You are a time bomb ticking away
You need to release
What you’re feeling inside
Let out the beast
That you’re trying to hide
Step right up and be a part of the action
Get your game face on
Because it’s time to play
You’re pushing and fighting your way
You’re ripping it up
How do you live without playing the game
Sit on the side and expect to keep sane
Step right up and be a part of the action
Come get a piece of it before it’s too late
Take a look around
You can’t deny what you see
Were living in a violent society
Well my brother let me show you a better way
So get your game face on because it’s time to play
You’re pushing and fighting your way you’re ripping it up
Bring the violence
To the life
If you’ve ever known anyone
Bring the violence
To the life
Can you feel it?
~ Violence Fetish (Disturbed)
It changed every time he came to the corner of West 49th Street and South Ashland Avenue, in an area of the South Side called Back of the Yards. The current façade at 4858 South Ashland was an illusion like the others, but the scents of red brick and concrete were the same. He approached the rusted piece of tin that appeared to be leaning against a ruined and boarded up building, gutted by fire. Gripping it and tossing it to one side, he walked through the blasted brick wall beneath it and felt Madame Claudette-Thérèse de Beaumarchais’s illusion wash past him.
“Veektor! Oh, you ‘ave come back to us!”
The tall woman that approached him resembled a coiffed blonde Marie-Antoinette in a flawless peach-colored reproduction of a pre-Revolution French formal gown. The dizzying sculpture of her platinum hair was adorned with matching fresh peach roses. She clapped her hands and mutants of all types, genders, and talents appeared from all over the fine reception salon, ready to hear her instructions.
“Evenin’ Claudette.” She gave him her pale porcelain hands, and he used them to pull her up tight to his chest. Bending down to kiss her powdered cheek, he grinned at the bloody smear that mussed her flawless make-up.
“Are you back for good, for a while, or for zee night, Veektor?”
“Undecided, but fer tha night, yeah.” He let her go, amused that she wasn’t upset by the matching blood smears on the front of her gown. “Ya know why I’m here; where is he?”
“Busy, but free soon, and you cannot go upstairs as you are. A bath first, no? Girls!” She pointed to a few of the prettiest creatures there. “Run a bath for Monsieur Creed.”
She started to clap again, but Victor snatched her hands in one of his. Her charges stopped short, and some of the new ones were afraid for her – afraid of him.
“I want tha west suite like before, darlin’, an’ Morpheus can run my bath later.”
Claudette started to protest, until he bent again to nuzzle her neck below the white lace choker she wore. Letting his fangs scrape her flesh, his growl sounded, low and urgent. He paused, listening to the heart hammering with excitement within the perfectly voluptuous body.
Her flute-toned voice spoke softly, with a hunger of her own. “Oui, Veektor, jus’ a little – but carefully, mon cher…”
The growl came louder before he sank his teeth into the flushed skin, slow and easy. His tongue darted out to lick the little beads of blood, his free hand reaching to squeeze one of her magnificent breasts under its froth of white lace and peach bows.
She sighed, pressing into it, until he released her and stepped back. Brushing a wayward pale blonde curl behind her ear, she fanned herself with a fluttering hand. She didn’t fuss about the drips of blood staining the white lace around her throat below his bite, either.
“Mon Dieu… Zee west suite eez yours, of course; few can afford eet for more zan an ‘our, so no one eez zere tonight. Go ahead up eef you like, unless you want me to lead you zere?”
“I can find it, don’t worry. Ship ‘im up t’ me, Claudette, an’ don’t waste time washin’ ‘im first.” He walked through the path they scrambled to make for him and climbed the curving scarlet marble staircase.
When he got to the suite, he dismissed the serving girl. She closed the door behind her and left him to wait.
Victor passed the ornate furnishings without a glance and walked around the bed to the window side. He stripped off the bloody long black coat and draped it over the nightstand, stuffing the gory leather gloves in the pockets. Leaving his wallet in it, he fished out his phone and laid it on top of one of the few dry spots.
Crossing to the western windows, he stood over one of the deep padded window seats to look out at the city. For a heartbeat, the illusion of beautiful night gardens awash with unblemished blossoms outside held, and then the Madame downstairs dropped her witchery to reveal the hard, cold, and dirty world as it really was.
Smiling, he thought, Thanks, Claudette. Nothin’ against ‘er roses, but t’night I’m in tha mood fer a li’l squalor. She’s probly still irked that I don’t need ‘er other talents no more – oddly ‘nuff, thanks t’ tha runt.
His fingertips rubbed at the stubble under his chin, where the X-Man had stabbed a claw straight up into his brain. Logan had wanted to stop him, after he’d threatened to kill every skirt and kid his enemy had ever cared about. Turned out, he’d only slowed him down. The wound and the brain injury healed eventually, and ever since, he no longer needed the glow – that old telepathic fix for a rampant and violent insanity that had been spiraling out of control.
The bloodlust remained, of course – the love of the hunt, the kill; yet Logan’s savagery had cloven the debilitating madness.
Those old demons still dance in my head, an’ tha dreams are all nightmares full o’ tha whisperin’ an’ cursin’ dead, prowled though by worse monsters than me – but awake, at least, my brain is mine again. Cueball failed t’ cure me, but tha runt never lets me down. If I had a hat t’ tip t’ ya, fireplug, I would.
Behind him, the door opened, shut, and was locked almost without a sound.
“Claudette still loves you, I think.”
“‘Course she does; what’s makin’ ‘er drunk down there now, though – that ain’t love, boy, it’s lust, pure an’ simple. Got li’l use fer telepaths these days.”
“So I heard.”
Victor turned and studied the young mutant before him. His skin was changing from white to his natural dark gray. Breasts drew in to become pectorals, the hips less flared, but when the blonde hair turned shaggy and black and the birth form stood before him, Victor’s mouth twitched in a half-smirk.
“Remy LeBeau – oh, years ago, now.”
Victor frowned. “He likes yer games? Had tha Cajun pegged as a skirt-sniffer.”
“Oh, I sincerely doubt if he’s particular, but yes … he was always fond of Angelique’s skirt – at least until he began chasing Rogue in earnest.”
“Can’t think o’ a more useless slit than that one.”
Morpheus smiled at his disdain. “I spoke to him in the parlor, and asked about you. He had a lot to say about how they had locked you up. How you’d been turned into a kitten by Wolverine’s claw through your brain, and then ran afoul of Psylocke when you healed and escaped.”
“They bit off more’n they could swallow, an’ choked.”
Victor watched the metamorph approach, his smooth and nearly hairless slender nudity a soft and androgynous thing, except for the hard length of his sex. It bobbed up and down slightly as he moved, as if eager for the games to come. The first time they’d met, Victor had suspected it was just appearances, for business – but the desire for him that surrounded the young Greek had always smelled genuine.
“What an interesting problem,” the boy mused, his black eyes dancing with merriment. “A problem I’ve never had. Claudette heard they cured Psylocke after you gutted her.”
“Good. Means I might could get tha chance t’ do it again, down tha road.”
“You’re not angry that someone you effectively killed didn’t stay that way?”
“Naw. X-chumps are like Weebles, ya can knock ‘em down, but they ain’t gonna stay down; I’m used t’ it. ‘Sides, they ain’t never kept me down fer long, neither, no matter how many o’ their mind-fuckers try t’ stick pins in me.”
The boy stopped in front of him, unafraid. “So it’s true – a well-placed claw left you not needing a pet telepath anymore. Poor Claudette.”
“Patience is a virtue – or so I’m told. Odds are, gonna hafta get my paws on ‘em mega-titties o’ ‘ers at some point before I leave town.”
The boy’s delicate hand lifted and cupped the swelling heat of Victor’s crotch. “I’m pleased you still need me. What do you want, Vic?”
“Ya know already – just do it.”
“Mmmm … my pleasure…” His hand left Victor’s straining erection to caress up the abdomen.
The stomach was flat again, the skin still warm. He had energy to burn and then some. Morph’s hand pressed against his chest. Reaching behind, he made a show of wincing and moaning as he slowly pulled a heavy and thick rubber butt plug out of his body. He tossed it onto the foot of the canopied bed and stepped back.
We both know he don’t need that; he knows I like seein’ it pulled out, though. Damn, it’s good t’ be back.
Victor’s breath caught as the change began. Morpheus shrank from his natural five foot seven height to a stumpy five foot three. The body paled, grew hirsute, and widened into the stocky muscle of Wolverine. The face, framed by black mutton chop sideburns and topped by unruly black hair, split into a savage snarl showing long canine fangs. Snapping blue eyes gleamed up at him with feral hate.
The cock lengthened, grew thicker, the nest of dark hair growing and tangling at its base. With a loud ~snikt~, the pale fists erupted with the long Adamantium claws.
Victor’s throat rumbled, but he stood still as the claws, perfectly metallic and sharp, tore his bloody clothes from his body. Their tips cut and nicked his flesh as his hard and heaving abdominals began to gleam with sweat.
Let it build, let it dig in, he thought, coaxing the rabid bloodlust to change to rapacious hunger. Can’t fight ‘im; this ain’t tha real thing.
Morpheus could take a lot of punishment, but Claudette always put a higher price on his services when Victor came calling, because her brothel’s favorite would often be out for days recuperating. The first time they’d played this game, Victor had almost killed the boy. A masochist to his ever-shifting core, Morpheus had always been willing to do it again.
“Come on, Creed,” the voice ground out. “Gonna kill ya slow.”
He’s perfect … tha voice, tha hatred – an’ when he sinks those blades in, it’ll hurt like fuck, it’ll bleed. Oh, yeah … yeah, gonna do it t’ ya, runt. Gonna make ya bleed, drop fer drop.
Sinking into a crouch, he sprang, towering over his enemy when they clashed in a whirl of snarls, gnashing fangs, and stabbing claws. Victor hooked an arm around him and took the impact of their fall, as well as keeping most of his weight from crushing the boy.
It was hard to remember in the red haze that clouded his mind that he had to pull his punches, knowing his Adamantium bones and claws were the only real metal in the fight. The boy’s scent helped – he couldn’t fake the runt’s thick feral musk.
He kept his fangs out of the metamorph’s flesh, but his claws eagerly cut shallow rents, the wounds just as eagerly received. The torn flesh healed instantly, but that was illusion, too.
Roaring out his rage, he found an opening and rolled his opponent to his back on the blood-spattered white marble floor. Falling over him, he used his brutal strength to rip the muscled legs open wide.
Levering himself between them, one hand on Logan’s chest, the other pulling his hips up, he shoved his straining cock inside the thrashing and growling body in the same instant that a trio of shining and bloody claws impaled his shoulder.
The heat of it, the tight invasion as his lust bruised and abraded, was almost too much to endure for long. When the blood came, finally lubricating his rough thrusts, the pain came with it as the claws mimed his thrusts in his own agonized flesh.
Sinking into the pleasure and the pain with a vicious need, he focused on the slick feeling of the red flow that coated his shaft and spiked in the thatch of golden fur at its root.
Forcing his prey down with a hand that put most of his weight on the runt’s chest, the claws cutting into it, his other hand clamped around the base of Logan’s cock.
With a roar of hate, Logan’s free hand, unable to make him let go, released Victor’s wrist and stabbed his long Adamantium claws into his hip. Blades stopped by the metal on Victor’s bones, he twisted at the wrist, trying to carve as much of his attacker’s flesh as he could.
Knowing what it could do to him, Victor worked Logan’s cock with a merciless fist. Angling his thrusts, he rubbed the prostate inside as he squeezed and stroked. Shifting the hand to hold it securely, his grip bruised the retracted foreskin as he let one of his claws threaten the leaking head. Aiming for the slit full of pre-cum, he pierced the liquid with the tip of the claw and held it up again for a breath to see it bead on the tip like dew before pushing it slowly inside the tiny, vulnerable opening. Moving it in and out, he allowed his claw to fuck the runt’s cock as if it were a weak frail’s wet cunt.
Scents of sweat, bile in the throat, the stink of fear and the war of rage, horror, and disgust on his enemy’s face enveloped him as tightly as the angry and violated tunnel he thrust into, fast, again and again. His jaw trembled to drop and bite, to slash, but he clenched it tight and growled as the beast within raged at the restriction.
When the brutal pleasure burst, it caught him by surprise and stole his breath, his scrotum twitching and tightening where it slapped against the outraged and blood-smeared skin. Ripping from deep inside, his seed shot into the bloodied hole, more and stronger than in a gentle mating, as it always did.
Panting and hissing, he felt his shoulder and hip gush with blood as the claws retracted with a ~snakt~. The flesh began to knit instantly, and the buzzing feel of it added to his exquisite high.
Trying to regain his breath, he backed off of his conquest, watching as his white and red smeared cock pulled free. Remaining on his knees, he looked down at the haggard form as the eyes opened, the bright blue glazed with pain and heat.
“That was … the best yet, Vic.” Wincing, Logan’s eyes tried to focus on him. “You might have dislocated my shoulder, though – again.”
Victor’s smile stretched wide and cruel as the body morphed back into the slender and taller dusky beauty of the Greek incubus. “Sit up, an’ I’ll pop it back fer ya.”
His soft laugh was rueful. “Sitting up might take a while, you beast.”
Chuckling, Victor got his feet under him and picked the boy up, carrying him to the massive canopied four-post bed near the windows. Setting him down as gently as he could, he muttered, “Lean int’ me, Morph, an’ close yer eyes.”
Placing one palm on his back and the other against the skewed shoulder, he pushed, short and fast. With a crunching pop, it was over. Victor lifted him again and laid him out in the center of the bed.
Glancing up at the mirror in the underside of the canopy, he smirked at the mess they were already making of the bed. His shoulder and hip had healed, along with the other cuts, but the claw slices on his companion’s body, though shallow, bled here and there. By the scent of him, his ass was still bleeding, too.
“Ya might could stretch that thing a bit more when ya shift. It’s ‘sposed t’ be pretend brutality, accordin’ t’ yer boss lady.”
Morpheus’s eyes were closed, his breathing shallow. “You like it better with real brutality – so do I. Can I ask why him, or is that a stupid question?”
“Ya can ask,” he replied, his tone warning against it. A breath later, he relented. “It’s fantasy fer most, ain’t it? Some pukes wanna pretend they got Miss-stinkin’-America clamped on their dick, wanna hear ‘er moanin’ their name. Fer me, it ain’t fantasy, it’s practice. Ya never know when opportunity’ll strike.”
“Why not just kill him? You don’t have a thing for him do you?”
“Don’t be a moron. We’ve killed each other lotsa times, it’s gettin’ borin’. Figured I’d try somethin’ new, somethin’ that’d really mess with ‘is head. Trust me, boy, fuckin’ ‘im bloody an’ makin’ ‘im blow ‘is wad in tha middle o’ tha pain an’ humiliation would do tha trick.”
“No doubt – but I’ve met Wolverine, and I think he’d kill you first, or die first.”
Victor grunted. “I got no prob with fuckin’ ‘im cold.” Frowning over the rules of the place, he growled. “I never shoulda taken Claudette t’ have a drink at Satan’s Circus. Natch, she took t’ their bullshit policy o’ no fights allowed an’ all tha like-minded payin’ customers can come an’ play.” Thinking about the choices downstairs, he asked, “Who’d he pay t’ fuck?”
“You would think that ‘any warm body on the premises’ would do, but he only ever asked for the same one.”
Growling deeper, Victor pressed, “Who?”
The black eyes opened and one of them winked at him. “I tell you, and then you go gut the poor thing just to spite him?”
“Somethin’ like that. Lemme guess – it’s one o’ tha redheads.”
Smirking at him, the boy’s body changed to a curvy and voluptuous, yet athletic, pale-skinned redhead – sporting large firm breasts with rosy nipples. “This sort of thing?”
Victor’s hand immediately squeezed one of the breasts, mesmerized. “Shit… Is that what tha Queen X-bitch is hidin’ under those crime fighter-issue togs?”
“It’s a close guess, I’m sure.”
“Mmm, nothin’ like swollen sweater pies that sit up an’ beg.” He leaned in to lick the other one. “No wonder he lets ‘er keep ‘is balls in a box. Hold it! Yer sayin’…”
“Don’t be jealous, Vic.”
His eyes narrowed as his ears pinned flat. “Now yer fuckin’ with my head. Tha runt’d know what ya are, an’ he ain’t never been fond o’ pretend anythin’.”
Laughing, Morpheus changed back and reached out to caress Victor’s muscled arm with a scratched and bleeding hand. “Yes, I’m fucking with your head. He always used to ask for Grace, but don’t bother plotting to gut her, she’s already six feet deep, as of four months ago.”
“Humph. He stick ‘er with tha wrong appendage, or what?”
“No, she was mugged and murdered – quite mundane, very sad. She was nice. We heard he strung up the meth-head who killed her.”
“What was ‘er power?”
“Empathy, like an emotional tranquilizer. You couldn’t get around her without feeling like all of your cares just didn’t exist.”
“So tha meth-head felt really dandy when he did ‘er, huh?”
“I’ve always wondered about that, actually. He must have blitzed her from behind.”
“Sorry I missed it.”
“This might amuse you – I straddled his lap in the conservatory once while he was waiting for Grace. I honestly thought he’d throw me off, but he didn’t. I’d gotten my hands laced behind that bull neck and I was feeling accomplished that I got him hard until I remembered that isn’t much of a challenge for either of you.”
“Yer so young,” Victor teased, smirking down at him.
“Does the thought of that make you jealous?”
“Yeah, a li’l, ‘cept I’m tha one told ya t’ watch ‘im t’ learn how he moves. Just don’t never fuck ‘im – unless I want ya t’ do it.”
A familiar tolerant and amused smile spread over those soft dark lips. “Yes, dear.”
“If ya think tha runt’s had nothin’ but pussy in over a hundred years, ya’d be wrong. Ferals tend t’ be opportunists an’ if somethin’ in heat trips us up ‘nuff, it’s gonna get fucked, no matter what it is. Bastard can only try t’ be zen ‘nuff t’ control that. T’ be honest, I’d like t’ know if he can stop if he’s pushed int’ tha red zone. Me, I don’t try too hard; if ya don’t wanna screw, then don’t shove yer motherfuckin’ heat up my snout.”
“I love how romantic you are.” He watched as Victor trailed a white scratch down his gray skin with a claw tip.
“Got no use fer that shit. Should we bandage ya up?”
“Nonsense, you like seeing me bleed. Are you staying?”
“Fer t’night, yeah. Ya gonna recover?”
“Eventually.” The hand on his arm moved down to his wrist, the fingers gripping it loosely. “Six foot six, pointy on – well, six ends, and what – 380 pounds with the new bones? Yes, I’ll recover; I’ve got to play with all of that for a few more rounds before you skip town again. You know, I’m glad I’m in bed with you and not Wolverine for several reasons – the chief of which is that I don’t have to worry about you wanting to kill me for being his favorite.”
Frowning, Victor broke the gentle hold on his wrist and leaned over the youth. “Anyone ever tries t’ murder ya, tell ‘em it’d be real bad fer their health – an’ fer anybody they love, too.”
Victor snorted. Sliding down the slender body, he planted his hands on either side of his hips, the claws cutting the bedcover. Leaning down, he opened his mouth and took the boy’s half-limp cock into it. Letting an upper fang point graze it, he stroked it with his tongue as it hardened.
Morpheus’s breath drew in sharply, his hands reaching to slide into Victor’s unruly and blood-streaked blonde hair. “Oh, shit, Vic…”
Settling into it, he worked the boy into a gasping frenzy, now and then letting a fang scratch spur him on. It never took long for this, either, and Victor swallowed it eagerly when it burst.
He let him drop off to sleep for a bit as he sat back to watch. When the boy woke with a start a short time later, Victor grinned at him.
“Any thoughts for round two?”
“Yup. Be a frail.”
“Anyone in particular? Your own redhead of the charming blue skin, for instance?”
Lips pulling into a fanged grimace, he growled. “Yer a vastly improved shape-shifter over that frigid bitch. Gimme … tha runt’s redhead, X-uniform an’ all. Then tha li’l flashy queen o’ tha Lollipop Guild, Seraph – maybe Shadowcat. That’s ‘nuff fer a start.”
“What, no perky little blondes with mixed loyalties and exciting time bombs? You refused my company for her sake last time.”
Victor grunted. “Been there, done that, an’ obvs savin’ myself fer any-fuckin’-body is a thing o’ tha past. Rather split tha runt’s harem; it’s more inspirin’.”
Morpheus sat up carefully, lifting his hands to stroke the gold mutton chops. Victor frowned when he leaned in to kiss him, but allowed it without responding. Looking into his eyes, the boy whispered, “I’m glad you came back, Vic.”
Before the nickname had passed his lips, they turned red and plump, the heavy breasts morphing to press their erect nipples inside the leather uniform top against his furry skin. Victor reached up to grab a handful of long red hair and yanked it, pulling the exquisite pale face of Jean Grey away from his.
His fangs sank into the side of her throat, and he had to resist the urge to tear the soft, perfumed flesh, to puncture the jugular vein. Morpheus couldn’t pretend her mind-flaying mutant gifts, or the telekinesis that had punched and pinned him in captivity, but when Victor released the bleeding throat, Jean Grey moaned and thrust her hips up, her fingers opening her belt and pants.
“Fuck me, Victor,” she breathed into his ear as he retracted his claws and dug his fingers in to grab and yank the leather past her knees and off of one bare foot.
He pressed his thick fingers into her to find that her cunt was wet and hot, the pungent scent of a female in heat filling his eager senses. He knew it was Morph’s pussy and clit he sucked and licked, but the heat was real.
Gripping and twisting her thick and long red hair again, he forced her head to turn almost painfully too far and watched the blood drip from his shallow bite as he thrust his cock into her. She grasped his bicep and squeezed the muscle, their signal that Morph was still able to take more.
“Victor, please, you’re hurting me,” she whispered.
“Shut tha fuck up, ya stupid bitch.” He put his teeth back into the same bite and drove them a little deeper, removed them from her flesh, and sucked her blood from the wounds as his thrusts got rougher. He could scent her tears as she began to sob, her arms drawing up over the leather top. He hissed at her. “Move yer fuckin’ arms before I break ‘em. Gonna get me a look at ‘em rocket tits.”
Jean obeyed, one hand grasping his wrist and squeezing as the other covered her face.
“Better watch, X-bitch. Tryin’ t’ give yer cunt t’ me? Fuck that shit, gonna fuck ya bloody an’ make ya come – cuz that’s how I like it.”
When she opened her glistening emerald eyes and bit her lower lip, the cheeks were flushed with shame as she cried while her body throbbed with her first orgasm. It was almost enough to make him blow early.
He popped a claw with his free hand and dragged it down, splitting through the hated X to growl in lust as the breasts were revealed. She wasn’t wearing a bra. He knew the breasts and pussy were as real as the cock Morpheus had been born with. He smirked before he stroked the flat of his barbed tongue over pink and gloriously erect pencil-eraser nipples. He knew he’d done it hard enough to hurt, but it only made her come again. Victor couldn’t wait anymore after that. He shoved in hard, again and again, until he came deep inside of her. Jean Grey lay limp and sobbing, pressed beneath him, her hot pussy massaging his cock as it spouted, strangling it with a third and uncontrollable orgasm.
Before he finished, the face and form changed as he still thrust into her, the breasts shrinking smaller under his grasping fingers, the screaming and begging voice lacking the wary distaste Shadowcat had spoken to him with in the past. The amazing walls of the sheath tightened down on his bloodstained spent cock, but he pulled free and grinned down at the pretty face framed by long and curling light brunette hair. He set his claw to her flesh through the center of the silver Star of David pendant she wore.
“Here, Kitty, Kitty,” he mocked her. Rearing back, he batted her over onto her belly and licked up between her asscheeks as she screamed.
“Please stop,” she begged, panting and in pain.
Ignoring both the begging and the cursing, he used fingers and tongue to open her anus. If she really were Kitty Pryde, he wouldn’t have bothered, but he’d already bloodied Morph once this way. He didn’t hurry, intent on waiting the three minutes his dick needed to be ready. He felt the small hand hold his wrist again and hesitate. He slid his long tongue into her ass and fucked her with it, slow and easy. When the signal of the gentle squeeze held his wrist tighter, he grinned and moved up to fuck into her exquisitely tight ass, letting it push his foreskin back.
Keeping it easy, playing another game, he enjoyed the change as she started to realize it felt incredible.
“Victor…” she whispered. As she began to cry again, she spoke in a voice broken with both shame and lust, “Logan, I’m … I’m so sorry…”
He drew in a ragged breath as she began to change again, this time into the diminutive but domineering beauty of Seraph, a dwarf female who had once owned Logan’s beloved Princess Bar on the decadent Southeast Asian island kingdom of Madripoor. The blonde with the whip-crack voice had died on Victor’s claws and the runt had grieved.
Seraph was tiny, her body nearly split by his cock. Lust surged at the thought of how that must hurt. A momentary concern almost made him lose his brutal rhythm, until he felt the little hand squeeze his finger.
Victor closed his eyes, the faces abruptly unimportant. The crying voice, the manicured nails cutting into the heaving flesh of his abdomen: they blended with the blood singing in his veins, the blood dripping from the small wounds before the gouges closed. His mind was gone in an instant then, his body poised for the release to burn him, to corrupt, to set him free.
~ ~ ~
Standing at the foot of the bed in a custom black bathrobe Claudette kept for him, Victor watched Morpheus sleep. The ingenious boy had morphed into Storm to bathe him clean. It had taken some time to get the blood and tangles out of his hair. Long before they finished, his weary Storm was about to pass out.
Victor had turned from being the one getting pampered to taking care of the boy. He cleaned him up, bandaged him, and put him to bed. He smirked at the tableau. The bed was a bloodied mess pasted with their sticky and drying cum. He’d tossed a clean blanket down before putting Morph on it, but it couldn’t tamp down the scent. Gloriously nude and fucked raw, the Weather Witch slept over his spunk – her beautiful dark skin interrupted by white bandages here and there and all over. The long white hair was braided.
One o’ these times, gonna hafta stay long ‘nuff t’ know if he changes back in ‘is sleep, or wakes up as Storm.
His clothes were in shreds, so he just retrieved his phone, boots, and wadded up coat and carried them out and down the stairs.
Author’s Note: My stories reference a lot of comics canon issues and events, and I may not always cite them in the notes. I assume the avid readers will recognize those parts, and others may not be concerned with it. Most of the “history” Victor refers to is canon, or my best guess after researching canon information. Any reader as obsessed with Victor as I am is welcome to let me know if they notice any glaring mistakes. Some continuity is ignored for the sake of the story, though. For instance, I believe Seraph actually survived Victor’s attempt to murder her, or she was brought back (most likely the latter). However, from Logan’s viewpoint, she definitely died and I’m assuming Victor would believe the same. Also, while Victor’s crack about he and Logan killing each other “lots of times” may sound silly, it is a canon joke and Victor says it to Mystique in a comic at one point. I think moments like that are a Marvel in-joke where they make fun of their habit of so many characters returning from the dead, so often, regardless of ability, circumstances of death, or you know, logic. LOL.
Satan’s Circus is a comics canon secret bar and gambling den for villains only, but they aren’t allowed to fight each other there. I haven’t discovered where it is supposed to be located, but I’m going to place it in Hell’s Kitchen in Midtown Manhattan, New York City. Victor plays a poker game there at the end of one of his comics, and it also shows up in Punisher stories and others. I plan to toss it into another story or two of mine down the road. Thanks for reading! – AnonGrimm (@MET_Fic)