Okay people. This is my first attempt at an X-Men story, so please be gentle with me. It is a work in progress but won't be major long. This has been written without a beta, but I am working on finding someone soon.

I feel that I must warn you before you read. This story IS NOT FOR THE FAINT HEARTED. Right from chapter one there is strong foul language, racist remarks, images of rape, plus violence, gore and death. It will get progressively worse as the story developes and will be very dark and deep. If you are seeking a fluffy, loved up version of Victor Creed...find another story as you won't find him here. Anyways, this story is not rated Adult++ for nothing...believe me. So if you offend easily or do not like this sort of story then I suggest you click back a page as this is likely to cause offence to you.

My Victor is inspired by the wonderful Liev Schrieber's portrayal of the character in X-Men Origins; it was amazing and kinda inspired me to write this story. Also, there is no real time frame for this story, I didn't want to limit it so much by giving away a definite time span. Lets just say that it probably somewhere towards the beginning of Orgins, just after it all kicks off with Jimmy leaving the team. Okay, I'll say that at this point Victor is still with Strykers group killing, maiming etc etc, but as I said...nothing is concrete, you put it where you want to.

Anyhoo...if you're still here...then I pray, please enjoy and let me know what you think.

The Right Path

To Victor Creed, scents upon the air were as colours as on a canvas to humans. Just as one might be able to accurately describe a particular shade of blue, Victor could give a vivid and highly detailed description of the aroma of every type of scent. Like a fine perfume crafted during hours of intense blending, Victor knew which scents infused well and which ones did not. He knew which his favourites were and which he did not care for. He cared not for pointless and feminine fragrances such as apples, cinnamon, love and fresh cut grass. He could take or leave precious metals, indecision, burnt toast and wonder. These served no purpose to him, gave him no decipherable information other than annoyance. His years as a mercenary had honed his preferences down to a select few scents. He much preferred masculine fragrances; ones that hung heavy and tangible in the air, and the ones he could actually taste. Fear, hatred, flesh, supplication, blood, rage, sweat…death.

The corridor was narrower than he'd remembered, or maybe he'd grown, he couldn't be sure. His immense frame seemed only centimetres away from the walls to his left and right. He filled the space, and rightly so. The hallway was much the same as the rest of the sorry building; lacklustre and trying to feign homely warmth, but struggling terribly to achieve it. Everything screamed feeble and pathetic to him, from the cheaply carpeted floor to the repulsive fake stained glass windows at the end of the long hall. The miserable excuse for wallpaper was cheap and banal. A disgusting cream colour with a hideously chintz blue coloured dado rail that ran the length of the wall, about four feet from the floor. The characterless warmth that the place radiated made him rage inside; he growled low and heavy in his chest. He hated the suburbs with a passion; cheap, nasty and infested with worthless ten-a-penny frails. He wondered how anyone could live in such a plain and mundane dwelling.

As his eyes scanned the cliché, Victor began playing scenarios out in his mind; his own version of 'redecorating'.

He imagined what the dull walls would look like splayed crimson with fresh blood; he pictured it oozing and seeping down in long fine lines. He imagined it pooling on the floor in black reservoirs; lumps of dripping brain matter and sharp little pieces of bone creating small islands. He envisaged bloodied limbs, ripped tongues, and if he was lucky, a young foetus littering the hallway and how he would have to step over them to get to his goal. He could perfectly picture long and sinewy abdominal muscles slithering knotted down the walls as he passed them with a glint in his eye. He decided that this would look much better than the current decoration; carnage suited his palate much more.

Victor flicked his head to the left and shook the image from his mind. Redecoration could come later if the fancy still pleased him. But right now he had something to take care of and he needed to concentrate for just a moment.

He tilted his head back ever so lightly, lifting his nose a fraction higher into the air. Sniffing the atmosphere around him as one might sniff a delicate bouquet of flowers, Victor inhaled all the varying aromas on offer for his delight. Crinkling his nose ever so slightly, he quickly weeded out the ones of no consequence; freesia, vanilla, blueberry muffins, crisp linen and young fresh washed children. They were nauseating.

Pathetic. Typical of this type of lodgings. He mused silently as he continued to breathe in deeply.

He inhaled once more, seeking out the aroma he was searching for, knowing that he would find it eventually. More sentimental scents bombarded his senses. Gummy sweets, soap, pansies, Chanel No 5, talcum powder and almonds all poured into his nose uninvited. The scents were sacrine sweet and overwhelmingly repulsive to him. He snorted roughly, expelling the gunk from nasal passages, concentrating just a little bit harder once he had finished.

Then, like a brick to the face, the smell hit him and engulfed him. Had he been of smaller and slighter stature he may have taken a step back from the force with which it hit him. But being the size he was, he simply allowed it to envelop him in rich luxurious swathes, drinking it in as if it were nectar. As soon as the unique scent caught in his nose, he fixed his grey gaze upon the source of the fragrance. A small, plain and unassuming cream door at the end of the hall fell under his steely stare. The scent coming from behind the door was utterly unmistakable. The perfect perfume; it was like it was his own personal blend, crafted from his favourite smells; he could pick it out above anything else. Victor inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with that intoxicating smell. The base notes of fear were heavy and slippery in the air. It was warm and musky, like freshly spilled blood and just as rich. It was arousing and crushing as it invaded Victor's lungs. It was this that he smelt first; the animal in him rooting it out from the rest of the bouquet. The middle notes of worry and anxiousness were just as pleasant, tinged with a woody and herbaceous scent that was undeniably thick and worn like old leather. And the top notes were a desperate and futile attempt to cover the previous two notes. Patchouli, violets and hope floated just above the other two, creating the perfect combination of fragrances.

The smell could only belong to one person.


Victor could never be one hundred percent sure that it was this thought or the combination of smells that made it so irresistible to him.

The animal within him took immediate hold and shook him to his very core. He crouched ever so slightly, his talons extending subconsciously and he began to stalk toward the door silently. Despite his hatred of his current surroundings, Victor found that the sickening chintz actually worked in his favour. The hideous navy carpet beneath his heavy black army issue boots cushioned his footsteps to barely an audible whisper, not as if he needed it. With feline like fluidity, he moved slowly down the hallway, taking his time and savouring the growing scent of fear in the air. His muscles rolled beneath his taut skin, working and moving him closer to his aim. With every step he took, the smell intensified and grabbed at something deep within him. He growled low and dangerous, a panther's purr that hung in the back of his throat. Within a few deft strides, Victor had reached the door. He glared wrathfully at the inanimate object for a few seconds, contemplating kicking it in and sending thousands of tiny cream splinters flying in all directions. But that would take away the element of surprise, and surprise was just what he wanted, just what he needed; he depended upon it.

Victor raised his balled fist to rap a heavy knuckle on the door. Inches from connecting with the painted wood, Victor's ears pricked and he spun round with terrifying speed, his thick black coat flapped behind him. His grey eyes fell upon the diminutive figure of a young Japanese girl, her slender fingers clutching tightly at the edge of her half open door. Her almost black eyes were wide with shock and had glazed over with pure fright, her mouth open in a small 'O' of disbelief. Her straight black hair hung limp past her skinny shoulders and her sunshine yellow knee length tunic covered her undernourished frame. Rage flared instantly within Victor, his desire to rip her goddamn head off almost pushed him over the edge. His glare met her eyes and he felt as if he could have seared through flesh such was its intensity.

His brain instantly shot another scenario into his mind as he took in the sight of her slight form. How easy it would be to knock her down, almost pitiable, wretchedly so even. He imagined lunging at her and tearing into her cramped sparse little apartment to fuck her senseless. He would have no problem with forcing himself into her as cruelly as he could and making her cry and scream and beg and tear. She would bleed profusely and he would ensure that she would feel pain that she couldn't even begin to comprehend. He'd fuck her till he shattered her pretty little bones and perforated her unused womb with his cock. He pictured emptying himself inside her with a satisfied roar; then slashing wildly at her filled abdomen and bony chest with his own hands. He'd leave her to choke on her own blood and vomit, her raped body eventually bleeding out in thick pools onto her cheap and worn out lino floor.

Once again, a swift flick of his head to the left removed the image from his brain and brought him crashing back to reality.

"Get back in your fuckin' apartment and keep your fuckin' mouth shut." Victor snarled, his dark predatory eyes never leaving hers

The girl's lip quivered and her breath quickened with sheer terror.

"Unless you want me to slice you a new gash between your legs that'll run crossways just like those slittly little eyes of yours?" He leered at her, bearing his fangs ever so slightly. He watched the girl glare at his talons as he extended them with a menacing promise. Beads of tears formed on the inner rims of her eyes, balancing, teetering. A choked sob escaped the terrified girl's lips and she swiftly closed the door. Victor heard a click in the locking mechanism of the door, then the heavy clunk of a deadbolt lock; he smiled to himself.

Atta' girl, he mused.

Spinning back round, Victor resumed his attentions to the job in hand. He let his weighty knuckle rap three times on the cream door in front of him. He chuckled to himself as he heard a flurry of commotion behind the door. The steps were light but laboured; he heard bone connect with solid pine, followed by muffled cursing, but no foul words.

He rapped again, three times, for his own enjoyment.

"Alright alright, hold your horses…I'm comin'!" A voice threw in the general direction of the door.

Victor drew himself up, felt his abdominal muscles contract and tighten as he drew himself up to his full height. His spine popped once as he felt his erector muscles pull him in and up. He knew he was a scary motherfucker at the best of times, but he knew how to work his body in order to make his presence even more formidable. His all black attire lent him nothing but a feel of utter menace; he'd lost count of the amount of people he'd turned to wretched puddles with nothing more than this outfit. It almost dismayed him sometimes; people had a tendency to spill their guarded information before he even had the chance to have some real fun with them. Humans were so weak, but then again…so were some mutants.

Suddenly, the door flew open and an eddy of hurried words greeted him.

"Look…I know this isn't all of it but I can get you the rest by next Wed…" The cheerful voice stopped dead as a terrible realisation set in. A shower of twenty dollar bills dropped from her hand and fluttered to the floor. The colour from her face drained instantly and her mouth fell open in sheer terror; the gravity of the situation dawning on her immediately. Victor sensed a tremor shoot up her spine, ice cold and deadly.

He smiled. Those base notes of the perfect perfume were really showing their strength now.

"Hello frail." Victor purred.