Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

     You couldn’t help but be nervous, you were going to date with Victor Creed aka Sabretooth. You two were...sorta kinda dating, between his career choice and the fact you were a regular joe, setting up dates was hard. 

     But Victor arranged a date for you two to tell you something important at the Hellfire Club. You were glad he had set up a private booth for you two, being around powerful people who could kill you was very different from dating someone who could kill you. 

     You drum your fingers against the red velvet-clad table, waiting for Victor to arrive. He was running late, and he didn’t want to cancel. You were already there and cancellation fees went into the thousands.
 
     ...and Victor Creed had a tab that went into the millions. 

     You took a sip of your sparkling grape juice, you didn’t like the alcohol and you couldn’t afford it nor did you want to contribute his tab. 

     “Sorry that I’m late, dahl,” A large figure stepped through the curtains, dressed in a low cut dress that came down to mid thigh and a pair of brown flats. Claws were painted black, lips in a dark red color. Long blonde hair was put up in a messy but somehow elegant bun. The lady nervously smiled at you.

     “Oh,” You sat up a bit straighter, you smiled back. “You look beautiful. Um, what do you want me to call you?”

     “Victoria, for now. Still lookin’ through names,” She said, closing the curtains behind her. You couldn’t help but noticing a path of bodies leaving up to the private booth and blood on Victoria’s flats.

     You scoot to make room for your date, before a strong arm wraps around your waist, pulling you in close to her. You can’t help but feel giddy, pulling at your collar. 

     Man or woman, the mutant had a beauty that couldn’t be resisted. 

     “I take it, this is how your coming out to me?” You asked shyly.

     “Mhm, between…work and what not, I couldn’t find a good time to tell ya,” Victoria said, resting her arm over the booth and crossing her legs. “Plus, it’s been sometime since you and I went on a date. I miss spendin' time with my teddy bear,” Victoria said, leaning closer. 

     You couldn’t help but blush harder, looking down at your lap. 

     Victoria chuckled, a clawed hand playing with your hair. “Did you order yet? I’m starvin’,” she said, looking at the menu.

     “No, not yet. I didn’t want your steak to be cold…” You couldn’t help but lean into Victoria’s touch, she was warm, she was safe, and she was home. 

     “Victoria..” 

     “Hm?”

     “It’s a nice name. I like it, it’s pretty.”

     “It’s my mama’s name but it’s a bit too formal. Gonna shorten it,” she said, looking at the menu. 

     She always get the same thing.

     “To?”

     “Vicki or Tori. Leanin’ to Tori.”

     “Tori’s nice. Tori Creed has a nice ring,” You said.

     “Tori Creed..Vicki Creed...I’ll figure it out later,” Victoria mumbled. 

     You rest your head on Victoria’s chest, looking over the menu, or what from you could see. You sigh contently, your girlfriend’s hand was resting on your hip. 

     You two ended up getting a bunch of appetizers and ended up having a movie marathon at one of Victoria’s safehouses. Tab still not paid.

Chapter Text

     It took a lot for Victor to cry, to shed a tear. He wasn't the scared boy who quivered in his father's basement, he wasn't the weak man grieved and cried for his mama. He was Victor Creed, Sabretooth, a monster, a boogeyman, and yet. 

     "Tell me what I have to do to be good?"  

     Voice soft and strained, blonde hair hid the wild look of despair in his eyes but it did not hide the desperation in his voice.  "You're an animal parading as man, what do I have to do to be like you?" 

     Hank made a face, he wasn't an animal parading as a man. He was just a man, a hirsute man with animal-like features.

     A house cat to Victor's smilodon.

     Victor Creed, a proud man, striking those down in fear with a single look. Victor Creed, unfeeling serial killer discriminated no one, man, woman, or child. Victor Creed, a broken man groveling at Hank's feet, claws pricking Hank's legs. 

     Hank swallowed, adverting his eyes. It made him uncomfortable, it made him too aware of circumstance, and the cruel theory of Nature vs Nurture. How it could be him begging on the floor. Without the guidance of loving parents, a mentor, or even friends, Hank could have been like Victor. 

     "I tried every goddamned thing, to be good, to rid myself of the blood on my hands and yet, it's never good enough. You claim you want to help me, absolve me of my sins, yet cast me aside when improvement doesn't happened at a drop of a dime," the pricks dug deeper. 

     "Hank, tell me what to do. Please. I'm tryin'. I'm tryin', all I do is try and it's never enough." 

     "I don't know, Victor," Hank said with a sigh. "I don't know." 

     Hank wasn't a bloodthirsty killer but then again, he wasn't made into a weapon, or at least, not like how Victor was. Hank exhaled, running his hand through his fur.

    That was a topic for another day.

     Hank wasn't told that killing was all that he would be good for. Hank didn't have to face rejection from his family or someone who like him. Hank had support, he didn't have to worry about backstabbers and backstab others to survive.

     "I'm sorry, Victor..I don't know how difficult it must be but I won't give up on you. I don't know what to do but whatever it is, I'll help you no matter what."

     Victor look dejected, Hank hissed, claws retracting from his legs.

     The older mutant hunched his shoulders, "I don't think I can be helped."

Chapter Text

     Sometimes, Victor forgot that he was born with a uterus. Well, he didn’t forget but when he lived as a man so long, the uterus was just another organ in his body. However, his lovely daughter who insisted on jumping onto his lower abdomen, knees first, every time she wanted to bother him. 

     Point is, he hated having periods. 

     They didn’t bother him, blood was blood. He could handle some blood. They were more of an inconvenience more than anything.

     Victor huffed, digging through the cabinet under the bathroom sink, a black towel wrapped firmly around his waist. He didn’t want to go through the hassle of dealing with a moon cup, inserting and removing it always felt weird and not to mention, messy.

     Victor didn’t like tampons, the string was too flimsy.

     “Why do we have so many fuckin’ bandages?” Victor grumbled, “We heal, we don’t need them.”

     Hello Kitty, Astro Boy… “When the fuck did the X-Cunts get a licensed deal? And why did I buy ‘em?”

     Victor shook his head before tossing the box into the trash before continuing his search. 

     A lone maxi pad, tucked away in the back. 

     Ol’ reliable.

     The only downside, it was a bit bulky but it gave the illusion of bulge. Grabbing the pad, Victor headed back to his room, unwrapping the pad. 

     Victor sighed, “It beats the sanitary belt."

Chapter Text

     The brain wasn’t supposed to live after a certain amount of years, a sticky wad of gum rattling around in his skull, preserved by what Victor once revered as God’s way of blessing the strong was now a curse.

     Victor licked his gums, eyeing his dentures. He had two sets, the 'People-Friendly' set that didn’t scare the neighbours and the normal set, the ones that made him feel like he was a man.

     Made him feel like he was something.
  
     Victor reached for his preferred set, Sierra wasn’t here. She wasn’t here to scold him about wearing down his jaw or dentures. His jaw would heal, though, at a snail’s pace and he would bitch and moan to the point where Sierra would rub numbing gel on his gums so he could sleep at night.
    
     Victor retracted his hand.

     Victor paused, she’s been taking care of him since she was thirteen. The shift to slow decay was sudden. It started with a fever, he never had a fever that bad or at all since his mutation came in.

     Despite her insistence, whatever hopes and dreams she had were dashed. Heavens knows she’s miserable. Hell, O’Hara offered to run a few tests, maybe to reverse or slow the process, but he’ll be damned if he lets himself become a lab rat again.
    
     Victor slunk into his recliner, curling in on himself like the fat cat he was.

     Victor Creed always found a way to damned others along with him.

 ---

     It’s a little bit after one when Sierra arrives home, a tote bag of books on her shoulder. Four bags of groceries in her hands.

     Some old show is playing in the background, maybe one of Dad’s old movies.

     “Daddy, I’m home,” Sierra greeted, struggling to take off her heels.

     Victor snorted, raising his head, as if he was a cat.

     “Did you do anything special today?” Sierra asked, finally kicking a heel off, flexing her toes.

     Victor blinked, smacking his lips, adjusting to the light. “No.”

     “Oh...You do remember what today is?” Sierra asked.

     It wasn’t her birthday, her birthday was sometime in December...maybe. “Paydah..?”

     Sierra deflated, “It’s your birthday!”

     Victor rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Mah birthdah past.”

     Sierra’s eyebrows furrowed. “Today is May 3rd.”

     Victor reached for his bottle of water and his regular dentures. Taking a swig of water and swishing it around before spitting into one of Sierra’s many and currently dying plants.

     “HEY!”
    
     Victor put his dentures in, biting down a few times.

     “Today is May 7th, Sierra. I’m supposed to be the old man.”

     “No, no, no, I swear, today’s May 3rd. Today’s your how-many-th birthday and I sent a text to anyone who was willing to come over for dinner. We’re supposed to celebrate, and and and—"

     Sierra dropped to her knees, “Is that why no one responded to me?”

     Victor sighed, getting up...not before stretching like a cat. Stretching...stretching...stretching...POP, maybe it was a good thing he was old.

     “I was wonderin’ why you didn’t say happy birthday to me but I’ll never say no to steak and cake,” Victor said getting up and picking up the groceries bags.

     “It’s not the same,” Sierra mumbled, wiping her eyes.

     “Well, think of this as me..finally enjoyin’ old age,” Victor said, walking to the kitchen.

     Sierra smiled weakly, still teary-eyed.

     “What is it old people say? I still got it or somethin’?”

     Sierra laughed, “I don’t know, I’m not old.”

     Victor made a face, placing the groceries on the table. “You’re old enough.”

     Thirty-eight, though she looked like she was twenty-three. She wasn’t his little girl anymore but she was still his Peaches.

     “C’mon. My steak isn’t gonna make itself!”

 ---

     Rare steak, shy of mooin’, pan grill brussel sprouts, and puréed sweet potatoes.

     Well, mostly puréed, Sierra mixed it with a few cooked chunks...so, regular smashed potatoes. He couldn't stand it when shit was smooth. Either way, whenever Sierra actually cooked and didn’t follow his doctor’s order, he actually felt full.

     “Daddy, you’re falling asleep again,” Sierra said, softly, picking up their plates, her set of silverware clattering against his clean plate. He smiled softly, he felt more of a man than he had in a long time.

     He eyed her plate, half eaten salmon. Sierra isn’t eating right, hasn’t been for a long time. Maybe it’s stress, or a new diet fad. Sierra was always chubby, there’s nothing with that.
    
     Maybe, she wasn’t hungry, maybe she didn’t cook right. Sierra was a big girl.

     “’m not,” Victor mumbled, with a snort.

     “At least, take out your dentures,” Sierra said, holding her hand out.

     Victor ran his tongue over his teeth, before taking them out and handing them to Sierra. Sierra made a face.

     Sierra dropped the teeth into a bowl with a cleaning tablet, swishing the water around.

     “Thank you, Peaches,” Victor mumbled.

     “Mhm.”
    
     Maybe, being old wasn’t bad.

Chapter Text

     Giving birth in the Savage Lands was practically a death sentence, especially if you didn’t have a tribe, an elder to help with labor pain, someone to hold your hand and tell you it was going to be okay, that you were going to be okay.

     Viz’ria swiped her face with the back of her hand, swiping away sweat and tears. She was the Savage Sabretooth, she could handle anything.

     Not even childbirth could take her down…

     Blood and other body fluids stained her pelts, her son wailed, placenta still attach.

     Viz’ria cut the cord with a clawed thumb, before gingerly picking up the crying newborn, despite the pain shooting through her. She coos, holding the baby to her bosom.

     Her baby, her son, her Rex was here.

---

     Erz’bet doesn’t scold her when she finds her. She knows better but Viz’ria knows a scolding will follow when she’s a bit stronger. Erz’bet was always a worrier.

   The healer parted the curtains of the hut, allowing fresh air and sunlight. Viz’ria could smell fresh food for both her and the baby and supplies in a basket. The savage woman glanced at her friend, dressed in her healing robes and Cer’za, her own son, wrapped against her chest, sound asleep.

     “Maybe He be grow old and happy,” Erz’bet mumbled a prayer, setting the basket down. Taking a gourd of water from the basket, the healer poured it into a shallow bowl, offering it to Vic’ria’s lips.

     Viz’ria gladly lapped at the water, parched beyond belief.

     Erz’bet pushed away blonde hair from Viz’ria face with her other hand, as she held the bowl.

     “The elders were worried for you, along with Lo’gan and Mig’el,” Erz’bet said softly.

     Viz’ria scoffed, “They know where I reside.”

     “It’s dangerous to provoke a new mother,” Erz’bet said with a chuckle, “Did you name him yet?”

     “Rex.”

     “King in Latin,” Erz’bet said. Red eyes glanced at the child, furry like his mother but unlike Viz’ria, the newborn had dark curly hair just like Mig’el.

     “Do you want me to tell Mig’el of Rex’s safe arrival?”

     Viz’ria shrugged. They weren’t a thing anymore, relapse in his judgment.

     Viz’ria blinked away the tears, “No. Mig’el has no son, Rex is mine and mine alone.”

     The healer nodded, peeling an orange before taking a section and holding it up to the new mother’s lips. “Very well.”

     Viz’ria welcomed the fresh fruit, anything grown by the healer’s hand always tasted sweet and full of love.

     Erz’bet placed a kiss on Viz’ria’s forehead.

     Viz’ria purred, she may have been the Savage Sabretooth, but even she knew she couldn’t do it alone without Erz’bet.

Chapter Text

     The Lord of the Wild and Man always required a sacrifice, depending on the quality of the sacrifice, he would answer, always sending a message one way or another. He didn't come down from Heavens like the All-Mother Storm and All-Father Thor or whatever biome he fancied like Namour and Drakka.

     The Lord of the Wild and Man was a bit of a nomad, like birds in migration or man flocking to another field, looking for the best and to settle for a time before leaving. The Lord of the Wild was also an outcast, sure, the Gods were cruel at times but Erzsébet remembered its elders talking about how the All-Mother helped with droughts and Drakka made gentle snow for the little ones.


     It remembered the gentle rain and snowfall, it remember when fish was plentiful, when the sun didn't scorch the earth.


     However, the Lord of the Wild and Man was always cruel but cruel in a way that was predictable, almost kind in a way. Small daggers and blades to emulate his teeth and claws, furs from fierce and docile creatures to keep warm and blend in with nature. The knowledge to make tools, the knowledge to make medicine, the knowledge to make life a little bit easier, for those graced with powers and those who weren’t.

     Erzsébet lugged fresh venison to the altar, blood dripping onto the tiled floor. The best cut of the animal, rump.

     “Oh, Lord of Wild and Men, hear my plea and aid me with the wisdom of man, the swiftness of tiger, and the gracefulness of deer,” Erzsébet chanted, bloodied hands clasped.


     “Please let the Fall Harvest being bountiful so we may survive the winter, let our people be safe, and let the next generation of cubs be brought into a world where they know no hardships.”

     The air smelled of blood, citrus, and musk. A deep raspy purring rung in Erzsébet’s head, the sensation of someone scratching her scalp, a good scratch, easing away pain and sorrow and aches of the body.

     Erzsébet beamed, the Lord was in a good mood.

     “Thank you, Sawtooth for blessing us. May the hunt bring us good fortune.”

Chapter Text

     "You chose a peculiar man to be your champion, my Lord." 

     Malachi oversaw the process of the man being being bathed. Rivets of dirt and bloodied soap foam draining to the center of the bathroom. Dirty brown hair turning to a dirty blonde.

     "Perhaps, but I'm not looking for personality, though it's nice to have a bit of push back. I'm looking for skill and competency," Malachi said. "Sir Creed has proven himself time and time again." 

     Servants bathing the knight recoiled in disgust as he shook himself dry. Thick towels as shields.

     The handmaiden made a face, "My Lord, Sir Creed is a former mercenary. Known for helping the likes of anyone who pays him a pretty penny and had no qualms about hurting man, woman, or child. Not to mention, he has no sense of honorable breeding." 

     Amber eyes met dark brown eyes. Pointed ears twitching.

     Malachi smiled and waved from the balcony. 

     "I am no different from Sir Creed's former employers," The lord says with a slight laugh.

    The handmaiden looked alarmed, sweating. "My Lord, you're a generous-"

     "Am I not paying him a pretty penny to keep me safe and executing my will over my providence? I like to believe that I'm a fair and generous person, however, some poor townsman may think I'm a tyrant. Heavens knows the counsel think of me too lenient and a fool." 

     The handmaiden sighed, face weary. "Men like Creed should be kept on a leash. He's called the Golden Cur of the West for a reason. Pray tell you don't fall to his claws and teeth as well, Lord Rose. Rosenthal isn't ready for a new leader nor is Lady Cereza ready to take your place."

     The Lord's face soured, turning to the handmaiden. 

     Victor turned away, snatching a towel from a servant and wrapping it around his waist.

Chapter Text

     Miguel couldn't help but feel giddy as he held Sierra, the baby babbling in delight, happy to be held again.

     "What's her name?" he asked, pushing aside dark brown curls and smiling at the baby. He booped her nose.

     Amber eyes looking up at Miguel with curiosity, a mitten clad hands wrapping around Miguel's finger. "Bawh." 

     "Sierra. Sierra Victoria Marie Ann Creed," Victor said, crossing his arms and leaning against the kitchen counter.

     He felt good coming up with that.

     "I figure you wanted to know and had to hunt down Parker to get yer info," he mumbled, scratching chin. "Name's liable to change....if you want to claim her as yers-"

     "Of course, I do! She's mine, mi ricitos!" Miguel said, rubbing his cheek against Sierra's. Sierra babbled.

     "She's ours and She's keeping Creed as her last name on papers but you can call her O'Hara around yer folks," Victor said.

     Miguel looked up with watery eyes, a dopey smile on his face. Victor sneered, "Christ, yer sappy." 

     "You don't know the last few years I've had. I think I'm allowed to sappy, and happy, for once. My baby, my little girl. Can I visit? Please, Creed?" 

     Victor dragged a hand down his face, "I'm cruel but I'm not going to say no to seeing yer kid. My one request is to keep any and all superhero shit away from her," Victor said, rubbing his temple.

     Miguel looked up to Victor, a bit of haunted look on his face. "D-did Peter tell you?" 

     "Tell me what?" While anything on Miguel would have been nice, after all, Victor did spend the first three months of trying to get a lead on Miguel before finally, asking Peter for help. Despite the friendly neighborhood spider's chattiness, he didn't reveal anything that Victor had no business knowing. 

     Miguel blinked before looking back at Sierra, who look back at him, reaching out to him. "...I, uh..."

     Victor looked away, rubbing his neck. "You lost a kid?" 

     "Yeah.."

     Victor looked back at Miguel, "Well, that's somethin' we have in common...Don't lose this one or else, you'll have to answer to me.

Chapter Text

     It appears that he could never catch a shocking break.

     Miguel hissed in pain, Spider-Man from Earth-7085 had bit him during a training exercise. The wound wasn’t deep but it wasn’t something you could bandage over. His suit glitched around the wound, blood dripping onto the floor.

     “Jesus shocking Christ,” Miguel mumbled, walking down the med bay corridor. With every step, the wound sent jolts of pain up his spine.

     “Do you think 7085 has rabies?” LYLA asked, popping out of nowhere. “Or fleas?”

     “LYLA, now’s not the time for shocking jokes. I need you to-”

     “Spider-Joy has already been notified, she just needs you there,” LYLA said before fizzling out.

---

     “Well, you’re cleared for rabies, 7085 gets his rabies shots yearly. There’s nothing too serious, however because of the bite of '87-I mean, '85, your spinneret is damaged. In fact, the spinneret has collapsed-”

     “What do you mean collapsed?”

     Spider-Joy, using a pen, gestured to the x-ray, “You see in your left arm, the spinneret opening is cleared? With your right, it’s crushed. It’s gonna heal on its own, with your rapid healing rate, it should clear up within a few weeks. So, as your nurse, you can’t be doing any crime fighting until I said you’re good to go.”

     “Couple of weeks isn’t bad, you can play catch up at your day job,” LYLA said, sitting on Miguel’s shoulder. “Maybe, do those meetings you keep delaying.”

     Miguel exhaled, “Compared to the average spider, what’s the healing rate?”

     The nurse tapped on her tablet, “Comparing you to 616 during his prime, it would have taken him seven weeks to heal, and knowing...any of us, trying to fight crime while injured have caused weaker silk and spinneret fatigue and spasms in the long run. So, please, follow the nurse's orders.”

     Miguel groaned, covering his eyes with his good arm. “Can I have a sling?...and a doctor’s note?”

---

     As a result of his upbringing and career choice, Miguel is naturally more geared to science. It was more tangible and it was more comforting, something that could be explained away and solved instead of something...nonsensical. Sure, a werewolf Spider-Man was nonsensical but so were having multiple variants of one hero.

     It’s only been a couple of days, you’re getting worked up over nothing.

     It was easy to bury himself in meetings, work appointments, and anything Alchemax related. He had been neglecting his duties as CEO, which did take his mind off of his injury however…

     “What if you sprout a tail?”

     Miguel glared at Briar, who lazily glanced up from their phone. “What?”

     It didn’t help that he had a...partner ( what the bell were they? ) who had a habit of voicing the fears Miguel kept to himself.

     “Having a tail would be like...the least of your worries. I heard the furry subculture is like making a comeback. You can fit right in,” Briar said.

     “I’m not a furry.” He didn’t even like animals.

     “Sorry, you’re a buggy. Anyways, I should update my fursona design. Are your brother’s commissions open?”

     Miguel stared at Briar.

     “His commissions are open, but doesn’t he have you blocked?” LYLA said from Miguel’s watch.

     “As if I don't know where he lives.”

     “Can we go back to the topic at hand, please?”

     “I thought you didn’t want to talk about it.”

     “Oh my shocking god, I don’t but away from furries and fursonas.”

     Briar stuck out their tongue before leaning back in their chair, feet on the coffee table. “Well, what did the Spider-Nurse say?”

     “Aside from the collapsed spinneret and bitemark, I should be fine.”

     Briar glanced at Miguel's bouncing foot, before glancing at Miguel himself. “Did you guys check for lycanthropy?”

     Miguel shot Briar a more pointed glare, “Can you be serious for-”

     “No, Briar’s right. Lycanthropy is a real thing in 7085’s universe,” LYLA stated, oblivious to the quiet dread of Miguel and Briar’s bewilderment. “He’s a flesh-eating werewolf to be exact.”

     “WHY DIDN’T YOU SHOCKING SAY ANYTHING??” He was really grateful he had his office padded with soundproof foam.

     “You were already freaking out! And you need to focus on healing!” LYLA retorted.

     Miguel covered his face with his good hand, leaning back into his chair. “Just my shocking luck.”

---

     “Well, there’s good news and bad news,” Spider-Joy said. “Good news, since 7085 is not a true werewolf, you won’t end up like him and with you being patient zero, if you say..bite 616, he has a seventy-five percent of turning, and if he bites 65, about a sixty percent change and so on. Meaning, with every new bite, the less likely.”

     LYLA beamed, “Okay that’s not bad.”

     “Bad news?” Miguel asked.

     “Well, because of your unique DNA structure. You're more spidery? 7085’s bite somehow accelerate the spider part of your genetic code?”

     Miguel paled, staring at the results.

     Seventy-nine percent spider. Any meaningful chance to stabilize his DNA and become more...human was out the shocking door.

     “...Why don’t you take the week off, Dr. O’Hara?” Spider-Joy suggested, “and come back when you have a bit of a clearer head?”

     Miguel swallowed thickly, blinking the exhaustion away. “Yeah.”

---

     Briar isn’t a fan of spiders, the animals. They made their skin crawl.

     Werewolfspider Miguel did make them itch but Briar knew better to freak out but they couldn’t help but shuddered.

     All eight eyes focused on the rabbit, hands stilled. Miguel started to pull away.

     “Hey, I’m fine, just a little bit cold,” Briar cooed, lacing their fingers with his. “You’re supposed to be wrapping me up to keep me warm, remember?”

     Miguel kinda turned their living room into a huge nest, mindful of outlets and the vents but he hated it when Briar moved around. So, a cocoon, that was almost done. Through a game of charades, Briar would be in the cocoon but they need their hands to be free.

     Miguel gestured to his spinnerets. Probably sore from all the spinning.

     “Ah, well, you’re furry, aren’t you?”

     Miguel clicked his mandibles in annoyance, Briar smiled.  “Human or werespider, you’re still my Miguel,” Briar said, placing a kiss on Miguel’s nose...well, the area where his nose should be.

---

     “Well, that wasn’t too bad.”

     “What...did I do when I got hungry?”

     “You just ate whatever we had in the fridge...I have to go grocery shopping now but this whole wolfspider thing seems manageable. You still recognize me and LYLA. Wouldn’t let me leave the nest, though.”

     Miguel took a sip of his coffee, glancing at the webbed up living room. Briar had to be freed from their partial cocoon, once he had changed back. “Sorry.”

     “About?”

     Miguel gestured to himself, “Dealing with me.”

     “Dude, we’ve been over with this. We’re in a relationship, I knew what I was signing up for.”

     “You’re omniscient now?” Miguel said with a slight chuckle.

     Briar rolled their eyes, “No but hey, you’re my partner. I knew what I was signing up for when I started dating Dr. Miguel O’Hara and the elusive Spider-Man. I’m gonna be putting up with some weird shit. This is like...the least weirdest in my opinion.”

Chapter Text

      Victor Creed has a better sense of smell that a bloody bloodhound. A sense of smell so keen, he could solve a murder case. A sense of smell so keen, it overwhelmed him, to point where Victor couldn’t function. 

      When he wasn’t doing mercenary work or fighting losers in yellow and blue spandex, Victor would often find himself at home, trying to fend off a migraine with familiar scent. Since he no longer lived in Edmonton anymore, there was no calming scent of pine, freshly fallen snow, or the general smell of nature. 

     South Jersey has a weird smell to it, between the vast field of dying grass, grease (both cooking and machine oil), and the stench of sickness. The area he lived in was a mix of rural and suburbia but it was weird. Not many places had what New Jersey had going on. 

     However, the weird mix made Victor’s headache worse, nauseous even.

     “I think you’re homesick,” Malachi said softly. 

      Victor glanced at the blood construct. “I’m not homesick,” though he did miss the privacy and the forest, being home with his thoughts and regrets made him feel the opposite. His home was a haunted house, pictures of ghosts hung on the cabin walls.

     It was a mausoleum more than a home but that was a topic for another time. 

     “The air quality is shit. You don’t get headaches?” Victor asked.

     Malachi shrugged, “I’m used to it. Maybe, dabbing perfume under your nose will help. Or Tiger Balm.” 

Chapter Text

     Victor Creed didn't do feelings, or at least, that was what he kept telling himself. 

     Not after every heartbreak, every betrayal, or empty bed. 

     He was a monster, a beast, he didn't need love or romance. He didn't need any of that.

     ...or at least, that was what he kept telling himself. 

     "No, no, you don't mean it." 

     It was easier to deny, to sow the seeds of doubts, he loved them, but did they love him? Victor crossed his arms over his chest, "You love the idea of me, the Big Bad Sabretooth protecting the frail Doctor. As much as I love a good fuck, I'm not yer lapdog." 

     It was easier to deny, to crush, to kill the idea of love. Sabretooth didn't need it. Victor shouldn't have it. 
 
     Love makes a man weak, soft and Sabretooth was an animal parading around as a man. 

     Malachi made a face, studying Victor, before taking a seat on the sofa, cane resting between its legs. Malachi rested its cheek on a closed fist. "Why do you think that?" 

     Victor couldn't help but bristled. He didn't like being doubted, questioned. He didn't want to analyze his feelings and dissect them, he didn't want to rehash the same scenario with different people. However, Malachi was no Jean Grey or Charles Xavier. 

     The doctor could be vicious verbally, but it would never throw flaws back in people’s faces.

     Victor didn't want to love and have his love thrown back in his face. Old as he was, he couldn’t take another heartbreak. Deserving of it or not. "Isn't it obvious?" 

     Malachi leaned back, "It is, but I want to hear it from you but if you don't want a relationship. That's completely fine, too. Being your friend is enough for me." 

     That made him buckle and Victor hated that Malachi saw right through him, and could call his bluff. Could love him for who he was.

     Sabretooth had no friends and the people he called friends were dead or no longer wanted to be associated with him. No one declared themselves a friend of Sabretooth. 

     No one was smart, anyway, and Malachi had three degrees. 

     Malachi smiled warmly, "Victor."

     "Yes?" It was quiet, barely above a whisper. Whatever stubborn bravo Victor had was gone. Replaced by the childish fear of dread and rejection and regret.

     Despite the fear, there was no anger in Malachi's voice. Its scent was still the same, it didn’t smell like an open wound, gushing with anger. Malachi was calm, warm, and gentle. It was always patient no matter how difficult Victor became. It took care of Victor's needs before its own. 

     "I love you," Malachi said. "You have no idea how much you make me happy. I know you don't think highly of yourself but you have people who care and love you. Sierra adores you. I adore you. Even Cereza admires you." 

     Victor looked up from his boots, Malachi was beaming with affection. 

     It felt weird when people were smitten with him. It was usually him who was the head-over-heels sap pining for someone who died tragically or Mystique in her blue glory or in someone else's skin. 

     Who wanted to admit that they are in love with a serial killer and a brute like him? They're crazy, stupid, and yet, Malachi had three degrees. 

     "Can you say that again?" Victor whispered, creeping towards the doctor before crawling toward him. Sitting before the doctor like an obedient dog. 

     Malachi gave the feral mutant a sly smile, leaning closer. "Say what, Mr. Creed?"

     Clawed fingers grazed couch cushions, fluff springing up through the tears like dandelions on a summer day. Strong hairy arms caging Malachi in, its cane a barrier. The doctor leaned back, dainty hands steady on Victor’s shoulders. 

     "That you love me. Please." 

     Dogs beg. Weak men beg. Beggars begs. Victor didn't beg often but when he did, he needed someone to prove him wrong. To prove the world wrong.

     "I love you, Victor Creed," Malachi leaned forward, lips ghosting over Victor's. A soft hand caressing Victor's cheek, another in his hair. He couldn’t help but purr, brushing his nose against Malachi’s. "I love you lots and lots." 

     For the first time in a long time, Victor felt human.