Sitting on his face -

First thing first that man is eating like a starved beast, to him that's fine dinning right there a 5 star michelin restaurant, he's not letting you go until he's full and he treats you like that every time

Second if you're chubby or on the thicker side don't even try telling him that "I'm too fat I'll crush you" he will look at you like you just insulted him, he's strong he can handle you, and don't you dare not to fully sit yourself on his face he will grip your thighs and pull you down

I hope you don't mind the texture of his beard on your inner thighs (depending on which version of him you're riding ofc)

Third he's an expert it's in his animal instincts he will lap up your sopping went cunt until you can't anymore he literally will suck and lick until you're overstimulated and he's doing all that just for you, he's not even taking care of himself you could go through 6 orgasms and hell still not touch himself, he like to test how much he can last before he fucks you properly, his face is a mess afterwards (you cannot tell me he doesn't clean his face like a cat)

Riding him -

Oh boy so cowgirl? Intriguing impress him! Don't get me wrong he's still in control or at least he thinks he is for the doms over here wink wink

I always like to imagine that between him and Logan he's ticker his brother is a bit longer but he's still thick, but this isn't about him, Victor is thick af he will stretch you so he always like to prep you before either by fingering you or by making you sit on his face, I feel like he doesn't mind using toys on you but he will eventually get desperate

He's gripping on your hips while you ride him, he likes to grab you by the hair or neck and lower your face to kiss, he's sucking your breast while you desperately move, I feel like he would run his long nails at your back in a soothing manner he likes seeing you trembling (with pleasure)

After a while if you get too cock drunk he will grab you and switch to finish in a mating press but this is about riding him

Your moans and the sound of wet skin slapping fill the room in a sinful orchestra of noises, you've already came on his cock multiple times but he still won't budge he plays with your nipple while he has that cocky grin of his plastered all across his face he's been holding himself back, continuously edging himself just for the thrill of it and watching your desperately moving up and down it's one hell of a view to him, you have your hands placed on his chest while trying to steady yourself but he doesn't make it any easier, he keeps stimulating your bud while you're trying to keep your cool

"Can't help myself, you look so helpless and vulnerable it makes me want to devour you" <3

He's not helping at all, he likes to see you unravel on top of him, slowly loosing yourself to the pleasure but isn't that what you wanted? So no complaining

He grunts if you play with his chest while slowly moving up and down on him, if you lay yourself on him while going slowly he will wrap his arms on your back and kiss your neck and face, he really does value vulnerable moments like this even if he doesn't say it often, he also makes sure you don't get hurt accidentally so if he sees your going really aggressive he will grip you to slow you down so you don't hurt yourself, he knows he's big he brags about it but he's careful not to hurt you, keep in mind he's only like this if you've been together for a while in a way he knows you're the one, can't have you break so easily now can't he, although you can probably handle yourself but still

He grip you harder now so you know he's close, you speed up already a panting mess, he's grunting and lost all composure like an animal, he grabs you by the neck and pulls you down to a heated kiss you didn't even try to take control so you just let him (you probably wouldn't have won anyways) he starts moving too so you came first, the wave crashing down, he made you orgasm again for the last time, you moan into the kiss, and now he finally lets himself go he pulls out and cums on your belly it hit him hard given how he kept edging himself trying not to cum

You're both a panting mess, but he's grinning like crazy and you can't help but be smithen, he makes sure you drink water and eat something while he rubs all your sore spots

"Now for round two"

"What"

Joking joking! Or am I? That's for you you to decide.

-------------------

To start this man is an asshole, like literally has no regard for human/animal life (except small animals and most kids), and likes to pride himself on his strength and animalistic nature and tendencies. His ego is massive, and he often will get into trouble or make trouble for the fun of it. He's one of those guys that thinks everyone and everything is beneath him, but that isn't to say he's fixable.

Don't say you can fix him though, he'll see that as a challenge, and then you're screwed.

Also don't bring up Wolverine, the Xmen, Mutants, or really anything close, it sets him off into a blind rage or pure jealously, depending on how close he is to you.

He takes forever to warm up to people, unless he knows he can use them to his advantage, then he's as suave as they come. He could talk a rooster into going into a doghouse.

He hates big cities and prefers the forest and mountains. He likes to have the option to hunt or be completely off grid. He does like a bar every now and then though, but he loves the seclusion the woods provides. No one is judging him there, and there's not a fight he'll lose.

He is a womanizer and Casanova, takes and goes. Sex is more of a hunt for him, and relationships are very loose...he just hasn't found someone he clicks with yet, but he really doesn't give anyone the chance. Although your scent is what will get him going if he also likes your attitude, he has a very heightened sense of smell.

His heightened senses can be dangerous but helpful, and often times he'll know things about yourself before you do.

His humor is dark, as dark as they come. He's also very dry and sarcastic, especially when he doesn't want to talk to people, or thinks the conversation is boring or beneath him.

He's smart, but street/wild smart, not book smart.

Very traditional (domestic?) and would want his meals cooked and served, although that's not to say he won't do the hunting and prepping. He won't make you do everything by yourself, you don't even have to be a good cook, he just likes the thought and effort. But, put him into his place if he starts to be a douche, he can starve.

He would fall head over heels for someone who is smart and barks (talks) more than bites (acts on their talk), he would appreciate someone who is stubborn and speaks their mind, someone who would fight but is ultimately weak. He wants the strength to be there in spirit, and even if they are actually strong, they're not as strong as him. He thinks its cute.

Win him over with kindness and resilience, while also not backing down on your morals, truly its what you'll need if you plan on being with him in any kind of relationship long-term.

He loves country music and will serenade you, he unironically knows how to play the banjo...

God help anyone who tries to make a move on you, look you over, or hurt you. You have scary dog (cat?) privileges, and he will absolutely use his strength and size to his advantage.

Once he's fallen for you, you're his.

Calls you Frail*, Darlin', and sometimes Kitten or Babe

He'll protect you, get you food, make sure you're comfortable, and always makes sure you're in his sights or he at least has a way to contact you (although he hates phones with his claws). He will leave his scent on you so any predator, or man, knows you're his, this is often done by holding you, wrapping himself around you while you do tasks, or simply kissing you and fucking you.

He loves teasing you, and he loves fast and hard sex...but there's something about you. You're his, not just a quick fix, and he yearns for you. You'd never think this man would beg you for anything, but his emotions for you are raw, very rarely he'll drop to his knees and beg you, or question if you're real, you're pretty sure it's just a trick to get his face in your privates though.

He growls and moans, but its deep in his chest, almost like a purr

He likes having you fall asleep on his chest or in his lap, especially if you're smaller than him. He thinks you're precious, and feels guilty deep down, like why does he deserve this after everything he's done?

******

You peer out the broken, grimy window, and grimace. There's no distant gunfire, no immediate danger — you know this, because above all, Creed would have heard something by now. You're both hiding out in the jungle, somewhere East of El Salvador; laying low after completing a smash and grab. You don't know why the client wants the package, or what's in it — but you aren't getting paid to know things.

All you have to do is lay low and wait for the heat to die down so you and Sabertooth can smuggle the package out of the country. If only it weren't so boring.

You've cleaned your guns already, and sharpened your blades after that. Creed — lucky bastard — doesn't really carry weapons. His claws and fangs are weapons enough. Thus, instead of doing maintenance, he's dozing on the other side of the shabby little room. He reclines in a beam of sunlight, cat-like, and you're jealous of his ability to sleep anywhere. You swat a fly before getting up to hang the mosquito netting over the single window.

"What do you think's in the package?" You ask suddenly, unable to bear the boredom. It's been hours of silently waiting, listening to catch breaking twigs — because that'll be the only warning you get.

Creed lazily opens one eye, and says:

"Whatever it is, it ain't drugs. The nose knows."

You refrain from rolling your eyes. Knowing what it's not still counts as intel.

"Too small to be weapons," you note. "Unless it's just one, very powerful weapon."

You hope it's not a bomb, or a bioweapon or something. The both of you would probably out-heal anything of that nature, but it would suck. Rather than thinking about the package, you decide to alleviate the boredom by watching your partner in crime.

He's still wearing that ridiculous fur collar — and you can't help but wonder how he isn't burning up under there. You're sweating in your body armor, and just looking at him is enough to give you second-hand hot flashes. Still, he looks awfully comfortable — sprawled out on the ground with his legs spread and arms behind his head, thoroughly relaxed. You've seen him leap into action from this position before, so you aren't worried about his readiness.

Still, your eyes are drawn to the bulge between his legs, still half-hard from the adrenaline of your earlier escape from the guards. You'd both washed off the blood and scent in the river earlier, but he'd been covered in blood then — none of it his own. ...Even half-hard, he looks huge under there.

(He is, you know. You've seen it before.)

You can't help but lick your lips, and take your mind off of it by eating a dry ration bar; washing it down with half a bottle of water. It doesn't help.

The waiting is the most boring part of any job, and you find yourself sighing and making conversation again.

"How are you not sweating like a sauna under all that fur?"

The other man cracks an eyelid again, and lets out a low chuckle.

"Better than the cold. I'd rather be hot than shiverin'."

His voice sets your imagination alight, as always, and you swallow, ration aftertaste lingering on your tongue despite the drink. You watch him, and eventually he opens both eyes and watches you. Still half-lidded and lazy, but watching all the same.

"Like what you see, pipsqueak?"

The sleepy rise and fall of his chest draws attention to his glorious pectoral muscles, and you find yourself bouncing back and forth from the chest to the bulge, licking your lips again. There's no way you can stand to clean your gun or rearrange your pack again — not when there are so many better uses of your time.

"What're ya' lookin' at?" Victor asks, and you meet his gaze.

"You," you answer. Simple, straight to the point. It makes him laugh, and again your gaze is drawn to his pecs as his chest shakes.

"I'd tell ya to take a picture — they last longer — but we both know what you'd rather be doin'."

You raise an eyebrow, and feel your lips pull up in a smirk. He matches your smile with his own rakish grin, all tooth and fang; and says:

"You want me so bad, come get me."

sting decides to walk you to the guild’s exit, already late at night, with that confident smile he always tries to hold back when he’s near you.

the moon lights up his face as he leans against the wall, arms crossed… but his eyes?

those he can’t hide.

his gaze doesn’t just watch you — it admires you.

you say something simple, almost trivial, about the wind being cold. sting smiles slowly, as if he’s just heard the best thing in the world.

“you have no idea… what you do to me when you smile like that.”

he tries to look away, but he can’t.

his face softens, his smile fades a little, the brightness in his eyes grows.

and it’s that look — that loving, surrendered look he doesn’t even realize he’s showing.

An energized blade of red cuts across the dark of night, lighting up the surrounding bushes and trees. Scott’s optic beam hits Sabretooth hard enough to send him reeling back, claws loosening their grip on you. Gasping, you roll away and struggle to your feet, watching as Scott squares himself, sending another blast in Sabretooth’s direction. It lands, but barely fazes him. Sabretooth just laughs, brushing off the attack like it was nothing.

That primal gaze slides back to you, his eyes dark with amusement and blood lust. He raises a dirty claw to his lips, licking the blood from its edge. Your blood. Something sick churns in your stomach, but you refuse to look away, even as he smirks. “You taste delicious, sweetheart.” He drawls, voice as low and rough as gravel. He’s toying with you. Enjoying every second of it. Every muscle in your body is screaming at you to run. To get away before it’s too late. The hair on your arms standing on edge as adrenaline pumped through you so hard you couldn’t hear anything but your heartbeat. And yet you stand your ground, forcing yourself to meet his eyes, voice barely a whisper. “Fuck off.”

The tiger’s laugh is sharp, scraping against your nerves like broken glass. You reach out again, feeling for anything in the forest—anything that might answer your call for help. You sense a family of foxes hidden at the edge of the clearing, their small minds vibrating with awareness of the threat lurking in their woods. You send them a plea, a wordless call for aid. They chirrup nervously, their cries piercing the silence, as if asking you ‘what could we even do?’. They were right, you realized. Before you was a predator so great, no fox could out wit it. So what does that mean for you?

“Run!” Scott’s voice breaks through your helpless realization. “I’ll cover you!”

But you can’t bring yourself to move, like a deer in the headlights. You were too scared. Your body too heavy. Sabretooth’s gaze is fixed on you with a demented kind of fascination, his body coiled with anticipation. He’s not here to scare you; he’s here to finish you off. To carve his name into your soft skin. Scott’s shout rings in your ears, an urgent lifeline cutting through the chaos as he screams your name again. Something clicks this time and you take off running, feet pounding over uneven ground as you dart into the forest’s shadows. Branches whip against your face, sharp rocks slice into your palms when you stumble, but fear and adrenaline override the pain. You barely feel it, the rush of blood pumping so loud it drowns out everything but the heavy thud of Sabretooth’s footsteps closing in.

Every glance back only worsens the terror. Sabretooth is on your trail, relentless, his form nothing more than a hulking shadow in the dusk.. The forest animals scatter as if sensing what was to come. You reach out instinctively to the surrounding nature, but your powers are fading, your connection to the forest weakened by the exhaustion settling into your bones. Just as you push forward, a large hand clamps onto your shoulder, and in a violent tug, you’re yanked backward, hitting the ground so hard it forces every last bit of breath from your lungs.

Before you could register what happened, Sabertooth is on top of you, his claws biting into your shoulders with a brutal grip. You could feel the warmth of blood pool around the wounds. “Thought you’d slip away?” His voice is a low, guttural growl, and his claws slice down your side, igniting waves of pain that nearly drown you. You choke back a scream, your breath strangled, head spinning as his claws sink deeper, ripping through muscle and skin. Sabretooth leans close, his breath hot against your cheek, carrying the metallic tang of your own blood. “I love the noises you make,” he sneers, his voice a sickening purr.

Somewhere in the trees, Scott’s voice shouts your name, panic fraying his tone. He couldn’t keep up and he was fearing the worst. As he should… Sabretooth pays it no mind, his attention locked onto you. He raises his claws, poised to strike, when a searing red beam slashes across his shoulder, searing his fur. Sabretooth recoils, roaring in pain like a wounded lion, his grip loosening just enough for you to take a shallow, agonizing breath.

Scott’s shout breaks through the fog of pain. “Jean! Get to Jean!”

The words bring you back, anchoring you. There was no way for either of you to run back to his car, to get to a communicator. You weren’t a telepath but if you tried hard enough, desperate enough, you could probably reach her. Pushing past the white-hot pain, you reach for her mind with everything left in you, letting your mind stretch out as far as it can.

Jean… Your mental voice is weak, barely holding steady. Please… we need you. Sabretooth…

The connection falters, a wave of exhaustion and pain dragging you under, but you hold on, projecting all the desperation, all the fear you can muster. This is your only chance. If no one reaches you or Scott… Then you both will die. Sabretooth’s growl reverberates through the forest as he bears down on Scott, each swipe of his claws slicing the air where Scott was only moments before. Scott moves with fierce precision, dodging and retaliating with blast after blast, relying on years of training and excruciating experience. But Sabretooth barely flinches, his grin widening with each hit he absorbs. To him, this isn’t a battle; it’s entertainment, and you’re all the more helpless as you watch it unfold.

“Come on, Cyclopse! You can do better than that!” Sabretooth taunts, his voice laced with dark amusement as he inches closer, his claws gleaming in the fading ruby light. Scott’s jaw tightens as he fires again, the condensed energy scorching through the air, sending Sabertooth stumbling.

Please, Jean, hurry, you mentally plead, the desperation mingling with your fraying hope. Then, like a steady heartbeat, Jean’s presence returns, soothing yet firm. I’m here. Hang on—we’re almost there.

Relief rushes through you, but it’s quickly sullied by the realization that it may not be fast enough. Every second feels like an eternity, and your vision begins to blur with each breath as you bled out, your grip on consciousness slipping away. Sabretooth’s eyes shift toward you, sneering as he senses your weakening state. “Dying already? How pathetic,” he sneers, glancing back at Scott.

Scott shifts, stepping protectively in front of you, his fists clenched. “You’re not getting near her again,” he vows, voice low and edged with fury.

You press a shaky hand to your side, feeling the warm wetness of your blood seeping through your fingers. The forest around you darkens past the night, the world swallowed by shadows, each breath a struggle against the pain threatening to pull you into the abyss. Through the haze you watch as Scott remains a steady shield. Destermined to protect you, his long time friend. Scott fires off another optic blast, each strike forcing Sabretooth back steps at a time, but the strain is taking its toll, his movements slowing with exhaustion. For every inch Scott gains, Sabretooth’s strikes grow fiercer, his wild strength tearing away at Scott’s powers.

The stars above you began to spin until you could no longer keep your eyes open. Scott dodges another swing, barely avoiding the deadly swipe of Sabretooth’s claws. He holds his ground, firing another blast, but you can hear his breathing become ragged, his focus strained.

A deep chuckle bites through the clearing, cold and mocking. Sabretooth lunges again, faster this time, catching Scott off guard. With a brutal strike, he sends Scott crashing to the ground, his glasses knocked askew. Before Scott, with his eyes squeezed shut, could recover, Sabretooth lerched onto him, claws raised and gleaming in the moonlight as they came down upon Scott’s chest with a sickening skurrt.

You try to call out, but your voice is barely a whisper, lost in the cold hold that’s closing in. It was over, you thought. You were dying, Sabertooth was right. The earth around you muddied with dark crimson, coating you in a pool of liquid iron. The last thing you see is Scott, struggling against Sabretooth. Fighting for his life. The days after the attack drift by in a haze, punctuated only by the ebb and flow of pain and a gradual, agonizing recovery. At first, you’re only vaguely aware of your surroundings. A foggy blur of white lights, medicinal scents, and the hushed voices of the med bay. When you surface from the feverish darkness, it’s to Jean’s gentle reassurances or the grounding weight of a hand, steady and warm - Scott’s or Logan’s, though you’re rarely lucid enough to know which. That small touch anchors you, pulling you back from nightmares that leave your heart racing, lingering memories of claws and snarling teeth.

As the days go by, you start to piece yourself back together, physically at least. Slowly, achingly, your body begins to cooperate again, each day a tiny milestone. By the end of the week, you’re able to sit up, then shuffle a few steps on your own, feeling each ache left by the brutal attack. However, there was an unease that won’t leave you, even as the bruises fade. Haunted by big glowing pools of amber. His eyes.

The eyes of a wild cat, filled with malice, chase you through each restless dream, pulling you back to the memory of lying helpless beneath the hulking body of your opponent. The cruel gleam in them, like he was savoring your fear, is always there, lurking in the shadows of your unconscious mind. More than once, you awake at night with a start, heart pounding, the remnants of his sadistic grin burned into the back of your eyelids.

One morning as you make your way down the hall, Logan appears from around the corner, his gaze flicking to you with a mix of relief and something guarded. Without a word, he falls into step beside you, his silent presence a comforting weight as you walk together.

The nightmares... The feeling of being stalked… It’s all too much, and after days of carrying it alone, you finally break the silence. “Who is he, Logan?” You ask, your voice rough from disuse. “You know him, don’t you?” You’ve heard whispers from the others. Bits and pieces of Victor Creed.

For a moment, Logan’s steps falter, his jaw tensing as he keeps his gaze forward. Silence stretches between you before he finally sighs, casting a sidelong glance your way. “Yeah. I know him,” he says, his voice low, rougher than usual. “Knew him, more like.

He looks ahead, eyes distant, weighed down with something raw. “Name’s Victor Creed though he goes by Sabretooth. He’s…” Logan’s voice trails off, a grim line settling over his mouth. “He’s a mercenary, a killer… a monster. More than that, even.”

A chill settles over you, a cold dread sinking in. Colder than the blood that had chilled your skin that night. “More?” You whisper, trying to understand. There was a weight behind Logan’s words. Something you couldn’t read between the lines.

Logan simply grunted, his expression turning distant and angry. “We got history, him and me. Worked together once. Partners, sort of.” He pauses, and you see the dark weight of memory flash in his eyes. Partners… You could tell it was only a half-truth. “But Victor… he’s different. He doesn’t just kill; he enjoys it. Pain, fear… He gets off on it. He’s more beast than man.”

Logan’s words land like lead, heavy in your chest, but they bring clarity. You see now why Sabretooth had reveled in your fear, drinking it in the way he toyed with you and Scott, drawing out the terror. He was truly a monster, his cruelty twisted and intentional. And though he’s gone for now, his shadow still hangs over you, leaving you with a lingering chill seeping into your dreams.

Little did you know, that was only the beginning. ________ The battlefield is a storm of energy and chaos optic blasts and the clashing of adamantium against metal merge in a symphony of violence, harsh against the ears. Magneto had rocked up, demanding something – you weren’t quite sure – before all hell broke loose. You stay close to the edge, eyes burning as dust rose from multiple attacks happening at once. Scanning for threats, heart hammering, until the smoke clears just enough to reveal a familiar massive figure. Sabretooth.

He prowls through the destruction like a predator unleashed, his piercing yellow gaze sweeping the scene until they lock onto Logan. A twisted smile curls across his face as he watches Logan wrestling with one of Magneto's men, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. He moves toward Logan with that terrifying grace, claws flexing, every step an unspoken threat.

A chill washes over you, a visceral reminder of your last encounter—the pain, the terror, that predatory glint in his eye. If not even a bear would attack Creed, what could Logan do? Logan was powerful, you knew this, but still. The fear you felt overpowered any rational thought in your mind. Logan’s words suddenly came to: He’s more beast than man. The thought gives you pause, igniting an idea that drowns out every instinct to flee. Maybe, if he’s more animal… maybe you can reach him. Afterall, that’s what you did best.

Ignoring every impulse to stay back, you center yourself, closing your eyes and sending your energy outward. Tentatively, you reach out toward him, your mind brushing his the same way you’d approach a wary, wounded creature. The connection is strange, chaotic, but you can sense that raw, wild animal simmering just beneath his skin.

Easy, you think, letting your words flow to him in a soft, calming rhythm. I’m not here to fight you. Your thoughts reach the beast within him, the instinct lying coiled and wary. In the distance, you feel a flicker of almost imperceptible hesitation. You press on, soothing the wild part of him, coaxing it to surface.

For a moment, Creed stills, the tense lines of his body softening as he scans the battlefield with confusion. His gaze finally finds you, and something unguarded glints in his amber eyes, a spark beneath the cruelty. He tilts his head, almost curious, as if struggling to understand why, in the middle of this battle, he suddenly feels calm. Logan’s gaze followed his, knowing something was happening but wasn’t quite sure what.

Around you, the battle blurs, sounds fading as the moment stretches between you and Victor. You take a slow, tentative step forward, feeling the brittle truce hanging in the air. Sabretooth lets out a low, guttural sound that’s not quite a growl, but close. It’s a warning, a reminder that this calm could shatter in a heartbeat. But he doesn’t lunge, doesn’t raise his claws. He just watches, his eyes softening into something that looks almost… understanding. You had reached him. Stroking the animal inside of him. And as you held out your hand, as if he were a scared dog, Victor stepped closer. The gaze that once haunted you now looked as peaceful as a black bear’s.

Logan’s voice cuts through the air like a whip. “Hey! Get the fuck away from her!” He’s sprinting towards you, claws flashing, a fierce protective anger in his stance, and in that instant, the moment between you and Sabertooth shatters.

Sabretooth’s eyes flash with something dark, almost like betrayal, and his familiar wild gleam snaps back to life, the brief calm swallowed by aggression. With a snarl, he turns toward Logan, muscles taut with rage. But before he lunges, he casts a final, questioning look your way, an unreadable expression flickering in his eyes, then charges toward Logan with renewed fury.

The battle ends eventually, but Logan’s anger doesn’t. His voice reverberates down the corridor of the X Mansion as he catches up with you, and you brace yourself against the tension radiating from him.

“What the hell was that back there?” He demanded to know, crossing his arms. “You went face-to-face with Sabretooth on your own. Are you out of your damn mind?” Seeing you do something so reckless pissed him off. Not only because of your actions, but the helplessness he felt knowing that if Victor lashed out at you he wouldn’t have been able to reach you in time.

You shift anxiously, meeting his gaze with wide eyes. “I just thought maybe I could reach him, Logan. You said it yourself. He’s more beast than man.”

Logan’s growl deepens as he runs a tense hand over his face in frustration. “Doesn’t mean he’s some stray you can tame,” he snaps, his voice sharper than you’ve ever heard, “Victor Creed doesn’t stop. He doesn’t feel. He just… destroys.”

His words sting, but you don’t back down. “I know exactly what he’s capable of, Logan.” The memory of claws tearing into your skin flashes across your mind, but you push it down with a hard swallow. “But I felt something in him. He hesitated. I got through to that instinct in him, the part that recognizes friend from foe. For a moment, he was calm. He wasn’t angry. He was… something else.”

Logan’s expression hardens, his jaw tense and his shoulders square as he searches your face. “You’re telling me you got in his head?”

You nod, carefully choosing your words. “Not his mind exactly—more like his instincts. I reached out to him like I do with wild animals, letting him know I wasn’t a threat.”

Logan looks away, his gaze troubled. “He’s not just an animal, kid, he’s worse. You’re lucky he didn’t rip you apart for trying to mess with him.”

“Maybe,” you admit, a slight tremor in your voice, “but I had to try. I thought if I could reach that part of him, it might give us an advantage next time, make him hesitate.”

Logan lets out an aggravated sigh, rubbing a hand through his hair, frustration softening into something closer to worry. “And what if he doesn’t hesitate next time? What if he’s even more dangerous because he knows you tried to fuck with his head?” You hesitate, Logan’s words filling you with doubt. It always hurt you, the way the other X-Men doubted you. Because you wield the wilds, but you don’t command it. Never forcing it. You couldn’t summon storms like Ororo or fling objects like Jean. You were at the mercy of nature’s kindness and willingness to help. But that didn’t mean you weren’t damn good at what you do.“I’ll be careful. But I’m not afraid of him, Logan. He’s no more dangerous than a puma with a thorn in its foot.”

He stares at you, a mix of frustration and something softer lingering in his gaze, and finally, he shakes his head. “Damn stubborn,” he mutters, though there’s a trace of admiration in his tone. “You got guts, I’ll give you that. But promise me one thing.” He leaned down to meet your gaze, tone turning serious. “Don’t ever face him alone again.”

You nod, offering a sheepish smile. “I won’t. I promise.” ________

Victor Creed carried ghosts proudly. Viewing it like a collection of trophies. Each broken bone, each scream, each flicker of fear was his kind of keepsake. Something he fed off of. His history dripped with blood, and he relished in every memory, gnawed on it like a wolf savoring the marrow of a kill. The world was simple. A brutal hunt where only the strong survive. Mercy was weakness. Fear was power.

But now… Now, something new clung to him like a fever he couldn’t shake. No matter how hard he tried to shove it down, it lingered- the memory of you. Not just the fight, not just the thrill of claws and blood, but something that went deeper. Something that burrowed under his skin, haunting and maddening. Mocking him every second of every day.

It had started with that look you’d given him. That strange, unflinching calm when he lunged at you. Sure, there’d been fear, but layered beneath it was something else, something sharper, like quiet understanding. And then you reached for him, your mind brushing against his like a whisper. A memory that should’ve faded by now, but instead it was rooted there, scratching at him every time he closed his eyes.

He dismissed it at first. Just another fight, another soul who’d end up bleeding out beneath his claws. He’d felt your blood on his hands, seen the fear in your eyes, but then - just for a heartbeat - he felt something in him recoil. A split second. A hesitation. You’d found some part of him he’d thought was long dead.

Victor sat alone in the dark, his muscles taut, every breath shallow, trying to chase away the sensation that you’d left in his bones. The shadows felt different now, offering no solace, no escape. He’d always been alone, surrounded by the gnashing of his own rage, but now there was something else. A quietness, a sliver of peace threading through his mind like a shard of sunlight. It lodged itself there, no matter how hard he tried to shake it off, a warmth he couldn’t unfeel. He clenched his fists until his claws bit into his palms, trying to drown out that maddening feeling.

The worst part? The part he wouldn’t admit even to himself? It wasn’t entirely unwelcome. Something in him wanted to understand this feeling, this ease that left him hollow and wary. Something fragile had broken through the layers of anger and violence that his very being was cocooned in. It felt more dangerous than any mutant he had ever faced.

Letting out a low growl into the empty room, Victor wished he could tear you out of his body. Remove you like the parasite you were. “You did something to me.” The words tumbled out, a raw confession spoken to the darkness. His jaw tightened as emotions flickered, emotions he couldn’t put names to. He knew hatred, he knew rage, but this…this left him lost, a torment he didn’t know how to fight. Because as much as he fought it, some buried part of him wanted to know what it was about you that had struck this peace, however brief, into his soul.

And then, like a wound reopening, the memory of the battlefield surged back to him. The way you’d looked at him; not with fear, not as some monster, but as if you’d seen something else. Him. He snarled against the thought, but he could still feel your words, gentle yet firm, guiding him, pulling him back just enough to see himself through your eyes. Flawed, broken, yes, but human. It was that part that terrified him the most.

Human. That damned word hung in the air like a curse. You’d seen something human in him—a part he’d killed, buried, silenced, because weakness wasn’t for men like him. But that part was waking up now, stretching in the darkness no matter how fiercely he tried to stamp it out.

He paced the room, each step heavy, his mind spiraling. You’d touched something in him that wouldn’t let go, like a splinter he couldn’t dig out. No amount of bloodshed would scrub him clean of this stain, this gentle infection. He was a creature of shadow, of rage and violence. A creature, damn it! But you had shown him something else, something that lingered like a fire in his soul. And it was eating him alive.

He saw your face in his mind, those wide eyes that had stared past the monster to something deeper. He tried to summon the anger, tried to let it burn away the strange warmth left in him. But it didn’t work. He couldn’t stop seeing you, couldn’t forget the way you’d looked at him.