Emotions are a Weapon.
When you see something that you know is wrong in the world, and nothing will stop you from making it right. /Nothing/. That is the definition of "ruthless." And so am I.

( RP Blog for 616!Mystique, Raven Darkholme. Affiliated with Gods and Monsters. Please read my Rules tab. )

I just want to say something…


RP is supposed to be fun. We’re all a bunch of nerds here. We could be doing homework or watching Doctor Who or really anything else but we are all choosing to RP fictional characters on Tumblr…because it’s fun!

Everyone has their pet peeves but there are ways of saying what you don’t like about a character/fandom/writing style/etc. without being an elitist douche. There are ways to disagree with someone without starting a fight or being too passive-aggressive.

Someone asking for critiques is not an invitation to vent your hate. People RP as a labor of love. Please keep that in mind.

And if you can’t do that, stay away from my friends!


intrigueandcharisma started following you
Joe eyed the newcomer warily. Cracking good looker once you got past the blue skin and yellow eyes, but he was more distracted by the smirk she was wearing than the revealing outfit, and the fact that she was armed set him almost instantaneously on edge.
He knew Mystique by reputation only, but he’d heard a lot of things about her, and none of them good. Not for him, anyway. And that smile…it troubled him. Whatever reason she had to smile couldn’t be anything that he had to smile about. More than anything he desperately wanted to find out what she was doing in London - was it something to do with the Hellfire Club, he wondered?
"Now what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?"

The tip of one leather-gloved finger snakes along a set of vibrant, pouty lips— lips that slowly curve upwards into a malicious little smile. In a display of mock innocence, she forces herself to pout, and splay her fingers indignantly over her chest.

"I think London is offended at suggestion that it’s not good enough for a— what were your words?— ‘nice girl like me’, mm? Is that any way to treat such an old and pretty little city?”

     [ Even if she thinks it’s actually the ass-end of the ‘developed’ world. ]

He’s edgy. She can tell. Frankly, she’s shocked he’s not reaching for that antique pistol on his hip already. As she uncurls her smirk, she wags her finger side-to-side through the air, her free hand palming a little stick with a red button. 

"Besides. My bounty is considerably lower here. I haven’t been brought up on domestic terrorism charges in Britain since… well, since Churchill. Now, be a good lad, turn around, and leave a lady to her business, mm?”

Harley Quinn


If any of you have been looking for me. … Well, psst. Over here.



Her frustrated sigh spikes into a squeal when she’s lifted onto Val’s lap. “Mama!” She squirms, her wriggling more from discomfort than protest. Anna keeps reaching for the scattered flowers, Val continuously and nonchalantly pulling the little girl back onto her lap. 

"We have to keep them all together," she insists in between tiny grunts. "He’s fallin’ apart." 

A breeze picks up.

"He fell all apart, Mama."

—; Val keeps silent as she deftly flicks away stems and petals from little Anna’s dress, her palm brushing lightly across the fabric as her features knit into a disappointed little frown. Silly little girl…

"Falling apart?", she repeats, brow raised, though she makes no effort to halt her clean-up effort of Anna’s dress. "Who? Your little collection of flowers? I told you, you don’t need th—…”

Before Val can finish and Anna can answer (and before she can attempt to squirm away again, and thus be resisted for the umpteenth time by Val’s grasp), a light breeze carrying those tendrils of smoke from before wafts over the girl’s lap. It carries the medley of purple and red petals into the wind, where they quickly appear to phase out of existence entirely.

Val can only blink, before looking down to the girl in her lap. Something seems wrong.

"Anna?" ;—



Anna’s little hands are in little gloves, because it’s so hard to imagine her without them anymore. Val’s light slap scatters the flowers, and Anna let’s out a high pitched gasp. “Mama!” and her voice breaks on the As even back then. 

Don’t,” she insists, tempting more grass stains than anything else as she tries to pluck them up at the stems.

"You’re gon’ ruin it, Mama."

—; “Ruin what?,” she says around a rapidly-rising brow, her head tilting forward with impossible credulity. “Your little pile of lap-flowers? You don’t need them for anything.”

With a sigh, she reaches forward and grabs hold of Anna’s little wrist, giving it a light tug away from the grassy stems of the flowers she’s playing with. Val’s frowning visage looks down to the green-coloured stains in the white sections of Anna’s dress, a wispy little sigh escaping her. 

"You know how upset your mother would be if you ruined your good dress. Here," she says after a forceful tug, pulling the little girl into her lap as she swipes her thumb across her lips to wet it, before rubbing it at the nascent grass stains.

How upset do you think this would make her, Anna? Mm? Hold still.” ;—



There was a place next to the river, where sometimes Val would take Anna on Saturday afternoons after the gun range. Just for a little bit, she’d get to run around reeds and purple flowers, while Val made phone calls from a bench—always within sight of Anna.

It’s been a long time since then, though.

And even longer since Rogue had half her hair pulled back with a ribbon. She’d been barely eight when Mystique snatched her up, and she’s barely eight again, as she sits in the grass by that bench. She’s wearing the Easter dress Irene had insisted upon.

She hums, playing with flowers that are collected on her dress.

—; Wisps of grey smoke, tendriling around a mess of blonde hair, misting up into the great expanse of nothingness above her head. She swats idly at it as though it were cigarette smoke and could be easily shoo’d by the gesture of a moderately annoyed hand.

Naturally, when the haze remains about her, she scrunches up her nose with displeasure. Odd weather. Fog isn’t terribly befitting April weather in the south, at least any place north of the Bayou. 

Her eyes narrow into slits as she looks down to the little girl perched so artlessly in the grass beside her, shortly before they roll and betray a momentary hint of featureless yellow. She spares a moment to smooth out the red skirt of her skirtsuit, palms flattening against it before one hand gives the girl’s thigh a gentle little slap— right next to where she’d been fidgeting with the flowers on her dress.

"Don’t play with those. They’re very delicate and you’re liable to get petals all over your dress. Petals that stain.” ;—

Rock Bottom. II Mystique and Selene


Selene nearly flew into a rage at the sensation of being pushed away and denied the thing she very wanted most, and it was with wild eyes that she looked upon the other. Those same eyes flickered between their naturally dark hue and a much brighter cerulean, as Mystique’s request sputtered to register through her mind. 

Show her… Prove that Selene wanted her. Was her response not enough? Did the possessive growls and hard press of her mouth against the other’s not adequately describe what exactly Selene wanted? By god, her lips still tingled with both the memory of their kiss and the desire for more, and her fangs burned to find solace in Mystique’s warm skin. And Mystique still could not see just how much Selene needed this. Needed her. 

The vampire’s expression contorted with a very real battle between desire and bloodlust, fangs visible between parted lips as she struggled for breaths she did not need. Selene realized what she longed for, what Mystique needed, possibly could be two different but equal parts to one means. What did it matter what she needed, if Mystique’s own desires were not met? What else could Mystique ask of Selene, if not to make her feel wanted, and not simply be used as the common blood whore? 

Though asking Selene to outright verbalize her desire would have been too much, the request to prove her sentiments through actions would be met well enough. Her eyes transformed into that cerulean hue again and remained so as Selene’s head dipped, lips parted to press a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the other’s pulse. Slow, taking her time, the vampiress dragged her mouth downward until it found the rise of a delicate collarbone. Her tongue flickered out like rough silk to taste blue flesh, the salt and musk on Mystique’s skin enough to procure a soft but audible moan from Selene’s throat. 

Strong hands relinquished their rough grasp on the other’s hair and instead took a path more gentle, pushing Mystique’s arms up and over her head, stroking the thin flesh of her wrists with either thumb. Though the mutant’s pulse remained strong there, it was not enough to sway the vampire from her path as her hands caressed lower, down built shoulders and a curved torso, kneading warm flesh with her fingers as every touch burned her fingertips with shaking flames. 

Her hips slipped between those long, long legs, and for a moment, Selene thought she could stay like this forever, enveloped in Mystique’s warmth and desire and beauty. How could Mystique think herself anything but gorgeous? She was a specimen meant to be desired, to be tasted and appreciated every moment she was not in battle. A rough pull, and Selene hitched one blue thigh up and against her waist, even as her nose drew a line in the space between perfect breasts. 

She pressed a kiss against Mystique’s sternum, breathing hard as her body visibly shook to maintain control and fulfill the other’s wishes. Before she could stop it, a single, harsh word slithered out between Selene’s lips, the sound pure instinct, pure rage. Pure desire. 


The blue mutant reacts primarily with surprise as the vampiress ignores her invitation to pounce upon her neck, and instead takes up a rogue course of laced kisses that lead down along her sternum, and in between her breasts. Each planted contact of those cold, wonderful lips to her warm, blue flesh makes her shudder a bit, one of her hands slowly trailing up the other woman’s back before pressing into it sharply, keeping both women pressed together like puzzle pieces.

"Mmn… That’s a very bold claim," she whispers, fingers tangling up with the leather encasement on Selene’s torso before they trail downwards, to the zipper at the base of her upper-body suit. As she continues to speak, she yanks the zipper upward, slowly freeing the gorgeous vampire’s torso from the hold of that constrictive leather suit.

"Yours?", she repeats, somewhat skeptically. "Well. You’ll have to prove a claim like that, you know…”

Raven smiles then, yanking Selene’s zipper down the rest of the way before one sapphire hand reaches into the pale flesh beneath, and snatches away the corset that once covered the vampiress’ upper body. Within seconds, she’s forced the other woman to be just as nude, from the waist up, as she is, a wide smile on her face. Slowly, she turns her head to one side, exposing her neck in excruciatingly close detail to those wonderful lips opposite her.

"Take it. Take what you want," she implores, the veins on her neck pulsing as she offers her blood freely to the vampiress. "I know this isn’t all you want… But I know you do want it, regardless. I won’t stop you from taking it, if you so desire…”

Rock Bottom. II Mystique and Selene


Selene did not know what she had expected from the mutant, yet as the heat of Mystique’s bare flesh seared the back of her neck and a pair of succulent, full lips traced the shell of her ear, the vampire’s form grew taut. She should have predicted this, should have been able to recognize the underlying reason for the other woman wishing Selene to draw so close. Mystique, like herself, was a predator and nothing but: cunning, skilled in combat, but most of all, beautiful. She used her body and beguiling softness to lure even the most hardened individuals—to whatever means she wished. 

Why Mystique continued to make such advances toward her, even after their last meeting and its disastrous outcome, Selene found herself at a loss. 
It was not the mere arch of the woman’s form into Selene’s back that surged a pang of want in her veins, nor the promise of a kiss soon fulfilled as Mystique’s searching lips found her own in the silence. The taste of blood, however faint, mingled with the aroma of alcohol upon Mystique’s breath, enough to release Selene’s memories like a flooding dam; enough to remind her of a very real desire she too often denied, of the very real fact that Mystique had once happily—hungrily—given her exactly what she needed. 

A rumbled growl shared between them as Selene turned, one slender hand delving into fiery tresses and tilting that cobalt mouth to accommodate a deeper kiss of tongue and snapping teeth. It was all she could to not to wrench the other’s head back and sink her fangs into an equally mouthwatering neck, to taste and remember the elixir that was Mystique’s blood and the way it had ordered her every nerve to aching life. 

Nevermind that Selene found herself pushing Mystique back against the stained mattress, one hand still buried in her hair as the other remained but a fist clenching the sheets. Anything to keep herself at least marginally in check, to censor the growing heat in her blood that demanded to be sated, even as reason flickered as nothing but mist in the background of her mind. 

Mystique had not expected Selene to be so… receptive. She had expected to be shoved away, to be laughed at, to be generally rejected. Of course, her response would have been to laugh, roll her eyes, and brush it aside as though it was nothing. She’s used to it, after all.

But not only does Selene not retreat from her kiss… she, in fact, sinks deeper into it, and pushes the blue mutant against the creaky hotel mattress. The alcohol she consumed earlier has mostly faded from her physiology at this point (though the scent lingers on her breath), which makes her acutely aware of what’s happening.

"Mmmn," she moans into the kiss, for the first time in nearly a century allowing herself to be pushed backwards and forced onto the bottom, her wrist and hair held captive by Selene’s intimidatingly powerful hands. Her tongue darts out from her lips for a brief moment, swatting across Selene’s before spearing past them and swirling in lively circles with the other woman’s. A deep moan vibrates through her throat and into Selene’s.

Suddenly, she presses her free hand into Selene’s chest, forcing the vampiress back by just a few inches. The skin of her forehead has begun to glisten with a small layer of sweat, her chest heaving rapidly from excitement, as her featureless, bright amber eyes look up towards the blue ones above her. “Prove something to me.”

Here, she leans her head to one side, exposing her neck a mere inch below Selene’s lips. Her heart is beating so quickly at this point, that the pulsation of her veins, and therefore her intoxicating blood flow, is practically visible against her skin. “Show me you want me… And not just my blood. If you can prove that much… Then, you can have both.”

A Crooked Olive Branch.


Regan’s brow rose at the other woman’s questioning, her fingers deftly sliding along the rim of her glass as she frowned at her. She respected Raven, undoubtedly, but trust is always another matter entirely, something she knows her old ally is well aware of, her own trust in others, Regan included, is more than hard to come by. You don’t survive as long as Raven has blindly trusting others, and when you didn’t follow society’s standards, you definitely don’t survive with such a naive mentality.


So how willing was she to share her thoughts with Mystique? That was the question in her mind. The woman already knew enough about Regan’s general family history that she could probably guess if she really cared enough to, but to tell her how nostalgic she was to get those back meant she’d have that extra leverage to keep her in line, just like Maddie had. Then again, it didn’t much matter if she had leverage or not, she didn’t need it considering as far as Regan was concerned, she’d remain loyal to Raven until she has better reason not to be. Considering she stuck by her before, all the way up until she found a sharp set of claws tearing through her stomach, it was safe to say that her loyalty wouldn’t waver as easily as some may think.

"Well," she began, picking up her drink to toss back the last bit of it. "I’m sure you heard about how Daddy died, not to mention the crap hole his life turned in to between that time and his failure with Hellfire." Sinking back into her own chair, she turned her eyes away, staring unseeingly at a case full of books a few feet away. "I’ll admit, I wouldn’t mind finding a way to avoid all that drama."

Leaning forward again, her hand drifts back to the picture of Jean Grey, tracing over her face with that wistful expression once again, before turning it towards Raven, her own eyes never leaving the sheet. “As for my fondness….” She trailed off, her gaze finally moving up to Raven as her lips quirked back into her mischievous smirk, a small snort of laughter escaping her throat. “No, it definitely doesn’t have a thing to do with the baby revolutionary in the making.” Her finger tapped a few times on Jean’s forehead in her picture, her smile becoming more malevolent as she thought about the girl. “It’s too bad she’s still so young here, but I’m sure Daddy would be very happy to see her again, regardless of that fact. Without the Phoenix in her, or as her, as the case had been before, I imagine that her mind’s even easier to sway than it had been for him back in the day, especially when I don’t need a crap device from Frost to do so.”

Falling back into her chair again, her mood effectively up again as her mind shifted away from memories of a time long gone, Regan lifted her arms behind her head, looking far more relaxed than one would expect from someone who had just shared a small tidbit of their desires. “So Raven, how about you give me your side of things? What special little something from the past would you like to change for yourself? If we’re gonna do this team bonding crap, you gotta give me something in turn, you know.”

"Thank whatever-gods-that-probably-don’t-exist,” she exhales sharply, a sigh escaping her vibrant cobalt lips as Regan confesses that her feelings have nothing to do with the baby ‘revolutionary’ in the making. Though she still takes a moment to hold up one finger, wagging it from side to side in gentle admonishment before continuing.

"And he’s hardly a ‘revolutionary’. He’s saying the same damn things I said eight decades ago. The only difference is more people listen to him, because, for a long time, he played straight-and-narrow golden boy for the mutant cause, and followed every single one of society’s laws to the most rigid and perfectly-etched possible ‘T’.’ His story is only remarkable because he’s changed his tune in the last few years,” she scoffs, clearly bitter over the subject, “Though I’m just glad the idiot finally realizes what the correct path is. A bit too late, but still. Better late than never, mmn?”

A dismissive wave of her hand is all it takes for Raven to rid herself of the unpleasant subject of Scott Summers, regardless of whatever age he’s currently at, and sink back into her chair. She listens with considerable attention as Regan finishes, her thoughts drifting back to the woman’s earlier words. 

The words about her father.

"Tch." Raven’s lips curl upwards at the edges, into a wry little smirk as she forces herself to chuckle a bit. Nothing about the sound is genuine… in fact, it seems oddly compulsory. As though she’s only laughing because she thinks she should. “Daddy issues. Nothing new to me.”

Raven then pushes her (empty) vodka glass aside, fingers curling around the edge of the table to shove herself to her feet. Her clothes seem to melt off her body in one fluid gesture that looks almost like real-life special effects, but by the time they’re all gone, her back is facing Regan.

"I don’t have a past to change, Regan. Nor one to remember. The only things I know about my father are that he was a rotten person… And that he’s most likely dead now. I’d prefer to keep it that way. Aside from that, I’ll keep my reasons for wanting to get my hands on this technology,” as she curls her fingers around the entrance to the nearest hallway, which leads to her master bathroom.

"… under my proverbial hat. I’m sure you can respect that. Now, if you don’t mind. I desperately need a shower, and you sound about three breaths away from passing out on my kitchen floor. Try and crawl yourself into the guest room before you collapse."