This is my first official Vicfic. Or as my dear kidnapping accomplice likes to say, Grumpyfic. She probably has a few more descriptive words up her sleeve but that is not the point.

The point is that Victor Creed is one very fascinating character, from a writer's perspective. And Liev Schreiber happens to be a very talented and very delicious man, from a girl's perspective. But I'm rambling again.

This is actually "old". I posted this on lievschreiberforum. com in June. So it's a little longer already, hintedy hint. You need to sign up to be able to read it all, but there are more great stories waiting and you get some awesome people to chat with on top, pictures, movie infos, all that! Come on, I know you want to :p

Credits/Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Victor Creed or any of the X-Men. The for now nameless girl is my creation though. This was inspired by the amazing Otep's song "Special Pets". I took some liberties with the interpretation.
Please be advised that this will be dark. No fluffy romance here, I'm sorry. There's some torture involved, violence-a cat likes to play with it's prey sometimes. That's nature for ya. There's also foul language. That's me for ya.

Victor Creed wasn't a man that craved the company of anyone, nobody would argue that. In fact, the only thing most people would contest was the question of whether he was a man or not. More often than not he was an animal. He was Sabertooth. The way most other feral mutants referred to their animalistic side with their code names could not really be applied to him though. The fine line between man and beast had long been blurred, fused. His last anchor to humanity had abandoned him well over a decade ago and slowly but surely the last thread holding his inner monster at bay at least somewhat had rippled and finally it gave way. He had given up on taking care of his outer appearance the way a human would, he had forfeited any luxury mankind was so attached to and took to survival in the wild instead. Travelling with nothing but the clothes on his back, sleeping wherever he saw fit, hunting his food and other prey whenever he felt like it. The odd job from time to time had completed the picture and added some spice to it. He hadn't cared about the money, had it wired to a few accounts he had set up a long while ago.
Sabertooth did not need money.

That did change somewhat the day he fought his brother on Liberty Island. The animal inside him had remembered only the scent and an incredible fury had been linked to it. The fact that the other had defeated him and thrown him off the Statue of Liberty had not helped matters much. After he had crawled out of the water, barely conscious and alive, water in his lungs that he would cough out painfully over the course of two days, he had spent a few days struggling with his healing, hidden under a bridge. And for the first time, in order to survive the pain, the animal had let the human out of the confinement he had retreated to so many years ago. His human side, instead of taming the beast, was full of anger, mistrust and an undiluted hate for everything alive itself. So the beast and the human shared the body, became one single mind.

Making Victor Creed more vicious and dangerous than he had ever been.

Slowly but surely some memories came back of the time before, in a blur but still there. He had had a brother once, a mutant too. But he despised him for everything he stood for, for trying to fight his feral side, for being so fucking noble. The animal was part of him, why fight it. He just didn't see why he should do that.

At some point he had started to listen to his instincts and begun to hunt people. The exhilaration he first felt when stalking his prey had soon worn thin and so he had to up the ante, like a junkie would have to take more and more of his drug. Only that his addiction wasn't lethal, at least not for himself. He started to catch people and play with them a bit, soon realizing a niche in the market. There were many guys that one could hire to eliminate unwanted people, some skilled, some not so much. But there were few one could go to if one wanted them not only removed but wanted them to suffer as much as possible. And there certainly wasn't anyone as skilled as Victor Creed. But even though he viewed his newfound profession as an inspiration of sorts, at least when it came to his victims, it was not enough to satisfy his hunger. He liked to play with his prey, watch them squirm, hear them beg for mercy only he knew wasn't coming. And even with the persons he was paid to torture time was limited, sooner or later he would have to leave them wherever it was they were supposed to be found. He didn't solve that problem until he purchased a house in the late nineties.

Victor Creed's real estate portfolio was quite impressive, he owned apartments and houses all across North America, some in Mexico and even a few in Europe. He had bought places here and there, whenever he stayed in a place longer than a few weeks, preferring his own four walls over hotels that always held the smell of too many people.

This one wasn't his typical lair, he usually liked to hide in plain sight, in the middle of larger cities, in neighbourhoods where people knew better than to ask questions. This house was in the outskirts of a fairly large city, the property was large enough that neighbours couldn't be too nosy but not large enough to raise suspicions as to why a guy like him could afford it. He purchased a nondescript car to go with it and, for the first time since he could remember, made sure not to flaunt his mutation. He wore gloves when leaving the house and until he was at least ten minutes away, and he made sure to greet the neighbours but never let them strike up any kind of conversation, not allowing them to come close enough to see his fangs. He knew they all thought of him as a friendly enough guy who was a loner, hard working because he was gone so often, but overall a good guy.

With a deep chuckle, after all that's what people always say about their neighbour the serial killer, he stretches and walks into the kitchen to get another beer. He enjoys his time off without any dipshits calling and whining. His cell phone is out in the car, turned off and will not be turned on until he feels like it. Which can be anywhere between a few hours and about a week, depending on how long his new pet will make it.

The rooms are nondescript and filled with furniture that is purely functional, exactly the way he wants it. There are three bedrooms, but only two are furnished, the largest is almost filled with a huge bed. He doesn't even know why there is another bed in the second room, as if he'd ever get visitors. At least not the kind that would stay in that sort of guest room.

He walks across the kitchen towards the basement room. The very annoying real estate agent had called it the hobby room and Victor has kept that description. Though his hobby room is equipped with state of the art soundproofing, heavy steel doors, three cells, several restraints and a few interesting instruments he has picked up over the years. He glances at the clock, it is almost time to visit his latest pet, but before he can allow himself some playtime there is urgent business to take care of. The middle cell still holds the remains of the old pet, a real letdown. She hadn't been as interesting as he had hoped, but the gothic type rarely were. They liked to talk a lot about how they hated the world and wanted to die, some even liked to pretend that they liked bondage and a little pain to get them going.

Victor had long ago found out that even the most suicidal, the most perverted did not appreciate his ideas of playtime.

The latest little bitch he had picked up on her own free will outside a club hadn't lasted the first 48 hours. His new pet looked like quite a catch, at least the hunt had been promising. She had been running for him and he'd let her for ten minutes, and she hadn't stopped screaming.

He grinned. This could be a very interesting week.

-
No description of pain I ever read in a book could describe the way I feel right now. My whole body hurts, the muscles are sore from the running I did – and I never ran as fast as I did when I realized that the guy walking behind me was following me.

Not true. I started running when I realized that the man following me was a huge mutant leering at me and closing the distance between us.

The fact that he so effortlessly pounced on me, there is no better way to describe it, after all that running is disheartening. And I always thought I was pretty fit. Ha.
He jumped on my back, knocked me to the ground and boy was he heavy. That was the first thought running through my head, quickly followed by "I broke a few ribs". I actually think that was my last conscious thought before he knocked me out.

And now I am in some sort of twisted underground… dungeon. I have no idea where I am but I assume I am underground because there is no window. Kidnapping a girl just to have her wave to the neighbours would be pointless. It looks squeaky clean, the walls are coated half way up with some sort of metal plates, probably stainless steel, the rest is tiled, just like the floor. A very cheerful grey. There is a drain in the middle of the room and the floor is slightly tilted towards it. Practical.

I shudder. Something tells me that I am not the first occupant of this room.

And I have a vague idea of what has happened in here before.
Sick bastard.

After a few moments of lying still and surveying my surroundings, I try to move. And find myself tied to the cot I am on apparently. Why he put me on here and not the cold tiles I don't know, maybe he doesn't want me to die of pneumonia but of himself. Because I have no illusions about his intentions. He sure didn't kidnap me and lock me up in here because he wants to go on a date or maybe thinks I could give some useful hints about decorating.

I do have some kidnapping experience. The first time I was abducted when I was eight years old, a nice old lady tended to me and I was locked up in a small shed on a farm. It wasn't all that bad, I got more attention from her than I ever did at home. Once more at sixteen and boy were those idiots unprepared. I got away after three days. A few more attempts until now, I am almost twenty-four. I see a pattern in this, but anyway. My father is a big asshole, but a big asshole with contacts. If he doesn't get what he wants he gets the close ones of those that didn't give it to him, hence his overflowing bank accounts and army of dumb big guys following him around everywhere. So of course people thought they could get to him by kidnapping his daughter. Poor fools ended up being locked up and tortured probably, I never got around to ask my dear daddy, we haven't been on speaking terms since… I can't even remember. He has never been around much and apparently I look too much like my mother so he doesn't really like me much anyway. I think the last time we spend more than a few minutes in the same room was when I showed up back home after the second kidnapping. He sort of lost interest in me.

Anyway. I have been locked up and scared before, so this is more than just a déjà-vu. It's like high school reunion. You don't really want to go, you dread it but it is over sooner than you think and though it might be painful, you'll live.
Something about those restraints tells me otherwise, but I will ignore that for now. It smells like disinfectant, a horrible hospital smell I can not stand.

The door opens, not that I heard anything, even though it looks pretty heavy, but I caught the movement from the corner of my eyes. He walks in and seeing him barely fit through the door frame makes me realize just how tall he really is. He is wearing a wifebeater and those ugly green cargo pants that I have always hated. I own four pairs of them myself. And before I can think about why an article of clothing is called wifebeater he is towering over me, his head tilted to the side as if he is looking at a mildly interesting piece of art. No, not art. Bubble gum on the floor. That's it. The hardness in his eyes makes me shudder and I try to move away from his clawed hands I just noticed, though I know it is pointless, I am tied down after all.

Something tells me that this is not the regular kidnapper that just wants to scare my dear father.

And as if he wants to confirm my assumption he raises one large hand and lets me see how his long nails extend, like talons from a cat's paw. He smiles and slowly lowers his pa.. hand, index finger stretched out. Until I feel it on my skin, right over my breasts on my sternum. The claw feels warm and dry and even though it rests lightly against my skin I feel how sharp it is, it could easily break my skin, just with a little bit of pressure.

Without warning he presses down, cutting through until I can feel the claw scrape my bone as he slides his hand down. His head is still cocked to the side and his eyes are sparkling. Biting back the scream that wants to escape my throat I just pray that he will kill me soon. But he looks like he enjoys this too much to make it quick.

Both his hands rake down my sides, cutting me and I can't hold back any longer. I scream, using all the profanities I can think of. And all he does is laugh.