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❝ They said I had an anger problem, but that’s not true. ❞ a night in the woods / accepting / @deviltoothed
“ uh - huh. sure jan. ” tabby’s laugh was skeptical at best, giving the large man a mean side - eye for such a bold claim. “ except, i’ve seen you like, fist a dude and rearrange his guts-- and not in the sexual way- in the tossing a salad but the salad is a man’s intestines way. and if that doesn’t constitute an anger problem i - d - k what does. ”
@deviltoothed
The water that cascaded down her pale skin was only lukewarm, but that was no different than most of the buildings of East Germany’s capital, a city still half in ruins even though the war had ended a decade before. The apartment was a dingy run down complex in the Friedrichshain neighbourhood close to several rail lines, handy in case the two sheltering within needed to make a quick getaway. To the neighbours the current occupiers were a young couple newly arrived from Leipzig with jobs at the steel plant, but in reality they were spies, hiding out before a mission, this safe house hardly the glamorous settings that most imagined the profession to move in.
Leni Zauber had never met Victor Creed before, and the prospect of spending another two weeks cooped up in a mouldy apartment with such a domineering man would not have pleased the West German intelligence agent at all. Not that Leni’s views mattered anymore; for she was already dead, her face and form copied to perfection to meet the agenda of someone far more dangerous, someone already working carefully to attach all the necessary strings to Creed without him ever realising it.
There was only a maximum of five minutes hot water, so Leni worked quickly, drawing the worn old sponge over her skin, seemingly unconscious that she had accidentally left the door to the bathroom ajar enough to give a view of her body to the apartment’s other occupant.
@deviltoothed
👫 [deviltoothed]
Send a 👫and I’ll write four headcanons I have about our muse’s relationship
@deviltoothed
Its a waste, trying to get Vic to appreciate the kinds of food she indulges in. He’d happily eat from the dumpster and she loathes that about him. She doesn’t try anymore, save for bringing him a slice of the best damn pie in New York City whenever she happens in the neighborhood. That she knows he appreciates.
Natasha heals faster than average humans from her serum and the nanites keep her from scarring; which makes the VC that’s on her inner thigh something of a curiosity. She won’t say anything about it, but that smug look on Vic might betray who keeps carving it into her thigh. After… a certain incident Natasha has taken up gardening. On her back porch she has a few potted plants. One, most notably, is cat nip. Liho loves it, but it’s not for her. Natasha is insistent that she doesn’t care for Victor. He’s fun, sure. He’s a bit of a liability. But her actions speak louder: she tends to get protective over him, despite the fact that she knows he can heal from damn near anything.
🌨 [deviltoothed]
- ça caille.
@deviltoothed // VICTOR CREED.
The problem, intrinsically, wasn’t the fact that he was stuck on a mission with Sabretooth. That much was unpleasant, but it was still tolerable - Remy had enough of that signature sass and flippantry to be amusing to the other, to the point where he wasn’t afraid of being hurt.
It was a mess, but it was companionable enough, and they’d gotten the work done fairly quickly, all things considered. The collateral damage was off the charts, but honestly? It was Gambit and Sabretooth. Unsupervised.
(That was on the idiots who’d assigned the work to them, hands down.)
Remy’s luck runs out in the worst way possible when they start the return trip, winding through the mountains. He spots the nasty, heavy clouds far off, and he crosses his fingers, but Lady Luck is unfortunately a bit of a fickle bitch, and she’s always loved tormenting the Cajun.
The snow starts a few hours later, heavy and white and so cold, and Victor grunts and drives them even higher up, and apparently there’s an old ski lodge that closed down last year and it makes plenty of sense but the only thing in Remy’s head is a dull buzz and the thud-thud stuttering of his heart.
(He touches the window, frosting over and nearly impossible to see through, and flinches, jerking his hand back as though it’s bitten him.)
He cranks the heat up all the way, uncaring about if he’s wasting fuels, and ignores Victor’s snarls and little taunts, huddling up in his seat.
Remy manages to hold it together - kinda - all the way up until they stumble into a shitty old cabin and Vic’s poking at the fire, grumbling the whole time about the useless pretty boy he’s stuck with.
When he turns to fix the thief with a little glint in his eye, Remy knows he’s fucked up. The weighty reticence, the way he’s curled in on himself, and shit he’s sure he’s drenched in the scent of unease - he’s made himself a target, he’s turned himself into prey, and the thing he fears is obvious.
He knows that Vic doesn’t know when he hauls him up by the collar and chucks him out the door with a rumbling laugh, all pleased to be getting to him somehow when normally their insults and pranks would bounce off each other, further nastiness held only in check by an uneasy alliance.
He knows he doesn’t know, but it doesn’t matter, because he fucking loses it.
Remy throws himself at the door, bawling, terrified, tears and snot streaking down his chin as his fists pound at the wood and somewhere deep in the back of his head he knows it’s not Antarctica, he knows Victor isn’t going to let him freeze to death - there’s no benefit to it right now, but that smart little piece of him is buried under animal panic, and his fingers are bleeding within a minute, nails torn as he tries to claw his way back to the warmth.
The broken sobs hitching from his throat are mangled, nonsensical French and English and a bit of Creole too, he thinks maybe he screams for help in Chinese once, fragments of pleas his mind is too scattered to form coherently.
But the door doesn’t open, and against every tiny voice inside that warns no, don’t, you’re heading away from safety he stumbles out further into the snow, eyes darting about frantically, teeth chattering because can’tstopmovinggottagogottamovegonnadiegonnadieKEEPGOING -
His eyes are so fogged over with ice that isn’t there that the only thing he can see is his breath hanging white on the air with each frantic little huff.
🔴 [deviltoothed]
send me ‘ 🔴 ’ to generate a bloody scenario between our muses.
8. Your muse sinking their teeth/fangs into my muses neck.
Fear always flavored whatever fun Natasha and Victor got into; the knowledge in the back of her mind that he could just easily rend her open with his fangs and claws and there’d be nothing she could do about it.
But people enjoyed fear, didn’t they? Why else would horror movies be so popular. Haunted houses. Bungee jumping.
Fear set her teeth on edge and made her adrenaline pump and set her nerves alight. She loved it. His teeth dragged along her skin, claws at her hips keeping her firm in her place under him. Instinctively she tipped her head, displaying the slender column of her neck for him.
It’s fear that had her gripping at his shoulder when he drew up to her neck, calling her on her bluff. Fear that made her heart catch in her throat, choking on a small noise as he bit. Fangs sunk into the soft skin of her throat like they belonged there.
His purr rumbled against her pulse and even through the fear the pain had Natasha aching for him. It was a crap shoot -- would he rip and shred her delicate arteries? Would he just hold her, lingering, letting her know that he could if he wanted?
As much as she trusted Victor -- wild animals always proved to be unpredictable.
@deviltoothed sent a meme: ❝ karma’s a bitch. ❞
From the remains of the splintered Madripoorean shrimp cart he’s landed in, Daken groans.
“Hh. Creed, what are you...? You know you’re -- ah -- like, the only mutant with a worse karmic debt than I have. It’s like you haven’t even read any of the Tripiṭaka.” Well, yes. Obviously. He can barely believe he’s literate.
He lifts his head to blearily squint at Creed, face dusty from the broken wood and bleeding from above his brow.
“I thought we parted on good terms. Or was that last time? Whatever.” It’s always a back-and-forth alliance-and-betrayal thing. Anyway, he imploringly extends a hand towards him. “C’mere. Help me up. I’ll whisper something nice in your ear, promise.”
↕ 6’8” [ deviltoothed ]
bitty,,
