever come like that, tiger. Yer fuckin’ am—“
“Shut up.”
His mouth snaps shut and you drag a finger through his come and lift it to your mouth. He watches you suck the digit clean before you lean towards him and lick at chest. You don’t miss a drop, lapping up every last bit of his seed that you can find while he stares, a deep purr echoing through his torso.
“Christ, tiger,” he whispers. “I don’t think I can fuckin’ live without you.”
You reach over his sweat soaked body to untie the scarf and he sits up, rubbing at his wrists. You’re beginning to think you don’t want to live without him either.
You need this. You want this.
Creed pulls you to him, his mouth claiming yours. His tongue is quick to lick away any remains of his essence and you moan, already missing the taste of him.
“I would never hurt you,” he says softly against your lips, “an’ I won’t let anyone else hurt you neither. You’re mine, tiger, just as much as I’m yours.”
His fingers brush over the bite on your neck, sending shivers down your spine. You relax against him, feeling your heart deflate in your chest. All the things that were filling it are gone now.
“Say yes to me,” Creed says quietly against your hair. “Don’t let me go another second without you.”
You’re about to say yes—it’s on the tip of your tongue—when the doorbell chimes. You hear the patter of feet as Bob and Doug race to check out who’s on the other side.
“Just in time,” you say, pressing the scarf into his hands as you stand. “Better clean up, Victor. We’ve got company.”
He smiles at you, his eyes crinkling in a really sexy way.
Somewhere in hell, Satan is figuring out how to deal with frostbite on his asshole. You wish him luck.
As you go to the door, you revel in the fact you feel stronger, safer, protected. You feel in control of your life for the first time in a long time. If you can take on a man like Victor Creed, you can certainly take on the fucking world.
There’s a smile on your face as you gently push the cats aside with your foot and pull the door open.
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